#How Many Trees on Earth

[goodoldbandit]

More Trees Than Stars: A Planet Overflowing with Life.

Sanjay Kumar Mohindroo Sanjay Kumar Mohindroo. skm.stayingalive.in Earth has more trees than stars in the Milky Way. Here’s why that fact is powerfully inspiring. The Cosmic Surprise A Fact That Blows Minds and Shifts Perspectives Let’s get straight to the point: Earth has roughly three trillion trees. That’s 3,000,000,000,000. The Milky Way, our galactic home, holds an estimated 100 to 400…

[savage-rhi]

Late night magenta.

[sonxofxgondor]

@ofthevanyar asked: 🎁 - A new scabbard for his sword, carved with eagles and the tree of Gondor

Solstice Starters!

Candles of red wax and orange flame brightened the great fireplace of the Steward Palace. Scattered across the white stone mantel - surrounded by mounds of holly leaf, pinecones, and cinnamon sticks - the whole private chambers decorated for Solstice celebration. Blankets and pillows thrown onto the floor nearest the warm flames, in a moment of being together and alone, Boromir and Amarie welcomed the season. Reflected upon the memories that they alike shared, the histories that brought them to one another. Dressed in their days of rest clothes, simple and unadorned by the possessions of their status, bodies nestled close and without space between. Golden hairs spread across his shoulder, Boromir was comforted by more than the hot mug he held within his hands. Chocolate brought to shimmer over stove and sweetened with milk; the delicious steam drove his senses to an almost boyish wild, was the reason for why his cup was nearly emptied.

Amarie kissed as the flames flickered before them, the bells of cheer to be heard outside their glass window, the snow-lace curtains that sheltered them from the bitter cold. Prayers and thanks offered to the heavens above; there was much to be grateful for. Blessings always counted, Boromir was forever indebted for the graces that were given. Beyond the world would he have gone without them. All but scars on his torso the evidence, the maiden he loved beside him in the safety that was their home. Returned to each other; where no evil could separate them. Small tokens of affection unable to prove the extent, it was when Amarie presented him a gift that Boromir was taken from his conversation with the gods.

Wrapped by her gentle hands, in a paper that depicted adorable does and bucks in the wood, sharing in cranberry bush delights, Boromir revealed Amarie's thoughtful present. Darkened leather in brown, stitched and carved with eagle-birds and the tree of their land, Gondor and her grandest treasure. Crafted by the artisans, the labor of hours and sweat, all for his sake, Boromir did not hide the tears that took to his gray eyes. Set his mug down and grasped Amarie's hands, lifted them both to his lips and kissed each knuckle. A smile that shinned as bright as the baubles that decorated their tree - lush balsam fir, so green and full - apple slices, colored paper in shapes of stars, hanging gemstone in silver and gold.

"Amarie, you spoil me." Boromir chastised playfully, releasing her hands only so he could reach for his own wrapped gift, hidden behind their mess of fluff and innocent frills, the shadows of the flames in the fireplace.

Concealed in yellow, painted with swirls and loops of translucent sparkle, he offered the oval-shaped bundle to her, excitement hardly masked. "Arphendil will look like a true sword of our people now! Dressed in such fine craftsmanship - thank you. But here, my love, for you! Though I am far from the quiet sort, as you understand well, I do have my moments of listening. I'll tell not just where this fact was made known from, but I have certain knowledge that you are fond of weaving fabric. A noble pursuit, if I may say, and one that I hope I can contribute to your continued interest. There. I'll say no more! Go on, dearest, open it!"

[sugurouge]

── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note:  I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now. 

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter. 

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart. 

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again. 

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones. 

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving. 

Though he remained in his realm. 

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires. 

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within. 

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger. 

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you. 

The moment is peaceful until it isn't. 

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him. 

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant. 

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms. 

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows.  But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him. 

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion. 

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground. 

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms. 

At least to his calculations. 

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future. 

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours. 

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded. 

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down. 

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals. 

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew. 

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips. 

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight. 

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be. 

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum. 

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay. 

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will. 

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld. 

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus. 

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure. 

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors. 

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun. 

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine. 

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest. 

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own. 

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze. 

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate. 

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him. 

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood. 

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus. 

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you. 

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for. 

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls. 

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities. 

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin. 

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you. 

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself. 

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return. 

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing. 

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal. 

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control. 

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles. 

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin. 

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now. 

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him . 

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways—doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive. 

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you. 

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace,  with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home? 

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you. 

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips. 

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you. 

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months." 

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure. 

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring," 

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise. 

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now. 

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting. 

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones. 

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened. 

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles. 

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him. 

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone. 

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him. 

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates.  "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response. 

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand. 

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld. 

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps. 

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you. 

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.  

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow. 

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld. 

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further. 

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him... 

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'. 

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention. 

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth. 

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits. 

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek. 

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back. 

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck. 

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone." 

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust. 

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it." 

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap. 

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow. 

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful." 

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour. 

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient. 

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes. 

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to." 

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all. 

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva. 

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent. 

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong. 

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love. 

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler. 

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention. 

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness. 

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do. 

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud. 

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you. 

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering. 

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight. 

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits. 

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks. 

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire. 

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest.  "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you. 

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound. 

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside. 

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands. 

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids. 

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect . 

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests. 

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession.  "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure. 

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw. 

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies. 

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired. 

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again. 

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me." 

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone. 

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union. 

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now. 

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

[shokocide]

PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO

summary. You came to Dustwell looking for a fresh start. To live a new life in the beat-up house your grandfather left you. Getting involved with the local ranch hand definitely wasn’t on the agenda—and ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the plan either.

word count. 15k (oh what the hell-)

content. mdni fem!reader, cowboy!choso, slow burnnnn, they want each other but wont do anything about it, he fell first but she fell harder trope, he's lowkey protective, alcohol consumption, pet names, smut, oral (fem rec.), fingering, FERAL choso, p in v, cowgirl (because save a horse), rough sex, multiple orgasms, praise, creampie, overstim, aftercare

author's note. WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THE CHOSO ARTISTS OH MY DAYS

The house looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the dust-soft edges or the way the sun hits it, turning the old wood siding gold like a sepia photograph. You stand at the edge of the gravel driveway, hands on your hips, squinting through the heat shimmer rolling off the hood of your car.

Inherited property. That’s what the letter called it—like it was some gift. But all you see is a sagging front porch, weeds elbowing through the cracks in the steps, and a mailbox hanging on by a single rusted screw. The whole place smells like dry earth, wood rot, and a faint hint of motor oil.

You spend the afternoon sweating through your shirt, dragging boxes inside and swatting at flies that seem personally offended by your presence. The floors creak in protest. One of the cabinet doors falls off when you open it. You curse out loud and immediately apologize to the empty house, like your grandpa might still be listening somewhere.

There’s no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like it’s chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isn’t carrying more hornets.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living room’s half-unpacked, your hair’s sticking to your neck, and you’re dangerously close to throwing a box labeled “KITCHEN — FRAGILE” straight through the window.

You need a drink.

The bar—locals call it The Pit—is tucked between a feed store and a mechanic’s garage on the edge of town. It’s not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads “OPEN” if you squint hard enough. But inside, it’s cool, low-lit, and smells like wood polish and whiskey.

You get exactly three steps in before every head turns. A beat passes. Then the low hum of conversation starts back up, like nothing happened.

The bartender is a woman with blond streaks in her braid and she’s wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.

“New in town?”

You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”

She pours something golden into a glass. “Around here? Everything is.”

You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.

“Movin’ into the old place a few blocks down?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod, and she hums like that means something. Maybe it does.

She gestures vaguely toward the back of the bar, where a wall’s been plastered with old photos—rodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.

“Lotta history out there,” she says. “That land’s got roots deeper than the well.”

You glance at the glass in your hand. “Hopefully no ghosts.”

She smirks. “Nah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.”

You laugh, tired but genuine. You don’t ask for names. Not yet.

The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’ll meet the whole town soon enough,” she says, voice easy. “Mornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someone’ll swing by your place, offer help you didn’t ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

She grins. “That depends. Some of ’em are harmless. Some of ’em don’t know how to mind their own business.”

A photo behind her catches your eye—framed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. It’s black and white, a bit worn at the edges. A man stands in front of a horse, head bowed just enough that the brim of his hat hides most of his face. He’s wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. There’s something still about him—something heavy.

“That one?” she says, catching your gaze. “Choso.”

You don’t look away. “He local?”

“Mhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.” She pauses, then adds, “Quiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.”

You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.

“Lemme guess,” you say, setting your glass down. “He one of those cowboys you mentioned?”

She chuckles, dry. “He’s the reason I mentioned them.”

You nod slowly. “He’s… not bad-looking.”

The bartender smirks. “Yeah, he hears that a lot. Doesn’t do much with it, though.”

You glance back at the photo. “Not the friendly type?”

“Polite,” she says, “but quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t stick around long when folks start talking too much.”

You hum into your drink. “So, not exactly easy to get to know.”

She shrugs. “People’ve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with him—just one of those men who likes his space.”

You let that sit for a second. Then: “You saying I shouldn’t bother?”

She smiles without looking at you. “I’m saying if you’re the curious type, just don’t expect straight answers.”

-

You head out just before sunset, boots crunching on gravel as the heat finally starts to ease off the land. The air smells like mesquite and dirt, with a hint of something sweet on the wind—wildflowers, maybe. The road that runs past your place stretches long in both directions, flanked by open fields and fences that lean just enough to say no one’s been out here fixing things in a while.

You don’t take a phone. There’s no signal anyway. Just the breeze, the cicadas, and the sound of your own steps as you walk past fences wrapped in rusted wire, thistles pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt.

There’s not much out here—just land. Wide and quiet. Like it’s still waiting to decide what to do with you.

Then, about half a mile out, the trees start to thin, and you catch sight of a gate.

It’s big—old wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasn’t built for decoration. There’s a sign nailed across the top beam. The paint’s worn, but the lettering’s still clear:

DUSTWELL RANCH

You slow without meaning to.

Beyond the gate, the land stretches open again—miles of pasture rolling out beneath a soft orange sky. You can just make out the edge of a barn in the distance, roof sloped, doors cracked. A couple of horses stand near the fence line, heads down, tails flicking lazily.

You rest your hands on the top of the gate. Not climbing it. Just looking.

You’re about to turn back when you hear it—the low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.

Someone’s moving out there.

And then, farther out—near the barn—you catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesn’t bother him. Like the land’s just an extension of his own skin.

You can’t make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder—smooth, practiced—tells you it’s him.

Choso.

You don’t call out. You don’t wave.

You just watch, quiet, until he disappears around the side of the barn.

You stay a moment more before turning back, heading home before the sky goes fully dark.

-

You decide to take a look at the general store the next afternoon.

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and you’re immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general store’s got everything—canned beans, rope, seed packets, and even a rack of novelty postcards that look older than you.

You wander through the aisles, basket on your arm, grabbing some cleaning rags and a stubborn bottle of wood polish. You’re reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.

You both stop—almost head to chest.

“Whoa—sorry,” you say, laughing a little.

He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. It’s him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He’s taller up close. And quieter, too—like the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, voice low and easy. “You new?”

You nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.”

He tilts his head. “Big property, that one. Lotta trees.”

“Also a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,” you joke.

That gets him—just barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.

“I’m Choso.”

“So I’ve heard.” you smile at him before offering your own name.

“Well,” he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, “welcome to Dustwell, darlin’.”

And just like that, he tips his hat and keeps walking, leaving you in the middle of aisle three, staring after him with a half-full basket and a flutter in your chest.

-

The FaceTime connects with a familiar ceiling view and the soft clink of ice in a glass.

“...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?” Shoko’s voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the other—even though it’s barely 3 p.m.

“I’ve been busy,” you whine, slumping onto the couch. “There’s a lot to unpack.”

“Yeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.”

You groan into your palm. “It wasn’t that serious! He just—he was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And he’s tall and—hat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.”

“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”

“Actual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlin’.”

She sips her drink. “Mmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.”

“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”

“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”

You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.

“I'm just saying—man’s probably got calluses in all the right places.”

You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.

You peek out from behind the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she says, exhaling smoke. “Now show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The cowboy, obviously.”

You blink. “Shoko. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t take a picture of him.”

She raises a brow. “Miss ma’am didn’t sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.”

You groan. “It would’ve been weird! I didn’t even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.”

“That’s hot. Very romance novel of you.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she says, smug. “You’re just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.”

You bury your face again, voice muffled. “He had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”

You sit back up, defeated. “It was just one interaction. He probably won’t even remember me.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. You’re new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if he’s quiet and broody like you said, that man’s probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

You blink at her.

“You’re scary.”

“I’m right.”

You sulk into the couch. “What do I even do with that information?”

Shoko grins slowly. “You go to the store again. And you wait.”

You squint at the screen. “That’s your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?”

“If he’s got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,” Shoko says, entirely unfazed.

You groan. “He probably won’t even show up again. It’s a small town, not a Hallmark movie.”

“Which means he’ll show up everywhere,” she counters, raising a brow. “That’s the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.”

You pause. “Like what?”

She smirks. “Public restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.”

“Okay goodbye,” you say, jabbing the screen to hang up, and her laughter is the last thing you hear before it goes dark.

You drop your phone on your stomach and stare at the ceiling, brain already drifting.

You weren’t even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peaceful—slow mornings, quiet skies, maybe a dog. You were going to find yourself or whatever people in dramatic life transitions are supposed to do.

But now there’s a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you can’t stop replaying the way he’d said darlin’, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it and like he wouldn’t mind saying it again.

You sigh.

And the worst part?

You already need eggs.

-

You need eggs.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you head back to the little general store the next day, pretending it has nothing to do with a six-foot-something man in a cowboy hat.

Nope. It’s all for the eggs.

You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. You’re halfway through the snacks when you realize you’re not shopping anymore. You’re lurking.

You make a show of studying a can of chili you have zero intention of buying.

Still no sign of him.

You check your phone. It's been almost 30 minutes. You’ve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashier’s starting to give you that polite, “do you need help with something or are you casing the joint” smile.

You give up and finally head to the register with the single carton of eggs you came for.

No Choso.

No deep voice. No gloves in his back pocket. Not even a damn cowboy hat on the horizon.

You leave the store feeling... not disappointed, exactly. Just... aware of how silly you probably looked loitering in front of a shelf of trail mix like it was hiding romance.

You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.

Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.

You’re not looking for him.

You’re just taking a walk.

That’s what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The sign’s old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.

You think about turning back.

You don’t.

There’s a low sound—rhythmic, heavy. Hooves. And when you glance up, there he is.

Horseback. Broad-shouldered. Hat low over his eyes. A quiet silhouette against the gold-tinted sky, steering a few cattle into a separate pen like it’s second nature. The reins in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh.

You freeze. Not even dramatically. You just stop walking.

And when he spots you, he pauses, too. The horse slows under him, and he turns his head just slightly, eyes squinting under the brim.

“You again,” he says, like it’s not surprising at all. “You lost, darlin’?”

Your stomach does a stupid flip.

“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”

He nods like that tracks. “It’s getting late.”

You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. “Needed air.”

He hums—low and easy. “Air’s better out here anyway.”

You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.

He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. “So. You just out sightseeing?”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it. “Just wanted to familiarize myself with the place.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him—small, but there. He tips his hat. “Well. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. “See you ‘round.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.

Shoko was right.

You’re done for.

-

The bar’s quieter tonight.

Dim, warm lights. A slow, lazy country tune playing on the old jukebox in the corner. You slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender—same one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like it’s part of the uniform.

“Back already?” she asks with a grin. “Thought you city types got bored easy.”

“I don’t scare that easy,” you say, returning the smile. “And besides… the drinks are good.”

She snorts. “Flattery won’t get you a free round.”

“Damn. Worth a shot.”

She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. “So. You settlin’ in okay out at that old house?”

You nod. “Trying to. Place has character.”

“You mean termites?”

You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcohol’s working faster than expected, you say it—

“I met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.”

The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Tall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?”

You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”

She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”

“Mhm. Doesn’t talk much. Just keeps to himself.”

You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.

And of course—

Speak of the devil.

There he is.

Choso. Same dark clothes, same quiet presence, the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he steps into the bar like he doesn’t know you were just talking about him.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

The bartender glances at you and smirks.

“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath. “Looks like fate’s got a good sense of timing.”

You straighten in your seat instinctively, like posture is going to fix the heat crawling up your neck.

The bartender leans in closer, voice pitched low just for you. “You want me to bring him over?”

Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”

She grins like that’s not an answer. “Too late.”

Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anything—

“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”

His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the next—unmistakably—to you.

Then he nods.

The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. “Be a peach and slide down one seat, would you?”

You blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about good company.”

You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Choso’s already making his way over—long strides, quiet steps, the click of his boots drowned out by your internal oh no oh no oh no loop.

He settles beside you without much fanfare, tipping his hat a little as he sits.

“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.

Your heart’s doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. “Hey. Fancy seeing you again.”

The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. “Y’all have fun,” she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.

Choso glances after her, then back at you.

“She always like that?” you ask.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Only when she senses blood in the water.”

And there’s something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.

You raise a brow. “That so?”

hides a smile behind his glass.

“So,” you say after a beat, “do you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?”

He tilts his head. “You were talkin’ about me?”

You pause, caught.

“…No?”

He hums. “Huh.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something clever—or at least less humiliating—but he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.

“Darlin’, I can tell.”

Your jaw drops. “I was not-”

“It’s cute.”

You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breath—barely there, but there.

Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (“It’s not the diner,” he warns). At some point, your shoulders stop feeling so tight. And by the time the bartender swings by again with a smug little grin, you're both halfway through your second drinks.

You glance out the window—dark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.

“I should probably head back,” you say, setting your glass down.

Choso finishes his sip and nods. “I’ll walk you.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Simple as that.

So you agree.

Outside, the night air is cooler than it was when you stepped in. Crisp in a way that feels nice after being inside with too many people and too many thoughts. Choso falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”

He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Talk when I need to.”

You hum. “That’s fair. I talk even when I don’t need to, so… you balance it out.”

There’s the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.

It’s quiet again. Not awkward, just… easy.

You don’t live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch light’s glowing just up ahead.

“Well,” you say as you stop in front of your door. “Thanks for the company.”

Choso nods. “You gonna be alright out here on your own?”

“I’ve survived worse,” you joke. “Like moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.”

That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.

He dips his head a little, eyes on you. “You ever need somethin’, you know where the ranch is.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly would I be needin’?”

He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.

“Dunno,” he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. “Thought I’d leave the door open.”

And with that, he tips his hat—just slightly—and turns to walk off.

-

[you]: okay wait

[you]: I get it now.

[you]: the cowboy thing.

She replies in two seconds flat.

[shoko]: took you long enough

[shoko]: you gonna test the hands theory or what

You stare at your screen and groan.

[you]: SHOKO.

[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.

[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING

[shoko]: trust the process

[you]: i’m blocking you.

[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie

You huff, turning your phone off, and get up to get ready for bed.

You lie down, stare at the ceiling. Think about the unpacked boxes still in the hallway. The weird noise the fridge made earlier. And then—like clockwork—your mind drifts.

Choso.

You don’t even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course that’s enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy you’ve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.

You roll over, annoyed at yourself.

He’s probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesn’t talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like it’s not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okay—fine, the “darlin’” thing did something to you. That’s on him. But it’s also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

You didn’t come here to get distracted. Definitely not by some man with pretty hands and a nice voice and a face that should be illegal this far out in the middle of nowhere.

No. You’re here to get your life together.

Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you can’t stop thinking about.

You shut your eyes and try to pretend you’re not already in trouble.

-

You’d been at it for over an hour now—sweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldn’t fit right. You’d hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.

It didn’t.

You sit back on your heels with a frustrated sigh, wiping at your temple with the back of your hand. The rest of the porch is a patchwork of replaced and rotted wood, and the one plank holding everything up just refuses to be tamed.

“Y’look like you’re about five seconds from fightin’ that board.”

You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gate—hands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, rising to your feet. “I’ve about had it with this thing.”

He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Need a hand?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I—I got it. Don’t worry. I know you’ve got your own work to do.”

He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. “Ain’t in a rush. S’not a burden if I offer.”

You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man you ask favors from lightly—partly because he’s always so quiet, so distant. But he’s looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.

“…Alright,” you say, stepping aside. “But only because this thing’s winning, and I can’t have that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to work—but instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.

You blink.

Because holy hell.

You’d only ever seen glimpses of his face before—just enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that it’s gone, it’s like the sun comes out in full.

He’s beautiful. Not the kind of pretty you’d expect from someone who works rough and silent—no, he’s got the kind of beauty that’s sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattoo—dark and striking across the bridge of his nose—only makes it worse.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

“...What?” he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.

“What?” he asks.

You swallow, trying to play it cool. “Just… didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”

He nods once, unfazed. “Had it a long time.”

“It suits you,” you say before you can think better of it.

Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yours—slow, unreadable.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work.

The two of you work in near silence after that. He makes quick work of the stubborn plank, fitting it with practiced ease, fingers steady and sure. You hold nails when he asks, pass him tools without thinking. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just natural.

At one point, your hands brush as you hand him the screwdriver. Neither of you say anything. But you feel it. The spark. The stillness.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, and there’s a bit of sawdust on his shoulder.

He catches you looking.

You snap your gaze away.

And in your chest, something shifts. Something soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that unsettles you.

You like him.

You like him.

It hits you like a whisper—gentle, but impossible to ignore.

When the board’s finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. “There. Should hold now.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”

He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. “Told you I’d help if you needed.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess you did.”

The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. It’s quiet, but not in a bad way.

Like maybe you don’t need to say everything out loud.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. “It’s not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.”

Choso shifts a little like he’s not used to being offered anything. Like you’ve surprised him.

You catch it, that pause—and suddenly feel a little silly. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know… in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. “Didn’t know I was savin’ your life.”

“Oh, you absolutely were,” you say, feigning seriousness. “That board had it out for me.”

He looks at you for a second too long. Then: “Alright. I’ll take a glass.”

You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, “Don’t run off. I’m only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.”

When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, he’s still sitting on the porch step, hat resting beside him, hair a little mussed from the heat and work. He glances up as you hand him his glass.

“Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just easy.

It’s small. It’s nothing.

But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.

Choso tips his glass back, slow. “Did a good job, y’know.”

You glance over. “On the porch?”

“On the house. All of it.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “Most folks would’ve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.”

You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “I wasn’t sure it’d show.”

He nods once. “It shows.”

Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.

“You’re settlin’ in alright,” he says simply. “You should stay. It’d be nice if you do.”

And then he’s gone—hat pulled low again, boots crunching down the gravel path.

You sit there a moment longer, lemonade glass half full in your lap, brain absolutely fried.

You should stay.

Goddamn it.

-

[you]: shoko

[you]: shoko

[you]: SHOKO

[shoko]: it’s literally midnight

[shoko]: did something catch on fire

[you]: NO

[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway

[you]: he said it’d be nice if i stay here

[you]: WHO SAYS THAT

[you]: I HAVEN’T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT FOR TWO HOURS

[shoko]: it means he thinks you should stay there

[shoko]: probably with him, in his weird cowboy brain

[you]: SHOKO PLEASE

[you]: THAT’S NOT HELPING

[you]: I CALLED LEMONADE “LEMON WATER” AFTER

[you]: I’M SO STUPID

[shoko]: oh you’re down bad

[shoko]: adorable

[shoko]: pls keep embarrassing yourself. it’s entertaining

[shoko]: also

[shoko]: call me when you kiss him

[you]: FUCK YOU.

-

The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. You’re at the bar nursing a whiskey and soda, trying very hard not to think about the way Choso had looked at you like that porch was the only thing standing between you and him.

“You look distracted,” drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass. 

You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. “Well, you’ll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend comin’.”

You blink. “Saturday?”

“You didn’t hear? Dustwell’s annual Fall Festival.” She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. “Whole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.”

Your brows raise. “That sounds... kind of amazing.”

“Oh, it’s somethin’. Bit of everything—bonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.” She leans in a little. “You should come. Be a good way to meet folks.”

You sip your drink. “Will there be whiskey?”

“Enough to drown a horse,” she deadpans. “C’mon. You might even have fun.”

You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. “Alright. I’ll check it out.”

She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”

You pause. “Is it the kind of thing people go to alone?”

“You won’t be alone long,” she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. “Trust me.”

You smile into your glass and murmur, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She laughs and moves on to the next customer, leaving you sitting in the low golden glow of the bar lights, your drink slowly warming in your hand.

You swirl the ice once more.

You’re going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.

-

You tell yourself it’s just a small-town festival.

No need to overthink it. Just food stalls, some live music, maybe a bonfire if the wind stays down. But somehow, you’ve tried on three outfits already and you’re still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like you’re trying.

Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled on—light, flowy, soft against your skin. Not too short. Not too loud. Just enough.

Your boots are worn but clean. A bit of balm on your lips, a brush through your hair. You pause over the mascara.

“Stupid,” you mutter, swiping it on anyway.

You’re not dressing up for him. You’re not.

You grab your bag and give yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress sways with your movement, delicate and easy in the late afternoon light.

You look… nice.

And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?

Well. That’s not why you’re going.

(Probably.)

-

The lights strung up over Dustwell’s main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd that’s gathered. There’s laughter, music, chatter—a rhythm to the evening that thrums low and pleasant.

You should be enjoying it.

But your eyes are elsewhere.

You move through the crowd slowly, aimless, pretending to admire booths you don’t quite see. A table of carved wooden animals. A local honey stand. Rows of pies, flaky and golden. People pass with plates stacked high, cups of cider sloshing, the scent of cinnamon in the air.

And still, you keep looking.

Your boots crunch softly on gravel as you round the corner near the bonfire pit. A flicker of orange firelight glows against smiling faces. Couples sway to the drawl of a country ballad being played live somewhere off to the left. You scan each cluster of people with careful, almost casual glances.

He’s not here.

You try not to feel stupid about it.

Choso never said he’d come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe he’s back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didn’t think about you at all.

You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.

“Pretty dress,” someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.

You tense.

Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin that’s more grease than charm. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.

“You look real sweet tonight,” he adds, leaning closer. “You local?”

You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. “Just passing through,” you lie.

He follows. “Nah, I’ve seen you before. Came in not long ago. You’ve been out at the old farmstead, ain’t you? Near the ridge?”

Your mouth tightens. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He laughs, too loud, too bold. “Well, we’re meetin’ now, ain’t we?”

“You here alone?” he asks, leaning in. “Don’t seem right, someone like you walkin’ around without a man.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, voice firm but polite.

“Aww, c’mon now—don’t be like that,” he drawls, reaching like he’s about to touch your arm.

You stiffen, heart starting to pound—

Then suddenly, there’s someone else.

A wall of quiet tension slots between you and the sleazy stranger, solid and unmoving. The guy stumbles back half a step as the air shifts.

You don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:

“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

Choso stands between you and the drunk, broad shoulders blocking the man from view, voice calm but carrying a warning beneath it.

You swallow, then nod.

Choso doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just says, “Get lost.”

The guy laughs nervously. “Hey, no trouble—just chattin’, that’s all—”

Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around him—it’s enough.

The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.

For a beat, it’s quiet.

Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over you—slowly, like he’s still processing what he’s seeing.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, heart fluttering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. “Shouldn’t be lettin’ creeps like that get near you.”

You smile softly. “Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. “You eaten yet?”

“…No.”

“C’mon then,” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you somethin’.”

You fall into step beside him.

Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.

The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. There’s an ease to it—like neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. Just the scrape of boots on gravel, the occasional burst of laughter from nearby, and the soft hum of music carried on the wind.

You pause at a food stall where an older woman is selling fried hand pies. Choso buys two without asking—one for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.

“Thought I wasn’t hungry,” you say, amused.

“You looked at it twice,” he replies simply.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You always this observant?”

He shrugs, chewing. “Just when it matters.”

You try not to read too much into that. You fail.

You wander with him toward a quieter part of the festival, where the booths thin out and string lights dangle lower from wooden poles. Kids run past in a blur, chasing each other with glow sticks. There’s a tent set up nearby with hay bales inside for resting.

You slip into the edge of it to take a break, brushing your skirt down as you sit. Choso stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the crowd.

You can’t help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lost in thought. He’s wearing that same beat-up hat—but you’ve seen what’s underneath now. The soft waves of his hair. The scar, beautiful in its own way. How gentle his eyes are, even when his face looks like it’s forgotten how to smile.

“You don’t like crowds, do you?” you ask softly.

He glances over, amused. “Figured that obvious?”

You laugh. “You’re standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.”

He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”

“For trouble?”

He looks at you for a beat. “For you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dress—until you feel his gaze lower.

“That dress,” he says, voice low like he almost hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “You look real pretty in it.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “…What?”

He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. “I mean it. Real damn pretty, darlin’.”

Your heart jumps at the nickname. God, it sounds even better tonight. Heat crawls up the back of your neck as you glance down at the floral fabric bunched around your knees.

“I almost wore jeans,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckles, and it’s quiet but deep. “Would’ve looked good either way. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You peek up at him again—and he’s still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hair’s curled around your shoulders—but at you. Really looking.

He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. “C’mon. There’s a view you might like.”

You follow without thinking.

And maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe you both keep pretending it’s not.

But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure you’re still with him—you feel it settling in your chest.

You follow him past the last of the booths, away from the warmth of the fire and the noise of the crowd. The grass grows wilder out here, untamed and soft beneath your boots. String lights give way to open sky, and above you, the stars stretch wide and scattered like sugar spilled over velvet.

Choso walks a little ahead, hands tucked in his pockets. His pace is slow, easy. Like he’s making sure you can keep up without looking like he’s trying.

“D you always bring girls out here?” you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.

He glances at you, amused. “Ain’t much of a crowd person, remember?”

“Still didn’t answer the question.”

That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “No. First time.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but your heart makes a quiet little flutter behind your ribs.

The hill slopes up just enough to make your calves ache by the time you reach the top. But the view? It’s worth it.

Below, Dustwell looks like something out of a painting. Warm flickers of light. People like shadows moving between tents. Music floating up faint and distant. And past it all, the open stretch of the plains—blue-black and endless.

You exhale softly. “Wow.”

Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Didn’t oversell it, huh?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t say anything about it being this beautiful.”

He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something else.

Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, “Figured you’d see it yourself.”

A breeze kicks up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it just enough to make you shiver. You cross your arms, rubbing at your sleeves, and without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. “But you’re cold.”

The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. It’s too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, he’s already looking at you.

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… honest.

And something about it—something about him—makes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

But it feels like one.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

You both fall into a quiet lull, watching the horizon blur at its edges. The night wraps around you, soft and vast, and with his jacket warming your shoulders, something inside you loosens.

You hug it closer. “I wasn’t even sure I’d stay at first,” you admit, voice hushed. “Dustwell just… felt like a name on a deed. Not a place I’d belong.”

Choso doesn’t interrupt. He waits, like he knows there’s more.

“I thought I’d fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,” you say. “But then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And then…”

You glance over, offering a small smile. “Then I met you.”

His gaze is steady, unreadable—but his jaw flexes, just barely. Like your words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.

You shift slightly, brushing hair away from your face. “You ever get that feeling? Like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense yet?”

He’s silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.

You turn to face him fully now, searching his expression—and find that he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his eyes. Something new.

Tentative. Quiet. Intense.

His gaze flickers downward—just once, just enough to make your breath catch.

To your mouth.

He swallows, throat working. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, ’m gonna start gettin’ ideas.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And then he leans in—slow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinct—like you need something to hold onto to keep you grounded. His fingertips skim along your jaw, featherlight, until his thumb brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He doesn’t pull away.

And you don’t either.

The air between you grows thick, weighted with everything unsaid. His hand lingers just beneath your jaw, rough from work and calloused in a way that feels real, solid—so unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You swear your heart’s beating so loud it’s echoing in your ears.

His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like he’s giving you every second to say no.

You don’t.

His nose grazes yours, warm breath fanning across your skin. Your lashes flutter as your eyes fall shut.

Then, finally, his lips press to yours.

Soft. Barely there at first. Just a brush. A question.

You sigh—yes, God, yes—and that’s all he needs.

The kiss deepens, coaxed open by quiet urgency and something tender just beneath the surface. His palm cradles the side of your face now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like he’s not used to having something this gentle, this good, and he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.

But still—he leans in closer.

Your spine meets the wooden rail behind you, but you hardly notice. Your hands slide up to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through his shirt, steady and sure. One of his hands drifts to your waist, grounding you, tugging you infinitesimally closer.

And God—you feel it. That shift.

That invisible line you just crossed.

When you finally part, it’s only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.

He doesn’t move far.

Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.”

You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, dazed. Your lips still buzz where his mouth had just been, and your heart is doing something stupidly dramatic in your chest—fluttering like it’s got something to prove.

Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. There’s a small crease between his brows like he’s still unsure if he overstepped.

But all you can do is stare.

Then—God—you laugh.

A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.

He tilts his head. “Somethin’ funny, darlin’?”

Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. “No—no, just… I think my brain short-circuited a little.”

That earns the faintest smirk from him—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you did look real pretty tonight. Could’ve warned me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. “Is that how you kiss everyone?”

He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh—and dips his gaze to your lips again. “No,” he says, low. “Just you.”

That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.

Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. “Ain’t figured that part out yet.”

And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. It’s steady. Comforting.

He doesn’t rush the silence. Doesn’t push.

The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory now—muted beneath the rush of your heart and the warmth still lingering on your lips.

He steps back a little, just enough to breathe, but not enough to lose the closeness. “You wan’ me to walk ya home?”

Your answer is immediate, quiet. “I do.”

You fall into step beside each other, the path dimly lit by strings of warm bulbs and the fading firelight from the festival. The ground crunches under your boots, and the night air wraps cool and easy around your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, and you don’t mind. You like the silence between you—it’s comfortable. Safe.

Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.

Just barely.

You glance over at him. He’s looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but there’s a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.

You don’t say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.

The next time they touch, it’s on purpose.

Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.

He doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

-

By the time you reach your porch, the stars are scattered thick above you and the crickets are singing like they know something you don’t.

You stop at the steps, not quite ready to go inside.

Choso stands just a step down, taller than you even now, his silhouette all shadows and moonlight. His fingers are still loosely curled around yours.

He looks at you, quiet.

You look back.

Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.

Then, just as you’re about to speak—he leans in again.

But this time, it’s different.

Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

It doesn’t last long—but it doesn’t need to.

When he pulls away, you’re still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.

“Night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You open your mouth to respond but—nothing comes out.

He smirks, just barely, and tips his hat before turning back toward the road, boots crunching softly as he walks away.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.

-

[you]: shoko.

[you]: he kissed me.

[you]: just… kissed me. said “night, darlin’” and walked off like it was nothing.

[you]: i think i forgot how to stand for a second.

You watch the typing bubble blink in and out a few times.

[shoko]: and how was it

[you]: …really good.

[shoko]: knew it. told you he had a thing for you.

[you]: you also said he probably talks to horses more than people.

[shoko]: and apparently he kisses better than both. proud of you.

You huff a laugh, dropping your head back against the couch.

The room is quiet. The porch light still glows through the curtains. Your lips still tingle.

You pull your knees up to your chest, phone resting in your palm.

And when sleep finally pulls you under, it's with the weight of his touch still lingering and his voice—low and warm—tucked somewhere in the back of your mind.

-

The days that follow feel different.

Not loud or sudden—just quieter in a way that stays with you.

Like the way his eyes linger a little longer when you talk. Like the way he leans in when no one’s looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no one’s around to see.

There’s a moment in the barn—just the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sun—where he kisses you slow, with one hand braced against the stall and the other at your waist. You laugh into his mouth, and he smiles like he can’t help it.

Another time, it’s behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean it—and before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all day.

Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.

Like the night you're sitting side by side on your porch steps, your knee brushing his, your laughter fading into something quieter. His eyes darken as they drop to your mouth. He kisses you, slower this time. Deeper. And when his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, when his hand skims along your thigh—

The porch light flickers.

A car rumbles by.

You both pause, breath caught in your throats.

He pulls back with a soft exhale, forehead resting against yours for a second longer before he clears his throat and leans away.

Another time, it’s the hayloft—warm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. He’s hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirt—

Then the barn door creaks. A voice calls for him.

You sit up, flushed and breathless, heart thudding hard in your chest.

He mutters something under his breath, presses a kiss to your temple, and climbs down first.

It’s never awkward. Never forced.

Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.

And it’s always him who pulls back—like he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

-

The air seems lighter, the walk into town quieter, your thoughts a little louder.

You find yourself smiling at nothing, fingers ghosting over your lips like they still remember the weight of his. And when you catch sight of him across the way—hat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heat—you swear your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t say much when he sees you, just tips his head in that lazy way of his, mouth curling faintly at the edges.

But as you pass by, his hand brushes yours—just for a second. Barely there. Like a secret no one else is supposed to notice.

And you swear your skin hums from the touch.

Later, when you're out by the edge of the property replacing fence boards, he shows up with that same quiet timing he always does. He leans against the post beside you, hands in his pockets, watching.

“You’re gonna get splinters, y’know,” he drawls.

You shoot him a look. “Then maybe you should help.”

He does.

And this time, when he kneels beside you, handing you nails and steadying the board with one hand, his knee brushes yours and stays there. There’s no flinch, no apology—just a glance up, a half-smile passed between you.

When he stands, he offers a hand to pull you up. You hesitate a moment too long before taking it, your fingers curling around his, warm and sure.

“You always this helpful?” you tease.

He shrugs. “Only when there’s pretty company.”

You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.

-

It starts with a rumble.

The sky’s been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like they’re waiting for the right moment to split open. You’d taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself you’d beat the storm back.

You don’t.

You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hits—sudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, you’re drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and you’re shivering as you trudge along, arms wrapped around yourself.

You barely hear the truck pulling up beside you over the roar of rain.

But you definitely hear his voice.

“Darlin’?”

You blink through the downpour, and there he is—Choso, leaning out the driver’s side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.

“You tryin’ to drown out here?”

You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. “Thought I could outrun it.”

His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way you’re hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.

“My place is closer,” he says after a beat. “C’mon.”

You hesitate only for a second. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you probably should—but because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.

Still, the rain’s cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.

You nod.

He’s out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, they’re warm, solid. Comforting.

Inside the cab, the heater’s on, and it smells like cedar and something faintly smoky. Choso reaches behind the seat, grabs an old flannel, and without a word, drapes it over your shoulders.

You glance over at him, your hands gripping the soft fabric.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: “Ain’t gonna let you freeze out here.”

You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.

The silence stretches.

“You always play knight in shining armor?” you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.

Choso doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Don’t usually have a reason to.”

The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far away—blurred and gray and quiet.

Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.

You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of it—woodsmoke, leather, something him—makes your chest ache just a little.

“Didn’t think the weather’d turn that fast,” you murmur, glancing out the window.

Choso glances over. “Storms move quick out here,” he says. “You’ll learn.”

You smile faintly. “Guess I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re doin’ alright,” he says, voice low.

The silence returns, but it’s not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. There’s something steady in his presence, something grounding, and it creeps in slow, calming your nerves until your body starts to relax on its own.

He makes a turn, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls onto a long, dirt path lined with wild mesquite trees. You didn’t realize how close his place actually was.

Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the road.

Maybe it’s him.

You glance over, watching him quietly—his jawline, the way the rain beads on the brim of his hat. Without thinking, you lean a little closer, until your head gently rests against his shoulder.

Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, starting to pull away.

But his voice stops you—soft, quieter than usual.

“It’s alright.”

And so you stay.

For a minute, maybe two, neither of you says anything. His shoulder is solid and warm beneath your cheek. You close your eyes.

“You get used to the rain, too,” he says after a while. “’Specially when you’ve got someone to ride it out with.”

There’s a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.

“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, but you can feel the way his breath shifts. Like he wants to say something but bites it back.

The truck rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says gently.

The rain’s still falling when Choso gets out and jogs around to open your door, hat tilted low to shield from the downpour. You hesitate for a second before slipping your hand into his, jumping down from the truck. His palm is rough and warm, and when you look up at him, his eyes are already on you.

The walk to the front porch is brief but soaked. By the time you’re inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hair’s dripping water down your neck.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. “Towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. “Thanks.”

The bathroom smells faintly of cedar and old cologne. You dry off as best you can, toweling your hair and arms. When you step out, Choso’s waiting in the hall with a bundle in his hands—a soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that’ll definitely be too big.

“Hope that works,” he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. “Didn’t figure you’d want jeans.”

You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. “Perfect.”

When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, he’s in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Hot cocoa. Not coffee—it’s late.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the cocoa type.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I ain’t. But you seem like the kind who’d need somethin’ sweet after a cold walk home.”

Your stomach flips.

You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. There’s a quiet in the room again—not awkward, just…thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.

Then, he tilts his head a bit. “You look good in that.”

Your gaze snaps up to his.

“In what?”

He nods at the hoodie. “Never liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.”

You laugh softly, heart in your throat. “I look like I’m drowning in it.”

“Still suits you.”

You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind you—slow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, he’s there. His arms plant on either side of you, palms flat against the counter, caging you in without a word.

The space between your bodies buzzes with unspoken something. His chest nearly brushes your back, and when he dips his head, breath warm at the curve of your neck, you freeze.

Then—soft.

The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much.

You manage a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.”

You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kiss—just below your ear this time—and murmurs, voice low, rough:

“Glad you agreed to come.”

You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. “And if I hadn’t?”

He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours now—closer than you expected, darker too. “Guess I’d be missin’ out.”

The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isn’t so wide anymore.

His mouth crashes against yours this time—no hesitation, no space to think, just heat.

It’s clumsy at first, teeth clashing, breath hitching, but neither of you care. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’ll fall apart if there’s even an inch between you. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, one hand sliding around your waist to press you flush to him, the other threading into your hair.

Your back hits the counter as he crowds you in, lips hot and relentless, kissing like he means to memorize every inch. Tongues meet, the kiss deepening into something hungry, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for far too long.

His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wander—his jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like he’s starved, like this moment has been clawing at the edge of his self-control for days. Weeks.

When you gasp against him, he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, chasing it with a gentler kiss right after—contrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like you’ll crawl into him if he lets you.

The only sound in the room is the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet thud of footsteps shifting, the desperate sound of mouths colliding again and again—wet, open-mouthed, aching.

Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way he’s kissing you like he never wants to stop.

His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. It’s not rushed—he touches like he’s memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “’Bout you.”

You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he sounds—like he’s been holding back and it’s finally breaking loose.

His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then he’s kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“You gotta tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot against your skin, “or I’m not gonna.”

But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his name—low, breathy, a little wrecked—has him cursing under his breath.

He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.

You barely notice when his hands shift—one to your thigh, the other braced at your lower back—until your feet leave the ground.

You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Choso—”

“Not here,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “You deserve better than a fuckin’ kitchen counter.”

The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but there’s something else too—the way he carries you, steady and certain, like he’s done thinking. Like he’s made up his mind.

He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.

“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already halfway to his room.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

His mouth twitches and the second you’re in his room, he’s setting you down on the bed like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

Then he’s on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like they’re in the way of something holy.

He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re in his hoodie—his hoodie—and there’s something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.

“Didn’t think you could look better in my clothes,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “’Til now.”

His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest—leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like he’s unwrapping something delicate, and tosses it aside without taking his eyes off you.

Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.

He hooks his fingers under the fabric, ready to ask again—ready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.

There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.

His breath catches—sharp and audible—and his hands go still.

“...You’re not wearin’ anything underneath,” he says, almost like he’s making sure he didn’t just imagine it.

You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. “Yeah. Didn’t wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I just…”

His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”

Your breath hitches, and that’s all the answer he needs.

The shift in him is instant—his mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the thought.

Hands spread your legs with a kind of reverence, eyes locked on you like a man seeing something sacred for the first time.

And when he settles between them, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart, it’s not just lust in his expression.

It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.

He exhales slow, like he’s trying to ground himself—but the tension in his shoulders says it’s a losing battle.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. “You got no idea what that’s doin’ to me.”

His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in—and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, it pulls a gasp straight from your chest.

He groans against you, deep and raw, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready for him. “This all for me?”

You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then he’s back at it—mouth open, tongue greedy, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth before pulling away just enough to tease you with the flat of his tongue.

It’s messy. It’s focused. He’s focused—like he’s been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop.

He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. He’s learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and again—hungry, deliberate, obsessed.

Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.

And when he speaks, it’s into your skin—low and reverent and wrecked.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Could stay down here all night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me make you come on my fuckin’ tongue?”

You can’t even respond—your fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intense—tongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.

And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? It’s pure worship.

Like you’re a miracle.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear into you like he’s trying to make a point. He just stays there—mouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like he’s figuring you out by feel.

And the second you react—hips tilting toward him, breath hitching—he locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like he’s memorizing what works.

His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch, a single sound. One hand slides up, settling on your hip, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you. The other stays on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, keeping you calm. Or trying to.

Because it’s not calm anymore.

There’s nothing showy in the way he moves—just focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. He’s not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and it’s obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didn’t know you could make.

When you start to shake, he pulls back just a little—enough to look at you.

“Almost there?”

You nod fast, too far gone for words, and that’s all he needs.

He goes right back in, tongue and mouth working in sync now, no hesitation, no breaks. Just pressure, just heat, just him, fully focused on pulling you under. The tension builds quick—sharp and tight, spiraling—and he doesn’t stop until you fall apart.

Even then, he lingers. Soft, slow, soothing now. Gentle licks while you come down, his hands smoothing over your hips like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.

He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—and his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.

“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He runs a thumb through the mess he’s made, not teasing, just... feeling. Like he needs to know how soft you are, how warm. Then he shifts up slightly, mouth still close, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before slipping one finger in—slow and steady.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.

“Good.”

He keeps it gentle at first, letting you adjust, watching your face the whole time. Then he curls his finger just right, and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.

“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”

He adds a second finger, just as slowly. It’s a snug fit, but you’re wet enough that he doesn’t have to push hard—and he doesn’t. He’s careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.

Like it matters.

And it does.

“You’re takin’ me so well already,” he says quietly, more wonder than praise. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

His fingers work in a steady rhythm now—deep, purposeful, hitting the spot over and over while his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing soft, slow circles that have your thighs shaking all over again.

“Think you can come like this?” he asks, almost curious. “Wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.”

He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until you’re arching into him without even realizing, until he knows you’re right there—

And he doesn’t stop until he has you falling apart a second time.

You’re still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to lose the warmth of you just yet. He presses another kiss to your inner thigh, then one just above your hipbone, working his way up your body with this quiet, steady intensity—like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this.

When he finally settles over you, his face is close, his hair still damp at the ends, a little wild from where you’ve tugged at it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-in—he means it. Like if you said stop right now, he actually would.

You nod, still flushed, still reeling.

He studies you for a beat longer, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for any sign you’re not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, that’s all he needs.

His mouth moves over yours—slow this time, less frantic than before. It’s warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still not rushin’ you,” he says, almost like a promise. “But I want you. Been wantin’ you since the day we met.”

You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.

“Then let me,” you murmur. “I want to.”

He nods—small, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like he’s surrendering himself to you completely, and you shift, climbing into his lap with shaky hands and a tight chest. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark but gentle, tracking the way your thighs settle around his hips.

You lean forward to kiss him once—slow, almost nervous—then sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.

And that’s when your breath catches.

He’s big.

Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You don’t even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldn’t fit.

Choso sees your hesitation—feels it, maybe—and his voice comes quiet. Steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you whisper, eyes still locked on him.

You reach down, fingers curling around the base, and he shudders under you. The sound he makes is low and wrecked, like even the idea of you touching him is too much.

You guide him toward your entrance, breathing a little harder now. Every nerve is alive. His leaky tip brushes against you and he groans, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

“Wait,” he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. “You alright?”

You nod—quick, almost frantic.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I just—you're big.”

His thumb strokes gently along your skin. “I know, baby. You don’t gotta rush, alright?”

Still, you press down—slowly, inch by inch—and your body gives, stretching around him. He’s thick, the burn immediate but not unbearable, just enough to make your eyes flutter shut, jaw tight as you try to breathe through it.

He sees it all.

Your thighs shaking. The hitch in your breath. The way your hands scramble for something to hold onto—him, the sheets, anything.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You blink down at him—and that’s when the tears slip, soft and silent.

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcing—supporting.

“You feel like heaven,” he says, eyes flicking down to where you’re still taking him. “You’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.

“God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmed—but full. And when your eyes find his again, he’s already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.

“You’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I want to,” you whisper.

Choso smiles—soft and aching.

“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You breathe deep, hands braced on his chest, hips trembling as you sink down the last few inches. The stretch burns, your body aching with the effort, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of miracle—keeps you steady.

And then you bottom out.

Your thighs meet his hips. He’s all the way inside.

And for a second, everything goes still.

Choso’s head falls back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. His fingers grip your hips, not to guide you, just to anchor himself—like he needs something to hold on to or he’ll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Baby—fuck, you—”

His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like he’s never felt anything like this before. Like you’ve just undone him completely.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You feel so fuckin’ good, I can’t—can’t even think straight.”

Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressure—every nerve raw and pulsing.

He blinks up at you, eyes blown wide, flushed and wrecked. His hands move again, gentler now, one cupping your waist, the other smoothing up your spine until it cradles the back of your head.

“You okay?” he murmurs again. “Still good?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted. “Yeah.”

“You’re takin’ me so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. Feels like—feels like I’m dreamin’,” he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach. 

You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Don’t move yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Just—just stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.”

And so you do.

You sit there, chest to chest, buried deep in each other, his hands trembling against your skin, your breath feathering against his ear. No movement. No rush. Just the overwhelming heat of him inside you, the way he kisses your shoulder like he’s saying thank you without words.

Like he can’t believe he gets to be this close.

You start to move—just barely. A slow roll of your hips, careful and unsure, easing yourself into the rhythm.

Choso groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening where they rest on your hips. You feel him twitch inside you, thick and heavy, and when you do it again—just a little deeper—his head drops back with a gasp.

“Baby…”

It’s a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.

But you do it again—grind down a little harder, a little slower—and that thread snaps.

He surges up with a grunt, hips bucking into you hard and sudden, burying himself deeper than before. You gasp, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest for balance.

“Choso—!”

“Fuck, I can’t,” he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. “You feel too good—too fuckin’ good—I tried, baby, I did—”

He thrusts up again, rougher now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You moan loud, back arching into him, completely overwhelmed.

He groans against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips like a man possessed, guiding you into a rhythm he can’t hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.

“So tight—so fuckin’ wet—” he pants. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Me losin’ it underneath you? Fuckin’ you like I need it?”

Your only answer is a cry—his name—and that breaks him even more.

He pounds into you now, rhythm rough and frantic, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Every thrust drives him deeper, drags a moan from your throat, makes your vision blur with heat.

His thumb brushes your clit, fast and precise, and your whole body jerks.

“There you go,” he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it—right fuckin’ here.”

And with the way he’s fucking into you—relentless, possessive, absolutely wrecked—you know you won’t last long.

Your climax crashes through you like a wave—sudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where they’re locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. “That’s my girl. Fuck—so pretty when you come for me.”

His grip on your waist loosens just slightly, letting you ride the tail end of it. You collapse forward onto his chest, boneless, breathing hard, face tucked into the crook of his neck as your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He groans.

And then it happens.

In one fluid motion, he moves—sits up, grabs you by the hips, and flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Your gasp barely escapes before his mouth is on yours, hungry, his body heavy and burning over yours.

He thrusts back into you hard and deep, and your whole body jolts. He’s panting now, fully gone, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking to his jaw in damp strands.

His hips slap against yours, hard and fast, rhythm brutal. Gone is the careful restraint.

“Fuck—you’re still so tight,” he pants, driving into you again, harder. “So warm—could stay inside you forever.”

One hand grabs your thigh and pushes it back, open, spreading you wider so he can get even deeper. You cry out, toes curling, fingernails dragging down his back.

“Hold it there, baby,” he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Just like that—let me have it.”

His other hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. He rubs tight, fast circles, dragging a broken sound from your throat.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he growls, pace relentless. “You’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

And with the way he’s pounding into you—feral, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheek—you know he means it.

You’re not leaving this bed until he’s satisfied.

You’re soaked—sweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but he’s still moving—still buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.

“Cho,” you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.

“I know, I know,” Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. “One more, you got one more for me.”

You’re not sure if it’s a question or a command—but your body responds before your mouth can. Hips twitching, walls fluttering again around him like you need him to wring the last of it from you.

His thrusts grow rougher—sloppier, deeper—his control unraveling fast. His hand moves from your thigh to your face, tilting your chin toward him as he leans in, eyes locked to yours.

“You feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he hisses. “Can’t hold back anymore—fuck, baby—”

And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.

That’s all it takes. You break.

Again.

Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warning—violent, breath-stealing, almost too much. Your vision blurs. Back arches. A sob breaks in your throat as your body clenches, pulsing wildly around him.

Choso loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. “That’s it—fuckin’—fuckin’ takin’ me just like that—”

He cums hard, groaning deep and wrecked, hips jerking as he spills into you, warmth flooding deep. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You both stay like that—panting, sweating, shaking—his body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s afraid it’s all going to disappear if he opens them.

Finally, he exhales—slow, shaky, almost a laugh.

“You alright?” he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod weakly, barely able to speak. “Mhm.”

He smiles, kisses your forehead.

“You were so good for me, angel,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.

“Be right back, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”

You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.

He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermath—your heart still hammering, skin tingling where his hands had been. He returns a minute later with a damp, warm towel and kneels beside you, moving slow, careful.

“Still doin’ alright?” he asks, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.

“Did so good for me,” he says. “Took me so damn well.”

You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into him like you belong there. You do. Right now, you do.

For a long while, it’s just the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like he’s in no rush to let the moment go.

Then, quietly, “Didn’t think I’d ever want somethin’ like this.”

You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. “Like what?”

He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, “You. In my bed. Not just for tonight.”

Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.

“I’m not in a rush to leave,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.

Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales slowly—and the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, “I’m glad you’re not.”

There’s a quiet honesty in it that makes your chest ache a little. You nuzzle closer, fingers still laced with his, and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.

No need to rush. Not tonight.

author's note. not my proudest work but to be fair, i did write this while going through major writer's block. i still hope y'all enjoy it <3

[hedgehog-moss]

I need to confess something—my last post presented a deceptively idyllic vision of my hike in the snow. I only posted photos from the tranquil walk home at dusk and neglected to mention that I (once again) got lost in a featureless expanse of snow and briefly became convinced I would never find the road again and would have to dig a little den like an Arctic fox to spend the night.

You see, there's this place where Pandolf really loves to go for a walk on snowy days—it's on top of this plateau here:

^ see the fence in the middle, that curves to the left? Nothing bad can happen as long as you follow it. There are lots of landmarks in this direction, like trees, more fences, and a couple of houses.

In the other direction, however, lies The Nothing.

Here's a photo of Pandolf (eagerly) standing near the edge of The Nothing:

Characteristics of The Nothing: it is vast, and white, and becomes more and more featureless the farther you go into it—

—and Pandolf really, really loves it.

Even when he falls into a surprise hole where the snow is suddenly three times as deep (another characteristic of The Nothing), he'll just push himself out in one great powerful jump and keep frolicking.

Or he'll remain in the spot where the snow is deeper and try his best to bury his entire self into it.

He sometimes gets crazy eyes in The Nothing.

We always start this walk with such good resolutions.

We're definitely staying close to the fence this time! With all the lovely landmarks on the left!

And then, inevitably,

Further notes from my studies: • The Nothing has some small plants and rocks, but using them as landmarks is foolish, as they will eventually disappear. • No matter how many foot-, paw-, and dog-headprints you leave and how deep they are, they will disappear before you are able to retrace your steps, probably because The Nothing is always so windy.

Pandolf thinks this is a great characteristic of The Nothing, as it means he never runs out of immaculate snow to dive into.

The wind and the resulting snow mist are the really treacherous things about this place. These photos were taken in roughly the same spot, a couple of hours apart. In the first one, the fence on the left is clearly visible; in the second one, it has started to melt into The Nothing.

There's always a moment when I end up standing in the middle of, well, nothing, with indistinguishable whiteness in every direction, under my feet, above my head, left, right, and I start thinking about writing poignant farewell messages in my Notes app for my family to find at some point in the future.

One last interesting thing about The Nothing is the way Pandolf reacts when I finally find my bearings again and start walking faster, determined to get back to the safety of the road before it gets dark.

Pandolf then just

It's very different than the playful, energetic way in which he normally buries his head in the snow. This second type of burying is clearly a form of protest—if I continue walking away Pan will reluctantly follow me for 20 or so metres, then flatten himself to the ground again, in the same despondent way.

Hypothesis #1: He is trying to play dead like a possum, hoping I will go "well, I can't lug a dead dog all the way home, I'd better leave him here." And then he'll stay with The Nothing forever.

Hypothesis #2: He is trying to lay as flat as possible so as to become all but invisible against the snow. It's unclear if he knows he is the wrong colour for this.

Hypothesis #3: He is trying to commune with The Nothing, burying words of devotion and friendship deep into the snow and promising to return soon.

Conclusion: I'm sorry, I know that's a very long post, but seeing as each of these photos depicts perfect felicity on Earth, I find it hard to delete any. I also like how I intended this post to be about my long disoriented trek through the snow, wondering if I was going to find the fence or the road again before dark—and then I got distracted by how happy Pandolf was. Which is exactly how I end up getting lost in The Nothing every single time!!

[antlersarchives]

𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞

one-shot

bo chow x reader

summary - wandering on alone in the deep of the Mississippi Delta wasn't a favoured thing, but nor was it an uncommon one. some carefree few would end up along that track from time to time, and their consequence? the last path they'd find themselves walking down in the dead of night with enough living breath to carry them. those damn creatures of the night..

requested by: anonymous 💗

warnings; smut, 18+, vampirism, canon-typical violence, mild gore/violence, bloodplay, stalking, southern gothic erotica, biting, restraint, oral sex (r!receiving), pinv, worship kink, dirty talking, soulmates and soul tied, finding a mate, consensual, 1930s southern history, second person pov.

a/n: based on the song 'scared to live' by the weeknd because when I was thinking of this fic, this is what came up and I thought it was gorgeous,, also thank you to the many peeps who reached out and asked for this!! and yes I added the line between Stack and Mary because DAMN. i hope you enjoy, it might need some tweaks, but requests and comments are welcome and please let me know what you think!

w/c: 5.6k

It was unusual walking around this late at night. Especially alone; at least that’s what you’d been told.

Deep down in the heart and heat of the Mississippi Delta, right beside the marshes and desolate land, there was a calmness in the stillness of the earth, everything full of life and promise, only the devil creeping around the corner to take back what was his. And that’s what you clung to, no matter how much your mama would tell you otherwise, that the dangers out there are too much to cope with, or how the children back in your schoolhouse days would spread rumor; you always found yourself right back here. 

Alone.

The night was especially still tonight, the darkness closing in tighter than usual under a cloudless sky. The only light came from a couple of flickering lanterns outside a dim Juke Joint, guiding your path as you walked.

On the porch of the joint, two old-timey musicians sat pouring their hearts into the music they created, without a care in the world, frozen in time, they could forget the industrialisation of the world around them. One man played a harmonica, his weathered hands cradling it with care. The soulful, fuzzy notes wrapped around you, a comforting urge to keep moving forward despite the shadows surrounding you.

Your feet seemed to carry you effortlessly through the opening of the wood, drawing deeper in as you looked behind you one last time, swaying with each step as the music faded into the distance. Heading to the only home you knew without a destination - your own company.

A few twigs crunched beneath your feet as you walked, and the odd branch creeping up on you, the left of you the bayou laid still, untouched - and to your right, the final twinkle of streetlights, was the edge of town, just before they turned off completely. Now, you’d never seen anyone else cross this path; by this point you’d think you owned it simply because you seemed the only one daring or reckless enough to walk it on your own- and you had heard both from just about anyone.

But this time was different.

All kinds of things were catching your eyes, something not ordinary. Snakes, alligators, even the nearest flock of herons that waded over the water, standing as tall as a small child. But that wasn’t it, it wasn’t innocence that followed you, and there was enough life and nature around you to tell you that, whatever it was, it wasn’t living.

Your mind stopped wandering at rustling that came from a bush behind you and you turned on your heel, the soil beneath you shifting with a sigh, and the rustling stopped. You halted, squinting your eyes at all around you, from the floor to the tops of the trees - nothing. 

A pair of wings fluttered out before you could blink, hurtling toward you in one swift motion and you backed up into a tree beside you, gasping. You winced at the roughness, rubbing at the start of what would soon be a bruise. Taking a deep breath, you straightened yourself and kept on moving, cursing yourself for even being startled in the first place. It was nothing but a little house finch - your grandfathers old illustration books could have told you that, and you took your life studying this place, your home, this wasn’t anything to be worried about. 

However your gut told a different story. You slowed, taking note of a blossom tree, the shadows of purple flowers,  you traced the lines of the stems, putting your focus on that instead of-

“Shit-“ A voice rang out from the darkness ahead of you, out of sight, and you brushed the leaves out of your hand, swatting the branch away, crouching a little beside them. A figure stumbled out from the bushes, a man, dusting off his shoulders and catching his fall he stood up straight on the side of the path. He looked around for a moment mumbling something to himself, wiping something from around his mouth - you couldn’t quite make it out but whatever is was was dark, thick.

The breeze picked up and rustled the whole wood, and your eyes trailed him, not moving for a second. He was somewhat tall, with a dark head of hair - well kept and presentably dressed for this time of night. A pair of lined trousers and a white shirt, suspenders keeping his back straight is about what you could make out. A stranger, no doubt, but the voice.. the voice you recognised. His head snapped up and your stomach turned, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on where you’d heard it before.

The heat was unbearable. 

And that was saying something for someone who grew up around here. Your arms felt like they were about to give out from the weight of the grocery bags, and you could swear the soles of your feet were nearly burned away in those flimsy old shoes. The street buzzed with life, cars and people rushing in every direction, while music spilled out from corners on nearly every block, making your head spin. You could feel your body start to sag a bit under the strain, so you set one of the bags down on the ground. With all this running around and the pressure to get home quickly, you leaned against the wall to steady yourself.

The only thing that pulled you from your daze was an arm wrapping around you, gripping your waist like a cool washcloth— supporting you. You looked up to meet the gaze of one of the local shop owners. You scrunched your face, trying to see him more clearly, only to focus on his warm and friendly smile. 

“Hey, I had to catch you  before you fell there, darlin'. Is everything okay?”  He let out a nervous chuckle as he propped you up against the wall, gently taking the bag from your other hand and setting it down next to the first. Your ears were ringing, and dizziness washed over you,. You hadn’t realised how hard you’d been pushing yourself until it became almost impossible to move. His hand cupped your cheek, and he looked deeply into your eyes, as if he’d have been searching for signs of life. 

He nodded  to himself and looked up and down the street before standing upright.” How ’bout we go a little ways away down this street? I’ve got a store down there; I own it.”  Pointing in the direction you were already headed, he clicked his fingers at a worker loading up a truck and waved them over to pick up your bags. Gently grabbing your hands, he placed them around his neck. 

Bo paused for a moment, a smile spreading across his face as he watched you ready yourself. You twirled onto your side, and he slipped his arm back around your waist, guiding you a few steps and into the shop. He encouraged you the way there, playfully teasing you about being out in the heat and pushing yourself too hard. As you made your way into the store, he leaned you against the counter for support. Before you could voice any objections, his hands found the backs of your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with effortless ease and drawing his hands away.

 You settled back with a huff, grateful for the brief respite. And as you took in the store, he had disappeared, returning just as fast with a glass of water in hand.

“Something to take the edge off, huh?” He offered, his voice a soothing balm, as he extended his hand toward you. You weakly accepted it, your fingers enveloping the glass. “Thank you,” you croaked out, your voice hoarse like gravel. He looked astounded, his eyes widening as he shuffled away from where he stood, placing his hands at his sides.  

“Agh, she speaks; how are you feeling, Sweetpea?” The playful smirk on his face lingered as he watched your lips gently graze the rim of the glass. Your eyes fluttered closed in a moment of solace, and you raised your thumb in a silent saying of “okay,” feeling the chill of the cold water hit your mouth.

He slanted  his side against the counter, his hips swaying slightly as he observed you, watching how your brows knitted together in concentration as you drank, and you could feel his eyes on you.

At that moment, a sense of longing washed over him, his eye lingering on you in a way he hadn’t meant to. He found himself thinking all those things he shouldn’t—how your lips curved into that bright smile, the static shock as your fingers brushed against his, and how your skirt senselessly bunched around your knees. His breath caught in his throat, placing his empty hand on the counter beside you, enclosing you at a distance.

You lazily pulled your hand back and shifted in your seat, meeting his longing look. You noticed the sweat beading on his hairline, trickling down his cheek just etching at his lip and how his mouth parted as he licked his lips, almost panting from the outside , before setting the glass down. Tilting your head slightly, you tried to read the familiar face, hoping by some miracle you'd remember an answer, a name, anything - but you'd only seen him a couple of times, watching lowly from the street. And before you could ask,

 “It’s Bo, Bo Chow.” He paused for a moment, breathless. “But most folks around here just stick with Bo.” The smile he offered was like a daydream, a shared one, as he nodded his head, clasping his hands together.

It was him. 

You drew a breath sharply. The brush from the leaves threatening to whip you in the face with the wind as you remained at eye-level with it but your crouched feet failed you. What felt like a distant memory was only just a few weeks ago, and it flooded back fast, the soles of your feet still burned and they gave way, but the ground beneath you shifted, you pulled at the earth and when the roots from broke, you fell backward, leaving a snap at your wake. You gasped as the hard mud hit your back, bunching your hand to make a fist to push at it.

Footsteps approached hurriedly and a presence peered from over you, familiar hands reached out for you, leaving no distance in sight, the moonlight lit up part of his face giving all your questions the truth you needed.

“Bo..” You wheezed out loud, grabbing at his arm as he towed you forward, letting you sit up. You felt this before, his touch, but now there was a grip that felt unnatural, it burned with his touch, your limb could have practically gone limp, and yet he barely moved a muscle.

“Woah there, careful baby.” You stood up and he stepped back a bit giving you some space, laughing as you both realised one another, you sighed of relief of seeing his face, something so unlikely here, in the dead of night.

Now it threw you off no doubt, but it was Bo, the shopkeeper down the street who took his own time to help you, the one you looked out for every day, a couple run ins without an acquaintance could tell you he was a gentleman, and many knew that, even you.The store had been shut down for while and he practically had wiped off the face of the Earth. After the incident you heard about in the papers about the Juke Joint everyone kept their heads down, keeping to themselves, apart from those whispers. Like the ones you’d heard since you were young, but now they were prime, the riddle on everyones tongue like a sermon, like some part the new gospel.

However, after that one day, you couldn’t help but think of him, the way he stopped to help you, to pull you close, the way he eyed the structure of your body like it was the holy grail itself. Leaving you to question, what would have happened if you’d have stayed?  Maybe you hit your head that day, or perhaps it was the heat messing with you, but that didn’t change the heat you felt inside of you every time you thought about it, an aching, an uncontrolled urge with the way he rested against you, his hand near creeping up toward your thigh. And the way he looked at you now, breaking the silence, didn’t help your distress, 

“I dropped my lantern around here some place, give me a second sweetheart.”

He snickered, kicking the dirt around his feet to find the lamp,  and you stop there rocking on your heel unit he found it, picking it up and bringing it to the both of you. His eyes lulled at you, checking in as he pulled a matchbox from his pocket, reaching inside for one of them. He slid the box open and flicked one of the matches into his mouth, pausing to close the compartment. You could still make out the shading of his face, watching the way he moved, and the match in his mouth as he swiped it with his tongue, wrapping it tightly around so it wouldn’t fall. His gaze remained on you in the stillness, and as the tip guided along the top of his tongue, his eyes flashed starved with want. 

It created a glow, lighting the woods and your faces up orange, he crouched to pick up the lantern beside his feet, sealing the glow inside its glass case. 

“You could’a frightened me there.” You laughed off, trying to give some kind of lightness to what had just happened, spurring on conversation.

He held it close in his hands, enough to keep track of you and take a look around for any others, if there even was. “I didn’t mean to scare you darlin, probably shouldn’t have been wandering out here this late as it is myself, but thought I’d take a walk, it’s been one hell of a day.” You quirked an eyebrow now being able to focus on his face, eyes drawing to the corner of his dimples. His smile didn’t falter once, staying at the flat of his mouth, only gracing his face lightly, and beyond his surprise he seemed please. Pleased to see you. 

“Yeah I could have guessed.” You wiped your fingers at the corner of your mouth, gesturing to his own. He looked pretty beat up, just without the bruises, or without injury of any kind, but the thick strands of blood that pooled from his mouth proved otherwise.

His face contorted into some sort of shock at your look and he pinched at the drying substance, wiping it into his pants without as much as a look. The look he gave went blank for a moment, like he wanted to say something but refrained, like he was fighting something on the inside. 

“So why’re you out here this late?” He took a little step forward, stepping downward from the small, raised embankment he was on before, now at almost level with you, he hung the lantern in-between you both. You didn’t move, rather stilled in your step as he wandered over to you, his eyes squinting a little. “I usually come out here, on my own, it’s rare you see anyone down here past sundown.” You wondered why, why out here, and now. Everything seemed to go silent, enough to hear a pin drop, only that light breeze shaking up your skirts, and tousled his hair just enough to shag in his face, it was calm, gentle even, just like before - but Bo, he seemed out of place, shifting back and forth where he stood, yet confident still. More eager than before.

Like he was trying to make some sort of move. 

You continued to ramble and he smirked, “I haven’t seen you or the shop open around here in a while, are you sure you’re alright? There’s been a lot happening in town while you’ve been gone.”

“You noticed I been gone?” He shot back suddenly, the only thing registering, his lip curling a bit.

“Well, you guys own a much needed store in this town, it would be missed if it were to go untouched.” He took another step forward, watching you stumble over your words seemed rewarding. All this time he’d been around, seen you, wanting to do something, it’s not like he was scared to do it, and to tell the truth he didn’t really understand his infatuation at first. He’d seen you walk the streets, crossing by his shop window whenever you’d head into town, the times you’d visit and leave just as fast, cheeks blushing pink when you’d see him. And that’s what stayed with him. Things weren’t all that it seemed behind those four walls, his life felt withdrawn of colour, everything was weight.  But you, oh you were light, some beautiful sign, something he chased for, something he was determined to make his. And with his life now, he knew what that meant.

“You know what I mean. “ You feigned confidence in your words, now in reality that a truth, but in honesty, you knew it was more than that; much more.

He took another step forward, this time as you took one back, your heel clicked with the root of a tree, giving a thud as you braced both of your arms behind you, pushing you up as much as you could, feeling the rough bark at your finger tips. “You miss me?” His nature shifted, and his head tilted with it, swaying the lantern as he walked, a few steps distance between you both. The light flickered, so much so the shape of his face seemed to contort. 

And his eyes, they glossed over an iridescent white, glinting specks of red and orange, something that you hadn’t seen before. Something that wasn’t human. 

But you blinked and they were gone.

They were normal, a darker brown suited them, staring at you knowingly. “You could say that.” Your breath shook, but not out of fear, no, but instead the way he drew near, closer and closer. He flashed you a smile as you tried to think of the right words, but now his teeth.

Another blink.

And the once rounded molars were sharp and jagged, more like an animal, something made for tearing into flesh. And you felt your stomach drop and an ache that pooled downward, one you couldn’t control.

He staggered, dropping his head forward to look at the ground before looking up to you again. He rested his arm on the piece of tree behind your head, getting quieter, though his voice rang in your ears, ”Saw the way you looked at me back at the store, and I should have said somethin’.” 

“Bo, that was just-“ He took the final step between you, leaving the lantern at your feet, his finger came up to your mouth shushing you, knowing where you were going with what you said next, seemingly before you did. His eyes still had a distinct gentile in them, the same as the one you knew before, even beyond his new form. And no words had to be uttered to tell you what that was.

The truth you both knew. The limited glint from the light reflected from his eye to yours, and you could see your face in the shine. 

“You're telling me that was nothin’, that you didn’t think of about it,” A serious expression on his face, his brows furrowed, he brushed his fingers down against your side, drawing a line against the curve of your waist, “Not even once?”  His face flashed with a sense of pride, and the way his pupils dilated was proof of what knew to be true. Your hips jolted forward at the feather light touch and he brought his hand down to cup your thigh, giving it a soft squeeze. 

“Bo..” Your face grew red, so red someone would think you’d be laying in that beating sun all day long.

“Y/N.. Tell me.” 

Inches away from your face he pressed against you, slanting closer, his voice a staggered whisper, and his lips damp.

 “Ever since you saw me last..”  You looked down at them, seeing drool at the edges of them and you chuckled a little. He sucked in a keen breath as you scraped yourself against the tree, gaining balance, bringing your finger up to wipe at it.

“Hey, you’re droolin’”

“You want some?” Your head shot up at his quip, bangs of his hair falling into your face, your noses touching. You smiled through your flushed expression, the wetness gathered on your finger and he leaned to kiss as it lightly, drawing his tongue at the remnants. Bo moved his face closer so that your hand laid on his cheek, nuzzling his nose up against your own, he pressed himself against you rocking his hips.

Without an answer, you tugged his face towards yours, closing the gap between you, gasping into his mouth at the friction he was causing. His tongue pushed into your mouth with passion, lips locking with yours as he slotted his knee between you, cupping your sex against his pants, leaving no resistance with the sensation, and you pushed down with a whine.

“God baby..” He licked at your mouth, biting at your top lip fiercely, and he dragged down kissing at your jaw, leaving soft chaste, open mouthed marks toward your neck. His lips felt familiar, so much so they tugged at you, on your heart, so much it almost hurt.

“Please..” You whimpered as Bo’s teeth bared at your neck, along your jugular long enough to feel your heart rumble beneath the canines, feel it even. He sucked in a breath, planting a hard, marking kiss before continuing down. His hands manoeuvred down your shirt, pushing through the soft fabric, bracing his fingers over your breasts and pulling away at the buttons, undoing them one by one by one. And he placed himself on the ground kneeling in front of you. 

The tangerine tones scattered across your body like a reckoning, and he grasped with the sight of it, not knowing whether to sit and study or ruin you completely. His head rested against your lower stomach, almost begging you, his hands teasing up the backs of your legs, gripping you where you stood. Your mouth hung open, shivering at his motions. You watched, entranced, as he effortlessly lifted the hem of your skirts, pushing the fabric higher until it rested above your hips. With deliberate slowness, he tugged at the corners of your panties, peeling them down around your ankles. The cool air exposed your cunt, sending another wave of shivers through you as he began tracing the length of your thigh up and down with his tongue.

Your hips jolted forward, and he wasted no time in aimlessly yanking at your hips, his hands scooping up at the flesh of your ass holding you up just enough to reach your centre. Bo grunted as his mouth reached you, pulling you back and forth onto his tongue as he sucked on your clit, the tips of his fingers digging in as you brought your hand to his hair.

The black strands now turning into a disheveled mess in your grasp, there being no reservations at all about his drool slicking down the sides of his mouth as he was moaning into your cunt, fucking  his tongue into you, fingers continuing to dig into your hips. He gets lost in the way your breath hitches, the way you say his name - over and over again without abandon, and oh how he’s been waiting, wanting to hear that.

“That’s it pretty girl, I’ve got you.” He groans as your taste coats his tongue, thick with your sweet slick, the height of his newfound senses alerting with each and every movement, and he swears that its the best thing he’s tasted, beyond the blood. He plunged deeper and you could do nothing but follow with a string of moans. You fell apart against him, arching your back into his face as you guided him impossibly close, your head falling back against the wood behind you. All of this time, imagining, yearning and here you were now without a care in the world hissing at every touch he gave, every ounce of pleasure he was willing to give. 

His motions didn’t relent, mouth warming against you as his he flicked his tongue in figures of eight, only pausing to suck harshly, and it was too much.

Over and.

Over.

You came undone, a white hot strike vibrating through you and your legs trembled, clenching around him with a cry, “Baby..”.

That was enough for him and he nudged upward, cupping your one leg up to his hip and you circled it around his middle shamelessly. 

The thick humidity enveloped you as you panted, heart racing, when he finally came face to face with you once more. A wicked grin spread across his lips, his fangs catching the dim light. You shuddered, but it wasn’t fear that coursed through you; it was the anticipation of what was about to happen. 

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, delicate kiss, and you instinctively squeezed your eyes shut. You were standing before a darkness, a malevolence you had been warned about for years—an evil you were all too familiar with, yet never imagined you could draw so close to but your whole being knew.

“I don’t know if I can stop myself.” He breathed out, all restraint he took against himself, resting his head falling against your shoulder, still kissing at the curve of your neck. But you already felt it, with your body pressed against his, you hissed at the motion of his dick pressing through his pants. You reached down to the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling as you pulled it up, revealing the taut muscles of his abdomen. The heat radiated from his skin, mingling with the dew around you, the atmosphere made your heart race.

 You could feel the tension building, the unspoken desires hanging in the air, thick and intoxicating you into a compulsion.

“I shouldn’t do this,” you whispered, though the conviction behind your words was faltering. Part of you wanted to push him away, to run from the danger he represented, yet another part—a part you couldn’t ignore—yearned to lean into the darkness he offered.

His lips ghosted over your collarbone, sending shivers down your spine. “But you want to,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, those dark eyes glinting with mischief and hunger. “You’ve felt it too, haven’t you darlin’? The pull between us?”

You inhaled sharply, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and his intoxicating presence. 

“Yes,” you admitted, a soft breath escaping your lips. “But it’s reckless. You could hurt me.”

His grin widened, a blend of danger and allure. “And I could do much more than that.” With a swift, fluid motion, he captured your wrist and pulled you closer, bodies flush against each other, the space between you ablaze with possibility. "But what if I promised to keep you safe?"

You hesitated, heart racing as your mind raced with the implications. Could you trust him? Your instincts screamed caution, yet your body betrayed you, yearning for his touch, for the thrill of the unknown.

As he leaned in again, brushing his lips just above yours, the world around you faded into insignificance. In this moment, it was just the two of you, teetering on the edge of danger and desire “Then show me,” you dared. “Show me what you can do.”

He hesitated for just a moment, as if weighing the gravity of your words, before his eyes darkened with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck, sending a rush of excitement coursing through you.

The moment his fangs pierced your skin, a sharp gasp escaped your lips and he bucked his hips forward. It was a mixture of pain and a wave of pleasure that stole your breath away. You felt a jolt of energy surge through you as he fed, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, igniting a fire deep in your core - your leg tightened around him.

He caressed your thigh, keeping you pinned between him and the tree and the other grabbing at what he could of your waist as he drank from you, his mouth moving with a sensuous rhythm that sent a heat radiating through your body. Mindlessly your fingers wrapped around his buckle, undoing the chipped metal with a clink that hardly met either one of your ears but he felt it. Your head slacked against the top of his, grabbing at his hips he groaned, and your wetness covered a patch against his clothed cock. 

You could feel your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, each pulse syncing with the deep, primal need that blossomed between you, feeling the same dizziness you felt weeks before, this time only stronger. His hands, his mouth, while mostly solid, feel tingly, cold in a way that's akin to walking through fog. His breath is warm as it huffs against your neck, a delicious push and pull of sensation. 

With a low growl, he pulled back from your neck slightly, his eyes glinting crimson, a reflection of the warmth of your blood glistened on his lips, a stark reminder of the line you had crossed. “You’re somethin’ honey, let me take care of that for you,” he breathed, his voice low and husk.

The pulse in your neck rippling with every beat of your heart as he rested his forehead against your own, darting his tongue out to kiss you again, giving you the taste of your own blood, now yours, now his.

Bo leered at you and you all you could muster was a dumb smile back. He undid the rest of what you started, eyes watching you and you only as he pulled his dick from his pants. Long, and thick, and leaking, he cursed to himself at the aching and moaned, kissing your cheek. The stretch ignited an intense burn and your hands travelled down his back, tugging at the tight muscle, feeling the weight of everything he put against you. 

He leaned you all the way against him to where you were nearly laying as though on a bed yet still angled as though lounging on upright against the tree. The new angle pushed his cock to the sweetest pull, pushing against your plush walls and letting a gasp escape you in turn. Bo smoothed the sides of your body while your feet turned under you and you let your body rest on him. He ran over your breasts slowly through the opening of your lace shirt. Nipples long and pebbled, he squeezed the flesh and brought them up before releasing them again. Bo brought his head to rest beside yours as he thrusted into you once more, blood curdling at your cheek from his mouth.

The wound at your neck stung, with every delicious snap of his hips it jerked your bodies, a solidified reminder now every time he pounded into you. Each snap hitting perfectly deep as his hands cradled you and his words filled your mind with him. 

“You’re my girl.” He declared before you could even conjure up the thought. “Say it darlin’.” He continued guiding his hand at your leg, hoisting you as he brought is finger to your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud, as his end neared.

“I’m yours.” You whined, bringing your finger to ghost atop his own as it circled your clit. The familiar heat in your core began to bubble like the markings of a burning fuse.  You turned your head to his and kissed him deeply at the thought, rubbing your clit furiously with the help of his hand and relishing the way his cock completed your body. 

“You’ll be mine.” Bo reaffirmed as his words caught every second his hips threatened to stutter at his release. “You’ll be mine forever ain’t that right.” 

You could have sworn you saw the waves of Heaven wash over you as the eruption of your orgasm shakes you to the core. The blinding shades of his orbs stuck on you leaving you heaving  for breath. Left thoughtless and wordless of promises that carry on with the shaking of your thighs and soft whispers of  an ‘always’ from his lips. Bo stilled as he released, head slacking and mouth hanging open he moaned, his hips stuttered into you and the threads of his cum began to leak beyond where he filled you. 

He released his hand from your own and rubbed your arms soothingly as you laid heavy against him, bracing you against the tree, his hand smoothing over your shoulders as to be careful. Sweat stuck to you as your hair frizzed out of place, the last droplets of blood dribbled out down your neck and he caught it with his finger. 

You let out a hiss at the sensation but pouted, he readjusted your skirts, letting his forehead rest against yours once more, closing his eyes as your head knocked into his own and he grinned lightly. And you regained what was left of your breath as your vision faltered, only able to see his face in the dim glow.

“Now you will be.” 

And a promise or a guarantee, who could know? But he intended to keep both.

[fleurbly]

HEAVEN HELP THE HUNTED

summary: a hunt through the woods turns deadly when the man you swore to kill finally finds you — your back to the bark, his mouth at your ear, and no line left between hate and heat.

warnings: explicit sexual content, subtle dub-con, power imbalance, possessive/obsessive behaviour, toxic relationship dynamics, stalking, violence/physical aggression (subtle).

pairing: softdark!remmick x hunter!reader

word count: 3k+

DNI IF TAGS AFFECT YOU, MDNI

The heat of the night was thick enough to drown in, the kind of heat that pressed heavy on your skin and stuck to the back of your neck like a curse. The woods around you breathed slow and deep, every twig snap and rustle a reminder you were never alone. You hated that—the way this place held its secrets tight and whispered them only to those who dared listen.

Your dress, the blue one you wore to church Sunday—delicate, soft, and too pretty for a night like this—was soaked with sweat. The ruffles at the collar clung to your throat, the silk stockings beneath your skirt stuck wet behind your knees. You didn’t care. You’d worn it anyway. You always did. It made you feel sharp, like sugar wrapped in a razor blade.

Your pistol pressed cold against your thigh, tucked beneath your garter, and your knife rested silently in your boot. You were ready—always ready. For him.

You’d been hunting Remmick for months now, stalking the woods and fields where the shadows ran deep, following the trail of whispers and blood. You knew his hunger, his cruelty, but also the way he watched you with eyes that burned brighter than any fire. You hated him for what he’d done. Hated him for killing your brother—the only family you had left—because you’d refused him one too many times.

And yet, here you were, chasing ghosts through the night.

The moon was a thin sliver above, barely cutting through the canopy of trees. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and your careful footsteps in the damp earth. Then—a voice. Low, smooth, and thick with that cruel amusement that made your blood run cold.

“Well, darlin’, you’re just full o’ surprises.”

You whirled around, pistol raised, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He stood there, leaning against an old oak, his skin glowing faintly in the moonlight. That crooked smile—sharp as a blade—spread slow and sure across his lips.

“You always show up where I least want you,” you spat, voice steady but laced with ice. “Thought I told you to stay away.”

Remmick pushed off the tree, coming forward with a lazy step, hands tucked in his pockets like he owned the damn woods. “And I told you, sugar, I ain’t never leavin’ your side. Not ‘til you’re mine.”

You snorted, tightening your grip on the pistol. “You killed my brother. You’re not ‘mine’ anything. You’re a monster.”

The smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. “He was just another step. You kept pushin’ me away, turnin’ your back when all I wanted was to hold you close.”

“Hold me close?” Your voice cracked with fury. “You think I could ever want you after that?”

He stopped just inches from you, gaze like a hunger that never died. “You want me more than you admit. You don’t dress like a fragile flower in these woods for nothing. You like the thrill. The danger. The taste of darkness just beneath your skin.”

You laughed, bitter and raw. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t I?” He leaned down so close you could smell the iron on his breath, the faint scent of something ancient and wild. “I know the fire in your eyes when you aim that pistol. I know the way your hands tremble when you’re mad. And I know how you dream about me when the night’s too quiet.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

“Stop,” you whispered, stepping back, trying to steady yourself.

“But I won’t,” he said, voice soft now, dangerously sweet. “I dream about you too. Dream about the day you’ll stop running.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I won’t.”

He laughed—dark and low, like a promise you weren’t sure you wanted to keep. “We’ll see, darlin’. I always come back. You’re mine whether you want to be or not.”

The night held its breath, and the woods seemed to lean in close, waiting.

You lifted your pistol again, aiming for his chest.

“Say it,” you hissed. “Say you’re leaving.”

He didn’t flinch. “Not a chance.”

Remmick’s grin deepened, eyes dragging over you like he was peeling layers off with a glance. He tilted his head slightly, that wolfish amusement curling slow at the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me somethin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, stepping just close enough that your finger tensed on the trigger. “You ever stop thinkin’ ‘bout that night in the barn?”

You stiffened.

He caught it—of course he did. His smirk turned wicked.

“Didn’t seem like much of a mistake when you had your legs wrapped ‘round my waist, beggin’ me not to stop,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “Hell, you damn near clawed my back open, remember? Still got the marks.”

You flushed—not from shame, but fury. Rage surged through your chest like wildfire.

“That was a mistake,” you snapped.

He chuckled. “Then it was the sweetest mistake I ever tasted. You said my name like a prayer and a curse in one breath. Thought the hayloft’d fall down with the way you—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your fist cracked against his cheekbone with a satisfying smack, knuckles singing from the impact. His head snapped to the side with a grunt.

He froze for a moment, then slowly turned back to you.

His thumb wiped the blood blooming at his lip. He stared at it, then looked at you from under his lashes.

The smile he gave you wasn’t crooked anymore. It was sharp.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d hit me again,” he murmured.

You took a step back, pistol rising again.

But he moved forward.

One step. Then another.

No words. Just heat and purpose.

Until the barrel met the center of his chest. You could feel how still he went beneath it—unnaturally still.

“You gonna shoot me this time, sugar?” he asked, voice like velvet smoke. “Or just keep pretendin’ you don’t want me?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Try me,” you hissed.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“I already did,” he whispered. “In that barn. Twice.”

You shoved the barrel harder into his chest.

He didn’t flinch. He let the silence answer for him.

“I’ve been through your fire before, sugar. A couple of times, in fact. Nights you don’t wanna remember, but I sure do.” His voice dipped low. “Hell, I might’ve even lost count.”

You tightened your grip. “That all changed. Before, maybe I was a fool.”

Remmick’s eyes flickered. “You think that changed everything? Nah. It just made the game more interesting. You want to believe I’m the villain, but darlin’—you got shadows too.”

Your finger twitched. The sweat on your palm made the grip slippery. You didn’t know if it was fury or the bitter truth sliding down your spine like ice.

“I’m done,” you said. “Done with the nights I begged you to stop and the mornings I woke to silence.”

He stepped closer, voice low and cutting. “Funny. I thought you liked those nights—the way you fought, the way you gave in. You don’t wanna admit it, but part of you still craves that fire. Maybe that’s why you never pulled the trigger.”

You shook your head. “You don’t get to own me. Not now. Not ever.”

His grin twisted, darker. “Maybe not. But I’m still here. Still the shadow that follows you.”

Your laugh broke like a splinter, raw and tired. “Try me,” you repeated.

He cocked his head, almost admiring. “Been tryin’ all this time, sweetheart. And I ain’t done yet.”

You pressed the barrel harder.

Then suddenly—his hand snapped around your wrist. The gun clattered to the dirt.

Before you could react, he grabbed your arm and spun you, slamming your back into the bark of the oak. The impact jarred your spine, and the rough bark scraped through your dress like claws.

His weight pinned you, hot and heavy. The heat between your bodies was stifling, his breath grazing your neck.

“You think you’re in control?” he growled.

Your body fought his hold, but his grip was iron.

“You don’t get to decide,” he said low. “Not anymore.”

You pressed harder into the bark, as if it could anchor you. Your heartbeat thundered in your throat.

His hand slid down your arm—slow, possessive.

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel it,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours.

You shoved against him, wild and desperate. He didn’t move. Just watched you.

“See?” he whispered, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re fightin’ me. But you ain’t fightin’ it. Not really.”

Your breath hitched. You shut your eyes, chasing any clarity in the chaos.

But when you opened them, he was still there. Still too close.

“Let me go,” you whispered.

“Why would I do that,” he murmured, “when I’ve finally got you where I want you?”

He leaned in, lips ghosting your ear.

“You came for me, darlin’. Deep down, you always knew you would.”

His hand slid down your jaw, tracing a searing path along your collarbone, his fingers brushing the damp silk of your dress. “You dress like this,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin, “for me. You wear these pretty clothes, you carry that gun, all to tease me, to drive me crazy. But you don’t get to play with fire and not expect to get burned.”

His hand moved lower, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splaying wide. You could feel the calluses on his hands, rough and real, a stark contrast to the smooth silk of your dress. His touch burned through the thin fabric, branding your skin. Your breath hitched as his hand grabbed onto the skirt of the dress, pulling the fabric tight against your abdomen.

“You want me to let you go?” he whispered, his voice a low growl. Or do you want me to show you just how deep this game goes?”

You refused to respond, to give him any satisfaction. But your body betrayed you, hips pressing forward slightly, seeking more of his touch. His smile widened, a victorious smirk that made you want to both slap him and kiss him.

His hand slid lower, fingers brushing against the wet lace of your underwear. You gasped, the sound ripped from your throat, raw and desperate. His touch was electric, igniting a fire that scorched through your veins. “You’re soaked,” he said, voice thick with desire. “And it’s not just from the heat.”

His fingers hooked into the lace, tugging it to the side. His fingers found your entrance, slipping inside with a slow deliberate thrust. “You’re tight,” he murmured, voice strained. “So tight and wet. You want this darlin’. Don’t deny it.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatened to escape. His fingers moved inside you, stroking, teasing, driving you to the edge of madness. Your hips moved in time with his fingers thrusting into you, betraying your body’s desperate need.

His thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that made your vision swim. You were so close, so damn close. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing your skin and that was it. You came undone, your body shuddering against his, a cry torn from your throat.

He held you there, fingers deep inside you, thumb still circling your clit, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. When you finally went still, and as your dress slowly fell back down to your legs, he pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What do you say, darlin’?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “You gonna run from me again? Or are you finally ready to admit you’re mine?”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving against his as you tried to regain some semblance of control. But Remmick gave you no quarter, his body pressing into yours, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched the fire still licking at your nerves.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. “But not from fear. You want more, don’t you darlin’? You want me to fill you, to fuck you right here against this tree.”

His words were crude, filthy, but they sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you. You tired to push him away, but your hands were shaking, your body betraying you at every turn. He caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, his grip iron and unyielding.

With his other hand, he hiked up the skirt of your dress again, the damp fabric whispering against your thighs. His fingers found your entrance again, teasing, tormentating, but not giving you what you craved.

“You’re so wet,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “So ready. But you’re gonna have to ask for it, sugar. You’re gonna have to beg.”

You shook your head, a desperate denial. But your body arched against his, seeking more of his heat. He chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Go on darlin’,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

His fingers slipped inside you, slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit. You moaned, the sound torn from your throat raw and desperate. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice a harsh command. “Say you want me.”

You hesitated, the words lodged in your throat like a bitter pill. But his fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing harder, and you found yourself chanting his name, a desperate litany that spilled from your lips like a secret prayer.

“Please Remmick,” you begged, your voice a ragged whisper. “Please, I need you. I need you to–”

“To what?” he cut you off, his voice low. “Tell me what you need.”

His fingers slipped from you, leaving you empty and aching. You cried out, a sound out of pure frustration, but he just smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. “Tell me,” he repeated, his hand moving to the front of his pants. You watched, breath held, as he unbuttoned them, revealing the thick length of his cock, hard and straining.

“You want this, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “You want me to fill you, to stretch you, to fuck you until you don’t even know your damn name.”

His hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking slow and steady, his eyes never leaving yours. You could see the beads of moisture gathering at the tip, could see the way his breath hitched. And you knew, with a certainty that shook you to your core, that you wanted it. You wanted him.

“Yes, “ you whispered, the word torn from your throat. “Yes, I want it. I want you.”

Remmick’s smile widened, a victorious smirk that made your heart pound. He stepped closer, his body pressing into yours, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. You could feel the heat of him, the power, the sheer masculine strength that seemed to radiate from his every pore.

"You're mine, darlin'," he growled. "Mine to touch, mine to taste, mine to fuck. Say it." You hesitated, the words a chokehold around your throat. But his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, and you found yourself nodding, a desperate, jerky movement.

"Yes," you whispered, the word a ragged admission. "Yes, I'm yours." Remmick's smile was slow and cruel, a triumphant curve of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine. He released your chin, his hand moving to your thigh, hitching your leg up around his hip.

You could feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent, a promise of what was to come. "You're so wet, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "So ready for me. But this is gonna hurt, been long since i’ve been in this pussy. You understand?"

You nodded, a jerky, desperate movement. You knew what he meant. You knew the size of him, the power, the sheer masculinity that seemed to radiate from his every pore. But you also knew the pleasure, the sheer, mind-numbing ecstasy that came with taking him inside you. And you craved it. You craved him.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice a harsh command. "Tell me you understand." "Yes," you whispered, the word a ragged admission. "Yes, I understand." Remmick's smile was slow and cruel, a triumphant curve of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine.

He pressed forward, the head of his cock slipping inside you, stretching you, filling you. You gasped, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. The pain was sharp, a white-hot burn that seemed to consume every nerve ending, every sense.

He paused there, his body tense, his eyes locked on yours. "You okay, darlin'?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You want me to stop?" You shook your head, a desperate denial. The pain was there, sharp and insistent, but so was the pleasure.

The sheer, mind-numbing ecstasy of having him inside you, of feeling him stretch you, fill you, claim you as his own. And you craved it. You craved him. "Keep going," you whispered, the words a ragged plea. "Please, Remmick. Don't stop.”

He pressed forward, his cock sliding deeper, filling you, claiming you. The pain was still there, a sharp, insistent burn, but it was fading, replaced by a pleasure so intense it made your vision swim.

You moaned, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, your body betraying your every secret. He was so deep, so hard, so fucking perfect. You could feel every inch of him, could feel the way he stretched you, filled you, claimed you as his own.

"You feel so good, darlin'," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "So tight, so wet, so fucking perfect. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to take my cock, to be fucked by me." His words were crude, filthy, but they sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only feel. Feel the pleasure, the pain, the sheer, mind-numbing ecstasy of having him inside you.

His thrusts grew faster, harder, more insistent. Each one sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, each one drove you closer to the edge. You could feel it building, a tension that coiled tight in your belly, a pressure that grew with every thrust, every moan, every ragged breath.

"You're gonna come for me, darlin'," he growled, his voice a harsh command. "You're gonna come all over my cock, aren't you? You're gonna scream my name, beg me for more." His words were a trigger, a spark that ignited the fire that had been building inside you. You came with a cry, your body convulsing around him, your muscles clenching tight, milking him, demanding more.

Waves of pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last, each one driving you deeper into the abyss. His thrusts grew harder, faster, more desperate. He was chasing his own release, his body tensing, his muscles coiling tight. And then, with a low growl, he came, his cock pulsing inside you, his body shaking with the force of his release.

He held you there, his body pressed tight against yours, his cock still buried deep inside you. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart pounding against your chest. And you knew, with a certainty that shook you to your core, that you were his. Completely and utterly his. And he was yours.

[blackpearlblast]

[ID: drawings of a golem animated by a palestinian flag painted on its forehead. it is seen: holding out its arms protectively in front of a crowd of children, the children also hold each other supportively; catching an air strike missile from the air and throwing it away or crushing it in its fist; turning its back so that a child can warm her hands by the earth oven built into its back, food in a pot is cooking on the fire and a boy holds a cup of steaming tea to his face and enjoys the aroma; clearing away rubble so a man can help up his wife who was buried underneath, she is clutching a baby to her chest; stooping down to look at a kitten a young boy is holding up to show it; and dissolving small flakes of clay from its finger into a glass of water, purifying it. end ID]

@fairuzfan asked people to create and share art for the strike. i wrote an artist statement and then set about trying to draw what i envisioned. artist statement below.

This golem is a protector that I wish I could gift to the children and adults in Gaza. The flag on its forehead is to show that love for the Palestinian people is an animating force for people fighting for a free Palestine all over the world, especially for those in Palestine who are trying to free themselves and their people. Love is the motivation for the call for a free Palestine, not hatred like people try to claim. It is very strong and fast and can catch air strikes out of midair and crush them to dust or throw them back in the direction they came from. It can lift all the rubble of a collapsed building very quickly so nobody can get trapped underneath. It has an earth oven in its back with an ever-burning flame that people can use to warm themselves and cook food and heat water to use to bathe themselves or make tea. Pieces of its clay can be crumbled up and mixed into water to make even the most brackish and unclean water pure and safe to drink.

The golem is always a bit of a tragic figure so I don't imagine it staying around forever once Palestine is free and it is no longer needed. I think it would use its great strength to help rebuild the destroyed houses, churches, schools, universities, hospitals, and mosques and then dive into the Jordan river and dissolve. It would clean the river of all pollution and make the water splash up over all the newly replanted fruit trees, causing them to grow big and strong. Its love for Palestine and its people can be tasted in the fruit they grow for generations.

I choose a specifically Jewish icon of protection because of how it feels to witness such horrors done in the supposed name of Judaism and the Jewish people. For many anti-zionist Jews, we feel like we are acting directly within the teachings of our stories and communities by opposing this genocide. It is difficult to understand how the very people and institutions who taught us these values now fight against them so fiercely. While obviously I would still oppose Israel were I not Jewish, the way I oppose Israel is directly informed by my Jewishness. I hope that someday, somehow, Judaism can bring as much joy and support to the Palestinian people as it has brought grief and destruction. That Jewish symbols used in the name of love and justice will bear more significance than the ones used in shows of hatred. Knowing the depth of the harm caused, I do not know if this is possible. But this artwork and everything I have dedicated myself to these past few months and continue to dedicate myself to in the future is born from this hope. I love you. Thank you for being on this planet with me. From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free! And it will be beautiful.

[agreeewrites]

Best Friends Brother pt. 2 | C.W. ⋆✮⋆˙

feat. Charlie Weasley x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Months have passed since you met (ie shagged and definitely didn't fall in love with) Charlie Weasley. And when Molly invites you to the Burrow for Christmas, your best friends Fred and George assure you that Charlie will not be in attendance. Spoiler alert: They are wrong.

CW: MDNI 18+, lots of christmas fluff and smut, Charlie being a shameless flirt, pining, brat tamer and primal!charlie if you squint, dirty talk, p in v, oral (f receiving), this is so tooth-rotting I cannot

AN: Charlie might be my favorite weasley to write for. and the implications of brat taming and primal play have my mind reeeeeeling

part one | masterlist

“So what are you doing for Christmas, deary?” Mrs. Weasley asked, stirring a sugar lump into her tea. You were squeezed beside Fred into a booth at tea shop in Diagon Alley, having run into your best friends and their mother while Christmas shopping. Molly insisted you join them for a rejuvenating cuppa, and you weren't one to refuse an earl grey.

“Oh, nothing really. Probably watch some corny films and get take away,” you replied, nibbling on the edge of a croissant.

“What?!” She gasped, so loud the neighboring tables turned to see what the fuss what about.

Fred and George pulled an identical grimace.

“Unacceptable!” She cried, dropping her spoon with a clatter. “Why on earth didn't you tell me she was spending Christmas alone?!” She whacked George on the arm and kicked Fred in the shin under the table.

“We didn't know!” They whined in unison, rubbing their injuries.

“Oh, Mrs. Weasley, it really isn't a big deal—”

“Not a big deal! Dear, it's Christmas!” She reached across the table and took your hands, squeezing hard and holding your eye. “You will spend it with us at the Burrow, alright?”

Your heart stopped, your tongue going thick. “Oh, I-uh—”

“Charlie will be in Romania,” Fred hissed to you from the corner of his mouth. “Just say yes, or she’ll skin us.”

Charlie. Best friends brother, dragon wrangler, and the best lay you'd ever had in your life. It had been three months since your tryst in the storage room, and the hours of effortless conversation that came after, and you'd thought of him every day since.

You'd exchanged a few letters over the months, pleasantries and some light flirting on Charlie's part. He'd even sent you a few shed scales from your favorite dragon species, the Welsh Green, but beyond that, nothing had transpired.

He lived on Romania, after all. And his work was his life. You just had a bit of fun together, a few hours of fantasy, nothing more. But no matter how many times you repeated that like mantra, you still found yourself unable to move on.

“I hope you know, love, I will not accept 'no' as an answer,” Molly said, pining you with a stern glare.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I’m very grateful for the invitation, and I'd love to spend the holidays with your family,” you said, offering as genuine a smile you could muster despite your trepidation, and Molly beamed at you, already running through her plans for you all.

Fred slung an arm around your shoulders, jostling you with his excitement. “Yes! You're gonna love it.”

You were grateful, and you were eager to have a real Christmas with a family you adored, but it still felt…odd. You'd be spending the holidays with Charlie's family, but not Charlie.

You weren't sure if you were relieved or disappointed but…either way you were spending Christmas at the Weasley’s.

The Burrow and it's residents welcomed you with open arms. The sprawling home was decorated floor to rafter in homemade garland and candles, with decorated trees in every room, branches heavy with ornaments and paper chains.

Harry, Hermione, and Fleur were also staying over the holidays, and Ginny was beside herself with excitement that you were joining as well, pulling you in for a crushing hug that squeezed the last of bits of anxiety from your heart. Percy and Bill helped with your things, and the twins were quick to get a drink in your hand while everyone chatted excitedly over one another.

It was warm and merry, and you couldn't believe you almost missed this because of a stupid, little crush.

After about an hour of conversation, you noticed Ginny start to fidget under Harry’s arm, glancing at the location clock by the stairs every few minutes. The hand with Charlie's name remained firmly at ‘work’, while the rest piled into ‘home’.

You exhaled, fighting the nerves reknitting themselves in your stomach.

“Oi, twitchy,” Fred bumped your shoulder, drawing your attention back to the conversation. “What's on your mind—”

The floo station suddenly flared to life, verdant green light blasting through the room as the flames roared. Everyone yelped and scurried back, well, besides Ginny, and when the flames died the next instant, you realized why.

Charlie Weasley stood at the center of the fireplace, a bag over his shoulder and a smug smile on his face.

Your stomach turned inside out.

Merlin, how had he gotten even more handsome? His hair was a slightly longer, his beard thicker to ward off the biting, Romanian cold. He wore a heavy coat and cargo pants, leather boots still packed with melting snow.

“Charles!” Molly shrieked, throwing herself at her second oldest son and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Charlie!” Everyone cried, rushing to greet him while you tiptoed the opposite way, meaning to escape into the hall so you could collect yourself.

“Ah, ah,” George said, catching your wrist, grinning. “You don't want to do that,” he teased.

“And why not?” You huffed.

“Better to play it cool,” he winked, and you stuck your tongue out at him.

He was right, though. You would only survive this if you played it cool. Pretended everything was normal, that you hadn't been pining for this man for weeks on end, that the thought of spending Christmas with Charlie didn't make your heart flutter with excitement.

“But the clock!” Arthur laughed, finally wrangling Molly away so he could hug his son.

“Asked Ginevra to enchant it,” Charlie said, hugging his father with one arm and bundling his little sister into his opposite side, dropping a kiss on top of her head. “Seems she did well.”

“It is not to be tampered with!” Molly crowed, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Alright, alright. I'll fix it,” Charlie chuckled, withdrawing his wand from his belt and muttering a reversal spell. The clock hand whirred around the face, confused, before it finally settled on ‘home’ with everyone else.

Charlie made his way around the room, hugging everyone and chatting until finally, he reached George, who you were attempting to hide behind.

Charlie pulled him into a bear hug, clapping him on the back. “She knows I can see her, right?” He murmured to George, just loud enough to be sure you also heard him.

Your cheeks warmed, your stomach falling through the floor.

George scoffed. “Stop checkin’ out my girlfriend, mate.”

Charlie grinned, shoving George to the side, perhaps a little harder than necessary. “Dream on, Georgie,” he chuckled, eyes shining with amusement. He finally turned to you, his expression softening. “Happy Christmas, y/n,” he said, approaching slowly, the heavy plod of his boots matching the jump of your heart.

“Happy Christmas, Charlie,” you replied, playing coy and reaching up to brush some snow from his wide shoulder. “How's my Welsh Green?” you asked.

Charlie smirked, his eyes sweeping over your face, down your neck, before flicking back to your eyes. “She nearly took my head off this morning when I tried to give her breakfast.”

“My kind of girl.” You felt your skin prickle under his attention, but you held your composure.

“Mine too,” he purred, lowering his voice. Heat curled low in your stomach, remembering the way his voice pitched and deepened while you—good god, you were losing your mind.

“Time for supper!” Molly called over the dull roar of conversation, and you slipped away from Charlie to follow the twins into the dining room, desperate for a breath that wasn’t sweetened by his cologne.

Dinner went by in a blur of food and activity, Charlie sat by Arthur at the head while you were sequestered to the other side with the twins. After eating, Charlie slipped away to shower, and you joined everyone else back in the living room for board games and music.

You were wrapped up in a game of Scrabble with Hermoine and Ginny when Charlie re-emerged, his hair damp and slicked back, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt. Your mouth dried, your pussy fluttering at the mental image of him in the shower moments before.

His eyes found you across the room, his tongue darting out to wet his lips while they swept over you, taking in the House crewneck and pj shorts you’d changed into. You turned back the game to hide your face, swallowing the lump in your throat.

A moment passed, then Charlie turned to join Bill, Percy, and Arthur in the study, casting you another glance over his shoulder before disappearing.

A few more hours rolled by, and one by one, everyone went to bed besides the older men in the study. Molly set you up on the couch, apologizing profusely for the lack of space, but you waved her off, happy to curl up by the fire and read the book Percy lent you.

You settled in with a blanket over your lap, a book in one hand, cup of tea in the other. Soon though, exhaustion began to tug at you, and your eyes started to flutter closed, the warmth of the room and the chaos of the day taking its toll as you slipped into unconsciousness.

Distantly, you felt someone take the book from your hand, the empty tea cup from your lap, and you swam back to wakefulness, lifting your head.

“Just me, love,” a voice said, soft and male, and you immediately recognized it as Charlie’s.

You blinked open your eyes, finding him sticking a playing card in your book to hold your page. “Oh, what are you doin’?” you mumbled, rubbing a knuckle in your eye.

“Are you sleeping down here?” he asked, crouching in front of you, brow lightly creased. He smelled like woodsmoke and cinnamon, and you had to remind your sleep-addled mind that you could not just melt into his arms like softened candle wax.

You nodded. “Guest beds are full. But it’s okay, m’comfy.” You snuggled back down on to the couch, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“I don’t think so. C’mon, you can take my bed.”

You shook your head, grumbling an unintelligible protest into the pillow as sleep crept back in on you.

Suddenly, you were moving, the couch falling away.

“I’m not letting you sleep on the sodding couch,” Charlie grumbled, curling you into his chest. You gave half a thought to try and free yourself, to put up some sort of fight, but his heartbeat was right against your ear, reverberating in the barrel of his chest, and you just couldn’t bring yourself to move away.

He carried you up a few flights of stairs and down a hallway, nudging open a bedroom door with his foot, careful to walk you through without bumping against anything. He set you down on his bed and tucked you under the thick duvet. The smell of him wrapped around you, clean and warm and Charlie, and you moaned in contentment, too tired to stop yourself.

Every one of your cells had missed him.

He pressed a light-as-air kiss to your temple before pulling away. You reached out to catch his hand, surprising him.

“Where are you gonna sleep?” You asked, voice muffled by his pillow.

“I’ll find somewhere,” he murmured, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “Used to sleeping in strange places.”

You must have pulled some kind of face, your filter nonexistent in your sleepy state, because he leaned back down to you, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Better stop with that pout, sweetheart. You’ve got me strung out on the gallows,” he warned, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“M’not doing anything,” you teased back, peeking open your eyes to look at him.

“I’m trying to behave this time,” he chuckled, crossing his heart. “You deserve to be properly courted.”

A yawn stole the snarky quip from your tongue. “If you insist,” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed again.

“I do. Now, get some sleep,” he whispered, but you were already gone.

The following morning, you trudged down the stairs at an egregious hour, the incessant, jovial chatter of the Weasley's impossible to sleep through.

You found them all in the kitchen, steam from the kettle floating through the air, chased by the scent of cinnamon and syrup.

“There she is! The dead walks the earth! Now go bloody change!” Arthur shouted, shoving a rumpled but bright-eyed looking Charlie out from the crowd around the kitchen island.

“Huh?” You looked between the twins and Arthur, but Charlie slung an arm over your shoulder, tugging you into his side.

“I've been summoned to the Ministry for an update on a particularly nasty Horntail,” he said, then leaned in a little closer. “And Happy Christmas Eve, darling,” he whispered.

“Happy Christmas Eve—sorry, what does that have to do with me?” You asked, your brain catching up to the situation.

“The sap refused to risk waking you up to change into his suit,” George supplied. "So they're running late."

“Why would you—”

“Ignore them, you can sleep as long as you like,” he murmured to you.

“Charlie!” You hissed. “You should have woken me up!”

“Over my dead body, love.”

“Charles! Now!” Molly shouted, rattling the rafters.

“Fine, fine.” He reluctantly pulled away from you and bound up the stairs.

“Good morning,” Fred said, beaming at your scowl.

“Morning people, are we?” You asked, accepting a cup of coffee from George.

“No,” Ron argued, his head pillowed by his arms on the table.

Fifteen minutes later, the clop of heavy boots coming down the stairs drew everyone's attention away from their breakfast.

Charlie came around the bend, dressed in a simple, espresso colored suit with a black wool coat, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was pushed back, brushed and tidy, and silver jewelry shined from his pierced ears and ringed hands.

You nearly choked on your eggs, and Fred clapped a hand on your back.

Everyone wolf whistled and jeered, not used to seeing their rakish brother dressed to the nines. Charlie waved them off with a soft smile, leaning over you to grab a cinnamon roll. His freshly applied cologne wafted over you, spicy and warm, and all other thoughts vacated your head.

Arthur grabbed him by the arm. “Yes, yes. You're very handsome, you are my son after all. Let's go.”

“Wish us luck!” Charlie called, allowing an impatient Arthur to drag him towards the floo station. In a burst of green, they were gone.

“Are all mornings this chaotic?” You asked no one in particular.

“Yes,” they all replied in a unison, and you grinned.

You could get used to a little chaos.

The day passed in a whirlwind of preparation, with you spending most of it with Molly in the kitchen or decorating with the twins.

Once that was finished, you'd gotten ready in Charlie's room, dressing in a white sweater dress and black stockings, your hair loose and makeup light.

You couldn't help but wonder what Charlie would think of it as you evaluated yourself in the mirror. You felt his absence like an ache in your side, and found your gaze wandering back to the floo station all day.

About an hour before dinner, green flames finally erupted in the fireplace. Everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed over, eager to hear about how it went at the Ministry.

You'd gathered from the twins that the fate of the Horntail hung in the balance after it destroyed a flock of sheep in Western Scotland. Charlie, along with several other Dragonologists, had been fighting for it’s life for months.

The flames extinguished, revealing Arthur and Charlie. Arthur was beaming, an arm around his son, while Charlie looked exhausted.

“Oh, thank goodness. Just in time!” Molly cried, throwing her arms around her husband.

“How'd it go?” Everyone asked at once, following Charlie as he stalked into the living room and dropped heavily onto the couch.

Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut against the racket.

“Our son was incredible, Molly. You should have seen him. Every question, he beat away like a bludger. It was masterful,” Arthur gushed, still grinning.

You watched Charlie warily. He certainly wasn't acting like it had gone well.

Bill, seeming as concerned as you, poured a glass of whiskey and passed it to his younger brother. Charlie swallowed the amber drink in one go, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“So, is the Horntail safe?” Ginny asked, sitting tentatively beside her brother on the couch.

“For now,” Charlie muttered, finally picking his head up and opening his eyes. “They want to reevaluate in six months.”

“But that's good, isn't it?” Harry asked.

Charlie nodded. “I suppose.”

You could feel the hurt and anger radiating off of him despite his efforts at composure. The resolution clearly wasn't good enough for him, and you understood why.

You resisted the urge to sit by him, to fuss over him like his family was doing. It seemed to only drive him deeper into himself. He didn't need to hear that it was a good thing, a victory, because it wasn't. It shouldn't be a debate in the first place.

Christmas Eve dinner passed with the expected chaos, and Charlie seemed to cheer a bit after a good meal, a few laughs, and another whiskey. But you could still detect a heaviness around his shoulders. You felt it as keenly as if it was your own burden.

After dinner, everyone moved back into the living room, but you followed Charlie into the now abandoned kitchen, the wreckage of the meal evident on every surface.

You leaned against the entry way, watching as he fiddled with random things, looking for a way to distract himself. “Hey,” you murmured, drawing his attention from the mugs he was straightening.

He gave you a tired smile. “Hi, love. How was your day?” He asked, moving towards you. He'd ditched his blazer and dress shirt before dinner, leaving him in his dark trousers and a white t-shirt, his muscles straining against the fabric.

“It was good. Made some cookies, strung some lights. We missed you, though.”

He braced a hand on the wall beside your head, leaning closer. “We?” He asked, raising a brow.

Merlin, his bicep was the size of your head.

You shrugged, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Me, mostly.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, freckles crinkling around his eyes. “I missed you too. Would have much rather been here to help out. I make a mean gingerbread.”

“I bet you do," you replied sincerely, watching the way his shoulders start to ease down. “I’m sorry about the Horntail,” you said, a little quieter. “But I'm glad you bought it a little more time.”

Charlie sighed, picking at a flake of paint on the wall. “I am too. Just wish I didn't have to do it at all. He doesn't deserve to be executed just for feeding himself.”

“I know. But I'm glad he has you to speak for him.”

Charlie searched your face, his eyes melting with blatant affection. Your heart tripped over itself, drumming hard under your skin.

He glanced up and you followed his gaze, finding a sprig of mistletoe hanging just above your heads. You hadn't noticed it before, but you supposed that was the beauty of mistletoe: it was always where you least expected it.

His eyes flicked back down to you, molten chocolate, and your thoughts turned to static. He reached up to cup your face, far more timid than you've come to expect from him, and tilted your head up towards his.

“Can't believe I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet,” he said, his other hand sliding around your waist to draw you closer. “A Christmas wish come true.”

You smiled, feeling like marshmallow over an open flame. “A Christmas wish?” You prodded, batting your lashes at him as heat spilled through you.

“Too cheesy?” He asked, bumping his nose against yours, your faces so close you could almost feel his smirk.

“The perfect amount,” you murmured, your lips grazing his.

Charlie closed the final millimeter, pressing your bodies together in a slow, sipping kiss. Every neuron in your body lit up, reaching towards him as you curled your fingers into his shirt, deepening the kiss. His tongue caressed the seam of your mouth and you parted for him, letting him delve further and taste you.

He loosed a low groan, his grip tightening as he backed you against the wall. He licked into your mouth, stoking the fire simmering under your skin.

“Hey, y/n—merlin, in the middle of the kitchen? Really?”

You and Charlie sprang apart, finding Fred with a hand clapped over his eyes, a cheeky grin on his face.

“So sorry for interrupting. Though, lucky it was me and not mum,” he teased, dropping his hand. But his smile quickly fell too when Charlie advanced on him, swinging an arm out in an attempt to grab him. Fred ducked to the left and bolted back into the living room, leaving Charlie laughing and shaking his head.

“Well, that's fantastic,” you huffed, pressing a hand to your sternum to quell your pounding heart.

“I can't say they'll be all that surprised.” Charlie cupped your face again, drawing you up for a quick peck. “I haven't shut up about you since we met.”

You're soul lifted out of your body. “You—r-really?”

He smiled, pulling you in for a hug, his big arms wrapped around your head and shoulders. “Really, love. You've got me wrapped around your little finger,” he said, his voice muffled by your hair.

“I thought I was going mad, I…I couldn't stop thinking about you,” you admitted, exhaling in relief. You hugged him around the waist, sliding your hands under his shirt just to feel his skin against yours.

You felt him stiffen at your admission, before the tension dissolved from his muscles completely. “Maybe we're both a little mad, then,” he chuckled.

“We should get back to the party before they start to miss us,” you said after a few moments of quiet, though all you wanted to do was drag him up to his room and show him just how mad you were for him. But you were a guest, and you needed a moment to get your thoughts in order.

It seemed Charlie had made up his mind about what he wanted, but you hadn't even begun to let yourself consider something real with Charlie Weasley. It seemed like too lofty a hope, an impossibility.

Your heart screamed ‘yes’ but your mind demanded a rationalization, a plan. Whatever you felt for him was intense, but you would hate to rush into something and ruin what you knew could be amazing.

Well, rush into something any more than your already had.

You realized he was studying you like your thoughts were written across your skin. “Baby, look at me,” he said, turning your face back up to his. “I know we started off on an…unorthodox foot. But that wasn't just a hook up and you and I both know it.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “There’s something more between us.”

“I feel it too,” you admitted. “But I've never…” you trailed off, unable to articulate the tumbling thoughts in your mind.

“Me neither, to be honest. I feel like I've been struck by lightning,” he said, breathless, a slight nervous tremble in his voice.

You nodded, reassured that he was feeling the same, vaguely crazed way you were.

“Trust yourself, y/n,” he said, releasing you from the hug and offering you his hand. “Overthinking is the thief of joy.”

“Get out of my brain,” you huffed in mock annoyance, smiling as you twined your fingers with his.

The rest of the evening passed in a rose colored blur, with cookies and games and storytelling. Charlie never strayed far from your side, though you kept any physical affection to a minimum. But based on the knowing looks from Arthur and Molly, and the teasing smirks and jabs from his siblings, they were definitely on to you two.

After the clock struck midnight, Molly demanded everyone go off to bed so Father Christmas would have no interruptions. You were all plenty old enough to know there was no such thing, but it still made you feel a giddy thrill of excitement. That glimmer of Christmas magic you never grow out of.

Charlie offered you his hand at the base of the stairs, a mischievous sort of smile on his face, and you accepted with a raised eyebrow. He led you up the stairs and opened the door to his room with a flourish.

You nearly toppled over when you walked in. It was completely transformed from this morning. Gone were the normal decorations and his dark duvet, replaced instead with a winter forest wonderland.

His bedspread was a deep forest green, with white throw pillows and silver trim, and a stuffed reindeer waited patiently for you on the pillow, floppy and velveteen. In the corner stood a flocked tree, decorated with pine cones and strung cranberries, and little animal ornaments carved from wood. The fire roared merrily in the fireplace, the mantle above it strewn with wild garland and rosemary. Two stockings hung above the flame, each of your names embroidered on them in silver and gold.

You whirled around to look at Charlie, who was smiling down at you, a slight flush to his freckled cheeks.

“When the hell did you have time to do this?” You asked, breathless and overwhelmed. No one has ever done something so special for you before.

“While you were wrapped up in Wizards Chess with Ron.” He snaked his arms around you, dropping a kiss to your furrowed brow.

“Charlie, this is—” emotion clogged your throat. “T-this is the m-most amazing thing—”

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, shushing you with a peck to your lips. “Spoiling you on Christmas feels like the least I can do to show you how much you mean to me. How badly I want this.”

“This?” You ask, sliding your hands up his broad chest. You expected to feel butterflies, but instead a warm blanket of peace settled over you, an understanding that this is exactly how it was meant to go. That here, with him, in the earliest hours of Christmas morning, was exactly where you belonged.

“Us,” he murmured, glancing at the stockings over the mantle, then back down to you, his dark eyes practically glowing with affection. “If that's what you want too.”

“Even with me here in London?” You asked, fiddling with his collar to hide the shaking in your fingers.

“We'll figure it out. You can come visit me as often as you like. And I can come back here a few times a month.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek, moving down your neck like he just couldn't hold himself back anymore. “I have a cabin.” Kiss. “In the forest.” Kiss. “With a big fireplace.” Kiss. “And a soaking tub.” Kiss. “And I can cook.” Kiss. “And have a giant bed—”

“Charlie!” You giggled, tugging on his hair so he lifted his head and you could kiss him properly, melting under the eagerness of his mouth, the joy in his kiss.

He scooped you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He crossed the room without breaking the kiss, sinking down onto the edge of the bed with you straddling him. The heat of your bodies pressed together was enough to have your pussy tingling, your breath labored.

“I wanna go where you go,” you breathed, breaking the kiss to appease your burning lungs. “I want to be with you.”

He responded with another fervid kiss, open-mouthed and hungry, and you let yourself get swept away in the riptide that was Charlie Weasley. Wild, impulsive, but so sincere, so lion-hearted and good. You weren't sure you'd ever get enough of him.

He seemed just as desperate for you, tugging his shirt over his head and letting your hands finally wander the full expanse of his body without barriers. You pushed him back onto the bed so you could really take him in, his big hands resting heavily on your thighs. He was broad and sturdy, his chest and arms corded with hard earned muscle, the tanned skin littered with freckles and silvery scars.

You nearly started drooling.

In a fluid motion, you tugged your sweater dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your Christmas underwear set and black stockings. The set was black mesh, decorated with mistletoe and holly berries. You had bought in Hogsmeade on the off chance Charlie made an appearance, and it was worth the steep price to see his soul ascend as he took you in.

“Merlin’s fucking—” he didn't even finish the sentence, instead pulling you down onto his chest for another scalding kiss, his calloused hands wandering up your thighs and over your hips, smoothing over the curve of your rib cage and around the plane of your back. His tongue slid into your mouth, twining with yours. You could taste the whiskey he'd been drinking, tinged with cigar smoke and gingerbread, and you moaned at the decadence of him.

One of his hands slid around to cup the nape of your neck, the other bracketing across your lower back to press your hips flush to his. You ground down onto him, unable to ignore the thrumming between your legs any longer. You both groaned at the new friction, his hips lifting to press more firmly against you.

“Just so you know,” he gruffed as you kissed down his neck, licking a long stripe over his Adam’s apple, feeling his stubble under your tongue. “I put a silencing charm on the room.”

“Very presumptuous of you,” you teased, sucking at his pulse just hard enough to leave a faint bruise, but nothing too obvious.

His hips rolled against yours, coaxing a breathy moan from your lips. “Part of my training includes being prepared for any situation,” he countered, his voice strained with desire as you rocked against him.

“Uh-huh. And what else were you trained to do?” You asked, freezing in place to watch him squirm.

A wicked smirk crossed his face and suddenly you were moving, flipped beneath his body faster than you could blink. “How to tame brats,” he growled against your ear, and a shiver rolled down your spine.

He shifted down your body, kissing and licking along the swell of your breasts before unlatching your bra and tossing in across the room. He took both your tits in his hands, nuzzling the soft flesh before laving his tongue across both nipples, making you lift off the bed with a gasp of pleasure.

“It's not fair that you get to walk around with these all the time. Too fucking perfect,” he said, his voice muffled by your skin.

You almost said that they were his. That the only thing that wasn't fair was how quickly he'd stolen your heart. But you bit your tongue, moaning under his ministrations instead.

He sucked a pearled nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it before grazing his teeth against it, his fingers pinching and rolling the other until your eyes crossed, desire pooling between your legs.

“Can take my time with you now,” he hummed, pulling back to pepper kisses across your chest. “Take care of my girl properly.”

My girl. Your head spun, your heart swelling with elation. You never thought this would happen for you, the perpetually single girl who never found someone you genuinely connected with. But Charlie was like a comet tearing through your life, turning every one of your assumptions about love upside down.

He drew you back from your thoughts with a bite under your left breast. “Come back to me, baby. No more overthinking.”

“It’s good thoughts this time,” you said, running your fingers through his ginger hair and scratching along his scalp as he soothed the mark with his tongue.

He looked up at you, a pleased smirk on his face. “Thinking about that soaking tub, huh?”

You pulled his hair, giggling at his antics while he moved further down your body. “Among other things—shit, Charlie,” you whined when his tongue dragged over the soaked gusset of your panties, scalding hot and firm.

He pulled them to the side, gliding his tongue through your slick folds and wrapping his lips around your clit, lashing it with the tip of his tongue. Pleasure coursed through you, your eyes rolling back in your skull as you cried out.

He hummed against you, moving back down to lap at your entrance with long, messy strokes. He was practically grinding his face against you, savoring you like you were the finest meal he'd ever had. He was so enraptured in pleasuring you that he was moaning right along with you, making your clit vibrate and walls flutter.

“Saints, I missed you,” he said, giving your clit and open mouthed kiss before sucking the sensitive bud between his teeth.

You couldn't even begin to formulate words, completely lost in his feasting, your body fizzing with delight and pleasure. It felt like you were high, your muscles languid, bones rubbery.

“Not thinking anymore, are we?” He teased, nipping at the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You whimpered and shook your head, raising your hips to chase after his mouth.

“Good girl.” he purred, rewarding you by latching back onto your clit, his middle finger easing inside your greedy channel.

You cried out, clenching around his finger as he pushed you closer to the edge, your listless haze making way for bright, desperate pleasure. You bucked your hips against his mouth, his tongue flattening against your clit as his inserted a second finger, stretching you. The sounds were damn near sinful, lewd and sloppy as he worked your pussy into submission, molding you like a sculptor with wet clay.

“Fuck, Charlie. M’gonna come,” you whined, tangling your fingers in his hair to keep him in that perfect spot.

He curled his fingers inside of you and your vision whited out, your orgasm ripping through you, body and soul. You screamed, spine arching off the bed as wave after wave of burning ecstasy rolled through you, his tongue and fingers not letting up for a second as you convulsed.

“That's it, honey. Just like that, let it all go,” he cooed, kitten-licking your clit as you started to come down, his fingers continuing to gently massage your spasming walls. “Try to relax, love. I know it's a lot, but just relax f’me. You're doing so well.”

You sank back into the mattress, breathing labored as he soothed your quivering pussy with gentle touches. “Charlie,” you moaned, your body finally settling and cycling from overstimulation to rebuilding pleasure. “Feels s’good.”

He nuzzled your clit, kissing over your slit, the top of your mound, your inner thighs. “I live to serve,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and sucking them clean. “And if I have to live my life in service to this perfect little cunt, so be it.” As if to punctuate his point, he laved his tongue through you again and you keened, nearly jumping away at the intensity.

You shook you head, tugging him up by the hair. “Need you to fuck me, Charlie. Please?”

He grinned, kissing his way back up your body until he caught your lips once more, the taste of you mixing with him in a way that pleased some possessive part of your brain. You deepened the kiss, licking into his mouth for more.

He pressed his body against yours, the weight of him warm and comforting as you savored one another. You trailed your hands over his back, feeling some of the ridges and scars stretched across the ropes of muscle. He guided one of your legs up over his hip, angling your bodies together like a puzzle piece.

You basked in the simmering kiss for a moment longer before need began to claw at your insides, your hips pressing up against his once more.

“Charlie, please,” you sighed into his mouth, dragging your nails down his back. “Don't make me beg.”

“But you sound so sweet, all breathy and desperate,” he cooed, pecking your lips a final time before moving off the bed. He slid your panties down your legs, tossing them aside with your other clothes, then removed his trousers and boxers, that gorgeous, rosy cock slapping up against his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed and spread your thighs, kneading the flesh at your hip while he ran the rigid head of his cock through your drooling pussy.

“My sweet girl wants to get fucked, hm?” he said, his voice rough as he used his cock to massage your puffy clit. “Let me hear you ask one more time, honey. Sounds so pretty.”

“Please fuck me, baby. Please,” you whimpered, fisting the sheets on either side of you.

He notched his cock at your entrance, hissing through his teeth as your pussy opened effortlessly for him. “That's it, lovey. Fuck, your little pussy is so tight f’me,” he groaned as your walls clenched around him, coaxing him deeper. You could tell he was fighting the urge to bottom out in one thrust, the muscles in his arms and shoulders taught and trembling, chest heaving and jaw a little slack.

You reached for him, the feeling so intense you needed an anchor. He leaned forward, knowing what you craved, and let you wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his neck.

He rubbed soothing circles on your thigh, his other hand sliding around your back to hold you against him. “Too much, baby?” He asked, pausing his slow penetration.

“Too good,” you whimpered, digging your nails into his shoulders.

He nodded, loosing a breath as you clenched around him. “Feel like your squeezing my heart,” he groaned, and you could feel it racing just beneath his skin, frantic as yours.

“Keep going, Charlie. Please,” you begged, tilting your pelvis so he sank a little deeper.

He eased you back onto the bed, still holding you close. “Good girl, takin’ me so well. Just relax, honey. Just feel me,” he soothed as he pushed the rest of the way in, his cockhead nudging your cervix and stretching your walls just enough. Not sensing any discomfort from you, he started rolling his hips back and forth in fluid strokes, kissing your skin wherever he could reach.

Pleasure spread through your body like ink through water, coloring every sensation, every thought. You loosened your grip on him, opening yourself up to his unhurried affection as he fucked you slowly, letting you adjust to the onslaught of sensation.

“You're so pretty like this, so fucking perfect.” He mouthed at your throat, your head tilting back with a cry as he increased his pace, ecstasy dancing along your skin. “All mine to love on, yeah? You all mine, baby?”

You bobbed your head, already cockdrunk and blissed out, your body submitting completely to him. “Yes, fuck, yes. All yours,” you whimpered, that knot in your lower stomach starting to tighten.

“Fuck yes, my good girl.” He leaned down and caught your lips in a searing kiss, a growl rumbling through his chest as he fucked you harder, driving his cock in and out of your sopping cunt with powerful strokes. “And I'm yours, baby. All fucking yours.” He murmured against your mouth and you grinned, feeling your heart give a discordant thump of elation.

He leaned back to fuck you deeper, one hand tangling with both of yours and pining your arms over your head, the other sliding down to rub tight circles over your clit. You stretched out for him, arching your breasts up to his hungry gaze as he railed you, merciless and claiming.

“Saints, you look so fucking sexy. Gonna come for me, love? Mark this cock as yours?”

You let out a scream as a second orgasm was wrenched from your body, the tension unraveling all at once in a torrent of bliss. You clamped hard around him, feeling his cock swell, then buck as his own release crashed over him, your name coming out like roar.

You clung to one another, his hips still rolling into yours as your walls milked him dry, wringing every drop of pleasure from one another until you crashed back to earth as one.

After catching your breath for a moment, he lifted off of you, hands skimming over your face, your body. “Merlin, I’m sorry, baby. I really didn't mean to be that rough, are you okay? Did I hurt—”

You silenced him with a kiss, pulling his body back down onto yours. “Was perfect,” you mumbled against his lips and he smiled.

“You were perfect,” he corrected, pecking kisses all over your cheeks and forehead. “Can’t get enough of you.”

You giggled, squirming as his hands tickled along your sensitive skin.

“Can I take you for a real date tomorrow? I don't know if anything will be open, but I refuse to go another day without—”

“Charlie,” you shushed, cupping his bearded cheek. “You can take me to the kitchen and call it a first date. I don't care about some made-up fucking rules. I just want to be with you.”

He grinned, giving you a quick, toothy kiss. “Then how about I clean you up, make some mulled wine with this expensive shit I brought back from Romania, and we cuddle by the fire? Call that our first date, and next year we can celebrate our one year anniversary on Christmas.”

You pushed against his chest, laughing at his dramatics, but secretly hoping that would be the case. “It better be a hell of mulled wine then,” you teased.

“Oh, it will be. Romanians don't fuck around when it comes to their booze. Now, open those gorgeous legs for me.”

“Charles Septimus Weasley! Get up!” Ginny shouted through the door, banging her fist on the wood. “You cannot sleep in on Christmas!”

“Septimus?” You groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Charlie had his head buried in your neck, heavy limbs thrown over your body. He was warm as a furnace, and the still crackling fire didn't help matters.

“Sod off!” he barked back, nuzzling closer and tightening his hold around you. You glanced at the clock, and after your prolonged first date, you'd only gotten a few scant hours of sleep.

“Fine! Then I'll throw whatever's in this fancy little box in the fire!”

Charlie was up in a flash, tugging on pants and wrenching open the door, but Ginny was already gone.

He sighed, grabbed something from the hall, then swung the door shut. He looked ready to dive back into bed, but you were already up, pulling on a pair of his boxers.

He froze in place, a feral sort of glint in his eye, forgetting entirely about the package in his hands. When you went to grab it, he lifted it high above his head, well out of your reach.

“Charlie!” You pouted, trying in vain to pull his arm down. He still hadn't taken his eyes off of your body. “You really want me to make a bad impression on your parents for our first Christmas?” You snapped, fighting the smile rising on your face.

“Just do a little spin for me,” he said, twirling a finger around.

“Charlie!”

“Fine, fine. Here,” he chuckled, handing you a pair of pajamas with your name embroidered on them. They were red and green, with white stripes and gold thread, the material thick and warm.

You loved them already.

The two of you quickly got dressed and hurried downstairs, finding everyone else already piled into the living room, also dressed in matching pj's.

“Ah, the lovebirds finally make their appearance!” Bill teased from the big arm chair, Fleur cuddled into his side.

Charlie flipped him off, ignoring the squawk of disapproval form his mother.

“Come, come!” Molly grabbed you and plunked you down on the last free space on the couch, and George passed you a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

George leaned in and muttered, “It's no mulled wine, but—”

Charlie whacked the back of his head. “Quiet, you,” he warned.

“Charles, if I have to speak to you again!” Molly shouted.

“Alright, alright! Let's get this show on the road,” Arthur said, shooing his son away so they could distribute the clumsily wrapped boxes under the tree.

Charlie plopped onto the floor between your knees, his hands coming up to absently massage your right foot. Your whole body tingled at the contact, your heart still tight with joy.

Could this really be your life?

Arthur passed out gifts, and you ended up with a pile of three at your feet. A flat, rectangular box, a heavy, square box, and one small enough to fit in your hand, wrapped in green and gold ribbon.

They went around one by one, opening gifts. Charlie received a new pair of steel-toed boots, enchanted to prevent the Romanian cold from creeping in, and an expensive looking bottle of gin, courtesy of his big brother.

After him, it was finally your turn. Your heart thudded from the attention, and you started unwrapping the larger present with trembling fingers. You tore off the paper and opened the white box underneath it, finding a knitted sweater with your initial on the front. Your throat pinched shut, tears burning behind your eyes as you traced your fingers over it.

“You're part of the family now, love,” Molly said, smiling warmly at you as you wiped away a tear with the back of your hand.

“Thank you,” you sniffled, laughing at yourself, and Charlie gave your ankle a reassuring squeeze, pressing a kiss to your knee.

The next present was from Fred and George, a stack of books you'd been eyeballing the last time the three of you went to Flourish and Blotts, and you pulled them in for a group hug.

Finally, it came down to the last present. The tension pulled taut as a bowstring when Charlie turned towards you, propped up on one knee, presenting the small box.

“I know how this looks,” he murmured, glancing down at himself. “But I promise I'm not that insane.”

You giggled nervously, taking the present from his hand and trying to ignore that his entire family was watching you. You tried to focus on Charlie, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the lock of copper hair hanging over his brow, and blocked the others out.

Carefully, you undid the ribbon and tore off the paper, revealing a black, dragon-leather box. Charlie gave you an encouraging nod, noticing the way you hesitated, and you cracked open the lid.

Inside was a golden necklace with a Welsh Green dragon scale pendant sitting on a velvet cushion. It was the most stunning shade of emerald you'd ever seen, reflecting beautifully in the candlelight, shifting blue, then pearlescent, and back to green. It was breathtaking, and you fought back the tears gathering on your lower lashes so you could continue to gaze at it.

“Charlie, this is—” emotion stole your words, and all you could do was throw your arms around him and bury your face into his shoulder.

“I hope you love it, darling. Had it made just for you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Here, let me put it on you.”

You nodded, sitting up and trying to wipe your tears before his family could see what a mess you were, but when you looked around, you saw half of them crying too.

Molly blew you a kiss, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and you nearly lost it again.

Charlie gently took the box from your hands and walked around behind the couch. His cool fingers grazed the sides of your throat and the weight of the pendant settled against your clavicle. A moment later, your heard the clasp click, and felt the warm brush of his lips on the back on your neck.

You fondled the pendant with your fingers, the metal already warming against your heated skin, the scale heavy and smooth. Charlie came back around to the front, eyes lighting up at the sight of your smile.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he hummed, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

You grabbed his collar and pulled him in for a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Charlie.”

Thank you so much for reading!! (and if you have anything you'd like to read for Charlie, my asks are open!)

[kisakunt]

megumi’s pissed— pissed with a big, capital p. he’s bothered a lot; irritated and agitated with people daily, no stranger to fingers curling into a fist either at his sides or to the top of someone’s head. but right now, in the cold of your room, he’s pissed.

“take this shit off.” he won’t dare lift his hands himself because if megumi is a man of anything it’s principle. you laugh— louder than a giggle but nonetheless muffled by your pursed lips— and shake your head.

“no can do, nutmeg.” and now he’s really mad.

“don’t call me that.” he’s itching, his normally protruding hair flattened, his palms clammy, his breathing shallow.

“c’mon, why are you so miserable all the time?” it’s a slow drawl, a whine that he has to force himself to ignore. “can’t you show a little joy? maybe even some jubilance? or dare you say it might kill you?”

your name comes out stern, calculated and pointed in a way he knows will get to you, and simply, he repeats himself.

“take this shit off.”

megumi fushiguro is not a big believer of tradition. he has never obsessed over a birthday— although he did buy you a singular cupcake and candle on yours— or stressed at the thought of marriage. he’s not big on anniversaries and he couldn’t care less about a baby shower or bachelor party, so naturally holiday’s mean nothing to him.

you on the other hand are, in his own words, a nutcase. you’d met him two weeks before the christmas prior and insisted you get each other small trinkets. on valentine’s day you gave everyone you knew a card, on easter you mastered the art of making your very own chocolate, on halloween you bought a costume that he refused to wear.

and now, here you are again; snow on the ground outside and a small, and frankly sad, tree in your room symbolizing not only the biggest day of your year but an absolutely grueling year of knowing you.

you sit in front of him, criss cross, with a goofy little grin on your face. he can’t help but think it’s utterly disgusting that that’s doing something for him. regardless though, he stands his ground.

“if you don’t take this off right now i’m not talking to you for a week.” you laugh for real this time, shaking your head with more energy than before.

“well we both know that’s a lie. i’d probably drop dead if you did that and then, overwhelmed by guilt, you’d turn into an even weirder and sadder old man.”

“i’m not old. take this shit off.” atop his head sat a truthfully horrific santa hat. it couldn’t have cost more than two dollars, assortment of dim led lights on the trim. he can’t help but think of how many little, lice ridden kids must have tried this on. but he still won’t budge.

“you know you can just take it off yourself, right?” he does know that— obviously— but again, he has beliefs. he has pride. it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you’re looking at him like he’s heaven on earth or the matching hat smothering your own hair. it has nothing to do with you at all.

he shifts, leaning his body weight onto his left side as he presses his hands into the plush of your bed to lift himself up. he makes a little show of it, slow and meticulous as he barely raises himself.

it would be so easy to avoid this situation. it would be so simple to shake his head or yank the hat off or have stopped you from putting it there to begin with.

megumi’s pissed, but it’s not with you.

“i’m serious. it’d actually be nice to have a moment of quiet in my brain.” megumi is furious, livid and squirming in his own skin. he’s absolutely, unequivocally angry.

he’s angry because he can’t figure out why for the dear life of him there’s a tightly wrapped gift tucked in the bottom of his bag, or why he knows the nearly exact color hex of your eyes, or why he’s hummed— hummed— the song ‘war is over’ twice this week.

you grumble, butt hurt and annoyed now too, and you reach over as fast as you can and snatch it off of him.

“there,” and now megumi’s even more upset because that upset him and his head feels cold and empty now. “happy now?”

and before he can think, before he can be as calculated as he always is, it slips.

“no.” and in that moment something shifts. it’s both of you, just a little bit towards each other, it’s the tension that’s now (and always has been) in the air, it’s the way your hat slips a little to the side.

“well i just can’t win with you, can i?” the— his— hat lays loose between your fingers, your voice quieter than he thinks he’s ever heard it.

megumi wonders time to time if he’s a coward. he knows he’s strong, he knows he’s just in his opinions, he knows he fights. but sometimes he freezes and sometimes he panics and sometimes he can’t look you in the eye.

maybe it’s time for him to be brave. he leans into you, closer to you, breathing you all in and, brushing your fingers in the process, he takes it back from you.

suddenly it’s warm again. suddenly you’re matching again. suddenly he feels close to you again.

“there.” for once, it feels like christmas to megumi. “happy now?” and it feels like he’s got a gift in front of him.

[enyaliuswrites]

➽ Love and Deepspace University/College AU

Multiple characters x fem!reader tags: fluff, reader doesn’t have to be mc, college au, university au, reader doesn't have to be in a relationship with character but it is slightly implied

Xavier is an Astronomy & Astrophysics major typa student with a minor in Philosophy. You guys can disagree with me, that's just what I see it as.

Xavier is the type of student that walks around campus to find the best places to sleep and professors and students are genuinely worried when they find him sleeping on a tree. (The shade was better and no one would disturb him, he argues).

Xavier is the student that is always asleep in class and just stays there even if the next class is coming into the lecture room (poor boy, someone should've woken him up fr).

However, his grades aren't in the earth’s core. His grades are actually perfect. Sky High. He probably dreams about his studies in a fun way or something.

He doesn't have many friends, only 1 really close one, Jeremiah, whom they both don’t see each other very often. They have a sort of friendship that without meeting they know they’ll forever be there for each other.

You guys met because you were taking a nap on a particularly windy day, the weather wasn't so sunny and the breeze wasn't so cold, a perfect day to study under a tree and accidentally doze off I say. Unbeknownst to you, that was where Xavier would usually sleep as well. He was about to leave to go to one of his other sleeping spots but then something caught his eye.

A butterfly flying over to you and landing on your head. It was quite a sight and just in that moment you woke up. You were startled by the Sophomore Xavier in front of you and scared the butterfly off. You guys stayed there in silence for a bit before somehow it turned into you both dozing off under the tree.

From that day onwards, you guys would meet under that tree to study, talk or nap and you guys grew closer day by day.

Xavier definitely tries to help with your homework but instead his head is on the table and his mind is in the land of dreams. He really tries, but his sleeping schedule is too packed.

Watching the skies is definitely a must with him. Whether it be the night sky or the day sky—setting up a cute picnic to lie down and just point at clouds, saying what they reminded you of. Or watching the stars and the moon while basking in each other’s comfortable silence.

Xavier definitely writes love poems in class to give you later but he’ll never read them out loud to you, only when you’re about to fall asleep then he’ll read it.

He always tries to cook for you but always somehow starts a fire, even while trying to make something as simple as Kimbap or sushi. So now he’s banned from the kitchen and you have him help you with the most simplest of tasks (measuring out ingredients or cutting vegetables) instead.

“Xavier, why do I smell burning?” “I think the egg might be a little overcooked.” “Xavier, it's on fire! How on earth did you mess up an omelet that badly?!” “I followed what you said. Should I try again?” “NO!”

Xavier definitely takes you to places where he naps and the most breathtaking, picturesque and comfortable place. An old cathedral courtyard, a secluded rooftop garden on a building on campus, a secret garden on campus with a clearing in the middle. During these times when the sun is setting is when he recites poems he read or wrote to you.

Zayne is obviously a medical student specializing in cardiology. I mean it’s clear as day.

He’s the type of student that never skips any school and doesn’t break any rules whatsoever. Sick? At school with a mask on. Injured? At school with a cast. Literally on the brink of death? At school with an IV bag and breathing tube. (exaggeration)

His back is straight in classes and you’ll never catch him slacking off his perfect posture. It’s kind of creepy, sometimes. He’s the student that always raises his hand to answer the professor that over time the professors are like “I know you know. I want to see if other students know.”

He’ll never share notes. As in, even if other people look at his notes they can’t understand his handwriting. Zayne’s notes are always so organized and clean that no one believes that he did that in a single class alone.

He definitely gets a lot of love letters. Girls go crazy for this man, (you and me included) they often try to invite him to help tutor them or to grab a bite. He always says the same thing, “If you’d had paid attention then you would understand.” and then just leaves.

He’s always in the library, studying during freshman and sophomore year. In his Junior year he started interning at a nearby hospital and from that day he just became 10 times more busy.

You guys met by chance—Senior Zayne was interning at the hospital and treated you after you pushed yourself too hard, eventually fainting, which is how you ended up here. (Gotta thank your bestfriend for being so worried she rushed you to the hospital.)

He saw you on campus the next day and at first he didn’t really care much, however after seeing you stumble around (you were just daydreaming) he came over and gave you a tiny lecture about caring for your health.

Somehow, that led to him visiting you after classes to give you a juicebox “To regulate your blood sugar” or a fruit, like a banana “Bananas are high in potassium, lowering the risk of a heart disease.” He’ll say that he’s your personal doctor-in-training and always encourages you to eat healthy by getting dinner at a clean restaurant. But, you still often catch him eating sweets and it always makes you laugh.

He never outright says that he wants to see you, he’ll make a thousand excuses instead. Sometimes, he’ll say that you’re late to a scheduled appointment with him.

“You’re late to your appointment.” “I’m pretty sure I just had one with you the day before yesterday.” “You left your pen here the other day, you should come get it.” “Zayne, just say you want to see me.”

Study dates are 99% of the dates you have with him. Both of you are entirely focused on your piles of assignments and study materials. If one of you has more free time than the other, you simply sit in silence and watch him concentrate—and he does the same for you.

Even though he’s extremely busy, as a medical student in his Senior year, he still makes plenty sure that you can feel his love. Whether that be sending a quick text in the morning or before he does something.

Sometimes when you guys meet he’s really tired so don't mind him taking a quick nap on your shoulder or around you. Make sure to snap a picture and use that as blackmail material afterwards, hehe.

Rafayel is a Fine Arts student for sure. He loves arts in all forms, painting, sketching, photography, scrapbooking, sculpture, fashion, the list goes on and on.

He’s the type of student that arrives fashionably late and always has some crazy ideas with his final projects and in the end he gets the highest grade. His artwork is actually one of the prides of the university/college and he’s extremely down to earth about it, only wanting to paint the things he sees in his dreams perfectly.

He definitely has people who want to be friends with him but he just treats everyone the same. Sassy and indifferent. Except for one friend who saw incredible potential in him and always helped him, making his art go famous around campus and earning Rafayel some money (Thomas).

Rafayel is the type of student that walks around the campus for inspiration as well as walking around the city to get inspiration, often finding hidden treasures of places, tucked-away cafes, historic museums, indie theatres, vintage shops.

He definitely spends a lot of his time at the sea and most of his artworks are inspired by the underwater world. He spends time near the swimming pool when no one is there, during the late nights or early mornings.

Being very popular and famous around campus, he has many admirers which he all just waves away. He couldn’t care less, the only thing he cares about is his art and the girl he met when he was at what he called his ‘secret hideout’.

You were a little stressed from studies so you decided to walk around campus, exploring the different buildings and rooms. Unexpectedly, you found yourself in an old art gallery—the lights were turned off and the only source of light was from the sun’s rays. You stayed there for a while, even though the door was dusty and the room was cluttered with old art supplies, you presumed that this was an art supply room.

Suddenly, that was when a Sophomore Rafayel walked in and saw you standing in front of one of his old paintings. A painting that he tried experimenting with a new style of technique, one that he was embarrassed of so he hid it here. He yelped when you saw you, he thought you were a ghost.

You guys talked for a while before you parted ways, however after hearing you talking about why you liked his art (he didn’t admit it was him) he grew an interest in you.

A few days later when you were free you decided to come and absorb the peaceful atmosphere of the old gallery again, however much to your surprise Rafayel was there as well.

“You know how many days I waited for you? Why didn’t you come sooner? If I get an allergy from all of this dust you’re paying for my medical bills.” “I don’t think that’s how allergies work-” “Don’t change the subject!”

You guys became close pretty quick. His words, although sometimes quirky and sassy, were also full of depth and emotion. Whenever he talked about art or the sea he had a glint in his eyes and a nostalgic solemn tone in his voice.

Dates with him are usually you doing your work while he paints or sketches you. He’ll always show you what he cooked up while you were focused but he’ll always say how it’s never perfect and that, “I can’t capture how perfect you are, cutie.”

You guys often visit the sea, taking long walks on the beach during the day and during the night while he tells you stories of his dreams and his own fascination with the world under the waves. He often makes you cute accessories out of seashells and will always gift you something handmade after classes.

Walking around campus and finding more cool places where you’ve explored is a must with him. He’ll rub circles with his thumb, holding your hand as you guys explore rooftop gardens and just talk about dreams or studies.

Sylus is definitely a business faculty typa student. For his major it might be international trade or something of the sort.

He’s the type of student that skips most of his classes but gets a perfect grade.

When he does come to class he’ll definitely be dozing off but when there's assignments he always somehow gets full marks. If the professor calls on him he’ll answer correctly and eventually professors just stop trying to catch him lacking (they never can).

He’ll come and go as he pleases and no one really says anything, too afraid to mess with him since everywhere he walks people just keep their eyes down or walk the other way. (I mean have you seen the Lunar New Year event? Bro was sticking out so much)

He definitely has LOADS of rumors about himself on campus but bro does NOT care. And the rumors are hella crazy too, and what's even crazier is that no one knows if they’re true or not. “I heard that he beat up a couple of students the other day so badly they were all hospitalized.” “Well, I heard that he’s involved with the mafia and does their dirty work for them.” “You guys are all wrong. He is the Mafia boss! He’s just working undercover here!”

Sylus doesn't have any friends. Well, except two identical twins that always follow him around as well as a crow (strange friends if you ask me). Luke and Kieran are like his lackeys but without the mistreatment, they’ll always help him with the little things while he’s out and about doing some shady businesses outside of school.

You guys definitely met because of something random and cliche. Sylus, the mysterious senior that you bumped into in the hallway, causing your drink to stain him, you and your work. You apologized and after a while he shrugged it off and let you off the hook. However, you kept seeing him around after that day and on the days that you didn’t, you would see a crow instead.

The crow would sometimes have a candy in his mouth or a kopiko (those coffee candies). Over time you’d see Sylus more often and he’d sometimes strike a conversation and you’d continue it and before you know it he’ll be showing up outside of your class and walk with you around campus for a quick bite or even to send you to your next class. Of course, people always stare or quickly shuffle away whenever you pass by.

He sometimes brings you a little something after class when you meet up. A juicebox. Milk. Coffee. Maybe even a little baked good. He often drives you around, whether that be on his motorcycle or his car, he lets you pick. Honestly, at this point he’s like your chauffeur. All he wants to see is your smile.

Dinner dates are an absolute must with him, whether that be eating out at a fancy restaurant or him cooking for you at his place.

During study dates you guys will definitely go to a reclusive hidden cafe that he found and order something little to help fuel you. He’ll watch you and help you if you need it (you have to beg a little for it though). He has the most messed up sleeping schedule so please let him rest when he suddenly dozes off while watching you study.

Sylus will definitely drag you out of class, saying that there’s an emergency and the professor allows him too, totally buying into his words as you both walk away. Why? All because you complained to him that you didn’t want to sit in this class and that it was boring.

“Sylus! Why’d you do that?!” “Didn’t you say that you didn’t like it? That you hated it, sweetie?” “I did, but you can’t just do that!” “Let’s go get dinner. We can go to that place you love to go to.” “…Okay, let’s go.”

Caleb is an Aerospace Engineering student and a good one at that. (I mean have you read his anecdotes??)

Caleb is similar to Zayne, he never misses a class and is a top grade student. Scoring the top in every class. Honestly, everyone is jealous of him (me included).

He’s the type of student that shares his close friends with his notes and even sometimes helps tutor them. He’s loved by all his friends and everyone who works with him, whether that be group work or just striking up a conversation with him.

He’s extremely popular, due to his energetic personality, natural leadership and how reliable of a person he is. However, it feels like almost no one really knows him. He seems like an open book but he’s really a mystery to everyone, even his close friends.

He gets a lot of love letters as well, however as soon as he sees them he rips them and throws them in the bin.

He’s a great actor, (He definitely fooled me in the main story, got scared so much) and uses that to his advantage. He’s definitely involved in some shady things on campus, but no one knows. One time someone tried to create rumors about him and the next day those rumors instantly stopped.

You met Caleb through your friend. Caleb being a Junior at your university as well as the older brother of a friend of yours since middle school. You guys met once or twice back when you were in middle school but he remembered you up till the day he saw you on campus, dozing off at the library.

When you woke up you didn't expect an apple to be on your table along with a little note, “Fuel yourself for the rest of the day!” along with a doodle of an apple. You didn't eat it, afraid that it was poisoned (You weren't going to be the next Snow White).

One day you bumped into him while leaving one of your classes and he immediately striked a conversation. While reminiscing about when you guys were younger you guys walked to a nearby cafe and grabbed a drink together. The conversation developed into updating each other about life and what you guys were planning for the future and you realized that you were about to be late for your next class. Before going he quickly scribbled his contact on a piece of sticky note and you swear that you’ve seen that handwriting somewhere before.

Ever since that day he’s always accompanied you to your classes and back. 9am class? He’ll be there to walk you there, even a little snack in his hand, usually an apple. 5pm? He’ll be there with a piece of candy, to help fuel you for the last class.

He’ll always scare other boys off, whether it be putting an arm around your shoulder when he sees someone looking or holding your waist and pulling you towards him. He’ll take whatever you say after, nagging him for being too open or catching you off guard.

It’s a back and forward of him going over to your place or you going to his and eating his home cooked dinners. Eating out is barely a thing with Caleb, he loves to cook for you and secretly wishes that you love it too.

He’s extremely clingy and possessive. Even if you want to hang out with other people he’ll always ask a lot of questions, but he’ll never be overly possessive.

“Who are you going with?” “Just a few friends.” “Where? For how long?” “Nowhere. I’ll take a couple of hours, maybe. Caleb, don't worry.” “I’ll pick you up when you finish. Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there. You can tell me if you want to leave early.”

He’s definitely the type of student that’ll help you with your assignments even if that means doing extra research on the topic you’re struggling with to help you.

A/N: totally wasn't writing this while stuck in accounting class. This actually took me longer than I thought and I bet I still have more things to add even now, but this is what I imagined in my head today. Stay delusional! (*´∀`*) Art creds : Love and Deepspace Dividers by @omi-resources

[prael]

Drive You Crazy

Aespa Winter x Male Reader // Quickfire Challenge 2

words: 4,988 Masterlist

"That's it. You're so not getting any tonight. I already told you, it's the lighting." There's an inflexion at the end of the sentence. A little indicator, a warning light, Winter's about to raise her voice - lose her cool - and it'll be the second time in as many minutes.

"Did you shave them off?" you ask, leaning in far too close to her brow.

"What?!" she snaps. "I did not shave off my fucking eyebrows."

"Is it some sort of trend? Are people into that? If it is then I don’t think I like it."

"Not only are you not getting any, you're sleeping on the floor." She's trying not to get angry, trying to make this all into a joke, but the way her lips are pursed - and those are still perfect, as ever - means you've pushed her a little too far.

"I don't want to sleep with someone with no eyebrows anyway."

No words this time, only a punch in your left arm. You yelp in mock pain, rubbing your shoulder as though she's actually done any real damage. You start stumbling ahead of her, acting out a limp, and you know she's staring at you with that 'fuck-off-now-or-I'm-actually-gonna-hit-you' expression on her face. "That did not hurt, stop it."

"I'm pretty sure I've got a bruise, look." You turn around, rolling up the sleeve of your t-shirt to expose the skin below. It's not there, obviously, but you wait until Winter's standing beside you before you start laughing. She doesn't find it quite so funny.

"You're so fragile. So easily damaged," she says, walking past you, bumping your shoulder again. Her dress ripples in the gentle breeze that whips up behind the trees to your right, before flowing through, carrying the scent of pine, earth, and fresh grass. A fitting compliment to the lake on your left, and the setting sun above. The sky is painted a vivid red, with a gradient of pink, orange and purple, and the clouds are thin, like wisps of cotton candy.

You follow a few steps behind, plotting your next move, your next opportunity to annoy her. It's a game you love to play because you know that no matter how much she might pretend otherwise, Winter does enjoy it. And it's easy to wind her up, so easy. "Hey, can we go for a swim? It looks like it's really warm."

"No," she says, not even bothering to look back at you.

"God, you're so boring." You catch up to her, walk side by side, and wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, kissing her on the temple, just below her hairline. "But you are the prettiest girl here, I'll give you that."

"Shut up, I'm the only girl here," she says, though the hint of a smile appears. "I'm boring for not wanting to throw myself in a lake filled with who knows what."

"Fish," you say.

"Exactly."

"And plants, and water..."

"Thank you for clearing that up."

"Don't mention it."

"You're an ass, do you know that?"

"So you keep telling me."

"Yeah, well, maybe one day you'll start believing me."

"Maybe."

The two of you continue walking along the dirt path, through the trees, and out towards the clearing. Winter's arm has made its way around your waist, and now the two of you are walking in time, matching strides, the sound of your steps on the gravel echoing in a pattern that becomes almost rhythmic. You're close to your cabin now, just a few more minutes and you'll be able to throw off your shoes and fall onto the bed, pull her down with you, and-

"I'm gonna take a bath," Winter says.

"Funny, I was just thinking something similar."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, I was thinking you could take a bath right now." You bend and scoop Winter up into your arms, lifting her from her feet and holding her tight against your chest. She lets out a loud, high-pitched scream, but it's followed by a laugh.

"What are you doing? Put me down."

"Nope." You're already moving, already half-running, and as her hands come to rest on the side of your neck, you feel her fingers pressing hard into your skin, trying to keep her balance.

"Are you serious?"

"Always," you reply.

"You're such a dumbass. If you drop me-"

"Gonna drop you alright." You veer left before you reach the cabin, stepping onto the pier and out towards the middle of the lake, ignoring the screams of protest from Winter.

"You are not dropping me in there, I swear to God, if you do, I'm leaving you. I will never-"

You cut her off, letting her drop into the water with a splash, and you stand there, watching as her head pops out from beneath the surface, hair flat against her forehead, sticking to her cheeks. "It's freezing cold, you shit!" She yells.

"What? You were looking a little hot, figured a dip in the lake would cool you down."

"I hate you." She splashes water in your direction.

"Oh, you don't mean that," you reply, bending at the knees, peering over the edge of the dock. She's wiping her hair from her face, and there's a glare, a dark shadow cast across her features that makes you think you've gone a step too far.

"Get in," she says, grabbing your ankles and pulling.

"Winter! Don't-" You're falling before you have time to finish the sentence, and the world seems to move in slow motion, the water approaching as if it's coming to a stop for you, rather than the other way around. You break the surface, spluttering, coughing. "It's fucking freezing."

"That's what I just said."

"Yeah, well," you try to catch your breath, "I guess I was too busy admiring how hot you were to pay any attention."

"Don't start saying nice things after you've already dunked me in here. I'll never believe you again."

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Just, come here." You reach out, grabbing her hand, and pulling her towards you.

"We're gonna get hypothermia," she snaps.

"I'll warm you up."

Your hands meet her hips, and she wraps her legs around your waist, her arms around your neck. It's an embrace that's been repeated a thousand times, but one you know will never become repetitive. The way her lips move against yours is always exciting, always fresh, as if it's the first time all over again. And when you feel her tongue slip inside your mouth, and her fingers tangle themselves in your hair, there's nothing in the world you want more.

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Winter says.

"I know."

"But you're my asshole."

"I know."

You kiss her again, and as her teeth gently bite your bottom lip, your grip on her tightens.

"Let's get back to the cabin," she whispers.

"Why?"

"Because," she says, "I want to fuck you."

"I thought I wasn't getting any tonight."

"Shut up already, will you?"

-

You leave a trail of water in your wake. Through the doorway, over the hardwood floor, making a trail to the bathroom. There are puddles on the carpet, droplets of water clinging to your skin, and goosebumps covering both your bodies. You feel them on her as you peel the dress from her body. Light fabric, sodden and made heavy, clinging to her every curve, and every crease, until it's a puddle on the floor.

"You're a mess," she says, and there's a playful grin on her face.

"Me?" You look down, running your eyes over her naked form. "Yeah, right. Look at you. Think we washed off whatever was left of your eyebrows, though."

She hits you with the palm of her hand, and then her arms are wrapped around your neck, her lips pressed against yours. You step forward, pushing her into the shower and then you reach out, palming against the wall and searching for the knob. Water cascades from the ceiling, and your eyes are open, staring straight into Winter's as her hand grips your wrist, pulling it downwards, pressing your fingers against her. You're smiling, and she is too.

"Is this the part where I'm not getting any?" You ask, and her response is a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head.

"It's the part where you stop talking." She kisses you again, and you're more than happy to comply. Her tongue slips into your mouth, your finger into her cunt, and it's hot, wet, and desperate - the kiss and the cunt. It's the latter that has you weak at the knees.

You press her against the tiled wall, her back arching away from the cold surface. The shower's a tight squeeze, and the steam and spray are starting to fill the small space, but the water's warm, and Winter's warmer. And as you slip another finger inside her, her eyes flutter closed and her nails dig into the back of your neck, dragging along the skin.

You're at her neck now, an assault on her senses. Tongue and teeth and lips and hands, all working together to coax out moans, gasps, and whispers. "Don't stop." You hear her say, and it's not as if you could, or would.

It's the little things that make you want to worship her. The way her breath catches when you suck on her pulse point, the way her nails dig harder, her hands grab tighter, the way she starts rolling her hips and grinding against the heel of your palm. You curl your fingers, push in deeper, and feel her clench, tightening around them.

You've got her fucking planted against the wall. Water runs down her naked form. Rolling down those shoulders; a cascade over her breasts; flowing over her toned stomach that tightens ever more by the second; dripping off her thighs, which are spread wide, and shaking with each thrust of your fingers. And, finally, the rivulets of water that stream down her back, her ass, her legs.

You pull her into another kiss, and the noises she's making are driving you crazy. Her moans, her pants, her curses. And the way her lips tremble and her jaw quivers. "Fuck, keep going, just like that," she whispers, and your heart skips a beat, and the throbbing between your legs becomes almost painful.

You know she's getting close. She always gets the same look on her face. That expression of pleasure mixed with pain like the feeling's almost too much, but it's just enough. And when she cums, she throws her head back, and her hands ball into fists. And the only sound she makes is a gasp, and her body goes rigid, her walls tighten, and you feel her cumming against your fingers, and then her knees buckle and you have to catch her, hold her steady.

"You're always so easy," you tease, and her eyes open. She's looking at you like she wants to punch you, or fuck you, or both. Maybe.

"No, I'm not." There's that signature furrow of her brow, that telltale crease.

"So easy," you repeat.

"I'll show you easy," she says, and the next thing you know, your back's against the tiles and her mouth is on yours.

And, oh, does she show you.

-

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

You're lying beside each other, the sheets pulled up, barely covering the two of you. Your bodies are entwined, your limbs tangled, and Winter's head rests on your chest, her ear against your chest, listening to the rhythmic thump of your heartbeat.

"Talk about what?" Winter asks.

"Well, we've never done that before."

"We have sex all the time," she says quizzically.

"That wasn't just sex," you reply.

"My ass?" She looks up at you.

"Your ass." You nod, smiling. "That was.... new. How was it? Did it hurt?"

"You know, the fact that you're asking questions and not making jokes is kinda weirding me out. Don't think it's going to be a regular thing, okay?" Winter rolls off your chest and onto her back, her head resting on her own pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "How was it for you?"

"Unexpected. Hot."

"You can stop trying to play it cool. I saw you back there, losing your mind while you fucked my ass."

"You're the one who came so hard that she nearly passed out."

"Shut up," she laughs. "Go to sleep. And don't even think about touching me in the morning. My ass hurts."

"I could kiss it better."

"Fuck off," she says, slapping your arm, but there's a smile on her lips, and then she shuffles closer to you, draping an arm over your stomach.

-

"Last day," Winter sighs as she looks out onto the lake from the balcony, her arms folded across the railing as she leans forward against it. The metal is cool on her exposed stomach. She's wearing one of your shirts and nothing else, and the way the morning breeze ripples against it sends a chill running up her spine. The sun is already warming her skin though, and the coolness is more than welcome.

"Not ready to leave?" you ask from inside the cabin, still packing the clothes you brought with you.

"I'm not sure," she replies, turning her head, and watching you fold a t-shirt and place it into the suitcase that sits open on the bed. "I do miss my own bed, but I'm not sure I want to go back to reality yet."

"Reality can wait another few hours, don't you think?" you ask as you approach her on the balcony, wrapping your arms around her from behind, your hands resting on her stomach, pulling her closer.

"I guess," she says. "We'll leave and then be replaced by some other young couple that will fuck all day, every day."

"Is that a hint of jealousy I detect?"

"No, not at all," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm not the jealous type."

"I think you might be," you say, pressing a kiss against the back of her neck, just below her hairline. "Remember when we were in that bar, and the bartender kept winking at me?"

"How could I forget? I wanted to smash my bottle over her head."

"Point proven." Another kiss and your fingers begin to play with the edge of the shirt. "So, we have a few hours left. Want to go for a walk somewhere? Maybe we can see where the trails go today?"

"Maybe you can get down on your knees?"

"You want to waste the last day of vacation in bed?"

"Sex with a view? Yes please." Winter pulls your hand onto her ass, and you can feel her smile when you press your lips against the back of her neck again. "You can't say you don't like the idea."

"That doesn't mean it's not a waste." You reply, trailing kisses on her neck, and along her shoulders.

"So you don't want to fuck me against that balcony?"

"Don't get it twisted. I'm going to fuck you against that balcony." You run a hand up from her hip, over her toned stomach, underneath the shirt, until it meets her breast. It fits perfectly like it was made just for you, and you feel her hardening nipple press against your palm.

"Then stop talking and put that mouth of yours to work."

"I'm gonna eat you until your legs give out," you whisper into her ear. She lets out a soft gasp just before you slide down to your knees, your hands on her ass. "Hands on the railing."

"Why?"

"Just, trust me," you reply. You hear a faint giggle and then feel her shift slightly, the skin of her palms pressing against the metal bars of the railing.

You push up the shirt, bunching it at the small of her back, baring her cute ass to the world. You plant kisses on her right cheek, biting gently, dragging your teeth across her smooth flesh. Your hands run down the backs of her thighs, fingers trailing up the inside until they reach their destination, her wet cunt. You feel the heat first, the warmth emanating from her, the dampness between her thighs. Your thumb runs along her slit and her legs buckle ever so slightly, her grip tightening on the railing.

You start slow, your thumb parting her, the tip running along her folds, stopping just short of her clit before repeating the pattern. She lets out a breathy moan, her body already responding to your touch. You continue to adorn her ass in kisses, your tongue leaving wet patches on her soft skin.

Winter rolls her hips, pushing herself against you. "Not quite the knee-buckling orgasm I was promised."

"You're so needy." You smile and take firm hold of her ass with both hands. "And annoying." You spread her open and run the flat of your tongue from the front to the back. She moans again, her back arching, pushing her ass further out, and you do the same thing once more, and again, and again. Until she's whining, and the muscles in her stomach tighten.

You eat Winter's ass as if you were starved of her like you hadn't already spent days doing exactly that, as if her taste were a drug you'd gone too long without. You lose yourself in her. You forget the world around the two of you. You're barely aware of your surroundings anymore; all that matters is having your face buried between her cheeks, your tongue in her hole, and the sounds coming out of her mouth. You're drunk on her.

"Fuck!" she moans. Her knuckles are turning white, and you know that she's trying to stop herself from reaching behind her, pulling you into her, grabbing fistfuls of your hair, and forcing you deeper.

You take a moment of respite, planting kisses over her soft cheeks. "You're gonna wake up the entire forest if you keep making noise," you say.

"Don't stop," she replies.

"Wasn't planning on it."

You dip back down, running your tongue over her hole, pressing harder this time. Her body shakes and shudders as she fights to stay upright. Her thighs are shaking and she's clenching, and you feel the pressure of her ring tightening as if she were trying to pull your tongue in.

The sun is beating down on both of you now, and the sweat rolls down your back. You can taste it on her too. A sheen on her skin, kissed by the morning sunlight, and there are droplets of sweat collecting in the dimples above her ass, which you make sure to kiss, too.

"Oh fuck, keep going." Winter's head drops and her hair cascades around her face. You reach around her, finding her pussy soaking, dripping. You dip your fingers in, pushing them past her folds. She's tight and wet, and so hot that it almost feels like your fingers might melt. Almost. Her hips buck and her breathing quickens. "Don't you fucking stop."

"Not planning to," you reply, muffled, your face pressed against her.

So here you are, middle of a forest, on the balcony of a rented cabin that feels as if it's a million miles away from society. Your girlfriend is standing with both hands gripping the metal bars of the balcony railing, naked, her head down, hair everywhere, back arched and pushing her ass back against your face. You're on your knees, hands on her hips, fingers inside her. Your mouth, lips, and tongue are worshipping her in a way that feels almost religious. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

She's going to cum. It's some sort of cosmic truth that you can feel, in the same way you know the sun is going to set tonight, and the moon will appear. She's going to cum on your fingers and on your tongue. She's going to shake and scream, and she'll have to sit down when you're done with her.

"Oh, I'm so close," she moans.

You don't respond. You simply redouble your efforts. You curl your fingers and you drag the tip of your tongue over her sensitive hole. Her breathing is ragged, and she's losing her mind. The muscles in her ass and thighs are tightening and her back is arched so hard that it looks painful. You feel her clench, and then her entire body is spasming as if electricity is coursing through her veins.

Winter lets out a string of curses as she cums on your fingers, your hand, your arm, the floor - she's making a mess of everything. And when it finally passes, and she's standing, shaking, you stand too, wrap her in your arms and pull her into an embrace. "I think my legs actually went weak." She's breathing hard and there are tears in her eyes, and she's looking at you with that same expression she always has after she's cum.

"Told you," you say.

"Yeah, well," she breathes hard, looking out over nature's beauty. "I'm still standing." You kiss the back of her neck again and you can't help but smile. It's the smile that only Winter can put on your face, and as the sun climbs higher in the sky, you're happy to be spending your days in this little piece of heaven.

"Good. It would have been a real shame if you gave up already. We have a whole morning, after all." You pull her shirt (Your shirt? The details are meaningless.) up roughly and expose her lithe body to the world. You pull it at her neck, using the bunched-up fabric to hold her in place. You press into the small of her back, bend her over the railing, and your hand wanders down to her hip.

"I'm surprised you have anything left to give after this week." Winter chuckles and pushes her ass against you. "Drained you dry and then some."

-

"Just keep your eyes on the road, will you?" Winter snaps.

"Kinda difficult with you doing that," you say.

"I mean it. Don't you dare crash. I don't want to be in the news as the idol who crashed with her boyfriend's cock in her mouth."

"It's not even in your mouth."

"Not yet." She flashes a mischievous smile as she strokes you.

"We've been on the road for less than twenty minutes and you're already on me," you laugh. "You can barely go an hour without me inside you."

"You weren't complaining earlier when I was riding you."

"I wasn't driving a high-speed hunk of metal down the highway then. , take it easy."

"I don't think I can. I've got my hands on your big cock, how am I meant to control myself?" Winter's hand runs down the entire length, from base to tip. "I just want it in me all the time."

"I'll pull over, okay?"

"Don't pull over." Winter's hand is replaced by her head in your lap. "Eyes on the road."

"Fuck," you say, as her tongue swirls around the tip. You can feel her hand gripping your cock tight. Her lips slide down to meet it. She's wet, warm, and so inviting that you find your eyes drifting down to watch, only to have to look back to the road.

Winter doesn't take your entire length in one go, no, she takes her time, teasing the tip of your cock before licking the entire length, base to top. It's a game for her, a game you love, but a game nonetheless. She wants you to cum, but she wants to drag it out for as long as she can.

Your hands are gripped tightly around the wheel, knuckles white. The urge to grab her head and push her down on your cock, to gag her with it, to have her choke on it, to use her pretty little face for nothing more than her own pleasure, it's overwhelming. "Just let me pull over," you say.

"No time. Eyes on the road."

The next ten minutes seem to last an hour. Winter's mouth is doing its magic, taking you deeper with every movement, taking more and more until the entire thing is down her throat. You hear her gag on it, feel the vibrations against the head, and your cock throbs in her mouth.

She pulls up with a pop and a gasp for air, and then she's at it again, bobbing up and down on it, her spit running down the sides of the shaft.

"Shit, keep doing that," you whisper. Winter's tongue runs over the head of your cock, and you're struggling to concentrate, but then it stops - the contact gone. "Fuck, Winter. Come on, I'm so close."

"I know." She says. "That's why I stopped." There's a glint in her eye, something you recognise.

"Oh come on, are you seriously-"

"Yep," she cuts you off, sitting back in the passenger seat. "My turn." She unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down off her hips. Just enough so she can slip a hand under them.

"That's it. I'm pulling over."

"No! We'll be late. You have to keep driving," Winter moans as she begins to touch herself. Her legs spread wider and you watch her out of the corner of your eye.

"Winter..."

"I said eyes on the fucking road," she growls, her fingers picking up pace.

It's the most awkward fifteen minutes of your life, and it feels like you spend more of the time staring at her than at the road. Winter is panting, gasping, moaning. She's grinding her hips into the seat and she's thrown her head back, eyes shut, mouth agape. And her fingers are working her pussy like she's possessed.

She puts her leg up on the dash and sinks deeper into the seat. You can see how wet her cunt is from here. It glistens with the juices dripping out of her. Her nipples are poking through her shirt, and you want to pull over and fuck her brains out, but she keeps telling you no, so instead, you watch her finger herself in the passenger seat.

Winter's close, you can tell. Her breathing is shallow and ragged, and she's mumbling something under her breath, too quiet for you to hear. Her body starts to tremble and shake, and you're half-watching, half-driving when she finally cums. Hard. And she screams, and you swerve, and someone behind you blares their horn, and you can barely breathe. She looks like a mad woman. She's still writhing, grinding, and panting, her fingers rubbing circles on her clit, her back arching.

"This is torture," you whisper, eyes glued back to the road, heart thumping, palms sweating.

"I think I'm going to pass out," Winter breathes, slumping down in her seat. "Fuck that felt good."

"Great, now how about a fucking hand here?" you laugh, gesturing at your dick. It's throbbing, and aching, and it needs to be touched.

"Oh, right." She's out of breath, but she manages to pull her pants back on, button them up, and crawl back into your lap, her fingers wrapping around your shaft. "Guess I forgot."

"How convenient."

Winter wraps her lips around your cock again, and this time, she's more eager. Her tongue swirls around the tip while she moves her head up and down. You feel the pressure building in your abdomen, and the world is starting to blur. It's just her and her pretty pink lips wrapped around you. Her tongue is hot and wet and so fucking soft. And she's sucking you. She's moaning with your cock in her mouth, and it's sending waves of pleasure throughout your body.

"You're hungry," you grunt.

"Mm-hmm," Winter responds. She shifts onto her knees on the passenger seat, her cute ass in the air and her mouth wrapped around your dick. Everyone you overtake could just glance over and see her. Tight jeans and a tighter ass; they'd be hard-pressed to look away. But you're not going to be pressing anything except her face into your cock. Your hand finds its way to the back of her head and you push down gently until the entire length is in her mouth.

"Winter..." you grunt with one hand on the wheel and one in her hair. She bobs her head, and you feel her gag and choke. Spit dribbles down the corners of her mouth and onto your lap, and her eyes water, but she doesn't stop, she just keeps going, and you feel yourself building up, getting closer.

Winter moans around you and the vibration sends shockwaves through you. It's so hard not to thrust up into her. She gags, and you feel the head of your cock hitting the back of her throat.

"Fuck, just like that. Keep doing that." Your knuckles are white, and Winter's eyes are watering. Your fingers grip her hair tighter, pushing down on her, and her eyes roll back, her body trembling.

You cum in her mouth. Your entire body tenses up, and the road disappears. Your eyes are shut, and your back arches off the chair, and your hand grips her head. You fill that pretty mouth with your hot cum. She sucks it down, greedily swallowing it all.

Your eyes snap open. You're lucky. You didn't crash. You're still on the road, and you're alive, and you've just cum harder than ever.

"Better?" Winter asks, popping off of you.

"Much better." You say, trying to regain your composure.

"Good." She smiles at you, wiping at her chin. "How'd you like to get home late?"

"Oh, so now we're pulling over?" You laugh. You find a turn and take it, then another, until you're parked, overlooking a field. Winter's hands are already exploring under your shirt, and she's kissing your neck.

"Gonna ride you so hard that you can't think straight for the rest of the day."

[junojoel]

Woman Inherits the Earth

Ellie Williams x fem!Reader, 6.6k

Summary: You came to Jurassic World for industry connections, a killer CV, and maybe a LinkedIn flex. You didn’t expect to fall for the raptor girl.

Warnings: dinosaurs (scary (not really)) and fluff

this came to me in a fucking vision. i love jurassic park so much and i love a nerdy dinosaur girl even more. HAPPY FUCKING PRIDE MONTH.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You’d never seen trees this green.

Even from the window of the ferry, long before the first monorail glided into view, Isla Nublar looked like it had been pulled from a storybook. Unreal and mythical, lush in a way that didn’t seem modern. Like you’d time-travelled, or stepped into a planet no one had touched yet.

But of course, they had touched it. Touched, branded, monetised.

The first thing you saw when you stepped off the dock was a smile. Big, toothy, perfect. The kind that came with corporate training and a contract. The greeter handed you a cold drink and a pamphlet with a map of the island, the Jurassic World logo shimmered in glossy blue foil.

“Welcome to paradise,” they chirped.

You smiled back, polite, but your fingers clenched just a little too tight around the strap of your bag.

This wasn’t what you’d imagined when you applied for the communications internship. You thought you’d be documenting field conservation work. Real science. Camera in one hand, clipboard in the other, boots deep in the mud beside palaeobotanists and wildlife biologists.

Instead, it came with air conditioning, swipe access, and a smoothie bar. Your badge still felt surreal in your hand, no matter how many times you’d read the word COMMUNICATIONS next to your name.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed toward the staff gate, trying not to feel like an imposter. A monorail train whirred overhead, casting a brief shadow across the sun-bleached pavement. In the distance, a long-necked sauropod lifted its head above the treetops, and a group of tourists shrieked in delight.

It felt like a zoo.

“You lost?” came a voice from behind you, dry and amused. You turned. She stood with one hip cocked and a clipboard tucked under her arm, chewing the end of a pen which was leaving ink on her lip. Her uniform shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up, collar open like it’d been yanked loose. Her name badge was clipped to a carabiner on her belt, hanging with a mix of keys and decorative chains.

ELLIE WILLIAMS       RAPTORS

A velociraptor had been doodled beside her name, the first you’d ever seen with sunglasses on. You glanced up at her, blinking once. “Uh, yeah,” you admitted. “Trying to find Admin.”

“Figures.” She jerked her chin toward the path curving behind the guest welcome pavilion. “You’re going the wrong way. That’s the tourist route and you want the staff tram.”

You followed her gesture. “Thanks.”

Ellie took a few steps down the path, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

You scrambled to follow her, jogging a few steps to catch up.

It was quieter here, just beyond the sound radius of the tour groups and audio guides. Jungle air hung thick and damp, fragrant with wildflowers. You could hear insects buzzing, cicadas thrumming like a heartbeat.

“Comms intern?” she asked eventually, as you both ducked under a low branch.

“Yeah, PR.”

Ellie snorted. “That’s cute.”

You looked at her, frowning. “You think that’s funny?”

“I think cloning ancient apex predators to entertain tourists and using PR to make it seem ethical is kind of hilarious.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So why do you work here?”

She stopped walking to turn to face you.

“Because they’re not monsters,” she said simply. “And someone needs to be here who sees them that way.”

Her voice changed when she said it. You saw the passion then—not just behind her eyes, but in the way she spoke. Devout, almost. She didn’t talk about dinosaurs like exhibits, she talked about them like people talked about art, or music, or something ancient and breathtaking and alive. She started walking again, but slower this time, allowing you to catch up.

 “I’ve been obsessed with them since I was eight,” she said, almost absently. “Used to sleep with an encyclopaedia under my pillow. Drew feathers on every T Rex I saw in books and got in trouble in school for correcting my science teacher.”

You laughed. “Sounds familiar. I had an entire binder dedicated to Stegosaurus migration.”

Ellie looked at you sidelong. “You know they’re not actually that dumb, right? Their brain-to-body ratio is small, yeah, but that doesn’t mean they were stupid.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

 Her smile—just for a second—was radiant.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The staff dorms were nestled behind a canopy of flowering trees, shaded and still. Just far enough from the bustle of the park to feel like their own little ecosystem. Your room was on the top floor of Dorm C, down a quiet corridor that smelled like lemon cleaner and warm pine. No roommates, just you and the view—a forest stretching endlessly beyond your window. Ellie had walked you there herself your first afternoon, pointing out the vending machine that never worked and the communal washer that always overflowed. She stood in the doorway while you unlocked the door, arms crossed, a little smirk on her face when you looked around and said, “Not bad.”

She’d only said, “You’ll get sick of the crickets,” and then wandered off.

That next morning, you reported to the marketing branch’s main office. The main conference room was glass-walled and aggressively minimalist. Every surface gleamed and succulents lined the windowsill in matching white marble pots.

Inside, women in sleek neutrals sat around a long matte-black table, each one with a tablet or stylus in hand. No one looked particularly stressed. They didn’t speak much, just tapped and swiped in perfect silence, like synchronised swimmers in Lululemon. Their hair was glossy, their nails minimalist. Someone sipped a matcha from a branded Jurassic World cup that probably cost more than your entire lunch budget for the week.

You lingered just outside the doorway, unsure if knocking was too formal or if speaking would ruin the mood. You opted for clearing your throat lightly.

“Hi,” you offered. “Marketing intern. Here for assignment placement?”

A woman near the head of the table looked up. She wore a navy linen suit that probably had a brand name you hadn’t heard of and her gold-rimmed glasses caught the overhead light. Her name badge said AUBREY in minimalist font, with the word STRATEGY underneath it. No drawings like Ellie’s.

“Oh, right,” she said, her voice creamy like the oat milk in her latte. “You’re the PR girl?”

You nodded, already regretting whatever energy you were bringing into this room. You felt too loud.

“Well,” Aubrey said, turning her tablet with a soft tap of manicured nails, “good news and bad news.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. Of course there was bad news. There was always bad news.

“The bad news is: you’re not in this building often.”

Of course not. You didn’t fit in here anyway. These women looked like they did Pilates before and after work. Like they carried moon water in their tote bags and gave each other skincare advice. You doubted any of them had ever gotten dirt under their nails, much less had a real conversation with a field biologist.

Aubrey gave a pleasant, symmetrical smile. “The good news is: you’ve been assigned to our highest-profile initiative.” A few swipes, and your personnel card floated across the screen like she manifested it. Your photo was awkward.

“We’re launching a new engagement campaign—Humans of Jurassic World. Emotional branding with candid moments with our top experts.”

You tried to picture the slide deck that had birthed that phrase. Probably beige, with animated transitions from Canva. You imagined the words relatability and authenticity in bold, overlaid on a stock photo of a tranquil-looking intern smiling at a stegosaurus.

“We want content that connects,” Aubrey continued. “Emotion-forward, but not messy.”

God forbid it ever be messy.

She tapped your card into a new category. “You’ll be shadowing Ellie Williams.”

Your mouth opened before you could catch it. “The… raptor girl?”

Aubrey blinked, her expression unchanged but visibly cooling by half a degree. “She prefers animal behaviourist,” she said. “And I’d watch your tone.”

You nodded, swallowing the embarrassment. Noted. No jokes. No personality, either, apparently. Not here.

“She’s a little...feisty and... temperamental,” Aubrey added, delicately. “But she’s one of our key experts. The higher-ups want her front and centre.”

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a warning.

So, the highest-profile assignment on the island… and they were sending you into a paddock where you might get bitten. And there’ll be raptors there, too.

You gave a polite smile, even as your stomach folded itself neatly in half.

“Great,” you said.

Because what else could you say?

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

That afternoon, Ellie knocked and let herself into your dorm room like it was nothing.

“Hey,” she said, stepping inside without waiting. “I was… in the area.”

You turned from your half-folded laundry on the bed, one eyebrow raised. “This area?”

She leaned in the doorway, grinning like a cat in a sunbeam. “Okay, fine. I came to see if you had a clean towel. Mine’s still soaked from yesterday, and I figured you’re probably the organised type. Please, I need to dry my hair.”

“You could’ve asked literally anyone else on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, shrugging. “But I didn’t want to.”

Your stomach fluttered. Weird. Probably nervous that she’d found out you were assigned to her and she’d come to bite your head off about it. Temperamental, remember.

You wordlessly walked to your wardrobe and tossed her one of the folded ones from the top shelf. She caught it with both hands, smiling with her eyes more than her mouth.

“Smells like citrus,” she said, lifting it to her face.

“Laundry sheet. Sorry if it’s too floral for your whole field-biology aesthetic.”

 Ellie chuckled and stepped further inside, this time with purpose. “Please, I’ve smelled worse.”

You laughed and turned back to your laundry, only half paying attention as you folded a clean shirt, but you were acutely aware of the sound of boots thudding to the floor, of fabric rustling behind you. When you finally looked again, Ellie had stripped off her overshirt, now dressed in just a black tank that clung to the water she was unable to dry off. You noticed a patch of silvery scar tissue near her shoulder blade, like something long and narrow had raked across her.

You caught yourself looking too long and turned quickly back to your duffel bag.

 Ellie noticed. Of course she did.

“They’re not from the raptors,” she said casually. “One’s from a thorn bush. The other one’s from a juvenile ankylosaur who didn’t like being sedated.”

You turned back, smiling faintly. “Is that better or worse?”

“Depends on your insurance.”

Her right forearm bore a black fern, curling in a slow spiral up her skin. A small moth nestled in the roots, wings outstretched like it had just landed to rest there. The lines were fresh, almost glossy in the dorm light.

Her other tattoo sat high on her left arm, above the curve of her bicep. It was older, slightly faded, but still striking: a raptor skull, drawn in precise anatomical detail, the kind you’d see in a museum display. Ferns and bones looped around it in a circular crown, delicate and wild at once.

“The moth one’s new.”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah?”

 “Got it after I transferred out here. It’s a death’s-head. Some cultures say it’s bad luck.”

“Do you believe that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I like it. That’s enough, right?”

You nodded, then gestured toward her shoulder. “What about that one?”

Ellie looked down at the raptor skull, smiling like it was an inside joke. “I got it when I was sixteen. Had to lie about my age.”

You laughed, but the sound caught in your throat. She was still close—too close, maybe—and the way she stood, so casual and self-assured, made something twist in your chest.

You smiled faintly, folding another shirt. “Hey,” you said after a moment, trying to keep your voice even. “I, uh—found out where I’m placed today.”

Ellie paused, mid-pat of her face with the towel. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Marketing’s doing some new campaign—Humans of Jurassic World or whatever. They’re assigning interns to departments for storytelling and engagement.”

Ellie raised a brow, sceptical. “Sounds fake.”

“It does,” you agreed. “But apparently I’m shadowing someone from the Raptor Program.”

Ellie blinked, then narrowed her eyes a little. “Wait. Me?”

“Yeah. Aubrey said you’re temperamental,” you added, smirking.

Ellie grinned, a little wild. “Temperamental’s just code for doesn’t suffer fools.”

You laughed. “Guess I’m in trouble.”

She studied you for a moment. “Nah. You look like you might surprise me.”

Your fingers brushed a fold in the laundry you weren’t folding anymore. “You could’ve just said you wanted to hang out.”

She tilted her head, voice low. “Would that’ve worked?”

“Maybe,” you said.  “Next time, try it and see.”

Ellie stepped back toward the door but didn’t open it right away. She lingered, fingers brushing the frame.

“I like your room,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Is that your way of asking if you can come by again?”

“Not asking,” she said, grinning as she slipped out. “Just warning you.”

And with that, she was gone.

But your room still smelled faintly of sun and citrus and Ellie.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You woke to the sound of your alarm playing the Jurassic World theme in low-fi synth—a joke you’d set up on your first night, which now felt vaguely threatening at 5:45 a.m.

Through the open window, the jungle was still waking up. The air was thick with dew, soft birdsong trilled between branches, and far off in the distance, something massive made a low groaning sound— Good Morning.

Your hands moved through routine before your brain caught up: quick shower, camera bag over your shoulder, badge clipped, shoes already damp from the dew on the steps as you headed out into the humidity of early morning.

Ellie had said to meet her at the raptor supply shed by 6:30. You arrived at 6:25 and she was already there, sitting cross-legged on top of a crate, sipping coffee from a dented thermos and picking grass off of her cargo pants. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, her boots unlaced. Her face lit up when she saw you, and your stomach betrayed you with a little flip.

“You’re late,” she teased, hopping down.

You raised a brow. “I’m early.”

“I know,” she said, grinning as she handed you a cup. “But I wanted to say it. I was here at 5:45.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Also, the system flagged a motion trip around four. False alarm. Bird or something.”

You took a sip—strong, a little burnt. “God bless you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ellie said, hopping off the crate. “You’re on raptor duty today.”

You blinked. “I thought I was just filming?”

“You are,” she said, already walking toward the gate. “You’re filming me and I’m working, so raptor duty.”

The raptor enclosure was larger than it looked on the map. Part jungle, part reinforced paddock, part bunker. The outer gate opened into a winding path lined with reinforced steel and topped with electric fencing.

Ellie moved through it like she was part of it—radio clipped to her belt, keys jangling from a carabiner, hands already gloved as she scanned a tablet for sensor data.

"You’re not gonna see this on the tours,” she said. “These girls don’t perform.”

Three of them, each moving with uncanny precision as they darted between the trees. One lifted her head, her gold eyes scanning the tree line. The other two circled near a feeding station. You felt a pulse of adrenaline as one of them lifted its snout and made direct eye contact.

“They’re watching us,” you whispered.

“They always are,” Ellie said.

The outer gate hissed open with a groan. Another handler pushed a steel cart in—two heavy haunches of meat, marked and logged. The scent hit immediately, the girls went still.

“That’s Jinx,” Ellie said. “Leader.”

“She doesn’t look aggressive.”

“She’s not. She’s calculating.”

You watched Jinx tilt her head, just slightly, then the others followed. Ellie nodded once, like she understood something no one else could hear.

“She knows you,” you said quietly.

Ellie’s mouth curved.

You blinked. “Imprint?”

“She was too old to imprint properly. But yeah. Something like that.”

“Is that… safe?”

Ellie shrugged. “Nothing here’s really safe.”

Then she glanced sideways. “But she’s never come for me. Not once.”

The cart was wheeled back out. The gates hissed closed behind the handler. The girls returned to the trees slowly.

“They’re amazing,” you breathed.

“They’re misunderstood,” Ellie said. “Everyone thinks they’re monsters.”

You turned to her. “Why do you think that is?”

She paused. “Because they’re smart. People don’t like being outsmarted, especially if who they’re being outsmarted by isn’t human.”

There was a long moment of silence between you, broken only by the whir of a distant drone circling above the canopy. Ellie leaned her weight on one hip, glancing down at her arm where her raptor skull tattoo peeked out from under her tank top.

Unfortunately, Ellie’s morning raptor routine was not fit for public consumption.

She barked into radios, swore when a feeding gate jammed, wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. She talked to the raptors and they responded in a way with soft huffs and curious clicks.

You’d filmed interviews before. Sat through seminars, cut and edited dozens of high-gloss campaign reels for campus groups and charity drives. But this wasn’t that. Ellie Williams didn’t have a camera version of herself. There was just Ellie.

That meant she also had no interest in being directed.

“I don’t want to do the influencer crap,” she had said. “No offense.”

“Some offense taken.” You said, crouched beside a control panel, adjusting your camera. “Let’s try something for TikTok. Just, like, say your name and job? Maybe give a fun fact about the raptors?”

Ellie squinted at the lens like it had personally offended her. “Why would I do that?”

You blinked. “Because it’s part of the job?”

She turned toward the paddock instead, shielding her eyes to scan the treeline. “Fun fact: their eye sockets are larger than yours. Next question.”

You huffed. “Ellie.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”

“You’re making this hard.”

Her mouth quirked. “I thought you PR types liked a challenge.”

You pointed the lens at her anyway, just to spite her. “Fine. I’ll work with what I’ve got.”

“If I catch you filming my ass without permission, I will feed you to them.”

Later, when she took a break in the shade of the fence wall, you passed her the water bottle from your bag.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” you said.

She took it, eyeing you with mock suspicion. “You poison it?”

“Tempting.”

She drank anyway.

You sat beside her, back against the warm concrete. The raptor sounds faded behind you.

“Hey,” you said. “You’re really good with them.”

Ellie looked away, squinting at the sun breaking through the canopy.

“They’re predictable,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“They don’t lie. They don’t fake anything. If they like you, they show you. If they don’t… well. You find out fast.”

You nodded slowly. “Sounds refreshing.”

“People,” Ellie said, almost absently, “aren’t like that.”

You studied her profile—sharp jaw, sunburnt nose.

“No,” you said softly. “They’re not.”

For a moment, she looked at you like she wanted to say something else. Instead, she stood.

“Come on,” she said. “We’re not done.”

The juveniles—the babies, as she called them—were only slightly less terrifying than the adults. Half-sized, sleek, wicked fast. Ellie led you into a smaller enclosure for behavioural training.

“You can film,” she said. “Just don’t run.”

“Why not?”

“They chase.”

You laughed nervously. “Oh.”

One of them, a smoky blue female with a slitted golden eye, approached Ellie and bumped her thigh with its snout like a puppy.

She crouched, whispering something you couldn’t catch. The raptor tilted its head, then chirped. A moment later, it lay down and rolled onto its back, exposing its belly.

You caught the whole thing. Ellie laughing, hand buried in feathers, dirt smeared on her cheek, her whole face lit up.

That night, back in your dorm, you sat at your desk with the lights off, your laptop glowing.

You edited late into the night—cutting through shaky footage, filtering the sun just right, lining the audio to a soft indie track. You saved the file, but you didn’t upload it. Tomorrow, you’d show her first, just in case she wanted to see herself the way you saw her.

Before the rest of the world did.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The fluorescent light flickered above your desk like it, too, was tired of this job. Half your shift had been spent hunched over your laptop, headphones in, sorting through footage from the Raptor Paddock. You didn’t really mind.

The head of PR wanted more behind-the-scenes enrichment content for the park’s YouTube channel—playful but grounded, edgy but safe, and most of all, viral. Their emails used a lot of adjectives.

Your headset buzzed.

Minor incident, that’s how they phrased it.

“Minor,” in Jurassic World terms, meant no deaths, no lawyers yet.

You sat up straight.

A group of influencers had been taken too close to the Raptor Paddock. Someone thought it would be great content and someone else ignored the guest photography guidelines.

The raptor who lunged wasn’t Jinx. Thank god. It was Roo, the most skittish of the three. The flash went off and she reacted on instinct—leapt toward the fence, jaws wide, a blur of feathers and teeth. Now it was online.

Your screen lit up with hashtags you didn’t want to see. #DinoDanger, #SheAlmostDied. You stopped the autoplay, but the thumbnail was enough— Roo mid-snarl, one girl halfway into a dramatic faint. Her friend laughing, shakily.

You forwarded the footage to the Comms lead. A response came ten seconds later.

Get a statement from a trusted handler. Soften this. Now.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You found Ellie behind the garage near the paddock gate, sitting on an overturned crate with a can of iced coffee sweating in her hand. She was coated in dust and grease, like she’d crawled straight out of a ventilation shaft. Which, knowing her, wasn’t impossible.

She looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have press releases to copy and paste?”

You gestured toward her with your tablet. “Don’t you have raptors to whisper to?”

Ellie grinned, tired and amused. “Touché.”

You sat across from her on a cooler. She didn’t offer the coffee, you didn’t ask.

“I need a quote,” you said.

Her smile vanished. “About what?”

“The influencer thing,” you admitted.

She exhaled through her nose and rubbed the back of her neck. Grease smeared higher across her cheek.

“I told them,” she muttered. “Told them not to bring cameras near Roo. She doesn’t like flashing lights. Makes her nervous.”

You stayed quiet. Not the time to turn on a camera.

“They had a whole goddamn ring light,” Ellie said, voice low. “Pointed straight at her. The guests got scared, so did she. Then security panics and sets off the siren. Good job, everyone.”

Eventually, she stood.

“You want a soundbite?” she asked, brushing her hands off on her cargo pants.

You waited.

She looked down at you.

“Tell them this isn’t a petting zoo,” she said. “These animals aren’t props. They’re thinking, breathing creatures. If you poked a bear in the woods with a selfie stick, whose fault would that be?”

You swallowed. “That’s not exactly... soft.”

Ellie tilted her head. “You want me to lie?”

“No,” you said, softer. “I want you to keep your job.”

That got her. A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise maybe. She stepped closer and dropped her voice.

“Okay. Try this: ‘The handlers at Jurassic World prioritise the mental health of every creature in our care. Safety and respect come first—on both sides of the fence.’”

You typed as fast as you could.

Ellie leaned over, tapped your screen with a single finger.

“Then add: ‘Some animals, like Delta, are sensitive to sudden light. We ask all guests to follow our guidelines to protect both themselves and the dinosaurs they came to see.’”

You looked up at her. “That was... actually perfect.”

She smirked. “I can do optics. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

Later, you sat alone on the roof of Dorm C, tablet balanced on your knees, watching the video you shot yesterday before uploading.

In the final cut, you watched a shot of Ellie walking alongside the paddock fence with the sun burning gold behind her.

You clicked publish.

The video went live at 6:49 pm, by 7:03 it was trending and the comments poured in.

Hear me out, She’s so serious I love her, and Mother.

You didn’t tell Ellie, but you saved the top comment anyway.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Every now and then, the schedule lined up just right. Two staff members off-duty. No emergency drills. No PR fires to put out. A window. A breath.

And Ellie took it.

You didn’t take one of the trams. Ellie drove you out herself—an old off-roader that smelled like engine oil, tires kicking up trails of red dust as she pulled away from the paved park roads and into the island’s interior. The farther you went, the more the sounds of the resort faded—until there was only jungle. It wasn’t on any map they gave guests, no visitor trails or attractions.

“You’re not gonna murder me out here, are you?” you joked, peering through the trees.

Ellie grinned. “Not unless you start talking about CGI inaccuracies again.”

She parked at the edge of a ridge overlooking a narrow river. The canopy opened above you into streaks of blue and gold. A breeze moved through the high branches, the air wet and fresh, bird calls echoed through the valley.

Ellie plopped down in the dirt like she’d been here a hundred times before. “This was all here before the board meetings, before the fences, before the holograms. And it’ll all still be here when the last attraction breaks down.”

You sat beside her. The earth was warm under your palms.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t come here?”

You nodded. “All the time.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “Maybe still in PR. Just… for a less cursed brand.”

Ellie smirked. “Like cereal.”

You laughed. “Exactly. Something safe. Something where the biggest crisis is oat milk backlash.”

She picked up a stick and started absentmindedly dragging it through the dirt—first a spiral, then something more detailed: the suggestion of a raptor skull, curved and sharp and familiar. She was quiet for a while, drawing.

Then she said, “You know what I wanted to be when I was a kid?”

You shook your head.

“Astronaut.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Ellie smirked. “Yeah. Had the poster on my wall. Memorised the Apollo missions. Wrote a letter to NASA when I was nine asking if they’d let me bring my best friend.”

You laughed softly. “What’d they say?”

“They didn’t write back.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, casual on the surface but threaded with something more tender. “I kept dreaming about it anyway. Floating above Earth. Being the first person to touch something that hadn’t been touched.” She paused. “Guess I still got that last part.”

You looked over at her. “What changed?”

Ellie pressed the stick into the soil. “I hit high school, and science was harder. Math was never fun. Biology clicked, and space didn’t.”

There was something in her voice that made your chest ache. Not regret, exactly. Just the trace of a fork in the road, a fig that hadn’t been taken from the tree. The version of her who might have gone up instead of underground.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The dorms weren’t glamorous.

Faux-wood floors, standard-issue twin bed, metal desk with drawers that stuck, a narrow kitchenette with two mugs that were never clean at the same time, one window that opened exactly three inches. Jurassic World spared no expense for the dinosaurs, but the interns? You learned quickly how to make do.

Somehow, though, the place felt luxurious when Ellie was in it.

She kept leaving things behind: a thermos, a hoodie, the Jurassic World issue of National Geographic with her notes scribbled in the margins. She always ended up back here, always found her way to your side of the compound when shifts ended and the park dimmed for the night.

Lunch wasn’t a planned thing.

It started after a meeting, both of you too tired to go back to work, the cafeteria mostly empty. Ellie dragged her tray to your table without asking, dropped into the seat across from you like she’d been doing it forever. She had her sleeves rolled up and a smudge of something dark under her cheekbone, like she’d leaned against the wall of the paddock and forgot about it.

She looked exhausted.

You slid your extra protein bar across the table without a word. She didn’t say thank you, just peeled it open and ate half in two bites.

“A trainer tried to feed Scylla a banana.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“She said she read somewhere that primates liked them and thought maybe—” Ellie cut herself off, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t keep having these conversations.”

You bit your lip to hide your laugh. “Did Scylla eat it?”

“She spat it out!”

You pushed your tray closer to hers. Shared space, shared air. When she picked at the lettuce on your plate without asking, you didn’t stop her.

That afternoon, back in your dorm, Ellie dozed on your bed with one foot still on the ground. You sat at your desk, typing half-heartedly, sneaking glances every few lines.

Her breathing slowed. Softened.

You turned down the brightness on your screen and let yourself stare. There was something vulnerable about her when she was asleep. Less fire, less focus.

Her arm shifted, and her fingers brushed your pillow like she was reaching in her sleep.

Your heart jumped.

You turned away, flustered. Pretended to read a park protocol memo. Didn’t take in a word of it.

That evening, she cooked.

Not well or efficiently, but she refused any help. You offered, but she waved you off and handed you a drink instead. “This is a one-woman show. Sit and be amazed.”

She stood barefoot, chopping onions with the dullest knife in the drawer and humming something under her breath, maybe Fleetwood Mac or something from her endless playlist of 70s deep cuts, you weren’t sure. She burned the first round of garlic toast. She swore loudly. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Dinner turned out… edible. You both sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in laps, knees bumping.

“This is terrible,” you said around a mouthful.

“Shut up,” she said, grinning. “You’re eating it.”

“Only out of fear.”

She nudged your knee. “Coward.”

You leaned back on your palms, looked at her.

“I like this,” you said.

Her smile faltered slightly, became something smaller. “What?”

“This. You. Here.”

Ellie looked at you for a long moment, unreadable.

Then she reached for your plate and took the last piece of toast.

“Me too,” she said.

Later, when the lights were off and the window cracked open to let in island air, she curled up behind you without asking, one arm slung loosely around your waist. Her breath warmed the back of your neck.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The week hit like a monsoon, you barely had time to breathe. You fielded incident reports, coordinated guest services, drafted press responses in thirty-second bursts. You worked through lunch. You took dinner at your desk. You fell asleep in a chair two nights in a row.

And through it all, there was Ellie.

Sort of.

You saw her once—midweek. Briefly.

She caught you outside the main building, a clipboard tucked under one arm, sunglasses perched on her head. She looked flushed and windblown, like she’d just come from the raptor paddock. Her shirt stuck to her back. Her hands were dusty.

“Hey,” she said, jogging to catch up. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You were already walking.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I’m heading to the office—there was a perimeter breach yesterday, and apparently that means communications has to rewrite the entire emergency script again because no one in legal can do their fucking jobs.”

She fell into step beside you, smile dipping a little. “Right. Yeah. No worries.”

You didn’t notice the shift in her tone. Or if you did, you ignored it.

Ellie gave a short nod, one hand hovering awkwardly like she’d meant to reach for your arm.

Then she said, “Don’t work yourself to death, okay?”

But the door had already closed behind you.

She didn’t come by that night, or the next.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that she was busy too. If she needed you, she’d say so.

But every time you opened your dorm door and saw that she hadn’t left anything behind—no hoodie, no coffee cup, no scrawled note—something in you pinched.

The silence wasn’t cruel. It was worse than that.

It was polite.

By Friday, you were frayed at the edges. The comms team cleared out early. Some kind of mixer for the PR interns, catered with branded cupcakes and a weirdly peppy playlist of noughties throwbacks. You told them you had emails to finish, but you lingered in the empty office, lights half-dimmed, hands idle.

And finally, when you couldn’t stand it anymore, you grabbed your badge and left.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The raptor paddock was quiet at this hour.

The jungle edge glowed gold. You leaned against the low fence, heartbeat a little louder than it needed to be.

You weren’t even sure why you’d come.

But then—you heard her voice.

“Good. Good, Jinx, yeah, that’s it—move slow.”

You turned just in time to see Ellie moving through the inner track. She had one hand raised towards Jinx, her movements fluid, confident. She was in her element, every line of her body relaxed but alert. The trainers nearby deferred to her, stepping back when she approached.

She was magnetic.

You suddenly felt like a ghost.

You waited until Jinx was redirected, until Ellie handed off her radio to another staff member, until she peeled off her gloves and stepped toward the break area alone.

You followed.

“Hey,” you said.

She looked up.

The smile she gave you was faint. Careful. “Hey.”

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to blow you off the other day,” you started. “It’s just been… a lot.”

Ellie nodded. “I figured.”

You hated how neutral her voice sounded. Like she’d coached it into steadiness.

“I missed you,” you said, softer.

Ellie didn’t look at you right away. She stared out toward the trees, jaw tight.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” she said finally.

You stepped closer. “It’s not weird.”

“It felt weird,” she replied, still not looking at you. “Like maybe I imagined more than what this is. Or was. I don’t even know if you even like— Forget it.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

She looked at you then, maybe a little hurt.

“I’m bad at balance,” you said, a little broken. “I pour into the job until I forget there’s a me underneath it.”

Ellie’s shoulders eased slightly. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“I didn’t mean to make you doubt.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She gave a small smile. “But I’m not going to chase you through it. I care about you. Enough to give you space. Just… don’t wait too long to come back.”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You stood outside her door for what felt like a full minute.

It was too quiet. The usual hum of the compound felt distant here, muffled behind thick walls and late-night haze. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

One knock, that’s all it took.

When the door opened, Ellie was standing there barefoot, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. She wore an oversized grey shirt that hung off one shoulder and loose black shorts that looked like she’d had them since high school. Her eyes were tired, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

You stepped inside.

Her dorm was nothing like yours. The lighting was dim—one warm bulb over the bed, the rest off. The smell was a mix of sandalwood and cedar that clung to her clothes. A raptor plush sat on the windowsill next to a sun-bleached paperback copy of The Lost World and a tin of black guitar picks. Her desk was half-covered in field notes, fossil diagrams, and a mug full of broken pencils. There were stars painted on her ceiling—tiny, glow-in-the-dark ones, peeling at the corners. A few had drifted down to the floor.

And in the far corner, propped against the wall next to a stack of old music magazines, was a handmade guitar, a moth delicately carved to match her arm. The strings were a little loose. One of them looked like it had been replaced with fishing wire.

She noticed you looking. “My dad made it.”

“Seriously?” You approached it gently, like it might crumble if you touched it wrong. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sounds like shit if it’s not tuned,” she said with a smile. “But yeah. It’s mine.”

There was a long pause.

Then, from her spot by the door, Ellie asked, “Did you come here to say something?”

You hesitated. “No. I just wanted to be near you.”

Her expression didn’t change. But something behind her eyes softened. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I missed you.”

Ellie broke.

She reached for your face, and her touch was both careful and hungry. Her fingers brushed your jaw, your cheek, and then she kissed you.

And god, did she kiss you.

You melted into it, into her, into the way her lips moved slow and certain over yours, into the warmth of her hands sliding behind your neck. She tasted like mint, like she’d just brushed her teeth, ready for bed. The bed— you backed her towards it without even realising it, one hand tangled in the hem of her shirt, the other gripping her waist. She gasped when her knees hit the mattress, and then you were climbing into her lap, half-straddling her, mouths still locked together.

Ellie pulled back just long enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this,” she murmured.

You kissed her again, deeper this time, slower. Your hands roamed over her hips, the curve of her back. She made a sound in the back of her throat when your lips grazed the corner of her jaw, then her throat, then just below her ear.

“You smell like rain,” you whispered, lips brushing her skin.

“I have showered,” she said, voice shaky but smiling.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

She shifted, pressing up into you, hands now sliding under your shirt, palms splayed warm across your spine. Her touch was reverent, exploratory, like she couldn’t believe you were really here.

You pulled away just enough to look at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy like you were something she was still trying to process.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“More than,” she whispered.

[justagirlswrld]

Thousand year old, sexy, space princess seeks companionship! must be hot!

a/n: i told you i was a mark grayson groupie.

warnings: unprotected p in v. humanoid!reader. stuff that happens in sex happens in this. porn w plot.

part two

“….Mark, why is there a purple…guy outside your window?”, Mark doesn’t look up from the Seance dog comic at the sound of Will’s confused voice, choosing to roll his brown eyes instead.

“Yeah, funny.”, Mark replies in an airy tone.

“No, Mark i’m ser-”, Rick cuts his boyfriend off as he walks through the front door of the apartment, “Why is there a purple man outside of the living room window?”, This finally gets Mark’s attention, he looks over at the window in question and his eyes grow triple their size.

Mark is in his suit in less than a second, comic thrown onto the couch he was just relaxing on. He floats over to the window, taking in the short, stocky….lavender man that flies just outside the apartment on deep, amethyst wings.

Mark opens the window roughly and the man scampers back, he didn’t plan on hurting the creature but it seemed like someone always wanted to fight on his days off.

Mark flies out the large window, he dwarfs the…man easily. He has an uneasy smile on his face, Mark notices that his mouth is filled with long canines and he tries not to grimace. “I’m not helping any….fairies today. so, leave.” With that Mark turns his back on him, a strong hand grasps his shoulder. In an instant Mark is zooming into the afternoon sky, holding the lilac haired creature by the collar of his thin shirt.

His purple skin now has a slight gleam from his nervous sweat. “I’m not a fairy, I come from the planet-“, Mark cuts him off, “I don’t care. Now go.”, Mark releases the being and hovers in front of him but he doesn’t budge. Mark rubs a gloved hand down his face in frustration.

”Mark Gray-“, Mark cuts him off instantly, “My name is Invincible when i’m in this suit. What do you want?”

The alien nods, “Invincible, please. I haven’t come to harm you…my planet needs your help.” Mark groans inwardly, why was it always on his day off.

The mysterious man goes on to explain how another evil alien race has come to conquer his kingdom. He paints a picture of his beautiful world being annihilated and his people being slaughtered without Mark’s help. “I’ve left it in ruins, Invincible. I’m scared I may be the only Solorian left.”

Mark points to a near by patch of forest in exasperation, “Wait there.” He flies back inside without waiting to see if the creature followed his instructions.

With major convincing from Will and Rick, Mark ends up not ghosting the…Solorian waiting in the woods. When Mark floats down through the trees to the hard ground, he’s sitting on a log with a happy expression on his face.

“Where’s your planet?”, Mark’s tone is serious, he really wanted to be back in time to watch the newest episode of this show he’d been tuning into.

The thing stands, brushing the dirt from his odd pants. Mark notices that he’s dressed like a jester, save for the pointy hat.

“It’s many galaxies from Earth, it usually takes a year to get there,-“ Mark makes a sound as he begins to protest but the man continues talking as he pulls a small, metal disc from his pocket. “But with our technology it’ll only take a minute.”

He throws the disc on the ground with his knobby fingers and its turns into a circular pad. Mark and his traveling companion step on and become engulfed in a pale yellow light. Mark only has time to blink before he’s whisked away, landing on what he assumes to be cobblestone streets.

Mark surveys his surroundings as the man picks up his transporter. There’s winged humanoids dressed almost…medievally everywhere, no one lounges as the planet’s two suns beat down on their backs.

He watches as children with skin in arrays of colors play in the waterfall and clear, blue stream. He has to crane his neck to look at the behemoth of a castle in front of him.

“This doesn’t look like ruins.”, Mark’s eyes shift as he waits for assailants to pop out from behind the thatched roofed shacks that line the street.

“Because I lied to you invincible. Walk with me and i’ll explain.”

They glide towards the castle slowly, the man, Edolan, explains that their princess refuses to marry one of her arranged suitors after hearing of his exploits on earth. They go up winding stair cases before they stop in front of a room with large, oval doors. “She says she must….meet you, before she marries.”, Edolan explains with his hands held behind his back.

“You know you could’ve said that”, is all Mark can think to say in response. Edolan nods, “Yes, I apologize for deceiving you but I had to make it seem urgent in a way you’d understand.” Edolan waves a hand and the doors creek open, “The princess is waiting for you. When you’re finished she will give you passage home the same way you came.”

And he’s gone.

When Invincible glides into your expansive room you’re draped over your canopied bed, idly playing with some alien device.

Mark wasn’t sure what he’d be dealing with when he came through the doors but he damn sure wasn’t expecting you to be pretty…beautiful even. You’re as humanoid as the rest of your subjects save for the blush pink skin and hot pink hair.

You look up at the young man standing a few feet away from you. You lick your lips and Mark is happy to notice that your mouth isn’t filled with razor sharp teeth but human like ones instead.

“Mark Grayson of Earth!”, You greet him, cheeks stretched into a wide smile. Mark blushes as you rise from a lying position to a sitting one, noticing that your breasts are only covered in a thin, bralette of shiny jewels.

“Uh-Hi, you can just call me Mark.” You rise to stand on your bed now as you mimic someone fighting, “Or Invincible! Defender of Earth and slayer of beasts and villains.”

Mark wants to argue that he doesn’t slay villains but nods his head in agreement instead, trying to end this odd experience as soon as possible.

“Right….and you’re Y/N, Solorian princess who refuses to marry until you met me…,”Mark rips his mask off, exposing his handsome face to your eyes, “Will you marry the guy now?” Your eyebrows scrunch together and your lips form a pout. Mark thinks that it’s probably the sexiest expression he’s ever seen.

“That was not the agreement. I have yet to lay with you.”, You say from your place on the bed. If Mark had been drinking something he would’ve spit it out in astonishment.

“Lay with you?”, Mark asks in a shocked tone. You laugh at the expression on the boys face, if he pushes his eyebrows any higher they’ll be on the cathedral like ceilings of your room.

“Yes, Mark Grayson. The promise was that I would finally marry an arranged suitor, saving our planet from war, if you bedded me first.” You lay back down on your large mattress as you wait for the superhero to collect himself.

Mark swallows, he’s not sure if he’s turned on or scared. Probably both. “Um, don’t princesses have to be virgins when they get married?”, you cock your head to the side like a confused dog, “I’m not familiar with the word- virgins.” The word sounds jumbled when it passes your perfect lips.

“It means you never- laid with anyone. On Earth princesses usually save themselves for their husband or their virtue or something.”

You throw your head back and laugh loudly, it’s closer to a howl really. “What a sad life these Earth princesses live. As a Solorian we live for many, many years. I am 1,000 years old, just a baby I know-,“ Mark doesn’t reply as you continue, “And I would never be asked to be a…virkin. Solorian’s find virtue in other ways than saving yourself.” You almost look disgusted as you finish your rant.

Your mind goes back to the task at hand. You unclasp the jewels from your upper and bottom half, positioning yourself so Mark can see your naked body well. You watch as his strong throat bobs.

“Will you lay with me Mark Grayson?”

Mark feels like he might combust on the spot as he nods, more excited than he hoped. He walks to the edge of the bed and sits nervously, palming himself through his suit. “On Earth we usually go on a date first.” He laughs awkwardly, willing himself to get hard. He just couldn’t get out of his head to do so.

“We are not on Earth, Mark.” You slither up his back, breasts pressing against the hard muscles. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders as you press soft kisses to his neck. He groans but when he palms himself again there’s nothing. Mark is perplexed on why because you were super hot and he never had this problem before. It must be how weird the situation is.

You notice the mental battle and stop kissing his neck. “Are you well?”, he nods again and you notice him palming himself. You giggle, the sound so close to his ear that it has his heart speeding up again. “You can’t ‘get it up’? As they would say on Earth”, Mark’s torn between defending himself and asking where you learned that from but chooses silence instead when you slink between his legs.

You make yourself comfortable on your pink knees and look up at him through your lashes with big doe eyes. Mark has an instant semi.

He’s rock hard by the time you slip him out of his suit and into your warm mouth. You suck unabashedly on his thick, cock hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around his angry tip.

“Shhhhiiiiiittt”, Mark moans with his hand tangled in your vibrant hair, hanging on for dear life as you bob up and down his member. “St-Stop i’m gonna-.” Mark trails off, his eyes almost roll back when you choke around his length, gobbling the throbbing cock down your throat.

He finally wrestles your mouth off his cock and he takes a moment to collect himself as he breathes heavily. Mark leans down and kisses you sloppily, he tweaks your nipples hoping that it’ll do something to stimulate you sexually. Luckily it works and you moan lowly in his mouth.

Mark picks you up by your arm pits and tosses you on the bed, you laugh, “Yes! Show me your strength, invincible.” His name is sultry as it falls out your lips, causing a shudder to creep down his spine.

He flips you over roughly by your ankle then pulls you to the edge of the large bed. Mark manhandles you until your face is pressed into your thick blankets with your round ass in the air. When Mark’s tongue pushes its way between your folds you’re a moaning mess.

Mark slowly licks from your wet cunt up to your puckered hole, repeating the motion over and over again. You close your eyes tightly as your moans fill the great space of your bedroom. He uses his skilled fingers to search for your clit, praying that Solorian’s have one. When he finally finds the nub he sucks on it harshly, causing you to cry out and fall on your stomach.

Mark lets out a huff behind you, voice raspy from his previous moaning, “If you want to lay with me princess, you have to keep your back arched.” You do as he says and he continues making a mess of you with his tongue, adding two, slender fingers into your pulsating heat.

When you feel Mark’s bulbous head rubbing against your tight entrance you release a sound akin to a purr. He pushes into you slowly, inch by veiny inch until his hips are flush against your backside.

You call out for him when he pulls out of you and he answers with a moan of his own when he pushes his length back into your tight walls. Mark starts at a slow rhythm that has you moaning with each pointed thrust, still you throw your ass back to meet each one.

Mark’s pace becomes brutal and you struggle to keep up with his pounding hips. One of his large hands slides up your back and wraps securely around your neck. His full lips leaving kisses in its wake. His other hand goes between your bodies to your engorged nub, rubbing slick circles as he continues to pound in and out of you.

Your toes curl so hard that you feel like they may break when Mark hits a deep, spongy spot in your cunt. You call out his name as you come, body going completely still then slumping to your stomach. Mark continues to fuck into your spent cunt, groans turning to moans. Mark pulls out and releases warm come on your lower back and ass cheek.

He lays on his back beside you, both of you two breathing too hard to say anything to one another.

When Mark walks through his apartment door Will is waiting for him, coffee cup in hand as the early morning light peaks through the bay window. Will’s eyes go wide when he takes in his best friend, “Mark! Where have you been? Do you realize you’ve been gone for three months?!”

Mark sits down at the granite island, smiling to himself as he begins to tell his best friend about the alien pussy he had to force himself to leave.

[deinocheirus]

A while ago on discord people were talking about the terms their alien species had for each other in their own languages, and i took a rough stab at it....Which then made me fall down a rabbit hole of thinking about the actual languages these would be from, since none of these guys are monolinguistic and there would have to be a reason these languages might be seen as a "default" language of a species.

(The animal names some species name each other after are "translated" loosely comparable Earth life for the sake of brevity)

Ramblings on the languages these are for under the cut.

Human: English. (many of these names are works in progress and might be changed later)

Snamel: Ossgtat. One of the languages spoken by early snamel space colonists. While spoken ossgtat eventually evolved into new languages or died off across planetary colonies, the ancient form of the language remains relevant as both a religious and scientific language (comparable to how humans use lain), as well as has had many failed pushes to be a species wide lingua franca

The most common term for jawfish is not derived from ancient Ossgtat, but rather is a loanword of the colony that first made contact with them.

Jawfish: Wossoss. The most commonly spoken language of the whistler jawfish subspecies. While the Clicker subspecies has four times the population then the Whistlers, they lack a language as widely used as wossoss.

The "deformed" suffix initially on contact was used to refer specifically to physical deformity, but as centuries pass has evolved to refer to things that are generally strange or unworldly.

Tandem: A'awa. While only the 12th most spoken language for the species, the A'awa language is significant in being the one spoken by the population of first contact, and as a result has become the language of science and technology and a frequent source of loan words in other languages. Several languages adopt A'awag words to describe alien beings or concepts.

Raptor: "Our Talk" a constructed language made centuries after first contact. The exceptional vocal mimicry of the species has resulted in alien languages being more commonly spoken amongst Raptors then their own languages, and those that do remain of theirs have radically changed from alien influence.

Our Talk was born out of an isolationist movement, constructed out of the chunks of various dialects in an attempt to make a new "purely raptor" language. Their terms for alien species are onomatopoeias, "pohum" for humans is pronounced in particularly human-like inflection.

Canary: Gsiii. While neither the most common language or the language of the Canaries first contact was attempted with The Gsiii empire ended up the first canary nation to fully embrace alien diplomacy and is the most common language of canaries off homeworld. While not universal, gsiiik terminology has spread to several other major languages, to the point that now the gsiiik word "legged" has lost its association with limbs and has evolved into the term for aliens in general.

Considering canaries are both small and blind, it is not surprising that the number of legs their giant alien visitors have is our most noteworthy feature. Interacting with a human being is usually like interacting with a massive pairs of legs.

Trunkfish: Patriarch speech. The singular vocal language used by males of the entire species and a lingua franca (something achievable when your entire species resides in a body of water the size of Lake Erie). Females and subadults communicate in a diverse array of languages made up of weak electric pulse.

"Demon" is a translation of a broad group of supernatural beings in trunkfish beliefs that are neither moral nor divine in nature that may be cruel or benevolent, and might also be translated as "spirit" or "fairy". Some aliens are given descriptive names, but others are directly named after preexisting folkloric creatures. Humans specifically are named after a sort of demonic tree believed to both cause or ward off mudslides.

Many trunkfish still see aliens as literal supernatural beings, and envision space travel and other planets as just various fairy worlds and hells that are already a part of their cosmology.

Grex: "Xenology dialect". The grex languages are constructed out of a small fixed pool of instinctive calls known at birth, however these calls can be both altered and used as syllables or phonemes in larger learnt words.

Dialects of grex languages often form around different professions and fields of research, "Anti-People" depending on one's dialect or context and pronunciation could mean anything from an alien, a misanthrope, a murderer, a fictional character, or a type of basket.

Holophant: Ocean script. The civilization of first contact has a plethora of languages signed, written, danced, and tactilely used. The terms for alien species in their signed languages tend to not be translatable, largely made up of modified or entirely new unique single signs.

The most common words for aliens in general is just the sign for animal with a black flash of their chromatophores, as opposed to the neutral dappled markings used for animals in general. In written form this is usually written as either "black" or "night" animals, in reference to coming from the night sky (space)

"Ocean script" is a logographic written language and one of the two core writing systems of the region. Here aliens are described with more readily translatable compound words.