#like i just don’t possesses the skill to get them started for peeling

[frnkiebby]

literally me today~🎃

[tinyyoungblood]

Did you see my Peter Parker request bestie of you coming through peters window and him helping you patch your wounds like you have done for him in the past. He was the only place you could think of with as much pain you were in on little to no time you almost faint when you get through his window. And he might kiss some of your wounds because he’s not really sure what else he can do to make you feel better ? 🥺👉🏻👈🏻🥰🥺🥺🥺🥺

ring pop | peter parker

pairing: peter parker x avenger!reader

warning: angst, mention of blood, fluff

a/n: writing headcanons for so long has literally butchered my ability to string proper sentences together so this is rough lol, but i loved this request! listen to “ring pop” by jax if you want the full fluff experience. enjoy x

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Before you say anything—” You held up your palms as Peter’s eyes widened in the dark, taking in your battered form from where he lied on his bed. A chill creeped through the opened window, making you shiver and grit your teeth. “I just want to let you know that if I don’t make it tonight, you have full permission to use my eulogy as a posthumous lecture.”

“A posthumous—” Peter cast his notebook to the side and got to his feet. “Y/N, you’re bleeding. What happened?”

“Is May home?” You asked quickly, ignoring his question.

“May?” Peter repeated, staring at you like he had never heard of that woman.

“Your aunt?” Your vision started to get patchy.

“My—” He shook his head. “May isn’t home, it’s just us. But you know that, it’s Wednesday, she always works late on Wednesdays.”

Peter was rambling now, talking to you like you weren’t dripping blood on the pillow on his floor. Or maybe he wasn’t, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the stabbing pain on your left shoulder, piercing into your arm like lightning.

At once, Peter stopped talking. “You’re not okay,” he pointed out, though he had said it to no one in particular.

“What gave it away?” You retorted half-heartedly. Narrowing his eyes at you, he stepped forward. Before you could protest, Peter was already in front of you, lifting your arms carefully as he raked your body.

You winced as his hand bumped into your waist and he immediately let go, flashing you an apologetic look. His voice was laced with concern. “What happened to you?”

Your neck ached a little from a muscular knot you’d hardly noticed before. It throbbed now with discomfort and strain. You offered him a crooked smile. “I slipped.”

“You did not slip,” Peter scoffed, ever the realist, and took your hand, lacing it with yours while guiding you to sit down on his bed. “You’re one sneeze away from death, Y/N. Tell me what happened.”

Peter kneeled on the carpet floor and retrieved the first aid kit from under his bed. It was covered in glow-in-the-dark cars stickers, which you recognised from a fair that you had once went to together. It was the only thing you had won that night and Peter had smiled so brightly when you gave them to him, but somehow, you still found yourself surprised to see them in his possession.

“I fell off a roof,” you said, tracing the lining of his blanket as Peter popped the lid open. His eyes flicked to yours before he went back to taking out some cotton balls. He stepped into the space framed by your knees and peeled off the remnants of your suit, rolling it to rest at your waist. A deep punctured wound glared at him.

“Did you fall into a thorn bush?” Peter asked drily. “Or was there a spear on the sidewalk that impaled you?”

You winced as he tapped the soaked cotton balls on your skin, the alcohol burning in a way that you weren’t used to. He was gentle and froze whenever you flinched before continuing, but you knew by his flat gaze that he wanted the real answer or nothing. You cleared your throat and fixed your eyes on his dishevelled curls. “Fine,” you murmured. “Someone pushed me off the roof.”

Peter glanced at you. Without saying a word, he pressed the bottle of rubbing alcohol into your hands. You watched as he picked up some gauze and signalled for you to lift your left arm. Cautiously, he draped the clean piece of cloth around your forearm. His knuckles brushed against your skin. You took a breath. “There were four guys trying to break into the flower shop across Delmar’s. One of them got ahold of my sheath and things got ugly. But I swear I’m fine,” you added as Peter worked on your other arm.

He tied the ends into a knot and nodded to the bandage that he had just secured on your left arm. “You’re already bleeding through your bandages. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

You glanced down. A faint red blossom of blood had spread on the bandage. You tugged awkwardly at the strip of gauze. “Subjectively fine,” you amended before looking up, turning your narrowed gaze to his. “This isn’t fair. I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this when you slip into my room nearly every night while bleeding to death.”

Peter looked affronted at that. “It’s not the same.”

“How is that not the same?” You asked incredulously.

“Because it’s me,” Peter snapped. “I’m the one bleeding. Not you. That’s what makes this not fine.”

“Oh, please.” Scorn dripped off your lips. “Don’t pull that white knight bullshit on me. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”

You snatched the gauze out of his hands and fiddled with it. The next bandage had to be wrapped under your arm and around your shoulder. You knew how to take care of wounds—the task had become a vital skill in not only your life—but this was more challenging than you would ever admit. You simply couldn’t reach that way. Your limbs were still aching and you felt the beginning of an awful headache coming. Having Peter watch you intensely didn’t help your case either, especially when annoyance and pity flashed in those brown eyes that you normally sought out for comfort. There was no comfort in this.

But you weren’t going to be the one to ask for help, and Peter knew that. He loosened a breath and held out his open palm to you, waiting patiently for you to relent. You stared at his hand for a moment and dropped the gauze roll into it. Silently, Peter worked on your arm, leaning in to loop the bandage behind you. You were both aware of how close he was. His warm breath fanned over the shell of your ear.

Peter wrapped the strip around your arm twice and tied it near the joint. You expected him to step back, facing you with an expression that was most likely regret or spite or both. But he didn’t budge. Both of you had gone utterly still.

Your pulse picked up. You knew that Peter could hear it, probably see it too. You wondered if it matched his own beat. But before you even knew what his intentions were, Peter lowered his head.

His lips hovered just above the warm juncture between your shoulder and the column of your neck—a spot that Peter always seemed to gravitate to. You drew in a sharp breath. The barest movement and his lips brushed your skin. Desire and a sense of familiarity coursed through you.

“I don’t want to fight,” he mumbled. “I just…I don’t know what else to do.” He left a trail of warm, soft kisses down your slender neck. You exhaled slowly and let Peter say what he needed to say without uttering a single word. He pressed a kiss to the end of your jawline and moved smoothly up to your ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Then he stepped back and looked you in the eyes. “It’s fine,” you said, the beginning of a smile forming on your lips. “Just don’t give me a hard time when it’s uncalled for. You patched up my wounds. That is enough.”

Peter didn’t look convinced. He lifted an eyebrow as you pulled him forward, pushing him into the mattress so you were lying side by side. Comfortable silence fell. Your eyelids felt heavier with each second, memories of vivid city lights blurred inside your head as you slipped in and out of consciousness. You knew you had to change out of your suit, but the softness of his duvet was too alluring. Too peaceful.

You felt warm breath fanning over your arm, followed by the soft press of familiar lips.

“What are you doing?” You asked, opening your eyes and pushing Peter’s face gently away. His curls fell carelessly onto your cheek as he looked up at you with raised brows. You caught a whiff of his shampoo. You loved that smell.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m kissing your boo-boos better.” He made to lower his head again, and you laughed.

“Don’t call them boo-boos. I was literally stabbed with a knife.”

He growled against your collarbone. “Don’t remind me.” Again, those lips on your skin.

If you had thought that peace was the cosiness of Peter’s bed, then you stood corrected. You found peace in the careful and tender kisses Peter left on your skin. You found it in the way his thumb rubbed mindless circles into your waist—careful not to touch any bruises. Even the citrus smell of his shampoo, surrounding you like a daydream felt like peace to you.

Everything about Peter Parker brought you peace and comfort.

“I have something for you,” Peter said, grinning excitedly.

“Oh?”

You watched as Peter rose to his feet, almost tripping over the notebook he had tossed to the ground after you had climbed through his window. He stumbled to the desk and shuffled through his papers until he found what he was looking for and let out a pleased hum. He lied back down beside you, propping himself on his elbow before presenting you a small object.

“A ring pop?” You asked, amused. Peace, peace, peace.

Peter shrugged, eyes cast downward. “Yeah, is that okay?” He said. “I know it’s not enough but—”

“It’s perfect,” you cut in, the corners of your mouth began to hurt from how broadly you smiled.

“I…” Peter blinked at you. “You’re sure?”

You nodded and your mouth quirked to the side. “As long as this is not my engagement ring, it’s more than enough.”

Chuckling, Peter slipped the ring pop on your finger and gave the back of your hand a kiss. He then twisted and grabbed the water bottle standing on his night stand. He unscrewed the cap and took off the plastic ring that sat at the neck of the bottle, offering it to you.

“It’s just a promise,” he explained before shooting you a toothy grin. “So we can both be each other’s annoying white knights.”

“I like that,” you responded, mirroring his grin. You slipped the plastic ring on his finger and frowned. It was hardly big enough and sat awkwardly at his knuckle.

“It doesn’t fit,” you said uselessly, and Peter waved you off.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get me a ring pop when your organs work again.” He shot you a wink. “Everyone deserves an edible promise ring, don’t you think?”

You laughed.

Peace, peace, peace.

* * *

stay hydrated pals

[banqdanfnfic]

which, as they kiss, consume | jjk

you just wanted to get a tattoo from your boyfriend

pairing: tattoo artist!jk x reader

genre: established relationships au, tattoo artist au, smut

word count: 4k

warnings: unprotected sex, biting, making out, grinding, licking, nipple play, jk has a lip ring, oral (f receiving), fingering, shy jk and oc, sexual tension, slight choking, slight aftercare

♫ : Streets by Doja Cat, Candy by Doja Cat

♡ Aesthetics: Playlist | Moodboard

He visibly chokes on his glass of beer as he almost snaps his neck to meet your gaze. He could say that you were awfully drunk and hence the sudden confession out of the blue, but behind your heavy lidded eyes, Jungkook could sense that you were serious.

“You what?”, he gulps abruptly, moving closer to your face, doe eyes pleading to repeat yourself.

“Yes Kook. I want that tattoo on my breasts. I’ve decided”.

It’s not that Jungkook didn’t have experience in his career with inking on different parts of a human body. He just had never given a tattoo to someone who is romantically associated with him and the thought of seeing you half naked made him chuck down the rest of his drink in one go.

The most physical he had ever gotten with you was a kiss shared occasionally since it’s only been over two weeks you had started dating. Okay maybe you made out once in his car but that’s it. It never got to the point of shedding clothes or anything intense.

“Are you sure?”

You giggle at the sudden hoarseness in his voice and nod positive. Ironic how his aura never matched his personality. His inked skin, athletic body proportions covered in black monochrome bad boy outfits gave out default energy that he is a local heartthrob with multiple chicks wrapped around his finger each night and a heavy demeanor to carry in his smirk.

You were one of those believers until Jungkook asked you out in the most hopeless romantic way possible after constantly visiting the café you work in, a few shops besides his parlor. He was a gentleman with respectful boundaries, warm hands to hold yours and sweet sensual kisses though you are pretty sure he probably has a good game.

For any outsider it looked like those cliché bad boy and shy girl love stories, but for real both of you were a good percentage of introverts.

Jungkook runs his tongue around his lip ring while he is stressfully ruffling his dark locks into a mess. He is trying to explain his reasons to postpone your decision considering how shy he got at this point. But then that’s exactly why you were requesting him with soft eyes, it would be so uncomfortable to be shirtless in front of anybody else. Or maybe it’s your way of saying the relationship is open for higher levels of physical affection.

After debating around in vain, he finally hums and clears one of his slots for his beloved client.

Friday approaches way quicker than you assumed and now your heart is beating in your throat. Right after you are done cleaning the tables, you have to make it to Jungkook’s parlor for your appointment.

Running on three hours of sleep, black under eyes even after a decent amount of makeup, you groan as you check yourself out in the mirror. You opted for a simple shirt and skirt (also known as the outfit you bought for occasions with Jungkook), light beach waves resting on your shoulders. Hoping that a few cups of coffee will save you, you stride across the street to stop before the infamous parlor he worked in. Hopefully the full body shave and chocolate body butter has kept its excellence on your skin below the clothing.

The door chimes as it opens with a dragged creak on the musky wooden flooring. It felt like an otherworld where air smelled like men’s perfume and faint tint of cigarettes. In other words, intoxicating.

You ask the first person you meet at the reception, one of Jungkook’s companions at the shop and he assists you to his cabin located at a comfortably remote location.

His space is hidden with a simple black curtain. You are met with Jungkook’s back facing you, working determinately on a client’s arm and cares to spare a glance only when the guy with you is informing him about your presence.

“This will be over in a few”, he grins to your face and goes back to focusing his coil on the skin of a woman in her late twenties laying down his chair. The vibration from his inking machine fills in the silence and you excuse yourself to sit on a small black couch beside them.

This was the first time watching him at work and now you can understand why people rumored so much about his attitude because damn it is intimidating.

Brows knit together and inked muscles flex as he drags the needles around for finishing touches. Meanwhile you can pretty much smell the drool from the woman who is shamelessly checking out your boyfriend. Though you are pretty sure Jungkook gets such glances more than he can count every day, you can’t help but feel jealous. Partly because of the childish possessiveness and partly because you want to be the reason behind his dark eyes and intricate concentration, in profession or not.

To stop from mentally throwing daggers on the client’s way, you grab a random fashion magazine from the side table and flip through pages, though other four senses are inclined on your man. With a close attention to his low sigh you conclude that he is done.

The customer with now a fresh tattoo on her arm is discussing random useless topics to get him to talk, a very vain job realizing how Jungkook doesn’t bat a friendly lash at anybody, especially to those who hit on him. To be honest a large part of the ink business was linked with the obsession to attractive people who worked here, even if it meant trading an area of your skin. You grip the edges of the magazine a bit hard, not able to contain the sanity particularly at the high pitch voice she mumbles in before finally leaving his cabin.

A little excited and a lot nervous, you stand up as Jungkook bids goodbye to the third person.

He is quick to notice your discomfort, though not sure if it was the woman or the thought of finally getting the tattoo, he knew you were nervous and surviving in several cups of espresso by the dark circles slowly showing through the faded layers of your concealer. But nothing pulls down the opinion he has about you, beautiful and simple, no dramatics attached.

“Hey are you okay?”

You nod as soon as you sit down on the black tattoo chair, shifting a little to find a comfortable position. He is taking out a box full of equipment and fine needles, already making you break a sweat at the side of your forehead.

But more than that, it’s the way he is sharp and professional that catches your attention more.

You have never seen Jungkook this serious before. The choice of his vetiver perfume digging through your nostrils was driving you insane. If he doesn’t smile soon, you are going to melt into a puddle at his gaze.

“Are you nervous?”, he smirks this time, a newfound reason for your worsening gut health.

It’s mostly going in cycles at this point. Every bit of his skilled motion causes a vigorous hormonal reaction which initiates his next set of effortless teasing.

“I’m a little nervous”, you say, fiddling with your freshly painted nude nails.

“Me too”

It’s something you least expect to come out of his mouth observing how confident he looks right now. He basically has you cornered with his gaze. But whenever he had been truthful about his emotions it felt like a hug.

“I can take off my shirt too, so that we are even. Is that okay?”

He said it so softly like he is handling a child and the duality of the situation had your mind fogged and limbs frozen for a few minutes.

“Yeah it’s okay” It’s far beyond than okay. It’s great actually.

Jeon Jungkook is ripped, a Greek God sculptured masterpiece covered in self designed artwork you are more than happy to wake up to every morning. He hears you gulp at the feast before your eyes while he discards his black t-shirt to a nearby chair.

Now you don’t know if this whole thing is supposed to warm your heart or make you play several erotic fantasies like a movie before your eyes.

Both of you share a small smile while his long fingers are tugging at the hem of your shirt and pulling it up over your head.

He almost wishes you don’t opt to wear a bra but he is met with lacy black, a-bit-over your-usual-budget fabric hugging the roundness of your breasts.

It seemed like you were way too competitive about today. Anything less than complete awe from Jungkook for you was straight disappointment, you don't want anything less.

Well it seems like it did from how blown his pupils were at this point. He peels his gaze off your chest with a sharp gulp to look at your eyes suddenly devoid of any fear and staring back at him with all ease. He is filled with an exapnse of warmth and he isn't sure why does spending just a little amount of time with you had such a grip on him. He can’t wait to propose the idea of getting a couple tattoo together soon and as far as you know how Jungkook is, he is very serious with his body art so apparently he does trust you a lot already.

“Where exactly are you trying to get it?”, his voice is a lot deeper suddenly as he waits for your fingers to guide to his canvas.

You softly trace the spot at the upper circumference of your right boob, “Here”.

You suck a breath through your nose as his own fingers are mimicking your gesture, lightly pulling down the lace to inspect the fitting of the design at hand.

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder

Jungkook traces each word on your burning skin, now leaning dangerously close which was questioning your control to put your palms flat on his pecs. He doesn’t notice that though, his mind is busy creating his own fantasies about the women under him.

After two minutes and twenty four second long of inspection and mutual thirst, Jungkook is selecting a bunch of needles to set into the rotary machine. Five fine sharp like a painter's brush moves in and out at a set regularity as Jungkook tests it out.

The next of his actions had you flushed into a pool of crimson. He gently lifts up your resting torso with one hand while the other is unclasping the hook of your bra, making you half naked for the sake of the tattoo.

"I'm going to start", he says shyly.

You still have time to save yourself from the growing phobia for the object, but another unlogical part of your brain says it's a piece of cake considering you have a whole distracting full course meal in front of you.

It stings at first. Well, okay it hurts like hell but your face is devoid of any indication, except your right hand is gripping on the rim of the chair for dear life.

Jungkook on the other hand had never felt this much diversion of mind during his work. He knows that you are probably hurting very badly, especially for a first timer. He is biting into his lip ring, trying to get this over with for the well-being of your pain and his hormones.

After he had scribed one word into your dermis, you are no longer able to contain the ache so you give out a small squeak out of your glossed lips and the vibration of the machine at his hands stops as he looks at you.

"You want me to stop? ", he is relaxing his face as he cups yours with one hand. You don't want to answer that question, but the drumroll of the current situation is making your heart flutter and everything about the little burn on your chest is forgotten.

"No. It does hurt but I'll be fine I guess", you whisper. His breath is mixing with yours slowly as he is leaning more towards your face. If it isn't for a kiss then you are likely to be disappointed.

"It'll be over before you know it. I'll make it quick", and then he kisses you, a small act to get off the pressure of sexual tension between your bare upper bodies.

Before you think of any tongue in the act, he is breaking off the contact and returns to his position on your chest. He misses the pout that forms on your mouth but right now both of your heads are in cloud nine.

The pain starts again, only this time you are busy reliving how his lips felt in yours; soft, firm and controlled.

You gasp when you feel one of his hands cupping your right breast to further his design but it's lowkey an act empowered by lust which is straining behind the so called professional eyes.

You just sit there flustered out of your mind and then Jungkook is suddenly squeezing, full palm hiding your breasts like it's a protected treasure, but he isn't showing the slightest facial expression other than determined eyes and his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Fuck you can't take it anymore. Jungkook can feel your nipples harden against his hand and his brain isn't helping much to concentrate on the design. But by the grace of some positive karma left on his side, he makes it through the long text and when he is letting go of your chest and standing tall, your skin is popping out with redness on the places the text lays embedded.

He fishes out a mirror for you to look.

"It looks beautiful thank you Jungkook", you smile.

"Can I give you one more tattoo on your left one?", he asks while you are contemplating whether going through the pain is worth it, not to mention you really want to get back at a private space with Jungkook as soon as possible.

"It won't hurt I promise", and then he is kissing you a lot filthier than before; all tongue and teeth, while his hands are grazing on the skin of your waist, pressing a little firmer than before.

The coldness of his lip ring rivaled around your mouth, and you try sucking on it to which Jungkook responds with a growl and pushes his body adamantly against yours.

Skin to skin, you are lost in euphoria of everything happening and finally, you roam your eager hands around his body, to his pecs and the definition of abs.

As your fingers scraped against his scalp, Jungkook is biting eagerly down your jawline to your collarbone and continues his ministrations at a particular spot which is bringing out melodic moan variation from you.

He is going down your skin, licking on your left boob before he starts planting violet tattoos as he had promised. As if it couldn't get better, he is massaging the right breast, in a way to soothe pain.

He loses it when you stutter his name, but he is just a fucking tease when it comes to making love and doing anything in a public space is the last thing he wants to do. There isn't much room for all that he wants right now.

"Why did you choose this particular tattoo Y/n?", he rasps while he is planting small pecks on his artwork, and you reply when he is finally eye level with you

"I just felt like it's a good one", your breaths are uneven and mostly caught in your neck. He pecks your lips before speaking, "Those are lines from Romeo and Juliet".

He takes your hands to trace over a line of text among the many designs on his chest.

which, as they kiss, consume

"We pretty much have a couple tattoo now Y/n", his breath is matched with your pace and you are not very sure how to respond to this new knowledge.

"That's… hot"

You break into giggles along with him, he just can't stop dragging his lips around your skin, but he isn't able to word his feelings right now either.

"I have some aftercare healing ointment for the tattoo at my place, wanna come over?" Now that may be a little lame of an excuse to get his little friend out of his pants but you are too unfazed to analyse any of that.

His hands find place on your ass under the skirt as soon as the door to his apartment closes, and before you know it, you are in his bedroom, sitting on the soft mattress and tongue lost devouring each other.

While eagerly getting rid of every article of clothing, Jungkook notices that you don't have your bra on beneath the shirt, so it's probably back at the parlour, but none of you have the slightest care for it, might as well make an excuse with it later to fuck you in his cabin.

He is pushing you farther towards the headboard, him on top, grinding sensenslesy while your lips mould with his. Though he has his whole body pressed against you, you can't seem to feel his weight at the slightest, every one of his actions were just balanced and perfect.

As Jungkook goes down on you, his smile is evident against your skin, finally able to find out how every one of those scenarios in his head will come to look like. He lets out a satisfied hum being finally able to suck on your tits, your fingers finding place on his hair, twisting it out of stimulation.

His pelvis is flushed harshly against yours, grinding and rubbing against your pussy for as long as he is rejoicing the feeling of moving his tongue around both the nipples.

He stops rubbing after some point and you whimper at the loss but his fingers are soon to meet your core as a quick apology. All your later moans are muffled on his mouth once again.

Feeling the controlled movements of his fingers on your clit, you dig your nails down on his toned shoulders. It's becoming impossible to reciprocate his lewd movements of tongue on your lips at this point as the excitement between your thighs is growing every passing second.

Your mouth remains slightly parted as he removes his face to watch you squirm underneath, lips swollen, deep red and glossy from all the saliva.

He pecks at the shell of your ear before going down past your navel.

You haven't had much heads in the twenty years of your life, most of the guys being completely against the idea which made you feel insecure to bring up the topic in bed, but Jungkook does it like his life depends on it.

He growls at the sight of you dripping into his sheets and he seems to enjoy the idea of being the influence behind it. But none is going through your head at the moment, not the metal on his lips grazing against your folds, or the fact that Jungkook is grinning each time you cry his name, it feels unreal to feel something like this.

His mouth is wrapping against your entrance and he is balancing your lower body on his palms to help him reach the right depths inside you. While all you can muster up is the strength to grope the bedsheets in your fist and close your eyes at the pleasure.

Jungkook brings his head higher to give some attention to the throbbing clit, catching it between his teeth and triggering the bundle of nerves just the perfect dose to have your hips jolting up to his face.

He can't take it himself when you are now whining and chasing for your release, so he is slightly humping against the bed to get some friction.

He licks a slow stripe up till your abdomen and slowly raises to your face, already fucked out and dishevelled to keep up with his dominant orbs.

He swears he had never felt so much warmth and care for sex with any of his previous partners, in relationship or not, all he could think is how good can he treat the pleading eyes underneath him.

"Is there something you like that you want me to do?", he says, fingers grazing once again to your crotch to not deny you from his contact. Only this time he is exploring the tightness of your pretty cunt with two skillful fingers.

Is there? You are not sure. Or in other words you are too caught up at the sense of him fingering you. It's not like you had enough experience or people who cared enough to ask that question. It astounds you that never in this entire foreplay he asked for any favor for himself.

"I'm not sure…", you whisper and then maybe you have something on your mind " um I guess I would like to be choked" Okay this felt embarrassing.

He smiles before sliding his free hand from your lips to your neck, and applies slight force, careful to not hurt you in the slightest bit.

"Is that fine?"

"Yeah", you muffle through the decreasing course of air.

He pulls up your face by the throat to attach lips once more. He just can't seem to get enough of kissing you senseless. Then, the tip of his long ignored cock is teasing the length of your pussy twice before it's stretching you out to the brim.

Bodies flushed and hot, his pace is deep and slow, making sure to kiss the cervix every time he is inside.

He watches as your eyes close shut and flutters around whenever he is grazing against your sweet spot. Both of your ears lost and eager for the moans looming out of each other, his more like what he sounds at the gym. Nice observation Y/n.

In this span of sexual energy you shared, you can make some obvious conclusions. Sex with him was surreal, both in terms of domination and the care he had. Rocking against him and keeping up with his hips was attainable— Compared to the intense eye contact he tries to hold, or the way he cups the side of your face and rubs the pad of his thumb on your cheeks while he kisses you during sinking back in, or the way his eyes glow at the beauty of your body open for him. It makes you feel special and it's difficult to respond to these gestures when you never felt this way before.

Jungkook could tell that from your face, but he hopes he lasts with you enough to help you know the worth you hold. You couldn't think too much about anything when you are busy squeezing around his length and coming twice in the first ten minutes.

By the third orgasm Jungkook is nearing his own and he pulls out to pump a few times before coming on your stomach.

"Was it okay?", his voice is all over the place, still balancing his body on his arms while you are amazed by his strength.

"It was amazing Jungkook", you smile. You have known a lot about Jungkook over the few dates you spent with him. That he likes literature, classics and philosophy, designs tattoos as a subconscious thing, that his game is A-1, and he likes working out almost three hours a day. Good for you. But it wasn't until now you know him to be gentle, like he is afraid to crush you under a feather touch. You don't know him as someone who is staring deep into your face after a good fuck, speaks nothing, smiles widely, and plants a peck on your forehead before getting off the bed.

He does the honors of cleaning both of your bodies with a towel, it's not like you have any strength left in you anyway. And then pulls out an ointment from the bedside table and plops next to your body.

"There. You need this to protect the tattoo", he takes off the nozzle and applies a required amount against the words on your chest and massages against them.

"Now go to sleep Juliet", he mocks, pulling up the sheets over you both "good night".

You snuggle against his hard chest, kissing his pecs before resting on it, "Good night Romeo".

thank you so much for reading!! please leave a feedback!!

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★ credits: @/rainbeary on spotify : songs that'll make you feel everything's in slow motion playlist

★ banner & boards: by me :)

a/n: this is my first time writing smut and i basically died of second hand embarrassment during the process. pardon for my untalented ass, i tried this wip continuously for a week and i seriously don't think it could get anything better though it's probably not much.

© banqdanfnfic 2021, all rights reserved. do not modify, translate, or repost my works. modification, translations, and/or redistribution of my works on any platform is strictly prohibited.

[missallsundaes]

Sanji x Male Reader — Amateur Chef

2111 Words • CW dealing with repressed bisexuality

When Luffy heard your self proclaimed cooking skills in the town market to a friend, he immediately invited you on to the ship, even without trying your food. A bigger crew needs more cooks, was his reasoning for Sanji. Sanji wasn't exactly happy about the new addition to his kitchen, possessive about his things and how the kitchen was maintained. And he was sure that you wouldn't take the same care as he did. At least you had your own set of knives, he thought with a sigh.

The first night cooking together proved to be...a challenge. He was paying you no mind, working in his own entrees for the crew, but the haphazard slap of the kitchen knife against the chopping board, well he could only stand it for so long before his temper got the better of him.

“What the fuck are you doing over there, amateur?” He seethed, turning to face you.

You sheepishly set down your knife on the counter, stepping back to show Sanji the vegetables you were cutting. His heart skipped a beat, seeing your rough cut shapes and uneven chops.

“What are you doing to that poor food!” Worded like a question, but spat at you like an insult. He approached you cutting board, staring down at the mangled shapes of potato, carrot and celery, hand frustratingly pulling through his hair.

“Well I'm just making soup..” You started, you were a bit offended but the chef in front of you was too intimating to talk back to. You'd heard enough stories about Black Leg Sanji to know when to keep your mouth shut.

“So you decided to torture your poor ingredients?” He reached for his own knife, wiping it clean with a cloth before trying to salvage the vegetables. You watched in awe as he saved first the potatoes, then the celery. He looked at you before touching the chunks of carrot on the board.

“You taking notes, amateur?” He said. His voice was softer now though his tone was still harsh. He raised the visible eyebrow, “Come over here and learn how it's done.”

He waved you over to stand in front of him, placing his hand over yours on your knife, he guided your left hand into place, showing you the gentle fist to protect your fingers without losing grip on the vegetables. He started slow, chopping motions in cool even bursts, slicing the chunks of carrot into perfectly measured cubes. You tried to pay attention but the beating of your heart in your throat, his warm hand over yours, and his firm chest placed against your back was all that your mind could focus on.

When the carrot was taken care of he let go of your hand, leaving you feeling you were missing something. You watched him cross the kitchen again, standing again in front of his own prep, you watched him skillfully pull the bones from a huge fish in one movement, running his hand over it to make sure it was all removed, looking for even the smallest of bones.

You hadn't heard about how gentle he was. How careful in the kitchen with perfect mannerisms. He looked at you, and you realized how obviously caught up in watching him you were, jumping to peel the garlic in front of you for your soup. He laughed, turning back to his prep, beginning to make a marinade with fresh lemons and cracked pepper for the fish.

“You're not a chef are you?” He said, looking at you briefly as he squeezed the lemons of their juice.

“No not at all,” you said sheepishly, ”I know a few recipes but when a wanted pirate grabs you and tells you you're going to be a chef on his crew you listen, you know? It's not like I was in a position to refuse..”

He sighed, knowing exactly how enthusiastic Luffy could be when he set his mind on something. “Don't worry, you can be my sous chef. I'll teach you what you need to know. We'll start with more knife practice for breakfast tomorrow, I hope you're okay getting up early.”

You thought briefly of how much you were not a morning person, though this was not the time to mention that. You nodded, “Thanks for helping me. You're a kind man.”

Sanji's face flushed at the genuine compliment, turning around quickly as if there was a pressing matter in the fridge to attend to. “N-nonsense it's just the right thing to do.” He stammered, head buried in the fridge, looking desperately for an ingredient to pull out that would make sense.

///

He kicked your hammock in the men's cabin, foot still perched on your side as you swayed back and forth, trying to regain your senses, shaken from a dream about your new crewmates, the one in front of you in particular.

“I thought you could be up early,” he laughed.

The room was still full of the snoring of the other men, the only light from the lantern in Sanji’s hand, casting golden light across him. He was already dressed in his slacks and dress shirt, looking primed for the day. You were sure that you looked the absolute opposite, feeling the drool caked to your cheek and knowing your hair was probably a wreck.

“Uh, about that,” you chuckled, climbing out of the hammock and hopping to the floor of the cabin. “I may not be as much of a morning person as I said.”

“I figured as much when you didn't wake up the first few times I kicked you.” He said, “Though I bothered you enough for you to say my name in your sleep.”

You turned from him, hiding your face by searching for a clean set of clothes, forcing an awkward laugh, “Oh yeah I must have subconsciously known you were trying to wake me.”

“Well hurry up, these idiots won't be asleep forever, and you do not want to see Luffy without his breakfast.” He left the room for you to get dressed, and you trudged to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

When you met him in the kitchen, he had a multitude of fruits set up at your station. You could smell bacon in the oven already, and he was whipping a large bowl of eggs for what you could only imagine was the biggest omelette of all time.

“Took you long enough.” He said, though he had a smirk on his face, his harsh attitude from yesterday softened.

“Am I chopping these?” You said, lifting your knife to slice the strawberries laid out on the board.

“Ah ah wait. Hold on I'm almost done.” He said, setting down the bowl of whipped eggs on the counter. He approached you, watching over your shoulder. “Do you remember the lesson from yesterday?”

You nodded, ”I think so.” you put your hand in the position he showed you, holding the knife how it felt under his guiding hand, breathed in and started slicing the strawberries.

The difference in your cuts from yesterday to this morning was leagues away. He adjusted your elbow, his firm gentle touch making your heart flutter, and just the adjustment of your arm made your slices neater. “Breathe,” he said, his own breath hot in your ear and making you catch your breath instead. You struggled to retain your breathing, but your cuts were messier now. He took your hand again, your heart beating through your chest. “You're making this so much harder than it is, watch. Breath with me.”

You times your breathing to match his, his firm chest pressed into you, his hand over yours. You felt your chests rise in succession together, making you feel as one. His hand held yours in place, but you were doing the work.

“Exactly like that,” he praised, you felt like you could melt right then and there. “You're doing great.”

He let go of you, stepping back to the stove top to heat a huge skillet for his omelette. “You've got it from here I presume.” You watched him for a moment, testing the temperature of the pan before adding his eggs and watching them diligently. “Most of breakfast is ready, so just get the fruit cut and plated and then we can wake up the crew.”

You nodded, “Thanks again, Sanji.” You said, continuing to chop the fruit in front of you, plating it up on the large platter he had set out.

///

The next few weekswent the same, Sanji waking you in the morning. Him teaching you new techniques to use in the kitchen. Making three meals a day together, not including if someone wanted a snack, getting closer and closer until you couldn't bear it. Your feelings for the man were definitely growing, you had a sneaking suspicion that he had similar feelings for you, but the constant doting of the girls on the crew made you doubt yourself, fearing that he wasn't into men the way you were.

You had already made fresh baked bread together that morning, as you watched his hands knead the dough tauntingly slow, his strong hands rolling it out and beating it down, his sleeves rolled up you could see the flexing of every muscle in his forearms.

You were cracking about two dozen eggs into a large skillet to fry, trying not to think about how close he was to you, chopping chives to put on top of your fried eggs.

“Sanji,” you said, rinsing your hands of the raw eggs in the sink.

He didn't look up from his work, now slicing pieces of smoked salmon, “Eh?” He said.

“I think I might have a problem,” you said, trying desperately not to look at the blond sharing the kitchen with you. He set down his knife, immediately checking your eggs over, the stove temperature, any kitchen error he could think of before looking you incredulously in the face. “It's not my food.” He looked more relieved than you expected and you laughed.

“What is it then?” He said, curly brow peaked with curiosity.

“I think I fell for one of my crewmates since I've been on the ship.” You flipped your eggs carefully, trying not to break your yolks.

“Oh? Nami? Robin?” He said, going back to work at his salmon. He wasn't jealous, per say, it's not like he really expect to feel this way about you. Plus the girls were gorgeous in every way, how could a red blooded man not fall for them. He still didn't know how to accept his feelings for you, forcing down any hint of bisexuality that he ever felt, blocking out those feelings, usually with anger.

“Uh no,” you said, turning off the heat on the stove and letting the residual heat finish your eggs as you seasoned them with salt and pepper. Beginning to set up the crews plates with thick slices of your fresh bread, two eggs each (four for Luffy and Zoro), sprinkling the chives on top, and passing the plates to Sanji to top with smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce.

After a moment of silence so thick you could slice it with the kitchen knife next to you, you continued, “Sanji, it's you.”

He almost dropped the plate he was holding, and you both moved quickly in reaction, hands one on top of the other under the plate. “What,” he said, worded like a question but tone flat in disbelief.

“Just, spending all this time with you has meant so much to me,” you withdrew your hand, looking away from him to hide the tinge of crimson on your cheeks. “Having you close to me, your guiding hands. Your strength. I can't help it.” He was still frozen in place, thoughts racing. “Just don't worry. Never mind, forget I said anything!” You said, plating the last of your half of the plates.

“Wait,” he said, as you were leaving the galley to wake the crew, “I think I fell for you too.” You stopped in the doorway, turning back to face him, but his back was to you. “I grew up not allowed to be who I wanted and even though I can now it's still hard to accept who I am. But I want to learn and be better. I want to be with you.”

“Do you mean that?” You said, letting the door swing back closed.

“Yeah,” he laughed, he turned to you smiling with tears in the corners of his eye. “Yeah I definitely mean it.” He wiped his eye, “Come on then, let's go wake up the ravenous beasts.”

[wri0thesley]

Sweating It Out - Leone Abbacchio x Reader (Kinktober Day #19: Sex Pollen)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader, no pronouns. Sex pollen / sex under the influence of sex pollen. Established relationship. 

You and Abbacchio are hit by an enemy stand, and there’s one way to . . . flush out the effects.

You can't decide whether to curse Giorno Giovanna for doling out this mission to your boyfriend, or to thank him for it.

It had seemed all above-board and typical at first; Abbacchio is often sent on physical missions like this. Despite the fact that Abbacchio has been instructed to rough up this perpetrator, Giorno hasn't forgotten the position that said man once held within Passione - and so sending one of his most trusted lieutenants is a courtesy that has been extended. The man had recognised Abbacchio - it is only when you'd seen the smirk on his face that you'd realised that Giorno had made a grave error.

Abbacchio is only sent on these missions when Giorno is certain the person who needs to be taught a lesson is not in possession of a stand. Despite Abbacchio's physical prowess, Moody Blues is not primed for combat - and though Abbacchio's fighting skills are enviable, there's little he or Moody Blues can do against preternatural fighting abilities.

You had gone with Abbacchio because you had nothing else to do that day, figuring you would be backup if something did happen - when you'd imagined something happening though, you'd thought about using your (non-offensive, healing, just as useless in a battle as Moody Blues can be) stand to fix up a broken nose or a joint knocked out of place.

It had not been so simple.

You had called out the moment you'd seen the stand materalise behind Abbacchio's victim, but it had not been quick enough - the  humanoid creature had already thrust it's hands forward, and plumes of dark purple smoke were already beginning to obscure your vision. You had rushed forward in earnest, despite knowing that Abbacchio would not want you to risk yourself - and in the accompanying scuffle, the proposed victim had escaped.

You and Abbacchio had crawled out of the alleyway on your hands and knees as the smoke had begun to dissipate, coughing - but looking, you had thought, mercifully unmarked by the event. The smoke had tasted like berries, clogging up your throat, making you struggle to breathe - but that had been all. Neither of you had seemed injured.

You and Abbacchio had straightened yourself up and brushed off your clothes and looked at each other with your lips pursed.

"Well," he'd said eventually. "I guess all we can do is wait and see."

You'd still called out your stand, just in case, once you were in the car - but she had been unable to find a single injury or illness to cure, and you and Abbacchio had been left, instead, to the frightening inevitability of waiting.

"We'll wait it out at home," Abbacchio said, decisively, putting the car into gear - you didn't know, then, how grateful you would be for his decision when the effects of the smoke revealed themselves to you.

It had started in the car as a persistent heat across your brow that was not cooled by the air conditioning - when you had asked Abbacchio to turn it on, your boyfriend's lips had twisted.

"Yeah," he'd said, "I'm feeling kind of hot too, actually."

The next step had been the restlessness - the way that your legs were vibrating and your fingers could not seem to stay still. Step three was the prickling of your skin, like someone was breathing lightly across the back of your neck and making you come all over gooseflesh and wanting. Step four had been the shortness of breath, the way that your vision was focusing and unfocusing - you had been about to say something to Abbacchio, about turning back from where he'd pulled the car in to park in front of your place and going back to Giorno's place to beg for help, when step five had kicked in and you'd realised exactly what was happening. 

Because step five was the ache between your thighs.

You can feel it in Abbacchio as he steps too close to you as you get out of the car and you feel the heat radiating off of him in needy waves. He brings his hand to your waist, gripping you with all the possessiveness you've come to expect of him in the bedroom brought to 'just outside your front door, in full view of everyone'.

Your mouth goes very dry.

"I think I know what the stand did," you say, very carefully, though all of the moisture in your body seems to be collecting between your thighs. Abbacchio snorts humourlessly, his voice low gravel as he replies;

"No shit."

-

You try and resist the pull at first. Your body aches to be touched and petted and kissed and caressed, the friction of your thighs rubbing together as you move maddening - but you can't help but worry about what might happen if you give in. What if the stand is going to take advantage of the both of you when incapacitated? You swallow thickly and try and ignore the fact that Abbacchio's shirt is clinging so tightly to his muscles today. That when his hand brushes across your lower back you want to lean into it and beg him to touch you more.

Your eyes keep straying to the part of him between his own legs, clearly defined as it rests stiff and needy beside his muscular thighs. The idea of taking it into your mouth, or running your fingers along the thick shaft - you press your thighs together again, wincing when it sends a brand new jolt of heat and need right through you.

You make it ten minutes before it begins to hurt. It begins to ache, inside you - sweat beading on your brow, your body crying out for something. You can only liken it to the feeling of starving - there is a yawning, gaping chasm inside of you. Your body is craving something.

And you got the faceful of the smoke after Abbacchio did. You've been under the influence for a shorter time. You peek at Abbacchio, sat beside you on the sofa attempting to read a book ("We should ignore it," he'd said. "There's no telling what will happen if we give in.).

Well.

He'd once been attempting to read a book. Now, the tome lies forgotten on one arm of the sofa and his fingers are digging into his own thighs, the knuckles white and tight. You shift closer to him, soothed briefly by the press of his body against your arm.

"Leone," you say, so softly that it's barely a breath. "Leone, I can't--"

"We have to," he replies, ragged.

"Leone, it hurts--"

It does. It does hurt! If he doesn't touch you, your body - you're sure of it - will pull itself apart.

"Touch yourself instead," he rasps. "O-one of us has to keep our wits about us . . ."

There's a note of desperation in his voice. His eyes fasten on a picture of the two of you hung on the wall, ignoring you as you give in to your urges and let your palms skim along the curve of your breast. You trace your own waist and hips, trying to imagine that your hands are the heavy weight of Abbacchio instead - but it's not enough.

On top of clothes isn't enough. You drag at your shirt, wiggling out of your bottoms without any thoughts except touching your own bare skin. The fabric clings to your sweat-slick legs, but you are determined.

Abbacchio breathes deep.

"I can smell you," he growls, low in the back of his throat. "Fucking hell--"

You're not surprised. As you peel your sodden underwear away from you, you think it's a miracle you're not sitting there in a puddle. Your sex is so wet - you don't think you've ever been like this before, and it's not as if Abbacchio isn't good in the bedroom--

Your fingers skim over the slit, teasing yourself before you give in with any attempts to do such a thing and delve between your folds, toying with your clit, slipping a finger inside of you to the first knuckle (you take it so easily--).

But.

It's not right.

Oh, you feel it, sure - you're aware of your dampness and your fingertips and the way your body clenches around the digit. But it does nothing to assuage the ache that's deep in your bones that keeps whispering; "you need to be fucked, you need to be fucked, you need to be fucked--"

You whine aloud, the hand not touching yourself coming to rest on Abbacchio's thigh, squeezing needily. Your boyfriend is still trying not to look at you, and you know that it's because if he does look at you and give in he will throw you onto your sofa and rut you like a wild animal.

He's trying to be the good guy. He's trying to be responsible. His jaw is clenched and his teeth are grit and every single inch of him is on high alert. You know you you're playing a dangerous game, naked next to him in needy pieces, getting more and more lascivious by the moment.

"Leone," you whine, again. The hand on his thigh travels up his arm, to his jaw - oh, you shouldn't do it. But then, you're gripping his chin and turning his face to look at you and whimpering with tears caught in your throat; "It's not enough! I need--" Tears form in the corner of your eyes. "I need you to fuck me--"

There's a flash in his eyes, a moment in which he argues with himself - but the ache that you know must be prominent within him too wins out.

And then, Abbacchio snaps.

He pushes your hand away from his chin to take ahold of yours, pulling you into a bruising kiss. He mouths at you like a man starved, as if your lips have the elixir of life upon them - suckling and biting, uncaring of how you're moaning into his mouth and pulling him down, spreading your thighs for him.

Your bare sex presses against the front of his leather trousers, where the stiff heat of his cock through the material is tantalisingly close and yet not close enough. You helplessly grind into it, the sensation strange but amazing.

"You're making a mess," he murmurs, though his throat is so thick with lust you can barely make sense of what he's saying. 

"Take them off, then," you reply, petulantly - and Abbacchio wastes no time.

You can tell from the tense way that he's holding himself and the slight stumbles of his motions that he's just as close to the edge as you are - just, you suppose, better at controlling it. Abbacchio has been a man who lets his feelings take precedence in the past, but now . . . now he is granite cool and detached, from being moulded carefully into a better man thanks to the influence of the people around him who saw something in the shattered man he once was that was repairable.

He does. You pull impatiently at the ties of his shirt, and that's the next to go too - and then he's on top of you, just as naked as you are, his silky hair damp with sweat as it brushes along your skin.

"Fuck," he breathes, as you nip at his neck, breathing in the heady, masculine scent of him. "You feel so good--"

He's not even inside of you, just pressing his shaft against where you're aching and wet, and already you can feel the slightest lightening of your need. Your own hands and fingers were simply not enough - whatever this weird sex pollen stand has done to you, it knows when you're touching another person.

You reach a hand down to encircle his cock, gently, and he lets out a whistling exhale of breath through his teeth, his eyes fluttering closed. He groans as you pump it once, twice - as you gently rub the slit of his cockhead where precome has soaked him. You shift impatiently beneath him on the sofa.

"Put it in me," you tell him, all bossiness - and Abbacchio, who would usually growl at you for being such a brat and then rub his cock against your folds without ever entering you, does as you ask without the slightest backchat.

The head of his cock stretches you open briefly at the entrance, but both of you are slick and needy enough that there's no ache beyond that - he glides into you as if you were made to take him.

And oh, it feels like that is exactly the case. He slots inside you like your channel was moulded to the imprint of his cock, snug and hot and wet and perfect. He groans aloud as he fills you, feeling the way that the painful ache of desire is lifting to be replaced with the pleasant ache of getting what you want.

You stop speaking. You stop doing anything except your mouths meeting messily, your fingers tangling in each other's hair, your hips rocking against one another in constant search of more of the delicious friction that's already building up inside you.

Abbacchio does not go at you gently. Every roll of his hips has the cushions beneath you abrading your back, and you're grateful you bought a nice sofa - you're going to have to clean it pretty hard after this. You have nothing to grip onto except Abbacchio's broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin and leaving little crescent moons - Abbacchio doesn't complain.

When your fingers flex, actually, he moans, the sting clearly helping him along. Your boyfriend has always liked things a little rough. There's a light in his eyes that has your toes curling with every thrust.

You don't think you've ever been so close to coming so quickly in your life. You could chalk it up to Abbacchio's face and voice, his body - but you know in your heart that it's the weird smoke, making you extra sensitive and easier to rile up. Maybe, you think, the need will subside once you've come--

But you're wrong. Your orgasm tears through you with almost no warning but the swoop of your stomach and the wail that's suddenly being tore from your lips, your channel squeezing Abbacchio's cock, milking him for all he's worth - and the milking certainly works. Abbacchio swears in between gasps of your name and then his cock is twitching inside you, filling you messy and deep, his hips chasing the spurts and pushing his come deeper inside of you with every powerful pump.

"It's not working," you breathe, even as you realise that his cock has not softened a whit. You wrap your arm around his neck, pulling him in closer and deeper. "I'm still--"

"Me too," Abbacchio rumbles. He crushes your body beneath him, a heavy, reassuring weight. "Don't worry. We'll just have to . . . keep going--"

The way he says it sends pleasant shivers all through your body. Deep inside of yourself, you know that you should try and get away from the heady, hazy effects of the sex smoke - but another, deeper part of you is much more interested in Abbacchio continuing to pound you than anything else.

"Okay," you say, with no backchat. "No complaints here, caro--"

Abbacchio's breathless laughter is soon swallowed by other noises. The grunts and groans issuing forth from his mouth as he uses you like a toy - the moans of surprise when you hit back with corkscrewing your hips a certain way or clamping your channel around him again, tightening the cavern that's hugging his cock so deeply inside you.

The slap of skin on skin. The wet noises as he continues to fuck his come inside of you - the stutter of his breath as he comes again, twice and then three times. You can feel some of his seed leaking out of you now with every thrust of his powerful hips - but you've come four times and your body is shaking and trembling, and you can't bring yourself to think of anything else.

Now, you can feel that you're less entrenched inside the fog of need. Your hips ache a little from exertion and not from aphrodisiac stand bullshit. But your body is still prickling, just a little - and you tangle your fingers into Abbacchio's silky hair and say, all coy and fluttering eyelashes and bitten lip.

"I think it's starting to work."

Abbacchio looks down at you, his lipstick smeared, his eyes blown wide and dark, and the lightest smirk playing on his sculpted lips. He says, wicked;

"We better be sure though, right?"

Oh.

You decide that he's right.

As you feel his hips begin to rock once more inside you, you conclude that you two are in for a very long night.

[wristpockets]

Can I throw some prompts at you? All fluffy but with potential for Deep Emotional Talks™ if that's what you're after. Anyway: 1. Essek and jester trying to cook/ bake for the first time (two rich kids who have never been in a kitchen while food has been made) lots of potential for comedy but also ways to explore the differences and similarities in their childhoods?? 2. Caleb and Essek teaching each other dances from their homelands, (I feel like Essek probably had to learn formal dances in his youth and absolutely despised them until he realized that dancing with someone you actually like can be fun) Anyhow, happy writing!

Thanks for the suggestions! Going with the first one!

(If anyone else has any fic prompts/ideas/requests feel free to send them my way!)

This kind of got away from me 😅 Ended up a lot longer than expected. Not going to spend too much time proofreading or editing bc this was supposed to be fun. Anyway

Essek is leaning over the railing on the Nein Heroez, a glass of wine in his hand. He can hear the party going on behind him - the rest of the Nein get together every month for dinner - but he needed to get away for a moment. He watches the moonlight reflect off the waves as he swirls the wine in his glass.

He doesn't notice Jester until she's right next to him.

"What's wrong, Essek?" she asks, her voice laden with sincerity and sympathy.

He sighs, takes a long sip of his wine, and says, "I feel inadequate."

"Oh no Essek," Jester says. She moves closer, until she can bump her hip against his. "You're so powerful. And!" She lowers her voice conspiratorially, "I saw the way you floated in Cognouza. You were faster than Caleb, which I think means you're even smarter than he is."

Essek actually smiles at that. Lets out a little laugh. "You're not wrong. But I'm not concerned with my power or intelligence."

"Then how do you think you're inadequate? In what way? Is it-" Jester cuts herself off, looking over at him while wiggling her eyebrows.

"No," he says quickly, his ears heating up. "Everyone else is so..." He looks for the word and comes up blank. "Caleb and I see Beauregard and Yasha for dinner quite often. Yasha will have freshly baked bread, or even cake. Beauregard works all day, and Yasha stays home and cooks."

"I think she's happy though," Jester says.

"I think so too," Essek says quickly. "Caleb works all day too, and I stay home and do nothing." He lets out a little laugh. "I cannot believe this is my problem. Feeling bad that I cannot cook dinner while my - while Caleb is working."

Jester's eyes light up. "Okay," she says. "Okay okay. For our next get together, we're making dessert. Me and you."

Beauregard and Yasha are hosting the next meetup. Essek had collected Jester, Fjord and Kingsley early that morning, to give Jester and Essek time to make dessert.

They sent Caleb and Fjord out of the house and set to work in Caleb's kitchen.

But when Essek takes the third batch of cupcakes out of the oven - burned on the outside, somehow raw inside - he's ready to give up.

"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong," Essek says quietly. He floats there, uselessly, staring at another failed attempt at a fairly simple baked good. "Is this how you normally make them?"

"Hmm?" Jester says, looking over at him. She dips her finger into the frosting she'd been working on. "I've never made cupcakes before."

Essek turns toward her. "What? You've never-"

"Nope," Jester says, matter-of-factly. She puts the icing-covered finger in her mouth, tasting the frosting, before scrunching up her nose. "This is awful."

Essek deflates a little. "So we are currently lacking both edible cupcakes and edible icing."

Even Jester's smile falls. "I'm sorry, Essek."

"It's not your fault," Essek says. "We still have some ingredients - what do you know how to make? What could we make quickly that's simpler?"

Jester looks down at the floor. "I don't know."

"Anything," Essek pleads. "Anything you've baked successfully-"

"I've never baked anything," Jester admits quietly.

"Oh," Essek says.

"Yeah."

Jester turns so her back is to the counter, then slides down, sitting on the floor. "I know how you feel. I feel like I should know how to do this."

Essek floats over, then sits down next to her. He can't bear the look on her face. "Two powerful adventurers, brought low by mere cupcakes," he jokes.

"I wanted to do this," Jester says, still quiet. "I wanted to bake something for everyone, something delicious! Something everyone would eat and say, 'oh Jester, your baking is so delicious,' and then maybe I'm not just the girl who draws dicks on things."

"You're a lot more than that," Essek tries.

Jester nods. "I know. I just feel bad."

"I feel that way too," Essek says. "All this power and knowledge and ability - for what? What good is it doing me here, now? And I know it's not an either-or thing. Caleb cooks. Even Beauregard does sometimes. I've never so much as fried an egg."

"Neither have I," Jester admits. "When I lived at home..."

"I understand," Essek says, and he knows he does.

"It's just embarrassing," Jester says.

"Yes," Essek agrees.

They sit like that for a moment, until they hear the front door open.

"Essek? Jester?" Caleb calls from the entryway. "Am I allowed in the kitchen yet?"

"Not yet!" Jester yells. "Almost done! Fifteen minutes!"

Essek looks at her in shock, and she just shrugs her shoulders.

"I do not possess the arcane ability to create cupcakes," Essek says blankly. "And I am unsure of how else we might make a dessert in that time."

"I panicked," Jester says apologetically. "Maybe some of the cupcakes aren't so bad-"

"They are," Essek says as Jester leans over batch number two, tearing off a piece of cupcake and trying it cautiously. After a few bites she scrunches her nose, then spits it out into the garbage.

"It looked good," Jester pouts. "I can't believe cupcakes would lie to me."

Something connects and Essek can feel his eyes widen. "I have an idea."

Several hours later, Jester and Essek are ready to present their cupcakes to the rest of the Nein. At the very least, they look nice - frosting is apparently close enough to painting for Jester to have some skill at it.

"These look delicious," Caleb says, smiling up at Essek. The compliment in front of their friends makes Essek's cheeks heat up, and he's grateful his complexion doesn't let it show.

"I might need to get some pointers from you," Yasha says as she carefully peels off the cupcake wrapper. "I wish I could frost like this."

"Don't eat that!" Beau shouts, quickly leaning over to slap it out of her hand.

Everyone stops to stare at Beauregard, Yasha's mouth still open, the cupcake discarded on the floor.

"What's wrong, Beauregard?" Essek asks nervously.

"They've been tampered with," she says. She picks up Yasha's dinner plate. "These plates are enchanted. They change colour if any of the food on it is fucked with. A few crumbs fell off of it." She points to a few speckles of bright purple on the plate. "I watched the plate react to the crumbs."

"Tampered with?" Fjord asks. "Tampered how?"

"I don't fucking know, man," Beau says. "It doesn't like, tell me."

"Um," Essek says carefully. "Would a magical alteration to the dish set off that reaction?"

"I should fucking hope so," Beau says, "since that's the whole point."

"In that case," Essek says, shooting Jester a worried look, "then yes, they were tampered with. But they will not harm you."

"Essek," Caleb says, looking at him worriedly.

"It's just prestidigitation," Essek says hurriedly. "We used it to flavour the cupcakes and the frosting." He takes a bite of his own cupcake. "See? They're safe."

"But why?" Veth asks. "Surely it can't be any worse than that fish stew Fjord made us all eat last time."

Essek looks at Jester again, who looks resigned. He waves his hand, dismissing the spell. "See for yourself."

Caleb is the first one that takes Essek up on that, tearing off a piece with his fingers and tasting it. Essek can see Caleb trying very hard to keep his expression neutral. He eventually - with some difficulty - swallows the bite of cupcake. "Ja," he says, eventually. "It's not that bad." He offers Essek a warm smile.

"Well that's obviously a lie," Veth says, pushing her plate a few inches away from her.

"Sorry guys," Jester says. She's looking down at the table and looks absolutely lost. "We just wanted to make something nice."

"Have either of you ever baked anything, ever?" Veth asks, picking up a tiny piece of the cupcake and trying it. "This is awful. I love you Jessie, but who taught you to bake?"

Jester looks too crestfallen to answer. "Both of us are, ah, new to this," Essek admits instead.

"Maybe cooking lessons are in order," Fjord says. "I used to cook on the ship, back when I was getting started. I could show you a few things, Jester."

Jester nods, still looking down at the table.

"And I could teach you," Caleb says to Essek.

"That would be appreciated," Essek says.

"Okay," Jester says. She sighs, then looks up at everyone. Forces a smile. "Okay. Me and Essek are going to learn how to cook, and then we'll make something for next time."

"Maybe not cupcakes," Beau says.

"Maybe nothing for anyone who complains about my baking again," Jester retorts.

"There are some desserts from Rosohna I'd like to recreate, if possible," Essek says. "If I can find a recipe."

"That sounds nice," Caduceus says.

"I am not much for sweets, but I do like some of the ones in Rosohna," he continues. "They're, ah, made with cinnamon. I don't think they do that here in the Empire."

"They don't!" Jester almost yells, smiling. "I know! It's crazy!"

[restlessfandoming]

“the president and the troublemaker” (part 4) (chilumi fic)

“Lumine is the student council president and Childe is the school’s number one troublemaker. They cross paths more than they’d like. Especially when Childe finds out Lumine’s big secret. Highschool AU à la Kaichou wa Maid-sama.”

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

[Fic Masterlist] // [AO3 Link]

the president and the troublemaker (part 4)

Lumine narrowed her eyes at Kaeya. “What does this have to do with fighting?” she asked as she pulled at the frills and lace of the dress her manager had forced her to wear. The bright pink garment made her look like some fairytale princess on her way to meet the nearest unicorn. 

“Nothing,” Kaeya responded, the shutter of his camera clicking as he took her picture. “This is for publicity.”

“I need publicity?” 

“Well, no one is going to fight you if they don’t know who you are,” Kaeya explained. “I also think we can catch people off guard if we present you like this.” 

“She does look very...docile right now,” Aether noted from his perch on a pile of gym mats. They were currently in the back of Zapolyarny Palace; Lumine was posed against a white sheet for a simple backdrop to their photoshoot.

“Exactly.” Kaeya nodded. “People are going to think she’s easy prey to beat for some cash. Until she hits them where it hurts.” 

“And what does Childe think of this?” Lumine asked. 

“Tartaglia is in charge of your skills as a fighter. I’m in charge of your image as a fighter.” 

“Is that really that important?” 

Kaeya smiled. “Even as a fighter, you’re still an entertainer. The more likeable you are, the more you put yourself out there, the more sponsors you’ll get—which means more money for you.” 

“And you’re sure that her identity isn’t going to be revealed if we get too much in the spotlight?” Aether asked, pursing his lips. 

“We’re going to keep it contained within Snezhnaya, and as we’ve talked about, your little school friends don’t venture this way.” 

Lumine sighed. “Fine; let’s get this over with.” She gave a stiff smile. 

Kaeya brought the camera down, his face cast in disappointment. “This is part of the job, Lumine. You need to play the part. People can tell from a mile away if you’re not exactly passionate about this.” 

Her face dropped, and she yet again pulled at the dress. “I just don’t feel comfortable in this.”

It was Kaeya’s turn to sigh. “Let’s just call it a day then.” He gave the dress a glance-over. “You’re right, this doesn’t exactly fit you.” 

“It’s not really her color,” Aether agreed. 

“You’re right about that, Aether.” The captain put his hand over his chin, pondering. “But what color fits Lumine best?” 

“I’m fine with any color. Can’t we just use the pictures you’ve already taken?” 

Kaeya was already packing away his camera. “You look like a dead fish strung up on display in a seafood market; no one is going to want to sponsor that.” 

“Can’t we just win people over with my skills?”

“Do you think sponsors would rather back a good fighter who is personable, or a good fighter who seems to hate everything around them?” 

The blonde crossed her arms. “I guess personable,” she grumbled. 

“Good job,” her manager acknowledged, his voice almost tipping into sarcasm. “So just give it some thought as to what color you would rather your dress to be, and I’ll have my seamstress recreate a dress for you, okay?”

Kaeya walked off, and Lumine flopped down on the mats next to Aether. She let out a frustrated groan. “Why does this have to be so hard? I used to just show up and punch people, and now I’m doing photoshoots?” 

Aether laughed, then patted her shoulder. “Just something else to study, right?” he said jokingly. 

Lumine sat up slightly. Sure, her brother was joking, but studying was something she was good at. Later, as she changed out of the wretched dress, she compiled a list of how to start her research. 

First, maybe some fashion magazines...Then...

* * *

Unfortunately, her student council duties and school work came first, and Lumine wasn’t able to swing by her local library to pick up some magazines for her research. 

“You okay, Lumi?” Amber, the student council secretary and Lumine’s friend, asked. 

The blonde gave her a small smile. “Yeah, I’m just thinking about work.” 

Amber perked up. “Oh, where do you work? Maybe I can help!”

...Shit. “Oh, uhm, just at a local restaurant…,” she lied. Please believe me, please believe me.

“Ah, I see,” the brunette said, nodding. “Customers got you down?”

“Uh, no actually. Management is kind of asking a lot of me. If that makes sense,” Lumine found herself saying. “Like expecting me to wear some stupid costume and...act a certain way that isn’t really true to who I am.” 

“Hmm,” the secretary hummed. “I totally get that. It’s always hard when people try to force you to be something you’re not.” Her face split in a cheeky grin. “But you are one of the most authentic people I know! And hardworking! I know that whatever you do, you’re going to do your best and still be the great president we all know and love!” 

Lumine felt her heart warm. “Thank you, Amber,” she said softly. 

Amber saluted. “Anytime, Pres!” 

Just then, a group of boys passed by the open door of the student council room, all excitedly chattering and gathering around something. 

“Dude, she’s so hot!” the two council members heard them exclaim. “Are there any nudes in here?” 

Lumine’s soft expression immediately faded, and she stood up from her desk. “That sounds like something I have to take a look at.” 

She stepped into the hallway, and the boys were at the end, still crowded around their object. She marched up to the group, immediately identifying their object as a magazine of swimsuit models.

“Inappropriate magazines are banned in school,” Lumine announced as she snatched it from one of the boy’s hands. All the boys let out various shrieks, then ran out of the hallway. When she walked back into the council room, Amber was gone with a note saying she had to go grab paperwork from the main office. 

Lumine sat back down at her desk, setting the magazine off to the side as she tried going back to her homework. She found herself glazing at the magazine more than she wanted to admit. 

She glanced around the room, slowly picking up the magazine, and peeling it open. She stared intently at the way the models held themselves in the pictures—their postures, their facial expressions—and tried to imagine herself in their shoes. 

“I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff, Pres.”

Lumine nearly jumped a foot out of her seat. Childe was bent over her shoulder, looking down at the magazine with her. 

She slammed it closed. “Childe, do you ever go to class? Like at all?” 

“Of course I do,” he said, sitting on the edge of her desk. “I just leave when I get bored.” 

She sighed. “Do I have to write you up for skipping class?” 

He raised a brow, then picked the magazine off her desk. “Do I have to write you up for being in possession of this?”

Lumine ripped it from his hands. “It’s not what it looks like,” she tried to reason, her cheeks flooding with warmth. “I’m just researching. For Kaeya.” 

“For Kaeya? Does this have something to do with why he asked me what color fits you best?” 

“He asked you that?” Lumine rubbed her forehead. “Just tell him any color is fine.” 

“Why’s Kaeya got you doing all this anyways?” 

“Publicity, promotion, whatever you want to call it,” she explained. “Making me ‘personable.’”

“He doesn’t think you’re personable?”

“Apparently. He basically stuffed me in a frilly dress and told me to ‘smile for the camera.’” She turned to him. “You don’t do any of this stuff?” 

“My managers in the past tried to make me do it.” He shrugged. “I told them that if they made me do it, I’d just beat them up.” 

“Geez, Childe.” Lumine rested her head on her hand. “I’m not going to threaten Kaeya. I know he means well.” She shook her head. “I guess it’s just something I’ve got to do.” 

“I’ve had plenty of colleagues in the industry go through stuff like this though. Maybe I could come to the next photoshoot and help you with Kaeya?” he offered. 

“I appreciate the help,” Lumine said. “But this is my image, isn’t it? I think it’s something I’ve got to do on my own.” 

A small smile from Childe. “You’re very stubborn, you know that right?” 

“Is that bad? I like going my own way.”

“No, not at all.” He leaned back, eyes locking with hers. “I think it’s quite strong of you actually.” 

Lumine swore her heart had skipped a beat. “Ah, th-thanks, Childe, I guess.” She quickly stood up, packing her stuff up. “Well, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.” 

She rushed out of the room before Childe could say anything else. She brought her hand to her forehead, searching for signs of a fever. 

Why did my body do that just now?

* * * 

“Wow, Kaeya, I love this dress,” Lumine said genuinely, as she turned around in her new dress. 

It was a white dress, on the shorter side, the length going from high to low, with gold—almost armor-like—embellishments sewn in. The collar was a scarf that connected to the top of the bodice with two crossing straps, and the outfit was further accessorized with matching gold and white thigh high boots and long gloves. It fit comfortably, so comfortably that Lumine was confident she could actually fight in it. 

Kaeya nodded. “It fits you like a glove.”

“Aether, did you tell Kaeya to go with this look?” 

Her brother shook his head. “I really didn’t have any good ideas, so I didn’t suggest anything.” 

Lumine furrowed her brows. “Then who—”

“Looks like I was right—white really is your color,” Childe said, walking up to the trio.

“White?” Aether asked, his brows furrowed. “Like innocence?”

Lumine scoffed. “I’m not exactly ‘innocent.’ I mean, I punch people for a living.” 

Childe chuckled. “It’s ‘white’ because you don’t let others influence you. You are perfectly strong and hardworking all on your own.”

Lumine felt her face warm. Kaeya smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “I like the symbolism.”

“I must say, the piece turned out way better than expected,” Childe commented, his eyes roaming over Lumine. 

Again, her heart felt like it had stuttered for a second. 

“So, are we taking these photos or not?” she asked quickly. “The sooner we get these out, the sooner I can schedule matches, right?” 

“Okay, okay,” Kaeya said, unpacking his camera equipment. 

Soon enough, the backdrop and lighting equipment was set up again, and Aether and Childe sat in the corner while Kaeya instructed Lumine where to go and what to do. Aether had his nose in a book (avoiding conversation with Childe) while the orange-haired troublemaker just sat and watched. 

Lumine had been fine doing this ridiculous task in front of just Kaeya and Aether, but now that Childe was here, she was hyper-aware of his eyes on her, feeling more awkward than before, despite the better change in clothing. 

“Lumine, the dress does look much better, but you still look super stiff,” Kaeya commented. “Try to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” she said through gritted teeth. 

Childe laughed from the corner. “That’s what you call relaxed? You look like you’re about to pop a blood vessel.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” she snipped. 

A smirk. “Sure.” 

He sauntered up to the front of the camera, and Lumine stepped out of the way. 

“Wow, I get the honor of being your first official photographer?” Kaeya joked. 

“If Lumine demands it, I must,” Childe joked back. 

Kaeya started instructing Childe on what to do. To everyone’s surprise, Childe followed the instructions perfectly. 

Each pose struck, each expression made, Lumine could see coming straight out of a magazine. He was actually doing it, and doing it way better than Lumine had. Her muscles twitched at her failure—Can I really not do something as simple as this?

“See? Easy enough,” Childe said, smiling. “Are you really going to let me show you up at your own photoshoot?” 

“No,” she replied pointedly. She walked back to her place, eyes narrowing at Childe, silently telling him to get out of her space. 

Instead, he pressed into her space more. “Let’s try some things.” His hands were then on her arms, pulling them into specific angles. “Maybe if you tried posing like this…”

The embarrassment and frustration bubbled in her throat, and before she could even think about it, she yanked her body away from him. “Maybe it would be better if you left,” she snapped at him, her tone so poisonous that she swore her tongue tasted bitter afterwards. 

The room was absolutely silent. Kaeya and Aether’s eyes flickered between Lumine and Childe.

Childe stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. Seems like you’re in a bad mood today,” he said, walking away. “I’ll just leave then.” 

The anger in Lumine’s body quickly dissipated upon seeing Childe’s face—the cheerful glimmer in his eyes gone. He was just trying to help. 

“W-wait,” she said quietly.

Childe stopped, turning her way. 

Her eyes were cast downwards. “Ch-Childe, please help me.” 

Silence filled the room once more. 

CLICK!

The camera flashed, blinding everyone for a split second.

“That was the one,” Kaeya said. “A nice, genuine photo of you.” 

Both Lumine and Childe looked at Kaeya, a bit taken aback, then looked at each other. Lumine immediately averted her gaze back to the floor. After a second, she felt someone’s hand patting her head. 

“Looks like you didn’t even need my help,” Childe said, looking down at her. 

Secretly comforted by his touch, Lumine crossed her arms, feigning displeasure at his head pat. “But you did help,” she mumbled. “In a way.” 

BAM! 

Everyone turned to Aether in the corner. His hands were clasped tightly on his book, after he had slammed it closed. 

“Childe,” Aether said with a forced smile. “She’s not your pet, so let’s take your hands off, okay?” 

Childe pulled his hand back. “Oops,” he whispered to only Lumine. “Don’t want to get in bad favor with your brother, now do I?” 

“You’re already in bad favor with him,” Lumine whispered back, walking away from him and joining her brother. She glanced back, amused by his confused expression. 

“Sis,” Aether murmured once she was close enough. “Look, I’m glad he’s helping you with your job, but don’t forget that Childe is quite literally a delinquent at our school and has given you so many problems. Don’t get too involved with him.” 

“It’s okay, Aether, I don’t plan on ‘getting involved’ with him,” Lumine responded. 

Aether looked at her, and she could tell he didn’t believe her. 

...Why doesn’t he believe me? 

* * *

[part 5]

[dadolorian]

Seven Days of Valentines, (Diamonds and Daddies side story) Whiskey x F!Reader CH 4

A/N: Thanks to @talesfromtheguild​ for Beta reading and helping me with many ideas for this! This will be a weekly series leading up to Valentines Day

I try to keep Readers physical appearance as open as possible for this story, but please note in these chapters shes going to become more of a ‘character’, some specific interests of hers are going to come into play.

This is canon to the main Diamonds and Daddies story, but i am uploading as its own thing. You do not need to have read Diamonds and Daddies to read this, just know its a fic about Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels being a Sugar Daddy and the reader is a professional Sugar Baby.

Fandom: Kingsman the golden circle Ship: Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x Cis F!reader Warning/tags: established relationship, P in V sex, fingering, Oral ( F receiving) , multiple orgasms, over stimulation, dirty talk, Daddy kink, DD/LG/BDSM style relationship, creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl) checking of safe word, possessive language, aftercare, toys, squirting, pussy slap, nipple/clit pump, some mild fluff

Let me know if i forget anything

Word count: 6K +

My master list Seven days of Valentines masterlist AO3 LINK Buy me a Kofi

Summary: Whiskey whisks his Sugar baby away for a romantic Valentine’s getaway. Day four, jack gift Honey Bee a special gift. 

Thursday 12th of February

As promised, you were left with a very sore and tender pussy. 

You awoke in uncomfortable pleasure with Jack's face buried between your legs, devouring you as if he hadn’t had his fill of you less than eight hours earlier. 

Lazily, you tried to push him away with your hand, in a feeble attempt to fall back to sleep, however thanks to your lingering sensitivity and the skill of his tongue he managed to coax you to orgasm despite your meager attempt to recede back into sleep.

You whimpered, grogginess clear in your high whines, as Jack lapped you up, savoring your taste before beginning to kiss his way up your body, pushing up his t-shirt you still wore to kiss at more of your soft skin. He gravitated towards your lips finally, lazily melding his mouth to yours. You tasted yourself on his tongue, alongside that taste you couldn’t describe as anything other than Jack. You moaned together, as if relieved to be connected once again finally.

Strong, familiar arms wrapped around you and lifted your hips to his, he hissed into your kiss as your soaked core rubbed up against his erection through his sweatpants.

“Is your sore pussy up to taking Daddy this morning?” he asked when you finally separated your lips from one another. His voice was raspy with sleep and need.

“If I'm not too sensitive for you to eat me out before I’ve even woken up, then I’m sure I can take your cock Daddy,” you cooed, giggling at the way his eyes darkened and the  hungry look he gave you as he quickly hooked his sweats under his cock and balls.

“If you can still take me after last night, then clearly I didn't do a good enough job,” he teased before he pushed himself inside you with a satisfied groan.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even with Jack’s morning distraction he had the two of you out the door, before noon, dressed ready in warmer clothes than usual due to the reported snowfall.

He took you to Piazza Navona, it was beautiful, even with the overcast gray sky, thanks to the cold February air it was not as busy as you expected, giving you and Jack plenty of space to roam about the decadent square to observe the beauty of the architecture and fountains.

Snow covered the ground, which did not dampen your experience in the slightest. Jack promised to ‘make up for it’ in the future by taking you back in warmer months, but you silenced his worries with a kiss. 

“I am thrilled we are here, even if it's cold, I don't need blue skies and sunshine to appreciate any of this Jack.” 

He gave you a soft smile in return, feeling some of his worry lift.

“I still want to take you back here Sugar, one day.” 

“I would love that, I just don't want you thinking I'm somehow disappointed because you took me here in late winter. I love it Jack, thank you.” 

You shared a deep kiss in front of one of the fountains, as the only two people in the square. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were equally as excited when Jack took you to your next location for the day, and found it was just as empty as Piazza Navona. Trevi fountain was covered in snow, the blanket was growing steadily thicker as snow began to fall, Jack was grateful he had the foresight of an umbrella that day, opening it up and pulling you to his side as you both made your way over to the famed fountain.

“This is amazing, that we get to experience such a place, just the two of us” you whispered, leaning your head on his shoulder, huddling closer to him against the cold.

“It seems surreal Darlin,” he hummed beside you, kissing the crown of your head. “It’s like we’re the only two people in the world.”

You giggled. “Hmmm, and is this what we would do? If we were? Travel around, seeing the sights?” 

“If it were just the two if us, I would want nothing more than just to explore the rest of the world with you, Honey Bee,” he smiled. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You flipped through photos you had taken that morning on your phone as you sat in the passenger seat, Jack beside you holding your free hand as the driver took you to wherever he had planned for your lunch. 

You giggled at one particular photo, Jack was pulling a face into the camera as he would often do when in a playful mood.

“Send me them when you get a chance Darlin,” he said warmly beside you, smiling at your smile. You gave him a nod before swiping through more. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lunch, as it turned out, was very similar to yesterday's lunch, as Jack had surprised you with another workshop. However, this time you were taking a pizza class. 

Your stomach growled as you entered the warm Pizzeria, shrugging off the thick winter coats you wore and hanging them up. You were grateful for the change in temperature as you both cleaned off the snow clinging to the rest of your clothes before joining the small class. 

You decided to spend the time this lesson enjoying the experience more than teasing Jack, who seemed just as agreeable to the notion as you stood side by side at your station, listening to your instructor. 

You had a lot of fun, Jack kneaded the dough for you as you stood to the side, admiring his arms as he rolled up his sleeve and got to work. As the dough was stored away to rise, you cleaned your station together, sitting down to decide what toppings you each wanted. 

Your pizza base was an uneven circle, Jack rolling it out once they were all deemed acceptable. You giggled at the lopsidedness of it, taking a quick photo of Jack’s pout as you giggled over your lumpy pizza base. 

Together you made the sauce and spread it on your base, before you were finally allowed to decorate it with toppings. Before you could start, Jack made an equally uneven heart shape out of your shredded mozzarella, and with sauce bottle in hand,  he managed to write  a very messy “JD ❤️ HB” 

You ‘awwed’ at the gesture, quickly snapping a picture of Jack next to his creation, smiling proudly. 

“How very ‘cheesy’ of you,” you joked lamley, making Jack groan.

You finished putting the rest of your toppings on before you were finally allowed to deliver your pizza to the pizza oven. Jack was thrilled to get to use the large wooden pizza peel, and you made sure to take a video of Jack putting your pizza in the large oven to cook with help from the instructor. 

While your lunch cooked you cleaned everything up, leaving your station as spotless as you found it. When the food was ready you and Jack sat at the tables, alongside other couples, chatting away happily as you all ate together, his arm around you lazily. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were surprised when Jack led you back to the hotel much earlier than you expected, having just finished lunch and bundling back up in your coats to brave the increasing snow.

You weren't complaining though, as you entered the lobby just as the snow had started to become a blizzard, more than happy to escape the cold for the rest of the day. 

You were taken back to your room, and perhaps a little disappointed as you entered the bedroom, finding no gifts laid out. 

Jack took notice, chuckling and kissing your cheek.

“Later Honey, we’re only stopping by to get rid of our winter gear,” he said warmly, shedding his coat once more and changing into some comfortable lounging clothes. He encouraged you to do the same, so quickly you dressed into a large baggy sweater dress, warm leggings and soft ugg boots. He took your hand once you were ready, and just as quickly as you had arrived to your suite, you were swept away to some unknown part of the hotel. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were delighted when you passed through two large glass doors to what you could only describe as a mini spa resort. 

The air was warm and misty, smelling vaguely of vanilla and pine, tiled floors made shoes click as they passed over it, the walls were gray, with a large mural walk behind the tall reception desk. The hotel's logo stood out on the mural of trees, and sitting underneath, behind the desk were two petite young women who greeted you with a smile. 

“Mr Daniels?” one of them asked in a strong italian accent. 

Jack smiled and nodded, pulling you with him as you were led down a short hallway to the side, and then into a changing room where robes and towels waited for you. 

You both undressed in your cubicles, putting on the towels and plush white robes provided for you. Jack took your hand back once the two of you were ready for whatever treatment you were about to get. 

As usual, Jack had spared no expense, and the two of you were treated to a full spa experience. Jack had even gone the extra mile to give you a full beauty treatment as an added bonus. 

You were able to relax in the Sauna together, your head resting on Jack’s shoulder as the heat sweat away your stresses. That was followed up by your beauty treatment. Mani and pedi, facial, exfoliation, face mask, eye mask, you experienced the full works, all while Jack cooled off in an Ice bath.

You enjoyed your pedicure along with a small sample of fruits and sandwich , followed up with a delicious slice of decadent cake, and a glass of champagne. 

And the entire spa experience was topped off with a couples massage. 

Jack reached across the small gap between your tables whenever he could to hold your hand in his. Any tension you had in your body melted away thanks to the expert hands of your masseuse and the scented oils coating your skin. 

Sighing, you closed your eyes, trying hard not to fall asleep due to your extremely relaxed state, waiting to enjoy the feeling as much as possible by not drifting off. 

You giggled, along with your masseuses when Jack's steady snore revibriated along the tiled walls, his hand relaxing in your grip as he drifted off, completely and utterly relaxed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time your massage had ended you were feeling more loose and relaxed than you had ever felt in your life, you rolled your shoulders with a content sigh, loving how loose your muscles felt. 

“Damn Darlin, I didn't even realize my back was hurting so much until the pain went away,” Jack sighed beside you, taking your hand as you made your way back to the changing room to shower off the oil still coated to your skin. 

“You enjoy your beauty treatment?” he asked, taking your hand in his once you were dressed, inspecting your manicure and affectionately stroking your fingers with his. 

“Yes,” you nodded smiling at him. “Thank you.” 

He smiled back and kissed your forehead. “Not that you need a beauty treatment Darlin, you’re already stunning,” he said, making you blush. 

Washed, dried, and dressed you made your way back to your suite together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

As he had promised earlier, gifts were now laid out on the bed, you bounced over to them excitedly, making Jack chuckle at your eagerness. Three boxes, with no clothes set out that evening, which surprised and intrigued you. As expected, one of  the boxes contained a lingerie set, red and lacy, but unlike the other set the had bought for you so far, they were not intended to be practical, usable underwear as well, as the cups of the ‘bra’ were not there, the lace would perfectly frame your breasts, leaving them exposed for Jacks viewing pleasure. The ‘panties’ were matching, crotchless, this set was purely to wrap you up nice and pretty leaving everything open to Jack so he would not have to remove a single piece from you to get what he wants. 

He growled softly behind you, wrapping his arms around you to kiss at your neck. “Gonna look so good in that Darlin,” he said, voice deep with lust already at the thought of you wearing it. 

“Open the others” 

You placed the first box down back on the bed, reaching for the next closest box and lifting the lid. Instantly you felt yourself growing wet at the sight of its content. 

“I hope after last night you won't be too sore to play with these tonight,” Jack’s teasing voice tickled your neck as you stared down at the toys in the box. 

So far, in the short time you had been together you had experimented with toys only a handful of times, and so far, they had been simple bullets and vibes. Evidently tonight, Jack wanted to be a bit more, experimental. 

One simple, silver bullet vibe, a finger vibe, a silicone egg attached to a silicone string you could only guess vibrated, and the largest dildo you had ever seen in person. Your heart was beating fast in anticipation, and you were sure Jack could feel it with his lips latched to your pulse point. 

“Open the last one,” he rasped.

You almost dropped the box as you opened it, overwhelming anticipation making you shake as you stared down at a toy you had only ever dreamed about being used on you. 

Nipple and clit pumps, you were certain Jack was planning on a night just as intense as the last night, and you were more than looking forward to it. 

“Go, get changed, I’ll be waiting for you.” 

You were quick to change in the ensuite, touching up your hair in the mirror and re-applying Jacks favorite mascara. When you came back out to the bedroom, dressed in the exposing red number, Jack was laid out on the bed, even more exposed than you, completely nude as he lay back with a cocky grin, slowly pumping his hardening cock. 

You feigned feeling bashful, hiding half of your body behind the door frame and avoiding his eyes. He chuckled, becoming you over with his finger. 

“No need to feel shy Darlin, you look good enough to eat,” he hummed, still stroking his cock slowly with one hand while the other was open to you in invitation. You padded over the soft carpet, still pretending to feel shy. As soon as you were in reach he pulled you to the bed, pushing you onto your back and bending over you to give you a kiss. 

“I really could eat you up, you sexy little thing,” he teased, his fingers dancing across your skin to the lacy edges of your ‘bra’, the pads of his fingers brushing against your bare breasts as he played with the lace. 

“These,” he said, squeezing your breasts, weighing them in his palm. “A meal fit for a king,” he continued, growling before dipping his head further to mouth at your breasts. He lavished attention to them, making sure to toy with the one not currently in his mouth with his hand, squeezing, kneading the flesh in his large calloused hands, and tweaking your nipple while he licked and suckled on the other one. 

You moaned, already aroused just by looking at the toys he had selected for that night, but even further so now. You felt your arousal leak out of you, with no barrier to hold it thanks to the lack of material covering your centre. 

Jack switched, making sure each of your breasts felt the attention of his mouth, you looked down at him, and found him staring back at you with intense, dark eyes, watching your every reaction, every gasp and moan. 

“Fuck, I love your tits,” he moaned agaisnt your skin, placing a few soft kisses to your peaked nipples before pulling away. His hand stroking the flesh of your thigh as he sat up, erection proudly twitching against his stomach. 

“Which of those toys caught your attention most, baby?” He asked, positioning you gently further back on the bed. 

“T-the pumps,” you answered truthfully, rubbing your coated thighs together in anticipation as Jack got up off the bed to collect the boxes. 

“Yeah? You want Daddy to torture your nipples and poor little clit?” he asked, setting the boxes beside you on the bed. 

You nodded up at him eagerly. 

“Daddy will do just that,” he promised, picking out the finger vibe from the box and sliding it over his index, switching it on so it buzzed lightly. “But I want to try them all out on you baby.” 

His finger started at your nipples, trailing slowly down your body until he reached your clit, circling it gently so the vibrations barely tickled you. You whined, lifting your hips , trying to gain more pressure to your clit, but Jack slapped your thich in warning. 

“You take what Daddy gives you,” he reminded you, torturing you further by rubbing his vibrating finger over your clit directly, so lightly you could only just feel the promise of the vibrations against your swollen bud. 

“Daddy please,” you whined, pouting when he chuckled at you, not taking pity on you. 

“Patience is a virtue sugar,” he teased, leaning over to rasp in your ear. “Daddy will will make you cum so hard so much it fucking hurts if you be good for me.”

You moaned, knowing full well Jack always kept his promises if you behaved for him. 

“Imagine that big one inside you,” he continued, knowing full well his words could turn you on just as much as his touches. “I wanna see your sweet little peach of a pussy stretch around that, your hungry little hole taking that massive cock, fuck, I bet it would hurt to cum around that thing, your cunt stretched so much and tightening around that, fuck I could cum just imagining that.” 

You moaned again, nodding your head and silently begging for just that, wanting to please him, wanting that painful pleasure. 

Your eyes were closed, imagining his little fantasy, how good it would feel when he surprised you by pushing the vibe right onto your clit, making you yelp. 

“We’re gonna start small, and make our way up,” he said, sitting back up to watch you writhe under the pleasure of the vibe. “It’s going to be another long night Baby girl.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jack had successfully made you cum with the finger vibe without ever sliding anything inside you, and had slowly worked you open with the small silver vibe, pumping it in and out of you slowly, bringing you back to the edge of pleasure before abandoning it to the side. You whined in frustration as he took his sweet time picking the next toy, much to your annoyance. There were two toys left in that box and you knew he was going to end with the larger one. He was simply trying to rile you up. 

Deciding you were being just a bit too bratty with your complaints, he gave your pussy a harsh slap.

“Patience Baby,” he warned with a growl. “That's your second warning!” 

You bit your lip, trying to silence yourself as he pretended to decide which toy to use. 

Eventually he picks up the silicone egg and returned to his previous position between your legs, laying on his stomach so he could watch up close. 

He turned the egg on, feeling it buzz in his palm before slowly pushing it inside you, cooing gently about how good your pussy looked, framed by your panties as it stretched around the widest part of the egg. Shoving it inside you as deep as it could reach he watched with fascination how slick leaked from you with each powerful buzz. 

“Remember, you can’t cum until Daddy says you can,” he laughed before licking up your arousal with a moan. You heard him whisper against your folds how you tasted so good. 

You were focusing hard on not cumming until he said so, but that was made far more difficult when he took a hold of the silicone ‘string’ attached to the toy, slowly pulling it down your channel and stretching your hole again. 

You keened, arching your back and trying so hard to wait for his permission. He repeated the action, pushing the vibrating egg deep inside you before slowly pulling it out, stopping when you stretched around the widest point. He watched entranced, growling hungrily every time your entrance stretched around it. 

He kissed your clit, circling his tongue around it, drinking up your moans. 

“Fuck baby, watching my sweet little cunt stretch like this, just makes me want to see what else I can fit in you,” he moaned, lapping up at your folds now. “Im gonna buy the biggest fucking toy I can find when we get home, we’re gonna find your limit one day.” 

His lips latched onto your core, eating you out vigorously, and still playing with the toy with his hand, he was struggling to grip it securely with how much you were leaking. 

He shoved the toy back inside, pushing up right against your g-spot as he began suckling your clit. 

You shrieked, trying not to wriggle too much as you begged, helplessly, for permission. 

“Daddy! Please! Please! Pleasepleaseplease!” You wailed. Looking down at him, between your legs, eyes watching you intently again, you saw him nod. 

Permission. 

You thanked him with a cry as you arched further off of the bed, pushing your hips up into his mouth as he drank down your release, tongue lapping at your hole beside the silicone still hanging out of you. You clenched down around the toy, shaking as your walls contracted  around the vibrations. 

“Daddy!” You whined, slowly rocking your hips into his face as you rode out your orgasm. As the waves of pleasure washed away, Jack ever so slowly pulled the toy out of you, kissing your clit in praise as he did so. You whimpered, sensitive as he kissed you there. 

He cooed again as you stretched around the toy, watching as he pulled it out at a snails pace, enraptured at the sight. 

“My pretty little pussy,” he praised, diving to lap up at you again once the toy popped out of you. You mewled, lazily trying to push him away, but he wouldn't be denied his sweet treat. 

Jack tossed the toy to the side and crawled up your body, lifting your thighs around his waist. Teasingly, he rocked his hips so his cock, now leaking pre-cum onto your skin.

“Daddy wants to be inside his pretty little pussy,” he rasped. “I know you’re sensitive baby, oohhh but daddy wants to make you a creamy mess before you take that big one, I need you slick with both our cum before I stretch you out with that thing.” 

He was rambling, but watched your expression carefully as he lined himself up with your hole, smearing his pre-cum around your folds, waiting for any kind of refusal before pushing his hips forward and filling you easily thanks to his attentions with the egg. 

“Fuck, there we go,” he groaned when the flesh of your ass met his thighs. Bottoming out inside of you. You moaned loudly as he filled you up, feeling his tip meet your innermost wall. “I aint ever been in a pussy this good Baby.”

Having neglected his cock for so long, choosing to pleasure you ahead of himself, Jack didn’t bother wasting time building up a slow and steady pace. He pounded into you hard and fast as he always did when chasing his own release and slaps echoing in the room. 

He crashed his lips on yours, noses bumping together as the taste of your cum flooded your mouth. The kiss was sloppy, and messy, but Jack desperately seemed to need his mouth on yours as his hips rammed yours. You could tell by his desperation he would not last long, he rarely did when he had aroused himself so much by pleasuring you.

Once, twice, three times he bucked into you hard before warm cum flooded your insides, he pulled your bottom lip into his mouth and bit hard, but not hard enough to draw blood, groaning loudly. 

You didn’t complain about the fact that he had sought his own release as he lazily pulled out of you, pushing his seed back inside you with his thumb, knowing full well he intended to make you cum at least once more that night. 

“Baby,” he sighed, licking his thumb clean of your combined releases. “What's your color? You still good to try take that big one?”

“Green Daddy,” you sighed, settling into the pillows comfortably, preparing yourself for the challenge. 

“My perfect girl,” he said proudly, kissing your cheek and retrieving the toy. 

You knew there were larger toys out there, but this would be the largest you had ever taken personally, it was bigger than Jack, who was already an impressive size himself. He placed the toy beside you on the bed before opening the bedside drawer for a bottle of lube.

“I know you’re wet Darlin, you’re always wet for me, your horny little cunt’s always up for more, isn’t she? But we still need to prep you” he said, coating his fingers in lube and putting two in you straight away. The artificial lube, mixed with both of your cum made obscene noises as Jack pumped his fingers and stretched you open. 

“Daddy can get hard again on that noise alone Honey Bee,” he chuckled, laughing harder as your eyes widened as you glanced down at his spent, wet cock that was already twitching with interest.  

You bit your lip and wiggled slightly, stopping when his eyes cut back to your face in warning. 

“Are you going to take me again Daddy?” You asked as a third finger pushed inside you. 

“Ohhh, you can bet on it Baby,” he moaned, watching your hole stretching around his fingers. When he managed to fit a fourth, large finger inside you, he stretched you wide open so he could stare into your hole, groaning at the sight. 

“My perfect little cunt,” he whispered before spitting into your hole, giving you an obnoxiously cocky grin before pulling his fingers free and shoving them in your mouth to clean. 

Obediently you lapped them up, cleaning your combined cum and lube off of his fingers while his free hand opened the bottle again. Once he deemed his fingers acceptably clean he pulled them out of the hot cavern of your mouth and picked up the toy, coating it generously in lube. 

“You sweet little pussy’s gonna look so good taking this,” he growled, shoving your legs apart as wide as they could go and lining the tip of the toy up at your entrance. He was extremely careful, as he pushed it forward, watching your reaction carefully for any sign of discomfort. Even with the stretching and copious slick from the lube and cum it was a struggle to take, the stretch was burning and so far he had only pushed  the tip in. Jack paused, waiting patiently for your face to relax as he slowly pulled the toy out, then back in, pushing just a little bit deeper each time, pausing, waiting for you to adjust each time you grimaced. 

It took a lot of hard work, but with both your efforts the toy was eventually pushed as deep as it could go. You both moaned in unison once the toy could go no deeper. Jack laid down on his stomach, between your legs, staring longingly once again at the stretch of your pussy. 

“Baby,” he cooed in adoration, running this finger around the toy where your hole stretched around it, making you whimper. “Look at that, fuck, just imagine how much we could get to fit in you with practice. Your sweet, tiny little pussy’s stretched so wide, Can’t wait to make you cum on that, bet it’s gonna hurt, make you cry, sweet thing.” 

You were stretched so wide that the arousal you felt at his words could not escape, simply filling you up further, making you whine. 

“Wait here, hold your legs open,” he ordered getting up off the bed, you noticed he was hard again already, having worked himself up watching you stretch around the new toy. 

He picked up the last box.

Oh. 

You had forgotten about that.

Jack gently picked up the pumps before returning to you, gently attaching the suction cups to each nipple and your clit. He loved how your breasts look, framed by the ‘bra’, pump attached to your nipples. 

“Gonna make you cum so hard, it’ll hurt so good baby,” he rasped, voice deep and gravely with lust. 

He squeezed the pump gently in one hand, watching how you would react with fierce intensity and hunger. The first pump was just enough to feel a slight suction, a mild sensation, but he continued to pump away slowly, watching the way your nipples began pulling up into the clear cups. He groaned at the sight, and once your nipples and clit started to feel the tight suction you whined loudly in both pain and pleasure, unintentionally squeezing around the large toy inside you still. 

Without warning Jack repeatedly squeezed the pump hard and fast, startling you with the sudden, constant suction.

“Ahhhh! Daddy!” You yelped, struggling to keep still for him.

“You know your words,” he reminded you. “They’re there if you need them.” 

You shook your head no, wanting that painful orgasm he promised you and was intent on giving you. 

You were sobbing as he pumped away, clit and nipples red and raw as they were pulled up into the cups, there would be marks in the morning, no doubt about that. 

It was painful, but incredibly arousing at the same time, they had never been this sensitive before, this abused and your head was swimming in the delirium of it. 

Jack jerked himself off with his free hand above you, as you squirmed beneath him, the painful, burning stretch of the toy, and the constant and the arduous suction on your most sensitive parts were driving you insane. 

To torment you further, Jack placed the pump down but did not release the suction, instead, grabbing onto one of the cups on your nipples and tugging at it. You cried, the pain agonising but it just made you anticipate your orgasm all the more. 

Proud of the reaction he pulled from you, his hand moved to the suction cup on your clit, repeating the action. You shrieked, louder than you ever had before and Jack abandoned his cock to cover your mouth, as he repeatedly tugged at the cup, muffling your shrieks. 

“Normally I love your noises Baby but we don't need people coming to investigate that now do we?” he teased. “Now I'm going to let go and you’re going to cum for me. You understand?”

You nodded into his hand. 

“Good, you need to scream like that, do it into the pillow,” he said before pulling his hand from your mouth to grip the toy filling you up by the base and jackhammering it inside of you, still tugging at the pump on your clit. 

It was instantaneous, and as painful as he had promised. Your hole was stretched as wide as it could possibly go right now and gripping hard on the toy that was stuffed inside you. Jack growled, watching with rapt fascination as your poor abused hole rhythmically clenched around the artificial cock. 

You didn't shake as much as you thrashed, pulling the pillow to your face to scream your voice hoarse as tears escaped your eyes due to the pain you were drunk on. 

Wet squelching, screams and Jack’s praises and curses filled the room as you came and cum gushed from you. Your body was both trying to milk the toy and push it out of you at the same time, and you realized the toy was being forced from you because you were squirting around it. Jack seemed unaware given how big the toy was, but he was preparing to enter you the second he pulled the toy from you, the hand previously tugging at your clit pump was stroking his cock while the hand still on the toy quickly pulled it out of you, coating him in the cum still squirting from you. 

“Fuck Baby!” he shouted, surprised for just a moment before he growled and quickly shoved himself in your gaping pussy before you finished. Pounding into you at a brutal pace, unintentionally but happily massaging that spot making you squirt, drenching his front in even more cum before your body could take no more.

“Fuck I didn’t think this would be how I made you squirt the first time, but Im not complaining,” he groaned in your ear, ripping your pillow away from your face and pounding into you, holding your still thrashing body tightly to him, ignoring the pump still on you as his cock destroyed your hole. Over and over again.

His pace was brutal and you cried, from the intense pain and pleasure of your orgasm, from the suction still on your nipples and clit, from the overstimulation of him pounding into you before you had even finished, how tender and swollen your sex was that was continuing to be abused, and the words that dripped from his mouth. 

“My fucking pussy, this is mine,” he growled, his voice sounding feral and animalistic. “No ones ever going to please you the way I do, fill you the way I do, every inch of you is mine!” 

“Y-yours,” you eeped out, voice faint after screaming so loud. 

That was all he needed to push him over the edge, shouting his release as he pulled you up into him and he pushed in as deep as he could go, ignoring how the pump dug into both of you, hitting your cervix, making you cry out as he came.You felt it leak out of you, your abused hole unable to hold it in as he pulled out. Pausing a moment to free you of the pump, making you hiss in pain and relief before Jack collapsed on top of you with a groan, resting his head between your breasts and wrapping his arms around you. 

You weren't sure how long the two of you lay there, clinging to each other, hearts and breath slowing down and sweat cooling from your skin as you stroked his hair. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eventually, once he was no longer panting, Jack sat up, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead as he took survey of the mess on yourselves and the bed. 

“You good baby?” he asked, the need for sleep clinging to his voice. 

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was…”

“Intense?” he supplied with a weak chuckle, getting up off of the bed. “Come on baby, let clean up and get you sorted.” 

You whined in complaint, rolling to your side, back to him. 

“I know you’re tired,” he cooed, gently picking you up and carrying you to the ensuite. “But you’ll regret waking up in a wet bed, covered in cum and sore as all hell.” 

“Fine” you sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck, more than happy to let him do all the work, and you knew he was more than happy to do it. 

He took extra care with you that night, cleaning you up, removing the lingerie from your body, soothing your sore abused nipples with ointment, changing the bedsheets and praising you as you snuggled to him every chance you got. 

You were already asleep by the time he put you to bed and tucked you in beside him.

Taglist: 

@thats-one-tender-foot  @luminescentlily @nuttybeardetective @ishqinbbc @ben-is-a-hoe @calamity-queen @phoenixhalliwell @talesfromtheguild @the-arctic-violet  @jeeperky @mando-amando

[searchingwardrobes]

Not the Type - 6/8

Finally! A new update :) Sorry for the delay, but the muse has been fickle as of late. In this chapter, Emma has her first competition of the season, and it's psyching her out. Will Killian be her encouragement, or will she push him away in the midst of it all? This chapter includes another iconic scene from the movie, when Torrance dances around her room to Cliff's song. I wanted to use the actual lyrics to the song, but in looking at it, there were a few lines that bothered me. One literally says "I'd bring you flowers every day just to roll you in the hay." And then there's a constant refrain that says "I'll make you mine." Those lines just don't seem to jive for me with Killian's character when in canon he specifically tells David that he doesn't see Emma as loot and tells Emma that he will win her heart, but not through any trickery. We know he isn't the kind of guy to give a woman flowers in order to manipulate her into sleeping with him. We also know how much agency means to him, so I didn't think telling Emma in song "I'll make you mine" fit either. Anyways, that's a long way of explaining that the lyrics are 99% like the ones in the movie, minus those two parts.

Massive thanks to my beta, @hookedonapirate who takes my confusing sentences and makes them sound purty ;) You’re the best! And thanks also to the @captainswanmoviemarathon​ for putting together this event and being massively supportive and patient. 

Summary: Emma Swan first notices him in the stands at the Friday night football game. She can tell right away Killian Jones is not the football type. Then again, she’s not the cheerleader type either, but here she is with pom poms. Life hasn’t ever gone the way Emma planned. Lately, that’s actually been a good thing. Maybe Killian Jones is a good thing, too.

My loose Captain Swan AU of the movie Bring it On

Rated: T

Also on Ao3

Tagging: @kmomof4  @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @xhookswenchx @teamhook @let-it-raines @winterbythesea @spartanguard @shireness-says @superchocovian @thesschesthair @resident-of-storybrooke @vvbooklady1256 @hookedonapirate @ultraluckycatnd @hollyethecurious @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @bethacaciakay @optomisticgirl @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @ekr032-blog-blog @itsfabianadocarmo @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @winterbaby89 @tiganasummertree @xsajx @jennjenn615 @zaharadessert @stahlop @scientificapricot @thislassishooked @kday426 @ultraluckycatnd @carpedzem @ohmakemeahercules @branlovestowrite @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @snidgetsafan @lassluna​

The room was thick with hair spray, and Emma and the rest of the Storybrooke Knights Cheerleaders were sucking on orange slices. Except for Ruby who was touching up her blood red lipstick in front of one of the mirrors propped up on the classroom’s smart board. 

“I think they’re red enough already, Ruby,” Coach Ava remarked as she sprayed more Aquanet all over her daughter’s hair. MM was having to wear a hair extension so she didn’t look out of place with their “hair” theme, and Coach was paranoid it was going to go flying across the gym floor during their routine. Emma wasn’t sure hairspray worked that way, but she wasn’t about to say so. 

Ruby smacked her lips together with a loud pop. “The redder the better, I say. I want them to see my smile.”

She turned to the rest of the group and flashed a toothy grin. They all laughed, and Belle grimaced. 

“More like a predator about to devour her prey.”

Ruby winked at Belle and growled, resulting in more laughter. Coach Ava rolled her eyes as she capped the hairspray. “Just don’t get it all over your teeth, okay Lucas?”

“No worries, Coach, it’s that long-lasting stuff that isn’t supposed to come off.”

“So why did you need fifty coats?” Tiana quipped.

They were all still laughing when a woman wearing a t-shirt that read, East Maybrook Invitational and holding an ipad poked her head into the classroom. “Storybrooke High in the hole!”

The girls all stood, gathering up their things, tossing orange peels into the trash bins and giving their hair and make up one last glance in the mirror. They followed the woman in the official t-shirt down two hallways to East Maybrook High’s cafeteria where cheer mats had been set up in the same configuration as on the performance floor. The girls took their places as if they were really performing, and marked out the routine while Coach Ava counted out the beats. If something went wrong with the music, they would have to keep going. They only pantomimed doing the stunts, however, not wanting to risk a last minute injury. 

After running through the routine, a nervous silence fell among them. Some girls stretched, others did a few jumps, or even a back handspring. Anything to handle their nervous energy. Emma bounced on the balls of her feet, heart pounding in her chest more than usual. A phone call had followed the letter: someone from the UK cheer staff would be in the stands today. 

And she still hadn’t told her friends about it.

“Storybrooke High on deck!” 

The girls gave each other nervous glances and clasped hands in little groups as they followed the woman out of the cafeteria doors. Emma had Ruby on her left and Mary Margaret on her right, their arms threaded together. For once, Ruby was quiet. 

As they neared the gym, the girls could hear the familiar sounds of competition: loud music, an announcer's voice, shouts as the audience cheered for the cheerleaders for once. It made the adrenaline pump even harder. It usually was at this moment that Emma went into her competitive “zone” where everything around her went fuzzy and her mind became laser focused on the routine and what she had to do. Today, however, she felt like she was on sensory overload, unable to turn off all the sights, sounds, and smells around her. 

Before she could even process everything, Storybrooke was being announced to the crowd. Emma ran out onto the floor with a huge smile, cheers, and fist pumps for the crowd, but it felt like she was outside of herself, watching. She took her place on the floor, standing in prep, her arms straight at her sides and her head down. Her fists were clenched, and she tried to control the nervous tremors coursing through her as she waited for their music to start. 

A synth-pop remix of “Hair” from the Broadway musical started to play, and the Storybrooke Knights whipped their ponytails as they started their back handspring/back tuck peel-offs. Coach Ava always said that the music needed to appeal to every generation represented in the judge’s panel as well as the crowd, and as Emma flawlessly landed her tumbling pass to roaring applause, she saw the two boomer judges smiling and bopping to the music. 

She reprimanded herself for looking at the judges as she jogged across the floor for her next tumbling pass. Nevertheless, she scanned the crowd just before she started her pass, wondering where that UK recruiter was. It was the most difficult pass in the entire routine: a back handspring into an arabian, then a double whip into a full twisting double back. She hesitated, stumbling, before getting started because of her distraction, and by the time she did her second whip, she had a sinking feeling. Sure enough, when she landed her double back, she was way out of bounds. She didn’t need the loud buzzer from the line judge to alert her to the fact. She gritted her teeth in frustration, but then remembered to fake a smile as she got into the dance formation. Her face ached from her forced smile as she swung her hips to the rhythm of “Whip My Hair.”

Emma’s next mistake came in the squad’s first pyramid. It felt like she had a weight attached to her ankle, and she couldn’t lift her leg as high as she normally did to connect to Mary Margaret’s stunt group to her left. She almost lost her balance completely, but Ruby compensated and saved it. Mary Margaret didn’t falter either, thank God. Emma was practically shaking as she went into the twist up stunt - her nemesis in this routine. Kelly Rowland singing “Crown” as Emma popped up, her hand grasping her ponytail, helped her power through, as cheesy as it sounded. 

Despite the mistakes Emma was berating herself for, the crowd was going crazy for the combination of the theme, the music, and the cool tricks. By the end, the entire gymnasium was on its feet with thunderous applause. Emma ended the routine seated on the mat, back to the audience with her head flung back. Since she saw them all upside down, she couldn’t pick out her family or anyone in Kentucky blue. 

Ruby yanked Emma to her feet, screaming loud enough to shatter her eardrums. Mary Margaret and Ariel sandwiched her in a hug, and then they were swept away by the rest of their ecstatic teammates. 

“Amazing job, girls!” Coach Ava praised, gathering them in a big, squirming, awkward group hug. “Mary Margaret didn’t even lose her hair!’’

They all laughed giddily, except for Emma. Her mind was reeling. “I went out of bounds,” she confessed.

Coach Ava waved off her words. “It’s our first competition. It’s normal for there to be kinks to work out. Let’s not worry about that until the next practice, though. For now, let’s just celebrate a solid opening for the season.”

Her teammates seemed to all be in agreement, and so did the judges, awarding The Storybrooke Knights with a third place finish. It wasn’t their best opening - that had been last year’s first place trophy to kick off the season - but making the top three was the goal of every top squad right out of the gate. Even the UK recruiter had congratulated her on a solid routine.

“I could see the nerves a bit,” she told Emma, her smile kind and reassuring, “but the level of tumbling skill you possess is rare. Top five I’ve seen so far, no doubt about it. We’ll definitely be in touch.”

Emma, however, couldn’t shake the feeling of failure that clung to her. 

“I’m blown away, Swan, that was amazing!”

Emma was in Killian’s arms before she could even register that he’d rushed out of the bleachers and onto the floor to greet her. He brushed a kiss to her cheek and deposited a bouquet of white daisies into her arms. 

“It wasn’t amazing,” Emma whispered, staring down at the white flowers. 

“Come now, don’t be modest.” Killian’s grin conveyed giddy pride in her which she found inexplicably annoying. 

“I stepped out of bounds on my big tumbling pass, I almost took down our first pyramid, and I was shaky on every single stunt!”

Killian’s eyes narrowed. “Your team doesn’t seem put out with you.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “They’re being nice. If we hadn’t placed, it would have been a different story. It would have all been my fault.”

“Whatever happened to the whole we win as a team, we fail as a team thing?”

“My team relies on me keeping my head on straight!” Her voice had risen, and she slashed the air with the bouquet of flowers. White petals fluttered to the gym floor. 

Killian cocked his head and studied her. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing!”

“It’s something, Swan.” 

He stepped forward, reaching for her, but she stepped out of his reach. 

“I just let everyone down, but no one will be straight with me. Why can’t you all just admit I screwed up today?”

Killian shook his head. “I don’t think you’re seeing things clearly. I saw an amazingly talented athlete today, Swan. You were amazing.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Of course you’d say that. You’re a high school guy. You’ll say anything you have to to get in a cheerleader’s panties.”

Killian’s eyes widened and his head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “You really think so little of me?”

She tilted her chin. “I’m no fool. Did you think tonight would be the night? Show up to my little competition, compliment me, throw in some flowers, and I’d spread my legs for you?”

Killian backed away, his jaw clenching, nostrils flaring. “I’m going to assume you don’t mean any of that, Emma, so I’m walking away before either of us can say anything we might regret.”

“Fine!” she yelled as he turned and walked toward the gym doors. “Walk away! That’s what every guy does when a girl won’t put out.” She threw the flowers at his retreating form. She watched the white petals swirl through the air and the green stems hit the parquet floor with a soft swish and crinkle of cellophane wrapper. 

“Emma!”

She whirled around to see Ruth standing there, frown upon her face and her brow furrowed. David stood next to her, his arms crossed in disapproval. Nearby a cluster of her teammates stared as if she’d morphed into some mythological creature with two heads. Her face burned as she realized how loudly she’d yelled at her boyfriend. 

Probably ex-boyfriend now. 

Humiliated, she turned and fled, fingers pressed to her flaming cheeks. 

*********************************************

“Go away,” Emma muttered into her pillow.

“What if I were Mom with a plate of brownies?”

Emma grabbed a teddy bear, clutching two tiny red pom poms (a gift from Ruth after last year’s state championship win), and smacked her brother in the head with it. She glared at him through one eye, the rest of her face still smashed into the pillow. 

“I knew it was you because you crashed down on my bed hard enough to catapult me out the window. Ruth’s more subtle.”

David just laughed as he rubbed at his cheek where the bear had met his face. 

“Go away,” she repeated, turning her face fully into the pillow again.

“You left your phone downstairs.”

“So?”

“So, you have like fifty text messages and thirty missed calls.”

Emma rolled over, still clutching her pillow to her chest. “Well, he’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“It wasn’t just Killian. Your entire team is worried about you.”

“Because I choked?”

“Because you're delusional,” David shot back with equal parts humor and frustration. “You didn’t choke. You didn’t let any of us down. You didn’t give a lousy performance, or any of a thousand other ridiculous claims you’ve made in the past few hours.”

Emma turned to look at her brother. “I made mistakes, David.”

He shrugged. “Who doesn’t? It was one competition, Emma, not the Olympics. It wasn’t even the state championships or regionals. One. Competition. At some tiny high school in the middle of nowhere, Maine.”

Emma groaned as she pushed herself up to the headboard and let her head drop to David’s shoulder. He put his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about Kentucky?”

Emma sighed. When the recruiter had called, she insisted on speaking to Ruth as well. Emma should have known she would spill the beans to her son, especially after Emma acted like a complete lunatic. 

Yes, a delusional lunatic. Her brother wasn’t wrong. 

“I don’t know, it was just . . . a lot to process. And a lot rides on this. I mean, there aren’t any football recruiters looking at you, which means college is gonna be expensive, Mr. Quarterback. If my tuition is taken care of, Ruth can just worry about you.”

“I could get other scholarships.”

“You’re a white, middle class male. You aren't getting any other scholarships.”

He chuckled and poked her in the ribs. “Regardless of all that, Mom just wants what’s best for you. We’ll figure out college and the money and all that, but we’ll do it together. That’s what a family does. Okay?”

This family thing was still new for Emma, so she just nodded in agreement against David’s shoulder. 

“But speaking of Killian,” David said, waving her phone in front of her face, “some of these calls and texts are from him. He sent you a video, too. Then called me and pretty much begged me to get you to watch it, so just give him that much, okay? So he’ll leave me alone?”

Emma rolled her eyes as she took the phone. David could protest all he wanted, but she knew about the little bromance he had with her boyfriend. 

She waited until her brother went downstairs before she sat cross-legged in the center of her bed and pulled up the video from Killian. She gnawed on her bottom lip nervously before pressing “play.” 

And there Killian was, on the tiny screen, smiling like they’d never had a fight. Emma’s lips pulled up into a grin of her own. He was also holding his guitar in his lap and fidgeting.

“Hi, Emma,” he said with a nervous little wave. “You’ve been ignoring all my calls and texts, so I decided to pull out the big guns. I was gonna give this to you as a gift for like Valentine’s Day or something, but  . . . you know . . . desperate times call for desperate measures.”

He cleared his throat and shifted again, and Emma blinked back tears. She’d never seen him at such a loss for words. 

“I wrote you a song,’ he continued, “so, I’ll just shut up and sing it already.”

Emma gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as he began to strum his electric. It started 

out as a kind of slow, cheeky punk rock ballad.

Oh, Emma, I don’t get your cheerleading squad, but I love your pom-poms. I'd feed you bon-bons all night.

Then it transitioned into a full on rock song, and Killian began to shred on his guitar. He was really good, and the song had Emma bobbing her head to the music. 

1,2,3,4. Yeah, you got me to feel all those butterflies inside. In your locker I would hide. The truth, it's only you I see, and you're just what I need. I'll bring you flowers all the time in hopes that you’ll be mine. Well I'm feelin' fine, I'm right on time. I hope I’ll win your heart.

When he transitioned into the chorus, Emma leapt up from her bed. She propped her phone on her nightstand and began to dance around the room to Killian’s song.

And you're just what I need. And you're just what I need. Not everything works as it seems. Is that so hard to believe? So I went down to the record store. Picked my head up off the floor. The truth, it's only you I see. And you're just what I need. And if it's my world that you fear, let me make this very clear. Well I'm feelin' fine, I'm right on time. I hope I’ll win your heart. And you're just what I need.

The chorus repeated a couple more times, and Emma danced around her room like she hadn’t in a long time. She even grabbed an old pair of pom poms she’d gotten as a joke at the squad’s white elephant Christmas party. They were those enormous pom poms cheerleaders used to wave in the long ago days of letter sweaters and megaphones. They made a fun swishing sound as she bounced around the room to Killian’s song. 

A song he’d written for her! A song about her! If she wasn’t so giddy and happy, she would burst into tears. 

When the song ended, Emma collapsed onto her bed, panting from her ridiculous dance party and grinning ear to ear. She rolled over and grabbed her phone. She texted rapidly, her fingers trembling. 

I watched your song. 

Did you like it? 

I LOVED it!

Good. I meant every word. 

I’m sorry. 

I know. 

[deathonyourtongue]

Sanguine Nocturnus | 1

Summary: Even after 2000 years, the world can still surprise you. Pairing: AU!Henry Cavill x OFC Word Count: 2K Warnings: It’s a vampire fic. Death. Blood. Gore. Sex. Horror. Not for the kiddies or the squeamish. I mean it. A/N : I know I said I’d wait. But y’all have been clamoring...

Death has a way of manipulating time. Moments meant to go slowly end in a blink, while junctures that ought to speed past, linger like dew on the vine...

Carla Montanari stared at her mother’s corpse, waiting for her to move. Waiting for the only family she’d ever had to open her eyes and say it was all a joke. Her mother had always had a cutting sense of humor; no topic was off-limits, and as she aged, death was a favored punchline. Now, it seemed, her mother had pulled off the ultimate prank, though Carla failed to see the humor in it.

The mortician had done an excellent job all things considered, but Carla could still pick out the differences between the body that lay at the altar of Saint Vincent’s and the one she had grown up with. A jaw that had been given too much lift, makeup that was a shade or two darker than what her mother normally wore, wrinkles that had disappeared when her face had been sewn back together. She’d been told she was lucky to get an open-casket service at all, given how much trauma her mother had suffered, as if it were some sort of consolation prize.

Looking behind her, Carla did a headcount of those in attendance, smiling softly when she saw that her mother’s bingo group were all in attendance, each woman donning their Sunday best in order to pay their respects. What her mother lacked in family, she’d more than made up for in friends who were all cut from the same cloth. Good, salt-of-the-earth people. Carla had always envied how easily her mother made friends, how she could chat up anyone, no matter how different their background and find something in common. It was a skill she hadn’t passed down, leaving her daughter to carve out a small handful of friends who were more acquaintances than anything else. 

Crossing herself, Carla took a deep breath, looked down at her mother once more, and finally leaned down to kiss the cold, clammy skin of her forehead, doing her best to ignore the faint waft of formaldehyde that filled the casket. A solitary white rose tucked beneath her mother’s hands was Carla’s final act before turning away. 

Time blinked, and she found herself seated across from her mother’s lawyer, a slab of mahogany separating them, the coffee she’d been offered growing cold as the AC hit it from overhead.

“I suppose we can do away with formality, since it’s just you,” the older man said, his smile tight and distant. Carla nodded, feeling as though the man wanted to be done so he could attend to other, more important, matters. 

“Your mother left all her possessions and accounts to you, no surprise there. She gifted her friends each an item from her apparently extensive purse collection, so we’ll facilitate that for you. The accounts are all in order, and what isn’t used to pay off her final bills, will be transferred to your account by the end of the month. Lastly, there’s the matter of the inheritance. This may be news to you, but your grandmother set up an inheritance in your name when you were born. Initially, it was meant to pay for college, but when you got your full ride, your mother decided to keep it going until her passing. Her hope was to give you a nice nest egg for retirement, or your first house...something to that effect.” 

Carla looked down at the document, counting and recounting the total in disbelief. Her mother had always been terrible at keeping secrets, having given away things to her friends that had mortified Carla when she was younger. 

Guess you were better at it than I thought.

Inhaling deeply, Carla sat back in her chair, hoping the meeting was over. The quicker she could get out into the fresh air, the better off she’d be. 

“There’s one more thing,” her mother’s lawyer said, keeping Carla rooted to her seat even as the muscles in her legs twitched in readiness to stand up. “Your mother wanted to ensure you were aware of the fact that you have legal claim to Italian citizenship, if you should ever choose to take it. They call it Jure Sanguinis; Right of Blood. The process can be expedited, given that you’re only second generation American. Sign here and we can get it in motion for you.” 

Carla signed blindly, eyes unblinking as she tried to process the information. Her mother had always been a planner, but had never once mentioned so much as a will to Carla. Now, seeing everything packaged up so neatly, her mind spun wildly.

“Think you know a person…” She muttered mostly to herself, the lawyer giving her another one of his performative smiles, his eyes going to his watch for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes. 

Leaving the office with a folder and the untouched coffee, Carla couldn’t help but feel time begin to crawl, reinforcing the feelings of numbness and solitude that would haunt her for weeks to come.

Working steps from Wall Street had its perks. Tips were usually far more generous than in other parts of town, fights were rare, and drunk girls crying over their shitty boyfriends were nonexistent. None of that made it any easier, however. Frat boys turned into day traders, socialites grew even more entitled as their brunches turned into botox appointments, and there was never a shortage of patronizing stares for those that had to actually work for a living. For Carla, navigating the catcalls, one-liners, and straight-up sexual misconduct was easy enough; it was the entitlement that never failed to get under her skin. 

“Um, hello? Waitress? This is wrong. I asked for a Negroni.” Looking up, Carla swept her long black hair over her shoulder as she processed the words that were spoken. Having decided to keep living life as though things hadn’t irrevocably changed, Carla was doing her best to ignore the stress that had been slowly creeping higher and higher each day. Busy nights at the bar were proving the worst, with Carla coming through the door at the end of her shift ready to rant about the night to her mother, only to find the place pin-drop silent and utterly empty. 

Looking down at the drink, Carla gazed back up at the woman with the blond, news anchor hair and cocked her head to the side in confusion. 

“That is a Negroni.” 

“Uh,” the woman snorted in disbelief, “no it’s not. Remake it, and do it right this time.” 

“This is a Negroni. One part gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari each, with a peel of lemon.” The woman laughed condescendingly and Carla could feel her patience start to disappear. 

“No, a Negroni, if you knew anything about bartending--which you clearly don’t--is made with Rye and dry vermouth.”

“Lady, I make at least ten of these a night. I work six nights a week. You’re the first, and only, person to ever tell me it’s wrong. You’re thinking of an Old Pal, and I’d be more than happy to make that for you, but this? This is a Negroni, which is what you asked for.”

“Fine, we’ll see about that.” The woman huffed, her manicured hand slicing through the air in a dismissive motion. 

“That’ll be $10.99.”

“Absolutely NOT! I’m not paying for your mistake. Make it again, make it right, and make it now!” The woman crowed, her hair imobile as she shook her head, looking for all the world like Carla had slapped her.

“It’s a different drink. You paid for a Negroni, you got a Negroni. You want an Old Pal, you pay for an Old Pal.” Carla replied, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for the woman to make up her mind. 

The alcohol burned Carla’s eyes and she stumbled back in shock, moving towards the large sink she knew was behind her on pure instinct. Washing her face to get as much of the cocktail off as she could, she knew she’d reached her breaking point. 

Any other time and she’d have brushed it off, had security kick the woman out and gone about her night. Now? She’d had enough. Moving slowly to the back, Carla took off her apron, hung it up next to her coworkers’ and slipped out the back door. 

Nearly sprinting the whole way home, it was only as she stepped through the door of her apartment that the tears came unbidden. Sliding down the wall, Carla cried for the first time since her mother’s passing. 

The next morning, after calling in her notice, Carla allowed herself a day to simply be. To scream, to cry, to let out all the emotions that had befallen her since answering the phone that fateful night and hearing that her mother had died in such a vicious and preventable way. She let rage fill every vein as she thought about how the person who hit her hadn’t even bothered to stay at the scene. She lamented every missed moment, every fight, every what-if. Finally, she curled up in her mother’s robe, and cried herself to sleep.

Knowing she couldn’t handle another day at a bar like the one on Wall Street, catering to bratty adults who’d never been told no a day in their lives, Carla began leaning more and more towards escaping it all. Her now-empty apartment, her routine assortment of familiar faces (none of whom had even bothered to call and offer condolences), and more than anything, the city itself; all of it seemed worthless and foreign without her mother’s smiling face. As she sat and scrolled through picture after picture on her phone, the promise of a new life in Italy seemed more feasible, and more and more necessary.

On day three, after a day spent mostly in bed, dreaming about the possibilities of what life could bring now that she was committed to leaving, Carla put in a call to the lawyer, vaguely remembering the document she’d signed. There was nothing but relief when she was told they were simply waiting for a few more documents to finalize it all. 

With the foundation for her new life in place, Carla began to flesh out the bones, focusing her research on where to live, and who was hiring. Though the inheritance was enough to live comfortably for several years, Carla didn’t want to squander it. Moreover, she still wanted to work and feel useful in some way; early retirement could wait.

While she was spoilt for choice when it came to renting, a job was harder to come by. Carla started her search with the lofty goal of finding something where she could put her history degree to good use; a research assistant, a curator, hell, a tour guide. When it became clear that her lack of experience was a hurdle she wouldn’t be able to cross so easily, Carla reluctantly turned to what she knew. 

Weeks went by like thick molasses as she looked at bar after bar, finding that they either weren’t hiring, or looked like the kind of place people went into and never came out of. Her options were narrow to start with, since Carla had her heart set on Rome, the need to entrench herself in one of the world’s oldest cities, one she couldn’t possibly ignore. With each day that passed, she felt her dream beginning to slip away. Carla was nothing if not tenacious, one of the few traits she’d shared with her mother, and despite feeling discouraged at her prospects, she kept looking.

Finally, as the clock nearly ran out on her deadline to provide proof of employment, Carla found the perfect spot. Though the bar catered to a higher-end clientele, gone were the stockbrokers and lawyers, and in their place, a younger, cooler set. Attracted to the dark, almost feral, atmosphere the bar promised in its advertising, Carla applied, crossing her fingers in the hopes that they’d call. 

She was still browsing the site when her phone rang and the owner greeted her in a thick, Italian accent. Breezing through the interview questions, Carla’s eyes roved over the pictures of all the beautiful people that frequented the night spot, pulled in by how effortlessly cool each of them looked. With the promise to call her by the end of the week to confirm the position, the owner ended the call, and it was all Carla could do not to jump for joy. 

Flopping back on the bed, she couldn’t help but let herself feel true happiness, happiness which she’d unconsciously been denying herself while she mourned her mother’s death. Though she’d been dealt a life-changing blow, Carla felt as though, slowly but surely, time was going back to its usual pace, and her life was taking a turn for the better. 

With a smile from ear to ear, she sat back up and emailed the lawyer, confirming she’d gotten a job, an apartment, and a plane ticket to Rome. As the message zipped away and the window closed, Carla found her eyes drawn back to the website, and her new place of employment. 

Romulus

[thedevildomdaily]

Demonic Possessions Ch 9: Love Advice & Interior Design

Note: Here’s the Master List for the full story. I recommend reading my stuff on my actual Blog if you enjoy OM! official music! Thank you so much for the support. Please let me hear from you in the comment section. I wanna talk OM!

I decided to make this chapter with more light banter and fun interactions and give the nephilim brothers some attention.

Warnings: Swearing, NSFW implied, light stuff this time ********************************

A couple weeks had passed. Construction on the attic was nearly complete. Lucifer and Azriel had negotiated a schedule in which the nephilim brothers would work on the attic bedroom for their sister. This helped avoid chaotic mornings, at least where the nephilim were concerned.

The overall mood of The House of Lamentation had shifted from the unease of having a new occupant amongst the Brothers and Lilly, to an odd sense of which the brothers had never experienced before. A shift in their dynamic as a family twisted due to a certain blossoming relationship.

Leviathan had become more outgoing and less reluctant in participating in events. He was more welcoming of everyone hanging around his room as well and his mood was less-likely to sour thanks to Lena. His brothers were happy for him, but it was an unusual experience for them as well. It was hard to ever find the two of them apart from each other.

“Thank you for doing my nails Asmo!” Lena chimed, “Your skills are amazing!”

Asmo grinned with brimming confidence, “Of course they are Leee-na. I’m an absolute master with nail art.”

“He’s also the best hair stylist.” Lilly chimed.

Asmodeus’s room had transformed into a spa for the two female residents and himself. The human was laying on his bed with a face mask and cucumbers over her eyes as her toe nails dried. Her hair was in a towel and she was completely relaxed as she sipped on her mimosa.

The nephilim had a peel on her face as she sat in a lavish chair while the demon painted a cute black cat on her accent nail. She too had her fill of mimosas as they relaxed from a week of cramming for a chapter test in alchemy. The math involved was exhausting, but she’d probably do well enough.

“Your brother is almost as bad as my old man when it comes to studying. I’m doing my best to be civil about it, but it’s getting on my nerves…”

Asmo gave a dramatic sigh, “If you think he’s bad now, wait until midterms. It’s a boot camp nightmare.” He then exchanged looks with Lilly as she peeked at them from her cucumber. He was underselling Lucifer’s regime.

“You know….” Asmo began with a sly voice, “I’m surprised Levi isn’t in here to get his nails painted…” Lena knew he was just baiting her at the mention of his brother. He wanted to open a dialogue to gossip about their relationship.

Shrugging, “I offered an invitation but Levi’s nails are still great from the last time you painted them. He’s also really engaged in a super hard game. The last time I saw him, Beel and Belphie were watching him battle a boss. It was getting intense in there…” It was also extremely cute, she thought.

“I’m just saying, given the fact that he’s the Avatar of Envy, I figured Levi to be a little more possessive and be following you around a lot more.” his younger brother admitted.

“Not gonna lie…” Lilly added, “I kinda anticipated that myself.” The brothers were all very possessive and it was easy to picture any one of them being like that. Well, Lucifer excluded. He was too damn cocky to believe anyone would stray from him ever.

Lena thought about it for a moment, ‘Well, I took your collective advice and talked directly with him when we went on that first date. I laid it all out for him: I’m not being held down to any single relationship. And in a kinder manner, that I basically don’t want to deal with jealousy. I’ve given up on monogamy….” he chuckled for a moment, “He actually compared me to you Asmo, and then asked if I wanted to start a reverse harem...and ya know what, I kinda like that idea haha!”

The other two blinked for a moment and joined in the laughter. “Pffft, that’s definitely a Levi-type of conclusion…” Lilly chuckled. She peeled the cucumbers off and ate them as she sat up. “It looks like you guys reached an amicable agreement then?”

The nephilim looked upward, clearly thinking about it for a moment. “We have. He agreed to an open relationship and to not be overly clingy with me. It’s beneficial to the both of u-”

“BOTH!?” Asmodeus interrupted, “Please explain!!?! Has my big, nerdy brother been hiding some secret affairs over these past few centuries?!” Why would it benefit the both of them, when only one of them has even been in multiple relationships?

“Oh, it’s quite simple really,” Lena chuckled, “His 2D waifus. I won’t ever complain about them or come between him and his fandom and I can have relationships with others as well. Besides, we’re immortal beings...forever is a realistic timeframe for us...why cling to each until we both become miserable? Monogamy hasn’t ever worked for any immortals I know...what about you?” Of course she was asking Asmo as he finished her last nail.

The demon shook his head as he released her hand and got his DDD ready to take pictures of his work for the gram. “Not that I’ve ever paid attention to it, I really can’t think of anyone...even angels drift apart and take loooooong breaks.”

“Well that’s a bit depressing….” Lilly mumbled.

“Oh, Lilly dear...don’t get depressed about it. It’s the beauty of humanity. You guys are far more capable of having a one, true love...not that you have to stick to it. It’s a valid option though.” She didn’t mean to depress the human. In her very long life, Lena had been in 100+ year relationships with various long-lived beings and it never seemed to work out. She was now trying this open relationship thing so that she didn’t feel tied-down or tired. She didn’t want anyone she was with to feel that way either.

“It’s all good. I was teasing for the most part.” Lilly smiled, “There’s only so many ways a person can spice things up and keep their relationship fresh; I’m sure an immortal couple could really struggle after a few centuries. It’s that case in my favorite vampire novel series anyways…”

Asmo didn’t comment on the matter. He couldn’t relate since he was loved by all and could charm anyone he wanted. He never for a moment considered a relationship because he could never love anyone more than himself.

“So, since you’ve found a way for things to work, have you guys……?” He smirked at the nephilim.

“ASMO!” Lily shouted. He merely chuckled.

“It’s none of your business…” Lena responded.

“That would be a solid ‘No’ then.” He quibbed. Lilly exchanged a look with him and nodded.

“Y’all are both horrible! It’s hard given he’s so reclusive and nervous. But also very cute….NO! I’m not talking with you guys about this, especially you Asmo. I’m not giving you any ammo to blackmail Levi…” She paused for a moment and contemplated, “I know he’s shy. But I also….”

“Also what?” Lilly blinked.

“I don’t know how to approach him. I’ve never been with a demon. Are you guys...very different for other beings?”

“Oh, you wanna see? Hmmmm?” Asmo teased. Or was he?

“Stop it!” Lilly smacked his shoulder lightly.

“Lena. You’re gonna have to make the first moves on Levi. Good news is there won’t be much effort you’d have to put into seducing him. It’s just finding the opportune moment when you’re feeling it.”

The girls both stared at Asmodeus for a moment.

“What? Is there something on my gorgeous face?” He immediately felt his pale, rosey cheeks.

“No, you’re just being surprisingly perceptive and giving profound advice on the matter.” Lilly said, “Lena should definitely wait until she feels right before taking the move. Like you said girl, you’ve got eternity. Take your time. Levi is a great guy and I know he’d never pressure you...”

Lena smiled and looked-up while thinking about him. “Yeah, he’s great. Special. I have so much fun with him. It’s nice to have someone interested in the same nerdy stuff as I am and not being picked-on about it 24/7.” Her last relationship went down like that. “When he blushes simply by me taking his hand, or how shocked he gets when I sneak behind him and wrap my arms around his waist...oooh... He’s too cute!!!!”

The nephilim squealed and shut her eyes hard thinking about her Levi-kun and the other two just laughed at her. Her responses to his cuteness just didn’t match her aesthetic at all and they found it hilarious to watch.

"Oh.." Lilly chimed in again, "They're 'normal' I guess."

Lena and Asmo blinked at the human for a moment.

"You asked if they were, ya know, compatible. I've had the horror of accidentally entering the men's bath when we went on a trip to a demonic hotspring before...I wanted to shove hot pokers in my eyes..." Lilly cringed.

"Oh, that's right! Lilly got to see me in all of my glory...jealous?" Asmo grinned.

The trio laughed and picked on each other all afternoon.

****************************

“Okay, we need a few more pieces of paneling. I want some nice filigree border work.” Azriel said to himself out loud as he took a step back to look at the progress made on his sister’s room.

Zak stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, as he watched his brother pace across the room. “Hey bro. It’s looking good. You really outdid yourself this time.” His siblings were super artsy, creative types. He couldn’t keep up with them on that. Instead, the middle sibling put any creativity into vehicle design and engineering. “Let’s take a break and go to Hell’s Kitchen for lunch. Then when we get back, you can spot anything else we need to do….”

“You do have a point. Let’s eat and come back with a new perspective…”

**************************

The nephilim brothers went for lunch, meeting up with Beelzabub and Belphegor. The twins were in the back corner, where the owner often put them so they weren’t a distraction for the other customers.

Belphegor had his arms folded on the table, propping his head up as he watched Beel chow down on ten burgers.

“Hey guys, can we join you?” Zak asked when he approached the demons.

“Sh--rr” Beel nodded as he wadded another large bite of food. Zak could have sworn the demon’s jaw had unhinged to take such a huge bite.

Azriel took a seat next to Beel. The two of them were the same height, though Azriel was much thinner, with more of a swimmer’s body then a body-builder’s. Zak sat by a groggy Belphie. They too, were the same height but different build. Zak liked to work out when he wasn’t working on a new engine.

“You guys about to finish remodeling?” Belphie asked with a yawn at the end, “I’m curious what you’ve done to my old...space.” Was it a bedroom or a prison? He didn’t know quite how to label the attic Lucifer kept him in.

Azri gave a pleasant smile, “Yes. It’s all coming along smoothly. Lena will be thrilled with it. It’s a touch of old european with her beloved gothic asethetic. She might not like the light-colored flooring, but it makes the space look bigger…” he went off into deep thought for a moment. Then, he saw some green in the corner of his eye and smiled, “excuse me for a moment…”

“Sorry, I swear Azri has ADHD or something...don’t mind him. ‘Creative Genius’ at work 24/7” Zak chuckled and looked at the menu.

“S’okay.” Belphie nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. “Sounds like you’ve had a lot of things to do. It’s nice putting in that effort for your little sibling.”

The twins and Zaksalamel chatted and ate their lunch, nearly forgetting that the elder nephilim had even came to Hell’s Kitchen. When he finally returned, there was an empty plate left at his spot.

“You shouldn’t have ordered and left when sitting by Beel…” Belphegor responded after seeing the shocked expression on Azri’s face. “Your food didn’t stand a chance...and apparently the napkin…”

“S-sorry….” Beel scratched the back of his head.

After a moment of silence, Azriel sighed, “it’s okay. That one was definitely on me….”

Zak noticed his brother’s cheeks get a little rosy. His mind was elsewhere clearly. What was he up to. “Hey, Devildom to Azriel...where’d you disappear to?”

“Oh, forgive my rudeness..again.” He suddenly returned to the conversation. “I just happened to see someone I know and asked for their opinion about the flooring choice…”

“Mmmh-hmmm…” Zak’s eyes narrowed at his brother, knowing there was something else to it. Azriel’s voice tone was suspicious. He’d leave it alone for now.

“So, anyways, I made the right decision, and I think we will be finished with everything in 2 days.” Azri clapped his hands together, chipper with the apparent results of the consultation he’d just had. “Beel, if you’d like to make it up to me for eating my highly-anticipated lunch, could you help carry furniture upstairs? You must be very careful…Lena is going to flip out when she sees it!”

As the four of them returned to the House of Lamentation together, Beel and Belphie walked some space behind the nephilim.

“They sure seem to care a lot about their sister to spend so much time on this room. I don’t think it was that bad..” Belphegor said quietly.

‘True. But, we’d do the same thing for our sister too. And that means Lilly as well…” Beelzebub nodded.

Agreeing, Belphegor let out a small sigh. He wasn’t sure about his own opinion of Lena so far. They didn’t start off on the best of terms. No, he’d admit that he behaved like a brat that day. But he never had the opportunity to get to know her or to apologize for his overreaction. Maybe he’d help with the furniture too?

[fictional-thoughts]

Bitter

nsfw. the mandolorian x reader

warnings: slight angst, smut w a hint of rough sex, rollercoaster of emotions in dis bitch

words: 5.8k

He’s standing outside her door, feeling a thousand feet away but it’s only a lock and a few inches of wood separating him from you. His gloved fingers tap nervously on the hilt of his long weapon, under the helmet he’s chewing his bottom lip, colouring it red, contemplating, thinking, smoothing over the idea in his mind.

He can’t see her now.

He’s a mess, still pumped on adrenaline from returning from his last job, it ended brutally, all he remembers is blood running down the street in thick streams, cracked open skulls and the dim echos of screaming. His eyes close, dark lashes kiss his cheeks and he’s erasing the memories from his mind, only wishing he didn’t have to knock on that damn door, pass over the threshold and finally be rid of recollection.

Surely she’d answer. She always did.

What is holding him back? His own guilt of betrayal? His errors of the past haunt him, soak deep into his skin he nearly finds himself turning away from you when he needs her most. That’s it. The Mandalorian is chewing on the idea that he does need her, it feels sharp on his lips, its thick and sickly sweet, a poisoned wine he’s desperate to try and accept. The thought of her is held high over his head, a knife of vulnerability threatening to drop over his skin, slide and peel back the foundations of his history. He’s alone in the galaxy, a hunter, a killer, torn from all things the world says people need in order to survive.

She’s not that.

She’s everything he knows he would want to be.

And he needs her. Maybe not forever, but not another moment should go by without him near her.

The Mandalorian sighs deeply and lifts his fist to tap on her door, number 017. He’s been there so many times the number greets him with familiarity. He’s rolling his sore neck, the helmet tilted and he’s staring at the ugly brown ceiling as short steps approach the door, its creaking open and his heart is starting to beat faster, trapped under the confines of his ribs it’s threatening to escape.

The world calms and she’s in front of him, dressed down in casual clothing she’s barefoot and her hair is let down. It’s warm light and the smell of home, wrapped in her curiosity filled eyes he’s finding no words to speak. It’s been so long.

“Mando,” she’s whispering softly but no one is around to hear the gentle way she’s saying his nickname she claimed as her own. Her arms cross, there’s a chill in the hallway and he sees her shiver. Her eyes scan him over, searching for a wound or ailment. The Mandalorian is okay, he’s safe and she’s been worried over nothing. His armour clinks as he shifts his boots on the hard ground. “Come in,”

She’s stepping back and offering him room to pass over the threshold, his aura of power and destruction follows the soldier into the room. Her eyes are on the guns and the knife concealed on his lace up boot. He’s still the same. The door closed behind him and he’s alien to her homely flat, plants and books stacked everywhere he’s picking small details about her place he doesn’t remember from the last visit. It’s all her own personality turned into a place where even he feels welcome.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he thumbs a green plants soft petals and stares down at the short bit of life in the pot. He feels her eyes on him, soft and bright they’re unwavering and he feels the pressure to gaze back, to look across the room as if she’s stars away.

“I’d never turn you away,” her arms are still crossed over her chest, she’s freezing. The Mandalorian sighs, he’s brought icy winds with him and the frigid night air. He turns and sees just how little she’s really wearing.

She can’t tell but through the visor he’s gazing into her eyes, searching for a clue of what she’s going to say next. He’s never been able to read her. “Did I wake you?”

He nearly takes up the bulk of the small flat with his broadness and layers of armour but you don’t mind. He’s here and she’s unsure of what to say, her eyes downward she draws an invisible pattern on the wooden floor with her bare foot. “I’d just fallen asleep,” she’s lying but how could she tell him she lies awake most nights and pray he’ll show up at the door? Not injured or broken but whole and wanting for her company; though she wouldn’t mind him to be broken, bruised and in need of her help. That’s never happened and she knows the Mandalorian suffers alone.

“I can leave if you wish.” He turns with a step towards her and he’s looking down, her body so small compared to his, she’s beautiful in the semi darkness, it reminds him of sunsets on the horizons and lunar eclipses, of dying stars that shine so brightly in the last living moments — things he never thought to take notice of before he met her. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Regret seeps through the particles of air all around them, sucking the space and drowning out the noise of the world. He’s slowly breaking as she looks up, hurt in her eyes. The Mandalorian sighs, he didn’t mean that. He rarely speaks the truth and it’s hard even with her. The bounty hunter is skilled in many things but expressing the art of softer emotions was never on the list.

They’re close and she’s thinking of what to say, her mind a cage of birds. She should be bitter, angry and cold towards him, blocks of icy bricks and unbreakable walls made of iron. But she’s soft and can’t bring herself to hurt him more than he’s hurt himself in the past. “Stay,”

She’s staring at the visor, where she knows his eyes are, she can feel the deeper eye contact, sense his dark eyes connected with her own, each afraid to break the gaze she’s feeling her breath pick up. She’s missed him.

A glimmer of hope sparks and the Mandalorian is releasing a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “Thank you.” The helmet manipulates his tone and he’s sure his words sound heartless to her, of forgotten promises and crumbled love letters, spilled ink and empty words. He cannot give into that again, he’s a Mandalorian, a fighter, unbreakable and strong. It’s a tangle of his history and oath, his chosen path of culture and personal dependence, welded to his life, he’s stuck in time.

“Why are you here, Mando?” She’s pulling at the strings of bitterness, her gentleness has morphed into hints of resentment blended into her question. She’s close to him and yet so alone.

He’s not looking at her but removing his weapons from his form, the weight they carry is pulling him down, the very objects behind his life, his only possessions besides the ship he flies through the stars from planet to planet. He wishes he had more, but of what? What could a wandering hunter possess? The long rifles set down, its base thumped on the ground and the length is leaned against a dark bookcase and his blaster goes next to it. The knife is set down on the shelf with a careful hand. There’s more but they can come off later. “I’m here for you.” His gravelly tone is curling around her ears like a thousand deadly drums, beating out in time to the time of her breathing. He’s sincere and getting closer to her. “I want —”

She’s soft but not stupid. “You want to forget.” Shaking her head she’s a little hurt, a little on the edge of a steep cliff but it’s all foggy, unknown and he’s so close is suffocating. 

He’s pausing and the grips on his heart fade away. She knows him so well and it’s slowly tearing him apart, you’ve always been there to become a beacon and block the echos of his past. He thinks back to a time where he was caught after a battle, war torn and crushed he arrived at her door, tearing from him his battle gear and allowing her to blindly feel his scars, map this history of his body, he devoured every breath she took, sunk into her warmth he never wanted to leave. She’s never turned the Mandalorien away.

“You’re right.” He can’t lie, not yet.

She’s unfocused, her lip drawn under her teeth, bitten to a soft red, swollen under pressure. The thumping of her heart in her chest is loud enough for it to echo in her mind, she’s pulled in different directions, to remember the bitter past or take soul advantage of the present before her. She’s torn, spread so thin. He looks the same, and you can only really wonder who he was under the mask, though a little bulkier and clad in new armour he is still the Mandalorian, he is still yours. It’s all a mess but didn’t they used to thrive on the chaos? Get off to the secret, the whispered words and hidden touches. They were so young and blind and bonded together, it felt like ages ago. “Its just been so long,”

She’s missed him.

He’s stepping closer and sees just how small she is, compared to him. Metal to silk, ash to spring like winds she’s all the light in the world and he can only be her match. Their words built on an equal balance of light and dark, of shifting tides and uncertain times but in the end, one shall always meet their match. He’s exhaling shakily and he’s never one for words but he wishes to tell you everything, his sins, his purging of the innocent and its only a job but its not. It’s wearing him down to slide back into his bunk every night with his thoughts on you and what you once were, to him. Please, he’s thinking, its burning and rocking inside him and why cant he just tell you what he wants.

“Mando...” she’s looking down at his hands, his right curled over her own wrist, thumb rubbing circles.

The glove is worn and soft, leathery and not what she wants. He is silent and she’s tugging the gloves from his hands and tossing them to the floor. His tanned hands are bruised and split knuckles, trophies of his winnings.

“I don’t want to relive the past.” He tells her, tone neutral and softer, only for her. He cant think back to the times they’ve hurt one another, times when the moments never ended and they knew it would be alright in the end. But things like that never last. “I just need -”

“Me,” she’s completing his sentences and he’s alive with hope, waves of curling heat are smoothing his skin. And he tries not to go fast but he’s got her pulled into his arms and she’s so smooth and soft in his hands he’s nearly saying her name in prayer. Her backs arched to him and she’s got wonder in her eyes, he feels her hand slide over and up his shoulder and he’s suppressing the shivers that run through him, lit from a fuse thats connected only to her. “I can’t promise things will be the same,” she’s whispering through him, her hand on his cool helmet, just where his cheekbone would be and the Mandalorian is leaning into her touch. At her words his hands spread and squeeze her waist.

“I don’t want it to be the same,”

She’s being backed up, slowly and careful steps and she’s pressed into the wall. “We can make it better.” She knows the Mandalorian, she’s been his home, his secret for years and it cant ever be the same. She knows all he wants is to burry within her and forget the sounds of bombs, the taste of blood and rustic metal and smoke. “Mando,” she says his name and he’s already helping her from her clothes.

Gods, he’s feeling chunks of himself melting and falling to your feet, his girl, tender and lovingly she’s a mess of bittersweet romance and the feeling of flowers that you can only touch but not pick from the garden it’s planted. Is that all she is to him? A beauty to only observe and continue on the journey? “Mando, wait,” she’s gasping softly and he can barely stop, his hands splayed over her ribcage, the bumps of her bones under taunt skin he’s waiting for her to continue, her voice sending sparks to alight within him. He’s got his hand cupped around her jaw and the other sliding downwards to span her thigh, he’s going to lift her to the wall and push himself onto her. “Mando,” and he stops, leaned back he’s watching her to make sure she’s okay. “The blindfold, its, its in my room,” she’s flushed and stumbling on her words and he’s only wondering how such a beautiful thing could be in his grasp.

The Mandalorian shakes his head lightly. “Not yet.” His armours being untied by your careful hands and he’s silent, watching her work, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. Hotness seeps into his stomach, it’s craving and desperate. Bit by bit she’s pulled the metallic layers away, stripped him of his defence, he’s just as bare as you, with thin clothing thats close to the skin, close enough to feel the radiating heat. “Can I trust you?”

She’s mustering a soft smile and nodding, “’course, Mando.” 

“Close your eyes,” his voice is rough and tender, sandpaper and featherlight and seeping into her skin: she obeys, letting her eyes slide closed she’s surrounded by darkness and the gentle click and hiss of air as the Mandalorian is removing his helmet. He lets it drop to the floor and she jumps at the noise but he’s already pulled her close, he finds her lips and its a clash of rough remembrance, of slick and stolen moans he’s kissing her so hard she might just shatter in his arms. He feels himself weaken as she’s winding her arms around his neck, fingers swirled in the tendrils of his hair she’s so perfect and he just wants her now. It’s growing faster and more desperate, he’s got his hand curved around your jaw and his tongues flicking in between her lips and she’s a whimpering mess of sweetly melted emotions.

She’s got her eyes squeezed shut and her heads thrown back as the Mandalorian is moved down to the curve of her neck, he’s lined her throat with slicked kisses, his hands slide over her breasts and she’s moaning softly. His attention to detail is immaculate and he’s got her whimpering in moments with the curve of his hands on her tits and lips on her throat, he’s greedy and she tastes so sweet. He’s breathing is picking up and the sounds catch on a gasp as her hands trail down his chest. “Please,” she’s blind to him, her eyes never opening but picking up on every slight movement he’s making against her pressed to the cold wall. Use me.

Without warning his mouth leaves her own and he’s got her turned, front to the wall and his own pressed to her back, his large hands curved over her ass he’s groaning at the feeling, his lips on her shoulder and neck the Mandalorian is living for the soft sounds she’s making, without the helmet obscuring his vision its all the more real and he’s watching her hands close into fists as he’s pulling at the lobe of her ear with his teeth. He gets an idea. “Wait here.” And he’s gone. 

She’s already slick and her stomach is tense, she’s resting her forehead to the wall as the Mandalorian is turning down all the lights, she hears him blow out a candle on the desk and she realizes he doesn’t want the blindfold, he wants it to be raw, unconfined and free. His steady and slow steps are closer and soon she’s whirled around, crashed into his chest. Its dark in the room, in contrast to the stars above the room could be dark as night.

Its soon a mess of stripped clothing and her nails are carving marks into his naked broad back, skipping over the flexing muscles she’s got her head thrown back as his mouth covers her breast, its the art of passion drawn with sound and the unspoken rule to give in to one other and forget everything else, from one broken soul to another.

She’s bare and exposed to his hands, rough and tugging he’s got her so ready for him she’s feeling weak. “Bedroom,” she pants, he grunts softly in response, his hand slipping between her thighs he’s pulling aside her underclothes and she gasps, his fingers gather her slick and curl up into her its sending shocks through her system.

In the darkness he’s so close to her, too far gone to tell her how good she is, how he’s barely holding it together, he wants them to fall to the ground, lay her down to explore every inch of what she has to offer, he’s going mad with the feel of her quivering with only his fingers inside her and his teeth on her neck and god she’s so wet and he can tell she’s needed this. Needed him. 

“Gods, Mando,” she has a grip on his shoulder and the other moves to graze over him and its sending him into a shock. He’s in denial of the feelings she’s giving him, and soon its all too much and his fingers leave her warm cunt and he’s tasting them on his tongue.

She’s growing more frantic with every second as she leads him to her bedroom, sliding her hand along the smooth wall she finds the door and the Mandalorians quick to push her to the bed. She’s pulling his bottom lip in her teeth, her hands knitted in his thick hair, thigh curved around his waist, hes so close and so hard against her through the restricting fabric. He’s groaning softly as her hands move downward, it’s been so long and Mando quietly gasps against her swollen lips. She’s realizing that she’s using him too, to forget the pains of the past, of forlorn moments and bitter goodbyes.

She’s under him on the bed, curved to his body in the eerie darkness. It’s just like old times except he’s different, he’s more quiet and controlled, rough on the edges and confident. He’s dragging her underclothes down and sinking past her thighs, forehead leaned onto her stomach the Mandalorian takes a moment, eyes closed, breathing in her sickly sweet scent that’s all her before he’s burrowing his head in between her legs it’s a mess of his lips on her soaked cunt, he’s fast and his fingertips dig into her hips, spanned over the ridges of her hipbones; his mouth is on her sweet slick and not stopping until she’s close.

She cries out, whimpering his name and her hands fly to his head, her thighs ache, they close around his head and the warmth of his tongue sliding across the softness of her core is pulling her closer and closer to the edge, controlling her form.

Then he’s gone, pushing her thigh off his broad shoulder his tongue is replaced with two fingers, curved deep inside her — hot and tight around him, she’s got a grip on the while sheets under her and he’s swallowing her moans, lips against hers it’s fast and messy, she’s gasping into his mouth, her hands taking advantage of the removed helmet she’s mapping out what he looks like through the darkness, his hairs thick and turned with soft curls, she feels the contours of his jaw and cheekbones under her fingertips, raised lines of scars and indents of a once broken nose — he’s beautifully tragic, compiled of her imagination he’s everything that and more.

He’s beckoning, sliding his fingers into her she’s panting wetly against his skin, it’s so dark she can only see the outline of his body over hers, blocking out the light she’s picking up on the small details, the scars on his shoulders, of bullets and knives, stitched by his own hand? She’s feeling lower and he’s packed on muscle and bulk until she’s sure he could crush her if he so pleased — not that she would complain.

The Mandalorians never been so exposed, he thinks his oath is broken, his ties to his own religion snipped away. But as the light panels over her, he’s easing his fingers from her cunt, they’re slippery with her slick and it’s carving out his innocence of pleasure and shaping him into a place wretched and sinful. He’s looking down at her, beautiful, gentle, and the Mandalorian wants to ruin it. He’s raising his hand, sliding over her chest, past her pretty neck and slips his two digits past her parted lips. She moans at the sharp taste of herself, tongue curled around him she’s sucking hard and he’s nearly done for. His head lowers to her tits and teeth close around her nipple, pulling, tugging he’s buried in the softness of her skin. His lips span over the arches of her breasts, stopping to kiss her sternum, the valley in between.

She’s biting down on the tip of his pointer finger, smiling through a moan as he looks up at her, wonder and adoration swirled through the darkness. “What do you want?” He’s recalling their past, her favoured touches, sweet spots — he can’t think of just one, to bring her to the edge, to hold her down and have him engulfed within her, his hands moulding her flesh, dragging his teeth over her throat, catching her soft cries and matching her with his own.

His fingers slip from her lips and he’s gripping her jaw, shifting above her he’s pressed so tightly it’s hard for her to breath but it’s so worth it. Use me, she wants to plead, to have him grip her tightly, take everything he has out on her, break through the barriers of bitterness, soothe her wounds. The catch, there’s always one, the catch is: will he leave again? Vanish without a word, escaped into the night, never to see her again?

It’s happened one to many times. She should hate him for it, slam her door in his stupid fucking helmet face, one she’s never seen underneath and banish him from her life. But, in the months past, the Mandalorian just feels too good between her thighs, his hand around her throat or gripped in her hair, guiding her head down on his hard cock — he’s ever so tempting, a rush of adrenaline, he’s a drug in her veins, and she’s not broken her addiction.

“You,” she bites her lip, “just you.”

He’s kissing her, feels his tongue slip against hers it’s hot and heavy, messy and wet and bruising. Hands pulling at the ties of his pants they’re undone and she’s jerking beneath him, a wave of flushed arousal, unfurling and powerful she’s welded to him, darkness to light, magnetic force, of blinding stars and broken planets. “You’re so good,” he’s growling into her skin, pushing her thighs upwards he’s sliding against her, teasing, held back. He can’t, it’s the pounding of the air around him, the world blinks out and all he has is her, her body, crashed to the planets, exiled down from the gods she’s surely an angle, dammed to give herself to him, and he in turn, gives everything to her.

But he just can’t.

She’s surrounded by soft sheets, her beds worn and warm — how is she so soft? “You’re,” he’s groaning, pushing himself against her, large hand curled around her jaw she’s whimpering, chewing on begs, his name mixed within the words. “You—” he’s inhaling shakily, his nose follows up the line of her throat, behind her ear she’s covered in goosebumps and he’s sucking and biting her skin. “You’re mine.” He’s trying to convince himself of that, she’ll never be anyone’s; she’s her own. He’s never allowed himself to pin her down, fuck her and call her his to keep.

She’s nobodies. All her own.

But in between the moments of shattering lust and forgotten anger of abandonment, she could be his. The Mandalorian is the only one who’s cared, given a fuck — but it’s never been enough. She’s not accepting his words, she’s not his. “Shut up,” she’s turned her head away and his lips follow, sliding from her jaw to her own swollen and pink parted lips, his body heavy on hers she’s alive with desperate longing.

She’s pushing at his shoulders, roughly pulling herself from under him and before he’s complaining she’s shoved him back to the bed, he’s staring at her form through the darkness. She’s changed. It’s rough and she’s climbing into his lap, he groans as her soaked cunt slides over him and she’s surprising him with her nails dragging down his chest, skimming over the hard ridges of muscles.

It’s a game, teasing and seductive she’s on top of him, her lips on his throat as his large hands take handfuls of her ass.

She’s wretched, complied of what the stars wish they had she’s furious, kissing down his throat, she’s trailed hot spots down his chest, her warm breath fanning over him, his taunt muscles tighten and she hums in approval, her delicate hand trails over his rigit abdomen, bending down she’s licking a trail up and closing her lips around the collom of his throat.

“Gods Mando,” she’s an absolute angel, cursed to the darkness and awoken sin she’s grinding her hips down over his. It was never his, she’s claimed him and as she’s twisting her wrist, fingers slicked and wrapped around his cock he’s realizing it’s always been her.

Mando relaxes into the bed, his muscles strain and all he wants to do is sit up and jerk her up to straddle him properly, he’s groping her ass and it’s all he can do but not lift her, pull her close and sink her soaked cunt around him, a battle between logic and fantasy — he’s getting harder thinking about her, fucking up into her, hand wrapped around her throat, pursing the chase. She’s so good.

Lets not relive the past she said. It can be different. I can make it better.

All this? To be his beacon of light, a glimmer of hope in this bitter and isolated life he’s chosen? She’s whispering praise into the Mandalorians ear, her guts rolling with arosual and he’s not even inside her yet. He’s achingly hard, it’s closing in around him, how quickly everything would be over after he’s fucked her one last time. He shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have knocked on her door. It’s going to be over and he’ll have to leave again.

He’s swearing, his voice deep and guttural she’s grinding down so hard the thoughts are slipping from his sober mind, he’s drunk on her skin, stuck in a daze of boiling emotions, tucked just a little too far away to reach.

The Mandalorian is getting frustrated, he’s preparing to slide his hands around her and throw her under him, have her whithering and saying his name like it’s the only thing she knows. “Wanna, wanna fuck you,” the words come out harsh, clipped with the moments of blinding pleasure, he’s so close and she’s only grinding faster, pushing her anger into him. “C’mon—”

She suddenly stops, gasping she fills her lungs with air. Both her hands cupping his face, it’s suddenly gentle — intimate — and the moonlight seems to be inline with the art of the lovers, a sliver of the dim and glowy light is passing by the window, it pans across the floor and the Mandalorian can finally see her, her eyes have softened and they’re almost nose to nose, her finger strokes down his cheekbone and he’s realizing she can see a part of him.

They’re sharing the light and their breathings in tune with one another. Her lingering eyes drop to his lips and she’s soft, a silken cloud, kissing him so softly, it’s not rushed, it’s stopping the planets circles around the moon, and suddenly time doesn’t exist.

She’s melted down, her anger and bitterness cooled to a point of gentle adoration, her lips fit with his, he’s made for her, made for her to care for him.

Surges of softer emotions swell inside her chest, it’s brimming and she feels her throat tighten. She can’t cry. But it’s all too much and the memories coming back, of waking up with the Mandalorian vanished from her bed, no sign he’d ever been there aside from her wrinkled sheets and marks of his passion etched into her skin — but even those fade over time.

Her breath catches and the Mandalorians pulling her close, curling her in his arms, brushing slim fingers over her blushing cheeks, he’s searching her face, gazing up at her and they both know the unspoken words.

“Mando,” she’s whispering, letting him shift her, settling her over him properly, skin to skin they’re the only two lovers in that moment. “Please,” don’t leave again.

The Mandalorians silent, spreading his hands over her hips she’s helping him move her upwards, lined up she’s got her hands braced on his broad shoulders. They both utter soft groans, she’s sliding down around his length and she’s shivering, her back arching, pressing her chest to his as he’s sitting up, curved his arms around her waist the Mandalorians done for. She’s panting, swollen lips glossed over and parted, she’s a mess of sweat slicked skin and burned and blackened passion. She’d scratched down his chest, raising thin red lines under her nails, she’s tearing him apart, devouring all what’s given to her, only in the fear if she doesn’t this will be the last time.

Everything’s okay, she cannot physically get any closer to him, flesh to whatever he’s made of, of metal and the war. He’s got his hand on the back of her head, chin tucked into her shoulder she’s seeping into his form, her fight gone — vanished, forgotten once more as the tides change, they’re gentle to each other. She’s moving over him, fists clenched he’s filled her perfectly, it’s a balance of their moments, of his hands lifting her again so she’s pressed to the bed, her back once more against the smooth sheets. He’s inside her again, his hand pulling her thigh up — smooth, fluid. She sighs softly, at each strokes he’s pulling her release closer, to feel the warm waves crash and battle within her.

The lovers are quiet within one another, her body curved to his its not a mess anymore, things have fallen into place and she’s so so so close, her hands tug at his hair and he’s kissing her neck, holding back from having his own way with her, keeping the rush at bay. She’s pleading his name, lip caught under her teeth she’s suddenly gasping, tense and quivering beneath him.

She’s got her eyes screwed shut, “don’t stop, don’t stop,” it’s a winding and beautiful build up, hotness pools into her core, thick and spreading through her nerves she’s trying to stay still, but he’s chasing the fleeting moments with rough movements, his hands on her skin, lips at her ear he’s so close it’s nearly unbearable.

“Come for me,” his gravely voice sends vibrations through her and she falls apart under him, her body floating through a daze it’s fast and coming in waves, she chokes on a gasp, tasting the sparks of heat, they’re smooth on her tongue and she’s seeing everything all at once.

“Gods,” she’s gasping, sensitive, overworked, but the Mandalorians going, his hand curved around her breast, he’s shaking and suddenly it all stops, he’s dropping from his high and the electricity of his release is explosive, wrapped in pleasure it’s blocking out everything but her, her tightness and warmth and the feeling of him buried so deep he’s unable to stop, she’s catching his moan, parted lips against his own they’re falling together, crashed to the ground with unfurling webs of pleasure.

The Mandalorians slicked with sweat and he’s tangled with her, his chest heaving he’s telling her only the way she’s made him feel.

He’s got his eyes closed and when he opens them, it’s not a dream, she’s there, tears brim her eyes and her hands trail down his shoulders. They’ve forgotten, all he hears is the sound of his heartbeat and the echos of gunfire is gone.

-

“You’ve always been there for me,” he’s saying, hours after the battle of passions and forgetting of the past. His tone is kept of the brimming emotions that had broken free of his cage, birds of flight they’re taking off, flying just from his reach. “I’m n-not enough for you.” He’s catching the air that’s not going through his lungs fast enough, lying next to her he’s unsure if this is all real, not a work of fiction. She’s got her head on his chest and his hands are sliding over her lower back, feeling the softness of her hips.

“I’ve never thought less of you,” she’s sighing, sleep digging its self into her body, she’s bruised, wrecked and exhausted; her thighs ache but it’s a good burn. She turns and pressed a short kiss to the middle of his chest, pulling her arm from the warm blankets she’s trailing a slim finger up and down his skin, tracing a slashed scar.

“Stay with me.” She looks at him, it’s still dark but the suns nearly about to rise, it’s golden rays peeking over the mountains outside the city. “Please?”

The Mandalorians hand comes up to smooth her hair from her face, running over the top of her head he’s watching her lean into his touch, angelic, perfect. “You know my chosen path,” he’s tearing him apart, he’s drowning. “I made a vow, long before ...”

“Before me,” she’s got a distant look in her eyes. It’s okay. It’s okay. She’s too weary, too beaten down with emotions she’s not used to feeling, she sinks into the bed beside the Mandalorian and allows him to curl around her, hold her for the last few moments before sleep takes her.

-

She wakes alone the in bed. The sun high in the sky, her room is filled with a golden yellow glow and her skins warm against the sheets. Sitting up she’s looking for the Mandalorian, he’s not beside her and she’s cursing herself for drifting off to sleep.

He’s got to be here.

Dressed in her wrinkled oversized covering from the night before, she pads into the open flat, flooded with light she looks around and realizes she’s all alone.

—

thank you for reading!! sorry for all the mistakes i just really wanted this posted, i’ll come back and do the editing tmrw! feedback is always appreciated ♥️

[yodawgiherd]

You Were Never Truly Gone - END

>>>Read on AO3<<< Rating: M

So this is it, the final chapter. It was fun to share this with you all, and I do hope that you enjoyed the ride at least a little bit ;) check end note ( on AO3) for a surprise

The room where the most honored and powerful individuals of the Hizuru nation resided was a spacious one. Intricate paintings decorated the walls, cuts in the wood created beautiful carvings and the pottery alone was worth more than what a decent-sized village would eat through in a month.  Overall, it triumphed everything Mikasa saw in her life, easily topping the castle back on Paradis, and a single thought flashed through her head.

Those guys are lucky that all this pomp wasn’t trampled during the rumbling.

Unlike the room, the council itself was almost exactly what Mikasa expected. Old men and women sitting in expensive chairs and wearing expensive robes – kimono, was it? – studying her with cold and calculating eyes. Unlike Kiyomi, who Mikasa respected despite their recent disagreements, these were the ones who lacked the spine of iron she possessed. They never took an active part in the war, never braved the sea to assist the struggling nation, never stared down a barrel of the gun.

Never kicked Floch’s ass either. Heh.

They inspected her - a curiosity, a trinket shipped from across the sea to be pinned on the Shogun’s chest, a strange yet beautiful ornament. Vultures, carrion eaters, exactly the type that Mikasa despised, as they reminded her of the same individuals who were responsible for the fucked up political situation back home. Then again, Mikasa was not here to change them, she could never do that, she wasn't a politician. She was here to blow their minds.

Summoning her courage and combining it with the steadfast presence of masked Eren at her back, Mikasa took a few steps forward until she was standing in the middle of the room. Easy to be seen, easy to be heard. Kiyomi, who followed close behind, saved her from the awkward need of introducing herself. An unnecessary formality, as they definitely knew who she was.

“Lady Mikasa Ackerman of the Paradis Island.”, Kiyomi said out loud, “The Shogun’s descendant.”

A wave of murmurs ran through the seated council members.

“Lady Mikasa,”, one spoke up, a man whose facial features closely resembled Daigo’s, “It is an honor.”

“The honor is all mine.”, she replied quickly, knowing how important first impressions are.

If this was indeed lord Sawamura, as she suspected, he was the one holding the most power in Hizuru's shattered government. A man who expected his son to be the next Shogun, a plan she was here to disrupt. Thread carefully…

“We hope that your journey was pleasant.”, a woman council member said, a neutral smile on her lips, “The seas can be cruel at this time of the year, but we had more than enough suffering.”

“The journey was fine.”, Kiyomi spoke up, moving past Mikasa and taking her seat on the vacant chair.

It was her right, of course, as she was a full member of this council.

But exchanging formalities would get them nowhere – yet before Mikasa could say anything Sawamura took the word.

“I feel like we all know why we have gathered today.”, his eyes found Mikasa’s, “I know that this is rather sudden, but we would like the wedding to be held in a few weeks at most, the people need something grand to focus on and this event will give them just that.”

"The royal tailor is here,", the woman from before chimed in, "We can have your measurements taken today if you are not too tired lady Mikasa. The sooner he can start working on your dress, the better."

“I-“

“The florist is here too, so we can discuss the choices of…”

“….the carpets…”

“Number of guests?”

It became a blur around her, the council talking together as if Mikasa wasn't even there. It was exactly as she suspected – she was a trophy from the distant lands, a status shipped over because of the blood in her veins. But did anyone care about what she had to say?

Hell no.

Finding Kiyomi Mikasa realized that the old woman was looking straight at her, the message clear. This was her show, and if she wanted to be more than a pretty face she had to speak for herself, Kiyomi wouldn’t bail her out this time around. Closing her eyes and preparing the speech, Mikasa inhaled deeply.

Eren being here was stupid, she knew that, but was glad for it regardless. His presence behind her, however masked, was something she could draw strength from. It was them she was fighting for now, the whatever they had because it filled her with joy like nothing else. She had to defend that, no matter what.

“I’m not marrying.”, she said.

Everybody ignored her and yammered on about the wedding, while Kiyomi’s ironic smile grew.

“I’m not marrying!”, she shouted this time around, finally getting the council’s attention.

“What do you mean?”, someone asked from her right.

“I won’t marry anyone because I will be your Shogun instead.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The silence was so thick that Mikasa could probably cut it, lasting for three seconds before it imploded into another heated debate. There was a lot of shouting suddenly, disbelieving shaking of heads, and lord Sawamura was among the loudest, immediately getting Mikasa’s attention.

“A woman can never be a Shogun!”

“A woman never was a Shogun,”, she replied, “and I would like to remind you all that these circumstances we find ourselves in are also unprecedented.”

“Why would we ever vote for you? You are an outsider, you know nothing of Hizuru!”

“Fair point,", Mikasa agreed, “Let me explain…”

The commotion died down as they stared at her – the sheer audacity of her words taking the winds from their sails.

“I had no ties to Hizuru, no deep need for a reconnection with my people. My mother died before she could tell me about you all, before the spark in me was ignited. All I was given is this-“, Mikasa raised her hand, letting everyone see the tattoo on her wrist, “This ink, this mark of a clan I didn’t know, that was nothing to me back then. I kept it secret because my mother wished it so, but didn’t pay much attention to it, as you can all agree that I had quite a lot on my mind.”

Eren smiled behind the Faceless mask, very much remembering how privileged he felt when Mikasa peeled those bandages from her wrist and showed him the mark for the first time, years and years ago. In the middle of the room, she continued her speech.

“Then Kiyomi came, telling me all about your nation and my heritage, and I was taken aback. So this was what the mark meant, this was why I should have kept it hidden – suddenly I was royalty.", she chuckled, "You could imagine that I wasn't exactly thrilled by that."

“The war happened, rumbling destroyed the world and I was left to sit in Paradis and watch it become a militaristic stronghold. And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore.”, for the first time in her speech, Mikasa raised her voice, “I have seen too much death, too much war, too much suffering for it to repeat again and again, for humanity to be stuck in some never-ending loop of violence. I have decided to use this mark, this status of mine for one thing and one thing only.”

She spread her arms.

“Peace. And not only peace of a shocked world that is slowly rebuilding from the ashes, but a peace that will survive not only us in this room but our children too. That’s why I’m asking for your support as the new Shogun. I am not a skilled and experienced politician, I am a soldier who was burned out by the violence I was forced to endure. Yet it gave me something, it gave me the status of a hero and I will use it to help you.”

One by one, her eyes moved to the occupants of the room.

“Hizuru needs a symbol, a figurehead to rally behind and I will be that for you. In return, you of the ruling council will help me in securing the peace I long for, by guiding me in these trying times. I do not care for the power that a status of the Shogun brings, I care for the possibilities it opens.”

“Such as?”, an old man spoke, guarded expression on his face.

“Paradis needs help. It is a powder keg that is bound to explode, if not today then tomorrow, if not now then in dozen years. I want to defuse it, and in return provide Hizuru with a stable and profitable partner.”

“How?”, the same old man questioned her.

"The feelings of supremacy and prejudice towards the outside world can be dispelled with only one thing – information. If we make the trade and people flow between our nations, they are bound to integrate into the society. Those who come here from Paradis will see that we are the same as them, those who move from here to the island will help them overcome their destructive mindset.”

“That is all very nice and all,”, a woman was speaking now, sitting next to Kiyomi, “but what is your guarantee that it will work out?”

"I have none, only the feeling that the world had enough death and destruction for a long, long time. I believe that the Yeagerists are scared, afraid of retaliation from the outside world, and if we don't do anything this fear will in time change into a deep hatred."

Another round of murmurs ran through the council before the old man spoke up again.

“It is nice that you have a plan for Paradis, but what about Hizuru? As a Shogun our nation should be of the uttermost interest to you.”

“I’m still learning about this nation, I am an outsider after all. I think that this opening of borders with Paradis will help us economically, and I can assure you that queen Reiss will be more than open to negotiation. The island is a goldmine, or do I have to remind you about all the iceburst stones?”

Playing on their greed – shifting in her seat Kiyomi couldn’t help but be impressed by how Mikasa was leading the council, and her speech was not done yet.

“Selling those is a very lucrative activity, and I am sure that I would be able to get us an exclusive partnership… With Paradis, I am very experienced, but the subtler points of ruling elude me.”, she bowed slightly towards the man, “That’s why I will leave a large part of power in your hands, esteemed council, because you will help with the best interests of Hizuru at heart.”

Even more murmurs appeared between the seated men and women as they realized what Mikasa was offering them. A leading figure while they would keep most of the power, something to rally behind and guide Hizuru out of this fractured state they found themselves in post rumbling.

“We will need to put this to more discussion and a vote.”, the old man took the word, “We thank you for your time, lady Mikasa, and will let you know of the result.”

With a last bow she left the council room, Eren in his Faceless uniform just a step behind her. Kiyomi watched them leave with a tight expression, very much knowing that once the door closes the eruption of words will be enormous. Taking a breath, she steeled herself, prepared to defend Mikasa’s points.

To a limit, of course.

It wasn’t until they reached the solitude of her chambers that Mikasa collapsed into Eren’s chest, emotionally exhausted.

“Do you think that we have a chance?”, she asked in a small voice.

“You presented yourself very well,”, he soothed her, rubbing small circles on her back, “They would be fools not to take you up on the offer.”

“You think so?”

“With you, the council can keep much more of the leverage than it had, and they are all power-hungry fools – let me remind you that Kiyomi told us these are the ones who tore the country apart.”

“That’s fine, but I have no intention of letting them turn me into a puppet.”

“I know that, Kiyomi knows that, but they don’t. They see an outsider that they can use as a symbol to say – we have this hero of the Rumbling on our side, rally behind her because she is among those who saved the whole world.”

“Officially, Armin is the one who killed you.”

“I know, but you were there with him.”

They stood in silence, hugging each other, until Mikasa spoke up.

“Can you remove your mask for a second?”

“Uhm, sure, but why?”

A snicker.

“I want to kiss you.”

“Just a kiss?”

“Don’t make me tear it off, Yeager.”

“I would not dare, my lady.”

It took several hours, and the day outside slowly progressed into the night. Mikasa was nervous, walking around her room like a caged tiger, replaying the conversation in her head and wondering if she could have said something different, something better. Eren watched her, unsure of how to calm the storm that she was, and in the end decided to just passively stand there and hide behind the Faceless mask. A bit of a cowardly move but he really didn't want to get in a fight with her, especially not now.

The tension was broken when the door slammed open, a red-faced courier appearing. From the way his chest heaved, it was easy to guess that he ran the whole way.

"Lady Ackerman,", he bowed low, "The council has reached a decision, if you would be so kind to accompany me?"

Self-consciously smoothing the wrinkles on her uniform that formed from all the marching, Mikasa nodded at the man.

“Lead the way.”

Every step bopped the heart farther up Mikasa’s throat, and not even Eren’s presence was enough to calm her. This is it – here she would find out what the future held for her.

In no way, shape or form would she ever go along with the marriage – either she gets what she wants or she and Eren are doing a dramatic and most likely bloody escape from the palace. And if they die, they can finally be free and together in the afterlife – Mikasa had no doubts that if there was a place after death, they would find each other again.

The door was familiar, even the guards who opened it for her, and Mikasa stepped into the room with Eren in tow. Eyes of everyone swung to her and the conversation halted – the expressions of the council members remained unreadable, even Kiyomi betrayed nothing.

"We have talked about your proposal extensively, lady Mikasa.", lord Sawamura began, "We weighed the pros and cons, went over everything you said slowly and carefully."

He looked her straight in the eye as he continued.

“You must understand that Hizuru is this council’s primary concern – no individual, no matter how big or small, can take precedence over the nation. In light of that, we have reached an almost unanimous decision.”

Mikasa held her breath, eyes instinctively searching for escape routes from the room. Behind her, a tiny clink could be heard as Eren's fingers curled around the handle of his sword. This did not sound good.

“And so with all that in mind,”, Sawamura went on, “The council has decided to…”

Half a step back, the door was right behind her, she could…

“…accept your offer, lady Mikasa.”

“I… W-What?”

“We will let you take up the mantle of the Shogun.”, Sawamura grimaced, “It wasn’t an easy call to make, but lady Azumabito was very vocal in her support.”

Kiyomi’s face didn’t move, remaining neutral.

"You will, of course, share most of the power with us, and all the decisions must be signed by the council before going public. We have decided to take this opportunity not only as a change of a Shogun but as a shift of our nation towards democracy…"

In other words, they were exactly as power-hungry vampires as Mikasa hoped them to be, but she couldn't care less. She listened as Sawamura went on but his words couldn't truly find purchase in the mush that her brain became. It worked – however bold and stupid her plan was, they went along with it.

It was over, finished, she had won, and everything else was worthless padding.

It wasn’t until about an hour later when she was permitted to leave. The council would continue in their session, most likely tearing up the power into small pieces and stuffing themselves full with it, and they didn’t need her to witness that. Elated to be free, at last, Mikasa took off in the direction of her chambers, feet beating the floor in a steady staccato.

“What’s the rush?”, Eren huffed behind her, burdened by his armor.

Checking left and right that they are alone, she stopped and turned, coming face to…. mask.

“I have been on the edge for several hours,”, Mikasa muttered in a heated whisper, “so we are going back to my room and there you will help me get rid of some of the frustration.”

She slapped his breastplate.

“And that’s an order, soldier.”

Despite the mask, she could hear the grin in Eren’s answer.

“Yes ma’am.”

He didn’t complain after that.

After everything coming together and an evening and a night of great pleasures, Mikasa expected a lot of happy reactions from her body – she didn’t expect to throw up in the morning.

Eren refused to stay away, holding her hair and rubbing her back while she retched into the toilet. One of the disadvantages of having long hair, it gets in the way.

“I’m sorry,”, she murmured once she could speak again, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You are sorry because you are feeling sick, that’s…”, he chuckled, “that’s so you, Miki.”

Yet while Eren would be fine with just leaving it at that, knowing that Mikasa was exactly as boneheaded as him if she wanted to, their new patron disagreed. Kiyomi wouldn’t hear about just “walking it off”, that was literally the worst thing that she heard in a long time. Was that how they took care of their health on Paradis? Well, ultimately it didn’t matter as Mikasa was the future Shogun, and keeping her healthy was the old woman’s utmost priority. The doctor she summoned was probably the best in all of Hizuru and his prices reflected that, but money was not a concern anymore.

What a strange way to live, Mikasa thought to herself.

He was the perfect professional, examining Mikasa with quick and precise hands, all of it while Eren’s eyes never left him. The Faceless guard was truly expected everywhere, and the doctor didn’t have the slightest problem with him staying.

It didn’t take long, and when all of the symptoms and tests finished, he had exactly one thing to say.

“You are not sick, lady Ackerman.”

“No? Then what is happening to me?”

“I believe that congratulations are in order.”

That did nothing but confuse the poor girl even further.

“What?”

“You are pregnant.”

It took every single fiber in Eren’s body not to explode right there, his knuckles tightening so much that they cracked audibly. Kiyomi on the other hand had a completely different reaction.

“Pregnant? But how?”

The doctor sighed.

“Do I truly have to explain that?”

“What? No, no we… I mean…”

“Good, I’ll be taking my leave then.”

With a bow the man disappeared, leaving the three of them alone and finally giving Eren the chance to do what he wanted. Ripping his mask off and closing the distance to Mikasa in two steps he picked her up, spinning her around while laughing like a maniac. She was still half in disbelief, keeping silent.

Which was okay, because Kiyomi had a lot to say.

“Do you have to destroy everything that I plan?”

Eren was stuck in his happy place, content with laughing, so Mikasa answered for them both.

“It’s not like we planned it…”

“Of course you didn’t…”, Kiyomi rubbed her forehead, “This is so….”

“Great!”, Eren finished for her, “I can’t believe it!”

“Troublesome,” Kiyomi disagreed.

Deep in thought, she tapped her foot once, twice, three times before saying something that drastically changed the atmosphere in the room.

“You should get rid of it.”

“What?”

As gently as he could Eren set her down, getting between Kiyomi and Mikasa as if the old woman would charge her and try to carve the baby from Mikasa’s stomach.

“It’s the most logical way,” Kiyomi argued, “getting pregnant out of nowhere while not being married? It will bring nothing but trouble.”

“We are not getting rid of it.”, Eren cut her off before realizing that there was someone else in the room they should ask.

“Or… Are we?”, he turned to Mikasa, worry creasing his forehead.

She stared at him for a second, wondering if he just did that – if he asked: Do you want to get rid of something she and Eren created from their love, a proof oh much they adored each other, an offspring that would…

“No.”, she said out loud, “I don’t.”

The relief was visible on him, same as the irritation on Kiyomi.

“Oh good…”

“Lady Mikasa…”

“I’m not getting an abortion. Not an option.”

It was one of the fights that Kiyomi knew she could never win, so she did the smart thing and backed down before it even started.

Stupid kids. Dumb stupid kids risking everything just for… well… whatever. They wouldn't take the easy way out, and Kiyomi was stuck with them. Maybe she didn't like the plan at first, the way Mikasa led her in blind, manipulated her, but Kiyomi would be lying if she said that it wasn't impressive. For a former soldier who had no training in such things, guile and outsmarting came naturally to her.

More importantly, Kiyomi did like the girl, despite all her claims that this is all just for the greatness of the Hizuru nation. Mikasa was everything she wanted in a leader, or in the daughter that she never had. Which would, in some strange twisted way, make Kiyomi a grandmother, now that Mikasa was pregnant. Too bad that the child would be cursed with having Eren Yeager for a father, that guy could go burn in hell for all Kiyomi cared.

Anyway, if they didn’t want to get rid of the kid, there were certain changes to be made, to make sure that the plan didn’t go down in flames.

“Then we have to accelerate this whole thing.”, she said out loud.

“How so?”, Eren questioned her, still in that defensive stance between her and Mikasa.

Please, as if that girl ever needed protecting, the memory of her sweeping in and taking out half a room of armed men was still in Kiyomi’s memory. A nice gesture though.

“The preparations would normally take time, and Mikasa can hardly show herself on the day of her coronation day with a belly, can she?”

“Will the council accept this?”

“I don’t know, but I swear that I’ll do my damnedest to make them. Maybe I can twist it, paint the situation more desperate than it is, lie that the people are restless and that they demand the new Shogun to be crowned as soon as possible…”

“I’m going to start showing sooner or later…”, the to-be-Shogun peeped from behind her heroic protector, still in disbelief and staring down at her stomach, “How does this help?”

“Once you are the Shogun I can figure something out, but first we have to stick you up on that chair.”, she nodded at her, “One problem at a time.”

Slow and uncertain, Mikasa nodded back.

“One at a time.”

It would appear that while Kiyomi was anything but elated with her plan, she was going all-in right now. Same as the situation with Paradis – once she committed to a cause she was the best schemer and supporter one could ask for.

Excusing herself, Kiyomi left the two of them alone, already making a list of people she needed to talk to in her head.

The room grew quiet now that she was gone, the facts slowly anchoring themselves in their brains as reality.

“We are going to be parents.”, Eren finally said.

“So it would seem.”, Mikasa agreed in a whisper.

“And you are going to be a Shogun.”

“Yes.”

Turning around he pulled her into a hug that would be bone-crushing if used on anyone that wasn’t Mikasa Ackerman. She didn’t complain in the slightest, clutching to him with strength that squeezed the air out of Eren’s lungs.

“We are going to make it.”, he claimed, only for the statement to waver at the end, “Are we?”

She nodded against his chest, once again taking refuge in the beating of his heart.

“One thing at a time.”

The next ten days were one of the most chaotic that Mikasa ever lived through, and keep in mind that she was a survivor of not only a titan war but also an apocalypse. Kiyomi was a hyperactive bee, buzzing between the other council members and her at such speed that Eren wondered if she ever rested.

She didn’t.

There was hundred and one traditions Mikasa had to learn for the coronation process, a thousand dresses to try out, and million visits where she had to accompany Kiyomi while she convinced yet another noble that the ceremony should take place as soon as possible.

“If planning a wedding is anything like this,”, she hissed to Eren one day during the short break she had, shoveling food into her mouth “Then I’m never marrying you.”

“We are married already, did you forget?”, he grumbled from behind the mask that was his day-to-day accessory now, “Night under a tree, rings of grass, cracked bed frame… all that.”

“I wish this ceremony could also be made by weaving together a few blades. Do you think that I should ask Kiyomi about that?”

He chuckled.

“You can try.”

No, Kiyomi was not amused, and no, grass was out of the question. Very well.

Eren shadowed her almost everywhere, as a Faceless guard he was permitted to even the most private meetings. The other, true members of the order, didn’t give him any problems either, being exactly as obedient as Kiyomi described them. If the future Shogun wanted a fake to protect her, they had no issue with that. The orders were absolute.

Worst case scenario – the girl gets assassinated and then a new Shogun will be chosen, one that will respect the proper Faceless guard and not a wannabee.

And finally, it was here, the day D, the grand happening. Mikasa’s body moved mechanically through the ritual – every motion was explained and trained hundred times over until Kiyomi was satisfied. Still, it was fairly difficult in the ornamental kimono she had to wear, the damn thing was so heavy that she almost tripped several times, despite all the practice. Having a skirt around her legs made Mikasa wish for a good pair of pants too, but gender wouldn’t save her here. The men of the council also wore very similar robes. It was a small price to pay for getting things in motion though, so Mikasa gritted her teeth and carried on.

Eren was there as well, of course, and so was Kiyomi. The old woman stood among the council members, looking exactly as important as her fellow nobles, while Eren was hiding in the shadows, one of a long line of Faceless who guarded this ceremony. It would not be disturbed by anyone or anything, they made sure of that, and the number of guards played right into Mikasa’s hands. She could hide her lover easily now, he was nothing but another mask in the line, here to give his life in defense of the new Shogun.

Instructed by a priest that was so ancient that his skin resembled wrinkled paper, she repeated the words told to her, she bowed where required, and stood tall when it was time to show strength. She prayed to gods she didn’t know and showed respect to ancestors whose names Mikasa couldn’t even pronounce.

Several times the priest stopped and shook the incense he carried left and right, filling the air with its sweet smell. The council members watched every step like hawks, and she could feel their nervousness. It was one thing to talk about a foreign woman being elected as the head of state, it was another one to see it happening in front of their eyes. Luckily, she was prepared and did everything exactly as was expected, following the script to the letter.

Yes, it was one big theatre performance, but that didn’t matter to Mikasa at all.

Because when she finally sat down on the throne and looked over the council members, gathered there in front of her, Mikasa felt a huge weight fall from her chest. Her fights were still far from over, one might say. The position she was put in was anything but secure. Her pregnancy would complicate things, as would the fact that she had no intention of letting the nobles jerk her around. Eren's existence would have to be kept secret, same as the fatherhood of her child, and…

No, there would be time and place to worry about these things, and it was not now. One thing at a time, Kiyomi said, and Mikasa agreed with those words. The old woman was on her side, she had Eren right behind her, and a whole new culture to discover, one that her mother originated from. And as she adjusted her position on the throne, Mikasa Ackerman – the new ruler of Hizuru and the first female Shogun in the history of that nation – did that one thing that happened so rarely in her life.

Mikasa smiled - This was a beginning of a new adventure for them all.

[redbirdbella]

@clintasha-week Advent calendar - Day 8 -Firsts

There were many things Natasha liked about returning to the flat after a mission. The fresh sheets on a familiar bed. The second wash with her own conditioner when the smell was strong and new enough to notice. Her black cotton bralettes that had once been pajamas when she had been young and unaccustomed to comfort. The ease of shredding someone else’s skin for her own. The joy of returning to herself. She'd earnt it truly earnt it after the last hellish mission. A stitched up forehead, gravel-rash grazing her calves and a deep defensive wound to the centre of her right palm. 14 stitches, keep it dry and change the dressing every night before bed. Simple. Or it would be if she didn't need that hand for just about everything.  

She'd survived the shower, even if it all felt a little odd. Like something was missing. Something was. Everything should be easier from here now the risk of water soaking through the substantial bandaging was reduced, well in theory.  Truthfully, the pain killers were wearing thin, and soldiering on, as usual, was starting to become impossible.  She thinks tactically choosing simple clothes, something warm but simple. Something that requires as little adjustment as possible. Dressing is easy, if undignified. It's worth it though, as her clothes wrap around her rooting her back home. She lets herself be mindless, enjoying the warmth that builds between the layers in a way that hospital gowns just don't.

Until she feels it. The growing patch of wet and cold in the middle of her back as her hair demands her attention. It's long now, long enough to be needy. Too long to be practical, too beautiful to be cut. Natasha examines it in the mirror, hoping by sheer willpower it could wait, or dry, or just shrink for the night.

"Hey," Clint says softly, knocking on her door, "Do you need anything? Lucky wants to go to bed."

"Sounds like Luckys got the right idea"

Clint smiles, it's a little stiff, a split lip will do that to you, but it still draws out a smile of her own. He's been lucky. Being a sniper had spared him most of her injuries. He's no worse for wear than his average day the nurse had noted with a knowing smile.

"He's very gifted. Aren't you going to dry your hair before?"

"Not tonight"

It's not an omission of weakness, no cause this is her choice. She could do it, if she wanted to, and well she doesn't and-

"Would you like me to do it?"

"Luckys tired"

"He's already asleep Tasha. He just wants my bed, you know what he's like. Spoilt mutt." he says it with such deep affection it makes Natashas cheeks ache with warm, "He's almost as deaf as me though-when he wants to be, if could do it on my bed I'm sure it would keep you both happy"

"Happy's a big word. I don't know what your salon skills are like yet"

Clint grins "If I told you that, you might not agree to it. C'mon, what do we need?"

The question seems more rhetorical than anything, he picks up what he wants from Natasha's dresser. A brush, hairdryer and a few hair bands.

"Your confident"

"I've got many a hidden talent Tasha"

"Pride always comes before a fall" Natasha teases, letting her left-hand trail against Lucky, loyally, following Clint to his room.

"Nah I think that's gravity"

Natasha perches on the end, ignoring the way Clint graceless clambers up the bed in search of power.  

"Good boy" he whispers as Lucky settles between them. It's easy. Whatever they are, it's just easy. Easy to joke and laugh, easy for work, easy for her to walk into these vulnerable positions. The ones that no longer feel vulnerable. Well no, shes vulnerable of course. But it's not a competition. It's not exploited. Not like it was in her lifetime before this one. Deep down she knows the nerves that buzz in her stomach expect a reward for letting him see her like this, not a punishment.

"Do you want to come a little closer Tasha, I think you're in Luckys spot."

She moves and Lucky gladly engulfs the space, letting his head stray into Natashas lap. She brushes his ears with the back of her hands, its like velvet, like how she'd imagined Clint's hair to be before he cut it.

"Attention seeking mutt" Clint whispers with that same affection, the one that Natasha wonders if she knows what it's like to be at the centre of, "Tell me if I'm too hard Nat"

He's not too hard, as he runs the brush through her hair and her hair between his fingers. It's not the quick rush job shes expecting. He takes his time, like shes actually worthy of it.  He uses the brush to hold out the hair before he dries it with the hairdryer warming her neck and back in a way that just makes her melt- or want to melt. It brings her back, back home, back from the mission and its awful frosts and the hospital trip after it. It's new. This feeling of want. Of wanting him. 

Of being wanted, truly wanted for more than a 15-minute quickie in the nearest place that would take them.  

It takes a while before it's done. She forgets how long, choosing to enjoy the moment, to treasure feeling safe in some man's arms. On his bed.

Her hair is dry and full with warmth but still, he brushes inspecting this own handy work, then he stills.

His fingers are coarse against her neck as he parts her hair, peeling her shirt from her back. Natasha stiffens, and even Lucky can feel it.

“Can I dry that bit? where’s its wet, you’ll get cold if not” Clint whispers watching her nod. It's not as hot this time, the drier but it's heavenly none-the-less.

He’s not forceful, she decides, doesn’t ask her repeatedly if she’s enjoying it, though she bets he knows. He doesn’t delight in the act of it, like he’s indebting her, like this is some special occasion he’s trapping her to be at his mercy through her enjoyment. He’s just there, as if making her relax in his arm was as normal as mission banter.

She could enjoy this type of intimacy with him. She feels worshipped not possessed and it's addicting.

He turns the dryer off and she longs for the shower to repeat the process again, over and over until he won't anymore.

“Would you like it up?” He asks and honestly, she doesn’t care but if it means he’ll love her like this a little longer she won’t say no.

He plaits it, and it's perfect. The way his fingers brush her scalp, the slight pull against her, the way she feels his breath on her neck.

“There. Go easy on me Tasha, what do you think?” He directs her attention to the mirror that hangs by his wardrobe. It's big, big enough to show them all on the bed. Natasha, Clint and Lucky all sparkly-eyed and sleepy.

“Thank you” She whispers and even can she can hear the tiredness within it.

He nods, busying himself with disconnecting her things so she can leave, return to the coldness of her own room.

“Can I stay?”

He looks up, “Hmm”

“Could I stay with you tonight?” She doesn’t ever stay the night. Not even with her marks, not if they are alive anyway.

“Yeah, of course-“

“You can leave them-“

Clint nods, looking between her and Lucky, “I’ll turn out the light”

Natasha shuffles over, hoping Lucky won't mind too much when she settles into bed. It's not like they haven’t shared a bed before, it was just the first time either of them had asked- and it brings its own butterflies.

“Thank you” Natasha whispers to Clint in their newfound darkness. He reaches across, finds her had and squeezes.

“Goodnight Tasha”

She squeezes back harder.

“Goodnight Clint”

[lilith-of-rivia]

The Blacksmith’s Daughter

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt X Reader

Word count: 3,259

Warnings: Swearing, slight dirty talk, mentions of death, gross wound

Summary: The blacksmiths daughter in the upper northern kingdoms, is the only reason Geralt of Riva trusts to not only fix his weaponry but his wounds. He travels long and far to see the half mage, every year. During the many years he comes to visit her town, she grows feelings (love like feelinsg) for the creature. one particular visits she realizes she can no longer hide these feelinsg from him. [possibe part 2 if interested]

My father only had one child before my mother died. My mother was someone he always referred to as his soul. The light of his life. She died when I was just a babe. He never remarried, saying he’d never disrespect the love of his life. My mother was a mage. The healer of our village. Her powers passed in some aspects down to myself, but not enough to be considered a full mage. I gained the ability for immortality like my mother, unless by blade or beast. My eyes were different from those around my small town, bright emerald green. My father loved my eyes; “Just like you lovely mother my deer.” He always said to me.

Even with the limited magical abilities I possessed I chose to help my father in his smithing shop. I started when I was 16 that was nearly 30 winters ago. I haven’t aged much past 24. Making all the locals continuously fight for my hand. My father never wavered tho. Knowing I wanted to marry for love.

Over the last 30 years I've become one of the most well known smiths in the upper northern kingdoms. I've been called upon to make weapons for the mightiest King’s, even the Lioness Calanthe herself. My blades were well known across most major cities. I had apprenticed many young men to help and the money I began to bring in, made it able for my father to retire about 10 winters ago. My craft did not only extend in my weaponry but also my herbal skills. I was responsible for training the town healers and herbalists. My mother's talents passed onto me. I was a force to be reckoned with.

“Y/N?” My youngest apprentice, Apollo called to me from the front of my shop. Placing the sword I had been sharpening on a shelf I walked to him. I was covered in soot and dirt, my long [hair color] hair resting in a messy bun atop my head. My hands were covered in thick leather gloves that my father crafted for me many years ago to protect my fragile hands. As I approached the window that my customers spoke to my workers threw I saw a man. He was tall, much taller than myself and even Apollo. Apollo was a strong young man, about 6 '1 a decent build, still looked like a boy. But this man made him look like a child. His shoulders were broad and his hair was a striking silvery grey. I knew who he was, all too well.

“Ahh Geralt of Rivia. I thought you were long dead.” My words were followed with a soft chuckle, as the corner of his lips twitched up in a small smirk. His Bard at his side beamed at me.

“Good evening Y/N. How wonderful to see you!” Jaskier said smiling. I took my gloves off my hands along with my messy apron, glancing at Apollo. He’d never met the famed witcher before.

“Apollo be a dear and go finish with Lord Ferdinand's items. He’ll be back soon to collect them.” He nodded his head before walking back to the forge along with my other two apprentices. I opened the small door to the side of the window and stepped about of my shop, the cool Autumn air chilling my warm skin after being over a hot forge for hours.

Jaskier was the first to approach me, bringing me into a tight embrace. I gladly returned the gesture. I pulled back to examine the bard.

“My how you still have yet to age. Always shocks me.” He laughs and pulls out his prized dagger. He had won it in a game of poker many years ago from a lord. The blade alone cost more than anything he possessed. He didn't need the protection. Due to the brooding witcher he always traveled with. I had mended it and only I had mended it. He never trusted another with his blade. Just as his counterpart.

“It's in need for a good sharpening, maybe a polish to the handle? As always you’ll be paid for with not only my coin, but my recommendations as we travel.” I smiled and took the dagger from him and placed it in my belt before tuning to the brooding witcher.

The relationship we shared was like one I didn't share with any other. When he came through my town, I not only fixed and mended his weaponry but also his wounds. I was no longer an active healer. Unless it was for one particular witcher with a pair of striking golden orbs that could pear into the depths of my soul. He could pry out any secrets I never told anyone. Even my father.

My father loved Geralt. Always made comments about how I should pursue him whenever he came to town. Foolish old man thinking a witcher of Geralt’s status stopping for a blacksmith's daughter. Even one of my caliber. Many years ago he traveled with a mage named Yennifer, I adored her when she came with him. An adoring young thing, always willing to teach me new ways in medicine.

They were lovers for many years until they drifted apart. Yennefer found love in her first mate Istredd. They married a few years ago. Occasionally Yennifer would pass through and we’d catch up over a pint of ale, and she'd tell me of her travels looking for a cure to her empty womb. I pitied the woman, she desperately wanted children.

Knowing women of Yennifer’s caliber were who Geralt went for always made me hesitate from telling him my true feelings. I had fallen madly in love with the witcher. He stayed weeks at a time some years in my town, killing monsters in closer towns and being our own personal Witcher. The townspeople loved him, contrary to many other villages and cities.

“How many wounds am I healing today, wolf?” I asked as I approached him, his small smirk formed into a genuine smile as he embraced me. My arms around his broad shoulders as he bent to hug me. I could feel him grimace under my touch as my chest pressed to his own. I pulled away with a soft frown before lifting his shirt softly. Revealing a large deep gash spreading from his upper chest to his pant line. The gash was angry, yellow pus now oozy in certain areas. My brows lifted on my forehead in shock.

“You bloody idiot. How long has this gone untreated?” I asked quite harshly as I walked back into my shop, gathering my cloak and notebook full of orders to fill. I placed Jaskiers Dagger on a shelf.

“I’ll see you lads tomorrow, don’t forget to lock up tonight. Send for me if you need it.” I called my three workers in the back who all smiled and nodded before refocusing on their tasks.

I walked back out to the two men who were waiting for me. I shot a glare at Jaskier. “You let him walk around with an infection like that ?” I snapped as we started walking to the edge of town, passing the tavern and inn they both had spent many nights in.

“He refused to see anyone other than you, we’ve been traveling to see you for three consecutive days.” I directed my glair to the witcher who had a sly smirk on his lips.

“It's not that bad you drama queen.” I scoffed at his words before reaching over and brushing my fingertips along the cufeather-light. He hissed in pain and nearly doubled over.

“Yeah not that bad. You idiot loaf.” We walked at a quick pause up a small road from the main, up to my small cabin on the outskirts of the forest. I opened the door placing down my belongings before, sitting Geralt down on a chair in my kitchen. Jaskier on the other side, his hands on the book that had set there that I read in the mornings.

I rushed around my kitchen grabbing the herbs and viles full of oils and serums. I grumbled to myself at the stupidity of the witcher while I filled a pail with clean water. “Shirt off.” It wasn't a question or anything he could argue with. I knew he wouldn’t. I could hear his grunts of pain as he peeled his black shirt off. Once the pail was full of water I grabbed a box full of fresh wrapping and set everything on the table as Jaskier read unbothered.

I crouched in front of Geralt, my fingers tracing the angered skin surrounding the gash. I inhaled deeply, the scent of the wound filling my nose. It was badly infected but nothing I couldn't fix.

“Werewolf?” I asked, knowing I was right. The smell of the wolf’s claws being the first I could smell.

“Yeah, a real fucker too. Nearly broke my blade.” He hissed, In part of his anger at his last hunt, and due to the stinging of the alcohol I had poured on the clean cloth dabbing and cleaning the wound. His muscles contracted under my touch. I sighed but continued my work, spreading a lavender oil over the outside of the gash, soothing the skin. I grabbed a jar scooping out a helping of a cream made of hemlock and musk mallow to help the infection. After a thick paste was covering the gash I placed a few pieces of gauze over it keeping it protected. Once I was finished I looked up at the witcher, who was watching me intently. His amber eyes are boring into my emerald ones.

“I suggest you stay here a few days, till you’re healed more. So I can keep an eye on that infection.” I said with a soft smile. He grabbed a pack off his hip and placed three coins on my table, making me shake my head.

“Geralt, keep it I-“

“You just used so many fucking things on me. Take the money. Replenish your stock.” I rolled my eyes taking the coin from the table and putting it in my pocket, knowing I’d be giving it to the needy in town. I had plenty.

Jaskier placed the book he was reading down and smiled.

“Know that the broot is no longer dying, care to get some ale?” He asked, making me laugh.

“Let me see your sword first.” I was the only person on this plant that he allowed to touch that beloved sword. He pulled it from its sheath and handed it to me. I looked over the blade, seeing the dullness, and how fragile the silver was.

“Lucky for you, we replenish our silver last week, I have plenty to fix this blunt blade.” I placed the sword back in its sheath before placing it on a hook on my door. I walked back over to Geralt, taking his chin in my hand making him look up at me from his seated position.

“If you ever come to me with an infection like that again. I will kill you instead of heal you.” My threats fell flat, I knew that. He chuckled softly before kissing my hand softly.

“Thank you, my dear, Y/N. I already feel better.” I smiled softly and looked over at Jaskier who was just watching with an exasperated expression. He knew we had a weird relationship and truly couldn’t understand why we never became anything more than friends.

“How about that ale?” He said after clearing his throat. I nodded, grabbing his shirt from the floor and helping it back over his head. The men left their items in my home after I insisted they stay with me instead of going to the inn. And we were on our way to the bustling tavern. Filed with laughing people celebrating the end of the week with the sweet peach ale our town was best known for. Geralt and Jaskier found a table as I went to thbarkeep.

“Ahh Y/N!! How are you, my dear?” He asked as he filed the tankers with the cold bubbly ale.

“Quite well August thank you. Hope your ax is doing better?” I asked, speaking of the ax I had fixed for him less than a month ago.

“Oh works wonderfully!” He smiled sweetly at me passing me the tankers and I pulled out the coin but he held his hand out.

“First rounds on the house.” I smiled and nodded at the man grabbing the tankers turning my back to him and walking back to the two men I left. As I approached I saw Annabel. A quite permisquess young thing, not that it was my business what she did with her body, all over Geralt. I felt envy course, threw my body as she groped his chest. I saw his face contort in pain as she brushed her hand down his chest, and he gently pushed her back, but of course, she didn't get the message. I walked up behind her, setting the ale on the table firmly before taking her wrist in my hand spinning her to face me.

“He is hurt, a massive gash, infected puss all over the bandages. Stop. Touching.” My voice was harsh as I glared at the young woman. Her head dropped as she walked away from me in a hurry. I let out a huff as I sat next to Geralt. I could almost feel his smirk as he looked at me. I lifted the tanker to my lips sipping the sweet ale as did Jaskier who was also smiling at me.

“I'll stab your eyes out of your head if you keep looking at me like that Bard.” I spat and he rolled his eyes standing with the ale in his hand looking over at a group of young women.

“I’m going to party, but now I’m also leaving you two alone too” He pointed his free hand in between the two of us, “figure out what the hell you are. Don't wait up.” He left us as he walked to the group of women ready to brag about his adventures with the feared witcher. My cheeks were warm at his words, as I gulped down more of the ale, ignoring Geralt’s persistent gaze as he drank his ale.

“Any idea what Jaskier may be talking about, dove?” He asked, his arm now draped around my chair, his fingers brushing my arm lightly.

“Don't get any smart ide,as Witcher, you're in no place to fuck with a wound like that.” I didn't look at him.

“No one said anything about fucking dove.” That godforsaken nickname made my nipples harden. And my cunt moisten. I finally turned to him, he was inches away from my face. His ale is now on the table. His hand gently cupped my face.

“I’m serious. Even if I wanted to, you cant. It could break the scabs forming.” I couldn't help but lean into his warm rough calloused hand. My hands were similar in feel due to my craft.

“I never mentioned fuking dove, but if you really wanted to. You’d be my first pick.” His lips were inches from mine. My breathing became more erratic at his words, my heartbeat was quickening. He chuckled softly. Inhaling deeply.

“I can not only hear your heart but smell your arousal, my love.” I bit my lip softly and closed my eyes gently. I wanted to, more than anything. But I couldn't just fuck him and ignore the love I felt for the man.

“You’ll leave soon Geralt. And my heart cannot handle it.” It was now or never. I pulled back a little looking in his eyes. “I've been in love with you for many many years. You coming threw and staying when you do is the happiest I am all year, but I know you do not feel the same. I can't fuck you and then watch you leave. You may leave now and never speak-“ I didn't even have the chance to finish my rambling because his lips were pressed to mine. His hands now both on my cheeks. His lips were rough and tasted sweet. It lasted mere minutes. Before he pulled away.

“I will always come home to you, my dove. If you’ll have me.” He said with a smile. My heart was beating faster again. His hands were now holding my own.

“I've never been good with words, but there is a reason I only trust you to tend to my wounds and my swords. You are not just another woman to me. I need you in my life. If you’ll have me, I'll always return to you after every hunt and If I’m needed far, you’ll come with me.” My eyes were welling with tears at his sweet words. It was all I ever wanted him to say. This time I pressed my lips to his. It was softer than before, longer. Full of more passion. More love than any kiss I had ever shared.

“I’ll always take you in your stupid bafoon.” He chuckled softly at my words and leaned back placing his arm around my shoulders again, his eyes scanning the crowd, landing on Jaskier who was singing his least favorite tune. But even the hated song couldn't damper the Witcher’s smile.

“You’ll now need to ask my father for his blessing if you plan to take me with you,” I whispered, nodding my head to the direction of where my father was seated, talking to his companions laughing and joking. Geralt cleared his throat and got to his feet, his fingers laced on my own. He led me through the crowd.

“Mr. Y/L/N?” Geralt asked, his shoulders pressed back as he stood behind my father, his hand not leaving my own. My father turned, saw our hands then the face of the man I was with.

“Geralt!! So good to see y, ou my boy!” He stood and patted Geralt's shoulder.

“How’s the hunt these days?”

“Very good sir, I um... actually have a question for you.” My father smiled and looked at me. Winking.

“What's that lad?” He asked.

“Can I have your blessing to take your daughter's hand in marriage?” I nearly choked on my own spit at his words. My heart is now hammering out of my chest. My cheeks bright red as I squeezed his hand. My father laughed and threw his hands in the air.

“Finally!! A more than worthy suitor for my dear daughter!” The men behind him cheered a few men in the bar looking over eyes burning into Geralt in jealousy.

“You are the only one for my daughter's dear boy. My dear wife Gladdis wouldn’t have been happier. You protect my daughter. With your life. And you have my blessing.” My father stuck his hand out and Geralt let go of mine to shake it.

“I’d die before a hair is harmed on her head, sir.” My father laughed.

“So it will be a wedding in the future! A round on me for everyone!!” The tavern cheered and my father hugged me, kissing my cheek before whispering, “I Told you,my dear. And you thought I was wrong.” I laughed softly and hugged him tightly. An arm wrapped around my hip. Jaskier cheered and started to play a tune on his lute. Geralt bent down his lips by my ear.

“I love you to the moon and back, dove.”

[mementomori-demimonde]

Hidden Scars

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX

Chapter 10

Her breaths are broken, her groan vibrating when it crashes against your ear. You whine and squirm beneath her, unable to anything else, shutting your eyes tight when her tongue laps at the shell, mimicking the movements of her fingers as she enters you - the first languid and soothing, the latter brutal and overwhelming.

“Got one more for daddy?”

You know the game, you like that game, where she affirms her power, delights in you messy state as you writhe under her, keen at her words, obey at every little command obediently. Utterly spent, you continue rocking your hips over her hand just because she’s asked you so, and you’re determined to give her exactly what she wants. All your muscles twitching almost painfully now, you ground yourself to her hand as she draws another climax out of you, a lazy, quick one that leaves you breathless and aching.

Miranda has you on your back in an instant. She spins you around like you’re weightless and, too spent to protest and fight her, you fall limply back on the disheveled bed, trying to look at her through hooded eyes.

In the plain light of the day, you take her in: tousled hair, mouth agape as she passes labored breaths that threaten to become moans, her neck flushed, her eyes dark with lust. Miranda is beautiful above you, wearing nothing but goosebumps and freckles. She’s not wearing leather, she doesn’t have her hair tied up like when she’s ready to fight, she’s not wielding a weapon, and yet, like this, naked and vulnerable in front of you, she is the most intimidating, a tinge of violence constantly flashing in her eyes in these rare moments, doesn’t matter if she’s giving or taking.

She climbs over you, a feral smirk splaying on her lips when she claims your mouth, and the lack of oxygen in your lungs makes it hard to breathe, and she knows you’re struggling, but she doesn’t stop, suckling at your tongue, her teeth tugging at your lip.

Still not completely recovered, you try to reach for her, eager to return the favor, eager to show how much you cherish these times, just the two of you - no troubles, no outside dangers, no idle future, no questions, no doubts, no regrets, just you - eager to make her feel as good as she made feel you, eager to help Miranda her release, but she grabs both of your wrists, pins your hands above her head, and lowers herself on the juncture of your thigh.

Deliciously trapped beneath her, you can feel the heat radiating from her core before her slickness touches the jut of your hip. When your skin meets the softness of her folds, you don’t know which one of you moans the loudest.

You follow her movement as best at your possibilities, bound like you are, watching her through hooded eyes while she practically humps your leg, frantically chasing her release. The animalistic vibe of the act is all Miranda, yearning and wanting to get everything immediately, as if she’s running out of time, as if she’s expecting someone around the corner ready to snatch something under her nose; you would reassure her, touch her, slow her motions if you could, but you can just watch and indulge her, returning the kiss when she searches your lips again and seal them into a fierce kiss, suffocating her own whimpers into your mouth as she crashes over the edge.

She tastes like coffee. It lingers on your tongue when she parts from you, rolls off your body with a huff.

Miranda strokes her own hair off her face as she closes her eyes, her whole expression and demeanor incredibly relaxed in her post-coital bliss.

You prop yourself on the headboard, rubbing at the back of your neck to loosen the taut muscles that have started to ache, your breath still hasty, your head empty while you watch her grabbing blindly at the clothes scattered on the bed, with startling precision, as if she knows exactly where she’s thrown them in the frenzy of the moment.

You watch her sliding her briefs over the toned legs, the way her hips tilt and heave off the mattress when she snaps the band over her waist, and then she’s pulling on her trousers too, and in the silence of the room, your breaths are joined only by the subtle rustle of the fabric, of the zip being closed. You swallow through a partially dried throat when she clips on her bra, and then it’s her black shirt’s turn - the satin molding against her torso perfectly - she closes all the small buttons, and then stuffs it inside her trousers to complete the look. Exhaling, she slumps back on the bed, a hand carding through her own hair.

You are trying your best not to cry.

Miranda has her eyes closed, but you know that small detail won’t stop her from knowing that there’s a silent tear running down your cheek - you don’t want her to know, even if she wouldn’t probably ask questions to avoid unnecessary conversation - but the fact remains, that you don’t want her to know. Even though she probably knows, by now, that you’re trying not to: there’s no escape from that, there’s no escape from her.

It’s so helpless and yet there’s nothing more you crave, to be her property, and in fact, you are: some days, the scar on your shoulder just pulsates with energy as if it were alive - now it is. It’s insane. Maybe you are going insane, your unhealthy yearning of being possessed by that cruel woman it’s the logical proof that your mind is definitely corrupted and that there’s nothing you can do about it.

You’re still trying your best not to cry, but the tears are already there, blurring your sight just slightly.

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood and you inhale slowly when you taste copper on your tongue.

You’re trying your best, but you’re failing miserably - you wish you could simply let it be, let it all go, take whatever she gives you, and forget about the rest, but you just can’t.

Miranda is too much, she’s the trigger to too many things inside you that you struggle to comprehend, things that cannot be ignored.

“I can hear you thinking.” Miranda exhales. You know she’s annoyed, but her curiosity must’ve taken over if she’s decided to talk. “Just say it and stop ruining your pretty lip.”

You stop chewing immediately. Swallowing, you turn off the section in your brain that usually does the overthinking: if you make her wait long enough, you’re going to regret it and deny you even a smile for days. You won't bear it.

“Will I ever touch you properly?” You blurt out, starting to fidget with your fingers. Planting your nails into the heel of your palm is a good alternative to ground yourself to the present. “Not because you let me but because I want to?”

“Does it matter?” Miranda exhales out a long puff of air, clearly vexed. “Don’t be annoying, we were doing so good.”

“It’s just a question. I’m curious.” You shrug, trying to make it sound casual, but you both know you still have to master your lying skill when you’re upset about something, especially when it’s something about Miranda. “I would really like to know if-”

“Zip it.” She shushes harshly. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you shouldn't have if you weren’t ready to listen to whatever I had to say.” You retort, wincing when you press too hard into your skin and a tiny peel chips off.

Miranda cracks an eye open.

“Is that what’s going on inside that little head of yours?” She asks, somewhat rhetorically, but you don’t know if she thinks that, yes, that’s it, or there’s more. “Is that all?”

You open your mouth to speak, but soon enough, your lips fall close again.

Miranda scoffs, unimpressed. She closes her eyes again, laid her head on her bent arm, and exhales comfortably as she rests.

You can’t do this anymore.

She said you were hers, the scar testified that… but what does it mean, exactly? People think being alone is the scariest thing in the world, but they’re wrong: lying to yourself is far worse.

You love her.

In a sickening, twisted, wrong way, you love Miranda, a woman whose last name you ignore - whose most of her life is a mystery to you.

You’ve fallen in love with the captor that has imprisoned you in her own apartment for months, and you can’t even identify the moment you were screwed. You’ve started it to admit weeks ago, since the first time you’ve written it into your notebook and then tore the page apart.

It’s insane and sickening. And also hopeless. You love Miranda.

The hardest thing is that you can’t tell her of course. You wouldn’t be able to bear her laughing at you, thinking it’s a game or a joke, just like you wouldn’t be able to bear her looking at you and coldly reject you, moving on with the next task of the day like nothing happened, brushing you aside like the object you are - her property, her toy to play with, in the way she finds more suitable.

“Didn’t think so.” Miranda hums softly, a cocky smirk tugging at her lips.

“I-” Again, you’re at a loss of words, your bravery dying with them somewhere midway in your throat.

The wound on your palm from where she cuffed in your cell had healed, the wound on your neck where she pressed her knife disappeared, the bruises on your body faded, the scratches on your skin gone, the numbness in your mouth forgotten, the burnt imprints on your chest, too.

There is nothing left, nothing permanent, except the scar on your back, her initial forever carved in your flesh, the eternal reminder that you belong to her. You do, body and mind. And heart. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t belong to you in return.

“What?” She snarls suddenly, her voice is urgent, impatient. “What do you want to say? Just spit it out already!”

“I- I love you.”

The words come out before you can even attempt to stop them. You can’t even decide whether to blame your brain or your mouth or your total lack of self-control. You gape at her, unable to do anything else, scared you might be dead if you even breathe too loudly.

Miranda is looking at you with a blank expression. She is staring. Her brow pinches, her head tilts.

“What?” She barks, making you jerk.

Miranda jerks too, pushing herself upright. She blinks and then, slowly, she turned her head away from you. She swallows, draws a couple of breaths, you can see her jaw moving like she usually does when she’s pressing her tongue against the rows of her teeth, normally she does that when she’s deep in her thoughts and nothing can even try to distract her. She’s brooding now.

Without uttering a single word, you see her bending down, retrieve her boots, zipping and buckling them up, one at the time.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble, desperate to have any kind of reaction from her.

She’s deaf to your callings.

As if she’s under some sort of spell, she snatches something from her nightstand, shoves something else into her pockets from the drawers in her desk, slams the laptop screen close.

In a matter of seconds, she’s walking out of her own room.

“I’ll take it back?” You try again, fubling as you pull up your pants and t-shirt. Blindly, you slip on your pre-laced sneakers and stumble on your own feet when you try to chase after her.

You haven’t run for long, but your heart is thrumming in your chest anyway. You stop dead in your tracks in the small corridor outside the bedroom: Miranda is a few feet from you, next front of the door.

With horror, you see her reaching out for her coat. The keys rattle in the bowl when she retrieves them, the knife is the next to fall into her right pocket.

“Where are you going?” You ask, your voice is urgent. “Miranda, you said it would be too dangerous to leave the apartment, right now!” You remind her, echoing her own words of a few days prior when she informed you with a wide grin that the two of you would’ve spent quite a lot of time together.

The fact that she paid extra attention to lock every door and every window and check all the corners to the extent to seem obsessed didn’t go unnoticed. You asked her the reason why she was acting so cautious and only after the fourth time - some punishment for being petulant and insistent and the same amount of climaxes to pass the time - she finally gave in and told you that it would be dangerous to go outside for a while, a few days maybe, a week top. She even let you choose take-out, yesterday.

Going out isn’t safe yet. Even if you often lose track of time, the day blending into the night while your combined sleeping schedules got fucked up because of all the fucking around and fucking about, you're aware that it’s too soon to go out. It’s been a few days, but certainly not a week.

Of course, she doesn’t answer - why would she, Miranda never explains everything. Why would you think on this special occasion she would make an exception?

“Miranda!” You call her again, but she has already opened the door, storming out of the apartment without a single word.

You run after her without thinking twice.

You call for her, reaching out for her even if you’re aware she’s too distant for that, and when you’re sure you’ll be left alone in the apartment for God-knows-how-long, your foot slides in the small crack, your shoe catching the door an inch before it can lock itself close.