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cockaiine · 5 months

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༊*·˚FUCK AROUND .ᐟ

you drive satoru home after a night clubbing, but he's waayy too drunk to watch over his words. what happens when he makes a confession? will he regret it later....or not?

ɞ⁺ contains : best friend!satoru gojo x fem! reader, drunk satoru at fist, suggestions of drunk sex, slight mention of car crash, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (stay safe n wrap it up!), reader gets called baby, riding position, semi-public sex (satoru has maids)

ɞ⁺ w.c : 3.2k-ish

ɞ⁺ note : came back from the dead yayy. thank u @screampied for beta reading i was too tired to look at it another time skfjklsdjg,, n thank u @satoruwiki i had a stroke writing the dialogue

You never imagined Satoru would consume that much alcohol, truly, you didn't.

“Mmm... give me a kiss... just one…” your best friend mumbles, his words slurred as he collapses into the car seat. In that moment, you're immensely grateful you didn't indulge in as much alcohol as you had initially planned; it's evident he's in no condition to drive you home.

“Satoru…” you sigh, shutting the door to the driver's seat firmly. “Please, spare me.”

The journey commences with a symphony of Satoru's complaints. He's a particularly whiny drunk, grumbling about the seatbelt, his discomfort in the car seat, and even about the moon, insisting it's following him. He just won't shut up, and you swear you'll poke his eye out. The street is shrouded in darkness, and you don’t own a driver's license; the last thing you need is an accident.

However, mercifully, he soon succumbs to a deep slumber, his face pressed against the cold windowpane. You contemplate taking a picture to tease him with later, but ultimately decide against it.

When you finally arrive at his residence, the realization dawns on you that you have no means of getting home tonight. Summoning an Uber dressed in your current state past midnight doesn't strike you as particularly safe. Crashing at Satoru's seems like the more prudent option, unless he sobers up and offers to drive you home.

“‘Toru,” you poke his shoulder gently, “Satoru, come on, we're here.”

It takes several attempts to rouse him, but when he finally stirs, he startles, nearly banging his head against the window in the process.

“Huh-?” He seems marginally more coherent now; hopefully, he can manage to walk on his own. “Where are we?”

“Your place,” you reply wearily, fatigue seeping into your muscles, pleading for rest. “Come on, you spilled tequila all over yourself.”

“Did you drive?” His bleary eyes narrow slightly, heavy lids drooping.

“No,” you fib, “the car drove itself.”

“Oh,” he nods, a chuckle escaping you at his confusion. He appears on the verge of questioning further, but you beat him to it. Stepping out of the car barefoot, your heels abandoned in the backseat, you make your way to his side, opening the door.

“Come on. Can you walk?”

Satoru nods, lazily unbuckling his seatbelt and swinging his legs out into the open air. You wait outside the car as he lingers, half in, half out.

“Mm... you're looking real pretty, you know?” He remarks, causing you to roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips.

“Stop that,” you giggle, feeling bashful under his gaze. You remind yourself he's still intoxicated, which somewhat explains his behavior.

What catches you off guard is when his hands find their way to your legs, fingers trailing subtly over the back of your thighs. You almost gasp at the unexpected touch, his innocent gaze meeting yours.

“Stop what?”

His slender fingers tug at the hem of your short dress. “This has been bothering me the whole night, you know? Standing in my way.”

“Satoru, you're drunk. Let's get you inside and—”

“Can't you feel it?” A frown mars his pink lips. “Are you that clueless? I've been trying to get with you for so long.”

Your eyes widen, cheeks flushing with heat. You remind yourself that he doesn’t mean it. Heck, he probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying. So, you open your mouth to respond, but he interrupts by pushing himself up and out of the door, causing you to stumble backward.

“So?” Warmth seeps into the small of your back, his fingers tapping against the fabric of your dress.

You weigh the situation carefully. It's a tempting opportunity, one you've secretly hoped for, yet it doesn't feel right. Despite Satoru's partial sobriety, it's clear that proceeding would be a mistake.

“Satoru,” you murmur, taking a step back to create some semblance of space between you. “We'll discuss this when you're sober, okay?”

Fortunately, the awkwardness doesn't linger as he quickly drifts back into slumber.

By the next morning, Satoru recalls nothing of the previous night's events. He's back to his usual self, waking you with a coffee and no questions asked about why you're still there. It's endearing, in its own way, despite his loud and sometimes obnoxious demeanor. You've known Satoru for so long that you've weathered worse.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks as you return from the bathroom, clad in his oversized T-shirt and shorts. He doesn't mind; in fact, he seems to relish the sight, finding comfort in your relaxed appearance.

“Yeah…” you yawn, covering your mouth with one hand while grabbing the warm mug with the other. “Couldn't leave this morning because someone had a bit too much to drink.”

“Oh, please, I know you're just using that as an excuse to stay with me,” he teases, smirking as you shoot him a glare. “It's obvious.”

“Aren’t you cocky?” you retort, bringing the coffee to your lips. The brew is exactly to your liking, a detail Satoru always remembers. “You were so whiny last night, I swear. I should've brought Sugu’ along instead.”

“You wouldn't have,” he insists, persistent in his belief that you wanted to be with him, even when the night didn't unfold as planned. “Who could resist going clubbing with me? It's the ultimate experience. A million girls wish they had the chance.”

“I know, they were all over you,” you remark casually, setting your coffee down on the table in his spacious living room, fingers absentmindedly fixing your hair. He's taken aback by your words, vividly recalling the night's details. “You were such a whore. Every girl grinded on your dick. What an accomplishment.”

A hint of unease crosses his features. It hadn't occurred to him that he'd been dancing with other women while you were there with him. And if he was with other girls... what were you doing?

His thoughts are interrupted by your sudden burst of laughter at his expression, likening him to a sad puppy. “Oh god, your face,” you laugh, wiping away tears. “Relax, it was just a joke.”

Gojo scoffs, feigning nonchalance as he looks away in embarrassment. “I knew it was a joke,” he retorts defensively.

“Of course you did,” you scoff, rolling your eyes playfully.

“What else did I do last night?” Satoru's voice carries a hint of hesitation, embarrassed by his actions. “Did I say anything weird?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a pang of anxiety coursing through you as he seems almost convinced of his own folly. You silently pray he doesn't remember; there's no need to make things awkward for both of you.

“No?” You quirk a brow, “You just slept. You snore fucking loudly, by the way.”

He studies your face and you feign indifference, though the awkwardness hangs palpably in the air around you. He doesn't remember, you silently implore.

“So rude,” he tsks his tongue. The tension in the air dissipates as he teases you about your comment, and you both share a laugh, the momentary awkwardness melting away. He stands up, leaving you with a mixture of relief and amusement at the exchange.

You relieve the longest breath, one you didn’t realize you were holding.

You're relieved that he's forgotten the events of the night, unwilling to broach the subject in case his words were not genuine, merely fueled by alcohol. Yet, a small, twisted part of you wishes you had accepted his offer last night, even as you despise yourself for such thoughts. He would have regretted it, you reason. Who knows where your friendship would stand if you had acted on such primal urges. You remind yourself that you're not some animal; you can control yourself.

Despite your initial intention to leave by nightfall, you know deep down that you'll end up spending the night at his place again. It's a pattern that seems inevitable.

The day went by fast, and before you know it it’s already dinner time. Satoru stepped into the living room, where you’ve been unproductively lying down for what seemed to be hours on end. “Do you wanna go out to eat?”

“Hmm?” You look up from the phone, turning to face him in a position similar to a cat’s. “I don’t have anything to wear. Can we just order something instead?”

Satoru hums, walking towards the couch you lay on. With a huff you sit up, giving him space to slump himself manspread next to you. “I’m fucking starving”

“Where’s your cook?” You giggle. For a grown man, your blue-eyed friend’s cooking skills are less than average. With some luck, he can make scrambled eggs. Not that he ever needed to, his cook used to be a chef in a big restaurant. Considering the kind of money Satoru has, you’re guessing he left his job for a better opportunity; cooking meals for a single man. “Did he run away? Can’t blame him.”

Satoru shoots you a glare, containing his smile. “He opened a restaurant and left.”

“So he ran away,” You confirm, leaning your face dangerously close, “couldn’t handle you.”

“Are you implying I’m too much to handle?” he mimics your movement, nearly breathing in your face.

“You know I’m right,” you’re trying your best to stay put, but the way your breath hitches at the proximity does not help. You can only pray the heat you feel creeping on your face is not obvious on the out.

“You wanna put that theory to the test?” He quirks a brow, white lashes fluttering in the form of blinks and you’re nearly convinced he’s trying to charm you. “You know, handling someone comes in many forms.”

You cringe at his words, scoffing and turning away to hide your embarrassment.

Satoru boo’s at you, “coward. You’re so boring.”

“You’re so eager,” You retort, standing up and stretching your back, trying to keep space before you lose all form of restraint.

“Oh no you don’t,” You hear. Before you react you're pulled back to the couch. A gasp erupts from you when you fall onto the cushion, body too close to his own.

Heat rises, and silence falls. It’s not awkward, no. Just… tense.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know?” He mutters, voice so sultry it makes your heart drop. It’s such a drastic change from his previous teasing manner. Although that stupid smirk remains.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” your voice comes out a whisper, a lot softer than you expect it to, surprising both you and him. You want to push him off you, tell him you’re best friends and this isn’t heading in the right direction. But you’re too old to care, too desperate to care. You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long now. You can’t lose it again.

“You do,” He isn’t taking arguments. “I remember last night very clearly actually…”

One finger tips over the exposed skin of your knee and up, whatever the shorts you wear leave out, tantalizing you and sending shivers down your spine. You gulp, eyes widening. He remembers..?

“I’m surprised you didn’t take your chance,” he hums, looking down at where his finger meets with your skin. “So… wasteful.”

“What do you suggest I have done?” You tilt your head to meet his eyes, emboldened.

His eyes meet yours, lips parted for a second, almost curious. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Before you can change your mind, his mouth closes upon yours. He doesn’t give you time to process the situation, tongue invading your mouth while his hands take the chance to wrap around your middle.

Your hands find place on his shoulder, colder fingers rushing to the buttons of his shirt. He nearly bites your tongue, muscles dancing in no particular rhythm. He tastes like mint and lust. Exactly how you imagined he would.

He pulls away with a heavy breath when his shirt is unbuttoned. “Did you call me eager?”

“You’re so much sexier with your mouth shut,” you huff, feeling his palms sneak past the waistband of the shorts.

“You hurt me, you know?” Satoru chuckles, one warm hand finding your jaw to bring your focus back to his face instead of the shit he wore. “Keep your eyes on mine, hm?”

There’s an effect he has on you, bringing out primal needs you thought you had buried well. “Or what?”

He brings down the shorts in one fast movement, earning a yelp from you. He chuckles, looking down at the thong you’d worn last night. “Came prepared, huh? How cute.”

Rolling your eyes, you move to straddle him. “You think you’re so funny–”

“I am,” He interrupts, groping the flesh of your ass. “That’s what got me here.”

You don’t care to deny his words, kissing him like you’re starved. You feel his cock harden against you, arousal evident by the way he groans into his lips.

His hands roam your body freely while his mouth explores the warmth of your mouth. He traces the edge of your bra, teasing the skin acing to be touched. He’s been waiting for this for very long now; to taste you, to feel you, to have you. It’s his goal, and he’s finally getting there.

“Fuck- Satoru,” You breathe. He watches your face, the string of saliva connecting you to him. He’s seen your face in dreams, but it didn’t look this good. He feels the adrenaline rush at the thought that this is caused by him. He is making you look like that. This is all for him.

“Yeah?” He asks, lifting the shirt over your head.

“I need it,” there’s despair in your voice. He feels a need to satisfy it. He plans to, at least. “Please.”

“So needy,” he smiles as you unzip his pants, pulling his hardened cock out of the boxers. “No prep?”

“Can’t,” You answer mindlessly, too focused on pumping your hand over the glorious length. He’s beautiful down there, making a part of you wish you’d done this earlier. But you don’t dwell on it, too enamored by his leaking tip.

He grunts, biting his lip and throwing his head back. You watch his reaction, propping yourself on your knees. “Can I put it in, ‘toru?”

He huffs, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. “What are you waiting for?” his fingers run down from your waist to your hips, slowly drawing towards your thong. You hiss a breath when he slips his thumb under the fabric, feeling your heat before pushing the cloth to the side. “Go ahead.”

Your hips lower, feeling his tip against your fold. Your movement is slow, a little too slow for his liking. Satoru is no patient man, his grip on your hips tightens, pulling you down with force.

A loud moon escapes you at the suddenness, walls struggling to accommodate the vast stretch. It feels bigger than it looks, you realize, chest heaving under the pressure. You forgot to get a condom, but that’s the last thing on your mind right now. Nails dig into his shoulder, pushing your head against his chest to take a breath.

“Fuh-fuck,” You hiss, “too big.”

Satoru hums, running his hands over your skin to coax you. “Can’t do it?”

“I–I can,” you grit your teeth. He finds a way to be a pest even with a pussy to shut him up. So you lift your hips, as if to prove your point, moving them slowly at first.

“O-ah–” He shuts his eyes, focused on the ecstatic feeling of your insides squeezing him, swallowing him whole. It’s better than his hands, better than any other girl he’s fucked to pass time. In a way, it’s so… you.

You do your best to maintain pace, to not become too fast just yet. You know you’d orgasm too early if you did, but he feels too good not to.

“Oh, fuck, s’tight,” his jaw clenches as his hands move to unclasp the bra, allowing your breasts freedom. Satoru looks at you, body begging to be adorned. To be worshipped. It’s what you deserve, so his hands rest on your hips as he brings his mouth to your chest, bringing you closer for a taste.

He starts with a little lick to your nipple, earning him yet another loud whine. You’re too cute like that. One set of fingers finds your other breast, fondling it with care. Your senses tingle, making you breathe harder and move sloppier, looking to feel his tip hit a certain spot you’re yet to locate.

Satoru grunts, mouth latching into your hardened nipple, sucking on the sensitive skin. Arms cage his head, giving him better access.

“Fuck– ‘toru…” your whines are a prayer, moving faster around him. His length stretches you so well that you feel him against all the right places, massaging your insides so well you need to cover your mouth to stop the loud noises. Yet you see stars when you feel it, a moan you’re unable to control running freely out of your mouth. You know the maids can hear it, mauve even walked across the room without you noticing. But it doesn’t matter, they wouldn’t dare bring it up.

“Yeah,” His breath comes out strained, pinching your nipple before moving to suck the other one. “Just like that, keep moving for me, baby. I–fuck—I know you’re close”

“So good,” you whine, vision blurring as you huff and puff. “So good, ‘toru–!”

Your confession of ecstasy makes him feel his edge coming closer, yearning for release.

Lewd sounds of squelching and moans roam the room unsolicited; you no longer able to control yourself, and Satoru not wanting you to.

You tug at his hair, moaning pronographically. Your hips nearly buckle at the friction but you’re too busy chasing your high to notice, moving like your life depends on it. The knot in your stomach feels too fragile, too ready to let go.

When Satoru feels the way your hips tire, he puts his hands to work, gently guiding them up on his cock before slamming you back down with an aggressive motion.

You nearly scream, eyes widening as the knot you felt suddenly exploding. Your eyes widen as your neck cranes back, pussy tightening around him all at once then letting go. You twitch around him, clenching and unclenching around his length to the point where he can barely hold it anymore.

“I’m gonna– shit I’m gonna come,” He groans, teeth sinking into the skin of your nipple, the sudden stimulation making you jerk.

“Inside,” You moan, “please ‘toru– i want you to come inside.”

As if on cue, his cock twitches and he releases white ropes into your walls, filling you up with warmth. Your eyes roll back, too much ecstasy.

You ride out your high, coming out longer than you expected. When you’re done, you slump onto him. You don’t recall ever being this worn from one orgasm.

Satoru relaxes into the couch, head thrown back and thoughts empty.

Your breath comes hot against the sweaty skin of his neck. You lick your lips, suddenly thirsty.

“You good?” He whispers, almost afraid if he were too loud he’d ruin the serenity that’s fallen over you.

“Mhm,” you hum, not yet moving off his length.

“Again?” He asks after a few seconds of silence. You hear that smirk in his voice.

You giggle in response, pushing yourself up. He’s out of you with a ‘pop!’ and a soft groan. You huddle to the other side of the couch, trying to catch your breath. “Give me a second.”

“Can’t handle me?” He challenges, and you’re urged to move back and ride him until he passes out. Maybe you will, but you need a break.

“You’re insufferable,” You groan in response, reaching for the half-empty cup of water you’ve previously set on the table.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes. “You love it.”

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slasherscream · 9 months

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A/N: shout-out to @abominableghostface, who was my beta reader and co-conspirator as usual.

CRAZY ASS BOYS GANG + WHAT TYPE OF "LEAVING IN THE MORNING" PERSON ARE THEY

❥ we ride at dawn. try and survive ❥

Billy Loomis - The man with the plan. When he says morning he means we are going to be in the car and on the road by the time the sun rays begin to hit the earth. Granted, it's not a hectic morning by any means. He'll have made sure the two of you started packing days in advance. There’s no last minute rushing around. No wondering if you packed a toothbrush, or your favorite jacket. You double checked everything the night before, and then checked behind one another to make sure. But no matter how peaceful the waking, being dragged to your car at 4:30am will make you want to kill him. He passes you your favorite blanket that he threw in the dryer last minute, a cozy protection against the dewy chill of the night turning to morning. When he tells you to sleep until he finds somewhere decent to eat you hate him a little less.

Jordan Li - By nature Jordan is more of a night owl. Through pure necessity they’ve molded themself into something resembling a morning person. Sure, the way they don’t start smiling before 10am shows you it’s not at all a natural state of being, but they do it anyways.

So used to starting the monotonous, average days bright and early they’re definitely not going to want to start a vacation late. They wake up to the sound of their alarm. They wake you up to soft kisses pressed into your skin. When you open your eyes, scowling at them anyways, they can’t help but laugh, “Yeah I know, I know, fuck off. But we gotta head out before traffic hits.”

Knowing how you are in the mornings Jordan packed the car last night. When you roll over, intent on ignoring them they roll their eyes and shift, so that he can drag you from bed no matter how hard you try and make yourself dead weight.

You’re still half asleep, leaned up against him beneath the spray of the shower, but wake up when he flicks water at your face.

“Fuck off.” You grumble.

“Once we’re on the road I’ll fuck off for at least an hour. Then we’ll grab breakfast, yeah?” He pushes a loofah in your hand and grins once you take it. They shift again, nudging you out the way with her hip so you’re sharing the water instead of hogging it, “Wash my back so we can head out.”

When they wake you up outside a diner two hours later instead of one you’re feeling much more agreeable, pulling them in for a kiss when they open your car door.

Sebastian Valmont - A chronic riser with the sun. It doesn’t matter what time he goes to sleep, he is going to wake up right as the sun rises. He has black out curtains and takes morning yoga classes. The bastard. His body simply enjoys being awake at six am. Thus, he sees absolutely no reason why leaving for your trip should come hours after that. He’s going to be the one driving anyways. The maids packed all your things, and the butler brought everything out to the car. All that’s left is to get you out of the house. Sebastian helps you put on your clothes, laughs at the way he has to push your arms into your shirt, and drag you to brush your teeth. When he tucks you into the passenger seat he knows you’ll be asleep again by the time he slides into the driver’s seat. He sneaks glances at you for the first few hours of the drive, quietly listening to music and the soft sound of your snoring, enjoying every second.

Stu Macher - Ball of energy that he is, Stu is awake bright and early, and does not need time to “wake up.” He unfortunately acts like this is a universal experience. The fact that he’s excited about the trip makes his typical lack of empathy towards night owls even more brutal than usual. You’re unceremoniously dragged from bed. He tickles you as you brush your teeth. If you seem a little extra groggy that morning he hops in the shower with you and turns it on cold to get your motor running. He acts completely baffled about why you’re still scowling by the time he’s back from his banishment of loading up the car while you try to dress yourself in peace. To make matters worse he wants to talk about anything and everything with you despite the fact that the sky is still that sleepy shade of blue that’s half night, half dawn. You stare at him hatefully from the corner of your eye, grunting answers at him until you pass a diner that’s open and you can get caffeine into your system. His excitement for the trip is cute once you’re awake.

Kevin Khatchadourian - Rises with the sun and is deeply irritated that you don’t. On a regular day he rarely let’s you sleep in. You’ll be lucky if he chooses to start his daily routine without you. On the mornings when he decides to practice archery, which is most, you’ll get an extra hour and a half. By the time he’s coming back inside he wants you both moving around one another, starting the rest of the routine. Brushing teeth, making food, the idle chatter of your voice. Considering he’s not fond of changing your routine, which is exactly what a vacation is, he doesn’t want to hear a single complaint about the hour he wakes you up to start the drive. He also doesn’t let you fall asleep when you get into the car, even though he’s the only one driving. You’re keeping him company no matter how tired you are.

Sparrow!Ben Hargreeves - While he maintains a strict schedule of waking up early unless hungover he is by no means a morning person. He’ll wake you up as gently as he’s capable of if the shrillness of the alarm didn’t do the trick, rocking you by the shoulder until your eyes blink open. The two of you packed the car last night so there wouldn’t be anything to do or communicate with one another upon first waking up. Two non-morning people trying to talk to each other upon first waking up was a recipe for disaster. Especially if it was the pair of you. Quietly you go about your morning. Brushing your teeth side by side, bumping against each other every now and then instead of speaking. Ben grabs the green smoothies that he made for the two of you the night before, something to tide you over until you found a place he was willing to eat at (which was always an unnecessarily complicated task.) It’s thirty minutes of driving and radio playing softly before you’re caught in a bit of traffic and you’re awake enough to be sweet. You lean across the cupholder to kiss his cheek and he gives you a small smile, “Morning, L/N.” The two of you are experts at sharing your mornings by now.

❥ we leave sometime before noon ❥

Jason Dean/JD - Will never wake you up before he thinks you’ve gotten all the rest you need. His favorite hobby is turning off your morning alarms if he thinks you set them unreasonably early in comparison to when you fell asleep. He’s certainly not going to break that pattern for the start of a vacation, when you should be resting. You’ll wake whenever you naturally wake up, JD still wrapped around you. You’ll shower, drink some coffee, do one last check of the luggage and then he’ll haul everything out to the car for you, no matter how much you both packed. He likes you to not lift a finger during your trips and it starts before you ever leave the house. It certainly puts you into a vacation mindset.

David Mccall - David himself is an early riser but likes to let you sleep in whenever he can. The start of a vacation is certainly one of those times. He spends the hours before you wake taking care of last minute things. He checks all the bags again, makes sure everything you could possibly need is packed, then loads up the car. He makes sure the house is clean so there’s no mess to come back to that you’ll stress yourself out over. Closer to the time he knows you’ll get up he starts making breakfast for you. He’s so focused on the task he jumps when your arms loop around his waist and you start to press grateful sleepy kisses to his back. You’ll be on the road in an hour or two, he’s in no rush. He wants you relaxed and enjoying yourself every step of the way.

Josh Washington - Due to his insomnia he is not falling asleep any earlier than one am most nights. To ask him to get up at dawn would be like killing a puppy. You both sleep in, wake up sometime just before noon. You like to be realistic about your expectations for yourselves, so there’s no rush. A late start was factored into the plans from the beginning. You packed everything into the car the night before, so all there’s left to do is hop in. You wake yourselves up with some music to start. Barely twenty minutes on the road you see a cute diner and stop for late breakfast. You smile at each other as the afternoon sun shines on both your faces, sleepily discussing what you’re most excited about doing when you arrive at your destination.

❥ secret third worse thing ❥

Nathan Prescott - Nathan likes your journeys to begin in the dead of night. Whether it’s heading to the airport or hopping in the car to start a long drive, a 9pm start time is the sweet spot for him. He doesn’t like waking up early to start trips in the morning. Nor does he like being stuck in the claustrophobic traffic of other human bodies or cars during the afternoon. You’ll be dead tired by the time you get wherever you’re going but having a good beginning to vacations is important. Especially for Nathan. When you start at night his anxiety tends to be lower for the whole trip. The things we do for love.

#don't ask why jordan's is longer or has dialogue it's called finding the character for the 1st time #crazy ass boys gang #billy loomis x reader #jordan li x reader #stu macher x reader #josh washington x reader #jd x reader #ben hargreeves x reader #sparrow!ben hargreeves x reader #david mccall x reader #nathan prescott x reader #kevin khatchadourian x reader #sebastian valmont x reader #if you see an error anywhere no you do NOT #i am NOT a morning person if you couldn't tell god bless the ppl who are you are my enemy

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emilykaldwen · 1 month

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty-One

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

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Author's Note: This chapter got out of control and ended up split (did I add another 1k per beta notes? yes, yes I did). I also wrote half of this chapter in the blackout haze I was in during this past season soooo take that as you will.

Many many thanks to @darkwolf76 for her un-spoiled eyes on this chapter and the encouragement I needed! Go check her work out for Strong Family Feels!

Much love to @selfproclaimedunicorn who likes to see what pretty jars we can shove these characters into to shake them around. ALSO check out her fantastic fic as well!

@vampire-exgirlfriend is my favorite person in the whole world, the Rhaenyra fan to my Alicent fan, the fox to my rabbit. I adore you and this story would not be here without you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Oh, Father, Tell Me

Aegon spirals on his morning ride and in the face of Daemon's arrival. A tense conversation with Larys Strong. Won't anyone just leave him the fuck alone?

The wind howled between the cracks around the windows and Abby snuggled deeper into the covers, Wylla’s hands clasped around her own. The bed was three times the size of the one she had in the Red Keep, and she tried not to think that the last person in this bed had been her mother.

“It’s alright,” Wylla whispered. “You shed all the tears you need.”

The words had been robbed from her in this haze of grief and loss, of confusion, and so many other things that raked at the soft meat of her insides. She could only nod into her pillow, and let Wylla push her hair from her face, half unfamiliar words in the song she sang quietly to her. It was only as Abby finally began to drift off, did she hear the sound of the door open, but she did not open her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Wylla hissed.

“You’re here to make sure nothing untoward happens,” Aegon’s voice drifted over her, followed by the soft thunk of boots on the rug. “The bed’s big enough; I can wake the other ladies to join us.”

“She just fell asleep-”

“Is she alright?” Aegon’s voice was softer and closer all the same, and Abby felt the bed dip as Aegon climbed on top of the covers behind her. The warmth of him was like a fire, soothing and comforting as he pressed up against her back, effectively keeping her contained between him and Wylla. She turned her head slightly and Aegon’s lips tenderly grazed her temple.

“She will be.” Wylla’s hands squeezed hers and Abby sighed, finally able to drift fully asleep.

Sleep had eluded Aegon, and he had woken far too early for his tastes, the murky gray light that signaled the coming dawn creeping in through the windows. The maid who had come to stoke the fire had stared at him, wide eyed, before dropping into a curtsy and hurrying from the room. He rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to Abrogail’s temple before dragging his stiff body from the bed and slipping quietly out onto the tiered balcony. He reached up, fingers caressing the wisteria blooms he’d sent back with Ser Simon all those months ago. Abby adored them, and he wanted to bring a piece of their garden here.

His father had ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong.

Jace had said little after the revelation, speaking of what he’d overheard, his voice harsh and cracking between breaths and in Aegon’s hands lay the admittance that his sister had truly sired bastards by the tongue of her own son. Jace had put the lives of his family in his hands then, amid his gasping and tear filled eyes. It was the moment that Alicent Hightower had been waiting for all these many years…and Aegon only kept a hand pressed between his nephew’s shoulder blades, sat beside his childhood companion, and simply sat there with him in the dark.

By rights, Aegon should hate the boy beside him. His feelings for his sister were a tangled knot of Helaena’s embroidery thread that joined the ribbon tied through his ribs. A piece of him that he would never be free of, for Aegon didn’t know how to cut himself free of it. It was not his sister in the crypt that Jace had heard, however. It had been the king, sire and grandsire, the head of their family. The man who looked past Aegon as if he was a specter that was too painful, and then the moment where those eyes focused and for those fleeting heartbeats, Aegon thought the king saw the son that he had.

His own hand held the blade - or in this case, lit the match - and it occurred to Aegon then how obvious it felt. Targaryens believed in a cleansing fire. Their house words spoke of this, Fire and Blood. Fire and Blood had come for House Strong, not a powerful wave crashing against the towers like some suspected Lord Corlys to have been responsible for it. His weak father had taken the accusations personally, and defended his daughter with the same sort of viciousness that Mother had defended Aemond. The same sort of viciousness that he never bestowed upon them.

Too weak. King Viserys was too weak but it was not weakness, Aegon thought, to spare a child. Had Rhaenyra admitted what had happened, he doubted anyone would have faced death. Ser Harwin would have gone to The Wall, Rhaenyra’s sons disinherited. Maybe Aegon would have become her heir then. Not that he wanted it, but Aemond would have even at that age, and that might have been something.

No. Instead, the king spilled blood through the sort of schemes he disdained of.

Harrenhal was too unfamiliar for Aegon to make his way through quietly. It was early enough that he wasn’t bothered, but it meant that the murmured conversations of the servants were his to overhear.

“They say it’s a Second Great Council,” a voice had said to their companion; two servants scraping out the great hearth that had burned low through the night. “I heard that the king will name his son heir at the wedding.”

“He didn’t name him in King’s Landing,” the other voice had pointed out.

The first voice laughed. “But more are coming to the wedding. You can see the tents for miles!”

The court had whispered those rumors the whole of Aegon’s life, every time his name day came around that it would be the year that he would supplant his sister as heir. Rumor that would chase along the whispers of court each time Rhaenyra gave birth to another brunette boy.

He wants me to inherit nothing! He wanted to scream at them. They all saw it. They all saw over and over again how little King Viserys cared for his long sought after first born son. The boy he stopped caring about as soon as Precious Rhaenyra’s little Jacaerys came.

Jacaerys Velaryon, who looked like Ser Harwin and always had, who shared the same dimpled smile as Abrogail. Jacaerys, who the king doted on and spoiled and paid more attention to than Aegon.

Jace, who had come running to him when he was small, crying because something had frightened him. Jace, who tagged along after him when Aemond rolled his eyes and stuck his head in a book.

The castle was already bustling as Aegon made the long walk to the stables, Kostōba already saddled by his request. He reached up to rub his palm along his face while he fed the horse a carrot for his good behavior and left out the main gates and down the trail west, away from Harrenton and towards the roost where Sunfyre and the other dragons had nested.

His father had ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong in order to cover up for his sister’s indiscretions.

Sunfyre rumbled beneath him as he climbed on, chittering and confused, watching him with great, golden eyes and trilling softly; a whistle of a song. Dreamfyre was curled up a ways away, Vermax chittering beside her while Moondancer perched up along the jagged rock of the ruined tower that made up the dragon roost. They all watched as Aegon and Sunfyre took off and Aegon let his stomach drop, the wind from the ascent pull tears from his eyes and tried to escape into the nothingness of the sky.

Did he even want to be king?

He had meant it when he said that he would not contest Rhaenyra’s claim. Kingship looked exhausting, with everyone demanding and expecting and pushing and pleading. He already dealt with the favor seekers and the clout chaser amidst court, preying upon him to aid their own desperate grabs at ascent. Cassandra Baratheon had been a more dangerous indulgence; the comely heir of a Lord Paramount with eyes set on something more. He wasn’t a fool. He knew that allowing her to think she could get her claws in him had been a risky move, and one that he was pleased had worked out for the better. She had not been the only one, nor, he knew, would she be the last.

Sunfyre let out a loud shriek and swooped down, the flotilla of previously peaceful ducks floating languidly upon the still waters of the lake now a frenzy of frightened calls before the dragon let out a pleased groan and scooped a mouth full of the water fowl into his mouth, belly just skimming the water, tail splashing in the sudden descent and quick ascent to avoid crashing into the depths. Water splashed up, the droplets catching into colored streaks of light in the early morning rays. He shouted in surprise and delight, Sunfyre shaking water from his head as he indulged himself, successfully pulling Aegon from the spiral of uncertainty that he had found himself in.

He did not want to be king, nor did he want to hide himself away amidst the ash and bone of the past the way his father did. He wanted to wake each morning buried balls deep in his wife, senses filled with her to erase away the haunted dreams of loneliness and pain. He wanted to greet the day upon dragonback and watch the sunrise; a streak of blue as vivid as Abrogail’s eyes, streaked with pink and orange and purple, the rays turning Sunfyre more golden and brilliant than ever. Where the world was quiet and peaceful, where nothing chased and demanded and clawed. Aegon wanted a life away from the harsh demands of King’s Landing. How peaceful it was here at Harrenhal. Yes, he missed the sound of bells from the Great Sept, the bustle and crush of Flea Bottom, but it was not a longing that bred contempt. Aegon knew that in his bones. It was an ache of appreciation, of thankfulness, because the quiet here, unexpectedly found as he and his dragon danced above the God’s Eye, was a gift he had not realized he had needed, let alone wanted.

The Isle of Faces was shrouded in the morning mist and the high, bone white boughs of the weirwoods reached up through the fog, the sprays of vivid red leaves like drops of blood against the snow. Sunfyre kept a distance away and Aegon did not urge him closer. He knew little of the island except that it was the last home of the Southron Weirwoods, a sacred place of worship. He squinted towards the island, the little outcropping that jutted out into the water, and startled as something moved.

The antlers caught his attention; the twist of the them at first fooling him for branches of a tree before the figure moved. It was no beast, at least, not one that Aegon had ever seen before. It was a shadow in the mist, a figure of some great height but he could not tell if it was what adorned its head or if the figure was truly tall. It moved out of the trees, the damp swirling around it as it stepped into the streak of morning light that lit up the little outcropping, shrouded in shadow.

Aegon’s ears pricked as a strange sound met him. A loud but low humming seemed to emanate the closer they came to the island. He had never heard such a thing before and although it was a distant sound, it reverberated in his bones, vibrating along the back of his neck.

His father had Lyonel Strong and his son were killed to protect Rhaenyra from further accusations.

The accusations had not been erased, and Aegon had seen the way Ser Simon had looked at the boy, eyes wide, the man who was so quick with words stunned speechless.

Everyone knows. Just look at them.

He craved the sweet rush of Arbor Red down his throat, or the taste of Abby’s cunt on his tongue. He craved escape and with an anguished shout, he urged Sunfyre faster, letting his roar claw at his throat just as Sunfyre joined him, the sensation of his dragon a comfort in his chest. The pair of them yelled together, Aegon breathless and lightheaded, his throat protesting at the scream he let out.

Sunfyre let out another trilling call and took off higher, the end of his tail slapping against the water and Aegon craned back to watch the figure as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The feeling in his stomach was one of uncertainty; an unsettled sensation that roiled in his belly like a sloshing ale tankard. He leaned over the horn of his saddle, running a gloved hand along Sunfyre’s scales. Another strong beat of his dragon’s wings, and Sunfyre sped faster into the dawn sky, the cold of the clouds hitting against Aegon’s face, cooling the perpetual heat of his skin and stinging his eyes. Yet he inhaled the smell of petrichor and let it course through his body and wash away the odd sensations and the thoughts that plagued him.

Still, it stuck.

His father had his wife’s father and brother killed to protect his sister. His wife’s other brother had a hand in it.

His sister, Aegon would never forget, who stood in the face of their brother’s maiming, the grievous injury that could have killed him; an ugly and long, painful death from infection and agony, to change the focus to her, and the perceived injustices against her, to the expense of the rest of them. Instead of punishing her children in any sort of capacity, she turned it into something completely different. Cruel and unnecessary; no one had been speaking of it. It had to do with Vhagar, not an attack on Rhaenyra herself. But she had run with Jace’s quiet words of a foolish child, bringing in what wouldn’t have been on the table had she not been fucking Harwin Strong and trying to pass his children off as Laenor Velaryon’s.

The king had eagerly gone along with it, further than even Aegon expected. King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, was mild, milquetoast, and so averse to conflict that he and Aemond would start muttering, “Oh no, my indigestion! Oh no, my ulcers!’” every time some sort of disagreement or conflict began to rise at whatever familial occasion came about. Their sire, who yelled and railed when he wished to be contrary to exercise his desire…had ordered the deaths of his Hand and the man’s heir—the man who his heir was fucking.

Three children too late, of course, but the king had been backed into a corner and had snapped and spread his wings to show he could be just as dangerous as Prince Daemon. Aegon knew that much about his father. Even if none knew how it had happened, did Rhaenyra know what their father had done for her? Aegon could not know her mind, but he knew if it had been himself, he would have raged at it.

He would have gone into the king’s room and torn his heart from his chest. This fool of a king who waited too long, acted too late to do anything and left them all here: fractured and broken with no hope of anything but blood across the throne.

Was Rhaenyra not also a dragon? Or had she rolled over and showed her belly in the face of their father’s twisted adoration?

Alicent Hightower’s children. Never brother nor sister..

Aegon had no choice. There was no world he existed in where Rhaenyra was not his sister. She had enough luxury to put distance between them, and how aggressively she did. Her shadow loomed behind him, and he knew that his own dogged her. She was not coming to this wedding for him. She was not coming to share in his incandescent joy to finally be bound to the one he loved. She was coming to assert her place, to remind them all that she was their father’s favorites, their father’s chosen.

What would she do in the face of House Strong who saw Jace’s face, and would soon see his brothers? What would the king feel compelled to do? Would he set the rest of the house ablaze to erase whatever physical similarities would undermine Rhaenyra’s claim? As if three sons of his own weren’t enough to undermine her? Take their faces instead of their tongues.

King Viserys despised nothing more than being made to look like a fool.

It was never just Mother who railed at what was plain to see. It was never just her.

‘Do you think Rhaenyra’s sons will be your playthings forever? When she ascends the throne, your life may be forfeit. She could move to cut off any challenge to her succession. You are the challenge, Aegon! Just by living and breathing!’

Sunfyre rumbled beneath him, the chirping purr he made one full of confusion and concern, his great head turning to look back at him. Aegon remained slumped over the saddle horn as the dragon flew aimlessly above the God’s Eye and the rolling hills of the Riverlands. It would be so easy to unhook his belt and let himself roll off and plummet into the depths below. To escape the machinations and lies and secrets of his family and replace it with the depths of blue would be a simple escape. Whatever violence his mother and grandfather saw in the future, could he simply… make it go away? If he went away?

He could not. He would not. Not now. Not when he was so close. He could not leave Abby here alone in this world; he would not abandon her the way she had been left behind by everyone else. He’d promised and he meant it.

Aegon looked up from his staring at the pink frills along Sunfyre’s neck to blink up, eyes stinging, as a warbling, undulating call echoed from the east. It echoed over the rolling green fields and the forest that hugged along the banks by the castle. It was a distant sound that sent a shiver down his spine, undulating and unnerving. His stomach swooped and dropped uncomfortably, and the half bottle of wine he’d drunk last night threatened to slosh up. Sunfyre rumbled beneath him, a growl in his throat as he whipped towards the east with a screech.

There was only a single dragon in the sky; his sister must have gone further to meet the carriage that held the children and the Velaryons. The blood red of Caraxes’ scales glinted like garnets in the morning light. The distant sound of laughter joined the dragon’s call as the red pitched and turned north.

Sunfyre’s warning call screamed louder across the sky. He didn’t need to be told; Sunfyre simply knew. They bolted after them a heartbeat later, racing towards the hulking, melted spires of Harrenhal, thoughts of oblivion, of glutting on lake fish forgotten. His friend might not be quite as old as Caraxes, but he was just as big, and fast, if not faster. A screech let out, a flash of hot light expelled from Sunfyre as they gave pursuit, but the wyrm merely dropped down and another laugh echoed back. Something hot burned in Aegon’s chest and Sunfyre shuddered beneath him.

The command rested on Aegon’s tongue, tempting as a fresh bottle of wine, as his winsome lover spread upon his bed. It was from a deep, feral place in his chest, where Sunfyre’s presence glowed warm and molten through his veins. He bit his tongue and Sunfyre screeched for him. The need to take the other man and his dragon in his jaws, rip and rend and shake the bits of them as blood sacrifice to the gods, was near consuming. A rage inside of Aegon that had built over the years threatened to bubble up. The hot tang of blood rushed into his mouth both from dragon dreams and the fact that he’d bitten himself to keep from shouting. He was desperate to do something with this rage that had nowhere to go, and the idea of rending Daemon Targaryen limb from limb, offering him as sacrifice at the feet of his mother to free her from the strangling fear that turned her angry and desperate.Aegon would take the threats of their family, prove to Aemond that he too was capable of standing up, bold and strong. To show Otto Hightower that he was not the feckless fool he sought to puppet. To prove to Abrogail that she would never have anything to fear, ever again, and that their family would be safe.

To show Rhaenyra that she could keep her claim that she so desperately wanted, but that she would not come for them, lest she meet the same fate.

To show his sire-king, the decrepit old man he was, that Aegon would defend them with fire and blood too when he would not. To force King Viserys to see him and know that this was the creature he’d turned him into; that he’d turned this family into. Where his mother had turned cruel and desperate to protect them, where Aemond was angry all the time, where Aegon lived each day with a sword above his head, wondering if that morning would be the day the king did not wake, and the dragons would scream.

Another laugh echoed as the pair ahead swooped down to skim the water before bursting back up, amused and uncaring of the screaming dragon that gave chase. Daemon was enjoying it. He howled as that rage took him, and Sunfyre screamed along with him. They were nearing the great curtain walls of the fortress now, the sun to their right casting their shadows along the glimmering blue of the God’s Eye, the antlered shadow on the outcropping long forgotten. The wyrm banked further northwest to the dragon roost and Aegon hissed.

“Lilagon, Sunfyre,” he commanded, and Sunfyre danced. The dragon glided effortlessly into the turn, coming up up along the inside as they circled Harrenhal and used the momentum to burst past and rocketed straight for the broken tower. Sunfyre let out a warning cry, banking around and rising up, wings spread. Aegon had no thoughts, no words, except to protect. This was his, and this laughing man and his strange dragon wyrm had chosen already.

Like Viserys, Daemon had chosen his side, more dangerous than the rest of them.

The dragons below in the pit started shrieking in response to Sunfyre’s call, but Moondancer shot up, her calls far less distressed, the verdant green of her scales glimmering as she twirled in the air. At the little dragon’s approach, the wyrm circled towards her, the elongated neck ensuring that Caraxes’ eyes did not leave Aegon and Sunfyre, warning him away.

“Sȳrī tymptan!” came the distant shout. Aegon felt Sunfyre shift. “Aōha kepa avy dīnagon ozūndegon amastas! Rhaenyra aderī kesīr ulza.”

Dreamfyre was ululating from the ground in response to Sunfyre’s warning and Aegon glared towards his uncle.

“We’re fine,” he murmured to the dragon, scratching at the scales along his neck. Sunfyre huffed his displeasure but did not cry out again. Dreamfyre was still making sounds, but the distressed call had stopped and the two of them lowered to the ground, Moondancer still above and circling. The Dragonkeepers were rushing about, and Ser Arryk was holding onto his horse’s bridle, the stallion stomping its feet with fear at the shouts of the dragons. Aegon could see a wheelhouse in the distance, another Kingsguard stallion leading it ahead.

He undid the hooks on his saddle and slid down Sunfyre’s wing before the dragon could settle properly, his golden eyes fixated on the other dragon settling himself away from Dreamfyre. His breath was quick and his skin felt overly hot, prickly, like he was about to let out his own flame. Daemon Targaryen was far more fluid; lazy, even, as he swung himself down, the fall of the man’s hair and his long limbs a familiar sight. There was a strange moment when the man turned and cocked his head, that Aegon thought he was looking at his brother, and wondered in a terrifying moment, if Daemon Targaryen was Aemond’s future.

The last time he’d seen his uncle had been at Laena Velaryon’s funeral. A figure seen occasionally during his childhood, Daemon Targaryen was more a staple of stories and sneers than what Aegon would consider an actual uncle. He’d holed himself up on Driftmark with the Velaryons and the twins before he married Rhaenyra, and the pair of them had refused to come to court since their marriage. The man had changed little over the years. Tall and silver haired, Daemon was a figure of health compared to King Viserys, still recovering from the long trip up from the capital.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Prince Daemon,” Aegon said, a final, gentle pat against Sunfyre’s neck, the dragon’s head turned to keep his golden eyes on the Blood Wyrm and its rider. Aegon lifted a hand, tugging his glove off with his teeth before pushing his tousled, wind tangled hair from his eyes. He would not be intimidated. He would not let the whispered threats of what Daemon Targaryen would do if the opportunity found him overtake him. This was his home, and Aegon was still the king’s son, and the prince was a guest. He’d made his loyalties clear years ago.

He remembered with such startling clarity running after his sister, shouting her name, begging her to wait for him, struggling to get his coat on and tripping in his haste. “Nyra wait!” She was striding down the hallway, the sun catching on her long silver hair, like Visenya reborn, waving to Daemon and Laena Velaryon. His sister had paused and looked back at him but it was Daemon’s sharp, cruel smirk that had stopped Aegon short as the man reached for Rhaenyra’s shoulder and drew her attention.

“He is of no importance.”

More who did not want him.

Aegon stumbled slightly as he felt a huff of warm, sulfuric breath hit his back, followed by the gentle bump of Sunfyre, the warmth of his purr vibrating inside the hollow between his ribs and through his limbs. There was a gentle chirp, like a bird song, and Aegon turned to press his hands against the dragon’s warm snout, pressing a kiss between his flared nostrils. “Lykirī,” he murmured, calming them both. Another pat against his warm scales and Aegon shoved his gloves in his pockets. Ser Arryk was watching him from his post near the stone cottage where the Dragonkeepers were staying. The elder man’s brows were slightly furrowed, his face impassive, but his gaze flitted to Daemon’s briefly before looking back to him.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arryk said. There was a question in the simple greeting that came from the years that Ser Arryk had been his sworn shield. It was nothing specific and sometimes it caused a prickle of uncertainty and self-doubt, different in the self-conscious feelings that Ser Criston stoked.

“I’m sure the prince would appreciate the quiet solitude of the carriage ride,” Aegon said on his approach, his gaze darting towards Daemon as he stalked towards them. The carriage would be there shortly, back in sight after the bend around some of the boulders that marked the border of the shale caves here along the lake. “He does spend much of his time surrounded by the babbling of children.”

“How thoughtful you are. You certainly don’t get that from your mother.”

Aegon ran his tongue over his teeth, jaw aching with a pain that was not his own, Sunfyre still rumbling beneath his skin. The bait was blatant, so low hanging that he could kick it should he so wished. How he wished to take it and pummel Daemon with it. His mother’s hands may have left scars upon him, but she was his mother. His defender even when he disappointed her. These last few months were strange and hopeful in a way he didn’t know how to handle. Her touch had been gentle across his brow or upon his shoulder, her smiles tentative but there, the furrow between her brow easing.

His mother who cuddled him when he was small and afraid when she was pregnant with Daeron, that he would lose her, who cared about the small folk in her sponsorships and initiatives she was so busy with. Nothing Aegon would do was ever good enough, but sometimes? Sometimes it was.

The response to Daemon was on his tongue, ripe and juicy as a grape. “And we know you get nothing from yours.” Cruel and barbed and hooked, his own teeth bared if Daemon Targaryen was so eager to see what he was made of.

“I did not realize you and the queen were so close for you to recognize what qualities I did or did not receive from her,” Aegon said instead, wan smile and cursory look in the elder’s direction. “If you were wondering, I do get my good looks from her, and a taste for honey cakes.” He shrugged, reaching over to stroke the velvet softness of his stallion’s nose. “The hair is, of course, from my father, the king. I notice Baela wears the same displeased expression you wear. As well as your nose.”

The smile he gave Daemon was a bit brighter this time as the carriage pulled up, Ser Marbrand on his steed. The door opened unexpectedly and Baela herself came out, silver braids swinging and the gold bands shining in the light. He had spent enough time around his cousin over the past few months to see the same uncertain tension in her shoulders that he frequently saw in Aemond as she took in her father.

“I heard Caraxes,” she said by way of greeting, the deep greens and blues of her riding leathers scored with seahorses and dragons. Daemon’s attention swung to his daughter and Aegon ignored the rest of the conversation as it turned into High Valyrian, rapid and ancient, their accents markedly different from how he spoke with his own siblings. A raw feeling struck hard inside his chest, and he watched them for another moment before his attention swung to further movement at the carriage.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Prince Daemon,” Larys Strong’s voice carried unexpectedly well given his low tone. “Forgive me for not getting out - it is rather difficult for me to move here.”

Daemon’s face was impassive at being addressed by the lord of Harrenhal and Aegon looked at the soft, torn up ground that the carriage had stopped in. Baela gave Aegon a nod before pulling her father’s attention, her Valyrian flowing easily. “I thought we could go riding. Just you and I.”

“Another carriage is on its way, your Grace,” Ser Marbrand said. “I shall stay here, Ser Arryk.”

Kostōba pawed at the ground and without being asked, the footman tied Aegon’s horse to the back of the carriage. Aegon bristled, opening his mouth to demand the servant cease until Larys’ voice came once more.

“Join me in the carriage, my prince. We are going to be family soon, and it’s so difficult to get time together.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed a touch, long lashes hooding his eyes as he turned his attention back to the footman who had handled his horse. He could hear his uncle and cousin still conversing in rapid Valyrian, their words muffled just enough, so easily flowing between them that Aegon couldn’t keep up. The horses knickered and whined, pawing at the ground with the proximity to the dragons.

“Of course, Lord Larys. We will indeed.” Aegon gave him a tight smile and gestured for him to enter the wheelhouse first. The ones from the capital prioritized privacy with their screened in windows. The ones belonging to House Strong were more easily opened, the windows with little, folded shutters and fluttering linen curtains; far more open and far less like a cage.

Larys tapped the handle of his cane against the roof of the wheelhouse, and with a gentle jerk they headed back. Aegon leaned back against the plush pillows of the bench, stretching his legs out before him. In the small space, it was a sight to see how tall Larys Strong was. He was a thin man, much like Aemond, but while Aemond walked as straight as a blade, Larys made himself small. A sick feeling curled in the pit of his stomach as the understanding washed over him; the feeling of seeing one in the mirror. Aegon did the same thing. Curled shoulders and slouching to avoid the gaze of those who would bite at him.

The only difference, Aegon surmised, was that Larys’ desire to be undetected did not come from something as childish as his own desire to be unnoticed.

The soft sound of scraping drew Aegon’s gaze down to peer at Larys’ metal boot.

“When you take your seat here, my prince, you should know what you’re up against,” Larys said softly, his dark eyes pinning Aegon like one of Helaena’s bugs to the board. “You handled the council meeting well, as the squabbles of the Blackwoods and Brackens are exhausting to us all. Of course, Grover Tully approves of you. He may have sworn oaths to your father’s chosen successor, but make no mistake that he will raise banners for you. His grandson, Elmo, on the other hand…”

Aegon recalled the elder man with a wash of inferiority. Elmo Tully was tall and broad, with dark, auburn hair and piercing eyes that shifted from blue to green, he recalled, because it had unsettled him. ‘Lucerys’ eyes,’ Aegon remembered thinking when he first sat across from the man at the small council table.

“Aunt Celeste isn’t your mother, is she?” Aegon’s brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile the woman who had helped raise him with how she could bear this giant of a man. Ser Harwin let out a sad sounding laugh and shook his head.

“No, my prince. My mother was Lysa Tully, granddaughter of Lord Grover. I squired in Riverrun before my father became Master of Laws for your father.” Ser Harwin shook his curls from his face, reaching to tie it back to keep it from his face. “She died when I was a little sprog, barely walking.” A distance took his eyes and Aegon averted his gaze to offer the man privacy.

“He supports Rhaenyra,” Aegon finished, not wishing to dance around implications.

“He will, if only because he views the Hand and your mother as overstepping the crown’s wishes and the contract between the throne and its people.”

Aegon frowned at this, arms folded across his chest. “Speak plain, Lord Larys,” he said with his own hard look. Aegon understood games, he understood doublespeak, but there was much left to the imagination and he would not be made a fool of. “The throne provides for its people. What imagined overstepping is he so worried about? He’s simply sore that he lost Harrenhal to me.”

“He’s concerned about the dragon this marriage placed in his lands.” Larys shrugged softly and leaned back in the seat, the carriage jostling over a particularly large bump. “Harrenhal of course is a boon, but not in the way you might think. A comely bride is merely an additional perk, not the prize as it was for you.”

Aegon hummed softly in a way that reminded him of his brother and curled his fingers into his arms to resist the need to pick at the skin. Aemond had said something similar over the course of his nameday. How now all would see how vulnerable he was, and the way to wound him most grievously. Aegon, on the other hand, had sneered at that. Abby was not a weakness to him. To lose her would be to lose himself, yes, but it would not destroy him like Aemond tried to imply.

Of course it wouldn’t.

“They’re here to discuss the marriage contract. Lord Elmo is here on behalf of his father since Lord Tully is abed back at Riverrun. Several of the other river lords are with him, wishing to hammer out the details the crown and I worked out in regards to the inheritance of Harrenhal and jointure, the dowry, and the fact that Lord Elmo sees your placement in the Riverlands as a threat that you will take the Paramount seat from him should he not support you.”

Aegon’s face twisted in confusion, nostrils flaring at the insult at being accused of something he had no desire for. He leaned forward, a hand reaching up to the handle along the roof of the carriage to balance himself.

“He accuses me of coveting his seat?” Aegon hissed. “Just as these lords think I’m plotting to steal my sister’s throne. Why are they so quick to think ill of me? To accuse me of villainy and brand me traitor when I’ve done nothing of the sort. I plot no schemes or collusions—”

“You were born,” Larys interrupted with a soft and earnest voice. He too leaned forward, mimicking Aegon’s position. “You are the first born son of a king who murdered his first wife in the hunt for a healthy, living son, Prince Aegon. You did not choose this mantle, you did not choose to be born the son of the king, and I did not choose to be born with my own struggles. But these are the lots we have drawn in life and we must make the best of it.”

This close, Aegon noticed how he looked a bit like Ser Simon, who himself looked like the ghost of Lord Lyonel. Larys’s features were sharper than the rest of his family, he and his sister both, likely from their Frey mother. But the dark eyes reminded him of the amber glass eyes that stared out of the mounted stag heads and bear heads that lined one of the small halls in the Red Keep.

“Your own struggles?” Aegon snarled. “Like murdering your father and brother so you could have the seat instead of skulking about the Red Keep for the rest of your days?”

Aegon leaned back and so did Larys, who dropped his hand to grip the handle of his cane. He looked out the window silently, his jaw clenched, fingers tapping against the amber bauble on the cane. Larys did not ask him how he knew.

Caraxes’ whistling shriek echoed high across the lake valley. There was an even more distant answer: the long absent cry of Syrax that he hadn’t heard in years.

As Larys Strong’s dark eyes found him, Aegon felt like the elder was peeling away his skin as methodically as he peeled fruit, or the flesh of the convicts in the torture cells of the Red Keep. Aegon watched the twitch of his features and the shadow that passed over his gaze.

“Prince Aegon,” he said slowly, words measured, pausing for a moment before he finally continued. “The death of my father and elder brother was a tragic accident. It was never supposed to happen that way.”

Aegon’s mouth went dry. So what Jace said was, in fact, true;that Aegon had blurted it out to the man accused was of no matter. The bottom of his stomach dropped out with an unpleasant swoop.

Larys’ can thumped softly against the floor of the carriage. “It is not something that was done out of greed, or selfishness. Nor was it years of resentment. I loved my father very much. While a lesser father would have cast a babe born as I was aside, to dash their heads against the stone and write the babe off as another loss in a long line of tragedy, he fed my appetite for learning. He taught me how to hone my mind the way my brother honed his blade. He offered to send me to the citadel if it was what I wished, just as he attended in his youth before his brother, Tristafer, died and he became heir. When I declined to go to Oldtown, he helped me find a place in the world where I could excel.”

“Then you killed him,” Aegon said, voice low, brow slightly furrowed. “A man you claimed to love, who had done so much for you, and you burned him alive.”

The other man looked down at his cane, impassive in the face of Aegon’s words. He took a breath, a slight shake of his head, then met Aegon’s eyes once more. “Princess Rhaenyra kept my brother at her side and my father, love him as I did, he did not stop it. He could have. He did not.” Larys paused and his eyes went downcast, sweeping across the floor, but Aegon did not think he was truly looking at anything. “The king saw a threat to the stability of the royal family and made his wishes clear. When the king wishes something, it will be done. Your father wanted to silence the whispers. I would not let some assassin come after my family. We all make sacrifices in life, Your Grace. Often, that is in response to…,” Larys met his gaze, “...the actions, or inaction, of our fathers and our siblings. Duty and sacrifice are tenets of your mother’s, so I know you understand. I sacrificed them to salvage what I could of our house, and to save my sweet sister who was meant to return here as my brother finally came to take his place as future lord.”

The silence was oppressive, the air thick from it, as Larys held his gaze for several more moments before releasing him to look out the window. Aegon had nothing to say and instead looked out his own window towards the lake and the trees along the shoreline. Larys had given him much to consider and it was a new experience to not have it all blamed upon Rhaenyra or even the fleeting implications in the complacency of the king. Larys had implicated his own father and brother; a mess made of the four of them.

Aegon recalled the pale, silent ghost that Abby had turned into after the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin, barely remembering the discussion of her returning to Harrenhal. His mother had been quiet too and locked for hours in the sept. Aegon had thought she had been grieving with Abby, had grieved the loss of the relationship she had had with Lord Lyonel. Did she too know about this?

It was so much. It was too much for him to think of all right now and he didn’t want to focus on it. The danger at hand now was the presence of Elmo Tully and the other lords who were raising an issue and trying to prevent his marriage. The anger at being misjudged and assumed that he was coming for things he could not give two shits about, that took the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to be king and he didn’t want a Paramount seat. He just wanted his dragon, and Abrogail, and whatever family they made for themselves.

Well. That was a season. This chapter got so damn long that we've had to split it in two, which at the end of the day is a good thing. I'll get to flesh out the second half and start moving us into a couple housekeeping things before we launch into the long awaited family dinner, a spicy spicy chapter, and THEN THE WEDDING! As an FYI, I'm starting a new job on Monday! I will no longer be WFH, so my writing time is going to be a helluva lot different moving forward, but we're still sticking to the 'at least once a month' chapter updates. And with the next chapter now half down, I'm hoping to get back to a small buffer. Thank you all for being here, and I always always love to hear from you. If you're not sure what to say, a reblog lets more people read this story! My askbox is also open! Thank you for reading <3

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roseghoul26 · 7 months

Text

Part 4

Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

"'Do you love me?' You asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Arthur nodded, gazing at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

'Then say it. I promise you, nothing bad is gonna come from it.'"

Synopsis: A retelling of the mission "Blessed are the Peacemakers", where instead of Arthur getting kiddnapped, it's you.

Tags: fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut, smut, torture, mentions of sexual assault, no actual SA, dutch is father figure, so is hosea, arthur morgan deserves everything, fem reader, afab!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, not beta read

Author’s Note: this part is the smut part, with some story too. i struggled with this chapter cause i’ve only written smut like twice so here we go lmao.

next fic i’m thinking of doing javier or charles (loml), and i have different ideas for both. and i’ll def. write for arthur again, and feel free to send requests or ideas (or literally send whatever i love getting messages)

Taglist: @photo1030

part 1 ❉ part 2 ❉ part 3 ❉ part 4

And it was a long ride, done in silence as the two of you made it to the meetup place. The cowboy occasionally looked over his shoulder at you, but other than that there was little interaction. There was tension between the two of you that was on the cusp of snapping into a million pieces, but there was nothing you could do about it right now. Mustering what patience you had, and also pushing down your desires, you made your way to Emerald Ranch.

Lenny arrived a short while after you and Arthur, sweaty and anxious, but thankfully alive. And he wasn’t followed, so you thanked the universe that luck was on your side that day.

After meeting up, you’d sold the stolen goods to the fence, and with the combined cash you’d pick up, the three of you had a nice haul of about 750 dollars. After everyone received their cut, there was almost 400 dollars left to donate to camp, which you stuck in the box with a proud smile. Not bad for your first job back, you thought.

Dutch seemed to think so too, complimenting you as you wrote in the ledger. “How we managed to survive those weeks without you, I’ll never know. Thank you, dear.”

You just shrugged. “Don’t mention it. And you can thank Arthur for keepin’ us afloat.”

Dutch didn’t say anything to that. Instead, he lit a match for his cigar, moving so his back was facing his tent as he smoked. Now facing you, you saw him in your peripherals observing you as you finished writing, letting the ink dry before closing the book. Not appreciating his staring, you questioned him with a look.

“Take Arthur to Saint Denis to… look for leads. Yeah, go look for leads.”

“Huh? Right now?”

“That’s what I said, right? I’ve heard that the hotels ‘round there are brimming with opportunities. And take as much time as you need, if you catch my meanin’.” He gave you a wink, but you continued to stare at him like he grew a second head. “You’re smart, dear. You’ll figure it out. Now go, before I change my mind.” He dismissed you with a wave, staring out at the open water as you left.

“Oh… o-okay?” You were halfway to your tent when it dawned on you: Dutch was giving you permission to leave camp for a bit, which was convenient, to say the least. You turned to thank him, but he seemed lost in thought, so you saved it for later. “Make sure Lenny gets sent out too,” you still shouted out, hoping that Dutch heard you.

Entering your tent, you found Arthur already there, which was no surprise. He had practically beelined there after you all arrived at camp, barely giving you a passing look. You hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but when you saw him hunched over as he sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the cot, you immediately became concerned. Racing through your thoughts, you tried to remember if it seemed like he was in pain earlier. It wouldn’t be unlike him to get injured and then hide it.

Rushing to his side, you were on your knees as you looked at him, scanning his body for any blood or obvious injury. When you found nothing, you looked into his eyes which you found closed. “Love? What’s wrong? Are you alright?” you asked, brushing back some of the hair that had fallen in his face, his hat discarded somewhere nearby. His cheeks were rosy too, you noticed.

When he opened his eyes, you were startled to find how dark they were, and he stared through you. “Shit, did you hit your head?” You moved to stand and examine his head further, but a gentle hand on your shoulder had you sinking back down to your knees.

“I’m alright,” his voice was strained. Arthur didn’t provide any more details, and you heard him let out a huff of air when your hands rested on his knees, your face only a few inches away from them as you peered up at him.

“Then what’s goin’ on, Arthur? You’re scaring me.” He placed one of his hands atop yours, fingers shaking slightly from the strain of gripping the cot. It tickled when he started dancing his fingers across the skin, but you kept your face still as you watched him.

“Oh, princess. You’ve got no idea what you do to me, do you?” His voice was breathy, barely audible to you as his hand stilled. Finally, his eyes focused on yours, growing impossibly wider when he realized the position you were in. “Here,” he extended a palm up, offering you to put your hand in his. When you did, he kissed the back of it gently, before bringing it right above his heart and pressing it to his chest. Even through his shirt, which you had just noticed he had a few more top buttons unbuttoned, you could feel his heartbeat, which was beating like the speed of a hummingbird’s wings.

Suddenly things started making a whole lot more sense with the dilated pupils, heavy breathing, and his sporadic heartbeat. Immediately your concern was replaced with something less selfless, a hungry need growing in you as you took in Arthur being in such a state, and all because of you.

“Since last night, I can’t stop thinkin’... and ever since the house it’s gotten worse. I can barely look at you without remembering the way you felt… and you’ve got me so damn turned on I can’t function.” His voice turned into a growl at the end, and you felt yourself pressing your thighs together, trying to ease the growing tension building between them from his confession. God, everything felt warm.

Arthur didn’t miss the movement, as subtle as you tried to be. With a knowing grin, he pressed one last kiss to your hand before setting it back on his knee. “It took everythin’ in me to not take you right there in that house,” he said it so casually that you almost didn’t register what he said. Your grip on his legs tightened, and you found yourself sitting up straighter on your knees, now at chest level with him.

“I would’ve let you,” you confessed, and Arthur moved closer to you, almost touching his lips with yours. Slowly, just like Arthur had done to you, you brought your hands up his thighs. You felt them tense under your touch, and you heard Arthur let out a little noise as your hands traveled up.

And up.

And up until they rested at his belt, and you toyed with the loopholes as he started down at you. You could feel his breathing grow rapid, huffs of warm breath against your face. As you halted, you heard him groan. “You want me to touch you?” It was a redundant question, but you asked anyway.

Arthur swallowed. “Yes.” He tried to press his lips against yours, but you kept your head far enough away. The hands on hips helped him stay put, and you relished in the fact that he could easily break free from your “hold”, but he didn’t.

“Then tell me. Tell me what you’ve been thinking of.”

You saw his blush extend past his face and down his chest. “That… it ain’t proper.”

You chuckled at that. “Since when do we care about what’s proper, Arthur?”

“I suppose we don’t,” he agreed, and he relaxed some. A few moments passed, then he was resting his head against yours. “You want me to tell you, or show you, princess?”

“Why not both?”

“Can’t do that.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” You pestered, a teasing grin on your face.

“I can’t, cause there ain’t gonna be much talkin’ when my head’s between your thighs.”

Whatever rebuttal you had died instantly in your throat. “Oh,” was all you were able to get out, your mouth growing suddenly dry at Arthur’s boldness, and that tension growing was starting to become unbearable.

“Oh?” He mocked, laughing when you softly slapped him on his leg.

“Shuddup,” you rolled your eyes. Placing your hands back on his thighs, you felt the thick muscles there, built from years of a hard life and survival. “Tell me more,” you asked, moving your fingers closer and closer to the zipper of his jeans, looking down at your task at hand. Your face flushed when you saw the very noticeable bulge between his legs.

“You never answered my question,” you felt rough, calloused fingers under your chin, which gently brought your gaze back up to Arthur’s.

“Show me, Arthur.”

He nodded, a light smile on his lips. “Alright, princess. We’re gonna have to be quiet though.”

The whole reason why you came into the tent came back to you. “Well, maybe we don’t have to be. And I did say I was gettin’ you out of camp, and, well, Dutch has told me to bring you to Saint Denis to ‘search for leads’,” you said, hoping that Arthur got the hidden meaning quicker than you did.

“Did he now?” You nodded. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner. Don’t wanna waste any time now, do we?”

“In my defense, I thought you were in pain when I walked in. You jerk,” you bopped him again. Arthur just shook his head at you.

Standing up, you supported your shaky legs by holding onto his shoulders. Despite being fully upright, you still held on, not really wanting to stop feeling him. You now stood above him, able to look down at him as he sat on the edge of the bed. Bringing your face lower, you kiss the space between his brows, then moving down the arch of nose and planting one on the tip. Then kissing the apples of each cheek in quick succession, you hovered just above his own, and you cupped his face in your hands. Your thumbs rubbed the stubble of his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel between your thighs. It wasn’t the first time you’d wondered, but you hoped that soon your questions would be answered.

At last, your lips finally made contact with his. If there was one thing you would never tire of, it would be kissing Arthur. His lips were surprisingly soft, plush yet firm. Even though you had kissed him many times before, each time felt like the first, the overwhelming feeling of him taking over every sense, every nerve in your body buzzing with energy. Eagerly Arthur reciprocated, lips moving against you like they were created to fit with yours perfectly. Before you allowed the two of you to get swept away, kissing his forehead before stepping away.

“C’mon, pretty boy,” you grabbed his hat, affixing it atop your head with a wink as Arthur scoffed. “Let’s go to Saint Denis. I’ve heard the hotels there are… lucrative.”

Arthur stood now, rebuttoning up his shirt and attempting to make himself more put together. “I’m sure they are, princess.” He gestured you out of the tent, and the midday air did little to cool you off.

Walking toward your horses, you saw Dutch talking with Lenny, before the older man patted him on the shoulder and walked away. Because Lenny was facing you, you gave him a questioning thumbs up, and he nodded in return. “Have a good night then, Lenny,” you called out.

“You too, miss.” You saw his eyes flick behind you. “Both of you,” he added, before walking to a nearby campfire and plopping down, laughing lightly to himself. Reaching your mount, you patted TT on his neck, and then offered him a sugarcube from the saddle bag. He gladly ate the treat, snorting when he finished.

You went to mount TT, but Arthur calling your name had you halting, only one foot in the stirrup as you turned over your shoulder to look at him. He stood beside his horse, holding the reins in his hands. “Ride with me?” he asked, smiling brightly when you made your way over to him.

When you got close enough, after giving you a quick peck on the cheek he placed his hands on your hips. Easily lifting you on the rump of his horse, you immediately wrapped your arms around him when he mounted. Scooting forward as best you could while sitting sidesaddle, your chest pressed against his back, and you rest your head on his shoulder. His hat was kind of in the way, but you didn’t dare take it off.

After ensuring that you were secure, he began moving, the camp quickly leaving both your visions shortly. He kept his horse at a fast pace, which was nowhere near as fast as you were going earlier, but you didn’t mind. You sighed in contentment, finally able to be alone with Arthur and place any worries about camp behind you, at least for a couple days. No petty squabbles, no jobs, no Pinkertons. Just you and Arthur.

Arthur seemed to feel similarly, based on the way he relaxed in your grasp, leaning back slightly against you. Letting go of the reins in one hand, he rubbed your leg affectionately. His chest tumbled beneath your hands, and you realized he was talking, but you could barely hear him.

When you asked him to repeat himself, Arthur turned his head to the side, making it easier to hear him, but it made you have to lift your own off his shoulder. “I said ‘thank you’.”

“Okay? You’re welcome?” you responded with uncertainty.

“For gettin’ me out of camp like this, and despite how much I wanted to fight it, you knew I needed it.”

“I mean, I wasn’t the one who got you out. You can thank Dutch for that.”

Arthur shook his head. “Sure, only after you presumably said somethin’ to him. And you’ve been the one trying to get me out all day! Don’t downplay yourself like that.” Arthur paused for a moment before continuing. “And you’ve always stuck your neck out for me like that, even before,” he gestured to your arms wrapped around him, “this. You’ve always seen me as more than the camp workhorse, more than a means to an end… more than myself… and I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is I appreciate it. For carin’ about me.” Arthur sighed. “I don’t really know what I’m saying…” he trailed off, refacing forward.

The sincerity in his voice had you heart breaking, but you also felt angry. Not at Arthur, but at the others, for using Arthur until he wore thin. Angry at the world that told him he wasn’t worthy enough to be loved, to be cared for. And you were angry at yourself, for holding off on telling him how much he mattered and meant to you.

Grateful that he had his back to you so that he couldn’t see the tears in your eyes, you clung on tighter to him. Your voice cracked as you spoke, and you prayed that Arthur didn’t hear it. “You don’t gotta thank me for that. You deserve more, so much more, but I’ll give you all I have. I love you, Arthur Morgan, and I mean it. I’ll never stop sayin’ it until the day I die.”

Something wet hit your hand, and you realized Arthur was crying. Not sobbing, or making any audible noise; his shoulders didn’t shake either. But a few tears had left his eyes, one of them hitting you as they fell. “Arthur?” You asked, concerned.

Arthur, who clearly wasn’t expecting you to see his tears, quickly wiped them away, his hand no longer resting on your leg. “I… shit. Sorry.” You could tell he was embarrassed, trying to gloss over his emotions.

“I didn’t mean-”

“You ain’t done anything wrong,” Arthur reassured. “It’s just… I never thought I’d feel this way again, not after… not after Mary. I thought this part of me died a long time ago, and I just accepted that. I thought I’d never be loved again.” He chuckled humorlessly. “A part of me can’t believe this all ain’t a dream. I’ve wanted it so long that it seemed unobtainable.”

You knew about Mary, from the bits and pieces you learned from Hosea and Dutch. Arthur had never spoken about her with you, and you never asked, not wanting to push that boundary. Shamefully, you expected to feel some tinge of jealousy at the mention of his ex-lover, but you didn’t. You felt angry at her, for the way she broke his heart, and made him believe that he was unlovable. And strangely enough, you felt the tiniest bit of gratitude, but you weren’t quite sure who it was towards. All you could say is that you were thankful that you were now entrusted with Arthur’s heart, and you were going to cherish it.

“Well,” you returned your head on his shoulder, “you’re very much awake, and I hate to break it to you, but you’re stuck with me now.”

“Thank God,” he responded. You couldn’t tell which part he was thankful for.

Glancing around, you saw the outskirts of the town or Rhodes behind you, and the fence marking off the Gray’s property ahead of you, meaning you and Arthur were well on your way to Saint Denis. Another ten or so minutes of riding would get you there. Arthur had returned his grip on your thigh, and you settled in for the remainder of the ride.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

You weren’t a fan of Saint Denis, with the polluted air and dirty streets, and the equally filthy people. Although it was deemed to be the pinnacle of modern civilization, you had to disagree. What “great” city like this would leave parts of their population unhoused, unfed, uncared for. Or elect snakes in positions of power instead of people, whose only interest in mind was their own. Or how the joy of living seemed to be sucked out of the people, and how they’re now only soulless husks whose only purpose was to work and sleep.

You voiced your thoughts to Arthur as you rode in, the metal archway proudly reading Saint Denis disappearing behind you. Passing by a group of well dressed individuals, Arthur nodded in agreement.

“And to think, they wanna make everywhere like this.”

Arthur didn’t respond, just continuing to lead his horse though the streets. The sounds on hooves on the cobblestone was quite loud, but it was still barely audible over the sound of machinery and engines. People stared at you two as you passed, and their eyes lingered on you for longer than necessary. It occurred to you that you probably looked quite out of place because of the way you were dressed.

You wore skirts and dresses from time to time, and you liked wearing them, but they weren’t the practical option for days like today, where you’d need to quickly get on and off your horse, and would have to move quickly and silently. But every scrutinizing glance from well-dressed strangers had you regretting your choice of apparel. You told yourself that you shouldn’t care what these people thought of you, but the innate human desire to fit in and be accepted was overwhelming, especially now.

“You’d think I’d grown a third arm, the way people are lookin’ at me,” you joked.

“Don’t let ‘em get to you,” Arthur sent a deadly glare to one said person, whose face turned ghostly white as he scampered away.

Chuckling, you kissed Arthur on his cheek. “My knight in shining armor,” you swooned, earning an eye roll from the cowboy.

“Not like you need one.”

“Maybe not. But if my knight was you, I wouldn’t say no.”

He chuckled lightly. “What’s so funny?” you questioned, laughing slightly yourself.

“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all, princess.”

Turning the corner, you were met with with a rather crowded street with buildings towering over you. But directly ahead of you stood your destination, a large hotel that spanned three floors and the name of the establishment sprawled across the front in a language you didn’t recognize.

As Arthur made his way to one of the many hitching posts in front, you felt your heartbeat begin to accelerate as you remembered why you were here. Anticipation had your body on edge, almost tense in the way you held on to him.

You were always impressed at the way Arthur seemed to notice every small detail, but right now you found yourself cursing that ability. He took note of the way your body went rigid, and he reassuringly squeezed your thigh. “You good?” You knew that he wasn’t just talking about right now; he was asking if you were still comfortable continuing what had started last night.

“Yeah,” your voice was breathier than you would’ve liked. “I’m just… excited.” Sure, you were nervous as well, but it was easily alleviated by the trust you had in the man.

“Good,” he smiled. Bringing his horse to the post, he quickly dismounted, securing his mount with a loose knot. Next, his hands met your waist as he helped you off. Your legs were slightly numb from the way you were sitting, but you stayed steady as your feet made contact with the ground.

After double checking that his horse was secure, and had plenty of food and water nearby, he held out his hand, pulling you along when you took it. He held the door open for you, and the joke you were about to make fell short as you took in the interior of the hotel.

Large, swooping archways cascaded above your head, the large vaulted ceilings filled with paintings and statues that observed you as you walked in, your hand still linked with his. It reminded you of something you'd heard about a while back, some chapel in Italy with painted ceilings like this. The walls were stark white, and no less decorated, paintings with golden frames facing you, and the marble floor beneath you clacked as your boots made contact. An ornate chandelier lit the room, located directly in the center of the entrance area. Its jewels glinted in the light, reflecting tiny rainbows across the walls.

It was breathtaking, to say the least. Eyes wide, you let yourself be pulled by Arthur as you took it all in. “Maybe it ain’t so bad they’re tryin’ to make cities like this, if this is what it turns into.” You laughed in disbelief. “It’s beautiful.”

Arthur seemed less impressed than you, eyes barely glancing over the various art pieces adorning the walls and ceiling. “Don’t go changin’ your mind now. This,” he waved his free hand around, “is how they get ya. This is all just a front.”

“You’re no fun,” you chidded, and your vision was suddenly obscured as Arthur flicked the hat down on your head. A very improper squawk left you as you quickly fixed the hat, glaring up at him with no real heat.

“I’m plenty fun, princess.” By this point, you’d reached the front desk, where a very impatient looking man stood. As Arthur ordered a room, you continued to peer around, not paying much mind to the conversation. We weren’t only distracted by the art now, but your mind began to wander to the events that were sure to transpire shortly. You shamelessly ogled his body, now realizing he left his usual jacket back at camp, only down to his undershirt now. His well built shoulders caused the fabric to be pulled taught against his body, leaving little to the imagination. How would they feel under your touch? Would you grip on to them tight as he took you, letting you leave scratches down his back? Would they spread your legs apart as he-

Your thoughts were broken when you felt a tug at your arm, and you glanced at Arthur who regarded you with an amused glance. Based on the way he was grinning at you, you knew he knew where your mind had gone. “Bath?” He asked, and your mouth felt dry as you tried to respond.

“After.” The clerk couldn’t have done a worse job hiding his disdain, but you ignored him. Arthur took the room key from him, not even thanking him before heading up the staircase behind the front desk.

It felt like forever, the walk to the room. You’ve had your share of encounters in the bedroom, but it had never felt like this. It never felt this right.

It seemed like hours went by before Arthur was unlocking one of the rooms, letting go of your hand for the first time to get it open. Like the gentleman he was, he held the door open for you again.

The rooms were no less decorated, but once the original splendor wore off, you found yourself caring less and less. A large four poster canopy bed sat in the center of the large room, a plush fur carpet beneath it. The room was well lit, with a balcony on the right side that was allowing copious amounts of sunlight into the room. The window for the balcony was left open, and you found yourself quickly closing it, the curtains settling as the wind was cut off. A basin with water along with a few towels and rags occupied the leftmost side of the wall with the balcony, with a wooden dresser neighboring it.

Now in the room, you took off your boots and socks, not wanting to track too much dirt across the carpet. Leaving them near the wardrobe, you made your way to the bed. The fur, which had to be some kind of large white bear, felt pleasant against your bare feet as you approached. The sheets felt even better than the carpet, rich silks flowing through your fingers like water.

Sitting down at the foot of the bed, you dragged your hand across, and you made your way up one of the wood posts, the material sturdy and well polished. You wondered how much a room like this cost to rent for a night or two. Turning to ask Arthur, you found him at one of the nightstands that framed the bed, unholstering his gunbelt and placing it there, as well as taking off his own boots.

When he felt your attention on him, he smiled warmly, leaning up against the post you were examining after reaching you. He had his hands on his hips, about where he would rest his hands if his gunbelt were there, looking at you with such fondness that you completely forgot the question you were going to ask. Staring up at him, any rational thought went out the window to your right; the only thing on your mind was him. He must’ve seen this change in your demeanor, pushing off the post and stopping now right in front of you.

“Show me, Arthur.” It came out less like a request and more like a demand.

Arthur chuckled, a low yes ma’am leaving him before his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft like you were expecting. The force in which he kissed you had you nearly landing flat on your back, but you caught yourself with one arm, the other finding purchase on the side of his face as you cupped it. Kissing you like you were the only thing keeping him alive, he leaned over you now, but the angle he was doing it was not the most comfortable, relying on only his core muscles to keep him upright and not crush you.

Breaking away, you took a gulp of air, laughing at the way Arthur chased after you, like he couldn’t bear to be without you for only a few seconds. Scooching back on the bed until your back was resting against the multitude of pillows available, you opened your arms up. Crawling up after you, Arthur sighed, content, when your touch returned, still holding him in one of your palms.

Wasting no time, he fervently resumed his kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip gently. His hands tangled into your hair, his hat falling somewhere on the bed, but you were too engrossed to care. One of his knees slotted between your legs, the other resting by your hip. As the tension in you returned, you found yourself inadvertently grinding against his thigh, trying to find some sort of relief. Arthur groaned when he felt you begin to use him, his mouth going slack against yours.

Moving from your mouth to your jaw, he pressed open mouth kisses as he went along. When you tried to move your head to follow him, you felt his grip in your hair tighten. Not enough to cause any pain, but it kept you still as he continued his exploration. You weren't able to do much but sit there, hips grinding against Arthur, but it wasn’t doing anything except get you more and more heated.

You expected to feel him start to leave hickies across your neck, especially when his mouth started trailing down your throat. But he didn’t, rather he was gentle with the soft skin, leaving no physical evidence that he was there. Before you could even comprehend what you were asking for, you were speaking, combing your fingers through Arthur’s hair like it was going to help convince him. “You can mark me, Arthur. Please. Let everyone know I’m taken.”

Your whispered pleas were not met on deaf ears, an almost painful sounding moan leaving the man as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His breath tickled your ear as he panted, his hands releasing your hair as they framed each side of your head. You thought he was going to turn the idea down, but you were elated when you felt his lips return to your neck, now sucking and biting as well.

“Anythin’ for you, princess.” He sounded positively wrecked. Traveling down the column of your neck, you felt him leave marks, marks that you were certain were going to be dark purple by tonight.

“Fuck, yeah, you’re so good to me. My pretty boy,” You cooed, nails scratching his scalp lightly. “Everyone back at camp is gonna see these marks; they’re gonna know what you did to me. They’re gonna know you fucked me so good.”

Arthur sat back on his heels, hair in disarray from your fingers. The sunlight filtering in caused the strands to become golden, like the color of the frames you saw downstairs. He looked almost heavenly in this light, the way the sun illuminated him. God, he looked beautiful. His blue eyes were nearly black with lust, and the normally stoic man seemed to be falling apart. “You- you can’t keep sayin’ things like that… then sayin’ I’m beautiful,” he murmured, running a hand down his face.

So your thoughts weren’t as secret as you believed. “Why not?” You questioned, a teasing smirk on your face. “I’m only tellin’ the truth.”

“Truth or not, if you keep goin’ on like that, I’m ‘fraid this night’s gonna end quicker than either of us would like.” Glancing downward, you saw Arthur readjust himself. The bulge in his pants looked uncomfortable, painfully even. With a sympathetic noise, you reached for the zipper on his pants, ready to alleviate him.

You were surprised when he stopped your hand, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. “Next time. I… I need to taste you, princess.”

“Is that what you were thinkin’ about earlier?” You tried to sound unbothered, knowing damn well that you were practically throbbing at the idea of him going down on you. The desperation in his voice added fuel to the fire in you, finding yourself growing increasingly wetter at each thing coming from his mouth.

“One of many things,” he confessed. “Is that a yes?”

“Arthur, if you don’t get your ass-” your comment was cut short by his mouth on yours. It didn’t last long, before he was returning to where he left off on your neck. This time, however, you felt his hands work at your belt, throwing it somewhere behind him when he got it unlooped from your pants, which were next to go. It took a little bit longer, but eventually they were tossed behind as well, leaving you in only your undergarments from the waist down.

You went to start unbuttoning the shirt you wore, but Arthur beat you to it, his dexterous fingers quickly undoing the buttons. He rested his head against yours, eyes looking down as we worked, grumbling obscenities when one of the buttons was stubborn. Eventually it was off as well, the shirt and the bandana adding to the growing pile on the floor. “I thought you liked me in your clothes,” you teased.

“I think I like you better without any. Now,” he nudged your arms, “up.” You complied, lifting them to allow Arthur to slip your chemise up and off your body, and, like the other articles, found a new home on the floor of the hotel. The cold air on your bare chest caused you to gasp, goosebumps erupting across your skin. All of that was forgotten when you saw Arthur, the heat in his gaze easily melting the chill of the air.

He sat back on his heels again, taking in your almost entirely exposed body, the only remaining thing on your body being your drawers. Letting out an appreciative noise that sounded almost like a purr, he rested his hands on your hips, squeezing lightly at the flesh there. Bringing his hands up, more and more goosebumps formed following his path, like your body was mapping out the way he touched you.

“God, you’re so gorgeous, princess. Even more so than I imagined.”

“You imagine me naked a lot, Arthur?”

He was right below your breasts now, running his fingers right below where you wanted him to touch. “You already know the answer to that.”

“For how long?”

Arthur stilled at this, a flash of panic cutting through his lustful eyes for a split second. “You want the truth, or a lie that would make me less of a creep?”

Well, now you were curious. Raising a brow, the man on his knees in front of you gave out an exasperated sigh, no longer looking you in the eye as he responded. “Roughly two years ago. I…” he trailed off, moving to rub the back of his neck, but you caught his hand in yours, forcing his eyes back on you.

You laughed, mostly at Arthur’s expense, but also at how long you firmly believed that your attraction was one-sided. “You silly cowboy,” you urged him back by tugging his arm, and he rested on his forearms, caging you in. “I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t been doin’ the same.”

He hovered a few inches above you, and you could feel the heat emanating from his body. “I’ll have to see that sometime,” he spoke low in your ear. “You spread open, touchin’ yourself to the thought of me.” He paused for a second. “But that’ll have to wait. You,” he tugged at the lobe of your ear with his teeth, “keep distracting me. Let me get back to work.”

Sitting back up, he returned his hands to your body, still keeping away from where you wanted, just taking you in with his eyes. When you tried to push your chest up into his hands, he gave you a disapproving frown before pushing you back down. “No one ever teach ya patience, princess?” The absence of his body heat caused you to shiver, your nipples pebbling from the cold and arousal.

His hands brushed over the scars across your body, his touch lingering on the one on your left shoulder, the one the O’Driscolls gave you over a month ago. You didn’t have time to feel self conscious before his lips were pressing light kisses on top of it, murmuring soft words under his breath. Finally, you felt his hands cup your breasts, kneading the mounds in his hands, his mouth leaving marks as it joined his hands in his touch. His hands did feel even better without a shirt blocking them, the callous of his fingers deliciously rough against the soft skin

He didn’t stay there long, his own patience being worn thin. He moved down your body now, pepper kisses across the various marks on your body. His fingers pulled at the strings of your drawers, quickly unlacing the bow there. Lifting up your hips to help him, he pulled them off, and they joined the pile. Finally, you were completely bare to him, and you heard him groan appreciatively. Trailing his mouth down your body, he halted just below your belly button, his hands resting on your thighs.

He looked up, and his smirk was downright sinful as he lifted one of your legs across his shoulder, further exposing yourself to him. One hand held your hip, the other lying unused by his side. Your hands clutched uselessly at the pillows supporting you, gripping even harder when you felt him part your folds with fingers. His eyes were fully locked onto your cunt now, letting out a whistle when he saw how obviously wet you were. “This all for me, princess?” he asked, peppering kisses along the inside of your thighs.

“Just for you. It’s only ever you.” You panted.

You felt him smile. “Good.” He removed his hand, and you almost let out a small whine at the loss of contact. You were quickly silenced when you felt those same fingers sweep through you, gathering your arousal on them. The digits were soaked, but you had little time to feel embarrassed before he was running his tongue up them, tasting you. You let out a noise, somewhere between his name and a moan as Arthur cleaned his fingers, his eyes closed as he savored the taste.

“Gonna get me addicted, princess,” he groaned, his fingers leaving his mouth and resting on the inside of your thigh, keeping your legs propped open. “But I bet ya taste better right from the source.” You felt him place one last kiss on your thigh before his mouth was on your cunt, his tongue following the same path as his fingers through you. Going bottom to top, it was a broad sweep of his tongue, not targeting anything specific but you still felt your hips buck against his face when he grazed your clit.

The hand on your hip moved, resting across your lap to keep you still as he passed his tongue through again, and again. “Easy, girl,” he rumbled, and you would’ve been offended that he was talking to you like a horse if he wasn’t currently buried between your legs. Instead, you threw your head back, the soft feather pillows preventing you from smacking the headboard. Your grip moved from said pillows, moving to burrow into Arthur’s hair. Your fingers went to weave between the strands, but you second-guessed your decision, especially when he started focusing his tongue on your clit.

You tried to retract your hand, but Arthur caught it no longer holding your legs open. He brought it back to his head, and you gripped on to his hair. Arthur let out a pleased groan at that, and it seemed to spur him on more, lapping at you like he was dying of thirst. Every flick of his tongue sent jolts through your body, cries and whimpers of his name leaving your lips every time. You knew he had a silver tongue, but you never expected to be falling apart on it.

Because he was no longer holding you open, your thighs closed around his head with both legs on his shoulders, but you were too lost in your pleasure to notice. Now you were able to feel his beard against the sensitive skin, feeling better than you’d imagined. It would probably be chaffed and irritated in the morning, but every time you felt it you’d remember the way Arthur was devouring you.

You were so caught up on that new sensation that you hadn’t noticed the newly freed hand move between your legs, a gasp leaving your lips when you felt him pressed against your entrance. He stopped at your reaction, but he continued to use his mouth, the tension in you growing and growing at each flick.

When you provided no protest, he continued, slowly pressing his finger into you. It didn’t take much effort, your arousal helping to ease the digit in with little resistance, and within moments he was knuckle-deep. He was big, far bigger than your fingers, and you let out a small noise at the stretch. “You’re doing so good,” Arthur praised, his finger not moving to let you adjust. “My good girl.” His words were muffled, tongue still pleasuring you between words, but you heard them loud and clear.

You weren’t quite sure why that got a reaction out of you, but a very audible moan left you, and you clenched around Arthur’s finger, pulling even harder at his hair. He let out a surprised groan that turned into a chuckle as he felt you, and you could hear him smirk. “You taste so good, and you’re so tight,” He bent the digit inside you, almost in a beckoning motion, which caused you to see stars. “My good girl’s gonna cum for me, right? Let me feel you, princess.”

You were close, that was certain. That tension, the one deep inside you that had been begging to be released since what seemed like forever, was about to break. You just needed one more push.

He started slowly pistoning the finger in and out of you, at least as best he could with your thighs in the way. Before long, he was adding a second finger, the additional stretch just about making you finish right there. You tried to convey that to Arthur, but it was coming out as an incoherent ramble. “Arthur… I- I’m… please…”

“I know, princess.” He kept at the same pace, drawing your pleasure out of you. The thing that broke you was seeing Arthur rocking his hips against the bed as he laid on his stomach, trying to find some relief. With a loud wail of his name, you came, trying and failing to thrust against his face as he pinned you down, fingers flexing against your hip bone. It felt like every nerve in your body was alive, buzzing with energy as pleasure wracked your body, and your eyes shut on instinct, which seemed to heighten the sensations you were feeling. Arthur removed his fingers from you, but he kept his tongue moving, obscene noises leaving him as he worked you through your orgasm.

Boneless, your thighs went lax against his head, hands slumping to the sides of the bed, releasing the man from your death grip. But he either didn’t notice or didn’t care, still drinking you in. But you were starting to feel overstimulated, and you let out a small noise of complaint, which got Arthur to stop. He tried to hide a proud smile as he came back up, but you saw the corners of his mouth were raised slightly as he lay on his side next to you, letting you take a moment to recuperate.

You took a few moments to just breathe, regaining control over your body and heart rate. Turning your head to face him, you slowly opened your eyes, and you nearly immediately shut them when you saw your arousal absolutely soaking his face. “I-,” if you weren’t flushed before, you sure were now.

Now Arthur was grinning, realizing what you were looking at. He wiped his mouth like he just finished a delicious meal. “I could do that all day.” He brushed his fingers across your body, not demanding anything, but just feeling you. “You doin’ alright?”

You scoffed. “You’re askin’ me that? I nearly killed you with my thighs!”

“I told you I don’t mind if it hurts. And it’d’ve been a hell of a way to die,” he joked, and you slapped him lightly on the chest, which, much to your disappointment, was still covered with a shirt. You noticed, as your gaze went south, that he was still fully clothed, and you found yourself frowning at that.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked, confusion and worry now etched on his face, and he began to retract his hand slowly.

“You’re wearin’ too many clothes,” you whined, tugging at Arthur’s shirt.

He sighed in relief. “Whatever my good girl wants,” he chuckled, even more so when your breathing hitched. He got up, standing right next to the side of the bed. He slowly began unbuttoning his shirt, and you sat on your heels in front of him, waiting.

When you deemed that he was taking too long, you started untucking his shirt, working the buttons at the bottom. “Impatient?”

“I’ve waited two fuckin’ years, Arthur.” You hadn’t meant to sound angry, but your patience was truly wearing thin. You didn’t feel too bad when he started unbuttoning faster, the article off before you realized, joining the pile beside him. His pants were off shortly thereafter, the belt still in them hitting the ground with a clang, and he kicked them off his feet.

You moved back to let Arthur get back in the bed, and he sat where you were minutes prior, back against the pillows and headboard. Straddling his waist, your hands immediately started roaming the newly exposed skin, his muscles twitching under your touch. He truly was beautiful, almost aggravatingly so. He was well built, strong muscles protected by a healthy layer of fat that made him even bigger.

Various scars and marks littered his body, all proof of surviving a hard life; you kissed each one you saw. Your fingers ran across his abs, the muscles tensing as you went along. You were surprised to find that his entire body was covered in hair, not just his arms and legs, but you definitely weren’t complaining, the pure masculinity from it all the more attractive.

Speaking of masculinity, an experimental roll of your hips against Arthur’s had the man groaning, head rolling back slightly. But it also let you know that he wasn’t just well built, but well endowed. Quite endowed, if you were being honest.

After giving him a quick kiss, you moved back until you were more on his knees, and you tugged at the waistband of his undergarments. Like you, he lifted his hips up, and you quickly discarded it behind you.

One look and you knew you were in for a long night. He was long, yes, but thick as well, able to stretch you out in all the right places. You tried to wrap your hand around the base of him, your fingers nowhere close to reaching each other. Slowly, you began to pump him, and he let out a strangled moan. His tip was red and leaking, and you wanted nothing more than to lean forward and lick it. And you tried to, at least, but he redirected you with his fingers around your jaw, bringing his lips crashing against yours.

The kiss was filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owned it. The fingers on your jaw kept your mouth open, a moan leaving you when you tasted yourself on him. He pulled back, eyes shutting when you continued to move your hand up and down his length. He stilled you by grabbing your wrist, pulling you back up so that you were straddling his waist again.

“Y’feel amazin’, princess, I just wanna last.” He let go of you, settling his hands on your waist instead. “You ready?”

“Please, Arthur.” One hand gripped his bicep, the other on his shoulder. “I need you.”

“And you’ll have me. Just don’t wanna see you hurt.” You felt his hand creep up your front, hovering just in front of your face, and his pointer and middle fingers brushed your bottom lip. “Suck,” he instructed, digits pressing gently against the seam of your lips. You parted your lips, enthusiastically taking them into your mouth, running your tongue alongside the bottom of them. Your eyes never left his, and you felt him twitch beneath you as you bobbed your head up and down. “Atta girl,” he praised, “get ‘em nice and wet for me.”

You’re sure you were soaking his lap at this point, but you didn’t care. Working your tongue along the knuckles, his hand quickly became covered in your drool. With a pop, his fingers left your mouth, leaving you panting around nothing. You watched, transfixed, as Arthur brought his hand to his cock, slowly stroking himself as he coated his length. He let out a soft gasp, eyes rolling to the back of his head, and the delicious noise had you clenching around nothing.

After a few passes, he stilled at the base, holding himself upright. Urging you to get up on your knees, you scooted until you were just hovering above him. His tip nudged your entrance, and you both let out similar moans as you slowly sunk down on his length. Your fingers dug into the muscles of his bicep, most likely leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake.

“That’s it. Nice and slow now…” he spoke, voice strained and clipped. The hand on your waist was vice-like, Arthur using every ounce of restraint in his body to not just sink you down on to him.

Even though Arthur had done some prep with his fingers, and your mixed arousal and spit helped to ease things along, the stretch still burned. You rocked up and down, slowly taking more and more of him in you. Small noises left your lips as you worked yourself down, feeling every ridge of him in you, and your face buried into his neck. “Relax,” Arthur murmured, the hand on your hip rubbing reassuringly on your back. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Arthur…” you moaned, your legs beginning to shake at the exertion.

“I know, princess. You’re doin’ so well. Just a lil’ bit more.” He kissed the top of your head, which would’ve been more wholesome outside the current circumstance.

It took a little bit of you moving up and down him, working yourself open until you were able to take him completely. Eventually, your hips were flush with his, and your head rolling back as you finally felt him fully sheathed in you. You’d never felt so full before, his cock reaching places you’d hadn’t realized existed.

When you leaned back, it puffed your chest in his face, and his mouth was on you in seconds, lapping and sucking and kneading at the soft flesh there. “Oh, Arthur.” Your hands were in his hair, keeping him close as he lavished your breasts. “You feel so good.”

Not stopping for a second, you heard him something, and the tone was almost proud, but it was hard to tell over the blood rushing in your ears. As you let yourself get used to him, rocking up and down him slowly, you moved your head to the side to let him bring his mouth up your neck, and you saw something brown out of the corner of your eyes. Turning even further, you saw Arthur’s hat a few feet behind you, and a wicked idea crossed your mind.

It took a bit of reaching to get the hat, causing you to pull yourself away from Arthur’s mouth. He let out a noise of complaint, hands trying to bring you back until he realized what you were reaching for. “Princess…” his usually gravelly voice was even more so, the word barely audible through his clenched teeth.

“What?” You flashed him an innocent smile. Clutching his hat in your hand, you slowly rode him, sinking up and down his cock. You tried to seem unaffected, but you couldn’t stop the whimper that you let out.

You secured it on your head, clenching around him when you heard the almost predatory growl that left him. He was losing the battle with his restraint, and you wanted nothing more than to see him succumb to his desire. Running your fingers though the hair on his pecs, you brought your lips close to his, only a hair’s width away from connecting. “Princess.” It was more of a warning than anything, and you felt him let out a huff of air.

“What’s the matter?” You teased.

“Nothin’,” you watched his eyes flick down to your entrance, watching his cock disappear into you. You would’ve believed that he was content with you just using him for your pleasure, enjoying the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, but you’d seen the look in his eye when you put his hat on, and felt the way his fingers tightened on you as he fought to not to just take you as he pleased.

You wanted to see him lose the control he fought so hard to maintain.

“Really? Cause you seem tense, cowboy. Like you’re holdin’ back.” You smiled gently, rubbing his chest reassuringly.

“Dunno what you mean,” he tried to play dumb, looking away from you as he spoke.

You brought his gaze back to yours, caressing the side of his face as you did so. “I don’t want you to.”

It took a few moments for Arthur to respond, eyes not leaving yours as you continued to ride him. “Are you sure, princess? I…” he exhaled shakily, “It might hurt-”

“I know what I want, Arthur. You’re not the only one who likes it a little rough.” You brushed your lips over his, and you could tell he was still fighting himself. “I wanna feel you for days after this, Arthur. I wanna be able to feel you whenever I walk, every ache I feel remindin’ me of when you absolutely ruined me. I need you to ruin me, Arthur. Please, fuck me-”

Your rambling was cut short when he smashed his lips against yours, muffling your noises as he effortlessly lifted you off his cock before slamming you back down. He set a brutal pace, hips snapping up as he fucked up into you. The kiss didn’t last long, your head rolling back again, hat barely staying on your head as he took you as he pleased.

The sound of your collective moans filled the air, the sound of skin-on-skin muffled by your voice. “Yes, Arthur!” you cried out, and you felt yourself working up to another climax, already worked up from riding him previously. You tried to praise him some more, but you words came out garbled and incoherent, too overwhelmed with what he was doing to be able to develop a sentence.

“What’s that, princess?” you could hear him smirk.

You tried to respond, but all you could let out was a loud moan. You were just happy you weren’t back at camp, or else you’d never be able to look anyone in the eye ever again.

You heard him moan out your name. “You feel so good, you know that?” He panted. “Like you were made for me to ruin.”

You let out another cry of his name, growing closer and closer to your release. “That’s right, let everyone know who’s fucking this pretty cunt so well.”

In the back of your mind, you knew that Arthur was going to be embarrassed as hell afterwards, saying stuff like this. But the filthy words coming from his lips had you gasping, a jolt of arousal shooting through your body. You said his name like a mantra, spurring him on even more. “Arthur, I’m- I’m so close,” you moaned.

“Fuck, me too, princess,” he didn’t slow down his pace, and you felt him bring his fingers to your clit, caressing the bundle of nerves. “C’mon then, cum for me.”

The added stimulation from his fingers, plus the sharp drag of his cock across your walls was enough to make you cum, his hat finally falling off as your head was thrown back in pleasure. This one was much more intense than the the last one, and you swore you blacked out for a second.

You probably did blackout, because you hadn’t realized you were on your back until a few moments later, Arthur’s hips snapping into you as he chased his own release. He pulled out suddenly, and you felt yourself pulse around nothing, feeling empty at the lack of him. Arthur was on his knees above you, pumping himself quickly as he came all over your chest, hot ropes of cum hitting your stomach and breasts.

He sagged forward once he finished, hands on either side of your body as he laid there catching his breath, being mindful to not crush you. You ran your nails along his scalp, the man shuddering under your touch. A few moments passed, both of you just basking in the afterglow of your release. The room wasn’t cold anymore, the heat generated from the both of you causing a sheen of sweat to cover your bodies. A bath definitely sounded good right now, but you didn’t want to get up, body pleasantly sore and exhausted.

You felt Arthur sit back up, getting off the bed entirely. You watched him grab one of the rags from the water basin, pouring a bit of water on it before returning to you. You let out a small hiss as the cold water made contact with your skin, Arthur apologizing as he cleaned you up. His touch was light, reverent, his eyes filled with an emotion you weren’t able to place as he wiped down your body. As Arthur walked away, wiping down himself as well, you situated yourself under the covers, the silk feeling wonderful against your skin as you nuzzled into the pillows.

Arthur joined you shortly, the bed shifting under his weight as he joined you under the covers. You watched him open his arms for you, and you gladly let yourself be wrapped up in them, your chests pressed together, and you felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “You alright?”

Smiling, you looked up at him. “I’m amazin’,” your voice was scratchy. “Just sore. And don’t you dare apologize,” you glared at him when he opened his mouth to do just that.

“We can get you a bath later, if you’d like.”

“As long as you join me.”

You felt Arthur chuckle, his chest rumbling against yours, kissing you now on the forehead. “Whatever you want.”

Sighing contentedly, you stared at Arthur, who had now closed his eyes, his tiredness now making itself known. You were too busy scanning his features that you hadn’t noticed him cracking an eye open, raising a brow quizzically at you. “What?”

“You’re very beautiful, Arthur.”

You watched him stammer for a second, the bright red flush returning to his face from minutes prior. “It’d be pointless to disagree with you, wouldn’t it, princess?”

“Yup,” you giggled. The two of you sat in comfortable silence after that, until a question you’d been meaning for a while came back to you at that moment. “Why’d you call me that?”

“Call ya what?”

“Princess. I thought we already established that I ain’t one.”

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head. “You better not. I like it. I’m just curious why you use it.”

“To be completely honest, I ain’t quite sure why either,” he chuckled. “It started as a bit of a joke, before we became serious. But I liked the way you reacted to it, so I kept callin’ you it just to see your reaction. I kept sayin’ it after because you deserve to be called somethin’ unique, somethin’ that’s special to us.”

“Earlier, you said I was something’ better than a princess. What’s that?”

“It’s cheesy,” he tried to avoid the question, but you gave him a pointed look. Sighing, he relented. “You’re, well, you. You’re an outlaw, a gunslinger, a survivor. You’re a confidant, a friend, a leader. You’re my girl, my angel, the best thing that has ever happened to me. All things that are infinitely better than some royal title.” He shrugged. “And sure, maybe you ain’t a princess, but you deserve to be treated like one. I guess callin’ you that, it’s a constant reminder for me to treat you like the incredible person you are, and to not take your love for granted.”

You held back the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “You’re oddly poetic at times.”

“I told ya it was cheesy,” he grumbled, the bashful smile on his face dropping when he saw the tears in your eyes. “Shit, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Despite the single tear rolling down your face, you laughed. “I love you so much, Arthur Morgan.”

He said your name slowly, wiping away the tear with the pad of his thumb. “I love you too.” You tried to smile at him, but a yawn overtook you, causing Arthur to laugh lightly. “Let’s get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2

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theharrowing · 1 year

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Collateral 🗡️ 18: You, me, and our men

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

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🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Female Reader, Jungkook x Taehyung

🗡️ word count: 17.1k

🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+

🗡️ warnings: dear god, buckle up... discussion of drug use; very soft and fluffy moments; threesome; oral sex (m & f); screaming orgasm; multiple orgasms; playing footsie; punishment & reward; orgasm denial & control; voyeurism & exhibitionism; all of these men are shit heads; loud, sloppy oral; squirting; begging & teasing; light humiliation; safe words; Yoongi & Namjoon being domestic at a silly time; submissive Jeongguk; mc dominant for the first time; use of restraints; noona kink; hair pulling; face & body slapping; masturbation; praising; riding (forward & reverse); mirror sex; finger sucking; a little spanking; fingering; ass eating; overstimulation; after care; i love these characters so fucking much and it really shows ughhhhh.

🗡️ note: i really have no idea how i let the smut scene™ get so huge and wild, but i hope you enjoy it. after all the pent-up tension, it was fun to write. perhaps this scene being huge and gratuitous is my way of distracting you from the horrible realities of the Collateral universe, which will become extremely present in the next chapter. it feels more like a oneshot than a proper chapter, but...whatever. i know not one of you will complain. ok enjoy!!! i love you!!!

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin!

🗡️ posted on june 2023 | read on ao3

From the moment you wake up, your nerves are haywire.

You know two things to be true. The first is that this is the last day in the foreseeable future that you will be spending in Jimin's home. The second is that Yoongi will be home shortly after 2 PM.

When Jimin wakes you up by rubbing over your forehead and whispering sweetly, it dawns on you that this is the last time, and it causes a swirling of happiness and sadness to fill your chest. The sun blares through the window at an angle that you typically miss in your sleep, and you squint against the morning light, a sight that has become something of a stranger to you.

With a loud yawn, you rub sleep from your eyes. Then you grumble, feeling as if you had just gone to bed moments ago, frustrated to discover that it is only 10 AM and that you have, in fact, slept far less than normal. It is sweet for Jimin to wake you early on your last day; it warms your heart to know that he is up to something.

"I thought we could get some coffee and pastries before I send you off to the Min Mansion," Jimin suggests with a smile.

Today, Jimin is dressed casually in a burgundy turtleneck tucked into charcoal slacks, with his hair partially pushed off his forehead. His skin is dewy and clear of makeup, radiating with natural beauty. And you can tell his patience for you is wearing thin as his smile falters and his eyes widen; Jimin does not like to wait, and he is absolutely incapable of hiding anything on his face.

"Alright, alright," you mutter before he has the chance to complain.

With a somewhat indignant huff, you toss the warm, pretty pink and orange comforter aside and try not to lament how you will not be returning to its embrace. Then you pad over to the closet and choose a pair of black leggings and cozy green sweater, and you get dressed in there, knowing Jimin is still sitting on your bed, likely scrolling through his phone.

"Don't worry about your things," Jimin calls when you stand a little too long, taking in the sight of clothing and shoes scattered around, cluttering up a sliver of space in the large, walk-in closet. "I'll have Joonie come deal with it. He loves doing your peasant work."

"That is true," you respond with a smile, shutting off the light in the closet and walking out in socked feet. "If there is one thing Namjoon is good at, it is doing exactly what I want him to."

Jimin rolls his eyes dramatically, and mutters, "Gross," under his breath, and the two of you giggle as you exit the room into the hallway, and set out for a morning errand.

Hanging out with Jimin for several hours is a blast, and you spend most of the time seated on a café patio watching passersby and commenting on everything from the cooling weather to people's clothing styles and any random little thought that crops up in between. But as time ticks by, you become antsy.

By 1:30 PM, you are a wreck, checking your phone so often for a notification that Jimin snickers and tells you to relax.

At 1:45 PM when you get the "Almost home!" text from Namjoon, your heart becomes so frantic, you feel like you might throw up.

"Alright, let's get you home," Jimin grumbles when you announce the news with shaking hands clenched tight to your phone. Maybe caffeine was a mistake.

You are able to distract yourself a little with chatter during the drive, and even get lost in singing a song on the radio that you recognize as one of the tracks a dancer named Cherry enjoys stripping to. The breeze coming in through the windows as you leave the city pulls you into a calm state, and you close your eyes to enjoy the way the wind feels.

But as soon as the car pulls into Namjoon's driveway, your stomach is turmoil, sloshing and churning, threatening to make you sick. You realize you are squeezing your hands tightly when the dig of your nails begins to hurt your palms, and you open them wide, flexing and attempting to relax them before resting them against your knees and squeezing.

All you can think is, What if he hates me? What if he remembers every horrible thing I said? What if he never wants to see me again?

Of course, you do not fully believe any of that; you do not think Yoongi has it in him to hold a grudge over something like that, especially if Namjoon has relayed the things you said to him the other night. But you do fear that something you said could have stuck with Yoongi—burrowed deep into his subconscious to make a home, festering with hateful words during quiet moments when all he wants is peace.

"Dove?" Jimin asks softly, and you gasp, pulling your gaze from the black dashboard that had gone out of focus as you stared at it. You glance up to find the vehicle has stopped in front of Namjoon's garage.

"I'm scared," you mutter softly before you can stop yourself, squeezing your eyes closed to fight back the urge to cry.

"I know," Jimin responds as he reaches over to rub a hand over your shoulders and down your back. "But this is Yoongi, and he loves you. He is not going to be angry with you."

Although no tears have fallen, you press the sides of your index fingers below your eyes as if willing all condensation to stay put. And, with a deep exhale, you nod and say, "I don't think I worry about him being angry. But I do worry about him being hurt."

Jimin's hand slides up to your shoulder and gives it a squeeze, forcing your eyes to close involuntarily. "Go in there and talk to him," he urges, and you swallow thickly and nod some more.

"Thanks for everything," you mutter, smiling despite yourself.

"Any time, dove," Jimin responds, and you know that he means it.

The seatbelt feels heavy when you unbuckle it and release it to clunk against the door as it slides into resting position. With a slow, deep fortifying breath, you reach for the door handle and tug, then you begin the process of making your limbs move, one after the other, sluggish with anticipation.

As you approach the door, your heart pounds, and you wring your hands in front of you with each step forward that you take. It will be fine, you tell yourself over and over. It will be fine, it will be fine, itwillbefine.

Before you have a chance to lift your hand and knock, the door opens, and you squeeze your fists tight once more while taking in Namjoon's bright, beautiful smile. The urge to cry returns and your exhale rattles something fierce from deep in your lungs.

"Hey, sweetheart," Namjoon says, eyes soft and knowing, assessing your very clear signs of distress. He wears a fuzzy brown cardigan over a white tee with black slacks, looking soft like a teddy bear and so inviting. "Deep breaths, yeah?"

You nod and let out a chuckle of relief as you step through the threshold and lean against him. Namjoon wraps his arms around you and steps back into the house, pulling you along just enough to allow him to close the front door. Both of your hands grip onto the cardigan, and you rub over the soft fabric with your thumbs while toeing out of your sneakers one at a time.

"Alright, clingy," Namjoon jokes, rubbing splayed palms over your shoulders and back before attempting to release the hug and take a step away. You continue to hold on tight and step with him, causing Namjoon to laugh and take you firmly by the arms. "The only way out is through. Let's go release you from limbo; Yoongi is excited to see you."

Tears spill at the mention of Yoongi's name, and you heave an exhale, then stand straight and wipe uselessly under your eyes. Even as Namjoon rotates, you feel the urge to bury yourself forward once more, allowing your body to turn while your forehead rests against his chest.

"Darling," Yoongi's deep, soft, beautiful voice calls from beside you, "why are you crying?"

You hardly get a look at Yoongi as you back away from Namjoon and fling your arms around Yoongi's middle, gripping onto another soft sweater as you bury yourself into his chest. Yoongi wraps you in a warm, delicate hug and presses his lips to your temple, holding you there while you tremble and cry. He smells sweet and musky and perfectly him, and you are so terribly in love.

"I'm sorry," you manage to whimper.

Yoongi's hold on you tightens, and he slides his head beside yours, uttering soft shushes while his hands rove everywhere they can reach, squeezing your neck gently and patting over your hair.

His voice is barely above a whisper as he responds, "I'm sorry, too."

"I didn't mean anything I said," you sob, and Yoongi's hug tightens then softens.

"It's alright if you did," he says, voice full of love; no malice to be found. Because, of course, Yoongi is soft and understanding with you. Of course, he knows your heart. "You have every right to be hurt."

Finally, you release the hug and back up only far enough to smile at the face that greets you. Yoongi's hair is wild dark waves framing his beautiful face, and with tears in his eyes, he looks softer than ever before. He wears a light blue sweater, and you rub your hands over his chest searching for the words to say; overwhelmed by a flood of emotions.

You settle on a simple, "I love you," and it feels so right when it passes your lips. It feels so right when Yoongi's lips upturn into a sweet smile that reaches his eyes. "I love you, and I'm sorry, Yoongi. I'm so sorry."

"Let's sit?" Yoongi offers, and you exhale deeply, releasing so much tension that has built and built in your shoulders and chest.

Yoongi guides the three of you over to a large, light brown leather couch. The cushion groans as Yoongi sits, and you take your place beside him, followed by Namjoon, who sits on your other side. You bend your legs and turn your body to Yoongi, who does the same, facing you with his elbow against the backrest.

"You look great," Yoongi says with a smile, and although you are the most dressed down you have been in weeks, you return his smile, welcoming the compliment. With a teasing lift of a brow, he adds, "Namjoon says Jimin has been teaching you to dance?"

Warmth rises to your cheeks, and you chuckle, then nod. Yoongi waggles his eyebrows, making you laugh harder. You lift a hand to swat him on the chest, but Yoongi catches it and holds your palm against him, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

"Yes, Jimin has been teaching me to dance," you respond somewhat sheepishly. "And Hyejin, a little."

"Ah, Hwasa!" Yoongi responds happily, smiling widely—devastatingly. "I'm so glad you spent time getting out and making friends. I was worried about you being cooped up in a dark mansion for three weeks."

You chuckle, but something heavy settles in your chest, making you frown. "I was drinking a lot at first. But dancing helped me get out of my head. It's been really good for me."

Yoongi releases your hand and attempts to scoot closer, knocking his knee against yours. In fluid, unspoken movements, Yoongi spreads his legs—lifts one leg to rest against the backrest and slide past you—and you mold into him, shifting onto your knees to slot yourself into the space he has made and scoot onto your side, wrapping your arms around his chest.

"Namjoon," you mutter against Yoongi's sweater. "This hug needs a Namjoon."

The sound of Yoongi's laughter rattling in his chest against your cheek is a symphony, and you squeeze him tighter, feeling love build and build and pour from you. The couch shifts behind you as Namjoon stands, and Yoongi attempts to scoot the two of you forward while Namjoon wedges himself behind Yoongi. The two of them shift around until one of Namjoon's legs slide beside Yoongi's, multiplying your hug as two more arms wrap around you, sinking you further against Yoongi's chest.

"Better," you mutter happily, tilting your head to press soft kisses to the underside of Yoongi's chin and against his throat. Yoongi sighs with a smile and tightens his hug, and you continue to kiss along the curve of his neck until Namjoon—whose lips are pressed just below Yoongi's ear—comes into view.

"Thank you for giving me another chance," Yoongi says, tugging at your heartstrings so hard you nearly cry again.

"You're not allowed to thank me for loving you," you complain against his skin, breathing in his musk.

Yoongi chuckles gentle and sweet and says, "On the contrary, I am extremely grateful for your love." His voice softens as he adds, "And I intend to do my best to never take you for granted again."

"I don't understand what drove you to use…" you blurt out, then trail off, unable to say the word heroin, feeling it lodge itself in your throat, sharp as a needle and thick as tar. As you swallow around the discomfort and continue, Yoongi's fingertips trace shapes against your back, and Namjoon gives your biceps a gentle squeeze. "I don't understand addiction at all, and I overreacted. Even if my feelings were genuine at the time, the things I said were awful. I want you to feel safe with me, and I want to support you through whatever you are going through. I guess I was just shocked, but that's no excuse to lash out."

Kisses litter your cheeks and forehead, firm and soft and lingering, punctuated with hums. Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean into Yoongi's lips, smiling as his body says so much without the use of words.

"I feel safe with you," Yoongi finally says, and you sigh, content. "I can't fully explain what drives me to use…and I can't promise I won't again…but I want to try to stay clean. I deserve to feel happy, and pushing you away or putting myself at risk of overdose are terrible ways to chase happiness."

"You can always talk to me," you offer despite silently acknowledging how huge and heavy and impossible some things might feel to voice. "And Namjoon."

"I'm going to resume therapy, too," Yoongi says. "I was talking to Christopher for a while, but stopped shortly before you moved in. I think it would be good for me to return to him."

You nod and bury your face against his neck, wondering if you should also talk to the family therapist. Some nights, you wake up screaming, returned by your subconscious to the night of the crash—to the sight of Taehyung stabbing a man clear through the gut with a blade.

Even now, the thought claws at your subconsciousness with such force that Namjoon says something softly, and you hear Yoongi hum in response, but the sounds are distant and hard to parse. You squeeze your eyes closed, determined to be present and not spiral, breathing away the memory of that night as best as you can.

"I hope the therapy helps," you say with a bit of a pout, feeling emotionally overwhelmed but with a desire to keep assuring Yoongi that you are here for him. "I'll do my best to love and support you."

Yoongi squeezes you tight and sighs against you, and Namjoon's hands slowly rub over your arms and Yoongi's in calming motions. This feels like the right time to voice what has been weighing on you so heavily, but as you open your mouth to speak, you begin to feel nervous. But why should you feel nervous with Yoongi? Since he began opening up to you, he has been supportive and understanding; asking him what the three of you are should not be scary.

"How would you define our…" you begin, trailing off while your pulse pounds loudly in your ears. "Our, uh…our relationship."

Four arms hug you tight, and Yoongi hums softly. Then, he asks, "You mean the fake engagement doesn't make my intentions clear enough?"

"No, you're right," you chide, lifting a hand to swat at Yoongi's shoulder, making him laugh harder. "Silly me."

It takes a moment for Yoongi's laughter to die. His shoulders continue to shake, and you give him time to respond truthfully while you rub his soft blue sweater between your thumb and forefinger.

"I consider the two of you my romantic partners," Yoongi finally says, voice low and sweet. "I consider us exclusive, but with an asterisk attached to the word, allowing you and Jeongguk to play around if that is something you still want."

"It is," you admit, feeling your cheeks warm.

"And the same goes for me," Namjoon says, making your smile widen. You already know these things to be true, but it feels so nice to hear them spoken aloud.

"Okay," you respond. "Good."

"I suppose we have never had this conversation," Yoongi muses. "We sort of just…fell into one another."

"A beautiful collision," Namjoon says, fingers tracing shapes against your shoulders. "I feel so lucky to have been pulled by such an undeniable gravitational force, creating a galaxy of beauty and warmth between the three of us."

"What the fuck," you mutter against Yoongi's sweater. "That was so poetic and cute. I want to kiss you so bad, but I don't want to move."

Namjoon chuckles and gives your shoulders a squeeze. "You have plenty of time to kiss me, don't worry."

With a dreamy sigh, you mutter, "Good."

The three of you sit like this for a while, quiet and tangled around one another. Then Namjoon's phone rings, shrill and loud, and he shifts around as he fishes the device from a pocket to answer.

"Hey, Tae," he says, and you smile to yourself; they say, speak of the devil, and he shall appear, but you only needed to think of him moments ago.

"Hey, would you two like to join Taehyung and Jeongguk for dinner?" Namjoon asks. "Jeongguk is cooking."

"Darling?" Yoongi prompts, and you nod without taking time to consider the offer. As nice as it is to have a quiet moment between just the three of you, you imagine Taehyung and Jeongguk are eager to see Yoongi again. And you did tell Jeongguk that you would be interested in the five of you getting together soon.

You, me, and our men.

Namjoon confirms that the three of you will be joining them, then ends the call and informs the two of you that you have just over two hours to get ready and meet at Taehyung's place.

"I need to change into something a little nicer," you grumble, reluctant to release Yoongi from your hold.

You remember the closet of things that are at Jimin's place, and you frown, feeling torn once more. You are glad to be returning to Yoongi's bed, by Yoongi and Namjoon's side, but having a little home away from home was nice.

"Let's head home, then?" Yoongi suggests, and you nod but continue to lean into him, breathing in his musk and feeling his warmth.

It takes coaxing to get off the couch, and you whine and grumble the entire way, stumbling over your feet as you move, arms still slung around Yoongi and refusing to let go. Namjoon chuckles and heads to the door first to put on his shoes, and Yoongi waddles in that direction, walking you backward and pressing you into the door while he leans and bends to put his shoes back on.

Only when you need to use your hands because shoving your feet into your sneakers proves feeble with the tongue and heels bending and getting stuck, do you release Yoongi, huffing and puffing indignantly the entire time.

"Want a piggyback ride, sweetheart?" Namjoon offers as he opens the front door, and you gasp loudly because yes, absolutely, you do.

"Yes, yes, yes," you chant, excited, and Namjoon walks outside, steps down the three short steps onto the ground, and stands with his arms held out to the sides. You run and leap onto him, wrapping your arms tight around his neck, making him wheeze as he reaches for your legs and adjusts you in his hold.

"Sorry, Joonbug," you mutter as you loosen your hold and place kisses along his nape, and Namjoon chuckles and says, "It'll take a lot more than that to kill me, don't worry."

Yoongi closes the door and falls into step beside the two of you, and off they walk to the dirt and gravel path that leads back to the main mansion. Yoongi reaches for one of Namjoon's hands, linking their fingers together, and you smile as you rest your head against Namjoon's shoulder, feeling safe and warm and happy—indestructible and untouchable in this soft, quiet moment.

The walk back is peaceful, with only the sounds of footfalls crunching softly guiding you home, and you close your eyes, relaxing and breathing in the gentle bouquet of Namjoon's skin, shampoo, and laundry detergent. Despite being big and strong, with more blood on his hands than you can imagine, Namjoon is sweet, sweet, sweet, filling you from limb to limb with so much affection.

You hear the ground change underfoot and open your eyes to find yourself being carried past the driveway and garage, toward the front door. It feels good to be home, and you straighten out and watch over Namjoon's head as Yoongi takes the lead and begins to unlock the front door. Although you have cried more than necessary for one day, tears well in your eyes, and you feel so inexplicably happy to finally be home.

Yoongi takes off his shoes, then pulls yours off for you, chucking them aside while Namjoon steps from the slides he wore. There is a very light atmospheric scent to the mansion that you only now realize you have missed, and you look around at everything that is just as it was the last time you saw it—frozen in time and waiting, shrouded in dust motes that sparkle in the sunlight.

Namjoon carries you through the main hall and up the stairs, holding onto Yoongi's hand once more. Once you reach the master suite, Namjoon bends to lower you to the bed, then spins before you have a chance to fully release your hold, and closes in fast, slotting his lips against yours and sending a thrill of arousal through you. It has been far too long, and you melt into his touch.

"We have two hours," Namjoon mutters against your lips, slotting himself between your spread legs. His mouth trails low, kissing and nipping at your neck and making you shiver. "I need to have both of you before I lose my fucking mind."

"You have me," you groan, lolling your head back with pleasure. "I'm all yours. You too, kitten."

"Kitten," Yoongi repeats in a low rasp as he climbs onto the bed behind you.

The tangle of bodies is chaotic and haphazard—ravenous. Hands push and tug and remove articles of clothing while mouths desperately attempt to remain attached to mouths and skin, bruisingly firm touches and moaned confessions, making up for lost time.

You slide to the floor eager to wrap your lips around Namjoon's half-hard cock, feeling him shudder beneath your fingertips while his whimper becomes lost between Yoongi's lips. Yoongi joins you on the soft rug, and you share your prize, watching with bated breath as his pretty doll lips wrap around Namjoon's hard length. And as a show of love, you graciously allow Yoongi to swallow Namjoon's cum.

Namjoon has you on your feet and then on your back against the dark comforter so fast your head spins, and the two of them take their time pulling orgasm after orgasm from you with their mouths and fingers until Yoongi finally spins you onto your hands and knees, and fucks you so hard, you scream into Namjoon's warm, open mouth.

"Taehyung's gonna kill us for being late," Namjoon jokes as he presses Yoongi into the mattress to stretch him on one finger, then two, all the way to four. When Yoongi makes you cum with his mouth mere moments before his own orgasm hits, it feels too good to be true. And when Namjoon's back arches and he fills Yoongi with his own release, the whorling mixture of moans and whimpers in the air lulls your trembling, achingly euphoric body deep into the comforter.

You are so fucked out and high on pleasure that Namjoon has to carry you to the shower.

When Jeongguk opens Taehyung's door wide and inviting, the first words that greet you are, "Taehyung is going to kill you for being late." His eyes drift between the three of you, and you watch as his gaze hones in on the bruise you sucked into Yoongi's throat hours before.

The savory scent of meat and spices hit your nose, and you take a deep inhale, smiling as you say, "It smells amazing."

Jeongguk beams and takes a step back, giving the three of you room to enter. He wears that damned silk leopard print shirt again, this time tucked into tight black slacks, and you smirk to yourself remembering the conversation you had at Paradise; the sweet boy took your teasing to heart.

You wear a simple black short-sleeve a-line mini dress that stops mid-thigh, with a heavy Cuban link necklace encrusted in diamonds, and your hair pulled back tight. Although your makeup application skills pale in comparison to Jimin's, you managed to paint a smoky look to your eyelids and allowed Yoongi to pick out a bright red for your lips. Yoongi and Namjoon wear black tucked into black, with several buttons undone, revealing skin and silver chains.

As you step into Taehyung's home and out of your heels, Jeongguk walks ahead through the living room, off to the right. Taehyung's home takes you by surprise. His furniture is extravagant and mismatched, gaudy floral velvets and curving, carved woods. Art pieces litter walls and surfaces, from landscapes to portraits and strange carvings that may be human bodies but could be amorphous blobs.

As you walk through the space, Yoongi takes your hand and tugs you slightly back, causing you to bump into him. "You can rile Jeonggukie up if you'd like to," he mutters in your ear. "Tease him a little."

Heat licks at your senses as you remember the discussion you had with Jeongguk. Nothing could happen without the others present, and here you are, under one roof with everyone at once. Your heart soars with hopeful anticipation, and you twist to send Yoongi a wink, making him chuckle.

As you round the dividing wall into the dining area, you find a long, sprawling table adorned with dishes and covered pots of food. Past that is a black marble island against which Taehyung stands, frowning while swirling a glass of deep red wine. He wears a burgundy shirt that nearly matches his beverage, tucked into dark brown slacks, and at the sight of him, you smile widely.

"Thanks for the invite," you beam, pleased when Taehyung does not miss a beat, grumbling, "Thanks for finally fucking showing up."

"Sorry, Taehyungah," Yoongi says as he slots an arm around your waist, kicking butterflies up in your tummy. "I've been away from these two for too long…I couldn't keep my hands to myself."

With a hum, Taehyung kicks from the island and says, "I suppose it was my fault for only giving you two hours." Adding, with a dismissive wave, "All is forgiven."

"How gracious," you mutter under your breath as Jeongguk brings a final dish to the table and Taehyung urges everyone to sit.

Yoongi surprises you by taking a seat beside Jeongguk, and Namjoon pulls out the chair in front of Jeongguk's for you, so you sit and scoot in while Namjoon sits across from Yoongi, to your left, and Taehyung places himself at the head, to your right. Taehyung lifts lids from dishes, revealing pan-seared steaks and sides of potatoes, steamed and pickled vegetables, and an inviting pile of glass noodles.

"Holy shit," you mutter as your mouth waters, and Namjoon grabs your plate, asking softly what you would like and how much of each serving.

Yoongi and Jeongguk serve themselves, discussing something lowly and impossible to hear while Taehyung fills your glass with red wine. Once everyone is settled with their plates in front of them, Jeongguk raises a toast.

"To Yoongi-hyung staying happy and healthy," he beams, turning to face Yoongi, whose cheeks flush as he smiles wide, showing off his gums. "Whatever it is you're going through, you're never alone, okay, hyung? I mean that. You have a lot of support."

"Alright, enough," Yoongi grumbles, shoving his wine glass forward for the rest of you to tap yours against. Although he is doing his best to appear as grumpy and impassive as possible, the joyful glimmer in his eyes is unmistakable.

Everyone drinks and then begins to eat, and you take a deep, calming exhale before digging in, bracing yourself for a delicious meal. The food is fantastic, and you fall back in your chair after only a few bites, almost frustrated by how well Jeongguk can cook.

Namjoon chuckles from your left, and you turn to find him watching you with a smile. "That good, huh?" he asks, knowing full well the physical and emotional anguish you are experiencing.

"It's ridiculous," you complain as you sit forward and continue to eat, and when you glance at Jeongguk, he is smiling around a bite of food.

"How are you liking the new position at Paradise?" Yoongi asks as everyone begins to slow down mid-meal.

"It's fun," Jeongguk responds happily, having a sip of wine.

This feels like a good time to rile Jeongguk up, and you take a sip of your wine and prepare yourself with a deep breath for impending foolery. Tentatively, slowly, you stretch your leg forward, searching with your toes for an ankle or a calf. When the side of your foot brushes against the side of a leg, you lock eyes with Jeongguk, who gazes curiously at you over his glass.

"Jimin says you've been really enjoying it there, and that everyone is warming up to you quickly," Yoongi continues, using a knife to cut off a section of his steak.

Jeongguk clears his throat, and you drop your leg away only enough to recalibrate your aim and try again. This time, you find the inside of a calf rather than the outside, and you very delicately rub your toes against him, feeling the soft material of his slacks gather and fall away.

"Y-yeah," Jeongguk stammers, repositioning himself in his seat so that his legs are even closer—easier for you to access. "I like it there a lot, and Jimin-hyung says I'm learning the ropes pretty fast.”

You push your leg up, grazing along Jeongguk's knee as you ask, "Is there anything our Jeonggukie can't do well?"

Jeongguk's eyes widen, and he clears his throat, failing to hide the effect you have on him from even a small touch. You glance at Yoongi to find his eyes flitting briefly down at the foot between Jeongguk's legs as he bites back a smile.

"Word on the street is you're little miss popular at Paradise, too," Taehyung says, turning your attention to him. He raises an eyebrow as if studying you, and suddenly you feel nervous, like a child caught misbehaving by their teacher. You wonder if there is any way he could know what you are up to.

You clear your throat and continue to lift and press your foot forward rubbing your toes against Jeongguk's inner thigh, and from the corner of your eye, you can see him jolting slightly before slouching himself a little closer.

"Jeonggukie," Taehyung says before you have a chance to respond to his earlier inquiry, cocking his head curiously. "Care to share with the class what seems to be the matter with you?"

Rather than letting up, you rub your foot back and forward, inching slowly closer to his crotch and making him shiver as he responds, "No-nothing. Why?"

Taehyung is fast on his feet, standing and rounding the table before you can move your foot away, but you still sit up quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as Taehyung looks at Jeongguk, then looks at you.

"Playing footsie, I see," Taehyung says as he approaches Jeongguk's chair, places two hands on the tall wooden backrest, and leans close. "And without my permission."

"S-sorry, sir," Jeongguk says as his eyes fall to his plate. His entire demeanor shifts, making him seem small and weak compared to a moment ago.

"Hyung, what should we do to punish these two?"

Yoongi's smirk is sharp and knowing, and you begin to wonder whether this was his plan, all along. You wonder if he knew that encouraging you to rile up Jeongguk would get this kind of reaction from Taehyung. What if the two of them planned this ahead of time?

"Up to you, Taehyungah," Yoongi responds, sending a chill along your spine.

"I think Jeonggukie should get under the table and give our dollface here a taste of her own medicine," Taehyung suggests.

"Darling?" Yoongi asks, "Do you consent to this?"

"Yes," you respond softly, feeling somewhat dazed as your eyes trail from Yoongi's grin to Jeongguk's shocked expression and finally to a smirking Taehyung.

"You heard her, Jeongguk," Taehyung says firmly with a hint of impatience.

Without needing further instruction, Jeongguk pushes his chair back and sinks to his knees. "Yes, sir," he mutters before his head disappears under the table.

Your heart pounds, and you watch Yoongi, who sits and stares at you with his wine glass cradled between his fingers. The feeling of two warm hands spreading your legs makes you gasp and shudder, and you comply with allowing Jeongguk access, sinking further in your chair until your ass is right on its edge.

"I don't want to hear a sound from you, doll," Taehyung instructs, ripping your gaze from Yoongi to him. "If you so much as whimper, I won't let you fuck him. Understand?"

"Y-yes," you respond in time for the featherlight brush of fingers over your clothed heat, intaking a deep, quiet breath.

"Yes, sir," Taehyung instructs, and you nod emphatically as you correct yourself, saying, "Y-yes, sir."

Warm breath wafts between your legs, and you swallow thickly, glancing between Taehyung, Yoongi, and Namjoon, who all carry on as if nothing is happening. Taehyung takes Jeongguk's seat, and the three men discuss bringing The Tigers on to take care of Jeongguk's former responsibilities, and how things have been going while Yoongi has been away. It seems Namjoon has been the family point person in Yoongi's absence, but you cannot bring yourself to listen closely to their conversation because the feeling of lips dragging over your pussy shuts out all sound around you.

With a sigh that is as silent as you can manage, you let your head fall back against the wooden chair. Warmth laps over the mesh layer covering you, and you shiver as your pelvis angles upward, chasing the sensation. You want to beg Jeongguk to move your panties aside and touch you properly, and you bite your bottom lip to keep any sound from spilling.

Namjoon is the picture of nonchalance as he leans forward and reaches for a bottle of wine to fill his empty glass. When he turns to you and reaches for yours, which is still half full, his voice is so sweet and soft, asking, "Don't care for the wine, sweetheart?"

As if determined to spoil any chance of fucking you, Jeongguk chooses this moment to tug your panties away and press the pads of his fingers against you, spreading your lips slowly and firmly. Your eyes roll back as he rubs over your clit, and you shake your head, doing your best to stay present as you say, "It's good," breathy and clearly on the brink of losing it. "It's a good wine."

"Well, then drink up, darling," Yoongi suggests, raising an eyebrow as your chest heaves. "There's plenty more wine; don't be shy."

You tremble as you lean forward and reach for your glass, gripping the stem tightly to lift it to your lips. Jeongguk's tongue flicks against you in quick, teasing tastes, and you chug back a large gulp, gasping for air once it is swallowed down as pleasure mixes with hints of a buzz.

Jeongguk wastes no more time, licking and sucking your pussy with skill and vigor. He hums between your legs, making loud wet sounds with his mouth as if you are just another course in his expertly prepared meal. You wonder if he does it to taunt the men at the table, what with how loud he is.

Arousal builds quickly, flooding you hot and fast, making you scrape your fingernails into the arms of the wooden chair as you hold your lips taut between your teeth, desperate to stay silent. It feels good. So good that you have to puff out your cheeks in order to hold back from making any sound. So good that whenever one of the men attempts to speak to you, you respond in nods or a shake of the head, all the while keeping your eyes squeezed shut.

"Do you think we are too mean to her?" Taehyung teases, and you open your eyes to find the three men watching you with hungry, dark expressions. "Perhaps asking her not to make a sound was uncalled for. After all, Jeongguk loves eating pussy, and I imagine he is giving his all to our sweet doll."

"She is quite vocal," Yoongi says with a pout as if taking pity on you.

"And she does make the sweetest sounds," Namjoon adds with a grin.

Jeongguk slips a finger into your heat, forcing your entire body to simultaneously attempt to tense and relax. Although it is not much of a stretch, the angle forces him to press against your erogenous zone, and you tremble into the feeling.

"Dollface?" Taehyung asks, and you turn your attention to him with wide, eager eyes. "Do you think my punishment is too harsh?"

You look around to all three men, attempting to gauge their expressions, which are all somewhere between curious and stern. Although Taehyung seems to be offering you a lifeline, you worry that outright agreeing might be more dangerous in the long run.

"N-no, sir," you respond, sinking a little further into bliss as Jeongguk finger-fucks and eats you out. "Ah-I was naughty and deserve to be punished."

Taehyung seems pleased, eyes widening as he says, "My, what an obedient girl. You two must have a lot of fun with her, don't you?"

Namjoon leans and drapes an arm over your shoulders, and the weight of it paired with his light, distinguishing musk and delicate cologne does nothing to stave the many tumultuous sensations eager to pour from you. Already, you climb closer to orgasm; all Jeongguk would have to do is slip a second finger inside, and you would burst in seconds.

"We sure do," Namjoon groans beside you, and the sound of his voice is too much, causing your eyes to roll back once more as you bite your lips closed.

"Since you're so desperate to be good," Taehyung says almost sardonically, "I will let you make all the sounds you need to. But only after you have been granted permission to cum, which you have to beg for."

The men in this so-called family are infuriating with their need to make you beg, and you open your mouth, letting out a quiet shuttering sigh, then lift your gaze to your devious, gracious host and ask, "Please, sir. Please, may I cum?"

"Already?" Taehyung asks, cocking his head with surprise.

"She is extremely easy to please," Yoongi says, filling you with red-hot embarrassment.

"Especially since we already made her nice and sensitive earlier," Namjoon adds. "I bet she will become overstimulated fast."

"I'm close," you say, voice coming out a little too broken—too close to a whimper. "Sir, please. I'll never misbehave again, please, please."

The squelch of Jeongguk's finger fucking into you becomes audible, and Namjoon shifts beside you as he asks, "Are you using two fingers, Gguk?"

Frantically, you shake your head, eager to tell Namjoon, No, please, don't encourage him. But Jeongguk is obedient as can be, and he slides his finger out only to press two deep inside. The stretch makes your mouth fall agape, and you huff out silent vowels, holding back so much you practically choke on air.

"Please," you try again, staring ahead at Taehyung while doing your best to school your features. Pleasure tugs at every inch of you, knitting your brows and forcing your mouth open to hang wide, and you croak around each syllable, muttering like a prayer, "Please, please, please."

"Ggukie," Taehyung calls, "is she close, baby?"

Jeongguk licks a long, slow stripe over you, then calls, "Her muscles keep tensing and relaxing; she feels very close," before getting back to work, making your head absolutely spin.

"I am close," you mutter just above a whisper, desperate. "I'm so close. Please, sir. Please let me cum."

"Are you sure you deserve to?" Taehyung asks.

Petulance rises, and you rotate to glance between Yoongi and Namjoon with a look of sheer desperation that the two of them all but ignore. You confessed your love to these two monsters, and this is the way they treat you in a time of mental and emotional collapse; unbelievable!

"Please," you turn your attention back to Taehyung. You are so close to the edge, every fiber of your being trembles under the pressure of tightening your muscles and staving off release, but you are not sure you can hold on much longer. Orgasm denial is not something you are used to; pretty soon, your body will give into Jeongguk's very talented mouth and fingers and do what it wants to, permission be damned.

Yoongi stands slowly, scraping his chair legs against the wooden floor, then he rounds the table with a look of hunger, slowly stalking. Although you attempt to follow his movements, just having him nearer makes it more and more difficult to hold back. Clearly, these men are determined to torture you.

Yoongi grabs your chairback with both hands, which you see from the corners of your eyes, then he leans close, filling your senses with his musk, asking, "Is our Jeonggukie making you feel good, darling?"

You nod emphatically, biting your lips closed for fear of moaning if you attempt to speak. Jeongguk's fingers press over the sweet spot that makes you crumble so easily, and you squeeze your eyes closed in an attempt to hold your composure.

"Use your words, sweetheart," Namjoon instructs.

"Ye—" you huff and sigh, eyes widening as Jeongguk's tongue laves and twirls, sloppy and wet. "Y-yes, sir," you practically moan, jaw trembling around each syllable.

"Poor thing," Taehyung teases, "just look at her fall apart."

"Please, sir," you mutter, closing your eyes. "Please, please, please."

With each push and pull of Jeongguk's fingers, you lose the ability to hold on any longer. Your body quakes from the storm that rages inside you, and heat pools and pools, ebbing but never flowing.

"Please," you beg more desperately. "Sir, please!"

"Can't hold on any longer, can you?" Yoongi asks, and you shake your head, muttering, "No, sir; I can't."

With a sigh, almost as if he is annoyed, Taehyung sits forward with both elbows against the table and says, "Alright, pretty doll. Cum for us."

The moment you relax, orgasm rushes through you, dragging you straight to the depths of hell. You practically scream, "Oh, god!" as Jeongguk plunges his fingers deep, sucking at your clit gently in a rhythm that pulls pleasure from every inch of you.

You grip the chair tightly and squeeze your eyes closed, gasping and panting while you cum on Jeongguk's fingers and tongue, coating him in a release that pours from you, hitting your thighs in droplets. Yoongi's arms wrap around you, one splayed hand on your chest while the other loosely grips onto your throat, holding you firmly in place.

Overstimulation hits just as fast as your orgasm had, and you sob and begin to pull your hips back, eager to force Jeongguk to stop but unwilling to call a safe word or command him to. Jeongguk's mouth feels good—different from the ways Yoongi and Namjoon pleasure you, though you are incapable of determining how. Heat fills your cheeks at the thought of Jeongguk wanting this for as long as you have, and you begin to pull away with more intention, this time.

"Too much," you beg. "Please, I can't—"

Jeongguk's lips and fingers fall away instantly, leaving you drenched and shivering as the air hits your exposed pussy. Yoongi lets up on his hold around you, and you catch your breath, heaving each exhale through your lungs as if you had just been drowning.

"Magnificent," Taehyung praises with a smile. "Namjoon is right, you really do make pretty sounds, doll."

"Th-thank you, sir," you gasp, feeling equal parts thrilled and humiliated to cum with Taehyung watching you.

"Can you take more?" Taehyung asks with a raise of an eyebrow. He scoots his chair back and Jeongguk crawls between his legs, resting his head on Taehyung's lap with a dopey, wet smile that you can just barely see past the table. Taehyung rakes his fingers through Jeongguk's hair, keeping his eyes on you. "I can restrain this pretty boy and let you have your way with him, if you would like."

Using Jeongguk for your own pleasure sounds like a fantastic idea, and although you are overstimulated, you nod, slowing your breathing as you say, "I would like that, sir."

"Wonderful!" Taehyung beams, giving Jeongguk a soft pat on the head. "Get a head start, baby. I want to find you in the throne room, naked, in the center of the bed, understand?"

Jeongguk sits high on his knees, tilting his head up to Taehyung with an expression that pours over with affection. "Yes, sir," he says as Taehyung leans down and presses their lips together. Then he stands, and you notice the drool and cum that coats his chin and chest, shimmering in the light. Your gaze flickers to Taehyung just in time to notice him licking his lips, and you burn with the knowledge that he can also taste you.

Jeongguk leaves the room, and you take the opportunity to reach for your refilled wine glass and chug its contents back, gasping on your next breath while your hands tremble. Taehyung stands and returns to his seat, to the right of you, leaning against the top of the backrest.

"How are you feeling?" he asks in a tone sweet enough to take you by surprise.

"Good," you respond truthfully, sitting up and squeezing your thighs tight.

"It goes without saying, but you absolutely do not have to keep going if you need to stop," he assures you, and you smile, giving a slight nod and muttering, "I'm good. I'm enjoying myself."

"Yoongi-hyung? Namjoon-hyung?" Taehyung asks.

"Perfect," Namjoon responds as Yoongi says, "I'm having a great time."

"Good," Taehyung says, clapping his hands together once. "I was prepared to have more of a conversation, but none of that seems necessary, so let's dive right in. Jeongguk and I use the stoplight safeword system, do you know what that is?"

You clear your throat and nod, having learned about this from your days in sex work. "Green for continue, red for stop," you say, unsure what their use of yellow might be, as sometimes it can vary.

"Exactly," Taehyung praises as he walks over and leaves a gentle pat against your head. "Yellow means slow down or let up, depending on what you are doing. You can check in and demand a color, but he is good about calling when he needs to. As for you—" he raises an eyebrow with his hands on his hips, "—Jeongguk and I have agreed that you can fuck him as long as I get to tell you what to do. Yoongi and Namjoon are also welcome to command you. Of course, if there is something you do not enjoy, you get the final say and can call a color, or simply tell us no. We want you to enjoy this experience to the fullest and will never demand anything you dislike. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," you mutter while wrapping your head around everything, feeling equally eager and nervous.

"Perfect," Taehyung says. "I just need ten minutes to get him ready for you…we're in the first door on the right."

As Taehyung begins to walk in the direction Jeongguk went, you sit up with a start. "Wait," you say, feeling nervous to voice your concern. "I…I've never been…dominant, before. Is there anything I should know? Or do?"

With a grin, Taehyung turns his attention back to you, raking his eyes over you before he shrugs and says, "Just have fun. Jeongguk gets very sensitive if you tease him long enough…so you can lean into that if it's something you enjoy. That is, as long as you are being obedient to our orders."

You nod and say, "Understood," and Taehyung turns away and begins to exit the room.

"These heathens left a mess behind," Yoongi grumbles as he gets to work covering pots of food and moving them to the stove before opening the cabinets to find storage containers. Namjoon follows suit, collecting plates and wine glasses to rinse and stack in the sink, and you sit in your chair in a bit of a daze, staring around the room, half-noticing the curved shapes of wood carvings on the chairs and the faint shapes of houseplants that you are not able to fully perceive.

Once the table is clear, Yoongi pulls back a sleeve and checks his watch. "It's been about ten minutes," he says. "Shall we?"

"Best not to make Taehyung wait twice," Namjoon teases as he approaches and reaches a hand for you to take.

Everything feels hazy and dream-like as the two of them lead you through Taehyung's house to the stairs near the front foyer. Each step creeks gently underfoot, and the closer you climb to the second level, the more frenzied your heart becomes. Your panties are soaked, askew, and uncomfortable, and your hand prickles with sweat in Namjoon's firm hold, which you grip a little tighter once you get to the upper landing.

"Ready?" Namjoon asks sweetly, and you nod, muttering, "Yes, daddy," earning your palm a squeeze.

As soon as you turn to enter the hallway, and turn again to the first room on the right, it becomes evident that this is not the master suite but a room they have specifically for sex. To the left in this large room is a king-sized four-poster bed covered in black satin with black mesh hanging down over and tied neatly to each post. Rigged between the two posts at the head of the bed is some metal bar contraption that Jeongguk is attached to, and it takes a few moments of staring at him for the scene to fully settle in.

Jeongguk is nude with his hands over his head, arms extended long, with his wrists restrained high enough that he has to sit tall on his legs. Except his thighs have leather straps around them, connected to leather straps around his ankles, suspending him in a somewhat strange position, as he does not seem able to fully sit tall or relax all the way down.

"Breathtaking, isn't he?" Taehyung asks from a large black and gold throne to the right, overlooking the scene. He sits slouched against one arm of the square, wooden seat with a leg slung over the other arm, lounged and looking bored.

You nod and mutter, "Yes, sir," as you turn your attention back to Jeongguk, whose head hangs slightly forward, short dark hair messy and covering his eyes.

And he really is breathtaking. The way he sits has so many muscles taut and strained, covering his body in beautiful topography. His pierced nipples glimmer in the golden light of the room, and there is a perfectly inviting trail of dark hairs that travel from his cute, round navel down to the cock that hangs heavy and semi-soft between his legs.

"Jeonggukie," Taehyung calls, voice magnanimous yet sharp, "eyes up, baby."

Jeongguk lifts his head, and already his eyes look glazed over and a little lost, as if the simple act of being restrained is enough to give him immense pleasure. When his gaze lands on you, a dopey smile tugs at his lips, which he wets with his tongue, dragging the inviting pink muscle slowly as if to tell you that he can still taste you—or, perhaps, that he wants to taste you again.

"Dollface," Taehyung calls, and you turn to look at him with wide, eager eyes, feeling somewhat intoxicated by this entire scene and still reeling from what happened downstairs.

"Yes, sir?" you ask sweetly.

"Unless we say so, from now on, keep your eyes on Jeongguk, understand?"

"Yes, sir," you respond, turning your attention back to Jeongguk.

"I imagine this setup is a bit overwhelming for you," Taehyung continues. "What is your color, pretty?"

This setup is overwhelming, but you are incredibly intrigued and find this submissive side of Jeongguk rather promising. "Green, sir."

"Good," Taehyung says as Namjoon's palm slides away from your hold and both men walk toward Taehyung, leaving you alone. "I want you to strip, right where you stand, keeping your eyes on Jeongguk. Can you do that for us?"

With a nod, you swallow a lump of nervousness and respond, "Yes, sir."

The dress zips in the back, and you reach with your right hand, fumbling with the material before reaching with your left hand to grip onto the dress and slide the zipper down. You only make it a few inches and have to bunch the dress up even more, feeling grateful this the material is actually loose and that you are not stuck having to contort yourself uselessly for an audience. It takes time, though—bunching, unzipping, bunching some more, unzipping some more—until finally, you are able to reach back with your arms lowered and get ahold of the zipper, tugging it down to your waist.

Jeongguk watches intently as you slide the black dress down, away from your chest. You wear a thin, mesh black bra and matching panties, and you feel your nipples begin to harden beneath the material as the air hits your exposed skin, causing a very slight shiver to work its way along your back.

When the dress falls past your hips, down to the floor, all that covers you are thin, small swathes of black material, and you fight the urge to lift your arms to shield yourself, holding your arms stiffly to your sides while you stare at Jeongguk, who stares back.

"Strip all the way down, darling," Yoongi instructs, and you mutter, "Yes, sir," as you reach back and unclasp the bra.

Jeongguk's gaze widens and softens as the material falls away to the floor in a heap in front of you, and his eyes follow the path of your hands, down to where your thumbs hook under your panties and push-pull them away.

"Jeonggukie," Taehyung calls, "how is she?"

"Beautiful," Jeongguk responds in a dreamy, faraway tone. "She's perfect."

"Dollface, join our sweet boy on the bed, please," Taehyung instructs.

"Yes, sir," you say as you force your feet to step from the pile of clothing and move forward. The bed is tall enough that you need to place your hands down and swing one knee up, hoisting yourself forward. You crawl to Jeongguk, and then sit tall on your knees before him. From this close, he is a work of art—a perfect blend of soft and firm lines that appear handcrafted with utmost care.

"Dollface, I want you to tease our sweet Jeonggukie. You are not allowed to touch his cock or asshole unless given permission, but everything else is fair game. Rile him up, make him whine, make him beg. He likes it a little rough so don't be afraid to pinch, slap, scratch, bite…whatever it takes to drive him crazy. Does all this sound good?"

"Yes sir," you respond, unmoving as you decide where to start. It feels like you have been given too many choices, and suddenly, you feel overwhelmed. "Can I kiss him, sir?" you ask, inching closer on your knees.

"Of course, doll," Taehyung calls happily, and you continue to inch closer.

Sitting high on your knees, you reach up and drag the backs of your fingernails over Jeongguk's cheeks, causing him to tremble and take in a deep, slow breath. His eyelids flutter, but he keeps his gaze on you, lips lifting and moving slightly, as if he has something to say. As your right hand continues to work its way up, over a scratchy shaved undercut and into thick, straight hair, your left thumb drags down, over his bottom lip, pulling it past his teeth until it stretches to its limit and pops back into place.

"So pretty," you whisper, watching Jeongguk's eyes widen. He must not be allowed to speak unless spoken to, but you have been given no such instruction. "I've never done something like this before. You're my first."

Jeongguk's mouth twitches around a syllable left unvoiced, and you lean forward and suck his bottom lip between your teeth, soft at first, then a little harder, making Jeongguk gasp, tasting skin and metal. You dart your tongue out to soothe over the scrape of your teeth, unable to hold in a whimper when Jeongguk's tongue meets yours, and you take the sides of his face in both hands to deepen the kiss, shoving your tongue into his mouth, forcing him to open around you while he moans, soft and inviting.

You lick hints of your own arousal from his mouth, then smile against his lips as you say, "You taste like me…so sweet," watching with delight as he holds back from responding, brows knitting as if pained.

This time, when you kiss him, you take his hair in both hands and grip. Jeongguk groans as his head is yanked backward, and you suck and nip at his bottom lip, making him whimper uselessly, darting his tongue out as if in search of a deeper kiss—desperate.

"So pretty," you say again while nipping at his jaw, holding his hair tight in your grip and letting your teeth snag and tease the skin all the way to his ear.

Jeongguk trembles in your hold, and when you reach his ear, taking it gently in your teeth, he lets out a sweet little song of, "Ah-ah-ah," shivering madly in your grasp while his back arches.

"Oh you are sensitive," you tease before taking his earlobe between your teeth again, a little more roughly, until he cries out a pitchy little yelp.

"Color, baby?" you ask, to which Jeongguk quickly responds, "Green, noona."

Hearing Jeongguk call you noona should not excite you so much, but arousal builds between your legs, and you feel the urge to keep pushing him for more. You nibble down the long, salty-sweet expanse of Jeongguk's neck, savoring the taste of his sweat, dragging your fingernails from his hair, to the back of his neck, over to his shoulders, and down along his spine. Jeongguk responds in jerks and gasps, and you continue down, down, until your mouth reaches one of his pierced nipples.

With a flick of your tongue, Jeongguk responds as if he has been shocked, back bowing as his body shakes. His pebbled, pierced skin is inviting, and you lick again, this time slowly dragging your tongue over him, feeling every tiny curve, tasting hints of titanium.

You scrape your fingernails down Jeongguk's ribs while you suck his pierced nipple into your mouth, reveling in the sweet, broken sounds he makes. He seems to be holding back, and you feel determined to make him sob. Although you two are becoming closer as friends, he was a bit of a prick to you for months, and you intend to let him know that you have not forgotten.

"Color?" you ask, knowing it'll be green, just to make him speak.

"Green, noona," Jeongguk responds almost robotically—not good enough.

Once more, you sit up tall, taking his hair in one hand and his jaw in the other. Your hand trembles as you pull it back and crash your fingertips against his cheek, gasping in tandem as Jeongguk's eyes widen, difficult to read.

"Color?" you ask, receiving, "Green, noona," instantly.

You slap again, this time a little harder, and Jeongguk gasps but holds his composure nicely. So you tug his hair harder, just enough to pull his head back, before you slap again. The skin of his cheek begins to redden, and you give it quick, softer taps, moving your fingertips little by little, covering the expanse of his cheek.

"Color?"

"Green, noona."

This time, when you slap, it stings your fingertips, and Jeongguk groans. His cheeks seem to be the wrong place to tease, however, so you sit back, releasing his hair and rethinking your plan.

"Darling," Yoongi calls, and you nearly turn to look at him but correct yourself, staring Jeongguk in the eyes as you say, "Yes, sir?"

"The way he's suspended is really taxing on the legs. If you're trying to hurt the poor boy, I recommend the thighs."

Jeongguk's eyes widen further, and you smirk as you say, "Yes, sir."

From across the room, you hear Taehyung gleefully say, "Hyung you are evil."

Slowly, you drag your fingernails from Jeongguk's shoulders, along the curves of his pecs, down his ribs. Finally, at his hips, you allow yourself to look down and find a very inviting semi-erect cock hanging between his legs. Of course, Jeongguk is perfect in every way, and you bite your lip as you attempt to pull your vision away, to his thighs instead.

With both hands splayed open, you lift and crash your palms down onto Jeongguk's thighs, and he cries out, sobbing on the end of the sound. A thrill quakes through you, and you rub your hands over his thighs, lift both, and slam your left one down hard.

"Fu—ahh!" Jeongguk screams.

"Color, baby?" you ask sweetly.

You glance up and catch him hesitating before saying, "Green, noona."

Without giving him a chance to relax, you slap your right hand down, followed by your left, watching his face as it contorts in pleasured pain while he bleats pathetically.

"Color?"

"G-green, noona."

Again and again, you slap, moving your hands over to the sides of his thighs, rubbing your palms and alternating which side slaps, never in a discernable pattern, always to catch him off guard.

Finally, you ask, "Color, pretty," impressed when he gasps, "Yellow, noona!"

Gently, you rub your hands over his thighs and sink down low, rubbing your cheek and lips over his left thigh, smiling sweetly against him. From here, there is a gentle, inviting musk coming from his lap that is difficult to resist. You lick your lips at the thought of swallowing him whole, then turn your face away, kissing the sore, warm skin of his leg while breathing through the arousal that licks at you, urging you to be selfish and take.

"Sweetheart," Namjoon calls, and you sit up, eyes on Jeongguk as you say, "Yes, daddy?"

Curiosity flashes in Jeongguk's eyes, and you wonder if he is attempting to calculate the various dynamics of your relationship. Using the term daddy with an audience is slightly embarrassing, and you shift in place, waiting for his response.

"I don't think Jeongguk got a good enough look at you under that table. You should sit back and touch yourself for him…show him how wet he made you."

The edges of Jeongguk's lips curve, and you hesitate. It is not that you don't want to touch yourself with an audience, but it does add to the humiliation to have your two partners and one of their best friends sitting on the sidelines, watching you.

"Color, doll?" Taehyung asks.

Somehow, the concern in his voice grounds you, and you say, "Green, sir," adding, "Thank you for the advice, daddy," so that Namjoon does not feel left out.

"Such a good girl," Namjoon praises as you sit back and scoot enough to spread your thighs around Jeongguk.

There is more than enough room on the large bed to sprawl out, but you stay close, sweeping one of your feet against the outside of Jeongguk's restrained leg as you reach your hand between your legs and slowly drag your fingers over yourself, spreading and teasing your folds.

Desire burns through you as you touch yourself while Jeongguk watches, eyes wide and hungry, trailing from your pussy, over your body, and back down. Slowly, you sink your middle finger inside, and although the size is nowhere near enough to stretch, a thrill quakes through you, making you moan as you gather release from your earlier orgasm and pull your finger out.

Jeongguk licks his lips, intently watching as you use your slick finger to spread yourself and swirl over your clit. It feels good, a simmering pleasure that covers you in warmth, and you loll your head back, hesitant to let go enough to moan, whimpering more softly than usual.

"Be vocal, darling," Yoongi calls, and you squeeze your eyes closed for a second as you say, "Yes, sir," frustrated that absolutely nothing can get past these men, but also grateful for the push.

You still hesitate as you open your mouth to moan, but with each sound you make, Jeongguk appears to lose his composure more and more. With a nibble on your lower lip, you circle over your clit, then rub down to your hole, up and down, gathering more and more release, becoming wetter and wetter, all for him.

"Do you like what you see?" you ask, eager to tease despite the tremble in your voice.

"Yes, noona," Jeongguk gasps, swallowing thickly before his mouth falls wide.

"So wet for you, Jeonggukie," you moan, using your other hand to rub and pinch at your breasts. "Too bad you can't fuck me."

Jeongguk whimpers and shakes in his restraints, legs straining and arms moving. His distress urges you on, and you rub over your breasts more, gathering and squeezing the soft skin between your fingers while dipping two fingers into your pussy.

"I want you so bad," you pout, watching as Jeongguk crumbles. "My fingers aren't big enough…but you are."

"Please," Jeongguk mutters, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Please, sir. Please."

"Begging already?" Taehyung teases and Jeongguk nods emphatically.

Jeongguk's voice sounds dreamy, and he licks his lips again. "Please, sir. I've been good."

You can hear Taehyung stand and begin to approach before he comes into view, climbing onto the bed, on his knees, reaching up to drag his fingertips up and down the length of Jeongguk's arms. At first, you feel shy to be on display for him, but Taehyung does not regard you, keeping his eyes on Jeongguk.

"You really have been very good," Taehyung praises as he nuzzles against Jeongguk's neck. Jeongguk leans into the touch, doing his best to keep his eyes on you as Taehyung continues. "You cooked an excellent meal, and you were very obedient when I told you to make our doll cum."

"I've been good, sir," Jeongguk whimpers as if stuck on repeat. "Please, sir. I've been good."

Without another word, Taehyung reaches up and begins to undo Jeongguk's wrist restraints, slowly lowering his arms one by one and rubbing his palms from Jeongguk's shoulders to his hands. With a sigh that sounds like relief, Jeongguk sits back on his heels.

"I'll undo your legs too, but you have to behave," Taehyung says as he begins to unhook one of the thigh restraints. "You are only allowed to do as you are told and nothing more, understood?"

"Yes, sir," Jeongguk responds with a sharp smile, eyes focused on you.

Although your moments have slowed, you continue to tease yourself with your fingers, watching as Taehyung crawls around Jeongguk's back to free his other thigh. Taehyung crawls backward, then stands beside the bed, out of your direct line of vision.

"Sit back," he commands, patting the bed, and Jeongguk does as he is told, sliding back and extending his legs in front of him, settling against the tall wooden headboard.

"Dollface," Taehyung calls, and you keep your eyes on Jeongguk but instinctively begin to sit up as you respond, "Yes, sir?"

"He's all yours," Taehyung says as his voice travels back to where the throne sits. "Have fun."

"Thank you, sir," you respond as you sit forward, getting swiftly onto your hands and knees.

With the possibilities suddenly seemingly endless, you feel overwhelmed, but you crawl forward and cage Jeongguk's reddened thighs, hovering close to his leaking cock, which sits pretty and thick against his tummy.

"Is Jeongguk an impatient man, sir?" you ask, watching as Jeongguk fails to keep his expressions schooled, eyes sharpening and widening.

"Extremely impatient," Taehyung responds, making Jeongguk huff a sigh. "If you decide to go slow it might drive him insane."

With a smirk, you mutter, "Noted, sir," then lean forward, touching the very tip of your tongue to the very bottom of Jeongguk's shaft and dragging up slow, slow, slow. His skin is velvet-soft, and you drool as you lift your head just below the crown, humming as Jeongguk trembles and gasps.

You kiss over the crown, right where the skin is softest, pressing your lips nice and wide before sucking and lapping at the skin in slow, gentle movements. Jeongguk groans, sounding almost pained, and you continue to lick languidly, teasing the skin, giving him just enough pressure to feel something but not enough to satiate any hunger.

"Please," Jeongguk whispers, and you glance up, tongue outstretched against him, to find a look of desperation tugging at the corners of his eyes. You hesitate to respond for a fraction of a second, feeling momentarily astounded that this is happening.

"Please, what?" you urge, watching as his jaw trembles.

"Please, noona. Please touch me more."

Teasing Jeongguk is a thrill, but you are quickly losing your composure, and as much as you want to listen to him beg and beg, you are also too eager to continue holding back. In a swift movement, you tilt your head forward and swallow Jeongguk's cock, taking him only halfway while sucking on the tip.

Jeongguk moans loud and eager, music to your ears. You hear Taehyung say, "Hands at your sides," and imagine Jeongguk must have been moments away from taking your head in his hands, sending a thrill down your spine.

With a pleased groan, you lift your head and settle a little higher on your knees between Jeongguk's spread legs. At this angle, you can take him into your mouth much more easily, and you sink down until he nearly hits your throat, feeling the tight squeeze of your lips accommodate his girth.

"Fuck," Jeongguk mutters, "you feel so good."

Jeongguk's words of encouragement spur you on, and you hum happily as you bob your head slow but steady, lodging his cock into your throat just enough that it nearly makes you gag before coming back for air. You can hear the sound of his fists gripping the sheet below, soft material scratching against blunt fingernails—a quiet, tactile cry of desperation.

As you lift your head, you swirl your tongue over his shaft, then release, opening your eyes and looking upward, watching as Jeongguk melts from the sight of you holding your mouth wide, saliva falling like garland hung between your tongue and his cock.

"You taste good, Ggukie," you say as the spit breaks and falls against your chin and chest, some dripping onto your knees. Eager to tease but nervous to dirty talk, you swallow thickly and do your best to sound confident as you crawl high onto your knees and begin to straddle his lap. "I could do this all day…but I want to feel you so badly."

"God, yes," Jeongguk groans, gripping tightly to the comforter at his sides. "Please, noona."

"What a shame you can't touch me," you pout while wrapping your arms around his shoulders, sitting high on your knees. "I bet you could make me feel so good."

You tilt your hips low, dragging yourself over Jeongguk's length, coating him in your arousal. Jeongguk whimpers and it sounds so sweet and so needy, you bite your lip and smile. Slowly, you push your chest out, dragging your breasts over his clavicle and pecs, and Jeongguk looks pained from how little you are giving him.

You lean close and mutter, "Kiss me. Show me how badly you want me."

With a groan, Jeongguk tilts his mouth to yours and eagerly sucks at your bottom lip before prising your mouth open, making way for his tongue. You hold him steady, keeping his head close, but still, he leans his face into yours, groaning desperately, rough in the way his forehead and nose press against yours, desperate in the way his teeth gnash and nip between wide, ravenous licks.

You part from the kiss and grip onto Jeongguk's chin, smirking as you angle your hips forward, surprising yourself with how easily you snag Jeongguk's cock on your entrance and begin to lower yourself on him. Jeongguk's eyes widen then roll back as you lower and lift your hips just enough to tease his tip, sighing through the stretch.

"Please," Jeongguk mutters, eyes and mouth fluttering and trembling so pretty and so wrecked. "Noona, please fuck me. Please, please, please."

"Awe, baby," you tease, lowering yourself further, gasping a silent sob from how incredible he feels. "You sound so pretty when you beg."

"She caved so quickly," Taehyung grumbles, reminding you that you have an audience, causing your cheeks to warm with humiliation.

Yoongi chuckles as he mutters, "I'm actually shocked by how long she held out."

You roll your eyes despite Yoongi being correct about your impatience. Holding back for as long as you have has not been easy, and truthfully, you deserve to be praised for your efforts.

"Typically, she's begging us in an instant," Namjoon adds, and you bite back an indignant smile.

You would absolutely run your mouth if you thought the three doms chiding you would let you away with it, but you are not eager to test them—not with Taehyung, who seems to have the firmest willpower and most sadistic tendencies, present. You finally have Jeongguk nestled deep inside you, and you are not willing to fuck this up for either of you.

The unraveled straps of the restraints that were wrapped around Jeongguk's wrists hang low, about a foot above his shoulders, and you reach up, gripping onto the leather. You hold on tight and moan as you lift and swivel your hips, teasing Jeongguk's tip and pulling a soft, impatient huff from his chest.

Jeongguk's eyes rove over your body, up to your face, as he cranes his head back. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, and you tilt your head to the side to ask, "What is it? Speak, boy."

"Beautiful," Jeongguk mutters sweetly, and you feel your heart skip a beat. You smile, then bite it back, trying to be a tease, not feel fluffy.

"Shut up," you grumble quietly, lowering your hips just enough to make Jeongguk croak out a soft moan before lifting. With the help of the straps, you find a good angle for your back to arch, allowing you to bounce your ass just enough to tease his tip.

Jeongguk whines and huffs, squeezing the sheet below him, causing peaks of material to form—mountains of tested patience reaching a breaking point. And although it feels good to stretch yourself around just the end of him, you want the rest, so you release one strap and then the other, settling with your hands on his shoulders and sinking down deep with a moan and pleasure flows through you in waves.

"Fuck," Jeongguk whimpers, dragging the word out long.

The stretch is enough to make you quake, but you do not have the ability to keep teasing yourself, even if it means finally caving in and giving Jeongguk what he wants. You lift your hips and drop them, choking on a sob that is punctuated by a deep moan. Pleasure bursts and settles into your limbs, tingling through you like electricity, and you wrap your arms tight around his shoulder and neck and begin to fuck yourself on his length.

"Feels so good," you moan, eyes shut and head tilted back, using Jeongguk to chase your high, eager to cum all over him and make a fucking mess.

Jeongguk's lips drag over your neck and shoulder, huffing hot breath that turns your skin sticky, and you do your best to keep a steady rhythm, climbing closer and closer to bliss, reaching the precipice little by little.

"God, look at her," Namjoon groans, making you shiver. You shouldn't be so greedy, but you do wish Namjoon could climb onto this bed and help you use Jeongguk.

"Stunning, always," Yoongi responds, and your heart and soul yearn for him, desperate to feel Yoongi once more, even if it has only been hours since the last time.

"Our poor Gguk is going to rip holes in this sheet by the time I allow him to touch her," Taehyung teases. "I haven't seen him this wound up in ages."

Jeongguk sighs and groans, then leans slightly back as his head lolls from side to side. He looks like he is about to burst, and you slow your hips, watching intently as he shakes his head and frowns, muttering, "Please, noona, please don't stop."

Rather than listen to his pleas, you lift your hips all the way, sending his cock to hit his tummy in a wet splat. Jeongguk grumbles, and you lean in to nibble at his chin and jaw until he shivers, then you back away from his lap and spin around.

As soon as you turn away from Jeongguk and lift your head, you are met with your own reflection, staring back from a floor-to-ceiling mirror that runs from the door to the conjoining wall. You gasp as you take in the sight of yourself on your hands and knees covered in a sheen of sweat, with Jeongguk sitting high on his knees behind you.

Jeongguk watches the mirror, smiling as you regain your composure and back up on your knees, grabbing for his cock with one hand while lowering yourself down. As soon as you are partially seated on his erection, you use both hands to spread your ass, arching your back as you lower yourself, eyes on the mirror to see Jeongguk staring down, moaning with his mouth hung wide.

"Like what you see, baby?" you ask as you begin to raise and lower your hips.

Jeongguk's eyes snap to the mirror, and he appears dazed as he says, "Yes, noona."

You sit up high on your knees and anchor your hands against your thighs as you begin to ride Jeongguk, finding a steady rhythm that sends your pleasure building once more. At this angle, his tip rubs over your erogenous zone, and you tilt your head back, moaning and gasping with each delicious drag.

With one hand gripping to your thigh, you reach the other between your legs, rubbing over your clit, desperate to cum. Your hope is that once you orgasm, you can barter with the doms to allow Jeongguk to touch you; you want his hands on you, groping, squeezing, and holding you down. Just the thought alone has you speeding toward bliss, and you press your fingertips just a little more firmly against your clit and slam your hips down so hard it stings.

"Fuck," you whimper, chasing your high faster and faster, "Oh fuck, I'm gonna cum."

The sound of one of the men clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth makes you jolt, and you begin to fear the worst. Sure enough, Taehyung asks, "Did we say you could cum, pretty?" and you begin to feel frantic, though you do not slow your movements.

"N-no," you mutter weakly, "but, I thought—"

"I'm just toying with you, pretty," Taehyung interrupts with a chuckle, filling you with relief.

"If I cum, will you let him touch me, sir?" you ask, watching Jeongguk's lips twitch through the mirror.

"I suppose I could allow that," Taehyung responds. "Since you've been so obedient."

"Yes," you whimper, lifting and slamming your hips, so close to the edge. "Thank you, sir."

"Fucking squeezing me," Jeongguk groans behind you, and you glance into the mirror to find him sitting tense, staring down at your ass.

Jeongguk looks fucked out and on the brink of collapse with sweat dripping down his neck and his face screwed up in both pleasure and impatience. You imagine him holding you down against the mattress to use you just as you have used him, and that thought is exactly what you need to plummet into euphoria.

"Fuck," you whimper, "I'm gonna—"

Your orgasm crashes through you, snapped suddenly with a burst of energy that throws you forward as you quake and sob, gripping onto the black satin sheet with both hands while you desperately move your hips, chasing more and more until you are no longer able to move, moaning and sobbing as your muscles tense and release around Jeongguk. You squeeze around him, eager to chase more bliss, but your body feels tired, and your legs quake.

"Sir, please," you whimper as your hips slow and you become too overcome to keep a steady rhythm, "please let him touch me."

"Jeongguk really has excellent stamina," Taehyung says, sending a chill through you as he adds, "if we allow him to fuck her, he might just break her in half."

"She can take it," Yoongi insists in a tone that is familiar and dangerous. "She can handle the two of us, after all."

After a short pause, Taehyung calls, "Jeonggukie," and you glance into the mirror, watching as Jeongguk's mouth twists into a sharp, dangerous smirk.

"Yes, sir?" he responds, eyes on your reflection.

"You have permission to touch and to speak," Taehyung says, and you watch as Jeongguk releases the poor sheet from his grip, stretching and squeezing his palms at his sides. "The hyungs say she cums really easily…but I bet you can't give her three more orgasms by the time you're finished."

It should be terrifying the way Jeongguk looks down at you suddenly as if you are a piece of meat, licking at his teeth while dragging his hands from your hips to your shoulders, and back down. Jeongguk adjusts behind you, still buried deep, and he settles with one hand on your hip and the other gripping the back of your neck.

"Stay on your hands and knees," Jeongguk instructs firmly, making you shiver. "And keep your eyes on me."

You barely have a chance to mutter, "Yes, sir," before he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward, spearing you on his length far deeper than when you were riding him. The pleasure-pain is incredible, and the moan that falls from your lips is broken, no more than rough a burst of air. Jeongguk wastes no time digging his fingertips into your soft skin and setting a pace that is brutal enough to make you scream.

It feels impossible to keep your eyes open and on Jeongguk's reflection, but you do your best, only allowing your eyelids to flutter closed momentarily. Jeongguk is very clearly punishing you for teasing him so much, and you do your best to take everything he gives you, moaning and sobbing with each deep thrust.

"Fuck, you feel so good, doll," Jeongguk groans, digging his fingertips deeper. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep my fucking hands off you?"

The hand around your neck moves up to your face, and Jeongguk slides two fingers into the side of your mouth, gently tugging as he holds your head up, keeping your back bowed and ass held high.

"Shit, you're so fucking tight," he groans, lifting the hand on your hip to smack your ass, making you squeal around his fingers from the tingle of pain. "So fucking wet."

Jeongguk's praises make your head spin, and it takes no time at all to chase another high. Your reflection is absolutely debauched, and you stare ahead at yourself and at Jeongguk, still unable to shake the surprise that this is actually, finally happening. Jeongguk is absolutely ruthless with his thrusts, and you squeeze around him in a rhythm that matches his, building and building your next orgasm, quaking uncontrollably as it begins to roll through you like a hurricane.

"You're fucking cuming again, aren't you?" Jeongguk groans as your muscles flutter around him.

"Yes," you mutter, attempting to nod with your head stuck in place. "Yes, please, please make me cum again."

Jeongguk slides the hand from your mouth, down to your shoulder, and fucks into you, moaning to match your sounds as your orgasm reaches its peak and causes you to sob and slip forward, unable to hold yourself up. Although you are disobeying his rule to stay on your hands, Jeongguk seems unphased, and he rubs his hands over your back and then presses your shoulders down into the soft sheet while his hips stay just as steady.

"She really is fucking easy," Jeongguk teases as he leans forward, pressing his weight into you.

You turn your head to the side and lock eyes with Namjoon, who sits on one wide, wooden arm of the throne with his legs spread wide, watching you with a fire burning in his gaze.

"Incredible, isn't she?" Yoongi asks, and you move your focus to him, on the other arm of the wooden throne, leaning forward with one elbow on his knee.

Jeongguk pulls out, and you sob, clenching around nothing while his hands move down the expanse of your back, to your ass. He spreads you wide with both palms while bending lowly then licks from your clit all the way to your asshole, and you gasp then whimper, sinking deeper forward while arching your back to present yourself as best as you can.

The sloppy, hungry way he laps over your cunt is intoxicating, and when he curves up to your ass to dig his tongue into your tight rim, you grip roughly at the satin sheet, babbling nonsense at the sensation. Two fingers slide into your pussy, and Jeongguk slurps at your ass while his fingers stroke your erogenous zone, humming and groaning loudly.

"Oh my god," you whimper as Jeongguk's ministrations intensify. There is no way you are going to last long like this, and you do your best to relax despite how taut you feel pulled from every delicious movement. You knew Jeongguk would be good, but this is practically soul-crushing with the way your pleasure builds and builds.

Jeongguk's fingers squelch inside you, and you feel the spray of your arousal hit your thighs while his tongue slurps and prods, breaching your hole and making a sloppy fucking mess.

"Please, Jeongguk," you whimper like a prayer into the sheet, which is sticky-warm with drool. "Please don't stop. Please, please, please."

Jeongguk groans into you, plunging his tongue and fingers in deep, pulling you apart at the threads. Orgasm hits like a freight train—fast and sudden and unforgiving, a crash without casualties. You scream and claw at the blanket as your release squirts from you, coating your thighs, sloppy and loud.

You quake and sob uncontrollably, lips dragging against satin as Jeongguk pulls his fingers from you and sinks low enough to lick over your cunt in firm, broad strokes. He hums as he devours you, squeezing at the backs of your thighs and filling you to the brim with oversensitivity.

"Two down, one to go," Jeongguk gasps as he sits back and releases you from his hold.

He pushes against your hip, sending you crashing into the mattress, and you mutter equal parts indignant and incoherent as he begins to turn you onto your back in a haphazard twist of heavy limbs. You feel exhausted, but you do your best, digging your head into the bed while settling onto your back.

Jeongguk towers over you tall and pretty like a demon of pleasure, glistening and muscular and so fucking handsome. You attempt to smile, panting around each breath, and Jeongguk crawls between your legs, lifting one over his shoulder while spreading the other wide.

"You look fucking wrecked, doll," he teases as he leans forward and rubs beneath your eyes, undoubtedly to clean up a mess of mascara that has smeared. You pout, and he chuckles, adding, "Still gorgeous though. Perfect, even. I would have been gunning for this pussy long ago if I had known how much fun you are."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter breathlessly, making Jeongguk chuckle.

"Never made someone squirt before," he continues, lining his cock up with your aching entrance. "You've done wonders to inflate my ego, doll."

"Great," you mutter, attempting to roll your eyes indignantly, instead rolling them involuntarily as he slides in deep, filling you in one swift thrust.

You moan as your body responds, pelvis lifting and arousal crashing. Jeongguk begins to roll his hips in a dizzying, tantalizing motion, and you do your best to relax despite the turmoil that already builds, threatening to tear you asunder. You are dangerously close to overstimulation, but you do not want to call your safe word. Jeongguk still has not cum, and you desperately want him to.

"She's a goner," Namjoon chuckles, and you hate how well he can read you. "This will be her last orgasm before she becomes too overwhelmed, Gguk, so make sure you cum."

Jeongguk feigns a pout, reaching down to press two fingers between your lips, smiling softly when you do your best to suck around them. His hips are steady and much slower, dragging in a way that lets you feel every perfect inch of him along your swollen walls.

"I won't be able to last much longer," Jeongguk assures, voice dipped low and sweet. "Taehyung bragged about my stamina, but you got me so fucking worked up. You can call your safe word if you need to, though. Yoongi told me it's sakura."

You suck on Jeongguk's fingers and allow your eyes to close momentarily, drifting into a state of full-body bliss. Despite how heavy your limbs feel, you are floaty and weightless. Euphoric.

"How do you stay so fucking tight?" Jeongguk groans as his hips pick up a quicker pace, skin slapping against skin. "How are you so fucking wet?"

You want to complain and tell Jeongguk to shut up, but the thought of speaking feels like too much, so you continue to suck mindlessly while Jeongguk uses you. He needs to finish before you lose your grasp on reality, and you are teetering dangerously close to that edge, lulled by the rhythmic thrust of his cock.

Jeongguk moans and sighs, becoming louder the harder he fucks you. His voice is sweet when lilted high and pitchy, and inviting when it is deep and dulcet. You could drown in him, really—in fact, you think you just might.

Time and space slip—float away like vapor in the air. You lay pliant and malleable as Jeongguk bends forward and leans back, changing angles, spearing you deep, rubbing places inside you that are carved wide just for him. When he finally pulls his fingers from your mouth to press them against your clit, you feel like you are dreaming.

"One last orgasm," he pleads gently, twirling over you in incorrigible movements. "I won't last much longer."

You pull your arms over your head and stretch your back, arching into Jeongguk's steady, determined thrusts. With the final ounce of energy you have left, you tense and relax around his length, working your muscles to a rhythm that will help you cum. Not that you need to help him; Jeongguk's fingers work over your bud, pulling you closer and closer with each swipe of skin against skin.

"Close," you whimper, feeling pleasure build.

Jeongguk must take your affirmation as incentive to fuck harder, deeper, faster. Your eyes roll back as his pace reaches heights you have come to expect, and you grip at the satin sheet above your head as you stare into oblivion.

And then, you drop. All at once, without warning, your arousal reaches its breaking point and bursts.

"Fuck," you squeak through a sob, mouth frozen in bliss, desperately forming broken syllables until you are finally able to create words. "Oh fuck, I'm cuming. Jeongguk!"

Jeongguk leans forward, dropping your leg from his shoulder to the mattress and placing both hands beside your head. His pace falters as he leans close and slots his lips against yours, moaning and whimpering into your open mouth while he licks and sucks at your lips and tongue.

"Feels so good," Jeongguk groans into your mouth. "I'm gonna cum, holy shit."

Jeongguk trembles, body lurching forward before he is up on his knees, pulling out and spraying his release onto your tummy, warm and viscous, quickly turning cold. You giggle, though you are unsure what is funny; you feel absolutely fucking broken.

One of the men begins to clap—you assume Taehyung—and then the others join in. You drag your arms down, over your face, cringing as you attempt to roll into a ball and disappear. "Please don't make this weird," you grumble as you turn to your side, only slightly bothered by the trickle of cum that runs along your tummy, down to the sheet.

Jeongguk hovers close, chuckling and pulling on your shoulder to get you to return to your back, and you resist, sleepy and no longer in the mood for any of these men; fucked past your limit and reeling from everything that has transpired.

"Let's get you into a bath," Jeongguk offers, and you loosen your limbs a little, willing to tolerate them a little more if it means a nice hot bath. "Hyung has a huge jacuzzi in his room, and I bet he would be more than happy to turn it on and get it nice and warm for us."

"It would be my pleasure," Taehyung responds, and you hear the sound of wood creaking as he stands and walks out of the room, footsteps quieting the further he gets.

Behind you, the bed dips, and you roll onto your back, eager to find out whether Yoongi and Namjoon are here to bother you—pleased to see that it is both of them.

"Darling," Yoongi says with a grin, dancing fingertips over your leg, which is bent at the knee. His touch tickles, and you shiver but do nothing to make him stop. "How do you feel?"

"Great," you mutter without thinking, voice wrecked and rasped from screaming.

"That was quite the performance," Namjoon adds, sitting beside your head and wiping his hand over your forehead. "I'm surprised you had no issue with letting all of us watch that."

You shrug, still not fully grasping the gravity of the situation. "We're all friends," you mutter, making Yoongi chuckle.

Taehyung returns, and you grin widely, appreciative of him for letting you fuck Jeongguk. And sure, you are aware that your thought process is a bit ridiculous, but you feel drunk from this scenario—far more intoxicated than the two glasses of red wine could have made you.

To your surprise, Taehyung holds his arms out and asks, "May I?"

Your assumption is that he either wants to hug you, or that he plans to carry you off to the jacuzzi, and both options sound nice, so you roll onto your side and then to your knees and crawl haphazardly into his open arms.

"Do you always turn into such a little baby after getting fucked?" Taehyung asks, to which Yoongi and Namjoon say, "Yes," in tandem.

"Sometimes," you respond dreamily as Taehyung scoops you up bridal style, holding you close to his chest while whisking you away.

"It's cute," he responds, dulcet voice soft and pleasant.

"You're cute," you grumble as you reach your arms to lazily hang around Taehyung's neck, burying your face into his chest. He wears a cologne that is earthy and a little spicy; unique.

Taehyung chuckles, chest rattling softly against your cheek, and you close your eyes and hum into the feeling.

"I'm glad you had fun," Taehyung says as his slippered feet softly patter while he carries you down the hallway. "If you come to have any regrets or complaints later, we can all sit down and talk. I want you to feel comfortable with us; relationships are built on trust."

"I won't," you say, certain that there is nothing to regret. "I love you guys."

"We'll see how you're feeling in a few days, but it makes me happy to know that you feel good about everything now."

The sounds of Taehyung's footfalls change, and you open your eyes to find that you are in a room with wainscotted walls of what you imagine to be mahogany, though you are not certain. Then he turns once more, and you are in a bathroom that is a lot like Yoongi's, but everything is white and gold instead of black.

"Jeongguk has my permission to see you without my presence required. So as long as the hyungs are okay with it, the two of you can do anything you want. Personally, I don't care who sees you. Fuck on the stage at Paradise if you'd like."

"Now, now," Yoongi says, causing you to peek over Taehyung's shoulder, smiling when you see him entering the room and unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's not encourage them to fuck in public. Jeongguk might actually take it as a challenge, and we don't need rumors flying that Boss Min is a cuckold."

"For once, the rumors would be true, hyung," Jeongguk says gleefully as he sidles up to Yoongi, still fully naked and covered in sweat, slinging an arm over his shoulder.

Jeongguk winks at you, flashing a wide grin, and you bury your face against Taehyung's shoulder, feeling shy.

"Are you getting in too, hyung?" Jeongguk asks as Taehyung begins to set you down, lowering your legs until your toes touch a soft rug.

With reluctance, you release Taehyung, and he keeps an arm around your waist, holding his other arm out for you to grab onto while you step one leg over the side of the large, white jacuzzi tub. The water is warm enough that you hiss and nearly retract your leg, but you quickly acclimate and lean in, finding the seat with your foot and standing on it.

"Of course I'm getting in," Yoongi says, and you can hear the sounds of clothing being removed behind you. "Can't let our pretty darling have all the fun."

Taehyung sighs and mutters, "No fucking in the hot tub, hyung," making Yoongi chuckle.

It takes a lot of concentration to make your limbs cooperate, but you manage to get both feet into the jacuzzi and lower yourself enough to step into the center and wade over to the far seat. The warmth is soothing, and you sink down until only your head remains above water, watching through squinted eyes as Yoongi and Namjoon get undressed to their briefs.

Jeongguk is turned around, rubbing his hands over Taehyung's chest, muttering lowly, and you enjoy a glance at his round, muscular ass before closing your eyes, smiling to yourself.

The water sloshes gently as bodies enter the tub, and you do not need to open your eyes to know that the arm wrapping over your shoulder from the right belongs to Yoongi; his musk greets you, followed by the familiar weight of so many hugs. You sit up slightly and lean into Yoongi while familiar hands lift your feet onto familiar thighs and begin to massage thumbs into your tired arches.

"I had fun spending time with everyone at Paradise, but the real paradise is here with you," you mutter somewhat sleepily, feeling Yoongi laugh against your cheek.

"Corny," Yoongi teases with a squeeze of his arms around you, and more bodies enter the tub, shifting the water around to your left.

You want to open your eyes and take in the bright, happy smiles of the men around you. You want to thank them all for the fun and show your gratitude for the affection they have given you. Taehyung is a wonderful host, Jeongguk is an excellent cook, and both Yoongi and Namjoon have shown a great deal of trust in you for encouraging you and Jeongguk to enjoy each other; Taehyung, as well.

Your heart feels so full of joy, and your sore, aching body is soothed so perfectly in the warm tub. But your eyelids are heavy, and the warmth pulls you in. You hug Yoongi while the men chatter about things you are unable to keep track of, doing your best not to drift to sleep.

At least you know that you are not at risk of drowning. With Yoongi at your side, it is impossible not to feel safe.

Just look at me, baby, day and night Don't make me bad, make me bad, I'm addicted to you 이미 길들여진 내 맘을 자극해 Don't make me bad, bad, addicted to you 시작해 버린 이상 내 게 아님 안 돼

🎵 visit the playlist

this chapter was more or less an oasis, but the rest of the desert is to come. i cannot stress enough how shit is really about to spiral in the final arc.

thank you for reading!!! 💜💜💜 reblogs and comments make the world go ‘round, and likes are nice too!!! i love you, stay hydrated!!!

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#yoongi mafia #yoongi x reader #namjoon x reader #jungkook x reader #yoongi smut #namjoon smut #jungkook smut #bts mafia #bts smut #bts angst #bts poly #namgi smut #namjoon mafia #jungkook mafia #taehyung mafia #fic: collateral #Spotify

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itsthatpearl · 16 days

Text

Layout idea from @secret-smut-sideblog 🩸

Previous chapter

Astarion x F!OC

Dawn of Love

Chapter 6: Empire Now

AO3 LINK

Aura meets a charming stranger.

Word count: 2.4k

Thank you Janna for beta reading <3

TRIGGERS: first time/loss of virginity, Soft!Astarion, vaginal fingering, oral sex (F!R), PiV sex, hurt.

----

I was sitting at the Blushing Mermaid even though it was already quite late feeling victorious. I had just won a card game against a dragonborn, who now muttered curses under his breath. His heavy-scaled hand slapped the table in frustration

“Are you sure you want to play another round?” I batted my eyes.

“Hells…I am not going to lose this one. I don’t lose to stupid girls” he shook his head.

Great. After this game I will go back home.

“Excuse me, shall I join you?” a smooth voice purred behind my back.

I turned to look at a pair of two brightly shining red eyes. Like rubies.

“Of course you shall, welcome” I smiled and offered the seat next to me.

An elf man sat down and I dealt him his cards.

“I must warn you, I am determined to win this round” the dragonborn grinned.

“And I must warn you, that I am very bad at these games” the man next to me purred.

I looked at him. His curly silver hair fell in front of his face just a bit. He had a white flannel shirt on. He was actually quite handsome, possibly my age.

“It’s your turn, darling” his said, his voice dripping with velvety mischief.

I looked at the cards.

“Oh yes, forgive me, I got lost in thoughts” I smiled and continued playing.

After a few turns I understood there were two elves trying to cheat the game and one dragonborn who was losing his scales over the fact that he was, once again, defeated.

“I am out, I fucking hate this game” the dragonborn muttered and left the table leaving me alone with the man.

I looked at my hand.

“I guess you have won, sir” I sighed, not entirely disappointed.

The man had an annoyingly smug smile on his face.

“Perhaps if you spent less time admiring me, you might’ve won yourself” he shrugged.

I opened my mouth.

“Excuse me?!” I asked, shocked at his audacity.

“Tell me I’m wrong, darling?” he smirked, raising a brow.

I closed my mouth.

“I thought so. Now come on, let me buy you a drink. You may have lost, but you cheat quite charmingly” he smiled.

After two drinks I was giggling at the corner table with my new friend.

“Can you believe that? Me? To ride a dragon” I laughed with tears in my eyes.

He chuckled and shook his head.

“You? Riding a dragon? No, that would be disastrous” he smiled.

I smiled. We exchanged looks. Soft, lingering looks. There were still a few hours before the sun would start to rise and I’d have to sneak back home. But I don’t want this to end. Not yet. I could feel my heart beat louder and quicker. Why does this man suddenly look…so kissable?

I closed my eyes and quickly placed a kiss on his cheek.

I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me before he leaned closer and pressed his lips on my lips.

So this is what it feels like to kiss someone?

He kissed me slowly while wrapping his arms around my head and waist. I could feel something unfamiliar stir inside me, almost like a burn, but lower than ever before.

The kisses became even deeper, messier and the burn under my stomach got stronger.

Suddenly the man stood up and gave me his hand.

“Come, let’s go somewhere more private”

He closed the door behind him. We were upstairs in a small room that had a bed in the middle of it. I sat down and looked at the man.

��How do you want me?” he purred and started to unbutton his shirt.

I opened my mouth as his figure was revealed. He looked like a statue, a painting, like the finest art piece ever made.

“I…I…” I started to stammer suddenly, unsure of what he meant by the question.

He pushed me down onto the bed and started kissing my neck with a slow precision and opening my tunic.

“Well?” he purred.

As he removed my tunic I could feel something hard grind between my legs which made my whole body shake. A sound left my mouth I didn’t know I could make, almost like…a cry?

“I…” I closed my eyes and opened my mouth.

“How do you like to be fucked, darling?” he whispered into my ear.

My eyes flew open.

“I haven’t-” I started to say before the man jumped off of me.

“You haven’t had sex?!” he asked, shocked.

I sat up quickly, covering myself with my arms, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

“I…I didn’t know this was going to be that” I said quietly.

He shook his head.

“How in the hells is that possible?” he asked, still shocked.

I shrugged.

“I just…my parents never let me see anyone. Of course I know what sex is but I…didn’t know it starts with all that” I said. “I didn’t know it would feel like…this” I added blushing.

He looked at me for a bit and started to smile slightly.

“Like…what?” he said quietly, raising a brow.

I slowly let down my arms and smiled.

“Amazing” I purred.

“Oh really?” he started to slowly smirk again.

“Mhm” I nodded and laid down.

He slowly and gently got on top of me and kissed my lips.

“Would you like me to show you something?” he whispered.

I nodded and kissed him.

“Have you ever…touched yourself?” he asked gently.

I looked at him and blinked.

“It’s okay, let’s go slowly, tell me if you want to go slower or stop” he said.

I nodded smiling.

He kissed my neck once again.

I opened my mouth a bit and gasped.

“You like that?” he asked.

“Yes” I whispered.

He kept on kissing my neck and I could feel his hand sneaking down my body to caress my breasts. I smiled at the sensations until I felt him gently pinch my other nipple. I gasped and looked at him.

“Too much?” he asked.

I blinked for a few times.

“Can you do it again?” I whispered.

He smiled and pinched the nipple a bit harder. I gasped louder and bit my lower lip.

“Want to continue?” he smiled.

I nodded my eyes closed.

His hand moved once again lower and stopped right under my stomach where my leggings started.

I looked at him and felt that his hand was getting close to the place where the burning was waiting.

He watched me as he slipped his hand under the fabric. My heart felt like it could pound out of my chest.

He slowly stroked me with his fingers. I tilted my head back. It felt truly amazing. Suddenly he slid a finger inside me. I opened my mouth and gasped. He started pumping the finger slowly in and out of me and I kissed him.

“Do you want another one in?” he smiled.

I bit my lip and nodded.

He inserted another finger to join the first one and I held him by his bicep.

“That…that…” I gasped my eyes closed.

“Feels good?” he purred.

“Feels incredible” I moaned.

The man stopped and slid his fingers out of me.

“What? Why’d you stop?” I asked confused.

He chuckled.

“Eager for more? I can make it feel even better” he smiled and positioned himself in front of me.

I watched him as he took off my leggings and underpants.

“Relax and enjoy” he whispered and he lowered his face in between my legs and ran his tongue across my folds. “You are beautiful” he purred.

Gods.

I bucked my hips to meet his agonizingly slow tongue. Then he started to suck the little nub of nerves, which made my eyes roll into the back of my head.

“Gods” I gasped as my hand flew to grip his hair.

“You are doing so well” the man purred in between sucking.

I felt his fingers starting to outline my folds before he pushed two of them inside. I bit my lip as hard as I could. His tongue sucked and lapped faster than I thought anyone could while he pumped his fingers curling them deliciously into just the spot that made me see stars.

“Hells below” I moaned. I glared at the white haired elf in between my legs looking at me with his lustful eyes that shined like two giant red rubies.

Then I felt as if a string of pressure had snapped in my lower abdomen and I moaned loud enough to the whole tavern to hear, legs shaking. The man slowed down his movements and lapped the hot gush of fluids that dripped down my thigh.

“So…how was that?” the man smiled and returned to kiss my lips.

I tried to breathe, eyes closed, head feeling incredibly empty. It’s like I was not in this world anymore.

“That was…amazing” I smiled.

“Do you want to…continue?” he asked carefully.

I sat up and looked at him, raising a brow.

“Is there more?” I asked confused.

He smiled and nodded.

“There is” he purred.

My smile got wider.

“Show me” I whispered.

His fingers returned slowly to caress my folds. I could feel I was even more sensitive this time. I cried out softly and after a while of him circling his fingers around the most sensitive part I started to buck my hips to make the sensation more intense. He slowed down and stopped again, but before I could say anything he started to open his breechers.

“This might hurt a bit, so tell me if you are uncomfortable” he whispered.

I nodded and closed my eyes trying to relax my body under him. I could feel him slip his fingers inside me again, pumping them in and out a few times and then replacing his fingers with something bigger. I winced in pain and grabbed his bicep.

“Just breathe and relax, you are doing so well” he whispered and kissed my lips.

I nodded and breathed deeply, and after a few beats I could feel the pain easing.

“Shall I continue?” he asked quietly.

I smiled slightly and kissed him.

“Please do” I whispered.

He started moving slowly in and out of me. I could feel my muscles relax around him, and soon the pace quickened, which started to feel even better.

He gently took my right hand and kissed the fingers while still moving in a slow rhythm.

“Use these fingers to touch the same area I did before, the one that made you feel exquisite” he said softly.

I bit my lip and nodded.

I placed my fingers back to the same place he had touched and licked trying to remember what he did. I drew slow circles on the soft flesh and closed my eyes. Gods. I started drawing tinier, quicker circles, which made my whole body scream for more.

“Hells below” the man cursed quietly into my ear. I could feel he was feeling good too from the way his breath quickened and he started to cry out the same way I did.

And there we were.

Moving in a tantalizing rhythm making beautiful sounds while holding onto each other.

Soon I could feel the wave of ecstasy getting closer, my fingers working harder, faster and at the same time his pace quickened. We both cried out loudly and stopped moving at the same time.

I catched my breath and opened my eyes to see him lying on top of me, eyes closed.

“You felt the same way, didn’t you?” I smiled.

“I did” he whispered.

“Do you think…do you think I could become…” I started to ask but he shook his head.

“It’s not possible” he said and got up.

I nodded. Well at least I don’t have to tell my parents any news.

He turned his back to me and started to dress up. I got out of the bed too and picked my tunic up.

Suddenly the man turned around.

“Let me take you somewhere” he purred.

I looked at him confused.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yes, right now” he smirked.

I nodded and dressed up quickly. When I was done he took my hand pulling me closer and kissed me deeply.

“Didn’t you get enough” I giggled surprised.

“Never” he smirked and kissed my neck.

Maybe he wants to go somewhere else, for example his own home. I definitely still have time for it before the sun rises.

He led me downstairs, turning to give me a lingering kiss every now and then. I giggled and looked at the quiet tavern. A few drunken people sitting alone almost falling asleep. The bartender looked at us and rolled his eyes. He is just jealous.

We walked quickly through the dark streets. The man held my hand tightly as he glanced around the corners and behind us almost like he was making sure we weren't followed

After walking for what felt like an eternity, we stopped in front of a big gate that led into a huge castle. I looked at him quietly. The sky had started to show a hint of red, as the sun was almost starting to rise.

“Where are we?” I asked in anticipation, smiling widely. “Is this your home? I didn't know you lived in a castle?” I giggled.

He looked at me quietly.

Suddenly something felt weird in his presence. As if he was unsure what to do next.

“Is everything alright?” I asked and placed my hand on his cheek. “If you don't want to sleep with me again tonight, I understand, you must be very tired. We can see each other some other day” I smiled.

He stared at me quietly.

I sighed and felt a clump of sadness gather inside me.

“You don't want to see me again” I smiled sadly. “This is our goodbye, isn't it?”

He shook his head.

“I…this was a mistake. I shouldn't have led you here” he whispered.

I smiled with tears in my eyes.

“It’s okay, I understand. Silly of me to think this could actually lead to something” I tried my best to keep myself from crying.

He sighed and pulled a scroll out of his pocket.

“I am sorry” he said before muttering something.

The scroll disappeared and I looked at him blinking a few times. Who is this man?

“Thank you. I hope I never forget you, Aurora” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss on my lips before disappearing behind the gate.

How does that man know my name? And what is this place and how did I get here?

I turned around to see the sun casting its first stream of light around the land.

I usually miss the dawn.

#fanfic #smut #itsthatpearl #og character #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion smut #bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate tav #dawn of love

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the-sun-and-the-sky · 1 year

Text

When it Rains, it Pours

Summary: The long-suffering RIOs play matchmaker, ft: idiots pining, forced proximity, and my personal headcanon that Maverick hates thunderstorms.

Pairing: Iceman x Maverick

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Cussing, minor suggestive content, mostly fluff with a tiny bit of angst, Goose lives (yay), no beta reading, and possible misspellings (words are hard ok?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

None of the Flyboys could remember the last time they’d had leave, much less gone on a proper vacation. As a consequence, Viper and Jester had more or less forced the aviators out the door with assurances that yes, they would survive a week without flying, and not to worry, their instructors wouldn’t miss them that much.

Of course, Viper and Jester had their own reasons for wanting the Flyboys out of their hair for the week and it had something to do with the obvious, pining looks Iceman and Maverick were giving each other. Obvious, that is, to everyone but them.

Which was possibly why neither of them noticed Goose and Slider being pulled into a private meeting with the instructors just before leaving for the trip.

“I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure by the time you come back, the issue is fixed,” Jester told them as he paced around the small office.

Viper stood gazing out the window, nodding along with what Jester was saying. The dawn light dusted over his uniform. He seemed distracted, letting Jester do all the talking.

“And by issue, you mean…” Goose prompted, shifting in his seat.

“Maverick and Iceman.”

Slider let out a barking laugh. “Sir, no offense, but I don’t think we can fix their little rivalry problem in a week. Hell, I don’t even think we could do it in a year.”

At this, Viper turned and looked at the two RIOs. His eyebrows furrowed.

“We’re not talking about the rivalry here. Although,” Viper tilted his head, considering something. “That might work itself out too.”

Goose and Slider looked at each other, understanding and horror dawning on their faces.

“You want us to…set them up?” Goose’s voice rose an octave.

Jester abruptly stopped pacing and snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

Slider groaned, sinking down in his seat. “Are they really that obvious?”

“Yes,” Viper chuckled. “To everyone here, except themselves. Frankly, it’s giving everyone a headache.”

Goose sighed and exchanged a long-suffering look with Slider. They thought the knowledge was limited to the Flyboys. Apparently not.

“Well, we’ve been trying to do something about that.” Goose admitted. “But so far, no luck.”

Slider feverishly nodded in agreement.

“A change of scenery might do everyone some good then,” Jester muttered, resuming his pacing.

“Speaking off.” Viper made a halfhearted shooing motion, causing Slider and Goose to jump to their feet. “You should get going. I think Maverick is getting antsy.”

He jabbed a finger over his shoulder at the window he’d been gazing out. The window that looked out over the parking lot.

The RIOs were dismissed.

“Great,” Goose groaned the second they were out of earshot of Viper’s office. “Just great. How’d we get stuck on matchmaking duty?”

Slider glanced at the other man as they walked through the halls. “Don’t act like we weren’t going to try it on our own.”

Goose sighed and was silent for a moment before relenting. “Yeah ok. You got any ideas we haven’t tried yet?”

The door to the parking lot loomed ahead. It was propped open, letting the early spring sun seep into the hallway. Outside, the other Top Gun students had gathered and were arguing about seating arrangements for the trip. Maverick’s rose above the others, directed at Ice for some reason or another. It always was.

“I’ve got a few,” Slider said as the two RIOs marched towards their waiting pilots and the looming car ride. “I just hope they work.”

~~~

Goose would like to say he was a patient person. But even the most patient person would feel their nerves fraying by the ninth hour stuck in a car with Ice and Maverick.

You’re paying for my therapy was written on the back of a gas station receipt and dropped into Slider’s lap. Goose glared at him while Slider read the note and rolled his eyes.

“It was a stupid maneuver and you know it,” Ice barked from the driver’s seat.

“You’re just mad that I beat you,” Maverick countered, his feet propped up against the dashboard.

He knew Ice hated him doing that. Just as much as he hated arguing with Maverick over what he called “brain-dead stunts”. Sure enough, Ice leaned over and slapped Maverick’s cowboy boots off the dashboard without taking his eyes off the road. Goose swallowed a sigh and leaned to rest his forehead against the car window.

They’d driven through San Francisco almost an hour ago, stopping only to eat, and were currently winding their way along the coast of Northern California. The light was fading fast and Goose watched the last golden rays of sunshine dance on the wave crests. The roadside was covered in wild grasses and every color of wildflower imaginable. Goose couldn’t help thinking that Carole would love it here. Maybe he’d have to surprise her and Bradley with a trip for her birthday.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ice abruptly pulling the car onto a side road. Tail lights bounced ahead of them in the dusk and headlights shone through the back windshield. For better or worse, the Flyboys had all made it to their destination in one piece.

Ice pulled the car in front of a small bed and breakfast tucked away in the trees and Maverick was out the door before the engine shut off. Ice quickly followed, as did the RIOs, stretching every sore muscle.

Somehow, Hollywood and Wolfman still had energy left and were messing around by their car. The rest of the aviators showed signs of fatigue commonly associated with road trips and were taking a long time to unpack the cars.

Ice, ever the responsible one, disappeared into the quaint, two-story building. It was painted a cream color that glowed in the darkness of the woods and seemed to be made of more windows than walls. Flower boxes, perched on windowsills, overflowed with every kind of flower imaginable and their scent filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled and a stillness unlike anything the aviators were used to, hung over them.

Ice returned before long and passed out room keys. Previously, they had agreed that pilots would room with their RIOs. But as Goose went to follow Maverick up to their room, he felt Slider pull him aside.

“Give me your key,” the taller man whispered.

“What, why?” Goose hissed back, confused, but he didn’t fight as Slider slipped the key from his grasp.

Slider threw a wink over his shoulder as he quickly made his way to Ice. While the other man was distracted, Slider snatched his room key.

“Slider, what the hell?” Ice shouted as the other man danced out of his reach. “Give that back.”

“Change of plans Ice. You’re rooming with Mitchell this week.” The glee was obvious in Slider’s voice.

“Like hell I am,” Ice bit out.

“Don’t think you can handle it, Kazansky?” Maverick teased, leaning against the railing of the porch.

Ice’s mouth opened, then closed again, having heard the challenge in Maverick’s voice. Everyone else took note of the unfolding drama. Wolfman whispered something to Hollywood, who nodded and the two discreetly shook hands.

“Fine,” Ice eventually ground out.

Slider tossed Ice the key to his and Maverick’s room before returning to help Goose with their stuff.

“He’s gonna give you so much shit for that,” Goose muttered, watching over his shoulder as Maverick and Ice stomped off to find their room.

Slider shrugged. “If my plan works, he’ll be thanking me pretty soon.”

~~~

Ice was going to kill Slider. He knew this with the same certainty that he knew the sun rose in the morning and that Maverick was going to be a pain in his ass all week, especially now they were sharing a room. Hadn’t he suggested pilots and RIOs room together to avoid this exact outcome?

Everyone assumed that Ice didn’t want to be around Maverick because he hated him, hated his flying, and hated the antics the shorter man got up to both in the air and on the ground. The reality, however, was the complete opposite. Ice liked Maverick. He liked him a lot but in an occupation like the Navy, one didn’t just have feelings for your coworkers. And one certainly didn’t act on it. Besides, Maverick spent every weekend at the O Club flirting with a new girl, never sparing Ice a second glance outside of training.

So it boiled down to this. Ice had feelings for Maverick. Maverick didn’t have feelings for Ice (not that he would ever ask). And Slider knew Ice liked Maverick and spent a lot of time trying to get them together. Time Ice would rather his RIO have spent studying but everyone had to have their hobbies he supposed. And this room-sharing ploy was just the latest in an increasingly embarrassing and obvious attempt to get the two of them together, and then what? The whole thing was ridiculous enough to make Ice laugh.

“Something funny I should know about?” Maverick asked as they stepped off the stairs, onto the second story, and down a hallway covered in cream wallpaper.

“Nope.”

Maverick looked back at Ice over the collar of his leather jacket. The patches covering it shifted under the soft light of the hall. Maverick’s eyebrows drew together in question but he didn’t push it, probably not wanting to push Ice’s thinly veiled annoyance over the edge.

“Well, I guess this is us.” Maverick stopped by a door at the end of the hall, letting his bag thump against his leg.

Ice made an unintelligible noise while Maverick unlocked the door and disappeared past it.

The inside of the room matched the rest of the house. Cream wallpaper, soft lighting, and more flowers than were probably necessary. In fact, every surface seemed to be covered in vases filled with a riot of color. Ice found it oddly charming but…

“Chipper’s not gonna be able to breathe all week,” Maverick said, almost as if he had read Ice’s thoughts.

Ice glanced at Maverick, already perched on one of the two small beds, a hesitant smile on his lips. An olive branch if ever there was one. Despite his anger at Slider and the forced proximity to Maverick, Ice felt his own answering smile rise to the surface.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Ice kept his gaze fixed on Maverick for a second longer before the shorter pilot coughed and started rummaging through his bag. Ice could swear there was a flush creeping the back of Maverick’s neck. The back of his neck that Ice so desperately wanted to kiss, to see what sounds Maverick would make when he did.

Nope, absolutely not. Ice could not be thinking about things like that. Not now, not here, not ever.

“Kazansky!” Maverick’s voice pulled him out of the beginnings of a downward spiral. “You ok? You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

Ice forced what he believed was a reassuring smile onto his face but judging by Maverick’s concerned look, it wasn’t that convincing. “I’m just tired from the car ride, that’s all. I'm going to take a shower and then call it a night.”

Maverick slowly nodded but Ice didn’t see, as he unceremoniously dumped his stuff on the remaining available bed and all but fled to the bathroom.

Ice took forever to shower and get ready for bed, hoping that by the time he went back into the room, Maverick would be asleep. Sure enough, the lights were out and Maverick had been reduced to a lump under the blankets when Ice went hunting for an old shirt and boxers to sleep in. The only light in the room came from the moon, just peeking over the treetops outside.

As quietly as possible, Ice slid into his own bed. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling and the shadows that danced across it. Maverick’s even breathing filled the room and before long, Ice was drifting off to sleep as well.

~~~

At some point in the early morning, a storm rolled in off the ocean. Ice cracked his eyes open, not sure what woke him. He lay facing the window and watched as thick, heavy fog obscured everything outside. The only thing he could still see were the flowers just outside the window but they had turned gray in the dim light, like the fog had leached all the color out of them. Thunder grumbled in the distance and the first pitter-patters of rain hit the window.

Something shifted behind Ice and he quickly turned his head, all traces of tiredness disappearing from his body. He was greeted by the sight of Maverick climbing under the blanket and huddling up next to him.

“What’re you doing?” Ice asked, the early hour making his thoughts sluggish.

Maverick’s eyes flicked to the window before settling on Ice’s face. His hair, normally semi-under control, was now messed up and wild. Ice briefly wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through it.

“I don’t like thunderstorms,” Maverick whispered. “Goose usually lets me sleep in his bed but that’s not really an option now, so I thought…”

Huddled under the blankets, Maverick looked younger, more vulnerable. Something broke in Ice’s heart to see him like this. To him, Maverick was fearless, constantly pushing the boundaries and damning the consequences. Ice couldn’t speak.

Taking his silence for something else, Maverick started to get up. Ice’s heart skipped a beat and he quickly reached out and grabbed Maverick’s hand.

“Wait.” His voice was rough with sleep and he couldn’t ignore the way Maverick’s eyes widened. “Stay.”

Slowly, Maverick sank back into bed and let Ice draw the blanket up over him. Ice had never let go of Maverick’s hand and when he noticed and started to draw away, Maverick intertwined their fingers. There was a question in his eyes as he gazed at Ice but a quick squeeze made it disappear.

Ice knew he was crossing the line into a place he would likely never return from but that didn’t seem to matter in the early morning when time stood still. Besides, he told himself, you’re just helping a friend out, nothing else.

Thunder roared again, closer this time, and Ice noticed the way Maverick’s shoulders were hunched. Without a word, he eased closer to Maverick and gently pulled the other pilot against his chest. Automatically, Maverick draped his arms around Ice’s waist and hugged him closer. He sighed gently, his breath tickling the side of Ice’s neck. Ice’s heart beat double time and he desperately hoped Maverick wouldn’t notice.

Outside, the rain had started to dump in earnest. Flashes of light accompanied the thunder that increased both in intensity and frequency. With every crack and boom, Maverick’s body tensed against Ice. He took to running his hands up and down Maverick’s back to calm him, whispering mindless reassurances in his ear. Maverick’s hands clung to Ice’s shirt and somehow, his legs became tangled with Ice’s.

Then, it felt like the heavens opened above them and a crack of thunder shook the house, rattling the windows, and startling the two of them beyond anything else that night. In the flash of light that accompanied it, Ice saw Maverick’s face twist. He needed a distraction and quickly.

Without thinking, Ice reached out a hand to cup Maverick’s cheek and closed the distance between them. His lips brushed against Maverick’s, lighting a fire under his skin. How often had he thought of doing this? How many times had he dreamed of tasting Maverick’s lips? A lot, but never like this.

Ice’s eyes flew open and he drew back quickly, coming to his senses a second too late and realizing how big of a mistake he had just made. An apology sprung to his lips but never left them when he saw Maverick’s expression.

Ice had come to recognize the guarded look Maverick wore every day in front of everyone. But as the two of them lay together, their faces inches apart, he no longer looked so distant. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, and his lips parted ever so slightly. Even in the dim light, Ice could see the blush that tinged his cheeks. There was something so open, so vulnerable about seeing him like this.

“Why’d you stop?” Maverick whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain.

Ice shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

The ghost of a smile graced Maverick’s lips. “Kiss me again.”

Ice starred at Maverick. Maverick rolled his eyes and tugged Ice towards him. When their lips brushed again, it was feverish. After a few seconds, Ice kissed him back. He felt Maverick’s hands move to grip his waist.

Maverick shifted his weight and Ice helped him so that he could sit up and straddle Ice’s hips. Their dog tags tangled as Maverick leaned down to kiss Ice again. His hands ghosted up Maverick’s thighs, earning a moan. Maverick retaliated by dropping his head to kiss along Ice’s neck. As gently as he could, Ice threaded his fingers into Maverick’s hair and tugged his head up so they were face to face.

“What are we doing?” Ice breathed, already missing the feeling of Maverick’s lips.

Something sparked in Maverick’s eyes. “I thought that was obvious. Or do you need me to spell it out for you, Kazansky?”

Ice tightened his grip on Maverick’s hair. The pilot flinched as the thunder roared again. The silence between them stretched on for a moment too long, breaking whatever spell they seemed to be under.

“Just tell me to go and I’ll leave. We’ll never talk about it again,” Maverick finally whispered, his eyes no longer meeting Ice’s.

“Mitchell, what’re you talking about?”

But Maverick was already pulling away. His weight disappeared from Ice’s lap. He stumbled off the bed and hurriedly grabbed his jacket from where he’d thrown it hours earlier.

“Mav.” Ice pulled himself out of bed. “Pete, please.”

Maverick froze at the use of his given name. Ice had never called him that before. Slowly he turned to face the taller man. Ice ran a hand through his hair as he tried to organize his thoughts with little success. Finally, he decided to state the obvious.

“I kissed you first, remember? If anyone has the right to want to stop this, it’s you,” Ice spoke softly, like he might spook Maverick into running.

Another boom of thunder sounded, further away this time. The storm was leaving but Maverick’s shoulders still tensed. Ice risked a step towards him.

“Maybe I don’t want to stop it,” Maverick finally said, his voice strained.

Ice took step after step until he was right in front of Maverick. He gently put a finger under Maverick’s chin and forced his gaze up. Ice was surprised to see unshed tears in his eyes. Maverick shivered at Ice’s touch.

“Maybe I don’t want you to either,” he whispered.

Maverick blinked and hope flickered in his eyes. Something released in Ice’s chest and the tension that he’d been holding onto since the day he met Maverick melted away. It wasn’t a complete confession, but it would have to do for now.

“Please come back to bed,” Ice murmured, running his fingers over Maverick’s jawline. “With me?”

Maverick nodded and wordlessly followed Ice to the small bed that had slowly become theirs. They had scarcely laid down again when Ice caught Maverick’s lips in a searing kiss and they didn’t talk for quite sometime after as they rode out the rest of the storm, together.

#tg #tgm #tgm fanfiction #top gun #top gun fanfiction #top gun 1986 #tgm fic #top gun maverick #icemav #iceman x maverick #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #iceman fanfiction #icemav fic #icemav fanfiction #icemav fluff

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dont-offend-the-bees · 3 months

Text

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter Two

Hello, beautiful people! Chapter two’s here!

Now, to be honest, I’ve been getting in my head about this one. The first chapter got so many compliments on its slow building suspense, and this chapter is more of a meandering slice of life/case fic, so I’m not gonna lie, slightly worried it won’t go down as well. So if you enjoy it, please do come tell me and put my mind at ease! It didn’t come together easy and I have been staring at it for WAY too long - but this week I’ve been self-isolating with covid so uh. A lot of writing time opened up.

WARNINGS: Annnngst. Death, loneliness, abandonment, touch starvation, sensory deprivation, along with morbid things like burials and bodies and bones are core themes of this fic. The ending will be happy eventually but we WILL have a sad ride to get there. So please be aware of that before reading.

Thank you everyone who read/commented on chapter one, hope you enjoy this instalment! Also thank you to justafandomfollower on tumblr who offered to beta this when I was getting paranoid - I ultimately did not take you up on the offer bc by the time I felt like this was ready to have other eyes on it I just wanted to post it and get it over with but I appreciate you!!! It was such a kind offer, unfortunately I physically can not edit this thing any more than I have or I will truly go insane 💛

Chapter two is 9.7k. Chapters 3/4 coming soon (hopefully). Also on Ao3 (need to be signed in to read)

"So. I kinda feel like I'm gonna wish I hadn't asked," said Crystal, arms crossed and feet shuffling. "But... screw it. What's in the box?"

Charles visibly winced. He stepped into the room behind the trunk he was helping to manoeuvre through the mirror, and staggered on entry. Distracted, no doubt, by the effort of searching for a way to answer her query without causing distress. "It's, uh. Well. It's..."

Edwin, having no such compunctions about stating the facts, set down his end of the trunk with haste. "Me," he said, putting a good arm's length between himself and the awful thing. It had already begun ramping up towards another outburst in the short time the container had been closed. Edwin could feel that insistent, vexatious drone reestablishing itself. Could feel the temperature in the office drop — for him, at least. Crystal seemed unaffected. Definitely spectral, then. "I'm in there. What's left of me, at any rate."

Under different, less harrowing conditions, he might've enjoyed the look on Crystal's face. A slow, dawning transformation from confusion to slack-jawed horror. It wasn't altogether unlike the face she'd made when they'd returned from the case of the disappearing chin with their reward: a mason jar full of assorted teeth.

But the circumstances were far from jovial. Engaging in some good-natured needling of his colleague was quite far down his list of priorities. The comfort of such a ritual — and even the comfort of the sanctuary in which they now stood — lay sullied by the aura leeching from the trunk.

Edwin found himself feeling... unappreciative, of the hallowed space. Of their shared artefacts and ephemera, of the four walls that had housed their agency from its inception. It all seemed so far out of his purview, at present. There was a numbness settling upon him. Different to the ever-present sensory deprivation of the ghostly condition. Different, and worse. His usual lack of feeling was just that; a lack. An absence of heat, of touch, of smell and taste and bodily sensation. It was a simple, neutral nothing. This was a something. This was the presence of an absence. For the first time in decades, as pins and needles bloomed about his person, he was granted a physical symptom of his own lack of physicality. It was troubling. He could feel; but only just enough to be reminded that he couldn't.

His hands twitched, and he tugged his gloves off in jerky motions, finger by finger. As he did so, he tripped headlong into a battle of wills; staring down the sealed trunk with bated breath. The sound of Charles' voice as he explained and Crystal's as she quizzed, they all seemed to fade to an insignificant hum behind that wheedling drone. It was like a whisper into the ear. So quiet and yet by sheer proximity, sheer intimacy it drove all other noise to the background. Drawing his ears, his eyes, his mind to the enclosed space. Urging him to step close, to open the lid. To look, look, look at me...

"Edwin? Edwin, you listening?"

"Hm?" He had not, in fact, been listening. Abashed, he turned his attention to Charles. "Yes. That is, ah... might you repeat that?"

Charles was watching him with open concern, eyes wide and a tension in his jaw. His gaze kept darting between Edwin and the trunk as if he could see the pull between them, following it like a string. "What are we gonna do?" he asked, voice pitched low. "With... with them?"

Edwin hadn't the faintest notion.

Still, he'd insisted on not involving the police, and this was his problem in most every possible sense. So he cleared his throat, and discarded his coat and gloves on the desk. "Well. Clearly, the matter merits further investigation. We are still on a case, after all." He strode over to the bookshelf and perused its titles, fingers dancing across the spines. "The school should be safe, now that the cause has been removed from the grounds."

"Bad new for our office, though," muttered Charles.

"Okay, have I like, missed something?" Crystal cut in, throwing her hands in the air. "This doesn't make any sense! I’m sorry, Edwin, but if these... if these are your bones —" her voice dropped, briefly, into a hiss. As if the harsh truth would soften if spoken in hushed tones. "Then how can they be doing this? They can't be haunted, right? How can they be haunted, when your spirit is —?"

"Otherwise engaged? I've no idea." He riffled through the pages of a volume on hexes, finding nothing of relevance at a glance. He'd already known that would be the case, but the need for familiar motions was... acute. "It's really quite fascinating," he said, in an attempt at airy detachment. He wasn't altogether convinced he pulled it off.

"Edwin," said Charles — much closer to Edwin's ear than he'd expected in his distraction. Edwin jumped a tad, wrong-footed. He cursed the impulse at once when Charles pulled away, apology writ large across his face. "Maybe, um," Charles forged on, hands held where Edwin could see them. "Maybe you should let us handle this one, mate. You're a bit... close to the situation. Yeah?"

Edwin offered a tight, strained smile. "Thank you, Charles. But I'm quite alright. And I'll be even better when this case is closed, so we'd best hop to it. Besides, chances are strong that this holds very little relevance to me, at all. It's possible the remains have been infested or claimed by another paranormal entity. This could all be unravelled with something as simple as a counter-jinx. Now, have you that grimoire — the one we acquired in ninety seven? I think it might be in your bag."

Charles sighed, and clapped Edwin on the shoulder. "I'll have a look."

He sloped off in search, and Edwin busied himself loading books onto his arm; any that could be even tangentially related. Educational texts, diaries, even certain storybooks could point them in the right direction. It was possible they were looking into something unlike anything they'd seen before. They may need to glean insights from unorthodox sources.

He'd amassed a stack of about a baker's dozen by the time Crystal replaced Charles at his shoulder.

"Gimme some of those," she said, hands palm up and fingers flapping.

"They're very dense volumes," said Edwin, barely sparing her a glance. "Spanning several languages, many of them dead —"

"Then gimme the ones in English. We all need to work together." Her hands did not lower, and nor did her gaze; it remained fixed upon him in a brazen manner that dared him to argue. Her eyes were hard, but her voice softened somewhat when she said: "Let's wrap this one up fast, okay?"

He sighed, and accepted defeat. He begrudgingly handed her his (replica, thoroughly de-hexed) edition of The Boneturner's Tale. "Thank you," he uttered.

"This the one, Edwin?" Charles called.

Edwin glanced over and found Charles with one arm in his bag of tricks, the other holding aloft a tattered book. "That's it exactly, Charles. Flick through and find the section on malicious enchantments — bones are a common component in numerous spells. See if you find any phenomena corresponding to what we've experienced tonight."

Books in hand, Edwin picked his way across the office, nigh on hugging the wall — giving the trunk a very wide berth. "Likewise to you, Crystal," he instructed. "We're looking for any mention of cold snaps, telepathic communication, or compulsions in relation to bones or remains. We need to ascertain what we're up against and, ideally, how to stop it. I daresay we have a long night ahead of us."

Crystal groaned, sinking like a stone into the sofa. "I'm gonna need some coffee or something," she muttered, tucking her feet under herself as she opened her book.

"Maybe we can sweet talk Charlie into putting the kettle on," Charles teased.

Crystal snorted. "Yeah, great. She'd like that almost as much as you calling her Charlie."

Edwin loosened his bowtie as he claimed his desk chair. He felt constricted, all of the sudden. As if the new not-awareness was expanding into a new cognizance of the clothing on his person. He looked, disquieted, at the box; and though it simply wasn't possible, he could feel it looking back. It was certainly talking back; on and on, that never ending litany, uttered without breath or pause, a rolling patter of desperation. Look at me look at me look at me please —

He slammed the first book down, decisively, and flipped to the index. "Onwards and upwards..."

Charles picked up another book from the stack — one that made him go a touch cross-eyed upon opening — and perched on the desk at Edwin's elbow. "Don't worry, mate," he said, delivering a companionable knock to Edwin's arm with his knee. "With all three of us on the job, the Dead Boy Detectives at full force? We'll have this sussed out by morning!"

Two Days Later…

"How's it feel, now?" asked Crystal, pen poised over Edwin's notebook.

Edwin, with gritted teeth, wrestled his jumbled thoughts into some kind of submission. It was so hard just to think — and it got harder with every step down the corridor. "Six," he bit out, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath. He could scarcely hear himself over the racket in his head. "Definitely six."

Crystal jotted it down. Edwin wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of adding her chicken scratch handwriting to his meticulous notes. But the way these tests had his own hands shaking, his writing was no better at present.

"It's getting worse," Crystal muttered, brow furrowed as she scanned the page.

"Obviously it's getting worse," he snapped. "I think we've quite thoroughly established that, Crystal."

"Oi! Leave off," Charles cut in, stern. He was wearing the same stormy expression that had followed Edwin on his slow, arduous odyssey down the hall. "She's only trying to help."

Edwin sighed, and dragged his hands down his face. Perhaps he could up and disappear into them. "Yes. Yes, I know." He risked a peek over his fingers, down at Charles. They were shoulder to shoulder, two abreast in the narrow corridor. But while Edwin was upright (just about) and forward-facing, Charles was hunkered down and reversed. A necessity while he unspooled the tape measure along the floor at the pace of Edwin's cautious feet. "Charles, how far?"

Charles checked the tape measure against the toe of Edwin's boot. "'Bout thirty feet."

"About?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, you bloody pedant! Thirty point... three."

"It's not pedantic to record our findings with accuracy," Edwin grumbled. "Write it down, Crystal. Please," he appended, with haste.

She did so — but she frowned at Edwin like he was the one being tedious and unreasonable. "Is this really the best thing we could be doing?" she asked.

"Our research has been a dead end. We need more information to build off. We need to establish rules, parameters." He straightened up from his resting position, and adjusted his rumpled waistcoat. A vain attempt, with the garment unbuttoned and hanging limp from his torso. "This haunting must have a boundary to its area of affect. At the school I didn't feel it at all until the second floor. It'll get worse, and then better when I'm out of its range."

"Or," Crystal contended. "You triggered a trap when you opened the box, and now it's not gonna let you go."

Edwin scowled. "If that proves to be the case, then I shall gladly add it to the information we hold. But logic and due process dictates we gather every available piece of evidence before leaping to conclusions. Now, if there are no more objections, let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You should take a breather, mate," said Charles, eyeing Edwin with disarming intensity. "You're looking a bit peaky."

Edwin sniffed, steepling his fingers. "We've had two fruitless days already," he said. "I'll not tolerate a third."

He took a bold stride before either could respond — and hissed through his teeth as the clamour in his head roared to the fore. It was rather like radio static, scratching upon his frayed nerves. And that was to say nothing of the cold, which was creeping back and making him regret stripping so many layers.

It was like there was a thread, pulled taut between him and the object in the office. With every step he stretched it tighter, felt the pressure more keenly. With every inch of distance, it pulled back harder — like one of Charles' rubber band slingshots. He wondered at what point it might snap him back by force.

He exhaled, and watched the phantom breath condense in the air before him. He channelled the discomfort and pain into his hands; clenching the fingers, grinding his fists.

"You alright?" asked Charles, eyes narrowed.

"Quite," Edwin rasped. A graceless recovery; and it only worsened on his next step, when he was unable to suppress a pathetic whimper.

“Sounds legit," Crystal muttered.

The thread was pulling tighter, tighter, the cry more insistent. Begging him to turn around, to come back — come and see, come and see, come and see...

"Mate..." said Charles, a note of warning in his voice.

Edwin took a breath; and then another step. And the thread drew tight, white hot and razor sharp; so sharp as to slice through his very mind like a wire through soft clay.

He gasped, his knee buckled. His ankle disappeared into the floor as he lost his concentration on the material plain.

Crystal winced. "How'd that one feel?"

He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. "Six... and a half."

"Right," said Charles, matter-of-factly. "That's enough of that."

He hit the retract button on the tape measure, sending it spiralling back into its casing.

"Charles, really —" Edwin protested.

"No! I'm not having it!" said Charles, straightening from his crouch and taking Edwin by the shoulders. "Not gonna stand here and watch you hurt yourself for some stupid bloody experiment. C'mon." He spun Edwin around and began near-frogmarching him towards the office. "Back you go."

"Charles," Edwin snapped, struggling against the undignified manhandling. But when he really did feel measurably better with every step, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm to fight. "I survived seventy years in hell. I think I know my own limits!"

Crystal snorted, falling into step behind Charles. "Kinda sounds like the reason you don't know your limits, honestly."

"Yeah! Yeah, exactly," Charles agreed, emboldened. "You've been ripped to shreds in that place. God only knows what else you'll put yourself through. If this is a six —"

"And a half," Edwin corrected, miffed.

"If this is a six and a half," said Charles. "I don't even wanna know what a ten is."

The racket in Edwin's head subsided somewhat — and flustered ire filled the void it left behind. He brushed off Charles' hands and turned on him, quick as a whip, burning with indignation. "I do not need to be mollycoddled. Perhaps, Charles, for once, you might take a rest from your ceaseless fixation on safeguarding my feelings in order to actually solve this case!"

He regretted the words before they were even out. But his pride was wounded, and so he turned on his heel and stalked away; before he could see the matching hurt on Charles' face.

Some things, like cursed skeletons in trunks, were liable to drive a man to madness if looked at directly.

The office, of course, was just about the last place Edwin wanted to be. But with the invisible bond tethering him, it was the only place to which he could retreat in solitude. Almost solitude, that is. It was hard to feel truly alone, with that thing so close at hand. With the way it seemed to burrow into his consciousness, whisper its wretched pleas in his mind. Look at me look at me see me please see me —

Edwin pounced upon the bottom desk drawer — the 'stuff drawer', as Charles so descriptively dubbed it — and rummaged around. He uttered a soft 'a-ha!' of triumph when his fingers closed around a large, weathered brass padlock. Another donation from a satisfied customer. It was enchanted to open only for the person who'd closed it.

He hastened over and, with shaking hands, threaded the shackle of the padlock through the staple of the trunk. He felt the answering hum of the enchantment flaring to life as the mechanism clicked shut. Spells, at least, were tangible even to a ghost.

The pleading magnified, sharp and anguished. Then it subsided instead into a quiet hum of dismay, and a further drop in the temperature of the room.

Edwin collapsed like a de-strung puppet, sagging down upon the trunk and breathing raggedly. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, hands on his head, head practically between his knees. He sat, and breathed, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

It wasn't Charles who found him in such a state, but Crystal. A fact he was at once disappointed and relieved by. He didn't care for Crystal seeing him this way, depleted and vulnerable. But considering his last words to Charles, he had no immediate desire to be confronted by him, either.

"Edwin," Crystal greeted, in that uncharacteristically formal manner that she reserved for him alone. Usually, she applied it in jest, as a running joke. Rarely had he seen her deliver it with a face so grave.

He collected himself on a slow inhale, straightening his back. "Crystal," he answered in kind, standing and marching to his desk.

She followed. He was careful not to look at her, but her platform boots on the old wood floors telegraphed her location. "So," she said, coming to halt on the opposite side of the desk. "You ready to apologise to Charles, yet?"

Her confrontational manner rankled, made it all too tempting to deny any wrongdoing. But try as he might, he couldn't deny the evidence.

He sighed, folding into his desk chair and massaging his temples. "Soon." He risked a glance, found her looking at him not with anger, but with concern. It unsettled him. Crystal's anger, he knew what to do with. Generally they sniped back and forth until the tension broke or someone stormed off. Anger and pettiness was their shared dialect. He wasn't so well-versed in the vocabulary of her earnest worriment. "I am... sorry that you had to see that," he offered.

"I've, like, never seen you like that," she said, sitting down in the chair generally reserved for clientele. She was watching him like she was studying him, reading him. He half expected her eyes to go white as she went in for a closer look. "You guys bicker all the time, but. I've never seen you actually mad at him." She leaned back and crossed her arms. "He's pretty cut up about it."

Guilt curdled in Edwin's stomach. "Is he...?"

"He's okay. I left him bugging Jenny with his angst." She shrugged. "She kind of always knows exactly what blunt shit to say to snap you out of it."

"Ah. Yes, good. Very good."

She watched him. She had a very stubborn stare. It had served them well on occasion, usually in the acquisition of information from a tight-lipped witness.

He fidgeted, tugging at his shirtsleeve. "It was... unkind. What I said to him. Not to mention unfair. Disingenuous of me, to complain about his protective tendencies. Considering how greatly I've come to... value them."

She raised her eyebrow.

He returned the gesture. "... Depend upon them, even."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was pretty messed up, what you said to him." She leaned on the desk, arms folded. "But... I guess you're pretty messed up right now, huh?"

Edwin scowled. "That is... one way to put it."

"What's with the scratching?"

"Hm?"

"The scratching." She pointed at his hand, and he looked to find he'd abandoned his sleeve in favour of itching the wrist beneath. "That's not one of your things, your twitchy, gesture-y... things. You only started doing that when..."

Her eyes darted over her shoulder. "When you brought them in."

Edwin didn't follow her glance. He was trying not to look at the object in question any more than he had to. "I hadn't noticed."

She tilted her head as she regarded him. "You can still feel them, can't you?"

"Truthfully, I'm not altogether sure what it is I feel," he said. "Only that I am feeling considerably more than usual."

Crystal toyed with the sleeve of her ratty cardigan. "Must be super weird. Not being able to feel. I never really asked, but like... how do you even, like, ground yourself? How do you get a sense of where you are in the world?"

Edwin hummed, considering. "There is... an awareness, I suppose. Broad peripherals, so to speak. In lieu of other sensory input, one becomes quite keen of eye and ear. Sometimes that translates into the illusion of pressure from objects we know are at hand."

"Is there anything you can feel?"

"Pain," he said, bitterly. "Only from particular sources, I grant you. But yes, we're quite familiar with pain."

"That sucks."

He huffed. "It does, indeed, suck."

"There's seriously nothing else?"

He hesitated. "Well. I suppose, in a manner or speaking, we can feel ourselves."

She leaned in closer, inquisitive. Edwin didn't much care to dwell on this subject — but he did wish to encourage her scientific curiosity. She was a detective in training, after all.

With a beleaguered sigh, he propped his elbow neatly upon the desk, hand pointed to the ceiling. He folded his sleeve down, neatly, exposing his wrist. Pale skin, sparse hair, blue veins that remained only as a faded shadow of the blood that once pumped through them. With an attention-summoning flourish he lifted his other hand. Slowly, he scratched his fingernail down the length of his wrist. He felt the scraping drag of his nail edge against skin and hair — at least he could imagine he did, quite vividly.

"I theorise that it's once again a matter of awareness. Amplified, in this case. Awareness from visual input; plus that from conscious and subconscious intention and expectation; equals sensation. Or at least a convincing enough replica." He spread his fingers and swept his palms out, embellishing the point. "I know that I intend to scratch my arm; ergo, my arm is scratched."

"Just your intentions?" she asked, gaze turning from his arm to his eyes. "Not other ghosts? You guys can't feel each other?"

He gave a sad smile, dropping his hands to the table. "No. No, we're not mind readers. Without being attuned to the intention, even other ghosts may as well be far apart on the mortal plain."

"Guess I always figured you guys must feel something," she said, rubbing her arms. Despite the gloomy subject, she managed a small, teasing smile. "With the way Charles is always hanging off of you."

He smiled, ducking his head. "Well. There is something to be said for the comfort of a gesture. Wishful thinking can go a long way, in our circumstances." He watched her hands, wondering what the texture under her palms felt like. It looked like a soft cardigan, well-worn, well-loved. His own hands clenched into fists on the desk. "After decades of the same, one learns to take what one can get."

She puffed out her cheeks. "Well that's. Depressing."

"Yes, quite."

"But you're feeling stuff now. Aren't you?"

"Yes." His jaw twitched. "Unfortunately, not a pleasant experience, in this case."

"Look." She clasped her hands on the desk, leaning towards him like a co-conspirator. "I get wanting to figure this out, I really do." She lowered her voice, as if they were sharing a secret. "I know how much it royally sucks to have a voice in your head you can't shake."

Edwin flinched, guiltily. The comparison hadn't even occurred to him.

"And I'm gonna help you," she continue, eyebrow twitching like she knew what he'd just thought and was choosing to move past it. "But let's... let's take the pain experiments down a notch, okay? Because if you keep hurting yourself, Charles is gonna give me the sad puppy eyes and I can not deal."

Edwin gave a soft snort of laughter. "He is rather compelling, isn't he?" Fondness crept into his tone, unbidden.

She seemed to pick up on that unspoken thought, also, her lips pursing against a smile. "Yeah, yeah, he's adorable. So. Back to work? No more weird, fucked up self-torture shit?"

Edwin may be stubborn, but he knew when he was outvoted. He sighed. "Very well."

"Cool. let's do it." She cut off his agreement with a raised finger. "After you apologise to Charles."

He raised his eyebrow. "You're quite the canny negotiator. Have you been practising?"

"We got a deal?"

Edwin sniffed, haughtily rolling his sleeve back into place. "Well. As it happens, I was about to do that, anyway."

She smirked. "Sure you were."

Of course, Edwin was not currently able to make the short trip to Jenny's new establishment, where Charles was offloading his woes. He could've tried, but he imagined the wilful endangerment of himself would undermine his apology for... well, for wilful endangerment of himself. So he sent Crystal with word to Charles, and waited.

Edwin found waiting around to be a fretful exercise at the best of times. The presence of the object only made matters worse.

He paced along the breadth of the wide window, listening to the drizzling London rain. Usually, he found the sound of the droplets on the window pane calming. It was marred on this occasion by the more insistent sound in the back of his mind, buzzing for attention. The temperature in the room dropped with each lap of the window; every time he turned on his heel to retrace his steps, and refused to acknowledge the trunk in the slightest. He wanted to don a coat or jumper, but refused to give it the satisfaction.

Soon, another sound broke through the drone. Footsteps down the corridor. The door opened, and in walked Charles.

"Alright?" he greeted. He was eyeing Edwin with wariness — but, thankfully, not with distress.

Edwin let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding. He'd been afraid... well. He often feared that one of these days, he'd finally exhaust the bottomless well of Charles' patience, his kindness. "Charles," he breathed, steepling his fingers to keep them from twitching at his sides. "I owe you an apology."

Charles' tense shoulders dropped, infinitesimally; like a weight had fallen from them. His entire countenance softened in turn, and he smiled at Edwin with fondness as he closed the door behind him.

"Already forgotten, mate." He said. He advanced in long, even strides across the office, sparing a vigilant glance for the trunk on his way. He rounded the desk to stand before Edwin, planting both hands upon his shoulders and addressing him directly. "You're pretty stressed out, yeah?"

Edwin exhaled on a breathy laugh. "To say the least." He looked down at Charles' hand, the thumb tracing circles on Edwin's shirt. Perhaps it was a result of his discussion with Crystal, but he was above-averagely aware of the absence of weight, of feeling. Of warmth. He swallowed, tightly, and placed his hand over Charles'. "But I should not have taken it out on you."

"No. You bloody shouldn't've." He gave a self-effacing little grin. "Lucky for you, I'm a hardy sort of bloke."

What a ridiculous boy he was. A steadfast, self-sacrificing fool, always to quick to forgive Edwin his trespasses. Affection bloomed in Edwin's chest, bright and effervescent. The cold, the noise; for an instant it all melted like ice dropped into hot tea.

Charles' grip tightened; Edwin saw him squeeze his arms."But seriously, yeah?" said Charles, sober. "No more torturing yourself for this bloody case. Else I'll have Jenny come up here, give you a right telling off. And she's proper good at it."

Edwin smiled down at his feet. "Well, then. I suppose I have no choice."

"Too right."

Charles hesitated, gaze raking Edwin's face, taking him in from his eyes to his lips. Edwin cocked his head, questioning; if only to mask how tender and raw he felt under the close, gentle scrutiny.

Wordlessly, Charles pulled him close. He wrapped his arms tight around Edwin's shoulders in a fierce embrace; slotting them together like two puzzle pieces.

"Thank you," he mumbled into Edwin's neck.

Edwin's breath hitched, as it so often did when Charles held him so. No matter how common the occurrence, or how absent the physical sensation. The very gesture was bound to leave him gently thunderstruck nonetheless.

He returned it in his usual manner; with the stiff, cautious awkwardness of inexperience. Grateful, in some small, bitter way, that Charles couldn't possibly feel it. Couldn't bear witness to his bungling attempts at expressing affection.

Though he'd accept that humiliation. He'd take it with gratitude. If only for the chance to feel the soft gust of Charles' breath against his throat; to know the warm weight of him in his arms.

Soon, far too soon, Charles sniffed and pulled back. His hands never left Edwin's shoulders as he regarded him with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. A small, mischievous smile tugged his lips. "So," he said. "Back to the books, then?"

Edwin sighed. "Too the books," he agreed, without enthusiasm.

Charles chuckled. "How's this for a role reversal, eh?"

One Day Later…

Despite the obstructions of Charles and his mother-henning, they had made some progress in their studies. Edwin's notes on the object and its effects read thus:

Physical properties of the object (as observed by Charles): Faint, blue glow. Slight visible movement — agitation, vibration. No visible runes or enchantments. All bones assumed to be present and correct — Charles unwilling to 'rummage'.

Sense of cold: spectral only, no material plain adjustment. Affects Charles, not Crystal. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

Phantom sensations: a slight grounding effect, connection to material plain. Irritation, itches, pins and needles. Affects neither Crystal nor Charles. Intensifies in close proximity.

Whispering/speech: inaudible to Charles, Crystal. Sometimes unintelligible. Notable phrases: look at me, see me, don't leave me. Other sounds include a slight rattling, at times increasing in frequency to a buzz. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

It was hardly a treasure trove of information to work from, and he did manage to persuade Charles that further experimentation was needed. But he was under quite strict orders to withdraw should the pain top a four on his 'bloody mental' pain scale. A promise he kept to the letter.

Headaches, as it happened, were quite possible to achieve at a three or lower.

"I'm a ghost," Edwin complained, from his repose on the sofa. "I cannot get headaches."

"Well, then you're a scientific marvel, aren't you?" said Charles, patting his shoulder. He was perched on the edge of the couch, looking down at Edwin with pity. "Looks like you can get 'em just fine, mate. What you can't get is any paracetamol." He winced. "Bit rough, that."

Edwin sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I miss hemp."

"You what?"

"Indian hemp — you've never tried it? My nanny used to give me a pinch when I was feeling out of sorts," said Edwin, nostalgic. "Always used to perk me up."

Charles laughed. "Fuck me. You telling me you was toddling round, stoned off your tits at, what, six?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — wishing he hadn't when the motion exacerbated the pain in his skull. "I hardly overindulged."

"Perish the thought," teased Charles, in his tiresome facsimile of Edwin's cadence.

Edwin swatted at his arm, half-heartedly. Charles dodged it with laughter and ease, standing up and cracking his knuckles.

"Now, I can't offer you any drugs, but," said Charles, circling round to the end of the sofa. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together briskly. "I can do this."

Edwin frowned. "What are you doing?"

Charles, now standing behind Edwin's head, leaned over it to grin down at him and wiggle his fingers. "My mum used to do this," he said. "Head massage. You'll like it."

Edwin regarded him, unimpressed. "Charles, I cannot feel."

"C'mon — give it a go!"

He remained unconvinced. But, as he'd told Crystal only yesterday, a comforting gesture wasn't to be sniffed at. "Very well," he said. "Carry on."

"Brills. Here we go, then!"

Charles, showed Edwin his hands and made sure he was watching them. Then he pulled them back to just above Edwin's eyebrows and, presumably, began to rub the skin there. Edwin couldn't have said for sure that's what was happening, of course. Charles could be drawing lewd images on his forehead, for all he knew. But the look of concentration was there on Charles' face and so perhaps, if Edwin closed his eyes and used his imagination, he could fill in the gaps. He could imagine the motions of Charles' confident fingers. Picture them against his own skin, carefully working out the tension stroke by stroke.

Charles always seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands. How to swing a bat, how to catch a ball, how to hold Edwin together. Even when he demonstrably did not know what he was doing at all, his moments of utmost impulsivity. Even then, he committed to the act with such decisiveness, such single-minded intent. It boggled Edwin's mind to think that he could have such confidence of bearing, and yet such limited material impact on the world. Charles Rowland's hands could have shaped the universe, were they as substantial in matter as they were in resolve. He'd already managed miracles with nought but air and ectoplasm.

Edwin’s belief, it seemed, was well-founded. Despite his misgivings, he did feel the ache receding. He sighed. Even such a minor relief, after days of such heightened pressure, had him all but melting under Charles' hands. He indulged in a slow, languid stretch of his body, his back arching off the sofa as a soft groan escape him.

"Alright down there?"

Charles sounded ever so slightly out of breath. Edwin smiled. Trust him to put all his effort and then some into a gesture that Edwin couldn't even fully appreciate. "Yes. That's wonderful, Charles." His eyes fluttered open and he craned his head back against the armrest, catching Charles' eye. "Thank you."

He was surprised to find Charles looking even more breathless than he sounded. His mouth hung slightly open, and his hooded eyes appeared to be a touch glazed.

Charles blinked back into startled clarity when he felt Edwin's eyes upon him, and snapped his mouth shut. He pulled his hands away to give Edwin a brusque, chummy pat on the shoulders.

"Anytime, mate," he mumbled. "Anytime."

Three More Days Later…

The case dragged on in its plodding, unsatisfactory manner. Edwin felt himself clinging to his composure by the skin of his teeth. He was a raw, frazzled nerve, stripped to his shirtsleeves and the barest trappings of dignity. For nearly a week he'd been enduring this ceaseless psychic bombardment with precious little to show for it, and his patience had worn thin.

So when Crystal barrelled into the room, slamming the door against the wall in her haste, he nearly bit her head off.

"Do you mind?" Edwin exclaimed, smacking his hand down on the desk and sending a small ream of papers flying.

Over on the sofa, Charles snorted into alertness. Though he couldn't doze off, he'd been staring at the same page in his book for so long that he appeared to have drifted into a semi-conscious state. Edwin hadn't had the heart to rouse him — they were hardly making progress either way.

"We're idiots," was Crystal's response to Edwin's rhetorical outburst. She looked about as stretched thin as Edwin felt; hair pulled back into a tangled, frizzy knot atop her head, shadows under her eyes. She'd been wearing the same scruffy jeans and faded t-shirt for at least forty-eight hours. She planted both hands on the desk and leaned in close, staring Edwin down. "The mirror."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The mirror." She threw her hands up. "We never tried the mirror!"

"Never tried what with the mirror?" asked Charles, groggy, sitting up and dragging a hand down his face.

"We never tried sending Edwin through it," she explained, slowly, as if they were small children. "All that time we spent fucking around, trying to see how far he could walk away — did any of us ever fucking stop and think if he could teleport away?"

Silence. Deafening silence. Edwin and Charles shared a look.

"Bloody hell," Charles muttered. "Maybe we are stupid."

Edwin didn't reply. He had more pressing matters to attend to; he near vaulted the desk in his haste to get around it.

He marched with single-minded purpose towards the large mirror they'd yet to relegate back to storage. If it meant passing closer to the trunk than he had in days, he paid it no mind. Though the object in question noticed, and he felt its psychic fingers clawing at his ankles as he passed. Its whispers followed him like a curse; don't don't don't —

"Woah — alright, mate, let's take it easy, yeah?" Charles rushed out, springing up from the sofa and darting to Edwin's side. His hand circled Edwin's wrist, a comfort and a restraint all in one. "Think it through — you know what happens when you don't look before you leap, yeah?"

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled, hands clenching into fists. Charles was right, of course. But with potential freedom so close at hand he scarcely wished to admit it. "I need a location," he said. "A target."

"Jenny's shop," Crystal quickly suggested, coming to stand at his other shoulder. "It's safe, and she knows you guys. It's only her working there today."

"Perfect." Edwin held his hand out to the mirror and visualised Jenny's new London workplace. And very old butcher's shop, established not long after Edwin's time. Owned in the modern era by the founder's great, great grandaughter, and her charming civil partner. Despite the transatlantic culture shock, Jenny had rather fallen among thieves. In his mind's eye, Edwin pictured the rustic mirror on the wall, nailed to sturdy old brickwork. Mounted between taxidermy animal heads and antique butchery implements. "I have it," he said, and opened his eyes to find that answering ripple on the mirror's surface.

Charles' grip tightened when Edwin tried to take a step. "You sure about this?" he asked. "You said that mirror hop right before you found 'em felt off..."

That was true enough. But an unpleasant experience was well worth the modicum of freedom it might afford him. "I'll be quite alright, Charles. We know that I can still go through mirrors, it’s how we got the box here, after all. It’s a question of whether it will let me go without it," he said, breaking Charles' hold on his wrist to take him by the hand instead. "But I must try."

Charles' eyes were wide with worry, but he nodded. Though his fretting over Edwin won above all else, this case had been arduous on him, as well. They all needed a breakthrough. "Alright," he said. "But give us a second."

Edwin watched, bemused, as Charles dashed for his bag and rummaged inside. He resurfaced with a large coil of rope. Charles was a blur of frenetic motion as he fastened it in a sturdy sailor's knot around the leg of the desk (he’d picked up some useful skills during the case of the drowned diver).

"Hold this, yeah, Crystal?" said Charles, dumping the slack length of remaining rope into her arms.

"Smart," she said — though a confused frown followed. "Wait, me hold it? What are you doing?"

"Going with him. You feel two tugs, drag us out, yeah?"

"Charles," said Edwin. "I've mirror hopped a thousand times. There's no need for you to —"

"What's the matter?" said Charles, rejoining Edwin and tying the rope around his waist. Despite the nervous tension suffusing him from head to toe, he still found the wherewithal to give a cheeky grin. "Can't wait to get rid of me?"

Edwin's heart, if the spectre of such a thing still existed within him, skipped a beat. "Quite the opposite," he said, gesturing for Charles to hand him the remaining slack when he was finished. "But someone has to spare a thought for your safety — and I think we all know it won't be you."

"In't that what I've been telling you?" Charles teased, lifting his arms for Edwin to loop the rope around him.

Edwin rolled his eyes, and secured the lifeline with a sharp tug. "Evidently, we're a terrible influence on one another."

"Guys," Crystal interjected.

They both whipped their heads round to look at her.

"I have been awake," she said, slow and just a touch dangerous. "For fifty two hours."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. Quite right. Time is of the essence." He met Charles' eyes. "Are you ready?"

Charles nodded, slipping his hand into Edwin's once more; a more tangible tether than any rope or chain. "Ready."

"Good luck," said Crystal, bracing her hands on the rope and her feet on the floor. "Don't die. Again."

"Reckon we've been here before," Charles joked. "You tryna make that a running gag?"

She grimaced. "Well, maybe if you two quit risking your afterlives so much, I'd have to say it less."

"Yeah, alright, fair cop." Charles squeezed Edwin's hand. "On three, then?"

Despite his trepidation, Edwin smiled. "We've been here before, too," he said. "Yes. On three. One..."

Charles gripped him tight and pressed up against him, shoulder to incorporeal shoulder. "Two..."

The whispering filled Edwin's skull, dense and cloying. Don't leave don't leave don't —

He looked once more to Charles' face; it was all the courage he required.

"Three!"

The space behind the mirror welcomed them, as it had welcomed Edwin back at St. Hilarion's. That is to say, it did not welcome them in the slightest. A journey which should have taken an instant seemed to stretch behind and before them, ad infinitum; thick as syrup, fast as a locomotive. They tumbled headlong through the roiling vortex of here, there and everywhere. Had they the ability to bruise, Edwin was sure their snapping lifeline would have whipped welts across their ankles. He fell endlessly, uncontrollably.

But it was a significant improvement on the last time. Now, at least, he had Charles to fall alongside. His one constant companion besides that damnable whispering — though as they fell it grew fainter, fainter, fainter...

Then they were through to the other side, expelled once more into the world they knew — collapsing together in an ungainly pile of limbs. And Edwin gasped, violently, as that thread which tethered him to the voice snapped behind him.

"Ugh, fuck, I'm gonna be sick," Charles groaned. It was an empty threat; he was by Edwin's side in moments, clear-voiced and intent. "Edwin?" His warm brown eyes swam into view. His hand — the one not currently tangled in Edwin's fingers — cupped Edwin's face. "Edwin, you alright?"

Edwin laughed, breathless and elated, his hand covering Charles'. "It stopped," he breathed. "Charles, it stopped, I can't hear it!"

Charles' grin could've lit the night. "Yes, Edwin!" he crowed, bumping their foreheads together. "You did it, mate — you're out!"

Edwin felt boundless, in that moment. Unrestrained. Unashamed of holding Charles close and sharing his laughter, sharing his breath. For the first time in what felt like a small lifetime, it was all gone. The cold, the itch, the whispers and pleas. All of it lay somewhere else, out of sight and mind, and for a moment he could simply be. Be with his best friend, the love of his life, with his smile and his laughter; no distractions, no compulsions. So surrounded by Charles and nothing but Charles that he could almost imagine how his fingers felt upon his face. How his laughter felt upon his lips...

"What. The fuck?"

And just like that, the moment shattered.

They both startled, landing soundly on their backsides on the butcher shop floor. They looked up to find Jenny staring at them, bug-eyed and incredulous, from behind the meat counter.

"Um. Hullo, Jenny," Charles greeted her, with a sheepish grin. He threw in a wave for good measure — forgetting that his right hand was currently engaged in holding Edwin's. Edwin had never been an unwilling participant in someone else's wave before. He rather hoped he never would be again.

"Miss Green," Edwin added, fumbling to extract himself from the wave. He scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off. Now that his head wasn't full of ceaseless psychic badgering, he had the presence of mind to feel self-conscious about his shabby state of... un-dress. He should have put his waistcoat back on, at the very least. Here he was, standing before a lady in a public establishment, and he was bordering on the semi-classical. "Our apologies for, ah. Barging in."

"Yeah, sorry. Should've knocked!" said Charles.

"Yes. Quite."

Jenny narrowed her eyes, staring at the rope that had them quite literally joined at the hip. She gestured between the two of them with her cleaver. "So. I guess you two made up."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, all water under the bridge."

"Yeah, yeah, all sorted," Charles agreed.

She gave Edwin a look, then turned to Charles and raised a razor-sharp eyebrow. "He stop being a dick?"

"Yeah, he did," said Charles, grinning, as he cut off Edwin's indignant protest with an arm around his shoulder. "Can't stay mad at me for long, can he?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — his smile, alas, was irrepressible.

"Great! Happy for you!" Her tone was dry, her smile tight-lipped. "Never jump out of my mirror while I'm holding a fucking meat cleaver again."

She punctuated her edict with a sharp, decisive swing; severing the pork joint on her chopping block with an executioner's resolve.

Edwin grimaced, and adjusted his bedraggled collar. "Duly noted."

Charles opened his mouth, no doubt to come out with another cheeky rejoinder. He was interrupted, however, by the tightening of the rope, forcing both he and Edwin to lurch back a step. They both looked down in alarm at the slack trailing into the mirror as it went taut, repeatedly. An insistent tug, urging them to follow.

"Oh," said Edwin, weakly. "I can't imagine that bodes well."

There was no time to dwell on the implications. In seconds Charles' hands were at Edwin's waist, attacking the knotted rope. "Charles, what are you doing?" Edwin enquired.

"You stay here for a bit, yeah?" said Charles — followed by a muttered curse as he was foiled by his own stellar rope-tying technique. "Take a breather — I'll go back, check on Crystal."

"You kids do know this isn't a clubhouse?" came Jenny's weary interjection.

Edwin gathered his courage, and stilled Charles' hands. "No," he said. "Thank you, Charles. But if there's a problem with... with the case, well. I should be present to handle it."

"You've been handling it for days, mate," said Charles; levelling him with his infamous 'sad puppy eyes'.

To paraphrase Crystal, Edwin could not deal. But, bravely, he held his ground nonetheless. Even forced a small smile. "I've handled worse for seventy years," he said.

Charles scowled. "Yeah, that's not gonna make me —"

"Spit-spot, now, Charles," said Edwin primly, seizing Charles' hand and about-turning to the mirror. "We've been summoned."

"Edwin —!"

But his argument, like Jenny's final bewildered comments, were lost to the currents of the in-between as they slipped once more into the vortex.

Yet again, another unpleasant journey through the mirror. Unfortunately, Edwin was growing rather used to it.

What he was not prepared for was what awaited them on the other side.

"Oh, fuck," said Charles — though it was barely coherent as a swear past the chatter of his teeth.

Edwin agreed, whole-heartedly. Though truth be told, he could barely hear Charles over the sudden and vicious return of the cries in his head. He pressed his palms to his ears — though it was futile with the noise seeming to ring out from within himself — and took in the awful scene.

The office that awaited them was barely recognisable as the one they’d left. In part due to the mess of toppled furniture, scattered books and broken memorabilia that littered the place, as if a hurricane had torn through the building during their short absence.

But mostly, due to the snow.

Edwin stared, aghast, at the dense white blanket that now lay across anything and everything. Flakes drifted through the air, but at far too sedate a pace for this kind of coverage. To have cloaked every surface so thickly and thoroughly suggested a veritable blizzard had beset the room behind them. And standing in the middle of it all was Crystal. Untouched, it seemed, by the snow, which must be spectral in nature — but not unaffected. She was shivering, visibly, and her breath escaped in soft puffs of glistening vapour.

"About t-t-time," she bit out, with difficulty. She abandoned the rope in favour of rubbing her upper arms through the meagre defence of her threadbare cardigan.

"Crystal!" Charles bolted to her, hands joining hers, for all the good it would do her. "What the b-loody hell happened?"

"Soon as you guys w-went, it just —" she mimed an explosion, puffing air from her cheeks. "Everything starting s-shaking, and snowing, and — and then this French chick just like, b-burst outta the wall and started yelling —"

"That’s just our landlady," said Charles. "She’s harmless."

"Yes. She’s not even French," said Edwin, turning a slow circle, regarding the chaos with dismay. "If Madame Seine felt the disturbance, then it must have fanned out beyond this room. Quite far beyond — she tends to haunt the attic…"

"I can feel it," said Crystal, shoving her hands under her armpits in an attempt to warm them. "Not — not as bad as it looks, I guess, or I’d be freezing, but I can feel it. I haven’t felt it before."

"It must be getting stronger," Edwin muttered. "Reaching beyond the spectral and out to your psychic awareness." He turned on them. "Can either of you hear it, now?"

"Like a whisper," said Charles, shaking his head as if dislodging water from his ears. "Or a — a buzzing? I dunno." Crystal nodded her agreement.

Edwin’s jaw clenched. "Right. Definitely stronger, then." He closed his eyes. "It is… considerably louder than a whisper, for me."

DON’T LEAVE ME DON’T LEAVE ME LOOK AT ME SEE ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME

"That is enough!"

Charles and Crystal both jumped. Edwin could hardly blame them — it was a sudden outburst, and one he wasn’t proud of. But he could scarcely think with that miserable clamour. He felt browbeaten, harried — hounded mercilessly even in the safety of his own mind. He’d put it off for too long.

He turned, slowly, and he looked at the trunk.

Immediately upon doing so, the air changed. The last of the snow ceased to fall and a chorus of slow drips took its place, as that which had settled begun to melt. The cold did not lift entirely, but it did somewhat. The voice did not cease or quiet, but it did soften in tone — from cries of anguish to cajoling, coercive murmurs. Like it knew it had his attention; like it wanted him to close the distance.

Nothing else for it.

"Edwin," said Charles. "You sure about this?"

"Not in the slightest," he said, as he hunkered down beside the trunk. His fingers closed around the enchanted padlock; it warmed under his touch and clicked open obediently. "But we’re running out of options."

Before he could even slip the padlock free, Charles was at his side — and Crystal followed suit. Their hands joined his upon the lid of the trunk; their eyes found his in silent question.

He exhaled, slowly. "Just a quick peek," he promised them. Promised himself. "Just to… mollify it."

Crystal gave him a look he didn’t much care to interpret. He had no doubt she’d confront him with whatever thought she’d just had, soon enough. For now, they had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Just a look," Charles agreed — though he was focusing far more intently on Edwin’s face than on the box. "See what’s what."

"Yes," he breathed. "What’s what…"

They shared a look — Charles to Edwin, Edwin to Crystal, back again — and slowly, as one, lifted the lid.

The first thing that came into view was the glow. Blue, and cold, and rippling over the surface of the grim contents like a sheen. Underneath, as Edwin’s eyes adjusted, shapes began to consolidate. A queasiness overtook him as, unbidden, the scientific names he'd learned presented themselves like annotations in a textbook. Annotating the withered remains of his own pitiful skeleton.

A cold droplet landed upon his cheek. He startled. Sensation was uncommon — sensations of damp even moreso. He glanced up to find that the snow upon the ceiling light was melting, a steady drip drip drip that happened to align with him. Carving his face like falling tears.

"It’s doing somethin’," Charles muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Warming up in here…"

"I can’t hear it anymore," said Crystal. "Can you guys?"

Charles shook his head. "No. Edwin?"

He nodded. "It’s faint." He frowned. "I think… I think it’s saying something else, now…"

…ay wi… me…

"What’s it saying?" asked Crystal.

"I… I’m not altogether sure. It’s so quiet." He cocked his head. "It sounds scared."

"He," said Crystal.

Edwin stared at her. "What?"

She raised her brows and looked between him and the miserable pile of bones. "He sounds scared," she said, gentle. "Edwin, it’s you."

He bristled. "We don’t know that for —"

"Fuck's sake, Edwin," said Charles. "What else d’you need? It’s in your bones, it talks to you, it went bonkers when you left. What else could we be dealing with here?"

"Any number of things!" he said. "Anything could have… imprinted on my remains. A parasite, a demon, some kind of carrion feeder — perhaps even an infestation of dandelion sprites, it’s certainly attention-seeking enough —"

"They only go for living hosts, Edwin, you bloody know that," said Charles.

"There’s no it, Edwin," Crystal pressed. "There’s no ‘the case’, ‘the object’, it’s — it’s you. We all know that, we’ve known that since the start."

"And I don’t think pretending not to know is helping us any," Charles added.

Edwin opened his mouth to argue — but there were no words left. No more logic that could save him.

Charles watched him, and took his hand. "Edwin," he said. "What’s he saying to you?"

Edwin looked at the bones. At his bones. Met his gaze, eye to empty eye socket.

Sta… ith me…

He exhaled a hoarse, rattling breath.

"He…" Edwin swallowed. "He wishes for me… to stay with him."

"Just you?" asked Crystal.

He shook his head. "I… cannot say."

"Right." Charles gave a short, sharp nod, and pushed the lid back, until it swung open enough to stay upright on its own. "Let’s have a sit down for a bit then, eh?"

"Good idea," said Crystal. She sounded weary beyond her years; aged by the psychic onslaught. "Let’s all just… sit. Fuck, I’m fucking tired…"

"Edwin? Turn around, yeah? C’mon."

Edwin allowed himself to be guided by Charles’ hand on his back, Crystal’s on his elbow. Allowed himself to be propped, his back against the trunk, his knees tucked to his chest. Allowed his head to be pulled to Charles’ shoulder, and laid to rest there.

"This alright?" asked Charles. "I mean, is it — is he happy, with you not looking at 'im?"

Edwin nodded. He had very little energy to expend with the motion. "Yes. Yes, for now it — he seems to be… content."

"Good. That’s good." Charles exhaled, a slow, overwrought thing. Edwin could see a stray strand of his own hair lift and fall in the slight gust from Charles’ breath — his hair had fallen into some disarray, of late. Shameful, really. "Let’s all just… just take a second, yeah?"

Edwin had no strength left to argue. He closed his eyes, tucking his head closer into Charles’ collarbone. Wishing he could feel the rise of his chest, his soft exhalations in his hair. But even a shadow of an embrace was better than nothing. Charles didn’t need a physical presence to be Edwin’s anchor in this world. On his other side, Crystal settled herself, arm tucked through Edwin’s, an ankle flung across his, and for just now he didn’t care to shy away. Her breathing slowed. She muttered something that sounded like 'wake me when the next ice age hits'.

It was almost… peaceful. Here on the floor. No words, no actions, all tumbled together with scandalous disregard for propriety. Edwin hadn't had the ability or the desire to sleep in decades, but were that not the case, he thought he could have here. With Charles his pillow, and Crystal his blanket. He wished he could sleep. Just for a few stolen hours, a brief escape from his own mind and the thoughts lurking there. The theories turning over, and over. No, not theories. Nothing so useful as a theory. A theory would imply that he had any information to form the building blocks of a solution; and he was as tragically, hopelessly lost at sea as he had been days ago. Not theories. Something far more ominous.

Implications.

“Charles,” he said, softly.

“Yeah, mate?”

“How long…” Edwin licked his lips. His mouth felt dry, chapped. He felt uncomfortably, uncommonly real at that moment; so close to his bones they could have merged back into one being. “How long will I have to stay with him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “In order to make him… happy? Do you think?”

And will it be less than forever?

Charles, slow and steady, wrapped an arm around Edwin’s shoulder.

“We'll sort it,” he said, low, unwavering. "I promise, Edwin, we'll sort it."

Edwin released a ragged breath into Charles' shoulder. He watched the spectral thaw seep sluggishly into their shoes.

"D'you believe me?" asked Charles, voice tender, flayed open; like he couldn't bear it if the answer was no.

Edwin took one of Charles' hands in both of his, and clutched it like a talisman.

"I believe you."

Yaaaaay pain!!!!! Hope you liked! I love love LOVE all your comments and seeing you so engaged in the story has genuinely been so incredible and if you keep it up I will be a very happy boy and you will get me through my last days of covid isolation! (I have been stuck in one room for 5 days so far to keep distance from my folks, it’s bad guys, luckily my room is very pretty but I pretty much wrote Edwin’s mental breakdown from first-hand experience lmao) Commentary! Yes, Boneturner’s Tale is a TMA reference. No, Edwin did not hand his friend an actual dangerous evil book. It’s like a cheap and nasty paperback replica or something lmao. Hex or no hex, she’s not gonna enjoy reading it much :/ Honestly, writing Edwin and Charles falling out physically hurt. It didn’t last long in part bc my heart couldn’t take it dkjsfbdsnfagdgf Try as I might this fic keeps turning into Charles-and-Edwin, so there’s still not as much Crystal screentime as she deserves, but I truly enjoyed writing her heart-to-heart with Edwin! I love the ways they’re different and the same and I love it when they’re bitches who care for each other 💛 I am NEVER getting this complex about ghost touch again. For all future fics unless stated otherwise just assume ghosts can’t feel humans/the world but can feel each other to some extent, I’m making myself so sad writing Edwin and Charles in a universe where they’re utterly lost in space! It’ll be worth it in the very end I promise xD Yes I fully ground the fic plot to a halt for tender hugs and horny head massage. My house my rules. Yes, Indian hemp was indeed a headache remedy! I was sort of hoping I could google ‘Edwardian headache remedies’ and found out they used, like, cocaine, so I could have Edwin sigh and say ‘I miss cocaine’, but alas, we take what we can get. Pray for my girl Crystal, she works with these gay losers who flirt nonstop and Do Not Realise they are married. She’s getting so many premature grey hairs. Semi-classical = semi-nude. Been reading up on some Edwardian slang lmao. Don’t expect Jenny to come back in this fic but it was so nice to say hello to her! I don’t know what the deal is with the office - like, if the boys leave money for an actual human landlord who doesn’t ask questions or what - but my personal headcanon is that it’s an empty building that no one can sell or do anything with due to persistent hauntings, and it’s haunted by a friendly former brothel madame who once ran her business out of there. The boys first case they solved together was hers, and she adores them, thinks they’re lovely boys, and she lets them have the office and is basically their eccentric pretending-to-be-French Mrs Hudson counterpart. I don’t know why this is my headcanon except that I find it fun and whimsical and I think Madame Seine and the Night Nurse would be a hilarious MILF double act. Maybe I will write fic about her one day. I know this is a bit of an odd one, story progression wise. I hope no one feels put out by the fact that the story hasn’t exactly progressed much - but as I was drafting the rest of the fic I sort of realised that I wanted, amongst other aspects of Edwin’s journey, for him to have some denial to overcome. Which, in my classic carried-away way, became basically an entire chapter of obfuscating rounded off with a cold splash of reality. He needed to find that connection to the bones and accept it before they can get to the next stage of figuring out how to make them happy and end the haunting. Fun Fact! When writing the very last scene/conversation, the Power of Love by Frankie Goes To Hollywood came on shuffle. This would have been posted an hour earlier but I need to wail into my pillow in anguish. Anyway, that’s it for now! No idea when the next chapter’s up - I think it’ll be easier to write than this one but I’ve also sunk waaaay too much time into this one this week, so I should take a break for the sake of my hands and my other projects! It WILL be up though, probs in a few weeks. Until next time! 💛

#dead boy detectives #payneland #edwin payne #charles rowland #dbda #my fanfic #i love this fic dearly but i Must stop looking at it now #why this chapter was so much harder than c1 i haven't the foggiest #i have no idea how hard c3 will be #but 4 will be the easiest bc it's already basically written in my head #like 4 is the reason i'm writing this fic in the first place #great scene. can't wait to write it one day!

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climbthemountain2020 · 2 months

Text

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met - Chapter 7

Part 7/? | Ao3

[Feysand, Mature, AU ACOTAR retelling]

Big thank you to @cauldronblssd for beta reading! Love youuuuu <3

Feyre was pacing.

She wasn’t sure where to look, eyes unfocused as they shot from the dark sky beyond the windows to the marble floor to the gilded wallpaper and back again. Distantly, she was aware the arches of her feet were aching.

How long had she been walking?

She scrubbed a hand down over her face, the exhaustion beginning to ride her as the events of the night caught up.

Tamlin had left again as soon as he’d collected himself, barely making it past the foyer before transforming back into that beast with a great roar and taking off into the night. He’d murmured something about bringing home Andras’ body for a proper burial and to see about the treaty before he’d left, but that had been it.

“He was too good to end this way,” Alis had spoken sadly from behind them, Lucien and Feyre left looking through the wide open doors in his wake.

Feyre had turned to Lucien– for what, she wasn’t sure. He couldn’t provide her with any comfort; she could see that in the devastation that was plain across his face, even with the mask. His body language seemed crumpled, weighed down, and his remaining eye glistened with unshed tears that Feyre chose not to comment on.

They didn’t speak, the silence stretching as the staff wandered off. After a while, Lucien strode forward and shut the door to the foyer. The click echoed through the wide open space and sounded far louder in the absence than it had any reason to.

Andras was gone.

Kind, funny, accommodating Andras, who had told her only hours earlier how well she was doing and how she reminded him of his own sister.

Gone.

Feyre touched her face, finding it streaked with tears she hadn’t known she was crying.

Eventually, Lucien and Feyre moved like ghosts into the kitchen, searching for some tea and food to keep them awake so they would be there for Tamlin’s return. He hadn’t given them any clues to how long he’d be gone.

“Thank you,” both Lucien and Feyre murmured numbly as Alis handed them the warm mugs and took one of her own.

“If we’re to wait, we might as well have something warm.” Her voice was comforting and soft in the gloom, the mothering in it making Feyre’s throat tight again. They sipped in silence as the heat and glow of the hearth illuminated their drawn faces, the quiet both a reminder and somehow a comfort.

Eventually, they split off, Feyre and Lucien taking up residence in the study, pacing the floors as the light of dawn began to crest the distant hills and soaked everything in a dour gray light.

“Do you think it will be long?” Feyre asked.

Lucien didn’t respond for a moment. “I hope not.”

As the sun rose, Lucien collapsed onto one of the couches. Feyre followed suit, her exhaustion rolling through her body in great waves. Despite the maelstrom of emotions she was experiencing, she was out almost immediately, the blissful darkness of her closed eyes allowing her to drift off without tossing and turning.

Feyre knew it was a dream before she even opened her eyes, smelling the faint scent of jasmine in the air and that signature smell of Rhys so close by.

She was lying on what appeared to be a marble floor, and when she turned her head to the opposite side, she smiled to find Rhys there lying beside her. His eyes were closed again beneath the tousled hair that fell on his brow, but there was a smile on his lips.

“I missed you.” She let the words roll off her tongue and watched his smile grow before he opened those violet eyes and met her own. As soon as he did, his expression shifted.

“Are you okay? You seem sad.”

“A friend died today.” Her voice did seem sad, even in this dream.

“I'm so sorry, Feyre.” He took her hand in his and laced their fingers together. At the contact, a feeling seemed to zap between them and take hold in her chest.

Was this comfort? Was this grief?

They both laid together, hands entwined, silent as the deep purple clouds passed them by in front of the distant mountains.

“Something's changed.” He spoke it softly. His statement wasn’t accusatory, but rather observant.

“What has?” Feyre responded, curious as Rhys rubbed his chest absently, his other hand running a thumb across her knuckles softly.

His lovely eyes locked on hers. “Feyre, are you being safe?”

“I’m safe, Rhys.”

“Sometimes, I worry that you don’t know the meaning of safe.” He smirked, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

“I know how to be safe, I promise.”

His voice was sad when he spoke again. “Another woman I cared deeply for told me that once.” Feyre rolled onto her stomach to look at him, the feelings of possession and jealousy roiling in her stomach and at war with the sadness contained within his haunted eyes.

She focused on the rest of his proclamation.

He cared for her. Deeply.

As though hearing her warring thoughts, he closed his eyes again and responded. “My sister, Inara.”

“What happened to her?” Rhys opened his mouth again to speak, but Feyre was shooting upwards, the THUMP of Lucien falling off the adjoining couch and resulting groan waking her entirely from sleep. Her face was covered in drool, and the midday sun was blaring through the curtainless windows of the study.

“I'll get us some tea,” he rasped, pushing up to standing and limping from the room as Feyre sank back into the couch, trying to shake off what was a dream and what was reality.

Tamlin hadn’t returned.

The grief swelled again in her chest.

It was going to be a long day.

The first full day, Lucien seemed to experience every stage of grief in rapid succession. At the very least, Feyre was finding it a welcome distraction from her own.

“Perhaps it wasn’t truly Andras. Right? I mean it could have been anyone. How are we even sure Tamlin knew what he was talking about?”

“Lucien–”

“He barely said two sentences to us before he was off again. He could easily have made a mistake!” The hysteria in his voice cracked straight through Feyre, and she simply tried to give him space while he paced around the couch.

After lunch, he was back at it. “A HUMAN. A HUMAN girl killed him.” He seemed to pause in his anger to remember that he knew Feyre to be half human. He strode over to where she sat in the seat of the bay windows. “I’m sorry, Feyre. Not you. You know I don’t mean you.”

She took his hands. He looked as exhausted as she felt. She tried humor to lighten the mood.

“You know, Lucien, some might think you don’t like me very much.” His responding smile was weak, but there.

“He has to return today. I know he will.”

Tamlin did not return.

Feyre stood on the back porch as the sun set over the distant trees, arms wrapped around herself and tears streaming down her face again. She looked at the fourth chair sitting in the circle around the fire pit. Feyre swallowed audibly, the grief caught in her throat as the permanence of the entire situation soaked in.

He’d never sit there again, and it left a hole in her chest as though someone had reached in to grab her heart then ripped it out.

She’d barely known him, truly, but she had begun to feel safe with him–thinking of him as someone she could consider family. The sadness was a fist around her heart, squeezing and twisting until she felt every bit of it viscerally. The grief was an ache that she’d not even felt when her mother had died–her only experience with death had not prepared her for this kind of emptiness.

As they prepared to sleep again, the sun long since gone from the sky, she watched Lucien as he stared at nothing across the room. His eyes were unfocused and his normal sharp replies were notably absent. She'd never seen him so low, and she wasn’t sure how to fill this fathomless silence.

They resumed their positions on the perpendicular couches, Lucien pulling the flames from the sconces to his hands until it was dark in the room.

“Do you think this will do it? Start the curse?” Lucien asked quietly after a while.

“Well, he said it was a human who did it. I can only imagine she shot Andras out of hate.” She could feel Lucien shudder a few feet away. With rage or upset, she wasn’t sure.

They didn’t speak for a few moments, the silence permeating the air around them. When Lucien spoke, his voice cracked, and Feyre didn’t mention the salty tang of tears she could smell in the air. “Perhaps it won’t have all been for nothing.”

Feyre grabbed for Lucien’s hand in the dark, holding it without saying a word.

If they could make this human fall in love with Tamlin, perhaps this could be the end of it all. Maybe Andras had known that.

Of course he had. It was why he’d been out there in the first place.

It didn’t make it any easier.

The more Feyre thought about it, the more she thought about her own role to play. Maybe she was sent here to befriend the girl, to help convince her to stay, to love him. If they played their cards right and did what needed to be done, Andras might have made the most important sacrifice of all. A sacrifice that would bring everyone home.

It didn’t ease the pain.

Another night and day passed, and Tamlin still did not return.

Lucien summoned himself, bathing and dressing in new clothes for the first time since everything happened, claiming he needed to go on patrol himself or things would begin to fall apart.

Feyre suspected he needed some time alone, perhaps to set some things on fire, but she didn’t stop him. She used the break to bathe herself, taking her time in the bath and trying her hardest to make some shapes in the water, though her heart wasn’t in it. She’d finished the book on Summer, placing it neatly back into its spot on the shelves and moving on to Winter.

She wished Rhys were really here– corporeal, not just in her dreams. It was difficult to put into words the connection she felt with him, but she knew having him here would be a comfort. He would hold her, make some sort of stupid quip, she was sure. Somehow, she knew he would understand. She remembered their conversation, cut off before she had a chance to finish it.

His sister. He’d lost his sister when she’d told him he was safe.

As distant as she’d often felt from Nesta and Elain, she couldn’t imagine the pain of either of them dying.

When she was done bathing, Feyre found she’d run out of things to occupy her time. She resumed her vigil in the study, walking back and forth in front of the window, occasionally looking up at the edge of the woods hoping to see someone emerge.

“You’ll run a hole into the floor,” Alis said softly, holding a cup of tea and a plate of food to Feyre who took them with thankful eyes.

“Do you think she’ll break the–” That familiar stinging in her throat cut the words from her. “-- thing.”

“I think it might. We can only hope.”

Feyre slunk into a seat, setting the tea in front of her and feeling much older than her twenty-one years. “What if it doesn’t?” Her voice cracked as she voiced the same concerns she’d talked Lucien out of the night before. “What if it was for nothing?”

She let the sobs take over, and Alis held her as she cried.

On the third day, there was still no word. Lucien was practically climbing the walls.

Feyre couldn’t stand another day in the study, so she returned to the library to read, her mind too cluttered a mess to see any of the actual words on the page.

She spent as long as she could organizing and mindlessly shelving the books until the sun was setting again, lowering the light in the room to the point that she could no longer see. She grabbed the books for Spring and Winter to take with her, forgoing eating entirely and dragging herself to her bedroom. Though the sun had barely set, she felt as though she could sleep for a million years, so she changed her clothes and climbed into bed.

She opted for the book on Spring, just skimming a bit through it to see the names of the flora and fauna she encountered daily. Her eyes were already shutting when she reached Tamlin’s family tree, his picture the sole remaining one at the bottom. Each of the others had been dimmed, the pictures blurry and almost hazy through the magic of the book.

He’d had brothers, two of them, named Edryd and Eurion. Though the pictures were grainy, two sets of stern eyes looked back at her from crowns of golden hair and frames of chiseled features. They looked like angry men carved from stone, but nowhere near so much so as Tamlin’s father.

His name had been Maelon, and Feyre was sure she wouldn’t have wanted to meet him on a battlefield or elsewhere. His foreboding expression was complemented by a scar that ran from hairline to neck, perhaps a battle wound. His expression was that of trouble, and she wondered if she was looking at the reason for Tamlin’s need for order and tradition as well as his standoffishness.

Finally, there was a small picture surrounded by drawn roses in a vine-wrapped frame. Tamlin’s mother’s name had been Rhoswen. Her haunting eyes looked like they saw straight through Feyre, even from the dimmed picture. Feyre wondered what sort of life Rhoswen had lived here in the very manor where Feyre now resided as she began to drift off.

All those people, and Tamlin was the only one who remained.

Had they been loving? Harsh? How had they died?

Feyre was still thinking about it when sleep took her under.

Feyre woke to the feeling of soft sheets wrapped around her. It was a bit cooler than it had been when she’d fallen asleep, a gentle breeze skirting over her exposed shoulders and making them explode with goosebumps across her skin.

She went to pull the sheets up to tuck beneath her chin, but as she wiggled beneath the covers, she felt a hand on her waist and froze. Her eyes shot open to the view of those lovely faraway mountains, the puffy purple clouds floating lazily by her view. She relaxed back into the warm, solid body behind her as she felt a nuzzling behind her ear.

“Feyre, are you awake?” The voice was hoarse with sleep, but even if she hadn’t already known it was him, she’d have recognized it anywhere–in the dark, in sleep, in death, in a million different lifetimes. She rolled to face him, her face meeting his naked chest as she pressed a single kiss to it.

She tried to take him all in from up close, the beautiful brown skin covered with inky black tattoos pressed elegantly across it. She ran her fingers along them greedily, allowing the patterns to distract her momentarily.

“Feyre?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked where you are.” She looked up at him, his brows furrowed with concern now, the onyx black of them framing and highlighting his lavender eyes.

“I’m here, with you.” A smile pulled at his lips, but he pulled in a deep breath.

“But where are you?”

Something told her not to tell him, some deep knowledge within her that held her back, though the answer was right on her lips.

He waited patiently, his eyes roving her face for the answer her mouth wouldn’t give.

She wanted him more than anything; she had wished over and over again that he could be there with her, but something told her that if he knew, if he came to her, she would lose her chance to save him before it had even begun.

He must love you, openly and without pretense, and be ready to sacrifice himself for you and you alone.

If she told him, he would come to her, send her home for her safety, and they would never get the chance. He would never have the opportunity to love her that way if he was still trapped beneath the mountain.

Instead, Feyre pressed up to kiss him, their lips touching featherlight at first and then blooming into something urgent and new. It was the first time she’d been able to kiss him since their meeting in the garden beneath the willow, and her lips called to his like an old friend.

His mouth was hot, lips slanting over hers as he pressed to take more of her in. She let a small moan escape her at the feeling, the sound trapped and echoing between their mouths and a resounding rumble answering from deep within his chest.

She wound her hands through his dark curls as his hand found her neck, his thumb resting in the hollow of her throat as their mouths danced together, saying the words they could not. When he ran his tongue along her lips, she parted for him without a moment of hesitancy, allowing him inside of her, always.

There was no clash, no fight for dominance, just a single rhythm that ebbed and flowed, back and forth– two stars dancing around each other since the dawn of time– as Feyre’s heart thrummed loud and bright within her chest.

They pulled apart slowly, breathless, as though neither could bear to see it end. When Rhys spoke again, there was a pleading tone in his voice, one Feyre hadn’t heard before.

“Feyre, please tell me where you are.” He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes beseeching and tone nearly begging.

“I’m coming, Rhys. I’m here.”

“Don’t…” His lovely voice was already fading out, his warm skin becoming colder under her hands.

“Trust me.” She pressed a near-phantom hand to his face, feeling the cut of his jaw beneath her fingers as it faded.

“Tell me where you are. Tell me, and I’ll–”

Feyre’s eyes shot open and immediately wrenched back shut, the sun nearly blinding across her face.

Gods, how late was it?

She opened her eyes gingerly again, shielding them with a hand to see the sun nearing the midpoint of the sky. She’d slept until almost noon.

As the rest of her senses came back to her, she could hear the knocking on her door that had woken her up.

“Feyre! Open the door!”

Lucien. Of course.

She grumbled, tossing her legs out of bed and padding to the door in her nightclothes.

He was still knocking when she threw the door open, nearly falling into the room as she did.

“Yes, Lucien, dear?” She ground out, but he was already launching the rest of the way into her room and closing the door behind himself and striding to sit on her desk. “Sure, come on in!--”

“--They’re back.” The words shut her up entirely. “He’s back with the girl. She came with him, and they just arrived.” Feyre sucked in a breath, eyes wide.

“They’re downstairs?”

Lucien nodded, looking equally shocked. They’d waited for days, but now that Tamlin had returned with the girl, neither of them knew what to do.

“Andras’ body?” She saw his frame physically droop at the mention.

“I have no idea. I came right up to get you when I saw them emerge from the woods.”

Feyre nodded. “Okay, let me change, and we can go.” He nodded absently, still perched on the edge of her desk. His eyes flashed up to hers as if to say Well? And she violently gestured to her nightclothes with her other hand.

“Oh. Oh! I’ll be in the hall.” Lucien stammered as he strode out, looking a little embarrassed.

The second she was out, they were rushing down the stairs like children, nearly knocking each other over in the rush to get down them. Feyre wasn’t sure what they expected to find, but personally, she needed the closure of what had become of Andras. Somehow, knowing how it had happened, meeting the girl who had felled him–Feyre thought somehow it might all contain some secret message about whether or not he’d known. Somehow, she knew it would tell her that he had done this willingly, and she hoped it would smooth over her aching heart and perhaps Lucien and Tamlin’s too.

The two burst into the dining room like idiots, nearly tripping over each other and then smoothing themselves out as they beheld Tamlin at the front of the table alone.

“Well?” Lucien said, as he strode to sit on the edge of the table. Feyre walked up behind her own seat but did not sit, simply grabbed the back of the chair and waited. She wasn’t hungry. In fact, the apprehension was making her stomach feel sick.

“Well, what?” Tamlin cocked his head at them.

Why was he dancing around this?

“Is Andras dead, then?” Feyre asked, quietly but firmly.

A curt nod from Tamlin with his eyes averted brought forth a curse from Lucien.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Feyre could hear the grief in his voice and her chest clenched painfully.

“How?” Feyre managed to ask.

“An ash arrow. The Treaty’s summons led me to the mortal. I gave her safe haven.” The treaty. So, the human girl hated the fae, then. Feyre and Lucien exchanged glances, then both looked back to Tamlin, who gave another curt nod.

The curse was in motion.

“A girl—a human girl actually killed Andras?” Lucien spit the words, reality coming back in to rear its ugly head.

Tamlin glanced pointedly back towards the doors where they'd entered, and they glanced back to find a girl there, a woman, pressing herself so hard against the wall she looked as though she were attempting to become a part of it.

She looked near-feral, the dark, long locks of hair hanging straggly and rough over her face, curtaining her bright green eyes. She was small, far too small to be healthy, and Feyre was reminded of those in the town she’d always slipped food and extra cloaks to when she was able. People did not care for those less fortunate, and often, it made the difference between life and death. She looked malnourished, dirty, and terrified. She looked the way Feyre imagined Nesta saw her all those times she’d called her names– wild.

“You’re joking,” Lucien said quietly. “That scrawny thing brought down Andras with a single ash arrow?”

Tamlin laughed low and predatory, and Feyre’s blood ran cold. This was not the reception she had gotten; this was the face of barely restrained grief parading as rage.

“The Treaty’s magic brought me right to her doorstep.”

She looked at Feyre, suddenly unable to speak, then to the males again. She had the demeanor of a rabbit caught in a snare debating the best way to run. Feyre almost yearned to go to her, nearly stepped forward despite Lucien and Tamlin’s reactions. But she stopped.

This woman, no matter how afraid, had put an ash arrow through Andras. Sweet, kind, loving Andras, who had made her feel seen, valued, cared for for the first time in her life. Feyre bit back a snarl at the thought.

Lucien did not bite back his snarl.

“Lucien– ” Tamlin admonished, and he snarled at him, too. “She admitted to it. She didn’t try to deny it.”

“Well, now we’re stuck with that, thanks to your useless mercy, and you’ve ruined—” the girl stepped forward, just one step, but Feyre was immediately on alert, stepping in front of Lucien as though this human could hurt him, her half-magical instincts firing off now that Andras had been taken away from them. Her brain and emotions were going crazy, a mess of feelings that she couldn’t sort out.

The girl's eyes widened, shock or uncertainty halting whatever she’d planned to do once she saw Feyre defending them.

“Did you enjoy killing my friend, human?” Lucien spoke from behind Feyre, stepping out and around her with a hand on her shoulder. “Did you hesitate, or was the hatred in your heart riding you too hard to consider sparing him? It must have been so satisfying for a small mortal thing like you to take him down.”

“Lucien,” Tamlin said, more quietly now. “Behave.”

Lucien went rigid, but he bowed deeply to the girl “My apologies, lady. I’m Lucien. Courtier and emissary.” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable and heavy. “Your eyes are like stars, and your hair like onyx gems.”

If the whole situation weren't so awful, so surreal, Feyre would have laughed. But she just stood there, still as the fae themselves, unable to move or speak or fathom how this girl had killed Andras.

He had let her. Feyre knew it in her heart. The thought left her absolutely bereft.

“And this is Feyre,” Tamlin supplied when he realized Feyre was not going to speak. He then gestured back to the human woman. “Her name is Calla.” He met the wild eyes of the human girl–of Calla. “Alis will take you to your room–for a bath and fresh clothes.”

Lucien chuffed a laugh and Feyre summoned the wherewithal to smack his chest. His gentle oof as the air rushed out of him satisfying her.

Alis led her out, Calla’s green eyes on Feyre as she left the room.

Lucien growled the second she was gone, “That’s the hand the Cauldron thought to deal us? We never should have sent him out there. It was a fool’s mission.”

“She looks half starved. Did she eat anything?” Feyre asked, looking at the table full of plates. Tamlin shook his head.

“Maybe we should just take a stand—maybe it’s time to say enough. Dump the girl somewhere, kill her, I don’t care—she’s nothing but a burden here. She’d sooner put a knife in your back than talk to you—or any of us.”

“Lucien, don't be cruel.”

Lucien wheeled on her, roaring. “She KILLED him, Feyre. He's DEAD!” He was snarling and screaming, but she saw the deep sadness for what it was in his eyes. Mourning. They were all mourning.

Feyre stepped forward to put a hand on his arm, causing Lucien to close his eyes and take a deep breath.

Tamlin spoke again. "Calla stays. Unharmed. End of discussion. Her life in that hovel was Hell enough.” Feyre wondered where Calla had come from. How far had it been from her town?

“Then you’ve got your work cut out for you, old son, I’m sure her life will be a fine replacement for Andras’s—maybe she can even take his chair on the porch.” Lucien stormed out, slamming the doors behind him so hard the manor itself seemed to shake.

“His body?” She asked into the quiet.

Tamlin simply shook his head, unwilling or unable to even meet her eyes. Feyre felt the tears building again.

She walked the few paces to his chair, bending to press a kiss on the crown of his head and lay a hand on his shoulder, hoping to ease some of the immense heartache she knew he was feeling if she was so sad.

“He was lovely, truly kind, and a wonderful friend.” Tamlin nodded, but didn’t lift his head, and Feyre took her leave to go.

She went straight to the porch, finding Lucien where he sat with his head bowed in his hands.

“So, that went well.” Lucien laughed, but she could hear the tears in his voice.

Feyre simply slumped into the seat beside him, being there for him in the silence.

“You know, he was my first friend here–my first real friend when I fled Autumn.”

He’d fled? Feyre knew he didn’t hold Autumn in high regard when they discussed it, but she didn’t know he’d run.

“He didn’t care that I was a shamed seventh son of the High Lord, or a vagrant without a home.” Lucien let out a sob and Feyre scooted closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

Son of a High Lord. Feyre made a mental note to grab the book on Autumn next.

“He just asked me to come train with him. Bullied me a little when I hedged him off, if I’m being honest.” He laughed wetly. “But he taunted me until I came out to the rings.”

“Did he let you win?” Feyre asked, staring up at the bright sun slipping behind some clouds as she let him speak.

“No, he beat my ass.” Feyre laughed unexpectedly and loudly at this, drawing another laugh from Lucien.

“He was a really good male, and an even better friend. I hate that I didn’t have more time with him.”

Lucien slung an arm around Feyre. “You know, the day after you came, he told me he liked you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. He said, mark my words, Lucien, she’s good people. She belongs here.” Lucien had dropped his voice to imitate him, and the likeness made Feyre smile. “He said any half-human willing to drop everything to save someone….under…was someone he’d like to call a friend.” Feyre was crying again, the hot tears dripping onto Lucien’s shoulder.

She wanted so badly to tell him, then. The urge nearly bowled her over. These were her friends, the closest she’d ever really come to feeling like she belonged anywhere. How could she keep lying to them this way?

Before the urge got the better of her, the door to the porch opened and they both turned to see Tamlin emerging with bottles for each of them, a spare fourth he set down on the edge of the fire pit after cracking it open.

Tamlin opened the remaining three, passing one to Feyre and another to Lucien. A look of understanding passed between them, Tamlin’s hand on Lucien’s shoulder, and the two embraced quietly.

When they came apart, Feyre raised her bottle. “To Andras.”

“To Andras.” They mirrored, their voices echoing across the grassy hills.

They all drank in his honor and allowed the quiet to settle over them as they leaned back into their seats.

“So, we get her to fall in love with Tamlin.” Feyre said. “How hard can it be?”

Let me know if you'd like on or off the taglist!

Taglist: @cauldronblssd @buttercupcookies-blog @witch-and-her-witcher

#feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand #acotar #acotar fics #feyre and rhysand #a court of thorns and roses #Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met #acotar au #fated mates #acotar retelling

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serenityhime1 · 4 months

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Well, I finally did the thing. I don't know if this is arrogance or hubris or if people will love or hate the idea, but now I'm in it or better or worse. I'm already in love with this story.

I'm sorry there's so little Vegebul content in the first chapters for Vegebul day, but I promise we'll get there.

Also my wife has been too busy to beta the first chapters so far so we ride at dawn, unbeta'd and wild.

Also, I went ahead and rated these Mature, but, uh, based on a scene I've already written I might have to change that. My "explicit" writing tends to be slightly less explicit than others, though, so maybe I'll leave it.

#dbz #fanfic #fanfic writing #vegeta #bulma #vegebul #goku #chichi

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oh-saints · 1 year

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sweetest devotion (pt. 7)

maybe getting himself involved in a marriage of convenience wasn't a bad choice, after all...

playboy!mason mount x princess!OC wc: 3.7k tw: as mentioned in the masterlist only but there's none for this particular chapter (hooray!) note: this got to be the longest chapter for this series so far but i had my better days a while ago so here we are (?) hopefully this fits you all, dear mason x serena gang! but as usual, i wrote this around dawn so ofc not beta-read yet. tags: @pingyu-in-wonderland @808heartz @ironmaiden1313 @myreveriie @missgaygurl (let me know if you want to be added too!) part 6 here - part 8 here sweetest devotion masterlist

“I see you’re taking a liking towards going home early,”

while the rest of mason’s team actually paid attention to the young footballer’s recent change of habit, to actually make césar azpilicueta comment on it was another and completely different thing. the captain was well-known to be an observant most of the time, only commenting on and when necessary.

the result of his observation, though, managed to put a small smile on mason’s face.

it was rather understandable for mason to clock out earliest possible because serena was still under the doctor’s watch and jasmine, being a fellow pregnant lady, was unable to stay over for a long time. but the habit apparently didn’t undergo a drastic change, even after serena was given the green light to be released from the hospital. mason even pulled out a small trick to come home with a bouquet of different flowers every two days, in a (faux) lieu of “so the kitchen doesn’t smell bad when you’re done cooking.”

mason didn’t realise it, at first. but before the spaniard’s comment, ben chilwell actually managed to call him out first when he was ending his call with serena, asking if she needed anything else to be bought for dinner—and it took mason a long while, as he sat in his car after ben’s remark, to digest that it was indeed no longer a guilt eating him alive.

he thought of feeling guilty whenever he saw serena lying peacefully on her hospital bed, he even thought of any other possible emotion that could mirror guilt whenever he thought about serena and their child. but with elena now being legally processed for a trial, and mason kind of always made time for a dinner together with serena, the soon-to-be father realised that he wanted to come home as soon as possible.

“is your wife treating you well?”

“more than well,” mason could no longer hide his smile, albeit still smaller than the one the defender was throwing him. “I kind of understand why you guys get married.”

“good,” the senior player patted mason by the shoulder. “I like this version of you better. I hope you’re always happy with your wife.”

“me, too, césar,” and not an ounce of deceit was included in mason’s response. “me too.”

if someone had said to him marriage indulged how nice it would be to have someone waiting for you by the door as you stepped into the house, how stress-relieving it would be to see your wife’s cooking and ready to be pounced on at the end of every exhausting day… mason would’ve considered skipping countless parties till dawn peaks out from the horizon and followed declan’s footsteps of settling down early instead.

but probably, mason would’ve been tied down to the wrong person if he did that. god knows, maybe mason would’ve ended up behind the bars too, following the footsteps of his ex, if he did.

mason shuddered at the thought, pressing his eyes tightly when the red light came into view, in hope he could shed the once-wonderful dream of his to marry elena. he only opened them back when a ring broke the lonely ride home.

speaking of the devil… “mason?”

it was always funny to mason how serena would always start a phone conversation with a clarificatory question as such. “serena, I was about to call you.”

lies, because mason would always call her five minutes earlier than now whenever it was grocery days.

“are you done training?”

“I’m turning left to our block as we speak,” damn it, it would be quite a hassle if serena decided he should head for the nearest supermarket. all because he’d forgotten to call her before he started his engine, and all because he’d been thinking about her. “do you need something?”

“ah, okay then.”

but the disappointment that laced serena’s voice was indispensable. “what’s wrong?”

“no, I just—I forgot to cook today.”

mason really couldn’t help but let out a cackle over the phone as he pulled up in his garage. “seriously?”

“yes…? why are you laughing?”

“serena,” serena had opened the door and was now standing by the door as mason unfastened the seatbelt. from his point of view, serena was visibly upset. “you know we can always order in, right?”

mason didn’t leave a space for serena to reply him as he hung up the call and stepped out his car.

“but I want to cook for you,” the pout remained and mason had the sudden urge to kiss away that pout. damn it. “what kind of wife am I?”

“the best, of course,” mason grinned wider as serena turned into a shade similar to a beetroot. “definitely better if you give me a hug right now.”

mason would’ve laughed at anyone who put a bet on him falling for serena an eon ago. but now, it was rather something he looked forward to the moment he stepped in the house.

it might not be much, but it was still a start for them both, considering the beginning of their relationship looked like. it was still something for mason too because he was sure, in other circumstances, he would not dare himself to ask such thing to a stranger.

but serena was no longer a stranger, right? not when she’d seen him in desperate need of comforting embrace after chelsea’s loss against another big 6 club. right?

“come here,” and mason didn’t hesitate to take the invitation. anyone who knew the nature of their relationship—an arranged marriage, mind you—would be surprised how fluid mason could fit himself to serena’s every crook and nook. “did you have a good day?”

mason breathed in the lingering scent on serena’s shirt, a mixture of jasmine and comfort similar to the linen sheet. mason breathed in deeply because with the question and the fragrance combined, he couldn’t help but think of all things he never got to have with elena, despite being in a romantic relationship longer than the time he spent getting to know serena so far.

mason breathed in his reality.

but it seemed that his wife thought he wasn’t having the best of a day. “do you wish to talk about it?”

“I’m fine, actually,” mason grumbled against the fabric. “I just wish you’d stop being stubborn and let me hire a chef for us.”

serena pushed away mason lightly, her eyes lit up in mirth. “we’ve talked about this, mason…”

and indeed they had, mason laughed along with her at the brief reminiscent about several days after her discharge, which meant several days watching her juggling to do chores on her own after sam’s dismissal for the day. “we have enough third persons in this house, don’t you think?” mason remembered her saying nothing but the truth, but a slight pang to his chest was inevitable, nonetheless. “besides, I’d like to make myself useful in this household.”

“serena,” mason remembered thinking her last comment was so ridiculous that he had to grasp her by the shoulders, before grazing her now-slightly bulging belly when she’d stayed in place. “you’re the most useful person in this household.”

this woman went back and forth, from hell and back, for him and their child. this woman, beside her status of a princess, was everything elena could never have and could never be. how could she possibly think such thing?

“alright, you win,” mason ended the futile debate he’d always been since that day, complete with the small smile and a finger tucking in a strand of her hair behind her ear. “but I think I’ve eaten too much today. is it okay if I skip dinner tonight?”

“I forgot to cook tonight because I was actually making an apple pie this afternoon…”

“I hope you left some for me,” mason was still chuckling at serena’s demeanour shifting into a sheepish one. how could someone so calm and collected and regal in the eyes of the public, be this cute and endearing behind the curtain? “but let’s call it a night, okay? good night, princess.”

serena was certainly more than glad mason called it that way because she couldn’t afford him to see her blushing at the moniker he called her with.

＊✿❀○❀✿＊＊✿❀○❀✿＊＊✿❀○❀✿＊

and good sleep indeed it was.

serena couldn’t even recall the last time she slept so soundly since she moved into this house she got to call home at least until after the baby was born. there’d always be endless train of thoughts, rushing in a lighting speed even, that kept her up most of the nights.

on sundays, especially. there was a time where she couldn’t find sleep because she knew elena would be coming to the house, barging in like a truck going mad on the highway.

now that the particular problem was out of the way and more like into her way to jail, serena went even as far as oversleep last night. she woke up with a jolt when her eyes zeroed down to the number 9:00 AM flashing across her screen.

crap, she hadn’t prepared anything for mason this morning! did he leave already—“mason?”

despite her growing stomach, serena was glad she still retained her ballerina balance on her feet. if not, she would’ve stumbled upon a lying mason, right in front of her door, with a Parenting for Dummies hugged tightly to his chest.

cramped in a rather awkward position and messy locks sprawled across the carpeted floor—now-carpeted floor because mason thought it’d do good to pregnant feet than cold flooring—serena would be lying if she didn’t think the sight was endearing for her standard. “mason?”

the footballer groaned when called, bringing the parenting book closer to his chest. as if it was his plush toy. for god’s sake, he was soon to be a father, he shouldn’t be allowed to be this cute.

“mason,” serena crouched down beside her husband, shaking his body as ferocious as her frail body could because she didn’t want him to wake up with a sore body. “mason, wake up. you’re late to training.”

he hummed as a response, but it seemed that the last sentence was working well because suddenly his eyes shot open. serena stepped back and laughed at his comical reaction, to which mason responded with a whining groan. “why didn’t you wake me up?”

“excuse me, am I not waking you up now?” serena’s eyebrows furrowed accusingly but her smile was anything but. the glint in her eyes was close to a mirth, too, and mason decided he could now truck through the gaffer’s upcoming long speech on his tardiness. or any other berating session, if it meant being granted by this same sight every morning. “but mason, what are you doing here?”

mason scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I fell asleep here.”

“no, I mean, why are you sleeping here?”

“I’m making sure no one barges into the house and attack you again,” the regret lacing mason’s eyes deeply radiated down serena. the woman would very much like to envelope him in a warm embrace if she was given the chance. “I don’t think I can live through the pain again.”

“mason…”

“I mean it when I said I’m truly sorry, serena,” the princess had to hold back her gasp when she noticed the shift in his eyes, glazing regret to determination in a split second. “I know you said you forgive me and all that jazz, but I know when I said to tell me how I can make it all up to you.”

serena had to remind herself to breathe, as she was unable to look away from the intense wave of emotion mason was showcasing. the reminder resulted in a shaky intake of air, depicting perfectly what she was feeling inside.

serena wanted to put the entire blame to her pregnancy hormones but she knew better. she needed mason to be acting nonchalantly towards her existence if she wanted to survive this marriage unscathed—no physical scars, no emotional damage inflicted, and certainly no broken heart to mend.

“how about you give me a ride to the hospital today, hm?” serena lightly cough to cover her nervousness as she tried to lift herself to stand. “least you won’t lie about dropping me off first.”

unfortunately, one cannot change overnight and therefore she had mason on his feet first so he could help her stand up, lifting serena by the waist as if she didn’t resemble a whale at this point. “how about I skip practice for the day and come with you wherever you want to go instead?”

while his arm was around her waist and his hand was grasping her hand tightly so she wouldn’t fall, serena glanced up in disbelief. is he joking? I hope he is because the last time he came with me, he left me stranded…

the rare slip of emotion—going from disbelief to disappointment—on the princess’ ever-composed face didn’t escape the corner of mason’s eyes, and he knew immediately what she was thinking of. a little smile, pressed by the guilt of having mistreated her, shadowed against his demeanour.

“I have an overdue visit to see my little man, don’t you think?”

＊✿❀○❀✿＊＊✿❀○❀✿＊＊✿❀○❀✿＊

“there he is!” the doctor proclaimed rather excitedly—gone was her frightening exterior the last time mason and serena met her shortly after elena’s mess. “I see he’s rather happy inside there, look at that smile!”

while serena and the doctor shared some laughter between them, mason could only stand there, frozen like a fridge in the wrong place, sore like a misplaced nail. he couldn’t believe his eyes—flashed before him was the black and white, 3D picture of his son. for the first time, mason got to see the lid of his eyes, the sharp nose, his pouty lips. the footballer could even see the weird combination of him and serena, despite the lack of colour and shape from the photo.

for the first time, mason could finally put down the literal meaning of his flesh and blood, his ultimate treasure,and it was nothing short of an incredible feeling.

it was a rather pleasant feeling, wonderful like mason could now burst in the sky happily… yet he also had to overcome this protective urge inside of him so no one could put his mini-me in danger. he’d never wanted to even punch himself for all the things he’d put the little guy and his mother through.

why didn’t he come to see this sooner?

mason had to press his lips tightly, in order to keep his emotions in check. he couldn’t cry—he shouldn’t—not when he was the one who’d once put the both of them in a game of death with god. not when he hadn’t earned his forgiveness, not when he knew he had a thousand pile of work to do to ensure both serena and his son lived without having to go through another ounce of pain in their lives.

“you’ve done well too so far, you’re doing so well,” mason whispered gently to serena’s stomach, the way he’d been doing every chance he got and every chance he was allowed to, when it was back to the two—or three—of them in the room. “we’re nearing the end, my boy. please hang in there because I can’t wait to see you,”

serena would be lying if the sight before her didn’t send warmth all over her body.

“thank you, serena,” mason whispered to her this time, his eyes met hers while he was crouching down, as he wiped off the ultrasound gel from her protruding belly. now that he got a closer look, he could point out some bulges showing up here and there momentarily and he smiled wider—despite the initial pursed lips—because that’s some strong kick, my boy. “thank you for everything you’ve done for our little guy.”

from the look mason casted to her, serena could pick out the fact he was being earnest and as genuine as his actions post the incident with elena. at that moment, despite whatever would happen between the two of them, serena concluded that she was glad mason mount was the father to her baby and pleased that she got to share her first pregnancy with someone that truly put her needs above anything else, someone who actually understood the job a father entailed, and not just merely words promised.

despite whatever was going to happen later on, serena was filled with warmth and happiness because she knew, mason would never let her fight alone, at least for things concerning their son.

“mrs. mount—I’m sorry, I’ll be back later!”

the nurse’s sudden entrance snapped the intricate moment, and serena was rather relieved because of it. god knows what would happen if the silent continued and allowed her to think of things she would rather forbid herself from pondering, considering their contractual relationship and all…

she shouldn’t be thinking about the extent of mason’s outmost care. it definitely didn’t include her, and she agreed herself that he was a wonderful father. of course it was only limited and directed for their son.

“no, no need,” serena instantly tried to sit herself up but mason—fortunately not being the one carrying the baby—beat her to it, and before she could do it her own, mason had already stood close by behind her, steadying her body as serena slowly gained her balance in sitting. “is there anything I forgot?”

“just want to remind you that your counselling session’s in 15.”

both mason and serena halted their movements. serena from the realisation that she had indeed forgot there was another place she had to visit—being around mason lately kind of put such urgent matters aside because he was almost everything she could ask for—and mason from the shock that serena submitted herself to seek a professional help, something he didn’t know of.

what kind of husband, especially the father-to-be, that didn’t know his own wife’s health record?

what kind of husband, especially the father-to-be, put his own wife to a condition that required her to seek help?

a terrible one, for sure.

and he vowed to change that.

it was the very least mason could do, after all things serena had gone through due to his recklessness. mason should make her life easier—if he couldn’t do that by far, he should do it for the remaining of the pregnancy. he should buy her the best stuffs, he should make her the best meals, he should take her to the best places…for the sake of the baby’s prenatal environment, mason replayed the sentence all over again like a broken mantra.

but of course, we knew better.

＊✿❀○❀✿＊＊✿❀○❀✿＊＊✿❀○❀✿＊

“what do you think of the bridge?”

it was another dinner shared over the countertop of their kitchen but considering mason had a home game tomorrow and therefore forbade mason from consuming nothing else than his strict diet, the footballer took control of the wheel. so instead of serena cooking from behind the corner, mason could be found channelling his inner masterchef self.

“I’d rather not say anything that can offend you, being a childhood fan and all,” serena put her chin on top of her palm, resulting her cheeks to be squished due to the friction against two surfaces of her skin, and mason wondered if a pregnant lady could be this endearing. “because I’ve never been.”

mason’s face contorted to all ways in utter shock. “never? at all?”

serena laughed at his comical response, as she always does. mason was effortlessly funny in her standard.

“okay then, it’s settled,” mason decided firmly when serena shook her head to answer his question. “you’re so watching me tomorrow. would you be comfortable going out?”

serena’s mind went blank for a couple of seconds. while her trauma of seeing people she didn’t know was now growing less and less each day, she doubted her ears. mason despised the idea of being in a public place with her in tow unless it was an official event occurred by the palace.

but she couldn’t shake off the giddiness inside of her because she would be going out, after all. mason being more protective since the incident with elena surely should be cut off a bit, or serena would go crazy being confined in the mansion alone for far too long.

and that mason also knew she’d always watch his matches from home. now that he was offering her to watch live, up-close and personal, serena couldn’t also shrug off the niggling feeling in her stomach…

is he being kind because he now knows I’m under a psychological watch or something?

“do you not want to go?” it was serena that had all these sort of uncontrollable thoughts and yet mason still ensured she was on board with his idea. it was getting harder each day to believe what mason said about trying to be a good father when he already projected himself as one. “if so, that’s also fine.”

“I—I—I do want to go,” serena tried to gather herself as quick as possible. if the palace found out about it, she’d definitely be enrolled again to the public appearance etiquette class. “but do you really want me to be there?”

mason tilted his head in confusion, not seeing where the problem was. “I wouldn’t be asking if I don’t want you there.”

“why would you want us to be there?”

“why wouldn’t I want my wife and child to be there?”

mason might be shrugging as he went back to cook the simple, healthy meal for the both of them, as if his answer was to be expected, but serena had to swallow the bitter bile down her throat. mason might be shrugging, as if it was the most natural thing for them, as if they were real, as if he just didn’t stir something inside of serena—of what, she didn’t know.

and frankly she didn’t want to know, for she was afraid it might not be as what she hoped it was.

next chapter contains:

what if i tell you we're no longer far apart? serena's heart skipped a beat. what the hell was that supposed to mean? look around. and there he was, dapper and dashing as if the look didn't obliterate her poor heart.

#oh-saints writes #mason mount #mason mount fics #mason mount fanfic #mason mount series #mason mount fluff #mason mount angst #mason mount x oc #mason mount imagines #mason mount fic #footie fics #footballer x oc #football fanfic

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nerdieforpedro · 9 months

Text

Sard'ika Sessions

Session Four

Din Djarin x plus size female reader

Fanfiction 18+

Sard'ika Sessions Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Din Djarin/The Mandalorian Masterlist

Word Count: approx 2.9k

Summary: The anticipation is high before the fourth session starts and communication is key. You're eager that another session begins soon and so is Din. It turns out he's even built something for this session. A promise is made between the two of you, intertwining your passions further.

Warnings: Angst! (because I'm mean sometimes), beskar kink (at this point - it is), thigh riding, restraints, non-canon Mandalorian lore, Din being a soft Dom, HANDS, fingering, edging, aftercare

Notes: I tried something a little different in this chapter and created a sub-culture within Mandalorian culture to have some freak in them. They're an entire clan of people who use and worship weapons. I'd be more surprised if no one ever thought "Hey, can you put that in there?" Since humans have been asking that since the dawn of time. Two more weeks Space Buddies! 🖤 Also I didn't have this one beta read but I did run some ideas by @legendary-pink-dotand she helped me sort things out.

The two of you had worked out that you’d have forty-eight hours together in a week.. The Mandalorian took a bail jumper bounty in the meantime while you continued to work at the guild, counting down the hours. Day one through three wasn’t bad, you were still in the afterglow of the last session. Despite the mishap that occurred during your last encounter with your Mandalorian, he was not only coming back to see you, but has guaranteed forty eight hours of his undivided attention.

Day two through seven was worse because you knew the following you’d have him to yourself - a warrior feared in multiple star systems. It made you a bit more giddy than normal and your co-workers took notice, not that they hadn’t picked up on subtle changes. A steady confidence in dealing with different hunters that usually would push your buttons more easily followed by swift exits to your home. They teased you about a lover which you denied harshly because it was an agreement between your Mandalorian and yourself.

With Din as he had told you to call him.

Day four had been especially difficult because he came to claim his reward for the bail jumper and mentioned needing to speak to you outside when you were on your break. After exchanging his credits and going outside to secure the jumper who was on carbonate, you told your colleagues that you were going to take a short respite. No more than ten minutes. That wasn’t unusual, so you went around the side of the guild where Din leaned against the wall. Your steps were slow toward him, really you felt like running but didn’t want to kick up a suspicious amount of dust you’d have to get off your uniform later. Your Mandalorian nodded in your direction and turned to face during your approach and reached out both of his hands, holding them when you stood before him.

“You wanted to talk?” You asked, you wanted to use his given name, but felt that except when you two were alone and without the possibility of eavesdroppers, it should not be used. His thumbs stroked the back of your hands, pressing into them slightly and he kept shifting his weight between his feet. Normally, he was steady and still. Was he nervous? About what?

“Sard’ika, a few things. I will need access to your home. I was able to customize something we can use to benefit us both. The final setup will need to take place in your home, preferably when you are at work to not spoil the surprise on the day before we are to have our fourty-eight hours together. Is this alright?” He questioned softly, he realized that he was making an odd request, but he believed what he said to be the truth and he did have a promise to keep. Din did not want a repeat of what happened during their last session. He told her that he would prepare her and that’s what he planned to do. He heard you chuckle,

“That’s fine Din. I’m looking forward to it. I-” Din studied your face, ‘she’s thinking about something again will she tell me?’ His mind starts to run through appropriate responses but then he remembers you haven’t finished your thought.

“Yes Sard’ika?” He held your hands a little tighter, not squeezing them, just firm to let you know it’s okay to tell him whatever it is. You look directly at his visor, when you do that, he feels like you’re looking at him and seeing him. The Mandalorian is rationally aware that it’s impossible, but feelings are telling him something entirely different.

“Din. I know our last sessions had its issues, but I want you to know and remember that I trust you. I take it whatever you’re going to set up I shouldn’t peek at until it’s ready?” You suggested and he nodded, “I just,” you step closer to him, almost chest to chest. You want to press yourself against his beskar but resist the urge. You’re outside and need to go back to work. “I’m glad you came back and are willing to continue our sessions.” You pause, unsure if you want to voice it.

Din releases your hands and places them on your shoulders, touching his helmet to your forehead as he’s done many times now. He infers what you mean and understands the hesitation. The two of you have become someone more than just session partners but haven’t discussed what any of it may mean, especially after the last session where it likely would have been easy to leave. He knew he couldn’t though, he needed to draw you close and ensure he hadn’t hurt you. Beyond that, he envisioned you writhing with pleasure from him, from what he was able to strum from your body. There were times he thought of you aboard the Razor Crest, holding Grogu as the three of you traveled to parts of the galaxy known. But he felt it was much too soon for those types of conversations. The Mandalorian still felt he needed to convince you that he wasn’t going to seek his carnal pleasures elsewhere.

“Sard’ika. I would not have left you and especially now, I want you to experience losing yourself. I will not betray your trust. Take care during your shift.” He stood back to his full height, tears formed in your eyes and you sniffled. Closing your eyes enabled you to hold back the waterworks to wave goodbye before returning to work completely unfocused. Din watched as you walked away, determined to have you reach an exalted state.

Day seven came and you went to work like normal, but when you came home, Din was there. He greeted you at your door and ushered you in. It was perplexing, you knew he was going to be there but it was still a surprise for it to actually happen. After removing your shoes and getting something to drink, you headed into your bedroom and saw some large piece of equipment in the middle of the room. It was covered by a large black sheet, as tempting as it was to peek, you promised you wouldn’t so you refrained and showered. Din ate when he heard the water in the refresher, he had eaten lunch when he arrived and put the equipment together but it was dinnertime and his stomach growled. He made the mistake of entering your bedroom to grab one of the toy bags that he was going to double check, but saw you naked body from the back, standing in front of the dresser getting a gown out he assumed to put on. You looked back at him, and turned to face him. You did not cover yourself and walked toward the middle of the room. Din held his hand up to indicate it wasn’t time yet. He was a stickler for staying on time.

The session began that evening right at midnight with Din sitting on the edge of the bed similar to your first time and your thighs spread over his beskar. The contrast of your warm flesh and cool metal combined with the friction as he moved his right knee up and down to have you bounce against it. Work yourself into a sopping frenzy, gripping his shoulder pauldrons to rock yourself. It was when the rough fabric of Din’s gloves circles your clit that you screamed his name, pressing yourself against his chestplate. His large hand was in the middle of your back, steadying you as the climax washed over you. Once, you had settled you went to move off his thigh and he continued to hold you close.

“Not yet Sard’ika. I’m going to have you sit elsewhere.” He then allowed you to sit on the bed as he stood and took a few steps toward the appliance in the middle of the room. It was quite large and you don’t know if he had put it together here or maybe he did some finishing touches before bringing it in. Pulling the black sheet off, he folded it and retrieved a bag of toys before returning to it and extending his hand to signal to step over to him.

Its size is what shocked you first. It looked like a basic chair except wide you thought to accommodate her hips, but it was tipped back slightly with stirrups at the top and bottom? Were the things at the top stirrups? There were leather buckles though so maybe not. It looked like there were two different levers near the bottom and two gears in the base of the chair that she could see. “Din, what is it exactly?” You asked, genuinely confused, you still stepped forward and took his hand.

Your reaction wasn’t unexpected, most are unaware of what the modified device was used for. Originally, it was built to extract information from enemies of Mandalore but as with most discoveries, a second purpose was found. Turns out, depending on the inclinations of the being in the chair, it would be used to bring pleasure. As Mandalorians focused more on their weapons and arms, such devices fell by the wayside but in Din’s travels he had come to know some clans of Mandalorians who used such devices between paramours and riduurs. He reasoned that he could use this to have you focus so set sensations while better pinpointing what your spots were. “Meshla, you do trust me do you not?” Your nod serves as confirmation as he sat you down, holding your hands as he did earlier that day.

“I will restrain and stretch you a bit, but it won’t be painful. Just a bit uncomfortable. The goal is to identify more of your pleasurable centers so I can utilize them before entering you.” The explanation was reasonable and at this point, you were a bit curious to see what he’d be able to do with contraption. Din had you move your butt all the way back into the curve of the chair and the lean back, raising your arms back and over your head, He secured them snuggly into the leather bands, he was able to fit one finger in between your skin and the leather so as to not chafe you. His visor settled on your breasts, rising and falling with your chest, he then looked at your face and hummed as he does when he’s pleased. Your face is watching him, curious but not anxious as you had been. For this is grateful, he doesn’t want to frighten you. Pulling up your plush stuffed chair, he sat in front of you watching as your nipples hardened under his gaze, waiting for him to do something, but he is stoic.

The silence tells him that you do trust him after all.

He lifts your left leg and sets it on the flat metal bar that extends to the stirrups where the heel of your foot goes. He leaves your right leg slack, removes his gloves and traces the curve of your face, continuing to watch your body react. Aware of the effect of his hands on your skin, his hands move to your breasts and he supports their weight. Thumbs circle your tender nipples earning a soft moan from you before one hand palms your stomach, having you wiggle your hips slightly.

“Sard’ika, be as loud as you like. It’s only the two of us in here.” He spied a small pool of arousal in the base of the chair and was pleased. Swiping two fingers down, pressing them into your skin before arriving at your inner thigh and cupping your cunt, not inserting any of his fingers. Just letting your slick coat his hand and his second one left your breast, cupping your face to have his visor face you. “Say my name Meshla.” Two fingers plunged into your dripping hole with little resistance.

“Din! Yes, please…more Din.” A small nod after your plea was rewarded with slow pumps inside of you, your hips kept still at first, but then started rolling with his fingers, using both the restraints and your one foot that he decided not to bind. Din’s hands teased both your breast and core, adding a third finger to stretch you, testing for your reaction. You groaned slightly, but continued to ride his fingers, “Maker they’re so thick, Din-Din-Din…” You began repeating his name over and over, twisting your body to find a deeper angle, but your Mandalorian curled his fingers within you and you stopped for a moment at the new sensation. He scanned your face, looking for any discomfort and when he didn’t see any, moved them even faster and coupled it with pressing his thumb to your small bundle of nerves circling it. Screaming his name, you rode his fingers slowly, stopping when the waves stopped, your head hung temporally before he tilted up.

“Perfect Sard’ika. I could continue to watch you use my hands for hours.” A deep chuckle leaves his helmet and both sets of your lips quiver, he didn’t remove his fingers so he spreads them out as much as your walls will allow which isn’t very far.

“Din, I can’t just have your fingers alone. I need more.”

“I have a request then. While we continue to have our sessions, let no other touch you like this.” A thumb grazes your sensitive clit and you hiss. “They will not see the expressions, hear the carnal melodies of your body,” Din pressed his helmet to your forehead as his fingers started moving slowly again, “feel the soft flesh that forms around me, enveloping me, nor shall they know what glorious whimpers you possess.” Your hands form fists as you long to press yourself against his beskar, sit yourself in his lap as you had before and be closer to him. The restraints which hadn’t bothered you were a sudden hindrance, the squeals of pleasure he was pulling from your sensitive cunt mixed with his deep tone had you on the verge of your second orgasm, but he stopped.

“Din, why, Maker why?!” You yelled in frustration, he tilted his helmet and you huffed, aware he was edging you even more.

“Sard’ika tell me you understand? Do you agree? You may try to ride my fingers, but the result will not be the same.” The smirk was evident from his voice just to spite him, you tried to ride his fingers and he kept them still, painfully still to where you stopped after a few flicks of your hips.

“Din, you’re…I understand and agree. There’s no one else. The same goes for you as well, correct?” Your eyes trained on his visor as he remained silent. Then, he pulled his fingers out until only the tips were left.

“You would be correct Cyar’ika. No one else gives me any desire to attempt such things. I wonder if I’ve gone mad at times.” A quick thrust upward makes your back curve from suddenly being filled again by him, the warmth scratching the pulsing itch inside of you. “And even more worrying is that I am fine being mad if it means I can be the only one who sees you like this and the only one who hears. No others for me as well.” Din speaks your name softly in contrast with how roughly his fingers are writhing within you, he doesn’t say your name often but when he does sends a spark down your spine and a second orgasm washes over you more intensely than the first. Your eyes flutter this time around and your body more slack.

Din stands and releases your wrists and ankle, revealing slight marks on your wrists but nothing that should last more than a few days. Your body felt like jelly, barely staying on the chair. Din felt you slump and supported your torso with one arm and slipped another arm under your legs, carrying you over to the bed and setting you down. Your arms reached weakly for him, barely reaching his shoulders. “Relax Sard’ika. You need to rest before we continue. We’ve got plenty of time, this is just the first day.” Allowing your arms to drop back to the bed, you relaxed and Din covered you with blankets, pulling them up to your neck.

The Mandalorian retrieved some towels to clean the chair and sat at the edge of the bed, watching your sleeping form. He then makes his way to your kitchen and removes his helmet, making himself some soup and eating some leftover food from your fridge. Din made sure to keep an eye on your bedroom door. He closed it when he left you sleeping, but remained vigilant in case you woke up. Upon finishing his meal, he washed the dishes and tried them, putting them back and returned his helmet to its proper place over his head. Din spread himself across your couch and looked up at the ceiling. How much further was he willing to take this? How far did he want to take these sessions? She would ask eventually to see more of him, to know more of him. What was he willing to reveal to her and how long would this continue?

Questions that swirled around in Din’s mind before his eyes closed to rest.

Previous: Session Three

Next: Session Five

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deadboyfriendd · 1 year

Text

Cochise Il: Mudsill

Summary: The morning after his first day reaps a certain morosity with it. After a gruesome shootout with a grisly outcome, he vows not only to protect this town, but you as well. In more ways than one. The second part of Cochise. Sequel to Nellie.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, suggestions of lynching and public execution, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse (the horse watches in this one), ride a cowboy, smut included, death of a spouse discussed in this, blood and wounds (gunshots), minor unintentional self-harm, unprotected p in v, creampie

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 6.1k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading! And also for dealing with me going, “now what?” every fifteen seconds, and also for being my nepo goth mommy and being the only reason I get reads on this godforsaken app and also for indulging me in this fantasy and also for ominously looming over my docs because the performance anxiety makes me write better and more consistently.

Find the series masterlist here!

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed

In one self place, for where we are is hell,

And where hell is must we ever be.

The morning is nonetheless blistering, no qualms of early warmth and birds singing. Here, the sun meant silence, this world turned itself over to the night and reaped rest by the break of dawn just to escape its harshness until winter. Not all would make it. By five the blossom of the night-blooming cereus will have shriveled away, and by six the earth would begin to heat.

The sun does not rest, only lies in wait. Remnants of it settling in the sand beneath him.

He awakes with a groan and a pulling sting that blossoms across his neck and face at the first stale movements of wake. He could hear the vacant crunch of footsteps against gravel, hollow and softened by the fine sand beneath them. A shadow overtook him, one that granted a relief like the sour sting of white chocolate against the prevalence of melting.

“Well, good morning, Edward.” His eyes nearly crossed to look up towards you, attempting to make out any of the features of your face. They were too backlit from the sun and his eyes were still too sensitive. A basket for laundry sat firm against your hip, emptied. Above you, there is a line strung from one ironwood to the next, a washbasin several feet away with suds still running down the sides.

He bears his senses, pulling his mind away from that celestial body it rested in the previous night. He tried not to think of your supple nature in front of him, the way your silken skin felt beneath his fingers or the way the ends of your hair tickled against his belly within his dream. It was up now, twisted into braids and tucked unto itself.

His face and neck are red, you aren't incredibly introspective, and you can’t tell if it is a blush or the beginnings of a sunburn. You waited to wake him, washing and hanging your laundry before the break of dawn. He seemed tired, but leaving him out in the sun seemed downright cruel. You ‘d think of him in the same respects as the rattlesnake– the one who cooks from the outside in when it sits in the sand too long.

You offer your hand to him, and he takes it. You are much stronger than your body implies, taking on the weight of him with a pull, hands calloused from housework and the general husbandry that comes from western living.

“Couldn’t sleep?” You asked behind a grin, by now his eyes had adjusted and settled on the whites of your teeth and the upturned fat of your face.

“Apparently I was the only one that wanted to.” He was sore from the ground, though he couldn’t quite tell if his tailbone hurt from the sand or the train to Tombstone. He watched you in stride, taking a few of your smaller ones ahead of him.

You giggled softly, and it sounded like church bells. You looked over your shoulder at him, and he couldn’t bring himself to watch your eyes, instead, settling on the way the flesh of your neck folded at the crease. He counted the moles to ground himself, “The west never rests, Edward.”

He followed your stride for a few steps, his long strides becoming staccatos in comparison to yours. He looked down at his feet, avoiding rocks beneath him in his still-weary state and watching the dust kick up from beneath your heels to collect on the front of his boots.

The gold of your earring refracted a light that brushed across your cheek, had Eddie not been staring so intently, he would have missed it. He’s glad he didn’t. “Steve already came ‘round this morning. Said a telegraph came in for you. Trains’ delayed ‘till ‘bout tomorrow.”

The confession hit him like a shot to the chest, and he could help the dramatization of the groan that escaped him, “Christ.”

“Got something important on that cargo train?” You raised a poignant eyebrow at him, more motherly in nature. It questioned the dramatics more than his personage.

He shook his head, unable to stop himself from chuckling at his own bad luck, “Only my horse… and everything else.”

“I see.” You nodded back in repose, turning your body back to face him. Your hands still clutching the laundry basket braced over your hip, “Well, let's see if we can’t scrape up some fresh clothes for you to wear then.”

You reach your hand out towards him in invitation, his own forbearance of politeness and handshakes prompts him to reach out, though, you don’t seem to let go. You don’t notice the rouge of his cheeks or along the tips of his ears in schoolboy embarrassment beneath his sunburn. Your hands aren’t soft, not like the other women he’s touched. Your hands have been kissed with the calluses of men’s work. Ropes on horses and hands on guns. His memories reel back to your husband, the slack you were forced to receive in his absence. You wouldn’t have to pick up any slack on Eddie, he didn’t plan on dying soon. Not if he could help it.

You use your hand like a reign, pulling him towards the wrought-iron staircase within the bar that led to your home. The staircase rocked with each footstep – a solid structure that seemed not-quite fixated to its endpoints.

He looked around at the corridor, modest, but nevertheless a home. The dark wood on the floors closely resembled the mahogany excessiveness of The Grand Hotel, though, the expanse of it was limited to the flooring. A pale Mexican plaster covered the vast expanse of the walls, rounding the corners and archways into a smooth texture.

He noticed the boots by the door, covered in dust and much too large to be your own. It filled in the gaps where the empty spots on the wall still lie bare, and where the second dining chair had remained tucked neatly beneath the table. Though this place resembled a home, it was not. Instead, it housed the ghost of your husband. He laid in bed at night next to the shell of grief that resembled you, the decanter on the table filled with tears of loneliness and guilt.

You opened the thin door in the corridor, and he realized that all of your husband’s clothes had been moved here. He tried not to picture you pulling them out of the dresser they resided in, tried not to imagine the tears streaming down your face as you buried it within the fabric just to smell him again. Just to feel like he was close enough to touch one more time.

The garments were well-starched. A white high-collar shirt, black vest, black pants, black cravat. He was a man after Eddie’s own heart, that was for sure. You excuse yourself towards the kitchen, allowing him open access to the dressing room to change.

When he slipped through the door, loose on its hinges, he met your eyes– pressing and cold in nature. It wasn’t intentional, at least, not in the sense that your coldness was directed towards him. At an instant, your hands had found his chest, and he peered downwards to watch them, intently. It was a force of habit, righting a missed button and an off-set pattern on the vest. Once you corrected it, you laid them flat against his sternum.

He thought back to last night, the pressing warmth of your hands against his chest and the soft brush of your hair that tickled against his belly. He thought back to the purely pornographic sounds that resounded off the walls of The Grand Hotel in his dream. Though, you’d felt more human now, with the hurt in your eyes that dragged like a trunk you couldn’t rid yourself of. Your eyes carried a grief like granite, pulled from the quarry chipped into the mountain of your life and heavy on your soul.

He thought back to what The Sheriff had said to him, about picking up the slack when your husband died. Who had been there when you were grieving? Surely the sheriff, but he had said it himself. You had your pick, but had never taken another lover. He wondered if it could be him.

There is an ex-cathedra bass crescendo that reverberates against the dainty backing of tenor melodies in the bar at night, long after the dust has settled beneath the feet of the common folk. You never understood why the people here still chose to do their bidding during the day, when the sun casted an itching burn across the delicate cutaneous layers of exposed skin like lye.

It was not Christmas, and yet you’d found pieces of words in fragments of memories beneath your breath as you hammered against the keys with clumsy fingers. You grazed your tongue against your bottom lip, still in search of the remnants of sugar from the dried Christmas fruits you’d been given as a child.

There is a sombering solidarity in this aloneness, and in the way you no longer search for the feeling of your husband’s fingers against the cold ivory. It was just that now: cold. That emptiness would always linger, but that coldness of keys was now not for the absence of his warmth. They just were.

Eddie watched you from the gap in the glass door to the parlor, smoothing the hairs on his arms down from where the low, deep notes rattled in his coccyx. He let the press of the mesquite against his back keep him tethered to the earth. He’d recognized the song like a ghost, Christmases past like bugs with needle-prick feet crawling up his back in repose. Where your fingers lay heavy against untuned, rattling keys, he found a softness. A delicacy in this world that was anything but. He saw tarantula legs in your spindles of fingers, light and silent as they crawled across ivory.

There was not an inherent evil to the tarantula. Only existence.

Your own existence was different here. You weren’t so on edge now that you figured you were alone. He felt guilty taking advantage of your comfort like this, but your softness radiated light out past the windows and into the sand outside in a warm, golden glow. Your lashes kissed in the corners of your eyes, nursing against the apples of your cheeks as you looked down in concentration. He wanted to smooth out the line forming between your brows. Your hair lay wild, splayed across your shoulders and roused from the removal of your hat.

He adjusted himself against the door frame, the creak against the flooring from behind you sent you reeling upwards, the scratch-key a heavy hand against incorrect and out-of-tune keys. The man in black looming behind you like a shroud. You’d gasped without realizing it. He took a step forward, hand out in gentle appeasement as you whipped around, more startled than afraid. He registered it as fear. Your hand came to your chest in repulse, laying flat and tight against your breastbone.

He takes a few steps forward, quickly closing the gap between you. The echo from the heel of his boot bounced off your body and you convinced yourself that the ringing in your ears was from that alone.

“Woah, Nellie.” He’d said to you, softly, a pressing grin upturning crookedly at the corners of his lips. This was not the first time he’d used the horse moniker, and you’d figured this was not going to be the last. You’d blamed your own spooked nature at the way your breath did not fill your lungs completely and not the way Eddie’s warm hands felt as it picked yours up off of your chest, holding it between his two like a vice in apologetics.

You squeezed his hand under your fingers, shaking it slightly in annoyance, “You scared me half to death, Edward.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ma’am.” He’d said in apology, once again, yet the smile pulled across his face further, pretty teeth grazing against the suppleness of flesh.

You raised a brow at him, stern in nature, “When you smile something awful like that, it makes me think you did.”

His smile stretched wider in his face, a laugh coming to fruition in his chest and exhaling through his nose and over your face, “I didn’t. Honest.” Not that you really thought that he did in the first place.

His hand left yours and found itself around your waist, where the tautness of your dresses stretched over the softness of your hip. He grasped for skin beneath the ruching of the fabric over you, warm hand splayed across your back.

He was close — entirely too close to be considered professional or polite, but you welcomed it. You felt the breath from his nostrils, cooling against the bridge of your nose and dissipating across the crests of your cheeks. His lips parted, and the breath changed to warm. You could taste the tobacco that resided against his lips like the sugar you’d searched for on your own mere moments ago.

His weight against your chest is foreboding, and even the bracing from his wide palm cannot stop the soft step back you take. The heel of your own hand presses against a random selection of treble keys and creates an awful, off-putting sound that makes him jump.

You can’t stop the girlish giggle that slips past your lips at the momentary terror that registers in your eyes. You don’t know if it is because of the immediate karmic justice or the fact that he was so startled by the noise he just listened to from afar. He looks back down towards you with a look that mirrored your own previous one, trying to force the smile off of his face down into a scowl.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, honest.” You laughed between syllables, quickly pulling the key cover over the tops of the ivories and resting back against them.

“Well, you’re smiling something awful like you did.”

The air outside was still. Too still. Like it lies in wait of travesty that happened in a near-constant turnstile. There is no one in the streets tonight, the party crowd gathered before the stage of The Grand Hotel to watch tonight’s opening of Faustus.

However, Hell would not just be a frame of mind tonight.

Michael ‘Mudsill’ Doten leaks off the steps of The Grand Hotel in a clumsy choreography of laudanum and drink, pupils blown wide in an opiate tincture waltz. The peacemaker across his hip a metronome of depravity waiting for the subtle fingertip of quarter counts to off-beat.

He howls at the moon, firing one, two shots towards it into the open air. It both draws townspeople towards and away from the scenery. Marshall Milt Kilmer steps off the balcony of The Grand Hotel haughtily, fumbling with the weapon holstered against his side.

From behind the glass at the Whispering Sands, you stand at the sound of gunshots, hands finding your own weapon holstered beneath the folds of your dresses. Eddie’s large palm finds your shoulder, squeezing softly in a promise of not us. His other hand met the stock of his gun, tucked away in the shoulder holster against his waist.

“Michael! Come on now.” You heard Milt start, sound clear despite being muffled by glass. The commotion must have been right outside your window. Eddie and yourself listened from behind the front door, air between your bodies stagnant in wait.

Michael was slovenly, more so than usual, “Well, howdy Milt.” He stumbled, lame as a duck and ten times more disgusting. He wielded his pistol like a bomb with the pin pilled, a travesty in wait.

“Alright, hand those over, Michel.” Milt insists, gun wielded in defense against Michael. The commotion has attracted onlookers that seeped from ant pile buildings in uneasy swarms – the Doten family leaking out and congregating in their own slovenly hive like wasps, “Hand ‘em over!” Milt calls, more firm this time.

Micahel takes a look around, then back at the County Marshall before him. His pupils are blown wide like dinner plates, “Okay, Milt, I’ll hand ‘em over. It’s only fun. Here you go.”

But what are thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?

There is a split second in which you can see the silver line between life and death, in which you can walk the plane between realms. There reaps a morosity heavy on your heart in the fractions of a second before a man’s life ends. It is entirely too familiar to you, and you crumble under the weight of it all. You don’t hear the crack of the gun, and you don’t see Milt’s body fall limp, but you see the breath that falls from his lips that keeps his soul on a lark. You try to catch it in your hands to force back into his lungs. Running towards his body felt like wading through sand, burning hot and suffocating around your waist. He was dead by the time your hands cupped around his shoulder, but the remnant of his essence felt like a sheet, drowning you in the great planes of the Gila.

“Milt? Come on now.” Michael said, the gun long dropped on the ground. He nudged Milt’s boot with his own, unable to process the velocity of the events that transpired just moments before.

The sheriff is fast to rush Michael, cracking the stock of his own peacemaker across the crown of the man before him, the body dropping heavy against the sand to your left. Heavy, but still alive.

Everything is heavy. The weight that you bear crouched beside Milt’s body, the way Michael slumped into the sand beside you, the crowd gathering around the sudden onslaught of commotion, and the hand against your back that undoubtedly belonged to Edward.

“Get him off the street.” Steve ordered, sweeping his peacemaker around in a circle to fend off the feigning crowd, “Alright, back off.” He said, stern and loud. You’d have half a mind to be afraid of him when he was like this, if you weren’t still in shock.

“Get a rope!” Someone from the town said, stepping down from a nearby patio.

“String him up!”

Edward could sense the rising tension, his other hand coming firmly around the taught expanse of your waist and pulling you back without giving you room to fight. You stumbled backwards in a stupor, hot tears streaming down your face emotionlessly. You were a stone. A puppet in his hands watching the scene before you unfold.

Steve’s face hardened, jaw clenched under cold eyes, “Nobody’s hanging anybody.”

“He just killed a man–”

“And he’ll stand trial for it. Now, get back! Move!” Steve made sure the hammer was pulled back on his gun, serious as sin. You don’t think you’d ever seen him this scary before. You didn’t think he could be this scary at all.

“Turn him loose.” One of the town patrons called from the building riot, stepping forward from the mass. He was a dirty cattle pusher that still carried the grime and anger of a juvenile foal. When Steve gave him a cold stare-down, he spoke up once more, “He said to turn loose of him.”

“I’m not, so go home.” Steve said again, face like a stone.

Another voice emerged from the crowd, “I swear to God, law dog, you step aside or we’ll tear you apart.” He was an older man with a scraggly beard, wiry hair to match his wiry nature, a dust-alden bandana hanging loosely off the skeleton-physique. He wielded his own weapon, pointing it at the Sheriff. He knew he was outnumbered, but wouldn’t back down. You wanted to cry out, to let them lynch Michael. Anything to avoid watching someone you care about die again. Anything to avoid feeling that.

Steve took a step forward, pressing the barrel directly to the forehead of the old man. Hard enough for it to leave an indentation on the skin.

“You die first, got it? Your friends might rush me later but not before I kill you first.” Steve’s eyes had hardened from something stone-cold to something ablaze. His eyes reaped the anger of the afternoon sun, alight with anger. Anger from defiance. Anger for Milt. “You understand me?”

“He’s bluffing, let’s rush him” The younger man spoke up, further trying to entice the crowd. Everyone else was at a standstill, tension so taught, that if that wire snapped, it could recoil and kill both Steve and the other man.

The old man’s eyes went wide, hands splayed out in a half surrender, half heeding motion, “No! He isn’t bluffing. Don’t rush him.” He pleaded, as if he were staring death in the face. By the look of rage and hunger alight behind Steve’s eyes, you were sure he was.

This time, the sheriff went quiet, talking only to the man in front of him, “You aren’t as stupid as you look. Now tell them to get back. “

“Go on, now, get back.” The old man said, hands still upward in surrender. The statement was shaking and quiet, unsure and teetering between tears. “Go on!” He said, louder this time, a plea for his life.

“He’ll kill me.” He whispered, a single salty tear streaking through the fine layer of sand on his face. The crowd dissipated back, the yelling and demands of public execution coming to a gelatinous quiet.

Edward removed his hand from your waist, putting the pistol from beneath his arm. He pulled the hammer back without question, pointing it at the young cattle-hand that started this all.

“And you, big boy, you’re next.” He spoke it like a promise. Like a prayer. If you hadn’t been magnified by everyone's slightest move, you would have missed the way Steve’s eyes met you before he nodded in Edward’s direction.

The train comes by way of Texas Pacific that next morning, long before the break of dawn, and Eddie’s steamer trunk and horse were brought by means of Butterfield’s Overland as the sun was breaking darkness over the horizon.

You don’t remember the sun turning over the next morning until you are blinded by the sudden onslaught of neon orange through the glass of the Whispering Sands. Your eyes feel dry, juxtaposed to the salty wetness of the rest of your face and the bottoms of your dresses, yet you kept scrubbing.

That wretched spot in the middle of the floor that was beginning to divot from where the wood had worn away, yet you swore you could still see the dark coagulants of blood pooling between the grain. Maybe it was your own.

There, where your husband lay dying, where his final breaths sputtered and choked from the blood that congealed within his lungs and escaped the gaping hole in his sternum. Where the unnamed bandolero lay already dead in your doorway, an iron barrel burning a vicious welt into your leg as your hands desperately plunged into the red pool forming within your husband’s chest. That night, the blood of two men covered your hands.

The only evidence that anything had ever happened here was the mild divot on the floor and the blood seeping from your skinless knuckles and you scrubbed salt over the ghosts that resided between these floorboards and in these stools. You haunted this place in search of your husband, who would no longer be found at the piano or behind the bar. You were a ghost in your own rights.

That holy shape becomes a devil, best.

The laundry outside needs tending, and you let the burn from your knuckles tether you to this mortal plane, the unpleasant stick of your wet overcoat sticking ad unsticking from your knees and making them raw as you mundanely schlop wet clothes from the washbasin and pin them to the wire.

You hear Edward round the corner, shrouded in the shadow from the smoky black quarter horse. Though quiet as they try, the equine presence is never quiet. He clears his throat haughtily, though you fail to recognize if it was him or the horse blowing a hefty breath through large nostrils.

“Ma’am.” He started. Your nose was still red and your under eyes were still swollen from the night before, though, he hadn’t originally meant to say anything. Watching a man die was hard, he knew that you would have understood that. You looked like you had died and been resurrected when you turned to face him, hair frizzy and half escaping the braid that hadn’t been touched since the days before tucked beneath your hat, clothes sopping wet and hands bleeding.

“What did you do to your hands?” He asked, suddenly softer now. He reached down to grab your hands, the sides of his calloused fingers scraping the undersides of your own calloused palms.

“Tending to the floors.” You said to him, barely above a whisper. You wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You're soaked.” He observed, taking a step back to look down the front of your buckskin overskirts. Without a doubt, your underskirt and bloomers clung to your skin beneath as well, no longer dripping due to the warming sun.

He understood what was happening here, the frantic nature in the way you scrubbed the floors matched the way he scrubbed his own body raw from the blood that covered his skin. He knew your hurt all too well.

You mustered the courage to look him in the face as he inspected the outer edges of your knuckles with a tenderness that nearly brought the tears spilling back from your eyes. It was a tenderness that you hadn’t known in so long. It was like you were witnessing him from outside of your own body, through the eyes of a spider. You could count the smattering of freckles across his nose– those akin to a schoolboy, endearing in nature. A scar of what no longer remained. While he looked for signs of infection and wood shrapnel and remaining salt, you looked at the near perfection in which his thick lashes brushed from his lid to his cheek and you understood that God may not have been forgiving, but He certainly was real.

A fluttering, frantic desire builds in your core when you slot your lips against his. This feeling was not akin to butterflies and moths. It was frantic, more persistent. Like that of the hummingbirds that drank from the cactus blossoms in the cooler mornings. You watched them in silence, searching and flying entirely too close. Fast and sure. All you can feel is the dry cracking against softness as his startled breath dissipates across your own mouth.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled to him, only pulling a mere few centimeters away. You were not sorry, but you were polite enough to fake it.

“Don’t.”

He drops your hands, fingers scrambling for purchase against the tautness where your vest is slotted tight over your waist, clutching at fabric in search of skin instead. You reel closer, your own hat bumping the brim of his and falling off your head. It is frantic and sloppy and full of an animalistic reproach. The heat of his skin and lips is no different from the staleness of the desert around you. Your hands find his neck beneath his hair, tacky and slick with the sweat of the already blistering morning. You wanted him to touch you with all of the resolve of your dead lover, you wanted him to take you here in the sand– to make you shake and shiver all of the worries that had plagued you to the bone. To feel close to someone was foreboding, if you wanted to feel close you would have taken another lover. To feel safe with someone was something you clung to like a vice, for you hadn’t been safe since you’d started out west. You buzz like the fat hummingbirds in the saguaro blossoms when he hikes you close against him, aggressive without malaise. Both of his arms entrap you tightly, almost too tightly to be comfortable, and keeps a crushing weight to keep your body taught against his. You whine, all woman and all desperation, as your back braces against the rough stone texture of the brick behind you, his leg slotting between your thighs and casting a desperate friction to fruition.

When you gyrate your hip against his thigh, unsparingly, the broad planes of his hands cling to the valley of your back between your shoulder blades relentlessly. It brings you up towards him instead of away against the wall. You can feel the harness of his braced between your bodies, and it sparks a churning feeling deep in the pit of your belly. You are whining, his tongue funding purchase within your mouth and making a home there. He does not expect you to initiate the act, but when your hands slide down the tautness of his abdomen, and pull his shirt out from his trousers, he is surprised.

There is no sense of familiarity to this. Sure, you had been married. Laying with a man was no unexplored land for you, but this franticness, this panic and desperation was all new. It was risky, and it felt dirty, though, not incorrect. Edward reaches up, pulling the hat off of his head, his fingers turning tender against your waist as he guides you off of the wall and downwards into the sand. It is firm against your back and pleasantly warm.

You are not soft like in his dream. You do not whine or beg for him when you see all of him for the first time. You are relentless in undoing your own buttons and pulling your own shirt off. When you see him, he is tall and lean, there is a scarecrow-like nature to him, the gangliness clinging to him like the naivety of youth, though, just as you were all woman, he was all man. Even in his softness. He is soft in the way he looks down at you, and allows your eyes to skim over him. His awestruck nature forces you to resist the urge to cover yourself.

You are not womanly in the way you disregard the messiness of your hair, the tear streaks that stick against your hot cheeks, or the sand that sticks to your back as he lays you down. When he reaches a hand up to cup the side of your neck, it feels like walking that tightrope again– the one that teeters between the plane of life and death. This was a part of you that you no longer had resolve in. You did not think you would ever feel something that resembled your husband again. Though, as you walked this tightrope, it felt like crossing the threshold of your upstairs quarters again. His hands around you like a foundation and his arms around you like walls.

There is a change of pace as he kisses you this time, unhurriedly and exploring. Your fingers grasp around the thick bone of his wrists, thumbs tethering you to the ligaments of his wrists beneath his alabaster skin. There remains a tackiness on the front of your body from where the lye water soaked through your clothes and stuck to your skin, though, he didn’t seem to mind.

Behind the fast-paced nature and desperation of it all, there lies a sticky sweetness. Dark and slow-moving like molasses against your skin. It finds a resemblance in his lips against your neck that trail your collarbones. If it were a different circumstance, perhaps, this would have been slower. He would have taken you like a lover, something that more closely resembled the way he wanted you in the hazy fog of The Grand Hotel. But you needed him here and now, and he would have to give you that.

He does not have to ease your legs open with reproach like he had to do with the other girls, the ones who hid themselves away in meek shyness. Even in the open expanse of the desert before you, where, on the opposite side of this building, the town was awake and beginning to stir, there was a profound lack of meekness to your demeanor. There would be no begging from your lips, though, you didn’t need to. You had him already. You had him as soon as you’d met him.

He found himself tepid, “Do you still want me to–”

“I want you to fuck me, Edward.” You’d insisted, and he was taken aback by it. Though, he was not going to deny you. Not with the sweat pooling between the valley on your breasts and your curls sticking to your forehead. He wouldn’t have denied you anyways.

“Okay.”

His voice was hoarse, moan rumbling low and deep from the confines of his lungs. He is rushed with feeling– taken aback by the crudeness of your language and comfort with your raw body. This was not what he had dreamed of, but rarely was it ever. The thrill changed quickly from an excited tingle to an aching need. His thumbs pull the hair from your face as he braces himself on his elbows, the soft smattering of hair on his stomach becoming flush with yours.

You didn’t understand before the softness that lay just beneath the layer of dust that settles over him, the roundness to the apples of his cheeks or the plush of his lips. Though, now that he was this close, it was hard not to miss. His eyes, though you had only ever seen them dark and angry, were now a golden honey against the tan backdrop of the desert. It resembled the waning orange of the sunrise you were too forlorn to watch this morning.

There was a resounding softness in his promises of, “I’ll take care of you” that reverberated with the building of tears that formed against his pretty lash line, though, not enough to break the surface tension and spill over his even prettier face.

There is a relentlessness in the way he rocks his hips against your core, desperate for the feeling of closeness. A single tear buds against the corner of his eye, dripping down his pretty red cheek and on to your chest. You had half a mind to swipe it away with your thumb. He fucks you languidly in the building spring heat. The tackiness of your skin turns to a slide as he works you.

His hips stutter in a pistoning motion, punching a moan out of your core that was not frilly or rehearsed. Please don’t stop’s resounding off of his chest like prayers. He is a little rougher than before, your back arching in pleasure. His voice is broken as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of your throat.

There is a certain inevitability, like you both know that this will need to come to an abrupt end, and you whine with the filthiness of it all. There is a soft soreness that buds from within your core, and from the way he cries out, whiny and vulnerable, you know he feels it, too. There is a reciprocating cry that resounds from both your mouths, and you know he has reached his apex when he spills inside of you, moving slowly and then coming to a stop.

You do not stop him when he drops a heavy head against your sternum, instead resulting in pushing the hair away from his face. His head bobs up and down on your chest as you breathe, his own falling out of sync with yours. There is a resounding whisper that leaves his lips, and you are not sure if you are meant to hear. You reply anyways.

“Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.” “It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.”

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