#soap is tracing little patterns into ghosts skin and ghost has a hand in soaps hair

[mylarena]

Ghost, laying in bed staring at the ceiling: I don't know how to tell is someone's flirting with me. Do you think people have flirted with me?

Soap, literally laying entirely on top of him while cuddling: Yes, Si. I've been flirting with you for 3 years.

[fullmoonwriting]

saint of obsession

pairing: the darkling x reader

rating: teen (may become mature NSFW 18+ if continued)

warnings: NSFW themes/inferences, sexual themes, implied obsession 

notes: I really hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I didn’t intend on continuing this story however if you guys like the atmosphere here I would be more than happy to continue ☺️ drop me a comment or message if you would like to see a part 2 to ‘saint of obsession.’ 

word count: 1.6K 

Since arriving at the Little Palace a few days ago, it was the servants’ mission to bathe you. They consistently coaxed and nagged you, yet you were still reluctant. Having been mercilessly stripped away from your friends in the first army regiment, you were not about to succumb to the enemy. Most girls would be happy, proud even to find out they were Grisha; to live and dine in such a luxurious place as the Little Palace. Yet the frills and gold did not soften you. You did not welcome the large food portions, finely made gowns and soft bed. Instead, you found yourself longing to fall asleep in the clammy communal tent, more relaxed and with your friends by your side. Although your preference was clear, it was not taken into consideration. 

With a large yawn and stretch of your arms you awoke to still closed curtains. The servants must have not been in yet. Waking up exceedingly early was a habit you picked up during your time in the first army. There was always something to do and somewhere to be, and you couldn’t be there or do anything if you were asleep. Your general always woke up his soldiers with the frantic clamour of pots and pans which Mal never grew accustomed to. 

Mal. 

Your mind always drifted to him in uncertain times such as this. He was your home, your true North. Best friends since first crossing paths in Karamzin as children. You’d do anything to be with him right now. Little to no time was given to you to talk to him and try and explain what was happening. You yourself didn’t fully understand what was happening so how could you possible explain it to someone in a little less than a minute? They told you you were a Sun Summoner; a saint or a fairy tale depending on ones beliefs. Born to destroy the fold and bring unity and peace to the nations. Or at least that’s what General Kirigan kept telling you. 

He was the one who proved your status as a Grisha and Sun Summoner. You found yourself being roughly pulled between army tents and hastily pushed into an unusually large one. He stood amongst the shadows, almost completely devoured by them except for a soft beam of natural light that managed to perfectly illuminate his crow like irises. His stature and demeanour simultaneously imposed and intrigued as he spoke. 

“Come closer.” 

A wave of hushed voices could be heard from the perimeters of the tent. This man was so magnifying that you had not even noticed the other, now very obvious onlookers. After your initial shock of not being alone, you quickly obeyed, stepping one foot in front of the other. A seemingly small yet very courageous step towards uncertainty. 

The shadow shrouded General swiftly inspected your body with his coal gaze, looking so deep into your eyes you were sure he was inspecting your soul too. 

“Closer.” He spoke clearly and with purpose. Everything about him intimidated you but you could not give away your true feelings. You stepped forward once again, more confidently this time, with your head held high. A ghost of a smile adorned his lips. You were not sure if it was because he was impressed, or because he had already seen through your facade. 

“What are you?” He asked clearly and calmly. His face back to his stoic and unchanging expression.

“I’m a medic, sir. A medic from the 36th company.” As if speaking more would make you seem more confident and help you out of this situation. Some onlookers sniggered, whilst others whispered about your confession. 

His face did not show disappointment or anger instead, his body seemed to radiate his feelings. 

Without another word he stepped forwards, now walking steadily towards you with his head held high to match yours. The tent seemed to become darker with his ever step. The small slither of natural light that somehow found its way onto his face had been completely obliterated by his shadow. The tense atmosphere and complete darkness made the following event even more spectacular. You could feel a small scratch upon your arm and the warm touch of a hand holding it up. A thin beam of pure white light cut through the darkness like a knife, powerfully illuminating the tent and eradicating its shadows. 

Since that day you have been kept mostly in your room, warm and comfortable yet too luxurious and uptight for your taste. Forbidden to leave the walls of the Little Palace yet not quite ready to begin training. Solitude made your mind drift to Mal, saddening at the fact that he must be so angry at you for leaving him alone with little less than a few words. It also allowed your mind to repeat what General Kirigan had said to you on the way to the Little Palace. He said that you and him would change the world. Together. That you were special, one of a kind and vital to achieving peace. You found it hard to believe his words. You were the furthest away from special. A simple orphan girl from Kermanzin that only became a medic due to her lack of skills in other departments. 

The more you let your mind wander the sadder you got. You were sensitive but you knew you had to hide it to protect yourself. Shaking your head you let your legs dangle off the side of the bed. A distraction is what you needed. Something to take your mind off your home. 

No less than half an hour later you were fully submerged in a deep copper tub. The servants seemed genuinely happy (and relieved) that you had ‘finally come to your senses’ and decided to bathe. Despite your displeasure to actually bathe, your did enjoy having something to take your mind off other matters. You decided upon simply soaking in the bath rather than actively bathing. The grime and dirt was the only reminder of your former life you had, with the servants discarding of your army uniform upon your entrance to the Little Palace. You refused to wash yourself in fear of losing your last memory of home. 

The steam from the tub floated on the water and continued to rise above you towards the ceiling. Despite the whole room filling with mist, you had no trouble noticing the intricate patterns on the ceiling. A myriad of curves and symphony of blue and gold. Although you were not one for luxury, you couldn’t not appreciate the craftsmanship and time that went into creating all these details. You failed to notice what details adorned your room due to your constant solitude and displeasure of your situation. Perhaps it was time to accept who or what you were. 

A sharp knock disturbed your thoughts, jumping slightly and making the water level in the tub shift. Probably the servants checking in on whether you’re actually bathing. 

“Come in.” You spoke loudly, leaning your head and neck against the cool copper, closing your eyes in the process. You revelled in the coolness of the metal against your flushed skin. 

The click of boots against stone echoed throughout the room. Your ears perked up but your eyes remained shut, too relaxed to spring open. As the sound grew louder it became evident these boots did not belong to a servant. The click was too crisp, each step too calculated. Alarm suddenly arose in your body as your eyes snapped open. The thick mist that hung in the air didn’t help you recognise or pin point the intruder. Looking around hastily you attempted to cover your modesty with your hands as best as you could. You cursed yourself at the lack of soap or oils in the bath that would have helped to shield your body with bubbles.

Eyes still darting around the room a tall figure emerged from the mist. His tall, broad frame parted it with ease. General Kirigan. Saints, what was happening was highly inappropriate. His legs almost touched the edge of the tub as he peered down at you. Your throat became dry however you mustered up the courage to speak. 

“Sir, I.. I think you have made a mistake... th-these are not your chambers.”

He continued to peer down at you as you spoke in no more than a whisper. Your words seem to have bounced right off him as his stoic expression did not falter. Instead of replying he kneeled down, positioning himself right on the edge of the tub. He extended an arm, dipping it in the water between the tub and your trembling body. 

“You will find that I have not made a mistake my sun, far from it.” The contradiction of the calmness on his face and wrongness of his action made your breathing become rapid and unsteady. The General noticed your unease, removing his hand from under the water and moving it to your collar bone. He traced the water droplets rolling off your skin as if to try and calm you down. This only made you huff harder, widening your eyes as he looked at your chest. 

“Where has that confident girl that I first met in my tent disappeared to huh? Oh, don’t work my sun. You’re safe with me. No need to be afraid.” His hand moved to stroke your damp hair as he lulled. 

“I’ve been waiting for you for so long. You have no idea what such loneliness can do to a man. But you are here now, beautiful and powerful.” 

He placed a finger under your chin, contorting your face to make you look at him. Your wide and watery eyes met with his still dark and calm ones. They possessed a sparkle now, a new feature. A glimmer of hope or perhaps, obsession. 

“You and I are going to change the world.”

[ineverlookavvay]

good enough

After Michael experiences some self-doubt, Alex reassures him that he is enough

Fill for Kinktober Day 13: Body Worship

cw: mental health issues - Michael has a brief moment of panic/self-doubt at the beginning and is reassured via sex

Read it on Ao3

It came on suddenly.  They were sitting watching some terrible network television show, Alex’s head cradled in Michael’s lap, when one of the characters was in an accident and no one around had the right blood type including the love interest, leading to a cliff-hanger of the absolute worst-written type.  And suddenly, while a terrible pop song played over the end credits, Michael’s chest started to feel tight. 

He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, biting his lip and trying to ignore the feeling.  It was just a stupid tv show, and there was nothing to feel anxious or unworthy about, and yet.  It was just going to be one of those nights, and Michael was stuck here at Alex’s, with only the flask of acetone in his car and nothing harder than the beers Alex kept stocked in his fridge.  He shifted uncomfortably, and Alex picked his head up, looking concerned. 

“Are you okay?”

Michael nodded, pasting on a smile.  “Great.”  He swallowed the last third of the beer he’d been nursing and nudged Alex up.  “I’m gonna get another beer.”

When he got back to the living room, holding a colder beer that wasn’t going to be nearly enough for him to pretend his thoughts weren’t spiraling just a bit, the tv was off and Alex was sitting up, looking worried.    

Michael sat down, taking a swig of the beer and trying not to seem perturbed.  Alex raised an eyebrow, and Michael sighed.  “It’s just the show, when she couldn’t help him—”

Alex bit back a laugh.  “You’re upset because she couldn’t help him…on the tv show?”

“Yeah—no—it’s just—if you were hurt like that, I couldn’t save you either.  I can’t do the things another human could do for you—I couldn’t donate blood, or a kidney—I don’t know if I even have kidneys—“

“I think you have kidneys,” Alex cut in, “and Max can literally bring people back from the dead, so—”

“—and I’m not Max.”  Michael sighed.  “I can’t help you with the alien stuff, and I can’t be human for you, and it just seems pointless.”

Alex lurched forward, catching Michael’s wrist before he could take another swig from the beer.   “What exactly are you saying?”

“What part of me is good enough for you?”

Alex closed his eyes, letting out a breath and dropping his grip from Michael’s wrist.  When he opened his eyes again, he looked tired, and relieved.  “I thought you were breaking up with me.”

Michael hesitated, then shook his head.  “But I would understand if—I just want you to have someone who can save you from—”

“Soap opera cliff hangers?”  Alex was smiling a little, and Michael tried to smile back, but his face felt too tight.

“Yeah, something like that.” 

Alex watched him, a look of determination sweeping across his face.  “Okay,” he said slowly, “Okay.  You’re going to put down the beer, and we’re going to go into the bedroom.”    

Michael frowned.  “Alex, are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

“Yes.”  Alex looked him directly in the eyes, unwavering, and Michael put the beer down on the coffee table obediently.  “And I heard the parts you aren’t saying, too, and every part of you is good enough for me.  So come to the bedroom and let me show you that.”

Alex held out his hand.  Michael wanted to leave, he wanted to walk it off or drink it off, and hate himself until he felt empty, and then come crawling back; he wanted to stay.  He took Alex’s hand and let Alex lead him into his bedroom.  

He pressed Michael down onto the edge of the bed, sitting down beside him.  “You are good enough, okay?  It doesn’t matter that you’re not human, it doesn’t matter that you can’t save me from injury—you save me in other ways.”

Michael tried hard to smile.  Alex was looking at him with this soft, caring expression, and Michael didn’t entirely know what to do with it—he felt like he was caught on a stage, under a spotlight, and he’d forgotten all of his lines.  

Alex cupped Michael’s cheeks between his hands, and gently kissed him.  “You know what I think about the first time I kiss you each day?” he asked, and Michael shook his head.  “All the times I wanted to kiss you and I couldn’t.  How lucky I am.”  Michael scoffed and Alex smiled, leaning forward and kissing Michael’s forehead, then brushing his lips over each of Michael’s eyes, laughing lightly when Michael blinked up at him.  “I’m being serious.”   

Michael tried to breathe evenly as Alex pressed a kiss to his cheek, marking a line down Michael’s throat with his lips.  Michael closed his eyes, licking his lips, focusing on the feeling of Alex’s soft kisses, on Alex’s hand smoothing up and down his back.  He didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve any of it—not the way a human would, someone who was there for Alex completely, someone who actually belonged there—but he couldn’t make himself leave.

Alex abruptly changed the pattern of his kisses, sucking hard on the spot just under Michael’s ear, and then again on the skin where his neck met his shoulder until the skin started to bruise.    Alex smoothed his hand over the bruise, looking completely enamored with it, breathing heavily.  He tugged at Michael’s shirt, and Michael let him pull it off and toss it on the floor.

“It’s fully unfair,” Alex said, pressing kisses to Michael’s chest, slowly caressing his skin before touching his lips to it, “how good you always look like this.”  

Michael swallowed.  He didn’t know if Alex was talking about the hickey or the shirtlessness or all of it, and the praise went straight to his head, straight to his cock.  He still felt tight, wound up, like he was imposing himself somehow, like he was tricking Alex into wanting him instead of something better.  But Alex’s hands on his skin were soft, and reassuring, and when he licked across Michael’s nipple, Michael couldn’t stop himself from shivering. 

Alex pressed Michael back until he was reclining on his elbows, and licked lines down Michael’s stomach, tracing the outlines of muscles and ribs, like he was reminding Michael of every visible part of him.  He tucked his fingers around the waistband of Michael’s jeans, pulling them roughly away from Michael’s skin so that he could flick his tongue on the skin underneath, teasing at something more. 

Michael was swiftly getting hard, the tension starting to bleed out of his chest, out of his shoulders, his focus on Alex, who was fully focused on him.   

Alex pressed kisses to Michael’s stomach, cupping his cock through his jeans and looking up at Michael’s face lasciviously. “Feels just as good as any human,” he said, squeezing at Michael’s clothed cock gently until Michael moaned.  “Better, even.”

Michael laughed hoarsely and Alex unbuttoned Michael’s jeans, leaning down to pull the zipper off with his teeth.  Michael choked on his laugh, arousal overwhelming everything else.  

He lifted his ass off the bed so that Alex could slip his jeans and briefs off him, letting them fall onto the floor with his shirt.  It was strange, being so naked while Alex was still completely clothed, but strange in a good way, like Alex was so fixed on him that he had just forgotten to undress himself.  Michael almost wanted to squirm under the attention, except that Alex wanted him to be still, Alex wanted him to relax and focus, and Michael wanted Alex to be happy, to have everything he wanted.  

Alex scooted over on the bed, dragging Michael’s legs up until he was fully on the mattress, still leaning on his elbows, his head hovering over Alex’s pillows.  Alex kneeled between Michael’s legs.  

“You’re perfect,” Alex said, running his fingers lightly along one of Michael’s legs, from ankle to thigh, stopping just before he hit the crease between thigh and pelvis.  “No one else is this perfect.”  

Michael laughed again in a choked off way, trying to think of something to say, something that would undermine Alex’s uncomfortably positive words.  Alex shot him a look and he closed his mouth, groaning instead when Alex replaced his hands with his mouth, kissing his way up Michael’s leg.  Alex sucked on the skin at the top of Michael’s thigh, the sensation drawing all of Michael’s attention, focusing on the feeling of Alex’s tongue and lips and teeth on his skin.  

Alex moved up, kissing towards the base of Michael’s cock, licking gently at it, in a way that almost tickled.  He licked soft, slow lines up Michael’s cock, touching his tongue to every part of it before sucking lightly at the tip, his hands soothing lines over Michael’s thighs.  Michael whined, watching Alex suck at the tip of his cock.  

Too soon, Alex was pulling back, grinning up at Michael, spit or precum or both making his lips shiny.  “Turn over,” he said gently, and Michael drew his knees up to his chest before rolling on his stomach and spreading his legs on either side of Alex again, pillowing his head on his hands.  Alex hummed appreciatively.  

Alex ran his fingers over Michael’s legs again, alternating between feather light and harder touches, stopping just before his ass.  Michael was almost expecting it when he repeated the motions with his tongue, but he was still surprised how good it felt, having attention spent on his thighs, on the place where his legs met his ass—places they usually didn’t spend time on.  

The touches disappeared and Michael tingled with anticipation.  Alex’s hands smoothed over Michael’s ass, pulling and caressing.  Michael inhaled quickly as fingertips ran down the crease of his ass, ghosting over his hole.  Alex’s tongue followed his fingers, laving over Michael’s skin, licking gently and then more insistently at his hole.  Michael thrust his hips unintentionally, rubbing his cock against the bed as Alex licked him, thrusting his tongue shallowly inside of Michael.   

“Stay still,” Alex said, pulling away slightly as Michael moaned especially loudly.  Michael did as asked, kept himself completely still even though he wanted to keep grinding against the bed, even though he wanted to turn around and see what Alex was doing.  He found out when Alex returned, just a few minutes later, laying himself down on top of Michael so Michael could feel the touch of their skin from head to toe, Alex’s cock poking suggestively at his ass.  

“I’m going to fuck you,” Alex said, his voice low and inches from Michael’s ear, “and you can use your incredibly useful and hot alien powers to get the lube out of the nightstand, and hold yourself open while I open you up.”

Michael made a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh.  It was reassuring, and hot, and he wanted nothing more than Alex inside him as quickly as possible.  He slid the drawer open with his mind and pulled out the lube, floating it back to Alex, who hummed and peeled himself slowly off of Michael’s back.  

It was harder, using his powers on his own body, but not impossible, and Michael concentrated, holding his legs and his ass wide for Alex, keeping his muscles taut, more than he could by will alone as Alex pressed a wet finger inside of him.  

It still surprised Michael, how Alex knew what he would need, how focusing like this would center him, would make things quiet inside of him.  It was the concentration, and the methodical way Alex was fingering him, progressively getting deeper, keeping his thrusts at a set pace.  Michael breathed, staying completely still even as Alex added more fingers and brushed against his prostate, even as his cock leaked against the bed, even as he wanted to tell Alex to hurry the fuck up and get inside of him. 

As if he could read Michael’s mind, Alex pulled out his fingers and crawled up Michael’s body on the bed again, pressing kisses up his spine.  “You can relax,” he said, sounding as affected as Michael felt, and Michael felt the tip of Alex’s cock nudging against him before he pressed in, slowly, making sure Michael felt every inch. 

Alex groaned when he was completely inside of Michael, and Michael echoed it, exhaling forcefully.  With Alex pressed against his back he couldn’t move much, could only take it as Alex shifted his hips and thrust into Michael.  

Michael pulled his hands out from under his head, bracing them on the bed on either side of his head instead, looking for leverage.  Alex reached over and pressed his hands against Michael’s, twisting their fingers together, sharing the leverage as he fucked Michael slowly. 

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Alex said softly, kissing Michael’s neck, and Michael whined.  “You’re more than enough, Michael.”

Michael couldn’t think of anything to reply that didn’t sound sappy as fuck, so he kept quiet except for the moans he couldn’t hold back.  Alex pressed his hands into the mattress and lifted himself slightly more, thrusting deeper, pumping his hips more quickly.  Michael’s cock slid against the bed, and it wouldn’t have been enough except that Alex had the perfect angle for his cock to continually brush Michael’s prostate; except that Michael felt overwhelmed in the best way, so much of their skin touching he almost couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the other began; except that Michael slipped closer to the edge with every soft word of praise Alex whispered against his neck. 

“So.  Fucking.  Good,” Alex said, panting between each word as he thrust hard into Michael, and Michael’s answering moan turned into a yell as he came, hips grinding into the mattress and back against Alex.  Alex gasped as Michael instinctively clenched down on him, and his rhythm stuttered, thrusts quick and hard.  He moaned into Michael’s ear as he came, too, spilling inside Michael.  

They lay there, breathing hard, barely moving, and Michael realized all of the panic was gone, all of the feeling useless and not good enough, all of it swept away under the force of Alex’s response.  It was good—better than what a bottle had ever given him. 

Alex slowly pulled himself away from Michael, slipping out of Michael and collapsing on the bed next to him, rolling Michael onto his side so his head pillowed on Alex’s chest.  

“Guess I should have crises of faith more often,” Michael said, his voice shaking slightly.

“You know I’m not just saying it, right?” Alex asked, “You really are amazing.”  Michael smiled, keeping himself from shrugging, since he knew it would make Alex unhappy.  “Plus, I like that I can help you like that,” Alex continued.  “I like that loving you helps.”

Michael’s smile was more real this time.  “I like that, too,” he said softly, and curled more tightly against Alex’s chest.  

[illneverrecover]

breathe for you | jjk

➛pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader ➛genre: Marriage!AU, domestic!AU, slice of life, fluff with a nice little smut undertone. ➛word count: 2006 ➛rating: 18+ (mature themes, mentions and descriptions of foreplay). ➛warnings: cursing, heavy petting, marking, dry humping/grinding, slight hair pulling, making out like horny teenagers, Jungkook being a goofy soft ass whole entire angel.  ➛summary: You’re always cold, but Jungkook comes up with the sweetest and most creative ways to warm you up. ➛notes: This entire thing was written for one of my beautiful besties, @quinnkoo​ . Happy Birthday,  Quinny baby! I’m sad we’re not celebrating this years at a BTS concert (or in a GCF!) like we did last year, but I hope this at least makes you smile. I’m so glad to have you in my life, to get to call you a friend, and to get to finally be close enough to squeeze you. Don’t tell anyone but I love you. Actually just don’t read this. ➛song:  Love U - Monsta X & Breathe for You - Monsta X

“It’s freezing in here.”

“No it’s not. You’re being dramatic again.”

Huffing, you slide the soles of your feet until they’re pressed against one of Jungkook’s sweatpant clad thighs. “I’m never dramatic literally ever. Feel my toes,” you wiggle them, giggling when he squeaks at the pinch. 

“Why do you always want me to touch your feet? Listen, baby, if you have a foot fetish, we can discuss some boundaries-”

“Jungkook!” you yell, laughing when he grabs your feet, tickling them briefly before slowly squeezing. His hands were so warm, which was a gentle reminder that your husband was practically a human furnace. 

Scooting closer to him, you fling your legs completely in his lap, sighing with relief when large palms slide up and down your legs, the friction warming your bones. You were always cold, no matter what the weather, but it was one of the many quirks that Jungkook loves about you - and loves teasing you for. Nuzzling into his side, you rest your eyes in the cozy peace of the moment before Jungkook shouts, plopping your legs to the couch to stand.

“I have an idea!”

You scoff. “Is your idea microwaving my socks again? Because they almost caught fire last time and it was awful-”

“No! This idea is way better,” he grins, winking at you before darting away. 

Despite the exasperation on your face, you couldn’t help but feel a little giddy. Finding the match to your soul was a feat that you hadn’t thought possible, and yet here he was, dressed like a teenager and armed with a toothy grin, ready to take on the world for you. It may seem silly to others, but every moment spent with him was more than you could ever ask for. He was so caring, so considerate. He always wanted to make you laugh, always going out of his way to make you smile. 

So many bad days that he had turned for the better by attempting to make your favorite food, or demanding a movie night with all your favorites. Days when you had left work exhausted and drained and so damn soul weary that you didn’t think you could leave your bed - and instead of trying to make you, he instead joined you, holding you tight and letting you tell him all your fears and concerns. Jungkook was the most attentive partner, and he made the most mundane things unforgettable - one of his many charms.

He returns with a pile of blankets in his arms, doe eyes dancing with mirth just above the visible line. 

“You know where you can’t be cold?” when you shake your head, he drops the blankets on your lap, throwing his arms in the air. “Inside the formidable and impenetrable Fort Nochu!” 

You roll your eyes, but your smile is already hurting your cheeks. It was a cheesy nickname, a silly word, and yet it was something so undeniably him.

“Impenetrable, huh?” Unfolding the top blanket, you drape it over the couch until it reaches the top of the nearby recliner until a makeshift ceiling is formed. “Is the fort itself impenetrable or does that go for the inhabitants as well?” 

His dulcet chuckle is music to your ears, long hair shifting to fall into his eyes as he looks up at you through thick lashes. The look was more lethal than he realizes, and your blood starts pounding, pooling low in your gut.

“Well, you’ll just have to come and find out, hmm?” He tries to wink, but both eyes close, and you feel your heart clenching. 

Did he have to be so damn cute? Honestly, the whiplash was maddening. 

It took less than 10 minutes to finish the construction, your ideas for the optimal blanket fort perfectly aligning and allowing you to work in tandem. The futon mattress from the spare room has been dragged as the makeshift floor, a mountain of pillows and blankets adorning the top until it was truly lush and luxurious. A small door had been left open to the elements so that the TV screen could be seen, though Jungkook assures that this is not a design flaw and does not change his previous statement regarding the fortitude of Fort Nochu. 

He gestures for you to crawl inside before following, remote forgotten shortly after he puts some Netflix show on for background noise. Instead you were content to lay facing each other, his long arms circling your waist and rubbing smooth patterns along the ridges of your spine. Your face is pressed to the firmness of his chest, his scent heady mixed with the gentle thumping of his heart, and you couldn’t help but to breathe him in, to wish you could pull him in deeper. 

He’s humming a song, one that you don’t recognize but it’s beautiful and soothing as one hand slides up your back to nestle into your hair. “So, how about it? Did it work? Are you warm yet?”

Honestly, your limbs and heart had been heated through long before climbing into the blanket fort, but he didn’t need to know that. Instead, you trace the silk line of his jaw, thumb tugging at the corner of his plush bottom lip until his darkened gaze focuses on you. 

“I’m pretty warm, but I think I could be warmer.”

He glares then, question evident on his brow but instead of answering further, you hitch a leg over his hip, pulling him closer until your faces were almost touching. Your nose sweeps against his gently, a ghost of sweetness, before trailing down to his pulse point, to the hollow of his throat. You press a lingering kiss there, wet and soft, before moving to leave another, making a small path until you reach the barrier of his hoodie. 

He shakes loose a breath as his hands tighten around you, tugging in an effort to bring you closer, but you ignore it to continue your leisurely ministrations on the column of his neck. His skin was sweet, as if the lingering scent of his soap had melded with his natural scent to create the most perfect flavor, one that you couldn’t get enough of. You grin against him when you hear him whine, swallowing thickly. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” you murmur, teasing the lobe of his ear with your teeth. Sliding a hand through his long locks, you tangle your fingers near the root to give a gentle pull, awarding you a low moan from his throat. “Is there something you want, Jungkook?”

His voice is rough, gravelly with misuse, but you hear him clearly all the same. 

“You. All I ever want is you.”

Now it’s your turn to groan, swinging your body up onto his hips until you are straddling above him, hands resting against the tight planes of his chest. He looks beautiful pinned beneath you; lungs heaving, face flushed, tawny eyes shiny and lust blown. His long hair is fanned around his face, almost making him look angelic - if you didn’t know any better, that is.

Unable to resist any longer, you crash your lips to his, licking against the seam of his pout until he opens, always so pliant for your kisses. You kiss him until he’s breathless, until his mouth is love bitten and his taste is burned onto your tongue. You’d be content to kiss Jungkook all night, to just enjoy the feeling of his lips moving in sync with your own, but the growing hardness pressing against your inner thigh is begging for your attention.

Who are you to deny Jungkook attention?

Rolling your hips, you finally pull your mouth away, gasping for air as you keen against him. “So what were the rules regarding penetration inside of Fort Nochu again?”

A choked laugh fades into a moan of your name, palms digging into your waist, bruising.  “I concede. You’re the queen of this fort now, you make the rules.” 

Victory of your win flooded your veins, and you give him a cocky grin before suckling his bottom lip between your teeth, nipping the flesh gently before letting it drop. 

“Good.”

Your hands slide under his hoodie to feel the feverish skin of his torso, lean muscles shivering under the contact as he gasps, and you love how responsive he is; how sensitive he is to your touch, how worked up he gets for you - only for you. 

Nudging him to sit up, you rip the material over his head to toss aside, eyes greedily drinking in the revealed skin before you like it was the first time all over again. Latching your mouth to his collarbone, you start to suck evidence of your claim against his golden skin, hips rocking gently against his length in sync with his soft mewls.

Each glide against his clothed cock was delicious pressure against your aching core, and you knew you were wet enough that you wouldn’t even need anything more than to slide your panties to the side to have him sheathed fully inside of you. Dropping a hand down to your center, you move to sweep the offending material away when a sudden tug at your shirt has you yelping.

“Mama? Papa?”

The voice is tiny, dripping with sleep, and you will your pulse to slow its pace when you turn to see your son clamoring his way into the fort. 

Sighing, you drop your head to Jungkook’s chest, snickering alongside him when he presses a kiss to your temple, allowing you a moment of reprieve before slipping out of his lap.

“Hey little man, why are you still awake?” he questions, hands reaching for the boy who happily scrambles into his father’s embrace. 

Tiny fists rub at his eyes, hair sticking out into an excellent mad scientist impersonation. He looks just like his father, could almost be his twin, and as he got older and more of his personality started to show, it became evident that you had created some sort of Jungkook clone. 

Something that the world should perhaps be worried about, but it only made your heart swell.

“I had a bad dream, I got scared. And then you weren’t in your room.” He pouts, lip jutting out, causing Jungkook to crinkle his nose with an amused grin.

“I’m sorry, rabbit. We decided to build a blanket fort,” leaning forward, he cups his hand towards the child’s ear, whispering conspiratorially. “I named it Fort Nochu.”

At the name, your son's eyes widen, turning to look at his father. “Nochu? Like who comes and helps me sleep at night?”

Jungkook chuckles, catching your eye as you stifle back giggles of your own. It had been an old trick, a silly story to tell your little boy that ‘Nochu would come through’ to help him sleep, but it had worked like a charm and clearly left a lasting impression.

“Exactly like that!” 

Your heart tightens in a vice at the scene, and you muse if you could possibly love your husband - your little family - any more for probably the millionth time since you brought your son home. There’s a smile on your face as you make room between you, adoration smooth in your eyes when you pat the bed encouragingly. 

“Does that mean I can sleep here?” he slides into the opening, a yawn ripping from him as he cozies under the copious blankets.

“I bet if you sleep here, you won’t have any more bad dreams,” you coo, running a hand through your sons dark hair as he settles onto his side, eyes already closing. 

Jungkook slips in behind him, elbow propping him up so he can admire you both, the comfortable silence lulling in the space between. Reaching over the now sleeping boys form, his hand searches your own, fingers interlocking, giving you a quick squeeze.

“Are you warm now?”

His voice is low, dripping with adoration, and you know what he means; what he’s asking without ever saying the words. 

Your eyes close as you hum. 

“Definitely.” 

[sincerelybluevase]

Careful, Madam (Chapter Two)

A/N: The sequel to ‘Careful, Madam’. Is this self-indulgent angsty smut? Yes it is. Did I have a blast writing it? Yes indeed! Thanks to @alice1nwond3rland, @need-not and @thegirlisuedtobe for supporting me during the writing of this, and to everyone who left comments <3

 Maxim did not look at me during the fancy dress party, not even once. I stood next to him for the entire evening, smiling at our guests until my jaws quivered. All the while I looked at my husband from the tail of my eye. No one would have known that something was wrong, for he held his head high, flung quips to the occasional guest, laughed. Only I saw the faint lines around his mouth and eyes, thin like gossamer, and the peculiar way he smiled, more like a twisting of the lips, a baring of the teeth, than a genuine expression of mirth.

And it was all my fault.

I felt small and desperate, sick with shame. If only he would glance at me, or find my hand and clutch it into his, then I’d know things could become all right between us again. If only I had the courage to link my arm with his and draw him away from the party into that little room that could be accessed from the hallway, where the shears and mackintoshes were kept. It would be cool there, and private, and I could tell him that my choice of costume had been wretched and vile, but not intentionally so. I could cry there, and through my tears beg his forgiveness. He might take me in his arms then, and the feel of the long, hard lines that made up his body would blot out the feel of that other one, who had bruised and pleasured me before humiliating me, who had left me sore…

But I dared not move, and Maxim never reached for me. He kept swallowing, as if something had gotten stuck in his throat and he wished to dislodge it. It harped on my nerves, that soft, sucking motion inside his throat, and for one fierce, dreadful moment, I thought how much I would like to crush the bulge of his Adam’s apple with my fist. I imagined the cartilage bending against my knuckles, the soft, wet sounds that would accompany it. The rage I felt and the satisfaction at the image of my hand compressing his throat frightened me more than my growing fear that our marriage was a failure.

I had to walk away then. I locked myself into a bathroom and threw up. The bitter bile splashing into the toilet bowl brought no relief. I went to the sink to wash my hands. I ran the tap till the water was cold and drank from it to rinse my mouth, but the taste of sick lingered. I wiped my mouth on a bit of toilet paper, then peered into the mirror. Mrs Danvers had done an impeccable job with my makeup.

Don’t think of her.

I sat down on the lip of the tub, my hands like melting ice, all wet and cold. I had a nagging little pain in the pit of my stomach that throbbed in time with my heartbeat. It was good to sit there in the soft overhead light and nurse that pain, to try and feel it to the exclusion of all else. But as I sat shivering on the hard rim of the bathtub, I could not stop feeling the soreness between my legs, or the ghost of long, lean fingers tracing patterns at the nape of my neck. I could not stop thinking, either, could not help spinning one scenario after another, until they formed a bleak tapestry in my mind big enough to smother me with.

I went back to the sink and washed my hands. The soap had a hair on it. I should tell Mrs Danvers about that. How she’d hate for Manderley standards to slip, I thought, and then I remembered what she had done, and the pain made me flinch.

I wiped my hands on my skirt. Then, I went back to the party.

…

By the time the final guests had left, I was so bone-weary I might have curled up on the carpet and slept like a dog. Instead, I dragged myself to my room and crawled into bed without bothering to change my frock for pyjamas.

Sleep would not come. Dawn had broken, but the room stayed dark. Mrs Danvers must have closed the curtains then, folding one end over the other, allowing not a single ray of light to penetrate.

I wished Maxim would come up. I had to talk to him. I lay on my side, staring at his bed. Had Mrs Danvers and I stained the sheets? Perhaps, if Maxim were to come up and crawl into bed, he would catch my scent, a whiff of something so primal it could not help but move him. That is, if Mrs Danvers had not stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets, bunching up the ones we had dirtied between her beautiful hands. No; normally the maids took care of soiled linen and bedding. They were the ones who did the laundry, scrubbing cotton and wool until they were raw-handed and red-knuckled. Unless, of course, the laundry was Rebecca’s. In that case Mrs Danvers did it. She washed her mistress’ blouses, her nightgowns, her slips. She washed her underthings, letting them soak in a bucket of water in her room before taking a bar of soap to them. She mended them, too, when they had holes in them, or stitching that had become undone, or tears from eager hands. Her father had been a tailor. That explained how she could thread her needle with such confidence, wetting the thread with her tongue, all pink and warm…

“Please,” I whispered in the dark, “please, may I stop thinking now?” But the thoughts and memories kept coming, blurring into each other until I thought I’d go mad.

Maxim’s face, tight with anger, his eyes blazing.

Mrs Danvers’ fingers hopping between the dips of my vertebrae.

A figure with a shock of dark hair around her lovely face, smiling triumphant from the shadows of the minstrel’s gallery.

I flung the sheets away from me and got to my feet. I was no Catholic, but even I knew how one ought to rid themselves of a demon that tormented them, even one as insubstantial as the monster that rode me, made up of half-truths and conjectures. You had to exorcise it.

…

I seemed to reach Rebecca’s room in no time at all. One minute I was in my dressing room, and the next I had opened the door to hers. It was dark here, too, the curtains drawn and folded by an expert hand. I fumbled for the light switch and could not find it. I remembered then that there was a lamp near the bed, and I stumbled there, my hands stretched out in front of me as if this was a game of blind man’s buff. The room smelled musty, as rooms that are not used are wont to do, yet I could not help shake the feeling that I was not alone. There was this subtle disturbance of the atmosphere, impossible to describe but sensed nonetheless. I feared that any moment someone might clasp my outstretched hand, or thump me between the shoulder blades to make me stumble. Perspiration trickled down my back.

I bumped into something hard and cried out, thrusting my arms in front of me. My hands sank down into something soft. I was half-crazed by fear then, and it took me a moment to realise I had bumped into the bed and was touching the quilted cover and the mattress underneath. I felt my way from there to the nightstand and found the lamp. I was trembling so much I did not manage to switch it on straight away. When it came on, I had to shield my eyes with my arm. After a little while, when my eyes had gotten used to the light and I was not breathing so hard anymore, I felt strong enough to walk to the dresser with its brushes, its bottles of scent and powder. I sat myself down. My reflection looked back at me. This other self was pale and wan, with uncombed hair that was sweat-darkened at the roots. I sat and looked, the lamp burning softly behind me, the blood beating in my throat.

I had heard of people entrancing themselves by looking into mirrors or, alternatively, a bowl or salver with water. I had never believed it to be possible, but after a while I began to feel quite queer. The nagging pain, that lingering nausea that I had nursed throughout the night, began to fade, and it seemed to me that I was not properly aligned with my body anymore; I was still tethered to it, but floating a little behind. My reflection began to morph and flicker, until it was no longer my own face but that of another, someone tall and lovely, with dark hair.

“You must leave,” I told her.

“Oh, but you have only just conjured me up.”

I licked my lips. They were dry and flaking. “I want you to leave me in peace. I want you to stop haunting me, to stop haunting Maxim.”

She smiled. Soft little shivers shook me. I knew now why men went off their heads around her, why Mrs Danvers would keep these rooms pristine to entomb her memory, why Maxim could not speak of her. “He does not wish me to go. He loves me.”

I gripped my seat hard and bent closer to her. “You do not understand. He’s the only one I have, and I’ll do anything to be the wife he wishes me to be.”

“But what wife would do the things you’ve done with Danny?” she whispered. “Those filthy, sordid things? What wife would want a woman between her thighs, or inside her? What wife would enjoy that?”

I felt very faint then, very weak. “No,” I said, “No!”

“You’ve let your housekeeper fuck you three months into your marriage. Do you truly think people whose marriages are a success would do such a thing?”

I tugged at a flake of skin with my teeth, tearing it away. There was pain, but not at all sharp, not as it should have been. I tasted copper. “I love Maxim,” I choked.

“If you truly loved him, you would leave. You would give him back to me, so that we can be together. You know that’s what he wants.”

I could not deny this. A sob clawed its way up my throat. The sound was oddly muted. Perhaps, I thought, I have ceased to exist. Perhaps Rebecca has conquered me at last, subsumed me, and I am the shadow and the ghost and she the woman of flesh and blood. That is why Maxim has not come to me, and why no one is looking for me; they’ve forgotten me already. Who would remember a person as insignificant, as drab and colourless as me?

She smiled at me. “You know what you have to do,” she said, and her voice was soft now, near fawning.

“Yes,” I said.

“It will be quite painless.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be quick, not at all like the lingering death of those who drown. There’ll be the snap of your neck, and then it will all be over.”

I stood and smoothed my skirt. “You’ll look after him, won’t you? And he’ll be happy again, won’t he?”

Again that smile, like that of an angel. “Of course.”

“And… and Mrs Danvers? You’ll look after her, too?”

“Like she has looked after me.”

“That’s all right, then.” I went to the window and opened it, struggling with the sash; my hands had gone numb. A sea mist had come rolling in during the night, hiding the sun. The morning light was yellow, filthy, very muted. I licked my lips and tasted bitter salt. I peered down and found I could not see the ground. All I had to do was clamber out of the window and let myself drop, but my arms were weak and I found I could not lift myself. I leaned hard against the window seat, feeling it dig into my belly, just below the ribs. I need only lean forward, and if I bent far enough, the earth would pull me down. It would rush to meet me, and there’d be no pain. I need only…

A hand closed around my arm and yanked me back. The force of it spun me round. My hands scrabbled against black cloth smooth as water, impossible to take a proper hold of. Mrs Danvers grabbed my wrists. Her hands were cold.

It is hard to describe the shock of her touch. To be grabbed by someone when we think ourselves alone is enough to make one’s heart thump painfully; when we are entranced, any touch is almost a violation. Her grip tightened, grinding the bones in my wrist together, and I was corporeal again, no longer the shadow and the ghost I had feared myself to be.

“No!” I screamed, “No, no, no, let me go!”

“I can’t, Madam.”

“Let me go!”

“Hush, Madam, don’t shout so, or the servants will hear,” she murmured. I looked into her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. She had a little scab on her jawline from where I had nicked her skin with my teeth the night before.

“What do you care?” I hissed.  “What do you care if they hear? You hate me! And I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Her hands quivered, and she began to cry. It was horrible; I felt her body shake, saw the sobs tear through her, yet no tears would come. “Do you think I don’t know I went too far? That it was a low trick to play, vulgar and common? But you tried to take my mistress’ place,” she moaned.

“I never did!” The pain in my belly was sharp now, like a knife scraping my insides. “I changed nothing at Manderley. I let everything go on as it had when she was still alive. I can’t ever take her place.” Those traitorous tears burned behind my eyelids. I tried to blink them away, but they would not be denied. “I can’t compare to her, to Rebecca. I know this. Everyone does; Maxim, you, Frith, they all know I’m nothing like her.” I felt so weak then I could hardly stand. I had to lean against the windowsill. Mrs Danvers must have thought I was trying to break away from her, for she increased her grip. Her hands were warming now.

“You mustn’t shout so,” she repeated.

“You played a vile trick on me, Mrs Danvers,” I went on. “You wished to hurt me, and you have.”

Mrs Danvers shook her head. She had not done up her hair properly; a little lock curled against her temple. “I wanted to hurt him, not you.”

I wished to rub my eyes, but she would not let me. “Has Mr de Winter not suffered enough?”

She began to laugh, and that was worse than her crying. The sound was raw and hollow. It made the hairs on my nape prick up. “He tried to replace her not even a year after she’d gone. He married you, an absolute child. You’re passive and immature, desperate for affection, completely dependent on him, and no one sees it.”

“But they do! I know they talk about me. They compare me to Rebecca, and they find me wanting. They all…”

“Oh, they talk about you all right. They think you seduced him and he married you because he’s a gentleman. They don’t see that he chose himself an impressionable little child-bride to obey and sate him.”

“Stop, Mrs Danvers, please stop!” I cried. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Oh, but it is. He married you, a pretty little girl, because he wants someone to play with, someone to fawn over him, someone…”

“God, Mrs Danvers,” I sobbed, the tears coming hot and fast, my face tight with it, “do you not see that he’s all I have in the whole wide world? That there’s no one else to call my own, no one who loves me? You can’t know what that feels like.”

“But I do, I…”

“I’ll take whatever love he deigns to give me, no matter how small. And it is hard, Mrs Danvers, to know that he does not love me like he loved her, that he finds me wanting whenever he thinks of me because I am second-rate and inferior and insignificant. I have so much love to give, if only people would let me. I’ve only my husband to give it to. I must love, Mrs Danvers, or else be destroyed. I must love. Let me love, let me love…”

I was raving. I knew that I was, but I could not help it. I was clutching Mrs Danvers, feeling her heat, smelling that sweet little scent of hers, and I kept begging her with that stunted little phrase, over and over again. “Let me love you, let me love you, please, let me love you…”

She put her mouth on mine. I could taste bitter tea on her tongue. Her lips were warm and wet. A shock tore through me, and I began to tremble. She tore her mouth away from mine, hugged me close to her, a hand on the back of my head. My nose was pressed against her throat. I began to kiss her there, soft, hungry kisses, reddening her skin.

“Let me love you,” I babbled.

“I will, Madam. Now hush.”

I was feeling very weak. I leaned against her. She held me close with one arm. “Careful for your hands, Madam; I’m going to close the window now,” she said, and with her free hand brought down the sash.

I was still clinging to her. I tried to open the buttons of her collar, but she drew my hands away. She guided me to the bed then and lay me down. The stale scent of azaleas rose to meet us, and with a stab of panic I thought how wrong it was for me to touch these sheets. “The mirror,” I said, clasping Mrs Danvers’ hands, “you must cover up the mirror or she’ll see, and she mustn’t.”

She kissed my forehead, her fingers lingering there for a moment as she checked my temperature. Then, she took the quilt off the bed, went to the mirror, and carefully covered it up. When she came back to me, I was so desperate for the feel of her that I drew her down with me, kissing her lean hands, her veined wrists, her cheeks and chin and nose. I pulled at the pins in her hair and down it came, thick as rope and warm. She looked younger with her hair down, more human, and I found I could imagine her as a girl after all. I twisted on top of her and we were joined again, cleaving together at the hip. She rucked up my skirt and then her own. There was a flash of red, and I saw she was wearing a scarlet slip under her black dress. She wound her legs around my waist. She wore boots that buttoned up over the ankle, their heels digging into my flesh. I saw her in my mind’s eye, sitting on the edge of her simple bed at the end of the day, working away at her boots with a button hook.

I kept kissing her. My lips felt raw, flayed, and still I could not get enough. I knew what would soothe them. The thought made me tremble.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I want to kiss you between your legs,” I confessed.

She trembled then, too. She closed her eyes, passed a hand over her face. When she opened her eyes, she pushed me off of her, and for one terrible moment I thought she’d deny me after all, and the idea of it was so terrible I had to press my hands against my belly to stop the pain there. But no, she was pulling up her skirts to the waist now, revealing her stockinged legs and then the red underwear she wore. It was trimmed with lace, very lovely. Her stockings were real silk. I had never given much thought to Mrs Danvers’ stockings, but had I been pressed, I would have said she wore scratchy, woollen affairs that were wont to give one varicose veins eventually. I would never have guessed she had an appetite for the luxurious, but then I never would have imagined us twining like lovers, either.

The skin between stocking and knickers was white. She had a puckered purple scar on the right thigh, a line the length of my finger. She drew her underwear down. The hair that grew on her mound was dark and strangely soft, very unlike the coarse, bristling hair that grew between my legs. She had trimmed it carefully. I thought of her taking her nail scissors and a hand mirror into the bathroom every other week, folded between her towel so that no one need see. She’d spread out a newspaper on the cold tiles and sit down, the mirror propped up against the wall so she could see herself. I imagined her twisting the hair around her fingers to measure it before she snipped it off. Afterwards, she’d brush the hair into a little heap with her palms, and fold the newspaper around it. She’d turn it into a little package, indistinguishable from the twists of paper the maids used to light the fires, and toss it into the hearth.

She spread her legs for me then, and her skin seemed to split, like a seam unravelling, revealing the pink, damp flesh inside. I smelled her then, that fierce, feminine scent of a woman’s desire, so very different from a man’s. It made my belly clench.

“Mrs Danvers?” I whispered.

“Yes, Madam?”

“You’ll be patient with me, won’t you?”

She worked herself up on her elbows and placed her hand against my cheek. Her palm was warm and slightly calloused. “Of course, Madam.”

I did what she had done to me the night before. I lay down on my belly, put her legs over my shoulder, and kissed her soft flesh.

She hissed.

Startled, I drew back.

“Careful, Madam,” she bade me, stroking my hair, “you must be gentle with me.”

I dared hardly touch her then, until she pressed my mouth against her more firmly. I kissed and licked and sucked as she demanded, changing my rhythm when she asked. All the while her hand was on my head, her fingers stroking my scalp in little stutters. My tongue found this hard little nub of flesh, and my little licks against it made her moan. At one point she began to flow, and the taste of her was rich and sharp, like brine, like vinegar and copper. She’s an oyster, I thought, and I’ve found the pearl inside.

Her thighs trembled against my face. When she came, I felt the twitch of muscle inside her, felt her climax shake through her. Her hips moved against me, smearing my mouth and chin. When she stilled, I crawled up against her. She tucked me under her arm. I put a hand on her chest. Her heart was beating very fast, and she was out of breath.

“Did I do well?” I asked.

She took a lock of hair that lay plastered against my cheek between her fingers and tucked it behind my ear. “Very well indeed, Madam.”

I was calmer now, and very tired. I think I might have fallen asleep, but Mrs Danvers wouldn’t let me. “I’ll run a bath for you,” she said as she wiped my face with her handkerchief. Her cheeks were flushed.

She did not take me into Rebecca’s bathroom, but into one that belonged to a guestroom. It had a claw-footed tub and a spout in the shape of a lion’s head. A pink sheet of glass had been fitted over the lightbulb, bathing the room in a soft, sweet light. Everything was spotlessly clean. I wondered how many hours of work were put into Manderley’s empty rooms, how many pairs of hands scrubbed and dusted and brushed things Maxim and I never used.

Mrs Danvers turned on the taps, placing her sensitive fingers under the stream of water to check its temperature. There was a jar of bath salts in the medicine cabinet. She plunged her dry hand in and sprinkled the grains into the tub. Soon, the water was frothing, smelling like lavender and roses.

I began to undress. My stockings were filthy, and I had torn the heel of one. Mrs Danvers came to me and helped me, her damp fingers quickly opening hooks and buttons. Despite all we had done with each other, I still felt embarrassed for her to see me in any state of undress, and stood hugging myself so she need not see my breasts. They were strangely sensitive. She placed a flat hand on my belly.

“You should try not to lose any more weight, Madam,” she said.

Perhaps she was right. My skirts tended to be too loose around the hips nowadays. My monthlies had become irregular, too.

The bath was scalding hot. I had to lower myself into the water inch by inch. It was good to sit there quietly, hugging my legs to my chest and resting my cheek on my chin, letting the water lap at me. Mrs Danvers had found a porcelain jug somewhere. She dipped it into the bath and poured the water over my neck, my shoulders, my head, shielding my eyes with her free hand. She poured a dram of shampoo in her hand and worked it into my hair. She worked quickly, deftly.

“You used to do this with Rebecca,” I said.

She paused, then filled the jug with water. “Yes, Madam, I did. Close your eyes.” She wiped some foam from my brow, then began to rinse the shampoo out of my hair.

“And what we did before? Did you do that with Rebecca, too?”

She was quiet for a long time, her hands squeezing water and shampoo from my hair. The longer the question between us remained unanswered, the bigger it seemed to grow, like a canker untreated. It pressed down on my stomach and made it hard to breathe. When she finally answered, her voice was soft and slow, not quite the dead thing it often was but not fully alive, either. “Occasionally, when she tired of her men, she’d come to me.”

“Her men?”

“She did not love Mr de Winter exclusively, not my lady, and why should she? Men used to throw themselves at her feet and worship her. It was tiresome, really, to see them sniffing at her heels like dogs. ‘As if I’m a bitch in heat, Danny,’ she used to tell me. She liked to play with them, laugh at them, but sometimes they tired her. She scorned them all, then, and she’d come to me. She had this… this device, made of India rubber, so that we could love one another as a man and a woman, so you see, we were never quite free of men after all.”

I was very tired. I leaned my temple against her arm. She had rolled up her sleeves. Her forearms were as pale as the skin on her thighs. She had a scar on the inside of her elbow, a thin, purple line.

She smoothed my hair against my scalp. “I must fetch you a clean frock, Madam, but I am loath to leave you on your own. Will you manage? I’ll only be a little while.”

“I shall be all right. Please don’t fret about me.”

She gave my arm a little squeeze, and then she was gone.

I sank back in the water, the lip of the tub digging in the tender spot where skull meets vertebrae, chewing over the things Mrs Danvers had just told me.

Rebecca had not been faithful to Maxim.

She had had other men, and she had been intimate with Mrs Danvers, too. Perhaps I was not such a beastly woman after all, then.

When Mrs Danvers came back, she brought me clean clothes as well as a little tray. It had a plate of biscuits on it, an apple, and a glass of milk. I took the glass. It felt peculiar between my pruned-up fingers. The milk smelled strongly. I took a small sip, expecting the ordinary chalky taste of milk, but it was sour, nauseating.

“You do not want it?”

“It’s gone off.”

She sniffed it, then drank. “It tastes fine to me, Madam, but if you do not want it, you don’t need to drink it down.” She gave me a biscuit, then began paring the apple with the knife. She looked up and gave me a little smile. “You must eat.”

To please her I took a bite of biscuit. I chewed on it slowly, swallowed it. My stomach roared to life. I had another biscuit, and a third, then ate the apple. Mrs Danvers washed her hands and wetted a flannel under the tap. She put her foot on the toilet bowl, hoisted up her skirts, and began to scrub between her legs. She had another line on the back of her thigh. It was an angry purple, and quite deep. Had she had an accident at some point that had left her scarred? There could be accidents that left large parts of the body intact but gouged lines in others, like falling through a window and slicing oneself on the glass, or perhaps being thrown by a horse on jagged rocks.

“It was a riding crop,” she said.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

She followed the scar on the back of her leg with her finger. “A riding crop did this.” She went back to cleaning herself up.

I’ll never know if I would have asked her why someone had whipped her, had we only been given more time. Before I could decide to ask, the air was rent asunder with a bang that made the tepid water in the tub ripple and shiver, and then another one.

“What was that?” I asked, the biscuit in my hand squeezed into small shards.

Mrs Danvers put her foot down and smoothed her skirts over her legs. “Rockets. A ship in distress. It’s the fog. She must’ve run aground.”

[quiet-kunoichi]

♤: Taking a bath together (I need this puhLEASE)

[ Nonsexual Acts of Intimacy | @kusunokihime | under cut for length ]

The front door swings open with a melancholy creak. A roll of thunder is the harbinger for the crack of lightning that follows seconds later. It lights up her silhouette, frozen still until she kicks up what little energy remains, passing through the doorway on the coattails of a wind gust. Tonight her steps are leaden on the floorboards, much unlike the usual gait that sweeps her silently through the house like a ghost. Kimiko’s first stop is the bathroom, where she flicks on the light and doesn’t make any moves to shield her eyes from the glare. Instead, she moves to crank the bath faucet, and a gush of water fills the otherwise silent home. She’s late. By days or weeks, she couldn’t say. Late. Peeling her clothes from her body as she stares into a far away nothing, Kimiko leaves the pile at her feet, arms swinging at her sides as she steps into the tub, and sits. Immediately, the water starts to swirl with copper tones, flushing the grime from her skin. Posture hunched and shoulders crowding her ears, Kimiko brings her knees up, forearms resting slack on top. The tiles bleed away into the messy memories of the last few days, which eventually mumble into a mesh of much older memories, dredged up by their similarities. It is then that she spots a figure in her peripherals, but her unfocused stare makes the image fuzzy, and she can’t seem to bring herself to look. She is ashamed; she’s come home with someone else’s blood under her nails, she is more than a few days late, at least -- and now she can’t even will herself to look up and greet the love that waited for her to return. Ryu moves from the doorway, humming with a bit of melancholy concern. “Oh, Kimiko.” Her voice comes to Kimiko’s ears as a sigh; she drops to her knees and peers at a stone slab for a face. Kimiko doesn’t so much as blink in response. From what she can tell, it appears Ryu has already washed up, wrapped in a fresh white towel. Even still, the medic takes a sponge, soaks it, adds a dab of soap, and begins to streak Kimiko’s back in circles. Ryu doesn’t ask for an explanation, nor the details, much to the kunoichi’s relief. Ever the statue, she doesn’t bend nor sway as Ryu lifts one arm, then the other; suds-ing every crease and washing away the sin. After a bit, Ryu has unplugged the drain. It was then that Kimiko makes a movement: her gaze refocuses, and flickers down, watching as the last dregs of her sour memories circle the drain, and spill away. Then, eyes slide to their corners, and capture her love in an intense stare. Rings of purple contrast glowing yellow eyes. In a sudden motion, Kimiko snatches Ryu’s wrist with a firm grip, guiding her over the rim of the bathtub. Her towel slips away. They are a tangle of crowded limbs, and the ravenette doesn’t so much mind. It’s been far too long without having her near; cramped as it may be, this closeness is what she desired during those horrid hours in the dead of night. When she had only the onslaught of rain soaking her bones as company, and it took but one consistent thought, running on a wheel in her inky mind-space, to make her pick up one foot after the other and continue on home. She only really needed that one thought, as it was more than enough to will her onward. Kimiko may be late, but she had made it home. The new bathwater rushed to encompass the two women, light and dark, entangled as one. Ebony hair slick to the sides of her face, Kimiko encircles Ryu with her arms. She manages what little energy she has to wrap the silver haired beauty in burdensome arms, guiding Ryu’s forehead into the crook of her neck. Fingers cold, she cradles the back of Ryu’s head, her cheek gingerly resting on white tresses. With the other hand, Kimiko traces small, meaningless patterns on the medic’s bare back. At last, heavy lids come to a close, and her lips part, exhaling a sigh of relief. What had kept her going in those dark hours was here, now. Ryu hadn’t disappeared while Kimiko had been away - and what’s more, she was encompassed in her arms, safe and sound. “I’ve missed you.”

[ecto-american]

Community

DannyMay 2019 themed story, I’m not late I’m just going my own pace pls be nice to me

Ectoplasm | Broken | Glass | Theory | Or Read on AO3.

Day 22: Community

It was still an absolute mystery why anybody would want to skin Phantom. And it was all Jack could think of while scrubbing the carpet.

He made a giant mix of a laundry detergent and salt like paste to get the ectoplasm out, mixing in some water and non bleach cleaner to try and get the job done. The kitchen would be easier to clean up. He could have Jazz and Danny clean it up when they both got there, while he and Maddie tended to Phantom. For now, he wanted to get the first bit of ectoplasm out of the carpet.

Jack cracked his back as he looked at the stairs he had spent the past hour scrubbing. He could still see the faint traces of where ectoplasm was. It wasn't a perfect clean up, and he mentally calculated the cost of just ripping up the carpet and replacing it. It almost seemed easier than all of this effort. That may be nice. The carpet was getting old anyway. He'd have to ask Maddie her opinion, assuming she couldn't get the final layers of ectoplasm out.

He could hear a faint noise downstairs, and he paused. It was faint, but soon grew louder. That haunting choked gurgling sound. Jack put his cleaning supplies down at the top step, going down and peering into the living room.

Phantom was on his side, grasping a pillow to his chest and shaking hard. Despite not needing to breathe, he was hyperventilating. The ghost arched his back, making a pained groaning. Phantom's eyes locked onto Jack's, and he looked terrified. Jack came to him, putting a hand on his forehead. Phantom was hot, sweating hard.

"What's wrong?" Jack asked dumbly, wincing as all he got in response was a garble accompanied by ectoplasm leaking onto the pillow from Phantom's mouth.

A sharp gasp, and Jack had to narrow his eyes to get past a blinding light. Near Phantom's lower stomach, a blinding light kept flashing. On and off. He watched as it struggled to appear, going as far as to make a line of sorts before it ultimately folded in on itself and disappeared.

Phantom's chest heaved up and down rapidly as green eyes stared off into the ceiling blankly. Jack found himself slowly running his hand through Phantom's hair to soothe him. Slowly, Phantom's eyes began to droop as the human-like breathing pattern slowed down considerably. After a few silent moments, Phantom fell back asleep. He continued "breathing".

Jack didn't dare move away for a moment. What was that light? He had never seen such a thing before. Not around Phantom, not around any other ghost. Was it some rare ghostly behavior? What did it mean? The ghost scientist in him was becoming giddy at all the things he was already learning today: ghosts can drink water, ghosts have some sort of skeletal structure, ghosts can sleep, ghosts have this flash of light. And they can be skinned. Jack tried to ignore the last one.

With Phantom settled, he moved back up the stairs to where he left his supplies. He sighed, simply tired at the mere idea of mindlessly scrubbing at the carpets in his son's room. And the laundry. Jack went into Danny's room, looking at the mess Phantom had made. The ghost seemingly didn't touch anything in Danny's room, to Jack's relief. If Phantom had tried to snoop, it would have been much creepier. From what he could tell, he went straight for the bed. Why he didn't just crash on the couch, Jack wasn't sure.

He picked up the pillows and began to strip them of their cases, carelessly tossing the pillows to the side of the room for now. Jack began stripping the blanket and sheets when something shiny caught his eye. He paused, searching for it within the bed and feeling something hard hidden within the covers. Curiously, he began shaking the blankets until the object fell out and rolled onto the floor. He shook the blanket a little more. Something else fell out. He continued shaking, but nothing else escaped the blankets, and a quick pat down confirmed that there was nothing else there.

Jack investigated what fell out. A Fenton Thermos and a cell phone. He reached down to pick up the thermos. Maddie and him both knew Phantom had been stealing and using Fenton tech for a while. Least now was a good chance for them to finally take back some of their property. He set it on the nightstand for now.

The cellphone had a unique case he recognized instantly. A NASA case that Danny had gotten. This was Danny's phone. Clicking the home button and seeing the background of Danny with Sam confirmed it, complete with the notifications that Jack had called earlier and left messages, alongside others for social medias and texts from friends. Jack was so confused. Why did Phantom have his son's phone?

No, no. He couldn't blame Phantom for this. Could he? This was Danny's room. Of course his stuff was all over the place. Jack wouldn't be surprised if Danny straight up forgot his phone in his room before leaving. Danny always seemed to lose his phone.

Despite this line of reasoning, Jack still felt off. Something was missing and weird, but he couldn't place it. He pocketed his son's phone for now, grabbing the dirty laundry as he studied the bed, and he froze.

The mattress was covered in stains. Fresh green ectoplasm, but he could see the faded marks of somebody having tried to clean ectoplasm from the bed before. Pale brown-red stains that had been lifted as much as possible from the bed. Jack's heart sank at this. Did Maddie know? No, she refused to make the kids' beds anymore. Jazz and Danny were responsible for making their own beds. Dear God, why was there so much dried and old blood all over the bed? And ectoplasm?

Jack couldn't help but continue staring at the mess as his mind raced. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and the reality that he had no clue where his son was, nor could he get a hold of him, hit him like a brick wall.

He hurriedly took the sheets to the laundry room, shoving them in the washer. With a rushed laze, he eyeballed some laundry soap and cleaning supplies before turning the washer on. A check of the dryer confirmed that it was still full of laundry that needed folding. He sighed. Jack pulled out his cell phone and dialed Angela. As he waited, he began to fold and place the laundry in a basket. After a few rings, Tucker's mom answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Angela, it's Jack," Jack greeted her.

"Oh, hello, Jack, how are you?" she spoke sweet as ever.

"Not so well," Jack confessed. "Has Danny been over? Is he there now? I found his phone in his room, and I can't find him."

"No, he hasn't been here since yesterday. Tucker's here though, hold on a moment," Angela assured him. He could hear her call for her son, and the vague chatter of a brief conversation between them. Jack patiently waited as he continued to fold. "Tucker hasn't seen him since school today, but I'll give you a call if I see him."

Disappointed, Jack thanked her and moved onto Pamela.

"Hey, Pam, it's Jack," he began, and he decided to cut to the chase before she could hang up on him. "Listen, Danny's missing. I can't find him, and he left his phone at home. Has he been there?"

A pause. "No." To his surprise, Pamela actually sounded a bit concerned. "I haven't really seen him around since maybe three days ago? I know Samantha told me that she saw Danny today in school, but not really much else."

"Thanks," Jack replied half-heartedly. "Please call me if you hear from him."

"I will, of course. I hope he turns up."

Jack hung up, absolutely lost. He stared at the pile of laundry he had folded and stacked on top of the dryer. Where next? Danny didn't really have many friends outside of Tucker and Sam. Who else could he possibly be with?

He scrolled through his phone before coming upon a number. Mr. Lancer. He immediately clicked on the contact, and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Mr. Fenton?" a voice finally answered after several rings.

"Yes," Jack confirmed quickly. "Have you seen Danny?"

"Of course, he was in school today. He had detention, and he served it. For once, without incident. I suggested he go to the school library to get his homework done, and he agreed, but he was gone when I checked by an hour later," Mr. Lancer confirmed. Jack felt a small rush of excitement. It was small, but he felt like he was finally narrowing down some possibilities. "Is something wrong?"

"He's gone, and he left his phone here," Jack explained. "I can't get ahold of him, and none of his friends have seen him. I haven't seen him myself since this morning." There was a long pause from Mr. Lancer.

"Daniel was in trouble for having his cell phone out during class," Mr. Lancer finally told him. Jack had no clue how to take this information.

"He must have come home since then," Jack mused, mostly to himself. "Well, thank you. Please call me if you see him. Tell him I'm very worried, and that there's been a minor incident at home. I need him here as soon as possible."

"Will do. I heavily recommend getting the police involved if he's not home by curfew," Mr. Lancer suggested. Jack nodded, feeling his mouth dry.

"I will, of course. Thank you. Goodbye."

Feeling out of options, Jack hung up. He silently finished folding the laundry, leaving it to sit on the top of the dryer for now. He moved to go downstairs to check on Phantom.

He was still sleeping, "breathing" and looked so much paler. He fidgeted in his sleep, still sweating, and Jack could hear a soft grind whenever Phantom would give the occasional soft exhale. He wondered if Phantom would need more medicine, but he checked the time. Maddie should be here shortly, and he didn't want to risk Phantom being too out of it to talk to them.

Jack stood staring. He told himself he was just watching for the light again. Curious to understand it, but it wasn't that. Something was wrong. The feeling kept building, and it made him still unable to eat more than a slice of the cold pizza he had brought home. Even fudge didn't sound appealing.

He wished Phantom could talk, so that he could give him some answers. Why was he here? What happened to him? Why did he steal FentonWorks technology? Why was his son's phone in the bed with him? Why did he even come here in the first place? It was a confusing mystery, and Jack knew he was missing pieces but had no idea where he'd even begin hunting for them.

Jack shifted to take a seat, telling himself he needed a break from cleaning up ectoplasm. Maddie was so close to being here. She was always better at this kind of puzzle-solving, and this was one hell of a puzzle.

[kinsbin]

Feelings

Title: Feelings Ship: Alexys/Bishiop[Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 2001 Summary: While relaxing on one hot day, Alexys wonders how Bishop is truly able to feel things. Her question garners a particularly interesting answer.

A/N: A commission for @space-sweetheart! A joy to write as always <3

Tick...tick tick...tick...tick tick…tick-

One, two, three, four...She counted each second in her mind as they lay together, the heat of the summer overcoming their forms as they breathed in the stagnant air of the small apartment together. On days where Bishop visited her, Alexys usually liked to go out. They would enjoy doing something, anything, if it mean exploring the world around them hand in hand. Bishop liked to do it, too, she knew. Experiencing new things was what the android seemed to crave on days away from space, the lack of unknown factors on earth making him long for the discovery of new things as they came. Whether that be in the outside world, a place he’s never been before, or something else it was always a guessing game.

Today, however, the world was too hot. Summer had bared its teeth at the world with a frightening level of ferocity, bringing with it waves of ungodly warmth and humidity in its wake. It was a humidity that stuck clothes to skin and created sweat instantaneously on their bodies. A single exit from the quiet apartment building brought about a stirring sensation of disgusting heat and sticky sweat that she would much rather die over than feel again. She had forgone their plans to go out and explore the world together in favor of remaining in the safe haven of her apartment, where the air conditioning provided them with ample relief from the gnashing of heat right outside their windows.

She looked down at the android at her side. His eyes were shut, as if in sleep. Lips pursed softly, Alexys couldn’t help the urge she had to reach over and stroke a fingertip along his jawline. It was sharp, but, not enough to cut. More enough to define. She appreciated that. The roboticist that created Bishop probably realized that a sharper jawline would make him more intimidating. More evil-looking. How silly to think that he might even be remotely harmful, though. Not to her, never to her.

At least she would certainly hope that was the case.

That hope brought about a sort of thought in her mind. One that made her pause in tracing his jaw. He noticed. Eyes opening, he sat up slightly at her side, moving them so that he was holding her now, arms around her form and his bare chest (she had asked him to forgo a shirt on the purely human account that he just looked way too hot in it) as they continued to rest. The new position provided Alexys with ample room to hug him, hands on his waist and another on his chest as they snuggled against one another despite the outer heat.

She took a breath as they gazed at one another for a moment.

“Bishop...can I….ask you something?”

“Hm?” He shut his eyes under her touch, “Of course, anything.”

“Can you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

Alexys bit her lip, tracing patterns along her android’s bare chest as they rested together. The room was superheated with her body heat and his roters whirring softly inside of him, coolant doing little to quell the blaze in his chest as she traced patterns. He was smooth. Hairless. Yet it felt so real, so flesh-like that she was constantly in awe of the craftsmanship put into him. Bishop waited, patiently, for her to answer his question. His eyes trailed her fingertips as she moved against his body, tracing the patterns he memorized in the back of his head with little effort.

“Like...sensations...Touch...Smell...Taste...Can you sense all of them, just like us? Like humans?”

There was quiet afterwards as he considered her words. He felt her breath ghost across his collarbone as they lay together, fingers slowly entwining over their heads as their hands found one another by instinct alone. Bishop seemed lost for a moment as he thought of the question, listening to the world around him as his processors continued to hum softly in the back of his mind. Thinking. Working. A deep set series of contemplative algorithms echoing soundly in the back of his mind as he did so. Alexys waited, as patiently as he had for her, and admired the way his chest seemed to rise. Down and pup and up and down...just like a person.

“Well,” Bishop finally spoke up, shifting his position at her side. Alexys allowed him as he moved over her, leaning down to press their lips together. Her eyes fluttered shut as his mouth moved on hers, hand going up to run itself through the synthetic fibers of his hair. They were so soft. Almost real in their touch. As if they were a human’s. The kiss was slow and passionate. Bishop took his time in the dark as they shared it all.

“I can feel your lips on mine,” He whispered as he pulled away from her with the faintest smile on his mouth, “You’re soft...you taste like the ice cream you ate for dessert. I can tell that your mouth is still cold from it because of how chilled your lips are.”

Alexys bit back a laugh of nerves as he continued down, kissing her cheek before moving to her neck, placing a gentle kiss on it and shifting away with a smile, “I can taste the particles on your skin. Where you spilled sugar when you were baking. The softness from the soap you used when you shower...It’s all here, imprinted on your skin. Transferred to my lips. My hands. So...I suppose, yes, I can sense all of them.

She found his hand again, taking in a deep breath and twirling their fingers together so that they locked nicely. They fit perfectly. She tilted her head to let her hair splay across the pillows, a halo of brown over the white of the bedsheets and Bishop sighed as he admired her beauty strewn out before him.

“But do you know?” Alexys murmured, “Do you feel it?”

His brow furrowed at this, and she continued:

“The feeling of why lavender or mint tastes the way it does? Or why we eat it the way we do? To enjoy every bit of it as it fills us, because, humans...need something fulfilling in their life. We’re not really given a purpose. Finding our own is hard and scary and…”

She stopped holding when she realized that she was trembling, tears pricking at her eyes at the thought of not only the difference between herself and her lover, but, the difference between life and death. Sensation and realization. Was it too different? Would he find her strange for wondering all of this?

His head fell on her chest. Alexys could feel Bishop’s weight press down on her.

“I can hear your heart beating,” He murmured. The tips of his fingers drummed on her body and on the bed, as if he was keeping tempo with the rhythm of her cardiovascular system. Thump. Thump thump. Thump...She was hyper aware of her own heartbeat rushing in the core of her ears now as he said it, his smile spreading on his mouth so that she could feel it on her chest.

“I know that, when it beats faster, you’re excited. When it slows, you’re relaxed...I can tell which beats it skips or misses when you look at me…”

To this she averted her gaze, making Bishop chuckle as he moved forward to kiss her gently, their lips molding together once again as they held that same position for a while longer, endlessly clinging to each other through the quiet of the hot night. Alexys reached up, her hand stroking his face as they pulled away from one another. He let her pet him, her thumb grazing across his cheeks, down his chin, and pressing on the bottom half of his lip, pulling and examining with idle fascination.

“So,” He faded off for a moment, then focused yet again, “I can feel...but...I feel best when I’m with you.”

“Ah,” Alexys bit her lip, “Why do you think that is?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

She raised an eyebrow at the man before her, who chuckled softly in response. Was it supposed to be obvious? Embarrassment reached the peak of her cheeks, burning them red as she averted her gaze away from his playful one. His hands moved again, bringing her close to him, adjusting their positions so that she was sitting up now, her body against his as they hugged together. His fingers wove through her hair, combing gently. The sensation was relaxing and sweet, causing Alexys to sigh and nuzzle into him as she enjoyed it. “Because it was you who opened my eyes to things,” His voice was so soft as he explained his feelings, “Because you saw me in a different light from everyone else...Gave me opportunities to grow and feel and evolve more than anyone else has...The chances you’ve given me are beyond what I ever thought I would have gotten...and since we are so close...I’ve developed a tune to your emotions that I never thought I’d have towards anyone. I…”

He faded away at the last set of words seemed to not want to leave his mouth. He swallowed, almost nervously, as he held her closer. Alexys waited, patiently, with wide eyes and a wider blush on her face as she anticipated the next words from his mouth. They fell like dominoes, easy and fast, but oh-so tense as they made their move through the air and into her ears.

“I love you...and I think it’s that love that gave me this ability.”

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Happy, wet tears that made her heart leap with excitement and joy to hear.

Of course he would say something like that. She wondered, briefly, if he was programmed to. The thought was soon pushed away from her mind, however, as their lips found one another again. His mouth was no wet with her tears as they embraced, her fingers finding his shoulders while his pressed to her cheeks. His hands were, somehow, warm. Warmer than the outside. Warmer than her own. They burst forth with a blaze of freshness that made her shiver despite the heat.

The kiss lasted for a while, they shared the moment with intimate care as they allowed it to go. When Bishop finally pulled away, Alexys saw the smile gracing his mouth. She admired the way his eyes narrowed as they gazed fondly at her, as if she were the only thing in the world. The only thing in his world. To feel so isolated had never made her feel more special, and she wished she could take a picture of the look so that she could save it in her own memory for years and years to come.

Instead her words fell, broken and happy like a cry of delight, on her mouth that felt all too lonely without his:

“I love you, too.”

The response seemed to be what he wanted to hear. His face lit up, for a moment as if it was shocked, and then he smiled more. Wider. Sweeter. So beautifully, even when his face disappeared so that he could hug her tight and bury his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the feeling of her body pressed tight to his own. Alexys hugged him back, his own scent of cleanliness and machinery filling her nose in a pleasant aroma of notalgia. Home careened itself in her stomach as she kept herself wrapped up in the moment.

It truly didn’t matter what either of them were, she decided. Robot, human, or anything else. So long as they had one another, well, then it would all be worth it in the end.

Because, like he said, the loved each other.

She doubted that would change.

[mithrilwren]

Ink

tomarcus, tw; allusions to (but no actual) self-harm. You can also read on Ao3 [here]! Look out for part 2 once I finally get a good night’s sleep and regain some energy.

You are halfway to dozing under the dim dashboard light of a used sedan, with rain thundering on the rooftop and highway chattering beneath the rusted suspension, when you notice the markings on Marcus’ arm.

At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. The shadows of running droplets on the windshield scurry like tadpoles from the crook of his elbow down to the small of his wrist, and between the shapes sharp black lines shift, almost out of reach. You blink a few times, trying to clear the spots from your vision, and refocus.

His sleeve is rolled to a wrinkled coil just below the joint, and in the space between muscle and veins you can see the markings clearly now – twisted lines poking out from beneath the white fabric, jagged spikes deepening the creases in his skin. Each stroke hints towards a larger pattern, just out of your sight.

When Marcus eases the steering wheel around a curve, the sleeve shifts down an inch and the markings disappear from view.

Eventually, you let yourself sleep, curiousity pricking at your mind with the same insistent beat as the raindrops on the roof above.

You do not ask him, but you watch more keenly than you did before.

---

It’s a full twelve hours before your journey abruptly pauses to allow for a decent sleep in a real bed, and a sorely needed shower, and a meal that doesn’t come pre-packaged from a gas station display case. The stop is at Marcus’ insistence, not yours. You want to keep moving, and he tells you to take a breath. That’s been the rhythm of the last eight hundred miles of road and you think as you watch him fumble with the room key, red eyes bleary from the week’s second all-night drive, next time I’ll be the one who says ‘enough’. If you’re in the business of noticing things now, you may as well multitask.

Night comes, and you wait for Marcus to shed his button-down and throw it in the bag of all the other clothing to be washed when the two of you, bachelors till the end, finally remember to pick up more soap. You haven’t forgotten about what you glimpsed, and though the curiousity isn’t quite so burning now, it still lingers at the back of your mind. But despite his obvious exhaustion, Marcus sits at the table instead of shucking his shirt and collapsing onto the bed, and by the time you finish brushing your teeth, he’s produced a book from some hidden duffel pocket and begun to read.  

The world’s most boring game of chicken ensues, and you’re not sure if Marcus knows he’s playing, but it’s clear from the start who has the upper hand. Your stamina is weak at best, having taken the latest shift behind the wheel. Marcus can’t be much better off, but he keeps turning the pages. You swear you can see the paper quavering beneath his touch.

Sitting on the bed is a mistake, lying down with one arm across your eyes is a graver one, and just when the telltale slump of Marcus’ shoulders hints that the end might be nigh, you make the worst mistake of all. You think, just ten seconds won’t hurt.

When you open your eyes again, all the lights are off, and Marcus is gone.

---

This isn’t the first time you’ve woken to find yourself alone in a hotel room like this.

The first time, you’d searched the whole complex, frantic, fearing the worst. After a half hour of desperation, you found Marcus on the far side of the parking lot, legs hung loosely from his stone divider perch, watching the cars fly past. In the end, you left him to wait out the dawn without disturbing his quiet contemplation. By the third time, you learned that Marcus always does, in fact, always come back by morning’s light.

It doesn’t stop you from worrying.

When you emerge from the shower and pull your last clean shirt over dripping curls, Marcus is closing the door with his heel. In his arms, he carries two styrofoam containers of something that smells syrupy and comforting, and a small bottle of detergent. He’s still wearing the same shirt as the night before. The sleeves are rolled all the way down to his wrists.

He washes while you eat, and you don’t have any reasonable excuse to follow him into the bathroom, so when he emerges in something new and dry and unrevealing, with a bundle of wet clothes beneath his arm, you consign yourself to wait another night for your answer.

A few hundred miles of highway pass by, scenery shifting from rolling hills to dark evergreen shade. You notice his eyelids beginning to droop, and you call for a stop. He stares at you, eyes narrowed with a weighty mix of disbelief and confusion. He asks if you’re sure, and you say yes, of course. Something else slips into his expression, despite his obvious attempts to hide it – a sort of cautious gratitude that stirs up a sickening ache deep within your stomach.

Guilt, you think. That’s what this is.

That night, you don’t even bother trying to spy. It feels intrusive, and you’ve already seen more today of Marcus than he wanted to show.

---

You couldn’t be sure at the beginning, but with each passing day you become more convinced that Marcus is actively hiding his arms from you. It doesn’t take much longer before your mind begins to flip through the possibilities. They present themselves in the ghosts of past parishioners, each with a demon tearfully confessed in the hushed safety of your office. Three likely suspects emerge from the mist: track marks, bruises, cuts.

You don’t think Marcus is the type to shoot up-

(But can you say that for certain? How long have you known him, really?)

And no one, neither human nor demon, has been near enough to have lain a hand on him-

(Can you be sure he hasn’t disappeared more nights than the ones you’ve noticed? Can you account for every hand that might have brushed his skin?)

As for cuts-

(There would have been some other sign. You would’ve noticed before now.)

(Wouldn’t you?)

---

You expect there to be an intervention of some sort, eventually – the sort of shoulder-clawing, tear-laden soap opera scene that would end with him angrily tearing his shirt from his chest and baring the answer to all your questions. You almost crave it, that emotional release. It might finally drain you of all the tension that comes from wondering, and worrying, and wondering if you should really be worrying at all.

Marcus is a grown man, and it’s not your responsibility to watch for his every need. That’s something it’s very easy to tell yourself, when you aren’t actually looking at him, and noticing all these little things, like the way his always-slim fingers have gotten impossibly thinner, or how he’s stopped shaving quite as often as he used to. You’re looking so much these days that it’s a wonder Marcus doesn’t catch you but somehow, whenever you look at him, he’s always looking away.

The mystery ends so much more quietly than you anticipate. You wake one night, and the air feels wrong. You open your eyes, expecting to find yourself alone again, but instead you discover that the little lamp on the far side of the room is on, and cast in its soft orange glow is Marcus, clad in a familiar white undershirt, with a book open on his lap and a pen pressed to his skin.

You raise yourself up gently, so gently, but he still spooks at the sound of your stirring. The hand holding the pen makes an aborted movement towards a sleeve that isn’t there, then comes back to rest awkwardly over the edge of his arm. He turns his gaze to the window, away from you, and you can see he’s not breathing properly. He’s not breathing at all, if you’re honest, and you wonder now how it’s possible to have spent so many nights in close company, gone through so many life-altering ordeals, and still managed to end up this frightened of each other.

You finish sitting up. He still hasn’t moved, hasn’t breathed. Like an animal caught in an open clearing, if I don’t see you, you can’t see me. You press forward, not wanting to take advantage of his sudden paralysis, but too spellbound to do anything else but move.

There’s an empty seat across from Marcus, and you take it. He finally flicks his eyes in your direction: first to your face, then the wrinkled collar of your t-shirt, and finally to where your hands rest, clasped at a polite distance from the centre of the little table. Too late, you realize you’ve assumed the same posture you would while counseling – open shoulders, placating smile, studiously relaxed and inviting. He sees right through it in an instant, and his jaw tightens. Your moment is slipping away. You drink in what you can, while you can.

The book in his lap is the Bible, the same battered copy he’s always kept, the one filled with notes and underlines and sprawling figures. Tonight, it’s open to a page from the book of Job, and in its margins and around tightly-packed verses carefully inked vines twist and weave. Boughs laden with delicate leaves in dark clusters separate to outline a few words and phrases – on my eyelids there is deep darkness, though there is no violence in my hands – and remerge to form weightier masses near the edge of the text. There, the thicket of penstrokes is so dense that it’s as though the page was bordered from the start.

And then you look to his arm, and you see where the same vines grow from the bend of his elbow. They weave with the same fervour, circling freckles instead of verses, and beneath the vines you can make out the faint stain of older markings, not yet fully rubbed from the skin, in layer upon faded layer. No hint of track marks or bruises or cuts. Just ink, in a pattern as elegant as any pressed to paper.

It’s a… strange habit, maybe, but it’s nothing that unusual. Nothing shameful. Nothing that he needed to hide from you, and you take his wrist and guide his arm to rest on the table, wanting to show him so.

“These are beautiful.”

His calloused fingers twitch against your skin as you trace a path of leaves around the curve of his forearm with a light touch. When you glance up, a grin you hope is warm and non-judgemental on your face, he’s looking at you. He’s finally looking at you properly, and with such a stricken expression that you almost draw back and apologize for overstepping your bounds, only…

Marcus is breathing again. Short, staccato breaths that slow, ever so slightly, as your fingers shift to the next trail of ink. You don’t stop.  

It’s almost meditative, moving from one line to the next, tracing every path and listening to the changes in Marcus’ breath. You feel, rather than see, his chest rise and fall, until you find that your own breath follows the same cadence. He still hasn’t said a word, and that should be desperately uncomfortable, and you really have no idea what you’re doing, but he doesn’t ask you to stop, and you don’t ask yourself why you don’t. You let yourself drift. Marcus closes his eyes.

A door slams somewhere outside, and you break from your reverie to realize that your careless touch has smudged the farthest reaches of the pattern, where the ink was freshest. He silences your embarrassed apology with a small smile that’s just a little too tight around the edges to be believed.

“Don’t worry. It’s an easy fix.”

Marcus takes the pen from where its fallen, forgotten, and begins retracing the ruined portions. The end result is far from clean, once-crisp lines now forever marred, but he seems satisfied, and excuses himself to the bathroom once he’s done. He doesn’t come out for a long while.

You don’t speak about it again, not for weeks, but you catch glimpses of new designs as they fade and reappear. Different patterns each time, but always the same motif: something wild and untamed, branching outward.

Sometimes, now, he notices you staring – or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, when your eyes meet, for a moment, you always catch a glimpse of that same paralysis before his gaze softens and he looks away.

He stops rolling his sleeves down, at least. You choose to believe that means more than the way he still avoids your glance. You have to believe it. If the two of you aren’t moving forward, where does that leave you?

You’ve never been very good at standing still.

[universitykpop]

F.C.B; Part 5

Genre: fluff, smut

Warnings: slight exhibitionism

Member: Sehun

Words:1,595

A/N: I worked really hard to finish this. Thank you everyone who has sent me such kind messages the past couple days. I really appreciate so many of you messaging me<3

prologue part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7

Your heart is split in two.

Sehun is a really good friend. You don’t deserve him. He’s patient, funny, and nice. Not to mention how attractive he is. He could have a normal relationship with someone better than you. Why didn’t he?

For the third night in a row, he is in your room, rolling around with you, even after you had answered his question. You had to let him know that you wanted his body… but his response surprised you more than anything.

“We can take this backwards. Let me show you how good I can treat you.”

Now here you are with bedsheets stained with the smell of him, and you aren’t complaining. Although you’ve spent the time you weren’t in class laying around with him, it isn’t so bad. He would hold you close and talk about anything on your mind. His fingers would trace random patterns down your bare back causing you to shiver every once in a while with a giggle from him. This soft side of Sehun is even more attractive. Maybe you could learn to like him for him.

Your head rests on his chest as he tells an embarrassing story about him and Chanyeol in high school. The way he keeps peeking down at you has your heart pounding.

“You’re so beautiful.” He interrupts himself and brushes some hair from your face. Without hesitation, you lean into the touch, eyes closing. His lips gently meet yours.

It’s like everything around you melts away, and it’s just the two of you. In the beginning, you didn’t think he’d actually make you fall for him, but he really is doing it little by little.

Every lick into your mouth makes you gasp and cling tighter to the lean man in your bed. The seductive sighs spilling from his lips have your arousal building. You move to straddle him, and his hands rest on your hips. Your warmth presses against his cock to find friction. As you build a pace, his fingers dig into your skin.

“Wait, stop.” Sehun suddenly halts your movements.

You look down at him in confusion.

“I want this. Trust me. I do, but I was hoping we could do something else.”

“I told you I’m not ready for butt stuff.” You point a warning finger in his face.

He pretends to chomp at your finger as you jerk it back. “Not that. I mean let me take you out… Like on an actual date.”

“Are you serious?”

“Your room is nice and all, but I want to spoil you.” His voice is softer as if he’s embarrassed.

“We can do whatever you want as long as I get to shower.” You caress your hands up his chest, maintaining eye contact.

“Let’s kill two birds with one stone,” He says, picking you up and carrying you into your ensuite.

You’re sat on the sink counter before Sehun turns the shower on. While the water heats up, he massages your thighs and hovers over your lips, teasing you. Once the room is steamy, he helps you into the tub. His broad shoulders make your shower feel smaller as he stays close to you.

His nimble fingers rub shampoo into your hair, and you feel yourself leaning back into his touch. He guides you under the water to rinse off the soap, a hand straying to trace down your front side down to your womanhood. The flame that was smothered from earlier is back as he smooths circles against your sensitive nub. You find your own hands clutching onto his shoulders, and you pull him down to your level for a kiss.

Your arms wrap around his neck to keep him close. You still want him desperately. A groan rumbles through his chest and against yours. There’s a blunt object slightly rubbing your thigh, and your heart pounds.

“Sehun, please.” You whimper, nails digging into his back.

“Hang on.” He breathes before stepping out and rummaging through his clothes in your room.

When he returns, you stare at him in disbelief as he rips a condom packet.

“What?” He finally notices the look you’re giving him.

“You just tracked water everywhere.” You whine.

“I’ll clean it up. I promise.” He smiles and leans in to capture your lips.

His hands roll the condom down his shaft and give it a few pumps. He turns you around, lifting one of your legs to rest on the side of the tub. A mouth attaches itself to your shoulder as he aligns himself to your entrance. He gently pushes past your wet folds. Your hands fist against the tiled wall.

Sehun lazily fucks you against the shower wall as you teethe on your lower lip. Your forehead leans against the cool tile, and it heightens your senses. His warm hands rest on your waist holding you in place as he thrusts a little quicker. A moan escapes your lips when he hits that one spot deep within you.

“Say my name, baby.” His voice is strained next to your ear.

You mewl out his name.

“Louder.” He demands and snaps his hips.

“Sehun, fuck!” You moan, hearing his name echo against the bathroom walls.

“Good girl,” He coos, “Are you gonna come for me?”

You weakly nod, but that’s not enough for him.

“I didn’t hear you, baby.”

“Yes.” You manage to answer as he picks up the pace.

A hand strays from your waist, and his finger strokes your clit in quick circles. Your propped up leg begins to tremble as the knot in your stomach comes undone. His other hand wraps around your torso to keep you standing. You squirm in his embrace with nowhere to go. The sensation intensifies as he continues chasing his release.

When you think you can’t take it anymore, he finally stills and groans into your nape. The two of you stand there a moment, catching your breaths. Once he pulls out, you almost collapse.

“Baby, please don’t fall. We need to finish showering.” You can hear the smirk in his voice and steady yourself against the wall as he tosses the condom into the trashcan before returning his attention to you.  

-

When Sehun said he wanted to spoil you, he wasn’t kidding.

You step out of his car as he hands the keys over to the valet. You’re in awe of the upscale steakhouse he’s brought you to. When you feel his hand slip into yours, you look to him with a worried gaze.

“We don’t have to eat here. I’m perfectly fine with fried chicken from that hole-in-the-wall place.” You say quietly as not to let the sophisticated people around you hear.

“Y/N, just let me spoil you,” His hand squeezes yours, “I’ve already made reservations here.”

“When did you do that?!”

“A few days ago.” He avoids your annoyed eyes.

The hostess takes the reservation name and hurriedly shows you to your table. It’s in a far corner with very few other tables around.

“How did you know I’d say yes?” You ask challengingly as you slide into the booth.

“Because I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.” He slips in from the other side, sitting next to you where the booth seats meet in the corner.

“That wouldn’t have been fair.”

“You know what else isn’t fair? Being the unattractive one in this relationship.” He raises his eyebrows.

You swat at his shoulder, making him chuckle, “Shut up.”

A hand runs up your thigh, pushing your dress with it. You look up at him in surprise, but he glances around the restaurant completely aloof. His nails lightly scratch at your skin, and you can feel a shiver go down your spine.

“Sehun, we’re in public.” You remind him.

“There’s a tablecloth. No one will know.” He argues without looking at you.

“Sehun…” You warn.

“I’m just trying to prepare my dessert.” He finally faces you, and your body heats up under his lustful gaze. After a silent moment, a finger ghosts over your womanhood causing you to jump. A shit-eating grin appears on Sehun’s lips.

-

Managing to make it through your dinner without drawing attention was a miracle. You sigh out in relief when the check is placed on the table, and you reach for your purse.

“I’ll pay.” Sehun stops you.

“I probably just bought my own meal anyway.” You say quietly.

“What? You’ve sent money during streams?” Sehun asks jokingly, his interest piqued, as he sets out his card for the waiter.

You nod, not able to look him in the face.

His hand is quick to lift your chin, so his eyes can bore into yours.

“You could have just asked for a free show.”

Your face is on fire as you swat his hand away, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever date a fan.” He laughs to himself, and you want to sink further into your seat. “Baby, I’m just messing with you.”

The check is returned with his card, and he quickly signs it before grazing a hand on your thigh again. “Let’s go to my place for dessert.” He winks.

You become excited as he leads you out of the expensive restaurant. Outside, you are met with Sehun’s friends, Chanyeol and Joonmyeon, holding signs that read, “Be my girlfriend?”

Your jaw drops when Sehun moves to stand next to them and pulls out a long velvet box to reveal a silver opal necklace.

“Will you?” He stares at you with hope glinting in his eyes.

[ausaplenty]

Gig economy

Kiara. Troy. Lilian. Bounty Hunter AU. Includes an attempt at heterosexual smut because I’m trying to improve.

“Kiara?” Troy called, interrupting Kiara as she watched a movie. “Interested in a job?”

Briefly, the blonde thought of her finances. She had enough to pay next month bills and a small safety net just in case she couldn’t pay the next. But without a gig soon, she would definitely struggle to buy art supplies.

She groaned while she pushed herself off the couch and padded into Troy’s office, draping herself over the back of his chair. “What did you find?”

“Corporate espionage - $1,000 for information leading to capture, $20,000 for apprehension,” he told her before he absently handed her a piece of paper over his shoulder.

“We’ve never gotten a gig that big before,” the shadow walker whispered in awe.

“I don’t think it would so high if Seucer wasn’t involved,” her partner reasoned. “They’re notoriously paranoid about security. It’d take my mom hours to get past the encryptions and she’s one of the strongest technopaths in the field.”

Kiara glanced at the document. Vivian Carlos. 28-years-old. Suspected of selling Seucer company secrets to opponents in the pharmaceutical industry.

There was a grainy surveillance photo of Vivian at a convenience store, the timestamp emblazoned in the lower right corner proclaiming it to be taken a day ago in Berkley, California. Her face was partially hidden by an oversized pair of sunglasses.

She set it down on the desk to be read thoroughly later.

“Can you track her?” Kiara smiled at the small noise of indignation that escaped her partner. She threaded her fingers through his hair, tracing small patterns on his scalp.

He relaxed under the familiar, intimate touch, tension easing out of his shoulders.

“Of course. But it’s going take a little longer than usual,” Troy warned, flexing his fingers before placing them on the keys. His gaze was focused on the screens. “She’s smart. I’ve got to do a more visual tracking technique than I usually do because she’s ceased using credit cards and her phone has a ghost chip in it.”

His confidence sent a shiver down her spine.

“$20,000,” she whispered in awe. “Troy, I could focus on my art for at least a few months. You could quit that stupid tech support job.”

“Or we could pay back some of those student loans,” he answered, laughing as Kiara groaned.

“Buzzkill,” she murmured jokingly before she pulled away.

“Hey, don’t stop,” Troy complained. He looked away from his computers, practically craning his neck to meet her gaze. His blue-green eyes were sparkling with laughter. “I take it back. Fuck crushing debt. Let’s buy enough marble to rebuild the Taj Mahal.”

“Now you’re talking my language.”

He hummed with pleasure when her hands returned to his scalp. The noise ignited a spark of arousal in her center, reminding her of the other noises he liked to make.

She watched his fingers – long, slender digits made for handling delicate technology and quick motions – fly over the keys. With practiced strokes, he altered his program to recognize the images he fed into it. It was a code he’d designed himself, pulling data from more secure locations that used better quality footage.

“You’re a genius,” Kiara praised as she looped her arms loosely over his shoulders. The woman rubbed slow circles on his chest, feeling the muscle beneath her hand.  She nuzzled his neck, inhaling the scent of his sandalwood soap.

“You say that every time.” His voice was lower, huskier.

“I mean it,” she promised, her breath warm on his skin.

A flurry of images flew across the computer screen at dizzying pace. Troy covered her hand, catching it and pressing it between his own limb and his chest.

“We should have a location soon.”

“How long will it take?” she pressed before she kissed his jaw, craving satisfaction. “I’m bored.”

He chuckled and the familiar husky noise sent a surge of desire through her. She circled around, straddling his lap. Teasingly, she lowered her hoodie zipper to reveal her alabaster skin.

“Oh yeah?” Troy asked, his eyes gleaming.  He leaned forward, his breath warm on her cold skin, and she tangled her fingers in his short, blond hair.

A moan escaped her when he softly bit her shoulder, his hands caressing her legs. She yearned for his touch on her, unhindered by clothes. His mouth trailed up her neck, lingering at her ear where he gently bit her lobe. Her fingers tightened in his locks as his thumbs trailed the inside of her thighs, teasing her with their simultaneous proximity and distance.

“Troy,” she moaned, rolling her hips against his hardening manhood.

A shocked gasp escaped her lips when he stood, her legs clenching around his waist as her arms flew his neck to steady herself. His hands cupped her ass, holding her body against his.

“Your room or mine?” he murmured.

“Yours,” Kiara demanded, shoving the shadows away from them as they crept nearer. “Closer.”

His laughter sent shivers down her spine, his breath warm on her skin. “Yes, boss.”

She ‘slipped,’ her center sliding along his shaft. His hungry groan brought a smile to her lips. She ducked her head, nibbling his ear as his steps quickened. Troy sandwiched her between his body and the wall so he could open his bedroom door. Her legs squeezed around him when they pulled away.

Troy gently lowered her to his bed before undoing the zipper and letting the hoodie fall to the side to reveal her naked torso. He cupped her breasts, kneading the small, sensitive globes, and the woman arched toward him, hungry for more.

“Tell me what you want,” he coaxed, his voice raspy. “Tell me, Kiara.”

“I want you, inside me,” the shadow walker answered. She mewed as his thumb brushed her hardening nipple, sending a spark straight to her throbbing center. “Troy …”

“Hold on,” Troy soothed before he pulled away, eliciting a needy whimper from his partner. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her tights and thong, lifting her hips off the bed as he tugged the garments down her body. Dropping them on the floor, he caressed her supple form.

Kiara sat up, her face tilted up to meet his lips as her fingers found his jean’s button. She palmed his length, his member as stiff as the denim separating it from her touch. She slowly unzipped him, his lips on hers.

They kissed hungrily, Kiara’s naked body trembling with anticipation and cold. She tugged his shirt over his head, mussing his straw-colored hair.

She pulled away, finding the contraceptive with practiced ease as he rid himself of the jeans. The sight of him, naked and excited, stirred her desire. She reached out, her fingers scraping his abdomen. He tensed beneath her touch as she slid the sheath over his length.

“When we get the money, we should throw it all on the ground and do it,” Kiara purred, her eyes alit with the thought.

Troy stepped closer with a smirk, his hands resting on her thighs. “Already planning the next time?”

“God yes,” she breathed. “Your brains. My brawn. Our twenty thousand doll-“

Her train of thought dissolved in a wave of pleasure as Troy kissed her.

She moaned wantonly as his tongue explored her mouth, dancing a familiar waltz. His hands ventured lower, thumbs stroking the inside of her thighs. A rush of pleasure filled her as he neared her center and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her supple body against his.

Troy bit her lip before they separated and he climbed on the bed, pulling her to the center. She ground her hips against his pelvis, his needy moan a heady ambrosia to her arousal. Her nether region tingled, a mounting fire below her belly.

“Lie down,” he coaxed as he eased her down to the mattress. He knelt between her splayed knees, admiring the contrast of her flesh against his navy bedspread.

He bent over her, his mouth warm on her skin.

She mewled desperately when his fingers slid inside her, her hips bucking against him. Her fingers trailed up his back, scraping the firm muscles of his shoulders. “Troy, I-“

He silenced her with a gentle bite to her nipple, rolling the bud between his teeth as she gasped in pleasure. Troy’s fingers found her clit and squeezed softly.

Kiara closed her eyes as a wave of bliss washed over her. Her fingers tangled in Troy’s hair, urging her to her breasts. He hummed, the motion drawing her nipple further between his lips and he traced a wet circle around the bud.

Her body moved in rhythm with her lover’s touch, writhing as his nimble fingers teased and coaxed the sensitive nub. He knew how to play her like a fiddle and he played masterfully, deftly stroking her closer to the brink.

She whimpered shamelessly as he left her, opening her eyes in time to see Troy’s hungry gaze on her.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he praised, his blond hair mussed from her fingers. “Ready?”

“’ts takin’ you too long,” she panted before she pulled him to her lips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, trembling as she felt his hard member between them.

She was still shaking from pleasure when they split and Troy centered himself between her legs. He grabbed a pillow and slid it under her, raising her body for ease and comfort. His head teased her entrance. She tensed slightly as he slid inside her, inhaling sharply as he filled her. The pressure inside her center built, threatening to overflow.

Troy moved over her, balancing on one hand as the other massaged her breast.

“Perfect,” he murmured. He rocked into her, moaning at the cries escaping her lips.

She squeezed around him, hot and wet and needy. The musky scent of their arousal filled the room. Kiara reached out, her fingers brushing his chest.

He kissed her, mouth pressed against hers as she moaned. His teeth caught her lip, coaxing her mouth open so he could slip his tongue inside her.

The shadows lingered around them, purring their pleasure and excitement as Troy slid out. He ignored the thin tendrils that stretched toward them, caressing their sweaty skin.

He thrust into her - a rhythm that increased in time to match her demands of “faster” until he suddenly slowed when he sensed she was getting too close. It was a teasing tempo that drove her crazy with desire.

Her fingers clawed at the bedspread, fisting the material in her grasp.

“Troy,” she gasped when his staff brushed her swollen clit. “Troy …”

“Almost,” he promised with a throaty growl as he pushed against her.

“Faster,” Kiara pleaded.

She whimpered when he slowed, craving the sensation of him inside her as he withdrew.

He kissed her neck, his breath scalding her sensitive skin before he bit tenderly. He punctuated each thrust with a kiss and a bite, marking her neck and torso. His fingers rolled her nipple, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through her body.

His mouth distracted her as his free hand traveled lower, pinching and squeezing. She could feel his smile against her skin.

She mewled desperately as two fingers entered her, lifting her hips to meet his touch. They pinched her clit, a rush of bliss surging to her brain.

He bit her hard nipple as he rolled her clit between his fingers, her whispered pleas for release growing louder.

Troy’s fingers left her, massaging her nether lips before his swollen head slid between them.

Kiara tensed in anticipation, running her fingers through Troy’s hair as he kissed her throat.

A needy moan escaped her lips as he pushed into her with a long, slow stroke, brushing her clit. The second stroke pressed further.

She pulled his hair gently, shivering as he hummed in response – his lips warm around her nipple.

“Troy,” she mewled as he thrust into her, striking her clit in such a way that waves of unadulterated euphoria crashed down on her.

She tightened around him as he pushed again, her release causing her to squeeze her eyes shut.

Troy’s mouth muffled her moan, his tongue slipping between her lips as his member softened inside her. They kissed slowly, bodies trembling in the wake of their climax.

He hovered over her, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Still thinking about that $20,000?”

“We’re going to have $20,000,” she answered before she gave him a quick peck on the lips. She laughed as he collapsed on top of her, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around neck.

~*~

“You said she was in room 439 of the Los Angeles Monterey?” Kiara murmured as she stared up at the hotel. It was not like the places they’d tracked decent runners – second rate motels with half-asleep clerks and cigarette-stained walls. This place looked classy, as if they thoroughly checked IDs and were suspicious of cash-only transactions. “How did she not use a credit card for this?”

“She did.” Troy’s voice was warm in her ear.  He let out a low, appreciative whistle. “She’s got an entirely new identity, new bank accounts. If she did this on her own … Kiara, she’s a pro at being on the run.”

“Who is she now?”

“Melinda Hollis of Cumberland, Maryland.”

Kiara slipped inside, flitting through the halls until she found her target.

Vivian. Melinda. Whatever the hell her name was, she was in the shower.

“Is she there?” Troy asked.

“She’s in the shower,” Kiara murmured as she examined the open suitcase on the bed. There were no weapons hidden amongst the contents, just a dozen IDs and several credit cards. “I’ve got some names for you to run. Make sure none of them have a second reward offered.”

She was reading off the aliases when something cold and metal pressed against her skull. The click of a hammer being cocked echoed in her brain and she stilled.

“Drop them,” A silky feminine voice ordered. “And step away.”

The blonde obeyed slowly.

The gun retreated, but Kiara could feel the other woman’s presence behind her.

Kiara spun as a shadowy tendril lashed out, ducking as a gunshot rang out. She hissed as the bullet scraped her arm, her hand flying to cover the wound.

“Kiara!” Troy shouted her ear, alarmed.

“M’fine,” his partner assured him through clenched teeth as she studied her opponent.

The woman was slender, with generous curves, and rich brown locks. Her eyes were hard as she glared at Kiara. The shower was still running, which explained why Kiara hadn’t heard her sneak up behind her.

“This could have been easier,” Kiara hissed as her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not going back,” Vivian retorted. “You can tell Eisman to fuck off.”

“Who the hell is Eisman?”

The woman’s hard expression shifted for a second. “He didn’t send you to bring me back?”

“I’m here because Seucer put a $20,000 bounty on your head,” Kiara answered, a little confused. “Troy? Any clarity?”

“I’m working on it,” the voice in her ear assured her.

Sapphire eyes slid toward the door as the knob twisted ominously. Kiara’s target was temporarily distracted, giving the blonde an opportunity.

Vivian swung the gun toward her a second before the blonde slammed into her, pulling the darkness around them until they sunk into it. The brunette struggled against her in the darkness, Kiara’s hand tight on her wrist.

The shadows shifted in their world, trapping the woman. She glared up at Kiara as the blonde struggled to her feet.

“Just keep quiet,” Kiara hissed as she turned to spy on the bedroom.

There were two men inside, guns drawn as they cautiously searched the room. The stack of abandoned IDs littered the floor and one of them crouched to retrieve them.

“No sign of her,” a third man reported as he emerged from the bathroom. “She must have realized we were coming for her.”

“There are more aliases here than we have on record for her,” one said. “I doubt she’s going to be using any of these, if she fled without them.”

“We’ll keep the hotel under surveillance,” the last one said. “Just in case.”

“Who are they?” Kiara muttered, glancing back at her prisoner.

The woman stubbornly stayed silent, eliciting a frustrated hiss from the bounty hunter.

“Troy?” The blonde asked quietly.

“I found something on Eisman, but it’s pretty encrypted. I can’t get past it right now,” her partner answered. “I don’t think he’s another bounty hunter.”

Kiara sighed.

Vivian struggled as the shadows forced her wrists together, a tendril stretching out to Kiara.

“I’m coming home, Troy,” she informed him and their prisoner. “And I’m bringing a guest.”