#the velvet room. ( inquiries. )

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

IT’S YOU, HAPPY ALL THE TIME ─── jonathan breech ✧☾𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else." — ‘Jessica gives me a chill pill’, Angie Sijun Lou.

pairing. jonathan breech x reader

summary. you’ve bared your heart to your bestfriend, jonathan, more times than you can count, whilst knowing practically nothing at all about him. what is friendship if it is not equal… what is love if it is not returned? can your relationship survive such one-sidedness?

warnings. swearing, TW mention & description of suicide/attempts & depression, very introspective/kind of a character study???, alcohol & drug use, pining, ANGST!!!!, crying, fluff, smut with feelings, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 10k (WTF??!?!!??)

a/n. the title is from “she won’t go away” by faye webster:) btw this is… rly angsty (and SO long omg im still in shock) so beware🫡 ALSO IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN WHILE!! SCHOOL IS KICKING MY BUTT & THIS FIC WAS AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER TO WRITE LMAO

i. 

There are very few words in your vocabulary you can use to accurately describe Jonathan Breech. 

The boy is an enigma, a matryoshka doll that never ends: he is witty and lighthearted and sarcastic, but you’ll always catch that edge, the air of malaise he carries around himself, the unspoken elephant in the room that screams WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

He had always been more of a figure, a landscape; something to witness, observe-- experience without letting it do the same to you. You don’t know if that’s something you want, either: there’s an imbalance in his hilarity, and he always takes things a step too far. Jonathan lights matches and lets them burn all the way down to his fingertips; he shaves and lets the blade leave stinging little nicks, rivulets of blood running down his neck; he chainsmokes cigarettes in his room and only opens the window when he feels his heart hammering in his chest, desperate for air. 

You meet him — or, first experience him in a similar fashion: he had been in the university library, standing on top of a creaky, old bookshelf, shouting something you couldn’t understand over the music blasting through your headphones. You could certainly see him though, gesturing animatedly, dressed eccentrically in his signature winter trapper hat and a velvet blazer. That thin, effeminate figure of his was making winding, marionette-ish steps along the wood, an action that had everyone readying themselves to catch his inevitable fall. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere and catching you completely off guard, you caught his eye. He began stepping from one shaky shelf to the next, a complete miracle none of them toppled over, before stopping on one close enough for you to read his lips. 

“Hi,” he mouthed, shifting uneasily on his left foot before regaining a steady balance, “you’re in my class, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly— yes, truthfully, you’d seen him in your Introduction to Literary Studies course a couple of weeks ago, sporting the same outfit as he did now, but you thought nothing of him. He’d been generally well-behaved then, asking slightly odd but in-tune questions that more or less answered all your inquiries, so you didn’t think the guy would have a penchant for, well… book-shelf hopping. 

He grinned, about to say something else, before something — or someone, made him flinch. A professor, probably, considering the unintelligibly muffled, booming voice behind you. However, Jonathan made quick work of the situation, sneakily climbing down and escaping out the door. 

The next time you see him, he’s sidled up beside you in your shared class. “Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice had asked, to which you murmured a non-committal knock y’self out, before realizing with wide eyes.  His presence had caught you off-guard, as he so often did, and you sensed a pattern blooming. 

Jonathan certainly made for an odd desk-partner; his personality warped the environment around you, and it was suddenly so much easier to tear your eyes away from the lecture and land on Jonathan’s own. It’s something you never thought you’d ever do, because you adore the material being taught. 

At the end of class, he asks you out for a drink: he’s just found the best Irish stout in the entire city, and what better way to make it known than to take anyone and everyone he knows there?

Rejection is written on your face clear as day— you have class tomorrow, an essay that needs to be finished, and honestly, pubs just aren’t really your scene. 

But in the end… you still bite. You can’t help it: he’s disarming and warm and looks like he should smell like a bonfire. Somehow, that just does it for your brain; it’s here you learn of the charm that is Jonathan Breech. 

That night goes everything and nothing like you expected: you expected not to be able to predict his actions, and that’s exactly what happens. When you meet Jonathan at the aforementioned pub, it’s not actually the one he’s meaning to take you to— it’s just the closest public place to the on-campus dorm, which is where he says he’s rooming. 

“‘ve got a neighbor m’pretty sure is trying to sleep with me,” he says absently, ushering you onto the back of his bike, which had been leaning against a NO PARKING sign. “He’s always toget’er wit’ our dorm advisor, so I should l reject him before I get kicked out, if y’get what I mean.”

Now, you honestly should’ve expected this from a guy who jumped from six-foot book shelves, but Jonathan’s biking is all swift turns and jilted stops, mere milliseconds from repeatedly running red lights. You want to ask if he just learned how to ride the thing yesterday, but can’t, not with how utterly reckless and shameless he is about it, his terrible steering making you instinctively wrap your arms around his chest. 

You clutch him tightly, making him hum in approval, and you feel your ears burn flusteredly. You would’ve pulled away, but then he cut from the right lane to the left in one swift move, barely missing several cars, and you practically shrieked instead. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. You can’t see his face, having shut your eyes in fear, but after hearing the blatant cheekiness in his tone, you can imagine clear as day how gleefully it contorts. You want to slap him somewhere, anywhere, but that’d defeat the point of being mad at his recklessness, so you squeeze him tighter instead, and he chokes on his breath. “Jesus-- m’sorry, really!”

When the two of you make it to the pub — alive and uninjured! — annoyingly all the way across town, your first few steps off his bike are stuttered, dizzy: “We are-- not going by bike next time,” you gasp, leaning against a random brick wall. 

“Next time, eh?” He grins, and this time you really do slap him— just on the arm, bless your self-control and niceties not to beat this oddly comfortable-to-be-around near-stranger to death. 

The pub, with its forgettable name and dingy stools, has a minimal, lackluster crowd. A kitschy neon sign flickers and dies as you walk in, making you raise a brow, but Jonathan merely drags you by the arm to a cozy corner table, then disappearing deeper within the venue before returning moments later with two pints of black beer in tow.

“Go on, then,” he gestures, setting the tall glass on the table, sitting down in the chair in front of you and taking a hearty sip of his own drink.

You let out a little hesitant sigh at his words, before relenting and taking in a long gulp of the liquid. “…Huh,” you remark, impressed. Jonathan smiled knowingly behind his glass, letting out a smug little ah, you see? 

“Worth the long ride?” he inquired innocently, as if that was the only thing wrong with the night.

“Worth the ride, but not worth almost dying for,” you rolled your eyes goodheartedly, knocking back the rest of the bitter drink and making him whistle. 

The rest of the night goes like this: Jonathan orders two more rounds of the quality Irish stout before the two’ve you are stumbling out of the pub, exploring all the nightlife there is to offer, like the crowd surrounding an out-door live comedy group performing down the street that has you and Jonathan giggling for hours after, or the underground speakeasy you accidentally find yourselves shoved into, a nasally guitarist singing on a smoky stage, several more drinks finding themselves in your system despite how nauseous you already feel.

“You-- d’you fancy him?” Jonathan slurs behind you, steadying himself by pressing his hands to your waist.

“F-fancy who?” you blink blearily, leaning into his warm touch.

“Who else m’I talkin’ about, girl? The singer!”

You shake your head no numbly, practically collapsing into his arms now, your head lulling on his chest. You’re so close you can smell the distinct scent of his skin, that unique musk everyone has, and it’s strangely familiar, like those smells that evoke old, nostalgic memories. It’s like how sunscreen summons the smell of the sun after a childhood beach day, or how vanilla extract takes you back to the smell of your mother’s baked goods on a specific winter evening.

“Reckoned you wouldn’t,” he assumes, hands coming away from your waist to wrap his arms around your shoulders, swaying to the music slightly in the crowded club, “looks like a -- right bleedin’ dope… wit’ that mop of hair.”

You giggle, alcohol riddled beyond belief, unable to formulate a response with the conflicting blurry thoughts in your head: it’s telling you Jonathan Breech isn’t the crowd you want, that you need to go home and work, that you let loose too easily— but it also tells you that you can see yourself becoming friends with him very, very quickly. 

It’s there, in that club, Jonathan Breech moves into your life and fills a gaping hole you didn’t know existed, like a hole in your stockings you only notice when you get home. You have friends, certainly, more than you can count on both hands, but they never get as close as Jonathan does. After that night, an unknown force pulls the two of you together, making you run into him everywhere, and a tight friendship blooms like a lilypad in a raging storm; beauty within the chaos. In the multitude of close friendships you’ve harbored, he is the first to see so many sides of you. The last thing that did was your mother; it had only ever been your mother. 

He is an endearing, amazing friend, both the intent listener and the charismatic speaker all at once; he knows his friends like the back of his hand, can recount their life like he can count the number of moles on his face-- but you, and everyone else, know absolutely nothing about him. 

At least, close to nothing-- you know he likes ice cream and hanging out and going to the pub; you know he likes biking and doing drugs and women; you know he hates the sea and his brother and his father, but you don’t know him. All you’ve ever seen him do is smile or laugh or shout in mock anger; there is a carefully glued mask on his face he takes meticulous caution in preserving-- he is terrified to let go, despite the blasé persona he lets on.

Or maybe the mysterious matter of your bestfriend is tripping you up for no reason; maybe you’re psychoanalyzing something that doesn’t need to be psychoanalyzed, reading between lines that don’t exist. But if you were asked to answer honestly, there’s just something about Jonathan you don’t get. There is a split seam in the tapestry of his life, missing pieces in the story he pretends to tell with utmost accuracy. There are things that he never talks about, that he recoils when asked like you’ve poked a tender wound. 

“So, what were you doing before… all this?” You ask him once, laying on his messy bed in his dorm-room and scanning the water-damage constellations dotted along his popcorn ceiling. By all this you mean going to university, being the resident party boy, aimlessly pursuing a degree you’re 99% sure he picked blindfolded (culinary science) and standing here, with you, snorting a line of something on his creaky wooden desk. 

Jonathan freezes, still hunched over. “What d’you-- what d’you mean?” he says, tone breezy but, uncharacteristically tense… jilted and preoccupied. You could’ve brushed it off as him being seriously focussed on his drugs, but the way he shifts, how his shoulders curl in like he wants to disappear, tells you otherwise. 

“I mean, before going to school here… y’know, what were you like as a dumb teenager?”

You two’re twenty, barely not-teenagers, but it still makes a world of a difference: you’re living away from home, doing what you want, experiencing (a juvenile, naive version of) freedom and adulthood.

“I dunno… kind of a tool, that's f’sure,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose roughly. He’s being funny on purpose, a jester’s distraction: he doesn’t want you to realize his answers’ not really one at all. 

You shifted on his bed, now leaning against his headboard. His answer strikes you as odd and uncharacteristic despite his attempts to evade suspicion: usually, Jonathan pounces at the chance to yap on and on. “What, the great Jonathan Breech doesn’t have any wild stories to tell? No bones broken, girls dumped, houses trashed?” 

He snorted at that, like some inside joke you weren’t privy to was brought up in your words, and he descended back down on a carefully partitioned line of white. “I broke my baby finger once,” he relented vaguely when he finished, dusting off the table and licking the remains off his hand. “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

“Did it hurt that much?” you grinned, mind trailing off to imagine a baby-faced Jonathan Breech, a juvenile highschool boy, doing something silly to break that finger. Maybe he accidentally flung off his bike, broke it because of a dare, or maybe it happened just by slipping and falling. 

“It - uh… didn’t hurt enough,” Jonathan smiled, tight-lipped and paltry. All at once the air in the room had changed, like someone attached a vacuum to the window and sucked everything out. 

Your grin fell, and you watched him carefully: perhaps, had you not been as close to him as you were, he’d have let something show. A twitch in the smile, a break in the facade. But you were, and his face stayed the same, and your thoughts ran circles around themselves. This was… something else, something belonging to the part of his life he didn’t talk about. 

The atmosphere had grown tense, taut, a rubber band twisted ‘round and round, threatening to burst, so you leave the matter of his injury alone; of his life alone. You go back to staring at his ceiling, he goes back to his drugs; Jonathan collapses within himself, and you don’t notice how badly he suffocates… how suffering in silence is also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found.

ii.

Sometimes, despite his self-imposed distance, Jonathan lets someone look inside his head. 

You are both the sometimes and the someone; you don’t know why it’s always you, but you chalk it up to the fact that beneath his unpredictable demeanor, the murky and unreadable feelings he holds for others, is this uncharacteristic constant: he holds a softness for you. It’s what lets you know there’s something haunted lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky surface. 

You don’t know where this softness comes from, either. But you know you see it, in lingering touches, tender duchenne smiles unlike the devilish tilt his lips usually hold, how he clasps his hand around yours after a night at the pub and walks you home because he knows you get paranoid. You see it in how he comes over to your apartment when you don’t answer anyone's calls during exam season, how he remembers what your mother’s name is and what your childhood pet was and what your favorite flowers are. How his lips brush past your cheek when he pulls away from hugs, his hands shuddering around your shoulders, like he’s afraid he’ll crush you.

You only wish you could do the same. You want to sit by his side and mend his heart, lend an ear to his most mundane fears, you want to take his hand into your own and kiss it softly, return all that he has done for you, take the same as you have given to him: what is friendship if it is not equal, what is love if it is not returned? It is something broken, unable; split halves of one heart, an imbalance in the scale, Bonnie without her Clyde, a fish out of water. 

Jonathan pours his heart into your own, filling holes you know you don’t have, and you think he may be overcompensating for something else, seeing things in you that really belong to him. It is maddening, and you just want to beg and plead he lets you in. 

But you settle for the gentle pokes, the prodding, and try to decipher the vague answers he gives you. Most days, you can’t really make sense of it. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, about to leave the outing you planned with Jonathan — studying, or, trying to study, at an intimate coffeebar the two of you frequented — “my dad’s gotten drunk with his lads and my mum needs help dragging him home.”

 “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I get it: my dad used to do that all the time,” he waves your words off casually, but you don’t miss how jilted he says used to and the pain in his tone at all the time.

“Oh, surely she was fit to go to the madhouse?” you laughed once, responding to Jonathan’s complaints about an eccentric classmate in his agricultural studies. He laughs back, he always does, but this one is hollow, forced; barely stopping a grimace from coloring his tone. 

You notice these things like it’s a shadow following someone in the sun. He is lying, hiding; about something you don’t know but it is happening. It is happening, and you are so very curious: you pick up on the littlest tendrils of him, fed wholly on any information you can squeeze out. He is a mystery you want to delve within completely; answer that question of WHO ARE YOU REALLY? and leave no room for error. 

You’d give yourself to him the very same if he merely asked; you’d whisper childhood fears and tell the origin stories of faded scars on your knees and why you check under your bed before sleeping. You’d detail your entire life from sunset birth to starry night end if he even made a passing comment about knowing; you would trust your love, your heart, your entire life in his beautiful, shaky hands. This is the relationship you have built around yourselves, and it is beginning to feel terribly one-sided. 

Alas, your curiosity overwhelms him, and you take it too far, just once. Only once. 

“Where’d this come from?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over a scar above his eyebrow. It’s something you see only now, his hair mussed and wild from the various blankets and pillows on your dinky couch. 

He’s crashing at your apartment tonight, an invited event, because you often miss him like you miss home; the boy is sneaky— he slinks away like a street cat and only comes back for food. It’s only fair he lets you wrangle him back like this, making him stay by your side at least once a week.  

Your words make him freeze, like he often does; it reminds you of hikers, who freeze when they see mountain lions— he thinks if he stops and stares and pretends to disappear you’ll look the other way, drop the question, forget him completely.

But you don’t. You don’t know what’s affecting him -- not that he wants you to -- so you just stare back into his cornflower blue eyes. You stop and stare and see right through him; you hold the question like a knife to his neck, and commit him to memory. 

“The scar?” Jonathan pales, shuddering despite it having long since been healed over. The aftershocks of an earthquake. 

You simply nod, fingers pulling away. You’re still closer than ever though, the two of you being the only things in your cramped concrete apartment, the chosen movie on your telly still running and long forgotten. 

Your attention remains on him, brandished into something dangerous, like you’ll carve the answer out of him if you have to— but the moment passes. He doesn’t say anything and you accept that as the answer. Gone is your razor-sharp focus, and there is nothing more to the matter. 

But Jonathan doesn’t register this, no, he’s thinking, gears in his head turning and creaking. His tongue grazes against the backs of his teeth, jaw chattering like it was as cold as it was when… as cold as it was back then, and he doesn’t want to tell anyone— but it’s you. You’re not just anyone. 

You’re the one he holds a certain softness for. The one he equally bares his heart to and holds the most secrets from. The one he’s most terrified to know. The only one he wants to know. 

So, he decides to tell a partial truth— something digestible. People adore that which can easily slide down the gullet: news headlines don’t detail the goriness of a murder, they give the “insider” scoop of the scared neighbor. To be able to digest information is what makes the world go round, and he does not think you could digest the full truth-- he does not think he wants you to. 

He feels ill at the thought of anything between you changing— oh, how ruined he’d feel if you began treating him like fucking glass.

This abhorrent social pressure is what makes Jonathan grit this sentence through his teeth: “I got into a car accident,” he gulps dry, “when I was nineteen. Was drunk… went fer a spin. I skidded off a -- um, an empty highway. The tall sorts; high up, y’know. Fell.”

His voice makes you look back up at him, and your eyes are beautiful and tense— it breaks his heart. He knows you’re probably thinking it was in-character, how expected that is of Jonathan Breech, how you’ll easily take this partial truth, how you’ll never know the full one until it comes in a letter under your door and he’s long gone. 

“Tell me,” you ask him, lips falling into a near-frown instead of laughing or grinning wider. It’s hushed, whispered like a secret, “What did it feel like? Falling, I mean.”

Jonathan licks his lips, bores his shaking gaze into your own, and tells you not everything feels like something else. That the word connotes all you need to know. Falling meant he was falling; his arms raised and the air took him and that was it. 

It makes your brows twist and your lips press into a thin line: his nonchalance is worrying, no more his signature characteristic— there is something wrong about this apathy toward injury, toward the potential death. 

“Is that how you broke your finger?” You murmur, and it startles him. How you pieced the two things together, how you weaved a web from what little you knew about him; how futile his attempts to hide could be.

“What?” he responds, hoarse. There is a lurking shadow in his bones telling him he’ll taint you, telling him to be ashamed, telling him how badly you will never be his. It is such a damning reality, that no matter how much he may yearn for you, he is too incomplete to meet your needs; he is too hurt not to hurt you too. 

“The car accident. Is that how you broke your pinkie?” you repeat, and you gripped his hand resting at your side, bringing it up to present the finger to him like he forgot where his pinkie was. 

Jonathan’s gaze darts from you to the finger, and he feels his insides quiver; so badly does he want to spill his entire soul to you. But that internal reminder -- hurt people hurt people hurt people -- makes him settle for nodding, parted lips locking closed. 

Nothing special happens that night, no shocking revelation or bombarded confession; Jonathan nods, keeps his lips sealed, and gets up from the couch, figure dreary and fatigued. He murmurs an incomplete excuse, something half-baked and blatantly unconvincing that he has to leave, and you let him go. You think you’re imagining the shudder in his shoulders, the shake in his voice as he says goodbye, and you let him go. 

It’s there, like that club so long ago, you discover another thing about Jonathan Breech: push too far and he shuts down, closes shop and puts up his guard forever. It’s the mere fact of how attentive you are to his words; you remember how he broke his finger, and he realizes he cannot hide from you any longer. 

You’re reaching a point in your friendship -- your relationship, no matter platonic or romantic for all lines have been crossed; nobody is so raw to one another with love not involved -- where you’ll bare your hearts on your sleeves, share your every thought and dream and fear. But Jonathan won’t be able to reciprocate, and the very thought of rejecting you, betraying you, makes his stomach twist in knots. That crestfallen face of yours would haunt him for all time, your every melancholy feature burning into his memory like the scars left by cigarettes on skin.

So he leaves, hurt people hurt people hurt people echoes in his ears all the way home; he turns into an alleyway shortcut and prays death swoops down and takes him right there. He leaves his consciousness curled lovingly in your arms; his shell walks home and prays you’re none the wiser. But you’ve already reached that point in your relationship; you already know. 

When people die, or friendships do, sometimes they end with just a goodbye, a mild, casual goodbye because you think there’ll be dozens, hundreds more-- but there won’t be. Suddenly, alone in that cramped apartment, the buzzing from the tv filling your ears, your couch still warm from someone long gone, you know.

You know you startled him, that he’s left your apartment and he’ll never come back. Your heart cools, and she whispers that you took it too far, that you crossed a line you were never made aware of, that when you see him in class tomorrow he might not sit next to you, he might not talk to you, that you might lose him forever because he is too stubborn to open up and you are too stubborn to let him go. 

Well, you were too stubborn to let him go. 

It’s three weeks before you speak to Jonathan again. Three long, dragging weeks, moments in time where he avoided your gaze, evaded your presence, slipped past you before you got too close. You certainly try, of course— you seek him out every chance you get, trying to get an I’m sorry, please talk to me out before he runs off, but it’s virtually impossible.

Once, after class, you’d caught him in the middle of a flurry of exiting students by the velvet blazer, your hands curled around the lapel. “Jonathan,” you panted, trying to drag him off to the side to escape the bustling activity around you, “please, we need to talk--“

But then Jonathan had faced you, eyes widened and spooked like he’d seen a ghost, a never-before-seen-by-you fear covering his gracefully cut features, before he tugged off the black blazer and escaped into the crowd. He had seen you, widened his eyes, left. Such a simple action tore your heart in two; it had confirmed your suspicions— you’d gone too far, he was never coming back, and you were all alone. There you stood, fingers wrapped around one of his favorite articles of clothing starkly without its beloved owner, completely alone. 

In three measly weeks, he has put up a biting winter of distance between you two. 

Your feelings are unable to comprehend themselves— they fight and sob and run circles around your mind, they make you doubt, crumble, devour yourself from the inside out; they make you ask yourself what you can do to salvage this, what can you do to fix this? What is there to make of him, of his behavior; what do you do with yourself and this guilt?

If you could imagine time was a construct, you were certain you could convince yourself this stretch of time was nothing… propel yourself into a present where Jonathan does not afflict your mind, take over your every thought— does not ruin you like so. If only you could do that, you could close your eyes and reopen them when you’ve let go. But you were always too stubborn to let him go, weren’t you?

It’s three weeks to the day before you speak to Jonathan again, and it happens through the crack of his dorm door, your arm wedged through it because you know he is not cruel; he will let you in without a doubt.  

“Please,” you plead to Jonathan, “just— I just want to talk. Please?”

He stares at you straight, expression cold and reserved, before he breaks and pulls away; bites his lip, lets you in his room, doesn’t look you in the eye. Looking around, you sense something in his dorm has changed; it had gained a bereft quality, like it was attuned to Jonathan’s state of mind and felt depressed beyond your comprehension. There was a cold air to the place, an utmost frigid demeanor to a room incredibly warm just weeks prior. In your absence, the dorm had been neglected, gutted, abandoned. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words that tumble out of your mouth. “I- I know you don’t like… talking about -- about your life before here, and I’m sorry. But please, Jonathan, just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

He sits down on the edge of his weak bedframe, pulling his knees up and pressing his face into them. “You don’t need to-- don’t… don’t apologize. You don’t need t’make it better, either. All’s grand.” he promises, words muffled and shaky. It’s a weeping kind of tone; you could just as easily imagine him sobbing with that voice. 

Your brows knit. Your emotions are wavering, treading brutally between disbelief, despair and rancor. “Then -- then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you avoid me? Why did you - why did we spend these last three weeks playing cat and mouse, if you weren’t mad at me? Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

“No! I-- jesus christ,” Jonathan looked up from his hands before immediately pressing two fingers between his eyes, “I wasn’t … avoiding you.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” you point out painfully, exasperated. “You know, you’ve been avoiding me for longer than this. You— you push me away any chance you get. You’re afraid. I don’t know of what, but you’re- so fucking secretive, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not - afraid of anything. I’m just a private person— you know this. Would you, if I ‘pushed you away?!’” 

At his denying deflection, something within you snaps: “Why won’t you - fucking let me in? I’ve — I’ve bared my soul to you; you know me from the inside out. I trust you with my life— why, why can’t you do the same?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! And I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’get so close to you, okay?!” He bursts, and you flinch. His hands shakily come up to his face once more; he wipes roughly but it’s no use— you’ve already seen his delicate tears threatening to spill, and it burns more holes in your heart than you thought his suffering would.

“What are you talking about?” you pry, now without any cautious reservations about his demeanor.

“I didn’t mean to get so fucking attached, because - ‘cause I…” Jonathan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “fuck.”

“What?” you repeat, but it’s softer, concerned; how quickly his body language shifted from irritated to terrified has you scrambling to support him. “Talk to me,” you ask, taking nervous steps closer, like you were approaching a wounded animal.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it, like he did cigarette smoke, before exhaling heavily. “Okay- okay. When I was - nineteen, I drove a car… I drove off a cliff and tried t’kill myself. I was-- admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year, and when I got out I moved here f’school. I- I… promised m’self I wouldn’t let anyone get too close.”

The confession hangs in the air, a lonely little thing; it’s a bleeding piece of his own heart he’s plucked and placed in your palms. He shudders, and you want to nurture it like nothing else. This is a culmination of a year’s worth of evasion coming to a close; you’re seeing him completely, rawly, for the first time.

“But- but why? You don’t have to— Jonathan, you don’t need to do that just because you - you… y’know.”

“I’m- I know that,” he starts brashly, defensively. “It’s b’cause I am very, very aware of my - of m’own self destructiveness…” His words taper off into something of grief; the Sisyphean struggle of wanting to live, while that depressive boulder pushes him back, colors him completely. “I just… I didn’t want to - t’hurt anyone in case I -- in case next time I succeeded.”

“Next time?” you repeat, and your voice broke in a way you wish was less vulnerable, less blatantly miserable.

“This is why I didn’t want to—“ Jonathan sighs, deflates, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to - t’fucking save me, okay? I’m telling you this because you wanted to know, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore. Because you asked.”

“You didn’t need t’hide it in the first place!” you exclaimed, coming closer to him. “You’ve never had to hide a fucking ‘ting from me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood!” He said back, volume nearing a shout. “You’ll treat me differently now, you see, you’ll look at me fuckin’ different—“

It made your heart sink-- how sure his words were, how certain he was of your rejection. How little trust did he have in you? 

(You remember he wanted to sink, too-- lose himself in the baby blue sea; let it swallow him whole and never be seen again.)

“You - you really think I’ll treat y’differently because of this? You know my every crevice, my every thought-- I have never once doubted that you’ll accept me.”

“I-I… why should I - expect any of this to stay the same?”

Suddenly, you took his face into your hands. “Because I-- I fucking love you, okay? And it’s not just friendly, or romantic, even if it’s both— I’m… I love you like nothing I’ve ever loved before. I accept and adore your every skill and flaw and antic; you wormed your way into my heart and I want to worm my way into yours.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ Jonathan tried to interject, a noise all utter disbelief. You cut him off, though, continuing your sudden confession; you hadn’t been privy to these own romantic feelings of yours till moments prior, but everything being said just felt right. 

“Jonathan, I don’t care if you drove a car off a cliff or cyanide-poisoned our professor or blew something up, because I love you. You, with all your problems and great, big, beautiful life. All I want is for you to want that life; I want you to want me in it. I feel it in my bones that I’m meant to love you; you are meant to be my home, you are everything I am supposed to know. It won’t fix you or fix anything at all but I just need you to know-- I need you to know the why to my every action. It’s because I love you.”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, head resting in your gentle hold. “I - don’t know what to say… are you - for real?”

“As real as can be,” you smiled back at him, tracing circles along his smooth skin; you could’ve drank in that attentive stare of his for hours upon hours. “I love you, and nothing and no-one, not even you, can change that.” An aching grip had clenched around your heart at his words, that blatant disbelief: are you for real? God, had you ever been-- had you ever fucking been. 

Jonathan’s mouth opened to speak, but instead, he let out an agonizing sort of cry; an exclamation of utter surprise at the loving acceptance. Then, he hesitantly leaned into your touch, as if he’d never hugged before, wrapping his arms around your waist to snatch you as close to him as possible. He held you tighter and tighter as the seconds went by, like this was all a mocking dream his yearning mind had made up; that if he closed his eyes now he’d wake up desolate, alone, without you for eternity. His worst nightmare. 

“…God, I’m so - fucking stupid,” he grumbled, sounding angry, but you could feel vulnerable, hot tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “To assume you, of all people, would act that way… you of all people.” He said that tenderly; you of all people certainly meant miles more things you weren’t explicitly aware of, but you still felt the sentiment. “I’m not -- poetic or anything like that… but I love you, too.”

You chuckled a beautiful, wet laugh. “You don’t hafta’ say anything sweet or special. You’re everything to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling you onto the mattress with him. He flipped you beneath him, and held himself up by the forearms laying on either side of your head. “Fuck, I love you. I love you.” Jonathan repeated the words several more times, strange and foreign but right at home being said to you. Like his mouth was made to only ever say I love you to you. 

Suddenly, you pressed your lips to his, shutting him up momentarily. You could still feel the vibrations of I love you rumbling in his throat as you kissed him. Your tongues danced along one another, an all consuming waltz; you wanted to know everything about him, down to the taste of his tongue, memorize how sweet his mouth felt on yours. Oh, how you longed for this moment; how could you ever think about love again, and yearn for it, without thinking of Jonathan?

You reckoned that’s what this had been the whole time; your love started as a little flame, something under the guise of friendship, but the two of you had fanned it, nurtured it-- all of a sudden the miniature warmth of platonic love burst into a raging, adoring fire. You’d fed this flame with tenderness, and it responded in kind; you could never again look at Jonathan without a certain intimate reverie. Perhaps that’d been why Jonathan found it so hard to cut off this relationship as he had dozens others: something primal and unconscious within him had begged him not to let you go— some higher being knew his home was only ever in your arms. 

Jonathan deepened the kiss hungrily, pressing his weight onto you and pushing you into the mattress. Your head was spinning from the lack of air, and one of your hands had to sneak beneath his hat and tug at his hair to get him to stop. “Hey,” you panted, looking worriedly into his eyes, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, hanging his head lowly for a moment before meeting your gaze once more, batting his long lashes. “Jus’ missed you. Thas’ all.”

“Missed y’too,” you murmured, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Your hands left the crown of his head and trailed down his backside, tracing over the curves and bumps of his frumpy yellow v-neck sweater. 

That touch of yours seemed to spur him on even more, and his kisses began to travel; along your jaw, to your pulse, down the long ravine of your neck, tongue darting out to lick the hollow of your collarbone, making you squeal. He chuckled against your skin, a genuine amusement rather than the mocking one you two so frequently practiced, and it all went downhill from there. His hands skillfully tugged off your tank top, knee between your clenched thighs, more teasing kisses being planted along your now bare -- save for your bra -- chest.

You didn’t mean to come over, profess your love and suddenly jump into a steamy, yearning makeout session (which, you were pretty sure was venturing off into sex…) but you supposed that apologizing— arguing, whatever —meant your relationship went back on track to wherever it was heading… which may have been set to end with an ardor romance anyway. This love of yours would’ve bursted at the seams of friendship; it could not be confined by such mere things as labels. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, arching into his teasing kisses along the peaks of your breasts, his hands ghosting around your clothed chest but never touching. “Please, Jon.”

You could feel his cheeky grin on your skin, “Tell me what you want, love.”

“…Take this off,” you demanded gently, referring to Jonathan’s sweater.

“Your wish is my command.” he snickered, obliging and removing the yellow knit-- as well as his white undershirt and pajama bottoms. He was left in a pair of boxer-shorts and that silly, silly winter-trapper hat, his fingers sneaking up to your supple thighs and tickling the edges of your jean-shorts; a silent plea. 

“Eager,” you mumbled, noticing his over-compliance in completely stripping, smiling and guiding his hands to the waistband of your shorts to tug the tight article off. 

When he did so, you shivered, both at the feeling of being only in your underwear, as well as Jonathan’s sharp, attentive gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he panted, eyes exploring your every sweet feature. 

He was enamored with your bare body, not in a sexual way despite the blatantly sexual situation, but rather in a worshiping, religiously devoted way. It may’ve been blasphemous to think so, but Jonathan’s sudden chaste kisses along the curve of waist only seemed to prove you right; his mouth on you was gentle, like he’d held you before, except now without any guilt or hesitation. It was a holy way of loving you; something all-consuming, becoming the epicenter of a life, becoming the purpose, motivation, and belief all at once. 

That familiar broiling in your gut occurred as he made his way closer to the pulsing, lace-covered place between your legs; your hands were gripping the sheets tightly in pure anticipation, his hot breath on your sensitive skin. “Don’t be such a tease,” you pouted, legs fumbling for purchase along his body, trying to pull him closer to you.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he hummed, but his fingers still curled into the band of your baby-blue panties and dragged them down in one desperate go, “but I do wanna taste you….”

Jonathan’s veiny hands pried your quivering thighs apart, murmuring an offhand already stole y’panties, don’t get all shy on me now when you whimpered flusteredly, before he descended on your dripping lips, licking a flat-tongued stripe up to your clit. 

You gasped at the sudden action, but it quickly morphed into a choked moan when he pressed himself further and parted your lips, nose to your pelvic bone; he made quick work of you, artfully curling his long tongue into your hole and slurping your slick. 

“So sweet,” he praised, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs clench around his head. He hummed in amusement at your reaction, lapping you up quicker; he kitten-licked and slobbered, feeding on your sticky cunt, tongue darting in every direction, feeling your walls and prying deeper into your hot hole, which ached for the cock straining against the mattress now. The bottom half of Jonathan’s face was now positively soaked, glistening with his own drool and your needy wetness, all of it mixing dirtily and sliding down the length of his neck. 

“Jon!” you mewled, hands tearing off his trapper hat and flinging it elsewhere before curling your hands into his mousy brown hair and pushing his face deeper into your pussy, desperate to come. You were riding his face now — or, attempting to, more accurately bucking up into him — adoring his unceasing ministrations. He was basically fucking you with his tongue, overstimulating your clit with teasing licks then pulling away, feeling along the ridges of your walls.

“Pick m’hat up later, love,” he tutted, pulling away slightly to see where you’d haphazardly thrown it, and your desperate whine neared a sob. He breathed in sharply, taking in how quickly he’d undone you: in a matter of minutes, your expression had grown wanton, eyes blown out, drooling, hair askew, bra riding up your tits and revealing your sweet, puffy nipples. 

Jonathan quickly forgot about the state of his beloved hat, and went back down on you, mouth devouring in full force once again. You rolled your hips forward, and when he pulled his tongue out of your wet hole to suckle softly on your fleshy nub, your eyes rolled back into your head and your legs shook around his face, toes curling tightly. A choked moan left you alongside the sudden climax, sounding a hundred percent pornographic and all for him. 

You panted, silent and unmoving for a moment, and Jonathan began moving to get up and let you take a breather before continuing, absolutely terrified to push you too far or do anything you didn’t want to do— he was the spontaneous one, and you were the responsible one, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to force anything upon you. His simultaneous decisions were made mostly in part with your interests in mind; he made the decisions you were too nervous and over-thinking to choose quicker. 

However, you took a long breath, then trailed your hand over the painfully noticeable bulge within his soft boxers. “Wan’… make you feel good,” you murmured, flattening your hand against his erection. 

Jonathan inhaled sharply, pitifully affected by the minor touch but holding back with an incredible amount of self restraint. “I can wait,” he offered sweetly, one of his hands coming up to your flattened hand’s forearm to rub the skin. 

You shook your head foggily, cupping him through the fabric, slowly adding friction by sliding your hand up and down. 

“S-shit,” he bit his lip, “you want this now, baby?”

You nodded vehemently with a whimper, and to make more of a point, you reached behind and unclasped your bra, tossing it elsewhere on his dirty dorm floor, before beginning to slip off his underwear. 

The hand on your arm stopped you, though, in favor of doing it himself and pressing his weight further onto you, your chests flush with one another. You were only able to take in thin breaths, making your head spin, but it also amplified the  arousal blooming in your cunt when Jonathan slotted himself at your soaking entrance, collecting his saliva and your slick on his tip. 

Before he pushed in, however, his head dipped into the hollow of your neck, plush lips brushing past the shell of your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmured, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. 

“Please,” you whined, hands pushing flat on his back to bring him closer to you.

With that, Jonathan slowly buried his length within your cunt, making your breath hitch. “I love you,” he groaned, entering you inch by inch, relishing how your warmth swallowed him whole. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your hole was stuffed beyond belief, but Jonathan was gentle with you, caressing your waist with the rough pads of his fingers and massaging you, trying to ease his entrance into something painless. Obviously, with that length and thickness it couldn’t be painless at all, but his attempts helped your mind drift off elsewhere and take some of the attention off the stinging stretch. 

After a long moment of ragged breathing, Jonathan cooing words of praise into your neck as he kissed you without moving, you dug your fingers into the skin of his back: “More,” you choked out, the fullness in your cunt now feeling delicious rather than cringeworthy. 

He smirked against your skin, “Looks like you’re t’eager one now.”

“Oh, get on with it,” you rasped and he let out a low chuckle, sliding out of your hole before thrusting back in. That first movement already made your hips jerk up into him, back arching. It was like all the warmth in your body had collected in your cunt, leaving you freezing from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, but still with a needy, burning fire in your insides. 

Jonathan’s pace was affectionate and rhythmic: you could feel the tenderness in his each and every gentle roll of the hips. It made you feel like the sun, how attentive he was, but he was also so fucking slow. If anything, that had your walls clenching onto him harder than if he hammered into you— that slow build-up of friction was dizzying. You squirmed, cunt clenching and contracting around his smooth thrusts— you wanted to take him within you completely, cause more friction for you were going stir-crazy with this lazy speed. 

“F-fuck! Faster, please,” you cried out, unable to take his sensual movements any longer. Your legs were twitching with his patient movements, and you could’ve sworn you saw a cheeky grin on his lips. The bastard— even in sex was he teasing you, wanting to torture you until you gave in to the pleasure and begged him to ruin you.  

Sure, this was your first time together, and was going extremely pleasantly and sweetly, but you were actually pretty fond of the idea of letting him pound into you like there was no tomorrow… 

At the lewd thought, your walls pulsed around his cock, making him buck up unintentionally, hitting that sweet spot within you. He grunted at the feeling of your tightened cunt, while you cried out his name, pleasure running like a current through your body. Your face was on fire, reminiscent of a raging fever, and your insides were coiling— god, how did his cock just feel so perfect within you?

“Oh,” he grinned in a pant, “found y’spot, didn’t I?”

Jonathan didn’t give you a chance to speak before he pulled out so far his tip was the only thing in your hole, before slamming back in and making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Props to him-- he hit your g-spot with utmost accuracy, and you let out a long, stuttered mewl, scratching at his freckled back, legs twitching. Your wail was almost catatonic, loud and cock-drunk, dripping unabashed, filthy pleasure. 

“Makin’ such sweet noises f’me,” he praised huskily, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, “fuck, ‘ve gotta hear that again.”

He must’ve noticed your neediness earlier, when he was slow and languid, for the new speed he set was double- no, triple that: his hips were snapping against yours, balls smacking filthily against your lips, left hand pinning your hips down and letting him sink into you faster. Shocks of pleasure tore through you at the sudden increase in speed- he’d inured you so well to the torturously slow pace from earlier that this new frenzied one felt like getting hit by a bullet train. You were overstimulated and needing more of him all at once, practically vibrating with need under his touch. 

“I’ve- hnngh- wanted this…” you gasped between moans, “f-for so long…”

“Wanted m’cock?” Jonathan questioned in a hiss, feeling with his every inch how your walls absolutely soaked him. His tone was, obviously, sarcastic, but it still made you feel incredibly lewd. 

You shook your head numbly, “Wanted you… I love you, Jon!”

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he purred, fucking you faster and making you writhe beneath him, “love you s’much.”

Jonathan targeted the spongy, swollen spot deep within your cunt, suddenly filled with a renewed vigor and motivation to make you come as quickly as possible, and he pounded into that one, specific spot, watching how you twitched and squirmed, heavy moans exiting you. He was relentless, hands reaching to hook under your knees and spread you wider. 

At the new angle, his cock penetrated you even deeper, fuller, which you thought wasn’t possible with how goddamn full you already felt, but when his thick cockhead brushed up against your cervix you thought you were going to burst. Then, one of his hands came up to your tits to knead the flesh, and you squeaked when he tweaked your soft nipples. He was pawing at your sweet tits, fondling you in a needy, boyish way, like yours were the first pair of boobs he’d ever felt. 

“M’close!” you gasped, mind going fuzzy with pure ecstacy. Your skin prickled with goosebumps, cold  sweat running down your spine, a terribly stark in contrast feeling to the warmth buzzing under your skin. 

“C-can’t last much longer either,” he choked, still pumping in and out of your sticky hole and savoring the feeling of your tight warmness on his long length. He looked absolutely exquisite above you, and you lost yourself in the ethereal picture. Maybe you were in love, or maybe he really was just an empyrean beauty; you took in the sight of his focussed iceberg blue eyes, the cute flush spreading along his pale cheeks and bare chest, how he bit his pink lips to muffle his needy grunts and moans. 

Then, you mewled and convulsed around him, your walls spasming and contracting as you came undone, reaching the precipice of your pleasure. That made him fall off the edge— you had tensed all over- all over, and Jonathan couldn’t help how his hips stuttered, knees buckled, cock twitched; he only gave one last, powerful thrust into you before spilling himself inside of you. He painted your soft walls white, and you felt that familiar heat spreading within you; you welcomed it completely, and wanted such warmth to be there forever. 

You milked him for every last drop, cunt like a vice grip, and Jonathan gave you another wet kiss, this time on your lips, and your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to kiss him back. Your brows knitted at the sour taste of yourself on his lips, but it just made everything feel so real— Jonathan and you had “made love”. It was a phrase you always wrinkled your nose at, feeling uncomfortable and juvenile at the intimacy it entailed, but now you understood it completely. 

“I love you,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to say anything else that conveyed what you felt for him. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure anything could accurately do so— you felt infinitely about him, your love touching all edges of your mind, heart and soul, filling you completely. You supposed you felt about Jonathan how the sun felt about the moon— without one, there could not be the other. 

“I love you-- too,” he responded, pausing in the middle at the aftershocks of your orgasm, which had caused you to tighten around his softening, sensitive cock for a second. 

You peered deep into his baby-blue eyes, watching the utter love that coloured them; it was like submerging yourself in a great blue ocean, except you didn’t want to come out, because you knew you wouldn’t drown in those eyes. No, you knew Jonathan would always be there to pull you out. 

Speaking of pulling out… Jonathan slipped himself out of you softly, careful not to agitate that first stretch any more than necessary, before collapsing back into your arms. The two of you tangled yourselves in a messy flurry of limbs on his cushy mattress, sweaty and breathy, something that should’ve been terribly uncomfortable but just wasn’t— you swore you could fall asleep anywhere, no matter your own state or the circumstance, as long as you were with him. 

Blearily, both your eyes began to droop, until you gave into the familiar presence of deep, dark sleep. It was a dreamless sleep for you, but you had an ever present comfort at his weight on yours, something you could feel even in unconsciousness. 

Hours later, in a brisk, shuddering early-morning that you felt all over due to Jonathan’s unruly habit of opening his window at the peak of the day’s hottest weather and forgetting to close it before cold nightfall fell, you awoke to Jonathan watching you carefully, so close you could feel his warm exhales of breath on your cheek. 

There was no goodmorning or anything like that, just pure, uninhibited being, reveling in the space you two occupied together. Like you two were the only things left in the world. 

When Jonathan noticed you woke up, he shifted, presumably to extract himself from your grip. You stopped him, though, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer to you.

“What did it feel like?” you asked instead, for the last time. You brushed your fingers over his scar, and, knowing exactly what you were asking, this time Jonathan doesn’t flinch away. This time, he leans into your touch: it doesn’t burn, not anymore, and he wants your tenderness to swallow him whole. 

You didn’t mean what it actually felt like, of course. You meant, what were you thinking? What have you done, and what will you do to yourself? You meant, I love you.

“It felt like,” falling; not everything feels like something else; I raised my arms and the air took me and that was it-- “it felt like… giving in. Letting my desperation find its purpose. It felt like I’d reached a point of peace… gained clarity after a long stretching, wounded moment came to an end. It felt like becoming something only meant to be talked about in past tense.”

You don’t say anything to that; you know he doesn’t want you to. There’s no need for you to hush or plead or make better, you just need to listen, and love him. He knows you accept him for everything he is, all his flaws and his strengths; he knows your love is all accepting- it veers on saintly. 

At your silence, he melts into your arms and you can finally relax; there is an admission in the action, a release, an acknowledgement -- is suffering in silence not also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found? -- you have found him, at last, and you will never, ever let go.

You take it too far, just once. Only once. And you let him go just once, only once; never again. 

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Eros: Chapter Five

Eros: Married to Dream of the Endless, you find yourself sent back in time to Ancient Greece where you, unfortunately, meet Oneiros. Fresh off a divorce and drowning the sorrows of his son’s death by indulging in the Panathenaia, you find yourself trapped beneath the lustful gaze of your future husband. In your defense, he seduced you first…

Warnings: Flashback of Oneiros lurking as Reader sleeps, Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus x Wife!Reader, Time Travel, Oneiros is used for AncientGreek!Morpheus.

Word Count: ~2.9k

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Oneiros lies beside you, his body still humming with the lingering sensations of your passionate encounter. The soft glow of the room casts gentle shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes as he gazes at you. He is lost in thought, tracing patterns on your bare skin with his fingers, his touch tender yet insistent, admiring the marks already forming upon your beautiful flesh.

“Tell me about yourself, αστέρι μου,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody that wraps around you like a warm embrace. The endearment, meaning "my star," rolls off his tongue with a reverence that makes your heart flutter.

You shift slightly, your mind racing with thoughts and memories you aren’t ready to share, that you can’t share. You turn your head to meet his gaze, offering a soft smile instead of an answer. “There’s not much to tell,” you reply, attempting to brush off his inquiry.

Oneiros' eyes darken with a mix of frustration and determination. “There is always more to tell,” he insists gently. “You are a mystery to me, and I wish to unravel you.” His fingers brush against your lower lip, knowing you taste divine, a forbidden fruit ripe to be devoured.

As his touch lingers on your lips, a shiver runs down your spine, igniting a fire within you that you thought had been extinguished by your prior fervent carnal passions. His words stir something deep inside, a yearning for connection that both thrills and terrifies you. You know the dangers of revealing your true self, of who you would come to be to him, yet the longing in his eyes beckons you to let down your walls. Oh how you want to tell him everything.

“I am but a simple wife, waiting to go home.” That is as close to the truth as you can get.

But Oneiros isn't satisfied with the surface-level explanation. His eyes search yours, piercing through your defenses until you feel laid bare before him. You technically already are. He can sense the inner turmoil, unspoken secrets that weigh heavy on your heart.

"You carry a burden in your soul," he whispers, his voice a velvet caress in the dimly lit room. "I can see it in the way you hold yourself, in the shadows that flicker behind your eyes." His hand moves from your lips to cup your cheek gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that has escaped your control.

“I am not here to relieve my burdens, my lord,” you tell him before slipping out from his hold and sitting on the edge of the bed. You stand and take a step forward, not knowing what to do. You are naked, without clothes, and have a complete mess between your legs.

Oneiros watches as you distance yourself, a mixture of understanding and frustration clouding his gaze. He knows there is a darkness that clings to you, a weight that seems to crush the light out of your very being. But he also sees the flicker of strength in your eyes, a determination that refuses to be snuffed out.

Silence settles between you, heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears. The air in the room feels charged, as if the very essence of the night holds its breath in anticipation of what will come next. Oneiros rises from the bed, his movements fluid and graceful as he approaches where you stand. His hands reach for yours as he steps up to your back. You tense as you feel his presence behind you, his warmth seeping into your skin even before his fingers graze yours. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as if he fears you might shatter beneath his fingertips. But there is a determination in his actions, a silent promise that he won't let you fall apart. Oneiros intertwines his fingers with yours, his touch a lifeline in the darkness that threatens to consume you.

“Indulge with me then,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear as the deep and silken tone of his voice makes you shiver. “Be mine, if only for the duration of Panathenaia.”

Rather than respond, you turn in place and stretch up on your toes as you bring his lips back to yours.

Oneiros stands silently in the corner of your dimly lit chamber, hidden in the shadows of the late night. The flickering light from an oil lamp casts seductive, dancing shadows across the room, teasingly illuminating your bare skin as you sleep peacefully. Outside, the distant sounds of the Panathenaia festival echo through the streets of Athens, a celebration of pleasure and indulgence. And here in this room, Oneiros can feel his own desires stirring as he gazes upon your alluring figure.

The satin sheets draped over your body glimmer under the light, revealing tantalizing glimpses of your curves and contours. Your hair cascades over the pillow like a river, framing your face in an ethereal glow. The scent of blooming jasmine fills the room from the courtyard outside, mingling with the heady aroma of incense burning in the corner. The gentle hum of nocturnal creatures provides a seductive backdrop for Oneiros' fantasies.

Each night, he is irresistibly drawn to you, unable to resist the magnetic pull you have over him. It seems as though you are intentionally avoiding him, but that only makes him want you more. As he stands there entranced by your beauty, a primal urge consumes him—a desire that is both carnal and cerebral.

He hungers for you, his gaze devouring every inch of your body beneath the sheer chiton. He longs to touch you, to claim you as his own. But he holds back, knowing that such an action would only deepen the mystery that surrounds you.

In your dreams, he finds even more enticing secrets—stories and places that hint at a future he can't fully grasp. Each night he spends watching over you only intensifies his longing for you, his need to consume every inch of you—body and soul. You are his puzzle to solve, a mysterious enigma that drives him wild with desire.

The soft breeze from the open window carries the faint scent of saltwater and distant laughter, a reminder of the festivities happening outside. But here in this room, Oneiros is consumed only by his insatiable longing for you. The slightest movement from your sleeping form causes his inner being to stir, imagining all the ways he could make you moan and writhe beneath him. And as the night wears on, the moon hanging low in the sky, Oneiros remains steadfast in his watch over you—ever lost in his dreams and desires for you.

You are in dire need of a bath, certainly after Oneiros had his way with you and left you a mess between your legs. Not that you are complaining, but you do care that a servant might see you in such a state. The mortification you’d feel! So you extricate yourself from Oneiros’ embrace and saunter towards the private baths in his grand quarters. You only have to look over your shoulder once, your eyes meeting predatory silver ones, to silently convince the Endless to follow suit.

The private baths are a luxurious escape from the bedroom, which has long since been perfumed by the smell of your activities. With a lavish marble basin filled with steaming water and fragrant oils, you let out a relaxed sigh. You choose a few of your favorite scented oils and watch them swirl into the water. Finally, you slowly step into the tub, the hot water enveloping your body and washing away the remnants of your passion. You lean back against the side of the tub, ignoring the lurking Endless.

It isn't long before Oneiros decides to join you in the bath, his dark eyes burning with desire and longing. He steps down into the water, carefully at first, as if not to disturb the bubbles that have formed atop the warm, scented water. His silver eyes meet yours over your shoulder, reflecting the faint light from the bathing chamber's candles, and you can see the heat of his desire in their depths.

In the dim light, he approaches you slowly, his muscles rippling beneath his skin as he kneels before you. His hands reach for your body, and with mere finger widths separating you, you can feel the intensity of his lust. His touch makes your skin tingle, as if he were stirring the very essence of your being. He traces his fingers along your wet shoulder, down your arm, and finally makes a loop around your wrist, gently pulling you closer.

You can't deny the intense gravity of his desire, and your own passion surges within you like a raging storm. As he brings your lips to his, you feel not just the heat of his kiss, but the primal energy emanating from his being. His tongue dances with yours, a desperate exploration of intimacy that leaves you breathless with need.

The moment your tongues intertwine in an erotic dance, you press your body closer and closer until the water around you begins to churn. Beads of water form on your flesh, and your skin seems to come alive with a shimmering, ethereal glow. Breaking the kiss, Oneiros weaves a hand into your hair and pulls your head back, his lips finding the droplets of water snaking across your flesh. He captures each droplet within his mouth, tongue running along your skin in search of more as he feasts on the nectar it holds. The sensation of his wet, warm lips and tongue savoring the remnants of the water sends shivers down your spine, making you crave more of his teases.

With your head still tilted back, he begins a slow, tender kiss along the line of your jaw, enjoying the sensation of your skin against his lips. His hands explore your curves, gently gliding from your hips to the sensitive skin at the small of your back. You sigh softly, arching your back to allow his hands full access to your body.

Oneiros' hands continue their exploration, sliding over the curves of your breasts, gently brushing over your nipples that harden under his touch. The intensity of his desire is palpable as he cups your breasts in his hands, kneading them gently while his lips trace a path from your neck down to your collarbone.

You can't help but gasp softly as his mouth moves lower, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as Oneiros' tongue flicks against your sensitive nipple. The sensation is electrifying and your breath catches as he suckles on it, teasing it with his teeth in a way that heightens the pleasure to a new level.

“You better not start anything you cannot finish in the bath,” you tell him, feeling almost breathless.

Oneiros chuckles softly, his lips still dancing along the curve of your breast. "I make no promises," he replies, his voice low and seductive. "But I can assure you, I intend to pleasure you in ways you have never experienced before."

Leaning down, he continues to lavish attention on your nipples, carefully nipping and licking at them, sending waves of pleasure surging through your body. With a small gasp, your body is moved through the water until Oneiros is lounging on the seat of the bath and you stand with your back to him. You swallow thickly, your eyes staring straight ahead as devilish fingers caress your back in appreciation.

“You are true divinity,” he whispers. “Every touch, every kiss, is a gift I am honored to give and take.”

His hands move to your hips, gently pulling you backwards until you straddle him and your back is pressed against his chest. Your eyelids flutter and breaths quicken when you feel the hardness of his body pressed against your most intimate area.

Oneiros slides his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him, holding one forearm beneath your breasts and the other so the palm of his hand lays just under your navel. His fingers begin to trace delicate patterns on your abdomen. Sweet torture. The water ripples around them as he draws, his every touch driving you to the point of madness.

"Oneiros," you gasp, arching your back and jerking a hand to cover the one on your stomach.

“Do you know how much I want you?" his voice is a husky rumble against your neck and you can feel the subtle scrape of teeth. "How much I crave your touch, your taste, your very essence?"

Oh, you have an idea, but you are also a glutton for punishment. Certainly with this side of your husband you have never experienced before.

"Then prove it," you whisper, leaning back into him. Oneiros lets out a low growl, his grip on you tightening slightly. His lips brush against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"With pleasure," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with promise.

With a gentle swivel of his hips, you feel his cock pressing against you, stiff and throbbing. Your eyelashes flutter only once before your body is dragged down against his erect cock as Oneiros pushes his hips up. A strained and ragged gasp emerges from your lips at the sensation of his cock sinking into your body.

His breath is hot against your neck, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he moves in and out, each motion a calculated move choreographed by desire. You arch your back and meet his every thrust with an eagerness that leaves you breathless.

"More," you beg, wanting him to be deeper, harder, faster. Oneiros obliges, but not in the way you wish. His thrusts become deeper, more punishing even, and that has your free hand latching onto his thigh in a death grip. His mouth finds a sensitive spot on your neck and the Endless bites with the intention of marking you as his.

With teeth sinking into your flesh, an electric current runs through your body and mingles with the fierce pleasure of his relentless thrusts. You cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure, your heart pounding in sync with his rough rhythm. Oneiros' lips meet the wound he has just created, soothing it with his gentle kisses. In that moment, he withdraws and you gasp for air, your entire body electrified from the force of his claim. Your head drops against his shoulder and you whisper, "I'm yours, Oneiros. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours."

As the echo of your whispered affirmations hangs in the air, Oneiros slows his pace, finally pulling out completely. He gently lifts you off of him and aligns you in front of him, nudging you down so that you are facing him when your legs straddle him. Your legs still tremble and your breaths are still heavy with the aftermath of passion, but your eyes meet his, filled with hunger and desire. He looks so hungry. Oneiros guides your hips, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He pulls you flush against his chest.

“You asked, beloved,” he purrs and his hands find your waist once more. You can't help but feel the same fierce need that had generated your initial plea. You give him your own desirous gaze, your desire mirroring the intensity in his eyes.

"More," your word speaks in clear demand and the predatory smirk upon his lips grows. He thrusts himself back into you, his unrelenting need and hunger for you consuming him. You’d extinguish his pain, you’d soothe his hurt. His nails dig into your hips as he pushes deeper, driving himself into you with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders, urging him to take you with more force, to claim every inch of your body. The sound of your strained and ethereal moans reverberates off the tiled walls of the bath, a testament to the intensity of your pleasure. Oneiros' hips continue their relentless thrusting, his intense gaze never leaving your half-lidded eyes. Your expression is beyond celestial, as if you are in a state of euphoria from his touch.

Oneiros watches as love and desire consume your entire being. He knows he will never get enough of you.

Your moans turn into a primal cry, your ecstasy imminent. With a final force, Oneiros thrusts into you, pushing you higher until you are soaring together. A cry departs your lips and your ecstasy mirrors his. For a brief moment, the world disappears, leaving only the two of you in the purgatory of your passion. You collapse against his chest, arms barely hanging limp over his shoulders as your legs tremble in numbness. While you catch your breath, he gazes at you, his expression softening. In this intimate moment, the passion between you feels overwhelming. His fingers gently caress your cheek, tracing its delicate contours as if to memorize every line. No doubt he will. They dig into your hair, stroking the strands and caressing your scalp.

You let out a sigh and drop your cheek to his shoulder.

"Would you help me wash up, my lord? I seem to have lost control of my legs."

You almost hate how smug he looks upon doing so.

Date Published: 5/29/24

Last Edit: 5/29/24

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[littlxpxtal]

Little Dove | Chapter 1

You sat in the fitting room, picking at your fingers, legs bobbing up and down waiting for Tigris to bring out the dress she hand sewn for the ceremony.

“Ta-da!” she announced pleased with herself as she wheeled the gown out on a mannequin carved to your measurements.

You gasped in awe. It was a deep red with a provocative sweetheart neckline. The length was past the floor, sprawling out. A good excuse to use the new platform heels you bought a few weeks ago. 

Immediately undressing, Tigris helped you step into the dress, fitting perfectly to your curves as always. The fabric was a soft crushed velvet, lined with a slippery satin that made it comfortable to move around in.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, Tigris”

“It was nothing! All I could think about was you on that stage wearing it.”

You blushed and kissed her cheek. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you exclaimed. “Do you think he will like it?”

“He’s already seen it.” she winked. You stared at her quizzically. 

“And?”

“He wanted me to raise the neckline. I told him I would but”

“But you didnt” you laughed

“He just doesn’t get it. He’ll forgive me someday”

You watched yourself in the mirror, heart starting to race at the thought of actually winning this award.

She showed you the different hairstyles and accessories she envisioned with her dress and you let her do her magic, saying yes to almost everything she proposed due to excitement and the inability to actually think straight from the nervousness. 

You were against 3 other candidates, 2 from the gamemaker committee and one from the presidents cabinet. You constantly ridiculed your mind with doubts, these other people had far more important jobs and positions in Panem. Plus you were the only female nominee. 

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” She asked as she removed the last necklace option. 

“Do you really think I can win?”

Her face immediately crossed at your silly inquiry.

“Are you joking? No women in Panem has had the balls to do what you’ve done. You’ve gone out of your way to get these billionaires to donate to your campaign. You went to the districts personally to see the televisions installed. You designed the campaign ads yourself and gave dozens of speeches infronts of hundreds of people to support your initiative. You did all of that ideating and creating by yourself and made it happen. None of those other losers came close to the amount of work you put in this year to make a name for yourself. If you lose this award to one of them I’ll make their wives lives hell.”

You looked down and smiled at her outburst, grabbing her hand over your shoulder and squeezing it. 

“I couldn’t do this without you.”

There was a knock at the door 

“Miss Y/L/N, your driver is here.” One of Tigris’s assistants announced through the door.

“That’s my cue” you said standing up preparing to have Tigris unzip the dress off of you. 

“Tell Coriolanus I said hello.” she said flatly. 

It was the day of the awards ceremony and you woke up to an empty bed. Coryo had mentioned he had some duties to attend before the ceremony, but you were not expecting to him to leave so early. You hadn’t been very vocal about your anxiety surrounding the event that night, in fact you rarely spoke about it with him. 

It was only spoken about once during dinner with some of Coriolanus’s old peers that he would occasionally have over. Keeping them in good spirits in case he needed their support down the road. 

“So did Y/N tell you about her nomination?” Clemensia asked across the table at Coriolanus, sitting at the head of the table.

His eyebrow quirked up.

“Nomination for what?”

“Innovator of the year!” She cheered, tipping her wine glass at you. You politely dabbed your mouth from the spoonful of soup you just swallowed. A blush creeping up your neck to your face you sat as still as possible, not moving your eyes away from Clemmie. 

“I nominated her.” Festus chimed in. “The work shes done at the firm has been stupendous” He added. 

You finally gained the courage to look over at your boyfriend and his jaw was clenched. The room was silent before he forced a smile. 

“That’s lovely, congratulations Y/N” you smiled softly back at him and placed a hand over his. He didnt move, or acknowledge the touch, he kept his forced smile and used his other hand to raise his glass. 

“To Y/N”

“TO Y/N” Everyone exclaimed. 

It was previously planned before the dinner that you would be staying at Coryo’s that night, but after dinner you wished there had been a car waiting to take you home. The silence in the apartment after the guests left was suffocating. The clinks of glasses and dishes as you and Coryo cleaned up the table were the only sounds to be heard. 

You were wiping the counter as he starting to losen his tie and uncuff his links. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this award?” He asked with no emotion. 

Without turning to face him you sighed. 

“It’s not really that big of a deal, it’s just a nomination. I doubt I’ll even get it.”

He huffed and walked over, standing inches infront of you. 

“Tell me about it.” He looked hard at you, furrowing his brows, eyes piercing into yours. 

“It’s one of the newer ones they’ve come up with for this years ceremony before the reapings begin. Its a way to celebrate everyone who’s played a part, they’re making them bigger and bigger every year.”

“Yes I know about this ceremony, we’re invited to it and I’ve gone every year since University. I’m asking you about your nomination and how you qualified.”

“I was nominated for Innovator of the year -” he interrupted “By Festus Creed” stating annoyed. He walked over to the fridge to get a glass of water.

“Well yes, I didn’t ask him to, if thats what your thinking.” He let out a dark laugh. 

“No thats not what im thinking. Im thinking he did it to get under my skin. He’s always trying to find ways to undermine me, he probably knew I wasnt nominated for anything.” He sat the cup down forcefully.

That’s when you realized this anger was not from you not telling him, perhaps he even knew. He didn’t seem surprised when it was announced at dinner, he seemed annoyed if anything. The attention turning from him hosting his guests to them toasting to you. He was jealous.

“I was nominated for my implementation of the Hunger Games being televised in the homes of every district resident, and my hardwork at campaigning to get people to advertise and put money behind the games.” You simply stated. Turning to finish wiping off the counter and walking to the sink to rinse your hands.

“I don’t think I’m even going to win Coriolanus.” you sighed wiping your hands on a towel. “Im against 3 other strong candidates who have done much more important and serious jobs than this. Plus I’m a woman, there has never been a female winner in any of the categories since the beginning of the games and these ceremonies. In all honesty, I think it was Festus who was trying to get under my skin and humiliate me infront of all of Panem. For me to think I even have a chance to have my name on a screen among those who have a bigger legacy in the history of our country. I just made some flyers and put up some TVs in the districts.” Tears brimmed your eyes at the reality of it all. The shame you felt from getting your hopes up.

You heard his footsteps creep behind you, quickly wiping your tears before he could see how pathetically emotional you were getting over this. He touched the back of your arm and kissed the top of your head.

“You’re going to win.” He stated plainly, then left the room. 

An Avox brought breakfast to your bedside as requested. Unable to get most of it down, you slowly sipped the tea as you flicked through the TV, finally settling on a kids cartoon just to have some background noise as you tried to calm your nerves before having to start tonights preparations. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I can’t believe you made me come here” Tigris whispered, annoyed. 

“I’m sorry he wanted us to arrive together and I couldn’t convince him to get ready at my apartment.” you shrugged. 

Tigris and her crew of makeup artists got to work, putting heat on your hair and moisturizing your face. 

The sun was beginning to set, and you had about a full bottle of champagne down the hatch by the time they were done. Slipping on the gold strappy platform heels you’ve been daydreaming about, you walked over to the full body mirror Coryo had hanging in the guest bedroom. 

“WOW” you exclaimed. “I can’t believe you made me this pretty”

Tigris shushed you with her hands and picked up the train of your dress to lay around you, as designed. She handed you the box of the final necklace that was decided upon before whisking her assistants and tools away. 

“See you at the ceremony Y/N” she cheered before shutting the door. 

Taking the next few minutes of silence to admire yourself in the mirror, you were so absorbed in your own beauty that you didn’t even hear the door open, or his footsteps walking toward you. 

Only until you heard his voice did you notice his presence. 

“Need some help with that?” He motioned towards the jewlery box set on the stand by the mirror. 

You nodded your head excitedly and he opened it, smirking at the large piece of jewlery.

You eyed the exquisite gold necklace, lined with small diamonds around the base. 

“Tigris has a taste for the extravagant doesn’t she” you laughed sheepishly, not remembering it being an option she provided during your last visit. 

“I actually picked this one out.” he whispered in your ear. He motioned for you to lift your hair, and he placed it gently against your collarbones, fingers tracing lightly around your neck as he clasped it. 

You turned to face him, your nerves easing looking into his familiar eyes. “Thank you, I love it.”

He placed a small kiss on your cheek, avoiding the lipgloss that was applied a few moments before the team left. 

“The car is here” he said standing back up straight and eyeing himself in the mirror, making sure he was in check for the event. Sweeping a hand over the side of his hair to calm a strayaway that had popped out. 

“Coryo I’m nervous” you squeaked out.

He didn’t react, still staring at himself in the mirror to make sure all was put together. 

“Don’t be love, you’re going to win.”

His eyes flickered over to you for a second before placing a hand on your waist. 

“C’mon now, don’t work yourself up over this. Let’s just have a good time.”

Coryo wasn’t always the best at comforting your ailments, but tonight he was being particularly insensitive. Now no longer nervous, but frustrated you huffed, grabbing your purse and pulling up the train of your own dress to the car. Fiddling with your idle hands again, since he wasnt holding them, burrowing into deep thought of the morbid embarrassment you feel if you didn’t win. How sad it would be for Coriolanus to be seen with someone who was a loser. Your throat tightened, letting out a sob you had been holding the whole car ride.

“Pull over.” he demanded to the driver. 

“Dove, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can do this, I can’t bare to humiliate you like this. Can we please go home and forget this. If anyone should be winning anything its you. Im so silly to think-”

“I need you to listen to me right now. You will not humiliate me, you should be proud of yourself for being nominated. Its an honor, one that you have rightfully been nominated for. You wouldn’t be here if there werent people behind those doors who didnt believe that. Please pull yourself together, for me?” He held your hand, fingers tracing the side of your face as you stared into his eyes, searching for more. You wanted him to be proud of you, to be more open. About anything. 

“Okay.” you whispered. “I’m ready”

“Go on.” Coryo instructed the driver. He held onto your hand until the car came to a stop again infornt of the parade of photographers outside of the building. He released your hand to step out, waving the cameras away so he could come around to your side of the car. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and flashes blinding you slightly, making you forget where you were, what you were there for and what you were wearing. Immediately becoming self conscious, you gave a small smile to the cameras before grabbing Coryo’s hand to lift yourself from the car seat.

After regaining your composure, you put on the performance you usually gave to those outside of your close circle, a radiating confidence that had people swooning at the sight. You gave a smirk at the cameras before leaning over to give Coryo a kiss on the cheek. He rolled his eyes, only slight enough for you to see. The camera men cheered, begging for more. 

This was what originally attracted Coriolanus to you. Your confidence and way with people. You couldn manipulate people with your smile, sarcasm and humour. People would fight for your attention in conversation, dying for you to hear what they have to say. You were such a people person it made him sick. You were also better at networking than him, which would make his blood boil if you took it too far. 

Your flirtatious manners have gotten you into trouble a few times with him. Taking just a little too far for his liking, but he could never stay mad at you, since he knew it was all an act. All a performance. Behind closed doors your were doubtful, over thinking every interaction you had. An intense anxiety over every decision you made. On the outside you were so sure of yourself. But on the inside you were always second guessing and frightened. 

That was the difference between you two. 

As for Coriolanus, his confidence outside was just an expression of how he felt inside. He was more sure of himself than anyone you had ever met, which is what attracted you to him. 

Together you were a force to be reckoned with. 

He let you have your time with the cameras, letting them get shots of all angles of your dress and accessories. 

“Who designed your outfit this evening Y/N”

“Tigris Snow of course, who else?” You smiled brightly, placing your hands on your hips and winking at the camera man the question had been asked from. 

“But this necklace is from my lover, Coriolanus.” You gesture over to the man standing to the side. The cameras began to flash and point at him. They began shouting questions at him, except they weren’t the normal questions he’s usually asked at these events. 

Like what new laws hes proposing, or when he will run for president. 

No. 

Tonight they were all questions about you. 

You tried reading his face to see what he was thinking, but just like you, Coryo put on an act for the cameras. 

“Do you think Y/N is going to win Innovator of the year?” One shouted.

Unable to read his expression as you guys strode up the stairs, him holding onto your train for you this time, he stops and turns to look over his shoulder

“Hell yes she is.”

[fandomfluffandfuck]

I was thinking about big sub Steve in pretty clothes, and then my mind was like...

What about Chris?

Everyone deserves some pretty clothes (if they want them), but... would he ever dabble? Would he want to try it?

Needless to say, Chris wouldn't think that it's gross, nor would he be weary of pretty, "feminine" clothes because that's not how he is. No toxic masculinity here. Besides, he fucking gets off on it hard when it's Sebastian dressed up in softer, prettier lingerie or more delicate velvet suits or pink, draping clothes or anything. So, he's got no room to think anything like that. The thought of it being immasculating doesn't cross his mind at this point in his life. He's very secure.

But more than the thoughts above, what I was thinking was, would Chris get anything out of it? 👀 Other than Sebastian enjoying the sight of him dolled up and displayed, would Chris like it?

I don't think Chris would be as eager as Sebastian was to indulge in pretty clothes, nor would he enjoy it as much as Seb does (or as much as big sub Steve does for that matter), but I don't think he wouldn't like it either 😏

So, Chris doesn't say no, he's not opposed, and he figures he might at least try it once. Fuck it, right? Then--

I just Thought:

The idea of Chris slipping into something softer and prettier absolutely comes from Sebastian. Seb jokingly suggests that some time, maybe Chris should try wearing panties like Seb does.

The comment is conceived by Seb sinking into his bratty side, feeling bold and playful and challenging just for the sake of challenging. He huffs to hide his grin as he draaags out the words that he puts all this effort into finding new panties after Chris ruins them after just one use--ripping them or making Seb cum in them, staining them, or whatever other debauched, unspeakable act they get up to--and he preps himself for Chris to fuck him and all this and that. Unfair. (It's fine. He doesn't really mean it, and he wouldn't change a thing, BUT he's bratting, okay? Sometimes words just jump out for the sake of getting a punishment 😏) Also, Chris' ass and panties? Amen, baby, because Seb would be on his knees in a SECOND. Sebastian needs to see him in panties once in his life for... his mental health. Yeah. It's what he needs. It's what he deserves.

At the time, Chris snorts and rolls his eyes, knowing that Sebastian's being a brat, but nevertheless grabbing his wrist and wrestling Seb to the floor, face down, grinding against his ass lightly and pinning his wrists, the edge of a laugh ruining the mock serious inquiry of, "oh yeah? You wanna try sayin' that again?"

But...

The joke-slash-hidden-suggestion does eventually turn into Chris getting panties.

It has to happen. Chris just can't get it out of his mind. What would it be like? Would he like it like Sebastian does? How would Sebastian react? Even if he knew it was coming, Chris couldn't imagine the reaction would be short of spectacular and a struck dumb and hopefully speechless Sebastian is the best. Also, though, how would he, himself, react? He's been in drag before for acting, but it wasn't... that wasn't serious. This would be different.

This is different.

It's happening.

And it sounds like it might be good.

It's good enough of a concept for Chris to find himself some panties. He doesn't go out online and find something hyper, hyper feminine like something that's shimmering and pink and has bows and lace, but... he also doesn't want to get something boring.

The panties (and, oof, how does just that make him want to blush? He's said panties a million times! He's seen them! He's just never--they've never been for him)... the panties he picks out for himself are tight. They're skimpy. They're see-through in the right places, cutouts at the hips. And they're... they are certainly not meant to contain a dick. They weren't build with housing a cock in mind. So, they hardly contain him. In fact, they squeeze him tight--tighter than he expected even though he knew they'd be tight--and hold his dick and balls close to his body and make him feel... attractive.

He obviously knew that Sebastian feels good in them, it's more than half of why he puts them on! He likes them! (And he also likes how Chris reacts to them.) They make him feel minxy and sweet and desirable.

Chris feels--he swallows thickly, turning this way and that in the mirror--desirable. He's by himself when he first tries them on, and he wasn't sure if he was going to wear them for Sebastian, but he knows that he's going to now. How could he not if he feels so touchable and good in them?

Then... what do they do when Chris, rather than Sebastian, is wearing panties?

Well.

For their first encounter with the pretty clothes flipped, Chris tops--which is the usual, not always, just more common--but it's different. It feels intense and yet fragile. Passionate but fumbling as if they're re-playing their first time together.

Chris decides that he wants to tease, and he wants to go all out.

He wants to draaag it out and blindside Sebastian with it--

So, he approaches Sebastian while fully clothed, nothing fancy, just his usual at-home attire, sweats and a t-shirt, but he has the fucking panties on underneath. At first, he's playful and innocent, sitting too close to the other man, putting his hands on him as much as possible, touching and scratching and holding, and following him, too. Shadowing him for a few hours. Sebastian is playful right back, laughing and shying away, batting at his exploring hands, telling him that he's too bored, he needs to find something to do other than bother him. He loves it, though. He thinks Chris is just being a typical asshole boyfriend until...

Chris follows Seb into the bedroom, more hindering his ability to put away their laundry than helping him. With the clothes folded and put away, Chris manages to surprise a gasp out of Sebastian, pushing him flat onto the bed. Lying him out on his back, pinning his wrists to the mattress easily, and putting his weight on his thighs. Immobilizing him.

"Oh," Seb laughs, recovering near instantly and going limp underneath his familiar weight, "you could've just said something if you wanted--"

Chris cuts his comment off with a hard kiss to that stupid, smart mouth. It's just too attractive. Shapely and pink. Yeah... 😮‍💨😮‍💨

Looming over him, closer and closer, Chris puts his lips to his boyfriend's ear, murmuring, "you put on a pretty enough show for me with this--" he presses the plug he snatched out of their walk-in closet into one of Sebastian's palms "--and I'll let you in on a suprise I have for you."

When he pulls back, Sebastian's eyes are much wider and darker. Suddenly, his pretty, wet tongue glides over his lips, "and if, if I don't?" His bratty challenge is ruined by the breathless sound of his voice.

"If you don't..?" Chris raises an eyebrow at him just to watch him squirm. He shrugs one shoulder, "well, I guess you just won't get to see the surprise, huh?"

Sebastian whimpers. His fingers had already curled around the plug, but now he squeezes it.

Letting off the pressure on his wrists, Chris sits back, smirking, "you givin' up already, pretty boy? You spoiled? Don't wanna do the work yourself, do you?"

"No," the word sounds more like a moan than anything else. "No," he steadies himself, "I'm, 'm--"

He doesn't finish.

Instead, he squirms out of his own comfortable clothes. Following orders. Sitting up on his elbows, stripping his shirt off over his head, and pushing the waist band of his shorts down. His nipples are hard, already. Cute. Chris would love to drag his blunt nails over them and make him cry out and beg for more. He's so responsive. So fun to play with.

Before Chris can completely change his plans just to hear Sebastian whimper while he plays with those poor nipples, he turns over, easily folding into position--hands and knees, back arched--then fully exposes himself. Underwear gone.

Without thinking--there are about to be zero thoughts in his head anyway--Chris tosses him some lube. Then, he wanders over to the easy chair they have in the corner of the bedroom for... reading. Just reading. No other reason.

Either way, Chris settles down. Spreading his legs wide enough to accommodate for the throb of his half-hard cock. He has to force down a moan when the smooth, soft fabric of the panties under his sweats move against him. Fuck. No wonder Sebastian likes them so much. And, speaking of Sebastian--

Sebastian.

Sebastian is mouthwatering. He's so fucking well practiced here. With his thighs spread, his skin pale and so fucking pretty with a sweet dusting of peach fuzz. One hand already slick and glistening from lube, and his other hand prying himself open--putting himself on display for Chris' hungry gaze. His hole twitches as he spreads lube around the sensitive, tight muscle.

God.

A groan tears out of Chris, twinned by the urge to grind his hips up into nothing but air and the silky panties that are doing nothing but getting tighter and tighter and tighter.

Who knew this would be such torture for him?

It's designed to be for Sebastian, but... Chris didn't realize what he was doing to himself.

On their bed, Sebastian holds himself open like the sweet, considerate boy he is, even if it makes fingering himself open more challenging.

One finger.

"Mmmm," Sebastian strings out a moan that he mostly muffled into the sheets, gripping his own ass tighter, dealing with the anticipation more than any actual pleasure just yet.

Two fingers.

"Chr-Chris," Seb whines, wetly fucking himself with two fingers. Lube's making a fucking mess of him already. He's so eager that it's gotten all around between his cheeks, dripping down his perineum and onto his balls, and smeared over his hand to his wrist.

"That's it, pretty boy," Chris rumbles. He's given in somewhat, not too hard, though. For now, he's just resting his hand heavily over his cock. Even if he aches to cup himself and squeeze and stroke and rub the thin, slick fabric of the panties over himself. He won't.

Not yet.

He's saving it.

Sebastian makes it hard, God, he makes it hard, but Chris wants to save as much as he can for his boyfriend. He wants to reward him well. Because, let's face it, there's no way this show wouldn't be pretty enough.

Three fingers.

Sebastian is panting into the bed. And he keeps making these sweet, helpless sounds that set Chris on fucking fire.

It's impossible for him not to talk him through it now. He can't help it. Rumbling, "that's it, that's it, baby, just like that. Ride those fucking fingers for me. Feed that pretty hole jus' like it deserves. Yeah, you better fucking treat it nice."

Sebastian mewls--he fucking mewls. Arching his back, too, like a cat in heat.

Chris wants him.

Chris wants him carnally. Desperately.

"G-guh," Sebastian cuts himself off with a cry that jolts through him, "'m gonna cum, can, can I-I wanna, wanna. Plug?"

How can he deny him?

Rambling, lust frying his brain, he answers, "yeahh, go on, baby, put that fuckin' toy inside you. You need it. I know you need it."

Sebastian pulls his fingers out of himself with an impressively lewd sound, complaining incoherently but obeying nevertheless. With slick fingers, he picks up the plug. Also, with lube-slick fingers, he drops the plug a few times.

"Silly boy," Chris chuckles.

Sebastian shivers.

So. damn. responsive. Chris will never fucking get used to it--how Sebastian has always been so electric and sensitive.

It's addicting.

He's addicting.

The sight of his hole taking and swallowing that fucking plug is unparalleled. It's so pretty. Spreading wide, wet and ruined, then stuffed full. Twitching and clenching, milking the damn thing like it's a real cock that he can seduce into fucking him good and hard.

Precious.

"N-now what?" Sebastian whines, his fingers balled into fists. He's shaking.

Aw, he is close.

So. close.

"Now," Chris drawls, breathing hard as he shifts, pulling himself to his feet and heavily prowling toward the bed, "now," Chris wraps his hand around Sebastian's bare ankle and pulls.

Seb nearly chokes on his spit in shock, coughing around a needy whine.

Meanwhile, Chris can only groan and put more of his stength into it--yanking him back to the edge of the bed where he can press his hips against the hard, flared base of the plug and plush cheeks of his ass. Instantly, any strength Chris had to not indulge in pleasuring himself slips away. He doesn't fucking care if the lube dripping out of Sebastian around the stretch of the plug stains the crotch of his sweats, he just has to grind against him.

Jesus.

The heat of Sebastian.

The friction of the panties.

It's too much, and Chris' hands bite into Seb's hips until he cries out, begging for anything, anything, anything--he just needs more. Tomorrow, he'll have fingerprint bruises. It doesn't matter. They're just grinding and grabbing and groping and panting and moaning. They lose a handful of heady minutes to the electric pleasure sparking between their bodies. It feels so good. It's so fucking hot. Chris could be fucking Sebastian like this--easily Chris could be fucking Sebastian like this, he could rip his sweatpants down, he could pull that plug out, throw it aside, and slide right in. He's already prepped. He's wet and hot and tight and--

Christ.

Head in the game, head in the fuckin' game, Evans, Chris tells himself through a growl. He wants to tear into Sebastian.

But he rips himself away from the siren that is Sebastian. So pretty and responsive and--get it together! Fuckin', Jesus.

"Your surprise--" he leans all his weight onto Seb, making him shake even worse, and smirking against his ear regardless "--is getting to grind yourself stupid on my lap." He leaves out the best part, for now.

Still, he whines.

"You want me on the bed, baby? What'd'about back in the chair?"

Sebastian presses his face into the bed, whimpering and drawing his legs tightly together like just the thought is making him all achy. God. Like he can't choose because he's just too fucking turned on and out of his mind.

"B-bed?"

"Okay, baby," Chris backs off, much to his complaint, and gets rid of his shirt. He leaves on his sweats for now, though, crawling onto the bed and sitting up against the headboard... he absolutely also notices the way that instead of hanging heavy from his body, his throbbing cock is trapped close to his body, hot, hot, hot.

Once he's righted his spinning head, Sebastian immediately notices his non-nakedness and pouts, huffing and pawing at his hips and thighs, "take these off. Please?"

"Take 'em off yourself, then," Chris grins manically.

Seb pouts but is too eager to complain otherwise, his hands fumbling and excitable, wrestling his sweats off him, inching them down until...

Bingo.

"Hnnghohmygod--" It all comes out as one long sound of desire. Overwhelmed and needy.

Chris is hit with arousal like a bat hits a ball.

"Chris-!?" Seb whimpers, eyes glued to his cock tenting the panties obscenely.

There isn't a moment before Sebastian's hands are on him. They just are. Touching him. Scrambling over the shiny, silky fabric. Unable to get a grip but trying so damn hard to. When he can't, he does the next best thing and dives in with a sob, rubbing his face against him. Cheek to the wet spot where Chris has been leaking, overflowing with desire.

Chris moans but can't help the laugh that comes out of him either, "baby, baby, baby," he chuckles, "gotta, gotta fuckin' g-get me outta these pants so you can have more fun--"

Sebastian doesn't stop, though. He's still fucking nuzzling him like a kitten. His back is arched worse now. And looking down the line of his spine and seeing that fucking plug between his cheeks, stuffed into him, his skin wet and glistening...

Jesus.

Chris is gonna die.

He yanks him up by the hair. Seb goes with it beautifully, his eyes rolling back into his head, mouth hanging open. Fuck. Chris just can't fucking take this. So, in a chaotic blur, he gets himself out of his sweats, ripping them down his legs around Sebastian, who's been stunned stupid.

He makes sure to leave the panties on even as he kicks off his sweats.

"You gonna grind yourself silly in my lap, baby?" Chris purrs, reminding that pretty little head of what he's supposed to be doing. But, well... if Seb wants his surprise to be nuzzling against his dick and crying and licking him through his panties, Chris can live with that, too. (Fuck. Either way, that needs to happen now or later. It's got to. Chris is gonna make Sebastian jerk him off through his panties, he'll cum, and then he'll make Seb lick him clean and hump against the bed between his spread thighs. He wants to see that pretty ass move, and that wicked mouth put in work.)

For now, Sebastian climbs up, straddling his thighs and--

"Oh," Seb keens, grabbing his shoulders hard while he shakes apart in his lap. Hips moving fucking sinfully on top of him. The hard, hot line of his cock against Chris'. The thin, thin, delicate fabric between them is extra fucking hot. They're both breathing so hard. Panting. Grasping at each other. They're attempting to kiss, but they're not--They're not coordinated enough anymore. Melted apart. Mouth's open and starved. Gasping and moaning. Sweating badly. Aching.

Pleasure overtakes Chris.

It feels, fuck, it feels so fucking good.

It's intense and obscene and he wants to crawl out of his skin yet he's not even the one grinding and moving and clenching around a fucking buttplug. It's no wonder that Sebastian is perfectly liquefied, melted in his lap. Crying--sobbing and shivering.

Chris digs his fingers into his ass, he wants to mark him up. He wants to bruise that peach of an ass. He wants to spank him, so he fucking spanks him and revels in his reaction to the pleasurable pain. Sebastian jolts, moaning his name and thunking his head down on his shoulder, pressing back into his palms on his ass and forward against his throbbing cock. Chris grabs and plays with the plug inside him. And again, he moans his name, he swears, and--

"Gonna cum," he weakly cries.

Chris is sweating.

Chris is burning up, "yeah-huh, sweetheart, gonna fuckin' make a mess of my panties, huh? You gonna do it? Gonna get me all dirty?" He goads him.

"Yuh-yeah!" Seb whines, moving faster, filtier.

And he fucking does. He jerks and twitches and pumps cum over Chris' tight stomach and his trapped cock. It looks fucking intense. It's too much.

He can't take it.

His pretty boy in his lap, moving, making all these gorgeous noises and pornographic faces. Jesus. Christ.

Yeah, the panties were a good idea 😮‍💨

Chris is right there with him, it's on the tip of his tongue to gasp, 'get me out, gemme out, Seb- c'mon, baby, I- oh god,' because he's just fucking on edge and fuck any plans he had to cum in these panties. He can't. But.

But.

Chris can't get the words out. All he can do is groan and orgasm hard, curling tightly around Seb, holding onto him. Chris is fucking wrecked by pleasure. Ruined. It feels too good. The friction is delectable.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Will You Spare Me Death if I Fool Them All?

⏤ crisis core: final fantasy vii.

⏤ angst, whump, hurt/no comfort, blood and some gore

⏤ wc: 1312

⏤ a/n: a small portion of the aftermath of the training room incident from Genesis's POV and how he got his wing. i started stress writing and it turned into this :^)

— Everything is always uglier up close.

Or at least one can say as much when they inch themselves closer to a vision of beauty, study each sparkling morsel of it, and come to find that the diamonds glimmering beneath their gaze are nothing more than broken glass shards.

It was a notion Genesis knew well. He had insolent habits as a child, but none of them were as curious as his selective observation.

He'd sit bored at Banora's parties—though ever the prim and proper young boy—with his back against a velvet chair, eyes fixed on the finery hung around the nearest neck.

It was always diamond, emerald, or if the victim was pompous enough, crystalized mako. That was Genesis's favorite. He'd maintain a simpering demeanor, oftentimes hiding his smirk behind a fist as he observed them.

Genesis never said a word. He wouldn't dare be seen as an insolent child when the reward of keeping his knowledge to himself was much sweeter.

If he looked close enough, the ugly truth was brought to light with a blinding revelation. Diamond became crystal, emerald became cheap tourmaline, and the mako jewelry they were oh-so boastful about was nothing but green quartz polished enough to pass for a rarity.

Of course, he could never trust Angeal to do the same.

"What's with your coat?"

"H-uh?" Genesis sputtered.

The din of the cafeteria crowd around him muffled as he became hyperaware of his every move. He had good reason to. Each inch of his bare skin, from his naked fingers to the exposed neck above his collar, was under scrutiny.

The question was as good as a taser aimed right at him. Genesis stilled, then felt the meat slip from his spoon and dunk itself back in his soup bowl with a splatter. He held the utensil feebly in midair, his mouth agape and eyes widened at the man sitting in front of him.

Sephiroth sat beside Angeal on the booth, leaving Genesis alone on the opposite side, a setup which in hindsight, Genesis should've known was a tact.

He met Sephiroth's analytical gaze. The green and slitted eyes raked up Genesis's body, drinking in the pitiful weakness of his form before stopping just below his shoulder.

There was something reminiscent of pity— remorse, even—on his face, but Genesis's pride and embarrassment always worked hand-in-hand to blind him toward such things.

It didn't matter. He knew what Sephiroth was looking at, and he knew what Angeal was alluding to: the bulging spot in his coat where a wad of bandages rested beneath.

He put down his spoon gingerly, prolonging the tap of the metal against the wooden table. Then he wiped his lips with a napkin, sitting up straighter and working a smug smirk onto his previous frown.

"Oh, you mean this?" He patted the leather lump with complete nonchalance—even if he was wincing in pain on the inside. "Infinite in mystery. Don't worry about it, it's just—"

"Bandages?" Angeal inferred. "For your shoulder?"

It had been just shy of two weeks since the transfusion—the fruitless, invasive, and painful waste of his time. The infection had only increased, blackening the already bruised skin by day and leaving Genesis writhing with white-hot pain each night.

"Yeah," Genesis looked down, grabbing his gloves from beside him. Angeal's inquiry had stripped away the opportunity to flawlessly lie.

"It's simply a precautionary measure, no need to dwell over it, old friend, hero of the dawn, healer of worlds—"

"Precautionary measure against what, exactly?" Sephiroth cut in with another blow to Genesis's ego. "Is it bleeding?"

"Bleeding," Genesis repeated as he pulled on his gloves haughtily. "Don't be ridiculous, Sephiroth. I need to keep the wound wrapped until it heals fully, lest I risk contracting another infection."

"And it's not? Healing?" Sephiroth pushed again, this time lowering both eyebrows into a judgmental dip. "You look frail."

Genesis shoved his tray of food away, causing the soup to slop over the bowl. Angeal and Sephiroth watched with clear apprehension as the redhead slammed his back against the seat, then crossed his arms.

His eyes were cool, regarding either of them with no more contempt than they ignited.

"It's not." His voice was clipped. "Healing."

He noticed Sephiroth's shoulders slump. "Gene—"

"I have to go." Genesis stood up. "Never a better time to start on those overdue mission reports than when I'm too weak and frail to compare to the likes of you."

Sephiroth lowered his head, no doubt hiding the regret slapped across his face.

"You know that's not what he meant," Angeal huffed, exasperated as he watched Genesis step out of the booth.

"Yes, I doubt I know much at all," Genesis scoffed.

Angeal was at a loss. "Genesis!"

The surrounding tables had started to stare, some bowing their heads as they conversed in hushed whispers. Genesis was stiff, naked before the tongues which would wag if he were to make a scene.

He looked down at the other two men. "I have to go, but who knows? Maybe we can fraternize later, say, in the training room?"

Genesis pinned Sephiroth—who still kept his head down refusing eye contact—in place with his glare.

"Maybe you can finish me off, friend, put me out of my misery."

All Genesis heard was a last desperate call of his name before he dipped past the surrounding tables, making a beeline out of the cafeteria.

Later that night, he recalled the aforementioned notion. Everything, no matter its beauty, always appeared uglier under the magnifying glass of scrutiny.

He was hunched over in the darkness, both knees digging into the hardwood floor. A few red candles were scattered nearby, each of them blurry through the tearful eyes that drunk in their light.

Genesis's knit shirt and red coat lay haphazardly across the floors, blood-soaked and bedraggled beyond prior recognition.

His hyperventilating sobs were the only sign of life sounding around the apartment. Shaken breaths, each more frantic than the last were all he could manage.

Genesis didn't fear death. No, to say he feared death was an insult, a light way to put it. He was petrified, frozen in horror before the prospect that he was withering away, living with one foot dipped in the grave, feeling the eager hand of death tugging him down inch by inch each day.

He slowly lifted his head, then caught a glimpse of himself through the looking glass. It was a pitiful sight, no matter how many sugary lies he told himself to quench his worries.

There was a burning sensation through his spine, like a nail dragging itself through his veins and ripping apart each one with torturous intent.

Globules of blood dripped down his back, marring the floor with crimson puddles.

Something began tearing through his left shoulder blade. He cried as it broke the skin, twisting and snapping. The wet sounds of flesh being torn open melded with the crackle of his spine.

Genesis's back curled as he hunched over deeper. His screeches were raw, shredding his throat, pulling out every last morsel of emotion from his body until he was hoarse.

He felt it; something coming out of him. With his nails digging into the floor, bloody and cracked, he let out one last guttural cry.

And then he felt it. Something unfurled from his back. He felt it like an extension of his body, an extra limb stretching out.

All was quiet again. His heaving breaths slowed. He curled his palms into fists, then used them to push himself up from the wet floor.

Genesis looked into the mirror.

A black wing protruded from his back.

He raked his eyes over his own body, sticky with blood and pieces of flesh, then pinned the dreaded spot on his shoulder.

There, the wound remained intact, as black and ugly as it ever looked up close.

[yandere-romanticaa]

I could listen to Zhongli's voice all damn day and still die a happy, happy woman. TW for inappropriate relationships (he's your professor) and non consensual touching.

The new professor at your college caused quite the stir if you could put it mildly.

He came out of nowhere and cemented himself into the very foundation of the school, it felt as though he had always been there. Many students were eager to take his classes for various different reasons be it that the classes themselves were extremely useful for future job inquiries, the professor was very passionate about his craft and was thus interesting to listen to and not to mention that the absolute eye candy he was. When he stepped into the room everyone's heads were turning, all eager to see the man in all of his glory. Envy and lust swam shamelessly in the eyes of many but he paid no mind to them, simply brushing all of his admirers off with a stern but still kind smile none the less.

The other thing everyone also kept talking about him is just how fucking difficult his classes were to pass.

Kind and patient as he was, the professor simply refused to accept anything other than pure perfection from his students and that included you too. You will never know how many hours of precious sleep you've lost and countless tears you shed over his crazy tasks, all of which seemed to get harder and harder.

That is, until his sudden grip around you seemed to loosen, just a little bit.

Don't get me wrong, everything was still difficult but it felt as though your professor managed to sense your distress and decided to ease up a little, to just let you rest. As you cheerily shared your opinion with your friends with a smile on your face hoping that they were in the same situation as you, they all gave you dark glares and suggestive smiles as they uttered:

"I'd keep that to myself if I were you."

He started to become more chatty, with you at least.

The professor made sure to always greet you curtly, never missing a beat every single morning and night as the two of you walked by each other in the hallways of the building. There were times when you thought you could feel him staring at you at class, the sheer weight of his molten stare would make you feel flattered had he not been your professor. Still, you kept telling yourself that you were simply imagining things. Why would a man like him focus all of his time and attention to a silly little grunt such as yourself anyway? That's how you tried to rationalize it, at least.

"You know, I tend to go by "Zhongli" while on leave."

There he was, your professor in the flesh, standing in front of you in the supermarket as he looked down at you with a smile, pure joy glimmering in his gorgeous eyes. Feeling rather bashful you could hardly say anything as you did you best to indulge Zhongli in some small talk.

"You have such interesting opinions, it's a shame to see you holding back." he'd say to you, eager to listen to the sound of your voice. The way his gloved hand seemed to inch closer and closer towards your lips almost made you choke on the air itself as you felt him press his thumb on the soft flesh, further emphasizing the silence that hung between the two of you. Your eyes sporadically scanned everything they could in the heat of the moment, his fingers being the first thing you took note of. Chuckling darkly he quickly realized what you were looking for and decided to end your worries once and for all.

"Don't worry, dear." he said, his voice as smooth as velvet.

"I've got no ring."

This is so cringe I can't even look at it...

[saccharinecoffee]

Red carnations on a knife's edge | Kenuri

Pairing ◈ Kenny Ackerman & Uri Reiss

Word count ◈ 7,487

Info & Warnings ◈ Smut, assassination attempt and threats, royalty AU, king!Uri, knight!Kenny, sickly Uri, gnc Uri

Author's notes ◈ This was written for @ackerbondweek 2023 - Day 2 "Liege/Protector".

Read on AO3

Kenny struggles to parse through his insecurities, his loyalty, and his feelings, and ultimately lashes out. Uri is smart, though, and sees right through his beloved knight's inner turmoil.

Kenny Ackerman's shadow followed the King wherever he walked. Donning leather and cotton instead of an intricately decorated metal armour, he stood out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of Uri’s Kingsguard.

The Rogue, they called him in hushed whispers throughout the palace. The Ripper who once terrorised aristocrats in their neighbourhoods, mugging and killing and stripping their fine clothes for a quick buck in the underground. Renowned for his stealth and strength, courtesy of his upbringing and Ackerman genes, he was ruthlessly efficient at disarming whomever came too close to harming the King; a fact Uri dwelled on perhaps too whimsically in the dark of night to be appropriate.

But there was nothing truly appropriate in the way Kenny operated, from his rugged appearance to his severe attitude and rude speech. But Uri himself wasn’t the typical royal, either.

Perhaps, that was what drew the two of them to each other.

They paced and paced down a long hallway, Kenny’s presence staunchly at his side, lagging behind just a fraction to make sure his back wasn’t unprotected. It made a pleasant tingle blossom in Uri’s belly. He grasped his long skirts tighter as the fabric draped at his heels and trailed the ground he walked on. His nape grew colder as his hood remained down and over his shoulders, the ends of his overgrown silver hair tickling his skin as the night drew closer. His head, luckily, was light as could be. Crowns were never appealing to him, and neither were the extravagant embroideries his sisters and brothers wore in velvet and cashmere and expensive furs. A true traitor to his family and status, he was loyal to his ideals.

It must have been close to supper when the last of the populace had finished their inquiries in the throne room and the afternoon had dragged on due to his own insistence in offering them his support. Rod had left him a difficult job when he died, one full of hunger and despair and an uncooperative team of advisers who wanted nothing more than to pursue glory over the comfort and safety of their people.

This naturally meant they resented Uri, and deeply so. 

Once in their conference room, they sat at a long, intricate wood table. Uri sat at the very end of it, nearest the door, while his resigned entourage sat across its length, paperwork before them as they prepared for yet another meeting. One that would be entirely unproductive, Uri pessimistically suspected. He usually had unwavering faith in the people around him – which was the reason why Kenny was now his knight and not another number in his castle’s dungeons – but after a couple of years of trying, it was beginning to fizzle into something weak. It was a faith born from both his own gentle soul and years of his brothers and sisters passing down their family’s ideology, even if some, like Rod, had never adhered to them. Irrespective of all of Uri’s efforts amongst his royal advisers, it ultimately led to nothing. 

Kenny was a silent strength at his side as the meeting went on, their discussions going down a heated and vile path. They chattered and chattered amongst themselves as though Uri wasn’t even there, speaking ill and ugly things about the people he cared so dearly for and made his stomach churn and skin prickle with growing dread. He considered himself a patient man. He’d been trained for situations such as that. Peace, order and understanding were fundamental at all costs in a King’s rule. But that didn’t mean his heart wasn’t pumping harder, or that his hands didn’t shake.

“Everyone,” he said into the busy room. He tried to keep his voice levelled, but despite his anxiety, the words came out sharp and solid like a knife’s blade. It sliced through the chatter and quieted his court at a moment’s notice. Beside him, he felt Kenny stand straighter.

“If you have a problem with how I run this Kingdom, speak now, or leave at once. Make it swift and resolute, as we have many other more pressing subjects left to take care of before we adjourn for the evening.”

The room looked at him with tense, sheepish faces, some more pinched or bordering on aggravated than others, but Uri stood his ground. He never enjoyed conflict, and he certainly didn’t enjoy removing people from their assigned positions when they had blameless families to feed. But as he slowly came to understand, it was a necessary evil he ought to adopt. 

“Silence? Really?” He stood up, staring down every one of his advisors with piercing violet eyes. “If I’m not mistaken, not two minutes prior you were speaking ill of our new allies. I thought I made myself clear when we would not highlight our differences, but instead our strengths. What makes you think it’s appropriate to speak disparagingly about the Ackerman Clan in the presence of a member?”

Suddenly, one of his men stood up, so fast his chair fell over. His fist collided with the table with a loud smack and his voice cracked as he yelled.

“They’re animals, Your Grace! They’re filthy, greedy animals and you let them roam free!! You must open your eyes and cease this madness!”

Kenny took a step forward, hand defensively over his sword. Uri pulled his arm out to stop him. When his palm touched his chest, he balled a fist into his cloak.

“You will not speak that way about Kenny Ackerman!” He said firmly. “As I said, you’re invited to leave if you disapprove of how I do things around here. I’m sure many others would be happy to fill in this role in your permanent absence!”

The councilman threw his paperwork across the table, blending with his colleagues’ own work and making a right mess of things.

“You need to wake up! You aren’t honouring your dear brother’s crown! You dress like the princesses’ maids and hand out our well-earnt money to the parasites and criminals of this Kingdom! What kind of King does that?!”

“The way we see it,” another one of his advisors said gravely, as he stood up, “you’re simply not fit to run our kingdom.”

A third stood up in a flash with a roar, unsheathing his dagger and leaping over the table to attack Uri. He wasn’t the only one, as several others stood up with haste and raised their weapons as they charged for their King.

He felt as though time slowed down as his heart leapt into his mouth. Beating, beating, so hard it hurt his shrinking lungs. They all got up with deadly intent, dark fire in their eyes as they let their rage consume them whole.

And then he was shoved back into his chair with such strength it slid several feet backwards and knocked what little air he’d taken in right out of him.

Kenny moved so fast his eyes could barely keep up. He grabbed the attacker’s sword-wielding fist and used the momentum to shove him with a force that knocked the man into a bookshelf. The next assailant was punched in the gut while his hand got crushed under the strength of Kenny’s hard. The man wailed on the ground as he held his crooked fingers as Kenny simply moved onto the next, then the next, then the next. Fluid like water, movements blurring from the speed.

None got close to Uri, his technique too precise, his movements too efficient, his superhuman strength too overpowering.

Uri shook in his chair as he watched the events unfold, hands trembling in his lap as his wide eyes darted from one person to the next in fear of being reached and hurt.

He barely registered as his guards stormed into the room and began arresting his assailants as per Kenny’s barked out commands. He could only hear his own hard breathing, a hand coming up his modest gown’s lacing and pressing over his hammering heart. In the distance, Kenny turned toward him, his expressions initially pleased, satisfied with a job well done, but it quickly turned to panic. He ran over to Uri at a hurried pace, shoving the now battle-worn room’s furniture out of the way with unnecessary force.

As he came within arm’s reach, Uri’s world faded to black.

His centre of gravity shifted, but he never fell. In fact, he felt warm and weightless for a long time, cradled by strong arms and hushed words until his back hit something soft and fluffy. He subconsciously reached for the warmth that was threatening to leave and mumbled a plea under his breath. He heard people speaking, though they seemed too far away to perceive their words. But one had an edge to it that made him feel a spark blossom in the pit of his stomach. It was gravelly and irritated, matching a rough but warm hand that slipped over his shoulder.

Slowly, he stirred.

His eyes blinked away the darkness and was greeted by his knight’s concerned visage staring back at him. It was short lived, the hand on his shoulder quickly withdrawn and the look on Kenny’s face hardening. Suppressing his disappointment, he gazed at where Dr. Jaeger seemed to be, at his feet. He held his folded legs up the way he’d taught Uri’s handmaidens to do whenever he felt dizzy and fainted. It was an unfortunately all too frequent event, but he was always taken care of, and always grateful for their service.

“Are you back with us, Your Grace?” The doctor said with a patient smile. Above him, Kenny clicked his tongue.

“What the hell is your problem, passing out like that?” He grumbled. “What kind of King keels over when someone flashes their sword at them?”

“One whose health simply needed a little extra help,” Jaeger explained with a lighthearted chuckle. “Right, Your Grace?”

Uri simply looked up into Kenny’s grey-blue eyes, his body relaxing further into his furs. There was a crinkling at the edges of Kenny’s eyes that made him smile up at his knight.

So rough around the edges. So crass with his words.

His heart though… It was quite different.

“Thank you, Kenny.”

He watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, lips pressed thin as his brows furrowed. With a petulant scoff, he looked away.

“Come on, don’t be such a grouch,” Uri scolded. Slowly, he began sitting up, using his knight’s thigh as leverage, who only mumbled further complaints under his breath. 

Jaeger took a couple of notes, no doubt adding the day’s incident to his medical records, and when he was done, he inspected his heartbeat, his blood pressure, and took note of his findings just the same.

“I advise you to take the rest of the day off and relax as much as possible,” he said with more weight. “Keep someone you trust with you at all times as well, just to be sure. Make sure you eat plenty and don’t move much, lest you have another fainting spell before the day is through.”

“Is there anything I should do in particular?” He asked nervously. He wasn’t used to being stationary, especially since being crowned. “Just relax?”

“Yes, I believe so. If you feel like you’ll black out again, just put your head between your knees, or have someone lift your legs as I’ve taught you.” He packed his instruments and notebook in his bag and nodded at the both of them. “When you’re well rested, you should come over to my office to run some blood work so we can see if it’s just your blood pressure acting up as usual, or something more serious.”

“I promise to do as you say. Worry not.”

Jaeger gave him a bitter smile. 

“I’ll always worry, Your Grace. It’s my job after all.”

Uri felt a sting of guilt. Grisha Jaeger was a truly fantastic doctor, who had cared more genuinely for him than any other royal doctor had. Much like Kenny, Jaeger’s daughter was an Ackerman herself, a lineage that was much contested in Uri’s Kingdom.Though once allies to the Fritz and Reiss families, they were deemed monstrous for their physical abilities and persecuted by the nobles. Centuries later, Uri came to power, tore that decree and burnt it, bringing the Ackermans out of the shadows and back into public life. He was surprised to find the man had kept his adopted daughter a secret out of fear, having presented his son Eren as his only offspring.

For this reason Uri had come to realise the gratitude of a loving father whenever Jaeger worried over his own fickle health, with sorrowful eyes and tight smiles. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint him, but his duty as a ruler would sometimes get in the way. Duty often called, and he always found that duty hard to ignore.

The doctor bid his goodbye, reenforcing his instructions one last time to be sure Uri understood their importance, and he emphasised he’d comply.

Once he closed the door behind him, Kenny stood up and paced the room with a resigned look on his face.

“Kenny?” Uri called. He had no response. “Kenny–”

“You almost died!” He yelled. His eyes were wide and livid. “All because you just had to White Knight my sorry ass!”

Uri sat a little straighter on his comforter.

He’d met Kenny shortly after the Ackerman decree was burnt. One thoroughly stabbed arm and an apology later, Kenny joined his cause as his trusted protector. Kenny didn’t pretend to enjoy it much, turning his nose at Uri’s whims and keeping mostly quiet except to make superficial complaints. But Uri found it amusing, even if the rejection stung.

Now, after saving him from danger, after Uri defended him, he seemed perplexed beyond his imagination.

“I am the King,” he said with conviction, despite his dizzy head. “I made the decision of my own volition and you are part of my people. It is my duty to defend your rights when you’ve been discriminated against and slaughtered by my ancestors.” His voice began to waver. “It’s the very least I can do with the power I wield. I know it’s still not enough, but can’t you see the effort I’m putting in day and night?!”

Kenny only seemed angrier by his words, and Uri felt his heart clench.

“That’s not the issue, Uri!” He yelled. “My problem is with your stupidity! You refuse to see the rot in the people you’ve surrounded yourself with and you paint a nice big bullseye on your back by going overboard your saviour complex–”

“Saviour complex?!” Uri interjected incredulously.

“–and then you put a filthy animal like me in charge of following you around like a dog, almost like bait, like you’re begging for someone you reach out and snap your neck for treason.”

Uri balled his fists into his comforter, slowly stood up and walked closer to Kenny. His steely eyes softened with worry just enough for Uri to catch, and he pressed his palm against his heart.

“Just because you were told you’re worthless by the likes of my family and accolades that does not mean it’s true. You can live a life of dignity and I certainly can and will do everything in my power to revert the damage I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do shit, Uri!” He grabbed him by the upper arms, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. “I’ve lived all my fucking life in the underground and I could very well keep doing it if I pleased.” He shook him gently, nails digging into his skin. It didn’t hurt, though. Kenny was precise in every inch of strength he gave away, and was never if not careful with him.

“But you don’t have to!”

“Do you doubt my skills? You are aware of what I did before you made me your pet, right, Your Highness?”

 “Of course I don’t doubt– You’re not my pet, Kenny!

He came impossibly closer, and he felt his balance falter. If Kenny pushed any further, he'd fall.

But he trusted him. How could he not?

“Oh, but I am.” His voice was dark, his lips stretched in a pained grimace. Uri could feel his cheeks blistering as dark red tracks bloomed on his skin. Kenny’s expression faltered. “Wha–”

Before he could continue, Uri’s eyelids fluttered as his knees grew weak. He stumbled, head floating and vision spotted black, but Kenny quickly wrapped his arms around him.

“Shit.”

Slowly, carefully, he walked Uri back onto his bed, laying his back out and bringing his legs – skirts and all – over the comforter. Blindly, Uri bent his knees, attempting to bring his legs to his chest to follow Jaeger’s instructions, but Kenny seemed to quickly catch onto his actions, sitting on the edge of the bed himself and hesitantly reaching for his legs, smooth skin peaking through his skirts as the fabric bunched around Uri’s thighs and waist.

“Can I…?”

“Yes, please,” he said softly. “‘m too weak to keep them up on my own.”

Kenny nodded and wrapped his arm around his knees, where they bent. He shifted himself up on the bed, sitting beside his torso and bringing his legs along with his arm. Uri felt his cheeks heat up, not from his blossoming marks, but from something else too intimate that stirred low in his belly. Kenny himself seemed to have been avoiding his eyes, looking between the pale legs in his leather-clad arms and the modest cream colour of his gown.

Then, he looked up, silver eyes peering through dark lashes.

“It happens every time those damn demon trails show up on your face.”

“Demon trails…? Oh! You mean my Ymir's Blessings?”

“Sure, if that's what you call 'em.”

“Is that how Ackermans refer to our marks?” Uri contemplated his words with a sadness building in his chest. “Of course you would... How naive of me.”

Kenny licked his lips slowly, gauging Uri pensively. When he spoke up, his voice was calm and quiet, contrasting greatly with his earlier outburst.

“When my mother told me about you people – the Eldians chosen by their Gods, – she always warned me about the marks.” He gestured to his own face, drawing invisible lines over the apples of his cheeks absentmindedly. “Said they’d show up when they get real mad, like if they’re going in for an attack. That’s how we know we gotta run. She saw it in person. Angry red lines like the ones you have. Like the meat under the skin is exposed.”

Kenny lowered his hand from his face, reaching over Uri and tracing a line down his King’s cheek. His touch was hesitant and light, but with the skin changed and exposed, it felt more sensitive. Uri willed himself not to jump from the sensation, but Kenny smirked, noticing the way his body tense.

“Is that how you see me, Kenny?” Uri breathed.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Kenny scoffed. Like the thought of Uri being a heartless hunter was beyond imagination. “You could never.”

“I'm glad you don't think poorly of me, despite my shortcomings.”

“Shortcomings?”

Uri felt sheepish and looked away from Kenny, smiling sadly.

“I'm far from an exemplary King, Kenny. You’ve seen it already. I let horrible men remain in my court in hopes they'd warm up to my ideals and work with me. It took me two years to be able to cease all persecution against your Clan, and even then, I don't know where to begin with reducing the social animosity and division now that you're no longer in hiding.” His eyes stung with unshed tears. “I'm weak, Kenny. You’re right in saying I'm too soft. I have to keep trying, but nobody listens, I'm–”

“Oi, oi, stop running your mouth like that for a minute and use your fucking head.” He clicked his tongue in aggravation. “This is why you piss me the fuck off so much. If it weren't for you I'd be dead in a fucking ditch like the filth I am! Don’t you see how much of an idiot you are for letting me even sit with you alone in your own bedchamber? I could slice your fucking throat and end your miserable bloodline right now if I wanted, but you trust me because you're just. That. Good.” His eyes grew wide and sinister. “This goodness makes you the best King this Kingdom could hope for, but it will kill you one day, if you don't sharpen up. You've tasted your second assassination attempt today because you were too good to take the trash out from your court. Who says it won't be the last?”

“Kenny... That won't happen because I have you.”

Kenny stilled, his wide eyes glimmering with something Uri couldn’t understand as his brows knit in confusion.

“Did you not hear what I just said?” He asked incredulously.

Uri lifted a hand and cupped his cheek affectionately, a small, private smile on his lips.

“I trust my Kingsguard's rogue.”

There was a lot left unsaid, words he wanted to speak into existence that died on his tongue in shame. But Kenny wasn’t an unintelligent man by any means – on the contrary.

He breathed out through his teeth, scowling as though Uri’s confession offended his palate, and he could swear the silver in his eyes had turned black.

Uri suddenly felt Kenny's arm tighten its grip around his legs, and in the blink of an eye, he was on him with a knife pressed to his throat. The arm around Uri’s legs came up and bent his back enough that his skirts fell further and exposed his skin, all because Kenny reached threateningly closer to Uri. He was a palm's distance from his face, hovering over him and grinning wickedly. Uri felt like there was a sort of desperation in it, something forced and deranged in the way his brows twitched, and his smile almost morphed into a grimace if Uri squinted.

“You trust me, you say,” he said darkly, slowly, and promising to draw blood. “How can you be so stupid in the face of a murderer? Do you have any idea what I could do to you before anyone even found out?”

Uri felt his cheeks blister. He could feel his fading marks blooming stronger and redder on his face as he felt the steel against his skin. But he remained still, impassive. He was lashing out, Uri was certain. He had to talk him down with carefully chosen words.

“I imagine you could do plenty,” he said, playing along.

“I could. I could slice you in the right place and have you bleed out before I finish re-fastening my cloak. But if I wanted to draw it out I could also toss your gown up and use your little body like the maiden you dress as.” His fingers dug into his thigh, making him take a sharp intake of air. “Your stinkin’ trust could have you done right here and now.”

His skin prickled, gooseflesh rippling over his exposed skin. It wasn’t just from the adrenaline, but the intimate touch Kenny had on his body. And he didn’t complain, he couldn’t; not from the looming fear, but because he animalistically craved more. Perhaps Kenny was right and he was a fool. A suicidal fool who lost all sense when confronted with mortal danger, like a moth drawn to a light.

Uri settled his breath before speaking. When he did, his voice was unwavering.

“But you won't.” Kenny's nostrils flared. Uri pressed his lips together, brows furrowed in concentration. He insisted, “you won't.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just know.”

“What proof do you have?”

Uri looked at him quizzically. The hand on his thigh had softened its grip, his grimace had relaxed into a frown that was almost akin to a pout. He couldn’t help the bubbling laugh that escaped his throat. 

What a stubborn man he was.

“What's so fucking funny?” He lazily grazed his knife up his neck, sending a shiver down Uri's spine.

“Kenny, do you take me for a blind man? A deaf one, even?” He asked softly around a smile. “You save me from imminent danger and carry me to my room. You argue with me over the goodness you see in my heart as you hold my legs, when I'm too weak to do so myself. How do you expect me to believe this nonsense you speak of?”

Kenny exhaled sharply through his teeth. Uri's hand trailed up Kenny's chest, neck and jaw. He nimbly tucked a lock of stark black hair behind his ear, smiling up at him, unworried. Because he was just that – unworried.

Kenny suddenly tossed his knife to the side without looking, slicing through a tapestry that hung on the wall, dead centre. Uri followed his extended arm and admired his shot with wide, awe-filled eyes.

“You're gonna be the death of me.”

Uri barely registered as Kenny’s firm hand held his chin and guided him to face his knight once more, meeting him in a searing kiss. His violet eyes widened in surprise, hands hovering blindly before the warmth of it washed over him, making him moan and latch onto Kenny’s wide shoulders. He was demanding and voracious, licking into his mouth, squeezing his thigh and trailing his hand up and down his neck and shoulders possessively. There was an air of danger in it that made him whine into their kisses with abandon, enjoying every sensation Kenny had to offer and only craving more.

“You sound so good like that,” Kenny said, voice heavy with arousal.

Uri only sighed, feeling a calloused hand trailing curiously up his naked thigh. His other one remained on his face, a thumb brushing over his sensitive cheeks and making him shiver.

“The marks aren’t fading,” he said, licking his lips. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

Uri squirmed as Kenny’s hand grabbed his upper thigh harder, so close to where it met his behind it was maddening.

“Ymir’s Blessings present when certain bloodlines of Eldians experience strong emotions, like anger or heartbreak, or when their bodies experience something intense.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Like a knife in the arm… Or arousal.”

Kenny grinned with mischievous eyes.

“Your Highness,” he said sarcastically. “If you’d told me you liked my knife against your throat so much, I wouldn’t have tossed it.”

“I– I didn’t–”

“Maybe next time?” He teased, reaching down to nibble on Uri’s neck, teeth raking his skin and tongue prodding it for a taste.

“K-Kenny, I was just surprised, is all,” he sighed, his body clinging to his knight as though he were a lifeline, as though he needed his body’s touch to breathe.

Kenny hummed as he tasted his skin further down to his collarbone, using the hand once on his waist to undo the lacing at the front.

“You make a mess of my head, you know that?” His hands were hurried and rough, possessive and greedy. Uri felt his heart leaping from the anticipation as he felt his fingers run down his sternum as his gown undid itself. He hoped to be touched further, grabbed by Kenny’s large hands and completely taken apart, and the sooner the better.

“How so?” He breathed, voice wearing thin.

“Fuck.” He sat back up and toed his boots off before crawling back onto the bed with haste and parting Uri’s legs. “You’re a living saint and walk around prettier than any woman I’ve ever met. You know how hard it is to keep myself from tarnishing that innocent look on your face you wear all the time?”

His hands ran up his calves and knees as he watched the way his skirts fell and pooled around his upper thighs and stomach, revealing the full extent of his legs. He gave Uri a look, a request for permission, and he nodded.

“I find it hard to believe there aren’t any women more fetching than I am,” he managed to speak despite the nervous lump in his throat. Kenny’s touch made its way further and further up his thighs, nails dragging along teasingly, a little mean, and making him shiver. “Perhaps the problem is that you just happen to not like women at all.”

Kenny chuckled, grabbing his flesh tight between his fingers, digging his nails into it more than he had to. The sting made Uri gasp.

“Yeah, guess that checks out.”

He shifted the rest of his skirts up, giving him access as he sat closer between his legs. Uri flushed as he felt fresh leather coming into contact with his warm, naked legs.

“You’re also wearing a shift,” he mumbled. “Just like a maiden.”

Uri nodded, licking his lips.

“It’s comfortable,” he said, feeling very small under Kenny’s large body and focused gaze.

“I imagine,” he scoffed. “And it means easier access for me, so I ain’t complaining.”

Slowly, curiously, his hands dipped under his small clothes, and with every inch, his intimacy was further exposed. He closed his eyes self-consciously as he felt his fingers trail beside his pelvis and over his hips, the cool evening air touching the heated skin of his arousal.

“Look at me,” he said sternly. Uri’s eyes shot open as Kenny leaned down. “Can I touch you, Your Highness?”

Yes, he wanted to say. God, please, yes.

“You know it’s Your Grace,” he said instead.

Kenny’s lips quirked up in a playful grin. If Uri were anyone else, he’d believe it was a menacing omen. But he knew Kenny well. The mirth dancing around his eyes as he looked down at him was clear as day to him.

“My Lord and Lady, you’re awfully cheeky for someone with his legs spread and his pretty cock out.” The way Uri’s cheeks blistered was nearly painful as he blushed deeper. “What, cat got your tongue?”

Kenny was right above him, a hair’s width away from kissing his lips, words spoken conspiratorially. Between them, they barely touched. It wasn’t a mercy; Kenny was kind to him, but he knew very well how much Uri craved his touch. It was his way of punishing his insolence, he was sure. And Uri would have found the role reversal amusing if he wasn’t leaking and trembling from need.

“Please,” he said, leaning up to touch him. His arms wrapped around his torso and lips chased Kenny’s own, and Kenny relented, kissing him back and allowing his body to weigh down on Uri’s. 

Uri moaned against Kenny’s lips as he felt the stiff front of his trousers rut onto his naked arousal. He bucked his hips into him, their bodies moving in waves as Kenny licked into his mouth. He was lascivious in how he kissed him, be it the way his tongue swirled in his mouth or the way his hands and hips conducted his body and ignited the fire in his blood. Those hands cradled his jaw, ran in circles over his undressed chest and pinched his nipples. They traced over his sensitive thighs and grabbed his behind with lust. He spun in circles as spit dribbled down his chin between their lips and tongues, his voice echoing without restraints throughout his royal bedroom.

“You’re a dream,” Kenny said, low and gravelly as his half-lidded eyes took him in hungrily. He rutted down on Uri’s painfully hard cock and watched with sadistic pleasure as he winced and shuddered in his arms. “The King of Paradis lost in the throws of passion.” He licked a stripe up his neck and sucked on his pulse. “The King who denies marriage proposals every day, but lets an assassin like me take him like my own.”

“You’re my knight, Kenny.” Uri’s voice was rough from use and weak, his breathing harsh from strain.

“Eh,” he shrugged. He was grinning as he put some distance between the two. Self-satisfied and pink across his cheeks and nose. “Same difference, really.”

Without breaking eye contact he unclasped his belt

“Tell me, my King,” he said as he stroked himself. “Have you ever done this?”

Uri shook his head, his violet eyes jumping from the heavy cock in Kenny’s hand and the heavy look in his eyes.

Kenny hummed, looking Uri up and down as well and biting his lip.

“You have oil anywhere in here?”

Uri reached for his nightstand wordlessly and fished out a glass vial from one of the drawers. Kenny’s eyebrows shot up.

“I… I’ve only ever experienced it alone,” he said in lieu of an explanation.

Kenny swiped it from Uri’s hands in a flash and made his way down his body like a starving man.

“You’re gonna have to show me how you do it when I’m not here, one of these days…” He kissed over Uri’s hips, between his inner thighs, where it connected to his pelvis, and he could swear he could feel his breath over his arousal.

“It’s nothing special, I’m afraid,” he said, hand coming up to his mouth as his impatience threatened to spill more sounds of desperation from his lips. “It’s nothing like how you make me feel.”

Kenny clicked his tongue.

“When you say things like that, it makes it real hard to control myself, you know that?”

And before Uri could reply, Kenny’s hot mouth swallowed him whole.

He gasped, hands latching onto the bed sheets as his hips unconsciously bucked further into his throat. A long, drawn-out moan escaped his lips as Kenny bobbed his head up and down his shaft, while long fingers slipped between his cheeks below. Uri let himself be carried away by Kenny’s ministrations, feeling those fingers become slick with saliva as they rubbed against his entrance. When he thrust them in, he felt no pain and he welcomed the strange intrusion. Wiggling his hips around the digits, Uri sighed and asked for more. Kenny obliged and the stretch was, once again, very welcome. His own fingers weren’t very big, his entire figure dainty and delicate from head to toe, so the way Kenny stretched his hole beyond his usual limits, and at a better angle too, was a wonderful new experience. He felt fuller and the way the pads of his fingers rubbed at his inner walls was electrifying. He shivered, cried out with every suck at his tip and every thrust within his body, the pressure in his lower belly building as sparks lit up across his gooseflesh riddled skin.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Kenny, I’m gonna–”

“No you ain’t,” he ordered, his fingers digging into his flesh in a way that made his jaw drop. His body stilled instantly despite the pleasure, eager to obey the dark edge in his knight’s voice above all else. “You’re cumming with my dick in you. No sooner. No later.”

Uri shivered, but nodded, breathing steadily through his nose as he tried to keep his body reigned under control. That was, until Kenny decided to praise him.

“Good boy,” he said, licking the tip of his cock, voice rough from effort.

Uri moaned, a pleasant spike of pleasure running down his spine as he rutted down into his mouth and fingers.

“S-Sorry,” he apologised breathlessly.

Kenny removed himself from him, laughing breathlessly and shaking his head.

“You like it when I threaten you, you like it when I praise you…” He shoved both his trousers and breeches lower, down to his mid-thigh. Uri’s mouth watered as he watched his cock bob between his legs and Kenny did the same with a lazy smile. He opened the vial of oil and spilled its contents over his erection, lathering it over himself and giving him a slow once-over. “Sounds to me like I scored an easy audience.”

“I am not easy!” Uri argued, latching onto his skirts in embarrassment, knees bending to give his knight better access to his hips.

Kenny grinned as he lined himself up, eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine joy.

“Now ain’t that the truth, Your Grace.”

He thrust in, the tip of his cock catching his rim and sinked into him easily. It was a bit of a stretch, thicker than Kenny’s fingers and Uri’s own, but his body accommodated Kenny as though he belonged inside of him. He moaned something needy as he filled him up, inch by inch until his hips connected with his bottom. Once he did so, he reached for Uri’s legs and brought them over his shoulders, leaning further down and bending him in half in the process.

“Kenny,” Uri sighed, the position making Kenny’s cock press further into his sensitive inner walls.

“That okay?”

“Of course.”

He slowly thrust out, then back in, feeling for discomfort as Uri gazed up at Kenny’s furrowed concentration. His silver eyes locked with his own as he began to pick up the pace and the sound of skin slapping into skin filled Uri’s ears. Kenny’s cock rubbed against his sensitive nerves and it was overpowering, making him moan and tremble and latch onto his wide shoulders for support. And Kenny didn’t relent, leaning down to capture his lips with his own. He wasn’t gentle there, biting and sucking and drawing pitiful, unbecoming sounds from his King.

“You can go harder,” he pleaded between kisses. He was close again, all too fast, but desperate enough not to feel embarrassed at his depleted stamina.

“You’re not supposed to exert yourself.” His voice rumbled in his chest as he leaned down to suck open mouthed kisses along the column of his neck. “The doctor said so himself.”

“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Uri huffed in disbelief, groaning as the knight sunk his teeth into his feverish skin.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” He licked the sore flesh, making Uri shiver.

Kenny had a bad habit of assuming the worst of himself. He picked the most interesting parts of himself and turned them into flaws, big red warning signs to ward people like Uri off so he could remain in the shadows, on his own. It was difficult for him to show Kenny how wrong he was about himself, how every one of those weaknesses were strengths he should be proud of.

He reached for his face, cradling it and running his thumbs over the apples of his cheeks.

“Haven’t I told you already?” He said with as much weight and sincerity as he could. “I trust you.”

Kenny stopped moving as he looked for something in Uri’s eyes. Perhaps it was confirmation that his words were true. Or maybe his concerns lingered, despite his faith and eagerness.

“Alright,” he finally said. “But don’t come complanin’ when your ass hurts tomorrow.” 

Uri wanted to protest, but found himself unable to.

Kenny grabbed onto his waist and pistoned his hips into him as he pulled Uri in. He was fast and precise with his angle, and his thrusts smacked into his behind with an intensity unmatched. It was overwhelming. His eyes fluttered half-closed as he struggled to focus on anything but the red hot pleasure building increasingly fast with every one of Kenny’s forceful movements. Uri mewled pleas he could barely remember thinking of, voice too weak to form full words.

“How’s that for you, Your Grace?” Kenny said cockily. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” Uri moaned without a second thought, hips stuttering against the harsh punishment he put him through as pleasure built and built and threatened to spill. Every second, Kenny’s body was pushing into his, rubbing against his walls, pressing into sensitive nerves, pounding so deep he could feel it rut against his insides. Kenny wasn’t a stupid man, he knew there was a limit to his strength before he did any real damage, but he must have had extensive experience if he knew the precise point as to approach the brink of danger without ever crossing it. And Uri, truthfully, was more than glad for it, if it meant he could always feel that ecstasy when Kenny was with him.

His spine bent like a bowstring as he came, pleasure racking his body and making him shiver violently with every subsequent thrust.

“Don’t stop,” he moaned as he felt Kenny’s hips faltering. “Don’t stop, don’t stop–”

“So fucking tight,” he growled, pounding into him as he chased his own climax. His nails dug into his hips, his ass getting further bruised with every hard smack of his hips and thighs. Uri whined and sobbed as Kenny’s cock rubbed his skin raw, making his body jolt and twitch from oversensitivity.

And as soon as his hips began to lose their steady rhythm, Kenny reached between the two of them to wrap a hand around Uri’s leaking cock.

He widened his eyes in surprise as he gasped. The brand new sensation was overpowering in its own right, untouched and spent at once and finally having its aroused, scorching skin satiated. He spilled again, barely registering his own orgasm as it struck him a second time as he squeezed harder around Kenny’s cock. His thrusts then stilled, growling as he filled him up with his seed.

It was filthy, but Uri felt anything but. How could he feel as though Kenny had dirtied him, when he’d never felt more loved? He held onto his shoulders and brought him down, feeling the warmth of his body engulfing his own as they kissed again. Slowly, he slipped out of Uri, allowing him to lay fully on top of him and wrapping his arms around his middle into a tight hug. Lips locked with lips and tongues tasted each other eagerly, fingertips playing with soft hair and legs tangling together. Once satisfied, they laid next to each other, still clingy, still lost in each other. Silently conversing the only way emotion could.

“I was a coward,” Uri eventually broke the silence. They played with each other's hands, fingers trailing over skin playfully and interlacing together.

Kenny stared at him, pensive. 

“I had people in my council unworthy of their positions, people who wished harm on my subjects. I shouldn’t have waited this long to act on my beliefs. I kept making excuse after excuse, and all that led was a slow progress in my will of action and another attempt on my life.”

“Is this your way of sayin’ I was right?” 

Uri chuckled.

“In a way, but you’re still too extreme.”

“Where I’m from any bit of good faith will get you killed.”

Uri grinned.

“Good thing you’re no longer in the underground.”

Kenny smiled wryly, but good naturedly.

“You’re right. Now at least I’m paid to suspect others.”

Uri swatted his peck with the back of his hand, rolling his eyes.

“You understand where I’m getting at.”

Kenny grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, hand holding the small of his back and bringing their bodies flushed together. His smile grew cocky, with a tired edge to it that was nothing if not charming and heartwarming.

“Aye, I do. And I have something to say as well.”

He looked up at him quizzically.

“You aren’t the only coward here. I shouldn’t have tried to hurt you just because I couldn’t sort myself out.”

Uri pressed his lips together in concern.

“It must have been hard, carrying all that on your own.” Kenny’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes widening minutely. “I know things were bad in the underground, but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen to either of us now. You don’t have to make a show of it, to prove a point. ”

Kenny shook his head to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

“You almost got yourself killed, of course I’m gonna freak the fuck out. It wasn’t right, but you fucked up, too.”

Uri just smiled.

“Yes, I still have a lot to learn,” he said simply. “Isn’t that what makes us human?”

Kenny’s disgruntled expression relaxed into something more serene. The blue in his grey eyes shone against the light of his lanterns as he leaned in to kiss his lips. It was chaste and gentle, both things that Kenny wasn’t. The dichotomy pleased Uri’s romanticism.

“Aye, Your Grace,” he said when they parted, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “I’ll do my worst for the all-too benevolent King of Paradis.”

Uri scoffed, puffing his cheeks and pretending they weren’t growing pink by the second.

“Why do you keep addressing me that way?” He looked up through his lashes, catching the mirth in Kenny’s eyes. “You’re just making fun of me.”

“I am,” he chuckled.

Uri looked away, trying and failing not to smile.

“So you’ll keep disregarding my rank everywhere except in bed, is that it?”

He kissed his cheek, running his calloused fingertips over his hairless jawline and into his silver locks.

“Absolutely, my liege.”

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[starsreminisce]

I never understood why Feyre is labeled as E/riel shipper when after acowar she never mentioned them ever again. she even talked about Lucien's glove to Elain and how she should use them to not get her hands hurt in her bonus chapter. or how in acofas Feyre kept encouraging the two to talk that Mor told her to get out of their business and let them deal with it themselves!! I think she stopped engaging the idea after Rhys told her so but I'm not sure, what I'm sure about is she never thought about Elain with Azriel after acowar.

or how they keep saying she will be mad at Rhys for stopping them while Rhys other than proving Az only wanting Elain for sex, he brought up some good political reason that could put their court in danger AND most importantly their baby! do they really think she wouldn't also be mad at Az for putting them in danger bc he was horny?

It's probably because they tend to cling to the one part that validates their belief without giving much thought to the context that surrounds it.

The same reason why they would say Azriel "wouldn't go so far as to call Gwyn a friend" is because that's verbatim from his chapter. This completely ignores the fact that he didn't correct Clotho about his relationship with Gwyn or express how he felt after the necklace was given away.

Feyre asked why they weren't matched, similar to Azriel's inquiry about why the third sister wasn't assigned to him.

However, you should also consider why she didn't want it to be Lucien. She held anger and weariness towards him for what transpired in the Spring Court.

Despite this, she continued to encourage Elain to get to know Lucien. She even went as far as showing her trust in Lucien again after the war and nudged Elain, who then invited him to live with them again.

She specifically pointed out how, throughout the rest of the year, Lucien was willing to turn a blind eye to those he had every reason to hate and be angry with, all to offer them help.

Azriel only said coldly, “If Lucien kills Graysen, then good riddance.” ... Lucien had encountered him, I realized. Somehow, in living with Jurian and Vassa at that manor, he’d run into Elain’s former betrothed. And managed to leave the human lord breathing.

Feyre observes Lucien literally fighting against his instincts.

She mentioned the lack of communication between Elain and Lucien but didn't mention the time Azriel and Elain spent together.

Feyre didn't ask Elain for her opinion on Azriel, remind her to reject the bond, or reinforce her belief that Elain and Azriel were a better match, even after their lengthy conversation during Solstice, especially in front of Rhys.

Feyre, Nesta, Cassian, and Rhys have all noticed and mentioned something about the Elucien dynamic that we, as readers, need to know.

But little about Elain and Azriel other than it's weird.

Even Nesta's observation over Azriel's brooding at Solstice:

Then his gaze shifted to Elain, and though it was utterly neutral, something charged went through it. Between them. Elain’s breath caught slightly, and she gave him a shallow nod of greeting before brushing past, leading Nesta into the room. Mor lounged on a green velvet couch before the fireplace;

Nesta didn't say anything about this exchange but she did have something to say about this:

Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get.

I also don't think that Nesta knows how Azriel felt about Elain either.

Azriel lingered near the door, quiet enough that when Feyre and Mor began talking about some of her paintings, Nesta went over to him. “Why don’t you sit?” She leaned against the doorway beside the shadowsinger. “My shadows don’t like the flames so much.” A pretty lie. She’d seen Azriel before the fire plenty. But she looked at who sat close to it and knew the answer.

I find it interesting that Nesta talked about exactly where Mor was sitting (in front of the fireplace), and it was Feyre and Mor who were conversing before she went up to Azriel. There was no mention of what Elain was doing at that time or how close to the fire she was sitting.

This once again highlights how E/riels tend to invalidate just how deeply Azriel felt for Mor and blatantly ignore all the obvious signs of his attraction to her, all in favor of their preferred ship.

Mor and Azriel had four books of in-your-face buildup as well, but it seems like SJM has made it now mean nothing.

Shadows darkened his eyes, full of enough pain that she couldn’t stop herself from touching his shoulder. Letting him see that she understood why he stood in the doorway, why he wouldn’t go near the fire. His secret to tell, never hers.

It's worth noting that Nesta's observation wasn't about her figuring out that Azriel liked Elain. Instead, it was her acknowledgment that Azriel was standing back, likely because he was hurt about something, and when he was ready to speak about it, he would.

If most of their "evidence" is based on events up to ACOSAF, and there is limited evidence from ACOSF, except of his bonus chapter that's canon for Elain but not for Gwyn with the exception of half a sentence, that's a pretty telling sign to me that SJM is moving away from that pairing. Conversely, in almost every instance where Lucien is mentioned, there is some form of connection to Elain, reminding us that SJM has not forgotten about them.

The only person who did take notice of E/riel was Rhys and had something definitive to say.

Considering how the inner circle typically reacts when Rhys says something, his words carry much more significant weight.

After all, even Feyre understood and forgiven Rhys for keeping the pregnancy risk hidden from her.

[xxx-wounded-angel-xxx]

Adore you - Felix Volturi

I dedicate this fic to the lovely @volterran-wine , who fuel my love for our darling Felix with amazing headcanons and stories. Thank you for sharing your worldbuilding with us!

Felix Volturi x GN! reader

You were sitting on your own in class, growing tired of the class that was currently taking place, fidgeting with the lace at the end of the sleeves of the black shirt you had bought last week at the Indien Boutique rue Keller. The shop wasn’t too far from your college with public transportation There was also a second-hand manga bookshop not far… You wished you could be there instead of listening to the boring and uninteresting class that you had to endure. How was this necessary to be a librarian? To calm you down, you let your mind wander towards a more agreable direction, which happened to bring your beloved Felix to your mind.

Oh, how much you adore him! Your gentle giant with dark curls framing a beautiful face, with lovely burgundy eyes you could get lost in! A deep and smooth voice that could soothe all of your worries, by how dear your Felix was to your heart!

You got shaken out of your thoughts by your professor asking you to read out loud. You try to not sound too bored as you do so, then you go back to your thoughts. Ton Amour… As you mindlessly doodle on your page, you realize that you managed a cute drawing of your Felix.

With a soft sight, you pull out a nice sheet of paper, and start to cover it in your beautiful calligraphy. Line after line, you put into words your feelings about your lovely Felix, how dear he is to your heart and how much you miss him. You fill a page, the, two, then three and finally the class is over. You packed your things, said goodbye to your professor and classmates, then go catch your bus and then went on your way home. You took advantage of your time spent on the bus to do your work, so when you finally get to your small apartment you don’t have any work left to do.

You take a warm shower, put on comfortable clothing and, since you have a little time, you decided to interrogates your cards. You take your tarots, and your deck of oracle. The three cards that you pull are The Justice, The Lovers and What You Want Will Soon Arrive. The tarot cards made you think of your lover Felix, and the oracle would then mean that you would see him soon, but he was in Italy and you were in France, there was no way you could see your adored.

It's getting late, so you made yourself something to eat, and ate it while watching T.V. As you were done with doing the dishes and were ready to relax inn your room, you jolted when the doorbell rang. You checked the time; it was too late to be the package delivery who were expecting this week. You thought about not answering, but then your earlier card reading came to mind. Leaving the letter you wrote to Felix in evidence on the table, you went to answer. How surprised were you when you heard a beloved voice asking for you! Felix, your beloved Felix was here!

You could not repress your happiness as you threw yourself into your lover’s arms, Felix having barely the time to close the door behind him. How dearly you had missed each other! Not able to refrain anymore, you brought your lips to his and sealed them with a kiss. Melting into it, you only broke it when you needed to catch your breath. But you wasted no time, and taking your love by his hand you lead Felix to your small living room, sitting together on the purple velvet couch.

You interrogated him for a while, wanting to know the reason of his presence in France, how was he doing, what happened when he was away from you. With a great patience, Felix answered all of your inquiries.

But then he spotted the papers on the table, and before you could stop him reached for them and read. You were growing embarrassed, but Felix was quick to reassure you, how much he loved you and felt the same way, how you didn’t have to be embarrassed a single second by your feelings because his were as strong as yours.

With a soft smile, you placed your hand on the side of his face, and couldn’t help muttering “Mon Amour” as he leant against it and kissed your palm lovingly.

How much you adore him! You were promised a night full of love with your beloved, and nothing could make you happier.

Mon Amour : My Love

[therealityhelix]

Shards of the Nexus: Koi no Yokan

Helix has one weakness. And also another.

Song: Tell Me Baby-RHCP

@cardwrecks​ @captainbaddecisions​

The energy of this place! Electricity in every inch, flowing, buzzing leylines of enslaved lightning, the movement of lights a rainbow in darkness. People in masses, composite organisms, breathing, pulsing in time with the music, a thudding memory of ancestors heartbeats. The building respired, air in constant movement, the throats in the walls struggling to overcome the lungs of the people. The building lived, and the energy filled her up, vibrant antiquity, the ancient ritual of music and dance.

A little too much, actually.

The bouncers didn't know she was here, though she stood out in sartorial anachronism, rockabilly flair in a sea of candy acid vogue. She had entered through a door of a different kind, and the night life had hit her like a sonic brick.

YJ had spoken so highly...she had to find someplace away for a moment, away from the sound, the resonance thrumming in her bones, the weakness, the nemesis. YJ wouldn't have known that 'club' meant something different to her, alcohol and smoke, billiards and leather backed chairs, high bred men challenging themselves and each other, wasn't that what a Riddler was? YJ and Arkham, Puzzles and the Detective, she'd grown to expect predatory quiet in the homes and presences of the viridian men. Not safety, and not silence exactly, but not these auditory attacks.

There were side rooms to disappear into, before noise overcame her, three people exiting one. They didn't see her, though she slipped in so close behind them as to brush skirts. With walls between her and the pumping symphonic tide, she could reinforce herself before facing that battlefield once more.

A breath. Two breaths. She was substantial. She was concrete. She would not have her atoms stripped away by stepping back out into that solar wind of sound. She had come here to meet someone.

There was a man.

Watermelon stripes. Grape soda. Tinted sunglasses indoors. Summer, this man was Summer.

A trickle of gold flowed down his throat, terminated in an inquiry. The symbol, the sigil, the sign!

He regarded her with the same amused curiosity that must be echoing in her own face, stood-to speak? To rebuke? To welcome? Who could know, who could know, so different this one, and the energy here, just beneath the floor, just behind the walls, it spiked as the dozen eyes on the ceiling focused on her, it spiked and it was her focus now, and he smiled-

Deep lapis inset ivory, brass filament in amber flesh, more precious for the flaws trapped within. Long sinuous lines, vines, emeralds and amethysts dripping from his shoulders, like all his kin. A greeting, a voice, irreverent velvet burnout, coumarin and black dammar flowing thick and sticky. And the magic! She could smell it here, he'd been touched by it like all the others, moulded and cracked by the whimsy of Gray beings alien even to her, deep down inside him, a festering bubo of plum wine and bitters.

“Hey there cutie, you all right?”

And she was solid again, fixed with a tack to the wall of the Here and Now. He gazed down at her, the lapis dusting her form, quiet blades picking her apart just as she had done to him. The others had all expressed that this one was different, but hadn't elaborated. Neon and alcohol, glitter and decadence, hedonism as a varnish, a temple of Dyonisian mystery. Not in a thousand worlds would she have expected Edward Nigma to be this.

It was delightful.

“I'm...fine. Yes. Mildly disoriented, nothing more.” It was true, she had returned to herself.

He leaned, casual, calculating against a couch. She was outside of arms reach, but not the legs, no. Nobody had mentioned danger in regards to him, but then, she hadn't been warned about Arkham either.

A rite of passage, a hazing for those who would dare. Survive the challenge of meeting the Patriarch.

She had.

“How bout'cha sit down? Room ain't reserved again tonight.”

She took a seat, took in the room. Couches, mismatched in a way that complemented, a little raised stage with a pillar in the center, power coating like bright honey...pole, it was a pole on the stage. Oh. Yes that explained the molasses thick energy that permeated the place. Certain things, ancient things, caused power to pool. Sex and death, music and dance, blood and light, all built up like layers of stone, ready to be mined by those who could. He sat on the edge of the stage, light sheen of sweat just barely discernible on his face.

“So...you a little lost? You needin' a place to rest until you sober up? I know the place has a reputation, but we do have rules here. If it's the hard stuff, well, you can lay down for a little while and I wont say nothin', but you don't come in here with it again. If you need help though, I can point you in the right direction.”

“You're Swag.” she said.

“And you're not high...are you? So who wants to know?”

“Helix.”

A spark, a star in the lapis. Recognition.

“Hey girl, I was wondering when you were gonna show up! I was beginning to feel left out.”

“You know of me?” But why wouldn't they talk? Family was meant to communicate.

“Heard a thing or two. A pesterer of Puzzles, a wyrdling to YJ, an...adversary of Arkham? Nah.” he shook his head, a sardonic grin. “Nah, you don't wanna be that. But yeah. There have been a few words said about you. Mostly 'How the hell did she get in here?' So. How the hell did you get in here?”

“I walked.” she said, and his look was a gentle abrasion. “I...walked. The membranes between worlds open in multiversal osmosis, and I walk. I'm...sorry. Loud noises...fray me. It's hard to think. The energy is overstimulating.”

“Take your time.”

She did. Eventually the strumming on her synapses ceased, the threads of reality cementing.

An offering of water. She hadn't noticed that he had left. That was...odd. How could anybody lose track of this man? She drained the cup.

“So you walked here. Care to say where from? It's kinda a long way from Detective's neck of the woods to here. Figuratively and literally.”

Where did he fall on the pendulum swing? Yj closer to Detective, Puzzles closer to Arkham...Center ground? So many people reveling beyond the door, relishing life. No traps here. No riddles. Questions, not riddles.

“I walk, figuratively and literally. Meeting the Detective was a happy accident. I come from further than that. You're Aware? Of the multiplicity of self? The mitosis of the multiverse?”

He nodded slowly.

“Became aware a li'l while ago. Prolly about the same time Arkham and Detective became aware of each other. I...assume this is unusual, since there's nothing in history mentioning...huh, I wonder if that's where the legends of doppelgangers come from...”

“Maybe.” Oh, he was as quick as his soul-kin, scalpel sharp in cotton gauze. But he had the respect of Matriarch and Patriarch alike, how could anything else be expected?

“It may be a new development. I haven't seen its like before. It's so easy to move here, in this Nexus. Even you native souls can move back and forth, if you know the places.”

“And you're not? Native to the...Nexus?”

“I'm from further away.”

The seed of doubt spread cotyledons in his face. It was worse than not being understood. Being disbelieved.

“I'm from Earth.” she pressed further. “Just not this one, nor any other within this tangle. From further out.”

“I was bouta ask why you sounded like you came from Central City if you really were from 'outside', but...just from a far away Earth, huh? How far does it go?”

“Long way. Couldn't ever explore them all. More and more different, the further one goes. I'm from very far away.”

He clicked his tongue, accepting her words, if maybe not her meaning.

“Ehhh, what can I say? I know a woman who is half plant. There's an alien in upstate New York. I've met six separate me's. Things can always get weirder.”

It was an acceptable concession. He continued to watch her. She supposed it hadn't been the most stunning first impression, showing her weakness like this, but it was better than it had been with Puzzles.

Come to think of it, she had seen this man before, a terrified satellite at Puzzles funeral. In the focus on that hideous rebirth, she'd barely noticed, but there had been another fellow with him, and a ring on his hand, but both were conspicuous in their current absence.

'Nothing lasts forever' was a truth she'd had to grapple with far too often, a platitude useless until after the loss had occurred. She sympathized, for whatever that was worth.

She might have gone quiet for too long, because he reached out as if to steady her, pulling back before actually touching. She caught a whiff of pine heavy cologne, margarita lime mix.

“You're sure, you're all right? You need someplace quieter?”

“I'm fine, really. So this place is yours. Your business?” It seemed strange for a Riddler, but this was a strange Riddler. One who hadn't yet so eagerly tried to show off, or challenge, or prove his own intellect. Even friendly YJ, even the gentle Detective, all had tried to demonstrate something of their mental prowess within mere minutes of meeting her.

“Yep. All above board too. I went straight a while ago. Well, as straight as someone like me can go.” He said with a cheeky wink.

Ridiculous. She couldn't help but to smile back.

“The others said you were different.”

He snorted in laughter.

“I'll just bet they did! How many times did the term 'degenerate freak' show up?”

She tilted her head. Self-depreciation dribbled from his sunken eyes. It fit him poorly.

“Not once. Do you not know that you're loved?”

The surprise, the consternation lasted a Planck length, then disappeared back into easeful allure. But he was watching her now, really watching with that languid, snakelike regard they all shared.

“Well.” he said. “Do you?”

The biomachine moving in uncharted ways. Multiversal syzygy. Swirling islimi progression entwining with centrifugal tessellation. There was something to be built here.

“There is no one left who can. But maybe I'm talking too much. Saying without thinking.”

“No, no.” he leaned forward, weathered smile, shining satin teeth. “Keep talking.”

artist: me

artist: verticalthoughts(deactivated)

Artist: @cardwrecks​

[srorgana1]

Invocation

Paring: Vampire Kylo/Hunter Rey

Warnings: Dark Themes (apporaching Dead Dove, you have been warned), Supernatural/Paranormal, Blood, Violence, Gore, Death, NSFW 18+, Sexual Content, Psychological and Physical Torture, Kidnapping, Hatred towards organized religion, Pain, Major/Minor character death/injury, Demonic Possession

Chapter Thirteen

Kylo paces the hallway as he waits. Maybe this is a bad idea he thinks as he looks back at the rather intimate set up. He booked one of the séance rooms for her first day of training, one further in the back just in case something goes awry. He doesn’t know how powerful she really is so he has to make sure he does this right.

The room is small supplied with two ornate blue velvet high backed chairs and a table. The old wood intricately carved and cared for. It is empty of it’s normal ritualistic items, holding just two bottles of water and his phone. He runs his hand through his hair. He doesn’t know why he is so nervous. He has been around and been with plenty of women in his lifetime but for some reason this one has him all flustered.

Maybe what Mara said was right? Maybe there it’s their magical connection that keeps drawing him in, calling him home in a sense. Maybe. Or maybe it’s because he wants to kiss those soft lips raw and nip at her long neck. He wants to leave fingertip shaped bruises on that plump ass of hers and hear the sounds she will make when he thrusts just right…

He groans as he feels himself getting hard in his dress pants. His fangs descend slightly, pricking his gums lightly. Fuck he needs to get a grip. He doesn’t not need her strolling in and seeing him like this. He shuts his eyes and tries to think of anything else. Huxley’s pinched face with it’s permanent scowl pops in his head. Yep that’ll do it.

He grabs his phone off the table checking for new messages. Trudgen had emailed him responding to his inquiry on Poe. According to The Order’s records, Poe is not a Supernatural. That’s obviously not true based on what he felt. He was at least half demon. But why would he hide that if The Order accepted and embraced diversity within their employees? They were questions that still needed answers.

He responds back to Trudgen to keep an eye on him. He senses Rey hit the main tunnel as he hits send. He shivers as he feels her intoxicating magick getting closer. He walks quickly back to the room, running a hand through his hair. She turns the corner and gives him a megawatt smile. I’m so fucked he thinks as he smiles back and holds the door for her.

---

She notices Ren’s nervous energy as soon as she hits the main tunnel. It makes her heart flutter a bit in her chest knowing he was nervous as well. She doesn’t know what will happen tonight. She has never really worked her powers before and the thought of embracing and accepting them as her own is still a lot.

She watches the torches light up as she passed them as she ponders. What will her powers entail? She has learned of many species and their powers during her training. She remembers Obi-Wan saying Fae had a diverse range of powers depending on their origins but they were also very secretive so it wasn’t well studied.

Well that makes sense now she thinks, now knowing most were wiped out in the purges. Her heart ached at the thought of the loss of her past but she knows she cannot let it impede her future. She cannot squander this opportunity to explore who and what she is.. She turns the corner to see Ren holding the door for her smiling at her softly.

“Good evening Rey” he says bowing slightly “shall we begin?” She smiles and nods as she enters the séance room already more at ease then she was before. She looks around as the flicker of the low candles painting the space in a soft apricot glow. She hears him shut the door and pull out a chair for her.

“Thank you Kylo” she says as she sits down. “You’re welcome” he replies as he takes his own. She feels her cheeks warm as she takes him in before her, the candlelight making his features even more striking. He smirks as he leans forward towards her, leaning on his forearms. “So as you know these rooms are warded so this is the perfect spot for you to test your powers” he rumbles.

“I know, I am just nervous on what they will entail” she says as she traces the lines on her forearm. “I understand that but knowing what I know about Fae they are mostly nature-related gifts along with variety of others. But I think the best course of action is see what you have experienced or done before and than work towards being able to invocate” he says.

“Invocate?” she asks, slightly confused. “Yes, to call upon on your powers and bend them to do your will. Some people it willing or conjuring but its all the same” he says, his dark eyes boring into hers. “You must be one with your magick to do that or it can be dangerous to yourself and others.” She watches him frown and looks away, his wide shoulders tensing. “Has it happened to you before?” she says leaning forward.

He doesn’t answer but seems to shake off whatever he was thinking about, refocusing on her. “Have you noticed anytime in your life anything odd happening around you at times of high stress or emotion?” he asks as he shifts in his chair across from her.

“Umm” she hums biting her lower lip in thought. “I have always seen things out of the corner of my eye. I think I see something and then look back and it's not there. The educators said I was just sensitive to magick but at times I felt like I was just going mad” she says cautiously.

He hums and waves his hand across the table, spreading a thin wave of magick into the air. “Can you see that?” he asks. Her eyes widen as she watches the white wisp dance in the candle light. “Yes” she gasps as she watches it disappear.

“So that is called Detection. It’s a pretty common gift. From what I gather they trained you to focus and separate energies?” he asks. She thinks back to her second year with Professor Yoda and studying hunting techniques. Some people were obviously better at it than others. “Yes they did. They said it was a necessary skill for the hunt” she says now trying to rack her brain for any other instances in her training where The Order was inadvertently making her use her powers.

“Those with magick probably excelled in your training” Kylo says smirking “which doesn’t surprise me since your Order was associated with Ethereals like Luke and Mara. We will work on you being able to focus and detect magic and it’s intent. It’s a very useful tool.” She nods as he shifts closer. “Now I want you to try something. I want you to shut your eyes and focus on your breathing.”

She follows his command and takes a deep breath. “Good” he rumbles lowly “now I want you to focus on the center of your magick. It’s different for each person but once you find it I want you to take a couple minutes with it and tell me what it feels like to you.”

Rey takes a breath and quickly finds it. It’s downy white swirling softly in her chest, highlighted with sparks of gold. She can feel light and dark together; the power to destroy as well as heal and create. It seems to acknowledge her by making wispy flowery tendrils. Her mind touches it, amazed at it’s beauty. “How does it feel to you?” he repeats. The wispy tendrils react to his voice, pulsing happily as they coil around themselves.

“It’s soft” she whispers “but strong. The power to destroy and to create.” “Balance” he says “I see it too Rey, the light and dark.” She opens her eyes and gasps at what she sees. His magick sparks with red lightening around a cloudy grey orb. So similar but different from her white and gold one.

“What happened?” she whispers as she reaches for him. He pulls back with pain filled eyes. “I lost the balance and strayed too far. I am damned Rey” he rasps around his fangs. In an act of desperation, she lands her hand upon his chest and they both gasp. Visions flash before her eyes of Kylo’s life. She can feel his pain, his self-loathing, his guilt. She sees blood and ash as well as light. How he made a choice and struck down the Darkness.

“Rey” he groans as the vision changes. She sees them holding each other’s hand as darkness attempts to swallow them. How they beat it back in a swirl of gold and red. It changes again, her breath catching in her throat to see herself in Kylo’s arms, fully entwined in a scene of passion.

She rips her hand away from his chest and attempts to calm her breathing. Kylo looks pained, panting quickly but his eyes never leave her. She swallows thickly as she looks around amazed at the small forest which has sprung up around them. Flowers of every kind with delicate ferns and lovely English Ivy. She touches one leaf lightly as she looks at him again.

He clears his throat. “You’re amazing” he says as he looks around. “So pure and powerful” he whispers as he reaches out to trace the glowing lines spreading down her fingers. Her heart breaks for him. She somehow knows he was not born dark. He is like her even with his dark gifts.

Sealing her resolve, she stands and walks around the table. She stands in front of him and places her hands on his cheeks making sure she has his full attention. “Kylo, you aren’t damned. I see it. You are balanced just like me” she says softly, rubbing his cheekbones with her thumbs.

“Rey I have done so much evil in this world. I don’t deserve your compassion” he says, voice breaking with emotion. “Yes you do” she whispers back as she leans forward letting her nose and lips lightly graze his. His lips are softer then she imagined as she presses a light kiss onto them.

It takes him a second to realize what is happening but he quickly grabs her and places her on his lap. She hums as he wraps his arms around her and reciprocates, deepening the kiss. “Rey” he groans as her hands go into his hair. She loves the silky texture on her fingertips.

She feels her magick entwining with his, weaving a safe little cocoon around them. She sweeps her tongue across his full lower lip making him growl and open for her. His taste was exquisite. She tightened her legs around his waist as she dove in for more.

Rey hears him growl again as he begins kissing up her jaw and down her neck, nipping lightly at her sensitive skin. She gasps and wiggles in his hold, finally feeling his erection near her center. “Fuck Kylo” she groans as he puts his head on her shoulder, inhaling deeply. She hears him chuckle lowly “you got that right.”

She shivers as she feels his nose trace her neck and place a soft kiss behind her ear. “I’m sorry for that” he says as he loosens his arms around her. “I’m not” she says, kissing his forehead and fixing his hair “It was an emotional situation and it’s okay. But you’re not damned Kylo. I’ve sensed and fought the damned Kylo, and you are not it.” He huffs as she stands, his hands landing on her hips.

Her heart constricts a bit as she looks down at him. His eyes are back to his normal dark hazel but his fangs are still present. She smirks as she runs a finger along the seam of his lips and along the tip of his fang. He smiles showing them more.

She notices a flicker in her peripheral and looks, gasping at the small flickering orbs around them. “Like I said, your powerful and special. I think we have only touched the surface of your powers little Fae” he says as his eyes track the lights.

A siren rings shrilly through the tunnel, breaking their moment. They jump as their phones buzz simultaneously as the orbs disappear. He stands as she unlocks her phone. “Fuck!” she yells “Kylo we got to go! We got a Code 19!” she says sprinting out the door.

[boundinparchment]

Of Blood and Sparks - Interlude I

Karina Alexandre of Fontaine lost her position, her family, and her Archon's favor. A dead Electro Vision is her mark of guilt. A reminder to never fail again. Faith shattered, and suspicious of the Fatui, she eventually makes her way to Liyue, where she encounters a certain funeral parlor consultant. Little does she know it's only the beginning. Original character centric; eventual Zhongli/OC. Posted originally at @chevalier-of-fontaine.

ArchiveOfOurOwn || FF.net || Rhiannon Details

She could still hear the audience mingling about after the show.  Her fellow performers had the same idea backstage.  Her throat was sore, her voice hoarse, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Any other night, she might join them.

In the privacy of her dressing room, at least now she could breathe properly without the corset of her costume.

Rhiannon helped herself to the pitcher and glass of water awaiting her and downed two glasses before she allowed herself to look around again.  It helped but it didn’t stop the sharp burning in her throat, as if she’d swallowed razors.

A problem for later.

Her dressing room was so overfilled with flowers and treats and gifts that she would simply share them among the cast and crew.  Few, if any, items would be taken with her, save the large bundle of cecilia and jasmine, and a Vayuda Turqouise gemstone tucked safely in a velvet box.  

The ritual of a successful show never changed.  There was comfort in that, she supposed, for most.  But for an Understudy of a Harbinger, comfort was never expected.  

It was earned.

Her last performance in Snezhnaya, tonight’s performance, was well-attended and beloved.  But if the note beneath the gemstone, carefully written to denote that it had taken time to write, was any indication, it was far from over.

Rumors of the events of Mondstadt and the escape of the Black Fire suspect circulated like wildfire; it was no wonder why one seat remained empty tonight.  It wasn’t like him to escape a moment of limelight.  After all, it was his handiwork that allowed her to sing with the same ease with which she walked again.

Pierro might have given her the Delusion but Dottore showed her how to use it, much to Signora’s ire.  Sometimes, Rhiannon swore that the Tsaritsa was playing chess with herself and used her Harbingers as pawns.  Every time, she reminded herself that it wasn’t her place to question Her Most Noble Majesty and the kindness shown to her.

Kindness that would remain as long as she did as expected of her.  And if she left now, she would reach Haeresys with time to spare.

Archons knew he hated late arrivals.

___________________________

Krupp usually greeted her when she came down to the underground arena but he was nowhere to be found, even at this time of night.  

And no one seemed to want to answer her inquiries about the man.

Strange.  

Or perhaps not.  

Failure wasn’t an option for those working under a Harbinger, especially one as ruthless as the Second.  The only thing that kept her from receiving the same fate as most of his associates was her tutelage with La Signora.  He might disregard human life with the flick of a wrist but Dottore wasn’t impulsive enough to ruin a colleague’s apprentice in his usual fashion.

He knew how to play her without that threat hanging over her head.  Little did he know.

Dottore was already waiting when she reached his laboratory proper, coat draped over a chair and his back to her as he mulled over something at his desk.  He’d been working for some time, if the small cluttered tea tray was any indication.

“At least someone understands the meaning of success around here,” he muttered.  “Krupp certainly didn’t.”

Rhiannon unpinned her Delusion from her collar and placed it on the awaiting tray of tools.  She put the velvet box next to it, opened to reveal its shining contents, before she sat in the examination chair in the center of the small room.

He would claim her singing as his own success when it suited him.  It wasn’t as if it was through her voice, her abilities, her lung capacity, that most of the audience was moved to tears.  Her work, her body, her abilities.  Was this how Karina felt, all those years ago?  Her autonomy stolen?

She swallowed a sigh as she reminded herself that her frustration wasn’t warranted.  Her skills would benefit the Tsaritsa, all of Snezhnaya; did it really matter who was to thank for such talents?

Judging by Dottore’s stiff shoulders and short breaths, he was attempting to keep his composure.  His hair seemed to be in more of a disarray than usual, too.  Such cracks in his facade were never good signs.  She would rather not be the target of his frustrations.  He was kind, dare she think possibly sweet, until he wasn’t.  Only temporarily, of course.  He always made up for it, even if he didn’t always make time for her.

He didn’t look at her when he turned around, but rather his eyes fell on her Delusion, checking that she followed the steps as expected of her.  

She caught a quirk of his mouth, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  Good.

“You’ve progressed very well so far.  It pleased Her Most Noble Majesty to have you home again, if only for a short time.  An utter shame I spent most of the season wasting my time dealing with Mondstadt .  You would think that with my work against Ursa, the people would have been more than happy to assist…”

He rambled for a few moments longer, his monologue lost on her.  Ursa the Drake?  The Blackfire Incident?  She’d never left Fontaine until that cursed day and ever since, all she’d known was the land of the Tsaritsa and what little of her home she got to see.  But to confess as such would mean hearing the whole story, to say nothing of what would happen to his staff when she departed all because she didn’t know his legacy.  A bruised ego for a man like him would do no one any favors and it wouldn’t be worth the trouble on many levels.

Dottore’s hand on her chin brought her back to the present, his red eyes waiting for hers.  With most of his face covered, save the corner of his mouth, his eyes were one of the few ways to convey any kind of social cues or what little emotional range he was capable of.   So many found his visage unsettling, especially the intensity with which he assessed others.  

But not her.  

He didn’t shun what he was good at, what he was capable of; of all the Harbingers, he seemed to embrace it the most, finding freedom in his role as both diplomat and doctor.  Funny how, of all the Most Loyal, she found herself drawn to one of the few who hid most of their appearance but never his true nature.

Gloved fingers moved from her chin to her cheek.

“You seem quite lost in thought, Ancella.”

“Tonight’s performance was more taxing than I initially thought.  I’m fine.”

Her voice was hoarse but she didn’t think much of it; it was normal after a performance, especially one enhanced by her own power.

It wasn’t a total lie.  Delusions came with a heavy price, especially for users such as herself, such as Tartaglia.  Small, casual uses were one thing.  But in her case, much of her breathing and control was dependent on the shining teal stone.  One verse would have been fine; she’d performed most of the arias and emotionally moving parts by drawing from the device.

He seemed to accept her explanation, although not with a muttering about having to make up for lost time and progress.  Dottore pulled his hand away and reached over for the pocketscope, moving right along to examine her mouth and throat.  

He clicked his tongue.  “Severe inflammation and torn tissue.  It looks like you ate glass.  And I can only imagine that your vocal cords are irritated, if not damaged, as well.  There’s little point in enhancing the device until you’ve become accustomed to the limitations of the power and its effects.  Foolish, Ancella.”

Rhiannon schooled her face.  If she hadn’t pushed herself, her performance would have been lackluster and the Tsaritsa would have insisted her return to Fontaine be pushed back.  How could he be upset that she’d actually put her Delusion to good use?

“It would do little good for you to arrive with no voice at all, surely you thought of that?” Dottore hissed, rising and turning away from her to deposit the pocketscope back on the table.  He slammed the surface with both hands, scolding her over his shoulder.  “Or did that degenerate Tartaglia see fit to whisper in your ear again?”

“No one had anything to do with how I use my Delusion,” Rhiannon answered carefully.  “It’s my responsibility.  I wasn’t careful.”

“And yet he left you a gift.”

“As did you.”

Dottore released a breath through his nose and turned away.  “What of it?  You clearly aren’t ready to accept more power when you can barely handle it now.”

After a beat, Rhiannon rose from the chair and crossed the distance between them.  She pressed a hand against his back and when he didn’t move, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against him.  She needed to tread carefully, she reminded herself.

“But I will be.  And you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t have wasted the time or mora on something difficult to obtain.  I will make Her Most Noble Majesty happy, not through my role as Ancella, but through your work.”

The deep intake of air by the man in her arms told her that she succeeded in quelling his frustration.  For now.  His right hand covered her own, the one she held just near his heart and tension seemed to uncoil itself from his spine.

“You will rest your voice on your journey and only rehearse without your device until your throat is healed.  Is that understood?”

Only an imbecile would take his calm tone at face value.  

There would be no one with her to assist if something happened, at least not for a few more months.  She would have to work her voice manually.  But that was fine.  Welcome, even.  After all, if she could sing without it, she could only imagine what it would feel like to use it again.  If tonight was any kind of benchmark...

“I understand.”

“Good.  You should get going, my Ancella.  Your ship departs at dawn.”

[xkuja]

@her-enlightened-ladyship sent:

Dutifully, she sat herself on the velvet tuft in front of her vanity. Even if she could not differentiate between morning or night anymore in this palace, she still prepared herself before she left the room.

This particular grooming cycle, she noticed an intricately carved box out of place on the desk. A gentle sigh left her lips as she gingerly ran her fingers over the latch and opened the box to reveal a velvet lining with a pair of angel earrings resting invitingly before her.

A gentle warmth filled her bosom. For a moment, she simply studied the craftsmanship of the rosy-colored jewel set in gold and ivory.

“As a Regentess, I receive so many gifts for a plethora of reasons. Typically, it was a noble attempt to sway my political decisions. I would have the items taken to the treasury or sent to storage before even glancing...”

At first glance, it appeared she was thinking out loud to herself. However, she knew the Lord Sorcerer well enough. He could throw his voice wherever he liked in the palace. He most likely had ears in the walls. Or perhaps, she caught a glimpse of him in her mirror.

After a soft pause, she found her words. “Yet, your gifts feel different.” It was a strange feeling she could not quite put words to, which was rare for the eloquent woman. Or mayhap she was afraid to put words to it. A smile touched her warmed cheeks.

She removed one from the box to place them. They would balance well with her magic and aesthetic. It was almost as if there was a touch of his own residual magic in them.  “They are thoughtful. When I wear this gift, I shall always think of you and our time together. It is a precious memory I do not wish to forget.” After all, one could not have a complete pair of earrings without the other half.

@xkuja​

|| ||                    He knew how that felt.

      Pretty trinkets were a second currency to the nobility of Treno, exchanged for favours and appearances, hands and lips. He was intimately familiar with their empty worth, knowing his own beauty to be positively nightmarish to behold, a mortal blow to the mortal soul.

      And she? What could be said of her face that dozens had failed to capture? Such a face as to inspire the death of a hundred thousand flowers to petal-pulling inquiries... Save the Regent’s, but Kuja had no thought to spare for the likes of him.

      “I had purely expected they might suit you,” his nonchalant reply drifted from the ceiling of her dome. “And as ever, I was right.”

      For her hair was spun of the same rose-gold as those tiny wings, and her witchy eyes waxed with incalculable suffering, rich as the blood jewel cradled in their feathers. Her depth both emboldened and enchained him, Kuja found himself craving to command more and more of her favorable regard.

      His voice returned to her after a moment, “Let me make you a promise, my dear: Once our time together is through, you shan’t need any memento nor physical fetish to remind you of me. Close your eyes, and my music will haunt the winding halls of your heart.”

[blakeboldt-blog]

Best Albums of 2018

Highest honors:

"May Your Kindness Remain," Courtney Marie Andrews.

"Negro Swan," Blood Orange.

"boygenius," boygenius.

"Good Thing," Leon Bridges.

"Port Saint Joe," Brothers Osborne.

"By the Way, I Forgive You," Brandi Carlile.

"Hell-On," Neko Case.

"Chris," Christine and the Queens.

"Freedom," Amen Dunes.

"Double Negative," Low.

"Be the Cowboy," Mitski.

"Dirty Computer," Janelle Monae.

"Sparrow," Ashley Monroe & "Interstate Gospel," Pistol Annies.

"Golden Hour," Kacey Musgraves.

"Ventriloquism," Meshell Ndegeocello.

"SASSAFRASS!" Tami Nielson.

"Hope Downs," Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever.

"Soil," serpentwithfeet.

"Clean," Soccer Mommy.

"What a Time to Be Alive," Superchunk.

High honors:

"Invasion of Privacy," Cardi B.

"Head Over Heels," Chromeo.

"Last Building Burning," Cloud Nothings.

"Look Now," Elvis Costello & the Imposters.

"Passwords," Dawes.

"God's Favorite Customer," Father John Misty.

"Sweetener," Ariana Grande.

"See You Around," I'm with Her.

"Dying Star," Ruston Kelly.

"Vide Noir," Lord Huron.

"Dirty Pictures (Part 2)," Low Cut Connie.

"Girl Going Nowhere," Ashley McBryde.

"Room 25," Noname.

"Wide Awake!" Parquet Courts.

"Honey," Robyn.

"Young Romance," Roosevelt.

"The Window," Cecile McLorin Salvant.

"Devotion," Tirzah.

"Isolation," Kali Uchis.

Honors:

"A Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships," The 1975.

"Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino," Arctic Monkeys.

"Tell Me How You Really Feel," Courtney Barnett.

"Hollywood Africans," Jon Batiste.

"7," Beach House.

"The Mountain," Dierks Bentley.

"Find a Light," Blackberry Smoke.

"Sex & Cigarettes," Toni Braxton.

"Black Velvet," Charles Bradley.

"All Nerve," The Breeders.

"Camila," Camila Cabello.

"The Thread That Keeps Us," Calexico.

"Caution," Mariah Carey.

"Twin Fantasy," Car Seat Headrest.

"Everything Is Love," The Carters.

"She Remembers Everything," Rosanne Cash.

"Wanderer," Cat Power.

"Desperate Man," Eric Church.

"Providence Canyon," Brent Cobb.

"Historian," Lucy Dacus.

"Cactus," Elise Davis.

"Scorpion," Drake.

"Encore," Anderson East.

"The Crossing," Alejandro Escovedo.

"Ruins," First Aid Kit.

"High As Hope," Florence & the Machine.

"Nearer My God," Foxing.

"The Now Now," Gorillaz.

"Anthem of the Peaceful Army," Greta Van Fleet.

"Mr. Jukebox," Joshua Hedley.

"My American Dream," Will Hoge.

"Hive Mind," The Internet.

"Primal Heart," Kimbra.

"Go to School," The Lemon Twigs.

"I'm All Ears," Let's Eat Grandma.

"Wouldn't It Be Great," Loretta Lynn.

"Among the Ghosts," Lucero.

"One Stone," Trixie Mattel.

"The Tree," Lori McKenna.

"All the Things That I Did and All the Things That I Didn’t Do,” The Milk Carton Kids.

"Other Arrangements," Parker Millsap.

"Golden," Kylie Minogue.

"Kin," Mogwai.

"Tearing at the Seams," Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats.

"Last Man Standing," Willie Nelson.

"Volunteer," Old Crow Medicine Show.

"Liberty," Lindi Ortega.

"Oxnard," Anderson .Paak.

"C'est La Vie," Phosphorescent.

"The Tree of Forgiveness," John Prine.

"All Aboard," Punch Brothers."Daytona," Pusha T.

"Loner," Caroline Rose."Care for Me," Saba.

"Sunset," Amanda Shires.

"Years," Sarah Shook & the Disarmers.

"Route One," Sigur Ros.

"E.G.O.," Lucie Silvas.

"Bloom," Troy Sivan.

"Lush," Snail Mail.

"FM!" Vince Staples.

"Karma for Cheap," Aaron Lee Tasjan.

"13 Rivers," Richard Thompson.

"Record," Tracey Thorn.

"Life Is Good on the Open Road," Trampled by Turtles.

"Western Movies," Traveller.

"WARM," Jeff Tweedy."Offerings," Typhoon.

"In a Poem Unlimited," U.S. Girls.

"Restoration: Reimagining the Songs of Elton John and Bernie Taupin," Various.

"Bottle It In," Kurt Vile.

"Healing Tide," The War and Treaty.

"Heaven and Earth," Kamasi Washington.

"My Dear Melancholy," The Weeknd.

"Greetings from the Wild Frontier," Wild Feathers.

"Yolk in the Fur," Wild Pink.

"One Drop of Truth," The Wood Brothers.

"The Louder I Call, the Faster It Runs," Wye Oak.

"There's a Riot Going On," Yo La Tengo.

"Suspiria," Thom Yorke.

[aloudplace]

Fidelity won epilogue

1 year later

Sig found him in the nightclub of the central casino on Solas 9. He was sitting on the dais in the VIP section just beyond the stage, sprawled lazily on a huge, gilt-trimmed throne with the words 'King of Aces' carved elaborately on the high back. The damned thing had actual jewels inlaid into the lettering.

He wore a green silk robe with thick, gold-embroidered trim at the neck and cuffs, a gold silk shirt tucked into tight black leather pants, and a pair of glossy pointed black boots. The shirt and robe hung open, exposing his upper chest and a heavy gold chain around his neck.

He looked ridiculous.

Dammit. No, he didn't. He should have. Instead, he looked decadent and sexy.

Sig stood in the shadows at the edge of the dark room and watched him hungrily. His hair had gotten long and he'd let it curl. It hung in a glossy cascade around his shoulders, thick and inky black.

She squeezed tight on their bond, not wanting him to sense her there. Needing to simply drink him in.

There were half a dozen people sitting on cushioned velvet couches around him, talking and drinking, but his attention was on the woman perched on the broad arm of the throne beside him.

The beautiful, leggy blond in the skimpy silver dress.

He was smiling at her lazily. The woman leaned down to say something directly into his ear, presumably to be heard over the loud thrum of the music. She was also using the opportunity to give him an unobstructed view of her cleavage.

And of course, he looked. Smiled a slow, flirtatious smile. Said something that made the woman giggle like a teenage girl.

Oh, for god's sake.

Sig turned and left the nightclub, passing through the wide double doors and into the brighter, more chaotic atmosphere of the casino itself.

She scoped the staff and picked out one of the suited security guards--a young-looking fellow with the nervous air of a new recruit–-and asked him where the 'king's' private rooms were.

She had no idea what race the man was; his skin was smooth and grey, hairless, eyes vivid green, with oblong pupils like a horse. In any case, he was certainly receptive to the smile she flashed and the suggestive quality of her inquiry.

He gave her a considering look, head to toe. The snug leathers and flight jacket seemed to give him pause. "Is my Lord expecting you, miss?"

"No," she did her best simper, "I was hoping to surprise him."

He looked at her clothes again, with open skepticism. "Well, you are his type, miss, but if you don't mind my saying so, you may wish to change into something a little more..." He coughed politely.

Clearly, 'my lord' had a reputation with the ladies. Sneaking unknown women into his private rooms did not seem unusual to his security staff. In fact, the man seemed eager to accommodate her, probably in anticipation of gaining favor with his beloved ruler.

"I understand you perfectly–-um, what's your name, sweetheart?" Sig touched his lapel very lightly and he flushed a little.

"Geon, miss."

"Geon, thank you," she smiled broadly. "Perhaps you know where I can get a dress of which my lord would approve? I'd be happy to put in a good word for you with the King if you'd be so kind as to help me get his attention...?"

Geon smiled a wide, boyish smile. "Yes, I think I can help you, miss."

...   ...   ...

Loki felt her presence the moment he opened the outer door to his chambers. The room was dark, which was unusual. The servants should have been through to prep for his nightly return.

"Lights," he said.

She was sitting in his favorite leather armchair, facing the door, legs crossed elegantly at the knee.

His heart did a funny little dance in his chest. She was a bright spot of color in the enormous white room–-gold and green against a winter landscape. Like the spirit of spring come to thaw the ice and snow.

Slowly, he closed the door and leaned back against it, crossing his arms as he took her in.

"That's a new look," he murmured, giving her his best trickster smile.

She was wearing a dress in the style so favored by the women on this planet: slinky, shimmering, low-cut. He allowed himself a slow perusal, blood heating.

"The color suits you," he purred.

It was green. His green. So were the strappy little heels she wore.

"Your guards wouldn't let me in unless I looked the part," she said, amber gaze cool.

No, it was icy. Shit.

"Are you still angry that I left?" he murmured provocatively. "I did say goodbye, if you'll recall."

He held her gaze until he saw that she did recall that goodbye, then he let his voice drop an octave and added silkily, "Rather thoroughly, in fact."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that seductive look. You were supposed to meet me on Paradisus weeks ago."

She really was angry. Which, rather inconveniently, only turned him on more. "I may have gotten sidetracked," he replied, attempting to sound apologetic.

"Sidetracked," she repeated flatly.

"Yes..."

"You staged a coup and dethroned the so-called King of this ridiculous planet."

He held up a finger, "Solas is actually registered as a legitimate monarchy. And... it was more of a flash rebellion than a coup."

She waved him away with one hand, rolling her eyes. "I don't even want to know."

"I did rather expect you to come after me sooner," he admitted. "I may have gotten a bit carried away. This planet is..."

"Seedy? Disgusting? Teeming with leggy blonde prostitutes?"

Ah. She'd been to the club. "That woman was not a prostitute," he said defensively. "She's a dancer. One of my best performers."

Sig's left brow arched sharply on the word "my."

Damn. Loki came away from the door and crossed the room to her. She looked up at him from under her brows in warning.

"Did you sleep with her?" she asked very softly. Dangerously.

Her jealousy was more than a little gratifying, though he was careful not to show it.

"You ought to know the answer to that," he replied, shrugging out of his robe and tossing it towards the couch without looking. "However, I do have a reputation to uphold as the King of this little den of iniquity." He looked down at her legs, which were wonderfully exposed by the high slit of the dress. "I can't very well be seen rejecting the advances of beautiful women–-at least not in public."

Her lips compressed, twisted slightly. He tested the bond, got nothing but a trickle of her irritation. Time to switch tactics.

"I really do like this new look of yours." He murmured. Her breasts were mouthwatering, draped in that silky green fabric, her nipples clearly delineated. "And the tan."

She'd picked up a rich golden glow on Paradisus.

"Do you have tan lines?" he asked.

Some of the ice drained out of her demeanor–-no doubt due to the fact that he was sporting an erection, which he made absolutely no effort to hide.

"No," she said, just a touch sullen.

She let the bond open.

Sweet Mother of–-

It was there in her mind. Pictures that made his blood sizzle in his veins. Sig, lying naked in the sun. Swimming naked in crystal clear tropical waters. Sprawled on a big bed in a private bungalow, limbs very gold against the white sheets. Thinking about him. Wanting him. Waiting for him.

Shit.

"I...may owe you an apology," he began sheepishly.

"You think?" she looked up and there was a gleam of real hurt in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it.

She actually pouted a little, which was very uncharacteristic–-and therefore all the more indication that he had royally fucked up.

He sank to his knees and scooted close to her, running his hands up her silky, silky legs.

"Oh, my beloved Goddess of Fidelity," he murmured in a tone of reverence, "Please accept this sacrifice," he bent and kissed her tenderly just above the knee. "In the name of the Allfather, and of the Allmother," he tugged her legs apart and trailed kisses upward along her inner thigh. "Please, oh heavenly goddess, be merciful." He looked up at her in adulation. "Please forgive me."

Her mouth quirked. "You suck at this."

Loki smiled slowly. His hands slipped under the dress and gripped her naked hips. "If sucking is what you require..."

"What? Loki, no."

He yanked her down in the chair and made her squeak in surprise. The position forced her legs to part around his body and left him kneeling between her open thighs.

"No undergarments," he said, on a surge of lust. "How convenient."

"Hey, I'm still mad at you," she scowled at him, gripping his forearms arms with both hands.

"You're not exactly fighting me off, though," he replied wickedly, bending to take her into his mouth.

She gasped.

Loki decided to dispense with the teasing and sucked her in the way he knew would bring her the fastest. She squirmed in the chair and clenched her thighs around him, senses bombarded, heat and hunger flowing to him through the bond.

Yanking her down farther, he pulled at the neck of the dress until one of her breasts popped free of the loose fabric. She was extra sensitive today–-perhaps because it had been so long. She made a delightful mewling sound when he palmed her breast and squeezed it gently.

The bond expanded. Passion had overridden temper. She wanted his mouth where his hand was and his cock inside her. The thought came crystal clear to him as she rolled her hips, pushing her sex into the wet-hot suction of his mouth.

Once like this first, sweetheart. Then I'll ride you to your heart's content, he promised.

Fingers, she cried in a low, intoxicated whisper.

Shh. Not this time. He sucked her harder, made her cry out. It's been so long. I want to feel how tight you are.

They'd been apart for weeks at a time in the past year, though never for quite this long. The first joining after such an absence was always incendiary. It was half the reason Loki kept leaving. That and perhaps-–if he was completely honest with himself–-because he wanted to see if she would take him back each time. If her feelings would falter in his absence.

They never did. In fact, they only seemed to grow.

Which was, much to his consternation, a completely mutual phenomenon.

Loki pinched her little nipple, rolled and pulled it, feeling how the two pleasures connected inside her like electrical currents. He sent her an image of how she looked to him, her dress rucked up and twisted around, face flushed, nipple bright and pink between his fingers. She shuddered and gasped.

He sent her images of what he wanted to do to her, too. Imagined bending her over the back of the couch, the sweet curves of her ass turned up to him, the mouth of her sex stretched around his cock.

She came on a high, reedy scream and he had to hold her down with both hands to keep his mouth in place while she bucked and shuddered against him.

"That was delightful," he said when she had settled, sitting back to look at her. "Forgive me now?"

She nodded, eyes closed, slumped in the chair like a drunk. "Don't ditch me like that again."

"Your wish is my command."

She snorted.

Smiling, Loki looked at her naked breast, at the bright, swollen lips of her sex. He took off one of her shoes and brought the warm curve of her foot to his groin, sighing with pleasure at the contact. She opened her eyes and looked down at him lazily.

"Don't hold back on my account," she said thickly.

He unzipped the leather trousers and took himself in hand, still looking at her and holding her foot against his hip. Her gaze dipped to his sex and she watched him stroke himself, pupils dilating with lust.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"Nothing, I'm just trying to decide how I want you."

Her brows rose. "Not over the couch?"

"Mm. Maybe." He looked at her naked sex again. Released her foot and touched the open lips with his free hand, thumb gliding slowly against the glossy flesh.

She watched him for a moment, and then she kicked off her other shoe and lifted her legs, tucking her feet onto the edge of the chair, one on either side of her bottom, spreading herself wide to him.

Loki sucked in a breath and took hold of her legs. "Sig...Jesus."

She giggled. "Its funny to hear you using Earth expressions."

But Loki wasn't amused. In fact, he wasn't evening listening. He was looking down at the head of his cock as he positioned himself on his knees and pushed between the glistening folds of her sex.

They moaned together as he filled her, Loki still looking down, watching until his entire length was buried inside her.

"Oh God," she whimpered. "That's..."

Tight. Loki thought wildly. Good. So good.

It was hurting her a little, despite how wet she was. Something about the position, and the fact that is had been a little over a month since they'd last been together.

He looked down at her, folded tightly in the chair beneath him. Bent and kissed her deeply.

"Loki," she murmured when he released her. "Please, fuck me."

He groaned. She knew what it did to him, to hear such words. He gripped her thighs and held her legs back hard as he started thrusting, kissing her again at the same time. Devouring her.

She came within minutes, keening and reaching around her legs to clutch at his hips. He rode her harder as the orgasm radiated along the bond, and every thrust brought the tip of his cock straight to the mouth of her womb.

As her orgasm faded, she reached between their bodies, touched the place where his cock pistoned inside her, fingers curling loosely around his shaft. Her grip made his thrusts shallower by necessity, but the extra stimulation of her fingers was delicious.

Even more than that was the stimulation of her thoughts. She wanted to feel him going in. Liked to touch the stiff column and feel her own wetness on him. Relished the pleasure she gave him and the low, urgent sounds he made.

Gods, how he loved this–-loved her.

"Sig," he rasped, pleasure tightening his balls. "Coming!"

She gripped the base of his cock and made him gasp. He pumped into her hand, into her pussy, floored by the combined sensations, by the heady mix of lust and love she emitted.

"Come," he demanded roughly. "Come with me."

To his surprise, she cried out almost immediately, fisting around him, every muscle in her body tightening as he rode out his own orgasm in a series of uncontrolled lunges.

When it was over he pulled her hand away and buried himself to the hilt, nudging her cervix again. Stretching her. Making her clench.

He was leaning on her heavily, breathing hard into her neck. Rocking slowly into the still-fluttering grip of her sex. One of her feet slipped off the chair and he lifted it up again, not wanting to lose the incredible closeness the position afforded.

"Why have we never tried this position before?" he asked, breathless. "That was fantastic."

"Mm," she curled her arms around his shoulders and nuzzled his ear, flexing around him. "Do it again."

He chuckled. "Give me a few minutes."

Her only response was to put her hands in his hair and gently scrape his scalp with her fingernails. He turned his head to kiss her languidly, suddenly swamped by how intensely he had missed her the last few weeks.

"Is the King ready to abdicate?" she murmured when he broke away.

"Mmm." He kissed her some more before withdrawing. "Do you really think this planet is disgusting?"

"I did when I thought you were screwing that dancer." She tugged his shirt up and he lifted his arms so she could take it off him. "It's actually quite decadent."

"For your information, that poor girl could never meet my standards." Pulling back to look down at her body, at his cock still wedged inside her, he murmured, "You've ruined me for other women."

Her breath caught as he gave her a long, leisurely thrust.

"Have I really?" she replied, with genuine surprise. "That's gratifying to hear."

He thrust again–-a slow, languid movement–-and she closed her eyes, lips parting on a sigh of pleasure. "I suppose that's the closest I'll ever come to a profession of genuine commitment on your part," she said breathlessly.

Loki stilled. "I wasn't aware you required such a thing."

"I don't," she opened her eyes to give him a heavy-lidded look of encouragement. "Keep moving."

He picked up thrusting again, rocking slowly. "But you do want that."

"Mmm?" she was starting to look unfocused. She stroked his arms and watched his abdomen flex with glowing appreciation. "I want everything you've got."

"I'm not sure we're talking about the same thing anymore," he said, withdrawing for another long, slow stroke into her body.

"Why are we talking at all?" She made a hoarse little sound of pleasure as he nudged her cervix. Damned if she wasn't getting close again already.

"It is nice, occasionally," he replied, watching her face go slack as the pleasure mounted. "It's something couples frequently do, or so I've heard."

She didn't respond and he simply rocked for a while, letting the pleasure build, thrust by thrust. Kissing and touching. Every movement slow and sweet as molasses.

"This is definitely my new favorite position," he murmured, listening to her ragged breath. "You're so sensitive."

She moaned, slapped his chest with one hand. "For god's sake, Loki, move faster."

He lifted her legs up over his shoulders and held her there, pumping a little harder, kissing the upper curves of her breasts, the base of her throat, dipping his tongue into her mouth.

"You are making the sweetest little sounds right now," he said darkly. "Makes me want to do something depraved."

"Oh?" she panted, "Like what?"

Smiling devilishly, he pulled completely out and drove himself home again, straight to the hilt.

Sig cried out sharply, grasping his upper arms, nails digging into his skin.

"So sweet," he growled, pulling out again.

"Please," she gasped, eyes heavy-lidded, face flushed. "You're going to kill me."

He thrust home.

"Ah!"

"Again?" He was nearing his own limit now.

She nodded. He leaned down to kiss her as he withdrew and she shook her head. "I want to see your face when you come."

That did it. Suddenly aroused to the point of madness, he started thrusting rapidly–-still pulling almost completely out, driving home with barely contained aggression. Holding her gaze as she began to bow and spasm beneath him.

Sig locked tight under a cascade of pleasure and Loki tumbled after her, orgasm stripping away everything but the woman in his arms: her amber eyes, her cries, her pleasure, the hot grip of her sex.

Love you... God... love you so much...

The words radiated along the bond and Loki drank them straight into his heart, his soul. Poured his answering feelings back to her wordlessly. Felt her take them.

Mine, he thought fiercely. Say you're mine.

"Yes," she whispered, pulling him down to kiss her as the pleasure ebbed. "Yes."

...   ...   ...

He carried her to the bed at some point. Stripped her down and made love to her leisurely on the white satin sheets.

She really didn't have any tan lines, and her skin was the color of honey. She'd gained a little weight since he'd seen her last. There was a softness about her hips and thighs that made him feel like a beast.

"Why do you keep biting me like that?" she asked, and the question was muffled because she had flung both arms over her face in the aftermath of their last orgasm.

Lying sprawled halfway across her legs, Loki looked down at his teeth marks on her inner thighs and said, "You taste good."

"I taste the same as always."

He bent and bit her on the hip hard enough to make her squeak. "Sweeter."

"You taste the same," she returned mildly.

He crawled up her body and laid directly on top of her, pushing her arms away from her face and pinning them gently to the bed so he could kiss her.

"You're squishing me," she mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Mmm," he kissed her again, "Do you want to go back to Paradisus?"

She shook her head. "You're a king now. You have a responsibility to your subjects. It would be selfish of me to take you away from them just because I want to screw you on a tropical beach."

Loki smiled. She didn't mean a damned word of it–-except the part about screwing.

"Sarcasm," he said dryly, "Charming."

"You love it." She squirmed under his weight and he slid off of her. Her arms came down and she rolled toward him, snuggling into his chest.

Loki still marveled sometimes at how natural it felt to put his arms around her. To be tender. Affectionate. Loving. Her adoration still floored him, too. He kept waiting for her to just wake up one day and realize she didn't want him anymore.

She was too good to be true, really. She'd never asked for more than he offered. Never once turned him away when he reached for her. Never failed to forgive him for his...less than admirable behavior. And now...

Sig kissed his throat and curled her arm over his waist, sighing with such contentment that he felt almost... giddy.

"I don't suppose you'd consider staying a while," he suggested, keeping his voice casual. Heart jumping traitorously. "You'd make an excellent queen."

"Of Aces?" she snorted. "You really ought to change the title. It's ridiculous."

He was quiet.

In a moment she pulled back, looked up into his face. "Was that a serious suggestion? You really want me to stay here and play queen to your king?"

"You did express a desire for commitment," he replied carefully.

Her look of confusion shifted to one of shock. Disbelief.

She sat up, hair a wild blond cloud around her head, breasts bobbing, nipples red from his mouth and hands.

"Loki, was that supposed to be some kind of proposal?" Her eyes abruptly narrowed. He was shielding like hell. "This better not be a joke."

"It was, in fact, a proposal," he said stiffly.

The long silence that followed was filled with the sound of Loki's heart beating wildly in his ears.

"A proposal of marriage," she said finally–-like it was somehow the most improbable thing she'd ever heard.

"Yes."

She watched his face intently. "Like, actual, legal marriage."

Her skepticism made him bristle. Or maybe it was the fact that she hadn't answered yet. "Yes, by all the Gods," he grated, "It's a simple enough concept."

She didn't react to his temper. Instead, she looked away, at the wall above the bed. At the dark window, the floor, blinking in shock the whole time.

Bitterness rose like an old enemy. Just as he opened his mouth to retract the offer she looked at him and said simply, "Alright."

Loki blinked. "Alright?" Was that it? Just Alright?

His heart didn't seem to care about the delivery though. It fluttered, rose.

"Yeah," she said face solemn. "Alright."

He sat up, temper evaporated, the first flush of elation buzzing along his nerve endings. "Yes. The word you're looking for is yes."

She smiled. Finally, she smiled. "Yes."

On a surge of raw emotion, he reached for her.

"Congratulations, my Sigyn. My Loki."

They both cursed and Loki snatched at the sheets, pulling them across his lap. Mad stood at the end of the bed, grinning from ear to ear.

"Mad!" Sig cried, not bothering to cover herself. "So inappropriate!"

"I am sorry, my Sigyn. I waited until you were done copulating."

"Tell me you weren't watching," Loki hissed, at the same time Sig said, "Don't say copulating."

"I did not watch," Mad replied politely. And then to Sig, "Is copulating not an acceptable term for what you were doing?"

"Oh my god. No, it just–-never mind," Sig waved her away. "Where is my dress?"

Mad bent and picked it up off the floor. Loki glared at her as she brought it around the bed to Sig.

"Are you angry, my Loki?"

"That was a private moment," he grated, still feeling the sting of vulnerability. The buzz of feelings yet unexpressed.

"You are embarrassed," Mad replied in understanding.

Sig made a muffled sound that closely resembled laughter. Loki shot her a glare and found her in a tangle with the dress pulled halfway over her head.

"I am not embarrassed," he growled, tugging the hem until the green fabric came unbunched and slid down into place.

"I am unfamiliar with marriage rituals," the Tolok explained apologetically. "Toloks do not marry."

"Right. No romantic attachments," he muttered.

Sig paused in the act of smoothing her hair. "How do Toloks reproduce then?"

Is this really what we're going to talk about right now?

Sig shot him a quelling look.

"Sexually," Mad replied unabashedly. "Partnerships are chosen based on genetic compatibility, and the children are raised by the collective." She bent to retrieve Loki's pants and smiled brightly at him as she handed them over. "I am very excited to learn about non-Tolok marriage rituals and child-rearing."

Sig made a little choking sound and Loki said, "Child-rearing?"

"Mad, we're not having children," Sig interrupted before the Tolok could reply. "I'm sterile, remember?"

Mad smiled. "You are not, my Sigyn."

Sig frowned. "I'm not. I'm not?"

Mad shook her head.

"How do you know this?" Loki demanded.

"I studied the timelines. In some of them, Sigyn has children."

Sig was floored. "If I'm not sterile, why haven't I conceived in all this time?"

"I do not know for sure, my Sigyn. Perhaps the conditions were not correct."

"Meaning?" Loki interjected.

"Sigyn's heritage is mixed. She is more than simply Aldurian and Asgardian," Mad shrugged. "Some species cannot procreate outside of specific environmental parameters."

Sig held up both hands in denial. "I think I'm done with this conversation."

Mad regarded her quizzically while Loki grappled with the new information.

"Mad," he started, heart pounding anew, "Whose children does she-–"

"Don't!" Sig cried sharply, clamping her hand over his mouth. The other hand she held up towards the Tolok. "I really don't want to know, alright?"

Loki tugged her hand from his mouth. "Why not?"

She sat back on her heels. "I–-because-–" she shrugged helplessly, "Some things are just better left unknown?"

Her emotions came to him in a tangle. Anxiety, hope, fear.

What was she afraid of?

He looked at her and imagined her growing round with child. His child. It brought a rush of intensely possessive feelings.

Then again, if there was another man in her future...

The thought turned his heart to stone. Abruptly, he understood her fear. Or at least, he hoped he did.

"Mad, get lost. I need to dress and...talk to Sig."

Sig looked to the Tolok. "I'll call you back in a little while okay? I want to hear how things have been going with the Tolok the last few weeks."

Mad nodded happily and popped into the aether.

"Do not watch!" Loki called after her.

"What's the matter?" said Sig, "Are you–-eep!"

Loki had her pinned to the bed in an instant. "I would like to consummate now," he said darkly.

"Um, that usually happens after the wedding, Loki."

"After, before, during," he shrugged. "I'm going to consummate the hell out of you." Grinning, he straddled her thighs and said, "Lift your hips."

"During?" she braced her hands on his arms, looking down between their bodies. "What are you do–-ah!"

He slid inside with a deep growl of satisfaction.

"How can you be this hard again already?" she asked breathlessly, watching.

The penetration was a bit shallow, but...he lifted her arms and held them above her head, thrusting hard. "It's been a month," he growled, "We've hardly taken the edge off."

Pinned and helpless, Sig could only watch as he rode her, squirming against the pleasure of it, the domination. "Next time I get to be on top," she panted.

The position made her throb all over with arousal, though. She could overpower him in an instant if she wanted to–-he had no illusions about that–-but she liked it when was he dominating. In fact, she liked everything he did to her.

"Would you want my child, Sig?" he asked roughly, watching her face.

She looked up at him, amber eyes already unfocused. "Huh?"

He thrust deep and withdrew. "You heard me."

"Loki–-ah!–-I already told you, I want everything you've got."

"What if it looks Jotun?" he demanded.

She made that low keening sound he adored so much, struggling against him. "I love your Jotun looks–-mmm–-ahh-–" she bucked, "God!"

Glowing with satisfaction, Loki rode her in a hard, controlled rhythm until she cried his name, bowed sharply, and shattered.

"I love you," he said fiercely, thrusting harder, rushing toward his own orgasm.

Her eyes widened and he realized, just as the orgasm took him, that he had never said the words aloud before.

When he lifted himself to look at her in the aftermath, her face was almost serene, but there were tears in her eyes.

"Say it again," she said quietly.

His heart pounded. Ached. He swallowed hard.

"Don't you dare argue," she whispered. "Just say it."

"I love you," he replied gruffly.

"Now ask me properly."

He balked for a moment. Relented. "Be my queen."

She laughed and he bent to kiss her hungrily.

"You're going to regret this, you know," he said a moment later.

"You think so?"

He grinned. "At least once a day."

"Hm. Well, that means you're going to have to change my mind at least once a day."

Laughing wickedly, he kissed her again, long and deeply. "I look forward to that."

[developerwith1]

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