#tiptoeing around the fact that some people come off as having even less respect or boundaries than anyone I've met irl

[craycraybluejay]

Maybe I'm just prickly, and people unintentionally come off wrong, but I'm very frustrated with recent events. (In my life/online, don't get me started on world news, that shit is insane and it's fucking awful what's happening to civilians who have absolutely no hand in this madness.)

I feel like someone is somehow block evading after I blocked an anon, and I have no proof, just a very irritated feeling like, "I know who you are." Even though rationally, it's probably not the case, and people just fall into similar patterns. Mutuals are being weird to me, most in their usual good way and some just. I don't know how to say this without coming off as touchy. Saying stuff to me that Sounds insulting, but I'm trying to teach myself "assume ignorance over malice" and whatnot. Or stuff that seems really. Uh. Almost patronizing? Yeah, that's the word I'm looking for. It's really difficult to tell myself that people aren't being offensive on purpose and I feel like that in itself is an optimistic delusion grounded not in reality but in the idea that if I simply ignore something bad it will turn out not to be.

Idk what I'm trying to say is; is it be weird on the internet week? I don't know why people act the way they do, and I just wanna have fun and whatnot. Hopefully if I get another job soon or some books I won't be so tempted to look at Tumblr and will feel a little less like throwing my entire phone into the nearest large body of water.

[seijorhi]

Unprofessional

as promised, the MSBY manager AU 💕 

MSBY Black Jackals x female reader

TW non-con, smut, gang-bang, nsfw(ish)

You second guess yourself, now that the Captain’s right here in front of you, fidgeting in your seat like a little kid sent to the principal’s office.

In all fairness, you were the one to ask him to come in early, figuring that it’d be easier to say what you needed to before everyone else arrived, rather than having it eat away at you while you waited for practice to end.

Yet under the scrutiny of his dark eyes, you wonder whether you should have just let it slide. At least for a few more weeks. Taking a formal complaint to the higher ups was a step too far, and you hadn’t wanted to bother the coaches this close to the start of the season for something so… trivial. Meian seemed like the better choice. He’d listen to you and be able to help; you trust the Captain and you know the team does, too. If he told them to back off, they would, you’re almost positive. But now that he’s here, there’s this nagging feeling of-

A hand touches your shoulder, and you flinch at the sudden contact, jerking back to the present. 

“Hey,” he says, a slight frown marring his features. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me - don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been a little out of it lately.”

There’s nothing but concern in his eyes - no judgement, or irritation, and something inside of you eases just a fraction. This is Meian, right from the moment you signed onto the team - granted, only a few months ago - he’s done his utmost to make sure you’ve felt welcomed and part of the team.

You take a breath, offering him a small, tight smile. “I-it’s um, some of the guys- well a few, I guess…” your fingers twist in your lap, and Meian squeezes your shoulder lightly in response. 

“Miya hitting on you, right? Getting a little outta hand?” he surmises. 

And for a split second, you’re surprised. But really maybe you shouldn’t be. Miya’s the one who’s overt about it, drawling stupid, cheesy pickup lines whenever you walk in, slinging an arm around your side and dragging you close, all the winks and the innuendos about as subtle as a tank.

Of course Meian noticed, but that’s just how Atsumu is. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it because nobody but you seems to mind. And maybe, if that’s all that it was, you’d be able to grin and bear it, but it’s not. 

“Yes and… no.”

His brows draw together. “No?”

Taking another deep breath, you begin to tell him everything. Miya’s incessant flirting, all the hugs and touches that fell just the wrong side of what you considered professional. They’re a tactile team, with one notable exception, and you understand that, but the way Bokuto, Hinata and Miya feel comfortable just grabbing you and dragging you around, interrupting you in the middle of whatever task you’re doing to make you pay attention to them is a little alarming. 

And then there was the incident last week, when Inunaki had caught you smiling at your phone during their cooldown and called you on it, which drew the attention of the rest of the team - only to have Bokuto snatch it out of your hands and start reading through your messages. Of course, Meian was there for that, putting a stop to it only when the wing-spiker had started reading them aloud, much to your mortification.

But he hadn’t been there two afternoons later, when an old friend of yours had swung by to pick you up and you’d had to deal with half the team glaring daggers at him over your shoulder like a pack of overprotective mother hens.

Even Sakusa, who usually kept his nose out of the others’ nonsense, stood off to the side with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, glowering at your friend until you both disappeared from sight.

The texts that blew up your phone in the hours that followed crossed so many lines, it honestly scared you a little. 

Meian doesn’t say a word as you talk, the words flowing easier the more you tell him. It’s not that anything they’re doing is wrong per se. They’re not hurting you, and you think that aside from Miya, the team’s attitude is coming from a good place - some protective, irritating big brother kind of thing. 

There’s nothing wrong with it, except the fact that you don’t want any part of it. You’re a professional and this is a job - a new one, an important one. If you ever want anybody to take your dreams of coaching a pro team seriously you cannot have so much as a whisper of anything less than absolute professionalism. God forbid, if rumours start spreading that you were sleeping with somebody on the team you can pretty much kiss your dreams goodbye. 

At the end of it, Meian’s chin is resting on his fist, faint dissatisfaction pinching at his face, and for a moment, you’re worried that he’s about to chew you out for wasting his time - you know he’s stressed with the start of the season only days away - but he only sighs, leaning back in his seat and shaking his head.

“Thank you for telling me, I’ll talk to them.”

And it’s like this huge weight just falls off your shoulders and suddenly you can breathe easy. “Thanks, really,” you tell him, and the smile on your face is genuine this time.

“Anytime.”

—

You don’t know when he finds the time to pull them all aside, but the next morning when you walk into the gym and Bokuto catches sight of you, golden eyes widening in delight, he starts to bound towards you-

“Bokuto.”

-and stops mid-stride, face falling like a kicked puppy. His shoulders slump, glancing over his shoulder at the Captain, watching the both of you through narrowed eyes.

He doesn’t say another word to the wing-spiker, turning back around to continue his conversation with Adriah - something about tightening up their blocks before the game against the Adlers - and despite the fact you can see half the team’s attention drawn towards you both, none of them say a word either. 

It’s strange, compared to the last few weeks, it’s suddenly like you’re a ghost. They thank you when you pass them their towels and bottles, and for once Hinata sits still when you help him tape up his ankle, though his eyes still follow your every movement with unnerving focus.

They’re polite and respectful, but unless you’re directly addressing them or they need something, it’s like you don’t exist. 

Even Atsumu manages to keep his comments to himself when it comes time for the team to stretch out, though judging from the scowl on his face whenever he glances towards the Captain, he’s not particularly thrilled about it. 

There’s one more day before game day, and they’ve got bigger things to worry about, but for you it’s like you can suddenly breathe easy. You don’t have to tiptoe around your own discomfort, you can just do your job and help them. It’s not that you hate them, not even Atsumu - though he does grate on your nerves at times - you just can’t afford to let them fuck this up for you.

They’re your team, and you’ll help them and you’ll stand on the sidelines and cheer and support them until you’re red in the face. You’ll celebrate with them and commiserate if they lose, but there has to be a line. 

And maybe finally they’re realising that.

Meian sends you home while the others head off to the showers with a clap on your shoulder. “Go home. Today’s been long enough, and you need your rest. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

You don’t fight him on it, already feeling the exhaustion creeping through your body. 

But after months in this job, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to find that by the time you’ve had a quick catch-up with the coaches about tomorrow’s training, changed and gathered up your things, you find yourself falling into step with Sakusa, freshly showered and also on his way out. 

Dark eyes find yours, but he doesn’t say a word - at least until the two of you reach the big double doors at the gym’s entrance. “Do you need a lift home?”

It’s rare of him to offer, but you suppose that it’s later than you’d normally leave, the sun already disappearing beneath the horizon. Nevertheless, you shake your head, “No, it’s only a ten minute walk, I’ll be okay,” you say. And almost as an afterthought you smile and add, “Thank you, though.”

He regards you silently for a moment, but simply shrugs his shoulders, “Fine.”

Sakusa turns to leave, heading off to the carpark when a sudden thought strikes you, and before you can think better of it, you call out to him, “Your lineshots were incredible today, by the way. You played well. And please don’t forget we’ve got an early start tomorrow!”

It’s a pointless statement, on both counts. Sakusa doesn’t crave praise the way some of his teammates do, and you can imagine how little it means coming from you of all people. He’s also the most punctual, usually the first in, preferring to get stretched and warmed up before the rest of the team arrived. But the change in plans was kind of last minute and a reminder never hurts.

Sakusa pauses mid-stride, glancing back at you once more over his shoulder. “I know,” he says, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but you swear there’s something different in his eyes as he stares back at you. Not angry per se, but… you can’t quite put a finger on it. It’s odd, you think, out of character for the usually aloof spiker. “Captain told us.”

—

It’s still dark when you arrive at the gym, and the lights are all off, not a soul in sight. That in itself doesn’t strike you as odd though, checking your phone you see that there’s still twenty or so minutes until you were all supposed to meet, but you would have thought that the coaches at least would’ve been here, or Sakusa maybe, if not Meian.

“Mornin’ princess,” a familiar voice drawls, and you jump a little at the sudden weight of his arm draping over your shoulders.

Atsumu’s smile is far too wide and upbeat considering it’s only a little after six in the morning. You’re used to a dead-stare, don’t-talk-to-me-until-I’ve-had-caffeine Atsumu, and it’s almost startling enough to make you forget the arm he has around you.

Either that, or you’re just bewildered that he’s actually arrived early for once in his life.

“You’re awfully chipper,” you mutter, trying to shove his arm off of you as you walk in tandem towards the gym. It’s a pointless endeavour - he replaces it a moment later, tugging you closer. “And early. Do you normally do this the day before the season starts, or can we expect to see you bright and early every morning for training?”

The corner of his lip quirks into a lazy smirk, and Atsumu laughs, “Nah, I’m actually late. All the others are already here.”

You’re halfway through fishing for the keys when he just pushes the door open, and you falter. “Wait- they’re here already?” you glance inside, and the lights are all still off and there’s not a soul in sight, but- “I thought Meian said we were meeting at 6:30.”

There’s something in the way that his smirk widens that’s almost unsettling, but he’s already pushing you forward, flicking on the lights as you pass.

“Oh, he did.”

Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, but it’s too early and you’re too tired to try and decipher Atsumu’s cryptic bullshit. He already has you on edge with how close he’s got you - you can feel the heat radiating from his body, the familiar scent of his cologne invading your nose. “Fine, whatever. Just- just put your stuff away, grab the others if they’re here and I’ll see you on the court in a few minutes.”

You try to shrug off his arm, but his grip only tightens, “Nope,” he says, firmly steering the both of you in the direction of the locker room.

“Miya,” you start, squeezing your eyes shut. You can already feel the beginnings of a headache taking root in your skull, but Atsumu just chuckles lightly, patting your shoulder. 

“Relax, wouldja? Jeeze, yer so tense!” 

With no other sound but the eerie echoing of your footsteps across the linoleum floors, his laugh is too loud, too grating. It sets you on edge, and you have to bite back a scowl of your own and remind yourself that you only have to put up with him a little longer - just until Meian gets here. Unperturbed by your silent irritation, Atsumu continues, “We know how hard you’ve been working lately. We came in early to say thank you, y’know, for everythin’ ya do for us.”

And for one split second, regret fills you, snuffing out the spark of irritation simmering through your veins. Here you are, seconds away from slapping the setter when he is - for the first time in his life - actually trying to do something nice for you. You sigh quietly, smoothing your expression over as he slows down and pulls you to a stop.

He lets you slide out from under his arm, your back to the locker room door, moving so that he’s standing directly in front of you. You open your mouth to speak, an apology on the tip of your tongue, but once again, Atsumu beats you to it. “Yer the best manager we’ve ever had.” He takes your hand in his, twining long fingers with yours and steps closer.

Too close.

“Atsu-”

“We really do care about you - love ya, even -  which is why it kinda felt like a kick in the balls when the Cap came and told us ya wanted some space. Said we were bein’ too ‘overbearing’ and ‘inappropriate’, just cause we want ya nice and close.” Dark eyes harden, “It hurt us, baby. You gotta realise that.”

The grip he has on your hand is painfully tight, but you don’t have a moment to focus on that. Not as Atsumu sweeps forward to close the distance between the two of you, his lips crashing against yours. Hungry. Demanding. A tongue snaking between your lips, melding with your own.

His arm snakes behind you to open the door, and for a moment you’re stumbling backwards into the dark-

Only it’s not dark, not as the blinding fluorescent lights flicker on around you, and you’re not stumbling, not as you collide with a warm, muscular chest and strong arms find your middle to steady you. 

“You took too long,” Bokuto whines, and you’re yanked from Atsumu’s hold and spun, barely having a second to register the gleaming golden eyes before he’s dragging you into a needy kiss of his own.

Dizzy, lightheaded, your heart thumping erratically, you can’t think straight as his hot, wet mouth moves against yours. Greedy fingers grope and squeeze at your body - utterly frozen in shock, pliant under his touch. 

“Aw, quit yer whining, Bokkun,” the blonde growls as Bokuto finally pulls back enough to grant you a few precious gulps of air, gazing at you with a kind of love sick adoration that makes your stomach clench. 

A scoff sounds behind Bokuto, “A bit rich, coming from you, Miya. The two of you just are as bad as each other.”

It’s then that you realise the three of you aren’t alone. Wide eyed, on the edge of hyperventilating, you glance over your shoulder to find two pairs of eyes watching; russet eyes blown wide, enraptured, and swirling black depths, narrowed and glaring over at the blonde. 

Hinata and Sakusa.

It doesn’t feel real. Even with everything they’ve done so far, their possessive behaviour, their smothering affection - even the kisses, it feels like a fever dream. 

Even as Atsumu’s fingers are tugging your jacket off and Bokuto drags you forward, you can’t bring yourself to accept it, to properly fight back against it.

(Not that it would make a difference. They’re professional athletes, and there’s four of them against one of you.)

When your eyes fill with tears, Hinata’s there to brush them away, smiling down at you as he shrugs his own shirt off. “Don’t cry, angel. We’re gonna make you feel amazing, just wait!”

His words don’t fill you with ease. They can’t, not when he has that manic excitement bleeding through his expression - the same one you know he gets when he’s lost in the game, flying across the court like the laws of physics don’t apply to him. 

Hands are on you everywhere, teasing and exploring, too many to keep track of. Your clothes are pulled off, tossed aside and discarded without a second thought, and theirs follow suit. Fingers are tweaking your nipples and palming at your breasts, smoothing over the curve of your ass and trailing between your legs to play with your clit. 

“So fuckin’ pretty, ain’tcha? Our pretty girl, gonna be such a good little cockwhore for us.”

There’s lips against yours, at your neck, trailing down the column of your throat with a pleased hum. And between the kisses, you think that you’re crying, pleading for them to stop and let you go, but nobody listens as you’re manhandled onto one of the benches.

Your legs refuse to obey you, trembling as you try to kick out and wriggle away, only for rough hands to find your hips and drag you back. “C’mon, baby. Be good for us, you’ve already made us wait so long.”

Somebody smacks your ass and you jolt, crying out, only for a hand to soothe over the welt, another squeezing at your hip in a mockery of reassurance. “Don’t make us have to hurt ya, sweetheart.”

It’s easier, you think, to just close your eyes tight and pray that any second now, you’ll wake up in your bed to the blaring of your alarm. But the moment they flutter shut, teeth digging into your bottom lip as fingers dig into your thighs, warm breath ghosting across your sex, a low voice whispers in your ear, “Look at me.”

And you have no choice but to obey, forcing your eyes open to find Sakusa standing to your side, stroking his cock. It’s pretty, you distantly think, and you suppose that it suits him. Well groomed, long but not terribly thick with a slight curve, flushed pink at the tip and glistening with the pre-cum beading at his slit. His other hand comes to rest on your cheek, cupping it with a gentleness that feels out of place, considering the hunger burning in the black depths of his irises. 

He doesn’t say another word as he coaxes your mouth open and guides your head forward to take his cock into your mouth, but the low moan that escapes him as your lips wrap around his length makes you shiver. 

Sakusa isn’t gentle as he fucks your mouth, his thumb stroking your cheek as fresh tears well, but it’s hard to focus on that alone when Hinata’s face disappears between your legs, his tongue laving at your cunt, eager for a taste of you.

It doesn’t take long for the other two to join, and you’re manoeuvred between them, forced to sit on Bokuto’s lap, his thick cock stretching you out while Hinata sits between your legs, diligently slurping at your folds, sucking at your clit, one fist wrapped around his own length, lazily pumping it. Sakusa continues to use your mouth to get himself off, uttering backhanded praise between instructions, hissing in pleasure when he hits the back of your throat and you choke around him, while Atsumu has one hand playing with your tits, the other gripping yours, forcing you to jerk him off. 

It’s too much for your brain to take. 

Your sobs and whimpers, already muffled thanks to the cock in your mouth, are lost to the symphony of grunts and moans, lewd squelching and the sound of skin slapping against skin. There’s too many hands touching you, too much pain fused with unwanted pleasure, overwhelming you as heat and panic and terror build up inside of you, and it feels like there’s an inferno burning beneath your skin, and you can’t breathe and you just want it all to stop, you want to wake up, and-

Suddenly, the door to the locker room snaps open, and all five of you freeze in place as the Captain stops dead in his tracks and eyes the scene before him. 

There’s no possible way for Meian to misconstrue it, not with everything you told him. Not with your face flushed and teary, your eyes glazed over and all but broken from the sick, twisted debasement his teammates have subjected you to. You’re naked, your body littered in love-bites and bruises, spread out before him like a feast.

And still, your eyes meet his, silently pleading for him to say something and stop this.

Meian takes a single step forward and a muffled whine leaves your lips as the cock inside of you twitches insistently. Sakusa draws his hips back, pulling himself free from your mouth, and despite the burn in the back of your throat, you swallow and try to speak.

“Please.” It’s little more than a squeak, hoarse and choked, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. 

The Captain barely acknowledges that you’ve spoken at all, his attention fixated instead on your body; the way your pussy’s clenching around the base of Bokuto’s length, the tremor of your thighs under Hinata’s rough hands, the way your tits rise and fall with every quickened breath, your lips, swollen and beautifully fucked, glistening with spit before finally, those dark eyes meet yours once more.

And slowly, a grin breaks across his face. “You’d better hurry it up, the others aren’t too far off.”

[angeli-marco-writes]

∘◦ ♪ ◦∘ Timothée Chalamet - Concerto ∘◦ ♪ ◦∘

A/N - I wrote and posted this almost a year ago on my Wattpad. My writing has evolved a lot since then, but I’m still proud of this piece, and hope you enjoy it. I do not know Tim, nor do I claim to in any way. This is a work of fiction and entirely my own. 

Warnings - smut. Detailed (but protected and consensual) sex, slight BDSM, overstimulation. Cursing. Legal alcohol consumption and smoking. Also 10k words of sickening fluff though, even the smut is fluffy.

Summary - At a classical music concert, the last person you expect to meet is a young man as charming and suave as Timothée. And the last thing you expected is for him to invite you back to his flat. Turns out music really is food for the soul, and other things...

IT’S A FRIDAY EVENING IN NEW YORK CITY. The sun is setting behind the towering silhouettes of undulating buildings all across the city, the moon casting shadows all around au contraire to the luminescence of building lights, beaming all around as well as the street lamps, bringing colour and light to people’s faces in the dark.

You’re standing on the pavement outside Symphony Space Concert Hall on the Upper West Side, people watching. Nothing more or less conspicuous, just observing everyone flooding into the hall, though none of them seem to be under 50 years of age. After checking the time, you take your phone out of the pocket attached to your delicate silk jumpsuit you’re wearing for the night, the one reserved for classy parties and sophisticated concerts only (though very handy). You open the email holding your ticket for the evening, a Poulenc appreciation concert, and you show it to the bouncer who grants you entry to the auditorium.

The room looks incredible. Photos of Francis Poulenc, as well as some old parchment sheets of his music spread out delicately over the usually bare walls. The lights create a perfect ambience in the hall for what's sure to be an incredible evening. The red velvet seats are half full, dotted with people at least twice your age, except from one seat near the front where you can see merely a defined jaw and brown curls. On the stage stands two glossy black grand pianos, slotted beside one another with plush velvet stools and their lids propped up, allowing one to see the inner workings of such wonderful instruments. Behind the pianos are seats enough for an entire orchestra, creating a crescent moon shape. A couple of the seats already have instruments atop them, aching for their owners to play beautiful melodies with them. You make your way down to where your seat is, familiar with the layout of the auditorium. You’re on the right hand side of the centre stalls, third row back, but as you arrive, there’s a boy you saw earlier, not much older than yourself.

“Hi, do you mind if I squeeze past?” You ask him, watching his head jolt up from the programme to reveal a mop of beautiful dark brown curls framing his chiselled face, piercing green eyes with flecks of hazel when the light changed direction. You recognise him, an actor, you simply can’t place him.

His look of incredulity melts into a smile. “Sure.” He says, moving his legs so that you can squeeze past and take your reserved seat on his left. He turns to face you, smiling. He’s wearing a crisp navy suit with a pale blue shirt and a matching tie. He looks well presented, and by his nervous and lopsided smile, you guess that he’s rather nervous to be at the concert alone too. “Timothée.” He tells you, holding his hand out.

You return his gesture, smiling right back at him, and tell him your name. “You here alone?” You ask him, turning in your seat to get a better view. He nods.

“Thought I’d be the only under fifty here.” He laughs, “I’m 24 by the way, but I shan’t ask your name since you're a lady.” You can't help but laugh at this, just a little giggle at how sweet he is, but your interaction is cut short as the lights turn down in the auditorium but shine brighter on the stage, and a full orchestra enters the stage, accompanied by their instruments, two pianists and a conductor. Murmurs in the hall settle down to a faint hum while the musicians tune to the sound of the oboe, and then begin to play.

The music is mesmerising, starting with orchestral pieces with faint piano accompaniment, then just a nocturne for piano, split between the two lead pianists. You could listen to it all night, but an interval has to come. As the lights slowly turn back up, you see an infantile smile on Timothée’s face, as though he’s just watched the most excellent thing in the world.

“Come on,” you say to him, smiling sadly while you tap his knee, “let’s get a drink.”

He reluctantly stands up to follow you out of the auditorium and to the small bar area. You order two margarita’s without consulting him, but he seems grateful as you sit beside each other on a high table, people watching once again.

“What's your job then?” He asks you, making small talk.

“I’m a piano major at Juilliard, teaching piano on the side though.” You respond, and he seems really taken aback. His jaw falls a little slack while his eyes bulge a tad.

“Wow, you must be excellent!” You blush a little at his words, elegantly taking a sip from your drink while he eyes you carefully. You feel awkward under his gaze, though flattered nonetheless. He’s gorgeous, and he’s complimenting you and accepting drinks from you, what a night.

“What about you?” You inquire. He's an actor, you know that, but asking means that you may be able to get some more context and maybe it’ll click where you’ve seen him before. He clears his throat, and you can see some older people walking by who pull faces, judging the pair of you, but you brush them off.

“I’m an actor, mainly small films though.” He says, remaining vague. You don’t push much more, realising that he probably likes not being fawned all over for once, so you simply ask of the favourite names he’s had the honour of working alongside, which must be an uncommonly asked question because a light flickers behind his eyes.

“Selena Gomez, Steve Carell, Armie Hammer, Saoirse Ronan, Emma Watson, Robert Pattinson, Maia Mitchell…” He begins to list, but only when he mentions Maia does it click. You aren't huge into films, but you have seen him in a film with Maia Mitchell and Maika Monroe a few years ago.

“Hot summer nights, right? You were in that?” His cheeks turn a magnificent crimson and he bows his head as though embarrassed. He mumbles something along the lines of ‘not my best performance’, but you disagree. “I think you were wonderful, and did you mention Armie Hammer?” He nods again, seeming a little brighter. You take another sip from your drink, and he follows suit, watching your poised movements.

“Call Me By Your Name.” You nod in recognition, you remember watching the film when it first came out and loving the music from it.

“You’re excellent you know, at piano I mean, and the intimate scenes aren’t half bad either, you make them better.” You say with a teasing smirk on your painted lips, making Timothée’s eyes widen again. You chuckle and grasp his hand, dragging him into the auditorium for the second half.

The second half is a whole concerto, Poulenc’s Concerto For Two Pianos And Orchestra. Ten minutes in, Timothée’s hand finds your thigh and seems very comfortable, so comfortable in fact that you don't dare move it. As the concerto flows further on, his hand slides further up your clothed leg and squeezes your upper thigh a little You tense under his touch, infatuation and lust filling every cell and exiting through your pores, just waiting for more passion to fill your body and make you drunk on the feeling.

When finally the concert ends, both of you stand to applaud the musicians for a solid few minutes, and you could swear you see a tear leaving Timothée’s mysterious eyes and rolling down his heavenly made, painfully defined cheekbones. While you clap, you surreptitiously edge closer together, millimetre by millimetre until you’re hip to hip with elbows nudging. Your head comes up to his chin, making you feel a little small, but you’ll feel even smaller once your heels come off. Once the majority of the audience have filed out, you grasp his hand and pull him through the crowds where you stand on the corner of the pavement, only metres from the venue. You’re reluctant to loosen your grip on his slim hand, as he is with yours.

“Cigarette?” He offers, holding a half full box out to you. You half smile and shake your head in refusal.

“I don’t mind if you do though.” You say, meeting his gaze. “I love the taste of smoke when I kiss someone.” You add in a whisper, leaning up on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. He goes rigid, making you smirk to yourself. This is going to be a good night.

He lights his cigarette and takes slow drag, only looking away to blow the smoke in an opposite direction to you. How respectful, you think, as your stomach fills with butterflies and bubbles with anticipation. He puts it out on top of a bin and throws it away without littering, and just that small and helpful gesture makes you crave his touch, having his fingers trace your sweaty skin and making your body tingle, your back arch with desire and pleasure.

“Wanna get a drink?” You ask, pointing to a nice bar across the road. You’re desperate to sleep with him, but not without pleasantries first. He, however, shakes his head and intricately entwines his fingers with yours.

“I’ll do you one better than a drink.” His smirk sets off a different kind of longing in you, forcing your body to follow him wherever he takes you.

As you walk, he starts conversation, but you’re so breathless from the desperation speed walking that your answers are brief. He asks you why you attended the concert, only to remember that you’re a music student and piano teacher; so in turn, you ask him the same question.

“When I was doing Call Me By Your Name, I had to learn the piano, and while I was learning classical pieces, I kind of just fell in love with classical piano music, I don’t know.”

His nervousness is sweet, making him appear far more humble than anyone of his stature would usually be.

You get to his building after a twenty minute dash in heels, and he pulls you flush against him while entering through the revolving doors, allowing you to lay your weight on him for a moment while you gather your breath. You feel his heartbeat thudding and racing against his ribs, reverberating against your own chest. You turn around to face him and place your hand on his chest.

“Breathe.” You say to him, allowing him to release a long held breathy chuckle. You leave the doors, both laughing, and fervently press the buttons to wait upon a lift. “So,” You then continue, breaking the silence where only your breaths were heard. “Favourite piano piece from the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack?”

“Hallelujah Junction!” You both answer at the same time, just as the lift doors open. You fall into the lift in a fit of giggles, clinging onto each other. You find yourself with your back pressed against the cold metal handle bar in the elevator with Timothée’s face inches away from your own. Your breath mingles together. As soon as he presses the button to his floor, he nudges his nose with your own.

“God, you're so beautiful.” he says seconds before his mouth is pressed hotly against your own, kissing you with an unrivalled passion. Your lips mould and move together like it’s second nature. His one hand holds your waist while both of yours grip his face, feeling a slight stubble.

The lift dings and he drags you out, unlocking his apartment door and leading you inside.

“Welcome to Casa del Timmy.” he says while hugging you from behind, allowing you to get a full view.

His apartment is stunning. Sleek, yet also vintage. Your eyes follow across the perimeter through a door to the left, where he has an office area containing a sleek white desk with a mac and a stack of papers and pens, next to it is a vintage white bookcase stacked as high as possible with novels of all shapes and sizes, and even an indie style rug underneath a colourful modern dining set..

The door next to the office is a kitchen, white countertops with wooden cupboards and a beautiful view of the city out of the window. To the right is a set of glass doors that open onto a small balcony where you can see the whole city, even Manhattan and Brooklyn depending which way you look and how the moon beams down. There’s a closed door right in front of you and through the entry hall and living room which you assume is his bedroom held behind a golden doorknob.

His living room, where you remain standing, holds an array of house plants with a couple of very comfortable looking plush sofas, his TV stand as well as his coffee table look like polished vintage items, refurbished from a flea market maybe, while his book shelf and rug are grand and modern. The best part of all though is a grand piano in an oak wood, matching the wood from his television table, and you become instantly entranced by the instrument that you don’t even notice the velvet stool or the perfectly organised cabinet of music, with a guitar propped up against it.

“Wow.” You breathe. Timothée grips you tighter, trailing kisses across your shoulder and up the side of your neck, inhaling every few seconds to treasure the scent of your perfume. Gardenia, rose champagne, grapefruit, davana; heavenly. You grip his hands with your own, holding them tightly where they’re settled on your tummy. You roll your head against his shoulder to give him better access to kiss you, but he stops abruptly and leads you to the piano stool. He opens the cabinet and pulls out a well loved piece of music.

“I know it’s for two pianos, but let's have some fun.” He says, grinning at you, an infectious smile that you can’t help but return. Hallelujah Junction, first movement. He puts the music out on the piano and takes a seat beside you, your thighs touching and hands overlapping as they begin to glide over the keys.

Playing this piece is second nature to you, allowing you to find your way easily, slipping your fingers between Timothée’s, and the white and black keys. You begin a harmonious melody spanning the whole of the piano, but after only a couple of pages, you realise that its not working as your notes cross over, making it very difficult to play on just one piano. You laugh together, but only for a moment before he is trailing his tongue up your neck, then your lips, and delving inside your mouth. You gasp, moaning into the passionate kiss that he’s giving you, and within seconds you find yourself straddling his lap on the piano stool. You trap his thighs between yours, moving and grinding your hips a little against his to receive more friction where you can feel how needy he is.

Within seconds, he has your legs wrapped around his waist and his teeth on your clavicle. The pleasure makes sounds escape your lips that you didn’t even realise were possible. You knot your ankles as he stands up with one hand around your waist and the other feeling his way around his apartment. After a few funny missteps and close calls of him dropping you while only walking the expanse of his living room, he pins you against his bedroom door, finding your lips again

He gently pokes at your dusty pink bottom lip with his tongue, slipping his tongue back into your mouth, exploring avidly and devouring every taste of you that he can muster. You do the same, but become too infatuated by his taste to put much more passion into it: gin, mint, bergamot and smoke. Smoke, sugar and sin, the most deadly combination of them all, and that's all you can smell on him, making you moan even louder. An erotic moan that makes Timothée twist open the handle to his bedroom door as quickly as is humanly possible.

He as good as throws you onto the bed, but undeniably, it turns you on a lot to see his dominant side this early on into the evening. He doesn't seem like the type to pin you down and boss you around, but as he shuts his bedroom door and delicately takes off his probably very expensive shoes, you can see a glint in his eye, almost as if he’s planning on doing unspeakably pleasurable things to you. Just the thought makes you wetter than before.

As he locks the door and shuts his shoes away, you take a quick look around the room. His bed is nice, comfortable and exquisitely large, like other things you hope. He has a nice colourful throw, vintage looking pillows to match his nightstand, holding only a pillbox, a glass of water, hand sanitiser, and a box of tissues. The simplicity makes you want to laugh, but you restrain yourself. He has a big dresser to match his bedside table with the drawers a little skewwhiff and clothes poking out. His wardrobe is fitted to the wall and by the looks of it, surprisingly neat too. That much cannot be said for his sofa though. A plush, light grey sofa sits on one side of his room just away from the window, and it's covered with clothes. At least he made the bed though, that's more than you can say for most 20-odd year old mans rooms that you’ve been into.

He sheds his blazer and crawls up to where he left you on the bed, needy and craving more. He looks down at you with desperation in his eyes, and you can’t help but to attack his lips, threading one hand in his beautiful dark curls while the other nimbly pulls open his tie and undoes his shirt. You shrug it off his shoulders and run your nails up and down his spine. You feel him shiver beneath his touch while your hands travel all over his body. His shoulders, his biceps, his toned stomach; he’s skinny, but has enough substance to him to be strong and sexy as hell.

“You’ll kill me if you stop.” He whispers, followed by a string of breathy curses. His eyes roll into the back of his head, giving you ample opportunity to grasp his shoulders and slip the pair of you over, pinning him beneath you. His eyes flit all over your face before kissing you again.

“You are so freaking beautiful.” He mumbles between kisses. He slips his hands up to find the zip of your jumpsuit which he slides down crazily fast, only breaking the kiss to shrug it off your shoulders. He just lies in awe, noticing that you don’t have a bra on beneath it. His tongue darts out from between his lips as he examines every undulation of your body, following the swell of your breasts right down to your hips. Your nerves return under his scrutiny, making you want to hide your face, but instead he holds your wrists behind you.

“You never have to cover up,” he says, nothing more or less than genuine love in his eyes, “not for me.”

Despite only meeting him hours ago, you know that you can trust him, so you ungracefully clamber off his lap and lie on your back to shimmy off your burden of a jumpsuit. He practically leaps at the opportunity to worship your body, before him in only your panties. He starts at your ankle, placing feather light kisses all the way from your ankle, up your leg, not minding the slight harshness of your legs, and only stops at your knee joint to switch his lips to his tongue, licking a straight line all the way up your inner thigh, stopping centimetres from where you need him the most. Not through any of this ritual does he break eye contact though. He skips over your panties and only pulls them down a little to trail kisses from your pelvic bone, up past your navel, through the valley of your breasts, and finally back to your lips. He makes you feel things that you could only dream of before meeting him.

“Timothée…” you breathe, hearing his breath hitch in his throat at the way your tongue curls around his name.

You reach between the two of you to his trousers. You undo the belt buckle with ease and push his trousers off his hips and down his thin legs, allowing him to kick them off at the bottom. He seems embarrassed, wearing Y-fronts that make more visible just how much he wants you.

“How about we strip together?” You offer, and Timothée reluctantly nods. He pushes himself off of you and stands up, giving you a hand to stand up as well. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you left the concert hall. “3, 2, 1…”

You both remove your underwear, pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them, only to step closer together so that your chests are flush against one another. He moves his hand up to cup your face, brushing your hair away from your face while tilting your chin up, capturing your lips in a lustful yet also sensual kiss.

He nudges you and your legs hit the bed, making you topple over and break the kiss from a giggle, but he doesn’t seem to mind and only laughs with you, moving your body further onto the mattress. He doesn't go to you again, he just lies beside you and dances his fingers absently down your pubic bone, ghosting circles around your clit.

“Jesus Christ.” You exclaim at the sudden feeling. Timothée kisses your jawline, but adds in between kisses, “Less of that, darling, I’m Jewish.”

You can’t help but laugh at him. You know he’s joking, just trying to mess with you, but as a punishment for laughing, he thrusts two fingers inside you with no warning, making you cry out in a mixture of both pain and overwhelming pleasure.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you, never going deeper than the second knuckle even when you cry out for more. Only when your moans turn to gasps for breath and you’re writhing beneath him does he delve in further and add his thumb to your clit, giving you a more intense orgasm than you’ve ever had before.

You immediately feel blood rushing back to your cheeks, colouring them from embarrassment, but Timothée doesn’t mind. He removes his hand from your core, and makes sure your eyes are fixated on his every movement as he licks his hand clean of all your cum. You’re so turned on that you even reach for his own hand, interlacing all your fingers except for his index one, of which he takes the hint and slips it into your open mouth, allowing your tongue to curl around it, making him groan.

He slips further down the bed and locks his eyes onto yours, you can see different shades of green and hazel in them and a whole world locked behind those beautiful eyes. Slowly, he delves into your heat, licking up everything that his hands missed. His mouth works wonders, sending your mind into a state of mild euphoria. The tip of his nose nudges your clit and you can feel yourself involuntarily gasp, so when Timothée finishes savouring every taste of you that he can get, he harshly bites your sensitive clit for just a moment, stimulating parts of your mind and body that you didn’t know could feel pleasure, let alone pleasure that intense.

He comes back up and kisses your lips, planting his hands in your hair as you kiss him back and get lost in the moment, your tongues dance together in an exploration, an experimentation of passion.

You pull away after a minute or so, gasping for air. Timothée examines your face for a moment, and you find yourself once again losing your thoughts and sanity in his eyes, until you feel the tip of his throbbing cock brush against your bare thigh. You feel bad for how much he’s been neglecting his own levels of desire in order to pleasure you, so you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. He takes a sharp intake of breath and flutters his eyes closed, his long dark eyelashes twitching alongside his eyelids whenever you grasp harder or pump him.

He’s surprisingly big, causing you to take longer while rubbing your hand up and down his member. Half way down one thrust, you squeeze his cock a little, hearing him whimper a little. The mere sound of him drowns your core in want. You edge your way down the bed and swallow as much of his dick as you can take until his tip hits the back of your throat. He lets out the most sensual guttural groan that you’ve ever heard, his eyes still closed while placing his hand on the back of your head to keep you steady. You bring your head back up to look at him while your tongue swirls his tip, his mouth is parted a little with breathy moans of your name escaping every once in a while, his eyelids switching from being lazily half open to squeezed so tightly shut that they wrinkle a little.

You go back down slowly, inch by inch, hollowing your cheeks. You work your hand in the part of him that won’t fit in your mouth and continue to bob your head up and down. You lick a strip up a vein on the underside of his dick, making him near enough scream your name. With one final bob of your head where you deep throat him, you pull away with plump lips, climbing up his body to straddle his waist. He looks up at you with wide and loving eyes, pulling you down for a sensual kiss.

“Are you clean?” He asks breathlessly, kissing down the hickeys that he’s already littered your skin with.

“Yeah, i got tested after my last break up a few months ago, and I haven’t been with anyone since. Is that because I just…” He nods and you laugh a little, the vibrations from his chuckle rumble throughout your body.

“I did the same, but I’ll still…” You get what he’s saying and climb off him. He flings open the top drawer of his bedside table and after a minute or so of rooting through it he pulls out a condom packet and places it next to his glass of water. You give him a questioning look with your brows knitted together, but Timothée just smiles at you. He slips one slim arm beneath your back and the other under your knee joint before scooping you up and holding you close to his chest.

“Well hey there Timothée.” You say with a chuckle, secretly astonished at how strong he is, because with one arm still holding you, he throws away the decorative pillows and pulls the duvet back, throwing you onto the mattress and leaping on top of you. You smile into his kiss, savouring every second of the feel of his lips pressed hotly against your own, the taste of smoke driving you crazy.

He pulls away and sits up, tearing open the condom packet and grasping his hand sanitiser. He flicks the lid open and squeezes it liberally onto his hands before applying it and rubbing it into yours. “Are you sure?” He asks you, and your urgent kiss to his jawline is followed by a string of fervent reassurances that you are desperate to have him inside you, though you respect that he wants consent and that he wants to be clean. He slips the condom on, his eyes trained on your lips and the way they part from wanting every few seconds. He’s enjoying torturing you and making you wait, the same way that you edged him but denied him orgasm.

He slips the condom on and slowly enters in one smooth stroke. You gasp at the contact, especially how deep he goes with the first thrust, so deep that his pubic bone hits your own. He reaches for the duvet and he pulls it up over his shoulders, covering the pair of you since he can see that you’re shivering a little in the open. He looks for reassurance, but then begins to thrust inside you, holding his weight above you. You can see his biceps tensing while trying to hold his weight up and keep a steady rhythm.

“How about we spice this up?” He suggests, a sly smirk playing on his lips. He cocks an eyebrow, and the sun hits his face at an angelic angle, only making him more beautiful. You nod eagerly to him, only making his smirk grow wider.

“Yes Mr Timothée,” you say, triggering a dominant smirk to relight behind those stunning eyes.

“That's Mr Chalamet to you tonight, Miss.” Words cannot even explain how wet he makes you by saying that, already making your mind want to submit to his every want. You let out a whimper and remove your hands from his hips to lay above your head on the pillows. He joins his fingers around your wrist and proceeds to lay his slender hand flat against your wrists, preventing you from moving.

“Is this okay?” He asks, his movements coming to a halt. You nod and kiss him again. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

He must really enjoy what he’s doing to you. “Yes Mr Chalamet.” You reply, making your eyes as doe like and innocent as possible.

Timothée’s thrusts restart, faster this time. You moan louder, ecstasy filling every inch of your spent body before you’ve even properly begun. His moans are lower, more like groans, all of your name. It sounds heavenly coming from his lips, the way his mouth moves when he says your name just makes it better. His hips hit yours with vigour, adjusting to get a better position where he hits the best spot inside of you.

“There Timothée!” You scream desperately, your back arching on the mattress while your hands fight to break free. Submitting isn’t as easy as you hoped.

“I’m close.” He warns you and frees your wrists, but he doesn’t let your hand go too far. He interlocks his fingers with yours, using one elbow to prop himself up. His thrusts turn sloppy, more fervent, and just as he’s finishing, he digs his thumb into your clit.

Your entire body turns limp, screaming his name in a state of complete euphoria like you’ve never felt before. It travels from your brain to the tips of your fingers, setting a fire in your belly and making your toes curl. Your back arches so far off the bed that your chest becomes pressed against Timothée’s, your breasts moving in time with his breathing. You feel him come to his own climax, silencing his screams by kissing you with more passion than he has before.

You ride out your highs, but the level of pleasure illuminating every nerve ending in your body means that you don’t notice Timothée pulling out and disposing of the condom, you only notice when he flops down beside you on the bed and pulls you closer to his slightly sweaty body. You rest your head on his chest that seems to be glowing in the moonlight from the sheen of sweat. He absently plaits your hair, staring off into the distance. The faint thudding of his heart within his ribs comforts you, it's a little faster than would be normal, making you smile a little.

“How was that?” His hand grips around your shoulder even tighter, pulling you closer to his body. He seems content in simply holding you, maybe he just enjoys cuddling. “Wait, don’t answer that.” He corrects himself, his pupils dilating and his excellent, angelic body going rigid. You chuckle to yourself, drawing circles on his chest with the pad of your forefinger,

“Excellent, Mr Chalamet.” You tease him.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” He looks fearful, fretting, it's evident in the sudden sulk of his face, pulling his cheeks and forehead down. You shake your head again, slowly but surely moving your leg to lie over his. Ye inclines his neck to place a gentle kiss to our hairline, and you can feel him smile into it.

“Timothée?”

“Yes beautiful?” Just his simple words make you giggle and blush, such a sweet sentiment from a gorgeous and well meaning man.

“I’m hungry.” You say, feeling slightly embarrassed. He laughs, you feel his body move from it, and he proceeds to pepper your face with the softest and sweetest kisses possible.

“I’ll make us some food, grab any shirt you want and meet me in the kitchen.”

You watch him pull on a pair of grey sweat pants and walk out. His pale hips sway just a little as he walks, and he looks so lanky from where you’re laying on his bed, the covers pulled up around your chest. He kissed your forehead before heading to the kitchen, what kind of a man does that on the first night? He’s a famous actor and the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, let alone a couple of years above yourself. He really knows how to please a girl, your skin rises in tiny goosebumps of pleasure while a shiver shoots down your spine and leaps across your synapses just at the mere thought of what he did to you, by far the best climax you’ve ever had.

You slowly slide out from under his warm, plush covers that smell just like him, only leaving with severe reluctance that melts away as soon as you shrug on the pale blue button down that he wore for the concert. Only a few hours ago you’d met at a concert for old people, already having a common interest that few your age have, yet he’s so eager about classical piano which is so special to you. You fiddle with the buttons, leaving the top few open in hopes of another round - he is making you an almost-midnight feast after all.

You walk out of his room and pad barefoot across his living room floor, only to have a little grey cat come and rub at your feet. You lean down to tickle behind its ears, hearing it meow, and you continue your way too where Timothée has left the kitchen door open for you. He’s standing over the stove with some ingredients laid out on the spotlessly clean countertops. You smile in spite of yourself, running a hand through your messy hair before wrapping your arms around his torso from behind. You place a couple of kisses to his shoulder blades until he turns around and picks you up in one swift movement, sitting you on the counter so that you meet his height.

“It looks better on you.” He whispers, pulling you closer by your bare thighs to plant a kiss on your lips. He’s making you feel things you’ve never experienced before, you can’t wipe the smile off your face for the first time in a while, and he's making you food in the middle of the night after cuddling you.

Dreamboat.

After watching him cook for a while, you slip out of his kitchen and take a seat at his piano. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, it’s well loved but well kept. Then you take a seat on the stool. You can feel where Timothée sits to play, your smile turning a little sad. There’s so much to him that people won’t see because he’s getting famous, but he’s still a person and that’s something that you’re able to experience first-hand.

Eyes closed, you feel for F and Ab with both of your hands. You press the keys down gently, creating the soft blend of notes that is Clair De Lune. You fall lost in the music in a new way, a new feeling washing you with all of tonight's new sensations and sitting at a piano that is neither your own nor at school, it feels somewhat ethereal.

Your fingers glide all across the keys, black to white, flats to sharps, switching between octaves like its second nature. Your mind dances along with the rhythm, your whole mind, soul and being becoming lost in the symphony that you’re creating, one that you haven’t been able to create for a while, and it’s only thanks to Timothée.

You become so absorbed in playing that you don’t notice him leaving the kitchen to listen. He just stands in the doorway, leaning against it with his head lolled a little to the side, completely mesmerised by your movements, your music, and just everything you are. Only when you play the final notes are you alerted of his presence from the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. He walks over to you with purpose, a slight grimace on his perfect lips, but he just hugs you. Timothée just holds you close to his chest, allowing you to entwine your arms around his neck and nuzzle your face in his bare chest.

“Stay the night?” He asks, such a simple request but he truly does seem anxious. You want to be genuine, kind, but it’ll be best to relieve the tension.

“You’re making me a late night post-sex feast and giving me your shirt, of course I’m staying the night.” After a moment of silence, he exhales a laugh and node, brushing a curl or two into his face. “Anyway, your cat likes me too, so it’d be a shame to disappoint the little cutie.”

After only a few minutes, you find yourself back in bed with Timothée. He’s carrying a tray full of food that looks and smells gorgeous, followed by his cat who decides to dance between his legs. He serves you a strangely shaped piece of an odd looking pizza, though it still looks excellent, and it has some perfectly cooked and seasoned vegetables next to it on a white plate.

“What is this?” You ask him as kindly as possible.

“Flammekueche with some vegetables. It’s a French pizza with crème fraiche and bacon. My dad makes it all the time and always gives me some that I just freeze and reheat. I can only make microwave meals and vegetables, so this isn’t bad for me.” The way he explains it makes him so endearing, and even makes the food seem more than enticing. “You’re not allergic to anything are you? Or vegetarian?” You shake your head with a smile, kissing him and thanking him for the meal even though he won’t let you touch it before you sanitise your hands.

You talk the whole while that you eat, learning little things about his favourite books and his family. His favourite book just happens to be Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, a book you both know and love, and Timothee has a Jewish mother, a French father, an older sister, and he grew up in the city. You however are from out of the city with an exceptionally normal family, and your favourite book is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. He seems to be growing fond of you, wiping the pizza sauce from your lip, followed by a kiss each time.

He places your plates on the floor as soon as you finish, snatching at the speed of light for some hand sanitiser, lube and another condom. You more than happily oblige with all of his steps and strip off his shirt, kissing the living daylights out of him before he’s even slotted the condom on. He kisses you back with equal fervour nonetheless, exploring your whole mouth with the tip of his tongue. He cautiously adds some lube to the sides of the condom and slips into you while you’re still atop him. You moan at the penetration, arching your body forwards and hereby giving Timothée a full view of your breasts and the way they bounce with his every thrust inside you.

You moan pornographically at his slow and passionate movements upwards and deep inside you, finding your special spot within moments. He settles his hands upon your hips, squeezing them and guiding your every movement. You ride him just the way he wants you to, you can see it in his eyes. He looks at you like a teenage boy would at a naked supermodel, of which you are only naked and most definitely not a supermodel, despite him treating you like one, and Timothée is thankfully older than a teenage boy yearning for sex.

“You look so fucking brilliant.” He tells you, admiring the way that your face contorts with pleasure while taking every inch of him.

You rhythmically grind your hips against him, swirling them occasionally just to hear him cry out. Nothing is a hinderance from you going faster, but this sex isn’t needing to be urgent to be satisfying. He squeezes your hips harder and you decides to move up a little further, bouncing back down on him as he becomes buried to the hilt in your desperate core. You do it again, engulfing him anew and moaning his name continually from the mix of friction and pleasure that’s sending you into another euphoria, but not enough to release again just yet.

Timothée still hasn’t taken his eyes off you, namely your breasts where he’s currently focussed, eyes trained on your hardened nipples - partly from not wearing a shirt and partly from Timothée’s ministrations. He leans up and captures your left nipple in his mouth, sucking and kissing and swirling his tongue around you in the most divine way possible. He moves his hands away from your hips too, allowing you to grind your hips on his in any way that you like. His one hand moves to your other breast, tweaking and pulling at your right peak and sending sensations through your body that you’d never realised could be real before; while his other slips to the rounds of your ass, squeezing delectably.

“Mr Chalamet, p-please,” you find yourself begging, leaning down while still riding him, his torture on your breasts never ceasing, not even when he thrusts his hips up one final time, allowing your core to devour him whole and sending you into your third otherworldly climax of the night.

“Timothée!” You scream, your climax pouring out of you. You feel him come too, and you hear him cry out your name like a blessing.

He doesn’t pressure you, he just waits until you’re able to clamber off him with as minimal pain and exhaustion as possible, though you do whine at the loss of contact as you lie beside him, his arms securely around you and holding you as close to him as possible. It doesn’t matter that you’re both sweaty or spent, it just feels special.

“Look at that, done before 1am.” He chides, cuddling into you. You laugh a little at him, especially his humour, but it is rather remarkable.

“Two rounds, a meal, and a concert. Can’t speak for you, but I’m knackered.” He smiles at you sleepily, passing you the shirt that you wore earlier. You shrug it on and do it up while Timothée puts his joggers back on and draws the curtains, leaving the two of you in dark for the most part. You lie further down, still close to his thin chest, you hear his breathing rattle a little, but it's soothing.

“Night beautiful.” Is the last thing you hear before falling asleep in his arms.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

The only issue about sleeping with Timothée is that you forget it's a Saturday morning, and on Saturdays, you have to work. Your phone alarm starts to go off at 7.15 precisely, which when you’re home, gives you enough chance to get ready for teaching in a calm manner so that you aren’t already angry before teaching little children how to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Today however, that is not the case.

Timothée sleeps through it somehow, but your eyes are shocked wide awake, causing you to leap from the comfort and warmth of his bed and cuddles just to crawl on the floor in search of your phone and where it fell last night. You find it next to his door somehow, and switch the alarm off immediately, propping yourself up against the door to release a long held breath and to watch the sun rise through his windows. He looks so beautiful asleep, his lips parted slightly, soft snores escaping every so often, dark eyebrows furrowed and his mop of curls haphazardly lying around him like a halo. The morning glow makes his cheekbones appear even more defined.

You want to gather your belongings without waking him, get dressed and catch a cab back to your flat, but just as you go to open his door, he stirs.

“Where do you think you’re going beautiful? Come back to bed, I’m keeping you here with me forever.” You know he’s joking, and his words melt your heart and inhibitions a little, but you can’t justify staying

“I have to work, my first student is at 9.30.” You say, walking across to stand beside his bed and brush some hair off his forehead, kissing him and your lips lingering on his sweaty skin a little longer than they probably should have.

“And? I’ll drive you home in time, if you live near Juilliard then I know a shortcut. Just come back.” He's virtually pleading, puppy eyes and quivering lip just to add to the effect, and you simply can’t say no when he looks so perfect. You place your things on the floor by the bed and slip beside him, allowing your eyes to flutter shut just a moment longer.

His finger traces your naked body beneath the shirt, focussing on the bruises he left on your hips and the marks on your neck. Just his touch is enough to take control of your body, to give you goosebumps, to electrify every feeling of love and lust held within.

“Can I use your shower please?” You ask him, and he nods, placing his chin atop your head.

“I’ll take you to my bathroom and then I’ll make you breakfast. Grab whatever clothing you want from my room, but you can’t leave this bed until you agree to dinner with me tonight.”

Your heart rate increases tenfold at his gesture, and you want to take a leap of faith and say yes straight away, but that would be playing your cards too quickly. “We’ll see.” You respond sultrily, making your way to leave, but his strong grip pulls you flush against him with no space to move. You can hear him laughing in your ear.

“Say yes to dinner and then you can leave.” He slips his hands further down your front without losing his grip and decides to toy with your clit as though it’ll get you to talk.

“Y-yes! God, Timothée, of course I’ll go to dinner with you, just don’t stop!” You find it impossible to understand the shockwaves of pleasure pulsating and electrifying your every sense from an action as simple as the pads of his fore and middle fingers twisting and pressing your sensitive clit. It’s so incredible that after the previous night, it feels like overstimulation, and you can’t get enough.

“I’ll never stop.” He murmurs gruffly into your ear, you can hear the hoarseness that smoking causes but god it sounds and tastes so good.

He pulls your body closer and rolls you over. “Hey baby.” You say as calmly as you can, but within seconds you find yourself sitting on his face, half of his stunning bone structure lost beneath you. He delves his tongue into your already dripping heat, licking as far as he can get and only pulling away to kiss and suckle at your clit.

“Let me come Mr Chalamet!” You cry out, and with one final swipe of his tongue around your core and a squeeze of your ass, you let go. Timothée licks you clean while you still chant his name, and he proceeds to pick you up in order to carry you to the bathroom. You settle your heels at the base of his spine, digging in a little, and his arms tense beneath your ass from the manner he carries you. You like being above him, able to trace every line and bit of stubble on his face with your focussed eyes that he stares so deeply into at any given chance.

“Don’t be too long or I’ll be tempted to join you.”

You slowly cross the threshold of the bathroom, winking at him as you close the door. He inaudibly groans, but you can tell from his facial expression and the tension in his joggers that make him look utterly sexy. You slowly unbutton his shirt, reluctant to take it off, but when you step under the warm jet of his shower, that reluctance washes away along with any inhibitions you may have had about Timothée. He’s an angel: clean, respectful, enjoys classical music, has a cat, isn’t a cocky dickhead, and he’s literally the most gorgeous human being that you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You run your fingers through your hair, standing directly beneath his showerhead. The steam clouds your vision, but you can hear Timothée singing while he cooks, Mystery of Love. What a dork, you think, chuckling to yourself while you rinse Tim’s shower gel from your body, and you just know that after this you’ll smell like him, but he smells delectable. As the water hits the most sensitive parts of your body, you remember the previous night. Just the thought of what he did to you makes you crave his touch again.

Through the bathroom window, you can make out the New York traffic that builds every morning, accompanied by the screeching of tires and sirens and car horns. Despite it being a ruckus, it's soothing as you step out the shower and wrap yourself in one of Timothée’s fluffy towels.

“How do you look so sexy when you’re getting out of the shower? God, I can't stress it enough, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life, even without any makeup and with your hair un-styled, just wrapped in my Goddamn towel. You’re gonna be mine, mark my words.” You feel tears come to your eyes at his kind words, watching him purposefully walk from the kitchen and all the way across his apartment just to place his hands on your waist and tell you how beautiful you are. Those words are better than a concerto to you.

Once you’ve finished getting dry in his bedroom, you ferret through his drawers until you pull out a white top with various tie dye patterns across it. It’s cute, very Timothée. You pull it on and it reaches your mid thighs, making it clock in your head just how much of a lanky lad he is. You bundle together your stuff and head out of his room, closing the door behind you and greeting him with a kiss. He sits you at the breakfast bar and serves you a proper cooked breakfast: bacon, scrambled eggs, and pancakes.

“There's ketchup and syrup in the cupboard if you’d like.” He offers, sidling up on the seat beside you, nudging the tip of your nose with his thumb. The smile hasn’t left your face since you met him.

“This is good, you’re an excellent cook.” You tell him, resting your hand on his. His cheeks glow an even brighter red in the cascading morning sunlight, dappled by his blinds, but he looks magnificent despite his embarrassment.

You take out your phone, just to take a picture of the breakfast while it’s still untouched, and of your hand held by Timothée’s, already wearing rings. You notice that he’s already wearing a silver chain too, and a couple of bracelets on the wrist away from your own, which you find unusually attractive.

“I wish you could stay all day.” he whispers, placing his forehead on yours.

“Me too.” you say softly, smiling sadly and caressing his cheek.

You finish your breakfast and make your way to the living room in a strange kind of waltz orchestrated by Timothée. He insists on holding your waist and turning around a little, moving your feet in sync until you yank him down onto the sofa, catching his lips mid sigh which leads to a much more passionate make out session than you anticipated. Once that’s over, he plaits your hair beautifully, explaining how it used to calm his sister down before an audition. By the time he’s finished a very good pair of plaits, you check the time and it’s already 9, time for you to leave with NYC traffic, but Tim won’t let you go.

“Not without a photo.” He insists, but you question his reasons. Who would want a photo of you with wet hair in plaits, an oversized tee-shirt and a bare face? But his answer is too sweet to refuse. “I like taking pictures of beautiful things, and of which, you are the most beautiful.” Your cheeks flush a raging scarlet, and Timothée takes your few moments of silence as the perfect opportunity to take a picture of you, sunlight hitting your face in all the right places, and he takes another for good measure, his hand on your cheek and his lips on yours, a kiss that shuts you up for good.

He takes you down the stairs right to the garage where he keeps his car, and surprisingly, it’s an understated car, not crazily extortionate nor flashy, something which you respect highly. He sits you in the passenger side, making sure to kiss you before closing the door, and he gets in the driver's side. After starting the engine and leaving the parking lot, he lays his palm flat against your thigh and keeps it there the whole drive while you change gears for him. You tell him all about your childhood, your high school, your time in uni while he tells you his life at a performing arts high school and then his life as an actor, he truly fascinates you.

Once he pulls up outside your building, he tries to convince you to let him come in, or at least walk you to your door, but on the grounds of not scaring the life out of your neighbours and students, you say no with a promise to see him later.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight that you won’t be able to walk.” He says, pulling you in for a final passionate kiss before you step out of the car. He made you wet just before you have to work, you’ll get him back later, but the revenge melts as soon as he leans out the window to blow you a kiss and tell you how stunning you are.

You’re so lost in your trance of Timothée that you don’t notice your first student tapping you on the shoulder and excitedly saying “Was that the Timothée Chalamet?”

You chuckle to yourself, watching him drive off into traffic, all for you. “Yes it was love, yes it was.”

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Lovestruck - fic

Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, kinda Dick Pairings: future!jondami, implied-kinda?timkon, also timbernard Summary: Damian starts acting weird after Tim and Bernard begin dating. Turns out even this kid can be naive, and a total idiot, when he wants to be. A/N: idk a headcanon I couldn’t stop thinking about haha. Damian is absolutely one of those genius kids who don’t know the most basic things. Also if it’s not clear, Damian is comparing Tim’s answers to what he likes in people to if they match Conner. all ages are current canon so Tim is immortal and Damian is 14 mkay bye.

~~

When Tim started dating Bernard, he expected a lot of different things. He expected Bruce’s protectiveness, Dick’s softness, Jason’s gift of XL condoms, Cassandra’s date suggestions and even Stephanie’s own prepared shovel talks for his new paramour.

But he did not expect…well, this.

He did not expect to see Damian sitting on the front porch when Bernard brought him home from their third date. He did not expect Damian to start furiously writing in the notebook on his lap at the sight of them.

He did not expect to come down to breakfast and see the kitchen table scattered with notes and lists and images of way too pretty people, pictures of Bernard and Steph among them.

“…What are you doing?” Tim found himself asking sleepily.

“Research.” Damian replied simply, sipping thoughtfully from a mug on the island. “None of your concern.”

“Oh yeah?” Tim asked as he approached. Instantly he tapped the photos of Steph and Bernard. “So why are there pictures of my ex-girlfriend and current…boyfriend here?”

His stomach still did giddy jumps at the thought.

Damian’s lips twitched, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then he reached out and slid the photos underneath some papers. “Just…persons of interests.”

“For?”

“None of your concern.” Damian reiterated. Quickly, he began to shuffle all of his papers and pictures together. “Jeez, what does that Dowd boy even see in you…”

And then he was gone before Tim’s pre-caffeine mind could catch up.

After that, Damian was less obvious, but Tim could still catch on. In fact, everyone was catching on. But, like the emotionally constipated Bats they were, no one said anything, or tipped their youngest off.

They all just watched, as he suddenly began to distantly follow Tim around. Around the house, around the city, both as a civilian and in uniform. It was Cassandra who declared that Damian was watching who Tim was interacting with, not necessarily him.

He never followed him on his dates, though.

Then came the questions. Every time they were together. They’d go to lunch downtown near the office, and Damian would ask:

“Do you like that girl’s hair?”

“Would you ever wear those shoes?”

“How much do you respect a person if their suit jacket doesn’t fit them properly?”

When they’d be staking out a suspect on a building overlooking a street corner, he’d say:

“That belt is too gaudy.”

“You can tell he spent way too many hours in the mirror getting ready to go to that disgusting dive.”

“I can’t believe she’s walking on this street in those heels. Would you go for comfort or fashion?”

And it continued, the following, the seemingly random questions. After a while, Tim chalked it up to…maybe Damian was just getting to know him. Just trying to actually get along for once in their lives. They were both getting older, more mature. Maybe it was just time they started acting like what they were.

Brothers.

But then he came home one afternoon to find Dick standing in the manor’s foyer, back leaning against the wall that led into the central sitting room they all used. It was almost evening, which meant Damian was most likely in there sketching, or reading with his pets.

Dick noticed him open the door, and quickly put a finger to his smiling lips. Tim nodded and silently closed the door behind him, carefully took off his shoes and jacket, then tiptoed over to Dick.

He peeked around Dick’s shoulder. Sure enough, Damian was in there, but he was standing at the fireplace, staring down into the flames.

Jason sat in the loveseat behind him.

“Jay just got in there. He hasn’t said anything yet.” Dick breathed. Tim frowned skeptically. Surely Damian knew who was in the house. Knew there was something going on if Jason had just sought him out.

“What are we interrogating him for?” Tim whispered back. “Did he lose one of Alfred’s recipe books again?”

Dick just shook his head and pointed into the room. Tim looked back in.

Jason was relaxed in the chair, but staring intensely at his youngest brother. Damian must have known that, felt his eyes, because he wasn’t looking up. Kept his gaze glued to the fire at his feet.

Suddenly, Jason huffed, crossing his arms. “Spill.”

“Spill what.” Damian rolled his eyes.

“Spill why you’re stalking Tim.” Jason said bluntly. “Why you’re asking him all those dumbass questions.” A pause. “…Why you’re keeping tabs on his boyfriend.”

Tim inhaled sharply, glaring up at Dick. Dick waved both his arms quickly, implying that Jason’s words weren’t true, that it was just to catch Damian off guard.

“I’m not keeping tabs on him, Todd. That’s ridiculous.” Damian countered. “I’m merely making sure they’re still together.”

A moment to let the fire crackle.

“Well, I’m also making sure that boy isn’t hurting or manipulating Drake in some way.” Damian murmured softly. “But mostly, I’m just making sure they’re still together.”

Jason crossed his ankle over his knee. “Why?”

“What, I can’t be concerned for my brother’s safety and happiness?”

Jason snorted. “Not that brother’s.”

Damian glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. Then back to the fire.

Jason waited a minute, let his eyes dart across Damian’s back, study his posture. “…Why are you so concerned if Tim and his new boy-toy are still together?”

Damian shrugged silently.

“Don’t do that.” Jason scolded. “Use your words, Damian. Like a big boy.”

Damian let out a frustrated exhale. “I’m just…confirming Drake isn’t looking elsewhere.”

“What, to cheat on his boyfriend?” Jason drawled. “Timmy’s not the cheating type, I can tell.”

“No. No.” Damian said sternly. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying!” Damian threw his arms out. Let them fall back to his thighs with a slight smack. “…I’m saying I’ve seen him look at others the way he looks at Bernard Dowd and that is…concerning. …To me.”

“Others?” Jason questioned. “What others?”

“Like Conner Kent!” Damian finally spun around now. Jason’s eyebrows rose in surprise and Damian rolled his eyes again. “Oh don’t tell me you don’t see it. Those two have been flirting with each other since the damn day they met. Drake dating this boy now only confirms the possibility of their eventual coupling.”

Jason let his face settle back into neutral, let the words bounce around in his brain. “Okay…I guess I can agree with that.”

Tim glanced up at Dick, who gave him a wink. Tim’s face instantly went beet red.

“But that still tells me nothing.” Jason continued. “So Tim and Conner maybe had or have crushes on each other. Maybe they’re attracted to each other. Maybe they’re forever star-crossed and nothing will ever happen. So what? Why does that bother you?”

Damian kept his lips pressed firmly together. After a moment, he spun back towards the fire.

“…Damian?”

“…Because it would be weird.” Damian said at last. “It would be weird if he and Conner…”

Damian’s voice fell to an unintelligible mumble.

“What?” Jason asked gently. “I didn’t catch that.”

Damian mumbled again, still impossible to understand.

“Kid, you’re gonna have to speak up, okay. I can’t hear you-”

“I said it would be weird if he was dating Conner while I was dating Jon!” Damian yelled, whirling around once more. “And if he breaks up with Dowd and starts dating Conner before I can gain the courage to talk to Jon then I’ll lose my chance!”

His last words echoed in the space around them. Floated into the hallway and echoed up the stairs, too.

Not that anyone noticed. Tim had grabbed Dick’s bicep, while Dick had thrown a hand over his own mouth in surprise.

“Oh my god.” Tim whispered. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

“That…” Dick murmured. “That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Jason, luckily, had more composure than the two of them, and suddenly Tim realized why it was Jason doing the prodding, not Dick.

Jason’s eyes had just widened, no other movement than that. He remained still, remained calm, even as Damian’s face darkened, and embarrassed tears appeared in the corners of his eyes.

“Oh.” He said simply. “Oh, Damian.”

“Shut up.” Damian crossed his arms again, but they all knew this time it was to hold himself. “Don’t…don’t make fun of me.”

“Never.” Jason promised. “But also, not a thing you need to worry about.”

“Why, because Jon will turn me down anyway?” Damian whispered bitterly, turning away. Not towards the fire this time, just the window.

“He’d be an idiot to, and I’ll beat the shit out of him if he does.” Jason said as he uncrossed his legs and leaned his elbows on his knees. “No, I mean, you don’t need to worry about it because it wouldn’t be weird if y’all just so happened to be double-dating.”

Damian waited, then glanced back at Jason. “It wouldn’t?” Jason smiled and shook his head. “There isn’t like…I mean…a law…?” He inhaled slowly. “If Drake and Conner started dating, wouldn’t that make Jonathan and I…related?”

“That’s only if they got married, and even then, wouldn’t be weird.” Jason shrugged. “What, you’ve never heard those stories of like…twins marrying another set of twins? That shit happens all the time. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Damian blinked owlishly, let his hands fall back to his sides. “…Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Jason laughed, standing. “Besides, Tim seems to really like Blondie whats-his-name so…I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.” A second, to cheekily add: “At least…not right now.”

Damian twisted his lips. “I told you their chemistry was obvious.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so is Bruce and Clark’s if you ask the tabloids and half the Justice League.” Jason droned, reaching out for Damian’s shoulder and tugging him into his side. “But like I said, don’t worry about it. Who cares about your idiot brother and who he’s dating, let’s focus more on you and how you’re gonna woo one Jonathan Kent, mmkay?”

He quickly ushered Damian out of the room using a door on the far side, only glancing back once to mouth oh my god! dramatically to the ones watching from the hall.

“That…” Tim exhaled as Jason closed the door behind them. “…was the most precious thing I think I’ve ever seen.”

Dick hummed in agreement, then: “…But is he right?”

Tim glanced up at him.

“You and Conner?”

Tim felt his face warm a little. “…I’m dating Bernard, Dick.”

“Okay.”

“And…I think I should go call him. We haven’t talked all day.”

Dick smirked. “Okay.”

“…Don’t look at me like that.”

Dick let out a chuckle. “Okay.”

“…Stop saying okay.”

“…Okay.”

“Dick!”

He laughed again. “Sorry, sorry.” He ran his fingers through Tim’s hair. “Tell Bernard I said hello, and also warn him that your younger brother is absolutely ready to gut him, should he hurt you.”

Oh yeah. Tim forgot that little tidbit. He felt his face warm even faster.

“Yeah…” He sighed, turning towards the stairs. He ignored the little flutter in his heart, at the idea of his lovesick, protective, ridiculous little brother. God, that kid. “Yeah, I think that’s probably something he oughta know.”

[hellcaster901]

Never Been Better

The Mandalorian x Reader

Second part to What Now?

Summary: It’s an unspoken tension between the two of you after what happened on the Razor Crest. 

Word Count: 8,454

Warning(s): SMUT!! (Again, please be safe, wrap it before you tap it, this is (again) just a fanfiction), some language, the usual smut (cream pie, oral-male receiving). Did some edits, but again, if you find something just act like you didnt see it.

A/N: I can’t stop thinking about this man, Pedro Pascal has my heart and so does the Mandalorian. I want to give a shout out to my best friend @13dead-ends​ we’ve been on the phone for hours for the past couple nights just writing and figuring things out. She is a new author to tumblr so please go get her a follow and I promise you she’s coming out with wonderful (and smutty) works! I hope you guys enjoy the second part to ‘What Now?’!!!!

Masterlist

What Now? (Pt 1) Say Something (Pt 3)

“Are you sure it’s okay to be here?” You hum, watching as Mando lowered the ship onto the planet, the land becoming bigger as he grew closer to the land. 

“Its outer rim. Aprliria doesn’t exactly hold a lot of criminals.” 

With a slight jolt, Mando landed the ship, your eyes staring at the vast land of green grass and tall trees. For a while now, it’s been jumping from planet to planet looking for the Child’s kind, but with each planet, it left us more and more confused about if we were even on the right track. There was hardly anyone who knew what kind of creature the Child was, much less knew what planet would hold such a creature. Even if you knew where this planet was, you weren’t too sure Mando would even go. He’s grown fond of the child, the child himself looking at Mando as it’s father. The two of them had a bond that nothing could break, the Child was a part of Mando’s life, and leaving him was something the Mandalorian wasn’t sure he could do. 

You watched silently as Mando’s hands glided along the dashboard, landing the ship perfectly. The Child watched with wide eyes from his crib as he waited for the next movement. 

“Sweet thing.” You smiled, reaching for the greenling. He cooed at you as you picked him up, standing from the seat and resting the Child on your hip. “Are you ready to look around?” You whispered to him. He only let out a small squeal, answering your question. You only giggled, watching out of the corner of your eye as Mando turned in his chair, facing the two of you. “How long are we going to stay here?”

“As long as we need.” He answered, standing from his seat, the Child stared up at him, his hands reaching for him. Mando reached up, both of you watching as the Child wrapped his small hand around one of the Mandalorian’s fingers. You watched with a small smile, looking up at Mando, he tilted his helmet towards you, his eyes connecting with yours. 

It always felt like the air was ripped from his lungs when he looked into your eyes. Or at least hoped that he was. The way your eyes shined in the light, how wide and full of life they were. Ever since that night of passion, things were definitely different. Both Mando and you knew that things couldn’t go back to how they were, neither of you wanted that, but it was hard to label what’s between you two when the two of you didn’t even know what to call your ‘relationship’. It was unspoken what was going on, but a few things have changed. Longer glances at one another, small touches that lit both of your bodies on fire, and nights that the two of you shared together. 

It started to become a routine, the way Mando would lay awake in the middle of the night and hear you shuffle into his room, crawling into his bed and making yourself comfortable. At first it was he’d wake up to you sleeping by his side, curdled next to him with the blanket over your face, respecting Mando’s creed. When you’d wake up, he’d already be working on the ship, neither of you speaking about the previous night. What turned into once in a while, turned into every other night which turned to every night that you’d shuffle into his room, curling beside him and falling asleep. He didn’t mind, in all actuality, that’s what he waited for each night, to hear you shuffle into his room, your bare feet cautiously slapping against the metal of the ship looking for the cot and it dipping from your weight as you made yourself comfortable next to him. Mando was sure to keep his helmet on, not wanting to break his creed, but each time the room was pitch black, sheltering him from your gaze, and each morning he was gone before you were awake. You noticed the helmet, wondering if you should say anything about this unspoken routine, if it was too uncomfortable, but you figured if it was something Mando didn’t want, he would’ve said something by now. As the nights went on of you sleeping with him, you began to notice that he no longer wore his helmet to bed (as you stubbed your toes on it one night) trusting that you wouldn’t look. 

You weren’t sure why you started going to sleep with him. One night you were up, your body refusing to go to sleep, your mind too active. Thoughts of the child and Mando filling your head, and no matter how hard you tried, sleeping wasn’t an option. The decision to go to Mando was a difficult one, you weren’t sure if he was gonna tell you to go back to your own cot, or blow up at you, or what. It was a chance you were honestly willing to take. That night that you tiptoed to his room, you noticed he kept his room dark, hiding his identity from anyone or anything that could come and see him. You slipped into his bed, pulling the blanket over your head and like a light switch, you were out. After that night, neither of you spoke about it, leaving it almost like a secret between the two of you. A secret from who? No idea, but it was a secret you were excited to have.

Mando couldn’t help himself when he reached for you, his gloved hand cupping your cheek. He watched as your eyes widened, your lips parted as he rubbed your cheek with his thumb, taking in your beauty. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was feeling for you, it was a strong feeling he hasn’t felt for a long time, something that made him nervous. Nothing really made him nervous anymore, and the fact that you made him feel like that scared him. 

“We should find some lounging.” Mando spoke up, pulling his hand from your face, the warmth leaving with him as your cheek grew cold. With a swift nod, you turned from him, grabbing the small messenger bag and nestling the Child inside, looping it over your shoulder.

The walk towards the small town was filled with silence, Mando keeping an eye and ear out for danger, if that was even possible on this planet, but also trying to rack through his own thoughts. You on the other hand, it was clear that something was on your mind, and that something was the man covered in beskar armour that made you feel boneless little less than a month ago. It was hard not to think about that time against the cold metal, the way he grabbed you, felt inside you, everything about that time was branded in your memory, and it was something that you couldn’t forget. What you couldn’t forget the most was that he took his helmet off, for you. Even if you had to keep your eyes shut, the action itself was enough to make your heart swell with the possibility that there was something more there than sexual feelings. Of course there was, he wouldn’t be letting you crawl into his bed every night or leave the small touches like he did just a few moments ago. It was the matter of talking about what this was, that scared you, and him even. 

Things definitely changed, that was undeniable, it was the fact that you had to address it that made it difficult. 

In a short period of time the three of you made it to the small town, it being more active than the past towns you’ve been to. People walking through the crowds of people to shops, other folks just sitting at the tables enjoying the sunlight. It was a town that was very much alive. The people wore bright colored clothes, all enjoying one another’s company. They must’ve been new to visitors as they stared the two of you down. But no one made a move to figure out where you came from, they kept their distance.

You reached down for the little flap on the bag, lifting it and seeing the Child staring back up at you. “Whatcha doing?” You giggled, reaching in and tickling his chest. He only cooed, wiggling in the bag. “Okay.” You laughed, stopping in your tracks and reaching in. “Keep within my eyesight.” You mumbled, setting him down onto the gravel. He cooed loudly, wobbling towards Mando. You followed close behind, watching as the Child caught up to Mando, his small hand wrapping grabbing onto the dark cape. An amused smile grew on your face as you watched Mando turn around, his neck bending to see the Child staring up at him, his small green hands grabbing onto his leg. “Rather have you hold him than me.” You chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest. Mando glanced at you for a moment before reaching down and grabbing the Child, lifting him into his arms.

“Lets go.” He huffed. On the inside you knew that he loved this, the bond he had with this creature, he was just too tough to be open about it. With a smile, you followed, watching as the Child was staring at everyone and everything, taking in the life. Shortly you got to the small lounging, watching as Mando handed the Child back to you, heading up to talk to the owner for a room. You stood a few feet away, looking out at the crowd of people that were starting to gather further down the main street. You watched with a curious look, hearing Mando talk to the woman, trying to negotiate on a price for the room. Always trying to talk down the price. With a huff, Mando paid for the room, leaving the woman at the counter with a scowl on her face.

“Hey,” You softly spoke, glancing over at the woman. “What’s exactly going on here?” She sighed, leaning forward and staring down at the crowd of people.

“A festival, it's the beginning of the new season, it’s something to celebrate.” You nodded, listening to the woman. “It’s mostly a festival to be grateful for life.”

“That’s fun.” You smiled, looking back at the woman, she wasn’t smiling, just staring at you with a scowl. The smile fell from your face, wondering what Mando said to the woman to make her so mad. “Have a great one.” You hurried, looking forward, seeing Mando waiting. With a sheepish smile you caught up, following as he guided you towards the lounging.

He swung the door open, revealing two makeshift cots, and a window at the back of the room. It wasn’t the best option, but it was obviously better than what you had going on back on the ship. Mando didn’t say a word as he stepped inside, looking around. With a sigh, you set down the Child, watching as he waddled inside, making himself at home instantly as he explored the small room. You stepped in, closing the door behind you choosing the cot furthest away from the door, sitting down and watching the Child happily make his way around the room. 

“Did you hear what that woman said about what's going on?” you started, questioning yourself as to why you even started talking. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Mando walk over to the window, glancing out. His helmet tilting slightly towards you, a sign that he was listening. “It’s apparently a festival for the new season that's coming for the people.” You explained, turning and facing the bounty hunter. “A festival to be grateful for life as well.” You smiled, watching as he looked at you. It was hard to see what he was thinking about, hard to know what he looked like as he stared at you. You tried to pick up on any gestures he would do, hoping it would help you figure out what he was going through but sometimes you were still as confused as you were before. 

He said nothing, only crossed the room and sat on his cot, beginning to mess with his beskar. You bit the inside of your cheek, wondering if you should talk again or just leave it be and let him do what he needs to do.

“Would you like to walk around and see?” The modulated voice rung. You were honestly shocked that he said something, much less asking if you wanted to see what was going on. You thought if anything he’d want to stay low, leaving for dinner on the first day and seeing if this planet really is as safe as he thought it was. 

“Can we?” You whispered, patiently waiting like a child as he thought things over. He turned his heads towards you, his eyes looking over your excited form, the smile on your face as you thought about the festival. At that moment, he realized he could never say no to you.

***

Mando stayed a distance behind, watching as you walked through the crowds of people, The Child in the bag that hung on your hip, the flap open for him to sit and watch without trying to keep up with the two of you. He kept a close eye on the two of you, nothing else catching his eye as the three of you walked, wanting to make sure nothing happened to the two of you. He watched as you watched the people celebrate, your eyes gleaming as you saw the people dancing to the music he was sure you’ve never heard of. The face of pure curiosity on your face was enough to make his heart tug. 

Things were different, he didn’t talk about things because he wasn’t sure how to explain himself. That night, with you changed everything to him. He knew there was something there, there always was. The way he would catch you staring at him, or the way his heart would pick up as he got closer to the Razor’s Crest after he would catch a bounty. It was subtle things that he knew the both of you would pick up on, and that night changed it all. He cleared his throat, trying to steer his mind away from imagining that night once again. It was something he couldn’t stop thinking about. The way you gave yourself to him, the way you felt around him, he needs more.

He had to control himself.

The festival, the colors, the music and the people were all new to you. It was something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before in your life. It was a bit overwhelming. You looked down at the Child, watching as his wide eyes were staring at everything as well. You were sure the two of you looked alike, a pure look of excitement at the new things. You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes instantly landing on Mando as he followed close. You wondered if he was enjoying this just as much as you were. But you were sure he’s seen things like this all the time. You weren’t exactly too sure, he never spoke of past travels. He really never spoke to you about anything. Shaking your head, you tried to focus back on the festivities that were going on. Most of it was just dancing, the people enjoying the music and moving.

You gasped softly as you felt a small hand wrap around your wrist, tugging softly. Glancing down, you noticed a small child staring up at you, wide eyes, a smile on her face and sweat on her forehead. Her eyes kept flickering back and forth from you to the child quickly. I chuckled softly, crouching down, grabbing the Child in the bag and lifting him. “You can say ‘hi’.” I smiled, watching as her eyes got even wider. The Child cooed, lifting his hands to her, his little green fingers tickling her face. She giggled loudly, her hands going in excitement as she watched the Child. He cooed loudly, his arms going as he saw her own happiness. She calmed a bit, reaching into her pocket and pulling a beaded necklace. You smiled softly as you watched her look up at you, asking for silent permission. You nodded, watching as she lifted the beads up, the small string landing around his neck. Her smile grew, looking up at me with happy eyes. She reached back into her own pocket, pulling another string of beads out. She held it out to you, a wide smile on her face. With a smile, you ducked down, feeling the beads glide against your hair, and settling around your neck. You leaned back up, reaching and pulling your hair from under, the cool beads settling on the back of your neck. You looked over at Mando, smiling widely at him. Again, nothing. 

As you walked around and looked at everything the day slowly turned to night, the people of the planet were still going strong and dancing almost like they haven’t been dancing for the whole day. As the day went on, you noticed people were setting up strings of lights or torches for the people to still see as it got darker, lighting up the festivities. Mando was getting closer and closer as it was getting darker, keeping close as we walked. 

“He’s asleep.”

Your head whips around, looking up at Mando as he looks straight ahead. “What?” You watched as he looked at you, before glancing down at the bag. You looked down, a soft ‘awe’ leaving your lips. The Child was fast asleep, the necklace the little girl gave her held tightly in his hands. “I think we should get back.” You whispered, looking up at him. With a swift nod he turned, leading the way back. You followed, reaching a hand down to the Child, his arms stretching out, before holding onto your hand. 

You kept close to Mando, watching the way even as the people were enjoying their time, they were still moving out of the way for the bounty hunter. 

“I’m sorry I dragged you around all over this planet.” You spoke, glancing up at Mando. “I wanted to see what a festival was really like.” He nodded, still keeping his pace as the two of you walked back to the room. There was a tense silence between the two of you, an unspoken ‘thing’. And both of you knew what that was. 

Once back to the room, Mando quickly turned his back to you, working quietly on his beskar once again. You sighed softly, closing the door and walking over to your own cot. You softly pulled the Child out from the bag, his limp body heavier than you realized. You looked around the room, wondering if there was anything you could make a little cot with, but the blankets and items were things that the Mando and you would be using. With a heavy sigh, you gently laid the Child onto your cot, his little head sinking into the pillow. You chuckled softly as you grabbed the blanket and pulled it up, making a wall out of the blanket for him to stay in. You curled up besides the Child, resting your head on your arm as you looked over the strange creatures’ features. In a few short moments, the tiredness of walking around the festival soon encased you, leaving your eyes heavy as you fell asleep next to the child.

As it grew darker, and as you soon were asleep next to the Child, Mando found this the perfect time to take off his beskar. He knew he could trust you as he removed his helmet, setting it down besides him on the cot, removing the weight of his armour until he was in his pants and shirt. He slowly leaned back, the weight of the day present as his back strained from being in constant movement, his back popping in places that made him groan as he laid there. 

He heard the small snoring coming from you, turning his head and noticing the outline of your body in the dark, the way he wanted to feel the dips and curves of your body as you laid on your side. His mind was racing from remembering what you felt like under his hands that night, how soft you were, the way you gave yourself up to him. He only stares, thinking about you. The way you took care of the child, the way you took care of him. He wasn’t used to having someone there who really wanted to be there. It’s always been only him, and the fact that these two came into his life was… overwhelming, but not unwanted. He was content with watching over the two of you, knowing you both needed the sleep from the excitement today. Mando rarely needed the full 8 hours of sleep, needing only a couple hours to feel energized. But he wasn’t complaining, he was able to watch you and the Child.

He laid there, letting his mind race from what he was going to do about the Child, if finding it’s kind was the right choice. Of course it was, to keep him if they do find his people would be a selfish choice, but he wasn’t sure if that’s what he could do. 

His breath hitched lightly as he saw your body move, groaning as you twisted your body around, your back now facing Mando. He froze, knowing the room was dark enough that you couldn’t see his face, but he was more worried about her waking up and noticing Mando watching her. He only watched as you groggily sat up, a hand coming out to rub at your eyes as you adjusted to waking up. You looked over at the child, fixing the blanket that was disheveled from his movement and then stood up. Mando watched as you moved, standing from the bed, arching your back as you stretched, moaning softly as your own back popped. 

The soft moans had chills running down Mando’s back, hearing them once again was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear again. He noticed the way you glanced over at him, looking at his legs rather than his upper half. He noticed the way you kept his creed, even when you thought he was asleep. He watched as you walked towards the window, moving the curtains out of the way, looking at the crowds of people still celebrating. 

“How long have I been asleep?” You whispered to yourself, still standing there as you watched the people.

“Only a couple hours.” You froze in your spot, the unfiltered voice responding to your question. You instantly lifted a hand to your eyes, the curtain slipping from your hand, as you backed away from the light.

“I’m so sorry Mando, I didn’t realize you didn’t have your-”

“It’s fine.” He spoke, watching the way you still covered your eyes, your back to him. He felt his lips turn into a smile, watching the way you just stood there, trying to figure out what to do without seeing him. “It’s dark enough.” He spoke again, watching the way you still stood there, covering your eyes until you slowly let your hand drop. He watched as the light from outside bled through the thin curtain and onto your face, highlighting every detail on your face, and he knew that you were the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his whole life. 

“I don’t want you to break your creed, Mando.” You spoke softly, eyes still shut.

“I won’t.” He spoke softly, wondering at that moment if breaking his creed for you was a bad thing. But you kept your eyes shut, not trusting that the room was dark enough. You heard the cot shift, hearing Mando’s footsteps coming closer and closer. You tensed, not bothering to take another breath as you heard him get closer and closer. “You won't break it.” He whispered, grabbing onto your wrist lightly. You let him guide you away from the window, the light that was once shining on your face soon fading until there was only darkness. You couldn't stop the chills that ran down your back as you felt Mando’s thumb softly rub against the inside of your wrist as he guided you. It was such a small act, but there was so much intimacy behind it. At least, for you.

“I don’t want to open my eyes.” You whispered to him, letting out a breath you were holding the whole time.

“You don’t want to see me?” You could hear the teasing tone and the smile on his face, something you were grateful to hear without the helmet blocking his voice.

“Of course I do.” You whispered again, trying not to wake the child up. “But I can’t lose your trust.” There was a bit of silence, your words lingering in the air as you waited for Mando to say something. You waited for his voice, only hearing the soft noises coming from the Child as he slept and the people that were still celebrating. “Look,” you stared, letting your mind run a mile a minute, the anxiety of everything between the two of you rushing out, “I’m sorry if I did anything that you didn’t like or if any of this wasn’t what you-”

You gasped loudly as you felt Mando wrap an arm around your waist, tugging you roughly against his chest. In a swift move, he turned the both of you around, your back landing softly on the cot, Mando holding himself up above you, your hands against his chest as the two of you laid like that for a moment, the world stopping around you as you tried to control what was going on. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He whispered to you, his hand pushing away some hair that fell over your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. To say you forgot how to breath was an understatement, you were sure that you had died and that this was simply heaven for you. His fingers slowly trailed down your jaw, tracing the curve as the roughness of his fingers left goosebumps down your arms. He saw the way his touch made you react, and it only made him want to see more of it, forgetting how addictive it was to see you in this state. His fingers moved lower, trailing down your neck, his fingers outlining the edge of the shirt you wore. “You never could.” He whispered lowly. It was low enough that you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or for himself, either way, it was enough to make a light blush appear on your face and chest. 

You kept your eyes shut, basking in the feeling of his fingers as he softly touched your neck and face. You listen to his breathing as he took his time tracing your features, taking in the feeling of his fingers as the two of you laid there. “Mando.” You whispered, feeling his fingers still for a moment until they continued their journey. He slowly trailed them to your lips, his calloused fingers tracing over them. You could feel his eyes as he followed his own fingers. “Mando.” You whispered again. “Kiss me.” Within a second, there was no turning back.

He grabbed the back of your head, pulling you up to him as you felt his lips crash against yours, his facial hair scratching against your skin as your lips moved together. Your hands grabbed at his shirt, pulling him even closer (if that was possible), wanting to feel his entire weight on you as you tasted him. His other hand caressed your side, his fingers digging softly into your hip before he grabbed the back of your knee, lifting it up and over his hip as he settled himself between your thighs. You gasped against his lips as you felt his bulge rub against your clothed center, the noise you made only spurring Mando on even more. He pulled away, his lips swollen as he tried to catch his breath, watching the way your own chest was heaving, the soft, sweet noises leaving your lips as he stayed above you. You felt his hands grab at your waist, his hands slowly pushing the flimsy shirt you wore up, exposing the skin he’s already seen. He watched the way your chest rose and fell a bit quicker, the way you gradually sounded more and more out of breath from just his small touches. As he got to your breasts he stopped, the shirt bunched up, your stomach exposed to him, his hands resting on your rib cage. It felt like an eternity as you both waited for the next move. “Please, Mando.” You begged softly, wanting more and more each second. He couldn’t refuse. He yanked the shirt off of you, your hair spiraling around you as he pulled the shirt off. You grabbed his hands, impatient with how slow he was taking things and guided his hands to your boobs, his hands greedily grabbing, a low moan coming from Mando as he felt the soft skin. 

He was rough as he pulled down the cups of your bra, his head ducking instantly as he latched onto a nipple, his tongue flicking against the hardened skin. You moaned softly, arching your back, Mando’s arm wrapping around you a bit tighter, pulling you even closer to his mouth. You clawed at his back, gathering at his shirt, pulling it to his shoulders. “Take it off.” You mewed, feeling Mando pull away from you. Mando tugged the shirt over his head, tossing it across the room. He notices the way you didn’t react, your hands laying still on his hips. You still had your eyes closed. He hovered above you, resting his weight on his forearms as he softly pressed his lips against yours.

“Open your eyes.” He whispered against your lips, peppering kisses along your cheeks and chin.

“Your creed.” You whispered back, feeling the way his facial hair scratched your skin. “I don’t want to-”

“Open your eyes.” He repeated, his tone a bit more stern this time. You took a deep breath, your eyes fluttering open. You were surprised with how dark it actually was in the room. You couldn’t see his facial features, but you could see the outline of his body above you. You reached for him, your hands caressing up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex slightly, the healed skin from previous wounds brushing against your hand. He let you touch him, his own breathing quickening as you moved your hands down his chest. Unlike last time, you wanted to take a bit more time. You shoved against his shoulder, rolling the two of you over, straddling his hips as he let out a huff as he settled against the cot. He grabbed onto your hips as you settled yourself on top of him, his fingers digging softly into your skin.

The two of you didn’t say anything as you planted your hands on his chest, letting your hands roam around searching for scars. You felt his chest rise quickly as you started roaming, feeling the slight chest hair that was scattered along his skin. With it being so dark, you went with your touch, finding the scars and tracing a finger along them, wondering how he got each one. As you continue your travel, you touch one particular long scar, that starts near his hip bone, and ends at mid torso. You fixated on this scar, your fingers tracing over it over and over again. “How did you get this one?” You asked, feeling the new skin that grew. You felt Mando sigh, his hands moving down to your thighs, before moving back up to your hips.

“Bounty got a bit carried away when I located him.” He answered. You didn’t think you could ever get used to his voice without the helmet, the sound alone making you weak above him. You took a deep breath, leaning down peppering soft kisses along his chest, softly licking along the scars that you met along the way as you traveled down his chest. You heard the small gasps leaving his mouth as you got lower and lower, straddling his legs as you kissed along the longer scar, feeling his hands push back some of your hair that fell forward. You kissed along the band of his pants, feeling him twitch against the fabric as you edged closer to the edge, teasing him. You licked a strip from his hip bone to his stomach, Mando moaning as the air hit it, sending goosebumps up his body.

“Y/N.” He warned, feeling your lips turn up in a smile against his stomach, your fingers dancing along the waistband of his pants. You hooked your fingers along the band, tugging softly. Mando quickly got the hint, lifting his hips as you tugged the pants harshly down, his erection slapping against his stomach, a bead of precum slowly leaking from the tip. You fumbled for a moment as you pulled his clothing off, tossing them on the floor before you seated yourself between his legs. “You don’t-”

“Shh.” You whispered, smiling to yourself softly. You nervously pressed your hands against his thighs, feeling more scars as you moved them up, feeling the way he flexed against your touch. You noticed the way you felt the blanket on the cot shifted, his hands bunching at the blanket as you moved closer and closer to your target. You wrapped a hand around his length, Mando grunting as you squeezed your hand around him, the velvety skin feeling foreign but not unwelcome as you moved your hand up. Mando was obviously a bit larger than what you expected, even with sleeping with him the first time, it was still a surprise with how large he felt in your hand, the girth of him making you nervous. “You’re so big.” you whispered to yourself, a smile on your face when you heard Mando moan softly at your words. You leaned forward, giving his length an experimental lick. 

Mando gasped loudly, his hips rising as you pulled away. You smiled, his reaction only wanting you to hear more from him. You made yourself comfortable between his legs, leaning forward again and sucking the tip between your lips. He grunted as he felt the warmth of your mouth, his hands clenching onto the blanket a bit tighter as he felt your tongue flick at the tip. You moaned softly, tasting the precum that coated your tongue, the salty taste making you clench around nothing. You were positive that you were soaked, squeezing your thighs together as you slowly took more and more of Mando’s cock in your mouth. 

Mando was on the brink of exploding. All he wanted as to grab the back of your head and fuck your throat. As rough as it sounded, that’s all he wanted was to hear you gag around him, and to feel your throat tighten around him. But he stopped himself, grabbing at the blanket under him, focusing on the feeling of your mouth around him. He watched as you slowly started bobbing your head, feeling you take more into your mouth, the tip of his cock lightly hitting the back of your throat. He bucked softly at the sensation, making you gag around him. He growled loudly, the sound sending chills right down his back.

To your surprise, you liked it. 

You pulled back with a loud gasp, twisting your hand around his cock, spreading your spit around him, the wet sound adding to the soft pants that filled the room. Mando’s length twitched in your hand, his hips bucking as you stroked him, your thumb brushing along his tip, watching the way he gasped. You brushed some hair back over your shoulder, leaning back down and sliding his cock back in your mouth. “Fuck.” Mando cursed, his hand flying to the back of your head, his hand grabbing at your hair as you gagged around him, moaning softly as he tugged on your hair. Your scalp stung as he tugged on the strands, his hand gathering your hair to a makeshift pony. “Feels so good.” he rasped, the sound shooting straight to your core. You wanted to hear these sounds coming from him for the rest of your life. Seeing him like this, on his back and so vulnerable to you, made you want to be on your knees for him whenever he wanted. You bobbed your head a little faster, wrapping your hand around what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. “Maker.” He growled, his body tensing beneath you. “Stop. Stop.” He rasped, pushing gently at your shoulders, his cock slipping from your lips, a string of saliva trailing behind as you took a deep breath in, licking your swollen lips.

“Did I-” You barely got a sentence out before Mando pushed himself up, grabbing the back of your head and pulling you towards him, kissing you with a passion that made your whole body weak. Mando didn't say a word as he reached behind you, unhooking the flimsy material and tossing it across the room, grabbing your hips and tugging you on top of him, your breast pressed tightly against his chest. He pawed at your thighs, his short fingernails scratching against the tight material as he pulled you impossibly close to him. You gasped as you felt his length rub against your clothed center, trapping his throbbing length between your bodies. He held you against him as you wrapped your arms around his neck, hands weaving into his thick hair, kissing him with a passion that only he was able to pull from you. 

“I wanna feel you when I cum.” He whispered against your lips, dragging his lips against your cheek as he left open mouth kisses along your jaw, peppering them down to your neck. You moaned at his words, nodding softly. He tightened his hold on you, wanting you impossibly close. You gave your hips an experimental roll, gasping softly as you felt his length rub against you. Mando growled against your neck, his fingers digging roughly into your thighs. You were positive that you were going to end up with small bruises scattered along your hips and thighs and you were more than excited to be seeing them later on. Mandos' hands became frantic, grabbing at the thin material around your legs and hips, tugging on the waistband and pulling harshly. “Take them off.” He growled into your neck, his teeth digging into the skin. You pulled yourself off of him, pushing your hair back and tugging at the pants.

He could see the outline of your body as you moved quickly, shimming the material down your legs as you stepped out of them. Mando was impatient as he reached for you, a hand on your hip and the other on your thigh, sitting you right back onto his lap, his lips finding yours in the dark. “I’ve thought about you.” He whispered, his hands caressing your back, feeling every single inch of skin that was exposed to him. “Every night.”

You could’ve died hearing those words leave his mouth. 

“I have to.” You confessed, fingers digging into his tensed shoulders as he peppered kisses along your chest and neck. 

“I’ve wanted you every single night.” He continued, sucking harshly at the top of your breast, for sure leaving a bruising. You’d let him mark you how ever he wanted, as long as it was him. “You’re so soft.”

“Mando, please.” You begged, rolling your hips once again, feeling his cock drag between your folds. He grunted into your chest, feeling your wetness coat his cock. He trusted against you, the tip bumping your clit making you jolt in his arms. “I need you.”

“Say it again.” He growled, weaving his hand into your hair, grabbing a fist full and keeping you still. “Beg.” You realized that Mando was a very dominant person, someone who took what they wanted whenever they wanted, and that didn’t stop when it came to your body. 

“Please.” You pleaded, your voice sounding forgien to your own ears. “I want you in me.” You didn’t care if you sounded pathetic, you were desperate to feel him again. “I need you. Please.”

“You have no idea what I would do for you, my cyar’ika.” He whispered into your ear, lifting you against him. You moaned as you felt him reach for his cock from around you, rubbing the tip between your folds, smearing his precum and your juices around. He lined his cock to your entrance, holding you above him. “Do you want me?” he whispered against your lips.

“Yes.” You nodded frantically, “Always.” That was the correct answer for Mando as he pulled you down, his cock splitting you in half. You whined, dropping your head onto his shoulder, his cock stretching you wide open. It was a bit of a tight fit, both of you were panting by the time half of him was in you. You slowly worked yourself onto him, lifting your hips softly as you sunk down on him.

“Maker.” Mando huffed, “You’re so tight.” You whined into his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you as you finally sat on his thighs. His cock filling you to the brim, pulsing deep within you. Barely moving and you were already out of breath, already squirming against him as he was fully seated in you. Mando wasn’t doing any better, his hands had  a bruising grip on your thighs, his breath stilled as he let you adjust to this position. You took a deep breath, lifting your hips, his cock dragging against your walls. A rush of pleasure shook your body, chills spreading over your skin as you sat back down. Mando gasped against you, his hips bucking against you as he wanted more. But he wanted you to control the pace, take it the speed you need it at. And it was killing him not to flip you around and take you the way he wanted. 

You started lifting yourself on your knees, moving on top of Mando, feeling his cock become wetter and wetter with your juices as you moved. “You feel so good.” You moaned, the sound of your wetness coating him filling the sound in the room. You gained the confidence you needed, moving a little bit faster, bouncing on his cock as he plunged deep within you. 

“Fuck Y/N.” Mando growled, grabbing your hips and helping you ride him, lifting you a bit more and dragging you down a bit harder than what you could do on your own. The tip of his cock nudged your g-spot, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. You pushed at his shoulders, shoving him back onto the cot, planting your hands on his chest and lifting yourself up. Mando was sure that this sweet girl who was shy all the time wasn’t the one who was currently riding him. You were in control, riding him and taking what you wanted. He loved it. 

He reached for you, grabbing the back of your head, tugging you down harshly against him, your breast pressed tightly against his chest. You squealed as he tugged you down, a hand in your hair, keeping you to him. “You’re so fucking tight around me.” He moaned, your walls clenching around him in response. It was a mess between the two of you, bouncing on top of him, both of you chasing your climaxes, wanting to feel the other. “This pussy is mine.” He growled.

“Yes.” He didn’t leave any room for you to argue, not that you wanted to, you knew that you were his, even if it took this long to screw again, you knew that you were his no matter what. 

“Say it.” He huffed, spreading his legs, your own thighs spreading a bit wider, a slight burn from your muscles as he planted his feet and started thrusting up into you. You sobbed against him as his cock brutally nudged your g-spot, your body limp against him as he took control, a hand in your hair and an arm around your waist, keeping you tight to him. “Say you’re mine, sweet thing.” You weren’t even sure if you could speak as he set this brutal pace. 

“I’m yours.” You cried, hiding your face in his neck, muffling your cries as he fucked you. “I’m all yours.”

“You take me so well.” He marveled, his arm tightening around your waist before flipping the two of you over. Your breath hitched as he flipped you over, the scratching material of the blanket digging into your back as he settled himself between your legs, his hands traveling down your sides and to your thighs, hooking the back of your knees and lifting them. You moaned loudly as you felt the burning stretching at the back of your thighs as he lifted your knees towards your chest, spreading you for himself. “I could fuck you all day.” He whispered to you, grabbing himself and lining up to your entrance. Your jaw was slacked as you felt him rub your clit with his tip before slamming back in, the slight pain of this new position instantly making your thighs shake. You were his for the taking, and he was taking every last bit. “Ever since that night,” He huffed, thrusting into you slowly, feeling the way you clenched around him, almost making him lose his train of thought. “I’ve thought about having you in every way possible.” You whined, listening to his words, his cock sending waves of pleasure through your body. 

“Don’t stop.” you begged, feeling him slow down. “Please Mando, make me cum.” The begging really did it for him. He hovered above you, hooking your thighs over his arms as he fucked you hard. You were a mess, breathless moans, his skin slapping against yours, the wetness of your pussy was all the two of you could hear. You soon felt the familiar tightness in the pit of your stomach, your thighs beginning to shake as your climax was growing and growing. “Mando.” you cried, your walls fluttering around him as your pussy was becoming over sensitive to his movement.

“Cum around me, sweet thing.” he moaned, his own climax approaching as he felt you tighten around him. “Let me feel you.” You grabbed onto his forearms, his trusts speeding up becoming a bit more animalistic. You moaned loudly, that tightness in your stomach snapping as you came, gushing around his cock, gasping into his shoulder, whimpering at the over stimulation. “Cum inside me.” You begged. He growled into your shoulder as he felt your walls pulsating around him, his movements becoming irregular when he heard your words. He came a few thrusts after you, filling you to the brim with his cum. You gasped at the sensation, feeling Mando bite down on your shoulder, keeping his throbbing cock buried in you, giving you a few more soft thrusts.  

Your walls clenched around him, feeling his cock twitch and pulse within you, both of you wordless and out of breath from the orgasms. He slowly let go of your thighs, whimpering as they instantly began feeling sore. Your whole body was sore, you knew that tomorrow you were going to be walking funny, there was no way you weren’t.

You reached up, weaving a hand into his shaggy hair, scratching at his scalp as the two of you calmed down, relishing in one another as you tried to catch your breaths.

“Are you okay?” He whispered, caressing your thigh softly. It made you smirk, remembering him asking you the same question last time.

“I’ve never been better.” You whispered back, feeling a smile growing on his face. He pulled out of you, both of you moaning softly. You blushed as you felt his and your cum leaking from you, dripping onto the bed. He seattle himself next to you, lightly shoving his arm under your head. With a smirk you made yourself comfortable, rolling over and resting your head on his chest. “Is this okay?” You whispered, feeling him slowly place his hand on your back.

“Yes.” he answered, his thumb rubbing your back softly.

*** 

You groaned as you felt something touching your face, caressing at your cheek as you slept. You cracked an eye open, seeing the Child standing right in front of your face, holding one of his little hands to your cheek. Once he saw your eye open he cooed loudly, a smile on his little face. “What are you doing, sweet thing?” You whispered, clenching the scratchy blanket closer to your chest. You raised an arm, poking at his little chest. You lifted yourself up onto an elbow, glancing around the room. Mando was gone, your clothes still scattered everywhere, and the Child in the cot with you. “Where did he go?” You whispered to the child, wrapping the blanket around your body and standing. You were right, you were sore, legs wobbling as you stood, the evidence of last night covering the inside of your thighs. You blushed, as you collected your clothes that were scattered everywhere. 

As you grabbed your shirt, the door opened, Mando walking in with two bowls of food. You jumped lightly, seeing him standing there, in his beskar and helmet, and you, in a blanket.

“Sorry.” You chuckled, lightly, “Just woke up.” You smiled, again not sure of what facial expressions he was making under his helmet. 

“I brought food.” He commented, closing the door. You were unaware how small this room was, or if it was the fact that Mando just took up so much space. “For you and the child.” He added, stepping over to the child. He greedily accepted the food, holding the small bowl in between his hands, as he sat on the cot. 

“Let me get dressed.” You smiled again, shrugging a shoulder and turning. You barely took a step when you felt a gloved hand grab your wrist. You turned, Mando standing right in front of you. A word wasn’t spoken as he cupped the back of your head, leaning down and resting his helmet against your forehead. You smiled, closing your eyes and feeling the coolness against your skin. 

-

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[chibinekochan]

How to become a Demon Ruler 210

Part: 00 I 01 I 02 I 03 I 04 I 05 I 06 I 07 I 08 I 09 I

Gender Neutral Reader insert

taglist: @ayesha95 ; @nomnomcupcakesworld ; @fex-phoenix ; @depressed-bixch ; @kitsune-oji ; @witch-o-memes ; @gallantys ,@tanspostsblog ; @undertaker-02 ,

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

At some point, I wake up. I hear the sounds of soft snoring beside me.

I laugh as I see Diavolo sprawled out on my bed, fast asleep.

I'm still a bit sluggish but I feel much better. It really must've been exhaustion that made me sick. I wonder how long I slept and carefully get out of bed. Tiptoeing around to not wake Diavolo. He looks kinda cute like this. It's hard not to poke his cheek when he is looking so peaceful.

I look at the clock and realize that my classes have already started. For a moment I panic when I see a note on the clock.

You are taking today off to get better.

I asked the brothers to bring you today's homework later.

-Diavolo

I smile at the poorly written note, he probably did it in the dark with only his phone light.

I suppose I should go and take a shower now. Even if I'm resting today I feel somewhat sticky.

Just when I'm about to turn around I see Diavolo opening his eyes. He looks at me with sleepy eyes.

"Good morning. You can keep lying. I will take a shower." Somehow this feels nice. Waking up like this, besides him.

"Good morning. Are you feeling better?" His voice sounds muffled, he must be still waking up.

"Yes, thanks to your great care I'm feeling much better." I show him an energetic smile.

"I'm glad." He smiles at me. "I guess I'm doing pretty okay for a big brother after all." He still seems to be half asleep but these words hurt more than I expected.

"You do." I press the words out. "I will take my shower now." I rush to the bathroom.

I'm a true fool after all. Not only can't I see Diavolo as my brother but my feelings for him only grow.

Then there is also the fight between him and Barbatos that troubles me greatly. Both of them are very important to me.

Liking two people like this at the same time is serious trouble. Especially since they both see me as master and sibling respectively.

What a mess. I could use some real advice.

I sigh and step into the shower. Trying to clear my head while cleaning my body.

It's refreshing and the thought of breakfast makes me forget my other troubles for now.

I dress and go back into my room.

Diavolo is sitting on my bed. He must need a long time to wake up. It's endearing somehow. I sigh at myself, I need to stop this.

"Ah, you are done. Breakfast came while you were away. Shall we eat together?" Diavolo stands up and walks to the already set table. It doesn't look like Barbatos work, it's somehow rather sloppily done.

"Of course, but why won't we eat in the normal room?" It seems a bit strange to me.

"Well, that is because I don't wish to see Barbatos right now. I had No. 2 serve us breakfast today." Diavolo is still hung up on what happened yesterday.

"You know that you have to see him eventually, right?" It seems somewhat childish to me, even when I understand how much this must've shaken Diavolo to his core.

"I know, but not now." He sighs and sits down at the table.

I shake my head, I need to help them to make up.

We both eat in relative silence.

Diavolo seems to have a lot on his mind and so do I.

After we are done he looks at me with a grave expression. "I fear that I have work to do."

I saw this coming. "I'm much better so you don't need to worry. I will just rest until I get my homework. I need to catch up on devil tube. Yesterday the demon brothers told me all about it." I gently reassure Diavolo.

"I'm glad to hear that. I will make sure the brothers will give you your homework and you promise that you will stay here." He looks at me pleading.

"I won't move. I promise." It's easy to agree with him since I'm still a bit tired after all.

Diavolo nods and pats my head. As nice as it feels he seems to think of me as a child or something of that nature.

It's frustrating.

"I will trust you. Get as much rest as you can. If you feel in any way off by the evening you will take tomorrow off as well." Diavolo is usually stern with me.

"Alright." I know he is only worried and so I agree.

This seems to relieve him a little bit at least.

Diavolo then looks at me one more time before returning to his duties.

I lay on my bed, scrolling on my phone through some comments under devil tube videos when I hear a knock on my door.

"Come in ," I yell.

The door is slowly opened and I see Barbatos peeking his head in. "I'm not sure if you wish to see me but I felt the need to apologize to you in person." He looks very pale like he didn't sleep at all.

"I want to see you, don't be silly and just for the records I don't blame you at all." I smile at him to strengthen my point.

Barbatos steps into my room, closing the door behind him. He has a cart with snacks and tea.

Probably his way of apologizing to me.

He slowly makes his way towards me. Then he pauses a good distance away from me as if being close to me would be a bother to me.

"It's my fault since I should have seen it. Not just because I should've been able to see that future but also because it was so obviously dangerous. I can't state enough how much I have failed you." His face looks like it's frozen or rather like he is in deep pain.

"Even if you were there you couldn't prevent any possible outcome. I mean there is always a small chance I die. Humans are fragile after all. I could slip on the bathroom or something. It's not possible for you to protect me 24/7 and to be honest, that wouldn’t be what I want. I need to do my own thing and I like to be alone too." I try to approach this from a logical angle.

"That might be true, but I always prevented any likely harm to you. I always tried to lead you down the path of least likely harm." Barbatos seems to have a hard time telling me this.

Now a few of his strange requests make sense.

"So you were saving me without me even knowing it? Thank you for that." It's very nice of him for sure.

Barbatos nods. "Sadly for some reason, my ability seems to weaken when it comes to you. I'm not sure why. Usually, nobody is capable of surprising me at all but you somehow always do." A short-lived smile appears on his face.

"I see but then you are even less to blame. No matter what you think I don't blame you at all." I can understand his guilt but I miss the old Barbatos.

"I appreciate the sentiment but honestly I was thinking of stepping down as your butler. I can't serve you properly." His face mirrors deep pain.

I also gasp at his words. "There is no way that I'm willing to accept this!" I raise my voice.

Barbatos seems to be taken aback. "But master, I cannot give you the full protection that you need. I failed you."He is serious.

I can't just let Barbatos quit. His duty is so important to him and he always works so hard to make me and Diavolo happy. Even when that also creates a gap between us.

"I can't stop you, but I will not accept another butler or maid to serve me." I look at him with determination.

"But Master, you need someone to serve you." Barbatos frowns.

I cross my arms. "Too bad, if I have to have a servant it can only be the best and that is you." I'm stubborn but I'm also right.

Barbatos sighs, he seems conflicted. "Even master Diavolo told me it would be better if I wouldn't come near you anymore." These words seem to hurt him.

"Diavolo is just very scared that this might happen again. I think it's easy enough to prevent though. And regardless of his feelings, my trust in you is unmoved." I voice my feelings for him.

the

Barbatos closes his eyes. There must be many things running through his head right now.

"Be honest, would you want anyone else to serve me?" I know his answer could hurt and I brace myself for that possibility.

Barbatos opens his eyes, they aren't wavering at all. "No." Then he pauses a moment. "I would not like that one bit. I believe I'm the best to serve you." His pride as a butler has not been broken at least.

I nod. "I feel the same way. Even if you can't see every possible future I want to keep you as my butler. I care deeply about you and there just can't be anyone else." I let my true feelings slip a little bit but it looks like my words reach him.

He smiles gently and steps closer. He kneels on the ground just before my bed. His eyes focus on me.

My cheeks grow hot. He is so close.

"May I keep being your butler despite my countless failings?" He asks in a very humble-sounding voice.

"You may, in fact, I order you to do so." I do my best-spoiled brat expression.

Barbatos then takes my hand and kisses the back of it. His lips feel cold but pleasant.

"I swear I will do whatever I can for you. Whatever order you give me will be fulfilled." Barbatos is earnest, this exchange is very intimate. I can feel the weight of his promise.

"I gladly accept you as my butler but don't forget that I also see you as a friend." And potentially more but I don't mention that part.

Barbatos nods and smiles softly. "Thank you for your kindness."

At least he seems more normal now, but the rift between him and Diavolo is still very much there. I need to think of a plan.

But first I want to eat the delicious snacks that Barbatos has brought me.

"Why don't you join me for some tea?" I feel like it's been forever since I saw him.

He looks a bit surprised for a moment. "Very well, I have some time for that." Then he smiles and prepares the table for us.

I slowly stand up and sit down across from him. The treats all look so good. "With what should I start?" I ask this more to myself.

"I recommend these fresh hell berry tarts, they are best when still slightly cold." Barbatos points to them.

They look very good. "Alright, I will start with them."I take one to my plate and take a bite. "Wow, you were not exaggerating. This is the best tart I ever had." I pretty much have stars in my eyes. It is that good.

Barbatos chuckles. "It was well worth the time I spent then."

"Did you see this in one of your visions too?" Now you wonder if all the food was so good because of that.

"No, as I said my ability isn't working on you and I'm quite confident in my skills. I was certain you would enjoy this. Even when I didn't expect you to love it this much." He smiles at me full of confidence.

I like this Barbatos much better. "I always love your food. I might become the avatar of gluttony at this point." I laugh.

"You still are far away from that plus it's good when you enjoy your food this much." He smiles gently.

"If I'm becoming fat you take responsibility." I tease him slightly.

He simply nods. "I will."

I didn't expect this straightforward

It's somehow embarrassing so I just continue eating to avoid that feeling.

Barbatos seems to just watch me the entire time. I'm about to complain about that when he suddenly touches my cheek.

My cheeks heat up instantly. It was just a light touch that didn't even last longer than a second but it still surprised me.

"You had some cream there." He smiles sheepishly at me and licks his finger.

This feels very intimate to me. "You should eat the tart instead of the cream on my face." I try to hide my ever-hot cheeks and ever-growing emotions.

"You are right but it might taste better this way." Barbatos nonchalantly takes a tart of his own.

"You are pretty cheeky sometimes." I mostly blurt this out, but it is true.

"Only to those close enough to me." Barbatos calmly looks at me after saying such words. My heart skips several beats.

I'm happy that he feels this way about me. Though it's still bugging me that he always manages to embarrass me. He isn't as bad as Diavolo in that regard but he is very troublesome in his own right.

Then suddenly I see an opportunity for payback.

I quickly seize my chance and wipe a bit of cream off his lip. His surprised face alone makes it all worth it.

He simply stares at me, mouth agape.

"You had some cream there." I smile and lick the cream off my finger.

Barbatos cheeks turn crimson, a full success. At least until I realize that this can count as an indirect kiss.

Now we are both embarrassed.

So I guess it ends in a tie today.

[luxekook]

RESPECT ✩ namgi

✩ as part of @btswritingcafe​‘s mots: 7 collab ✩

✩ pairing: king namjoon x witch reader x king yoongi

✩ genre: soulmate au, fantasy au, angst, smut, fluff, a sprinkle of crack

✩ summary: in a land where the only openly acceptable magic is intrinsic soulmate bonds, what is a lowly witch to do when she is called upon by not just one king but two?

✩ word count: 7.1k

✩ warnings: 18+, cursing, magic, societal oppression, mention of snakes, reader has hella trust issues, begging, general cheesy fluff, smut [dom!reader, dom!namjoon, switch!yoongi, threesome (duh), throne sex (yuh), yoongi gets taken to paris and then the reader gets double teamed (aka double penetration)]

✩ beta’d by: the MAGNIFICENT phia @meowxyoong​

✩ banner by: the ILLUSTRIOUS danica @dee-ehn​

Magic danced at your fingertips as you summoned ingredients from the shelves behind you. You had been brewing this potion for hours - a tedious and tumultuous process that always accompanied the crafting of wolfsbane. It was a badly kept secret that you supplied the temporary suppressant along with a variety of other magical remedies, spells, and an occasional curse or two. 

There were - of course - limits on what you would provide. You did not take too kindly to townspeople that asked for dark spells or soulmate switches. Your fellow magical and supernatural folk in the kingdom of Meridian were ostracized enough as it was by the majority of the wealthier classes. To add on to your bad reputation would be a foolish endeavor.

Magic - it seemed - was a poor man’s trade. Why would the rich deign to ask for help from lowly witches and warlocks when they had access to the best doctors, the furthest overseas markets, and the fattest bank accounts? The occasional upper class individual would stray from the norm and enter your shop, but that was a rarity. And thank god it was.

The rich and the royals often feared what they did not understand – whether it be foreign powers, lower class revolts, or magical beings. For centuries, supernaturals like yourself clung to the outer rim of the kingdom out of necessity. Some who were able to pass as human lived closer to the castle at the center of the kingdom; but, you had long since lost your cover, choosing to openly use your powers for good and for a source of income. 

While the two current rulers had lifted the outright ban on supernaturals and magical beings a few years ago, centuries of prejudice and trepidation could not be quickly unlearned. 

It always struck you as ironic how easily the magic of soulmates was accepted, but a simple spell of healing, for example, was not. Perhaps the acceptance of soulmate magic was out of the longevity of its presence or the necessity of its inevitability - perhaps a combination of the two. You were taught from a young age that soulmate bonds felt like a welcomed tether to another person - a connection celebrated and cherished. And, in most cases, that rang true.

However, you knew too much to hope for a soulmate of your own, having heard too many stories from your fellow magic wielders. You knew all too much about the severance of soulmate bonds and the pain that accompanied the process – the pain that never left. 

Obviously, you were downright terrified of finding your soulmate and the almost certain rejection that would follow over the mere fact you were a witch. You would stick to your spells and your potions, thank you very much. 

Giving the wolfsbane one final stir, you reached for the empty bottle next to your cauldron, only to be interrupted by a thumping knock on the thick wood of your front door. Sighing, you set down the bottle and doused the flames beneath your finished brew with a flick of your hand. 

Turning to the door, you cast a quick reveal-spell at the dividing barrier between you and the newcomers. The magic dripped down the door, erasing it from your sight. 

Kim Taehyung waited expectantly on the other side, body practically vibrating with anticipation. You rolled your eyes. That boy always carried way too much energy with him. He pounded again on your door. You smirked, it always seemed funny when visitors would continue to knock on what was - for you - an invisible barrier. 

You waved the spell away with another wave of your palm. Pulling open the door, you failed to get a word in before you were swept into a giant hug. “(Y/n)!” Taehyung bellowed in your ear while he swung you around.

“Tae,” You wheezed, “Can’t. Breathe.”

The werewolf let you stand on your feet once more. “How is my favorite witch?” He asked, looking at you expectantly.

You sighed, chuckling slightly, “Tae, I’m the only witch you know besides Sinestra, and she scares you.”

Taehyung gasped, “She does not scare me! She’s just mean. She threatened to turn me into a cactus last time I went to her shop!” A pout formed on his face.

“Well,” You cannot resist teasing the boy, “She did say that you were being a prick.”

Taehyung shot you a playful glare and mumbled something about damned witches sticking together.

Deciding to let him off the hook, you headed back over to where the wolfsbane was left waiting to be bottled. “It just finished,” You told Taehyung as he trailed after you. “But, Taehyung, you really should just tell him.”

The reason that Taehyung repressed his wolf each month was none other than his soulmate - a human named Jimin. Tae was terrified of Jimin’s reaction to discovering his supernatural side. You thought his fear was justified, but you also figured that Jimin would be accepting of Tae just from how the werewolf described him.

Besides, it seemed inevitable that Jimin would catch on at some point. And Taehyung seemed to know that, too.

Tae’s shoulders sagged, “I know, (y/n). I’ll think about it.” 

With that, you nodded and dropped the subject, pouring the portion of the potion Taehyung needed into a bottle. Capping it tightly, you handed it to him, “Here. Remember to take it with food this time, okay?”

He smiled widely, clutching the bottle close to his chest. “Thank you! I will, (y/n).” Pulling you into one more hug, Taehyung waltzed out the door with a wave.

You smiled wistfully at his departure. So full of life, that one was. You just knew that his soulmate would accept him. You also recognized that you were not like Taehyung. You weren’t as vibrant, as gentle, or as beautiful. Would your soulmate be able to look past all your magic and stay for you? You didn't think so.

Shaking yourself from your negative thoughts, you carefully bottle up the rest of the wolfsbane for your stores. Even though you had long since stopped charging Taehyung, there were other werewolves nearby that you sold the potion to for quite a pretty penny. 

You had barely begun to shelve the bottles when another knock sounded at your door. Cracking a wry smile, you yanked the door open, “Tae, what did you forget to tell me this ti—”

The knock had not been from Taehyung. Instead, two palace guards stood there, shoulder to shoulder. 

Oh, this was not good. Having any lingering association with the palace would hurt your business. It was always best to deal with potentially hazardous situations quickly. Pulling open the door wider, you stood with hands on your hips, facing the two intruders. They both gaped at you, and you arched an eyebrow at them. “Can I help you, boys?” 

You took their continued silence as an opportunity to flick your eyes up and down each of the men before you.

The one on the right looked like he had just passed the guards’ test with his widened doe eyes and his flushed pink cheeks. The one on the left looked slightly older but no less youthful as he seemed to bounce on his toes with energy.

Seconds ticked by until - finally - the second guard exclaimed, “You’re (y/n)? The witch?” 

“Last time I checked, yes,” You addressed the guard who had spoken. You dubbed him ‘Happy’. “Were you expecting me to look differently?”

“I heard that you were super old! Like over one hundred years old!” Doe-eyes unhelpfully answered before widening his eyes in panic, “Not that there’s anything wrong with being old! I mean, I love old people! But, not, like, romantically! I mean—”

Happy seemed to notice your mood darkening with each word his partner spewed out. Shoving the younger guard aside, Happy puffed out his chest and announced with pride, “We are members of the Royal Guard sent to escort you to the palace, Miss Witch.” 

Doe-eyes nodded swiftly next to him, cowering slightly as you continued to glare at him. 

“First of all, please never ever call me ‘Miss Witch’. My name is (y/n),” You uttered, completely unamused, “Second of all, what happens if I refuse your escort?”

The guards slid each other a look.

“Ah, I see,” You murmured, mood darkening even still, “Was there an implied ‘by any means necessary’ tacked on to the end of that sentence that I didn’t hear?”

“She’s a mind reader!” Doe-eyes gasped, leaping behind Happy and peering slightly around his shoulder at you.

You rolled your eyes at the sight of his quivering form, “Calm down, kid. I’m not into non-consensual mind reading.” Shooting the baffled duo a wink, you turned to open your door further. “Please, come in,” You insisted. It was obvious there was no avoiding your summons, but that did not mean your business would suffer.

“But our orders...” Happy failed to follow through with his attempted protest as he practically jumped past you into your little cottage. What an intense curiosity that one had, you mused. Meanwhile, the younger guard seemed more trepidatious, practically tiptoeing across the threshold and into your humble abode.

You shook your head at the way the two palace guards were quickly captivated by your gathered crystals, your worn spellbooks, and your wall of potion ingredients. Swiftly, you shelved the rest of the wolfsbane potion like you had tried to do before being interrupted. 

Your clients would have to pick it up themselves. Scrawling a quick note to your fellow witch Sinestra about the recent events just in case, you vanish it to her with a snap of your fingers.

“Whoa,” Two awed voices sounded from behind you. 

“It went ‘poof’!” Doe-eyes yelled, tugging on the sleeve of his fellow guard, “Did you see?” 

“Do you want to go ‘poof’, too?” You smiled evilly, wiggling your fingers in his direction.

“Ah, hyung! She’s threatening me!” 

“Get it together, bro,” Happy rolled his eyes. Turning to address you, he asked expectantly, “Ready to go now, (y/n)?”

“As I’ll ever be,” You muttered, grabbing your cloak from the rack by the door. Ushering the two men out before you, you quickly cast your protective charms on your home. Now, no one besides your most trusted clients should be able to enter.

Satisfied, you trailed behind the guards as they walked over to where their horses were tied to one of the many nearby trees surrounding your cottage. At least they didn't seem to be malicious in their intent. Their backs were to you, either a sign of trust or blatant stupidity. Only time would tell, you guessed.

"You'll ride with me," Happy smiled at you as he held his palm out for you to take. You shrugged, ignoring his hand to mount the horse on your own. "Alright then," The guard muttered as he seated himself behind you, "Let's go."

The journey towards the heart of the kingdom was not one you made often. It was only out of necessity that you sometimes ventured to the more expensive markets for key ingredients. The looming castle always stirred up inexplicable and foreign feelings of longing and fascination. You feared that actually entering it this time would be almost too overwhelming. 

As the three of you made your way through the town you lived in, you received some tentative smiles and concerned looks from those in which you interacted with regularly. Visitors from the palace were rarities in these parts of the kingdom. You didn't blame people for being concerned by the guards’ appearance and by your departure with them. 

The day wore on as you made your way through village after village, stopping only for a quick lunch. All too soon the palace appeared on the horizon. The looks you received from the townspeople were no longer cordial or concerned. They were full of suspicion and condescension. 

You shrugged it off as best you could. You had bigger things to worry about - starting with whatever was waiting for you on the other side of the looming palace gates.

The large engraved metal doors swung open with your approach as Happy and Doe-eyes nodded to the guards posted there. Your breath caught in your throat. The castle was magnificent. The stone structure seemed to shine with a silvery sheen. Large stained glass windows gleamed from the many stories and towers adorning the palace. Vines wound their way up the walls despite the best efforts of the gardeners to stem their growth.

You stifled a laugh as one such gardener attempted to do so, but the vine refused to budge. Maybe there was some magic here after all.

Two other palace guards walked over to where the three of you had come to a stop inside the palace gates. Doe-eyes dismounted first and then offered a hand in your direction. This time, you decided to take the olive branch and accepted his assistance.

“Okay, ready?” Happy nodded at you and pointed towards the castle doors. “Let’s go. We don’t want to keep the kings waiting.”

“Oh, no,” You gasped, slapping a hand to your heart, “That would be a travesty.”

Doe-eye’s mouth quirked at the corners like he had stifled a laugh, while Happy spluttered something about respect. The short walk to the front entrance was much too short for your liking. You felt like you were walking to your doom - and maybe you were. The two guards had given you no clues as to the purpose of your summoning. That was such bullshit.

The heavy gold encrusted front doors creaked open as you approached. The foyer of the palace beckoned to you with that familiar pull. You sighed as you took in the expensive decor. From the shiny marble floors to the heavy purple drapery, you could see yourself living here all too easily. Why did you feel so called to this place? Well, you had always thought of yourself as a queen. 

Laughing to yourself, you let yourself be ushered down an adjacent corridor to the right of the foyer. You barely noticed where you were headed since your attention lingered on the gorgeous paintings that lined the walls. You probably should have been more alert because you suddenly found yourself at the cusp of the throne room.

The second you entered the room your attention was captured by the two men lounging on elevated thrones at the focal point of the room. These must be the kings, you mused. You had never seen them in person before, but their reputations preceded them. Your magic surged as you neared the kings. Was there a threat nearby? You shift a glance throughout the wide hall. 

Courtesans were scattered amidst large marble columns adorned with intertwining gold and silver accents. The majority of those gathered gaped at you in distaste, while a small handful simply spared a few curious glances. You couldn't spot a single person you knew in the bunch - not that you had expected to - nor could you find a source of outright danger.

Still, your magic thrummed louder within you as you continued on your way towards the kings. 

Your heart sank. This was not a reaction based on imminent danger. No, you knew what this was; someone here was your soulmate. And, when your eyes finally landed on the two men who summoned you, you had to choke down the hysterical laugh that bubbled up inside you.

King Yoongi reclined lazily on his ornate silver and black onyx throne, his body lax but his eyes sharp. His laser-focused attention on you made your stomach flip. You held his gaze as best you could, taking in the delicate dark silk of his diamond encrusted tunic and the tousled auburn hair on which his silver crown resided. He was beautiful.

And he was your soulmate. 

Could he feel the tether between you? Had he known about it somehow before you did? Was this why were you here?

Your eyes slid over to the right, unable to take the heat of King Yoongi’s gaze; King Namjoon’s curious eyes met yours. Unlike his partner, King Namjoon leaned forwards on his gold and emerald throne, avidly taking you in like you were a subject of study. And perhaps you were… You studied him right back. This king was no less intimidating in his scrutiny than the other. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands steepled in front of his face as he stared you down. The intelligence you saw within the depths of his brown eyes clued you in that this was a king that no one could fool.

And, since fate was clearly a bitch, he was your soulmate, too. 

You came to a stop before the kings amidst the sea of murmuring courtiers. “Bow,” Doe-eyes whispered to you, urgently prodding you in the side with his hand. You only stood straighter. You bowed to no one, and you certainly would not bow to your soulmates - no matter their status.

“Leave us.” At King Namjoon’s command, the room emptied. Your two escorts remained behind you. “Hoseok, Jungkook, that includes you,” King Namjoon lifted his chin as he swished a hand in dismissal of the two guards.

“But, sire—”

King Yoongi spoke for the first time, effectively cutting Happy off, “Don’t worry, Hoseok. What can one little witch do to us?”

Oh, you could think of a lot of things. Your thoughts must have been written all over your face because King Namjoon glanced at you and immediately let out a deep chuckle.

Glaring at the two men before you, you decided that one way or another they would learn to respect you. The guards you now knew to be Hoseok and Jungkook exited the room, leaving you alone with the two kings - your two soulmates.

Now, it seemed that you were somehow in a staring contest with both of them at once. Fine, if they didn't want to talk, you would. 

“So, nice weather we’re having, huh,” Your tone could not be any drier.

“Indeed,” King Namjoon quirked a half smile, and you realized you might be in over your head as his dimple made its first appearance.

You hated the whole power imbalance thing going on right now - the two of them sitting silently on an elevated platform lording over where you stood. Gathering all your dignity and lack thereof, you placed your hands on your ample hips and raised your eyebrows, “Well? Did you summon me just to stare?”

“No,” King Yoongi drawled, cupping his chin in his hand, “But you are quite delightful to look at, soulmate… That is, if this is your true form.”

You let the backhanded compliment simmer as King Namjoon chastised his partner, shooting him a warning look.

“Ah, yes,” You finally say, swiping at a nonexistent tear, “You’ve caught me. My true form is actually so old that it’s partially decomposed. Ah, silly me. I thought I would spare you from the grotesque monstrosity.”

King Namjoon burst into uproarious laughter. “Yoongi-ah,” He wheezed, “You’ve really met your match this time.”

Opposite him, King Yoongi scowled, “It was a fair question! The last witch that we summoned could shift into an owl.”

“You’ve met Helvetica?” You blinked, thinking of the only witch you knew with that ability, “She’s legendary.” Then, it registered. “Wait, what do you mean she was ‘the last witch you summoned’... Why have you been summoning witches left and right?”

“Isn’t it obvious now?” King Namjoon smiled, “We’ve been looking for you.”

“You see, (y/n),” King Yoongi purred your name, inciting a shiver down your spine, “Namjoon and I are also soulmates.” He gracefully shifted to his feet before walking down the few steps to where you still stood. 

Circling you like a shark in water, King Yoongi continued, “But we had been feeling lonely despite our connection. We couldn't figure out why.”

“That’s right,” King Namjoon chimed in from his throne, “We tried everything to fill that void.”

“And we mean everything,” King Yoongi whispered in your ear, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger.

“We were quite desperate,” King Namjoon laughed lightly. He, too, rose to his feet and made his way to stand before you. 

Your heart felt like it might beat out of your chest from the sheer sensation of being caught in between these two beautiful men. King Yoongi continued to play with your hair from his position behind you. King Namjoon’s heavy gaze pinned you in place with its wicked intent.

“Desperate enough to contact King Seokjin of Andolia and request that his top Seer be sent to us to do a reading.” King Yoongi’s words caused you to jolt back slightly in shock. Andolia was known to be a more liberal kingdom than yours. It was a kingdom of magic, of carnal pleasure, of beauty. 

Plus, King Seokjin was practically famous for his good looks and for his love of otherworldly entertainment. 

“You outsourced from Andolia? Couldn't you just have asked one of the Seers here in Meridian?” It seemed absurd to you that these two kings reached out to another land so unlike their own for assistance - especially when you knew of at least four Seers in your own land.

King Yoongi and King Namjoon exchanged a look. “The Seers in our kingdom weren't exactly forthcoming, (y/n).” The taller king in front of you withered under your responding glare.

Could they really blame the Seers for not coming forward to help the very kingdom that had rejected them for so long? You certainly didn't think so.

King Yoongi continued, “Well, King Seokjin sent us his personal Seer Moonbyul… And imagine our surprise when she took one look at us and laughed.”

“‘No wonder you’re lonely! You’re missing one,’” King Namjoon quoted the Seer’s past words with air quotes. You had to bite down a smile over the cuteness of his action. “And not just anyone… a witch no less!”

His tone was light, jovial. You couldn't tell his feelings on your magical status no matter how hard you searched his twinkling brown eyes. Turning slightly, you assessed the other king who looked no less unreadable. 

Still staring at King Yoongi, you questioned, “Okay, so you knew your other soulmate was a witch, and you just decided to summon every witch in Meridian to check them out? Do you have any idea how much that would scare us?”

The shorter king had the decency to look a bit embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. “I guess we were too excited by the prospect of finding you.”

You fought down the hopeful feeling inside you. There was no way these two actually wanted to keep your bond to them, right? Not in this economy…

“I’m just going to be straight up with you.” You pulled away from their hold and paced away to climb up a couple steps so you were finally the same height. “I think you searched for me because you want to sever our bond.” 

The two kings moved to interrupt you, but you just held a palm in the air, “No, let me finish. Look, I’ve already come to terms with the fact that my soulmate wouldn't want to be tied to a witch. And why should I even want to be with someone who doesn’t respect me or my craft?”

You lowered your palm, effectively lifting the unspoken silencing charm you had cast on them. 

The first thing that King Yoongi said once he recovered his voice was: “Damn, that was sexy.” 

And the second? “I would rather sever my left arm than sever our bond.”

“Well,” You blinked as King Namjoon nodded emphatically besides his partner, “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Please don’t write us off that easily, (y/n),” The taller king begged, “Don’t you feel it? The tether between the three of us? Can’t you see we were made for each other?”

Oh, you felt it. You felt the pull so deeply that you feared you might lose yourself within them.

But if the spark you felt for them was akin to a flame, you weren’t sure if you were the darkness longing to be brightened or the moth destined to be burned. 

Would it be worth it to give up your current life to be with them? Could you leave Taehyung and your little cottage? Could you survive in a court that held no love for your kind?

Your prolonged hesitance clearly worried the two kings before you. 

“What can we do to show you how much we want you here with us?” King Yoongi implored, his hand drifting out to clasp with King Namjoon’s. 

Staring down at the unified front the kings presented, you realized that your soulmates could offer you so much if you let them. By accepting the bond, you could gain the ability to help others more broadly than just offering simple spells of assistance. You could feel safe and secure. And, you could even allow yourself to love and be loved. 

“Hm,” You mused, “I think I need to take a seat.” You lounged on the very throne in which Yoongi had lazed just a half an hour prior. 

“Just when I thought you couldn't get any more beautiful,” King Namjoon murmured as he stared up at you as you reclined on the silver and black throne.

King Yoongi hummed in agreement, “We’ll need to make hers resplendent just to even come close to her radiance.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” You lied, secretly basking in the warmth of their praises, “Would I really get my own throne? You’re not planning on shoving me in a far away tower?”

“We were fearful of this,” King Namjoon walked up to the foot of the throne with King Yoongi in tow. Pausing briefly, they both fell to their knees before you. King Namjoon continued, “We feared you would think the worst of us. And for good reason.”

King Yoongi’s gaze pleaded with yours as he explained his partner's words, “We grew up to be scared of magic. We were sheltered from it and were told falsehoods about its ‘malicious nature’. It wasn’t until a few years ago that we first travelled to Andolia and met King Seokjin that we realized how wrong we were.”

“We were ignorant,” King Namjoon said lowly, “We removed the outright ban on magic and supernaturals immediately, but unlearning such prejudiced ways has proven to be difficult for our kingdom.” 

You took everything in. You did not doubt that they were being genuine; however, one thought still lingered in the back of your mind.

“If I stay here with you...” Both kings eagerly stared up at you and you rolled your eyes, “And I mean if I do, will you see me as an equal? Will you respect me as such?”

The kings exchanged a confused glance before replying that they already did. You weren’t convinced. You decided to lay everything on the table.

“Okay, but do you really respect me? Or do you just want to fuck me?” 

“Do those have to be mutually exclusive?” King Yoongi asked, his hands clenched at his sides as if he was holding himself back from touching you.

Your lips quirked, “I suppose not.”

“Thank the gods for that,” He growled, “I’ve been hard since you sat on my throne.” Both kings moved forward with clear sensual intent, but you sent a wave of magic forward - effectively halting their movements.

Their eyes blazed with desire for you that you were certain was mirrored in your own. You take in the magnificence of the sight before you. Your two powerful soulmates on their knees before you, desperate to touch you, to taste you. Your eyes traveled over the expanse of Namjoon’s shoulders to settle on his black velvet and gold choker. Then, you shift your gaze to Yoongi and his long ring adorned fingers, the smooth skin of his chest that peeked from the v-neck of his tunic. 

They really were quite a pair. What in the universe had you done to be fated to such beauty? You guessed you probably shouldn’t question it.

Waving away the magical barrier between you, you began, “Earlier you asked what you could do to show that you want me here with you.”

“That’s right,” Yoongi rasped, his heated gaze locked with yours as he lightly trailed a finger up your calf. Beside him, Namjoon inclined his head in agreement before taking your hand in his.

Trying to ignore the rising tension, you forged onwards. It was important that you made these points before this went any further. “Well, I have some requirements.”

Namjoon cracked a smile, “I would be disappointed if you didn’t, my soul.”

Your cheeks warmed at the endearment but didn’t let it distract you. “I want to draft an ordinance that explicitly declares equity for those with magical and supernatural abilities.”

“Done.” Your soulmates agreed in unison.

You paused. That had been almost too easy… “And also an amendment stating that discrimination against said subjects will not be tolerated by any means.”

“Agreed.” 

You were on a roll now. “I like practicing magic. It’s a part of me. I don’t want to have to hide it.”

Namjoon pressed a kiss to your palm, “We don’t want you to hide it.” 

“Your magic is beautiful, (y/n),” Yoongi’s hand slid further up your leg, “You should never feel like you have to hide an intrinsic part of yourself - especially around us.”

Your body burned under their touch, but you still held back. Were they just going to agree to any old thing you threw at them? “I also want ten thousand Burmese pythons.”

That took them a second to process. “We can easily get you around six hundred, maybe seven?” Namjoon squinted as he seemed to calculate the math in his head, “I’ll have to talk to our allies about trading for the remaining amount.”

Spluttering out a laugh, you shook your head, “I was just kidding about the snakes, my gods. Although… now that i think about it, maybe one would be cool?”

Yoongi pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. When had he pushed your skirt up that high? “Anything for you, my queen.” 

It was official. You were ruined.

Your soulmates had effectively stymied your doubts and quelled your fears, leaving you with only the intense desire to be with them. 

And so you caved. “That just leaves one last stipulation... You say you want me, need me. Well then show me how badly you want me to be with you.”

The words barely left your mouth before they were on you. Yoongi pushed your legs further apart so that he could get closer to you. His hands slid around your waist, tugging your body flush against him, and he fused his mouth with yours. 

You smiled into his kiss as you felt Namjoon sidle up to you and begin to place fevered kisses across your collarbone. A witch could get used to this, you thought as Yoongi’s tongue tentatively swiped across your lower lip. What a good boy he was to not take more than you offered. 

Your hands tangled into Yoongi’s silky strands before they came to a halt at his crown. Carefully, you slid the crown off his head and onto yours. Pulling away from Yoongi’s mouth slightly, you murmured, “Well? How’s it look?”

“You look like our queen,” Namjoon whispered hoarsely as Yoongi just looked at you like he might devour you whole. 

At Namjoon’s words, you turned to face him, hooked a finger around the choker adorning his neck, and tugged his mouth onto yours. His hand immediately flew up to cradle your cheek as he kissed you as if you might slip away from him if he stopped. You almost laughed at how obvious it was to you now that Namjoon was the more dominant of the two.

He had just mastered the art of patience amongst the other things you only hoped you could have the pleasure of discovering. His teeth playfully nipped at your bottom lip, and you returned the affection in kind.

Meanwhile, Yoongi refused to let you forget about him as he settled into his position of kneeling between your legs. His lips kissed and sucked at your neck while his fingers danced up your thighs, taunting you with their light touch.

You decided you had been teased enough. Tugging away from Namjoon and shifting Yoongi back from you slightly, you paused briefly to focus your magic and then snapped your fingers. Your dress and undergarments disappeared from your body and reappeared a few steps away folded neatly. 

“Fuck, I love magic,” Yoongi breathed as he takes in your naked body for the first time. 

Without hesitation, you hitch one leg over one of the ornate arms of the chair. “Well?” You arched a brow, looking over your two speechless soulmates, “Are you just going to stare? Or are you going to get naked?”

The speed at which they shed their clothes almost gave your magic a run for its money. 

You marveled at the two men before you, their bodies chiseled, their cocks hard. 

“How do you want us?” Yoongi asked, practically thrumming with anticipation. 

You arched an eyebrow at Namjoon, “Is he always this eager?” 

The taller man grinned, “Occasionally, but this level is rare form for him.” 

Yoongi scowled, “Please, Joon, like you aren’t dying to sink your cock into our soulmate’s pretty little pussy.” 

“Oh,” You sighed, “Someone has quite a mouth on them… Why don’t we put that to good use while Joon teaches you some discipline.” 

Not even thrown off at the notion of being punished, Yoongi gladly sunk to his knees before you once more. Namjoon hesitated, and you quickly realized the problem. Summoning your magic, you materialized some water-based lubricant for him.

“Yeah,” Namjoon laughed, “Magic is a fucking beautiful thing.” Taking the lube from you, he leaned down to prep Yoongi. “Ready?” His deep voice sent shivers down your spine. Yoongi nodded.

“Gods yes,” You barely finished your thought before Yoongi buried his face between your legs, his mouth immediately kissing and exploring your pussy. The first stroke of his tongue tore a moan from you as your back arched into the cool metal behind you.

“(Y/n),” Namjoon growled, “Look at me, my soul. Watch me fuck our soulmate while he tastes you. I want you to feel each of my thrusts in every jolt of his tongue.”

Despite not being one to typically take orders, the heat of Namjoon’s words pulled your attention immediately and the sight before you made it stay. You watched enraptured as Namjoon slowly sank his cock into Yoongi’s ass. 

Yoongi groaned and the vibrations sent another rush of arousal through you as he continued to greedily tease your clit with his tongue. Your hands dug into his auburn waves, pushing his face harder against your pussy. 

Namjoon slid out of Yoongi and then drove back in. The visual of his hard cock pumping feverishly in and out of Yoongi’s pert ass was indescribable when every stroke caused Yoongi’s tongue to thrust inside you and his nose to nudge against your clit. 

“How does she taste, Yoongi? Is she as sweet as she looks?” 

You scowled at Namjoon for causing Yoongi to pause his worship in order to answer. “She tastes like the fucking sun, Namjoon.”

“Now, that doesn’t even make sense— Fuck,” You moaned as Yoongi’s mouth sucked hard on your clit, effectively shutting you up. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you felt the arousal build and build inside of you. Your legs shook as Yoongi sucked and hummed on your clit as Joon continued to pound into him. 

Your eyes focused on the sharp movements of Namjoon’s hip and the flexing of his muscles as he alternated in thrusting and rolling his hips. Gods, you wanted those hips to drive that cock deep inside of you.

“Does this please you, my soul?” Namjoon growled, “Do you like watching me wreck Yoongi while he gives you pleasure?”

“Y-yes,” Your breath hitched as Yoongi teasingly nipped at your swollen bud. “But I want you to wreck me and then I want to wreck you both.”

Namjoon’s thrusts stuttered to a halt as your words connected. Yoongi tore his mouth from your folds. Placing your foot on his forehead, you gently pushed Yoongi back so you could stand, “I want both of you inside me.”

Panting, Yoongi gasped, “Please, please wreck us, my queen.” His lips shone with your essence and you swiped a finger along their seam. Bringing your finger up to Namjoon’s plush lips, you tilted your head with a sly smile, “Well? You wanted a taste, didn’t you?”

Without a pause, he took your finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around the digit, tasting you. His dark eyes remained on yours as he released your finger with a pop. “So fucking divine,” Namjoon groaned, his hands darting out to grab your hips, his hard cock pressing into your stomach. 

Yoongi once again mirrored Joon’s actions from behind you. You could feel his hardness against your ass, and you couldn't help but to grind slowly into him. “(Y/n),” Yoongi moaned into your neck as his cock practically throbbed with need for relief. 

Tugging Namjoon closer to you, you whispered, “My love, go sit on your throne.”

Your soulmate appeared confused but nonetheless did what you said. Pausing only briefly to admire the way Namjoon looked on his throne, you extracted yourself from Yoongi and sauntered over to stand over Joon. 

“You know,” You murmured, grabbing his cock firmly, eliciting a gorgeous moan from the man, “I think I want to sit on your throne, too.” Your hand stroked him teasingly as his head leaned against the back of his throne.

“As you wish, my soul,” He rasped out, his thighs tensing.

With that, you knelt over him. Immediately, Namjoon’s hands rested on your ass and squeezed. “What a greedy boy,” You murmured, placing a soft kiss on his lips, “That’s for Yoongi, my love. Or is my pussy not enough for you?”

As you spoke, you slowly sunk down his thick cock inch by inch. And at the mention of his name, Yoongi practically shoved Namjoon’s hands off your ass and replaced them with his. Echoing your own words, he teased the younger king, “Yeah, Joonie, don’t be greedy.”

Namjoon shot the two of you a half-hearted glare, but before he could say a word, you clenched your walls around him. “F-fuck,” He moaned, his eyes squeezed tight, “You feel so good around my cock, so wet.”

You slid up and down his length, reveling in the building heat consuming you. From behind you, Yoongi slowly teased your other opening. The coolness of his finger assured you that he had done this before. His finger slid into my ass with ease, the lube no doubt helping with that. You both moaned.

“You like that, my queen?” Yoongi growled, beginning to push his finger in and out.

“Oh my gods, yes,” You felt wild from the sensation of being so full of your soulmates, but you couldn't help but want more. “Want your cock inside me, too, Yoongi.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” He responded, pulling his finger out of you. After a moment, you felt the gentle nudge of his cock head against your ass. You stilled your motions, bottoming out on Joon’s dick as you waited with anticipation of being stuffed full with both of them. 

Slowly, inch by inch, Yoongi pushed into you.  “Fuck,” He bit out, “Joon, I can feel you.” 

You felt so satisfied as Yoongi’s hips pressed into you, his cock buried deep inside you.

Namjoon’s cock twitched inside you as he no doubt could feel Yoongi right back. “Please, my soul, I need to fuck you. Let us fuck you,” He begged, gazing down at you with pupils blown out wide.

“No,” You shook your head emphatically, “I’m going to fuck you.”

With that, you started riding Namjoon’s cock. Moving up and down his thick shaft, you guided Yoongi’s hands to your hips as he thrust in and out of you in time to your movements. Every time you sank down on Namjoon’s shaft, Yoongi thrust into your ass. It was exquisite.

You felt your orgasm coiling within you, burning brightly. You squeezed down, trying to prolong the sensation, rolling your hips.

“Godsdamn,” Yoongi moaned, “Your ass is so tight, my queen. I’m not going to last much longer.”

You shook your ass slightly just to tease him. Yoongi responded by biting your neck and muttering, “You’re such a witch.”

“You fucking know it,” You gasped out as Namjoon suddenly rolled your clit between his fingers. Pleasure shot through you as you writhed on top of them. Your walls clenched down as you hurtled towards bliss, your world going white. 

You could feel both of them coming inside you, painting your walls. The heat of their releases only added to the intensity of your orgasm as you flew over the edge, milking them with every pulse of your pussy. 

Slowly, you came down from your high, breathing hard. Collapsing against Joon’s chest, you nuzzled his neck.

You felt his chuckle before you heard it, “I think we tired her out, Yoongi.” 

“Yes, I think so, Joon,” Yoongi replied, slowly pulling out of you, “Let’s get you cleaned up. We have a private hot spring just outside.” 

Not one to be outdone, you straightened, hopping off Joon. Placing your hands on your hips, you leveled each of them with a devilish smile, “Hey, maybe I was pretending to be satisfied for your benefits, you old men.” 

“Old!?” Yoongi bellowed, so easily riled up. 

“Hmm,” Namjoon’s arms encircled you, hugging you to him. Bringing his mouth to your ear, he whispered, “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you, my soul?”

“Undoubtedly,” You whispered back as Yoongi still fumes over being called old. Yeah, a witch could really get used to this.

© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.

[nadisabug]

Morning Love // Intro // Pt 1

Paring: Tsukishima x reader

Genre: SMAU, Crack, Hurt/comfort, Soulmate AU

Warnings: vb bois being bois, cursing, Yachi the detective

Word Count: 1.4 k (not including sc)

Summary: Nekoma finally gets a female manager and Yachi makes a startling discovery.

A/N:  ahhh so heres the first part! I'm so excited about this series and I hope y'all like it tooooooo :)

Series Masterlist // Part Two

Yachi sighs as she slips her phone into her pocket. She would rather talk to her best friend all day, but she had responsibilities now. She straightened up and darted to the locker room to change out of her school uniform and into her gym clothes. 

After she was done, she walked to the gym. Hinata and Kageyama where there setting up, no surprise, so she scanned the room for Kiyoko. She still felt uncomfortable using her first name, since she was her senior and all. Once found, Yachi skipped over to her. 

“Kiyoko, great news!”

Kiyoko turned to face Yachi with a small smile. “What is it?” 

“My friend that I told you about got the manager position!”

“Oh how good, that was at Nekoma right?”

“Yeah, I-”

“What about Nekoma?” Hinata perked up and shouted from the other side of the gym. 

Flustered, Yachi responded. “Uh, my friend, she’s their manager now...”

“Oh,” Hinata deflated. He must have been looking for some info on the team or hoping for a surprise visit. “I mean cool.”

“Nekoma’s finally got a female manager?” A booming voice came from right behind Yachi. She jumped and spun around to see Tanaka grinning behind her. “Tora must be excited, good man,” Tanaka commented, beating his chest once with his fist. “Is she prett- ow!”

Sawamura appeared right behind Tanaka and smacked the back of his head. Sawamura closed his eyes, cocked his head, and forced a tight smile. “You mean congratulations?” He said in a threatening tone. 

“Oh lighten up Daichi,” Sugawara commented as he rolled his shoulders. He looked to be warming up. “He’s just excited.”

Sawamura huffed but walked away from Tanaka. 

Yachi spared him one look, then got on her tiptoes next to Tanaka. 

“She’s absolutely gorgeous!” She whispered earnestly. 

Tanaka grinned and flashed her a thumbs up. As he walked away she thought she heard him mutter something but she couldn’t quite make it out. 

“Alright!” Coach Ukai clapped his hands from atop the referee’s podium. “We’re doing receives first. Line up and let’s go!”

The boys all jogged to their respective places while Yachi joined Kiyoko on the sidelines. The boys did receives for a while, then the spikers split off for practice. ‘That’s where we come in,’ Yachi thought happily. She walked over to one basket while Kiyoko went to the other. Yachi usually tossed balls for Sugawara since he intimidated her less than Kageyama. 

During practice, it usually got hot in the gym, despite the cold weather outside. So it wasn’t a surprise when the boys took their shirts off. It used to fluster Yachi, but she had become jaded to it. However, her attention was drawn when she saw a commotion. On the other side of the net, in line, Tanaka was poking at Tsukishima. 

“Hah, nice tat bro, you do that yourself?”

Tsukishima seemed to look confused for a moment before he looked down at his arm where Tanaka was pointing. Yachi couldn’t see what it was from this far away, but damned if she wasn’t curious. Tsukishima was previously wearing a long-sleeved shirt, so there must have been something that had been revealed when he took it off. But when Tsukishima saw it, he flushed red, scowled, and slapped an arm over it. 

“Can it, Baldy,” Tsukishima seethed. He turned around to look for his shirt, but Coach Ukai interrupted him. 

“Tsukishima, you’re up, come on. Focus!” He yelled. 

Tsukishima shook it off and started jogging to spike the ball Kageyama was currently setting. Yachi was confident he would miss it, but sure enough, he hit it over the net. Yachi was still curious about what was on his arm, but when she tried to get a better look, she too was startled. 

“Hitoka, ball?” Sugawara called softly. 

“Oh yeah sorry!” She squeaked. She quickly and sloppily threw him a ball, but he set it up for his teammate flawlessly. “Sorry!” She said again. 

“No worries,” Sugawara smiled softly. She tossed him another ball and set her mind to figuring out what was on Tsukishima’s arm later. 

After practice, Yachi had almost forgotten about Tsukishima’s arm until Tanaka started in on him again. 

“If you didn’t want people to ask about your arm, why’d you draw it?”

“I didn’t,” Tsukishima snapped. He tilted his water bottle to squirt some into his hand and slapped it onto his arm, scrubbing furiously. What remained was a blurred mess of ink. “Better?”

“Geez,” Tanaka threw his hands up. “No need to be so mean.” He started to walk away, clearly done with the surly boy, when Hinata spoke up. 

“What do you mean you didn’t draw it? Did someone else?”

Tsukishima glared at him to and opened his mouth to say something, probably along the lines of shut up, but Hinata beat him to the punch. 

“Ohh! Was it your soulmate? Do you have an ink-skin connection?”

Tsukishima looked like he was deflating. “That’s not a technical term.”

“Besides the point,” Tanaka waved his hand and jumped back into the conversation. “Do you?”

Realizing he wasn’t going to find a way out of this, Tsukishima sighed and folded his arms. “Yeah, so what?”

“Ahhh! How cool!” Hinata cried and jumped around. Nishinoya clapped Tsukishima on the back and Tanaka cheered too. Yamaguchi, who was standing beside him but had been quiet this whole time, just looked uneasy. Tsukishima’s only response was to roll his eyes. 

“How long have you had your connection?” Hinata asked excitedly. 

At this, Yamaguchi perked up. “Since 12,” he stated proudly. Tsukishima glared at Yamaguchi for spilling the beans, but Yamaguchi didn’t seem to care. 

“Twelve?!” Half the boys in the gym spat incredulously. At that, there came a spattering of complaints and curses across the gym. Yachi couldn’t make most of it out, but it was obvious none of the boys could believe he had gotten it so early. 

Tsukishima sensed the envy and his frown turned into a smirk. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Have you written anything to them?” Hinata asked excitedly. 

Tsukishima cocked an eyebrow. “No of course not.”

At this, the entire gym erupted in protest. 

“Does she even know?” Tanaka wailed above the rest. 

Yamaguchi, seeking to comfort the boys, quickly responded. “Yes, yes, I drew a little doodle on his arm during a sleepover a couple years back so she does.”

“Yes, that’s great and all, but its just one thing! How do you know for sure she knows?”

At this, Yamaguchi shut his mouth. He looked cautiously to Tsukishima who was giving him a glare that could kill. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “She may not know.”

Yachi felt like something was off about that response, but the boys accepted it with ease. She guessed that it wasn’t too hard for them to believe that Tsukishima would ruthlessly leave his soulmate in the dark, but for some reason, Yachi doubted it. 

After reprimanding Tsukishima for throwing away his luck of getting his connection at 12, the boys went back to cleaning up the gym. Yachi helped too, but she couldn’t get the scenario off her mind. Yeah it could be a coincidence that she had a best friend that had a similar connection, but too many of the details were matching up. A soulmate that never responded? Such an early connection? Granted Y/n got hers at 13, but she could have had it earlier and not known. Yachi had one more question that was burning on her mind. 

She found Tanaka after clean up and approached him nervously. He intimidated her, a lot, but she had to do this for her friend. 

“Uh, Tanaka-senpai,” she started softly. She knew he responded well to the suffix senpai so she made sure to use it. 

Sure enough, Tanaka puffed out his chest and grinned. “What do you need Miss Manager?”

“I was just curious, for no reason, what was on Tsukishima’s arm?”

“Huh?” Tanaka lost some of his air. “Oh, the drawing? It was a shitty picture of a lumpy, long-neck dinosaur. The best thing about it was that it had a heart on its body.”

Yachi felt like her soul left her body. She heard herself thank him, but didn’t feel it. She walked home slowly, absorbing the information just dumped on her.

Fun fact: Tanaka said “Not as pretty as our Kiyoko” as he was walking away hehe

Taglist: {open}

[artificialqueens]

Volcanic Love (Taywhora) - Holtzmanns

read on ao3 | word count: 6045

“Oh I was aware, alright,” A’whora purses her lips and for a second, Tayce wonders what it would be like to kiss her. “And you know what I saw?”

Oh Christ, she’ll humour her. “What’d you see, then?”

It’s the response A’whora wants, from the way her eyes gleam. “I saw you peeking at me some type of way. A little pout on your face. You jealous, Tayce? Is that it? You want some attention?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

A/N: Thank you guys so much for the love on my other Taywhora oneshot, it made me so happy. Enjoy this one, too - fully a product of Taywhora beginning to occupy my thoughts with no signs of leaving. Title from Volcanic Love by The Aces. Also thank you Writ for betaing and bouncing ideas with me, and Pop for catching any North American slang that may have sneaked in, I appreciate you both ❤️

Tayce isn’t a chicken.

It doesn’t matter what Tia’s said in the past. She’s never had the balls to flirt with Veronica, anyway, she’s the real chicken.

Tayce is just respectful, that’s it. She’s not about to go hit on her best mate in the club, not when they’re going back to the same flat, not when A’whora’s eyes right now are on everyone but her.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. Tayce is here for drinks and to forget about her shitty work week.

Even if A’whora’s talking to a leggy brunette by the barstools. And giggling. And tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Christ.

A tap on Tayce’s arm makes her jump, and Lawrence is looking at her a tad impatiently, gesturing towards the waiting bartender on the other side of the table.

“What d’you want, then? Can’t wait all night while you stare at your woman.”

“She’s not my woman,” Tayce mutters under her breath, trying to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. “Two tequila shots, please and thank you.”

Lawrence raises her eyebrows. “Two already? You that ready to end up with your head in the toilet tonight, are you?”

“Oh, shut it.”

Tayce peeks over again while the bartender prepares their drinks and A’whora’s whispering something into the brunette’s ear, leaning in close to her. Tayce grabs the table just a little bit harder.

She knows that Bimini’s organized this night out for them so that Tayce can finally get her shit together. They’re out far too often as it is, despite graduating uni and beginning adult jobs and working normal hours, but regardless, this evening has a purpose. Not that Tayce wants it to. Her liking for A’whora is clear as day to everyone except for A’whora herself, and part of Tayce wants it to stay that way.

Why ruin it, anyway? They’re friends, best friends at that, and A’whora cares for her and knows all her secrets and is the most important person in the world. Or rather, she knows all of Tayce’s secrets except how much she fancies her.

Tayce clinks her shot glass with Lawrence’s whiskey before she tosses it back, the salt and lime on her tongue straight after enough to start a fresh fire through her veins. Maybe it’s not going to happen, tonight, or ever. Tayce is fine with that, especially when she’s on a night out with her mates and Little Mix is blaring in the DJ’s mix overhead.

That’s all she needs for a good night out.

Ellie pushes through the crowd to reach them, a head taller than everyone else. “Did you get my vodka cran?”

“Course,” Lawrence grins, handing the glass to her. “Even though we both know it tastes like horseshit. You gotta branch out your options, El.”

“Just like you ordering a whiskey every night out like the wee old man you are?” Ellie sticks out her tongue without missing a beat, and Tayce snorts when Lawrence lifts a mock offended hand to her chest.

“Excuse me for having some pride for the homeland. Not about to let the English win around here.” Lawrence tosses her drink back, and the slight wince on her face is just about noticeable.

“Looks divine,” Tayce deadpans, craning her neck towards where A’whora had been standing.

Except she’s not there anymore, and she’s not in the crowd of people either, and-

“She’s coming up behind you, dafty,” Lawrence snickers, and Tayce hardly has a second to retort before a set of arms wraps around her waist.

“Did you miss me?” A’whora’s voice takes on the sing song quality that it always does when she’s a few drinks in, and Tayce has to ignore the way her stomach feels like it’s filling with butterflies.

Because it’s not.

“Kept yourself busy over there, did you?” Tayce gets out, trying her best not to let the bitterness peek through in her voice.

A’whora’s allowed to flirt with whoever she wants. It’s fine, really.

“I love meeting new people, that’s all,” A’whora grins, reaching across Tayce to flag the bartender, “unlike you, you antisocial creature.”

“Lies. I have enough friends already,” Tayce mumbles as A’whora pulls back, the scent of her perfume making Tayce’s breath hitch in her throat.

She needs her second shot.

Tayce tosses it back as A’whora takes a sip of her rum and coke, and the burn of the liquor at the back of her throat isn’t enough to distract her from the way that A’whora wraps her lips around the straw, all round and delicate as not to smudge her lip gloss.

“You’d be a lot less grumpy if you moved away from the bar, y’know,” A’whora says in between sips. “Maybe danced around a bit or something. No more sulking on nights out like you normally do.”

“She really does sulk, doesn’t she?” Lawrence pipes up, another whiskey in hand, and Tayce can’t help but roll her eyes at the pointed tone in her voice.

Lawrence wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit her in the head.

“Come on. We’re all gonna go dance. No more sulking.”

A’whora grabs her hand, and Tayce starts to panic for a second because she’s sure she’s a little bit clammy, but Ellie and Lawrence are following them and maybe Tayce’s brain is running just a little bit too fast for her own good. They end up in the thick of the crowd and it’s sweaty, gross, but it also makes Tayce feel a little nostalgic for uni, when they’d do this too often and end up hungover for class the next afternoon.

The Rihanna that the mix fades into is enough to make Tayce forget about the fact that she’s attracted to her best friend, especially when she’s giggling at Ellie’s attempt to embody the song with her lip-syncing. She joins in at the chorus, and fuck it, there’s nothing on par with screaming out the words to Bitch Better Have My Money with her mates, especially with Lawrence’s rather unmelodic tones.

She does love them.

“Let me squeeze in!”

Bimini’s voice is loud enough to be heard over the music as they pushes themselves in between Lawrence and Ellie, their fur coat miraculously still around their shoulders while balancing a drink in each hand.

“Well there you are!” Lawrence exclaims, and the delight on her face is exactly how Tayce feels, all of her friends together and-

Well, almost all of them. There’s Ellie, and Lawrence, and now Bimini, but where has A’whora gone off to again?

Tayce goes up on her tiptoes, craning her neck because she can’t have gotten that far with the crowds, she has to be near…

Oh.

She’s found a girl to dance up on. Blonde, this time. A lovely sight to see.

The tentative excitement that had been rising in Tayce’s chest bursts like a balloon, the sinking feeling spreading along her insides and pulling her back down to the ground because of course A’whora’s found someone to grind up against and shoot sultry eyes at because she’s good at that, at getting what she wants. It’s fine, it is, because Tayce is having fun watching Lawrence try to rap Taki Taki.

She doesn’t care what A’whora’s doing.

Except that when she peeks over again, A’whora’s crouching down while she dances and she’s got her hands on the girl’s thighs and she’s looking up at her with an expression that can only be described as hungry. And it doesn’t matter that there’s an elbow poking at Tayce’s back, or that the mix overhead weaves in a Beyonce song that she’d normally scream the words to, because right now she’s got tunnel vision, unable to pull her eyes away from A’whora despite the fact that she feels like she’s burning up the longer she does. Despite the ripping in Tayce’s chest and the rushing in her ears, it’s fine, because A’whora’s allowed to do whatever she wants. Tayce is her friend and nothing more, and she’s used to it, she is.

But then A’whora slowly rises up from her crouched position and wraps her arms around the girl’s neck, leaning in to kiss her and Tayce needs to get out of the crowd and off the dance floor.

The club bathroom has suspicious stains on the walls but it’s blissfully empty, a fact that Tayce is thankful for because at least she can lose her mind in private. She doesn’t need anyone else witnessing an absolutely pathetic meltdown over her best friend.

Tayce’s lip colour is smudged when she looks at herself in the dust covered mirror, and she halfheartedly pulls out her lipstick from her clutch to fix it. Not that it matters, when she’ll probably grab a taxi home in a few minutes anyway, because her bed and some sleep will at least help her forget the sight of A’whora practically on her knees.

Once she’s fixed her lipstick, Tayce runs a hand through her hair and lets out a sigh. She’s changed her mind. Going out isn’t so nostalgic anymore. It’s shit.

“You done admiring yourself in the mirror yet?”

“Jesus, fucking-”

Tayce whirls around at the voice and of fucking course A’whora is standing there, her own lipstick a bit smudged and looking too smug for her own good and Tayce hates the way her heart starts to beat just a bit faster.

“Thought you were busy macking on some slag and giving everyone a little front row performance,” Tayce mutters, turning back towards the mirror.

“Oh, so you were watching, then?” A’whora’s voice is positively delighted, and Tayce wants to roll her eyes at the audacity.

“I think people in the nosebleeds could see that even if they didn’t want to. A little careless, no? Nearly shagging on the dance floor?”

Tayce isn’t bitter. She’s not. Not over something this stupid.

“What, are you a nun suddenly preaching chastity and pureness and everything that’s holy? Is that it?” A’whora snickers, not looking fazed in the least as she sidles up to Tayce at the counter.

Tayce scoffs, trying to keep herself from glancing at A’whora in the mirror. “It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more aware of your surroundings, that’s all.”

“Oh I was aware, alright,” A’whora purses her lips and for a second, Tayce wonders what it would be like to kiss her. “And you know what I saw?”

Oh Christ, she’ll humour her. “What’d you see, then?”

It’s the response A’whora wants, from the way her eyes gleam. “I saw you peeking at me some type of way. A little pout on your face. You jealous, Tayce? Is that it? You want some attention?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

It’s a lie, a flat out lie but A’whora doesn’t need to know that, not when it highlights how absolutely pathetic Tayce feels for having A’whora fucking notice. A new low for her. She might as well trod home with her tail between her legs at this point, not that it would save her from any embarrassment.

So, she’s going to have to pretend it never even happened.

“I wasn’t, but you did that enough for me,” A’whora murmurs, and Jesus, she’s coming up behind Tayce and looking at her in the mirror with the sultry eyes that are usually reserved for other girls. “I like seeing you all worked up in a tizzy.”

“I’m not worked up,” Tayce breathes out, trying her best to hold on to the semblance of control she has before it smashes into pieces.

“So you wouldn’t mind then, if I went back on the dance floor and found another girl to kiss? You wouldn’t care if I brought someone home and let her have her way with me? You’ll be just fine with that, huh?”

It’s hard to think straight when A’whora’s hands are raking up her sides, when she’s looking at her all smug through the mirror because she knows she’s going to get what she wants, the way she always does.

Maybe Tayce will be weak willed if she gives in. Maybe A’whora’s going to be smug for weeks after, or maybe she’s going to tease her mercilessly because she’s just joking around with her hands at her waist. Except A’whora’s hand is trailing to her ass, and she’s biting her own lip in the mirror and fuck-

She gives in.

Tayce turns around, face to face with A’whora whose eyes widen for just a second before Tayce captures her lips in a biting kiss. The hitch in A’whora’s breath and the way she surges forward is enough evidence that she isn’t joking around.

Good.

Tayce grabs A’whora’s waist and flips their positions, so that she has her up against the counter. It’s funny - she’s thought about kissing A’whora before, too many times for her own good, but a dingy club bathroom with her heart beating out of her chest is not how she’d envisioned it happening.

A’whora’s needy, pawing at Tayce’s waist to try and bring her closer than she already is. Tayce nudges A’whora’s legs apart with her own thigh, trailing a hand up her chest and past her collarbone and neck until she’s cupping her jaw. She pulls back from the kiss and A’whora’s lips are slightly parted as she catches her breath, her eyes alight but a little bit hazy.

“Is this what you’ve wanted all night, then?”

Tayce has to applaud herself for the semblance of calmness in her voice, not betraying the fact that her insides feel like they’re catching on fire, her heart beating faster and faster the longer she’s touching A’whora.

A’whora looks as dazed as Tayce herself feels, her lipstick smudged and her lips parted while she catches her breath. Tayce watches as her eyes flick down to look at her lips then back up again, and she takes a step back because she knows that A’whora’s about to lean in and kiss her again. The whine A’whora lets out is more than gratifying.

“You could have just asked, y’know. Dunno why you’ve got to go and make it so complicated for the both of us,” Tayce murmurs, licking her own lips as she steps in closer again.

It’s as if there’s a string between them that’s been pulled taut all night and on the verge of snapping, except now, Tayce is the one controlling it. And after how she’s been on edge all evening, it’s a welcome reprieve, a familiar feeling that she’s been craving for so long.

“I…” A’whora’s words trail off when Tayce leans forward, pressing a kiss to her neck, and then another that slightly nips at her skin, and it’s all Tayce can do to keep herself from smirking against the corner of her jaw.

Because, of all people, she’s the one having this effect on A’whora. A’whora, who could absolutely be classified as a certified babe magnet. A’whora, who can land any girl that she bloody wants. A’whora, who has been on Tayce’s mind for far too long whenever she slips her hand between her legs in the shower. A’whora, who up until now Tayce has had to push down any semblance of feelings for.

But now Tayce has her in her grasp and it’s verging on the edge of being too much, sending her brain into overdrive if she focuses on it for too long.

So instead, Tayce brings her attention back to A’whora, who gasps when her lips focus on the juncture between her neck and collarbone. There’s no way A’whora’s neck isn’t going to be looking ridiculous after this, between Tayce’s lipstick and the fact that she’s being rather liberal with how much she’s tugging at A’whora’s skin, but A’whora’s hands are fisting in her hair and it’s becoming clear that she’s the type to like it like this.

She brings a hand up to grab one of A’whora’s tits, her thumb tracing over her nipple that’s already beginning to harden through the dress fabric because of course A’whora’s not wearing a bra, cheeky slag she is. The whine that A’whora lets out when Tayce pulls her face back is enough to make her want to squeeze her own legs together but she steels herself, putting on the most confident face she can muster without falling apart.

“More,” A’whora gets out in between sharp breaths for air, and part of Tayce wishes that she could frame this sight, keep it in her mind forever.

Instead, she presses her lips together. “I’m not about to fuck you in the loo, Rory. What sort of slag do you take me for?”

A’whora’s brows press together adorably, and Tayce has to resist the urge to smooth them out for her. “But-”

“Let’s go home.”

They end up in A’whora’s room solely because of the shorter distance from the front door, as compared to Tayce’s at the end of the hallway. Tayce kicks the door closed behind them, watching as A’whora flops herself down on the bed, resting her weight on her elbows.

It’s strange - Tayce has been in A’whora’s room thousands of times before, like when they do their makeup together or watch Netflix while passing a spliff back and forth. But right now, the air in the room feels different, a breeze that makes her hair want to stand on end. Or maybe that’s the effect from the look that A’whora’s shooting her from the bed.

She takes her time as she walks over to the mattress, kicking off her heels once she reaches her. There’s a hair elastic on A’whora’s bedside table and Tayce grabs it, tying her hair into a bun and out of her face before she climbs up on the bed herself, straddling A’whora’s lap in a swift movement.

A’whora’s so pretty like this. Not that she isn’t always, when she’s laughing and her eyes scrunch or when she’s tearing up because of a cute kitten video on Instagram. But there’s something about this sight, when A’whora has her hair spread out on the sheets, her chest rising and falling almost erratically, that Tayce wants to absolutely drink up.

She channels her bravado from the club bathroom as she tucks a lock of A’whora’s hair behind her ear, watching as her eyes flutter. “You getting sleepy on me?”

“Better stop boring me, then,” A’whora squeaks out, and Tayce knows, knows that it’s a bluff, but a small part voice in her brain yells at her to accept it as a challenge.

A’whora wants more? She’ll get more.

Tayce grabs at A’whora’s hipbone and flips her over so that she’s on her stomach, revelling in the gasp that A’whora lets out when her face buries itself in her arms on the mattress. She runs a hand up A’whora’s thigh, over the curve of her ass and can feel a satisfaction blooming in her chest when A’whora pushes back into her touch.

“So impatient, for someone who was a little brat and teasing me all night.”

A’whora lifts her face out of her arms, the pout on her lips so quintessentially her. “Tayce, c’mon.”

“Yeah? You think you deserve it?”

Tayce pushes the edge of A’whora’s dress up, exposing more and more of her thighs and tracing along the soft skin. By the time the skirt is bunched up at her hips and the lace of her thong is exposed, Tayce feels like her mind is going into overdrive. She wants nothing more than to speed up the process and just pull the lace down and make A’whora come as fast as possible, but she forces herself to slow down, enjoy the process. Relish in it.

She tugs upwards on A’whora’s hips until A’whora understands the hint and gets up so that she’s resting on her elbows and knees, ass up in the air. Tayce taps the outside of A’whora’s thigh and she parts her legs, and part of Tayce wonders how she’s still upright and breathing herself.

“Good girl,” Tayce murmurs, because there’s really no wrong time to test out the waters and see what makes A’whora tick.

From the little noise A’whora lets out from the back of her throat, it seems like Tayce is on the right track.

Tayce can’t help herself from cupping A’whora’s ass with her hands, kneading the flesh. “You really do have a nice behind, y’know that?”

“Behind? What are you, my eighty year old nan?” A’whora snickers, and despite herself, Tayce lets out a huff.

“Why am I even about to fuck you?”

“Because you’re drawn in by my ass-ets,” A’whora says, a grin on her face as she wiggles her bum slightly, and Tayce has to roll her eyes.

Despite the idiocy, it’s still hot. Tayce is definitely in too deep. She may as well dial for help now.

Her nails are short but she drags them lightly on A’whora’s skin, watching the goosebumps that rise on the surface. She follows the lace of A’whora’s thong with one hand, reaching between her legs, and shit, A’whora’s already damp through the fabric.

Not that Tayce isn’t herself, but that’s another story.

She anchors her other hand on A’whora’s hip as she traces her fingers along the lace, and she can feel a smile spreading on her face when A’whora lets out a little whine. Part of Tayce’s brain feels like it’s still in disbelief, waiting for her to wake up from a particularly saucy dream in which she ends up in her flatmate’s bed with said flatmate a mess beneath her with the sheets bunched up between her fingers. All the pining and the ‘sexual tension,’ in Lawrence’s words, coming to a head feels surreal, almost on par with seeing a dragon in their backyard or with Ellie actually being shorter than someone for once.  

But she’s here, and A’whora’s here and fidgeting in the sheets and Tayce needs to stop getting bizarrely tender about hooking up with her flatmate.

It’s easier to push A’whora’s knickers to the side rather than to pull them off entirely, especially when she’s already shaky on her knees. Tayce traces along A’whora’s folds, the wetness that coats the pads of her fingers making her feel dizzy, and A’whora pushes back against her touch, a moan in the back of her throat.

“What, are you waiting for someone to make a speech or something? C’mon.”

Tayce has to grin at the gumption. A’whora’s never been one to hold back what she’s thinking. “See, I would, but you didn’t say please.”

“Fucking bitch,” A’whora groans, dropping her face back into her hands, and Tayce takes the opportunity to still two of her fingers near A’whora’s entrance, not quite pushing in the way she wants.

“Still didn’t hear a please, though.”

“Ugh. Please. You absolute hound,” A’whora grumbles, but her words cut off in a gasp when Tayce decides to give in, pushing in a finger, then another when A’whora spreads her legs apart just a little more.

A’whora’s one of the more responsive girls she’s ever had sex with, already trying to rock back against her when Tayce curls her fingers. It makes Tayce want to give her more, so as much as her wrist is complaining when she maneuvers her position so that she can circle around her clit with her thumb, she keeps at it. Speeds up when A’whora starts to drip down onto her palm.

“God, I…” A’whora gasps, and Tayce can feel the way she’s squeezing around her fingers and it’s hot, A’whora’s fucking hot and so close to the edge and there’s no way Tayce is going to stop now for anything.

Tayce leans down and presses a kiss to A’whora’s shoulder blade, the motions of her hand unforgiving as she keeps up her pace without slowing, and the contrast between the two is almost striking.

“You close, baby?”

She can see the way A’whora’s back muscles are tensing, the way her face drops into her hands as her legs get more unsteady and she drinks it all in, committing it to memory because fuck, she’s had a lot to drink tonight but there’s no way she’s gonna forget a second of this. Not when A’whora is the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

A’whora can’t kill Tayce for leaving marks on her back if she can’t see them - it’s flawless logic, really. But it’s enough reason for Tayce to pay attention to the ripple of A’whora’s muscles, the heat emanating from her skin when she kisses and nips because she can’t help herself, A’whora’s back a canvas that isn’t going to stay empty for too long.

Tayce doesn’t dare change her pace, not when A’whora’s squeezing around her and her muscles are tensing and her breaths are coming in little gasps that are somehow endearing. She ignores the burning in her forearm, the way she’s worked up a sweat of her own because A’whora’s eyes are squeezed shut, and the noise in the back of her throat cuts off on a raggedy gasp for breath.

“Fuck, ah, shit-”

A’whora’s whimpering, her face buried in her arms and her legs squeezing Tayce’s hand in a death grip as her knees finally give out in a heap on the mattress. Tayce wipes her fingers on the back of A’whora’s still shaking thighs as she pulls her hand back, pressing a kiss to her hipbone before she turns her onto her back as carefully as she can.  

There’s something to be said for a post-orgasm A’whora, from how her chest is rising and falling to the way she has an almost dopey smile on her face that she covers with the back of her hand.

“C’mere,” A’whora mumbles, holding out a hand with grabby motions and Tayce snorts, crossing her arms.

“Postcoital A’whora is a cuddler. Who knew?”

“M’not cuddling,” A’whora pouts, reaching for Tayce’s arm. “I wanna get on top now.”

Tayce yelps when A’whora tugs on her elbow, bracing her hands against the mattress and catching herself on top of her just in time. “You, a top? That’s a thought.”

“Hey!” A’whora whines, wiggling underneath her. “It’s my turn.”

Tayce has to hold back a laugh. “You sound like a child waiting for their go on the swings.”

But then A’whora pushes on Tayce’s hipbone and nudges her leg against her inner thigh and Tayce isn’t sure, really, how A’whora ends up on top of her, though the grin on her face is adorably triumphant.

“Ha! See, I’m strong,” A’whora preens, tossing her hair over her shoulder as her thighs bracket Tayce’s hips and as much as Tayce wants to roll her eyes, she has to admit the sight is kind of hot.

Especially when A’whora licks her lips as her gaze drags down Tayce’s body, a lioness who’s finally gotten her prey. A lioness with highlighter on her cheekbones and a slinky dress that’s still bunched up at her hips.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, y’know that?” A’whora whispers the words centimeters away from Tayce’s ear, raking a hand through her hair and she can feel the way it makes goosebumps rise on her skin.

Not that Tayce is one to let her facade drop so easily. “Oh, yeah? Why’re you always out there kissing other girls, then?”

She still hasn’t forgotten the sight of A’whora grinding up on some girl on the dance floor. Or how badly she wanted it to be her.

A’whora blinks at her. “How else was I supposed to go and get your attention? It worked, didn’t it?”

“You’re a cheeky little hound, aren’t you?” Tayce snorts, shaking her head against the sheets.

Christ.

Really, A’whora’s not wrong. It had certainly gotten her attention, alright, made her stomach turn and need to leave the dance floor before she had a full on crisis while the beat dropped.

A’whora tsks, a smug smile alighting her features. “And yet, you still have those puppy dog eyes for me.”

“I do not-”

Tayce’s half hearted protest is cut off when A’whora presses her lips to hers, licking into her mouth. It’s bullshit and she knows it, A’whora does too, but it doesn’t matter, not when A’whora’s grinding her hips down onto her and moving her kisses to her jaw and her neck.

A’whora’s not one to waste any time, dragging her nails past Tayce’s collarbone and chest and soothing her path with kisses before she pushes Tayce’s dress straps off of her shoulders, beckoning her forward to pull on her zipper. Tayce follows without question, lifting her hips so that A’whora can tug the dress from underneath and off her legs.

Being flatmates means that they’ve seen each other in various states of undress before - when they’re trying on clothes they’ve just bought, when they’re lounging around the flat in their bras when it’s too bloody hot that one month during that one month a year London becomes a fucking sauna. But the purposeful nature with which A’whora traces a hand up Tayce’s inner thigh, her eyes lingering on the lace on her hips and the straps along her ribs, feels worlds away from those times. Tayce has to resist the urge to cross her arms, pull the sheets up on herself, because the way A’whora’s eyes are widened and her mouth is slightly parted makes no real sense when her brain tries to compute it.

A’whora pushes down on Tayce’s shoulder until she’s laying back against the cushions and winks before she resumes her path downwards, pressing biting kisses along her ribs and above her hip bone that make Tayce draw a breath in between her teeth. A’whora’s touch is delicate when she tugs on the lace sitting in the crease of Tayce’s thigh, pulling the thong down her legs and throwing it on the ground to follow the dress.

“My turn,” A’whora grins as she pushes Tayce’s legs apart, and Tayce feels like she’s going to pass out before A’whora’s even gone and done anything.

A’whora takes her time, trailing a path with her lips past Tayce’s calves, her knees, up her inner thighs, in the crease by her hip bone. Tayce tugs on her hair, a cue to speed up her pace but A’whora falters for only a second, a flutter of her eyes before looking up at Tayce, shaking her head.

“No rushing.”

“Mmh-”

Tayce’s protest cuts off when A’whora drags her tongue up her slit ever so slowly, the contact not enough in the least but also the first she’s gotten so far, which makes it feel almost like a welcome reprieve. A’whora pushes her thighs further apart, looking up with her with eyes that draw her in as her tongue traces a path around her clit, not quite giving her the relief she needs.

“Don’t tease,” Tayce gasps, her hands involuntarily tightening their grip in A’whora’s hair, and A’whora lets out a moan into her cunt in response which Tayce has to file away as the hottest fucking thing she’s ever heard.

A’whora trades her earlier motions for circling Tayce’s clit, and Tayce doesn’t even care at this point if the rest of their flatmates are home and can hear them, because A’whora’s good. Better than good. She’s going to get Tayce there embarrassingly fast and Tayce is sure that she’ll brag about it later, but it doesn’t even matter at this point, not when Tayce’s brain is this hazy and she can feel her own breaths becoming more and more shallow.

There are half moon indents where A’whora’s nails are digging into Tayce’s thighs as her movements speed up, and Tayce can feel the familiar sensation building in her core and god, she’s so fucking weak for A’whora. She looks so hot like this, her face between Tayce’s thighs and Tayce feels like she could come from the sight in front of her alone.

But Tayce instead pulls oxygen from around the room into her lungs, forcing herself to breathe as her hips begin to lift themselves from the mattress and she’s so damn close to tipping over the edge. “Fucking hell, just like that.”

A’whora’s pace is steady as she looks up at her, a glint in her eyes that doesn’t waver when Tayce’s hands wind into her hair, pulling her impossibly closer. Something about the confidence in A’whora’s gaze, the way she’s unwavering with her movements is enough to finally push Tayce over the edge and fuck, the sensations are all too much but also what she’s been craving, waiting for the entire evening, and it’s perfect.

A’whora’s committed, her tongue still making circles around her clit, albeit slower but it’s enough to make Tayce’s ribcage rise and fall all jaggedly, sucking in air that can’t fill her lungs soon enough. She pushes A’whora’s face away from between her legs when it becomes too much, hiding a mewl behind her palm but it doesn’t even matter, not when A’whora’s wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and looking like she’s a cat who’s just gotten the cream.

“Shut up,” Tayce mutters, but there’s no malice behind it, not when A’whora’s smile reaches her eyes and Tayce can’t help but reach out, stroke her cheek with her thumb.

A’whora leans into her touch and Tayce’s heart glows in her chest, lighting up hopes that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t have to be a one off. Tayce isn’t that smashed anymore and A’whora doesn’t look like it either, but it doesn’t feel awkward for Tayce to scoot down on the bed, avoiding the wet patch to lay down beside A’whora when she pats the sheets with her palm.

A’whora’s grinning that cheeky smile that she does when she’s doing a bit and laughing at her own jokes, an expression that Tayce has seen far too often. “Why don’t you just stay the night, yeah? The commute back to yours would take too long. It’s not safe at this hour, really.”

“As if my room isn’t just down the hall.”

A’whora shrugs as she drapes an arm across Tayce’s midsection, shuffling to get closer to her. “See? Much too far. May as well stay here at this point.”

“Very compelling argument, I have to say,” Tayce can’t help but smile, and putting her arms around A’whora’s waist when she snuggles into her feels so normal, so them.

Yeah, A’whora’s half on her lap for movie nights anyway because they’re the only two who enjoy strawberry laces as a snack and they have to share the packet but now they’re snuggling, actually snuggling and Tayce doesn’t feel like running for the hills. Maybe because it’s A’whora, her best friend who knows when she’s annoyed and trying to hide it, the one who knows her coffee order down to the almond milk.

Tayce presses a kiss to the top of A’whora’s head because she can, and the contented sigh that A’whora lets out is enough to bloom the seeds of longing in her chest into strings of ivy that don’t ever want to let her go. She can’t, not anymore, not when she’s seen A’whora come apart but also sees A’whora now, nearly falling asleep on her chest with eyes that she can barely keep open.

She’s so beautiful.

And Tayce is so, absolutely fucked.

Maybe she’ll work out how to properly win A’whora over in the morning, and keep this from being something as stupid as a one night stand because Tayce doesn’t want that, or feel like she can handle the two of them only having something so fleeting. She needs A’whora around as more than just a best friend or a flatmate that always brings home fresh flowers for the kitchen table. The reminder is almost calming, in a way, running through her veins and a part of her after years of attempting to push the thoughts out of view.

Tayce can’t continue to bury the feelings in the farthest corners of her mind anymore, not with A’whora in her arms like this and having it actually mean something. No more pining. She’s going to promise herself.

Maybe she can ask A’whora out properly when they wake up, if she has the guts for it. That is, after asking for a round two first.

[sondepoch]

130 Days Before Rebellion

All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance. When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion. But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell. And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

MASTERLIST

The healing process is slow, to say the least.

You study the man's leg, squinting at the scabs that have begun to form around the edges of his wounds, but the flesh has only just started to return around the bone. Even with the superior healing of demons, this man will need nearly a full month before he's back to normal—a testament to how severely he was injured.

You sigh, walking around the makeshift bed to study the demon's arm.

His wounds are a little better here, given that you spent the first few days practically slathering the area in medicinal salve straight from the palace, but now that you've had to ration your treatment, the herbs you've collected are only doing so much to keep the man's pain away.

A huff of exasperation leaves your lips.

This would be so much easier if the demon would simply fall into unconsciousness once more.

The first time you'd brought him here, he had been dead to the world. He hadn't woken up even when you let an undead chipmunk run across his face. It had been simple to cast your spells then, while there was no threat of him waking up to see you in the middle of an enchantment.

But now?

Even when the demon sleeps, he seems to be on edge—as if he's somehow scared of you without even knowing your identity.

A light frown forms on your lips as you push your mask up, a habit you've developed over these past few weeks. You know, rationally, that the clay covering bears no chance of slipping or falling off, but you still need the reminder that the mask is there. That your identity is protected. That despite you helping him, this man does not know who you are and has no reason to suspect you.

"Sir?" You question softly, approaching him on the other side.

His eyes are closed—you can see that much through the thin slits on his mask—but you can never be sure.

You wrap your fingers deftly around his bicep (the only place on his body where he isn't injured) testing to see whether the man is truly asleep. Whether you might be able to speed his recovery along with a little magic.

His eyes dart open instantly.

You flinch at the amber scorn he instinctively regards you with, almost feeling scared of his glare, but it hardly lasts a second before the demon has hidden the expression away, masking it with a more neutral tone.

But even as he continues to regard you with an apathetic curiosity, the look in his eyes remains in your mind.

You know that look.

That's the look you get from the public when you tail behind your family, when the royal escorts bring you to lower districts and you try to smile at the commoners, only to be met with expressions of scorn and distrust.

An all too familiar look.

You have to reassure yourself that you must have misread the demon's eyes.

You know for a fact that he does not know your identity. He cannot know your identity. The green cloak you wear was purchased from a flea market, hardly constructed of royal silk to indicate anything of your high birth. And your mask does an equally brilliant job of hiding your face, your whole outfit so plain that even the guards pay you no attention when you pass by. The only people who pose a true threat to learning your secret are your parents, and they're rarely caught outside the palace.

The only possible way this demon might have an inkling of who you are is if he happens to be of a pure bloodline, one of the demons descended from the first rulers, able to sense and practice magic like you. But, again, most of the remaining descendants in Hell don't even know that they're descendants, and they've had little opportunity to learn magic the way you have, much less grow familiar with it to the point where they might sense that it's been used on them.

Right, you reason with yourself, taking a steadying breath. There's no way this demon knows who I am.

You shake your fears to the back of your mind.

"How are you feeling?" You ask tentatively, beginning to unwrap some of the herbs lain along the demon's cuts. "Sir?"

"Fine," He grunts. "When you were gone yesterday, I was able to sit up."

"Oh?" You replace the herbs with fresh ones, bundles of green and orange and yellow that you freshly picked on your way here. "That's certainly an improvement. Have you tried to move your legs yet, or is the muscle still too weak?"

"The muscle is..." The demon trails off, and you're certain that if you could see underneath his mask, he would be scowling right now. "Weak," He mutters, as if he hates the word.

"Hey," You draw his attention, squeezing lightly on a patch of uninjured skin. You wait until the demon makes eye contact with you. "The Victor did a lot of damage to you. There's nothing wrong with needing time to heal."

The demon makes a dismissive grunt.

You sigh.

That whole exchange is a pretty accurate depiction of what your relationship is like with this demon. You push a lot, he gives a little, you push some more, and then he ends the conversation. And while this progress (if you can even call it that) is incredibly slow going, so tortuously lagging that you don't even know the demon's name yet, it's something.

And that's all you need.

"Do you know what they say?" You continue, rambling on despite knowing that the demon doesn't particularly care. "Sometimes, when you get injured, your body is even stronger when it heals back!"

"I'm sure," The man says drily, sarcasm laced so thickly into his voice that there's no doubt he doesn't believe your words.

"It's true!" You protest, pausing in wrapping his forearm in gauze to show him your wrist. "Look, can't you see the scar? I injured my wrist there a few centuries ago. And I thought it would trouble me for the rest of my life, but it healed wonderfully under the same herbs and treatments I'm giving you. And now, my right wrist is miles stronger than my left, even though my left is the one that's never been injured."

"Right," The demon mutters, his tone utterly disbelieving even as you huff and go back to wrapping his arm.

So much for that, you think, internally sighing at another failed attempt to make conversation, redirecting your attention back to the demon's arm.

Even without any more magic, it should be completely healed within twenty days, you muse, cutting off the gauze and tucking it in, stepping back and smiling briefly at your work.

Perfect.

You move up to the demon's chest, quietly slipping open his robe and swiping a damp handkerchief along the patches of skin where blood has collected, deciding to let the herbs from yesterday sit for another day before you replace them. It takes hardly any time for you to exchange the soft bandages on the man's neck with new ones, and then you've finished work on his upper body completely, and you're ready to redirect your attention back to his legs.

Except...

You glance upward at the demon's mask, your eyes narrowing when you see the crusted blood underneath the wooden frame. It's painfully unhygienic. You've entirely avoided the demon's face and head ever since you brought him here, mostly out of fear for what his sharp tongue might say should you try, but he seems to be in a better mood today.

Surely it can't hurt to voice your concerns, right?

"Sir?" You murmur, withdrawing your hand.

"What?" The demon snaps, evidently not used to you trying to start a conversation up again so soon after him ending one.

"Would you mind if..." You trail off, voice hesitant.

No, you decide, flattening your palms. Yes, it is your responsibility to care for this demon, after he was injured so heavily as a direct cause of your actions. But as his caretaker, it is not your obligation to tiptoe around what you need to do.

And each day you put this off, the worse things get.

"I need to take your mask off," You declare, voice authoritative. "The Victor injured your head as well during the fight, and I need to know how bad the damage is. And I'm sure you can feel the sheer amount of blood that is stuck to your face right now."

The demon quiets, his eyes narrowing at you. And normally, you would look away out of respect for the fact that he has every right to resent you for getting him into this situation in the first place—but this time, you level your gaze and return his stare with equal force.

You're not going to budge on this, and he needs to know it.

"Fine," He mutters after what feels like a full minute of just staring at each other. "Do what you need to do. And do it quickly."

A light grin forms on your lips at that, and you quickly move your hands to both sides of his wooden mask, tugging on it.

But the mask doesn't budge.

"Oh," You mutter softly, feeling a twinge of sympathy. "The mask appears to be stuck to your face, Sir."

"Then work on my legs."

"No, that's not what I meant." You sit down on the edge of the stone table the demon is lying down on, gripping his mask more tightly. "I can still take it off. But it is going to reopen your wounds. And it will hurt, Sir. A lot."

"Then make it quick," He hisses, his tone so vicious that you almost feel the beginnings of irritation prick at your side, a quiet frustration rising at this demon's blatant ungratefulness. But you push the feeling aside, opting instead to focus on sympathy for this man because you already know how much this is going to hurt.

"Feel free to scream," You whisper.

And you begin to pull.

To his merit, not a sound leaves Diavolo's lips when you pry the mask off of his face, an explosion of blood bursting forth as the wounds that had crusted over and hardened into the mask are ripped from his face.

Unfortunately, the demon blacks out barely seconds afterward, so his efforts to appear strong and collected mostly go to waste.

When Diavolo comes to, the pain on his face is less acute. It's a dull ache, and the demon can feel the blood as it continues to seep out of the open injuries on his face, but the discomfort is almost entirely replaced with an odd, tingling sensation, one that is all too familiar.

Magic.

Forbidden to all but the royal family, entirely unfamiliar to commoners, and only a vague word to those like Diavolo, who have it in their blood to master the craft but have never had the opportunity.

The demon might chuckle if he weren't scared to move his face.

It's almost like you're trying to reveal your true identity.

"Can you see properly?" He hears you ask as you continue to dab at the unending flow of blood trickling off his face. "Did the Victor do any damage to your eyes?"

"I'm fine," Diavolo mumbles, holding his face as still as possible. And the words are true. After nearly three weeks of lying down on this bed while waiting for his injuries to heal, this is the first time he has been able to look up without his vision impaired by the sight of his mask obstructing it. The world feels brighter this way. Shrouded in darkness as the Devildom eternally is, but brighter all the same.

"Does this hurt?"

You apply pressure on a certain point.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bring Diavolo any pain.

"No."

You lean back, dipping your white handkerchief (turned red with Diavolo's blood) into a makeshift bowl, squeezing it in the water until it returns a paler shade.

"I can't tell where the bleeding is coming from, Sir," You say, almost apologetic. "I'll need to press different points on your face and you'll simply have to tell me when it hurts. Is that alright?"

Diavolo grunts in response.

"Actually...it must hurt for you to speak, no?"

The demon feels your eyes turn sympathetic as you gaze down at him, a gaze so soft and pitiful that it irks him.

"I'm fine," He insists, raising his voice the slightest to emphasize his point.

But the jolt of pain that runs down his back the moment opens his mouth a little too wide, the already-injured skin stretching beyond what is comfortable, isn't missed by your observant eyes.

You nod your head quietly, mumbling a brief "Of course," before you move your hand into Diavolo's own, calmly pressing his fingers around your wrist. "But I realized that if you move your face, it'll make things difficult for me, even if it doesn't hurt. So squeeze my wrist whenever you feel me touch a spot that doesn't feel like normal, healed skin, alright?"

And as much as Diavolo wants to fight you, as much as he wants to hold his ground and resist, as much as he wants to live up to the expectations of a proper Resistance member and insist that he's fine and you don't need to pity him like this, a meek squeeze of your wrist is all he does in quiet acquiescence.

His father would not be proud.

But for a short moment, Diavolo listens to your urges to close his eyes as you begin dabbing your handkerchief along his face again, squeezing your wrist compliantly every time you brush against skin that is too sensitive to be unharmed.

It's almost peaceful—he thinks—letting you take care of him like this.

Almost.

"I'm waiting for an opportunity to kidnap her," Diavolo explains, crossing his arms. "Give me some time, Father. It shouldn't be long. She's just begun to let her guard down around me," He lies, pretending as if you haven't treated him with your defenses lowered from the very day you met. "I will bring her to you soon."

Good, son.

Diavolo flinches, as usual, the moment his father's voice rings out in his ears. The man mastered the magic of minds long before Diavolo was born, supposedly learning the craft before the current rulers came into power and banned its usage—but Diavolo has never had the same opportunity, and the sensation of another's voice ringing out in his mind is wholly uncomfortable.

Your wounds. How are they?

"I've healed," Diavolo answers, experimentally flexing his fingers. "My face may require some more time, but the princess has been using magic to advance the process."

She uses her magic on you? Is she a fool?

"It would appear so. She has no suspicions of my true identity, nor the fact that I know hers."

Good. And Diavolo?

"Yes, Father?"

Barbatos told me of your pitiful performance at the cage fighting rink. If you bring me the princess, I will not punish you for disobeying my orders to stay back, nor will I punish you for your disgraceful defeat. However, should you fail me again, do not expect me to be merciful.

"...I won't, Father," The demon mumbles, the beginnings of shame pricking at his heart. "I promise, I'll bring her to you as soon as I am at full strength."

Don't.

"What?" Diavolo's voice is sharp, almost seeming the puncture the nighttime silence as he looks up. When he speaks again, he sounds like a boy once more, indignant in his demand for knowledge. Like a petulant child, offended and hurt. "Have you already given my task to someone else? Father, I may have lost a single cage fight, but I assure you that I am beyond capable of—"

Calm yourself, my son. I have not given your task to any other. All I need is for you to wait until the time is right to bring the princess back to the Resistance.

"You are...asking me to wait?" Diavolo questions. "How long, Father?"

I do not know. I will tell you when the time is right. But be ready, my son. Rebellion draws near.

Diavolo is about to respond, about to ask another question about how long he is expected to stay by your side, to pretend to be some poor, ignorant fool who needs aid, before hears your footsteps approach.

His father must sense his instinctive panic, because the soft hum of sorcery which they had been using to contact each other disappears instantly.

Diavolo curses inwardly. He'll have to wait again until his father contacts him.

Of course, he's not upset that the man left. Diavolo knows that it's too risky to leave the connection open, to risk you detecting the hum of magic radiating off his body. It's borrowed magic, sent down from his father, but it's magic all the same—and Diavolo knows by now that you're too skilled in witchcraft to miss it.

The demon steps back, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible while you shuffle your way into the temple, looking around curiously.

"Sir?" You call, blinking in surprise. Instinctively, your eyes go to the stone table in the center of the room where he usually lays, sleeping his days away while waiting for his body to heal, but he's not there.

You glance around the room in confusion, eyes flitting from the ornate benches to the intricate stone tablets littered around the room, searching in every corner for the familiar man who seems to be in an unfamiliar place.

"Here," Diavolo calls down, deciding to humor you.

You jump at the sound.

"Sir!" You yelp, but your tone is strict, admonishing as you cross your arms and look up. "I know I told you that your wounds have healed enough for you to begin moving around, but I know for a fact that I never implied you should be climbing."

Diavolo keeps his face straight at that, hiding his internal amusement as he glances around at the indoor balcony he's standing on. It's high up, overseeing the entire room—but it's clear that the only way to get up here is to either enter via the door behind him, which is locked like the rest of the rooms in this temple, or to literally climb up.

It's clear that you know which option Diavolo chose.

"Relax," He sighs. "I am better healed than you think."

To emphasize his statement, he jumps off the balcony entirely, landing swiftly on his knees. He suppresses the urge to wince as his legs bend as they hit the unyielding ground, instead standing up to his full height, staring you down with confidence.

"Your wounds are going to..." You begin, but the protest dies on your lips the moment you look into Diavolo's eyes. The fiery ambers are lit bright with confidence, no signs of weakness present anywhere on his face.

"Fine," You mutter, glancing away. "But if you insist on walking about, I'd rather you do it outside."

Diavolo is slightly taken aback at that. His lips part briefly, and though he holds it back, he's certain that there's a flash of confusion on his face because seconds later, you're holding your hands up, sheepishly explaining.

"O-oh! It's just that, on my way here, I couldn't help but notice that there seems to be a beautiful cliffside where there are no guards standing post. And you know what they say, right? That fresh air is, um, the best medicine?"

Diavolo blinks.

You're an awful liar. Awful is a compliment, really—there's not a single doubt in the demon's mind that you either bribed some guards to get them to leave this supposed 'beautiful cliffside' or you personally changed their posts, but the demon doesn't comment on it as you continue to dig yourself into a hole with words, now mumbling something about nighttime being safer than daytime, and eventually, Diavolo decides to put you out of your misery.

"Enough," He says, holding up a hand. "I'll come with you."

"Ah, really?" You exclaim, and though Diavolo can only see your eyes through the clay mask you wear, he can tell that your entire face is lit up with happiness. "That's wonderful, Sir!"

You grab his hand instantly, tugging him out of the temple where he's remained hidden inside for so long, pulling him into the fresh outside air. And, although Diavolo knows that you wholly butchered the adage when you claimed that fresh air is the best medicine, it really does feel like the cool wind against his skin has a healing quality as it rushes through his silk robe, embracing his body whole in a crisp hug.

The demon is so preoccupied with enjoying his first moments outside the temple in so long that he doesn't even comment on the way you're still tugging him along, your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

And really, why would Diavolo say anything?

These past few weeks, you've made yourself almost unbearably comfortable around him. You've gone from asking and touching to simply touching in your efforts to wrap and heal his injuries, going as far as to slap his hand away every time he tries to stop you. A grip on his wrist is nothing compared to the places you've touched him, especially given that your fingers often delved beneath skin when you first treated his wounds.

"Isn't it lovely?" You call, leading Diavolo through a field. But lovely is hardly the word the demon would use to describe this region—the grass so overgrown that it goes up above his waist, practically enveloping your figure whole, as the two of you walk through it.

He opts not to answer your question, deciding not to shoot your joy down with an arrow of sarcasm as he usually does, simply following.

But when you bring him to the edge of the field, now trying to pull him through a swamplike area, he pauses.

"Sir, what's wrong?" You call, tugging his wrist. "The ground is more stable than it looks, I assure you. If you'd like, I can carry you through it, though—"

"Enough."

Diavolo crosses his arms, glancing away.

"Excuse me?" You ask, but your tone isn't indignant. Instead, the words are soft as the breeze carries them to Diavolo's ears, unbearably kind as your grip on his wrist weakens. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can—"

"No. Enough Sir this, Sir that. Call me by my name."

"I don't know your—"

"Diavolo."

And Diavolo will never truly understand what possessed him in that moment, where he gave you his name.

But, oddly enough, he doesn't regret it when he sees the way your eyes light up.

The rational part of his brain will claim that it was a necessity. That, since his father has effectively ordered him to gain your trust and remain at your side indefinitely, giving him your name was bound to happen, and he may as well have done it sooner rather than later because he was growing so sick of the word "Sir."

But the irrational part? The section of Diavolo's brain that is in tune with his emotions? In tune with his feelings?

That part knows he gave you his name because he wanted to, and for no other reason.

"Diavolo, huh?" You whisper. "Named for the Devil himself. An honorable name."

A common name, Diavolo wants to respond, as if he's justifying the statement to himself, as an excuse to why it was okay to give you his real name when he knows his father would mock him for such a thing.

But before the man can say a word, you've stepped closer to him, resting your hands on his shoulders in a motion that is far too close for Diavolo's liking.

"Thank you for trusting me," You whisper.

And then Diavolo truly doesn't know what's more astounding: the fact that you have the boldness to hug him or the fact that you whisper your real name into his ear as you do so, absentmindedly overloading the demon's mind with such shock that he only stands there dumbly as you hug him, neither reciprocating nor pulling away.

You're hardly fazed by it, though, and you're pulling him forward once more without a care in the world, but Diavolo's mind is racing a mile a minute.

He can hardly process the fact that you gave him your real name.

The name everyone in the Devildom knows to be the name of their princess.

The name that no one else shares.

Does she trust me that blindly or is she truly such a fool? Diavolo wonders as he follows you, entirely unsure of what to make of this development. You seem entirely nonchalant about it, though, nearly skipping as you tug the man closer to your destination.

"You are..." The man trails off, eyes softening as he watches your hair bounce with each step you take.

"Wonderful?" You ask, and Diavolo knows that there must be a cheeky grin on your face under that mask. "Brilliant? Lovely?"

"Special." The man finishes, deciding on a word that can be used as an insult just as surely as it may appear to be a compliment.

"Are you trying to imply that I..." You begin, pausing to throw a disbelieving look Diavolo's way—but before you can finish your sentence, the two of you hear the familiar hoot of a Purgatorian Owl.

You glance back down the path you were traveling.

"We're here," You declare proudly, placing your hands on your hips in confidence.

"We...are?" Diavolo looks around in confusion.

Sure enough, there seems to be nothing but swamp: dreary vines, suspicious sounds, and the muddy ground that sinks every time Diavolo stands in one place for too long. It hardly sounds like the beautiful cliffside you promised.

"I don't think—"

"Come on!"

You begin sprinting ahead before Diavolo can even finish his sentence, lifting your green robe as you begin to escape the demon's line of sight, your laughter ringing out in the swamp as animals cry out when you pass them.

"Wait—" He tries to call after you, but you're already so far ahead of him that he has no choice but to grit his teeth and follow, internally cursing himself for ever going along with the whims of a princess.

Diavolo keeps his pace steady as he follows you from afar, somehow moving not half as gracefully as you appeared to as he darts through the swamp, and the man has to keep an arm in front of him to slash away any vines which only seem to trouble him as he sprints along.

But, sure enough, after what feels like a solid four minutes of running, the vines begin to grow thinner. And the darkness begins to grow lighter. And then it's barely thirty seconds before Diaovlo hears your overjoyed laughter from just a hundred feet away, and the moment he bursts through the treeline which contains the swamp, he, too, begins to understand the reason for your joy.

A sound of disbelief escapes his lips.

You've brought him to another field. But this is entirely unlike the first one: here, the grass is wild but tamed, barely up to Diavolo's ankles as he wanders through it. Undead squirrels and zombie raccoons scurry by at a distance, looking at the demon's tall figure with curious eyes as he passes them. The sky is entirely unobstructed, clear clouds of black rolling against the indigo sky, and not a single building is to be seen no matter how Diavolo squints and looks around.

Stunning, he thinks, trying to remember the last time he found a patch of land so untouched by civilization.

Never, he realizes. Never have I seen something peaceful.

Diavolo halts only when he finally catches up to you, pausing as the two of you stand right in front of the cliffside you were talking about: a sharp ledge that hovers over a steep drop, reaching so low that Diavolo can only make out the vague shape of darkness at the bottom.

Indeed, even that seems more magnificent than anything he has ever seen.

"I have never..." Diavolo begins, stopping when he realizes how soft his voice sounds. "I have never seen anything like this," He confesses.

"Truly?" You ask, glancing up at him with wide eyes. "Never?"

He shakes his head.

"I..." The demon trails off, wondering if he should say this next thing. But then he realizes that he's already so deep in a lie that another one can't hurt—and so he quietly decides to deceive you once more.

Only this time, he lies for your sake, not his.

"I come from the poorer districts. We don't have anything like this there."

"Oh," You mumble. "That's...tragic. It's a shame that anyone might have to live their whole life without seeing something like this."

"Isn't it?" Diavolo laughs lightly. "Why, in the tavern I used to live in, we couldn't even afford a picture of the imperial family."

"Huh?" You ask, sounding somewhat dumb. "Isn't it against the law to have a home without a picture of the rulers?"

Diavolo's eyes narrow at that—quietly wondering if he misjudged your character, if you are as evil and atrocious as he initially thought you were—but the look in your eyes is one of genuine curiosity, not accusation.

"Rules from a distant government are nothing in the face of extreme poverty."

True words. Though they hardly apply to Diavolo the way he's claiming.

"So, you've...never seen the royal family?"

"Never."

"Not even in passing? In paintings from other shops or such?"

"Not even once."

Diavolo sees the way you quiet at that, the way you begin contemplating the seed he placed in your mind with his lie. And while he won't complain if you choose to ignore it, opting to play it safe, there's hardly a single doubt that you'll do what he expects you to.

After all, now that he's directly stated that he has no idea what your face looks like, why would you need to hide it anymore?

Diavolo turns his attention away from you, redirecting it down at the great chasm that opens up in front of him. It's glorious but empty—much like the mask you wear. Both are undeniable works of art, but Diavolo has stared at emotionless clay for far too long.

"Sir?" You call.

Diavolo gives you a look.

"I mean," You laugh sheepishly. "Diavolo?"

"What is it?"

"Why were you at the cage fight?"

"I could ask you the exact same question," He answers, glancing away. The demon folds his arms. "I know why you helped me, but such an uncouth fighting ground is hardly a place for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"You seem..."

Diavolo pauses, abruptly realizing that he's speaking without a filter. A thousand curses, he thinks, realizing that he's dug himself into a hole.

But your piercing gaze, so bright with curiosity, urges him to give you the truth even though his mind is racing to come up with a lie.

"Kind," He finally admits, forcing the word past his lips with great reluctance. "And usually, savages are the only ones who enjoy watching cage fights."

"I..." You stop yourself, hesitant. Diavolo arches an unimpressed eyebrow.

A small part of him, a part that he would claim to be big but is in reality unbearably small, still hopes that your words will be cruel. That you'll confess that you are a savage, and that it gives you a sick satisfaction to watch opponents beat each other bloody over and over again. He wants you to prove that you are just as awful as the king and queen who raised you, that he should have every right to loathe your existence the way he did so passionately before he met you.

But Diavolo already knows that your answer will be different.

"My parents..." You trail off, hesitating. You sigh, gesturing for Diavolo to sit down as you swing your legs over the cliffside, letting them dangle freely as you stare at your palms. After a moment of watching you, Diavolo does the same.

"My family would rather that I not see the world. They prefer to have me inside at all times. That is the reason why I can only stay with you for a few hours each day." You lean back, releasing a sigh that sounds far too boorish for what one would expect of a princess.

"The poverty districts are so far off that I could never visit them and make it back home in time. And the cage fights are the closest I can get to seeing the dark side of the Devildom, so I try my best to visit as much as possible. Even if it's difficult for me to see so much bloodshed."

"And why do you want to see this 'dark side of the Devildom' so badly?" Diavolo asks.

"Because..." Diavolo can hear you swallow. "My parents never saw it. And a lot of people hate them because of it. So I...I want to be better than them."

Diavolo stops.

His grip tightens around the grass where he has lain his hands, fingernails digging into the dirt.

Lies, he thinks.

You must be lying to him. You have to. This must be nothing more than a sick manipulation tactic to get him to feel bad for you, to get him to regret his affiliation with the Resistance, to make him doubt the validity of Rebellion as it draws near.

It has to be a lie.

But Diavolo makes the mistake of glancing into your eyes—nothing more than a brief glance, one that hardly lasts a second—and even he can't deny the overwhelming sincerity that you reflect so openly.

"And you?" He hears you ask, voice soft, gentle as you regard him. As if your question is something he doesn't need to answer, as if he needs you to treat him so delicately. "I told you why I was at the cage fight, but what was your purpose in fighting there?"

"Because..."

Because if I had won and become the new Victor, all the most powerful demons in the world would willingly bow to me, and I could bring them to the Resistance and Rebellion could begin. Because then, together, we could overthrow your family and put all your heads on stakes.

For the first time, Diavolo feels something unpleasant in the depths of his stomach as he thinks about that—and for a brief second, he almost feels ashamed of his association with the Resistance.

"I needed the money," He blurts. "I wanted...a better life."

Yes, a better life. At least that much is true.

"A better life, hm?" You mumble, fidgeting with the edge of your robe. "I don't know much about you, but you seem to be a very noble person, Diavolo. I...I admire that. A lot."

Your fingers reach upward, and for a moment, Diavolo thinks you're just fiddling with your robe before he realizes that your hands are ghosting over your mask, fingers gripping the pointed bottom and the bindings at the back which keep it pressed against your face.

"Would you...be okay with it if I showed you my face as well?"

Of course I wouldn't mind, Diavolo thinks, momentarily dumbfounded by your request. But when he sees the way you actually pause, as if you're genuinely waiting for his response, he forces himself to say something.

"Yes," He whispers, trying to act nonchalant even as he sees you prepare to take down the final defense you had raised against him, naively opening yourself up completely to this man who, by all rights, will one day end up being your greatest enemy.

But the moment your fingers pull on the bindings, the moment Diavolo sees the beginnings of your forehead peak through, and then your eyebrows, then your eyes, fully unobstructed by the mask, and then the rest of your face, all thoughts of his supposed hatred for you fly out the window.

Diavolo has to remind himself to breathe, he's so enraptured by your face as you pull your mask off completely, shaking your hair loose.

He's seen you in pictures before. Hell, he's drawn your picture before. He's thrown darts at your image and burned newspaper clippings of your face and studied every inch of skin in the royal textbooks, searching for things to make fun of and things to hate.

But he's never truly seen you, not in person. Not your real face.

Diavolo's eyes refuse to blink, he's so utterly entranced by staring at you. He can't pull his gaze away even though he sees the way it makes you bashful as you avert your eyes, shyly raising them up again to peek at his face, his expression.

And all of a sudden, even the Resistance and Rebellion seem like far away topics as the man simply stops and takes in the picture before him: the stunning scenery, the gorgeous chasm, and your seemingly perfect face which brings the whole view together.

Diavolo swallows, his mind only able to echo a single thought as he continues to stare at you.

You're beautiful.

The most beautiful person Diavolo has ever seen.

MASTERLIST

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

Word count: 6.3k

Notes: hc that a name like "prince diavolo" in the devildom is like "prince/king henry" in the british empire. overused as hell, but it happens anyway :D also i still have no clue how long chapters are going to be in this series so keep checking the tags for the word count before you read ^^

Comment & Like

Next Update: 8/22/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[winifredsandersonsbitch]

“Compromise”

Spike x Summers! Reader

Warnings: language, make out scene, implied sex, nothing more than PG-13

Description: You hate bullies. Always have. You and Spike get into it when he continues joking about murdering your friends.

“Don’t go.”

You’re tangled up on the crypt’s couch after a long day of you studying and Spike trying to distract you from studying, but now your homework’s finished and it’s time for you to meet the gang at the Bronze.

“You could come with me,” you say, pushing him off of you lightly and standing up. Your notes and textbooks are littered across the floor from some unconventional study methods that took place earlier in the day, and you kneel to scoop them into your backpack.

Spike spreads out on the couch in the space you’ve left behind. “No thanks, love. I can barely keep myself from biting them now, even with the bloody chip. If Buffy and Riley make eyes at each other one more time in my presence, I might have to go for the jugular.”

It’s a small comment, no worse than some of the other things he’s said about them, but it rubs you the wrong way. It’s not so much that you thought he would stop hating your friends once you got together as you thought he would respect you enough to not hate them so loudly.

Your textbook thumps to the floor as you straighten, scowling. “Listen, I know you don’t like the Scoobies, but they’re my friends. You don’t have to come with me, but you can’t talk about them like that.”

Spike blinks at you. Then a slow grin slithers across his face. His fingers wrap around your wrist, drawing you toward his lap. “Hey, don’t be jealous. You know that if I got to bite anyone, you’d be my first—”

You yank out of his grip and pull on the straps of your backpack. “It’s not funny. Everyone else I’ve dated has gotten along fine with my friends. I mean, sure, they’ve noticed that Buffy gets into a lot of fights and Willow is into some darker stuff, but they would never try to isolate me from them. They’d make an effort, because they knew it was important to me.”

“Well, I’m not like everyone else you’ve dated, am I?” He gestures to the crypt, to his incisors. “The Slayer and I are natural enemies, in case you’ve forgotten. And by extension, her friends are my enemies, too.”

“And by extension,” you mimic, drawing your vowels out too much in a clumsy attempt at his accent. “So am I.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Your hands are planted on your hips now. You still have to change clothes and drop your backpack off at the house, so you’re definitely going to be late, but this conversation has been building up for awhile. You’re glad, in a sort of angry spiteful way, that it’s finally out in the open. “Because Buffy, Dawn, and I are blood. You can’t separate us. And you wanting to, that’s not love. That’s possession.”

He sits up at that, and you backpedal, taking two steps toward the door. You’re not afraid of him, but you are afraid of what he’s going to say. Of how you’ll respond. Blood is rushing to your head, making you rash. Despite the cold of the mausoleum, you’re red hot.

“So now you don’t think I love you?”

The words hang between you, thickening the air with heat and tension. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms and you can see his veins pop slightly when his fist clenches. He’s trying to keep calm, but it’s a struggle for him. It reminds you of just how quickly the tables could turn if he ever gets the chip out.

“You treat me like a man,” he says, after a beat too long of silence. “And I’m not talking about the little bit. I’m talking about them.” He spits the word out like it’s poisonous, like he needs to get the taste it leaves out of his mouth.

“Maybe they’d be more likely to treat you like a man if you stopped being such a—”

No. You can’t go there. You won’t come back from it.

You suck in a deep breath, square your shoulders.

“I don’t want to fight,” you say, even though you really, really do. Both of you have been itching for it. Things have been almost domestic lately, which would be nice if you hadn’t spent the past few years always waiting for the other shoe to drop. You don’t know what to do with comfortable. Neither does he. “I’m going to go meet the others at the Bronze. I’ll see you later.”

“Fine.” He picks the remote off the coffee table and flicks the TV on, drowns out your footsteps with a crime show that opens with gunshots, makes you flinch.

Outside the crypt, you pull a stake from your bag and begin your walk home. You’re not worried about anything attacking you. You’re angry enough to hold your own. But you’re also not stupid, and it would suck if your night out was interrupted by another kidnapping. After you stop by the house to slip into something less comfortable, you go straight for the club.

The building is crowded with sweaty teenagers. The band on stage tonight is a good one and the music is so loud that you can hear it thrumming in your chest, taste it in your mouth. You dance your way through the throng to your friends’ table. Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, and Dawn are squished around a formica top, laughing and drinking and having such a good time that your bad mood dissipates. You pull up a stool and Xander wraps an arm over your shoulder.

“We were starting to think you weren’t coming,” Xander says. He’s got a fruity cocktail in front of him that makes you smile.

“I got a little held up. I’m going to get a drink. Does anyone else want anything?”

“I’ll take a margarita,” Dawn says hopefully, and you narrow your eyes until she revises. “A coke would be good.”

“Uh huh.”

You drape your jacket over your stool and stand back up. On your way to the bar, you spot Buffy and Riley on the dance floor. They look a little stiff, but you’re proud of them for making an effort. Things between them have been tense ever since Faith slept with him.

Thinking of Faith makes your need for a drink extra strong. You throw back a shot at the bar and then get another to go, almost forgetting to grab Dawn’s soda. The bartender is flirty tonight. He’s cute, clean-cut. You’ve seen him around before, always hard at work, making people laugh with his jokes and getting them to open up. If you didn’t have Spike, you’d take the number he slides your way. As it is, you shake your head and smile.

“Sorry,” you say, and he seems to understand, going back to mixing drinks and chatting up customers. It’s nice, to have someone take your no at face-value for once.

When you get back to the table, you’re surprised to see Spike in your spot. Even though his discomforted expression verges on constipated, he’s carrying on a conversation with Xander. Well, they’re bickering, but you know for a fact that Spike could be a lot more cutting if he wanted to.

You slide Dawn’s coke across to her and flick Xander’s ear when he insults your boyfriend.

“Hey!” He clasps his hand to the reddened cartilage and Anya rubs his shoulder soothingly, although the corners of her lips twitch.

The aren’t any chairs left and the table isn’t all that big anyway, so you stay standing, watching Spike’s face intently when your sister launches into a story about a friend of a friend at school who swears the girls’ bathroom is haunted. He’s nodding in all the right places, interjecting with “bullshit!” and “bloody hell!” to egg her on. He’s laying it on a bit thick, really, but it warms you better than the alcohol.

Dawn’s eating it up, though. She’s not often the center of attention for anything mundane. It’s always about her being the key, never about her as a person. Xander’s rolling his eyes at Spike’s sudden rapt attention, but you think it’s sweet.

When Tara makes a joke that no one else gets, Spike booms with laughter. When Willow goes off on a tangent about her computer class, he almost nods his head off. Finally, the group dissolves as Xander and Anya sneak off to have sex and Willow and Tara twirl on the dance floor.

You stay with Dawn, unwilling to leave her on her own with Glory around. Spike keeps the conversation flowing, but his questions about school are clumsy and his small talk is bumbling. It’s endearing for awhile, how little he understands today’s education system, but you turn the topic to generalities when Dawn kicks you under the table. She respects Spike, in her own strange way, and she’ll be embarrassed if he knows how poorly she’s doing.

Then it’s all favorite movies and gossip and dirty jokes, keeping the conversation light even as you have to shout to be heard over the music. You don’t even tell him off when he details one of his old world murders to Dawn, figuring that she’ll hear—and see—worse in her lifetime.

When Buffy and Riley come back to the table for a breather, the awkwardness creeps back in. After Spike flounders for the fourth time while trying to find a safe ground to land on, with Buffy and Riley both giving him the stink eye, you drag him off to a more secluded spot under the stairs.

“I promise I wasn’t trying to offend Sargeant Square,” Spike says, holding up his hands. “I thought everyone liked to bitch about work. I didn’t know he had been demoted.”

Instead of answering, you rise up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his mouth. His hands cup your cheeks automatically, but before he can pull you into something more heated, you lean back.

“I want to say thank you, before I forget,” you say. You wrap your arms around his waist, slip a hand into his back pocket teasingly. “And I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t do it for them.” His fingers trail down your neck, tangle briefly in your hair, squeeze your curves. Everyone’s too drunk to notice or care what you’re doing, so you allow it. “I still don’t like them.”

“That’s okay. We’ll work our way up to that.” He rolls his eyes, but he’s not in a bad mood, so you push your luck with a cheeky smile. “I can’t be your only friend.”

He scoffs. “I have lots of friends. You’ve just— you’ve never met them, because they’re dangerous.”

This strikes you as funny and you kiss him again, longer this time. Being here under the stairs, buzzed, wearing an outfit that’s maybe slightly too revealing, finding a slice of peace in the middle of a war, it’s all so good. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you’re so happy. You need to tell him something, but you don’t know if you have the words to convey exactly what you want. You try anyway.

“The bartender hit on me earlier.”

Spike grins unexpectedly. His teeth seem very sharp. You’re worried he might have eaten the man somehow when you weren’t looking when he says, “I saw.”

“I want you to know I didn’t—” You’re not drunk, certainly not drunk from only two drinks even though they were Bronze strength, but it takes you a minute. “Guys like that used to be my type. But I didn’t even think about it. I only want you.”

“That’s the only reason why I didn’t kill him. That and the chip.”

“That’s not funny,” you say, but he’s holding you in his arms and smiling down at you like he’s going to swallow you whole and it is, a little, because for the first time you’re sure he doesn’t mean it. He trusts you. And you trust him.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t protest when he leaves to go buy you another drink.

[hiswhiteknight]

Unbelievably Outlandish– Part 1

Summary:  Before starting down a new crossroads, the Reader goes onto an adventure of literary traveling. Suddenly tossed into an unbelievable story that has swept the world, The Outlander Series itself. How will a twenty first century woman survive?

Note: I own no characters, except reader, clearly this is based off the lovely book series Outlander by Diana Gabaldon and tv show. This follows more the tv show, but it’s far from accurate. I’m going to try to get better with using less proper English, but who knows maybe I’ll get into Scottish slang.

Pairing: Jamie Fraser x Female Reader

Words: 1900

Warning: Angst, playfulness, cursing, slow start

It has been a long time coming, you haven’t been on a real vacation since you graduated high school. You joined the Marines immediately, went into training and university. With you, it was always work, work, work. For you, it made sense since your brother was a Navy Seal and you both didn’t really have family. And you didn’t stay anywhere long enough to make super close friends to vacation with. But this trip, this was for you and only you.

               You got your degrees in psychology, battle strategies, and world cultures, but your true love was literature. You made it this far living a pretty isolated life because of your brother and your books. You generally just loved to read, so after leaving the Marines, before you started to find your new pathway you said you were going to take this vacation around Europe stopping in different places described or lived in by some of your favorite authors. Jane Austen, Shakespeare, Sir Doyle, Thomas Malory, etc. And it’s been amazing seeing all these places that inspired your idols, imagining how your favorite fictional characters lived.

               And here, alas you were in Scotland. Not necessarily because one of your favorite fictional characters lived here or your favorite author grew up near here, but because of your brother.  He wanted you to explore where you both came from, he felt it would help understand life before you both lost your parents. Plus, he was a huge history buff – it was his hobby outside the Seals.

               He told you all about the battles and culture amongst the decades before us. He told you about our Irish and Scottish ancestors. He’d tell you, you can’t have a name like Y/N O’Mulligain and not think of the Irish.

               There was this nearby village you were passing through. An author named Diana Gabaldon wrote a romance novel based on this rock formation. Your old college roommate wrote a thesis paper about historically accurate romance novels and pop culture. You thought, what the hell, since your here minus well check it out.

               It was strange at first, wondering through this supposed magical place. People clearly flocked here for Outlander’s popularity. You more enjoyed watching the people. You sat against a tree, pulled out a sandwich from your bag, and watched the middle age woman touch these rocks like they were the rock hard abs of a character from Outlander. It was quite amusing. You liked to think your mother would be doing the same thing if she were still alive.

               “You must not be a fan, girly,” you look up to an older woman, clearly Scottish from her accent.

               Shaking your head, standing up to shake her hand, “Is it that obvious,” you laugh, “I’m Y/N. Just a tourist, watching other tourist. That obvious hugh?”

               “Mary, deary,” she grinned answering you with her name while look up at you. You were about five three, but this woman had to be four feet something tall because she was tiny, “Just by the way you’re gazing all around, a girl looking for her own adventure, not through someone else’s eyes or story, but of your own.”

               “You get all that from just looking at me,” you laughed, looking at her curiously. You loved people like this, authentic and wily – it was usually the case with old people.

               “It’s the glimmer in your eye,” she gripped your chin softly, shaking it.

               You laughed, smiling down at her, “May I ask you a question? Do you believe the tales of this place? I know the Scottish culture has a lot of tall tales and superstitions, but a story like that?”

               “Aaa,” she nodded her head, “A skeptic,” she nodded, “These people wandering about, they don’t really believe in the tale. But I believe in the magic of this place, it just doesn’t work from anyone. It’s for the special.”

               Watching her with amusement and skepticism, you laugh nodding your head, “I hope I didn’t offend you with my question.”

               “No, of course not dear – though I believe in the magic of this place. I mostly come to watch these woman fawning over these rocks. I like to bet on which woman will kiss one of those moldy old things.” You laughed so loud, she grinned up at you, “I am about to go home to my hunny Wallace, but you stay here for me? Those three woman over there,” you looked in the direction she was pointing, “I believe they are each going to lick one of these things.”

               Laughing again, you nodded, “I’ll keep a close eye on them. It was an absolute pleasure, ma’am,” she gripped your hand tightly for a second before releasing.

               You sat back, glancing at those women laughing, “And dear,” you look back up to her, “Most people will be leaving to their beds or finding a pub, but you should stay. While the sun is setting – this place will give you the most magical sights.”

               She truly intrigued you, “Of course ma’am, thank you again.”

               “Enjoy your adventure lass,” she grinned once more, walking off down the path.

                 She was right, people started to trickle out. Husbands getting annoyed or bored, ladies feeling exhausted, or people just fearsome of loss of light – they just left group by group. You were left alone eventually, starring at the sun sinking into the horizon. She was right again, Scotland was magical with sights. You took a mental picture of this moment – the smooth silence, the color the sky made, and just being one with this experience. Your life was never slow, silent, or peaceful. You had always lived in the rush of things. But here, you sat taking in this moment. You felt like you could stay in this moment forever.

               The sun eventually went down and you were met with near darkness – which exception of the full moon. You collected your things and got ready to leave. And it dawned on you – you came all this way and have never even touched these rocks. The book aside, these rocks have had legends and tales for centuries. You should respect the stories and culture. With one touch, maybe you’ll feel the stories, tales, and people that touched it before you.

               It felt odd to reach out and touch the stone. It was cool and surprising smooth. You laughed at the thought of all the tongues that touched this exact spot. And with a single breathe, everything grew black and all the air punched out of you.

               Next thing you felt was the slam of the ground and your oxygen returning to your lungs. The sun from the tree burned your eyes. And you heard it, gun shots. You thought you were having another Post-Traumatic Stress attack, but the second bang brought you to reality. And you started to run, your bag still on your back, darting through the trees. You heard shouts, but you were not taking the chance. Being in the military, you didn’t stand still to figure it out.

               Someone gripped your arm as you ran past them, pointing a sword right in your face, “Are you for real,” I yell at them.  

He had a musket pointing directly in your face. You stopped breathing; he was dressed like a 18th century soldier. Thoughts sped in your mind, could this be a reenactment? Could this be a sick joke? The bullet sounds shook you out of your thoughts, the man was about to speak. You grabbed his musket, yanking it towards your body. The gun went off as his head smashed into yours. He groaned, tripping backwards, and smashing against a tree. The light from the headbutt blasted on in your head.

The light started to blind through, and the forest became vivid again. The sound of bullet fire caused you jump out of it and look at the man unconscious before you. You had to be dreaming, everything was so real. The sound, the smell, the world around you. Where and when were you exactly? You got drug out of your thoughts as a bullet graved your arm. You gasped in pain and your body took flight again. On the run again, you slide down an embankment, meeting eye to eye with another redcoat.

               You gasped, “Holy hell,” you whispered looking at the man, “Forgive me,” you said out loud, as the man watched you, straightening up. You saw his insignia, “Captain?”

               “Jonathan Randall, Esquire – Eighth Dragoon of your majesty’s army, mistress,” he answered.

               Something inside you reminisced, that name was familiar. Watching him closely, as he made his micromovements - he was also watching you, like some predator to prey, “I seem to be in the wrong time, wrong place,” you awkwardly laughed.

               “It does seem that,” he paused to see if you’d introduce yourself.

               “I had someone taking me to some distant family and they tried to attack and rob me,” you tried to play the damsel in distress, “My brother always told me I was too trusting.”

               “Yes mistress, women are naïve sheep,” he tiptoed towards you, his hand resting on his sword, “Your accent,” he nodded towards you. You slowly started taking steps back, “I’m unfamiliar with it.”

               He didn’t believe you, clearly you were off your game. Maybe it’s because the blast you took a few minutes ago getting you to this point. It could be the fact that this was surreal, “I’m grew up in the colonies,” you shrugged it off, you could only imagine how far away your accent was to actually existing, “But my brother sent me to our parent’s home country after their passing.”

               You forgot the first rule of lying, keep it short with no unneeded details. His uniform was familiar, the military and your brother trained you well. You had inclined the year and it was clear the woods of Scotland were not safe with the Redcoats. This man was an enemy, not a gentleman of the era you’ve heard and learned so much about. You had to get away, find safety, and figure out what exactly is going on.

               You knew self-defense, hell you were trained well at the art of combat, but this man had weapons and the only thing you had was a backpack and no adequate footwear for a run in the woods, “You don’t dress like a lady,” he motioned towards your clothes. You stop breathing at this, “In fact, only traitorous women wear clothes such as this,” your back was against the hill behind you. His breath was on you. He gripped your neck tightly, “There is only one way to deal with a woman like yourself,” he went for his buckle.

               Your brother drilled into you about protection during moments like this. He trained you on what to do, it was natural. Headbutt to the nose, hike up of the knee, a tool – in your case a rock – to the head. And soon you were breathing heavily and looking at the Captain unconscious on the ground.

               The sound of the Redcoats was not far off, “Druid,” you heard. You were surprised that someone could sneak so close and not make any noise. This Scottish looking fellow reached out his hands, “Come now,” he said. Your only instinct was to take it for now. This man pulled you behind a tree.

               “What year is it,” you whispered to him.

               “1743,” he mumbled, trying to shush me, taking the time to give you a questionable look.

               “Pinch me,” you were hoping this to be a dream. It was a final test of your predicament. He looked at you strangely before helping with your request. He did, and you felt it and suddenly everything went black.

PART 2

[your-highnessmarvel]

Who the F*** is Chris Evans?

Requested by Anonymous: Reader meets Evans when no cameras are around and he’s had a bad day and is just over everything, reader is unaware and when they meet things do not go well at all. Chris comes off as the biggest a-hole imaginable. Reader is like “I knew that Disney loving shit was bull”, Chris realizes he’s coming off as an entitled prick, catches himself and opens up to reader, who in return opens up to him about her many moods. They bond, friendship, relationship and you can add smut if you want. 😎😬 Thank u

AN: so i have two weeks left of calm at school before final papers begin and final exams kick my fuckin ass so i’m trying to zoom through my drafts and give you guys the best of my writing for the next two weeks before i inevitably start writing less until school ends. end in sight? yeah, april 18 is my last exam, then i’m free for the entire summer, so it’s actually not that bad.

Warnings: language

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

The road wound endlessly before you; a long stretch of grey ribbon, interrupted by the occasional glance at the fields or the forest. It was torture, really, because you were not one to be able to hold your seat for more than a few minutes, and now you were stuck in the driver’s throne for the next six. Traveling for work used to sound amazing. It really isn’t. 

There’s a half empty water bottle in the cup holder. Various wrappings from the food you stopped to get: Wendy’s, Taco Bell, Tim Hortons. The sun was beating down through the windshield, the hot air billowing in through the open window. 

You saw in the distance a stopped car. Squinting, you could make out someone there, on the phone, the hood of the car wrenched open. 

You hadn’t left your seat in a few hours, so this was your opportunity to wiggle your legs. And you knew a thing or two about cars. Dad taught you well. 

You pulled up behind the car, watching as the person - a man - stopped talking on the phone to glance at you. He was tall and well built, a young man no older than his mid-thirties. He had a beard and dark sunglasses under a baseball cap. 

You got out, marching to him. “Hey, car trouble?” Wow, that was a classic thing to say. A Dad thing to say. 

He waved his hand around as if to say, “Duh.” And turned back to talk into the phone. You rolled your eyes, venturing to the side of the car. You felt like an imbecile looking through the window, but you did anyway and saw the entire car was shut off. 

“Car just stopped working,” came the voice of the man. You turned with a smile, and saw him dipping his phone into his coat pocket. 

“What happened?” you asked. 

Again, that smug hand wave. That frustrated-I’m-going-to-be-an-asshole-to-you-because-i’m-mad hand wave. “I don’t know?” he grumbled. “Radio shut off. Lights shut off. Steering wheel became hard to turn.”

“Battery,” you said, walking backwards to where the hood was propped open. 

“Whatever, I’m calling my agent,” he grumbled, turning his back to you.

Wow, you thought. This is how he was treating a woman trying to give him a hand? This is how he was being thankful?

“Wait a minute,” you mumbled, realizing what he said. “Agent? Are you in like the CIA?”

He scoffed, dialing on his phone. “I’m an actor.” 

You were looking into the hood of the car, and when he said that, you looked up with a frown. He didn’t look familiar. He talked to his “agent” on the phone and gave them his location and said, “My car’s being a fucking bitch again.”

He was driving a fucking Porsche. You, with you ‘99 Civic, made a weird face. 

When he hung up, he came to you with a heavy sigh and hands in his pockets. “I don’t need your help,” he sighed. “I’m good. Go home.”

“It’s your battery,” you said, ignoring him and his vicious tone. “Or the alternator is dead and can’t provide for the battery.”

“Whatever.” He turned and leaned on the car. “It’s a rental anyway.”

You took a step back, annoyed by his tone, his arrogance, and his comments. You looked him up and down once, trying to found out just who the hell he thought he was. 

“So,” you said. “Who are you?”

“What?”

“You said you’re an actor,” you commanded in a deadly serious tone. “Who the fuck are you, because you seem to think you’re some big fucking shit talking to like that to someone who’s just trying to help you.”

He stood straight and wrenched off his sunglasses, boring icy blue eyes into yours. “I’m Chris Evans,” he said. 

“Who?”

“Chris Evans?” He rose a brow condescendingly. “Captain America.”

It took a few seconds for it to register, then your mouth came open into a little O. He must have mistaken your reaction for amazement because he huffed and put his glasses back on. 

“Wow,” you mumbled. “Star spangled man with a plan is a real fucking asshole.”

“You mouth off like that to total strangers all the time?” he asked. 

“I get why they call you an A-list celebrity now,” you said, ignoring his question. “Asshole celebrity, huh?”

He slammed his fist on the side of the car, mouth twisted in anger. 

“Oh, big man slamming his fists everywhere, right on, buddy,” you said, walking past him towards your car.

“I’m sorry.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, a frown on your face. “You’re what?” you said, turning on your heels.

He was crouched near the hood, hands in his hair, cap on the ground beside him. 

“I’m having a real bad fucking day,” he mumbled as you slowly walked back to him. “My dog is sick. I had a fight with my mom. They filmed me at McDonald’s when I wasn’t looking my best. People don’t want to give me roles because they associate me with Marvel. And now this stupid shit.” He gestured to the car as he slowly rose on his feet. 

You bit the corner of your lip. His tone was softer now, like he was on the verge of crying behind those glasses. 

“Look,” you started slowly, “I have CAA and free towing. I’ll call.” 

You called from your phone and they said they were an hour out due to your location. 

“I’ll pay don’t worry,” Chris said, hands in his pockets, but now he seemed a little nervous. “I didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Y/N,” you said. “And you’d do better greeting strangers who wanna help you with respect next time.” You made to go back to your car, to leave this stupidly handsome yet angry yet nice actor out here until the tow company came. Maybe give him your CAA card so he wouldn’t have to pay full price. 

“Wait!” he called. “I... look I’m really sorry for talking to you like that. I’d like to, I don’t know, take you up for coffee?”

You stood there, ankle awkwardly jutting out. “What?”

“You don’t do coffee?”

“No, yes I do.”

“So, coffee?”

“When?”

“I can go later tonight,” he said with a relieved smile. “If I can get your number.”

You rolled your eyes. “Is this your way of picking up civilian women and luring them to some dark coffee place?”

He laughed. Wow, he was truly wonderful when he laughed. “It’s in the downtown area.”

You bit your lip, but nevertheless gave him your digits, and your CAA towing card for reduced prices. 

“I’ll be waiting for your call,” you said, walking back to your car, “Mister Chris Evans.”

Least to say, the two of you fit like hands in gloves, like moss on a fallen tree stump, like glue on construction paper. The coffee run allowed you to see just how sweet and caring Chris really was. He assured you that asshole part of him rarely comes out, and that you were actually lucky to have even seen it. 

It didn’t end there that night. Coffee turned to drinks turned to dancing in a weird corner karaoke bar turned to spending the night on his couch. And when you woke to the smell of bacon and the sight of a shirtless Chris, you vowed to not let this man go, despite his career, despite his notoriety. 

He was a simple guy. T-shirts and jeans and fluffy pillows and donuts in the morning. He was a conversationalist and an observational man. There was nothing this man did not notice, and especially on you, like the fact that you were falling in love with him. 

It didn’t take long for billboards to go crazy.

WHO IS THIS WOMAN ON CHRIS EVANS’ ARM?

CHRIS EVANS GOES ROGUE? PAST GIRLFRIENDS COMPARED TO HIS MYSTERIOUS LADY OF TODAY ON PAGE 45.

CHRIS EVANS’ MYSTERIOUS LOVER FINALLY UNMASKED. TURN TO PAGE 31 FOR HER COMPLETE RECORD.

“Wow,” you said, dropping the latest edition of TeenVogue into the chariot. Chris picked it up. “They work fast.”

He smirked. “You agreed to this.”

“I know.” You stood on your tiptoes and poked his nose. 

He grabbed you around the waist and gave you a chaste peck on the lips. Not far behind, you heard a series of clicks, and upon turning, saw a paparazzi hidden behind the shelves of potatoes. 

You could already see the newest tabloid coming. 

CHRIS EVANS AND Y/N SEEN MAKING OUT WHILE ON A SHOPPING SPREE!

[thisoldquill]

Nightly Flights

George Weasly x genderneutral!Reader, rated G

Please do not repost my work! All work of the Harry Potter world is not mine, just this piece if writing is.

- Ms Cinnamon

~~~

             George lay awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, ears alert. He was waiting for his twin to finally drift off to sleep before he dared to move. He listened and was relieved to hear Fred’s breathing beginning to steady and turn into soft snores. George crept lightly from his bed and shimmied on his jumper he’d strategically laid out near the door. It was calm at the Burrow tonight, with a wonderfully clear, indigo sky and a luminous crescent moon shining over. George padded softly down the candlelit hallway, past Hermione and Ginny’s room, then Harry and Ron’s, then finally to your room. When his parents had completed the extra bedroom last spring, George had pestered his mother so relentlessly to let you stay in it all to yourself. Eventually, Mrs. Weasley had relented, much to your protests and George’s glee. He knocked twice on your door, then opened it to find you still awake and reading by candlelight. You looked up in surprise to see him, all red-headed and a sneaky grin on his face.

             “George? What are you doing up so late?” you asked and closed your book. George strode over to your bedside, the grin still plastered on his face.

             “I could ask you the same thing. Can’t seem to stay away from studying? Even with me around to distract you?” he waggled his eyebrows and was delighted to see you turn a little pink. You managed to shrug, then turned quickly to put your book away so he couldn’t see your embarrassed face. As you did, the candlelight covered you in a beautiful glow, making you appear momentarily like a delicate ember. George felt his stomach dip and felt his face heat up. This sensation had been occurring more and more often these days, not to mention the fact, for some reason, he was having trouble meeting your eyes. Of course, when he had invited you to visit this summer, it had been on a strictly friendship basis, but was that really all it was? He had seen the knowing looks on his mother’s face and the never-ending smirk on his twin’s face… It was getting harder to ignore this funny little sensation he felt around you. Clearing his throat, he grinned again,

             “So, I take it you’re not busy?”

             “Well, I was reviewing, so whatever you want to show me better be more interesting than this” you pretended to contemplate and pointed at your copy of Advanced Potions.

             “Oh, it’ll definitely be more interesting. Come with me!” he ushered and practically ran out the door in excitement. Together, you tiptoed as quietly as you could down the stairs and out the backdoor. You walked a short distance through the grass to a tiny shed that housed the Weasley family’s brooms. George was about to sweep you off your feet (literally!) and hoped he hadn’t woken anyone up while sneaking out.

             “Are we flying?” you asked incredulously, “You know I’m not very good at it…”

             George chuckled while grabbing his Cleansweep, then strode into the middle of the yard.

             “Engorgio!” he whispered and tapped his wand on the broom handle. It elongated by several inches to comfortably fit two people. “Hop on!”

             You eyed the broom suspiciously, but got on anyways. George could be reckless in his antics, but he had never once hurt you. You swung your leg over awkwardly but didn’t know what to do with your arms.

             “Um, do you mind?” you asked as you wrapped them around his middle. You felt a hot blush on your cheeks; this was something you’d secretly wanted to do for a while! This left George thoroughly surprised so that all he could get out was a grunt in response before he gave a swift kick off the ground. The broom rose higher and higher until the Burrow below looked like a small blob.

             “Hold on, here we go!” George whooped and dove his broom beyond the bounds of his home. It had been ages since he had flown and his mother did not allow any of them to fly during the day (lest they be spotted by Muggles). So, he had taken to flying during the night and decided to bring you along this time. It was quite cheeky really, the way he enjoyed listening to your squeals of delight (or was it fright?) and how you were hugging him around the middle. He plunged his broom downwards into a drop, zooming fast to the ground, then skillfully pulled up at the last second.

             “You alright back there?” he laughed while looking over his shoulder at you. You were tense all over and about to sputter something back, but stopped yourself. Right now, the only thing surrounding both of you was the pale bath of moonlight. It illuminated his hair, making it look like a brand of fire under the inky sky, and his eyes reflected the brilliant glitter of the stars. Your insides seemed to twist themselves, but thankfully, George turned around before you could embarrass yourself. A few minutes passed before he spoke again.

             “There’s the little forest we used to play in,” he pointed out excitedly, “and that’s the lake we would skate on!” It was totally different to see these familiar places at night. George felt you squeeze his middle in acknowledgement and a comfortable silence fell between you two. He skillfully guided the broom through the night a while longer, then decided to turn back once he could see pink on the horizon. He touched down and let you get off first, then ran to haphazardly shove his broom back into the shed.

             “If we go quickly they’ll still be-“ he began but was cut short at the sight of puffs of smoke from the chimney. Dread washed over him; his mother was awake. Turning back, voice full of guilt, “Mum is already up, brace yourself, she’ll most definitely yell at us.”

             You rolled your eyes, “Just Apparate us to my room!”

Honestly, he seemed to forget he could Apparate at the most inconvenient times. George smacked his forehead as he remembered that he could, indeed, do just that, then grabbed your hand. With a small pop! you both appeared in your bedroom. Seconds later, Fred burst into the room, looking frantic. He then saw you still holding onto George and his expression melted into a devilish smirk. You both sprang away from each other, but Fred was now laughing and seemed to be clutching his sides.

             “It’s not what you think!” George cried after him, but Fred had already left the room, still laughing down the stairs.

             “Er, sorry… He’s gonna have a field day teasing me” George muttered. Of course his twin would go off and act like a git in front of you. Fred had made it his personal mission to try to get him and you together, and seeing you hold hands like that? No wonder he spiraled into manic laughter. George wasn’t even sure of his own feelings yet, much less yours. What if you didn’t like him back? What if he was reading the signs wrong (if you were even giving any signs)? No, he had to sort his brother out before he blabbed about things he, George, wasn’t ready to admit. He was about to leave, but felt you grab his hand again.

             “Wait! Um, can you stay here for a bit?” you murmured but couldn’t meet his eyes. You both took a seat on your bed, but sat stiffly upright and a respectable distance apart. An awkward silence ensued and you could feel your hands sweat.

             “I really enjoyed going out tonight” you said in a quiet voice and George peeked over at you. You were staring hard at the floor but honestly so was he.

             “I’m glad, I know how to show you a good time, huh?” he tried to joke but saw you wrap your hands into a knot. “I know you don’t like flying very much… just wanted to show you around where I grew up” he added quickly, hoping it would help you ease up and unknot your hands. A few moments passed, then the lumbering footsteps of Ron and Harry passed by the door, then followed by the quieter ones of Hermione and Ginny. Finally tired of looking at the floor, you spoke again.

             “Can you take me out again sometime? Before we go back to school?” you asked shyly, now daring to look into his eyes. George beamed, proud that he had managed to impress you with his flying skills and nodded earnestly.

             “Of course!” he exclaimed, “on one condition though, you have to steer next time!” The look of dismay on you face made him guffaw loudly, and then you, too, laughed.

             “George, you’ve seen me on a broom, I’ll crash us into a tree!” you giggled.

             “At least that’ll give me a good excuse to ask for a new broom” he guffawed again, “Come on, we’d better go down before Mum starts yelling for us.” He watched you slip out the door, then hopped lightly off the bed. He knew he had to be honest about his feelings for you someday, but there was still time. Right now, all he wanted to do was look at you enthusiastically scarf down a stack of pancakes and daydream about your next nightly flight, and he was ok with that.

[joeyglowy]

Can i request Osamu having a crush on a really short girl

Course you can! I’m pretty short myself so, SHORT GIRLS REPRESENT. I hope you don’t mind, but this crossed over into a boyfriend scenario because, you know, boyfriend Osamu is supreme. 

Miya Osamu x Fem! Short! Reader - 1600+ words

WRAPPED.

Unlike his brother, Osamu was actually a decent person.

Even when he was crushing on you, Osamu was very careful and observant to things that you were particular to and all the other idiosyncrasies you might have.

Being particularly vertically challenged, that was quite unfortunately, a lot.

He found it a particularly visually appealing and rather fucking adorable image to compare you to that of a cat. You hissed a lot, which he always found amusing but he supposed, it was all in fairness as you’d swat away the callous grins of people that tried to use you as an arm rest. You bristled quite a bit too, it reminded him of a cat puffing out their chest or their hairs standing on edge and ready to strike. You’d give people death glares at their incessant and incredibly uncreative puns (which Osamu found was justified as they were all, in fact, quite unoriginal and he could come up with much better if given a chance but refrained for sake of retaining a status where he could be viewed as a candidate for the occupational dream position that is your suitor).

You also spent fifty per cent of your existence puffing your cheeks out because for some reason no one wanted to take you seriously. It was simply ridiculous, just because you were discriminated against in the gene pool concerning the category of height, doesn’t mean you deserve any less respect than anyone else!

As such, in the crushing stage, Osamu was very deliberate to never poke fun of your height, no matter how tempting the urge was but he found himself smiling unconsciously around you anyways because he’s not blind.

You were so incredibly endearing in everything you did, he just couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Which is why when he saw you sending smiles that seemed to be reserved just for him, or the way your eyes would twinkle when you’d see his larger than life stature in the halls, he finally brought himself to just ‘fuckin’ confess already, yer makin’ me sick with all the mush and smush, it’s embarrassin’ to be seen around ya whenever she’s there!’ as so eloquently put by his pickle headed brother.

But just this once, his brother’s advice was not completely useless, he supposed. You returned his feelings in full and Osamu remembered being so ecstatic that he picked you up and had spun you around before encasing you in fervent hug because finally he could just completely wrap himself around you and not be issued a restraining order afterwards. He remembered you getting quite embarrassed but you still had clung onto him with just as much tenderness anyway. Rarely did Osamu ever lose his composure like that but with how charming you were, your gravitational pull was too strong and all he could do was hopelessly collide with you—any battle against gravity is a futile one after all, you’ll just get send pummelling to the ground. Not that he minded since you were the one doing the pummelling.

Time skip to now, with all those formalities out of the way and the careful tiptoeing no longer applying to him since he held immunity as your boyfriend… he became an insufferable shit.

Osamu was an avid cuddler, and a sleepy one at that.

You’ve lost count of all the times Osamu would use your lap, arms, crook of your neck, sometimes just flat out sitting on you to take a nap because apparently, you were ‘perfect pillow size’.

AKA, you were his personal body pillow.

Apparently he liked how small you felt in his arms, he joked that all your pent up anger made you warm and more inviting to cuddle too.

In fact, he was even doing it right fucking now.

You groaned as you almost lurched into the kotatsu to feel what could have easily been the weight of a bear choosing to hibernate on a boulder (or in this case, your rather small frame) in the midst of you trying to do your physics homework. You huffed, irritated down to the bone as you even felt your neck being pushed down, feeling Osamu’s chin digging into your scalp as he took a casual whiff of your hair (which smelt like mangoes… damn, now he was craving mangoes). Your eye twitched.

“Osamu!” you cried out but your retaliation was met with a melodious hum. You felt yourself getting warmer as he chuckled, the rumble reverberating through his chest and onto your back before he left searing tracks of burns on your neck, brushing your sensitive skin with his nose and warming it with his breath. He settled his chin onto your shoulder, humming contently as he slouched. He was no better than a sloth finding the perfect tree to take a three day nap on. You flushed, your grip getting a little too strong for your pen as it creaked in response. “I’m trying to study here, you’re crushing me!”

Osamu, not minding the fact that he had poured his entire weight on you, yawned playfully as he just buried himself deeper into your burning neck. “Nah, I’m good. You’re pretty warm too,” he added scathingly as you pouted, feeling yourself get hotter, not appreciating this abuse of strength and power.

“Must I be harassed by everyone in my life? Woe is me, I’m being bullied for body constraints that I can’t control,” you moaned melodramatically and Osamu blinked in contemplation. He peered over your shoulder and he supposed he was being an obstruction to your studying. He grimaced, well, he did have you face planted into the kotatsu. While he was rather warm in this position and having your frame fit perfectly in his, almost like Russian dolls, he didn’t actually want to disturb you too much, last thing he wanted was for you to get upset at him.

“Fine, I’ll let go–” he had started, attempting to inch back as the shackles that were his well-built arms unlocked their hold on you and were slowly retracting until—

“Keep your goddamn hands around me or I will kick you out.”

Osamu blinked in surprise to find you tightly clasp your hands around his wrists and roughly crossed them over your stomach again, huffing once more. He couldn’t help laughing at that as you kept puffing like a steam engine. “I just wanted you to lay off so I can sit up straight and not parallel to the table! Didn’t say you had to let go,” you argued adamantly although Osamu could see your cheeks were stained a rosy red and he couldn’t help biting his lip, smiling.

“[Name], if you keep that up, I won’t let go at all,” he whispered lowly into your ear, smiling sensually before he was rudely interrupted by the back of your fingers swatting him away.

“I don’t mind that but stop leaning all your weight on me. My friends do that enough and you’re heavy babe.” As if to prove your point, you playfully slapped his inner thigh to express your annoyance. Osamu blinked absentmindedly at the snare drum sound that had resounded, still feeling the stinging impact of your hand that left lingering heat and anticipation crawling over his skin. “You’re literally a solid block of muscle which is heavy Osamu, I don’t need you giving me back problems this early in life, I’m not furniture just cause I’m short you know.”

Even as you were berating him, Osamu found his pout slowly disappearing. Sometimes he forgot how annoyed you get with these sort of things and although one could simply attribute it to you overreacting, he knew that you really were probably sick of it by now. He didn’t want to add to that. Guiltily he pushed himself straighter up, allowing you to have your back perpendicular to the floor again as you sighed in relief but found Osamu hiding his nose into your shoulder.

“M’sorry. Short jokes are overrated. I just like doing this because you’re warm. If you want, you can use me as a chair,” he mumbled out the offer and immediately you found your heart melting and your internal structures crumbling as you became as flexible as water and the expanse of Osamu’s wonderfully sculpted body was your container. Even though Osamu was tall enough to comfortably use your head as a head rest, he much preferred your shoulder since it was ‘closer’ to you in a way, something that you also appreciated.

“Maybe, and while you are quite comfortable and big enough to be a rather suitable chair, I think you’re closer to a backpack… or extra baggage than anything.” Osamu’s brows furrowed, the lines streaking across his forehead in annoyance, miffed by this statement. However, before he could protest, like a cat waiting to prey on the little mouse that finally decided to come out of its hole in the wall, when he finally brought his face into the open air, out of the comforts of your shoulder, you attacked his nose with a quick and swift kiss. He stiffened in surprise as you grinned cheekily at him.

“I don’t think a chair could ever be as cute or as soft as you Osamu.”

Satisfied with his stunned expression and the peaches of pink on his cheeks, you returned back to physics with an amiable smile that obviously meant you weren’t thinking about physics at all. You snorted to feel Osamu digging his face into your shoulder, letting out some sort of muffled, feral growl but you playfully ignored him and continued your work.

Osamu concluded that once you were done with physics, he’ll have to convert this chair into a bed because there’s no way he’s letting you get away with that one scot-free.

You really did have him wrapped around your finger. Or, maybe your whole body in this case, but the metaphor still stands.

[kn1feinthec0ffee]

only angel - roman godfrey

roman godfrey x reader

title from the harry styles song of the same name

disclaimer: i’m not trying to distract from what’s going on by posting my work. that would never be my intent. times are trying, and i’m simply trying to provide some sort of entertainment or something to do with your time. i’m not fishing for any praise of any kind, i’m just putting my work out like i usually do. i love you all and please stay safe.

notes: in other news, if you haven’t noticed, i have a posting schedule now. it used to be every friday somewhere around midday, but that wasn’t really doing much with the algorithm, so i changed it to midday thursday. and i’ll be taking a week off next week bc i’m getting my wisdom teeth removed then. (which i’m incredibly anxious about) so if i go awol for a little while, that’s why. 

also, i have almost no knowledge of alcohol! and i don’t drink! so if i don’t have some commonly known drink or bartender knowledge, please forgive me.

***********

“i’ll take an old fashioned, please.” a woman asked politely, flashing her pearly whites.

“one apple martini with no olive,” a man requested.

“can i get a scotch on the rocks?” a man with a gruff voice asked. 

you were new to this job, but you had a bit of experience, both on the bartender end and the bar attender end. you quite liked this job; the customers were fairly friendly, and you were in a much less seedy part of town than the last dive bar you worked at. you didn’t mind it, though, it gave you your thick skin, something you need in a profession like this. 

you also liked this job better because you weren’t alone. this joint in particular had more bar space than seating space, so they commissioned two bartenders to work instead of just the one. the first few days you were a little rusty, not having worked in a while, but the two of you quickly got into the swing of things. 

his name was roman godfrey, heir to the godfrey fortune, who had a much different story on how he became a bartender. coming from such a wealthy family, he of course inherited the highest position at godfrey tower, which he quickly realized was way too much work for him to handle. roman had transformed from a spoiled rich brat to someone who had more respect for people who actually had to work to keep themselves afloat, and you’d say it changed him for the better. 

somewhere along the line he’d developed a respect for women, too, probably coming from some prior bartending experience. you admired him for that, mostly because you’d hate to work with the man he used to be. 

another reason you enjoyed working with him so much was the fact that his name was so well known across the entire state of pennsylvania that nobody really liked to fuck with him. they’d much rather stay on his peaceful side, because some, more than others, had seen his aggravated side before and were not too terribly inclined to see it again. this came in handy for you when a situation similar to tonight’s had arose.

it was a stormy night, much like many spring evenings. the bar was packed tighter than usual since it was raining much too hard for anyone to leave. it was nearing last call, and you and roman were trying to close up, much to the dismay of the customers. as you were starting to stack some glasses, a greasy older man sauntered up to the bar, plopping right down on the barstool you’d just cleaned.

“i’ll take a gin and tonic, and make it snappy, i’ve gotta get home,” the man demanded, tone devoid of any politeness. “and it’d do you some good to button that up a few more times.” he gestured to your uniform that had the first couple buttons undone to show some cleavage.

“excuse me?” you stammered, flabbergasted at his frankness. you paused what you were doing, frozen in shock.

“you heard me. now make me that drink, bitch, or i’ll climb over this fucking bar and make it myself.” the man insisted.

“you have no right to say that to me.” you defended. “this is my uniform, and if it makes me more comfortable to unbutton it, then i will. i don’t need input from people like you, and you certainly don’t deserve a drink for acting like that. we’re closing anyway, it’s too late.”

you’d handled customers like this before, but they tended to be much less blatant about their sexism and disrespect than this man was. you had started drying the glasses and putting them away at a much faster pace just to get this insistent man off your ass.

“come on, no ones over here, what’s it gotta take for a guy to get a drink?” the man’s inebriation became much more obvious now as he grabbed your forearm as you reached for another glass.

“let go of me!” you shrieked, much louder than you intended. this caught the attention of quite a few other customers and, of course, roman, who quickly made his way over to you.

“exactly what the fuck do you think you’re doing here, huh?” he growled, setting his piercing gaze on the man, who quickly unhanded you.

“i asked her very kindly if she would please make me a drink, and she said no.” he swallowed nervously, the mere presence and power seeping off of roman intimidating him.

“it didn’t sound very kind to me, man. i didn’t hear any fucking ‘please and thank you’s over here.” roman replied, trying to keep his calm with the man that he wanted to hypnotize into slamming his head on the bar.

the man stayed silent, his cocky asshole persona fading into fear at the hands of mr godfrey. roman nodded at his compliance and subtly placed a hand on top of yours on the glass you were holding.

“alright sir, if you would please kindly,” he put a strong emphasis on the word. “stop bothering my friend, get the fuck out of our bar, and head the fuck home, it would be much appreciated.”

as if entranced, the man pulled his jacket back up on his shoulders, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking straight into the rainstorm.

roman looked down at you and smiled his signature grin. usually that’d have your heart melting like a popsicle on a hot summer day, but you weren’t in the mood for it. the scowl on your face told him everything he needed to know.

“why the face? what did i do?” he asked genuinely. he had learned not to skip straight to defending his actions, finding that asking what his mistake was and how to fix it was a method much more popular with the ladies.

“you should’ve let me handle that myself.” you frowned, unhappy with the situation at hand.

“what? why would i do that?” he asked incredulously. “i’m not just gonna stand by and watch that cretin of a man treat you like that!”

“i know, and i thank you for that. your heart was in the right place, but you shouldn’t have stepped in.” you began. “for the longest time, almost every profession has been male-dominated, so us women get the short end of the stick when it comes to how we’re treated in the workplace.

“men have some sort of hero complex, thinking they can insert themselves into a situation they had nothing to do with and earn praise and thanks for their help that wasn’t asked for. men think that they can start confrontations with us and expect us to be silent and complient, to just sit there and take it because we’re not going to stand up for ourselves.” you watched the expression on his face morph to one of interest. “it was my situation, my job to deal with it, and my job to handle the repercussions, should there be any.

“men are accustomed to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it, and that’s got to change, and it starts with small things. small things like me, reprimanding that man for his actions and the way he spoke to me.” you took a breath. “i’m glad you recognized something was happening, but you should’ve only stepped in had things gotten more violent.”

roman looked stunned, almost like he’d gotten a slap across the face. you shouldn’t be surprised, this was usually the reaction you got from men when you tried to educate them on the trials and tribulations of women, but something was different. rather than shocked and confused as to why you would think that, he seemed more understanding of your struggles. sympathetic, even.

he stood still for a moment, as if he was a sponge absorbing all the information you’d dumped on him. “wow, i had no idea there was so much behind that. thank you for letting me know.”

“can i..?” his question trailed off as he leaned down towards you, lips meeting yours. you melted into his embrace, the weeks of yearning for this exact moment finally catching up to you. he started to pull away, but you stood on your tiptoes and chased his lips. you both pulled away breathlessly, lips wet and pink.

“wow, that was,” the rest of your thoughts fell short, but as you looked at roman it was apparent he had the same idea, whatever that may be.

“can i walk you home?” he asked, gathering his things. you nodded up to him, smiling sheepishly as he gently placed your jacket on your shoulders.

the two of you managed to close the bar for the night and fortunately, the rain had died down enough for you to head home. roman held his umbrella above both of you as you curled into his side to escape the cold chill of the rain.

he dropped you off at your place, turning to leave before you spun him around. you hopped up the first two steps and leaned down to kiss him again, easier this time since you were at his level. he smiled against you and kissed back fervently, placing a hand on the area between your neck and shoulder for some leverage.

you said your goodbyes, heading into your house, still feeling the tingling sensation where his hand was as you smiled giddily.

**********

ignore the ending i cant write endings it’s a problem

the feminist jumped out a bit sorry not sorry

i wrote almost all of this last night bc inspiration suddenly struck and i had to take advantage of it and this turned out waayyy longer than intended oopsie

tags: @emmyrosee @jadelynlace @copper-boom @babyboy-cody @goblincxnt @hecohansen31 @skrsgardspam @bill-skarsgard-owns-my-ass @little-grunge-flowerz @manicpixiedreamguurl