#too curious and violent for his own good

[toxicanonymity]

that scream blurb that you posting about Ghostface being unconscious and the reader testing to see if he’s hard…. you have to make the full fic now pleaseee omg it was so good

Every inch

1.4k / m!ghostface x f!reader / from blurb.

SEQUELS | Slasher masterlist

Warnings/notes: I8+ noncon (ghostface unconscious) somnophilia. Based on the car scene from Scream II, but it's modern day (cell phones exist).  You can HC this as anyone but he's night walks coded if you read my other stuff.

Your skirt grazes his robe as you carefully stretch your right leg over the driver’s seat, trying not to touch him, trying not to wake him up.  It’s tricky crawling over Ghostface to get out of the car.  He smells faintly of weed and sweat.  You’ve never been close enough to smell him before. You’ve never been close to him at all for more than a few seconds, always with his knife in hand.  You hear him breathing behind the mask and assume he’s knocked out from the impact of the crash, but can't know for sure. 

He could be pretending for his own amusement, planning to taunt you then stab you at any moment. You’re going to have to open that car door sooner or later - it’s the only one left you haven’t tried.  It'll definitely make a noise. You hover there straddling him, delaying the inevitable. Straddling Ghostface, you think to yourself. Is this a nightmare? 

You slowly lower yourself into his lap, throbbing at the possibilities of what might await you.  Your heart pounds in your chest.  You put your hands on the edge of the seat to pull your body  closer and your heart nearly stops as  your inner thigh softly nudges  his hand.  But he doesn’t wake up – or if he does, he doesn’t show it.  Emboldened, you lower yourself a little more until your damp panties arrive at a warm bulge in his robe and your breath hitches.  He’s only somewhat hard,  but obviously packing.  He still doesn’t move.  His chest is rising and falling with his breaths.  You know he’s alive.  Unable to resist, you lower yourself a little more.  You tilt your hips and gently grind yourself against his package.  

What if the nightmare became a wet dream? It’s always turned you on, at least a little, but especially lately.  It’s been harder and harder to separate arousal from fear.  You’ve wondered if it was a sexual thing for him, the way he pursues you.  Stabbing is penetrative after all.  Does the thought of killing you turn him on? Would it turn him on to wake up to you straddling him?  After all, he’s only a man.  Why not, you think.  This could be your best chance to find out.  This might be the most power you’ll ever have in the situation.  You’re turned on thinking about it.  If you’re mere seconds from potential death, you have nothing to lose.  Plus you're curious what's under all this, and it's too risky to lift up his mask.

Fuck it feels good, and the fact that it’s Ghostface, the one who’s been stalking you, killing your friends, trying to kill you - that gives you such a rush.  The tables have turned.  You’re on top of him now.  You look around for his knife and it’s landed on the floorboard along with his voice changer.  You reach down to grab it then quickly stab it into the back of the driver’s seat at an angle so you can grab it if you need to but he won’t know where it is.  Then you return your crotch to his and a bolt of arousal slices through you when his hard package swells against you.  Holy shit he's hung. You slowly roll your hips against him, grinding into him, trying not to be too aggressive, but it’s hard to control yourself. 

-

His breathing changes and your heart jumps to your throat. You wonder, Is Ghostface seduceable? It might be your best shot if you're already getting his dick wet when he wakes up.  But there's always the chance he reacts violently, and now that you're up against him, it's clear you'd be no match for his strength.

Then you have a thought.  You carefully lift his gloved hand, and he doesn’t react.  You lift the dead weight of his heavy arm all the way above his mask, and he still just sits there, breathing.  You pin both his hands above his head, between the metal pegs of the headrest. His hands are large and the two of them together barely fit through the gap.  Then you slam down the headrest, pinning him there by his wrists.

His mask moves.  He seems to look at you.  Then a soft, low sigh.  You lower your crotch again and he’s harder.  You rub yourself against him slowly with your hands braced on the seat and have to stifle a moan in the shoulder of your dress as you grind against him and his cock swells even harder.  A soft groan muffled by his mask makes you wetter.  

You’re going to have to have him.  This is your chance and you can’t resist it.  Your inner thigh muscles begin to fatigue as you push yourself off his lap to hover again.  You lift up his robe, exposing PJ pants. Strange and not at all imposing, but convenient.  You arrange the robe behind his raging erection, then take a deep breath and pull down his waistband.  His stiff member stands at attention. You cover it with your warmth before the cool air wakes him up. A stab of desire shoots through your core as your wet panties meet his hard cock.  You rub yourself against him and your clit throbs.  Your core aches to be filled. 

You pull your panties to the side and nestle the swollen head of his cock at your entrance.  Then you sink down and fail to suppress your gasp at the stretch.  He moans but doesn’t move.  Your body makes way for him as you slide down and sheathe him entirely with your cunt.  His cock is nice and thick, it makes you feel so full.  It’s crazy this cock has been under the robe the entire time.  You wonder if you could just fuck from now on.  If he’d agree not to kill you - that is, if the threat of it doesn't turn him on.

You rise up, then sink down on him again, his size making you grateful for your ample wetness.  You lift and lower yourself and roll your hips into him. You try not to breathe too heavily as you feel it building in your lower belly.  You start to ride him less restrained, unable to resist fucking yourself on his nice, hard cock.  

-

His mask begins to move as though confused, and he grunts as he tugs at his arms,  unable to free them from the headrest.  He’s groggy and weak.  You’re not going to stop. You're too close to coming.  You greedily keep filling yourself to the brim with him.

His mask looks right at you. “Always wanted this cock,” ghostface says weakly, making your heart race.  “Knew it.”  Then it echoes from the voice changer on the floorboard.  Always wanted this cock.  Knew it.   He tugs at his hands more violently, then gives up.  

“Nasty girl,” he says, voice getting stronger.  Nasty Girl. 

He thrusts his hips up powerfully and you moan uninhibited. He thrashes his arms and stabs upward with his cock, bouncing you on his lap with the power of his hips.  Your whole body tingles and tenses, then you bite your own arm as your walls clamp down around him.  You come on his dick, then pull yourself off and he groans in frustration but has no way of getting you back.  

You open the car door and you’re torn about whether to make him come or leave him with blue balls.  You decide to jerk him off as a power move.  You kneel into the open door frame of the car.  You wrap your hand around his girth and fuck his fist.  “All ya had to do was ask,” he says.  All you had to do was ask.  You grab the voice changer and throw it down the street.  Now he's nothing but a man with his dick in your hand.

“Woulda given you every inch," he says. Maybe every inch of his blade.  He nods down to his crotch. "Now you know." His voice is coming back to full strength, smooth and low. It's a voice you can't quite place.

You know you should stab him while you have him tied down, but you're thinking with the wrong head now, unable to bear the thought of this cock going to waste. You slow your hand way down and edge him mercilessly.  His big, stiff cock twitches in your hand and you can tell he's dying for more.

You take your phone out of your bra and take a short video of him trying not to whimper, dick sprouting out of his unimposing pajama pants.  Then you finish him off and take a dick pic selfie with cum all over his robe.  You take the knife out of the back of the seat and leave him stuck in the car.

-

Thank you so much for reading and engaging. Even if you're reading this way later I would love to know your thoughts in a comment! Knowing what you liked helps me write more. 🖤🖤

[joemama-2]

this is not how you imagined your friday night would go.

you thought you’d be watching the stars by now after a nice dinner. maybe some compliments, maybe even a small kiss shared. or some held hands.

but no. because currently you’re seated on the expensive couch, eyes fixated on some random nature documentary because you don’t have the courage to face the six year old boy to your left and demand him to stop staring.

you like kids, but this one oddly makes you nervous, scared almost.

your date is in the bathroom taking way too long and you’re half tempted to up and leave. your posture is stiff, forcing yourself to find the screen interesting.

our of your peripheral, you can see the boy raise his spoonful of ice cream to his mouth, head tilting like you’re one of the animals being observed on the TV.

“are you the one he keeps talking about?”

confusion strikes you as you finally turn your head to face him. your titled head mirroring his own. “um…..i’m not sure.”

a part of you feels flattered by the sudden fact. is satoru really talking about you? but then an unsettling feeling takes place, one of hesitation and jealously. or is he talking about someone else?

“you have the black Cane Corso, right?”

ah, so it’s the former. you smile. “oh, yeah. that’s me.”

“what’s his name?” the little boy asks you, shifting his small body as the talk of dogs gains his attention by the second.

“sunny.”

his brows pinch together. “why sunny?”

“because he was a stray, i found him a box on a very hot day.”

he hums and nods before asking yet another question. you forget how curious children can be. “is he nice?”

you chuckle. sunny has the stereotype of being aggressive due to his breed and size, but he’s anything but. he’s your gentle giant who gets scared of butterflies and plastic water bottles. “he’s really nice, he loves meeting new people and licking.”

you playfully stick your tongue out with a look of a faux grimace. this gets the small boy to crack a hint of a smile. it warms your heart almost instantly. “you like dogs?” you ask him, voice softening.

he nods automatically. “i really like dogs, i have two dogs. one is white and the other is black.”

“oh wow,” your eyebrows raise. “that’s so cool, are they big too?”

“mhm.” he nods.

you do a small look around. “where are they?”

he simply shrugs and answers, “they only come out sometimes.”

you want to ask what he means by that, but you figure satoru would best know. speaking of, he must be shitting a big one or he’s trying to calm his nerves inside that bathroom down the hall.

the little boy hesitates, like he wants to ask another question but isn’t sure if he should. you give him an encouraging nod and he sighs. “can you bring sunny next time?”

—————————————————————

“when you said you were fostering, i assumed a pet or something. not an actual child.” you tell Satoru as he’s walking you to your apartment door.

the two of you stop in front and he takes this time to grin. “do i not look like a boy dad?”

your eyebrow raises with an unamused expression. “no, first off, you look like a girl dad. and second off, does he consider you his dad?”

“nah, not at all. more like an older brother if anything. or maybe that annoying uncle everyone hates.” he reaches forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “did he like you?”

“i hope so.” your lips purse. “i wasn’t exactly ready to pitch myself as a good person tonight to some kid.”

satoru chuckles, thumb lingering on your cheek. “don’t need to pitch yourself, just be you and he’ll like you just as much as i do. well—actually—hopefully not as much. i’d hate to have competition.”

you can’t help but roll your eyes. “he did mention a next time, though. wants me to bring my dog.”

“you mean that oversized human on all fours?”

your hand collides with his shoulder. he laughs and intertwines your fingers with his. “kidding, kidding. don’t get violent, at least not now.”

leaning down, his lips kiss your forehead smoothly, they linger for a few seconds before he mutters against your skin. “his names megumi, i hope you’ll get along.”

your stomach flutters during this moment, relishing in the easy and comfortable intimacy. you nod and murmur back. “of course.”

he pulls back and smiles down at you. just as he’s about to speak another cheesy line, you beat him to it.

“so….you talk about me a lot?”

[crushmeeren]

Bakugou/Fem Reader/Kirishima

☠ Master List Link

Warnings; some mild descriptions of fighting/being in pain, brief mentions of blood, cursing, praise/reader is called a good girl, oral sex, mating press

☠ Everyone involved is 18+/aged up

It’s boiling.

Fucking sweltering.

Your eyes snap open, the stifling heat stirring you into a reluctant form of consciousness.

You glance down, only to be met with a face full of damp red hair that could only belong to your boyfriend Eijirou.

Who apparently has taken it upon himself to use your shoulder as a pillow.

The man is a goddamn furnace.

Of course, you’re privy as to why he’s so feverish. It’s the same burning itch that lurks just below the surface of your own skin.

This past week you’ve been counting down the days until the full moon — and there’s only one left.

Plus, it’s only Eijirou’s third time dealing with his shift — so his control over his body is shaky at best.

Katsuki being the pack leader, has much more experience and insight dealing with the shift than you do.

Hence the reason you’ve all made sure he’ll be home tomorrow night to ensure it goes smoothly.

Groaning, you unstick yourself from the entirely too sweaty body clinging to you. Your nose scrunches in discomfort as you unwind the hefty weight of Eijirou’s arm from your waist and untangle your legs.

You shove at Eijirou’s shoulder, mumbling for him to get his heavy ass off.

Said man doesn’t stir, softly sighing and turning over to face the wall.

Limbs sluggish with sleep you push up onto your elbows, then up until you’re sitting on your butt.

You kick off the suffocating covers and lean backwards onto the headboard in hopes for better airflow to cool off.

It would be unbelievably helpful to have Todoroki’s quirk right now.

You decide to study the room to distract yourself, admiring the way the moonlight has bled in. Illuminating certain shapes as you bask in the peaceful stillness of the night.

It’s not as if the darkness hinders you either way. Seeing as your eyesight is just as sharp in the night.

What with your…..condition.

Using the back of your hand to wipe the sweat off of your forehead your thoughts trail to Katsuki. Curious as to how his patrol is fairing.

You lean over and tap the screen of your phone where it rests on your side table.

The light from the screen is on the edge of blinding, making you wince and partially shield your eyes.

Why the fuck do I keep it so bright?

You fumble to put it in dark mode, reading the last vague and aggressive message Katsuki sent.

Katsuki 🧡

“I’d rather chew off my own motherfucking arm than be on patrol with icy hot right now.”

A startled bark of laughter pushes past your lips.

Eijirou shifts restlessly behind you, but you pay him no mind. He tosses and turns frequently in his sleep this close to shifting.

You read over the text again. You know Katsuki doesn’t mean that. He and Todoroki are fairly decent friends these days.

You reply swiftly.

After setting your phone down and scooting underneath the blankets, you promptly flop onto your back in an attempt to get comfortable.

You debate whether or not to cuddle up to Eijirou, but decide against it. Waking up drenched in sweat does not appeal to you.

As you start to drift off, the rhythmic lull of crickets outside your window helps your mind quiet once again. Lids drooping as your breathing begins to even out.

Crack.

You blink a few times in rapid succession, instantly on guard. You cautiously stay still, ears twitching and listening for the familiar sound.

Crack.

A blistering chill rushes through your blood as you recognize the unwanted tell tale sound of bones breaking.

Crack. Snap!

Your pulse jackrabbits so violently your heart may bruise your rib cage.

Please for the love of God don’t let this be what I think it is. The full moon isn’t until tomorrow night!

Eijirou suddenly cries out. A keening, wounded noise that’s wrenched from the pits of his chest.

Before you can register it, you’re sitting up straight. Spine stiffening as you turn and watch Eijirou with mounting horror.

It’s not unlike witnessing twin snakes slithering, shifting urgently as Eijirou’s own spine breaks and rearranges for a body that’s far less human.

“Ei,” you whisper frantically, by his side in an instant. Your chest squeezes, adrenaline forcing the hair on your arms to stand on end. You shake his shoulder roughly, brushing the hair that’s sticking to his forehead away with your free hand. “Eijirou.”

He whines a jumbled version of your name before going stock still. You freeze alongside him, hyper aware of your shuddering exhales.

Dread settles over you, stomach dropping as you listen to Eijirou’s newly forming claws rip and shred the sheet next to him.

A low rumble starts up in his chest, slowly clawing its way up to emanate from his throat.

Your stomach knots up realizing it’s too late for you to help him keep even a sliver of coherence through this.

Your fingers unwillingly twitch where they’re tangled in Eijirou’s hair. His growl intensifies, a stiff warning embedded in it.

Hands shaking, you carefully shift your gaze down to his side profile, catching the untamed fury twisting his features.

It’s abhorrent and unnatural the way it replaces his normal cheerfulness.

The sudden fierce instinctive urge to fight Eijirou knocks around inside your mind so roughly you get lightheaded.

Eijirou’s already side eyeing you menacingly. His iris glows a pale yellow rather than the cherry red it usually is.

There’s a few seconds of silence, tension suffocating as you weigh your only two options.

Fight or flight?

With no hesitation, you lunge towards the side table closest to you. Barely managing to grab your phone as you start launching to your feet to get away.

Eijirou’s claws sink in brutally, taking a decent chunk from your outer thigh as you skirt out of his deadly range.

The explosive searing sensation of your flesh ripping wrenches all the air from your lungs.

Crimson sprays the otherwise pristine sheets as you stagger upright to your feet.

You whip around with a snarl that bounces off your bedroom walls. Anger making your entire body flash white hot.

The instinctual pulse to return the favor and give Eijirou a nasty scar is all consuming and you know your own eyes are flashing yellow.

Eijirou leaps towards you without missing a beat and you all but sprint through the door. Slamming it shut and twisting the lock right as the redhead rams into it.

It locks from the outside for a reason.

You stumble forward, struggling to ignore the borderline unbearable pain lancing through your leg and place a hand on the couch to steady yourself.

Your mind races, warm liquid trailing from your wound down your leg and pooling between your toes. You want to gag.

You can’t fucking think straight.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Taking a singular fortifying breath as you clench your phone in a fist.

The sides start to give and it reminds you not to obliterate the thing, as well as why you snagged it in the first place — to text Katsuki so you have a chance in hell of coming out this night alive.

With trembling hands you text the blonde a short yet urgent message.

Eijirou is shifting. 911. Hurry.

A deafening bang makes you jump a foot into the air, nails automatically sharpening into points.

You chance a peak at the door. Fear prickles at the base of your skull as the behemoth on the other side splinters it down the middle.

You briefly recall when Eijirou turned 21, shifting for the first time.

It was only a mere three months ago. He was the last one out of the three of you to do so, but he wasn’t as violent as he is now.

It was messy and there were a lot of tears, but you’d trade this scenario for that one in a heartbeat.

Shifting is always erratic in the beginning, but you were sure Eijirou would be the more laid back type.

Apparently not.

You shake your head to clear the unhelpful memories when Eijirou’s frustrated howl cuts through them.

You glance at the front door with a scowl. You can’t very well go outside and take a half shifted, out of control werewolf into the neighborhood.

You’re not even wearing any damn pants.

You veto the forest as an option as well. Mainly because Katsuki will inevitably find you and Eijirou torn to pieces before the sun rises.

Steeling your resolve, you submit to the fact that you’ll have to put up as much of a fight against Eijirou as you’re able to until Katsuki saves you.

The deep gashes in your thigh scream in protest when you shuffle behind the coffee table, placing the couch and it between you and the door.

You preemptively mourn the loss of your phone and toss it aside, bracing yourself in a defensive stance.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Any second now.

The door is on its last legs.

One more heave and it splits entirely, debris flying in all directions. Eijirou forces his body through the opening, face distorted, half shifted with claws and fangs to match.

He snarls furiously when his gaze lands on your defensive form. You return the sentiment, making him aware you’re challenging him.

The icy sensation of fear continues to rush through your limbs, mixing dangerously with a barely suppressed fury that you’re unable to ignore.

You curse any and everything known to mankind and pray you’re able to keep him contained until Katsuki arrives.

Biting the bullet you take a running start towards Eijirou, sidestepping the coffee table. You’re hell bent on getting the first punch in.

His reflexes mirror yours. Using the backrest of the couch to jump and propel himself at you like a shot.

The collision is excruciating. One of your ribs has cracked from the force — you’re sure of it.

Eijirou’s got enough weight on you that the impact sends you both careening backwards, slamming onto the coffee table before rolling off with a thump as you connect with the ground.

Eijirou crushes you when you land and you shove a palm into his cheek and wrench his head to the side.

You desperately sink your teeth into the muscle where Eijirou’s neck meets his shoulder, hoping the pain will allow him to snap out of it.

He wails, the sound distorted from mutating vocal chords. He thrashes in your grip. Tearing away and ripping his flesh in the process.

The metallic scent chokes you. Blood is splattered everywhere, and your brain is starting to get fuzzy a long the edges as you lose yourself to the wolf.

Somehow, you’re able to tuck your feet under Eijirou’s stomach. Pressing into the firm muscle there and sending him flying.

You scramble to your feet, crouching low. Your upper lip raises to bare your teeth, aiming a violent snarl at Eijirou. The red head is on his hands and knees in an instant.

You’re royally pissed — and simultaneously terrified.

You don’t want to endure this atrocious situation any longer than absolutely necessary.

Sucking air back into your lungs your chest heaves, eyes fluttering shut before refocusing on Eijirou with intensity.

Like a mantra, you repeat to yourself just survive until Katsuki is here. Just survive until Katsuki is here.

You and Eijirou once again morph into a mess of blood and punches and viscious bites, hanging onto your consciousness by a thread.

✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃

Your head pounds. Wickedly throbbing in time with your heartbeat. Your brain seems to stick to the insides of your skull.

The wind whistles softly around you, tickling your skin and you realize you’re outside. Naked.

Peeling your eyes open, the cloudless blue sky burns as it peaks through the tree tops. You blink a few times to clear your blurry vision, shifting slightly on your back.

You’re positive you must’ve been run over by a truck. The all over bone deep ache is proof by itself.

Sighing, you concede to the soreness that begs you to keep lounging on the ground. Joints creaking when you bend your elbow, you brush over the close to healed claw marks on your thigh.

The wound smarts, a searing heat flaring down your leg.

Fuck Eijirou, you really did a number on me.

You go limp, melting into the soft grass and damp top layer of soil for a bit longer.

Bits and pieces of your memory spring to the forefront as you contemplate the utter bullshit you had to deal with the night before.

Katsuki appearing like a bat out of hell when he burst through the door and rescued you from certain doom.

Eijirou completing his shift and settling into the form of a beautiful russet colored wolf.

Katsuki’s carmine eyes aglow as he and Eijirou duked it out — until he was able to corral the other down into the basement.

Katsuki had locked the door with finality, and you knew you wouldn’t see either of them for hours.

You remember shivering with rage, bloody and damn near beaten to a pulp. Pulling splinters from way too many sensitive areas.

You had taken off into the woods right after, bearing the excruciating shift and running for miles as the wolf.

Now, here you are.

Naked and internally debating with yourself to get the hell up and make the horrendous trek back to your home.

Honestly, you don’t want to see either of them right now. Eijirou will be distraught with guilt and it’s just —

You’re still irate about the entire ordeal.

You curse aloud, pushing to your feet at a snails pace. Gently stretching and taking note of the new bruises you’re sporting.

There’s a lot of dried blood.

A lot.

✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃

Once you make it back into your living room, you’re not at all shocked to see the mess from the night before had miraculously disappeared.

The pathetic remains of the bedroom door have been taken away. All the blood has been cleaned.

At least your coffee table survived the battle.

You sigh in relief. Thank God for Katsuki, he would never dream of leaving a crime scene behind.

Sniffing the air, the familiar scents of your partners have gone stale. They must not have wanted to linger, opting to give you some space.

You’re grateful. As it allows you time to shower and sleep.

You scrub your skin under the spray of hot water. Collecting your thoughts as you comb the birds nest that has become your hair. Wincing each time you press too hard on a bruise or soap stings your wounds.

Hopefully you’ll be mostly healed by the time you wake up.

A soft warmth blooms in your chest when you reach your bed.

Eijirou has left you one of his T-shirts to wear and Katsuki’s favorite blanket is tangled in with the others.

And one of them had found your missing phone, placing it on the charger and letting it rest on the side table.

You’re a zombie slipping into Eijirou’s too large shirt. The thinning, worn, and soft material brushes your thighs.

When you lay down, you bring the collar of Eijirou’s shirt to your nose, inhaling deeply and letting the scent of fresh rainfall wash over you.

You pull Katsuki’s blanket up over your shoulders. The sweet smell of orange and cinnamon fills your senses, relaxing you entirely.

You’re out like a light before you know it.

✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃

They come home late into the afternoon. Obnoxiously loud and cheerful — at least on Eijirou’s part.

Your stomach clenches as their voices grow closer.

You’ve been resting as much as possible, cuddled up and barely paying attention to the movie flickering across the screen.

You’d taken the past few hours to reflect. As you cooled off you knew it wasn’t really Eijirou’s fault, that he was just as petrified as you had been.

It’s not as if you’d never gone off the deep end in the beginning, and Eijirou was there for you. With no hesitation.

You made up your mind that reconciling with Eijirou was your first priority when they returned.

Eijirou passes through the makeshift curtain door first. His eyes get comically large, footsteps halting when he spots you.

The short silence is unpleasant, and Eijirou shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. Unsure of what he should do next.

You offer him an awkward, tight lipped smile, along with a small wave and his tense composure disintegrates.

Within the second he’s making haste to crawl up on the bed and get to you.

All the built up frustration bubbles to the surface, stinging the backs of your eyes as you fist the blanket.

“Baby,” Eijirou breathes, voice cracking as you sit up and slip your arms around his neck when he reaches you.

He tugs you close, clinging to your waist with one arm and cradling the base of your skull with his free hand to keep you in place.

You swallow a lump, inhaling against the skin of his throat deeply as he manages to make you feel safe and relieved.

“I’m so sorry baby, I’m so fucking sorry,” he croaks. You’re concerned he may start crying.

You nod jerkily, gripping him tighter. You hate the way his voice shakes as he apologizes.

This wasn’t his fault and you’re determined to make sure he knows that.

“It’s okay Ei. I know baby, I know. This isn’t on you, okay?” You reassure him, voice watery with emotion.

Eijirou chokes out an acknowledgement, sniffling.

Katsuki then takes a seat on the bed behind you, rubbing a warm palm back and forth between your shoulder blades in comfort. He places a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

The three of you sit there and hash out the night before. Spending a good half hour at least, talking through everything. Brainstorming ways to prevent this from occurring again.

The conversation eventually trails off into a comfortable silence before Katsuki opens his mouth.

“You take off into the woods last night?” Katsuki asks somberly.

“Yeah.”

Your response gets muffled by Eijirou’s shirt. Katsuki snorts.

“Well, you sure as hell look like it,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. It works.

You whip your head around to glare daggers at Katsuki but he’s giving you a teasing smile, nudging you playfully.

You punch his stomach halfheartedly, unable to stop your lips from turning upwards.

“Whatever, dickpunch.”

Eijirou laughs, causing Katsuki to roll his eyes and chuckle at your childish insult.

You study Eijirou rubbing his cheek as you recline into Katsuki’s chest, his soothing warmth seeping through both your shirts.

“So are you really okay?” Eijirou prods, scratching the side of his nose and looking away with a frown.

“I’m fine Ei,” you murmur tenderly. You stretch your leg out, showing him the side of your thigh where the marks have mostly faded. “See? It’s just a scar now, which will go away soon.” You poke his ribs with your toes.

Eijirou’s expression spells relief as he brushes the pads of his fingertips feather light over the raised pinkish skin.

You shiver from the ticklish sensation, a flash of arousal burning your lower belly.

Eijirou’s eyes are warm when they meet yours, lids drooping a bit when he notices your shiver.

The blonde must have picked up on the new charge in the atmosphere, because Katsuki leans in close to whisper something sultry in your ear, making you jolt.

“What do you think baby?” Katsuki hums, securing an arm around your waist. “Eijirou’s been so fucking bad, we should punish him. Don’t you think?” He suggests enticingly, acting as the devil on your shoulder.

You glance back at the redhead, who’s gone slack jawed, cheeks flushing bubblegum pink. Your eyebrow twitches as you pretend to mull it over.

Trailing your eyes up and down Eijirou’s figure lazily, he fidgets in place, fingers curling into the hem of his shorts.

You think it’s the perfect way to get things back to normal.

You tilt your head, making heated eye contact with Katsuki. A coy grin lights up your face.

“What did you have in mind?”

The mischievous glint in Katsuki’s eye is answer enough.

✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃ ✃

“Fuck! Katsuki, oh god,” you gasp, breath hitching in your throat.

Katsuki’s eagerly pushing his thick cock into your pussy, spitting out a few curses as he does so.

The stretch is delicious, and you squeeze his forearms mercilessly. Nails creating indentations as he teasingly pulls back until just the head remains, rolling his hips and filling you to the brim with one fluid motion.

Your spine arches, skull digging into the mattress below as Katsuki starts thrusting at a leisurely pace, thumb coming up to work slow circles into your clit.

At this angle, you have an upside down view of Eijirou sitting behind you, reclining halfway up against the headboard.

Katsuki took it upon himself to spread you out flat on your back between the redhead’s thighs.

He taunted Eijirou with an arrogant smirk. Meanly instructing him he isn’t allowed to cum until you and Katsuki do.

Katsuki demands Eijirou only touch you if you initiate it first. And you agreed.

So for now, Eijirou’s pouting. Settling on wrapping one hand around the base of his cock, stroking slowly as he leers at the scene in front of him. Trying to avoid splitting his lip with razor sharp teeth.

You’re able to meet his hungry gaze briefly, before fingers are gripping your chin and yanking you from the gorgeous view.

“Don’t fucking look at Ei. He’s in trouble, remember?” Katsuki huffs, a bead of sweat trailing from his temple down to his jaw. “Keep those eyes on me.” Katsuki says firmly, voice raspy and low.

You nod stiffly, whimpering when he releases you and pats your cheek just this side of too rough.

“You follow orders so well, what a good girl,” Katsuki praises, leaning back and sitting on his calves.

His sweet words have your head filled with cotton.

You lick your chapped bottom lip as you’re blessed with the view of Katsuki’s lower stomach flexing and his hips tensing.

The blonde shoots Eijirou a nasty grin, making absolutely sure Eijirou can watch everything.

Like the way the inner lips of your pussy stretch with Katsuki’s cock every time he thrusts backwards.

Or the way you can tell his cock is shiny with your slick each time he pulls out.

Katsuki grips the bottoms of your thighs, effortlessly pushing them towards your chest, bending you in half.

You cry out, eyes going wide when Katsuki suddenly nails your sweet spot. The pleasure blisters through your limbs, goosebumps littering your arms.

Blindly, you reach backwards, searching for Eijirou’s hands.

The redhead lets out a breathy moan, quickly lacing your fingers together and resting your conjoined hands on his thighs.

“You can only fucking touch her hands Ei. Don’t push it.” Katsuki warns with a surprisingly steady, yet strained voice. Considering he’s fucking you like he’s trying to make you scream yourself hoarse.

“Yes Katsuki,” Eijirou replies obediently, throat clicking audibly when he swallows.

Katsuki presses closer, pupils dilated and jaw hanging open as he brings you closer to that addictive high. His eyebrows pinch together as he focuses on you.

Shocks of pleasure race up your spine each time he pushes his cock back inside you, the sound of your skin smacking together burning your ears.

A coil starts to wind up behind your belly button impossibly tight, pussy clenching around him rhythmically.

You hold Eijirou’s hands in a death grip.

“Kat, I — fuck! I’m gonna cum,” you manage to spit out between gritted teeth, back threatening to lift off the mattress.

“Yeah?” Katsuki coos teasingly. “Fucking cum for me then.”

And you do. Muscles going taught, tension snapping as warmth gushes through you, toes curling.

You can’t make out what Eijirou’s mumbling behind you, focused on the way Katsuki’s gasping your name.

The blonde lets out a breathy moan, pulling out and stroking his cock twice before he cums, covering your stomach in sticky white ribbons.

You go lax, unmoving as your legs hit the mattress. Trying desperately to catch your breath as Eijirou let’s go of your hands.

“Fuck, please let me cum Katsuki! This isn’t fair!” Eijirou whines, one of his knees knocking you in the shoulder as he shifts his weight around.

You can’t see him but you know he’s pouting.

“Alright Eijirou, you can cum,” Katsuki says nonchalantly. He sits back on his calves, flushed chest heaving.

You flip over onto your belly just as Eijirou takes a hold of himself. He strokes his cock a few times, squirming with relief and you make the choice to help him out.

Eijirou’s close to peaking when you close the distance between you.

You duck your head, wrapping your lips around one of his balls and suck it softly into your mouth, flicking it with your tongue. You roll the other one between your fingers.

Eijirou yelps, thighs jumping as he cums instantly, making a mess of his stomach as his breath stutters in his chest. He tilts his head back with a high pitched moan.

Katsuki makes an approving sound from somewhere behind you as you keep mouthing at Eijirou, only backing off when the redhead pushes at your forehead when he gets too sensitive.

Eijirou sinks down the headboard, blushing brightly and panting. You pillow your cheek on his thigh, eyes fluttering shut with a sigh.

Eventually, Katsuki kicks both your asses into gear. Getting you off the bed and shuffled into the shower to clean yourselves off.

You change the sheets because they’re fucking gross — as Katsuki puts it.

As you’re getting dressed again, Eijirou comes up behind you. Slipping his arms around your waist in a sweet hug.

“Everything fucking sorted now?” Katsuki asks with a roll of his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he leans his hip on the doorframe. He eyes the embrace you’re locked in and raises an eyebrow.

“Course! Everything’s peachy,” Eijirou replies happily, nuzzling the back of your head as a low rumble starts up in his chest.

You snicker, patting one of the arms holding you.

“Good, because I don’t feel like getting my ass handed to me again,” you say playfully.

Eijirou laughs brightly and Katsuki snorts.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m locking his dumbass in the basement tonight.”

[thefailedabortioon]

|| Carlos de Vil & a crush • X F!Reader

warnings: n/a

authors note: it isnt mentioned who your parent is its up to you for that! mb if its messy i havent written an x reader in like an eon LMAO.

summary: carlos de vil tries to deal with a crush and has his first interaction since first seeing her. (alternate title: jay is an amazing wingman.)

word count: roughly 900 words

A red ball bounced off the wall of Carlos’ and Jay’s shared dorm. Dude chased after it, tongue sticking out as he panted. When Carlos received the ball back, it’d been completely soaked in dog slobber, earning a disgusted groan from him.

“Ugh, Dude.”

“What? I don’t have hands for paws!” The Brussels Griffon retorted.

Carlos rolled his eyes and turned over to Jay, who’d recently set up a little punching bag for training. It’s all he ever came to the room to do besides sleeping.

“What am I gonna do, man? Do you think she even likes me?” Carlos had recently taken a sudden interest in a girl that’d passed by him in the Great Hall… flowing dark hair, elegant clothes (she actually managed to make the uniform look good), and her face. God, her face. Carlos could stare at her for days. She’s seriously all he’d been thinking about.

“Chillax, she probably doesn’t even know your name.” Jay realized what he’d said and stopped hitting the punching bag for a second to look at his woeful friend, “Or… she does! And she’s curious about you too!” He tried to keep his spirits high and uplifting, surprising behavior for the guy if Carlos was being honest.

“I’m doomed.”

“Just talk to her, you coward!” Dude yipped, beady black eyes piercing into Carlos’ own. “You need to get to know her name first before you start thinking way ahead, you know?!”

Jay cut in, “Wait, you don’t even know her name?!” He cackled, running his both hands through his hair in amusement.

“Shut up! Oh my, God!” Carlos threw a pillow towards Jay, hiding his face behind his hands.

“It’s pathetic. Really!” Dude barked out, making biscuits on the pillow Carlos threw at Jay.

Carlos turned to his side, facing the wall. He hugged himself tightly, crossing his arms over his chest for comfort. He brought his knees down, letting his legs hang from the foot of the bed.

It didn’t take a while for Jay to finally take pity on him. He sat beside Carlos on his bed, muscular arms resting behind his back. “Sounds to me you really… like her.” If it wasn’t any more obvious. Jay snickered to himself. “What if I lend you a hand?”

At that, Carlos immediately shot up. “What?! What’re you going to do?! Talk to her?!”

“No, you idiot! You’re talking to her.” Jay said with a smug smile. Carlos wasn’t too fond of the idea, what if he messed up? What if the wrong words slipped out? Everything and anything could go wrong!

“No. No! I can’t! She’ll hate me!”

“Carlos.” Jay pulled Carlos to face him, hands gripping his shoulders, his eyes dug deep into Carlos’ own, staring back intensely at two circles of brown. “Man. The hell. Up.”

The other let out an exasperated groan, pulling away from Jay’s grip to let himself fall back flat on the bed.

It shouldn’t have been that hard, right? Jay had already given Carlos a set of questions he can start off with, scribbled messily on the palm of his hand. So the conversation can go smoothly from there.

He turned to look at Jay who hid in a potted plant not too far behind, an earpiece tucked under his long hair. Carlos also wore an earpiece, a lot more visible than Jay’s but it shouldn’t matter.

Jay gave Carlos an assuring thumbs up signal as he ducked down in the leaves.

Carlos took a deep breath, raising a fist to knock against a dorm room, when suddenly it swung open violently, revealing you. The De Vil boy had nothing to say, words getting stuck in his throat.

You both continued to stare at each other before you finally broke the awkward silence. “Uh, can I… help you?” You asked tentatively, fixing your hair at the sight of a visitor.

“Ah- Y-Yes! Uhh…” Carlos swallowed a large lump in his throat, eyes darting back and forth towards a large potted plant and the girl that stood before him. Her. “I’ve… I’m sure I’ve seen you around before, I never c-caught your name though.” He finally spoke, peaking not-so-discretely at his palm.

You gave him your name uncertainly, “And you are…”

“C—“

You cut him off abruptly with a snap of your fingers, “Carlos De Vil! Yeah, I’ve heard of you.”

Carlos winced, “What have you heard about me exactly?”

“Oh, uh…” You hesitated in answering, fidgeting with your fingers, “Not much. You play Tourney right? You’re on the team?” Carlos lit up at the mention of the sport.

“Yeah, yeah! I play! Do- Do you?”

“Um, they don’t allow girls on the team.” You smiled sheepishly and god, did Carlos almost faint on the spot.

“Right…”

“Is that it?”

Carlos paused, dusting his clothes off and straightening up. “Yeah- That’s- That’s all.”

You tilted your head to the side in curiosity, as if waiting for Carlos to say more, but you shrugged and closed the door behind you, excusing yourself. “It was nice talking to you. Bye.”

You shot him a grin, and you could swear his cheeks started turning pink. A giggle only left your lips as you walked past the boy and a mysterious potted plant that suspiciously had a familiar beanie thrown over it. But you paid no mind and strolled away. Cute.

requests are open!!

[llamagoddessofficial]

hello llama

i have been thinking and headcanoning about vampire bad sanses lately, so i was curious if you have any thoughts about or interest in vampires of the nightmare and crew variety? (人 •͈ᴗ•͈)

"do i have interest in vampires", he asks

ok, i will share my extensive vampire brainrot. but in return..... you have to write that vampire fic.... oooOOooO look into my eyes you know you want to write it ooOoOooo 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

I very much like the idea of Nightmare's castle being Castlevania-style. Lots of spooky architecture, lots of ancient magical passages that haven't been seen in centuries.

Horror can be summed up in one word. Bloodlust. There's a constant hunger inside him he can't ever seem to fill, driving him almost to the point of madness. He is more beast than man. When he smells or tastes blood, he loses control of himself, becoming little more than a starving wild animal - his capability for slaughter is limited only by his appetite. So unless Nightmare requires it, he generally abstains from blood. He doesn't like losing himself so entirely.

Something about you makes him forget his hunger. Is it your voice? Your scent? He has no idea, but oh, it feels good to feel whole. When you're around it's as if he'll never be hungry again... he follows you like a dog, grinning intensely every time you look at him. This is one hound that can't be shaken.

Despite his 'condition', he finds a lot of solace in cooking. Nothing will give him the same drug-like rush as blood but human food is nonetheless warm and filling and distracts him momentarily from the emptiness. He enjoys the process of making it, too, doing something with his hands. Let him cook for you, please? Watching you eat brings him vicarious joy.

Dust's backstory is one of legend. Something resembling a story can be spun from the loose whispers. A vampire invaded his peaceful isolated village hundreds of years ago, intending to turn the helpless populace into enslaved vampires. Dust, the first to be bitten, turned and slaughtered them all himself - and despite being a vampire for barely a week, the equivalent of a stumbling newborn, he killed the centuries-old invading vampire in single combat.

No one's quite sure why he's joined Nightmare. Perhaps Nightmare was keen to take this uniquely violent creature under his wing, and Dust just didn't really care where the wind took him. Or perhaps he has some other motive, hidden beneath that silent face. Who knows.

... Dust might be quiet, but it's obvious he's fixated on you. Which is a big deal. This is a creature who hasn't mustered a second thought for anything but blood for decades; but somehow, you've excited him. He's very clearly interested in you, silently watching your every move, listening intently to every word you say. Too bad he's not much for conversation.

Killer's backstory, on the other hand, is shrouded entirely in mystery. No one knows where he came from, who he is, or what he's done. He simply appeared one day - right within the coveted inner circle of Nightmare himself. He's the Night King's most trusted weapon, and the closest thing he has to a friend.

Killer seems very clear about what he wants. He thinks you're adorable, and he says you'd make such a pretty vampire. He talks (at length) about how much he wants to bite you, and how if it were up to him you'd already be one of them. A lot of his flirting involves calling you things like sweet treat and honeyblood. However... despite all the taunting, all the talk of seeing you as food, Killer is the one in the castle who treats you with the most respect. The others seem to see you as an object, a cute toy, something to squish and own. Killer talks to you like you're a real person. You can't help but like him for it.

Nightmare's inferiority complex has driven him to declare himself the king of the vampires. No one contests - Nightmare is royalty by blood, and vampires place a lot of emphasis on blood. But even if he wasn't, Nightmare frequently murders those who won't bend the knee. Plenty of powerful vampires have fallen embarrassingly fast at his hand.

... Nightmare's goal is to make you agree to be his spouse. A pretty little human partner would be excellent for his image. It would not only demonstrate his incredible self control as such an ancient vampire (not to mention his control over his warriors), but it would also show that his power is so great he doesn't need to strike a political marriage with another powerful vampire. It might also convince some of the pesky rebellious human groups to settle down.

His pride means that he won't force you. Not yet, at least. He likes to think he can seduce you. He's a royal vampire, after all, and you're just a simple human - isn't it only a matter of time?

... But it seems like, as time goes on... he's the one falling.

[homiesondaweb]

I headcanon that Aaron had absolutely ZERO interest in Miles when Jeff told him Rio was pregnant. He was actually pissed that his older brother was leaving the game and "getting right' for some chick and a baby. Thought Jeff was lame and didn't want part of his nephews life. You can't risk having someone close like that with the work they do. A wife, kids, hell them being siblings was too close to endangerment as it was.

But then Miles was here, and Aaron wasn't that much of an asshole to leave Jeff hanging or drowning. He was 1000% just gonna drop off some pampers, some blue onesies he snagged from GAP and some money then bounce about 3 weeks after Miles was born.

But then Jeff insisted his lil brother hold his son.

So, Aaron rolled his eyes and stiffly let Jeff adjust his hold on the baby boy, he was sleep anyway, was just gonna be a photo for Rio's cheap little flash camera.

But then Miles woke up with the cutest little-big yawn and stretch. His golden doe-like eyes wide and curious at this new face, he gives a hiccup as a greeting, smacking his baby gums and chubby lil lips.

"Uhp"

Aaron is just fucking gone, absolutely smitten, head over heels for this chubby chocolate baby with lil black curls, sunny eyes and a big ole head. It takes three hours and Rio telling him she's got to feed Miles for Aaron to finally relinquish that bébé.

He gets it. He gets wanting to get out the game. Wanting to wrap the world in cotton and bubble wrap and not even let the darkness of a nice night even glance at this Bundle of Good named Miles Alonzo Morales.

It only takes 3 month before Rio and Jeff get used to Aaron just strolling in, snagging lil homie and the diaper bag and telling them they will be back at 3pm sharp. The ridiculous amount of onesies, shits and beanies that match with something Aaron owns they receive. They get used to Aaron insist on carrying nephew like a football around the apartment before he's old enough to be tossed onto shoulder s. They get used to Miles mimicking Aaron as the man sofa-coaches though boxing matches and baseball games on the TV.

Aaron gets used to loving someone more than himself, more than the lure of blood diamonds and deity money.

Aaron isn't as good as he wants to be. And Jeff is getting too good, he applied for the graduated the police academy by the time Miles is 5. The Prowler has been active in New York for just as long.

Aaron loves Miles so much (no offense to Jeff) he's never loved someone and been loved so much that he doesn't deserve it. He can't have those golden Doe eyes look up at him or have those tiny brown hands be dirtied by his violent and grimy ones. Jeff Knows, Aaron Knows.

They don't ever get used to the riff. The distance that bother brother hate but that Jeff puts there anyway. Aaron was part of that world that Miles needed guarded from. They just hold their breaths as Miles acts like a flimsy little bridge because Aaron was too selfish to leave his life before they both got attached.

He regrets it until his last breath and last word when the last thing he sees is those Doe eyes crying for a bad guy like him.

Miles was the best of all of them, Aaron knew that from Miles beginning until his own end.

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR NINETEEN

in which everything changes.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, smut (p in v), almost shower sex, talk of male masturbation, oral (f receiving), upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 7.7k+

→ a/n: big shout out to @myosotisa for beta-reading this chapter so that for once, it's not unedited, and it's not just between me and god.

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

19:00 ─────────────ㅇ── 24:00

DINGUS: so either these two are getting along REALLY well or they truly still hate each other’s guts

NANCE: Why do you say that?

DINGUS: when i called to make sure they weren’t dead, it sounded like they were arguing over the line. 

BIRDIE: woah woah woah, hold on. dingus. are you telling me you just SPIED on the lovebirds? or did this ‘fight’ happen during your conversation?

DINGUS: it wasn’t spying! eddie answered and rushed off the line, but it sounded like he forgot to hang up. i was just… curious.

NANCE: No, you were SPYING on them. 

ARGYLE 😎: what did they say, dude? 

BIRDIE: yeah let’s drop the morality bullshit – what’d you hear, my lovely oblivious spy? 

DINGUS: @BIRDIE NOT A SPY. 

DINGUS: but it just sounded like eddie asking her if she was, and i quote, “fucking kidding him”. He sounded weird when he was talking to me, too.

BIRDIE: the most romantic words to ever be spoken. truly. 

NANCE: Was that all you heard?

DINGUS: yeah, i hung up after that. why?

ARGYLE 😎: should’ve stayed on the line.

BIRDIE: what he said.

JOHNNY BOY: Do you people have no morals? 

HOUR NINETEEN – 10:00 AM

It becomes glaringly obvious to you that your comment had been a little too spot on after several minutes of waiting for Eddie to return. 

You hadn’t expected him to really leave you high and dry after that, to just go and take care of himself rather than include you in that process. Honestly, you thought the two of you were finally past hiding behind closed doors. But clearly, you had been wrong. Very, very wrong. And now, the consequences of your own actions were mocking you; there was an insistent, uncomfortable, unignorable burn in the pit of your stomach, and every shift of your thighs that had your underwear grazing your clit had you desperate, nearly mewling and arching your back. The longer you laid on that couch and realized what Eddie was currently doing, the more hot and bothered you grew. 

Fuck him. You’re about ten seconds away from taking care of your own problem right here, right now, on this god forsaken couch. 

Your ears perk involuntarily for any and all noises that may come from the hallway, but five minutes of silence tells you that Eddie had learned his lesson. He wasn’t going to be loud again. 

Fuck him. 

At least if he was falling apart by his own hand, he should have the decency to let you hear such, obviously. If he was going to finish what the two of you started alone with just him and his hand and the polished porcelain of his bathroom, you would have at least appreciated something to get you going, to urge your imagination to roam free through a conglomeration of both fantasies and memories. But, no – the man was so silent, you were beginning to fear he might be dead. 

Maybe he was dead. Death by blue balls. Good. Fuck him.

Your thighs squeeze together once more of their own free will, and you throw your head back violently to groan at the persistent throbbing. You couldn’t even be angry at him, not in a genuine sense, because you had insisted on talking rather than continuing whatever Deftones had started. What a dumb, idiotic, catastrophic decision. What a painful hill to die on. What a shit move on your part. 

It doesn’t take long before you make the choice to stop laying there, wallowing in your misery. If you weren’t going to take care of your problem, and if you were regretting your choices so desperately, you were an adult. He was down the hall, he was here for now, and there was nothing stopping you from just marching up to the door. This wasn’t anything like the beginning hours – the man had seen you bare before him far too many times for you to be shy. He had just been dry humping you like some teenager on his couch. 

No, you didn’t need to have shame right now. At least, not for these last five hours. 

You get up quick enough to make yourself dizzy, swinging your legs and making the soles of your feet connect with the living room floor with resounding slaps. A bit aggressive, and it might startle whoever had the displeasure of living below Eddie, but you don’t care. You have a one track mind, and you force your body into action before you can chicken out. 

You have him. At some wild capacity, the man behind the bathroom door is yours. Whether it be temporary, whether it had started before this night or would last beyond this experience, it was still a matter of fact. You have him – God, you have him so tightly that you don’t even doubt you’re the one on his mind right now as he does what you’re sure he’s doing behind this door – and it was time to accept that he has you. 

He has had you for a while, you realize a few steps away from the bathroom. The moment he had you laughing at his side in some smokey bar all those moons ago, he had first caught you in his web. You hate that it took this long, that it took this moment that should be laced with embarrassment, to let it all settle into acceptance. Like rubble of a destroyed building, the dust is clearing and all you can see is him. Him, with his stupid fucking dimples. Him, with his wide shoulders. Him, with all his twisted words and confusing actions. He’s had you in his grasp – it’s the only way anyone would have been able to get under your skin like he has this past year. 

“Eddie?” you call out as you rap your knuckles on that wooden door, a few too many times for good measure. Your ears strain now that you’re closer, thinking you might catch subtle sounds out of him. Heavy breaths, slick skin, mute whimpers. Anything.

You get nothing for a solid ten seconds.

And then, you hear him clearing his throat, obnoxiously so, before answering, “Y-Yeah?” 

Unsure. He’s stuttering, and the footing of his words is unstable. You were fucking right. 

“Are you…” you start, pinching your eyes shut, shooing away that internal wave of heat as your mind runs wild and imagines him behind the door. The way he’d be naked, the way his fist would curl around the base of his cock, the way his tip has never failed to be the exact same shade of pink as his lips- “Are you still alive in there?” 

Because I’m certainly not out here. 

“Oh, me?” he chuckles nervously, “Yeah, I-I’m good. Sorry, just got distracted!” 

By what? you nearly call in response, your dick in your hands? 

You don’t say it outloud. You have some restraint. 

“That’s fine…” you trail off, unsure of what exactly you should say all while biting your tongue. 

Your mind is still reeling for a possible ending for that thought when Eddie calls out, “I’m gonna take a shower, ‘s all. You cool with that?” 

No. No, I’m not fucking cool with that. 

“Oh!” you squeak out instead, “Yeah, yeah. That’s… that’s fine. Sorry, I’ll just…”

You trail off again as you begin to take a few steps back from the door, making your way back to the living room painstakingly slowly. You’ve hardly moved an inch when you hear the shower turn on inside the bathroom, stuttering a few times as the water begins its flow, static rising from the way it splatters into the tub. 

And then it turns off. Mere seconds later, as quickly as the flow of water had begun, the creaking in the pipes cease. You take another step back until your back bumps into the wall of the hallway, across and veered away from the bathroom door – the throbbing between your thighs still irritating and your confusion even more palpable. 

Wasn’t he going to take a shower? Did he just turn it on to get you to walk away? Were you hallucinating just how quickly the seconds were passin-

The bathroom door is suddenly thrown open with Eddie in the middle of calling out your name, those pajama pants hanging dangerously low on his hips. The moment his eyes land on your, his beckoning for you dies in his throat before he has to clear it. “Oh. Uh, hey.” 

Why were you both being so fucking awkward? 

“Hi,” you breathe out, pressing further into the wall. You felt like a child being caught doing wrong, as if he hadn’t been aware of your proximity to the door just moments before. 

Maybe he was going to find it creepy that you had lingered for so long, and were still so close. You don’t know – you can’t think clearly as you look at the bare skin of his chest and try to decipher whether the moisture gathered there is sweat or condensation from the steam of the shower. 

“Sorry, I just-” he cuts himself off this time before a hand reaches up to his hair, now down and unfurled around his shoulders. His palm presses back his bangs and you can see the moment that all the tension of awkwardness finally snaps, “Oh, fuck this. Do you want to shower with me?” 

Once it snaps for him, you feel your own clinging to it release. It slips from between your fingers slowly, and you come to the realization that there’s no heat emitting from the bathroom behind him – that moisture wasn’t from steam, he didn’t even have the water on long enough for it to get that hot. You should have realized that immediately, but your mind was working slowly through the fog. 

“You don’t have to,” you hadn’t answered him fast enough, and you’re watching him backpedal right before your eyes. 

A quick shake of your head and the smile that splits your lips stops all of his backwards movements, makes his head tilt to the side and a smirk graces his features when you finally reply, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

He shifts to the side of the doorway naturally, leaving just enough room for you to brush past him and let your shoulder knock slightly against his chest once you push off the wall eagerly. 

There’s still a puddle of water at the base of the tub, circling the drain as Eddie closes the door behind your entrance. It’s a bit redundant considering you’re the only two here, but you don’t say a word. You just let your eyes trace over the droplets of water racing down his shower curtain, properly focus in on his toothbrush on the sink and the tube of toothpaste beside it curled up over half the length. 

It hits you all at once, how this game of tension is so ridiculous. “We’re so stupid.”

Eddie is shocked by your snort, “Excuse me?” 

“We’re stupid,” you repeat yourself, “Why are we acting like middle schoolers who just held hands? You’ve seen me naked, for fucks sake. We’ve-” you cut off and turn to him abruptly, waving your hands wildly in the space between you two, “We’ve already crossed this line a million times, Eddie. And we just… it’s like, we keep putting one foot on the other side of it, dip our toes into it, and then take it back when it’s all said and done.” 

A boring dance. The two of you were taking part in the most boring dance of tension the world had ever seen, and only the four walls of Eddie’s apartment had the pleasure of being audience to it. 

You expect his laughter to come out in a bark, but it’s subtle instead, face relaxing in realization at what you mean, “Jesus. I- I mean, you’re right. But does that make us stupid? I think it’s kinda cute, personally.”

“Cute?” you lurch forward ever so slightly, grinning with your teeth. Eddie’s eyes squint up a bit from how widely he grins in return at your amusement, “What about this is cute?” 

“The way you keep getting so nervous around me,” Eddie shrugs, killing off the distance between you as he moves in front of you. You straighten up quickly, and he’s fast to tuck the loose strands of your hair behind your ear, “The way I keep getting so nervous around you.” 

“That’s not cute, that’s just… stupid.” 

“Same thing.”

“It definitely isn’t.” 

You’re close enough to kiss him. And you realize easily that this may be your favorite place in the world, toe-to-toe with him and nearly brushing noses, feeling each breath like a huff of wind on the highs of your cheekbones. 

“Agree to disagree,” he whispers before his lips duck down to yours. The hand that had tucked away your strands of hair had never left your face, you realize, palm now cupping your cheek as he tugs you closer to him. 

Warmth spreads across your chest, brings spring to all the vines you’ve been catering to for a year now. Being able to step back and call this for what it was, ridiculous, makes it all a bit easier to bear. 

It’s just his lips against yours, the shower not even running yet, the gasps that emit from both of you serving as a white noise instead. 

“Is this,” he breaks away from you, only pulling back his lips and leaving his forehead resting against yours with his hand still curled on your cheek, “still stupid?” 

“Even more so,” you nod and he moves his head with yours, almost making you laugh more, “So, so stupid.”

More kisses are exchanged, wandering hands trying to find new curves on the other’s body, before Eddie goes through the motions of turning his shower back on. You notice that from the looks of it, he does turn it on as hot as it can get. It occurs to you that these are small details you’d like to know – how hot he prefers his showers, whether he prefers to take them in the morning or at night, what scent of body wash he swears by – and that you only had so much time to learn the answer to not even half of your curiosities. 

Time. Time was not on your side. 

“You know,” you drawl as Eddie finally kicks off his pants, you soon following his lead as if this was nothing. Because it wasn’t. The two of you had been naked before each other. You weren’t two middle schoolers who had just shared a first kiss or held hands – you were two adults who had had sex, who had admitted to being attracted to each other if nothing more, “You never did say what you’re actually doing with the money.” 

“Again with that conversation?” Eddie asks, pausing with his thumbs hooked in the band of his boxers. 

“Again,” you affirm, tossing your shirt into the same corner that his pants had been discarded, “Can you blame me for being curious? Aren’t you curious what I’m doing with my money?” 

He thinks for a second as you strip off your underwear, leaving you completely naked first. “I mean, I sort of am.”

“College,” you supply easily. You don’t even wait for him to properly ask. He purses his lips and you catch the way his eyes sweep over your nude body quickly before he yanks off his last article of clothing, “College, and then all my debt. Then maybe I can start saving like a real adult. Move to some fancy city once I graduate. Make a…” you pause and make a conscious effort to not let your eyes wander as his had, “Make a real life for myself, I guess.”

“You sound so excited.” 

He’s being sarcastic, you know it, but it begs the question – were you excited about the prospective? All you had ever known was school. Your entire personality has been built thus far on being a student.

So what comes next? Settling into some boring nine to five job that hardly satisfies the dreams that were born of your major? Getting underpaid, getting bored with monotony but telling yourself you were satisfied? 

And that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the bigger questions of the future. You haven’t even spared a thought to kids, to getting married, to life past the next two years. 

“I mean… I am,” you shrug and step into the shower first, Eddie following close behind you and listening intently, “It’ll be nice to finally have the damn piece of paper to say ‘hey! I did it!’” 

“But?” he presses, scooting the two of you around in the small space so that he was standing directly beneath the spray of water. His curls flatten against his head immediately. 

“No buts,” you insist. As if you’re trying to convince yourself more of it than him. 

“So that’s all? You just want to get out of here?” he isn’t looking at you as he reaches for a bottle of shampoo, blinking water out of his eyes. 

This conversation is going surprisingly well. 

“Not here specifically,” you clarify. Your chest aches at the thought of just leaving behind all the friends you’d made, the life you had started in this city. The thought of already beginning to preemptively tear it down was enough to dampen your mood worse than the steam of the shower was doing to your hair, “I don’t know. Who cares about the future? What are you doing with your money?” 

He’s about to squirt some of the shampoo into the palm of his hand when you suddenly snatch it from him, holding up a finger and twirling it in a demanding manner. He’s shocked, but he turns for you regardless, even bending his knees as he gets the message. 

He doesn’t question the fact that you’re about to wash his hair. No protests towards something so domestic between previously sworn enemies. 

“I wasn’t lying earlier,” he starts just as you have lathered up your palms and set aside the shampoo on the shower ledge, fingertips digging right into his scalp. Even with the slight bend in his posture, your arms have to stretch to reach the crown of his head, “A new bike or guitar would be nice but– Oh,” a particular scratch of your nails has him faltering in his words, throwing his head back a bit more and humming. The throb, the ache, the burn returns. “Oh, that’s nice.” 

“Keep talking, pretty boy,” you murmur as he hums even louder. 

“Well, I… It’s not a lot of money, y’know? I mean, it is. But it also isn’t. Am I making any sense? Fuck, that feels good,” he stumbles across his point as your fingers continue small circles, and you already know without looking that his eyes have fluttered shut. 

The pit of your stomach can only rally, twisting and tumbling at his satisfaction. Something so domestic and something you had started with sweet intentions was quickly derailing, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. 

You have him. But you don’t have him. The same type of conundrum he faces with the amount of money promised to the both of you if you were to survive these hours. 

“You’re making sense,” you promise with a shy grin you know he can’t see, “Like, I know the money won’t pay off all my debts or college tuition, but it’s a good start. Anyways, as you were saying?” 

Both of you struggle to focus as he continues on, melting even further into your touch, “I dunno. Maybe if I have anything leftover, I’ll send it to my uncle.” 

His voice is strained as he’s occupied with the feeling of your hands against his scalp, and you know it’s a throwaway sentence, but the small detail of his life you’ve been awarded doesn’t go unnoticed.

Uncle? Why uncle? 

“You in debt to your uncle over a bad night of gambling or somethin’?” you try to joke as you finally release your fingertips from his scalp. Your palms come down on his shoulders as you spin him slowly, encouraging him to keep his head tipped back as he lets the water wash away the suds produced. 

Surprisingly, his shampoo doesn’t smell like boy. It’s akin to green apples, maybe something smoother beneath it all like coconut. Something sweet and something innocent. 

Maybe that’s what has him being so open to you as he explains, “I’ll always be in debt to him, but not for gambling. He raised me. My folks… weren’t the best. I owe everything to that man.” 

There are no good words to respond with. You suddenly feel selfish for pushing him to admit it, and for making that joke to begin with. 

But he only cracks open his eyes as the suds are mostly gone, looking at you through squinty eyes as he grins, “Guess I’m the boner killer now, huh?” 

You snort again (fuck, had he always been this funny?) and shake your head, finally glimpsing below his hips. 

Ironic of him to say that he was a boner killer when there he was, harder than ever for you, tip pink and glistening in a taunt towards you. 

You were both going to Hell. You were standing in his shower, talking about his uncle, both far too horny for the topic of conversation. 

“Modern day Bonnie and Clyde, but make it horny,” you manage to get out, still staring at him and resisting the urge to reach out and start something you didn’t know how to finish, “Does talking about money always get you this hard?” 

“Bonnie and Clyde were robbers, not killers,” he corrects you, “And why, yes. How did you know? Do you plan to use this lethal information against me again later?” 

A cavern in your chest screams out, when is later? Later within the next four hours, or later within the next year? Will you ever even give me a chance to use this against you again? 

You laugh along with his joke instead. 

“Absolutely. Also, who the fuck knows that much about Bonnie and Clyde?” 

You make him turn around again, and repeat a similar process with the conditioner. The entire time, you try to not think about the awareness that the same burn in your own gut is alight in him. 

He shrugs a little, bends a little more to encourage your fingertips back to his scalp. It doesn’t work — you’re focusing the conditioner on the drier ends of his curls. “I do.”

“Well, that’s just weird.” 

You work in silence as you finish threading the conditioner through and detangling his hair with just your fingers. You don’t immediately have him rinse it out, and he takes the opportunity to reward you with the same care, the same domesticity. And just as he hadn’t questioned you, you don’t protest when he manhandles you to spin and face your back to him. You let him indulge you in the same massaging motions that you had just pampered him with, let suds of that sweetness surround you as your eyes shut delicately and you lean your head back into his deliberate touches.

Same care, same domesticity, same sensuality. You never thought washing someone’s hair could be something so intimate until his knuckles are between your locks and your back is brushing up against his chest due to limited space.

“It’s not about the money,” he randomly announces to you once the shampoo has been rinsed out and the conditioner takes its place. “I mean, I figured you knew that, but… still thought I’d say.” 

“Figured as much.”

“I also wasn’t pissing,” he continues to overshare, “I know you figured as much there too.” 

Biting your bottom lip to hold back a grin, you keep the rest of your face relaxed as you nonchalantly ask, “No? What distracted you, then?” 

You can feel every deep breath he takes. The expansion of his chest only presses the two of you closer. Soon, you should both rinse out the conditioner. You should stop wasting water. The two of you should get out of this damn confining space and sleep, do something useful, make the most of the final four hours. 

Instead, you’re letting yourself get lost in billows of steam, and teasing him. And maybe that’s something useful for you. 

“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” 

You can hear his grin. God, you can hear his grin and those stupid dimples making an appearance without needing to see his face.

“Say what?” you ploy faux innocence. His fingers are still in your hair. He has no reason to continue to comb them through, but they remain there, grazing your scalp and brushing the back of your neck.

His chin meets your shoulder suddenly, his breath on your ear. “What did you call this earlier, sweetheart? I believe you called it… stupid.” 

Right. Stupid. 

Stupid was the ache that resided inside you for him. Stupid was the way your thighs shook from how hard they pressed together from each soft caress of his breath on the shell of your ear. Stupid was the urge to reach your arm around your back and grab onto him, any part of him, and try to pull him as closely as humanly possible — and then some. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

You’re a bad liar. And he loves it.

“Right,” he draws out the single syllable, hands leaving your hair, drifting at sea as they find comfort on your biceps, touch feather light, “You have no idea what I was doing in here. You weren’t staying by the door to see if you could hear me, trying to get a free show.” 

So you had been right in calling the two of you stupid. Neither of you had been very conspicuous. 

“A free show to what?” you keep up the act of innocence and swallow down the delighted hun when his hands move down your arms. You’re fully flush to his chest now, almost to the point of leaning your weight back against him.

“To me touching myself to you,” bold, crass words leave his lips, “To me fucking my fist to the thought of you. Squeezing my fist around my cock, trying to make it feel like that sweet pussy.” 

Your knees nearly buckle. You try to play it cool, “Oh? Is that what you were doing?”

His playful chuckle is the final straw, and his hands now on your waist are the only thing keeping you upright.

“I was.”

“And were you successful?”

How you kept your tone so steady, so even, was lost on you. 

“I wasn’t.”

One hand stays planted on your waist firmly, as if he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing in this heat between the two of you. The other dares to round to the front of your stomach, fingers splayed and fingertips almost tickling you as he lets them run down the center of your navel. He’s taking his time. Slowly, painfully, his hand travels. Down, down, down. Until his fingertips are grazing right over that fire he built inside you, mere inches from where you need him to touch you most. He has you right where he wants you, and he knows it.

And so he stops. Inches, maybe less, from where your cunt is throbbing for him. 

“Didn’t you say you were good with your fingers?” you’re trying to keep up a cool facade, but it’s becoming useless at this point. Your voice comes out a whine, and your hips subtly buck against empty air to try to encourage his touch lower.

“I did,” he hums directly into your ear. The hand on your waist becomes an arm fully wrapped around your front, and the press of your back to his chest becomes far more intentional. All of it to hold you in place as he moves his hand right over where you want him. He avoids your body’s pleas, and jumps straight to teasing his fingertips over the tops of your thighs. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

It’s almost funny to remember how flustered he was when he’d first made the comment, how quick he had been to defend it against being something dirtier, only to now be using it against you in anything but an innocent context.

“Please,” the beg falls from your lip as you give up on the game.

It’s a combination of all his gentle touches, the feeling of his curls between your knuckles, the steam that is smothering the two of you without notice, the way you can still feel every damn breath of his. Both through his mouth now softly kissing at the lobe of your ear, and his chest that only presses more tightly to you. That tightening arm around your waist, and the subtle change of position of his knee.

You aren’t expecting it, and your feet slide apart quickly, nearly dropping onto his sweetly placed leg between yours. 

“Please what, sweetheart?” 

You can’t even recall the feeling of hatred you used to get at the nickname. Now, in its place, is something buzzing, something buttery, something contradictory. You’re dizzy with satisfaction from the way he murmurs it directly into your ear. 

“Please touch me,” you gasp when his knee brushes upwards, not quite reaching where you need him. You swear there’s a pulse now, a throbbing cry that would do just about anything to feel those hands on you, “Please, please.” 

You’re losing focus as your thoughts start to fuzz at the edges, suddenly only able to manage the words please and his name.

And it isn’t lost on him. “Look at you. I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already going so dumb for me, aren’t you?” 

Your stomach churns, everything in you tightens, and your pride isn’t above dropping yourself down properly onto his knee and grinding. You would if you could — his fucking arm won’t let you.

When you glance down, you realize just how tight his grip is. You can trace each vein along his forearm, catch the white of his knuckles as they curl against you.

He’s holding onto you for dear life, and yet his death grip doesn’t so much as hurt. You only feel safe, you only feel wanted. 

“Please just touch me, Eddie,” you whimper out, not caring about how desperate you sound anymore. You have no shame, no pride, no careful calculations left for the man behind you. 

His hands stop their dance across the apex of your thighs. One moment, you can barely feel his fingertips running over their softness, and the next, it vanishes completely. 

You open your mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a gasp as his fingers are suddenly on your cunt, spreading you apart at a leisurely pace. You move to grab onto his forearm for leverage but he suddenly tsks and stops all of his movements. 

“You can either have me touch you, or you touch me. But you can’t have both, sweetheart. Not right now.” 

Through the haze, you’re unable to use your words to answer, instead cracking your eyes back open and trying to crane your neck to see Eddie properly. But he’s only chuckling into your ear again, arm around your waist tightening. 

“C’mon, baby. Use your words. Which would you rather have?” he taunts, tilting his chin down and letting his nose nuzzle against the peak of your shoulder, lips barely brushing the skin. 

You would have expected to not even catch the subtle feeling of plushness on you right now between your ever-growing frustration and the water still raining down on both of you. But you do; your body is growing acutely aware of every single point of contact between the two of you as the minutes go on. Every inch of your skin is tuned into his touch and where it flows, where it leaves you, where it presses deeper. 

You open your mouth to respond to him, but you can’t. You can’t explain it: there isn’t a tightness in your throat, a pain grasp on your chest, a fear that is swallowing the words whole. It’s the opposite. All of your taut strings have gone slack, waves of surrendering to him having overcome all of your deepest anxieties. In this moment, amongst the white noise of a shitty apartment shower, all that there exists is him. The time limit slips away, the bet is a thing of the past, and the road taken to bring you both here is completely forgotten. 

His touch is able to remain light when he decides to turn you in his arm, the grip once around your waist now pressing into your lower back as you face him. You’re completely malleable for him to do as he wishes. 

Facing him, you watch all of the amusement and cockiness melt away from his features. His smirk goes soft and his face falls in awe, mouth parted as he takes in that look in your eyes. He knows. He knows that in this moment, you are completely defenseless and utterly his. 

You watch all the air leave his lungs, and feel the consequential breath that releases hit the bridge of your nose due to the proximity. “You really are cock drunk for me right now, aren’t you? I haven’t even given it to you yet and you’re just… gone.” 

If you weren’t completely under his spell at this moment, you would have burned with embarrassment down to the bone. 

You just nod. 

With this revelation, his grip on you completely transforms. It’s not just a matter of keeping you upright, but a matter of keeping you tethered to him. As if he’s afraid that the moment he lets go, he loses you. 

If you could find the words, you’d assure him that he wouldn’t. You weren’t something so fleeting, so passing. 

Without words, all you can do is show him. So you press up onto your tip-toes and kiss him. Hard, then soft. Fervently, then patiently. Achingly, and then assuredly. Every flash of contradiction between the two of you and all that has accumulated goes into the kiss as you let him find his breath again, solely by stealing yours. 

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your lips, before his nose rubs against the tip of yours as it begins a journey. Across your cheek, down your jaw, into the crook of your neck. You feel spouts of warm water trickle over his collarbones and against your own. 

This time, you do have the words for him. Or rather, the word for him.

“You.”

There’s no other way to put it. You just want him. 

He pulls back and stares directly into your eyes, his own brown ones swarming with varied emotions. You’re finally able to start deciphering some of them – lust, want, surprise – but not quite all of them yet. 

Before you realize what’s happening, he’s sinking to his knees. Somehow, he’s twisted you so that your back meets the cool tile of the wall, careful in watching the way it supports you during the entirety of his descent. 

He doesn’t say a word, his eyes doing all the talking necessary through wet lashes as he guides you to balance a foot on the edge of the tub and hook your knee onto his shoulder. Just as you realize what he’s doing, his mouth is on your hot cunt. 

For all the talk and thoughts about just how good his fingers were, you seemed to have forgotten just how good his mouth was. 

His tongue works away at your clit, tracing patterns before alternating to suck it sharply between his lips. He seems to have forgotten about his earlier threat, or maybe he’s just feeling merciful, as your hands instinctively reach down and wind into the roots of his wet hair. Curls matt in your grasp instantly. A harsh tug, and he’s moving his attention elsewhere, nose now nudging your clit as he circles around your entrance, pulling whines from deep within you at the teasing. 

“Eddie,” you throw your head back hard enough that you’re sure that there will be an ache to feel once all is said and done, “Fuck. Right there.”

“I see someone’s found their words,” his voice is muffled and you can feel his smirk rather than see it. 

It’s a damn pretty sight. Him, on his knees, wet curls plastering down his shoulders and back as his face is buried between your thighs. 

You can trace over each indent of muscle across his skin through half-lidded eyes, memorize the way it looks dazzling with the moisture, watch as water pools where his fingers dig into your thighs to keep you balanced. 

When his tongue finally slips inside of you, slow and stretching as the tip of his nose digs deeper into your clit, you swear you’re seeing stars. You were going to snarkily reply, but you don’t have the capacity to reply with anything other than chants of his name. Mixtures of praying to him and praying to God fall from your lips alongside curses. All muddled, all strings of whimpers and moans as he continues to bring you closer to your edge. When he finally resorts to bringing his hand back into the mix, sinking two fingers into your cunt with little warning as he returns to lazy work on your clit, you gasp out – your body lurches forward as your curl into him and your back leaves the now sticky, warm wall. 

The arm that was wrapped around your lifted leg to help you balance is quick to throw over your hips, keeping half your body still pressed to the wall. “Careful, princess.” 

Each word reverberates through you, both physically and somewhere deep in your mind, sending you even further reeling as your fingers grab onto him deeper and try to press him impossibly close. 

Princess. Somewhere along crossing all these lines, you have ventured into new territory. A territory where the nicknames get under your skin in a brand new way, slipping into your subconscious for the better rather than arising any irritation. 

Baby, princess, sweetheart. 

You’ll take whatever you can get from him. 

“Wouldn’t want you slipping and falling,” he murmurs as he pulls back, face now slick with you rather than the steam or water, “Can’t have you ruining that pretty face, getting blood all over my bathroom, now can we?” 

He’s right. God, you fucking hate when he’s right. As much as every part of your body is screaming for him to take you right here against the shower wall, you know it’s not a good idea. And you’ve really, really succumbed to enough bad ideas in these last nineteen hours. 

“Bed,” you manage to gasp out, quick to detangle your fingers from his hair and try to grab onto his shoulders without purchase due to the water still tumbling down, “Bed, now.” 

He gets the message. Rises to his feet and lets your leg fall back down, shaking as he turns to cut the shower abruptly. Without asking, he’s the one to exit into the fierce cold of the apartment first, grabbing at the flesh of your hips and guiding you out along with him. He doesn’t even bother with towels – once he has you out of that potential death trap of a tub, his lips are on yours, nipping and passionate as you breathe him in. He’s the one that maneuvers the two of you out of the bathroom, you don’t even notice when he reaches behind himself to open the door, impressively never tripping as he walks backwards and keeps your lips on his. 

It occurs to you that this is how you two work best. No overshadow of being honest with each other, no clouds of feelings getting in the way. And yet, somehow, it’s the most vulnerable you’ve managed to feel with him yet. 

You don’t want it to only be this easy when both your clothes are off. You want it to be this easy in the early mornings that you wake him up for work, you want it this easy over late night take-out and horror movie marathons. You want more cigarettes at sunset with him, soft confessionals over a rising sun. 

You can’t keep pretending that nothing has changed. You simply can’t. The fierce promise of his protection, the way his eyes stay trained on you even in the busiest of rooms. Nothing could ever erase the blooms left from him hooking his pinky with yours at the parking garage. 

All of the night is flashing through your mind, and even in the trance he has you under, you’re seeing with perfect clarity. 

It’s why just as the backs of your knees connect with his mattress, before he can throw you down and continue what was started in the shower, you’re pushing your palms against his wet chest and forcing him to look into your eyes. 

“If we do this,” you shakily begin, watching his chest rise and fall in sync with yours. Once you say these words, you can’t take them back. You’re vividly aware of it before you continue to force your voice to come out the most steadily it has the entire night, “It changes everything.” 

He blinks, eyes owlish. Once, twice. More of that emotion you finally can single out but never identify swirls like storm clouds in his vision. You wait for him to run, for him to take it all back. You wait for it all to be over – for him to deliver the final blow and leave you to collect the rubble and blood money so you can pretend this night never happened. 

“Okay.” 

Those aren’t the words of a fatal blow. You think they might send you reeling even worse, though. 

“Okay?” you clarify. If your tongue wasn’t so heavy, you’d say more. Remind him of what exactly it means to change everything. 

It seems he already knows as he parrots back, “Okay.” 

Lips meet again, and this time, they’re charged with everything. With a promise of change and a promise that maybe there isn’t a ridiculous time limit here. There is no doomsday clock between the two of you. When the clock strikes 3 PM, neither of you will vanish into thin air. 

You let him throw you back onto the bed. Your bare back meets the surprisingly soft sheets, and they erupt in the scent of Eddie. Cigarettes, a hint of weed, whatever cologne he seems to douse himself in. You can even pinpoint his shampoo amongst the fragrance now. 

It’s no longer the smell of boy that you once ran from. His hand is behind your back, but not trapped. It’s there willingly and it is caressing every inch of you that he can find, tracing out any dimples in your back he can discover as he lets your legs curl up onto his hips, kisses dappling your neck, jaw, and lips alike. 

Your vines stretch high and proud, and drink in his waves with every passing of his breath on your skin that raises goosebumps. 

You want to live here forever. In the feel of him pausing right before his cock presses into you, in the way his face scrunches up and his mouth falls agape, the haze now spreading from your mind and across both of you. Nameless chants and pleads for what was already both in the palm of your hands before you even knew what to do with it. The roll of his hips and the way his wet skin sticks to your own. Your heels digging into him, bringing him in closer, closer, closer.

Every time, it has felt this way. Something beneath the surface that has you surrendering over yourself. He has hurt you, time and time again, and you’ve let your knives be just as sharp – but the wounds scab over now when it’s just the two of you like this. 

You’re best like this for a reason. Because for once, neither of you are overthinking it. You are vulnerable and you are bare, not just physically but emotionally. Honesty isn’t a request; it is a given. You don’t just have him, you know him. Across oceans and across gardens, across midnight skies and across soft morning light. 

You have him. You know him. 

It’s enough. 

Smokey bars. His protection. Slamming doors and the clicking of locks released. The night air surrounding you and the warmth of his back as you cling to him on a motorcycle that seems to be going faster than light in your memories. That parking garage, and that hook of his pinky – a way to get closer, but also a whisper of a promise. 

He’s bled for you. He’s bled from you. 

This changes everything. 

When his hips movements become sloppy, when the knot in your stomach tightens one last time, when your nails dig into his back and leave their mark, you know it to be true. 

Everything, everything, changes. 

Eddie never really hated you, never really could, and you realize now that the feeling is mutual. 

—

You hadn’t considered exactly what the aftermath would be when Eddie first dragged you out of the shower, but you surely never could have imagined the scene now playing out. 

Him, on his back, content and humming a song you’re too tired to ask him about. His fingers are trailing mindlessly up and down your spine as you splay out across his chest. You both probably need another shower, but neither of you are willing to leave his bed for it. 

It’s not you who remembers the photo. No, you’re tired, one foot already in the door of sleep as you curl yourself tighter into his side. 

He doesn’t use your phone this time. You didn’t even realize his outdated flip phone had a camera on it. You’re not even sure if you dreamt the soft click that sounds like a camera as you nuzzle deeper into his chest.

“Everything,” he whispers, just as the edges of your consciousness begin to blacken, “Yeah, this changes everything.”

Your last thought is a curious one; will he send the photo he just took? 

Would he dare to admit to everyone how everything has changed?

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[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part iii

part one | part two | part three | part four | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader is described with curly hair, mention of curves.

content warnings: a royal affair between queen reader and guard jisung. the king is a violently abusive man and continues to disrespect reader in this part. this chapter has an additional content warning for violence, assasination attempts and explicit sexual content: guided masturbation, mirror action, and skirting the breaking of chastity vows.

word count: 13000 words.

-

As promised, rest comes an hour later.  Some stay in the woods with the wagons while the king and his party make for the nearby village. 

The edge of the forest slopes downhill, the bustling city centre at its base.  Civilians gather to watch the arrival of the royal retinue.  Most of them duck out of the king’s path well before he reaches them.  You suppose the party might have stopped at this village on the journey in and you can believe the king did not leave a kind impression on its denizens. 

You struggle with your skirts on the steepest slope. Because your husband pays you no mind, Jisung helps you, swishing back the length of his own robes as he climbs onto a boulder to reach you.  You thank him, placing your hands on his shoulders while he clasps your waist.  He swings you down on the path. 

No sooner have you stepped down does a little voice ask, “Is that the queen?  Why is her hair down?” 

You look over.  Some children are gathered nearby, staring at you with wide, curious eyes.  A mother scolds the loud one, putting a hand over the child’s mouth. 

“Your Majesty, I’m sorry,” the woman says, bowing deeper than necessary. 

“It’s all right,” you say.  You smile as you approach, maintaining some distance as they seem skittish.  You drop into a crouch to look at the children.  “Yes, I am the queen,” you say.  “I’m sorry I’m bit dishevelled.  The road is very bumpy and I was quite uncomfortable, but I am very happy to be in your village now.”    

When they determine you are not going to lash out at them, the children get closer.  Soon they are all yammering away, each of them wanting your attention for an introduction or story. 

“Can you have lunch with us?” a little boy asks.  He looks back at the woman.  “Mama, can the queen have lunch with us?” 

“Oh, I would love to,” you say, smiling to placate the very startled woman.  “But my guard needs to eat too and we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.” 

“He can come too!” a little girl says. 

A little boy goes right up to Jisung, his eyes wide with awe.  Though Jisung is not especially tall, the boy looks at him as though he is a towering titan. 

“Whoa,” the boy says.  “Are you a real kingsguard?” 

“Aha, I am,” Jisung says.  “Are you?”

“Me?” the boy asks.  “I’m not a kingsguard!” 

The children all squeal with laughter, Jisung grinning down at them.  You find yourself smiling too, surprised by how easily and naturally it comes. 

“Is that your sword?” one of the children asks, tugging on his black robe but eying the silver sword hilt.  “Can I touch it?”

“Ah, maybe no pointy objects,” Jisung says, giggling nervously. 

“What’s the delay?” Chan asks, striding over.  The king has already entered a nearby inn to eat and drink.  A few kingsguards linger outside, minding the door. 

Remembering your actual place, your smile fades.  You stand and smooth the creases of your skirt.  You remember the king insulting your appearance and making comments about weight, so you are not particularly keen to sit down and eat a meal with him.  Anxiety swallows your hunger.   

“We were invited to lunch,” Jisung says, laughing.  He looks from Chan to you, his grin faltering when he sees your solemn expression.

Chan notices too.  His thoughtful gaze flicks between you and the children.  After some deliberation, he nods. 

“Right,” he says. “The king is occupied anyway.  Would you like to spend time in the village instead?”  

Your heart brightens.  You nod. 

“I’ll send Jeongin for extra security,” Chan says.  He shoots Jisung a stern look.  “Protect the queen.” 

“Always,” Jisung says, hand over his heart as he bows. 

You know it is his duty, nothing personal, but that brightness in your heart turns incandescent with pleasure. 

You sit with several villagers at tables in the square.  There is more food than you can reasonably eat as several different families jump at the opportunity to feed the queen, at least once they realized you are more polite than the king.  You easily eat your fill. 

Jeongin and Jisung stand behind you, eating their own food as they pace and supervise. At one point, they agree to let the children see their swords.  They even conduct a short bout of fencing while their little crowd oohs-and-awes. 

You chat with the local craftsmen and some working women.  One of them makes a less than flattering comment about the king’s manners.  It garners Jeongin’s keen eye, flashing in his direction.  When the kingsguard looks at him, the villager ducks his head in shame, but he does not retract the comment either. 

You do not say anything, merely remark that you are proud to be chosen by the gods and you are serious about the responsibility they have bestowed upon you. 

“I care about this land very much,” you say. 

“Well, we’re all just glad someone at the capital does,” a worker says. 

“The gods have chosen a queen we can be proud of,” says another.    

You are better at offering kind words than receiving them, flustered by the compliments. You demure and look away. When your gaze wanders, you see Jisung already looking at you.  He nods, offering you a smile so warm and kind that it leaves you even more flustered than before. 

Lunch ends and the king returns.  The villagers wave until you crest the hill, then it is a quiet trek to the horses and carriages.  The group in the woods have packed away their things too.  Everyone is ready to depart. 

The king once again disappears without acknowledging you.   Jisung helps you onto the horse, holding it steady while you mount, then he swings up behind you.  A little girl gave you a ribbon to tie your hair, but he still gently brushes the low tail aside.  He is wearing black riding gloves, the leather up to his knuckles, his fingertips bare as they leave goosebumps on your nape.   

It does not take long to get back on the road.  This path dips south towards the sea and the great cliff, so this is the last city for a while as the forest trail winds uphill.  The next village is a day away.  It lays on the other side of the descent, so camp will be constructed in the woods tonight. 

You are not sure if you will be sharing a tent with the king.  He claimed he would not have you until back in the capital, but that was before his mistress ran off.  You shudder, imagining him taking those frustrations out on you.  You may have to put that sleeping draft to use sooner than later. 

“Are you cold?” Jisung asks. 

Before you can answer, he presses his hand gently on the curve of your hip, guiding you back, closer to him.  He is just offering his body warmth, mistaking your shiver for a chill.  You remind yourself that he is a kingsguard.  He has sworn a vow of chastity that he takes pride in maintaining.  You are the silly one, starved for a kind touch, who feels the burning imprint of his palm long enough after he stops.    

The journey continues.  Songs are sung to pass the time, though Chan throws a look over his shoulder when Jisung starts a relatively dirty one.  Jisung presses his lips together, smothering a laugh.  You suspect his relentlessly goofy shenanigans are for your benefit as he keeps trying to make you laugh.  It always works.  You find yourself giggling helplessly into your hands on more than one occasion.  He seems determined to wring an embarrassingly loud guffaw out of you. 

The joviality does not last.   

No one is expecting the arrow that flies straight through the window into the queen’s carriage.   You and Jisung are a few feet behind it and he rears back, swift but startled, the horse baying its own agitation.  You also yelp, clutching the saddle as he stabilizes the horse. 

Minho was close so he also rears back, settling faster without the extra weight. 

“Arrow!” he shouts.  It starts a cascade of action, the guards shouting orders back and forth to each other.    

You do not really hear them.  Your heart pounds from the sudden jolt, but it worsens as you stare at the carriage.  If you had still been in there, that arrow could have pierced a leg, shoulder, or even your throat. 

“Jisung…” you say, an instinctive utterance, voice wobbling.      

He lays a protective hand across your middle, all his silly theatricality gone, replaced with a sterner determination.   His eyes dart around the treeline.  His moves the horse just in time for another arrow to whizz past. 

Chaos unfolds as a veritable horde pours out of the treeline, charging the royal train. 

You never fathomed being at the centre of such violent mania.  You were always at home, a safe and sheltered place, with bandits and assassins relegated to the world of stories.  You liked to imagine you would be brave under duress, but the reality of such quick-moving danger is very different than a slow-told story. 

You are terrified, especially after two close calls, though you have no time to deliberate on the coincidence.  You are too lost in panic, clutching your chest like you can restrain your racing heart. 

The kingsguards take formation to combat the onslaught.  Jisung opts to retreat, prioritizing your safety, especially when another arrow flies your way.  He is quick dodging it, racing further down the line.

Chan, swinging his sword from up on his horse, seamlessly takes down an adversary while shouting,  “Get the queen to higher ground!  Hyunjin!  Go with them!  Fuck, I wish Felix was here.  Go!”

While Chan barks orders, you look at the man he cut down.  Even though these bandits are the instigators, it is still a vile sight. You have never seen a man die under such violence. Your panicked heart seems to stutter and stop and start again. 

Jisung is unphased, quick to follow Chan’s orders.  He turns the horse and gallops towards the opposite treeline.  Hyunjin comes thundering after you.  All the kingsguards are armed with an array of weapons but it is fairly obvious which tools are favoured by which guards.  Hyunjin has the most arrows and the most elaborate bow.  You wonder if Felix was the other bowman, hence Chan’s exclamation.

They race you through the trees.  You can only trust they know their way, seeking higher ground where they can defend you until the horde has been dispatched.

You look back and shriek.  Some bandits are giving chase on horseback.  You have never moved this quickly in all your life but it still feels too slow. 

“Hyunjin,” Jisung says, loud but calm. 

They criss-cross their horses, racing past each other.  Hyunjin whips around, in a single motion dropping his reins and seizing his bow, then firing a shot behind him.  It knocks the closest bandit off his horse.  The other three fall back and continue their pursuit at a safer distance. 

Hyunjin takes his reins.  The horses cross each other again, making it difficult for anyone behind you to get a clean shot. 

All you can do is hold on for dear life, keeping your eyes ahead.  The guards race uphill.  Once situated at an advantage, Hyunjin dismounts and takes position, firing an arrow without delay.  The bandits below duck and take cover.  You curl towards Jisung when they fire an arrow back.

“Take her further in,” Hyunjin says, lining up another shot.  “I have this.” 

Jisung continues into the woods.  You are very far from the trail now, surrounded by clusters of tightly packed trees.  Weaving in and out slows your pace. 

After a time, Jisung eases his horse to a stop, giving you both a moment to catch your breath. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.  His hands are thoughtless, touching you more than a guard should, but his concern is obvious.  His comforting hand settles on the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle, while the other pats your side to inspect any injuries. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though your shaking voice betrays you.  “All things considered.”

“All things considered,” he repeats with an airy laugh. 

You let out a laugh too, halfway to a sob, an exhale of emotion.

You turn your face towards him.  You are curled right into him, his hand on your nape, the other wrapped protectively around your waist.  Your heart is a wild animal, frantic in your chest, and adrenaline fills your whole body with warmth.  When you meet his gaze, that warmth gathers low.  It finds all that tangled anxiety and loosens every knot.    

His thumb slows.  The arm around your waist lifts, just a bit, his hand hovering.  He seems to realize you are too close, even with all things considered, but his own adrenaline holds him.  He does not let go, though he knows he should, instead staring back at you, his dark eyes running all over your face.  

“Your eyes are so—” he starts then stops.  His face contorts with more terror than it showed during the attack. 

“Pardon?” you say. 

He swallows.  You watch the bob of his throat.

“I mean—” he starts, but then he hears something.  The softness in his gaze hardens as he whips his head up, catching sight of different bandits approaching on foot. 

“They’re after me, aren’t they?” you say, thinking of the arrow in that carriage, the men on horseback.  You are not sure if they intend to kill you or ransom you, but it is obvious they are less interested in the wagons than you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jisung says, seizing the reins. “They won’t have you.”   

He is faster on horseback but the trees are so dense that it is still slow-moving.  The bandits on foot gain speed.  One lets loose an arrow.  Jisung dodges it, but the next arrow flies so close that you feel the wind as it breezes past your face. 

“Fuck,” he says.  His arm tightens around your waist, so firm it steals your breath.  “Hold on,” he says.  “We need to dismount quickly.”

His idea of a quick dismount is essentially throwing himself off the horse.  It surprises the bandits but it also surprises you, wrenching a scream as you fly towards the forest floor.   He keeps his grip and yanks you into his arms.

“Run,” he says, taking hold of your hand.  “And get behind me when I say.” 

 You run through the trees, holding your skirts in one hand and his hand in the other.  He is much faster but your adrenaline propels you.  You already anticipated sore legs from so long on horseback, but you are going to be in agony from so much running.  Provided you survive that long. 

“Jisung,” you say in a warning voice.   The treeline ends up ahead but it does not open into a clearing; it opens to the edge of a cliff, looming over the sea.  You can smell the brine before you see the blue beyond the branches. 

Jisung does not seem surprised.  He barrels right towards it.  When the edge nears, so close you can hear the ocean crashing into the cliff face below, he spins on his heel.  Somewhere in the swirl of black cloth, he draws his sword, twisting it in the air and catching it as swiftly.  He braces himself in a fighting stance.       

“Get behind me,” he says.  “And maybe close your eyes.”

His first order is easy, your shaking legs happy to halt.  The second order is more complicated, because you cannot help but watch as he runs straight towards the three adversaries.  Your own adrenaline peaks.  You want to chase after him and somehow help, but your remaining sense wrestles that instinct back under control.  There is nothing you can do.   

He does not need help anyway.  Someone charges him but he disarms the man in two short moves.  You do not even see the moment Jisung reaches back, but suddenly there is a knife in his other hand and he sends it hurtling towards the farthest opponent.  It thunks into the man’s chest and the spurt of blood startles you out of your frozen panic.  You finally obey his second command and close your eyes, covering them with your hands for good measure. 

You have many skills but swordplay is not one of them.  You do not like the sight of gore.  You never imagined needing a stomach for it.  Is this my life now? you think, trembling to the sound of metal on metal.

Through all your fear, there is one constant reassurance: Jisung will protect you.  You do not doubt him for a moment.

When someone touches your shoulder, you do not scream, knowing it is him before you open your eyes. 

Those familiar brown eyes gaze back at you.  You release a long held breath in an embarrassing sputter, eyes filling with tears.   

“It’s okay,” he says, cupping your cheek, the leather glove warm against your skin. 

You are shaking with adrenaline, your hands still raised.  You look behind him, catching sight of three bodies strewn across the forest floor. 

He moves his head to block the view.  He carefully takes your quivering hands.  He squeezes one gently. 

“I know, it’s a lot,” he says.  “The first time is the worst.  You’ll be okay.” 

The first time.  There will be more.  Of course there will be more.  Your shaking worsens with the thought.

You cannot find your voice.  You lift your eyes and meet his gaze, imploring with a glance and nothing more.  His lower lip wobbles with an unsteady breath, his brow furrowed.  His eyes are deeply sympathetic. 

He seems to battle some internal thought, then shakes his head and surrenders, quickly bringing your hand to his lips and kissing your knuckles.  His other hand goes behind your head and he pulls you towards him, wrapping you in an embrace. 

You grab him around the middle, burying your face in his neck.  Your chest is rising and falling rapidly against his steadier body, but his relative calm tempers you.  Some of your hair has fluttered loose from the ribbon, unsurprisingly, and he smooths some of it down. 

“It’s okay,” he says. 

Your shaking slows but your heart still races, all that anxiety twisting again.  You keep your arms around him, lifting your head as you ask, “Are there more?”

As if in reply, there is a disturbance in the trees.  Jisung spins, drawing his sword again.  He sweeps you behind him to block your body with his own.  

Hyunjin emerges from the trees on horseback, a hand on his bow and the other clutching his reins.  Jisung exhales then curses, sheathing his sword. 

“You missed all the fun,” Jisung says as Hyunjin rides past the bodies.  “Were you fixing your hair?” 

“Funny,” Hyunjin replies dryly.  “Where’s your horse?”

“She’ll find her way,” Jisung says.  “Are there more of them?” 

“There might be,” Hyunjin says.  He dismounts and walks up to Jisung.  They clasp hands but do not linger, both scrutinizing the forest, their gazes calculating.  “I don’t like this,” Hyunjin says.  “That wasn’t a robbery.  They were after—”  He glances at you but does not say it out loud. 

You look at Hyunjin, at the hair that has come loose from his tie, the sweat along his forehead, the sharpness of his gaze.  You remember him getting catty with Seungmin, his haughty expression and pointed glance.  That playful agitation was very different from his expression now.  Rage burns behind his dark eyes.   

“Whoever planned this,” he says, bitingly, “is targeting the gods, as far as I’m concerned.  And I don’t care who he thinks he is.”  He swings his sword free just to stab it into the ground.  “And I don’t care what Chan has to say about it.  This an offense too fucking far.  She’s the queen.” 

“I know,” Jisung says, softer but just as thoughtful.   He looks at you, pity in his eyes.  “It’s not right at all.” 

“Fuck this.”  Hyunjin yanks his sword out of the ground and sheathes it again. 

That anxiety turns to lead inside you, your stomach sinking.  You want to curl up on the ground and stay there.  Even Hyunjin has deduced the attack was too targeted to be a coincidence.  He is trying to sound vague, but you hear the underlying accusation in his thoughts; someone wanted to kill you and someone was probably the king. 

It makes sense.  The union has been sealed.  The money has been granted. The only thing that would stop him from killing you is a sense of honour and responsibility, but this king has neither.   Of course he would try and eliminate you, but he could not do it himself.  The king is a font of power, a representative of the gods on earth, but he is bound to his own holy vows.  The queen is chosen by the gods.  He cannot kill you himself as that would be an unholy offense.  

No, if he wanted you dead, he would have someone else do it, and he would never consult the kingsguard on the matter, knowing their holy order would be vehemently opposed.  The kingsguard protects the king.  It also metes his punishment if he betrays the gods.  It is why their own oath-breaking is so serious a crime.

Before further accusations can be made, distant shouts carry through the woods.  It is not the kingsguard, nor any of the king’s men. 

Jisung unsheathes his sword.  Hyunjin draws his bow. 

“Get the queen out of here,” Hyunjin says.    

“Where are we supposed to go?” you ask, shoulders already shaking as the voices get louder. 

Jisung turns around.  His eyes dart right past you, but there is nothing there except the expanse of sea.  He stares at the open water, shimmering under the afternoon sun. 

He looks at Hyunjin.  Hyunjin seems to understand him without any exchange of words.  He sighs and gives Jisung a withering look.  

“You’re crazy, but I guess you’ve had worse ideas,” Hyunjin says.

“As usual, Hyunjin, your confidence in me is inspiring.”

“I miss when we hated each other.”

“I love you too, man,” Jisung says.  “We’ll meet you at the inn.  Tell Chan we took a shortcut.”

Hyunjin snorts and shakes his head.  The guards part ways.  Hyunjin swings onto his horse and rides towards the noise while Jisung sheathes his sword and sprints back to you.   You take his hands the second he offers them, needing the comfort.  He squeezes yours tightly. 

“You trust me, right?” he says. 

“Trust you?  Yes.  Why?” you say hesitantly.  “You’re not about to suggest something crazy, are you?” 

“What?”  His eyebrows jump.  “Crazy?  Me?  Of course not.  I mean, if it makes you feel better, I don’t have to say out loud—”  He looks sideways again. 

A sea bird calls as it swings over the water. 

“You are not suggesting we go over the cliff.” Your voice shatters on a high-pitched squeak. 

“If anyone else comes this way, they won’t assume we went over!” he answers quickly.  “They’ll assume we went farther into the woods and look for us there!  It’s perfect!”

“Yes!” you say.  “They will assume that!  Because that is the sensible direction to go, not over a cliff into the sea!  Over the cliff!  Over the cliff!”    

While you rant, he removes his leather riding gloves.   You fall silent when he touches you, his bare palm curved around the slope of your jaw.   He guides your face to his so he can look at you, really look at you, his eyes intense. 

“Trust me,” he says.  “I swear on my life and my honour as a kingsguard.  My queen.  Please. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

Those intense eyes first found you in a room full of people who looked right past you.  They have found you again and again.    

You exhale. 

“Yes,” you say, scarcely more than a breath.  “All right.  I trust you, Han Jisung.” 

“Hold my hand,” he says, drawing you close.  “We’re high but not fatally high.  It shouldn’t hurt but we are going to break the surface quickly.  Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand.”

“I won’t,” you say.  “I promise.”

He squeezes your hand.  You squeeze back. 

You never had a fear of heights but maybe that was relative.  Taking a running leap off a cliff is certainly one way to find out for sure.

It seems feasible with your eyes ahead, the sea rolling out in a vast carpet before you.  Then your feet leave the ground and it feels as though the cosmos shift and the entire universe drops out under you. 

It lasts like an eternity but also seconds.  You break the surface quickly, just like he said, with a crash more forceful than the white waves on the cliff-face.  It feels like a shatter in the fabric of reality.  For half a heartbeat, you think it killed you, the force so impossibly brutal. 

Then it settles.  You open your eyes underwater.  As promised, Jisung did not let go of your hand even though you landed heavier and faster, weighing more especially with your dress.

Your dress.

You try kicking towards him.  He is pulling your arm but it only draws him deeper, sinking with you.  His black robes swirl around him, the material light and loose in the water, but your dress turns into a silk anchor. 

An instinctive cry leaves your lips, a desperate attempt to say his name, but it bursts in a flurry of bubbles.

You grab at him when he kicks down towards you.  He guides your arms around his neck.  You cling to him, not thinking sensibly, but with the frantic desperation of a dying animal. 

You do not pray to the gods.  It does not even occur to you.  They have answered you with nothing but silence.  You put all your faith in Jisung.  He does not let you down. 

Jisung tears the back of your dress, ripping the apart the seams with his bare hands.  You feel the threads pucker and pop, the cloying material giving way around your neck.  You help him, pulling at the neck and pushing at the sleeves.  You get the bodice down your hips, then the rest falls away.  It sinks without hindrance.  You are left in a white shift, long but light, so freeing that you can practically taste the air. 

Jisung grabs you.  You cling to him.  Together, you kick towards the surface.   You shoot through it with a gasping breath, coughing and sputtering. 

He shakes his head, whipping water droplets everywhere, then smooths his hair back in a single sweep.  The blackness of his hair looks even darker when wet, an obsidian tinted blue in the sunlight and seawater.  You think it is ridiculous how he cannot look bad even when soaking wet, while you feel like a drowned rat, your copious amounts of hair plastered to your face. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, laughing in spite of himself.   

You splash him and he laughs some more. 

“If that wasn’t your worst idea ever,” you say, “I’m not sure I want to know what was.” 

“No, probably not,” he says, still giggling as he paddles towards you. 

You duck underwater to smooth back your hair.  When you surface, he is close – so close, too close.  The flow of the water pushes your bodies together.  There is very little between you, black and white material, so thin you can feel his body heat.  You are not sure if that racing heart is his or yours.  

Your hands find his shoulders instinctively.  He keeps his hands out, treading water, keeping you both afloat. 

“I—” he starts then stops, staring into your face.  He releases a breath.  “Come on,” he says.  “Let’s get to the shore.”

-

You emerge from the water, drenched and dripping, your white shift not only translucent but clinging to every curve.  You notice first and a fiery storm of embarrassment ignites inside you.  You wrap an arm over your ample chest and try to tug the material away from other sensitive places.  

Jisung has his back to you.  He is wringing out his black robes as best he can.  When he does see you, his eyes widen, then he slips on nothing and faceplants in the sand.  The tiny grains stick to his wet body like a second skin.

It makes you feel a little better about your own state, watching as he lifts his sand-covered face off the ground.  You laugh and also apologize for laughing as he gets back in the water to wash it all off. 

“Um, right,” he says, still scrubbing his face as he marches ashore.  He does not look at you, glaring ahead at nothing while pushing his hair back.  “Just… just wait.”

He gathers the hem of his robe to squeeze it dry.  You watch, still flustered, but also a little bit…

You do not know the word.  You just know that if Jisung thought you were unappealing, he would have no problem looking at you.  But he determinedly keeps his eyes off you, muttering what sounds like a prayer. 

You are about to make a comment, a joke at your own expense, when he abruptly strips off a layer. 

Your eyes widen as you stare at his back. 

It is true that Jisung is not as bulky as Chan or Changbin or even Jeongin.  His build is a more slender athleticism.   Those robes nonetheless concealed more than you thought.  His under layer is far more revealing, a sleeveless black shirt and pants.  His shoulders have a fair breadth, sturdy and strong, and his torso tapers down to a slim waist.  His exposed arms move with a subtle musculature that catches you off guard.  

You thought he was handsome this whole time, but the starkness of his sudden masculinity has your knees knocking.  A regular man seems to emerge from the robes of the kingsguard and that is somehow more intimidating.  You feel your own exposure more keenly.   

Jisung folds the material over his fists and wrings it tightly.  It makes the soft slope of his lean biceps strain.   

You drop your gaze too.  It makes for a comical effort when he tries to pass you the robe when neither of you is looking.

In the end, he turns around, holding the robe to block his face.  You laugh shyly and step into it.  He wraps it around your shoulders and you pull your arms through.  Even though it is also wet, it does a better job of covering you. 

“Thank you,” you say.  You meet his gaze and say sincerely, “For everything.”    

He laughs a short laugh, an airy, empty sound.  It sounds more disbelieving than humorous.  He tilts his head as he looks at you, like he has to think deeply, like there is something he does not understand.  It makes your stomach twist and your heart skip.  Even when he caught a glimpse of your body, it did not feel as raw as this regard.  He looks at you and he sees through to something far deeper than skin and much more vulnerable.   

“You know,” he finally says. “The king has not thanked me once.  Not for anything.” 

You do not know what to say to that.  You hold the neck of the borrowed robe closed, fidgeting with it.  He seems to remember himself and he shakes his head.  He looks away, towards the trees that line the beach. 

“Ahh,” he says.  “It’s fine.  The king shouldn’t have to thank me.  And neither do you.  It’s my duty.”

“It’s not because I have to,” you say defensively.  “I want to.  Jisung, I want you to know that it wasn’t meaningless.  Everything you’ve done – I appreciate it.  I appreciate you.” 

He looks at you again, his face a storm of different emotions.  The pinch of his brow looks almost sad.  It makes you want to reach out and touch his face, smooth out his features under your fingers. 

He steps back before you can. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing.  He does not look at you when he stands, strutting past, heading down the beach.  “Come on,” he says.  “It’s still a couple hours to the city from here.”

You walk on foot to the next city, the one that will take the retinue a day to reach.  Going over the cliff is certainly faster than travelling through the forest path, though obviously a less sensible approach.  You entertain yourself with thoughts of the king’s carriage careening over the cliff. 

It is a warm summer’s day so your wet clothes do not bother you.  It feels rather refreshing.  With the king far behind you, you can breathe a little easier. 

You and Jisung amble along the beach.  There is an awkward silence at first.  Though he was chatty on horseback, having the other guards around made the conversations feel less personal.  Now it is just you and him.

Fortunately, he is a natural showman.  It does not take much to wrestle funny stories out of him.  He has many, gleefully recounting every embarrassing story about his fellow guards.  He tells you how he and Hyunjin didn’t get along at first.  When you ask if it was for any political or religious reason, he laughs and says, “Nope! Just hated that handsome face.  Seriously, who looks like that?  Everything he did was annoying because he did it with that stupid smoulder.”   

You laugh.  At least an hour has passed and the sun has dried your clothes now.  Your curly hair is partially dry but a tangled mess.  Everything feels a little stiff and grimy with seawater, but you find you hardly care.  Here, under the sun, cool from your impromptu swim, you feel more alive than you have in weeks.   

“Why would it matter if he’s so handsome?” you ask.  “With all due respect, it’s not as though that is especially handy in your occupation…”

He laughs maniacally at that.  You swat his arm.    

“It’s a valid question!” you exclaim. 

“It is! It is!” he says, hands up in surrender.  “And I don’t know, ha-ha.  Old habits, I guess.”

“It wasn’t hard?” you ask.  “Giving up your worldly goods?  Swearing your vows?”

“No,” he says, a little more serious.  He looks down at the ground, kicking a pebble along.  “I didn’t have much to my name.  And for the other part – ah.  It’s never been that hard for me, to be honest.  Serving the gods felt right.  Before I was a guard, I didn’t really have a purpose.  A reason to be here on this earth.  But now… now I do.” 

“I see.”   

“Did you…”  He clears his throat.  He seems to know his question is audacious, inappropriate for a guard, but you give him an encouraging look.  Maybe because you are alone, or maybe because you have shared an ordeal, or maybe because you are in his robes, he gives in.  “Did you ever want a different life?” he asks.  He then winces as if suddenly remembering last night.  “Sorry,” he says.  “That insensitive.  I’m sure you—”

“It’s all right,” you say.  “I know what you mean.  It’s just… the question is a little overwhelming.”  You look across the sea, stare at the long edge of the horizon.  “Last night was…  I felt a lot of things for the first time.  I didn’t really know how to process it.  I grew up with expectations.  I didn’t know I would marry a king, but I was raised to expect a match.  I knew I was in a position of privilege and that meant conceding other things.  I… I just wanted to make things good for other people.  I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does,” he says sincerely. 

You smile at each other.

“Good,” you say.  There is a moment of silence.  You look at the horizon again.  “I don’t think I really know how to want something, to be honest,” you say, more to yourself than to him.  “Not deeply.  Not truly.  I was wealthy.  All my needs were met.  And I was never aimless.  I always had someone telling me what to do.  If there was ever time I wanted something, something I couldn’t have, I don’t remember.  Maybe that’s for the best.  I imagine that would be more painful than not wanting at all, right?  Maybe it’s better to suppress it and commit to my duty.  But I don’t know if that makes sense either.”

“It… it does,” he says.  “It does.” 

You eventually leave the beach and cross a short forest trail, intersecting the path the royal train will ride tomorrow.  You walk into the city and look for the inn.  It will be empty tonight in preparation of the royal visit tomorrow. 

You reach the doors at dusk.  The innkeepers recognize the kingsguard and usher you both inside.  When Jisung introduces you as the queen, they fall over themselves, apologizing for being unprepared. 

“It’s all right,” you say.  You share a laughing glance with Jisung. “We took an unexpected shortcut.” 

You are seated by a fireplace and given some food while they prepare a room for you.  The innkeeper’s wife provides you with a more appropriate cover so you can return Jisung’s robes.  He drapes them loosely around his shoulders, but they are stiff with seasalt.  Fortunately, you will both have an opportunity to wash. 

When the room is ready, the innkeeper’s wife escorts you upstairs.  She has prepared a bath in the bedchamber.

Jisung departs for a moment, just long enough to wash himself in another room.  His outer robes are taken to be washed along with your grimy shift, though he stays in his shirt and pants as a kingsguard is not supposed to wear anything but his uniform.  His spare robes are in his saddlebags. 

You wash your hair while the bath water is hot.  You try to focus on the heat, the water sluicing over your skin.  You fight to keep your panic down as you think about encountering the king tomorrow.

You are wringing out your hair when the door opens.  At first, you think it is the innkeeper’s wife returning for some reason.  When you see it is Jisung, you duck down so the water covers your shoulders. 

Jisung stumbles to a stop, eyes widening when he sees you in the tub. 

“Oh!” he says.  He spins around and walks right into the door. 

You cover your mouth, watching as he stumbles back into the room, holding his face.  For such a skilled swordsman, he can be remarkably clumsy. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.  You kneel in the deep tub, pressing yourself to the edge so it covers everything sensitive. 

“Fine,” he says, pinching his nose.  He waves a hand in your direction.  “Fine.  Sorry.  They told me you were washing, just not in a bath.” 

“They just sent you in here?” you ask.  “Why?”

“Uh, well, I mean…”  He dances over the threshold, rocking back and forth with uncertainty.  He keeps his back to you.  “I mean, it, uh, it is my job to, um, watch you.”

“In the bath?” you ask dryly. 

“Well, everywhere.”  He pinches his nose again and takes a breath.  “It’s not unusual.  The vows and – you know.  The kingsguard is a different order.  The gods see everything and we serve the gods.  It, uh, it is fairly normal for at least one guard to be around at all times, regardless how the king… or queen… is… um… occupied.” 

You feel a bit flushed, not just from the hot water. 

“At all times?” you ask. 

“Yup,” he says, popping the syllable.  “The king used to have Felix stand guard in the room all night, even when he was with his mistress and ohhh wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  Hold on.  I think I just put something together.  Yeah, wow, okay.  That was probably a bad idea for everyone involved.”

He always makes you laugh, even when you feel anxious or embarrassed.  It untangles that knot of dread faster than anything else. 

You fold your arms on the rim of the tub and rest your cheek there.  He is still standing with his back to you, the door open.  It is letting in a slight draft. 

“Jisung,” you say.  “It’s your duty.  It’s fine.  Can you please come inside and close the door?  It’s getting cold.”

“Ah. Right. Okay.  Sorry.”  He finally enters the room, though he pointedly does not look in your direction.  He busies himself with closing and bolting the door, taking far too long testing the locks. 

His hair is a bit damp.  He runs his fingers through it and your own fingers twitch.  You have never wondered what it would feel like to run your fingers through someone else’s hair, not until now.  His hair looks like it would be pleasant to the touch. 

You shake your head and look away.  Such foolish thoughts.   You settle in your bath and leave Jisung to his busy work.  He inspects every corner of the room and verifies the windows are securely sealed and locked.  Eventually, he seats himself in a chair near the fireplace, warming his hands and staring into the flames.   

You absently splash a bit of water, watching the droplets plink around you.  Your thoughts stray to the king then his absent mistress.  You cannot imagine any woman willingly and happily submitting to that man.  You wonder when she and her kingsguard connected.  You are glad she got away.  You hope it stays that way for their sake. 

Your own future is less certain.  The king wants you dead.  You do not know if he will make another attempt soon or if he will concede defeat for the time being.  You already know he will never like you.  It is obvious he is not that type of man.  He was born to power, raised believing he was divine.  Rather than use that blessing to aid his people, it has given him a cruel sense of superiority over them.    

The best outcome is that he will decide it is too much work to kill you.  

Or maybe death would be better.  You thought so last night, which seems so long ago now.  You remember the king’s violent hands on you, the demands he made, the way he looked right through you, treating you like a wretched thing.  You shudder to think he intended to hurt and use you, knowing he was planning to kill you the next day.   

“Are you all right?”     

Jisung’s voice draws you out of your reverie.  You are slouched in the tub, the water preserving your modesty at his distant vantage.   His face is illuminated in the firelight, the flickering light revealing his obvious concern.  Those dark eyes are wide as they gaze at you. 

“Yes,” you say.  He lifts a disbelieving eyebrow in reply.  You cross your arms over your chest, though it is your heart that feels exposed.  “No,” you whisper.  You whisper every last word, as though you can conceal it from the gods even while their servant listens.  “I’m sorry, Jisung.  I know he’s the king.  I know he is heaven’s earthly sovereign.  I know I’m his wife.  I know, no matter what he has done, if he has done anything, I have a responsibility, but I—”  You wipe your tears when they start to fall.  You sink a little lower in the tub.   

Your posture gives away your discomfort.  Jisung stands.  He goes to the bed where the innkeeper laid out a robe for you.  He smooths it out and picks it up. 

“Here,” he says. 

He does not look when you step out of the tub.  He wraps the robe around your body.  The fleeting contact makes you shiver.  You pass each other, avoiding each other’s eyes.  He returns to his seat by the fire and you sit on the edge of the bed. 

The room is quiet except for the crackling of the flames. 

“It’s not right,” he says after a moment. 

You were picking at lint on the robe, your thoughts asunder, but you look at him now.

“Pardon?” you ask in a small voice. 

He grimaces.  His hand is curled in a fist.  He unclenches it slowly, then occupies his hands by removing his sword belt.  He holds the weapon in his hands, running his thumb across the silver hilt while he frowns.   

“It’s not just because you’re the queen,” he says.  “You’re— you’re kind.  You’re good.  Your people cried when you left.  The king’s people only cry when he returns.  The way you talked to the villagers...  The respect between you...  The way you… the way you were good to those children…” 

You recall the story of his own childhood, a poor peasant boy on the capital streets with nothing to his name but a song. 

He rubs his forehead, then shakes his head. 

“You shouldn’t have to suffer,” he says.  “No one should.  But you...  It’s not right.  It’s not right.”

“I’m not special, really,” you say, not even to be self-deprecating but because you can see him sinking into his thoughts.  You do not want him hurting for your sake. 

“You are!  You’re the queen!” he exclaims.  “By the will of the gods!  And  I really do believe that.  Because you...  You are everything.” 

You jump when he drops his sword at his feet, the metal clattering on the wooden floor.  He puts his hands together as if he intends to pray, but then he looks at you, aglow in the firelight. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “You are good and kind and funny and gentle.  You are a heaven-sent queen.   You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping.” 

Your wild heart breaks free.  It is not with the pounding terror of adrenaline, but like a drumbeat, low and steady, a rhythm that has you taking a long, shuddering breath. 

No words suffice in reply.  You sit in tense silence until the innkeeper’s wife knocks at the door.  She has come to empty and clear away the tub.   

Jisung lets her in.  You smile and chat while she works – because she adamantly refuses to let you help – and she confirms everything is to your liking.  You assure her that everything is perfect and she can be proud of her work.  Jisung watches silently the whole time, leaning against the fireplace, loosely holding his sword. 

When the room is clear and the bed turned down, the woman leaves, and the silence feels even heavier than before.  You sit on the bed in your robe, drying your hair with a cloth. Jisung locks the door then takes his seat by the fire again.  You suppose he is going to stay there all night. 

He slouches very low, his elbow propped on the armrest and his hand on his face.  His knees are spread wide enough that you can imagine kneeling between them.  You do not know what would follow, just that you want to be there. 

Yes, you want that, you realize.  You want to be there, looking up at him with a reverence equal to his words.  It would be easier than finding something to say.  Your gaze would speak for you, in a position that should be reserved for the king and the gods. 

You know you cannot do that.  Your roles are very different.   When he says speaks of devotion and worship, it as a kingsguard, not a man, even if your heart aches – because whether or not it is blasphemous to imagine, you would worship a man like that all the same. 

The very thought has you breathing a harder.  You imagine him looking down at you, his hand your face like before – guiding, gentle, good.  You cannot imagine Jisung ever touching you the way the king did.  No, it would be different.  The king seized your waist with a proprietary aggression.  Jisung has touched your waist again and again, always to help you, always to protect you.  You know that touch would not hurt.  You know that touch would not leave you curled in pain for hours afterwards. 

You know what it would not be, though you cannot imagine what it would be.  You just know the thought makes you tremble. 

But that is not your fate.  It is ridiculous to imagine.  It will be the king in this room tomorrow night. 

You tremble for a different reason. 

“He’s going to hurt me,” you whisper.  You are not sure if you even want to Jisung to hear, but you simply cannot keep it inside.  You speak, like if it leaves your mouth it will materialize and you can face it, fight it. 

That does not happen.  You just shiver worse. 

“Even if he doesn’t kill me,” you say.  “He’s going to hurt me.  He already tried once.  I won’t be able to stop him again.” 

You dare a glance at Jisung.  He is staring at you with those wide, sympathetic eyes.  After a moment of contemplation, he stands.  He paces a little, back and forth, seemingly debating himself in his head.  It turns to incoherent muttering as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Jisung—” you say, prepared to apologize.  It is not appropriate for the queen to complain to a kingsguard about her duties.  You are putting him in a difficult space, because he is a good man who does not want to see you suffer, but he is a holy man and he should demand you pray and do as the gods bid you. 

Instead he claps his hands together and sighs a musical sigh. 

“There are—”  His voice breaks and he laughs, a nervous little giggle before clearing his throat.  He says more seriously, “There are, uh, ways – things – um – yes – that you can do – so it doesn’t – so it doesn’t hurt.” 

“Ways,” you repeat slowly.  “Things.” 

“Yes,” he says, gesturing nonsensically, waving at nothing.  “Ways.  And things.” 

“What ways and things?” 

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?” 

“You do?” 

“Ahhh…”  Jisung looks sheepish, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.  He gives you a too-toothy smile.  In spite of everything, warmth moves inside you, a bright and delightful joy, even if it is temporary.   “Well, um.  I’m chaste, obviously, so I don’t – I don’t know much.  But I maybe know some things…  There’s a ritual the kingsguards do… before they are, um, initiated…” 

“Do…?” you say.  You wave him onward with an amused smile. 

“Uh, yes.”  He stands ramrod straight and clasps his hands behind his back.  “Don’t tell anyone I said anything, but, um.  They send you to a brothel.  It’s for a decent reason!”  His hands fly out again, waving defensively even though you did not say anything. 

You prop your elbow on your knee and your head on your fist, more entertained with his ranting than anything. 

“You know,” Jisung says, speaking as much with his hands as his words, “They just want to make sure you are actually going to be okay with a vow of chastity, especially if you’re a virgin like, um, like I was.  Am.  Was.  Am.  Anyway.  They don’t want a Felix situation, you know?  Where you change your mind later.  The vows are a serious, serious, serious thing.  Felix was an exception, that whole thing was just – it was crazy, you know?  But the vows.  The vows.  Oh, I was ready for the vows.  My life… it wasn’t great, you know?  I was worthless.  I was a street kid.  I was a thief.  I came back from the war to nothing.  The kingsguard gave me a reason to live.  So I wasn’t tempted, oh nooo, I was never tempted.  But they, um, they sent me anyway to make sure I knew what I was giving up.”

“I see,” you say.  You want to correct him when he insults himself, but you suspect he will deflect any argument.  Instead you ask, “What happened then?”

“Um, a very nice lady took me to a room,” he says.  “I told her what I told you.  I was ready for the kingsguard.  I had my calling.  I was finally going to matter.  My friend had helped me and I couldn’t let him down.”

“And what did she say?”

“She just… listened,” he says, looking a bit fond in his recollection.  You find yourself feeling a little jealous, not so much because he is thinking of someone affectionately, but because you have no one to think of that way.  You have done your duty and reserved yourself and your affections for marriage, only to be given a very unaffectionate man.

You can only watch as Jisung reflects and says, “She said she knew a lot of men like me which, personally, I don’t think is true, I’m one of a kind, thank you.  But she said, um… she asked if I wanted to, um, watch her.  Touch herself, I mean.  And, um, I, uh, did.  Just to, you know, make sure.  It didn’t count anyway because I didn’t touch her.  It, um.  Yes.  Yes.  That happened.  So now I know ways and things.” 

You blink at him.  His awkward story-telling coupled with the twisting narrative leaves you more than a little perplexed. 

“Touch herself,” you finally say.  “Touch herself how?  What does that mean?” 

Jisung squeaks.  He looks at you pleadingly, as if you can rescue him from the conversation he started. 

“You don’t…” he says.  It starts desperate but turns a little morose, his shoulders flattening with a sorrowful defeat.  “No,” he says softly.  “You don’t know anything, do you?”  

He does not say it offensively but you bristle at the accusation regardless.  You sit straight and lift your chin. 

“I know exactly what we are talking about, thank you,” you say.  “I am not a child, Jisung.  I was raised to know my duty as a wife.  I am very aware of what copulation entails.” 

He raises his hands in surrender, not pushing the subject.  You sit there, maintaining an air of haughty disinterest while he takes his seat again.  He rubs his bare arms, absent-mindedly squeezing a bicep as he massages himself. 

Watching someone touch herself, repeats in your head, your eyes on his hands as they move up his arm, rubbing his own shoulder. 

Your wild heart gets the better of you. 

“Do you mean… it doesn’t always hurt?” you ask in a slurred rush.  When he looks at you, you look away, ashamed as you say, “I still don’t know what you mean by ways and things.” 

“Well...”  His tone is kind, patient.  He waves a hand through the air.  “I just mean… No.  No, it doesn’t always hurt.  Or it shouldn’t hurt, at least.  So I’m told.  I’m, uh, chaste.  Obviously.” 

“But you’ve seen a woman touch herself.” 

“Yes.”  The tips of his ears go red, or maybe it is the firelight.  He scratches the back of his neck. 

“And that… helps,” you say.  “So it doesn’t hurt?”    

“Yes, I think so,” he says, rubbing his hands together in a nervous fidget.  “Again, I don’t really know for sure because I’m chaste.” 

Yes, you know, especially with his constant reiteration of that fact.  He has given you much to think about, though.  Everyone always told you that a wife’s nightly duty was a painful, unpleasant thing, something to be endured to keep a husband content and create children. 

You feel very foolish, much like you did last night when you tried and failed to run away.  You have always considered yourself very intellectual and pragmatic, but lately you are feeling so many foreign things, encountering the world for the first time.  It makes you feel younger than your age. 

That anxiety twists in you again, its tangles and knots familiar by now.  It is the nervous kind of adrenaline as you consider your next words carefully. 

“Could you…”  You cannot look at him, staring at the fire while you speak.  “Could you… instruct me?” 

“In-instruct you.” His voice breaks again.  It feels as though you are both pubescent fools, falling over each other as you dart around this perilous subject. 

When you look at him, your eyes meet, and that twisting anxiety becomes something else entirely.  It burns hot as the fire, coiling inside you like some impossible, holy flame. 

“Just… just so I know,” you say.  “I don’t expect you to do anything like – oh, Jisung, I would never ask that, you know I would never.  You’re a kingsguard.”

“I’m a kingsguard,” he repeats, like for a second he wasn’t sure.

“Yes, of course,” you say.  “I’m sorry.  It was a foolish question.  I just – I trust you.  And I just hoped—”  Hope.  Something you should stop doing.  The gods have made their decision and there are no prayers that will move them.  You must resign yourself to your fate, whatever that is.  “Forget it,” you say.  “I know my place.  Whatever happens, whatever he does –I will bear it.  I will.”

You smile a forced smile, but it is bright and encouraging.  It usually fools people. 

Jisung does not smile back.  He runs his hand through his hair again.  He takes a long, deep breath, and releases it as slowly.  You swear, it is as loud as the flames, louder than the thunderous heart in your chest.  

Despite it all, you keep smiling, determined to mask your emotions. 

Then he looks at you and your mask immediately crumbles.  Why do his eyes have this effect? 

“Come here,” he says. 

When the king commanded you, your body felt weak, terror coursing through your veins.  It felt like an injury, so discombobulating that it incapacitated you long after.   

Your body feels weak now, but the terror is not the same, not that dark, cold dread.  It courses hotly, like the water on your skin, like the heat in this room, like the look in his eyes.  You try to convince yourself that your body is just sore from so much riding and running, so of course your legs feel shaky as you stand and approach him. 

But you know.  You know.  Well before you reach him, well before he guides you towards the floor-length mirror, you know. 

You look at your reflection.  You almost do not recognize the woman looking back at you, so undone when she has always been so meticulously composed.  No emotions got in, no feelings got out, no wants were had, and no disappointments either.  Now your eyes burn too, meeting his through the reflection. 

He carefully, gently, gathers the hair that is loose around your shoulders.  You shiver, fingers twitching, that coiled heat unravelling.  He draws your hair back, guiding it over your shoulders and down your back.  He briefly runs his fingers through half-damp curls.  He stares at his hands, eyes wide like he is holding some much more precious than hair. 

He swallows.  With a final pat, he lets go.  His hands fall to his sides where they curl into tightly bound fists. 

“I can’t touch you,” he says.  “That’s not – I’m not – I mean.”  He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  “This is not that.  But you’re the queen and you shouldn’t suffer.  It’s just not right, okay?”  He looks at you again through the mirror, eyes shiny and sad.  “I’m a kingsguard,” he says.  “It’s my duty to protect you.  From everything.”  He smiles weakly.  “Let me show you how to protect yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, surprised by the rasp of your voice. 

“Okay,” he says, rasping too.  He clasps his hands behind his back, standing straight as if preparing for a military inspection.  “I’m a kingsguard,” he repeats.  You know that, so you are not sure who he keeps reassuring.  “I’m not – I’m not looking at you like that, okay?” 

“I trust you.”

“Right.  Right.  Um.” 

His hands are restless.  At his sides, behind his back, now crossed protectively over his chest.  You find yourself looking at the subtle curve of his bicep. 

 “Lower your robe,” he says.  Your startled eyes dart up the mirrored reflection.  “Just as much as you want,” he says gently. 

You stare at him through the mirror.  You never imagined your own eyes could look so heated, but they are twin to his, and you see a sort of beauty in yourself because of what you see in him. 

You shrug the robe down your shoulders.  He pointedly does not look down, keeping his eyes on yours.  That is for the best.  That is for the best? 

You let it fall a little more.  You feel the flickering heat of the nearby fire, warming your skin as it is revealed.  Your heart jumps at the sensation, the feeling of exposure. 

You forget how to breathe.  In that held breath, you let the whole thing spill to the floor in a soft puddle of fabric.   

He blinks, once, twice.  On the third, his eyes dart down, but just as quickly up.  He swallows.  His voice shakes as he says, “Close your eyes.”  

You look at those warm brown eyes one more time before obeying.  You slip into the dreamy darkness, acutely aware of the world around you.  Everything feels more pronounced.  You feel every touch of heat like a burning mark, his breath like a kiss on the back of your neck.  That coiling heat tightens again. 

“What now?” you ask.

“Bring your fingers to your lips.  Yeah, like that.”

You raise your hand, resting two fingertips on your bottom lip.  You feel his slow exhale.

“Kiss them,” he says.  The word kiss feels like a touch.  “On your tongue.” 

It feels a little ridiculous but you do as he says, wetting the tips of your fingers.  It does not garner any particular sensation.  No, pleasure comes from knowing he is watching.  You cannot see him, but you know his gaze is fixated on you, rivetted to every movement to ensure you comply with his instructions. 

It makes that heat turn molten. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice a much lower rasp than before.  He clears his throat but it still comes out rough when he says, “Touch your neck – on your pulse, right there – slowly.  Slowly.  Bring your fingers down your throat.” 

You do so, shivering a little at the wet trail it leaves as you trace your fingers from your jaw to your collarbone. 

“Does it feel like a kiss?” he asks.

At his suggestion, the touch no longer feels like yours.  You imagine him in front of you, his open mouth, his tongue darting past his lips.  Your whole body tightens and that heat rushes inside you.  You imagine him taking his time, his tongue travelling from your jaw to your chest. 

“Oh,” you say, a musical note of a sound.  You hear his breath catch. “Yes.” 

“Good.”  He clears his throat again.  “Keep – keep doing – that.  Bring your hand – yes.”  His voice gets softer, barely more than a whisper as you bring your fingers down the curve of your breast.  “Yes.  Like that.” 

“Like this,” you repeat.  It is easier to follow instinct with your eyes closed, listening to the beat of your own heart, the call of your own skin.  You trace your fingers around the tip of your breast, where the peak is already stiff.  You breathe harder, your heart faster, as it sends a shock of sensation firing through your body.  “Oh.  Is this what you meant?”  The small touch feels torturous.  You cup your whole breast and squeeze.  The pleasure leaves you trembling.

“Yes,” he says.  “But there’s, um.  There’s more.”

“More?”  You already feel dizzy.  You never knew so many sensations were hidden under the surface of your skin.  You cannot imagine what else is waiting. 

“Lower,” he says. 

There is a leap in your bloodstream as you obey. You chase it to no conclusion as the caress of your waist does not feel like much. 

“No, um.”  He moves; you can hear him.  Maybe his hands are making gestures, maybe he is running his fingers through his hair.  His voice is still rough so he clears his throat again.  “To—towards the – the centre.  The centre of your – body.” 

Your hand hovers above your middle.  You feel flushed, suddenly understanding his direction.  Your apprehension must show, because he says softly, “You don’t have to.  You can just—”

“I want to,” you say.  The truth spills out of you in a rush.  You want.  You have never wanted so much.  It has never been so clear in your voice. 

“You do?” he repeats.

You answer by following the call of desire and touching the only place that makes sense.  You make a noise when you do, surprised when you find evidence of all that coiling heat, wet on your fingertips. 

“Are you – are you wet?” he asks. 

You nod.  “Is that good?”

“Yes,” he says.  “That’s – that’s good.  Very good.” 

You soak in the praise, humming a sweet little sound as you move your fingers inexpertly.  You brush somewhere sensitive, feeling like you have struck every nerve at once.  Your gasping cry gives it away. 

“There,” he says.  “Right there.  Touch yourself.  Don’t stop.” 

You shuffle your feet apart, just a little.  A jolt of pleasure shoots down your body when he nudges your bare foot with his booted one, easing your legs further apart.  He does not address it so neither do you, accepting it as a simple gesture of help. 

“You can use your other hand,” he says, because one is between your legs and the other is just curled at your side. 

You take his advice and cup a sensitive breast with your free hand.   The noise you make will embarrass you later as it echoes in your mind, but right now you let it carry you away. 

You cannot use both hands for long.  Your free hand moves through the air, grasping at nothing.  You need an anchor.  Your legs are shaking and you are swimming in the darkness of your closed eyes.  Spots of colour begin to dance across your shielded vision, twirling in dizzying motions.  Your core feels tight. 

“Oh – Jisung.  Jisung, I—”  

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice more strained than ever.  “Trust me.  Don’t stop.”

“Trust you,” you murmur.  It sends another wave of heat rolling through you.  The dizziness overwhelms, your legs buckling.  You reach behind you instinctively and blindly reach for him. 

He catches you, his soldier instincts fast.  Your eyes fly open as you crash into his chest, so much of your weight supported in the clasp of his arms.  His eyes look so dark, almost a solid black, his whole face flushed as if he was the one exerting himself. 

You whimper at the sight of him, at the sight of yourself in his arms, all sloping curves and fire-hot skin, soft and naked against his firm, darkly-clothed body. 

You feel his hands on your sides, clutching you tightly, his front slotted along your backside.  His clothes brush your too-sensitive skin, his hands hot on your body. 

You move just a little, rearing up under your own hand.  When you shift, you feel him, his body behind you.  He is undeniably hard, straining at the material of his uniform. 

He sucks in a breath, his groan a low, scraping sound, but he does nothing about his own desire, even while it makes you gasp. 

He does not dare move his hands.  He does not dare look away from your eyes in the mirror. 

“Come to me,” he rasps.  “I got you.” 

All that coiling tension gives way.  It feels like the moment the cosmos shifted, when the world disappeared under you, when you crashed through the surface of the water and felt as though you entered another world.  You see stars and your body throbs under your fingers.  Your mind is gone, your body in animalistic pursuit, needing him, pressing against him. 

“Shhh,” he says gently.  You are gasping, every breath a watery sound.  He exhales roughly, his own arms trembling.  Even his breath is shaking, his nose pressed to your temple as he holds you for another second.  “Shhh,” he says again.  “That was good.  You’re okay.”

“Oh.”  It is all you can say.  You slowly withdraw your hand, your fingers embarrassingly wet. 

You are not sure what possesses you.  Perhaps the same instinct that compels you to clean blood off a finger pricked from needlework.  Whatever it is, you listen to that instinct and bring those fingers to your lips to suck the evidence away. 

“Good fucking gods,” he says, his eyes wide. 

He abruptly lets go and steps back.  Fortunately, you have your footing now, so you do not fall, but it leaves a chill along your exposed backside.  You shiver.    

He looks around the floor for your discarded robe. When he sees it, he swift dives down to gather the material in his hands. 

He is on his knees when you turn around. 

For a long moment, he stays down there, staring at the fabric crinkling in his hands.  His knuckles lighten with the intense strength of his grip. 

“Jisung?” you say softly.  With your adrenaline dwindling, you feel shy.  Even so, your heart is still an erratic thing.  It seems physical release cannot temper whatever has taken hold of that creature.  It continues to pound and stomp as Jisung lifts his head.

“Your Majesty,” he says, his voice so shot it is barely above a breath. 

You feel a jolt inside you, some trembling aftershock, intensified because he looks at you.  Oh, he looks at you, forgetting himself at that vantage, his eyes everywhere from the curve of your knee to the slope of your thighs.  Shiny brown eyes roam slower than a lover’s touch to the place between your legs, up the curve of your waist, your heaving breasts, and meeting your eyes with a near-crazed desperation. 

“Jisung,” you say, a whisper as well. 

He drops his head again, cursing under his breath as he closes his eyes.  He shifts to one knee then finally rises, stumbling a little once upright.  He wraps the robe around you without any delay, then he throws his hands out to his sides like he is issuing surrender. 

“Good,” he says, avoiding your face, avoiding everything as he stumbles towards the fireplace and his discarded sword.

You close the robe around yourself.  You do not know what to say.  Words seem woefully insufficient, especially with his frantic energy as he fumbles with his sword belt, fighting to get it secured around his waist. 

“Thank you,” you finally say.  You sit on the end of the bed, holding the neck of the robe closed, looking at him with nothing but raw and open emotion.  “I – I don’t know what else to say.”

He stares back at you, a hand on the hilt of his sword.  The other sits over his midsection, curls around his belt.  He looks like he might burst into flames, all that white and gold flashing behind him. 

“If I can ever repay you…” you say. 

You don’t mean it like that, but his eyes flash with want –  unmistakable desire, then terror. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing low.  “You owe me nothing.  You’re my – you’re my queen.” 

He moves so quickly, it makes you jump, raising from his bow and striding across the room.  He is at the door in a matter of seconds, his hand practically crashing onto the lock.  There, it freezes, his fingers curled around the iron. 

You stare at him.  His shoulders are tense, lifting and falling with his deep breathing.  Your lips part though you have no idea what to say.  There is a feeling inside you but you cannot name it, cannot catch it with your voice.  You can only take another breath. 

He whips back around.  You jump again.  Before you can even think to move or speak, he is back in front of you.  He slams down onto his knees and bows again, more frantic than before, the top of his head hitting your legs. 

You reach for him instinctively, the curve of his neck looking so desolate and desperate.  He seizes your hands before they can touch them, bringing them together then to his lips.  He kisses your knuckles, though it such a hard and needy press, it feels more like a collision.  You feel his lips and the bump of his teeth.  He hisses on an exhale and drops your hands. 

Without another word, he stands.  He marches to the door.  This time he does not hesitate, flicking open the locks.  He steps into the hall without looking back.  The door closes between you. 

You hear his body hit the door, the drag of it as he sinks to the ground.  He is sitting on the floor outside. 

You move towards that door without thinking.  You sink to your knees as well, pressing your ear to the wood.  You can hear him breathing on the other side – heaving, frantic breaths that almost sounds like crying. 

Perhaps it all the sensation catching up to you, but your own eyes fill with tears as you slump against the door.  You fall asleep there, listening to each other with the divider between you. 

[merakiui]

monops's reflection.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader x floyd leech cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, unrequited love, obsession, drugging, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, dark/possessive/violent thoughts, biting, blood, characters written as 18+ note - happy birthday, tweels!!! :D may you continue to be crazy.

Mostro Lounge is tranquil tonight, save for the occasional clinking of glass against glass and the soft melodies tumbling from your lips. You busy yourself with song while you wipe the surface of a table, bending forwards to reach the very back with the dampened rag. Jade finds himself eyeing your figure as you flit about, observing the way you wring the cloth free of excess water, your fingers curling into the sodden fabric as if attempting to strangle it. And then it’s promptly dunked into the bucket and wrung out again in repetition. He stands behind the counter and continues to dry the same glass he started on two minutes ago, its shiny surface reflecting his distracted countenance.

There’s something curious about you.

He can’t quite put his finger on what that something is. The more he analyzes you, the further he strays from a proper interpretation of your character. For a human who can’t use magic, you’re surprisingly selfless. You cheer your friends on in their academic endeavors, offering them your help whenever it feels like they might need it, and you carry your own weight at the lounge, boldly standing up to patrons who get too big for their britches. Jade wanted to pity you in the beginning, when customers had been rough and rude with you, but you’d dealt with every difficulty with a bright grin and a few choice words.

You’re strong; you never back down.

Jade sets the glass in its rightful place and reaches for another, all while keeping his mismatched stare on you. He wonders how much pressure it would take for you to finally snap. Would you still be able to smile then? Could you even manage to stay afloat in pessimistic waters with that blithe façade of yours? If he were to cut into you with knife and fork—with dreadfully sharp words and even sharper actions—would you allow yourself to bleed out? Or would you accept your fate and smile up at him from your porcelain plate, promising him you’ll patch yourself up because it isn’t a big deal?

When you act so cheerful, so blissfully ignorant to the beast who lurks behind, it sets a potent yearning aflame. A yearning to break you well beyond repair. A yearning to take that smile, chew it up, and spit it out until it’s the most devastated frown he’s ever seen.

“Good work today, Jade!” With a breathless huff—he wants to bottle that breath and each one that will follow—you set the bucket down and roll your shoulders. Exhaustion shadows your face, adding deceptive age to your youthful appearance. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m quite all right. Thank you, though.” He returns your smile with one of his own, the usual placid, tight-lipped thing that both eases and unsettles depending on the situation. His default expression, forever the same unless circumstances call for the other faces he’s stowed in his vast repertoire. “You’re more than welcome to head back if you’ve finished for the evening. I can handle the rest.”

“You sure?” The bucket is in your hands again, and you carry it over to the sink to empty the murky water into the basin. He notes the way your arms shake ever so slightly as you struggle to balance the heavy thing against the counter. “I don’t mind waiting here until you’re done.”

“Very well. In that case, I won’t take too long.”

He finishes drying the remaining lineup, arranging each on its respective shelf before wiping the counter for extra measure. He doesn’t have to do it, but he does. It never hurts to be clinically clean.

Floyd should be done with the stock count by now, he thinks, gazing at the door leading to the kitchen. I should check it just in case.

After folding his rag into a neat square and tucking it away, he strides over to the door, opens it a crack, and pokes his head inside. The kitchen space is devoid of life. With furrowed brows, Jade opens the door wider just as Floyd jumps out from his spot behind the racks. He’s holding the clipboard in one hand and flailing with the other. His attempt at a fright does nothing to startle Jade, but it does cause you to flinch back. You do that a lot. Jade’s noticed that you scare easily, often falling victim to Floyd’s pranks during your shifts. It’s all harmless fun, but sometimes Jade catches himself wishing for Floyd to push you just a little harder. A little rougher. Maybe one day he will and Jade will finally witness tears lining your lashes.

“F-Floyd!” you snap, humiliated. 

“Gotcha, Shrimpy. You always fall for it, y’know? Like a silly, stupid Shrimpy.” He passes the clipboard to Jade on his way out and adds, “Pretty sure everything’s correct.”

“Is it?” Jade peers at his brother’s handwriting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll review it once more.”

“Be my guest. Wasn’t really havin’ a ball fillin’ it out anyway.” He shrugs and then beelines for you, lifting you into the air with ease. He spins you despite your protests. Nasally laughter soon overtakes silence. Floyd has always been fond of your reactions; he eats them up as if it’s a special treat. “I wonder if you’ll get sick. You get motion sickness, Shrimpy? Tell me! Tell me!”

A covert smile stretches onto Jade’s mouth as he disappears into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. While he goes over the numbers and corrects the errors Floyd’s made, he listens to you pleading with his brother to release you. Most of the numbers align with the remaining supplies and ingredients, and he adds his own notes in the margins so that Azul will know which are especially low and in need of replenishment. Checking his brother’s work isn’t a favorite pastime of Jade’s, but when it comes to the lounge and its success he’d rather look over a few numbers than watch sales plummet and listen to Azul’s endless slew of woeful complaints.

Once he’s made the necessary changes, he slips the sheet from the clipboard and heads back out. You’re in the process of chasing after Floyd, who’s holding your timecard above his head and dangling it like it’s a piece of bait. Part of Jade wants to enjoy the spectacle, but the other part is ready for the sweetness of sleep. For once he sides with the latter and clears his throat to get Floyd’s attention. 

“Ah, you’re already done?” Having lost interest in the game, he drops your card at once. It flutters to the floor, and he watches with wide, gleeful eyes as you swoop down to catch it. “That all we gotta do?”

“I believe so. Azul’s staying late, so he will lock up.”

Jade sets the inventory sheet on the nearest table for Azul to find before retrieving and filling out his timecard. Floyd hasn’t even marked his hours yet, and Jade exhales an empty sigh and takes the initiative to write it in for him. It’s always been like this. Jade looks out for Floyd, not only because they’re family and have always done so, but because there are some instances where he’s much too careless.

It has been noted that the two of them are a package deal. A duo. A pair. Inseparable twins who balance each other with varying levels of insanity. Their bond is unbreakable, having been built from blood and the will to survive ever since they were vulnerable elvers. Floyd is a reflection of Jade, and Jade is a reflection of Floyd; that’s how they have lived. Like day and night, sugar and salt, and light and dark, they operate like clockwork, expertly in time with one another.

The center of their relationship has always remained the same, and Jade suspects it will never change, even after they’ve acclimated to human society. They are predators with finely honed instincts, masquerading above the water as humans. With razored rows of teeth and an insatiable hunger for unpredictability, the two of them function in a domesticated world. In order to survive in such a foreign environment, Jade has learned that they need each other, which is why it’s so salient that they get along most days.

And much like night and day, like a person with a shadow, one cannot exist without the other.

“See ya tomorrow, Shrimpy!” Floyd flashes you a jovial grin as you take your leave, but there’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I’ll be waiting…”

“Um, yeah… H-Have a good night.”

With your timecard now in Jade’s capable hands, he’s free to observe your handwriting. There’s nothing special about the way you write, but it still manages to mesmerize him. Every loop of each letter, messily intertwining like frayed strings of fate, adds charm to the script. It’s obvious you tried and failed to sign your name in cursive, but the fact that you even bothered to do so is cute.

It’s truly not that important, he reminds himself as he places the cards back where they belong.

“Shall we head back now?”

Floyd nods, stifling a yawn. As they walk through peaceful halls, he adds in a conversational tone, “Awfully boring when Shrimpy’s not around.”

Jade weighs that declaration and finds himself nodding in agreement. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

i. on a moonlit night, under an eave of twinkling stars, monops waltzes gracefully with the ghost of his other half. the shards of a shattered mirror reflect two sides of the same coin, of human and monster. when the clouds part and an ethereal beam encases the solitary monops, the illusion melts away into a fleeting dream.

Floyd is everything Jade is not: energetic, extroverted, and brash. Such adjectives can’t possibly describe Jade’s outward demeanor—the one he carefully orchestrates for public consumption. He’s polite and kind, soft-spoken and always wearing a smile despite the situation. He cloaks himself in a many-layered mask—a perfect predator with multiple disguises at his disposal. If he must shed a dozen skins to uphold his gentlemanly disposition, then he will gladly peel them away one at a time until he’s found one that fits flawlessly over bone. Jade could never hope to become what Floyd is, but what Floyd is not Jade is. And he is composed of qualities that reflect Floyd’s own behaviors. 

He’s not ashamed to admit what he lacks. This is just a facet of life. You can never truly have everything you want. If the world was fair, everyone would achieve their goals without adversity. Any aspiration, no matter how small and insignificant, requires an adequate fight to be worthy of achievement. Survival is not much of a dream, but it’s the only thing Jade’s ever known as he floats through the world alongside his brother. His dreams are Floyd’s, or so that’s what he’s always told those who enquire. He shares these things with him because he does not have any to call his own.

Not yet, at least.

And sharing—it’s a word he knows well. Everything that Jade owns, Floyd owns as well. They share the same face, the same room, the same clothes. They might even come to share the same lover one day, should they both find their hearts pierced by Cupid’s miserable arrows. Jade has never been against the concept of sharing. It’s an acceptable way of life for him. He grew up practicing the concept, and it has taught him how to coexist with others. Sharing is an extension of the bonds he’s formed.

Still, he’s avaricious in some aspects. Hopelessly so.

There’s no denying the difficulty that arises when one wishes to share in the turbulent waters of the Coral Sea, where the natural order caters to the strong and crushes the weak, but splitting the essentials is what guarantees survival. And if it’s worked so well in the past, why should he stop now? Therefore, sharing will always be a priority, even if their desires are fraught with selfish envy.

Jade is watching you again.

You’re sitting in the courtyard with Azul, gesturing wildly as you recount a story he can’t hear from where he stands behind a stone pillar. Azul’s expression is soft with amusement; his lips quirk up in laughter, and his eyes never leave yours. Your cursive may be a mess and you might be feeble in the face of danger, but you certainly know how to enthrall others. If Jade didn’t know any better, he’d suspect you to be a siren. Night Raven College would be the perfect hunting ground for a predator of that nature. Perhaps once you’ve charmed Azul you’ll devour his heart and leave a streak of gore in your wake.

That’s impossible. 

Jade is certain of this fact because he knows you’re not a predator. You are very much the harmless prey who has wandered into a den of ravenous beasts. He wonders if the thought that Azul may be dangerous ever crosses that empty, pea-sized brain of yours. He’s as much of a hunter as the rest of the students here, and with those eight tentacles of his he could easily send you to a watery grave. You wouldn’t have much of a chance to struggle, not unless Azul’s own benevolence grants you that futile hope. Thinking about it—about the thrill of a one-sided scuffle—has his heart racing, his palms wetting with sweat.

Oh, but you’re not meant to be Azul’s prey.

So get out of his eyes. Step off of the stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles.

You are Jade’s.

From the moment the two of you crossed paths—from the moment you took up a job at the lounge and relied on him during your training—you belonged to him. 

And he’s not quite sure he wants to share you with anyone.

Perhaps that dumb smile of yours hides something far darker. Perhaps your blood wouldn’t taste as delectable as he once hoped if it’s already been tainted by Azul’s silver tongue. In his own paradise, an ideal world constructed within the confines of his mind, you wouldn’t look at another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t speak to another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t know the tastes of sweet poison or bitter love unless Jade chooses to bestow these flavors unto you. You would only see him, only taste him, only adore him with those wondrous eyes—eyes that are so impossibly strong even when the harshest of insults are thrown your way.

So get the fuck out of Azul’s eyes. Step off of the damned stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles before Jade slices all of them off at the root.

These feelings ignite a perilous, potent spark deep within his chest. Seeing you smile at Azul in such a casual setting—it’s not right. This terrarium display is wrong. So wrong. 

The internal fuse has been lit and it’s nearing its inevitable implosion. Stop looking at him with those eyes. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

If Jade could, he would slice your smile off and keep it for himself. Pin it to the wall like it’s a rare species of butterfly, your wings having been severed from the sky.

You’re unbearable.

He fears you wouldn’t belong anywhere in his ideal world, for if you found yourself in the depths of the Coral Sea he wouldn’t allow you to surface.

The most confounding specimen I’ve ever encountered.

Azul is an only child. His mother and step-father would miss him terribly.

— — — 

Jade spies the delightful pep in your step as you skip past the bar later that same day. You’re balancing drinks and desserts on a tray as you make your way to a nearby table, and he’s immediately reminded of why he’s so drawn to you. You’re a puzzle he has yet to solve—an experiment he has yet to collect enough data from. If he could, he’d shrink you down to the size of his index finger and place you in one of his terrariums so that you could live out your tiny life amongst an array of plants. And Jade would be content to observe from above like a godly sovereign with the power to change your fate in a single snap.

Perhaps it’s not right to view you as a specimen or prey. Perhaps it would be better to regard you as a slab of meat, raw and uncooked, just waiting to be snatched up in his maw.

“Please enjoy!”

Your voice pulls him from his reveries. It’s a melody he’s come to savor in solitude. Naturally lilting, it’s the type of voice even the most jealous of souls would covet. He wants to reach deep inside your throat, grasp it for himself, and cradle it to his ear as if it’s a secret-spilling conch.

But claiming ownership of your sound isn’t enough. He wants to—needs to—devour your everything. Your body and soul, marking you as his, ensuring you’re kept under his thumb forever, seared into his own existence like a brand. Then your every breath will be his, and the blood that courses through your veins shall also become his. The darkest of reds might just suit you more than the aquatic hues of Mostro Lounge’s uniform.

Oh, what he’d give to paint you in vinous vermillion.

“Jade, could you cover for me? I’m going to take my break now if that’s okay with you.” Jade must have scanned your hopeful expression for longer than normal because you begin to fidget in front of him, toying with the hem of your apron. “Uh, that’s fine, right?”

“Yes, of course. Go right ahead.” He sends you off with his trademark smile, dusting his destructive thoughts away.

After you’ve retreated to the kitchen, he turns his gaze on the patrons, listening to the noisy din of laughter and chatter. He overhears a group discussing peculiar textbook titles and how most of them are unnecessarily convoluted and complicated. One of the students brings up a title that didn’t make any sense to him and he describes his surprise when he learned it was a book full of love spells and potion recipes. His friends, as all close friends often do, crack jokes at his expense, prodding for more information on who he intends to enchant. The conversation is bland and juvenile, but it does manage to strike a chord of curiosity in Jade.

Love.

Jade has never known the true meaning of romance. Such a thing does not exist in his perfect world. In some lonesome corners of the ocean, merfolk reproduce because they must. Because it’s the only way to survive. It will be like that for him and Floyd in the future, lest they find themselves ensnared in true love’s deadly trap and choose to reproduce for the sole purpose of fickle feelings. To mate out of love rather than obligation—it’s not unheard of and he isn’t opposed to it. Many humans adopt this way of life.

Jade would like to try it for himself, but he doesn’t know how. He’s never known the answer to this question—the one equation he could never work out. Is his heart too small, or is he incapable of comprehending the complexities of romance? Perhaps neither is true. When he considers the requirements that must be met to qualify love as love, he realizes the adoration he feels for you is not fluffy or innocent. Can such a grand obsession be classified as love if it’s dark and spiraling, condemning him to horrific visions? 

Jade does not gaze upon you with fondness. He looks at you as if you’re to be his next meal.

Even when he feels like breaking you would quell some monstrous urge within him, there’s another side that wishes to simply lock you away and protect you from the world and its inhabitants. Because it’s the world that will save you from him, but if you were imprisoned in his world, where it would be just you and him, no one could ever hope to reach you.

Jade isn’t entirely cruel. He would like to share his hobbies with you. He would like to live alongside you in the Coral Sea, tying his life to yours. It’s not an impossible desire, but he knows you wouldn’t be content with this arrangement. Not because it would be unwilling. Not because it would be Jade who has fallen for you and dragged you beneath the waves. It’s precisely because it’s the sea that you might object. You would have to adapt to life in a new, underwater environment. You would have to relinquish certain pleasures unique to the surface, abandoning your bipedal friends and family to live in isolation with him.

But isolation is better than the other terrariums that wait for you. He’ll smash all of them so that you’ll only know this one—the one with him.

Jade has been moving on autopilot for so long now that it finally occurs to him that you’re nowhere to be found. The longer he spends counting the lounge’s staff, the more his observations are proven true. You haven’t returned from your break, which is very unusual considering you’ve always been so diligent about time management. Responsible, that’s what you are. It’s one of the qualities that’s won Azul over. 

He surmises it has also shocked his heart with bolts of not-so-lovely lightning.

Despite the bustling, crowded lounge, he slips inside the kitchen to search for you. Usually Floyd’s crowding around you whenever you have a moment to spare, but he isn’t anywhere in sight either. Jade knows his brother and his mood swings well. When he isn’t feeling the lounge, he’ll escape elsewhere until his mood has been restored. He can understand and overlook Floyd’s absence, but yours is inexcusable.

The chefs are hard at work cooking up delicious meals, and all kinds of savory scents blanket the air. Jade glances at the knife block tucked away in a corner, filled with blades of varying sizes, as he passes. After watching you for so long, he’s learned that you often spend your breaks in the storage room, away from the eyes of customers and Azul. Perhaps the space has become something of a comfort for you, or maybe you just like taking shelter in the kitchen.

A sharp gasp joins the chefs’ clattering.

Jade’s stare snaps towards the storage room door. He frowns when he notices it’s been left ajar.

As he approaches, he can make out the sounds of rustling fabric and salacious gasps. He peers through the sliver into the dimly lit space, a single yellow eye spying a terrible scene. It takes a lot to stun Jade Leech, but the view before him is stunning in a very crooked way. It sends a shockwave rumbling through his body, temporarily freezing him to his spot. Unable to look away, to preserve his eyes and mind, he watches. Every inch of him itches.

Bile claws up his throat with acidic fingers.

You’re pressed against the shelves, skirt hiked high and panties pushed haphazardly to the side. Towering over you, anatomy pinned to yours in a sinful connection, is Floyd. His hands are gripping your wrists as he rocks forward to slot himself deeper inside. You search for a solid hold to steady yourself, burying your head in your arm to muffle your keening cries. 

“Please… It’s… S’too much. Hold on,” you babble, clinging like a koala.

Floyd leans in to nip at the shell of your ear, eliciting a shudder and a squeal from you. “Not happening, Shrimpy…” His lips travel along the length of your neck, pressing playful kisses into your skin. “You’re really so cute, you know that? So cute and soft… I can’t keep my hands off of ya.”

“We really—oh—really shouldn’t do—hah—this!”

Floyd hums, nonchalant, and slowly slides out of your tight, gummy walls. The tip of his cock prods at your pussy once more, glistening with the dew of your essence.

“Why not?”

“Seriously… What if someone sees us? What if—”

Your retort is cut short when he snaps his hips against yours, filling you in a single thrust. You crumple in his arms, tears gathering in your eyes.

Tears. Because of Floyd. Tears.

“So what if they do? I’ll get ’em good if they peep on my Shrimpy.” He licks a stripe up your neck and then sinks his pointed teeth into the area, hard enough to draw blood. You flinch against him, your pretty face contorting with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort while he laps up your blood. Floyd hums merrily, the sound coming deep from within his chest. “Shrimpy always tastes so yummy. I wanna do this aaall the time!”

“Wait, don’t leave any marks!”

“Oops. Too late.” Grinning boyishly, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up to meet his greedy lips. “Lemme kiss it better for ya.”

Jade watches you melt into the kiss, watches you become putty in his twin brother’s hands. Your eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment, only to flash open when Floyd begins to thrust into you. He sets a hasty, sporadic pace as he pursues an orgasmic high. Your sobs are swallowed in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that leave you breathless and reaching. You claw at anything stable enough to support you, your fingers curling into Floyd.

A perfect fit.

While he stands there and takes in the sight of his brother claiming the angel he had hoped to someday make his, it dawns on him that the entire storage room is stained with the memory of you. Your smell, your existence, your everything—it lingers even when you aren’t here. It is imprinted on the walls and shelves; it is on Floyd. Your entire soul has been his long before Jade even laid eyes on you.

Now he knows why you frequent the storage room. Now he knows your secret.

He’ll open your torso and pry it out of you, crush it underfoot, and insert a new secret. A better secret. His secret.

Floyd finishes inside of you with a husky, satisfied groan, his arms wrapped possessively around your trembling frame while you bite back bawdy moans. Jade is overcome with a loathsome chill. You have never belonged to him. Not ever. Certainly not now.

“We should get back out there.” Your mumbling reaches his ears, subdued in the cramped storage room. “Before someone comes looking.”

“Don’t wanna. S’warm and cozy inside.”

“Floyd…” Greedy hands are roaming beneath your shirt. You squirm, attempting to pull yourself off of his softening cock, but he yanks you against his chest and holds firm. “We can do this again later. But right now I need to clean up and you have to work. If we take too long, someone will definitely come looking.”

Floyd rolls his eyes, unwilling to acquiesce until yellow crosses yellow. For a strained moment Jade holds his brother’s inquisitive stare, investigating his blank expression for an iota of emotion. The air stales between the both of them, unspoken accusations festering. And then Floyd’s dull hues brighten and a wide smirk blossoms on his lips.

“Fine, fine. We’ll get back to work now.”

An apocalypse rages within Jade’s terrarium heart.

ii. when he turns to the shards for a solution, the image that is offered is weak and hazy. if he is to live without his other half, he must find ways to fill in the blanks. and so it is said that the lonesome monops clutched the largest shard in a resolute fist and cut away the impression of his other half.

In some cases, Jade is Floyd’s shadow, a reasonable body double who is admired for his patience and persistence. Sometimes he’s the collar and the leash; other times he is meticulously unrestrained. Everything is an act, carefully curated for unsuspecting audiences. Floyd is all physical destruction. He is swift like a clean cut, devastating like a tsunami.

For the first time in a while, Jade cannot bear the face he sees in the mirror. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, for it is a reflection of Floyd. It’s a permanent reminder that the two of them are linked whether or not he fancies that. But Jade does not want to be the collar and the lash, nor does he wish to recall the day Floyd took yet another precious thing from him. This face is proof that even he cannot have anything for himself. It is evidence that he is bound to share and share and share until death. He will remain as the shadow, the dark, the salt, and the night for all of eternity, a two-faced creature lacking a true identity.

Neither of them addresses the elephant in the room. If Floyd shows any indication that he wants to bring it up, Jade sweeps the topic away before it can poison his mood. He knows as well as Jade does that it’s not worth bickering over, even if their hackles raise whenever they look at each other.

So Floyd’s been fucking you in the storage room. What’s so traumatic about that? Really, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the image still persists in his head like a ruthless phantom. He’s left lying awake at night, sifting through that memory and the ones that came before it for any inkling of what went wrong. Was it his own patience that cost him? Was it the fact that Floyd could charm you in ways Jade just couldn’t?

They have the same face. So why did you choose to love his other half?

Without Floyd, Jade feels incomplete. That’s his family—his only brother. He shouldn’t hate his kin, but he can’t just sit with envy and frustration and pretend as if it’s okay.

The mirror reflects his grim countenance, sneering at him with troubling familiarity. Cracks spiderweb along the length of the glass, extending outwards from where his fist landed. Pain sparks beneath bruising knuckles, masterfully hidden under the pristine fabric of a pure-white glove.

The terrarium is filling with foul things, and Jade doesn’t have enough control to stop the invasion.

— — —

“It’s been really slow today, hasn’t it?” you ask, looking to Jade for his input.

“I’ll admit it’s unusually quiet.” He glances at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He’s tired, but it hardly shows. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all! I welcome the break. Still… It’s weird. Mostro Lounge almost always has lots of customers.”

“I suppose it’s less work for us.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Heaving a relieved sigh, you rest your elbows on the counter, content to watch the few patrons lingering in the lounge. Jade’s eyes travel along the length of your back, over the the dip and swoop of your spine when you bend forward, and he’s immediately brought back to the day he discovered you and Floyd in the storage room.

“I’ve got it!” you announce moments later, lighting up like a bulb. “The reason it’s so quiet.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, feigning ignorance.

“It’s because Floyd’s not here. Everything’s super lively when he’s around.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. It’s a shame he’s not scheduled today. Oh, but it’s not so bad when it’s just the two of us. We’re a good team!”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m happy we can talk like this. It feels like we never have the chance to speak during work and I’m always worried I’ll bother you if I try to start a conversation.”

“You couldn’t possibly bother me.” Jade pauses to ruminate on his thoughts before adding, “Well, you were awfully troublesome in the beginning. Ah, don’t look so upset. I’m only admitting my feelings.”

“Am I still troublesome?” You cross your arms over your chest, pouting.

You are. Very much so, I’m afraid.

“I tolerate you now.”

“That doesn’t sound any better!”

Jade chuckles. “It’s merely constructive criticism. Take it in stride.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst.” Despite that, a smile creeps onto your face.

It’s the same smile you show Floyd, so therefore it has no meaning. It’s not special.

Jade abhors it. He should be the one in that storage room with you. It should be Jade who touches and lavishes you with filthy praise before inevitable destruction. Consolation before bruises and bite marks. Sugar before salt. Love before lust.

You can’t possibly fit in his make-believe terrarium now—not when your heart lies with Floyd. Just what is his brother to you? What do you possibly see in him that you fail to see in Jade? They are the same. They are mirror images of one another. There is no difference.

So why won’t you look at him with admiration in your eyes? Eyes he’ll gouge out for beholding another man. Why won’t you kiss him in secret? Lips he’ll sew shut for touching a mouth that isn’t his. Why won’t you beckon him into that cursed storage room and pull him flush against you, joining together in bodily matrimony? A body he’ll cage to prevent it from fleeing. Why can’t you love him until the very feeling is leaking from your pores? Leaking like the blood that will run far and red when he transplants his love into your chest. Why must you associate yourself with the other half—the better half? 

The half that’s won.

It doesn’t matter if Floyd’s willing to share. Jade isn’t feeling charitable. He doesn’t want to cut you up into tiny shreds and share. You’re for his enjoyment. This is a non-negotiable fact.

Perhaps he’s the worst just as you claimed. Because if he was the best he’d have you. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to mourn a gutting loss. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to fall back on a nasty trump card. But when fair play fails, one must resort to sordid schemes in order to secure victory. You can’t expect to climb the corporate ladder without stepping on a few rotted rungs in the ascent, courtesy of those who came before.

It’s fine if he plays dirty. After all, his feelings have never been defined by purity.

“You seem tired. Would you like me to fetch you something to drink?”

“Mm, yeah. Could you? I’d hate to trouble you.”

“It’s not a problem. Will tea be suitable?”

“Sure. I could go for chamomile. I heard you’re great at making tea, so I know it’ll be good.”

“I still have much to learn, but I’m flattered you hold me in such pleasant regard.”

“I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. I’m actually kinda jealous. How are you so good at—oh! Someone needs me at table three. Be right back.”

Jade nods, replaying your words in a loop. I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. But he has failed. He’s failed and it’s eating him alive because you’re so close and yet out of his reach.

You spread your wings like a good social butterfly and abandon your place at the counter. Jade’s left to prepare your tea in peace. He chooses from the vast selection lining the wall—chamomile just as you suggested—and goes through the motions of filling the kettle with fresh water. He’s working on a time limit here, so he withdraws his magic pen, mutters the proper incantation, and waits for the telltale hiss. Even though he would like to prepare it with the utmost care, he must be hasty and stealthy if he wants to slip the special ingredient in without garnering unwanted attention.

Luckily, you’re trapped in a conversation with a friend and won’t be returning to his side anytime soon. That’s another trait he’s learned about you. Just like Floyd, you adore chatting. It’s not difficult to hold a conversation with you, especially when you’re the one leading it. You shine when you speak. He needs to snuff you before anyone else comes to seek your light.

Perhaps it’s this intoxicating quality of yours that caught Floyd’s heart. Jade can’t quite ascertain when he started looking at you from less-than-friendly angles or what the exact catalyst for your relationship with his twin was. It must have begun as a wicked fascination. An innate curiosity with the surface and its humans. How else could Floyd have fallen for you if he rarely spoke with you? Was it your strengths that earned his approval? Was it your humanity that left him impressed?

It’s not fair, but Jade won’t whine about it. He’s not a child. Whining won’t solve anything.

He must love you until you shatter.

The kettle whistles, thus yanking him from his innermost contemplations. He lifts it, minding the burning surface, and pours the water into a porcelain cup. Steam rises and furls like wispy, ghostly fingers. He could keep the vial hidden in his pocket and serve you a normal cup of chamomile. But the situation isn’t normal and he can’t just charm you as he normally would.

That didn’t work, so he must cross that method off his list and resort to what’s next. It’s only natural to fight for the thing you cherish most, so he shall do just that.

If Floyd hasn’t broken you yet, he certainly will.

You’re back at the counter just as he finishes stirring it in with the now darkening, tea-tainted water. Jade hands it to you, reminding you that it’s still hot. It’s an empty warning. He couldn’t care less if the liquid scorches your tongue. Let it burn, he thinks, his eyes narrowed as he watches you blow on it so it’ll cool faster. Perhaps then you’ll stop tangling your tongue with him.

Sometimes love is as unforgiving as the deep sea, turbulent and harrowing. Sometimes you must kill the one you love to truly understand the feeling—to dissect it down to the biological, scientific level.

Like always, he observes you while you drink the tea throughout the remainder of your shift. You look so sleepy, your eyelids fluttering and snapping open. You’re slipping; he can see it. Jade wonders what face you might show him later—what emotion will reflect in fragile eyes.

He knows it won’t be love, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping.

iii. separated from his other half, monops is unrecognizable—a hollow monster who has lost fractions of his humanity in a selfish effort to dispose of unnatural characteristics. he cannot hope to find his own personality amidst the mess in his tower, so he sits before the broken, bloodied shards once again. his other half meets him there, shattered and in pieces as he stares.

You shift in your sleep, just barely breaching the surface of consciousness. Jade placed you on his bed after carrying you from the lounge to his and Floyd’s room, where he proceeded to bind your arms and gag you. You look mostly peaceful tangled in his sheets, an oblivious thing who knows nothing of the mountains he’s had to scale in order to arrive at this point—at the glorious top.

Floyd’s not here, but Jade suspects he might have already known what was coming. They’ve always known how to read the other. Maybe it’s telepathy.

Or maybe not. They’re just aware of the other’s monstrosities. That’s all there is to it.

It’s then when your eyes snap open. Jade doesn’t bother to hide the smile crawling onto his face as he watches you come to, slowly assessing your surroundings. It doesn’t take long for you to start struggling once you’ve registered the tie binding your wrists together and the gag shoved into your mouth. Your voice comes out muffled, but your nostrils are flaring. Your eyes are widening. He can smell your fear—taste it on the tip of his tongue.

It prickles his skin, sets it on fire.

Jade sits primly at the edge of Floyd’s bed, content to study you from a distance. You’re writhing desperately in an attempt to loosen the restraints. He’s tied them well. It’s a technique mastered and put into practice. You’re not getting out of this.

“You fainted.”

You startle, turning your head to look at him. The fear seems to diminish for a moment before it returns in full force. Your glassy eyes are pleading: Why?

“It’s not wise to overwork yourself. You should prioritize your health more.”

Oh, is this it? Are those tears? Already? When he hasn’t even done anything to you yet? Have you really been this weak all along?

You try to talk despite the gag, and the attempt is so pitiful that Jade crosses over to tug it down from your mouth. Saliva strings from the gag. Messy.

“Jade! What the hell?! Why am I tied up? Why am I in your room?”

He frowns. “I’ll admit I’m rather…displeased.” He could unleash the torrent right now, but he won’t. Not yet. “Perhaps you might know why my mood has soured?”

“I… What? Is this because I fainted? Look, I’m sorry. I’ll take better care of myself. Please don’t make this a big deal.”

He tilts his head, confused. “I don’t quite care that you fainted.” He seizes your chin and forces you to meet his mismatched hues. “I care about the company you keep.”

“The company I keep? I don’t understand. What are you—”

“Give it some thought.” His fingers dig into your cheeks. Hard.

You yelp, attempting to pull away. He doesn’t release you. “I don’t know what you mean! Seriously, what’s all of this about? Did I do something wrong? Please… Please let me go.”

“You’re getting there.” He lessens the pressure on your jaw. “Come now. You’re so close.”

“Jade, please—”

“This is regarding your involvement with my brother,” he begins, and horror settles on your face. “Ah, so you are following. Wonderful.”

“Did you… Did you see us?”

“More than I ever wanted to see, yes.” He smiles thinly and releases you. “I thought it was such a dreadful, ugly thing to behold. My own kin lusting after the only thing I’ve ever loved to such a degree.” He swipes a faux tear from his eye. His voice drops to a threateningly low decibel next, and darkness passes over his features. He looks scarily grotesque. “It made me so ill. Seeing you in that closet with Floyd… Watching you talk to Azul—to everyone else—makes me so ill. I fondly contemplated the most troubling things.”

“W-What?”

“It truly is a conundrum.” He sighs as if unloading a heavy burden. “To feel so strongly for something that even love and hate become one and the same… I want nothing more than to strangle you whenever I see you with Floyd, with Azul, with anyone who isn’t me. I want to cut into your torso and make you suffer tenfold for what I’ve had to endure.” His fingers curl around your ankles, sliding down to reach your shoes. He unties the laces, sliding both from your feet. And then he’s grasping them, rubbing circles into your soles. “I want you to look at me no matter what, even when you’re a shredded, bloodied mess.”

“You… You’re joking, r-right?”

“Am I?” He smiles again, but it’s wider this time. Exhilarated. Excited. “Should we see who’s laughing when I sever your feet at the ankles? He peels your socks off next, tossing them over his shoulder. “Do you think that’s a fitting punishment?”

“Fuck no! You’re insane!”

He hums his acknowledgement and reaches for your skirt. Your heart drops into your stomach, every muscle tightening with raw terror. Instinctively, you kick out at him. Your foot slams into his chest. If it hurts, he doesn’t let it show.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you creep! Stay the fuck away!” By the third kick, he catches your foot. And he stares at it. Quietly. Expressionlessly. There is nothing in his face. That horrifies you. “Jade… Jade, I’m sorry. Can we please… Can you please stop this?”

“Am I truly that undesirable? You would rather have Floyd than me?”

“Yes, of course! Floyd’s not a fucking pervert like you!”

Jade’s laughter is sudden and short. It trembles through him like an earthquake. “Forgive me. It was so funny I just had to chuckle.” A smug smile takes up residence on his face. “Do you really think Floyd is so pure? That he’s the perfect partner all humans dream of?”

“He didn’t outright admit to wanting to murder me so, uh, yeah, he’s much better than your crazy ass!”

Jade squeezes your foot once before setting it down on the bed. He crawls over you, his hands snaking up your thighs. “That’s a shame. You’ll think differently soon enough. He just hasn’t given you reason to fear him yet.”

“I highly doubt—hey! Don’t touch there!” You struggle again, your breath coming in short, helpless huffs. “Let go of me. Please. Jade, let go…” Your voice trails off, spotted with distress.

His hand settles over your clothed pussy next. Two fingers press up against that sacred spot, tracing the area experimentally. “This is that warm and cozy place, yes?” You shake your head at him, lips trembling. He smirks, vicious and mean, and strokes slow, soothing lines up and down the outline. “Is it your safe day? Ah, but perhaps love is stronger than medicine. Stronger than all of the filth Floyd’s emptied in you. What do you think?”

“No… No, stop!”

“It really did sicken me—the thought of you and Floyd. Together. Forever. If you were to fall pregnant, I’d have to take a textbook to your stomach. The alchemy textbook. That one would inflict the most damage, you see,” he admits with a pleasant hum. He watches the spreading wet patch with predatory glee before gazing back at you. “But you’re not pregnant, right?”

“I’m not! I’m not!” You gasp when his fingers dip into the waistband of your panties, harshly tugging them from your skin. And then his fingers are inching towards your pussy. “What are you—stop! No, no, no! Floyd! Floyd, help!” You squirm beneath him, kicking and screaming. “Floyd! Floyd, help me! Please! Anyone—someone—please help!”

A shadow passes over your face for a second before his hand comes down upon your mouth to silence your incessant shrieks. Your sobs are softer now, each plea spoken into his palm. Jade exhales slowly, composing himself.

“You’ve said his name more than enough. Say it any more and I’m afraid I’ll have to remedy this bad habit. Just how much do you value your tongue, I wonder?”

Before you can even think of struggling further, he’s switching the positions. Sitting back against the headboard, he tugs you onto his lap. You try to get away from him, but he holds you steady. The gag is fastened around your mouth once more, tighter this time.

“Now, now. You’re not going to escape, so there’s no point in exhausting your energy. Pointless pursuits are never rewarded,” he chides, tutting. He pulls his magic pen from his pocket and flicks it in the air once. A mirror materializes, displaying your disturbed expression in the glass.

Your mind blanks out then, logic overridden with the intrinsic desperation to survive. Is that really you looking back? It can’t be. The (Name) you know has never looked this fearful. Her face has never been this warped with panic.

But then you feel something stiff prodding you from behind, and the horror triples. You squirm again, much more forceful, sobbing into the gag and shaking your head as if that will earn you a sliver of sympathy from him. He continues to hold you against him with one arm while the other reaches to pull himself free from the confines of his pants and boxers.

“We have the same face, so there’s no need to cry. If it really helps, just think of me as Floyd,” he teases, and it sickens you. Makes you feel so gross and filthy. You want to step out of your skin, travel to a place that isn’t here, disappear into the tile and never return. Tears trace down your cheeks in salty rivulets. You can only produce blubbery whimpers now. His erect cock curves up towards your stomach. Jade lifts your skirt to get a better view. The mirror reflects it all in crisp detail. “What do you think? Is it bigger than his?”

His knuckles trace your cheek, uncharacteristically tender.

“It will seem that way when it’s inside, won’t it?”

In response you shift in his lap, tugging at the tie tightly secured around your wrists, and he merely chuckles. It’s delightful, really, the way you move like captured prey. Your chest heaves when the fleshy head of his cock presses shallowly inside your pussy, sampling wet warmth. You pray it’ll end fast. You pray he’ll be gentle. You pray he’ll skin you alive so you’ll never have to spend another second in this body. Anything but this.

Jade doesn’t grant either of those prayers, for he lifts you up slightly, aims for home, and slams you down in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. You choke on your tongue, biting down so hard that your teeth split the skin on the inside of your cheek. Blood pools into your mouth. It stings, but nothing hurts more than the unwanted intrusion. Shamelessly, much to your horror, your walls affix to him in an attempt to accommodate his girth. Without intending to, you catch yourself in the mirror. The stretch is sinful, your pussy wrapped snugly around him, and he’s slotted all the way to the hilt.

It’s torture for you.

It’s a twisted relief for Jade. A triumphant euphoria.

He exhales a shaky breath, his lips peeling apart to reveal a row of sharp teeth. In the mirror he looks every bit the predator he’s meant to be: cruel and cutthroat, staking claim on a stolen prize. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips as he rocks you up and down, occasionally bucking his hips to meet your soft, plush ass.

“It’s strange,” he manages through his grunts and groans, his breath hot on your nape, “I imagined this would feel more gratifying than any other gruesome thrill. Mm, but it’s not—” he slams you down again, reveling in your muffled wailing, “not nearly enough.”

Your eyes, wet with tears, question his reflection. You watch with bated breath as he slides your collar away, leaning in to press his lips to your neck. Your pulse stutters in his mouth, a jittery, fearful thing.

He inhales the pungent scent of sweat and sex, the scent of your fear, the scent of himself on you. From head to toe, externally and internally, you are covered in him, wrapped around him, molded to his very shape. You’ve gone stiff in his arms, too frightened to move a single muscle, but it only serves to excite him more. He needs to bear witness to all of it—to every inch of you, stripped bare and wired with anxiety.

Needle-thin teeth prick your skin. You wince and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Does it hurt?”

Despairing and hopeless, you deflate against him. Your body shakes with every sob.

It hurts. It hurts so much. More than anything has ever hurt before. And Jade knows this because he isn’t gentle. He has no interest in being sweet. He bites to harm. To kill. To destroy.

Jade sinks in deep: his teeth in your throat and his cock in your guts. And it hurts.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, his lips slick and spattered with crimson when he pulls away, breathing heavily. “I’m so pleased…”

The blood just won’t stop. It’s flowing in rivers, cascading down the juncture between neck and shoulder and staining your clothes. Did he bite something major? Oh God—are you going to bleed out? Are you going to die? Did he get that one artery—the throat artery—the whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called artery? Is that even possible? Why won’t the blood stop? Why do you feel so fuzzy—so faint? It really won’t stop. It’s an ocean.

It’s everywhere.

Jade pinches you to bring you back to yourself; his nails prick your thigh, imprinting crescent moons in skin, and it works. You surface, taking in big gulps of oxygen while your heart skips over itself. You can’t drift off even if you wanted to; your reflection is much too haunting, destroyed and debased in every possible way. It grounds you in reality, digs deeply.

“Pain is the most thrilling form of love. You’ve taught me something new. Thank you.”

From behind, peering over your shoulder, his reflection grins at you. Wildly untamed and blood-stained, he’s manic. Unhinged. Uncaged. His pupils are so large they nearly eclipse his heterochromatic irises, rendering both eyes beady and black. Two pits of a molten void—a starless outer space.

He looks just like Floyd.

[c0nn0rsseur]

Can we take a moment to appreciate Bryan Dechart’s performance as Cyberlife Tower Connor aka Sixty and Sixty as a character? 🤌

Though Sixty and deviant Connor are physically identical (minus their demeanors, e.g. the way they stand and walk, like wow, Bryan, wow) and their voices technically aren’t different from each other, the distinction is still clearly there, at the same time it’s so nuanced too. Sixty sounds condescending, imperious and callous compared to deviant Connor whose voice is empathetic, curious and sincere. I’m not even talking about their lexicon, their choice of words here (there’s of course a difference too). Even when Sixty tries to convince Hank he’s the real Connor, you can hear how he’s failing to sound exactly like his counterpart because he can’t replicate deviant Connor’s voice and speech pattern just so. Sixty’s also being very commanding when trying to fool Hank into shooting the real Connor (Hank even gets irritated because of it). Damn that’s brilliant acting, all hats off to Bryan. His performance in this game never fails to impress me. (I wish there were dialogue for RK900 too, I would’ve loved to see Bryan’s take on his voice and presence.)

Also also I have to mention I love the take that Sixty really was a deviant all along too, an ”evil” version of Connor if you will; cold, calculating and even enjoying the situation he had Connor (and Hank) in. You know, doing all of it because he wanted to, because he liked it. Why else would he deliver a whole ass villain monologue before executing deviant Connor, gloating about how he knows what he is and that he is the obedient, favorite child, plus calling Connor a disappointment (and a disappointment to him especially, like how Connor should care in his final moments that Sixty despises him for not being a good little robot)? AND shooting him several times non-lethally before landing that final shot (if the story goes there), like savoring the situation. Of course he also has to ask if Connor has any last words too. That’s definitely not what an efficient machine would have done to make sure it accomplished its mission. In some outcomes his stalling costs him the victory.

Top that off with the ending where deviant Connor dies but the androids still wake up, Sixty is scared and emotional because he failed, scared to be deactivated because of his failure. Then there’s this scene where he shoots deviant Connor eleven times in front of his friend. After that Sixty takes in Hank’s reaction and even torments him by saying Connor’s death was his fault. Still doesn’t sound like a machine much, huh? More like a sadistic psychopath.

Man, I wish we could’ve seen more Sixty, it would’ve been chilling to see if he went full-on rogue, maybe being Markus’ right hand/attack dog on a leash in the violent revolution arc, maybe with his own agenda of taking Markus’ place and wanting to subjugate humanity. Or maybe deviant Connor could’ve persuaded him to their side by making Sixty to see he was nothing but a tool, unintentionally prompting him to seek revenge and to reduce Amanda and Cyberlife to atoms (not what Connor intended haha). There could’ve even been a redemption arc for him, like in a ”what’ve I done?” type way. You know, a bit of an internal moral struggle. And of course, our fave ”sack of shit” (as Hank so eloquently put it) demanding answers from his maker, Kamski, in a not-so, uh, conventional manner. Let them measure their respective arrogance and wit and see who comes out on top. Or would they team up?

Such a delicious character, so many delicious what-ifs.

[ghcstao3]

Born!werewolf soap and Turned!Werewolf Simon.

Simon was turned into a werewolf during his time with Roba, tied to a man so horrible he never associated lycanthropy with anything but pain, and lack of control. It only ever reminds him of a time when he was always hungry for affection, yet violent without it. He never shifts without choosing to, and purposely ignores his needs as long as he can, until it’s debilitating.

Soap who has been a werewolf his whole life, knows his pack’s history like the back of his hand. He’s extremely attuned to his instincts, and to other wolves. It’s almost more comfortable for him to be a wolf, than go through the pain of humanities stiffness.

Them finding eachother and hurt/comfort <3

Initially, upon meeting Ghost, Soap is more than glad to finally have the opportunity to work with another werewolf, let alone one known for his skill, his precision, his deadliness—but then Soap is just as soon finding out that there's far more than meets the eye about Ghost's own condition.

Ghost, like most werewolves, was born human. There's a faint but distinct smell about him that tells Soap this, and initially, it's really no concern of his. Outside of his family, most other werewolves Soap had encountered in his life were turned at one point or another.

What separates Ghost from them, however, as Soap soon figures it out—is that Ghost never shifts. Not unless he has to, anyway. And that makes Soap curious more than anything.

Because shifting is such an integral part to being a werewolf. It's natural, freeing, and it's one of Soap's favourite things. It's a new kind of powerful that's so important and special to a werewolf, that Soap could never understand why Ghost would ever want to stave off such a thing. And being that Ghost is so tight-lipped about his own life, Soap has no idea where to begin guessing.

It isn't until months of knowing each other that Soap starts to get a hint.

The mission is tough. The team is in a tight spot, and only Soap's claws and teeth and strength aren't proving to be enough. So with a look Soap can't quite decipher, Price pleads silently with Ghost to do the one thing they all know he hates.

But because it's necessity, Ghost follows through. Soap should have clocked something was wrong in hearing pained groans and too-loud cracks of shifting bones, but he can't do anything to stop it. Can only watch as Ghost is released and begins a massacre, and Soap can only trail behind to pick off stragglers.

Once everything is said and done—it takes an hour to find Ghost, who had taken on the unfortunate task of shifting back alone, and who is discovered curled up and staring ahead at nothing in a far corner of one of the warehouses they'd been assigned to raid.

He bares his teeth when Price moves to approach him, a low growl rumbling out of his throat. Price pauses and glances back to Soap, whose hesitant attempt is met with no protest.

Huh.

That distant look still glazes over Ghost's eyes, though the fog clears ever-so slightly when his attention is called to Soap sitting beside him. Where Soap feels more alive than ever after a shift, Ghost looks... small. Afraid.

Hurt.

Soap begins to suspect the circumstances of his turning had been less than favourable, and his heart breaks with that realization.

Ghost, as touch averse as Soap has known him to be, tucks into Soap's side without prompting, leeching off his warmth and comfort while, in witnessing the scene, Price and Gaz turn and head out to meet exfil and explain the situation.

Whatever had happened to Ghost to have his shifts be this way—Soap determines then, in that very moment, that once they're back to safety and Ghost is back within himself, Soap is going to find a way to help him make peace with this inescapable part of his being. He'll find a way to turn bad into good, or neutral, at the very least, because Ghost doesn't deserve to be a stranger to himself.

Soap will take that pain away if it's the last thing he does. Because he doesn't think he could ever stand seeing Ghost so broken again.

He wraps his arms around Ghost's broad frame and lets the lieutenant bury his face in Soap's chest with a vulnerability Soap only gets to witness as a cause of animalistic instincts still not having worn off. It'll be inevitable, when Ghost comes to only to back off and shut everyone out for a little while, but for now, Soap selfishly indulges in the comfort as much as Ghost needs it.

Soap will make that pain his own, if he has to, he thinks.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 17

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I have a house now. One more month until move in.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You leave the queen, stepping into the gales that whip around the outer flap of her tent. You reach to keep your cap from flying into the violent winds, the soldiers with their chins down as they lean against the force. Before you can gain your bearings, a shadow appears and calls your name, battling the weather to be heard. 

“Eh, where is your cloak, silly mouse? You will blow away with the leaves,” Bryce approaches, latching onto your arm as the bluster swirls around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

“I am fine, sir, I only need find a blanket,” you stumble against him as another willful gust pushes you around.  

“That isn’t what I asked. What has happened to it? You’ve lost it?” 

“The queen was cold, sir,” you answer and cling to him, shivering as the tempest swirls around you. 

“The queen... greedy...” his voice trails off as her sneers towards the tent. 

“Sir,” you touch his arm gently to calm him, “she needs it more than I. She is expecting the king’s child.” 

He looks at you and juts out his jaw, “aye, s’pose you’re right, even if you’re too kind for yer own good.” 

He turns you and grips you tightly, shielding you as best he can against the wind. Your progress is slow and stunted by the sudden ebbs and flows. He grunts as you stagger and steadies you, at times almost lifting you off your feet. 

“Sir Bryce,” a deep voice slices through the whistle of the winds, “a storm approaches.” 

The king nears, his sword gripped by the pommel as he leans it against hit shoulder. His golden eyes flick towards you, as if he had not seen you in the shadow of your escort. He raises his chin and returns his attention to the soldier. He angles his blade to the ground and the tip buries in the dirt. 

“Aye, it surely does,” Bryce agrees, “I’ve seen a worst tempest in my years.” 

“Sir,” Geralt holds out his hands and a glisten appears on his sleeve. You lean in without a thought, curious, then feel a cold speck on your nose. You look up and see the white flakes drifting down. “It will not remain so peaceful. It comes from the north and will deepen by morning.” 

“Shall we wake the camp?” Bryce asks and you sway with the wind. Once more, the king’s attention strays to you, he frowns. 

“Not as yet. Let the horses rest a little longer. They will be able to handle a dusting,” he affirms. “but I will harry the men to prepare for our departure.” 

“As will I. I’ll be certain the carts are covered and weighted.” 

“Sir, ever wise,” King Geralt praises and scowls at you. He shakes his head and huffs, “why does the maid wear no cloak? She will not survive in this, summer soul, she is.” 

“Aye, yes, I was only just telling her as much. Seems her heart is too big for her thin hide,” Bryce tuts, “we were only off to find her a blanket before she sleeps.” 

“Blanket, eh,” the king lets go of his blade, letting it stand in the ground. He unbuckles his collar and sweeps his cloak from around his shoulder, “I have my hunting cloak and I don’t mind the snow so much.” 

Before you can react, the king lays his heavy cloak over your shoulders. It is longer than your height requires and it smells of sweat and iron. You lower your head at the warmth clinging to the lined wool. 

“Your highness, many thanks, but I might find a blanket--” 

“Do not defy your king,” Bryce rebukes, “mouse, you would do well to accept his grace. You will certainly need it if these winds do not pass.” 

“Apologies,” you utter, “sir, your highness, you are both generous.” 

King Geralt grumbles and nods, looking once more to the sky as he grabs his sword. 

“The Ridge, Vulture’s Peak... it isn’t far. The castle will do, eh?” 

“Not far at all, your highness,” Bryce agrees. “It would do you well to let your wife rest. Many congratulations, my king.” 

“Congratulations? For what? Smelling a storm?” the king furrows his brow. 

“Oi, I think I’ve said too much,” Bryce glances at you. 

“Say more,” the king commands. The soldier sighs and sheepishly shows his teeth.  

“Please, maid, would ya...” He mutters. 

“Your highness, the queen said she is with child,” you swallow, “I only just came from her tent. I believed you were aware. I did not mean to gossip.” 

“Child,” his eyes sink and close. He hums and heaves a deep breath, “yes, she would need to be still a time.” 

“Your highness, again, you have my apologies--” 

“No matter,” the king waves his hand. “Take the maid, I shall see to my wife.” 

The king resumes his path onward, sword in hand. He hardly shares in Jazlene’s cheer for the news. Perhaps it is only the threat of the storm that has him unhappy.  

You bring your hands to the dark fur along the collar of the cloak and draw it snug. You chatter and Bryce clucks. He nudges you and you walk forward in step. 

“So the snows have come,” Bryce declares, “along with the heir. I sense many storms brewing, mouse. Best keep our eyes on the horizon.” 

⚔️

You don’t sleep for long, if at all. Only the shallow dregs of your anticipation. You watch the snow fall from beneath the canopy and as the horses are roused and fed before dawn, a carpet coats the ground. 

You peer down at the powder. You wonder what it feels like. Cold and wet, Bryce says, but don’t dirty your soles, you’ll be soaked. He remains, as ever, cynical. 

“Be off soon,” he says as he brings Daisy around, a thick coat over her back and haunches. 

“To Vulture’s Peak?” You ask. 

“Aye, so we will,” he pets Daisy’s snout as she sniffs him. “though our host may not be so fond to have us.” 

“Host? It is not the king’s castle?” 

“Ha, no, no,” Bryce laughs heartily, “a king can’t live on a desolate bluff. By fealty, a lord must break bread and offer a roof to his king. It might be his company which has him facing a cold welcome.” 

“Oh,” you frown. 

“Ah, even this old coot won’t deny us in the coming storm. He has sense of these better than any,” Bryce shrugs. “Don’t worry your head. You stay in your cart and Daisy will do the rest. She’s a fine climber--” 

“Out of my way!” The curdling snarl interrupts the soldier and you both look to see the source. “Move, by gods, I am the queen, be away from me.” 

You get to your knees, leaning on the edge of the wagon to see out from under the canopy. A scatter of bodies split apart as Queen Jazlene struts through, the fur cloak rippling from her shoulders and the hood set back on her head as her curls spill out. She sneers at the snow beneath her slippers. 

“Ah, I did hear there was a cart around here—ugh, out,” she points as she marches up to the cart, “by royal right, I am seizing this cart.” 

“Eh,” Bryce moves closer, “your highness, the king--” 

“I cannot sit a horse, sir,” she rests her gloved hand over her stomach. “Or would you murder the future prince with your selfishness. All for a--” she pauses and glowers over at you, rolling her eyes. “A maid?” 

You rise and snatch up the cloak you’d used as a blanket. You keep bent under the low canopy and climb out with the cushion under your arm. 

“Sir, the queen is right, she should have the cart, I will sit with the luggage.” 

He huffs and sends a grimace to the sky, unable to direct his malice towards its source, “if she must...” 

“I must!” The queen snaps and yanks the pillow from your hands, “I will need this, certainly.” 

You stand aside, staring at the pillow dolefully, and buckle the top of your cloak. The queen pauses as she faces you. She looks you up and down. 

“Where did you find this then?” She touches the collar of the cloak. 

“It is my spare cloak,” Bryce insists before you can answer, “what else do you require, your highness? Shall we bring a lamb to sacrifice?” 

“Hm, is that how you northerners worship?” She sneers, missing his irony. 

He blinks dully and says nothing. 

“Well, secure the horse, I will need to be drawn.” 

“It is my horse,” Bryce insists, “you may bridle your own.” 

“You dare deny me?” She snarls at him as the soldiers with her stand on either side of the cart. 

“You may take it up with your husband. This is my steed, she carried me to war and she will carry me henceforth,” he snips. 

Bryce and Jazlene glare at each other. You look between them nervously. You don’t know who King Geralt might choose in this battle should he be called. 

“Fine, fetch the stinky thing,” Jazlene demands of one of the soldiers, “and blankets, another pillow, perhaps something to eat.” 

The cast of the sky shifts with the first light of the sun and Bryce grabs both horses and leads them aside. He whistles for you to follow. You come to him as Chestnut and Daisy cluelessly puff into the cold air. 

“You will ride. I will not have that... queen seizing my horse,” he sniffs, “I will show you how once I’ve saddled the mare.” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” You look up at the horses back. It seems very high. 

“You will want to be aback anyhow,” he shrugs, “you’ll not want to miss the mountain. It is very beautiful, especially in the snow.” 

⚔️

The party continues onward, treacherously. As the snow falls, the train diverts away from the flats and onto the narrow paths speckled with broken trunks and towering trees. The smell of pine tickles your nose as you ascend, bit by bit. 

It takes some time to grow used to the motion of the horse. Daisy’s hooves are certain and she does not slip on even the most precarious spots. Bryce rides behind you, booming about each nook and cranny, pointing out the white rabbits and the wilted fauna. His enthusiasm is unexpected but endearing. 

You ride until the moon replaces the sun and dismount along the side of the great cliff. There is no room here to pitch a tent and only a few fires burn along the ridge. Your hips ache as the soldier grunts about his back. 

“I should see to the queen,” you suggest as you rub your hands together. 

“She must have many fawning over her,” Bryce spits out a wad of leaves and squashes it under his feet. 

“I am her maid--” 

“And we are on a long road. She might go without you minding her temper,” he snarls. 

You frown, “I am not upset. She needs the cart more than me.” 

“It isn’t that which sees me chagrined,” he growls. “It’s those deeds you will not admit of that traitor’s daughter which make me prickle.” 

You’re quiet. You look away, your eyes wandering up into the sky, watching the snow swirl down, following it down to the ground far below. The heaps are immaculate in the moonlight and the trim of white along the ridge gleams. 

“I am a maid.” 

“I know little of your summer people but if that is how they treat those who serve them, perhaps this alliance was not so wise,” he grumbles as he steps up beside you, “perhaps it would’ve been better to submit such cruel nobles.” 

“Sir,” you say, shocked and peer over at his profile. His beard has grown to meet his cloak, his hair coiling down to his shoulders. 

“I serve my king, as I ever will, but I will not bend the knees to a snake,” he hisses and crosses his arms. 

“We are united, aren’t we? Summer and Winter,” you reach to touch his thick hide mitt. 

“Aye, yes, I do not seek another battle,” he exhales. “I am only wary of those who may.” 

You squint. Your mind returns to Lord Dustan and what he said to his daughter. The heir is their prize, an affirmation of the bounty earned by their betrayal, but also a chain to that very act. To the man they forsook their name for. A man they speak as kindly on as they had their former allies. 

“Might I walk?” You draw your hand from his. “My legs are sore.” 

“Not too far. And keep your eyes open,” he girds, “and your hands in your cloak. You needn’t frostbite.” 

You nod and he turns to you. He pulls up the hood of your cloak and pats your shoulder. 

“Tarry too long and I’ll look for you,” he warns. 

“Sir,” you shift slowly and step past him. 

You trod higher up the incline as you marvel over the edge. Bodies huddles together beneath cloaks and blankets, nestling for warmth against the wall of the cliff. You carry on and stop near a luggage cart, close to the drop. You hold out your hand, letting snow gather in your palm. It is cold, bitterly and painfully cold, but so beautiful. You bring it closer and watch it slowly melt as your hand numbs. 

“Do you remember...” the king’s voice drawls over you as his soft steps approach. “What I told you of this place?” 

You look at him. He is lit by the moonlight, his golden eyes like stars, and his jaw is bristly with thickening stubble. You bow your head, “your highness, are the bears already asleep in their caves?” 

He chuckles, “you do recall,” he praises, “not yet, though they do not come this high.” 

“And the wolves? Are they near?” 

“They are always prowling,” he says, shifting closer, his arm pressing to yours. He bends slightly to peer straight down, “the elk will be in the forests.” He points to the snowcapped tips of the distant trees, “here, the vultures have their nests. Their eggs,” he curves his hands to show the size, “I made a writ, years ago. It is forbidden to eat the eggs. I always found it quite tragic to desecrate the majestic creatures before they can even be borne. Before they can fly even.” 

“Vultures? I’ve never seen one? They are... birds?” 

“Yes, birds,” he confirms.  

He is silent as he considers his kingdom below. His breath is gritty as it rises and falls. He has much to think on. A child, a wife, and his homecoming delayed by a storm. 

“One thing has changed here, in these lands of winter,” he says lowly and you feel a ripple in your cloak. He presses his hand firmly to your back, sliding it along your side to grasp your hip. He moves to stand behind you and brings you close. He wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your crown, “I said before, there is no summer here,” he holds you, pulling his cloak around you, concealing you within it as he drapes himself around you, “summer is here. With me. Warm and gentle.” 

You go rigid as he holds you, your heart beating at the unexpected embrace, at the unseemly contact between you. He hums as he stands with you in the shadows of the cart, so brazenly covert. Anyone might happen upon you and yet they all hide away from the storm. 

“Your highness,” you stammer and quiver against him. 

“Treasure,” he purrs, “my treasure. The one good thing I’ve brought home...” 

You can’t breathe or think. Is he drunk? Confused? What does he mean? 

“I--” he begins but the kick of a rock quiets him, the stone bouncing off the cart’s wheel. 

A shadow stalks down the precipice towards you and the king detaches, uncovering you from his cloak. He faces the figure as the tramp up the incline. You hear the king shudder as he tickles your back. 

“There’s the mouse,” Bryce says as he comes into the moonlight, his brow and jaw set, though he doesn’t look at you. He looks at the king, almost defiant. “You shouldn't be out so long in the cold. Exposed,” he grits, “come, I’ve sparked us a fire.” 

King Geralt clears his throat, “thank you, sir.” 

“My king,” Bryce says as he beckons to you, “I will keep the maid safe. As you bid.” 

[short-honey-badger]

Phantom Pain

Little soul mate au where they feel each other's emotional and physical pain.

Warnings! A lil bit of angst and a lot of possessive Shanks cause I just can't help myself. Enjoy!

Masterlist

Phantom Pain Masterlist

Soulmates. Just the thought of them disgusted you. What good did it do anyone in this world to have someone else's pain and trauma to worry about? The joy of meeting your other half just wasn't worth all the hurt one had to go through, in your opinion. Yours certainly did nothing but cause you grief. Hangovers that weren't yours, to wounds from swordfights and shootouts. The worst had been the day your other half had lost his right arm.

Even now, almost a decade later, that phantom pain lingers, and with it, the guilt that isn't yours that eats away at you every time you acknowledge your soulmate. You ignore it the best you can, hell, you would be happy to never meet whoever they are. And you make sure to let them know that, too, with your own frustrated feelings. However, life had rarely been kind to you, and it wasn't going to stop tonight.

You know the moment you step into the only open tavern in the sleepy little town and see the red-haired man with a black cloak on at the bar, that tonight would be it. While he is covered, you can still tell that there is nothing on his left side and your arm aches something fierce. You debate with yourself. You could run away before your possible soulmate noticed you, or you could put on your big girl panties and go order a hot drink like you had planned.

You shiver violently, and the decision is quickly made. With a world weary sigh, you hang up your wet overcoat and then casually cross the room to sit at the bar several spots away from the one armed man. You order your drink and see out of the corner of your eye him staring at you, but you stay looking forward even when you notice him scoot down to the seat next to you.

Shanks stares at the person who had come into the bar, dark gaze curious. He'd felt you the moment you had walked into the bar, all angry emotions and swirling frustration directed right at him. Even through the negativity, the Yonko was desperate to know if you were the one. And he knew the fastest way to figure that out.

The grin that splits his face is full of glee and victory as you yelp loudly when he pinches the meat of his thigh. You whip around to glare at him, eye alight with indignation, but Shanks looks like the sun and moon just fell in his lap, "Found you," he says with a teasing tilt to his voice, "I've looked for you a long time, ya know that?"

You scoff at him and loom away to take a deep sip from your cup, "And I've been running," you quip meanly. Why? Why did he have to do this ro you now of all days? All you wanted was a nice evening to yourself, and of course, your soulmate seems obnoxiously good spirited.

Shanks laughs, and you can feel his merriment and joy at finding you. Your body desperately wants to act as well, but you fight down your biology and tell it to shut up and stay down. You've faught against this your entire life. You couldn't break now.

"I know," he says, and his words make you look at him with narrowed eyes, "I'm a dangerous man, Sweetheart. I know I've caused you a lot of pain, and I'm sorry about that."

You have to turn away from him with how genuine and soft he sounds. You drink deeply again and then set your mug down with a click. You've felt his guilt before, but having words go with it made you break just a little more.

"Well. Thanks for the apology, at least," you murmur and then tense when you watch him get off the stood. He circles around you and presses his front to your back. Despite yourself, your body relaxes, as if it knows that this man is meant for you. His one hand grips your hip, thumb moving to stroke the your skin under your shirt, and you shiver unintentionally.

"I plan on making up for it," he says casually and leans forward to bury his face in your hair, breathing in your scent. You smell like the sea and something else unique just to you. He can't get enough of it.

"I don't plan on sticking around," you tell him and shift to try and get away from the man, but the obvious pirate only tightens his grip on your hip.

Shanks laughs again, but it isn't a very nice sound this time, "Sorry to burst your bubble, Hon," he whispers, and you shiver at what he says next, "You don't have much of a choice this time," the Yonko waited long enough to find you, he wasn't about to let you go now.

He leans around you, hand leaving your hip to grasp your chin, and a kiss is bestowed on your lips, soft as a daisy, "Name is Shanks, by the way. What's yours, Sweetheart?"

[weebsinstash]

When I say with my entire being in my heart of hearts that I know with certainty that this-this-this THING right here would do the absolute most unbelievable petty gross obsessive dahmer level shit to you

He's petty he's evil he's got a childlike fascination for seeing what breaks people down and I hate him I hate him I hate him but ALSO what that dick do tho? 🤔

Mahito is the yandere over here doing shit like imprisoning you for his own selfishness and perhaps genuine affection but making you live in absolute deplorable conditions because He's Not Fucking Human And He Doesn't Even Know How To Feed You. He locks you away and disappears for an entire day and comes back with like a single can of wet dog food that he watches you eat from a squatting position like 5 inches away looking at you like Harley Quinn and the egg sandwich. Motherfucker would take all your clothes because he wants to see more of "the natural shape of you" and then doesn't understand why you start shivering. Or he deliberately keeps you like that because he wants to see how long it takes you to crack and beg him for help. He wants to see the depths of your pride as you refuse to grovel, curious of the lengths you'll go, the limits of your body against the chill

This depraved fuck will do dehumanizing little emotional experiments on you where he does shit just because he wants to see how you think and feel and what you'll do and I mean like he'll do SOME REAL SHIT. I'm talking maybe he's stalking you and you can't fight or use cursed techniques and you think he's just like, a human shaped spirit or something who's just a trickster, he's not being violent or getting you alone or anything yet, and then you come home to your apartment one day and he's literally disemboweled your cat on your coffee table and he's playing with pieces of it and says you were giving it more attention than him and sits there pouting as you scream and even tries to like touch you or hold your hand or hug you with. The fucking blood covered hands. like he would be so fucked up on purpose, "awww do you need me to hold you? You're so sensitive but i dont mind :3"

This man out here like "wdym you want me to stay away from you, all I did was kill your cat kill your mom kill your neighbor kill your best friend kill your boss' cousins' landlords' newborn baby BUT WAS THAT REALLY SO BAD 🥺" and does something infinitely worse to scare/coerce you into tolerating his presence

I'm not really uh into body horror or gore but as a side detail I feel like. Uh. There's like a legitimate risk of him actually unintentionally REALLY hurting you and has to use his powers to heal you. Like the one good thing he does is if he were to have you on death's door or like horribly injured he could just. Fix it. He twists a limb in a way he doesn't know it's not supposed to go and breaks it and then puts you back together like a broken toy while ooo'ing and aaa'ing at the way your skin stretches over the grotesque misalignment. Dare I say the horror of "him putting things that are way too big or weirdly shaped in you" also yeah he's one of the things he's putting in you and he's got a really gross like fascination with learning all about that stuff

He's really living just to see how many different ways he can make you cry and how many different emotions he can get you to display, just absolutely dedicated to terrorizing you while also chasing his own internal weird repressed desire for his own sort of belonging. You could be sitting there sobbing and he's either borderline getting off on it or he's standing there MAKING FUN OF YOUR CRIES like deadass even fake crying back to you

And the worst part is he'll do all this fucking shit to you and then the night comes and he'll still be over here like "and you'll let me cuddle you while you sleep right? 👉👈" and he'll be doing that Every. Single. Night. And what are you gonna do, try and kill yourself? Have fun risking accidentally making yourself a Curse and being stuck with him basically FOREVER

[hp-hcs]

yanxidarlings here~ literally screamed when i saw you followed me because your writings were the direct inspiration for my latest post 💖 but im curious to see your take on yandere! poly! mattheo and theodore with m! reader or just more poly headcanons because i am never. going. to. get. enough. of. them

OH MY FUCKING GOD UR KIDDING I WAS THE ANON WHO REQUESTED UR LATEST POST

IM FEELING STARSTRUCK RN 🙇‍♂️👑

requests open, please dear god

Yk, reader is (lovingly) so fucking oblivious

Like, his friends will be like “hey you’re getting pretty close with like, the two most obsessive and violent guys at this school aha”

And reader will be like “lol they’re so silly goofy aren’t they 😌”

Inspired purely by your “you know people think we're gay and dating, right?” “aren't we?” I present:

“you know people think we’re gay and dating, right?” “aren’t we?” — yandere! mattheo riddle x oblivious! male! reader x yandere! theodore nott

completely unedited cause i gotta sprint to my lecture broski

TWs: possessive/obsessive behavior, brief mentions of violence, one instance of slut-shaming (?)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Honestly, you thought nothing of it when you were informed that due to “space issues” you were being moved to room with The Theos™. You just shrugged and followed the very anxious house-elf who had informed you of the switch to your new room.

Your trunk and belongings were there already, waiting to be set up and organized. Mattheo and Theo were hovering in the doorway looking a bit too pleased with the situation for comfort.

You just quietly said “hi” and moved past them, dumping your school bag on your new bed and flopping down next to it.

Theo and Mattheo practically trip over themselves rushing to “befriend” you. (Their words, not mine)

You all share a dorm, so it wasn’t long before they realized the other was obsessed with you.

Then, it’s all out war.

I’m talking mysterious falls down the moving stairs, getting locked out of the dorm all night, randomly being chased by bludgers—even when they aren’t playing.

Random fistfights between them whenever they see each other in the halls.

That all goes out the window, though, when reader is asked out.

Reader comes back to his dorm after a long day and finds The Theos sitting side-by-side on the edge of the his bed.

“When were you going to tell us that you became the class whore?” Mattheo drawled, his lips thinning in disapproval and disgust.

“W-what?” You ask, completely taken aback.

“We heard that little Y/N L/N’s got himself a date to the Yule Ball,” Theodore adds. “Who is it? That Parkinson girl? The Diggory boy?”

“Wh- no. I said no anyways.”

The boys scrutinize you, exuding an air of judgement.

Finally, Theodore pipes up. “Good boy.”

😳

“Aww, what’s this? Look, Riddle. Y/N’s blushing,” Theodore teases.

They make a quick mental note of that 📝

Anyways, they eventually find out who asked you out. They call a ceasefire on their own personal war, and team up to beat the shit out of the poor guy/girl.

After that, babycakes, if they didn’t already know before, everyone at Hogwarts now knows that you are TAKEN. (Even though you don’t.)

They tolerate each other, but just barely. They can really only stand each other when you three all curl up in one of your beds or on the common room couch.

Then, they’re the clingiest mfs you’ve ever met.

They have absolutely no sense of a personal space bubble. One of them is always touching you in some way, whether it be holding your hand, resting a hand on your hip or shoulder, putting their hand on your lower back…

Theodore charmed your chair in History of Magic to be impossible to move, so you can’t scoot away from him.

If you’re relaxing on the couch in the common room, Mattheo will move to sit right next to you (like r i g h t next to you) and put your legs in his lap. He tried once before to get you to just sit in his lap, but you told him no (like an idiot) and avoided him for the rest of the day. That is, until you woke up to him in your bed next to you.

Homeboy was not happy about that.

He is manipulative as fuck and will gaslight you to no end. He uses his shitty childhood and bad father to get you to pity him.

(It works.)

It’s obviously disconcerting for you when your boyos go from ‘actively out for each other’s blood’ to ‘eh, you’re fine, i guess’

You guys were watching a movie in your dorm one night, all piled onto your bed, and they accidentally fell asleep there. They woke to you already gone for breakfast and them with their arms around each other.

“If you ever bring this up again, I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, believe me, they’d never find your body.”

They become way more open about their attraction to you, everything from kissing your cheek, to making you wear their clothes (esp their jerseys with their last name on them), to asking you your ring size.

I completely agree with your headcanon of Mattheo neck kisses 😩🤌

Eventually though, because you are an oblivious gay disaster, you’re just chilling on the couch and you’re like “Hey guys, you know everyone thinks we’re gay right? And like, all dating each other?”

“What, like we aren’t?”

y/n: 😳🤨☺️🏳️‍🌈👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

[tonyboneysblog]

HII Im the anon that requested the touya fic you can just call me the 🍊 anon if thats fine with you because ill probably be back a lot more 😭 your fics are SOO good can i request another touya fic, basically the same as last time what it was like being childhood friends with him? Ty!! 😁😁

SECRET SPOT: oneshot request!

parings: Touya Todoroki x reader

wordcount: 1.4K

notes: actually took forever because I forgot what kids do in their free time

warnings: none

summary: you find a cool spot you’d like to show Touya, shenanigans ensue.

You feel your lungs by start to burn as your run as quick as you can towards to best friends house.

You knock almost violently on the door when Rei Todoroki opens it.

“Miss L/N? Is everything okay?” She says with a worried tone.

You nod your head quickly before you say breathlessly, “I-i have something super cool to show Touya!”

Rei chuckles nervously at your excitement, “he’s in his room, I remember correctly.”

You mutter a quick thank you before booking it towards Touya’s room, only to find it empty.

Now you weren’t too concerned by the fact Touya wasn’t in his room like he was supposed to be, if he wasn’t holed up in his room then he’d be holed up at Sekoto peak over using his quirk in the name of ‘training’.

You shrug before making your way back to the front door, you weren’t planning on telling Rei that her son was up at the peak, he made you promise not to anyway.

Sekoto peak wasn’t the farthest away from the Todoroki household but by the time you got there at the summit you could feel your legs aching.

Now all that was left was to walk up it…

You could make out flashes of red as you hiked up the trail, few sparks of blue which was curious since Touya’s was red?

No point on dwelling on it.

You yell out his name, scaring him before running up to him excitedly.

“Y/N- you scared the hell out of me-“ he blabbers out.

You try to make your voice serious as you speak, “Touya- you absolutely need to follow me now, we’re going on adventure.”

Touya scoffs softly, “adventure? What are you- twelve?”

You stare at Touya after he choices his words, quietly as the seconds tick by.

He clears his throat, “ahem- sorry uhm, where are you trying to take me?” His voice is steady unlike yours, “can’t tell, it’s a surprise.”

“Then scram, I’m training right now Y/N.” He starts to walk off over to his little training corner with the log before you grab his wrist.

“Please Touya?” You beg with a pout on your face.

Touya try’s to tug his wrist away, “Nope, I don’t know what I’m getting myself into.” You groan before pulling him back, “Touya- don’t be a brat I’m trying to show you something cool!” You continue to plead.

“You trying to fight me now? I’ll win.” He says almost threateningly.

you tug again, “you built like a prepubescent chicken- look Touya please just do this for me?”

You and Touya enter an unspoken eye staring contest, Touya loses by looking away nervously and you could almost feel his skin heating up.

“Fine, take me to your stupid spot.” He says lowly, but it doesn’t have any venom behind it.

You celebrate silently in your head before dragging him down the mountain, then towards the woods near your own home.

Touya’s brows furrow, “are you planning on murdering me or something?” his voice could be described as a fake out between ‘I’m so scared!’ And pure sarcasm.

You shrug, “keep up the attitude and I just might.”

He laughs at that one.

You climb over smaller bushes and duck under branches before entering a thicker part of the woods, you got lost in it one time and your parents had called every emergency number they knew.

Touya still dogs on you for it til this day.

Whilst trekking throughout the woods your legs decided to make home with a near by rose bush that hooked into your skin painfully.

You yelp before trying to ease the small thorns out of your poor calf but Touya decides to help out for once.

“Don’t move.” His voice was stern when he said it but his face was filled with worry practically.

He grabs you calf then the vine and pulls the two apart gently, only to leave a small stinging sensation in the wounded area.

“Be glad it’s not bleeding.” He hops over the vines to join you, you kinda hopped his leg would get stuck too for karma but you’ll get revenge soon.

Revenge for everything you’ve done to get him to this cool spot, made your legs sore, made them injured- what’s next? A broken arm?!

You continue to walk throughout the forest, the ground below you getting wetter with each step. Then you could finally hear the faint noise of water rushing.

You walked out nearer towards it before hitting a drop off but luckily you had already scooped out the terrain. There was and edge that you could scoot by on if you held on good and if you fell you- probably- wouldn’t die!

Before you could get to it Touya grabs your hand, “that isn’t safe, find another way.” his brows furrow.

“This is the only way that I know, hold on and you’ll be fine-“ “Y/N I don’t want you getting hurt.” He cuts you off before you can rationalize with him.

“Touya I’ve done this before, I’m not gonna fall.” You smile while you say this but then Touya made it fade quickly with his next words.

“I’ve seen Bridge to Terabithia, don’t play with me Y/N.” His tone is serious but it almost sounds like he’s messing with you.

You mumble out a small fine then Touya smiles like he won, you don’t like that cockiness.

So you quickly run back and scoot the wall almost expertly, pieces of rock falling down below as you move.

Touya calls for your name but by the time you respond d your already on the other side, “see- I told you I’d be fine!” You smile cheekily.

Touya visibly relaxs before his face goes mean again, “you could’ve fallen.”

“Yet I didn’t?”

“I’ll push you down myself.”

You scoff, “thought you didn’t want me getting hurt?”

Touya groans as you start to skip off towards the rushing water, it’s a nice little spot but it has logs all around it like some parkour obby.

Touya watches as you walk over towards one, it’s over a larger area of water- hell it evens look deep.

“Touya, be careful here since it’s slippery.” you sound sweeter than usual, Touya notes.

Touya cautious steps onto the log with the water calmly drifting beneath him, truly it wasn’t hard to balance on it.

You step behind him following close, then you wind your arms back and push him into the water with all your strength. He hits the water with a loud splash, it only takes him a few seconds to resurface.

“Y/N- are you fucking crazy!?” He yells out, you could barely hear him from your own cackling.

You don’t even notice when he grabs your own ankle to drag you down with him.

You yelp before hitting the water, whilst falling you accidentally hit your back against the log.

When you plop back up from the water, coughing violently. You can hear Touya laughing at you, you splash water at him before he could continue.

“Psh- don’t be angry that I got you back!” He yells, his voice sounds light.

Like he’s having fun.

You and Touya continue to have a splashing fight before you raise your hands up, “okay- we’re still not there yet-“ he splashes you again.

“Touya!” He stops for a moment, listening to you.

“It’s a little up ahead, follow me.” You trek through the water, making your way past floating branches or jagged rocks.

Touya could faintly hear water falling, then he felt the water become much more shallow.

The two of you continued to walk throughout the shallow water before it starts to rush before your feet, once Touya look up the first thing he sees is a miniature waterfall.

You turn back to look at him, “isn’t it amazing Touya?” Your smile is bright.

He can’t help it when his faces starts to match yours, you just have that affect on him.

He watches you run up to the falls, collecting rocks or whatever you do.

He can’t help but think how glad he was that he stopped training, even for a moment.

He felt good, his heart felt warm.

you just have that affect on him.

EXTRA:

“Touya- why in the world are you soaking wet?!” Rei practically screams.

Touya stumbles over his words for a moment before speaking, “uhm- next question?”

“Were you out training again?!” Rei says her voice going softer.

“Uhm….next question?” Touya says whilst looking down.

He’s never going on adventure with you again.