tongueinatree

[tongueinatree]

Heads Up: Blog Migration to @writeronaceiling

Dear all

This writing blog happens to be my side blog, and I'm currently migrating all my content to my main blog (@writeronaceiling) so that I can interact fully.

As things stand, I'll keep cross posting between this blog and my main blog, and edit this notice if I stop posting here. But if you want to interact, try using my main blog!

My Masterlist and Guidelines (which are identical on my main and side blog) can be found here.

[tongueinatree]

"Fisk will know. And he'll hurt Betsy"

"If you really loved her, you'd cut her loose. This life doesn't work with Betsys"

God, Matt! You're really spelling it out for all of us. Karen is his Betsy, and he cut her loose so she wouldn't get hurt because of him 🥺

[tongueinatree]

Seeing this serious, battle-hardened gangster smile while holding his baby girl, being with Annie for all eternity, and finally finding peace makes my heart melt.

[tongueinatree]

Can you please make an Alfie Solomons story where reader’s father is in debt and Alfie owes huge amount of money from the reader’s father. But reader’s father is greedy and can’t afford money to pay off his debts. So he convinces Alfie to marry his daughter in exchange of debt. His daughter/ reader is virgin, religious jew, does every household chores… and Alfie also liked her from the time he saw her. But reader is shy and doesn’t want to get married to a gangster like Alfie… so it’s a forced marriage story. Please can you make it?

“Owed and Owned”

Alfie Solomons x f!Reader

Alfie’s Masterlist

Summary: Maybe the monster you thought you were forced to marry has more humanity than you ever imagined.

WC: 9.9k (long af, ik, im soooorry)

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, forced marriage, dirty talk, virginity loss, fingering, unprotected piv, slight dubcon at one point (dry humping), period-accurate misogyny.

The bakery reeked of yeast and damp wood and the stink of something that didn’t belong in a place where bread was supposed to be made. The men standing at the edges of the room, stiff and silent, confirmed your suspicion, this wasn’t just a bakery, this was Alfie Solomons’ kingdom, and you were a lamb dragged into the lion’s den.

He didn’t look up at first, you stood in the middle of the room like a piece of meat being offered to him, cloaked in your father’s debt, no name of your own, just a fucking transaction. The door shut behind you as his men left the room, leaving you and your father alone with him, and only then did Alfie glance up from whatever he was writing.

And when he saw you, he paused.

“Right,” he said finally, voice gravelled and sardonic, “you’re the bloody dowry, yeah?”

You flinched at the word.

He rose slowly, like an old bear from hibernation, shoulders broad beneath his waistcoat, beard thick and unruly, eyes sharp despite the faint squint of his age. You knew the name Solomons, everyone did, but nothing had prepared you for the man.

Your father stepped forward, flustered and sweating, like his life depended on this agreement going well, because in a way, it did. “Now Alfie, like I said, she’s—she’s a good girl. Quiet. Can cook and clean. And she’ll be loyal, I swear it.”

“Right. And she’s clean, yeah? No bloody clap? No surprises down there?” He made a vague, circling gesture with his fingers that somehow managed to feel both vulgar and clinical.

Your father stammered, paling now. “Of course! Nothing like that.”

Alfie hummed, eyes still locked on yours. “Can you talk, or did he gag you for the ride?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. You couldn't find words to say in a moment like this, when you were being handed off like nothing but property, practically being sold, and to a dangerous man like Alfie Solomons, no less.

He tilted his head. “Yeah, I thought not. You lot always go quiet when it’s me in the fuckin’ room, don’t you?”

Your father let out a nervous chuckle, but Alfie held up a hand to quiet him.

“No. Shut up.” He walked toward you, the thump of his cane dragging behind him like punctuation. “So here’s the thing, love. Your old man, he owes me more than he’s got. Which—normally—I’d collect in blood, but he made me an offer. You.”

He reached out and brushed his knuckles along your jaw, not gentle, but not cruel either, more like he was testing you.

“I don’t usually take wives, darlin’,” he said, voice low now. “I take respect, I take fuckin’ tributes, right, and I take silence. But he said you were gorgeous and now that I see you…”

His fingers drifted to your chin and tilted it upward.

“You look like you’d make a very fine little trophy. And I’m tired of sleepin' alone.”

You slapped his hand away and suddenly the room went still, the only audible sound was the gasp that left your father's mouth, you knew he was praying internally that you wouldn’t ruin this, that you wouldn’t do or say something smart that would get Alfie pissed off enough to walk away from the deal.

But Alfie didn't seem to mind, he just smiled—wide, feral, pleased.

“Ohhh, you’ve got bite, yeah?” He laughed then, full and rich, and turned toward your father. “I like her, yeah, I do.”

“Does that mean you’ll—?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll marry her. But I’m not doin’ no fuckin’ white weddin', right? Just papers. Done and dusted. She’ll be Mrs. Solomons by the end of the week. That work for you, love?”

You stared at him ompletely defeated, your voice so low it could barely be heard. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“No,” Alfie said, stepping close again, his voice suddenly sharp, “but he did. And see in my world, love, when a man settles a debt with a gift, I don’t ask if the gift’s got opinions.”

He let that sink in.

“But you’ve got spirit, don’t you? And if you’re clever, you’ll use it. Not against me, though. Not against your husband.” You swallowed and he leaned closer. “Yeah, you’ll realize that bein’ my wife comes with… perks. Nobody touches what’s mine. Not even God.”

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. There was no point in that, you knew since the day you were born that life wasn't fair, and that sometimes you just had to do what needed to be done, so you just stood there, spine straight, chin up, like maybe defiance could save you.

You told your father no more than a thousand times. You told him every night after that cursed meeting at the bakery, with your throat raw from begging and screaming, eyes burning with tears he never acknowledged. But it didn’t matter, the debt still hung around his neck like a noose, and being the selfish man he had always been, he saw you as a lighter rope to throw over the beam.

The morning of the wedding, you weren’t allowed out of your room. Your dress wasn’t white, Alfie said white was “bollocks,” told the tailor you weren’t a virgin, “’cause no woman with that mouth is, right?” Your father had laughed. You hadn’t, you knew the truth.

Instead, your dress was deep green velvet, heavy and expensive, Alfie'd said he didn't want his future wife to look like a tart he'd picked up from around the corner. You stood in front of the mirror, hands trembling as you fastened the last button, you didn’t look like a bride, you looked like a girl in a costume, playing a part in a tragedy someone else had written.

The car came at noon, you didn’t try to run, what was the point? You had no place to go.

The registrar’s office smelled like old paper and damp wood, and when you looked back at how you thought the day of your wedding would be like as a girl, you would've never imagined this. Alfie was already there, leaning on his cane, arms crossed over his chest like a king waiting for tribute. No suit, no flower in his lapel, just that long coat, gloves tucked into one hand, and eyes that tracked you like you were already branded.

You didn’t speak to him, didn’t even look at him, but he didn’t seem to mind at all.

“’S about fuckin’ time,” he muttered when you entered, loud enough for you to hear. “Thought maybe you’d done somethin’ clever and run off. Then I remembered you’re your father’s daughter, and clever don’t run in that fuckin’ family.”

You said nothing.

“But beauty does, innit?” Alfie muttered, his gaze was lewd, no shame in it as he bit his bottom lip. “You look fuckin’ delightful, love.”

The clerk asked if you were ready, Alfie grunted and replied for you. You just stayed silent.

They asked you to repeat the vows and you hesitated.

“Go on, love,” Alfie drawled from beside you, voice low and curling like smoke in your ear. “Ain’t gonna get easier from now on, is it?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, husband, it tasted like ash, like it wasn't real. You were married in fifteen minutes. You didn’t kiss, he didn't even try to, just took the signed certificate, folded it neatly into his coat, and nodded like a deal had been closed, like a transaction being completed.

“Right,” he said to the room. “That’s that, then.”

You stood frozen as he offered you his arm, you didn’t take it and he didn't pressed, probably not wanting to cause a scene in the middle of the place.

He just glanced at the clerk and said, loud and dry, “Poor girl’s in mournin', mate. She just married a gangster, didn’t she?”

The ride back to Camden was silent, your hands clenched the velvet of your skirt until your knuckles went white. Alfie sat beside you, relaxed, like he’d just come from a business lunch and not a forced wedding. He kept glancing at you, out the window, then back at you.

“You’re angry,” he said finally.

You didn’t answer.

“I get that. It’s… understandable.”

Still nothing, not a single word coming out of your mouth, maybe they could force you to get married, but they couldn't force you to speak.

He tilted his head, watching you.

“You think I don’t know what I’ve done, love? Think I ain’t aware of what this is?”

Now he got your attention, you turned your head slowly. “Then why do it?”

His eyes darkened. “Because your old man’s a coward. And I’m not.”

“I offered him ways out,” Alfie continued, quieter now. “More than I usually do, in fact. Coulda paid in blood. Coulda worked it off. But he chose you. And I thought—well, fuck it. He don’t see your value—I will.”

“You think owning me makes you better than him?”

His nostrils flared. “No. I think it makes me smarter.”

You shook your head and turned back to the window, eyes stinging as you tried not to let the tears spill from your eyes.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered.

Alfie was silent for a long moment. Then:

“Yeah. I know. But it’s done now, innit? Ink’s dry.”

When you crossed the threshold into his sprawling, low-lit house in Camden, something in the air shifted.

It was final. It was real now. You two were married.

He led you through high halls that smelled of smoke and old books, leather chairs and dark wood, showing you the place, your new home. It was warm, but you felt cold, detached from your own skin. Your head couldn't focus on the tour of the house Alfie was giving you, you had bigger concerns in your mind, like what was gonna happen once the tour was over, once the time to go to bed arrived.

When you reached a wide oak door at the end of the hall, Alfie paused, glanced over his shoulder, and opened it with a push.

The bedroom. One massive bed, covered in dark wool and heavy pillows, fire already lit in the hearth.

He looked back at you, voice quieter now. “So, this is it.”

“I uh... I thought I’d have my own room.”

“No,” Alfie said simply. “You’re my wife. That means one bed.”

You looked at the bed like it might burn you alive.

His voice dropped lower. “You knew this part was comin’, yeah?”

You nodded slowly. You weren't stupid, you knew what men wanted, you knew what a man like Alfie wanted. To consummate the marriage. To fuck.

But you also knew what you were, a virgin, pure and never touched before. And you didn't trust Alfie to be the gentle type of man.

Alfie moved toward the bed, loosening the collar of his shirt, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Now listen, love, I ain’t expectin’ fireworks tonight, alright, but I do expect my wife to sleep in my bed. You’re mine now. That’s not just fuckin’ legal—it’s real. And I don’t like sleepin’ alone. So why don't you start gettin' that dress off, yeah? Lay back and get comfortable.”

His voice wasn’t angry, just firm and steady, like he’d already made peace with whatever this was.

You stood rooted to the floor, heart thudding like hooves in your chest. “And if I say no?”

He looked over at you, head tilted. “Then I’ll ask you why, yeah? Because I’m not a fuckin’ animal. But I am your husband now, and I think you know damn well what comes with that.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “I’m a virgin.”

Alfie froze. His hands, which had been pulling at the zipper of his pants, stopped moving.

Then: “Come again?”

You lifted your chin. “I said I’m a virgin.”

Alfie let out a low, dark chuckle, eyebrows shooting up like he couldn't believe what you were telling him. "Right, you a virgin? Yeah, and I'm the bloody King of fuckin' England, ain't I?"

"I'm serious, Alfie. I'm not lying."

"There's no way you're a fuckin' virgin," he muttered. "Look at you, build like fuckin' sin in a body."

For a moment, Alfie just stared at you, expression unreadable, like part of him didn't quite believe it, but once he looked at your eyes he could tell that you weren't lying. He blinked, slowly, like the weight of your words had knocked the wind from him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, running a hand over his beard. “Your dear father didn’t mention that.”

Your stomach twisted. “Would it have made a difference?”

He laughed—but not cruelly. It was low, surprised, and tinged with something you didn’t recognize. “Maybe. Maybe I’d have reconsidered takin’ a bride who don’t know the fuckin’ basics.”

You flinched, feeling ashamed all of a sudden, for some reason his words hitted you harder than you had expected. But Alfie saw it, and something shifted in his gaze.

“Oi. Look at me.”

You didn’t.

“Love,” he said, voice a bit gentler now. “I ain’t mad. Just… Jesus. A fuckin’ virgin? What lies had your father been feedin’ me, eh? So pretty and a virgin, fuck me.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t have a choice. My life wasn’t mine to begin with.”

“Never even sucked a cock?”

You shook your head slowly, keeping it down so you wouldn't have to face the weight of his gaze on you.

Silence. Then a sigh.

“Alright,” he muttered, walking past you to the side table, pouring himself a glass of something dark and strong. He drank it in one go, then turned back to you. “That’s… a fuckin’ curveball, innit.”

"I didn't mean to keep it a secret."

“You’re scared. I get it. You didn’t ask for this. And I’m not here to make your life harder than it already is. I ain’t gonna take what ain’t offered. I don’t do that. I might be a lot of things, love, but I ain’t a bloody fuckin’ monster.”

You blinked, startled by the way his voice changed, it was softer, no less coarse, but less performative.

“But I won’t lie to you either,” he went on. “You’re mine now. You sleep in my bed. I don’t give a fuck what you thought marriage would look like, this ain’t some pretty little fantasy. This is real. We are real. And yeah—at some point, I’ll take what’s mine. But not like this. Not when you look like you’re about to fuckin’ bolt.”

You stood there, frozen between gratitude and humiliation, shame curdling in your gut like spoiled milk. You didn't want to sleep with him, but for some strange reason his rejection wounded your pride.

“So what now?” you asked quietly. “You wait a day? A week?”

Alfie set his glass down.

“No,” he said simply. “I wait ’til you say yes.”

You stared at him with desbelief.

“Don’t mistake me, love,” he added, stepping closer. “I’ll want you. Every night I’ll think about it. But I won’t force it. ’Cause once I’ve got you under me, yeah? I want you there because you chose to be. Because you finally realized this world’s mad, and maybe the devil you married ain’t the worst fuckin’ monster in it.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t move, but when he stripped off his clothes and sat down on the bed, legs wide, arms resting on his thighs, you didn’t run either. You walked slowly to the other side and sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, as you whispered your nighttime prayers, each word meant only for God to hear, until Alfie broke it with his graveled murmur.

“What you mumblin’ about, then?”

You didn’t open your eyes, bit down on your tongue before answering.

“I’m praying,” you said, voice calm, like you were still somewhere far away. “You don’t pray?”

“What for?” Alfie scoffed. “Already got everythin' I want. Though…” he drawled, tone turning wicked, “maybe I oughta ask Him for a wife who actually wants to fuck.”

You didn’t say anything, he just grinned to himself.

“You reckon that’s blasphemy?” he went on. “S’pose I should consult at the synagogue next time, yeah?”

“I thought… well… I thought religion would be more important to you.”

“It is,” he said, voice quieter now, less smug. He shrugged one shoulder. “Just don’t need to bloody pray every night, do I?”

He said it simply, like it wasn’t a contradiction. “Help the synagogue, donate to charity, give the lads jobs,” he muttered. “Don’t mean I need to be on my knees whisperin’ in Hebrew before bed. Faith’s not about sayin’ the words, it’s about how you live.”

You stared at him for a long beat, he was unrepentant, not angry, just unapologetically himself, after a few minutes you laid down, fully clothed, feeling the mattress shift as he lay beside you. He didn’t reach for you that night, didn’t speak, but long after you thought he was asleep, his voice came, low and sure in the dark:

“When you’re ready, yeah? You let me know.”

The silence in the house wasn’t empty, it was watching. Waiting.

So you busied yourself, that way you wouldn't have time to think. You scrubbed the floors, pressed linen, learned how to use the stove without scorching your hands. Started folding his shirts in the way he seemed to like, creased at the collar, sleeves flat, no starch. You began baking, not for him though, you told yourself, but for the house. For something warm to fill the void.

You started speaking to the housekeeper, then the grocer, then the boy who delivered the coal. Your voice didn’t tremble quite so much anymore.

You had stopped crying into your pillow.

That was… progress.

And Alfie—he noticed.

He didn’t say anything outright, but the way he looked at you changed. He watched you when you didn’t notice, when you pulled your hair back to knead dough, when you walked barefoot into the sun-warmed conservatory to dust the shelves, when you came home from the market with your cheeks flushed from the wind.

One night, while you peeled potatoes at the kitchen table, he leaned in the doorway and said nothing at all for a long, long time, just watched you work.

Eventually:

“You’re good at that.”

You looked up. “Peeling potatoes?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, and makin’ a place feel lived in.”

You blinked. That… almost sounded like praise, but you didn’t thank him, just kept peeling. He didn’t move.

The next morning, there was a new necklace on your dressing table, shiny and expensive, you didn’t wear it, but you didn’t throw it away either.

Two weeks later, it was raining, one of those endless downpours that went on for days. You lit candles in the sitting room and curled under a blanket with a book, determined not to watch the door like a soldier waiting for a breach.

When Alfie came in, soaked and steaming from the cold, you didn’t flinch, just looked up and raised a brow.

“Coat,” you said.

He blinked in confusion.

“You’re dripping all over my clean floor. Hang it up, or take it off and I’ll dry it.”

He smiled, not in his typical smug and amused way, no, this smile was a soft one.

He shrugged off the coat, hung it on the rack, and then hesitated for a second before speaking. “You readin’ anythin' good, then?”

You held up the book. “Murder mystery.”

“Any good ones in it?”

“No murders yet.”

He chuckled. “Bit slow, then.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not everything has to happen in the first few pages, sometimes you enjoy it more when you have to wait for it.”

He paused, thinking about what you said. And then he stepped closer, making the room feel smaller, the silence deafening.

You set the book down slowly and watched him with wary eyes as he sat down beside you, keeping his distance but still there. You could smell the cold on his skin, the faint tang of tobacco, the ghost of something herbal on his collar.

“I’ve been watchin’ you a lot lately,” he said at last.

“I know, I've noticed.”

“You’ve been tryin’, even though you hate it here.”

“I don’t hate it here.”

He turned his head. “Do you hate me?”

Silence.

Then: “Sometimes.”

His breath caught. But he nodded.

“That’s fair,” he murmured.

It was well past two in the morning when you heard the front door slam. The sound ricocheted through the house like a warning bell, heavy boots on old floorboards, a muffled curse, something glass breaking somewhere near the kitchen.

You sat up in bed, already knowing.

Alfie was drunk.

It wasn’t rare, He had come come home drunk a few other times before. But this—this sounded worse.

You hadn’t seen him since the morning. Just a brief grunt at breakfast, his beard brushing your cheek like an accidental promise, and then gone. Off to do God-knows-what with the kind of men who didn’t return home at all.

But he did, loudly.

You waited. You didn’t call for him. You didn’t get up.

And still—he came.

The door burst open so fast the handle hit the wall, and there he was: Alfie, eyes wild, cheeks flushed, coat half off, shirt wrinkled, and reeking of whisky and sweat and smoke.

“You’re awake,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like he’d chewed gravel all the way home.

You didn’t answer, you only stared, heart kicking in your ribs.

He leaned in the doorway, blinking slow. “Fuckin’ missed you.”

You raised a brow. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” he said, and chuckled, low and dry. “That obvious, innit?”

Then he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, and locking it.

Your breath caught. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer at first, he dragged a hand through his beard, eyes dragging over you where you sat in bed in nothing but your nightdress. The way his gaze darkened made your stomach twist.

“Alfie—”

“You look so soft tonight,” he murmured. “Warm.”

“I ain’t gonna fuck you,” he said quickly when he noticed the way your eyes widened, his voice was still harsh. “Don’t get scared. I remember what I said. I said I wouldn’t do it ’til you asked me to. Right?”

You nodded slowly, back pressing into the headboard.

“Right,” he breathed, pacing at the foot of the bed like a caged thing. “But I want to. Fuckin’ hell, I need to.”

You swallowed hard. “Then go to your office. Sleep it off.”

His head snapped toward you. “Don’t want to sleep it off. Want to sleep here. Want to be next to you, want to fuckin’—” He broke off, jaw tightening, knuckles white where his hands clenched at his sides. “—want to fuckin' touch my wife, put my mouth on every inch of you, love. Want to make you sob for it.”

You didn’t move, you didn’t tell him to stop. And maybe that was the mistake, because in the next breath, Alfie was at the side of the bed, kneeling on the mattress, crawling toward you with something dangerous in his eyes, something desperate, devout.

“You know I want you, yeah?” His voice was rough, slurred but clear enough. “Think about you all the fuckin’ time. In my head. In my hand.” He chuckled darkly, lips brushing the space just below your ear. “Like a bloody schoolboy.”

He climbed over you, one arm braced above your head, the other trembling where it gripped the sheets, he was so heavy you couldn't move if you tried. You could smell the liquor on him, bitter and sharp, but under it—him. Heat. Skin. Man.

“Alfie…”

“No, no, I know.” He exhaled against your neck. “You haven’t said yes. I fuckin’ remember.”

And yet he rocked his hips forward, slow and deliberate. Hot pressure through too much fabric, making you feel the shape of him, thick and hard straining his trousers, leaking through the front of his pants. He hissed at the friction, head dropping to your neck. You gasped at the feeling, it was strange, something you've never felt before.

“Fuckin’ look at me,” he growled, grinding forward just a fraction more. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Every night. Every fuckin’ day I don’t touch you, I get worse. You got me walkin’ around half-mad, wife.”

He rutted against you again, the thick bulge in his trousers dragging along the curve of your thighs, making you feel the way his cock ached for you, how the damp patch where his tip was grew, warm and wet through the fabric, starting to get your thighs wet with his pre-cum as well.

You were still clothed, he was still clothed, but it didn’t matter, his breath hitched with every slow grind. You felt the heat, the need pouring off him in waves. His hand stayed planted on the mattress beside you, clenched into a fist.

“Christ, I’m wound tight tonight,” he growled. “You’ve got no idea. Fuckin’ months without layin’ a hand on anyone. You know what that does to a man? Got all these animals in my head tellin’ me to take what’s mine, yeah? But I don’t. I won’t. I made a promise.”

His lips grazed your collarbone. “Don’t wanna hurt you. Don’t wanna break nothin’. Won’t fuck you,” he said, more to himself than to you, as if trying to make his drunk brain remember the promise he had made. “Won’t even touch you there. You didn’t say yes, so I don’t fuckin’ take. But fuck, I need this. Just this, alright? Let me have this, and I won’t ask for more. Not ’til you give it.”

He didn't wait for you to answer, he just rutted harder.

Not fast, not frantic. But deep, controlled, like he was trying to burn the edge off a craving without giving in fully. His hands shook where they gripped the pillow on either side of your head. He wasn’t being cruel, wasn't kissing you, wasn’t groping, wasn't trying to thrust against your entrance, he was just grinding, burying the weight of his clothed cock between your thighs, breathing like a man being smothered, rubbing himself off on your body like an animal in heat, moaning through gritted teeth

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gritted, teeth clenched. “Feels so good—God, you’re warm—fuckin’—”

You whimpered beneath him, helpless and frozen as his weight pinned you down.

Then his hands found your breasts. Big, rough palms cupping you through the thin nightdress, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they peaked under the fabric. He gripped them like they grounded him, like he might lose what little control he had left without the weight of you in his hands.

“Fuckin’ perfect tits,” he gasped. “Fuck, these tits’ll ruin me.”

Your name left his lips like a prayer, and you didn’t say stop, you never asked him to.

One last rut forward, hips jerking once, and you felt it, the way his body stilled, the sudden heat against your hip, wet and thick and unmistakably filthy, soaking through both layers of fabric. He had cum against you. Right there, fully clothed, grinding on your body like a man possessed.

His arms trembled and his breath caught. Then a full-body shudder ran through him, a final, broken exhale against your throat, like you'd given him enough pleasure, even without doing anything, to keep him satisfied through the night.

He collapsed over you, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

You laid there, stunned, heart pounding as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, limp with exhaustion, cock still twitching in the mess he’d made in his pants.

“Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely. “That felt nice.”

You said nothing, and yet, you didn’t push him away, you tried to convince yourself that it was because he weighted too much, but maybe it was because part of you wanted to be close to him.

His breathing slowed, body growing heavy over yours, one large hand slid up to rest over your ribs, thumb grazing the curve of your breast.

And then he fell asleep. Spent, drunk, quiet, still on top of you, trapping you under his body.

All you could do was lie there in the dark, burning beneath him—confused, aching—because you were furious that he’d used you like that, used your body to get off, didn’t even ask, didn’t even wait for your permission to use you like a fucking pillow, he just spilled on you like it was nothing and fell asleep on top of you like some overgrown, exhausted animal.

But you also wished he’d broken his promise and just taken you right then and there. You’d felt everything, the way he held back, the way he shook, the way he moaned your name like it hurt him not to bury himself inside you and fuck you until you cried.

And part of you wanted it. Desperately wanted it.

When you woke up the next morning, it took a moment to register the heat of his body, the weight of the man still on top of you.

Alfie.

Your body ached, skin stuck to the sheets where his sweat had soaked through. His beard scraped your throat as he breathed, mouth open against your pulse.

The events of the night came rushing back like a fist to the gut. The grinding. The touches. The groans. The way he came, right there, without ever taking off your clothes.

A wave of disgust, rage, and something more treacherous—shame—boiled up in your chest.

You shoved at him. “Get off.”

He groaned, half-asleep and barely coherent. “Mm—no. S’cold over there.”

“Alfie.”

You pushed harder, and he rolled with a heavy grunt, flopping onto his back with an arm flung across his face. The sheets slipped low over his hips, revealing the damp front of his trousers, making you grimace.

You sat up, shoved your nightdress down your thighs, and swung your legs out of bed with a sharp breath. “You promised.”

A groggy noise from behind you. “Didn’t fuckin’ break it, did I?”

You spun. “You used me.”

He blinked blearily through the hangover fog. “What?”

“Last night.” Your voice shook now. “You got on top of me, Alfie. You humped me like a goddamn dog and then just—passed out like I didn’t matter.”

He sat up fast, teeth bared. “You’re my wife.”

You flinched at the word, his jaw clenched at your reaction, and his voice dropped low and guttural. “I didn’t fuck you. I wanted to, yeah, fuckin’ hell, you’ve no idea how bad—but I kept my fuckin’ promise, didn’t I? I didn’t put me cock in you, I didn’t even pull your clothes off, I—”

“You came on me!,” you hissed.

He paused. “Yeah. I fuckin’ did. Because I’ve got a wife that won’t let me touch her, and I’m going out of my mind, alright? Every day you walk around in those little fuckin’ dresses, all soft and sweet and terrified of me like I’m some beast in the attic—yeah, forgive me, love, if I lose myself a little.”

You stepped back like he’d slapped you. “You are a beast.”

He laughed sharp and bitter. “Course I am. And you’re the sacrificial lamb, yeah? Dragged to the altar by your precious daddy so I’d forgive his debts and leave his balls intact.”

“I never asked you to marry me.”

“And I never asked to be punished every night by a virgin wife too proud to admit she wants me back!”

That silenced you, because deep down, you knew he was right.

He stood, staggering slightly, and you were instantly too aware of his size, his naked chest where the shirt was hanging open, the sheer heat that poured off him like smoke from a forge. He walked toward you—slow, dangerous.

You didn’t move.

“I could’ve given two fucks whether you wanted it or not,” he said lowly, voice like gravel, thick with threat and truth. “Could’ve had you cryin’ and beggin’ ‘til the neighbors think I’m killin’ you—and still I wouldn’t’ve stopped. You know why? ’Cause it’s my right, yeah? As your fuckin’ husband. Mine to take whenever I please. I could’ve fucked you, could’ve split you open with me cock. But I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman here. I’m not a monster who’d take you against your will.”

You shook your head in anger, looking at him as if he was that monster he was trying so hard to deny he was.

“FUCK!” he shouted, punching the wardrobe so hard it splintered. “Fuckin’ Christ.”

You flinched, not from fear, but from the sound, from the violence he was trying not to aim at you.

He pointed a shaking finger at you. “You ever want me like that—properly—you say it. Cause I'm losin' my fuckin' mind here, love. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t pretend you’re takin’ a man who’s gentle. I ain’t. I’m a gangster. I’m a beast. And I’ve been good. I’ve been so fuckin’ good—but I’m slippin’, love.”

You looked away, you felt confused and overwhelmed.

“I’m not sorry for wantin’ you,” he said quietly. “But I am sorry if I scared you.”

His hand rose, hovered near your jaw, then stopped. “Tell me to fuck off,” he whispered. “And I will.”

Silence.

Your voice, when it came, was barely audible: “I hate you.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Well. That’s somethin’.” Without another word, he turned and left the room barefoot and half-dressed.

You stayed frozen, feeling agry and confused

But worst of all—aroused.

You didn’t speak to him for three days. Not a word.

Not even when he brought you breakfast and left it on your nightstand with a muttered grunt. Not when he started knocking before entering the bedroom, even though it was technically his. Not even when you caught him—twice—lingering outside the library, watching you read like a feral dog might eye a piece of meat he wasn’t allowed to touch.

And Alfie, for once in his life, took it. He didn’t push or yell, or drown the loneliness in a drink, which worried you more than it should have.

You weren’t expecting flowers or an apology in ink. You weren’t even sure what you wanted from him, if anything. But on the fourth morning, you came downstairs to find something new. A loaf of bread sitting on the counter, charred black on one side.

And a note.

“Tried to bake this for you, right. Turns out ovens are tricky bastards. You don’t have to eat it, but I’d be very fuckin’ flattered if you at least threw it at my head.”

—Alfie (your husband, allegedly)

You stared at it, then stared at the hunk of ruined bread, too burnt at the edges, not looking inviting at all.

Then… almost—almost—smiled.

You didn’t throw it, but you didn’t eat it either.

Later that evening, you walked past the study, and caught him talking to Cyril.

“Now listen, mate,” Alfie murmured to the big dog sprawled across the rug. “She hates me now, yeah, and that’s fair. I did a bit of a… a madness, right? A misstep, as the posh cunts would say. But what the fuck do I do, Cyril? She don’t like flowers. Don’t like whisky. Don’t like me…”

You paused in the hall, heart thudding at how endearingly sweet the scene was.

“Can’t go buy her a bloody diamond every week I fuck up. Not ‘til she lets me touch her, at least. That’d be bad economics.”

Cyril sneezed.

“Exactly,” Alfie said. “Ungrateful little thing, yeah?”

Another sneeze.

“…Yeah, alright, mate. That was out of line.”

You left before he saw you, but two days later, there was a folded note tucked beneath your pillow.

“What did the grape say when it got stepped on? Nothing. It just let out a little wine.”

The handwriting was careful, as if he’d practiced it. Lately he'd decided that the best way to win a woman back wasn't by baking burnt bread for her, but perhaps by making her laugh, so every time he was around you he told you a joke, each one worse than the other, most of them not even making sense at all, stuff only Alfie would find amusing.

You refused to laugh, every single time. You absolutely refused. But at breakfast, Alfie caught your eye and held your gaze a moment too long.

He smirked. “Told you it was a fuckin’ good joke.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He blinked, Sitting up straighter. “Was that—did you just speak to me?”

“I insulted you.”

“Yeah, but you spoke, didn’t you?”

You stabbed your eggs with a fork. “Don’t make it a moment.”

He grinned. “Too late. Burned it into my memory already, love.”

You tried not to look amused. Failed, maybe, just a little. Alfie didn’t press it, but he did hum under his breath as he ate, some old tune you couldn’t place. And when he got up to leave the table, he paused beside your chair, his hand brushed your shoulder, just once, just barely.

“You wanna throw that bread at me now, by the way,” he murmured, “you’re welcome to. Still got the bruise on my pride.”

You looked up at him, and for once, he looked almost human, almost like a man you could sympathize with.

One night, he stepped in while you read on the couch.

“Any good?” he asked, nodding toward the book in your lap.

You didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

“Romance?”

“Crime.”

He chuckled, then walked slowly toward the fire and knelt, stacking logs with surprising grace for a man whose hands had likely broken skulls. “You ever read any of the Sherlock Holmes stuff?” he asked casually.

You blinked. “Yes.”

“I liked that Watson fella. Didn’t seem like a tosser. And he had a wife, right? Must’ve meant he was halfway tolerable.”

You fought the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “You don’t need to be tolerable to have a wife, apparently.”

That earned a low grunt. He lit the fire, the glow casting flickers of gold across the sharp lines of his face, for a moment, he didn’t look at you.

Then he stood, brushing ash from his palms with deliberate slaps. “Yeah, well,” he said, turning toward you with a glint in his eye, “lucky for you, I never claimed to be tolerable.”

He didn’t sit, not yet. Just hovered near the hearth, like a lost little puppy, eyes flickering between the flames and you.

“Would you mind terribly,” he said at last, “if I sit here?”

You sighed but nodded toward the armchair opposite yours. “It’s your house.”

His eyes narrowed, smile playing on his mouth. “It’s our house.”

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t correct him again either.

He sank into the armchair with a groan, stretching out like a lion basking in heat. “Fuckin’ knees are shite lately,” he muttered.

“Probably from years of kneeling on people’s necks.”

That made him bark a laugh. “You’re funny when you’re cruel,” he said. “Almost makes me hard.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Alfie.”

“What?” he shrugged. “I said almost. I’m being respectful. Practicin’ restraint, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t as brittle this time.

He said, quieter: “You used to flinch when I came near.”

Your fingers tensed on the pages of your book.

“I still see it, sometimes. That little breath you hold.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe I still don’t fully trust you.”

“That’s fair.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. “But I think you want to.”

You met his eyes. He was right, and that made you angry, because he could see you too well.

You stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

He followed, of course he followed, but when you reached the bedroom door, he didn’t push past you, he just waited again, watching you.

You slipped inside and he came in after, slower, quieter than ever. You moved to your side of the bed, pulled your nightdress over your head and slipped beneath the covers, back to him.

Alfie changed with his usual graceless muttering—buttons, belts, boots hitting the floor with heavy thuds. And then the mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed in beside you, your body stiffened, he was closer than usual, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

He exhaled. “Can I touch your hand?”

You blinked in the dark. “What?”

“Just your hand. Nothin’ filthy. Just… touch.”

It was so absurdly gentle, it almost hurt.

“…Fine,” you murmured, turning around to face him now.

A long pause, and then warm, rough fingers brushed against yours beneath the sheets. His palm slid beneath your hand, letting your fingers rest lightly atop his., you could feel him trembling. Just barely.

“You cold?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“No,” he said softly. “Just nervous.”

You looked at him, his face was barely visible in the low moonlight, but he was watching you steadily.

“I’m not a romantic man,” he said. “Not by nature. But I’ve been tryin’, yeah? To be… somethin’ close to it.”

You didn’t speak, he took your silence as a sign to lean in closer to you, not close enough to kiss, just close enough that his breath ghosted your cheek.

“May I ask you somethin’?”

“…What?”

His voice, now barely a whisper: “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart jumped, and your first instinct was to say no, but something in the way he asked, not demanding, not smug or coaxing, just raw and wanting, made your voice fail.

You didn’t answer right away, but you didn’t move away either, that was a start, and after a long moment he leaned in, closing the distance between you two, slow and careful, testing the waters first.

You felt his mouth touching yours, just once, just a little dry and reverent press of his lips on yours. He didn’t try to deepen the kiss. Didn’t try to slide a hand up your thigh or into your nightdress. He just kissed you like it was something sacred.

When he pulled back, he exhaled shakily.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You turned away before he could see your expression—but you didn’t pull your hand from his. And that night, for the first time, you slept pressed against him, not as strangers.

But as two people… trying.

Alfie kept trying to impress you, he kept crowding you with gifts or jokes, but most important, he was there. Always there, a warm presence at your side, a coat draped over your shoulders before you thought to ask, a hand brushing your lower back as you passed in tight spaces, a low murmur of “good night, love” every time the candles burned low and you both drifted to your shared bed.

And you… you had stopped flinching. You’d stopped pulling away when he reached for the sugar you were holding. You’d stopped holding your breath when he sat beside you, his leg touching yours, heavy and warm and real. You’d stopped avoiding his gaze when he looked at you like he wanted you, not with entitlement, but with aching, patient hunger.

So the night when it finally happened was like breathing after holding it for too long.

It was raining hard, and like most rainy nights you were curled on the sofa in the library, blanket wrapped around your legs, a book open in your lap—but unread, for some reason you felt different, unable to focus, your mind kept drifting to him.

Alfie came in without knocking, he’d been in the cellar, you guessed, because he smelled faintly of dust and aged barrels.

He paused in the doorway, then stepped inside. “Storm’s a bastard tonight.”

You nodded. “Feels like the house is groaning.”

He eyed the thunder outside. “Built to withstand worse, this place. Like its mistress.”

That made your lips twitch. “You’re calling me a creaky old mansion?”

“I’m sayin’ you’ve got good bones,” he said, grinning. “And secrets in the walls.”

You laughed quietly, reluctant, but you didn’t stop him when he walked over and sat beside you, you didn’t move when his thigh pressed against yours, warm through the blanket.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was waiting for the storm that was to come.

And then you said, barely above a whisper: “You’re not what I thought.”

He turned to you slowly. “Yeah?”

“I thought you’d take what you wanted. First night. Without asking.”

His jaw tightened. “I wanted to. God, love, you don’t even know—”

“I know.”

Your hand found his on the blanket, lacing your fingers through his, purposefully this time.

“I thought I’d hate you forever,” you said. “For taking me like this. A deal. A transaction.”

“And now?”

You looked up at him, you were suddenly aware of how close his mouth was, how his eyes were searching for yours, with hunger, yes, but also waiting for you.

“I don’t hate you.”

His throat bobbed with a swallowed breath, you moved your hand up, traced the edge of his beard, then the rough line of his jaw.

"What are you thinkin' about, love?"

“I think,” you said slowly, “I’d like to kiss my husband.”

His eyes snapped open, blazing. But even then, he didn’t pounce, he just sat there, trembling slightly, until you leaned in and pressed your mouth to his. And it was nothing like the chaste brush he’d given you before. This was hungry, wet, hot.

He groaned—deep in his chest—and his hand flew to your waist, tugging you into him like he’d been starving and you were the only thing on earth that could feed him.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting, exploring. One of your hands gripped his shoulder, the other tangled in his curls, and he shuddered under your touch. You climbed onto his lap without thinking, so bold it even surprised yourself, straddling him, your mouth never leaving his.

When he pulled back his breath was ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. “Love,” he rasped, “if you keep this up, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose my mind.”

“I want to do it.”

He froze. You could feel the way his whole body tensed beneath you.

“What?”

You licked your lips. Your voice shook, but your eyes didn’t.

“I’m ready, Alfie. I want to do this. With you. I want to seal this… properly. You’ve waited and you’ve been patient. And now I’m ready.”

His hands gripped your thighs like he didn’t believe it. He stood, lifting you with him, and carried you through the hall like you weighed nothing, mumbling under his breath, fuckin' hell, finally, fuck me, yes.

By the time he laid you down gently on the bed, both of you were shaking, not from nerves, not from fear, but from sheer, unbearable need. And when he leaned down to kiss you again, it was no longer about obligation. It was choice. It was yours.

You watched him hover above you, broad shoulders tight with restraint as he looked down with eyes that burned. He wasn’t touching you, not yet, he was scared of making the same mistake he'd made the night he came home drunk.

You reached up, fingers trembling, brushing his jaw. “Alfie,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

“It fuckin’ ain’t though. I don’t wanna hurt you, darlin’. I don’t. I swear to God, I’m… I ain’t never done this, not like this—not with a woman who’s a—”

“I want you.”

His hands came to your waist as soon as you said those words, he was still being slow and cautious, thumbs stroking gentle circles over your hips like you were something sacred. His mouth coaxed yours open, tongues brushing, lips parting again and again, your hands threading through his hair, gripping tight as he deepened the kiss.

He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest, each touch reverent, aching, like worship. He undressed you piece by piece, pausing after each layer, like he was unwrapping a gift too precious to rush.

You gasped when he reached your breasts, tongue flicking across a nipple as his hand gently kneaded the other, like he was learning your body by feel alone.

“Beautiful, you are,” he muttered against your skin, voice suddenly reverent. “Jesus Christ, just—look at you. Every bloody inch of you, it’s like… it’s like you was made to ruin me.”

And then he bent, mouth trailing fire down your stomach, until you gasped from the heat of his tongue, your thighs clenching involuntarily. His hands stayed slow, big and calloused, but shaking a little as they smoothed over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. You could see the effort it took him to go slow and be gentle, how tightly he was wound, fighting every instinct to just take.

He was so used to commanding, claiming, but here—now—he was trying to learn you, to please you and be soft. Even when it was something he had never cared about before, he wanted to try, for you.

His mouth was on yours again in a second, rougher this time, hands gripping your hips, pulling you into him. You moaned when you felt how obscenely hard he already was, the thick line of him pressing insistently against your lower belly through his trousers.

“I’ve been fuckin’ patient, yeah?” he rasped, mouth hot against yours. “Good as gold. Slept beside you all them nights like some bloody monk, I did, achin’ the whole fuckin’ time. You got the faintest clue what that does to a man like me, eh? Do ya?”

“I think I do,” you said, hand sliding down, brushing against the hard length of him, making him moan. “But I want you to show me.”

He shed the rest of his clothes, chest rising and falling like a man on the brink of something feral. Alfie held himself up on shaking arms, looking down at you like he didn’t know what to do, looking weirdly lost, which surprised you, because you were sure that he was a deeply experienced man, he exuded confidence in every area of his life, you guessed it wouldn't be any different in bed.

He let out a groan, pressing his forehead to your chest. “Fuckin’ hell. I ain’t—look, I ain’t built for the slow shit, right? That ain’t me. Usually get myself a bird who wants it rough, quick, messy—job done, yeah? And I’m gone. But you…” He exhaled hard, voice cracked with effort. “You got me tryin’, love. You got me fuckin’ tryin’.“

“I know,” you said, your hand sliding into his curls, holding him to you. “Just… let's start slow, maybe you could... touch me a little first.”

He nodded and moved down your body, pressing a kiss to the crease of your thigh, then used one hand to gently part your folds, exposing your aching core to the air.

His breath hitched, sharp and reverent. “Ohh—fuckin’ hell, look at you, darlin’. Down ‘ere, yeah? You’re so fuckin’ pretty down ‘ere I could lose my fuckin’ mind. Christ Almighty…”

You flushed at the compliment, one you never expected to recieve, your hips were squirming, but his hand settled on your stomach, grounding you. His other hand moved slow, two fingers gliding along your slickness, testing how wet you were.

“Gotta—gotta make sure you’re ready, right?” he muttered, more to himself than you, hands tentative like they were touching sacred ground. “Can’t just go in rough like some savage bastard, nah—little thing like you, I’d split you in half.” He laughed, low and disbelieving.

He rubbed soft, teasing circles around your clit, barely there at first, his touch was exploratory, careful as if you might break. His gaze never left your face, rejoicing in the way you bit your lip and closed your eyes with pleasure.

You gasped, hips lifting instinctively, and he moaned.

“That’s it, yeah? You like that?”

You nodded breathlessly, teeth catching your lip.

“Ain’t never had nothin’ up this tight little cunt before, have ya?” he rasped. “Tell me, love—yeah? You ever even touched yourself down here, hmm? Ever made that sweet little body cum on your own fingers—or were you just sittin’ there, waitin’, savin’ it for some sorry sod like me to come along and fuckin’ ruin it?”

“I’ve… I’ve never,” you muttered.

He kept rubbing, thumb joining in, building a rhythm, not too fast, not too hard. Just right. Intentional. Learning you. The pads of his fingers slick with your arousal, moving with growing confidence.

And then, slowly—gently, he slid one thick finger inside you. You gasped again, more from surprise than pain, the sudden fullness making your eyes flutter.

He froze. “Too much?”

“No,” you breathed. “Just… different.”

“Alright,” he whispered, kissing your inner thigh again, his lips lingering like a promise. “You tell if it hurts, yeah?”

His finger curled slightly, and he started to move it, slow, shallow pumps, coaxing you open, soft groans slipping from his mouth as your warmth swallowed him in.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, hips grinding against nothing, jaw clenched like he was tryin’ to hold himself back. “So fuckin’ tight, darlin’, I don’t even know how I’m s’posed to fit inside you, yeah? Gonna wreck me tryin’…”

He added a second finger, and your eyes fluttered shut. It stung a little, the stretch was invasive, but he was patient. He pumped them carefully, fingers curling to search for that sweet spot inside you.

“Tell me what you like, yeah?” he whispered. “Tell me how to make it good for you.”

Your hips rolled up to meet his hand. “Right there—when you curl them…”

His mouth dropped open, watching you with something like awe as he obeyed, moving his fingers just like you asked him to.

“Fuckin’ hell… just—look at you,” he breathed, eyes dragging down your body like it was scripture. “So bloody pretty like this, ain’t ya? All warm, open, soft as sin… all mine, yeah? All fuckin’ mine.”

You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit again. He paused.

“That too?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—keep going.”

He did, tracing soft circles with careful pressure, watching your face every second. You were panting, arching your back in delight, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted. You could see how badly he wanted to lose control, how his cock twitched hard as he tried to restain himself, he wanted to pleasure you first.

“Takin’ me so fuckin’ well, too,” he murmured, voice thick and half-wrecked. “Like your body’s got its own bloody mind, yeah? Like it wants me… wants to keep me locked in there for good.”

“Alfie…” you moaned, hips rocking helplessly, chasing his touch.

“I want you to cum for me, yeah?” he whispered. “Can you do that, love? Right here, just like this, before I even fuckin’ take you? Want you to fall apart first, all soft and needy for me—need to see it, need to know you’re ready for what’s comin’.”

It was like your body had instantly obeyed him, cumming hard, overwhelmed by how good it felt, his name ripped from your throat, body clenching around his fingers, thighs squeezing his wrist like a vice.

“That’s it… fuckin’ look at you… that’s my wife…”

He kissed you hard, tongue sliding into your mouth, still working his fingers inside you, breath hitching against your cheek.

When he pulled back, both of you were panting.

“You feel ready, love,” he rasped, voice nearly undone. “So ready I’m barely holdin’ it together. Still want me to, yeah? You want this?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “I want you, Alfie.”

You looked down for a second. His cock was thick and heavy, flushed dark with arousal. Probably too big, you knew women liked men well-endowed, but in that moment you wished he were a bit smaller. He positioned himself between your thighs, holding the base, dragging the head slowly through your slick folds, soaking himself in you.

“That’s not… gonna fit.”

He gave you a wicked smile, then started to stroke himself, slow and slick with your wetness. “It’ll fit, love. Might stretch a bit. Might sting. But I’ll make it good, yeah? Proper good. You’ll be beggin’ for it before I’m done, swear on me fuckin’ life.”

And then he began to slide in, inch by aching inch, every muscle in his body trembling. He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he eased inside. Even with you being wet and open, you tensed at the stretch, it was so much, and your body was trying to catch up, trying to adjust to his size, your walls struggled to accommodate him inside you.

Alfie stopped instantly, noticing your discomfort.

“Talk to me,” he said, voice tight.

“I’m okay. Just… go slow.”

He nodded, jaw clenched so hard it twitched. He pushed in another inch, and you gripped his arms, nails digging in as the uncomfortable feeling intensified.

“Sorry—sorry, right, fuckin’ hell,” he gasped out, mouth everywhere, kissing your cheek, your jaw, anywhere he could land. “Jesus Christ, you’re tight, love. Like this sweet little virgin cunt was built special—for me. Yeah? For me.”

Once he was buried fully inside, he stayed still, panting, forehead pressed to yours, trying hard to keep it together, to not succumb to the warm and hard way you were gripping his cock.

“Just gimme a sec—yeah? Just—fuckin’ don’t move. Can’t bloody move yet or I’m gonna fuckin’ embarrass myself, I swear.”

You whimpered under him, your cunt starting to adapt to the feeling of having his thickness inside you. And before you realized, the burn fade into something full and deep and perfect.

You rolled your hips, wanting to feel more of him, and that was all it took for Alfie to snap.

He moaned, deep and broken, and began to move. Still slow—but each thrust was deeper, more deliberate, until you were gasping his name and clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

“That’s it… that’s it,” he gasped, hips trembling against yours. “My good girl, yeah? Fuckin’ takin’ me like you were made for it. Jesus—feels like you’re squeezin’ me in a bloody fist.”

He was everywhere, his mouth on your neck, hands gripping your hips, voice in your ear whispering things that made you ache all over, how good you felt, how he’d never had anything like this, how you were his wife now and he’d never let you go.

“You’re mine now. You hear me? My wife. My fuckin’ wife. No one else sees you like this. No one else touches you like this. Not now. Not ever.”

He pulled almost all the way out—just the tip inside—and then pushed back in, groaning loud as he filled you again. Deeper. Thicker.

“Still alright?” he asked, though his voice had turned darker, laced with possession.

“Yes.”

That one word unleashed him.

“Good girl,” he rasped again, nose brushing your cheek, voice shaking. “So fuckin’ warm. So perfect. Christ—I’ve dreamt about this. You underneath me, beggin’ for it. You like that, yeah? Like havin’ your husband’s cock inside you? My filthy little thing…”

He had managed to keep his thrusts slow so far, but they began to get heavier, and the drag of his cock made your legs instantly lift to wrap around his waist.

“You tryin’ to kill me, eh? Wrappin’ them bloody thighs round me like that? Gonna make me lose it right here—inside ya.”

“Ngggh, oh God” you whispered. “So big, Alfie…”

“Yeah, well. You’ll get used to it, won’t you? Cunt’s already openin’ up like she knows what’s good for her. Knows who she fuckin’ belongs to now.”

You whimpered, his mouth falled to your shoulder, pressing hot kisses along your skin. “You’re doin’ so well, love,” he murmured. “Lettin’ me in. Lettin’ me take you like this. Fuckin’ hell, I’ll carry this in my bones till I’m in the grave, I will.”

He started to thrust with more rhythm now—deep, steady, rocking your hips into the mattress. And all the while he kept talking to you, his voice right at your ear, a mix of filth and reverence, sweet nothings tangled with obscene praise.

“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding in even deeper, making your breath catch. “That’s me—all the way in, yeah? Right where I fuckin’ belong. Perfect little cunt drivin’ me insane, I’m gettin’ drunk on it.”

You clung to him, gasping as he angled his hips and suddenly…

“Fuck, there—” you cried, digging your nails into his back.

“Ohhh, there it is… yeahhh, that’s it, that’s your spot, innit?” He gave a dark, satisfied chuckle, watching you fall apart under him. “There she is. My wife. My perfect little wife, makin’ all those filthy fuckin’ noises just for me. Gonna make ’em every night now, yeah?”

You were shaking again, body coiling tight. Every thrust now pressed into that spot inside you, his pelvis grinding against your clit just enough to make your body tighten and coil all over again. The pleasure was so dizzying you could barely keep your eyes open, your lips falling open with every gasp.

“You’re gonna cum again, love?” he murmured, voice all pride and hunger. “That’s my girl. Let me feel it this time. Cum on my cock—let me know it’s mine. I want it all, yeah? Every last fuckin’ drop.”

Your body arched, hips rolling helplessly against his, and you moaned—loud and unashamed—as the orgasm took you. Hot and fast and full, clenching around him so tight he growled into your shoulder, making his hips stutter.

“F-fuck—fuckin’ hell, you’re squeezin’ me so good, I—” His voice cracked, fingers digging into your hips. “Can I? Can I cum inside you, love? Gonna let your husband fill you up, yeah? Want me to fuckin’ stay in you when I cum?”

“Yes, Alfie—please—yes.”

He didn’t last long, not with how tight and new and real it all was. He spilled inside you with a ragged moan, trembling as he emptied himself, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled every drop, staying buried deep, gasping your name against your lips.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed deep, full, and warm, kissing your face, your shoulders, your lips, making you feel loved like you've never had before, like you didn't know you could ever feel the day you were forced to marry him.

“Christ,” he whispered, “married life, yeah? Didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You buried your face in his chest, your heart still racing.

“Me neither.”

A/N: Who would’ve thought that 13-year-old me—writing fanfics where your parents sold you to One Direction would still be doing the same thing ten years later? lol

Thank you so much for the request, I really hope you liked it!🫶🏻🩷 I loved writing this so much!!! Every time I went back to it I ended up writing like a thousand more words (that’s why it got so long) ahhh I can’t help it I love writing for Alfie. I’ve got two more requests I’m starting to work on, one for Harry and another for Alfie, so expect those in the next few weeks.

@ohthisisanna

requests by: @/saradika-graphics

[tongueinatree]

Hiiiii i have a request 😛

bob floyd gets a concussion and is flustered and embarrassed when wife!reader tells him they’re married, and he doesn’t believe her because she’s so pretty

muaahahahaha😈😈😈 I absolutely loveee this !!!

warnings/tags: v minimal hospital stuff, anxious reader, (y/n) used like twice, fluff, bob is sooo in love lololl, very quick nsfw mention, also bob is southern because I SAID SO, reader is lowkey southern too cause i am and i’m projecting🥀

wc: 1.2k

a/n: sighhh i love bob so much, this was so fun to write :] thank you for the req !! plsss keep them comin !

It wasn't very often you were invited on base. You aren't not allowed there, you just never really had much of a reason to spend the day over there. So that's why you're a little fidgety as you make your way through the parking lot of the small hospital on base. That, and you had received a worrying phone call this morning.

You were lounging at home- enjoying your day off- when your phone rang. You recognized the number from the very few times you had been called by one of your husband's supervisors. A doctor had informed you that your husband had had to make an emergency eject during training and hit his head pretty hard.

You had panicked immediately but the doctor assured you Bob would be just fine; he just has a fairly serious concussion and his memory and motor skills are a bit wonky at the moment. You finished up the phone call and rushed over as quickly as you could.

You aren't waiting in the lobby very long before a nurse leads you back to your husband's room. Your heart almost breaks at the sight of him in his hospital bed, looking absolutely pitiful. He's sitting up slightly with his head tilted back facing the ceiling, his eyes closed and his breathing a bit slower than usual.

"Bobby? Honey, how're you feeling?" You're by his side in an instant, one hand caressing his arm and the other brushing along his forehead as his eyes flutter a few times before his head tilts toward you. His eyes are a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but he's still got that light he's always had- like the sun itself has taken root in him and couldn't help but shine through. "'m doin' okay, how're you?" He mumbles, his tone completely serious. You can't help but laugh at him; those southern manners imbedded deep in him. "I'm okay, just worried bout you, Bobby." You run your fingers along the edge of a small bandage on his forehead, before turning and reaching for his glasses.

Carefully, you slide them onto his face and watch in amusement as his mouth drops open. You go to speak, but he beats you to it; "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A pretty flush rises to his cheeks and his eyes stay wide open, like he doesn't want to blink and miss any microexpression you might make.

"Oh, thank you, handsome." You grin, cupping his chin with one hand and leaning in to brush your lips against his gently. You're shocked when his shaky arms do what they can to push you away- there's not much force behind his wobbly movements, but you back away and look down at him with furrowed brows. "Nonononono, stop stop- 'm married." He frantically tries to get out despite the slur in his voice.

"Baby-" You start, fighting the giggle in your voice. He shakes his head, a beautiful pout taking over his features. "I love my wife. She's perfect- you gotta back up." His eyes screw shut, he turns his head away from you, and his shaky hands rub his eyes. "Her name's (y/n), she's fuckin' great- pardon my l-language." He mumbles, mostly to himself at this point.

"Bob. My name is (y/n). My last name's Floyd. I'm your wife." You reach out to gently grasp his wrists. Bob whips his head toward you so fast he's dizzy for a few moments. You keep your eyes on him, unsure whether to laugh or call for a nurse. Once his eyes really focus on you he seems to deflate, his arms falling to his lap and his cheeks quickly heat up a bright red. He looks.. nervous. "You okay?" You hum, slowly reaching out for him.

A beat of silence passes before he opens his mouth, his bottom lip trembling, "I missed youuu." He finally says- his hand shooting out to meet yours. He overshoots it a bit, though, and smacks your shoulder. You let out a relieved laugh, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers together. God, he really scared you for a second. "You're really my wife? How?" He asks, looking absolutely amazed as you run your fingers along his cheekbones.

"It's a very long story, Bobby. But I love you." You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He lets out a dreamy sigh, reaching up with his free hand to grip onto your shoulder. "Yeah? God, you're so pretty." He blinks up at you, unable to fight the smile on his face.

For a moment, you're stunned by just how beautiful he is- pink cheeks, wide eyes, and a boyish grin; a little beat up and bruised but easily the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. You chest seems to swell up with all the love you feel for your husband. You feel a tugging at your shirt and realize he's said something to you. "Sorry, what'd you say, honey?"

"'m tryna sweep you off your feet, sweetheart- you're makin' it hard." Bob grumbles, letting go of your hand to grip at the front of your shirt so he can tug you down with both arms. You let out a breathy laugh, allowing him to pull you closer. "I'm so very sorry." You grin against his lips before giving in.

He tastes the same, he's got the usual enthusiasm, his technique's just a bit wonky. You honestly wouldn't change it for the world. The kiss only breaks when he's gasping and you have to push him away or he won't stop. It's his favorite thing- drowning in you; in your eyes, your lips, your pussy. God, just the thought of having you has blood rushing to his dick so fast he's a bit lightheaded.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips before you're pulling back and turning to grab a chair. "Doctor said you gotta spend the night here so-"

"Need my pillow- need to move my pillow." Bob's voice is urgent when he interrupts you and you're letting go of the chair and running your eyes over him to see if anything's changed. "Where? Are you okay? You hurting?" You question him as you carefully slide the pillow out from behind him. He just furrows his brows and chews on his lip as you hold the pillow beside him for a moment. "Where do you want it, Bobby?" You repeat, worry clawing up your throat.

"My lap." One of his wobbly arms grabs onto the pillow and tugs it toward him- you don't let go just yet, your fear turning to confusion. A "Huh?" tumbles from your lips and Bob is grinning. "So pretty, my wife.. Gave me a kiss and I popped a boner." He sighs, still fighting with you for the pillow as he starts to giggle to himself over the word 'boner'.

You let go of the pillow with an incredulous laugh and watch as he settles it over his lap. Surely there's no way he's at full mast with all the pain meds in his system- you almost want to check- but you just shake your head and settle into the chair next to his hospital bed. You thread your fingers with his and settle your head onto his boner-hiding pillow, keeping your eyes on his as he traces his unsteady fingers along your features.

Bob stares at you in wonder, wondering what he could've done to ever possibly deserve having you. "My wife." He murmurs, reverently, like he can't quite believe it.

"Maybe we'll renew our vows when you aren't so hopped up on pain meds."

[tongueinatree]

Reckoning (Sylus x Zayne Love and Deepspace Fic / Sylus x Zayne x Reader Fic) 

Pairing: Sylus x Zayne / Sylus x Zayne x Reader (polyamorous)

Fandom: Love and Deepspace, lnds, LADS, L&DS 

Fic Series: starlight trio (Part 2) 

Word Count:  3.4k

Warnings: fluff, angst, no NSFW material. Not canon compliant. Profanity is used. Canon-typical violence / Guns and gun violence are featured. Night terrors are mentioned.

Description: Zayne’s been in love with you for what feels like forever, and he doesn't intend on that changing. Zayne hadn’t realised that that love could expand to include Sylus, too. Until now.   

Author's Note: Main character is gender neutral. No use of "Y/N" but the second person (“you”) is used and “__” in the place of a given name and they/them/their (by Sylus and Zayne). The reader/main character's appearance is not described.  

POV is third person omniscient, addressing the reader and following Zayne.

Zayne, Sylus and the reader are in (the beginning) of an ethical throuple/polyamorous relationship. This fic focuses on Zayne x Sylus, with the MC being absent. 

Not beta read.

I’m not caught up with the main story/playthrough, just drawing on everything up until Sylus’s myth. Count this an alternate universe of sorts, regardless. SPOILERS for everything up in the game up until this Sylus’s myth. 

Comments, likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!

All my work, including this fic, is copyright protected. You do not have permission to copy, repost or translate my work! You also do not have permission to submit this work into any AI model or software. Disregarding any one of these stipulations is illegal.

Reckoning (Zayne x Sylus fic / Zayne x Sylus x Reader fic)

Zayne’s never too selfish; Zayne never overplays his hand in hopes of meeting with a pliant and generous fortune. Ironically, this altruism is what pushes him straight into Sylus’s arms. 

Furthermore, Zayne’s life is a tale of caution. Every decision he makes is born of several carefully undertaken equations, of several layers and layers of forethought. And above all, there has to be some sort of payoff. Though, in truth, this balance is usually skewed towards the greater good and against Zayne himself. If seven lives are saved in return for a week of  agonizing night terrors, so be it.  

Zayne’s got you, of course. He hadn’t expected that (see again: good fortune). But then came Sylus, too – albeit via you – and now… Now, Zayne’s confused. Now he wants so intensely.

All of this – it’s what leads him to the N109 Zone on a dull, ordinary Friday.  

Getting into the N109 Zone at night is easy enough, but then again, Zayne’s not a renowned surgeon for no reason. Surgical skill doesn’t simply call for steady and precise hands. It also requires steely resolve and a mind given to problem solving. And if there’s one thing that Zayne Li is, it’s an overachiever. Not that Zayne isn’t careful, though. He wears nondescript, all black clothing that’s totally at odds with his work clothes – sweats and a peak cap – and keeps his head down. He’s got only your directions to go off of, so finding Sylus’s residence takes a while. 

When he arrives at the threshold, he’s promptly intercepted by Luke and Kieran, though Zayne doesn’t know who’s who, especially with their crow masks. One of the twins releases a low cackle at the sight of him. The other tilts his head. Zayne knows he’s considering something. 

They’re armed, because of course they are, but Zayne’s surprised to feel nothing beyond apathy at the sight of their weapons. Besides – his Evol’s enough.

Zayne clears his throat, tugs the cap lower over his brow, “I’m Z.” The alias feels strange on his tongue, like a too-sour sweet. Still, the alias was decided on by the three of you. At first, you’d suggested “Ice Man” but that’s too obvious a reference to Zayne’s Evol, whereas “Z” could be anyone.   

When neither one of the twins moves, Zayne continues, “I’m not sure if Sylus… if your boss mentioned me.” 

A beat of silence. Zayne adds, “I was here once before.”  

One of the twins – the one to his left – responds coolly, “We remember you.” 

The twin to his right reaches for his pistol; Zayne’s gaze skims over the weapon: semi-automatic, 9mm caliber, short-recoil. Zayne lets the twin cock the gun at him, click off the safety and pull the trigger. 

The clap of the shot resounds, Zayne blinks and then… nothing. There’s a block of ice encasing the bullet. It hovers in mid-air for a second, then clatters to the ground. Granted, it was a mere centimetre clear of Zayne’s nose. The twin fires again, but there’s ice down the barrel too, and so all that happens is that the gun’s recoil worsens and the twin’s arm jerks to the side. 

The one on the left says, with what sounds like grudging admiration, “That was quick.” 

Zayne shrugs, “Reflexes. Now, are you going to let me in?” 

The twin on the right turns his head towards his brother and grumbles, “He’s no fun.”

“Follow us,” says the collected one. 

They turn and stride over the threshold. It’s so dark in the N109 Zone, Zayne can barely make out the shape and size of Sylus’s home. He can see that it’s all pitch coloured granite, though.    

When he enters after Kieran and Luke, the monochrome, all-black colour scheme is as he remembers it. He doesn’t remember the floor having such a marble sheen though, nor the blood red accents. Zayne stifles a chuckle. It’s all so bold, so dramatic, but in a way that screams danger rather than eccentricity. Fitting for Sylus.  

They go down a doorway, and stop at an intersection. There’s a passage to the left, one to the right and then the one they’re in, which is parallel to those two passages. The twins stop at a door at the end of the passage. The livelier one sticks his head through the door, murmurs something. Then the twin shuts the door and turns to face Zayne. He can’t see the twin’s expression through his crow mask, of course, but he goes oddly still, and Zayne knows he’s seriously contemplating Zayne’s presence and the implications of it. 

Finally, the twin shrugs, says, “He’ll be out soon.” 

Then he adds, “I’m Luke.” 

The other echoes his brother’s greeting, “Kieran.” 

Luke and Kieran look at each other for a moment; Luke laughs to himself, murmurs something too low for Zayne to hear and the pair head off down the hallway, away from Zayne. 

Left to his own devices, Zayne finds himself frozen ahead of the door. Nerves erupt in his stomach and curdle there. What are you doing here, Doctor Li? Truly, this has to be one of his craziest – and stupidest – ideas. 

He’s spared from any further agonizing by the click of the door, and by Sylus entering the hallway. Sylus doesn’t quite reel backwards at the sight of him, but he does go stiff, for a briefest of seconds. 

Zayne speaks first, “They didn’t tell you it was me.” 

Sylus’s mouth curls. He doesn’t quite meet Zayne’s eyes, “They specified that you were ‘my special visitor’.” 

That comes as a blow, “You thought I was __”

Sylus’s eyes flicker towards him, assesses Zayne’s face. Sylus is as neutral as ever, but there’s something probing in his gaze, and it makes Zayne shrink back. 

There’s something else, too. It’s something heated, something that tangles with the nerves in his stomach, and it intensifies the longer that he stares at Sylus.   

Eventually, Sylus just says, “The twins will get a talking to.” 

Zayne can’t help how chiding his response is, “Leave them be.” 

Sylus raises an eyebrow. Once again, he doesn’t respond directly, “They’re not here, you know.” 

Zayne nods, “I know.” 

“Do they know that you’re here?” 

Another shake of his head, “No. I… I wanted to work things out for myself before I told them.” 

“I see.”

Zayne winces. I see. Not, “I understand.” Perfectly neutral. 

He and Sylus lapse into silence. It’s not that you're a thorny topic for them. It’s not even that they’re competing for your affections. No, it’s so much more complicated than that. And while you’ve made no demands, issued no ultimatums, you have made it clear that, at least for you, there’s room for both of them. 

The sentiment stings and thrills Zayne all at once. 

As the silence grows suffocating, Zayne shifts from foot to foot. He opens his mouth, closes it.

Sylus breaks the silence, with a quiet murmur, “I suppose I owe you a proper tour of the house, this time.” 

Zayne waves off the offer, “No need. I remember it well enough.” 

Sylus’s mouth thins into a line, “Very well.” Then, a bit more gently, “You look tired.”

Zayne chuckles mirthlessly, “I’m always tired.” Lest another silence befall them, he adds, “I’m also hungry. Do you have any food on hand?”

Sylus is taken aback by the request, Zayne can tell from how his eyes widen a fraction. Still, this openness only lasts a second before he’s as composed as always. Sylus turns and goes sweeping down the passage to the right, “Follow me.” 

Zayne follows and they enter a kitchen that is both gargantuan and state of the art. 

Again, everything’s marble, though here the colour scheme is mostly scarlet. Sylus gestures lazily at the island’s countertop, “Sit.” 

Zayne’s suddenly aware of how tired he really is, and an achiness overcomes him as he trudges towards the counter’s stools. 

Sylus approaches the countertop from the other side; his gaze is still probing. “What do you want to eat?” 

Zayne, now sitting, blinks in surprise, “What do you have on offer?” 

Sylus’s mouth tilts up in one corner, into the ghost of a smirk. “Anything.” 

“Uh,” Zayne thinks it over, “Chicken soup?” 

“Do you want the clear one, or traditional?”

“Clear.” 

Sylus goes deadpan, “That’s the plainest, most uneventful dish.” Sylus goes over to the sink, washes his hands and then starts collecting ingredients and utensils.

“I like plain.”

Sylus is back at the countertop depositing everything alongside the stovetop, when he chuckles, “When __ was last here, they begged for spicy tomato pasta.” 

Zayne feels his hackles rise, “I’m not them.” 

Sylus pauses in the middle of rolling up his sleeves, “I know.” His voice lowers, “Trust me, I know.”

Sylus resumes rolling up his one sleeve, and Zayne traces the movement with his eyes. It’s like something out of a romantic drama, but Zayne finds himself entranced by the firm sinew of Sylus’s arm. As Sylus pulls the sleeve higher, and more and more skin is revealed, the heat in Zayne’s stomach crackles.

As for Sylus, well, his eyes follow Zayne’s gaze; he leans forward, so that his arms are braced on the countertop, and the sleeves ride up further.

Zayne blinks again, slumps further into his stool. “You’re teasing.” 

Sylus does that half-smirk, half-smile of his. All he says is, “I’m adding noodles to the soup.”

When Zayne opens his mouth to protest, Sylus adds, “Non negotiable.” 

Zayne sighs, “Fine.” 

The soup is cooked suspiciously fast, too fast for a simple gas stove to manage. Zayne peeks under the plates a few times, hoping to catch sight of the red-mauve tendrils of Sylus’s Evol, but has no such luck. 

Zayne can’t see it, but as he lowers his head to ogle the plates, Sylus’s eyes are on him, and when he does look up, their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds. Zayne is first to look away, because of course he is. 

When, a few moments later, Sylus turns off the gas and places a bowl of soup before him, Zayne freezes up. It’s a simple gesture, being handed a bowl of soup, being fed, and yet…

Zayne swallows, “Aren’t you going to eat, too?” 

Sylus tilts his head, “Do you want me to?” 

Zayne nods back, “It would be impolite otherwise.” 

Sylus huffs, and there’s something frustrated about the sound. At last, Zayne thinks, a crack. Sylus complies and dishes himself a bowl. Neither one of them actually starts eating, though. Zayne can’t help but crack a smile at their shared hesitation. 

Another ache racks him, suddenly, and this one’s more cold than tired. Between shivers, he asks, “Can I light a fire?” 

Sylus stares at him for a whole three seconds before responding, “You’re a guest. I’ll light the fire.”  

Zayne acquiesces with a resigned chuckle, “Lead the way.”

… 

Sylus cheats, and lights the fire with his Evol. Well, more accurately, he uses his Evol to strike the matches. Zayne tuts at this, but doesn’t bother reprimanding him. He just sits as close to the fireplace as he can without singing his skin and practically inhales his soup. 

He’s slurping up a noodle when he finally realises Sylus hasn’t sat down. Sylus is standing, taking sips of the soup. He’s also still watching Zayne. Zayne chews on his noodle, contemplating this whole situation. He came here of his own free will, without you. What for? A declaration? How can it be one, if he’s too afraid to say anything of consequence?

Zayne swallows down the last of the noodle, smiles weakly, “Sit down.” 

Sylus moves towards the other side of the fireplace. Zayne frowns, “Next to me, I meant.”

Sylus changes course instantly, as if he’s been tugged by marionette strings. He sits so close to Zayne that their knees are almost touching. 

Zayne takes a final sip of his soup; it’s light, but infused with a tangy chicken flavour, and the noodles are perfectly al dente. Zayne pops the bowl in front of him, “This is good.”

Zayne addresses the compliment to his bowl, but Sylus catches it anyway, “Thank you.” 

“Do you like cooking?” 

Sylus lifts his left shoulder, lets it drop unceremoniously, “Sometimes. It’s… calming. Methodical, but not in a way that exerts stress.” 

 Zayne responds without thinking, “No one really cooks for me.”

Sylus is non-committal at first, but then he replies in a tone that’s dangerously light, “Maybe because you seem to like the blandest dishes.”  

Zayne snorts, “I don’t.”

Sylus raises his eyebrows, and the movement is more delicate – more pretty – than it has any right to be. 

Zayne continues, “I usually try to combine the healthiest stuff with some sort of flavour.” 

Sylus pulls a face, “Good lord. You’re the kale smoothie sort.” 

Zayne laughs in spite of himself, “They’re good for you! Besides, I like sweets. I’ve had about three cavities just from eating macarons.” 

When Sylus looks less than convinced, Zayne parts his lips and tilts his head back to show Sylus his latest filling. Sylus leans forward, looking intrigued, and inspects Zayne’s molar. 

The action brings his face within a hair’s breadth of Zayne’s; something traitorous stutters in Zayne’s chest at the sudden closeness. 

As he moves away, Sylus’s expression is softer than Zayne’s seen it all night, “Who’d have thought Linkon’s best doctor has a raging sweet tooth.” 

He can feel his timidness receding as he snips back, “Life’s dreary enough. I don’t think I can get through any surgeries without dessert to look forward to.” 

Sylus hums, and the sound is weirdly pitchy, “Noted.” Then Sylus seems to recall his bowl of soup, and resumes sipping it. Zayne wonders if Sylus is nervous. 

What are you doing here, Doctor Li? The thought is unbidden, and Zayne swats it away as he moves along the conversation, “They tried to kill me, you know? Luke and Kieran. Well, Luke, mostly.”

Sylus actually laughs at that, between sips, and the sound is low and surprisingly warm, “They do that.” 

Then Sylus asks, “What did you do to evade your impending murder?” 

Zayne gazes into the flames; he feels shy and cocky all at once, “I froze the bullet. And the barrel.”

Another laugh. This one is proud, “Our ingenious Doctor Li.”

Zayne turns his head Sylus’s way, “Am I?”  

Sylus plays dumb, “You’re plenty ingenious. Our misadventures have shown that.”  

“No. Am I… Yours and theirs?” 

This time it’s Sylus averting his gaze, Sylus dodging, “I’m meant to be on a patrol of sorts, tonight.”

“Oh?” 

Sylus sets his bowl aside, clicks his teeth, “Just overseeing some, ah, elements. Some moving cogs. I chose not to go as soon as I saw you, of course.”

“You mean you cancelled it as soon as Luke told you I was here. Because you thought I was __.” 

“No. I made up my mind as soon as I saw you.”

Zayne can feel his brow furrowing under the weight of his confusion, “But…”

“If you were __, I’d be able to go and come back, and they’d wait for me. Or maybe they’d ask me to stay. But you’re different, at least at this point in time. I told Luke that if I didn’t personally inform him and Kieran that I was going out, they were to go in my stead.”

“Why?” Zayne feels stupid asking, but he can’t bring himself to ignore what’s just been said, either. 

“Does it need saying?”

Oh. So, Sylus wasn’t dodging at all. 

Zayne can feel how his gaze has become more fierce; it practically drills a hole into Sylus’s head. He’s still aching, but this time it’s in an entirely different manner.

Sylus returns Zayne’s look, undaunted. 

“Zayne.” Sylus’s tone is beseeching, “Why are you here?”

Zayne swallows, “I –”

Zayne wants to look away, to run, to scream, to hide. 

Instead, he turns his body so that he’s facing Sylus and pushes himself closer to Sylus, until their knees knock together. This time, Sylus’s smile is full-blooded. He also doesn’t seem to mind the sudden intrusion into his personal space, given that he leans into Zayne and lets their noses touch.  

The kiss that follows is chaste and sweeter than any one of Zayne’s macarons. Zayne’s breath is shaky when they part, and Sylus is caressing the swell of his cheek with his thumb. 

A beat follows in which they simply gaze at one another. Then Sylus shifts his hand from the Zayne’s cheek to the nape of his neck, pulls him in, and kisses him again. There’s nothing delicate in this kiss, and Zayne matches Sylus’s ardour with the eagerness of someone who’s still new to this sort of enthusiasm. Still, even as Zayne slides onto his back and pulls Sylus down with him, it all feels unhurried. It all feels right. 

 …

Later, Zayne’s still on his back, with his head braced against Sylus’s thighs, and Sylus is reclining on his palms. The fireplace crackles pleasantly across from them, and Zayne’s body is a floaty mass. Before now, he’s only ever felt this happy with you. 

He and Sylus haven’t spoken for a while now, but this silence isn’t as terse as the earlier ones were. It’s just new and a bit fragile, much like their sudden intimacy. 

Zayne is the one to break the silence, with his eyes shut as he murmurs, “I didn’t know. Didn’t know that… I barely envisaged that I could love __ as much as I do. How could there be room for two, then?” 

Sylus hums again, and the sound is still off-key. Zayne wonders if he can sing at all.

Sylus’s voice is softer than Zayne’s ever heard it, “We want each other, and we want __ and they want us in turn. This doesn’t need to be a conventional relationship.”

Zayne snorts, “I happen to have conventional taste.” 

Sylus offers him a grin, frees his one hand to point at himself, “I doubt that.” 

Zayne sighs, “It’s not about being conventional. It’s just…” 

Zayne takes in Sylus, albeit upside down. The snowy hair, the red gaze. The sometimes eerie presence of his Evol. “I know that you’re more. More than you let on. And I know that your bond with them is more, too.”

Sylus seems unbothered by the admission as he traces a circle into Zayne’s forehead with his fingertip, “You’re not wrong. But it’s not as if my bond with __ overrules yours with them, either.”  

Sylus’s hand falls away. Sylus lowers his voice, whispers to himself, “And I’ve some theories about you, too.”

Zayne tugs at the hem of his sweatshirt and fights the urge to fidget. Zayne yanks his sweatshirt down about ten times before giving up. He sits up and turns to face Sylus head on, “But then – how do I fit in?” 

Sylus doesn’t reply to that. His gaze is distant and pained. For the first time this night, it occurs to Zayne that Sylus might be as afraid of all this as he is. 

That Sylus might not have planned for anything beyond you, if even that. 

Finally, Sylus makes an admission of his own, “Zayne. I have a voracious appetite. It’s just a part of my nature. Trust me when I say I’m not going to want to lose sight of you.” 

Sylus cups Zayne’s chin in his palm, runs his fingertip over Zayne’s cupid’s bow, “Have you still got room?”

Zayne knows what the real question is. He and Sylus only met because of you; they’ve only bonded because of the misadventures that the three of you have had. He and Sylus are fundamentally incompatible. Sylus is a literal crime lord; Zayne’s sworn to defend and preserve life. So why does it never feel that way to Zayne, nor to Sylus? 

Does it even matter, Doctor Li? 

Zayne exhales, and this time the sound is steady and assured, “Yes.” 

Sylus’s eyes are still widening in wonder when Zayne kisses him yet again. Sylus responds in full, the heat in Zayne’s stomach turns molten, and time slows to match their heartbeats.

[tongueinatree]

SINNERS 2025, dir. Ryan Coogler

[tongueinatree]

Ritual (Sylus x Zayne x Reader Love and Deepspace Fic) 

Pairing: Sylus x Zayne x Reader (polyamorous)

Fandom: Love and Deepspace, lnds, LADS, L&DS 

Fic Series: starlight trio (Part 1)

Word Count: 1.5k 

Warnings: fluff, angst, no NSFW material, night terrors. Profanity is used.

Description: After a gruelling week away from home, your nightly ritual is much welcomed. But only because you get to share it twice over. 

Author's Note: Main character is gender neutral. No use of "Y/N" but the second person (“you”) is used. The reader/main character's appearance is not described. MC/reader is described as being shorter than Zayne and Sylus, though. 

Zayne, Sylus and the reader are in an ethical throuple/polyamorous relationship.

I’m not sure if Sylus wakes at like 12 am exactly or actually begins his day as soon as it’s nighttime / dark enough outside? Night terrors are mentioned.

Not beta read.

I’m not caught up with the main story/playthrough, just drawing on everything up until Sylus’ myth. 

Comments, likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!

All my work, including this fic, is copyright protected. You do not have permission to copy, repost or translate my work! You also do not have permission to submit this work into any AI model or software. Disregarding any one of these stipulations is illegal.

Ritual (Zayne x Sylus x Reader fic)

When you get home after a mission outside of the city, all you want is to see Sylus and Zayne.

You’ve got an ungodly ache in your bones that sees you stumble through the front door. Leaning into the door frame, you scrub at your eyes for an instant, trying to will the tiredness right out of your body. Can’t it leap up out of your bones and flee? 

When this, pointedly, does not happen, you sigh and trudge on into your apartment. 

You’ve stripped down to your undershirt and underwear before you even reach your bedroom; your Hunter’s uniform is bundled under your arms. Upon entering your room, you toss the uniform to the side. Maybe it hits the end of the bed, maybe it hits the laundry basket in the corner, maybe it just goes spilling onto the floor. You don’t know or care. 

You’re not expecting the bed to be occupied by any means, and of course, it isn’t. It’s 10pm anyhow – both Zayne and Sylus will be up. Sylus because it’s essentially 6am for him, and Zanye because he never sleeps anyhow. 

Hell, Zayne’s probably pouring over medical texts, or a research paper at his desk. And Sylus is… cleaning a gun? Well, no, given that his day’s only just starting, Sylus is probably doing something a lot more important than cleaning a gun. You’re too tired to really reason through that last one, though. 

All this is one painfully long way of saying that as much as you expect to find the bedroom unoccupied, you also expect to find the en-suite bathroom unoccupied. Not that it really matters. Just knowing your partners’ are nearby eases some of the wrung-out feeling and soothes the itch in your eyes. 

You’re intending to wash your face when you reach the bathroom door, but the sight you’re met with stops you in your tracks. 

The counter’s to the left of the doorway; Zayne and Sylus are both there, brushing their teeth in unison. Sylus is dressed for the day, in pressed slacks and formal shoes; just his shirt is missing (presumably so that he doesn’t get any toothpaste on it). Zayne’s dressed similarly, though his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Ironically, he and Sylus wear the same “uniforms” to work, albeit for very different purposes. 

They look… relaxed. Zayne’s hand is lax on his toothbrush from what is a mix of being relaxed and exceptionally tired. You can see it in his eyes, which are more droopy than usual. 

Sylus hums, dreadfully out of tune. He gets so into it that he closes his eyes and promptly hits the inside of his cheek with his toothbrush; when Sylus stops humming to hiss in pain, you stifle a laugh behind your hand. You don’t want to be caught out just yet. Zayne also chuckles, though, and shoots Sylus a fond look. 

Then the pair resume brushing their teeth, sans humming. Sylus finishes first, puts his toothbrush aside and moves to wash his hands. He’s towelling off his hands when Zayne finishes. Zayne deposits his toothbrush, braces his elbows on the countertop, lets out an almighty yawn. Seriously, he sounds so tired that you suddenly feel more alert. Sylus shoots a look Zayne’s way; his expression’s neutral, but there’s a sudden tightness around his eyes and he doesn’t exhale for a second or two. When Sylus finally addresses Zayne, his tone is equally neutral, “Are you going to sleep anytime soon?” 

You straighten up against the doorframe and go stiff, as if preparing for a blow. In a way, Zayne’s response will be a blow, even though you and Sylus both know what he’ll say.  

True to form, Zayne shoots Sylus a look that is a mix of askant and resigned, “No. I’ve got an article to review.” 

“You can barely stand.”

He’s right. Zayne’s arms have the slightest tremor to them; there’s a layer of ice coating his skin, from his fingertips to his forearms. 

Zayne exhales shakily, “I’d rather not sleep.” Then his knees buckle. You lurch forwards, but Sylus is quicker, is there in a flash. He scoops Zayne up into his arms, and deposits him on the countertop. Then Sylus is massaging Zayne’s temples, “Love. I –” 

Zayne interrupts him in a mumble, “Can’t sleep, Sy. Can’t.” 

Something in Zayne’s tone – the strained undercurrent of fear – tells you that his night terrors have gotten worse while you’ve been away. 

Sylus just sighs, “Okay.” He releases Zayne’s temples and takes a hold of his wrists, massages his pulse points, “This might hurt a little.”

Sylus’s power seeps from his fingertips in a swirl of red energy that encases Zayne’s lower arms. When the energy retreats, the ice on Zayne’s arms has cracked. No, actually, it’s melting off his arms, in a steady drip, drip, drip. It’s not as effective a remedy as your own Evol, but does the trick for now. 

Zayne manages a grateful smile, “Thank you.” He leans forward to kiss Sylus’ cheeks, but Sylus turns his head and kisses him on the mouth instead. The kiss is chaste and languid, and Zayne’s shoulders go slack as he returns it. You avert your eyes; you’re all together, have been for over a year now, but sometimes you feel like a voyeur in moments like these. 

When they break apart, you make your presence known by clearing your throat softly. Sylus raises his hand into mid air and crooks his finger at you. You go as if beckoned, with hurried steps. You kiss Sylus on the cheek, the same as Zayne had meant to, and ruffle Zayne’s hair. Then you hop onto the counter alongside Zayne, drape an arm around his shoulders. 

He lets you and Sylus envelope him. 

“I’ve been here for a while,” you admit quietly as you resume stroking Zayne’s hair. Sylus and Zayne chuckle simultaneously. 

“We know,” Sylus says. 

“We always know,” Zayne adds.  

You’re too tired to reply in full, “Hmm. Okay.”

You look at Sylus, “You should go to work. I’ve got him.” 

When Sylus raises an eyebrow in mild outrage, you chide gently, “Sylus. It’s…” You check your watch – you forgot to remove it earlier – “the 12th. Don’t you have a big meeting today? An acquisition?”

Sylus sighs; the sound is deeply regretful. He’s going to insist that his time is flexible. You know it in your bones. You cut him off, “Sy. Let me take care of Zayne. You have to be in that meeting.”

Sylus looks from you to Zayne, brow creased with concern. “Love. What do you think?” 

Zayne assesses Sylus for a moment, gaze sharpening, his mind turning over an equation of some sort. Does his need outweigh Sylus’ responsibilities?

“Go.” Zayne says evenly. 

When Sylus nods with a tinge of reluctance, Zayne adds sternly, “Don’t die.”

That teases a genuine laugh out of Sylus. He looks between you and Zayne and adds a warning of his own, “I’d best not find you two passed out on the floor when I return.” 

“No promises,” Zayne murmurs as you cuddle closer to him.

“Go already, Sy. So that you can get back to us.” 

Sylus nods again, “Alright. I’ll be off.” He presses a fingertip to your cheek, “Love you.” Then Sylus kisses you. You arch up into him and return the kiss with what can only be termed adolescent enthusiasm. Neither of you can see it in the moment, but Zayne watches you both, with his chest expanding. 

When you and Sylus part, he kisses Zayne a final time, “Love you.” 

You and Zayne murmur the sentiment back in tandem.

Then Sylus is sweeping out of the bathroom; he pauses in the doorway for a split second, but doesn’t look back. He can’t, you know, or he’ll never leave. Then he’s gone, and it’s just you and Zayne. 

You lean into Zayne for a minute or two. A content silence fills the en-suite, until Zayne yawns yet again. You take that as your cue, and push yourself off of the counter, and lead Zayne to the bedroom, with an insistent tug. He’s a bit shaky as he follows, but his knees don’t give in this time. 

You curl into the bed together; you’re too tired to lecture Zayne to get changed. Instead, you let him flop against you, let him press his head to your middle.  

You rest your hand atop his head, “You don’t have to sleep. Just lie here.”

Zayne’s reply is quiet, but grateful, “Alright.” 

You both settle in, and time begins to stretch and blur all at once, into a warm sort of in-betweenness. A sudden yawn, this time from you, interrupts the silence. Around the yawn you say, “We should have slept on the floor, just to piss Sy off.” 

The last thing you hear is Zayne’s laughter.

[tongueinatree]

HOSEOK, JIN AND JUNGKOOK PERFORMING JAMAIS VU TOGETHER

[tongueinatree]

[tongueinatree]

Zayne x Crush-Ridden Nurse!Reader | Part One

Professionalism is Dead. I Have a Crush. Zayne Edition

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | You do not make eye contact with Zayne in meetings because every time you do, you forget what day it is and say “yes, Doctor” to everything, including when he once asked, “Did you get enough sleep?”

II | Zayne once asked you to assist with a minor procedure and you dropped the sterile tools. You apologized so many times, he calmly said, “The patient’s heart rate is more stable than yours right now.”

III | You once panicked and said “Love you—uh I mean... glove you— I mean I’ll get your gloves!”

Zayne: slow blink

“Take your time. I’ll wait.”

IV | Every time he stands too close while you’re charting, you forget how to type. Once you wrote “Dr. Zayne is so—” and caught yourself before you wrote “hot.” You turned it into “so thorough.” You don’t think he bought it

V | You stutter when you talk to Zayne. He never mentions it, but one time he handed you a cup of water wordlessly after you choked on your own breath during rounds.

VI | You overheard some nurses gossiping about how attractive he is and blurted, “He’s probably too focused to notice.”

You didn’t realize Zayne was walking by.

He didn’t even blink. Just said, “I notice more than you think.”

VII | You tried to bring him coffee once but labeled it with “For Dr. Zayne :)” and then panicked because the smiley face was unprofessional. You crossed it out. Then rewrote it. Then crossed that out.

He still drank it. Didn’t say a word.

VIII | One time you were called into his office and rushed into the room out of breath. Zayne looked at you, tilted his head, and said, “You don’t need to sprint through the halls. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cue you passing away on the spot.

IX | You asked him once, very nervously, “Do you ever, like… smile?”

He replied without hesitation, “Only on days you don’t trip over the IV cart.”

(The next day you almost made it. He raised an eyebrow in silent amusement.)

X | Once he handed you a file and your fingers brushed. You squeaked. He stared at you for a full five seconds before saying, “That wasn’t an electric shock, Nurse. You can relax.”

XI | You joked to another nurse, “I’d die if ZaynE ever praised me.” The next day during debrief, Zayne said: “Good job. Efficient, as usual.”

You almost fainted.

He added, “Should I call a nurse?”

You whispered, “I am the nurse…”

XII | You once had to bandage a patient while Zayne was observing and your hands were shaking like a leaf.

Afterward, he pulled you aside and simply said, “Your hands are steady when it matters. Don’t doubt that.”

XIII | He never raises his voice. Never gossips. But the one time another doctor tried to flirt with you a little too casually, Zayne just appeared beside you and said, “She’s busy. Let’s not waste her time.”

XIV | You once caught him looking at you when he thought no one was watching. Just for a second. No expression. But his gaze lingered a little too long to be clinical. And when your eyes met? He said, “You should take your break before I assign you one.”

All Rights Reserved © 2025 Darlingsblackbook

[tongueinatree]

happy bts day !!

[tongueinatree]

STAR WARS Episode III - Revenge of the Sith (2005) Dir. George Lucas

[tongueinatree]

250611 - bts on twitter: I'm here to catch you💜

[tongueinatree]

STAR WARS Episode III - Revenge of the Sith (2005) Dir. George Lucas

[tongueinatree]

et tu, brute? (Jungkook Fic)

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (“You”)

Fandom: BTS (Bangtan Sonyeondan) 

AU: Non-idol AU, Soulmate AU, Modern/“civilian life” AU. 

Word Count: 1.6k 

Warnings: fluff, angst and heartache, no NSFW material. Profanity is used.

Description: You don’t like keeping secrets, least of all ones involving matters of the heart. But crossing the line between secrecy and an open proclamation is a daunting one, and might not leave you unscathed. 

Still, when your soulmate is calling, how can you not answer?

Author's Note: Main character is gender neutral. No use of “Y/N” but second person ("you") is used. The reader/main character’s appearance is not described, but the reader is shorter than Jungkook. The reader is referred to as “kid” despite being an adult. 

Not beta read.

The form of soulmate bond in this fic (telepathy) is drawn directly from the prompt provided by @creativepromptsforwriting. Prompt is as follows: “Sense8 - being telepathically connected to your soulmate no matter where in the world they are (and speaking and understanding their language)”. The prompt can be found at: https://creativepromptsforwriting.tumblr.com/post/708052034004385792/soulmates-au-masterpost

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and in no way connected to, or affiliated with, any of the BTS members. I do not know any members, either, and have only drawn inspiration from their public image for this fanfic. 

Comments, likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!

All my work, including this fic, is copyright protected. You do not have permission to copy, repost or translate my work! You also do not have permission to submit this work into any AI model or software. Disregarding any one of these stipulations is illegal. 

et tu brute? (Jeon Jungkook x Reader)

You don’t like keeping secrets. 

Then don’t keep one.

It should be that simple, too. Especially with your reputation: you’re known for being a notorious blabbermouth. You’ve never shared anything detrimental, like someone’s illness, but the mundane? That’s fair game, be it a stolen chocolate, tripping in the confectionery aisle in a store, or even a glaringly obvious crush. 

There’s something deeper to it, though, something more than just a tendency to talk and talk… ever since you were little, lying’s seemed like a – 

“Hey! Kid!” 

The call makes your train of thought dissipate, though your stomach is still churning unhappily. You’re also still a bit slow on the come-up. Slow enough for your brother to fling his dishcloth your way. The cloth hits you square in the face, and your senses are overwhelmed by the alchemical smell of dishwashing liquid, by the dampness on your forehead. 

You tug the cloth off of your forehead and hurl it back towards your brother, “Fuck off, Yoongi.” 

Yoongi’s face creases with laughter, even as he turns back to the last of the dishes, “Wake up, kid. Don’t you know that deep thinking is bad for your health?”

You shift awkwardly from where you’re standing opposite him, propped against his pantry cupboard’s door. You scowl, “What are you on about? All you do is brood.”  

Yoongi’s tone is light in response as he turns away from you and back towards the sink, “Sure. But I said your health, didn’t I?” 

You’re about to send a retort his way, but then you see the half smile upturning the corner of his mouth. He’s bulshitting – baiting you, even –  but you’ve never been one to take a provocation lying down. “I’m perfectly capable of deep thinking. I just don’t need five business days to recover from it.”

Yoongi’s smile downturns, “Mind your manners.”  

A chuckle resounds, and both you and Yoongi turn to appraise its source. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. He’s propped up on the counter alongside Yoongi, dressed in all black, swinging his legs back and forth. He looks gorgeous and unruffled and you hate him for it. 

As Yoongi starts to chastise Jungkook for his laughter, you start to take stock of the rest of the house. Jungkook’s presence has jolted you into remembering that you are, in fact, amongst others. You try to recall who’s still here. Last you saw, there were some stragglers from the party still on the patio – Taehyung, Jimin, Namjoon – but everyone else has gone home. The decorations are also still up inside. The streamers and banners scream out messages of support: Congrats! Record-breaker! Grammy, grammy, grammy! That last banner had made you cringe, but Seokjin had thought it was hilarious. Hilariously asinine maybe. 

Still, Yoongi’s success deserves to be heralded, and he’s swept awards season clean. Your older brother, the megastar producer. You clear your throat, say softly, “Well done again, Yoongi.” 

Yoongi halts his conversation with Jungkook at once, turning to you with narrowed eyes. He stares at you for a long moment, and something tells you that he sees more, looks beyond your gratitude and straight at the turmoil twisting your gut into knots. But he just nods, and his tone is equally soft in reply, “Thank you.”

Jungkook coughs, “Wow. It’s like you’re communicating just with your eyes.”

He says the words lightly, but they don’t fail to make you uneasy. Because, of course, Jungkook knows all about your secrets. 

Jungkook leans back onto his elbows. You worry for an instant whether the counter can bear his weight, before shamelessly ogling the ease with which he reclines. Jimin’s always called balletic – and he is – but there’s something breezy about the way Jungkook moves, as if he’s unmoored from the ground. 

Jungkook continues speaking, continues holding your gaze, “I’ve always thought it’s interesting when people can communicate without speaking, you know? Uncanny.”

Stop it. 

Yoongi looks at Jungkook as if he’s dense, “That’s hardly uncommon.” 

Jungkook shakes his head in agreement, “Sure. But what I mean – that level of comfort, that sort of obvious familiarity, it’s something to be admired.”

Jungkook. 

Yoongi’s pondering the statement with a tilt of his head, opening his mouth to reply, and you've never hated your brother’s tendency to turn everything into a philosophical debate more.

 “Are you referring to people who aren’t soulmates?” 

Jungkook shrugs, and the movement is glaringly practiced, “Anyone close, really. Friends. Family. Soulmates.” 

Yoongi seems puzzled, “Sure, plenty of family and friends are that close. But given that soulmates have literal telepathy, I’m not sure you can equate the types of connection.”

I’m going to skin you alive! You think this in italics, so to speak, with enough heft to make Jungkook flinch. 

The conversation continues. Stubbornly, you block it out and you turn away from them both. 

You drift from the pantry to the snacks cupboard. It’s nearly a metre clear of your head. Yoongi is convinced that if the snack cupboard’s difficult to reach, you’ll stop stealing from it; he’s even confiscated his footstool. None of this really stops any of you, though. Case in point: you’ve wrestled the door open by jumping and yanking on the handle, and now you’re jumping again, to grab the nearest bag of chips. 

Your fingers graze the bag but you don’t get a firm grip, instead, the bag’s shoved further into the cupboard. You groan aloud, then call, “Yoongi. Can you get me this bag of lime chips?”

Footsteps sound from behind you, Yoongi approaches from behind. You’re trying to shuffle out of the way so that he doesn’t have to lean over you when a hand goes to the small of your back, slips under your T-shirt and strokes a reverent circle into your skin. 

Not Yoongi. 

You turn, even as Jungkook’s hand flattens against your back and pulls you closer. A riot of emotions flares to life. Contentment at the feel of Jungkook’s hand; panic at Yoongi being across the room – 

He’s gone. 

You blink. What?

He’s gone, sweetheart. 

You crane your head around Jungkook’s chest. Yoongi is in fact gone. In your determination to evade his and Jungkook’s conversation, you clearly hadn’t noticed.

Jungkook presses closer, close enough for you to feel his breath on your brow, to smell that he’s used lemony toothpaste. Jungkook’s expression is gentle and composed, but there’s relief. “Finally,” he breathes. Been waiting for this all day.  

You can’t help teasing him, “What, just for a little closeness? You’ll say the sight of my ankle gets you going next.” 

Jungkook chuckles, and the sound is too fond for you to bear, “Well. It probably could get me going.”

“Hmm.” 

Jungkook’s gaze is piercing. This doesn’t have to be a secret. 

You suck in a breath, “It’s not that simple. You know it isn’t. You’re one of Yoongi’s oldest friends, and –”

And what? “I really doubt that he’ll hate that it’s me.” 

You bite your lip and look away from him; simultaneously, your arms come up to encircle his waist. It’s always like this with Kook. Push and pull. 

And you don’t like keeping secrets. 

Then don’t keep one. 

You ignore the entreaty. Jungkook’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with this, or even that you don’t want him. 

It’s that – 

You’re transported to a chilly winter night. To a pained, apologetic expression. I’d rather not do this.

But Jungkook isn’t that person, is he? 

And yet… it’s hard to admit to this. To admit that you’re not as audacious as you seem. You’re just a coward, a –

Hey. Stop that.

You finally look back at him, “You deserve better than someone who loves you by halves.” 

It’s not half. It’s… green. Unripened. Shy. 

You scowl, “Bullshit.” 

Jungkook tugs you even closer; his eyes are wide, as always, and so earnest, “Well, then, just let go. Just try.”

Your gaze is riveted to him, and the knots in your stomach are settling, even as you wish they wouldn’t. 

You don’t like keeping secrets. 

Then don’t keep one. 

You like hiding from yourself even less. 

Then don’t. That thought is yours.

You clear your throat, nod, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

You nod again, “Let me try.” 

Jungkook’s face lights up. 

He’s kissing you before either of you are fully cognizant of his head even moving. You kiss him back, fiercely and with some of that audaciousness you’d been opining about. The world dissolves, so that it’s just you and Jungkook.  

You only part when a soft cough comes from behind you. 

Yoongi’s staring at both of you with his eyebrows raised, looking wholly unimpressed. 

You don’t bother to respond, just lean into Jungkook’s side. Jungkook stays calm, too, though his grip on you tightens a little. 

Yoongi looks from you to Jungkook. 

His mouth pulls as he says, “Finally realised you’re made for each other, huh?” 

You jolt; beside you, Jungkook laughs in relief.

“Yoongi? How long have you –”

Yoongi chuckles, leaves the kitchen with a dismissive wave of his hand, “It’s about time.”

Time seems to stretch interminably in the moment between Yoongi’s back entering the door frame and disappearing through the door frame.

Throughout it all, you and Jungkook stay rooted to one another. 

[tongueinatree]

*clenches fist* what a fine man