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cherryjuiceblues · 8 months

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𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟑

➯ Y/N STARTS TO LEARN HOW HARRY LIKES TO PLAY AND THINGS TAKE A TURN WHEN SHE VISITS HIM AT WORK. ✰ dom!harry brief unwanted male attention. sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. spanking as a lighthearted punishment. inspection kink if you squint. slight daddy kink. tummy bulge. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 15k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Y/N wakes up whilst the rest of the world is still asleep.

Granted, much later than she usually does, but she wakes up nonetheless. With a somewhat surprising lack of body heat pressing against her. She doesn’t register it at first because, well, Y/N is very much used to waking up on her own—without the weight, or heat, or comfort of another person—but then the memory of Harry asking her if she likes to cuddle resurfaces. Followed by the one in which he holds her tightly to his front and sends her to sleep quicker than she can ever remember doing so before.

So she doesn’t need to be any sort of sneaky as she makes her way down the lavish staircase and into Harry’s kitchen—the tiles cold on her bare feet. Somewhere deep down, Y/N registers that it’s probably a little weird and inappropriate to treat Harry’s kitchen as her own when they’re not really an item, but that hesitancy is quickly replaced by the idea of presenting him with breakfast as he wakes up. To treat him with the same care he has shown her. It erases all residual sleep from Y/N’s head.

She doesn’t even ponder as to why Harry was not next to her when she awoke—brushing past the questions in favour of searching his cupboards. Jars of sauce, tins of all sorts of healthy beans and soups Y/N wouldn’t dream of eating—stocked full and regularly consumed. His fridge is glorious; if not because of its contents then because it has a built-in ice dispenser. (Serious luxury that Y/N is confounded by.) And she immediately hones in on the punnet of blueberries that are practically beckoning her to pick them up—glowing and chanting her name—it would be rude to ignore such a demanding presence.

Immediately, Y/N knows what she wants to make, and starts going through unexplored drawers and cupboards with pointed scouring. “Come on, come on,” she whispers to herself, waiting for the long, thin box to jump out at her. It’s all she needs—everything else Harry is bound to have, but this? It’s the key.

Back in the fridge, is where Y/N finds it. Completely missed in her haste to search elsewhere; Y/N will admit it bypassed her that it needed to be stored in there at all (and maybe deny that she just wanted to snoop). Ready made puff pastry. Perfect for a blueberry pie.

Y/N is giddy at the thought—cheeks squishing with an excited smile as her top teeth dig into her bottom lip—of waking Harry up with the fresh smell of home baking and watching him as he swallows each bite. It’s exhilarating to her. Pleasurable, some may say. (Well, Y/N wouldn’t dare, but it certainly gets her heart racing.)

She’ll come to realise that doing something so elating, in the midst of night when she cannot sleep, is not the correct way of tiring herself out. Her cheeks practically ache from the smile she’s wearing as she tosses blueberries in a bowl with sugar, cornstarch and generous sprinklings of cinnamon and allspice. When she starts working on creating the lattice for the top of the pie, the concentration needed does admittedly cease some of her excitement. But it is only replaced by the stress of trying to make it look perfect. Which, additionally, only awakens her further. Everything but the idea of sleep is floating around in Y/N’s head.

But it’s going well! And Y/N stares down at her creation with a proud grin, ready to refrigerate in order to sneak back down in a few hours and cook it. She’s starting to clean up as quietly as she can when her lack of presence in bed is discovered.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Y/N spins around from where she’s washing up in the sink, heart lurching and utensils clattering against the porcelain, a shriek forcing its way out of her mouth. She relaxes when she sees Harry. And then panics again at his stern expression and the way his eyes drop to the hem of his shirt that brushes her thighs and the slight peek of his boxers that he’d graciously offered. “Um…”

“Ummm?” he parrots. “You’re just um-ing in my kitchen, are you?”

“No,” Y/N huffs, but she’s aware this is not her house, or her kitchen, or her food. “No, I’m… I was baking you something. I’m sorry.”

Harry nods, biting back the urge to ridicule with a ‘I can see that’. Instead, he asks, “What did I say not even twelve hours ago, love?”

“Uh…” her lack of articulation puts a smirk on Harry’s already smug face.

“Can’t remember? Were you not listening to me?”

Y/N flusters, scurrying around the counter to get closer to Harry’s leaning figure. “I was! But then you…” she trails off, looking towards the floor at his socked feet.

“I…” Harry coaxes. “I what?”

She looks up slowly, taking in the soft of his sweats and the tempting bareness of his chest. “You… y’know. It was hard to concentrate.”

“And why’s that, darling?”

“Harry,” Y/N whines, eyes rounding out at his expression—one of a winner—one of a person with the upperhand.

He becomes serious. “I told you I expected you to go to bed when I said.”

“I did!” she tries, “You didn’t say I couldn’t get up.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Harry removes his weight from the doorframe. “I know.”

“Where did you go?”

“The garden.” The massive garden. “You see, I find some fresh air does wonders to tucker me out. Instead of spending hours baking a cake—”

“—It’s a pie.”

He laughs. “A pie. Forgive me. It couldn’t wait ‘til the morning? Hm?”

“I jus’ wanted to surprise you,” Y/N frowns. “Wanted to wake you up with it as a thank you.”

“A thank you? A thank you for what?”

She hesitates, “For this,” gesturing with her arms.

“You have nothing to thank me for, darlin’. I don’t want you to keep believing that.” He steps forward. “You’re very sweet. Incredibly sweet… I don’t need a pie, lovely. Especially not at three a.m.”

“But—”

Harry lifts the knuckle of his index finger to brush across her cheek, shaking his head softly.

“Finish cleaning in the morning. Come to bed.”

“I wanted to—”

“Y/N. Listen to me.” He moves closer. Y/N has to crane her neck to look at him. “Come to bed with me. I’ll get you back to sleep in no time. And in the morning, I will let you feed me pie until I bloody turn into one, okay?”

She hesitates—just for a second. Her eyes do feel heavy, and she really is tired. Harry’s eyes dance over her face so delicately, it feels as though they’re casting some sort of spell. And the longer she looks at him, the sleepier she becomes. So she nods her head. “Okay.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s bedroom is much like the rest of his house. White. And vast.

His bed—super king size, of course—lies temptingly in the middle of the room, sheets tastefully dishevelled, and the soft green of leaves printed on cotton contrasts against the drab lacking of the walls.

Harry trails Y/N back to his bed, soothing in the way his palm ghosts across her back as he coaxes her under the covers. He lies down next to her, lifting an arm to allow her to rest on his chest. She’s shy, feather light in the way she puts her head upon him, but they both relax the moment they’re weighed down by one another.

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth f’me… nice and slow.”

She listens, encouraged by the dance of his fingers across her skin. Swooping curls and waves along the soft lines of her shoulder, down her arm and back up again. Brushing tendrils away from sensitive extremities and smoothing them in a nurturing caress against her head. It’s cathartic—the silence that overtakes Y/N’s mind. Or hushed whisperings as opposed to the usual blaring exclamations; as though Harry has crossed the threshold of a library with Y/N’s hand in his and hidden her away from the domination of her thoughts.

So it takes very little for sleep to crowd her senses, unconsciousness barrelling towards her when Harry starts painting whispering images behind her eyelids—the deep, vibrating timbre of his voice soaking into her skin and carrying her away.

“You’ll love the garden…”

“...enough flowers to bathe you in…”

“It needs a little care but I think you’ll breathe life into the soil just by standing on it.”

“...plant thousands of yellow tulips just for you…”

And Y/N can only just hear the way his tongue moulds around the syllables to form words, as the tender hands of sleep pull her deeper into the fog, and if she were more alert her heart would soar… but her lips pull upwards and her nose presses into the soft of Harry’s throat as he waxes lyrical about his garden.

She falls asleep with a mirage of colours forming kaleidoscopes in her mind—petals, and leaves, and tendrils of grass harbouring a certain figure bathing in the glistening sunlight.

ㅤㅤ

Wet.

Sensitive.

Those are the only two feelings Y/N can process as she’s torn from the comforting embrace of slumber.

Harry’s hair is soft and smells far too familiar for a man she has known for a handful of weeks. But it smells good, and Y/N nearly pushes her nose into it before she realises the culprit of her waking emotions.

His tongue flat against her neck… followed by the blunt nipping of his teeth around her delicate skin. It’s not something Y/N is well equipped to react to—especially not as she is waking and the world is still blurry around the edges. A shaky breath is what alerts Harry to her consciousness and Y/N feels him smile into her throat, ministrations doubling as he rumbles a rogue growl and opens his mouth wide in the pretence of a chomp around her jugular.

She squeals, hands coming up to the solidness of his chest of their own accord, palms flattening against him. The weight of his body against the side of hers bears no struggle against her pathetic attempt—he only leans in further, licking and nibbling to his heart’s desire. His encompassing hand swallows one of her own on his body, pulling it away and pushing it into the pillow as he stimulates every nerve on her neck—coaxing the blood to the surface of her skin and leaving behind the aching reminder of his presence.

“I surrender…” Y/N whispers into the air, words trailing off into a sigh.

Harry hums, “Too bad.”

She could fall asleep again so easily. Believe this is all a dream and let Harry gently abuse her flesh until her breathing evens out. But then his hand settles on her stomach, large, and warm, and weighted—only soothing her further—until it starts to trail lower. Under the covers, under the boxers he’d let her wear, and over her pubic bone.

Y/N’s eyes shoot open then, and her back darts up from the mattress in surprise. Harry peels away from her neck, lips succulent and begging to be chewed upon the way he demonstrated against her throat. His eyes are still slightly puffy from sleep and the mess of his hair makes him look charmingly youthful. But he’s far too smug for a regular person’s liking—really embodying that of his teenage self, Y/N is sure—however the assurance he displays on his face only has the warmth of his hand searing her further as they look at one another.

“Good morning.” His vocal cords rub together like gravel and his fingers dip down with fluid contrast.

Y/N gasps, letting her back press into the mattress once more as Harry strokes along her lips almost playfully, like they are his own to toy with. His eyes smile teasingly at the girl and her little breathy inhales. She opens her mouth to speak but words fail to form when Harry touches her clit with a circle so light it may not have ever been there.

“Sleep well?” A finger ghosts around her entrance, arousal coating his digit as he brings it back up and presses with intention.

A shaky inhale. “Y-yes…” she pauses, clings onto coherence, “Sir.”

Harry smiles. “Oh? Maybe you were listening t’me… that’s a shame. I still have to demonstrate my utmost disappointment in you, pretty girl.”

“You don’t ha-have to,” Y/N gasps, eyes catching the movement of Harry’s hand to the top of her head—gentle caressing never suggesting he could be doing anything else under the sheets.

“Oh, but I do, darling. But just to make sure we’re on the same page…” he pushes his middle finger inside her to the hilt. Y/N’s back arches. “Why am I disappointed in you?”

The question stirs something murky inside of her. Completely different to the feeling of his finger curling upwards and pulling a moan from her mouth.

Why am I disappointed in you?

It feels so… wrong, so ugly parting from his lips. Y/N never intended to disappoint him—it’s not part of her nature to upset anyone on purpose. Her brows furrow slightly, self consciousness brewing in her heart. Was she always doing things wrong? Frustrating people? Letting them down?

“I— um…” she swallows, “I got up after you told me to go to bed.”

Harry continues to display apathy. “Mhm… and you—”

Y/N covers her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Her breathing is shallow, mind screaming at her for messing this all up so soon. She thought she was being nice, she thought Harry would be pleased, she thought—

“Hey,” Harry pulls her hands away. “You know you’re such a good girl, don’t you? It’s all words, lovely, I would communicate with you if I was really affected by something you had done.”

She exhales some—relief flooding her eyes. “Oh…” palms pushing into her sockets to soak up the tears. She grimaces. “I feel silly.”

“Don’t.” He presses a small kiss to Y/N’s cheek, right under her eyelashes. “You understand the idea of punishment? That I am to reprimand you if you misbehave?”

Y/N nods. It was exciting… she knows that… once the fog has been cleared. Just a fun, little game.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, I— I want you to… to tell me off… I deserve it, Sir.”

“Because you got up, didn’t you? And what else?”

“I… I used your food without permission…”

“What else?” he whispers.

“I don’t… know,” her voice quietens to match his.

“Three a.m., Y/N. There is no need to zombify yourself because you think it will make me happy. It won’t. I’d much prefer a pie baked whilst the sun is still shining.”

Harry moves his finger inside of her, stroking before pulling it out and smearing it over her clit. He brings the wetness to her mouth, rubbing it along her bottom lip and smiling when her jaw unlatches ever so slightly.

“But I recognise the sweetness,” Y/N’s tongue darts out to entice his finger. “You wanted to feed me, wake me up with a hot breakfast—so quick to become my good, little housewife, aren’t you?” His words send shivers through her chest, down her stomach, and between her legs. That’s… God, she doesn’t know but she likes it. “And so… I’ll be nice. Flip over.”

Y/N’s not totally daft… but the question falls out anyway. “Why?”

Harry’s eyes harden, fingers squeezing her cheeks together. “Do it, darling. Now.”

She does. With haste, face pressing into the pillow as she turns it to the side. Harry lifts a leg over the back of her thighs, weight holding her down as his large hands smooth up her back to push her shirt away. “Let me see that pretty, little arse,” he sighs to himself before tugging her borrowed boxers down just enough to expose the soft flesh. Y/N doesn’t expect the kneading that his palms start to soothe her with. His perfect fingers massaging in pushes and pulls. It’s a little humiliating, knowing that he’s observing her—the most vulnerable of states—but with it comes the most trusting freedom and she breathes a deep sigh as her limbs relax into his mattress.

But it’s supposed to be a punishment, isn’t it? And Y/N realises too late, once Harry’s hand has already retracted and sliced through the air to deliver a well-connecting smack to the round of her ass. She gasps, hips twitching—and her leg even threatens to bend up in the air—as heated pinpricks tingle around the shape of Harry’s handprint. It’s admittedly quite nice. Nice enough to probably not be considered a punishment but Y/N would never complain. And she supposes Harry had promised her his niceness.

“Is that okay?” he asks quickly, relieved when Y/N nods just as fast and pushes her bum back into his hand.

The heat spreads, sending electrical currents through Y/N’s veins and making her already wet cunt contract around nothing. “You are a divine little thing,” she hears him through her rushing blood. Another slap to the other cheek, followed by her quivering breaths and muffled whimpers as she turns her head into the pillow. “Even more heavenly with a hot bottom,” Harry hums, stroking the backs of his knuckles over her fiery skin.

Y/N’s already lightheaded, after two measly spanks. She suspects somewhere in the depths of her brain that Harry could knock her about if he so desired and that she really must take efforts to improve her stamina but… when she feels his lips press soft kisses to her bum—everything melts away. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even and she’s sinking into a fluffy cloud miles and miles above the ground.

And she’s silly. Very silly.

Because Harry spanks her again, and she should’ve expected that two would hardly count as her retribution but they felt so good and her brain was so easily consoled by him.

These ones are harder. And in rapid succession. These ones have Y/N’s head rising from the pillow in a gasp that sounds less dreamy and more like the predecessor to a very loud—

“Shit!”

Which earns her two more smacks to either cheek. “Language, Y/N.”

“Sorry, Sir. Hurts—” The initial heat she was bathed in is now closer to that of a scalding shower than warm sunshine. It’s pulsing, radiating, steaming heat that may as well be smoking off her body in profuse clouds of vapour. Harry’s rough in the treatment of her skin now, kneading to watch the malleable flesh bend at his will instead of caressing to lull Y/N into a peaceful state.

He hums. “I know, bum’s on fire, love. You’re doing very well. Let’s do two more, shall we?”

“O-okay,” Y/N nods face down. Until Harry leans over her back momentarily and positions her head to the side once more, smearing his lips to the corner of her mouth in a possessive reward of a kiss.

“Such a good girl. Just two more f’me.” His voice is soft but his hands stay bruising as they come down twice more. Y/N sighs as soon as the last one resounds around Harry’s room, and the vibrations die down into their residual tingles. It hurts—but in a calming way. Y/N’s body feels not her own; she needn’t move her own limbs or think thoughts with her own brain. There’s no need—she has nothing to contemplate anyway.

On another day, she might have cried at this realisation—at the complete and utter profuse emptiness that allows for the first serenity she has ever known. No anxieties, no needs or responsibilities. Just Harry and his bed. And her hot skin. But right now, as Harry leans over her again, gracing her with the sight of his handsome face… Y/N can only smile.

“I think someone enjoyed that a little too much,” Harry murmurs, bracing himself above her, hair curling over his forehead whilst he tugs her boxers back up.

“Sorry, Sir,” Y/N whispers, tongue heavy. “I’m good? I won’t get up in the night, I promise.”

“You’re good. Took your first spanking so well…” He pauses to stroke down the bridge of her nose and relish in the fluttering of her lashes as her eyes fall shut. “Shall we fill up on some pie now, yeah?”

Y/N snaps out of it a little then, and is suddenly hit by the waves of her throbbing pussy, as she pushes up slightly on her elbows. “B-but…”

Harry leans back, confusion passing over his features. He was sure she’d be more excited. “What’s wrong, love?”

She whispers it, like it’s some sort of secret. “You… I’m still…” her eyes clench shut in embarrassment.

He clocks the cause of her whinging immediately. “Mm, I know you are. Probably made a mess of my boxers, haven’t you? Should we check?” Y/N squeals and rolls out of Harry’s reach… or she tries to but fails to make any sort of meaningful distance. “You wanna come? Is that it? Your greedy cunt wants to come.” Harry watches as she nods her head pitifully, eyes wide and lip protruding like she has no idea what she’s doing. Minx. “What have you done to deserve that?” His hands clasp her hips deliciously as he takes his place above her, securing her in his prison of arms. “Not much of a punishment if I give you an orgasm, is it, darlin’?”

She doesn’t speak. Only looks up at him like he built the very house they lie in. Harry leans down to kiss her awaiting mouth. A sweet smack as they part and the widening of Y/N’s already melted eyes... and then he’s taking her by force, manoeuvring her back onto her stomach and hitting right in the centre of her bum, before pushing up from the mattress to look down at her with a mischievous grin and an offering hand. In a dizzyingly fast sequence of actions.

Y/N squawks, unexpecting of his cruel attack. “Ow!” She cries, kneeling up to protect her sensitive skin from his barrage. (Not that Harry couldn’t put her in any position he liked.)

“Come on, up y’get. S’breakfast time. Colazione!”

And Y/N is left to watch Harry’s broad, bare back disappear from view as she kneels on his mattress with a scorching ass and sodden underwear.

ㅤㅤ

She doesn’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s a lack of filter combined with a slight grumpiness which is understandable after the way Harry left her.

So it’s with instant regret that Y/N enters the kitchen, slides onto a stool and asks, “What’s this?” in reference to the bowl placed before her.

Harry scoffs in amusement. “It’s fruit, darlin’, you eat it all the time.” And fruit it was. An eclectic pile of all sorts of yummy stuff—strawberries, bananas, mangos, kiwis to name a few—no blueberries because Y/N had used them, of course.

She can’t help herself. “But not for breakfast!”

“What’s wrong? Not good enough for you?”

And she realises then, how unthankful she had sounded. “No! I didn’t—” she clamps shut her open mouth, eyes widening and then narrowing when Harry’s lips start to curl.

He sits himself on the stool next to Y/N, knees turned to the side so he can look at her. “Tell me,” he pokes her thigh with his index finger, just as she places a chunk of mango into her mouth.

She reaches over to poke him in return. “Tell you what?”

“What do you eat for breakfast?”

“Oh… no,” she shakes her head, mango sitting in her cheek for a second as she speaks.

“No? It’s bad then… Let me guess…” He hums, fingers tapping his chin in faux contemplation. And somehow, in true Harry fashion, he gets it right first try. A horrified look overtakes his features. “Don’t tell me… you eat those chocolate filled pillow things, do you?”

Y/N tries to school her shock to no avail, but she says nothing, eyes darting between his in rapid motions. She shoves a strawberry in her mouth.

“Oh, the terror! How could you?” Harry gasps, helping himself to a slice of toast from the rack on the middle of the island counter. He starts to spread raspberry conserve on it, head shaking the entire time—fighting the urge to start spewing fabricated statistics in order to frighten her. “Who am I kidding? Of course you eat that filth… I don’t know if I can have relations with someone who starts their day with a bowlful of pure sugar.”

Y/N giggles, fruit bulging in her cheeks as she covers her mouth with her hand. “Have—” she swallows, “—relations with? Were you born in 1954?”

Harry smiles, “That’s very specific, love.”

“Well I like to specify, so…” she supplies midchew, face looking ever so matter of fact.

He watches her as they eat, eyes trained to her fingers as they pick up lumps of fruit and bring them to her wet lips, her tongue as it pokes out to catch whatever she offers, her throat as it contracts around a swallow. It’s peaceful, and quiet as the two share the silence with one another. And when Y/N has finished her last mouthful and Harry has long since eaten his toast, he makes his way to the oven to retrieve the most beautiful blueberry pie he has ever seen. Golden lattice, bubbling purple spilling, and the divine smell of home baked confection.

Y/N’s eyes light up as though it’s Christmas morning, hands clapping under her chin and eyes crinkling in the most beautiful sight. “Oh! It looks good, Harry!” She sounds surprised, relievingly so—like it had been weighing on her unnecessarily.

“It looks delicious, Y/N, thank you. Want some?” She nods eagerly. Harry can’t help but smile, gaze directed to the floor as he shakes his head and represses the urge to coo. She’s so cute. “See, since you made it for me, I should really make you beg for even a taste.”

“Wh—” Y/N huffs, “what? That’s not fair,” she pouts.

Harry sits back down with a steaming slice on a plate. Fork in hand, he cuts a sizable segment and purses his lips to blow cool air before presenting it to Y/N. “Be careful, s’hot.” She pretends not to notice his stare concentrating on the appearance of her tongue as she opens her mouth for him to guide the pie into. It is hot. But Y/N is a master of deception… or so she tries to be. Decides the twitch of her eye and the sharp inhale of breath is unnoticeable to Harry. “You burned your tongue?”

Never mind.

Through a mouthful, Y/N goes, “No…” and chews the result of her hard work until she can swallow. “It’s nice,” she hums.

“Mm,” he agrees around his own bite. “Sweet little baker, you are.” Y/N buzzes from his praise. “Let me see.”

“Hm?”

“Your tongue, let me see.”

Y/N nearly laughs, but the look in his eyes stops her. A smugness that she’s used to by now. So she displays it for him, wet against her bottom lip. Harry inhales, a dismayed whistle sounding from his mouth. His thumb swipes along the side. “Very red. Told you t’be careful.”

She wants to grumble at him, complain about the unfairness of his statement. You fed it to me! It’s on the tip of her tongue. Her very red tongue, apparently. But she bites it back—because quite frankly, the middle of her thighs are still sending turbulent waves through her body and Harry’s patronising inspection of the inside of her mouth has pulled her back to the edge she’s tried so hard to scramble away from. The edge in which Harry only needs to look at her funny for her to topple over it.

“Poor thing,” he frowns. “I’ll have to kiss it better later.”

Y/N stares at him as he eats, opening her mouth obediently whenever he offers her another bite. His words, however teasing or condescending that they may be, float around in her skull like a DVD logo as she makes every effort not to slip into the palm of his hand.

ㅤㅤ

When Harry announces he’s off to shower and beckons Y/N to follow, she knows it can’t be good—whatever he is about to subject her to. He plays it off like it’s nothing, like it’s casual to leave the bathroom door open whilst he steps under the hot spray, completely naked. And maybe it is… to people that aren’t Y/N, but she knows Harry is trying to embed his way under her skin. That’s why he tells her to wait for him on his bed.

She doesn’t snoop, although she wants to, but it would be a violation of his privacy and who was Y/N if she wasn’t good? She doesn’t look into the bathroom either, despite not being able to see a thing through the gap (closer to a chasm) he’d left open. Was he trying to tempt her? To corrupt the last shred of virtue in her body? Did he want her to go in there… strip down and join him? Or was he looking for an excuse to play rough with her skin again? Waiting for her to walk in so he could look down at her with conniving eyes and shake his head in disappointment. You filthy girl. Are you a pervert, Y/N? Who gave you permission to come in here and sneak a glance? You’re so naughty, darlin’.

Clammy fingers press into her cheeks, trying to will away the shame. She felt perverted just thinking those things. Which perhaps is a little silly of her, seeing as they’ve been as connected as two people can be on two separate occasions now but… maybe there’s an inkling of something there that Y/N doesn’t want to accept. That the coalescence of the humiliation and arousal means for an intense curling in her abdomen. That the longer she pictures Harry belittling her for being so dirty to peek at him at his most vulnerable, that the hotter her face gets and the further her thoughts stray from sanity.

Maybe she’s just wound up from this morning… or maybe Y/N likes it best when she’s treated like she’s just a stupid little girl. Her thighs squeeze. Stupid for hypothetically walking into the bathroom, stupid for baking a pie at three a.m., stupid for burning her tongue after Harry told her to be careful. She’s stupid—and she needs Harry to do everything for her. Maybe that’s it.

The water turns off. And Y/N can hear the swishing of a towel as Harry pulls it off the rack, the way it rubs over the droplets running rivulets down his shining skin, and then nothing. She hears nothing… but it hardly matters for very long because when Harry steps into his bedroom undeniably naked, Y/N is far from thinking about identifying sounds.

Her first urge is to look away—to provide some sort of privacy for the man in his own bedroom. But she forces herself to look into his eyes. This is the man who cherished her first time, who cared to speak in soft caresses and made the effort to take her on dates and cook her food. She didn’t need to look away, she was allowed to stare by this point. But it was still… heartstopping. Nudity was still novel to Y/N—she was, even now, fairly uncomfortable by her own, let alone someone else's, but God if Harry wasn’t the best example to study.

“Pervert,” Harry murmurs. Y/N blanches; she opens her mouth but nothing comes out. And now her eyes are fixed on his—any attempts at subtly trailing them down his body are strictly thwarted—and Harry is loving it. His perfectly square teeth digging into his pink bottom lip whilst he strolls his way over to his wardrobe. Y/N looks down for the moment she thinks he cannot see, only to realise there are mirrors inside of the doors and he can watch every movement of her eyeline. He turns. “You’re a little peeping Tom,” walking towards where Y/N sits at the end of the bed.

She has to look up at him (avoiding the sight of his cock that she is sure must be the only pretty one in existence) and he stares down at her. She hardly recognises the irony—that he’s the one parading around in the nude and it was hardly fair to call her out for simply observing that. Because then he’s moving forward again, and Y/N is shuffling backwards on the bed—inadvertently giving Harry enough room to climb on and pin her down. He glides his eyes over her still clothed body as though she’s as exposed as he is, and yet Y/N still doesn’t let her gaze drop. No matter how hard it is.

It isn’t hard. Yet. But she gasps at the feeling of Harry against her thigh—soft, and lingering, and most of all… promising.

“How would you like it if I scrutinised you?” His hands tease her waist. “You’d be squirming all over the place. Perhaps you’d enjoy that.” His fingers dig into her flesh and Y/N lets out somewhat of a scream. The unexpected prodding has her body twisting under his, desperate to escape his digits and proving his point in the process. Her hands push against his chest and her thighs wiggle between his; she’s surely not imagining the hardening of his dick against her. The arousal he’s receiving from watching her struggle… it makes her move even more. And maybe it’s simply an accident when her hand slips down his body and wraps around his half-hard cock. And maybe it’s just reflexive when Y/N giggles, a happy, surprised noise, at the stuttering of Harry’s tickling and the little rut of his hips. But then her arms are pinned down beside her head and his breath is ghosting across her mouth. “Who told you it was okay to touch? I thought you were an obedient little thing… not a brat.”

And Y/N nearly feels offended. A brat? Never. “Sorry,” she whispers, eyes shimmering with light.

“Are you?” Harry hums, dropping enough to draw his nose across the line of her jaw.

“Yes,” her eyes flutter closed. She needs to be touched, more than ever before. She can feel the increasing weight of Harry growing against her stomach, and the heat of his breath kissing her neck, and the wet tendrils of his hair dripping down her temple. “Not a brat.” He’s won already, if the breathiness of her voice is anything to go by.

He sits up, leaving cold air in his absence. Y/N blinks with confusion. Why’d he stop?

“Okay, little miss ‘Not a Brat’, up y’get.” She sits, frown on her pretty lips. “Your turn, off y’go.” Harry points to the bathroom. “There’s a clean towel in there for you,” Y/N could cry, “and I’ll lay your clothes out when you’re done.”

She doesn’t argue. She wants to, but her eyes only round out, silent begging getting her nowhere as Harry smiles and leans down to kiss her brow. So saccharine and gentle after being so cruel. It drives her round the bend. But as she makes her way over to the door and makes sure to shut and lock it—her own little victory—Y/N starts looking forward to lathering herself in Harry’s smell… and maybe memorising which shower gel he uses so she can buy some herself…

It’s with false confidence that Y/N exits the bathroom, towel gripped tightly around her but not tight enough to suggest shyness. Even though Harry can see right through her. He’d said he’d lay her clothes out but all she sees is a dress hanging up on the door of his wardrobe, and Harry sitting back against his pillows—dressed in his corduroy shorts and a blue t-shirt with a big yellow smiley face in the centre—nursing a cup of tea.

“Uh— is that…” she starts, eyes struggling to look away from the delicate fabric.

“Mhm,” Harry hums.

“How did you… how did you know my size?”

“I’m observant, sweetheart.”

“I… Thank you, Harry. It’s so pretty.” And it is. Dark green with an intricate décolletage and no back, thin straps and two lines of fabric hanging down behind ready to be tied into a bow that rests just under the ribs. It looks as though it’ll hang mid thigh and swish against her skin airily. It’s exactly something Y/N would have picked out herself.

He’s looking at her when he hums once more in agreement. “Isn’t it just…” He takes a long gulp. “Pop it on then, love.” Y/N reaches out to grab the hanger, eyes roaming along the lines of the dress and then floating up to smile at Harry. Hesitant, worried she doesn’t deserve it and elated at the same time. “G’na drop your towel?” He grins.

And sure, maybe Y/N was more than happy to admire a naked Harry but that doesn’t mean he’d be lucky enough to see her in the same position. Shameless eyes roving across her curves and searing her skin in the process. So she shakes her head with flaming cheeks and quickly bolts back into the bathroom to the sound of Harry’s disbelieving chuckle.

It’s snug to her body, and something about knowing that Harry had browsed through clothes with her in mind, had seen this very one and decided it was perfect, makes it all the prettier on Y/N’s body. She giggles to herself, admiring the dress against her skin, and angling her body in the mirror to get a better look.

She was pretty and she believed it. It felt nice.

Save for the glaringly obvious breeze in between her thighs.

“Harry…” she calls as she opens the door. “Can you tie me up?”

He smiles, choosing to ignore the versatility of her question in favour of drinking in the sight before him. A Goddess, he’s sure. “You’re just lovely, aren’t you?” Y/N’s face blossoms, shy smile fighting to stay and claim its place. Her eyes crinkle and her irises brighten and the laugh that echoes around the room makes Harry’s chest hurt. “Turn around.”

He wishes bows were notoriously difficult to tie—so that he would be able to spend much longer brushing his fingers against the exposed skin of her back and tracing his gaze over the hair that rises on her arms from his touch alone. His hands close around her hips once he’s finished, as he bends down to press a kiss to her shoulder, stubble scratching her in a way that’s all too familiar.

She exhales, “You ripped my underwear,” and feels him smile into her skin.

“Such a shame, isn’t it?” Warm palms squeeze, bunching the material around his fingers. “At any moment… a breeze could just…” he flips the hem of her dress up and over her ass, “expose...” Y/N squeals, trying to step forward but Harry’s heavy grip has her thumping into his front with a loud exhalation of breath and smaller hands falling on top of his. The material of his shorts is rough against her flesh, but she wants to grind back against it despite the fact. Harry’s hard chest pressing into her back and his deep breaths fluttering over her shoulder has any attempts at escaping evaporating into the air before them. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” He whispers, face turning into her cheek as he pushes into her behind gently.

“N-no,” Y/N shakes her head as it lolls back slightly to rest against him.

“Well… let’s hope the wind doesn’t pick up,” and he’s stepping away from her, grinning at her little stumble when the sturdiness of him is gone.

“What?”

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I was thinking we’d go for a little walk.” Y/N turns, fingers coming down to pull her dress tight against her thighs. Harry looks at her with no remorse—like her flustered expression and the clear want in her eyes means nothing to him. His tongue darts out to lick his lips; weapons as far as Y/N is concerned. “Grab your shoes,” he nods and Y/N follows his gaze to the top of the wardrobe… conveniently out of her reach. And not where she had left them the day before.

“You—” she narrows her eyes. He’s the pervert. “I can’t!”

“Try.” A cunning smile.

Y/N crosses her arms over her chest—which only serves to push her adorned breasts up—so she drops them with a huff and stomps over to make a fool out of herself, she’s sure. She stands on her toes, ignoring the cool air on the tops of her thighs. Whether Harry may or may not be watching the hem tease the underside of her bum is none of her concern, quite frankly. That sounds like a him problem. Her fingers stretch out as far as they can go and she’s a fraction of a hair’s length away. Maybe she could reach them if she jumped but there’s no way her modesty would stay hidden and Y/N refuses to let him win.

“Can’t reach,” she pouts, somewhat satisfied that Harry didn’t get the full eyeful he was clearly looking for. But it seems that Harry finds a way to win even when he’s losing, because he steps up to her, smooths a big palm over the top of her head and says as though it's the most casual thing in the world…

“That’s okay, let Daddy get it,” as he plucks her shoes down without the slightest hint of a stretch.

Y/N’s mouth falls open and her brain goes silent for a split second. Let Daddy get it. Surely she didn’t like that… did she? But he doesn’t even let her question it, because he’s telling her to put her shoes on and meet him downstairs, before walking out of his room and leaving an astounded Y/N on her own.

ㅤㅤ

Flowers are fucking pointless, right? What purpose do they serve, other than looking pretty? Y/N thinks she might just pick the next petals she sees right off their stems.

Sure. Maybe they're crucial to the welfare of bees, and maybe they’re very important in the cheering up of a person after a long, hard day—or even just as a silent way of apologising to your nan for your lack of visits… but Y/N doesn’t care. She does not care. Fuck walks, fuck flowers, and fuck Harry’s fingers twining with hers. Even though they feel really, really nice. Y/N can’t take it anymore.

The wind, thankfully, stays at a very enjoyable speed. Light and breezy; nothing that may cause frantic hands to fly to her dress to hold it down after a shocking gust. And whilst Harry may have alluded to the fact that her indecent exposure was some source of amusement for him, he too is relieved that he’s not had to do any emergency fixes.

Quite surprisingly, actually, Harry has turned off all allure. Literally. As though he has a switch on the back of his head that flicks from sultry to sweet. The moment the pair had reached a road, he’d been alert—insistent on Y/N switching with him to be furthest away from the onslaught of cars. It was… thoughtful. Unexpected, somewhat, when the whole Daddy thing was still going round… and round… and round inside of her head. She hadn’t really been paying much attention to his soft murmurs, asking her to change sides with him as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Perhaps she was further gone than she realised, when all she could do was nod with a sort of lag, and only meet his eyes for a second before she caught the look of an incoming pram—weighed down by the peaceful sight of a sleeping baby.

If Harry notices then he doesn’t say anything—perhaps his hand tightens around hers and he walks a little closer than necessary—but he doesn’t mention her mood or his.

He buys her ice cream and walks them to a public park in which he prompts her to sit on the verdant grass and props his sunglasses on her nose. He pulls her calves across his lap and watches goosebumps follow in the wake of his soft fingertips and the bumps of his knuckles as he caresses her skin. He kisses her chin where a melty drop paints her, licking his lips with a smile that scrunches his eyes. He behaves appropriately and yet… Y/N suddenly wants to have very public sex. He calls her a messy girl in the most innocent of lilts but the insinuation, the different sort of mess that she starts picturing—the very same colour of the frozen treat she is licking.

Y/N’s eyes are absent, the pair are hardly talking to one another, and her legs buzz with every touch of Harry’s hands against them. Her answers are reduced to halfhearted hums and gradual nods all while he watches her with a fond regard.

She can’t be blamed—when the closing of his front door prompts the last of her composure to disintegrate; to fall apart at the seams and land in a frail mess on the floor. Y/N wants to join it more than anything. “Please…” a whisper falls from her bitten lips, too quiet to make out the word but the noise is carried. Harry’s hand meets the small of her back and then brushes up to smooth over her shoulder as he lifts her chin up with his index finger.

“What is it?” His brows pull together. Y/N can’t speak. Her focus dances from left to right—rapid movements—unspoken urgency. “You need to tell me… with your words, no matter how pretty your eyes look.” Smaller, nervous palms push into his stomach. Knees bend and meet hard floor. Harry’s fingers tangle into her hair, gripping but not tugging—holding her head at an angle. “This isn’t talking, darling. What are you trying to do down there?”

Y/N cups the backs of his knees, hardly registering the sarcasm that drips from his tongue. “Harry…”

“Is it?” A little yank against her scalp.

“Sir,” she tries again around a swallow. “Please can I…” her hand flattens to the front of his thigh, fingertips brushing the locked teeth of his zipper. “Can I?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,” he hums, warm voice forcing her deeper into the plunge pool filled with honeyed tones and twining brunette tendrils. “I thought you liked to specify.”

She shuffles closer on her knees, hardly possible to do without nosing his shorts. “Can I suck your cock, Sir?”

Harry breaks out into a smile—his teeth appear in straight, pearly lines—stuttering Y/N’s train of thought; her exhale hitting his skin. And then the hand in her hair tightens, and his jaw clenches as his words harden. “May I.”

Y/N gasps at the sensation, blink overcoming her as her head is jolted from the weight of his hand. “May I?” She urges. “May I suck your cock, Sir?”

“Hm, better,” his grip loosens, other hand lifting to thumb over her brow. “Not perfect. What are you missing?”

“Please?” When Harry nods, Y/N’s hand digs into his thigh. “Please may I suck your cock, sir?”

“That’s nice,” he smiles. “How much do you want it, hm?”

Y/N’s brows twitch, lips forming a sad curve. She wants it so much. Too much to be able to coherently express it. So she leans forward, nose finally meeting his thigh—pressing up on her knees to reach where a slight bump is forming and letting her face push into his covered skin. His thickening bulge.

Harry sighs; his lungs forcibly deflating as Y/N’s warm air saturates through the corduroy. Her nose nudges around as she nestles into his crotch, delicate hands scratching the backs of his thighs. A muffled please reaches his ears, quiet but desperate. He’s a patient man—he really is—but his tolerance is being tested.

The fingers in her hair untangle, moving to hold the back of her head and push her further into him. His hips move of their own accord, suffocating Y/N with his hardening cock. She deserves it; she deserves everything. He knows that—but it had been too fun to tease… to watch her silently struggle all afternoon. To know that the spanking he’d delivered earlier this morning had stayed with her all day. He already knew they could hardly count as a punishment… not when she mollified into his mattress after the first smack. But he’d been cruel today. And now Y/N was desperate.

“Go ahead ‘n’ unzip me, love.” The eyes that greet him make Harry want to get down on his knees himself. Wide, glistening, one step away from filling with tears. Her face relaxes with an almost-smile as she tugs his zipper down, looking back up to him with a hopeful expression. “Oh, you’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” He slides his hand into the hair behind her ear, firm grip grounding Y/N, and takes himself out for her.

Y/N unfolds her tongue for Harry like it’s a red carpet—like it’s been awaiting his cock all day. His fingers wrap around himself in firm strokes, eyes stuck to hers. They’re slow motions, hips jutting forward to smear across her tongue and then pulling back to rub her spit into his head. Groans settle in his chest but all that comes out are quiet breaths. Too quiet, if you were to ask Y/N. But the harder he gets, the louder too, and those breaths become pants when Harry slaps his cock on her open mouth.

“Look at that, you’re so sweet—so eager to please.” He can tell she wants to close her mouth around him. She gets another thud against her tongue instead. And then a smear as Harry guides the tip of his cock along the plush of her lips. “So please me, baby.”

Y/N lags a little, like she’s just become shy again, and then she slips forward just enough to take the head. Her slick lips wrap around him like a dream, pulling back just to run her tongue around the mushroom tip. Her blueberry-pie-burnt-tongue. Slender fingers massage the side of her scalp, thumb stretching to stroke her cheekbone.

Harry grips himself, “Hands behind your back, f’me, there you go.” She suckles the tip, anticipating eyes saying more than words could even try to articulate. Y/N’s posture slouches some, arms pressing into her back serving to be much too heavy in her state. “Sit up straight.” Because it’s not ladylike to slouch but it is to suck cock. She listens, taking Harry deeper into her mouth in the process. But he pulls back to push into the side of her cheek. “Pretty,” he swipes his thumb back and forth over the bump.

Y/N’s face twists into a frown, pulling against the resistance of his big hand and off his cock. “I thought…” she breathes in a deep breath, “Please let me. Let me…”

“Why do you want to suck my cock so bad, huh?”

He has an idea. He’s not dim—he knows there are probably floods of thoughts swimming against the tide in her little head. That’s just the way Y/N exists; constantly battling her own mind. And Harry had somewhat decided, earlier that day, that he would go searching for all her buttons. That he would learn her tells as soon as possible in order to keep things smooth sailing.

Of course, learning where someone’s buttons are also means they must be pressed… all at once… and not switched off. Harry isn’t punishing her, per say—he regards it as more of a necessary evil. A process that cannot be ignored.

Y/N certainly isn’t ignoring it. Or she isn’t now. He was impressed with her, in ways. Those sweet attempts at concealing all feeling; at pretending she wasn’t pulsating between the centre of her thighs. Perhaps in order to keep him happy, or to win the silent war they were waging—he’s unsure as of yet. But he’ll find out.

However (and this is precisely why Harry felt the need to do all this) he’s somewhat perturbed by Y/N’s lack of vocalisation of her emotions. Communication, Harry feels, is the most important thing in any sort of relationship. He’s urged her, although perhaps not enough, to tell him how she feels—no matter if he is the one causing those feelings. In fact, that means for even more of a reason to let him know. So that he can make it better. There’s no doubt in Harry’s mind that if Y/N had asked at breakfast to make the ache go away, he would’ve sunk to his knees. And then rewarded her even further just for telling him.

But now they’re here. And Y/N is crumbling, and desperate, and beautiful. Harry squeezes himself, once, twice, around the base of his cock before jutting his hips out just enough to rest the length of him atop of her cheek—and then some. He’s long, and thick, and the pretty girl on the floor for him barely competes for size.

“Hm?” He nudges.

“I wanna make you feel good,” she insists—and Harry doesn’t think she’s lying on purpose… But by omission, maybe. “Sir.” She tacks it on in haste, like the two seconds in which she hadn’t uttered the honourific would result in cruel and unusual punishment.

“Y’want to make me feel good? I see. Even after all my teasing today? You still want to put those pretty lips around me.” The contrast between his cock on her face and the light, scratching strokes he’s giving her head is mind boggling. When she nods, his tip threatens to poke her in the eye. “I’m going to give you… one chance to tell me what you’re actually thinking. Or else I’ll put m’self away and carry on ignoring you.” He doesn’t know if he hallucinates the increasing warmth of her face underneath him.

“Thought if I made you happy… you’d… you’d be pleased with me,” her eyes struggle to maintain contact with his. “And… and make me… y’know...”

“Hm, make you a nice dinner? Make you laugh all bright and bubbly? Make you—”

“Make me come!”

“Ohhh,” he smiles, “how silly of me.” He’s incorrigible. “Well let’s see then, shall we? If you can be a good girl and make me happy.”

She moves her head, mouth open and awaiting. Harry doesn’t tease her anymore—he gathers her hair in both hands, pulls it all away from her face whilst maintaining a controlling grip, and lets her do as she pleases. It’s perfectly imperfect, the way she delicately kisses up his shaft like it’s just been cruelly treated. Her hands stay unusable behind her back and her sultry mouth struggles to know what to do first. He can see the way she wishes she could do everything at once. Kiss him, tongue him, suck him. Harry thinks she could simply breathe on him and he’d feel good.

Y/N falls into a rhythm, soft eyelids closing in contentment as her mouth works around him. Head moving back and forth, slowly but attentively. She rubs her tongue on the underneath of his cock as she takes him, each retreat of her lips sucking tantalisingly. And when she manages to look up at him for just a second, Harry can’t help the quirk of his lips and the twitch of his dick as he mutters praise through quickly thickening fog. She buzzes with it, pushing herself further onto him until she stills in an attempt to adapt to the constricting weight nudging at her throat. When her breaths start to hit Harry harshly, he curls his fingers in her hair and urges her off of him.

“I’m plenty happy enough, my darlin’,” he shakes his head, “don’t choke yourself. We’ll do that another time.” And his words are breathy, sure evidence that he is happy, but Y/N doesn’t feel satisfied. She wants to see his tummy quivering underneath his t-shirt, wants to hear him pant, and groan, and lose all semblance of himself. She moans around him, at the promise of him filling her throat, at the sight of his glowing face and dishevelled hair. And then she speeds up. She feels the saliva collecting in her mouth and she lets it cover him—she moves her head in urgent bobs and digs her nails into her palm when Harry grunts.

“Oh, fuck,” he looks down at the shine she’s leaving behind around him. “Sweet little thing’s got a filthy mouth.” Spit drips down her chin and he thumbs it away, wiping it on his shorts. It makes her go even faster. “Good girl—shit. You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” Y/N whines around him, eyebrows dipping in delight from his words alone. Her core is numbing, sure she must’ve dripped onto the floor and yet she doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed. Not when all she can think about is making Harry come.

But he’s mean. He says, “You’ll get up then, won’t you?” voice lilting.

What? “Mm-mm,” she shakes her head, disgruntled that he’d even suggest it, and pushing further down his cock in retaliation.

“No? But I thought you were a good girl. Good girls listen. So listen to me… and get up.” He drags her off by the hands in her hair, feeling smug when she gasps down multitudes of air. She’s annoyed—swollen, slick lips pouting—no aversions to showing how she truly feels now. “Don’t look so sad,” he mimics her pout, fingers squeezing her cheeks together as she stands on wobbly legs. Then he kisses her rumpled lips, tastes himself and her saliva and rubs his tongue on hers. Bless her heart, she keeps her arms behind her, melting into Harry’s grasp and forgetting all about her own limbs. His grip finds her waist, tugging her up his body and coaxing her thighs to wrap around him. He hums against her lips, content to feel her pressing into him… then her dress rides up and… oh—

“You poor thing,” Harry gasps, when his prick nudges very soft, very wet skin. “Just dripping and you didn’t say a word. Is that very sweet or very selfish?” Y/N can only whimper as their flesh meets. “You’re not selfish, are you, baby?”

“No.” She shakes her head vehemently, hands finally moving of their own accord and sitting on Harry’s shoulders.

He exhales a humoured breath through his nose. “Ah well, you see, I consider myself to be rather selfish. I want things. Do you… want things, Y/N?”

“Yes,” fingers sliding into curls, “want you. Please, Sir, want you.”

He can feel the heat of her pussy. All he’d need to do is nudge his hips forward… “Why didn’t you ask me earlier, hm? See how easy that was? S’all you needed to do was ask.” Y/N nods, apology on the tip of her tongue, but Harry kisses her again before she can talk. And then he’s moving—taking her somewhere—she’s unsure where. It doesn’t matter. She hears the rubber soles of his shoes against the floor, a door sliding open, the chirps of a bird from nearby. And then she feels the soft cushion of a chair as she is placed down upon it.

Y/N opens her eyes, reluctantly, as she hears Harry zipping himself back up. She curves her lips downwards as she leans back, expecting to feel a support, but she falls. Not far. The chair seems to be of the reclining sort, and Y/N’s back moulds into the soft fabric. Harry smiles… and then he’s digging his fingers into the supple flesh of her thighs, pulling her down towards him, and flipping her over. Y/N squeals, palms pressing down to push herself up.

“Hips up,” he swats her thigh, “back arched, good girl. Relax your arms, put ‘em out in front of you.” She focuses on the sight of a pool out of the peripheral of her vision, crystal clear water, pretty bushes, a coffee table under an awning—trying to keep her heart steady as Harry flips her dress up. There’s no hiding now. She’s completely bare and he can see everything. Y/N hides her face in her arms at the feeling of the breeze against her. That breeze becomes warmer, and more pointed, and suddenly it meets her directly—the swipe of a tongue through strings of slick. She jolts forward but Harry tugs her right back, kneeling at the end of the recliner with his face mere centimetres away from her swollen sex. “Don’t move. Don’t try and run away from me unless you want to play like this morning.” Y/N makes a little noise—it’s forced from her lungs, really, at the reminder of the heat his hands left behind. So she tries something, just a little something… she moves. She twitches her hips forward so slightly, he shouldn’t have noticed. But it’s Harry. And he knows that she wants to play like this morning very much.

So he smacks her. Hard. Right in the middle of her left cheek. Something akin to a choked squawk leaves her mouth and she jumps forward once again. So he hits her other cheek, “Stop,” again, “moving,” and again.

“Harry!” Y/N gasps—half moan, half cry. It burns deliciously.

“Keep still for me. I want to eat this pretty cunt,” he breaths over her, taking her in. “You remember your Yellow and Red, yes?” He looks up the expanse of her back.

“Yes—Sir,” Y/N forces out, lungs going at a rapid rate. Every word is a struggle.

“Good girl.”

And then he devours her.

Y/N is grateful he put something soft beneath her, because she struggles not to flatten out immediately. Despite the possessive grip Harry displays over her waist and on her thigh. She’s at the halfway point—of still feeling scrutinised and losing all inhibitions. Embarrassment being a turn on surely makes that line a little silly to place herself upon. But she forgets her thought process entirely with Harry’s tongue flicking between her legs. He’d gone straight in, initially, mouth meeting her centre with no motive other than to taste and to feel her on his lips. He kisses her—as much as one can there—open mouthed and impassioned, trailing from left to right over her thighs… then up to her ass that to Y/N’s curious horror he spreads, coming close but never right where she wanted him.

Did she though? Want him there? The thought has never crossed her mind before but the closer he gets the more her hips shift. But Harry only kisses the skin of her round flesh, moving back down to spread her lips and take a good look at her. The moment of waiting feels like years to Y/N. Years of being pulled apart and stared at like she is tied to a pedestal. Then he hums, deep from within his chest, and sucks her clit into his mouth. She lets out a long, pitiful moan, face dropping to the cushion with a thud. Her body must be moving—shaking or twitching—but she can’t tell. Not when Harry is holding her thighs with his thumbs still spreading her open, and switching between pulling her into his mouth and smoothing his tongue over her. In languid motions that start to unravel Y/N incredibly quickly.

He stays slow—which is something she envies, really—the ability to heighten an orgasm by dragging it out. Y/N always finds, and she’s not the best at masturbating anyway, that in the midst of the pleasure she speeds up her hands with the incoming sense of her climax. And it never feels completely satiating. But Harry… of course he knows what he’s doing better than her. But God, does he prove it. It builds so steadily; the pleasure elongated and intensified as Y/N grapples with her hands to find any sort of grounding. She pushes up, and then falls back down. She stretches her arms out, and then pulls them back to her chest. It’s a restless kind of pleasure—it’s disabling and wonderful and shattering and—

Harry pulls away. The sensation is so jarring that Y/N forgets all semblance of the concept of composure. She cries out and turns herself over. Her brows furrow so hard she’ll surely induce a headache and her wet mouth is open in the most betrayed of gapes.

“Please,” she reaches forward. For Harry who stays kneeling. He cocks an eyebrow at her.

“Were you about to come?”

Y/N could roll her eyes. “Yes! Please, please make me come.” Her hand falls down against the cushion fruitlessly.

Harry pushes up higher on his knees, caressing palms smoothing up her calves until they reach her thighs and sling them over each of his shoulders. Y/N’s head falls back with relief. But he reaches up and grabs her face, angling her head upright so that he can slide two fingers into her mouth. She whimpers in surprise, heat rushing all around her body. His index and little finger rest on either side of her face as he strokes her tongue in depraved motions, sliding over the expanse of the wet muscle.

“What do we say when we want something?”

“Pleathe,” Y/N begs… except she doesn’t really because the word comes out garbled and unintelligible. But Harry smiles.

“Hm?”

“Pleathe!”

Then he slaps her thigh and Y/N yelps around his fingers. “Please what?”

“Thir.” Her eyes clear a little as she tries to inhale. “Pleathe make me come, thir.”

No matter that it’s near impossible to identify her words, Harry is pleased. He pulls his hand away to let her take a few deep breaths, and then he’s coaxing them back in with a little grin. Y/N seems eager for them, tongue laying down for his fingers. “That’s better.” And then she bites them. Not hard, but her teeth press into the skin enough to indent as Harry’s mouth meets her slick centre once again. He keeps his eyes focused on hers and his tongue on her clit—flattening out to collect her arousal from her messy entrance before smearing it over her sensitive button and building her back up agonisingly slowly. She climbs higher and he pulls back, teeth sinking into the inside of her thigh and lips trailing her wetness everywhere, stubble scratching her in a lusciously painful way. His palm stays flattened to her hip, holding her firmly to his face. Until he leans back just enough to purse his lips and drip saliva down onto her shiny pussy. Y/N gasps around his fingers and Harry smirks into her skin as he presses his face back into her, eyes never wavering from hers.

It builds up much quicker now, regardless of the excruciating pace that Harry sets. She tightens up, body desperate as her pelvis lifts up into his mouth. “Pleathe!” Y/N’s eyes clench shut. “Pleathe let me come, thir.” Harry smiles at her incoherent speech and doesn’t stop. He hums instead, long and deep, vibrations tingling through his face and her cunt. Y/N’s harsh breaths hit his knuckles, shallow from her nose. Her hands find his wrist, clinging on as Harry nods into her—not pulling away for a second.

“Ah!—ah—ah,” tiny noises are all she can muster as her eyes beg Harry not to stop and her orgasm dangles her over the edge. Just a bit more… a bit more… don’t stop. Her thighs tighten around his head and Harry moans, grateful to be crushed by such beauty. And if Y/N could speak she’d be more than grateful—she’d be at his feet, she’d pledge to make him happy forever. As long as she came.

And all it takes is one more long hum, fizzling through her clit. Her nails dig into his wrist and her hips surely lift up enough to suffocate him as her orgasm rips through her. It’s blinding…and stilling; Y/N can neither see nor move for five paralysing seconds. Then the sounds seep past Harry’s fingers and her pelvis starts to shake, and the lack of satiating inhalation proves to make her lightheaded. She tugs at his hand to pull it out of her mouth, drowning her lungs in oxygen when Harry complies. But she’s high, head throwing back against the cushion and eyes falling shut as her chest heaves and her body tingles. Y/N misses the way Harry moves his spit-slicked hand down to her puffy core, lips pulled away to give some semblance of respite… until he pushes his two middle fingers into her and curls.

“Oh!” She jolts upright. “No, Harry, I—” her words fall away. The pressure is consuming as his digits press into her, forcing this unprecedented, extended pleasure out of her. And it’s good but… Y/N’s certain she’ll pass out if he takes anymore from her, “—need—a moment,” her back arches and her hands finally search for him. To push away or pull him closer, she is unsure.

Harry retracts his fingers, leaving a kiss to Y/N’s stomach as he gently places her feet flat on the lounger. “Yeah? That’s okay.” The skirt of her dress sits under her ribs and Harry traces the line of skin underneath with the pad of his thumb. “Was that a lot?”

“Mhm,” she nods, struggling to peel her eyelids open for long enough to look down at him. Who slowly stands and lifts her calves to rest across his lap as he seats himself at the foot of the recliner.

“G’na let me fuck you or do you want to stop?” He asks it so casually, as though they’re in the line at the supermarket and he’s offering to let her go before him. The centre of her legs is buzzing—she’s messy and can feel sweat gathering underneath her arms—but she wants more. She wants his pleasure now.

Y/N nods. “Your turn.”

He smiles, “My turn to be eaten out? I wouldn’t say no.” She giggles but it’s to mask a gasp as her eyes widen and her stomach fills with heat. “Let me go grab a condom,” his delicate touches form goosebumps along her arms whilst she nods dumbly.

The urge to cover her face with her hands and laugh is strong. She doesn’t. She presses her lips together instead, hard enough to feel her teeth indenting from the inside, as she watches the wind create ripples in the swimming pool before her. Y/N pulls her dress over her thighs; to tease Harry or herself, she’s not certain but it feels mischievous to do either way. To force him to rediscover the treasure between her legs. To make herself desirable once more.

Not that she doesn’t feel desirable. In the afterglow of her orgasm, Y/N’s sure she’s never felt as pretty—practically glowing and all pliant on Harry’s sun lounger. But if hiding the place Harry wants to see most, makes him lose a little composure? She smiles harder at the thought.

ㅤㅤ

His shirt is missing when he comes back, revealing the hard plains of skin and muscle that Y/N would spend hours tracing if she could. The broad of his shoulders, dusted in delicate freckles—contrasted by the full of his pecs and the stone ridges of his abs that soften into plush hips that beg to withhold the indentations of fingertips. It’s all radiant to Y/N. The sunlight paints the shadows of leaves onto his front as he makes his way back to her. His shorts are considerably tight, tenting obviously. She struggles not to stare. Especially because she knows what's underneath… and wants nothing more than to consume him again.

He looks cheeky, hands behind his back (Y/N truly hasn’t noticed because his arms bulge with the strain and any observation skills she may have possessed become completely redundant at the sight of his thick biceps) whilst he smiles at her reclining body. He stops to the side of her. “I’ve got something for you.”

Y/N looks up at him, eyes curious. “Oh. What is it?”

Harry drops a velvet baggy into her lap, watching with an attentive gaze as she loosens the drawstrings hesitantly. “It’s small and unassuming, yeah?”

A bullet vibrator. “I’ve never used one before,” she admits, cheeks hot and heartbeat racing.

“That’s not on, is it, love? You g’na hold this right here f’me?” He takes it from her and sneaks under her dress, tapping once where it's sensitive. She jolts. “Right over your pretty clit whilst I fuck you?”

She nods, mewl lodged in her throat. “Thank—thank you… Sir.”

A deep hum and a kiss to her head before he says, “Go on then, show me,” kneeling onto the end of the recliner, palms smoothing up her thighs to push the encroaching fabric out of the way. Y/N lets him put the vibrator in her hand, his eyes kind despite the excitement coursing through his veins. She thinks for a second—difficult under normal circumstances but even harder now—and brings the small cylinder to her mouth, pushing the rounded tip past her lips and forcing her stare not to wander from Harry’s. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, all gentle smiles and easy eyes dripping into molten liquid. His pupils blossom and his fingers stop their trailing across her skin as Y/N slicks the vibrator up with her tongue.

It’s overwhelming; the tremors that hit her oversensitive bundle of nerves. She pulls it away as soon as she turns it on, a loud gasp sounding out around them. “Can’t,” Y/N shakes her head.

“Yes, you can, baby. For me.” It’s likely she would do anything as long as Harry asked she do it for him. He unzips his shorts, pushing them down his thighs along with his briefs, thick hardness begging for attention. He’s a harsh blushing colour, and veins stand out against the taut skin, pearls of precome shining from the slit and coating the head deliciously. Y/N feels herself clench around nothing, the weight of the calm vibrator suddenly a very welcome sensation. Harry pulls a condom out of the pocket of his shorts and rolls it on. “Turn it on,” he demands, rubbing the thick mushroom tip of his cock around her entrance, smearing arousal.

She takes a deep breath, eyes cast downwards to the sight of Harry pushing himself in just past the opening and pulling out. In and out. In and out. Teasing. Torturing. Y/N switches the vibrator on, immediately writhing under the overstimulation, just as Harry rocks in to the hilt—hips meeting and breaths mingling when he bends over her body. Strong hands grip the underside of her knees, folding them to her chest and granting the most stimulating of angles.

Her grip on the bullet is weak, unable to maintain placement as it slips down to press into Harry’s shaft as he thrusts into her slow and hard. He groans from the sensation before gripping her wrist and tugging up—back directly on her clit. Y/N moans, head shaking and hips squirming, but Harry only digs his fingers into her thighs and pushes them further into her chest.

“You’re so—fuck—so wet, darlin’. Can’t fuck you or I’ll slip out,” he grunts, pulling out to the tip painfully slowly before skin slaps as he fills her back up heavily. It expels all the air out of Y/N’s lungs, his every thrust jolting her entire body. “Clench f’me. Hold me in, baby.”

Y/N mewls, tightening her pelvic floor and making Harry groan out as he smears his mouth over hers. She doesn’t know what to focus on. His lips scattering tingles all over her face, the harsh buzzing of the vibrator on her clit, the vast span of his fingers indenting her skin, or the heavy thrusts of his cock into her tightness. Over, and over, and over again. She moans into his mouth, crying out as he speeds up. His palm slips over the bottom of her stomach and presses down in search of something.

He pounds into her harder when he feels it. “In your tummy. So fucking deep inside you, pretty girl.” Y/N can’t speak, she can’t do anything but whine out helplessly as Harry pushes his palm into the bulge he’s swelling. Her orgasm starts to build—the convulsing sensitivity of her clit has surpassed to a near numbness—she knows she won’t be able to come again after this. But as she looks down and Harry moves his hand for her to see each thrust, Y/N throws her head back.

“Come all over my cock, baby. Squeeze me so hard I see stars.”

And she’s convulsing, vibrator falling away from the immense sensation of it all—chest heaving, fingers reaching out to dig into Harry’s biceps as she shatters around him. “Harry! Thank you—thank you—th— thank you.” Tears slip out of her tightly shut eyes, wet lips hanging open as her arms grow numb and they fall atop her ribs.

He’s grunting, low and gravelly, curls falling over his forehead like cascading waterfalls of chocolate. His hips don’t falter as he gathers her into his bulging arms. Y/N’s still twitching from the aftershocks when he stands up, fingers splaying on her ass and encouraging her legs to wrap around him. The vibrator stays buzzing on the sun lounger, falling on deaf ears as Y/N clings on and Harry fucks up into her. If she hadn’t just come she’s sure his display of strength would have her drooling.

And she’s close to drooling now. Involuntarily from the pace in which he sets, forcing her to grip onto his shoulders. She smooths the backs of her arms over them, shaking fingers weaving into the hair on the back of his head.

Harry is relentless. “Good girl. Such a good girl. You take it so well. I’m so proud of you.” She keens into his throat, tired smile stretching against his neck. The words warm her.

I’m so proud of you.

She’s elated, she’ll never ask for anything ever again… But she wants one more thing.

“Come in my mouth, Sir.” Her voice tickles against his ear. So shy, so unsure. Harry’s knees nearly buckle.

“Is that a demand, little one?” Fuck, he’d give it to her even if it was.

“Please?” His hips snap up harder, their skin is slapping and sticking, and their bodies are going numb.

“You want me coating your tongue, yeah? You w’na swallow me?”

“Yes, Sir,” she nods desperately.

Harry pulls her off him, setting her down onto the hard floor as gently as his sex-muddled brain can offer. He tugs the condom off, shoving it into a pocket of the shorts he never managed to take off. Y/N opens her mouth obediently, her tired eyes fighting to stay open and watch Harry’s frantic strokes. His head thrown back, jaw sharp and veins in his neck jumping—she’d be a fool not to look.

“God, want you here forever. On your knees f’me,” he looks down at her glowing, sweating skin. “Want to keep you,” his voice trails off into a moan, shuffling forward so the leaking head rests on her tongue as he tugs his length. “Will you let me keep you, Y/N?” She nods, tongue moving on the underside of him. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

It’s her eyes that get him. Big and pleading. Like the only thing she’s ever wanted in her entire existence is for him to come for her. In her mouth. Her eyes… and maybe her tits too. When she pulls the pretty décolletage of her dress down to free them and holds the underside as if to display them for Harry. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he whimpers, leaning forward to spurt thick streaks onto the back of her tongue and watch it drip down. His other hand shoots out to hold the top of her head, strokes slowing and becoming little ruts of his hips when it all becomes too sensitive.

Y/N kneels there for him, mouth open, come painting her tongue. It’s only when he thumps his softening cock against the mess he’s left that she pulls back, making a show of swallowing it all. He’s spent but the sight is one to behold. She smiles shyly up at him, so clearly overjoyed. “Thank you, Sir.”

ㅤㅤ

During their shower, he asks her an important question.

“Was there anything I did to you that you didn’t like?”

Y/N is nearly a deadweight in his arms—so exhausted, so sweet—as she blinks up at him. “Hm?”

Harry smiles. “Did I push your boundaries at all today?”

She nuzzles into his chest, shaking her head, as they stand under the hot stream. “No, Sir.”

“You liked the vibrator?” Harry drags his soapy nails across her back, scratching wonderfully.

“Sore now. Too much, I think,” Y/N admits, as she tightens her arms around his waist. She’s fighting the fog and failing. Harry doesn’t mind.

He hums. “Abused her a little, didn’t I? We can work on that, if you like.”

“Mhm. Anything, Sir.” Then suddenly she pulls back, looking up with harsh brows. “Didn’t like how much you ignored me… down there. Wanted to come all day.”

Harry laughs, “That,” he emphasises, “is something you’ll have to put up with, darling. S’fun to play with you—watch you silently suffer. Promise it won’t be all the time. If only you’d just asked for what you wanted.” Y/N grumbles to herself, basking in the serenity of their touching skin and the clean smell of shower gel as the hot water cleanses them.

The next thing Harry says is unwise. In Y/N’s floaty state, and generally as a rule of healthy relationships, it’s unwise—but he says it anyway.

“You should quit your job.”

She doesn’t register his words immediately, but even when she does, Harry doesn’t receive the expected reaction. She laughs, “Yeah,” sighing. “Can stay in your house all day. Make you happy, whatever you want, all the time.” It feels like she’s joking—like she believes he’s joking and is just playing along—and Harry knew better than to suggest it to her in this moment. He knew better, especially because they were hardly any time at all into knowing one another. It was a rash thing to say… and Harry can’t quite believe he’s thinking it. But he is. He’s thinking it very much. And it feels right. It seems easy.

But he won’t mention it again. Not yet. Not until the girl in his arms is a little less incoherent.

He’s a patient man, is what he tells himself. There’s no rush; Harry certainly isn’t desperate to rush out of the shower, or rush Y/N home, or rush to work the next day. He can wait.

He can wait.

ㅤㅤ

Working with people takes a particular set of skills. Sociability, quick thinking, a strong backbone... Y/N wouldn’t say she particularly possessed any of these qualities—which would largely explain why she hates her job so much.

But she gets up and does it. Every day. And she returns home feeling as though it can’t get any worse, and then the next day proves her wrong.

Despite this, you’d think—after all the practice she has—that entering Harry’s work shouldn’t be so intimidating. That having to ask for him at reception whilst holding a lunch box and a cake tin needn’t stir up the incessant swirls of nerves in her stomach. And even though the woman who tends to her has a soothing smile and a lilting tone of voice, Y/N still stands there feeling obvious. Obvious and unaware at the same time.

Would Harry even want her here? Was showing her face in his workspace breaching a rule? Did he leave his lunch behind on purpose? Would he want the cake she’d brought with her?

The receptionist talks to someone on the phone, announcing Y/N’s presence and her request to see the CEO. She’d thought, perhaps, that she would be immediately denied. Mr. Styles is a very busy man and he doesn’t take surprise visits. Good day. But the lady had smiled almost knowingly at Y/N, as though she’d been expecting her—which seemed even vastly more silly than the prospect that Harry might turn her away himself.

Which hadn’t crossed her mind until now. What if he scolded her? In front of all his employees? Y/N would die.

A man suddenly appears in her peripheral vision. Hair tied back, suit pressed of all wrinkles, and a harsh line of a mouth that curls so minimally that it could be passed off as a twitch when he meets Y/N’s eyes. “Follow me, Miss L/N.”

He takes her up stairs, through halls and to a small sitting area that she assumes is outside Harry’s office. One sofa and one armchair, adjacent to a water cooler and a vending machine in which two other men in pressed suits loiter, trading inconsequential small talk no doubt. And really, it is too small to be considered an area of any sort, and their looming presence does nothing to quell Y/N’s worry.

“He’s just finishing up a phone call, please sit.”

Y/N smiles at the man and rushes out a small thank you before he disappears down the hallway. The soft cushioning of the sofa cradles Y/N’s heart none, despite the silent appraisal her legs give when they’re granted respite. No, her heart is still beating rapidly, and the mumblings of the two men are pecking away at her ears as she tries to block them out without success. She sees one nudge the other out of the corner of her eye, and she hopes—no, begs—that neither talk to her. But it seems there’s no one there to listen to her pleading.

“Excuse me.” One of the men says. Typically those words come attached with a questioning swing but he doesn’t ask her anything. He demands her. “What have you got in there?”

Y/N slides her palms around the spherical tin, the cold metal granting momentary bliss for her clammy skin. On top of the tin is Harry’s lunch. In the box he’d forgotten to take with him on his way out.

Y/N had a day off—calling her boss to fake sickness had been scarier than it should have been (Harry rewarded her for her bravery in ways she can still feel if she clenches her thighs together)—and Harry had ordered she lay about his house all day doing, and she quotes, absolutely nothing.

He’d silently managed to pick up on her preference for a little time alone when talking and coexisting got to be too much (after observing the way she’d spend just that little extra in the toilet after a long day, or insist she’d be with him in a minute that turned into three), and had asserted she finally explore the depths of his garden whilst he was at work. Y/N had thought about asking him to stay home—after all, she only took the day off because of him… and now he was leaving?—but the idea did appeal to her. And he’d kissed her so fervently goodbye that the shape of his lips existed in tingles against hers for an hour after he’d gone.

She’d felt whimsical, like she was existing in a dream, as she slipped on a new dress Harry had bought for her—made of pink silk—and floated around his house like she owned it. She ate fruit whilst perched on his kitchen counter, and sunk her toes into his fluffy rug, and wandered the garden that surely Harry had stolen from another era.

From the patio that leads out to the pool (and those sun loungers that Y/N can’t look at the same), nothing about the vast stretch of grass and towering trees suggested that there were any hidden passageways or undiscovered alcoves. But as Y/N walked down the lawn, she spotted an archway twined with ivy and vines that nestled in between consuming bushes and thick trunks.

Once she walked under it, it seemed as though she’d entered another time period—one that rejected the modernity of white interior decor and lavish patios with swimming pools. A nook—was what Y/N first described it as in her head. A walkway through foliage that led to an opening that homed stone, and trellising flowers, and complete and utter silence. It was circular, a donut shaped stone bench in the centre with bushes and flowers galore surrounding it. Y/N was stunned. And she hadn’t even discovered all of it.

“It’s Harry’s lunch,” she says, focusing on maintaining steady breaths.

The men look at each other with curling lips. “It’s Harry’s lunch,” the other one parrots, nodding once to his friend like her answer was obvious… which it was, she supposes. What else would it be? “Did he forget it at your house?”

“No…” Y/N doesn’t understand what the pair are trying to do. But she recognises the cruelty of their voices. The mocking—immensely unlike the way Harry speaks to her.

“Did you bake him a cake too?”

“Has Styles got himself a little housewife?”

Her skin heats and her chest aches, as their words crawl inside her head, with the intensity at which she is trying to school her lungs. They want to inhale as though she’s been underwater for twenty minutes. They want to heave and splutter desperately and loudly. But she only allows tiny, little teases of oxygen. She doesn’t know what to say.

Her mouth opens and closes again.

“Fancy coming round to my house and baking me a cake?” They both laugh. “I could do with a little lady like you. Always forgetting shit.”

She fidgets uncomfortably on the sofa. It is now made of unrelenting stone. Even the bench in Harry’s garden would grant more comfort than this. A quick glance to the door handle to see if she is capable of summoning him only encourages the men further.

“I didn’t know he had time for a woman.”

“I know,” the other scoffs, “probably very neglectful of his nice housewife…” He pauses, “Are you? His housewife, sugar?”

It had sounded so much nicer from Harry’s lips. Now she just feels dirty.

“No— I’m… We’re…” What were they exactly?

Harry’s door handle turns.

“I’m his—” Submissive. She couldn’t possibly…

His door opens.

“—friend.”

Harry steps out. Y/N doesn’t know how much of the conversation he heard but… from the look on his face, he’s stern. The two men have straightened their backs and are pretending to be involved in unrealistically riveting small talk once again. But Harry glares at them.

His voice is hard, clearly indicating that he had in fact heard their unpleasant probing. “Mr. Acosta and Mr. Havers, as pleasurable as it has been to have you working here,” his tone drips with sarcasm, “resign or be fired. Immediately. Your choice.”

And then he’s glancing down at Y/N, gaze hardly lingering as he nods towards his office with a clear expectancy that she follows, before he turns his back and leaves the water cooler creeps spluttering in their spots. Y/N rushes behind him, not looking back for a second.

“You forgot your lunch,” she exhales once his door clicks shut. Her breathing deepens now that she’s out of the prying stare of those men. Harry stands with his back to her, hands in his pockets as he looks out the window.

“Yes, I see that.” He seems… short-tempered... Angry. He’s never seemed angry before. “Thank you, darling. And a lovely baked treat to go with it, no doubt.”

And maybe his voice lacks his usual authenticity but Y/N smiles a little, though he can’t see her, as she creeps forward slightly to place the tin and his lunch on his desk. She looks up as she stands beside him, observing the harsh line of his jaw and the furrow of his brows. But he walks around his desk and prods a finger into the hardwood, rolling his chair out of the way.

“Take a seat,” he orders. Y/N always obeys Harry but his tone carries a sharpness she’s not used to—lacking the soft feathered curves for when he speaks to her—and she lifts herself onto the edge with a haste that surpasses that of her general avidity. Perhaps, in this moment, a part of her is pretending he’s her boss—and he is in a way, she supposes. Then Harry crowds her senses, thighs brushing her knees as he steps forward and utters something that makes Y/N’s stomach drop. In a bad way. In a definitely bad way.

“I want to have a little chat with… my friend.”

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles x reader #mutually beneficial #writing #domrry #dom!harry #harry styles imagines #harry styles blurbs #fanfiction

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babysfirstfic · 3 months

Text

live now, think later

luke hughes x fem!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: Luke desperately needs to blow off some steam. In a dingy bar, he finds just what he's looking for...

warnings: Brief allusions to sex, but nothing major. Yet. (18+)

a/n: This is my first ever fic! I would love to hear feedback if you have any. I plan for this to be chapter 1 of 3 (but we'll see what happens)! Shoutout to this Tate McRae song for directly inspiring the title and for subconsciously inspiring the plot.

There were few NHL rookies who had more eyes trained on them than Luke Hughes. Between the constant media attention he received from a young age and the pressure that came with his last name, Luke had always had a complicated relationship with his celebrity.

Don’t get it twisted, Luke was super grateful for all the advantages that came with having two all stars for brothers, and there was a part of him that enjoyed leaning into his status.

On the ice, he welcomed the attention. He loved the chance to put on a show for the fans, reveling in the opportunities to make game-changing plays. Hockey was his craft; the minute he laced up his skates he was an artist, an author, a showman. A single goal could cause an entire stadium to rise to their feet, and the power he felt in those moments was indescribable.

Off the ice, though, it was a different story.

Luke prided himself on his maturity and his charm, his ability to keep his cool even while being peppered with questions and surrounded by cameras. He had years to perfect the art of the interview, expertly dodging personal inquiries and even cracking the occasional smile to make it seem like he didn’t absolutely despise answering the same inane questions over and over again.

But one could only keep up appearances for so long. He found it exhausting to have to perform all the time. Though he understood it was a sacrifice he’d have to make now that he was living out his dreams, that didn’t make it any easier.

After several months in the league, he craved a chance to be something other than “Luke Hughes, the hockey player”. He desperately needed to let loose and to make use of the other sides of his personality, the spicier sides, the sides that the cameras would never get to see.

It was time for this Devil to earn his horns.

Within the first few months of being in New Jersey, Luke quickly learned which bars would bend the rules for him. In his desperation to fit in with any teammate who didn’t share his DNA, he was willing to do pretty much anything to get in, buying fake IDs, signing jerseys, you name it. He felt it showed his teammates just how committed he was to building their relationships, on and off the ice.

But tonight, his team couldn’t have been further from his mind. This time, he’d come alone.

Luke had never had the time or energy for dating, but he thrived on quick hook ups and meaningless sex. No obligation for vulnerability or commitment, just fun. After the whirlwind that had been last year, he needed some fun, and tonight, he was willing to work for it.

His bar of choice was dingy, a typical dive bar, complete with sticky floors and disgruntled employees, but the low key lighting and loud music allowed for the perfect cover. Luke felt a sense of safety in his anonymity, a feeling which was becoming increasingly rare.

Waiting in a booth on the edge of the dimly lit room, he scanned the crowd, searching for a glimpse of excitement, someone to steal the blood from his brain and force it elsewhere.

Suddenly, something, no someone caught his eye. It was you.

In a glittery backless top with a loose, low cut and black pants that you filled out in all the right places, you were shaking your stuff on the dance floor. Your whole body bounced with every movement. Like a beacon in the night, the strobe lights illuminated your entirety, sending colourful fractals bouncing off in every direction. You were practically demanding Luke’s attention, and you didn’t even have to try.

You had sensed his eyes on you immediately and couldn’t help but to return his gaze. He looked young but strangely sure of himself, carrying the recognizable swagger of a man who’s used to breaking the rules and getting away with it. Luke would call it confidence, but if you asked his brothers, they’d call it his raging youngest sibling syndrome.

You were undeniably intrigued. Adding more hip movement to your dancing, you hoped that it would encourage him to join. This certainly was not your first rodeo.

It worked. Slowly, he stood up from his booth and made his way onto the dance floor. You sensed a shift in his energy, like this was something out of the ordinary for him. “Nice to know he has a weakness,” you mused to yourself, just now noticing the flutter in your heart as he inched closer.

Luke hated dancing, but something about you drew him in, like a ship of sailors drawn by the voices of sirens. Though he hoped he might meet a different fate; he hoped you might give him a happy ending.

Eventually, he reached your spot on the dance floor.

“Hey,” he spoke into your ear, leaning in close so that you could hear him above the music. You felt his breath tickle your neck, sending chills down your back and deep inside.

“Hi,” you responded, keeping your cool in spite of the tides coming in beneath you. You didn’t know him, had never seen him before, yet everything within you yearned to be close to him, craved to feel his hand against your skin, begged to know him in every sense of the word. “Sheesh girl, you need to get out more,” you thought, smiling briefly to yourself.

Without wasting any time, you grabbed his hand and placed it on the small of your back, finally experiencing the brief release of skin-on-skin. You looked up at him, attempting to decipher the look on his face. He reciprocated your gaze, flashing his crooked smile, practically threatening to melt you right then and there.

Seeing his smile mirrored on your face, he moved his other hand to match the first, pulling you in close. You nodded to express your approval and quickly fell back into your original rhythm, grinding and swaying your hips to the music. Sticking your hands in his back pockets, you led him through the motions, slowly undulating your bodies to the beat.

Your eyes scanned up and down as you let yourself take him in. There was something about this boy; he completely captivated you. With his arms around you, you felt safe. He lacked the aggression and forcefulness you had unfortunately come to expect from situations such as these. He was clearly strong, but you caught him out of his comfort zone, so he was letting you take the lead, a role you took on gladly.

After a couple minutes of finding the right rhythm, your bodies became one. The world melted away. Luke leaned in and began gently kissing your neck, stopping only to briefly nibble your ear. As your pelvises moved up and down to the beat, you began to feel the friction of something rising just below his belt. You responded in kind, sensing a growing heat and swelling between your legs. Neither of you had done this in a while and it was showing, your bodies overly excitable. But you didn’t mind; you were both getting exactly what you wanted.

“I live a couple blocks from here,” you shouted above the crowd, doing everything in your power not to let out the moan that was threatening to escape your lips. “Maybe we could finish our dance there”.

Knowing full well he couldn’t wait that long, Luke made a different suggestion. “There’s a hotel across the street. I have a room. Care to join me?”

In the haze of the crowd and the music and the night, you found yourself moving off the dance floor, out of the bar, into the open air of Newark.

Your entire body was pounding, throbbing with energy and excitement. Your hand was clasped in his, and only then, as you were making your way through the hotel lobby and down the hallway to the room, did you realize you didn’t even know his name. More importantly, you realized you didn’t care. In fact, it was better this way. No possibility of getting attached or contacting each other afterwards. A true one night stand.

As you reached the room, Luke spun you around to face him, your back firmly placed against the door. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, leaning close, finally allowing you to get a good look at his face in the light.

Your gaze trailed down from his curls to his lips, before resting on his eyes. You noticed a slight sparkle in them, a glint, an invitation. This was your chance. “I’ve never been more sure,” you responded.

Lunging forward instinctively, you reached up, taking hold of his hair and guiding his lips towards yours. Your touch was confident, verging on forceful, a byproduct of the pent up energy that needed an outlet and had finally found one.

Maybe you were a little too forceful. As your bodies collided, they also made contact with the door, sending a loud noise vibrating through the hallway. You briefly paused your moment of passion to laugh, your foreheads still touching, neither of you daring to fully pull away.

“Someone’s a little eager,” Luke spoke against your lips, chuckling slightly before re-initiating the kiss.

Just as it had in the bar, the world melted away, making you forget just how publicly you were displaying your affection.

But you were both being reckless, and Luke knew it. He had been warned about pulling something like this, about bringing negative attention to himself or to the team. He was new and still needed to prove himself. Above all that, he had a squeaky clean reputation to uphold. He was trained to be tight-lipped to the media so that the focus was on his playing, not his personal life. Stunts like this could jeopardize everything he’d worked for, everything his parents sacrificed for. But god, you were making him forget all of that. There wasn’t a single thought in Luke’s mind that didn’t have to do with getting you out of your clothes and under his tongue...

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fic #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl x reader #my own gif

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poetrysmackdown · 9 months

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what makes a poem a poem? does it have to be written in a certain way? is this question a poem if i want it to be?

Fun question! This is just my personal sense as an avid reader and less-avid writer of poetry, but for me it’s useful to distinguish (roughly) between poetry as a genre and poetry as an attitude or philosophy through which language and the world can be understood. And of course these two go hand in hand. I see poetry the genre as essentially a type of literature where we as readers are signaled, somehow, to pay closer attention to language, to rhythm, to sound, to syntax, to images, and to meaning. That attentive posture is the “attitude” of broader poetic thinking, and while it’s most commonly applied to appreciate work that’s been written for that purpose, there’s nothing stopping us from applying that attentiveness elsewhere. Everywhere, even! That’s how you eventually end up writing poetry for yourself, after all. There’s a quote from Mary Ruefle floating around on here that a lot of folks have probably already seen, but it immediately comes to mind with this ask:

“And when you think about it, poets always want us to be moved by something, until in the end, you begin to suspect that a poet is someone who is moved by everything, who just stands in front of the world and weeps and laughs and laughs and weeps.”

Similarly, after adopting the attentive posture of poetics, there’s plenty of things that can feel or sound like a poem, even when they perhaps were not written with that purpose in mind. I’ve seen a couple of these “found poems” on here that are quite fun—this one, for example. The meaning and enjoyment you may derive from the language of a found poem isn’t any less real than that derived from a poem written for explicitly poetic purposes, so I don’t see why it shouldn’t be called poetry.

That said, I do think that if you’re going to go out and start looking for poetry everywhere, it’s still important to have a foundation in the actual language work of it all. Now, this doesn’t mean it has to be “written in a certain way” at all! But it does mean that in order to cultivate the attentiveness that’s vital to poetry, one needs to understand what makes language tick, down at its most basic levels. It will make you better at reading poetry, better at writing it, and better at spotting it out in the wild.

Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook is an extraordinary resource to new writers and readers, and a great read for more experienced folks as well. Mary Oliver’s most popular poems are all to my knowledge in free verse, and yet you might be surprised to find her deep appreciation for metrical verse (patterns of stressed/unstressed syllables), as well as for the most minute devices of sound. In discussing the so-called poetry of the past, she writes,

“Acquaintance with the main body of English poetry is absolutely essential—it is the whole cake, while what has been written in the last hundred years or so, without meter, is no more than an icing. And, indeed, I do not really mean an acquaintanceship—I mean an engrossed and able affinity with metrical verse. To be without this felt sensitivity to a poem as a structure of lines and rhythmic energy and repetitive sound is to be forever less equipped, less deft than the poet who dreams of making a new thing can afford to be.”

In another section, after devoting lots of attention to the sounds at work in Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, she writes,

“Everything transcends from the confines of its initial meaning; it is not only the transcendence in meaning but the sound of the transcendence that enables it to work. With the wrong sounds, it could not have happened.”

I hope all this helps to get across my opinion that what makes a poem a poem is not just about the author's intention, and not just about meaning (intended or attributed), but also about sound and rhythm and language and history, all coalescing into something that rises above the din of a language we would otherwise grow tired of while out in our day-to-day lives.

I'll always have more to say but I'm cutting myself off here! Thanks for the ask

#ask #discussion #does this even answer the question? lol #anyways even if you're not huge on mary oliver i still highly recommend a poetry handbook #i admit her poetry is only to my taste about 60-70% of the time. but her handbook is a great resource and can stand alone #i actually think oliver wrote a whole other book just about metrical verse too. for people who are into that #also if you're someone who's less interested in the question 'what is poetry?' and more into questions like #why is poetry? can poetry survive? what the fuck happened to poetics in the twentieth century?#i recommend the witness of poetry by czeslaw milosz #an older book—actually a collection of lectures—but an absolute game-changer for me #not a poll

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itsphoenix0724 · 15 days

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I love your fics. Could you do an Azriel x Reader fic based on the song Hate Me by Blue October? It could lend itself to a great premise. The song didn't have a happy ending so I think the fic wouldn't need to either. I think it could be that Reader and Azriel were together (not mates) and Az did something to cause the Reader pain. And I feel like the fic could be vignettes of the IC spending time together and Reader ignoring him. Maybe even it could end with Reader finding someone new and moving on. If you like the idea, thanks in advance!

Hate Me (Azriel x Reader)

Warnings: Angst, no happy ending

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Hi lovely! Thank you so much for your request. I love me a good angst fic lol. I tried a different formatting for this, so we'll see how you guys feel about it! I hope you enjoy, please feel free to visit my page anytime <3

If you’re sleeping, are you dreaming? If you’re dreaming are you dreaming of me?

Azriel bolts upright in bed, chest heaving with shaking breaths that he can’t keep in. His hand instinctively reaches out to your side of the bed, but it meets nothing but cotton, fabric slipping through his fingers like water. You had been there, for a few blissful moments, holding him as you always had when the nightmares roused him from sleep. Now he was alone, and no one was at fault for it but himself.

I had to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head. They crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed

He may have hated himself for it but he tried to find comfort elsewhere, when he wasn’t working he was in the slums of Vlearis, drinking himself to the point of blacking out. He needed to forget your face, your voice, your smell. He couldn’t stand to be in the house the two of you had shared, not when your phantom was constantly haunting the halls, chasing him down at every turn. He thinks of you barefoot, singing and padding around the kitchen in nothing but your nightgown, and orders another shot.

And will you never say that you loved me just to put it in my face? And will you never try to reach me? It is I that wanted space.

Azriel wanted you to yell at him, he wanted you to scream your rage so hard that the mountains rumbled. He could have taken that, he wanted it even. But what he couldn’t take is your indifference. Family dinners at the River House were mandatory, and Azriel tried to attend as few of them as possible. Mainly because you were always there. You had every right to attend, and you were always pleasant to him. Sending him tight-lipped smiles and polite nods, even passing him the potatoes at dinner. It was like looking in a warped mirror, a portrait someone had poured water over. His former happiness was nothing but running paint.

Hate me today, Hate me tomorrow. Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you.

“Another mission?” You questioned from the doorway as Azriel was shoving things into a pack. “But you just got back yesterday?” Azriel sighed deeply, buckling the pack shut and hauling it over his shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry but this is a serious matter.” His shoulders were tense, the dark circles under his eyes still prominent from not resting. “How long will you be gone?” Your brows furrow. “A week at least,” came his tense reply. You were quiet for a moment, and the tension that filled the room could be cut with a knife. “You’ll miss our anniversary, can’t they send someone else?” Your broken tone hurt his heart, but he persisted. “Rhys needs this done urgently.” He pressed, fastening the straps of his leathers. “Rhys would never miss his and Feyre’s anniversary.” You snapped, the annoyance finally wearing on you. “Well Rhys and Feyre are mates,” Azriel bit back and immediately regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. You took a step back, the betrayal shining clear on your features. “Fine then, enjoy your mission.” You left his study, and he could hear the bedroom door slamming behind you. He should’ve gone after you, he should’ve gone upstairs and begged for your forgiveness, but he left. And he would regret that decision for the rest of his life.

While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight. You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicide and hate. You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take

He returned from the mission and your things were gone. No trace was left of you in the apartment you once shared except for a letter on the kitchen table. Even in your goodbye, you weren’t angry, it was like you knew that this was coming for a while, but he was completely blindsided. He could still recite the letter back from memory. Azriel read it repeatedly, it was still in the back of a drawer in his office, unable to bear getting rid of it. “Dear Azriel, I’m sorry to leave you like this, however, I know that if I were to try in person I would fail. Please know I still love you, a part of my heart will always be yours to possess, but I cannot continue a relationship with a ghost. I need you to know a few things. Please don’t hate yourself for this, you tried your best but you are too obsessed with your work. I wish you could see that your family values you as a person and not for your abilities. No one would’ve loved you less if you had taken a day off, but I understand your battles. Another thing, do not try to follow me. I am taking some time, to find myself and heal, I hope you will do me this favor and respect that. I hope one day we can be friends. I’m sorry.” Your name signed at the bottom felt like a brand stamped into his heart, the fact that you felt the need to apologize to him twisted the knife even further. True to his word, he respected your boundaries, and when you finally returned to the Night Court everything was different. You seemed to glow again and laugh again, and Az realized just how much of a shell you had become at the end of your relationship.

And with a sad heart, I say bye to you and wave. Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made.

It was bittersweet for Azriel when you finally brought home your new partner. A male you met in Dawn on an emissary trip. The rest of the inner circle warmed to him quickly, as much as it pained Az to admit he was a good male. Theon made you blush, and laugh and was completely devoted to you. He gave you everything Azriel himself could not and he was happy for you. When it came time for Azriel to introduce himself, he glanced once at you running your teeth between your bottom lip with worry, and decided he would no longer be a barrier to your happiness. So, he did his best to smile and shook the male's hand to introduce himself. You were happy, that was all that mattered to him.

Hate me in ways, yeah, ways hard to swallow. Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf fanfiction #acotar imagine #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #acosf #azriel angst #azriel x you

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lunaroserites · 1 month

Text

Art and Ice - Nicknames

Pairing: Eventual Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Characters: Natasha, Wanda, Pietro, Loki, Bucky, Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, a lot of the avengers cast is mentioned.

Summery: Bucky and MC meet officially for the first time!

This might a 2 or 3 parter (it's gonna be more because cannot help myself). College AU, our boy Bucky is on the hockey team, and reader is an art major (because I love that trope and couldn't help myself)

Warnings: Not beta'd! All mistakes are my own. Friends fluff, swearing I think, mentions of college students being college students. Bit of friendly harmless flirting between friends. Derogatory use of the word puck bunny. Bucky is a playboy. Mention of drugs (No use, just a couple comments). Fighting, and mentions of attempted drugging at a party.

Word Court: 2957

Likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated!

Please do not repost, translate or otherwise copy my work elsewhere, without my express permission, thank you! Lunaroserites on tumblr and ao3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“I can’t do this,” You groaned looking down at the few sketches you’ve managed to produce since you refused to step foot back into the hockey arena again. You could feel the pit you were falling into already growing, and it was all because of a certain fluffy haired, sea-blue eyed hockey player.

“You can do this and you will do this darling,” Loki drawled out as he spoke with a hint of annoyance. He was laying down with his leg dangled off the side of the fountain in the student commons, an open area full of windows and natural light. His other leg was propped up and bent at the knee which you were using as a back rest. You side eyed him begrudgingly.

“This is awful,” you leaned your head back against his knee.

“Well don’t look now, but awful just entered the commons,” you followed Loki’s gaze and noticed Barnes and a couple of the other players entering the area. A couple girls were making their way over to them as they placed their bags down and sat at a bar table. Barnes' eyes swept the commons and caught your gaze, he stopped and squinted and you looked down instantly.

He nudged Wilson with his elbow, who made an annoyed noise, “what Bucky?” Bucky tipped his chin in your direction, Wilson’s eyes followed and he stared for a couple seconds. “Wait, is that the girl from the rink?” Bucky nodded, thinking the same thing. He couldn’t get your eyes out of his head, they were so expressive from the few glimpses he had of them. “She’s hanging out with Odinson’s brother,” the younger Odinson was usually present at the parties his brother threw but rarely participated in anything. Usually hiding away in a corner or in his room reading.

“I think so,” Bucky stood and threw his bag over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Wilson hissed.

“To say hello,” Bucky gave him his dazzling smile.

Loki noticed Barnes coming toward you two before you did, your head was down as you focused on the drawing you were working on, “trouble is heading our direction,” Loki said lowly, you looked up without lifting your head and saw Barnes striding in your direction. You swallowed thickly and kept your head down, he might just be walking in this direction for another reason. He couldn’t pick you out in a crowd, impossible, he only saw you twice.

“Excuse me,” your dreams were dashed as you saw the toes of his shoes and his frame created a shadow over your sketchbook. “I couldn’t help but notice you were at the rink a week ago,” he said, “and I know every pretty girl that hangs out there, can’t say I know you,” he said with an air of arrogance. You scoffed at him, side eyeing Loki who had his book covering his mouth, but you could feel the slight tremble from his contained amusement.

“I think you’re mistaken,” you said in a hushed tone.

“I don’t think so, you have the same hair and,” his hand snatched the sketch book from you. “Sketch book,” you jumped startled at the sudden invasion of privacy.

“Hey give that back,” you snapped harshly. Reaching to take the book back, he kept it from your reach easily. You stood now and pushed his outstretched hand out of the way to grab the book from his other hand. Your chest pressed up against his as you reached desperately for the sketchbook. “I said give it back.”

“Ah baby, don’t be like that,” your nose scrunched up and you narrowed your eyes at him, he had a playful expression on his face and his eyes were gleaming with mischief as he gazed down at you.

“I’m not your baby,” you said sternly. “And give me my sketchbook back please, now.” You seethed. His eyes flicked to you for a moment before flicking to the open drawing.

“You know that certainly looks like me, I know I have admirers. But no one has ever drawn me,” he mused as he continued to keep the book from your grasp. You looked at Loki who was already sitting up and standing.

“Give it back to her Barnes,” Loki's tone was tense, and stern. “She asked you nicely.”

Barnes' eyes snapped from the book to Loki in an instant and he turned to fully face Loki. They stood at the same height, but Barnes was stockier. “What are you gonna do about it Odinson,” Barnes taunted.

“Don’t be a child. You wouldn’t want to cause a scene,” Loki said in a tone with underlying intent. “You don’t need the coach to hear about another incident,” Loki said knowingly. You watched the tense exchange between the two men with wide eyes, the tension palpable. A few more tense seconds and Barnes relented, lifting his hands up in mock surrender.

“Whatever prick,” Barnes spat at Loki. “You ever want to have some real fun, you know where to find me sugar” he winked and handed the sketch book to Loki and looked at you once more, his eyes roving over your body. Your eyes widened at his choice of words, taken slightly back by how hostile he became when Loki intervened.

Loki handed you back your sketchbook before putting a hand on your back and leading you the opposite direction of Barnes, you looked over your shoulder quickly before picking up the pace to match Loki.

Once sufficiently far away from the commons you stopped and looked up at Loki.

“What was that?” You asked. You know Loki knew Bucky, hell you’d seen him at Thor’s parties before. Usually you would be in Loki's room with him when you attended them, disliking them as much as he did.

“Barnes being Barnes,” Loki said with a slightly annoyed tone. “He’s got a rap sheet. One more complaint or misbehavior and he’s benched for the rest of the season,” Loki stated. “That doesn’t look great for an NHL prospect.” You nodded as you listened to him speak.

“Thank you,” you said softly as you hugged your sketch pad to your chest.

“It’s no problem darling,” he said back sweetly. “Now, you need to get back to the rink and get your project together.” You huffed and groaned.

“You had to ruin it,” you whined and threw your head back. “I’ll go with Nat to the next practice,” you relented and stared up at Loki.

Loki smiled and patted the top of your head “perfect darling.” You glared at him for a moment before shaking your head.

~The next day~

You sighed as Nat dragged you to the rink, making sure you had the appropriate clothing on this time so you couldn’t duck out randomly.

“This is the worst,” you groaned as you sunk into the hard plastic seats and covered your face with your hands.

“Stop whining, it’s fine,” Nat sat next to you and smiled at Clint who skated up to the glass. He waved at her and you before skating backwards, showing off. Nat was like a giggly school girl as she watched him. You rolled your eyes and smirked at her.

You propped your sketch pad on the arm of the seat and hunched over to draw. Your eyes trained on the skates as the players drifted by. The movement of the blades over the ice was incredible. You had stayed up and researched how the skating part actually worked, “Nat? Did you know the reason they glide like that?” You said absently as you focused on the sketch you're doing. She hummed in acknowledgment, “the blade of skate melts a very thin layer of the surface ice and they glide on the water from the melt,” you muttered.

“Interesting, no I didn’t,” Nat said back as she watched her man snipe a puck into the net. You were watching as well, sketching the stick as he flicked it effortlessly and the puck soaring through the air. Silence fell over you two once again as you focused on the paper before you.

That silence was quickly ruined by someone slamming into the boards in front of you and you yelped in surprise. You squinted at the body in front of you and then glared at him. Barnes. He was saying something but you couldn’t quite hear him, pointing to your ear and then shrugging to indicate you couldn’t hear him. He made some obscene gestures before skating away. You rolled your eyes and went back to drawing once again.

Then someone else banged on the glass making it shake. You looked up and glared, but this time it wasn’t Barnes, his teammate, “Wilson,” Nat said as you stared at him.

Wilson was pointing toward the center of the rink where Barnes was skating effortlessly, moving beautifully on the ice. He moved the puck back and forth quickly causing the defenceman to stumble and he scored on the net. He lifted his hand up in the air and spun on one foot. He pointed his gloved hands at you, you rolled your eyes in response.

As much as you hated to admit it, Barnes' movement was too captivating to not want to draw. “He might be a prick, but damn he can skate,” Nat voiced your thoughts.

“He’s handsome too,” you regretted the words the second they spilled out. Nat turned her head and raised her brow at you, a sly smile on her lips. “No, I don’t mean I think he’s handsome. He’s just you know, got that natural handsomeness to him,” you stammered. “Oh god, I’m making it worse,” you buried your face in your hands. Nat laughed a deep bellied laugh while patting your shoulder.

“No, you’re right. He’s handsome. And he knows it. That makes it worse,” Nat said, her tone a little sour. You nodded in agreement, he then flew past you two, you both rolled your eyes.

Practice ended and you followed Nat to the wait for Clint. She asked you to join them for pizza after practice. Standing in a hallway that leads to the locker room you were showing her what you drew that night.

“Ah, my number one admirer,” his voice rang out, you wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Did you get my good side,” he asked. You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the millionth time tonight.

“You only have good sides,” a whiny voice said and you cringed. Nat mirroring your expression but being much more subtle you’re sure.

“Hey babe,” Clint said as he wrapped his arm around Nat and kissed her temple. “Barnes,” he tipped his head toward his teammate.

“Barton,” Barnes said back, “you gonna introduce me to your friend?”

“Uh, she’s Nat's friend,” Clint said.

You shook your head and dismissed Clint with a smile.

“My name is…”

“I like Bunny,” Barnes cut you off suddenly. “I don’t do names for pretty ladies,” he stated. The girl hanging off his arm made a disgruntled noise and looked taken back by his open flirtation while she was right there. You felt a little bad for her.

“Nuh uh, I’m not one of those puck bunnies,” your eyes flicked to the girl hanging off his arm apologetically.

“Never said you were Sketch,” you scrunch your nose at the nickname.

“Original,” you sassed.

“I’ll figure one out,” he affirmed, you crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head.

“God you’re insufferable,” you muttered, glowering at him.

“Is he always like that?” You asked as you sat down across from Nat and Clint in the booth at the pizza place. It was a local spot, well loved by the students that populated the town.

“Barnes?” Clint as he took a bite of his pizza, you nodded.

“Yeah, he’s all talk. He’s practically harmless,” you raised an eyebrow at Clint. “Off the ice, he’s hell on it.” You nodded. “So what’s the project you’re working on?” He asked.

“Movement, human movement. My art prof has a vendetta against me so I’m trying to go outside the box. Pietro offered to let me do the project on him at the track. But Prof. Grace would just say I made the safe choice,” I groaned. “And football season is over so I couldn’t do it on Thor.” Clint was familiar with Peitro and Wanda since they hung around Nat, same as Thor since the sports teams tended to run in the same circles outside games.

“Right, your roommates,” he nodded. You lived with Wanda and Pietro since the start of university, being you were good friends with them. You had met Nat your first year and subsequently met Clint when they started dated that same year. “You’re friends with Thor's brother aren’t you?” You nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, best friends since middle school,” you nodded. “So by extension I’ve known Thor and Hela since then as well,” you added afterwards.

“Why did you pick hockey?” You shrugged.

“Nat suggested I come and watch a practice. You guys move so fluidly on the ice it was easy to draw,” you answered simply, eating another piece of pizza. “And frustratingly Barnes is incredibly talented and moves beautifully, I might have to ask him if I can make him my focus,” you groaned and rubbed your temples. “But he’s insufferable.”

Clint let out a loud laugh at that and nodded, “he can be. He’s honestly not that bad once you can get past the jock personality.” You rolled your eyes.

“That’s like saying cocaine isn’t bad once you get past the cocaine,” you laughed. “I’m pretty sure the jock personality is just him.”

“Eh, he’s cocky, but he’s earned it. He’s pretty damn good,” Clint said.

The rest of the evening passed quickly as conversation drifted from the brunette that had been clouding your thoughts.

“Thanks for the lift,” you waved as Clint and Nat drove away. You quickly climbed the steps to your flat and entered.

“Wanda, Pietro?” You called as you dropped your keys in the bowl at the entrance.

“Living room princessa,” Pietro called sweetly.

“What’s you guys watching?” You asked as you walked into the living, stripping your jacket off.

“Silent hill,” Wanda answered.

“The one with Kit Harington?” She nodded, you smiled and joined them on the couch.

“How was practice?” Wanda asked softly.

“It was good, I’m going to ask Barnes if I make him the focus. And I think a bullet in the thigh would be easier to deal with than him,” you sighed leaning your head back against the couch. “I was considering asking Loki to come with me when I asked him. But I don’t think that’s a good idea anymore,” you muttered.

“Why's that?” Pietro asked.

“They seem to have some kinda beef,” you shrugged. “He wouldn’t get into it,” you said. “Bucky’s a player, Loki isn’t a fan of that. And he’s been around him at parties. He’s apparently one incident away from being benched for the season.” Pietro seemed to nod knowingly.

“I’m not surprised, he’s a bit hot headed. Gotten into a few fights with people. Usually with good intentions though. Seen him knock a dude out flat on his ass for trying to drug a girl at a party. He also tends to back-talk instructors,” Pietro said. “He doesn’t seem like a bad dude. A little cocky and a bit of a flirt. Seems harmless enough.” You nodded at Pietro’s explanation and watched the rest of the movie with them in silence.

You texted Loki to ask why he didn’t like Bucky. Curiosity getting the better of you. His answer came back in a couple short paragraphs.

He seems like trouble.

Like he can’t be stable for one week.

He looks down on the arts pretty openly as well. Well at least English.

And he was rude to Helena as well a couple times.

You nodded as you read the series of texts. Loki was pretty traditional and he was never a fan of bouncing from one girl to another. Bucky was very open about doing that.

He also gets pretty obnoxious at parties.

He’s had a few scandals as well. Skipping out on one girl to be with another. Bit of a womanizer.

Why?

You quickly typed back you were curious because he was mostly likely going to be the focus for your project.

I figured he would. Guys a prick but he’s good at what he does.

Everyone said that. From what you’ve seen he was pretty good at hockey, not that you could judge that very well. But there was more to life than a sport. You typed a quick thanks back and wished Loki a goodnight.

Wanda and Pietro both went to bed and you stayed curled up on the couch. You decided to do some research yourself. Typing Bucky’s name into the search engine, his stats came up, and few hockey related awards he’s won. Some articles about how good of a prospect he was. His draft position whatever that meant. Him and Steve were drafted together from what you could tell.

Then you saw a Reddit thread from your school's Reddit talking about him, the fights he’s been in, his lack of care for academics and some people fighting about him being their boyfriend and how he was a cheating piece of shit. He apparently got into an altercation with someone on the Polo team and he and the captain of your school's rival hockey team got into a pretty bad fight after a game last year.

Your eyes widened as you read about the fight Pietro mentioned, he was lucky the guy's family didn’t press charges from how badly Bucky beat him. Part of you knew that behavior wasn’t acceptable, but a smaller needy part of you found it insanely hot how far he went to protect the girl the dude tried to drug. You shook your head and closed the search and went to bed. You would ask him tomorrow after practice, which Nat was dragging you too again.

Taglist: @vicmc624

Feel free you send me a message if you have a request or would like more, or would like to be added to the tag list <3

Chapter 3

#bucky imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fluff #marvel #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky barns x reader #bucky barns imagine #hockeyplayer!bucky x artist!reader #college!bucky #college au #bucky barns fanfiction #hockey fic #college fic

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 6 months

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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 2

A/N: Thank you for your patience! I've been very busy with Monstober and have taken time to focus more on this story. Hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter 2

In your dreams, you’re whole again, and the happiest you’ve ever been.

You jolt in a familiar bed, one cold and worn from the years melting away: a bed too small. Yet, it’s not the bed you had when you were under Bogdan’s roof, and it brought forth fond memories.

Your mother was situated by her workbench, humming a soft tune you remembered from your childhood. Standing behind her, you could only watch, observing how she had not aged since that day, and she looked as you remembered.

“You are very hard to communicate with, sweet girl,” your mother spoke, her dark dress swayed in the deadness of the air, keeping her back to you. “Your mind has been elsewhere.”

“I don’t understand how I’m speaking to you,” you wavered, holding a hand hesitantly but pulling away, afraid of touching her again, “you are not here anymore, mama.”

“I and my sisters are in the ancestral plane, my girl,” she continued. “I have always been with you, in mind and spirit.”

You could only choke on a laugh, bitterly replying, tears threatening to spill. “Then I must have failed myself for losing all my powers. I’m not the prophecy you spoke of.”

Your mother turned so you could see her face finally, and a veil covered her face, darkness shrouding her appearance. Despite not being able to see her face, you knew she was smiling.

“Why do you think that?”

“I cannot do anything,” you held your hands out in front of you, trying to concentrate on anything, flames or cold to reach your fingertips, yet nothing came, “I am hopeless.”

“You are speaking to me through a veil of limbo, are you not?” She questioned and there was sadness in her tone, as if you had disappointed her.

It made you question her words, thoughtfully reflecting on them. “You did not teach me about astral projection—or how to reach the veil of the ancestral plane. I… did not know it existed.”

“It belongs to us,” she sang sweetly, “it has always belonged to us, my Y/N.” She reached towards you and placed a hand on your shoulders, her grasp as cold as death.

“There is one thing that has always made me proud of you, what has made the sisters believe in you,” she spoke, and you felt the chill spread like wildfire through your chest. “You were everything they needed in a witch.”

The comfort of dreams and darkness spat you out until you felt exhausted, shuddering back life into you.

Your mind felt as if it was in the middle of a fog, slowly clearing up as your heavy eyes opened and shut with the contrasting brightness. The burning sensation seemed to dwindle from your chest, and you were replaced with the cold that came harshly.

You shivered, groggily taking in the sight of flames that brightened the already dark room. You seemed to be in a reception or lounge, the Corinthia you were laid on was a deep crimson colour, and gold leaf trim took part most of its decoration.

“I see you’re awake.” The same voice cut through the sharpness of the air, startling you to stare at the entrance. Oh, right, your saviour—if you could call him that. You could still remember the blade, as cold as ice, pressed against your neck before you passed out, and you were suddenly very aware that you were alone with this stranger; a stranger with a habit of murder.

“Where am I?” You groaned, clutching your head as you found beside you a glass of water already by the table, gingerly picking it up and debating whether to drink from it. If he wanted you dead, he would’ve killed you by now, and the liquid was already being chugged, cooling and crisp down your throat.

“I’m surprised you didn’t even think twice before you stepped a foot inside these halls,” the dulcet voice sounded both bored and irritated by your mere presence. His silhouette moved like a black cat, sticking closely to the doorway. You heard his voice closer to you this time. “I can’t tell if you’re brave or a fool for coming here.”

It dawned on you finally and slowly that you were still inside Dracula’s castle—that the Vampire king himself owned it. It brought a shudder down your spine, but the curiosity in wanting to know why he was there.

“You don’t seem afraid to be here.” You questioned vigilantly.

“No, I would be if this had not been my home.” The figure finally emerged from the shadows, and you almost squinted at his appearance. The first thing you noticed was his wavy long pale blond hair, reaching past his waist, skin pale as moonglow. It was his eyes that were the most beautiful and eerie: golden as honey or the same colour of leaves that fell in the autumntime.

There was something unnatural about him: not exactly human that you could place, a sombreness that hung over him. You did not know what he had seen in his lifetime, but you could see it in his eyes.

The handsome stranger was dressed in black leather trousers and boots, a simple shirt that showed some of his chest, and a long drawn scar was visible, grotesquely large and haunting.

It was only when you saw what was floating beside him, a long, thin sword, glinting brightly with silver and ornate beauty as it stood vigilantly by his side.

He seemed to notice quickly your eyes darting between him and the weapon beside him. “Will you put that thing away?”

He did not answer you but the sword pulled back from him to stand by the door as he inched closer towards you, watching you with suspicion. “Who are you?”

The stark contrast of his words was not as soft as they had been before, and with the sword standing in the background, you chose to answer him honestly rather than risk being another body staked outside. “My name is Y/N. I come from a village not far from here—”

“You do not speak the truth.” He snarls, and something glints as he opens his mouth wide enough, but is gone within seconds. The blond’s nose scrunches in almost disgust as if the most revolting stench fell over him “It reeks of sorcery,” there’s something feral in his demeanour and the way the sword flickers to move closer to his side, “witch.”

“Yes, I am a witch,” you reply honestly, eyes darting between the sword and him again, your life dangling on the edge. “Please, I don’t have anywhere else to go—I wouldn’t be here for long if you—”

“I do not have anything for you. Leave at once.” He interrupted tersely, circling you, posture tense as if he was either ready to lunge at you or flee. “I do not welcome strangers.”

No, if the bodies were not a warning already. You gulped. “I have no choice but to leave there. I had to for—” Your words stilled on your tongue, nervously tracing your fingers along your wrist in feeble comfort. “I cannot go back there. They… I fled for my life.”

The blond man doesn’t speak for a moment, instead, he watches in hawkish contemplation, studying you, examining if you are telling the truth. It felt as if you could be set on fire by his gaze alone, and finally, he looked away, eyes taking to the hearth.

“Very well,” he says after some time, “you have one month to stay here. One month, and then you can find your way somewhere new.”

Your heart leapt from your chest, ready to almost jump into his arms with gratitude. You watch as he turns, before saying over his shoulder. “There is a bathroom on the second floor, the last room to the left. You stink.”

There is no time to speak your thanks to him, as he’s gone in a hurry, away from the room you occupy. You don’t go looking for him, following up the winding hallways as you follow his instructions, finding the room after looking for some time.

The bathroom is as splendid as the rest of Dracula’s castle: all marble and gleaming white stones and a bath! You take your time to make sure you’re alone, before finding the way to get water through. It’s utterly incredible to witness true science, how hot water comes through without ever needing to gather it from a source. You laugh to yourself, believing how undeniably insane you look in front of his man, and how you too, would be wary of your presence.

It was obvious by your state when you looked in the mirror: your hair was tangled and difficult to even run your fingers through, with the odd chicken feather poking out. Your skin was riddled in mud and bruises covered your thighs and arms. Your cheek is still sore from when Bogdan smacked you, though it is not as red when you see splatters of red across your clothing.

My God, I look mad. You pluck the feathers as you try detangling your hair with your fingers, before stripping off your clothes as the water grows to a level that is good enough for you to get in. The water almost stings from how hot it is, your skin grows pinkish from the heat as you sigh in relief, submerging your body as the water grows clear to a greyish-brown hue.

Grimacing, you occupy yourself with the shelf of many bottles by your side, picking out shampoos and conditioners as you begin the long process of washing your hair. Your curls hid many secrets, as well as the knots that take forever to untangle until they’re smooth and soft to the touch. You dip your head to lean the suds, scrubbing your entire body with the bar of soap until it's red raw.

Not wishing to get out, the water grows cooler, and you grab a towel for your body and head, wrapping your hair up securely as you gather your dirty clothes. You debate on putting them back on or awkwardly trying to find the man of the castle, opening the door to feel something wedged in front.

You inspect the neatly folded clothes, a dress as seaweed green and looking a decade or two out of fashion, a clean chemise and stockings. You dress quickly in the bathroom, finding the kirtle fits you nicely, and you can feel that the material is good quality – as if it’s not been worn before.

Questions dance in your mind – why does he have dresses? Did they belong to a previous wife?

You kept them to the back of your mind as you let your hair air dry, keeping everything as neat as possible as you wandered back to where you could hope of finding the oddly handsome man.

You checked rooms on the second and ground floor: to no avail, was he around, until you found the kitchen on the ground floor, empty, except for the beautiful smells that wafted through the room. You didn’t realise how hungry you had been, not when the food smelt as amazing as it looked.

“You found the kitchen fine then.” A voice interrupted you.

You turned to find the culprit, the blond man was carrying a basket of apples, passing you as he placed them in the middle of the table. The apples were so large they didn’t look real!

He noticed you staring, looking at you for a moment up and down. “The dress you found I see?”

“Yes,” you gathered the material, feeling its softness, “it is very beautiful. Was it your wife’s?”

You see it for yourself, his pale cheeks erupt into a brightness you’ve never seen before, and he averts his gaze from you. “No, the dress is actually my mother’s.”

“Oh.” You say, awkwardness filling the room as he continues sorting out a meal. “Is fish okay for you?” He asks to break the ice.

You nod, watching as he preps two plates, filled with vegetables you’ve never seen before, as bright as anything that could be harvested. The two of you gather your plates as you go to sit at the table, and you fill your stomach with food before it reaches your eyes. The food is rich in flavour and you almost cry from having something so filling in your life.

Neither of you speak as you eat, and though you wish to keep asking him questions, he is quick to speak. “My name is Alucard.”

You choke almost on your fish, staring wide-eyed at him. “Like The Alucard? The one who defeated Dracula?”

“I do rather not like being used that title, but yes, I defeated Vlad Dracula… my father.”

It suddenly dawns on you: his pale skin and unnatural eye colour, how he moves on a whim and as fast as the wind. There was an ethereal beauty to him that you could not place at first, and you were now certain you weren’t losing your mind when you thought you saw fangs in his mouth.

“Oh.” That is all you can say, and Alucard is quick to scrunch his eyebrows at you incredulously, with a look that reads ‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’

“I’m sorry for your loss.” You finally manage to say, and you think you’ve said the wrong thing, but the look that flashes across Alucard’s face is one that you think he’s not felt before.

“No one has ever said that to me, that they were sorry,” his words are soft, tired from a life of grief. You can understand him, yet you wish for him to warm up to you. You notice his sword is still in the room, floating in the corner like a sleeping soldier, idly waiting for orders to strike. “It feels quite relieving.” It takes you a moment to realise that he’s trying to joke from the solemness of his tone.

The tension is still there, and quickly you notice that his softness is replaced by the cold exterior once again, as he stands from his spot, cleaning the dishes. “If you’re to be staying here as a temporary guest, you should find the bedroom on the first floor to the right is free to use.”

Watching him pass from the room and disappear is enough to make your heart sink, from the loneliness of the castle, and from the pain of having to share it with a living, broken ghost.

#castlevania alucard x reader #alucard #alucard castlevania #castlevania fanfic #adrian tepes #adrian tepes x reader #castlevania netflix #witch!reader #half black! reader #reader is a witch #mixed race reader #alternate universe #itstheendofthegoddamnworld writes #castlevania #part 2

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alicedusstuff · 23 days

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English version

Just wanted to write a little because it's been a while since I've done so. And I thought of the bone king; so… here's a little something ^^

______________________________________________________________

At first, nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything was even more than normal when he opened his eyes. The Bone King knew who he was. He knew what he had to do, he knew what was happening. Everything had come to his mind as if he were in those dreams where you don't know you're dreaming. Where you know that you are you and that you continue to act in accordance with the laws of the world that you inhabit, without worrying about anything.

Then, his eyes met the faux-bronze pupils of that shadow-furred monkey, and the world shook like a dream world would when too strong an emotion was about to jolt you out of your dream. This intrigued him. He had approached the stranger to understand what was happening, despite his mind screaming at him to stop moving forward, and memories he didn't know he had. Memories that were starting to pound his skull. His insides told him that if the world continued to shake like this, if his reality shattered, he would be no more. Still, the Bone King ignored this instinct, because he found it ridiculous. He was an invincible king. Nothing could defeat him, and his threat could not be summed up as a trembling monkey demon feigning bravery to protect a kid the king had planned to get out of his way quickly. He stopped right in front of the demon. He heard her voice, a little more confident than her posture was. The king's world shook again. He heard two voices screaming in his head as his vision flickered between blue and gold, before the latter returned to normal.

“Macaque”

The voices in the king's head had shouted in different tones.

The king then decided to take Macaque with him. It was an abrupt decision. Something he had chosen in the moment. The desire was too strong, and the confusion too curious. No matter how strange his memories were still, or how his mind seemed to have conflicting thoughts towards the monkey demon. He was sure of one thing. Macaque was his. He had to be since his mind seemed so perplexed about him. Macaque was a warrior and a champion. Macaque was the best of warriors. One like those the king deserves. The shadow monkey was his warrior far too deadly, and that made the king frown. He had to train him later, try to toughen him up.

After that, it took a while for Macaque to obey the bone king. The shadow demon had tried to flee, plot against his king, and rally the bone king's minion to his cause. Each attempt had ended in failure that Macaque had regretted each time. His proud little look quickly disappeared under the tremors, and his arrogant smile was now hidden by his scarf, which he pulled up to his nose, to escape the cold and all that it meant. He lost his confidence, answered his king's questions more often, and remained eternally trembling in Wukong's presence. Macaque changed from what the king remembered.

The more he did it, the less reality shook, and that was enough to assure the king that he was going on the right path. On rare occasions, the ice demon that followed him everywhere seemed to give the bone king a strange impression. It wasn't enough to shake the world, as it was with Macaque; but it left the bone king with an unpleasant feeling, and put him in a bad mood for the day. At those times, he sent the fake mayor elsewhere, or ordered him to go find Macaque for an even more unsatisfactory training session. Nevertheless ; and the king knew it, Macaque was the only one who was sufficiently at his level to hold out against him one on one for so long. And if the bone king was sometimes displeased enough that Macaque, during his unpredictable bursts of motivation, managed to make him flinch for a moment, to the point of causing the king to be more harsh towards Macaque, the shadow monkey would never know.

Today however was strange. The Bone King didn't know if the uneasy feeling he felt had to do with Macaque. For some time now, the shadow monkey had been getting closer, he had stopped fleeing from him. Now he was watching her from afar. He always stayed within sight, but did his best to keep the king from paying attention to him. Then he went back to hide for a few hours, and came back to see the king. The times when the two monkeys crossed paths were more frequent, and Macaque seemed to be more willing to initiate contact. It was strange…

New and familiar.

And today, the bone king was almost impatiently waiting for his weak little warrior to come within sight.

He saw her in the corridors. Macaque didn't seem to pay attention to the bone king. The king could see that the demon was preoccupied. By what ? He didn't know, but he figured it must be something to do with him. Him, or the strange kid who ran away from him and came from time to time to confront him before fleeing when Macaque noticed that he was in danger.

-Macaque.

The person concerned jumped violently when he felt his wrist being caught in the king's hand. The Bone King hadn't noticed that he had run to catch up with Macaque. Had he run? But how could he have arrived so quickly alongside the other? He could have teleported. Would he have done it unconsciously? Everything was too strange today.

-My king? You… do you need me?

Macaque's voice had faltered at first, but he brilliantly managed to show the king a half smile despite the trembling of his limbs and the worry in his eyes. A memory was superimposed on the scene. It was too fleeting for the king to retain it, however. The memory was something joyful. Sweeter than this strange moment. The Bone King took it as such, and he felt his tail hit the ground behind him. There was a little silence. Macaque's tail tightened a little on his leg as time passed without the king doing anything to release him. He would have problems, wouldn't he? He had noticed the movement of the king's tail, and it worried him to wonder what amused the king so much? What kind of sadistic thing could have crossed his mind? He never knew if it was the thoughts of the bone lady or Wukong that took priority in Wukong's behavior. When the king needed contact, Macaque knew it was Wukong, and when the king seemed to displease him more than usual, he knew it was the lady. Some days were more bearable than others. Macaque knew full well that the fact that one or the other took control of the bone king's mood changed nothing for him. Both beings hated him to the point.

-You've been acting strange lately.

Macaque's heart raced at the king's observation, and his tail tightened a little tighter against him. He didn't dare move, but his thoughts were racing. Had the king noticed something? So that was how long he had before Wukong and the lady noticed that Macaque had placed a seal on them. He had been stupid to think MK's plan would work. If Macaque could have easily left a magic seal on MK, without the latter noticing it; that would not be the case with the bone king. Obviously the latter would notice the shadow magic on him. Yet Macaque had been so active in being present to hide the fact that the seal was on the king. He had tried so hard.

“Sorry MK… it was a failure. »

Macaque thought as the king frowned a little more.

-It’s as if…

“Get it over with!” »

Macaque screamed internally as fear tore at him. He was totally in trouble.

However, the bone king does not finish his sentence. His world was starting to shake again. The memories came together before him. The face of someone smiling at him and telling someone he loved them. The memory of gentle caresses. The feeling of being supported in his cause, the memory of a rabbit so adorable in his frozen hands before his attention was drawn to a man with a bun, and a stern look, who seemed to be worried about him. Wukong's vision seemed to flicker between Macaque and the memories that burned his retina and melted his mind. Around him, the world was becoming blurry, as if it were going to disappear. Then, his heart jumped, when Macaque's face was covered in blood, Painful memories. Blood and flames on once-shining lands. A face destroyed by tears and blood; a little rabbit who died while crying for him. The feeling of injustice in the mix of memories he didn't even remember.

-something… whispers the bone king.

-Wukong?

The bone king did not correct Macaque. He was too focused on fighting his own thoughts, trying to even understand them. And Macaque's voice seemed to mingle with the memories. Be part of it. He seemed genuinely worried. The bone king's hand left Macaque's wrist to squeeze his shoulders.

-I… I always… I always wanted…

The Bone King searched for words as two states of thought screamed their worldview into his mind. His vision was swaying, and he clung to Macaque like one clings to a lifebuoy. The Bone King never knew what he said to finish his sentence. He doesn't even know if he even said anything. He just knows that Macaque looked at him with immense shock before his gaze softened,

and let fear not give way to worry. Concern for the king. The shadow monkey was still trembling when his hands approached the king's face, and he was still trembling when he silently asked the king to bend down to kiss his forehead.

-Don't cry, my king.

The bone king did not know to whom Macaque was speaking. The six-eared monkey often called him his king, but thought of someone else. But this time, he wasn't sure who this moment of comfort was for. The mode turned white on contact. Silence fell in his mind, his vision stopped disrupting his memories, and calm returned. He was himself again. Macaque still had his forehead pressed to that of the king, his eyes closed, his hands on his cheeks. The bone king is not sure when he knelt in front of Macaque to allow the latter to grant him this simple contact.

He also did nothing to push Macaque away, or to let him know that he was feeling better. Macaque had stopped shaking. Something so rare about the shadow monkey, and part of the king didn't want it to stop. He stayed like that for a minute, just enjoying Macaque's presence.

-My king? I did what you asked.

Macaque was the one who broke contact. This immediately soured the king's mood. Had he not sent this puppet far away? Oh ! That's right… he asked her to place a spy in this strange child's group. The Bone King immediately forgot what had just happened, and focused on the present moment. It's true. He should stop this kid and his friends from coming to bother him. They weren't a threat, but they were getting annoying. It was good to know that he could finally know when they would come to bother him, and act accordingly.

-That's good. Coldly congratulates the Bone King before turning his attention back to Macaque.

The latter was tense again in his presence. But the Bone King could still feel his world wavering slightly. It was annoying. But this day in general was strange.

-You.

-Yes? Macaque is quick to respond.

-Out of my sight.

Macaque did not hesitate. He fled immediately. The ice demon followed Macaque with his gaze until the latter disappeared, then he returned his attention to his king.

-Are you sure of yourself, my king?

The Bone King frowned.

-You think I'm not capable of knowing what I want?

-No! No, of course my king. I was just wondering if it was safe to let this simian get away with it. He could warn the group.

-Hm. Watch him.

The Bone King didn't miss how the fake mayor's smile had widened a little too much. He didn't like it. But he couldn't stay with Macaque here, now. The ice demon flew away, and the king groaned, placing a hand on his face.

-Strange…

#lmk macaque #lmk shadowpeach #lmk sun wukong #just a draft #bone king au #lmk mayor #lmk lady bone demon

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dbnightingale24 · 2 months

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Fog In The Mind, Desire In The Heart

A Dark Curtis Everett Love Story

Surprise! I decided to take a small break from the three novels I'm writing (I promise that your updates are coming!!), and finish the damn Curtis Everett one shot I promised you guys years ago. It may take me forever to get to the point, but I do eventually get there, in my defense. Anywho, this is a lot shorter than what you all are used to, but I hope you all enjoy it just the same! As always, thanks to the amazing @fuckingbyefor the moodboard! Here we go!

Word Count: 9911 (yes, you read that correctly)

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI 18+), Slight Snowpiercer AU, Slight Age Gap between Edgar and Reader (work with me people), Curtis Everett, Daddy Kink, Non Con/Dub Con, Drinking, Plotting, Self Hate, Loathing, Betrayal, Swearing, Angst, Mild Violence, Anger, Pining...I think that's it?

Songs That Inspired This Story: I'd Walk Through Fire For You, Just Let Me Adore You

Summary: Everyone stuck in the tail section dreamed of a better life for themselves. Everyone except for Curtis. For him, his better life would start when you were happy and by his side, no matter who he had to force out of the way.

I do not give consent/permission for my stories/works to be posted/published elsewhere. I do not condone this type of behavior, this is for entertainment purposes only.

For as much as you hate Curtis, he lives rent free in your head all day. You sit at the bar that Nam so lovingly bar tends day in and day out, listening in and out of the conversation he makes almost every night.

“Right now isn’t the time, but you’ll see...the world will be livable again. Maybe another year or so, but we’ll be able to get off of this fucking train,” he tells you tonight, an echo of the same thing he’s been saying every night for the last two years.

“What did Curtis say?” you snicker, putting your empty glass down as he reaches for your favorite poison: whiskey.

“He’s busy,” Nam simply shrugs, refilling your glass with ice and the dark brown liquid.

“When isn’t he?”

“Y/N, you know what happened to Edgar-”

“He’s gone, Nam,” you snap unintentionally. “Whatever the hell Curtis meant to happen, didn’t. Edgar has been dead for two years and all the while we wait for the great Curtis Everett to come up with a fucking plan to make all of this not seem so shit as it is,” you sigh before downing your drink.

Your reasons for hating Curtis are very simple and clear for everyone to understand.

Everyone except Curtis.

You remember when you first boarded onto the stupid train that “saved” your life. You remember them ripping you away from your Mother, who sacrificed herself so you could have a chance at life, and her promising you that she’d meet up with you later on in the train.

She never did.

You know she only did it because she knew it was the only way you’d board the train, but the anger feel towards her never leaves.

It never has and it never will.

That was the first time you saw him.

You were put into a group of young teenage girls, a place you barely belonged since you were almost 17, and you felt a pair of eyes on you.

It’s not like that was uncommon, but it didn’t help anything. In fact, as time went on, on the train, you found that a lot of men had their eyes on you. You were beautiful, soft spoken but also opinionated, and kind. You were so understanding and helpful, unlike almost everyone else on the train who gave up hope as soon as the doors closed.

They all did their best to make you notice them, Curtis more than most, but you were more than happy to keep to yourself.

At least, that’s until Edgar came of age. While he was younger than you by a few years, he was persistent and the only one who could truly make you smile and laugh. For as tense and gloomy as things could be, Edgar always found a way to soften everything. The first few times he asked you out (well, too hangout on his bed), you said no because of the age difference.

“Who cares?” he laughed as he followed you to the little hospital section they had set up in one of the train cars.

“Clearly I do!”

“It’s not that bad!”

“Edgar-”

“What could it hurt? We’ll split a protein block, a cup of water, talk a bit, and I’ll walk you back to your bunk. It’ll be fun!”

“Edgar-”

“You know you want to, I see it in your eyes.”

“No Edgar,” you smiled softly before making your way to the children’s bunks to read them a story.

“You’ll say yes, you’ll see!” he called with a soft smile, before he turned and made his way back to his bunk.

After that, he didn’t let up. He asked almost every day until you finally caved and said yes. From that moment on, you two inseparable (after you both finished your daily chores). You loved to spend time reading to the children and he was more than happy to accompany you. The kids loved him anyway.

“What do you think about us having one?” Edgar asked one night as you two laid together after sex.

“Having one what?”

“Child?”

“Fuck no!”

“Shh,” he laughed softly, stroking your hair. “Why not?”

“You can’t be serious, babe. We live on a fucking train, the shittiest part of the train I might add, the world is frozen, the front end comes and randomly takes children whenever they please-”

“It won’t always be like this, plus, Curtis has a plan.”

“Oh? What plan is that?” you scoffed

Edgar had always been Curtis’ biggest supporter.

“Why don’t you believe in him?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe in him, but I’m not willing to follow blindly behind him. Everyone else is, and I just don’t see a reason to,” you shrugged.

“Y/N-”

“You asked me a question and I gave you an answer. It’s not my fault that you don’t like the answer, baby.”

Curtis had always been the one thing that got in the way of your relationship with Edgar. Edgar would willingly follow Curtis, no matter what he said or what he did, and you weren’t buying into any of it. Sure, Curtis seemed nice enough and he was kind when he wanted to be, but there was also a silent anger to him. A silent anger that always seemed like it could go off at any time.

Plus, it’s not exactly like he was thrilled when you and Edgar started seeing each other. Once again, a lot of the men weren’t, but everyone could see how happy you were. How well you and Edgar fit together. Curtis, on the other hand, rolled his eyes whenever he saw the two of you together.

“Why don’t you come and help us tonight? You always have an idea-”

“No,” you laughed and Edgar scowled. “That’s your thing, not mine.”

“If you’d come, you’d see there’s nothing to hate about-”“I don’t hate Curtis!” you snapped softly and he rolled his eyes, “I just...something isn’t right there. You all just follow and believe everything that he says, and that’s not okay.”

“You always find a reason to doubt him and hes never given you a reason to.”

“And hes never given you a reason to trust him so much!”

“I’m not having another argument about this-”

“Good, because I’m tired of him somehow always becoming the center of our relationship.”

“Y/N-”

“You’re gonna be late. Go.”

You hated arguing so much with him about Curtis, but he didn’t know the things that you knew about him. Besides the fact that his eyes always lingered on you for far much longer than they should have, you knew about the things that Edgar was too young to remember. You knew what happened to his Mother, you knew what almost happened to Edgar, and you knew that Curtis would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

Besides, by the way he watched you like you were his prey, you knew he’d stop at nothing to get you. So, when it was finally time for the “great uprising” you begged Edgar to stay behind with you.

“We’ve spent too long planning and plotting for me to stay behind-”

“You can stay with me!” you sobbed and he shook his head.

“Trust me! Believe in me! I can do this!”

“Edgar-”

“We’ll have a future, children, space-”

“I just want you! Please-”

“I’ll come back to you and you’ll see. I promise you, it’ll be okay. I love you.”

That was the last time you saw him alive.

When word got back to you how he’d been killed, and who let it happen, something inside you snapped. You became violent, you lost all patience, you attacked anyone who got in your way as you started on your own journey to the front, and you led everyone who had stayed behind to the front of the train with you. By the time you got there, Wilford had been killed and Curtis was the new leader. Of course, no one noticed all of the changes in Curtis’ attitude, as if you all owed him your lives, because he’d apparently made your lives better. He made changes that made years of suffering finally seem like they had been worth something.

Everyone except you.

“Curtis wants to see you,” one of the girls tells you as she approaches the bar.

Sansa, who’s his regular girl.

“Just give him time,” Nam repeats softly, filling your glass one last time.

You roll your eyes and down your drink before you follow Sansa to the very front of the train.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been called to his bedroom. Hell, it isn’t even the 100th time. Not long after the battle ended and changes were made, Curtis Everette made it very well known to everyone on the train, that you are his absolute favorite. Not so much with his words, but with his actions. He’d made it seem as if it were out of honor for Edgar, but the way he watched you let you know that, that was bullshit. No, he never called you into his bed, but he also made sure to never let you get close to another man again.

He made sure you never had to work, you never wanted for anything, you always had fresh clothes waiting for you, and you had one of the best rooms on the train.

“Edgar sacrificed his life so you could have a better one. It only makes sense that you have the best of everything,” he whispered the night that he’d helped you settle into your new room.

In return, you’ve made it known that you’ll always despise him.

“What?” you snap the second you step foot inside his room.

He looks at you with his bourbon shot eyes, and you scoff. He’s in one of his moods.

“You could be a little nicer to me, Y/N.”

“Everyone on this train is nice enough to you. Now, what do you want? What’s the point of giving me a room if you never actually let me stay in it.”

“What’s wrong with you today?” he sneers, pouring himself another drink.

“You’re still here and Edgar isn’t.”

“Edgar made his choice-”

“Edgar worshiped you and blindly followed you into battle, and you couldn’t give less of a shit about what happened to him.”

“That’s not true!”

You scoff and narrow your eyes at him, “then why do you call me here every fucking night?”

“I’ve never done anything-”

“I know you’re not drunk enough to lie to me,” you warn with a snarl.

No, technically Curtis has never done anything to you, but hes found ways to...mess with you.

He’s had you stay in the rooms while hes fooled around with other women, sometimes multiple at once, if he gets drunk enough, he watches you bathe and get dressed, hes gone out of his way to show you just how badly he wants you, and he never lets you stay away from him for too long. No, he’s never forced himself on you and taken you, but hes always been just a few steps away from doing so.

With Edgar out of the way, he’s free to do whatever he pleases.

However, the problem is, Curtis wants you to want him. He wants you to burn for him just as bad as he burns for you. At one point, that would’ve been possible. It was never that you found him unattractive or unapproachable, something just always seemed...off. Now that, that’s been confirmed, you’re repulsed by the man.

Even if you do still find him painfully attractive.

A sick smirk comes to his face as he makes his way over to you, “I’ve never done anything that haven’t found yourself enjoying.” “Yes, because I love spending my nights watching fuck other women.”

“Could be you.”

“You can let go of that dream. If it never happened before, it sure as fuck isn’t gonna happen now.”

Without warning, he’s gripping your neck tight and forcing you against the wall, and you do your best to ignore the fluttering feeling in your stomach.

“You can pretend all you want to, but I know how bad you want it. I hear you at night when you think I’m asleep. The pathetic little moans and whimpers, and your desperate begging.”

Your eyes go wide and he chuckles darkly.

“You’re not as slick as you think, honey.”

“It’s not for you, so don’t go getting a big ego.” “It sure as shit isn’t for Edgar, even when you were fucking him regularly. He could never truly satisfy you. Not in the way you needed.” “You’re a bastard!”

“How many times did you picture me every time he fucked you, hmm? How many times do you picture me when you’re alone in that cozy little room of yours?”

You don’t know what the hell has gotten into him, because he’s never been this forceful with you before.

“Never!”

“You should be thanking me,” he growls, his grip on your neck getting tighter as he leans in close. “Maybe I should stop being so fucking nice to you and just take it.” “Don’t you fucking dare!”

“What will you do, huh? The only crying you’ll be doing is when I’m done with you and you’re begging for more of my cock.”

Of all the fucking times to be turned on.

“Curtis-”

“You fucking want it,” he continues, “even now, I know that little pussy is crying to be touched. To fucked until it’s ruined!”

You push him off of you and glare at him.

“Admit it! You orchestrated all of this so you could-”

“He knew what he was getting himself into! He knew the chance he was taking-”

“He trusted you!”

“That was his fault!”

There it is.

“So you admit it!”

“I’d do it again! Why did he deserve you but I didn’t?! I still don’t?! After all I’ve done for you?!”

“You’re monster!”

“Sticks and stones,” he smirks before pressing you against the wall again. “Maybe I should show you just how much of a monster I am.”

His lips are on yours and when you try to push him off of you, he doubles down on his efforts. Squeezing at the stitches in his other arm, he hisses in pain, dropping his glass and backs up for just a moment. He slaps you hard before going in for another kiss, but you’re quick to knee him in the groin.

“Bitch!”

You’re quick to run out and make your way to room, not sure of where else there is to hide, and before you can slide the door close, he’s pushing you in and slamming it shut behind him.

“Get out!”

“Get on the fucking bed!” “Curtis-”

“Fine, you want this to be rough? I can be as rough as you want me to be, baby,” he promises as he locks the door.

“HELP!”

“No one is going to go against me, no one is going to save you, and no one is gonna feel bad for you. Scream all you fucking want, they’ll know you’re just enjoying it,” he promises with a sinister smile.

Seeing no other way out of this, you rush him against the wall and just start hitting him with all the power you have in your body.

“I’ve never had to work for it,” he taunts, easily pushing you back. “Never had to make a bitch admit just how bad she wants me!”

“I hate you! I want nothing to do with you!”

“Is that what you’d tell yourself every time you’d make eye contact with me while he was fucking you? Looking down at me as he fucked up into you, telling you just how much he loves and adores you?” he counters, easily wrapping an arm around your waist, easily throwing you down on the bed. “When you knew I was getting off to your hushed moans? You didn’t want anything to do with me then either? You didn’t want me making you scream?”

You hate that he has a point because, to an extent, you did want one him at one point. You wanted him bad. It’s part of why you’d turn down Edgar so many times. No, you never had any intention of pursuing Curtis, but you were attracted to him. Far more than you were to Edgar, and you felt incredibly guilty about it. You would’ve been content to be alone, but Edgar never relented and you eventually found it cute.

Of course you knew what Curtis was doing whenever the two of you locked eyes, but you truly never thought he’d let Edgar get killed so he could get you. The worst part of it is, even now that you know the truth of it all, you still want Curtis. In some sick way, the fact that he did something so horrible just to have you all to himself drove you insane in the worst way. You aren’t losing the fight because he’s overpowering you, you’re losing the fight because you’re tired of fighting it.

“Don’t get quiet on me now,” he snickers as pulls his top off and throws it across the room. “Don’t tell me that you’re a filthy little liar,” he presses as he rips your top open.

“Leave me alone!” “No, I’m done waiting around,” he husks, pulling your bra down. “Fuck!”

“Curtis-”

“You’re gonna shut the fuck up and you’re gonna enjoy everything daddy has to offer you,” he warns before dipping down and enveloping his right breast in his mouth; lewdly licking and sucking on it in the most depraved way.

“O-oh! Curtis!”

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched by anyone else.

“That’s right,” he mumbles before nipping on your nipple, while his other hand works on undoing your jeans, “I know exactly what you need, you little bitch.”

Your breathing comes heavier as his hand makes its way down into your panties, finding your overstimulated bundle of nerves.

“You’re fucking soaked!”

“Stop-”

“Stop fucking fighting me!” he warns, his other hand making it’s way around your throat. “You fucking want it! You’ve always fucking wanted it!”

You’re not sobbing because he’s doing something wrong, you’re sobbing because he’s right. Edgar would probably be alive if you’d just kept saying no to him.

“That’s right, baby. Just let me take care of you,” he moans, easily sliding a finger into you.

“Curtis,” you moan, bucking your hips forward.

“So beautiful, baby,” he coos, finally giving your other nipple attention, “waited so fucking long!”

“Oh fuck!”

You do your best to block out all images of Edgar and every feeling of guilt you felt. For whatever reason, Curtis wasn’t letting you go tonight and you didn’t want him to.

“You can barely take two fingers,” he groans, adding another thick finger to your sopping cunt as you rake your nails across his back. “Gonna have to get you ready for me. God, these fucking tits!” he husks.

“Please!” you whimper, feeling both pleasure and pain at the way he’s pulling you apart, “don’t fucking stop!”

“We’re gonna be at this a while,” he promises with a smirk as he picks up his pace.

He resumes his assault on your left nipple for just a bit longer, before he finally starts leaving a trail of sloppy wet kisses down your body, pulling your pants down along the way.

You’ve never had a guy go down on you before. Before you’d been put on the train, you’d only had sex twice and the both of you were inexperienced. When you were with Edgar, you two weren’t free to explore much. The most you’d been able to do was give him a blowjob, even that was uncomfortable.

“So fuckin’ pretty for me,” Curtis purrs against your pussy lips, “been waitin’ for me.”

The first lick is just a tease and you whine in protest, the second is right against your clit and whine his name as you dig your nails into his shoulders, and with the third he’s finally diving right in and claiming you as his own with his tongue.

“Oh God! Don’t fucking stop!” you beg pathetically, your legs starting to tremble as he massages your clit with his thumb. “Fuck!”

The sounds of his of his pornographic moans and roughness of his beard on your thighs somehow make you even more feral, and you can’t resist looking down. The sight of him buried between your legs has you biting on your bottom lip to keep from screaming. As if he can sense your feral gaze on him, you he looks up with a devilish glint in his ocean blue eyes, which have now darkened with twinges of desire and lust, as he starts fucking you faster with his tongue.

Your mouth hangs open and you’re right on the edge when he removes his tongue.

“What the fuck?!” you cry out and he chuckles darkly.

“I shouldn’t fucking let you cum at all,” he bites as he thrusts two fingers inside of you, causing you to buck your hips forward, “but I’m gonna get this tight little pussy ready for me,” he promises again.

The intrusion of a third finger has you throwing your head back in both pleasure and pain, and you try to push his hand away.

“None of that, fucking take it! Take it and then you’re gonna take my fucking cock,” he demands gruffly, applying more pressure to your clit with his thumb.

“Ngh- too much! Curtis please!”

“Then fucking cum! What, you don’t know how? Was it really that bad with him?” he taunts with a condescending chuckle.

You shouldn’t clench around his fingers the way you do at that.

“Not such a fucking saint after all, huh? Just a hungry little cock whore. Say it,” he demands lowly.

Biting down on your lip to keep quiet, you shake your head ‘no’.

Slapping one of your tits hard, he repeats, “say it!”

“ ‘m a cock whore!” you cry out, squirting hard and coating his wrist.

That’s new.

“Jesus fuck,” he growls.

He fucks you through your high, lapping up the mess you made, while you try to come down from your high. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know how wrong all of this is, but you can’t focus on that right now. The pleasure is all consuming, and you can’t think on anything other than how much you want Curtis.

How, in some dark and twisted way, you’ve always wanted Curtis.

The sound of him unzipping his pants brings you back to reality, and you know you’re going to hate yourself in the morning. Hell, you hate yourself now.

“Don’t ever make me fight this fucking hard for you again, you understand me?” he warns, kicking his jeans and boxers off of him and your bed.

You watch him with wide eyes and it’s as if he can read your mind.

“Don’t you dare try and fucking run from me now. You’re mine, you’ve always been mine, and you’ll always be mine.”

He takes his angry red cock in his hand, stoking it a few times, before dipping down and kissing you like you’d finally been returned to him after years of being held captive. The taste of you and whiskey mix together perfectly, intoxicating you, and you moan into his mouth, as both of your tongues fight for dominance.

“You are mine,” he broods once you two break apart as he spears himself inside of you.

“Shit!”

He lets out a strangled groan, “gonna make you feel better than you ever have before!”

He’s relentless as he fucks into you, knowing exactly what you need as you trail kisses down his neck.

“Y/N,” he whines when you find that spot on the crook of his neck, biting down on it hard before using your tongue to soothe the pain. “Fuck! What a good girl,” he praises and you flutter around his cock. “My pretty girl likes that? Being my good fuckin girl?”

You’ve never been so full in your life and the only response you can muster is a pathetic moan, sucking even harder on his neck.

“That’s right, baby. Mark me up...make sure they know I’m yours,” he growls, using one hand to pin your waist down, while the other pins your hands down to the bed above your head.

You don’t even care that he’s using you as his own personal rag doll, because you need it. You both need it. So many years of anger, frustration, and denial have finally come to a head, and it feels good.

It feels so fucking good.

“Oh God! Daddy!” you cry out, wrapping a leg around his waist as he finds a spot within you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Fuck, there it is!”

“Too much!”

“No it’s not, you’re gonna make a mess for me again,” he demands as his movements start to become erratic.

The hand he’s using to pin your waist to the bed travels down between the both of you, and you let out a choked sob as he starts to massage your clit.

“So beautiful, baby. Love you so fucking much,” he grunts, and you’re not sure if he means you or your pussy.

Your mind is so full of fog that you truly don’t give a fuck.

You turn your head away as you feel the knot in your core tighten and he whines, “look at me...waited so long, let me see you, baby. C’mon...let daddy see you come apart.”

Forcing your gaze on him, there’s something equally soft in his feral blue eyes, and you know you’re done for. No matter what you feel in the morning, you’ll want this again and again.

You’ll want him again and again.

A silent scream leaves your mouth as your orgasm washes over you, the leg around his waist falling to the side as you make a mess between the both of you.

“That’s a good girl...milk my fat fuckin’ cock, baby,” he groans, resting his forehead against yours as he paints your inner walls with his love.

Well, you’ve fucking done it now.

He peppers soft kisses from your forehead to your cheek, as he rides out both of your highs, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he finally releases your arms. When he finally stills within you, half hard, you let your arms fall to your sides and close your eyes, feeling more full and desired than ever before.

Feeling more guilt than you ever have before.

You’re almost asleep when you hear, “clean daddy off, honey. We’re just getting started.”

He chuckles when he looks down at the confused look on your face.

“I told you: we’re gonna be at this for a while.”

You’re not sure what the hell has gotten into him, and why he’s so forceful tonight, but he keeps you up for hours in positions you’ve never even dreamed of. Exhausting your body over and over again, his lips covering every inch of your body that they can, and his hands exploring every part of you. It feels like heaven, and there’s a pitiful shame that washes over you with each orgasm. You lose count of how many times he tells you he loves you, and how perfect he thinks you are for him, and soon you’re just a mindless doll ready and willing to do anything he wants. You’ll give him anything as long as he continues to lessen the embarrassment that’s come with you finally giving yourself to him.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts from behind as you lull your head back, “ride daddy’s dick just like that. Like a fucking cowgirl!”

“Ngh!”

“I know you’re tired,” he coos against your neck, his beard making you shutter as he strarts groping your breasts with both hands, “gonna fill your perfect little pussy one more time, I promise!”

The thought of you leaking with his release again has you clenching around him.

“You love being so full of me, don’t you?”

You just nod as you grip his thick thighs, digging your nails into them.

“I know, baby. Just needed daddy to show you who’s boss, didn’t you? Too ashamed to accept what I was so willing to give you,” he moans, kissing your neck as one of his hands travels between your thighs.

“DADDY!”

“So loud for me and I fucking love it! You’d never be this fuckin’ loud for him, would you?”

You lazily shake your head ‘no’.

“Didn’t deserve you...he couldn’t make you happy like I can. Like I always will,” he promises as he slaps your cunt.

That’s all it takes. You scream his name as your body spasms and you make a mess for what feels like the millionth time. He pulls you close, filling you to the brim, as your body relaxes against his.

“What a good girl,” he praises softly, his own breathing shallow as he guides your waist to ride out both of your orgasms.

You’ve never been so exhausted in your life.

You honestly have no control over your body at this point, so Curtis has to guide you off of him and onto the bed. You flinch when you feel some sort of fabric between your legs, cleaning you up.

“I know you’re sensitive, just a few more moments, baby,” he coos.

Well, he’s certainly much happier now that you’re a useless and mindless mess.

You feel the bed dip from behind you as he gets in, pulling the cover over the both of you before pulling you close to him. The fight that’s left in you isn’t enough to kill an ant. Instead, you just relax against him as you drift off into unconsciousness, hoping that all of this is just a very strong dream crafted from loneliness and desire.

The last thing you hear before you succumb to darkness is, “I love you.”

“Y/N,” a soft voice calls as a pair of hands shake your gently.

You blink a few times, coming back to reality and trying to separate your dreams from reality.

“Y/N? Curtis wants to see you in his room.”

Curtis.

All of a sudden the pain in your face and body catapult you back into reality. Shame washes over you, as well as an intense amount of guilt, and you curl into yourself. God, how could you give into him? How could you get off to some of the cruel and lewd things he said? What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Y/N? Did you hear me? Curtis-”

“No,” you respond softly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.

“He told me not to take ‘no’ for an answer,” the woman responds mournfully.

You say nothing, silently crying to yourself and wishing you were anywhere else. Wishing you could get away from your one true forbidden desire.

“Y/N, please,” the woman begs.

It’s not lost on you that she’ll more than likely have hell to pay, but you can’t face him. The more memories come flooding back, the more you want to the train to swallow you whole. To add insult to injury, arousal pools between your legs as desire takes over your body. What the hell came over the both of you last night, and why did you let it win? There was a time that you would’ve fought till the last breath in your body to keep Curtis off of you, but last night, you barely put up that much of a fight. You didn’t want to.

You hear your drawers open and what you assume are clothes landing on your bed, and you just pull the cover over your head. He got what he wanted out of you, so why can’t he leave you alone? What else could he want from you?

‘I love you.’

There’s no possible way he could’ve meant that. He was drunk. He treats every other woman on this train like his own personal pleasure toy, so what makes you any different? So special?

“What did I tell you last night about making me fight for you?”Curtis sighs as he walks into your room, closing the door shut behind him.

You were so lost in thought that you hadn’t even heard the woman leave.

When you say nothing, he pulls the cover from you, “come on, Y/N. Don’t make me get forceful.”

You just pull your legs tighter to yourself and cry harder.

“What?”

“Please...just go away.”

“Y/N-” “You did it on purpose, Curtis. He loved you and you just...”

“You didn’t seem to mind that confession so much last night.”

“Which makes me just as awful as you if not worse,” you sob, once again realizing just how terrible you are.

Edgar loved you unconditionally and you let the man responsible for his death fuck you like a beast, willingly giving him orgasm after orgasm.

“Honey,” Curtis tries to reason, going to touch your arm, but you pull away.

It’s insane how you can long for and hate someone’s touch so much at the same time.

Letting out another frustrated sigh, he pulls the cover back over your body and steps away, “fine.”

You can hear the pain in his voice, but he should feel like garbage. You both should. The sliding door to your room opens and closes again, and you’re finally on your own again. As you continue to cry, you if you’ll ever know peace again. If you aren’t, how long will it take you to allow yourself the comfort of Curtis?

Curtis’ P.O.V.

What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s not the first time I’ve gotten drunk and tormented you, but to attack you like that? Confess the truth in such a condescending way? Of course you want nothing to do with me now that the fog has cleared. Yes, what I did was fucked up, but I’ve been right about you since day one.

You wanted me all along.

It’s not like I didn’t care for Edgar, and he deserved more from me, but he didn’t deserve you. Watching him with you was like a knife to the chest every day. Hearing your moans and whimpers every night that he was inside you? Those were mine. They were for me. That’s why you always kept your eyes focused on me. You knew it just as well as I did. Maybe you’re the real monster in all of this, because you used him just as much as I envied him.

You weren’t happy, you were never going to leave him, so I took charge. I didn’t expect for any of it to work out like it did, but it did nonetheless. I figured if I gave you enough time and space, you’d come to me, but my patience could only last so long. Venting to Nam night after night only helped so much.

Two fucking years.

Two years of me watching you, two years of me making every other man on board afraid to get close to you, two years of me being a lesser version of myself...two years and you still never cracked. I have a fucking train to take care of, I couldn’t keep spending all of my time and energy just trying make you jealous enough to give him.

I was all set to let it go and let you do whatever the hell you wanted, until I walked past your train cart yesterday morning.

“Fuck Curtis...fuck me just like that,” you whimpered so softly, I thought I imagined it.

Looking into your room made me cum instantly. You were completely naked, eyes closed, head lulled back, and riding your pillow. You’d never looked so fucking hot before, and that was my name leaving your mouth. Not Edgar’s, mine. I no longer needed you to fucking say you were mine, but you’d just confirmed it.

“Gonna cum so soon, daddy! Fuck!”

I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and my frustration wouldn’t leave my body. Why the hell were you fighting something you so desperately wanted?

Because you’re not a monster at all.

Even without my confession, you’d always known the truth. I could’ve saved Edgar, but I didn’t. I made a million excuses as to why I couldn’t, and everyone believed them. Everyone except you. Of course you wouldn’t allow yourself to be with me. Not without force. So, after I finished up everything I needed to take care, I got drunk. I had planned on being level headed, but you came in with that fucking attitude, and I fucking lost it.

How the hell were you annoyed with me? I made sure you had the best life, and you were still ungrateful. Once again, I could’ve saved Edgar, but you wouldn’t have left him. You would’ve married him and had his fucking his kids, and what right did he have to you? What right do any of the guys on this hell hole have to you? None of them will ever love you like I do, they’re not gonna satisfy you like I do, and they’re never gonna care for you like I do.

You just needed to be shown, so I decided that I was done waiting. I knew you’d put up a fight, but I didn’t expect it to get me so worked up. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, but you were being difficult. Squeezing the stitches in my arm? You knew better than that. It wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped, but when you finally surrendered, it was more than worth it. You were a fucking dream, better than anything I’d ever had or imagined.

How could I feel bad about Edgar when I finally had you right where I wanted you? Where I’d always wanted you. I didn’t have to say all of things I did, but we both knew they were true. You’d always wanted me, he’d never truly satisfied you, and you’d always wanted me. Whatever your reasons were for choosing him over me didn’t matter anymore, because you finally admitted everything. Yeah, it bothered me that you never said ‘I love you’ back, but I also know I can’t have everything I want at once. I know you do, and when you’re ready, you’ll admit that too.

“She’s not here,” Nam says softly, pulling me out of my thoughts as he enters.

“No, she’s back to hating me,” I mutter with an eye roll. “I did everything wrong.”

“Did you explain?”

“Nope, I did the exact opposite. I took what I wanted and expected her to fall in line.”

He lets out an irritated sigh as he runs a hand through his hair, “Curtis.”

“Yeah, I fucking know, alright?”

“What now?”

“I’ll go back and see her tonight. I’ll talk to her. She loves me, she just needs some encouragement to see it. To admit it.”

“Be gentle, Curtis. You get angry and you don’t think.”

He’s not wrong.

“Did you hurt her?”

“We both hurt each other, but it’s not like she didn’t like it.”

“Is that what happened to your arm?” he asks, pointing to the bruise.

I scoff with a nod, “yeah, little devil.”

“She’s tough, I’ll give her that,” he laughs, taking Kronole out of his pocket.

“Will you stop with that shit?!”

“You beat women, I get high,” he shrugs.

“I don’t beat women,” I quickly counter, trying to keep a lid on my anger.

I really didn’t mean to hit you so fucking hard. Fuck.

He just rolls his eyes, “Should I send Yona to look after her?”

“No, we have work to do and we need Yona and her ability. I’ll send one of the girls to check on her and give her food.”

I know I should be the one to do it but with how you were this morning, I know we’re basically right back where we started.

“Curtis, should I send for Y/N again?” Sansa asks, poking her head in, disdain dripping into her words.

I can see the pain in her eyes, but I can’t bring myself to feel bad. She may be a regular, but she always knew she wasn’t permanent. All of them know.

“I’ll see to her later. Make sure no one comes in except Yona,” I instruct dismissively.

“Yes sir.”

Yeah, I’m an asshole, but I’m an asshole who’s in love with and made better by you. The sooner you see that, the sooner things will be as they should. In time, you’ll see.

In time, you’ll understand.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“Here, take mine,” a deep soft voice told you.

You looked over to your right to see that Curtis had taken a seat next to you, and he was holding out his protein block.

You shook your head and pushed it away, “oh no, it’s perfectly fine-”

“You’re hungry-”

“What will you eat?”

“I don’t like the way they taste,” he shrugged.

You laughed to yourself, “no one likes the way they taste.”

“Won’t haunt you like the taste of human flesh though.”

He had a point there.

“Go on, take it,” he offered again.

“You have to eat something. We’re all barely hanging on as it is.”

“Y/N-”

You offered him a half smile, “we can split it.”

He contemplated your offer before he nodded, “deal.”

You miss that Curtis. The one who showed remorse for his actions, cared about those around him, and was actually trying to help everyone and not just himself. Ever since Gilliam took him under his wing, there was an heir of arrogance to him, and it made you want him that much less. It got worse after Edgar got killed and Gilliam soon followed.

God, how could you still fuck him after his confession? If anything, that should’ve made you fight harder. Instead, in a sick way, it turned you on even more because it showed you just how much he wanted you. How much he’d do to make sure you’d always be his and his alone.

Maybe being on the train for so damn long that it’s fucked with you more than you thought, or maybe you’re just that awful.

The servers have been trying to feed you all day, but the only thing you’ve consumed is alcohol. It’s the only thing that’ll keep demons and thoughts of self-hatred at bay. Plus, for as much as you shouldn’t, you do feel bad for Curtis. The man told you he loves you a handful of times last night, brought you to euphoric bliss time and time again, and you let him hold you close last night, just so you could ice him out today.

As much as you don’t want to believe that the mad man loves you, somewhere deep down inside, you know it’s true. A man doesn’t let the closest person he has to a best friend die over someone he doesn’t love. Yes, you knew Edgar could get on his nerves sometimes, but never enough for Curtis ever want something truly awful to happen to him. It’s not like you ever meant for things to become a sick and twisted games, but they had and the end result was the sweetest man you’d ever known getting killed.

All of this was your fault.

“You haven’t eaten today,” a soft voice rings out, stepping into your room.

“Please go, Curtis. You got what you wanted. Just go, I’m sure Sansa and the others will be happy to keep you company tonight.”

He sits down in front of you and takes your face in his hands, “I don’t love Sansa and the others.”

“Curtis-”

“Why have you been crying all day?”

You’re more than sure the look on your face screams, ‘really?’.

“It’s not like it was something you didn’t already know-”

“Stop being so fucking callous about it!”

“Why? I’d do it again, honey. I have no problem admitting that. If I had to do it all over again, I would without hesitation.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?!”

“I love you, Y/N. I think I’ve made that pretty clear for some time now, and I’m not going to watch you be with some other man. I don’t give a fuck who that man is.”

“You can literally have whoever else you want-”

You yelp when he effortlessly picks you up and pulls you into his lap.

“The world could be the way it’s supposed to be and I still wouldn’t want anyone else. You were meant for me and I was meant for you. If people have to die for you to understand that, then so be it. I will never love anyone the way I love you, so stop thinking that this is just some fling to me,” he warns, his gaze on you tense and serious.

His words should make you afraid of him but, instead, they make you want him more than you did the night before.

“You don’t-”

“Who else do you want me to make disappear, hmm? How do I make you believe me?”

“Curtis...stop.”

“I love you.”

“That’s not love-”

“Why should I go about this the normal way? We’ve all had to fight to stay here, and I’m willing to fight for you. I will always fight for you because you’re mine, just like I’m yours. I love you.”

For now, you’ll just blame the alcohol as you lean in and kiss him softly. Just like the night before, he runs one of his hands through your hair and grips it tight as he deepens the kiss, his other arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you as close as possible.

He broods against your lips once you two break apart, “that’s right, baby. You’ll always be mine.”

“This isn’t right-” “Who gives a fuck about right and wrong when it feels this fucking good?”

“Curtis...”

“Just give into me,” he pleads before kissing you again, “give into me because you love me just as much as I love you.”

Once again, the fight leaves your body and you’re just giving into what you want. You kiss him deeply as your legs wrap around his waist, grinding against him.

“That’s it honey,” he breathes with a moan, the tip of his nose ghosting over the outline of your cheek. “I won’t take anything you don’t wanna give me. Just like last night.”

You know good and damn well he’s saying that because last night he did force himself on you, but you both knew you were desperate for it. You both know you’ve been desperate for him for a while. It’s evident that he wants you to acknowledge that, but he’s gonna need to work a little harder for that.

“If you truly love me, then show me,” you sigh as he bites and sucks on your neck. “Show me how much you need me to be yours.”

You must have awakened something feral in him because, instantly, he’s picking you up and standing up with almost no effort at all, and carrying you out of your room, quickly make his way towards his. Part of you wants to protest, because you’ve seen what he’s done with other women in his bed, but another part of you is desperate for it because it is his bed. Anyone else who was on it before you won’t ever matter again, because you’re all he needs.

He growls as he tosses you onto his bed, “take your fucking shirt off before I rip it off.”

You honestly don’t need much prompting. Between the amount of alcohol coursing through you, and the desire that you’ve been suppressing for years, you’re once again willing and ready to do anything that he wants. You whimper when he pulls his off and tosses it to the side, quickly getting to work on undoing his pants.

Yeah, you’re still sore from yesterday, but the pleasure always outweighs. You’ll take aspirin after.

“I thought I already fucking showed you,” he husks roughly, fitting your legs around his waist once on the bed and on his haunches. “I didn’t get my point across last night?”

You bite your lip and shake your head no, holding his gaze as you wrap your arms around him.

He smirks as that devilish glint comes back to his eyes, “let me be firmer this time,” forcing you down on his cock.

“AH SHIT!”

He keeps a firm hold on your waist as he starts bouncing you up and down on his cock, “you’re mine, Y/N. Always have been and you always will be!”

You cry out as you lull your head back, “oh fuck, daddy!”

“Eyes on me, baby. Gonna make sure it sinks in this time,” he chuckles darkly.

Honestly, all you can do is hold on to him, and he doesn’t even make that easy. He spits on your cunt a few times before easily wrapping one arm behind your waist to keep you in place, and shamelessly slapping your clit with the other hand.

“Please....please!”

His condescending chuckle only makes you clench around him, “fucking pathetic.”

He dips down, the tip of his tongue lightly licking between your breasts and moaning as he licks up the sweat, before latching his mouth onto your right nipple and sucking on it as if it’s his favorite lollipop to exist.

You whimper, feeling safe in his strong hold, as you run a hand through his buzzed hair, “feels so good, daddy! The way you love me feels so good!”

Releasing your nipple with a ‘pop’, he looks up with brooding dark eyes, “and no one else will ever make it feel this good,” he promises.

Without warning, he starts massaging your clit with more pressure than you’re prepared for, and you’re screaming out his name as you make a mess between the both of you.

“So messy and all mine,” he praises, his voice strained as continues to fuck up into you. “Always been all mine, haven’t you?”

Once again, you’ve been turned into a mindlessly babbling toy.

“No answer?” he taunts, his breathing as he stops all together, laughing sadistically at your pathetic whimper. “Guess daddy still hasn’t made his point clear.”

He drops you down onto the bed, flips you over with ease, fixes your knees so your ass is propped in the air, before thrusting himself inside of you again.

“Aht!”

“You’ve always been mine, haven’t you?” he growls, fucking into hard and fast.

You just whimper into his pillow as claw at his bed, but he isn’t having that. Wrapping one arm around your waist and snaking it up between your breasts, he grips your throat while the other hand grips your hair tight, and he pulls you right.

“Use your fucking words,” he demands gruffly, fucking into you harder, “you’ve always been mine?”

“Y-yes!”

“Yes who?”

“Y-yes...y-y-yes daddy!”

“Always gonna be mine?”

“A-an-anything you w-want!”

He growls into your neck as you feel him spill into you, “fuck baby!”

Once again, there’s nothing going through your mind but fog and your body is exhausted. If he wants more from you, you’ll give it to him, but you can honestly fall asleep in his hold right now. He loosens his grip on your neck, and you take a deep breath, not even realizing how tight he’d been holding onto you. Lazily fucking you both through your high, he presses small, wet, open mouthed kisses along your neck.

His breath comes heavy and he sounds just as tired as you feel, “get the message this time?”

You nod as weakly attempt to fight off sleep, “mhm, you love me.”

The next question comes with a hint of fear, “do you believe me?”

“Mhm, yes.”

“Do you love me?”

The answer comes effortlessly, “yes Curtis.”

He’s gentle with you as he pulls out, growling as he watches the mix of your juices run down your thighs, and he lays you down. Once again, you wince when some fabric gently wipes over your extremely raw and sensitive flesh, and he gently hushes you. This time, when he gets in bed with you, you’re pulling him close and resting your head on his chest.

You’re too tired to fight it.

“I love you,” you repeat before effortlessly falling asleep.

Once again, when you make up, you need a moment to adjust to your surroundings. The soreness is quicker to make your acquaintance this time, and you remember that you’re in Curtis’ room.

The very front of the train.

That’s when you realize you’re alone in his bed, and you’re slow to sit up and look around.

“I’m here,” he calls softly.

You look to the side and see him sitting across the room, sweatpants on only, hunched over, and resting his head on his hands.

“You should lay back down, I’m sure you’re sore.”

You keep your eyes on him as you slowly lay back down, “what’s wrong?”

He’s not wrong about you being sore.

“Nothing-”

Scoffing as you prop yourself up on your elbow and rest your head on your hand, “you’re gonna start lying to me after the last two days we’ve spent together?” and he laughs softly.

“It doesn’t matter right now-”

“Curtis, what’s wrong?”

There’s a softness to his features, and it’s a softness you haven’t seen in a long time.

“I love you.”

You look down and play with the hem of the bed sheet.

“That’s the problem right there.”

“Curtis-” He sighs as he sits up, “I’m not complaining.”

“It’s not so easy for me, okay?”

“It was last night when you were drunk, and I fucking knew better. I knew better, but my emotions...” “There’s a lot that I have to come to terms with, and I’ve only had two days to do it.”

“Well, do you?” “Curtis-”

“It’s a simple yes or no question-”

“It’s not simple! I was with Edgar, and no matter how I may or may not have always felt about you, I did love him and you let him get killed. No, I’m not innocent in all of this, but he loved and trusted him and you betrayed him.”

“That was different-” “How? How am I supposed to know you won’t ever do something like that to me?”

“Because this is different! This isn’t even remotely close...since I laid eyes on you, I knew that you were meant for me, and I for you. I may have been 17, but I’d never been so sure of anything in my life. I still haven’t been,” he states, slightly hurt that you would even make a claim like that. “I know what I did was fucked up, that’s not lost on either of us, and I’ve done my best to show and prove to you that I’m sorry, because it wasn’t right. Edgar didn’t know, but you did. You knew and you felt the same for me.”

“Curtis-”

“Well you did, you can deny it all you want, but we both know it’s true.”

“It doesn’t matter-” “Well, why you’d pick him?”

You scowl and lay on your back, “you don’t want the honest answer to that question.” “I can handle it.” “Lets not-”

“Just tell me!’

“I really don’t think I need to, Curtis! There’s something wrong with you! Something in you is unhinged and it shows!” you snap, sitting up and facing him.

He sits back and lets out a heavy sigh, and it breaks your heart, but he’s the one who wants to know so bad.

When he says nothing, you continue, “there’s something that flips a switch in you, and this darkness comes over you. You’re moody, argumentative, and violent. Anything can set it off and, while I get it to an extent, enough shit had happened and I didn’t want to deal with it. You would be so soft with me at times, but you could easily lose your temper with anyone else...with the exception of Gilliam. Edgar was kind, funny, and sweet. No, it wasn’t ideal, but I felt safe with him and I didn’t have to worry about him losing his shit on me. So yes, I had feelings for you, but I chose him. I know you took him under your wing out of guilt, but you were also jealous. The more he trusted you, the more you took advantage of that. It made me resent him. Then, when he went off with you for the uprising, I knew he wasn’t coming back. You wouldn’t let him.”

You can see the anger in his eyes, but he knows that he can’t call you a liar. Everything you’re saying is true and he’s not about to try and make a fool out of you.

“I did it for you,” he responds after a moment. “You don’t have to believe it, and I know you didn’t see it, but I did it for you. I’ve always wanted to keep you safe, take care of you, and have you by my side. Everything I’ve done has been for you, and while some of it has been less than humane, I’d do it again if it meant you could be happy. If it means you can have a better life, I’ll do it, and I don’t care who I have to hurt.”

“Curtis-”

“I don’t care how crazy any of it sounds, because you have to be crazy to survive in this world. I’d do anything to give you a better life and see you happy. I love you, Y/N,” he tells you softly and sincerely.

You shouldn’t feel an overwhelming amount or love and joy for him, but that doesn’t stop it from washing over you. Is there a shrink on this fucking train, because you both need your fucking heads examined.

“I’ll ask you again, do you love me?”

Slipping out before you have a chance to stop it, “yes. Yes Curtis, I love you.”

Your heart swells at the small smile that comes to his face, as he finally gets up and makes his way back to the bed, and gets in next to you. You ignore the shameful amount of guilt that overcomes you, because what happened in the past can’t be changed. All that counts is right now and the future you and Curtis will create together.

You rest your head on his chest and make little circles it, “how are you so sure, Curtis?”

“So sure of what?” he asks, stroking your shoulder and finally relaxing.

“That you love me. How do you know it’s not just an overwhelming sense of lust?”

He laughs to himself and kisses the top of your head, “because when all the fog in my mind settles, there’s still a burning desire for you in my heart. A burning desire to protect you, make you happy, hear your voice, see you smile, and to love you until there’s no breath left in my body. When the fog clears, there’s always a desire to love you with everything I have in me.”

Pressing a soft kiss to his chest, you look up at him, “I’m sorry it took me so long to finally get here.”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry, just promise to never leave.”

“I promise.”

“I love you, honey.”

“I love you, Curtis.”

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