fic reblogs

The darkness didn’t bother you; the abyssal, limitless non-existence that you had come to understand as death (or at least, the closest thing to death you’d ever be able to experience)— it was your escape.  While some still feared death, you’d been taught all your life you’d been taught to revere and respect it, as it was only a natural step in the journey of humanity.

Unfortunately, you’d been robbed of your right to a dignified, natural death by him.  

You’d spent your life serving the royal family, and for a while it was a peaceful existence— even a privileged one by a certain standard, living among such decadence.  Everything changed when he began to favor you, requesting you to serve him at meals, randomly trying to talk to you when you were trying to complete your chores.  He seemed to see you as a confidant at first, but his emotional needs were… not exactly relatable.  Diatribes about being bored with royal life, the pressure to rule a kingdom, all the annoying things about being a godly descendant of Ra; not really the sort of thing you want to hear someone complain about when you’ve spent the day scrubbing floors or chasing vermin out of the kitchens.  Still, you humored him… you didn’t really have a choice.

What started as just a one-sided sort of friendship turned into something more; he became more obsessed with keeping you to himself, he had you ‘promoted’ into a role that kept you serving his chambers most of the day.  He touched you: gently, even tenderly, but with a look in his eyes that made you shudder.  

It wasn’t with violence or threats that he claimed you; it was with an unspoken but sinister ownership.  Soft caresses and sweet words poisoned by the shared awareness that your only purpose now was to serve him.  You co-operated, both out of exhaustion and self-preservation, and sometimes you couldn’t tell if he truly believed you loved him or if he was thrilled by the knowledge that it didn’t really matter.

Of course, things worsened tenfold when he took the throne.  Though tradition kept him trying to name you as queen (something he often mused about during pillow-talk rambles), he no longer had anything to stop him from keeping you perpetually by his side.  And while you never would’ve admitted to wishing something horrible upon him, his failing health gave you some hope that you would have your freedom once again.

You could’ve never imagined how desperate he was; that he would do anything to keep you by his side, even in death…

Yes, there were those who protested his wish to have you entombed with him (most of all you who was not excited about the part where somebody was going to kill you), but none could oppose the decrees of the Pharaoh Akmunrah, fourth king of the fourth king.  He swore that nothing would separate you: no living thing, no force of nature, neither life nor death.  Neither of you would’ve predicted that, actually, one thing could… grave robbers.  The pillaging of his tomb was a desecration by all accounts and yet, it granted your long-forgotten wish. 

Without the tablet, your remains were finally just a relic, rather than a tireless vessel for your imprisoned soul; left in your homeland, they were of minor historical significance and kept more out of respect than spectacle.

The state of servitude that had once bound you to him now freed you, simply because you weren’t important enough to keep track of.  Well, you weren’t until now…

“Nahep…” you heard a distant voice calling to you.  It seemed closer when you heard it again: “Nahep, myr…”

Awaken… awaken, my beloved…

He looked elated as he stared down at you, but he must’ve seen the look you were sure you were wearing: horror, that is.  If he did, he didn’t react much to it.  “I can’t believe it,” he beamed.  He tugged more cloth away from your face to cradle it in his hands.  “I can’t believe we’re together again.”

You gasped and sat up quickly, looking around: first to the rest of your body wrapped tightly, then the front half of your sarcophagus on the floor, then up to the walls, the ceiling… “This place,” you breathed, “how— how am I back here?”

“Actually, we’re not home,” he clarified, though you weren’t actually listening.  “It’s just a recreation— we’re in our new home.”

You struggled against the bindings, and he laughed a little as he helped you remove some near your hands.

“Calm down, there’s no rush,” he assured, “we have all the time in the world…”

Once you were free enough to get out, you all but shoved him to the side and walked around the room; pressing the walls, tracing their carvings, as if you would find some way to escape.  But no, the only way in or out was conspicuously barred… it was almost too on-the-nose, your metaphorical prison actually starting to look like a real one.

“Don’t you have anything to say to me?” he asked, and finally you turned back to look at him; he had a slightly expectant, almost pouting expression.  He wasn’t wearing his crown or the beaded usekh that would typically cover most of his chest, just his tunic draped down from his waist.  The fabric of it rippled slightly as he stepped, hesitantly, closer to you— his face shifted into a cautious kind of smile.

You shrunk in on yourself a bit, struggling to meet his stare, just looking down at yourself and the wrappings that were slowly unraveling around you.

“Didn’t you miss me too?” he continued, but his voice was a little softer now.  “I’m sure you did.”

He always did that— he decided for himself, when the real answer didn’t suit him.  Soon enough he was standing in front of you, and he gently lifted your chin with his knuckle.

“I waited so long to be with you again,” he breathed, brushing the back of his fingers over your cheek.  “I knew you’d come back to me.”

You shivered slightly, shutting your eyes, and a tear finally fell.

“What’s wrong?” he cooed sweetly— as oblivious as ever.  As oblivious as he wanted to be.

“I was free,” you whispered shakily.  “I was finally free…”

But he already lost focus as he began to remove the rest of the linen that encircled your body; soon you were bare before him once again, and he hummed to himself as he looked over you.  “My lovely pet,” he mumbled, apparently to himself.

You’d never wanted to be his pet, you certainly never wanted to be tied to him for eternity, but it was something you had found familiarity with before.  In your time you’d found some form of acceptance of being his property, or at least you’d learned not to resist it as it only brought more suffering.  But that taste of freedom, of any separation from him— even if it was a separation you spent without as much real consciousness— made it even harder to fall back into his clutches.  

You swallowed, trying to fight back not only your fear but your anger, but it defiantly rose up in the back of your throat again.

“We can have our life together once more,” he told you happily.

“This is no life,” you whispered harshly, stepping back.  “This curse…”

“This gift!” he corrected, trying to comfort you in the worst possible way.

“You stole my life, but even that wasn’t enough,” you breathed, still somehow in disbelief at his cosmically cruel torture.  “You had to steal my afterlife, too; I’ll never cross the duat, never wander in the field of reeds—”

“This is better,” he assured.  “We have each other, and we have a whole new world to explore together.”

You tried to turn away, but he reached for your hand, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into him.

“You’re hurting me,” you whimpered, but his grip only tightened when you tried to twist your arm out of it.  

“I don’t want to,” he insisted.  “I don’t have to, you just— you make things so difficult!  Why can’t you understand?”

He softened a little when tears striped your face again.  He released your wrist, which you mindlessly rubbed with your other hand to ease the soreness, as he took hold of your shoulders instead.

“What's happened to you?” he asked softly.

He was clutching you, looking at you pleadingly, waiting for your explanation; you couldn’t look at him as you responded.  “I don’t want to belong to you anymore,” you whimpered.  He let go of you instantly, and a moment later, the back of his hand collided with your face, causing you to clutch your cheek as you stumbled to the ground.

“You’ve always belonged to me,” he hissed.  His eyes flashed with something dark as he glared down at you; not just disbelief but rage.  “There is nothing else for you to be, but mine.”

He knelt down beside you on the ground, and you sheepishly met his gaze, knowing he would order you to if you didn’t do it on your own.  His rage had already cooled to something more controlled, still stern but not as hateful.

“Don’t resist me anymore,” he commanded, “or I’ll bind you with your shenet to keep you still.”

He grabbed off the floor a handful of the linen strips that had wrapped you before to emphasize his warning.

“Tell me that you understand,” he growled.  You nodded, but he wasn’t satisfied.  “Say it.”

“I-I understand,” you mumbled, “I’m sorry…”

He sighed and looked to the side for a moment.  “So am I,” he responded, relaxing slightly.  “I don’t like to see you so scared of me.  But I didn’t think it would be so difficult… I was so excited to see you again, to touch you again…”

He reached forward and gently ran his fingers down your side, tracing along your hip, then your thigh; you shivered, closing your eyes for a moment.

“I can be kind to you, I know you remember,” he purred.  “I'm not so terrible, you don't need to make such a fuss…”

Moving a little closer to you, he guided you to sit up on the floor.

“Let me remind you, my beloved,” he offered, pulling you into an embrace; you limply obeyed, laying your head on his shoulder, blinking until the tears blurring your vision fell onto his chest.

One hand held the back of your head as another stroked slowly down your back— first with his palm, then the tips of his fingers which traced your spine.  You lifted your head, finding him looking down at you in that way you knew meant he was going to kiss you next.  

You examined his face for just a moment— his tanned skin, the smile that curled his lips, his piercing eyes and the thin line of kohl that surrounded them— before closing your eyes and letting him close in on you.  Sometimes you hated that your captor wore such a beautiful face, that your torment could bring so much pleasure with it…

Your hands shakily reached up to hold him, by the shoulders first and then slipping down to his chest.

It was easier than you’d expected to fall back into it, to let your body relax and your mind go blank.  He seemed to notice it, too, to somehow perceive the moment you relented, because he immediately deepened the kiss; he held onto the back of your neck, keeping you close, starting to slowly lay you down.

The floor was cold at first, but his tightening embrace kept you warm.  “I’ll remind you,” he promised again, just a whisper against your lips, though it felt like it had been so long since he’d said that before.  “I’ll remind you until you never forget again.”

His lips moved lower then, down your jaw to latch to your neck.  Your back arched off the floor slightly while he buried his face in the curve of your shoulder, his teeth teasing at first before sinking in a bit deeper.  He’d always liked to leave marks on you, to trace his thumb over them the next day proudly, though he seemed more desperate than usual— thankfully not so much that it was truly painful, but you did hiss in a breath from the sharp sensation.

A hand guided your legs to part farther, his body slotting between them, but he didn’t stop there— he gently moved you until your legs wrapped around his hips.

After he had your legs where he wanted them, apparently your arms were next: he gently took your wrists and held them above your head as his kiss returned to your mouth— even more intense and dominating than before.

He moaned softly against your mouth, the hands around your wrists squeezing them slightly; your own hands tightened into fists and you heard your own whimper in return.  “Stay,” he ordered in a whisper as he broke away and let go of your hands.  He sat up and looked down at you… perhaps with pride, if that was the word?  He was smiling, anyway, and he only had to sweep the fabric around his waist out of the way— and then there was truly nothing keeping him from you any longer.  You whimpered slightly, your face falling to the side, as he pulled you closer by your hips.  His cock brushed against you, and the chill that ran up your spine could’ve been fear, or arousal, or both… you weren’t really sure you knew how to tell the difference.  The effect between your legs was the same, regardless.

“Mm, see?” he hummed proudly.  “So eager to take me again.”

He rubbed himself against your opening for a moment, and your hands clenched again for a moment where you kept them dutifully above your head.  

“Look at me,” he demanded, though his voice was a bit pleading.  He held your jaw and turned your face towards his.  

Staring into your eyes intensely, he kept your gaze trapped by his own as he entered you; you saw his lip twitch slightly, his teeth clenched— though a small whimper escaped from between them.

You pressed your lips together to try to hold in your own wince of pain from the stretch, but you couldn’t keep a straight face for long.  Eyes watering, you heard a shaky whine from your throat as he pressed his hips into the back of your thighs.  “I know,” he soothed, “I know— but you’ll get used to it again.  I’ll try to be gentle with you, I just…” he trailed off as his other hand took a painfully tight grip of your thigh, “it’s been so long… I don’t know how well I can control myself.”

He smiled a little as he pulled back just enough to thrust forward into you again— much harder than before, and you gasped and winced.

“Not that I ever could, with you,” he admitted.

You’d tried to keep your hands where he asked you to, but then he moved again and one suddenly shot down to grab at his hip, trying to keep him from going too deep into you.

“It’s okay,” he assured sweetly, but he did nothing to stop himself from hurting you.  You whined again when he pressed forward, and you caught a slight smirk on his face as he started to set his pace.  Though, it fell a moment later into a gasp, his eyes fluttering shut while his hands kept squeezing your thighs as he moved.  “Ah, y-you can take it, I know…”

His voice seemed to get a little deeper just then, and though it was obvious he was just trying to placate you as he took his pleasure, he wasn’t entirely wrong.  The sting was already beginning to fade— though he was still stirring something just a little too far inside you to be comfortable.

“Just… take it,” he repeated, more an order this time than an assurance, but his own composure was crumbling already.  He picked up his pace and the expression on his face tightened up a bit as he whined quietly.

He let go of your thighs and leaned over you more, once again speeding up his movements within you.  His hands rested at either side of your shoulders, and his head hung down as he panted.  

“So perfect,” he praised between heavy breaths.  

It went on that way for a little while, with him occasionally lifting his head to look down at your body or tilt his head back and shut his eyes in pleasure.  You mostly just laid under him, not reacting outwardly much, but you were far from unaffected.  The way his cock curved up into you, it sent shivers all over your body and made the ends of your fingers and toes tingle with numbness (for some reason); and the sight of him so wrecked by being inside you, it made your heart twist in the strangest way.

When it suddenly came too much for him to bear, he laid down over you, but maintained the pace of his thrusts.  “I know you love me,” he breathed against your ear.  “Even when you're too shy to say it, I know that you love me.  I can see it in your eyes…”

He stroked his thumb over your cheek, smiling encouragingly, even though you weren’t looking back at him.

“I can feel it, in the way your body accepts me…”

He started to move just a bit faster once again, only barely pulling back each time to keep himself as deep in you as he could, and you gasped shakily.

“I can hear it,” he continued, his voice getting rougher, “and your pleasure is the most beautiful sound, my beloved.”

His next thrust was rougher, so hard he bared his teeth for just a moment as he collided his hips with you, and you choked out a louder, yet somehow weaker, moan.

“I could fill you now,” he growled.  “Actually, I could’ve done that from the moment I entered you—” he let out a small laugh as he admitted that— “but, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop until your body has submitted completely… you need to remember this is what you want, too.  You need to remember how you need me.”

To make it clear what he meant by complete submission, he slid his hand down over your stomach until his thumb rubbed up against your bud— gentle and exploratory at first, then suddenly much harder and faster.  He seemed to remember so naturally exactly how to push you to the edge as fast as possible.  You whined and felt your hands grab onto his shoulders without even realizing you had lifted them.  “Akmen!” you shouted, feeling sudden bursts of intense sensation alongside the steady, euphoric ache that had been building since the beginning.

“Yes,” he agreed with a hiss of excitement, “yes, it’s your king giving you all this pleasure— and it all belongs to me, just as you do.”

He only stopped staring so intently at your face to occasionally kiss your neck again, his heavy breaths tickling your skin and cooling the places his mouth had covered.  He sank his teeth into you again, on the other side this time and much higher on your neck.  You were pretty sure it was harder than before, but his longer and faster strokes distracted you from it.

You didn’t even realize how close you were until he suddenly moved his thumb away.  “N-no, please,” you begged instantly, your hips trying to shift up to chase his touch, and his laugh in response was soft but condescending, almost cold.

“From fighting me to begging for it, and so quickly,” he noticed.  “You know what you need to say.”

Yes, just as he remembered how to touch you to get what he wanted from you, you knew what words to use to get what you needed from him.  Your hands held his face, kept it close as you looked into his eyes; you were completely giving away your desperation, but you never had a chance to hide it from him anyway.

“I'm yours,” you pleaded under your breath, “I'm yours, forever, my king—”

“I know, I know,” he whispered, nodding eagerly, “it's alright— everything's right now.”

He moved his thumb again— even faster and rougher, but no less precise— and your legs began to shake where they wrapped around him.  Your head fell back with a low groan, but he kept watching you with wide eyes.

“Like that,” he encouraged, speaking louder to be heard over the sounds of your desperate cries.  “Just like that, let it all go, my love.  Give everything to me.”

You should’ve seen it coming— when Akmenrah asked you to give everything, he didn’t mean everything you had… he meant everything that he wanted.  That meant, sometimes, he pushed you past what you thought you could take.

As you began to reach the peak of your ecstasy, he didn’t slow down any of his movements.  He kept them steady and consistent, watching your face carefully as you cried out, and he just kept going.  

“N-no, I— I can’t, I—” you gasped out, barely audible since you felt like you couldn’t take in enough air to even speak properly.

Sometimes he would encourage you, sometimes he would threaten you, but this time he stayed quiet: it didn’t even need to be said, you didn’t need to be reminded that you would come again whether you wanted to or not.  Your protests, even your hands weakly pushing back against his chest and arm to try to get a break… he ignored it without even trying.

“Please!” you sobbed, but even you weren’t sure if you were asking for mercy or for more.

The feeling that hit you was… raw, unrestrained, so intense that you felt like it was tearing through you.  Your eyes were open, so was your mouth, and yet your eyes were sightless and your voice was (for a moment) completely silent.

It only seemed to all come out when he finally stopped: his hand relaxed and his hips stilled, and you released such a ridiculous, guttural kind of noise.  He moaned at the same time, higher-pitched and more desperate that you’d heard from him all night, and you were almost too numb inside to feel it— but you still did feel it, the flexing of him within you.

You were still shaking a little, and you had to blink quickly to disperse the spots from your vision.  He kissed feverishly along your neck and shoulder, whispering praises to you that you were still a bit too disoriented to process.

He held you tightly and laid on the floor beside you with a groan— but he brought you with him, keeping himself within you as he guided your head to rest on his shoulder.  Even if it hadn’t separated you from each other, the shifting around still made some come leak out of you; you shuddered slightly as you felt it, but he continued to stroke your back soothingly. 

“Even after however-many-thousands of years, you still amaze me,” he breathed against the top of your head.  “Our love has outlived kingdoms, religions, entire civilizations… and we’ll still belong to each other until the end of time.”

The hand that was petting your back drifted lower until it found a handful of your ass, and he groaned proudly as he kneaded it for a moment.

“I bet you’ll be able to please me again before sunrise,” he decided suddenly.

He was from the realty division, probably the furthest from your own work, and yet he was one of the first people to introduce himself to you.  The whole conversation had seemed just a touch flirty, but you couldn’t tell if that was actually his intention or if he was just charming (or if you just had wishful thinking).

“Always nice to see a new face around,” he’d said to get your attention, making you spin around in your chair and look up at him.  He wore a friendly smile, running his fingers through his hair which you thought might be considered dirty blonde in certain lighting; it’s not that you were checking him out, necessarily, it’s just that you had acquired an eye for color in your years working with fine art.

“Oh— hey, yeah, I’m the newbie,” you awkwardly replied, not sure how to respond to that.  Always nice to see a nice face around seemed too forward.

“Are you new in town?” he asked.  “‘Cause I could show you around if you need—”

“No, actually— I’ve lived in Manhattan for about five years now,” you explained, “Christie’s is in Rockefeller center, just a few miles away…”

He pushed his lips together and nodded, like he took it as a rejection, and you felt a little guilty.  

“But you’re really sweet to offer!” you blurted out.  “I mean, if there’s any good spots for lunch around here, I’m all ears.”

He nodded quickly, but crossed his arms and changed the subject instead.  “So, Christie’s?  What did you do there?”

“Same thing I’m gonna do here— sell art,” you smiled.  “Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” he encouraged.

It didn’t really mean anything, coming from a stranger, but somehow it still made you feel better; you thought about it the rest of the day, actually.

From then on, you’d become pretty curious about him.  You asked around, but most people in your department didn’t know much: he was a realtor, after all, so any details past that would require talking to another realtor.  The problem with that plan was that you figured if you asked somebody who worked closely with him for any gossip, it would end up getting back to him— and he’d probably be all cocky about it, from what little you could tell about his personality.

All you’d really put together was that his name was Harris, he was divorced relatively recently, and that he had quite a talent for architecture and interior design.  Everything else you knew about him had been easy to put together: friendly, yet smooth; sexy voice; well-dressed, if more casual than some people in the office.

And everything else you wanted to know, you went to an after-work happy hour to find out.

You were getting worried that he would notice you glancing at him every, I don’t know, ten or so seconds; only once or twice did he meet your gaze, and whenever he did, he would look back at whoever he was talking to with a little knowing smirk.  Bastard— he was taunting you, daring you to come over and talk to him— wasn’t he?

But you refused to give in so easily: you focused on chatting with other members of the art sales department, laughing too hard at their stories and jokes in the hopes that, for once, Harris would look at you first.  If he did, you were too absorbed in conversation most of the time to notice.

Like all work events, though, people trickled out to head home steadily throughout the night.  Probably half of them were gone within an hour; by eight, barely ten people were left.  Rarely, the conversation would merge into one big group, and you would catch Harris’ eyes drifting over you when you added something, but usually people were within their little sub-conversations and you never quite seemed to cross paths with Harris.

Until, finally, he relented— only when you ended up sitting off to the side of one of the tables the secretary had booked; the person you’d been talking to left, and everyone else was wrapped up in what they were discussing, and you found yourself nursing your beer and staring off into space for a little while.  Actually, you didn’t even notice him coming up to you until he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down in it with a sigh.

“How’s Samuel treating you?” he asked, and you gave him a confused look before he motioned to the glass in your hand of, as you’d apparently forgotten, Samuel Adams.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, shaking your head, “he’s alright— inoffensive.  A work thing seems like the wrong place for hard liquor.”

“Is that a diss on my whiskey?” he frowned, swirling the dark liquid in his crystal glass.

“Do they have good whiskey here?” you wondered.

“No,” he snorted.  “I was trying to be sophisticated, but it’s swill.  Serves me right, huh?”

“I guess,” you shrugged, “I can’t blame you for trying.  Everybody here’s pretty uppity.”

“I hope no one’s made you feel out of place or anything,” he offered, putting his hands out slightly in a gesture of concern.  “We wouldn’t want to discriminate against you just for being a poor vagabond from Christie’s.”

You laughed again, harder, and rolled your eyes.  “Oh, really?  I’m some kind of charity case?”

“Yeah, 20 Rock?  That’s basically the inner city,” he joked.  “Hey, did you ever go skating on that big rink?”

“No,” you admitted, “it feels like a waste that I didn’t— I saw people out there every winter.”

“You could still go,” he noticed.

“It would be even weirder now that I don’t work there,” you shrugged, “and besides, it’s just ice skating— expensive ice skating.  I can fall on my ass whenever I want for free.”

He smiled and nodded in agreement.  “I should probably do more ‘New York’ things, you know.  I’ve been here— gosh, over ten years?  I don’t actually do any of the stuff I’m supposed to, except some of the museums.”

“The museums are really excellent,” you agreed.

“Of course, you’re the art nerd,” he remembered.  “Sorry— expert.”

You scoffed.  “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Do you own a lot yourself?” he wondered.  “Do you get a good price on stuff, or do you have to save all the best ones for clients?”

“I don’t have a ton, but I have plenty of pieces I’m proud of, yeah,” you answered, “but I focus on new and upcoming artists, I don’t have any masterworks.  Every once in a while I would buy something from an artist we chose not to sign, out of pity.”

Harris laughed, and you let yourself use the moment that his eyes were closed to take a closer look at him.  He really was attractive in the most specific way, and his flirty attitude didn’t help either— but you had no idea how flirty he could really be until the conversation continued.  

“Do you own anything?” you asked.  “You must, with your eye for design.  Unless you’re one of those people who gets those massive, mostly-blank interpretive paintings just to fill a wall.”

“You mean like in hotels?  God, no,” he grimaced.  “I have a few pieces, yes  Actually, I’ve got this one painting at my place that I’ve been meaning to have someone take a look at,” he said after he finished a thoughtful sip of his whiskey.

“For what purpose?” you wondered, though you could already tell he was asking you for a favor.  What kind of favor, though, was still up to interpretation.

He gave you a look of faux confusion.  “It’s a painting— you can’t do much else with it once it’s hung.”  You laughed, and he looked a little proud of himself before giving a real answer.  “I’m sure it’s worth something, but I don’t know how much.”

“Shouldn’t you have gotten your valuation from Sotheby’s upon purchase?” you asked with a smirk.  “We’re always telling people about how great that is.”

“Well,” he started with a mischievous look, leaning in closer to you with his elbows on the table, “don’t tell— but I didn’t get it at Sotheby’s,” he admitted in a whisper, making you laugh and raise your eyebrows.

“Oh!  Naughty naughty,” you scolded playfully, noticing right away the way his eyes darted down to your lips for a moment.  “Where’d you get it, then?”

“If you can believe it— Christie’s,” he laughed, and your eyes got even wider.  

“Fuck off!” you yelped, probably a little too loud.  “No way— I didn’t see you around or anything!”

He shrugged.  “Maybe you did, and just forgot.”

Your heart already raced before you even said it, but you couldn’t stop yourself.  “I would’ve remembered you,” you replied, lowering your voice; you saw his expression change, if subtly, and you bit your lip for just a moment before you caught yourself.

Just when you wondered if he would come any closer, he straightened himself up with a little groan and sigh.  “Actually,” he began, “it was my ex that bought it.  I ended up keeping it in the divorce, not that I specifically wanted it— I think, for her, it was too many memories… or something like that.”

You nodded, not totally sure what to say.  Thankfully, he spoke again before you.

“Say what you will about her, she has good taste,” he chuckled a bit.  “It’s a nice piece, but all the paperwork is long gone.”

“Well, if you bring it to the office and get it insured with us, I can guarantee the best estimate and a formal appraisal,” you explained, “but if you don’t mind just a ballpark…”

“I don’t need specifics,” he agreed, “I mostly just want to know if I’m sitting on something really special and don’t even know it.”

Mostly I just want an excuse for you to come to my place, is what you heard him say— not that it bothered you.  “Well… I’m free tonight,” you told him, trying not to look up at him expectantly, but you couldn’t help it; you were too anxious for his response.  Thankfully, you got a small smirk and a knowing glance.

“No time like the present, eh?”

~

Both of you pretended this was still something it had stopped being before you even left the bar, even if there was a sort of undertone to everything.  Even the coworkers who realized you were leaving together seemed to pick up on something, and you hoped silently that they wouldn’t make too many assumptions.

Even you had to resist the urge to make assumptions.  You weren’t sure what was going to happen, if anything— nor did you have a clue if he was going to consider anything that might or might not happen a path to dating or just hooking up or… something else?  If there are even other options…

After all, the cab ride was only small talk, nothing too forward; maybe the offer of a glass of wine when you got to his house was a little flirty, or maybe it was just polite, you couldn’t be sure.  You accepted the offer regardless, taking a glance around his house while he shuffled off to the kitchen (after hanging up your coat for you).

“It’s a gorgeous place,” you noticed, “and, of course, you’ve decorated it beautifully.”

“Oh, thanks,” he returned, voice raised slightly so you could hear him in the living room.  “Brownstones are so hard to get, you know— but it’s easier when you’re already in real estate.”

“Is this it?” you wondered, approaching a painting he had hung up on one of the walls— something modern, you couldn’t make out the signature, but it looked trendy and interpretive (if not quite as generic as those hotel paintings you’d mocked back at that bar).

“What?  Oh, that one,” he realized as he emerged with a glass of wine in each hand.  “No, my friend actually painted that, it was a gift.”

“Oh!  It’s fun,” you smiled, “you can tell your friend he’s talented.”

“I do,” he agreed as he handed you your glass, “but he doesn’t believe me.  Every six months he swears he’s quitting painting altogether— I can usually convince him to get back into it, but it can take a while.”

“Artists have to face a lot of negativity and rejection,” you hummed.  “I don’t envy them.  Most of the good ones won’t even be appreciated until they’re dead.”

On that morbid note, you paused to take a sip of the wine, which was overall pleasant but nothing too revolutionary.  There were wine experts at Sotheby’s who could probably say more than that, but you were obviously not one of them.  “Don’t tell Anton that,” Harris joked, “he would take it much too literally.”

“Dramatic artistic type, huh?” you assumed, seeing him tilt his head in reluctant agreement.  “I’m familiar— they can be fun, but exhausting, too.  And self-destructive.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he noticed, “let me guess: dumbass ex-boyfriend?”

“More than one, but yes,” you smiled snarkily.

“The painting I wanted to show you is in the dining room,” he finally informed you, gesturing for you to walk with him down the short hallway.

At first glance, you just noticed how well the color scheme of the painting blended with the decor of the dining room— there was a pale green, teal-ish accent to the whole place, but where the chairs and table were modern and minimalist, the painting was of a classic, Romantic style— Impressionistic, even.  You recognized first that it was beautiful, before even worrying about the potential value.

Approaching it, you let yourself get closer than most casual viewers do— looking for any damage or aging— as Harris waited behind you.

“It’s in great condition,” you noticed, “it’s not very old, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed.  “Have you heard of the artist?”

“Ilyayev,” you read the signature.  “Yes, it rings a bell.  He’s not usually so subdued.”

“This is subdued?” he realized.  “I always thought it was a little loud.”

“It fits well in the room, though,” you decided, trailing off slightly as you tilted your head to examine it.  “And this is an original?”

“To my understanding.”

You nodded, using your free hand to hold a fist under your chin, as if that would help you discern anything.

“So?  What’s it worth?” he asked, but when you turned around to face him, he was standing a little closer than you realized— not too close, but… close.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” you noticed.  “Your kid could do a finger painting, and it could be priceless; a half-finished sketch is worthless until someone can prove it’s a Rembrandt.  So— what’s it worth to you?”

He pondered that as he finished his glass and set it down on the table, taking a step towards you.  “A lot less than it used to be,” he decided.

“If you’re desperate, I can probably get you five or ten for it— maybe a touch more if I’m willing to call some old contacts at Christie’s and pull your original valuation.”

“I’m not desperate,” he replied, something a little too suave about his tone.

A moment passed, in which something in you— potentially the red wine— told you to stop pretending this was a normal stop by someone’s house to roughly estimate the value of their painting: if the way he’d looked at you when he said what he just said was anything to go by, he was on the verge of acknowledging what this really was.

And if he was going to, then so would you.  You set your glass down on the table.

“You ever heard the saying, don’t shit where you eat?” you asked, making him laugh a little and tilt his head in a sort of relenting expression.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard that before,” he replied.

“I try to live by that,” you explained— and even though his reaction indicated that he knew what it meant, he played dumb with a raise of one brow.

“What do you think it means?” he pressed, speaking softly and slowly.  “In this context.”

You took a moment to respond, mostly because you realized he was moving closer to you, his glass set down next to yours on his way.  “Well, I think it means that… if you keep things separate…” you began, lowering your voice as he stepped up to you, “then you can avoid—”

“Contracting e. coli?” he finished for you, making you smile and glance to the side— mostly because, if you didn’t, you’d have to either stare straight forward at his chest, or look up to meet his gaze. 

“I was going to say complications,” you finished instead.

“Right,” he nodded slowly in agreement.  “And you like to keep things simple, don’t you?”

“When I can,” you agreed, but your breath caught a little when his hand rested gently on your hip, fingers tracing gentle and lazy shapes through the fabric of your dress.

Then, finally, you dared to look up at him through your lashes; his gaze was low and watching where his hand was touching you, but it darted up to your own eyes— then your lips.  Fuck.  You weren’t strong enough to think clearly, even if you knew you should reach up and gently push him back; tell him that you were flattered, but that this wasn’t a good idea.

“Well, I think this is pretty simple,” he decided.  

“Oh?” you pressed, smirking slightly.

“Yeah,” he breathed.  “I find you… very attractive,” he said simply, making you swallow a bit, “and I’d really like to take you out sometime.”

You raised an eyebrow.  “Is that all?”

He smiled a little, shaking his head.  “I was trying to be polite.”

But his hand pressed flat against you and snaked around to your lower back, keeping you close; what was the point of mincing his words if he was going to be so forward with his movements?

“But no, that’s not all I want from you,” he added— his eyes were a little darker and you felt paralyzed by them, though you also didn’t really mind it.

You’d been wondering if you could get him to say it; but he did you one better, his free hand cradling the back of your head so he could kiss you.  It wasn’t too hasty or rushed, but hardly a peck either; only a moment after he’d pressed his lips to yours, you felt his tongue gently guide your mouth to open for him.

He leaned over you even more, pressed against you even more, forced your head to tilt back even more— and you hummed against him, reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck.

It was mostly pretty relaxed at first— no rush to go further, just a chance to enjoy this moment— and you felt like it had been far too long since somebody kissed you like this.  (Or at all, but that was another issue.)  But something definitely changed, if subtly, when you reached up to run your fingers through his hair.

You didn’t mean anything by it, specifically, you just kinda thought he had nice hair from the start and you finally had an appropriate time to get away with it; he responded with a low groan and a tighter grip on your waist.  It all got a little more intense after that— your head tilted more and he reached down to get a handful of your ass through the dress which, yes, was a bit unclassy but you were not complaining.  In fact, you just gasped against him and rocked your hips forward against his thigh.

And then, just to be a little shit, he bit your lip: not, you know, too hard or anything, but it startled you.  You tugged on his hair, mostly out of instinct, and then all pretense and patience was out the window.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips, and you whimpered as his hand slid up your back, tracing the zipper of your dress— he wasn’t really about to take it off now, right?  Not that you would stop him.

“I want you,” you blurted out, not really even capable of filtering the pathway from your brain to your mouth anymore, and you just felt him nod as he started to guide you backward.

See, the whole push you against the wall idea was great in theory— it really was hot, like something out of a steamy movie scene— but it was just a little too hard.  You were fine with it, actually, but as soon as your back collided with the wall while he pressed himself against you, that damn painting broke off its hook and clattered to the ground.

You both turned to look at it, startled by the loud noise, and watched as it balanced on its side for just a moment before falling face down onto the dining room floor.  Apparently you had some instincts that could override the one that had been running the show just now: you tried to go for it, your inner art preservation expert couldn’t stand to see something flat on the ground like that— you needed to at least check that the frame wasn’t damaged—

But as you reached for it, he smiled and gently guided you back towards him.  “It’s fine,” he promised.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” he said again, a little darker, pinning you back by your shoulders— gently, but the message was clear.  You looked at him shyly, feeling slightly more self-conscious about all this than you had just a moment ago.  It was different without that haziness in your brain; but god, it was almost better when he kissed you again, neither of you quite as drunk on the moment.  You had to admit to yourself, again, how badly you wanted this even knowing it was misguided at best.

And then his lips moved to your neck, making you whine a little and grab onto his shoulders.  “F-fuck,” you gasped, feeling his lips and teeth tease all along your pulse.

“You’re sensitive here,” he noticed with a small laugh.  “Are you trying to rub yourself on my thigh?”

You hadn’t even noticed— but yes, your hips were rocking forward in search of some friction all of their own accord.  And the gentle condescension of his voice only made you more desperate, honestly.

Irritated by how composed he seemed to be while you were totally losing your mind, you impulsively reached forward and rubbed your hand over his pants— and it wasn’t too hard, no pun intended, to find what you were looking for.

You smirked to yourself when his own hips jerked towards you just a bit, a small sigh falling from his lips; not quite so cocky now, hm?

But you weren’t doing much better, not when you felt how thick he was, not when you could see the outline of him in the slacks.  “Fuckin’ big,” you mumbled without really questioning it, hardly even noticing you said it out loud, and he grinned with a breathless laugh.

“You think so?” he encouraged, not exactly pulling off the humble act.

“Yeah, fuck,” you sighed, instantly getting to work on his belt.

“Shit, okay,” he laughed, “I guess we’re really gonna— oh, fuck.”

You’d managed to open his fly enough to reach inside and wrap your fingers around him, feeling him get harder in your grip.  

He purred and kissed you again, hungry but slow.  You couldn’t really stroke him at this angle, but you ran your fingertips along the shape of him and smiled when you felt him shiver.  “C’mon, not here,” he decided as he pulled back slightly.  “Let’s go to the bedroom.” 

Taking your hand out of his trousers, you let him guide you there.  As he stepped into the room with you just behind, he flipped on a lamp in the corner that lit the room with a dim golden glow— the curtains were drawn so only a few slivers of reflected city lights could peek in.  You were thankful for the darkness, actually, as you would’ve found this a bit awkward in harsh, direct lighting.  The room had a sensualness to it that matched him perfectly; you kicked off your flats quickly as you stepped in.

He sat on the corner of the bed, taking your hand and gently pulling you towards him, looking at you with a kind but expectant smile.  “C’mere,” he mumbled under his breath, reaching up to trace your silhouette lightly.  He had a delicateness and carefulness to everything he did, but you weren’t feeling quite so patient.

You quickly went to your knees in front of him, thankful for the plush carpet as you started to tug his pants down.

He laughed a little.  “You really wanna—?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly, licking your lips as his cock bounced free and curved up to his stomach.  You weren’t sure why but you just needed to do this to him— you already decided it, didn’t feel like being polite and, you know, asking.  Thankfully, the way he ran his hands over his hair was obviously encouraging, it seemed like he was more than happy to let you go ahead.

As soon as you had the chance to get your hands around it again, your mouth was around the head, and he groaned lowly above you.  “Fuck,” he breathed, and you hummed as you swirled your tongue around him.

Maybe it was hasty, but you started to bob your head and move your hand along with it, finding the pace that made his hand tighten to a fist in your hair and doing your best to stay steady there.  The size of him was a bit of a challenge, you couldn’t go that far down yet and your jaw was already a little sore from being open so wide, but that didn’t faze you in the slightest.  If anything it just gave you a challenge to work towards, patiently taking just a little more with each stroke, tasting whatever your tongue could reach in the meantime.

When you gagged as the tip brushed against your throat, he purred a bit; it was obvious his ego got a boost from that, which was a little concerning since he was already plenty cocky enough.

Maybe you were trying to humble him a bit by stopping, pulling your mouth off and moving your hand out of the way so you could give him one long lick: starting all the way at one of his tightened balls and going up to the very tip, tickling the opening there for a second.  He shuddered, his cock flexing up as if trying to get back into your mouth, and then he started to laugh breathlessly.

“Fuck, you’re…” he began, then shook his head.  “I’m really glad you came over tonight.”

You laughed a little, too, because that seemed like a weird thing to say at a time like this— but, you also agreed with him.

The hand on your head moved back and brushed over the back of your neck as he found the zipper of your dress; he leaned over you to lower it slowly, opening it all the way to the bottom.  “Stand up,” he requested softly, and as you did, his hands grabbed the hem and pulled it to the floor, letting the garment circle your feet.  He hummed a bit as he admired you in your bra and underwear— you would’ve picked nicer ones if you’d known this was happening tonight, but if you’d known this was happening tonight, you would’ve missed out on all this sexy spontaneous energy.  At least your panties had a bit of lace around the hips and were free of old period stains… that was a win in your book.

Regardless of if they weren’t your fanciest, Harrison seemed perfectly happy with the sight of you like this.  His hands rubbed your thighs gently, and he leaned forward to plant a few soft kisses to your hip and lower stomach.  He looked up at you, and his expression was inherently pleading and pathetic from this angle, but it was obvious that he was still totally in control.

“Fuck,” he whispered yet again, his breath tickling your skin, “so pretty.”

He carefully pulled the panties down, and never broke his eyes away from you as he did it; you felt slightly nervous from being so exposed like that, but his reverent sigh kept you from feeling insecure.

“God, you’re perfect,” he decided.

“N-no, definitely not,” you chuckled awkwardly, stepping out of the underwear and adding them to the pile with your dress.

“You are,” he insisted, “come here.”

He guided you to straddle his lap, still looking up at you but from much closer now.  For some reason you were expecting him to say something else, so it was a bit of a shock— in a good way— when he guided your hips and lowered you down onto his cock.  You gasped from the suddenness and the stretch, then whimpered as his lips found your neck.

“Oh my god,” he breathed before he’d even finished filling you, “you’re so fucking wet…”

When you were completely seated on his thighs, a shiver ran up your back: it was deep, a little deeper than you bargained for, and you had to take a shaky breath to try to adjust to it.  One hand stayed at your side but another moved down to pet your thigh soothingly— he must’ve been able to tell you were struggling a little.

“Take your time,” he encouraged sweetly, “I’ve got you.”

Both of you exhaled deeply when you lifted yourself up slightly just to drop down again; he pulled you down to bury himself as deep in you as he could go, and a quiet yelp jumped from your throat.

He wasn’t holding you tight enough to keep you from moving, but he kept a strong grip on you as you started to carefully set your pace.  You whimpered when the motion made your clit rub against him.  “Feels good?” he asked, sweet with a hint of smugness.

“Yeah,” you breathed, dropping your head onto his shoulder.  “Fuck, yeah, feels good…”

He started to unbutton his shirt, and you tried to help him, but your shaky fingers weren’t going to do much; you could at least help him get the undershirt off, which you pulled almost too eagerly off his head before kissing him again.

He hummed proudly as you rocked your hips a bit further— not faster, yet.  The stretch was still making your toes curl, he could probably see that when you broke the kiss.  But the slight sting only served to increase the pleasure, and the pleasure helped your body relax to take him more easily.  Soon, you felt that energy building within you, that ache for something more: you rocked your hips faster, chasing after your mounting pleasure.

You moaned louder, tangling some fingers into his hair.  

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, lips brushing against your clavicle and hands running up your back encouragingly.  “Fuck, that’s so good— baby—”

You whimpered and held tighter to his shoulders, gasping into the crook of his neck, increasing the speed of your motions yet again.  Those hands on your back started to work on your bra’s clasp— you had barely noticed you were still wearing it, clearly you’d been sidetracked— and helped you slip it off your shoulders.  Of course you expected him to grab your chest after that, maybe carefully pinch a nipple between his finger and thumb, but the way he instantly latched his lips onto you caught you off guard in the best way.  “Oh!” you gasped, tossing your head back suddenly.  “Oh, fuck, Harris—”

He hummed proudly, his tongue flicking your bud inside the wet warmth of his mouth.  He broke away and kissed a path to the other: once, he bit you lightly, and you tensed up inside.

His grin was just diabolical then, and one of his hands gave your ass a smack to make you moan and flex again.  But then he got back to work, spoiling your other breast with licks and kisses and playful brushes of his teeth.  Your grip on his hair tightened, and you began to bounce more eagerly on his lap than ever.  

The friction of your clit against his skin was good, but it wasn’t quite enough— maybe he read your mind or something, because he looked up at you as he slipped one hand between your bodies and held his hand against your lower stomach.  He just pressed down at first, gently, but enough to feel his cock moving within you.  Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he lowered his thumb down to your clit and gave it some attention too.

“Ah, god,” you groaned deeply, shivering as his thumb drew circles on the bud.  He kept watching you intently, studying your face which surely revealed how wrecked you were already.  It didn’t take much of that to push you right to the edge— he didn’t have to be fast or hard about it, just consistent, to make you fall apart.  “I-I’m close,” you admitted with a gasp.

“Wanna see it,” he purred.  “Wanna see you come.  C’mon, baby, show me.”

You clenched your teeth together hard, summoning the physical strength to move as fast as you needed to, desperate to come for your own sake but happy to appease him as well.  His eyes on you were so overwhelming, his hand on you was too, but you loved it; it all came to him so naturally, like he already knew your body as well as his own.  It made you feel a little predictable, a little… silly, for lack of a better word.  Weirdly enough, you kinda liked that too.

As you finally reached your climax, all the energy in your body seeming to tighten up and center at one point, you worried your moans were loud enough to be heard in the adjoining houses.  But he was happier than ever, smiling widely at you as you were overcome with ecstatic sensations.

You wanted to stay in it forever, and it really felt like that as long as you kept moving it could just keep going and going and going… but sadly, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.  Your legs quivered and your hips faltered, and you were forced to slow to a stop as soreness and exhaustion caught up with you.  Damn, I need to get back in the gym, you thought to yourself for a second, before you blinked and found him still staring proudly at you. Or maybe I can just keep doing this for my workouts…

“You sound so pretty when you come,” he praised.  “Can you do it again?”

“Y-yeah, probably, but not… not like this,” you sighed, “too tired.”

“S’okay, honey,” he assured sweetly, holding you close and turning to quickly drop you on the bed.  You giggled a little as he hovered over you, but when he moved again, it all felt so different: he hit different places inside you, especially when he held your legs and pressed them forward to all but fold you in half.  

Your eyes rolled back when he gave his first thrust into you like that.  “Fuck,” you growled, hardly believing how your own voice sounded at that moment.  He chuckled proudly and did it again, really savoring the feeling and rolling his hips teasingly.

Turns out, your thigh and hip muscles might’ve been done for the night, your inner muscles were as happy as ever to flex and pulse with every drag of his cock against them.  “Fuckin’ tight,” he praised roughly.  “God, you feel so good.”

You whimpered a little, gripping the sheets under you.  He turned his face to kiss along your calf, beside your knee, basically anywhere on your leg he could reach— and you weren’t sure you’d ever felt so worshipped.  You whined properly then, and his fingers gripped tighter onto your thighs; him holding and positioning the body just how he wanted was so erotic and dominating, yet he used his power not to satisfy himself but to give you exactly what he knew you needed.  Clearly he was the generous type…

Truth be told, you weren’t a good judge of how much time passed during all that: the pleasure seemed endless, and you constantly lost yourself in the feeling until he shifted himself above you and sharply brought you back to reality with a punch of his hips.  “Oh, that’s it,” he praised, before even you had realized you were getting closer again.  “That’s it, baby, I can feel it—”

“Oh god,” you whined, fluttering your eyes shut.  “Yes!”

He growled through his teeth, moving your legs out of the way so he could press himself against you; you felt surrounded by him, filled by him…completely helpless to him, and it was wonderful.

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding on as tight as you could as he pounded into you.  “I’m coming!” you shouted, and it came out all whiny and wimpy but you couldn’t do anything about that now: pleasure was crashing over you so hard you struggled to even breathe.  You definitely stopped breathing, for at least a few seconds, and your vision had little dots that flashed and twirled around like glitter or something.

Only when you let out the air you were holding did reality seem to catch up with you.  You felt yourself go a bit limp, you suddenly became aware again of the bed under you and the man above you and the pins and needles in your fingers and toes.  “So good,” he praised in your ringing ears, his pace having slowed down a bit to not overwhelm you, “you’re so good for me, huh?”

“Me? You’re good,” you returned with a thin laugh.  “You’re so— fuck, that was incredible.”

“Yeah?  Looked incredible,” he agreed, “felt incredible.  Feelin’ your little pussy squeeze me like that…”

You shivered at the lovely filthiness of his words.  

“Fuck, should I pull out?” he groaned roughly.  You shook your head quickly.  “Inside?”

You nodded, and you felt a small laugh fan against your neck.

“Really?  God, that’s so hot…”

As he trailed off, his thrusts became faster and more aggressive, forcing your back to arch up off the bed even when your body was totally spent.  He chanted curses with every breath, mumbled something about how good you felt— and then he shuddered and let out the loveliest shaky groan you could imagine.  

His grip on your thighs loosened, and you felt a new heat and wetness between your legs compared to before.  Slowly, he started to catch his breath, and you felt like the two of you were in the same half-dream together, soaking in the same afterglow.

When both of you were a bit more conscious, he sat up a bit; as sexy as getting filled with come, or filling with someone with come, can be… the after part can be a little unsexy.  But then again, maybe that’s true of all sex.

“Hold on, I, uh— I have some… tissues…” he mumbled with a rough voice, reaching over you to his nightstand and pulling some Kleenex from a box.

“Convenient,” you noticed, and you hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but he smiled with a hint of nervousness. 

“They’re, uh, not normally for this,” he assured as he brought the handful of tissues back with him, sitting up more instead of leaning over you.  “I really don’t do this kind of thing very often—”

“O-oh, I wasn’t—” you interrupted.  “I mean, it’s fine if you do.  Wait, do you mean you don’t have hook-ups often?  Or you don’t, uh, have to clean up creampies often?”

He laughed, dropping his head above you like he couldn’t believe you, but he seemed endeared by it anyway.  “Uh, neither,” he explained.  “So, this is a hook-up then?”

Now that you were on the other end of the personal questions, you felt a bit more awkward about it.  “Um, well…” you trailed off.

“‘Cause I was kinda hoping I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

“Right, yeah— I mean, you can,” you agreed.

“Maybe I should ask you again after I’ve cleaned you up a bit,” he noticed.  “You’ll be more impartial.”

“Sure,” you agreed with a little chuckle, and he leaned back to get a better look at where your bodies were still joined, as if assessing the damage.  

“Let’s see if I can…” he trailed off, mostly talking to himself as he tried to find the best angle to get the tissues under you before he pulled out and inevitably let the mess flow out of you.

“It’s kinda like Indiana Jones,” you blurted out, and he gave you a quizzical look.  “You know, like, with the golden idol and the sand bag… you gotta get the dick out and then catch everything with the tissues…”

After a short silence, he laughed and shook his head a bit.  “Indiana Jones,” he repeated.  “You’re a trip.  I love it.”

He seemed to get more serious again for a second as he did it— pulling back and quickly using the tissues to gently wipe up the trail of come that leaked from your opening— but then he started to laugh softly again.  

“I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head,” he announced.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he soothed.  “I mean, I guess being compared to Indiana Jones in bed is pretty much always a good thing.”

You laughed a little, too, and his eyes widened as he pressed the tissues up to you again; apparently your laugh had pushed a little more out.

“Okay, I think that’s as good as that’s gonna get for now,” he decided as he laid down beside you on the bed, turned onto his side to look at you with a smile.  He laid his hand on your waist, stroking your flushed skin with his thumb.  “You are… really incredible.”

You wanted to refute the compliment, but you knew he wouldn’t let you; “Thanks,” you mumbled nervously.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Do you even need to ask?” you scoffed.  “I haven’t come that hard in… I don’t even know.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he smirked.  “Can I get you some water?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you agreed with a nod, and he sat up to slip off the bed— not too fast, you noticed, indicating he was feeling some of that tiredness you were.

Finding his boxers discarded near the bed, he slipped them back on and crossed the room, smiling at you one more time before disappearing out of the doorway.

You took the moment alone to process all that had just happened, as best you could at least.  You sort of knew what you were getting yourself into by coming over to Harris’ place, but you couldn’t have predicted this: how forward and aggressive yet sensual he was, how amazing he would make you feel.  And then that it wouldn’t just be one night but, apparently, something he wanted to continue… you were smiling to yourself, without even realizing.  Of course you shouldn’t be hooking up with— or dating— or whatever— somebody from your work… but aren’t all the most fun decisions also the riskiest ones?

When he came back with a bottle of Evian, your eyes widened.  “Woah, woah, I thought you were just gonna use the tap,” you chuckled, “this is too much.”

“Oh, it’s the least you deserve,” he grinned, sitting next to you on the bed and handing it to you as you sat up a bit.

“So is the quality of the water proportionally to the quality of the sex?” you asked before taking your first sip.

“Totally,” he joked.  “Dasani for the truly mediocre encounters.”

You snorted before drinking more from the bottle and setting it aside on the nightstand.  “Sorry about your painting, by the way,” you mumbled.  “It’s… probably worth less now that it fell on its face.”

The next day of your visit to Brussels was mostly boring meetings; you almost wanted to ask him why you both had to travel all this way to do the same things you always did, but ultimately you did understand the value of this trip even if it wasn’t especially exciting.  And though you weren’t really capable of assisting with any of the business side of things, you figured out after a while that you were mainly here just to be here— because it would be weird if you weren’t.  Because it would be, for lack of a better word, suspicious if a newly-married couple were traveling separately.

So, you were here, sitting beside him as he and the clergy of the local church discussed various important topics— mission work, ministry, how best to spread the message of Satan and bring in the age of the antichrist… you know, the usual.

His hand rested on your leg again— maybe a little higher than before?  You weren't certain, but it made you smile to yourself as you tuned out the boring conversation going on around you.

You glanced down at the leather-covered hand by your knee, his fingers moving slightly; the silver grucifix embossed on the back shined in this light.  Absent-mindedly, you traced it with one finger, not even noticing that it made him look over at you— not even really appreciating that his hand was still under there, and could probably feel you drawing shapes over his skin.

“Frater,” a clergyman interjected sternly, “do you have a response?”

You'd both totally zoned out, and were quickly brought back to reality; Copia jolted in his chair and cleared his throat as he sat up straighter.  Worst of all, he took his hand off your leg to clasp them both together in his lap.  “I-I’m sorry?” he coughed.  “I fear I lost my train of thought, could you repeat the question?”

“Don’t ask Frater Imperator so many complex things so early in the morning,” Comis scolded his fellow cardinal, “he didn’t get much sleep last night— non?”

He wore a lopsided grin as he playfully elbowed Copia in the side, who nervously reached up to run his fingers through his hair.  “Oh, well— eh— I just lost focus for a moment, is all…”

“Sure,” Comis agreed sarcastically.  “Maybe we should take a break, anyhow.  Give us all a chance to stretch our legs.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed quickly, mainly just jumping on any chance to get out of this stuffy room and personal conversation.

The meeting room had a sort of lobby outside— or maybe it would be called a parlour?  A sitting room?  You weren’t really sure, but it was fancy; there was tea and little cakes and things, the whole place was so detail-oriented like that.

Copia was busy making small talk with some clergymen and women, while you were nursing a cup of lemon-water just to have something to do with your hands.

You heard someone coming up the stairs but didn’t think much of it at first.  “Sister Imperator,” a Sister greeted you— though you didn’t really process it until she reached out and touched your shoulder, making you turn around.

“Consortia,” you added once you realized she was addressing you.  “Sister Imperator Consortia.  Sister Imperator was my mother-in-law.”

“Oh, yes— I’m so sorry for your loss,” she offered gently.

You realized they were under the assumption that you knew her much better— maybe you would’ve if you’d been dating Copia before marrying him like, you know, most people do.  Instead of trying to explain, you just accepted her sympathies with a nod; it was a loss, after all, just not as personal as she might’ve imagined.

“I thought you might want to visit our convent,” she suggested.

“O-oh, um,” you stalled, nervously glancing over your shoulder at Copia as he sipped on a glass of water, “I—”

“He’ll be just fine,” she promised, leaning into you and lowering her voice.  “He knows meetings like the back of his hand.”

And he’ll probably fare better without me touching the back of his hand…

Nodding in agreement, you slipped out of the sitting room and followed her.

The woman introduced herself as Sister Nomina and guided you through the winding halls— Cardinal Comis had shown you the wing that housed the convent the night before on his tour, so you knew where it was, but you hadn’t been inside yet.  

“We keep a garden,” Sister Nomina explained, “and we have some outreach programs— an orphanage, a literacy program.  But nothing compared to what your church is doing!”

“Oh, yes,” you replied, “I suppose our reputation precedes us…”

“It must be very exhilarating, being in the Church of Ghost,” she presumed with a wide smile. 

“Well, I wish I could take more credit for all the work that's been done,” you 

The two of you arrived at the convent; visually it was similar to the one you'd been living in up until recently, but the inhabitants were quite different.  For one, they dressed a bit differently, and seemed to be more lenient with uniform (Sister Imperator would've never let that fly back home…).  And for another thing, they were much more excited to see you than anybody in your convent would've been on any given day. 

Actually, a group of nuns flocking to you excited reminded you of that day of the fateful clergy meeting— it felt like a lifetime ago already.

“Ladies, Sister Imperator Consortia from Linkoping,” Nomina introduced you to the group of women surrounding you, before reversing to introducing all of them to you.  “Sisters Mila, Lascivia, Camille, Perita, and Triette.”

“Lovely to meet you all,” you nodded, smiling warmly. 

“Give her some room, ladies, please!“ Nomina scolded gently, shooing them back with her hands until they took a few steps away from you. Admittedly, you appreciated the extra breathing room.

“Everybody's been looking forward to your visit immensely,” Nomina justified. “I hope you don't mind answering a few of their questions.”

“Of course not!”

Sister Camille piped up quickly: “As Sister Imperator Consortia, what responsibilities do you have?”

“W-well, I'm not qualified to serve on the clergy,” you explained, “because I wasn't nominated by the clergy— I was nominated, well, by my husband. So, mainly my job is to support him…”

“Did you grow up in the church?” Sister Perita asked politely.

“Well, yes and no,” you replied.  “I wasn’t raised a Satanist, so not in the traditional sense— but I ran away to join the church when I was still just a teenager… ever since then, up until rather recently, I was living in convents much like this one.”

That seemed to surprise Sister Triette.  “You really were another Sister of Sin, just like us?” she observed.

It wasn’t until then that you realized they didn't just find you interesting, but that they looked up to you— a role model of sorts, a Sister like them who was perceived as achieving some kind of greatness; it was sweet, even if you felt their admiration was misplaced.  “Yes, I was,” you nodded.

“Did you work closely with the Papa?” Sister Mila asked.

“No, my role mostly involved stewardship, administration, occasional gardening—”

That seemed to confuse them.  “So, then, how'd you fall in love?” Sister Perita wondered.

Your eyes widened; maybe you should've seen some of these questions coming and had answers prepared, but you were completely caught off-guard in that moment.  “O-oh, um, it's not a very interesting story…”

“No no, please!  We've all been dying to know since we heard you two were coming!” Camille insisted.

The Sisters leaned in excitedly in anticipation; you hadn't realized the news of your marriage had so much impact.  Then again, Copia was technically a celebrity— you just weren't used to his popularity outside of your own church.  “You're not all just trying to get pointers to seducing clergy so you can get a promotion, right?” you wondered with a frown.

“No!  We just want to hear how you two met,” Perita explained, “and how you realized you loved each other— and how he proposed!”

They all clapped and giggled excitedly, but all you could manage was a nervous grin.  The real story was definitely not going to satisfy them; you felt guilty imagining disappointing them with some clinical explanation of it all.  “W-well, how we met is sort of… obvious, I guess.  We met in Mass, when he was the Papa— he served me communion.  I didn't know him as a cardinal, I hadn't moved to his church yet, but he… well, I was pretty intimidated by him.  You can't blame me— it's the Papa, after all…”

Up until then, you had told the truth— but you started, for lack of a better term, winging it at that point.

“The first time we spoke— it was an unexpected thing, you see.  We bumped into each other, literally; I wasn't paying attention and he was rushing to get to a clergy meeting— I helped him pick up some books he’d dropped.” 

Clichéd?  Absolutely, but you felt like that was ultimately what they wanted to here: a too-good-to-be-true story about how an ordinary Sister was swept off her feet by such an important man.  Why the Papa would be running around carrying a stack of books is an absurd question for another day…

“We got to talking… we had more in common than we expected.  We bonded over—” you fought back a smirk as you figured out an easy lie— “slushies, actually. He said that traveling with the band meant hardly ever being in the same place, but that there was almost always a convenience store with slushies wherever he was. They became a comfort, I suppose.”

You decided not to go on and say that the two of you had played strip croquet together… probably too obvious of a reference.

“We were just friends for some time, but eventually we started to grow real feelings for each other,” you concluded simply.

They broke out into a collective aww; “What's he like?  You know, when he's not in front of so many people.”

“Um… he's not that different, I guess,” you mumbled, “maybe not as dramatic.  But he's so sensitive, too, and gentle…”

“I’ve always thought he would be that way,” Sister Lascivia agreed, “but intense, too, you know— like, dominating.”

You choked on your own throat for a second.  Why were you thinking about him at all?  “U-um, what makes you say that?” you wondered.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, biting back a grin, “he just seems that way.”

“Y-you mean, on stage?” you pressed, but the line of questioning shifted suddenly when Sister Perita interrupted.

“And the proposal?  It must have been some fantastic gesture!” she assumed.  “Only fitting for a rockstar, right?”

“You’d think, but he doesn't really act like that… he's so humble.  Actually, it was very intimate,” you decided.  “He knows I can get a little overwhelmed with those big crowds, so instead we went out in a— um, little rowboat onto the lake nearby our church, right around sunset, and watched the stars come out… he played a little guitar for me, just to be nice because he knows I love how he plays— and then under the full moon, he told me that, uh…”

Why was your heart racing?  Why could you picture it so clearly in your mind, as if you weren’t just making it all up as you went along?

“That meeting me had made his heart whole,” you concluded.  “That he couldn't go on unless he knew we were going to spend the rest of our lives together… and he showed me the ring and— and, you know, all that.  Of course, I said yes right away.”

“Oh wow,” Sister Mila cooed— she looked as close to having heart-shaped irises as you’d ever seen anyone in real life.

But of course, another had to chime in as well: “And you don't get jealous, knowing how popular he is?  Plenty of people would kill for your spot, you know.”

You willed your eye not to twitch.  “He's, um… he's never given me any reason to be jealous,”   He's loyal, he always has been, even when we were just dating.  B-but we didn't date very long before we married…”

You realized you couldn’t retroactively ascribe some kind of fidelity to him— after all, he’d been a rockstar (as Perita had put it) on tour… 

And he’d been to this church before.  Your heart almost stopped as the sick thought entered your mind that he could’ve, potentially, hooked up with any of the people in this room; certainly Sister Lascivia would’ve probably jumped him if she got the chance, but she was far from the only candidate.  Come on, he was Papa fucking Emeritus the fucking IV, he had his pick of the litter if he so desired.

You knew it shouldn’t make any difference to you, you knew it was none of your business and you had no right to worry about it— but just the idea of him with one of them— with anyone—

“I guess he married you so quickly because he loves you so much,” Sister Nomina smiled.

You smiled back, even if you felt like you were still trying to keep bile down.  “Yes, I guess so.”

“And now you’re married to the head of the clergy; it’s like a fairytale or something!” Sister Mila beamed, clutching her hands together.

What kind of fairytales is this girl reading? “It all really has nothing to do with his status— Frater, Papa, Cardinal, he could be a janitor for all I care,” you assured her.  “I married him because he's the most patient, talented, generous man—”

You noticed the way many of them seemed to straighten up suddenly, the way Sister Perita’s eyes widened, and you spun over your shoulder to see Copia sauntering up behind you.  He had a good poker face, but there was an obvious smugness to it.  “What’s that they say?  Speak of the devil?” he mused as he leaned against the doorway.

“Oh, hello… dear,” you blurted out— seems you’d used up all your creativity on that fake meet-cute and proposal, didn’t have any left for a good term of endearment.  

“You’re not telling stories again, are you?” he asked, approaching you slowly, the slightest swagger in his step.

“Everyone’s very curious about you,” you explained.

“No, I don’t think so,” he denied, “they already know about me— they’re curious about us.”

Us sounded so nice when he said it like that.  He touched your shoulder for a moment, sliding his hand down to clasp at your upper arm.  Paradoxically, he acted more confident with an audience; you couldn’t tell if this was for your benefit, or theirs.

“Don’t go running off without me, hm?” he scolded sweetly.

“Yes, Frater,” you answered politely, wondering afterwards if it was too formal.

It didn’t seem to deter him: he brought his hand to your chin and held it delicately, keeping your head tilted up towards him.  “I worry when I lose sight of you,” he explained.  “We have to get ready for Mass soon, will you meet me at the chancel before the service begins?”

“Of course,” you agreed, smiling a little as he looked down at you so… lovingly?  Could that be the word?

You wondered if he would kiss you right then— you hadn’t kissed in public since your first kiss, and you thought you wanted to keep it that way… but wouldn’t it be a little fun, to show him off just a bit in front of these ladies?  Wouldn’t it be the best way to rub it in that he chose you?

Instead he only stroked your jaw with his thumb for a second, before letting go of you and stepping back.  He gave only one moment of attention to the women around you— with a quick bow of greeting and a polite “Sisters” — before spinning on his heel and departing.

You pressed your lips together and kept your eyes on the door even after he was gone; there was a heavy silence until the echoes of his steps down the hall faded.  Then they all broke into the squealy, girlish reactions you were expecting.

“Great Belial below!” “He’s so sensual!” “You can tell he’s completely enamoured with you!”

“O-oh, enamoured?” you repeated sheepishly.  “I don’t know, he’s just— like that…”

But your face warmed and you had to reach up to partially cover it with your hand— you didn’t want them to see your growing smile, in case someone asked why you were so giddy over a small interaction with your own husband.  

You departed from the convent not too long after that, knowing you didn’t have much time before Mass began and wanting to give yourself time to navigate to the chapel.  A walk through the church alone would’ve been a nice opportunity to clear your head, if your head was actually capable of clearing— but no, instead it was swirling with memories.  Memories all the way back as that first time he served you the body and blood, when he’d apparently taken an interest in you which eventually lead to this; memories as recent as the way he’d touched you just before.

Did it still make you feel a little nauseous knowing Sister Lascivia— and likely tens of thousands of other people— were somewhere out there thinking about how dominating he must be?  Yes, but you also felt a little proud of yourself… because that’s all they had, their thoughts.  You actually had a shot at finding out for yourself.

If you ever found the nerve, that is; regardless, you tried to push that thought process aside and actually listen to the priest as he officiated Mass that evening.  Of course, you really weren’t able to do that until being mentioned by name got your attention.

“And we have some visitors this Mass!” the priest announced.  “Frater Imperator and Sister Imperator Consortia—they’ve come all the way from the church of Ghost in Sweden!  Give them a warm welcome, will you?”

As the congregation applauded, Copia stood up; you followed suit quickly, getting a good look at the sea of people in pews all looking at you both.  You hadn’t seen a crowd like this since your wedding.  

Your smile was genuine but flustered when Copia placed his decorated hand on your shoulder; it already made your heart tremble when he did it in front of a few Sisters of Sin, this was on a whole new level.  He guided you a little closer to him, tucking you into his side, and you looked out over the massive crowd before glancing at the glove on your shoulder— namely, the wedding ring on it.

Then you looked at his face, at how polite and distinguished he looked standing before all these people.  “What do I do?” you asked your husband in a whisper.

“Hm?” he pressed, only briefly glancing at you.

“With all this attention,” you clarified, “what am I meant to do?”

“Just smile,” he encouraged.  “All they want is to see you.  Just give them a smile, maybe a little wave if you’re feeling generous.”

He was a showman, he knew what he was doing— you tried to copy him, with moderate success.  It was comforting, somehow, to see him in his element.  Unfortunately, how comfortable he was here only served as kindling for the flame of insecurity in the back of your mind.  Because he’s him, and you’re just… you.

And there in that sea of congregation members were plenty of those people you’d had mentioned to you before: the ones who would kill to have your spot.

~

“You should be proud of yourself,” he grinned as he took his seat across from you on the jet once again— it felt like so much had happened since the last time you were here.  “You shouldn’t be so adverse to social engagements, you’re a natural.”

“No, definitely not,” you laughed a bit, “but I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would.  You made it easier for me.”

“They love you already, darling,” he promised, and the casual affectionate name made you smile even more, though you tried to hide it from him.  “So does everyone back at our church— anyone who knows you would, really.”

Your heart swelled, but you just hummed and looked away in lieu of responding.  

Of course, as soon as your heart was happy, your brain had to pop in and ruin it: that smile on Sister Lascivia’s face, the way she was so clearly picturing your husband in some kind of compromising way.  And the horrible, sick idea that maybe she didn’t have to just imagine it.

Copia was already prepared for a quiet flight— he had his legs crossed and a book open in his lap, his chin resting on one of his hands as he read.  You looked at him for a moment, appreciating how calm he seemed to always be; sometimes it was hard to believe he was the same man with that rockstar reputation, but you knew it was too naive to assume just because he could be quiet that he must not have lived to the fullest in his time as the Papa.

You managed to distract yourself by watching out the window as the jet took off, but once you were high enough to break through the clouds, the view was basically just white light and was not nearly interesting enough to keep your mind occupied.

It shouldn’t have even mattered!  So what if he was a bit more intimately acquainted with someone you’d met on that trip?  It didn’t make any difference now.  Yet, it was all you could think of, and even knowing it would only bring you pain, you compared yourself to her— she was quite pretty, after all, even with that habit covering up most of her.  Maybe she was more his type… maybe she was exactly his type.

By that point you’d basically convinced yourself it was true, without any evidence at all.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, but for some reason you couldn’t seem to hold back the words forming there.  “Do you know any of the Sisters there?” you heard yourself ask before you could stop yourself.  “I-I mean, did you know any of them before today...”

“Eh… no, I don’t think so,” he mumbled.

“But you’ve been to the church before,” you recalled, “you know Comis.”

“Well, yes, he’s their main ambassador— Sisters come and go, you know.”

You nodded, and he looked back down at his book.  You let the moment rest for a few seconds that felt like an eternity.  “It’s just that—”

He sighed a little and shut his book.

“They seemed to be so fascinated by you,” you explained.  “I think you had quite a few fans there.”

“Fans?  You mean, the band?” he raised an eyebrow, and you nodded.  “Then that’s not me, is it?  I just sang for a while— I’m interchangeable, by design.”

“But still— you were, are, so popular.”

“Eh… if you say so…”

“Come on,” you tilted your head, a bit of frustration leaking into your tone, “don’t be like that— you know what you’re doing.”

He looked a little confused, if not almost hurt by the implied accusation of deceitfulness.  “What are you asking me about?” he pressed, narrowing his eyes.

“Did you fuck any of them?”

Your eyes widened when you heard yourself say it— you really couldn’t believe you’d just word-vomited it out like that.  He seemed a little shocked, too, but much more amused than anything.  You didn’t like it at all, the way he smiled; it made you feel even more stupid for asking it, for thinking it even.

“I’m sorry,” you said instantly, “I shouldn’t have—” I shouldn’t have started this conversation while we’re trapped together for four hours, for one thing— “it’s not my place.  Forget I asked, it doesn’t matter.”

“Now now,” he cooed, “if it concerns you, then it matters.”

He was teasing you— dangling it in front of you.  “It doesn’t concern me,” you assured, “in every sense of the word— it’s none of my concern.”

“You look concerned.”

“Yes, but… that's my problem, not yours.”

He sighed, looking at you as if he were a little disappointed for some reason.  “Do you remember our vows, tesoro?”

You swallowed thickly.  Not really, I'm pretty sure I was in the middle of an anxiety-induced blackout.  “Uh…” you stalled.

“We agreed to care for each other, to share our hearts forever,” he reminded you.  “That means that if something upsets you, then it upsets me.  Even if you think it's silly— and from what I can tell, it's not.”

“Of course it is,” you rolled your eyes.  “It's silly to ask a famous musician if he slept with any fans— of course you did.”

“I did,” he admitted, “but surely not with the frequency you're imagining.  And not with anyone in Brussels, if that's any comfort.”

You crossed your arms over yourself self-consciously, looking out the window even though the cloudy scenery hadn't changed much.

“Of course I've had lovers before— you have too, I know.  I hope we won't hold that against each other.”

“Yes, of course,” you sighed.  “Obviously I never expected, or even wanted, either of us to be virginal or something, Satan forbid.  And there's nothing wrong with you meeting women on the road, either… it's just… is it wrong that thinking about it makes me kind of want to strangle someone?”

He laughed; “No,” he assured, “I don't think so.”

Unfortunately, he was right— that talking about it made you feel a little better.  

“Is it wrong that I think you're especially sexy when you're jealous?”

Your throat caught and you looked away from him quickly, holding your face in your hand as an excuse to cover it, but he obviously noticed the way you crossed your legs tightly.  His eyes raked over you, you could feel it somehow even when you were refusing to actually look back at him.

“I don’t think you have much right to be so shy, after asking me such personal questions,” he purred.  

“I-I’m not being shy,” you denied in a mumble, “I just didn’t expect you to say that.”

“I hope it doesn’t offend you—”

“No!  No,” you assured quickly, letting go of your heated face to look down into your lap.  “You’re being sweet, thank you.”

“It’s only the truth,” he insisted.  “Let’s always tell each other that, alright?  Just the truth.”

You nodded in agreement, finding the strength to meet his gaze again; the look in his eyes was just like the one he’d had when he found you in the convent.  It must not have been just for show, then… 

“Promise you’ll get some rest while we fly,” he sighed, “we won’t be landing until the late evening and we have quite a day ahead tomorrow.”

You only remembered it right then: your wedding reception.  As if you hadn’t had enough excitement for a lifetime in this week already.

~

It was a unique reception in a number of ways, probably too many to count.  First of all, most receptions happen right after the wedding, of course— but late night Masses left little time for that.  Secondly, receptions usually have speeches and sentimental things for the families of the betrothed; while Copia’s family of phantasms were in attendance, they didn’t have much to say, and what could they say?  They didn’t even know you.  So, instead, your reception was much more of the good stuff: dancing, eating, drinking, and good old-fashioned partying.

And then there was, you know, the demonic statues and sacrifices.  But that, to you, wasn’t so out of the ordinary.

You were seated at the head table with him, watching the crowd in all their merriment, feeling an odd sense of pride— of responsibility for all this joy.  It wasn’t like you’d planned this, it was a gift from the clergy who had done the work of putting it together, but technically you were half of what was being celebrated.

Maybe it was just appreciation for home, after your trip to Brussels.  It was always nice to see familiar faces filled with joy.

He leaned in closer to you so you could hear him over the music as he spoke, and you felt his breath on your shoulder.  “I'm sorry we didn't have time for this sooner,” he said.

“Oh!  I wouldn't have known what to do if we'd done it any sooner,” you admitted with a laugh.  Not that you especially knew what to do now— but you at least, by now, knew how to fake knowing what to do.

“And I’m sorry we couldn’t do something a little more traditional,” he added.

“Traditional?” you repeated with a laugh.

“What’s that American thing, where they feed each other the wedding cake?” he raised an eyebrow.  “Maybe we should have done that… I’ve always thought it looked sweet.”

You had no idea he had any opinions about things like that; it was endearing to imagine he ended up watching wedding videos at some point and wanted something like that for himself.  “Well, we can still do that another time,” you offered, “when there aren’t so many people watching.”

Again, you didn’t quite put together how that sounded until he cleared his throat and his cheeks pinkened at bit; of course it sounded suggestive when you phrased it like that, how could you have not seen that coming?!

Before you could correct yourself, though— or decide if you actually did need to correct anything— the ghouls on the chancel began playing a familiar song.

It didn’t sound the same, of course, with another singer filling in, but you could so easily hear Copia’s voice in those words:  You'll soon be hearing the chime, close to midnight…

He stood up suddenly, and you looked up at him.  “May I have this dance, cara mia?” he asked with an extended hand.

You took it with a smile; “I think one of the privileges of marriage is that you don't have to ask me that.”

Guiding you to the dancefloor, it felt like one of those movie scenes with the way the crowd parted for you on their own.  Was there a spotlight on you or was that just your imagination?

One of the few things you'd known about him before marrying him was that he was quite a dancer— what you hadn't known until now was how much you enjoyed dancing.  He made it easy, guiding you through the moves so well that people would probably think you had more experience than you did.

You had every right to be nervous, and you were, but for the first time it felt sort of… good?  Surely the alcohol in your system was aiding you, but it wasn’t just that.  Your heart was racing but you didn’t feel the urge to run and hide; he was smiling at you, he was pulling you closer, and for just a few moments you were suddenly fearless.

I just wanna be, wanna bewitch you in the moonlight

I just wanna be, wanna bewitch you all night

He spun and dipped you, making you laugh with exhilaration.  When he pulled you back up, the look in his eyes almost took your breath away… so determined, yet romantic and vulnerable.  A look you felt like only he could pull off.

If the song’s lyrics were some sort of manifestation, then it was working: you were totally bewitched by him.  It was just the two of you and the music playing, it was just his hands holding and guiding you, it was just this perfect moment that you could hardly believe was happening to you.  Weren’t you just an ordinary Sister this time two weeks ago?

You knew when the song was nearly over, and when he spun you one more time and pulled you into him, your hand came up to the side of his face, your leg lifted to slightly straddle his side… your eyes drifted down to his lips.

Just one more split-second and you would’ve kissed him.  Not just any kiss, you would’ve kissed him like you never had before— like nobody ever had before.  

But the crowd of people around you instead began to proudly clap and cheer, and it tore you out of the moment; honestly, you’d sort of forgotten you were surrounded by all the guests.  You looked away from Copia and smiled at the people who had watched you dance, hardly even noticing that he never stopped looking at you.

It went by too quickly— not just the song but the whole night.  All too soon, you were back in your room; ears still ringing, heart still thumping, and (less enjoyably) feet still a little bit sore from dancing in new shoes despite having changed into your night clothes and comfy socks already.

As Copia walked to his side of the bed in his own signature embroidered pyjamas, you fell back on the bed limply, laying your arms out wide and staring up at the ceiling with a sigh— a happy sigh of course, a does this night really have to end? sigh.  “That was wonderful,” you announced with a beaming smile.  “I didn't think I'd enjoy it so much, but it was perfect.”

“I hoped you would,” Copia agreed.  “You've seemed so tense— I'm not sure I ever saw you looking so relaxed, and joyful… you look so beautiful that way.”

“Y-you don't have to flatter me,” you mumbled, pulling your arms back in towards yourself as tilted your head back to look at him— upside down, but still at him.

“Of course, I never would,” he assured, laying down carefully on the bed beside you.  “It's just the truth.  I bet everyone was as taken with you as I was… but only I got to dance with you.”

You smiled a little more softly, admiring how sweet he could be— a side of him you felt privileged to see so close.  You wanted to say something, but you really had no idea how to respond to a statement like that, or even how to just take the compliment.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked quietly.

“O-of course,” you answered, “you can tell me anything.”

“I-I'm a little embarrassed,” he admitted with a soft laugh, “but I… I've seen Heathers.”

You tilted your head, laughing in confusion.

“I don't know why I lied to you before,” he shook his head, “I know it quite well— I saw it in theaters when it was released!  I just— I thought— I'm not sure.  I guess I liked you explaining it to me.”

Your heart jumped, and you looked down at the bed under you sheepishly, as if your finger tracing the pattern on the quilt was fascinating all of a sudden.

“I wanted to give you an excuse to talk to me,” he added.

“You… you could've just… talked,” you told him quietly.  “It wasn't like I would've ignored you.”

“Yes, I know,” he sighed, “but the moment never felt right.”

“How does the moment feel now?” you asked shyly.

“Oh, tesoro, everything about tonight feels perfect.”

Your heart skipped a beat; everything?

You wondered, of course, if he would try something again; it was hard not to imagine that, since this was such a similar set of circumstances to that very first night.  But it felt so different, too— it felt less terrifying, for one thing, and less confusing.

But instead of letting yourself wonder about that for too long— afraid he’d somehow see it on your face, and know what you were picturing— you sat up a little bit and propped yourself up on your elbows.

“I asked why you chose me already,” you began, “but I never asked the bigger question, did I?  That is, why you got married at all.”

He sighed shortly before he answered.  “My mother, she asked me to get married.  At first, I thought it was just the will of the clergy.  I understand now it was much more than that.”

“She wanted you to be happy,” you assumed.

“Yes, yes…” he trailed off, looking to the side.  “She knew I didn't want to be alone anymore.”

Your heart twisted a little; “I figure the Papa himself never has to be alone,” you mumbled through a sheepish smile.  “You could take anyone to bed you wanted, a new companion every night.”

He chuckled a little.  “I think you know that's not what I mean— I learned better than anyone that being by oneself and being alone are different things,” he explained.  “Even if I did find the time and energy for a thousand lovers, I would've still been lonely without a real partner… something to call my own.  But I never had the time— or, I told myself that, to justify why I didn't have anyone.”

You understood that better than he could know— better than you wanted to realize.

“My parents loved each other, but spent most of their lives apart,” he explained.  “I don't want to be like that.  I don't want to have something beautiful and let it go to waste.”

He looked at you right then, and it seemed like it meant something but you wouldn't let yourself imagine what.

“Could I kiss you again?” he asked softly.  It sort of completely caught you off-guard, not what he said but the way he said it: the unsureness in his voice, the slight flush on his face.

You didn't answer with words, you simply reached up and brushed your fingers through the hair at his temple, where it was turning silver— another reminder of how long he'd been alone. 

You moved your hand in to cradle his face, leaning closer.

There was something shockingly comfortable about it, like you'd known each other for years.  You had grown to care for him, you couldn't deny that, but you surprised even yourself by how you pulled him closer as he kissed you.

It brought back memories of your wedding night, of course, and you couldn't decide if it felt like just yesterday or months ago.  All that fear and anxiety you'd been nearly crushed by then— it was only a distant memory, to the point that it was almost hard to believe you were the same person who had felt all that.

In some ways, you weren't.

His hand gently rested on your side, before carefully moving around to your lower back to keep you pressed against him.  Why did that feel so perfect?  His head tilted a little more, his kiss deepened a little more, you sighed a little heavier. 

As he pulled away, he looked into your eyes; you saw something new and totally indescribable in them.

If he kisses me again, I won't be able to say no to him, you realized.

He only smiled at you gently, his fingers brushing over your cheek.  “Goodnight, darling,” he offered quietly.

You were still in shock just a bit as he kissed your temple softly, before pulling back and turning to face away from you as he climbed under the covers.  Blinking quickly, you wondered if you would've asked him not to stop if he'd given you a chance.

Slowly laying down yourself, you faced towards him and sighed a little as you looked at the back of him.

You stared at him for so long that night, watching him sleep, willing yourself to just reach over and wake him; to run your fingers through his hair until he stirred and turned to face you.  And then you wouldn’t have to say anything, you could just kiss him and he’d understand.  All you had to do was lift your hand and touch him… then his arms would be around you, his lips would be on you, his weight would press you into the bed…

You slipped past the curtain and took a seat on your side of the confession booth, sighing quietly to yourself.  “Bless me, Papa,” you asked softly.

“Of course,” the deep voice responded.  “Tell me what you need, child.”

His voice sounded different up close in a small space like this— the polar opposite of hearing him speak in the massive chapels; he was so close, just on the other side of the lattice, but even when you squinted and peeked into it all you could make out was the vague silhouette of him.

“I… I have disobeyed your teachings,” you admitted, “and the will of our great unholy ruler.”

“Mm,” was his only response, a hint of expectance to it.

“I have denied my lust,” you confessed softly.  “I ache for someone, but I have done nothing— actually, I just try to ignore it…”

“Why would you ignore something so pure and precious as desire?” 

“I’m afraid, Papa,” you whimpered.  “Afraid I’m not good enough for him…”

“You know my church is no place for humility,” he scolded, “certainly not shame.”

“I know,” you sighed.

“If the one you desire rejects you, then that is their choice— but you can’t deny your own needs just because you think too little of yourself,” he explained.

“My needs?” you repeated nervously.

“Yes— you need to be pleasured, hm?” he assumed.  You nodded shyly, before remembering that he couldn’t actually see you.  “You need to be kissed and caressed, touched, filled— fucked.”

Your thighs pressed together tightly and you stifled a gasp.  “Y-yes…”

“It’s only natural,” he said casually— like he hadn’t just sent a shock through your whole body with just his words.  “Everyone here understands that… if it is someone in my church that you desire, I’m not sure what you have to be afraid of.  What reason do you have to think that you would be spurned?”

“It’s just… I’m only a humble worshiper,” you explained as your heart started to race, “and he… he’s so important.  He’s… he’s in one of the highest positions in the whole church…” 

You swallowed thickly as a short, but heavy, pause filled the confines of the booth.  “Is he?” Secondo finally pressed, but the depth of his voice gave away that he already knew.

“Yes, Papa,” you shakily relented, “and I try to listen and learn when he speaks, but I just— all I can think about is how badly I need him.”

“Mm,” he said again, annoyingly cryptic as per usual.  “Your carnality is insatiable, my child.  Very good.”

You gripped tighter onto the wooden bench beneath you, eyes fluttering shut; it only took a little stern praise from him to drive you wild, apparently.

“The one you desire isn’t so far away, is he?” Secondo teased.  “You only need a little courage, and you will be given all you seek.”

The partition between the two halves of the booth slid open, and your eyes widened.

“Come here, pet,” he offered gently— he had that way about him, he could be so intense but so gentle and nurturing at the same time, if he wanted.

The booth wasn’t really designed to allow you to stand up fully, so you had to crouch slightly when you got up and moved to his half.  It was quite dark in the booth, but enough light broke through the cracks in the curtain that you could see the shape of him: you could see the familiar dark stare, the sharpness of his painted face, his waiting expression with one eyebrow slightly raised.  

And, maybe this was less important, but you could smell him: some kind of musky cologne, presumably, a sweeter scent than you would’ve imagined, but blessed Belial was it addicting.

He shifted his legs further apart, his robes draping between his knees and against the bench beneath him.  “I will give you what you desire— but you must prove yourself to me first,” he explained.  “Kneel before me.”

You shakily got down on your knees and looked up at him as you blinked quickly; you rarely got to be so close to him, it was making your heart beat faster already.  His stare felt heavy and piercing as it ran over you, and all he had to do was slightly motion with his hand— turning it out in that go ahead movement— for you to nod and reach up under his robes carefully.

Honestly, you’d wondered before what the Papas wore under their robes, and in Secondo’s case, it apparently was nothing.  You pushed the rich fabric out of the way only to come face to face with his erection growing against his thigh.  “You see what your eagerness and desperation has done to me, child?” he scolded.  “When I feel that hunger, I feed it, not flee from it— you know better.”

“Y-yes, Papa,” you mumbled weakly, feeling guilty for your misbehavior but knowing you were soon to be absolved.

“Now, earn your forgiveness,” he insisted, moving his hips forward slightly on the bench to make the angle a little easier, and you nodded before leaning in towards his lap with a quick gulp to suppress your nerves. 

And by the way, when he sang that he is the one who comes richly endowed?  That wasn’t just a lyric thrown in there because it flowed nicely: it was entirely literal and accurate.  You swallowed thickly as you wrapped your fingers around it, trying not to be scared of how thick his cock was… fitting it in your mouth was going to be enough of a struggle, let alone anywhere else if he was so generous.

Giving the silky skin of his cock a few gentle strokes, you leaned in and gently ran your tongue along the underside of the head.

You kept looking up at him expectantly, wishing you could catch a reaction on his face— but for the most part, he was irritatingly stoic as he watched you lick and kiss all over his cock.  You found yourself getting desperate for a response, trying to be better until he gave you some kind of encouragement: you moaned around him, you ran your tongue everywhere you could reach, you batted your eyes up at him.

The only thing that ever got a response was when the tip of your tongue flicked over his slit; for just a second, his nostrils flared, and you beamed excitedly.  “Am I doing well, Papa?” you asked eagerly.

“Keep going,” he ordered firmly, not necessarily answering your question— but it was a good sign.  You did it again before wrapping your lips around his fat tip, suckling carefully and humming at how oddly comforting it felt to have him in your mouth.  You swirled your tongue around slowly, tasting the slightest saltiness leak from his cock, and you purred happily.

It was the slightest movements at first, hardly giving him much friction and focusing instead on getting used to what you had, but you did begin to drop lower down, if only by centimeters at a time.

It took opening your mouth nearly as wide as it would go to get him any deeper, but you pressed on, never willing to disappoint your Papa.  It paid off, since the next bob of your head finally made him groan a little— a small reaction, but it made your body hum with joy.  You moved faster to try to make him do it again; instead, you felt one of his hands rest on your shoulder, which honestly was even better.  

Your lips probably weren’t even halfway down his length when the tip of him bumped into your throat— and you didn’t let it affect you at first, instead just keeping your movements steady, but at a certain point you couldn’t ignore it anymore: you gagged around him, but managed to keep it quiet.

His grip on your shoulder tightened slightly and you heard him moan in the back of his throat, however softly.  Your chest was already burning with pride, and between your legs— well, needless to say you were having a strong reaction there, too.  In fact, it was taking quite a bit of willpower to keep yourself from trying to rub against your own leg or something as you knelt; thankfully, pleasing your Papa was your main focus at the moment.

The next time you gagged, it was a little louder and harder, and you had to pull back slightly as your eyes began to water.  Thankfully he seemed far from disappointed; he groaned encouragingly once again as you drooled over him and your hand smoothed it out, stroking the (significant) portion of him that your mouth couldn’t reach.

His head tilted back until it rested against the wooden wall of the booth behind him— you loved how he looked in that moment, with his eyes shut and his mouth slightly parted: he looked relaxed, in a way that made you realize he normally carried a lot of tension.  

Your eyes shut as well and you really focused on your work, moaning louder even though it was muffled with your mouth full.  Again you could feel his cock leaking precum onto your tongue and you gratefully swallowed it down before venturing down to let him reach your throat again.  You choked slightly with each bob of your head, but it didn’t slow you down one bit— you were chasing after those little groans he let out when you did it, feeling your inner walls clench almost in time with your throat.

His hand slid up your neck, then ran over your hair and pushed your head slightly as he exhaled sharply through his nose; for a moment, you felt his nails scratch your scalp.  He kept you from pulling too far back up off of him, but you weren’t a flight risk— each movement allowed you to take him just a little bit deeper, it seemed, and you loved the feeling of him filling your throat.

You worried you’d done something wrong when he gently pushed you back, but his proud groan as he looked down at you made you less concerned.  “You certainly know how to give pleasure, little one,” he praised.  “But let me show you how to receive it, hm?  Get up and sit in Papa’s lap.”

You hopped up so quickly that you almost hit your head on the top of the confession booth, but thankfully you avoided injury and straddled his legs happily.  “Like this?” you asked excitedly.

“Yes, very good,” he nodded, already starting to reach up for your dress.  “Help me take this off, we won’t need that.”

You reached back behind yourself to open the dress as he slid the sleeves down your arms— the leather of his gloves tickled over your skin and you squirmed a little.  With your dress gone, all that was left was your pair of white panties, which you were almost self-conscious about as he examined them and pinched the waistband between his finger and thumb.

“How cute,” he cooed; that wasn’t really a word you ever expected to hear him say, but it made you bite your lip absent-mindedly.  “I think I’ll have to take these.”

Not quite sure what he meant at first, you yelped softly when his gloved hands took a tight grip of them just to rip them open at the seams with a snap; the show of strength already made your heart flutter, but him shoving the torn garment into a pocket inside his robes was even more arousing.  Already, your mind was racing with ideas of what he would do with them.

“A little gift for Papa, eh?” he suggested with a half-smile— you’d never seen him smile at all before, and it did absolutely nothing to make him look less menacing. 

With you totally exposed for him, he took the opportunity to run his fingers over your pussy, teasing you with just one brief brush of that firm leather over your clit.  “O-oh, Papa,” you shuddered, wishing he would do it again, but he moved on quickly.

“What a precious thing you are,” he praised softly, reverently.  Gloved hands traced over your frame, briefly teasing your hardened nipples and petting your quivering thighs.

When he grabbed a hold of your ass, you whimpered a little but let him guide you to sit up more, until you were hovering over his hard cock— he wrapped a hand around it and moved it closer to you, sliding his tip through your soaked lips.

“Oh, pet,” he sighed, “you’ve drenched yourself, poor thing… I’m going to make all that frustration go away.”

But you couldn’t help but tense up when he even just barely pushed the head against your hole.  “Papa, are you sure…?” you trailed off nervously.

“Do you fear it will hurt you, little one?” he asked, and you nodded.  “If it did, that wouldn’t stop you, would it?”

His condescending tone made you clench inside.  “N-no, Papa,” you whimpered.

“Go ahead, child— slowly, we have all the time we need.”

Apparently he didn’t mind keeping all the other people in line for confession waiting.  Knowing they were all just outside, surely well aware of what was happening in the booth, somehow only egged you on more even if it made your face feel terribly hot.

You sank down slowly, already needing to stop before even the ridge of his head was inside— see, when you were holding yourself up like this, you couldn’t exactly relax your muscles because you were using them.  It made him an even tighter fit, and you winced through your teeth as you started to feel him stretch you open.  “Good,” he praised darkly, his satisfaction egging you on.  

Lowering yourself more, you heard a deep moan jump from your throat. The friction and stretch was always just a little too much right at first, only to fade into perfection after a moment.  Your hands held onto his shoulders, and not just for balance— you loved how strong he felt, how solid.  His grip on you was bruisingly tight, but it made you feel safe.

He seemed to get even thicker the closer you got to the base of him, and before you'd reached the end it was also too much, too sharp of a sting inside you.  You choked on a whimper and he reached up to cradle your head, stroking your temple with his thumb.  “Shh, shh,” he soothed, “be gentle, little lamb, you’re a very delicate thing.”

You slowed down a bit, even though your legs were starting to shake, and held tighter onto his shoulders.  “P-Papa,” you stammered. 

“You're doing very well,” he assured, “I know you can take all of me, I know that you need it.  Go on, little one, Papa's got you.”

Shuddering as you slid the rest of the way down, you shut your eyes tight with a wince of anticipation before quickly sinking those last few inches.

You both sighed with relief when your lap settled into his; he was whispering praises to you but the words were lost in your delirious mind— all you heard was the general sentiment that you were doing well for Papa, and that was all you needed.

You rocked your hips, patiently at first, and moaned lowly at the tense friction.  When you moved like that, the tip of him rubbed against something so far inside you— a dull yet throbbing feeling that made your eyes roll back.

“Good,” he purred again, “don't you see how right it is?  How your body was meant to take mine?”

You were too lost in the feeling to actually answer, just moaning in response instead.  As your moans grew louder with each motion, you heard your own noises echo against the booth’s walls and quickly bit your lip to keep quiet.

“Don’t be shy, pet— don’t try to hide how good it feels,” he growled.  “Take pride in it, it’s a precious gift.  And what do you say when you receive a gift?”

“Thank you,” you panted quickly.  “Th-thank you, Papa.”

“Tell me,” he commanded.  “Tell me everything.”

“I-I wanted you for so long, Papa,” you whined.  “I wanted to please and serve you— I wanted you to touch me a-and whisper to me…”

“About what?” he wondered.

“Fuck, anything!” you yelped.  “Your voice does things to me… things I don’t understand, things I’ve never felt before…”

He chuckled deeply, making you feel even more foolish in an addictive sort of way.  “You’re no stranger to lust, child,” he purred, “it must be really something, if you can’t explain it.  How could I have such an effect on you when you hardly know me at all?”

But he didn’t seem all that surprised— he knew what he had been doing to you, and he clearly reveled in it.  “I couldn't help it, I-I just couldn't stop thinking about you,” you whined.

That whine became even more desperate when one of his hands slipped around you to grab a nice greedy handful of your ass, guiding your movements and kneading your delicate skin.  “And this is what you wanted?” he taunted.  “To ride my cock like a desperate little whore?”

Your throat caught on your words so you just nodded instead, finding a tight grip on the neckline of his robes while you moved.

You stopped rocking your hips and started properly bouncing on his lap, both of you moaning at the more intense feeling.  The sound of skin on skin echoed in the enclosed space; you loved how raunchy it sounded, unhinged and unrestrained pleasure after all that time you’d spent trying to suppress yourself.  Sometimes it had seemed like you were summoning all your willpower just to keep your hands from going between your legs during Mass— and that was, of course, the first place they ended up once you found a chance to be alone after watching him.  But you sort of figured you weren’t the only person in the congregation with that problem.

But how many of them ended up here, with an opportunity like this?  Even if he was known to be pretty generous with his cock, this still felt pretty rare, and special— you felt a grin fill your face as you wondered how many people outside the booth were jealous of you right then.

That smile couldn’t last long when you felt that spot inside you getting even more friction; you had to gasp and let your eyes fall shut.  One of his hands ran up your side encouragingly, groping at your chest as it bounced with each of your motions.  He hummed approvingly, even hissed a little when he pinched your nipple because of the flex inside you that it caused.

“Pretty little pet,” he cooed sweetly.  “Your body is so obedient to me already, hm?  So responsive to just the slightest touch.”

“J-just for you, Papa,” you whimpered.

“Oh, you aren’t usually so sensitive?” 

You shook your head a little, whimpering again when he kneaded at your breast, carefully toying with your nipple between his finger and thumb.  He purred approvingly, his other hand grabbing tight onto your hip and pulling you down onto him— making you take his cock a little deeper and a lot more forcefully.  You cried out instantly, and he smirked at you condescendingly.

“It’s not too much for you, is it, child?” he teased.  “You can take all of me, yes?”

“Yes, Papa, it’s just— y-you’re so deep in me,” you moaned.  “I feel so full…”

“You like how it feels, to be filled completely?” 

“I love it,” you gasped.  “Papa, I love how you feel inside me.”

“Mm,” he purred proudly, “so grateful— you’re learning quickly, little one.”

You bit down on your lip to fight back another needy moan from his praise.

“Let them all hear you, little lamb,” he praised darkly.  “You have nothing to hide from them.”

“O-oh, Papa!” you cried, your head falling back as you sped up your riding.

“Yes,” he hissed encouragingly, gloved fingers digging into your hips to guide you.

When he started to buck up into you, pushing his cock just that much deeper each time you crashed together, you nearly screamed; your hands flew off of his shoulders and slammed against either side of the booth around you, just searching for something to keep you steady.  “Fuckfuckfuck,” you rushed, “Papa, yes!”

He was baring his teeth as he slammed up into you, and soon you weren't even really riding him anymore, you were just holding on for dear life as he railed you.

Your head tilted back and your moans seemed to get deeper— and they were louder, too, but part of that was just the way they echoed off the wall of the booth right above your face.  At this point, it wouldn’t just be those waiting for their turn to confess that could hear you: you felt like everyone in the whole church would know what was happening to you.  But you were too far gone to be self-conscious about it, if anything you felt more proud than ever.

“What a good fucking whore,” he growled through his teeth.  “You take cock too well to act so shy— I should’ve known what you needed from me, I should’ve known you were desperate to be fucked, you weren’t exactly subtle about it, were you?  I felt your eyes on me every Mass.”

One of his hands slid up your thigh, and a leather-covered thumb pressed against your bud just above where his body entered yours.  He barely had to touch it, barely had to move his finger at all; he knew just how to play your body like his instrument, and oh the music you made.  “Yes, fuck, yes, please— Papa, just like that, please keep touching me,” you begged.

He groaned proudly.  “You sound so sweet, little one— you want to cum, yes?”

“Yes!” you all but screamed.  “Yes, Papa, please, please…”

“Just keep begging for me, sweet child, I’ll give you what you need,” he promised.

“Papa, Papa,” you chanted thoughtlessly, “i-it’s so good, it feels so good— fuck!  I’m going to cum, Papa—”

“Good,” he praised darkly, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

Your moans were like sobs by that point, your body quivering but refusing to slow down as you chased your high.  He didn’t slow down either, thank Satan, and you loved how it felt to keep rocking down towards him with each motion— it was more control over this than you’d honestly expected.

“It's almost time, isn't it, pet?  Your pretty little cunt is squeezing my cock…”

You nodded quickly, biting on your lip to cope with the overwhelming intensity that was about to crash into you.

“Do it,” he demanded, “come for me.  Scream for your Papa.”

You figured you did, but it was hard to tell when your ears were ringing like that.  It was that beautiful, blinding black light of ecstasy, and it was so much better than when you brought yourself to the peak in your bed late at night to memories of him.  The feeling went so much higher, so much deeper, so much harder; he was right, of course, that you should’ve pursued your desire instead of trying to satiate it alone.  Nothing could compare to this— there was no substitution for what he could make you feel.

He kept rapidly thrusting up into you, even when you went almost entirely limp above him, even grabbing hold of one of your shoulders to make sure you took the full length of every thrust.  It was a little overstimulating, but you couldn't pretend you didn't love how it felt to be used by him for a few moments.

He stopped suddenly, pulling your hips down and keeping himself completely inside as his head fell back and he grunted roughly.

You smiled— bliss, contentment, a soft sort of pride— as you felt him flexing inside you: his cum inside you was your reward for a job well done, as was his long sigh of relief as he relaxed a bit onto the bench.

His hand moved away from your swollen bud (thank Satan, you wouldn’t have been able to take much more stimulation there) and pet the side of your face in an oddly tender way.  “You’ve done well, my little lamb,” he praised, something especially seductive in his voice when it was heavy with exhaustion and ecstasy like that.

Still trying to catch your breath, you slid your hands down from where they’d pressed against the walls of the booth— your arms were quite sore, and you only noticed once you moved them— and rested them gently on his arms as he loosely held your thighs.

“If you should desire me again, you need only find me in my chambers,” he encouraged.  “There’s no need to fear or avoid your carnal needs— you trust Papa to take care of you, yes?”

You nodded happily.  “Thank you, Papa.”

“Now, redress yourself and go and say your prayers,” he instructed, taking his hands off of you.  “Thank our infernal master for his gift of lust.”

You blinked quickly, realizing a part of you had yet to come back to reality until then— you were still in confession, and you couldn’t just stay here and bask in the sticky, heady warmth.

You didn't rush through getting off his lap, you would've hurt yourself if you did; you both hissed a little as you carefully let his cock slip out.

All he had to do was drape his robes back over himself… you had a harder job, trying to turn your dress right side out again and put it back on.  He didn't offer any assistance, only that trademark dark stare; how could he look so unaffected after all that, basically the exact same as he had before?  The only difference you could spot was that his chest was rising and falling a little bit faster as he caught his breath.

For a second, you hesitated— just in case he said something else— before slipping back out through the curtain and into the grand hall of the church.  You heard the partition between the two halves slide shut once again behind you, and you avoided the gazes of everyone waiting to confess as the next person stepped into the booth.

You weren’t exactly limping, but you were walking awkwardly on account of the soreness in your hips and the thick, hot substance oozing down your thighs.  You passed the line of waiting worshippers, flushing a little as heads turned to watch you.  No one would judge you— in fact, they mostly looked proud and impressed— but it still felt strange knowing they'd heard it all.  Some of your bravery, it seemed, had faded once your desire was satisfied.

Already the trail of his seed was running down to almost your knees, and your dress wasn’t long enough to cover it; you figured by the time you made it back to your bed, everyone that you passed by would have some idea how you’d spent your morning.  

But still, a smile was filling your face; you couldn’t stop thinking about one of the last things he’d said— to find him in his chambers at night if you wanted him again.

During your first Mass together, he rested his hand on your leg; you weren’t permitted in most clergy meetings, but he had you join him for the ones you could, as well as dinners and events you would’ve normally not been asked to attend— and in those, you found his eyes on you more than you expected.

In one meeting, a clergy member even specifically called him out: Frater, if your wife poses a distraction for you, perhaps she should wait for you elsewhere, leading Copia to clear his throat and look forward again.  N-no, sir, my apologies, he’d replied quickly and done his best to focus for the rest of the hour.  

The problem was those were basically the only opportunities you had to spend time together.  It seemed like the vast majority of your time together was sharing a bed each night— which only made things feel even more strange.  How are you meant to sleep soundly next to someone who you barely know?

You didn’t want him to notice how bizarre it was to you… how, for lack of a better word, starstruck you were by your own husband.  The first morning you nearly jumped out of bed when you saw him— it was like you’d forgotten about all this overnight, and for the first few moments of consciousness you had no idea to expect someone next to you (let alone him).  

The second morning, you were prepared, at least, but you didn’t exactly play it cool.  You thought he was sleeping— and that wasn’t why you were staring at him, but it was why you expected to get away with it.  He probably was sleeping, for at least part of the time, but at some point he opened his eyes and just like that, you were totally busted.  You blinked quickly, but didn’t look away; there was no point to it now, and it would only make you look more guilty.

He smiled a little, but he was nice enough to not call you out and ask why you’d been watching him sleep.  “Buongiorno,” he greeted with just a hint of smugness in that rough, sultry voice.

“Good morning,” you returned softly, thankful that he didn't ask why you'd been staring at him since you wouldn't have had any answer for him.

And the third morning, well, it seemed he got used to laying next to you a lot more easily: you woke up with his arms around you and his face buried in the back of your neck.

Your eyes widened the second they opened, and even though his breaths over your skin were hot, you felt a wave of chills run over you.

You certainly hadn’t fallen asleep like this… when during the night had he begun to hold you?  You assumed it was something that happened during his sleep, but it was even more odd to imagine that he’d awoken at some point and chose to cuddle up to you.

His arms were relaxed but heavy enough to keep you basically pinned to him; even his legs were tangled up with yours.  His hair was tickling your cheek and shoulder— it was longer than it seemed, you’d come to realize, since it was always slicked back.  You actually significantly preferred the way his hair looked without its style, right after he washed it and it fell straight down around his face…

He shifted slightly behind you and only then did you feel it— that.  Pressed right up against the small of your back, hot and firm and… thick.

Your back wasn’t an especially sensitive part of you, so you weren’t sure if what you were feeling could be believed.  Maybe this was one of those situations, like when you get a pebble in your shoe, where it feels so much bigger until you get it out and look at it.

If you woke him up, would you embarrass him?  Would he think you were upset?  Would he think you were… inviting something?

If he was, would you stop him?

You shut your eyes again, feeling your cheeks warm up: you definitely weren't ready to take that step with him, he was still essentially a stranger even if he had only treated you well so far.  But that didn't meant you couldn't think about it… and in your current circumstances, you couldn't not think about it.

You didn't realize it, but one of your legs lifted slightly, subconsciously trying to leave you vulnerable to him.  Already in your mind you were picturing it: how it might feel if his hand came down to hold onto your hip, if those lips on the back of your neck whispered praises to you, if he just slid his cock inside you until there was nothing left to give and you were joined—

All of a sudden, he began to adjust his body again, humming a little in his sleep— and he rolled off your back, turning himself to his other side. 

Your thoughts slowed down with relief, but there was an undeniable frustration; part of you had wanted more… actually, it had needed more.  But it would have to make do without for now, and you were certain that was for the best.  Didn't mean you weren't replaying those moments in your head for the next hour or so before he woke up for good.

Sometimes you thought he noticed you acting different that day— a little quieter, a little more startled by his casual touches and acts of affection— but if he did, he didn't point it out.  And that night as you tried to fall asleep, you wondered if you'd awake in a similar situation again… and felt uncertain if you wanted to.

The next morning, though, you woke up to an empty bed; surprised, you quickly sat up only to find him just across the room at his vanity, carefully applying his makeup.  You glanced at the clock, wondering if you’d slept late, and gave him a puzzled look.  “What are you getting ready so early for?”

“We’ll be sitting for our portrait today,” he informed you.  “Good morning, by the way.”

“Oh, good morning,” you smiled in reply, rubbing your eyes a bit.

“Don’t forget to pack a bag tonight, we’re flying to Brussels tomorrow afternoon.”

Right, he’d mentioned that before; you’d both been invited to visit a Satanic church there.  You nodded a bit, trying to process what that was going to be like; lots of new people to meet, not your favorite activity per se.

“Oh!  And how could I forget?  This weekend we’ll have a reception, finally!” he added with a pointed finger.  “The ghouls will be playing— I don’t think I’ll sing though, it would be strange, don’t you think, for my own wedding?  But anyhow, it should be quite the party.”

“Sheesh,” you scoffed, “Sister Imperator Consortia keeps her dance card full, huh?”

He smiled a little, but also titled his head in confusion as he looked over at you.  “You say that like it’s not yourself,” he noticed.

“I just mean, you know, I— I guess it doesn’t feel like me, yet,” you admitted with a nervous shrug.

He stood up from his vanity with a little sigh, and approached the bed; how could even just that make your heart rate pick up a bit?  You moved your legs a little under the covers so he could sit, and one of his hands pet over your hair for a moment before laying over your shoulder.  “I know it was all rather sudden for you,” he offered.  “I only hope that you’ll start to believe that you belong here.”

Here— you figured he meant this whole world, this life, but if you were to take it literally… you were in his room, laying in his bed.  You wanted to feel like you belonged here, too.  “I guess I should put on makeup, too,” you decided as you got out of bed, and he briefly raised an eyebrow to show that he noticed you changing the subject.  He let you get away with it though, and smiled at you sweetly.

“I think I need it more than you do, darling, but go ahead,” he offered.

~

You'd never posed for an oil painting before, but you had accurately guessed that it's a boring activity.  Sometimes you felt like becoming Sister Imperator Consortia had made you more of a decoration than anything, but for the next couple hours it was literally true.

Your necklace matched his ruby and jet brooch and you had your own black gloves as well, except they were lace rather than leather; the painter instructed Copia to sit in a large high back chair, while you stood beside it with your hands placed in some very specific way over the fabric.  It took quite a bit of adjustment on the minutiae details of your positioning and posture before he was satisfied, stepping back to his easel and canvas to start sketching.

“Why can’t we just have our photo taken for reference?” you asked in a sharp whisper towards Copia.

“Sergio prefers his subjects in the flesh,” he replied, “and I do mean that literally— I had to convince him not to paint us nude.”

You tried to not let any reaction to that show on your face, lest it end up in the painting somehow.

“He says cameras don’t capture the depth and color that cameras do,” Copia continued explaining softly.

You hummed in understanding, keeping your eyes trained forward the way the artist had instructed you, picturing in your mind the portraits that you knew yours would be hung beside.  The former Papas and upper clergy members had them, and you were hoping that you could channel the regal energy they had.  Your main concern was that no matter how formal you acted— no matter how stiff and expensive your outfit was, no matter how stern you tried to keep your face— you'd never fit in among them.  You couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else in those portraits earned their place in them, and you were the one that would stick out like a sore thumb.

After what felt like an eternity of standing still, the painter decided you two could go— he wasn’t completely done, apparently, but could add a few more finishing details later.  Knowing it wasn’t done, Sergio protested to letting the two of you see it— you actually had never seen someone try to say no to Frater Imperator before— but eventually he gave in.

“Just keep in mind it’s a work in progress,” Sergio insisted, his heavy Italian accent somehow adding to the perfectionist-artist persona.

“Of course,” Copia assured, “I’m sure it’s fine— come have a look, dear.”

You wondered if he only called you that because someone else was here… but you did it, of course, carefully stepping around the easel to see the portrait.

Honestly, it caught you off-guard, in the best way.  “What do you think?” he asked you with a smile.

“We look good together,” you blurted out, making both the men smile.  “You’re very talented,” you informed the painter, hoping to distract a little from what you’d just said.

“Thank you, Sister,” Sergio nodded humbly, “but all I’ve done is capture what I see.”

Looking at the painting again, you were amazed at how you recognized yourself.  That was probably the first time you really understood yourself in this role: it was usually a bit uncanny seeing yourself in the mirror, but here there was something believable about it that you were missing before.  

Yet even when you had so much to think about with your own depiction, your eyes kept drifting to Copia— and no one would deny how well he fit in.  Stately, dignified, but with a softness to his expression that was missing from most of the other portraits.  He certainly seemed less intimidating this way than many of the others did; in fact, you imagined he was going to look downright friendly compared to the portraits of Papa Emeritus I and Sister Imperator… they always looked like they were judging you.  Especially the last one, with you getting worried she would be angry with you for sort of stealing her title. 

You didn't even have time to change between the portrait and a fancy clergy dinner, where you felt like you spent more time trying to remember all the etiquette rules you’d been taught at some point than actually appreciating the meal.  Then, as you’d been reminded, you had to pack for the one-day Brussels trip; as you agonized over what you should wear for something like this, you recalled something a Sister had said to you as you’d been getting ready for your wedding.  She called you ‘the first lady of the church’, as if that was a given, but you found it quite interesting and surprising.  Even if Copia had told you that this was not a political marriage, ultimately this was a political position you had been put in.  

The nice thing about that, was it gave you something else to focus on… a purpose that had almost nothing to do with your actual relationship with your husband.  It was more than enough to worry about already: not making a fool of yourself or the clergy at all these social engagements, looking and acting the part of a respectable wife.

Part of you felt a little guilty for putting effort into seeming like a good wife in public, only to be cold behind closed doors— well, not cold as in unfriendly, just… prudish.  Sure, he hadn’t said or done anything to indicate he was frustrated by it, but you were starting to worry more and more as the days passed.  There was a delicate balance, a tension that you knew would need to be broken eventually.  You couldn’t go on forever, after all, as a husband and wife who shared a bed but stayed abstinent.

And you’d never intended to!  But you couldn’t stop wondering how much longer this would take for you to get used to, and what it would be like when you finally united with him.  He certainly seemed like a gentleman so far, but he was still more an acquaintance than anything.

That said, this was the first time you’d flown on a private plane with an acquaintance.

You were trying to act casual about it— maybe you had some idea in your head that if you let yourself react strongly to how foreign this was to you, he would find it annoying or un-posh— as you boarded, only allowing yourself a few moments to glance around the luxurious interior.  It was certainly different from the style you were used to in the church: that was all dark stone and  aged gold and ancient intricacy, this was tan-and-white leather, plush carpets, modern minimalism.  It seemed to make a man like Copia stand out even more visually, despite his demeanor showing how comfortable he was in a place like this.

When he told you that you were flying to Brussels he failed to mention the private jet— he must have thought it was obvious.  And it probably would be to anyone who hadn’t ascended to this level of importance overnight.

“Would you like a glass of champagne?” he offered as you took your seat across from him— facing each other, something you’d never even seen on a plane before.  “I believe we have sparkling water as well.”

“Sparkling water sounds nice,” you decided with a smile, “thank you.”

You sort of imagined he would get up and find one for you— instead he snapped his fingers (as much as one could with a glove on) and some attendant-type-person appeared.  Actually, that wasn’t unique to the plane: whatever Frater Imperator said just sort of… happened.  He was shockingly polite for someone so powerful, but you knew he’d paid his dues as a cardinal for many years.

The attendant gave you a glass of sparkling water and served Copia what looked like orange juice, but you didn’t ask.  “Flying doesn’t make you nauseous, does it?” he asked as he adjusted in his seat.  “I have something you can take, if you need it.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” you shook your head, and he shrugged slightly.

“The pilot tells me we should be there in about four hours,” Copia informed you, “I was planning mainly on trying to rest.”

“I brought a book,” you explained proudly, “but I’ll probably sleep some too— and look out the window, it’s been a while since I’ve flown.”

“I sort of imagined I would take a longer break from it after stepping down from my old position,” he explained— he tended not to address it directly, never outright calling himself a former Papa or speaking on his time in the band.  You weren’t sure why, but you thought it might be a matter of it all being too fresh still.  “I imagine you’ll be a much quieter flying companion than a gaggle of ghouls and all our roadies, though.”

You laughed a bit; “Yes, I’d hope so.  I won’t bother you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, you couldn’t bother me,” he comforted you briefly, reaching across the space between you to squeeze your knee for a second.

The little affectionate move kind of caught you off-guard— he was usually a bit more reserved in private, but then again, you weren’t totally alone with various staff on the plane.  He patted your leg once before he took his hand away and leaned back against the seat; the plane had just begun to take off already, turns out this whole process goes much faster when it’s a private flight.

He took some small black thing out of his jacket’s inner pocket— you realized it was an eye cover, it looked like it was made of silk… it looked expensive, but what else was new, right?

You leaned over towards the window, sliding up the shade more to watch as the countryside grew smaller and smaller.  Only when the view was obscured by the thick cover of clouds did you return to your original position in your chair, looking over at Copia now that you didn’t have to worry about him looking back at you.  He looked a little silly with the eye mask on; even as he slept his posture was perfect, his fingers interlaced and resting in his lap, his head tilted back and only slightly leaned to the side as the seat’s adjustable head cushion supported it.

“More sparkling water, ma’am?” the attendant asked— making you realize you had been blatantly staring at Copia this whole time, devil knows how long.  You cleared your throat and nodded, lifting your glass to be refilled.

Feeling a little embarrassed for having been caught like that— as if there was actually something to be embarrassed about for looking at your own husband— you decided now was a good time to start reading that book.

~

You arrived at the church in the evening, just before sunset.  It was beautiful in the soft orange light of the lowering sun, clearly not as old or expansive as your home but with lovely white marble statues: Baphomet, Belial, and of course Lucifer all positioned to guard the entrance.

The door opened and a Sister invited you inside— even her habit was a little different than the ones back home, and she wore a rosary around her neck.  Just past the entryway, a dignified-looking man in red robes was waiting: he smiled wide when he saw you both extending his arms.  “Ah!  You’ve made it!” he announced proudly as you both approached, his accented voice echoing slightly around the empty hall.

“Cardinal Comis,” Copia greeted with a bow.

“Frater, how is it that you look better and better each time I see you?” the cardinal asked jovially.

“You must not have noticed my temples going grey,” Copia chuckled thinly.  “That’s a new development since my last visit.”

“Oh, that’s no matter— it’s your face!  You look fresher, more alive; a lovely new wife will do that to you, non?” he smirked proudly before turning his attention to you: “Sister, enchante, I’m so glad you could join us as well.”

He reached forward, and you realized you were meant to let him take your hand; you did, after a split-second to figure it out, and he bent down to delicately kiss the back of it.  “You’re too kind, monsieur.”

“Ah, parlez vous?” he asked excitedly as he let your hand go.

“Juste un petit peu,” you answered with a short laugh, and he raised his eyebrows as he gave the man beside you an impressed look.

“Si élégante!  Ouaou, Copia, you’ve found such a fine woman for yourself!” Comis praised.

You felt Copia’s hand suddenly, yet gently, come to rest on your waist— something he’d never done before, actually.  It made you feel a little girlish, with his arm around you like that… the timing made you wonder if it was a slightly possessive move.  The way you had to bite your lip slightly to suppress a grin made you wonder if you liked this side of your husband…

It was certainly foreign to you seeing someone speak so casually with Copia; but it sort of made sense, you knew they had met before and it seemed like they had become rather friendly in previous encounters.  Plus, they were probably both cardinals when they first met, and maybe that sense of equality had lasted even as it became less and less accurate.  Still, Copia was a humble man— you couldn’t see him trying to flex seniority over anyone, especially as a guest.

“We’re so grateful the two of you have come all this way to visit our humble church,” the cardinal continued.  “I hope your journey wasn’t too difficult.”

“No, it was quite pleasant— thank you for having us,” Copia returned, “and for sending the car to retrieve us from the regional airport.”

“Of course!  I must admit, I feel a bit guilty making you come here so soon after your wedding,” he laughed raspily.  “If I had known about it when we selected this date for our meeting, I would’ve offered to reschedule!  Shouldn’t you two be on your honeymoon?”

Why was your face warming up at even the suggestion?  “O-oh, well— um—” you stammered nervously.

“It’s quite alright,” Copia offered with a smile, “there will be more time for something like that once the next tour is prepared and Papa Emeritus V has finished his… orientation, if you will.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s true,” the man hummed, “but I took the liberty of making sure your stay here is fitting for the occasion.  I hope you’ll take some time to enjoy the city as well, just the two of you.”

“If there’s time,” Copia relented.  “But for now, I’m sure my wife would enjoy a tour of the church.”

You nodded in agreement, and Comis smiled proudly at you.  “Of course— right this way, mademoiselle.”

You worried for a second that Copia might not be joining you— he had been here before, after all, at least twice— and you quickly turned your head to look over at him.  Comis seemed to notice your concern before you even spoke; “Frater, you’ll join us as well, non?”

“Of course,” Copia answered with a hint of sternness.

“See— he doesn’t want to leave you alone with me,” Comis winked, making your eyes widen a bit before he turned to lead you through the building.  “Come come, the sooner we finish our tour the sooner you two can get back to your hotel.”

“Hotel?” Copia realized.  “I thought we would stay here—”

“Here!  Pssh,” Comis dismissed, waving his hand back over his shoulder while still looking ahead.  “The church is crowded, too many people here.”

“I never had an issue on my previous visits.”

“Your bags are already waiting for you in the city, Frater, so it’s too late to protest now!” 

Copia sighed a little, but you two had no choice but to follow him as he started his way down the shadowy halls lit by candles and the fading glow through stained glass.

~

“He’s a bit of a character,” you decided as Copia unlocked the hotel room door, “but he was nice to put us up here— this is a really fancy place.”

“I know,” Copia frowned, “I hope he didn’t spend too much, it’s just somewhere to sleep.”

Forever a gentleman, he opened the door and let you step in past him before following you inside— but you were side-by-side when he flipped on the light.

Your jaw fell open slightly when you saw the room, and not just because it was a massive and luxurious suite.

Three words: rose. petals. everywhere.

It almost looked like a crime scene, the crimson flowers strewn along the floor and concentrated on the bed.  Champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries on ice, soft jazz playing from somewhere, and— Lucifer almighty, was that a blindfold and riding crop on the table?!

For a moment, both of you just stared at it in stunned silence.  “I-I apologize,” Copia suddenly blurted out, “the cardinal is not an especially subtle man, but I didn’t think he would—”

“What do you have to apologize for?” you interrupted.  “I don’t mind, I’m sure we can make use of most of this somehow.”

You didn’t notice how that statement could’ve been interpreted until you saw the instant flush spreading over your husband’s face, his gloved hand reaching up to nervously rub the back of his neck as he chuckled awkwardly.  “Heh— how do you mean?” he asked.

“I was going to eat the strawberries at least,” you shrugged, laughing a little— finally realizing this was going to be a lot easier if you just accepted the absurdity of the moment.  You hopped onto the bed, making the petals fly everywhere, and he smiled at you.  “It’s pretty comfortable.  And it smells great!”

“Well, that I assumed,” he agreed.

He took a shower first, while you sat on the bed and noshed on a few of the chocolate covered berries; you were sort of glad they weren’t being used as a romantic food, since you found them a little messy.  Maybe that was the point?  But you couldn’t imagine trying to be seductive while eating one of these, unless it was a turn-on to watch someone try to catch shards of chocolate in their hand as they fell off their lips.

After he was finished and you had a chance to change and wash your face, you returned to find him about to get in the bed with a book in hand.  “Do you mind switching sides?” you asked softly, and he stood up straighter and looked at you.

“No, of course not,” he answered, “I thought you might want the side closest to the window, though.”

“Well, I would, but… that’s the side I sleep on at home,” you explained as you motioned to where he was setting his things.  He smiled even though you weren’t sure what you said to cause that reaction.

“Sure,” he agreed, gathering his few things and taking them with him around the bed to the other nightstand.

You smiled as you slipped under the covers on your side; he got comfortable and opened his book.  “I might check what’s on TV, if that’s okay,” you suggested.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged quietly as he put his readers on; you tried not to get distracted by how he looked wearing glasses, but it was obviously a bit adorable.

The TV was already on, it was the source of that cheesy jazz from before, so all you had to do was unmute it and browse.

You flipped through a few channels— news, a car ad, more news, football, football, football— until you stumbled on something familiar.

“Did you eat a brain tumor for breakfast?”

“Oh, I love this movie!” you beamed.

“Eh?” he raised an eyebrow, looking up from his book to see what it was.  “I’ve never seen it.”

“What?” you squawked, clearing your throat and quieting down when you realized how unnecessarily loud that had been.  “I-I’m surprised, it seems right up your alley.”

“How’s that?” he frowned.  “It looks like it’s about teenage girls…”

“I mean, it is, but it’s that sort of kitschy-macabre aesthetic,” you explained.  “It’s a dark comedy, you know, social satire.  You’ve really never seen Heathers?”

He shook his head.

“You don’t mind watching it, do you?  This is right near the beginning, I’ll tell you what you’ve missed, i-if you care.”

“If you recommend it, I’m curious,” he agreed, shutting his book and setting it aside, “you can make it a little louder.”

You clicked up the volume a few times, settling into the mattress a little bit more as you smiled to yourself.  “So basically, this girl— her, Winona Ryder— she hangs out with these popular girls, because she can copy anyone’s handwriting.  So they use her for hall passes, doctor’s notes, report cards, you know.  And she met this guy, J.D., but he’s the total opposite of all that.  And a little crazy.”

“Hmm,” Copia smirked.  “And they play croquet?”

“Yeah, you know teenage girls and their croquet,” you joked.  

“Great pate, but I gotta motor if I’m gonna be ready for that party tonight.”

You smiled wider, without realizing it, as the scene changed to the convenience store.  “Oh, see— there’s the guy she likes,” you explained, pointing out Christian Slater.

“Oh, you can tell he’s bad news,” Copia tutted disapprovingly, making you snort.  “Just look at his jacket!”

“I had it so bad for him when I was a kid,” you admitted sheepishly.

“So you like the bad boy type?” he asked with a hesitant sultriness to his tone.

You hadn’t really meant for this line of questioning to come up.  “W-well, no,” you denied, “maybe back then, but not now.”

“Nothing wrong with having a thing for damaged goods,” he chuckled, “and I can’t blame you when they come packaged like that.”

“What about you?  Did you have a crush from a movie when you were younger?”

“Hmm,” he thought aloud, “maybe the Bride of Frankenstein…”

“That’s just like you,” you laughed gently.

After that, the conversation lulled and you focused on watching the movie.  As the party scene went on, you realized you might have made a slight miscalculation in putting on this film: you started to feel a little awkward as the camera followed the outcome of Veronica and J.D.’s strip croquet, the two of them nude and embracing under a blanket, kissing occasionally through their pillow talk conversation.  

Copia didn’t seem to mind it at all, but of course something like that wouldn’t bother him, and certainly not outwardly— it was just you, getting in your own head as per usual.  Still, you caught yourself wondering if he had those racing thoughts that you tended towards, or if his head was just a blank slate, consuming this movie without any concerns of the implications.

For some indescribable reason, you opened your mouth right then and suddenly broke the silence between you: “You don’t have to be so far away.”

He turned to look at you, but you only glanced back at him.  “Would you like if I was closer?” he pressed.

“I just wouldn’t mind it, is all,” you replied.

He smiled a little at you, and for a second you thought he might not actually do it; you were pretty sure you didn’t have the heart to be much more enthusiastic about it if he needed convincing.  But a second later you heard the rustling of the sheets as he scooted up next to you, his side gently settling against yours.  “Would you mind it if I put my arm around you, then?”  he asked, and your heart skipped before you shook your head.

“N-no, go ahead…”

He sighed a little as he slipped his arm around your shoulders, his hand laying gently on your arm yet still feeling so strong as it kept you close.

You had to muster up a little bravery just to adjust yourself, as if moving around even slightly while touching him would create some kind of issue, but you squirmed slightly until you were comfortable.  You couldn’t think of the last time you were this nervous around someone— and for what?  This wasn’t high school— and thank god for that, Heathers certainly wasn’t bringing up any good memories of that time— so you had no reason to be so self-conscious or embarrassed.

Really, it seemed like all you’d wanted was to fulfill some teenage impulse to cuddle while watching a movie.  And there wasn’t anything wrong with that— a husband and wife embracing each other, how scandalous— but it still made you feel a little strange at first.

What shocked you most of all, though, was how comfortable it became after a while… how nice it felt to be held, to be warm, to not be alone.

You watched the movie that way for quite some time, occasionally talking to each other about anything relevant— you appreciated him breaking the silence with questions or reactions, it made it all feel less stiff.  And you were glad more than ever that this was a funny movie, because it felt so good to laugh with him; turns out, an hour of laughing together does more to bond two people than about a week of formal meetings and church services.  You would’ve watched a movie with him sooner if you’d realized that before.

Though your eyes did feel a little heavy as you leaned up against him, your head finding a nice place on his shoulder to rest, you obviously didn’t notice them closing entirely… 

You blinked your eyes open suddenly, lifting your head and looking around at the dark room.  For a moment, you were quite disoriented, trying to remember how you ended up here.

The room was lit only by the sparse city lights outside; you could just barely see him, but your hand was still laying on his chest, as your head had been just a few seconds ago.  “Copia,” you whispered under your breath into the darkness, shaking him gently.

“Mm?” he grunted, stirring and lifting his head a bit.  “Are you alright?”

You tried not to notice the way he sounded while still half-asleep, nor how earnest his concern was for you.  “Did I fall asleep during the movie?”

He didn’t quite laugh, it was too soft of a sound for that— it was more like a sharp exhale through his nose, but somehow you could hear his smile.  “Yes, you did.”

“Did you finish it?” you asked.

“I did.”

“Did you like it?”

“I did,” he repeated, sounding amused.  “It’s not important now, tesoro, you should go back to sleep.”

You shivered when he reached up to rub your shoulder for a moment, despite the fact that you were plenty warm cuddled up to him in bed.  “I-I never brushed my teeth,” you remembered, “I’ll do that now— then I’ll go back to sleep.”

You couldn’t see him in the dark and he didn’t say anything, but as you turned and sat up, pulling the blanket and sheets aside so you could slip out of bed and go to the bathroom, you could tell he was disappointed.  It was the way his hand held onto your shoulder just a little tighter as you tried to go— it was his fingers ghosting over your back, in a way that made it seem like an accident but could’ve been intentional.

Maybe the most obvious thing was when you came back from brushing your teeth to find him turned on his side, facing away from your half of the bed.  Like he wanted to forget you were even there— the bed was big enough, he could if he wanted to.

Frater Imperator… Frater Imperator…

He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the title, still.  It was a shock already when he first read the letter from his mother— on top of the shock of losing her, which was more than enough— but it still hadn’t quite sunk in.

He was so shocked by the promotion, in fact, that he’d been entirely unable to process the paragraph afterwards:

And please, do as I’ve been asking for quite some time and finally take a wife.  Or husband!  I’m not picky.  But you need someone beside you to keep things in order and keep you in line.

Yes, Copia’s mother had been encouraging him towards marriage for quite some time, even before he knew she was his mother; in some ways, it made more sense once that element came to light, though it did change the tone of her request quite a lot.  It also made him take it much more seriously.

And now, it could be argued that this was basically her dying wish.  He really had no other choice: he couldn’t put off a marriage any longer.

See, he’d never had a problem with the idea of it— he’d always imagined getting married some day, like most people seem to— but he wasn’t the luckiest in love.  A broken heart or two (or five) had convinced him to focus more on his work with the church, and to be fair, no one could deny that the work had paid off.  But, as they say, it gets lonely at the top: and now, he was the leader of the whole church, and he had no prospects or even romantic interests to speak of.

Fortunately, he had realized that because he was the leader, he didn’t need all that: all he had to do was say the word.

~

The announcement spread through the congregation like wildfire: the newly-minted Frater Imperator was going to get married.  The part they neglected to mention— and the part everyone wanted to know the most— was to whom.

There were already plenty of rumors, which you avoided because you felt they were all baseless.  Even within one day you’d heard three different stories about this mysterious future spouse, each more preposterous than the last: that he had a secret lover in the ministry he would wed, that he met a fan at a ritual and swept her off her feet, and that he had some previously unmentioned long-term girlfriend who wasn’t even in the church.

The wedding was less than a week away and all anyone knew was that everyone would be there.

Unfortunately, it was hard to ignore the gossip, even if you weren’t participating in it.  The night when it all began, you were trying to read while several of the other Sisters were giggling amongst themselves over their various theories.  “I wasn’t sure he’d ever marry,” someone admitted, “even though he could probably have anyone he wanted.”

“Not me,” one Sister announced smugly, “I never thought he was all that good-looking.”

“Oh please,” another scoffed incredulously, “you’d be on your knees in a second if you saw him at a ritual.”

“Besides, his looks aren’t the most important thing: this is the head of the clergy.  Whoever he marries is probably going to be spoiled rotten!”

They laughed excitedly, and though you’d been trying to tune it out, you couldn’t help but wonder about it as well.  The announcement had left so much unanswered, but the timing of it seemed too important to ignore.  Perhaps the clergy had forbidden the Papa to marry— you weren’t aware of any rule against it, since to your knowledge none of them had ever tried— and so he’d had to wait until his time was complete to be with the person he loved.  Perhaps it was the death of his mother that triggered it: at best, a renewed desire to find happiness and family when faced with a reminder of mortality; at worst, his mother hadn’t approved of his lover and only now was his final obstacle removed.

Ironically, after all those times you failed to ignore them before, it took the other Sisters several attempts to tear you out of your train of thought now: you blinked quickly and looked up from your book as you realized they were saying your name to get your attention.

“Hm?” you mumbled hazily when you looked at them.

“A message for you,” Sister Agnes informed you, leaning over to hand you a rolled parchment.  You weren’t sure if it was private or not, but everyone was staring at you in anticipation— in fact, you noticed then that their entire conversation had died down to silence— and so you awkwardly unrolled it and read the writing inside.

MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY:

Frater Imperator and the clergy request your presence in the upper sanctum imminently.

~

As soon as you descended the stairway back to the mail halls of the abbey, a gaggle of Sisters descended on you, wide-eyed and desperate for gossip.  “So?!” Sister Lilith asked expectantly, like the rest of her question should be obvious. “What was it about?”

“Was the whole clergy there?”

“U-uhm, all but Frater,” you replied shyly.

“What did they say?”

“Don’t be silly, ladies,” Sister Agnes scoffed, “it was obviously about the wedding.  What else would there be meetings about today?  They must want her to help in some way: communion, maybe?”

“Ooh!  A bridesmaid!” another in the group suggested excitedly.  “Do you know who he’s marrying?”

“Of course she knows!” someone answered for you.  “Who is it?  I was right, wasn’t I— it’s someone in the church!”

“Well… yes, I know who it is,” you mumbled, “but I… I’m not sure I’m permitted to speak on it.”

That was a lie, but you were too busy trying to process it all yourself to share it with anyone.

“Just tell us,” they begged.  “You won’t get in trouble!”

“The wedding’s only a few days away,” Sister Lilith pointed out, “so there’s no point in it being a secret now— and if I’m right about who it is, Sister Magdalena owes me a fifty.”

“I’m sure you didn’t guess it,” you promised her.

But the questions just kept coming: “It is a woman, though, right?” “Is it someone you know?  Wait, is it someone we know?” “

You realized that if you didn’t tell them now, they would either figure it out soon or be entirely blindsided at the ceremony.  Not to mention that if you refused to answer their questions, they’d just keep grilling you until they got something.  Your voice was actually quite feeble in that moment, not loud or strong enough to cut through all that chatter— but your words were enough to stop every question being thrown at you in its tracks.

“It’s me.”

You waited for them to react, but for a moment, they didn’t.

“I was asked to— to take the position,” you specified, putting it as vaguely as possible.  I’m going to marry Frater Imperator was just as true but was just as hard to say as it was to wrap your head around.

They erupted into a variety of reactions, all of which at least had some element of shock involved.  “I had no idea you were so close!” Sister Agnes exclaimed.

“We’ve… never even spoken…” you shyly replied, and the excitement quickly died down.  You weren't offended by their quizzical stares; if anything, it was a relief to see some of them looking as confused as you felt.

Why did he choose her? you caught a few whispers in the back of the group.  They're strangers? What makes her so special, then?

You wish you knew the answers to those questions.

That night as you laid in bed, you couldn’t do anything but replay the clergy meeting in your mind.  You’d felt so small across the table from all of them; you had no idea air could feel so heavy and stiff, matching the tense energy as you waited for them to explain why you’d been summoned.  As it all happened, you thought you would never forget every detail— but already you were losing your memory of what was said in what order, when exactly you realized you weren’t in trouble, how long it took you to believe what you were hearing.

Should we not court first?  Or have a meeting, maybe? You had suggested.  Frater does not feel it is necessary, a clergyman firmly replied.

And he’s not here now, because… you trailed off.

We all feel you should make this decision privately— in case his presence would sway you one way or another, a high Sister answered.

You could see the logic in that, and appreciated the concern for your uncoerced consent… except, of course, that this was an offer already impossible to say no to.  They’d successfully convinced you that you wouldn't be punished for turning down the proposal, but the marriage itself had already been announced: if you rejected the offer, someone else would surely take your place.  And for some reason, though the idea of going through with this terrified you, passing it up sounded even worse.  Even just imagining another woman taking her place at his side… why did it bother you so much? 

Because you will take your husband's title, but will not have decision-making power over the clergy, your title from henceforth shall be Sister Imperator Consortia.

It had a ring to it, but it didn’t feel like you— at least not yet.  It felt too… formal, too important.  Generally, people don’t join a convent and put on a habit because they’re intent on standing out, Satanic or not.

You told yourself that you needed to rest while you could, you had a busy week ahead starting with a dress fitting first thing tomorrow.  But still, you hardly got a moment of sleep that first night; part of you thought if you shut your eyes long enough, you would wake up to learn this had all been some bizarre dream.

You couldn’t decide, though, if you’d be relieved or heartbroken if you awoke.

~

In some ways, the wedding mass was quite similar to how you’d always pictured yours would be… except for the attendance.  You were sure you’d never met this many people in your life!  Even tonight, you wouldn’t be able to meet them all!

But, of course, this was the social event of the year, if not decade, for any church member or Satanist: it only made sense that there were throngs of people not only in the church but outside, waiting to see the new couple.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, face obscured by the black veil, your eyes widened with the thought that you might be basically the Kate Middleton of Satanism in this moment…

Trading your opaque veil for one of lace, your loose and simple dress for a form-fitting and extravagant one made of dark red silk and sporting an over-the-top train, you wondered if you were going to be swallowed up by all this overwhelming intricacy, all this… pomp.

Taking a shaky breath, you tried not to imagine that everyone else watching you walk down the aisle would agree with you that you were horribly out of place.  You wished you’d had a chance to understand why you were chosen— to even just meet the high Frater, but the clergy had insisted several times that he was too busy with his new duties and planning the wedding.  Yes, your fiance was too busy planning your wedding to speak to you.  It was all horrifically ironic, and irritating.  So, as you turned and stepped out of the bridal suite, taking your bouquet of Dahlias from one of the Sisters assisting you, you thought to yourself if nothing else, at least I’ll get to finally try to understand all this by the end of the night.

The doors to the main hall opened for you, and there was no turning back.

It was a massive room, with easily a thousand people between you and the altar, but the very first thing your eyes fell on was Copia all the way at the other end of the aisle: the all black suit was no surprise, yet even from so far his white eye stood out prominently, and it was fixed on you.

Walking down the aisle took quite some time— you’d been reminded to take slow steps, as if you were just going to break into a sprint or something.  You tried to keep your eyes ahead, and ignore all the eyes on you: people seated on the furthest ends of the pews leaned and stood on their tiptoes to try to get a glimpse, but between all the encouraging smiles you caught an occasional glare of disapproval… it seemed plenty of your siblings were jealous of or disappointed by you one way or another.

Adjusting your clammy hands slightly, you realized you were unintentionally holding a concerningly tight grip on the Dahlia stems and the ribbon they were wrapped with; that said, you were very thankful for something you do with your hands.

Your heart was pounding by the time you reached the front of the hall, where the priest, the clergy, and your betrothed waited for you at the altar.  A Sister took your bouquet away to free your hands just as you passed the front row, and when you looked forward again there were only a few carpeted steps between you and… everything.

Copia surprised you by reaching forward— at first you weren’t sure what he meant by it, until you realized and quickly took his hand, letting him guide you up the stairs.  He was wearing those leather gloves you hardly ever saw him without, but even still, it was the first time you’d ever touched him; was his hand shaking?  You couldn’t tell, yet it almost felt like it.  Not to say that his grip wasn’t a strange sort of comfort in that moment; as he helped you up the stairs, you felt yourself relaxing slightly, despite being far from over with the hardest parts of this.

The first few minutes were just a matter of standing and waiting while the priest spoke: you wish you could say you remembered a damn word of it, he must’ve said something about love or marriages or… you know, all that.  Whatever it was, you were relieved when it was over and you could move on to the communion and prayer— the more familiar parts, and the parts where you got to kneel.  You were actually amazed that your legs hadn’t been noticeably wobbly so far, but they definitely could use a break.

In the time that your head was meant to be bowed in your prayer, you carefully opened your eyes and turned your head— just enough to take a peek at him quickly.  Well, your intention was to be quick about it, but once you started looking, you became distracted rather easily.  It was just that you'd never seen him so up close, you were sure: you'd never noticed the slope of his nose before, or how long his eyelashes were, or the shape of his lips in this profile—

Suddenly, as if he sensed your stare somehow, his eyes popped open and glanced over to return it.  He gave you a half smirk as your eyes widened and you snapped your gaze back down to your clasped hands.

“...and may they be joined in unholy matrimony for all eternity,” the priest ended his prayer: “Nema.”

“Nema,” you and Copia and the rest of the congregation replied.

The penultimate step of the ceremony was the exchanging of the rings, which were extended towards you both on a little velvet pillow— it was actually kind of adorable, you thought.

You figured he might take his gloves off for you to put the ring on, but it was apparently designed to fit around them; alternately, you had to suppress a startled reaction to your own ring as he gently placed it on your finger.  It was a massive ruby surrounded with onyx and black diamonds, intricate and completely unsubtle.  You knew Copia had expensive taste, and it was certainly in keeping with such a lavish wedding, but you wondered if it would look entirely out of place on you for daily wear.

I’ll wear this ring every day, forever, you reminded yourself; you breathed out shakily as his hands held yours so tenderly for one more moment after your ring was in place.

And then there was only one thing left.  The thing you’d been preparing yourself for since this morning— or perhaps since that fateful meeting with the clergy: the kiss.

It felt pretty melodramatic with him lifting your veil over your head, and it felt surreal to be in the part of this that you’d been imagining in hopes of preparing yourself.  Of course, it was a little different than how you’d pictured it, most of all the look on his face: it was subtle, but he didn’t seem as serious or muted as you were used to.  It wasn’t like he was grinning or anything— that would’ve actually been sort of creepy— but there was a small smile on his face.

You heard the priest say something about husband and wife but you weren’t paying attention, it all sounded distant somehow.  And maybe you sort of psyched yourself up for this moment too much— maybe you wanted to get the wedding over with, maybe you were afraid if you didn’t commit fully that you’d end up instinctively backing away when he came closer and you’d both be humiliated in front of all these people.

There were other possible explanations for what you did, but for whatever reason, you all but threw yourself onto him and kissed him.

It only lasted for a few seconds, but that moment may as well have been frozen in time; it took him a second to react, his hands settling near your waist— and it took the crowd a moment too, but they began to clap and cheer for you both at some point.

Truthfully, you weren’t thinking much about how it felt to kiss him… you couldn’t, really, without losing focus on the point of all this.  You weren’t here to have a nice kiss or meet someone you might like— you were here to serve a purpose, to fill a role.  And that’s not to say you weren’t grateful, but you weren’t going to let yourself be distracted from your duty to the church.

You backed away as suddenly as you’d latched onto him, and when you opened your eyes after scrunching them shut during the kiss, you saw him looking at you with a bit of shock in his expression.  Only then did you wince to yourself and wonder, was that too much?

He took your hand and turned to face the congregation, so you followed suit of course, and as he smiled and waved at them politely you were a little surprised to see them all standing and applauding.  It definitely felt like a bigger crowd from this side of the cathedral…

You were almost frozen for a second, until you felt his hand guiding you down— he was already on the first step down, so you quickly picked up your skirt and followed him.  You had wondered before if you would feel different walking back down the aisle with him, compared to when you processed on it alone.  You weren’t sure if you really felt married or something— what would that even feel like?— but you did feel different.

You felt better, actually— relieved, happier, you even caught yourself smiling at the crowd, but it was hard not to with how… energetic they were.  Despite not really knowing what to do with all that attention, you at least appreciated it, though it surely had little to do with you.  They were cheering for him because he’s Copia— Frater, the former Papa, heir of the Emeritus bloodline— and they were only cheering for you because you’re his wife.

And no, just because you understood that logically didn’t mean it felt at all real yet.

Frater Imperator and Sister Imperator Consortia! you could hear the announcement echoing through the hall, though it was distant compared to the claps and hollers.  You dared one glance at him by your side, thinking it might be easier than looking at this massive crowd around you, and found him already smiling at you; and with a warmth beginning to spread on your face, you let him guide you out of the doors, into the rest of the church submerged in nightfall. 

~

After a crowded spectacle like that, the quiet of his chambers was quite a relief.  So much so, actually, that it dampened some of that eerie, anxious feeling of being alone with Copia in his bedroom; it wasn’t quite as spacious as you would’ve assumed someone with his level of importance would have, but the ornate and luxurious furniture made perfect sense.

You were so caught up in taking it all in, almost entranced by the beauty all around you, that when he spoke it slightly startled you. 

“That kiss,” he said suddenly.  “Wow.”

It was just that his voice sounded so different like this: no microphone, no massive chapel, just one small room with stone walls.  There was a brief pause as he ran his gloved hand over his hair, blowing air quickly out of his mouth, and you realized you should probably respond somehow: for some reason, your mind struggled to accept that he was speaking to you directly.  “I’m sorry if I was too forward, I just—”

“No!  No, not at all,” he laughed thinly, “no, you did very well.  I’m sure today was… overwhelming for you.”

It felt good to just hear him confirm that: up until now, everyone in the clergy had been sort of acting like this was normal, never really acknowledging (let alone validating) your stress.

“If it’s any comfort, it was for me, too.  And I’ve had a lot more experience with large crowds than you,” he added.

You smiled a little; “Yes, that’s true— but it must be different here, at home.”

“Mm,” he nodded, pondering that for a second.  “It is.  But it’s preferable in some ways, too— like now, being able to come back to my own space.”

You envied that a bit; you were likely never to return to your chambers across the building, and while you didn’t necessarily enjoy sharing that space with a dozen other Sisters, it was probably easier than sharing a bed with just one man.

Before you could get a little too caught up in that train of thought, he spoke again.  “I can’t believe I haven’t already told you how exquisite you look in your dress,” he offered.

“O-oh, thank you,” you hummed, “I’m very fortunate, it’s a beautiful gown.”

“Of course it is, I picked it out,” he informed you proudly.  “I have excellent taste, no?”

“You do,” you agreed with a small laugh.

“And you liked the ceremony, I hope?”

“Yes, Papa,” you answered dutifully.  “I-I mean, Frater.”

“Force of habit,” he noticed, “literally.  But, I'm not Frater to you anymore, I'm your husband.”

That certainly made your heart skip a beat, even though you couldn’t imagine you had forgotten it in the last ten minutes.  “So what should I call you, then?” 

“Well, just my name should do,” he laughed slightly, seeming a bit surprised by the question.  “Spouses call each other pet names from time to time, would you like that?”

You might have been able to think about that idea more clearly if his hand wasn't on your waist, petting along the curve of it absent-mindedly.  “I… don't know,” you admitted, “I’ve never really tried it.”

“It will come naturally, I suppose,” he shrugged.

“So, it is a proper marriage then,” you realized.

“Hm?” 

You wondered if you shouldn’t have said it aloud.  “I-I just mean, I wasn’t sure at first… if maybe it was all political, you know,” you admitted.  “A marriage for show, not necessarily of a personal nature, I guess.”

“If it were political, I would have been paired up with someone from another church, I imagine,” he explained, one of his eyebrows raising.  “Did you think I chose you randomly?”

It felt pretty fucking random, you wanted to say, but that would have been a little bit harsh.  Instead, you sat down on the edge of the bed (which was only a little cumbersome with your dress) and he copied you, sitting just a few feet away.  “I’m so honored you chose me, Copia,” you began, feeling a little odd about using his name so casually, “but I just… I can’t imagine why.”

“The clergy asked me the same thing,” he recalled, “but they weren’t satisfied with my answer— I’m sure you won’t be, either.”

“Try me,” you encouraged.

“Well… I saw you once,” he explained slowly, “in a Mass— I gave you communion, do you remember that?”

“O-oh, yes, I think you’ve served me the elements a few times.”

“This was the first time,” he assured, “I know, because I thought to myself she must be new, if I’d seen her before I would’ve remembered it.”

You tried not to smile too wide, but you couldn't help some reaction.  You never imagined you'd left such an impression on him.

“You looked up at me, and you just looked so sweet… I couldn’t get the image out of my mind, you on your knees before me…”

You crossed your legs tightly.  “I mean, I remember that too, of course.  But it’s because it was the first time I saw you in your papal robes— I was just one of hundreds, I didn’t even know you could tell us apart.”

“Well, you stood out to me— maybe it was fate, eh?” he smirked.  But he was the head of the clergy, the most important man in the church: he made his own fate.

“And that’s it?” you realized sheepishly.  “You thought I was pretty, or something, a few years ago and so you married me?”

“Not pretty, no— pretty is cheap, cara mia.  You were enchanting.”

Was this flattery?  It seemed too perfect to be totally genuine, but hell, he was smooth.  

“I thought of you often,” he admitted, moving closer to you, “I imagined if I might have you to myself someday… and now I do.”

His gloved hand rested on your shoulder before carefully moving up to the back of your neck; he guided you towards him, slowly and patiently, looking into your eyes for a moment but taking longer to look at your lips. 

You swallowed nervously once before letting your eyes fall shut.

The kiss was soft at first, but grew more intense with every moment; he breathed a little heavier through his nose and you could feel it against your face.

His arms wrapped around you, and it should've felt nice, like a loving embrace; it sort of did, it just also started to make you feel claustrophobic, forcing you to fight the urge to squirm out of his grasp.

You wanted to give into it, you wanted to let yourself melt into his arms… but as he held you tighter and kissed you harder, your heart started to race in a way that wasn’t pleasant anymore.

Pulling back and pushing against him, you broke away and hoped he wouldn’t be angry with you or hurt by your rejection.  Fortunately, he let you move back as soon as you tried, and looked at you with an expression more of surprise than frustration.

“W-wait, I—” you mumbled nervously, willing your hands not to shake with nervousness.  “It’s not that I don’t— we’ve only just— I do find you attractive, but—”

“We don’t know each other very well,” he finished for you.  “It's alright, you seemed nervous already.”

“Yes,” you sighed, smiling with relief.  “I just thought… maybe we could get to know each other better first, before we…”

“I didn't expect you to be so shy,” he noticed with a soft laugh.  You were keeping close watch on his tone and, from what you could tell, he thankfully didn't sound too disappointed.

“I-I’m usually not,” you assured, “maybe compared to some other Sisters…”

“Well, that's a low bar,” he noted with a raised brow, “but anyhow, it doesn't bother me.  I'm happy to wait until you're… more comfortable.”

You smiled a little, glancing away briefly.  “Thank you,” you began, barely managing to stop yourself from calling him by a title again.

“I just hope you'll stay in my bed tonight— it's your bed, too, you know.  Nothing else has to happen.”

“Of course,” you smiled, “I'd like that.” 

He nodded shortly at you and moved as if he was going to get up, but you opened your mouth impulsively to speak— even if nothing came out right away— and he stopped.

“But, um— you could kiss me again,” you suggested quickly, before you lost the nerve.  He smiled, with a certain sparkle in his eyes that made you squirm slightly against the bed.

His hand brushed under your chin gently, lifting your face until you were forced to look right up at him.  “If it would please you,” he returned with a purr.

Swallowing thickly, you nodded; “Yes,” you insisted softly.

This kiss was slower, but no less intoxicating: he touched you like you were the most fragile thing, and the movements of his lips seemed to gently guide your own.  You heard yourself sigh against him, and his thumb started to pet your jawline tenderly.

You remembered that moment clearer now, the one he described to you before. Taking communion from him, kneeling under him, waiting with an open mouth for him to deliver the mana to your tongue… the cool golden chalice against your lip and the bittersweet wine…

His other hand delicately landed on your lower back, and you opened your mouth wider, letting his tongue graze against yours.

When he pulled back, you found yourself leaning forward just for a second, chasing him for more.  And he obviously noticed, it was clear from the way he smiled down at you.  You wondered if he would indulge your desire for more— for a second, you imagined he might decide that you were more ready than you'd let on and take you right then and there.  A little brutish, yes, but the idea tickled a certain corner of your brain.

But, no, he sat up straight and let out a short breath.  “I'll get ready for bed,” he announced.  “You should too— you've had a long day.”

You nodded back; “Yes, Papa,” you returned compulsively once again.  “Damn it!”

“It seems you have a lot of new things to get used to,” he laughed.

"Of course I do-- you picked all this out," you reminded him.

"But you look even better than I imagined," he sighed. "I can't believe you thought you wouldn't be able to pull it off."

You frowned slightly, wishing he hadn't brought up your first reactions to this Idea: how were you supposed to act stern and dominant when he obviously remembered how shy and nervous you'd been the first time he suggested that you dominate him?

Clearing your throat and crossing your arms, you looked him up and down. He looked good, too-- you liked how vulnerable he was, the way he was visibly overwhelmed with anticipation-- but you decided not to tell him that. "So, um, w-what are you gonna do to me?" he asked.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out, dear," you replied sharply, picking up the riding crop as his eyes sparkled. You decided then that he was having a little too much fun, taking this all not quite seriously enough (because of course he wasn't, it's Riley, when had he ever taken anything seriously?). You decided you needed to get some control back.

You tried not to let your hand shake as you brushed the end of the crop over him, dragging it down his torso, as his eyes quickly darted back and forth from you to the crop. As per usual, he became impatient quickly, and as you teased him with the end of it, he blurted out: "You know you're supposed to--"

You snapped him with it quickly, not too hard, on his stomach; he hissed and jumped slightly. "Of course I know what it's for, dumbass," you frowned, "you think I'm that stupid?"

"N-no, ma'am-- I'm sorry," he sighed.

"Sorry, huh? Then why's your cock so hard?"

"Um, well... can't you be sorry and horny at the same time?"

You laughed a little, but you could tell he knew it wasn't a fun laugh-- it was condescending, meant to make him a little concerned about what you were going to do to him next. "You're gonna find out how sorry you can really be, sweetie," you promised.

The expression on his face after that was just perfect: obviously concerned, yet undeniably desperate. You would've probably agreed to this sooner if you'd known how cute he would look all flustered like that.

You delicately drew the end of the crop up his thigh, noticing the way he tensed up more and more as it moved higher. You brushed the end over his balls, smirking when he bit his lip. "You're... not really gonna hit me there, right?"

You just shrugged, watching him squirm a bit as you moved the crop to ghost over his cock. You pulled it back suddenly, making him wince, but never brought it down; he eventually noticed that you hadn't hit him, and he opened one eye hesitantly to look at you before letting out a sigh.

"You scared me for a second," he mumbled, laughing slightly.

"I think you like being scared," you noticed, dragging the crop through the small puddle of precum he'd made-- then bringing the end up to his face. "Lick that up."

He had to stick his neck out a bit, unintentionally tugging on the restraints around his wrist, but he captured the crop in his lips and carefully licked off the slick fluid.

"You're pretty obedient," you observed as you pulled it away. "You're my good boy, hm?"

"Y-yes," he answered quickly; those puppy-dog eyes of his really sold his answer.

You set the crop down and got onto the bed with him, making him shift slightly as he tried to move closer to you before you'd even settled in your place: that is, between his legs, which wriggled a bit beside you. "Do you think good boys deserve a treat?"

He blinked quickly-- finally, he seemed a bit flustered, and you felt properly in control for once. Then again, it's hard not to feel in control when you've got someone's cock in your hand.

You spit on it first, before wrapping your fingers around his length and-- gently at first-- stroking it from the base to the tip and back. You knew starting slow was the secret to driving him crazy by the end of this... but even you were surprised by how quickly he started to fall apart.

Whenever he seemed to get more desperate, whenever he begged for you or bit his lip subconsciously, you slowed down again-- each time building up speed a bit faster until your hand was a blur... right before starting all over. It was probably only a few minutes of that treatment before he was visibly teetering over the edge.

His moans were different than usual: higher-pitched and needier, it seemed, and he never stopped blushing. And the more you touched him-- especially when you focused on swirling your hand around his tip or gave him some condescending praise like good boy-- the more he squirmed under you, panting and whimpering and tugging on the ropes around his wrists.

"Struggle all you want, baby, you're not going anywhere," you reminded him proudly.

"Can I come?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh, you're so sweet asking for permission," you praised. "Pathetic, but sweet."

He choked a little, shutting his eyes tighter as you kept stroking.

"You're close, huh?" you noticed, making him nod quickly, and you felt his cock flex in your hand-- so you started moving even faster. "You wanna come?"

"Please-- please," he hissed, hips starting to buck into your grasp, and you smiled. As much as you wanted to see him come, you wanted to watch him beg even more.

"Okay," you decided, "then come. Come for me."

Of course, it wasn't so simple. You immediately let go of his cock, watching as he helplessly rocked under you, whining for you to touch him again. "N-no, please," he began to beg, but it was too late: he was already coming anyway, his cock flexing as he shot ropes up over his chest. He wasn't actually crying, but his heartbroken moans almost made it seem like it. "Fuck," he panted in frustration as the high passed-- quickly, of course, with no other stimulation to keep him going.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" you teased with a grin. "I thought you wanted to come."

"I-I wanted you to touch me," he whimpered.

"Oh-- like this?" you offered, grabbing his swollen, leaking cock and beginning to stroke it again-- making his eyes shoot wide open and his body jerk under you.

"N-no, please, fuck, I just--" he gasped, but he cut himself off with a whine through his teeth as you went back to your pace from just a few moments before. "Fuck!"

"Are you too sensitive now?" you cooed sarcastically, squeezing him even tighter in your hand for a moment. He couldn't even answer, he was too busy tugging harder than ever on his restraints-- and you knew he couldn't get away with just ignoring your question like that.

You quickly bent your head down and captured his tip in your mouth, making him moan in a way you'd never quite heard before, equal parts pain and pleasure. "Oh, oh god," he choked out. "P-please, I--"

You suctioned your lips harder until he stopped talking, still stroking his length but letting your tongue swirl and tease his slit. A few more drops of come leaked into your mouth, and you hummed at the taste.

"Please, it's-- it's too much," he begged, but you kept going for another few moments before pulling away with a grin.

Your gaze met his; he was basically red all over now, his fists clenched tight, his lips open and panting, his eyes wet and glassy and desperate-- and a little terrified. Not to mention he was covered in come and helplessly tied to the bed. "Oh, baby," you cooed encouragingly, "you've got a long night ahead of you. But you want more, don't you?"

“Riley— what are you doing here?” Ben wondered.

“Warm greeting as always…” Riley sighed before answering the question: “I'm here to pick you up.”

Ben gave Riley an even more confused look.

“For dinner,” Riley added flatly.  “At Talerico’s.  To meet my—”

“To meet your new girlfriend, oh god,” Ben realized, “was that tonight?”

“No, it's tomorrow, I'm just picking you up twenty-four hours in advance,” Riley replied snarkily.

“I'm sorry, Riley,” Ben sighed, “I really— I do wanna meet her, Abigail did too— but I completely forgot— can we move this to another night?”

“Ben, we've moved this so many times that she's not even a new girlfriend anymore,” Riley sighed.

“I know, I know, but we can't tonight— Abigail just went out,” Ben justified.

“Where'd the missus go?”

“The library, she's trying to help me with something.”

“A clue?  It's another clue, isn't it,” Riley realized, not trying very hard to hide his excitement.

“I was going to call you tomorrow,” Ben explained.  “Come in, I’ll show you.”

After walking into Ben’s house and upstairs to the study, Riley wrinkled his brow when Ben handed him the coded message.  “Well, that’s just a whole bunch of letters,” Riley noticed.

“Astute as always, Riley,” Ben frowned.  “We found them in a journal that belonged to James Madison.”

“Why would James Madison write down a bunch of random letters in his journal?”

“No— each letter was underlined in a different entry.  And, at the back, we found this,” Ben continued, showing Riley a scanned parchment.

“GABE FADECCE,” Riley read aloud, changing his mind a few times about the pronunciation.  “It’s a name, right?”

“It must be,” Ben shrugged, “but we’ve been searching online for any evidence of a Fadecce family or a Gabriel that worked for or with Madison, and we haven’t found anyone.  That’s what Elizabeth went to the library for.”

“It sounds Italian, could he be Italian?” Riley wondered as Ben set down the images with a sigh.

“I don’t know— possibly, but we’re at a dead end at this point,” Ben replied.  “I’m sure we’d have a lot more to work with if we could decipher those letters from the journal entries, but we were up all night trying to figure it out—”

“Not what I’d be up all night doing with my girlfriend, but okay,” Riley interjected.

“And I haven’t gotten anywhere with it,” Ben concluded.

“Wait— you can't solve it?” Riley challenged with a smug grin.  “The Ben Gates can't solve a clue?”

“It's not that I can't, it's just that a code like this requires a lot of time,” Ben explained.  “I'm a historian, not a cryptographer.”

“We need a codebreaker,” Riley nodded thoughtfully, “somebody who can decode something this complex, and knows enough about the Founding Fathers to have some context for the message...”  He tapped on his chin like he was really thinking about it, before proudly smiling and tilting his head in faux-realization.  “Hey, how about a former intelligence agent who specialized in decryption, with a master's in world history and beautiful eyes that you can get lost in for hours?”

Ben raised an eyebrow at Riley.  “Yes, that would be great— give or take the eyes thing— but where are you gonna find one of those?”

“At Talerico’s,” Riley announced, “waiting at a table for four.”

“Your girlfriend is a cryptographer?” Ben realized with wide eyes.

“I told you you'd like her,” Riley beamed.

~

Riley was engrossed in his game, furiously clicking the mouse and clacking at the keyboard before mumbling a curse of defeat and pulling the headset off; sighing, he turned around and looked over the back of the couch at you.

He'd only started playing the game because you weren't giving him attention, so it made sense that as soon as he died, he'd go back to bugging you.  “Hey,” he greeted plainly, smiling yet clearly fighting the urge to pout.

You were laying on your stomach on the bed, half-dressed, looking at the pages Ben had given you and scribbling notes on a pad.  “Hey,” you returned flatly after a pause, adjusting your reading glasses before taking a few more notes.

“You look cute doing that,” he hummed.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking.”

You frowned a little in concentration but didn't look away from your papers.  “I like to think I'm always thinking…”

“No wonder you're so cute all the time then,” he cooed, leaning in closer and resting his chin in his hands.

He waited for a moment for you to keep the conversation going, but sighed when you simply continued working on the cipher without paying him any mind.

Getting off the couch with a sigh, he hopped onto the bed and laid beside you, making the mattress bounce a few times.  He kept looking at you for a little while, eventually reaching out and rubbing your back for a moment, before sliding himself even closer to you and planting a kiss on your shoulder.

Even with ninety-five percent of your attention on the puzzle in front of you, you could still tell what sort of mood Riley was getting himself into.  “Well, there is one thing that makes you stop thinking…” he recalled in a purr, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and giving you a teasing trail of kisses there.

You sighed a little and shrugged him away.  “Riley, I need to focus.”

“Baaabe,” he pouted.  “I can't help it, you're just so— how am I supposed to resist you like this?”

“I'm literally just laying here,” you noticed.

“You know what you do to me in those bifocals, sweetheart.”

You snorted and finally looked back at him, admiring the puppy dog eyes he was giving you— they almost always worked on you, and he knew it.  Sighing in relent, you looked back at the pages in front of you.  “I need to get this done, I promised your friend I would finish it in twenty-four hours,” you explained, “but you can go ahead.”

“Go ahead?” he repeated, confused.

“You can just use me, while I work,” you offered flippantly, hardly noticing the way his face turned red.

“R-right… I can just, um… use you.  That's— okay, sure,” he coughed nervously.

“Just be quick,” you insisted.

“Yeah, that's a challenge,” he scoffed, shuffling on the bed to straddle your legs and run his hands over your back.  “I, uh, like when you wear my shirts,” he informed you, as if feeling his erection press against your ass wasn’t enough of a clue.

“Just get on with it, please?” you groaned.

“Yeah, yeah— sorry…” he mumbled, moving his hands down to your panties which he traced slowly.  “These are cute,” he noticed aloud anyways, and you sighed a bit to yourself as you realized how futile it was to try to keep him from talking.  You were just going to have to tune him out to get this done.

His fingers shakily hooked into the elastic and pulled your panties down, a low hum echoing in his chest as he looked at you.  Grabbing handfuls of your ass and kneading them gently, he mumbled something to himself that you weren’t really paying attention to— until he got your attention suddenly with a quick slap.  “Hey!” you yelped, jumping slightly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he breathed through a grin, “couldn’t help myself.  I-I won’t distract you anymore, okay?  Just, you know, keep working…”

You did just that, of course, re-ordering the papers in your hand to look at the scanned back page again.

He went on mumbling to himself as he shoved his sweatpants down to his thighs to free his cock: “juuuust keep working,” he breathed.

He spit into his hand quickly and smeared it on himself, before nudging in between your legs and pressing himself to your opening.

Admittedly, you did react slightly when he pushed inside you— a wince from the stretch of it, especially without much preparation— but you managed to keep quiet and focus on your work again.  “God, so tight,” he groaned, digging his fingers into your hips slightly as he slid deeper.  “You're too good to me, baby…”

He pushed as deep as he could go, which was honestly a bit further than you expected at this angle, and leaned over you slightly as he started to move.

“You feel so good,” he praised through a heavy breath, not taking very long to savor the moment before picking up speed.  You knew if you reacted too strongly to what he was doing, he'd notice instantly and start trying to pull you away from your work; so, you did your best to focus on the problem, even if you found yourself gripping the pages a bit tighter.

Even if your attention was straight ahead, you almost wished you could see him now— but then again, you had a pretty good idea of what you would see if you looked back: his mouth parted slightly with sighs of pleasure, a subtle pink flush across his face, his eyes going a little glassy as they drifted over you.  In fact, you could sometimes feel his gaze on you, especially at those times that his fingers traced your back and hips.

Realizing something suddenly about the cipher in front of you, you put your pen between your teeth and pulled the cap off, biting down on it slightly to hold it in place so you could keep writing on the paper your other hand held.  “Fuck, you're so hot,” Riley groaned, starting to thrust a bit more urgently.  Resisting the urge to smile to yourself too much, you kept taking your notes and didn't especially pay attention to him behind you, even when his occasional whimpers started to grow louder.

For the most part, you were able to keep your focus.  It wasn’t that Riley was especially easy to ignore— certainly not with him going just a bit faster with every thrust— but you were finally on a roll with this puzzle; maybe you would’ve already solved it if it weren’t for your boyfriend, even if he was a welcome distraction.

He panted with each movement, holding on tighter to your hips.  “Fuck,” he whispered, leaning down after a moment to rest his forehead on your shoulder.  Normally, you would have to stop yourself from reaching back to run your fingers through his hair, but you were too engrossed in your work; and it was a good thing, too, because if you’d done that he almost certainly would’ve grabbed the papers and tossed them away, impatiently demanding for you finish that later and let him finish now.

Instead, it seemed like the pace and intensity of both your decryption and his movements grew together: your writing was hurried while his thrusts were faster and harder suddenly, until you could hear skin hitting skin, his groans muffled slightly as they came out through his teeth.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, taking your pen away from the paper abruptly and looking at your work.

“Yeah, you like that?” he encouraged in a rough voice.

“Oh my god, I solved it,” you announced, hardly noticing how he'd misunderstood your exclamation.

That seemed to break him out of his focus for a moment, and he stopped moving as he leaned down over you, resting his chin on your shoulder to read the page you were holding.  “At the place of eighty-five pleas, remove the Crucifiction keys,” he read aloud from the paper— once he managed to navigate your disorganized notes.

“It's a polyalphabetic substitution cipher,” you explained excitedly.  “Once I realized the key word was his wife’s name it was relatively simple— aside from having to reverse engineer some Vignere tables—”

“But what does it mean?” he wondered.  “What even is a Crucifiction key?  Please don’t tell me Ben’s gonna rob some nuns.”

“This was Madison’s journal,” you recalled, “and he co-wrote the Federalist papers with Alexander Hamilton and John Jay— eighty-five pleas— but Hamilton wrote the majority in his home.  I think we need to go to his estate, and see if they still have any of the instruments he owned.”

“Instruments?” 

“The Crucifiction keys, that threw me off too,” you admitted, “but Hamilton was a pretty accomplished pianist— but he would’ve played the colonial precursor to the piano, the fortepiano, which was created by an Italian inventor named Cristofori.  Cristo as in Christ, obviously, and fori meaning ‘holes’.  The Crucifiction!  The keys are piano keys!”

“But who’s Gabe Fadecce?” he pressed.

“It’s not a name,” you answered, “it’s a song.  G, A, B, E, F…” you hummed each note as best you could recall.  “If we start at the first key in the bass and take out the first G, A, and so on up the scales, I’m guessing there will be another clue beneath them, or on the back or something.”

“You're amazing,” he smiled, kissing you on the cheek proudly.

“I'll call Ben,” you decided, reaching to pick up your phone from nearby on the bed and flip it open; you hadn't even opened your contacts yet before Riley wrapped his hand around yours and— gently— pulled it away and closed it.

“I'll call Ben,” he offered, “later.”

You turned to look at him, and he smiled at you, though there was something softer and darker about his gaze as it fell slowly to your lips.

“You and I have unfinished business first,” he continued softly before kissing you with more patience than you expected from him after all that…

When he pulled away, you reached up to take off your glasses, but he clicked his tongue as he stopped your hand from moving any further.

“No no no, leave those on,” he encouraged.  You grinned before he kissed you again, his weight sinking into your back as he slipped an arm around your shoulders.  You moaned softly into the kiss when he started moving again; it was a relaxed pace, but with him draped over you like this, he seemed to go so much deeper.

When he pulled away, you found yourself leaning towards him for more— but he just smirked at you and propped himself upright again, starting to move faster behind you.

“Look back at me,” he requested in a softer voice, and when you turned to look over your shoulder at him behind you, you found him biting his lip at the sight.  “Oh god,” he choked on a groan, meeting your gaze before shutting his eyes and tilting his head back.  “Fuck, is it weird that you ignoring me kinda turned me on?”

You laughed a little, and shook your head.  “No, that's fine… I can go back to it, if you want—”

“No, please— I still like you better like this,” he insisted.  “I like how responsive you are.”

He ran his hand up your back and you shivered, rocking your hips up slightly as he ran his fingers over your hair before taking a hold of your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he breathed, something beautifully dark to his voice, “like that.”

He began to fuck you hard— not fast, but intense and deep and just the right amount of impatient— and you didn't even try to hold back the loud whine of pleasure that jumped from your chest.  “Fuck,” you gasped, “oh my god, yes…”

“Uh huh?” he encouraged, watching with half-lidded eyes at the way you moved under him, your body naturally starting to rock back towards his.  “Tell me how that feels.”

“Good,” you panted.

“But not good enough to distract you from your work, huh?” he challenged.

“Well, to be fair, nothing feels better than cracking a code,” you giggled.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned, putting his hands on either side of you on the bed so he could lean down and kiss your neck, only to bite it a second later— not too hard, but a little harder than just playful.  You felt him smile when you yelped softly.  “You’re trying to piss me off, right?”

“Maybe,” you shrugged a little bit.

He sat back up and pulled out of you unexpectedly, but thankfully explained himself before you would’ve likely let out a pathetic whine that he would’ve held against you.  “Turn over,” he instructed, “and take that shirt off.”

You flipped onto your back with a smile; “I thought you liked how I look in your shirts,” you reminded him as he helped you pull it over your head and toss it aside.

“Yeah, but I like how you look without them even more,” he explained, running his hands along your sides before surprising you as he suddenly bent down to swirl his tongue around a hardening nipple.

“Fuck,” you gasped, grabbing onto his hair as he moved to the other, first with his eyes shut and then opening them to look up at you as your back arched.

“You’re so pretty,” he praised as his lips traveled to your neck; he yanked you closer by your hips, making you laugh slightly with surprise as you slid across the bed, though it turned into a moan when he thrust into you again in one go.

This time, he didn’t hold back at all: rough, needy, hungry.  You moaned louder than you planned to, grabbing onto his shoulders through his t-shirt.

“Sorry,” he panted out through a thin laugh, “but I can’t slow down now— not after you drove me crazy like that.  God, baby, you’re so fucking wet—”

You choked on the back of your own throat; you couldn’t help it, you just loved the way he said that.

“— this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh,” you mumbled, 

“You like when I use you, huh?” he taunted, and you bit your lip before nodding.  “That’s pretty kinky, you know.  Is that all you wanna be?  A fucktoy?”

“Oh god,” you groaned, accidentally digging your nails into his shoulder, though he didn’t seem to mind.

“Want me to just fuck you whenever I feel like it, whatever you’re doing?” he continued.

“Yes,” you admitted in a hiss, head dropping back onto the bed.

“You're really trying to spoil me,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss your neck in between words.  “Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart— I might end up fucking you five times a day.  At least.”

You moaned lowly, feeling your muscles seize up on him briefly, making him laugh in the most condescending-yet-sexy way.

“Oh, fuck— you want that!” he realized, and his voice dropped to a low growl again as he thrusted even faster, teeth teasing your pulse.  “You can never get enough, can you?”

Not that you ever really thought your response to that was going to be especially coherent… but the way you cried out totally gave yourself away; how had he made you so desperate so fast?!

“Oh, poor baby,” he offered pityingly, only to fuck you even faster until you whined pathetically.  “You don’t wanna think, huh?  Just wanna be my hole.”

“Y-yeah,” you gasped, “fuck…”

“You’re too fucking perfect, you know that?” he praised.  “The only thing sexier than fucking you while you use that gorgeous brain of yours, is fucking you until you can’t.”

Your moan was sort of trapped in the back of your throat as you tried to swallow it down; you wished you had the wherewithal to hold it back better, but you weren’t really used to him talking like this.  Normally he would just go on tangents of praise and begging (as needed), and even though it wasn’t your first glimpse of his more dominant side, this all felt a bit different.  Even the way he was looking at you seemed different— a sort of pride in his eyes, pride in his own ability to turn you into a wet and whimpering mess.

“So fucking good,” he cooed, “you’re so good, baby— my good, dumb little fucktoy.”

“G-god,” you choked, holding on tighter to the sheets under you, trying to hold yourself together.

“You’d better come fast, ‘cause I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he warned with a sigh— which would be a much more credible threat if he’d ever left you hanging.  But no, those times Riley’s stamina hadn’t taken you all the way, he was more than happy to put his mouth on you and let it do the rest of the work.

This time, though, all he needed was a thumb drawing rough circles on your clit to help you along.  You hadn’t even noticed how sensitive it had become, not until your back arched and a needy whine jumped from your chest.  “Oh fuck, Riley, I’m close,” you yelped.

“Yeah?” he whined— actually, he repeated it a few times as he watched you get closer to your peak, but it was all falling on deaf ears as your moans got louder and louder.

“Yes!” you cried out, shaking under him; even with his weight pressing you down into the bed, it began to feel like you were floating somehow.  It was one of those orgasms that left you a little numb, with little jolts of raw pleasure that were almost too much— but your only defense was holding tighter onto him, inside and out.

“O-oh god,” he choked weakly, the movement of his thumb slowing but his hips going faster than ever.  “Fuck, fuck!”

He stopped all at once, burying himself in one last stroke as deep as he could reach, moaning lowly against the crook of your neck as he went mostly limp atop you.

After catching your breath for a few moments, you hummed softly in contentment and he carefully lifted himself up just to fall back down beside you on the bed.  He looked at you with heavy eyes but a huge smile; “You wear me out, you know that?” he breathed, reaching up to move some hair stuck to your face.

“You distract me from my work, you know that?” you countered.

“Hey, you got it done,” he defended.  “We’ll let Ben know as soon as I… you know, remember how to exist.  And use cell phones.”

“And maybe after a shower…” you suggested.  As soon as you saw the sparkle in Riley’s eye you added: “Separately.  I’ll pass out before we can make it to dinner tonight if we just end up fucking again.”

“I mean, they’ve been putting off dinner for months— why can’t we blow them off for once?” he suggested with a smirk, moving closer to you on the bed.

“I thought I’d worn you out,” you remembered with a breathless laugh, and he wrapped an arm around you to pull you into him.

“You did,” he sighed against your neck, “I’m just… easily re-inspired.”

~

It was a good thing this place was mostly empty, since this was technically somewhat sensitive information, but you figured anyone who overheard wouldn’t know enough about the conversation to glean anything too significant.  You found yourself rubbing your hands together under the table anxious as you watched Ben across from you, holding your work, and waited for his response.

“This is incredible,” Ben smiled as he read your decryption, making both you and Riley smile back with pride.  “A polyalphabetic substitution cipher, I should’ve known.”

“Yeah, any idiot would’ve known that,” Riley joked flatly.

“Where’d you find this girl?” Ben asked him, and you glanced at your boyfriend to find a little flush on his cheeks.

“You know, the technical answer is that we met at a panel lecture proposing that certain ‘random’—” he accentuated the word with a sarcastic tone and air-quotes— “radio frequencies detected by military technology might be messages from extraterrestrials—”

Ben rolled his eyes even at the passing mention of one of Riley’s more absurd conspiracy theories.

“But,” Riley continued, “I have a theory that she was actually created in a lab, specifically for me, by a team of scientists with the inexplicable goal of making me happy.”

“Oh, come on,” you giggled nervously, shoving Riley on the shoulder but failing to stop him from giving you a kiss on your heated cheek.

“That line working on you really is a testament to the fact that you’re made for each other,” Ben offered, and you decided to ignore the backhanded element of the compliment because of your sense that there was something very genuine about it.

“Look who’s here,” Riley pointed towards the front door of the restaurant, over Ben’s shoulder, causing the latter to turn in his seat and look back.  “Abigail, over here!”

She waved when she saw you, quickly approaching the table and taking her seat as she apologized for being tardy; “This is Dr. Abigail Chase,” Ben introduced her with a proud smile.

“Oh, don’t be so formal,” she gently scolded him (maybe everything she said sounded that nice with her accent, though), but she beamed as she grabbed your extended hand to shake it.  “It’s so nice to meet you, finally— I’ve heard so much from Riley.  He’s been bragging about you so much these past few months, I feel like I already know you!”

“Apparently he met her attending some panel about secret alien messages from space,” Ben told her with a smile and a yeah, I know, it’s crazy look in his eyes.

“Attending?” Riley repeated with a scoff.  “We were both speakers!”

Abigail was a little better at hiding any judgmental instinct; “How perfect,” she announced sweetly.

“She’s a real whiz with decryption though— look at this,” Ben instructed, handing the (condensed) page of your notes over to Abigail, who took it and tilted her head as she read to herself.  

“Wow,” she sighed, “you made quick work of it: Hamilton’s fortepiano?  That must be in a museum somewhere.”

“It’s still in his home in New York,” you replied quickly, “we already looked into it.”

“Did you help her at all with the solve?” Ben asked Riley suddenly, who turned to you with a slightly mischievous look in his eyes.  

He was sure that was exactly what you were picturing him doing— he’d made it pretty clear what he’d do once you hung up, and you’d made it pretty difficult to do anything else with the way you were talking.  You’d been winding him up on purpose, of course; so yes, you could easily imagine him making a mad dash to his room and slamming the door— if you really ever thought about him outside of those phone calls.

That was the thing Angus couldn’t figure out about you.  Well, there were probably a lot of other things than that, but it was the quandary he spent the most time pondering: does she think about me?

Whenever he mustered the courage to ask you something to that effect, you would either change the subject or give a half-answer.  Something about how you had a dream about him the other night or how your parents asked about him— never what he was really asking.

But, frankly, at that moment as he shut his dorm room door and jumped into bed, whether or not you thought about him much was not as pertinent an issue.  Right then, all he could think about was getting his hand around his raging boner; his mind was just playing everything you’d said to him over the phone on repeat.

I’m touching myself right now, you’d whispered in a sultry voice, I’m so wet, Angus— fuck, I’m so wet…

He’d never had to work so hard to keep a straight face on the phone before… he figured if anyone was really looking, they’d notice how red he was turning or how he kept shifting uncomfortably.  And he told you just as much, which of course only encouraged you.  Don’t want them to know, huh? you’d taunted. Don’t want the other boys to find out you’re listening to me get off?

And no, he didn’t— you were such a precious thing, the boys here didn’t even deserve to imagine you— but when you offered to stop if it was too distracting, he only found himself shakily begging for more.

As he quickly opened his khaki pants and gripping his cock, he hissed through his teeth; his ego could barely take all you’d said about that cock, about how thick and ‘perfect’ (you used that exact word, perfect, and he thought he might float) it was, about how you wished you could come around it right then instead of your fingers.

“It’s all yours,” he mumbled to himself, under his breath, not even really noticing he was saying it aloud.  “You want it, baby?  It’s all fucking yours.”

He groaned as he stroked himself, the precum that had been leaking from his tip for a while making everything even easier.  Shutting his eyes tight, he pictured you, like he always did: all of you, everything, anything he could remember.

You ever think about me? you’d asked him over the phone— and he’d blurted out his always before he even realized you meant while he was getting off.  It was still true, but more specific than necessary.  He craved to hear you say it: I think about you too.  But he didn’t ask, and you just went back to moaning while you rubbed your clit— which, apparently, was already swollen and throbbing— and, well, he wasn’t strong enough to interrupt that.

“Fuck,” he grunted, deep in the back of his throat, finally letting his pace pick up until his hand was a blur: after all that anticipation and all that waiting, there was no use trying to hold back now.  It wasn’t like you were here to worry about him coming too fast, even though you’d still maintained you found it endearing when it happened.

He repeated your voice in his head, the moment that had made him worry he would blow his load in his trousers before he could even get off the phone and back to his room: I’m gonna come for you, you’d warned him in the most beautiful moaning voice, Angus— I want you so bad, oh god— I’m gonna come for you, fuck…

His lip caught between his teeth, his hips rocked up into his own palm.  “Yes, fuck, baby,” he panted, “I— fuck!”

He tried to conjure in his mind how it had felt to come inside you, but he knew even his vivid imagination could never really capture the feeling; nothing could even come close.  Still, remembering it and letting himself indulge in his strangest fantasies for just a moment sent him over the edge.  His face flushed suddenly as he came in long, heavy pulses, the back of his free hand falling over his open mouth yet doing little to suppress his moans.

It was intense— it was certainly better than his orgasms usually were when brought on by himself— but it only satisfied him for a moment.  The moment he was finished, with a deep breath in and his hips relaxing back down onto the mattress, he wanted more— he wanted you.

His heavy eyes glanced to the side, trying to remember what it felt like to lie next to you.  He’d never felt lonely after jerking off before he met you; now getting off seemed to bring a new wave of heartbreak each time.

When he shook off the thought and looked down at himself, he frowned as he realized he’d ruined his own shirt doing that— not that he could fully bring himself to regret it.

No, his regrets only really began a few weeks later, when the nagging loneliness in the back of his mind finally got the better of him.

It was the middle of the night when he wrote it, after he woke up from a dream of you that he just couldn’t shake from his mind.  After checking that his roommate was fast asleep, Angus carefully slipped out of bed and tip-toed to the desk, and pulling out a box of cards and envelopes from one of the drawers.  (He thought he’d never use them when his mom sent them with him at the beginning of the year, but a lot had changed since then.)

Something about the ungodly hour made him more honest— or maybe just more shameless.  He wrote a frantic ramble, everything he’d wanted to say to you that he’d never had the courage to blurt out over the phone; all the feelings he’d felt since that incredible night in the backseat of your car, which he’d assumed would fade… which he’d tried to convince himself would fade.

Unfortunately, even the adrenaline of writing down the thoughts of you he’d been poring over for over a month wasn’t enough to overpower exhaustion: he awoke the next morning slumped over the desk, the pen still uncapped and fallen a few inches from his hand, the letter left folded open.

He awoke to the sound of someone’s door shutting down the hall, specifically; jumping and blinking quickly, he looked at the window— it was morning, though still quite early— and then at his roommate who was, thank god, still asleep.

Angus looked back at the letter in front of him, only making out a few words in his brief glance, before his cheeks began to heat up and he quickly folded it shut.  As more footsteps moved through the hall, the boy in the bed nearby stirred and grumbled to himself, and Angus quickly snatched up the letter and shoved it in his book bag before he was caught red-handed.

Ironically, that little commotion was what actually got the other boy’s attention.  “What are you doing at the desk?” he asked groggily, rubbing one of his eyes with the back of his palm.

“Oh, I, uh— I had to do some late night cramming,” Angus explained nervously, “that big Geography test coming up and all…”

The half-awake boy seemed to notice for a moment that the story didn’t really make sense, on account of the empty desk, but he simply shrugged and tossed his blanket aside to get up as well.

For the rest of the day, Angus couldn’t think straight— and not just because of his mediocre rest and achy back from the absolutely terrible sleep posture he’d had.  He couldn’t stop thinking about the letter, even if he honestly couldn’t remember for certain everything he’d said… he couldn’t stop wondering if he should send it to you.  He almost didn’t want to read it again first— he wanted you to read it in its most authentic state, he wanted to mail it before he chickened out just like he had when you said you two could just stay casual.  Even if it made his heart race and his palms especially clammy, Angus decided in the middle of that goddamned Geography test that he was going to mail that letter tonight after dinner: he was finally just going to man up and tell you.

Of course, something went horribly wrong along the way: he made a fatal mistake.  Looking back on it, he couldn’t tell for certain if his mistake was falling for you in the first place, or writing the infamous letter, or shoulder-checking Kountze without holding on tight enough to his bag.

The argument that happened beforehand was petty and forgettable, even if it gathered a small crowd of Kountze’s friends, but it ended with Angus trying to walk away a tad… aggressively, and with Kountze grabbing him by the strap of his bag which not only knocked Angus off-balance but spilled the contents onto the floor of the dorm’s shared room.

Everyone saw the books and papers hit the ground; everyone saw the off-white cardstock land right on top.  Angus reached for the letter quickly, but Kountze beat him there, and held it back with a snicker.

“Well, well,” Kountze tutted proudly, “what’s this?”

“H-hey, don’t read that,” Angus warned, hoping the seriousness of his tone would somehow affect the other boy— but, obviously, it did not.  Kountze started to open it and Angus instantly made a dive for it, only to be stopped by three other students who apparently were curious as well about the letter.  “Don’t fucking read that!” Angus demanded.

“Oh god, it’s to a girl!” he realized.  “Do you have a girlfriend, Tully?”

“I swear to god, Kountze, if you fucking read that—”

“I miss you,” Kountze began to read aloud as Angus thrashed around to try to stop him, “I miss you so much I don’t even know what to say.”

The boys holding Angus back were enraptured as Kountze read the letter; “Do you guys pay this much attention in class?” he mocked them, though they were ignoring him completely as they waited for the other boy to keep reading.

“I feel like I can’t breathe without you— aw, Tully, you’re a poet,” Kountze mocked with a smile.  Angus’ heart raced as he remembered what part of the letter came next.  “Not a day goes by where I don’t think about you and your smile— Jesus, this is some really sappy shit— or what it’s like talking with you for hours, or how it feels—”

He stopped, and Angus froze, and after a moment the group of boys started demanding the conclusion.  “What— what does it say?!” “Read it, Kountze!”

“How it feels to be inside you,” Kountze continued with wide eyes, staring at Angus’ bright red face as the other boys began to react loudly.

Angus renewed his struggle against the kids holding him back, but even though he was taller than them, he was severely outnumbered.  “Stop— that’s personal!” Angus demanded to no avail.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back to my hand after having you,” Kountze continued with a laugh.  “From what I hear from your roommate, Tully, your hand is treating you just fine.”

“Shut up,” Angus hissed, but his words had lost their bite as his humiliation grew.

“I should’ve told you before I left—” he started, but finally Angus found some new strength within himself to shake off the boys holding him back: he dove at Kountze and took him down, scrambling to snatch the card away.  He was going to be satisfied with just that, but of course Kountze still had to open his mouth, even when Angus had him pinned.  “Jesus, Tully,” he scoffed, “how ugly is this chick that you got her to sleep with you?”

Angus brought a fist swiftly down to Kountze’s nose, who groaned in pain and held his face as Angus got up and ran away.  The other boys let him pass, thankfully, and Angus wasted no time getting to his room and slamming the door behind him.

Defiantly wiping a tear from his cheek, Angus took a quick look at the letter— wrinkled, stained and scuffed from the fight with Kountze— and crumpled it up, tossing it into his wastebasket before throwing himself onto his bed and hiding his head under the pillow.

He was stupid to even write it, let alone consider sending it; it was no use, you obviously didn’t feel the same way about him that he did about you.  You were the one who said it should just be what it was— a fling.  But Angus felt like he’d been flung directly into hell, the way it tore into his chest to imagine you didn’t really want him.

Even if he never read the letter again that day, he remembered how it ended— and it was the part he couldn’t get out of his mind even when he wanted more than anything to forget it all.

Is this what love feels like?

//

It reminded you a lot of that dinner over Christmas break, except somehow, it seemed like he was staring at you even more.  Shouldn’t he have gotten that out of his system a bit by now?

But then again, maybe you should’ve been more used to it, since it had been over an hour of picking away at this quail dinner, and he’d barely taken his eyes off of you.  Something about him looked different; it was basically impossible that he could’ve visibly aged in just a couple months, and yet he seemed like he was carrying just a bit more age on those thin shoulders.  Maybe it was just the slight five-o-clock shadow over his jaw— but, no, there was a different look in his eyes, too—

Realizing you were, in fact, staring back at him, you quickly snapped your gaze back down to your plate.

You’d been wanting a chance to talk to him before this dinner, to hopefully prevent exactly this issue, but once the dinner ended you found yourself avoiding him.  Of course you weren’t ready to talk to him— of course you had a million thoughts in your head and half of them didn’t even make sense.

For once, you actually tried to talk to all of your parents’ snooty friends, repeating the same answers over and over about how you were going to graduate school in the fall and how you were looking forward to your family’s Paris trip in the summer and all that jazz.  It was worth it to keep Angus off your back for a moment, even if you could still feel his eyes boring into said back from time to time.

Midway through a mind-numbingly boring conversation (if something so one-sided could be called a conversation) with the Gordons about renovations they’d done on their summer house, you glanced around the room over your shoulder and noticed that Angus was apparently absent.  His parents were still there, sitting on a couch— that is, his mom and stepdad— so he couldn’t be far, but out of view he was far enough.  Figuring he’d gone to the kitchen or the restroom, you figured it was the perfect time to disappear into the downstairs bedroom and, hopefully, hide out for the rest of the party.  Excusing yourself quickly, you made a polite dash for the other end of the room.

And yet, somehow, he appeared out of thin air; as you turned down the hallway, only a dim lamp on an antique credenza lighting your way, you heard Angus’ hushed voice behind you.  He laid his hand on your shoulder, and the moment you turned to face him, he was on you— his weight pressed you into the wall and you felt trapped in a way that was annoyingly pleasant.

“God, I missed you,” he breathed, kissing you hard and sudden; you whimpered a little, nearly melting into it, before you pushed him back at his shoulders.

“A-Angus, wait,” you sighed.  “You, um… you didn’t call for a while.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, “um, I’m sorry— I just got busy with midterms and stuff— but I really wanted to!”

He moved like he was about to kiss you again, but you kept your hand on his chest to keep him away.  “I wanted to tell you…” you trailed off.

“Tell me what?”

“You remember Brian Stevenson?” 

“Oh— um, yeah, I guess so,” Angus frowned a little, clearly confused by what seemed like a non sequitur.  “I used to go over to his house when I was little, although it was just to play with his little brother, but… yeah, I remember him.”

“I’ve been sorta, y’know… going with him,” you explained, hesitantly meeting Angus’ gaze just in time to see the most terrible sadness cover his face.

“O-oh,” he choked out, quickly stepping back from you and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, twisting your loafer-clad foot on the carpet nervously.  “It’s just, you know, he asked me out a couple weeks ago, and ever since then—”

“So is he, like, your boyfriend?” Angus pressed.  You nodded.  He looked away.  “Right— that’s… cool.  That’s cool.”

You bit your lip slightly, hating that he wouldn’t look at you all of a sudden.  “Angus, it’s just that, you know, we said—”

“Right,” he interrupted sharply.  “Right, I remember what we said— what you said, that we weren’t— you know.  That it wasn’t anything.”

“I didn’t say that—” you tried to correct him.

“You said you were mine,” he added suddenly, making your eyes widen.  “Did you even mean that?”

“I— Angus, come on,” you laughed nervously.  “That’s… that’s just something people say…”

He scoffed, and looked to the side as he pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek; contempt looked sort of good on him, you thought, except that it was directed at you.  He was trying to hide it, but his eyes were watering.

“I’m sorry,” you began but he cut you off right away.

“No, don’t do that,” he shook his head quickly, crossing his arms and staring down at the floor.  “Don’t lie to me anymore.”

“No— I really am,” you tried to assure.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he insisted sharply.  “It’s— you know, it is what it is.  It was just one of those things.”

“If it’s fine, then look at me,” you pleaded.  He didn’t.  And for a long moment, the two of you stood there, still and silent.

“It’s fine,” he repeated softly, turning on his heel.

“Angus, wait,” you hissed, not wanting to raise your voice with all the guests not too far away— of course, it was fruitless, and he briskly blended back in with the crowd.

Sighing, you dropped your head into your hands.  That wasn’t how you ever wanted this to go, you never wanted to hurt him; honestly, you’d assumed he’d be irritated, but not… sad.  Not devastated.  Of course he would prefer to be getting laid, but you figured he wouldn’t have too much trouble finding some other girl to screw around with— sometimes, you’d wondered if he already had.

It was supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be casual, it was supposed to be fun.  You couldn’t think of anything you’d ever done, or anything you’d ever felt, that was less fun than this.

//

It made a strange sort of sense that the next time you saw him was at another party.  Of course, this party was entirely different from the last one: for one, it was hosted by your boyfriend, and there sure as hell wasn’t any quail.  There was a lot more alcohol, though.

You were hanging off to the side, not feeling quite up for mixing in with the crowd as they danced to the record Brian had put on.  Even if they spared you from the same boring questions that your parents’ friends bombarded you with, they were uninteresting in their own way as every conversation seemed to come back to politics or pot.

Brian startled you a bit by coming up beside you, resting his hand on the small of your back.  “Hey,” he greeted, and you smiled up at him.  Your eyes lingered on his face— he looked… grown up.  It was probably just because he had a beard; he certainly didn’t always act grown up, but overall, Brian was perfectly acceptable.  He’d asked you out, he’d actually had the bravery for that, so that was a great head start.

You tried to shake the thought out of your mind, looking away from him; it wasn’t a head start because this wasn’t a race.  Who, after all, would he be racing against?

For some reason, your eyes turned to the front door— and you bit your lip as you saw Angus coming inside, slipping off his coat and looking around the room (for you, presumably).  He looked even more haggard than before: a little pale, eyes sunken and dark, and he definitely hadn’t shaved since you saw him.

Brian looked to find where you were staring, and frowned slightly.  “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, um— Angus Tully, his parents are friends with mine, I used to babysit him when he was a kid.”

You knew that wasn’t really what he was asking, so you weren’t surprised when he got to the point more directly: “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, hoping Brian wouldn’t somehow figure out that your heart was racing.

Brian’s hand moved up to your shoulder and gave it a squeeze, just as Angus noticed you and hurriedly shoved his way through the crowd to come face-to-face with you.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” he asked, his voice raspy and hurried as he took a quick glance at Brian in his peripheral.

“Um— sure,” you agreed awkwardly, not sure which answer would be less suspicious.  Of course, when you glanced at Brian, he just looked mildly annoyed— bored, even.  You realized in that moment that you didn’t need to worry about him suspecting you and Angus of anything, because he barely registered Angus’ existence: he certainly wouldn’t acknowledge him as some kind of sexual threat.

“Privately,” Angus added— and that actually got Brian’s attention, though he seemed more aware of your discomfort than anything.

“Anything you wanna say to her, you can say in front of me,” Brian assured firmly, and Angus swallowed anxiously— it was obvious from the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Actually, uh, somebody was looking for you out front,” Angus told him.  “Something about a keg getting delivered to the wrong house?”

“Shit,” Brian hissed, dropping his hand from your shoulder and looking towards the door again.  “Fucking idiots…”

Having made quick work of Brian, Angus put his attention back on you.  “Let’s go outside,” he suggested.

“W-we can just talk here,” you tried to say, but he was already grabbing your wrist and guiding you out; why did your heart still skip when he touched you?

Once he’d taken you through the kitchen and out to the back porch— where you could still hear the music and chatter, but it was much quieter— you spoke.

“Angus, I really am sorry about— you know— but you can’t just—” you started.

“It’s not over yet,” he insisted, surprising you with his intensity; you leaned back against the wooden railing, and he stood just a little too close with those dark brown eyes piercing through you.

“If you tell me you’re happy with Brian, I’ll leave you alone,” Angus decided, puffing up his chest a bit.

“I’m happy with Brian,” you said sternly.

A brief moment passed.  “Okay, I lied,” Angus admitted.

“Jesus,” you hissed.

“But only because I don’t believe you!” he explained.  “We were so good together.”

“Yeah, we were,” you admitted, “but… it’s over now.”

“No— it’s not.  It can’t be!” he insisted with a whine, and you scoffed as you shook your head.

“Angus, you’re being childish,” you scolded.

“Oh, don’t say that,” he grimaced.  “Don’t hold that against me— I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Of course you’re not— but you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Damn right I’m not!” he spat.  “You’re all I could think about, for months!  Months, I couldn’t fucking get you out of my head!  And not just the, you know, the dirty stuff— everything.  Every moment I spent with you, every dumb thing we talked about for hours, every time you laughed at one of my shitty jokes—”

“Angus, please,” you breathed, glancing down; you could only take so much of this, and you worried he was figuring that out.

“Does he make you laugh?” Angus pressed, stepping a bit closer to you.  “Does he make you feel special?  Does he make you come?”

“Yes,” you said sharply, “he’s great, okay?  I’m happy— so please just stop fucking this up for me.”

“Okay, fine,” he conceded, “you’re happy, I believe you.  But… but what about me, y’know?  He doesn’t need you like I do.”

Your face warmed up and you crossed your arms tighter, staring down at the ground.

“Of course he likes you— who wouldn’t?  But he couldn’t even imagine how I feel about you— how long I’ve been thinking about you.  I mean, I’ve wanted you since I was a kid!  You’re my dream girl!”

“That’s— that has nothing to do with me,” you tried to explain.  “That’s a fantasy!”

“But it’s real, baby,” he sighed, bringing his hands up to gently hold your arms at either side.  “It’s so real, you know it is.”

You didn’t even have the heart to deny it— or to tell him not to call you that.  You knew if you looked up at him, you wouldn’t be able to fight him anymore; he must’ve known that, too, because he delicately lifted your chin until you met his gaze.

And then he kissed you: tender, sweet, and shameless.  He didn’t care if anyone saw, if anyone knew— even Brian.  You, on the other hand, still cared enough to try to stop him; but even you couldn’t resist a kiss like this, and you found your hands pulling him closer as quickly as they’d tried to push him away.

He took you home, without another word about what this meant or where you stood with each other.  You snuck him into your room and he climbed into bed with you and he touched you like he’d been waiting a lot longer than just a few months for this moment.  Frankly, you were beginning to realize that you’d been waiting a lot longer for this, too.

Before, Angus had always been talkative during sex— sometimes annoyingly so.  But this time, he didn’t say a damn thing; neither of you did.  And yet, somehow, just by the way he looked at you, just by the way he held you, just by the way he moved inside you... you felt like you heard more than you ever had.

//

You sat next to each other on the bench, staring forward into the dark treeline ahead— there was still a layer of frost around their roots, and a new snow had begun to fall even if it wasn’t cold enough for it to stick on the pavement.  You tried not to look at him too long, in case it made this any harder, but you did appreciate that he seemed a bit more put together than he had the last time you went a few days without seeing him.  He was clean-shaven, too… is it wrong that you kinda missed the stubble?

“Thanks for, you know… giving me a couple days to think about it,” you mumbled, and he nodded.

“I thought you might have somewhere better to be on a Friday night,” he said— trying to lighten the mood a bit, you could tell; trying to make you comfortable.

“Well, even if I did, I think this needs to be done,” you explained, and he pressed his lips together a bit.

He waited patiently, though, for you to break the silence and explain yourself, even if he didn’t seem too surprised when you did it.

“It was a mistake,” you decided.  “It was great, but it was a mistake— and I’d really appreciate if we could just… let it go.  And if you didn’t tell Brian.”

“Okay,” he nodded slowly.  “I wasn’t gonna tell him.  But I still think you should dump him.”

“Well, that’s my decision,” you reminded him, crossing your arms.

“I know,” he breathed.

You could already tell, just by the way the next silence began, that he was going to interrupt it with something stupid… you just never expected how stupid.

“The thing is— I love you,” he blurted out suddenly, turning to look at you again as your eyes widened.  “I fucking love you.”

“Angus, I— you can’t—!” you choked out, but he continued before you could try to think of a response.

“I know I do— don’t say I don’t know what that is, or that I’m too young or something stupid like that,” he pleaded.  “I know how I feel, okay?  When you miss somebody this much, when you think about somebody this much— what else could love be, but that?”

You sighed, looking away, and he moved closer to you on the bench.  Even if you knew it was preposterous that someone else would be in the park at the end of the street at this time of night, you still fought the urge to look over your shoulder.

“Don’t tell me I’m crazy,” he breathed.  “You love me too, don’t you?  I mean— I thought you basically forgot I existed, but last night… that sort of thing doesn’t just happen, does it?  It’s not… it’s not usually like that.”

“No, it’s not,” you admitted, “that was different.”

He perked up, smiling wide when you looked at him again.  “Just say it,” he begged, “say you love me too— ‘cause I know you do.”

“I— Angus, it’s more complicated than that,” you explained.  “We’re still— there’s Brian, for one thing… we can’t really go on like this, you know that.”

“I know— I don’t want to keep doing this.  I want to really be together,” he replied.  You tried to turn your body away from his slightly, but he grabbed your hands and held them tight until you looked at him again.  “I’m almost done with high school— I’ll go to college where you’re going for grad school!”

You shook your head.  “No, you can’t do that.”

“Just think about it: us, together— we could actually go on real dates, and go to college parties together, and, like, study out at the library— or, you know, whatever you college kids do,” he fantasized.  You smiled, but shook your head again.

“We… we can’t do that,” you denied.

He frowned, and turned away from you, staring darkly at the ground.  “I knew it,” he mumbled, shaking his head.  “You’re embarrassed— you’re ashamed of me.”

“What?!” you blurted out.  “Angus, no—”

“It’s okay,” he said in a terribly unconvincing way, crossing his arms.  “I don’t blame you: I’m just some dumb kid from your hometown.  You want a guy your age— not some random freshman… you want something better.”

“That’s bullshit,” you replied instantly, “you can do so much better.”

“C’mon, I’ll never do better than you,” he insisted.

Even though he’d misunderstood you, your heart still swelled a bit at the compliment.  “I meant for college, Angus,” you explained, and he deflated a little.  “You can do a lot better than a state school.”

“Well, I, um… I don’t know if I can,” he admitted nervously.  “My grades are kinda… inconsistent.  And I went to so many different high schools—”

“Who gives a shit?” you scoffed.  “You’re fucking smart— way smarter than anybody else here.  You act like an idiot sometimes, but you’re eighteen, it kinda comes with the territory.”

He frowned, but couldn’t exactly deny it.

“You deserve to go somewhere amazing,” you told him.  “You need to go somewhere amazing— and do something amazing.”

For a long moment, he just stared out into the dark; until, suddenly, he whipped his head back around at you with a quizzical look on his face.  “Wait— is that what this is all about?”

“What?”

“Do you not want to be with me because you think you’d, like, hold me back or something?” he accused.

You blinked quickly; something about the way he said be with me caught you off-guard— like it was a term much more mature than you had expected from him.  Instead of answering directly, you just stammered.  “Well, y-you’re young, and—” 

He cut you off quickly with a laugh.  “Oh my god!  You think I give a shit about that?”

“No,” you shot back, “but you should.  You realize how fucking dumb it would be to change your whole life for the first person you ever slept with?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds dumb,” he admitted, looking down at his feet swinging over the edge.  “But what if it’s somebody that, you know, you think you really have a shot with?  What if it’s somebody that you feel like you can’t live without?  Somebody that makes you finally get all those songs you hear on the radio—”

“It only feels like this to you because you’ve never felt anything else,” you explained gently.  “It’s your first love.  It fades.”

“But I don’t want it to,” he said instantly, looking at you with the most heartbreaking eyes you’d ever seen.  “God, I don’t want it to.”

You looked up at him as his hand brushed over your face, and felt tears welling before you could fight them off; he kissed you, in a way that you thought he might have never really kissed you before.  In a way nobody had kissed you before, in fact.  It wasn’t very long, but it felt like it might as well have gone on forever.

When he broke away, he kept his eyes shut, and he pressed his forehead to yours as his thumb stroked your cheek.  “Tell me it doesn’t have to end,” he breathed, “please.  Tell me it’s not going to end.”

“It has to,” you whispered back, watching his shoulders sink and bringing your hand up to clutch at his chest.  “It has to end, someday.”

You took a shaky breath, watching a tear fall from his jaw onto your arm, feeling everything you’d held back finally breaking through as your grip on shirt tightened and your lip began to quiver.

“But it doesn’t have to be tonight,” you sighed.

Gasping with relief and joy simultaneously, he kissed you again, and pulled you closer at your waist, and wrapped you up in his arms tightly.

There was, of course, this nagging voice at the back of your mind— that maybe it didn’t have to end.  And god, you wanted to silence that thought permanently if you could, because it had never done you any good.  That hope had only ever led to pain before.  But, without it, nothing would ever really have a chance: if you weren’t willing to risk the heartache, you’d never let yourself love Angus the way that he deserved and the way that you knew, deep down, you already did.

So, as he kissed you that way you thought people only kissed in movies, and whispered to you those words you thought people only said because they were poets and dreamers, you realized that maybe it didn’t have to end someday.  Maybe he would spend the next several years of your lives convincing you that you didn’t need to protect yourself from your own feelings.  Maybe he would actually have the patience to break down walls he never built, to fix wounds he didn’t leave.  Maybe he was ready to give you something to believe in, something worth taking risks for while you were still young and reckless.  Maybe he, like the oncoming equinox, would melt your ice so new life could grow.

Or, maybe, this feeling he had really would fade once he gained a little more life experience; maybe you would make too many mistakes for him to forgive.  Maybe you would always be friends, or maybe you would have too much history to be able to see each other again.  Maybe you would grow apart— maybe you would have to brace yourself for that, to sit next to him on a cold dorm room mattress as you both realized it just wasn’t working anymore.

The most important thing that you realized in that moment— that eternal moment in his arms, in the dark, in the last snow of Spring— was that it didn’t matter.  It didn’t have to be forever to be perfect; it didn’t have to be the ending to be beautiful.  He loved you.  Even if you were still trying to figure out why, he loved you; and that was true, and real, and special.  His love couldn’t fix you, but it made you feel fixable, and you hadn’t seen yourself that way in a long time— you could only dream that you might see yourself the way he saw you.

When you pulled back from the kiss for a moment, you smiled wide— you laughed, actually— and sniffled as he wiped your tears away.  “I love you,” you told him, and even though he kissed you again, you didn’t stop saying it.  You wanted to keep it on your lips until it didn’t scare you anymore; you wanted to keep your heart open, even if it made you vulnerable, maybe because it made you vulnerable.  After all, you couldn’t ever be sure it wouldn’t come back to bite you… if you could, it wouldn’t mean anything.

Even though all you said to him was I love you, each one meant something a bit different.  I trust you.  I’m not sure I’m ready, but I’m going to try.  I’m sorry.  I’m so glad I met you.  I’ll never forget you.  Please don’t let me go.

Somehow, you felt like he heard each one.  Each time he told you that he loved you, though, you heard the same thing: I won’t let you go, ever.

//

Easter Mass was relatively pleasant, if a little too long.  You did notice Angus sitting with his family, across the aisle and a few rows back, but you only gave him a quick wave before the service started and managed to resist glancing back at him after that.

The best part of Easter was always afterwards, though: you stood at the furthest end of the lawn, in front of the ivy-covered exterior wall of the chapel, as children ran around snatching up colorful eggs to collect for their baskets.  Even if it was totally stupid, and irrelevant to the actual message of the holiday that the priest had just spent the whole service hammering in, you got a kick out of the fancy clothes and tiny dress shoes, the squeals of delight, the candy and toys in bright pastels.  You were just thankful the weather had warmed up in the nick of time for all the festivities— indoor egg hunts never have quite the same effect.

Angus sauntered up beside you, sipping on a styrofoam cup of complimentary coffee, and you didn’t even look at each other, but you both smiled.

“They’re cute,” he stated after a little while.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“Do you wanna have a kid?” he asked, and you gave him a hesitant glance only to find him looking right back at you— his expression was friendly, but neutral enough that you couldn’t read if he meant having a kid with him or just, you know, in general.

Deciding it must be the second one, you let out a soft, nervous laugh.  “Uh, I dunno… maybe someday,” you offered, as non-committal as possible.

“How about right now?” he challenged, lowering his voice slightly, but not enough to stop you from glancing around to make sure nobody heard.

“Angus, fucking Christ,” you coughed.  “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not,” he shrugged.  “I mean, maybe I’m not being literal, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being serious.”

“Well… we can’t,” you mumbled, looking out at the lawn again, hoping not to stand out too much.  “Not here.”

“I know, I know,” he agreed, and the two of you fell back into a silence— an oddly comfortable one, even.  You crossed your arms as you watched the kids run around and he kept sipping on his coffee.  After a few moments, though, you spoke again.

“Meet you in the Sunday school room in the West wing in five minutes?”

“Yup,” he said, already turning to leave.  You smiled slightly to yourself, glancing down at your white shoes planted in the grass.  Even on such a delicately-manicured lawn, wildflowers were already springing up— little periwinkle diamonds scattered here and there.

“I guess you’ll just see me at Easter break then, huh?” you purred, grazing your teeth over his ear.

“You know, if sex with you keeps lining up with the Catholic calendar, it’s gonna give me a complex or something,” he noticed.

“Oh, I can do better than that,” you beamed.  “Next time you see me at Mass, I won’t be wearing any panties.  And you’ll be the only other one who knows.”

He perked up again, balancing himself over you with bent arms against the mattress.  “I swear, you’re a dream come true.  A really fucked up dream I had after seeing a porno mag or something.”

You laughed, but it was cut off with him pulling you into another kiss— sweet and slow, with both of you smiling against each other.  With your limbs tangled together under the sheets, you melted together into your bed; and no, none of it really seemed real yet.  Every time this happened, you couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that you were hooking up with Angus Tully.  Frankly, you were sort of trying not to think about it, at least not too much.  If you really tried, you could look at his face and see the little kid you babysat all those years ago, and it just made you feel sort of awful about it… yet you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

Your smile fell into a gasp when he started to kiss your neck, his hands guiding your back as it arched slightly.  When he pressed his body against yours, you felt him getting hard against your leg, and you groaned softly.

“Fuck, Angus, again?” you whined.  “We already went twice—”

“I’m leaving in two days,” he explained, “I need you as many times as I can get away with it.”

You wanted to protest, say something about how sore you were or about how he needed to leave and go back home before someone noticed he was gone— but his slender fingers were already diving between your legs and making you just moan instead.

“See?  You’re wet already,” he noticed with a playful mockery to his tone.  “I’ve gotta take care of you, baby…”

Oh, you couldn’t stand it when he talked like that— when he made you feel so vulnerable to him, so paradoxically submissive.  When this started a couple weeks back, it was the other way around: you were the cool, older woman with all the power.  You told him what you wanted and he was more than happy to oblige, never questioning you— he was obedient, basically.  But once you’d had a few more encounters, he realized that you wanted him just as badly… that he could make you desperate, if he wanted.  Once he’d had the smallest taste of control, he was suddenly a changed man; now, he loved to tease and taunt you, see how far he could push you, even once he made you beg— and you expected you’d never get to live that down. 

He watched your face with a mischievous smile as he slowly slid two fingers into you, watching the way you winced and then relaxed.  “I’ll be careful,” he promised, “I know you’re all sensitive still… thought you might wake up the whole house with that last one.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks flushed, remembering how he’d had to cover your mouth with his hand when he made you come.  These were issues you hadn’t considered much before, since you spent most of the year living in a dorm where you didn’t really care if anyone heard what you were up to.  Staying in your parents’ house again— and secretly fucking their friends’ son in your childhood bedroom— posed new challenges to say the least.

You gasped when his fingers curled inside you, rubbing that spot that made everything clench for a moment.  “Mm,” he observed encouragingly, “like that?”

“Yes,” you hissed under your breath.  Just when you began to let your eyes fall shut, they shot open when he added a third finger inside you.  “Fuck!” 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” he scolded, “you can fit three fingers just fine— my cock’s bigger than all that anyways.”

He twisted the fingers inside you as your hips rocked, shivers running over your skin.  “Yeah, but still— fuck, it’s a lot…”

“You take it just fine,” he assured.  “You take whatever I give you, huh?”

“Sh-shut up,” you whimpered, and he laughed softly.

“You’re so good for me,” he continued anyways, making you bite your lip in hopes he wouldn’t notice his effect on you.  Whenever he said stuff like that, you just wanted to ask him who the fuck he thought he was— it made you want to shove him off of you and pin him down, remind him of his place.  But you never did, because letting him take control always felt so damn good…

His head dipped down a bit under the covers— and his lips latched onto one of your nipples, making you gasp and grab his hair with one of your hands.  “Oh god— yes,” you praised, shuddering a bit as he suckled hard on the bud.

He moaned around it, his free hand holding the other breast and keeping you down even when your back longed to arch deeper.  “You get so wet when I do this,” he noticed as he pulled away briefly, moving to suck the other for a moment as his fingers gently pumped into you.  When he pushed them in all the way to the knuckle, at the same time that his tongue swirled around your nipple just right, your patience finally gave in.

“Just fuck me,” you begged, tugging harder on his curls as you felt him smile against your skin.  “God, I just— fuck—”

He pulled away from your breast with a pop and a grin.  “Just ask nicely, baby, and I’m all yours.”

“I know you want to, just fuck me,” you growled, but he shook his head and you clenched your jaw.

“You can say it,” he encouraged, “just use the magic word.”

You rolled your eyes, hating the juvenile way of describing it, but his fingers were still moving inside you and you just needed it too bad— “Please,” you breathed.  “Please fuck me.”

“There you go,” he praised, slowly pulling his drenched fingers out of you and moving his hips to line up with yours instead.  He was so hard; you were almost impressed with his resolve, though at the moment you were mostly just annoyed with it.  “Look up at me,” he demanded, making you meet his gaze before he pushed himself inside you.

It was almost too intense, looking right into his eyes as he thrust into you carefully— you bit your lip, watching the heavy sigh of relief leave him as he filled you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his eyes scanning all over your face and watching your expression change as he pressed his cock as deep as possible.  “You’re fucking perfect.”

You didn’t really believe that, but you at least would concede that this moment was perfect.

You held tighter onto him, legs wrapping around his hips, as he leaned in closer and moaned against your neck.  “How am I supposed to leave when you feel this fucking good?” he groaned lowly, and you felt yourself already beginning to pulse inside as you moved closer to the edge.  “I feel good too, right?”

Poor thing— if only he knew that it was his own fault you withheld praise, just because he sounded too precious when he asked you for reassurance like that.  He was really fucking talkative, way more than you expected; sometimes you thought if you didn’t say anything, he’d just go off on these wild tangents about how bad he needs you.  “You feel good,” you replied, trying to keep it a little vague so he’d ask for more.

“How good?” he asked with a grin, and you smiled, too, because he was wonderfully predictable sometimes.

“So good,” you cooed, “so fucking good that I’m gonna come way too fast.”

“Hey, that’s my thing,” he joked.  His stamina had definitely increased a lot in just a few encounters, but he still had a habit of coming quickly if you got him a bit too riled up.  Not that you really minded… it was still cute, after all, and he usually made it up to you one way or another.

He picked up his pace, letting out a low moan against your ear.  “Tell me you want me to come inside you,” he ordered, panting with each quick thrust.

“Fuck, Angus, I want you come,” you replied, whispering against his ear.  “I want you to fill me—”

“Fuck…”

“And put all your come so deep in me—”

“Fuck, baby,” he whined again.  “I’m so fucking close.”

You whined, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling your chest get tighter as you moved closer to the edge.

“Tell me you want me to breed you,” he added; okay, so much for predictable…

“Wh-what?” you choked, feeling suddenly hot all over.  “Angus, I—”

“I know, you won’t,” he soothed, “it’s just, you know, pretend… just say you want it, please.”

You swallowed but nodded, holding on tighter to the back of his neck.  “I… I want you to get me pregnant.”

“God, yes,” he whined through his teeth, fucking you faster.

“I-I want you to fill me up so I can have a baby,” you continued in a whisper, and he moaned again as his grip on your hips tightened.  You could hardly believe what you were saying, nor that he had asked you to say it, and yet it made the most wonderfully bizarre feeling stir inside you— strangest of all, it was turning you on.  “F-fuck, Angus, I’m gonna come.”

“You’re gonna come with me?” he pressed, sighing when you nodded.  “Fuck, let’s do it— we’ll come together.  That’ll definitely get you pregnant.”

“Jesus, Angus,” you hissed, “what are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t get you hot, thinking about it?” he challenged.  “Thinking about us making a baby right now?  Imagining how good it would feel to let me breed you and make you a mommy?”

“Sh-shut the fuck up,” you grunted, but you were already trying to hold it back.

“God, you want it so bad,” he noticed— how was he only this perceptive in these sorts of situations?  “You want me to come in you and knock you up, I can tell.  You’re gonna come just thinking about it.”

Even though it wasn’t really just thinking about it— it was him fucking you deep and fast and hard after a whole night of making love— you were forced to bite your lip and nod.

“C’mon, baby, I wanna feel it again,” he purred.  “Feels so fucking perfect when you come around me— you’re mine, aren’t you?”

Your heart jumped and your eyes shut tight.  “God,” you groaned in frustration, but he just smiled and held you tighter.

“It’s okay,” he cooed, “nobody has to know, it’s just me— you’re mine, right?  Say it.  Say you’re mine.”

You whined when it hit you— and nothing had ever hit you quite like that.  Tensing up inside, pulsing uncontrollably, you felt the weight on your chest lift and you dug your nails into his shoulders as he fucked you through it.  “Fuck!  I-I’m yours!” you blurted out, unable to stop it when you were drowning in your ecstasy like that.

He swore against your ear, and gave you hardly one more thrust before falling over the edge himself, groaning weakly as his body sank down onto yours.

You hoped against all odds that he wouldn’t force you to address any of what you’d just said; he looked so exhausted that you almost wanted to let him fall asleep here if it meant avoiding that conversation.  But it was just like him to only give you about ten seconds of silence before running his mouth again.

He started by just sitting up enough to kiss you on the cheek, then the lips, then the side of your forehead when you turned away.  “That was so hot,” he announced, still catching his breath, as he grinned down at you.

“That was… different,” you admitted as you hoped your embarrassment wouldn’t show on your face.  “You weren’t serious, right?  I mean, you know I’m on the pill—”

“Yeah, of course,” he assured, “it’s just, I don’t know, a fantasy.”

You raised an eyebrow as you looked at him.  “Respectfully, I thought it was more of a nightmare— you know, it’s kinda worst-case-scenario here.”

“No, no, I know— that’s why it’s fun,” he explained.  “‘Cause it’s, like, bad.  Well, not bad, but… scary.  In a good way!  Like a rollercoaster or something.”

“Yeah, sure,” you scoffed, “just like a rollercoaster.  That’s why the maternity ward at the hospital looks so much like Six Flags.”

“You know what I mean,” he laughed.  “It’s just… if it actually happened it would be a huge fucking deal… but just imagining it, just for fun I mean, it makes my heart race.  See?”

He picked up one of your hands and put it on his neck, pressing your fingers into his pulse so you could feel its rapidness.  “Fair enough,” you shrugged, “you sure scared the crap out of me for a second.”

“You liked it,” he cooed, kissing the tip of your nose.  “You like being mine, too.”

Even if you could’ve hid the reaction on your face somehow, the way your weak muscles still found the energy to clench around his softening cock gave you away; he purred as he smiled, kissing you more tenderly on the lips this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered to you.

“I probably look like a mess,” you laughed quietly, “I don’t even want to know what my hair looks like after a night like this.”

“Yeah, that’s how I like you, though— you look pretty all fucked up,” he explained.

You glanced over as he moved to bury his face in your neck again, only to see the slightest blue glow in the window: the early light just before dawn.  “Angus, it’s almost morning,” you noticed.  “You need to go.”

“Not yet,” he begged, hugging you tighter.  “I bet I can make you come again—”

“No,” you snapped, “if your parents find out you snuck out— and if anyone knows you came here—”

“Baby, c’mon,” he pouted, “I’ll be quick, nobody’s gonna know—”

“I swear to god, Angus—”

“Fine, fine,” he sighed, “then just kiss me before I go.”

He held your cheek and turned your face to his, and you kissed him; you hated these kisses, the ones that felt like goodbye.  They were amazing, of course, but they always broke your heart.

“I’ll see you later?” he assumed.

“You’ll see me on Sunday,” you replied.

“Nooo, I can’t wait that long,” he whined.

“Yes you can,” you breathed.  “Now get up, please, before I have to literally kick you out.”

“Fine,” he relented, climbing off of you and searching the floor for his boxers and t-shirt.

“I still can’t believe you ran here without even putting a coat on,” you remembered, “it’s below freezing out.”

“Whatever, it’s not even a block to my house,” he rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Lindy across the street takes out the trash insanely early in the morning— what if he sees you running back to your house in the snow without any fucking clothes on?!” 

“He was young once, right?  He’ll understand,” Angus laughed.

“I’m hoping he doesn’t understand,” you groaned, “‘cause if he figures it out and tells my parents—”

“I know,” he breathed, slipping on his shoes and leaning over the bed to kiss you quickly.  “It’ll be fine, okay?”

“Okay,” you smiled back.

There was a brief pause before Angus dropped his arms down against his sides, hitting his legs; “Well, I… guess I’ll see you at Mass,” he announced.

“That’s gotta be the weirdest thing to say after hooking up with somebody,” you decided.

“I couldn’t think of anything else!” he defended.  “I’m about to jump out your window, it’s already a pretty weird transition.”

“Okay, first of all, please don’t jump,” you replied, “but fair enough.  I’ll see you at Mass.”

He hesitated, suddenly giving you one more kiss— one that lingered a little more— before opening your window and beginning to climb out.

~

Mass was certainly a lot more interesting when you kept feeling Angus’ eyes on you.  His family had been just barely on time for the service, so you hadn’t been able to talk to him before it started; you could tell he was dying to know if you’d gone through with it.

You tugged on the bottom of your dress as you adjusted yourself in the pew; it was definitely a weird feeling, and you couldn’t stop worrying that someone, somehow, would see up your skirt and get an eyeful.  The anxiety of it was oddly arousing, though— it made you understand a bit better what Angus had said about the whole scary in a good way thing.

When you occasionally spared a glance at him, you noticed that Angus still looked a little underslept; you’d both been up all night just a couple days ago, but the difference was that your parents didn’t really mind if you spent most of the next day in your room, so you’d had a chance to catch up— Angus’ parents were more determined to make use of his time off from school, and had him doing all kinds of chores and activities on Saturday that prevented him from getting more than a quick nap here and there.

And they’d tugged him out of bed bright and early for church today, so he was probably still feeling the effects of an all-nighter.  That said, he certainly didn’t seem lacking in energy at the moment— he kept wringing his hands, constantly glancing at you, so noticeably that his mom lightly smacked him on the shoulder when she noticed it.

But you were looking across the aisle at him, too.  If for no other reason than how cute he looked in his shirt and tie.

After the service, as everyone mingled around coffee and donuts, Angus made a beeline towards you— you’d kind of hoped he would be a little more subtle.

“Hey,” he greeted, and you just nodded at him with a smirk.  “It’s been too long.”

He glanced at all the people passing by, stepping closer to you to let someone walk past but never moving back; he waited until no one was too close before he spoke again in a lower voice.

“Are you really not wearing any…?” he asked, an extra sparkle in his eye and a mischievous smile on his face.  His smile dropped a bit when you nodded, though, and his eyes raked over you in the most intoxicating, lascivious way.  You were sure you’d never had someone look at you like that, like they’d give anything to devour you right then— and with no panties to hold it, you felt your arousal slicken where your thighs rubbed together.

He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was looking over at him as he adjusted his corduroys awkwardly; you licked your lips, a little too flattered by the effect you had on him.

“That’s, um, that’s…” he mumbled, tripping over his words.  “That’s really… yeah.”

“Really what?” you challenged as you bit your lip briefly, moving closer to him and all but batting your eyes up at him.

“It’s really fucking sexy,” he whispered.

“Yeah?” you cooed.  “I think it’s sexy that you think it’s sexy.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about—” he began.

“I know,” you sighed, “me too.”

“I wasn’t even tired that day— I was wired, actually,” he laughed quietly.  “I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart’s pace picked up a bit, and you glanced away briefly.  “I, um… I thought about you, too.

“There’s gotta be somewhere we can go,” he whispered.  “It’s a big place— everyone’s here, if we just… found an empty room—”

“Jesus, Angus— in a church?!” you hissed.

“Come on,” he begged, “I don’t know when we’ll get a chance again— and I’m leaving tomorrow— and I want you so bad—”

“Shh,” you warned him, making sure no one was nearby again.  “We’ll figure something out— just not here.  It’s too risky.”

“But I need you now,” he insisted, voice lower and darker as he stepped just a bit closer to you.  “It won’t take us long— I mean, it definitely won’t take me long, after spending the last two days thinking about you.”

You crossed your arms, looking down at the floor, and you felt him lean in over you.  “Please, baby?” he whispered under his breath.

Releting, you took a glance at the crowd and made sure nobody was looking in your direction.  “You go find an empty room in the east wing.  I’ll talk to a few people— so it doesn’t look like we’re going together— and I’ll come find you in a few minutes, okay?”

“Great,” he beamed.  “Uh, which way is east again?”

You pointed him in the right direction and watched him bound away, sighing to yourself as you re-entered the crowd.  You got a lot of questions about your plan now that you finished your degree— and you found yourself repeating the same stock answer about how your graduate program didn’t start until the fall so you had the spring and summer to stay home.  Even though you knew you needed to kill some time to look less suspicious, you found yourself glancing constantly towards the east wing, getting more and more impatient for your chance to slip away as unnoticed as possible.

As the crowd was clearing out and nearly everyone’s attention was turned onto somebody’s new baby, you took the opportunity to disappear into the dark hallway.  As you peered around the doors, you saw Angus peeking out at you through one of the little windows; the door opened, and you slipped into an abandoned Sunday school classroom, barely having time to gingerly shut the door behind you before you felt his lips on your neck and his hand sliding up your thigh.

“That took forever,” he complained, and before you could remind him it had hardly been five minutes, his fingers were exploring between your legs.  “Fuck, what’re you so wet for?” he teased, and you groaned as you pulled him closer by his pants and hopped up to sit on the low bookshelf nearby.

“Just hurry up,” you hissed, “we need to get this over with before somebody finds us here.”

He opened his fly quickly, but struggled slightly to free himself from the confines of his trousers; you hummed a bit when he got it out, pressing it against you right away as you moved your hips up.

Thrusting into you all at once, you both sighed slowly; you took hold of his shoulders, he grabbed onto your hips, and instantly he began to fuck into you impatiently.

“God, you’re so tight,” he hissed against your ear.  “Touch yourself— I want you to come, too.”

You reached between your bodies to put a few fingers on your clit, rubbing fast in hopes that you could catch up with him.

“Do you always do what you’re told?” he mocked playfully.

“I think the fact that we’re doing this right after church proves that I don’t,” you replied.

“Guess you only do what I tell you to,” he shrugged, which really made you want to talk back, but you couldn’t because you were trying not to moan too loudly.

He moved faster inside you, and something about the angle of sitting up on the shelf was making him hit just the right spot— or maybe you were sensitive from the exhilarating fear of getting caught.

“What if I got you pregnant here?” he purred, making you arch your back slightly.  “Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“You’ve got a weird sense of humor, Tully,” you breathed, struggling not to let your voice come out all whiny and weak.

“Knocked up at St. Mary’s… it’s what God would want, right?”

“Do you never shut up?” you hissed.

“No,” he smirked, “you’re cute when you’re ticked off at me.”

His eyes met yours, and you felt a strange emotion stir in your chest: you bit your lip, willing yourself to tear away from his gaze, but you found it impossible somehow.

One of his hands moved from your hip up to your chest, palming at you through your dress.  You tensed up inside, making him wince a bit, and you couldn’t believe how close you were already.

“Oh god, baby, m’gonna come,” you whimpered, moving your hand even faster over your clit; he groaned in approval, leaning in to kiss all along your neck.

“Come for me,” he pleaded, “I’m so fucking close— please come, fuck—”

“R-right there,” you gasped, gripping his shoulder tighter— actually, that wasn’t the only place you were gripping him tighter.  He was struggling to maintain the pace of his thrusts, in fact, with how hard your walls were bearing down on him.  “Yes, yes, yes—”

“Not too loud,” he warned you, and you bit hard on your own lip to suppress your moan: it stayed in your throat instead, and you heard him gasp as he heard and felt you reaching your peak.  He had to take his hand off your chest and put it on the bookshelf under you to help keep you upright, and he looked down between your bodies to watch himself give you a few final thrusts.

He stopped suddenly, whimpering slightly as he buried himself in you as deep as he could go; you sighed and laid back on the bookshelf again, having to tilt your head to avoid a figurine of some prophet or saint that you had absolutely no interest in identifying at the moment.

Angus took a moment to catch his breath, before looking back over his shoulder and through the door’s window to make sure no one was in the hallway.  He pulled his cock out of you carefully and did his best to fit it back into his pants.  As you felt a warm oozing feeling between your legs, your face began to heat up.

“Maybe I didn’t think this through,” you realized.

“What?” he mumbled.

“I’m gonna have to go out there with nothing on under my dress, with your come leaking out of me.”

He bit his lip.

“It’s not sexy, Angus!  It’s very inconvenient!” you frowned.

“It’s both,” he insisted.  “It’s very much both.”

~

Though you did get another chance to see Angus before he left, it wasn’t that sort of rendezvous, unfortunately.  Although, just sitting and talking with him was wonderful, too— in an entirely different way.  See, that was the thing that scared you most, even more than how badly you’d come to crave his touch: how happy you felt just being with him.

He was funny, and weird, and seemed to think your stories from college were fascinating; he was well-read, especially for a high school student, and you two could chat about your favorite books— a hobby most of your classmates in college found too nerdy to sympathize with.  

It probably looked totally wholesome from the outside: two childhood friends catching up while they were back home for a while.  And you, you probably looked normal and cool on the outside— you were trying to, at least.  But inside, you were terrified.  You wanted it to be like what Angus said— scary, in a good way, like a rollercoaster— but you were starting to just feel sick.  You know, like an actual rollercoaster would…

“Everyone there is so… dumb,” Angus decided as he leaned back, looking up at the ceiling.

“That can’t be true, it’s a good school,” you tried to encourage him.

“I mean, maybe they could be smart, but they act like morons,” he clarified.  “They hate me, too, and I don’t even really know why.”

“Probably because they can sense that you think they’re all morons,” you suggested; and he looked over at you, as if he’d genuinely never thought of that before.

But instead of addressing that, he sat up again and changed the subject.  “My parents probably want me to go back and, like, put my trunk in the car and stuff…”

“Right,” you nodded, “you should go.”

“Yeah— b-but, listen, um, before I do…” he trailed off, leaning a little closer to you on the couch.  “I wanted to, you know, talk.  About something.”

“We’ve been talking for half an hour,” you noticed.

“Right, uh— I meant something specific,” he explained, his cheeks seeming to get a little bit more pink.  “I… I won’t be back until spring break, you know…”

“Uh huh,” you nodded, raising an eyebrow as you wondered what he was getting at.

“And, you know, we’ve been having such a great time,” he went on, and your heart twisted.  You’d heard this spiel before: the things are so good now, why do we need to put a label on it? why can’t we just have fun talk.  The you’re great, but not good enough for more than this talk.  You decided to jump in and spare him before he said anything too… honest.

“I get it,” you promised, and he looked at you nervously.  “We’re gonna be too far apart for too long— and you shouldn’t, you know, feel like you’re tied down to anything.  It’s okay— I didn’t think I was, like, your girlfriend or anything.”

“R-right,” he coughed, looking away and putting his hand on the back of his neck.  “Yeah, that’s— that’s what I was gonna say.  I knew you’d understand.”

You smiled, wishing you weren’t always so goddamn understanding.  “But it was fun— a good way to kill time over the break, for sure.”

“Yeah,” he agreed alongside a thin laugh.  “I… I think I’ll always owe you, for being my first time and all.”

“Well, you’ve certainly spent your first two weeks of not being a virgin pretty well,” you snorted.  “I had a good time.  We’ll call it even.”

“And… when I come back?” he pressed.  “Maybe we can, I dunno… maybe we can do it again.”

You grinned and tilted your head.  “Yeah, I like that idea.”

“But can I still call you?” he asked nervously.

“Of course!” you beamed.  “You’ll have to tell me if you get any good books assigned this semester.”

“Yeah, I doubt it,” he scoffed, but his smile lifted just a bit.

“I can come see you off, if you want,” you offered, “but it might make your mom suspect something…”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, “I wish you weren’t, but you are— but I’ll call first thing when I get there!”

You smiled, and he gave you a hug before he left; and he promised to call again, though you’d believed him the first time.  And the next time you stayed up all night with Angus, it was on the phone— he snuck out of bed with a bag of quarters, and told you the phone was free so you wouldn’t feel bad, and talked to you about everything he could possibly think of.

Except, you didn’t quite make it all night: you fell asleep at some point, while he was talking about his English paper… not that he could blame you.

However, even with all your complex emotions towards the idea, you agreed to it.  Just come to dinner with me, he’d told you, it doesn’t have to be weird.  Nothing has to happen— it’s just dinner, no expectations.

That relieved you enough to get you to go out with him.  He’s not expecting anything, you promised yourself, it’s just dinner.  Nothing has to happen.

But you still put on your nicest lingerie under your dress… just in case.

The whole thing made you feel out of place, honestly: you’d never been to a restaurant this nice, you’d never worn a designer gown before (let alone one that someone had picked out and sent to you for your first date), you’d never been picked up by a private driver—you didn’t even know what to do when you got to the restaurant, so you were a bit relieved (if certainly surprised) when you walked in and they seemed to already know you.

The host greeted you by name, took your coat, and informed you that Mr. Lord is already waiting for you at his usual table.  That made you wonder if a girl like you was his usual guest.

Your heart picked up its pace when you saw him from across the restaurant; he looked like he fit right in, with his hair slicked back in a black tux.  He looked so natural like that, you couldn’t even imagine him without a tux.  (Well, you could, but you were trying not to.)

But, your heart didn’t really start racing until he saw you.  His eyes lit up, and a tilted smile filled his face as he stood to greet you.

“Don’t you look gorgeous!” he purred, leaning in to kiss your cheek as you approached— even that caught you off-guard, but you realized it wasn’t meant to be especially flirtatious, it was just one of those rich people greetings.  Then again, the arm that reached around you so his hand could rest momentarily on your lower back felt a bit more than friendly.  “You like the dress?”

“Y-yes, thank you,” you smiled nervously as you looked down at the floor-length black gown again, “it’s beautiful.  And more comfortable than it looks.”

He laughed a bit, squeezing your arm briefly before gesturing for you to take your seat.  One waiter was already pouring your water and another was draping a white napkin over your lap and pushing in your seat;  “White or red, miss?” the one pouring drinks asked.

“O-oh, um—” you began, but Maxwell interrupted.

“Why don’t you bring her a glass of the ’61 Chateau Haut-Brion?” he suggested.  “To go with mine.”

“Of course, sir,” the waiter nodded, and soon him and his fellow servers departed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Maxwell addressed you again, “the house wines are fine— but I think you’ll like this one, it’s excellent.”

“Oh, I trust you,” you smiled, “you know a lot more about all this than me.”

“Try not to feel too intimidated,” he assured, “almost everyone here is worrying just as much as you about looking like they belong—probably even more than you are.  The only difference is, you actually have enough beauty to not be outshined by a place like this.”

A little uncomfortable with the compliment, you looked around the modern space— so much glass and crystal sparkling under pleasantly-dim lights, with a view out over the ocean just outside the window you’d been seated against.  It was sleek and ornate all at once.  “It really is a lovely place, thank you for taking me here,” you announced.

“Oh, I come here all the time— more than I should,” he laughed.  “I’ll warn you now, you might become addicted once you get a taste.”

A brief moment passed before he quirked a brow.

“Of the food, I mean,” he winked, and you giggled a bit.

“Right— should I, um, look at a menu?” you wondered.

“It’s actually a set course tonight,” he explained, “I hope you don’t mind.  Honestly, I prefer not having to think about it— and the chef here never misses.  He’s a good friend, actually.”

“I get the feeling you’re good friends with a lot of people,” you observed, and he gave you a knowing smile.

“Should I be offended?” he asked.

“No,” you laughed, “but you seem like you’re always getting in places, always getting special treatment or private access— ‘cause the theater owner is a good friend, the executive producer is a good friend…”

“You make me sound much more popular than I am,” he shrugged.

The waiter returned with a bottle in hand, showing the label to you and Maxwell.  “The Chateau Haut-Brion you requested, Mr. Lord?”

“Fabulous, thank you,” Maxwell smiled as the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured glasses for you both.

“The first course will be out shortly,” the man explained before he departed; you reached for your glass, about to take a sip, but your date raised his own.

“A toast,” he suggested, making you stop pulling your glass closer and holding it up in anticipation instead, “to… new friends.”

You smiled and clinked your glass against his.

~

You tried not to look too starstruck as you looked around the penthouse apartment, but it was hard to hide your awe at all the fine art on the walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittery city below, the vintage and baroque furniture…

“I haven’t been here in a few weeks,” he explained as he sauntered inside after letting you in, “forgive me if it looks a little barren— I’ve been in my home in California for some time to manage my work there, I only visit my apartments occasionally—”

“You have more than one?!” you realized, unable to suppress the urge to gawk, and he smiled as you looked back over your shoulder at him.

“I have quite a few properties, yes,” he nodded.  “Miami, Berlin, Hong Kong— all of these, of course, would be available to you whenever you’d like to visit, if you were to…”

He trailed off, approaching you as his eyes darkened a bit.  “If I was to…?” you prompted.

You shivered slightly when he reached up to run his fingers gently along the curve of your jaw.  “If you were to accept my offer.”

You swallowed, turning to face him properly, and sighed when his other hand came to rest on your waist.  “A-and, if I was to…” you trailed off, apparently still not proud enough to say it, “would there be… anyone else?”

“No,” he shook his head, “not for either of us.  That’s not what I want.”

He’d explained to you before, in a few different ways, what he did want.  He’d explained that he enjoyed ‘dating’ this way because it took out the guesswork, because he was too busy for a traditional relationship.  He needed a partner who could work around his complex schedule— and to soften the blow, he would send gifts to fill the time while he was gone.  All he really asked was that you stay ready and waiting for him to return— or even to be ready to drop everything and hop on a private jet to come see him wherever he was when he needed you most.

The look in his eyes certainly showed that he needed you now.  You knew that if you told him you didn’t want this— or even just that you didn’t want anything to happen tonight— he would be polite and sweet and have a car take you home.  But you also got the feeling that if you said any of that, he would see right through it.

You wanted this too.  It was sort of obvious, especially as your hands snaked up his chest over the fabric of his tux, resting on his shoulders as you looked up at him expectantly.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want, beautiful?” he suggested in a low voice.

“I… I want,” you began hesitantly, having to look away to find the courage to say it, “I want you to tell me what to do.”

He smiled a bit, lifting your chin and guiding you to look up at him again.  “Kiss me like you mean it.”

You felt strange about that wording— like he thought you didn’t genuinely want this and just tolerated it in exchange for the money.  Which wasn’t true, but then again, it is hard to turn a man down when you’re wearing the thousand-dollar dress he bought for you.

And, of course, you kissed him.  You wove your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, shutting your eyes and sighing as he tightened his grip on your waist; he wrapped you up in his arms, slowly and gently, and hummed lowly against your lips.  There was something about it that was different from every other first kiss you’d had (or possibly every other kiss you’d ever had) but you completely lacked the words to describe it.  Maybe it was how careful he was with you, how oddly patient; or maybe it was how quickly you found yourself wanting more.

You opened your mouth slightly, letting him delve deeper with his tongue, though he wasn’t too aggressive about it at first.  It was still sweet and slow, and you relaxed further as you pressed your body to his.

He broke away sooner than you wanted him to, and you watched his eyes scan over your face before they drifted to your shoulder— where his hand was tracing over the strap of your dress, teasing that he might slide it down at any moment.  You found yourself wishing he would, but instead he brought his eyes back to your own.

“Would you mind if I showed you the bedroom?” he suggested.

“Not at all,” you breathed.

You didn’t get a very thorough tour, not when you were stumbling backwards through the door as his hands ran all over you.  He quickly flipped on the light switch as he walked past it, only for you to reach and turn it off again.  He smiled playfully at you as he broke his lips away.  “Now, darling, how am I supposed to show you the bedroom in the dark?” he mused.

“You can show me after,” you sighed, trying to tug him by the jacket into another kiss, but he resisted with a smug grin.

“After,” he repeated with a low, rich voice that seemed to wash right over you.  “But what we’re about to do, I don’t want to do in the dark, either— you’re much more exciting to look at than some boring old bedroom that’s been on the cover of Architectural Digest…”

You laughed a little, but he bit his lip as he pulled you closer to him.

“Keep the lights on,” he pleaded— or maybe demanded, “I want to see you.”

You flipped the lights back on, and he almost turned that designer gown to shreds getting it off you.

He growled as he got a glimpse of your lingerie, and you bit your lip through a smile when he met your gaze again.  “Oh, angel— you’ll spoil me.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, making you gasp slightly as he delicately ran his fingers along the lacy hem of your panties.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he sighed, “I need to taste you.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled, “o-okay, whatever you want.”

Looking up at you, he shot you a glittering smile.  “Get used to saying that, beautiful.”

You shuddered, just as he pulled the panties down and dove between your legs.

You felt a bit undignified with him burying his mouth against you while you were standing up; your knees wobbled and he grabbed onto your hips to help keep your balance, sliding his tongue out between your lips.

“Fuck!” you gasped, reaching down and grabbing a handful of his hair greedily.  He moaned against you, shutting his eyes tighter, lapping at you eagerly.  He pulled away far too soon, and you whimpered before he beamed up at you with slick lips.

“Get on the bed,” he demanded.

You didn’t need a tour of the room to find that: you stepped out of your panties and fell back onto it, smiling at him as he quickly slipped off his jacket and climbed up over you with an insatiable look on his face, his dark hair broken out of its style by your touch and dangling down around his face.

“Take this off,” he instructed, running a finger over your bra as he balanced himself to hover over you.

You sat up enough to reach behind your back, unfastening the garment and shimmying out of it to toss aside onto the floor.

His gaze raked over you lasciviously.  “Forgive me,” he breathed, “if I can’t find the heart to take my time with you like I imagined.”

You felt your heart skip, just before he descended and kissed you again, the tangy taste of your own arousal making you moan in the back of your throat.  The kiss was filthier and needier than ever, and quickly moved down to your neck; your back arched up off the satin sheets as his tongue traced your pulse.

“I could spend all night,” he panted between heady kisses, “tasting you everywhere.”

“God,” you whimpered, “I won’t stop you.”

“And what if I want to spend the whole night inside you?” he challenged further, making you whine and stir under him.  He pressed his weight down on you as you slowly spread your legs; you felt suddenly aware of him still being almost entirely dressed while you were stripped to nothing, and it somehow only made you more desperate for him.

“Please,” you begged, feeling his teeth scrape your neck as his hips rocked against yours.  You gasped feeling how hard he was, and it turned into a proper moan as one of his hands groped roughly at your chest.  “Fuck, Max—”

“When you say my name like that, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to control myself,” he growled, pulling back to look down at you.

“Then don’t,” you offered with a smirk.

“Just promise me one thing,” he began, surprising you with the change of his tone.  “If we do this… you’re mine.”

Your throat caught on nothing.

“If you can’t handle that, I understand,” he mitigated, “but I can’t pretend that I feel any differently— I need you, all to myself.  I need to know that you belong to me.”

You found yourself nodding before you even really thought it through.  “I’m yours,” you promised as you clutched desperately at his shirt, making him smile proudly.  “Fuck, I’m all yours.”

He kissed you—not as ruthless as the last one, but still plenty passionate.  This time, you were completely sure you’d never been kissed like this.

"About?"

You wanted to end it there, but Bucky had to chime in, of course. "Let's just say, this dusty old apartment was getting to see some action for the first time in a few decades," he informed Zemo proudly, who smiled knowingly and continued his walk to the kitchen.

"Ah," Zemo nodded, "I see."

"I swear, I've never had a dream about you like that before," you explained to Bucky.

"I wouldn't take it too personally, James," Zemo suggested as he poured himself some tea. "The subconscious is a completely unpredictable place. We can dream about almost anything, whether or not we desire it in waking life."

"Well, see, that's the weird part," you admitted, shifting nervously in the chair as Bucky stared at you. "You were there, too."

That took his attention away from the tea, certainly; he set down the kettle and came back into the sitting area, leaving his cup behind. "Still, many people believe dreams have meaning... I happen to be one of those people," he added.

"You didn't mention that before," Bucky frowned at you.

"Well, I was going to..."

"I was there, doing what?" Zemo pressed.

"Sitting in the corner reading Machiavelli," you joked. "No, you were, you know... part of it..."

"How was it?" Zemo asked instantly, getting yours and Bucky's eyes on him then.

"Huh?"

"In the dream, having both of us," he clarified, "did you enjoy the experience?"

"U-um, I mean, I don't really remember..." you coughed.

"I don't think that's true," Zemo grinned. "You're wearing it on your face now— is that why you couldn't look at me this morning in the hallway?"

Your face got warmer. "Do I normally look at you?" you deflected.

"More than you realize," he answered cryptically.

"So, it was good," Bucky assumed. "It's obvious, you can just admit it."

You did hesitate, biting on one of your nails, but you nodded, and they both smiled. "Yeah, it was... it was really good..."

"Which one of us was better?" Bucky wondered. "It was me, right?"

"You were... I don't know, you were just different," you shrugged.

"Ugh, that's such a cop-out," Bucky rolled his eyes. "Don't be afraid to hurt his feelings."

"No, really— it's hard to compare," you insisted. "You were sort of, you know, sensitive and... patient, and you—" you looked at Zemo— "were kind of... intense."

Zemo smirked. "I've been told that before, actually. I mean, by people who got the real experience."

Bucky looked with a concerned expression over his shoulder at Zemo. You found yourself biting your lip for a moment.

"I know you won't answer this question, but I have to ask," Zemo began, "did you climax?"

"Oh god," you whined, hiding your face behind your hands.

"See? She did," Zemo smiled, maybe wider than you'd ever seen. "Perhaps even more than once."

"Please shut up," you groaned.

"Holy shit," Bucky smirked, "you really liked it, huh?

"What do you say, James?" Zemo prompted, looking at Bucky, and making you get a little wide-eyed. "Shouldn't we give the girl what she wants?

"Isn't that, uh— I mean, wouldn't that be... weird?" Bucky stammered, cheeks flushing.

"You're so sheltered," Zemo mocked with a small laugh. "Sharing a partner is very thrilling when the correct amount of trust is involved."

"Wait, wait— it was just a dream, I wasn't, you know, suggesting it," you explained nervously.

"I know," Zemo replied, "I am."

There was a tense pause, where all you could hear was your own beating heart.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Zemo offered, “I know it’s a strange thing to say.  Just come here, darling.”

Though your legs were shaking, you got up off the chair and approached him slowly.  He met you in the middle, reaching up to quickly caress your jaw when you were close enough.  Bucky seemed to watch the whole thing in disbelief.  “I-I’ve never—” you began.

“It’s alright,” Zemo assured you softly, “I won’t judge you, or mock you— there’s nothing wrong with what you want.”

You nodded slightly, another form of silent permission, and he leaned in to kiss you— gentle at first, but strong enough to make your knees feel a little weak.  He deepened it quickly, putting a hand at your waist as his tongue began to tease your lips… but just when you pressed into him, ready for more, he pulled away.  He smirked at the way you leaned forward for a moment, but then he looked over at Bucky— you couldn’t quite read his expression, perhaps a bit of disbelief and… more than a decent share of arousal.

He stood up, and stepped up to you two, and you could tell he was in over his head— but you pulled him closer by his shirt, sighing as your hand felt his chest through the black fabric.  “I— I’m not sure how to—” he mumbled.

“Me either,” you smiled, “just kiss me, Bucky…”

He did, though he seemed slightly less confident about it.  What started as a shy and soft kiss turned into something more almost instantly— something hungry.  He pulled you closer by your waist, he slipped his tongue into your mouth; it was clear, somehow, that he had been waiting for this chance for longer than you realized.

You gasped into Bucky’s kiss when you felt Zemo’s lips on your neck.  There were four hands on you, running over your body, and you were struggling to keep track of which belonged to who…

Zemo pulled you off of Bucky and spun you around, kissing you roughly again.  He was less careful this time, and he was reaching up under your shirt as well; you whimpered a bit, arching your back instinctively and pushing your ass into Bucky’s— oh fuck, he was hard.  You couldn’t believe how worked up you were already.

Zemo groped at your chest, purring as he tweaked a nipple between his fingers.  You whined and pressed your legs together, feeling him smile before he broke away to look at you with a sparkle in his eye.

“So sensitive,” he praised as he pushed your shirt up to get a good look at you; he sighed at the sight, both hands cupping your breasts and massaging them carefully.  “You’re so beautiful…”

When his hands moved down, Bucky’s took their place; you shivered a little at the metal hand’s cool touch, but it was actually more of a relief than anything considering how hot you’d become.  He was a little more aggressive with the way he touched your tits— if not quite rough.  He was panting in your ear as he held and rubbed them; and Zemo was already pulling your pajama shorts down, exposing you even further… god, why did it turn you on so much.

“Look at you,” Zemo praised with a sigh, running his hands up and down your body.  “I know you must be so wet already, darling, look how desperate you are… you’ve been wet since you woke up from that naughty dream, haven’t you?”

You didn’t have to answer— he was already putting his hand between your legs, exploring your folds, both of you groaning at how slick and sticky you were.  “Fuck, I can hear it,” Bucky noticed, and you clenched inside as he said it.

Zemo gently pushed a finger into you— but you were so wet it didn’t even feel like a push, it felt like your hole just sucked him in.  He was looking right into your eyes as he did it, but that was a little too much to handle for you, mentally, so you let your eyes fall shut just before he slipped the finger back out again.

"Feel inside her, James," Zemo encouraged, "she's so warm."

Bucky sighed, rubbing his fingers around your entrance. "I-I'm going to," he mumbled in your ear, "but... not 'cause he told me to or anything."

You whined when two vibranium fingers pushed inside you, making you lean back against Bucky while Zemo’s hands pushed your shirt up even higher, giving him better access to put his mouth on your tits.  “F-fuck,” you sighed, putting a hand on the back of Zemo’s head as he swirled his tongue around your nipple— he was incredibly, annoyingly good at that, but then again, so was Bucky with the way he gently opened you up with his fingers.  “Oh my god, just like that,” you panted.

“Who are you talking to?” Bucky wondered.

“Both of you,” you whined, “fuck, don’t stop.”

Zemo moved his mouth to your other nipple, suckling harder at it, making your hips rock on Bucky’s fingers; and Bucky growled approvingly, starting to thrust them a little more confidently inside you.  “I can’t believe you didn’t soak through those shorts, doll,” Bucky whispered in your ear, “you’re drenched.  You wanted this that bad?”

You could only nod dreamily, too lost in the feeling.

Though you weren’t sure how they coordinated it, they both stopped touching you at the same time; you whined quietly, clenching inside as you longed for either of their fingers to fill you again.

“Take the rest of it off,” Zemo instructed you— but it wasn’t too firm, more just a… friendly suggestion.  “Let us see all of you.”

Stepping out of your shorts that had fallen to the floor and pulling your shirt up over your head, you tried to fight the urge to cover yourself— after all, here you were naked in Zemo’s living room, with two fully clothed men eyeing you up and down.  It was hard not to feel… scrutinized.

"What happens next in your fantasy?" Zemo purred.

"I-it's not my fantasy, it was just a dream," you insisted.

"Then let me ask you another way: what happens now?"

Instead of answering with words, you simply sank down to your knees in front of them, keeping eye contact with Zemo as you started to open his belt.

The smug look on his face should’ve driven you crazy, but it only pushed you further; Bucky, thankfully, seemed to get the idea of what was going on and began to open his belt and jeans for you.  You loved his eagerness, even if the way Zemo seemed content to just let you do all the work was a turn-on, too.

Soon enough, there were two hard cocks in front of you.  Just the idea of that was already intimidating— but both of them, at eye-level, was actually nearly overwhelming.  You took hold of them both, stroking slowly to try to wrap your head around this as easily as you could wrap your hands around them.

Not sure where to start, you did a mental coin toss and found yourself leaning towards Zemo first, wrapping your mouth around his tip and letting your eyes fall shut.  Zemo hummed, pushing your hair back as you bobbed your head. You only sucked him for a few seconds before switching over to Bucky, though you tried to keep a hand stroking each one while you moved back and forth.

It felt filthy and strange and surreal, but your biggest concern was that you were going to get so wet you’d start dripping onto the floor or something.

Yes, you’d watched porn like this before, but you never really thought you’d end up doing it— especially with these two.  You felt pretty comfortable assuming they never thought this would happen, either… but they got into it shockingly quickly: soon, you weren’t even the one deciding where you went, they simply got more and more impatient and began to guide you back and forth.  You blinked your eyes open a few times to look up at them, but in the end you found yourself totally lost in it, just leaving your mouth open them and letting them take turns fucking it until you weren’t sure who was who anymore.

Not much was said (least of all by you, with your mouth full) aside from a few mumbled curses here and there— except for one moment, where Zemo seemed to mutter to Bucky: “I don’t think she expected to like this so much.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.  You were drooling, with tears striping your face— a side effect from repeatedly choking on both of them— and you were nearly desperate enough to rub yourself

Though you weren’t sure how or when Zemo had gotten in your head like this, you had to admit it was convenient right now; “You want more, don’t you?” he noticed, and all you had to do was nod before they pulled you up to your feet.  Zemo bent you over quickly, before you’d even really found your balance, and stood behind you.

You gasped as Zemo’s cock slid inside you suddenly, holding on tight to Bucky’s arms for balance— immediately you were rocked forward with hard, needy thrusts.  

“God, she’s so fucking wet,” Zemo hissed.  You hadn’t really heard him talk quite like that before…

You groaned at the feeling, amazed at how easily he fit inside, but clearly all the anticipation had prepared you well.  Bucky only let you have a second to adjust before he shoved your head back down and pushed his cock into your waiting mouth.  You were happy to oblige, though, and sucked him even more eagerly than before with fast bobs of your head and more pressure from your tongue.

Bucky’s fingers tangled into your hair, and his hips pushed forward to fuck deeper into your throat; you heard him groan, but it was muffled as he bit his lip.  You gagged, and they both moaned lowly.  “I can feel when you choke on him,” Zemo informed you with a grunt, “your little cunt squeezes me tighter.”

It must have been Zemo’s hand that slid up your spine and held onto your shoulder— it must have been Bucky that reached down to feel your tits— but if was your hand that ended up between your legs, rubbing your clit quickly simply because you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore.

“So desperate,” Zemo mocked— or praised, maybe?  The difference was hard to define.  “You want to come?”

You hummed in agreement around Bucky’s cock, before he forced you to choke on it again.  You never expected him to be so aggressive, nor how much it would make you crave even more.

“If you want a turn with her, James, you’d better take it now,” Zemo offered, voice thin as he tried to catch his breath.  “Any more of that and I won’t be able to stop myself again.”

Bucky roughly pulled you off of Zemo and sat back on the couch, turning you around to face away from him and pulling you into his own lap; that doll nickname felt a bit more literal when he tossed you around so easily.

You gasped as Bucky slid inside, and moaned as you realized you could so easily feel the difference between them.  “Fuck!” you cried out loudly, louder than you really meant to, as Bucky instantly began bouncing you on top of him; you were trying to move with him, but he was so much stronger and basically just using you however he wanted… it made you moan even more and roll your eyes back in your head as you realized that.  “Fuck, Bucky, oh my god—”

“See how much louder she screams for me?” Bucky grinned.

“That’s because her mouth isn’t full this time,” Zemo countered with a laugh.  “That can be corrected.”

Bucky was certainly much more… impatient in the way he fucked you; Zemo, meanwhile, was as controlled as ever as he guided you to lean forward, gently opened your mouth, and slid just his leaking head inside.  He purred as you suckled at the tip, looking up at him with watering eyes.

“Can you taste yourself?” Zemo asked you with a smile, humming when you nodded around him.  “You really soaked me, darling— I expect you to be a good girl and clean all that off.”

You moaned at the praise and took him deeper into your mouth, using your tongue to lick up every drop of your own wetness off of him.  You surprised even yourself with how shameless you were, pulling your mouth off to run your tongue over him instead, moaning as you licked him clean.

Bucky fucked up faster into you until you could barely focus on the task before you, but you still found a way: you kept Zemo’s cock in your mouth and let him hold your head, keeping you steady while Bucky moaned louder and thrusted harder.

You moaned more and more around Zemo until he pulled you away and you gasped instantly.  “Tell me how it feels,” he demanded harshly, holding your head up by your hair.

“So good,” you yelped, “it’s so fucking good!”

He surprised you with a slap across the face, but you moaned right away.  “Fucking whore,” he spat.  “Look how badly you need to be treated.  You want to come, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, “yes, fuck, please—”

“Well, James,” Zemo hissed, “aren’t you going to help her?”

Bucky sighed and moved one of the hands on your hips down between your legs, rubbing you quickly and harshly.  Your thighs were shaking instantly; actually, pretty much all of you was shaking.

“She’s coming, James, don’t stop,” Zemo barked out another order, holding you tight by the jaw and looking right into your eyes.  “I want you to come until you can’t possibly take it anymore,” he explained with a growl, “don’t tell me to make him stop until then, is that clear?  Show us how much you can take, nothing less.”

You nodded as best you could with him holding onto your face, and tried to lean in to put your mouth on his cock again, but he held you there.

“No,” he corrected, “I’d rather get a good look at this.”

Bucky’s hand on your clit was relentless, the pressure almost too intense for you to take— but you had to take it, you had no other choice.  It started off almost slowly, a gradual descent into the numbing pleasure of your orgasm, but it didn’t stop; Zemo already made it clear he wasn’t going to let it stop until you were at your limit.  Your moans were shaky and broken from how hard Bucky was fucking you, and your eyes were rolling back already but you could’ve sworn you heard Zemo chuckle at the sight of you.  Did you really look that fucked up?

“Good girl,” he purred, “keep going.  You can take more.”

You whined louder, higher, sharper; you weren’t sure how much more you really could take of this, but you wanted to do as you’d been told and not tap out until the absolute last second.

You knew you were crying, only because you felt the hot tears running down your cheeks.  You heard Zemo encouraging you distantly, but you couldn’t quite make out any words, just the dark and sweet tone of his voice.  You heard Bucky, too, groaning deeply while you felt his fingers digging tighter into your hips.  Could he feel everything he was putting your body through?

“Fuck, stop!” you heard yourself blurt out, and instantly Bucky’s hand moved away— but his thrusts didn’t slow down.  It was just the right amount of relief, and you blinked the blurriness out of your vision.  It was almost like part of it didn’t even really hit you until then, until the aftershocks reverberated through your body.

“That’s it,” Zemo praised, “you’re alright, we’ve got you.”

“Oh god, o-oh god,” you sobbed, shaking uncontrollably— they were both holding you up, you would’ve toppled to the floor if it weren’t for them

“Fuck, m’gonna come,” Bucky groaned.

“Inside,” you gasped, even with how little mental clarity you had in that moment.  “I want it inside.”

“Fuck,” he said again.  “That’s so— god, baby, look what you fuckin’ do to me… I’m gonna come inside you.”

“Yes,” you begged with a sob, Zemo grinning as he watched you.  

Still numb and clenching uncontrollably inside, you felt the way he pumped harder and harder and harder— until it slowed down and he let out the most delicious, long groan.  You whined, but smiled, as he loosened his grip on your hips and relaxed under you, his moans and heavy breaths seeming to drip with satisfaction.  “Fuck,” he said, one more time, deeper than ever, before falling back on the couch limply.

Zemo lifted you off of Bucky— apparently a little sooner than he was ready for, because you heard him hiss as he slipped out of you— and guided you with him onto the couch, pulling your back into his chest.  He knelt behind you, kissing the back of your shoulder as watched you try to come back to reality.

“I should let you rest for a moment,” he noticed, “but you don’t want me to, do you?”

Weakly, you shook your head.

He moved in closer to you and you felt his cock, still wet with your spit, rub against the inside of your thigh— and even after all that, you arched your back deeper in invitation.

It made you blush when Zemo slid into you again, thinking about him filling you alongside Bucky’s load, especially with the way he groaned lowly into your ear.  “You want me to fuck his come even deeper into you?” he taunted, and you whined but nodded.  “I thought so.”

Everything felt so… sticky, in a disgusting but sexy sort of way; you were overly-sensitive inside, each thrust feeling so good with the fading sensitivity of your orgasm still present.  You leaned back against Zemo with a sigh, letting him hold you close and fuck you however he wanted, more than happy to just be his toy now.

“Look how cute you are when you give in to me.  You want me to use you, don’t you?” he noticed with a groan, and you whimpered but nodded ‘yes.’  “Of course,” he growled, kissing along your neck with more and more of his teeth each time.  “You want me to fuck you however I want?”

“Yes,” you sobbed.

“But this isn’t about what I want,” he explained.  “This is what you wanted.”

“Oh god…”

“You wanted us both to fuck you, at the same time.  One cock isn’t enough to satisfy you?” 

“Not anymore,” you admitted with a sigh, and he started to thrust faster and harder into you.

It turned very quickly from slow and sensual to rough and ruthless; he wrapped a hand around your neck to keep you close as you moaned and cried, anxious already to come again.  “Touch yourself,” he ordered with a hiss in your ear, “make yourself come around my cock.”

“F-fuck,” you choked out, but slid a hand over your body and between your legs to obey him quickly.  You were already so fucking close, and you knew you shouldn’t go so hard on yourself when you were so sensitive, but your desperation made you really rub hard and fast in search of that growing tension.  “Yes, fuck, m’gonna— oh god—”

“I know, darling,” he cooed, “just let go.  It’s alright, I’ll hold you— come for me.”

You didn’t literally black out, but you did sort of… lose time, in that moment.  It was like you were just floating in pleasure for a while and then all of a sudden you were laying back on the couch and you weren’t even sure where Bucky had gone and Zemo was proudly holding your legs open.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he informed you, and you blinked back at him shyly.

You expected the warm, sticky feeling as their come leaked out of you… what you didn’t expect to feel was Zemo’s mouth on your pussy, eagerly lapping it up and sucking on your clit as your eyes shot open and you gasped and moaned with surprise.

“Dude,” Bucky grimaced, “that’s fucked up…”

Zemo just hummed and took his mouth off of you, giving Bucky a confused look.  “She tastes amazing,” Zemo defended, “maybe even better after our… contribution.”

You laughed a little at the description, until he leaned down and latched onto you again, making you gasp and run your fingers through his hair.  “Fuck,” you whined, bucking your hips against his face.  Your clit was already overstimulated, and the way that he flicked it with his tongue made you shiver all over.  

Your hold on his hair made it a little easier to push him away when he sucked too hard on your sore clit; he was more than strong enough to keep going, but he stopped anyways and let you push him back with a smug, slickened smile.  “You really should try it, James,” he encouraged, “you’ll only want more once you do.”

Sighing in relent, Bucky knelt down in front of the couch— yes, at some point he’d gotten off of it, and you were too high on orgasm dopamine to notice it— and Zemo helped you adjust your hips towards him so he could just dive right in.

He gave one long lick over you first, making you shudder, and seemed to get more excited and aggressive quickly as he held onto your thighs and started to push his tongue inside you.  “Oh god,” you whimpered, and Zemo watched proudly for a moment before turning his head to kiss up your leg.

“Poor thing,” he cooed between gentle presses of his lips to your skin, “you probably thought we were done with you, didn’t you?”

~

You were on the couch nursing a cup of tea, your feet resting in Bucky’s lap on top of the pants he’d changed into after his shower; Zemo was on the balcony having a cigarette.  That was the scene Sam came back to, and he seemed to notice something was off just by the way he raised an eyebrow as he entered the living room.  “Hey guys,” he greeted.  “What did I miss?”

The white snow served as a nice contrast, but it did look sort of grey in all the shadows, even as it was freshly falling to cover the ground.  The snowflakes fell fast, they looked almost heavy: not that cute, fluffy snow that looks all whimsical and floats on the wind.  

It was the sort of weather that should’ve made him appreciate being safe and warm inside, but as he pressed his nose to the cold glass, he wished rather ungratefully for escape.

The doorbell stirred him out of the moment, and Angus looked back over his shoulder towards the foyer.  “Honey!  Can you get that?” his mother called out to him from the kitchen.  She made herself seem so busy when he knew she hadn’t really cooked at all— she was just arranging everything she’d bought on fancy plates to look homemade.  The crinkle of tinfoil gave away that she was too busy disposing of the evidence to greet her guests herself.  She was lucky all the ones who had already arrived were too busy drinking in the living room to notice.

Rolling his eyes a bit, he propelled himself off of his lean on the wall, stuffing one hand in his khaki pocket and the other opening the front door.

Your parents were always really… energetic.  They greeted Angus with massive smiles and ecstatic faces, as if they could hardly believe he was letting them in to his own house.  To be fair, he wasn’t here most of the year, but it wasn’t like he was a celebrity or anything…

“Angus!” your mom squealed joyfully.

“Hey, buddy!” your dad greeted, forcing Angus to fight back a cringe.  

“Nice to see you,” he offered them, “come on in, the food’s almost ready.”

Your mom was preoccupied with the casserole dish she was holding, but your dad’s hands were free so he of course had to give Angus a playful punch to the shoulder as he stepped inside.  “Wo-hoah!  You been workin’ out?” your dad joked— as if Angus’ noodly arm in a red cashmere sweater was ever going to fool anyone into thinking he lifted weights…

As he turned to shut the door, he realized you were standing there, taking one last puff of a cigarette before dropping it on the ground and snuffing it out with your shoe.

He hadn’t known you were coming over— if he had, he would’ve… done something.  Fixed his hair or not worn something so dorky, maybe?  

“H-hey,” he greeted you, feeling pierced by even just your passing glance up at him.

“Hey, kid,” you nodded, making him frown as you walked in past him.

Your parents and his mom were already chatting up a storm, that sort of high-pitched suburban babble he’d learned to tune out easily.  In fact, it really just muffled into a distant whirr as he watched you slip off your coat, revealing your outfit beneath.  He always remembered you wearing jeans when you came over to babysit— and dresses at church.  So the skirt and blazer sort of caught him off-guard.  It made you seem even older— in a good way, like you were a businesswoman or something— and the seam of your stockings running down the back of your legs… his head tilted as his eyes followed it 

“Well shut the door, Angus, you’re letting the cold air in!” his mother scolded gently, knocking him out of the thought.

“O-oh, sorry,” he mumbled, shutting it as you looked back at him over your shoulder and smiled a bit.  He felt like such a loser when you looked at him like that…

“Let me make you two some drinks!  What are you having?”

He wasn’t listening again, of course; he was staring at you again, wondering if you hadn’t changed at all— you were exactly how he remembered you, even though it was probably impossible that you looked the same as his 17-year-old babysitter as you did now.  He hoped that he looked totally different to you, that you were thinking to yourself right now how much more mature he looked.  He hoped that you could barely believe he was the same boy you watched when he was younger— or, better yet, that you’d just totally forgotten about all that.

“Would you help set the table, please, honey?” his mother requested as she zipped back into the kitchen.  He nodded and hesitated before quickly brushing past you to get the silverware out of the cabinet by the table, placing a setting in front of each chair.  She reappeared behind him, but he didn’t look up— not at her or you, even though you were the one she was talking to.  “I’m sorry, sweetie, I forgot to ask— did you want a glass of wine or something?”

“No, I’m alright— thanks, ma’am,” you replied.  “I’ll help with the silverware.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” she cooed at you before departing again, and Angus felt his hands get a little clammier around the handful of utensils as you reached out for them. 

“Give me some,” you instructed him, and he only briefly glanced at your face; he tried to hand you the forks without touching your fingers, but all that accomplished was dropping some of them loudly onto the table while still brushing up against your soft hand.  You snorted, picking them up and starting to set them around the placemats as well.

He tried to ignore you, both of you working around the table, but he sighed as he took a closer look at your work.  “No the— that’s a salad fork,” he corrected, “that should go inside.”

“What?” 

“The smaller fork goes on the other side, closest to the plate,” he explained, switching the utensils you’d just placed.  “Dessert spoon goes at the top, butter knife on the left—”

You scoffed a bit.  “And where should I put the opium spoon?”

“Listen, I know it’s stupid,” he assured as he looked at your face again— you were so close, standing right beside him, and his heart was racing.  “But my stepdad will blow a gasket if it’s wrong,” he added in a lower voice.

“He sounds like a tool,” you mumbled back, and the two of you smiled a bit, in that way people smile when they share a secret.  Not that his stepdad being a tool was all that exclusive of a secret…

“Alright!” his mom emerged again, carrying some ceramic dish with oven mitts, and you both straightened up.  “Food’s coming out!  Oh, are the Shaws not here yet?”

Your dad was carrying the platter of ham, and your mom behind him with another side.  “I, uh, guess not,” Angus answered her question.

“Well, we’ll have to start eating without them,” she sighed, wiping her forehead with the back of her head as the dishes were set down— like she was so exhausted.  She probably was, but not from cooking or physical labor: just from the constant anxiety she’d been exuding for the last three days because of this stupid dinner party.  She acted like the President or the Pope were coming, and not just a bunch of boring old people.

And you.  She’d never mentioned you.

As she gathered the guests for dinner, Angus looked at you, and realized he should say something— be polite, at least.  He was terrified to open his mouth and embarrass himself, but if he didn’t try, he’d seem like even more of a loser.

Quickly rubbing his palms against his trousers, he broke the silence.  “So, um, how’ve you been?” he asked, and you looked back at him, seeming a little surprised that he talked to you at all.  

“Oh,” you responded, “good, I’ve been good— just kinda busy.  What have you been doing?”

“You know, just… whatever,” he shrugged, not wanting to admit he was still in high school.

“Aren’t you still in high school?” you questioned with a furrowed brow.

Shit.  That illusion didn’t last long.  “Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly, “but I’m eighteen!”

You gave him a little pitying smile that made him realize too late how pathetic his statement was.  Bragging about being eighteen wasn’t doing him any favors in terms of coming off as mature to you— why did he think that would work?

“U-uh, you… you’re in college, right?”

“Well— I was, until about a week ago,” you answered.  “I graduated a semester early.”

“Oh, congrats,” he offered with a nod, “that’s great.  You’ve always been really smart…”

“Well, it didn’t take a genius to help you with your seventh grade math homework,” you deflected his compliment with a tilted smirk, and he laughed nervously.

“I, um, can’t believe you remember that,” he mumbled.

“Of course,” you said, and just as he started to wonder what that meant, his stepdad spoke up over the dull roar of conversation.

“Alright, everyone, take your seats around the table,” he encouraged, “and we’ll all pray before we enjoy this lovely meal.”

Aside from the late arrival of the Shaws, dinner went off without a hitch— Angus fielded the same four questions on repeat, glanced at you every thirty seconds, and only got caught about a dozen times.

The only thing more boring than the dinner was the time afterwards, the indefinite mingling phase.  He usually just counted the minutes until he could get excused to his room, where he could read or sketch or really do anything quiet.  But now that you were here, he wasn’t as sure what to do: he wanted to talk to you, but he didn’t want to seem too excited to talk to you, but he didn’t want to seem like an asshole or anything…

So he pretty much just sat on a couch, trying to look busy while not actually doing anything.  Occasionally looking at you, but usually trying not to— until he realized you were coming towards him.  Now was it okay to look at you?

He tried to act like he didn’t even notice you coming closer until you sat next to him on the couch; you were a little close, sitting on your side and putting one of your arms up on the back of the sofa cushions like you were trapping him in.  He put his legs together so they wouldn’t bump into your knees which were dangerously close to him now.

“You look bored,” you noticed.

“Yeah?  I wonder why,” he replied with a small smirk.

“You didn’t really tell me how you’ve been,” you remembered.  “What’s boarding school like?”

“Uh, you know, pretty much your average hellhole,” he joked— not that it wasn’t at least mostly true.  “Not that living at home would be all that much better.”

“You Barton boys get into any trouble up there?” you asked, and he shrugged a bit.

“Some,” he said.  “If you’re not an idiot, you can mostly avoid getting caught for anything.”

“Like what?” you pressed.  “Do kids ever get busted with pot?”

“Oh, all the time,” he laughed.  “It’s really not hard to get away with it, honestly.  I mean, I never got caught, so…”

You raised an eyebrow.  “You smoke?”

He loved the way you said it, not quite under your breath but a secretive mumble.  He just shrugged again, and you laughed a little.  “What?” he wondered.

“You just don’t seem the type,” you explained.

“You don’t know me that well,” he countered, lowering his voice, hoping you would pick up on the undertone.  But if you did, you didn’t quite respond to it.

“Well, are you the type to sneak out of this boring dinner and go smoke?” you wondered.  He thought you looked really sexy asking him a question like that, eyes lighting up as you suggested something that risky.

He grinned excitedly.  “Right now?”

“You’re not scared to get caught, are you?” you challenged.

“Fuck no,” he laughed, “let’s do it.”

~

“Where are we gonna go?” he wondered aloud, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.

“My car,” you explained, having to talk a little louder to be heard over the wind.  “I’m parked down the street— by the park, so nobody’s gonna notice us.”

You trudged through the snow together, each step a deep crunch into the frozen snow, and you squinted your eyes when a sharp, icy wind struck right in your face.

You picked up the pace a bit when you saw your car, excited to escape the freezing cold; and as you turned the key in the driver’s door, unlocking the rest, Angus came up beside you.

“Get in on the other side,” you told him, and he walked around the back as you got in yourself.

When you first got in the car, you could still see your breath in the air— but it was still a nice reprieve from the wind outside, and you unzipped your coat and tossed it into the passenger seat in front of you.  Angus hopped in a moment later, and when he shut his door, you were both submerged suddenly into the quietest place you’d been all night.  No wind, no dinner guests, no records playing— just each other’s breathing.

You considered turning the heat on, but you figured the chill would pass soon enough with Angus’ and your own body heat filling the space.

You clicked on the ceiling light, a dim yellow glow illuminating the inside of the car and really bringing out the dinginess of the grey-beige carpet and fabric all over everything.  He simply sat on the seat, waiting patiently with his legs spread a bit and his hands on his knees, blowing out a breath through his cheeks which swelled with air; he watched you lean back and open the front console, bending somewhat awkwardly over it to reach in and rifle around.

“There we go,” you mumbled as your hand found the fabric bag underneath loose bills and receipts; you pulled it out and opened the drawstring, revealing with a proud smile the baggy inside.  “Ta-da!” you announced softly, brandishing the crushed leaf and rolling papers.  “Wanna show me your joint-rolling skills?” 

You held the bag towards him in offering, but he shook his head and seemed to shrink away slightly.  “N-no, I’ll let you do the honors,” he decided in a soft voice.

You rubbed your hands together to try to warm them up first, because the detailed task was trickier with cold fingers, but you managed alright in the end.  His eyes were glued to the way your tongue slid along the paper before sealing it; it did intrigue you just a bit, wondering what he was imagining while you did that.

“Were you always a bad girl, and I just didn’t know it?” he asked.  “Or did college make you more rebellious?”

“A bad girl, huh?” you snorted, and his face flushed a bit.

“That didn’t sound weird in my head,” he promised.

“Save it for when you can blame it on the flower, dude,” you laughed as you handed him the blunt and got your lighter ready.  “You can have the first hit, I’ll light it up for you.”

He put it between his lips as you struck the BIC, and he leaned forward until the end was in the flames.  

You watched him breathe it in, that singe-y, crispy sound of the weed burning with each inhale making you smile a bit in anticipation… though you had to admit, it wasn’t just your excitement to get high that had your heart beating faster.

He only managed to hold it in for a second before coughing roughly, clearly trying to suppress it at first before bringing his fist to his mouth and really hacking a few times.  You smacked him on the back with a grin, and he nodded at you; poor thing, his eyes were all red, actually his whole face was red, but he eventually recovered.

“You don’t really smoke, do you?” you noticed with a tilted smile.

He cleared his throat and shook his head.  “N-not really, no,” he admitted.  “I mean, I’ve tried it before, I swear—”

“It’s fine,” you assured, “I just don’t want you losing a lung.”

“Let me try again,” he pleaded, reaching for the blunt, but you held it away from him and laughed.

“I’ve got a better idea, this might make it easier,” you offered, leaning in closer.  He seemed to tense up a bit, like he wasn't sure what you were leaning in for, but he watched you with half-lidded eyes as you took a long drag.

You grabbed his jaw— not hard, but enough to make him open his mouth a bit— and exhaled the smoke into his face.  He got the idea and breathed in deeply, staring right into your eyes.

“Better?” you asked.

“U-um, yeah,” he whispered, “I didn't cough that time…”

“Then we’ll just do it this way,” you decided, biting your lip a little when he shifted in the seat.  You were having way too much fun with him, and you knew it was unfair, but how often do you get to tease somebody like this?

After a few more hits that way, you saw his eyes get a little glassier.  You yourself were starting to feel it, and you smiled at him as you brought your mouth a bit closer to his for the next shared breath.

“How does it feel?” you asked him softly as you leaned back again— he chased you for a minute, like he wanted to stay close, but relaxed quickly.

“U-uh, kinda… floaty…” he mumbled.  “Don’t you think my parents are gonna notice the smell when we go back in?”

“I’ve got perfume for that,” you explained.

“So I’m gonna smell, like… fruity?” he frowned, and you giggled.

“That’s what you think my perfume smells like?” you wondered.

“Yeah, not— not that I was, you know… sniffing you…” he trailed off, face getting pink again, and you laughed.

“I think you need another hit,” you decided, and he nodded in agreement.  Inhaling deeply, you pulled him closer and breathed into his open mouth, looking back into his eyes through the thin veil of excess smoke.

After that, you leaned back against the door, basking for a moment in your own high.  You watched the snow falling outside the window, letting your vision get a little blurry; the quietness of the moment didn’t seem awkward to you at all, it seemed peaceful, but apparently Angus was the more anxious type of smoker and felt the need to break the silence.  “I always had the biggest crush on you,” he blurted out, and you sighed a bit, lips pressing into a pitying smile even though you didn’t look back at him.  “I was kinda surprised you didn’t notice…”

“I did,” you mumbled.

“R-really?” he choked.  “I, uh… I thought you just saw me as some little twerp.”

“I did,” you said again, smiling wider, and he laughed nervously.

“Oh,” he nodded as he looked away, “that’s… fair.”

He only let the silence linger for a second before interrupting it again.

“But I’ve grown up a lot, you know,” he reminded you.  “I’m eighteen.”

“You mentioned that.”

“Right.  Um,” he stalled, “but it’s not just that.  I mean, I like to think I’m pretty… mature.  At least, I am compared to the idiots at my school— but I probably still seem like a little kid to you.  I can’t really compete with college guys…”

“Compete?” you repeated, tilting your head.  “What are you competing for?”

“O-oh, I just meant like, um—” he stammered, and you scooted closer to him on the seat with a devious smile.  

“What are you competing with those ‘college guys’ for, Angus?” you pressed again.  “My attention?”

“Some… something like that, yeah,” he answered, speaking a little softer.  

“Well, there’s not much competition here, is there?” you noticed, looking around the car.  “It’s just you and me… we’re alone.”

He started to open his mouth to speak, but you reached up to drag one finger over his chest for a moment, and he only choked out a little gasp.  “Yeah, I… guess that’s true,” he mumbled, going back and forth from watching your finger draw circles on his sweater to watching your face.  

You wordlessly brought the joint to your lips again, seeing that it was about halfway gone already.  You took a long, deep breath in, exhaling towards him without really pursing your lips, letting him come closer for his share this time.  Except, finally, this time he didn’t stop.  He just kept leaning in towards you until his lips brushed over yours and you shut your eyes.

His kiss was patient, almost too gentle, like he was holding back.  You set the joint aside quickly in the ashtray and brought your hands up to his face, so you could kiss him a little harder and maybe encourage him somehow.  It seemed to work; he got a little more ambitious, moving his lips against yours, sighing gently as you combed your fingers through his wild curls.

You heard the wind howl outside, whistling around the car, not that you really paid much attention to it.  Instead, your attention was drawn to the way his hands were still sat in his lap; you smirked a little.  What a polite boy.

“You can touch me, you know,” you whispered to him, never breaking away from his lips.  One of your hands wrapped gingerly around one of his wrists, guiding it to your waist.

“Right, sorry,” he mumbled back, grabbing onto you with a touch more confidence.  He even pulled you a little closer as you kissed him harder, your hands traveling up to his shoulders in return.

Other than needing some guidance on the auxiliary stuff, Angus was a good kisser.  You were actually a little surprised when he slipped his tongue into your mouth, but it was certainly a pleasant surprise: it seemed like a good sign he wasn’t holding back anymore.

One of your legs hiked up over his, just something instinctive to keep him close, and his hand trailed down over your hip to caress that leg; it was a shame you needed tights for the weather, because you would’ve loved to feel his touch right on your skin.  “These are cute,” he informed you in a mumble against your lips, quickly pinching and popping the elastic-y fabric back against your leg.  You broke away to look down at his hand on your thigh, which he did as well.

“Really?” you asked sweetly, not sure you were pulling off the innocent vibe of the question.

“Yeah,” he nodded, meeting your gaze again, “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

You hummed and he kissed you again— and this time, as his hand slid back up to your waist, it took a route along the curve of your ass.  You wouldn’t have minded at all if he got a nice handful of it, pulled you closer, gotten a little rougher with you… but obviously, he didn’t.  It was still Angus, after all.

In fact, it took a few more minutes of kissing for him to even muster the courage to touch your chest through your sweater, but you both sighed a bit when he finally did.  He groped at you a bit, but you didn’t care much for all the layers in between, so you sat up and perched yourself in his lap, breaking the kiss to shed your blazer and pull your sweater up over your bra.  “O-oh,” he breathed as you did it, and you felt something tighten up inside you when he absent-mindedly bit his lip.

You sighed shakily, even though you didn’t know why you felt just a bit nervous— and you pulled your bra up, too, exposing yourself entirely to him.

He whispered your name; your pussy clenched again instantly.

He put his hands over you carefully, and you jumped slightly when those long fingers of his brushed over your skin— and he pulled back quickly in response.  “Fuck, are my hands cold?  I’m sorry,” he stammered nervously, but you just smiled back at him.

“It’s fine,” you promised, and he put his hands back on you with a long sigh.

“Wow,” he mumbled under his breath.  You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the wide-eyed, awe-filled stare that never left your tits as he carefully massaged them; he toyed with your nipples briefly before groping a bit more confidently, your hips shifting in his lap without you really meaning for them to.

Your smile fell, though, when he suddenly leaned forward and latched his mouth onto one of them.  “O-oh, fuck,” you mumbled under your breath as he suckled— rather voraciously, really— and fluttered his eyes shut, his tongue running all over the skin in his mouth.  You looked down at him for a minute, thinking he looked pretty cute doing that, but had to shut your eyes and lean your head back when he sucked even harder at you.  “Fuck, Angus—”

“Does that feel good?” he asked quietly as he broke away; you bit your lip and nodded, and he moved to the other one as you leaned back even further, held up only by the front seats.  He, of course, gladly leaned forward with you to stay close, and kept a hand on the breast no longer in his mouth.

You could’ve sworn you felt yourself get especially wet when his tongue swirled around your nipple, and through the high that clouded your brain (equally from the pot and the pleasure) you realized that you were about to fuck Angus Tully.  You sort of couldn’t believe it, and yet the thought didn’t disgust or offend you as much as you thought it would.  You figured you would at least feel a little more guilty, but… you didn’t.  Not very much, at least.  Certainly not enough to stop you.

You sat back up and moved your hips back a bit, making him stop what he was doing just to wonder what you were up to; he groaned a bit when you reached down between your own legs to try to open his belt.  “O-oh, fuck,” he whispered, lifting his hips a bit as well to make it easier for you to reach.  “We're really gonna—?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, finally getting his belt open and working on his button and fly next; you could feel his cock already through the fabric, and it flexed a bit against the back of your hand in anticipation.

He groaned a little when you reached into his boxers and wrapped your hand around his length.

“You're so hard,” you noticed with a little gasp, gripping him tighter as you tried to (carefully) pull his cock out of the khakis and plaid underwear.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “fuck, yeah… you're really, um— you're hot.”

You giggled a bit, glancing up at his nervous expression.  “You're sweet,” you offered, but your mouth was agape when you finally got a glimpse of him.  “You're… fuck, Angus, you're big…”

“Oh, uh, really?” he perked up, cock flexing against your palm.

Giving him a few lazy strokes as you nodded, you giggled when his hips started to buck up towards your touch.  “Fuck, I want you,” you moaned softly, and his cock just flexed in your hand again.

“You— god, you can’t even imagine how long I’ve wanted you,” he assured, making you smile wide.

“I’m sure I can, but I’ll try not to,” you decided as you let go of him.  He seemed disappointed until he realized why: reaching up under your skirt, you pulled your tights and panties down your thighs.  

“What if somebody sees?” he wondered nervously.

“They’re all busy inside, nobody’s coming out here in this weather,” you assured.  “I can turn the light off if you want though—”

“N-no,” he stopped you before you could keep reaching for the ceiling light.  “No, I still wanna see.”

You laughed a little and kissed him again, quickly.  “Me too,” you agreed as you lifted yourself up over his lap, guiding his cock’s head to your entrance.  

He sighed a little as soon as it touched you, but that was nothing compared to the way he reacted when you lowered yourself and he slipped inside.

“Fuck,” you groaned deeply, loving the way he stretched you out— not painful, but just the right amount of challenge.  The body high seemed to make everything a little extra tingly and soft, though you didn’t have a sober version of this experience to compare it to.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, “oh my god…”

You finally sank down completely into his lap, and he took hold of your waist with a little moan.  “Fuck,” you said again, more of a whisper, your head falling back as you started to rock against him.  “Oh, it’s so deep, Angus—”

He interrupted you with a sort of whine, like he couldn’t take hearing you talk like that… but that just made you want to do it more.

“So fucking good,” you praised with a sigh, feeling him press his forehead against your chest as he moaned quietly.  “You feel so fucking good…”

He whimpered, grabbing on painfully-tight to your hips, until his head fell back and his Adam's apple bobbed with each noise he made.

A sharp, needy moan jumped out of his throat— and at the same time, you felt him pulse inside you.  Your eyes went wide as he relaxed slightly under you.  “Did you… just come?” you asked.

He was still panting, his face starting to flush red.  “Um… yeah?” he replied breathlessly.  “Sorry, I-I tried not to—”

“It’s okay,” you promised with a soft laugh, “are you— or, uh, were you a virgin?”

“Uh…” he stalled anxiously.  “Yeah, I am— or was— sorry, I should’ve said something, but I thought you might—”

“It’s fine,” you assured, resting a hand on his chest to try to soothe him.  “It’s cute, honestly.  I don’t mind being your first.”

“I always wanted you to be,” he admitted.  “I imagined it like this.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the car.  “Like this?”

“Well, not exactly like this,” he laughed.  “There was a lot more time involved, for one, and a bed.  And whipped cream—”

“Okay, let’s not unpack all that right now,” you interjected, “we should get cleaned up and go back inside anyway…”

You tried to get off his lap, but he held you down by your hips (with more strength than you expected from him) and pleaded with you: “No, wait, not yet— I want you to come, too.”

“It’s okay, really, we need to go back before your parents notice you’re gone,” you insisted.

“No, they don’t care— please?  Please just keep going?  I’m still hard, I can—”

“Angus,” you interrupted, and he sighed a little because he knew already you weren’t going to be convinced.  “You’ll get another chance to make me come, alright?  We just have to get back inside now.”

He lit up instantly.  “Really?  So we can— we’ll do this again?”

“If you want,” you shrugged.

“Hmm, no thanks— I’ll just go back to being a horny loser,” he joked, making you snort.  “Of course I wanna see you again.  I can’t believe I have to do… anything else but that until then!”

“You’ll live,” you promised as you got up off of him— you both winced, but you mostly just focused on getting your panties and tights back up before anything, uh, spilled.

You pulled your bra and sweater down again, and figured out where your blazer ended up so you could slip it back on while Angus lifted his hips to be able to get himself back into the khakis.

Opening the console again, you put your paraphernalia back in and dug around for a glass bottle instead.  “Hopefully this can cover up weed and sex,” you said as you spritzed yourself a couple times with the perfume, then got him once or twice for good measure.

“How am I supposed to hide this?” he asked with an annoyed groan, struggling to adjust his boner inside his trousers in a way that wasn’t obvious.

“Sorry, all I can help with is the smell,” you laughed, putting the perfume back and slipping your coat on.  “You ready?”

“Yeah, guess so,” he sighed, “ready as I’ll ever be.  W-wait— can I kiss you one more time first, before we go?”

You thought it was funny, and sweet, that he thought he had to ask.  You nodded, and he pulled you into a kiss that was much more passionate than you expected.  Not filthy or anything, but not as tired and slow as you expected after just coming.  His hands held your head, and you had to really remind yourself not to get lost in it before your better judgment was overruled.

Pulling back slowly, you looked at him for a second and wondered if anyone had ever looked back at you quite like that before.

You leaned for the door handle, but just before you pulled it, a final thought popped into your mind.  “Oh, I almost forgot— Merry Christmas, by the way,” you offered him with a smile.

An accomplished doctor, a successful and wealthy man of high social standing— a kind, sensitive, intelligent, and patient partner who made you feel beautiful and special and, for lack of a better word, fancy.  That part was exactly as you’d always imagined for yourself, though you had never really believed you could find someone so wonderful.

And then there was the other half of him, the pieces that even in your wildest dreams you would’ve never thought would make up your future husband.  First of all, he was quite a bit older than you.  Even your parents, who had always preferred for you to marry someone already established (as they put it) rather than your own age, were a little concerned that he was in his mid-forties, and only a year younger than your father.  Of course, that was nothing compared to their offense at his profession, and the subsequent open-mindedness he had towards people your parents would rather pretend didn’t exist.  Then again, Laszlo himself having his disability made him the sort of person they would rather pretend didn’t exist, though he’d managed to hide it relatively well.

Maybe they could’ve forgiven any of that.  It was the atheism that put the final nail in the coffin, unfortunately… and someone as brash and unapologetic as Laszlo had no interest in hiding his beliefs to appease your parents.  He hadn’t brought it up, of course, or protested to the crucifixes and cross-stitched scriptures on the walls; but when they’d asked if he was Catholic or Protestant, he told them directly that he was a man of science and didn’t entertain any metaphysical notions or, as he’d so thoughtfully put it, fantasies.

They instantly forbade the courtship and warned you never to see him again.  And maybe that was when he surprised you most— he was so romantic, so… dashing.  He took a carriage to your home and literally threw pebbles at your window, daring you to climb down the lattice and join him for a midnight adventure.  It was then he suggested that you marry him anyways— he had more than enough to take care of you after a disownment from your parents.  He promised to give you anything you wanted, to treat you perfectly, to spend every day trying to keep you as happy as you made him without even trying.

There it was again, the contradictory enigma of Laszlo Kreizler.  A serious, even stern man, proposing to you like a lovestruck teenager.  He had eschewed fantasies a few evenings ago only to turn around and ask you to jump headfirst into a fairytale.

You said yes, though.  You really didn’t think twice about it— you knew he would be good to you.  And you knew you’d never loved someone like you’d loved him before.

You wanted to run away right then and there, but he told you to go home for a few more days, to gather your things— he would send for them while your parents were out, and you could move in with him as soon as you were ready.

When you did move in, though, he seemed a little surprised that you asked for your things to be moved to a spare bedroom.

“Is everything alright?” he asked you softly, stepping closer to you as you crossed your arms over yourself nervously; you waited until you were sure Cyrus was out of earshot, carrying your bags away, before you answered.

“Yes,” you replied quietly, “everything’s fine.”

“It’s understandable if you’re feeling conflicted now,” Laszlo assured.  “Having just left your parents, and not knowing if you’ll see them again—”

“It’s not that,” you promised.  “Well— of course, I feel something about that, but I’m happy to be here with you.  That’s not my issue at all.”

“Then what is?” he pressed.  “I hope you feel that you can tell me.”

You sighed as he reached up to brush your cheek; his touch always soothed you, though it felt a bit different here, in his home.  Your new home.  “I just… wouldn’t feel right about being in your room, until we’re married.”

He nodded.  “Of course.  I shouldn’t have presumed.”

You smiled a little, though it was more out of nervousness than anything.  “I… I wondered if you thought my parents were the only reason that we never— that nothing had—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pushing your hair back from your face until you looked up at him.  “I don’t expect anything from you now.  Well, only that you do whatever you like to make yourself feel at home here.”

“And what… what will you expect from me once I am your wife, Dr. Kreizler?” 

Though you were a little afraid to, you met his gaze; his brown eyes seemed deeper than ever, and you were powerless to look away from them.  “What do you think is right to give me, when you are my wife?”

You sighed a little, feeling his hand on your cheek move carefully down to your neck, his gentle fingers brushing along the smallest part of your collarbone exposed by your dress.  Words escaped you; you wanted him to know that just because you wanted to wait for him didn’t mean you didn’t want him.  Even before, even when you first met him, your mind had supplied you with thoughts that sent you straight to the confession booth.

You wanted to be one with him in every way you could think of… you just needed some to come before others, to feel right with your own beliefs.  Even if you loved an atheist, and felt surprisingly little guilt for it, you were still religious yourself and wanted to honor God’s intention for marriage.  

Didn’t mean you couldn’t yearn for your soon-to-be husband, right?  It certainly didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the full benefits of physical intimacy when the time came.

But obviously, you were far from brave enough to say all that.  Instead, you found your hands wandering to his chest, following the pattern of his suit coat up to his shoulders, biting your lip without even realizing it.  He simply continued to watch you, and you got the feeling that he understood you better than you could explain it yourself.  One of the bonuses of being loved by an expert on the human mind, perhaps.

You were almost in a trance, not noticing how long you were spending just gently touching and holding him in this simple way— until you looked up and met his gaze again, and felt a little weak.  “Can we marry soon?” you asked softly, almost under your breath.  You hoped he wouldn’t tease you, you weren’t secure enough for him to mock your obvious eagerness, to call attention to your desire for him.  Thankfully, he stayed perfectly serious, because he was just as affected as you were.

“As soon as you like,” he replied earnestly.

It was probably for the best that Cyrus walked in to the parlor at that moment, and you instinctively pulled back from Laszlo, crossing your arms again.  “Your bags are in the downstairs bedroom, madam,” he informed you, “down the hallway under the stairs.”

You nodded at him as Laszlo responded, “Thank you, Cyrus.  That will be all.”

He left, and you looked at your fiance again, feeling a bit silly for what he’d seen in you a moment before.  But he smiled at you, and you figured he’d be the last person to judge you for any of that.  “I’ll give you a little time to unpack and freshen up, if you like,” he offered.  “I hope you’ll join me for dinner at seven this evening.  I believe we’ll be having quail.”

“Of course— thank you,” you smiled, watching him begin to turn to depart.  But for a second, he hesitated— like he didn’t want to leave you— and you prayed he wouldn’t kiss you.  It’s not that you didn’t want him to… you wanted him to more than anything.  He’d only kissed you once before, at the end of a particularly exhilarating night out together, and you hadn’t stopped thinking about it for a moment since.

So no, it wasn’t that you didn’t want him to kiss you.  It was only that, if he did, you knew you’d have trouble letting it be just a kiss.

Therefore, you were just as relieved as you were disappointed when he departed without incident.

///

A few days later, you eloped.  You hadn’t felt much urge to have a ‘proper’ wedding when no one you knew approved of the marriage anyway— they were all too deep in your parents’ pocket, unfortunately.  And even if anyone cared enough to come, Laszlo refused to be wed in a church (you thought maybe he would bend on it if you really begged, he was overall quite accommodating to you, but it wasn’t worth your trouble) and so it would’ve just been another scandal.  

Truly, you were just as happy this way— it was the happiest day of your life, really.  You left the courthouse as Mrs. Kreizler, wearing a stunning silver band he’d had engraved with your new initials and flowering vines all around in a swirling, whimsical pattern.  His band was simpler, but you loved it even more— just because it was his, and seeing him wearing it made your heart skip all day.

Anticipation for your wedding night only grew with every passing moment.  Laszlo himself was in the bathroom with the door shut— you heard the sink running, the various sounds of him preparing for bed.  You were just trying to get your heart to slow down, trying not to have any specific goals or expectations for the evening.  Today had already been perfect.

But, of course, it was hard not to imagine what was next for the two of you— your things had already been moved into his room.  A vanity had been placed in it as well, a wedding gift from Sara Howard (a friend of Laszlo’s you had become acquainted with during this whirlwind romance), and you were using it now as you prepared yourself for bed.  You were already in your nightgown, having changed after Laszlo left the room (not that you had to, but it felt more natural that way), and you were carefully unpinning your hair from its meticulous style.

As you concluded the final steps of your evening routine, you saw the bathroom door open behind you in your reflection; your husband emerged, wearing an embroidered silk robe that offered a view of a sliver of his chest— not very much, but more than you’d ever seen.  You didn’t notice the way your thighs pressed against each other more tightly; he approached you slowly, and you eventually turned to look at him directly.  With you still sitting on the vanity’s padded stool, he towered over you when he stood close… and as you lifted your head to look up at him, his hand brushed softly along your jaw.  You tilted into his touch just a bit, smiling at him while your heart fluttered.

“You’re so beautiful, meine Schatz,” he whispered, and you felt a little giddy when he talked like that— he’d only ever indulged you in his German after having a few drinks, so this instance caught you off-guard in the best way.  Not to mention he’d called you Schatz before— treasure, apparently, and a common term of endearment— but he’d never tagged it with meine before.  Mine.  And you were his, truly.  You were glad he’d waited to say it until it was actually true (even if, in a certain sense, it was already true before).

He motioned, rather subtly, for you to stand up.  It seemed simple enough, but you felt a little shaky as you did it— a nervous excitement, like the kind you would feel before a piano recital or debutante ball.  Except those were all public engagements, and this was as private as anything could be.

Touching your face again, he wove his fingers back around your neck, his thumb cradling your jaw right in front of your ear.  And he kissed you— just like that, quick at first but then slowing down as you both sighed a bit.

You admired how easily he’d done it, and thank god for it, because you would’ve spent quite a while working up the courage.  This was different from the night you’d kissed him after a few weeks of seeing each other— it was very different from the kiss you’d shared at the courthouse earlier that day.  It would’ve made sense if there was a sense of neediness to it, as if he were making up for lost time or relieving all the anticipation for this night.  But really, it was all rather relaxed, at least on his part.  Like he had all the time in the world: which, you know, he did.

You, on the other hand… you were feeling a bit more out of your element.  Not that you weren’t enjoying this new one so far, it was just a little unfamiliar.

His hand floated lower and traced down your back— delicately, with the tips of his fingers brushing your skin through the thin fabric until chills started to run over you.  You gasped a little into the kiss, and put your hands on the patterned lapels of his robe; you didn’t actually push him away, but he pulled back as if you had, examining your face carefully for a moment.

You hadn’t needed him to stop, but you were a little glad he did: just a moment’s break from it all before it became overwhelming.  His fingers still traced gentle shapes on your lower back through the nightgown, and you found your gaze drifting to his chest, to your hands resting on it— and your own fingertips ventured into the exposed piece of his chest.  His skin was paler here, with a reddish-blondish patch of hair just starting to be visible.  You touched it, taking a quick and shaky breath, and wondered why something inside you tightened as you pet him here.  He was so… masculine.  His looks weren’t sweet and boyish, no: he was broad and strong (he would deny that one if you said it, but to you he was) and sharp around the edges, and it was something you never expected to excite you so much.

But you loved that you could still feel a bit of friction from his beard after he’d kissed you.  You loved the subtle scent of his cologne, how sturdy he felt under your touch.

Your hands drifted up to his face, fingers brushing through his hair slowly, and he smiled at you.  His hair was just a bit long for what was typical of men these days, and you enjoyed combing through the dark brown locks and noticing the little golden highlights in the dimmed light of the room.

The hand on your hip pulled you closer, pressing your body against his, and you tried your best to relax into the warm strength of his form while your heart kept racing.

When he kissed you again, he moved in slowly, watching your face before his own eventually met with it, and you fluttered your eyes shut as his lips gently pressed to yours.  This time, you found yourself leaning in for more, kissing him back with more passion; you let out a little dampened moan when his tongue brushed against your bottom lip, taking the next opportunity to gently move further into your mouth.  

He broke away all too soon, embracing you even tighter, pressing his cheek to yours.  And when you, in turn, wrapped your arms around him and pressed yourself against him everywhere you could… you felt it.

Even if you had very little knowledge about this sort of thing, you understood what that hard, curved shape was, pressed just above where your hip met your stomach.  You knew what it was, and your body did too— heat pooled at your core, every touch awakening you even more.

“Oh,” you sighed shakily, holding tighter onto him to just have something to hold onto.

“It's alright,” he whispered, soft words floating on his breath which tickled under your ear.  “It's alright, my darling, I won't hurt you.”

You hummed softly in return, nodding as his lips brushed over your cheek, then moved to your neck.  “I know,” you replied.  “I trust you, Laszlo.”

But you couldn't help but gasp when his tongue teased your pulse, his teeth gently grazing the most delicate places they could find.  His grip at your waist tightened when you whimpered.  “Is this pleasurable to you?” he asked softly; even such a formal statement made you shudder when he said it in that low, buttery voice…

You nodded, your back arching slightly to press yourself against him, but you felt him smile against you suddenly.

“I'd like for you to say it,” he explained, an unfamiliar darkness to his voice.

“It's… pleasurable,” you panted.  “When you kiss me there… it's like I feel every touch s-somewhere else—”

“Where, my love?”

“Here,” you sighed, grabbing his hand from your back and moving it between your legs.  He instantly cupped and rubbed your mound, and your knees nearly buckled from the pleasure.

“Mein Gott, you're so sensitive,” he observed, his own voice sounding a little strained, “I've hardly touched you.”

“L-Laszlo, just touch me more,” you pleaded.

Though he’d been so careful until that moment, he suddenly started to pull up the skirt of your nightgown rather hastily, nostrils flaring as he bent down slightly and worked to hoist the fabric up.  Finally, he got under it, but teased you by rubbing and groping at your thighs instead; under his breath, you just barely heard a growl before he began to kiss your neck again.

“Even if both my hands were strong, I'd wish for more to touch you with,” he mumbled against your skin.  “I'd still want to cover you entirely, reach every part of you at once.”

Well, you liked the sound of that, but one hand was doing you plenty of good already— especially when it slid back up to cup you again, making you sigh and moan as his fingers slipped through your folds, spreading your abundant wetness all around.

Desperate to return even a portion of the sensation he was giving to you, you placed your hand against the bulge in his trousers.  Though the shape and firmness of him made you gasp excitedly, he only let you rub it for a few moments before sighing and moving your hand away.  “Not yet, my darling,” he instructed.  “It's best if we take this one step at a time, for now.”

You felt a little silly, having to be held back like that, but you nodded.  He obviously knew better than you about all this.

It was almost too much, the way he was touching you: you had your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders to try to keep yourself upright, frankly.  And yet, for how overwhelming it was, you heard yourself saying—

“More, please,” you begged, “I-I need you, just give me more, please—”

“I will,” he promised roughly, “but not here.  I think it’s only right that I take you to bed, hm?”

If you weren’t all worked up, you might’ve made some witty comment about how at least the bed’s not too far or whatever— but no, you just let him guide you the few steps to the mattress, and you sat on it as you simply awaited further orders.  So little that he’d done to you, and you’d already do whatever he asked in exchange for continued attention.

You watched him roll up his sleeve— it took him a little while with the weaker hand, but you didn’t mind letting this moment last— and didn’t even notice the way your mouth had gone slack, you were nearly salivating.  “Lay back, darling,” he instructed simply, still looking at his sleeve as he finally folded it up to his elbow, “and open your legs.”

You obeyed, of course, and bit absent-mindedly on your lip as you slowly lifted your knees and parted your thighs.  There was no point being shy now, of course— and you were more than eager for him to get back to doing what he had been before— but you still felt a nervous hesitance that made your hands (and heart) shake slightly.  Something about stopping to get in the bed had brought a bit of sobriety to the moment, and you realized in retrospect how desperate you must have looked.  Surely he wouldn’t hold that against you…

He lifted your skirt again, up to your hips, and hummed lowly at the sight of your sex.  Your face burned hotter; you liked the way he touched it, but you didn’t feel entirely comfortable with him… staring at it.

Still, it was the sort of slight discomfort that felt oddly… good?  Yes, you were a bit embarrassed and exposed at the moment, but it felt wrong in that fun, naughty sort of way; it made your hips shift a little, presumably in hopes of some friction.  Thankfully, their wish was answered: his hand was on you again, pulling your lips apart, slowly exploring you until your eyes fluttered shut.

“May I touch you inside as well?” he asked— as if there was any risk of you turning that offer down.

“Y-yes, Laszlo, please,” you whispered, whimpering as you felt the tip of his pointer finger— suddenly it seemed a little thicker than you remembered— press up to your entrance and ever so gently slide inside.

“Just one to start,” he narrated softly as that one finger made your toes curl, only one finger making your hips twist and your back arch.  How could he do that to you so easily?  “And my thumb can help with this lovely little organ you have…”

His thumb circled your bud, and you shuddered all over— even inside— and instantly struggled to catch your breath.  “Laszlo, what… what is that…” you breathed, whimpering when he rubbed it again.

“Your clitoris, my love— you’ve never touched here before?”

He should’ve known you hadn’t— even if you had… explored yourself out of childish curiosity probably a decade ago, you would’ve remembered if it felt like this.  Shaking your head, you were surprised by his little growl.

“Your poor girl,” he cooed, something a little attractive about the slight condescension of it.  “You have so much to learn.  I can’t even imagine the things you’ve never felt before…”

He slowly moved the pad of his thumb up and down over the flesh, which only grew firmer as he continued.  “Oh!” you whimpered, hips rocking back against his touch— it was so wild of you, you thought, but you couldn’t really stop yourself.  He pressed harder and your whole body jumped.  “Fuck!”

He laughed a little, and your face got warmer.  “I’ve never heard you use language like that, Schatz, but it sounds impossibly adorable when you say it.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you began, “I couldn’t help it—”

“No, don’t apologize,” he insisted, “I’d rather you said it again.  Whenever you can’t help it, of course.”

You knew that Laszlo knew more than you about many topics, being a highly-educated man of great intellect, but you hadn’t expected him to introduce you to an entirely new body part that you’d been carrying with you this whole time.  If you’d figured out how to do anything like this to yourself, you might have spent your entire adolescence trapped in your room, so maybe it was for the best that you never put it together.

You weren't sure how any woman was meant to learn these things— you figured she wasn't meant to, unfortunately— but if she had a choice, you'd certainly recommend this method, provided she could find her own husband to try it with rather than borrowing yours.  What a visceral and beautiful way to learn how much that little organ could really do: Laszlo rubbing it with his thumb, with just the right amount of pressure to make a loud moan crawl out of you.

“The noises you make are just delightful, my darling,” he praised.  “Keep going, so I know what I should do.”

“Just do that,” you begged, “just keep doing that.”

“Only this?” he pressed.  “I shouldn't even add another finger?”

Of course, that was when he did— gently pressing his middle finger to your opening until it accommodated it, and you heard your own high-pitched whine in disbelief that you'd made the sound.  “F-fuck, that feels… Laszlo, you're so—”

But you interrupted yourself, because he did something so diabolical with his fingers just then.  He'd only twisted and scissored them inside you for a moment before curling them up, rubbing the most delicate place you never knew you had— just as he pushed down harder on your poor clit.  You felt ravenous all of a sudden, terribly overwhelmed but greedy for more.

“Please, oh god, please—” you started to beg before you even knew what you wanted.  He knew what you wanted, and he gave it to you: more.  It wasn't even very significant of a movement, and yet it turned your whole body into his plaything as you started to shake all over.

“You react more than I ever expected, my darling,” he cooed.  “I never dreamed how well you would respond to my touch.  I've only just begun and I think you're already nearly there.”

Before you could wonder where he was talking about, he pulled his fingers out of you carefully.  You heard yourself whimper a little, opening your eyes and looking at him worriedly.  He smiled, seeming to enjoy how much his interruption seemed to bother you; “Take off your nightgown, my love,” he requested plainly.  “I think I’d like to get a good look at you before I go on.”

Sitting up (and finding your head a bit more dizzy than you expected), you started by unbuttoning from your neck halfway down to your chest, before lifting the thin garment up over your head slowly.  You felt so strange doing this— undressing in front of a man— but your heart pounded with hope that he would enjoy what he saw.  Tossing the dress aside, you sheepishly bit your lip and waited for his assessment as his dark brown eyes grazed over your nude form.

He moved a little closer, his hand running up your leg and then around your side, reaching up to carefully cup one of your breasts.  You breathed deeply but unevenly, your chest rising and falling against his touch.  You were almost nervous that he hadn’t said anything yet, but the look in his eyes just became more and more clear; you whimpered under your breath when his fingers brushed over your hardened nipple, ever-so-delicately pinching it until your hips shifted a bit in response.  “How beautiful you are, my love,” he whispered, making you squirm again with just his words.  “Is it true you’re really my wife?  This lovely, delicate body that only I can touch and caress, laying next to me every night… I don’t know when I’ll really believe it.”

You had to shut your eyes for a second— you might be too brash if he kept on like that, praising you so tenderly.  “You could’ve been a poet,” you told him with a little smirk, blinking open your eyes again as he guided you to lay back once more, “if medicine didn’t suit you.”

“Oh, I’m no poet, Schatz,” he smiled in return, taking one more careful squeeze of your other breast before moving down to pet inside your legs again.  “All I am is painfully honest.”

His fingers slid inside you again, and you could’ve sworn he was rubbing inside you a bit more firmly than he had been before— thrusting a little faster, pushing a little deeper.  And all the while he was staring down at you, back and forth between your face and your hole, with a delicious darkness in his eyes.

It was still a patient endeavor, so much so that you never really noticed that he was getting a little quicker and rougher with it.  You really didn’t figure it out until you heard yourself choking out his name, groaning and gasping louder than you meant to— but you couldn’t suppress it very well, either.

You soon began to realize what he meant before with that nearly there comment, without even having any prior knowledge of what it could be… there was something instinctive about it, something totally natural.  You didn’t know what was coming, but you understood it; you knew you were on the edge of something and that if you could just get there it would be perfect.

Still, you couldn’t have known how much you would enjoy it.

You couldn’t stop moaning— it was this all-surrounding, ecstatic feeling, like… sinking into something.  Relaxing into something… something warm and soft and good.  Even a lifetime of religious repression couldn’t convince you this was anything but perfect.  Actually, nothing had ever felt right quite the way this did.

Your back arched rather dramatically, until you had a good view of the headboard upside-down; and he gave you few more fast, rough pumps of his fingers into your shaking body before slowing down to a stop and letting you rest.

Suddenly drained, you melted back down onto the bed with a long whine.  “How did that feel?” he asked, sounding a little formal about it, and you only could muster a little, exhausted laugh because what did he think you were going to say?  ‘It was alright, tickled a little bit, but I didn’t mind it.’

“That was… you… you’re so—” you began a few times, giving up to open your eyes wide when his fingers pet up and down over the seam of your lips, gently exploring you, making you quiver from how sensitive you’d become.  You weren’t even done recovering from the stimulation and he was giving you more; he seemed sort of absent-minded about it, the way he gently and repetitively slid up and down and up and down through your slick and swollen folds… but it was deliberate, you knew it was, because he smiled when you moaned weakly.

One finger pressed inside you again, and he watched your face closely and you shuddered.  You were just the slightest bit sore, and it felt like that one finger was more of a stretch than before… which seemed impossible, but with the erratic pulsing of your walls, it was a little hard to keep track.

You gasped sharply when he put the second finger in you once more, almost snarling a bit as he watched you react so strongly.  “Laszlo, I— I don't think I can do that again—”

“You can, I'm sure of it,” he encouraged, curling his fingers inside of you, which required a bit more force with your channel bearing down against him in response.  “It might even come faster this time, that little spot is all swollen now—”

Before he could finish that sentence, he proved it by circling the place, making your hips jump up as another whine eked out of you.  “O-oh, I— fuck…”

He smirked a bit, a delicious smugness to his expression, and the emotion looked much too good on him.  “See?  Just let me take control, my love.  I think you'll like what I do, if you simply let me do what I like with you.”

Fuck, that had to be the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard.  You were biting your lip to try to keep back the flood of terribly embarrassing things your pleasure wanted to say for you: you can do whatever you like with me; I'm yours; I'd do anything for you; don't ever stop, but also if you don't fuck me soon I might lose my mind, you know, things of that nature.  Instead you let out a muffled moan, and nodded to make sure he knew that he had your permission for whatever he thought was best.

And, of course, he’d been right about you: that you’d be even more sensitive after coming, and would be able to go through it all over again.  It only took probably a minute or two of dedicated, precise stimulation for the feeling to grow again… except it felt a little stronger this time, like it was building past the point that it had broken at before.  Maybe your tolerance was higher, or something?  You really weren’t qualified to say— all you could think about was this sensation, this tension, and the way he looked at you as you started to shake all over.

Your eyes fell shut instinctively, your shaking hands clutching at the bed under you; you felt sort of numb all over, except instead of everything being dulled and distant, it was only heightened.

“O-oh, oh, Laszlo, I—” you tried to warn him, words escaping you as the heavy, almost sharp feeling gathered tighter and tighter…

“Give into it,” he insisted, “it’s alright— I want to see it.  I want to hear you, I want to feel you when you come—”

His voice was getting darker, rougher, more demanding as he went on; and in the same way, his fingers’ thrusts into you became more aggressive.  “Fuck, I— I think I’ll— oh god!” you yelped.

“Yes,” he encouraged, “let go, darling!”

Your arms flailed around for a second before finding a lump in the sheets to grab onto tightly, your hips rocking against his hand, your head falling back in a scream; it was so intense, and so sudden, and you felt like the pressure that had been building broke so violently that it would’ve been painful without all the ecstasy running through your veins, numbing you inside and out.

You could tell that this one was different— hotter, warmer, wetter— but you had no idea what you’d done until the high had started to fade just a bit.

His hand slowed down to a stop, you heard him quietly catching his breath, and you blinked your eyes open… that’s when you noticed small wet stains on his rolled-up sleeve, and shiny fluid along his forearm— and a very proud grin on his face.

You felt your eyes go wide and your cheeks start baking.  He spoke up before you could even try to process what to say: “That was excellent, my love— I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so magnificent,” he praised.  “You’re incredible.”

You wanted to believe him, but it didn’t really offer much explanation.  “Laszlo, I… did I—?”

“No, darling, don’t worry,” he cooed, scooting a little closer on the bed as he pet the inside of your thigh.  “It’s natural— one of the… rarer ways that a woman’s body can respond to stimulation.  I’ve always found the concept fascinating, but until now, my knowledge was… purely theoretical.  Actually, I’d love to gather your perspective on the experience, possibly for a future research paper on the topic— but that’s an issue for another time.  There’s a more pressing matter I need to discuss with you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious what matter could be discussed in a time like this.

“I… I'd like to try something else,” he announced, and you dropped your head back on the bed in a sort of defeat.

“Something else?!” you whimpered, still catching your breath from the last thing he had “tried”.  “What else could there be but making love?”

“That will be soon, I promise, I just… I can't resist such an opportunity,” he explained.  “Your scent is so erotic, and it's only grown stronger now that you’ve so generously covered my arm in your ecstasy.  And with anything that smells so delectable, one can't help but crave to taste it.”

You'd only heard about this before— sort of a dirty schoolyard secret, almost an urban legend.  The whole thing had always sounded odd to you, if maybe not as icky as you thought it was when you first had the concept whispered to you as a child.  You didn't realize it was actually something you might experience someday, assuming it was a practice reserved to the especially perverted.  Now that he was offering it, you found yourself biting your lip as you tried to imagine what it would be like.

“I'd like to pleasure you with my mouth,” he concluded, really spelling it out for you.  “Would that be alright?”

You weren't sure what to think of that, and yet you were already nodding yes.  This was your husband, after all— who else could you trust to do something like this?  Most of all, you did it because you wanted to please him.  Because he'd asked you for it.

He smiled a little when you agreed, and began to lean down between your legs.  Those deep brown eyes seemed to sparkle more than ever when he looked up at you, but his gaze couldn't stay with yours for long before he had to give a closer look to your cunt.  He carefully spread the lips with his fingers, humming at the sight.  “I wonder if it's even possible for you to be as delicious as you look,” he spoke quietly, and a needy whine caught in your throat.

It was just a gentle kiss to your clit first… then another, with his lips parted.  Then he started to ever-so-gently suckle at it, tongue softly petting it; he wasn't doing too much, physically, but you never could catch your breath while he was doing it.

You whined a bit when he broke away, looking down at him in search of an explanation but finding instead him looking back up at you with an indescribable look in his eye.

“How does that feel?” he asked, his voice rougher and darker than you'd ever heard it before, making you shiver gleefully.

“Wet,” you blurted out, making him smile a little, a small laugh on an exhale through his nose that made you feel a bit foolish in an unexpectedly pleasurable way.  “A-and warm… please don't stop, Laszlo, it felt so nice…”

He got back to it, a little more intensely than before, and your eyes rolled back when he really started to lap at you with his tongue— harder and wider each time, making you writhe from the intensity of it.

You couldn't even describe the sound you made when he pushed his tongue inside you.  He moaned against you in response to it, though, and thank God, he kept going.

He kept petting your thighs, even encouraging you when your legs clamped down around his head unintentionally; presumably that was his way of saying it wasn’t giving him any pain, which you were a bit concerned about, even if you couldn’t really stop yourself.  Sometimes you had the strength to meet his gaze, but most of the time you felt like you’d melt if you looked back at him— the way he was staring up at you was just too fiery, too intense, too beautiful.  

Just when you thought you were getting used to the pattern of his tongue’s movements on your clit, he gently pushed his two fingers back into your pulsing channel.  You were all tingly and sore inside, but a long, deep moan fell from your mouth as your back arched.

“Beautiful,” he praised, the word muffled by what he was doing— which he got back to more urgently than ever, twisting and thrusting his fingers inside you carefully at first.

“J-just like that,” you pleaded.  “Oh, Laszlo, I— I didn't know anything could… feel like this…”

You could feel the smallest smirk on his lips as he continued; even just being able to feel his smug smile there was such a lovely, erotic, totally novel concept to you.  

When he really buried his face in your legs, you could feel the roughness of his beard against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and buttocks, and god was it the most beautifully filthy feeling.  It was really an excellent metaphor for the whole thing: the symbol of his maturity, the well-kempt facial hair itself a balance between his wildness and his meticulous self-control, rubbing raw your delicate and untouched skin in such an intimate place.  If you weren’t too busy shaking and crying and seeing stars on this bed, you might have appreciated the beauty in those parallels, but clearly you weren’t capable of thinking about it to that level of depth.

The stream of helpless praises you'd been trying to hold back earlier?  There was absolutely nothing stopping it from spilling forward now.  “You're incredible,” you blurted out, your hand holding tighter to the sheets beneath you.  “Laszlo— my husband— you… you must be the devil, o-or an angel or prophet— or something. You make me feel things, such incredible things, that I didn't even know—”

He opened his mouth wide around you, breaking the seal of his lips so he could speak against your skin.  “I'm just a man,” he promised, “I'm just a husband becoming addicted to his new wife's pleasure, that's all, my dear.”

As he started to do it again so suddenly, you reacted suddenly as well: your hand found his hair and grabbed it, and your mind was too far gone to worry about it being too aggressive.  Not that he gave any signs of annoyance— if anything it was the opposite, as he lapped at you harder in response.  

This, of course made your hips jump up— until his hand slipped out of you, grabbing them and pulling them down, keeping you still as he continued.  The simple show of dominance affected you greatly, another heavy pulse of pleasure hitting you suddenly.

“I-I'm close,” you whispered.  “Laszlo, I'm so close— and it feels so different than before— I swear, nothing's ever felt so— fuck!”

He hummed encouragingly, and your whole body rocked in time with the growing pressure.  His fingers sliding back inside you, seeming to curl even more than before, certainly added to the sensation.

Just as you were teetering on the edge, his teeth grazed impossibly-carefully over you, a sharp and raw sort of pleasure jolting your entire body.  Of course, you couldn't fight against that, and the feeling inside you snapped as yet another flood of pleasure ripped through your body.  Your ears were ringing but you still heard how loud you must have been, how totally wrecked and helpless your moans had become.  

It wasn’t as… aggressive of a feeling as the one that had made you… you know… but it was probably the most powerful in its own way.  The highest, the heaviest, the most whole.  You couldn't hear him moaning against you through all that, but you could feel it: a deep and bassy vibration that only heightened the feeling even more.  Your moans turned to cries and then sobs; it was too much, the feeling was spilling over inside you— you weren't sure how much longer you could take it all before you broke.

It seemed, however, that he broke first; he pulled away and sat up, leaving you both panting, sweaty messes.  

“God, you're so beautiful,” he sighed, grabbing you by the neck to pull you up into a filthy, heated kiss.  You surrendered instantly, grabbing into his shoulders with hands that were still pricked with pins and needles as your high dissipated slowly.  “I can't wait anymore,” he mumbled against your lips, “I need to be inside you.”

“Please,” you gasped softly— you'd been waiting for this all night, at least.  You'd never imagined yourself so eager, so desperate for it, though…

He made quick work untying his robe, leaning over you as he held tightly onto his cock and guided the swollen, leaking head between your lips.  Yes, even with desire coursing through your veins, a touch of anxiety was still present.  You just couldn’t imagine what this was going to be like, you could still hardly believe it was happening to you— and, though it was a bit crass to think, you were a bit surprised by the brief glance of his cock that you’d gotten.  You wouldn’t really know what was big or small or normal or abnormal when it came to that… you had nothing to compare it to.  What you did know was that it seemed much… thicker, than seemed appropriate to go inside you.  Of course you knew that a young woman’s first experience could be painful, you’d heard that bleeding was normal (if not expected, but that seemed a bit barbaric and certainly not what a progressive man like Laszlo was after) — yet, you still weren’t properly scared.  It was just the sort of anticipation that made you shiver and let out a long breath to compose yourself.

He groaned a little as he continued to rub against you, and you noticed the arm that held him up over you was shaking.  You could only imagine how frustrating it must have been to be giving you all that attention and not getting any in return for so long, and you could only hope he might take a little of that frustration out on you…

“Please,” you said again, quieter, as you looked up at him.  Thankfully, that was enough to make him press forward and slide into you all at once.

While his fingers had stretched you in such strange, sometimes overwhelming ways, his cock… it just fit.  It filled you exactly the way you needed— not too wide or too deep… though you suspected it would've been had he not prepared you so incredibly thoroughly.  And while his tongue has made you feel such unimaginable things, though his lips had effortlessly sucked ecstasy from your shaking body, having him inside you felt so simple and natural and easy.  

He hissed in his breaths as he moved— slow at first, but each one just a bit faster than the last.  Every movement stimulated all the places he'd already awoken inside you, and your legs moved on their own to latch around his hips while your head fell back with a satisfied sigh.

“My angel,” he groaned, staring down at you as each of his thrusts rocked you under him.  “I knew I— fuck, darling— I knew I'd have trouble keeping myself together when I was finally inside you.  Yet you're… you're even more perfect than I imagined.”

You smiled proudly, reaching up to hold his shoulders; he seemed encouraged by that, becoming just a bit rougher in his movements until your nails accidentally dug into his skin just a bit.

“I won't be able to last much longer,” he grunted, “but I-I can't stop.  I can't even slow down, I never… I've never lost control like this before.”

A shiver ran up your whole body, even seeming to make you clench inside— and he moaned in return, a beautifully pitiful sound.  

“I'm sorry,” he offered between panting breaths, and you barely mustered the energy to laugh. 

“Beloved, what do you have to apologize for?” you teased through a grin.  “Surely you're not worried that I will be left unsatisfied.”

“I would rather bring you to orgasm again,” he explained, “but I'm so desperate for you, I'm afraid I lack the patience for it.”

“I would rather pleasure my husband, for once,” you replied, “but you couldn't possibly feel what I felt, I don't think I'll ever be able to really return the favor—”

“It's no favor,” he insisted.  “Your pleasure is what I desire.  And a good wife gives her husband what he desires, no?”

You whimpered desperately, pathetically even.  “I'll be good for you, Laszlo,” you promised weakly, “I want to be a good wife to you…”

“You're a very good wife, my dear,” he assured.  “Look how much pleasure you've let me take from you, look how you've soaked our bed with your lovely nectar…”

You weren't sure which part of that aroused you the most… but our bed was a serious contender.

“And you taste absolutely divine,” he added, before kissing you again to let you taste it, too.  It was a sloppy and needy kiss, not precise and careful like basically everything else he'd done to you so far, but you loved it.  You loved any sign that he might be just as desperate as you.

Once again his speed and intensity picked up, until you could hear his skin hitting against yours loudly, and your back arched a bit at how perfectly dirty it felt.  His cock hit a spot deep inside you, and you sucked in a sharp breath.  “Laszlo,” you blurted out, and he groaned as he moved his kiss to your neck.  

“Keep saying my name,” he demanded.  “Tell me who your husband is— who makes you feel this way you've never felt before.”

“Laszlo,” you said again, “I'm yours.  Anything you want from me, it's yours.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a heavy sigh.

“Your wife, always,” you continued, and it made your own heart swell along with encouraging him: he moved faster, rocked deeper into you, and breathed heavy against your ear as your back arched from the erotic perfection of the moment.

“My wife,” he repeated, making you whine and nod and bear down on him with your walls.

“Yes,” you gasped, “yes— yours, I’m yours—”

“I-I can't hold back anymore,” he moaned, “I don't… I don't even know if I can bring myself to pull out before—”

“Don't,” you begged.  “I want it inside, Laszlo.  I want all of you inside me.”

“Oh, darling, meine Schatz, I—” he choked, but he never finished his sentence.  He just moaned louder and louder and fucked you faster and faster— until you were nearly screaming from how hard he hammered into you.

It stopped all at once; he pressed himself as deep inside you as he could, so deep you felt like you were struggling to breathe, and hid his face in the curve of your neck as he came inside you.

And for a long, beautiful moment, you just laid together; you were sort of halfway between awake and asleep, your whole body thrummed with emotions and sensations you never thought you could fit within yourself.  Time passed, surely, but you wouldn’t have known the difference.  His weight on top of you wasn’t too heavy, though it did keep you pressed into the mattress and sheets— not that you were going anywhere anyways.

You only really came back to reality when you felt small kisses trailing your neck; you hummed and squirmed a little beneath him, making you both groan as it stirred where you were connected.  He must have been a bit sore, too, though you felt like you’d been through quite a lot more and had a better excuse.

He moved again, just barely, and you winced as you held onto his back.  “Don’t go,” you whispered, afraid of the pain if he didn’t just stay still inside you.

“I have to, sometime,” he breathed in return.

“But—”

“I know, my love,” he cooed, “I’d stay inside you forever if I could.  But I’ll hurt you more if I don’t give you time to rest.”

Resigning yourself with a sigh, you nodded a little and scrunched up your face as he pulled his hips back.  It did sting, but it faded quickly once he was out— and the feeling was replaced with a warm, wet feeling that you realized must have been his seed leaking out of you.  It made you feel a bit dirty, but wonderful, too.

He laid beside you with a deep breath, his hand coming up to your face and turning it so you would look back at him.  You had to blink a few times to really see clearly, and even still, everything seemed a bit blurry around the edges.  The whole world seemed a bit softer, really.  “I love you, darling wife,” he told you simply, his voice soft but no longer a whisper, and he pet your cheek as he leaned in to kiss the bridge of your nose.

“I love you too, husband,” you cooed in reply.  “You’re so wonderful— a-and you’re nothing like I imagined, sometimes.”

“Perhaps I should have been more careful,” he offered nervously.

“No— that was perfect,” you promised.

“I meant the very end, there,” he clarified, his hand running down over your body and resting on your stomach.  “You might have wanted to wait longer… if you had a child so soon, you might wish we had more time just the two of us.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what he meant.  “Oh, that…” you mumbled, smiling a bit to yourself.

“I fully intended to have my finish elsewhere, to lower the chances— I didn’t think I would become so… impulsive,” he sighed.  “I hoped to still control myself, but I’m afraid I wasn’t quite able to, once I was within you.  But I couldn’t help it, with the way you feel…”

“It’s alright,” you laughed weakly, “it’s not as if I were acting rationally.  I never… I didn’t think I could be so… so—”

A thousand words came to mind.  Unladylike.  Animalistic.  Desperate.  Insatiable.

“I didn’t think I’d ever act like that,” you said instead, voice getting a little softer as you felt a bit shy again.

“I knew you would,” he responded, making you look at him with wide eyes and warming cheeks.

“You— but I— I was always—!”

“Yes, you behaved very well each time I met you” he recalled with a proud smile, “always so sweet and well-mannered.  But I knew you had so much need within you, so much hunger… a being of pure instinct just waiting to take over when the time was right.”

Your heart skipped a beat— you felt a bit… accused by that statement, yet you couldn’t really deny it.  Even if you hadn’t known it before, it was clearly true now.  “How… how could you have sensed that?” you wondered.

You sighed, noticing how he'd flipped it back on you (he explained before why he did that-- because his job was to guide you to personal growth rather than just tell you what to do-- but you still wished sometimes it could be more simple) and tried to think about how to answer his question. "I guess... desire, would be a good sign."

"It would certainly help," he laughed lightly. "It's hard to feel much pleasure during something that feels like a chore. Have you?"

"Hm?"

"Have you experienced any desire for or interest in sex lately?" he asked.

Suddenly feeling a bit flushed, you looked away from him and rubbed the back of your neck. "O-oh, uh... I-- I guess that depends on what you consider--"

"So you have," he interrupted, smirking a bit, and you glanced at him before looking down at the floor with a nervous laugh. "I suspected as much."

"Because I brought it up today?" you assumed.

"No, for quite some time," he responded. "Weeks ago."

You blinked quickly, wondering how he could've noticed something like that. "Oh, did I... say something?"

"It's what you don't say," he explained, looking at you with a bit more darkness in his eyes. "It's what goes without saying."

You knew that he knew, but you weren't strong enough to admit it yet. "Wh-what do you mean, Dr. Crane?" you asked, playing dumb and hoping helplessly that it would work.

He sighed and shut his notebook, setting it aside and tilting his head a bit as he looked at you. "What do you think I'm referring to?" he asked.

You scoffed, seeing an opportunity to change the subject. "You know I can't stand it when you do that... you should just answer my questions," you decided.

"Yes, I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he smirked. "Simply being told what to do."

You shuddered at the way his voice changed... and his stare, too, it seemed to rake over you. Even though you weren't sure if he was really asking, you found yourself nodding.

"Say it, out loud," he insisted.

"I want you to... to tell me what to do..." you mumbled nervously, "Dr. Crane..."

He smiled, wider than probably you'd ever seen on him and your gaze followed him as he stood up. "I'm glad you've finally admitted it," he said softly, stepping closer to you until his form towered over you as you sat on the couch-- your heart beat faster as you arched your neck to look up at him, swallowing thickly. "Dilated eyes, elevated heartrate, tightly crossed legs-- yes, I noticed all the signs of desire in you. You want me to help you with your aversion, yes?"

"Well, of course, but--"

He leaned down and held your chin softly in his hand, making your words fail into a whimper. "I think you'll experience much faster progress this way," he explained. "You'll do as you're told?"

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your ears, but you nodded slightly; you couldn't exactly say 'no' now, could you?

And he wasn't wrong-- you'd thought about this, with him. But not literally this. You just thought he was attractive, and though he was the one who told you to touch yourself daily at home to desensitize your mind and increase your libido, you never admitted in your self-reports that you were usually thinking about him.

But you weren't thinking about him as your doctor. You were thinking about him as some other person, who just happened to look like that. And though, in your mind, he always took charge... this felt strange in all the wrong ways.

He didn't quite force you down, he just guided you-- but it wasn't gentle, either. It ended up with you laying back on his couch, the decorative throw pillows supporting your back and keeping you half-upright as Dr. Crane slotted himself between your legs, running his hands over your body through your clothes.

He hummed a little, staring down at you in this greedy, voracious way that was totally unfamiliar. You whimpered a little when his hands groped your breasts through your shirt. "Don't worry," he offered, as if it were that simple. "I told you to stimulate yourself like this each night... did you?"

"Yes," you breathed, "but, um... not so... not exactly like that."

"Show me, then."

Your hands were shaking as they took the place of his, and you thoughtlessly bit your lip as you squeezed yourself a little slower, a little gentler-- you both sighed when your fingers pinched your nipples slightly through your clothes.

He reached down to your waist, sliding his hands up under your shirt. His touch on your bare skin was... unexpected, to say the least. His hands were warm, which was a relief, but you still felt shivers run all over you as his fingers delicately moved up your sides. Under your shirt and bra, he cupped your breasts as your own hands fell away. "Like this?" he mimicked your touches, only without the barriers; and even though it made your stomach flip, you couldn't deny that what he was doing felt better than it ever had when you did it to yourself.

Not wanting to admit that to him, though, you just bit your lip harder and nodded.

Just when you started to get somewhat comfortable with-- or at least used to-- what he was doing, he pushed up your clothes to your collarbones, exposing your chest to his lascivious gaze.

"O-oh," you blurted out at the rush of cool air, at the way he stared down at you with an open, hungry mouth-- which he then suddenly latched onto one of your hardened nipples. "Oh!" you whimpered, hips rocking up against him unintentionally when he suckled hard at the sensitive bud.

He wasn't subtle about it, or all that gentle, but it wasn't too much. Thought it was certainly much more intense than you expected.

He hummed against your skin, and you continued to shake uncontrollably beneath him; it was a raw and aggressive sort of pleasure, his tongue and teeth constantly stimulating you, each movement making your pussy clench inside. He'd always told you to be slow and careful with yourself, to even tease and edge yourself if you could... apparently he didn't practice what he preached.

Apparently he didn't need to. You could tell that you were soaking your panties already. Your head was spinning; how the fuck was this actually happening?!

His mouth moved to your other nipple, his fingers tweaking the one still slick from his thorough treatment. He tilted his head, and you regretted glancing down to look at him latched into you like that. This was your doctor, your psychiatrist... you knew it was wrong, you weren't that naive. But you were apparently too stupid to figure out how to stop this.

When he broke away, he grinned up at you. "You're so sensitive here," he purred, "what other places have you found, hm? Those little spots that make your toes curl?"

It must have been a rhetorical question, because he was already pushing your skirt up to your waist. You shivered, feeling that familiar anxiety swell in your chest, but you tried to keep it down. Even if this wasn't at all how you imagined it, you did want to be done with this, to finally say you were able to move past your fear. Maybe this was just as good as any other way-- to just get it over with.

But you had to take a deep, shaky breath when his fingers hooked into your panties... gently pulling them down your thighs-- or in this case, up your thighs, since your legs were forced up and apart by his body between them.

He purred at the sight of you-- or maybe just when he saw how wet you were, but he got the feeling he already knew.

"Very good," he praised, and you sucked in a sharp breath. "You look ready."

Your eyes went wide as he sat himself back a bit, his hands hastily working on his belt and fly; you didn't want to watch him do this, but you couldn't seem to look away.

If your eyes were already wide, then they must have nearly popped out when he opened his trousers and pulled his cock out.

"I-it's too--" you blurted out instantly, scooting back on the couch a bit, recoiling away. "Dr. Crane, you're too--"

"What?" he asked innocently, though it was terribly unconvincing.

"It's too big," you whispered, and he laughed lowly.

"Don't worry about that," he sighed as he leaned down over you again, sliding himself between your slick lips with a groan. "You-- fuck-- you won't have any trouble. My god, you're soaking me already..."

He seemed pretty distracted, and wholly unbothered with your hesitance. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, but you couldn't seem to soothe-- especially not when he guided his head right up to your entrance. "W-wait," you stammered suddenly, moving your hips back, "I'm not-- I'm not ready."

"I think it's time for me to make that decision for you," he said firmly. "If you never challenge yourself, you'll never overcome this."

"But I'm not--!" you began, cut off by his hand covering your mouth. There was a ferocity in his glare as he watched your face, studying the changes in your expression carefully as he penetrated you.

As you had feared, his size was an issue. Even dripping wet, you had to stretch to accommodate him... it had been years since you took anything bigger than your own two fingers. He'd had you buy a relatively thin, 'ergonomic' (as the packaging stated) vibrator to insert in yourself at home, but you'd gotten too nervous and couldn't get it in past the first inch. He told you it was all in the mind, and you thought he was right at the time, but this felt physically impossible. And it just kept going.

You whined, nearly screamed, behind his hand, and he groaned in your ear with hot and heavy breaths.

"You can take it," he assured, sliding in deeper, "you can take my cock. It's going to fit... one way or another."

You sighed with relief when his hips were flush with yours; you were shaking, a thin layer of cold sweat all over you like you'd gone through some awful thing. But it wasn't over-- it had only just begun.

"Fuck," he grunted, starting to pull back and push into you all over again. "I know it hurts now... but you'll get used to it."

"It's just a door, anyone can walk through it," he explained with a condescending chuckle, before furrowing his brow at how you tried to shield your naked body from his gaze. "No real point in doing that, is there? I've already seen everything."

"How long were you watching me shower?" you wondered with a disgusted frown.

"A while, but that's not what I meant-- it's not the first time I've seen you naked, I mean," he clarified. When your eyes widened, he answered your next question pre-emptively. "Stacy Gawthrop's party? The guest bedroom? I saw you and your idiot boyfriend getting it on, got a little show... you guys really should lock the door before doing stuff like that."

"You weren't even invited to that party," you remembered with a scoff.

"That's what you're concerned about? I told you I watched you get railed and you're worried that I wasn't invited?" he laughed coldly. "God, you're so shallow. I can't believe I actually like a girl like you."

"Can you please just leave me alone?" you whimpered, heart racing faster as he stepped closer to you again, cornering you against the tile wall; there was a devious sparkle in his eye, something sharp about his smile as he looked down at you.

"The point is, I watched him fuck you," he went on regardless, "and I knew I could make you scream louder than he could. And now I'm here to prove it."

He shoved you back as you winced, pressing himself against you, soaking his gym clothes with the water on your skin. "Get off me!" you yelped as he tried to force a kiss-- but when you turned your face away, he smacked you hard, which only hurt more with the water on you still.

As you tried to grab your face to soothe the sting, he snatched you by the wrist tightly with one hand-- the other he brought to your chest, groping you as he hummed proudly. "You really shouldn't show these off so much," he scolded. "Guys can't help but think of... well, of doing this."

He knelt down enough to catch one in his mouth, sucking almost too hard on your nipple until you whined. "N-Neil, stop!" you gasped, sobbing a bit when his teeth grazed your delicate skin.

"Sure, baby-- tell yourself you don't want this," he purred, before tilting his head the other way and lapping happily at the other. "I know you fucking wanted me-- you just can't admit it, 'cause a girl like you with a guy like me is 'social suicide' or whatever."

"I told you to j-just leave me alone!" you panted, trying to struggle again only for him to come face to face with you-- his expression tinted with the rage you remembered from the last time you rejected him. He refused to believe that you genuinely found him creepy and irritating, and apparently maintained his delusion that you were just afraid of what would happen if your boyfriend-- or anyone else, for that matter-- found out. Even though that wasn't the primary reason, you had to admit you were very anxious about somebody walking in and seeing this.

"If you don't want me," he challenged darkly as one of his hands slipped down to cup your mound rather aggressively, "then how come you're wet?"

He dragged his fingers through your folds, far too much pressure on such a sensitive place, and your knees quivered. "S-stop, Neil, I'm serious..."

"Shut up, whore," he growled, spinning you around and slamming you against the wall again as you cried. "Just do what you do best and spread your legs, hm?"

You obviously didn't, but he kicked them apart anyway, shoving his shorts down and making you whimper as he rubbed his cock against your ass. And while you were a bit wet, for reasons you couldn't explain, you certainly weren't wet enough... not for how thick he was. But he shoved himself in anyways-- one quick, hard thrust that made you cry out from the sting of the stretch.

"Ah, fuck, that's good-- it's so good," he moaned, dropping his head on your still-damp shoulder and starting to thrust into you quickly. He had no patience at all, jackhammering into you and holding tight to your hips as he groaned deeply. "Guess that stupid boyfriend didn't stretch you out much, huh? You're still so fucking tight, baby..."

You tried to hide your face under your arm, anything to get away from him, but he grabbed your hair by your scalp and yanked it down, exposing your face and making you cry louder. "Neil, please!" you begged through your tears.

"Oh, don't talk like that," he warned, "I don't wanna finish too fast. But fuck, you look so cute trying not to show how good it feels..."

Good isn't really how you would've described it... it wasn't just painful, but it hurt-- he was too big, you weren't used to it yet, and he just seemed to go faster and faster with each passing moment. But there was a sick pleasure to it all, something about the way he reached so deep inside you... he was at least right about one thing: your boyfriend had never made you feel like this before. You weren't sure if you'd ever be able to face him after this, for more than a few reasons.

"Baby," he praised, biting down on his own lip to muffle a moan, "quit squeezing me like that, you're gonna make me come."

"D-don't," you tried to plead, as if it wasn't inevitable. Just the way he kept going, grabbing a tighter hold of your hips, moaning lowly against your ear... it was not only inevitable but imminent.

"I'm close," he warned under his breath, "fuck, look what you do to me--"

"Not inside, Neil, please," you choked, but he ignored it, moving faster and moaning louder until it all slowed down to a stop, his cock flexing with every stripe of come that painted your insides. You hung your head defeatedly, feeling sick to your stomach as the reality of what just happened began to sink in.

"Shit," he hissed, "I didn't think I'd come that fast..."

"Fuck, Neil, I-- I could get--" you started, too scared to even say it.

He smirked around his sip of bourbon— at least you figured it was bourbon— as you tried to keep a poker face. You didn't like the idea of being seen as crazy at all, let alone because of him. "Like what?" you pressed instead of admitting to it.

"Free," he shrugged. "Out of that cage you worked so hard to keep me in."

"Getting you there was my job," you corrected with a frown. "If keeping you there was mine, too... you'd still be in it."

He laughed lightly, if briefly, and shook his head. "Still so prideful. You're young, and you have something to prove."

"I have nothing to prove to you," you asserted, shifting your weight on your hips— it was sort of uncomfortable to keep standing, but it felt wrong to take a seat even though he'd offered you one when you entered. It seemed like a sign of trust. Not that he should be surprised by you acting aloof, when he'd offered to meet you here without even explaining why.

"No, not to me," he agreed, setting the glass down again and taking one step closer to you. "To your friends at the CIA."

He seemed to emphasize every letter of the acronym, a playful condescension in his tone. "Friends is a funny way to say it," you rolled your eyes, "like I do what I do because I want to be popular, and not because I want to keep the world safe."

"Safe from me," he added, "the evil terrorist. Right?"

You ignored his question, not really wanting to dignify it with an answer— or start some spiel about how you don't really believe in evil people, just actions that merit punishment, bla bla bla...

"Yet, you couldn't keep yourself safe from me," he went on, raising one eyebrow as he examined you. "Or, you can't. Here you are— alone, as I asked."

Obviously, you had tried to imagine some way you could have back-up for this, even just tell someone where you were going. But this was Zemo's turf, and he had eyes and ears all over the city... he would know if you tried to turn this into a sting. Instead, you only hoped to gain some sort of information tonight that you could use to track him down when he tried to run again.

"You're more trusting than I suspected," he smirked, gaze darkening a bit. "Or, more desperate."

"Maybe the right word is 'curious'," you proposed. "Clearly, you have something to discuss with me."

"I do," he nodded. "A question to ask you-- one I feel only you can answer."

You waited for him to ask it, but even just the way he sucked in a sharp breath made you realize he was going to bore you with some preamble first— just like him, really..

"You see, after evading you so many times—"

"Narrowly," you interjected.

"Maybe some times," he shrugged, smiling, "other times, I think I had plenty of room. But that's besides the point... the point is, here I am. I've probably bested you for the last time—"

"That's not—"

"Ah ah, no interrupting, please," he scolded gently. "I know you know that if I can keep a low profile here, your organization has no hope of getting me back. I simply have too many resources, and your superiors know my risk is relatively low. No?"

Again, you refused to answer, but the way you crossed your arms tighter and glanced away seemed to serve as enough of an agreement.

"So that's it— I'm free. It should be so simple," he sighed. "So, why am I disappointed?"

You furrowed your brows, staring at him in confusion. You were waiting for him to say something to give context to that, but he didn't— he only waited for your response with an earnest look. "Why... are you asking me that?" you wondered.

"Because you're the person who knows me best."

You'd never thought of it like that, and it was such a jarring idea that you began to shake your head almost instantly. "No, that... that doesn't seem right..."

"I figured you would take pride in it," Zemo grinned. "You tracked me for years, studied me, learned my habits... I had to do the same to escape you. I must know you better than anyone else."

"That's ridiculous," you scoffed. "What are you trying to say?"

"I just hoped you could tell me why I feel this way— why I feel so wrong about never seeing you again."

Your chest tightened. You couldn't bear to meet his gaze; your stomach felt sick and strange and you just wanted to run out of there, but what good would that do? You needed him to tell you something you could use, one last chance to catch him before it was too late.

"If I didn't know you so well, and hate you so much," he went on, "I wouldn't have the energy to keep running. And me? I'm your biggest case. Sometimes you act like I'm your only case. What is it about me, that you need to win against me so badly?"

"It's not you," you insisted instantly, "it's me— it's who I am."

"Maybe that's how it started," he suggested, "but you can't spend so long hunting someone without becoming a little obsessed with them— trust me, I would know."

You grimaced at him. "You— you can't be serious."

"Who will you be without me to chase?" he pressed anyways, matching some of your anger as he stepped closer again— almost too close. "Without this... passion, between us?"

"Don't step any closer," you warned.

"Or what?" he challenged. "No weapons, no soldiers— it's just the two of us here."

He stepped up again, nearly pressed against you, and you couldn't let him get away with that... you had to prove you meant what you said. You weren't armed, and you knew he wasn't someone you wanted to go up against hand-to-hand... but at the same time, it was one thing you'd always secretly wished for. A chance to wage this war the way it should be, the way it had always been: personal.

You stepped back at the same time as you swung your fist, giving yourself just enough room to gain momentum— but you weren't quite fast enough, and he blocked you. From then on it was fast, instinctual: he was stronger but you were quicker, and on the offensive.

You never quite landed a hit, but neither did he— which felt like a good sign, until you realized he wasn't really giving it his all. Dodging and blocking, yes, but he wasn't trying to win, just keep you at bay.

"Come on!" you yelled in frustration as you finally got in a kick to his chest, forcing him to stumble back and nearly fall. "What are you doing, pitying me?"

"Hardly," he wheezed, a little affected by the hit, which made you smirk. "But I don't want to hurt you."

"Please," you rolled your eyes, putting your fists up and stabilizing your posture. "If we're going to do this, let's do it right."

He came at you, and finally, there it was... his real strength. That passion he'd been talking about, you could feel it.

Both of you were flushed and panting, exhilarated by the sport of it all. Unfortunately, right as you thought you'd found your moment— the weak spot in his form— it was a trap. When you moved in closer, he grabbed you and spun you around, holding your back against his chest so tight that you struggled to breathe.

But he didn't shove you down, didn't put you in a chokehold, didn't even threaten you or gloat about pinning you. Instead, he only held you tighter, and soothed you with a gentle 'shh' in your ear when you tried to squirm out of his grasp.

"Wh-what are you doing?" you whispered, your whole body shaking as he ran his tongue up your neck.

"If it's curiosity that brought you here," he purred in response, "I can satisfy that."

"You can't be fffucking serious," you hissed, though a moan tainted your words as one of his hands ran down your body, the other still effortlessly holding you still.

"I know you so well," he went on, a deep growl in his voice as your eyes fell shut. "I know how lonely you must be. That's one of the things we share."

His hand was heavy and warm against your leg, even through your pants— and it was moving higher, petting your inner thigh as you shivered.  Though your mind longed to resist him, your body was desperate for any affection; because he was right, you were lonely.  You couldn’t think of the last time someone had touched you like this, and yet you remembered it didn’t usually feel this good.  His touch was precise and careful and teasing— not too awkward but not too cocky.  And the heat of him wrapped around you, his hot breath on your shoulder, his wider form encompassing you… how could it feel so good?

“And I know you’ve thought about this,” he added.  “That’s something we share, too.”

He couldn’t know that— he might be rich and resourceful, but he wasn’t omniscient.  If you were any more logical in that moment, you would’ve realized he was just guessing and denied it.  But his teeth brushing over your pulse didn’t exactly provoke your critical thinking skills.  “Fuck, I— fuck,” you choked out instead, shuddering when he chuckled proudly.

“You might hate me, draga, but you need me,” he explained.  “Your mind needs me, just as much as your body does.”

Something about the way his fingers traced up your side, teasing your breast before pulling away right before getting to anything too exciting… it seemed to bring you back to reality, at least partially.  You absolutely couldn’t do this— you couldn’t let him do this.  “G-get off me,” you choked out, struggling against him again.

“That’s what you want?” he taunted.

“Get the fuck off me!” you yelped.

“Make me,” he challenged.

Bringing your foot down hard on top of his, he winced and you managed to break away, spinning around and shoving him back— he actually lost his balance that time, falling to the floor.  You were ready to deliver a firm and swift kick between his legs, but rolled over and grabbed your leg while it was up, bringing you down to the floor with him.

He laughed breathlessly, sounding a little frustrated, as you flailed for purchase against the floor— only for him to grab your wrists and pin you down, positioning himself over you with a grin.  His hair was shaken out of its style, hanging around his face which was flushed from exertion.  “You keep me on my toes, I’ll give you that,” he offered.  You tried to writhe again but he had you properly trapped now, with absolutely no way out.

“You wouldn’t,” you sneered incredulously.

“Wouldn’t what, dear?”

“You wouldn’t force yourself on me,” you completed.

He seemed a little surprised, hanging his head and shaking it.  “Oh,” he breathed, “no, I wouldn’t.”

A little relieved, you started to catch your breath.

“I don’t need to.”

He brought his lips down to yours suddenly— the collision was almost too rough, and yet it was the only thing that made sense for the two of you.  You groaned in protest yet submitted instantly, opening your mouth wide for his desperate and dominating kiss.

Your back arched up off the floor, and his weight seemed to sink down on top of you in response.  Though you hated yourself for it, you spread your legs a bit, just enough for him to rest his hips between— and fuck, you could feel it.  The hard, throbbing heat, you could feel it pressed against you and the most horrible moan was nearly lost to his lips.

He hummed back proudly, running his hands over your body, kissing you faster.

You were gasping for breath when he broke away, which only worsened when he latched onto your neck.  “God, I hate you,” you blurted out, just to remind you both that if this was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“You hate me for all those times I embarrassed you?” he assumed, hands holding your waist and starting to slide up your shirt.  “For when I eluded you, wasted your time, made a fool of you?”

“And that time you shot me.”

“I winged you,” he corrected— like that was any better.

He tugged your shirt up and you raised your arms, letting him slip it off; he spotted the scar right away, a line across your arm just under your shoulder.  He cooed for a second before kissing it softly— too gentle a moment for you to let lie.  You shoved his jacket back next,helping him slip it off his shoulders before pulling him down to kiss you again.

Your sports bra had a clasp in the front, it was a bit unique in that way, yet he had no trouble with it.  Freeing your chest, he of course had to tease you a bit more— instead of groping your waiting breasts right away, he guided your arms down from where they held onto the back of his neck, lifting you up from the floor a bit so you could slide the garment off and toss it away.  

When you laid back down, the floor was cold, but the hiss you let out was more a response to him rocking his hips against you, teasing you through these stupid remaining clothes.  “You know why I hate you?” he returned as he started to unbutton your pants, even though you’d entirely forgotten that last part of the conversation.

Before he answered the question, he yanked your pants and underwear down to your thighs— and swiftly got his own out of the way.  Your heart raced; you weren’t totally convinced this was really happening, not until he pushed into you in one painfully sudden thrust.  You cried out, yet he took no mercy on you.  He was ruthless, in fact.

Choking on your broken cries, you arched up off the floor again as he hammered into you, rage and relief and desperation evident in every movement.  He had to hold your legs tightly just to keep you from sliding across the floor, which only ensured you took every stroke as deep as it could go— which was already too fucking deep.

“Say it,” he ordered, “tell me why I hate you.”

“I caught you,” you said— but you knew that would just make him angrier.  Maybe that was kind of the idea.

Stopping just long enough to tug your pants the rest of the way off— and leaving you naked while he was still mostly dressed— he descended over you and looked right at you, far too close, with a rageful stare.

“You trapped me,” he corrected gruffly.  “You played dirty.”

Before you had a chance to retort that all’s fair in love and war, he started to pound into you… harder and meaner than ever.  You didn’t surprise yourself by crying out, considering how intense and nearly painful the feeling was, but you were a little confused that the word you said was a needy yes!

"Those years in prison," he snarled, "you could barely call it living, life in that place— you put me there. I thought every day about how you put me there."

He yanked your hair, making you whine loudly and exposing your neck for his lips and teeth to explore freely.  

Finally, a hand latched onto your chest— a hot palm encompassing your breast and skilled fingers pinching lightly at your nipple.  You couldn’t believe how composed he was through all this— in many ways, he wasn’t, but he seemed to be deliberate with every way he touched you and that was far more togetherness than you had.

You weren’t together at all, actually… something about the heat of the moment, the way your body responded to him, the way he glared at you… you could already feel tension building inside you.  It wouldn’t be long, not if he kept going like this.

“I thought about you every fucking day, draga— that you were free, and I was trapped in that cell,” he growled.  “You missed it, didn’t you?  Chasing me.”

When you didn’t answer, he struck you across the face with the back of his hand; the shock of it made your walls clench on him, or at least you could blame it on that, but you had no way to explain the way you moaned a moment later.

He moved even faster, a sickening wet sound echoing through the room which you hated to acknowledge was your own body.  “The worse I am to you, the wetter you get,” he noticed, smiling for just a moment.  “What a filthy whore you are.”

“F-fuck you,” you stammered roughly.

“Actually, why don’t you?” he offered, grabbing you by the hips and rolling both of you over until he was on his back and you were straddling him.  “Show me how bad you need it.”

As much as you wanted to not do what he told you, your hips were already moving— your body was on its own mission now, desperate for pleasure and friction and heat.  Desperate for anything he would give.  You whimpered as you grinded down on him, feeling his cock go so much deeper than you imagined was possible.  “God,” you sobbed, tossing your head back and trying not to picture the way he must have been looking at you then.

His hands moved all over you, up your thighs and over your breasts, even wrapping around your neck once though they didn’t put on enough pressure to really choke you.  “Pretty girl,” he praised darkly, making chills dance over your skin.

But when his hands settled on your hips, trying to guide you the way he wanted, you’d had enough; you grabbed him at the wrists and leaned forward, pinning his hands beside his head.  He smirked up at you at first, but when you bounced your hips up and down while hovering over him, his eyes fell shut and he let out a deep groan.  “I’m close,” you panted sharply.

“You can make yourself come like this?” he realized, sounding a little impressed.  He opened his eyes and lifted his head for a moment to get a better look at you, before almost instantly giving up again and dropping his head back to the floor with a moan.  “Fine, take it— just take what you need, draga.”

You held tighter to his wrists, mostly to keep yourself stable, and you felt his own hands ball into fists as you bounced faster.  “Oh god, oh god, oh god— yes!” you yelped, legs quivering as it struck you.  It seemed to come and go so quickly, perhaps because your strength gave out halfway through and you felt weak and paralyzed.  It had been ages since you’d felt pleasure like that… actually you weren’t sure you’d ever felt pleasure like that, at least not so much all at once.

If only he were satisfied by that.  With your grip weakened, he easily pulled his hands away to wrap his arms around you, holding you tightly and bucking his hips up into you rapidly.

“Fuck, wait, s-slow down,” you panted, whining weakly as he shook his head against the crook of your neck.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he purred.  “I won’t be able to slow down at all until you’re full of come, draga.  I want you dripping.”

You were all numb and limp now, so raw and sensitive inside— he put you on your back again and didn’t struggle at all to pull another orgasm from you.  The third, though, was a little more hard fought: he rubbed your clit with an almost painful amount of pressure, watching through dark eyes and with a sneering grin as you screamed and shivered.

“Not too loud, darling,” he warned, “the people in the streets might hear you, the window’s still open—”

“Fuck!” you shouted, high-pitched and shaky, and he covered your mouth with his other hand as he laid on you with a growl.

“Just one more, then I’ll fill you,” he promised.  “I only need to feel you come one more time.  You want a rest, don’t you?”

You nodded weakly, biting down on your shaking lip.

“Then give me what I want.”

Your final cry was stuttered and helpless, every final ounce of energy in your body being taken from you by the final forced peak of ecstasy.  But it wasn’t until you sighed out his name, barely audible under your breath, that he groaned against your neck and pumped himself deep inside you— every drop, leaving you full to the brim and then some.  

You didn’t even have the strength to hold onto him, but he held you far too tightly as if to make up for it, and didn’t let you go for quite some time.

It had only gotten darker and colder out, and the draft through the window eventually danced over your sweat-slickened skin.  When you shivered under him, Helmut lazily reached up to the couch nearby, pulling a throw blanket off of it and wrapping you both up in its soft embrace.  You sighed with relief from both the cold air and the hard floor, not even realizing you were falling asleep. 

Even when you woke up, you didn’t really notice that you’d been asleep— except that Helmut was gone, and the fireplace was going.  Sitting up as little as you could get away with to look for him— since moving at all was quite a task given how tired you were— you heard him coming around the corner and turned back to look at him.

He was in a robe now, and carrying two crystal glasses of water.  He smiled at you as he sat back down on the floor, laying beside you on the blanket and handing you your glass.  “Figured you would need this soon enough,” he explained with a soft voice as you sipped carefully at the water.  You weren’t really ready to talk to him yet, but you wanted to thank him for the water, so you just nodded and hoped that would get the point across.

The silence was probably only awkward for you— he seemed totally at peace, getting through most of his drink before setting it down on the floor and cuddling up to you again with a contented sigh.

You quietly drank the water, staring forward at the crackling fire, hardly believing where you were.  It actually sounded sort of romantic on paper: a dashing and wealthy older man, a penthouse apartment in a foreign city, a fire, a blanket, a crystal glass…

If it weren’t for the wanted terrorist, it might make for a good little fantasy.

Yet, you set your glass aside and laid back down with him.  He slipped an arm around you, holding your shoulder and petting it with his thumb, even kissing the side of your forehead sweetly.  “I don’t understand how you can… be like that,” you whispered, glancing down at his arm crossed over your chest.

“Not everyone is so afraid of their feelings as you are,” he countered, and you snorted a little.

“I’m not afraid of my feelings,” you denied half-heartedly.

“You’re afraid of me, then?” he wondered.

“Not… quite…” you murmured your answer, not even sure yourself what you felt.  “I mean, I drank the water, so—”

“I wondered if you would,” he laughed, “but I’m glad you did.”

“I mean, only half the glass, technically,” you noticed.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve had enough,” he shrugged.

“Enough?” you chuckled.  “After that, half a glass of water is hardly enough.  I won’t be recovered until I have a protein-heavy meal and probably a couple painkillers— if I wanna, you know, sit or jog or whatever in the next few days.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” he chuckled, “but I didn’t mean enough to recuperate.  I meant enough for you to sleep until we get there.”

“...what?” you asked, turning over your shoulder with knitted brows to look at him.

“If even you know where you’re going, you might find a way to get out is all,” he explained flippantly.

“What… what are you…?” you started, shaking your head— but it didn’t shake off that funny feeling, that heaviness in your head.

“You see, I did think about you every day in my cell,” he went on, “and I thought about how, someday, I would lock you away— so you’d know how it feels, to be a prisoner.”

Whimpering as realization dawned, you sat up quickly to try to fight whatever was in that water… but it only seemed to make it worse, spots forming in your vision like when you stand up too fast— except they didn’t fade, just multiplied.

“I’ll treat you much better than I was, though,” he assured, “in fact, I think you’ll be better off than you were before… you’ll be mine, draga.  No one else will ever see you again.”

You tried to speak but it wasn’t really coming together— you tried to push him away but you only limply held onto him, looking up at his eerily blank expression with your fading vision.  As it all turned to black, he caught your head before it hit the floor, cradling it rather tenderly before kissing your cheek.