sharin4readers

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The day after the fair, you let Poe sleep in while you did your morning chores and took care of the animals. You decided to clean up and do some bills and business inside the house. When you made your way back downstairs, Poe was cooking breakfast. Naturally, Cheddar was circling his legs lovingly. Or annoyingly, depending on one’s point of view.

Poe had made quite the mess already, but he looked up at you and grinned, so proud of himself.

“I’m making cakes. Um…pan-cakes? It’s under the breakfast tab of your favorite cookbook. I can't believe how much actual paper you have in these books. No holopads or anything but real paper. It's incredible. Are pancakes okay?”

Folding your arms over your chest, you couldn’t help but laugh. “There’s flour everywhere. It’s even in your hair." You nodded down at the apron he was wearing. “Guess your clothes will stay clean though.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged. “I tried. I think I burned a few so I opened the back door to air it out. That’s when Cheddar came in. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you laughed, scooping up your little barn cat for a quick snuggle.

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After a long day of farm work and supper, you offered to cut Poe's hair.

"Okay, just lean back," you instructed, helping him ease his head back into the kitchen sink as he rested in a chair. You had draped a towel around his shoulders to protect his shirt.

He stared up at the ceiling as you began to spray water through his thick curls.

"Too hot? Too cold?"

"No, it's good." His eyes flickered over to yours, holding your gaze for a moment until you smiled sweetly and continued raking your fingers through his hair, getting it wet.

A low sound of approval rumbled in his chest without him realizing it.

"You okay?" You softly asked, hoping you hadn't pulled his hair too hard.

"Mmm...yeah. That feels good actually." You watched as his throat bobbed, his eyes drifting closed.

"The water?" You innocently questioned, squeezing out a glob of shampoo and working your fingers over his scalp.

"No. Your hands."

"Oh..." Grateful that his eyes were closed and not studying you, you went to work on massaging his scalp, gently raking your nails soothingly all over. "It's good for you to relax for once."

Then he did look at you with a smirk. "Don't start."

"I know, you like to stay busy, I know." Turning the water back on, you began rinsing out the shampoo. "It's just nice to see you taking it easy for a few minutes...letting me take care of you a little bit. You do so much."

His head turned in your grasp, causing your fingers to catch on a tangle. The slight tug made him groan, but he swallowed it down. "Are you serious? Take care of me a little bit?" He sighed, but there was no frustration in it. "Trix, you saved my life. You take care of me all the time, every day."

Your heart flamed in your chest, but you reminded yourself - it wasn't anything to indulge in. You had to let Poe focus on getting home. You couldn't have him for yourself. It was selfish. "You take care of me too, you know," you softly returned, finger-combing his wet hair before lifting the towel from his neck to towel dry it a bit.

He sat up straight in the chair which put him about level with your chest. His eyes traced the smooth column of your throat, noticing how your breaths grew more shallow as his breath brushed your collarbone.

"There," you whispered, kneeling down to his level, the gentle smile returning to your face. "All clean. How much do you want me to cut?"

He blinked at you, distracted, his eyes flickering momentarily down to your mouth. He dragged his gaze back to yours with effort. "Uhm, I don't know. Should you just cut it short, to make it easier?"

"Not too short," you tutted, reaching for a comb and standing back to your full height, if only to get away from his penetrating eyes for a second. "Not with curls like this."

He beamed at that, sitting up a little straighter. "You like curls?"

"I like these." You twirled your finger in the longest one before watching it spring back into place.

"You decide then."

So you did. You took your time, carefully thinning out and shortening Poe's wild mane, loving every second of it. He asked if you'd cut hair before. You admitted you'd only cut your father's hair for years, and your farm hand Chester's a few times. Neither one of them had thick curls.

Poe's eyes would drift closed whenever you would push his hair this way or that, finger comb it into position to trim the next piece. He looked so satisfied like this, reminding you of Cheddar rubbing against your leg.

Maybe he was missing touching someone. Someone back home.

"Who cuts your hair normally?" You asked, checking for extra tags and wrapping things up.

"We have machines that do it, but this is way better." He grinned at you.

"You're not used to someone playing with your hair?" You had meant to tease him, but it came out rather blunt and kind of nosy.

His eyebrows shifted curiously as he watched you bashfully avert your eyes.

"Uh, not in a while really. A long while."

You busied yourself, cleaning up the haircutting supplies, while Poe asked how he could help. He ended up sweeping up his hair off the floor and before long, the two of you sat down to watch TV on the couch.

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All of Poe's nonstop farm work must have finally caught up to him. Either that, or he was so soothed by his haircut, that he fell asleep on your shoulder halfway through the first television program.

You hated to disturb him, and honestly, you relished having him close, at least while he was unaware of it, so you stayed still until the next show came on.

Eventually, your fingers found his dried, fuzzy waves and gently began to twirl through them, faintly scratching at his scalp. He stirred for a moment, nuzzling into your neck before going still again.

This was such a bad idea on your part, but you couldn't help yourself. Making him feel good was like an addictive drug.

Before long, your head rested against his crown of soft brown hair and you found yourself sleeping right along with him.

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You didn't wake up until it was time for chores. Dawn peeked over the horizon as a rooster crowed. You found yourself lying on your couch downstairs, an old quilt made by your great-aunt tucked securely around your body.

Mortified at the thought of falling asleep with Poe and him putting you in this position, you practically leapt up, glancing around for him.

When you didn't see him, you darted upstairs, bypassing his bedroom to freshen up in the restroom and quickly change out of yesterday's clothes.

He wasn't in his room, and he wasn't attempting to make a mess of your kitchen, so he must be outside.

You found him brushing Annabelle, your gentler, blonder, slightly bigger horse. He was talking to her softly and she was eating it up. That sweet girl loved Poe from day one.

"Can't give you too many treats, can I, sweetheart?" You heard him murmur softly. "You're supposed to wait until I'm done brushing, aren't you?"

Then a beat.

"Don't look at me that way, girl. You're gonna get me in trouble with your mom. I'm almost done."

As tempting as it was to linger and listen to Poe flirting with your horse, you stepped into view, clearing your throat.

"See? Busted," Poe said to Annabelle, flashing you a grin. "She's trying to sweet talk me out of extra treats."

You folded your arms over your chest. "Mm-hmm, and how many did you already give her?"

His eyes shifted back and forth between you and the horse guiltily. "Two?"

You walked over and patted Annabelle's nose. "Good work, sweet girl. He's a pushover."

You picked up a second brush and walked past him, toward your chestnut Arzola.

"It's okay, I already brushed her," he informed, stopping you with a hand on your wrist.

Your mouth fell open. "You brushed Arzola. By yourself? She let you?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah. She loves me."

Reaching out to pet your feisty girl, you chuckled. "He got you too, huh? You girls are hopeless." You turned back to Poe. "Thank you for taking care of them. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Oh he did. One of the most peaceful nights he'd slept in ages. He woke up, half on top of you as you leaned heavily against the arm of the couch, his face pressed against the soft skin of your neck, arms wound around your torso. You were holding him too.

As much as it would have felt good to lay you all the way down and pull you closer, he didn't want to startle you. So he carefully untangled himself, checked the time, freshened up and began seeing to the morning chores as a thank you for his haircut.

"Yeah, I slept for a while. Thought I'd help you out this morning," he finally answered, licking his lips and shaking those thoughts out of his head.

You asked what he'd gotten to so far, and that's when he revealed he'd already taken care of everything except breakfast. You reminded him he didn't have to do all that, especially not as a thank you, but he just smiled and said he loved it.

"You wanna go for a ride, don't you?"

He nodded. "I was hoping you would say that."

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After racing across your fields in the early morning sun, you and Poe decided to make breakfast. It felt good to have a morning where your chores were already done. And sharing a good meal with a handsome man didn't hurt much either.

"I should probably confess something," he said cryptically, swirling his last bite of pancake through syrup. "I haven't actually slept too much lately. That's why I fell asleep on you so early last night. Sorry about that."

You eyed him curiously. "It's okay. Why aren't you sleeping?"

He swallowed down his last bite, considering his words. "Sometimes, I'm out there with my ship, in your old empty building where we stashed it. I've been fixing my droid."

You nodded as he continued.

"I've been working on my ship a little bit too. I need some bigger equipment. Tools and things." He eyed you carefully. "I was wondering if you could help me get some things. Maybe...maybe if someone thought they were for the farm, they wouldn't notice you needing them. I don't want to get you in any trouble."

"I know that," you softly returned.

"Once my droid is up and running, she can help me work on the ship, or at least restore communication."

You swallowed a heavy lump in your throat. "That's good, Poe. It's a good idea. I'm sure I can help you out with the equipment you need. The best Iowa has, anyway."

"Thank you." He reached for your hand and gently squeezed. "I wanted to tell you before there's a droid whizzing around here. Didn't want her to scare you."

You held onto his hand longer than you intended, toying with his fingers tenderly. "Does your droid...talk?"

Poe smiled, his eyes flickering down to your joined hands and then back up to your gaze. "She speaks binary. It's...like a machine language. Sort of. I understand her, but I don't think you will. Unless you speak binary?"

"No," you laughed.

"She'll understand you though, mostly," he went on. "She can probably help around here too." Then he wistfully sighed. "I just hope she can help me figure out how I got here."

Your thumb rubbed the back of his hand soothingly. "I hope that too, Poe, I really do. And I want to help you, if I can. If there's anything I can do."

He wanted to ask for your help. He wanted to sleep as soundly and safely as he'd slept last night, against your body. One of the main reasons he worked on his ship at night was because of the dreams. Vivid, haunting dreams of his friends screaming, dying, in the vastness of space, or their minds pulled apart the way his mind had been violated by the dark side of the Force.

He wondered if you had a tonic to help him sleep more deeply. At least that's what he wondered until you drove his nightmares away last night with your mere presence. It's why he awoke so invigorated and decided to complete the day's chores for you.

If only he could sleep that soundly again, feeling that safe. If only he didn't have to see his friends in torment when he closed his eyes, feeling like he'd abandoned them.

If only he could have met you in his galaxy. But as surely as he felt he must return to his own life, to the war, he was grateful you were not a part of it. Earth seemed, at least for now, the safer option for you.

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On a late Saturday’s eve, Victor and his beloved woman strolled through the Princes Street Gardens.

The cold of winter was slowly losing its grip on nature, and spring was settling in, waking up the withered trees with fresh buds and shaking the dust off them and other divine creations of God. Life was inspired not only by wild animals, who loyally obeyed the orders of nature, but also by mankind.

Spring was an important period for mating, and humans were inclined to follow their instincts.

However, never had winter been so lively for Victor. For the first time in years, the season proved itself to be a period of rebirth as much as spring.

Most of Victor’s days were spent in the company of his woman and her father, for the pair insisted on him joining their breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinners, tea-parties and so on. One could say that they were tailoring their busy schedules to his convenience.

More and more often, Victor and the woman were able to enjoy each other’s company in private, for her father was often called on duty, or forced to depart earlier than anticipated. However, such misfortune brought extreme joy to Victor, as he gained so much time to spend with the subject of his dearest admiration.

Happiness was an emotion he grew accustomed to, and life was far more exciting than in the days of ‘courting’ Elizabeth Harlander, now Frankenstein.

In a very short period of time, the pair grew close, and it was hard to imagine a day spent without one another. Even though his woman was constantly occupied by the duties of a physician, visiting and treating one patient after the next, attending the call of her craft in the hours of their meetings, she swore to dedicate the weekends’ evenings to Victor. One thing he loved about her was that she was keen on her promises: breaking them was equal to committing a crime.

As time had passed, Victor came to the conclusion that the woman was truly a charming creature, yet there was still a veil shielding her true identity. He willed to snatch it off, but each attempt was met with a wall separating them. He knew not if his intuition was correct, as she did speak of herself from time to time, but there seemed to be a lack of authenticity in her words.

Victor wanted to see whatever her heart had concealed, and to embrace it, regardless of the horror it may bring.

Despite its grotesque nature.

Usually, their conversations would switch to Victor himself, as his beloved would dig into the subjects of his childhood, parents, foes and friends. Her queries were intrusive, and could not be determined as general— prizing open his brain into regions worth analysing. If he could, he would avoid providing honest answers; indirectly challenging her to find ways of obtaining the truth.

The infuriating woman crept into his mind like a parasite, feeding off his memories, plucking out the ones that seemed more important than the rest.

This parasite was killing him, his brilliance, yet he could not bring himself to extract it. He had tried to in the past, and it had caused him to be even more addicted to its effects. It ruined his days. His sleep. His diet. Not due to his struggling finances, but the craze that had swallowed him whole.

Perhaps to defeat the enemy meant to embrace it, to know it. To understand it, before it had the opportunity to kill him entirely.

Even so, the notion of this parasite killing him was too sweet. He would have never thought so a mere few months ago. How could a man change so suddenly?

Victor’s racing thoughts were disrupted by a gentle tone awakening him, “Baron, what is troubling you?”

His gaze shifted to her, just to bear his beloved staring at him with concern. At the very least, he imagined it to be concern. He smiled, shaking his curls lightly. “Nothing, Miss. I am but tired. My sleep is troublesome and I have not been able to rest easily for the past few nights. I beg of you, pay no heed to my absent state, I wish not to worry you after your working hours.”

“How can I not worry for a dear friend of mine?” Her grip tightened around his arm; they now took pleasure in walking arm in arm  in the darkness, hidden from the eyes of gossip-mongers.

Those words tickled the apex of his heart, making the whole organ flutter; his spine straightened in response. Yet, he managed to suppress the swell of pride, as his gloved hand landed on top of hers.

Her touch, once only a distant dream, was now crucial for survival. Yet, their intertwined arms and the gentle message of his thumb upon the back of her hand was not enough to sustain the growing greed for intimacy.

If only he could shed one layer, then the next, one day even her skin—just to be close to her core, to her heart!

“I beg of you not to gnaw at the topic. Your mind is constantly navigating between the problems presented by your patients. Be at ease, rest beside me, that is my only wish.”

The woman paid him a final glance of distrust, her eyes analysing his face.

“As you wish.”

Her feet kicked the small pebbles that crossed her way.

They walked in solitude, though that did not bother them. Victor had grown fond of her presence and in time overcame the nagging need of talking over the silence. Perhaps it even relieved her—her throat must have been dry from consulting the suffering patients.

“It is a very pleasant evening,” he suddenly spoke, closing his eyes and taking a deep inhale of the fresh air.

“Indeed,” she replied. “If only Spring was so kind to us as to stay just as it is currently.”

“Then we would take more walks?”

The dim light and the bonnet, covering the side of her face, twisted her peaking smile into something sinister.

“We would, but…” she agreed. Victor knew, by looking into her eyes, that a marvellous idea manifested itself in her mind. “What if it rains tomorrow?”

“Then we might not meet.”

That devilish smirk…

“But what if I wish to?”

“What do you intend to offer?” he asked her, slightly raising his brow and chin.

“What if…” She nibbled her bottom lip for a second, gripping his bicep. “No. Could I visit you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Victor spluttered, so taken aback by the suggestion that he stopped, glancing around to be sure nobody heard her. “Miss, do you not think it indecent?”

“If it offends you—”

“No, no,” he quickly interrupted. “It could never, however, I worry for your reputation—”

“Ah, reputation.” She nodded as if in understanding, and dragged him forward into the shadows of the trees. “Tell me, Doctor, are two kindred spirits, friends, not even fiancés, strolling across the park hand-in-hand, on a late Saturday’s eve, not controversial?”

Victor shot her a glance, feeling annoyed, yet undeniably aroused by her eagerness and snappy attitude. “I suppose you are correct…”

“Well then, I would prefer to inquire whether you would like to see me or not?”

“My lady, there is no other option on the matter,” he hurried to answer, accidentally pulling her closer to himself, controlled by the excitement in his veins. “If that is your wish, then I shall wait upon your arrival.”

“Very well, I plan on paying you a visit tomorrow evening. I beg of you, prepare no meals; I would be greatly displeased to bear your fatigue afterwards. Now pray, do tell me the address of your residence.”

Victor did as asked, hardly containing the happiness that was bursting through his tone. The mask of nonchalance was trying its hardest to remain, but it slipped as his grip on her hand tightened while trying to provide coherent directions to his home.

“Then, we shall see one another tomorrow. Now be a gentleman, walk me home,” the woman said with a widening smile. A very rare occurrence—a laugh escaped her lungs, “You would hate to hear the news of me dying at the hands of a cold-blooded murderer before I could visit you, would you not?”

The formaldehyde jars of organs and bodily specimens were arranged accordingly. Layers of dust and dirt were wiped off from all surfaces, which now shone like fresh furniture. Papers and journals, books and atlases were stacked in shelves by subject. All scalpels, needles and bonesaws, dirty or clean, new or aged, were collected and placed into medical cases. Every corner of the apartment looked brighter, as Victor had never cleaned them so thoroughly before, unless necessity pushed him.

Somehow, everything still appeared unorganised and unruly in Victor’s eyes. He disliked the arrangement of the jars. His furniture, well-worn and with more pleasant memories of home, suddenly seemed shabby and threadbare. He also found himself glaring at the bloodstains which had seeped into the wood of his desks so long ago. Everything seemed so artificial and distant from his personality.

He only wished to seem dutiful and composed in the eyes of his woman, proper and respectable as she was.

Surely, a woman, a physician, who believes in germ theory, would hate messy and filthy surroundings.

And when she arrived, Victor had greeted her feeling weaker than he had expected.

How stunned Victor had been once she shed her coat. He was convinced, even swearing on his mother’s grave, that she wore that dress in an attempt to corrupt him.

The bodice and low décolleté of the burgundy dress tightened around her figure, highlighting the grace that God has granted her, luring him to run his hands along the delicious curves and dips of her body. By looking at the soft material, one could tell its high quality; yet it could tear so easily, if the slightest bit of force was applied to rip it. Only straps secured this slutty dress to her body. The wide cleavage and her bare arms made him breathless, for her skin never looked as inviting as then, soft like the most expensive silk he could ever touch. The golden cross lingered on her chest like an amulet to ward off all evil, daring to have a taste of her delicious body.

However, she did not even bother to comment on the exterior of his place, only affording a poor glance of it all, as they seated themselves at a table in the dining area.

“The pomegranate. A very exquisite fruit. Have you ever tried it before?” she said, holding a round red fruit in her hand.

“I, for one, had never seen it,” he replied, curiously looking at the fruit. Then secretly at the woman.

“Well then, hand me a knife. Just please, not a scalpel with which you have previously dissected a corpse… And a wet towel.”

Victor chuckled at her words and fulfilled her command.

With the knife, she cut the fruit in half, showing him the inner layout.

“I have heard that peaches are recognised as the fruit of life, youth, fertility, immortality,” she said. “Some cultures claim that it is the fruit of the heart. I would argue that the pomegranate is far more significant. From the inside, it contains chambers, valves, all anatomical parts of the organ, therefore, reminding one of the human body…” she gestured with the knife to the hard membranes within. “I am fond of its symbolism.”

While looking at it, Victor could not deny the similarity to a heart.

Lifting one half, her bare hands tore the fruit apart into pieces; the sound of the cracking shell tuned to music, resembling little creaks of bones. The juices bled into the wrinkles and thinner layers of her palms, flowing down to her forearms. Some of it splashed over her exposed chest, the droplets rolling down over her breasts. Small, bead-like, crimson seeds unwillingly popped out of the hard shell onto the cold plate.

It looked like a crime scene to Victor, as the pomegranate fruit and its insides blended into a singular mass of organs. Though the shade of pomegranate’s juices was colder, pinkish, it weirdly resembled blood.

That blood covered the golden cross on her neck.

It all seemed gory.

He enjoyed it.

“And what is the symbolism of this fruit?” he asked quietly, barely moving his lips.

Alas, the woman gathered the seeds and lifted her hand to his mouth, waking Victor out of trance. He noticed that there were six, to be exact.

“Eat. There will be a woody seedling inside. Choose whatever you would prefer; you may swallow them, or spit them out onto the plate.”

Without a need to repeat herself, Victor followed her order. He picked the crimson seeds with his lips and tongue, rolling the muscle against her palm in the process, collecting juices and other remaining goods.

His molars crushed the soft seeds between the cuspids, and his taste buds collected all sensors into memory, recognising familiar patterns and combining them. The exaggerated sweetness and sourness battled with one another, bringing forth more saliva to suppress the tingling sensation on the apex of his tongue. Yet, it was expressive, exotic, one of a kind and very distinct: if he were to try it again, blind, he would definitely recognise the fruit.

Recognise the taste of the hand that had fed him.

Victor gulped down the woody seedlings while his beloved licked the mixture of spit and juices off her palm.

Their essence glistened on her tongue.

Oh, Baroness!

The view excited him, inducing a throb in his trousers.

The woman wiped her hands clean with the wet towel, yet the dried droplets remained on her chest, and Victor considered it rude to note the detail.

Her attention turned to the plate of seeds, carefully picking the buds with her fingertips and inserting them into her mouth. “Now, your question. To me, this fruit represents rebirth and death, marriage and sacrifice. Of all the myths, Persephone’s is by far my favourite. Have you ever heard of it?”

Victor shook his head lightly, placing his elbows on the surface of the wooden table, intrigued to hear her speak.

“Persephone, firstly referred to as Kore, the goddess of spring, was abducted by the king of the Underworld, the lord of the dead—Hades. The myth heavily relies on her mother’s—Demeter’s, the goddess of agriculture, narrative and sorrow for losing her daughter. However, I am most interested in Zeus’s role in the story, as he was at fault for their suffering. Zeus was Persephone’s father, as you may know, the lord of the lords, the mightiest of the mighty, the god of Thunder and so on,” she spoke, her gaze concentrating on the seed between her fingers. She squeezed it, making it juices drip on the surface of the table. “He offered his brother, Hades, his own daughter’s hand. Therefore, permitting Hades to kidnap Persephone. He sacrificed his daughter’s happiness to reward his brother’s loyalty. For the benefit of joining the two worlds: the world of the dead and the living. You must agree, he used Persephone as a sacrificial lamb. However, Zeus did not foresee that Persephone could possibly endure the most traumatic event of a woman’s life and use it to her advantage. She was feared by mortals. Some may say she was wicked. Only then did she gain that name, Persephone, becoming the ruler of the Underworld. Hades was said to be cruel to mortals, stubborn and egoistical, his demeanour undefinable, but even his heartstrings were pulled by his wife, his queen. What a manipulative goddess, was she not? Did you know that she was bound to him by eating the pomegranate?”

“I did not,” Victor answered slowly, digesting the tale and its link to the fruit.

“Well, Hades tricked her into eating the seeds with a promise to release her if she complied with his request. However, it bound her to the Underworld for half of the year. That is the origin of the seasons at least.” She took in a few more buds in her mouth.

Why did her fingers push in between her pouty lips so seductively, sucking the tips while gathering those juices into her mouth?

She spat out the woody seedlings onto the plate.

The wet mass had lost its vibrance, decomposing before their very eyes, and bringing forth life, if only it were replanted again.

If Victor calculated correctly, she had also eaten about six seeds, though he dared not to ask for its reasoning. Perhaps it was accidental after all.

“Doctor Frankenstein, please, taste this wine. My friends brought it to me from France; it was quite expensive. I believe that it would be a shame not to try it,” the woman said while leaning back onto the sofa’s backrest with an elegant glass in her hand.

Oh, Baroness! How she gazed at Victor with those half-lidded eyes and that angelic smile! Her body, however, was sinful: her cleavage almost bare, calling him to fondle her breast with his hands and his mouth.

His face scorched from that irresistible desire. He tried his best to fight that surge of perversion corrupting his mind at that very moment.

Yet, her expression irritated him, as if it were more mocking than purblind to the fiery emotion coiling inside of him. If he wanted to, he would successfully pin her down onto this sofa and fuck her—surely, it would erase that nonchalant smirk.

However, Victor was a gentleman; he could not possibly allow himself to be so vulgar with his beloved dame.

He snapped out of his daydreams. “With all due respect, Miss, I do not take pleasure in drinking alcohol. I refrain from such… Substances. They provide no benefits.”

“A little sip would not harm you, I assure you,” she wheedled with a shimmer in her eyes. “Alcohol is pernicious without temperance, however, if enjoyed in moderation, it may expand your palate. I will not allow you to take more than granted for simple satisfaction.”

Victor turned to the coffee table in front of them—on it stood a cup of milk and a glass of wine.

For the first time in his disciplined life, wine seemed alluring.

Perhaps the deep colour of burgundy reminded him of his beloved, asking him to taste, of what he believed, her. Perhaps it was her hand holding a similar glass, luring to betray himself and his beliefs. Perhaps her parted lips whispered in his imagination to take a sip of the divine nectar that deceived the gods in various myths.

His head inclined to the side, contemplating whether it was worth succumbing to the dubious calling. His fingers nervously tapped on his knees. Eyes ran from one object to the next, until a heavy exhale proposed a solution.

Victor took the glass of wine. His gaze returned to his woman with a prideful smirk and an arched brow, feigning nonchalance at the leap of faith. “To us?”

“Cheers.” The corners of her lips twitched, and their glasses clicked against one another.

The wine was an appalling drink, nastier than the expired blood accidentally landing on his tongue during working hours. Bitter and sour; yet, the pinch of sweetness of the pomegranate balanced the disgust.

The flavour itched something deep inside his skull, for it was her, as if that burgundy was engraved in his vision.

The first gulp made his throat dry, begging him to take yet another sip just to quench the thirst. So, he drank again, again and again, until the glass was empty. He wiped the final remnants off his lips with the back of his hand; a deep frown and a downturned mouth made it clear that this experience was highly unpleasant.

A chuckle from his beloved rang in his ears, shifting his focus towards her. “Baron, wine is supposed to be savoured.”

“I was very thirsty…” Victor spoke, though his bobbing Adam’s apple caused friction.

The effect of the alcohol was slowly settling in; he could feel it in his nerves. A dull, muffling buzz.

He sank onto the sofa, throwing back his head against the cushions and closing those heavy eyelids while the world spun uncomfortably for a moment or two.

“It does induce thirst.” He heard her voice approaching him; the scent of roses grew stronger. “I have been meaning to ask, why do you drink milk so often?”

“Milk strengthens the body, as well as the mind. It is far richer than… Wine,” he grumbled, not even attempting to cover the disappointment.

The woman hummed; her breath crept on his neck, forming goosebumps on his skin. “How was your relationship with your mother?”

Victor’s eyes shot open with bewilderment. “My mother?”

“Yes, your mother.” His expression only reinforced her curiosity. “You have told me before that she died when you were young. What kind of relationship did you have with her?”

Victor gulped down the saliva, just to lubricate the throat; he felt a bit more at ease. “Mother was very dear to me. Like any mother to a child who has experienced her love.”

“How deeply did you love her?”

“Words are not enough to profess the love I carry for her,” Victor uttered. His mind sank deeper and deeper into his childhood. “She was the first woman whom I had ever loved. The first woman that had loved me, perhaps the last one to love me so. She… She was my first ever love.”

“Would it be correct to claim that your relationship was deeper than most mothers and sons have?” the woman whispered softly, not wanting to disturb Victor’s resting state.

Victor no longer saw her in his eyes.

Only the blurry image of his mother miraged in his vision, similarly adorned in a thin layer of crimson silk.

But. It. Was. Not... Burgundy.

“Yes, very much so,” he agreed quietly, closing his eyelids, as if engulfed in a long-abandoned memory. The crackling of the nearby fireplace was louder than their voices combined. “We depended on one another. I had to take care of her. Perhaps we would have lived alone for the rest of our lives, in each other’s company, in Geneva. If only death did not do us part.”

“Is this the reason for your objective of defeating death? In hopes of bringing her back?”

“I will never bring her back… Even if I truly pray to…” His hand ran along his face; tears slowly welling up in the corners of his eyes.

“You have a younger brother. Your mother died during childbirth, do you not resent him?” she asked very carefully while taking in a tiny sip of wine.

“No, I do not, though I cannot say that I love him nearly as much as I should. I could never hate him, he is dear to me, and yet, I am far too distant.” He sighed, turning away from her.

“And what of your father? Do you resent him?”

Victor’s hand clenched into a fist and rose only slightly. It trembled not out of fury or control, but rather as a warning. A warning that he was at his limit, and if she was to poke him any further—she would be forced to deal with the consequences.

Even if he did not see her—Victor knew that her eyes analysed every twitch of his facial muscles, the veins of his hand. Knowing her, she would pay no heed to the warning.

“He stood in the way of your and your mother’s life?”

“He made it worse.” He spat, exhaling sharply as his fist thumped down onto the cushion. His fingers  contracted harder in response to the motion.

The woman took her time to speak, savouring the wine on her tongue. “How so?”

“Think for a moment... He… The famous, renowned surgeon of the world. The greatest of them all had failed to save my mother!” Victor’s voice rose, on the verge of breaking, and his clenched hand hit the sofa again. He felt, oh, he felt that she did not flinch. She was as still as a statue, and so observant.

Then the same hand ran across his face in frustration, smudging the tears into the pores of his skin.

Words had difficulty leaving his chest.

“He had failed me, my mother. He failed us. His craft. He was defeated by none other than death. It shall not happen to me! Oh, I will not allow it!”

Then Victor sat up, covering his eyes with his palms. Apathy had expired; the shadows of the past were too maddening to come in terms with. “I beg of you, do not ask of my father. I wish not to speak of him…”

“We shall not.” His beloved replied. A click, she placed the glass on the coffee table; a creak, she slid closer to him across the sofa. “Do the women that you have loved before hold resemblance to your mother?”

“No—” Victor looked at her with confusion. Then he reflected, his eyes jumping through the scattered objects in the room and finally—returning to his beloved.

Perhaps there was a similarity to his mother.

His hand brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She was intriguing, soft by nature, like his mother. Elegant, simply divine, even while patiently waiting for him to speak. Her touch, her existence, nurtured him.

“Maybe. Maybe they do.”

“So you dream of marrying a woman who reminds you of your mother?”

“Ideally, yes,” he whispered when the back of his hand gently brushed against her cheek.

Never had temptation conquered Victor’s self-restraint, but it happened.

His heart pounded heavily against the sternum. Lungs were collapsing inside the tight ribcage. Arteries expanded, demanding fresh resources. His whole body made him suffocate, shiver, while his thumb played with her bottom lip.

Lust was always hard to control, however, it had reached its breaking point. He could no longer restrain himself from touching her. He wanted to be vulgar. To dismiss his goodwill and manners, to indulge in this animalistic nature that flourished within him, for he could no longer think rationally. He needed to kiss her, to bury his tongue in her hot mouth and steal all of her air, otherwise he would die this instant. That monstrous feeling would destroy him, if he did not take action. His erection pulsed desperately in his trousers. He could no longer ignore the desire that led him to this moment.

Victor’s lips moved to touch hers, but suddenly, a hand firmly squeezed his neck, pushing his body against the backrest of the sofa. Something else caressed his bulge, drawing a pathetic moan out of him.

“My, why are you so stiff?” the woman cooed, yet there was a sense of darkness in her tone.

Victor was too astonished to speak and slightly frightened by the turn of events.

Oh, Baroness, what a wicked creature you are!

The way her fingers slowly glided up and down over his bulge made his mind spiral. Even though the rough material dampened her touch, it was undeniably thrilling, especially as it was her hand running over him. The pressure over his throat induced his arousal; he had never expected something so compromising to be so enticing. Her fingers massaged the sides of his neck, measuring the pulse of the carotid artery and levels of general ischemia.

“I believe you would like it to be taken care of?” she whispered into his ear, her body flushing against his.

“Yes, yes, Miss… This issue must be resolved urgently…” he replied, nodding his head frantically, as much as the restriction permitted.

If only he could have eaten her alive with his gaze.

Oh, Baroness! The devilish smirk on her polite face drove him mad!

She released him from her grip. “Unfasten your trousers.”

Victor obeyed with great delight, loosening his pants with shaky fingers. His pristine hands struggled, hurrying to save himself from the physical torment, even if she was patient with his clumsiness.

Finally, he succeeded, waiting for his Baroness to speak.

A comment on his hard cock, on the way its vessels pumped blood, or how it stood so lonely in the air, waiting for company, would do wonders. A word on his deprived state, or a command to fulfil her wishes. Anything. Even imagining her lustful sentences increased his salivation.

His heart was on the verge of tearing its muscles apart—all oxygen was wasted on the burning desire.

Yet, she was quiet. And it tortured him. Even a glance at his desperate state was not significant. She leaned over to the coffee table and dipped her hand into the previously neglected cup of milk.

However, the purpose of the action became clear as soon as her wet hand wrapped around the shaft.

A loud moan escaped his lips, and tears gathered at the waterline; he feared he would not last for long.

The devilish pressure on his cock forced out a cry, bringing unbelievable ecstasy. Rivulets of milk poured down over his length, erasing all possible friction on his skin; the faint aroma drifted to his nostrils, making saliva trickle down his chin. The pace she had chosen was excruciatingly slow, as if she wanted to tease him, rather than to please him. Her thumb occasionally rubbed the sensitive tip, as though specifically desiring to watch him wriggle beneath her touch, aching to deepen the connection.

This pleasure, her hand—her touch was special, deliberate. 

Doing it alone could never feel the same, it could never provide that proximity to heaven.

God spoke through her hands, praising his arduous work and devotion, granting him bliss on Earth.

God did not abandon him.

God was good to him.

Victor’s trembling hands squeezed her hips, and his messy lips intended to kiss her once more.

However, she stopped, releasing his cock from her grasp. A sad whine drew out of his empty lungs, and desperation swayed in his eyes: why, oh, why are you torturing me?

Yet, that immovable disinterest lingered in her eyes. She was simply heartless towards his suffering.

“Now now, Baron, I do not recall myself granting you permission. If you dare to touch me, I will stop. And if you dare to kiss me, I will leave that very instant.”

“You cannot—” His voice broke and cracked like a spine. He desperately gasped for air, feeling his chest swelling and burning at the thought; his grip tightened around her hips. “Let me feel you… Let me touch you…”

“I have stated my conditions. If you have no interest in complying, I might as well stand up and—” She shifted, as though she were preparing to stand.

“No, no,” he whimpered, rubbing his forehead against her chest. His tone pitched only slightly, eager to beg. “I will submit to your design. I will listen to you. Do not abandon me, I cannot bear it… Stay… I crave for your touch, I promise, I— I will be obedient!”

“Then do as I say. Let me go, that is my first command.”

All remaining ego shattered, and with great reluctance, Victor leaned back against the sofa.

Sharp breaths heaved their way through his chest like those of a dog. His crazed state greatly contrasted the calm surroundings.

Baroness kept her promise.

Her fingers sank into the milk, lubricating his cock once more. She squeezed him almost painfully, making his body jolt in surprise. The movement of her hand was even steadier, slower than the previous, forcing his hips to buck upwards.

Yet, the woman neglected him again, and Victor shuddered, his anger barely containable in the presence of her sadism.

“Do not move,” she said, all too calmly.

“I cannot! All of this is too much to bear!” he protested, panting in between words. “I cannot touch you, I cannot kiss you, and now, I cannot move when you are purposefully tormenting me! I need— God, I need to…”

“God gives the greatest gifts to most patient servants. That is but the truth. If you wish to resolve your ‘problem’, act accordingly.”

“Accordingly?” he spat. “Is any of this—”

“Very well, I understand—”

“No! Please!” Victor realised his mistake, interrupting her sentence before it was too late. Though his eyes were watery, and his lip shook, he managed to speak against all odds. “I will do as you ask!.. I swear to you, Miss…”

“And how am I to believe you?” Those dreamy eyes drove him to madness, along with that casual grin.

“I am your loyal servant, trust me, I beg of you, I am more than glad to comply with your wishes!..”

“Hm.” She pondered upon his devastation, as if it were a spectacle. “Perhaps I should grant you a chance of redeeming yourself.”

His eyes lit up in the face of doom. “You should!..”

Then Baroness’s hand jerked his erection again, dragging out bloody whimpers from his mouth. His entire body shuddered at the fluctuating levels of pleasure, pressure and release, feeling rather tortured than rescued from his anguish. His head threw itself back against the backrest, pressing his cervical vertebrae to the sharp wooden edge. His hands desperately clung to the cushion, nails slightly ripping it by the sheer force he used to restrain himself. The whitening knuckles contrasted so beautifully with the crimson surface. His back accidentally arched from time to time, making him glance to her side, as if in terror of seeing her leave.

Victor felt as if he were walking on needles, wondering whether this experience truly is meant to help him in need.

However, Victor truly believed it to be the salvation he was searching for.

From the moment of when he had first noticed her.

When he had first laid eyes on her.

Heard her.

Felt her, spiritually, mentally.

He knew—

Victor’s lewd moans echoed across the apartment, filling each unattended corner of many chambers. They were interspersed with whimpers, stutters and whines, stirring a variety of emotions inside his body.

Tears clung to his lashes, facial muscles tensed and relaxed in a matter of seconds as if reacting to pain, and yet, she was so slow. So slow that it was killing him. If he could, he would grab her hand and increase the pace— No, if he could, he would grab the back of her head and make her gag on his cock. Make her plead for forgiveness while drinking all of his cum. That would surely wipe the cockiness from her face. The thought alone drew more precum out of him.

But what stopped him from doing so?

“I beg you…” he began, his chest rose and fell visibly. “Faster…”

“There is a special word I would prefer for you to use.” Every spelt word was equivalent to a pump of his shaft.

He gasped, when her hand squeezed him momentarily. Blood flowed to his brain with a large pulse, making him grasp the request instantly. “Please!..”

“Please always helps,” she hummed.

Instantly, the pace increased exponentially, not allowing him to get accustomed to the sudden change.

Victor’s spine involuntarily arched, swiftly followed by his mouth forming a string of desperate apologies, as fear of losing her was too much to bear. Lungs expanded against his ribs, hitting their inner surfaces in rhythm of the delicious strokes of her hand. He could physically feel every capillary in his body, as his blood speedily travelled to the deprived organs.

His body begged for a release while his mind was splitting in half.

Wet sounds inhibited the chamber, along with his wails, moans and abused phrases.

Now God seemed cruel and merciless.

God betrayed him.

Victor could no longer survive this overwhelming torture; he could not command the hand that was destined to heal him.

Though the swift up-and-down motions caressed his shaft along with the pulsing vessels; it was simply not enough. His consciousness craved for her body, it shouted over and over, she was so close, but so far away. He needed to embrace her, at least a part of her. Anything would do. Anything would make him a happy man.

Sweat rolled down his bronze skin and his clothing were sticky.

This was hell.

“Please!” he cried out loud. “Please, let me touch you, please! I cannot handle it!..”

‘Baroness,’ slipped off his tongue.

“Baroness? Are you granting me the title of your own?” Her brows rose in surprise, but then a sigh escaped her throat. “I suppose it must be done.”

Her other hand reached the cup of milk, dipping in two fingers, and then held them before his wet lips.

Victor’s mouth instinctively wrapped around her fingers, sucking at them eagerly with muffled thank you’s.

The taste of pure milk conjoined with the bitterness of wine and the sweetness of pomegranates.

He knew:

He needed her.

He wanted her.

He gave her his all.

The sensations brought him near his end, as he used this opportunity to explore her skin. How soft her digits were, their texture seemed unrecognisable for a surgeon; how delicate they were against his teeth. How he enamoured himself in nibbling them, or using his buccal muscles while envisioning a forbidden fruit instead. His imagination replaced her fingers with her nipples; how his mouth would slobber over one and then the other. The milky after-taste made the vision so clear—he could no longer distinguish reality from his imagination.

Even that was not enough. Even then, he needed more.

“Please,” he begged again, with his rough tongue rolling over her fingertips, as if replicating the rolls over the rounded tip of his cock. “Allow me to hold you!”

“Doctor Frankenstein, I will meet your wishes, but first—”

Victor popped her fingers out of his oral cavity, a string of saliva connected his lips to them. “Anything! Oh— What must I do?”

“Tell me.” A wet squelch interrupted the sentence. “Do you often imagine your mother’s hand caressing you in such a way as the current?”

“I have. I have! Before—” he whined out the reply, leaning into her touch with the assistance of his hips. “But now all I can see is you. You never leave me, not even in my dreams!”

How badly I yearn for you; can you not sense the hunger that consumes me whole?

“So, do I now occupy the role of your mother in your mind?”

“Oh, Baroness…” His tongue savoured the fingers once more. “You remind me of her. No… Unless… Oh, I cannot think! No… You are more. A creature I have never met before. A ghost of the past and the future… Oh, please—”

She hummed, perhaps pleased with his words. “You loathsome man.” Her words stung, but the tone was so gentle.

“I am!”

“Are you not a pathetic little thing?”

“I am!” He cried. “I am all that you think of me!”

I am a disgusting, wretched being of a man. Unworthy of a respected surgeon’s title. Inferior to you, oh, but I am!

“Good, very good,” she spoke quietly, pressing her body to his own. Yet, he dared not touch her, not until he was permitted to. “Now tell me, do you resent your father?”

He moaned, his body invisibly grinding into her hand. “Very, very much so!”

“How did he treat you in your youth?”

“P-Poorly— Oh, so poorly!”

“How?”

“With constant punishments for my existence!” Victor shouted, almost crying, his head dipped down, yet his hips bucked upwards. “Lashes of his cane across my face still linger in my consciousness... Neglect— Disapproval of my lack of knowledge… I was punished for being naive and unintelligent for my age!”

A few strong pumps over his cock felt like a reward. “Are you willing to prove yourself to your father?”

“I am, oh, but I am…” He could not finish. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his intense gaze stripped her out of her dress.

Then, the Baroness’s kind hand guided his head towards her chest. His dilated pupils gaped at her breasts, grasping her fertile hips with his calloused palms.

“For proving your obedience and answering my query, I grant you permission to touch me. You may hold my waist, though I suggest refraining from holding anything else. I could use some cleaning off my chest; the pomegranate juice landed there also.”

Victor could not reply anymore, as his tongue lavished over the tender flesh, tasting the dried droplets of the juices. The faint tingle along with the texture of her skin made him bestial. He moved scrupulously from the clavicle, down the sternum, paying attention to every rib-bone, counting and mapping them on an atlas of her anatomy. Alas, the softness of her breasts! He wanted to place his hands over them, to play with them, to pinch her nipples, suck at them with his mouth. Perhaps even to bite them gently, just to taste her blood on his tongue. His eyes rolled back towards his cranium, as his rough tongue kneaded the softness, cleaning the very last stains off her skin. When he reached the hem of the cleavage, he dared not to go further down, fearing a sudden departure.

His tongue lapped over the golden cross, chewing the metal slightly with his molars, for he could no longer process the train of actions he had committed.

His nails dug themselves deeper into her hips, practically measuring the width and length of the bones between which her womb should be embedded.

His hips professed an undying love to her palm. He believed it to be love, yet to a priest it would be the filthiest confession of darkest lust. His movements became erratic; his lips abused the skin of his saviour, and the body pressed itself forcefully to her own, just to catch the promised relief. His pubic bone rubbed itself into her knuckles, and his shaft hurt from the ongoing stimulation.

“You’re a selfish man, are you not?” she cooed.

“Ah— I am, Baroness, I am…” His silent mutters were muffled by the kisses to the exposed parts of her flesh. “Your pathetic little man! Loathsome creature…”

Her hand gently ran through his unruly hair, drawing a cry from his collapsing lungs. “Are you close?”

“I am, Baroness, I…” He moaned, when her fingers tugged at the roots of his curls. “Your pathetic little creature is at his wit’s… Oh…”

His forehead pressed against the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of roses, and sobbing so loudly while seeking an end to the bodily torture.

“Cum for me,” she whispered in his ear, like in his visions, the low voice driving him up the tightening walls. “Cum for me, Baron.”

After hearing her wish, Victor let out a blood curdling scream.

He knew:

He loved her.

Saliva oozed and dribbled all over her, as his mandible slacked and almost dislocated itself. Tears dyed the colour of her dress into something twisted. His hands kneaded the sides of her waist, pushing her body almost on top of his own.

If only he could fill her insides, breed her, his greatest dream would come true.

He jerked upwards, as though struck by lightning, feeling how his balls tightened and emptied themselves, spilling his own milk, hopefully, over her.

The feeling was so intense, he felt as if he would faint. Bolts of electricity flashing in his view.

Victor panted heavily with his eyes closed. His heart was tirelessly trying to steady its rhythm. How comforting it was to embrace his beloved, even with shivering arms, while resting his tiresome head against her breasts. He felt her hand brushing against his chest, but he did not pay much attention to it. However, he loved the feel of her fingertips drawing circles on his back, following downward the pointy processes of his vertebrae.

A weak whine escaped his lips when her other hand released his cock.

The separation was unwanted.

Unneeded.

He chanted incoherent thank you’s over and over again, as if his brain were overheated.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked so softly, Victor would think—lovingly—while raising his jaw with the same wet hand to welcome him into her view.

“Yes,” he mewled.

And yet, his greed was insatiable.

He wanted more.

“You treated me so well. How could I ever repay you?” he asked, leaning into her touch.

“By bringing me a napkin.”

The loss of his woman’s touch made Victor feel so lonely as he peeled himself from her. Yet, he rushed to please her will in hopes of praise, renewed touch. His body was exhausted, and loose trousers restrained his legs; however, even while being wobbly, he managed to do as asked.

Returning to her, he noticed that her dress was clean, though her hand and cleavage glistened in the light of the fire, and she cleaned them attentively with the napkin he had fetched—nobody could assume a thing about their affair.

That subtle angelic smile, how appealing it appeared to him after such an intense emotion both of them had created.

Sitting beside her again, Victor pulled his lover towards him by the waist, gazing like a starved animal at her tempting lips. “Stay for the night, would you?”

His watering mouth attempted to press a hungry kiss upon those seductive lips, feeling himself grow stiff just by the intent.

And again, he failed, as she arose swiftly and left the room without a word.

“No, no! Where are you headed?!” he shouted, following after her.

Damned pants: they almost made him fall over, slowing him in dire need.

His head was turning and rolling in circles, forcing him to grip onto the walls for balance.

Her coat wrapped around her lewd figure swiftly, before he could grab her by the arm. She did not look back as she strode to the door. “I have promised a friend of mine to spend the night with her and her husband. I must leave. Papa knows of my stay and will arrive early with a carriage. Farewell!”

Both of them were outside, as Victor trailed after his beloved like a cat chasing a flying bird.

The woman ran across the street, a few buildings away to some other door, and Victor could only watch her from afar in grief.

She never once turned around to look at him.

She left him like a ghost, a vision.

The door, on which she then knocked, opened quickly, and he bitterly glimpsed the glad expression of her friend—seemingly a lively woman, bright and pleasant.

It ached him to witness how the woman shone in the eyes of others, how her arms wrapped around her friend’s shoulders with such warmth while heading inside the bright apartment.

Why could she not offer him the exact emotion?

Why was she so cold? So distant? Emotionless?

With a hung head, Victor reentered his own apartment, rubbing his temples in the hopes of reducing the headache brewing behind his eyes.

Finally given the chance, he looked down at himself. In contrast to her, he looked like a wrecked man: his shirt and pants drenched in sweat and stained by his cum. Then he gazed upon the mirror and noticed the bloodshot eyes and tangled curls, making him look older than he was. He noticed that her hand had purposefully brushed over his chest, cleaning itself on his linen shirt.

That wicked...

He returned to his studio, gazing upon his Creature, which was curled up like a fetus, with unfamiliar sadness welling up in his chest.

Only then Victor realised that he had not presented his experiment to her. Not even once had he mentioned his work throughout this evening. He had dreamed, oh, how he had longed to do so when given the chance. How could he possibly have forgotten?

Victor was ashamed of his own negligence when he noticed the gathered layer of dust over the molded form of a man. He hurried to clean it tenderly, carefully brushing a wet cloth over barely visible stitches, the mosaic of skin and flesh collected from different people with varying stories in fortune and misfortune. Even then, his hand shook lightly, overwhelmed with guilt, even more—disappointment with his idleness and obsession. He longed for the passion that had once driven him to this type of madness. That adrenaline rush for success, craze for purpose and influence.

Where was this man that he once knew?

Victor shed a tear or two at the thought, then quickly breaking down and sobbing with despair and shame while desperately hugging his creation.

For the first time, he felt akin to the man he had created. Abandoned. Distraught. Lonelier than ever. Yearning for a life that seemed unattainable.

Even after such a high, even if his dream had come true, he felt empty and unfulfilled.

Credits for the beautiful dividers:

1- @/knightlittle

2- @/strangergraphics

You turn to him with an arched brow, amused. “Oh, we’re gonna do this now?”

“Yes,” he grins, nestling into that wedged corner between your body and his pillow, keen eyes fixed on you as if waiting for his favourite bedtime story. 

“Who was your first?” He asks again.

You shake your head at his antics, wriggling slightly under the firm press of his hands on your hipbone.

“It was — a cadet, at the Civil Defence station back home,” you relent, scrolling aimlessly on the datapad. “We got along pretty well, I guess, and one night, he waited for me to clock out so he could — kiss me.”

Poe pauses for a beat — “Smooth,” he jibes, barely keeping it together.

You throw him a deadpanned look: “I take it your first time was with Zorii then?”

“First kiss, yes,” he huffs, looking away. “First time…”

Oh, this is getting interesting — “What, some cadet in the academy?” You set the datapad aside, turning your body toward him.

“Uh — not really,” he scrunches his nose, scratching a nervous tick at the back of his neck.

You stare him down as he toys with the hem of your shirt, his bottom lip pushing out childishly.

When he catches your questioning eyes fixed on him, he tuts: “Fine — she was a major.”

OH, this is interesting — “My, aren’t you the ambitious one?” You raise a brow at him, just about to burst with laughter.

“Can’t believe I’m telling you this…” He smushes his reddened face into your arm.

“Hey, you started it,” you laugh, squirming away from him.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles, mouth gaping slightly before he continues: “It was a graduation thing. We both had a little too much to drink and I — you know, walked her back to her room.”

“Smooth,” you tease back. “How uncomfortable did it get?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Poe sighs, shrugging. “I was transferred to the Mirrin Sector with my own squadron shortly after that.”

“Wow,” your smile brightens. “Really fucked your way to the top there, didn’t you?”

“It — that wasn’t my plan, I swear,” his hands hang in the air in self-defence. “I think she just did it so it wasn’t — you know, awkward and stuff.”

Your facial expression remains skeptical — until he finally rolls his eyes and mumbles: “OK, fine — we did it again before I left.”

“Well,” you slap his face lightly in jest. “We do need a bit of a — leg up to get somewhere.”

“What about you?” Poe diverts almost immediately with a lick across his smiling lips, pulling you up against his chest.

“When was your first time?” His tone is lighter, but there’s teeth in the question.

You crinkle your nose at the question, and at that split second hesitation, the man just — lights up like a bulb that went off above his head.

“Oh — someone on base,” he smirks. “Is he still here?”

You pause, your cheeks dust a mild pink: “Yes.”

“Who is it?” He persists, bumping his nose against yours.

“I’m not telling you,” you nudge back.

“Why not?” He squeaks, deft fingers already scurrying across your waist. “I told you who mine was.”

“Because!” You clamp down on his wrist, ducking away from his tickles. “It was a long time ago, and it didn’t last — and I especially don’t want you to be weird around him if you know who he is.”

“Is he a pilot?” Poe presses on regardless, but you shake your head.

“A tech?”

You purse your lips — Maker, he’s good.

“Oh — he’s a technician like you.” His eyes sparkle, like he has just uncovered the galaxy’s deepest, darkest secret — before his face falls again. “Kriff — there’s so many of you though.”

His eyes glaze over the way they do when he’s running tactics through his head. You can practically see the gears turning as he works through the logic. Eliminating variables, narrowing down possibilities, locking onto a target — it’s annoying.

“Stop it,” you shove your palm against his face; as if that would hold him back.

Poe catches your hand and starts naming names — all of which are incorrect, thank the Force.

“Were you guys still — when I came in with Rapier?” He asks.

“No — we stopped way before your squadron was absorbed,” you shrug, half-hearted. “He moved on after that — started seeing someone else on base.”

“And you’re OK with that?” His brows pinch.

“It wasn’t serious,” you say. “We just needed to let off some steam, so when that was done — it’s over.”

Poe hums pensively, his hands starting their slow, torturous slide up your back under your shirt.

“Was he — you know, good?” He smiles, lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Treat you well?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you let out a breathy laugh.

“Did everything we uh — did?” He ventures, light kisses flitting against your parted lips.

“Yes,” you kiss him, pushing your lower body against him. “— and more.”

Poe breaks away abruptly, brows creased. “And more? What could you guys have done that we —”

You indulge on the little edge of uncertainty in his eyes before they widen, the realisation coming down on him like a 90,000-metric-tonne light cruiser.

“You guys fucked in the X-wing!”

You laugh, tucking your burning face upon his sternum.

“So, that’s why you wouldn’t —” he gasps, clearly rattled. “You’ve already done it!”

“Oh, so the reason you’re adamant we go up on the same X-wing is purely for fucking purposes?” You scoff, feigning disbelief as you pull away.

“Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind,” his arms tighten around you. “How was it?”

“Pfft — like you’ve never done it before,” you quip.

“I — it wasn’t a T-70,” he chuckles.

“Wasn’t a T-70 we were in either,” you counter.

“I just —” he stammers, blushing. “I’ve never been the one — you know, riding.”

You tighten your lips to a thin line, noting the exact moment his brain catches up.

“Are you telling me,” he clears his throat, but his voice is already cracking at the seams. “That it was more than once —”

“And you were —” his flat palm gesturing above your head; “and also —” and again, scooping up from the chest level.

Your smile swells; rather amused watching him get it — see it.

The sound he makes is almost pained as he buries his heated face in the crook of your neck.

“Kriffin’ hell, sweetheart — you’re killing me…” he moans, rubbing himself deprivedly against your thigh.

“And they were not comfortable,” you stifle your laugh, hips canting to meet his growing hard-on.

“There —” you emulate his hand gesture above his head; “or there —” and again next to his chest.

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” you cup his face to kiss his pouting lips. “Wouldn’t do it again.”

“Was it Maxxus?” Poe sulks. “He seems like the type who’d fuck in an X-wing.”

“Ew — no!” You squeal, slapping his chest, unleashing a rumbling laugh that reverberates in your bones. “He’s my boss, for kriff’s sake!”

“Does the guy know we’re seeing each other?” Poe continues, trying to sound casual but failing.

“Yes, Poe,” you exhale. “I think it’s a bit hard for anyone on base to miss that.”

“Do you think he’s jealous?” He hums, peppering a trail of kisses across your collarbone.

“I wouldn’t know,” you murmur, smiling; your fingers sliding up the nape of his neck. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

You know Poe would like him to be jealous. He’d like everyone to be jealous that you’re — his.

“You’re better,” you bump your nose against his, and plant a reassuring kiss on his stubbled cheek.

“I didn’t ask,” he grins, as he drapes his leg across your body until he is poised comfortably on top of you.

“You wanted to,” you snicker, endearment zipping down your spine, and stokes a curling heat low in your belly where your crotches align.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Poe grunts, capturing your lips. “We’d have to get on an X-wing for me to be sure.”

You snort into his mouth.

“Will you just let it go?” You push his face away from you; again — as if that’s going to stop him.

His teeth nip at your palm lightly, as he presses himself down onto you, shackling you in place.

“Not until you tell me what you have planned for my X-wing,” he husks.

//

You pause, blinking.

His gaze flicks to the datapad beside your head, then back to you, a sly smile curving at the corner of his lips.

“The roster isn’t that interesting,” his hand misses by a fraction of a second as you slide it out of his reach. “It’s the same thing every damn week.”

Kriff, of course he saw it — him and his beautiful brown, astute pilot eyes; annoying!

“Just — sorting some things out for your X-wing,” you purse your lips, the lie light on your tongue as you try to shimmy out from under him.

“What things?” His brows narrow.

You jerk when his fingers press gently against your hipbones, a wayward mewl escaping through your lips.

“It’s a surprise,” you pull an innocent smile, batting your eyelashes slowly at him as you lick at his bottom lip. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

“Why tomor—” Poe flashes that boyish grin; you’d slap him six ways till Taungsday if it doesn’t make him look so infuriatingly handsome. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” You blurt out, exasperated.

But then, his forehead falls forward upon your chest, and he lets out a groan.

“There’s not gonna be a party, is there?” He mumbles, as you card your fingers through the soft curls at the back of his head.

“I mean, I don’t know what Snap and Karé have planned—”

“Wait, they’re doing something?” He lifts his head sharply, almost knocking into your mouth.

“Why not?” You eye him quizzically. “When was the last time they did something?”

“Never? Heck, I don’t even know when all their birthdays are,” Poe leans back to his side of the bed, dragging you along with him to drape across his chest. “Rather just — let the day go by unnoticed like we usually do…”

There is an awkward beat — and you can see from the corner of your eye the regret that hits him even before the words finish landing.

You hum in blithe dismissal, already untangling yourself from him.

“Well, I guess I’m just gonna have to—”

“What Snap and Karé might have planned — not what you have planned, baby,” he rectifies swiftly, the shift in his muscular arms keeping you flush against him.

“My plan is sort of connected to their plan,” you whisper between your lashing tongues.

“Ah — so there is a plan,” he smirks. “Plans are flying all over the place — tell me.”

“Tough,” you giggle against the smacking kisses. “You’re just gonna have to go through what they have planned to see what I have planned.”

“Ugh — but it’s gonna take foreverrrrr…” Poe whines, his mouth now warm against your neck in mock despair.

“Be nice, Commander,” you tip his chin, guiding his puppy-dogged eyes back to your line of sight. “It’s not everyday you get to celebrate your birthday with your squadron.”

“OK — I’ll be nice,” he pouts, bottom lip jutting out; like a promise that needs to be sealed with a kiss.

You smack a quick one on his mouth before clambering over him to switch off the lights, hoping that will be the end of it — at least for tonight.

You’ve barely settled in the darkness when you practically hear the cogwheels chugging along in his mind. His fingers tap restlessly against your hand resting upon his chest, his pulse under your palm thrumming faster than it has any right to at this hour — his whole freaking aura vibrating with questions he can’t quite contain.

So — fucking — annoying.

You only manage to hold out for another 30 seconds, before your resolve crumbles; scrambling across him again to switch the lights back on.

“You’re incorrigible, Poe,” you grunt, as you give your datapad three hard taps out of sleep mode.

“That’s why you like me,” he beams, sidling into a sitting position next to you.

“Debatable,” you feign a grimace at his theatrical smooches on your cheek, zooming in on the blueprint you were going through earlier.

“Wait, is that —”

“The blueprint for the T-85 — yeah,” you interject, unable to hide your smile. “Took me a while to recover it since they were destroyed along with the X-wings when —”

“The Hosnian System was atomised, yeah — but how?”

“One of the techs found it,” you lift your shoulders, watching the soft smile on Poe’s face brighten.

“I’ve been streamlining the specs,” you bring up the 3D imprint of his T-70 on the screen. “See what can be translated to your X-wing without over-exhausting that old hunk of metal.”

“The KX14 laser cannons — Krupx MG7-B proton torpedo launchers — advanced Fabritech and Melihat sensor system — IN-630-B ‘Sightline’ targeting system…” You chew at your bottom lip as you prattle through the upgrades.

“I mean — theoretically, the T-70 should be able to handle the 5L9 fusial thrust engines with an additional 200 klicks per hour, but I’m not sure if…”

You trail off when you look over to him. Your breath hitches when your noses graze, finding him closer than expected, his shining eyes sweeping your features intently.

A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Can I take her up for a few rounds,” he asks, eyes dipping momentarily to your mouth. “Maybe do a few barrel rolls and stuff?”

“You can do whatever you want with her, Commander,” you coo, leaning in until your foreheads touch.

“Have to take out the life support for recalibration though,” you screw up your nose, eyes dropping to the datapad again. “You’ll need an oxygen mask if you’re gonna —”

Poe’s hand slides up your face, pulling you toward him for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. His other arm sweeps the datapad out of the way, finally letting your bodies collide.

“You’re kriffin’ amazing — you know that?” He smiles, his lips brushing teasingly against yours.

“And so — fucking hot, when you talk schematics,” His voice plunges lower; insistent fingers hooked into your waistband, tugging your shorts down.

Delightful warmth blooms across your skin when you feel his touch trace the all too familiar path to your core, working you up with deliberate strokes. You melt into his kiss, reaching down to grip the hardness straining against his boxers, rolling your hips against his touch —

“Was it him,” he manages between kisses. “Did he help you find the blue —”

Oh, for the love of —

“Now’s not the time, Poe,” you grumble breathlessly, giving his arousal a pointed squeeze.

“OK — okokok…” He groans, his own hand pressing against your centre in response; making you writhe against him.

He spreads your thighs open with his knee, anchoring into the cradle of your hips so deliciously, as his tongue coils inside your humming mouth. His length aligned to your entrance, and your fingers wander the expanse of his broad shoulders; the anticipation alone rousing a pleasurable shudder at the pit of your stomach…

“You know — maybe after that we could…” he endeavours one last time.

“I’m upgrading the systems, Poe,” you huff, getting impatient. “I’m not making the starfighter larger.”

He snorts, and you can’t help but laugh with him.

Later, when Poe sinks into you, you breathe out a shaky gasp instead of telling him: yes — actually, the tech who recovered the blueprint in the black market was the same one who took your virginity.

But, ohhh — the way he’s moving in you right now; the purposeful drag, and the deep gyrates of his hips…

Maker, if he’s not lightyears beyond that fumbling first fuck.

//

Breeding Kink!Santiago, who knows you’re not ready for kids, at least not yet.

Who knows you use birth control, and that you’ve used condoms during your two years and seven months together.

Who knows you might not ever be ready to marry. He isn’t so sure about marriage himself.

But he just can’t help himself.

When you crawl on top of him during a movie, grind against him, so eager, the movie's plot forgotten, he loses his mind.

You're younger than him, you have your whole life in front of you. Half the time he wonders why you're even with him.

The sex is good, he's sure about that. He knows he can take care of you and make you scream his name.

But sometimes, when you're moving around the kitchen making breakfast, humming to yourself, he sees it.

The image of you in your favorite robe, so soft and worn, untied over a t-shirt or tank top and the boxers you like to sleep in. You shuffle around in your cute fluffy slippers, so adorable, but he thinks...

what if your tummy swelled with his baby, and poked adorably out of your robe?

What if he eased in behind you, humming along as he slipped his arms around you and felt the shape of his baby growing inside you?

What would it be like to make a baby with you - to skip the condoms, to stare into your eyes, knowing this could be the time - to make sure to come inside you -to fill you up and make your body change because of what he fucked into you?

What would it be like when you told him? Could you ever want this the way he does?

He can only imagine you feeling sick. He would feel terrible, but would jump at the chance to take care of you, to bring you snacks or hold your hair back if that's what you needed.

He would spoil you and pamper you and let you whine and boss him around, treating you like a princess, making you comfortable while your body changed and formed around this baby.

What would it be like when you started telling people that you created a life together, that someone, something in this world would bond you together forever, something beyond your love, a product of your love?

He could only imagine how it would feel to watch your body start to change. Your breasts would get bigger and might even be sore. You would probably roll your eyes every time he stared at them, and swat his hand away if he felt you up too eagerly or sucked your nipples too hard. Then again, maybe it would feel good for you if he sucked your nipples.

Then your belly would grow. You would eventually show - your sweet tummy would peek out of your clothes, making t-shirts go tight. When he took you out somewhere and held your hand, everyone would see that you were his, that he put his baby in you and it was changing you and making you round and full of life, full of something uniquely both of you.

Eventually, he would fuck you like that, hands around your swollen belly, maybe from behind, working his hips into you, feeling you all over. Maybe you would go through a phase where you wanted it more, where you needed him, craved him. Perhaps the opposite would happen. Maybe you would pout and whine and push him away and damn if that wouldn't make him want you more.

He would feel the baby kick - you would feel it together. And you would grow and change and he would give you anything and everything you wanted in the world.

As you straddle his lap, grinding against his erection, he grips your hips, moving you urgently.

"Take these off," he murmurs, yanking at your pants. "Want you right now."

"Okay, slow down," you breathlessly laugh, working with him to get you half naked. "We have to get more condoms tomorrow, remember? Wanna just fool around?"

"...fuck, I want you," he whines. And you can count on two fingers the number of times Santiago has whined, this being one of them.

"You can have me." You promise, nibbling on his lips. "Want me to suck you off first?"

Tempting but... "I think I have one in my wallet. Let's go to the bedroom."

He drags you, half-naked, down the hall to your bedroom, licking his lips as you shed your t-shirt and sports bra. He thumbs through his wallet, groaning as he realizes he might truly be out of condoms.

Cursing in Spanish, he pushes down his pants and flings his own t-shirt aside. "No condom," he tells you.

"Don't be mad," you say softly, placing your palms on his bare chest. "We have to be safe."

"I know, I know. I just want to fuck you. Wanna feel you. I need to." He kisses you hungrily, hands roaming all over your body.

"What has gotten into you, baby?"

What's he supposed to say? That while you were making out with him on the couch, he was fantasizing about knocking you up? About how your body would change because of what he would do to you?

Even now, the thought of it consumes him. He's pushed it down for a long time, but something snapped in him after his sister visited last weekend, with his sweet little niece and nephew in tow.

His niece is four and you and Santiago have always had fun playing with her, but when he saw you hold his baby nephew, it stole his breath away. The way your face lit up as you smiled down at him, cradling him gently and humming the way you liked to do.

From that very second, all he wanted to do was put a baby in you.

"Sorry, just...fucking want you bad tonight, mi cielo. Sorry." He shakes his head, smiling and rolling his eyes at himself. "My fault. Lay down. I wanna eat you out."

Eyes narrowing curiously, you nod, scooting back on the mattress and lying down flat. Santi climbs in over you, laying half on his side, so his knees won't hurt. He presses his mouth hotly to yours, tracing his fingers up the inside of your thigh until he sinks them hard and heavy into your wet heat.

"Oh fuck," you pant, breaking the kiss. As promised, he nibbles and sucks and licks and kisses a trail down your body, with hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, wet, desperate sucking of your nipples, nibbles across the smooth, soft parts of your stomach, and finally, he licks rough and hard at your cunt.

"Holy shit, Santi, that's good." Your hips shift against his mouth as you twist your eager fingers into his salt and pepper curls. "It's so good, baby."

All the intensity building inside him, making him want to breed you, he pours into pleasing you now, rubbing you with his tongue and sucking exactly how you like.

You pat his side. “Turn around and I'll suck you. We can come together."

He wants that. Wants it so bad, but as he pulls away and gazes down at you, your mouth parted and panting, tits heaving as you gasp for air, your body wet and ripe and hungry for him, he has to slam his eyes shut to get his bearings.

"Baby?" You whisper, reaching for his cheek.

"Sorry. Sorry," he shakes his head. "Let me just..." He lowers his head, as if ready to continue making you lose your mind with his mouth, but something is distracting him.

"Hey, come here." You coax him down beside you, wrapping your arms around him and kissing his cheek. "You want me bad, huh?"

He grins, laughing out breathlessly. "Yeah. I really fucking do. But...you know, boundaries. I'm sorry."

"Baby," you whisper, kissing him temptingly. "I know we try to be careful. With me going back for my master's degree so I can switch careers..."

"I know," he nods, staring into your eyes. "I know we have to be careful."

"But..." you go on, lingering long enough for his heart to catch in his throat, "I mean, I am on birth control. Skipping a condom just one time should probably be-"

He surges forward, silencing you with a searing kiss. Suddenly, he's everywhere at once, hands flying, crowding in close, and before you can blink, you feel the slick, heavy tip of his dick nudging at your hole.

"Stop me right now or I will. I want to." He meets your eyes. "But I love you. I'll stop."

"Santi, you act like you want to put a baby in me-umph!"

He sinks into you deep and heavy, groaning out something orgasmic. The corded muscles of his neck and chest flex and tense as he pants against your mouth.

"Fuck...say that again," he moans, working into you with desperate, consuming thrusts. "Say it, say it."

God, he's never been so eager with you, so hungry. Your thighs fall open as you claw at his shoulders, trying to meet his thrusts, to give him something back. But you can barely think straight, he feels so fucking good, raw inside you for the first time.

"Say...what...?” you pant. "Shit...Santi, you feel good in me like this. It's so good, I like you like this in me, baby."

You know there's the tiniest chance you could get pregnant even on birth control. That's why you and Santi are always so careful, using condoms and you even track your ovulation. Thankfully, today is not one of those days, but still...

"I'm gonna fill you up so good," he growls, pushing your thigh up and spreading you open further. "It's gonna drip out of you and then I'm gonna push it right back in."

You assumed he wouldn't come inside you, and you know he would stop in an instant if you said the word, but seeing him like this, wrecked and wanting, with sweat pooling in the curls over his forehead, his eyes screwed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful, broad hips sinking into you with wild abandon, despite how his knees might pay for it later…

you want to give him this. You want him to come inside you. You need to know how warm and wet it would feel. It's something you've never shared with anyone and god, you want it.

But...you just aren't ready for a baby. Your career is not what you hoped for, you have school, you're still young. Young enough, anyway. You and Santiago haven't even discussed starting a family.

"Wait," you pant, pushing gently against his shoulders. "Wait, sorry, slow down, one sec, okay?"

"Yeah...yeah," he gasps, bring his hips to a halt, his eyes flying open and blowing wide with guilt. Now you would know. You would realize how much he wants to give you a baby.

"Tell me what you want," you beg him, lacing your fingers together as his cock goes still inside you. "Tell me the truth."

He swallows hard. "I wanna fuck you raw."

He feels your cunt clench when he talks to you like that.

"And?" You manage, breathlessly.

"I wanna come inside you. Fill you up."

You throw him a bone. "I want that too."

"Fuck," he hisses, thrusting into you once and then stopping himeslf. "But I know you're not ready...you know..." he attempts to conclude the conversation.

"I'm not ready for a baby."

When you say that word, he actually moans. Oh shit.

"But...you are." It hits you like a ton of bricks. The way he stared at you whenever you held his baby nephew. The way he oh so casually wandered by the baby aisle at the store, commenting on the cute, sporty onesies. The way he wanted to fuck without a condom and the way even the mention of a baby makes him lose it.

"I love you," he tells you, almost pitifully. "That's all that matters." He pulls out of you, but you can tell how much he doesn't want to. "We can fool around. It's okay."

You surge forward and kiss him, swapping places with him until you are on top and he's resting on the mattress gazing up at you.

"You want a baby?" You ask him tenderly, with no trace of mocking or guile in your voice. "Or...you just want to breed me?"

"Fucking hell," he groans, his arm flopping over his eyes. "Don't say that shit to me. I can't take it."

"Yes you can," you tell him, easing down beside him. You kiss his neck and breathe on his ear while your hand wraps around his dick.

"We can still be careful even if you want to put a baby in me," you murmur, stroking him the way he likes, working up and down his length, slick from his brief time inside you. "Is that what you want? You want to knock me up?"

"Jesus," he whines, hips snapping up to fuck into your fist. “Say it again.”

"It's okay to want it," you tell him. "It's okay to think about filling me up - coming inside me. It would feel so good if you did.”

"...fuck...yes." He groans.

You lick your lips at the way his broad hips thrust so heavy and hard. You can imagine yourself on top of him, feeling him spear you open. You work him faster, slipping one hand between his legs to toy with his balls. "Tell me again what you want."

He moans out your name, brokenly, the muscles of his neck straining as he holds himself back, even now.

Your hand goes still.

"No, no, don't stop," he begs - a rare thing for him. It sounds good.

"Tell me," you repeat, teasing his dick with your fingertips.

"I did," he pants, a sound of pleasure mixed with relief rumbling in the expanse of his chest as you suck on his neck and keep jerking him. "You want me to say it again?"

"You want to fuck me raw," you breathe lowly, against his ear.

"Yeah..."

"You want to come inside me."

"Unhh...fuck..yes."

He's close. Sweat beads on his forehead as his muscles go unbearably tight in his neck, his chest, his arms. Even his heels dig into the mattress as he pushes back against your grip, thrusting.

"You want to fill me up, push your cum back inside me. Make a mess of me."

"Shit, shit, I'm close, baby."

"I know," you purr, very satisfied with yourself for having this kind of power over a man who is typically ruining you on a tri-weekly basis, sometimes more often.

Watching him fuck your fist and moan and writhe under your touch has created a waterfall between your legs - one you cannot wait for him to pay attention to.

"You want to put a baby in me?" You can't even get through the question before he spurts all over your hand, coating it until it's dripping onto his bare stomach.

You watch his face twist in pleasure. You kiss and touch and take him through it, feeling like you've unlocked a new level of Santi.

His eyes stay closed for a while longer than usual. You curl up close and let him come back to himself as slowly as he wants.

"Shit, that was good," he finally manages. His eyes drift open and search for yours. His heart burns for you like never before. He showed you a piece of himself and you took it in stride. Well, not literally, but you met him right where he was and let him enjoy it - didn't judge him for it.

Better not get ahead of himself and start wanting to marry you. "Hey, do you want some ice cream?"

You laugh, swatting his chest playfully. "You are so weird. I am drenched over here, by the way. I don't want ice cream unless you are going to treat me like the ice cream cone."

"I can do that," he murmurs against your mouth, rolling you over and kissing you deeply. "When we're done though, I really need to go to the store and get some ice cream. And condoms."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "I love that plan, actually. Let's go."

An hour later, you're back in bed, ice cream bowls stashed in the kitchen sink. Santiago pushes deep inside you and if feels so good you know you won't last long.

"I love you." His words are tender although his body isn't. Fine by you. You've been waiting all night for this.

You stare into his eyes, knowing tonight was a win. "I love you. I'll be ready someday."

He cradles you close, slowing his pace, kissing you hungrily. "You know, you talk a good game. Can we do that again?"

"Yeah," you tease, and just to get a rise out of him, you add, "Knock me up."

Your nipples have stood erect for a day-and-a-half, to the point that pinching them almost feels better than them brushing against your t-shirt, as you attempt to lounge around the house after work.

They're poking, quite obviously, through your pajamas, even through your bra, earlier.

Steven comments more than once, assuming you're cold.

"No...fuck, I'm...so horny," you finally admit...somewhat embarrassed by your own wording.

...drawing his earthen gaze straight to your chest - before his eyes drop to the center of you.

No, in your core, it's not (merely) cramping and bloating. There is a simmering, molten lust turning over and over, making you constantly wet.

Steven pushes off the chair he was sitting on to read after dinner, halfway scolding himself for not noticing your distress - for not offering to assist with such a predicament.

Honestly, you've been a touch moody and he didn't want to push you

Your sweet Steven is suddenly a panther on the prowl. Whoops.

"No, I'm not like...it's not that I'm trying to..." You attempt to find the words to explain that your brain isn't completely in the mood but...

...hell - if he would just grope your breasts, take the weight off for a few minutes, fondle your nipples, roll them between his fingers. Maybe suck them...

Steven is on his knees before you, ready to please - cheeks flushed as a careless curl tumbles across his forehead. His lips part in anticipation.

"I'm ovulating," you decide to admit, with a defeated huff. "So...we can't, you know. I accidentally missed a pill, and we shouldn't - not until I'm sure - ugh..." Your head drops to your hands in frustration. You have got to change birth control methods, to something less daily.

Nodding once, Steven's eyes darken, locking on to yours. "Let me take care of you."

Your breath trembles at the gorgeous man on his knees for you. "Steven...we can't - we shouldn't - "

"I heard you, love," he evenly responds, the heat of his lustful stare setting you ablaze. Pushing his fingertips underneath the hem of your t-shirt, he offers, “Stop me if it's not what you want."

Then this man - this socially awkward, brilliant, beautiful man who loves you like an ancient legend - peels your clothes from your body, almost reverently, kneeling beneath you like you're one of his sacred goddesses.

"Not cold then," he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over the round swell of your breast, his breath ghosting your pebbled flesh. "Just desperate." He doesn't give you a chance to refute him, capturing your nipple between his plush lips and sucking gently.

And ohh fuck, it feels good.

Your breasts get sore from time to time, during your cycle or mid-month, but this particular month has you so tender for some reason.

You feel the warmth of Steven's tongue laving as his hand cups your other breast, gently massaging - dragging the pad of his thumb over your other greedy nipple.

Then he sucks you hungrily, like he's feeding from you, for a full minute longer. Your back arches, thrusting your chest further into his warm, wet mouth. Pulling off your tit with a pop, his eyebrows shoot up, a slight smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

"Better? Or worse?"

"Good - it's good, baby, come here," you gasp, eagerly reaching to bring him to your other breast, threading your fingers through his thick curls as he lavishes your nipple with attention from his tongue, teeth and lips, sucking and fondling until you are a squirming mess.

He releases you and surges up on his knees to meld his lips with yours, licking into your waiting mouth. Taking your face in his hands, his thumbs stroke the apples of your cheeks as his fingertips trace the shape of your jaw.

He kisses you so good, you lose your mind and forget all your bodily complaints, the kiss lingering on and on, until you part for breath, inhaling and exhaling one another as if each of you needs to other to survive.

(You do.)

He lays you down on the couch where you sat, fidgeting uncomfortably all evening, cute little huffs and puffs letting him know you were distraught on some level. Those huffs are now pants of desire.

His lips meet your bare stomach - your most sensitive and self-conscious body part, breath fanning over all the dips and valleys he adores. He kisses down to your joggers, pulling the tie loose before easing them over the swell of your hips and down your legs.

He smiles to himself at your superhero boy shorts - you’re definitely one for comfort. He smells you now - wet and eager to be touched, to be fucked - the core of you dampening your panties.

So he pulls those down and off your body too and, by the time he kisses an adoring trail up your inner thigh, you're trembling - whimpering, too.

"Steven, Steven, please..."

He answers with his tongue, licking up the center of your sex, collecting your juices, his cock twitching as your back arches violently off the couch.

You feel him smile against you. Steven is The Needy One so this must be quite fun for him...

Your mind goes blank as he fucks his tongue into your hole in a slow, taunting rhythm, holding steady, soaking his lips and the stubble on his chin with the tang of your sex.

Dragging his tongue back out, his lips wrap around your throbbing clit, sucking vigorously as you twist your fingers though his hair, yanking just the way that gets him feral.

He moans against your core, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure through the center of you, and just when you think nothing has ever felt better, he slides two fingers into your dripping cunt.

This was exactly what you needed.

“Yes…oh god, Steven…”

Grasping the meat of your thigh with his free hand, he hooks one leg over his shoulder, driving deeper into you.

With your grip almost painfully threaded through his soft curls, you push and pull his face against your cunt, rocking your hips faster with each pass, your moans a scandalous crescendo of lustful desperation.

The dull, aching want in the center of you swells like a throbbing balloon, ready to burst, and Steven rumbles out a Jake-worthy chuckle between your legs as you find yourself shrieking like nothing he’s ever heard before.

He curls his fingers into the spongy softness deep in your walls, the steady suck of your clit finally drawing you into absolute rapture. Pleasure surges through your body, releasing soreness and tension as your cunt gushes all over your lover’s mouth, soaking him from nose to throat.

He lets you ride it out, pressing sweet, wet kisses to your tummy, brushing his fingers over your thighs, telling you how beautiful and perfect you are.

“So good, mon cœer, love the sounds you make for me.”

“Thank you,” you gasp, as he climbs back up your body and pulls you against his chest.

He kisses your temple, ignoring, for a moment, his blatant erection. “Good, yeah?” His eyebrows shoot up in adorable self-satisfaction.

“So good.”

He lets you recover, keeping private thoughts of how, when you're ready, he would love to fuck a baby into you and take care of your moods and your tits all the time, as your body grows his child.

You can feel the tension rolling off of him, almost chuckling as his gaze falls to your abdomen, his hand gently caressing you there. "I'm not ready right now - not at all, but...I would want it to be with you," you quietly confess.

He swallows thickly, nodding as his forehead drops to yours. And you breathe together, in and out, inhaling and exhaling one another as if each of you needs to other to survive.

(You do.)

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Steven Grant-Centric stories

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

aftercare: how do they treat their partner after intimacy?

it really depends on the rapport he has with the person. if you're just a random person he fucks, youll probably get a general "you okay?" but, if hes like into you, hell probably grab you some water and lay with you for a bit. probably cuddle. this man is very touch-starved and he wants intimacy in anyway he can get it; sexual or otherwise

body part: their favourite part of their partner's body?

josh just loves touching you. anywhere he can. hair, waist, tits (if you have them), ass, pussy; literally anywhere. he wants it all. he wants you all over him. i do get the feeling though that hes an ass man. big? small? squishy? firm? hes grabbing that hard; hanging on while hes fucking you, holding on while you 69. absolutely yesyes

control: do they prefer to dominate, submit or switch?

i dont think hes necessarily always a dom/sub type of guy? i get the feeling he hasnt really had much of a chance to explore that side of his sexuality. but, because hes used to having control (as a gm) and because it looks like he has trouble having that control stripped away from him, id be willing to say hes probably a dom when he does stray into dom/sub territory. especially if hes frustrated, i think a way for him to get that out would be spanking you, facefucking you, bending you over the dresser and talking real dirty in your ear. that kinda thing

dirty talk: how vocal are they? do they enjoy talking dirty?

this man. talks. filthy. "mhmm… so pretty… open that fuckin throat nice and wide, yeah? fuck… youre taking it so good, baby… such a perfect slut, huh? arent you daddys little slut?" he loves dirty talk so much. its dont done in a super degrading way (at least, not consciously). to an extent, he likes hearing himself talk and, especially if youre into it, he will go ham with it. "so fucking tight, baby. but youre being so good; taking every inch of daddys cock…" (i will get onto his daddy kink in a bit dw)

experience: how experienced are they?

i might be wrong but it feels like him and lindsay arent very experimental? and it feels like theyve been together for a long time so, even if he does have a lot of experience, hes probably out of practice when it comes to bdsm or more elaborate stuff but even small things like flirting with people

fantasy: what's their ultimate fantasy?

he is full of fantasies but, especially with his porn addiction, i think hes turned into a bit of an exhibitionist/voyeur. he likes the idea of getting caught but also deliberately fucking you in front of people. he wants to show you off, show everyone how good you are for him, how good he can fuck you. he imagines walking you into the clubhouse terrace during sunday brunch; the place is packed, people are having mimosas and chatting…then he just bends you over the counter at the front with the granola and the fruit platters. it really gets him going

grip: how physical do they get? handsy, rough or gentle?

very handsy. like i said, the man is touch-starved so he needs his hands all over you at all times; grabbing you, manhandling you, pulling you in his lap, changing up positions

hair: groomed, natural or styled a certain way?

he has a nice happy trail down from his belly button and then he trims. he doesnt like himself completely shaved (just the way he prefers you not completely shaved, hes not picky tho dw) but he doesnt like his pubes getting totally unmanageable

intimacy: are they more emotionally or physically driven?

id say physically. theres definitely a part of him thats emotionally driven; like if hes frustrated and needs to vent all that out. but, for the most part, hes doing this to forget about emotions and stressors and everything else

jealousy: how do they handle competition or flirtation?

he. gets. petty. particularly if youre being flirted with by a member, he wont make it obvious but hell have their food brought out cold or hell stop stocking their favourite alcohol or hell use slightly spoiled milk in their coffee. if it gets really bad though and he sees it going on, hell probably steal you away and make sure to put you on shifts (if you worked at the club) when that member doesnt come in. he gets very territorial but, as a professional, he shows it in ways that are small and niggling. of course then, when he gets you alone, hell show you who you belong to

kinks: what are their top kinks?

woof. here we go; cumplay (giving facials and stuff), daddy kink (likely brought on by lindsay wanting kids but he doesnt have a breeding kink, its just the power trip), exhibitionism/voyeurism, facefucking, marking (biting/scratching/etc), phone sex or sex over video calls (which plays into his voyeuristic tendencies) and spanking are his main ones. but i feel hes the type of guy whod be willing to try anything once

location: favourite place(s) to get intimate?

for longer sessions, comfy places; your bed, your sofa, maybe a sun-lounger by the pool after hours. for quickies; his office, a cubicle in the mens locker room. or, if hes feeling really freaky; having you suck him off while he works the bar late, when the guys are playing cards

moans: are they loud, quiet or somewhere in between?

when the situation allows it, he can be loud, especially with his love of dirty talk

nudes: do they send or receive? how do they feel about it?

hes more than willing to send a dick pic every now and again. he has a nice dick and he doesnt mind at all if you want him to show it off, tell him how much you want it. but he loves getting your nudes; he has a hidden folder on his phone specifically for your nudes so he has the on hand when he needs to jerk off and youre indisposed for some reason

oral: do they enjoy giving or receiving more?

he doesnt mind getting all fucked up while eating you out or whatever (it drives him nuts) but he loves, loves, loves getting a good blowie. he likes how you look up at him — all teary-eyed and flushed — with his dick in your mouth. if you let him, he likes grabbing your hair and forcing you to take him all the way down, all the wile telling you how good you feel, how wet your mouth is, how slutty you look on your knees for him all hours of the day. blowies under the desk in his office, behind the bar, in his car, in a golf cart in the trees on the back nine. he loves your mouth and hed likely kill for a good blowjob any time

pace: do they go fast and rough, slow and sensual or mix it up?

again, i think it depends on your dynamic with him. if hes into you, he might take it slow sometimes and take his time to really savour you. but, if youre just a bit-on-the-side or if he needs a quickie (because he refuses to slow down), hell do it hard and fast

quickies: are they into quick encounters or do they take their time?

ive mentioned he does quickies quite regularly. because his job requires so much from him, sometimes thats the only way he can get any and fully satisfy himself in a day. he gets really cranky if his balls get too full 😔😔

risk: how adventurous are they?

he prefers to be adventurous and try new things. it seems that, because things are a bit stale with lindsay, not only does she not put out but they dont get to experiment. he wants to go out and try out new things, give some fucked up shit a go, yknow? try out some rope play or maybe get a flogger or something. if he can, hed prefer to be adventurous and really see how far his perversion actually goes

stamina: how long can they last? do they go multiple rounds?

i like to think he can go a couple rounds. he has a really high sex drive, which is why he needs to get off at least once a day, if not twice? he doesnt necessarily last very long — especially if its been a while since he last got off — but he likes having the option of going a few rounds

teasing: are they good at teasing or do they break easily?

he will initiate the teasing but he breaks incredibly easily. he doesnt have the patience to play a long game and he ends up getting wound up all by himself. he might start teasing you but then, because he just gets turned on so easy and, when it comes to sex, his impulse control isnt great, hell likely just say, fuck it, and bend you over or pull you into a nearby closet to get things really rolling

unsafe: how serious are they about safe sex?

he prefers going in raw because the sensations feel better and more intense but he doesnt have much of an issue if you want to use protection. he wont complain or anything but, if you say you want him to go in raw, he will inwardly celebrate and hell probably last a shorter time than normal

volume: how much do they cum?

so, scientifically speaking, sperm volume typically decreases with age and im putting joshy in the ballpark range of 45-50. hes not going to be cumming (volume-wise) as much as your typical 20yo but its serviceable, yknow? not a bad amount

wildcard: a random nsfw fact about them

he wouldnt confess this outright but he has a thing for dry-humping. like heavily making out on the couch at your place, fully clothed, grinding on each other. he reaches this headspace where he just gets completely hedonistic; he might go a little overboard with the dirty talk and say something a little cringey or he might ask you to spit in his mouth or something like that. he just gets to a point where he needs any kind of contact and losing himself in you is really cathartic. just rubbing up on each other after a hard days work sounds great and, if thats on the cards for the day, he will be ecstatic during work, anticipating the night to come. that being said, if he knows hes actually going to get some private time to really get everything out and properly sat himself with you, hell be excited whatever you decide to do together

x-rated: do they watch/read porn?

yes!! all kinds, he doesnt care. he does this thing where he might start off vanilla but he slowly goes down a rabbit hole of that nights interest. it might be seeing people get facials, getting creampied, tied up, getting fucked by sex machines, etc. it gets more and more specific and intense until he eventually finishes then, the next night, it might be something completely different

yearning: how often do they crave intimacy? are they always in the mood?

josh is pretty much always in the mood. unless hes genuinely really angry or theres something hes stressed about that he needs to sort out, hes usually in the mood to bust one out himself or have a quickie

zzz: how do they act after intimacy? do they cuddle, sleep or leave?

it depends on how close you are and the dynamic again. if youre just fuck buddies, he might grab a beer, catch his breath and head out. but, if youre together and he has the time, he likes to cuddle. he doesnt just like sex, he likes physical intimacy; cuddling, kissing, just holding you close, the works. if he can cuddle up and hold onto you, hell be out like a light

okay so i kinda blacked out and all of this came out of me but i hope it helped. please feel free to drop any more josh-related requests in my inbox because im so into him and im barely halfway through the series hehe

Tears threaten your lower eyelashes.

Your teeth hurt from how hard you hold your jaw.

The ache in your heart, the one your father had left when he died, blooms once again into a fire that seems to knot your stomach into a tortured lump.

He would’ve loved to have seen you in such a thing. He’d known King Paulus Atreides a little.

Your father had promised when you were of age, he’d present you at the palace.

He’d promised a lot of things, though. Wishing things were different does no good.

You try to make your happiness where you can. In the little animals who've become friends, and the workers who stop by the house.

Even if your muscles ache from the chores and work, up here in the attic, at least you can pretend to be in your own world. You're free to dream.

Your fairy godfather takes your hands and turns them palm-up. They’re dry and cracked, but he waves his star-tipped wand over them and voila! they don’t sting and itch anymore. They’re as soft as the silk of the dress.

You rub your hands together, marveling. The hands of a lady.

“Thank you,” you say.

Your fairy godfather pushes up his glasses and nods. “If I can do that in half a second, imagine how little time it will take me to get you ready for the ball.”

You look wistfully at the dress, then at the door to your attic bedroom.

Your stepmother, or Lady Tremaine as she makes you call her, had pushed you to the ground and locked you in before she and your stepsisters had left.

He wheezes out a laugh. “You don’t think a locked door is a problem for me, do you?”

You can only smile. This magical, ancient being who had said the goodness in your soul had drawn him in and made him want to help you. He said he was on a journey of atonement, and that you were his biggest step forward.

Your fairy godfather is a mystery to you, but a wonderful one.

“Of course you can unlock a door. It’s just that... dreams aren't reality, fairy godfather, and when Lady Tremaine sees me at the ball,” you hesitate, thinking of the way she grabs your wrists too harshly, or how she’ll push you aside in the hallways, “she’ll be enraged.”

He sets aside his wand and gathers you into a warm hug. “Oh my dear girl. Trust me, she’ll look at you with envy, maybe with hate, but she won’t think that her ‘Cinderella’ would be able to wear a dress so gorgeous, or look so beautiful. No, she’s never really seen you here in your own home, and she won’t see you out there either. She’s a blind fool and a common bitch.”

“Anselm!” You pull back from him in shock.

His cheeks go red. You never use his name. It’s an intensely private thing for creatures like him, but the love and trust between you is so strong, he’d felt compelled to tell you. You only use it in the most serious of circumstances.

“My apologies.” He clears his throat, making sure his tie is straight and brushing his hand down his jacket. Not that there’s ever a hair out of place on him. “I didn’t mean to insult dogs by insinuating she’s one of them. Your stepmother is more like the little dried poopy that hangs off of a dog’s butt after it does its business.”

You cover your face with your hands, giggling.

“I hope that’s a ‘yes’ to my little scheme,” your fairy godfather says, his wand already waving in the air. “I’m afraid the magic will only last until the last stroke of midnight, so we’ll have to work quickly. You’ll be late, but you’ll be stunning.”

Lines of pretty sparkles flit this way and that, beautifying not just your personage, but your entire room.

It's the sort of thing you've daydreamed about, and just for tonight, it's all very real.

*****

“If you can’t find a wife tonight, I’m going to have to arrange one for you,” King Paulus Atreides admonishes his son.

“Father, I just got back to the city yesterday,” Leto says. He’s a man of more than 40, but still feels like a boy beneath his father’s gaze.

As much as Leto hates to admit it, his father’s right. Leto’s had a few women catch his eyes over the years, but no one has stuck to his heart.

He’s always found more of a thrill in traveling his father’s lands, meeting with local leaders and commonfolk, and soldiering under his father’s banner if the need arose.

More than that, though, Leto knows that as soon as he marries, his father will abdicate.

Leto feels ready to be king, but his father’s ruled for decades. Even if their people welcome the change, it's precarious at first. It would be helpful not only for his people, but also for Leto himself, to have someone by his side.

King Paulus deserves a quiet old age, and Leto would welcome his father’s counsel in his own first years of rule.

The king’s favorite lesson was always the burden of duty, but Leto knows it would be much easier with someone whom he can trust and love.

Finding that woman seems impossible, though, especially tonight.

All of these women complimenting the medals on Leto’s uniform, or his handsome face, or fancy titles. All they want is to wear a crown.

Perhaps that’s not fair. A fair few of them have also tried to entice him to be alone with them. So, they want a crown and his attention. Leto sighs, cutting the thought off before his impatience shows.

Leto looks to one side of the room. A group of vicious gossips wave flirtatiously. He looks away, but the other side of the room holds a group of women even worse.

“It’s a good thing you’ve a stern face,” King Paulus says under his breath, shifting in the throne. “But my son, please try not to terrify the ladies too much. You look as if you’d rather fight them with a sword than speak to them.”

“Not a bad idea,” Leto says under his breath.

“Get up off your throne and go chat to them. You do love to converse with our subjects.”

Leto gives his father a dry look. “I like to speak to local businessmen and farmers, soldiers and sailors. Not useless nobles wearing too much perfume.”

Paulus almost smiles, but remembers to maintain his stoic, kingly facade.

“You’re the Duke Leto Atreides, and heir to the throne of this House,” Paulus reminds his son. “At least try to look like you’re interested in continuing our bloodline. You’ve more prospects here than you have gray in your beard.”

Leto runs a hand over his hair. It’s true, he’s gone quite gray of late. Just like his father before him.

Even his beard, at the corners of his lips, is turning white.

It doesn’t seem deter the women, though.

He has to almost run through the center of the ballroom to keep them from getting their talons into him.

It’s suffocating.

Maybe there are one or two women that Leto could have a decent conversation with, but he wants so much more than that.

The guards have opened the doors at the top of the staircase. It’s all the way on the other end of the huge ballroom, but if Leto can get there, perhaps he can smell the fresh air.

He wants to get away from this stuffy ordeal. He can handle the pressures of his privilege, but enduring this society is torment.

The mirrored walls reflect only people he tires of. The rich food and loud music. False laughter. False smiles.

He wants fresh air more than anything.

As he gets to the base of the stairs, the fresh air greets him; but in the form of the most perfect woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

Leto feels crisp clean air fill his lungs, as if he's standing on a mountain top in the morning. Seeing her is just as thrilling to him.

She shines. It’s like he can see the beauty in her soul, as well as her face. His heart beats strangely, like it wants to burst out of his chest and offer itself.

He rushes forward to meet her. She smiles, not shyly, but unsure perhaps.

He holds out his hand and she lays hers gloved fingers on his. She drops a graceful curtsy.

“Duke Atreides,” she says as she rises.

Her voice is as sweet and clear as a moonlit night.

Leto feels unsteady, an unfamiliar state for him.

He doesn’t let her hand go. Instead he pulls her a few steps forward onto the dance floor. It’s natural for his other hand to find her waist, to dance with her as the music swells.

“We’ve never met,” Leto says with certainty. “If we had, I would never have let you go.”

He swoops her closer to the center of the room, the sea of dancing partners parting for them.

Leto’s hands itch to touch her face. His lips tingle to kiss her.

He’s a man who knows people, and he knows in his heart and soul she feels the same way. Her eyes are like diamonds. Her smile has more power than the sun.

He pulls her closer, wanting the warmth of her body.

With all of his riches and power, nothing has ever felt as good as the way she looks at him. He feels almost dizzy.

The waltz draws to a close and Leto pauses on the dance floor.

“Let me introduce you to my father,” he says, “King Paulus.”

Her eyes widen. The big clock at the top of the castle starts to chime midnight.

One-Two-Three

Leto starts to lead her to the head of the room, where his father is already beckoning them forward.

Her hands slips away.

In a millisecond, Leto realizes his miscalculation.

There was love in her eyes when they danced, but when he mentioned an introduction, her look wasn’t one of surprise or nervousness. It was fear.

Leto turns to reassure her, only to see her running away.

“No,” he whispers, taking off after her.

Four-Five-Six

A few at the ball try to stop him, to ask who she is, or where he’s been hiding her.

All they do is hinder his progress.

Every second, the woman runs further away with his heart. Skirt lifted to run up the stairs, she spares a glance backward.

Their eyes lock.

Seven-Eight-Nine

His are filled with love, pleading for her not to leave.

Her eyes return the love, but the tears in them betray her refusal.

She runs out through the doors. Gone.

Leto, halfway up the stairs, feels his heart break in his chest.

Ten-Eleven-Twelve

He has to compose himself. If not for everyone watching, then for his father. He can’t lose his temper or cry or rage. He has to look down at his fists to get them to unclench.

And there on the grand staircase, he sees one shoe.

It’s hers.

Leto picks up her shoe carefully. It looks new. Delicate and sparkling in his hand, he realizes he doesn’t even know her name.

This is all he has of her.

The size of the shoe, and the unique shape, must be special to her, though. The way she danced, it must have fit her perfectly.

The weight of his father’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder.

“Quite a dance,” King Paulus says.

Leto can’t tear his eyes away from the doors, replaying his last glimpse of her over and over in his head. He wonders what she was afraid of, and how he can fix it.

“I’m going to marry that woman,” Leto says.

“Who was she?”

Leto swallows thickly. “I don’t know yet.”

He holds the shoe in his father’s eyeline. It shines in the light of the ballroom.

Although he hates the thought of it touching anyone’s skin but hers, Leto knows this shoe would only fit the woman he’s just given his heart to. It’s the only way to find her, and if it takes the rest of his life, find her he will.

*****

“You’re my fairy godfather, but you’re not omnipotent. You can’t know that Prince Leto even remembers me,” you say as you hang the household laundry behind the house.

Anselm is sitting under a tree, a few little mice, birds, and squirrels perched like an audience in its branches. They titter and chirp.

He wags his wand at you. “As if either of you could forget. It’s all anyone in the kingdom talks about these days. He’s tearing the entire country apart searching for you.”

“He is not,” you mutter, shaking out your step-mother’s underclothes to hang them. “He’s on a grand tour of the noble estates. That’s what the town crier said.”

Your fairy godfather rolls his eyes. “Delusion. An excuse to traipse around chasing your skirt.”

“A prince doesn't have to chase women. Women go to him,” you say with a frown. “It was one dance, among a thousand he’s had in his life. It was special to me, but not to him.”

At least you'll always have the memory. How Leto's hands held you as you danced. How his attention made you feel like the only person in the world. The warm, musky scent of him, and how safe it made you feel.

The back door slams open and you wince, bracing yourself. Anselm disappears in a wisp of white smoke.

“Cinderella!” Your step-mother stomps out into the yard. Her bony fingers grasp at the still-wet laundry. She rips them down and sends them flying onto the yard. “You’ll have to re-wash all of this. You stupid, stupid girl. We can’t have our clothes out for the prince to see.”

You blink at her, uncomprehending.

Prince Leto is coming here? If what your fairy godfather says is true, then he’s bringing your shoe with him. Your heart beats faster.

“The prince?” you ask.

Her eyes narrow. “The prince is coming to marry one of your stepsisters.”

“Which one?” you ask, your hands shaky as you kneel to gather the laundry back into the basket.

She sniffs. “Who cares? The only concern you have is to make sure the house is presentable in an hour, and then go up to your room and do not come out until I retrieve you.”

Your heart sinks.

“I can tell you have designs on seeing him,” your stepmother sneers. “As if he’d want a poor, ugly thing like you. Although, perhaps I could sell you to the palace. Maybe they need someone to wash the kitchen floors.”

Tears sting your eyes as you pick up the laundry basket. You hurry past her, trying to block her words out of your mind.

She grabs your arm as you walk by, her fingernails pinching into your skin.

“If I see your face at the window, I’ll turn you out into the street,” she spits into your ear before shoving you toward the house. “Make the house ready, Cinderella.”

It’s an easy enough list of chores, one you’ve done a thousand times. Make sure there are fresh flowers, straighten the curtains, put out the tea service.

You do it all by mindless rote.

He’ll be here, at the house, but so far out of your grasp he might as well be on the moon.

It’s just as well, you think as you take off your apron and hang it in the kitchen. Your stepmother is right.

Your dress is no better than rags. You’ve been a servant for years now. You wouldn’t even know how to behave with someone like him. One dance doesn’t change anything.

As you pass through the hallway, you push against the wall, out of your stepsisters’ way as they laugh and talk, walking by you excitedly.

Mostly, they ignore you. They always have.

Your father, before he’d died, had been so excited that you would have sisters. Girls to grow up with. A little older than you, to protect you in society, and one day, your children could all play together.

You’d believed his promise, until you’d met the girls and their mother.

The three of them were so different around your father than they were around you.

The very day he’d died, your stepmother had moved you into the attic. It hadn’t even had a proper bed.

Standing in front of the mirror before the doorway to the stairs up to your room, you take in your appearance. Your face is dirty and drab. You look tired. Sad.

Not at all a princess.

Especially not for a prince as handsome and wise as Prince Leto of House Atreides.

You trudge up the attic steps, hearing the lock click behind you.

You hurl yourself onto your little bed, burying your face in the pillow, wishing it would suffocate you.

The crisp steps of horses on the laneway makes you perk up. Yet at the same time, you want to cover your ears with your hands and hold them there until he goes away.

You’re weak though, and tentatively, you get up and peek out your tiny window to the carriage below.

The royal crest is emblazoned proudly on all sides. A footman opens the door and Prince Leto steps out.

He’s in a different uniform from what he wore at the ball. This one is more of a dark green, though it still has medals and cords. He has a streak of white at the top of his head, nestled among the dark curls.

In his hand, he holds a small pillow. On the pillow, a lone shoe that you recognize instantly as the one you’d worn to the ball.

He straightens his shoulders and pushes forward to the door.

Behind him, another man, who looks rough from battle, but wears the regalia of a trusted royal advisor. Perhaps a fellow soldier or friend of Leto’s.

It’s as if the man can feel your gaze because his head turns sharply up to look at you.

You duck down, heart racing.

*****

“I think not,” Leto says, his patience wearing thin as the second of these unbearable women tries to shove her foot into the shoe.

“Oh, it’ll fit. Let me keep trying,” she laughs thinly. “I’ve been looking for this shoe everywhere. I think my foot’s swelled in the heat.”

Leto pulls the shoe back. “Madame, please. This shoe doesn’t fit you.”

The first woman shoves forward past her mother. “Let me try again. I’m sure it will fit this time.”

Leto tucks the shoe safely inside his pocket before their grabby hands can get to it.

“If you had worn this shoe at the ball,” he says politely, “then it wouldn’t be a trial for you to wear it today. I thank you for your time ladies, but I must be going.”

The older woman, whose eyes remind Leto of a witch with ice for a heart, holds out her hand for Leto to take. Reluctantly, he gives it a brief touch.

“It’s midday,” she says, “you must stay for a bit of food and drink. I insist.”

Leto glances at his friend and key advisor, Lord Gurney Halleck. It’s true, they’ve been traveling for days now, to three or four houses a day. They’re exhausted.

“Girls,” the mother barks, “please show the prince what gracious hostesses you can be. Off with you.”

The older woman smiles, but it looks so jagged and misused that Leto’s surprised her face doesn’t split in half.

The women run off toward the dining room, squabbling about seating.

Leto hands the empty pillow to the footman. His other hand slides into his pocket to touch the shoe. His heart feels leaden. There aren’t many houses left. The shoe fits no one, and he’s not seen a woman who’s even a shadow to the one he’d danced with.

Gurney consults the book he’s been carrying on the journey. “We can make this our last stop of the day, sire.”

Leto pretends to smile. “Yes, then we’ll take tea here. Thank you for invitation, Lady Tremaine.”

The old woman’s eyes sharpen like knives. “It’s no trouble, Prince Leto. We’re glad to have you.”

“Wait.” Gurney’s word is crisp and confident. His finger taps a line in his book. “There are three young ladies in this house.”

The old woman laughs. It’s as fake as her smile had been. “That’s flattering, but no. There are three ladies in this house. My two daughters and myself.”

She turns to call her daughters back to the room and Gurney gestures subtly to Leto. He looks upward, pointing one finger to the attic.

Leto nods once.

“I did say I wanted to see every lady who resides here,” Leto says, letting his voice carry weight.

“And so you have,” the old woman says.

The sisters laugh.

“Yes, your grace,” one of them says jokingly, “unless you want to see Cinderella. She’s hardly a lady, though. More like one of the fat, lazy mice that runs around the yard.”

They laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard in years. Their mother looks at them sharply, her hand snapping out to slap at them.

“Shut up, you foolish girls,” she shouts.

Leto’s jaw twitches at her behavior.

He knows then that his love is here, in this house. Living with these monsters. His feet shift, as if to search for her. The thought of his beautiful angel, his future wife, being subjected to these people is more than Leto can bear.

“When I said you were to present every lady of marriageable age, I meant it.” Leto’s voice is steel and frost. “Did you disobey your Prince?”

Lady Tremaine’s posture falters. “No, sire-“

Leto leans in toward her. “And now you lie? You know the punishment for such a thing.”

Gurney steps forward to try and be the voice of reason.

“The late Lord had a daughter with his late wife, did he not?” Gurney asks the women.

The girls fold their arms, avoiding his gaze. Lady Tremaine’s face tightens.

“She’s around somewhere. The girl is wild,” she says. “I can’t keep track of her.”

Instinctively, Leto’s hand rests on the sword at his side, the threat clear. “I’ll ask you politely one more time. If you make me ask again, there will be consequences. Where is she?”

*****

Your face still buried in your pillow, you feel a warm hand on your back and know your fairy godfather is here to comfort you.

You rest your cheek on the downy softness, looking up at him with a sniffle. Your attic room is stuffy and hot on afternoons like this.

He smiles kindly.

“The royal ball feels like a dream, but it wasn’t,” you say.

“It wasn’t,” he agrees.

“The memory alone should be enough for me, but Prince Leto is all I think about, all I dream about.” You chew on your lip a moment, then sit up in bed. “I do love him, fairy godfather. I don’t want him to be only a memory in my life.”

“He is your true love,” your fairy godfather says sagely. “Although, such an important thing can’t be had without a cost.”

“What cost? I have nothing,” you say, looking around the jumble of stored things you share your space with.

It’s cozy enough. Colorful scraps of fabric you’d sewn into little decorations. Dried flowers and bits of ribbon. Nothing of value to a prince, though.

He chuckles quietly, touching his magic wand to your chest. “You have this. Your heart is what he wants, and you have the means to give it to him… if you’re brave enough to do so.”

Your fairy godfather’s wand swipes down to the attic door. It Clicks! open.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

There’s no telling what Lady Tremaine will do. You’ve never disobeyed her like this, always tried to do as she says. You’ve tried to keep yourself safe.

Prince Leto is worth some risk, though. He’s worth everything.

You give Anselm a hug and practically leap off the bed.

“Would you change my dress? I look horrible,” you say, looking at your ragged clothes with regret. “He might not recognize me like this.”

Your fairy godfather taps his wand on his beard. “Hmmmm, I think he’ll see you just fine, my dear. He’ll love you just as you are, trust me.”

It's somehow fitting for the prince to see you like this. He should know what you really are. Although, if he loves you, then perhaps you're not as lowly as you've been told.

Nervously, you descend the stairs and creep out of your room.

Even up here, you can hear one of your stepsisters making some excuse about the shoe not fitting.

You hear an unfamiliar man speak. Then, Prince Leto raises his voice, but you can’t make out what he’s saying.

You tip-toe down to the main floor.

The air in the sitting room is tense as you peek around the corner. Your stepsisters cower behind their mother, but Lady Tremaine doesn’t look so formidable in this moment.

At first, you only see Prince Leto’s handsome profile. His nose and his beard, the curl of hair away from his forehead. Then, his head turns.

His dark brown eyes meet yours and there’s a flash of joy. His smile doesn’t waiver, even when he looks you over and sees the state of you, so different from when you’d met.

Prince Leto remembers his manners before anyone else and he gives you a polite bow of his head. His hand drops from his sword. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

You have to bite back happy tears. “Good afternoon, your grace.”

“You look lovely,” he says.

“You look- um, lovely also.”

Prince Leto laughs quietly and you join him.

Another man steps forward, the one who’d seen you looking through your attic window. “I’m Lord Halleck, my lady, aide and advisor to Prince Leto. Please, sit. Let’s put your shoe back where it belongs.”

Lady Tremaine storms in between you and the chair. “Absolutely not. That girl is worthless. Look at her. She’s not a lady, not like my daughters. Your grace, have some self respect.”

Leto’s nostrils flare with anger. In the blink of an eye the softness in him disappears and he stands straight and formidable, commanding respect. It’s thrilling to behold.

“Your late husband knew my father,” Prince Leto says, “and therefore, I knew him a bit. I know that he must have loved his daughter very much because he bought her a horse from our very own stable, and a puppy, and made sure to bring her treats that would please her. I find it very difficult to believe a loving father would leave his daughter destitute.”

Lady Tremaine tries to sound strong, but even you can hear the desperation in her voice. “My late husband didn’t leave a will. In such cases, everything is given to the wife. To me.”

Prince Leto glances at Lord Halleck. “Gurney, when we return to the palace, remind me to check with Lord Hawat to see if, perhaps, the late lord left his will in our possession. It’s common enough for nobles to do.”

You watch the color drain from Lady Tremaine’s face.

“No, there was nothing in his papers. He kept them in his desk,” she says weakly.

“Nobles often consult with my father or his council on such things, and usually, a copy is retained in the royal records,” Leto informs her.

You watch the exchange with trepidation, even when Lord Halleck helps you to sit.

It’s all more than you can absorb. Is it possible your father hadn’t forgotten you after all? That your stepmother had lied for years, to cover her own greed?

Smoothly, Leto turns and kneels deftly in front of you. Your stepmother and stepsisters gasp.

His brown eyes look up at you seriously.

He takes your hands. “You think people as good and honest as you are, but that woman has made your life miserable. When we’re married, her fate is yours.”

You glance at Lady Tremaine, who’s looking steadfastly at the wall, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“Prince Leto,” you say softly, “let her alone, please. If we are as happy as I hope we’ll be, then she’ll be nothing to us. How she lives wouldn’t bother me.”

Leto’s eyes shine with the love you’d seen at the ball.

“You’re as kind as you are beautiful. Yet, if you would permit me to act with justice,” he says, his bearing regal and clearly not used to asking permission for things.

Although you’ve heard stories of how fiercely his justice can extend, you know he wouldn’t do anything to distress you too badly.

A prince, on bended knee, asking permission from you of all people. It’s beyond imagination; but love does unbelievable things, you suppose.

“Yes, Prince Leto,” you say.

“Then, she and your stepsisters may keep the house and lands, but they’ll be stripped of their titles. They’re not welcome at any noble court. By royal decree, they’ll not be related to you at all. Your family’s history will record your father and mother and you.”

It’s fair, but harsh to your ears.

Justice dispensed, Prince Leto takes the shoe from his pocket, holding it in one hand.

“I would like now, to put your sorrows behind us. Only wonderful things are in your future. I promise. May I?” he asks.

He’s more handsome than you’d thought a man could be. His eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile. His teeth and nose and cheekbones are fascinating to you. You want to spend a lifetime studying his face. You realize that you can do just that. All you have to do is say yes.

You lift the tattered hem of your dress just enough to slip off your worn, old work shoes. Leto holds your foot reverently, sliding the beautiful shoe on.

It fits perfectly, as you’d both known it would.

You and Leto exhale in sync, smiles touching your lips.

His hand cradles your foot and ankle.

“Will you marry me?” he asks.

“Yes,” you answer, “of course I will.”

*****

You hadn’t thought anyone had as much gravitas or seriousness as Leto, until you meet King Paulus.

You worried that such a great man would forbid his only heir from marrying you. Yes, your father was noble and an acquaintance, but you’re not anywhere near Leto’s rank.

Instead, King Paulus is welcoming. Glad that his son will finally marry.

The wedding preparations are overwhelming, but Leto makes it very clear that no matter how big the wedding or how many people, it’s a day for you and him alone.

King Paulus assigns you a helpful attendant. She’s from a far-off land, with a strange name, Mapes, but she’s very loyal and best of all, practical. She’s like a mother lioness, keeping people from bothering you too much, making sure you eat, helping you pick out new clothes.

She also ensures you and Leto have plenty of time to sit together and know each other more. He shows you the garden and library. The laboratory full of inventions. The armory and blacksmith. The kitchen, the tailors, on and on and on, until you’ve met more people in a few days than you have in your whole life.

Your favorite times are, of course, when you and Leto talk about everything and nothing. Sometimes for hours.

Mapes sits just outside of earshot, but it’s obvious she’s acting as chaperone until the wedding.

You’ve been so busy, you’ve hardly had a moment to yourself. One night though, you sneak out into the garden alone.

Mapes’ ears and eyes are as keen as a freshly honed blade, but there’s a shimmer in the air that you’d recognize anywhere. Your fairy godfather.

The garden behind the royal palace is a wash of deep greens and bright flowers. The pathway is cool under your bare feet, but the air is warm enough that your silk nightgown keeps you comfortable.

The moon lights the way through the dark night. Little bright green fireflies line the path through to where Anselm slouches in the gazebo, huffing on a pipe. You’ve never seen him with anything but his fairy wand in hand.

“Fairy godfather, I’m so glad to see you, but what are you doing?” you ask with a grin.

He smiles happily. “Well, you see, I wasn’t exactly honest with you all along. Fairies are a strict lot, and I’d run somewhat afoul of my people. I have a habit of making trouble.”

“That, I can believe,” you say as you sit next to him.

“Well, I was given the task of helping human kind. It was meant as punishment, but my dear, you made it a joy,” Anselm smiles, patting your shoulder. “My lesson is learned, and I’m back to all of my normal powers.”

“Are they so different?” you ask, waving your hand in front of your face to blow the smoke away.

“I have less restrictions,” he says. “For example, I could kill your stepmother.”

You gasp. “Fairy godfather, no!”

He grumbles to himself. “Yes, I suppose it doesn’t really fit with your story. If you change your mind, though, just call out my true name and I’ll be there in a flash.”

You look around the palace grounds. Even shrouded in moonlight, they look lush and perfect. Then, you look down at the beautiful ring Leto had placed on your finger. It marks your betrothal, and his love for you.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want for anything again,” you tell Anselm, “but maybe you could visit sometimes? If you would like to.”

His eyes soften. “Very much so. Definitely. I cannot wait to see your progress in life. The handsome prince and the fair princess.”

He gets up and straightens his jacket, pipe disappearing magically into nothingness.

“I’ll visit whenever I need a break from torturing that horrible old woman and her daughters,” he says.

“Anselm!”

But he’s gone in a puff of smoke.

You laugh quietly to yourself. You can only imagine the trouble he’ll make for them. Nothing too dangerous, you hope, but whenever bad luck befalls them, you know Anselm will be to blame.

You’re still laughing when you hear a rustle.

“What are you doing, laughing out here all alone?” Leto asks as he walks into the secluded gazebo.

Your eyes linger over him. You’ve never seen him out of uniform.

He’s in his sleeping clothes. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone and you can’t look away.

His dark hair and eyes are meant to be seen like this, you think, in gauzy moonlight and night. Even his skin looks different to you.

Leto, though, is only concerned with you. You can tell from the frown on his forehead.

“You have bare feet and no coat. Here.” Leto quickly sits by you and wraps his arms around you. He kisses the side of your head. “Now, tell me why you’re in the garden in the middle of the night.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to tell him everything. Maybe one day, you will.

For now, you only say, “I’m having trouble sleeping. I think it’s because I have nothing left to dream about. All of my dreams came true.”

Leto tips your face closer to his.

This is the first time you’ve been without a chaperone.

Leto’s kiss is soft at first. The hair of his beard and mustache is scratchy, but good. His lips are like warm pillows. The tip of his tongue traces your mouth lightly. Then, he deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his and sinking in. He hums in his throat, his big hands pulling you closer.

“My princess,” he whispers, kissing you again and again, “my love.”

The fireflies gather in the gazebo, like stars suspended in the air. They don’t mind that you and Leto kiss and touch.

The clock in the palace starts to chime midnight.

This time, you don’t run.

Leto gives you a kiss for every hour. Twelve. And many more after that.

Enough for a lifetime of happily ever after.

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Steven: 100% walks off and gets lost. He’s just so wrapped up in talking (positive). You both have a thing where if one of you wants to talk about a topic, the other will let them speak for ages and just enjoy the other's happiness. Will feel awful when he realises you stopped and he didn’t notice at first.

Marc: Stops the second you do. Even when he’s trying not to, he’s always on high alert for danger and notices changes instantly. 

Jake: Turns around to look at you over his shoulder the second you stop, but keeps walking. Will probably poke his tongue out at you when he clocks that you are watching him walk away. 

Nathan: Will keep walking if you are on a hike and pretends that he doesn’t care. If you’re out in public, he’s got a hold of your hand and will not be going anywhere without you. (Has anxiety around others, but will refuse to admit it.)

Anselm: He is too busy always looking and you to never not realise.

Cecil: Doesn’t notice for ages. Cries when he realises. 

Club!Blue: He is never noticing.

Orderly!Blue: How dare you not be in his presence. He’s noticing straight away.

Jack: Will let you do whatever you want, if you want to stop you can stop, doesn’t mean he’ll stop with you. However, even when he keeps walking he knows exactly where you are.

Santiago: Will ask you if you’re stopping so his ‘old knees can take a break’ with the most deadpan expression.

Shimmer!Kane: Continues walking, somehow ends up by your side again even if he walked off in a totally different direction.

Rydal: Pretends he doesn’t notice, but will stop.

Poe: He is holding your hand 24/7, there is no way he wouldn’t notice.

William: Stops when you do instantly. 

Richard: Can be distracted, especially if he’s walking his dog, but will always notice after a few moments.

Robbie: Is literally glued to you, always stops when you do.

Jonathan: Depending on how tired he is depends on how quickly he notices. It’s never straight away, but he never gets more than a few steps either.

Leto: Will stop the second you do, but will pretend he’s looking at something (shop window, his phone, etc.) and not quietly watching you.

Basil: Doesn’t notice, the paper bag makes it hard to see.

Laurent: There’s no walking because he’s blown your back out too many times that day.

Victor: Notices, but doesn’t stop. He carries on doing his own thing and assumes you stopped because you wanted to do your own thing too. Will want to sit and catch up about things later on over food (and milk).

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The morning light in the Martín kitchen is almost clinical, bouncing off the Carrara marble with a sharpness that makes Josh's head ache. He's sat, nursing a double espresso, his thumb hovering over his phone screen, a Pavlovian itch blooming in his crotch. He shouldn't. He's already jerked off twice since waking up — once in the shower and once while Lindsay was downstairs turning on the coffee machine — but the mental loop of you...is a high-definition haunting. Fuck, maybe this is what those young, dumb interns mean when they say they're 'down bad'.

For the first time since his mid-twenties, he's waking up with his heart pounding in his chest and his boxers sticking to his skin; the kind of visceral, teenage hunger that makes his expensive life feel like a cardboard set.

The silence is broken by the sharp clack of a ceramic mug. Lindsay is standing across the island, her workout gear pristine, her face set in a mask of exhausted disappointment. She doesn't look like a woman whose marriage is failing; she looks like a forensic accountant about to deliver an audit.

"You still have your Cloud sync on." She says, her voice is terrifyingly level. He freezes. The espresso suddenly tastes like battery acid. He goes to stand.

"Listen, I'm running late for the greens committee—"

"I saw the folder. 'Site Inspections'?" She lets out a jagged, mocking laugh. She slides her iPad across the marble. On the screen is a familiar set of pictures of you. You, making your way to the jacuzzi in that slutty, little bikini. You, enjoying the bubbles in said jacuzzi, your tits gloriously buoyant. "You're stalking a client's daughter. In between jerking off in the bathroom like a degenerate. It's pathetic."

The shame should hit him but instead it's a hot, prickly defensiveness. The poison in his blood bubbles to the surface. He looks at the photos of you and, instead of guilt, he feels this frantic possessiveness.

"It's not stalking, Linds." He snaps. "I'm managing the atmosphere. I'm aware of who's on the property, doing my Goddamn job."

"You're vibrating, Josh. I can practically smell the desperation on you from across the room. It's embarrassing. If the Phipps find out their golden boy GM is taking creep-shots of their daughter, we lose everything." She hisses and Josh stands up, the chair screeching against the tile.

"Everything? You mean the house you barely sleep in? The sex life you've been 'outsourcing' for the last eighteen months?" He bites back and Lindsay flinches, then narrows her eyes.

"Don't you dare make this about me."

"Why not? We're playing the 'honesty' game now, yeah?" Josh steps closer, his pulse thrumming in his throat. "I've stayed civil. I've signed the papers for the mediation. I've ignored the fact that you smell like Versace Pour Homme every time you come back from 'tennis', which is funny because I've never worn that cologne in my fucking life." The air in the kitchen turns static. The score is finally on the scoreboard, the numbers glowing neon.

He stalks toward her. "I stayed for the optics." He spits, his voice dropping to a hiss. "Because the club needs a GM with a stable home life. But, if I'm a 'degenerate' for just looking at someone who actually does something to me, then what're you?" She just stares at him, her lip curling in a mix of fury and genuine shock. She hasn't seen him this unhinged, this hungry, in years.

"You're losing it, Josh. This girl... She's gonna be the thing that finally breaks you."

"God, I hope so." Josh whispers, grabbing his blazer from the counter.

He doesn't look back as he storms out to the Audi. Slowly, he sinks into the drivers seat. The anger is still hot in his throat but, beneath it, the obsession is still there, humming like a live wire. He looks down at his phone. The screen's timed out and gone black. He taps it. You appear again. Sitting by the pool; untouchable and gorgeous and all his. A slow, dark smile creeps onto his face. The bridges are burned. The masks are off. There's no civil marriage left to protect, no reputation to gingerly balance.

Lindsay can go to hell; the marriage is dead wood anyway. But, looking down at his phone, he feels this terrifying, electric sense of life. He knows the score now and he's fucking ready to play the back nine.

When you finally reach Monte Vista, it's a balmy 86°. The sun is out and you've just driven over from having brunch and catching up with your girlfriends. You haven't seen them for a few months so it was nice to find out what they've been up to and get up to date on the latest scandals in town.

You sweep past reception, wearing this breezy sundress which feels just right for the temperature today. Tapping your membership card, you practically float past the barriers and into the clubhouse itself, turning the corner into the spa. Instantly, the sound of running water and soothing piano music drifts through the air and the tension begins to seep from your bones.

Stopping in the changing room, you pull on your swimsuit — making sure to shut your bag and clothes away in one of the lockers — wrap yourself in a complimentary robe and head toward the spa lounge. You stop by lounge reception to check in. A girl, with a name tag reading 'Christine', is manning the desk and you give her a smile.

"Hi. I was just wondering if you could let me know when I'm booked in for my massage?" You ask her and she nods, turning her eyes to the screen and clicking her mouse a couple times.

"Could I take your name?" She asks and you give it to her. She nods and her long nails tap away at her keyboard. "Let me just have a looook..." She pauses and her brows knit for a moment before she looks back up at you with a smile. "You're booked in for 3PM. Please, feel free to pass the time in the pool, steam-room and sauna. I'll let you know when we're ready for you." You give her a polite smile and a nod before continuing on; getting a mimosa from the bar, situating yourself in a comfortable lounger and scrolling through your phone.

You spend the next few hours milling between the sauna, the steam-room and the indoor pool, patiently awaiting your allotted slot. You've been really looking forward to this.

Josh adjusts the collar of his polo as he stands by the reception desk. Of course, someone was going to check the Goddamn schedule and suss him out.

Note to self; mistakes get made, when you think with your dick.

"Mister Martín, maybe we shouldn't—"

"Shut it, Christine. I'll give you a raise if you keep this quiet." He whispers and she hastily turns her eyes back to the screen, uneasy but not about to turn down the prospect of extra money. Christine stands, smooths out her uniform and walks primly into the lounge, approaching you.

"The therapist is ready to see you." She tells you, her voice somewhat tight, and you turn off your phone, following her out of the lounge and down the hall. She directs you to a room a few doors down and opens it for you. The lights are dim and the sound of Tibetan singing bowls rings through the small space. "If you'd just like to take off your clothes and lay down on your stomach." She gestures to the padded massage table in the centre of the room. "There's a towel on the bed to cover you." You thank her and she takes her leave, shutting the door behind her.

Christine stops as she closes the door, finding Josh right outside, breath coming hard and fast, cheeks a little flushed. She walks past him to make her way back toward the reception area. And Josh is just giddy with excitement; all alone with you, no-one around, no-one to stop him if he does something incredibly, incredibly stupid.

In the therapy room, you untie your robe and hang it on the hook before pulling off your swimsuit and toeing off your sandals. With a sigh, you pick up the towel from the massage table and lay down on your front, draping the towel over your backside as instructed.

And there's a knock at the door.

"Hey there. Are we ready in here?" Josh is praying you don't remember his voice from when you first spoke to him a few weeks ago.

"Mhmm." You respond, face comfortably wedged into the circular pillow at the head of the table. He slips into the room, closing the door silently behind him. His throat grows tight when he sees the silhouette of your body on the table even in the low ambient light; the curve of your waist, the dip of your lower back... He clears his throat, trying to keep at least his voice professional.

"Great. I'll be your therapist today. Just — uhh... — lie still and relax, yeah?" You give a hum of approval and he steps closer.

Your body is just laid out for him, like a feast; your hair loose and pulled over one shoulder to expose your smooth back. His eyes trace along the soft lines of your body until they're blocked by the towel and he curses the thing mentally. He walks around to the side of the table, blindly picking up something he assumes is massage oil and pouring some into his hands.

As he starts to warm the oil, his eyes linger on the towel covering your rear. He imagines sliding his hands underneath, gripping your ass, spreading your cheeks... His mind is completely blank except for processing just how good your skin looks in this light; like silk and satin. He's already hard in his pants again and he hasn't even touched you yet. Fuck. "So what're we looking at here? Lower back pain, high stress or just...general maintenance?" He knows jackshit about massages. Well, outside of those cheesy pornos he watched in college.

"I get a lot of tension at the base of my neck and between my shoulders if you can help with that?" You ask and Josh nods, humming in the back of his throat.

"Mhm. Definitely." His hands hover over your shoulders for a moment before he places them down gently, slowly working his way up your neck.

Oh, he's touching you now. Actually physically touching you and your skin is just so warm and soft, like velvet in the sun. He gingerly presses his thumbs into the knots at the base of your neck, working in slow circles. He leans down slightly, close enough to catch your scent; floral, light, sensual. His cock strains in his tailored chinos, begging for attention. He's just glad you can't see it. "You're holding a lot of tension here." He murmurs, voice dropping lower than intended. He's absolutely bullshitting his way through this but it's the best he can do.

"Yeah, I've never been the same since college." You laugh softly, almost musically, and it makes his chest flutter with warmth. "All that sitting and staring at textbooks."

"Mm... I can tell." He rumbles in return, his hands moving slowly across your upper back, kneading the muscles between your shoulders. His hands are ever so slightly rough, unlike most massage therapists you've experienced in your time. It's not unpleasant though; large, warm hands working across your skin, thumbs grazing a tender spot between your shoulder blades and making you melt under his touch.

"Mmnnn... There... Just there..." You moan softly and a shiver rushes through him. He presses harder, feeling the tension give way beneath his fingertips.

"That's the spot, huh?" He rasps. He shouldn't be enjoying this so much; noticing how your breathing's gotten heavier or how your body sinks deeper into the table with each passing second. But he is. He's enjoying this so fucking much.

"Mhmm..." Josh continues to work that spot, his fingers digging deeper into the muscles. He can feel himself getting lost in the moment, hands moving lower and lower until he's pressing into the small of your back, where the towel lies.

"What were you studying?" He asks. Anything to keep you talking, to hear that pretty European lilt from your lips that sends electric shocks up and down his spine.

"I was at Intituto Marangoni? In Milan?"

"Fashion school?" His fingers trace along your spine and he watches the way your skin pebbles slightly under his touch, goosebumps rising. "Guess that explains everything." His palm slides down deliberately, pressing into the soft flesh of your lower back. He doesn't move to slide back up. Just...leaves it there.

Dark eyes sweep down the length of your legs; starting at your dainty ankles and slowly tracing up your shapely calves and delightfully supple thighs. He can see the slight muscle definition from years of wearing heels and walking around city high-streets. His hands move down to your calves, feeling the muscle there, encased in sleek, silken skin.

There's a lull in conversation now and he's torn. He wants to know everything about you; every moment of creating this wonderful, sirenical creature which has captured him. But he also wants to draw more of those lewd, filthy moans from your mouth, sounds that make his balls swollen and heavy...

Eventually, he choses the former, fingers inching higher and higher. "So what did you study?" It's a fucking FASHION SCHOOL, dumbass! What else is she going to study?!

"I got my BA in fashion and design." You tell him easily as his thumbs press into the yielding flesh in the back of your thighs.

"Impressive. Milan must've been beautiful." His voice is low, almost too low, as his hands work their way higher on your legs. The towel is shifting with each stroke and he can see the faint outline of your ass beneath it. That ass which left that Goddamn imprint on the bench in the squash court. Sit on my face. Sit on my face. Sit on my face. Sit on my— "You still design?"

"A couple sketches here and there but I'm taking a break for a while."

"A break's good." He murmurs as he continues his slow, deliberate journey up tour thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from your skin and sinking into his fingers. His thumbs are dangerously close to the towel now. "You deserve it." The words slip out before he can process them but he has to cut himself some slack; his restraint is dangling by a thread here. "Hey, you a little warm under there? The towel, I mean?" You make a noncommittal sound.

"A little, I guess."

"Let me get that for you." He says too quickly, eager hands grabbing the edge of the towel and pulling it away.

His breath catches in his throat.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Your ass is just...perfect; round and firm but with just enough give to make a man want to sink his teeth into it. The low lighting casts shadows that highlight every curve, every dip. He's leaking in his pants now, soaking them really. "Okay, just gonna focus on your lower back now. Your — uhh... — glutes gotta be a little sore after all that sitting and studying, right?" And you let out this soft, airy laugh that tickles the base of his tailbone.

"I suppose."

You're totally onto his game... Aren't you? No-one can be this oblivious... Right?

Doesn't matter. Either way, he's getting his hands on that perfect fucking ass of yours.

"I'll take care of it for you. Don't you worry your pretty, little head about it." His hands hover for only a second before he finally — finally — lets them land on your ass. Ohhh, fuck, yes...

He squeezes gently at first, feeling the firm muscle and the softness that lies above it. He's never been more turned on in his life. He presses the pads of his thumbs into the dimples just above your ass and you sink deeper into the table, sighing softly. And he's creeping lower and lower, fingers brushing the creases where your ass meets your pillowy thighs. He spreads his fingers wide, thumbs brushing the very edge of your cheeks. He's trying so hard to keep this professional but, fuck, he's failing miserably. "Spread your legs a little for me..." You actually fucking do it and—

Right. Okay.

He can see everything, even in the low light; the perfect pink between your thighs, the way your plump pussy lips are slightly pouting. He swallows hard, oil-slick fingers tracing along the outer curve of your ass., getting closer and closer to that perfect glistening view. "Told you; lots of tension here..." He manages, voice thick. "Gotta work it out..."

He's so close to where he wants to bury himself; his face or his dick first? He isn't sure which. God, having your tight, fucking pussy all over his face sounds like a dream but pushing his cock right in there — raw, no condom — is almost enough to get him to cum on the spot.

Thumbs press into the soft fold where your ass meets your thighs, spreading you open just slightly. His palms are slick with oil, yes, but his hands are trembling now. He's been thinking about this for weeks, dreaming about getting just this view, waking up sweaty and covered in his own cum. And now he's here and he's touching you and you're so soft and warm and your pussy is right there and it's taking everything in him not to dive right in.

Maybe Lindsay was right; maybe he is a degenerate. But, fuck, if being a huge pervert hasn't been the best thing he's done since he turned thirty.

Josh tries to catch his breath. "Breathe for me." He orders softly, voice dropping to something darker, hungrier. You take a slow breath and he curls his fingers around the soft meat of your ass. "That's it..." He murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Just relax. I'll take care of everything." Daddy's gotta take care of his princess. He digs his thumbs deeper, spreading you wider without actually touching that sweet, pink pussy. He's close though. So fucking close.

And you let out another relaxed sigh, then this cute moan, making heat prickle from his toes all the way up to his cockhead. "Shhh, baby." He coos. "Let me just...ease this tension for you." He's shaking with restraint, his cock aching, throbbing, fucking hurting at not being inside you right now.

Pull your hands away, man. You're so close to creaming your fucking pants. You either gotta go balls-to-the-wall with this; get up on that table and fuck that sweet, little cunt before your nuts explode or you gotta pull away NOW because, if you did a single bit of what you're imagining, you are in for a world of hurt. This is the TOP INVESTOR'S DAUGHTER, man.

His hands shake as he forces them away from your body, cursing under his breath. He's so hard and his balls are heavy, desperate to dump his load in you. But he can't do this. He shouldn't do this; not to a client, not to a woman half his age.

Humming curiously, if a little drowsily, you go to sit up, confused about the sudden lack of contact, but Josh lays a hand on your shoulder before you can turn and see his face. "Easy." He soothes. The last thing he needs is for you to turn around and see that feral look in his eyes. Or the huge bulge in his pants. You ease yourself back down onto the massage table. "Just relax, okay?" The words come out stilted and hurried. "You let all that oil sink in. I'm gonna go get the— The stuff for— For your face." He manages eventually.

Josh practically stumbles out of the room, his hard cock leaving a visible wet spot at the front of his pants. Once he's outside, he leans against the wall for support, light-headed. It's like every ounce of blood has pooled right between his legs and there's nothing going to his lungs. Or his brain, for that matter. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." He hears a sound to his left and his eyes dart to the end of the corridor. The supplies closest. It's not much but it'll have to do.

He slips inside and closes the door behind him. It's certainly not the nicest place he's ever blown a load but, right now, it's the perfect place for him to shoot the massive amount of cum that's been building up in his balls for the past twenty minutes. He leans against the shelves, fumbling to open his pants. Finally, he gets himself free, his dick slapping up against his belly with a heavy thud. A low groan escapes him as he wraps a hand around the base, stroking slowly at first before giving in and picking up the pace.

He knows he won't last long — he never does when it comes to you — but he's certainly not winning any awards for stamina right now. He just spent the better half of an hour touching you, squeezing your ass, staring at your pretty pussy and— God, he can't stand it anymore. His hand flies over his cock in rough, eager strokes, precum oozing from the slit and dripping onto the floor. He's bucking up into his hand before he knows it, fingers coiled tight around the shaft.

He's red in the face, huffing like a bull, sweat beading at his hairline when his head jerks up. He needs napkins or towels or...something — fucking anything — to catch this when he blows. His eyes dart around the shelves; nothing, nothing, nothing. Before his gaze lands on a refill stack of paper cups to restock the water cooler by the reception desk. It'll have to do. He practically lunges for them, grabbing one with a shaking hand and positions it under his throbbing cock, his other hand quickly jerking up and down as he speeds towards release.

His cock pulses violently in his hand and then he's cumming ungodly hard. Thick, hot ropes of white splatter into the paper cup, each shot hitting the bottom with a wet slap. He rumbles out a low groan, hips bucking as he empties himself completely. One, two, three— His vision goes white and, for a moment, he think he might just pass out...

Somehow, he manages to hold on and now he's stood in a supplies closet with his dick in one hand and a cup of cum in the other. He stares at the cup, filled up a good way; an optimist might say it's half full. Jesus Christ. He needs to find someplace to get rid of it.

Then. Joshua Martín has an idea. He has an awful idea. He did tell you he was going to get the stuff for your facial, didn't he?

Back in the therapy room, Josh walks in, cup in hand, lips curled up into this evil, evil grin.

"I'm gonna dim the lights, okay? Turn over for me?" He turns the lights right down, until he can just about make out the silhouette of your body. He can't risk you seeing his face after what he's done, what he's about to do.

You lift yourself up, arching your spine, and flip over onto your back. Your naked body is just as gorgeous from the front, if not more so, as his eyes adjust to the low light. Your tits are soft, nipples pert, and there's the slightest little patch of downy hair on your mons, leading down between your thighs. His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. "Close your eyes for me." You nod, letting your eyes drift shut and resting your hands on your stomach, rising and falling slowly.

He moves to stand beside the table, staring down at your sweet face and innocent expression. He pours the warm, sticky contents of the cup onto his fingers. Hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not he's really going to do this.

Fuck it.

Josh takes a deep breath and starts spreading the cum all over your pretty face; over your forehead, your closed eyelids, down your soft cheeks, along your nose and across your lips. It's warm and thick, dripping slowly from your skin. Your features gleam in the light and his spent dick is already twitching weakly at the mere thought of doing this. It looks so damn good on you.

"What is this?" You ask curiously and he bites his lip for just a second.

"It's a... A protein mask." He tells you, thumb moving back and forth across your bottom lip. The smell is unmistakably masculine, musky. "All-natural ingredients. Super nourishing for the skin." You just hum in understanding.

The sight is almost hypnotising; watching his cum drip slowly down your temples toward your hairline. He spreads more and more until the cup's empty and he tosses it into the small garbage can in the corner. "Alright, now, you just sit back and let that soak in. I'll leave you to get dressed at your own pace, yeah? No rush." He tells you, a slight self-indulgent lilt to his voice. "You just take your time and check in with reception when you're ready."

Slowly, Josh backs away from the massage table and makes his way to the door, casting one last glance back at you — naked, oiled up, face covered in his cum — before he steps out into the hallway. His heart is racing and his dick is already throbbing again and there's this thrill buzzing through his body, like he just got away with doing something absolutely reprehensible. Well, he might have gotten away with it. He'll have to check in to make sure if he still has a job tomorrow.

Even if he doesn't? Worth it.

🍒 author's note: im honestly having a blast writing josh because, in my mind, hes just an absolutely unhinged pervert (as you can probably tell). but im honestly lost as to where to take things from here. and im obviously glad so many of you are liking these! id love to hear what people want to see from the next chapters to get the gears turning so please dump them in the comments or whatever!

and if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨

He's been patient. He's been so Goddamn patient. But it's all paid off.

Josh lies on his back, one hand propped behind his head, as he watches you. His eyes are lidded and dark with desire, pupils blown wide. He bites his lip, trying to maintain some form of control. Letting out a low growl, he passes his fingers through your hair before gripping it firmly. You let him guide your head, the flat of your tongue gliding along his shaft. You're making these pleased, slutty noises, gazing along the length of his body teasingly, as you lick the pre from his cock. Head falling back against the pillows, a groan rumbles in his chest and his grip on your hair tightens.

"Being such a good girl, aren't you?" He praises, voice husky and low. You take him deep into your mouth, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat, and you gag beautifully, the wet sound making his dick throb. "Holy shit..." He pushes his hips up, keeping your head in place as he starts bucking up into your mouth. "Look up at me." And you do. Your mascara has run down your cheeks and your mouth is smeared messily with bubblegum-pink lipgloss. "Mhmm... So pretty... Open that fuckin' throat nice and wide, yeah? Ohh, shit..." You take him all the way down, burying your nose in the thick, coarse hair at the base. He holds you there for a long moment. "Fuck... You're taking it so good, baby... Such a perfect slut, huh? Aren't you daddy's little slut?"

"Mmhmmm..."—

You're suddenly laid back on the bed, skin slick with sweat, and Josh is looming over you, long fingers deep in your pussy, curling and uncurling at a rapid pace. Your back arches off the bed as your fingers fist in the sheets.

"You like that, princess? Daddy's fingers in your tight pussy?" He growls, the filth falling freely from his mouth now. His hair is damp with sweat and his cheeks are flushed, eyes hungry as he drinks in the lust-dazed sounds you're making. You nod quickly.

"Yes, daddy... Love your fingers in my pussy, daddy... Feels so fucking gooood..." You drawl and he wets his lips subconsciously.

"Good girl." He praises, adding another finger to stretch you wider for him. He hooks them upward, curling up against that sweet spot that makes your eyes roll back and your legs tremble. "You gonna squirt, huh? You gonna squirt for me, princess?" He asks and you nod again, tears rolling down your cheeks as pleasure fills your body from top to bottom.

"Y-Y-Yeah, gonna...squirt so bad..." You manage shakily.

"That's it, baby. Daddy's gonna make you squirt all over the bed like a naughty girl." He curls his fingers into you quicker, determined to make you cum before he even thinks about putting his dick in you—

On all fours, Josh's hand is gripping your head again, grabbing at the roots and pushing your head into the sheets, already damp with sweat and slick. He's pounding into you from behind, his free hand on your hip, hand large and warm and rough. He's not felt a pussy this good in years.

"D-Daddy...!" You cry out for him as he drives his hips against yours, watching your ass bounce rhythmically against his pelvis.

"Fucking...take it!" He snarls, revelling in the way you clench around him every time he bottoms out. Pulling your head up by your hair, he forces your back to bow, changing the angle to reach deeper inside you. "Such a pretty...fucking princess..." And you're panting and mewling under him, every brutal thrust punching the air from your lungs. "So fucking tight, baby. But you're being so good; taking every inch of daddy's cock..." He grunts, breath hot against your neck.

He releases your hair in favour of grabbing your waist, fingers digging in so deep that he's certain that they'll leave bruises. "That's right... Tell daddy what you want, yeah?" He commands and you turn your head to look at him, face flushing, eyes wide, irresistibly innocent despite the moment. It drags that recently awakened beast from the depths of his psyche, a primal wave of possessiveness crashing over him and making his blood run hot. "C'mon, princess, tell daddy what you need." He slows his pace a little, teasing you with long, deep thrusts. "Use your words."

"Fuck— Fuck— F-Fuck... Want you to..." You huff, gasping with every smooth slide of his cock. He leans down over your back.

"Want me to what, baby? Say it." His teeth graze the delicate skin of your shoulder and a moan bubbles up in your throat. He's pushing so slow and deep now, he could swear he can feel his cock rubbing up against the inside of your stomach. "Wanna hear you say it." And you let out this sweet, reedy whine.

"Want you to...p-put a baby in me, daddy..." You gasp and a shudder runs through him. Please, knock me up... I wanna be all yours... Wanna be daddy's princess f-forever... Pretty please, d-daddy..." You're begging and the words make red descend over his vision as pure, primal, possessive lust floods every single neuron in his brain.

"You want that, baby? You want daddy to breed you? Fill this pretty pussy with cum?" He picks up the pace again, slamming into you forcefully. You double down.

"Yes, please, daddy! Wanna give you so many babies... Be daddy's breeding slut..."

"Fuck!" Your words send a jolt of lightning through his body. You know just how much that kind of thing drives him wild and he's quickly losing his rhythm, chest heaving with heavy breaths. "Hold on, princess. Gonna fill you up so fucking full." You do as he tells you to, reaching up to wrap your fingers around the headboard. He likes you loud and needy and you give it to him in spades.

"Hahh... H-Hahh... Knock me up, daddy... Fill me... Wanna take all your cum... Drain your balls in my tight pussy... Want all of it... All of it..." You pant out with each savage buck of his hips. He reaches forward, fingers curling around the front of your neck, thumb pressing against your windpipe as he pounds into you with animalistic intensity.

"That's it. Take it all. Greedy girl..." He's getting close — so so close — and his heavy balls are drawing up tight. "C'mon, princess, squeeze daddy's cock... Show me how bad you want it..." Your eyelids flutter, eyes flicking back as every thrust lights up every nerve in your body.

"Gonna— Gonna c-cum again... Daddy, I'm gonna cum again..." You warn him, clenching down on his dick. Your nails bite into the headboard as your body goes rigid. Before he can even register it, you're cumming again, drenching the base of his cock and balls, soaking the sheets further as you cry out. The sudden gush pushes him over the edge too and with a loud, shuddering groan, he buries himself deep and empties himself into you. Thick ropes of cum flood your unprotected pussy; he's going to knock you up for sure and the thought alone makes him shiver.

"Fuck, yes, princess!"—

Josh wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding like he just ran a marathon. He's drenched in sweat and a fresh load is already cooling in his boxers. He can still feel the phantom sensations of your body wrapped around him as he jerkily turning his head to look at the clock. It's 4:00AM.

Lindsay is peacefully asleep beside him, her body turned away, sleeping peacefully. Collapsing back, he stares at the ceiling, heart racing.

This fantasy — this obsession — is consuming him. Every night for the past week, it's been the same; that innocent yet depraved little princess on her knees, looking up at him with those pleading eyes, begging to be bred. It's pathological. It's making him lose his fucking mind.

Eventually, he rolls out of bed, careful not to wake Lindsay, heading to the bathroom. He flicks on the light, closes the door, strips off his soaked boxers and stares at his reflection; disheveled salt-and-pepper hair sticking up in all directions, dark circles under his eyes, dick still half-hard and glistening with cum. He scrubs a hand over his face.

"Jesus, man... Get it together."

Josh doesn't sleep for the rest of the night. He gets to work early, tries to plaster on his best customer service face and get on with the day but it's no use. Every single mundane task — talking with the staff, reviewing paperwork, eating lunch — keeps getting interrupted by flashes of that afternoon at the pool, of dreams and fantasies.

In a last ditch attempt to get some air and clear his head, he takes out one of the golf carts and goes on a little drive. It works a little, thank God. He stands on the brow of the hill, eyes closed, breathing deep. The air's cooler today and, with each breath, he feels like he gets back some semblance of control, grounds him. He feels like himself again; Joshua Martín, general manager of one of the most prestigious country clubs in the country, not some desperate pervert chasing after a girl young enough to be his Goddamn daughter—

Fuck, no, don't think about that, whatever you do, man.

He leans against the card, eyes still closed, letting the breeze dry the remnants of morning humidity on his skin.

Still, it creeps into his head... Best case scenario; you're in your mid-20s and he's about twenty years older than you. Worst case? It might be closer to thirty years he has on you. He doesn't think you're eighteen but there's a chance. God, it'd feel so wrong, wanting to fuck a girl young enough to be his daughter, but, fuck, if it doesn't send a wave of fresh heat washing over his entire body.

Don't think about it. Don't fucking think about it.

But he does. He thinks about those delicate hands wrapped around his cock. Thinks about those long, sun-kissed legs coiled around his waist. Thinks about that sweet, pouty mouth whispering in his ear; 'Mmm... Daddy...'

He slams his fist against the hood of the golf cart, trying to snap himself out of it from the pain or the sound that echoes, like a gunshot, in his ears. It works a little; the sharp sting in his knuckles jolting him back to reality somewhat. His breath comes out in a ragged exhale.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" He murmurs to himself, staring at his reddening fist. A little over a week ago, he didn't even know you existed. Now you're all he can fucking think about.

Eventually, Josh finds it in him to drive back to the main building, parking the cart in its designated lot and walking back in the direction of his office. He's got a handle on himself now, taking long, deep breaths and greeting people in the hallway as he usually would; with that same practiced smile. His head feels clearer, like he can actually think. Then, he glances down through the window as he walks along the corridor that overlooks the indoor squash courts...

You're doing solo drills in one of the courts. You're wearing this cute tennis outfit; a tight polo shirt and matching short-shorts, embroidered with the logo of some expensive company, he's sure. Your hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, a couple strands falling in front of your eyes as you dart around the court, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. Your face — or what he can see of it — is sweaty and flushed.

His feet stop moving. Everything stops. There you are. Not in a dream. Not in his imagination. Real. And you're just as devastating as he remembered you to be, if not more. He finds himself leaning against the window pane overlooking the court, watching dumbly as you pivot and swing, the polo shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of bare skin. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, huffing softly as sweat soaks into your wristband. God, he would do anything in the world to lick up the drop he sees rolling down your neck... He wants to press his face against your throat — or even better; between your tits — and lap up every single drop of sweat like some kind of animal.

Then you bend over to pick up a rogue ball and the hem of your shorts ride up high on your thighs. His jaw tightens and he sees the way the fabric strains against your ass, the way those shorts ride up dangerously high, threatening to expose more than just toned thighs. His nails bite into his palms reflexively, knuckles paling. He'd give his left fucking arm to see you completely naked; no tennis gear, no slutty, little bikini; completely bare.

As you sit and fan yourself with a perfectly manicured hand, he stiffly combs his fingers through his hair. You just look so...unassuming. Not putting on a show, just an ordinary girl taking a break after practicing her backhand. But, to him? You're the most obscene creature he’s ever laid his eyes on. Your chest heaves slightly under that tight polo, your lips slightly parted, and he's already thickening up in his pants again. Shit, shit, shit... And, when you stand, the seat is dark with a sweaty imprint of your ass, condensation beading on the plastic, and his cock throbs. The outline of those plump, pert cheeks printed on the seat; it's like a sign from God himself. Sit on my face, his mind whispers cruelly. Suffocate me with that pretty pussy, baby.

Josh manages to pull himself away from the window as you gather your things to head out from the court and start for the changing rooms. He's already moving. But not toward his office. He's making a beeline for the women's changing rooms. And he knows exactly what he wants.

He walks stiffly down the stairs and past the men's changing room, standing silently in front of the marble entryway. His brain buzzes with visions of you pulling off all those sweaty clothes and hopping into the shower with a relieved sigh and it has his dick pulsing. He knows he can't go in for a peek, not even if that's what he desperately wants. The longer he's in there, the bigger the chance of getting caught — even if it's pretty dead at this time on a Monday — and, if he got caught, that's his career fucking over. He can't do that.

But... He could sneak in and snatch something from that pile of hot, sweaty clothes then slip back out before anyone noticed. His heart's pounding like a jackhammer. Your shirt, your bra, Hell, even a sock. He glances around, mind made up, feet already moving.

He steps inside, soft, ambient music playing over the speakers. Still, he can barely hear it over his own blood pulsing in his ears. You're in the shower now, he can hear it; the hissing, the angelic humming. He desperately wants to sneak over and take a peek but ha manages to rein himself in that much. Finally, his eyes zero in on the pile of sweaty tennis clothes on the bench and his breath catches in his throat. Jackpot.

He's there in three strides, fingers already hovering over the messy stack. He has to take something but what? Your shorts or shirt? Too big; you'd totally notice. Your socks or sports bra? Very tempting but he suddenly knows what he wants; one thing that's just small enough that you wouldn't notice if it disappeared... His bottom lip catches between his teeth as he stares at the white lace underwear, bunched up, at the top of the pile; small, easily concealable. His hand shoots out and he snatches them up before he can second-guess himself.

Even as he jerks his head for witnesses and hastily retreats to the exit, stuffing your panties into his pocket, he can feel how warm they are, how damp. He got what he came for and now he desperately needs to take care of himself.

Power-walking in the direction of his office, Josh's gait is stilted and awkward; half from the serious erection he's struggling to hide, half from the knowledge that he has a piece of you in his pocket, something intimate, something stolen. It sends a thrill through him, something he hasn't felt in so many, many years.

The second he's in his office, Josh locks the door and pulls your panties from his pocket with shaking hands. He collapses back in his chair and just stares at them for a moment. They look a little old; the lace a little worn, the gusset a little discoloured. Just seeing them, holding them, is enough to make his dick weep.

There's no hesitation; he brings them to his face, inhaling deeply, and your scent floods his senses; musky and sweet and absolutely intoxicating. His cock pulses painfully and he lets out an annoyed huff as he struggles to get his pants open with his free hand. Finally, his fingers wrap around his fat cock and he lets out a groan. Unthinkingly, he stuffs the gusset of your panties into his mouth, muffling the sounds he makes, and bites down on the material in his mouth, drawing out the moisture as he rubs his hand along his cock. Your taste explodes on his tongue and he can still feel the damp heat of your body trapped in the lace. He hasn't been this hard in so long, leaking all over his fingers as his balls draw up tight.

Eventually, he pulls the damp fabric from his mouth in favour of wrapping it around his shaft, using it to stroke himself now. Your scent is all over his skin, your taste on his tongue, your sweat-damp underwear wrapped around his cock.

"Fuck— Fuck, fuck, fuck..." He grits out through clenched teeth, thighs spreading wider as the pressure builds unbearably in his balls. God, just you... His head falls back against the back of his chair as his eyes slide shut. The image of you bending over for that ball, shorts riding up, sweat trailing down your neck, the soft humming in the shower. He presses the lace against his slit, soaking it with pre. "That's it, princess..."

He's fucked. He's so completely and utterly fucked by the thought of you, the scent and taste and feel of your used panties around his cock. His hips buck up into his fist, using the damp fabric to soak up the precum as he jerks off. "Gonna... Fuck, I'm gonna—" That hot, perfect pressure builds in the pit of his stomach, deep in his core. "Gonna cum..."

A choked breath tears from Josh's throat as the first thick rope of cum oozes through the panties, soaking the already damp gusset. He keeps stroking, milking himself, watching in a daze as more spurts of creamy white paint your underwear. Your used, sweaty underwear. It's perfect and it's filthy and it's exactly what he needed, what his body's been craving. Or as close to it as he can get for now. "Ohh, my God... That's it, baby..."

When he's good and finished, he holds up the bundle of lace and studies it again; slick and sloppy as his semen mingles with your sweat. He presses the sticky mess over his nose and mouth, smearing it over his face and revelling in the smell. You smell so good together; the scent of his load dripping down into the cleft of your sweaty tits or oozing onto your damp thighs from your stretched, cum-stuffed pussy... The mental image makes his softening cock twitch weakly in his palm, protesting against the arousal still thrumming through his body. "Jesus fucking Christ..." He mumbles into the cum-stained lace, feeling filthy and satisfied in a way he's never been before.

He has to do something about this. He can't go on this way; thinking about nothing but you. He needs to get himself under control. This is dangerous, all-consuming...

Suddenly, an idea strikes him; the fortnightly spa treatment. Every two weeks, each club member is penciled in for a complimentary treatment; manicures, pedicures, aromatherapy, massages...

Setting aside your ruined panties, he logs into his desktop, leaving sticky prints on the keys. Looking at the schedule, his eyes land on a slot labelled with your name. There it is; 'Spa Treatment: Full Body Massage & Facial. Therapist: Arlene Parsons.'. If he can just edit your slot. If he can switch your appointment to him instead of the allocated therapist... He could get you for an hour or so alone. No-one would know. No-one would suspect. It'd be perfect. Dangerous, risky but absolutely perfect.

He opens up the slot and types his name in with a filthy grin, clicking 'save' and watching the confirmation message appear; 'Appointment updated successfully. Spa Treatment: Full Body Massage & Facial. Therapist: Joshua Martín.'. Arlene can take an extra long lunch break. He's such a good boss.

Josh leans back in his chair, staring at his screen. A whole hour. Alone with you. You. Stretched out on a massage table, naked or nearly naked. Your oiled up skin under his hands...

He runs a trembling hand through his hair, still breathing heavy, as his eyes drift over to your used panties on his desk. "I'm coming for you, baby. Not long now."

if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨ (apologies for the mismatching layout; im in the middle of changing my style)

🍒 author's note: i haven't posted a lot recently; sorry about that. i've had quite a bit on and, on top of social stuff, i caught the flu and started my period and i'm writing this for comfort because i currently feel like shit. pray for me 🙏🙏 still, i've been meaning to write for richard for a while and this has been in my wip list for a little while

The mid-afternoon slump has settled over the prison, with prisoners and guards alike getting drowsy and sluggish from lunch.

Inside the communications office, Richard is a man possessed, hunched over his computer, one hand under the desk. The letter onscreen is written on cheap, lined notebook paper but the words scrawled across it in messy, urgent cursive are anything but cheap. They're graphic, visceral and dripping with a desperate longing that's turned Richard's face a deep, mottled crimson.

He's supposed to be scanning for contraband — clues of drug drops, escape plots, the occasional centrefold — but his eyes are hooked on the descriptions of skin on skin, of what this woman wants to do to her husband the moment he's paroled. Richard's breath hitches, coming in shallow, jagged puffs. He tugs at his collar, the starch of his uniform suddenly feeling like a noose. He knows he should stop, should stamp it and move on, but the illicit thrill of the words has him pinned to his chair.

Then a sharp, rhythmic knock at the door shatters the silence.

Richard jumps, a strangled gasp escaping his throat. He nearly falls out of his desk chair, his boots scuffing loudly against the linoleum. In a blind panic, he closes the letter, his hands shaking so violently he nearly knocks over his cold cup of coffee.

"Yes?" The words come out rougher than intended, his throat dry.

"It's just me." You call back. His expression shifts quickly; from guilty to relieved then to pleased. He stands from his chair and rounds the desk, opening the door.

"Bebé." He whispers, pulling you inside and closing the door behind you.

Large, warm hands immediately go to your waist, pulling you close. Your arms move to his neck and you nuzzle the sharp line of his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. A soft hum escapes him and he can still feel the warmth in his cheeks, the thrum of arousal not quite faded.

"Hey, sorry I couldn't make it to lunch." You murmur against his skin and he shakes his head.

"It's alright." His hands slide down to grip your hips lightly, pulling you closer. "I missed you though." He admits, tilting his head just so to kiss your temple, breathing you in. A warm smile tugs at your lips as you pull back to look at him. You notice the flush across his cheekbones and your brows lift.

"Everything okay?" You ask. He hesitates, eyes darting away, thumb tracing your hip through your uniform pants; a nervous tell of his.

"I was just...reading some correspondence." The admission is quiet, almost embarrassed, his face growing even warmer. "Webster; his wife writes...very descriptive letters."

Some of these inmates have loving partners who want to keep that spark alive. Most of the people who write in probably don't even think about the poor guy who has to read through it all. And, bless his heart, Richard gets excited easily.

Your expression softens and you cup his cheek with a fond, knowing smile.

"Did I interrupt something?" You ask and his cheeks darken a fraction.

"Maybe." He huffs a small, guilty laugh into your palm, pressing a kiss there. He's still half-hard in his uniform slacks, you feel it as he leans down to rest his forehead against your own with a sigh. "You know me too well."

"Is it kind of like a voyeuristic thing, maybe? Sitting from the outside and listening in on someone's private conversations?" You ask, partially intrigued by his arousal.

"Something like that." His lips twitch into a small, embarrassed smile under his thick moustache. "I swear, it's not just for the...physical descriptions." Though the colour across his cheeks betrays that statement.

Richard pulls you back into his arms, your chest flush to his, and you snuggle close, nestling your face against his shoulder. One of his hands splays across the small of your back as the other plays with a strand of your hair, curling it around his fingertip. Your soft breaths against his neck soothe him; anchoring him to reality after the intense fantasy he'd been lost in. You drop another kiss to his jaw.

"Could I read one?" You ask and he freezes.

"I really shouldn't, bebé. Even I shouldn't be reading full letters." He warns, a hand tightening on your hip. He's suddenly aware, however, of his half-mast cock twitching against your thigh through his pants.

"Please, honey? Just the one?" You pull back, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes and pouting sweetly.

"Ay, mi amor..." He groans, already defeated. He leans down to press a lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back with a sigh. "Okay, okay. Just one."

Richard releases you and walks around the desk to collapse in his desk chair. You follow him, perching on the edge of his desk.

"Can you read it to me?" You ask and he melts a little further, nodding. He clicks the mouse a couple of times to bring up the latest letter; one he hasn't seen yet. Clearing his throat, he begins scrolling through it, his voice dropping lower as he begins to read, one hand resting on your knee.

"'My darling.'" You place your hand over his and he threads your fingers together. "'Only a couple months now and you'll be out. I can't begin to imagine how happy I'll be to see you walk out of that Godforsaken place and to have you back home. Francis and Erica are already making your coming-home presents. They can't wait to see their dad again.'" Your eyes trace over his face, noticing how soft his eyes are, almost as if these words are for him. "'Not much has happened on this end; Francis went on a trip to DC with the debate club and Francis has been rehearsing for the choir concert. I know you're so, so proud of them.'" The letter is, quite bluntly, much more wholesome than you imagined. "'They miss you. I miss you. More than anything.'"

Slowly, you move to sit on Richard's knee and he wraps his arm around the small of your back, drawing slow patterns along his chest and stomach through his shirt as you listen to him read. His voice wavers slightly but he continues. "'I can't believe it's almost over. I can't believe that soon you'll be home again, in our bed. Just knowing that—' She — umm — scribbled something out there. 'I thought about you at work today. I thought about you being home and I...'" You lift your head to look at him as he swallows thickly. "That's it. It gets a little graphic after that." You trail kisses along the side of your neck.

"Keep going, honey." You encourage him and he shivers.

"Bebé..." The hand on your hip squeezes gently but your fingers are already popping open the buttons on his shirt and he can feel himself getting hard under you. It's a battle he's already lost and he knows it. You leave kisses down his neck and slip a hand into his shirt, trailing your fingers directly over his chest now. He tilts his head back slightly but forces himself to focus on the words. "'Just knowing that I'll be in your arms again. God, I miss that. I miss being held. I miss everything you do to me.'" You flick your tongue against the sweet spot just below his ear, your hand sliding back out of his shirt to inch down over the softness of his paunch. "'I dream about it every night.'" He reads aloud, voice strained. "'About how you touch me. About how you will touch me.'"

Finally, you palm him through his uniform pants, feeling the outline of his cock as he reads. Richard lets out a shaky breath, letters blurring in front of his eyes as he tries to keep reading. "'I can't wait for you to come home and show me what you've been saving up for me all these months. I want you to take your time with me, make me yours again.'"

Slowly, you move from his knee to kneel between his legs, nuzzling his crotch with your nose and breathing in the savoury musk of his body. His hand moves to tangle in your hair, his hips tilting up to meet your face as his cock aches against the fabric of his slacks. You lift your gaze to meet his own, starting to unbuckle his belt.

"Keep reading." You tell him and his jaw tightens, knuckles white as he grips the armrests. Richard stares at the screen, eyes glazed, voice shaky as you work his belt open.

"'I've been thinking about that a lot recently. I wanted to ask you about when you got home but'—" He chokes, hips jerking as you tug the zipper down. "Bebé, please..."

"Keep reading." You insist gently as you hook your fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxers. He's painfully hard now and you can see the damp spot where he's been leaking.

"'I've been thinking, maybe we'— O-Ohh, God..." His cock pops free and you pause for a moment, listening to the way his voice trembles. Something in the letter is really getting him worked up. He's breathing heavy, trying to keep control as he reads aloud. "'Maybe we could have...another baby.'" His breath catches in his throat and you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.

Now you know what's getting him all riled up; you've been talking about maybe having kids for a while now. It's something Richard's always wanted; he's always wanted to start a family. He was quick to assure you that, of course, you, him and Lucero were a family in your own right and he was fine if it was just the three of you forever but... He really wanted kids. Something deep in him wanted to teach and nurture and pass on all his knowledge. The idea had been shelved for a bit but this is clearly tapping into that.

You shoot a loving smile up at him before you lick a stripe along the underside of his cock, kissing the tip and circling it with his tongue. A gasp escapes his lips and his fingers curl tight into your hair before he forces his grip to loosen. "'I know it's too soon and you said you only wanted one when we got married but'— Ah...!" You take him into your mouth, working your way down, sucking lazily as you listen. "'But I think'— God— 'I think we could try for a boy this time. I always wanted a little boy but, more than anything, I want'..." A shudder rushes through him and you note the way the muscles in his thighs tighten. "'I want to be pregnant again.'"

So that's it. His head falls back, eyes squeezing shut in sheer pleasure. Your slow, steady pace is driving him crazy but he manages to keep reading, his voice a breathless whisper. "'I want you to knock me up again.'" He groans deeply as you reach the tip again, licking away the precum that spills from the slit. "Ay, dios... Bebé, this—" He breaks off with a low groan, watching you swallow him down again. "I can't— Reading this while you're— ¿Por qué me haces esto?" With a slow pull, you release him and rest your cheek against the inside of his thigh.

"Do you want me to read instead?" You ask with a warm laugh and Richard nods eagerly, face flushed, eyes hungry.

"Yes. Yes, please. Tú lee e yo..." He groans as the image forms in this mind; you, legs spread, reading the letter as he buried his face between your thighs. It's enough to make him cum on the spot.

You nod and stand, quickly toeing off your boots and pushing down your uniform pants and underwear, already damp with slick. His mouth already watering, he pushes his chair back and moves to kneel as you sit in his chair. His bare cock is still twitching, still leaking onto the linoleum between his knees. "Put your legs here, bebé." He says, voice thick with lust, as he pats his shoulders.

Sighing, you find where he left off in the letter before you watch him hitch your legs up onto his broad shoulders. One of his hands is pressed between your legs, his fingers spreading your soft, warm lower lips, and his other hand disappears from view, likely jerking himself off.

"'I want you to knock me up again.'" You repeat and Richard throbs in his hand. He buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking at you hungrily. Reaching down, you tangle your fingers in his thick, salt-and-pepper curls, gasping at the eagerness with which he's eating you out. "'It's all I've been able to think about; you coming home, putting the girls to bed and then taking me up to our room and just loving me for hours. I don't want you to let me leave our bed until you know I'm pregnant.'" It sounds like the words are coming from you now, a confession to him, one he's been praying to hear for so, so long and it's driving him wild.

His tongue works faster and he sucks on your clit before pushing his tongue inside you. You can hear his hand moving faster on his cock, thumb rubbing the slit, his groans muffled against your skin. "'I'— Oh, God, honey... 'I was browsing Twitter and I saw this video. It was of this guy cumming inside a girl. He was wearing a condom but'... Richard... 'B-But, after he came, he pulled the condom off, pushed it inside her and then squeezed his cum into her like a tube of toothpaste or a ketchup packet or something.'" You let out a breathless laugh before it tapers off into a moan, feeling the way he practically growls against your skin. "'I got so wet thinking about you doing that.'"

His tongue curls inside you and you bite your lip, brushing his hair away from his face. "'I'm wet now but you know that already. You know me so well. I've got my hand between my legs, in my pyjama shorts — those little, skimpy ones you always complain about for being too short — and I'm getting myself off because I'm thinking about you just coming home and putting a baby in me.' Richard, honey... God, your mouth..."

Pulling in a quick breath, he sucks your clit into his mouth and you feel two of his fingers slip inside you, stretching you, making you gasp. And he's muttering something against your skin — prayers? — in rapid Spanish. "'I want you to come home and I want you to fuck me. I want you to push me down and rip off my clothes and fuck me, like we did that day by the lake.'" His fingers curl inside you, hitting just the right spot, as your voice grows more and more breathless. You rake your fingers through his curls, the thick hair of his moustache rasping against your mons. "I'm not gonna last much longer, hon..." You warn him but he only doubles his efforts, tongue lashing at your clit as he pumps his fingers faster. "'I-I want you to'— Fuck...! 'I want you to fuck me until you know, you're positive, that you've knocked me up. I bet you saved up so much for me while you've been in there and I want all of it, every last drop, going where it's supposed to.'"

Richard is just so close, fingers wrapped almost painfully tight around his dick as he buries his face between your legs. These are your words now, no-one else's. In his mind, this is your confession to him. "'I want to be so full of you that it's dripping out of me. I want everyone to know what you've done to me. I want everyone to know we're trying again, that you're trying to put a baby in me. God, I can't w-wait until you can'— Richard...!" You fist your hand in his hair as your hips stutter. You toss your head back, mouth hanging open, as you gush around his fingers, slick drenching his mouth and chin. You slap a hand over your mouth to dampen the noises but your desperate moans have already sent him over the edge too.

Richard groans loud, the sound muffled against your pussy, his hips pumping against his hand as he finishes. Thick, hot ropes of white shoot onto the linoleum between his knees, making it glisten. His dark eyes are lidded, rolling back in his head, as he pushes his face between your thighs, breathing in the sweet, musky scent of your slick.

And you're panting, chest heaving, as you come down from the high. "'God, I can't wait until you can...hold me like you used to and...rub my belly... We can talk about it when you get home but it's been on my mind a lot lately. I love you, more than anything.'" You read, your gaze drawn under the desk as he sucks his fingers clean, his hair mussed and his mouth and chin gleaming.

"My God... Oh, my God, bebé." He murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your trembling thigh. Glazed, adoring eyes peer up at you from under the desk and you push a few stray curls away from his face, your expression equally affectionate. "I told you they could be quite intense." He murmurs, sliding your thighs from his shoulders.

"You weren't kidding." You chuckle and he rises to his feet, tucking himself away before cupping your face tenderly.

"Though... Hearing you say all that..." He swallows hard.

"It did something to you, huh?" You ask and he lowers himself to your level, kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"It did a lot to me." He replies and you peck his lips again.

"Then maybe...we should start trying? See how we do?" You ask and you swear you've never seen a man look so happy in his life.

Richard doesn't jump or dance or scream. No, he just stares at you for a moment, eyes wide, before he softens again and he gives you this perfect, contented smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. He just looks at you like you gave him the world. And you would if you could. You'll give him everything you have. Because he deserves it. He deserves everything.

if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨

Content (warnings): one shot, no use of y/n, not beta read, Marc Spector smut, Steven Grant mention, Jake Lockley mention, Khonshu mention, ADHD Steven Grant, antidepressant mention, Gus the goldfish is still alive in this universe, Porn With Plot, bathroom sex, teasing, dirty talk, dom/sub, bathing kink, bratty reader, temperature play, orgasm denial, birth control mention, p in v, creampie, praise kink, slightly possessive Marc, loving and cute Marc

Word count: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marc was exactly where you needed him to be.

You: Hey, I’ve just landed. Thanks for waiting for me xx. <3 Wya?

Within seconds, Marc responded to your text. 

Marc: Arrivals. Bt halfway down. Glad ur home. <3 

When you had texted that your cross-country flight had been delayed that morning, Marc had responded that he would pick you up. You had to admit–to yourself, of course, but not to the other boys–that you were relieved Marc would be driving you back home. Frankly, Marc was the clear winner behind the wheel. 

Steven, highly defensive on the road, was terrified of cars. For him, going ten under the speed limit was dangerously close to speeding. He regularly slammed on the breaks with little warning and missed exits out of fear of merging. 

“Scenic route’s just as good, innit?” Steven would mumble quietly to himself. You would groan and roll your eyes in equal parts affection and annoyance as the GPS recalculated.

And, Jake, well…Jake was terrifying behind the wheel. Even a trip to the pharmacy was a mission for him. He expertly, but aggressively, darted in between cars at top speed without flinching. 

“All these fuckin’ people don’t know how to fuckin’ drive, and I gotta get my girl’s fluoxetine,” Jake would sneer at the sheer incompetence, as he called it, of everyone else on the road. You would cling to the passenger seat’s grab handle for dear life in equal parts admiration and horror.

Marc, though, was perfectly competent and content in the driver’s seat. He calmly managed traffic and tricky situations on the road. His eagle eyes and his confident decisiveness made him one of the best drivers you knew, full stop–and certainly the best driver for you out of the three boys. 

You reacted to Marc’s latest message with a heart and slid your phone in your pocket. A warm, tingly tightness had spread over your chest. You peered over the headrests in front of you as fellow passengers rose from their seats and collected their bags. Impatient to move, you shook your leg as the line shuffled at a snail’s pace toward the jet bridge.

At last, it was your turn. You gathered your belongings and bounded out of the plane. You hastened your pace, weaving between other travellers and their suitcases. Catching up with passengers who had been rows and rows ahead of you on the aircraft, you pressed on through the moving walkways and escalators. The need to find Marc drove your every step.

After navigating the labyrinthine layout of the airport, you reached arrivals. Stepping through the automatic glass doors, a rush of brisk wind whipped at your face and neck. You rested for a moment and welcomed the biting, stinging air upon your skin. You closed your eyes and breathed in its sharpness for a moment. The cold morning reinvigorated and enlivened you. It broke you out of the thoughtless mundanity of the airport and your earlier travels. Now, as the fresh wind danced on your face and traveled through your throat and lungs, you felt more awake, alive, and one with your body. 

You opened your eyes once more and scanned your surroundings. Arrivals were packed today. Cars occupied every lane. Their bright, flickering turn signals and brake lights created an eerie, disjointed glow against the asphalt and concrete overhand. Some drivers honked at each other, and some came close to running into pedestrians in their hurry to exit the airport. Tires squealed as they braked abruptly and luggage wheels rattled on the austere, grey walkways. The sweet voices of reuniting loved ones carried across the mechanical racket of travel. 

Willing yourself to block out the overstimulating colors and sounds, you rose on your tip-toes and squinted into the distance to find Mark’s car.

You first recognized the make and model of the car. Then, his familiar curls. Then, the cut of his jaw and his high cheekbones. The moment you reached his eyes, though, was the moment you were sure it was him, despite the distance and the tint of the window. Marc attentively watched the traffic. Outwardly, to someone who didn’t know him well, he would appear calm. He might have seemed pensive, perhaps, but nothing more than that. You, however, could read the deep concentration on his face and the searching vigilance in his eyes. Something was occupying his mind. Was he mentally planning his next mission? When was the last time Khonshu visited him? Or, was he simply, restlessly, awaiting you? 

As if sensing your presence, Marc turned his head in your direction. His stoic visage transformed into a familiar softness when he saw you. Marc’s shoulders dropped, and his whole body seemed to relax into the leather driver’s seat. His eyes, once focused and analytic, grew warm. Sunshine and carlights cast moving shadows over his face, bringing out the different characteristics that you loved. When he smiled, a rare but genuine smile, the corners of his lips lifted only slightly. The crinkles of his eyes became more creased and prominent. A rosiness blushed on the apples of his cheeks. You waved to each other from a distance. You felt a lightness in your body, as if you were floating. It occurred to you that Marc almost resembled Steven when he looked at you this way. 

Marc flicked on his hazards and stepped out of the car and crossed to the passenger’s side. Evidently, he had decided against wearing his coat. Marc was wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt. He leaned against the car, arms crossed, and cocked his head and watched you as you navigated the flow of rushing vehicles and foot traffic. With anyone else, you would have felt uneasy with this prolonged stare. Yet, you were accustomed to Marc’s intense eyes. All at once, you saw in him eagerness, playfulness, and—if you weren’t mistaken, and you never were—hunger. 

As you approached the car, Marc leaned over and opened the backseat. 

“You’re late,” he said, greeting you with a raised eyebrow and mock sincerity.  

You threw your bags through the open door onto the seats and leaned in to give him a brief kiss on the cheek. 

“What are you gonna do about it? Make me sit in the back?” 

You opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. Marc peered inside. 

“Don’t tempt me.” He shut the door carefully and returned to the driver’s seat. 

You pulled out of arrivals and followed the signs to the highway. No talking, no radio. You only heard the constant, low hum of the car’s hearing system and the whoosh of the other vehicles on the road. You looked out the window and allowed your mind to wander as you soaked in the safety and companionable silence of this moment. 

The highway stretched on and on in a long line of monotony and predictability. You could tell Marc was at ease. He was so familiar with the route, in fact, that he loosed his right hand off the wheel and reached over to caress your thigh with his fingertips. 

This certainly got your attention. 

You moved your attention from the world outside to this little world you and Marc had created together. You leaned toward him and interlaced your hand with his. His hand was strong and muscular but soft and warm. You ran your thumb over the top of his hand before flipping it over palm-up. With the tip of your index finger, you traced the lines, ridges, and calluses. 

After a few minutes of playing with his hand, you glanced up. Marc was smiling. 

***

You pulled up to the apartment you, Marc, and the boys shared together. Marc expertly parallel-parked on the street. He came around to meet you on the passenger side as you unbuckled and stepped out onto the pavement. You leaned against the car and looked up at him. He wore the same hungry expression from earlier that morning. He bridged the space between you and rested a hand against the car door, only a few inches away from your face. 

He wasn’t one for public affection, so Marc’s proximity surprised you. Surprised, but not disappointed. At this angle, you saw the strength of the muscles in his forearm and bicep. The sunshine cast a glowy halo around him, defining his curls and the sharp cut of his jaw. 

You reached out a hand to his face. “May I?”

Marc nodded in agreement, eager for your touch. 

You cupped your hand behind his head and delicately caressed his cheeks with your thumb. You counted the tiny freckles on his forehead and above the bridge of his nose. He leaned toward you, playfully nuzzling his nose against yours. You giggled and heard him hum to himself contentedly. 

The kiss was only awkward at first because Marc couldn’t stop smiling. You batted his face away and laughed.

“Lips! I want your lips, not your teeth!”

Marc straightened his face to look very serious. He had to purse his mouth to keep from cracking. 

After some of the silliness subsided, you tried again. Marc’s lips were pillowy-soft and full, gentle and warm. He smelled clean and slightly musky and tasted of coffee. He loosened his hand from its resting place on the side of the car. He reached around to your neck and massaged it delicately before trailing his fingers down to your shoulder. His other hand snaked around your waist.

You were wrapped up in each other, intertwining the curves and heat of your bodies and breathing in each other’s scents. You ran your hands along Marc’s bare arms, feeling goosepimples under your fingertips. He moved a hand to the one of the buttons of your jacket, popped it open, and tugged you even closer.

“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured. 

***

The apartment was practical but well-lived-in and cozy. Each boy had their own method of organization, so you could tell who last cleaned. 

Marc was extremely efficient and neat, thanks to his military training. He couldn’t help but clear plates minutes after you finished a meal, line up shoes, and restock kitchen and bathroom supplies. He kept his clothes folded in his dresser and arranged by color in his closet. Before you, he had never heard of the concept of a “clothes chair,” and he regretted finding out as soon as you had told him. 

Steven was naturally more disheveled and unconcerned with order. Always on a new hyperfixated side quest, he scattered himself around the apartment: books, video game consoles, printed-out articles, photographs, letters, sweaters and shirts, his nametag from work. He would leave his fidgets around the house and then go searching for them with a bewildered expression on his face days later. 

“I last had my Rubik’s Cube on the couch, hadn’t I?” (No, he hadn’t.)

Steven tidied in bursts of energy. As if it suddenly occurred to him, he would stand up from whatever he was doing, cross the room, announce he was going to clean, and go at it for a few hours. His tidying method reflected how he approached life, really. He wandered until something grabbed his attention. Once it did, it took hold of him–intensely. 

Jake hated cleaning, but he had found a workaround. Whenever the house was sparkling and smelling of astringent, pine-scented cleaner, you suspected that Jake had hired someone to deep-clean the apartment. You would later receive confirmation of when Marc checked his bank statement and groaned. 

“The bastard stole my credit card to pay for the cleaning service. Again.”

***

The shoes were nearly organized in a line in the short hallway that led to the kitchen. The coatrack was neat. There were no errant scarves or hats, as everything had been carefully and nicely draped along the hooks before your arrival. You unbuttoned your jacket and hung it up as Marc unlaced his shoes.

He padded across the kitchen floor over to the coffee machine and poured himself a small mug. You watched him lean against the counter and exhale happily. He seemed relaxed and relieved to be back in your home, his safe place. 

You kicked off your shoes and set them carefully beside Marc’s pair. You realized, now in the comfort of your apartment, how sore your body felt. You had woken up early to be shuffled from cramped place to cramped place. You felt like a crumpled piece of paper. Sighing audibly, you stepped on your tip-toes and stretched out your limbs. Marc took notice and watched you curiously. 

You yawned. “Yes, Marc?”

He paused. “You’re tired?” Though technically a statement, it sounded more like a question when Marc asked it. 

You shrugged. “I just need to wake up a little bit, you know? Get energized.” You yawned again, shook your head, and patted your cheeks to bring a little life back into your body. 

Marc furrowed his brows and pursed his lips in thought. “Hmm. Okay. You could do some jumping jacks.” 

You shot him an annoyed look and walked over to the large fishtank in your living room. 

“Hi there, one-finned wonder,” you cooed to Gus, the little goldfish swimming in circles in the massive tank. “Have you been causing any trouble lately?”

As if he had heard you, Gus opened his little fish mouth and swam up to see you. 

“Marc! Look! Gus has something he wants to say!”

Marc rolled his eyes and reluctantly put down his coffee mug–making a bit of a show of it, if you were honest–and strode over to the two of you. He held out his hands as if to say “and what?” 

You put your hands on his chest and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. You noticed a smudge left from your lip balm and wiped it off with your thumb. 

“Really? After all this time, you don’t have any affection for our son?”

Marc spun you around, so you were facing the tank again. He scoffed. 

“Our son?” he said. “No, this cold-blooded thing belongs to you and Steven.”

“You’re calling Gus cold-blooded?! Our faithful pet?!” You pointed to the goldfish making bubbles and swimming around aimlessly, blissfully ignorant of Marc’s slander. 

You felt him shrug behind you. “Dogs are pets. Fish are food. What do you want me to say?”

He had wrapped his arms around your waist by now. At this, you tried to wiggle away from him, but he only held you tighter to keep you from escaping. 

You tried to be outraged, but couldn’t control your laughter. You smacked his arms playfully. 

“I” – smack – “can’t” – smack – “believe” – smack – “you,” – smack – “Marc” – smack – “Spector!”

He spun you back around to face him. You continued scolding. After every word you spoke, though, he gave you a kiss to make you laugh even louder and smile even harder. 

“You” – kiss – “are” – kiss – “just” – kiss – “terrible!”

With that, he held your face in his hands and kissed you on the mouth. He squeezed you tighter. You hummed under his kiss and wrapped your arms around his neck. You bit his lower lip, and he lowered his hands to cradle your hips. You ran your fingers through his hair and opened your mouth to welcome his tongue. He moaned and began trailing kisses across your jaw and down your neck. You angled your head backwards to give him the best access. He sucked gently on the dip below your jaw, and you rewarded him by scratching and massaging his scalp under your fingertips. 

Marc continued kissing down your body and started shedding your clothes. Your sweater fell to the ground, and he kissed your shoulders, the notch of your collarbone, your upper chest. He fell to his knees and lifted your undershirt to sweetly rub his nose along your tummy. You giggled, ticklish under his touch, and felt him smile against your skin. He kissed your stomach as he fumbled with your bra and lifted it over your head. 

Marc looked up at you under hooded eyes and long eyelashes. He didn’t break contact as he opened his mouth to take in your nipple. You breathed in sharply and tightened your grip on his head to pull him even closer. Feeling the sensations of his tongue and the vibrations of his mouth as he hummed and sucked, you wanted him to take as much of you as possible. Your eyes rolled back as the throb between your legs became stronger. He delicately took you between his teeth, mixing pleasure and pain all at once. 

He soothed the radiating sting of his bites by lapping at your nipple. Then, he moved to the next side, repeating the intoxicating pattern. You whined, and his hands moved to squeeze your ass. He peered up at you again with a cocky, devilish look in his eyes. 

“You like that, baby?”

You nodded and bit your lip. 

“Tell me you like it when I have you in my mouth,” he encouraged.

“It feels so good when you’re sucking on me, Marc.”

“I bet you’d like me to suck somewhere else, huh? My dirty little girl likes my tongue all over her, doesn’t she?”

You moaned out your agreement. 

He released his hold on your ass and brought his hands to your outer thighs. 

Marc teased you. 

“Do you want me to suck you here?” he said, hands still on your thighs.

You shook your head no.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

“Higher,” you replied. Your face felt hot and red, and your heart raced in your chest. 

He raised his hands to his hips, just skirting past the place you most craved his touch. You whined again, this time in frustration. 

Marc tsked. “Use your words, or you won’t get what you want.” 

“Please, go lower. I want your mouth on my clit.” 

Marc unzipped your pants and lowered them. He kept his mouth just inches from the bundle of nerves that was currently causing you a great deal of pulsating distress. He took a finger and traced the slit underneath your underwear. You breathed in sharply. You could have sworn he laughed smugly to himself. Before you had a chance to question him, you felt his finger flicking your clit. 

The sensations were powerful, but you wanted more. Marc could tell. He removed his hands and leaned back on his haunches. Your eyes flew open as you gasped. 

“You think you deserve more?” he asked, reveling in the power he held over your desire. 

“Yes, please, Marc, I need your touch. I need your mouth on me.” 

He sat thinking for a moment. 

Finally, he said softly, “I want you to follow me to the bathroom. We’re going to get you nice and clean, and then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

***

Marc drew your bath as you wiggled out of your pants and underwear. Now fully naked, you prepared yourself by brushing out your hair and exfoliating your skin. Marc sat on a towel on the floor and kept a careful watch on the water, testing its temperature frequently and adding enough soap to make it feel sudsy and smell luxurious. 

He rose from his spot and nestled himself behind you. You leaned into his strong, capable body as he ran his hands along your torso and thighs. 

“So soft,” he murmured as he stroked your skin. “It’s time for your bath, love.” 

He gingerly helped you sink down into the bath. The hot water stirred and briefly sloshed over the side of the tub. Neither of you cared. You eased into the caress of the warm water and arched you back to get more comfortable. Marc returned to the floor, leaning an arm on the tub.

He handed you a plush washcloth. “Wash yourself.”

You did as Marc instructed and began to wash up and down your arms. You collected the water in the towel and rung it out, letting droplets fall in rivulets atop your chest. Marc carefully eyed you as you tightened your grip around the cloth. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to try to get in?” you asked, your voice drowsy and blissed-out. “I’m sure we could find a way to make you fit.”

“No,” he responded, decisively and assertively. You realized, then, that he had made his mind up long before you had even taken off your clothes. He wanted to play dom and tell you exactly what to do. “I want to watch you.” 

Being a bit of the brat you were, you looked directly into his eyes and stopped washing yourself. You taunted him. “What do you want to watch?”

Marc grit his teeth, clearly frustrated by your disobedience. “I think you know,” he said, quickly and gruffly. “Now, do what I said, or I’ll have to punish you.” 

You felt a liquidy warmth pool between your legs, a feeling distinct from the water around you, and let him have what he wanted. 

You lathered up the washcloth with the bath bubbles and ran it over your skin. Then, you washed your hair with citrus-scented shampoo and conditioner. You closed your eyes as you massaged your scalp and rinsed the products out of your locks. When you opened your eyes, your gaze wandered to Marc. He couldn’t get enough. You listened to his breath, quick and ragged. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. As if completely unaware of his actions, you noticed him running his hands over his thighs. You swallowed thickly and narrowed your focus to the fabric growing tighter between his legs. His jeans were straining to contain the hardness inside. You felt another rush of wetness between your own thighs as you thought of how much he wanted to fuck you.

Almost involuntarily, you spoke for the first time in minutes. Of course, it came out bratty again. You kept your eyes between his legs and said, “Do you need some help with that?”

Marc was snapped out of his reverie. He frowned. Without breaking eye-contact, he reached down into the tub and pulled the plug. Water gushed into the drain. Using your feet, you tried to wrestle the plug away from Marc. He just stared, satisfied, at your feeble attempts.

Cocky and smug, again, he chastised you. “I told you what I wanted you to do. You need to learn to listen.” He replaced the plug, and the water stopped swirling out of the tub.

You narrowed your eyes in annoyance. How dare he try to take this luxurious bath away from you!

You kicked some water in his direction. It splashed mostly on his shirt. Little drops clung to his face, which he wiped off with an unamused look. You giggled, and he glared. 

Marc took off his shirt, threw it on the ground, and crept across the bathroom floor to sit face-to-face with you. “What am I going to do with my little brat?”

Marc brought his hand to your face and touched two of his fingers to your lips. You opened your mouth greedily and took them in. You hummed as you sucked on them, anticipating a delicious “punishment” for your transgressions. You felt your walls quiver at the thought of Marc’s fingers inside them. 

He pulled out his fingers with a pop and grinned. You returned his smile. He traced his wet fingertips over the water and dipped them towards your middle. You closed your eyes and exhaled deeply, preparing your body for his touch.

Yet, his touch did not come.

Instead, you felt a rush of cold water pooling at your feet. Startled, you yelped, but you tried to remain still. 

“Are you going to behave now?” Mark asked, his hand resting on the temperature gauge and a lopsided grin still on his face. 

You breathed in as you fought the cold stinging your feet and crawling up your ankles. “Yes, Marc, I want to behave now.” Despite your shock and annoyance, the words still came out breathless. You felt your whole body shaking with desire. 

“Very good,” he replied. “I want you to touch yourself.” God, those eyes, you thought to yourself, his voice. “Everywhere. I want you to make yourself feel so good, knowing that I’m right here beside you. I’m going to watch you and tell you when I want you to come.”

You rolled your head back and started from the top of your body, pushing your wet hair out of your face and trailing your fingers down your neck. You held your chest and slowly rubbed it in small circles until you found your nipples. You pinched them, hard, over and over again. Moans and gasps escaped from you, and your hands wandered to your stomach. 

At last, you reached your center. You found your slit and spread the wetness across your folds, up and down and up and down. You reached your clit and took a shuddered breath, making tight circles. Down, inside yourself, up your slit, pulsating your clit, over and over again.

Marc stared at you intently. You watched him unzip his jeans, reach into his underwear, and pull out his throbbing, leaking cock. You bit your lip to stifle a moan. 

“I want you to beg me to touch myself,” he said. You raised your eyebrows, surprised. He hadn’t asked this request of you before, but you were intrigued.

“Marc,” you said softly. “Touch yourself. I need it.”

“Ask me again,” he responded, undeterred and unrelenting, “Nicely.”

“Please,” you pleaded, your voice breathy. You were already almost over the edge. “Please, touch yourself. I want it so bad. It’s the only thing I want. Please, please give it to me.”

“That’s my girl,” he growled as he wrapped his hand around himself and made deliberate strokes along his hardness. Marc was moving so slowly. You knew he was holding off on making himself come. You arched your back as you thought of what he had in store for you.

Your face and chest became warmer. Your breathing became shallower, your moans deeper and louder and faster. Your stomach started tightening in anticipation, and the throbbing in your clit started to hurt as you touched yourself and watched him do the same. Your whole body begged for release. Marc could tell. 

“Not yet,” he commanded in a low voice. “Hold off.” 

You groaned in frustration as you willed your body to slow down. You heard yourself pleading with him incoherently, asking him nicely to let you come. 

“Will you behave me again, or will you put up a little bratty fight?” 

“I’ll do whatever you want of me, I swear.”

Marc nodded. “Then, show me. Come for me. Now.”

You stopped fighting the tightness and the intensity. You surrendered your body to what it most wanted at that moment, shutting your eyes and crying out. Your legs shook, sending ripples and waves over the edge of the tub. You knew some of the water must have overflowed onto Marc, but he was completely unfazed–he remained transfixed on watching your body climax in the bath he had prepared for you, still slowly stroking himself. 

When it was over, you slumped back and gave yourself a moment to breathe. Stars sparkled in your vision, and the edges of the world seemed softer. The bubbles had faded in the tub, but you had no idea how long you had been in this complete state of rapture with Marc by your side. Citrus, sweat, desire, and the luxurious scent of the dissipated bath soap mingled in the tub and enveloped your body. 

As you sighed contentedly, Marc reached across the bathroom for a plush towel he had kept warm for you in a towel-heater. He helped you as you lifted yourself up in the bath, more careful this time to not make such a mess. Your legs still wobbly, he held your hand as you stepped onto the bathmat. He wrapped the warm towel around your body and pressed his forehead to yours. 

“You did such a good job,” he breathed, leaning his body into yours. You could feel his cock hard and twitching against your stomach. “But, we’re not done yet.” 

He drained the tub. Once you were stable enough, he decided to pick you up and carry you across the bathroom to the sink. You were limp and warm in his strong arms. 

Marc set you down and turned you around, so your ass and upper back flush against the side of the long counter. With another towel in his hand, he began to dry you off, starting with your feet. He kissed every inch of the skin he patted dry. When he got to the spot between your legs, he teasingly, and infuriatingly, kissed your clit. You moaned, wanting so much more than just a kiss. 

On his knees, he looked up at you and grinned wolfishly. “Not yet,” he said. “You need to be patient.” 

He continues drying, caressing, and kissing your body. When he reached your chest, you gripped the counter. He licked, sucked, and bit at your nipples again until they started to hurt. The overstimulation of his mouth reignited the intense throbbing of your clit. 

At last, he dried off your hair and threw the towel to the ground. You looked down, noticing he was still wearing his jeans.

Marc followed your eyeline and laughed. “Is there something you want to ask me?” 

“Please,” you begged, remembering his request in the bath. You put your lips close to his ear as you spoke gently. “Please, can I take off your pants?” 

“Yes,” he said. “I want you to.” 

You wasted no time. You examined his nakedness and marvelled at his skin soft and his muscles taut and toned under the low light. He’s so hot, you thought to yourself, like you were fucking for the first time and not the hundredth. 

“Can I please touch you?” you asked. He nodded.

You put a hand on his chest and trailed it down his stomach until you reached his hardness. You massaged him, tenderly at first then tighter and faster. He closed his eyes and moaned, biting his lip. Impatiently, he grabbed your ass to bring you closer to him.

He looked so fucking hungry. Shaking, you sat on the counter to stabilize yourself. His eyes widened, and he lifted his eyebrows. Apparently, you had made the right decision. 

Putting a hand on each of your inner thighs, he said, “Open wide for me, and put your ass on the edge of the counter.” 

You did as you were told. Though you were being submissive, you still felt a delicious surge of power move through you as he lowered to his knees. He kept his gaze up, and you loved seeing him in such a vulnerable and sexy position–one wholly meant to pleasure you. Your fingers curled around the counter, knowing what would come next. It was just a matter of when. 

He kissed the inside of your thighs tenderly, but you didn’t want it tender. You wanted him to go hard and fast and make you beg for more. You could feel his grin in his kisses. He knew exactly what you wanted, but he was going to make you wait. When he, at last, ran his tongue along your slit, you almost broke open. It felt so sharp and so good. You cried out and felt his grin again. God, he must be so pleased with himself. 

He went faster, burying his face into you. He dug his hands into your hips, a slight pain that kept you grounded in the moment. He changed the pressure and the rhythm, moving from fast to slow and hard to soft and back and forth and back and forth. He teased you, kissing, licking, and sucking on it, but never enough to make you burst. You undulated against his face and tied up your fingers in his hair. You pressed him even closer into you, telling him without words that you wanted more. As he kept working on you, heat spread throughout your core. Your face burned, and your vision was almost hazy. Feeling your stomach tighten and your breath quicken, you knew you were on the edge. 

Reluctantly, you released your hands from his gorgeous curls. “Marc,” I breathed and whined. “I’m going to come.” 

He looked up, but he kept his tongue on your clit. You bit your lip in desperation–near agony. Then, he tore his tongue away from you. You cried out as he pulled away and stood up. His mouth and jaw were covered in his spit and your wetness. “Turn around. Brace yourself on the counter.”

Legs unstable, you persevered. You scooted your ass off the counter and backed up to him. 

With him behind you, he asked, “Are you still on the pill, baby?”

You had been on birth control for years, but Marc still always checked before going inside you without other protection. 

You smiled and nodded vigorously. 

Marc held onto your hips. You could hear delight in his voice. “I’m going to fill you up so good, baby.” 

Your walls fluttered as he stretched open your cunt. You angled yourself down to be in the best position to receive his pleasure. 

Marc hissed, “You’re so wet for me, so tight. You feel so good. All ready just for me.” 

He buried his length into you and pumped rhythmically. Your bodies slapped against each other as his fingertips pressed roughly into your hips. 

“You like it when you take it like this, huh?” he asked roughly, thickly. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Yes, no one fucks me like you do,” you moaned, telling him the words he longed to hear. “No one could make me feel like this. Only you.”

“You won’t want to leave again, knowing how good this cock makes you feel? Say it.”

“I don’t ever want to leave again. I could live off this cock.”

“Mmm, yes, I know you could. I like hearing you say that. You’re so greedy, but I think you deserve a little treat.”

Your eyes fluttered in anticipation of his next command.

He paused, choosing his words. Then, he spoke. “Touch your clit as I fuck you.”

You used your left hand to steady yourself against the counter as your right hand reached down your body. Already, the sensations became too much to bear. You moaned louder, impatient to come again.

Marc knew you were close. He huffed and picked up speed in his hips. Your vision started to blur. You felt so in tune with him and with your body, as if everything else in the world melted away. In your gasps and moans, your skin and sweat, you couldn’t tell where he ended and where you began. The tightness in your stomach returned, and you knew you only had seconds before you came. This time, you couldn’t hold back.

“I’m gonna come, Marc,” you said.

He worked you harder, giving you everything you wanted. You bucked your hips and felt your shudder. You cried out, legs shaking uncontrollably. You had come, but he was still going inside of you. He worked on you deliciously and rhythmically until the point of his release. 

When he was finished, he slumped his head on your shoulder. You spun around to face him and giggled at how cute and sleepy he looked all of a sudden–so contrary to the dominant persona he loved to take on when you had sex. 

You ran your fingers through his hair lovingly and helped lower him to the floor for a bit of rest. You snuggled on his chest and ran your fingers tenderly along his collarbones and shoulder. He clung to you, completely spent.

You enjoyed a few minutes of silence together as you caught your breath and rested drowsily. Then, suddenly, Marc looked up at you and chuckled. 

“What?” you asked beneath a grin.

He squeezed you tight and nuzzled your neck. “Nothing. I’m just really glad you’re home.” 

****

“Didn’t go?” You stretch a little, trying to get your sleep fogged mind to catch up with what he was saying. It was still dark outside, practically the middle of the night even though the alarm had just gone off thirty seconds ago, so in reality you knew it was six am. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go.” He presses his face into your shoulder. “Stay here instead.”

It did sound like a very tempting idea. “What about work?”

“Who cares?” Now you know Steven is exaggerating, most people would wish to love their job as much as he did. “It’s cold outside.” Despite the hum of the radiators that had clicked on half an hour ago the flat still hadn’t warmed up to what could be deemed an expectable temperature. “And inside." he grumbles. “And dark. And I don’t want to get up.”

You smile. “I have to go to work.”

“No.”

“Techinically, you do too.”

“No.”

“What if I get up and I’ll carry you around on my back the whole day?” 

“Hmm.” He makes an unimpressed sound and snuggles closer to you. “I’ll still have to be out of bed.”

“I’ll wrap the blanket around us both?”

He sighs and wriggles impossibly closer. “If only that was possible love, I’d be so happy.” He kisses your cheek before grumbling a little as he sits up and rubs his eyes. Blindly, he feels for the switch on the bedside table lamp and then swears when it turns on. 

You can’t help but laugh. 

“We’re moving to Australia for half the year, at least then it won’t be bloody pitch black in the morning.” 

You open your mouth to speak but he holds up a finger. 

“And don’t tell me about the heat and how I’ll hate that instead, let me have this.”

You chuckle and sit up so you can give him a proper kiss. 

“Good morning Steven.”

“Good bloody night more like.”

"There’s my ray of sunshine.” You tease. 

He snorts. “I never used to be this bad in the morning, you know.” He gets up slowly, hunting around for his slippers. “ts’ your fault actually, you make the bed too comfy.”

“I shall take that as a compliment."

"Oh, please do.” He smiles at you. “Because it is.”

Thank you for reading!

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@still-drowning-in-moonlight @dunseverywhere

He leans back on his throne, a heavy wooden chair, thick with carvings and luxurious fabric. One of his arms is braced. The elbow of the other rests on the arm of the chair so Leto’s free to rub the side of his index finger along his mustache. It’s a thoughtful expression, but not peaceful. His dark eyes are sharp and stormy.

“I asked you not to bargain with your father without me, and especially not on my behalf,” he says from behind the steady movement of his hand.

“He’s still angry-“

A short, airy laugh escapes him. “Yes, and now so am I.”

Your shoulders sag a little.

Leto had invited your father to dinner and received a flimsy excuse in return. Your father is no closer to accepting that you’ve fallen in love with the Duke Atreides, and worse, that the Duke loves you in return.

As you'd suspected, people are gossiping about your age difference, and your father's place as Leto's top General.

So, you’d sneaked away to your father’s mansion.

Sneaked is maybe the wrong word. You aren’t forbidden to go out, but now that your relationship with Leto is public, he’s being extremely cautious.

That you’d gone out into Arrakeen without a guard had made Leto furious. Nevermind that you’d promised your father you wouldn’t marry Leto without his approval. Something you hadn’t even discussed with Leto, let alone gotten his agreement on.

Leto shakes his head. “Your heart was in the right place. It always is, but you’re a powerful woman now, the Lady Atreides, and the soon-to-be-Duchess. I don’t know what disappoints me more, that you thought I wasn’t handling it, or that you thought I couldn't handle it.”

“I didn't think either of those things.” It breaks your heart to hear that Leto’s disappointed in you. You have all the faith in the universe in the man you love.

You gather your skirt and walk toward the raised platform that Leto’s throne sits on. He has on his dark green uniform today. His boots are shiny and tall, almost to his knees. He cuts an imposing figure.

“I know you sent Duncan out with my father on his battalion’s exercise because you two need a go-between to communicate. I can’t stand that you two aren’t speaking anymore, and it’s my fault,” you explain. “I thought if we could talk, just the two of us, he’d understand.”

The corners of Leto’s eyes squint.

“He understands perfectly well,” Leto says. He takes a pause. “I don’t mean this as an insult, but you’re still naive about how certain things work. A military man like your father sees things in black and white. Victory or defeat. Don’t let him fool you, he’s incredibly proud of you. You’re going to be Duchess of the House he himself helped install into power; but at the same time, I took something from him that he valued very dearly. He’s trying to get the upper hand with us. I won’t let that happen. I’m still Duke of House Atreides and lord of this planet.”

It hadn’t occurred to you that your father was maneuvering you. In hindsight, that’s exactly what it was. He hadn’t done it to be cruel or mean, but maybe he was more angry about the way you and Leto had gotten together, than angry that it happened at all.

“I still have a lot to learn, don’t I?” you ask quietly.

Leto’s hand drops from his face and he almost smiles. “Your father’s a brilliant tactician, so don’t feel too badly. Come up here.”

He beckons you with his hand and you walk up the steps to his throne. There isn’t another one there yet, although Leto’s having it built for you. You sit on the top step, at his feet. Leto lays his hand on your head, stroking comfortingly.

“Get used to the view from this platform,” he tells you.

You lean back slightly, your head resting on his inner thigh as you look out. You’ve never seen it empty. Usually there are guards at the doors, advisers, delegates, and staff. Once, you’d seen it full of guests at a party. The night you’d given yourself to Leto.

You turn your head to look up and back at him. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

Leto’s eyes are dark and hungry. You know that look.

“Here?” you whisper, so the question doesn’t echo in the big, empty space.

“Why not here?” he counters, leaning forward so his beard almost touches your forehead. You have to tilt your head all the way back, craning your neck almost, to see his face.

“Because it’s… um… well, I don’t know why. It just feels weird,” you say awkwardly. “It’s your official seat of power.”

“You went against your Duke’s orders,” he says, his words rumbling over you. “Behind his back. Here seems fitting to me.”

Leto isn’t happy you spoke to your father against his wishes. Something in your rebellion sparks his interest, though.

You lick your lips lightly, glancing down. He’s hard as stone in his pants, straining against the front zipper.

His fingers move from your head to your cheek, your chin. His thumb massages your lower lip lightly. With his other hand, he undoes his belt. The metallic sound echoes in the throne room. It clanks impatiently as he undoes his zipper. Just enough to free himself.

You’re already on your knees in front of him. Part of you can’t believe you’re about to do this here, but the other part of you is thrilled.

This is exactly the right place for you to kneel and worship his cock. He’s on his throne, above everything and everyone.

Your mouth covers him immediately and he groans, his hand cupping the back of your head. A bead of salty precum coats your tongue and you relish it. The manly, musky smell that makes you lose reason and thought fills your senses as you hum over his cock, bobbing up and down enthusiastically.

His leather boots shift and creak as he widens his legs.

Usually, he’d tell you to go easy, work up to taking more of him. This time, his need is as intense as yours. Your lips strain to open wide enough. Tears fill your eyes and spill over as he tickles the back of your throat. Leto sits forward, encouraging you to take more.

You pull off of him for a second, to catch you breath. Your hand raises to wipe your mouth, but Leto stops you.

“Don’t. I like you messy like this.” Leto’s pupils are wide and focused on your wet lips.

You take him back in your mouth, suctioning your cheeks. Leto rewards you with a deep moan that goes on and on as you suck him deeper. You angle your mouth to let him into your throat, relaxing it so it opens for him. You tamp down the natural instinct to reject the intrusion and instead, when his hips tip forward, you take a last breath before he slides in further.

Your curl your hands around his calves. The smooth, cool leather of his boots are the anchor you need.

Your throat flexes around him. He’s never been this deep before. You sense Leto’s losing control as he pulls out a fraction, then pushes in. It’s an almost imperceptible movement, more of a rocking against your face, but his fingers grip your head a little harder.

“I’m going to come, fuck- fuck- swallow it. Swallow it all.”

He doesn’t have to ask, you swallow around his cock once, twice. He starts coming, pressing against you, the hair at the base of his cock near your face, his thighs thick around your head. You need air, but you need this more. His cock pulses in your throat as you feel his cum pulsing into your body. Like he’s depositing it right into your stomach, a gift or a meal.

He shudders, the flood of cum finally finished. Leto pulls out quickly, leaving you to cough, your face a mess. Strings of spit and release, tears and a runny nose. Your throat feels raw and used.

You sit hard on the ground, blood flowing back into your legs as the pressure’s taken off your knees. You use the bottom of your dress to wipe your face and nose while you catch your breath.

Leto stands to tuck his softened cock back in his pants and put his uniform back in order.

You look up, up, up, at him. His brown eyes take in your ruined face and dress. He sits back down and tugs your arm, pulling you up to sit across his lap. He gives you one hard squeeze before he turns your face to look at him. There’s a line of concentration between his brows.

“We’re going to announce our wedding date,” Leto says.

Panic flares in your gut, but it subsides quickly. You have to start acting like the Duke’s Lady, not as your father’s daughter. You realize being married means choosing Leto not just once, but over and over.

He kisses your lips, not caring that you're not entirely cleaned up yet.

“You promised your father you wouldn’t marry without his approval, but that wasn’t your promise to give. It’s something you and I decide. Not him.” Leto doesn’t say it unkindly, but his words are underlined with steel. “We’ll marry in four months. Your father is invited to every event, every planning session. If he doesn’t come, then that’s his own decision.”

Leto’s forcing your father’s hand on purpose.

Despite how angry he is, your father’s loyalty is part of his DNA. Being stubborn is one thing, but he’d never want the gossip to be that he actually opposed his own daughter marrying his Duke.

He certainly won’t want people thinking he isn’t in the Duke’s inner circle anymore, especially with his daughter becoming Duchess.

“I’m willing to bet if we invite him to the announcement, he’ll attend. He wants to see your happiness, to share it. You have a way of making even the sternest men soften toward you, be it General or Duke,” Leto says, his arms secure around you. “Besides, he wouldn’t miss the chance to see people genuflect at your feet.”

Leto smiles softly. Half joke and half truth. You don’t want anyone to kneel to you, but when you sit at Leto’s side, you’ll have to accept it graciously.

“I’d rather kneel for you.” You nuzzle at his beard.

A growl escapes Leto. “This throne room will never feel the same.”

*****

It all looks much different seven days later. Deep green and gold fabric drapes from the ceiling and down the walls. The huge space is full of people: subjects of the Imperium, Fremen, and thankfully, your father too.

The House Atreides standard hangs proudly behind Leto's throne as he stands.

The proclamation is made by the herald. There’s a reciting of the Atreides’ bloodline, the long list of Leto’s titles and honors, and lastly, the wedding date.

You stand nervously at the front of the crowd, your arm looped through your father’s. You’d been half afraid he’d come dressed in armor, ready for battle. Instead, he has on his formal uniform, a lot like Leto’s, with less cords and braids and medals.

Finally, Leto walks to the front of the platform. He makes eye contact with your father.

Leto holds out his hand.

Your father tenses. To anyone else it’s nothing, but to you, that one breath of hesitation says everything. You feel your father’s conflict. Still, you know how much your father admires Leto in all things, even in this. They’d planned and won a war together. They know each other well.

Your father knows when he’s been bested.

Your father walks forward with you. He stays on the ground level, removing your arm from his. He gives you a gentle nudge up the steps.

You’re supposed to look only up at Leto, but you let your eyes flit sideways to your father’s face. A lump forms in your throat when you see the sheen of tears in his eyes. You bite your lower lip and your father gives you a small, curt nod of encouragement. Leto was right, he's proud.

One hand holding your skirt so you don’t trip, you hold out your other. Leto catches it and guides you up the stairs to his side.

The room is silent as Leto takes the gold Atreides hawk from his own uniform and pins it to your chest, over your heart. His knuckles brush your cheek and his eyes are so full of love.

You don’t care if it isn’t dignified, you break into a huge smile.

The room bursts into applause, the engagement now official.

Your father’s booming voice is loud in the room as he starts the cry of ‘Atreides’ for everyone to follow.

Leto hands you a tissue to wipe your eyes.

He leans in and whispers, “I love you.”

You catch his face with your hand, holding him close. “I love you too.”

Even though it isn’t part of the plan, Leto takes you by the waist and kisses you in front of everyone.

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Leto had stopped by your room to personally deliver a few thought-provoking tomes on you first day. When you’d read those quickly, he’d happily brought more. He didn’t lecture you about the books, but had conversations with you that seemed as interesting for him as they were for you.

Once or twice a week, he stopped by your room to discuss that week’s book and listened as you chattered on and on.

Eventually, he took a step into your room. Hands clasped behind his back, not a black and silver hair out of place. He took few more steps, just to look.

He’d asked a few questions about what you’d brought with you. The trinkets and scarves, colorful things scattered around. You showed him the glass flower that you kept at your bedside. Rather than look bored, Leto had paid attention to every word.

“Arrakis is such a harsh planet and the palace is grand, but,” you hoped you didn’t offend him, “I wanted to make it a little prettier.”

His fingertips had gently stroked the bud of the flower. “It’s fine craftsmanship, but you don’t need it to bring beauty to this room. You do that all on your own.”

You felt the faintest brush of his hand on yours before he left.

The look he’d given you was enough to fuel a week’s worth of dreams. Ones that woke you up breathless and achy.

Then, the clothes.

More days passed and every time you were in a room with Leto, his dark eyes had lingered over you. Not just your face, but your whole body. Your dresses were all plain and neutral.

“My father doesn’t have much use for fashion. He wears a uniform every day and says simplicity is effective,” you explained.

“You don’t like the browns and grays?” Leto had asked, his hand thoughtfully stroking his beard.

“I guess I’d rather wear color,” you’d shrugged. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I do look a bit drab.”

“Your dresses should reflect the Lady you are,” Leto had said. “You’re not a servant. You’re my personal guest. I’ll not have you feeling out of place.”

An entirely new wardrobe was delivered to you the next week. Beautiful gowns, cut very close to the body, in silky materials. Metallic threads decorated the necklines. Lace undergarments and sleeping dresses that were so small they weren’t really worth sleeping in at all.

“Courtesy of the Duke” the card had said.

The guest wing of the palace found itself under renovation. You’d been moved into the rooms across from the Duke’s own bedroom. Some excuse about you being safest there.

Then, there had been a small gathering at the palace. A party and a formal dinner. It was a great success. In fact, one of the young men had made it known he was interested in speaking with you more.

The next day, a House Atreides ring appeared on your finger. The delicate gold and ruby hawk took pride of place on your hand. The young man didn’t return to Arrakis.

It all came to a boil soon after that.

No one knows exactly how the fight began, but the Duke and his favored General exchanged heated words late one night.

The Duke’s staff is so loyal, no one dares to speak the rumors aloud. Everyone found out that night, though, what had really been going on.

The General threw open the Duke’s office doors, walking out in a rage as he yelled backward, “she’s almost young enough to be your daughter.”

“That’s not what bothers you. What bothers you is that she’s your daughter,” the Duke’s raised voice echoed out of the room and into the hallway.

Your father laughed bitterly.

You appeared in the doorway, seemingly caught between chasing after your father and staying with your Duke.

“If this is what you want, then I wash my hands of it,” your father said.

“I’m old enough to make my own choices,” you told him.

Your father looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time. “He’s gray-haired and leagues too experienced for you.”

“I love him, father.”

“Please,” your father’s voice lowered, “come home. We can find you someone appropriate to your age and station. Being the mistress of a man of Duke Atreides’ position isn’t for you.”

“It’s too late. I already… I mean, we…” Your chin wobbles and you look to Leto.

He puts his arm securely around your waist and straightens his shoulders.

“She is not a whim to me, and not a mistress,” Leto practically spits the word out. “I respect you, always, but I won’t let you upset her further. You should leave for now. You’re due to take a squad into the desert for training tomorrow. Maybe when you get back, you’ll understand this arrangement is what’s best for her. More than that, this is her decision.”

Even in the darkened hallway, you saw your father looked almost ill, but resigned. He left wordlessly.

You went back into Leto’s office, shutting the door behind you. The staff, who’d seen the whole thing, went about their duties, eager to spread word that what some had already suspected, was true.

*****

One Week Ago

You didn’t recognize yourself in the ball gown. It was a deep gold, with black details and bare shoulders. The fabric swished and swayed as you walked. You’d never seen anything like it, let alone worn such a thing.

As requested, you knocked on Leto’s door. He’d insisted he escort you downstairs, saying it wasn’t proper for a Lady to walk into a party all alone.

He answered, still buttoning his black uniform jacket. One glance at you and he stopped. His brown eyes swept over you once. Twice.

He leaned on the door frame and ran a hand through his curly hair, almost like he was off balance. “If I’d known you looked like that all dressed up, I would’ve thrown a ball every night since you’ve been here.”

You smile, a little out of breath from how his eyes lingered at the bust of the dress.

“I’m not too done up?” you asked.

Leto touched your bare shoulder. Just a sweep of his fingers over the curve.

“Sorry.” He took his hand back and stood straight. “No, you look as you should. Devastatingly gorgeous. Come. They’re waiting for you.”

He’d looked almost regretful just before you’d gone into the party on his arm. You gave him a questioning look. He’d rubbed his hand over yours.

“I may have to fight the young men in there to have a dance with you,” he said. “I’m not sure, at my age, I could come out the winner.”

“You may have all of my dances,” you said softly.

Leto’s lips parted, but he thought better of whatever he wanted to say, and there were so many unwise, reckless things you wanted to say to him.

But the guards opened the doors and the party started.

Leto immediately got drawn into conversations with the other leaders of Great Houses, politicians, and people he knew.

You were saved from floundering by a man your age from the Emperor’s diplomatic staff. He was noble, but not stuck-up.

“Call me Kaleh. The key at these things is to have one drink right at the beginning, but try not to have more than that.” He handed you a fruity drink from the trays being passed. “These parties can be minefields. Everyone’s always trying to get the upper hand. I’m off duty tonight, not that they trust me with many things yet. This is my first real job out of university.”

“I just graduated university too,” you smile. “I’ve never been to something like this. Everything’s so fancy.”

He was reassuring, and told you funny stories, explained why certain people stood together, and why they hated other people. He’d even led you to a quiet corner of the room for a dance, having sensed your nervousness without you even telling him. His palms had been sweaty, but in an endearing way.

Still, your eyes sought Leto every few minutes. Sometimes he gave you a nod. Sometimes he looked at the man you were with.

Towards the end of the night, Leto still hadn’t danced with you. He was busy, of course. He’d probably forgotten anyway.

It stung, but you tried to see the positives. The party wasn’t just for fun, it was to show Leto’s hospitality, and let him have more casual interactions. It did everything Leto’d meant it to do. You shouldn’t have expected special treatment.

Kaleh shooed a few younger people away from their seats so you could sit.

“I, um, really thought this party was going to be boring,” he admitted with a smile. “I’m so grateful to have met you.”

Leto was nowhere to be found so you turned back to Kaleh.

“You saved me. I would’ve been completely out of my depth without you,” you said honestly.

He looked down at his hands, then back at you. “I’m here on Arrakis for the rest of the week. It’s not long, but would you consider letting me talk with you again?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw a dark uniform, a beard, but when you turned, Leto wasn’t there.

“Oh,” you said, Kaleh’s words registering in your brain. “Really?”

He grinned. “Why do you sound so surprised? You’re the most interesting person here. You’re beautiful and so much nicer than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“Well, I’m under the Duke’s protection right now. I’d have to ask him.”

“Let me,” Kaleh said. “That’s how it should be done, between lords and ladies. I just need your permission. So, do I have it?”

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

This was exactly why your father had wanted you to live at the palace. To meet a nice man like this. Noble, but not so high up that you’d have a stuffy life. Rich enough so you wouldn’t have to worry about money. A nice, safe job.

“Yes, I think that would be alright,” you said.

Kaleh was good company. You were sure you’d grow to have affection for him. Once all the chaos of the party died down, one on one, you’d probably more than just like him.

Still, a small pit forms in your stomach when you think of telling Leto.

*****

“No.”

One, stony word that echoed in Leto’s bedchamber.

He sipped his wine.

You looked down at your lap, the light of the fire dancing on the plainer, green gown you’d put on to speak to Leto tonight. It was only an hour since the party had ended.

“And why did you leave the party without me?” Leto asked, looking at you sideways. “Please tell me that boy didn’t escort you up here.”

“Of course not,” you said, shocked. “I wouldn’t do that. I left because I was tired. I hadn’t seen you all night. I didn’t think you would notice.”

He smiled joylessly. “You might not have seen me, but I saw you. Tell me. What was so riveting about that boy?”

“His name is Kaleh,” you said stubbornly. “He was nice man.”

Leto exhaled loudly through his nose. He set his glass down with a Thunk!. “He’s what you want?”

You wanted to respond, but you had such a jumble of feelings. You did like Kaleh, but it was different than with Leto. Not that you had anything with Leto really. So, you should want to fall for Kaleh. He liked you. Was kind and sweet.

You almost jumped when Leto sat next to you on the sofa. His dark eyes sparkled warmly as he rested his arm on the back, close to your neck. He leaned toward you as he spoke, his tone less harsh. He seemed to know he’d been too forceful.

“If you really like this Kaleh, then I’ll have Thufir look into him,” Leto says. “If he comes back as clean as you say he is, then,” Leto’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, “I’ll give it my blessing.”

Your fingers twisted into your skirt.

“You don’t want him, though,” Leto said softly.

You looked at Leto, startled.

“You’d be wasted on him,” he said, his eyelids heavy and dark. “He wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

Your eyes dropped again.

“But I would.” Leto said it so softly you almost didn’t hear him.

All of your silly dreams ran through your head. This was one, too, you were sure. Until you felt Leto’s hand slide over the back of your neck, warm and big.

“Come over here,” Leto whispered.

And you had.

*****

“What’s this one?” you asked Leto. Your finger interrupted the digital line of sand being projected above the table.

He had a map of the final battle for Arrakis up in his war room. He’d been studying a few changes to the terrain since the war had been won. You’d walked by and he’d invited you to have a look. Your father had a hand in the victory after all.

Of course, that’s not why Leto had asked you in.

He wanted you like this, leaning forward at the table to look closer. Not only because your curiosity and intellect were like a cold drink of water on a hot day, but because he could stand close at your side, his face so near to your hair he could smell you.

Leto lifted his hand, running it down your forearm. His hand engulfed yours and moved it slightly to the east.

“This is the largest dune in the area. The best place to keep a lookout, but also the most obvious,” he said. “And here-“

His other hand slid along your waist and pivoted your body to face west. He moved your hand down the table, almost in front of his belt buckle. His face leaned in toward yours.

“-here was where myself and my soldiers waited for the Harkonnen agents to try and take the high ground. That’s when we struck,” Leto said.

“You trapped them,” you said. “They couldn’t retreat, the sandworm would’ve have gotten them. The Fremen flanked them. They ran right into your arms.”

“They ran into our swords actually. This is what running into my arms feels like.” Leto’s body pressed behind yours. Both of his hands slid around your waist. “I can’t get over how beautiful these dresses are on you. Although, I think I’ll like seeing you in the lingerie I picked out even more.”

Your whole body fluttered, electricity shooting through your veins. “Your grace.”

“Leto.”

“Leto,” you corrected yourself.

“Behind a closed door, you can call me anything you want to.” He nipped at your ear, then kissed gently down the side of your neck.

He lifted your hand and brought it up and back, into his hair. You felt your ring catch slightly before your fingers slid into his thick curls.

Last night had been better than any fantasy you’d ever let yourself have. Your body still felt sensitive and overstimulated.

This morning, you’d woken to Leto’s big, brown eyes watching you lovingly. A ring box was set on the pillow next to you. A gold signet ring with an Atreides hawk engraved on it. In its eye was a ruby. Not large, but big enough to be unmistakable.

Leto had cradled your face in one hand and said, “I would be very honored if you would wear this. It’s not exactly a public declaration, but it’s the start of one.”

He slipped it onto your finger, as proud as you’d ever seen him. He’d kissed it over and over, then taught you how to ride him until you were both sweaty and exhausted all over again.

A knock on the war room door broke you two apart. Leto took his hands off of you, but he still stood close enough to touch.

“What is it?” Leto asked.

“You have a request for an audience, sire,” the guard said. “A diplomat, Kaleh G-“

“Request denied,” Leto said smoothly.

Your lips twitched and you gave him a look.

Leto cleared his throat. “I mean to say, tell him that the reason for his audience has, respectfully, already been spoken for.”

The guard nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

“What I’d really like to do,” Leto said, taking you back into his arms, “is carry you out into the throne room and kiss you in front of everyone. Have you sit in my lap while I tell him to his face that you’re mine. That you have been since the day you got here.”

You laughed. “You’d never do something so scandalous.”

“I might,” Leto said lowly. “If anyone comes sniffing around you ever again, you show them this ring, and you remember my face between your thighs.”

“Leto,” you said, your face feeling warm, “you’ve never had your face there.”

“A mistake I’m going to fix here and now,” Leto said with a smile.

His hands cupped your ass as he turned you to the table. You lifted one of your legs to wrap around his waist, shamelessly grinding against him.

“Patience,” he warns you. “I knew as soon as you had your first drop of real pleasure, you’d be a greedy little thing.”

His bottom lip caught between his teeth as his hands worked under your dress. He pushed it up to your waist, sinking to his knees at the same time. He lifted your hips to take off your underwear, taking a moment to look you over with a glint in his eyes, before he leaned in.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, breath inhaled sharply as he nudged at your clit. Gently at first, but his tongue was firmer than his nose. You were still a little sore inside from last night. Leto’s mouth both soothed and set fire. His beard and mustache gave extra sensation as he ate at you like a man enjoying a ripe fruit. The sounds were similar. Wet, with Leto humming satisfactorily once in awhile.

His strong hands wrapped around your thighs and kept your skirt in place. He pushed his tongue in, searching for the spot that made you gasp and moan the loudest. His big, brown eyes were always turned upward, watching you come apart at his mouth.

You body shook, overwhelmed with the sensation, but Leto kept going. Kept licking and sucking and tasting you until your thighs squeezed around his head, your fingers buried in his hair, your other hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sounds you made.

Both of you out of breath, Leto took a cloth out of his pocket and wiped his beard.

He gently hooked your underwear over your feet and ankles, raising them.

“Wait,” you said, soft and tired from your orgasm, “aren’t we going to…”

“Tomorrow maybe, when you’re not as sore. Don’t worry,” Leto rose and pulled you in close. “I’m very satisfied. I can’t wait to do it again.”

“Me either. Maybe later?” You smiled.

Leto nodded appreciatively. “Greedy, like I thought. Lucky for you, I’m a very indulgent man. What would you think about sleeping in my bed permanently? No more separate rooms.”

Still sitting on the table, you looked up at him, a shadow passing over your face.

Of course, he knew what put it there.

“Your father’s at the training grounds this week, but I’ll ask him to stop by for dinner when he can.”

Your fingers dug into the back of Leto’s uniform. “He’ll be so mad at us.”

Leto looked serious. “If you’d rather I spoke to him privately, I will. It’s me he’ll take issue with anyway.”

“No, I want to be there. I chose this. You.”

“Such bravery,” he said quietly, his big beautiful eyes full of emotion.

Leto raised your hand and kissed the ring on it.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. The hair around his lips was tinged with gray, not to mention the distinguished swirls neatly winding over his head, a myriad of black and silver. You didn’t know what your father would be more bitter about: Leto’s age, or that he’d worked for the man for more than ten years and trusted him like a brother.

Either way, the die was cast.

You were going to spend every night in Leto’s arms.

You just hoped you didn’t have to choose between them.

*****

After your father stormed off, Leto poured a glass of wine, giving you the first sip.

“That was horrible,” you said, handing Leto the glass back.

He took a drink. “Actually, it went better than I expected. I thought he’d take a swing at me. On principle, I’d have let him hit me once. I already had Gurney ready to tell people I’d taken a blow during a spar so they wouldn’t think your father had committed treason by attacking his Duke.”

You wanted to laugh, but it didn’t seem funny right now.

The two men who were most important to you, now at odds because of you.

Leto set aside the glass. He wrapped his arms around you securely, kissing you more gently than he usually did.

“I promise, he’ll come around,” Leto said.

“You can’t know that.” You buried your face in his jacket.

One of Leto’s hands stroked up and down your back. “He may never be enthusiastic about us, but trust me, once he sees how I take care of you, how I treat you and demand everyone treat you, he’ll respect it.”

Honor was something your father and Leto have in common. Leto was right. That would turn your father in your favor eventually. In the meantime, you had Leto to comfort you.

You started to pull away, but Leto held fast.

“What is it?” you asked.

Leto took a quiet breath, his dark eyes hooded and mysterious, like he didn’t quite want to give away what he thought. “Did you mean what you said out there?”

You paused. “What did I say?”

His hooded eyes narrow. “Don’t play coy. You know what I’m asking.”

You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. Not that it probably made a difference to your father. The words spilled out of you though, the truth and power of them unable to be contained. You swallowed nervously.

“Yes, I meant it,” you said.

Leto’s knuckle pressed under your chin, his thumb catching almost to your lower lip. “I hope you understand the promise in those words.”

“I hope you do,” you said stubbornly, reaching out to stroke his beard. “You’re the one who’s never been married. Only been with women who were given to you like gifts.”

He raised an eyebrow, unamused. “You think you’re not a gift? You were practically given to me, completely unexpected, in this beautiful wrapping of a pretty face and body. If you offer me your heart, that would be the true gift.”

He said ‘if’ like you hadn’t already given it.

“It would’ve been so much simpler if we didn’t feel this way,” you said quietly.

“But you’re glad you do?” Leto’s fingers traced down your neck and the front of your dress, pausing to feel your heartbeat in your chest before he holds you by the waist.

“Of course I’m glad.” You tucked yourself against his body, hugging him. “I love you.”

Maybe you only felt the words against your face as Leto’s lips kissed your skin, but nonetheless, the words were there. Straight from Leto’s heart. “I love you too.”

He kissed you breathless. His lips slotted in-between yours, inviting you to kiss him back just as deeply. Of course, you did. It wasn’t about lust or sex this time, but what you both held in your hearts.

Leto pulled away only once you felt the soft skin around your lips being rubbed raw by his mustache and beard. It was a friction you were growing very fond of.

He took a step back and looked at you like he was seeing you in a new light.

“I was going to introduce you to people gradually,” he said thoughtfully. “Have the staff begin to take instructions from you, have visitors see you by my side, have you host a dinner or two, so that it wouldn’t be a surprise when I name you the Lady Atreides. That isn’t really an option now. It’ll be all over Arrakeen by morning. All over the universe by the day after.”

“You think?” You’d been so preoccupied with your father that it hadn’t even occurred to you that everyone would know.

“I know.” Leto’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners. He didn’t look displeased. “It’s not what I had planned, but the good news is, there’s no reason to be subtle anymore. No more waiting for everyone to know you’re my Lady.”

One of his hands shot out and pulled you toward him by the waist.

“I might even have to marry you,” he said with a grin.

Rendered speechless, you could only look away to try and sort out your feelings. Leto of course, wouldn’t let you do it alone, though.

“Would you say no?” he asked.

“Don’t be stupid,” you said immediately.

He frowned comically. “No one has ever called me that. Now I have to marry you. A man in my position has to be kept grounded.”

You could only smile at his teasing. The thought of marrying Leto makes your heart flutter. You wanted it more than anything, but…

“Maybe once your father can be in the same room with us without flying into a rage,” he suggested gently. “We can’t marry without him attending, can we?”

You shook your head, grateful that Leto understood.

That’s how you knew you’d love Leto forever, and that he would love you. It wasn’t about how much younger you were, or any of your physical attributes. He took care with every part of you.

As Duke, Leto had to hold himself apart. Be logical, strategic. With you, Leto was both Duke and man. He let his head and his heart rule in equal measure. He cared not just about your body, but about your heart.

You were right to trust him with it, as he was right to give his heart to you.

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He rubs the tiredness from his eyes and runs his fingers through his messy hair.

“We had four mediation sessions to decide on everything and get the divorce papers written. All you did was bitch and argue. What else is there to say?” you complain as he opens the door.

He’s in black boxers with a silk robe, untied and thrown on. He pads toward the kitchen without a backward glance, grabbing his cigarettes and lighter on the way.

You hear the sounds of coffee and with a gigantic sigh, you toe off your shoes and join him.

“Nick,” you say when he doesn’t turn around, “you have to sign.”

His back stays to you as he measures out coffee and dumps it in the drip machine. A lit cigarette hangs from between his lips.

You drop the envelope on the little kitchen table and notice it’s relatively cleared. Actually, the whole place is neater than the last time you were here, more than six months ago now.

You glance back at the living space. He still has a jumble of books and papers, but they’re stacked and organized. Loose papers are clipped in stacks on his shelves, not strewn around like someone had tossed the place. No empty glasses and full ashtrays.

“Are you living with someone?” you ask him, trying very hard to not make it sound like an accusation.

“What? No,” Nick says, so fiercely that you believe him.

“Well, it looks nicer in here,” you say defensively.

He leans with his back against the counter, flipping the coffee on. He takes a drag on his cigarette then stamps it out in an ashtray in the sink.

“I got tired of living in a shit hole. I cleaned it myself. Someone living here, of all the dumb-ass things to say. Who the fuck would shack up with me?” he asks.

“You might be an asshole, Nick, but you’re not exactly hideous. You’re charming when you want to be and you have the libido of a college frat douche. Which I used to like, but now I find disgusting.”

He gives you a bleak look. “Why are you coming around here, trying to piss me off?”

You impatiently take the divorce papers out of the manila envelope. “These. You returned them to your lawyer, unsigned. What the hell, Nick?”

“Oh, yeah, that,” he says as if he’d forgotten to buy milk or pick up dry cleaning.

You cover your face with both hands, wanting to scream bloody murder. The man is infuriating. Unfortunately, you’d loved that about him. Nick cares deeply about a handful of things, and the rest of everything can pound sand. Whereas you’d always cared too much about everything.

He’d loved you. He’d left you.

You’d loved him. You’d let him go.

He’d told you from the start, marrying him was a mistake.

So why won’t he sign?

“We agreed to do this out of court. Civilized.” You sit down at the table in a huff. “If you want something, you can just ask. I don’t want to spend thousands of dollars on this. Is it the records?”

“Pfft,” Nick lets loose an irritated puff of air from between his lips. “Letting you keep every record I gave you as a gift was highway robbery. I don’t care if it’s legal or not. No, it’s not about the music.”

“You got your books back.” You shrug. “I signed an NDA about the manuscript you’re working on. I don’t understand. We worked for months on this.”

Nick wipes a thumb along his bottom lip, then folds his arms. It’s distracting that he leaves his robe untied.

“You know why Lust isn’t a sin Dante’s particularly bothered about? It’s almost on the outskirts of hell,” Nick says.

“If you start with that Dante shit again, I swear to God, I will take you to court, just to get you to shut up,” you say, only half-joking.

He grins. “People these days are so sensitive about sex and who’s sticking it where, but love is holy. If you sinned, and you did it for love, then you were kind of up against an unstoppable, inevitable force, and maybe you deserve pity.”

He braces his hands behind him, letting the silk open further, almost presenting you with his smooth, tan skin. Skin that you’d touched and kissed every inch of.

You avert your eyes, trying to reconcile the pain of Nick talking about love, with the lust of seeing him like this again.

“If you want to get all maudlin about this-“

Nick runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m not maudlin. I’m just saying that it’s a shame. What happened with us was a real fucking shame.”

You carefully meet his dark, brown eyes. “You say that like you had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, I had everything to do with it. I know it was my fault,” Nick says wistfully. “I don’t really know how to…”

He gestures his hand back and forth between you two.

“…but you knew that when you married me.” He toys briefly with the crucifix around his neck. “We’d only known each other a month when I talked you into it. Guess it’s a miracle we lasted the two years that we did.”

You blink a few times. You’ve shed enough tears over Nick Tosches.

There was a time when you would’ve used his words against him. Truthfully, he had talked you into marrying him too fast. Being with Nick was like that. His opinions were strong, and loud. He’d wanted you. It had been nice to be wanted. Plus, you’d loved him.

He’s apologized before, for all of this. This time sounds different, though. Now, all you hear is honesty. Maybe more honesty than he’s ever given you before.

“You weren’t so bad in the beginning. You had your moments.” You cross your ankles, thinking. There’d been times you’d wanted to talk to Nick alone, without mediators. You’d been too scared to ask. Now or never, like he’d said. “Pour me some coffee?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

“Does the new, domesticated Nick have anything to eat in here?”

He gives you a raised eyebrow. “I got crackers and cheese, some of that Italian wild boar salami from my guy in Jersey.”

You half laugh at the absurdity of it. Cobbled together breakfast with your soon-to-be ex-husband.

“I’ll play along,” you tell him, “if you promise to sign the papers before I leave.”

Nick stands, one hand on the refrigerator, and thinks it over.

He gives you a crisp nod. “Okay. Done.”

“And close your robe.”

Nick’s dark eyes twinkle. “No.”

He shuffles around the kitchen, getting things out, and you sit back and enjoy the coffee. You try not to watch him move around. The glimpses of his body make you want to do things that are bad, bad ideas.

“Our mistake was getting lawyers involved,” Nick says.

“That’s a non sequitur,” you say, confused. “I didn’t ask.”

He sets down a wooden cutting board with cheese and salami, then sits across from you and starts slicing them carefully. He holds out the knife with the first cut of cheese on the flat of the blade.

“Thanks,” you say, eating thoughtfully. “Divorce is a legal procedure. Without mediation we would’ve had to go to court, and it could’ve dragged on forever.”

He makes a face like, that would’ve been okay with me.

Something in your stomach twists. It had taken you such a long time to come to terms with all of this. For him to start acting like the divorce was a mistake, or he was having second thoughts, you’re not sure if it’s about him or you.

You’re not going to reconcile with him at all, let alone just because his ego can’t handle a divorce.

He arranges the cheese with too much care.

“I hope I didn’t break your heart, that’s all,” he says quietly. “To tell you the truth, everything I did? I broke my own heart, and I don’t want you feeling like this. Wouldn’t be fair.”

“So why won’t you let me cut my losses?”

He looks at you from under his heavy eyelids. He speaks carefully, which makes you nervous. Nick’s full of bravado and loud, confident words. If he’s taking the time to pick and choose, you’re sure you won’t like it. Which is to say, you know what he’s going to say before he says it.

He rubs his fingers over the scruff of his chin. “I think-“

“If this sentence ends ‘we should get back together,’ you can take your salami and shove it up your ass,” you say, unamused.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t get your bra in a twist. Just listen.”

You take a bite of cheese to keep from saying something you’ll regret because, unfortunately, you’re curious now.

“I’m not saying you have to let me between your legs or anything,” Nick says, a hand slicking back his hair. “Let’s not sign the papers. Let me make you dinner, take you to listen to music. Do some of the things I never did before.”

You fold your arms. “People don’t change, Nick. Not at your age.”

He winces. “I guess I deserved that. One of the benefits of being an old asshole, like me, is that hindsight gets closer all the time. Now, I know pretty much right away when I’ve made a huge fuck-up.” His dark eyes level with yours, taking you in with the soul-consuming intensity you’d fallen for. “I fucked up with you.”

You can’t do anything but shake your head. You can’t even put your feelings into words.

The audacity of this man. To say something now. Not in the months and months when your marriage had crumbled into dust. Not in the weeks of mediation. No. You show up on his doorstep and he just spits all of this out.

You leg moves up and down nervously. “You don’t deserve another chance, Nick.”

His shoulders sag. He leans forward a little, squeezing his hands between his knees. His brown eyes are huge and grief-filled. “No, I do not.”

You don’t lean away from him. You’d missed the smell of him. The soap from his shower and the musky aftershave. A light waft of cigarette and wine.

Even though your head is telling you that his enormous ego is driving this, your gut’s telling you something’s off with him. He’s being honest. Earnest.

“Where does that leave us?” you ask.

One of his hands escapes the confines of his knees and he rests it on the papers. He taps them once. Twice. He looks at them like you might look at a casket being lowered into the ground.

With quick, jerky movements he gets up and yanks open the drawer near the refrigerator. He clicks a pen a few times, then leans over the table and signs the divorce papers.

It should feel like a triumph, but all you think is that with Nick bending over the table like this, you can see into his open robe like it’s a warm, safe cave you want to crawl into.

He sniffs and sits back in his chair. He pushes back his hair with one hand.

“Now,” he says impatiently, “will you have dinner with me next week? I’ll pick you up at your place, go to a nice restaurant.”

Your eyes squint at him. “You just signed our divorce papers.”

“Which leaves us free to date. No pressure,” he says as if it makes total sense.

“You’re unbelievable.” You throw your hands up in the air. “You’re my ex-husband. Ex.”

“Which means,” he leans forward to explain, “when I take you out on a date, you know I mean it. I’m not just trying to save our marriage. I’m doing it because I want to get to know you for real this time.”

You can’t keep up. If you were confused before, your brain is chaos now. The worst part is, even with the warning alarms going off, there’s part of you that understands what he’s saying.

The tiny, stupid part of you that still loves him.

His hand tentatively reaches across the table. He touches his fingertips to yours.

“I won’t ask you to marry me again. I promise. Everything’ll go real slow,” he says. “But I’ll always-“

He glances away, out the window at the gray New York sky. He looks pained when his eyes meet yours again.

“I’ll always love you,” he says.

You blink back tears, but you know he sees them. You wipe under your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, your fingers still laced with his.

Love hadn’t been enough the first time. You’d always suspected the fact that he’d loved you so much was what drove him away actually. This conversation, though, is the Nick you’d always known was under that tough exterior.

Slow, he’d said.

Maybe you could do slow.

“All you want is dinner?” you ask skeptically.

He gives you a soft grin. “What I really want is a blowjob, but I don’t deserve that yet.”

Laughing together feels good.

Nick puts the papers back in the envelope, seals it carefully, and hands it to you. He licks his lips and smiles.

“Give this to your lawyer,” he says.

You nod.

“Dinner?” he asks.

You nod again.

“Good.”

You sit in comfortable silence. It’s not something you’ve done with Nick before.

You don’t trust that this time will be different, not yet. What you are willing to believe, though, is that he wants to try. It’s more than you’d gotten from him before.

You’re cautious this time, but it might work out better. More balanced.

As you leave his apartment, with a new book Nick insists you take for the train ride home, you feel lighter. Excited.

Outside of Nick’s building, you almost throw the manila envelope in the trash. You hover it over the already full bin of coffee cups and fast food bags.

“Hey,” a voice yells at you. “Don’t fucking do that.”

You look up. Nick. Of course. Leaning out his window so far your stomach goes queasy. A big slash of his bare, tan chest is on full display for everyone walking by.

“I made the big speech and you ruin it if you don’t divorce me,” he yells down to you. “File the settlement.”

He yanks himself back inside and closes the window with a thunk!.

You tuck the papers under your arm.

You hear a shunk!

“And another thing,” Nick says.

By this time, you’re already walking across the street. You wave backwards, not even turning around.

“Hey, I love you.”

That makes you stop on the sidewalk and turn. You don’t know whether to give him the middle finger or blow him a kiss.

“I love you too,” you yell. “See you next week.”

He gives you a little wave and ducks back inside.

You can’t stop smiling. Loving Nick was always sexy and frustrating. Confusing and consuming.

It hadn’t ever been fun before.

You’re grateful you have another chance to love him, and that he’s determined not to waste another chance with you too. Yeah. This time is different because you’re choosing to be together, and stay together. This time is forever.

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You’d rented the little house next to his last month and no, you hadn’t expected a welcome wagon, but his daughter had introduced herself before Jonathan had. She’s in the fourth grade, completely precious, and a lot more outgoing than her father.

He’s a grumpy professor-type, rumpled dress shirts, and cardigans with leather patches at the elbows.

He seems serious by nature, or maybe he’d been different before his divorce.

Ava said something about shared custody, but living mostly with her dad because her mom travels for work.

You’d smelled something off about the way Ava explained it. You could tell she didn’t quite buy the excuses her mom gave her. That could be why Jonathan always looks so sour.

Although, he’s all smiles for Ava. He holds her hand on the way to the car in the morning. You can hear her chattering on and on in their backyard sometimes and Jonathan’s fully engaged, laughing and agreeing.

A good dad and an unfriendly neighbor.

You settle for writing him a letter and taping it to his front door.

Dear Jonathan,

Was hoping to chat with you about this weekend. I’m having a party on Saturday. Might go late, but we’ll try to be quiet. You’re invited, of course, but adults only (tell Ava sorry for me).

You leave your number, and try to consider the matter settled.

Lying in bed later, your phone dings with a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey, it’s Jonathan from next door. I read your note. No problem about the party, just not too loud please.

“Yeah,” you say out loud to yourself, “I said we’d be quiet in my note, jerk.”

You: Hi Jonathan. We’ll move it inside when it gets dark. Everyone knows not to block your driveway. It’s a going away party for my friend. Feel free to stop by for a drink or food. We’re getting Mexican and there’ll be plenty!

Jonathan doesn’t text back. Not that you’re keeping a mental list or anything, but it’s the sixth time he’s been rude.

*****

Your group of friends is small, only really about five close people. When you’d offered to host, you hadn’t known that the going-away-guy would invite everyone from his old job, a ton of his friends, and his family.

Your little house wasn’t meant to hold this many people.

Luckily, he’d ordered the food himself, and almost everyone who came brought drinks or something to share.

Still, it’s overwhelming. None of them are leaving.

You have a full garbage bag in each hand, toting them to the side of the house where the cans are, and you feel like you finally have a second to breathe by yourself. You toss them in and lean against your house in the darkness.

A shadow crosses the lawn next door. You recognize Jonathan.

He has on sweatpants and t-shirt, a zip-up sweater. His curly hair is a mess and surprise surprise, he has a frown on. He stops a respectful distance away.

You feel a ball of nerves in your gut.

“Jonathan, I’m sorry. Way more people showed up than I thought,” you say, trying to preempt his complaints.

“You’re going to have to shut it down,” he says. “It sounds like a frat house.”

“A frat house? Oh, because we’re doing keg stands on my front lawn? Is it the wet t-shirt contest?”

Jonathan’s face looks confused for a second, before he registers your sarcasm.

“I’d love to shut it down,” you admit, “but it’s a party for my friend and I can’t really kick him and everyone he knows out. He’s moving to Vancouver tomorrow.”

“Then he should get some sleep tonight,” Jonathan says in a very dad voice that makes you smile.

For a second, maybe it’s the light reflecting off his glasses, but you swear his eyes soften. It’s hard to tell, though, with that big beard blocking most of his facial expressions.

“How about this?” Jonathan says, not sounding as stiff as he had at first. “Why don’t you find party-boy and tell him your neighbor threatened to call the cops and the party’s over?”

“Oh my God, are you going to call the cops on me?” you ask, a little terrified.

“Fuck no,” Jonathan says, “but your friend doesn’t know that.”

You laugh at that. It’s a good plan. It’s going on hour 6 of this party. As much as you hate to admit it, it’s a little out of control.

“I’m going to visit him next year, so it isn’t like I won’t see him ever again… and it is almost midnight,” you say. “Usually I’m asleep with a book over my face by now.”

“Me too,” Jonathan smiles. He glances toward the backyard as the song changes. “What are you reading?”

You hesitate. Not because you’re embarrassed, but there’s no way someone as highbrow as Jonathan won’t look down on it.

“The first ‘Dune’ book by Frank Herbert,” you say. “Never got around to reading it when I was in school.”

“That’s a big one, kudos,” Jonathan says, surprising you with his genuine interest. “That’s pretty heavy for bedtime. Literally, if it’s on your face, and figuratively. Ethics and politics, quandaries about the future.”

“That’s really what science fiction is about,” you say. “The creativity is the draw. It’s really cool, sure, but it’s more to make you think. No matter how advanced we think we are, if we don’t make better choices, none of it really makes us a better race of people than we are now.”

His brows raise and lower. “That’s very true. I read those in college. I had this period of time where I tried to catch up on all the pop culture I’d missed when I was a kid. ‘Dune,’ ‘Star Wars,’ ‘Star Trek,’ ‘Indiana Jones,’ all of the stuff my parents said were a waste of time and morally useless.”

“Tough way to grow up,” you say.

“You have no idea. Sci-fi and fantasy are a lot easier to understand than Schopenhauer,” Jonathan says with a half-smile. “Anyway, I’ll let you go break the bad news to the crowd inside.”

Just then, the music turns up a little louder and a cheer goes up from your backyard. You wince.

This conversation with Jonathan is the highlight of the night. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. It’s a shame he’s never wanted to before.

“You’re right. It kind of does sound like a college party,” you say.

“Is it?” Jonathan asks.

“A college party? No, I’m not that young, but thank you,” you laugh.

“Just checking. I didn’t come by to say ‘hi’ because I didn’t want to run into any of my students there. I’m a professor at Tufts,” he says.

“Wow. What do you teach?”

“Philosophy.”

“And you’re giving me shit for reading ‘Dune’ before bed because it’ll make me think too much?”

Jonathan laughs. It’s full-throated and loud enough to cut through the music. It makes something inside of you spark and catch fire.

“So I guess all you do for a living is think about moral quandaries,” you say.

He shrugs. “Sort of. I’m more an ‘examining life’ kind of professor.”

“Have you seen ‘Dead Poets Society?’”

Jonathan shakes his head.

“If you live in New England, teach young people about life, and wear cardigans like yours, you need to see that movie. It’s super sad,” you say. “I cry every time.”

“I’ll put it on the list,” he says with a smile.

You hear a glass bottle break in your backyard and rub your forehead with your hand.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go bust up a party like I’m a real adult,” you say, taking a breath for courage. “Here I go.”

You fold your arms and tap your fingertips on yourself.

Jonathan looks skeptical. “You’re off to a great start.”

“I’m really going this time.”

“I see that.” He grins, folding his own arms.

He adjusts his glasses and tilts his head at you a little, like he’s thinking.

Then, he walks off into your backyard.

Even from here, he has a great professor voice.

“Hey, everyone, I’m Jonathan Levy, I live next door. I’m sorry, but rules are rules and neighborhood quiet hours kicked in two hours ago,” he yells. The music turns down, then off. “Sorry again, but my daughter needs her sleep. I’d appreciate it if you all could call it a night.”

It works. The party winds down, as if Jonathan’s calm, and dare you say friendly, demeanor makes everyone realize things had started to get out of hand.

Your friend makes everyone help clean up on their way out, and apologizes profusely to you and Jonathan. You tell him you’ll see him in Canada next summer, when you’d planned to visit. Just like that, problem solved.

Jonathan lingers, watching the last of the guests leave. You get the feeling he’s looking out for you, not wanting to leave you alone while the drunk people get into their ride shares and taxis.

He closes the front door behind the last guest and then puts his hand back on the doorknob like he hadn’t meant to stay on this side of your door. It seems like he forgot to leave. He gives you an unconvincing smile, as if he’s about to say goodnight.

Before you can stop yourself, you say something, anything, to make him stay longer. “Do you want some food to take home?”

“Sure,” he says, surprising you.

He follows you to the kitchen, looking around. He pushes up his glasses.

“What?” you ask as he scrutinizes a little too hard.

“Nothing,” he smiles, “I saw this house when it went on the market and it was pretty bland. It’s nice now. Lived in.”

“Which is a polite way of saying it’s a damn mess,” you say, unoffended.

The mess makes you feel like the space is really yours. You have a habit of collecting little things that catch your eye.

“You should see my house. Ava’s drawings are the wallpaper. Not enough cabinets for all the snacks and there are balls everywhere.”

You blurt a laugh out and Jonathan shakes his head.

He motions with his hand awkwardly to the floor and makes a kicking motion. “Soccer balls. Ava wants to try out this year.”

"Oh good. I thought you meant you had naked dudes around all the time,” you say sarcastically. “Usually that’s a vibe I can pick up.”

Jonathan picks up a half-full bottle of wine and pours some in a red plastic cup. He passes it to you and pours another for himself.

He touches the rim of his cup to yours, dark eyes holding your gaze for a moment.

“I date women, but not really much at all since my divorce a few years ago,” he says, sipping the wine. “Ava had a really difficult time at first. It was a whole thing we had to go back to court for.”

“Ava adores you. When she first introduced herself, the second thing she said after ‘hi, I’m Ava,’ was literally, ‘I have the best dad. He teaches me things.’”

Jonathan laughs quietly, pushing up his glasses. He’s obviously ridiculously happy, and a little embarrassed. “I remember that day. She went running up to you before I could stop her.”

You take a drink of wine. “I’m glad you didn’t stop her, but you just stood by your front door watching instead of walking over.”

He screws up his face. A grimace if you ever saw one.

“I know.” He sighs at himself. “I get so in my head about things. I liked that Ava decided to be brave and say hello. I didn’t want to interrupt it. And honestly,” he half-shrugs, “you’re really…”

“What?” You lean toward him, the last part of his sentence all mumbled and low.

“You’re,” he runs a hand through his hair, “you’re pretty.”

For a second, you wait for the second part. Pretty… what? Pretty friendly? Pretty neighborly?

Then you realize. Jonathan’s calling you pretty. Period. Full stop.

Your heart stutters.

This guy isn’t grumpy. He’s broken. Afraid to take a chance.

What you’d thought was rudeness was, well, yes it was rudeness. But it was also Jonathan taking weeks to work up the courage to talk to you.

You see it now. How his lack of eye contact wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was that he couldn’t. How his texts or short conversations weren’t because he hated talking to you, he just didn’t know what to say.

You can’t fault him for his missteps. It isn’t like you have a perfect dating record either.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me,” you say slowly.

“That’s a fucking crime, excuse my language,” he says, setting aside his cup. He rests his lower back against the counter, bracing his hands behind him. “Would you want to go out with me? This weekend? Or, whenever?”

His question kind of loses steam. He smiles, but it seems more like he’s wincing at how awkward he’d sounded at the end.

“I’d love to,” you say with a confident smile.

“Oh. Okay. Good.” He sounds surprised. He pushes up his glasses, more relaxed already. “I won’t say anything to Ava, for obvious reasons.”

“I won’t either,” you reassure him.

“She has dance on Saturday afternoons. Sometimes I stay and watch, but maybe we could meet for lunch? I know dates are usually dinner, but, I-“ he shrugs.

Giving into instinct, you reach out and grab his hand with yours. You give it a reassuring squeeze. “Lunch is perfect. I’m really looking forward to it.”

Jonathan’s grip is solid and comforting. He gives you a real smile and lets your hand drop. He picks up the garbage bin and sweeps some empty cups into it. You pack up the leftovers, setting some aside for Jonathan and Ava.

He starts humming. So quietly you almost can’t hear it. It’s a little off-key, but not enough that you can’t recognize it as “How Deep is Your Love” by the Bee Gees. The song’s practically ancient, but hearing Jonathan humming it is sweet.

You’re sure he doesn’t realize he’s doing it so you don’t point it out or join in. You just enjoy the soundtrack.

*****

“Look! Look!” You hear Ava’s voice as she barrels across her lawn toward your house. She has on shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Her hair’s up in a neat ponytail.

“Hey, Ava,” you smile. “What’s up?”

“Dad got me a new ball. It’s purple.” She drops a soccer ball onto the patch of lawn in front of the house and kicks it. It perfectly hits the tire of Jonathan’s sedan.

You flinch, laughing. “Ava, sweetie, that’s great aim, but your dad might not want you to use his car as a goal.”

She runs after the ball, dribbling it with medium success.

You hear the front door of her house. Jonathan gives you a wave and walks down the steps. You meet him halfway.

“How many does that make?” you ask him jokingly.

He shrugs. “I thought soccer balls were soccer balls, but Ava needs one for grass and one for indoors. Different sizes. I don’t know. I just smile and tap my credit card. We, uh, still on for tomorrow?”

You nod. “I’ll meet you at the cafe at eleven.”

Jonathan can’t hide his grin.

You’ve been texting for a few days. Just little things, but a steady stream of communication. And yesterday the two of you had stood in Jonathan’s driveway talking for 45 minutes.

“Can I ask you something?” You wait for him to nod before you continue. “If I hadn’t had that party, and you hadn’t come over to complain, would you ever have really talked to me? Ever asked me out?”

Jonathan sighs and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Not in time.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

He smiles sadly, his eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “Someone would’ve asked you on a date before me. Would’ve seen how amazing you are, and I’d just be your neighbor with the daughter you really like. I’d have watched you with someone else and wondered what could’ve been.”

He gestures to his house.

“Looking out that window at you, like a complete creep,” he says.

You laugh with him, glad he can make a joke, even after such an honest confession.

“So, you’re saying you’ve already been looking at me?” You elbow him lightly.

“Ah, well,” his eyes and eyebrows shoot skyward before he dramatically looks at his watch, “look at the time. Ava, let’s get inside. You have to finish your homework.”

Still laughing, you try to look outraged and fail completely.

You watch Jonathan and Ava go inside.

Truthfully, you’d looked at Jonathan too; mostly to wonder why a guy like that had such a bad attitude. It wasn’t his attitude, though, it was his emotions that were in his way.

You head back inside and leave the windows facing Jonathan’s house open. You connect your phone to your speaker and turn it up extra loud.

You only count to five before your phone notification dings.

Jonathan: Music’s pretty loud. Don’t make me come over there.

You: I dare you to.

-----

follow-up: Duke Jonathan

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