sharin4readers

You are so worked up with the day’s full program that before the alarm goes off, you jolt awake of your own accord.

You fumble for the clock by your bed, heaving a deep sigh for the 15 minutes you are never going to get back.

Jonathan stirs behind you, his arms snaking over your torso under the covers, as he nuzzles his wiry beard into the crook of your shoulder, sighing heavily himself.

He adjusts to the new position, nestling his morning wood right along the valley of your buttocks, rubbing his semi against your plump cheeks — either on purpose or just subconsciously trying to get comfortable.

Whatever it is, that insignificant contact has gotten you all riled up now. You burrow your heated face deeper into the pillow, teeth worrying your bottom lip as you, ever so subtly, back yourself up to him, rutting your arse lazily against his hardening bulge.

You haven’t had sex in weeks, months even, if you care to count. Is it any wonder that you’re so easily turned on these days?

In front of you, your hand trails under your slip dress to your pussy, two fingers caressing along your folds to gather slick, before they twirl around your clit in slow, concentric circles to the rhythm of your canting hips.

Jonathan, who is very much as worked up as you are, responds to you accordingly, almost immediately. His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you flush against him — good morning, he seems to say wordlessly, as he nuzzles his nose into the back of your ear, nip-licking at that sensitive spot just below your earlobe.

Your mouth parts, hitching soft, kittenish gasps when his other hand wraps around your neck, squeezing gentle pressure at your angular jawline. Just enough to spur you on so your head falls back onto his shoulder, your fingers between your legs gathering pace.

His hips start rolling to your languid ministrations, his heavy-laden breaths growing dense, as he rubs his now rock-hard penis against your curved back. It’s delicious, feeling him like this — so visceral that you’re now jabbing your fingers into your cunt, mewling as your head swirls dizzy with the thought of his cock spreading you out and filling you up so full.

As if having read your mind, Jonathan grunts low, changing position once again — this time, flipping you over onto the bed and anchoring his heavier weight on you so agreeably you can’t do anything about it but surrender.

He looms over you, the sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains clinging to his salt-and-pepper curls all mussed. Beneath the deceptive halo, his darkened eyes dilate, watching you intently as you acquiesce to his every move. Writhing helplessly when he slides his cock along your very, very wet pussy. Sobbing impatiently as he teases your stimulated nub with his fat tip. Eyelids fluttering, mouth wide and groaning with pleasure when he shoves his entire length into your slippery hole in one smooth motion, bottoming out.

He drags his cock out of you, tediously slow — the tip settling right at the rim, before he thrusts back into you again. Once, twice, three times — knocking the breath from your lungs each time; just to get used to your heat enveloping him, just to allow you time to acclimate to the all too familiar stretch of his girth.

Then, he just — speeds up. Fucking into you in staccato brevity, rubbing abrasion along your walls. Yet not too deep — teasing stimulants in that interstitial space in your cunt, where it sets your nerve ends on fire. Touching you without even touching you there, where it aches for him so terribly.

Your fingers clench at his soft muscles, holding on for dear life; both of you huffing for each other’s next breath, as he chases after your highs like the devil is behind him — like there is no time to lose.

And, right on cue — right above your head, you hear the faucet turn on in the adjacent bathroom.

“Jesus,” you groan. “I told her not to leave the tap on when she’s bru— oooohhhh!”

You groan, when Jonathan’s thumb latches onto your clit, pressing quick, rough circles that match the shallow punches in and out of you.

Your body arches into him, whimpering — so loud that Ava can probably hear you over the running water.

Jonathan’s hand shoots up and clasps over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh…” his command jagged at his relentless pummels, and you have to bite down at his palm to muffle your cries.

That instead arouses him — his ridge catching on your fluttering folds so dreadfully it makes you gush even more, the lewd, squelching noise under the covers getting more pronounced with every pulverising hit.

He’s getting close. You can feel the urgency in his pounding as they get more resolute, and how he whimpers so pitifully — finally vocal as he noses the strap off your night dress, his moans sending shivers down your spine when he starts suckling at your breast, pebbling your nipple to a stiff peak under his wet strokes.

You are teetering on the edge yourself, teeth sinking into the slab of muscle across his shoulder, one leg curled around his thick waist, as you rut your cunt recklessly into him. The aggravating tension in your stomach twists tighter, your pussy quivering for an overdue release. It sucks his cock deeper, swallowing him whole as he pumps once, twice, three times — and cums inside of you.

You barely hear the faucet squeak off. You barely hear Ava’s tiny footsteps pad down the hallway to your room. Jonathan’s guttural groans fill your senses so completely, and his warm ejaculation fill your hole so abundantly — before they snap to an exclamatory halt when the door flings open; and he is throwing himself off you, his spunk spraying all over your stomach under the sheets as he huddles into a foetal position away from you.

You toss your arm over your eyes, heaving large gulpfuls of air where the penny hangs, too afraid to watch.

“Daddy — are you OK?” Ava’s voice edged with concern next to the bed.

You venture a peek from under your elbow to see her rearranging Jonathan’s tousled curls upon his bedhead, oblivious to her father’s hand still wrapped around his stimulated cock under the sheets — still cumming.

“Uhhhhh — not feeling too good, honey,” Jonathan croaks. “Think I got a uh — stomachache.”

You stifle your laugh at his rather ingenious effort to make it look like he is just rubbing his stomach, when he is still grinding his cock in his hand to finish up.

“But — who’s gonna drive me to school?” Ava asks, her bottom lip pouting dramatically.

You lower your arm with a sigh, smiling at the sweet child over Jonathan’s hunched form.

“Mummy will drive you to school, baby,” your voice coming out hoarser than you anticipated.

Heedless to say, your offer is enough to make her excited again. Your eyes widen when she jumps into bed, her foot missing Jonathan’s softening cock by a breath, as she leaps over him to your side of the bed.

You have to palm your hand over your crotch too to avert a potential disaster on your part.

“You sure?” Ava’s smile drops again when she’s had a closer look at you in the dimly lit bedroom.

She quirks a brow at your flushed complexion, laying the back of her small hand on your forehead; emulating the many times you did the same to her when she was feeling under the weather, or pretending to.

“You might have a fever, mummy,” she diagnoses with childlike confidence.

You shoot a sideway glance at Jonathan when you hear him smothering a chuckle into the sheets.

“Mummy’s fine,” you soothe, touching your forehead against Ava’s to prove that you are not feverish — also, because your hands are occupied for the time being.

“Can you make me blueberry pancakes too?” She mumbles quietly, fingers twirling timid spirals at a loose thread on the duvet.

“Of course, baby,” you brush your nose against hers until she giggles. “Why don’t you head on downstairs and bring out the ingredients — hmm? Mummy will be down in a sec.”

“OK!” Ava smacks a kiss on your cheek, and bounces back to Jonathan’s side for a quick peck on his face too. “Feel better, daddy!”

When her footsteps ebb down the stairway, Jonathan repositions himself next to you, cursing up at the ceiling.

“God, we’re terrible parents,” he mutters under his breath, a hand raking down his reddened face.

You snort, rolling over to kiss the round of his shoulder. Your hand slides up along his face, pulling him in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

You blink slowly, watching the flicker in his hooded eyes when you smear your slick-coated fingers across his beard, his hanging lips — the smell of your musky scent so pungent for the both of you to share.

“Your turn to do the laundry again, spunk boy,” you tease, already shimmying out of bed.

Before you can grasp for an escape, he flings his whole body over you, keeping you trapped under him once again.

“We’ll see about that,” he growls, his hand already slithering under the covers, thick, rough fingers bullying into your sensitive cunt without preamble.

“No, NO — Jonathan!” You rasp, your hand gripping at his working muscle with a flimsy attempt to stop him. “The door is open.”

“I’ll make it quick,” he reassures — his fingers wringing brutal, rapid squelches between your legs, his thumb on your clit strumming an amplified chord.

In a matter of seconds, a squirming heat climbs your body and breaks sweat through your pores, and you’re cursing breathlessly, brows pinched and nails scraping at the dishevelled curls at the nape of his neck.

“Mummy, come onnnnn!” Ava yells from downstairs, her voice travelling up the stairway into the bedroom.

“Just a sec, honey!” Jonathan answers on your behalf.

Then, in a lower, beastly tone that matches the mischievous glint shining in his dark eyes, a cocky grin curving his lips: “Mummy’s coming.”

He clamps his mouth over yours just as you tremble around his assaulting fingers, your drawn-out whine simmered to a stifled moan when the pressure crests in your stomach — and you’re finally squirting under the sheets, soaking through the mattress.

//

Layla has been hanging around the flat more often -- practically moved in with all the clothes and toiletries that Marc keeps spotting around the place. She's on the couch or in the kitchen when Steven gets home, sleeping in the hastily made bed at night, and greeting him with a cup of tea in the morning. Doesn't she have a job?

Basically, they're living out the domestic dream life that Marc could never give her.

And okay, maybe Marc is a little bitter about it. He's gotten over the fact that Steven and Layla are together. They're so joined at the hip that Osiris wouldn't be able to separate them in the Underworld when they die. But do they have to shove their happiness in his face?

After everything that's happened, why can't he find that happiness too? Or at least a sense of peace these days?

Anyway, this is making it virtually impossible for Marc to front.

This brings him to another reason for Steven's peppy attitude: Marc hasn't been fronting much lately.

He has no motivation to do any vigilante bullshit, and since Khonshu has been fucking off somewhere else instead of bothering him to do his dirty work, he's been acting like a recluse within the comforting confines of his own mind.

That means Steven has been able to sleep through most of the night without waking up feeling sore, mildly hungover, and somehow physically exhausted -- although his perpetual eye bags remain intact regardless of how much sleep he gets.

Good for him.

Of course, Steven still finds a way to complain about his back hurting or how his clothes suddenly smell like cigarettes, despite neither of them smoking. Marc rolls his eyes internally, attributing it to Steven's attempts to get Layla to console him for every little bad thing that happens to him -- even if he has to make stuff up.

Finally, the only other reason Steven can be this carefree is, of course, you.

Marc knows that Steven met up with you, if only because of the text messages that were left on his phone from that day.

He knows you probably talked about your long-held feelings for Steven and what happened the night Marc finally made a move before he could even say one word about his own feelings. And based on the absence of nagging from his British counterpart, you both seemed to have cleared the air -- at least, enough that it no longer bothers Steven.

But that's all he has: a few measly greetings and goodbyes on his phone, a scattering of Steven's dinner invitations, and your brief excuses.

Nothing for him.

And it doesn't seem like you have any plans to talk to him.

Every time he's tried to pry into the conversation the two of you had, Steven has refused to indulge his interrogations.

"I can't tell you anything! It's not my place."

So Marc's gotten into the habit of reaching for Steven's phone before he even realizes he's doing it. He's stopped pretending he's checking for emergencies. He's looking for your name, hoping you'll accidentally tell him what he's supposed to do.

But he's too much of a coward to make the first move. Sure, he's drafted up a few messages here and there, sometimes adding a flourish of emojis to see if you'd be more willing to answer him if he texted like Steven, but he never sent them. Writing them out is enough to make him cringe inwardly at the ridiculousness of his desperate behavior.

You'll contact him directly when you're ready.

That's what he tells himself.

But then he starts to wonder if he had forgotten to give you his number. It's different from Steven's. Do you know that he can see your texts to his double? Do you care?

Or maybe you've tried to find him on Facebook or Instagram, or whatever bullshit social media apps clutter your home screen. But he uses a flip phone, so he wouldn't be able to see the direct messages that you've sent to another unsuspecting man who shares his name.

These thoughts keep him awake, or aware, when he just wants to let go of the reins and let Steven live out his life alone. Like he already did not so long ago...

---

Despite everything, Marc is still forced to front sometimes, although it's less often than before. He wakes up around 10 pm when Steven is asleep. He usually spends the time miserably staring up at the ceiling, listening to the seconds tick by on a clock sitting on the makeshift bedside table until he's engulfed by serene quiet again.

It's worse when he's not alone in bed.

Sometimes he wakes up to a warm body clinging to his side, nuzzling peacefully into the crook of his neck. On those nights, he carefully slips away, untangling her arms from his, and spends the rest of the night looking out the window or watching TV on mute.

The fact that it's Layla, his kinda-wife, isn't what's bothering him – although it does feel weird to take Steven's spot beside her. It's the deep-seated feeling that it should be you next to him.

When did this happen? Why is he suddenly a stranger in his own bed, lying next to his own wife? What fucked-up love square has he caused?

He should've stayed away in his secret corner and minded his own business.

---

Your POV

Everything sucks.

The "just friends" promise was supposed to be a fresh start. The movie not-a-date was supposed to lift the horrible weight you've been carrying around all this time. But now you can't even face him -- neither of them.

Why are you only now realizing that, even when you've let go of one crush -- or tried to convince yourself you had -- you ended up right back in front of the same charming face you've been trying to run away from?

You stare down at your pinky, the one that was wrapped around Steven's when he gave you a hopeful smile, reigniting that sparkle in his eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

So work has taken up more of your time. No more takeout dinners at Steven's or late-night talks after he's gone to bed. You just don't have time.

That's what you tell Steven whenever he timidly invites you over, casually mentioning that Layla's there too and there's more than enough food for the three of you. You can tell, even through texts, that he's disappointed by how busy you've been lately, but you're sure your absence is easier to bear when Layla's around.

It's not about Steven and Layla anymore.

Sure, you still have to grapple with how you're supposed to navigate being a perpetual third wheel around them, since they're always together now, but it's mostly about Marc.

You never thought you'd miss those inconsequential nights so badly.

You want to talk to him. You want to be around him and pretend that nothing happened.

But at the same time, you want to hold his hand, feel the rough calluses that only seem to appear when he fronts, and the warmth that radiates from his skin -- always at odds with the cool detachment he tries so hard to maintain.

You want him to call you sweetheart again. You want to kiss him...

You want to see him.

But you don't want to deal with everything that follows.

What are you actually expecting from him, the nocturnal man who has only a handful of nice things to say at any given moment?

How would this even work? Layla gets them during the day, and you get the night shift? What if the other one fronts when you're on a date? Or worse...

The relentless spiral of thoughts keeps pushing you further and further away from making any kind of concrete decision. And if it makes you an asshole for putting off dealing with these stupid feelings, then so be it.

It's better than making a wrong move and losing both of them forever.

---

And then you made a stupid mistake.

In the haze of the wine you'd drunk, you decided to text Marc.

are you awake ? Read at 11:43 pm

You stare down at your phone for a few minutes. And then nothing.

God.

How embarrassing.

You try to calm yourself with another glass of wine. Okay, maybe he was sleeping and got woken up by your text. He could have read the message and then forgotten to reply. Honestly, he probably didn't even realize what it said because he was tired.

Wait, does he go to sleep early now?

His days used to start after the sun went down.

It's been half an hour, and despite already experiencing the rejection in real time, you're still waiting for a response like a dumbass when he could very well be asleep already.

---

Marc's POV

He taps the phone screen again.

It's Steven's phone, but obviously he's not fronting right now. He's sound asleep, unaware of the situation Marc has found himself in.

Marc was having a pretty bland night, waking up alone to the sounds of the city around 10:20 p.m. He was contentedly going through his usual routine of lying around and feeling bad for himself when Steven's outdated phone buzzed with a notification.

He shouldn't have opened it, but when he saw your name pop up, he couldn't help his curiosity. He thought it would be another message explaining why you wouldn't be able to make it to dinner again -- work or whatever. But it wasn't.

You want to know if Steven is awake at 11:45 at night.

Does this count as a booty call?

Maybe you'll expand on your text message, he tells himself. It could be an emergency.

Half an hour goes by, and nothing.

Fine, he'll do the hard work.

Yes, why? Read at 12:13 am

His text is read almost a second after he sent it.

You were waiting for him, or rather for Steven, to say something.

---

Your POV

You've never really texted Marc, but you can tell by the flatness of the words that it's him who is responding.

You type out a reply quickly, mostly so you won't hesitate to send it.

do you want to come over?

Three pulsing dots stare back at you as you eagerly wait for his reply.

For what?

To talk. DELETE.

Because I miss you. DELETE.

i need some help finishing this bottle of wine :)

I'll be over in 15 minutes.

---

You try to keep yourself occupied while you wait. You turn on the TV and flip to Animal Planet, focusing on a pair of playful bear cubs instead of the anxiety steadily building in your chest. Of course, your eyes keep drifting back to your phone, counting down the minutes until he arrives.

A quiet knock pulls your attention away from the screen.

You quickly smooth down your hair and check that your shirt isn't too wrinkled to answer the door. Once you're satisfied, you shuffle over to the front door and take a breath before opening it.

He's…wearing Steven's clothes.

The sight is oddly disorienting. An oversized sweater hangs off his frame, and his curls are left messy and unbrushed. Usually, he changes the moment he gains control of the body -- pulling on a T-shirt and jeans, or sweatpants if he's staying in, and brushing his hair back into place.

His gaze refuses to meet yours as he stands just outside your apartment. He looks almost apprehensive, as if he expects you to turn him away at any second.

You break the silence first.

"It's been a while."

Marc's brown eyes finally lift to yours, and he answers with a simple, "Yeah."

You can tell he's tired, probably from sleepless nights of crime-fighting or simply waiting for the sun to come up.

He has talked about what it's like to be a nightwalker, and despite how hard he tries to hide it, you can tell he wants a normal life... even if he feels he doesn't deserve one.

He used to say that he enjoyed the silence of the night, how people would finally leave him alone once the city went quiet. He never seemed bothered when you were there to talk his ear off, though.

"Come in." You step aside to give him room to enter.

The boys don't come to your place very often. Steven has only been over a handful of times, and this is Marc's second visit. You're a little surprised he remembered the address.

You guide Marc into the kitchen and gesture for him to sit at the counter while you reach for another bottle of wine and begin to open it.

"I thought you said you needed help finishing a bottle." You place a new glass in front of him. "Why are you opening up another one?"

"Did I?" You ask as the cork finally pops free. "I guess I finished it while waiting for you."

"Drinking without me?" A hint of a smile pulls at his lips.

Marc notices that the kitchen island between you makes it hard for you to reach his glass, so he smoothly slides it closer. He watches you pour him a healthy amount before doing the same for your own glass.

"I invited you over, didn't I?"

Rather than taking a sip, Marc swirls the wine within the delicate glass, staring into the whirlpool, suddenly pensive and quiet.

"You invited Steven," he corrects, looking up from his glass as though he's trying to pin you in place.

You barely wet your lips with the wine before setting the glass down, suddenly puzzled by Marc's words.

"Why would I do that? He doesn't even drink."

"You texted him."

"I texted you." You sit a little straighter, feeling abruptly sobered by the confrontation. "Steven's asleep by ten. Why would I text him that late?"

"I don't know. I just thought…" Marc sighs, finally taking a drink of the wine as though it might help him untangle his thoughts.

"Is that why you're dressed like that? You thought I wanted to see him?" You keep your voice soft, careful not to make it sound like an interrogation. You just want to understand what he's thinking -- why he always seems to believe he isn't good enough to be chosen.

"I just didn't want you to be disappointed when you opened the door." He's quiet too.

"Marc." You let out a breath before walking around the island to his side. You reach for the hand hidden beneath the fraying sleeve of Steven's sweater. He welcomes the touch almost instinctively. Warmth envelops your hand, holding on as though afraid you'll pull away too soon. You thought the feeling would be familiar. You've held this hand before, wrapped in the same sweater, but this feels entirely new.

"I wanted you to come. I know it took a long time for me to reach out, but it was never because of Steven." Marc's eyes flicker over your face, searching for any hint that you're speaking out of pity. All he finds is the anxious press of your lips as you search for the right words to say what you need to. "I was just... nervous."

"I was nervous too," he admits. "But... it's been hell living without you. I wanted to give you time, but the moment I got the chance to see you, I took it." He caresses your cheek softly.

"I don't need time, Marc. I just needed to see you." You lean in until your forehead rests against his. "We'll figure this out."

He nods almost imperceptibly. "As long as you're with me."

"I'm here," you whisper before finally pressing your lips to his.

It's slow, sweet, and full of every feeling that's too fragile to be spoken aloud. You don't feel rushed anymore -- not like the first time, when it felt as though it would be the one and only time you'd ever have him this way. Now, wrapped in his arms, you feel certain in a way you never did before.

You don't let him get ahead of himself and pull away after a few minutes. You can tell that one kiss isn't enough for him; even now, his dazed eyes linger on your lips. He'll just have to be patient.

With a smile, you offer him your hand. "There's something I've been wanting to do with you for a while now…"

"Really?" Marc asks, his voice dropping lower. He takes your hand and rises from the kitchen stool, letting you lead him toward your bedroom.

You pull back the blankets on the bed and nudge him closer. "Want to sleep with me?" you ask with a self-satisfied smile. "You look like you'd be good at cuddling."

Marc blinks at you. "Sleep?" he repeats, like he needs to make sure he heard you correctly.

You nod, still smiling.

For a second, he just stares at the bed, then back at you.

"I don't think anyone's ever invited me to bed just to sleep."

You roll your eyes playfully, "Okay, Mr. Playboy." You push him toward the bed, and he crawls in, making you yelp when he pulls you down with him.

"Hey, who are you calling a playboy? I'll have you know that I'm a very respectful guy--"

You toss a pillow at his face. "Just go to sleep!"

---

Steven's POV

The morning sun shines directly onto Steven's face, waking him from a bizarre dream he can barely remember. He could've sworn he closed the blackout curtains last night.

Was Marc staring out the window again, brooding over the city like some Batman wannabe?

He feels someone curled against his chest, clinging to him like a vine. Layla must've slipped into the flat while he was asleep. He wraps his arms around her the way he does every morning when they have the chance to be lazy together.

"Morning, love."

"It's too hot, Marc," you groan, kicking off the blankets that had been piled over the two of you.

Suddenly, you're both very awake and scrambling away from each other.

"Marc?"

"Love?"

---

warnings cont.: slight sexual tension (no smut), kiss (YAY), cuddles (YAY) 😀

Anselm: Precisely. I’ve made a habit of always taking things as they come, or taking come, or people coming. Scrutinizing someone about their gender is a tremendous waste of time.

Cecil: I love to get high and cry. My stepdad said that’s not manly…

William: Hey, I can tell you from experience, the men who tell you what’s ‘manly’ are usually psychopaths. They’re empty monsters and they want to turn you into one too. Don’t let them. It’s a road that’s really hard to get off of.

Richard: Focus on being human, not just a man. That means taking care of yourself, and the people you love.

Cecil: Yeah… okay… so, like, I should leave the waitress a tip at the Mexican place because she’s really nice and let me back in the restaurant, even though I almost burned the place down with my homemade flame thrower?

Richard: … … … yes.

Cecil: I wasn’t leaving her a tip because we had sex once and I don’t think you’re supposed to tip someone you’ve slept with. That’s like, etiquette.

Steven: I don’t think that’s how it works, mate. Just, um, if she’s into it, do the gentlemanly thing, but not like, in a misogynist way. If she doesn’t want you to open doors for her, then let her open the door for you.

Cecil: Huh?But she already works at the restaurant. She’s already inside. Open what door? I’m confused.

Nathan: You’re hopeless.

Leto: Start with the basics, Cecil. Pay attention when she talks, be honest about your emotions, and never cheat on her.

Cecil: I’m not that good at any of those.

Leto: I think there’s hope for you Cecil.

Cecil: *sounding truly touched* Thank you. That’s really cool coming from you. You’re my hair idol, and like, a man I want to be like.

Nathan: Anyone who kisses Leto’s ass is booted. Did I not say that before we started the record?

Cecil: See? That sounds manly, Nathan. You say something and shit gets done. I want that kind of authority.

Nathan: What you don’t have in authority, you make up for by bringing really really good weed.

Anselm: Everyone’s strengths are different, Cecil. You’re an adorable drug dealer, and handy with a gun.

Steven: A gun?

Anselm: Cecil here isn’t as timid as he seems, trust me. Made an absolute massacre of revenge at a sad little wedding in the town where we live.

Steven: I dunno if that’s manly, but it is fairly terrifying.

Nathan: Steven, here’s another listener question. What’s your most memorable sexual experience?

Steven: Come on, Nathan. I can’t go telling everyone that. She might be listening. I don’t wanna be rude.

Jake: I’ll tell it. Steven had sex at the Bronx Zoo.

Steven: Jake, you absolute wanker.

Marc: Yeah, that’s not even the most interesting part. They started making out in the reptile house and he had his hand down her pants in all the dark rooms.

Steven: If we’re spilling secrets, I’m telling everyone that you summoned my batons so some woman could fuck you with ‘em.

Marc: Jake lost a costume mustache in some guy’s ass once.

Nathan: In?

Cecil: I had sex in a Bucee Beaver costume. Actually, we were both wearing them.

Poe: Who’s Bucee Beaver?

William: His name’s not actually Bucee, but he is a beaver. It’s the mascot of a truck stop. Really famous in America.

Poe: I didn’t understand most of those words. Like, almost none of them. My most memorable experience was sleeping with a being that had two consciousness. Consciousnesses? They were in two places at once.

Anselm: Like, your mouth and your ass?

Poe: No, one body was having sex with me and the other was downstairs cooking lunch. Then, the body I was with got tired, so they swapped, but it was still the same person.

Steven: You weren’t tired too?

Poe: Yeah, but it wasn’t like I was going to stop. I had a whole other body to satisfy.

Marc: My ex and I did it inside a pyramid once.

Steven: Excuse me? Why didn’t you share that little story before?

Marc: You wouldn’t approve, trust me. Plus, you only wanted to hear about the wedding night.

Steven: *dreamy voice* I love those stories. The only time I’ve ever known you to be romantic.

Nathan: That’s a great segue actually. On the topic of romance, an anonymous caller wants to know: what’s your perfect way to meet someone? What’s your approach?

As far as how I approach a woman, I’m famous and a billionaire.

But, I also live alone in the middle of nowhere. The only people I fly out here work for me. I don’t have a problem mixing work and sex, but some people make it complicated. I think it’s convenient.

For the right woman, though, I’d stop building vaginas into the female models.

Basil? What about you? Living in the city, young, you must meet interesting people.

Basil: I don't get out much. I don't really talk to except for Basil. Not me, Basil. The stuffed monkey, Basil.

Nathan: I hope that's not your opening line.

Basil: I never leave my apartment actually. Not since this happened to my face.

Santiago: Women love scars, man. You've got that mysterious thing going on.

Basil: You think?

Santiago: You'd be surprised. If you let yourself get out there, you'd definitely do very well.

Basil: Sometimes I talk to women online, but I don't know if I can meet someone on the outside without a paper bag over my head.

Santiago: Okay, definitely don't do that.

Basil: How do you meet someone special?

Santiago: It’s kind of old fashioned, but I like to go out and meet people. A bar or a party. I like that thrill of seeing someone from across a room. Making eye contact. Having a conversation where you have to lean in close because the music’s loud.

Jonathan: It’s so tiring to go out all the time, though. I’ve tried all the apps. It’s a mess out there.

Santiago: I don’t even bother with those.

Jonathan: You probably don’t have to. I’m sure it’s easy for you to pick up anyone you want. The apps are almost entirely younger women who want to call you daddy, or women with as much baggage as I have.

Santiago: You’re not interested in either of those things?

Jonathan: I’m very turned on by both. Therein lies the problem.

Anselm: I see no problem. If you want sex, there it is. If you want a relationship, then have one.

Jonathan: *uncomfortable* It’s not that simple.

Anselm: Why not?

Jonathan: … … uh… …

Anselm: I have absolutely no patience for people getting in their own way. Problems should be ended through decision or gunfire. It does no good to ignore them.

Nathan: I don’t know about that. You can learn a lot about someone by picking apart their issues and insecurities.

Anselm: Yes, mind games are fun, but you don’t want to play them with your one and only love.

Nathan: Agree to disagree. I want a partner who can challenge me.

Santiago: You are the challenge. Nothing’s simple with you, don’t worry. All I’m saying is that meeting people in person is way better than online.

Jonathan: I guess I could try it Anselm’s way. If I have a one night stand with a woman I could try to make it more than one night. Dinner or something.

Anselm: Something? Please use a more enticing word.

Jonathan: I’m not like you, Anselm. I don’t have a whole house dedicated to sex. My imagination’s not that good.

Anselm: Well, if you need advice, just text one of us. We’re all happy to help.

Nathan: Have more confidence, man. Plenty of women are into that absent minded professor thing. It’s right up there with men in uniform.

Jonathan: I just wish I could start over, you know?

Nathan: Like, be a virgin again? You couldn’t pay me enough money to do that. Actually, we have a listener question about how we would feel, being someone’s first time.

Jonathan: My first time was… not sexy. I didn’t know what I was doing at all. I hadn’t even really seen porn. She had to basically tell me what to do every step of the way, so I thought that’s what sex was for like, ten years.

Anselm: My first time was in an alpine meadow. The cows kept coming over to see what the fuss was about. Curious creatures. I think it gave me a fetish about milk for awhile.

Victor: I have that too.

Anselm: As for being someone’s first. I would be honored. There would be fanfare, perhaps a band and a party afterward.

Nathan: I don’t like to admit fear, but I think taking someone’s virginity is more terrifying than the singularity.

Santiago: I’ve been someone’s first. It’s really amazing, actually. I was nervous, don’t get me wrong, but I went slow and it was a really great weekend. I still meet up with her sometimes, if I’m going through that part of the world.

Marc: I was with a woman who didn’t tell me she was a virgin until we were in bed, getting undressed. It turned out okay, but I wish she’d told me before. I would’ve done something special.

Santiago: Like what?

Marc: I don’t know. Made dinner at home, lit some candles. Put a big, soft blanket on the bed. Maybe made sure the bathtub was ready for afterward. I tried to make up for it by eating her out before and after.

Santiago: I’m pretty sure she’s happier with the oral sex than a candle. What about you?

Blue: If it’s a girl’s first time, I try to make it good. It’s a thrill, I won’t lie. I give her something nice afterward. A new dress, or her own number at the club.

Poe: If you had to pick someone at this table to be your first, who would it be?

Blue: Laurent maybe? I like that dirty Frenchman thing he has going on.

Poe: Anselm?

Anselm: I would choose you, Poe, obviously.

Nathan: Why obviously?

Anselm: Jealousy does not become you, Nathan. Look at Poe. Dashing, gallant, and sexually, I can tell that he lives to serve.

Poe: … is that a compliment?

Steven: I’d pick you, Anselm. I like the adventure of it.

Nathan: *snort laughs* He’ll give you an adventure all right. He’ll adventure you right into dressing up in an insane outfit and letting him demolish you in some weird role play. Ask me how I know.

Steven: *genuinely asking* How do you know?

Nathan: That was sarcasm, dude. I know because I’ve been there.

Anselm: And a riot of a time it was. I’ve never enjoyed a traditional Midsommar celebration more!

Nathan: Look, we’re almost out of time and- hey- Atreides, quit checking your watch. I told you this would be a solid 60 minutes.

Leto: *sighing* It was a text, okay? It’s a… listener question.

Nathan: This isn’t live, so the only way you’re getting a question this second is if one of these chucklefucks is texting you right now, behind my back.

Leto: Yeah. Huh. I always forget you’re smarter than you look.

Nathan: Go hump a barbed wire fence.

Leto: Do you want to hear the question or not?

Nathan: Go ahead.

Leto: Death. The question is about death. This anonymous person posits that some of us receive an untimely death in our universes.

*awkward silence, throat clearing*

Leto: Nathan?

Nathan: I don’t know, dude. We all have complicated lives to begin with so why would our deaths be any easier?

Leto: But you know more than you’re saying.

Nathan: *angry* What do you want, Leto? You want me to say there’s some alternate dimension where you have a family that loves you and when you get murdered, they wage some kind of war across the universe?

Leto: No, that would be ridiculous.

Nathan: *raises his voice* Do you want to hear that a fucking meteorite crashes into Earth and kills Anselm?

Leto: Nathan, calm down.

Nathan: That Marc, Steven, and Jake never get an ending at all?

Leto: Nath-

Nathan: *sounding a little insane* Why can’t we just live in the here and now? Huh? Who the fuck asked about death? WHO?

*silence*

Leto: *quietly* What happens to you, Nathan?

Steven: Mate, ‘s alright. We’re all of us alive and well here. You can tell us.

Nathan: *quietly* None of you gets it. I don’t think most of us have death in common. Actually, we have something a lot worse that runs through every one of our lives. We all go straight into situations where we know we could die, where we probably will. That’s the thread that binds us. Not curly hair or this nose or our eyes. We’re all so fucked up.

Richard: I don’t do that. Really. I don’t put myself in danger.

Nathan: You work with death-row inmates.

Richard: Yeah, maybe you make a good point.

Basil: I didn't ask to get struck by lightning, but Nathan's right. I really lost it afterward.

Victor: If I may interject, I know a fair bit about death and life. It’s my entire existence actually. Fear of death is natural. I have found, however, that one is only truly afraid of death is one feels they haven’t done enough living.

Perhaps, like me, you feel you’ve contributed to humanity, but you, yourself, have nothing to actually show for it. With egos as big as ours, that’s a difficult conclusion to reach.

Nathan: I wasn’t trying to create life through artificial intelligence for humanity, Victor. It was just *sigh* … it felt-

Victor: Inevitable.

Nathan: Yeah.

Victor: The burden of intellect.

Cecil: Yeah.

Nathan: You feel the burden of intellect?

Cecil: … … … What are we talking about?

Marc: Hey, it’s not the burden of intellect or whatever. It’s that we’re all kind of control freaks who have zero control over our own lives.

Steven: He’s right. Feels to me I’m just a character in a story sometimes, being pulled this way and that. This job. That job. Living here. Living there. Trousers on. Trousers off.

William: You’re all correct, I think, but that doesn’t mean we stop trying.

Steven: Trying what?

William: To do what we can, however insignificant it feels to us.

Poe: Nothing, and no one, is insignificant. I believe that with my whole heart.

Jonathan: Nathan, the kind of questions you’re having, they’re a lot like the ones I debate in my work. They’re important, yes, but remember, you still have to eat meals. Go to the bathroom. Sleep. Life goes on. Time keeps moving.

Nathan: I get your point, but it doesn’t. Not when you’re all here. We’re kind of out of time and space.

Leto: So, when you told me this would only be an hour?

Nathan: It’s actually infinity. Or it’s nothing. There’s kind of no difference around this table. Besides, talking to you feels like torture for eternity, so what do you care?

Leto: *mumbles* I hate you in every universe.

Anselm: So, in a way, Nathan, you’re saving all of us, simply by having us as guests on your little pod-cast.

Nathan: It’s just one word. Podcast.

Anselm: Pod-cast

Nathan: Podcast

Anselm: Pahd-cahst

Nathan: Just say it quickly. Podcast.

Anselm: Oh what the devil do I care what it’s called? I simply enjoy being here. I’m grateful to have met all of you.

Leto: I have to admit, it’s very interesting.

Victor: Yes, I don’t feel quite so alone anymore.

Basil: Me either.

Anselm: Coincidentally, what does happen to you?

Nathan: I get stabbed at my house by an ai woman I made myself.

Anselm: *sound of gun cocking* That is unacceptable! Where is she?

Nathan: Put that away. You can’t fix it like that.

Anselm: I think you’ll find that I can.

Santiago: Here, let me.

*sound of gun being yanked away, magazine and bullet ejecting*

Santiago: Here’s question: if you could fix anything in your universe, what would it be? I’d have figured out a way to go back and get the millions of dollars I left in the Andes mountains.

Marc: I would’ve introduced myself to Steven and Jake a long time ago.

Steve: Cheers, Marc I would’ve done the same.

Leto: I would’ve spent more time with my father.

William: I never would’ve joined the fucking Army.

Richard: I would’ve asked that girl out in high school, the one I had a crush on for years.

Jonathan: I can’t even pick. Too much to choose from.

Victor: My friend, we’re drinking from the same teapot of shame.

Laurent: I should’ve finished art school.

Cecil: I wish I hadn’t told everybody that the Taco Bell near my house gave me explosive diarrhea because then people stopped going there and it closed. God. I really miss that Taco Bell.

Santiago: Why did you lie about something like that?

Cecil: It wasn’t a lie. I just wish I hadn’t said anything out loud. Then, I’d still be able to get a chalupa supreme in under five minutes.

Anselm: Well, I live my live with zero regrets. Geschehen ist geschehen. What’s happened is happened. Or, as I like to say, onto the next hole.

Nathan: That’s gross. I get what you’re saying, though. Time ever only moves in one direction. Although, technically, I could use the machine to go back in time, but-

Leto: What?

Nathan: I mean, I could probably-

Leto: Hey, could you bring me back to a very specific night about two years ago?

Nathan: Why?

Leto: There was this woman-

Nathan: I’m not interfering with the space time continuum just so you can get laid.

Jake: What about me? I got a look at Jonathan’s ex wife and I’d like to take her for a ride in my cab, so to speak.

Nathan: This isn’t a crossover event.

Poe: Can I use it to make a teeny-tiny little adjustment and never join a bunch of drug runners? I’d like to retcon that whole thing.

Nathan: There’s no way you were in a drug gang. That’s obviously a lie. You’re a goody two shoes.

Poe: *under his breath* I had a bad boy phase.

Nathan: Sure you did, Poe, and I’m a big, blue, omniscient alien who can control matter with my mind. Whatever.

I think we’ve stretched the limit of all of us being in one room. I have to start putting you back in your universes or shit might start to break permanently.

Doing this is the most fun I have, so, you know, thank you for sending in your questions.

I think I should get us all chalupas to celebrate.

Poe: What’s a chalupa?

Cecil: You’re gonna love it!

Anselm: I’m going to call you my little chalupa from now on.

Nathan: Until next time, I’m Nathan Bateman. Thank you for listening, thank you for subscribing, and please, if Anselm Vogelweide ever asks you to put on a white dress and a flower crown, and to treat his dick like a may pole, please keep in mind that the tea he gives you afterward is definitely hallucinogenic.

**Outro Music Fades Up**

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“Fuck, baby — you fit me so well,” he groans, his hands tightening on your waist to hold you together; as he leans up and kisses you — searing and deliberate, indulging the passing seconds as much as you are.

“So fucking perfect,” his jaw clenches, hands sliding across your torso for your breasts, as he gyrates his hips up at you; the leather seat creaking rhythmically to his wet cadence, barely muffling your moans.

He shifts slightly, tilting his cock at an angle that when you push forward just a smidge, the tip drags along that unbearable spot that has you whimpering for mercy, fresh bursts of arousal wetting his cock between your thighs.

“There,” he grunts low and smug. “Right there.”

Oh, yeah — he knows what you like when you’re riding him nice and slow; like a pilot who knows his starship at the back of his hand — where the pressure needs to be, and how deep, and what makes you fall apart like you are now on his lap.

Before long, you are right there again at the cusp, teeth clinging to your bottom lip as your fingers dig into the sides of the cockpit for dear life. Your head bows and your brows crease; his ministrations getting harder, like an answer to the prayers you never needed to convey out loud.

“Cum for me, baby,” Poe grunts; he knows you’re close — he can hear it in your strained outcry, he can feel it in the way your muscles cinch around him. “Use my cock, take what you need.”

He has only to reach down and strum at your clit — and you’re a goner. Your whole body locks tight in his arms as the orgasm surges through you; your nails biting into the cockpit walls with such intensity you might’ve dented the Transparisteel make.

Beneath you, Poe slows his hips to languid rolls, riding you through the storm as you quiver so lovingly around him, your slick coating his thighs and trickling down the pilot’s seat.

“Mmm — you feel so good when you cum on my cock,” Poe murmurs against your exposed neck, hot lips trailing along the side of your head tilted back on his shoulder, hovering close to your mouth grasping for air.

When the stars have cleared from your eyes, you unfold your wobbly legs onto the floor, purring long and throaty as his cock slips out of you.

You feel the weight of his eyes on you even before you glance over your shoulder to catch them — dark and dilated and hungry, raking down your spine. You arch your arse up at him with a seductive wriggle, bending forward to lure him with the view of your cunt still aching where he was last, your thighs spread and smeared with the muted shine of your slick.

“Take us back to base — Commander,” you order, your voice harsh and keening; smiling wistfully at him.

Poe licks at his swelling grin as he shifts from the seat, crowding in on you to give your arse a cheeky grab.

“Fucking love it when you call me that,” he rasps against your ear; teeth finding your earlobe, sucking your skin a violent red.

Poe nudges your knees apart, spreading your legs until your thighs are pressing firmly against the cockpit walls for balance. You mewl as he bends you over, nestling his crotch pleasantly in the valley of your cheeks.

He slathers himself up, teasing you in the process — every slide up and down the cleft like a promise waiting to be fulfilled; before he pushes into you to the hilt in one fluid motion, tearing a throaty groan from the both of you as you fall forward, gripping onto the control systems — full.

At least in this position, there’s enough room for the both of you — but only just.

Poe fucks you rough, fingers digging into your shoulder; each rugged thrust punching the next breath out of you — bumping your crotch against the console, the flight stick digging into your stomach.

You can’t exactly say that it’s uncomfortable like his predicament from earlier. In your current position, it actually feels rather — sensational when the buttons and triggers catch so close to your sensitive bud.

You can actually use them to your advantage.

Every time he thrusts into you, you let the slight propulsion rock you forward, edging you just a little lower each time — until the wide, blunt head is pressing lusciously against your clit; a humming whimper slipping past your smiling lips as you revel in this — delightful stimulation.

“Shit, baby —” Poe growls, drawing you to his chest again.

Inside, you feel him stiffen — it’s fucking turning him on.

“That feels good — huh?” He croaks; one hand closing over your neck, and tilting your lips to lick into your mouth. “Ugh, the way you’re clenching around me — I know it feels so good.”

You can only moan back vacantly as he picks up speed — skin slapping and slick squelching between your legs; grinding you against the flight stick until your exhales leave your body in shallow spurts.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart — you know that?” Poe mumbles. “I’m gonna be thinking about you — rubbing yourself like that the next time I’m away.”

Your breath catches in your chest, tension building low and tight where the flight stick is probing at you.

“I’m gonna be jacking myself off to that beautiful sound you’re making right now, and how tight you are wrapped around my cock while you do — that,” his words taper to a feeble groan when he feels you gush warm around him.

Kriff — the image of Poe throttling through hyperspace masturbating in this very cockpit to the very thought of you; that is fucking turning you on.

“You think about me, Poe?” You purr, your hand twisting to the back of his head to bring his face closer to you, clammy foreheads touching and heated breaths mingling. “You think of me when you’re away?”

His laugh rumbles low against your back, his canines indenting the round of your shoulder — making you gasp.

“Always, baby,” he hums, licking at the salt on your skin. “Always thinking about you waiting for me, being so — naughty.”

“I’m gonna be thinking of us fucking — right here, right now,” his fingers bite crescents into your waist, his hips starting to lose rhythm. “Hnghhhh — this whole cockpit is gonna smell like you weeks from now.”

Then — Poe grabs the flight stick, his fingers latching onto the grooves, as he manoeuvres it to apply sweet, delicious pressure on your clit; while simultaneously from behind, his cock keeps its unfaltering punches into you — adamant in taking you apart.

Your head tips back onto his shoulder as heavy pleasure crests in your stomach, and your whole body seizes again as you cum with a laboured whine.

“I’m coming in hot, baby — I-I’m — I’m — fu-hngh-UGHHHHH!”

He follows seconds after you, a broken moan tearing from his throat as he propels you both forward across the control systems; sweaty hands clawing for anything to hold on to as you ride out the orgasm together — stars blooming behind your eyes.

//

You both collapse onto the pilot’s seat in a smouldering heap, drenched in sweat with blood roaring in your ears. You feel his cock softening inside of you, as his fingers clasp over your jaw, pulling your gaping mouth to his again for a deep, passionate kiss.

“Best — birthday — ever.” Poe croons, a smiling peck punctuating each word against your lips.

“Really, Poe?” You huff a short laugh, raising a brow at him. “I banged my head and cramped my leg, you kneed yourself in the misters, and you got pegged —”

“All worth it, sweetheart,” he chuckles, smiling goofily at you; eyes glazed with an afterglow that makes your heart swell. “It’s all fucking worth it.”

So — fucking — annoying.

You sigh, sweeping the damp curls from his forehead: “You really are incorrigible.”

“And you really do like me,” he murmurs back.

“Debatable,” you taste his smile against your lips; stealing his contented moans for yours, as his arms wrap around you tight to have as his.

“So, uh —” he starts, warm panting breaths caressing your cheeks. “Is it — better?”

You pull away, crinkling your nose. Your fingertip trails along the protruding veins on his hand draped across your stomach while you pretend to consider the question.

This really is better than the many times before, but instead of confessing —

“Need to go a few more times before I can be sure,” you whisper against his needy mouth.

He lets out a guttural laugh, capturing your lips again: “Not gonna say no to that.”

“Uhhhh — Black Leader, this is comm tower — over.”

You both freeze when the ATC’s wary voice fills the cockpit.

“On behalf of the whole Resistance base,” he clears his throat carefully on the other line. “Might I suggest that no — please don’t do that again?”

Your head whips around the perimeter, looking for the source — then your eyes fall on the control systems, and your heart drops.

By the flight stick, still shimmering with your slick in the low light, the commslink blinks a rapid red.

“Oh shit!” You yelp.

You must’ve accidentally flipped the switch when Poe —

“Or at least — wait till I’m done with my shift, for the love of the Force…” the ATC mutters before he ends the transmission.

You scramble from Poe’s lap to kill the switch; as if that’s going to make any difference now.

“OH — MY — STARS!” You bury your face in your hands, furious heat crawling up your neck.

Poe, in the meantime, has his face pressed up against the nape of your neck — wheezing.

You slap him: “Stop it!”

That instead makes him laugh harder, his whole body shaking against your back.

“Fucccccck —” you groan.

“Ohhhh, baby — I love you so much,” Poe laughs against your cheeks, peppering kisses across your face twisted in a wince.

When he finally catches his breath, he throws in: “At least he definitely knows I’m better now.”

You punch him on the chest this time — hard.

“That’s not even him!” You shriek, already laughing with him despite the violent blushes.

//

You swear to the Force that if anything happens to him, anything at all; tumbles off the axis and crashes himself into an asteroid field —

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” you grit through your teeth.

“Hey man, you’re the one who insists he goes up inebriated,” the ATC’s low chuckle buzzes in your headset.

For a flashing moment, you remember the argument you had with Poe back when the Resistance was evacuating D’Qar. He was dead set on heading up to the Dreadnought with a newly upgraded overdrive thruster. And you — you just didn’t want him to put his own life in danger, blowing himself into smithereens when the experimental booster overheats the system.

This time, you can’t even blame his trigger-happy temperament. You were the one who put him up there after a few too many celebratory drinks in the mess hall.

You’re just starting to rehearse how you would break the news to General Organa about her favourite Resistance pilot getting into a drunken accident in space, when the commslink bursts to life again: “Comm tower — I’m coming in hot!”

“Roger that, Black Leader,” the ATC responds curtly, his voice tinged with mirth.

“Oh, thank fuck,” the words come out ragged as your heavy legs carry you toward the bay entrance — where the relief dies the second you see that sonuvabitch whizzes past with another series of somersaults right in front of your eyes; the hull of his starship a mere breath away from the trees that line the perimeter.

“Kriff’s sakes — Poe!” You yell into the mouthpiece.

“Just in case you didn’t catch that earlier!” He laughs.

Your heart is still lodged in your throat when he finally eases the X-wing back into the hangar, and it is only after he has powered down the engine that you allow the fuel-drenched air to fill your lungs again.

“Not a word to the General — you got it?” you mutter at the ATC, your footsteps quick as you rush toward Poe.

“It’s like she’s never left base,” the ATC titters.

You reach the top of the airstairs just as the Transparisteel canopy peels open, and you catch Poe yanking the oxygen mask away, pulling his helmet off his head. His dark curls tumble free, matted on one side and standing at wild angles on the other — flushed with recklessness, yet aggravatingly dashing.

“How was she?” You gulp as he stares back at you with glazed eyes, like he just met with the engineers of the stars themselves.

He remains speechless, his breathing short and frayed; and you start to panic if the sudden break into atmo might’ve caused any brain damage —

“Wizard,” his voice is light as a big grin cracks his whole face open; flashing you that silly smile that you have grown to love every time he returns to base from a successful mission.

And just like that, your shoulders drop, and the vice around your ribs loosens. All the anxieties from seconds ago just melt away when you see him this — happy.

You exhale in a whoosh, shaking your head as you check off the list on your datapad.

“Did the thrust engine overload though? Because I thought the systems went offline for a sec—”

Your breath hitches when Poe reaches out to squeeze your hand.

“They’re all perfect, sweetheart,” his smile is soft like a dream as he brings your fingers to his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome — Commander,” you blush, leaning in to kiss him; and rather instinctively, his hand slides up your face, moulds to the shape of your jawline as he pulls you closer.

The moment his lips meet yours, it hits different. The adrenaline is still singing in his veins, and when he deepens the kiss, every note is palpable, permeating through your bloodstream like a contagion.

His soft lips taste sweeter, and his tongue feels like satin; conjuring warmth that is hotter and a pressure that weighs heavier, curling in your belly — spreading.

“Kriff, you look so hot right now,” your stifled gasp edges with hunger, as your tongue breaches into his mouth; licking at his moans while your fingers claw at the collar of his flight suit for more.

He chuckles against your lips, and his hand rakes through the back of your head with equal eagerness. “Maybe we could —”

Before he even finishes, you are clambering into the cockpit, swinging your leg over his lap to straddle him. He can only watch you, mouth agape, as you press down on his waist in the confined space.

“H-Hey,” a dazed, lopsided smile blossoms upon his face, when his brain finally catches up.

You lean down toward him slowly, your heated breath ghosting temptation over his, as you whisper: “Hey yourself.”

He jumps in his seat when it jolts backwards, and you have to bite back your laugh as you release the lever at the narrow side of the seat.

“Like I said, Commander,” you breathe, straightening in front of him to pull your tank top over your head. “The built-in was taken out for recalibration.”

Your heart does an excitable flip in your chest, as you watch his pupils blown wide — feral at the sight of your tits, barely inches from his mouth.

“No, of course,” Poe swallows thickly, already cupping your breasts the moment you guide his hands there. “Gotta make sure it’s properly — calibrated.”

“Mmm-hmm…” you hum in agreement, matching his crooked smile before your lips collide for a fervent kiss.

//

Now, the generic cockpit in a T-70 X-wing starfighter measures at a width of just a little over 11 metres; you have the numbers ingrained in your head like a tale as old as time.

What you didn’t account for is the unaltered height of the cockpit when you’re positioned astride Poe, both of you wrestling to get his flight suit off from beneath you. The moment he raises his hips to shimmy out of his boxers, you jerk upward and clear the 1.92-metre limit — smacking your head against the canopy with a sharp “Fuck!”

“Oh, shi —” He wheezes, his fingers gentle as they probe at the side of your head. “You OK, baby?”

“Told you to go commando,” you groan, pouting dramatically back at him.

“Yeah, I can see now,” he drags his thumb across your lips to taper the frown. “Should’ve told me you’re planning on doing this.”

You tut, feigning exasperation as you press your jutting lips to his callouses.

“Then, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

You keep your eyes fixed on him as you slide down the length of his body, until you are seated snugly in the narrow space between his legs — gazing up at him all doe-eyed.

Then — you close your mouth over his thumb with a riveted hum, your hands splayed up and down his thighs. His muscles tense beneath your palms as you hollow your cheeks, pushing him in and out of your mouth in wet synchronicity.

“Y-Yeah,” his voice cracks with his composure, as you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock; his hips already flexing impatiently to your light, preliminary pumps. “I’m uh — very, very surprised right now…”

You relish the sound of his breath catching as you increase the pace of your heavier upstrokes, before taking him fully into your mouth; sighing warmly against his velvety skin, as you watch his eyes flutter shut, and his head drops back onto the headrest, parted lips huffing with airy pleasure. 

The built-in life support typically eats up one-third of the cockpit, but with it detached and the pilot’s seat reclined into the vacant space, you’re afforded the spatial buffer on the floor to suck Poe off without the control systems digging into your arse.

You’re able to do the things he enjoys whenever you find time to sneak in a quickie in the supply closet, or while lazing in bed with him on a Sunday afternoon. He likes it when you pack the tip into the back of your throat while you stroke at the veined length and give his taut balls a few fondling squeezes.

It is enough for him to lose control — his fingers tightening in your hair as he ruts into your mouth, chasing after his release until you’re gagging around him, eyes watering with spit and precum dribbling down your chin.

“Ugh — you’re taking me so well, baby,” his breathing fractures; hips stuttering helplessly into your mouth.

You glance up at him through your lashes; utter bliss smeared across his furrowed brows and slackened jaw, that corded line of his throat working as he gasps for air — Maker, if it doesn’t do things to you, seeing this beautiful man unravel like that.

You moan favourably, a fresh wave of arousal surging through you, soaking between your thighs.

You feel his balls drawing up in your nurturing hold, certain that at any moment he is going to cum fast and hard into your mouth — when he pulls you away from his cock with a resounding pop, a sticky string chained to your swollen lips from his reddened tip.

“Waitbabywait — hold on a sec,” he pants, his face flushed in deep crimson and looking so darn edible as he gazes down at you, bleary-eyed.

“What’s wrong?” You sputter, concern flickering through the haze as you push yourself up from the floor.

He instead meets you head-on with a brutal kiss, groaning at the taste of himself swirling in your tongues.

“Let me taste you, baby — I wanna taste you,” he husks, already coaxing you to move out of your spot to take his place.

With great difficulty, you trade spaces. Your stomach pressing uncomfortably against the cockpit wall as he rearranges your collective limbs in a kind of complicated dance; heated skin rubbing against sweat-slick skin — until finally, you settle in the pilot’s seat; whereas Poe, on the other hand, folds his bulkier form in a rather comical manner on the floor.

You have to pinch your lips to stop yourself from laughing, seeing him all crumpled up in an origami mess at your feet.

Even with the extra legroom, he barely fits with those wide Yavinian hips of his.

But, the moment he drapes your legs over his shoulders, and his tongue starts lapping hungrily at your cunt; the humour fades as your head tips back, your hips already canting to the heavy, torturous rolls of his ministrations.

“Kriff, you taste so good,” he grunts, nails digging into the meat of your thighs as his mouth sucks loud and lewd at your sex.

Within moments, you are teetering at the edge. The abrasion of his day-old scruff against your inner thighs shocks electric straight to your pussy. The contrasting softness of his tongue makes you throb at the accelerating figure-eights — winding you up tighter and tighter.

You let out a throaty drawl, your nails scraping desperately into his scalp.

“Hng-ughhh — Poe, I’m gonna — I’m gonna —”

“Fuck!” He pulls away sharply.

Your hand shoots up, just about to slug him across his candy pink cheekbones for leaving you high and dry like that — when you notice the grievance that knits his brows.

“Stupid flight stick is digging into my arse.” He grumbles, an arm twisted to his back nursing the sore spot between his butt cheeks.

Your frustration dissolves into a snicker instantly, and you’re now cradling his face as he winces into your palm like a wounded animal.

“Not expecting to be pegged on your birthday, were you?” You jibe, amused yet affectionate as he groans into your touch.

“No,” he scrambles up from the deplorable position until he is looming over you in the pilot’s seat; your giggles fizzling to a startled gasp when you feel his cock trail along your slickened folds.

“I’d rather be the one doing the pegging on my birthday,” his voice rumbles low against your chest, already reaching between your bodies to line the tip into you — sinking in.

“Peg you so good I’ll have you seeing stars,” his growling mouth envelopes yours, swallowing your delightful moans.

//

You both latch on to a rhythm that was never lost in the first place, merely put away within arm’s reach until you have one leg perched off the edge of the cockpit, while the other is straightened skyward against his broad chest.

Poe has one firm foothold on the edge of the seat, while the other braces at the sole on the floor; his hips rotating deftly, dragging his cock deep and delicious along your walls.

Through your feathered lashes, you watch him watch you — his darkened eyes revering at his cock thrusting in and out of you between your waxen bodies; then rising to catch your expression, ever shifting with the every move he makes as he hits that delectable spot inside you over and over.

You are nearing the precipice once again; your pretty whines ricocheting off the fogged-up canopy, the coiling pressure stretching low and taut in your belly — when at a rather terrible timing, your calf muscle seizes.

You surge forward at the sharp cramp, biting down on the crook of his neck, stifling your distress in a strangled whimper.

That confuses the hell out of Poe. He knows that this is not what you sound like at all when you’re close. Amidst the entangled chaos of sweaty limbs, his underfoot slips — connecting his left eye heavily into your kneecap; and his testicles punch down on the seat hard, knocking an agonising scream from his lungs.

“Poe!” You wince down at the top of his head, his face burning hot on your stomach. “You OK?”

“Yup! D-Definitely seeing stars now,” he grimaces; breath coming in sharp gasps as he lifts his reddened face to you. “Shit, this is harder than I thought.”

“Now you know why I don’t wanna fuck in the X-wing?” You groan as you lower your trembling leg from the edge.

“You alright, baby?” He rasps, strong fingers easing the muscle pull; sucking his teeth concurrently while he cradles his balls in his other hand.

“Yeah…” You sigh.

This is not going as smoothly as you have hoped. In fact, it is turning out to be even more disastrous than the handful of encounters prior.

There is a moment of reprieve as you both catch your breaths — you combing your fingers through his unruly curls, as he presses his lips to your leg to kiss it better.

You note the shift in him as he grows quiet. His jaw sets and his eyes go distant — that all too familiar look when he is running multiple scenarios through his head. Calculating odds, weighing risk, and a hard choice that may not be favourable to him but one he’ll make regardless — it’s endearing.

Before he calls off this whole fiasco, you slap him on his shoulder, drawing him out of his reverie: “Get up.”

He stares at you questioningly, but abides nonetheless as you take the reins. Another awkward choreography commences; twisted limbs shuffling here while the other overlaps with another there, before he reclaims his pilot’s seat — with your legs flanking his thighs, facing away from him.

You feel rather than hear his breath hitches, as you settle against him, your cunt stroking along the length of his cock, already twitching in response to the new angle.

You catch his eye over your shoulder, a sultry smile spreading across your face, as you watch his eyebrows shoot up, his beautiful brown eyes keening with anticipation.

“How about you steer this ship home — Commander?” You nip at your bottom lip, winking at him.

//

You jolt awake as the chopper touches down at the airfield. A car is waiting to take you home.

Home.

You're free. It's over.

But now he's all you can think about.

What the hell happened to you?

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

You're seated at a table of strangers in a grand hotel ballroom. An overly expensive, entirely too small plate of overcooked chicken sits in front of you, untouched. Your boss allowed you to attend the conference on your new company's dime, to network and socialize.

Your boss also knows that you worked for the keynote speaker. And not only did you work for him, you worked closely with him. This simple fact elevated you right up the ranks in your new job. It's simple: your boss wants and introduction.

For a substantial raise and promotion, you are willing to give it to her. You're ready to see Nathan Bateman again to make it happen.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

He steps up to the mic in a rare public appearance, dressed far more casually than everyone else in the room. He doesn't have to smile - it would only look creepy if he did. There's no need for him to captivate the audience with icebreaking humor - they are already hanging onto his every word. Most of his vocabulary flies over half their heads, but they don't detect the condescension in his tone. They revel in the chance to hear his genius presented directly to them, face-to-face.

He looks handsome. He managed to wear full-length pants - dark gray, lightweight, but expensive. Something he would hike in. He even handled more than a single layer over his torso. A plain, off-white shirt hugs his impressively broad chest, covered by a rust-colored, wool cardigan.

Behind his wire frames, his eyes seem to sparkle a little. Perhaps he is enjoying this, although that doesn't seem very on-brand Nathan. Your heart somersaults in your chest as his gaze lands on you. He never looks away the rest of the speech.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

He's swarmed at the event's end, everyone clamoring for a moment, but your boss buzzes with excitement as he approaches you, ignoring any distraction between the two of you.

Everyone pauses and goes quiet in a circle around you. Your boss grips your arm in anticipation.

He tears his gaze from yours, politely greeting her first, by name and title, shaking her hand. "I have to congratulate you for recruiting my best employee." She's star-struck, but he graciously overlooks it. "I hope I can trouble you to borrow her for a quick word. Promise I won't steal her back."

"O-of course, Mr. Bateman," your boss stammers.

Nathan turns back to you, holding out his hand gallantly, like a prince in a fairy tale. "Could we talk?"

He doesn't say anything clever. He doesn't embarrass you or take any further action to convince you to leave the room with him.

Your chest rises and falls as you exhale shakily. With a quick nod, you accept his hand.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

You're in an elevator, whooshing to the penthouse, because of course you are.

He hasn't released your hand, his thumb stroking yours with disarming tenderness.

"I can't believe you're here. You look beautiful."

You haven't said a word, frozen in disbelief. Clearing your throat, you find your voice. "Thank you."

His eyes search yours. "No tricks tonight. I want you to know right away - I'm Nate. Here, look."

You flinch, withdrawing your hand and pressing your back against the elevator wall.

"It's okay," he assures you, pushing down on his wrist to reveal a panel of wires in his arm. "I made Nathan's speech tonight. He wanted to see if I could do it. But I'm not here to trick you. I wanted to tell you as soon as I saw you."

You wordlessly nod as he returns his arm to its human-looking state.

"You don't have to come with me," he adds, pulling his cardigan sleeve back into place. “I only wanted you to know. Nathan is upstairs. He wants to see you.”

Your body trembles as you wrestle with something potentially terrifying, or at least chilling, and something you’ve longed for every second since a helicopter took you away from that house.

You’re not afraid of Nate, here in the elevator. You’re afraid of what happened to your mind to make you believe you weren’t a human being.

His hand reaches for the elevator buttons. “What floor, sweetheart?”

Your eyes fly to his. “M-mine?” You stammer, then scowl. “As if Nathan doesn’t already know.”

Nate swallows - a new function for him. “He might, but I don’t. And you don’t look very happy see me, not that I blame you. So, what floor?” He lowers his hand. “Or we can switch elevators and go to the penthouse.”

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

You pause outside the penthouse double doors, waiting for Nate to unlock it. “Are you sure?” He asks you softly.

You have to go inside. You have to know if he was as mad and manipulative as you’ve made him out to be in your retellings to yourself, to your therapist. Mostly you just want to see him.

Squeezing your hands into fists, you quickly nod.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

Nathan looks completely himself - buzzed hair, bushy but beautifully kempt beard, tank top showing off his larger-than-you-remember, muscular arms and the expanse of his chest, and loose basketball shorts, with bare feet. Dark eyebrows lift over his wire frames as he beholds you for the first time in a year.

"Look at you," he breathes, approaching you cautiously. "You're beautiful."

Seeing you pause, he looks between you and Nate. "He's Nate. I'm Nathan. Did he tell you?"

"H-he showed me." Smoothing your hands over your dress, you shift uncertainly from foot to foot. "He said you wanted to see me."

"Yeah. Of course I do. Come here." He closes the distance between you, pulling you into his arms, granting you plenty of space to breathe or even shrug him off. The familiar scent of his skin and warmth of his embrace weaken your resolve and you melt against him, whispering, "Nathan."

He presses his nose against your temple, inhaling deeply before kissing your cheek, releasing you promptly. Your body almost surges forward for another moment in his arms.

"Want some dinner?" He asks with his typical disarming nonchalance, walking back to where he likely came from - the dining room table, laid with an impressive, healthy-looking spread. "I assume the dinner was shit. Always is, at these things."

You allow yourself the tiniest smile, not that he really sees it. "I would love something."

"All right, have a seat. I'll get more plates."

He saunters into the kitchen, his charming casualness helping you relax. Nate follows you to the table, pulling out a chair for you.

You thank him and he takes a seat across from you. Nathan returns with enough plates for everyone and sits at the head of the table big enough for eight.

Nate is staring at you, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels...adoring, but not invasive. You watch carefully as he and Nathan dish out some food. Nate takes a fork, stabs his vegetable and takes a bite.

"You can eat now."

He smiles at you. "Mm-hmm."

You turn a wide-eyed gaze to Nathan. "That's amazing."

Even Nathan smiles. But it's small and self-satisfied. "He can make speeches too, I gather. Did he convince you?"

"Leave her alone. She's not here for you to collect data," Nate mildly scolds.

Nathan rolls his eyes at his artificial twin, but turns back to you. "Of course. You don't have to answer that. I was watching the speech from here."

Their slight disagreement feels familiar, but not unpleasant. As you enjoy some truly delicious food, you realize how much you've missed them.

"He was wonderful, but I had my suspicions," you finally say.

"You're shitting me," Nathan looks offended. "What did I miss?"

You direct your answer to Nate. "It's your eyes. You were enjoying yourself, but you didn't seem too proud. Maybe you were having fun or it made you feel more alive. But your eyes..."

"What about his eyes?" Nathan prods while Nate holds your gaze.

"I think he likes to be around people. You don't."

"No shit. But what about his eyes, specifically?"

"Jesus, Nathan, she doesn't work for you," Nate groans.

You shrug, unbothered. "They sparkle."

Nathan takes a bite, chews and swallows it down before leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "Did he see you?"

Both you and Nate turn to him, but he groans. "Don't fucking make me repeat myself."

"Yes," Nate answers. "I saw her."

"There you go," Nathan gestures in an obvious manner with his hand. "That's why you sparkled."

You quickly begin to fall into a familiar pattern of conversation with the two of them. You don't find Nathan intimidating and you start to remember that challenging him can be quite entertaining.

"I'm flattered, but he enjoyed himself. He did a great job and I think he could feel that. What do you think, Nate? That's what matters." You smile at him sweetly.

"I think you're both right," he shrugs. As soon as he says it, he begins to cough violently, appearing to be choking on a piece of food.

You stand to your feet and whisper his name.

"It's all right, I've got him." Nathan quickly powers him down. Noticing your concern, he tries to explain. "I'm not trying any bullshit here. Giving him a digestive system is the most complex thing I've ever done and it's sensitive. He does this sometimes, so I power him down to fix it. I don't want him to suffer."

You've never heard Nathan express any concern over anyone, except maybe you, when you endangered your own life, at the end. Certainly not for an android. Setting your napkin on the tabletop, you scurry around the table, to the other side of Nate's lifeless form.

"How can I help?"

Nathan's eyes meet yours, and in them, you see something vulnerable. "I know much you cared about him. I won't let anything happen to him."

As the two of you work to lay Nate down on the floor, you remember your final dinner and conversation with Nathan alone, where he seemed almost hurt, declaring that you loved his android and couldn't wait to escape his home. 'Message fucking received,' he said.

You were too messed up at the time to realize what he could mean, but with time and prospective, you had played that conversation over in your mind dozens of times, convinced you must have imagined his hurt.

What seemed like despair that you could love his creation but never him - that the antecedent events after creation left his home uninhabitable and him the most undesirable - couldn't be real, could it?

Was he asking you why you couldn't love him? Or simply declaring he understood you wouldn't ever?

You convinced yourself he wouldn't give a shit either way - that he might not even be capable of love.

Soon, Nate's airway is clear and Nathan reactivates him. Before you can ask if he's okay, Nathan grasps his shoulder. "I'm sorry, buddy. I'll fix it."

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

Nate offers to clean up a bit, despite the staff that will take care of it in the morning.

Nathan guides you out on the balcony with a magnificent view of the city. At this height, the wind chills you, despite the warm spring weather. Nathan quickly delivers to you Nate's wool cardigan.

"Holy shit, this is the softest sweater I've ever felt in my life," you gush wrapping it around you. "It's like wearing a cloud."

"Keep it," Nathan says, grasping the balcony railing and staring out into the night.

"Isn't it Nate's?"

"No, he borrowed it out of my closet. And yes, he has his own closet. I don't wear his shit."

"Of course not," you tease, stepping beside him and nudging his arm. "You only wear gym clothes. Or hiking clothes. Or nothing."

He glances over at you, wiggling his eyebrows in an atypically cheesy fashion. "I prefer nothing."

"Don't I know it?" Countless hours of your "job" with Nathan included sleeping naked in his bed, fucking in one of his many pools, or on his couch, or the table, or his desk, or in the middle of the hallway. Now that you thought about it, you were probably naked at least half the time.

He's staring at you, relieved that you're joking with him, smiling at him. His eyes flicker down to your wool-covered wrist and he gently grasps it. "How are you doing? Really?"

You try not to lose your nerve from a simple grasped arm, but unfortunately, the heart wants what the heart wants and you want to be touched by him. You want his attention.

"I'm doing really well," you tell him confidently, placing your hand over his.

His lip trembles as he sucks in a breath. Your touch seems to surprise him. He takes your hand and leads you to sit on a comfortable outdoor sofa. "Will you tell me?"

So you do. You tell him how you moved back in with your mom for several weeks to get your bearings. You returned to therapy to untangle your thoughts and feelings. You quickly and easily got a new job.

"Guess I have you to thank for that. Everyone wants to hire you after you work closely with Nathan Bateman."

"You're welcome," he sincerely replies. "It's the least I can do."

You eye him curiously, your head tilted in wonder and slight confusion.

"You're wondering if I'm Nate or something, right? I'm being too nice?"

"I don't think you're Nate," you tell him. "I can actually tell you apart pretty easily by now. At least most of the time. But you are being sweeter than usual. I guess a year away from my annoying questions softened you up. You're almost as sweet as Nate."

You meant to broach the softness with which he regarded you with a little defensive humor, but he grasped your hands in his own, dragging in a slow breath and nodding quickly. "You love him, don't you?"

His question confuses and disarms you and you melt into him, your fingers lacing together. But you take an extra moment or two, to center yourself and think objectively. "This is a research question?" You glance around you. "That's what tonight is - more research into him giving a speech - pretending to be you in public, his digestive system and whether or not I have feelings-"

"Whoa, sweetheart, fuck, slow down," he stops you. Instead of barreling on with explanation or interrogation, he watches you. "You don't work for me anymore. And you don't work with me. Which is my loss on both counts, and my fault. I do miss you."

You can't. Whatever has cracked open in him is spilling out and surrounding you - you could happily drown in it. You would more than willingly go to bed with him and if you aren't careful, you could love him so easily.

You just don't trust yourself enough. "Nate is wonderful," you finally reply, standing up and removing the cardigan. "And he came from a brilliant, beautiful mind. You should be proud."

Nathan peers up at you, the moon's glow highlighting the angles of his handsome face. "Keep it." He nods to the sweater. "It's vicuña wool. Expensive. You'll like it. Keep it."

"I can't," you tell him decisively. "I can't owe you anything."

"I owe you." He rises to his feet, ignoring your outstretched hand. "A fucking sweater is the least I could do after I..." His eyes travel down your bare arm to the prominent scar running between your wrist and elbow. He cradles your forearm and lifts it gently, tenderly stroking his thumb up and down the length of your scar.

"I really wasn't trying to kill myself," you whisper. "I've never not wanted to live. It wasn't that at all. I was confused."

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. Lifting you hand to his mouth, he gazes into your eyes and kisses your palm, lingering indulgently before his eyes drift closed and he places two more kisses along your scar. "So sorry."

He releases you and takes a full step back, turning sideways as his hands land on his hips. "I should let you get going. I don't mean to keep you."

Every instinct tells you to leave but your thundering heart propels you forward. You wrap your arms around his neck, grateful when he folds you close. "Goodbye, Nathan."

"Bye, babydoll."

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

Nathan allows you to leave without fanfare. You go back inside to say goodbye to Nate, who is waiting for you near the door.

"Are we sure he's the real Nathan?" You half-seriously question, hitching your thumb back toward where he remains, gripping the balcony rail and starting out over the city. "How many of you are there?"

"Just us," Nate smiles at you warmly. "It's him. He just misses you."

"Yeah, I doubt that," you chuckle.

"Why do you doubt him?" Nate challenges, inching toward you. His gaze falters as he shifts in what appears to be nervousness. His emotions really have gotten finely tuned and complex. "I know you can't have feelings for me because I'm not real to you. But Nathan is."

Your heart swells with pity for him. It's not that you find him pathetic. You do care about him, immensely. But what kind of life could you have made for yourself if you let yourself love an android? Especially with the way you felt about Nathan?

"I did love him," you decide to admit, side-stepping the feelings-for-an-android thing. "But it doesn't matter now."

"Why doesn't it?" Nate insists, grasping your hand. He waits for you to look at him. "Two people who love each other shouldn't have to be apart."

"Love?" You scoff. "No. He doesn't."

"Keep telling yourself that. Let yourself off the hook."

You narrow your eyes at Nate. "Fuck you, actually. You're guilt-tripping me? After what happened? And you're defending him? Why don't you two run off together?"

"Hilarious," Nate deadpans, folding his arms over his chest. "He didn't mean for you to get hurt. He never meant to confuse you about yourself - only about which one of us was the real Nathan. He's been punishing himself for it ever since. I had to beg him to come to this thing with me. He wanted me to make the speech, but he wanted to watch from home."

You can't believe the emotional complexity he's displaying, the concern for another human. It's a scientific miracle, really.

"You're amazing," you tell him. "You've grown so much."

"Thank you," he sweetly responds. "Nice deflection."

Nathan chooses that moment to reappear, pausing to watch the two of you smiling and talking. He opens his mouth, probably ready to say something sarcastic, but closes it. With a slow nod, he trudges to the bedroom.

Nate waits until the bedroom door shuts before continuing. "He thinks you like me more than him."

"What if I do?" You fire back.

Nate's mouth curls as he confidently eases back into your personal space. "Then I would be the luckiest artificially created man in the world." He shrugs one shoulder. "But since I'm the only one, I guess I'm just lucky to be here."

You give Nate a hug, tell him how good it was to see him and then you make yourself leave. These two are confusing as hell. You wonder if your heart can take it.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

You pace around your hotel room in soft, loose cotton pajamas. Feeling a chill, you wish you had held onto Nate's cardigan. Not only was it expensively soft, it smelled good. Like him. Like them.

With a sigh, you yank a hoodie over your head.

The thought of both Nate and Nathan upstairs in the penthouse while you willingly pried yourself away from them makes you question your sanity. But the safer, saner thing seems to be to stay away from them.

So why aren't you peacefully sleeping, content with your "safe" choice?

With a huff, you plop down on the end of your bed. After another moment, you fall back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, as if it will provide answers. Finally, you roll over and groan dramatically into your pillow.

"Fuck it," you finally utter, grabbing your phone and your key card for your door.

A few minutes later, you knock on the penthouse door.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･

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.

☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･

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.

☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･

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.

☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･

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."

☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･☾ ⋆*:⋆*･

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 💛✨