#cece writes

It's been nearly two months since you ended things with Clark. You had met at Wayne Enterprises' annual New Year's Eve charity gala—one of the rare events where your brother would make a public appearance. This also meant that the Gotham Museum would not only be swarmed with pretentious benefactors but also scrappy reporters itching for a quote. You hated both, but you had to keep up appearances.

It was nearly midnight, and the party was still in full swing. You spent the last couple of hours dodging reporters with half-truths and shooting fake smiles at billionaire donors. You needed a moment alone, away from the social climbers, the opportunistic tabloid writers, and the unremarkable men trying to woo you with the promise of a New Year's kiss. Bleh.

Quietly, you slipped away to the rooftop. Looking over your shoulder constantly to make sure no one was following you. The cold air hit you like a knife. It's sharp, but you don't mind—you liked remembering that you're human. You made your way through the fake turf and obnoxiously bright fairy lights toward the ledge of the roof. You paused to take in the Gotham skyline.

You thought about how much this skyline had changed since you were a kid. You thought about the trips to your parents' loft in the city center whenever they had business that they knew would take a while. The ride over in the car, as your parents had to stop you and Bruce from killing each other. Your favorite was when your parents finally had a moment to themselves. They would take you and Bruce out on the balcony and point out the different buildings that littered the sky. Many of the ones that you had known when you were younger no longer stare back at you today. You weren't sure when you started crying, but you knew when you stopped.

"I hope you're not thinking of jumping from there."

Your head shot back to look at who was speaking, and in the process, your heel caught on the train of your gown. Suddenly, you're falling face-first toward the ground. But you never hit the floor.

You found yourself being hoisted up by a big pair of arms. For a second, you thought it was your brother. You looked up and were instead greeted by piercing blue eyes staring at you through black-rimmed glasses. He was tall, very tall, but not intimidatingly so. He flashed you a nervous smile, and you watched as the dimples formed in his cheeks. He was cute. A cold breeze passed between you two, making you realize how close you actually were to him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said, letting out a soft chuckle.

"It's alright. Luckily, I had my knight in shining armor to save me," you said, lightly punching his bicep. You cringed at yourself; you were still a little bit drunk. You changed the subject, "So you're a reporter, right?"

He looked at you, dumbstruck. "How'd you know?"

"I mean, the place is swarming with either donors or reporters, and your off-the-rack suit and crooked frames tell me that you're not one of the former. So, who are you with? The Inquisitor?" Your last question had more bite to it than you intended.

"Ouch. No, I'm with The Daily Planet." He reached out his hand and flashed you a crooked half smile. "Clark Kent."

You stared at him for a second and watched how the moonlight lit up his face as a curl hung perfectly over his forehead, swaying ever-so slightly in the breeze. You swore that even in the cold, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, like he was the sun.

"I know you." You took his hand and shook it, trying to ignore the warmth rising in your chest the longer your bodies made contact. "You're always on the front page with a new Superman article. I hope you know that scoring exclusives with your super buddy doesn't mean that you'll be able to get one with me."

"Oh, yeah. I sort of expected that, but I'm not here to report on you."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"I'm working on a piece on LuthorCorp. Lex Luthor is funding one of your major donors here tonight, and I'm just following the money." His gaze softened as he leaned in a little closer, "Besides, I told my editor that the Wayne siblings liked to fly under the radar. Y'know, I learned a bit from my pal Superman about respecting privacy."

Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by a chorus of cheers. It was midnight.

You looked up innocently at Clark. "Hey, I've got a question for you, Mr. Reporter."

"Mhm," he hummed.

"D'ya got a girlfriend?"

He nearly choked on his spit as he tried to utter a simple, "No."

Smiling, you pulled him in closer by his collar and whispered into his mouth, "So, no one would mind if I did this?"

You closed the distance with your lips and waited for him to reciprocate. You felt his body ease into yours, lips moving in tandem. Your fingers snaked into his hair as his right hand cupped your cheek while his left hand made its way down to the small of your back.

You pulled away first. His once gelled hair was now a tousled mess of curls upon his head. The ghost of your red lipstick faintly lingered upon his lips. You smiled at the sight. "Happy New Year's, Clark."

After that night, you two were practically inseparable. Your apartment in Metropolis, which was once furnished with just the bare necessities, became filled with mementos of Clark. The street art you commented on in passing on a walk one day with Clark? He surprised you with it that weekend at dinner. The time you refused to let Clark visit because you didn't want to give him the flu? The weighted teddy bear and heated blanket he left in a care basket outside your door still live on your bed. When the newest season of Great British Bake-off dropped, and you were obsessed with honing your baking skills? Clark saved up to surprise you with an all-new stand mixer in your favorite color for Christmas.

But it wasn't the gifts that won you over. It was the thought and love that Clark put into them. You were used to receiving gifts from men in your past, but they tried to impress you with things they assumed you wanted. Jewelry, art, cars, whatever they thought fit the Wayne image, but it wasn't you. Clark, however, saw past your last name, and you loved him for it.

That's why that night hurt so much. You were sprawled out on the couch in a Smallville High School sweatshirt, many sizes too big for you. Anxiously, your eyes darted back and forth from the door to your phone. It had been three hours since Clark said he would come over, and he was still nowhere to be seen. No text, no call, nothing. He had begun to make it a habit of no-showing and cancelling at the last minute, but you always took him back. He would show up at your door the next morning with flowers and coffee, flashing his big puppy dog eyes at you. Each time, you folded.

But you could only take so much. In the year that you dated, you felt yourself grow closer to him than anyone else in your life, while also growing farther and farther apart. Your abandonment issues could only take so much, and Clark knew that. Yet, despite all your pleas for honesty, he never budged. You knew something had to give.

The next morning, when he inevitably showed up with flowers and your coffee made just right, you let him in without a word. Not looking him in the eye as you broke his heart.

"Clark, I can't do this anymore. You say you love me, but you don't show it. At least, not anymore." You can't look at his face, but from the way his body tenses, you can imagine his expression. Your voice started to quiver, "I love you. So much. But I need stability. I need someone who I know won't leave me like my parents did, like so many people have."

"Darling, c'mon," he pleaded.

"Clark, I'm serious," you said, avoiding his gaze. You could almost hear the tears as they welled in his eyes.

"I owe you an explanation. Please just let me give you that much," he desperately cut through your words.

"Clark, if I let you do that, then I'm just gonna end up taking you back, and I can't let that happen. Not this time. I can't hurt myself anymore. I'm sorry."

Clark didn't fight back, although a little part of you wished he did. He accepted defeat and choked out, "I'm so sorry, love," as he made his way out the door.

And so there you were, alone, wearing Clark's sweatshirt, in your apartment full of memories of what once was.

Now you were in that same apartment, mementos of Clark shoved in a box in your closet, as you clenched the latest edition of The Daily Planet in your hands. Memories and feelings that you were trying to bury for the past two months threaten to resurface.

"This article is such a cry for attention, I mean, what happened to journalism?! You should sue him," your friend says bluntly.

You blink at her.

"I mean for slander, or libel, or whatever the print version is. Maybe throw in a little defamation for good measure."

"I couldn't do that to Clark," you push back.

"Oh, god," your friend groans, "have you FORGOTTEN what that man put you through the last couple of months of your relationship. Shall I pull out the notes app list I made, recording every time that he stood you up?"

"No, no," you said, swatting her phone away. "I don't know, it feels way too harsh, and we're currently going no contact anyway."

"In case you don't remember, you're the one enforcing no contact. Loverboy has been calling, emailing, texting, carrier-pigeoning you nonstop since the breakup." Your friend lets out an exasperated sigh. "Just get one of your arsenal of lawyers to serve him!"

You don't say anything. You just shoot her a look and move on, but the conversation sticks with you. You sit in your bed that night, looking around your room, and the memory of Clark still lingers. The Mighty Crabjoys poster hung above your record player? It came with the record that Clark got you as a consolation gift for missing the concert he had given you tickets to. The Lego flowers sat neatly upon your nightstand? You and Clark built them together during a date night at your place after he flaked on going to the movies the night before. The half-empty perfume bottle collecting dust on your vanity? Clark had gotten it for you after an awful fight about his unreliability. He said it was so you would always have a reminder that he was with you, even when he wasn't. Even in his worst moments, he still managed to be the most thoughtful man alive. It infuriated you.

So, you took your friend's advice. You spent the week in Gotham consulting with your lawyers and ignoring the wary looks Bruce gave you. After a week of endless meetings and "well, maybe I shouldn't"s, the lawsuit was ready to be filed, and you had the honor of serving it.

That's how you end up outside the door of Clark Kent's apartment on a Friday evening. You can hear the faint sound of pots rattling as he cooks along to a recipe video on full volume. You remember all of the times you would yell at him to turn down the volume because "surely you can hear it just fine with the volume just halfway up." But you weren't there to scold him anymore.

You hold your breath and close your eyes as you hold out your hand to knock, when all of a sudden the door swings open. You were face-to-face with Clark.

"Hi," you let out breathlessly, like all the air was suddenly squeezed out of your lungs. You always let your guard down around him, even when you hate him.

"Hi," he says back, cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

You're brought back to reality. Clearing your throat, you tell him, "I'm suing you. You've been served," as you hand him the stack of papers.

He gives you a small smile. "Do you want to come in?"

"Clark, I'm suing you. Can you give me any hint of a reaction? Please—"

Clark drags you inside anyway.

"Clark, are YOU crazy? I'm leaving right now, and you should be glad I don't add a kidnapping charge to your case. God, you're insufferable." You're on your way out when you're stopped in your tracks.

"I'm Superman." He says bluntly, but there's a sincerity in his voice that stops you from laughing in his face. The same inflection that Bruce had when he finally came clean to you about Batman.

The air in the room is heavy as you turn to look at him. His face lit up in the moonlight the same way as it was that first night you had met him, except this time his glasses were off, and suddenly, you understood.

Clark makes his way toward you as you drop your hand from the door handle. He stops two feet away, his eyes begging for you to close the distance. So, you do.

He wraps his arms around you tightly, like he can't bear the thought of you getting away again. Leaning down in your ear, he whispers, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was so caught up in the idea that I was protecting you that I didn't realize I was hurting you until it was too late. I haven't been able to forgive myself since."

His breath is hot against your skin. Your hand is on his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat. He's a nervous mess. Superman is a nervous mess. All because of you.

You move his chin so you're looking each other in the eye. "Is that why you wrote that article, Clark?"

"Yes." A blush forms on his cheeks. "I know you enough to know that you probably didn't realize that the salacious headline didn't match the way I defended your character in the actual article. I know you would want to find a way to hurt me the way I hurt you. I knew you wouldn't have spoken to me any other way."

You're stunned. All you can do is make a slight "oh" sound with your mouth.

Clark continues, "I'm sorry, love. I know it doesn't change the past, but—"

It was your turn to cut him off as you shut him up with a kiss. It's angry, aggressive, and passionate. It's everything you've been feeling for the past two months being released in one moment.

It doesn't take long for you and Clark to return to a familiar rhythm. His lips rest on yours, and he bites your bottom lip in a way that makes your knees weak. His tongue makes its way into your mouth as he tastes you for the first time in months, letting out a soft moan against your lips.

Your hands are in his hair, it's all so messy and so primal. The harder that he bites, the harder that you pull his hair. Strands of black curls threaten to escape from your fist. Your free hand rests on his chest, as you feel the way his breathing goes up and down, up and down. He puts his hand on yours and brings it down as he traces your curves.

When he reaches your ass, Clark lifts you up without breaking the kiss and walks you over to his kitchen counter before setting you down. You pull away for a second and just take him in. His curls are a dark mess on his head as they stick out every which way. His eyes are glazed over with a mixture of love and lust. His face is flushed with sweat, though you can't tell if it's his or yours. He looks beautiful like this.

Your lips crash onto his, and he bucks into you. His grey sweatpants do little to hide how hard he's getting, and you thank him for it.

"Clark—fuck," you moan breathlessly.

You grind yourself onto him, desperate for something you've been starved of for so long. You feel his cock twitch through his sweats, and memories of him pounding into you with his huge cock flood back. You remember thinking he was going to split you in half as he had you an overstimulated, dirty mess, and now you knew why.

His back arches as he tries to close the distance even more, letting out soft grunts in your ear; they're only for you to hear. Your hand snakes its way up underneath his shirt, feeling your way up his abs. He sighs happily at the sensation, immediately taking off his shirt.

Slowly, you begin to kiss your way down his neck, not caring how rough you are. You know he can take it. "My perfect boy. My gorgeous, gorgeous boy. My Superman," you moan out in between kisses.

Clark's a mess next to you. Your hand moves from his chest down to his waistband. He shivers and moans your name as you pull on his sweatpants.

"Missed me so much, you're a mess, and I've barely even touched you." Your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers as you feel his abs flexing with every breath.

"Gonna make me cum right here if you keep teasing me like that," Clark moans into your mouth.

"Is that a promise?" you ask innocently as your hand slides down into his boxers.

"Yes, baby, oh—"

BEEEEEEEEEP

Your heads shoot up toward the smoke alarm going off, then down to the smoking, charred concoction now sitting on Clark's pan. You can't help but laugh.

"Aren't you supposed to have like heightened senses or something?"

"Well, I was a little distracted," he said, gesturing to you while running to fan the smoke away from the alarm.

And that's how you found yourself in Clark Kent's apartment on a Saturday morning, wearing his high school sweatshirt, calling your lawyers to throw out the lawsuit while Clark made you breakfast.

Most girls would be ecstatic as their servants helped them into their wedding gowns and sent them off to their betrothed. However, you couldn't care less. You're basically signing your own death wish. 

You want nothing more than to curl up by the fire in your workplace with your mages. Instead, you're forced to get married to a King whose brides mysteriously end up dying after 5 years.

“All for the sake of the kingdom,” you murmur as your veil is fitted into your head.

“Oh my sweet girl,” you turn your head to the sound of your mother's voice, and it takes you everything in your power not to cry. Your mom has been your rock throughout this whole ordeal. She has mainly been the one telling you not to go through with this, but there's no other choice. The land your kingdom is on won't last that long. Your people have already been experiencing famine, your crops are dying, and children and adults are getting sick.

You had no choice, but Miguel's land is the only Kingdom near yours that's actually thriving, and the only Kingdom that wants to help yours. You'll think about this some other day, not right now as you spend your last few moments with your mother. “Hi, mama.”

“How are you feeling?” she says as she walks over to you and wraps you in her arms. “I'm okay, I've been better, I'll tell you that.” 

“You'll be okay, you hear me? No daughter of mine will die at the sake of a man. You are strong, you hear me?” as she pulls back, you take note of the tears in her eyes and dab them away.

“It's okay, I'll be fine, I swear.” 

•°~°•

Once the pianist begins playing, you know it's your cue to walk down the aisle arm in arm with your mom.

You ignore all of the guests and look straight at your soon-to-be husband through your veil. His back is as straight as a rod, and his shoulders are so broad in that suit of his. His hair is gelled back and to the side, and if you weren't so afraid of the unknown of what's to come, you would actually call him….handsome.

Once you reach him, you take a deep breath, looking at your bouquet before raising your head to meet him. The priest begins to say the words that will bind the two of you forever, and it takes some real self-control not to edge away from your soon-to-be husband. After this, O’Hara will send the best of his mages to your land so that your people will prosper. So that your people won't starve, your kingdom's magic is so drained that not even you and the royal members can satisfy it.

“You may now exchange rings.” You remove your left hand, let go of your bouquet, and raise your hand for him to take it. The second his hand comes in contact with yours, a shiver runs down your spine. You then grab the ring from him to place it on his finger. 

“You may now unveil and kiss the bride,” O’Hara lets out a breath before lifting your veil. His eyes roam across your face from your eyes to your nose down to your lips. You wait for him to move to you, not the other way around. His left hand hovers over your face before it rests on your right cheek, and his thumb strokes your face. He then wastes no time pressing his lips against yours.

 You purse your lips together, giving him nothing.

You won't let him get the better of you, apart from his wives mysteriously dying; he's known to have a harem of women and you'll be damned if you'll kiss him back.

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“My bride isn't what I was expecting,” Miguel says out loud to himself as he makes his way to accept congratulations from the King and Queen of neighboring kingdoms. Now, while he has seen you once or twice prior to this, both of you knew there would be no love involved in this marriage. As usual, this is just another political marriage, a favor that both of y'all need. You need his crops, food, best mages, and he needs access to your magic for….personal reasons.

Truly, it's a win-win situation.

After making his rounds throughout the room, he walks over to the table solely for you and him. Miguel tries not to salivate at the sight of you. Your dress is white off the shoulder with a plunging neckline that shows just the right amount of cleavage the rest of the dress flows downwards into a pretty train. Apart from that, you truly are a sight for sore eyes.

The way the candlelight shines on your skin beautifully. Not to mention your plump lips and your defiance. Immediately, when he pressed his lips against yours, he tasted it. You didn't let him in. He's not surprised in the slightest who would want to marry someone whose wives mysteriously die after 5 years of being wed?

Shaking his head as if to shake away his thoughts, he reaches you in two strides, hoping to “try” and enjoy the ceremony with his new wife.

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You watch with guarded eyes as O’Hara, the King of Nueva York…your husband makes his way in your direction, standing a few feet away from you.

“Must you look like you are about to enter the lion's den?” He jests.

You twirl your wine glass twice before answering him. “I'm not the one with 3 dead wives behind me, O’Hara.” His laugh sounds like warm honey, sending shivers down your spine. When you look over at him, he has a wide grin on his face as he looks down at you.  “So you believe the rumors, too, huh?”

You give him a perplexed look. “Well, how can I not? I would be a fool not to take them into consideration since I am now married to you.” You hold up your ring finger for extra measure. “And not to mention the surplus of women you have in your harem, am I expected for you to leave our wedding night just to find you in bed with another woman the morning after?” You say, making sure to hold eye contact with him as every word falls from your lips. He sighs before he speaks. “And you believe that rumor too.” 

You raise your eyebrows expectantly. Was he not listening to the words that you just said?

“Trust me, you will find no women roaming around the halls of our home from now on and until the near future…and I expect that to be the same for you,” he said, the last few words slowly as if he’s hesitant about your reaction to it. You need some form of liquid courage before you answer him, so you gulp down the rest of your wine. “This is a loveless marriage; you can’t expect me to actually remain faithful to you. You're a man who has rumors of bedding any woman who will give him attention, you can’t expect me to believe your words—a man’s word at that.” Your words affect him if the tick in his jaw is anything to go by. Miguel takes an extra step closer to you, and because you’re sitting down, and he’s not, the height difference between you, and the sight of him looking down at you so intently is making you short-circuit. Your magic is thrumming in your veins, almost giving off a light humming sound.

 You hope he can’t hear that.

He leans in with a hand resting on your table and his face mere inches away from your face. He speaks through gritted teeth. “You have my word, Mrs.O’Hara, that I will not fuck anyone who isn’t you, so long as we are bound together in this holy matrimony and I will advise you to do the same otherwise, I can show just how evil I can be” His confession suprises you so much you have to fight the urge in you not rear your head back. You will not show him that you are frazzled by his words, not in the slightest.  “I am only here for the safety of my people and my people only. I’m afraid I cannot offer you what you are…seeking.”

“I’m not asking for love, Mrs. O’Hara, but for respect and for us to reach common ground. This doesn’t have to be a horrible marriage.” Your eyes flicker from his and towards the crowd. You catch a few of them looking at the two of you, weary that you hope there aren’t any mouth readers in here. It would be quite the trouble if people found out what you were saying.

While waiting for your response, he takes a seat and ushers one of the servants to fill both of your glasses with more wine. Once it arrives, he pretends to take a sip, hiding his next words behind the glass and speaking low enough only for you to hear. “And in an effort to make this marriage less daunting for both of us—” He pauses just to take a sip of his wine. “I will not touch you tonight, there is no need for us to consummate our marriage….at least not tonight.” Your head whips towards him so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. “I am not the evil monster they claim me to be—” He pauses ever so slightly as he fiddles with his wine glass. “Despite my previous words, I mean, but we can just make something up so the courts can be satisfied.”

You try not to dwell on the fact that he’s choosing not to use his new profound authority that he is now your husband, by making you do this, “Fine, that works for me. I will begin to make my rounds.” You get up from the table with haste; you will not praise him for doing the bare minimum either. 

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You're in the ballroom, greeting the neighboring kingdom’s King and Mistress Eugene and Simone as you feel a light tap on your shoulder. You politely excuse yourself to turn around just to come face-to-face with your mother. “Mama, I thought you had gone home.” You utter those words so fast, you didn’t even realize the horror that’s etched across her features. Immediately, you draw your magic into her. You were given the ability to calm others with the lightest of touches and have them do as you please, only for a brief moment. That also means you can sense someone's emotions if they can’t conceal them, and right now, your mother is worried beyond compare. Glancing around the dimly lit black and gold ballroom, you try to make note of any private area where you can speak to your mother.

You make sure to look her in the eyes as you speak so your magic can truly work. “We’re going to go into that room, and you’re going to tell me what's wrong, okay.” She nods before you gently grab her arms, whisking her out of the room away from prying eyes so you can speak to her privately. 

You do a quick sweep of the room, surveying to make sure you don’t feel any heightened emotions while being in this room, before you turn back to face your mom. “Mama, is everything okay? Why-”     

She cuts you off. “I’m so sorry I failed you. Please, it’s not too late to back out of this—we’ll figure something out, I swear-” It’s then your time to cut her off because you have no idea what she is talking about. You shake her arms gently to ground her and to stop her from moving around too much.  “Mother, slow down, you’re scaring me. Just breathe, okay.” You help her catch her breath to get her to speak at a normal pace. “I overheard one of the people of Nueva York speak of their marriage customs, a-and it’s disgusting. They said everyone would watch as you both consummated the marriage, and to make sure that this marriage is truly real, they changed the regular bed into a magical one. The bed will glow—or shine some light to show that you have reached….your peak.” You try to digest this as much as possible, but you can’t help it as you try to understand the last few words. “As I reached my peak?” You question the words as they come out slowly, as if you are trying to understand them yourself. 

Your mother replies with a hasty nod. Mentally, you curse yourself because you were so focused on something else that you completely missed the emotions pouring out of your stupid husband. Whenever you're in big spaces, you block out everyone else's emotions. It’s hard and takes a lot of work, but you manage. So how did you miss it? How did you miss his deceit as he spoke to you? There's no way he didn’t know about this, and over your dead body will you keep quiet about this.   

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Miguel looks around his ballroom, trying to catch sight of his new bride. Ever since you stormed out with your mother, he’s been concerned. And not because people started giving him looks because his wife has disappeared, leaving him alone to deal with everyone.

 No, no, that’s not the case; he just really wants to know where his wife is, that’s all. But he would rather you stormed out with your mother than with another guest…a male guest to be exact. Miguel is not a patient man, never was, and never has been, so he takes matters into his own hands and decides to look for you on his own.     

Disappearing down the hall, he’s about to start opening random doors when one of them unlocks, and you storm out. He’s not sure what has happened from then to now, but he’s sure you didn’t have that murderous look on your face before you left.  “Your court is just as disgusting as you are if you think for one second that I’m going to let you touch me. You ask for my trust, but you spew lies before our reception can even conclude.”  Miguel's eyebrow furrows as he tries to understand what you're saying. “I have no idea what you're talking about, and would you lower your voice?” He says the last words through gritted teeth and takes a step forward. “Don’t tell me to lower my voice, you lied to me, gave me false hope, and all for what with a hope that you can get your dick wet-” Putting up his hands in defence, he cuts you off so he could truly understand what’s going on. “Speak slowly, I can assure you that I have not done what you think I’ve done. What did my court say to you?”

He watches as you let out a huff, drawing out all of your air in your lungs before speaking again. “They didn’t say anything to me, but my mother overheard them talking. In order for my people to receive what was agreed, we have to consummate the marriage and prove to your court that we are suitable for each other. Not only do we have fuck in front of them, but they will know if I cum. You and your court's customs are sick, I-”

Miguel has to cut you off before you go any further. “I truly have no idea what you're talking about; that marriage custom hasn't been used in hundreds of years. Tonight we were supposed to consummate our marriage, yes, but it wasn't supposed to be seen by others. I was going to have someone stand outside our doors. It's the only way they would truly be satisfied. I didn't speak of a magic-infused bed.” Before Miguel continues, he pauses, making sure to say his words gently.

“Are you sure your mother heard correctly? It's possible-” 

“Don't do that, I believe my mama wholeheartedly, and I didn't feel any deceit coming from her if someone forced her to say this.” Miguel thinks it over for a second before dropping it. He is confident in your ability to read emotions. Hell, he needs to be if he's to use your magic to help him determine who's been killing his wives.

•°~°•

“Well, my dearest wife, it seems like someone is already trying to prevent us from getting married.” As you stare up at him, you can't help but notice the tic in his jaw. “Well, how do you expect me to just go along with this. My people, we need food, we need help, and no one except for you and your kingdom was willing to help us. O’Hara, this union needs to work my people-” You stop in your tracks when you feel your emotions reaching an all-time high. A lot of people are depending on you. After the death of your father, you and your mom have been running this kingdom for as long as you can remember, and the fact that there's only one other kingdom that is run by a woman is concerning. Maybe the nearby kingdoms are doing this to see you fail. Each meeting with the courts and their fellow kings forces you to stand your ground and showcase your abilities more than a king should. And all because you're a woman.

You feel an arm squeezing your forearm, and you reach out into his emotions to see if there’s any deceit. But there isn’t, he’s calm as he can be, which is a stark difference from yours. Forcing yourself to remain calm, you count down to one, lightly shaking your hands out as you do. 

You're about to say something else when a hand closes around your wrist, forcing you to stop moving. “Just relax, I'm sure there's something we can do before the consummation ceremony.”

“There should be no consummation ceremony, O’Hara,” you say through gritted teeth.

“We'll figure it out. I'll ask my people to see what they know. We only have less than an hour before that happens.”

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For the remainder of the ceremony, you follow him as he walks around to speak to his court. It was clear no one wants to fess up, but it’s also clear that no one wants to talk to him while you're with him. They give you sideways glances and up-downs; their hatred for you was as clear as day, and one would be a fool if they missed it.

The hate dripping off from O’Hara’s court is almost suffocating.

By the time you spoke to your mother and wished her and the rest of the guests attending your wedding farewell, it was time for the consummation ceremony. O’Hara, unfortunately, gathered nothing. Nothing to prove that those on his court were in the wrong, absolutely nothing. You thought his court feared him; if they truly did, would they have really gone behind his back like that, and on his wedding day, no less?

It is clear that you won’t be safe here; there will be people in his court trying to embarrass and belittle you every chance they get. Quietly, you follow your ladies in waiting, one from your own kingdom and one from his, to a room to get ready. You didn’t even have the chance to speak to the man before you both were whisked away in opposite directions. Your curls are now hanging down your back, and there are mini gems etched into your hair now. They've retouched your makeup again, adding some sort of shine to your lips and blush to enhance the color of your cheeks. 

The ladies help you out of your wedding gown and into a shift that is basically see-through. You’re practically going to be walking through the hallways naked for everyone to see. But as the ladies in waiting continue to get you ready for the night to come, you look up at the woman whose name you still do not know. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” You look up at her in earnest, genuinely trying to get to know her, but she looks taken aback at your words. 

Now you wonder if you said something wrong. In your kingdom, all of the royal members in your court, including yourself, know the staff's names. Is that not how they do things here?

“Did I say something to offend you-” 

She immediately begins shaking her head. “N-No, my lady, you have not offended me; it's just that no one has asked for my name before. I'm just taken aback, that's all.” You and your lady-in-waiting, Eliza, share a look. “It’s Tasha, my lady, but please call me your lady in waiting; there's no need to call me by my name.” You let out a sigh as she begins to fuss with your hair that’s already perfectly fine. “Does O’Hara not know-” 

“No, no, no, my queen, of course he does know my name, it’s just that none of the past brides have paid me any attention before. But please do not worry, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about tonight. Strangely, after all of these years, there’s a consummation ceremony.” Her last few words ground you, bring you back to reality if you will.

“Thank you, Tasha. I am just as shocked as you are.” You allow them to finish, get you ready, as your mind works at 100 miles per hour. You're not even sure of how this is supposed to go. Is his court really going to sit back and watch the two of you have sex? You give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror before making your way out the door.

 It’s now or never.

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When you walk into the room, you immediately take in your surroundings. There are at least 5 members of his court sitting in a row of chairs. Before you do anything else, you use your magic to determine the emotions that are radiating off of his court. Trying not to make it look obvious, you quickly scan them, making sure you hold eye contact with them long enough to show them that you mean business, but not to be disrespectful.

Well then again, you are now their Queen.

So if anyone is in the wrong, it would be them, not you.

So far, everyone's emotions seem normal. There's a sense of urgency; someone's excited, and you almost blanch as you feel that emotion. Someone is nervous, someone is feeling arrogant, you almost roll your eyes at that emotion, and the last person is….oh, you can't feel this person's emotions. Someone in here is completely sheltering their emotions. It's almost as if they aren't feeling anything, but you know that's not the case. But you won’t be able to know who it is for sure until you can speak to them.

You would consider it to be a very large room if it weren't for the sheer white curtain that's splitting the side of the room in the middle. Your eyes dart around the room, looking for your husband when you hear someone clearing their throat from behind you.

You turn around at the sound and come face-to-face with your betrothed. You look up at him, meeting his eyes before soaking in the rest of him. His hair is wet and pushed back away from his face as if he just ran his fingers through his hair. He's wearing a loose white shirt with the laces undone and a pair of pants to match.

He looks decent. With a sigh, you avert your gaze because he looks more than decent to you. But you won’t tell him that at all. You practically jump when you feel a finger underneath your chin, guiding your face to his. “Get on the bed, Mrs. O’Hara,” he whispers against your lips.

“Who do you think-” You begin to speak, but he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Please, Mrs. O’Hara.” If you weren’t so in control of your emotions, you would’ve reared your head back in surprise. Taken aback by his ability to have manners, you give him a curt nod and make your way to the curtains. You part them and reveal a queen-size bed with white sheets and gold accents. You make note of the way the bed is facing away from the thin sheet if you are positive this prevents the people watching from getting a full view of everything.

Hesitantly, you sit on the edge of the bed, unsure what to do next. Your position as queen hasn’t even been a full day, and you’re already on shaky ground; the last thing you want to do is upset them further.

You turn in the direction of the sound of O’Hara speaking to a few members of his court. “I'm sure it is a surprise to everyone that we are honoring past traditions, but this union with my new bride seemed like the perfect time to bring back past traditions, but with a new twist.” He then shakes each member's hand and passes through the white curtain. 

Your gaze locks with his, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows. He walks up to you until there's nothing but an inch of space left between the two of you, and just like earlier in the evening, you find yourself looking up at him. “This is the most that I could do on such short notice. Hopefully, there are no more surprises from my court.” He pauses before continuing. “ —but it feels as if I already signed my demise by just saying those words.” You continue to watch him, using this moment to feel out his emotions, and once again, just like last time, you don’t feel any negative emotions rolling off of him. 

“Are there any rules I should know before we do this?” You question as your eyes dart across the room for anything that can help you in this situation. You’re about to consummate your marriage with a King whose wives mysteriously die after 5 years of being married to him. When he notices your eyes wandering, he is quick to guide them back to his face with a tilt of your head. “Don’t worry, you're in good hands, Mrs.O’Hara. My job here is to quite literally please you, and if I fail at this, both of our kingdoms are at stake.” You can’t help but nod at his words; there's nothing the two of you could’ve done to prevent this from happening. 

“So let’s give them what they want. They want a show, so let’s give them one.” You watch as a smirk appears on his face. Without wasting any more time, he leans in to close the distance between the two of you, but you rear your head back just before his lips can touch yours. You both may have to come to a truce right now at this moment, but you won’t give in that easily.

Inching yourself further on the bed, you don’t stop until your back touches the plump satin pillows. He quirks his eyebrow, not being able to mask his surprise quickly enough; you can practically feel it radiating off of him. “Oh…is that how you want to play?” He gives you a calculated stare. You watch as his eyes make their way down the length of your body. Slowly, he walks to the front of the bed, unfastening the ties of his shirt, then pulls it over his head. Stopping at the foot of the bed, he drags his eyes down your body once again before he kneels on the bed. Right before he can reach you again, you're pressing your feet against his chest to stop him.

With a slight shake of your head, you say, “You have to work for this, Mr. O’Hara.” You try not to fill yourself with too much pride as you catch a glimpse of a tic in his jaw. If he wants to make you cum he’s going to have to work for it, and no, it’s not going to be easy, but you're not going to just let him spend minutes fucking you knowing that you can’t cum from that alone. You tilt your chin up a little further; you are now his Queen, you will not be embarrassed by this. Keeping your voice low enough so your words can only be heard by him, you say,   “I can’t cum from just penetration, Mr.O’Hara, you will have to—” He cuts you off.

“That won’t be a problem for me, just relax and let me take care of you.” You give him a brief nod and watch as he grabs your foot that's on his chest and places a kiss on your ankle. With his eyes never leaving yours, he places a kiss on the inside of your leg, starting from your heel and stopping in the middle of your thigh. Your shift is now bunched up right below your ass. If he were to push it up a little more, he would reveal your pussy. The ladies in waiting thought it would be better if you didn’t wear any undergarments tonight. You draw out a breath as you lock eyes, gods, above. Is this really happening right now?  

Without wanting to delay this any further, you raise your hips in order to let the shift pass over your hips. Miguel then does what he did to your left leg to your right leg, and then finally, he spreads your thighs apart and places a kiss directly on your cunt. He takes his time eating you out slowly, and he drags the tip of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. He does this over and over before he begins to suck your pussy. You lose track of how long he spends in between your thighs, but by the time he leaves your pussy with a ‘pop’ sound, a thin sheet of sweat makes your nightgown cling to your skin. Your breaths are laboured as you watch him rise on his knees and undo the laces on his pants. Shamelessly, you take that time to admire his body. You hate to say it, but the way his arms flex as he loosens his pants is doing something to you. 

You practically roll your eyes as the thought passes your mind. He's probably doing this for show, and here you are like a deer in headlights, mindlessly gawking. You're not sure what he plans on doing next, so you wait patiently until he makes the next move. Since he is the one who has to please you, the ball is in his court.

As he gets back on the bed, he is now fully bare and his thick cock glistening as the light shines on it. His tip is red, and a small bead of precum is spilling from it.

He then grabs you by the waist, right below where the shift is, and begins to lift it upwards. “Lift your arms up for me, Mrs.O’Hara.” You're sure he's doing this to annoy you, but you feel him drawing out your new last name, and you are certain he says it loud enough for his court outside to hear. You lift your arms, and he tosses your shift closer to the sheer curtain.

You let out a yelp when he moves backwards, only to grab your thighs and pull you down to meet him. Now his thick, veiny cock is resting against your wet pussy.

“A warning would've been nice.” You say as you pinch his arms that's now caging you in. “ I already took away their ability to see us. The more sounds you make, the better they won’t really believe us if they can’t hear anything.”

The words leave your lips before you have the chance to take them back. “Will you be making any sounds then?” 

You watch his brows furrow as he looks down at you. “Do you want me to be vocal when we fuck? Most women—” He pauses his sentence as if realizing that it's not wise to talk about his past endeavors with women while he’s about to be intimate with you. Briefly turning his head away, he says, “—I’ve heard that some would rather if a man is on the quieter side.”

You speak your next words slowly. “Well, I am not most women, it would be best if I weren’t the only one being vocal. Well, that’s if you are even able to please me in the first place.” You know you are playing with fire, but you can’t help but add to the flame.

He says nothing and leans down, resting on his forearms as he presses a kiss on your neck. You move your head to the side to give him more access, and he greedily accepts. He makes his way down your body from between the valley of your breasts to stop right at your pelvic bone. He then moves back up and places a kiss on each of your breasts before sucking gently on each nipple.

You can't help but let out a hiss as he grazes your nipples with his teeth, hardening them into points. He then rears back and rests on his knees, and once again, you find him slowly taking you in. Does he not know how intense his gaze is?

If you weren't strong enough, you probably would've forced yourself to hide your body from being under his gaze for too long. But you are strong enough, and you aren't going to let him get to you. Honestly, if anything, his gaze makes you want to jut out your breasts a little more by arching your back.

But you don't.

You stay right where you are.

He then takes his cock in his hand and smears the precum along your clit. He moves his cock around in circles against your clit; the action is creating almost the perfect amount of friction. But he doesn't keep going, he stops and slowly drags his cock down until he finds your entrance.

You feel every inch of him, and it almost feels like you can feel every vein etched on his cock as well. He might have one of the biggest egos you know, but he certainly isn't lacking. You think he's thicker than any partner that you've previously had.

Your back arches as he lets out a breathy “Fuck” the deeper he gets. Oh gods, is he still not fully seated, yet you already feel so full you're not sure how much more-

You reach up and grab onto each of his forearms. “F-Fuck O’Hara, wait, you're too—” your words get lodged in your throat. Damnit, you didn't think your voice was loud, but the snickering from the men behind you is saying otherwise. But as you take in the expression of the man on top of you, there's not a smirk on his face, and he certainly isn't laughing. He stares at you almost carefully.

Emphasis on ‘carefully’.

“This is fine, I can work with this.” You nod, and he nods back, looking down at where your bodies are joined. He slowly begins to move. He rests a hand on your waist and uses his other hand to push your thighs further apart. O’Hara continues to move slowly, moving his hips as he works in and out of you. Slowly, without even releasing, he begins to sink deeper and deeper into you. Now, when he pushes himself back in, he’s buried to the hilt with his pelvis meeting yours. A few of his curls fall into his eyes, and without thinking, you gently push them away, tucking them behind his ear. His hips slow mid thrust, and his eyes dart to yours and give you another quick nod.

“For someone saying they are going to be vocal, you sure are doing the opposite,” you say breathlessly. 

“Well, your highness, we are just getting started.” With just your luck, your words spark, maybe even ignite something within him because now he won’t keep his mouth shut. Leaning forward while still working his hips, he latches onto one of your nipples. Removes his hand from your waist to play with the other nipple, flicking and rolling it between his fingers. He leaves your breast with a ‘pop’ sound, and you're forced to look down at him.

 “Do you want me to let you know how well you taste, Wife?” You expect him to wait for you to say something, but he doesn’t; he keeps going. “Do you want me to tell you how long I dreamed about tasting you since the moment you signed the papers that made you legally mine?” He says through gritted teeth, urging his hips to go faster. Your chest is moving up and down rapidly with every breath that you take. A sheen line of sweat is forming on your skin, and he's making your bodies glide against each other.

O’Hara’s heavy breathing as he continues to thrust into you. It’s not long before you can feel the moans falling from your lips. You've tried to keep them concealed as much as possible, but you’re afraid you might give yourself a busted lip in the process. Still, to at least keep some form of your dignity, you are trying to keep them as low as possible, so only he can hear them. 

You feel his hips slow down before he pulls out completely. “Turn around and spread your legs wide.” Breathlessly, you do as he says, while trying to gather yourself, you take in a deep breath, but before you can fully relish in the moment, he’s entering you again.  “F-Fuck O’Hara.” Immediately as the words fall from your lips, you regret them; you really don’t want to let him know how much your body is being affected by this. But after all, isn’t this the whole point? He’s supposed to fuck you well enough till you cum, so his court can approve your marriage. You hear him laugh behind you. “Don’t worry, you can take it, right?” He says with a slightly mocking tone. 

You’ve made up your mind that you’re not going to play this game with him. The quicker you cum, the quicker you can get this over with, but you can’t get there unless you let go. 

At least for tonight.

Arching your back until your breasts are pressed into the sheets, you push your ass into him, meeting his thrusts. Flipping your curls to the side, you look over your shoulder to look him in the eye. “Fuck me harder, O’Hara, you can do better than that, can’t you?”

This earns a smack against your ass, and he reaches a hand over your waist to finally play with your clit. The bed is moving with each of your thrusts so much that a pillow falls onto the ground. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the finish line. That familiar pit in your stomach builds as he continues to rub your clit. This time, you moan freely into the sheets, over your shoulder, making sure your mouth isn’t covered so he can hear you, but right before you can reach your peak, he’s urging you to flip over again to face him.

Letting out a displeased groan, you reach down and guide his cock back into your aching pussy. “Please, I need my husband inside of me.” You whimper, and you watch as he looks at you questioningly, and you feel a spike of confusion rolling off of him. You can feel his want to say something, but you shake your head ‘no’, he doesn’t need to know that you’re letting your mask slip just for this moment.

He gets the memo…or at least you think he does as he trails one of his large, veiny hands down your body and begins to speak to you. “My wife is so beautiful, how the fuck did I get so lucky?” He reaches over, grabs a pillow, and places it right above your ass, and his thrusts pick up again, and it’s not like the pace he’s had from before; now he’s giving it to you hard and fast.

Leaning down on his forearms again, he holds himself with his mouth hovering right above yours, just a few more inches, and your lips would touch. Then slowly you feel him drag one hand down to your clit, your body jolts at the contact.“My wife is so pretty, tell me you're so fucking pretty.” You want to question him, but you don’t, so you just repeat after him. “I’m so fucking pretty,” You pant into his mouth in between moans, and he hums in approval.

“You’re so fucking perfect, and I get to say that ‘you’re my wife.’” You whimper at his words as you stare into his eyes. You're unsure of what you should say or do, so you do nothing. You sit back and let your husband please you until you’re cumming on his cock. 

The circles he makes on your clit increase, and you can feel your body jolting slightly as you reach your orgasm. “M’cumming—” Is all you manage to get out before you begin to feel your legs shake. “I’m g-gonna cum inside my wife's pussy—” You dig your heels into his back to keep him in place as your moans echo throughout the room.

“That’s it, baby, milk my cock.” He encourages, and you feel his cum spilling inside of you. You’re surprised when he moans into your ears, loud enough that you're certain his court heard him.

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You both lie there catching your breath, and you slowly open your eyes. You didn’t realize it, but at some point while you were cumming he pulled your hand to reach the headboard. The light it emits is beautiful. It's a soft red hue that fills the room now. The red is so soft it can almost be considered pink.

Before you even have the means to say something to O’Hara, claps, which are slow to start, can be heard on the opposite side of the room. Suddenly, it feels like a cold bucket of water was thrown on you, but you mask it with indifference and slowly begin to urge O’Hara off of you. Thankfully, he complies and removes himself from you slowly, and that earns a hiss from him.

You begin to look for your shift that's probably lying somewhere on the ground, so you can put it on. Your legs ache from holding them wide for so long. You don't even bother looking at yourself in the mirror because you know your curls are a mess and there's probably a red hickey on your neck.

O’Hara is the first one to dress, and he does it in front of the sheer curtain so that they can purposefully see him get dressed. As you feel his cum sliding down your legs, you oddly have the urge to push it back into you, but you're not stupid, so you ignore it. 

Grabbing your hand, he leads you through the sheer curtains to face his court, and they sing praises to both of you until they file out one by one. 

O’Hara clears his throat before he speaks, looking unsure as ever. “Are you alright? Back there I-”

“Let us forget it. What's done is done; we both got what was needed for the sake of our kingdoms, and I wish not to speak of this night again. If you will” 

He runs his fingers through his damp hair and looks around the room before his gaze settles on you. His ‘unease’ and ‘confusion’ are bothering you. It’s practically clawing at you, climbing up your body until it can sink its nails into you. Goddammnit, does he not know how to control his emotions at all? You take a step back from him and fiddle with your fingers as you try to tune him out.  “Control yourself and your emotions, O’Hara.” You seethe at him, practically baring your teeth as you speak.  You expect him to back away from you, but he takes a step forward. “My emotions? You can feel them right now?” He questions.

“Yes, I can, and you’re making it unbearable just to stand in the same room as you. There’s no need for you to be ‘uneasy’ or ‘confused.’” As the words leave your lips, he’s taking another step towards you. 

“Are you sure that’s all I’m feeling right now?” He questions with a tilt of his head. 

“How dare you question my abilities?” You say, and your voice rises an octave. He has some nerve.

Shaking his head, he pulls you closer to him by grabbing your shift placing your body against his. “Dig deeper. I am feeling much more than confusion and unease” Reluctantly, you listen to his words and dig deeper so you can see whatever he’s putting down. It makes no sense why he is trying to get you to learn his emotions. But as you look into his eyes and use your magic to find what he’s asking of you, you realize he was correct.  His desire and need barrels into you easily, pushing away his ‘unease’ and ‘confusion’ to the side as if they were never there. Rolling your eyes, you pry your shift out of his hands and untangle your body from his. 

He’s a man, of course, he would still be turned on you just had sex with him.

“This conversation is over. Have a good night, O’Hara.” You turn to leave, but his words stop you briefly before you can walk out the door.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. Keep his hands to himself and his mind on the job. Don’t fret over the pretty little thing who’s been draping herself all over the house ever since he started demo, practically begging to be fucked.

If he had any sense, he would pack his shit and drop the job–or, at the very least, tell your parents to put you on a leash. But there’s a little part of him that might be a glutton for punishment–that savors the teasing.

The most infuriating part of the whole thing is that he can’t blame you for this whole mess. He shouldn’t be so quick to temptation. You should be able to walk around your own home in whatever you want and not have to worry about the creepy contractor getting flustered every time he looks in your general direction.

But god, you make it hard–double entendre intended. You walk around like you haven’t a care in the world because you don’t; you’re home for summer break after a grueling year at college, and you intend to savor every languid second of it. Your preferred method of savoring just happens to be wearing tight little bikinis that barely hold anything in place as you lounge out by the pool in the Texas heat, or tight leggings that hug your ass so perfectly it almost makes him jealous of the material as you curl up with a book on your couch.

Joel’s a grown man. He can keep it in his pants, no matter how badly he wants you. But you’re not exactly making it easy on him.

Really, it’s Tommy’s fault when the levee breaks. If he could keep his big mouth shut, Joel might’ve been able to maintain the thin control he had over himself. But Tommy goes and makes an off-handed comment about you one night, and that’s the beginning of the downward spiral.

The brothers are both lounging on Joel’s couch after a particularly taxing day of demolition work, beers cradled in hands and the TV droning uselessly with some movie that they’re more staring at than actually watching. It’s late, yet weary muscles are melted so comfortably into the couch that neither of them try to move even after Sarah’s gone off to bed.

Tommy’s eyes flicker over to Joel, then back to the TV. “That girl’s gon’ be trouble for us, brother.”

There’s a question mark in the grunt Joel emits, leaning forward with interest because he knows Tommy’s talking about you without any specification.

Tommy hums in confirmation and takes a sip of his Corona. “She’s always wearin’ those skimpy little outfits a’hers, and she ain’t coy. Must catch that pretty little thing starin’ at your ass even more than I catch you starin’ at hers.”

Joel plays it off as best as he can until Tommy goes home for the night with a half-assed promise to actually be on time in the morning for once. Then he goes up to his room, locks the door, and wraps himself around the spare pillow that lays against his headboard.

He tries so desperately hard not to think about the plump round curve of your ass, or the enticing way you lick your lips, or those damned little bikinis you favor. He grinds his aching cock into the soft pillowcase and tries to think about anything that isn’t you.

But he comes with a muffled growl of your name anyway, face pushed deep into the pillow and hips jerking arrhythmically.

There’s not much he can do now besides clean himself up and try not to think about how thoroughly fucked he is.

The next day is torture because he can feel your gaze lingering. He catches you checking him out on more than one occasion, and you’re brazen about it now. You can tell something has shifted, so you shift with it. Where you once would’ve flushed with heat and hurried away to your room, you now meet his heated eye contact and hold it.

Joel’s jaw hurts that night from the way it’s been hard-set and clenched all day long. He rubs over his sore temporomandibular joints with his long, thick fingers and wills himself to siphon you out from beneath his skin.

It doesn’t work.

The work helps. Laying tile is something he normally considers tedious, but it’s a welcome reprieve in your home because he can get down on his hands and knees and focus on something that isn’t you.

You see the labor he’s going through, and you appreciate it. And really, what kind of host would you be if you didn’t reward his efforts?

It starts with a pitcher of iced tea. It’s made just the way Joel likes it, with light ice and a few slices of lemon. He doesn’t know how you could possibly guess that, but it makes him want you that much more.

And then it’s cookies. Pain-stakingly handmade oatmeal raisin cookies, to be exact. You’re like something out of his most shameful domestic dreams in your cute floral-patterned apron and oven mitts as you pull the tray of cookies out of the oven, and an image of you in nothing but those mitts and that apron flickers through his mind before he can stop it.

All the while you traipse around the house like a mirage–humming along to the yacht rock that drifts from Joel’s stereo, swaying your hips in the kitchen as you put together the most delicious bologna sandwich Joel’s ever eaten, toweling off your soaking wet body after an afternoon in the pool. You’re the worst temptation Joel’s ever had to face.

It becomes his mantra. Be respectful, be respectful, be respectful.

But there’s no respect in your eyes. There’s nothing honorable about the way you bite your lip and smirk when he catches your gaze lingering on him.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. But why should he have to play nice if you don’t?

And really, the whole thing is Tommy’s fault. He started it with that first comment about you, and then he goes and calls out sick (read: horribly hungover) this morning. He leaves Joel all alone with you–gives you the perfect opening to pounce.

Or, more accurately, entice Joel into pouncing on you.

He’s just setting his tool bag down, about to decide where he wants to start today, when your beautiful face pops in through the door.

“Good morning, Joel,” you say with that gorgeous smile of yours that makes his knees go a little weak. “No Tommy today?”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue when you step further into the room wearing a plaid button-up he left here earlier in the week and booty shorts so small he has to do a doubletake to make sure you’re actually wearing anything on your lower half. You look fucking good in his shirt, and suddenly all he can think about is pulling you in and bending you over the half-finished vanity–

“N-no. He’s sick,” Joel manages to choke out. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then, “that’s my shirt, isn’t it?”

You look down and rub the time-worn fabric between your fingers like you have to think about it, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

“Oh, it must’ve gotten mixed in with our laundry!” The little giggle you let out is so innocent that he almost believes you. Almost. “Here–”

You start to lift the fabric up your torso in the most tantalizingly slow fashion, and he just sits there and watches it happen. He sees the first peek of skin above the waistband of your shorts, and then your beautiful stomach, then the delicious curve of a breast–

He quickly jolts out a hand to stop you in the midst of mentally willing every single molecule in his dick to control itself. “S’alright, darlin’. You keep it. Looks better on you, anyway.”

“Okay,” you acquiesce and let the fabric drop back down into its rightful place. “Can I get you anything? Water maybe?”

He certainly could use it. His neck and face are flushed red, and there’s sweat starting to form at his temples despite the relatively cool temperature within the house.

He realizes, with startling clarity, that he’s at a precipice right now. This might be the only chance he gets to really do something about this burgeoning tension that’s spread thicker than butter between you and him. He’s got a choice to make, and it’s not going to be an easy choice.

“Sure.” It comes out a bit too high-pitched, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Sure, sweetheart. That’d be great.”

“Alright,” you say with that damned giggle again. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as you leave the room, Joel feels like he can breathe again. It’s so much easier to think straight when you’re not standing there, smiling up at him and looking so damn gorgeous.

He’s got two options, when it boils down to it: fuck you or leave you alone. And he really, really wants to take you. Make you scream his name while he pounds himself into you, fill you so full that you never completely wash him out. And you want it too, he knows you do, you’re practically begging for it.

But he promised himself he would be respectful. That he would keep his hands away from the girl that’s definitely too young and too pure for someone like him–because he knows that if has you, he’ll never be able to get enough.

There’s a very clear and obvious loophole that comes to mind now; a way he could have you without ruining you, a way you could both come out of this satisfied yet mostly intact. Joel’s never been opposed to doing the hard jobs, after all.

He’s got a condom in his wallet and KY jelly in his bag–mostly used for plumbing fittings, but it’ll do the job for this kind of pipework, too.

You come back with a glass of ice water, and his resolve slips. How the hell is he supposed to initiate this? What if you say no and think he’s disgusting? What if you tell your parents? He can’t do this, this was such a horrible idea, he–

Your touch on his back is like a gentle breeze, just a flutter of your fingers to alert him to your return. He flinches a bit at the sudden contact, but when he turns you’re still so achingly close. He can smell the agonizingly sweet aroma of your conditioner and the lotion you slather on your body after showering, and all he wants is more. He wants to wrap you around him, to inhale that scent straight from the source. His resolve is back, just like that.

He doesn’t give himself another opportunity to hesitate. He places one big, meaty palm on your cheek and wraps the other around your hand that holds the glass of ice water to steady you; and then he kisses you with such bruising force it almost knocks the wind out of you.

You moan. You actually moan the second his lips meet yours, and he knows just like that–with a startling moment of clarity–that this isn’t going to be enough. He’s going to take, and take, and take–gorge himself on you until you have nothing left to give. And the strangest thing of the whole matter is that he thinks you’ll actually enjoy his greed.

“Joel–”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs as his lips break away from yours–so low and soft in your ear it can’t be anything but a growl. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop right now.”

“I want it,” you affirm.

He searches your eyes, but he finds only earnest honesty and lust. That darkness, that pure and unadulterated want is enough to make his pants tighten. “Fuck.” 

He’s so big underneath your roaming hands as he crowds you back against the long bathroom vanity. He lifts you like you’re nothing and sets you on the counter top; he slots himself between your legs and there’s an actual stretch in your muscles to accommodate the width of his hips. One of his wide palms slips behind your head and his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging a little bit to angle your head just the way he wants it. It’s messy and frenzied and desperate–your hands gliding over tee shirt-covered muscle, his tugging your (his) shirt up over your stomach.

“Was starting to think you weren’t interested.” Your voice is heavy and breathy as he breaks away to tug the shirt over your head, casting it aside to lie forgotten on the floor.

“I’ve been tryna convince myself m’not,” he kisses into your neck. “Didn’t work.”

With a sudden roll of his hips, he has you gasping into his neck. He can’t be more than half-hard, but that bulge is formidable. Thick and straining and… suddenly you can’t focus on anything except getting him out of those tight jeans to see what you’re working with.

Your hand just barely fits around him. He’s thick and flushed, getting harder with each passing second as he scatters feather-light kisses over your neck and shoulders. He muffles a groan into your neck as you slowly pump his length–you think he’s seven, maybe eight inches at best guess. The tip of him is flushed red once you get his uncut skin out of the way, and it makes your mouth water. There’s a slight upward curve to him and a long, prominent vein that runs down the left side. It’s porn star material–you didn’t know real people had dicks like this.

“Joel… Jesus, that’s gonna be a tight fit.”

“Oh, don’t worry darlin’,” he hums, thumb ghosting over your clit in a way that makes your entire body jolt. “It ain’t goin’ in there.”

There’s nothing but pure excitement in your voice, despite the anxious gulp that tracks down your throat. “Where…”

“Flip over f’me.”

You follow his instruction with a sort of morbid curiosity, hopping down from the counter before folding yourself over it.

You can feel his eyes on you, as he takes in your willingness. It’s like you’re on display for him, for his appraisal. You’ve still got shorts and a bra on, yet you’ve never felt more exposed.

It’s almost like he can sense your mind swirling–maybe it’s because his is prone to do the same. He sets a gentle hand on your back and smooths it down your spine as he crowds up against you–you can feel the press of his exposed cock against the curve of your ass, and it makes you shiver.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs as he folds over you, caging you in with the delicious weight of his body. His lips trace along the curve of your jaw and down your neck as he speaks. “But I made myself this little promise that I wouldn’t fuck you. You got me actin’ so unprofessional, honey.”

You whine at the sincerity in his voice–all you’ve wanted since the day he started was for him to have you folded over and at his mercy like this. 

“You can fuck me,” you whine earnestly. “It’s okay, I promise. Won’t tell.”

“Mmm, I know. You’re too good a girl to go gettin’ me in trouble over somethin’ like this,” he hums–you can hear the condescension in his voice even as he praises you, and it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “But with all the teasin’ you been doin’... don’t rightly know that you deserve to be fucked.”

“Please–”

“However,” he continues, landing a light smack to your ass in retaliation for your interruption, “might be willin’ to take you anyway, with some conditions. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

He pauses to let you ask, “What conditions?”

And then he pauses again, asking his own question this time. Is he really going to go through with this? But he’s spent the better part of two weeks staring at your ass, and you’ve spent the better part of two weeks putting it on display for him. It’s like you’ve been silently asking him all this time to take it.

His hand slides down from where it rests on your spine, over your tailbone to where he’s been thinking about all this time. He feels the way your muscles tense up even through your shorts, and it sends a thrill he can’t describe coursing through his veins.

“You ever taken someone here before?”

“N-no.” He feels it again as his other hand comes to soothingly rub your hip–that excited-yet-nervous flutter of muscle. You haven’t run away screaming yet, and that’s the biggest motivator he could have to keep going.

“I think you ought to let me. As a thank you, for puttin’ up with all your play,” he growls into your ear.

It’s fucking dirty, the idea of letting a man you hardly know take you in such a taboo way. It’s even dirtier how fucking excited the idea has you.

“You say no right now and I’ll drop it,” he murmurs so sweetly. “Don’t ever have to talk about this again.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished talking–a sly smirk spreading over your lips as you grind back against him hard enough to make him choke on a moan.

“It’s only right,” you affirm. “Gotta make it up to you for how naughty I’ve been.’

His eyes flash dangerously as he grinds his cock against you again, smearing precome against the flimsy fabric of your shorts. “Atta fuckin’ girl.”

He has your bottoms and panties down around your ankles in a flash, and he actually groans at the sight of your sticky cunt all puffy and wet and on display for him.

He can’t resist the urge to swipe a finger through your folds, delighting in the string of shiny arousal that connects his finger to your core when he pulls away. “She wants it so bad, hmm? Such a shame she ain’t gettin’ any.”

It tugs a moan from your throat, especially when he drags as much slick as he can up to circle your tightest hole. He feels the way you flutter with apprehension, and he leans back down to kiss the corner of your jaw.

“Gonna get you nice and ready, I promise. M’not gonna hurt you, baby girl.”

“Thank you, da–” You almost lost yourself there for a second–almost laid your whole hand of cards out on the table for him to see. You try not to get flustered over the slip–you simply clear your throat and try again. “Thank you, Joel.” But you aren’t nearly as smooth as you hope to be.

In a flash Joel’s free hand is lifting your head, forcing you to look into his deep brown eyes. They’re so much darker than normal, and it only serves to make you wetter.

“What’d you call me?”

“J-Joel.”

His hand slips down to your throat and gives it a warning squeeze–his jaw is set, you know he isn’t playing. “Try again, and tell the truth this time.”

“D… daddy.”

You try to hide your face, to cower in shame, but he won’t let you. He smashes his lips to yours at the exact second his first finger probes that tight, waiting entrance.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as he slowly breaches you, using your own slick to guide the way. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You can’t do anything but gasp, hands clutching for dear life to the edge of the counter. This feels different, and not in the way you were expecting it to. It’s tight, sure, and it feels foreign, but it also feels so much better than you ever could’ve expected it to. The subtle stretch around his thick finger is addicting.

Joel’s jaw drops at the expression on your face; you already look so thoroughly fucked-out, and he’s barely even started. “Fuck.You like this, hmm? Like feelin’ daddy’s fingers gettin’ you ready for his big cock?”

The only response he gets is a wrecked little whimper, and he props your chin up again to meet his heated gaze. “Talk to me. Gotta talk to me, tell me how you’re feelin’, or I’m gonna stop.”

“Fuck!” It’s shriller than you want it to be and you would feel pathetic if you weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with this new sensation. “Don’t stop daddy!”

“Feels good, yeah? How long has daddy’s little slut wanted to try this?”

But there’s no way you can be expected to answer, not when he’s adding another finger to the onslaught. Not when your legs are already shaking and you’re thinking about just how many fingers he’s going to have to use to get you ready for the massive cock you can feel throbbing against your thigh.

He retracts just as suddenly as he started, and a needy little whine escapes from your throat involuntarily.

He can’t help chuckling as he reaches for the bottle of KY jelly he’d dug out of his bag while you were getting him water. It feels like it’s been years since you left the room on that little errand for him–definitely not the barely ten minutes it’s actually been.

“Relax, baby girl. I’m comin’ right back.”

You feel the cool drizzle of the water-based substance over your hole and it forces another whine from your throat. It’s met with his thick fingers again, spreading the jelly over your hole before plunging two in knuckle-deep.

“Atta girl.” His voice is thick and sweet as honey as he slowly works his fingers, thrusting and scissoring at an achingly slow pace. “Doin’ so good f’me.”

“Daddy–”

“I know,” he coos. “I know, it’s so much, isn’it?”

All you can manage to do is nod your head, arms shaking under the strain of holding yourself upright. He sees the way your limbs tremble and he adds a third finger just to be extra cruel–although he steadies you by grabbing your hip firmly with his free hand, keeping you in place as he fucks you open with his fingers.

Everything is so hot. There’s a sticky sheen of sweat covering your forehead and your chest; you can feel your own slick dripping down your thighs.

And then his free hand drops down to thumb at your clit, and everything twists in your gut so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

Within seconds you’re coming–no pretense, no warning. It explodes white-hot from your belly and sweeps through you to the tips of your fingers and toes with flash flood speed. One second there’s nothing more than pleasant anticipation–the next, you’re shaking and convulsing and sobbing Joel’s name as you fight with every cell in your body to remain upright.

He does his part to work you through it, thumb swiping even circles on your sensitive clit, pulling his fingers from you to pin you in place on the counter so he can continue working you through it.

“I know, I know,” he coos so sweetly in your ear over the sound of your moans and cries. “You’re doin’ so good baby, let yourself have it.”

It’s minutes before you’re breathing normally again–your legs are cramping from trying so desperately to support your shaky weight. Joel’s hands are soothing you the whole time once he lets up the onslaught on your clit; it’s like he’s mapping you, tracing over every dip and curve so tenderly you could almost forget what this encounter really is.

“Doin’ okay?” He husks into your ear–and then he’s folding himself over you again, and you can feel the insistent press of his hard cock against the curve of your ass.

For some reason, that’s what really makes it sink in. That’s the moment you realize that this is actually going to happen–that you want it to happen. Joel’s about to take something from you that no one has ever taken before, and you want him to. You’re offering it willingly, even.

You hum in response and buck your hips back, giving him a delicious taste of friction that pulls a ground from his throat. “Mhm. I’m ready, daddy.”

“Fuck, that’s my girl.” He gives your hip a light pat before pulling away for a moment, and you somehow have the presence of mind to jump up on the deep countertop because you know your legs won’t be able to support you through what’s about to happen.

There’s a smile on his handsome face when he turns back towards you, lube and condom in hand. “That how you want it, baby?”

Despite everything that’s already happened, you feel so much more exposed like this. You’re completely naked, and he’s fully clothed with his pants shoved down just enough to free his dick. Even as you spread your legs to admit him between your thighs, you feel shy. And he senses it, the slight apprehension in your gaze, because his smile softens even further; he sets the lube and condom down on the counter next to you so he can grasp the collar of his worn t-shirt and tug it up over his head.

He’s beautiful for a nearly forty-year-old man, you think. He’s firm and toned, but there’s a softness about him that you can’t help admiring, especially around his belly. Your eyes eagerly lap up the soft curve of his tummy, following the tantalizing promise of his treasure trail to his cock, hard and aching for you. The ruddy, flushed tip is weeping for you; you don’t know that you’ve ever seen someone so turned on before, and it’s a heady rush of power.

He chuckles as he sees your hungry eyes taking him in–he raises one big hand to cup your chin and pull your gaze up to meet his. “You’re so pretty, baby, look so good spread out f’me like this. You sure you’re ready f’this?”

“Fuck yes,” you say with an alluring little wiggle of your hips, and that’s more than enough for him.

He pulls his bottom lip between even rows of shiny white teeth as he rolls the condom down over his length, and it’s actually intimidating like this. He’s so big and imposing and it makes your legs want to close, but–

“M’gonna go slow, okay?” He vows, voice gentle as his big, brown eyes look into yours. His fingers wrap tightly around the half-used tube of KY jelly, and he leans down to kiss you when he sees the nervous gulp that bobs your throat. “Gonna be real gentle, I promise. You tap out at any time and we’re done, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you affirm, and you feel a lot better. As out of the blue as this is, as little as you really know Joel, you can tell he’s being sincere. You trust him; you know he won’t hurt you.

The first press of his aching tip against your hole is enough to make you choke on a gasp. He’s big, and even with all of his attentive prep work to get you ready for him it’s a tight fit. You can tell it’s affecting him, too. His eyes flutter shut and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, and you can tell that he’s fighting with all his strength not to just shove himself deep inside you. You appreciate his restraint more than words can convey, so you don’t even try; you hook your arms around his neck and pull him in for a deep, messy, desperate kiss instead. His tongue licks eagerly into your mouth as he eases his hips further and further towards yours, and it’s a nice distraction from the nearly overwhelming stretch of your muscle trying to accommodate his girth.

He shudders when his hips finally meet yours, cock stuffed to the hilt into your ass. “God damn baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight. You doin’ okay?”

You whine at the first roll of his hips, nodding your head rapidly because words won’t come. It’s such a foreign sensation, being stretched and breached like this. Not unpleasant necessarily, but so brain-scramblingly different that all you can do is dig your nails into his strong, broad shoulders and hold on for dear life as he actually starts to fuck into you.

It’s nasty, and you’ve never been so wet in your life. You hear the sticky squelch of lube as he thrusts his hips, shoving his cock deeper than you imagined possible. Your own wetness seeps from your neglected cunt and drenches him, dripping down around his cock and wetting the dense curls at the apex of his sex.

“Shit baby, you’re takin’ daddy’s cock so well,” he whines breathlessly; one arm hooks under your knee so he can spread you open a bit wider for him, and then the other hand returns to your puffy, arousal swollen clit.

You make what has to be the most high-pitched sound you’ve ever made as his index and middle fingers start a torturously slow pace on the little bud. “Fuck daddy!”

“I know,” he coos–you think that soft, breathy, Southern twang is going to actually put you in your grave. “I know, you wanna come, dontcha? It’s okay baby, daddy’s gonna make you come all over his cock just the way you need.”

His hips pick up the pace in time with his fingers, and all you can do is lay there limply like a ragdoll. The pleasure is so much different than what you’re used to, but it’s good. It’s amazing, the feeling of him balls deep in your guts in tandem with his ministrations on your clit, in a way you never imagined it could be.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl f’me,” he growls, hitching your leg a bit higher over his hip so he can thrust even deeper. “Fuck, m’not gonna last long like this. You’re gonna make daddy come so hard in this tight little ass.”

His words are accentuated with a little smack to the side of your ass, and it makes you moan louder still. Your head rolls back as he picks up the pace of his fingers, swirling hard and messy circles with reckless abandon. He’s not trying to prolong it anymore–he’s going for the kill.

“Fuck daddy!” Your hands scrabble for purchase on his smooth, freckled skin as he pounds harder into you. “W-want it, please, want you to come in my ass–”

“Gonna give it to you, impatient girl,” he growls deep in his chest. “You gimme one first.”

Your entire body jolts when he brings his hand down on your sensitive cunt before groaning at the way your arousal sticks to his hand and makes his fingers shine.

“She wants t’be stuffed so full, doesn’t she?” He purrs, fingers dancing so fucking teasingly around your fluttering cunt that it makes your eyes water. “Bet she’d love to be chock full’a cock right now.”

“Joel–”

“Now, now, baby, no whinin’. It’s unbecomin’ for such a sweet little lady,” he grunts, and the condescension dripping from his tone is almost enough to make you come on its own. “You’re gonna take what I give you and be grateful for it, aintcha?”

“Yesyesyesplease–”

His fingers have barely returned to your clit before you’re coming again. This one is even more powerful than before–a hurricane instead of a flash flood. Your entire body trembles with the ebbing flow of pleasurable waves–the words you’re panting aren’t even discernible English anymore.

The way you clench and flutter around him in your own pleasure pulls him over the edge faster than anything ever has before. He comes hard, chest clenching hard around his breath, cock twitching more violently than anything you’ve ever felt before as he spills his load into the condom.

It’s a long, breathless moment before he pulls himself from the vice-like grip you have around his dick. He pulls out with a deep, long groan–it makes you giggle, because it’s the most over-dramatic sound you’ve ever heard in your life.

There’s a beat, and then he starts laughing, too. At the sweet sound of your laugh, at the way he feels like he just ran a marathon, at the absolute absurdity of this whole thing. His laughter is so sweet and gut-deep and infectious, and it only serves to make you laugh harder. For a good few moments it’s just you and Joel, half naked, panting and sweaty, doubled over in laughter.

And then the bathroom door swings open and Tommy barges in. 

“I’m feelin’ a helluva lot better after sleepin’ in, what’s so funny–” He stops dead in his tracks; he sees you naked and spread out on the counter and Joel disheveled and sweating. Neither of you are laughing very much anymore as you both scramble to cover yourselves up.

Tommy quirks a brow, a smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes dart back and forth between you and Joel. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

You don’t know how to answer when you’re so mortified, so you do the only thing you can think of–you dart out of the room and down the hall to the safety of your bedroom as fast as your shaky legs can carry you.

➔ beta: @fhatbhabie dividers: @saradika-graphics

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“We played a drinking game and this dumbass” – he smacks Leon on the shoulder– “had way too many drinks. It’s unbelievable. How can one person be that bad at a game?”

“M’ not bad,” Leon slurs. Then, leaving wet tracks all over the floors (you were so gonna kill him later), he stumbles forward. “Baby, missed you. Missed you so much.” He doesn’t even bother to take his boots off, much to you and Chris’s chagrin. 

“Hey,” you chide. “No shoes in the house, babe.” A few minutes later, following many apologies toward Chris and many more complaints from Leon, your boyfriend’s in his work suit and Chris heads out. 

Leon buries his face into your neck the second that the front door shuts. “Baby, I missed you. You’re so warm. So nice, and so–” he leans back, placing his cool palms on your face. “So, so pretty. How’d I get so lucky?” You don’t realize your cheeks hurt with how much you’re smiling until he imitates you, sticking his tongue out when you try to scold him. His eyes light up. “I got you a gift!”

After much effort in his inebriated state, he fishes out a thin, velvet box, clasps your hands, and gently places it in your palms. “Open.”

You eye him curiously as you unlatch it and gasp. It was an exquisite necklace, laden with jewels of your favorite colors and twinkling brightly in the sliver of moonlight that beamed through the windows. Simply put, it was gorgeous. “Leon, I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

You don’t notice that Leon has slipped to his knees until he gently tugs you toward him. “Anything for you.” He’s looking up at you with those adorably big blues again.  “Anything for my baby, my pretty baby. Let’s get married,” he babbles, teeth shining. “Don’t have a ring, but lemme–lemme practice. Wanna marry you. Please?”

“Leon, let’s get you to bed–”

“Please,” he says, with those damn puppy eyes again. This man was going to be the death of you. “Let me practice.” Then, with as much coordination as a drunk man can summon, he gets on one knee. “Be my wife?”

You’re stuck to the spot. You can’t tear your eyes away from Leon, the necklace, his flushed cheeks, his hopeful smile. You’re hyperaware of the fact that your hair is awry, you’re fighting sleep behind every blink, and you’re wearing a stained RPD shirt, yet he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

You kiss the backs of his outstretched hands. “Of course, baby.” And, before you can get another word in, he throws his full body weight on you, wrapping you so tightly in his arms that you fear you’ll suffocate. You reciprocate, tracing small circles into his back while your other hand ruffles his hair. The soft, blond tresses are almost a pale brown in the low lighting. “Of course.”

He continues babbling about how much he loves you as you lead him to the shower, waiting outside the door as a healthy compromise (he initially wanted to hold your hand while he scrubbed himself). The water shuts off; you wait for a minute while he dries himself off. Then another. Then it’s been a good, what, ten minutes, and you crack the door open to make sure he’s doing alright. And he certainly’s a sight.

The first thing you notice is that his lower half is bare, despite the fact that his hair is wrapped in a towel (microfiber, he insisted, to protect his hair). The second thing you notice is that he’s muttering to himself, bent on one leg, standing, then bending on the other. “What are you doing?”

Leon shoots you a lazy smile. “Nothing,” he says. “Just practicing how I’m gonna propose to my wife.” He emphasizes the last word with bravado, running a hand through his hair. You laugh.

“Alright, husband. Put some pants on.”

And though he would wake up tomorrow, hangover and embarrassment fighting to see which would win, you knew he meant every word he said. You gently place your necklace on the nightstand. The second the lights shut off, Leon hums into your shoulder, pressing soft kisses up your clavicle to your chin to your cheeks, anywhere he can get from this position, where your arms and legs are thrown on each others’. 

Vika's thumping footsteps could easily be heard through the thin motel walls, so it was no surprise to Silas when she burst through the door frantically.

-

"Si, baby, look! Look!"

"Silas-"

"The fuck did I tell you, Dove?" he said, cutting her off.

"S-s…ugh. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to call you that. I forgot. I just—I have really good news!" Vika was anxiously rubbing her thumbs together.

"What? Spit it out already."

"I did it, I-"

"We." he cut her off again.

"Y-yes, we. We did it! Um, we have enough eddies now, or well, we should have enough. Since you keep all the eddies I'm not entirely sure, but I've been trying to keep mental track of-"

"Ludovika. Get to the fucking point already. How much did you make tonight?" Silas' icy words cut through Vika like a serrated knife. Lately this was all he ever sounded like. It's hard for Vika to remember a time when he was soft, when his kind words were capable of keeping her safe and sound. She hasn't heard from him in a while, but she knows that version of him still exists somewhere inside of Silas.

Now, however, he keeps him locked away. Silas' words no longer bring Vika comfort. Each syllable is a sharpened knife, each sentence another cut to make the wound deeper.

"€$550. Baby, we have enough to make it out of Night City. Remember? We said we were going to get out of here and head east? I know it's been almost a year, but we can finally do this, Silas!"

"You're actually the most gonk fucking bitch on this planet. Know that?" He scoffed.

Stab.

"We aren't going anywhere, Dove. Do you realize how much fucking money you're making me here?"

Stab.

"U-um, I mean.. no, no, what?" she stammered.

She could feel her hands beginning to sweat. Her knees felt like they could give out at any moment. What is he doing?

"Listen, and I mean really listen to me, okay? You and me? We are not going anywhere. You are keeping your pretty little ass out on those streets for rich dipshits to fuck, indefinitely. You're my little money maker, Dove. You're so good at this, why would you want to stop?"

Stab. Stab stab stab.

No. No no no no no no no. What the fuck is he doing right now? We were supposed to leave, supposed to go East and take on the world together, just us. I'm good at this? This can't be real. What the fuck is he saying?

"Silas, what the fuck are you actually saying to me right now? You want me to keep doing this? You don't care that every single day disgusting people abuse me and fuck me for money?" tears began to fall as she yelled at him. Her voice was shaky and hoarse from forcing moans all night.

"I'm yours, Silas! You shouldn't be okay with this!"

"You're right for once, you are mine. So get it through that thick fucking skull of yours, Ludovika. I own you. You make me eddies, I keep you warm, safe, and fed. Don't want to do it anymore? Too fucking bad, darling. Now please, give me the eddies, and shut the hell up." he spat.

"No! No! You don't do this to someone you fucking love, Silas! Y-"

"Dammit, I said SHUT. UP."

With one swift motion Silas flicked open his pocket knife and swung his arm out towards Vika. She was so worked up that she didn't even feel the blade slice through her lips. It was only once she put her fingers to her mouth and felt the warm liquid flowing from her lips that she realized what he had done.

"Look what you did, Jesus. What a fucking mess." Silas let out an exasperated sigh as he walked towards the bathroom to grab the first aid kit hanging on the wall.

The grand ballroom shimmered with light, its gilded walls and towering chandeliers a testament to Philos's wealth and power. Caleb stood near the entrance, his uniform pressed to perfection, the silver insignia of his rank glinting on his chest. Lord Caleb of the King’s Army, a man sworn to duty and service. But tonight, his focus was elsewhere.

Seraphine.

She moved through the crowd with a grace born of years of royal training, her every gesture measured and elegant. To everyone else, she was untouchable, the perfect image of a future queen. But Caleb saw what they didn’t—the way her fingers brushed nervously against the jewelled bracelet at her wrist, the slight hesitation in her smile. She was trying so hard to live up to their expectations, and it made something in his chest ache.

Caleb straightened, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as he observed the nobles swarming around her. He knew the kind of men who filled this room—smug, polished sycophants who bowed low but had little spine when it truly mattered.

He shouldn’t feel this way. He had no right. He was a soldier, bound to protect her kingdom, not covet its princess. But no matter how many battles he fought, how many nights he spent convincing himself his feelings were foolish, he couldn’t stop looking at her the way he did now—with a yearning so sharp it felt like a blade against his ribs.

Damn it, he was supposed to be stronger than this.

Across the room, Seraphine glanced up, her eyes scanning the crowd, and for a moment, they locked on his. The faintest flicker of recognition passed over her face, followed by a small, knowing smile. That smile—it was dangerous. It made him forget himself. Forget his duty. Forget everything except her.

Weaving through the throng of nobles and courtiers until he stood before her. He bowed low, as protocol demanded, though there was a teasing edge to his voice when he spoke.

“Your Highness,” he said, his tone light, “might a humble knight request the honour of a dance with Philos most radiant jewel?”

Seraphine Asteril, queen yet to be crowned, princess only in name, was one that carried admirable dignity, poise, and certain grace. Envied by many but, more often than not, desired by so many more for much to offer. Noblemen dreamed of having someone of her beauty right in their arms. Noblewomen wanted to rise to her aid for the connection she would bring about from the royals. Few saw her with eyes of contempt, they were outnumbered greatly by those that found her to be a measure of achievement. Children of families would stop their parents, pointing out that they too wished to harbour her likeness, a few young boys would even rush to her, stating boldly how they would gladly serve to protect her.

Lately, the sentiment had changed; many felt pity, few taking to anger, the few being the noblemen who wished to have her as prize to their houses. Why? Well, that's a simple question; a simple answer would be, she was trained to have herself sold to the Royals, specifically the first prince. Sorry as they felt, nothing could change that course. The first prince is not known for kindness, not even for showing affection to his parents. The prince did little to change from his days of youth, where he'd demand respect, demand to be served, no one could deny him, royal blood flowed through his veins, and just as that, all were meant to serve as the royal family’s hounds. His temper was to be feared even more, far worse than firecrackers; that would be a shameful comparison, no, far worse than the warning sounds of thunder. A warning sign from the prince would be a miracle.

Despite the whispered words of compunction, Seraphine never looked at herself with regret. She stood tall, for all this was an act curated just for her family's happiness. So pristine an act, she forbade herself from seeping through the cracks of her world class play. Yet, just as she was human, taking to hide away for some solace, some hope for recovery, he came along.

Philos most brutal, feared but respected knight, Caleb. A demon in the battlefield, some would argue even a demon would fear him in battle, such a man had seen her just as she got away. Ah, but she never could lay eyes upon him, thus never knowing who the rumoured man could be. In came a warm summer at her side, quietly approaching her fatigued body resting by the fountain view. All kind words were exchanged between the two, but as time passed since that fateful meeting, the pair couldn't shy away from meeting in public gatherings. Seraphine was bold in her actions, rumours couldn't phase her, she knew her eyes and her judgement was all that she needed, trusting herself to know that Caleb was kind, caring and wrongfully beautiful. He was a man that would hide his true nature, much like herself, but instead, showing his more brutish, undesirable façade than his caring, brightly coloured soul.

Her one flaw to society, a friendship with a knight feared for his actions.

There he stood, bent in front of her at a celebration of victory of the knight army. She curtsied in greeting, “I would be more then delighted, Sir Caleb.” Her hand extended after the greeting, as he gently took it in his own, placing a warm, light kiss on her palm. A soft tickle jolted up her hand, yet she denied its presence.

A flaw this may be, but no one could disagree; the Knight and Jewel made such a delightful painting.

“Congratulations, Sir Caleb, yet another victory captured under your command.” They glided in soft short steps around the side of the ballroom, not minding the other intruders in their world. “I only acted on my duties, it was to be expected.”

“Yet you still fought with your life at sword's edge, it's still worthy of praise.” Caleb is not allowed to express humbleness, at least not in front of Seraphine. “If that's to be true, then congratulations on facing the prince with patience, you won a hard battle, your highness.” A slight mockery to her words, he said it so earnestly, any eavesdropping passersby would take his words as just that.

Seraphine, ever so patient as she is described to be, stepped on his foot with purpose. “You jest, it was to be expected, was it not?”

He held in soft laughter at her words, “You're as humble as you're beautiful.” Leaning in by her ear, he whispered, “Seraph.”

There it fled from her body, her perfect charade dripped. Her feet stumbled, fingers now tightly gripping his shoulders at his soft whisper of her nickname. Caleb mused, 'What a delightful sight.' He couldn't help himself.

“Are you alright, princess?” The knight asked after holding Seraphine steady. He peered at her face, which hung a little, now a glimpse of her bare neck peeked out as she hung her head. Red warmth had gathered itself around her body. “You—”

Her gaze had lifted to see an innocent smile from her dear friend. “Thank you for the dance, I'll be on my way.” Like silk, she slipped out from their dance form, now walking to the nearest window.

“Princess?”

He followed her figure. How troublesome a sight the pair was, one chases, when caught in a warm embrace, like a wicked curse, the other leaves. Truly an annoyance, yes, not because they couldn't follow their roles as portrayed to them, simply because they would be their own undoing.

“Your Highness, I apologise, I did not mean to cause you to stumble on purpose, much less in such a gathering.” Caleb bowed greatly, hand to his chest, he was apologetic. No matter how hard he wanted to be with her, for it to be at the cost of her hard work, it would never be worth it. “It's forgiven, I simply wish to enjoy the view of the garden now, so—”

“May I take you?”

“What?”

“I'll escort you to the garden, would that be enough for you to look at me again?”

How pathetic, but by God, the look on his face could make even the sun lose its light. All that's left to complete the portrait would be the prettiest crystal tears, falling from his eyes and tracing a quiet path on his face. Seraphine couldn't turn, not when the reflection on the window was enough for her to swallow stones; she simply extended her hand, and that would be all he would get. Nothing could make him happier, not anyone else but her, Caleb gently took her hand.

There at the grassy fields, the Knight escorted his Jewel to have her stand amongst the bright blossoms, knowing it only made her shine brighter.

He watches as she still can't meet his desperate eyes. At the sight of camellias, her fingers traced edges of the petals, soft, so light, and fragile. One had fallen right at the touch, broken right at the stem, it was giving itself to another. Seraphine hoped to gather more, the setting sun made the hues of pink, purple and white meld into a sunset hue. Her hands wrapped around the small bouquet, now she stood facing Caleb. She looked up, catching sight of the same hue in his eyes.

Her stomach felt like it wanted to escape one way or another, was it truly her that should be labelled ‘perfect’? Or are people so blinded by hearsay that they cannot see what is before them?

She approached him cautiously, her empty hand reaching out to open his own to her, she placed the bouquet of her own making in his hand, now no longer tearing away from his sights.

“Next we meet, I would like a repayment.” Her words carried some fear, but for what? Well, how could she know?

“Repayment? For this?” His eyes fell to look at the amateur flower arrangement in his palm.

He crowned a smile, “In what kind, may I ask, my princess?”

Seraphine couldn't betray her thoughts, not any longer, “With something that would last a lifetime.”

Hello everyone! I sincerely hope you guys enjoyed it, now this is important if you wanna know about the whole, "Did you use AI for this?" Nope, not at all, that's the simple answer.

To go more in depth, I was using C.ai, for a while, mainly due to feeling a bit lonely, horrible way to cope actually, I should have just spoken to people. I came across this specific chat with Caleb as a knight and I read the intro chat thingy, and oh boy, was it so good. I left the app, copy pasted the intro and began viciously writing down a full story in my google docs. If by chance you came across this on AO3, hello again, I posted this on AO3 as well, I don't wanna share my account but if you find it, that's awesome! Now, since it's been so very long since I've been on c.ai, I cannot remember the author who wrote the chat, but I do remember it being something about Caleb being a knight, and you were roleplaying as this princess. If you find the author, anywhere, let me know! I'd love to credit them!