#mutal pining

You only agreed to room with Seungmin because he was “safe.”

Smart, sarcastic, emotionally unavailable—your mutual friend described him as a “walking beige wall with a killer jawline.”

“Don’t worry,” she had said, half-drunk off margaritas. “He’s not a flirter. He’s annoyingly responsible. You’ll forget he’s even a guy.”

Lies. All of them.

Because three weeks into living with him, you knew exactly what kind of danger you’d signed up for.

The annoyingly responsible part? Sure. Seungmin was neat, polite, cooked his own meals, paid rent on time.

But the rest? Not so much.

He walked around shirtless in the mornings, hair messy, coffee mug in hand, muttering sleepy curses under his breath. He had a laugh that made your stomach flutter, and an ability to make you feel seen in moments that had no business feeling intimate.

Worst of all?

The rules.

“We don’t hook up with roommates. Ever.” That was the first thing he said the day you moved in.

You’d nodded like it was no big deal.

But then he smiled at you—half-smirk, half-dare—and you felt something twist inside you.

And now? Now it’s month two, and you’re biting your lip every time he leans over the couch, every time he lets out a breathy laugh too close to your ear, every time he says your name like it means something.

You haven’t touched. Haven’t flirted. Haven’t even looked at each other for too long.

But every day, the air between you grows heavier.

And you don’t know how much longer either of you can pretend.

_

Game night was supposed to be a distraction.

Jisung brought beer, Minho brought snacks, and you brought your best attempt at pretending your very hot, very frustrating roommate didn’t make your pulse race every time he walked past you shirtless.

Which, tonight, he did. Twice. With zero shame.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, oversized hoodie covering your legs, pretending not to watch him stretch as he grabbed a drink from the fridge. You weren’t even into him, but the way that hoodie lifted just enough to show the waistband of his sweats?

Criminal.

“Truth or dare,” Jisung says, snapping you back. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t be lame.”

You glance around. The circle’s cozy—dim lights, soft music in the background, snacks half-eaten, everyone tipsy enough to let their guards down. Seungmin’s sitting on the floor, right across from you, one arm lazily thrown over the back of the couch, eyes on you like he already knows what you’ll choose.

“Truth,” you say.

“Lame,” Jisung groans. “Okay. Who in this room would you sleep with?”

The question hits like a slap. You freeze. The room goes still, laughter dying down like someone turned the volume off.

You could lie. Make a joke. Say Minho and watch him roll his eyes.

But you look at Seungmin—just for a second too long. He blinks, then looks away, jaw tense.

You clear your throat. “Pass.”

“Pass?” Minho snorts. “Weak.”

“Fine,” you say, grabbing a beer. “Dare next round.”

Jisung grins. “Say less.”

Thirty minutes later, the mood is looser again. Someone dared Minho to do a sexy dance, which traumatized everyone in the best way. Seungmin’s been suspiciously quiet, but you chalk it up to competitiveness—he always got weird when he wasn’t winning.

“Your turn,” Jisung says, pointing to you. “Truth or dare.”

You hesitate. Seungmin’s still watching you, beer in hand, eyes a little darker now. There’s a glint in them—sharp and unreadable.

You want to flinch away from it. But you don’t.

“Dare.”

Minho smirks. “I dare you… to sit on Seungmin’s lap for a full minute.”

The room hollers.

You freeze.

Seungmin doesn’t move. He raises an eyebrow at you, calm as ever, but there’s tension in the way his hand curls around his bottle. He’s daring you to say no. To back down.

So you don’t.

“Fine,” you say. You get up slowly, your heartbeat louder than the music now. Cross the floor. Sit.

His thighs are warm, solid beneath you. Your hands rest on your knees, trying to be casual, but he’s not making it easy. One of his hands settles on your waist—just to steady you, you tell yourself—but it lingers.

You feel every breath he takes. His voice is low when he leans in.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he murmurs.

“I’m not.”

His hand flexes slightly. “You sure?”

You nod.

He laughs, soft and breathy, like he’s losing patience. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He doesn’t answer. The minute ends.

You stand. The game moves on. But when you sit back down, you can still feel the heat of him on your skin.

Later that night, you pass each other in the hallway. Your fingers brush. You both pause.

Neither of you says a word.

But the rule you swore you’d follow? It’s already starting to break.

_

It starts with rain.

Not the romantic, slow kind—but loud, unrelenting thunder that shakes the windows. You’re curled up on the couch with a blanket and some half-forgotten show playing in the background. You don’t even remember how long Seungmin’s been sitting beside you.

Close, but not too close. As usual.

You’re both quiet. Like something might break if either of you speaks.

"Storm’s bad tonight," you say softly.

He hums in agreement, eyes on the screen—but not watching.

You should move. Say goodnight. Go to your room and sleep off the weird energy that’s been building since lap-gate at game night.

But you don’t.

Instead, you risk it.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

Seungmin glances over, cautious. “Yeah.”

“That night,” you start. Your voice dips. “You looked at me like… like you wanted something.”

His throat bobs with a swallow. He shifts slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “You were on my lap,” he says, tone flat—but his eyes? Not cold at all. “Hard not to look.”

You bite your lip. “You know what I mean.”

He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he admits. “I know.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and loaded.

“Did you want to kiss me?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His eyes snap to yours.

He looks at you—really looks—and something in him cracks.

“I always want to kiss you.”

Your breath catches. He leans forward, slowly, cautiously, like he's giving you every chance to run.

You don’t.

His face is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath, see the flicker of hesitation behind his gaze.

But then—right when your lips are about to touch—he stops.

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling back like it hurts. “We can’t.”

You blink, dazed. “Why not?”

“Because the second I kiss you,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because you’re my roommate. And I’m not stupid enough to think this wouldn’t ruin everything.”

You want to argue. Scream. Ask why he didn’t stop looking at you like that every time you walked into a room. But instead, you nod.

Because you get it.

Because you feel it too.

You stand, the blanket falling from your shoulders. “Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He watches you walk away—but doesn’t say anything.

Behind your closed door, you lean against the wall and exhale, chest tight, lips aching with the ghost of a kiss that never happened.

But the rule?

It’s not just bending anymore. It’s fracturing.

_

You weren’t trying to make a statement.

You’d just forgotten to grab your clothes before showering. A simple mistake. One that shouldn’t mean anything.

But now you’re standing in the hallway in a towel—damp skin, flushed cheeks, hair dripping—and of course, he’s there.

Seungmin looks up from the fridge like someone just punched him in the chest.

You freeze.

So does he.

It’s the kind of silence that hums—too loud, too charged, too full of everything you’ve both been refusing to say.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“You—uh—forgot your clothes?” he asks, voice slightly rougher than usual.

You nod. “Didn’t think you’d be out here.”

“Right.”

His eyes trail down your body before he can stop himself. He catches it. Forces his gaze back to the orange juice like it’s the most fascinating thing in the universe.

But it’s too late. You saw it—the flicker of raw want.

And maybe you’re not entirely innocent either. Maybe you stand a little straighter. Tilt your head. Say:

“You walked around shirtless for two months and expected me to not return the favor?”

His eyes cut to you—sharper now. Darker.

“You walked around like that on purpose?” he says quietly.

You cross your arms, your towel tightening with the movement. “And what if I did?”

A pause.

He shuts the fridge without looking. Sets the juice down too hard. Walks toward you slowly, like he’s crossing a line he already knows he won’t come back from.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his body fogs up your already-overheated skin.

“Then I guess I have to show you what that does to me.”

Your breath catches.

And he does—slowly.

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. His touch drifts down your throat, then pauses at the knot of your towel, like he’s giving you time to stop him.

You don’t.

“Do you want me to?” he asks. Voice low. Dead serious.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

The towel’s gone in seconds. You gasp—more from the rush of finally than from the chill. His hands are everywhere at once—hot, hungry, controlled but barely. One at your waist, the other gripping your hip like he needs the anchor or he’ll lose it.

He crowds you against the hallway wall. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear. “Every night, I hear you moving around. Smell your perfume. Watch you steal my hoodies and pretend it’s innocent.”

You gasp as his mouth brushes your neck. He bites down—light, teasing—and your knees go weak.

“Been walking around this apartment like a test I wasn’t supposed to pass,” he growls.

“Then fail,” you whisper. “Go ahead.”

He does.

His hand slips between your legs. No teasing this time. Just purpose. Pressure. And oh god—

You moan his name without thinking. He hisses. “Say that again.”

“Seungmin,” you gasp.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your collarbone, your chest. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

But you do. Because your head is spinning, your body is buzzing, and the rule?

It’s not just broken.

It’s obliterated.

His hand slides between your thighs—warm, confident, maddeningly slow.

You gasp, body already hypersensitive from the way he pinned you against the wall like you belonged there. And maybe, tonight, you do.

“Still acting like this is innocent?” he mutters, voice rough against your neck as his fingers trace a line up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of where you need him.

You whimper. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He leans in, mouth brushing yours—but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He’s torturing you, hovering so close you can feel every word against your lips.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers slowly through your folds now—just enough to make you gasp, not enough to give relief. “Wearing those little sleep shorts. Moaning through the walls when you’re dreaming. Or pretending to sleep.”

You open your mouth to speak—to deny it maybe—but his thumb circles your clit and your brain goes static.

“Oh—fuck, Seungmin.”

He hums, pleased. “There’s my name again.”

He presses his fingers in—slow, deliberate. Two, deep, filling. Your back arches against the wall, and he uses his free hand to steady your hips as he curls just right.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. His hoodie still clings to him, and you realize—he’s fully dressed. You’re bare. Exposed. Completely his.

And he knows it.

“You’re shaking,” he says lowly, eyes devouring you.

“I’m—” You suck in a breath. “Not used to this.”

He stills. His voice softens just a little. “You want me to stop?”

Your hand grabs his wrist. “Don’t you dare.”

That earns a wicked grin. “Good.”

His mouth finally crashes into yours.

It’s not sweet. It’s not patient.

It’s weeks of tension, jealousy, frustration, late-night fantasizing finally breaking loose all at once.

You moan into him and he groans low in his throat, fingers thrusting faster now, hips pressing you harder into the wall like he needs to keep you pinned there or you’ll both fly apart.

He pulls back, lips kiss-swollen. “Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Like you said it before.”

“Seungmin,” you whisper, breathless.

He growls—and you swear you feel him tremble at the sound.

Then his fingers curl just right, and the pleasure builds so fast your knees give out, body shuddering as you come undone in his hands, against his chest, with his name on your lips and his breath hot against your skin.

He catches you when you sag, presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“Still think the rule was a good idea?” he mutters.

You laugh, dazed. “Fuck the rule.”

Reaching your chambers felt less like a homecoming and more like a return to a cell. You slipped through the heavy oak door, the click of the latch sounding like a gavel in the oppressive silence. In the antechamber, your handmaidens stirred, but none woke. They were used to your restless nights, though they never suspected the nature of your wanderings.

You crossed to the window, watching the first grey bruised light of dawn bleed over the Blackwater Bay. The reality of Highgarden, mentioned just hours ago in the dark, felt like a noose tightening around your neck. You could almost feel the phantom touch of your husband — cold, perfunctory, a man who saw you as a prize to be displayed rather than a flame to be tended.

He does not know the value of the dragon he holds, Baelor had said.

The words were a vow, but as the sun began to crest the horizon, they felt like a challenge to the gods themselves. You stripped off your gown, your fingers trembling. You didn't call for your servants. You needed to remain in this state of ruin for a few moments longer, preserving the scent of Old Valyria on your skin before the perfumes and oils of the Tyrell court washed it away.

You sat at your vanity, staring at your reflection in the polished silver. Your eyes were bright, rimmed with the exhaustion of passion and the terror of what came next. Baelor was moving the pieces — he was the Hand, the steel of the realm — but you were the one standing in the center of the board, waiting to see if the next move would grant you a throne or a pyre.

The morning bells of the Great Sept tolled like a warning, summoning the lords of the realm to the Small Council chamber. While you were being laced into a corset of stiff brocade — a garment that felt more armor than finery — Baelor was already seated at the head of the long table, the heavy silver brooch of the Hand resting against his chest.

The air in the council room was thick with the scent of beeswax and old parchment. Your husband sat opposite Baelor, his expression one of polite boredom. He was a man of harvests and heraldry, blissfully unaware that the man across from him had spent the night mapping the contours of his wife's soul.

"The reports from the Reach are troubling, Lord Tyrell", Baelor began, his voice as cold and rhythmic as the tide. He didn't look up from the ledgers. "The discrepancies in the grain tithes suggest a mismanagement of the costal routes. I require a full audit of the Highgarden accounts".

Your husband straightened, his pride pricked. "My stewards are the finest in the South, Lord Hand. If there are delays, they are merely seasonal. My wife and I were prepare to oversee the corrections ourselves upon our return this fortnight".

Baelor finally lifted his gaze. It was a look of sharp, Valyrian steel. "And yet, I find the Crown's hospitality has been far too brief. It has been many moons, Lord Tyrell, since the Princess was able to walk these halls as a daughter of the Dragon rather than a blossom of the Reach".

He leaned back, his finger steepled beneath his chin. "Family is the foundation of the realm, is it not? It seems a cruelty to whisk her away so soon, especially when the Red Keep has lacked her presence for so long. Surely, a man of your...devotion...wouldn't wish to deprive her of her kin while we settle these tedious gold-and-grain matters".

A heavy silence fell. Baelor was wielding family like a dagger, masking his obsession with a veneer of sentimental duty.

"I suggest", Baelor continued, his voice dropping an octave, "that your Lady wife remains here as a guest of the Iron Throne. It will allow her to reconnect with her family while you return to Highgarden to set your ledgers straight. It is, after all, only right that she spends time with her own blood after so much time spent in yours".

Your husband's jaw tighetened. To the Council, it sounded like a gracious gesture of the Hand honoring family ties. To your husband, it was a dismissal.

The trap was set, wrapped in the silk of kinship but forged in the fires of Baelor's resolve.

Later that afternoon, the sun hung low over the Red Keep, casting long shadows across the stone floors. You were walking through the gallery. flanked by two Tyrell guards whose presence now felt like an insult.

Then, you saw him.

Baelor was descending the stairs, flanked by a flurry of scribes and messengers. As your paths crossed, the world seemed to narrow until there was nothing but the space between your breaths. The guards stepped aside, bowing their heads deeply to the Hand of the King.

"Niece", Baelor said, his voice a formal chime. He stopped, waiting for you to acknowledge him, his expression an impenetrable mask of Targaryen stoicism.

"Uncle", you replied, the word feeling like a lie and a prayer all at once. You dipped into a low, graceful curtsy, your eyes downcast just long enough to maintain the illusion of modesty. "I am told I am to be a guest of the city for longer than anticipated, for the sake of our kin".

He took a step closer, close enough for you to see the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes — the only trace of the night he had spent in your arms. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours as if to inspect the craftmanship of your rings, but his fingers grazed your skin for a fraction of a second — a spark of lightning in a sea of gray.

"A dragon belongs with its kin", he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that only you could truly hear. "It has been far too long since you were home, and the Red Keep has been diminished by your absence. I inted to make sure you never have to leave it again".

"I find I am learning the cost of such homecomings every day, Uncle", you whispered, the title tasting like copper on your tongue.

He inclined his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips — the only sign of the man who had held you in the dark. "Good. Knowledge is the only currency that matters at court. We shall speak again whe the tithes are settled".

He moved past you without a backward glance, the heavy tread of his boots echoing against the walls. You stood there, frozen, the small patch of skin he had touched feeling as though it were on fire. He had rewritten the laws of the realm to keep you within his reach, but as you watched his retreating figure, you realized that being home under his protection was the most beautiful, dangerous cage you had ever known.

The evening air in your chamber was thick with the scent of jasmine and the metallic tang of old stone. You dismissed your handmaidens early, their soft chatter about court gossip feeling like thorns against your skin. Alone, you stood before the hearth, the orange glow of the embers dancing in your eyes —the same fire you had seen behind your lids in the library.

You realized that then Baelor hadn't just moved a piece on a board; he had declared a silent war. By invoking your family and heritage, he had effectively told your husband that the Reach's claim on you was secondary to the blood of the Dragon.

You walked to your writing desk, tracing the seal of Highgarden on a stray parchment. If you stayed, you were his. If you stayed, the Tyrells would eventually see the truth. The freedom Baelor promised felt intoxicating, but as you watched a single coal crumble into ash, you wondered if the value of the dragon he held was something he intended to cherish, or something he intended to use to burn the world down.

A sharp rap at the door shattered your thoughts. It wasn't the rhythmic knock of a servant, nor the heavy thud of a guard.

"Enter", you said, straightening your spine.

The door creaked open to reveal a young page, his face pale and his eyes darting toward the shadows of the room. He didn't speak; he simply stepped forward and place a small, crumpled slip of parchment on the table before bowing low and retreating into the hall without a word.

Your breath hitched. You unfurled the paper with trembling papers. There was no signature, only a single sentence written in a cramped, hurried hand:

The library has many ears, and the Hand's shadow is not as long as he believes. Take care, Little Princess, for even dragons can be caged by those who watch from the walls.

aka the Tried To Change The Ending fic

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon through TOA, with one exception: rather than struggle to catch up in the mortal world following the Second Gigantomachy, Percy elects to stay at Camp Half-Blood. There he can homeschool at his own place with programs tailored towards ADHD children and still visit his family on the weekends - and not get into any more ridiculous situations in the mortal world when one of the gods kidnaps him or sends him on a quest to find their sneakers.

This, naturally, stresses his relationship with Annabeth - who, now that she's no longer living at camp full time, calls it the easy way out. But Percy is tired and struggling in mortal high school where everyone thinks he's a delinquent idiot when another option exists seems foolish. Percy and Annabeth break up and drift apart.

Enter Apollo, fresh from his latest stint as a mortal. He's trying to do his best by his children, which includes popping by camp as often as he can get away with - which in turn means spending a lot of time with Percy, who at this point is unofficially running CHB because it's not like Dionysus or even Chiron have done a brilliant job of it in recent times.

(First aid, strategy, and mythology classes are made mandatory. Percy personally ensures every demigod knows enough about self-defense to be able to survive long enough to run away or for help to arrive. Bullying is cracked down on so hard that it's this, not Percy's generally parental nature, that has people calling him Camp Mom.)

Percy and Apollo become friendly. Enough so that some of Apollo's kids assume they're dating and keeping it on the down-low so as not to draw Zeus' ire. Or Poseidon's. Or anyone else's. It's on one of their not-dates that they're yeeted into the past, without warning or explanation.

And so 19-year-old Percy Jackson and post-TOA Apollo find themselves in Ancient Greece c. 1220 BCE, roughly thirty-five years before the destruction of Troy.

The time travel is immediately obvious, as Apollo becomes the closest thing a god might experience to being high the moment they land in the past - being a powerful god in modern times is nothing like being a powerful god at the height of his power in ancient times. It's overwhelming (and somewhat alarming from Percy's POV, but kind of funny in retrospect.)

The specific date is harder to determine, but made clear when Hermes shows up and starts going on about you'll never believe what father's done now: he seduced the Spartan queen as a swan and she's laid an egg. Hera is furious - especially as they're saying the girl that hatched from it is the most beautiful in the world, even though she's only a few days old. It's nuts. By the way, where have you been? You missed the last two council meetings. Do you want Dad to punish you?

Apollo at this stage is very high. He's also been USTing over Percy for quite some time and is worried what the gods of this era might do to Percy without divine protection (smiting or seduction, it's all on the table). But mostly he's very high, and so to keep Percy close and safe he declares he's been off having the dirtiest of dirty weekends with his latest lover and that Hermes' presence is ruining the mood. So if he would kindly leave, please and thank you, he'd really rather get back to it without an audience.

This, naturally, is a surprise to Percy, but he rolls with it because 1) he doesn't have any better ideas on how to get rid of Ancient Greek Hermes so they can figure out what the hades is going on and 2) he's been USTing over Apollo ever since he recovered enough from Tartarus to start feeling attraction again.

Fueled by mutual UST, they put together a cover story that should hold the next time a god with too much prurient interest shows: Percy is now Prince Persē of Gadir - a Phoenician colony that will grow into the future Cadiz - well past the edge of the Greek world at this stage but not beyond belief for Poseidon to have visited, as it's obvious who his father is. They claim his mother is the King of Gadir's youngest sister and as such Persē had a royal upbringing, but was far enough down the line of succession that he was free to chose to sail east and explore his father's homeland. Apollo caught sight of him on his journey, one thing led to another, and here they are.

(Are there easier, more sensible cover stories? Possibly. But the UST refuses to let them consider any of them now that a fake relationship is on the table.)

Deciding what to do about The Trojan War is much harder. On the one hand, it's a lot of senseless death and destruction. On the other, without it we don't get The Iliad and The Odyssey - two of the most influential works of literature in western civilization - and Aeneas doesn't go off to Italy (leading to the founding of Rome, which would change the history of western civilization a lot). In the end, they decide to let the war happen but do their best to mitigate the worst parts of it.

And so Percy goes off and becomes a hero of Ancient Greece while pretending to be in a relationship with Apollo.

This stage of things is filed with angst from both parties, as both Percy and Apollo want a real relationship with each other but think they're abusing the other's trust by eagerly faking their relationship. There's a lot of PDA, a lot of feelings, and limited communication. It goes on for quite a while and would probably exasperate quite a few people if everyone in the know didn't think they were already in a relationship.

It's also filled with modern day Percy being confronted by realties of life in Ancient Greece. It's not just mortals knowing about - and interacting with - the gods: it's everything. It's food and clothes and language and culture and housing and travel. He can play a lot off it as being a traveler from the edge of the known world, but some of it has him asking Apollo if he's being rick rolled.

Apollo, meanwhile, is having troubles of his own. He is not the god he used to be and it's hard pretending otherwise. He tries to walk the line of doing enough to be believable and holding back enough not to despise himself, but it's a fine line, he fails often, and he spends a not insignificant amount of time worried he's backsliding.

And so it goes until 7-year-old Helen of Troy is kidnapped by Theseus to be his wife.

This, naturally, does not fly with Percy, who by this time has built up something of a reputation as a hero. He teams up with the Dioscuri to rescue Helen.

One would think this would earn him Zeus' favor. It doesn't. Instead, Zeus sends monsters to harry him for refusing to let Castor and Pollux take Helen's captors' loved ones captive and raze Aphidna for Theseus' crime. Percy manages to hold his own for quite a while but eventually, exhausted from the near-constant fighting, is gored and left for dead by the reformed Minotaur.

...and when Apollo arrives, frantic, to heal him, Percy ascends instead, becoming the greek version of Saint Sebastian - a minor god of heroes, strength in the face of adversity, and athleticism; sort of halfway between Hercules and Chiron.

Then and only then do Percy and Apollo finally get their act together, confessing to each other how much they care for the other and how much they don't want this to be fake any longer.

History proceeds apace - albeit with Persē being a second immortal trainer of heroes.

24 years after their arrival in the past, 16 years after Percy's ascension, The Trojan War begins. Despite their best efforts, there's only so much they can do - war is war and gods are gods. They are able to stop some of the worst excesses on both sides, but in the end Apollo still sends the plague that causes Agamemnon to take Briseis for his own, which caused Achilles' departure from the field, Patroclus' death, &c - not because Apollo was trying to maintain the timeline, but because in the instant he sent it he was angry and reverted to his old ways.

Troy falls...

...but when Zeus tries to use this as an excuse to ban gods from interacting with their demigod children, Apollo is able to say that's a bit extreme isn't it? with enough backing from the rest of the council that Zeus is forced to amend his ruling so that the gods are only allowed to freely visit their children on the "cross quarter days" that fall between each solstice and equinox (1 February, 1 May, 1 August, and 1 November).

This changes everything and nothing.

Time continues its inevitable march. Greece has its golden age before being conquered by Rome, which splits apart under its own weight and forms several smaller countries, which eventually spread their cultures around the world...

Apollo and Percy are there for it all. Persē is a minor figure in mythology, but never forgotten. He is ever-present in Apollo's temples - though the Church will later try to rewrite their myth so that they were merely sworn fighting partners, rather than lovers who eventually had a quite lovely wedding on Olympus (and then, at Poseidon's insistence, an even bigger ceremony on Atlantis). Percy takes over day-to-day operations of CHB from practically the moment the Trojan War ends.

...and so Persē is there the day Sally Jackson tries to get her son to camp, and is able to intervene when the Minotaur attacks on their border. He's able to meet her and her young son, Perseus ("Mom named me after you and the guy that killed Medusa since you're the only two heroes to have happy endings!"), and guide him through the trials that come with being a child of prophecy.

One day that Percy will hand Luke - who was never happy with the limited attention the gods were allowed to give their children - a cursed dagger so that Kronos can be defeated. That child will be offered godhood, turn it down, and go on to have a happy life with his eventual wife, Annabeth. He will never have his memories erased and be sent to Camp Jupiter. Gaia will not rise until long after that Percy's grandchildren are dead, and Zeus will not be quite so bullheaded when the proof of it is brought before him. That Second Gigantomachy is swift, well-coordinated, and fought without another Greek/Roman war brewing in the background.

And when they finally arrive at the day Apollo and Percy were originally sent back in time, Percy admits that while he is happy some version of him was better prepared for the war he was asked to fight in and allowed his peace afterward, he would change nothing about his own life, for it brought him to Apollo. The sunrise the next morning - on the first morning of the rest of their lives - is particularly spectacular.

Bonuses include:

Gaslighting Poseidon into believing that he's met Percy before the first time they're introduced. ("What do you mean you don't remember me, Father? You were present when I came of age! You gifted me this trident! Have I displeased you in some way?") It's an absolute masterclass that eventually manages to convince Poseidon that, yes, of course he knows Percy - and, maybe, he should check in on all his other demigod children to make sure he's not missed someone. (Two. He lost track of two of the others. Maybe he should be more careful about siring children in the future.) Apollo practically has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

As much historical accuracy as can be crammed into the Percy trying to make sense of Ancient Greece chapters as possible. Think Of a Linear Circle - Part III by flamethrower levels of historical research. As much as can be shoehorned in without bogging down the plot.

Percy and Dionysus bonding over their mutual dislike of Theseus, though Percy generally gets along with his other half-siblings, especially the ones who come to camp young enough to keep from getting big heads over being the children of Poseidon.

Though Percy adores all the children in Cabin 7 (most of whom are born via blessing this time around), he and Apollo have at least one child of their own - maybe a demigod born before Percy's ascension to sell their fake relationship? Maybe a minor god who's later attributed a different parentage by mortals? Dealer's choice on details.

It never being made clear who, or what, or how, Percy and Apollo were sent into the past. All of Percy's oddities are attributed to him being foreign or formerly mortal, all of Apollo's to the fact that he's in love with someone who didn't die before their first anniversary, and no one ever guesses time travel is responsible for their eccentricities. Or that time travel was ever an option.

And that's all I have. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you ever decide to do anything with it.

Dustin had froze. Panic set in as he watched his older sister struggle more and more to take in a full breath. A small crowd began to gather and the excited chatter of the cafeteria simmered into hushed whispers and gasps. Everyone was watching, and not in the way Eddie was used to.

“Henderson!” Eddie snapped. 

At that, Dustin went to work. “Mike, go call 911! Lucus, see if the nurse has an epipen. GO!” The sheep dispersed. Dustin picked up your bag with trembling hands and began digging through your books and school supplies, searching for the epinephrine injector he swears you kept in there.

Eddie turned his attention back to you, trusting that Dustin had the rest handled. At the look of panic in your blotchy and swollen face he almost froze too. A chilling dread spread through his veins as you began clawing at your throat, doing everything you could to open your airways. 

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me princess. You’re gonna be alright, gonna be just fine, you hear me? D-Dustin will getchu your meds and you’ll be good to go,” Eddie rambled, trying to convince himself just as much. He gently cradled your warm face and stroked your hair to try and soothe you.

With every second passing you became closer and closer to death. Eddie looked up in desperation. His red-headed neighbor (Max, he thinks her name is) snatched the backpack out of a distraught Dustin’s hands and turned it upside down, emptying its contents. Robin was there too and put a comforting arm around your brother while Max took over the search for the injector. Eddie was vaguely aware of a teacher trying to pry him off of you but he’d risk getting expelled for shoving a teacher if it meant staying by your side. 

“Got it!” Max exclaimed, holding the orange and clear tube triumphantly. She slid to her knees on your otherside, not hesitating to jam the needle into your leg and holding it there.

Eddie flinched at the force it took to inject you. You took your first full breath, allowing him to take one as well. Your eyes were drooping slightly as the medicine was introduced into your system.

“Hey, there she is,” Eddie said gently.

Your tired eyes met his and he could’ve sworn the corners of your lips twitched upwards.

The paramedics arrived and Eddie hesitantly let you go so they could treat you. It was a blur of navy blue and red as they hooked you up to numerous tubes and slid an oxygen mask over your head. 

You became slightly more alert at the sight of strangers surrounding you as the stretcher clicked into place, raising you a couple feet off the ground. You moved your head tiredly trying to catch sight of anyone you knew. Anyone to comfort you.

“Dustin, go with her,” Eddie told the curly haired boy. He looked up at him with wet eyes that clenched at Eddie’s heart. “She needs you, go on.”

Eddie watched the determination emerge on the freshman’s face as he walked through the paramedics declaring that he was your brother, allowing him to be by your side. 

Swallowing thickly past the dryness in his mouth, Eddie watched you get rolled out on the stretcher. 

He turned numbly to see that Lucas and Mike had returned and started digging through your lunch, in an attempt to find out what it was that could’ve caused your reaction. As the two predictably began to bicker, Eddie grabbed the cup of applesauce and slowly brought the spoon out. To his horror, he scooped out a few small round nuts mixed with the smooth texture of the applesauce. 

His darkened eyes snapped up, immediately finding Jason. He at least had the decency to look scared, his skin white as a sheet. True terror shining through as he came to realize the severity of what he did. He shook his head slightly, pleading with Eddie. For what, he wasn’t sure. But he could give a shit.

The grip on the applesauce tightened, causing it to tremble, before he launched it in Jason's general direction. A fire of rage lit up Eddie's entire being, consuming any reason or restraint within him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You could’ve killed her!!” Eddie roared, the words ripping from his throat like a thunderclap.  Every fiber in his being screamed for justice, determined to ensure that no harm would ever come to you again. 

“I-I-I didn’t think…I didn’t mean to-” Jason blubbered.

“Not good enough!” Eddie snapped. He charged forward, driven by the need to avenge your pain. Just when he was closing the distance between them a thick arm wrapped around his upper body. “LET ME GO!”

Eddie struggled against the firm grip that held him back from doing to Jason what he should've done a long time ago. If Eddie was strong enough, he could've saved you, stopped all of this bullying in its tracks before Jason had ever even looked in your direction. His strength never came from muscles or brute force, but from his anger—the primal need to protect those he loved. He was so consumed by his rage that a red haze blurred his vision. Or were those his tears?

“Eddie, man, don’t do this,” Doug said, doing his best to calm his friend.

“Please,” Eddie pleaded, losing some of his fight. “Just let me go.” 

“Dude, if you get into a fight you won’t be able to see Y/N in the hospital,” the bassist whispered in Eddie’s ear. He looked over and saw Principle Coleman closing in on them, there wasn’t much time left. “We can handle it, just go while you can.”

A wave of overwhelming frustration washed over Eddie as the struggle against Doug’s hold diminished. Tears welled up in his eyes as his chest released his rage and tightened back up with helplessness and despair.

He didn’t let it consume him though, taking off in the opposite direction of the principle, his sheep following close behind.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the van ripped into the hospital parking lot, Eddie finally took notice of how many stowaways he had. Lucas, Mike, Max, Robin, and even Nancy all burst through the double doors at the back of his skunky smelling van and made their way to the emergency room entrance.

Eddie was the first one through the doors, eyes scanning the waiting area for his curly haired friend. What he wasn’t expecting to see was the one and only King Steve sitting with the boy. 

Steve noticed them first, taking the lead on letting them know what’s going on. He explained that you’d be fine but the doctors are running some tests and getting you hooked up to the necessary machines. It’ll be a little longer before Eddie gets to see you with his own eyes.

Eddie turned on his heel and walked through the doors he just came through as Steve explained that your mom was called but was on a trip with her girlfriends and won’t be able to make it back until tomorrow.

The disinfected smell of the hospital only offered to heighten Eddie’s desire for a cigarette. He finds solace in the only coping mechanism he has under his belt, even if he knew it was bad for him in the long run. The stress of the day weighed heavily on him as he leaned on the brick wall of the hospital outside. The familiar routine of lighting up offered a good distraction, the only way to momentarily ease his anxiety.

That was until your brother found him. He silently stood next to him, not feeling the need to fill the silence with anything but the gentle breeze and the birds chirping in the distance. But it made Eddie feel uneasy.

“I’d offer you a smoke, but I don’t want to corrupt you more than I already have,” Eddie said with a sad laugh.

Ignoring Eddie’s comment, Dustin asked, “you remember that one time when Hellfire came over to my house for a session? When the theater kids needed the drama room at school?”

Eddie nodded his head slowly, releasing the smoke from his lungs as he did so.

“I was still in middle school so I had only heard about you from Y/N. She had this weird way of speaking about you. It was in a way I had never heard her speak about anyone before.”

Eddie’s heart punched against his ribs painfully, his insecurities taking over.

“She was nice enough to let me watch your campaign so I could get ideas for the campaign I was doing with Mike and Lucas, and our other friend Will. I think she regretted it because of the Reese's Pieces incident.”

Eddie couldn’t help but start chuckling embarrassingly at the memory. “God, that was so stupid,” he smacked his forehead in an attempt to stop his mind from reliving one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. 

-

The Hellfire members flooded into your home, bringing chips, candy, and drinks to share. Your first time hosting the club was going great, until Dustin noticed the bag of Reese’s Pieces in Eddie’s hand.

“My sister is too nice to say anything but-” Dustin started.

“Stop, Dustin-”

“-we can’t have those in the house.”

Eddie’s eyebrows pinched beneath his bangs, “what? Why not?”

“She’s allergic to peanuts.”

Before you could roll your eyes at your little brother and reassure him it was fine, Eddie turned and chucked the bag out your kitchen’s open window leaving you standing there in shock and Eddie horrified by his own impulse.

-

“I think that’s when she fell in love with you.”

Eddie’s head whipped over to Dustin. The kid had the audacity to look smug after completely shattering his world view. His mind spun with the revelation.

Love, a word so potent, was now intertwined with his thoughts of your relationship. Eddie knew he liked you, a lot, but his brain never brought him to love. He replayed moments from your friendship in his head, searching for the signs, trying to decipher if Dustin was telling the truth. If the sentiment was truly real. A mix of surprise and uncertainty overwhelmed him, but there was also something warm and hopeful there. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

He needed to see you and hear it from you directly. A million thoughts and memories raced through his mind, but one thing was clear–he needed to be with you, to tell you how he felt.

part 3

Had you told your fourteen year old self that your mother would have married a formula one driver when you were 15, you probably wouldn't have been surprised. Your mom was a famous model who forever had boys chasing after her, but her ended up with a man ten years younger than her, that one you hadn't seen coming.

Jenson had always been the cool, young-ish step dad, who always tried his best to make you like him. He was the type of step-dad that would fight with you over your bad decisions but then buy you ice cream afterward because he felt bad about making you upset.

He had been your biggest supporter when you decided you wanted to go into sports journalism, and for the past few years, you had been broadcasting for IndyCar.

That was until you had gotten the chance at being a part of the official Formula One Broadcast. You were a few races into the season at this point and had just finished the Pre Qualifying show for the Canadian Grand Prix when you heard that familiar Spanish voice.

"Surprised to see you here, Button," Ferando says, and when you look up, he's leaning against the Aston Martin garage with his arms crossed.

"Where else would I be, Alonso?" You smile pushing your sunglasses down so you could shamelessly check him out.

You weren't blind, and you could appreciate a good-looking man when you had the opportunity. Your eyes run him up and down.

The way his ankles are crossed. The way his race suit hangs low off his hips. The way his biceps flex under each other. The way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

And then your eyes pause, and your heart rate jumps. That mustache. The one you're friend Lee had gushed about last night over dinner. A warning.

But no amount of preparation could have prepared you for the way your body heated at the reality of it.

"Spa. Jensons racing after all, " He replies, and you watch the way his mouth moves. The way his tongue pauses between his teeth at the end of the sentence.

You pry your eyes away from him and check on how the broadcast team was doing with packing to move to the next location.

Yoy grin as you step out of the sun and into the shade, the massive garage provided. You push your glasses back up into your hair and glance down at his mustache again.

"The mustache," you say after a beat. "It's new,"

He chuckles that low rumble that reminds you of thunder. "You like it?" He smirks, causing your stomach to flutter.

"You want me to like it?" You ask with a raised eyebrow. You and Fernando had fallen into this sort of toying banter relationship this year.

Jenson had asked Fernando to keep an eye on you, and that resulted in him harmlessly flirting whenever he had the chance. Stolen glances and witty back-and-forths were your personal language, one Fernando had mastered.

Except since Spain, since meeting his parents in passing, something had changed.

"You know I do, Angel." He quips back, and you roll your eyes.

His tongue darts out the wet his lips and the way it grazes over the hairs of that mustache, it all made you know you were fucked.

"Thought you were supposed to be in Spa?" He questions, trying to turn us back to casual conversation.

"I was, had everything booked, but my replacement for the weekend got sick." You say with a half smile.

"Well, if you can't be there to support Jenson, at least you're here supporting me." He smiles.

"Don't flatter yourself, Alonso," you say, rolling your eyes.

"Don't worry, Button, your secrets safe with me," He says, and he puts his finger to his mouth, attracting your eyes to that mustache once more.

That mustache would be the death of you.

You step closer. You tilt your chin to him. "You know," I glace at his chest, overthinking the words I was about to say. "I used to think the helmets were the most dangerous part of your drivers kit."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Hmm, and that's changed?" He asks, and you nod. "And what is it now?"

"That mustache." You rasp and see him take an inhale of breath. You smile to yourself before taking a step back.

STACHELONSO - ONE SHOTS - MASTER LIST

"See you after Quali, Alonso" You add as you walk back into the sun, your shades coming back down, and helping the crew grab the last few things that needed to be returned to the media pit.

“Morning,” you grumble sleepily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Eddie takes the opportunity to swoop in and kiss your cheek, peppering your face with kisses over and over again until you concede and fully open your eyes. 

Eddie thinks you look so beautiful in the morning. You try to argue about your hair, or your morning breath, or whatever else to put yourself together first. He doesn’t care. He thinks you look cute with your cheek squished up against the pillow and he loves to let you sleep in. He loves how once he gets up, you’ll sprawl out and take over the whole bed. He loves how you practically burrow yourself into the blankets but leave one leg out. 

“It’s almost noon,” he remarks gently, moving your hair back into place for you. “We still have a few hours before the gig later and I’d love to spend them with you if you’re up to being awake, princess.” 

It’s been a blissful few months- Eddie’s toothbrush sharing a cup with yours in the bathroom, his sneakers strewn amongst your pile of shoes by the front door, his clothes from the weekend mixed in with your weekly laundry which get added to the drawer in your dresser you let him claim. Most Thursday through Sunday night, he’s crashing with you because your date nights seem to seep into several days. 

He takes out your trash, because he knows you hate it. He writes dirty limericks on the fog of the mirror after he showers because he knows you’ll laugh when you see it. You fake annoyance but he knows you don’t actually want him to stop. Eddie will let you braid his hair when you’re bored, and paint his nails. You paint his nails black and he says it looks “metal” when you accidentally get some polish on his cuticles. 

“C’mere,” you mumble, pulling him down next to you, and he gives in. You snuggle against his chest after he settles and you breathe in the smell of smoke that lingers on his shirt. He rubs your back comfortingly, coaxing you awake gently. 

His hair tickles your cheek when he leans down to kiss your head. You scrunch your face at the sensation and it makes him chuckle. 

“So, I gotta meet up with the guys to load the van in a few hours,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you reply, beginning to sit up, “I gotta quickly stop in at work and grab my check. Kenny forgot to sign it. I figured I’d stop there first, then stop at the bank to cash it before it closes- that way I have some cash for drinks and whatever.”

“Nah, don’t bother, just put all your stuff on my tab. I was gonna open one for us when I’m there with the guys for soundcheck.”

“I really don’t-”

“Nope,” he says, accentuating the ‘P,’ “I’m not one of those deadbeat guys who doesn’t pay for his girl’s drinks.”

“Fine,” you smile, “but I still need to get my check and deposit it.”

“Do you want me to go get lunch?” he offers. “I can run out and grab something from Banny’s for us while you get ready.” 

“With extra fries?” you smile. 

“And cherry coke,” he notes, kissing you on the lips. You smile, and watch as he grabs his denim jacket. He winks at you as he closes the door to your apartment. You’re beaming from ear to ear at his dopey smile. It’s sickening. You’re like a couple from a cheesy rom-com that you never thought was real. 

Eddie’s waiting at one of the booths waiting for the to-go order when someone interrupts his most recent reread of The Two Towers. It’s a voice he’d recognize anywhere, he doesn’t even need to look up to know who it is. 

“Eddie? Eddie Munson?”

“Oh, shit- Chrissy, hey,” he says, placing his book pages down to save his spot. She looks the same, but just a little older, just like him. She looks like how everyone kind of always expected her to turn out. Healthy, successful, glowing, all of the adjectives that would come to mind when people think of Hawkin’s sweetheart Chrissy Cunningham. 

“Wow, you look great,” she compliments. A long time ago, that would have been something Eddie would have collapsed to hear. It felt like a lifetime ago when Eddie would hang onto every word or look she would grace his way. Today? Eddie is just more mildly annoyed that he needs to make small talk with someone from high school. Life is funny like that sometimes.

Eddie can admit, he does look good. He’s grown into himself a little more since Chrissy last saw him. He’s more confident these days, having grown into himself. He’s also found his person. He’s no longer plagued with his past fears of loneliness and he doesn’t fill his time anymore worrying about rejection. He’s in his prime right now, and he owes it all to you. He recognizes now that he held Chrissy up on this pedestal- but it wasn’t really Chrissy. It was this fictional idea that he made up in his head about her. How beneath the surface, she was different, she could see through his walls. She wouldn’t care about what other people thought of him. He wanted that movie moment. And he got so much more than that now. Now, all of it to him is much more clear. It was a school crush. He’s so much happier now. 

“Thanks,” he says, hoping his indifference isn’t glaringly obvious. He gets his hopes up the bag on the counter is his, but unfortunately the number called out isn’t his. So much for his hope of a quick getaway. 

“Eddie, listen- um, this is kind of crazy but like, I have been hoping to run into you,” she says with a hesitant tone that Eddie has difficulty reading. He worries he did something he forgot about. At the same time, he’s still only half paying attention, watching Benny from the corner of his eye to assess the take-out situation.

“Oh?” He asks, dumbly. 

“Yeah, can I sit?” She asks. He gulps, and nods reluctantly, giving up hope of getting back to his book. 

She’s wearing a mom outfit, Eddie notes. It feels odd to say but Eddie doesn’t know anything about fashion. It’s just more mature than the cheer uniform. Slacks and a button down and what he thinks is probably a cashmere sweater. Her hair is shorter. He notices the diamond on her left ring finger, as she toys with it anxiously. 

“So, what’s up?” Eddie asks.

“This is going to sound ridiculous,” she begins, taking a shaky breath. “Um, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Uh, sure,” Eddie says awkwardly, shifting in his seat. How long does it take for two burgers? 

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” she sighs, “And I know this is totally coming out of left field and we haven’t talked in like years. But, I just wanted to let you know that I’m engaged. And I can’t stop thinking about how I should be happier. I really thought I wanted to be with Jason, and thought I’d be excitedly planning my wedding but I just keep on having these huge existential what if  questions running in my head.”

“I’m not really the right person to be talking about this with- maybe like a thera-” 

“I’m just thinking about all those times you were so unbelievably great. I just am realizing I don’t want what I actually thought I wanted. I was young and insecure and had this preconceived idea of like what I wanted, or who I should want. And I was terrible to you, and you were just so wonderful. I just really, really regret it. I just keep thinking about you lately. Your own my mind constantly-”

“Chrissy, I-”

“And I kept thinking if I ever saw you again, I would just be spontaneous and plead for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and I was so wrong and I realize now how foolish I was. I know this is such a long shot, but if you would ever be willing to maybe try us- you and me. I would break off with Jason for good. Because, Eddie, I was so, so wrong. You are just so incredible, and I’m so sorry it took me so long to realize.”

“Chrissy, I’m sorry, I really hope you find what you want and you find someone you can be happy with. Either if that’s Jason or someone else, but it’s not me. I found my person.”

“O-oh.” 

“Yeah, I am serious Chrissy, I wish you nothing but the best. But, I don’t think you and I could have ever worked. You’re great, but you and I weren’t meant to be. Even if in some crazy alternative reality we ended up together, it wouldn’t have worked out and I still would’ve found her. It’s hard to explain, but once you find it, like really find that one person, you can’t even imagine being this happy with someone else. It just doesn’t happen more than once.” 

“Order 107.”

“Uh, that’s me,” he says awkwardly, “Listen, uh, he’s out there.” He offers her a sympathetic smile and she nods as he gets up and grabs the bag off the counter. Eddie doesn’t want to leave her like this, but at the same time he doesn’t owe her anything. They haven’t seen each other in years, and she couldn’t have expected him to wait it out for her to decide she was ready for him. 

He offers one more friendly wave before he walks out, leaving Chrissy stunned. Probably wondering if she actually just got rejected by Eddie Munson. He can’t help but feel a little proud of himself- how far he’s come and how secure he feels now. Had Chrissy pulled that stunt a year ago? He might’ve crumbled and would have missed out the best thing that ever happened to him. 

He wishes he could go back and tell his past self that he’d actually be the one to reject Chrissy. He’d know this indescribable happiness, and have the greatest girl in the world back home waiting for him. Running into Chrissy feels like nothing but just a pothole in the road on his drive back to you. He can’t wait to tell you, and tease you about what a catch of a boyfriend you have. Most of all, to tell you thank you for showing him that he deserves to be treated so much better. 

Eddie recounts the whole thing to you over burgers at your little kitchen table. He tells you everything, down to the little details of how he swears it took 2 hours for him to get out of there when in actuality he left and came back in a span of 45 minutes. If it had been another guy, you can see the old you being so worried. Paranoid he’d leave you in a split second for the prettier, skinnier girl. She would be the one he actually wanted, and he had settled for you. But this wasn’t any other guy. This was Eddie. Absolutely, head over heels, act like a goofball falling over backwards to prove how much he loves you Eddie. 

It just felt like listening to him telling a work story. A sequence of events that mildly inconvenienced his day, but in no way affects your real world. You have never felt this secure before. You’re pretty sure you could leave Eddie in a room with Brooke Shields and Pamela Anderson and Eddie would just show them the polaroid of you he keeps in his wallet. 

You’re watching an episode of The A Team together when Eddie reluctantly drags himself away to get ready to go. “I think you should redo your van- I can help you. Paint the whole thing black and then add the red swoop. It would look really cool.” 

“I’ll get right on that,” he retorts, leaning in to kiss you. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“I love you,” you smile, kissing him again. 

“Love you too,” he replies, flashing one of his signature cheesy grins. 

You spend way too much time thinking about your outfit. It’s one of those days when none of your clothes feel right and none of the outfits look as good on as they did in your head. You’d met all the guys before, but this was the first gig Corroded Coffin has had since you and Eddie had started dating. You’ve seen them rehearse a million times, but this is the first time you’ll get to see them in their element. 

Eddie’s been a nervous wreck. He’s used to playing dive bars with crowds never bigger than twenty people. This gig is nothing out of the ordinary except that he wants nothing more than to impress you. He knows he’ll relax once he sees you. He just wants to show you that you aren’t wasting your time with him or something. He knows he’s not like other guys. He’s blue collar, mechanic by day, wannabe musician by night. He can’t give you everything he wants to give you.

He wants to buy you expensive jewelry and pamper you with whatever you want. He wants to give you the world. He knows you don’t care about any of that, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still want to spoil you any less. In a weird way, he thinks that by playing well tonight, he can show you that he has a chance- he could make it and really be someone. That it will be worth it if you stick around. He knows it’s foolish. He knows you don’t need impressing, but he wants to be impressive. 

They finish up their first song when he catches you walking in. He think he might pass out- he thinks you had to have done this on purpose. The low top, the short skirt, those fucking sexy tights- you’re legitimately trying to kill him. He fumbles over his words introducing the next song when you blow him a kiss and he notices the red lipstick. His mind is foggy, thinking immediately of what happened the last time you wore lipstick like that. Fuck. 

He tries his best to remain composed, but his eyes follow you as you venture further into the venue. His breath hikes when he watches the way your chest presses when you lean into the bar to order a drink, and how your skirt hikes ever so slightly. He feels the sweat bead down his temple when he notices your thighs when you sit on one of the nearby barstools. He tries to think of literally anything else to help him calm down as he discreetly uses his guitar to hide the reaction he has to watching you bite into the cherry that came with your drink, completely clueless that your lips wrapping around it had any sort of implication. He’s just entirely turned on and he thinks anything you do is insanely sexy. 

You notice Eddie is looking a little shaken, and you just assume he’s nervous. It never even dawns on you that this is something you’re doing to him inadvertently. You’re feeling so out of your comfort zone in this outfit you threw together. You’re too busy adjusting and fixing your posture to realize Eddie is practically drooling looking at you. You also don’t even notice how you’ve managed to draw the attention of someone else either.

“Hey,” you hear someone say over the music. You turn to face the voice and you’re met with a guy who looks like he would’ve bullied you in school. This man looks like a former frat boy who never fully grew up. He looks like a jock that would’ve asked you out on a date as a joke or to win a bet. Your guard immediately goes up, bracing yourself for a snarky comment, and your hard instinctively begins to hover over your drink. You move it to your lap so it’s less obvious you're keeping it covered. He doesn’t notice anyways.

“Name’s Dom,” he says over the music. “What’s yours? You offer him your name but it looks like he didn’t fully catch it. He doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

“I have one already, but thanks for the offer,” you respond politely before turning your attention back to Eddie. He’s already got his eyes on you when you look over. You smile, feeling so safe that he’s here. 

“You like one of their groupies or something?” The guy asks, annoyed after your rejection. “You holding out for one of them? Cause I’m doing you a favor coming over here. Most guys aren’t even going to give you a chance.” 

“I have a boyfriend,” you reply, pointing to Eddie. He looks pissed. He’s staring daggers into the guy who’s approached you. You can see Eddie’s knuckles turning white and the way his eyes flared with possessiveness. 

“No offense to him,” the guy scoffs, “but he doesn’t look like he can handle you.” 

“Look, I appreciate the offer for the drink, but I’m just here to watch my boyfriend play. I’m not interested.” 

You hear him mumble an untasteful insult under his breath as he shakes his head and walks away. You aren’t that surprised. Of course the insults come flying out the second he doesn't get what he wants. He assumed you’d be an easy score and he’s mad when you don’t give in immediately. You watch him walk over back to his group of friends. Just in case, you hand your drink back to the bartender and ask for a new one. 

Eddie’s fuming. He couldn’t hear what was said but he had a pretty good idea about what just went down. He’s not mad another guy would approach you, like no shit, he has eyes. He knows what you look like. He also knows he trusts you to shoo them away. He couldn’t help but still feel a little irrationally possessive. He didn’t like the look of that guy, or how he was looking at you, or how what he said was making you clearly uncomfortable. 

When the set ends, a group of people flock over to the side of the small stage. They offer compliments, ask to buy the band a drink, buy a tape, whatever. You beam with pride, incredibly happy that they are enjoying their success and you’re so happy their talent is getting recognized. 

You can tell Eddie is being polite, but he’s directing people to talk to the other guys while he squeezes past them to get to you. It’s a really, really good feeling. He just wants to find you. He strides over to you and you’re a little taken aback by how determined and quick he is to kiss you, but it was very much welcome. He holds your face in his hands and he kisses you like he’s gone weeks without you. 

You sigh happily, and part your lips for him. You feel him step between your legs and he moves his hands to rest on your thighs. It feels electric. You feel your entire body heat at the sensation. You can feel him pressing up against you now, straining against his jeans. He rubs your legs slowly as he slows down his kiss, making it a little more sensual. You love the feeling of his hands caressing you, that you don’t notice until Eddie mumbles an embarrassed yet still aroused so he doesn’t really care “fuck” when he realizes his rings accidentally ripped your tights. He pulls away so you can look at what he did. 

It wasn’t a big deal, it was just a couple of runs that made some holes in the thighs of your tights. They were fishnets so it was inevitable. It wasn’t a big deal. While you look, Eddie is staring so intently at you, his chest rising rapidly as he pants to catch his breath. Pulling away was worse, he realized. He was witness to everything now- your messy hair, your swollen lips, the new holes in your tights… He couldn’t bear it anymore. 

“Let’s go,” he says, eyes pouring into yours so intensely, and it makes you melt like putty in his hands. You couldn’t care less where he was taking you with his hand wrapped securely around your waist as he guided you out the side door. You don’t notice how he looks back and flips off the guy who approached you as he holds open the door for you. When the door closes behind him, his hands are both on your waist again, pulling you flush against his body. 

He leans down to kiss your neck and his hands run up and down your sides, palms running along the contour of your curves. “Mine,” he mumbles against your skin before biting down on the sensitive skin, sure to leave a mark. “All mine,” he murmurs as his hands squeeze your ass. You gasp, surprised at his sudden expression of PDA. You can’t find it in you to care that you're in the alley beside the bar, all you can think about Eddie’s hands, and the way his rings are leaving goosebumps on your skin as he rubs your back from underneath your shirt. 

He loves the little sounds you make when you react to his touch. It makes his chest swell knowing he’s the one that makes you feel good, he’s the one who gets to touch you like this. It makes him more daring. 

“E-Eddie,” you shiver, a mixed reaction to his touch and also the nights cool air when it hits your skin. 

“C’mon,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck as he gently pulls you towards his van. With one swift kick in the right spot, the back door swings open for him so he doesn’t even need to take his hands off of you. 

”The guys will be in there turning their livers yellow for hours,” he jokes. “M’lady.” He gestures for you to climb into the back of his van. You roll your eyes, but happily oblige. He shamelessly checks out your ass as you crawl in, noticing the black panties poking out from under your skirt. Closing the door behind him, he runs his hands up the back of your thighs and you moan at the feeling. It was absolutely filthy. 

You feel his large hands take their time admiring your skin and you can feel his eyes burning into you as he stares at how you’re splayed out in front of him. He’s devilishly grinning as he flips up your skirt. As his hands massage the skin of your ass, you feel a snag on your tights and they tear directly across the top of your underwear. 

“Oops,” he says, not even attempting to be convincing. You can hear the smile he’s sporting as your jaw drops in shock that one, Eddie tore your tights and most likely is going to tear your underwear and two, you really fucking liked it. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he marvels, admiring his handy work and you hear him fumble with the buckle of his belt. You press back into him impatiently and Eddie lets out a deep groan. You can feel how hard he is against his boxers and you bite your lip with anticipation. 

“Please,” you whine, desperate for him. It’s at this moment, Eddie has a fleeting thought that he wishes he could somehow take a mental image of this and show the version of him that almost didn’t show up to the lab that first day. How all the fucking torment and isolation in a weird way feels like some sort of trial he had to overcome to get you. A year ago, he was sitting alone in his room getting off and getting high to avoid the feelings of loneliness and now he’s got the sexiest woman he’s ever seen pressing herself against him begging for him to fuck her. Funny how things work out sometimes. And in Eddie’s case, about damn time. 

You feel the weight of his rings dig into your skin as his fingers pull your panties to the side. You moan involuntarily when you feel his long fingers slide into your folds, and you swear you hear him marveling at the sensation of you. It’s like this hasn’t happened dozens of times before- it’s like the first time over and over again. 

It’s not until you feel like putty from your first orgasm does Eddie even think about fucking you. It’s when you’re completely blissed out from the way his fingers pulled you apart that he finally gives in to your pleas.

He’s hands hold your sides, fingertips digging into your love handles. Before Eddie, you would’ve been self-conscious, but he’s shown you that not only are they okay, they’re sexy. He loves to hold your sides, and feel your soft skin as he fucks you. He praises and worships every part of you. Everything you’ve tried to hide, he naturally gravitates towards, making you feel so overwhelmingly loved. 

It’s crazy to think about it this way when what the two of you were doing was downright filthy. Eddie has his jeans tugged halfway down his thighs, sweat gathering at his brow and has you bent over in the back of his van. You’re making no attempt to stifle your moans and you let your body rocks back into him as he stretches you. It’s probably the most desperate you’ve both been- all the times before have been lighthearted, romantic, lovemaking. This? Definitely not that. But equally as passionate. 

“Fuck, you look so good,” Eddie praises, marveling at the sight of you in front of him. He groans, watching his length pump in and out of your pussy. He bites his lip, his eyes roaming down your back, just taking in the sight of you like this- laid out and completely wrecked for him. “Feel so tight,” he moans. 

You can hardly talk as his thrusts become more desperate. You feel the all too familiar warmth begin to swell up through you body. You whine almost pathetically, and it encourages Eddie to keep his pace, emboldened with his desire to make your cum again before he finishes. You gasp, his name repeatedly falling from your lips as the sensation takes over your whole body. When your orgasm ripples out, you can feel yourself become shaky, very tired from the sensation. 

Eddie grip on your tightens and you can tell he’s close. You beg him to finish inside of you, and he swear you hear him almost fumble, entirely overwhelmed with you. He lets his head fall back as he gives into the feeling. He praises you as he finishes, panting how much he loves you, how good you feel. When he pulls out, he bends over and rests his forehead on your back and catches his breath, breathing heavy but still affectionately leaving kisses on your warm skin. 

“You’re incredible,” he sighs against your skin. He collapses next to you and pulls you into his side. “Fuck,” he exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. He kisses your forehead, stroking your arm affectionately. 

He kisses you again and helps you to clean up. He sheepishly apologizes for the huge tears in your tights. You tell him not to worry about it. You can’t find it in you to care about them even a little bit. 

He helps you into the passenger seat, and kisses your temple. He leans into your touch when your hands cup his face. “I promise I’ll get this shit loaded up fast,” he promises as he realizes the guys will be getting ready to bring out their equipment soon. “I told them they couldn’t bum a ride, I wanted to drive home just us. So, you have me all to yourself,” he teases. 

“Can I pick the music?” You counter, eyebrow raised. He nods, kissing you again quickly before you watch him disappear back into the club to help the guys load the van. You rest your head on your shoulder, sinking into the seat, knowing you need to rest up for the continuation of tonight’s events when Eddie gets you both back to your place. 

TAGS:

 It would have been a lie to say that you hadn’t been on Zelvor’s mind from the moment of your meeting. As much as he hated to admit it, it had been seared thoroughly into his mind. 

 He remembered his apprehension at the idea of accepting your small party of land druids to join his group of refugees.The hours of talk with your Archdruid- a stern but sensible elf- lead to a peaceful agreement. She talked of her handful of druids being forced to flee their forest from hostel creatures and now sought a new home. Zevlor had planned to lead his people to the Emerald Grove to settle at least temporarily. It only made sense to join forces.

What eased his mind most was the diversity of your party; four elves, two tieflings and a human. It was an odd grouping to say the least, but genuine. Friends of his kind were friends of his. Plus Zevlor hoped that being in the company of elves may help their chances at the Grove. That evening, once the negotiating was said and done the commander did his usual walk through the camp, taking care to note the new faces. He had one remaining elf and the human still to meet. 

Then he saw you. A human woman, sprawled in the grass, laughing with your elven friend. Your antics had left you trying to adjust the flowers that had been braided into your hair. Your smile struck him; it was so warm and joyous. He was gripped with the sudden urge to have it turned on him. As if you had read his mind your bright eyes snapped to him. Smile ever on your lips you rose and made your way straight to him. Zavlor’s heart skipped a beat. You were a vision, one that could be easily mistaken for a  fairy maiden from a romantic tale of old. 

 To Zevlor’s surprise you bowed to him offering many thanks for his kindness in taking you in. He attempted to wave away such words, truly it was hardly a sacrifice. But you insisted that you would work hard to do anything you could to help. Your noble worlds and closeness of your beauty sparked something in Zevlor he thought long dead. Something akin to a boyish crush hit him like a hoof. He stumbled his way through a response, too taken by the warm light of the campfire dancing with the flowers in your hair. 

 That was to be the first of many interactions the tiefling would play over in his head endlessly. Your presence did wonders to slow his thoughts and make himself act a clown. It had been easy to dismiss at first. It was simply nature at play. You were young and gorgeous, a common bane to reason and sensibility. Zevlor marked the undeniable tension your presence brought as a passing interest he would soon forget about entirely. This was not the case. 

 As the weeks went by and your travels pressed on, your place in Zevlor’s mind only grew. Instantly you became an active member of the camp, ready to lend a hand to anyone. Without fail you always greeted him with a smile and a kind word, a simple action that Zevlor found himself looking forward to. Just as he would look forward to your daily conversations, the way they turned from awkward to easy. How they’d grown to be hours in length and moved over meals, cups of tea, long walks in the woods. In any form they were unquestionably the best part of his day. 

 Settling in the Emerald Grove was chaotic to say the very least. The tiefling commander was painfully aware of how precarious their new lodgings were. As he had predicted the accompaniment of the fellow druids had helped their case for their settlement. Though there are many among them ready to throw the tieflings away without a second thought. Another correct prediction, the druids of the Grove had offered permanent placement among them to all of your circle but the tiefling druids. The offer was hastily turned down to Zelvor’s great surprise. Your loyalty and care for your companions regardless of race moved him deeply. Plus,he thanked the Gods for you still being a part of his life.   

 As much as he had tried there was no longer any point of denying it. He was going half mad with yearning for you. Day and night he was consumed with visions of your beauty; from simple dreams of your perfect lips to impressions of how your face might contort in pleasure underneath him. It had been almost decades since the commander had felt such strong emotion for anyone. Your young, vivacious spirit was contagious and had rekindled things long forgotten in Zevlor’s soul. He was suddenly aware just how long it had been since he had felt the warmth of another’s skin on his. It was a craving growing stronger in him by the day. 

 In his Hellrider days he had seen and participated in his share of lustful adventures. He was no stranger to such things nor would he call himself a prude.That version of Zevlor felt a lifetime away. He had lost everything since then, his confidence included. In his mind there was no chance a creature as lovely as you would ever have eyes for someone as loathsome as him. It made his desire for you feel even more despicable. 

 Shame weighed heavy in his chest when he caught his eyes lingering on you. In typical druid fashion you weren’t shy about your body. You didn’t have a second thought about hiking up your skirt to climb through bushes to collect berries, or how you licked their juices from your fingers as you brought back a basket full. Zevlor hated himself for the lewd thoughts that plagued him. 

 Many sleepless nights had passed before he gave in. Before he pushed his tangled blankets off in the darkness and finally brought his hand to his painfully hard cock. Swiping his thumb across his soaked head, he conjured the image of you earlier that day. You had taken your time serving him tea, leaning across the table before him. With a lower cut dress then normal you went about your actions not noticing- or caring- for the full view of your cleavage you gave him. Zevlor bucked his hips frantically into his hand. He would have pulled you into his lap right then if he could; would have ripped your dress away and lavished every inch of neck and chest with his mouth. It only took the vision of Zevlor’s hands on your hips as he guided you down on to his manhood to push him over the edge.        

  He scolded himself for the old pervert that he was, hating the idea that he was using you for his wanton desires. Yet, the commander half wished those were the only feelings he held for you. To imagine his life without your friendship seemed too much to bear. Had the both of you not been stuck in such a stressful situation Zevlor would have courted you properly, as you deserved. But for the time being he was determined to keep his emotions to himself.               

                                                            -   

  Once again Zevlor found himself at your side. After running into each other time and time again in the surrounding forest you began planning outings together. He shared your love for the quiet peace of nature. As the tiefling sat in the grass writing in his journal you were perched on a rock trying to sketch the landscape. 

“I feel like a person could go mad staring at anything for too long.” you huffed, breaking the silence.

Zevlor snapped back to himself, his mind having been deep in thought over the tension with the druids of the Grove. Had he been staring? 

“Your muse isn’t speaking to you today then?” He smiled. Even when frustrated you were breathtaking.    

 “I suppose not. They’ve been a terrible tease lately.” 

 “How boarish.” Zevlor sighed, closing his book. “If you like I could knock some sense into them.”             

 You mock a gasp and press the back of your hand to your forehead. 

 “Would you defend me so, my brave paladin?”

“I would like nothing more, my lovely druid.” the words left him before he could stop himself. Perhaps that was a slight overstep. 

 Your eyes met his and held his gaze, a warm smile ever present on your lips. With the greenery of the woods around you, you seem the very model of enchantment. How could Zevlor even consider courting you when you deserved so much better. His hands tightened around his journal wherein he had penned several poems professing his devotion to you. He would never let you see them but his heart had always held a soft spot of the genre. It was a captivating means of embodying the truest forms of beauty and raw emotion. It was perfectly suited for you. 

 Zevlor lowered his eyes first, clearing his throat and flipping through his book. He pretended to look for something all the while feeling your eyes still on him.There were times he could have sworn that your eyes held something akin to -no he couldn’t think that. He pushed it from his head. Holding on to false hope would only make things more painful. 

 You stand and hold your sketchbook out in front of you, eyes darting between it and the land itself. 

 “Something just seems off.” You move back and forth trying to find just the right angle. “Zevlor, could you come here?” 

“Of course,” he stood to join you and to his great surprise you lightly placed your hands on his shoulders to adjust his position. 

“Right, so now,” you turned and held out your book once more. “You see how you can tell the natural depth of the trees? I feel like I’ve mucked up the shading somehow. Mine just looks all stacked over each other. What do you think?” 

Zevlor moved slightly forward, careful not to actually touch you, his head hovered just over your shoulder. He squinted, moving his eyes from the scenery to your sketch. As always he was impressed with your work and could make out no significant difference between the two. 

 “I may not have the skill to offer much help, to me the likeness is impeccable.” Zevlor turned his gaze to you and was suddenly hit with an intoxicating scent. Something fresh and sweet as an orange blossom filled his lungs. Had he never noticed or was this the closest he’d ever stood to you? He watched your lips- your full, perfectly shaped lips- curve into a smile. 

 “You’re too kind. I should probably leave it  for now. I’ve been staring so long my eyes are beginning-” Abruptly, you turned and lost your words. Your faces were no more than an inch apart.    

Zevlor froze, his eyes darting from yours to your still parted mouth. The paladin’s mind screamed at him to back away but his body was rooted in place. You let out a shaking breath before you closed the space between you and pressed your lips to his. A wave of shock snapped through Zevlor like a bolt of lightning. He had barely processed what was happening as he felt your hands press against his broad chest. How had he fallen into a dream without even realizing?

 Ever so slightly you pulled back to search Zevlor’s face with wide eyes. He cannot make sense of all the thoughts racing through his mind. Dream or not he can’t stomach the loss of contact. Curling his hand around the back of your neck he takes your lips hungrily with deep frantic kisses. You surrender to him happily as you fully part your lips welcoming him in. You both can’t help but moan at the taste of each other.    

  Tongues dancing, heads dizzy, Zevlor barely noticed he was moving until he had you pushed against a tree. He could barely think of anything apart from the warmth of your mouth. His body now fully pressed to you, he was half expecting for you to push him away. Again to his surprise your arms locked about him, your hands grabbing his armor as if to keep him as close as possible. Despite his blood running heavy with desire he kept his hands in place; one tangled in your hair, the other pressed firmly on your waist. 

The clash of metal on metal shot through the trees. Zevlor broke away from your embrace, mind snapping to action in case he had to defend you. Luckily the sound of multiple footsteps was followed by some familiar voices. 

“Those are brand new! Could you try being careful?” said one. 

“I am!” another answered. “I’d like to see you lift this much.” 

 It seemed their friends that had set off to barter down at the market had some success. Their voices echoed through the quiet woods as the party broke into two. One headed to the Grove the others settled in the grass not too far away.

“They’re back already?” the woe in your voice was apparent.  

  Zevlor casted his eyes away from your blushing faces. His senses were coming back to him and he was shocked by the brashness of his actions. The shame was drowned in an instant as your hand caressed his cheek, turning him back to you.                   

 “They’ll be looking for me. I promised to meet them and help with supper.” you sighed. “We should get back.” 

Your words though sensible were a knife to the chest. Despite his conflicting emotions he didn’t want the dream to end so quickly. He licked his lips trying to draw words but none would come. Confessions of love and longing thundered in his chest and he didn’t dare to let them out. 

“Zevlor,” his name had never sounded so honeyed. “Come to my tent tonight.” Your words are soft yet earnest. 

Zevlor’s flaming eyes studied you carefully. 

“You…” he speaks lowly. “You want this?” 

“Yes.” you placed a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

                                                               -

The preparations for dinner were a haze. You’d be methodically chopping carrots then suddenly be overcome with laughter. Your fellow cooks blamed it on too much sun, to which you gladly agreed. Being with Zevlor certainly felt as warm as sunlight. Once everything was ready and everyone gathered you sat as far from him as you could. The nerves and excitement tangling into you left you practically trembling. His closeness would only make it worse. That didn’t stop either of you from stealing glances throughout the meal.

Parting early you rushed to get back to your tent. You wanted to take your time bathing and fretting about what to wear, like some high lady. What were you in that moment if not a princess waiting for your valiant knight. Finally you were to be rescued from your aching loneliness and desire for the man that had done so much for you and your people. Painstakingly you smoothed the blankets over your bed roll, a smile on your lips. Zevlor was going to take you here, the very place you had pleasured yourself so many times to the thought of him.    

Night came and you waited nervously pacing the small interior of your tent. After much debate you had chosen to don a plain but revealing night dress. You hoped to make your affection for him very clear. Just as you began to question whether Zevlor would keep his word you heard his low voice break the silence.

 He was more dashing than you had ever seen him; dressed down, out of his armor, in a simple white ruffled shirt and brown trousers. Ever the gentlemen he held out a bouquet of wildflowers to you.    

 Trying your best not to swoon you took them and breathed in their sweetness. 

 “I did not want to be the only one surrounded by beauty tonight.” Zevlor offered. 

“You’re as humble as you are kind,” you smile, placing the flowers in a water jug. “Perhaps even too humble, if I may be so bold.” you move close to him. 

 “You may.” Zevlor breathes. He was awestruck at the sight of you, at the thinness of your gown, at everything you inspire in him. 

  Not wanting to waste another moment with the tiefling you adored, you pulled him into a kiss. As before you could feel passion coursing through him in seconds. His arms were tight around you pressing you to him, drawing a soft gasp for you. You could feel his warmth, his infernal ridges that decorated his chest rubbing against your hardening nipples. Creeping a hand up his shirt you savored the rich texture. Your desire for him stoked his courage as Zavlor explored your mouth with a ferocity you’d only dreamed of. He moved his hungry lips to your neck kissing and licking every inch he could get. 

A loud moan escaped you as he finally sank his teeth into you. Harder than you expected but not enough to draw blood. He sucked the skin, setting every part of you aflame. It was maddening, you were clinging to him but Zevlor had yet to move his hands from where they lay on you back.     

 With clumsy impatience you moved backward, pulling your knight with you down on the bed. Overcome with ever growing need you ripped away your night dress entirely and laid back completely exposed before Zevlor. You pressed your legs together, your wetness pooling as his infernal eyes raked over you. Certainly he would pounce, ravish you, take you as his own any second. To your dismay he pulled away a sudden concern washing over his face. 

 By the Gods Zevlor ached for you. But to see you like this, you were almost too lovely. In soul and in body. How could a fallen paladin like him be worthy of you?

“Zevlor?” you reach for him but still he makes no move.  

 He cursed himself, as always he’s making things worse. There's hurt building in your eyes, as if he could ever be displeased with you. Quelling your fears he lightly stroked your calf and planted a chaste kiss to your knee.

 “You’re perfect.” Zevlor smiled sadly. “You deserve better than an old man like me.”

 You let out a warm laugh. 

"Zevlor," you plead. "Touch me, please. Just look at what you do to me" 

You spread your legs before him, pulling a hungry moan from his throat. Your sex  glistened in the low light, ready for him. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so enchanted or afraid. Lovingly you take his hands in yours and kiss his palms and pressed them to your flesh. Soon they're moving on their own, spreading reverent caresses over every inch of you. His rough fingers toyed with the sensitive buds of your breast ripping a wanton moan from you. 

  Zevlor pressed flush against you, causing you to whimper at the sensation of his hard bulge on your thigh. His mouth is praising you with the fervor of a paladin. Kissing your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. Automatically you opened your legs wider, hoping to spur him on. He takes a moment to admire you, his fingers running over your sex. Ever so gently he spreads your folds and groans at the sight of you fluttering with excitement.  

 His cock was so full, aching for relief but his discomfort was outweighed by his desire to taste you. He dragged his tongue over you painfully slow, methodically working your lips and clit. You were whining and trembling for him in no time, begging for more. There was nothing he could deny you. Zevlor gripped your thighs tight trying to keep you still as he worshiped you with his mouth, lapping you up like a man starved. It was dizzying, you writhed loving how firmly he had you spread, how powerful and thorough his strokes had become.  

 Zevlor breathed you in. You were delicious; nothing short of addicting. He was overwhelmed by it all. How impossibly soft you were, how ardently you moaned his name. No longer able to stop himself he began rutting into the bedroll feverishly. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away from you no matter how badly he was dying to be thrusting into you. 

 “Zevlor-Gods please, please I’m so- I’m so-” your words turn into unintelligible sobs under his ministrations. Before long the heated flicks of his tongue push you over the edge, making your whole body shake, your hips grinding against his mouth. Your pussy’s sudden pulsing and wetness under his tongue was electrifying. White hot pleasure shot through Zevlor, before he could even think to stop himself he came hard groaning against you. 

You fell limp, still panting his name. Zevlor stayed pressed to you lightly tracing your folds. He was mortified, shame bubbling in his gut. Unsure of what to do he slowly pulled away from you and released his grip on your legs. You let out a sharp hiss of pain, making the paladin freeze. His concern turns to horror as he looks you over only to see the fresh red cuts his nails have left on your thighs. You passed your hand over the markings, wincing.

A pained gasp leaves him as he backs away from you. He hadn’t been thinking. How could he have let himself be so foolish, let his infernal nature get the best of him. One of the fears that had driven him away from you for so long had become reality. Somehow he had failed you as a lover by cumming so easily and he had hurt you from lack of care without even having been inside you.                                                                                                                       

“I-I, I didn’t-” He could barely get the words out, a mixture of panic and anguish seizing his heart. 

“Zevlor, it’s-” 

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to act so recklessly.” His words are laced with distress. Zevlor lowers his head, practically bowing before you. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.” 

“Of course,” You reach for him but he stands, stepping away, eyes casted downward. 

“I shouldn’t have come here.” 

“It’s not- ahh- too bad.” you wince again as you stand to follow him.

“This was a mistake.” he shakes his head. “It won’t happen again,” 

 His words pierce you like a cold chill. 

 “What?” Your breath quickens, heat rising to your face. “No. I’m fine, it’s fine. Zevlor, please.” 

 Again you try to touch him but he moves away, eyes still not meeting yours. 

 “No. This-” he gestures between the two of you. “This shouldn’t be. I’m sorry.” 

 Before you can say anything Zevlor marches out of your tent into the night. You call after him, pleading for him to return. A part of you wanted to throw a blanket over yourself and run after him but you didn’t want to risk making a fool of yourself or of him. 

 You let out a cry, suddenly bursting into tears. The emotional whiplash of the day hit you hard. There’s a thousand desperate thoughts running through your mind. Overwhelmed, you curl up on your bed and sob softly into your pillow until sleep takes you.