Bully!Soap Who Never Insults Your Looks, You Were His Pretty Little Cry Baby. He Craved Seeing You Whimper

THIS.

Me: Yeah Jayvik is a cute ship in fanon, but I don't think there's any sign of it becoming canon to any degree sadly :/

Canon:

When Jayce and Viktor meet Mel, the camera focusses on Jayce watching her leave with a fawning expression, meanwhile Viktor watches Jayce with a twinge of sadness.

The way Jayce puts him arm around Viktor and says "You should come up with me, we're partners" and Viktor begins to refuse, but he hesitates slightly after looks into Jayce's eyes like this

The way Jayce and Mel's sex scene was intercut with not just Viktor dying, but Viktor rejecting affection from a woman who clearly had interest in him. Both because his project had taken over his life, but also perhaps a sign that his romantic interests lay elsewhere. He could have what Jayce has (romantic/sexual intimacy with a woman) but he doesn't want it.

How in that very same scene as Jayce and Mel climaxed, Viktor collapsed as though wounded or hurt by their act, betrayed even. The way the camera cuts from the scenes of intimacy, to Viktor's eyes made me question whether Viktor was witnessing Jayce and Mel. It was a scene that felt like betrayal despite both events being completely unconnected.

The way we cut from Mel lying alone in her bed after Jayce left abruptly, to the perfect parallel of Viktor in his hospital bed with Jayce waiting by his side.

That it is constantly shown as a choice for Jayce. To choose between Mel or Viktor, but he can't have both. That the two are seen as equally as important to him and it is an intense struggle for him to make that choice.

When Viktor looks at Jayce like this.

When Jayce confronts Ambessa, and is forced to watch her be intimate with her boytoy that bears a resemblance to Viktor (especially with the exact same placement of a mole), and Jayce becomes agitated quickly.

The betrayed/affronted expression Viktor gives when Mel suggests military action in Zaun, and Mel outright ignores his protest and tries to convince Jayce, to which Jayce stands to speak with Mel, effectively cutting Viktor (who is sat down) out of the exchange. The sense of rivalry between Mel and Viktor, as though competing for the same man.

"There is Always a choice" Viktor says, after Mel leaves. Indirectly asking Jayce to choose his way forward, and by extension, to choose him rather than Mel.

They are each other's saviours.

Me: Oh.

Private Vasquez in Aliens (1986) dir. James Cameron

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Easy breezy beautiful premature ejaculation. Hypersexual!Simon/fem!reader. Discussion of edging. Cumming untouched.

-

“If we do this,” he says around his cigarette, “then we do it my way.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit cautiously, turning your hands palm up as if to show you have no weapons, no tricks up your sleeve. I’m innocuous, your posture says. His own says: I’m still deciding, with his tense shoulders and narrowed eyes. “This weird, femdom thing. So I appreciate your guidance. Because I know fuck all—“

“You’re no femdom—Jesus, fuck, I can’t talk about it anymore,” he grits out. He takes a step back and away, creating distance, exhaling a plume of smoke that makes him look strangely ethereal in the evening light. Against your will, your eyes flicker down to just below his belt buckle and oh god. He’s hard. 

“Just from talking about it?”

The look he gives you could melt ice. It could sublimate it. You cringe, knowing you were in the wrong, wishing you could reach out and snatch the words right out of the air. He’s trusting you with this. The last thing he needs is to feel like a joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have—you’re not a, a science experiment or something—“

“Wouldn’t mind that so much. Might figure out what the fuck’s wrong with me. Less interested in being treated like I’m part of a circus troupe,” he grumbles. He drops the cigarette and grinds it to ash beneath his boot. He asks: “Inside?” 

-

Gingerly, so gingerly, he undoes the button of his jeans and unzips them. He holds his breath as he works the denim down his thick thighs. God, is he built: muscles made for more than just show. His history is inscribed on his body in its strength and in its scars, scars of white and pale pinks that darken to purple in the lamplight. He’s wearing boxer briefs, straining at the front from his erection, and they are soaked. You’re surprised that he hasn’t soaked straight through to his jeans. 

“Don’t look,” he grits out through his teeth. You look away, unsure where to cast your eyes to, and settle for shutting them. He explains: “Can’t take the way you’re looking at me.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling your face flush hot. 

“Just—let me—” you hear the sound of fabric rustling. He kicks off his jeans—you can tell by the soft sound of them landing against the floor off the side of the bed. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenching in your lap. 

“Nothing just—fuck. No way I’m going to last.” He sounds bitterly disappointed. 

“That’s the point of this, right? To get better at lasting?” 

He sighs, a long-suffering sound, like this discussion is well worn and frustrating to him. Something in you shrivels, and it takes your body with it as best as it can, sending your shoulders hunching inwards, your head ducking down. You pick at one of your nails by feel alone, eyes still closed, and nearly jump when his fingers brush your knee. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. That’s what this is for. Might as well get used to embarrassing myself.” 

“That’s the spirit." 

He snorts. More fabric rustles, and at length he says: “Alright. You can look. Just…you can look.” 

You open your eyes hesitantly. His cock is right there—and Jesus. It makes sense, proportionally, but it is frightening in a very real sense. You’re already doing the math, measuring in your head and comparing to your past precedents. Ghost would have them all beat, quite comfortably, in length and girth. He’s cut, which surprises you, but isn’t a turnoff. He keeps himself landscaped nicely, which you appreciate, even if it isn’t necessary. 

He is flushed a ruddy pink, the head darker than the rest. As you stare, it jerks, a bead of precum welling at the tip. Suddenly one of his large, scarred hands reaches down and grips the base of his cock in a painful hold, hissing in a breath through his teeth. 

“Can’t look at me like that,” he admonishes again. 

“Like what?” you ask, a little defensive. You’re just looking! You have to look, right? 

“Like you want it,” he mutters. 

God, does he really have no idea? No inkling of how badly you want to sit on that monster in his hands? No notion of how wet you’ve been since your conversation in the parking lot? Sure you aren't like him, not about to spring off if the breeze was just right, but you are anything but unaffected. Still, it seems like the wrong moment to educate him on your attraction to him and his cock, so you do your best to morph your expression into one of unimpressed ambivalence and hoped it helps. 

“I’m ready when you are,” you say, interrupting his deep breathing exercises. He nods but doesn’t give you the go-ahead, not for another minute or two, until his chest stops heaving and he can remove his hand from the vice grip he has around his balls. His cock has a near purple tinge, and you wonder if maybe he should have rubbed one out in the bathroom beforehand just to take the edge off. Oh well, it’s a thought for next time. 

“Go ahead,” he says, like he’s giving you permission to pull the trigger on him during a game of Russian Roulette. 

You reach out—his cock twitches, a nice warm welcome if you’ve ever seen one, but you hesitate. Your hand is dry. Should you ask for lube? How does he usually jerk off? Dry? You have a feeling he doesn’t mind the discomfort; he seems like he has a self-destructive streak a mile wide. His eyes are fixed at a point on the ceiling, his chest unmoving as he holds his breath. You decide that some sort of lubrication is better than none—so you lick a broad stripe up your palm. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, a little punched-out sound. Sometime between opening your mouth and licking your palm, his eyes had transferred from the ceiling to your face, to the flash of your tongue and your wet palm. His eyes widen, irises swallowed up by the pupils, and he says again, more urgently: “Oh fuck.” 

He reaches down to grip the base of his cock again, but it is too late: he cums. His abs are thrown into sharp relief as he tenses with each pulse, cock jerking against his brutal grip. He doesn’t even jerk himself off—just ruins it as you stare with your mouth open and your hand wet, watching him splatter seed against the coarse line of hair that runs from his belly button to his cock all because he watched you lick your hand. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing one arm across his eyes, breathing heavily. His mouth is flushed a pretty red, like he has been kissing. His hand clenches into a fist as he says: “I’m sorry. I tried not to.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, your nearly brain blue-screening from how turned on you are. You lower your hand and wipe it dry on your leggings. “That’s what this practice is for—so you don’t do it when it really counts. We can try again tomorrow or something.” 

He snorts. “Tomorrow? Give me five fucking minutes.” 

I will be heard bro 💀

content - cussing , slightly dirty thoughts,

I had a thinky thought about my husband. Because I love my husband.

Single!Black!Mother!Reader x Neighbor!Jason Todd. Ugh.

Jason who lives across the hall, who you suspect is Red Hood. You never call him out on it, or even ask—you just know. And he knows that you know. Lots of people know. But the people of Crime Alley care too much 'bout him to acknowledge it. He did good by them, so they did good by him in return.

Because you know what he's capable of, and because you've seen him care about his community before, you trust him with your life.

And your kid's.

You don't explain to him that you need him to play babysitter, you just knock on the door across from yours with your kid at your side and your keys in your palm.

You're all dolled up 'cause you'd gotten this interview for this job that was perfect for you. That would pay better, and you need to make the best possible impression—kinks perfectly gelled, cheeks blushed, lashes curled, lips all glossy.

You don't notice how his eyes take in the way the grey slacks you wore hug your hips a bit too tight. Or how his eyes get caught on the soft swell of your tits straining against what's meant to be (but failing to be) a loose fitting Red blouse.

You look phenomenal in his color. He thinks, for the briefest of moments, that you did it on purpose.

You look good enough to eat. And when you part those beautifully full, glossy lips—he feels set up. Like you knew he couldn't possibly dream of ever denying you.

"Please."

Fuckin' hell, you say that word so god damn pretty. You're so god damn mother fuckin' pretty. He always thought you had the biggest, prettiest eyes. Wide and dark, like a doe. He wonders, crudely, what they'd look like rolled into the back of your head.

So Jason huffs, and opens the door wider—unlike you, he doesn't miss cues. He sees how you relax, how you smile slightly, how your eyes catch on his face. If he didn't know better he'd think you liked him as much as he liked you.

He watches as you kiss your kid's cheek (envy burns in his stomach that he has to douse) and say he'll take care of them while momma goes to her interview. He loathes when you leave. Wants to tell you to come back, that he'll take care of you. That you didn't have to worry 'cause he was makin' money and he'd happily pay your rent, baby, all you had to do was say the fuckin' word.

He doesn't close the door until he's finished watchin' you walk down the hall. God, those fuckin' slacks, he loves watchin' you walk away.

Your child pouts as he situates them on his couch. He has to flip a little to find qubo, where Jacob Two-Two is in the middle of repeating a sentence.

"I want my momma.."

The kid whines.

He sighs.

"She 'bouta come back. Momma's just gotta go out for a minute, kid."

He swallows down what he really wanted to say. Swallows down a groan, because he's in the presence of a child and he wouldn't dream of exposing a kid to his inner thoughts.

'Christ, kid, I want your fuckin' momma too.'

in light of Trump's inauguration speech declaring multiple national emergencies that require him to take god-knows-what executive actions immediately, I'd like to remember this chapter of "On Tyranny" by Timothy Snyder:

”Then give white people some free advice.” ”They’re all in my books.” RIP Toni Morrison (February 18, 1931 - August 5, 2019)

His Majesty the King - pt one

King!Viktor x Fem!Reader Royal AU

Series Masterlist - Arcane Masterlist - AO3 - Ko-fi

Series Synopsis: After your family cannot afford to pay a tax, they have the option to offer something up to the King as collateral to buy them more time. They decide to send their oldest daughter: you.

Warnings: sexual tension, fluff, nsfw content, yearning (so much yearning), anachronisms for any historical fiction lovers (I'm sorry, this wasn't researched), viktor undoing your dress, stolen kisses/forbidden romance (sorta), viktor feeding you, dirty talk, fingering

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: The royal au series i wrote off-the-cuff all put into an official series. Parts one through three are found here. Enjoy!

pt one:

You'd been sold, for lack of a better term. Bartered? Traded? Your parents owed money. A tax they couldn't pay one too many times. We need collateral came after begging for an extension for the umpteenth time. There were a few options they could've offered up. The deed to the house, to their general store. Two easy ones. Locked in the safe in your father's office. It would've taken a matter of minutes to retrieve. But he remained planted in the mud outside your house. Modest, but nothing to brag about. A show for outsiders when there wasn't always food on the table.

"My daughter," he exclaimed, yanking your forward with a harsh grip on your wrist, "take her. Put her to use. Surely you could use another hand around the castle."

You were the only one to protest. Which was cut short as you glanced between your mother, father, and younger sister. Not a word was said between the three as you were tossed towards the soldiers. Into the grips of knights you knew weren't there to save. They were there doing the king's duty, identities hidden beneath the freezing metal. The winter weather pierced your thin cloak like needles when you slammed against their chest plates. Had their gloves close around your wrists, yanking them behind your back.

"She will do," one murmured entirely unimpressed. "For now."

The ride to the castle, wrists bound behind your back with chains you'd mentioned weren't necessary. You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to flee to. You'd been offered up on the slab like a piece of meat. Quite literally.

You have no idea what to expect inside the castle walls. It was hard to like a King that often kept himself out of sight. Who seemed entirely okay accepting a person as collateral for his high taxes. Granted, it was his soldiers that had accepted the bargain. But you doubted they would've agreed had the King not been okay with the barter.

Once upon a time, he wasn't that bad. He and his council of advisors kept the kingdom safe. It flourished. But in the last few years, it'd started to deteriorate. Taxes were raised, days felt desolate, those that wore jewels like they weren't worth your entire house lived beyond reason. Parading around wealth worth the entirety of your family's store. Worth you. Wealth that would've paid the debt that you were currently fulfilling without putting a scratch in their jewels.

Those unsure expectations were satiated quickly upon pulling into the castle gates. Luxurious. That's what the inside was. Rich velvets and silks lined the halls, colors vibrant and bleeding an obvious wealth. Rich aromas of foods you'd never even dreamed of tasting. Fireplaces that warmed each room, making the vast halls feel cold and unwelcoming.

They were taking you to meet the king. In your beige dress, unkempt hair, watery eyes as your demise set in. He had to be informed of your joining the staff. Kitchen or cleaning, the knights had decided. They'll make good use of you. But you were stuck on meeting the king. As if it were some casual introduction. Your heart was lodged in your throat as they opened two massive double doors and shoved you inside, surely hoping you'd fall on your face. That you'd embarrass yourself like the peasant you were in the eyes of royalty.

You nearly did, falling to your knees in front of a lavish throne. You tugged on the cuffs, cursed beneath your breath, fought the way your heart wanted to leap from your chest. Too many emotions too fast. Home, gone. Betrayal from those meant to protect you. Thrown into the fray of working until enough time had passed for your family to pay back the debt. And then what? Would they keep you to make sure your family kept paying? Or give you back with the threat they'd take you back in a heartbeat if they couldn't pay again?

And now you were sat before the king. Knees aching, wrists chaffed, fighting fear.

You locked onto a set of gold eyes. Ensnared with a darkness like the hair on his head. Face angular, two beauty marks dotting his face. Beneath his right eye and above the left corner of his mouth. Grayish purple bags were stark against his pale skin, the exhaustion stretching throughout his lean figure. A thin frame of metal braced his right leg, creaking slightly when he moved. He ran a gloved hand lazily along a cane he held, carefully coming to rest on the gold handle. His thick brows furrowed as he scanned you, and he frowned.

"Who is she?" A man you hadn't even bothered to notice asked. Standing beside the king. Shorter, rosier cheeks, significantly older. His blond hair was combed back with hints of gray poking through.

"Collateral." One of the soldiers stepped forward, motioning to you. He came so close to smacking your head that you flinched. The King kept his eyes on you. His frown deepened.

"She was sent as collateral?" The short man asked.

You couldn't tell if he was offended that someone had sent their daughter in place of a family heirloom or a property deed, or if they were wondering if you were even decent enough to be considered collateral. Something told you it was a mixture of the two.

"For the (Y/L/N) family." The soldier rolled their shoulders, armor clinking. "Unable to pay for the fourth time in a row. When told they needed to offer collateral, they gave us her."

"Well." The short man sighed. "Throw her in with the maid staff for now. See if she can make herself useful there."

"Yes, sir," the soldier said, grabbing the chain between your cuffs and jerking up. A searing pain shot into your shoulders, and you winced as your knees were yanked from the ground only to smack right back down. Not enough strength to lift you entirely, but enough to remind you who was in charge.

You rose on wobbly legs, stealing one last glance at the King as the soldier turned you, and you felt the metal dig into your flesh. At the King whose eyes narrowed as you were dragged from the room. The King who the public envied, hated, feared. Worshipped, put their lives on the line for. Whose name was treated like a curse in one circle and a god's in another.

It was most definitely the former for you as the double doors were reopened. You hated the perfectly tailored shirt he wore. The thin gold crown that glinted under the chandelier that dripped wax down the crystals that hung beneath like a taunt. A reminder that this was what the townsfolks were paying for. What you were covering your family for.

You were shoved out the door despite offering up little resistance to the knight's movements. But your feet stalled at the sound that cut through the room. Quiet. Calm, even. It drew everyone's attention back into the room.

You blinked at the King as he sat expectantly.

"Your name."

Two simple words. He knew your name. Or the one that mattered. You were covering for your family so you'd become just another nameless maid expected to do her tasks without question. Your path would never cross with the King again after this. You were nothing to him. A name wouldn't matter.

But still, he waited.

"(Y/N)," you murmured, forcing your voice to remain steady. His eyes burned with an intensity that you couldn't pinpoint. You swallowed as he nodded.

"Well," he muttered, voice wrapping around you like the silk curtains that lined the hall. You were practically out of the room, but it felt like you were standing beside each other, whispering secrets only the two of you knew. "Welcome to the castle, (Y/N)."

pt two:

You weren't supposed to see him again. One in your position wasn't meant to cross paths with the King. You were to be tossed into a cramped room, given a uniform that felt a size too small, shoes that hurt your feet, and were expected to do your duty without complaint. Conversations forbidden unless they were hushed and behind closed doors. No contact was to be made with anyone, let alone the royals, without permission. So you stuck to your duties. Cleaning, tidying, washing clothes you had only ever dreamed of touching. Getting your hands swatted when you messed up. Verbally berated when you weren't quick enough. Even if you were more efficient than some of those who worked by your side.

Your entire body ached by day four. You could barely move on day six. It was day seven when you were brought to the library in the middle of the night and were instructed to clean it--spotless--due to your lackluster attempts earlier in the day. It was code for those who had cleaned the library earlier hadn't done a good enough job and since you were feeling the repercussions of the job, you were forced to fix their mistakes.

And you had no choice. So you cleaned. You dusted, swept, mopped. Scrubbed and organized. Stole one too many glances at the leather-bound novels. Settled beside the fireplace for a moment longer than you knew you should've. But it just felt so good to just sit for a moment.

And then you heard a voice and you froze, hands stretched out towards the fire, feet tucked beneath you as you warmed up your calloused hands. Your wrists were still raw from the cuffs they'd kept you in as long as they could when you'd first arrived.

"Careful," he whispered. His cane clinked against the floor. "If they catch you slacking, they will not be happy."

You slowly rose and pulled your hands away from the fire but a gentle hand stopped you. He stood beside you, frowning as the tips of his fingers ran over your chaffed wrists. The uniform felt infinitely tighter, making each breath impossible.

"Please, warm yourself." His hand lingered until you stretched your arms back out.

The air in the room felt thick and heavy.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He winced, sliding the hand that'd once been on you into his pocket. His gaze perused your frame and you felt yourself starting to shake, unsure what he was looking at. Unsure how you were supposed to act in front of the King.

"It's too small." He was frowning again.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Your attire. It is too small. That cannot be comfortable." He eyed the string crisscrossing across your back, holding your dress firm to your body. Too tight, too small. His hand twitched on his cane before he turned his attention to your face. His concentrated expression softened. His gold eyes flickering in the firelight. "I, er, I am sorry for the circumstances that brought you here, Miss (Y/N)."

You blinked at the King, breath catching in your throat. You blatantly ignored the fact that he'd remembered your name.

Instead, you focused on if he'd been wearing his crown, you would've plucked it from his head, pointed to one of the jewels that glittered the band, and screamed about how half of one would've absolved your family of what was owed. That if he hadn't crave such lavish items, the taxes wouldn't be so high, and you wouldn't even be there in the first place. If he were wearing his crown, of course. And if you suddenly gained a bravery you knew was hidden deep beneath the breath you couldn't quite get enough of.

Still, to your surprise, a smidge snuck out.

"You're sorry? Really?" You laughed bitterly. Right in the King's face. In a heartbeat, you threw your hand over your mouth and stepped back. Fear tingled your skin, all the way down your back. "Oh--shit--I'm so sorry, Your Majesty."

Both cursed and beloved, you had no idea how the King reacted to such behavior. You weren't given much of a chance to see as you backed into a bookcase and yelped, thinking you'd bumped into a guard or even another servant. You spun tripped over your own feet. You expected the ground to knock the wind from you, but the King caught you, both hands on your shoulders, his cane thumping softly on the ground. His grip soft, gently trailing down your arms until he got to your elbows, where the sleeves of your dress stopped, and his skin brushed yours once more.

"Relax, Miss (Y/N)," he whispered, mouth beside your ear. "You are free to speak your mind to me."

It took a moment for you to gather words.

"You apologize when it is because of your laws that I am here. If you were sorry, you'd let me go home and give us the extension anyway."

He was quiet. His hands twitched on your elbows before they dropped. A slow breath. Then another. His hair tickled your neck.

When he finally spoke, his words sounded stilted.

"If I were to make an exception for one, I would have to to make an exception for all. Taxes have to be paid. One way or another."

You would've laughed if tears hadn't been welling up. So you stepped away, wiping away the wrinkles on your skirt, and cleared your throat. You hadn't expected any other answer, but it still hurt to hear. And it hurt knowing that you were stuck at the castle until the debt could be paid.

At least there was food every night. Even if you'd been forced to miss dinner due to cleaning the library.

You wanted to cry. You missed your parents cooking, listening to your sister run around wreaking havoc as you set the table. Your bed that was endlessly more comfortable than the poor excuse they gave you here.

Now, you were standing beside the King, his words like the key locking the door to a cage. You couldn't chirp, you couldn't fly. All you could do was speak when your master commanded it. You wanted to hit him. Maybe upside the head. Maybe with his cane that he was subtly reaching for. Your brows furrowed when you glanced at his leg. He wasn't wearing the brace. Nor was he wearing anything that fancy. Just a basic white shirt and pants. They looked like something you would've thrown on when you snuck out during the night to visit your friends, long past when your parents had gone to sleep.

"I ought to get back to work then," you mumbled. Voice more broken than you ever wanted the bastard to hear. It was his fault you were here. Fucking his. His damn taxes. His damn knights. Being goddamn collateral-

Without warning, you were led to the side.

If someone would've told you that you would've ended up in a compromising position with someone while you were at the castle, you would've shrugged. You had to pass the time somehow. And doing so with some nice company? That'd be the way to do it. But if they told you that it was with the King? You would've called them delusional. That perhaps they needed to get their head checked.

But when the library door opened, its hinges squeaking and two distinct voices carried between the bookcases, a tender hand on your wrist guided you into a crevasse beside the fireplace. Where you'd pulled a potted plant and a vase out earlier to clean. It wedged back far enough for neither of you to be seen.

It did, however, mean that the two of you were wedged so close together that you felt every inch of the other's body. Your back was against the King's chest, one hand reaching out to grab his cane before it fell as his hand came to cover your mouth. His other arm wrapped around your waist and held you as tight as you figured he could. You tried not to scream against his hand, and he held it firm when you tried to drag it away.

His breathing was surprisingly even, contrasting your desperate attempts. Each rhythmic movement making his chest brush against your back. You closed your eyes and counted to ten, trying your best to calm down. But it was growing increasingly harder in the small space. Especially so when his thumb ran reassuring lines along your ribs. An action that felt like fire was licking your skin. That the thin dress had caught the flames just on the other side of the wall.

He shushed you, turning his head towards the voices as they got closer. He tensed and you knew whoever was in the room was right there. If they found you--the King and some collateral hiding in a little corner in the library--you wouldn't be collateral any longer. You'd be six feet under.

"This is where he usually goes when he's not in his room."

It sounded like the old man who'd been in the throne room. Heimer, he went by, you found out shortly after. Your paths had crossed no more than what you could count on one hand, and each time he gave you a glance you couldn't read. Uncaring curiosity? You weren't sure.

"He might have gone to see the cook for a snack," the other voice said. "Or he is with the blacksmith, trying to see the progress on the latest weaponry."

"He's not you, Jayce. You're the one who prefers to do the heavy lifting. Viktor prefers to exercise his mind."

You were shaking, and the King slowly--very, very slowly--lowered the hand over your mouth. It skimmed down your throat, circling back until it slid between the two of you. You let out a shuddering exhale as he tugged on the strings holding the dress against you like a second skin, and very carefully loosened each cross. Each gentle tug of his finger made you silently gasp. The last few times someone had undone your dress even remotely as slowly, tender, and carefully, was not because you couldn't breathe. And the memories were tricking you, with each flick of a touch. Each graze and tug. As the fabric hung loosely around your chest. Not low-cut enough to cause worry of potential exposure. But it did dip lower than appropriate for someone to be wearing near the King. Especially with such a difference between classes. Especially with someone you despised.

Yet as you took your first full breath of the evening, you could've sworn you felt him relax ever so slightly.

"Alright, I'll go check in the kitchen and see if he found his way there. Get to bed, old man, I'll catch him up on what he missed from the council meeting."

"Fine. But I am trusting you to return him to his room, Mr. Talis."

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

Two sets of footsteps retreated and the library door closed shortly after. The King waited a beat before fully relaxing, his head falling back against the wall. He didn't guide you out of the small space.

Your mind seemed to catch up with you as he pulled you to rest against him, subconsciously, it seemed.

"Your Majesty," you whispered even though the two had left. "If I may venture a question?"

"You may." He seemed fond of whispering in your ear. And you weren't fond of the way it made your body shiver in a way that should've been disgust but was the exact opposite. It also wasn't helping that his hand was still firmly on your ribs, thumb running that same teasing circle.

"I can understand why you hid, but why me as well?"

His arms tightened for a brief moment around you before they fell and frustratingly so, you missed the contact.

"I, er." He cleared his throat. You couldn't tell if he was trying to choose his words carefully or if he was stalling. "I did not want you to get questioned. You have already been through enough on my behalf."

Silence. Neither of you moved. Your bodies were still practically pressed together. And without much warning, his hand came atop yours as he reached for his cane. You owed him nothing, yet you felt the urge to say what you certainly should've kept to yourself.

"I wouldn't have said you were here."

He leaned forward, one hand on his cane, the other reaching over your shoulder and pressing against the wall. You clenched your jaw as you felt all of him meld to you.

"I appreciate that, Miss (Y/N)." His breath fanned against your neck. And he stayed like that for a second before sliding out. "Genuinely."

When he was out, he gave you his hand. You hesitated before taking it. It was soft yet calloused, his fingers bony against yours. He didn't let go even once you were out of space.

"Spin," he murmured, eyes alight with something that made your cheeks burn. He held his cane underneath his arm, an obvious well-practiced stance. You did as he said, and he laced up your dress, not nearly as tight as it had been before. You noted how close he was standing. Closer than he needed to be, but you didn't step away. And it wasn't because he was the King and you feared potential repercussions. The exact opposite. It made you clench your jaw.

"I ought to return to my bed chambers," he said when he finished, hands hovering over your waist before falling to his side. "My apologies for interrupting you during your duty. I hope you are not kept up much later in pursuit of cleaning this place. I must apologize for its state of disarray. It's my fault that things are often out of place."

You stared at him in disbelief. He was...apologizing to you? You tried to fan the flames of irritation you'd felt towards him days ago, hours ago, goddamn minutes ago. But the soft, crooked grin he gave you pierced you like a damn dagger. So hard you nearly staggered back. You would've had you not locked your knees. But the damn thing made his entire face light up. Made his eyes sparkle and soften his demeanor.

"It's...alright, Your Majesty."

"Call me Viktor, please, when it's just you and me." You swore there was a dimple on his cheek when his smile deepened. You felt the strange urge to kiss it and you hated it.

"Yes Your...Yes, Viktor."

"Thank you." He nodded, studying you for one last moment before starting towards the door. "Sweet dreams, Miss (Y/N). "

The library door closed gently behind him.

When it's just you and m. Sweet dreams.

You bit your lip as you tried to process the slew of emotions. He expected the two of you to spend more time together. Alone. Something that should've angered you, worried you, shouldn't have made you excited. Secretly, you told yourself. You were secretly excited. But there was a strange curiosity there that you couldn't ignore. That bubbled to the surface.

The King--Viktor--was very much not who he seemed.

pt three:

You saw Viktor dozens of more times after that. All during your duties. In between conflicting feelings about the man you should hate, missing your family, and trying to figure out the relationship between Viktor and the council he seemed to meet with every few days. Meetings he often tried to avoid, you discovered, as you overheard who you discovered to be Jayce telling him that he needed to start showing up again.

That was in the throne room, where you'd been started to get sent more and more shortly after your midnight meeting with Viktor. One that you hadn't stopped thinking about since it'd happened. It was growing increasingly frustrating that you were getting less and less sleep each night as you thought back to that evening.

You saw more of the castle as the days passed. Bringing tea, coffee, and fruits into offices with members who you figured to be of the council. They talked of politics you only somewhat understood. Of wars you hadn't known were in talks of being waged. You felt privy to information you knew they weren't in fear of leaking--who were you going to tell, after all? You were there until your family paid a tax that felt more and more impossible to meet as each day went by.

Saying you met the members was a reach. You were simply able to put names to faces. Kirraman and Bolbok, who cared far more for those inside the walls of the castle than those beyond. Hoskel and Salo, who cared only for trade routes, talked of lowering the pay of the workers since the roads had become nicer, in order to pocket more for themselves.

Then there was Mel and Shoola, the only two who seemed to acknowledge the existence of those beyond the castle walls. Of where you and many of your friends and family lived. Where many of those who funded their lavish lifestyle lived.

The final two, Jayce and Heimer, seemed to be the closest with Viktor. But one thing became clear as you traveled from room to room, witnessed the same Viktor you'd seen on day one. The man with puffy eye bags, unkempt hair, clothes and a crown that reminded everyone of his royal status. The man who you watched turn away begging citizens. His hand gripped the armrest of the throne tighter when each denial he had to give. His jaw clenching, hair curling over his forehead.

"It's for the greater good," you heard Heimer whisper to him.

"We need the money to continue expanding our arsenal," Jayce said. "You saw how well the advancements are coming. They're almost there, Vik."

Viktor didn't always meet your gaze when you offered him a snack. A cup of tea. But he almost always made sure he acknowledged you in some manner. Hands brushing as you passed him a cup or a plate. Whispering a very undeserving and etiquette-breaking thank you that he only ever spared you. Handing you his cane if he needed both hands to be free. He'd even asked you to fetch him a book from the library once.

"On the bookcase you nearly fell into that night. Second shelf, middle, right beside the fireplace."

He hadn't spoken loud enough for anyone but you to hear. And it made your entire body burn up. You hoped you hadn't looked as flustered as you felt as you fetched it for him.

It was after about two weeks of the behavior that you realized he was most likely doing it because he wanted you to feel comfortable. Almost like a distraction from why you were there. And it angered you, strangely, that it was working. That he was even trying to do that.

It made the only alone time the two of you ever got...well, different.

Usually, it was your paths crossing while you were left alone to clean while Viktor was trying to just get a moment to himself. Hiding in one of the random bathing chambers, bedrooms, the kitchen, even outdoors in the garden. The latter was your favorite. The one that stuck with you the longest. The hardest.

The rest were momentary meetings. You both knowing you only have minutes at the most together, sharing small talk as you worked and Viktor took a breather, before someone else came passing through. And the King couldn't be seen conversing so calmly and casually with you.

You hated how you longed for the meetings. The way his hands would graze your skin as he brushed your hair from your face. Passed you a rag that royal hands had never once touched. Wiped the corner of your mouth when he fed you a piece of food that was not meant for a mouth of a maid. Of the collateral. He grinned when you practically moaned at the taste. You'd never tasted something so damn flavorful. It was infuriating.

And then there was the garden. Where he'd found you while strolling, a book in his hand that went unread as soon as he saw you. He sat on the bench beside you as you trimmed plants and plucked flowers for a centerpiece that'd been requested for the dinner that evening. But the sunny weather hadn't lasted long. As thunder crashed and rain poured down, Viktor whisked you away to a small gazebo hidden away in an overgrown section. Away from the castle. Away from the rest of your responsibilities for the day. At least during that moment, they felt far, far away.

He tripped on his way in, falling forward and pinning you against a wooden pillar. The roof sheltered you from the rain, but you were both already soaked to the bone. Freezing. Shivering. He didn't right himself, panting as his breath puffed out in a visible cloud. He was so close. You'd never stared at the mole above his mouth for so long. So desperately. So infuriatingly.

But all the two of you did was pant. Pressed against each other, a cold hand coming up to cup your jaw. You gasped. You hadn't meant to, and you tried to tell him that it was because his hand was cold. But the deep-set shivers made your words stutter. And it'd just made Viktor grin. A sight for sore eyes. Sometimes it made you wonder how he could sit there and frown for most of the day when his entire face lit up with just one crooked grin. One that warmed you like a fire. As did he as he settled between your legs, nose nudging yours as an arm hooked around your waist. You hadn't even noticed that you'd started to part your legs for him. Neither of you, it seemed, were going to comment on it.

Neither that nor the way he held onto you like you would slip through his fingers if he let go.

You wanted to stab him. You wanted to kiss him.

Perhaps both.

But your time was short-lived.

"Your Majesty," someone had called out. "We must get you inside before you catch a chill."

"Forgive me, Miss (Y/N)," he murmured as his hand traveled down your neck, trailing over your exposed clavicle in a touch more teasing than anything you'd ever felt. And you'd done a lot more with someone than a simple light touch. "As much as I do not want to, I must say goodbye for now. Please, do not stay out much longer. I fear the council would have my head if I tried to nurse you back to health if you were to get sick."

A laugh bubbled in your throat at the image. The King taking care of a sickly maid because she'd caught a common cold. An image that was difficult to imagine even if he was right in front of you, whispering it to you himself. The ruthless King. The man who wanted to take care of someone. The man you couldn't get your fingers around enough. His neck or him.

"They would if they knew you were even out here with me," you'd said back, breathless. You blamed that damn tight dress. But you knew it was much more than that. You hoped he wouldn't notice.

"Perhaps." He grinned. "But I am starting to realize that listening to the council may not be in my best interest."

He was gone, walking as fast as he could with the leg brace on. You stood shivering in the gazebo as the train pelted down until the tightness in your abdomen subsided. You went back to your duties once the warmth faded. The bouquet for the centerpiece was small and unfinished, so you expect it to be discarded as a waste. But when you stepped into the dining hall that evening to help clear plates, it was still sat right in the center.

The entire encounter was with you for weeks. You thought you couldn't sleep after your meeting in the library. You really couldn't after that. Sharing a bedroom with four other people was devastating when you got more wound up each night. Thoughts drifting into places they shouldn't have been about him.

Anger was the appropriate reaction. Wishing to take that anger out on him physically? Also appropriate. But the ways in which you wished to? Very much inappropriate. You were starting to understand why some of your roommates tried to pry specific...information...from Viktor's personal servant. A man he rarely ever asked for assistance from. Also a man who spilled absolutely nothing. Except to you after they'd asked if he'd be interested in a bedmate.

"Not from any of you," he'd said, eyeing them with amusement as they frowned and pouted. So they left to return to their duties, dismayed and unimpressed. To them, the King was a man to flirt and attempt with. Not the man who was the reason you were at the castle in the first place. A man who your family had willingly given you to without a damn question. Worth more than a deed. Or, perhaps less. More expendable. But you weren't a fan of dwelling on that thought.

Then, he turned to you. "He already has his eye on someone."

And that was all he ever said on the subject.

Because the next time you were alone with Viktor, the sentiment was proven true.

It was a month later. A very tense month where Viktor had been spending a lot more time with the council. And they'd been dismissing far angrier than when they'd started. Except for Mel and Shoola, those two were the only ones who walked out looking even remotely amused.

Taxes were being argued, trade routes disputed, the parties that the castle once threw every few weeks had become few and far between. Only three had been held since you'd been there. And not once had you even been allowed to peep inside. You'd been forced somewhere else, along with half of the other maids and servants, to do other duties. It was after the third party when you discovered that Viktor had snuck out and often snuck out of the parties.

You'd been instructed to clean a servant's quarters downstairs. It'd taken longer than it should have, but you couldn't shake the anger that came with each party thrown. Funded by the money that could've sent you home. That would've let you be with your family again.

But it was off being spent on fancy gowns and jewelry and crowns. On food that you'd only get to smell, to dream of tasting. On music you'd only ever hear muffled and mixed into a sea on conversations. You wanted to tear the rag you'd been using in half. But that risked consequences you weren't interested in facing. You'd already been yelled at for wearing your uniform too loose. They'd tied it extra tight the past few days as a reminder. It made bending down hurt.

You were walking down a hall, bucket and rag discarded, trying to steal and glance at the party you were to be nowhere near. Just a whiff of the food made your stomach twist. A glance through a cracked door that you dared not to get close to showed a glittering sea of rich colors and fabrics you wished you could touch.

Of gowns and jewelry that you wished to burn and break.

And then you rounded a corner and, when you smacked right dab in the middle of someone, you saw your life flash before your eyes. You thought about sprinting off and hoping they hadn't seen your face. That they'd never recognize you again. Or perhaps dropping to your knees and apologizing profusely.

Then he spoke and you'd be damned if you didn't relax.

"Ah, Miss (Y/N), are you alright?"

You glanced at Viktor and swallowed. He had to know you were supposed to be here. You glanced at the two guards positioned a few doors up.

"Y-Yes Your Majesty. My apologies. I'm terribly sorry. If you'll excuse me, I really must get back to my quarters. I'm sorry for the intrusion."

Viktor frowned, and you only caught it momentarily as your gaze fell to the ground. Just as it was supposed to when you were to talk with anyone above your station. You panicked and curtsied, sucking in a sharp breath of pain as you dipped, wincing as your stomach churned in a mixture of pain and hunger.

A hand on your arm stopped you and you stepped around him, and you froze, peering back at him wide-eyed.

"Come," he murmured. "I would be a horrible King if I let you go off without feeding you."

You bit back the words. You already are thought to be one.

You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. If you were found out to have gone with the King, you'd face consequences. If they found out you'd denied the King, you'd face consequences. You already were once they discovered you'd ventured into part of the castle that'd been off-limits to you for the evening. So you nodded and went with the man you were still conflicted about.

He brought you to a small office where a desk sat unused, the curtains were drawn, and a couch seemed way too plush. Stay he said before he disappeared, so you sat atop the desk, a small sign of disobedience you hoped Viktor wouldn't punish you for. A small part of you figured he wouldn't, but he was still the King. Even if your small interactions made your heart flutter in a confusing way, he was still the fucking King.

The King who came back with a plate of food that smelled so delicious you were worried you'd started drooling. He said nothing about you sitting on the desk. All he did was smile, walk up, and sat his cane and the plate down. He held up a piece of what looked like steak, his eyes twinkling like the damn stars in the sky, as he waited for you to part your lips before he fed it to you.

You moaned. You'd tried not to, but when it was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted and it was fed to you but the literal King, it was hard not to. And the smile he gave you, so self-indulgent and cocky, one you never expected from the man who oozed anger whenever he sat on that damn throne, who'd only given you boyish grins until now. It made your heart stop.

"Good?" He asked. You nodded. "Then have more."

"I do believe," you spoke slowly as to not sound so affected by his presence," that I am the one who's to be feeding you, Your Majesty."

Something sparked and Viktor leaned in.

"Oh, you are?" His hand came up and cupped your jaw. "I thought I was the one who made the rules, considering I'm the one with the crown on my head."

Your eyes shot up to that damn band of gold. You wanted to snap it in half.

"You hate it just as much, don't you?" He spoke against your cheek, breath tickling your skin.

"W-What?" You weren't sure if you were stuttering at the close contact, because you wanted more, or because he'd called you out so blatantly.

"The crown," he said as he picked up another small piece of food from the plate. His lips grazed your cheek as he fed you the dessert. A tang of strawberry, a hint of sponge, and the sweetness of cream. You sighed. "You glare at it every time I wear it."

How he could've expected any answer besides you melting against him was beyond you. His closeness, his lips grazing you, the damn food. You wanted to strangle him. You thought about it, too.

"Your Majesty-"

"Viktor," he cooed, "I love hearing you say my name, Miss (Y/N). It drives me wild."

"Viktor," you breathed, but not much came out. The damn tight dress. Too many emotions at once. Too many thoughts. Your eyes closed but you couldn't get your heart to stop racing. You clutched onto his sleeve as you trembled and you heard Viktor mutter something indistinguishable under his breath.

"I really ought to have a talk with them personally," he said, sounding as angry as he did when he spoke with Heimer and Jayce once. Hating how much he had to turn so many begging citizens away. "About these damn dresses."

He was between your legs, stepping forward until his chest was against yours, his hands sliding down your back. It wasn't as slow or methodical as it had been in the library. He tugged without restraint on the crisscrossing strings that held your dress tight. Each jerk making you gasp, and you wrapped your arms--and, shamefully, legs--around him until the dress was loose and free.

"There," he breathed out quietly. You didn't drop your legs from around him when you desperately knew you should have. It didn't help that when he pulled back, your dress caught against him, and it fell down your shoulders, exposing the low-cut slip you wore beneath. Neither of you parted.

A comprising situation with the King once more. Once again you would've laughed at the idea. Called them crazy. More so if they told you his eyes would drop to your chest, his hands would twitch on your waist, and his gaze would come up to meet your so hungry that they would draw you in like a magnet. You simply wouldn't believe them if they said he'd kiss you.

But, in fairness, he hadn't.

He devoured you.

And you devoured right back.

You weren't entirely sure who'd made the move. Just one moment you were staring at his mouth, silently begging to know what it felt like against yours. And the next, you were leaning forward and you had that question answered. Amazing. Soft and amazing. Perfect. He tasted like coffee and vanilla.

His hands roamed up to your ribs, but strayed no higher. He held you against him, hips still between your legs, and you held him even firmer against you. You wanted so much from him. To yell and scream, to strangle and kick, to kiss and devour. To take him right there. To let him take you right there.

You grabbed onto his shirt, wincing at the poor soul who was going to have to press out the wrinkles. But the guilt hadn't lasted long. Not when Viktor's tongue grazed yours and all intelligent thoughts drifted right out of your head. You'd tried to keep composure, but when one hand came up and skimmed your jaw, reaching back to tangle in your hair, you were hanging on by a thread. One that snapped as his nails scraped your scalp and he tugged your head back just enough to make you gasp. And you'd be damned if you didn't moan when he took that opportunity to deepen the kiss, his hips finally moving between your legs.

Not much, but enough to tell you how much he wanted you.

And, damn it, you didn't want it to stop. As shameful as you felt after everything, you wanted more. You were dazed from the kiss, barely able to keep up with your thoughts as you unclamped your fingers and attempted at undoing his shirt. Practically clawing at it to get it off.

That's when Viktor paused, breaking the kiss, huffing. You prepared yourself for disappointment. That he was just a King exercising his power, his intelligence, his charisma to play with you. Make you want something you could never in a million years have.

"Not here," he muttered. "If I am going to fuck you, Miss (Y/N), it's going to be in my bed where I can strip you down and taste every inch of you."

You moaned. Practically sobbed. Guilty pierced your heart but you'd be damned if you let it break it.

"And if I wasn't expected back at the damned ball..." He cupped your jaw so tenderly and shook his head. "That is where we'd be right now."

You cursed whatever compelled you to speak because all you managed was, "don't go."

And Viktor laughed. He laughed. That was your undoing.

"Do not worry," he breathed, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and kissing the soft spot beneath your ear. "I do not intend to leave you in such disarray."

His hand snuck beneath the skirt of your dress and you practically vibrated as it skimmed your inner thighs. Your teeth captured your bottom lip and you whined--never once had you whined for someone until now--when he stopped just before he reached the apex.

"May I?"

You would've begged if you'd had it in you. But you were trying to maintain some dignity. So you nodded. And it all disappeared when his fingers ran between your folds, the tips grazing your clit and making you jump.

"Miss (Y/N)," he breathed as he ran the same teasing line. "Fuck."

You'd said the word dozens of times yourself. But from him? It felt a dozen times dirtier. And you committed it to memory. You were going to hear it every time you thought about the evening. Every time you looked at him. You'd think about him whispering it against your neck as his fingers spread you, his teeth dug into your skin, as he visibly ached to touch you.

And then his fingers found your clit. So damn easily, too. The precise, languid circles he ran over it were already driving you mad, your legs shaking as you tried to slow the coil that was tightening in your abdomen.

"I have not stopped thinking about you," he whispered as he slipped two fingers into your entrance. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to hide your whimpers. "My mind, I must admit, does do not you justice."

You nearly lost yourself at that. He angled himself so his palm grazed your clit with each pump of his fingers, with every movement of his hand as he curled them inside you. You wanted more than his fingers. You wanted him to take you right there on the damn desk. He could've. You would've let him without a second thought. Who needed a bed when you'd throw him in the desk chair and ride him until you were moaning his name. Until he was moaning yours.

"Fuck," you whined and Viktor sped up his fingers.

He felt so damn good. You'd watched him use those fingers to write, to eat, to argue. Hands gesturing, fingers twirling quills, it was torture. What little alone time you got by yourself, you imagined they were the ones making you bite your lip to the point of nearly breaking the skin. That he had you on his lap, legs spread, whispering how good you felt as you came around his fingers.

"Please," he spoke against your skin. "Do not make me leave this room without making do on my promise."

You would've laughed if you weren't on the edge already. Your walls squeezed his fingers and he grinned against you. He curled them a little harder, a little faster. He sucked, licked, dragged his teeth along your neck. Reached his hand up and yanked on your hair, angling to give him better access.

You weren't a begger. Not with him. You'd told yourself that.

"Please," you whimpered. "Don't stop."

"As if I have zero intention of doing so." His mouth brushed the shell of your ear. "Now be good and cum for me like I know you want to."

You did. He held your head back so you couldn't bury your face in his neck. And he watched. He watched you come undone. As your walls strangled his fingers, as your back arched, your eyes closed. As your muscles tensed and you fought the moan that still burst its way out. A strangled mixture of his name and just fuck.

He didn't remove his fingers until a few tears slipped down your cheeks and you slumped against him.

"Now that," he cooed as he brought his fingers up to his mouth. He groaned as he licked them clean, and you were ever thankful you decided to open your eyes as he spoke. "Is what's going to get me through the days until I can have you for myself."

"And when, Your Majesty, do you expect that to be?"

He cocked a brow.

"For all we know," you huffed, "my parents could pay off the debt before our paths ever cross again. I am kept rather busy here."

He grinned and kissed you. Long and hard. He redid your dress before speaking. Waiting until he was at the door to the room, ever the dramatic, he was.

"Then I better start sneaking away more often. Good night, Miss (Y/N)." He nodded towards the plate. "And, please, do make sure you eat."

I only realized in this rewatch that Viktor wakes up with Sky's voice calling him. "It killed Sky. She had such dreams..." It's still so important to him

And there's something so soft and devoted in the way he remembers her

He softly caresses her notebook before taking it with him. He also notices the blue prints of the weapons Jayce made so...

And of course there's no way to finish this without the last scene. She's so proud of him, and he's so relieve to still have part of her with

I used to date an older guy (like mid 40s) a few years back and I always got stupidly turned on when he fixed stuff around his house?? Like, he just knew hot to do it and did it. No googling, just him and his tools. Feel like it would fit somewhere in your older bf Simon stuff.

god love a fully capable “fuck it i’ll do it” type of man 🫶🏼

you know that your older bf!simon doesn’t believe in hiring tradespeople for a service.

“why would i pay someone to fuck about in my home?”

“they’re not fucking about, si! they’d be fixing the sink”

“i’ll do it”

you have no doubt that simon was more than capable of fixing things around the house but you also wanted him relaxing when he was home.

turns out he couldn’t relax at the thought of another man doing something for you.

so you let him do it, you threw your hands up and waved your white tea towel in defeat as you heard him banging around in the garage for tools.

hearing the faint sounds of grunting and the occasional swear word coming from the bathroom, you thought it might pay to go and see how he was getting on.

fucking hell.

simon was on his back, arms stretched up above him as his hands dwarfed the pipe they were wrapped around. t-shirt riding up, lines of his stomach leading right to his belt, knees bent and boots firmly planted on the floor, you could honestly just-

“oi, you gonna’ stare or help me?”

now how the fuck?

“your heads in the cupboard, how did you know-“

“i always know where you are, pass me the wrench”

crouching down beside him, you handed it over and stayed down there to watch him work. scarred knuckles wrapped around the handle of the tool, other palm flat against the base of the sink so you could see the veins.

he was something else entirely.

“how d’you know how to do all this?”

“taught m’self, come hold this”

you reached over to replace where his palm was so he could have both hands back. “but why? surely other people don’t learn all this?”

“other people don’t care about their sweet’art not having to lift a finger- move your finger for me”

the more you stretched to hold the sink, the more you felt yourself losing traction with it. naturally, simon noticed before you did.

“y’need to get closer, cm’ere”

tools landing to the side of him, two large hands plucked you up till you were dropped in his lap. precarious situation but you couldn’t deny the sink was a lot easier to reach.

you stayed like that, letting simon work in peace as you enjoyed your view. honestly, he could invite you to the end of the world and you’d just be happy to hold his hand.

one hand splayed out on his chest, the other holding the sink, you suddenly felt a tickle forming at the end of your nose. before you knew it, you were pulling your hand back to scratch it- the one holding the sink.

you panicked, realising it could very well land on simon’s head. but it didn’t, it stayed completely still. face screwing up, you leant in again to give the sink a nudge only to find out it was totally fixed.

“what the hell, si? why’d you have me doing all that?”

you saw the smirk on his face as he flashed a look over at you. suddenly, you realised you weren’t the only one enjoying the view.

the hand that didn’t have the wrench came out to give you a pat on the side of your hip.

“c’mon sweet’art, i can’t get anything outta’ this?”

Tatoe.