#( ✧. ┊ beyond the looking glass ; aesthetics ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkedtae · 1 month ago

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the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART II

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

⬅︎ PART I

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.6k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.

A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.

In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.

Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.

Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.

Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.

You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.

But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.

You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.

“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.

You stiffen.

This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.

As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.

Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.

“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”

You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.

The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.

You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.

“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.

Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.

“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.

That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.

“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.

“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”

You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”

He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.

You wonder if he learned it from—

Chris says your name.

The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.

He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.

“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.

I need to go, you know you should say.

Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.

“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.

No, thank you. I have to go.

His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.

You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.

Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”

“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”

His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.

You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.

The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.

In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.

In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.

The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.

You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.

“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.

You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.

You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.

Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.

Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.

Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.

Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?

“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.

You shrug. “What about me?”

“What makes you a traitor?”

You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.

Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”

“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.

You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“The answer is no.”

Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.

You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”

Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.

“Are you stupid or suicidal?”

“A lot of people would argue both.”

The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.

He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.

“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.

Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.

Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.

You bite your lip and shake your head.

He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.

Your eyes roll, head tilting back.

“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.

Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”

“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”

“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.

Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.

You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.

Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”

“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.

Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.

“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.

You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.

He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”

Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.

“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”

Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.

Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”

At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.

You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”

Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”

You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.

“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.

But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.

Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.

“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”

“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”

You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.

Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.

“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.

“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.

I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”

“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.

You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”

Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.

“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”

Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.

“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.

The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”

Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”

You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”

“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.

His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.

“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .

You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.

“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”

You obey.

Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.

You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.

“Take off your shorts.”

Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.

Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.

“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.

“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.

Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction.

Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”

He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.

God, he’s so perfect.

If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.

Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.

You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.

So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?

The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.

He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.

Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?

You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.

Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.

A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.

Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.

What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?

Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.

Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.

Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.

You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.

The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.

You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)

Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—

“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”

The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.

An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.

“Lean back.”

Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.

Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.

Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.

Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.

“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”

Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”

He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.

“Beg.”

Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”

His smirk widens at that.

You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”

Jaw flexed, he softly growls.

“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.

He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.

You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.

“Oh, god!”

Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.

Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.

Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.

“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.

His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.

Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.

So, so cl—

A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.

“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.

Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”

You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?

Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.

You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.

“Chris, I’m—”

He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.

His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”

You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.

Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.

Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”

That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.

He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.

The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.

His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.

Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.

That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.

You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.

Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.

The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.

You moan through a bitten lip in reply.

Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.

Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.

“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.

Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.

Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.

Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.

You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.

“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”

His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.

Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.

As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.

“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”

A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.

Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.

“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.

A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.

The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.

“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”

You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.

Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”

“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”

Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.

You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”

Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.

Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.

You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.

Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.

Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.

You clench. “Chri—”

“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”

Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.

Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”

His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.

You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.

The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.

As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.

His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.

Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”

You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.

After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.

You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.

“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.

A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.

His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.

“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.

You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.

Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.

“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”

You whine incoherently.

He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.

Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”

Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.

You flush, nodding.

He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.

Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.

Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.

You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.

You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.

Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.

“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.

Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.

“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.

Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.

Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.

There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.

He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.

“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.

You nod.

Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.

He sees you.

Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.

You clench, whimpering.

He licks, chuckling.

His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.

“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”

Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”

You draw in a long breath and release it.

He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”

The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”

A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.

“Daddy!”

Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.

Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.

It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.

“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.

He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.

Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.

Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”

His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.

However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.

A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.

“Why do— Ah!”

Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.

“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.

You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.

Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.

And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.

“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”

Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.

You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”

The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.

“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.

“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”

His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.

A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.

Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”

You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.

“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.

Chris tightens his jaw.

A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.

The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.

The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.

He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.

Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.

Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.

People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life.

It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.

And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.

He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.

Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.

“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.

You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.

“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.

You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.

His eyes darken.

Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.

Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.

You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.

He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.

You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.

He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”

The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.

You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.

Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.

Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.

A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.

His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.

However, you were promised ruin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.

Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.

You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.

Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.

“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.

You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.

You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.

“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.

You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.

Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.

Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.

“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.

You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”

He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.

“Please what?”

His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.

A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.

“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”

His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.

“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.

A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.

Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.

Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.

It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.

You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.

Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.

You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.

You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.

Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.

There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.

You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.

The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.

The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.

Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.

The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.

“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”

You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.

“Of course,” you reply.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Are you hurt?”

The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.

“Are you?”

A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.

“I’ve never been better.”

“What…happened?”

You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.

Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?

“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”

“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.

He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”

You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”

“Do you remember saying anything?”

Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.

He bites back a sheepish grin.

“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”

“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”

You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.

“Well?”

“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.

You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.

“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.

Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?

The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.

Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”

You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.

“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”

His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.

You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”

Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”

A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.

“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”

Your spine stiffens.

His gang?

Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”

Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.

Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.

“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.

Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.

“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”

You press your legs together, squishing his hand.

He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.

You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.

“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”

Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.

“So what then?” you ask.

Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”

You blink.

Protection?

You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“It’s my life.”

Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.

You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.

I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.

“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”

You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time.

Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.

“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”

“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”

“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”

You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.

And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.

You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

#chantober 2024 #bang chan smut #chan smut #stary kids smut #chris bang smut #chan x reader #bang chan fanfic

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fudgechocolatepuff · 1 month ago

Text

a lovebirds bloom! (pumpkin pie edition) pt.ii🍁

keigo t. x fem. reader | wholesome fluff :)

pt.i of a lovebirds bloom

summary ⋆ ꪆৎ you with an unoccupied life intertwine paths with the fastest and busiest hero, where you both catch a break in your tranquil flower shop. lots of love in the air begin to unfold ꪆৎ

sneak peek ➸ you bump into the winged hero again in the fall season by chance, but neither of you two mind.

word count : 2.6k

Brisk air flew over your face upon wiping the window for the -mpth time today.

Although you carefully scrubbed at the glass to rid it of any visible blemishes left from the busy workday, the window remained foggy, dewy droplets sticking from the outside and obscuring your view of the street beyond.

The sky above was nothing short of clear, the stars twinkled from above in contrast to the darkening of the blue sky, now a navy-black colour.

In response to the sudden draft drawn in from the decreasing temperatures outside, your fingers wrapped around the end-loops of your scarf and pulled, tightening its hold on your neck in hopes of trapping the heat there.

If only the small window tucked in the back would close all the way instead of inviting a day-lasting breeze to nip at the tips of every customer’s ears.

Aside from the chill air that bit at the tips of your fingers, you grew more satisfied looking over the decor that you were tasked to put up, just in time for the incoming autumn season.

No matter for what season you decorated for, the warm-toned paint of light cafè brown matched every occasion.

This time—since you were put in charge of the aesthetics of the shop—you made sure that the festivity of the harvest-halloween period would radiate more than the past years’ decorations, and draw in more customers!

Perhaps, if you tried hard enough, you could draw back the attention of the winged hero.

You shook your head to snap yourself out of that ridiculous fantasy.

Okay—sure, you missed the interaction exchanged between you and the hero, but you doubted he’d ever come back, let alone acknowledge the tension he’d left behind when he dashed through the doors that spring morning.

It was embarrassing! Being stuck up on a menacingly short conversation was not of your character, especially as it was confined in your professional workspace.

But you couldn’t deny, he teased and teased your little talk together, leading himself on to flirt and flatter you. Hell, you even let him enamor you, blushing at every comment he made about you.

“He was a hero though, of course he’d do a bit of romancing, that was his way of making talk with any woman around his age!” you reminded yourself, the pride that resided in your heart shrinking to embarrassment.

After letting yourself stare at the wall and ponder whether you should quit your job and start a new life in Europe, you continued your ritual of turning off each lamp scattered throughout the shop, appreciating the orange-ish glow it reflected onto the fresh stock of pumpkins and giving the space a homely fall ambience.

You retrieved your coat that hung on the teensy wooden rack, slipping it through your arms as the tired began to rush into your body.

Hanging your bag over your shoulder, you stepped toward the double doors, not before letting your nails glide past and tap against each of the candles, a subtle waft of vanilla-pumpkin flowing through your senses.

You snatched a candle to take home, just as a souvenir, you’d pay it back tomorrow.

Flipping over the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’, the bell of the door jingled as you walked out, with a bittersweet feeling now settling in your chest.

——————

With a swift movement, Hawks’ hands tugged at the collar of his jacket, the fluffy white trim heating his lower face the tiniest bit as he flew through the crisp air of the autumn night.

He groaned in annoyance, regretting his decision of leaving all his hot-pockets at home, his frown grimacing more at the feeling of his empty, cold pockets.

Hawks hated this time of weather. Not the merriment of outdoor activities, oh no—he loved the idea of pumpkin patches and apple picking.

It was the transition between summer and winter. The drastic decrease in temperatures after the steady 70s in the past weeks left the man shivering.

He wasn’t used to the dropping temperatures and neither was the rest of the civilians below, all bunched up in their coats and arms crossed tightly against their chests. This year brought quite the chilly autumn, maybe the coldest of them all.

“A cup of the hottest, frothiest and sweetest coffee would really hit the spot,” the hero thought, scanning over the masses of people, hopping his pupils over every few buildings in seek of refuge from the cool night and to be treated to a nice dessert-in-a-drink.

Just when his eyes lit up to the sight of a coffee shop that looked quiet enough to not be noticed, something else caught his eye rather quickly.

A lady dressed in a dark coat and a slightly brighter, but full and cozy scarf wrapped around her neck that held a peculiar yet chic pattern on the woven fabric.

She appeared to be running on an empty street—or… chasing something. Hawks looked ahead of the woman, to which he spotted a small cylinder container rolling downhill that the woman must’ve been trying to catch.

To this, Hawks laughed to himself softly, not to make fun of her, it just looked a little silly! The hero’s gloved hands cupped the outside of his mouth, where he huffed out to capture at least some tinge of warmth before descending onto the street of the escaping container.

If it had been some other instance where he wasn’t bored out of his mind and actually had to patrol an area, he would have just sent a feather on its dandy way to complete a small mishap like this one.

However, he had finally found an escape.

His boots landed on the smooth pavement with a quiet ‘tap’ at the end of the street as he crouched down to reach his hand out, catching what looked to be a candle just in time.

The woman who scurried down the road slowed her steps to catch her breath.

“It’s not every night where your own candles run away from you. This yours?” the winged hero held out his hand as he flicked his eyes to the woman.

But the cheeky smile instilled on his face suddenly dissipated into a wide-eyed stare, his question almost being cut off by his shock.

The bundled-up woman breathed in once again—finally able to breathe steadily—as she extended her own fingers to take back the candle, but tensed up as her pupils recalled the dark shade of the man’s gloves, and felt her shoulder blades freeze.

“Oh… you’re—“

“The flower shop girl,” Hawks remarked, a gentler smile blemishing his face, “the cute one who gave me the bouquet that Miruko adored.”

Despite the cold sitting in the air, the warmth still made its way onto your skin. Your voice shook nervously, trying to not make this situation as awkward as much as you could.

“It.. it was nothing really, just wanted to dedicate something for a hero I really admire.”

You shifted your hands to be clasped in front of you, just below your stomach as you spoke.

“Well, she really loved it. Seriously, if I had gone to another store I wouldn’t be called the ‘best feather flower fairy.’”

A laugh ran through from your chest as you imagined Miruko’s reaction to the “flower fairy” delivering her bouquet.

“I suppose you aren’t the kind of person to give her gifts like that.”

“Nah, not really. However, I just figured to get her something with a tad bit more of sentiment for her 25th,” he replied casually, still grasping the sweet scented candle in his hand.

“Oh, that’s so sweet! I bet she really got all emotional and recited an honoring speech dedicated to you, going on and on about you being so thoughtful.”

“If the speech was followed by a smack in the arm and a 2 minute-long cackle at me being so sappy, then yeah, I’d say she got a bit teary, almost gave me a hug, even.”

“I wonder how she’ll react next year.”

“Perhaps she’ll dedicate a memoir to me and buy me a bouncy house. A gift for a gift.”

Not many were able to joke with him like that. Of course, Hawks’ fans and acquaintances always felt ecstatic to chat with him, but there was no real talk—only jokes he’s heard millions of times before.

And he’d never want to offend them, but they were either quite boring, or too overwhelming.

Either way, they didn’t treat him as if he was any other person, just a man-doll that swooped by and teased or flirted those who wanted his attention.

With you, though, he could be sarcastic and not be looked at in a ‘were you joking?’ kind of way. He had almost forgotten what it was like to connect with another person on a deeper level.

No, this was a bit more sweeter, and he didn’t want to lose that.

Your delicate fingertips shooed hair out of your face as you looked onto the street, now completely drowned out by the darkness of the night, lit only by the orange-hued street lamps.

You didn’t even notice the lingering gaze the winged man held onto your face, glossing over your features hypnotically.

He stepped to your side and met with your eyes, “Hey, I know it’s getting a bit late, and you probably have work tomorrow. I just wanted to know if you’d wanna grab a quick bite with me. I saw a cafè down a couple’a blocks down.”

Although the fatigue in your body raged deep in your bones, you could endure it a bit longer for a nab of coffee.

——————

The walk to the cafè was fairly comfortable.

He noted to you that he even saw some pastries displayed on the window. A “sugar plum fairy” you called him, to which he grumbled at the reminder of the foolish name. What a baby.

You didn’t expect to be asked about the progress of the flower shop, but you gladly told him about the new pumpkins that came with a carving kit, how you’d probably snatch one for yourself to make a design.

“Wouldn’t a starry night be easier than a character like Hello Kitty? You’re quite the artistic type.”

“Shushh! I’ve always fantasized about a glowing hello kitty with a witch hat, don’t crush my dreams.”

“Poor little florist, wants to express all of her feelings through Hello Kitty! Don’t worry, sweets, I won’t do too much on you.”

“I’m glad you understand the severity of my fixation.”

“Heroes are always empaths, ya’know?”

“You not so much!”

In response, he side-eyed you and crossed his arms.

You shuffled your hands into the pockets of your coat, when a sudden thought slipped into your mind.

“Oh, by the way, my name’s (your name).”

“Hi, (name).”

——————

Upon arriving to the cafè, you felt like you could have fallen asleep on the leather-seated-booths that gave just the right of cushioning, but at this point you were starved for sugar.

Its style was a bit more foreign like—a banner next to the cashier framed the statement that read the inspiration came from Western Europe. The beauty and emptiness of the little shop just proved it to be a gem that you’d keep a secret forever.

Somehow, you found yourself matching Hawks’ vibe with the coziness of the café. Warm, golden, fuzzy.

You darted your eyes back down to the menu before Hawks could catch you staring at him, focusing on the ‘hot options’ category.

When you looked up to ask what he’d order, he was already staring you back, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I saw that.” he taunted, a smug grin rested on his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the obvious humiliation present on your features, pursing your lips together with the intention of relieving your shame.

“It’s no problem, doll,” his assuring statement completely opposite of his teasing expression, “Do you know what you want?”

As if it was on cue, a waitress ambled her way over to your table, notepad in hand, not even batting an eye to the number two, “What would you guys like to order?”

“May I get a (hot drink of your choice), please?”

The waitress scribbled down your order and turned to the man across from you.

“Ah, can I have a hot white-mocha with an extra shot of caramel as well as a slice of pumpkin pie?”

“Alright, I’ll have those out for you two in a bit!”

You thanked her before she scurried on into the back, “It’s absolutely ludicrous that nobody else acknowledges the fact that you have a huge sweet tooth.”

“Sugar energizes my system more than caffeine, it’s just how I function.”

“Do you brush your teeth at night? Y’know, sugar can rot those pearly whites of yours.”

“Yes, mother, I brush my teeth every night,” he chuckled, adjusting the buckle of his watch.

“It can also give you a condition, don’t know if you’ve heard, but it’s called diabetes—“

“Yeesh, I didn’t know I’d come to this place just to be lectured about my tastes.”

“If it were anybody else, they’d say the exact same thing.”

“Oh, let me be.”

The two of you went silent after that, but in a comfortable moment of calm, engulfing the presence of each other and the faint chatter of the minimal customers that were also sat down in the cafè.

Hawks in that moment wondered if he twisted the crown of his watch back far enough, he could make this night last forever.

Before long, you’re both gulping down your hot beverages, a waterfall of heaven swirling in the brown paper cups in your hands.

After a short debate, the two of you decided that it was getting late, and you both had busy work days to deal with tomorrow, and so he took the pumpkin pie to-go and shared it with you on your walk to the train stop. It wasn’t rude courtesy if no one could see you two at the dead of night.

“How come you live a bit far from your flower shop?”

You chewed your piece of pie, both crust and filling, “I don’t know, honestly. I think after applying to all the jobs I had in mind, I drew little paper pieces from a hat to just decide and get it over with.”

“Decision making can be tough when it comes to jobs.”

“You get it,” crumbs of pie fell onto your coat as you responded with your mouth full.

The hero held the empty plate with sprinkles on crumbs left behind in his hand, and with your candle in the other as you two continued the walk, about 3 minutes away.

Stopping at the top of the stairs that descended down into the underground station, Hawks stopped you from going further.

“Look, I really enjoyed this little going out together, although it started out with me ending your game of tag with your candle.”

You huffed lightly looking back at the thought, a shy smile tugging at your face, “Yeah, I’m glad I bumped into you when I did.”

Placing the candle into your palms, he began to take a few steps back, and Hawks admitted to you, “I hope to see you soon, sweets, whenever time permits.”

You waved to him, “Thanks for the pie.”

He nodded his head and gave you a sweetly sick smile, before turning to walk away and prepare to fly off.

As much as you hated for this night to end, you could at least encourage him to come back to you.

“Come back to the shop soon!” you shouted from afar, hoping he would hear.

The winged hero turned his head, waving his hand and shouting back, “I will!” eventually flying away into the alluring night sky.

The next time you’d come back to this cafe, you promised to order pumpkin pie every time.

a/n: so sorry for not posting this sooner! i’ve been so caught up in my studies and i couldn’t find time to post! however i lovedd writing this and figured now would be the best time to publish this. i hope this makes up for my absence :) love you and happy october!!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

End Game 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: have a great friday, dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Maris Street. You rarely go that way. It’s near the core of the town, closer to the west end where green hedges and white picket fences cordon off the suburban elite from the commoners like you. It suits him, doesn’t it? You assume this is what he’s used to.

The venom roils in your gut as you approach Oxford Drive. You stop before the sleek grey exterior. The black trims and large golden moniker in all caps add to the extravagant effect. Flowers boxes stand outside the windows that glow amber with rich ambience from within. The nicest place you ever went was the Korean Barbecue your dorm mate dragged you to; this is well beyond that.

You take a breath and look down at yourself. You’re still wearing the black jeans and plain tee you sport for your job. Former job. Your beat-up sneakers perfectly match your thrifted aesthetic and the purse strap twisted around your hand and wrist frays as if to assure everyone that you don’t belong.

You go to the front door and pull it open. You step inside to the low drone of stringy music and the subtle clink of glasses amid the low murmur of voices. You chew your lip as you approach the tall round desk where the hostess stands over the open reservation book, like some mystical keeper of scrolls. How very Skyrim of her.

She gives you a look, one you expect. You sniff and cross your arms, the strap of your purse further straining your circulation. You exhale and peek over at the dining room.

“Hi, I um...” your cheeks pinch as you find it difficult to speak. “I’m meeting someone.”

“You are?" Her skepticism drips from her voice, “are you certain they’re... here?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he made a reservation or whatever. Obviously, I’m not a regular,” you snipe back. You’re too exasperated to hold back. You don’t need her judging you too. “Older, beard, uh, tall... Andy Barber. Is he in the book?”

She flutters her pretty lashes and looks down. You watch her. She’s a few years older than you. Tall, balayaged hair, slender, perfectly bowed lips. What about her? Or someone like her? Why wouldn’t he want that instead? Why is he bothering you?

“Barber,” she nods, “yes, he’s here.”

She seems surprised by that. She steps out from behind the desk and tells you to follow. You obey. You have to. This is all just pulling teeth. He has you toothless already.

You keep your head down as you trail behind her. You only look up as you sense a figure on the other side of her. Andy stands as you approach and you nearly choke. You want so bad to just turn around and run away.

A line deepens in his forehead and disappears. He smiles as the hostess waves you forward. He comes around to pull out the other chair before you can. You retract your arm and barely withhold your frustration. Can’t he understand you want nothing from him?

You sit stiff and fix your bag in your lap, slowly unwinding the strap from your wrist. The hostess promises a server will be with you soon and struts away. You stare at the table cloth and as Andy sits, darkening the edge of your vision, you turn to glare at the far wall.

You feel even more demeaned sitting there in your jeans in tea among the crystal and tall-stemmed lilies. The tinkle of the soft woodwind music makes your head buzz yet the smell of the food teases your empty stomach. Your eyes drift to a group of older women, laughing over wine, a symbol of what you’ll never be. Happy. Free.

“Thanks for meeting me. I guess you’ve never been here before,” Andy begins.

You shake your head and flick your eyes to the ceiling. You grit down on his words. Why is he acting like this is normal?

“Nice place, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you snap and look at him directly, nearly growling in his face, “very nice. Upscale. Well above me.”

You cross your arms and sit back, your purse strap still loosely clinging to your wrist. His chest rises and he exhales through his nose. He leans forward and his cheek ticks.

“I brought you here for dinner, so we could talk, get to know each other--”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” you insist, almost teary-eyed from your rage. You don’t like being angry. You’ve never been very good at and more times, you end up blubbering. “Kara, my friend--”

He tilts his chin up and sets his gaze firmly on you, “we’ll get to that.”

“No, now,” you hiss.

He huffs through his nose. He looks around, silently chewing his agitation. He sits up and replaces that manufactured smile as a server approaches.

“Good evening, can I get you started with drinks?” He asks, his dark shirt finely pressed and buttoned to the very top.

“No thank--” you begin.

“We’ll take a bottle of cabernet,” Andy interjects, “for the table. Oh, and could we get some fresh bread. This has been sitting out.”

The server acquiesces and takes the basket as Andy hands over the wine menu. You barely keep from rolling your eyes. You’re not here to eat and drink and be merry. Kara is quite possibly behind bars.

You glare at him and wait. The server leaves as you keep your arms folded, fingers clamped tightly. He looks at you as if there’s nothing wrong. As if this is all normal.

“I want to know what’s going to happen to Kara. You said you can help--”

“I can,” he says casually, “so let’s have a nice dinner and then I’ll do just that.”

“But she’s--”

“They’ll have her in holding, question her, then they’ll have to figure out charges, yada, yada,” he explains, “don’t worry, I’ll give them a call after, tell them my client is invoking her right to an attorney.”

Your chest thumps and your ears ring. He’s so confident. He already knows you can’t say no. Not to him or this dinner. You have to sit there and celebrate his victory that came with your defeat. It’s not right. It’s... it’s... deranged.

“Why?” You croak.

“Why?” He shakes his head.

“Why are you doing this? Why me? Why not someone... someone you can relate to? Someone your age?”

“Why you? You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me,” he coos, “come on, we get along. We did. I know I messed things up but it can’t change that we had fun. We did, didn’t we?”

You swallow and shrug. Those nights you stayed up and mined or raced or whatever, they were fun, they were nights you look forward to. But every single one was a lie.

“Sure, but... what if I’d lied to you? What if I wasn’t me? What if I was some guy in a basement--”

“You weren’t.”

“But what if--”

“I know you weren’t.”

“How could you know--”

“I just did. You’re so genuine, so... kind, that can’t be fake,” he insists.

You sink down, slumping your shoulders, and look away. What can you do? You’re exactly where you never wanted to be. With less options. With none.

“What do you want from me?” Your dry mouth crackles around your words.

He’s quiet as the server returns. He sits back and you lift your chin as you watch the server uncork the bottle. He pours the wine and Andy asks for a few more minutes with the menu. Again, you have no appetite.

When you’re alone again, Andy takes a breath and shifts in his chair. He brings his hands together, pinching his left ring finger as if he’s missing something. He quickly pulls his hands apart.

“You. That’s all I want,” he breathes.

You stare at him. You don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to. If you keep denying it, it might not be the very idea that makes your skin crawl.

He reaches for his glass of wine and holds it out. You stare at it, then look him in the face. You can’t wipe the horror from your face.

“Cheers to us, sweetheart,” he says, “me and you.”

You shake your head as he waits. Slowly you take the glass before you and raise it. He clinks the crystal between you.

“It’s the first day of the rest of our lives,” he declares, “we can both build the home we always wanted. Together.”

🎮

Andy pays the bill as you wallow in futility. This is it. Your life is over. All because of one mistake. All because you trusted the wrong person.

He stands first and you follow. He grabs the to-go box of the food you barely touched. You’re in such a fog, you can barely think. He gestures you towards the door as he nudges you with the box. You hug your purse to your stomach and walk between the tables.

The cool night air wakes you up. As you come to the sidewalk, you stop. You turn back to him and wet your mouth, a hint of wine on your tongue.

“Call. Right now,” your voice shakes.

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” He inclines his head as if he doesn’t understand.

“The police. Call. You said you would help Kara,” you insist.

His brow arches and he nods. He holds out the container and you take it stiffly, letting your purse dangle from your shoulder. He pulls out his phone as he stares at you. Finally, he looks down and scrolls. He clears his throat before he puts it to his ear.

“Hi, yes, this is Andy Barber, I’m an attorney for a woman in your custody. Yes, I do.” You listen to the piecemeal conversation, “name is Kara Orascio. Yes, she won’t be talking to the police any longer. That’s correct.” He pauses and listens intently, “I’m out of town but I can be there tomorrow. Sure.”

He hangs up as his eyes cling to you still.

“So, looks like we need to pack,” he says.

“What?” You utter.

“Don’t you want to see your friend?” He challenges.

“Well, yes, but I thought you--”

“I’m not coming back here again. So, you’re coming. We’ll deal with your friend’s charges then we’ll go home.”

You blink, “home?”

“Sure, sweetheart, I got it all ready for you,” he turns down the sidewalk and takes your hand.

You have the urge to rip your hand out of his. You want to tell him not to touch you. You want to scream and run away. You don’t because you want to save Kara more.

“I meant what I said before. I can get you into school down there,” he guides you along, “you’ll like it. It's close to Boston. Place called Nelson. You ever been to Massachusetts?”

“Hm, no, didn’t travel much.”

“That’s okay. We can do some of that too. Still got lots of summer left. We could go somewhere sunny,” he drawls, “you know, it gets gloomy in the fall so we may as well enjoy it while we can.”

“Sure,” you murmur.

Your feet are heavy, your head too, every part of you just wants to give up. Haven’t you? Isn’t that what this is? You surrender.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He stops and lets go of you, fishing around in his pocket.

“I’m...” your vision narrows in; just like the moment you first met him. As Andy. As the real him. As the twisted man you just sold your soul to. “...tired.”

“Aw, yeah, well, it’s been a long few days. For both of us. You wanna come back to my hotel. The bed’s really cozy and the tub is deep. You could relax for the night before we gotta get on the road,” he offers.

You shake your head, “n-no,” you stutter. The last thing you want to do is be alone behind closed doors with him. “You said... pack. I should... do that.”

“Ah, I did. Alright, I’ll take you to your grandma’s. I’ll have to come early so we can get to your friend.”

“Right,” you agree coarsely.

“Trust me. I know how to handle cops,” he chuckles and pulls out his keys, unlocking the car right beside you. He opens the door and steps back, “I’ll call ahead. Get us a room as there too. I guess you’re going to want to catch up with your friend while we’re there. Might be a while before you see her again.”

You wince and look at him. A while. You look around at the street lights. You’re not unhappy. Leaving this place doesn’t matter to you but leaving Kara, possibly forever, that’s a knife in the chest. But forever is easier if you know she’s okay. If you know she doesn’t pay for your stupidity.

You nod and get in the car. You can’t speak. If you even try, you’ll bawl. The end is there, you feel it closing you in with the car door.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #end game #defending jacob

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scorpioriesling · 4 months ago

Note

2 with rhys 🫣

A Springtime Storm

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Rhysand x reader

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MDNI

Summary: Fated mates from differing courts? We love to see it. This is almost smut with no plot, but it took a min to write. <3 Enjoy.

SR’s Note: I am excited to attempt some Rhysand smut… finally… it’s usually not quite my cup of tea but hey, I give the people what they ask for. (; I appreciate your patience! Using prompt #2 from my prompt request masterlist.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Trickle.

Splat.

The heavy downpour outside the marvelous windows was quite the contrast to what you were used to, or so what you’d grown accustomed to over the past two weeks of your stay.

Trickle.

The Night Court would never, ever have been your first choice — though you’d fit in quite nicely. The aesthetics, the tranquility, all of it was much at odds with the usual pastels and peonies you’d never grown fond of in the Spring Court.

Splat.

Though, your brother would have your head if he’d believed otherwise.

Splat.

Then again, the rain was quite familiar, a usual experience from back home, but not quite one you’d had while being held here-

CRACK.

A sharp jolt of your shoulders sends your hand flying to your chest as a bolt of lightning strikes across the indigo night sky, the living room around you alight for only a moment’s time. The walls of the Town House rumble as thunder follows seconds later.

Your nimble fingers can feel your heart rate slowing with each passing second, as you mentally count every star coming back into view beyond the panes of glass before you. For every star, another rain drop lands on the window, gravity pulling one, then two together, rivers flowing down toward the balcony below…

Trickle.

One thing missing from the sky tonight was the ever present winged males that usually flew about. It baffled you that even this late in the evening, the High Lord and his brothers would be so careless to play around above their city in such a way — nothing of the sort would be allowed in your court. You’d never dreamed of it, let alone believed your brother would excuse such a thing if you did.

Splat.

Then again, the High Lord that was holding you here for the time being was nothing like your brother. The physical differences were clear enough; not that your brother was unattractive, but my Gods it seemed every female in Prythian would swoon over the High Lord of Night.

Splat.

They also ran their courts very differently; for starters, there was no sense of responsibility here. In the Spring Court, of course, you had the tithe, which taught individuality and fairness among dwellers. Here, well… it seemed everyone just, kept to their own, no tithe, no sort of, payment, per se. Odd, but not necessarily unusual.

Trickle.

You turned from the windows, your attention gracing the photos hanging along the darkened hallway in those elaborate, golden frames you’d envied the moment you’d set foot in this mansion. On a dark, quiet night alone like this, you allowed yourself to look closer at them — after all, it seemed no one was home to observe your every move anyway.

Trickle.

The intricate detail work on the frames was impressive, you would admit. It quite reminded you of the details you’d seen in your favorite roots you’d gathered in the Spring forest, a place you’d spent most of your time. The rich browns of the leaves, the dark black colors of burned wood — at least you felt more at ease there.

Splat.

In those frames, you’d recognized the faces; the ever-cheerful Morrigan, always offering a golden smile to those who’d look. Cassian, his fierce exterior so intimidating, but really he’s more bark than his bite; his brother Azriel is truly the moodier one standing next to him. Amren, that short spitfire of a thing, and lastly, Rhysand, of course. Oh where to even begin with him. He would be in the middle, wearing that specific tunic that hugs those toned arms just tight enough so you know he’s packing-

“Y/N,”

Splat.

Your head turns slightly, concern ever so slightly furrowing your brow. You could’ve sworn you’d heard your name, just faintly, or perhaps from down the hallway?

“Mmm… Y/N…”

Your eyes widen, the hallway illuminating as a silent bolt of lightning streaks across the midnight sky once more. You slowly step past the photos, one by one, toward the sound source. It seems to be coming from the end of the hall, a place you’d never been, a place you’d thought had been vacated for the evening.

Inching ever so closer, you heard it again. And again. Inch by tantalizing inch closer, you continue to pick up on breathy whimpers and mutterings of your name as you creep down the hallway toward Rhysand’s bedchambers. When you finally stand before it, you all but press your ear up to the parted crack between the door and its frame.

“So… so good….”

What is he talking about in there?

CRACK.

Suddenly, the loud crack of thunder fills the halls, the walls shaking just as they’d done before but this time you don’t get the light-flash as a pre-warning. A small squeak leaves your lips, and your hand flies to your mouth to stifle your startled cry in fear of Rhysand hearing. But, as the noise dissipates, you hear… nothing. The house is silent. No whispers, no whimpering. Only trickles and splatters along the windows down the hall as your yanked into a veil of darkness.

✧･ﾟ: *

Violet. You can make out the two deep, violet eyes staring half-lidded at you from the desk across the room. Other than that, the lit candles nor the moonlight do not illuminate much else in its path along the lengthy, wooden panes of the floor leading from the window to your feet.

“Hmmmm.” His deep, timbre of a hum sends a chill up your spine. You swallow, glancing from the illuminated areas to the rather darkened ones. The High Lord sits, wide spread behind his desk at the window facing you, but you can only see from the mid-chest up. His gaze is focused solely on you.

“Am I…” you begin quietly. He raises an eyebrow slightly, and you suck in a breath when he doesn’t finish the sentence for you. “Am I in some sort of… trouble?” You ask. He smirks, sitting back in his chair and shaking his head slowly.

“Trouble?” He asks lowly. You chew on your bottom lip. “Well, my dear… if you’d consider spying a cause for trouble, then… well yes, I suppose.” He finishes with a satisfied grin.

Your mouth drops open slightly. “Excuse me? But whenever was I spying-“

“Ah ah,” he interrupts. “I would say peeping into someone’s room and listening in on their private business is rather, troublesome, wouldn’t you?” he replies coolly. You narrow your brows at him.

“If I remember correctly,” your voice comes out shakier than you’d like. You clear your throat. “If I… remember correctly,” you repeat. “What I was hearing beyond these doors concerned myself,” you gestured to the large oak doors behind you, then met his stare once more. “Did it not?” You ask.

He only smirks at you once more, his fingers lazily sliding through his short strands of onyx hair. You curl your fingers into fists, the short, black painted nails pressing into your palms.

After a beat of silence and another flash of lightning outside, he slightly shrugs. “It might have.”

Your cheeks flush with anger, your peaceful evening ruined. Your time wasted standing before a High Lord who was not your own, simply speaking in riddles to you while he held you in his court when you hadn’t wished to be here to begin with.

“You’re not a prisoner here, Y/N,” he drawls. You shudder, the familiar feeling of a cool talon snaking along your mental barrier. You knew he was in there, listening to what you were thinking. You shouldn’t care, you didn’t care.

“Get out of my head.” You glare at him. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, sucking in a breath and folding his arms across his chest.

“Always so defensive, hmm,” he muses. “You’ve always been quite… different,” he settles on the word, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s the nice way of saying I don’t belong. Don’t worry, I never have.” You bite back, folding your own hands across your chest. His eyes swiftly track the movement, the new position only pressing your cleavage further over the top of your corset.

“You could fit in, if you wanted to.” He meets your eyes again, bracing his hands on his desk. You only stare plainly at him, preparing a quip back at him. “But I don’t think you want to quite fit in, do you, Y/N.” He says it more like a statement.

Your heart begins to race. He was right. He knew he was right. You hated your home and everything about it. You hated the way your brother ran his court and the fact that you’d had no say in any official matters, despite coming from the same parents. You hated how alone you felt, how out of place you’d always been-

“No one’s forcing you to stay, Y/N,” he sighs, looking down at his lap. “I only brought you here for your help these past few weeks. But,” his eyes meet yours again. “You know how to winnow. You know how to ride a horse. Hell, you’ve got enough knowledge in that head of yours I’m sure you could swim your way back to the Spring Court.” He stands, his large frame illuminated by the moonlight surrounding him. He rounds his desk slowly, slinking toward you like a cat in the night.

“But, you stay here.” He whispers, his large frame towering over you. He’s drawn close enough that you can smell the citrus and cedar on him, the small movements of his breaths in the darkened room only quicken your heart rate.

“You know this is where you are supposed to be.” He states, stepping an inch closer. Your eyes drift to the floor, and his thumb and forefinger lightly tilt your chin up to meet his gaze once more. You allow your gaze to roam over the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his nose, his dark eyebrows and loose strands of hair that fall to his forehead…

“I…” You whisper. You feel as hot as the fire upon the candles in the room with where his skin touches yours, and his eyes search yours for more. More. More.

“Just say the words, Y/N. You don’t have to be ashamed to be who you really are,” his breath is featherlight as it trails down the slope of your nose, and your hands involuntarily shake with the realization. The need. The desperation you’d been craving so long and had been too self-righteous to act upon.

“I… Rhys… you didn’t …” he draws in a breath, almost as if inhaling your scent and reveling in it.

“There’s a lot of things I didn’t do, darling,” he rasps. “I should’ve already done.” Your chest heaves as you take in breath after breath, trying to calm yourself down.

He hadn’t needed you here for your “help”. You didn’t have special skills or assets or experience outside the Spring Court.

“You didn’t need me here for my, help,” you say. He bites the inside of his cheek, and his fingers lightly trail alongside the curves of your waist. Your eyes widen.

“You needed me here for…” you shake your head, your hand tracing the skin over your heart. He offers you a soft smile, and his hands pull you closer by the waist. You let out a soft squeak as your body is pulled flush against his.

“For us.” He whispers. Your lips part as you finally accept what this foreign feeling was. The forbidden attraction you’d felt for him, hidden beneath scowls and distasteful looks these past few weeks. The relief you’d never admit you felt when you left the Spring Court. The love in your heart.

“Rhysand…” You stare wide-eyed at him. He lets go of you slightly, and you can feel the singe of pain in his heart as worry takes over the surge of love you’d felt before.

“He was never going to let you go,” he explains quickly, taking your hands in his and holding them close to his chest. The unrelenting fear coursing through you from his end was torturous, and you only wished to feel the affection and warmth from before. His eyes are wide with fear, and you do the only rational thing you can think of to fix the situation.

You quickly take his face in your hands, pushing up onto your tip toes and pulling his lips onto yours. He hums in surprise, his fingers finding the small of your back and holding you close. You can feel the agony slipping away by the second, warmth returning and flowing through the bond as freely as the raindrops down the window panes.

His hands run up and down your spine as his lips part to deepen the kiss. You slip your fingers through his irresistible black locks you’d been dying to touch, and he skates his tongue across your lower lip as if asking permission. You allow it, exploring eachother as he pulls soft moans of approval from you.

It seems to have an effect on him as well; the area where his pelvis meets your stomach has grown painfully tight.

Trickle.

He guides you backward until you meet his bed, and gently pushes you down on the mattress. With each slide of your legs against each other ther, you can feel your panties growing wetter and wetter, the need that can only be satiated by him. By the male before you.

“Y/N I don’t want to do more than you can handle-“

You grab him by the shirt collar, yanking him down to your face and pressing another searing kiss to his lips. When you let him go, he only chuckles down at you.

“Mhm… I must’ve forgotten. You can handle anything.” His eyes darken as a feline grin overtakes his features, and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth.

He descends on you, kissing under your jaw and down your neck and over your breasts before pushing up your skirts and kissing up your inner thighs. You let out breathless moans in delight, as he draws closer and closer to the area you need him most.

“Rhysand…” you plead. You sit up on your elbows, your gazes meeting as he licks a fat stripe up the wet patch of your panties. You groan, fingers gripping the sheets. He chuckles again, delicately peeling your underwear off and marveling at your dripping sex before glancing to your stare once more.

“Fucking delicious my dear,” he growls, before leaning in and licking up and down between your folds. You gasp when he finds your clit, sucking gently at first as his hands grip at your ass to hold you still.

“Ohh Gods Rhysand…” you groan. He slips his tongue inside you, softly groaning and pushing his hips against the bed as he does. You feel the bed rocking softly as he continues to suck on your pussy, and when you glance down, you see him rutting himself against the bed frame. The sight alone sends another wave of arousal through you, watching him get himself off as he laps at your aching core…

“My beautiful girl…” he pauses, using two of his fingers to swirl around your tight clit. You cry out in pleasure, gripping the sheets hard as he watches your face contorting on pleasure from below.

“Mhm just like that baby… let it all go sweetheart…” he coaxes. His mouth replaces his fingers, sucking harder on your apex as his fingers slip inside of you, pumping in and out deliciously. The bed rocks harder now, grunts of pleasure reverberating against your core as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. It’s only a matter of moments before you are pushed over the edge, head falling back as a scream of delight echoes off the unlit walls and ceiling of the massive bedchambers.

Trickle.

Rhysand is on the sheets next to you in minutes, laying flat on his back and looking sidelong at you with a mix of adoration and lust. Your clit is spasming, your orgasm still pulsing through you but you’re not done. You swing your leg over his pelvis, hands bracing against his abdomen as you look down at him with a smirk.

“Allow me to…” Rhys snaps his fingers, all of his clothing and yours dissipating into a fine mist before you. You watch it go in bewilderment as his hands find your hips and lightly rock you back and forth, your post-orgasm slick allowing you to glide smoothly along his hard length.

“Rhys please…” you whisper. He silently sits upright, moving back further on the bed to lean against the headboard and pulling you with him. You hover over him, gazes locked as you guide his member inside, sinking down inch by inch onto him.

“Y/N…. fuck..” he grunts. When you’re seated to the hilt, you rise up again and drop back down, your lips parting as a breathy moan slips free. His fingers squeeze your ass, helping you slide up and down on his thick cock. Your breasts bounce before him with every drop of your hips, his length inside hitting the perfect spot to make you see stars.

Your fingers grip his muscled shoulders, and you look into his eyes once more.

“Is this what you…. oh…” you groan.

“Is this what you were thinking about earlier when you,” you pause, catching your breath between bounces. “When you were touching yourself?” You ask. He looks at you darkly, a husky laugh drawing from his lips.

“You’re all that’s been on my mind lately Y/N…” he begins, his hands bracing your hips in a vice grip. You can feel your second orgasm building, it won’t take much more to pull it out of you, especially with the way he’s looking at you like you’re his last meal.

“But in my head it was a little more like… this.” Your slowing bounces were halted as his hands held you in place, his feet braced on the mattress below as he sharply thrusted up into you.

“Ahhh! Gods Rhysand… ohhh my-“ you cry out in pleasure as he pounds into you at an impeccable speed, the sounds of skin slapping against skin the only thing that can be heard over the raging storm outside. Lightning illuminates the room once more, the loud sound of thunder amplifying throughout the empty house.

CRACK.

“You’re perfect… so fucking perfect Y/N…” he groans, his fingers digging into your ass once more as he continues to fuck his huge cock up into you. The building fire inside of your lower belly is fully ablaze, so so ready to explode-

“Rhysand! Oh fuck-“ Your orgasm barrels through you, and you lean forward onto his chest as your walls pulse and clench around his cock. His hands wrap around your back, holding you close but not stopping his thrusts as he fucks you through your orgasm.

He thrusts a few more times, the last one pulling you all the way down on his length as he gasps underneath you. You can feel his warm seed spilling inside of you, filling you up so much you’re sure some will drip out.

You both gasp for breath, his loving touch against your cheek bringing a lazy smile to your face. He gently strokes your hair, allowing you to lay against his chest as you both come back down from whatever cloud you’d both been so high upon. The storm has reduced to a quiet drizzle now, the thunder and lightning letting up from earlier.

After a few moments he pulls out of you, pressing a small kiss to your nose before sliding from the bed and pulling you towards him. You can’t help but chuckle at his actions as he sweeps you up, his arms holding beneath your knees and back as he makes his way toward the bathing chambers.

“Rhysand-“ you start. Your face flushes as you feel a trickle of his release trailing from your core over the skin of your thigh and under the curve of your ass.

Splat.

“Hopefully I won’t have to only think of you any longer?”

Splat.

ﾟ:* ✧

#a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #acotar #acosf #acofas #acotar smut #a court of frost and starlight #rhysand smut #high lord rhysand #rhysand acotar #rhys acotar #rhysand #rhys x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar series #acowar #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury

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pumpkinbxtch · 9 months ago

Text

beautiful eyes * ˚ ✦

— leo valdez x daughter of hecate! myopic! reader

Summary: You and Leo are new being a couple and he feels the urge to be closer to you so he uses your glasses as excuse.

Warnings: swear words? they just kiss, man

A/N: English is not my first language, so sorry if it's bad.

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

— Oh, those beautiful eyes of yours, let me see them up close again.

And there he went again Leo "I don't give a shit about your personal space" Valdez. It would only have been a few weeks since you and him had become a couple, however that didn't seem to stop Leo from taking advantage of the new closeness between you.

What you didn't know was, that for Leo was the only way to keep in physical contact with you without seeming like an idiot or getting nervous, so he opted for the best thing he knew how to do: bother and make jokes to go unnoticed about his true feelings and intentions.

You sat on the picnic blanket while you tried to appreciate the dance of the sunset reflection on the lake of Long Island Sound. That summer day seemed perfect and cozy, the purple and pink skies would have calmed you to the point of sleeping on your boyfriend's shoulder if it weren't for his super hyper mega hyperactive nature. Leo just wasn't a person who could stay calm for long and you knew it.

While you were still looking at the large body of water, he played with your hands and your rings and it wasn't until you felt his lips brushing your knuckles that you looked up at him. Leo simply smiled with his ears slightly pink. Or maybe it was the reflection of the sunlight?

—Can I? — He asked, tilting his head like when a dog hears a distant sound. You just rolled your eyes and then Leo took the glasses off.

You didn't know where the passion for doing that came from. At first you had the assumption that Leo probably found your face more aesthetically pleasing without a pair of glass on it, however he denied such idea before giving you a half-hour sermon about how glasses didn't make you less pretty. So, you headed for the second most likely thing: Your irises.

These were like his, brown, but being a daughter of Hecate, they sometimes gave off purple or iridescent colors. Clearly this aroused the attention of many and sometimes the reflection of the lenses did not allow them to fully appreciate it, but what could you do? You couldn't help be myopic

Leo smiled and a few seconds later he formed a completely serious face, that made you raise your eyebrow.

— Something wrong? —You asked.

For a few seconds he remained completely silent and static until words came out of his mouth again.

— Are you a descendant of Medusa? because you left me petrified with that look of yours — The boy kept his serious appearance until he burst out laughing, probably because of the look of repulsion that came out of your face.

— You're an idiot — You hit him on the shoulder and snatched your glasses from him.

He groaned, stretching out his hands trying to reach them, failing miserably.

—Well, before you put them on.— Leo grabbed you by the chin and joined his lips with yours closing a kiss. His free hand ran over your back to press you towards him, deepening the act, a step beyond the small kisses you had shared. For you, of course it was like taking you on a roller coaster from Tartarus to Olympus but for Leo the feeling was something beyond than that, slowly the son of Hephaestus felt his brain melt and turn into car oil.

He had finally managed to have you closer and it was better than he could have imagined. Before pulling away he gave you a small kiss and pressed his forehead against yours taking a breath. When he moved away enough for you to see his entire face you noticed the blush.

Leo looked away, embarrassed at letting himself get carried away, he nervously placed a hand on the back of his neck and cleared his throat.

— Uh, the thing is that I sometimes hit myself with your glasses.

Both looked at each other, You two knew it wasn't that. Or well, yes. From time to time, when you were kissing, the frame of your glasses decided on the same two options: 1- poke Leo's eye or 2- get stuck in Leo's curls and end up tangled.

However, even you agreed that it wasn't that reason, you decide to not say the embarrassing truth out loud and just laughed.

#leo valdez x y/n #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez #leo valdez x you #leo valdez x oc #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #pjo hoo toa

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fantasyescapes17 · 1 year ago

Text

Closed Doors (Part 1)

Soonyoung had made peace with his station in life. A younger son of a little-known family, he was not set to inherit a fortune and had nothing to recommend him but his bright personality. Nobody expected Soonyoung to make the match of the season. But when you- a woman with ties to the royal family and riches beyond his imagination, a Duchess in your own right- seeks Soonyoung's hand in marriage, his life begins to spiral entirely out of his control.

Genre: Hoshi x female!reader. Regency!AU. Your title is the Duchess of Graham but your first name is not mentioned.

Warnings: Not even remotely historically accurate. Much like Bridgerton, this is all about the aesthetic.

Word Count: 4k+

Part 2 Part 3

Series Masterlist [This is not the first installment in this series- it is strongly recommended to visit the Masterlist and read the installments in order as they are all interlinked and the timeline can be confusing.]

“So, the Navy, eh?”

Soonyoung winced as his elder brother clapped him hard on the back. The evening had barely begun but the elder Kwon had already imbibed too much whisky; a rather embarrassing state to be in, considering that they were at one of the most elite balls of the London season. The hostess-the Duchess of Graham- was arguably the richest and most influential lady of the ton and not someone to be trifled with.

"The Navy, yes," Soonyoung replied weakly. "I enlist in two weeks."

"I didn't take you for a navy man. But excellent. Excellent, Soonyoung. You will make our family proud!"

The elder Kwon stumbled away, drunk and almost knocking over a pair of young ladies that shot him dirty looks. Soonyoung winced again- this time from embarrassment, and not pain. It was a cruel twist of fate that this bumbling buffoon had inherited the entire Kwon family fortune while Soonyoung was left penniless, merely because he had been born a year later.

Younger sons were truly at the mercy of their brothers.

"Soonyoung!"

Soonyoung turned, relieved to see a close friend and another man who shared in his plight as a younger son. Mr. Lee Seokmin was nearby with a glass of water in his hand.

"Mr. Lee!" Soonyoung greeted his friend warmly. "I see you are starting off the evening early. Do not tell me you have already secured a young lady's hand for the first dance?"

Seokmin grinned brightly. "I have secured a dance indeed; with Miss Yoon, the season's jewel."

Soonyoung was impressed. "Well! Don't let me stop you! You should hurry- young ladies do not like to be kept waiting, and being brother-in-law to the Viscount will only get you so far if your manners do not match his."

"Of course. I heard of your plans to enlist in the Navy," Seokmin added, his tone a little more serious. He lowered his voice. "We will speak about it after the first dance."

Soonyoung forced a smile and agreed.

Joining the Navy was not something that Kwon Soonyoung had ever truly wanted to do with his life. But ever since he had been old enough to understand that there was no grand estate or family fortune waiting for him when he became of age, he knew that he could not depend on his brother for hand-outs.

He had very few respectable options open to him- Soonyoung could have taken up a profession, but a few short years at Oxford made it clear that the study of law or medicine ill suited him. His talents did not lie in poring over books for hours on end. He had quickly transferred to the Royal Naval Academy and begun his training to brave the high seas in service to the country.

Joining the Navy was less a conscious choice, and more a natural consequence of Soonyoung's talents and position in life. He had long since learned to make peace with it. Perhaps he would capture an infamous pirate and be knighted by the Queen.

One could dream.

Soonyoung weaved through the groups of fashionable nobility as he admired the magnificence of the Graham's London manor. It was exquisite. Every wall was covered in antique artwork and every marble column seemed to have been crafted painstakingly. This was perhaps the most magnificent building in all of London, second only to the royal palace itself. Soonyoung felt as though he was unworthy to even tread the white marble floors.

He was also suddenly struck with the fear that his drunken brother would break something priceless.

Soonyoung managed to reach the lavish spread of refreshments, and was selecting from the endless rows of colourful little cakes when a hand landed on his arm- much gentler than his brother's had been. He turned around and came face to face with Viscount Hong.

Handsome, gentlemanly and very rich, Soonyoung was often surprised that Viscount Hong even bothered to fraternise with him. Had they not shared some mutual friends back during their brief overlapping time at Oxford, it would surely have been absurd for the Viscount to even know Soonyoung's name.

But as circumstances had it, the Viscount was well known to Soonyoung. If he was being daring, he might have even called him a friend.

"Soonyoung! A word?" the Viscount asked.

Soonyoung nodded eagerly. "Of course! I have not seen you in a while, Viscount; congratulations on your wedding, I never got a chance to properly-"

"Yes, thank you," the Viscount replied kindly but in a tone that made it clear he was not looking to exchange pleasantries. "Soonyoung, I hope that in the time we have known each other we have developed a sort of mutual trust?"

Soonyoung blinked. "Yes?"

"I am going to ask you to do something that may seem rather odd, but I need you to trust me and know that I will explain in due course. Can you do that?" the Viscount asked.

Soonyoung did not hesitate.

"Of course. Anything."

"Excellent. I need you to ask the Duchess to dance with you for the first dance."

The request was so outrageous that it took a few moments for the full meaning of the words to sink in for Soonyoung. He stared blankly up at the Viscount for a few seconds before sputtering out his protests.

"The Duchess?" he repeated. "I-I do not even… I have never met her!"

"That is perfectly fine- I will make the necessary introductions," the Viscount replied smoothly as he began to walk away. Soonyoung was forced to abandon his carefully chosen pink and yellow cakes and follow the Viscount.

"Viscount Hong…"

"Hurry- the dancing will begin in only a few moments!"

Soonyoung had no choice but to follow the Viscount as he led him to the front of the room. Soonyoung knew of you, of course, there was nobody in the ton who had not heard of the elusive Duchess of Graham. But he had never even seen you in person and the idea of daring to ask a Duchess to dance…

"She will say no," Soonyoung realised quickly.

The Viscount shook his head. "She will not."

"How do you know-"

"Soonyoung. Take a deep breath. I would never knowingly put you in an embarrassing position," the Viscount promised.

Soonyoung relaxed a little.

"All right, I trust you…"

The two gentlemen arrived at the head of the ballroom and Soonyoung's eyes finally landed on the Duchess that he had heard so much about. His breath caught in his throat.

You were beautiful- in an almost regal, ethereal sort of way. Your exquisite lavender-coloured ball-gown shimmered in the bright lights and little diamond studs twinkled in your ears. But your beauty came from more than the clothes and jewellery you wore. Your beauty was in the way you carried yourself- in your graceful posture, in the way your soft lips curved in a practised smile and your gloves hands rested delicately in front of you while you nodded at the gentleman speaking to you.

"Soonyoung?" the Viscount asked, when he stopped walking. "Why have you stopped?"

"I-I can't…"

"Come, quickly."

Soonyoung felt as though he was in a dream. The Viscount seized his arm and pulled him along until the two gentlemen were standing immediately in front of you.

When you turned your gaze upon him, Soonyoung almost felt as though he should kneel before you, in deference to your superior presence.

"Viscount Hong!" you greeted him with a bright but restrained enthusiasm. Even your voice was melodic and gentle to Soonyoung's ears, like a songbird in spring. "I am very glad to see that you could make it this evening. Is the Viscountess not with you?"

Viscount Hong smiled back. "The Viscountess is just speaking to her brothers, Your Grace. She will greet you momentarily. In the meantime, I wanted to make an introduction."

"Oh?"

Your eyes landed on Soonyoung calmly, and he felt as though every part of his body had turned to ice. Your gaze was not condescending or even unkind, but there was something in your eyes that instantly shattered Soonyoung's vision of you as perfection incarnate.

Your lips smiled, but your eyes were sad.

"Your Grace, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Kwon Soonyoung. He is the second son of the Kwon family and a close personal friend of mine," the Viscount said.

Soonyoung would ordinarily have swelled with pride at being called the Viscount's close personal friend but he did not have the time for such luxuries. Remembering his manners, he clumsily reached for the gloved hand you offered him and brought it to his lips. The soft satin smelled faintly of lilacs.

"Your Grace," Soonyoung said nervously. "It-it is an honour…"

You smiled at him gently. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kwon."

Soonyoung looked up for a brief moment and caught the Viscount's eye; the older man was giving him a meaningful look with his big eyes. 'Ask her to dance' was clearly what the Viscount was trying to silently communicate.

Abandoning all instincts of self-preservation and placing his faith entirely on the word of Viscount Hong, Soonyoung looked at you with a forced smile.

"Your Grace- may I ask you to accompany me for the first dance?"

—-----------------------------------------------------

Perhaps it was for the best that Soonyoung had little-to-no warning that he was about to open the first and most-awaited event of the season by dancing with the Duchess of Graham, as it left him very little time to consider the serious societal implications of the situation he was in.

Soonyoung was no stranger to dancing. He loved it and would never refuse an opportunity to dance provided he could find a partner. It was, therefore, a relief when the opening waltz was one that was very familiar to him. His feet moved smoothly and naturally to the tune of the music and it allowed his mind the freedom to think of what to say to you.

"I hope you are having a pleasant evening," you said to him politely. Soonyoung was trying in vain to ignore the soft scent of lilacs coming from you (were there fresh flowers entwined in your hair? He was too flustered to look closely) and it took him a few moments to realise that he should compliment you, the hostess, on your ball.

"Yes!" Soonyoung said quickly. "Yes, the evening is wonderful, this far exceeds the usual events of the London season."

"In what way?" you wondered aloud.

"In what-sorry, in what way?" he repeated.

"In what way does it exceed the usual events?" you repeated patiently.

Soonyoung was stumped. There were real lilacs entwined in the strands of your hair and it was growing far more difficult to keep his thoughts in line. What should he say? The size of the ballroom? The orchestra? The lighting?

"You have a much wider selection of cakes," he said finally. The words had barely come out of his mouth before he instantly realised how stupid they sounded- but to his surprise, you were biting back a small smile. For a moment, he saw that strange lingering sadness disappear from your eyes.

"The cakes?" you repeated, amused.

It was too late. He could not extricate himself from this conversation now. Soonyoung had no choice but to double down on his admiration of the cakes.

"Yes," he continued. "It is quite standard for London balls to offer one or two choices of cake, but I had a chance to pass by the refreshment tables earlier and there were eight different cake selections available."

"I see," you replied. "I suppose that you like cake a great deal, Mr. Kwon?"

Soonyoung blinked. "Don't you?"

"I do like cake, but I will confess that it never occurred to me to use it as a measurement to assess the quality of a ball. I hope you will be kind enough to let me know which of the cakes you liked best? I am sure my kitchen staff would be pleased to learn that their spread had an impact on my guests."

You were not making fun of him. The Duchess of Graham was quite seriously discussing cakes with him at the season's opening ball.

Soonyoung felt light-headed.

"I thought the strawberry ones were quite refreshing," he choked out finally. "Strawberries are in season, of course, and the freshness of the flavouring ingredient makes a world of difference."

"Interesting," you said thoughtfully. "Yes; I suppose it is natural for one's cake preference to vary based on the freshness of the seasonal fruit. We grow strawberries back on the country estate this time of year and have them brought over to London so they are quite fresh. I think the weather is right for lemons as well. I am partial to a lemon cake."

"The lemon cakes are delightful," Soonyoung agreed eagerly. "I had a chance to try one earlier. But if I may offer a suggestion- I think a lemon cream might be a lighter and more refreshing option."

"Considering the warm weather?" you asked, interested. "I agree completely. Lemon cakes can be quite dense in the heat. We should have some lighter options as well. I will pass on your recommendation to my cook."

"I hope you will make it clear that the recommendation was not intended as a slight against the cake, which was quite excellent," Soonyoung said hastily.

You smiled. "Of course. I will convey the message."

"Thank you."

The waltz slowly drew to an end and Soonyoung was forced to release you, stepping away from you until he could no longer smell the lilacs in your hair.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Kwon," you told him in your gentle, song-like voice. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

"T-thank you, Your Grace."

You left and Soonyoung quickly stepped away from the dance floor towards the edge of the room. He was so intoxicated by the memory of your voice and smile and scent that he almost bumped head-first into Seokmin, who was waiting for him with a large smile.

"Did you just dance with the Duchess?" Seokmin demanded, in awe. "How did that come to happen?"

Soonyoung could only shrug. "I… I don't know."

"Unbelievable. What did you talk about? Her title? Did you offer your condolences for her father's death? Is it true that she is planning to marry soon and that the dukedom will pass through the female line?"

Soonyoung blinked. "What?"

"You didn't ask her about any of those things? What did you talk about?"

"Just…" Soonyoung cleared his throat, embarrassed to admit the actual subject of conversation. "We only made light conversation. About the weather and the like. Anyway, was there something you wished to discuss? About the Navy?"

Seokmin's smile fell. "Oh- yes, the Navy. When are you enlisting?"

"In two weeks."

"I am considering joining you," Seokmin admitted. His expression was somewhat glum. "I know things have been looking up for my family since my sister married the Viscount, but I can hardly live off my brother-in-law for the rest of my life."

Soonyoung blinked. "The Viscount would support you in a heartbeat. So would Jihoon."

"Yes- which only makes it all the more embarrassing to depend on their generosity," Seokmin replied with a sigh. He looked up at his friend and offered him his hand. "Shall we go explore the high seas together, Soonyoung?"

Soonyoung shook his hand with a smile.

"Let's capture some pirates."

"Aye, aye!"

—------------------------------------------------

Soonyoung had not forgotten to seek an explanation from the Viscount for his strange behaviour at the Duchess' ball, but the opportunity did not come immediately.

Viscount Hong's younger sister- Miss Hong- had been caught in a scandal the very evening of the ball and the Viscount was away making arrangements for her hushed wedding to Mr. Jeon Wonwoo. Soonyoung could hardly knock on the Viscount's door in those circumstances and demand to know why he had asked him to dance with the Duchess of Graham.

"You must tell us what the Duchess is like," Mr. Kim Mingyu pressed Soonyoung over a game of cards at the gentlemen's club. The handsome rake had a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he scanned his cards. "I've heard so many things about her."

"What have you heard?" Soonyoung asked curiously.

"The usual story of how she acquired her title, of course. The late Duke had no surviving male heirs. The dukedom would have died with him, but the Grahams have always been very intimate with the royal family. On his deathbed he sought a special decree from the Queen herself- to allow his title to pass through his only daughter."

Soonyoung nodded. He knew this story. The entire ton knew this story- it had been one of the most discussed topics of the past year.

"The first woman to be a Duchess by birth and not by marriage," Seokmin remarked as he set down a card. "Does that mean that whoever she marries becomes the Duke of Graham?"

Mingyu nodded. "Naturally so."

"Who would she marry? Surely a Prince? Or another Duke?" Soonyoung wondered. He still remembered that brief dance with you at the ball- you were the picture of beauty and perfection. He could not imagine you settling for anyone less.

"All the other Dukes are curmudgeonly old men," Mingyu said dismissively. "The Duchess is young and beautiful enough not to have to settle for any of them. Considering her ties to the royal family and that she is a close personal favourite of the Queen- yes, I'd say a Prince is far more likely."

Seokmin sighed. "That would be some celebration," he said wistfully before turning to Soonyoung. "Pity we won't be around to see it, eh, Soonyoung? We will have departed for the Navy by then."

Soonyoung hummed. The day of his planned enlistment drew nearer and the dread in his heart grew greater and greater as the reality of his future sunk in. He was not certain how Seokmin could remain optimistic and casual about their upcoming enlistment.

Mingyu winced as he put out his cigar. "Are you two really doing that? The Navy? Isn't there some other way to come into a fortune- preferably one that does not involve placing yourself in mortal peril?"

Soonyoung scoffed as he played his turn at cards. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Kim, sole heir to a Kim family fortune so large that you've gambled away thousands of pounds and somehow still kept your estate intact. Remind me how much you owe Mr. Yoon again?"

Seokmin chuckled. "There is an idea. Perhaps we can play Mr. Kim for his estate."

Mingyu chuckled and leaned back in his seat. "If it prevents you both from going to the Navy, I'm game."

"The Navy is the only option that really gives men of uncertain fortune like us a chance to earn enough to compete with family money," Soonyoung explained with a sigh. He had done his research- there was no other way. "If one can climb the ranks to obtain a command and sink some enemy ships, the spoils of war are often lucrative enough to justify the effort."

Mingyu was not impressed. "If you survive long enough."

"What would you suggest instead, wise one?"

Mingyu's eyes twinkled. "Haven't you two considered simply marrying into fortune? You're both handsome young gentlemen. I am sure you could find a damsel with a large enough dowry to support you."

"So you would have us become dowry hunters," Soonyoung replied.

"If you want to put it so crudely…"

"Your rakish behaviour is only passable among the ton because of your fortune, Mr. Kim. I am fairly certain that if Seokmin or I attempted to seduce young ladies of fortune as brazenly as you do, we would have been shot by their fathers or brothers," Soonyoung replied drily.

Seokmin chuckled. "I'd rather die at sea."

"I will drink to that."

Soonyoung allowed his friend to refill his glass with whisky and sipped it. It occurred to him how much he would miss these casual evenings in London- playing cards and having a drink with his friends as they bickered and joked without a care in the world.

But life could not be so easy. He had to prove himself in the world.

The entrance to the gentlemen's club opened and a lone figure walked in. It was Viscount Hong, looking more tired than Soonyoung had ever seen him. He nodded politely at the gathered gentlemen in greeting.

"Viscount Hong!" Seokmin greeted him cheerfully. "Join us for a game?"

The Viscount sighed. "I'm afraid I'm not up for any gambling tonight but I will have a drink," he said. One of the waiters came rushing over to pour him a fresh glass of whisky as the Viscount took one of the empty seats at their card table. "It has been a difficult week."

Mingyu nodded. "Have Mr. and Mrs. Jeon left for the countryside?"

The Viscount lifted his glass and emptied it into his mouth before responding. "Yes- I would say that it turned out alright in the end, but I am not sure anyone benefitted from this mess, really. Except perhaps Baron Wright."

Seokmin gestured for the waiter to refill the Viscount's glass. "Say the word and we can deal with the Baron- we'll call it a hunting accident."

The Viscount seemed mildly amused. "Thank you, Seokmin, but there's really no need to murder anyone on my behalf. I doubt the Viscountess would forgive me if you ended up in the gallows on my family’s account."

Seokmin shrugged. "I'm bound for the Navy in a few weeks."

The Viscount laughed. "You must be mad if you think your sister would ever allow that."

"It is not her decision."

The Viscount shook his head lightly. "Far be it from me to interfere with my wife and her siblings. But I am fairly certain that you will not be heading to the Navy as you imagine, Seokmin. Nor, for that matter, will Soonyoung."

Soonyoung, halfway through his third whisky and beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, looked up and blinked. "Sorry?"

The Viscount turned to face him with an apologetic smile. "I was going to explain why I pressed you to dance with the Duchess that evening, but I am afraid more urgent events distracted my attention. But first- am I correct in assuming that your enlistment in the Navy is only due to your need for a fortune and not due to an actual passion for the high seas?"

Soonyoung cleared his throat. The Viscount was very correct but it was an awkward thing to admit. "I mean, I was planning on capturing some pirates and building my own fortune."

Mingyu chuckled halfway through his attempt to light his second cigar. "Yes, Kwon Soonyoung, with his talent for the Viennese waltz and preference for lemon cream is the ideal man to defend our seas and capture pirates."

Viscount Hong ignored him. "And if there was an easier way for you to come into fortune?"

Soonyoung raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"By marriage."

"Don't bother, Viscount," Mingyu said lightly. "I have suggested it already, but these two gentlemen are determined not to present themselves as dowry hunters."

"What if the young lady of fortune approached you first?"

"And where do you plan to find a young lady of fortune mad enough to do that?" Mingyu joked.

Viscount Hong gave Mingyu a sharp look which silenced him and then set down his glass of whisky on the table. He turned in his chair to fully face Soonyoung. The look in his eyes was serious and for a moment, Soonyoung felt something akin to anxiety stir in his stomach.

"What is it, Viscount Hong?" Soonyoung asked nervously.

"The… Duchess of Graham has expressed an interest in marrying you, Soonyoung."

—------------------------------------------------

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #hoshi scenarios #hoshi x reader #soonyoung x reader #soonyoung scenarios #regency!au #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen imagines #hoshi fluff #soonyoung fluff

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ckret2 · 8 months ago

Note

What does bill usually eat and drink? And how often? Does he eat when the rest of the humans do?

First choice:

When there's a meal being served—such as Abuelita cooking dinner or Stan grilling burgers—Bill eats whatever everyone else eats. (Provided he got to see Abuelita cook—to ensure cyanide wasn't an ingredient in his serving.) This accounts for maybe 15% of his meals.

Second choice:

If he happens to be in the kitchen at the same time as someone else, he'll ask them to open the fridge/cabinets to let him get food for himself or, more rarely, ask them to prepare something he isn't allowed to prepare for himself. This means he'll often eat at the same time as them, because swooping into the kitchen while THEY'RE eating means he can get food too.

When he does have full kitchen access, he creates the most disgusting concoctions known to mankind.

Human brains are wired from infancy to find almost all tastes disgusting until they've had them enough to learn to appreciate them (i.e., accept they aren't poisonous)—why kids are generally pickier eaters than adults. The Axolotl trusts that Bill knows enough about human diets to know what is and isn't food—he does—so Bill didn't get given a baby palate. Instead, he's the opposite: he finds almost all tastes okay. Nothing really tastes bad to him.

So his measure for food that "tastes good" isn't QUALITY of taste, but QUANTITY of taste. Bland food is disgusting. The more and stronger flavors a food has, and the more different they are from each other, the more he likes it.

When making his own food he wants maximum flavor for minimum effort. This is why he has a tendency to take as many condiments as he can, no matter how poorly they go together—in fact, ESPECIALLY if they go poorly together—mix them into a slurry, and then drop in enough solid food to cover his body's minimum nutritional needs. (He would do the same thing with spices, but the spices are kept in a cabinet and it's just not worth the trouble to him to specifically ask for access.)

As of chapter 39, he's no longer willing to ask someone else to help prepare something for him, and won't ask Ford to so much as open the fridge for him. Full kitchen access used to account for about 35% of his meals, now it's more like 25%.

Third choice:

If no one's in the kitchen, he won't go looking for someone; he'd rather starve than plea for food from the people who took his food access away. Instead, he'll just eat whatever he can scrounge off the open shelving. That means no food that requires refrigeration, cooking, or microwaving; and no food that's canned, in glass jars, or needs scissors to open. In practice, this means a whole lot of junk food—chips, cookies, candy, jerky, cereal, soda. The most nutritious thing he has regular and easy access to is peanut butter. He has a lot of peanut butter sandwiches. He dislikes peanut butter sandwiches, but he understands nutrition better than most humans and knows chips and jerky can only carry him so far. Scrounging accounts for 60% of his meals.

Beyond all that:

He likes triangle-shaped foods because he is, in fact, that much of an egotistical dork. He will legitimately get angry about nachos with circular or rectangular tortilla chips.

And (with Mabel's encouragement) he's become a fan of dumping sprinkles on as many things as possible. You know how grocery stores sell a bunch of different mixes of sprinkles? Different styles & colors & textures & shapes? Mabel has brought a WIDE variety of sprinkles into the house, and is teaching Bill the fine art of mixing sprinkles artistically for maximum aesthetic value. He likes the fancy-looking gold/silver/white varieties.

He drinks too much—usually, but not exclusively, to get to sleep. This is a bad thing. If called on this, he gets defensive, suggests he needs it like a "medication" to numb the discomfort of fitting a triangular soul in a human body—like taking medicine to prevent a body from rejecting a donor organ—and that the humans wouldn't understand it so they have no room to criticize. This is a VERY bad thing. I'd say he's speedrunning alcoholism, except he's continuing a pattern of substance abuse he had as a triangle, so tbh he was already there.

#anonymous #ask #bill goldilocks cipher

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shu-porang-porang · 1 year ago

Text

How are you even real?

Some fluff to warm your heart.

Pairs: Lee Minho (Lee Know) / fem!reader

Rating: Explicit

Theme: Fluff, Smut, 18+ NO MINORS.

Warnings: oral (male receiving)

Word count: 1.8 k

He couldn’t help it. You looked like an anime girl and he’d been watching them for as long as he could remember. Anime girls meant sweet goofy innocence to him, they reminded him of home, of when he was a kid and would watch Studio Ghibli’s works for hours on end. Those girls were smart, caring, sweet, brave, self-sufficient, and usually reserved but had a hidden wild side that wouldn’t show to anyone but their beloved soulmates.

He knew just like the girls in those animes, you didn’t need him to survive, but that didn’t mean you’d withhold giving him every ounce of love you had and this fact melted his heart. you weren’t the first anime-looking girl he’d encountered, but none of the previous ones would go beyond the looks. You were the first who held up to the aesthetics of their characters too. He is in disbelief about it! Time and time again, he asks abruptly while showering you with affection “How are you even real?”. Each time, you chuckle and can’t help but kiss him.

He loves every second spent with you, no matter what you’re doing. He loves your silence as much as he loves your excited chatter about whatever happened at work. He loves your baby-talk with his cats. He loves how you sneak up on him while he’s cooking to give him a back hug and distract him from his task by your affectionate kisses on his neck and shoulder. He loves the walks you take late at night, with your fingers intertwined, he loves kissing the back of your hand when his emotions get too strong and he needs to let some out or he’ll explode. He loves how you fall asleep the fastest when your head is buried in his chest, he knows it brings you a comfort you’ve never experienced before and he’s proud of providing that comfort for you. He loves waking up to your kisses, you don’t wanna startle him in his sleep so you start with the gentlest pecks to slowly awaken his mind, when he starts moving around a bit you know you’re halfway there and you move from planting kisses on his hands to his face. That’s when a lazy smile forms on his lips followed by a “Morning princess” in a deep voice.

Because of you, he is now living life more presently. He used to go through most of his days without actually paying attention to what he was doing. Dance practices, performances, plane rides, interviews, all of them would sometimes blend into each other, he jumped from one gig to another, going with the motions. His off days that he’d stayed at home weren’t much memorable either. He would do things just to have done them. Of course, he had his moments of mindfulness too, but they were as rare as they come.

Now though, everything looks more vivid and feels more real, and at the same time, he’s constantly questioning if it’s just a dream. He loves every little thing you do. He looks at you with such adoration as if you’re the only thing that exists in this world. His members warned him about getting a girlfriend, they were worried it’d end up in a horrible heartbreak. He is a pro-idol after all, couldn’t risk having that title taken away from him. But now, he’s even doing better at his job and you are the reason. He wants to make you proud; he wants to prove worthy of having you. He wants to be his best because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he’s afraid of losing you to someone better even though that’s impossible.

You practically worship him. No word leaves your mouth unless it’s a word of encouragement or adoration. Head to toe, he’s perfect to you. He could do no wrong. You love how he treats you so gently as if you’re made of glass. Even his voice is so gentle with you. You love everything he does.

You love how he flashes you a tired smile as you greet him when he comes home after a long day of practice. You love your quiet nights together, curled up against his steadily rising and falling chest while watching whatever’s on. The point is to soak up as much of him as you can, so you don’t even care what’s playing on the TV.

All your senses are engulfed by his presence. You don’t hear anything but his breaths and occasional airy chuckles. You don’t see anything but his veiny hands around you. You don’t smell anything but his cologne mixed with his scent. You don’t feel anything but his warmth. And you’re craving for his lips so bad that you finally give up and decide to interrupt his TV-watching and give him the sweetest peck on the lips. You don’t expect him to reciprocate as he seems to be fully following whatever’s going on in the show, but he does. He kisses back with so much passion that it catches you off guard and you let out a shaky moan.

When you see his enthusiasm, you get bolder too. You run your tongue on his bottom lip, savoring the taste and softness. He takes the opportunity to enter his tongue into your mouth. Wet muscles lapping at each other, fighting for dominance. He sucks on your tongue and draws out another delicious moan from you. You lost the battle. He leans you back on the couch, as his mouth travels down from your lips to your chin and then your neck.

You’re pliant under his touch. He leaves red angry marks across your neck and collarbone, his teeth grazing the tender skin here and there, then soothing the sting with kitten licks. You’re still hungry for his lips, so you guide his head back up with your hand in his hair. He looks you in the eyes, and his gorgeous shiny eyes change your mind. You don’t wanna just kiss his lips anymore, you wanna kiss his entire existence.

You reach up to kiss the corner of his eye, he knows this is cue for “I’m about to kiss every inch of your face!”. With a swift motion, he changes your position. Now you’re on top of him. You cup his cheeks and kiss his forehead. He closes his eyes and takes the love in. “I love you so much Min, you know it, right?” He hums in response, his lips curling up to a little smile.

You list every part you love about him while kissing it “I love your pretty eyes… your handsome nose… your soft cheeks… your perfect hairline… your delicious lips…” you linger there longer as he won’t let you go continue with your list, his lips latching onto yours as if his life depends on it. Finally, you move on to his earlobe, taking it between your teeth and slightly pulling. “I love you Min” you say in a voice slightly above a whisper. You kiss under his ear and you can hear his breath losing its steady rhythm so you keep messing with that sensitive spot. You wish you could mark him just like he did to you but you can’t have him exposed so you gather all the control in you to settle with gentle kisses.

His hands are aimlessly roaming in your hair and on your back. He manages to sneak a hand up your sweatshirt. You get the hint and take it off. The air’s a bit chilly but who are you to refuse Minho’s need for more skinship? And you’re not wearing a bra, coz why would do? You never wear bras when you’re home! So his hand quickly finds its way to grope your exposed breast.

You yank at the hem of his shirt and he pulls it off, revealing more of his skin for you to kiss. You’re both getting impatient by the second and need more friction. You feel his bulge poking you through the fabrics and his hips involuntarily buck up.

You palm him over his sweatpants as you watch his face turn red. “Jagiya… please…” He’s usually not the one to beg for release but you put a spell on him with your touches and kisses, he’s not afraid of being vulnerable around you. You decide to have mercy on him and release his throbbing member from its confinement. He lifts his hip so you can slide his pants and boxers down.

He’s watching you as you travel down his navel ever so slowly, a kiss here, a lick there. You wanna take your time worshiping him. You feel him shaking beneath you, it amuses you how easily he turns to mush under your touch. So you keep on with the playfulness, ignoring his aching member and latching your lips to the soft skin of his inner thigh. You take your time leaving love marks all over his thighs. His thighs… they make you go crazy; you can hardly control yourself.

His impatient hips remind you of your previous pursuit. His fingers tangled in your hair, but he doesn’t guide your head to his cock, he lets you have full control even though in an instant he could shift the dynamic and get what he needs without all the nonstop foreplay.

You finally stop messing around, bring your lips to his tip and kiss the precum off of it. You run your tongue under the slit and he throws his head back with a guttural groan. His hold on your hair tightens as you slowly take him in, tracing the protruding veins with the tip of your tongue. You look at his face through your lashes, the tears welling up in your eyes make your vision blurry but you can still appreciate the fucked-out expression on his face, eyes closed, lips parted, the blush has now spread to his neck and chest.

You speed up the bobbing of your head, the tip hits the back of your throat but the discomfort doesn’t stop you, one hand stroking the base that you can’t fit in your mouth, and the other roaming on his abs. “I’m close…” he warns you and you salivate with the thought of swallowing his release. You suck on the tip as your hand strokes the length. He ruts into your mouth and with one final suck, he generously feeds you with his juices. You keep stroking him as he comes down from his high. You’re a mess, with swollen red lips and cum and saliva running down the corner of your mouth. You crawl up to give him a taste of himself. He eagerly licks your mouth clean. His arms around you, holding you secure beside him on the couch as he kisses your swollen lips. “Thank you, baby… what have I ever done to deserve you?” you chuckle and kiss him back.

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agentrouka-blog · 13 days ago

Note

In one of your posts you talk about how wall imagery is used to describe Sansa’s boundaries (her “wall of courtesy” which deflects Tyrion, an unwanted lover foisted upon her by her situation as a captive in KL). The post also mentioned how Ygritte cried after scaling the wall from fear (the wall again deflecting an unwanted lover foisted upon Jon as a captive of the FF) . So clearly there’s some associations being made between those two and wall imagery. It got me thinking, isn’t there a moment in the books where Jon thinks that Sansa’s eyes would tear up at the sight of the wall in wonder, contrasting Ygritte’s reaction? 👀

(my wall of ice tag) (I'm not sure which post you specifically refer to, so I just linked to the tag.)

That quote by Jon is actually not referring to the Wall, but happens quite a bit beyond the Wall near Craster's Keep, where the landscape has been transformed overnight as the rain-soaked surroundings have frozen.

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice. So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all. (ACOK, Jon III)

While the quote doesn't create a direct contrast between Sansa and Ygritte, it creates a beautiful comparison between Sansa and Jon. One sees "magic", and the other would see "an enchantment". It's GRRM showing us how their aesthetic and romantic sensibilities match pretty well and that Jon actually knows and appreciates this about Sansa. Consider his utterly poetic language here. And we know that Jon is correct in his assessment of Sansa, because we see her respond in this way to other scenes of natural beauty, during the cloud castle scenes and the snowy garden in the Eyrie where she will proceed to build her snow castle. Both of which happen in the dawn light, as well.

Furthermore, the scene is a direct answer to a moment in the previous book:

The little man gestured up at the Wall with a gnarled black walking stick. "As I was saying … why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?" He cocked his head and looked at Jon with his curious mismatched eyes. "You do want to know what's on the other side, don't you?" "It's nothing special," Jon said. He wanted to ride with Benjen Stark on his rangings, deep into the mysteries of the haunted forest, wanted to fight Mance Rayder's wildlings and ward the realm against the Others, but it was better not to speak of the things you wanted. "The rangers say it's just woods and mountains and frozen lakes, with lots of snow and ice." (AGOT, Jon III)

Ironically, this conversation is between Jon and the man who will be Sansa's forced husband and contemplate what's on the other side of her wall of icy politeness.

Tyrion never makes it past the ice wall, either one. Jon discovers magic there, that reminds him of Sansa.

#jonsa #wall of ice #parallels

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inuhalfdemon · 7 months ago

Text

No One Can Know...(8/?)

Word Count: 4,299 Words

Rating: Explicit (SMUT)

Chapter 8

"I'm on the very top floor, room 1334

There's a king size bed but we can do it on the floor

Turn your cellphone off, leave a sign on the door

That says 'Do not disturb'."

- Halestorm

Lucifer stepped out from the portal; the swirling golden ring closing behind with a soft pop.

Materializing into Alastor’s room within the Hazbin Hotel, Lucifer found the demon – hands clasped behind his back – nodding to his shadow. The shadow flitted to a nearby wall, silhouetting itself sharply to give Lucifer a large gaping and toothy grin before skidding off underneath the door and out of sight.

“Where is he headed off to?” Lucifer asked, walking to where Alastor stood waiting. He saw that Alastor’s typical delicate rack of little antlers was branched into several largely curved and jutting points – a pristine buck, if there ever was one.

“To keep watch, guarding the hotel.” Alastor told him.

“I assume you’ve taken…protective measures?” Lucifer asked, glancing back at the door.

“Yes, of course. All proper warding has been done. I’ve also taken the initiative of suggesting to Charlie that a trip to the cinema may be beneficial to everyone’s frayed nerves. The hotel is essentially ours, for the evening.”

Alastor turned; going to the small dining table that he had placed and set for them just beyond the room and within his own personal bayou.

Lucifer briefly noted that Alastor was without his suit jacket and staff – wearing just his long-sleeved red shirt adorned with the black cross and dress pants instead. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his tail poked out from behind. Lucifer saw that it was in its normal small and delicate state, but that there also was a very subtle ridge of standing hairs that ran up the fluffy midline – tip to base.

Looking around; Lucifer took in Alastor’s rather….odd, aesthetic. He had anticipated Alastor’s quarters to be very much like any Overlord’s manner of living: something reflecting a visual demonstration to their status and power. Lucifer didn’t make the connection of: soft jazz playing from a radio, the various skeletons and bones of animals, the style of furniture or the general ambiance that he was appreciating, being something directly from what one might have found in early 1900s New Orleans. Not right away, anyway.

“So…what’s the plans for this evening, anyway? We doing doggy-style? Prone boning? 69? What?” Lucifer followed him in.

“Actually, I thought I might treat you to dinner and wine tonight.” Alastor told him, ignoring his lewdness.

“You, uh…what?” Lucifer asked, caught off guard. “Whoa, wait. Is that a pocket dimension?” Fully noticing the bayou now. “These take an incredible amount of power and an incredible amount of skill to manifest…how did you do it?” He poked his head past the seam between realms; assessing the depth of the dimension on both sides – it seemed infinite in both directions, seamless and well placed.

“Why, of course, I did it by: using an incredible amount of power and an incredible amount of skill.” Alastor answered him; taking a seat at the table.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Must I reveal all of my secrets to you, your grace?” Alastor asked him. “Now, please join me.”

Lucifer came to the table. Alastor had their meal served and ready for them; a bottle of wine chilling in some ice.

“Oh, crumpets.” Lucifer blurted. “I nearly forgot.” Doing an exaggerated whirl of the hand; he produced a large bottle into his hand. “I’ve had a case of this in my possession for quite some time. I have never tried it myself; but knowing you have a taste for Cajun...” Lucifer offered it to Alastor. “I’m told it is rather rare.”

Alastor took the bottle and his eyebrows shot up. “Rare, indeed. I’d have had trouble finding this even while I was alive.”

Snapping his fingers; Alastor sent the wine and ice away, producing two whiskery glasses in its place. “This will pair much better with our meal tonight. A Sazerac rye always goes nicely with a good Jambalaya.”

Lucifer sat down. “The very same Jambalaya that Charlie has gone on and on about?”

“Yes. My mother’s recipe, bless her soul.” Alastor opened the Sazerac, pouring them each three fingers worth into the glasses. “It does…have a bit of a kick to it.”

Lucifer took his glass; offering a small toast to Alastor before taking a sip. “Well, I should hope so.”

Alastor gestured to their plates; nodding his head – a clear indication that they should dig in. Lucifer nearly dropped his fork after the first bite; the explosion of flavor across his tongue was…indescribable.

“Well, if that look doesn’t stroke my ego.” Alastor chuckled into his glass, sipping at his Sazerac.

“It’s…it’s…” Lucifer was having trouble forming thoughts.

Alastor laughed. “I believe I’ve rendered my King speechless. There is no higher compliment to be given to a chef, truly.” He smirked, lifting his own fork to his lips.

“You may call me, ‘Lucifer’, Al. Or even ‘Luci’.” Lucifer told him. “However…I do dislike the name ‘Luc’…”

“A most unpleasant name, to be sure.” Alastor allowed him. “So, tell me…Lucifer…how are things? You seem less rested since I last saw you.” It was days ago that Alastor had departed the King’s residence. Seven weeks before the next extermination, three weeks before Charlie’s arranged and upcoming meeting with Heaven.

Lucifer shrugged, finishing a bite of the food. “I don’t sleep well. I never have but, with Lilith gone…I hardly get any sleep at all.”

“What…methods have you utilized?” Alastor asked him.

“Everything.” Lucifer sighed. “Honestly…the one thing that always helped was Lili’s songs. You know that she sung? What it did?”

“Doesn’t everyone in Hell know that?” Alastor asked him. “Even if they haven’t had the pleasure of hearing it?”

“I’d like to think so.” Lucifer admitted.

“You know, I always found our Queen’s talents very inspirational. I am sorry that we have had to go so long without such moving music.”

“Me too.” Lucifer said softly, staring at his whiskey glass.

“How is Charlie feeling about the upcoming meeting with Heaven?” Alastor asked him.

“You would know better than I.” Lucifer told him. “I don’t…I don’t really hear from her.”

“Oh?” Alastor knew that to be the case before…but he found it rather odd that Lucifer and Charlie were not currently talking now. “Have you reached out to her?”

“I…can’t. Not properly, anyway.” Lucifer took a large swallow from his glass. “I can’t discuss anything regarding her plans involving the hotel. It makes conversations that we have seem very…one-sided. Understandably, she becomes frustrated and I’m sure she thinks that I’m being distant or that I just become bored with what she really wants to discuss with me. I’ve tried. I really have but I end up floundering for the words and it all becomes awkward and misunderstood.”

“Why is that exactly?” Alastor asked him. “My deal with you shouldn’t have given you that much grief. The stipulation that I required was that you don’t interfere with my work here. Surely you should be able to carry out a conversation with your daughter.”

“It’s not our deal that causes it.” Lucifer told him. “It’s the deal I made with Lilith.”

“Come again?”

“Lilith essentially invoked a…similar…stipulation. I’m sworn to secrecy – the exception, of course, being you – I can’t interfere with any matters that could detriment Lilith’s plans. That’s why I sent Charlie to the meeting with Adam and it’s why I cannot discuss the hotel or any of Charlie’s plans relating to it specifically. She also required that I do not…interfere…in things.”

“Damn….ok.”

“The last thing I said to Charlie…the last conversation that we had in regard to the hotel, this dream she has, the redemption of sinners…all before I agreed to stand by Lilith; it wasn’t good. I said things to her that I didn’t really mean, tried to steer her away from Heaven’s gaze. Lilith assured me that Charlie is ready for this, that this is the time for her to come into her own – become the Princess of Hell that she was always meant to be… I trust Lilith, I really do but I…I just wish that I could tell Charlie that what I said…it wasn’t true.”

“Yes, well…” Alastor swirled his glass; having very nearly cleared his plate. “You’ve shown your support to her cause now, regardless. At least, as much as you are able. I’m sure Charlie recognizes the value in that.”

“But, I should have been there for her since day one.” Lucifer tells him, narrowing his gaze on Alastor.

“Perhaps.” Alastor merely shrugged, ignoring the venom in Lucifer’s look. “But, how much would it have changed anyway? We’re here now. Charlie is fulfilling her dream; she has the hotel, she has sinners – however few – willing to give this whole redemption idea of hers a shot, she has the meeting with heaven, she has you and Lilith both fighting together for her cause – what more could possibly be done?”

Lucifer had no answer to this, not at present.

“Would it…help,” Alastor set his glass down now, looking directly at Lucifer. “If I were to…suggest to Charlie that she reach out to you? Not to discuss the hotel, the meeting with Heaven or anything of that like but…maybe, to discuss how to carry oneself in the face of intimidation, turmoil, and….upheaval? The girl lacks something in her use of confidence, particularly in establishing some level of authority. Her meeting with Adam did not lend her many favors.”

“I appreciate the suggestion but I’m hardly the one she should turn to. She gets that from me.”

“Lucifer…if I may be so bold: You are the King of Hell. You are the very embodiment of Pride. This wallowing, this…self-loathing is unbecoming to one who should invoke nothing but fear to those who dare to so much as utter your name. What’s more, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Ok…you really want to talk about Pride?” Lucifer leveled his gaze on Alastor. “Tell me, have you managed to cycle out of your rut yet?”

Alastor tilted his head back, tweaking one ear. “You know very well that I haven’t.” He gestured to his intricate crown of antlers. “What the hell does that have to do w –?“

“You never called on me. After leaving. You’re still in rut; we have an agreement in place for such things.”

“It is easily managed now.” Alastor lifted his glass to his lips.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how pleasant you’ve been tonight, how…relaxed. You see, I find that very interesting. When it was you who told me yourself that avoidance would not be the solution to your…problem.”

Alastor’s ears pulled back.

“So, your plan now is what….to just wait things out? I mean, I’d love to keep playing this little game of ‘fuck buddies’ with you forever, but -”

“Don’t call it that…” Alastor hissed, bristling.

“You are so set upon holding onto this illusion of control that you have created for yourself that you’ve made yourself become incredibly short-sighted.”

“Please….do enlighten me.” Alastor’s eyes glowed softly red.

“Gladly.” Lucifer stood up; leaning over the table now. “You are denying your body and yourself something that is a biological need; something that you – in fact – require…just for the simple fact that…you’d rather not!?”

“I told you…sex holds no interest to me.”

“When you’re not in rut.” Lucifer emphasized. “That’s been established. I can’t say that I’ll be here in the next seven years when you decide to stop playing at abstinence.”

“I never said-“

“You didn’t have to! I already knew!” Lucifer’s voice was rising. “You knew I’m much more experienced than you and you knew that I was familiar with Cervidae demons – was it really so hard to assume that I might know that a rut happens far more frequently than what you were leading me to believe!?”

“The point, you are trying so hard to convey to me is…?” Alastor asked him, clearly not pleased.

“You think that by denying yourself something this important, putting yourself through this much grief and discomfort; it gives you control.”

Alastor waited; offering no comments.

“But, it makes you weak.”

Alastor tilted his head; eyes glinting. “You want to say that again?” Alastor stood up from the table himself now; glaring down at Lucifer.

“Prove me wrong.” Lucifer challenged him. “Void our deal.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You’ve got fucking big ears, you heard me.” Lucifer told him, standing up and walking around the table now. “Void our deal. If you don’t need me anymore, why waste my time? You have so much control over the situation; I’m sure you’ll have no problems in fulfilling your end of things with Lilith so that she can give you whatever the fuck it is you are wanting from all of this.”

Lucifer stopped and Alastor turned to face him.

“I’ll even agree to your…stipulation.” Lucifer said, holding out his hand. “No interference from me…whatsoever.”

Alastor hesitated; considering the offer that was being made to him.

“You really want to know what control….true power…is, Alastor?” Lucifer asked him; looking up at him with a steady gaze. “It’s knowing your limits.”

Alastor smirked, looking skeptical.

“I’m being deadly serious about that.” Lucifer told him. “If you know your limits…you know to make the accommodations – to do the things that are required to ensure your success. Be clever. Be calculative. Do what’s required to see this rut finished and be done with it, Al, or…let it consume you.”

Lucifer was still holding out his hand; eyes on Alastor.

Alastor’s eyes were on Lucifer’s hand and then his gaze shifted to the King’s.

“Your choice.” Lucifer told him, waiting.

“I….decline.” Alastor told him; eyes shifting sideways. His ears leant back.

There was a moment between them; neither of them saying anything…then:

“You know…” Lucifer was taking a risk here, knowing that Alastor’s pride may have sustained too much damage tonight already. “It was very clever of you…” Lucifer pressed in, bringing himself very close to Alastor now, but not quite touching him. “…to use some lovely bit of forethought in ensuring that you and I would be left all alone tonight.”

Alastor’s head tilted, ears standing straight. Lucifer couldn’t see it, but his tail had started moving; quickly swishing back and forth in a betraying wag.

“It makes one wonder…” Lucifer pressed in even closer now and Alastor felt a light heat flooding into his face. Alastor leant back slightly, feeling the edge of the dining table pressing into his lower back.. “…if it was only dinner you were planning, why bother? Perhaps, you wanted to leave our evening together open to more…possibilities?”

Alastor swallowed.

Gotcha…thought Lucifer.

A tense moment passed. Lucifer was waiting for Alastor to offer up his response.

Then, “I won’t ask you to touch me, if that’s what you are waiting for…and I don’t do begging.” Alastor told him.

“No one ever said that you must – at least – not with me.” Lucifer told him. “There are other ways that for you to tell me exactly what you want, Alastor. For example…”

Lucifer stepped into Alastor now; their bodies making contact with each other’s. Placing a hand on Alastor’s lower abdomen, he slid it low so that just the tips of his fingers were pressed beneath the waistband to Alastor’s dress pants.

Alastor gasped, his body tensing – in a rather lovely way. His face properly reddened at the touch.

“You see, I’m a master of many languages, my friend.” Lucifer was telling him. “One of which being…” Lucifer slid his hand lower and Alastor leant himself further back at the feeling of his arousal. “…the oh-so-honest tongue of body language…”

Lucifer found Alastor’s member; brushing it with just the tips of his fingers. The appendage was twitching…moving….lifting …

“You always have the option of telling me ‘no’...or that this is not what you want…” Lucifer continued; feeling Alastor shudder against him. “Or, you may command me. Imagine that…the actual King of Hell…fully and completely at your disposal – ready to fulfill whatever dark and twisted fantasy you could ever…envisage.”

Lucifer’s fingers wrapped around Alastor’s twitching penis; taking him fully within hand. Alastor bent back further; his pelvis tilting forward.

“You’re looking at me with such a lovely expression, Alastor…” Lucifer leaned into him; head tilting so that he was starring up at the sinner with glinting eyes.

Lucifer gripped Alastor. Using his free hand; he slid the waistband down and pulled Alastor out. His fingers kneading and stroking into the firming muscle.

Alastor’s lower jaw popped open and his breathing hitched; his face growing redder…

“Tell me to stop…” Lucifer breathed; resting his head against Alastor’s chest and looking up at him.

“Ahhhhhh….” Alastor pelvis jerked; he groaned and Lucifer began slowly pumping.

“Tell me that this is not what you want…” Lucifer hissed; smiling now.

Alastor’s ears fell back, his antlers stretched themselves high overhead. He was gripping the edge to the dining table with such force, he thought that he might actually break it.

Thrusting; he threw back his head – gasping…panting.

Lucifer’s grip tightened; feeling Alastor’s climb about to end. One final thrust and Alastor’s seed was in his hand.

Shivers of pleasure jolting through him; Alastor slumped against the table; he had left gouges in the surface of it where his claws had been. He was breathing heavily; watching Lucifer as the angel stepped away – looking at Alastor with a dark gaze - licking the cum from between his fingers.

With a growl, Alastor pushed himself off from the table – going for Lucifer.

Lucifer tilted his head up and Alastor embraced him; his mouth pressing hard against his as cool shadows fully engulfed them.

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Alastor had moved them to the bedroom. Skillfully; he had landed them into the bed…Lucifer pressed beneath him – facing him - into the mattress. He had also done them the honors of disrobing them both.

Well, Al…who knew you could be such a smooth operator…Lucifer thought, as they kissed with uncharacteristic fervor.

Alastor slid his tongue between parted lips and Lucifer groaned at the suggestive movements it made inside his mouth. When it retreated; Lucifer bit down sharply on Alastor’s lower lip – pulling it.

Alastor pulled his face back. Eyes sharpening into a bright red and glowing predatory gaze, he snarled loudly. His body went rigid; ears perfectly straight with standing hair.

But, just as quickly – the ferality was gone.

The glowing crazed look left Alastor’s eyes and his ears dropped. Alastor shifted; going to pull himself away.

“Alastor, it’s fine.” Lucifer gripped him by the arms; keeping him there.

Alastor made to pull himself away from the King’s hold but found that he couldn’t…

“Really, Al….it’s ok.” Lucifer told him; looking at him. “Do you need to shift form? We could go somewhere else…”

“No, I…” Alastor wasn’t looking at him. “I should be more manageable but, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be….myself.”

Lucifer let go of him then, releasing his arms. He took Alastor’s face between both hands; forcing the demon’s eyes to meet his.

“Whatever you need…I’m here.” His thumb stroked Alastor’s cheek and the sinner melted into his hands – into the touch.

Sighing; Alastor let the tension leave his body – a ripple running up his spine.

Lucifer shifted with him; his long black devil’s tail and horns coming out to play.

Alastor’s change wasn’t dramatic; his antlers were heavier; his teeth were sharper and he was both larger and lankier than what would be considered normal for him…but, he certainly was no eldritch demon this time.

Alastor’s long limbs set him over Lucifer; his frame leaning and wavering over the angel lying beneath him. His face was all teeth as he bore down on Lucifer; a gaping and twisted grin.

Lucifer laughed; sliding to sit himself up so that he might get a better look at this new deer demon form of Alastor’s.

“Well, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you big boy?” Lucifer told him appreciatively and he saw that Alastor’s tail was quickly flicking back and forth at this. “Just look at those teeth.” Lucifer stuck both thumbs into the corners of Alastor’s mouth; the demon dropped his jaw, exposing his rows of incredibly sharp fangs.

“I suppose you’ll want to use those on me…” Lucifer said softly, his devil’s tail lifting; snaking itself up and across Alastor’s chest.

Alastor’s eyes gleamed, drool seeping from between teeth.

“I might just let you too…after some fun.” Lucifer’s eyes glowed a soft yellow. “Can’t have that cute little lightweight ass of yours ruining our good time, can we?”

Alastor huffed, flicking his head and dislodging Lucifer’s thumbs from his mouth.

Lucifer leant himself back; eyes on Alastor.

“So…what are you going to do to me?”

Placing a large clawed hand across the angel’s chest, Alastor pressed down – pushing him firmly into the mattress. Lucifer smirked at Alastor’s claws – digging into his skin – not quite piercing through the flesh.

Holding him there; Alastor leant in – long tongue lolling from his mouth.

Glowing red eyes on Lucifer; he pressed his smiling face with sharpened teeth close and began to lick him – his tongue taking long and steady strokes all across his chest and abdomen – tasting the angel. In between strokes; Alastor was huffing – moving puffs of warm air across heated and wet skin – causing a very carnal and pleasant sort of sensation. Alastor’s musk drifted off of him; filling the room with his amorous odor.

Lucifer’s face reddened at this; tension building and sending him arching backward.

Fuck…

Alastor’s huffing and licking continued – his face pressing into Lucifer’s neck and nuzzling him. Prickles of pleasure ran through Lucifer; he was fully erect now and he could see that Alastor had plainly recovered himself as well.

Lucifer groaned; lifting a hand to find the base to one of Alastor’s antlers. Alastor was licking, huffing, nuzzling and sucking at the base of his neck now. Lucifer felt an incredibly building heat…his face and chest flushing in a brilliant red.

“What-what are you doing to me?” He arched further backward and Alastor’s low growl was one of approval.

Alastor’s musk was driving him crazy. Lucifer’s heart was slamming in his chest; his eyes were so dilated that his vision was blurring – he felt like his blood was absolutely boiling and rushing all throughout his body.

“Mmphg…” Lucifer squirmed; pleasure overpowering his senses.

This….this is….

He was losing his train of thought.

Alastor was moving; his clawed hand lifting from Lucifer’s chest. He was lifting and turning Lucifer’s hips; trying to coax him to turn over.

Lucifer obliged and Alastor’s clawed hands carefully guided him into the desired position. Face down, ass up – Lucifer felt confident in knowing where this was headed. Alastor grasped Lucifer’s long, black tail – pulling it softly outward; the flesh of it sliding through his fingers, and then he lifted it upward so that it was limply raised. Lucifer – thoroughly flushed now – pressed his reddened face into the covers of the bed – winding his tail through the branches of Alastor’s antlers.

Doing something unexpected - to Lucifer - Alastor leaned in. Lucifer’s tail stiffened in surprise as Alastor’s face pressed close to his entrance, warm air puffing against him as Alastor continued his huffing breaths. Before Lucifer could fully register the implication of this; Alastor’s tongue – long and twisting - entered him. Lucifer’s back bent at a sharp angle and he garbled out some incoherent noise of surprise and pleasure at feeling Alastor’s gift of sliding and wet warmth moving through him.

Oh, this isn’t just fun we’re having…Lucifer was thinking. This…this is good.

Alastor gave him another growl of approval; the vibrations of it sending ripples of stimulation through and against Lucifer’s heat. Lucifer choked out a gasp; feeling Alastor’s wriggling tongue touching and pressing against sensitive tissue; his claws dug into the bedcovers, and he began to moan with a neediness he couldn’t have guessed that he was capable of. Alastor’s face was pressed tightly to him; growling and grunting as he continued on, performing his dirty work.

Alastor’s musk had become sharper; more concentrated and Lucifer felt incredibly but wonderfully dizzy from the effects it had on him. Pressed how he was, in this position – he could feel his own member – erect and throbbing; absolutely seeping against his own abdomen and threatening to release.

Pulling his tongue back; Alastor was ready to mount.

He shifted position. Clawed fingers dragging softly across Lucifer’s tail; he gently moved it aside. Lucifer coiled it firmly around Alastor’s thigh; bracing himself to be penetrated. But, when Alastor slid himself in – it was done with such sweet and gentle slowness that Lucifer felt nothing, but a milk-and-honey type of pleasure consume him.

Alastor moved slowly….purposefully; clawed hands steadying Lucifer’s hips as he bent himself forward. Taking his hands away from the angel’s waist; Alastor laid himself fully over Lucifer’s frame; his hands finding the bed so that his arms could give him a better leverage in his thrusts and support his weight to give them room.

Lucifer anticipated Alastor’s movements to become rougher….faster but, they didn’t. Instead, Alastor moved inside Lucifer with slow and even strokes; his long and curved penis entering and pressing into him in just the perfect way.

Lost in pleasure…Lucifer felt Alastor’s growls turn into purring grunts as the deer demon worked at nuzzling and nipping at Lucifer’s back and his shoulders, crooning to him his immense gratification.

He’s not just fucking me…he’s….breeding me. Like I’m his little doe…

There was a sharp jut to Alastor’s movement and Lucifer felt him strike gold. Lucifer cried out at the flood of sensual pleasure and Alastor jutted himself into him again. Lucifer was the first to be pushed over the edge; his cum spraying onto himself and into the sheets. Feeling Lucifer growing limp beneath him; Alastor bent himself further forward; thrusting two more times before releasing his own load fully into the King.

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If anyone catches my little reference that I made here to my previous fanfic : "Dirty Dealings": You deserve the gold-est of stars!!!

Chapter 9

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