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dreamescapeswriting · 5 months

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Stray Kids Reaction || You're Not Financially Stable [Mafia Edition]

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - April 2024

⤜MASTERLIST

CHAN:

Chan was starting to get increasingly worried about you. You had been evading him for weeks, your once warm embraces replaced by cold distance. Suspicion clawed at his mind, whispering tales of betrayal and deceit. Unable to ignore the gnawing doubt any longer, Chan set out to confront you at your apartment. As he approached your door, his heart hammered against his chest, each step a testament to the turmoil within him.

Knocking gently, Chan waited with bated breath, the tension thick in the air. When no answer came, he pushed open the door, his eyes scanning the barren room.

"Yn?" he called out, his voice echoing against the empty walls.

Silence greeted him, the absence of her presence a heavy weight upon his shoulders. But then, amidst the desolation, a glimmer of hope flickered—a letter lying on the table, its edges crumpled with despair.

With trembling hands, he unfolded the paper, his eyes devouring the words scrawled upon it—a tale of eviction, of loss, and of a new beginning. You had been forced from your home, cast aside like a forgotten memory.

Determined to find you, Chan retraced your steps, each corner of the city a labyrinth of possibilities. It wasn't long before he stumbled upon a quaint café, its windows aglow with warmth and laughter. Above it lay a modest apartment, a sanctuary hidden from the chaos below.

Heart pounding, Chan ascended the stairs, anticipation mingling with trepidation. When he reached the door, he paused, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. But then, with a resolve born of love, he knocked.

The door swung open, revealing your tear-streaked face, your eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of him.

"Channie?" you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of the city. You never thought you'd see him again after everything.

"Yn," he breathed, relief flooding through him at the sight of you, knowing you were well...at least alive, you looked as though you'd barely slept and had been crying a lot. Tears welled in your eyes as you beheld the man who had once held your heart, his presence a lifeline in the storm.

"I thought I'd lost you," You confessed, your voice trembling with emotion. After being kicked out, your phone was off service and you'd lost your charger so you couldn't even get his number. Everyone you turned to for help ignored you or pushed you away. Chan stepped forward, enveloping you in his embrace, his touch a promise of safety amidst the chaos.

"You'll never lose me," he vowed his words a beacon of hope in the darkness.

"I'm here, Yn. And I'm not going anywhere." He promised, kissing your cheeks and keeping you pressed close to him. He wasn't certain what the future held for you both but he was sure he wasn't going to lose you again.

MINHO:

Lee Minho, a prominent figure in the underground world of organized crime, strode into the opulent ballroom of the Grand Palazzo, his arm intertwined with that of his stunning girlfriend, you. The two of you were a striking pair; Minho, with his sharp suit and commanding presence, and you, elegant in your signature red dress, exuding grace and beauty.

The occasion was a black-tie charity event, a masquerade of the city's elite, where appearances were everything. Minho relished the opportunity to flaunt his status, but tonight, his focus was solely on you.

As you mingled through the crowd, a snide remark caught Minho's attention. A well-dressed socialite whispered to her companion, casting a disdainful glance at you,

"Isn't that the same dress she always wears? How embarrassing. Clearly, she can't afford anything better." It was a comment you'd grown used to hearing by now, it wasn't as though you could afford extravagant gowns every time Minho wanted you to join him at a party. Minho's jaw clenched in anger, his protective instincts kicking in. He resisted the urge to confront the woman, knowing it would only draw unwanted attention. Instead, he steered you away, his mind swirling with thoughts.

Later in the evening, amidst the swirl of music and laughter, Miinho overheard snippets of a conversation nearby.

"Did you hear about Yn? Word has it she's struggling to make ends meet. Works multiple jobs just to pay the bills."

"I heard Izzie say she saw her working in a diner just outside of the city," Another voice said before laughter ensued. Minho's heart sank. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. You had never mentioned anything about financial difficulties, and he had never thought to pry into your personal affairs. But now, faced with these rumours, he couldn't ignore them.

He guided you to a quiet corner of the room, his expression troubled. "Yn, is it true? Are you having trouble with money?" Your cheeks heated with embarrassment, and you looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

"Minho, I... I didn't want you to worry. It's nothing, really." It wasn't as though you were in tons of trouble, you just struggled to make ends meet sometimes and some weeks you'd have to survive on just noddles. Minho gently lifted your chin, his eyes searching yours for the truth.

"Don't shut me out, baby. I need to know. If you're struggling, we'll face it together." Tears welled in your eyes as you finally confessed,

"I've been working extra shifts at the diner, tutoring on the weekends, just to keep up with the bills. I didn't want you to think any less of me." his heart ached at your words. He had always admired your independence and strength, but now he saw the toll it was taking on you. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his embrace, holding you close.

"You don't have to do this alone, baby. I'm here for you, always. We're a team," he whispered softly, promising to support you in any way he could.

CHANGBIN:

Changbin strode purposefully up the steps to your apartment, anticipation building as he looked forward to spending time with you, the two of you had hardly spent any time together as of late since he got busy with work. However, his eagerness turned to concern as he noticed the unmistakable shape of an eviction notice pinned to your front door.

His heart sank as he read the terse words printed on the paper, realizing the gravity of the situation. Without hesitation, he knocked on the door, his mind racing with worry for you.

When you opened the door, your eyes widened in surprise and a flicker of embarrassment flashed across your face at the sight of him standing there with the notice in hand. You'd meant to take it down when you got home from work but you'd completely forgotten when you were cleaning the apartment.

Before you could say anything, he spoke gently but firmly, "What's going on, baby?" Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you met his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I've been struggling," you confessed, your words heavy with shame and yet admitting it felt as though a weight had been taken off your shoulders. "I couldn't keep up with the rent, and now they're evicting me." Changbin's heart ached at the sight of your distress, his protective instincts kicking into high gear. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, enveloping you in a reassuring embrace.

"You should have told me," he murmured, his voice filled with tenderness. "We'll figure this out together."

Determined to help you through this difficult time, he wasted no time in springing into action. Whether it was arranging for temporary housing, offering financial assistance, or simply providing emotional support, he was determined to be there for you every step of the way. He'd been tempted to buy the apartment building out from your landlord but you'd refused to let him, promising that what he was doing was already enough

HYUNJIN:

The atmosphere in the grand hall was electric as the auctioneer's voice echoed off the walls, commanding attention. Hyunjin was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and surveyed the room with a practised eye, his gaze flickering over the exquisite artworks on display. It felt as though he did this a few times a week if he was lucky enough and he could never get enough of the art functions.

But amidst the flurry of bids and whispers, something caught his attention—a series of paintings that seemed strangely familiar. As he drew closer, his heart skipped a beat. They were your paintings, each stroke a testament to your talent and passion. Confusion and concern swirled in his mind as he approached the saleswoman, his tone carefully controlled.

"Excuse me," he began, "but could you tell me about the artist who donated these paintings?" He knew you'd never want to sell them and he worried someone might have stolen them from you. You'd sold a few paintings before but these were your masterpieces, the ones you couldn't even dream of selling.

The saleswoman offered him a sympathetic smile, her eyes betraying a hint of sadness.

"The woman who donated them was struggling," she explained softly. "She didn't want to sell, but she had no choice." A surge of protectiveness washed over Hyunjin as he listened to her words. He knew how much those paintings meant to you, how each brushstroke told a story of your dreams and aspirations. Without another word, he made up his mind. As the bidding continued around him, he silently placed his bids, determined to acquire every single one of your paintings.

Once the auction concluded and the paintings were in his possession, he wasted no time in arranging for them to be hidden away, safe from prying eyes and opportunistic buyers.

Weeks passed, and Hyunjin watched as you struggled with your art, unaware of the fate of your precious creations. He knew you longed to reclaim them, to see them hanging proudly in your studio once more. Hyunjin knew you'd never let him help you if he tried to give you money for rent or even if he tried to get you to let him help with anything but he was proud of you. You'd dug your way out of the financial pit you were in until you were ready again.

"I thought we were going to dinner," You giggled as Hyunjin took you into a warehouse, the two of you were going to celebrate your new job but he wanted to take you to your paintings first.

"It's a secret." He chuckled, as you entered the dimly lit room, Hyunjin could sense the tension radiating from you. You glanced around, your eyes widening in disbelief as they landed on row after row of canvases shrouded in darkness.

"What is this place?" You whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. Hyunjin stepped forward, his hand reaching out to gently grasp yours.

"This is where I've been keeping something for you," he explained softly, guiding you further into the room.

As you approached the first stack of paintings, he paused, allowing you to take in the sight before you. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as you realized what lay hidden beneath the cloths. You'd been desperately trying to find the buyer for almost a week now, willing to trade him some of your other paintings for your old ones.

"These... these are my paintings," You whispered, your voice shakey as you turned to look at Hyunjin who was nodding, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips.

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze never leaving yours. "Every single one of them." Tears welled up in your eyes as you moved closer, reaching out to touch the familiar textures of your artwork. It felt like a dream, surreal and yet undeniably real.

"Why?" You asked, your voice choked with emotion. "Why did you do this?" He squeezed your hand gently, his eyes filled with tenderness.

"Because I know how much these paintings mean to you," he replied softly. "And because I wanted to make sure they were safe until you were ready to reclaim them." Your heart swelled with gratitude as you looked up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. In that moment, you knew that you were loved more deeply than you had ever dared to imagine.

Wrapping your arms around him, you buried your face in his chest, overcome with emotion.

JISUNG:

Jisung sat patiently in the living room, his mind drifting as he waited for you to finish getting ready for your date, the two of you were going out to celebrate your anniversary tonight. Glancing around the room absentmindedly, his eyes fell upon a stack of unopened envelopes on the coffee table—bills and late notices, their contents a stark reminder of the financial struggles they faced.

His brow furrowed in concern as he picked up one of the envelopes, his heart sinking as he read the ominous words printed on the front. He had suspected that you had been under financial strain, but he had never imagined it was this severe.

Before he could dwell on his thoughts any longer, he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching, and he looked up to see you descending the stairs. But instead of the usual smile on your face, he was met with tear-filled eyes and a quivering lip when you saw what he was holding.

Instantly, his heart clenched with worry as he rose from his seat, crossing the room to envelop you in a comforting embrace. You snuggled into him and sniffled a little.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he murmured, his voice filled with concern. You buried your face in his chest, your tears staining his shirt as you struggled to find the words to explain.

"I... I'm sorry," You choked out between sobs. "I didn't want you to see this... I've been trying to handle it on my own..." Your family taught you never to rely on others for your money and it was something you'd tried to stick by but it was getting harder and harder to hide your troubles. Jisung held you tighter, his own heart heavy with the weight of your pain. He had never wanted you to feel like you had to carry the burden alone, but he understood why you had kept it from him.

Gently guiding you to the couch, he sat beside you, wiping away your tears with a gentle touch.

"You never have to hide anything from me, my love," he assured you, his voice tender and reassuring. "We're in this together, no matter what." He whispered before kissing the top of your head, your heart was heavy as you stared at the stacks of unpaid bills just waiting for you to get another paycheck.

"It doesn't matter how much overtime I do, it's never enough." You admit to him with a sad smile, you wanted to be able to do this alone but it seemed damn near impossible.

"What can I do?" He whispered, rubbing your back softly as you stared down at the bills.

"Give me a job?"

"How about I do that and you come to live with me? We can split everything," You stared up at him, nodding with a small smile on your face, you couldn't think of anything better.

FELIX:

Felix sat in the dimly lit restaurant with his lawyers, enjoying the ambience of the evening. As plates clinked and conversations murmured around them, the mood suddenly shifted when his lawyers leaned in to offer some advice.

"Boss," one of them began cautiously, Felix thought his name was Noel but he couldn't have been sure since the two of them were twins and he could hardly tell the difference.

"We've been noticing something concerning about the women you've been seeing lately." Felix lowered his drink to the table and raised an eyebrow, intrigued but also wary of where this conversation might lead. He hadn't given them any permission to dig into you or your life, in fact, he'd given specific orders for almost all of his men to leave you alone.

"She doesn't seem... financially stable," The other lawyer added, choosing his words carefully, swallowing a lump in his throat and Felix noted he appeared to be sweating.

Felix felt a surge of disbelief and anger. These were his trusted advisors, but their intrusion into his personal affairs caught him off guard. He clenched his fists beneath the table, trying to keep his emotions in check.

"Not financially stable?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" His lawyers exchanged uncomfortable glances, sensing his displeasure.

"Well, boss," Noel ventured,

"we mean that perhaps the woman isn't the best match for someone in your position. They could be a liability, you know?" Felix's jaw tightened. He felt a mix of indignation and hurt. You were being judged solely on your financial status and he wanted nothing more than to kick the lawyers to the curb but they'd told him something you hadn't yet.

He leaned back in his chair, a steely resolve settling over him.

"I appreciate your concern," he said icily, "but I'll thank you not to meddle in my personal life. I'll handle my relationships as I see fit." His lawyers exchanged uneasy glances, realizing they may have overstepped their bounds. But the Felix wasn't finished.

"And from now on," he continued his voice like ice, "I don't want to hear another word of advice on this matter. Is that clear?" His lawyers nodded hastily, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Later that night Felix found himself sitting across from you in your small apartment, your bills stretched out on the coffee table as you showed him everything that was late or on its final notice. It wasn't exactly something you were proud of but when he'd asked you if he could see it you didn't want to hide it from him.

"So Noel and Joel told you?" You laughed dryly and rubbed the back of your neck,

"I would have loved for you to tell me." He admitted, looking at the pieces of paper before he started to organise them into piles from most urgent to not-so-urgent.

"I was-"

"I know," He whispered, rubbing your hand softly as you laid your head down on the coffee table. You'd been trying everything to get yourself out of the hole you were in but it was proving to be more difficult than you'd been intending

"I think the best option is for you to move in with me," The suggestion came out so casually you thought it might have been a joke if it wasn't for him looking at you with a serious look on his face.

"Your biggest problem is your rent, once that's out of the way you'll have more than enough money for your bills." He told you with a smile, he'd been meaning to ask you for a while but this was just giving him that final push.

"I still need to pay rent at yours," You told him and he nodded at you,

"Sure, but only once you're back on your feet, I won't take no for an answer," He smirks at you before your cheeks begin to heat up, moving in with him was the next step in your relationship, it only made sense.

"O...Okay, great. I'll call my landlord-"

"I'll call, you focus on packing," He smirks, kissing you softly as you rush to go and get some bags and suitcases ready.

SEUNGMIN:

Seungmin's heart pounded with fury as he burst into your apartment, only to be met with a scene of chaos. Two burly loan sharks loomed over you, their menacing presence casting a shadow over the room as they smashed objects in a display of intimidation.

Without hesitation, Seungmin stepped forward, his imposing figure radiating authority. The loan sharks froze in their tracks, their expressions shifting from arrogance to fear as they recognized him.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. You turned to see him, relief flooding your features at the sight of him but you were still scared that he was here.

"It's... it's nothing," you stammered, your voice trembling with emotion. "They say I owe them money, but I don't know what to do."

Seungmin's jaw clenched as he surveyed the damage, his mind racing with a mix of anger and concern. He knew you had been struggling, but he had never imagined the extent of your troubles.

Turning to the loan sharks, he fixed them with a steely gaze. "Leave. Now," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. The loan sharks hesitated for a moment, exchanging uneasy glances before hastily retreating from the apartment, their bravado crumbling in the face of the Seungmin's formidable presence.

Once they were gone, he turned his attention back to you, his expression softening with concern.

"What happened?" he asked gently, his voice tinged with regret for not realizing the extent of your struggles sooner. Tears welled up in your eyes as you recounted the story of your ex-boyfriend, how he had left you drowning in debt with no way to escape. God, you'd been too ashamed to ask for help, too afraid of burdening him with your problems.

But as you poured your heart out to him, you felt a weight lifting from your shoulders, knowing that you no longer had to face your troubles alone.

"We're going to find your ex, make him pay those assholes back and then you're moving in with me," He tells you plainly, looking around at everything those two had smashed up,

"Make a list of everything they've broken, I'll have your ex or them replace it," He said sternly, looking at you as you wrapped yourself around him and cuddled into him, just happy you weren't going to go through this alone anymore.

JEONGIN:

The atmosphere at the black-tie event was opulent, with chandeliers casting a soft glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Jeongin, resplendent in his tailored suit, mingled effortlessly among the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and nods with fellow attendees.

"Isn't that your girlfriend?" Someone asked him, his gaze wandered to where his friend had been pointed and he frowned when he spotted you. His heart skipped a beat as he realized it was you, clad in a crisp uniform as you moved gracefully among the guests.

Confusion and concern mingled in his mind as he watched you discreetly from across the room. You had told him you were too sick to join him tonight, but here you were, working tirelessly to cater to the needs of others.

"Who knew you'd be dating a waitress," Someone sniggered before Jeongin "accidentally" spilt a glass of champagne down his suit, glaring at him before going back to watching you. Anger simmered beneath the surface as he approached you, his steps purposeful yet controlled. When he reached your side, he fixed you with a steely gaze, his voice low and measured.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his tone tinged with a mix of frustration and disbelief. Your eyes widened in surprise as you met his gaze, your whole body heating up. You hadn't known that this was the specific party he was going to be at tonight,

"I... I had to work," You stammered, Your voice barely above a whisper. Jeongin's jaw tightened, his mind racing with a whirlwind of emotions. He had trusted you and believed you when you said you were too sick to accompany him tonight. But now, faced with the truth, he couldn't help but feel betrayed.

"Is that so?" he replied, his voice cold and distant. "You couldn't even be honest with me?" You lowered your gaze, your hands fidgeting nervously at your sides, it wasn't like you wanted to hide it from him but you were working four jobs and it was hard to let people know that.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of the crowd. "I didn't want to disappoint you." Jeongin's anger softened slightly as he looked at you, his heart aching with a mixture of frustration and compassion. He knew you had your reasons, your own struggles and obligations that you felt compelled to fulfil.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out to gently cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly tender despite the tension between them.

"You should have told me," he murmured, his voice softer now, laced with an undercurrent of understanding.

"How? I work four jobs and you barely work one, I-I felt like you might hate me if you found out." You admit before he takes you in his arms, wrapping them around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

"I couldn't care if you worked none or ten, you're my girlfriend and I'm here for you, no matter what," He whispered before kissing you softly.

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inkykeiji · 5 months

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⋆₊˚⊹♡ alastor + dressing you

character: alastor warnings: 18+ for mature themes (no smut) minors do not interact, fem!reader, pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (possessiveness; reader is nothing more than a silly little doll for alastor to play dress up with), implied size difference, a hint of blood words: 1.1k

Alastor is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He has his daily rituals, his rigorous schedules, his lists of tasks, all performed to perfection each and every day.

And Alastor likes to begin his mornings in a very specific way.

You know the procedure by now inside out, upside down, could recite it backwards, if he so desired you to.

By the time he wakes you, he’s already laid out your outfit for the day; intimates, dress, socks, accessories, all spread in an immaculate flat lay on his seldom-used bedspread.

You are always expected to adorn yourself with the garments he’s selected, to pull on each and every piece all on your own, fabrics lovingly caressing your exposed flesh as his gaze slithers after the material, leaving burning smudges on your skin.

But, of course, you can never do it all completely right—not like Master can.

Because it always ends the same, this little morning sacrament: with Alastor fussing over you—straightening out a bow, smoothing out a wrinkle, tugging up a sock, readjusting a sleeve.

There is always something wrong he has to fix, to make perfect.

And the finishing touch, the finishing touch is always for Master to add.

A leather collar, as red as his eyes and adorned with a heart-shaped tag, his name in an elegant scrawl engraved in the platinum. He’s always so tender when he fastens it around your neck, after he has thoroughly approved of your dressing for the day, more tender than you’d ever thought him capable of; more tender than he ever is otherwise.

It’s all just another way he claims you, degrades you, announces that you are his—his to decorate, his to desecrate, his to do whatever the fuck he wants with you.

That pretty little silver heart that rests so daintily against your clavicle, that rises and falls and glitters with each of your gentle breaths, will never let you forget that.

Today, as it is with most days, he has chosen a white colour palette.

Sitting in his usual armchair with his legs crossed, folded hands resting in his lap, he watches as you undress in front of him, left vulnerable and raw to his gluttonous glare. It stings, his gaze razored and slitting into your skin, prickling as it rakes over your unprotected form, leaving you feeling hypersensitive, overexposed, like he’s stripped away some fundamental layer and left you barer than bare.

Yet to the untrained eye, he would appear only mildly interested, possibly even teetering on indifferent, but you know him better than that.

You are not the untrained eye—not anymore.

You know that the glowing in his gaze is brighter, bolder and more brilliant than normal as he sharply catalogues every action—pretty silk slipped off, dainty lace sliding on.

You know that his pupils are abnormally large, having gnawed away at his irises in their attempt to consume the scene in front of him—a scene he’s witnessed a hundred times before; a scene he never tires of nonetheless.

You know that his smile, usually sharp and stretched, is a little bit softer around the edges, a little bit sweeter as it seals hungry teeth behind curled lips.

His chest swells and deflates with calm, even breaths, his unblinking gaze holding yours for a moment—in, out, in, out—and you stand still as a statue, waiting.

Such a good little pet he’s got himself.

He lets the moment linger for a little, basks in the exquisiteness of your obedience, allows that sweet suffocation of your compliance to grow until it’s nearly unbearable, until you’re struggling to keep stationary under his unrelenting stare, until the weight of it is crushing, compressing your ribs, flattening your lungs as you anticipate his approval.

Finally, he nods, and then, you begin.

First, the intimates; pure snow-white lace encrusted with tiny crystals, dainty material skimming your flesh in a faint caress, clinging to your supple curves as you fasten hooks and adjust waistbands.

Next, an ivory milkmaid dress, complete with cinched puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, the corset top outlining the natural lines and bends of your torso, skirt flaring slightly at the hips and flowing into loose pleats around your thighs. Little white flowers detail the garment, embroidered in silk across the linen, blooming with each of your graceful inhales.

Then, a pair of white thigh-high nylons to garnish the outfit, adorned with tiny white polkadots, sleek and sheer as they hug your legs.

He doesn’t miss the ripple of chills that follow after his eyes as they glide up your body, trailing the curled knuckles hooked in the band of your stockings. Nor does he miss the delicate shiver that dances up your spine, or the tensing of your muscles as you linger in limbo beneath his stare, anticipating his next order.

No, he witnesses it all.

And he smirks, huffing out an airy snort, your frame flinching with the sound.

“Does my gaze make you uncomfortable, dear?”

“No, Sir, of course not,” you respond immediately; well-trained, obedient.

“No? Then why has your body gone rigid beneath my eyes?”

“I just—” you begin, faltering a little, a small frown on your face.

Suddenly, he rises, stalking toward you calmly, both hands clasped behind his back. That infamous collar, held securely in his grasp, jingles with each of his steps, such a delicate sound for something so sinister.

Stopping an inch or two from your face, your head snaps up, the motion instinctual, eyes wide and subservient—searching for guidance, awaiting your orders like the good little girl you are.

A palm wreathes around your jaw, points of his claws pressing into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, revelling in the soft pained yelp that hitches in your throat, tangling on a gasp.

“Do you feel like a piece of meat, on display for your owner?”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

Crimson searches your face, slow and scrutinizing, lids narrowing slightly as his smile sharpens.

“Nothing more than a pretty little prize to be paraded around on my arm, proudly and in public?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Leaning down, he grinds his forehead into your own, inhibiting your gaze from fleeing his, neck bent at an unnatural angle as he looms over you. He stares at you for a moment, scarlet so bright it hurts to look directly into, so brilliant you’re sure it’ll leave sunspots blotting your vision when you finally look away, but you don’t dare to blink.

Slim fingers flex around your jaw, tightening, and his claws pierce your cheeks—shallow little pricks that’ll be unnoticeable in a few minutes, dots of blood rushing to fill the tiny dents. His tongue laves over each in a single, slow drag, wide and wet as it cleans the wounds and streaks his tastebuds with copper, sealing them with a thick salve of saliva before pulling away.

“Good,” he finally murmurs, the word a puff of breath wafting across your face, warm and woodsy. “Because you are. And Master likes for his things to look presentable.”

#alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #alastor smut #alastor headcanons #inky.alastor #inky.hazbin

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cambion-companion · 10 months

Text

A Marriage Contract

Eyo...I had an idea LOL what a world!

The scenario of Raphael x reader (gn) being forced into some sort of marriage agreement has been bugging me ALL day! Hopefully some of you lovely folks are as depraved as I am and enjoy this!

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

You were sitting opposite Raphael, the firelight flickering orange across his scarlet visage. You watched with bemused interest as, with a black quill, he scratched ink across a sheaf of yellowed parchment.

The cambion took little heed to your agitated words. His posture was relaxed, one long leg stretched out between your own, his tail tapping idly against your thigh where it rested.

“Raphael.” You leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the words he now wrote in that elegant script of his. “…Hey, I did not agree to doing that every day with you.”

A peeved hiss escaped Raphael’s sharp teeth as he removed quill from paper and sat back, his yellow eyes finally moving to your tense face. “This arrangement is at the behest of one I cannot yet deny.” His long fingers drummed a pattern against the cherrywood table. “Don’t complain too much, pet. I may begin to think you’re getting cold feet.”

“Not in this sweltering house.” You quipped back. Then you pointed again to the sentence he’d scrawled detailing what lurid acts he expected from you. “I will not be doing that.”

“Might I remind you, this is a contract of marriage.”

“Believe me, I am well aware.”

“You would receive such pleasures in kind.”

This gave you pause, your brow arched in disbelief. “From you?”

Raphael chuckled dryly. “Yes, from me. Master of the House, your doting husband.”

Your skin prickled. “There’d better be a clause in there for an annulment once all this is over.”

“It’s possible for such a loophole to be penned in.” Raphael tilted his horned head diplomatically, though his eyes remained hard. “For you to take advantage of should the fires burn too hot. However, you will always be mine.”

“How romantic.” You deadpanned.

“I certainly try.” Raphael rolled his broad shoulders and stretched his neck side to side. “Now, shall I rescind these latest conditions or are you now more amenable?”

You hesitated, scooting your chair closer so you could better read the script without getting a crick in your neck. “Hmm…yes, alright. You can get rid of the ‘submits to my will in all infernal matters’ bit.”

With a smooth motion Raphael struck a line through the offending words. “Would ‘heeds my counsel in all the doings of my domain’ better suit your tender palate?”

“Rewording the same sentiment isn’t going to get passed me, love.” You kissed his cheek, teasing.

Sharp claws pierced the flesh of your jaw as, quick as a viper, Raphael grabbed your face with one hand and held you very still. His face turned and your noses brushed. You felt his warm breath and his hot skin.

The air between the two of you grew tense, riddled with the frustration at your situation and the desire you’d had for one another since meeting. The lust to dominate and own from him and your need to be wanted and no longer alone.

“This marriage contract is forever binding, little mouse. Much more so than those fragile slips of paper from your insipid mortal world. There is not a clause in your wildest imaginings that will free you from me once you sign yourself over.”

You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks, his strong hand still holding your head firmly. “We have little choice.”

Raphael’s grip tightened and he brought his lips against yours, just enough to leave you craving more. “What a quaint notion, to believe I have no power to deny or evade.”

He did not elaborate, but his message was clear. Raphael wanted this. The thought didn’t leave you feeling warm and fuzzy.

There was an evident dynamic here that you didn’t have the capacity to fully understand. It gave you a sense of dread yet sent a thrill through your body.

You gave Raphael a smile bordering on playful. “Your signature mysterious and vaguely threatening answers won’t exactly breed a relationship of trust.”

“You and I have very different concepts of what a marriage should look like.” Raphael released your jaw and took both your hands, pulling you with one strong movement onto his lap. His tail wrapped around your waist, securing you against him. “Speaking of ‘breeding’, I have an excellent idea.”

Your retort was silenced as a long tongue and sharp teeth claimed your mouth and drank down your following noises.

#raphael x reader #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael baldur's gate 3 #bg3 drabble

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tadpolesonalgae · 8 months

Text

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 13

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: team long-hair Eris or team short-hair?

word count: 6,921

-Part 12- -Part 14-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Eris,” you groan weakly, staring at the plate of food set before you.

“Have you made any progress?” He asks absently, not even bothering to look up.

“It’s been three days,” you say, staring at him as you lean back in your seat, head tipping back to try and distract from the rich scent that’s taunting you. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, stomach cramping with hunger as you try to think of something other than food. It’s been so long since you’ve had to consciously draw your attention away from starvation, you’re lacking the discipline. Before, it would have been a case of chopping wood, or counting the grains on different floorboards, but now your focus darts about like a crazed sparrow.

For three days he’s withheld food. Three days he’s set you down with a meal. Three days of being instructed to summon something—a spark, of some kind—and you can eat. A day of boredom, a day of listlessness, and now a day filled with ravenous hunger. Again, your stomach rumbles, carving aches through muscle, teeth gritting together.

The room is large—cavernous. A tall window is to your far right, Eris sat at a large desk before it while his pen scratches away on parchment. The great four-poster bed is at your back, with you sat glumly atop the chest at its foot, staring at the plate laden with simple but lovely food. Not even fully out of reach, but entirely off limits. Instead, you attempt to peer beyond, gold and amber flame flickering wildly within the fireplace, burning free of logs, sustained entirely by his magic, constantly chipping away at the steady accumulation of strain so as to keep himself intact.

“How am I supposed to do anything if I don’t have fuel to feed off?” You ask absently, enraptured by the wicked dance of the fire, mind beginning to buzz dully, eyes losing focus. “Show a spark of magic, and you can eat until you’re full,” he replies, glancing at another sheet of paper before redirecting his attention. “This is torture,” you mutter, managing to shoot him a glare, unwilling to shift your body too much in case the aches spear up into your ribs. “What a wonderful life you’ve had,” he murmurs, before neatly scrawling something on a spare sheet. You deepen the intensity of the glare, wishing to cast a tiny spark of his own flame against the stacks of dry, crisp paper.

His pen comes to a halt, and he looks up, peering at a clock on the wall—midday. Perfectly on schedule, he sets the paper to the side, standing fluidly from his desk before reaching for the outer layer he’d discarded on the back of his seat, pulling it on over the width of his shoulders, pulling his hair from between the back of the clothing and his spine. Hair as smooth as silk, coming to his waist, burning like the flames he commands. Your eyes drag back to the fire, heavy and tired.

“Up,” he instructs, walking briskly across the floor, boots lightly scuffing against the boards in sharp, elegant steps. Wearily, you clamber to your feet, following behind him as he leads you on the trip that will take the two of you to the crisp air of the outdoors, appearing not entirely opposite from a jewel-toned painting. A sharp, brutal kind of beauty. Today, it’s all you can do to keep up with him, quietened from hunger, tired from starvation as you walk at his side, entering into the dense forest that surrounds the palace.

“What’s the point of this?” You ask quietly, watching as you take step after step, lightly frosted leaves crumpling beneath your feet. “That’s up to you,” he replies, leading you deeper into the woods, taking a different route from the stroll he’s chosen the past two. “So there isn’t one,” you mutter, shifting as you usually do to walk behind him, simply following the trail of footsteps, one after the other. “If you spent half the time you do sulking actually putting your mind to training, you’d have found something by now,” he returns, keeping up the pace. “So inspiring,” you mumble, wishing to lie down, but the cold bites at your throat with every breath, so you push on.

“What are you here for?” He asks sharply, your ears twitching from the ice in his tone. “You tell me,” you mutter, “you’re the one who’s supposed to know everything, after all.”

“Not quite everything,” he replies wryly, and you can practically imagine the sharpness to his mouth. “You’re here because you wanted to learn how to control your magic.”

“You’re starving me,” you reply, with a little more bite than is appropriate.

You lift your head, staring tiny needles between his broad shoulders, hair soft as silk as it breezes in the wind, matching the fiery ambers and citrine yellows of the brutal landscape, moss like emeralds clinging to the bark of the trees. The forest is so thick you can’t make out its end, and you wonder how deep the trail is going to go before circling back to the palace. You don’t like forests. All manner of things could lurk inside, no longer restricted to wild deer or rabid wolves.

“Funny, that,” he says quietly, a whispered hiss slicing beneath the edge of his words, hairs rising at the back of your neck. “I’m certain you’ve figured the kitchens are nearby, yet you haven’t so much as taken a single step toward them.” A twig snaps in the distance and your skin prickles into gooseflesh. “Nor have you even attempted to pick at the meals you’re given,” he remarks, ignoring the strange sounds in the distance, pulling you deeper into the density of the enchanted forest. “What’s your point?” You ask warily, the back of your neck beginning to itch, feeling an invisible weight licking up your body. Your eyes dart between the trees, but there’s nothing there. Even the noise of other life has dwindled to a stop, you realise, as if trapping you in a great glass bubble.

“You say you’re starving, yet seem content to remain that way,” he murmurs, absently, moving on silent feet. It’s mildly unsettling how he can move with such stealth. “What are you suggesting? That I just eat the food and lose any sort of motivation to find something?” You reply quietly, subconsciously having lowered your voice to whisper, to avoid being heard. By Something.

“If you understand why your food is being withheld, why are you complaining so frequently?” He murmurs back, the wind dying out, hair resting stilly at his back. “I don’t know if you’ve ever lived in poverty, Eris,” you whisper sharply, “but starvation isn’t an enjoyable pain.”

“An unenjoyable pain suggests the existence of pleasurable pain,” he replies, paces slowing as he peers around the wood. “No wonder you favour the Shadowsinger.”

“What are you talking about?” You sigh exasperatedly, marking a triptych of claw marks on a nearby tree.

But he’s come to a stop, turning preternaturally still, as if frozen in time. So still, he looks like a painting. You wonder briefly how Feyre would choose to render him. You doubt she’d want to paint him at all.

Silence falls thick and heavy. Tension crawling through tendons, threading its way tight through your skeleton, until you’re strung taut, poised to smash like ceramic upon concrete. “Eris?” You whisper, not even a breath, syllables contained within the space of a blink. “What’s happening?” You move to take a step forward, but he holds his hand up, attention remaining forward, piercing into something you’re unable to see, or even smell. Whatever it is, is utterly undetectable to your senses.

And by the moment you can pick it out, it’s already too late.

Hundreds of pounds of weight and muscle slam into you, sending you careening across the ground, the very earth trembling as paws thunder forward, a single arm larger than your whole body. Rock cracks against your spine, and the air is shoved from your lungs. Lips part on ghostly breaths, air rattling in and out as your nails split beneath the pressure of biting into rough stone. Paws shake the ground either side of you, large, ivory tusks curling around a blunt snout, snorting and huffing hot breath in moist tendrils.

Sweat beads on your brow, wide eyes locking with wild aggression, a bellowing roar whipping the hair away from your face with the force of its fury. The beast rears, pushing up onto its hind legs, front paws peddling forward in the air, watery sunlight glinting off steel-like claws, poised to shred down on you.

Hands rise without a second thought, as simple as breathing, and for a fraction of a second, the wall on your power cracks. Shorter than a breath, quicker than a blink, pure magic detonates through the forest, a wave of searing heat blazing through your skin as the pulse finds the beast, knocking thick trunks down as it goes. Wood splinters, earth raining down from the sky, twigs and sticks and logs smashing into the ground, crunching upon rock. Snapping like bone.

You stare with wide eyes at the creature, an awful screaming sound coming from its lungs, paws strung taut and kicking wildly, as if attempting to run. The piercing tang of iron spears through the clearing, clumps of fur falling loosely, slabs of skin sliding off its still-kicking carcass. The squealing dies to choked splutters, wet crunches sounding with each breath as the body pulses weakly, heart still pumping as blood leaks from skinned muscle.

The tubes of your stomach spasm, clenching and retching, trying to haul something up but you’re utterly empty. Eris isn’t as fortunate. While saliva drips from your lips, thick and slimy, he’s upending everything just behind a tree, as if having lost control of his own body. Deep, spasming breaths hiccup in and out of you wetly, needing something to regurgitate.

Already you can feel that burning heat singe at your flesh, sizzling just beneath the surface, flushing beneath your clothes as if sat directly before a bonfire. Perhaps even inside one. A sharp pain pierces through your lungs, feeling as if a needle is pressing into your side with each inhale, having to quickly shallow the breaths. Aches blossom through your temples, colours growing in intensity, parts of your vision looking as if someone burn a hole in them, lids feeling like they’re made of stone, so heavy and tired.

The sickening tang of iron is the last thing you remember before collapsing forward, exhausted from the volatility of the detonation, feeling blessed to be being swept under so promptly. Provided with such a swift relief from the pain.

————

The smell of pleasantly flaky pastries wafts from beneath your door, bringing with it the sweetness of cream and berries, apparently a breakfast favourite, here.

Bleary eyes crack open, aches thudding dully across your forehead, just above your brows. The room is a little hazy, white spots dancing, the edges of your vision blurred with strange colours, as if you’ve stared directly into the sun for too long. Foot steps pass somewhere through a wall, and you try to blink dully, but your skin is itching, the dimensions of your chamber shifting with each breath, nausea fluttering up your throat.

Wilfully, you close your eyes, once again passing over into unconsciousness.

————

You’re pulled up into the world by pain, a sharp spear piercing through your chest, tiny needles flung carelessly into your anatomy then closed in, so you have to live with the prickling pain creeping beneath every movement. Skin is damp with dew and the clothes stick to your body, rising and falling with every breath, a chill icing across your torso.

The door swings open silently, and you blink blearily, struggling to recognise the tall, male figure with hair like the rising sun. Amber eyes pierce into you, and he comes to a stop beside your bed. “You’re awake.”

Your brows knit together tight, the noise sending a pulse of pain through your mind, but you manage to sit up, the blanket pooling around your stomach. “What happened?” You mumble, pressing the length of your cold fingers to join across the hollow of your eyes. He sits down in a chair you hadn’t noticed, nor remember, resting his arms atop the supports either side. “What do you remember?”

“I remember the forest…” you murmur, brows still pulled tight, but the aches are beginning to recede. “And…being hungry again. And…we were walking…then everything went quiet…” You close your eyes, tugging at the memories, but the pathing seems to fade into nothing. “There was…something…” Hands press over your face, rubbing either side the bridge of your nose, digging deeper.

The eruption hits you all over again, fresh shock washing through your body like you’ve been thrown into an icy river in the middle of winter. You inhale sharply, air pinching at your lungs, coughing. Pressure throbs through your mind with the force, before retreating gently, slinking back into the darkness where it came from.

“It should come easier to you now,” he says, breaking the buzzing silence. “What will?” You ask groggily, deciding to keep your eyes closed for a little longer. “Your magic,” he reminds.

You stiffen, listening to the heavy thud of your heart against your ribs.

“I’m not doing that again,” you whisper, hands still pressed over your brows, as if able to lock yourself up away from the world. To keep it at bay so you don’t have to continue living through it. Content to reside peacefully away from everything, quiet and alone. In your own safety. “I’m—… I can’t.”

Your heart continues its dull thud, quiet stretching between you, feeling like a chasm slowly stretching wider, and wider, until you can hardly see him at all.

“You should eat,” he says at last. “It’s been four days since you last had a meal. You’ll feel sick for a bit, but it will help.” You swallow dryly, prying your tongue from your teeth. The last thing you want to do right now is eat. Eris sighs, standing from the seat. “Wash too. You’ll feel better once you’re clean.” He turns, heading for the door on silent feet.

“Did you ever experience this?” You ask hoarsely, not looking up—you know he’s heard. Eris pauses at the threshold, and you wait in a whirlpool of silence. “Only a few times,” he replies quietly, “but my magic is different from yours. It will react in different ways.”

You don’t have to hear the door close to know he’s left after that, and you spend an unknown amount of time marinating in the sheets. Thoughts buzzing dully, your mind feeling as the air does before a storm.

Static, and prone to sparking.

————

You manage to clean yourself up easily enough once the shaking subsides. There’s still a slight ache whenever you move your eyes too sharply, but you’re working around it. A spare set of sheets is in the small closet at the foot of the bed, and you feel better once they’re changed. But then it’s the task of eating, and you feel worse from the thought alone. He’d said you would feel better, and you know you will, but that’s hard to get through when you feel on the verge of upending your stomach on the floor.

Slowly, one small mouthful at a time, waiting periods in between to make sure you won’t bring it back up, you manage to get through most of the meal. The small chunks of meat had been the most difficult, now not only charged with memories from the hut, but also from furry flesh sliding… You push the thought away. You had done that. You’d taken its life. Had Feyre ever felt that sense of dirt beneath her nails? Palms now not only itching, but lightly tingling too, as if you’ve rubbed your hands through tree sap, and now they’re clogged and sticky.

Eris finds you again in the evening, in better condition, with a little life in your eyes. He marks the now empty plate, something flickering through his gaze, but you don’t pay enough attention to it to figure what it is. “Feeling better?” He asks shortly, sitting in the chair, and you shift the volume from your lap. “A bit,” you concede, sat cross-legged on the mattress, clean sheets pulled over your lap politely. He nods to the book, “bored out of your mind yet?”

“Only by your charming company,” you reply, forcing your lips to quirk at the edges, desperate to rediscover that familiar rhythm between you. Where you can forget some things for a bit, and float through time peacefully.

His brows narrow, but his eyes glint. “You clearly could have gone longer without the meal,” he says, displeasure in his tone that has your lips quirking further. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“What do you mean next time?” You ask warily, leaning back into the wall, pulling the sheets higher around your waist. He rolls his eyes, and you’re surprised by how familiar the gesture is; how normal. You wonder if he’s doing it intentionally. “Your control is incredibly poor,” he remarks. “It’s almost as if I don’t have any, and this is something entirely new to me,” you mutter, reaching for the book. He gives you a pointed look, and you stiffen, realising you walked into that one.

“I’m not going back into those woods again,” you say cautiously, eyeing him, feeling the comforting weight of the volume in your lap. All that knowledge, condensed into paper and writing. The edges of his mouth sharpen, and wariness intensifies in your stomach. “I think you’ll much prefer the new approach,” he concedes, leaning back in the chair, body relaxed as he watches you. “And what is your new approach?” You ask, already looking nervous, worry etched into your features. “I don’t know if you remember our first polite conversation,” he muses, “but you became rather animated over that little orrery.”

“I remember…” you reply, frowning at him. What does that have to do with anything? “So we’ll try evoking your magic through positive emotion, rather than through fear, or withholding a vital ingredient.”

“At least you’re aware of what you were doing,” you reply dryly, grimacing as you remember the cramps that had twisted through your stomach.

His eyes slide over you analytically, and you try to shy further into the wall, imaginary hackles rising. “Do you have some more…appropriate attire?” He asks, and you scowl at him hard. “For what?” The answer is probably no either way. “For being within the public eye,” he elaborates, as if it’s obvious. “You can’t be out and about in the clothes you’ve donned these past days.” You bite back your reply, having not thought anything wrong with them. They’re modest, well-fitted, and warm.

They’re probably lacking diamonds dripping from the sleeves, knowing him.

“I’ll take that as a no?” Eris remarks, noting the sullen set of your mouth. He sighs, “understandable. I shouldn’t have expected you to have the foresight to plan for this.” Your lips part, brows pulled together as you stare with disbelieving outrage. “You’re much more likeable when you’re not talking. Maybe try it more often,” he adds when you’re unable to form a response, a gleam in his eyes. You blink, shaking your head slightly. “Just adding insult to injury…” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “I could have died to that creature, you know.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No thanks to you.” An unnervingly amused expression relaxes his features, lips softening at their sharp edges. “No thanks to me indeed,” he remarks quietly. “You fought for your own life. I didn’t think you had it in you,” he croons, a faint glint in his amber eyes.

Your features shift, swirling from mild irritation to quiet loss. Brow curled in the centre of your forehead almost imperceptibly as the words register across your skin. Shoulders slump, breath floating away, spine sloping against the wall, peering at your hands in your lap, crumbling and lumpy. “I didn’t, either,” you murmur. So softly he almost doesn’t catch it. But he sees the way you’re looking at your palms, a mix of disgust, and wariness.

“I wanted to live,” you whisper, brows furrowed. And it’s the look of doubtful perplex that has him pulling his eyes away.

“You sound surprised,” he says quietly, after recollecting himself. But you shake your head dully, still watching your hands. “After living with it for so long…” you say, “being on the verge of it for years…” You trail off, leaving him wondering what marks it might have left below your skin.

You clear your throat, looking up but not quite able to meet his eye. “What happened? To the…the creature?”

“I had it burned,” he replies simply.

“Was it…had it died quickly?” You ask softly. Amber eyes mark the slight tremors in your fingertips, the room still save for the tremble of your hands.

“Yes,” he answers, able to hear the whisper of breath that leaves your chest. The faint look of guilty relief in your expression.

It doesn’t for a second cross your mind he could have lied.

An untruth would serve him no benefit.

————

For the first time in a long time, a curse sits on the tip of your tongue.

“Have you changed?” Eris asks, boredom heavy in his tone. “I’m not wearing this,” you whisper hoarsely, staring at the way the riding trousers grip to your legs, curving in at your waist, wrapped around your calves. You don’t even dare look at yourself from behind.

The iron rings hiss as he pulls the curtain back, and you spin around, stumbling back into the mirror. “Eris. Get out.” He raises a brow at the sharp tone, mildly surprised by the abrupt venom, but he knows you’re harmless. For now.

“They fit perfectly,” he states, features remaining in a bland but analytical set. “What’s the problem?”

“Are you—? They’re trousers,” you hiss, already searching for something to pull over yourself. “I don’t care how many wonderful things might await me, I will not wear these things.”

“There are a plethora of other subjects for you to work yourself up over, and yet you choose this one,” he muses, and you press yourself tighter to the mirror. “Get out.”

He offers a skeptical look, and your brows narrow, skin beginning to crawl. You feel so bare. So on display. The shapes of handprints begin to itch over your hind, and pressure builds at the forefront of your head, between your brows. “I’m serious. Get out.” Eris regards you quietly for a moment, head angled slightly as he observes, before turning for the exit. “I suppose the colour doesn’t quite suit you,” he says idly. “Next one.”

The curtains again hiss shut, and you ply your lungs apart with oxygen. Heart racing in your chest. Heat builds behind your eyes, but you push it back if only to ward against the painful prickling sensation it brings forward. With shaky fingers, you manage to push the rigid material down your thighs, folding them neatly and discarding the shirt that had been set out with it. Swiftly moving to the next piece. With some conscious effort, you’re able to shift your mind to what lies ahead: he’d mentioned attempting to stimulate your magic through positive emotions rather than fear, which had your interest piqued. Though part of you worries what he might think of as worthy of positive emotion.

The itch to your skin hasn’t quite faded, and your hands have gotten worse since the forest. Bumps are more pronounced on the tops of your knuckles, scabbed over but still raw. The pressure in your head has again receded, but remains, throbbing lightly whenever you raise or lower your head. To make everything unimaginably worse, you’d spotted the beginnings of your cycle this morning, and had nearly cried. You’d secretly hoped the amount of strain your magic has been putting on your body would be enough to relieve the horror, but it seems not. You’d also found more than a few bruises littering your skin, but those will hopefully be healed and gone by the day’s end—they’re only light from when you’d hit the rock.

Thinking back on it, you’re surprised no bones were broken.

“Do you make a game out of taking years to change, or are you simply that slow?”

Your demeanour instantly drops further, a scowl settling between your brows. You finish tying the bodice up, then walk to the curtain, gently pulling one aside. “I’d like to see you attempt to tie yourself up in one of these dresses,” you mutter, arms automatically folding self-consciously across your torso, one hand wrapped over your waist, the other settled below your shoulder. “There are too many strings to do up.” “Turn around,” he says, ignoring you completely.

Pulling back on the scowl, you turn in a circle. “Saying a please or a thank you every so often wouldn’t turn you to stone, you know,” you remark as you move, eventually having gone full circle. “Is this one good enough, your sourness?” You ask, dipping into a provoking curtsey.

His lips remain pressed in a disapproving line, but his eyes gleam. “It’ll do.”

————

You’d been folding your previous clothes back into your small closet, wondering about where he was about to take you. Curiosity wandering through your mind. If he tries to take you so much as a step towards that forest again…

You close the doors softly, turning for the door, going to meet him when your eyes pass over the small desk, pushed tight to the walls. Just beside the volume sits the small, deep blue gift box. You pause, gaze shifting from the door to the desk. Fingers raise to thumb at your earlobes, stroking absently.

Before you can doubt yourself, you walk over to the box, opening it up, peering down at the pair of earrings, understated but refined. Plain, generic jewellery.

You slide the gold in, pearl droplets hanging pretty from delicately pointed ears.

Again, fingers skate over your lobes, this time pierced and weighted. It’s probably the only time you’ll feel brave enough to wear them. A dull ache rubs through your heart, but you push it away, hands falling to your sides as you walk briskly for the exit, out to find Eris.

Leaving the small box open and gutted on the desk.

————

It’s about three in the afternoon, and the crisp breeze cools your skin, playing about your hair and fluttering across the fabric of the dress. Luckily, most of the finely sewn material is concealed by a an earthy orange cloak, dusty but warm coloured. A few wisps of hair tickle the edges of your mouth, and you push them away irritably, wishing to pin it back. You wish his hair bothered him the way yours does.

“Is there anywhere in particular I’m being taken, or is this another mindless stroll?” You inquire, keeping a step or two behind him, trailing along as you peer at the stalls, set up in the courtyard of the palace. “None of the walks have been thoughtless,” he corrects, keeping on his leisurely path, “there are a few things I’m in need of, but you should be looking about on your own.”

“What do you mean ‘looking about on my own’?” You ask, brows furrowing lightly.

“I don’t know what you like,” he replies, as if it’s obvious. You blink, then nod, mostly to yourself. “Right.”

“You do know what you like, don’t you?” He asks seriously, glancing at you briefly from over his shoulder. “Of course I know what I like,” you return, meeting his piercing gaze. “Do you? Or are you always so busy with work you have no time for fun?”

“You have interests in things that serve yourself?” He redirects, skepticism more prominent than before as he makes his way effortlessly through the people. “Nothing that might benefit that family of yours?”

“They’re as much family to me as you are with yours,” you reply thoughtlessly, not a single beat passing.

The words register in your mind, at once tasting foul and horrid. How ungrateful you sound, guilt beating against your still-bruised flesh. Shame heats your skin, eyes drifting down to the neat cobbles. You hadn’t meant that. “I mean…family’s a particular word,” you mumble, pearls hanging heavy from your lobes. Thumbs brush over them—should you even be wearing such a gift? Thoughtless, perhaps…potentially intended. Holding great beauty, while plain and generic. Are you worthy of that?

“You seem to assume I am not close with my own,” he speculates idly, perhaps with more lightness than you’re accustomed to. You suppose you don’t spend much time around people…maybe the differences stand out more because of that. Less habits to familiarise and attune yourself to.

You swallow, gaze skipping to dance over stools: herbs and spices, dried plants and trinkets, small glass bottles filled with gem-coloured liquids, tiny circular things that look like they’d taste sweet, gleaming jewels that wink up at passersby, thread so thin it’s like hair or cobweb. A jewellers stand catches your eye, not through the nature of the craftsmanship, which is admittedly fine, but the table holds a modest assortment of rings, and you’re for some reason reminded of the ones Rhys sometimes adorns his hands with. Wrought in sterling silver, small details welded to the solid bands, showcasing its sturdiness and elegance simultaneously. Like dancers.

Silver flickers at the back of your mind before vanishing, hastily doused before second-thoughts begin swarming.

“Are you?” You inquire with equal lightness.

“They are my family,” he says, “proximity won’t change that.”

A natural quiet settles between you, filled only by the background chatter of other voices, other people with their own lives; their own victories and losses. Other problems, with or without solutions, continuing on with life, because times is ceaseless and everlasting, ticking by coldly, peacefully, sometimes with devastating fluidity, others with painful leisure. Perhaps it’s not time at fault, but yourself. Time isn’t cruel, nor is it kind, it simply exists as it is, unable to deviate from what it started as and unable to shift from what it will become; what it will remain to be. Time is a precious constant, one of the few certainties that will persist no matter what.

The sun will rise and fall, as will the moon. The stars will move through the sky as the planet spins, and life will continue with much more grandeur than such small, short things should acquire. Even immortality will crumble before time—your kind of immortality at least. Endlessly, consistently living, until life is taken away.

You had thought you’d made peace with your mortality as a human, yet you suppose each day you still got up with your sisters, still washed and spoke and persisted, still set one foot in front of the other, even if you weren’t conscious of it. Then the other day something like a drop opened up in your path, something that would require more than one foot in front of the other, and you had found yourself jumping.

You had not walked off that ledge; one foot in front of the other hadn’t sufficed.

For less than a minute, the desire to be had been brimming from your fingertips, glowing through your skin and filling you to the point of overflowing. For little less than sixty seconds, you had been confronted with an end, and had moved accordingly. For a few brief moments, absence had loomed before you, dark and terrifying, and you had no want for it.

Where does that put you?

You’d been thrown into a river, and found yourself swimming.

For what?

What was it for?

Peace had been made, acceptance reached, yet sparks had flown, and another life had been taken in place of yours.

Your eyes raise to the sunset orange of his hair, the broad shoulders, the assured and unfaltering strides that carry him forward. The doubtless weight of steel that is set at his hip, the fire that burns in his veins, pure and hot, the sharpened blades that sit readily on his tongue, protected on all fronts. Strength incarnate.

“For someone without flames to harness, you’re burning a hole in the back of my neck fairly well.”

You blink, pulled away from the conflicting whirlpool of thoughts, unaware of the intensity you’d been regarding him with. “I zoned out,” you mumble, attention shifting to the tall walls rising on either side, and you realise he’s led you away from the marketplace. “Where are we going now?” You ask, at last noting the faded noises of other people, now only distant drones. “I told you there are things I am in need of,” he repeats, not looking back, forging onward, so certain the world will not fall out from under his feet. “And these things are down a dark, suspiciously quiet alley?” You ask skeptically, speeding your paces, remaining less than a step behind him. “One of them is,” he answers, leaving it there.

Wariness settles across your bones, eyeing him doubtfully, but continuing on his heel. It’s not like you have anywhere else to go, so you might as well stick with him, within the realms of relative safety.

Eris turns another corner, narrower than the last street, and you even out your breaths. Nobody would do shady exchanges at three in the afternoon. Right?

Doubt unspools in your stomach as you come upon a door in the wall, one that he enters without knocking, and you keep close in the now dim light, a latch clicking behind you. While there is no obvious difference, you get the distinct sense there’s a decline in the pathway, leading deeper into the ground until the tunnel-like walkway opens into a room, lit by flaming braziers. Few things are held within the room, as if constantly on the move and requiring the ability to make an easy exit, should it be needed.

The exchange is over and done with swiftly, a fluid passing of a weighted pouch with a small box, one that Eris pockets seamlessly, turning and leaving without a word being spoken, not even a nod of recognition before you’re following him out again, the hair at the nape of your neck rising with wariness at the strange sequence of events.

Sound returns when you walk out into the air, less menacing than before, open and inviting with its refreshingly crisp bite, and it reminds you slightly of the fresh air of Velaris—its cool nippiness that washes through lungs to pump its users full of freshened life. Life people are desperate to live, taking breath after breath, hauling it down obsessively.

You suppose even if your held your breath, you would eventually find yourself fighting for it, your own choice or not.

Again, your attention drifts to his back, assured and certain. Steady and secure.

Knowingly or not, questions have been sparked within you, questions you’d prefer to understand before being knocked from the world. Questions that will require action on your own part, no longer sitting passively but searching—not in the way you had in the libraries, nor in the ways when you had been trying to summon your magic back in the House of Wind. It would require a fundamental shift in your outlook, one that had only begun to take root in your mind after years of dull buzzing. You’ve always had a fondness for them: questions. Answered or not, the act of seeking more, searching for more is beloved by you. It’s a skill you’ve been practicing, training, sharpening unknowingly but consistently throughout your life. And now, the intrigue and fondness for learning, the desire to understand and develop will now be harnessed inward, the intent aimed at yourself, poised to unravel, learn, and discover.

All over the simple yet surprising act of defence—to protect and preserve. The fight to continue. Breath after breath, one foot in front of the other. The relentless push of life itself. Aware or otherwise, he’s started you down a new road, one that will likely wind and divert, but it’s your duty to stay on track and not fumble.

It’s enough your steps falter, pausing as the market place once again comes into view.

“You said I should be looking about on my own,” you say, not quite a question, but lacking the certainty of a statement. Eris glances over his shoulder, coming to a stop. “If you’d like,” he answers blandly, but you’re too preoccupied by the hurtling path of your own thoughts to wonder at the tone. “There was a stall that caught my eye,” you say cautiously, unsure of what’s coming out of your mouth.

He nods, eyes raising far above, where a large clocktower gazes down upon the courtyard. “Be back here in twenty minutes,” he replies, and you nod, already searching for the way you’d come. “And for the gods’ sake, don’t blow anything up,” he mutters under his breath, just as you pass by.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

Breath after breath, one foot in front of the other. No footsteps to follow after.

Pushing forward on your own. Seeking what you want.

Gold and pearl hanging heavy from your lobes.

Too heavy.

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general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

#azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #cbmthy

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blindmagdalena · 9 months

Text

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language. “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols.

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression..

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think.

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away.

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns.

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe.

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

#i have no self control ENJOYYYYY #praise me it's shocking i finished this so quickly #although it's not really finished bc i'm stretching it into 3 parts but #couldn't help myself i needed him to be a little weirdo #next chapter is already started tho and shouldn't take long!#ALSO I MADE THIS GIF #i'm so happy lol #my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #plus size reader

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bradshawssugarbaby · 9 months

Text

Picture Perfect - Smallville!Clark Kent x Reader

A/N: Inspired by the song Picture Perfect by Angela Via. pairing: Smallville!Clark Kent x f! reader warnings/content: fluff, mutual pining, one singular swear word. word count: 2.2k

I should be yours, baby, you should be mine. Meant to be, can’t you see? We’re picture perfect”

Clark watched as you chewed on the end of your pen absent-mindedly as you glanced over the notes in your binder, written in your vibrantly feminine script, large and looping letters forming your thoughts on the page, written in your favourite pink gel pen, as you always did. He couldn’t help but smirk at how even your notes looked like they were transcribed by Barbie herself, but as silly as the thought of media law scrawled out in pink glittering ink in your flourished handwriting was, he loved that about you. He loved that your bubblingly bright personality had its way of working itself into every aspect of your life, including your studying methods.

His piercing Kryptonian blue eyes continued to stare over at you, fixated on the way your hand gracefully glided across the page as you wrote, your fingers curled just so around your pen. He was fascinated by the way you could make even the most simple of tasks, like holding a pen, appear elegant. He knew he had it bad for you, he had for as long as he could remember, since you met. His friends would often tease him about diving in head first when he fell in love, and he tried to work on it in an effort to protect himself from getting hurt, but with you, he knew it was useless. He may not have had many weaknesses, but you were one of the few things that could stop him dead in his tracks.

“Clark? You ok?”

You had looked up from your notes to see Clark seemingly staring off into space at you, unable to break his focus from his thoughts. He chuckled nervously before pointing at his open text book on the table and nodding his head.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” He said, trying to sound confident and hide his embarrassment as she caught him staring.

You tossed your textbook closed and shoved it across the table in front of you with a tired laugh. Straightening your ponytail, you let out an exasperated sigh before rubbing your hand inbetween your thumb and index finger.

“I’m starving, and my hand is cramped up, ready to go grab something to eat? I think if I have to read anymore of this I might implode,” you laughed, shaking your head as you stood up from your seat.

“Yeah, yeah I could go for something to eat. Pizza?” Clark laughed softly, raising an eyebrow as he followed behind you.

He tried to keep his gaze upwards, focusing on anything but your backside as you walked in front of him out of the library. He had to congratulate himself on his willpower - resisting the urge for his eyes to drift downwards, tracing the shape of your curves as you walked. He caught up beside you, chuckling as he pretended to jog up beside you. If anything, it was harder work to pretend he couldn’t keep up with your strides than it was to actually jog, he could run from Kansas to California in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d often thought about doing just that. He’d worked so hard to keep his secret from everyone, including you, as much as he hated hiding things from you. He loved you, and he trusted you, but he was terrified of how you’d respond. Would you be afraid of him? Would you stop speaking to him? Would you think he was crazy and tell everyone he’d gone insane? The more he’d thought about telling you, the more he realized he’d rather continue the facade he’d created than have any chance of losing you. Having you in his life and not knowing the truth about him was better than telling you and not having you there at all.

“Clark, are you sure you’re ok? You keep spacing out on me.”

Your laughter rang out through Clark’s ears - he could easily list it in his top favorite sounds, second only to the way his name sound when it fell from your lips, making it sound like an answered prayer every time you said it. Clark had it bad for you, and he knew that if he continued to hold it in, it’d end up forcing you away, but he’d been through this before with friends, and it rarely ended in his favor. The last thing he wanted was to push you away, either due to him revealing his true feelings, revealing his secret or by continuing to ignore how he felt for you. His own happiness aside, he knew ignoring his long-standing feelings towards you was the easiest solution. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair for a moment and chuckled awkwardly, his piercingly bright blue eyes glancing over at you as he spoke.

“I’m fine, I promise. Just thinking,” He said, trying his best to be reassuring but he couldn’t help but think he was failing miserably at it.

“Oh, that’s what that smell is?” You teased, giving Clark a playful shove of the shoulder as you spoke.

Clark rolled his eyes and gave you one of his infamous smirks, the kind that had most girls you knew weak in the knees. Clark had often been told he had a nice smile, but he was also oblivious when women found him attractive. Half of the time he had no idea when someone was flirting with him, and the other half of the time, he didn’t know how to respond to or reciprocate the flirting. The best he could do was flash a sweet, charming smile someone’s way and be his usual kind-hearted self, which was how he liked it best. He hated the idea of having to work for someone’s attention. With you, however, he found himself wanting to try. He wanted to flirt with you, he just had no idea where to begin.

He held the door to the pizza place on campus open for you, giving you another one of his warm, heart-melting smiles as he gestured for you to enter first with the motion of one of his long, muscular arms, the sleeve of his navy blue sweater shifting up on his wrist slightly as he moved, the arms just a little short for his frame. At six-foot-four and the majority of his height in his legs, Clark’s clothes were often just that half inch too short, often masked by pushing his sleeves up or by the shoes he wore.

Little did Clark know, while he was busy admiring your every feature, you were doing the same to him - the way his blue eyes would light up and shine when he smiled was enough to make you swoon. The way he always acted like a total gentleman around you, holding doors, pulling out your chair, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, it was enough to make your heart flutter and race each time. The way he’d talk about his mom’s homemade pies back on his family farm in Smallville, the way he’d sing her praises and humbly brag about how her baking was famous across their little town. He’d always jokingly offer to bring you a slice the next time he went home to visit her, teasing you that despite the fact it wouldn’t be at its freshest, it’d still be the best slice of pie you’d ever eaten. You loved all these things about him, as well as the way he cared for everyone - he was always doing whatever he could to be a good person, which was a rarity a lot of the time on campus at Metropolis University, but you treasured his difference from the other men on campus.

To anyone else who saw the two of you sitting together in the pizza parlour that day, they would have sworn you were on a date - the longing, loving stares at each other, exchanged stolen glances and sweet smiles, blushing red cheeks and nervous laughter - all the signs of a budding romance sparking between two young lovers. To the two of you though, it was one-sided, guarded feelings - scared to make the first move, scared to let feelings become known, anxious about how the other might respond, worried about whether or not your feelings might be showing through too much to the other party. You and Clark occasionally got comments about how sweet of a couple the two of you made from passersby, usually elderly women who’d say it as they passed through, commenting how it reminded them of how they were years ago when they first met their husbands, giving you a wink about how Clark was a keeper, or telling Clark to continue being the gentleman he is. The comments were always met with blushing cheeks from both of you, an awkward chuckle and thank you from Clark and a polite smile from you, but unbeknownst to the both of you, you and Clark both secretly felt your hearts flutter in agreeance to the compliment, hoping the other would agree too.

Clark finished his pizza, pushing his plate away from his body on the table slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh as he reached for his glass of soda, bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. He peered over the glass at you, stealing a glance as you blushed to yourself, biting your bottom lip for a second, appearing deep in thought as you sat across from him. Clark wrestled with whether or not he should finally bite the bullet and tell you how he felt. After a few moments of his own deep concentration, he decided tonight was as good a night as ever to finally talk to you about his feelings and find out where he stood with you. He set his glass down, clearly appearing uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat. You tried not to notice his discomfort as you finished eating, and the two of you left to head back to the dorm building in silence. When you reached the front steps of the building, having had enough of the piercing silence and avoiding eye contact that had taken place the whole walk home.

“Listen, I need to talk to you,” Clark said as he shifted the weight of his backpack on his shoulder awkwardly, looking around at the sky, trying to focus his eyesight on anything but your face as he spoke in an effort to avoid the awkwardness that he felt would inevitably come with what he was about to confess to you.

“About what?” You raised an eyebrow as you took in a sharp inhale of air, holding your breath as you hoped he wouldn’t be saying how he met someone or how he thought the two of you could use some space.

“I think you and I should…discuss our relationship, going forward,” Clark shook his head as he chuckled awkwardly and held his hands up for a moment in surrender, “That sounded better in my head, let me try again?”

“I really like you,” Clark finally sighed with a nod of his head, “I’m not good at this, I know I never say the right things, and I know everyone tells me I’m blind to stuff like this, but I really like you. All of you. Everything there is to love about you.”

Clark looked at your bewildered expression, unsure of what to say, but fearing in that moment that he’d just fucked up the only thing he knew he wanted to cling to in life, the one thing that helped him retain some sense of normalcy, some sense of humanity in life while he was living away from Smallville. After a moment of awkward silence had passed, a strained, awkward sounding laugh fell from his lips, almost out of desperation to fill the void that was lingering between you both now.

“I like you too. All of you. And, I know you’re…different, Clark, I don’t know what it is, or how to explain it, but I know you’re not like most people. And I don’t care. I like you anyways,” You finally said, nodding your head in confirmation of your words as you spoke.

Clark breathed out a heavy sigh and laughed, shaking his head, his thick, dark hair tousling slightly as he did so. His deep blue eyes looked at you again, sparkling and glistening as they always did when he smiled. He put a hand on your cheek gently, leaning in to give you a tender kiss. He’d kissed you on the cheek before in a friendly, affectionate kind of way, but this, this was different. This was a soft, tender kiss, full of passion and love for you, as if you were the only woman in the world. In a way, in Clark’s mind, you were, at least in this moment. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear you say that, you know,” Clark murmured as he pulled away from your lips, smiling softly as he rested his forehead on yours, “As for the different thing…we’ll get to that.”

#smallville! clark kent x reader #clark kent x reader #smallville clark kent x reader #smallville clark kent #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fic #smallville fanfiction #smallville fanfic #smallville! clark kent x you #clark kent x you #smallville clark kent x you

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nathabat · 10 months

Text

How they surprise you

✰ content: ## sfw , gn!reader (you/your pronouns used) ,

Bi-Han

The Grandmaster is terrible at surprises. Keeping anything secret is natural to him when it comes to the Lin Kuei and the assignments or information they have to keep under wraps. So why is it so difficult for him to keep things from you?

He wouldn't know how to describe it. All he knows is the anniversary plans he's had in the works since the beginning of the year, put together so meticulously, threaten to burst at the seams each time he's forced to bite his tongue to keep you none-the-wiser.

He tries to keep it simple, he's a simple man after all, but each gesture is still somehow almost sickeningly sweet and romantic to its core.

Flowers delivered straight to your hands whenever he is away, a freshly wrapped and prepared bouquet of Lilies, Chrysanthemum, and white roses. Sometimes offered to you with a little note attached, scrawled in Bi-Han's familiar attempts at elegance. Just a location, a time, and instructions to dress comfortably. His palms are almost sweaty as he waits for you, so terribly eager to finally have you all to himself after long weeks and hours of work kept you away from one another.

He embraces you first, sighing as his tensed muscles relax the very second his hand engulfs yours, his strong and callused fingers gentle as they intertwine with yours before he guides you into his arms, Where he'll finally be able to kiss and cherish you like he had been meaning to all day <3

"The long days are much easier when I have you to look forward to... Happy Anniversary."

The way your eyes shine with delight make the wait so worth it.

Kuai Liang

He's the opposite of his brother, but he faces the same temptations of spilling his well planned secret each time his chest tightens with excitement as everything falls into place. He knows the wait is the hardest part, yet he's able to keep himself under control until the time comes.

He can't have you finding the decorations he and Tomas bought and threw together themselves before your birthday. He usually takes up kissing and smothering you in his arms to draw your attention away from anything that pertains to the surprise he has been planning for months. Next time you go to snoop, you'll find the boxes you had found earlier had been moved or replaced with something else entierly.

He struggles being subtle though. Those packages he has high up and is super cagey about?

"It's nothing, my flower. Some old training equipment- Ah, no, you can't touch it. I can't have you getting hurt."

So maybe it isn't such a shock when you come home, exhausted from an assignment Tomas had eagerly dragged you away on proclaiming he needed your help specifically, just to find Kuai Liang amidst a mess of decorations that suggested a celebration just for you. Looking around, Tomas and others of the Shirai Ryu have suddenly disappeared, leaving you with your beaming lover. Who is so thrilled to have you home.

With his hands on your hips Kuai Liang draws you into him, thumb rubbing over your cheekbone as he cups your face in his warm hand. He presses a kiss to your forehead first before his lips trace down to peck the tip of your nose, and then finally your lips.

"Happy Birthday, my love."

Tomas Vrbada

He wishes he had the patience of Kuai Liang in moments like these. There's almost hundreds of times he almost caved and told you, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue. He's complained to you a few times about how hard it is to not spoil a surprise, but when pressed he clammed up and swiftly changed the subject while brushing off both your confusion and suspicions.

It's a week in the making, no special day or reason for it aside from the fact Tomas so desperately wishes to take you on a trip away from everything else. He has Kuai Liang's blessing, all that it hinges on is your agreement when he finally has everything settled and planned to a T.

"What? Oh no, my sweet, I promise it's nothing!!"

And since it's so hard to picture sweet little Tomas hiding anything from you, it's quickly dropped. But needless to say it's still painfully obvious what's going on the more he slips up and stammers as he recovers.

Getting everything squared away is what took the longest, especially going behind your back to talk to your boss and basically bribe them to get you that special time off, and the second it's agreed upon he's racing home to finally tell you. Shows you the tickets, explains his plans, all with a big smile on his face. He almost seems more excited than you!

You hardly get any packing done with Tomas pausing to steal a kiss and gush about how happy he is, and all the things he can't wait to show you and do with you.

"I'll make sure you have fun!"

a promise sealed with another kiss <3

Johnny Cage

He does his best to surprise you any chance he gets. Not just for special occasions, but for the times he misses you. Showing up at your work and accidentally causing a ruckus because... Well, he's Johnny fucking Cage. You get a lot of business that day, though you needed to have a talk with him about disrupting your workplace like that. He's toned it down, and by that I mean he juts sneaks around to see you without alerting the press or his droves of fans.

Shows up right when you're about to take a lunch break and insists on taking you out. He does this everyday he can when he's not shooting his next biggest hit, and he always makes it a point to take you somewhere new each time you ask him to pick a place. He knows your tastes afterall, and so far he's hit the nail on the head each time :)

He surprises you at home too. While he cant seem to follow recipes worth shit, he does spend a lot of time getting some cooking lessons or drops a lot of money on a private chef so you come home to a gourmet candlelit dinner. And his open arms, of course. You don't get four feet in the door before he's kissing you on the temple and taking your coat, incredibly insistent on pampering you.

Massaging your shoulders after you take a seat and explains the assortment of food laid out before you. Gives you another kiss before taking his own seat. And Cage is all smiles when he sees you take the first bite and melt in relaxation at the savoury flavours.

"You deserve it, babe."

Kenshi Takahashi

His heart squeezed up into his throat hearing that. He swore he'd make it better and he did. The next day was the surprise as he gently woke you with some breakfast he somewhat haphazardly threw together, paired with a long and sweet kiss. Maybe you expected plans in the future, yet Kenshi was quick to plan a whole day for just the two of you.

His work against the Yakuza becomes more and more tedious and time consuming as the days pass. He does well at surprisingly well at keeping his personal life and his work totally separate, but there's been times it bleeds over. Being woken up from your embrace by a call of a lead that required his attention. He profusely apologized and kissed your forehead as you groggily blinked your eyes at him, but he was already rushing out the door.

Maybe it's been expected that you came to him and communicated you felt a bit second place to everything else, your own responsibilities eating you alive. You just wanted to come home to him, but even that became rare.

He takes you to the farmers market and picks out stuff for dinner, squeezing your hand cheekily when you ask what it's for. You two have a great lunch at a noodle place he used to visit a lot, and he's happy to share anything on his plate with you before heading out again.

He keeps his cards close to his chest, sharing breakfast and then telling you to get ready. He doesn't say why, just offers you assurance it'll be worth it.

You like books? He took you to a library/bookstore and let you pick anything out. His hand on the small of your back as you walk up and down the aisles, squealing about this and that.

"You're my focus tonight, darling. I'll worry about it after dinner."

It's a busy day, and when you come home he's quick to get you to put your stuff away before making dinner with him. An old recipe he favors, warm and the perfect way to wind down after a day being out and about. His hands are on yours as he helps you cube up some vegetables, sliding down to grip your waist the second you get a hang of it. Sento is good help here, because Kenshi can't get enough of how your face scrunches when he teasingly places a kiss right below your ear.

And as his phone buzzes and rings on the counter, he's more than happy to ignore it.

Raiden

He tries not to get too busy to keep time for his beloved, and still manages to find ways to keep the spark alive. You're not sure how you still manage to fall for his surprises, but it's almost endearing how much effort he puts into each one just to see you get all hyped up.

He's learned to keep Kung Lao out of it since he's spoiled a few too many of Raiden's plans even if he meant well, and you ended up having to kiss the frown off your boyfriend's face. Not like you were complaining though ofc <3

What tipped you off this time was the fact Raiden had been especially cagey. In a way that irked you, setting a pit in your gut as he excused himself on more than one occasion for Shaolin or "Champion matters", as he put it. Yet when you called Cage, he gave you a confused response. Raiden was just as wound up as you though, trying his best to keep himself together as he sneaked around your questions with some help from Tomas or, regrettably, Kung Lao.

It helped that Kung Lao didn't know what was in store, he just knew to keep you busy as Raiden settled a terrace reservation with Madam Bo on a night the skies were meant to be clear enough to see all the stars in the sky.

Producing a velvety box from his pocket, he collected himself with a deep breath before popping the question;

Your own worries seemed to relax and take a backseat as Raiden surprised you with the dinner, even as you noticed his nervous mannerisms as you gushed about the scenery and all the delectable food. He was almost sweating bullets as Madam Bo sent him a knowing look when she came up to check how it was all going, before he quickly ushered her away.

You were just finishing your wine when Raiden cleared his throat, gathering your attention as he sheepishly spoke about what an amazing time he's had with you in his life. He held your hand cupped in his as he rattled on, less than composed as he got out of his seat and dropped to one knee.

"Will you marry me?"

Kung Lao

He's always boasted about his romantic side and all the dates he took you on, planning them well even if a bit messily. There's been at least a couple times he didn't account for things that came up, or forgot to ensure his time off was squared away and had to rush back for something just to seek your forgiveness later. His eagerness has its own charm, so it wasn't hard to earn himself back into your graces after whining and throwing himself into your arms with some kisses placed along your jawline before you'd giggle and tell him you were never mad in the first place.

Even when that meant stealing you away from home to surprise you, wrapping you up tight in a coat and then pointed up. There in the distance across the rolling hills and water was lanterns dotting the dark sky. It was a beautiful sight, one you always wished to see but only managed to sleep through every time it came around. Kung Lao wrapped his arms around you, chest against your back before he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

He really has to make an effort if he wants to surprise you though. You know him so well its hard for his plans to go over your head, but after a long week of you struggling with one issue after another he really tries his hardest. Just to ensure you feel better, because that's all he wants in the end.

It damn near broke his heart to have you curled up and crying in arms as he stroked your head and down your back until he lulled you into a gentle slumber, free from worries even if just for a moment.

It was little things at first. Risking being late to helping Raiden so you could sleep in and he could bathe with you when you finally awoke, rubbing your shoulders and lathering you in soap even as you mumbled concerns about him being late. He assured you with gentle kisses down the ridges of your spine, cherishing and comforting you until he couldn't stall any longer and he had to make a quick beeline out the door. He wasn't done yet though, because until he saw you smile he wasn't content to leave you to your own devices.

"I promise, one of these days, I'm going to take you to see those lights."

☄. *. ⋆

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hitmewithsomebooks · 7 months

Text

@jegulus-microfic Feb 29 - address

306 words

"Alright, and your phone number?" The barista asked, pen in hand hovering over a piece of paper as he waited expectantly. Regulus frowned.

"Why do you need my phone number?" He asked, cocking his head.

"To call you when your order's ready." The man replied, like it was obvious, but he was looking down at the paper, not Regulus.

"I'm not going anywhere. I can just wait over there and you call my name... like usual?" Regulus said slowly, confused. Was this guy new? Regulus hadn't seen him before. He definitely would've noticed...

Suddenly, the barista —James, said his name tag— looked up, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Okay, maybe, I just wanted your phone number." He stated, a light blush on his cheeks. It was unfairly both adorable and hot.

"Give me those." Regulus instructed him, gesturing to the pen and paper. James looked up, surprised, before handing them over. Regulus could feel the man’s eyes watching him with interest as he wrote in an elegant scrawl, before capping the pen and handing the slip to James.

"My number," he explained, as the confused man scanned the paper, "And my address." James looked up at that, eyes wide and lips parted.

"Pick me up at 8." Regulus finished with a wink, and watched with glee as James's pretty mouth stretched into a grin.

"Will do."

"Now, do I get my latte, or are you just going to smile at me?" Regulus asked with a smirk, and James seemed to snap out of his daze, blushing again. Instead of going to sit down to wait for his coffee like usual, Regulus simply moved over to allow other customers through and watched James make his drink.

It was a little too sweet and James spilled a couple things, but Regulus didn't mind. James had been a bit distracted, after all.

#james potter #regulus black #jegulus microfic #jegulus #barista James #james x regulus #sunseeker #starchaser #james being james #lolls writes

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covetyou · 3 months

Text

for one night only

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Frankie Morales x fat contortionist f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: Oral sex, face fucking 👀, fingering, addiction, minor mention of clowns (no descriptions, mentioned very briefly), drug use (not Frankie, minor mention), squirting, slightly subby Frankie. word count: 4.5k summary: Frankie Morales has a problem. Not the drink. Or the drugs. Frankie Morales has a problem saying no. One night only, one night only… In the morning this feeling will be gone It has no chance going on

A/N: I feel like one of those ao3 notes where the author is like "soz this took 4 years to update, my whole family died and then I had to move country 12 times, and now I live on the moon and have to send all updates down to earth via the postal sysem", but my dog was diagnosed with a heart murmur on Tuesday (on Catfish Day, no less!) and then on Wednesday I was cranked open and scraped out, because I have the luck of beign born with a cervix. Neither of those things are good conditions to write smut under, I've found out, least of all when it's also the hottest days of the year so far.

So, here we are, 2 days late, and I'm not asking for forgiveness or apologising, I just really like to complain and make lighthearted jokes over serious things to make myself feel better. happiest belated Catfish Day, pocket pals 💛

same reader character as in jester little bit more 👀 this story continues in fools just wanna have fun (Dieter x reader) and family friendly (Frankie x Reader [x Dieter])

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

From the moment Will proposed it three weeks ago, Frankie knew tonight was going to be a stupid idea. Still, here he was, walking into the fucking circus of all places, staring at a glowing sign that was taunting him with the words he'd told himself every time he'd ever gave in to the temptation of booze or coke.

For one night only.

Seven months of sobriety didn't make that temptation go away, and even though this was his longest stint clean in some time, today was not the day to be pushing himself. Work had exhausted him and tested his patience to the extreme, and now he was spending his one free evening in a place that was more overwhelming than it could ever be enjoyable.

It's not that his friends weren't helping, either. They were trying, just like Frankie was trying to enjoy himself, hoping each time they asked him if he was doing okay that it would suddenly be true. But the smell of beer and the press of warm bodies against his as they shuffled into the Big Top made him feel less and less in control as time went on.

It didn't get better from there.

In the Big Top, somewhere between the chaos and the elegance, and back to chaos again, he'd lost himself in it all - that was until he was distracted by a distinct smell brought into the big top by a troupe of clowns that he knew would lead him nowhere good.

That nowhere good turned out to be a shitty looking trailer half covered by a tarp, with "Bravo"scrawled on the door in sharpie. If you'd asked him how he got here, he wouldn't exactly know - he just knew it involved hearing a name, lying to his friends about needing the bathroom, and sneaking away while they were distracted by a sideshow game he had no interest in.

He knew the road he was heading down. That for one night only sign burning in his mind as he stood there, fighting a war inside his own head.

Then, like an angel covered in soft furnishings, you'd turned up, dumping blankets with an oomph onto a cart behind him, wearing what looked to be nothing more than a t-shirt and sandals as you turned to look at him, took one look at the twitching in his hand and the hesitation in his body before you told him he didn't want what was on the other side of that door.

And Frankie knew you were right.

You were the most right thing he'd seen all day. So, when you beckoned him, he obeyed, following behind you like a starving puppy as you led the way through the mess of trailers, to what must have been your own.

He'd watched as you climbed the steps ahead of him, sequinned ass on display with each step upwards, watching it sway and jiggle as you ascended, only pulling his eyes away when you turned and looked down on him with a knowing look.

That's how he found himself here. Surrounded by soft things and delicate lighting. Away from one kind of temptation but sat right in front of another, watching as you grip the edge of your t-shirt, pulling it high enough that he can see a strip of your belly as you gesture back to those impossibly short shorts.

"Do you mind if I...?"

Frankie nods, waving his hand and stuttering over too many words as he tries, and fails, to be unaffected by you and what he can only imagine you'd feel like beneath his hands.

"No, sure, fine. Uh. Go ahead."

You laugh as you start to undress, letting your t-shirt fall to cover you once more. He watches you peel those too tight shorts down your legs, grunting with the effort as they roll and pinch against your thighs. Your skin bulges and ripples as they roll down your legs, and Frankie can think of nothing but sinking his itching fingers into your soft skin and anchoring them there as he dives head first into the place hidden just beyond the hem of your shirt.

"You made the right choice, y'know. I'm much more interesting than what Bravo the Clown has to offer," you say with a wink, catching him watching you just as your shorts pool at your feet and you step out of them. "He might have his head up his ass, but his head can't touch his ass like mine can. Tea?"

With a nod, Frankie watches as you move to the kitchen - a small counter with a water kettle and some mugs, and not much else - before you call back to him.

"You can get comfortable too, if you want."

And so he does, pulling off his hat first, before unbuckling his belt and tugging it from his pants with a sigh.

When you come back, you hand him a mug, which he accepts with a thank you before gripping the burning ceramic hard in his hand, rubbing his other along the rough fabric of his jeans.

"You need a distraction," you say, with a nod to the mug burning his palm. "What do you usually do when... y'know?"

"Keep busy, usually," Frankie says, looking down at his hand, flexing it until the sting subsides.

"Let's find you something to focus on then. An activity. Something good."

Frankie's mind immediately goes where he knows it shouldn't. You'd seen him struggle, and you'd helped him, the least he could do was keep it in his pants and his mind out of the gutter.

But then, when you sit down opposite him, crossing your legs as you take a sip of your own tea, all he can see is the gusset of your panties, and he knows he's ruined. He doesn't even try to hide his cock as it hardens in his jeans each moment he spends looking at you, so casual and relaxed in this space you brought him to.

You know, of course. If he was paying even a bit of attention to what your own eyes were doing, he'd see that you're well aware of the affect you're having on him. Since he looked up at you from the steps, part of you had been working out how you'd get him beneath you again, and now it was looking like all you'd need to do was snap your fingers and all your dreams would come true.

Some might say that would be manipulative. The man needed a calm place to be for a little while, and you were happy to provide it, no payment necessary. But, with the way he was looking at you, pleading with those beautiful brown eyes - combined with the shockwaves sent to your cunt every time his voice rumbled from his chest - it was clear you were both fighting a losing battle against something much better to give in to than whatever quick fix Dieter could rustle up.

A blaring ring of a phone pulls you both out of your thoughts, and he scrambles for his pocket, pulling out a battered looking phone with a crack across the screen and pressing it to his ear.

"Hey, man," he says into the phone, not meeting your eye.

Here, in the quiet oasis of your trailer, with nothing but the distant tinkle of music to disturb the peace, you can hear every word from the other end of the line clear as day.

"Fish, where the hell are you?"

And now, maybe it is manipulative of you to stretch to put your mug down on the counter, drawing his eyes back to you.

"Uh, just had to get away."

When your fingers slowly drag up your thighs, tugging the hem of your shirt upwards and over your panties, you don't miss the way his throat bobs in a heavy swallow, his eyes going glassy as he tries to focus on the voice practically screaming down the line over the noise of carnival music and chattering crowds.

"You back at the van?"

And maybe the leg you put on the coffee table is a little unnecessary, but it works. Soon his eyes are drawn down to between your thighs, and the small scrap of fabric covering you that he'd been trying so desperately not to look at.

"No, no. I had to -" you draw your shirt a little higher, the soft pooch of your belly and the waistband of your panties now on show for him. "- mierda. Just some place quiet. It's chaos out there."

"We can leave, hermano. I told you, you never have to force yourself through this shit. You want out, we're out."

Your hands continue up, and up, pulling your shirt with them and then, just when your breasts threaten to spill out of the bottom of it, you let go, stretching your arms high above your head with a smile.

"Hello? Fish? Catfish? You're worrying me, man. Where are you?"

Raising your eyebrow, with one last ace up your sleeve, you let your thigh fall to the side, and watch the entire house of cards come falling down.

"I gotta go."

"Fra -"

"I'll text you."

The line goes dead, and Frankie quickly taps out a message in hopes to keep Santi quiet for at least a little while. When his phone is face down on the seat beside him, he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and rubs his hands on his rough jeans once more.

"So, Fish," you start, drawing his attention back to you, where you sit tracking your fingertips slowly up and down yourself. "Think of anything fun we could do?"

With a sly smile, biting your lip, you shuffle your hips forward. No sooner are the tips of your fingers dipping below the elastic of your panties, and he's up, out of his seat.

And straight on the floor in front of you, having taken one big step over the coffee table to get to you before wedging himself between your spread legs. And fuck does he want to touch - dive right in and feast - but instead he sits back on his haunches, staring up at you from his position on his knees, looking absolutely wrecked.

"That what you want, pretty boy?" you say, as he wipes one hand across his chin, the other balling into a fist in his lap.

He's nervous. Impulsive, sure, but hesitant. So, you reach for his hand before it falls to join his other in his lap, and press it into the soft meat of your thigh, squeezing down, before releasing and letting him take the reins.

His exploration is tentative, at first. Soft sweeps of his hand from your knee to your hip, and back again. Watching up at you as you relax down into the cushions around you, sighing and smiling each time his hands trace a new patch of you and light it on fire.

When his other hand joins the first, taking its place on your other thigh, you whisper breathy words of encouragement to him - words that sound so loud in his ears but he knows are barely audible above the sound of his own heavy breathing.

That's all he needs to start pressing his mouth to your bare skin. Kisses to your inner knee, small nibbles to the swell of your thigh. Each and every press of his mouth is met with a giggle - his facial hair tickling your delicate skin.

"I see he called you Catfish," you say through another giggle as his kisses move higher, following the trail of his hands.

"Yeah?" he says, his breath ghosting your thigh, smiling as you giggle again. And fuck, even if he never gets any higher than this, no closer to salvation than right here, the bulge of your thighs in his grip, this would be distraction enough to fight through fifty more bad days.

"It's the whiskers, isn't it?" you ask, laughing again when he scratches his beard lightly on your inner thigh.

But then, he's face-to-face with the tiny scrap of fabric covering you - so much smaller than he expected when he was sat staring from the other side of your trailer - looking up at you now that you're quiet, giggles subsided but one brewing just beneath the surface.

"Or," you start, as you reach down for his face, dragging your thumb across the swell of his plush bottom lip. "Or it's because you're a bottom feeder. Catfish by name, catfish by nature."

A soft kiss to your cunt over your panties comes before you even finish your taunt, and you find yourself groaning out his bizarre name not once, but twice as he cuts you off each time. Not that you mind, of course, and he doesn't seem to either. Each moan you make makes him press deeper and deeper kisses to you, until he's dragging his mouth up and down the seam of your clothed pussy, desperately trying to taste you.

Your cunt, as desperate to get to him as he is to her, throbs, trickling slick as he mouths at you, teasing your clit with nudges of his nose. And then he's licking you - not where you want him, but near enough, as he licks a soft stripe up one side of your cunt then the other, tasting your skin where your panties don't quite cover.

What you really want is to tear your underwear off and let him devour you, but you don't. That would mean pushing him away, and he's far too lost in it for you to even want to attempt it. So, instead, you reach down and yank the thin fabric to the side just as he takes another soft bite of your thigh, and delight in his gasp when he takes his first proper look at you.

"Oh, shit."

Whatever restraint he was showing before flies right out of the window when he can finally see your pussy. He dives in, tonguing your entrance, tasting every drop of arousal he's pulled from you since he started his teasing. Within a few licks, you've slouched further down the bench, spreading your thighs wider as his hands wrap around them and pin you down.

You feel better than he could imagine. Your thighs are thick and plush - the fat of them easily gripped and kneaded in his palms as he messily eats you, pressing his tongue into your hole only to feel you clench around him.

It doesn't get any less messy, or more refined, as he laps at you. It's like he's ravenous, and maybe he is, but it's too much, too fast, too soon, and not enough all at once.

"Slow," you gasp, rocking your hips, hoping he'll get the picture. And, to his credit, he does. He pulls back, looking between your furrowed brows and the wet mess he's licked over your cunt, and instead takes a slow swipe from your hole to your clit.

"That's it," you moan as his tongue teases around you. He avoids your sensitive nub for a few strokes, choosing instead to circle it, to tease you. But then his broad circles swirl tighter and tighter until you're groaning out into the tiny space. "Right there. You've got it. Oh, fuck."

Frankie moans right back. He's like a rock in his own pants, so hard it's bordering on painful, but he can't bring himself to pull a hand away from you to adjust himself. Instead, he uses his finger tips to pry you open a little, spreading your slit wide for him to lick into before focussing back on your clit and slipping a finger easily inside you.

This is how you're going to come. Onto this beautiful mans tongue, his fingers buried inside you, your t-shirt rucked up higher and higher by your own hands, fingers pinching your own nipples, head thrown back.

"Fuck, so close."

He groans, nodding into your cunt, his tongue swiping up and down on your clit with each bob of his head. And he looks beautiful doing it - eyes screwed shut as he moans and whines into your pussy, wanting nothing more than to please you, planting a delicious seed in your mind as he gets more and more desperate to make you come.

"Give me another finger, pretty boy," you ask, biting back a good boy when he slips a second thick digit into your fluttering pussy.

Reaching down, you stroke his face, pulling his attention up to you as you thread your fingers through his messy hair while he laps and suckles away at your clit, fingers pumping shallowly inside you.

"You want me to use that pretty mouth?" you ask, and the groan he gives you in return almost sets you off then and there.

"Oh fuck, that's good. That's good," you pant, taking a deep breath to try to hold back your rapidly approaching orgasm. "Stick out that tongue for me, pretty boy."

Frankie, ever the obedient little thing, sticks out his tongue for you, groaning when you slip a finger across the wet muscle and into his mouth, letting him suck on it for a little before swiping it across your own clit.

"Keep it out for me."

"Uh-huh."

You tug him closer, scratching gently at his scalp when his tongue slides against your pussy, before holding him in place.

"That's it. Keep it out. You're going to make me come, pretty boy. Keep those fingers right there too. Don't you dare take them out."

The look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know right then. This is exactly what he needed, the perfect antidote to his seemingly inevitable downward spiral. He looks entirely fucked out - face a mess, lips swollen, facial hair drenched in saliva and your own slick. Then, with a small nod of his head, you start to move, rocking gently against his face at first, before you pick up the pace.

You're not sure you've felt anything better. His fingers are deep and he's curling them inside you over and over, pressing against a spongy spot you're all too familiar with. You're grinding your clit against his tongue - using his whole face to get yourself off, alternating between the smooth slick swipe of his tongue before the rough scratch of his facial hair briefly catches your clit, and back, over and over. It's driving you insane. You're driving yourself insane, but you can't - won't - stop. How could you when he's panting, practically sobbing into your pussy, as you use him.

Now, you really are going to come. You rock against his face more rapidly, movements more precise now, fucking yourself onto his fingers and grinding your clit into his tongue, fingers tugging and pulling at his hair.

Then, your back is arching off the bench, a loud, keening groan leaving you, your fingers twitching and releasing from his hair, your hips stuttering as it all gets too much. Anyone else, any other day, and this would have spelled a ruined orgasm for you and a terrible nights sleep. But Frankie doesn't let up. Your fingers release him and he continues, nodding his own face against you exactly as you liked it, fingers curling, and curling, and curling so wetly inside you you're sure you're going to burst.

Until you do. You convulse there right on the bench, clit twitching against Frankie's tongue as you gush against his fingers, his chin, coming so hard you're sure you've left the atmosphere.

It's only when your voice finally comes back to you, your silent orgasm all but wrung out of you, that you tell him to stop - practically beg him - and collapse back into the cushion, still twitching.

Frankie sits between your legs, pressing feather light kisses to your mound, as you come down. He looks so peaceful there, between your thick thighs, soothing himself with your body while he ignores his own aching cock.

"What's your real name, pretty boy?" you ask with a lazy smile, swiping your thumb across his chin and the wetness still glistening there.

"Francisco. Frankie. It's Frankie," he mumbles into your leg, finally shifting to alleviate some of the strain in his jeans.

"Come up here and kiss me, Frankie."

On aching knees, Frankie pulls himself up. He moves to hover over you, to hold himself off of you in case he gets carried away, but you pull him down, pressing your mouth to his and tasting yourself on his tongue.

"Mhm. You want a hand with that, Frankie?" you ask, feeling the solid length now pushing into your thigh through his jeans.

"Wanna fuck you," he gasps into your mouth, rutting and grinding forward as you scrape blunt nails up his back.

And it makes you freeze. Frankie, in that moment, is certain he's fucked up. That's not what this is.

But then he hears you curse softly under your breath, looking over to a cabinet as you try to wrack your brain for when you last restocked your stash of condoms. Too fucking long ago, is the only answer that comes to mind, and you're certain you don't have any.

"I don't have any fucking condoms - goddamnit," you say with a pained sigh, trying to stop tears of frustration pricking in your eyes. You want it too. If the bulge in his pants is anything to go by, you'd have the time of your life riding him straight through till morning.

"But we can do something else?" you say, hopeful that he doesn't want to go just yet as you reach down and start stroking him over his pants. "I think I owe you that much."

Fuck does it feel good, having your hand stroke him. He wants nothing more than to say yes - not to cash in on what he's owed, but because you feel so damn good. Still, he knows it wouldn't be enough. He'd had enough tragic experiences and fumbles in the past few months that he knew the only way he was getting off was from his own hand or by fucking hard into something soft and wet, or he wasn't coming at all.

"No," he says softly, kissing you again and shifting his hips back from your grip. "No, it's okay. And, I'm not - shit - don't feel guilty, I'm not trying to do that, I'm just - it's just - uh - fuck - it's difficult. For me to, uh..."

You lay a comforting hand on his side as he trails off. "It's okay."

If your own shame had ever taught you anything, you know he's about to apologise for something that doesn't need an apology.

"Can I show you something cool, Frankie?" you say instead, cutting him off before he could let the shame eat at him.

Frankie nods, and lets you gently push him back and off the bench seat you're both awkwardly lying on.

Hauling yourself up, you reach for something under the bench closest to the end of your trailer, and pull, throwing all your weight back until the bench is shifting forward and a hidden piece of the puzzle is pulling up and out, where you can push it down onto the coffee table.

You climb onto it then - the pillows and blankets making so much sense now that he sees this is your bed - and pull a cord on the ceiling, letting it rattle and shift until there's a soft clunk.

"Come here."

Frankie follows, wary of the stability of the whole thing only for a second, climbing up behind you as you lay down. Sitting beside you, he follows your eyes up and up until they reach the ceiling.

Only, there isn't one. Instead, what he's faced with is a window to the endless sky, lit with streaks of light bouncing off of clouds, turning them a rainbow of colors as they shift and sway.

"This is what I do when everything feels too much," you say, looking straight up into the night sky. Frankie lies beside you then, looking up into the abyss alongside you in that tiny space.

"I lie here for long enough that all the big and overwhelming things feel small again. Something about looking out into the universe really puts stuff into perspective, y'know?"

"I think I do," he says with a smile, just as your hand finds his arm.

You lie there together for a little while. Talking a little, but mostly just looking out into the sky, occasionally remarking on the shapes of the circus lights beaming into the heavens.

"Fuck," You say suddenly, and Frankie turns to see you pressing your hands into your eyes, blocking any view of the sky above as you lie together in your trailer. "Fuck."

"You okay?" he says, worried that he's over stepped his mark, stayed too long and made a weird thing weirder just by sticking around.

But then you're pouncing on him, pushing him back into your bed, and latching onto his mouth in a feverish kiss. It's all you can do to not rub your bare cunt on his jeans in desperation for more, because that's just it. You want more, condoms be damned.

"What if," you say between kisses, "I could get condoms - what if - I could grab some right now - do you - do you wanna...?"

Frankie thinks it's the most obvious thing in the world - he is, after all, still rock solid in his pants. No amount of staring at the night sky seems to be making it go away. In fact, he's just got harder and harder since laying down with you and having your hands dance delicate patterns onto his bare arms.

His hands find your ass, pulling you further into him, dragging your leg over his own and your cunt along his thigh, making you grind down into him and moan into his mouth. He doesn't exactly have words for how much he wants it, just that he knows he's as desperate for it as he was to be buried face first between your thighs. So, he groans back, your hand finding a perfect spot on the crotch of his jeans, rubbing and kneading the solid lump of his cock through the denim.

"S'that a yes?" you mumble, and as you pull away, staring into the wrecked glazed eyes of one another, you both laugh, catching each others mouths in another hurried kiss.

"It's a hell fucking yes, hermosa."

At that, you dart up. Or you try to, at least. It's more of an awkward roll and a flop as you try to pull your leg from Frankie without causing any damage, before you crawl off the end of the bed and grab for your shirt and those tiny panties again - wherever the fuck they are. Balance should be your thing, but right now as you're frantically shoving clothes on, anyone would think you didn't do this for a living.

"Wait here," you pant, hopping into your shoes. "I will be right back."

And as you leave the trailer, the door slamming behind you as you practically run away into the night, Frankie thinks of how lucky he is to have found salvation in a place like this - a soft little oasis amidst so much chaos.

this story continues in fools just wanna have fun (Dieter x reader) and family friendly (Frankie x Reader [x Dieter])

tags: @beefrobeefcal @schnarfer @for-a-longlongtime

#frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie 'catfish' morales x you #frankie 'catfish' morales x reader #frankie morales #dieter bravo #triple frontier fanfiction #fic: carnal-val #coveted fics

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kakashixhatakesxwhore · 4 months

Text

Chocolate-Coated Confessions

Pairing: Kakashi x f!Reader

Summary: Kakashi's been jealously hating on Valentine's Day for a very long while, but he's pushed over the edge when you suggest you might be spending the night with someone else.

W/c: 1.5k

Warnings: Fluff, just jealousy really

Notes: he's down bad, lmk if this sucks <3

Masterlist💿

Valentine's day had never been Kakashi's favourite holiday. To him, it was a day filled with superficial displays of affection, a spectacle for those who mistook infatuation for love. Nobody in love would ever put on such a show, Kakashi reckoned as he strolled down the street to the market. As he walked, he let his eyes drift past the loving couples, holding flower bouquets and boxes of chocolates, alight with temporary delight. He couldn't help but wonder if anyone ever truly felt the emotions they so desperately attempted to display.

In his time at the Academy, a plethora of cards would be found on Kakashi's desk at the start of the day. He would always look through them casually, hoping to see your gorgeous scrawl on one of them. But he never did. As a Genin, and into his Chunin years, the girls moved from handmade cards to tiny candies and strange tokens. He'd accept the things, but usually just throw it all out by the night - he'd keep a few chocolates, just to comfort him. Kakashi didn't want their gifts, he wanted just a sliver of your attention. But he never got it, with you only holding conversation with him when he would instigate it.

You never made him a card, you never gave him a sweet - but you were the first to wish him a happy birthday since his fifth. Surely, that had to be some kind of love, right?

Kakashi trudged on, down the street, and into the fruit market. Once he stepped through the doors, Kakashi's eyes clapped onto you. Your back was turned, but he could recognize you anywhere. A picture of casual elegance, the sight of you made Kakashi's heart ache with a mixture of longing and resignation. You were so beautiful, and just destined to be his - but you didn't want him, not as anything more than a friend.

"Oh," you said, turning around to see Kakashi a few meters from you. Your smile was like a ray of sunshine, and as you approached, the subtle fragrance of your perfume enveloped him. "Hi, Kakashi. Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Isn't it just," Kakashi murmured shortly, though his thoughts were racing. "I thought you did your shopping on Thursdays."

"Just like you." The gentle laugh in your tone sent a vibration through Kakashi's body, electrifying him.

In defense, he replied, "I felt like cutting up a pineapple today, but I have no pineapple to cut."

"Don't do it," you said a little too quickly. Kakashi's eyebrows furrowed as he chuckled, amused at the slightly panicked expression that flitted across your face.

"Why not?"

"Er...because...well, just don't, okay? Trust me."

"Okay," he hummed, looking at the top of a pineapple sticking out of the bag in your arm. Curiousity piqued, he asked, "What's in the bag?"

"Not yet, Nosey Rosey," you quipped, skirting past Kakashi with a brush of your hip against his. Despite the confusion, Kakashi found himself smiling down at you as the sun caught your hair so beautifully.

Yet. He would get to find out eventually, to some capacity. It was a small win, but a win for Kakashi, none-the-less.

"I've got to go, there's a lot of work I still have to for today." Like always, you shied away from Kakashi just when you seemed to be opening up. "I'll see you later, Hatake."

Before he could respond, you turned and left the fruit market, going in the direction of your apartment complex. His words died on his lips as he watched you leave him, to go do work for today. Today. Valentine's Day.

What did you mean? Did you have a valentine? Were you making something for them? Who? Who deserved your love and how could Kakashi prove to you that he was more deserving?

Getting a couple of mangos instead, still craving pineapple, Kakashi kept your command in mind. He left the fruit market and had the mangos back in his apartment, where he read for a long few hours.

The day seemed to melt away, only eating away at Kakashi's beating heart - he didn't want to spend Valentine's Day alone anymore, and he certainly didn't want you spending it with anyone else.

It was time for action. Kakashi didn't care if he would be interrupting your hot date - in fact, he hoped he would be.

Springing from his bed around the stroke of five, Kakashi left his apartment for the confectionary a couple blocks away, getting a kilo of chocolate almonds, before heading to Yamanka Flowers. There, Kakashi bought the most expensive bouquet in the store, ignoring Ino when the little girl inquired about Kakashi's big date. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he certainly wasn't going to dash the idea.

As he dashed around the Hidden Leaf, Kakashi thought about what to say to you. It was all situation dependant, he came to realize - and, eventually, Kakashi figured he would have to let his heart speak for him, for once.

After dragging his feet, still deeply in thought, closer to the hour of six, Kakashi slowly made his way to your apartment complex. Battling with his internal monologue, he ascended the stairs, and went straight to Unit 36. He had walked you to your door a few times, but you had never invited him in.

His breath was shaking, and the items felt heavier than bricks in his arms, but Kakashi was determined. He wanted you so badly, and he needed you even worse.

Smelling a dark but sweet scent coming from under your door, he rapped upon the wood three times. Kakashi could hear a bang, then a small shout, before the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing you, as gorgeous as Kakashi had ever seen you.

Your hair was tied up messily, in disarray from the obvious culinary tasks you had taken on. A pastel pink apron hung from your neck, synching your waist, with white frills bordering the fabric. Chocolate was smeared on the front, in thin, abstract lines. The same chocolate was on your arms and hands, even a smudge having made it onto your cheek.

Kakashi took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on," he began, voice trembling slightly. Your smile widened as you leaned on the door, opening it wider for him. Gathering every shred of courage he had, Kakashi continued, "For years... all I have been able to think about is you, morning, noon, and night. Your face, your voice... they bring me comfort like nothing else."

He paused, collecting his breath and searching for any sign of what you were feeling, but something compelled him to go on before you could reject him.

"I've tried to ignore it, tried to move on, but I can't. You have a hold on my heart that I can't break. I...I need you to know...I love you." With a sharpness, you inhaled, and Kakashi sighed, "I love you more than words can describe... and it hurts to not know how you feel about me."

Breathing deeply from his monologue, Kakashi felt as though a weight was lifted from his shoulders. Even if you denied him, even if you told him your heart was for another, Kakashi would be okay, because, at least, now, you knew.

A beat of quiet passed through your apartment corridor as your eyes sparkled in the luminescent lighting. Then you simply giggled, "Do you still fancy a pineapple?"

Blinking rapidly, Kakashi asked, "What-?"

"C'mon, Lover Boy," you teased, motioning into your apartment with a smile that seemed to light up the room. "You don't know how much easier you've made things."

Still in a state of confusion, Kakashi wasn't going to turn down the invitation. He stepped into your apartment, taking in the large window and your twenty-some paintings that lined the walls. Snapping his attention back to you, Kakashi presented the bouquet and you took it up, holding the flowers close to your nose as you inhaled.

"I hope you don't think my thing is lame," you sighed, looking between the flowers and the bag of chocolate covered almonds that still resided in Kakashi's hand. "I didn't spend half as much money as you did."

"You...got me something?"

Brightly, you nodded with a deepened smile. "Yeah- well, no...kinda." You started walking toward the other room in the small apartment. "Come to the kitchen, I'll show you."

As he walked through your apartment, he took in all your little knick-knacks and chachkies. Everything in the room screamed about various corners of your personality, corners that Kakashi hoped to one day know like the back of his hand.

The kitchen was very white - white cabinets, white counters, white cupboards, white fridge, white backsplash, white oven. All white, except for a smattering of brown mess, all over two pots and the stove and the baking sheets that sat beside. You walked over nervously and motioned for Kakashi to do the same. As he got closer, he could decern chunks of various fruits and strawberries sat on the baking sheets, covered in chocolate.

"You...did this?" Kakashi asked, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief as he took in the array of chocolate-covered fruits. You nodded, eyes shining with anticipation. "For me?"

"All for you, Kakashi. Only for you."

You didn't know just how much Kakashi had prayed to hear those words come from your mouth. It was like he was dreaming, being given everything he ever wanted, and he grew anxious that it was.

Driven by a sudden surge of courage, Kakashi stepped forward and gently pressed his lips to yours. An electric jolt coursed through him as your hands instinctively cradled his cheek and the back of his neck. You melted into his embrace as he brought you close, fitting perfectly against him. Kakashi knew then that this was no dream; he was wide awake and finally living the reality he had longed for.

He also knew that he had to reevaluate Valentine's Day.

#kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake #kakashi fanfiction #hatake kakashi #kakashi fanfic #kakashi sensei #kakashi oneshot #kakashi naruto #oneshot #kakashi fluff #fluff

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thus-spoke-lo · 2 years

Text

Dear Diary || Sanji x f!reader || NSFW [minors DNI]

CW: afab!reader (no pronouns used to describe reader), reader wears a skirt, masturbation (m), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, creampie

WC: 3.6k

Read on AO3

It was an accident.

Or at the very least, that’s the story Sanji had hastily prepared as he sat perched on the edge of your bed, your diary held tightly in his grasp.

It was an accident, he’d say if anyone wandered in while he perused its pages—it had fallen on the floor and he was merely trying to find out who it belonged to, that’s why it was splayed open in his hand. Really, you see, it was completely innocent.

But Sanji already knew it was yours, having seen you with it on the deck, ardently scribbling away day after day. He could never quite get close enough or squint hard enough to see exactly what you were writing, but you certainly seemed alarmed when you’d catch him meandering by, quickly shutting the little blue book and squirreling it away in your knapsack before he could ever get near.

And now here it was in his perspiration-slick hands. He wondered what he’d find, if it was even worth it to sneak into your room, carefully closing the door behind him, just to get a glimpse at the thoughts that pirouetted through your gorgeous mind.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before cracking open the little blue book, quickly looking over the pages for any mention of him: A recipe for medical ointment and a quick story about helping Chopper with a project. A sloppily-drawn chart and notes about a conversation with Nami. Musings on something Luffy said at dinner.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” he muttered as he flipped through more pages, seeing line after line of casual observations and droll anecdotes. He was, of course, deeply and truly interested in your reflections on life with the crew, and would delightedly read just about anything you had written with your precious hands, but he didn’t have the time to peruse every paragraph. He was unsure of precisely when you’d be back with the rest of the crew, and his only goal was to find even the smallest talk of him in your handwriting—it would be enough just to see his name scrawled in these pages, enough to see that you even deigned to give him any mention at all.

He scanned page after page until finally—there it was. His name, in your writing.

He paused before he continued, taking in a shaky breath, wondering if he should read on, fearing the worst but his heart yearning for the best.

Sanji, you’d written, Sanji, Sanji, Sanji. Sat in the galley to watch him cook today. He didn’t seem to mind me there, and he was humming some song I didn’t know. He let me taste the soup he was making, and told me I was perfect because of my “refined palate.” What a man, haha.

He grinned as he continued to read:

I'm glad he doesn’t mind me hanging around him, I could watch him for hours. His hands are so elegant.

I know it’s terrible, but sometimes I wonder what those hands would feel like on me.

Sanji stopped, using his thumb to hold his place as he set the diary down in his lap, his heart thrumming in his chest. He shouldn’t keep reading, he tried to tell himself—he got what he wanted, confirmation that he at least occasionally swirled around in your mind like a ship caught in a whirlpool, and that should be the end of it.

Right?

“Okay. Just a little more,” he uttered as he opened the book again, his eyes drifting back to where he’d left off. “A little more won’t hurt.”

God I bet his hands are so soft. I bet they’d feel so nice on my skin. Running down my arms. Tickling my neck. He’d know just how to hold me, touch me carefully, so he doesn’t hurt me, just make me feel good.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath as he flipped the page to the next entry. More about him.

Sanji made me tea today and brought it to me in my room. Ugh, he’s so fucking handsome. Hard not to tell him to set the tea down and give me something else hot. I bet he would, too. I bet all I’d have to do is ask and he’d have me bent over my bed, moaning his name.

He slid his hand down to the front of his pants, palming the growing hardness that strained against the fabric. God he wanted you, and there was a painful desire roiling inside him knowing you wanted him too. And you were right, he thought as he throbbed under his hand—all it would take is one look, one pout, one soft “Please, Sanji?” and he would have you undressed in a heartbeat, writhing under him as he filled you to the hilt with every throbbing inch of him.

His hands, his hands, I’m telling you. I want him to finger me so bad. Maybe under the table while we’re having dinner. Just slide his hand up my skirt, push my panties to the side, start teasing my clit. Maybe he’d whisper in my ear that I’d need to keep quiet so no one would know. I’d just have to wriggle in my seat while he uses his fingers to tease me, and grip his leg to keep myself from screaming.

“This is wrong,” he whispered, the words hitching in his throat. “This is so wrong.”

It was as if you could read his mind, he thought as he closed his eyes for a moment, grinding into his palm. How many times had he thought about placing a hand on your leg as you sat next to him at dinner, running his fingers up and up and up your velvety skin to the apex of your thighs, placing his palm against your heated cunt. He wanted to tease you through your panties, press his fingers against your clit through the silken fabric, making soft circles over it until you started to squirm in your chair and quietly beg him to stop. But begging, no matter how sweet and polite, would do you no good; no, if you loved his hands so much, then he was going to make you come on them. You’d have to sit there and be good and still and smile and laugh like nothing was wrong while he shoved his long fingers inside of you and pumped them in and out until you clenched and fluttered around them, leaving him a drenched and slippery mess. He wondered how flustered you’d become as he dragged his soaked fingers out of you and across your bare thigh, wondered if you’d look at him with your exquisite eyes, blinking away the tears of pleasure forming at your lash line, as you tried to keep yourself from falling apart in front of everyone.

He paused for a moment, listening closely for any commotion on the ship; there was only the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He quickly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, freeing his hardening cock and sighing as he felt the cool air of your room on his burning hot skin. He gripped himself gently, delicately—like he imagined you might with your soft, perfect hands—as he continued to read.

I just need him. I need his cock in me. I’m sure he’d fuck me, but really want him to want to fuck me, you know? Not just because I’m another pretty face. I want him to want to fuck me, to need to fuck me.

Sanji groaned as he read, his hand slowly working up and down his shaft, using his thumb to gather the sticky precum dripping from the head as he did, pretending it was your luscious slick coating the length of him. Oh and how he did want to fuck you, and he did need to fuck you. Not because you were just any lovely thing with a gorgeous face—he wanted you, every last bit of you. He wanted to taste the salt of your skin, and inhale your intoxicating scent, and feel every part of you crash into him like waves; he wanted to consume you, to have every part of you to himself, to wrap himself around you and bury himself inside of you until you were practically one.

I want him to shove his cock in me, and tell me what a perfect little slut I am for him and only him. I want him to kiss my neck while he’s thrusting into me, long and slow strokes, and tell me how beautiful I am with his cock deep inside me. I want him to lose control of himself and feel him slam into me nice and hard, and hear how he moans when he finally fills me up wi—

“Sanji!”

He quickly slammed the diary shut and threw his hands over his lap, trying to cover the glaring evidence of his arousal; he glanced up to see you standing in the doorway, mouth agape, eyebrows raised to the heavens.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” you asked, eyes wide, your eyes drifting down to his lap.

“Oh, I was—well you see—so here’s the thing my dear—” Sanji stammered and stuttered, his perfectly crafted excuse slowly unraveling in his mind like an old sweater as you placed your hands on your hips—your luscious, grabbable hips, perfectly draped in a black skirt—and dragged your teeth across your lower lip impatiently. How is it that you could look so deeply and fiercely irresistible even when you clearly wanted to throttle him? How is it that his cock still throbbed even when you were probably ten seconds away from killing him where he sat?

You quickly closed the gap between you and stood before him and the end of the bed.

“Give me that,” you spat as you snatched your diary out of his hand. “What were you doing with this?”

“My darling, please, I only wanted to—well I just—”

“You just what?”

He tried to find an answer for you, one that might make him appear even the least bit less debased and depraved than he must have seemed to you just then, but he was coming up woefully short.

“I just wanted to know,” he finally sputtered after a beat.

“And what did you want to know, Sanji?” you asked, drawing out his name teasingly.

He shifted, trying ever more desperately to hide his unyielding hardness from your gaze. “I just wanted to know if you ever thought about me.”

“How so?” you smirked.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, the words sticking together in his throat as he tried to say them. “I wanted to know if you ever thought about me and you. Together.”

“Together?”

“My sweet, please don’t make me say it.”

“Aw come on,” you pouted. “Please?”

“I wanted to know if you ever thought about fucking me!” he exclaimed, his eyes clenched shut as the words burst forth from his lips. “There. Are you happy?”

“Oh Sanji,” you sighed, tilting your head to one side. You leaned forward and placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed. He let his hands drift away from his pulsating cock, and you gasped a little at the sight of it, the head swollen and glistening with his arousal. You smiled and bit your lip as you straddled him, carefully placing your soft thighs on either side of his, too needy to bother even asking him to disrobe; Sanji felt his heart nearly crawl into his throat as he could feel the radiating warmth of your cunt, covered only in thin cotton panties, come to rest against his twitching cock.

He choked out a gasp as you slowly started to grind against him, and he could feel the outline of your pussy lips through the soft fabric that barely covered them. You lowered your body onto him, your face hovering close to his, and moaned softly in his ear as you urgently pressed yourself into his lap; the sound you made, so melodic, so filled with yearning, made Sanji buck his hips up into you almost on instinct. He reached up and sunk his fingers into your plush hips, guiding your motions up and down his length, as he felt the precum that leaked out of his pulsing head start to coat your inner thigh.

“Sanji, Sanji, Sanji,” you murmured, your lips so close to his he could almost taste your lusciousness. “If you wanted to know all the things I think about you—all the filthy, dirty things I think about when I lay in bed at night—why didn’t you just ask?”

Before he could answer, before words could even take form inside the lust-filled fog in his mind, your lips were engulfing his in a warm, honeyed kiss. He moaned into your mouth and parted your lips with his tongue, hungry and wanting to taste every bit of your deliciousness; it was better than he’d ever imagined, better than he could have dreamed, to have your pillowy lips against his, your tongues dancing. As he fed from the sweetness of your mouth, you reached down and pulled your panties to the side. You grasped his cock and dragged the head along the slickness of your pussy lips, as he groaned your name into the stillness of the room.

“Do you want me, Sanji?” you asked as you slid him past your lips, letting him feel your entrance pulse against his agonizingly sensitive tip, keeping the warmth of your wet walls just out of reach until he told you what you so badly need to hear.

“Yes, god yes, my sweet,” he answered frantically, his fingers grasping at your hips, trying to pull you down onto him, as he buried his face on your neck, his tongue tracing lines up and down your skin, his lips trying to kiss every inch of you that he could reach.

“How bad?” you continued, as you squeezed his cock, feeling it swell in your palm.

“I want you so much,” he whimpered, as his hips thrusted weakly upwards into your hand, so agonizingly close to being inside of you that he could practically feel your warmth surrounding his aching cock. “I want all of you, every last beautiful bit of you. Now won’t you let me feel you, please?”

“Lay back,” you whispered, a drowsy smile on your lips, as you ran your fingertips down the sharp lines of his jaw. He reclined back onto the bed, and watched your eyes flutter shut and your mouth go slack as you lowered yourself onto him, and took his length into your waiting cunt.

Sanji gasped deliriously at the feeling, and the sounds of his bliss echoed in the room. You were better than he ever could have thought you’d be, better than he’d ever fantasized at night when he’d fuck his fist and wish so desperately it was you. Your velvet-soft pussy gripped him as you gyrated in soft, slow circles, and he slowly thrust up into you, matching your motions. He felt a deliriousness wash over him as he listened to you sigh his name over and over again, like a song he wanted to listen to forever, and he relished the weight of your body pressing into him as you placed your hands on his chest and took your pleasure from him.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he marveled, as his hands drifted upwards from your hips, exploring the expanse of your form.

“What, with your cock inside me?” you smiled.

“Exactly,” he grinned, his fingers tracing over every dip and curve of your body.

He reached under your shirt and caressed the contours of your breasts, gently kneading them in his palms. He brushed a thumb over your hardened nipple, and felt your pussy flutter around him as you whimpered in the most delectable way.

“Sanji,” you whispered as you rode him, your voice soft and wanting, “will you touch me? Make me come?”

“Yes, my darling,” he panted, running a hand down your body and slowly sliding it down your thigh. “Anything you want, anything you need.”

He pulled the dampened fabric of your panties to the side, spreading your puffy lips apart with his fingers, and found your swollen, tender clit with little effort. He tentatively pressed against it with the pad of his thumb and a needy moan escaped you; he made gentle circles over it, trying to match the speed of your gyrations.

“Like this, my dear?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you, watching every glorious expression you made as he set your core ablaze with his touch.

“Yes,” you answered through ragged gasps, “just like that. Just like that.”

“Good,” he panted as your breaths quickened and your motions began to slow as you focused on his ministrations. “That’s it, sweetheart, take what you need from me.”

He felt himself harder than he’d ever been, aching so much inside of you, as he started to feel you flutter around him.

“Sanji, I’m so close,” you keened. “Just don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“Never, my dearest,” he said, desperate. “Not until you come for me.”

“Oh Sanji,” you cried, your eyes clenching shut, “Sanji I’m gonna—”

Your words were cut short by a sharp cry as you clenched tightly around him, your walls spasming as you cried out for him, your shaking thighs pressed tightly to his and your hands gripping frantically at his shirt. He was stricken wordless by the splendor of seeing you abandon yourself to pleasure, watching you convulse unabashedly and utter some of the most exquisite moans he had ever heard.

“Why don’t you let me do the rest of the work, gorgeous?” he uttered softly, as you doubled over and rested your head on his chest, your breaths emerging in stutters and gasps.

You nodded, only able to muster a weak “Mm-hmm,” and he gathered you up and helped you lay back onto the bed. He stood up, quickly undressing, overcome with an insatiable need to bury himself inside you again as quickly as possible. As he lowered his trousers, he noticed the fly and waistband of them were drenched, your juices coating the stiff fabric; he felt his heart skip a beat at knowing he made you do that, that he made you come apart for him and soak his clothes in your wetness.

He stood at the end of the bed as he stripped his shirt off, and took in the sight before him: your body splayed across the bed, panties discarded to the side. Your shirt pulled up over your breasts and your skirt still clinging to your figure, pushed up over your hips. Your legs spread apart and your pussy exposed with your swollen, sensitive lips coated in your glistening slick.

“Are you read for more, my darling?” he asked, barely waiting for your whispered answer before plunging himself inside you, feeling your copious slick coating his length as your walls quivered around him, aftershocks of your orgasm still rippling through you.

Sanji had wanted to take his time—wanted to make passionate love to you like someone as magnificent as you deserved, not just fuck you—but the way you clenched around him, the way you sighed so dreamily and so beautifully for him and only him—it was all but impossible to hold back.

He felt your legs wrapping around his muscled back, pulling him into you, as he thrust, driving him deeper into you.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his lips against your ear, “so beautiful. This is heaven.”

You moved together simultaneously, your hips lifting upward to his thrusting body, and you whimpered as his cock pulsed inside your needy cunt. You rocked against each other, bodies arching and colliding in perfect rhythm, his lithe frame almost elegantly hypnotic in his motions. He gazed down at you with adoration, watching your lips part to gasp with every stroke, and he found himself edging ever closer to his own release.

“Sanji,” you asked, your eyes glazed over and half-lidded, lips barely parted. “Will you cum in me?”

“Yeah? Want me to fill up that pretty pussy, baby?”

“Please, Sanji?”

“Anything for you,” he sighed. The sweetness of your voice, the way you said his name, was like a drug; it was all he needed, all he ever wanted to hear.

His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more erratic and frenzied, the feeling of your warmth wrapped around him becoming more and more euphoric with every stroke. At last, he groaned your name in blissful agony as his hips stuttered and he spilled himself into you, your greedy cunt pulling spasm after spasm from him, until he collapsed on top of you in exhausted bliss, your mingled juices slowly dripping out of you.

“Oh my darling, that was amazing,” he said through staccato breaths, his face buried in your neck, as he tried to regain his composure. “I don’t know how you’re even more perfect than in my dreams, but you are.”

“Was it everything you hoped for?” you asked, smiling as you ran your fingers through his damp mess of blonde hair.

“My sweet, you were spectacular,” he sighed, as he stroked your cheek gently with the pad of his thumb and planted a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Oh Sanji, you were incredible,” you grinned, tracing your fingers along the sinewy contours of his upper arms, before adding in a teasing whisper: “Can’t wait to tell my diary all about it.”

#i wrote this with one hand on the keyboard #lo writes #sanji x reader #sanji vinsmoke x reader #black leg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #sanji x you #sanji smut #one piece smut #op.sanji #self.fire and ice

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villainbait · 11 days

Text

Moonlight Secrets

Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: PG-13 Tags: MAJOR story spoilers, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, romance, romantic overtures, angst, tension, secondhand embarrassment, grief mention, kissing, canon sylus behavior Summary: Sylus can't give you the answers you seek, but he can offer you the next best thing: a distraction from your grief. Word Count: 1.2k Alternate link: AO3

The brilliant, sunny day Linkon City offered might have felt warmer if you weren’t feeling so lonely watching everyone have picnics in the city park. It was on a lovely summer day like today where you, grandma, and Caleb used to pack up your own basket and make a trip to your favorite spot in this same park. That was before the accident. Now, you spend your afternoons ensuring the safety of Linkon’s citizens instead, and your only warmth is the memories you carry of those moments.

Your phone rings, interrupting your thoughts. It’s Sylus and you think about not picking up but it might be important. He doesn’t bother with hello, but his unnerving way of greeting you doesn't disappoint.

“Why do you look sad?” He asks, then chuckles when you don’t answer. “…Now you look angry.”

“Who wouldn’t be angry knowing that they were being watched?” You huff in exasperation, but you’re not truly mad. You’d never admit it, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that Sylus was watching you more often than not.

“If you don’t want to tell me,” Sylus drawled lazily. “Why don’t you tell me who that young, handsome, raven-haired doctor-”

You cut him off, not wanting to answer that question even less than the first.

“I was sad about the people picnicking in the park, but I’m fine now.”

“Why?” He doesn’t sound like he cares and maybe he doesn’t, but you answer him with sincerity anyway.

“This is the time of the year I usually do–well, did stuff like that with Grandma and Caleb. You know, before…” You trail off, hoping he gets the hint. You don’t want to blame Sylus when you don’t actually know whether he was responsible or why it happened, but that doesn’t stop you from mourning what was lost and feeling frustrated he wouldn’t give you the answers you desperately seek.

The silence on the other end of the line is heavy.

“I see,” Sylus finally says quietly, if for nothing else than to fill that silence. You lean against the fence and look out over the park, watching as some kids tumble over each other to grab a runaway ball. Silence falls between you again and it was hard for you to fill it without sounding bitter so you didn’t.

There was a soft clattering in the background on Sylus’s end of the line and he murmurs softly, “I have to go.” “Sure.” you answered just as quietly, and the line disconnects with neither of you saying goodbye or with well wishes of safety. You stare at his contact for a long time, your thoughts your own until a bouncy ball rolls into your boot. The kids come running over, laughing and tripping over each other in their haste to get to the ball first. You smile and kick the ball up into your hand.

“Throw it back, lady!” One of them crows and they all hold their hands up ready to catch it. You do and can’t help but smile as they fight over it.

With one last look around the park to ensure it was safe, you make your way back to headquarters, desperate for a distraction.

You don’t find one, the place deserted. In fact, things were disgustingly quiet and while you are grateful, you also wish that you had something to do. With a sigh you leave for the day after writing your boring reports and go home. However, when you find yourself standing in front of your door, there’s a crimson envelope taped to it.

Upon further inspection, It’s a map with a cleverly worded scavenger hunt written in a familiar scrawl. Sylus’s handwriting has become familiar to you and his elegant, almost dramatic style was outdated but endearing. The map was enough to pique your curiosity, so you change into something more casual and set out on the adventure awaiting you. It was better than wallowing in grief and self-pity all evening at home, anyway.

After many twists, turns, and one lost apple later, you arrive at the marked spot on Whitesand beach just after dark with a picnic basket brimming with goodies. The moon hangs low in the sky, but the illuminating glow promises a full one tonight. Sylus had already arrived ahead of you, of course, and he was stretched out on a blanket, quietly scrolling through his phone. A bottle of wine and two glasses are all he brought besides himself.

“You’re late, kitten.” he says without a hint of mercy. You want to chuck the basket at his head but instead you kick off your sandals and join him on the blanket, putting the overstuffed basket in front of the both of you.

“I can’t believe you made me do all the shopping.”

Sylus shrugged one shoulder, tucking his phone away. “I knew you’d pick out things we both would like.”

“What if I didn’t and I picked stuff you hate?” You retorted, sulking a little.

“Did you?” he mused thoughtfully. “If you did, I’d still eat it, as long as it was chosen by you.”

When he said such saccharine sentiments so easily they felt insincere, but you knew by now that they weren’t. He was shameless, his smirk lost in the shadows cast by the moonlight.

The revelry begins now that you’re here and Sylus uncorks the bottle in silent celebration of your arrival. It’s an easy camaraderie between the two of you now, and it’s hard for you to stay irritated at his antics when he’s so animated and open with you this way. The two of you exchange stories and he listens with his cheek propped on his fist as you tell him about the experiences you had as a child, or silly anecdotes like what happened with those children today.

Sylus is an attentive listener, eager to hear you talk about the most mundane things as if they’re the most fascinating story he’s ever heard. As the night goes on, you realize you’re both a little tipsy. The conversation between you finally lulls and when you look at Sylus, you see his cheeks are as flushed as yours. You can’t help but stare and he raises an eyebrow when he catches you.

“What?" he says, bemused. "Do I have something on my face?” You shake your head and seem awkward about being caught staring, but he only chuckles in response. Sylus saves you from the moment by picking up a small pastry from a bakery you like and offers it to you.

“Here, try this,” he murmurs softly. Instead of taking it from him, you lean over and take a bite from his hand. It’s delicious and you want him to try it, too.

“Have you tried it yet, Sylus? It’s…” Whatever you were going to say is cut off as Sylus leans in and kisses you suddenly, his warm lips pressed firmly against yours. He smells like wine and something you can’t quite define underneath that, but you sink into the kiss. He cradles your jaw gently and deepens his affections. His kiss is full of languid passion, unhurried, warm and inviting. He doesn’t try for more and when he pulls back to look at you with such tenderness it makes your heart twinge. You want to know the truth, but you’re also afraid if he confirms your fears that the way you feel right now will fade and you don’t want that to end yet.

So you lean in to kiss Sylus again with only the moonlight watching, and cling to the finite moments you have with him instead of the graveyard of memories waiting for you back home.

#obsessed with the bittersweet undertones always present in their relationship #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deep space #sylus x mc #lnds #sylus x you #qin che #sylus love and deepspace #fanfiction #sylus fanfiction

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