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seospicybin · 24 days ago

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TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE.

FINAL ROUND

Lee Know x reader. (s)

Chapters: Round 1 / Round 2

Synopsis: Let's play Two Truths and A Lie, and here goes the first thing about you: Despite you're no longer Kim's roommate, you still want to fuck her boyfriend, Minho. (10,25k words)

Author's note: Apologies for making you guys wait longer for this chapter 🙏🏻

Here we are—the final round of Two Truths and a Lie. By now, you know how the game works, but let me remind you once more: You share three statements about you—two being true and one false, and people must determine which is which. Simple, right? But remember that every lie contains truth, and every truth contains a lie.

Here goes statement number one: You try to be a good friend to Kim.

There are countless ways to be a good friend to Kim, and tonight, that means showing up for her performance. She usually reserves a ticket for you at the box office, but this time, you bought one yourself—bundling up in warm layers, bracing against the biting December cold.

On the way, you stop by a florist, carefully selecting only the prettiest flowers. A bouquet of yellow roses feels very fitting—bright, warm, just like Kim.

Outside the arts center, a crowd has already gathered. Some are just chattering, a few take photos of the show’s poster, The Nutcracker written in bold letters at the top. And there she is—Kim—captured mid-arabesque in a flowing purple ballet dress, a silver crown gleaming against her dark hair. She looks stunning. Elegant. The kind of beauty that makes you ache with quiet envy. But that’s nothing new. You’ve always known there are things she has that you don’t.

The cold nips at your fingers, reminding you that the flowers won’t last long in this weather. Quickly, you weave through the people lingering near the entrance and approach the backstage doorway, where a staff member stands watch. He recognizes you instantly, his gaze dropping to the bouquet in your hands.

“For Ms. Kim, right?” His voice is firm, professional, but his smile is polite.

“Yes.” You nod, holding out the flowers. “Can you please give them to her?”

He takes them with a knowing nod. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” you say, offering a small, genuine smile before stepping inside.

The temperature shifts as you enter the theater, the warmth wrapping around you as more people take their seats. You find yours, shrugging off your coat and settling in, absentmindedly flipping through the show’s brochure as you wait for the performance to begin.

As the theater lights dim, a hush settles over the audience, anticipation thick in the air. The orchestra swells, and the red velvet curtain glides open, revealing a winter wonderland brought to life on stage. Dancers move gracefully across the set, their movements precise, delicate—each step telling a story. But your eyes are drawn only to one.

Kim steps into the spotlight as the Sugar Plum Fairy, the soft glow of stage lights catching on the shimmer of her tutu. She moves effortlessly, every motion refined and purposeful, as if she were born for this moment. The way she balances on pointe, the way her arms float as if weightless—it’s mesmerizing. The audience is enchanted, and so are you.

You forget, for a moment, about the cold outside, about the world beyond this theater. You forget everything except the way she owns the stage, her presence commanding yet light as air. She is stunning, radiant in a way that makes your chest ache—not just with admiration, but with something deeper. Something bitter and unspoken.

Then, he appears.

Minho steps onto the stage for the grand pas de deux, dressed in regal white and gold. The moment he enters, the air shifts. His movements are sharp yet fluid, powerful yet controlled. He carries himself with the same elegance Kim does, his body an extension of the music. The chemistry between them is undeniable—the way he lifts her, the way she trusts him completely, the way they move together in perfect harmony.

It’s beautiful. Breathtaking. And it makes you feel sick. Because for all the times Minho has looked at you in secret, for all the fleeting moments you’ve stolen together, this—this is where he belongs. Not with you. Not in the dim corners of a city where guilt and desire blur into one. But here, in the light, with her.

The final curtain falls, and the applause is deafening. Even as the theater fills with the hum of voices and shuffling feet, you remain seated for a moment, letting the weight of the performance settle over you.

After most of the attendees have left, you make your way outside to wait for Kim. The crisp night air bites at your skin as the crowd slowly disperses, some lingering to catch a glimpse of the performers. You step aside, tucking your hands into your coat pockets, when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Hey, you!”

Gaspard approaches with an easy smile, still exuding the energy of the stage. “You made it,” he says, pulling you into a brief, warm hug before stepping back. “Another successful night, don’t you think?”

“You were incredible, as always,” you tell him sincerely. “The whole show was.”

He grins. “We try our best. We’re heading out for drinks later—you should come.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “Not tonight. I have work tomorrow.”

Gaspard clicks his tongue in disappointment but doesn’t press. Instead, he stays by your side with an arm drapes around your shoulders, waiting with you.

After a while, the backstage doors finally open, and Kim emerges, no longer in costume but wrapped in a thick coat, her hair still pinned elegantly. She’s instantly surrounded—friends, fans, admirers. She greets them all with practiced grace, stopping to sign programs, take photos, and exchange words of gratitude. You wait patiently, watching as she moves through the crowd, effortlessly holding everyone’s attention.

When Kim finally reaches you, she doesn’t hesitate to pull you into a hug, her arms warm around you. “You came,” she says, a smile in her voice.

“Of course. You were amazing tonight.”

She leans back, her expression pleased. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

“You deserved them.”

Kim laughs lightly. “You should come with us for drinks. Oh, wait, Gaspard must have asked you already.”

Gaspard squeezes your shoulder and glances at you. “I sure did.”

Before you can answer, the crowd stirs again, voices rising with excitement. Your gaze shifts, and there he is.

Minho steps out, and almost instantly, the attention turns to him. Fans call his name, reaching out, cameras flashing. He’s calm, composed—used to this. You stand frozen, watching as he acknowledges the crowd with a polite smile.

For a brief moment, you wonder if he’s going to look your way. You inhale quietly, shifting your focus back to Kim before that can happen. “You were really incredible tonight,” you tell her again, softer this time, as if it’s meant just for her. “You deserve all of this.”

Kim’s eyes soften, and before she can say anything, you step forward, pulling her into another hug. She’s warm, her perfume familiar, and for a second, you let yourself sink into it—into the comfort of her presence, of a friendship untouched by everything else.

Then, as you pull away, you smile. “We’ll celebrate soon,” you promise lightly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “But for now, I should get going.”

Kim pouts but nods in understanding. “Alright. Next time, then.”

“Are you really going?” Gaspard asks with a defeated smile.

“Yes. But you guys should go and have fun. You both deserve it,” you conclude with a sincere smile before stepping away. “Have a great night!”

With one last glance at the lively scene around you, you turn and slipping away before Minho’s eyes can find you, slipping away into the night.

The second you step into your apartment, you slip off your coat, letting it drape over the chair, and make your way to the bathroom. The mirror reflects back a tired version of yourself—eyes a little distant, lips pressed together in thought.

You sit at your vanity, the glow of the lamp casting soft shadows across the room as you go through the familiar motions of your nightly routine. A dab of cleanser, a sweep of toner, the cool press of serum against your skin. Your hands move on their own, practiced, but your mind is elsewhere.

Back at the theater. Back to the way Kim and Minho moved together.

You can still see it—the effortless way he lifted her, the trust in the way she leaned into him, the way they fit so perfectly in each other’s arms. A pair. A partnership. A love story told through every precise step, every lingering touch.

Your stomach twists, an ache settling deep in your chest. You envy them. Not just the way they danced, but the ease of it—the way they belonged to each other without question, without hesitation. The way the world looked at them and saw something whole, something complete. And then there’s you. Wanting something that was never yours to begin with.

You pause, staring at your reflection, the weight of that realization sinking in. How wrong it is to want something that belongs to someone else. How wrong it is to want him.

As you’re about to climb onto the bed, a sudden knock at your door catches you off guard. Your heart skips a beat, and for a brief, inexplicable moment, you freeze, unsure if you imagined it. But then it comes again—a soft, steady knock. You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s late, much later than anyone would normally stop by.

For a moment, you debate whether to ignore it. But the curiosity—the need to understand why someone would show up at your door, at this hour—pushes you forward.

You move toward the door slowly, your hand hovering over the doorknob, as if you’re not quite ready to face whoever is on the other side. But the second you open it, there he is. Minho.

He stands in front of you, his eyes searching yours, but you don’t know what to say. The words are caught in your throat, tangled up with everything you’ve been feeling—everything you’ve been trying to bury deep inside. You know what you should do. You’ve already made up your mind to stop seeing him, to stop allowing yourself to slip into something that was never meant to be.

But the ache in your chest makes it hard to breathe. You’ve been pushing down your feelings for so long, trying to bury them under layers of logic, but now, standing face-to-face with Minho, everything feels like it’s on the edge of breaking.

You open your mouth, ready to say the words—to push him away, to make him understand. But before you can speak, Minho steps forward, closing the distance between you. His presence overwhelms you, pulling you in.

Then, without a single word, he reaches for you, his hand gentle on your cheek, and tilts your face up toward his. Your heart skips, your breath catches in your throat, and before you can process anything, he leans down and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is nothing like you expect. It’s not frantic or desperate. It’s soft, lingering, and it sends a shiver down your spine. His lips are warm against yours, his touch tentative at first, like he’s waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. You can’t. Your body betrays you, and in that moment, you find yourself responding, kissing him back without thinking. The world outside, the promises you’ve made to yourself, all of it fades into the background. All you can feel is him.

But then, just as quickly as it started, Minho’s lips leave yours, but the warmth of his touch lingers, setting every nerve in your body on fire. He pulls back slightly, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you, and his hand remains on your cheek, his thumb absently stroking your skin.

This is your chance to make it right. You should push him away. You should tell him this was a mistake, but you don’t.

Because the moment he kissed you, everything you’d been holding back—the guilt, the restraint, the effort to be a good friend to Kim—crumbled. All that remains is the undeniable truth: you want Minho even more than before.

With that, here goes statement number two: That’s a preview to the final chapter of Two Truths and A Lie because honestly, your girl here still needs time to cook 👩🏻‍🍳

So please be patient. Just know that it'll come out soon! 😊

Statement number three: This is not an April fool's day post! ☝🏻

P.s the third statement is obvs a lie (because it's two truths and a lie, duh!) and I'm sorry, I'm giggling as I type this but also feel horrible for fooling you all. I love you all so pls don't be mad for too long 😭😭😭🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

#stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #lee know x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fics #skz fanfics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut

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crimsonspring · 5 months ago

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"my star, that's not what i had meant." xavier's voice, as always, is as gentle as can be. she's over-consumed with anger, grasping at straws in attempts to validate her desperate want to scream at him, so she tries to think of a time when he'd raised his voice at her, and she can't. not even by a singular decibel.

xavier, a man so fitting of his angel-like features, was the kindest and gentlest soul she's ever known. even during their biggest fights, (she wonders if he'd even consider them fights, because he never fights back) he'd only ever gently explains his thoughts as she snaps and throws her arms up in frustration. this time, it's no different.

"oh come on, xavier. you meant exactly what you said - you don't think i can do it!" she speaks accusingly, deep lines of upset drawn in between her brows as she frowns. "you said "i don't think it's a good idea to involve yourself in this mission," did you not?" xavier opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it soon after. because she was right, she had quoted him verbatim.

she scoffs, shaking her head as she glares at her lover. "and yet, your name was the first one i saw when they released the list of hunter confirmed for the mission! do you see me as less, xavier? i know i'm not as experienced as you are, but i'm still a good hunter!"

xavier has his head hung low, blonde strands covering his guilt ridden blue orbs. he feels guilty, there's no question about it. yet, the small selfish part of him, ruled by the memory of his dying lover's body turning cold in his own arms, makes no way for regret to reside in his body. till this day, though a long time since the memory was birthed, there isn't a day where the feeling of his legs growing numb from staying frozen in place, fearful of any minuscule movement that will reinforce the fact that she has died, doesn't haunt him.

it was not as though he isn't aware of her capabilities as a hunter. she was talented beyond words. the way she moved and danced with the swords and weapons against the wanderers like the battlefield was a stage for her very own recital - her skills captivates him every time he had the honour of sharing the battlefield with her.

but he won't lie, ever since doctor zayne himself had pulled him aside secretly after he had accompanied her to her monthly appointment to advise him to be cautious of her overexerting herself physically at work due to her heart condition (and though neither doctor zayne nor she has given him much clue about the true urgency of her condition, he cannot help but be haunted by the fear and frustration in the cardiac surgeon's eyes), the fear has kept him up on more nights than he thought possible.

he's still silent, unsure how he'd like to go about this. as worried as he is, he bets it's an even more difficult experience for her to go through. her condition was something they barely talked about, she often shrugs off the topic every time it was brought up. xavier understands that she fears it too - almost to the point that she overcompensates for it by being too fearless. xavier wishes they could just simply talk about their fears together, but he doesn't know how to.

"so? nothing else to say now?" she almost challenges him, scoffing yet again in disbelief as she finally pulls her glare away and crosses her arms. xavier actually has a million and one things that he wishes to say, the bulk of it being apologies and the truth that's been weighing so heavily in his heart.

xavier is soft spoken, his body often the pen that writes the words he wishes to speak. "i.." he begins, then shakes his head as he steps in front of her, and so naturally, gets on his knees. an arm wraps around the back of her knees, and his free hand captures one of her own. he finds strength in the warmth of her skin, a reminder and reassurance that she was still alive and well - and he shan't squander this chance.

"i apologise, my heart." he sighs, grateful when she doesn't pull away. there is still stiffness and hesitance in her body and he doesn't blame her for that, understands that she's upset. nervously, he looks up at her, a little desolate when he sees her purposefully looking away. he takes her hand to his lips, where they press a soft kisses on each of her fingers. he doesn't know the intent is to comfort her, or himself. though he enjoys the imprints of her skin against his own, would tattoo the art lines of her fingerprints onto every inch of his body if he could.

"without a doubt in my heart, i know you're the bravest woman alive. enthrals me to no end how you're so beautiful, so talented and so intelligent all at the same time. all the marvels in the world stored in you." his eyes never once strayed away from her face, and you could see the twinkling in his eyes as he continues to watch her like she was the embodiment of the flowers that bloom in spring - and this garden was a place he'd be the most devoted pilgrim for. and with the honour of being the one she loves, how could this soldier not want protect his beloved treasure?

"but in all honesty, i'd been a bit worried since your last appointment. you've never truly told me what happened, so i don't know how to gauge things." he continues his explanation, still on his knees as he continues to press his kisses against her skin. this part of the explanation though, sends a shiver down his own spine as he recollects the reality of the situation. his star might not be okay, and he doesn't know what to do to cure her, except to just protect her. pulling his eyes away from her, he whimpers and presses his forehead against her abdomen. "i'm just scared."

the prince of philos is on his knees. a man with enough power to rule a planet, but in his eyes, that will all go to shame - rendered useless - if he can't find a way to save her.

"i understand that you don't feel comfortable with telling me what's going on.. but i know that it's not good. i don't know how to make you feel better, so i figured at least, i could do my best to keep you from harms away." he feels her fingers comb through his blonde locks, and he impossibly nuzzles closer to her, his arms tightening around her torso. "if you tell me what i can do, my love, i'll do it."

"i swear to you. tell me what i can do. tell me what you need, and i'll travel a million times around the world for it."

#not proof read yet xoxo #the ending is 100% rushed bc i started this piece a couple days ago but i just could not finish it #but i desperately needed to get xavier being on his knees (as he always is) out of my system #whenever i think of xavier as a person #gentle always comes to mind #might revisit this piece again in the future #xavier x reader #xavier x mc #love and deepspace #lnds #xavier fluff #lads #l&ds

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foreverisntenough · 2 months ago

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‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 1- 'Setting Traps' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11k

It was early August, and an exclusive luxury club in Ibiza was a heaving mess of heat, music, and bodies. Even in the private section your friend managed to secure, the air felt electric and claustrophobic. Normally, you would’ve thrived in this but tonight you loathed it—the crush of too many people, the constant stream of elbows and spilled drinks, and the overbearing mix of expensive overly potent perfumes. But tonight, in the confined chaos, you found yourself pressed up against someone unexpected, and unexpectedly. It wasn’t just anyone, not a complete stranger. It was a friend of a friend. Someone on a holiday of their own linked with the holiday you were tagging along on, who’d somehow managed to make himself indispensable in this moment. You were on a girl’s holiday with Campbell, Delaney and Foster, your closest friends, and a few of their connections through work. The tequila was Clase Azul, flowing too freely, and the world around you felt like a blurred vignette, so softened by the liquor, you couldn’t even make out the blue patterning on the bottles anymore.

A misstep in your impossibly high platform Prada gold heels [ref index] sent you off balance, and before you could catch yourself, his hands were there—steady and firm, finding the bare curve of your midriff in between the multicolored sequined embellished mini skirt and top you were in. His touch burned hot against your skin, grounding you in an otherwise unsteady world. You tilted your head back, your slightly glazed, doe-like eyes locking onto his. He looked down at you with a smirk that could only be described as lethal—lazy, confident, and infuriatingly handsome. His lips, impossibly perfect, curled up into an expression that made your breath hitch. They were that irresistible shade of pink, full and just shy of teasing.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and edged with a drawl that made it seem like he’d already figured you out. You weren’t sure if it was the tequila or the man holding you, but suddenly, the room didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

"You have nice lips." The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them, a mix of tequila and the reckless honesty of the night driving your tongue. It almost felt like someone else had said them, that's how uncharacteristic the comment felt. You giggled at yourself, almost embarrassed, but the way your gaze lingered on his face betrayed the truth-you meant it. Every word. They were nice. His lips were distractingly perfect, plush, pouty, and pink, curling into a lazy smirk that only deepened with your admission.

"Yeah?" Trent's voice was warm, teasing, as he tilted his head, leaning in closer. "Well, I've been compiling a laundry list of all the things that look nice on you. I'll throw my lips in there as well, alright?" Your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, what he just said to you. His words shouldn't have had this effect, but combined with his scent-mint laced with tequila and an aftershave that was downright sinful-they melted over you, a heady cocktail of intoxication. It was a gilded cage spun from his cologne, a velvet prison where every breath was a surrender. The air between you was thick with him—amber, dark and smoldering, vanilla, sweet as a whispered sin. His essence clung to your skin, curling around your throat like unseen silk, binding you in something deeper than touch. You inhaled, and it wasn’t oxygen that filled your lungs but the ghost of him, rich, opulent, inescapable. It didn't help that his hands hadn't moved from your waist. Massive on your frame. They were firm but gentle, fingers brushing the soft skin just above the waistband of your skirt. Every subtle shift of his grip sent a jolt of warmth through your body.

“Cheeky,” you murmured, a smirk tugging at your lips as you tried to match his energy. “You’re handsome, though. Is that how you get away with bull shit like that?” Your voice was playful, but the teasing lilt couldn’t mask the fact that you were a little breathless. His dark eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze, unwavering. The club’s lights cast a soft glow over him, highlighting every sharp angle of his jaw, every line of his face. He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair, like someone who should exist in magazine spreads, not in this cramped, dimly lit corner of a nightclub. And yet here he was, holding you steady, looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

“It’s not bull shit, baby,” he said, his voice dipping lower, pulling you in like gravity. “I’m being serious. If you like my lips so much, they can be yours for the night.” Your breath caught at his words. The confidence in his tone, the way his gaze never wavered, made your cheeks flush. You tried to steel yourself, tried not to let him see how much he was affecting you, but it was impossible to hide the way your body leaned into his without you even realizing it. You, he thought, you were exactly what he wanted tonight. Cheeky, maybe smarter than he was anticipating, quicker definitely but perfect, sexy, beautiful, he’d watched you all night, and as it would go in his world, you found yourself stumbling into his arms, perfectly so.

"Is that right?" you asked, your voice softer now, almost daring, playful, managing to find composure under his spell was near impossible, but you found some fragment. Your fingers moved on their own, sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. You didn't stop until your hand rested against his neck, your nails grazing the base of his scalp in a way that made his shoulders stiffen, just for a moment. The slight hitch in his breath didn't go unnoticed, and it gave you a small thrill of satisfaction. Trent's smirk faltered, replaced by something heavier, something darker. His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you in the moment, a silent ‘don’t move away yet.’ Unbeknownst to you, you had him right where you would’ve wanted him, though the way his eyes were fixed on yours made it feel like he was the one in control.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now," he murmured earnestly, so quietly you almost didn't hear it over the pounding bass of the music. His eyes dropped to your lips again, lingering this time, and you could see the flicker of hesitation there, like he was holding himself back.

"What am I doing to you? You’re the one holding me," you whispered almost tauntingly, the words slipping out before you could think twice. The heat between you was unbearable now, the space narrowing until there was barely anything left. His lips were so close you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you wanted to, the tension stretching between you like a taut wire. Then his smirk returned, but it was different now, slower, more deliberate.

"You're trouble, you know that?" he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something else-something that made your heart race. This wasn’t what he was expecting, you were much cheekier than he was anticipating but still sexy, beautiful under the lights.

"Maybe," you replied, your own smile teasing as your nails dragged lightly against the back of his neck again causing him to roll his head a little, swayed by the feeling. "But you don't seem to mind." You taunted his clear reaction to your hands on him. And you were right, he didn’t mind this at all, in fact, it was much more fun when someone returned his serve, the rally had him chomping at the bit. For you, you weren’t aware that said rally was even happening but you were beginning to catch on. Although, it was difficult to play when you were so distracted by him. It was almost unsettling how attractive he was. His calm, smooth, and unbothered demeanor only made it worse, disarming you at every turn. There was something about the way he carried himself, as if he already knew how the night was going to end and was simply waiting for you to catch up. Those dark, pooling yet piercing eyes and the pout of his lips could get him out of anything-hell, he could probably get away with murder if he tried. He was too pretty for his own good, and yet, you were already caught, tangled in the trap he'd barely even laid. You’ve seen men set traps before—watched them lay out charm like bait, pull back the spring with well-placed compliments, wait for the inevitable snap of attraction. But him? He never had to set the mechanism. The trap was already armed, already waiting, because it wasn’t something he does; it’s something he is. It was in the way the world tilted ever so slightly for him to have you falling into his arms without even trying. You weren't naïve. You could see the path laid out before you, the one so many girls before you had walked. It was in the curl of his perfect smile, the careless grace of his fingers staying on your ribs- their comfort on a stranger's body, the way he leaned back like the world was his for the taking, if he wanted it. He didn’t chase. Didn’t lure. He simply existed, and they came. Drawn like moths to a flame they swear won’t burn them. Falling victim to his allure seemed inevitable, but for some reason, you didn't mind. If he wanted you to be his prey tonight, maybe you'd oblige.

"And I'm not your baby," you cooed, rolling your eyes with a mock pout, though you couldn't ignore the way the nickname had made your stomach flip when he said it sentences ago, playing a little game of your own, testing if he even knew he was playing his. And then his smile grew again with cheek. The thing is, you didn’t believe in your game though. You didn’t care why he said it, you didn't hate that he called you it. Not at all. Maybe he’d never had to notice the way the traps happen, how the air tightens when he enters a room, how glances hook onto him like fish caught mid-current. Maybe he didn’t even realize that every step he took, every slow blink, long lashes fluttering, every lazy shift of his genetically blessed jaw was a trigger, a silent snap. Or maybe he very clearly did. Maybe he always had.

"Aren't you, though?" Trent's smirk deepened, devilish and self-assured. His hands shifted slightly, sliding lower until they rested just above your ass, pulling you closer into him. "I think you want to be. Actually... I'm pretty sure I'll have you calling me ‘baby’ by the end of the night."

The audacity of him should have annoyed you, but instead, it sent a spark of heat straight through your veins. His confidence was maddeningly attractive, the kind you wanted to knock down but couldn't help being drawn to.

"You sound so sure about that," you murmured, your voice teasing as you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his. The look on your face was playful, a devious smirk pulling at the corners of your own lips as you tried to keep up with his game.

"I'm very sure," he replied, his voice dropping into something lower, something that made your heart stutter. "So sure that I'll put a wager on it." He taunted.

"A wager?" you asked, your tone feigning curiosity, though you already knew where he was going. He tilted his head slightly, his mahogany eyes that briefly lit a honey hue under a stray strobe light locked on yours.

"Yeah, a wager.” He smirked in a way that was confirmation he was very conscious of his looks, of his effects. “I think I'll have you purring in my ear, wanting more of the lips you think are so nice... if I kiss you." The air between you was thick now, buzzing with a tension that had you gripping onto your resolve like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You tried to meet his confidence with your own, though the edges of your composure were fraying fast.

"And what if I don't want that?" you teased, your voice quieter now, though it betrayed the truth-you wanted it more than you were willing to admit. You were losing ground on composure. His smirk widened, dangerously charming as he leaned in just enough to make you hold your breath.

"You do," he whispered, his voice dripping with certainty. He winked at you, then pulled back abruptly, leaving you breathless as he leaned away from you to pick up his glass from the table beside you two. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours. He didn't have to say anything more-he already knew he'd won. Dammit, you thought, mentally clenching your fists at your sides in a futile attempt to regain control. He was right. You wanted to kiss him. Badly. Suddenly you were envious of glassware in an Ibizan club being kissed by his pillowy lips.

The moment he stepped back, the absence of his warmth left a void, and in a desperate attempt to reclaim the composure you had lost the second your eyes met his, you pivoted, snatching your own glass off another table. Your body turned sharply, leaning into the cool steel railing of the private section, your eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for someone—anyone—to anchor you back to reality. But you weren’t looking for anyone. You were looking for yourself, for a shred of dignity, for anything to tether you to something other than the pull of him. To not envy a fucking glass of tequila. Even in absence, he lingered—an intoxicant, a slow-burning spell that you couldn’t break so you kept trying to find that elusive dignity. Your chest rose and fell, each breath failing to steady the racing pulse beneath your skin. The tequila in your own grip trembled ever so slightly before you lifted it to your lips, the club lights catching the gloss of your pout as you wrapped your mouth around the straw. You took a slow, deliberate sip, the chilled burn of liquor tracing down your throat, your head tipping back ever so slightly as you swallowed. Unbeknownst to you, every inch of this unconscious display was laid out before Trent like an offering.

The way you bent into the railing, arching your spine slightly, left your already minuscule skirt riding higher, the glittering fabric threatening to reveal the soft curve of your ass. His eyes locked in, laser focused on the plunging curve neckline of your top that strained as you leaned forward, your tits dangerously close to spilling free, rising and falling with each breath you couldn’t seem to control. Club lights flashed in fragmented bursts, kissing the high points of your cheekbones, your collarbone, the delicate dip of your throat as you swallowed more tequila. You didn’t see the way he watched you, but you could feel it—heavy, searing, claiming.

Trent didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He leaned back against the side of the booth, one hand lazily gripping his glass, the other resting at the hem of his shirt as he watched—smug, satisfied, and entirely in control. Confident as he crossed one leg over the other, enjoying his view. The coy smirk on his lips deepened as he took another sip of his drink, dark eyes drinking you in just the same. You, in your reckless attempt to escape him, had only handed yourself over completely. And he knew it.

—

Campbell’s voice cut through the haze of heat and tequila, her arms wrapping around your waist as she stumbled into you, pressing a fresh drink into your hand. You barely registered her words, your head still spinning from the last round, from the smirk that had unraveled you, from the man who had made it his personal mission to toy with your resolve. You flicked the abandoned straw onto the table, deciding you had no use for the pretense of sipping. Instead, you tilted your head back entirely now and downed the remainder of your drink in one go, the tequila burning its way down your throat like gasoline to an already smoldering fire.

Your friend laughed, probably saying something about your reckless pace, but her words were nothing more than a distant hum against the pounding bass and the rush of alcohol in your bloodstream. You smiled back at her, a drunk, lazy grin, pretending to have heard her when in reality, your focus was locked elsewhere—on the heat still lingering over your skin, on the phantom of his touch still pressed into your waist. Then, as if the night hadn’t already conspired against your thin resolve, your friend turned, her face lighting up in pure, intoxicated joy. She saw someone—someone she hadn’t spotted through the crush of bodies yet.

“T!” She yelled before flicking her eyes back to you. “Y/N!!!!! This is my friend T. Have you met? Trent!” Campbell practically screamed, her words absurdly slurred, her excitement cutting through the moment like a knife. You froze. For a second, you thought maybe the alcohol had made you hallucinate, but no—there he was, still, standing right in front of you again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Mere minutes had passed since he’d pulled away, since he’d left you breathless and desperate for control. But now, he was back, and you’d be lying if you said you could’ve ever forgotten that face after a lifetime. That mouth, those lips in particular. Trent smirked as he leaned in, embracing Campbell effortlessly in a clear platonic yet friendly hug, but his eyes never left you. They remained locked onto yours, unwavering, knowing.

“You have nice lips,” he cooed, a compliment with a past, his voice a slow, syrupy tease, mimicking the very words you had let slip earlier. His smirk deepened as he watched the way your cheeks betrayed you, the flush creeping across your skin before you could stop it. It was like he had a remote control to you, like he could turn you inside out with a mere glance. But you weren’t about to let him keep the batteries.

“Mmm, don’t know if we’ve met,” you mused, turning to Campbell with an expression that was smugly sweet, feigning innocence even as your pulse quickened.

“Really, huh? I thought we had,” Trent interjected smoothly, his voice laced with something dangerously playful. His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, before his lips curled into something downright sinful. “Well… I thought so because when I saw you tonight, I swore those lips were wrapped around…. a straw,” he paused, the innuendo dripping from his tongue like honey. “Maybe it fell…” His eyes flicked down to your drink—the one Campbell just handed to you that was already dangerously close to empty, the second round of tequila you were using as a shield against the slow, intoxicating pull of him. He knew. He knew exactly what you were doing. He’d rallied with girls on a night out before. He knew you were trying to drown the fire, to blur the sharp edges of the want coiling deep in your stomach. A part of you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But an equally strong part of you—one you were trying to silence with every gulp of Clase Azul—wanted to tell him to fuck you instead.

The moment his name was called, something in you clenched—tight, sharp, immediate. You told yourself it was relief, that the sudden break in his attention was a mercy. But your body betrayed you, your pulse thrumming in protest, your skin still humming where his gaze had lingered. He turned toward his friend, pulled effortlessly into another orbit, another trap he hadn’t even needed to set. It was almost laughable, how easily the world bent to him. Perched on the ledge of the booth, his friend gestured for him to come over, their pristine designer trainers pressed against the seat’s velvet, surrounded by girls whose gazes were already hungry, already waiting for him to just arrive so they could fall at his feet. And yet, for the past hour, he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t strayed. He had been locked onto you, circling, pushing, teasing. And that was the problem.

You hated him for it. Hated the way he had unraveled you so effortlessly, hated the way his words coiled inside your head long after they’d left his lips. You loathed the way he looked at you—like he already knew things about you that he had no right to know, like he had seen past the layers of indifference you tried to wear so well. And worst of all? You hated how much you liked it. It was pathetic, really, how deep he’d already sunk into you, how you could still feel the weight of his smirk pressed against your skin, how the mere echo of his touch felt more intoxicating than the liquor burning in your veins. You weren’t the type to fall for men like this—the ones who knew exactly what they were, exactly what they could do to you. You had seen his type before. Felt his type before. And yet here you were, caught in the same web, helpless against the slow, deliberate pull of him. You wanted to prove him wrong. You needed to. You wanted to walk away and never think of him again, to erase the memory of his voice in your ear, his hands grazing your body like he already owned it. You wanted to prove that you were immune, that you were better than the fallen, that you weren’t one of those girls staring at him like he was something divine. And yet, all you could think about was his wager. How, despite everything, you already felt like you were losing.

Campbell’s voice cut through the haze of your thoughts once over, her excitement colliding headfirst into the slow-blooming chaos in your chest.

“Did he just compliment you? Oh my god, I think he likes you! He’s never like that. What the fuck, Y/N?” she practically screamed, yanking you from your internal debrief on a complete stranger—a stranger you were now watching too closely, a stranger you should not be watching at all. Trent was talking to someone new. A girl. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t care. But something in your stomach twisted all the same. His body language was relaxed, effortlessly magnetic, the way all of him seemed to be. But his hands? They weren’t on her. You hadn’t noticed that, but he had. And that was intentional.

“I’m sure he does,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, shoving the thought of him out of your head before it could sink any deeper. You tore your gaze away, pretending you didn’t see, pretending it wasn’t pissing you off.

“No, Y/N… like, he can be an ass. He goes so quiet. But that? That was not… He’s never like that. That was effort,” Campbell insisted, voice laced with a mix of disbelief and giddy amusement. You turned to her with an exaggerated gasp.

“Wow, thanks Cam! And you were introducing us?” You let a teasing grin stretch across your lips, nudging her lightly. “And effort… please.” You looked at her with a smug grin and a roll of the eyes. Campbell dissolved into laughter, shaking her head.

“No! No! I just mean… he’s actually so nice. Just… reserved. Kind of low-key shy, I think? So people assume he’s rude, but he’s not. Swear. I don’t know. I’ve just never seen him move like that before. To not be distracted.” You hummed, considering her words, rolling them over in your mind like dice. You understood how introverts could be mistaken for standoffish—you’d seen it happen before. Felt it happen before. That’s fine. But Trent? No. That wasn’t the man who had cornered you tonight, who had toyed with you like he already knew the outcome.

Confident. Cocky. Every word precise, delivered with weight and purpose. That was not the behavior of a shy man.

“Hmmm. Interesting.” You mused sarcastically. Your gaze flickered back to him, drawn as if by an invisible thread. And just as your eyes found him, his were already on you. It was unsettling, the way he was watching you—his expression unreadable, dark eyes sharp with curiosity, studying you like he was piecing together a puzzle. A puzzle that had just whispered his name. And then, in slow motion—deliberate, taunting, knowing—he smirked. Just the barest curl of his lips, enough to make your breath hitch. And then came the wink. A single, devastating flicker of his eye, effortless but deadly. Like an arrow loosed straight at your chest. It was playful. It was mocking. It was a challenge wrapped in charm, a silent dare to see if you would flinch. You had mere seconds to decide: Would you let it hit its mark, let it burrow deep where you knew it would linger? Or would you step aside, get the fuck out of the way before the impact knocked you breathless? Either way, the damage was already done, he’d fired it.

The night carried on, and so did you—unscathed, but not untouched. Trent had taken his shot, and while it might’ve grazed you, you weren’t bleeding out. Not yet. Your will was stronger than that, forged in something more unshakable than the way a man could look at you, stronger than the pull of a pretty face and a cocky smirk. But the truth was, it was touch and go, because he was handsome enough to break and snap it in two at any given moment, and that was a dangerous truth to swallow.

You and Trent kept to your corners, circling each other like fighters in a ring, locked in a battle neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. It was a silent war waged between you, invisible to the rest of the world but undeniable in the space that stretched and shrank between you all night. The music pounded through the club, deep bass rattling the walls, seeping into the floor, into your bones, but the loudest sound to you was the echo of his voice in your head. The cocky lilt, the playful innuendos, the way he said your name like he already knew how it would taste.

There were stolen glances all night, ones you both thought went unnoticed. Yours lingering on him when he seemed to forget you existed, a strange ache settling in your chest at the sight of him—relaxed, unbothered, moving on. When he wasn’t looking, when he was draped in the effortless charm that made girls hover close, drawn into the glow of him. You watched, quietly simmering, convincing yourself it was indifference rather than irritation, as if you weren’t keeping count of the times he laughed too easily at someone else’s joke, leaned in too close to whisper something into another girl’s ear. Forgetting you.

His on you when you weren’t aware, when you were talking to another guy or laughing into your drink, lips slick with tequila and carelessness. Something darker lingered in his gaze, something brooding—like he didn’t quite like the ease with which you’d left him behind. The way you hadn’t turned your head to watch him go, something sharp flickering behind his gaze, like the sight of you untouched by his presence, yet he was watching other men leaving fingerprints on you. And that left a wound of its own.

And then there were the moments where your eyes collided, held, and something unspoken crackled between you, across the hazy stretch of the club, across bodies dancing in a drunken stupor, across conversations you weren’t listening to. And in those stolen seconds, something lit behind both of your gazes. It wasn’t tension. It wasn’t lust. It was deeper—raw, unfiltered desire. A recognition that neither of you could explain, and neither of you dared to. Desire, pure and simple, threatening to bubble over. No games, no taunts, no witty remarks to deflect from it. Just the ache of it. It sat between you, invisible but suffocating, until one of you—sometimes him, sometimes you—forced it back down. Swallowed it whole. Let it simmer beneath the surface of your skin, let it coil at the base of your spine, let the moment slip away before it ruined the game you both were too stubborn to stop playing, too stubborn to call it what it was, too proud to let it end in a draw.

And so, the night stretched on. The club pulsed around you, an organism of its own—music thrumming, bodies swaying, drinks spilling over the edges of crystal-clear glasses. But slowly the crowd was thinning, the air less electric. The once-packed club had begun to filter down, the air no longer suffocating but oddly vacant, like open water after a shipwreck. Friends had been lost to the night—some tangled into waiting arms for a night of fleeting indulgence, others already gone in cabs, leaving behind only the remnants of the chaos they had brought with them.

You found yourself on a velvet couch, plush and cool against your bare thighs, your phone heavy in your hands as you scrolled through contacts, half-heartedly trying to organize a ride back to your hotel. You stared at your phone, fingers sluggishly typing out texts. Somehow, you had ended up the most sober of your friends—whether by accident or design, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was the sobering effect of knowing that for all the glances, all the unspoken words, all the tension humming between you and Trent Alexander-Arnold…He hadn’t come after you. He wasn’t going to chase you. And you weren’t going to let yourself wish he would.

But just as that thought settled, just as you started to exhale, your pulse dipped into something traitorous—because you felt him before you saw him. A shift in the air. A presence at the edge of your awareness. And when you finally glanced up from your phone, there he was. Leaning against the railing just a few feet away, drink in hand, watching you with the kind of interest that made your skin feel too tight. His lips curled at the edges. Slow. Deliberate. Something you committed to memory without wanting to. You were alone. You hadn’t left with someone else, and it emboldened him all the more. He lifted his glass in a silent, wordless toast. And just like that—just when you thought you’d get out alive—he knocked you off balance again and back into the ring. You dropped your eyes with a dismissive shake of the head acting as if you were disinterested and solely focused on your phone. Your eyes narrowed and focused attempting to ignore how the air had gone thick again, charged with something darker, heavier than before.

Then within moments, you felt him slide into the seat next to you, his thigh pressing flush against yours, heat licked up your spine. He had finally come to you. His arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, fingers just a breath away from your shoulder—close enough to feel, but not quite touching. Even in his drunken haze, Trent understood boundaries. Or maybe he was testing them, toeing the line between restraint and indulgence. Not that the line was particularly clear anymore. That same scent—amber, vanilla, and something undeniably him—coiled around you like smoke, sweet and sinful. It was almost enough to make you forget why you were actively not giving into this. Almost. But you stayed focused, tapping at your phone with perfectly manicured fingers, trying and failing to string together enough Spanish to confirm your ride. Then—warmth.

“Nah, don’t do that.” A whisper, low and thick, slipped into your ear, lips so close you swore you felt them brush against the shell. A shiver ran down your spine, but you held your ground. His breath fanned across your skin, and God help you, his lips—those devastating lips—felt just as good when they weren’t even touching you, just speaking. You sucked in a deep breath, hoping resilience would come with the oxygen. “Come home with me, baby.” The words weren’t a plea. They were a promise. A slow, decadent offer drenched in seduction, delivered so effortlessly it was damn near unfair. And just as he was about to give in—let himself slip, let himself press a kiss to the column of your neck, to drag you under with him—you turned. He hadn’t expected that. His breath hitched, gaze locked onto yours, the usual lazy confidence flickering with something less certain.

“No?” You rejected him with a quiet, amused laugh, head tilting as you studied him. Trent blinked, processing, caught off guard. The world rarely said to him, this scenario never happening to him. “You were with other girls all night,” you pointed out, brows raising. “And now you want me to go home with you?” The question dripped with disbelief, with challenge. As if he could just shake off the countless drinks he’d handed to other women, the flirtation, the way he had let them get close—only to turn around and expect you to fall into his hands because you’d made the mistake of playing his game. He leaned in, voice smooth as silk.

“Yeah, but you knew my eyes were on you.” His voice, when it came, was a slow, knowing drawl that slid down your spine like warm honey. “You put on a hell of a show, baby.” And, fuck, it was calculatedly smooth. It was too smooth. It was like honey laced with something dangerous, honey sprinkled with cocaine, he was something addictive. The way he looked at you then—deep, dark brown eyes, heavy with intent—you could have drowned in them, let them pull you under until you forgot how to breathe. He smelled like temptation, his lips looked too plush, too kissable, and suddenly, the condensation on your empty tequila glass wasn’t the only thing wet. But you weren’t that girl. Not tonight at least. Your resilience putting in one strong shift in stoppage time.

“That’s a you problem.” Your smirk was sharp, head cocking to the side as you shot the words back at him. He exhaled a low chuckle, shaking his head, but then—he tried again.

“C’mon.” And, fuck, he pouted. He actually pouted. Not in a mocking, exaggerated way, but in a way that was so natural, so devastatingly cute, it was almost cruel. His lips pressed into a soft, plush curve, his big brown eyes slightly drooping, and it was disarming. One second, you’d been curious about unbuttoning his shirt just a little more, tracing your fingers down his toned chest, and the next, you were being guilt-tripped by the single most beautiful face you’d ever seen. Then—salvation. Or, Uber. Your phone pinged.

“No,” you hummed, biting back a grin as you stood. “Sorry, baby.” The pet name dripped with mockery, teasing but not unkind. And as you moved past him, you let your hand trail from his shoulder across his chest, fingertips grazing exposed skin in the V of his half-unbuttoned shirt, Your nails scratched lightly over the material, onto his skin then back to the otherside of material, dragging it open a little more as you pulled your hand across him, just enough to feel, just enough to make him shudder. Trent’s eyes fluttered shut. His head fell back against the wall behind him. And you? You caught a perfect glimpse of his chest, pleased with both the sight and the reaction. As you turned to leave, you sent one final, flaming arrow straight at him—a slow, deliberate wink. It hit. Hard. Trent was glued to the seat, body slumped, fingers gripping his glass a little too tight. You didn’t give him the option to get out of the way. And when you disappeared into the night, his lips parted, head tilting back slightly as he let out the softest, most defeated groan naturally accompanied by a gorgeous smile. The arrow of you had ripped right through him. And yet—he only felt more determined. Maybe deluded. But definitely determined to have you.

Deranged. That was the only way to describe it now.

Trent—Premier League star, England international, double-digit millions of followers, idolized and envied in equal measure—was lying flat on his back in the middle of his Ibiza villa’s king-sized bed, limbs sprawled, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths as he stared up at the ceiling like it held the answer to some impossible equation. It was late or maybe you’d call it early. The club had long since faded into a blur of neon lights and bass-heavy music, the sweat-slick bodies and overpriced tequila dissolving into the background of his memory. The house was quiet now, save for the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore beyond the glass doors of his bedroom. He could hear the rustling of palm trees in the warm night breeze, the distant hum of the city still alive somewhere in the distance. But inside his head? It was chaos.

He wasn’t in shock about why he was alone—he could’ve left with someone if he wanted to. Nicked someone on the way out. He could’ve snapped his fingers and picked any girl from the club, kissed her until she thought she was special, just to wake up and not remember her name. But that wasn’t the fucking point. The point was, he was here. Alone. He couldn’t believe that when he looked up at the blank ceiling he saw you.And when he got tired of staring drunkenly at the ceiling confused by his infatuation with rejection, he shut his eyes and it only got worse. The colors, the sounds, the feelings, the visuals all amplified. His body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline, a heat curling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He was wrecked, but not in the way he should’ve been. Not in the way that came from drinking too much and partying too hard. No, he was wrecked because no matter what he did, no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t get you out of his fucking head. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t be thinking about you. He shouldn’t be replaying every moment of the night, every glance, every smirk, every teasing remark that dripped off your lips like honey, ever decision he made that got him here. But fuck, he was. And it wasn’t stopping. And when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t met with darkness—he was met with you.

Every time, he saw you. Your body swayed behind his eyelids like a fever dream, the curve of your ass barely covered as you danced, just enough to drive him insane. He could see your lips wrapping around the rim of your glass, the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed down tequila like it was water, unbothered, unfazed—except for when he spoke to you. He remembered how you felt. God, he remembered. The warmth of your soft skin under his fingers, the way your nails scraped so innocently across his chest when you walked away, yet it felt like you had ripped something out of him. The brief but damning moments of contact, your bare waist under his hands, the soft graze of your hands on his neck marking him worse than any nail-digging scratch ever could. He remembered your scent—sandalwood and crushed magnolia—velvety, intoxicating, still clinging to his senses like you had been in his bed instead of dancing out of his reach all night and now stuck in his head. He should’ve been able to shake it off. He should’ve been able to roll over, let sleep take him, wake up tomorrow with the night nothing more than a passing thought. But instead, he lay there, the memories of you painting themselves across the darkness behind his eyelids, vibrant and inescapable. Even in the loudest parts of the club, he had still heard the hushed, breathy lilt of your laugh. Even among the hundreds of people pressing in, he had still smelled you, the scent hitting him in waves, making his head spin. You were fucking magnetic—and yet, the thing that drove him insane was that you repelled him. You wouldn’t let him in. And now, lying there, frustrated, strung-out, drunk but painfully clear-headed, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Want.

It wasn’t just lust, though that was there—fuck, was it there. It was more. It was an itch under his skin, an ache in his ribs, an obsession brewing before he could even recognize it as such. His jaw clenched, his body tensing as he shifted, only then realizing the other problem. He was hard. Of course, he was. Frustration crackled through him like static. The tension coiled low in his stomach, hot and unbearable, and when he finally registered the problem pressing against his boxers, he let out a vicious groan, yanking a pillow over his face like it could somehow suffocate the thoughts of you out of his system. It didn’t work. He prayed another layer over his eyes could blind him from the memories of you but you were everywhere and he felt it, he was completely bricked at the mere idea. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. After a night like that, a night of watching you, touching you, failing to get what he wanted, his body was betraying him.

Trent Alexander-Arnold didn’t win tonight and he didn’t like that. His head hit back against the pillow behind him with a thud, frustration tightening in his chest. He ran a hand down over the pillow covering his face, exhaling harshly into it, willing himself to think about anything else, anyone else. But it was pointless. It was you. Only you.

With a sharp exhale, he yanked the pillow off his face and sat up so fast the room spun. His head was a mix of tequila and longing, swimming in the aftershocks, a heat pressing against his temples that wasn’t from the alcohol alone. His fingers twitched as he grabbed his phone off the nightstand before laying back down because he felt so dizzy. Trent sprawled out in his bed, one arm thrown over his face, the other gripping his phone with a tension that could’ve had his knuckles going white. The room was still spinning, his head buzzing with the lethal mix of alcohol and frustration. He could still taste the night on his tongue—tequila, sweat, your fucking perfume. His chest rose and fell in slow, frustrated breaths, his mind running in endless circles around you. His messages were open. His thumb hovered over the screen. His jaw was tight. He was not that guy—the one who chased, who stayed up obsessing over a girl who had barely given him the time of day. He never needed to be. But here he was, his thumb moving before he could second-guess it, scrolling with a desperation he hated himself for, furiously until he landed on a number he prayed he kept. And then, finally— Campbell.

He hovered for a second, jaw tightening, something like shame flickering in his chest. Here he was, sending a text at an ungodly hour to not even you, your friend, that’s how little you gave him. But fuck that. He didn’t care. The message sent before he could think twice.

'Yo, it’s Trent. Hope you got home safe, Cam.'

Polite. Casual. Normal. Except behind the screen, he was anything but casual. His foot bounced against the bed as he lay there waiting for a response, fingers tapping against his stomach, restlessness clawing at his insides. He was wound so fucking tight it was ridiculous. It took Campbell a while to reply—probably because she was drunk and not a man currently losing his mind over a girl who had barely entertained him. Finally, his phone buzzed. He nearly dropped it in his haste to read the message. Was Campbell confused? Massively. But did she have an inkling? Yeah.

'Home safe… so is she in her room. U good?'

She laughed to herself staring at the unexpected text she received but entirely smug, but she figured she’d give him a little something, a crumb of hope that you were at least in your own room, alone or not, he could think what he wanted. Trent exhaled through his nose, rubbing his free hand down his face. Campbell knew. Of course, she knew. It wasn’t common for them to text and definitely not at this hour. He should’ve just left it there. Should’ve ignored the obvious taunt, tossed his phone to the side, and forced himself to sleep. Instead, his thumbs moved before he could stop them.

'Course. Where you lot staying?'

Blunt. Straight to the point. No room for misinterpretation. Campbell, predictably, ate that shit up. His phone lit up again, and he could practically hear her giggling behind the text.

'Maybe I'll tell you in the morning. Night xx.'

Trent groaned so loudly it echoed in the empty room. He tossed his phone onto the bed beside him and ran both hands over his face, tugging at his curls in frustration. This was stupid. He was stupid. He never did this. Never chased, never sat in bed like some lovesick idiot hoping for a text, not even from you, from your friend, never let someone burrow so deep under his skin after one night. But you had. Fuck, you had. And now he was paying for it. Why did he play a game with you if it wasn’t one he would win?

His body was still buzzing, the tension rolling through him making it physically impossible to lie still. He felt hot, like the club was still pressed around him, like your scent was still curling around his lungs. He rolled his head back onto his pillow, and instinctively let his hand fall to cup his dick over the fabric of his boxers, a natural position but tonight, even so, it was too much. He let out a pathetic frustrated whine at the mere thought of that ever being your hand. He felt like a boy desperate just for a touch, but he wasn’t a boy, he was a greedy adult now, he craved more. He wanted to show you, hold you properly this time, get a do over, dig his fingers into the flesh of your hips and fuck you. He hated how you oozed sex appeal, dangling yourself in front of him tauntingly and yet beautifully, even in your rejection. His skin was tight, his muscles coiled. He needed to do something before he lost his damn mind.

With a sharp exhale, he rolled out of bed, tugging his boxers off and tossing them somewhere in the dark. His feet carried him straight to the en-suite, his mind already set on one thing. A hot shower. Maybe that would help. Maybe it would calm him the fuck down. Steam filled the glass enclosure as he stepped under the spray, his hands bracing against the cool tile as the water pounded against his muscular back. He let his head hang between his shoulders, chest rising and falling as he willed the tension out of his body. It didn’t work. Not when the moment he closed his eyes, you were still there.

Your body pressed to his in the club. The teasing glint in your eye when you smirked up at him. The feel of your fingers dragging across his chest, the ghost of your touch still seared into his skin. His head fell back against the tile with a thud, his breath coming out ragged as frustration curled tight in his gut. He was fucking losing it. And when he finally caved—when he finally let himself relieve the ache you had left him with, his hand wrapped around himself, lips parting in a quiet groan—he hated that it was you on his mind. Not just your body. Not just the way your lips had wrapped around the rim of your glass. But the way you had laughed at him. The way you had walked away, unbothered, untouched, unfazed. The way you had denied him. It made him feral.

When it was over—when he had groaned his frustration into the heated air, his body finally giving in to exhaustion—he stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, water still cascading over his head. And then, with a shake of his head, he turned the knob, making the water ice fucking cold. Maybe if he froze himself out, he could shake you off. Maybe if he stood under the arctic blast long enough, he could purge you from his system. Spoiler: He couldn’t.

“Fuck!” He shivered, backing into a corner of the shower. It was too cold and he was too hot, goosebumps raised over his skin. When he finally dragged himself back to bed, drops of water still trailing down his back, he barely even bothered to check his phone. He already knew Campbell wasn’t going to text back. And he already knew, with a gut-sinking certainty, that he wasn’t going to sleep a damn bit.

You hadn’t slept well, let's say that. So this morning the bathroom air was thick with steam, the scent of warm vanilla and creamy sandalwood curling into the humid space as you smoothed lotion over your skin, fingers gliding over the curves of your thighs, the planes of your stomach, the dip of your collarbones. You needed a fresh start, and to wash last night away. Your body still held the heat of the shower, water droplets lingering in the hollows of your collarbones, disappearing beneath the barely-there fabric of your lace panties. Your headache pulsed—a dull throb behind your temples that had you closing your eyes for a brief moment, pressing your fingers into the ache. You weren’t sure if it was from the shots of tequila you’d thrown back like water, fueled by the reckless, wild-eyed version of yourself who had existed for the night… or if it was because that version of you had refused him.

The thought made your lips press together, a sigh slipping through your nose as you leaned forward against the counter, letting your weight rest against the cool marble. Had you made a mistake? Your pride said no. Your self-respect said absolutely not. But your body… oh, your body was humming with a different answer. Even in your dreams it purred for him.

Even through the haze of liquor, through the blur of flashing club lights and the deep bass of the music, your memory of Trent was untouched—dangerously clear. You could still see him, still hear the cocky lull of his voice curling around the words ‘come home with me, baby.’ Why the fuck didn’t you go!? You screamed at the pent up version of yourself in your head. The way he had looked at you—hooded gaze, tongue running across his bottom lip, those fucking dimples peeking out even in the low light—had been enough to make your thighs clench again in the en suite now. God, he was pretty. And last night’s version of you—intoxicated, stubborn, righteous in your rejection—had left you with nothing but what-ifs.

With an exhale, you pushed off the counter, fingers reaching blindly for your phone. Your headache was mild, your regrets minor, but the ache low in your belly? That was not so easily ignored. You hit next on a shuffle of a playlist, J. Cole’s In the Morning filled the room, the slow, sensual beat vibrating through the air as you moved toward the bed, stretching like a lazy cat as you let yourself sink into the music, into the soft sheets beneath your knees. Your hands roamed absently as you imagined what could’ve been—the heat of Trent’s body pressed against yours, the roughness of his hands on your hips, the deep pull of his voice in your ear as he whispered something sinful, something that made you dizzy, something that made you weak. You sighed, tipping your head back, running your fingers along the tops of your thighs as you smoothed in the last of your lotion, a mix of warmth and frustration curling in your stomach.

And meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, mere yards away, outside your very door… Trent was standing in the dimly lit hallway of your hotel, back pressed against the opposite wall, phone in hand, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. He felt good. Smug, even. He had gotten the hotel name. He had the floor number. All it had taken was a bit of charm, a well-placed dimpled smile, a sprinkle of that Scouse accent, and a reluctant but meddling Campbell.

Campbell, of course, had put up a fight. But Campbell was nosy. Campbell wanted the tea. Campbell wanted to see what would happen and knew you well enough that sober you, was fine if Trent did manage his way. And so, when Trent had texted her again—his persistence a little embarrassing even to him—she had sighed dramatically and dropped the hotel name in his messages with nothing but a laughing emoji and a single word:

'Try.'

Oh, he was trying. And he had gotten this far. The door in front of him felt heavier than it should have though. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. He’d played in Champions League finals, for fuck’s sake. He knew how to handle pressure. But this? This was different. Because last night, he'd lost. The rejection had tasted bitter, familiar in a way that made his stomach churn. He knew what it was like to feel the sting of a loss he thought he should have won. 2018 had taught him that. He had played in a Champions League final, full of fire and promise, only to watch another club lift the trophy at the final whistle. But the next year? He came back. He played again. And he won. Last night, you had been his 2018 heartbreak. This morning? He wanted it to be his 2019 redemption. His breath came slow, measured, steady as he reached up, knuckles hovering over the door for the briefest second. And then, before he could think twice, before he could talk himself out of it— He knocked. He paused and shook his head to focus before he did a second time. Two, that was normal right? How often do you knock? What the fuck was he doing at your hotel! His thoughts began to spiral. You heard the second knock, brows furrowing as confusion settled into your sleepy, mildly hungover and certainly needy haze. Room service? No, you hadn’t ordered anything. You assumed Campbell was still dead to the world, and Delaney and Foster had all but sworn off movement until lunch—so who the hell was at your door? Gripping your towel tighter, you hesitated, mentally flipping through half-formed Spanish phrases in case you needed them. You mumbled a ‘No, pero gracias,’ under your breath, rehearsing, before cracking open the door just enough to peek out. And that was when your stomach flipped. Because standing on the other side—looking entirely too smug for someone who’d been left high and dry last night—was Trent.

You froze. For a split second, the world narrowed to just him. The sight of him shown through the sliver of the door made your heart just about stop. The cocky slant of his smile. The way his dimple crept in as he tilted his head, dark eyes flickering down, clearly clocking the towel barely secured around your chest. None of it alarming or threatening to you though which maybe confused you the most but then the voice you wished so badly was in your ear a little more last night spoke up.

"You alright, baby?" His voice was syrupy smooth, thick with amusement. Your jaw slacked in confusion as you unlatched the secondary lock and opened the door a little more. Your grip on your towel tightening.

“Erm… hi?” You blinked up at him, skeptical, still caught off guard. “What are you—” Before you could finish, he stepped forward, cutting off your words, guiding you back into your room as if this had been the plan all along, something you two decided last night, like old friends, like this was normal.

“Just makin’ sure you got home safe.” His voice dripped with feigned innocence. “Since you wouldn’t let me do that last night.” You narrowed your eyes at him, fighting back the unwilling curve of your lips.

“So that’s what you were trying to do?” You cocked your head, watching as he strolled further inside like he owned the place. His eyes surveying the room, he shrugged as if accepting the interior causing your brow to furrow because you didn’t ask and you didn’t invite him in either but here you were. And the worst part of it, you liked all of it, every second.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, plopping down onto your bed, entirely too comfortable. His fingers ghosted over the outfit you’d laid out for yourself, taking in the delicate lace bralette with a barely-there smirk. “Can’t say it wasn’t—you didn’t let me take you home, so how would you know?” He quipped so obnoxiously innocent, you huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you watched his big hand drag underneath the strap of the tank top you’d planned to wear but now you weren’t so sure you wanted to put it on.

“You’re…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. Because it wasn’t something bad, not exactly. But it was something. Something sharp and annoying but so annoyingly attractive, it made you want to drop your towel. Then it hit you. Campbell’s voice rang through your mind, reminding you of the comment she’d made when you first clocked Trent’s game. “You’re bold,” you concluded, smirking as you bunched up the clothes on the bed from beside him, swiping them. “For someone who pretends to be shy.” You elaborated, adding a bit of clarity. Trent only shrugged again, so nonchalant, like it wasn’t an accusation, just an observation he wouldn’t deny. Your jaw dropped in playful shock, an open-mouthed, amused smile stretching across your face. “Oh, so it’s on purpose?” You laughed, raising your brows.

“Dunno what you’re on about, y’know.” Trent leaned back on his palms, looking entirely unbothered. You rolled your eyes because if he was going to act like he lived here now, you were at least going to put on some clothes. You think you wanted to put them on at least. You turned toward the ensuite. But you didn’t really shut the door, not entirely—it was a big room, and it wasn’t like that—but as you peeled off your towel and reached for the lace bralette, Trent got an eyeful in the mirror. His throat went dry. Bare back. Tiny lace thong. Soft curves in all the right places. Memories of last night he didn’t share with you but of you came flooding back. His jaw slacked for half a second, brain short-circuiting, before he swallowed hard and yanked his phone out of his pocket like it was a goddamn lifeline. Focus, man. Clearing his throat, he shook his head, grasping for anything else to say before he lost all composure.

“So, you want some breaky?” He spoke up. The sudden shift caught you off guard. Emerging from the ensuite, you adjusted the waistband of your tiny Magda Butrym shorts, the lace trim peeking out, paired with a delicate gold Miu Miu knit tank.

“What?” You gave him a skeptical glance as you leaned into the mirror, moving to put in your earrings attempting like this interaction was not affecting you. “Did you not go home with a girl last night? Is that why you’re here?” You questioned him. Trent, who had been subtly (or not so subtly) watching your ass, snapped his gaze up, brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

“What?” He blinked. You smirked at him through the mirror, amused at the obvious shift of his gaze's direction.

“I’m just saying, if you're concerned, I won’t say anything about ruining your perfect track record—” You offered him a plea bargain, wondering if he was here merely for reputation damage control.

“My what?” His brows knitted together. You turned to face him, still grinning, but he looked—sincere. Maybe even… offended? So you paused.

“I’m just saying it’s fine you didn’t have to do this… show up here, make amends.” You said more gently, feeling bad that he looked a little taken aback by your call out. “Last night…” You began a sentence but really had no idea of its direction or ending so you hesitated staring back at him. You don’t think you misread him but then again right now, you felt bad with such an assumption.

“And I’m just askin’ if you want food,” he said simply, flashing an innocent smile that made you hesitate. Your mind ran through a mental list of all the reasons this was a bad idea. You had successfully escaped him last night. You had set your boundaries. You had won. But won what? A night alone? Because right now, you were losing again to the same dimpled grin and twinkly brown doe eyed threat you thought you’d avoided. Then you looked at him—his boyish grin, his easy charm, the way he was so annoyingly persistent but never pushy—and before your brain could stop you, your mouth betrayed you.

“…Okay.” As you grabbed the matching knit sweater to your set and slid on your Loewe cream slides, you glanced at Trent. “Pass me my phone?” You asked him with a blank stare. He was still perched on your bed like he belonged there, far too at ease in your space. Stretching one long arm out, the veins bulging, his muscles flexing as he unplugged your phone and tilted the screen toward him—smirking the second he saw the song he’d been listening to this whole time still playing. "In the Morning." His brows shot up cheekily.

“Thinking about something this morning?” His voice dripped with smug amusement, that teasing lilt curling around every syllable. Trent certainly was, that’s why he showed up, he hadn’t slept, so yes tongue in cheek but he was also curious if you’d bite. Instead, you rolled your eyes, stepping closer and snatching the phone from his grasp. Your fingers brushed his—just for a second, fleeting but charged. Not aggressive, not rough. More like… a preemptive escape. Because if you had let him, Trent would’ve held onto your hand. Would’ve used it as an excuse to pull you forward, onto his lap, into that damn bed. And the person you were most worried about in the room, wasn’t him. It was you. You might’ve let him. But no. Breakfast—you could do. Everything else? A catastrophe waiting to happen.

“Oh, hush. Get over yourself, honestly.” You teased, tossing the phone into your bag like the conversation was already done. “It’s on my favorites playlist.” Trent let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back onto his elbows. You meant it as a throwaway comment, but for some reason, it hit him differently.

He was sitting in your bed, still feeling the warmth of where you had been before you got up. He had seen you damn near naked, so comfortable in your own skin, moving through the room like you were a part of it, dripping in confidence without even trying. Radiating a sexiness he wasn’t sure he’d experienced before. He had watched you laugh at him, throw banter his way, roll your eyes in a way that made him want to press his thumb into the soft crease between your brows just to smooth it out. And now this. This small, seemingly insignificant thing, a throwaway comment to you. One of your favorite songs—was one of his.

And sure, the need to have you, to feel you against him, to ruin you in the very bed he was still sitting on—that hunger was still raging, hot and undeniable. But this was something else. Something new. Trent had spent mornings with women before. Hell, plenty. But they never felt like this. Like… something real and you hadn’t even slept with him last night. Like something he actually wanted to stay in, rather than counting down the minutes before he slipped out the door. Which was funny, because in his mind, he could already see a different kind of full-circle moment. Maybe this time, he started out like this—patient, lighthearted, taking his time—and ended the way he actually wanted, with you beneath him, breathless, saying his name the way he knew it would sound dripping from your lips. A long game. Maybe he was good at those too.

But was it a game? Because when he looked at you, now struggling with the hotel safe, brows scrunched in frustration as you tried to figure out how to lock your valuables inside, he didn’t just think about fucking you senseless. He thought you looked… cute.

And that realization nearly gave him whiplash. Cute? Did he just think that? About some girl he was supposed to just be chasing? Why was he chasing to begin with? Some girl he should be focused on getting into bed, not finding utterly adorable while struggling with a safe? What a mess. What a melt.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 2 - Winnings

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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drunk-fantasies · 2 years ago

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+18 CONTENT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

🎨PAIRING: friend!sunghoon x fem!reader

🎨SYNOPSIS: posing for your best friend’s painting’s wasn’t something new for you or him until you asked if he could paint you naked

🎨GENRE: smut, fluff

🎨WARNINGS: explicit smut, both sunghoon and yn are kinda a perv, masturbation, oral (both receiving), fingering, handjob, marking, mild swearing, piv, protected sex

🎨WORD COUNT: 5,8k

🎨TAGLIST: @novacontreras, @beomgyusonlywife, @satan-223, @enhaz1, @tobiosbbyghorl, @kshoshi, @woniewonn, @mimizelle-luni, @meiskra, @leeheeheeseung, @parksunghoonsgf, @uuzhanggggggg, @deobitifull, @enhamysunshines, @sunghourly, @danielleismyname, @starggukies, @hellaboredd, @rapmonie2047, @asyleums, @stariszn, @tinkw1nks, @4imhry, @moonlighthoon, @girlwholovekpop, @19-yunalyn

There was something about you people found extraordinary. It could be your mesmerizing eyes, remarkable facial features or just that intense gaze that made many knees bend. Though you never really particularly enjoyed the attention you were getting, yet something was thrilling about intimidating people by just the way you looked at them. It gave you a sense of power, a feeling of being unstoppable wherever you went.

What you did enjoy though was how many students of the Art Department asked you to model for their paintings, offering you irrational money, just for you to stand in one place for a few hours. Those offers were always pretty tempting, but none were enough for you to agree. After a few chances you had given them you realized none of them were able to portray you good enough. Unlike Sunghoon, your best friend. Ever since you met him on the first day of uni, you couldn’t refuse anything he wanted. His paintings were terrific. His style, the way his brush strokes danced on canvas, not to mention he was able to capture your features in such a captivating way, just as good as your mirror could or maybe even better. The unspoken truth was, you wished so badly he looked at you like you looked at him. His gaze was always focused to paint you well, to mirror every strand of your hair perfectly just as every crinkle on your clothes. While you always stared at him with admiration and passion, under false colors of modeling. But when it came to him, nothing was an act. Your feelings burned inside you, fire spreading from your heart to every part of your body, whenever he scanned your face and position to guide you how to pose. He never failed to keep it professional, never touching you inappropriately or making you uncomfortable. And the way he was such a soft-spoken person made it even harder for you to not catch feelings. In contrast to initial shyness you noticed how kind his heart was. Despite his cold look and complete composure you were able to get to know his playful side, which outside of the Art Department’s studio continuously put a smile on your face, even during those hard days. Both of you were rather busy with their respective assignments and uni work, making it pretty impossible to meet regularly. But it only made you wait for the next time he would ask you to model for him even more eagerly.

Your phone buzzed with a notification. Finishing the last sentence of your essay you took your phone from your pocket and read a message from Sunghoon.

🤍: do you think you could be here a little earlier? i need to get something done and need to finish it by 7

you: no problem :) give me like ten minutes

You knew the way to the studio he always used to the point you could get there with your eyes closed. The excitement of seeing him again rushed through your body and you wondered how this recent work turned out. He never let you see the final product until he would be finished with it completely, to the last spot. You entered the studio not bothering to knock anymore and spotted Sunghoon preparing all the utensils he needed, apron already wrapped around his body while the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Not daring to say a word you watched him while he was too busy mixing paints to notice you. His black hair got a little longer, now almost falling on his shoulders, while he neatly picked the right colors.

“Y/n?” His voice brought you back to Earth. “Glad to see you. Your clothes are on the couch,” he smiled warmly and pointed to clothes you wore for this work.

Without a word you took them to get changed and couldn’t stop thinking about how it turned out. Last time he told you there was nothing much left, just some details of your neck area and some touch-up of your hair. That’s why with anticipation you waited to see the final result. You tried to recreate the hairstyle you had as precisely as you could in a reflection of a small bathroom mirror. When you came back to the studio he was fully ready to start.

“Ready?” he asked and raised from his stool.

Nodding you let him guide your pose in front of his easel. His fingers slightly raised your head by your chin and positioned your head as he pleased. Taking an alone strand of your hair, he curled it on his finger, imitating the shape from the last session. Fixing your shirt he took as step back to check and said: “Okay, you look perfect, it won’t take long.”

Two thoughts couldn’t leave your mind now: “Did he know what effect his words had on you?” and “Will he also capture the blush his compliment created?” It wasn’t hard to keep the pose he wanted you to remain as all your muscles tensed at his gaze and touch. Taking looks at you from time to time his hand created wonders on the canvas, just like always. Everything he painted looked even more beautiful than in reality. The most obscure sceneries or hideous faces were turned into the most fascinating and beautiful ones.

“Have you ever posed?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence that surrounded you.

He never had anything against talking during your sessions, unless the conversations lasted for too long or were too engaging. For some unknown reason, this question almost made him drop his brush.

“What?” He chuckled and spoke after you repeated yourself. “I feel better on this side of the easel,” he said now more calmly.

How you wished he ever accepted anybody’s offer to portray him. Or for him to at least paint his self-portrait. Just like many asked you to model, he got this request quite as often. His features were delicate but still in a manly way. You adored looking at him just like he adored painting you, but none of you had the guts to ever admit to that, leaving many missing opportunities.

As much as you wanted to tell him how beautiful he truly is, your throat didn’t let the words out of your mind. You spent the rest of this session quiet, not daring to say anything else.

“Okay, I’m done,” he announced and you raised your eyes from the palette he held in his left hand. “Do you wanna see?”

“Can’t believe you’re still asking that question,” you said with a beam.

Taking his apron off, he stepped back and you admired yet another piece he created. Every was different and better in its own way, but this one was something else, capturing your features exhaustively.

“What do you think?” His voice was quiet, almost in a murmur that tickled your ear.

“It’s… beautiful. Can’t believe you could become any better, but you never fail to prove me otherwise.” He smiled at your compliment and stared at the fully covered portrait.

“I think it could use one more strand,” he suddenly said and held a brush in front of you.

Staring at it and then at him you took a step back in shock. “Have you lost your mind? I’m not a painter, I’m gonna ruin your work!”

“You’re not gonna ruin anything,” Sunghoon grinned.

He placed the brush in your hand, and held it gently yet firmly in his, while his other arm wrapped around your waist to bring you closer. Your mind went blank at sudden close proximity. You’ve never touched each other, apart from him when he guided you. And here you were, back pressed against his chest, feeling his breath hit your back while your palm was placed in his. With fully relaxed motion he painted a wavy lock just above your left cheek, enhancing your cheekbones.

“Now it’s perfect, don’t you think?” The nonchalant tone of his voice drove you crazy. Things you would let him do stood nowhere near his detachment.

“Yeah,” you managed to breath out at the loss of skin to skin contact with him.

“Thank you once more. Are you sure there’s no way I could repay you with?”

He always asked that question. And you always said you couldn’t take anything from him with a clear conscience, even though there was something in your mind he could do.

“I think I know,” you said before thinking about it.

“Oh? I’m listening then,” he was shocked at first but also eager to return a favor you’ve been giving him for a long time now.

Hesitating you finally said: “Paint me.” Your words made him frown and chuckle, but before he could argue you continued. “And I want to keep it. I want it for myself.”

Not sure if he will agree to this, you waited for his response.

“Okay, I will paint you. Can you come over to my place this weekend? I have all the stuff needed and it’s closer to your place than uni,” he suggested and you nodded, confirming the date and hour. “Okay then. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

You left him alone in the studio and he stared at the canvas for a while, wishing he could convey both your beauty and his feelings for you at least a little better.

Days passed and you seemed to not be able to think about anything else, Sunghoon occupying your mind for whole days. Mainly thoughts of his gentle touch on your waist and hand were replaying in your head. It drove you crazy, the way he had an affect on you, probably bereaved in obliviousness.

But you weren’t the only one going crazy at the moment. He tried to focus on his other paintings but his mind was full of you. His feelings for you were already deep and passionate, but the moment he felt your body that close to his, and how it perfectly fitted his number one priority was to make you satisfied with whatever painting you wanted.

But was that stupid portrait the only thing he wanted to satisfy you with?

Whenever you showed you how to pose he had to compose himself and his filthy thoughts of what he truly wanted to do with you at that moment. He wanted to bring you pleasure nobody would ever do, show you his feelings, his passion you ignited in him. But at the back of his head, he knew his dirty fantasies about you would only stay as fantasies. Because in no world a girl like you would spare a look at a guy like him. At least that’s what Sunghoon thought.

Frustrated at his loss of focus he untied his apron and threw it on the ground with a light thud. He looked at the canvas he tried to fill in with his ideas, but all the faces he tried to paint were yours. Every page in his sketchbook was dedicated to you. Even in his phone he had a seperate album of photos from your sessions, that he took under false pretenses to have a good reference. But his absolute favorite one was the one from the only time when you wore a dress. A tight one, to be precise. He didn’t choose it, all he said was for you to pick an outfit yourself and he regretted that decision almost as soon as you stepped into the studio. It was a tight black dress that showed all your curves off. It hugged your body so perfectly all he wanted was to tear it off it, to see it bare, with his own pair of eyes. But that fantasy remained as one, as he tried his best to stay calm and not let you know of the boner you caused. Keeping it professional he tried not to be obvious with his stare, only looking at your body when he really had to.

He watched that photo with a mind full of memories from that day, that were still alive and fresh, even though quite a long time passed already. Sighing he laid on his bed and helplessly reached to his pants where his dick was already hard like a rock. He pumped himself few times, now basically fucking his hand, while trying not to think about how beautiful you would look with your plump lips or feminine hand wrapped around it.

You on the other hand weren’t very different from him. Dirty thoughts and unfulfilled desires flooded your mind mercilessly. Fantasies of him were no longer satisfying, leaving you hungry for him and his body. Your fingers were deep inside you as you tried to imagine it was him pleasuring you, murmuring sweet and dirty things straight into your ear. But it was all your imagination, he wasn’t here to please you, and all he wanted was to repay you, nothing more. Of all the people, why did it have to be him that seemed to be completely uninterested in you? While all you could think about was to give him yourself, give him your body, let him use it as he wanted. Did he not see how crazy you are about him? Is he testing you?

Is he testing you?

The thought repeated in your head. You stopped pleasuring yourself at the confusion about that one sentence. Maybe he was, but how about now testing him?

You thought for a long time about how to test him and his true feelings for you, but nothing seemed to be rational. You knew that your Saturday’s session would be a great opportunity but how to use it for your own good? You already tried posing in a tight and seductive dress, yet it completely left him unfazed, sparing you only a few glances while taking care of the canvas. It truly broke your heart, the thought of him being completely unattracted to you while you would go on your knees for him.

One last thing you could do was a completely crazy idea you had already thought about, but at the same time seemed like the only option, which was posing completely naked. Being totally nude in front of anybody was a huge deal for you, even though you fantasized about him devouring you in your own glory. But the thing was, you couldn’t expect what his reaction would be. What if he wouldn’t like it at all and would refuse? What if he would laugh at you and your desperation? All those scenarios scared you to your core and almost sent shivers down your spine. But the worst one would probably be him just doing his job and not questioning anything, just doing his job as coldly as always.

Sunghoon waited for you impatiently, though he didn’t have any expectations for today. At least that’s what he tried to convince himself about. After he prepared his easel as well as canvas, he went to the bathroom to check his hair once more and reapply new perfume, hoping you would like it. He even washed his apron so that not even a hint of deepest paint stains were visible on the material. He rolled up his sleeves and went to the studio he arranged in his apartment. It wasn’t big, but rather small and cozy. And the view that spread outside the big window many times was his main inspiration. Or maybe it was until he met you and painted you for the first time?

His mind started wondering why would you want your portrait just for yourself. He wasn’t blind, it wasn’t only him who was obsessed with you and he knew for sure you were well aware of your looks. But at the same time you weren't a selfish person, but rather timid and humble enough to not take compliments that well. That’s what truly made him so drawn towards you. Noticing how everybody wanted you for your looks made him look at you rather shallowly at first. Thinking he had a brush with a girl of a vain heart his surprise was pretty huge when he got to know you. Never had he met such a sweet soul like you. Doubts about your vainglory vanished with almost the same moment you had let him paint you, making you his favorite and practically only subject to portray. Ever since he looked at you like the most precious creature, that wasn’t able to hurt anybody or queen over others. Then why all of the sudden you wanted a portrait of yourself? Was it really for you, or for somebody else?

With a mind preoccupied with concerns and nervousness he prayed you wouldn’t wear anything too revealing. His thoughts were resolved as soon as he saw you. Opening the door for you he noticed your neat and pretty demure choice of clothing, consisting just of a shirt and a pair of jeans. His gaze fell on your exposed neck wrapped by uncontrived necklace and collarbones that protruded through your skin proudly.

“Will you let me in?” you asked, noticing him zoning out yet again. Coming back to reality he smiled warmly, eyes glued to yours. He welcomed you with a gesture and you took off your shoes.

Even though you knew each other for quite a long time now you never visited him at home. Being his introverted self he always stated that his apartment was his sanctuary, his oasis where he didn’t like having visitors at. That’s why you were extremely honored when he suggested meeting at his place.

„Would you like to drink something?” he asked and went behind the kitchen island to take a glass for him and potentially you.

“Water please,” you said and enjoyed the view of his back facing you.

His broad shoulders were enhanced by his slim waist that had an apron wrapped around it. His hair perfect as always, seemed a little shorter than last time you saw him. You wondered whether dropping a bomb would be better than waiting, but what would you even wait for, honestly? You knew what you wanted by now, all those days of thinking only about this day made you sure you wanted to expose yourself to him, both emotionally and physically.

Finally turning around he handed you your drink and watched you drink it.

‘Do you have any concept in mind? Any color palette you want the work to be in? Or do you want me to suggest something?” he asked, leaning on the kitchen island looking at you.

It’s now or never.

“Actually I do have some idea,” you said and tilted your head, creating a moment of suffocating suspense.

“Oh? Well, I’m listening, I wonder what you came up with.” With arms crossed on his chest he straightened his back. He showed you to his studio, and if not for what you had planned to say you would pay more attention to.

“For the color palette I was thinking nude,” you said a little too quickly.

He frowned slightly and observed your clothing. “Okay, but do you have something to change into? The colors of your outfit wouldn’t really suit the nude coloring.”

“Kind of…” Your gaze trailed off to the dried up paint stains on the easel and a mat that covered the wooden floor.

“What do you mean by ‘kind of’?” he chuckled.

“I can do this,” you thought to yourself, closing your eyes for a moment.

You turned around to face him. You stepped as close as your feet let you, almost as close as the last time when he held you. To your surprise he didn’t take any steps back, but looked at you from above, a faint smile still decorating his face. Your eyes traveled from his eyes to neck and his lips, only to finally whisper: “I want you to paint me naked.”

Waiting for his reaction you noticed how his smile slowly faded away.

“Okay,” he simply answered, his calm voice piercing your heart like a dagger. “I’ll prepare the base while you get ready,” he said, already taking care of the new canvas and mixing the right colors.

You watched his back as he silently prepared his utensils. Is this it?

With a completely unbothered expression he turned around after what seemed like eternity.

“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” he asked, pointing to your body with his brush.

“No.”

“I thought…”

“I came here because you wanted to repay me, right? Do your job fully Sunghoon and worry not only about preparing your stupid canvas but focus on preparing me,” you spat, knowing it sounded a little bit too harsh.

He came closer to you with his head tilted, with thought that maybe his deepest fantasies were shared with you. Your gaze screamed just one thing and he couldn’t believe he finally realized that they were saying the same thing for a while now. What a waste of time.

“What do you want me to do, Y/n?” He brushed your hair away from your face and tucked it behind your ear softly.

“Undress me. Paint on my body, mark me before eternalizing me on your painting.” Your voice got weaker and weaker as his face got closer with each of your words.

“Is this the only thing you want me to do?” he asked quietly, his lips ghosting yours with a faint brush.

“Love me Sunghoon,” you breathed out.

Instead of pulling you in such a desired kiss, he pulled away taking almost a full picture of your form. His hands firmly placed on your waist slowly traveled up to the buttons of your shirt to painfully slowly unbutton them. Your eyes never left his, getting lost in their depth, while he was focused on devouring the moment he wished to last forever. Soon he gently let it fall down on the floor, leaving you in your bra.

“You’re so gorgoeus, Y/n,” he whispered just above your ear.

“Show me, show me how beautiful you think I am,” you demanded.

His eyes darkened and he started taking steps forward while you backed away. You hissed at the feeling of a cold wall hitting your sensitive skin but soon his hot breath warmed you up. His hand once again got a hold of your waist and he raised your head by your chin with the other. You looked not only beautiful, but vulnerable and desperate for his lips to finally fall on yours. Sunghoon couldn’t stop himself anymore, connecting you in a slow and sensual kiss. You wrapped your arms around his neck bringing him closer and he cupped your cheek endearingly. The tension in the air made it impossible for you not to melt in his electrifying touch. The kiss started to get heavier, as he started sucking on your lip. Taking a cue of him brushing his tongue against your skin you parted your lips. Not wasting time he pushed his muscle in you and you almost moaned at the anticipation. His hand guided your head as he pleased and like a docile doll you let him do whatever he wanted.

He tapped your thigh and you wrapped them around his waist. Holding your body in his arms he left the studio, the main reason for your visit long forgotten as now his steps were taking you to his bedroom. Gently placing you on his mattress he broke the kiss to leave wet marks along your neck and collarbones, earning a breathy whine from you. Rubbing his back continuously you felt how wetness formed inside of your panties. Sunghoon groped your breasts firmly, giving them a good squeeze before you helped him take your bra off by raising your upper body. He let your tits free but not long after his lips attached to one of your nipples, while his fingers pinched the other one. Tangling your fingers in his thick locks you threw your head back in pleasure his tongue was giving you.

“Sunghoon,” you moaned, making his dick get even harder. Groaning he continued marking you, just like you wanted him to, preparing you for a portrait in colors of nude and purpure.

His fingers rested on your abdomen and traveled down to the waistband of your pants but you pulled him up to feel the warmth of his lips on your one more time, already drunk by the way they sucked on yours. You tucked on the first button of his shirt and he gave you a small nod, letting you undress him. He raised and took it off, revealing his defined muscles and slightly shiny skin.

“Done staring?” he chuckled.

“You’re beautiful, Sunghoon,” you blurted out, still admiring his whole manly silhouette.

Smiling at your compliment he hovered over you, lips brushing yours with no intention of kissing you. Instead he got lower and lower, not breaking eye contact with you, driving you completely crazy. He unbuckled your belt and unzipped your pants. Raising your hips you let him take them off along with your completely drenched underwear. He smirked noticing how desperate you were at your core, making you cover your face with your palms in slight embarrassment. Later you got to know it wasn’t a good idea, as he took you by surprise by licking a long stripe from your whole to sensitive clit. Arching your back, your hand found his head, pulling his hair in pleasure.

His tongue did wonders on your folds and you couldn’t contain your moans anymore, chanting his name like the most powerful spell. The way your voice cracked in whines of bliss he was causing, made him want to waste no time and just pull his pants off to fuck you, so that you would scream his name instead. But his number one priority was to give you the best experience you could think of, savoring your skin inch by inch, taking his time with you. Hugging your thighs he placed them on his shoulders, bringing you closer at the same time. Your taste on his tongue made him lose his eyes as he detached his lips from your pussy, only to wet his fingers.

Watching the scene unfold in front of you, your head once again fell backwards, knowing what to expect next. His finger slowly entered your hole, curling inside at the perfect angle. You let out a choked moan at the sensation of his finger inside you and his lips sucking on your clit. He started pumping his digit in and out of you at a moderate pace, that already left you breathless. Just when he added another finger and increased the speed of his pumps you felt how close you were.

“I’m so close.” You squirmed under his touch and he kept his tempo and intensity of his sucking. Pulling on his hair harder you felt vibrations from his groan and soon released around his fingers. He pumped them a few more times before pulling them out and ostentatiously licking them clean. Breathing heavily you covered your face, knowing that after all of those moans and other sounds you produced your skin would be red from intense blush.

Sunghoon waited for you to calm down and couldn’t stop wondering if this was all you came here for. Even if you did, he was completely fine with that, pleasuring you was something he dreamed of after all. But to prove his concerns wrong you managed to calm down a bit and pointed to the edge of his bed. “Sit,” you ordered, not caring about your tone anymore, urge and desperation to give him your head bigger than your exhaustion.

With slight hesitation and confusion he sat and with slightly parted lips watched as you kneeled in between his thighs, adding to the hardness of his cock. With your eyes glued to his, you ran your palms up and down his legs, getting dangerously close to his crotch with every stroke. His chest raised and his breath hitched as your fingers delicately brushed on his length, feeling how desperation grew inside his boxers. Unbuckling his belt and undoing the buttons of his pants you pulled them down, so they rested near his ankles. His boxers were already full, begging to be discharged but feeling quite in the mood for some teasing you slowly palmed him through thin material. With his mouth still slightly opened he watched as you started leaving chaste pecks on his clothed dick.

Though your teasing didn’t last long as you couldn’t wait to feel him just like he did. Hooking your fingers on the waistband of his underwear you pulled them off and now they joined his pants on the ground. Trying not to stare too much at him you left a few long kisses on his reddened tip still rubbing his muscles. You swallowed it and sucked, earning his head falling backwards. His hand landed on the back of your head and he slightly pushed you down. Without further ado you sank on him fully, hollowing your cheeks for double pleasure. Your nose pressed against his pelvis you gagged around him and cookwarmed him for a while, his hand now only for decoration, as it didn’t apply no pressure. His eyes rolled back when you finally bobbed your head vigorously, eager to get as much reaction from him as he did from you. And he had no intention of disappointing you. His low moans and groans soon filled the room and bounced like your head did on his shaft.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last long, baby,” he admitted though no hint of embarrassment was audible in his voice. Keeping your rhythm you waited patiently to swallow his hot load and bob your head a few more times to ride his high.

He leaned on his hands and heaved a sigh of content, with a genuine grin. Resting your head on his thigh with closed eyes you felt how he cupped your cheek and rubbed your skin softly. Looking up at him you noticed his smile. It wasn’t cocky, nor fake, but full of emotions he felt he held in for too long now. Patting his lap he invited you to sit there. You climbed there from the floor with his help and soon you were wrapped securely in his strong arms. None of you spoke, at least not yet, only looking for answers in each other’s eyes, in complete silence. Both your chests raised and lowered in heavy breaths, too scared to say something. His touch was just like that day in the studio, when he held you close to himself. It said what he was scared to say for this whole time he knew you. If only you realized his feelings sooner you wouldn’t waste time to test him. You remembered all those sessions you admired him and wondered if he did the same while you weren’t looking.

“Y/n?” Sunghoon called your name and you looked at him more attentively. You noticed how he struggled to put his thoughts into words so you interrupted him.

“Sunghoon, I love you. For the longest time now. And it’s okay if you don’t,” you said, hoping and knowing at the back of your mind that his answer is going to satisfy you.

“After what had just happened you still have some hesitancy about it?” He revealed his teeth in a chuckle.

Leaning in, you connected your lips once again, linking them together in a slow and passionate kiss. Not controlling your movements anymore and letting your emotions and feelings take a lead, your hands traveled all along his back and abs, while he just made sure you’re not shifting too much on him. But soon his control was taken over by his desire. Flipping you around he laid you on your back and you wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing him closer. He groaned lowly against your lips as soon as his tip brushed against your hot and still wet core.

“Do you have condoms?” you asked bluntly, breaking the kiss.

Nodding he reached to the drawer of his nightstand. Rolling it on his length he positioned himself between your legs looking straight into your eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking for any sign of hesitation from you, but you nodded your head surely.

“I want you so bad,” you let out a whiny whisper.

And who he is to deny you the pleasure when you ask him so politely, while he lusted after you probably a lot more.

Pushing himself into your hole, you dug your nails into his skin, and he hissed at both the feeling of your walls around him and you scratching his back. Your eyes rolled back once he started thrusting into you, at a moderate pace. Lips brushing against each other, not daring to look at each other. Instead he buried his face into your neck, leaving a few sticky kisses on your favorite spots.

“Faster, please,” you whined and momentarily he picked up the pace but soon you asked once again.

“Then help me a bit and go on all fours for me, baby,” he whispered to your ear and pulled away to face you.

With shaky legs you moved obediently to the position he asked you to and moaned when you felt him entering you a little bit more harshly this time. Getting a firm grip on your waist he controlled your movements and thrusted much faster and deeper, reaching the spot he couldn’t with his fingers before. Not being able to hold your balance on your hands anymore you fell on his pillows, ass still high. He threw his head back at the sight of your arched back and asscheeks bouncing with his every thrust. His bedroom soon was filled with your moans, his groans and the sound of his balls slapping your clit.

All yours and his desires coming true, the painting got long forgotten, much important stuff occupying your minds.

The immense pleasure made you feel dizzy, clenching around him from time to time.

“If you don’t stop clenching around me, I’m not gonna last long,” he panted, trying to keep the high pace.

“I’m gonna cum too,” you moaned with a shaky voice.

Feeling the familiar knot in your stomach you released around him as his cum filled the condom. With last thrusts he pulled out and watched how you collapsed fully, hair completely messy, just like your breathing. He laid next to you, trying to catch his breath, looking at you from time to time. Turning around, your eyes met. He opened his arms invitingly and you nestled up to him with a beaming smile. His warmed-up skin, breath fanning your face and a few loving pecks on your forehead made you feel like you could fall asleep here and there. And just before you dozed off, you heard how he whispered straight to your ear: “I love you, my forever muse.”

a/n thank you for reading! it’s my first longer fic on this blog so let me know what you think!

#enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enha hard hours #enha smut #sunghoon smut #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon hard hours #sunghoon #sunghoon enhypen #enhypen sunghoon hard hours #enhypen sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you

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heizlut · 1 year ago

Note

Breeding kink with Razor

this is so fitting for him, i love it! i’m adjusting his speech pattern slightly just so it flows a little better, hope you don’t mind❤️

Instincts

cw: public sex, breeding, biting/marking, ovulation, mentions of pregnancy

tags: switch fem!reader, switch!razor, he’s literally 18 so scroll away if you have an issue xoxo💋

nsfw under the cut

m!list here

⚡︎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓃦⚡︎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓃦⚡︎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓃦⚡︎

You and Razor had a bit of an odd relationship. He came across you months ago, spying behind a tree in Wolvendom when you made your first appearance there. He was wary of you, not sure if you were friendly or there to hunt the wolves he called family. Once he saw you were only there for the wolfhook each time you came, he started to gain the courage to get closer.

In truth, you had started going there because you had heard about him through the Knights of Favonius and wanted to see him for yourself. You knew he was watching, but you didn't want to startle him, so each time you came you only gathered some wolfhook and went on your way. Each day was the same routine, until one day he approached you, still a little wary of you, "...Nice?"

Those were his first words to you. Your eyes landed on him and you smiled brightly, "I am." You were captured by the way he looked; toned muscles, scars across his body and face, long thick silver hair, and crimson eyes. He was better than you had imagined, even if his manner of speech was a little strange. After letting Razor smell your neck, he smiled at you telling you that you smelled like a flower.

Every quirk he had was so cute to you. Weeks passed and each day you would visit Razor, getting to know each other and he grew to trust you immensely. You even had been helping him speak in more proper sentences, although that was still a work in progress. You would be a fool to miss the way his gaze lingered on you and the way he would get as close to you as he could without outright being on top of you.

You looked to him, only to see Razor had already been staring at you. He tilted his head a little as you studied each other in silence. You were the first one to break it, "Do you want to be with me?" The look of confusion on his face made you giggle, "Am with you now, no?" How cute and innocent he was... You shook your head still laughing, "I mean romantically."

Razor's eyebrows scrunched as he repeated the word back to you, clearly unsure of what it meant. You didn't think words would help you out with this, so you reached up and turned his face to yours, pressing a kiss to his lips. He knew what you meant now as he melted into the kiss. Ever since then, you two were inseparable. Which bring us to the present.

The sun was setting, low in the sky, when you made your way to your usual spot. Before you could even call out to him, Razor pounced on you, knocking you both to the ground and making you squeal, "Razor wha-" Your words are cut off when you feel something hard press against your core and his nose lightly grazing your skin as he takes in your scent, "You smell...Different. Good..."

Your cheeks immediately heat up. You were ovulating and he could smell it. Did he even know what that meant? Razor's nose trails down your body til it reaches your cunt, his nose pressing against your clothed clit, making you suck in a breath. He nudges it again, then his eyes flick up to yours, "Here. New good smell... I want more." He doesn't wait for your response before he starts tugging down your pants.

"Razor wait! We're outside... What if someone comes?", your voice came out a little breathy, feeling an aching need at your center. Razor tilts his head, "Why care? No one comes." He was right. People usually avoided coming to Wolvendom. Besides, you were more needy and sensitive than usual because of your ovulation. You just wanted to be filled. You end up lifting your hips slightly to help Razor who continued to tug at your pants.

The warm breeze brushing against your exposed pussy made your scent even more potent to him. Razor immediately begins lapping at your cunt, drawing a sweet moan from within you. The way his tongue circled your clit and lapped at your arousal made you tug his hair. He practically growls when you do so, not wanting to separate himself from something so new and delicious, so he latches on to it. Razor’s lips suck your clit into his mouth while his tongue continues it’s lashings. Your head falls back against the soft grass as you come undone on his tongue.

The taste was even more divine than it smelled, making him continue and overstimulate you. Your legs shake hard and you tug his hair hard with a soft cry of his name. Razor glances up at you curiously but annoyed you wanted to pull him from this. His mouth open and tongue still against your clit. “Come here…” your voice is shaky as you try to get him to listen. Thankfully, he finally does, crawling up and caging you in with his body, “Why? Wasn’t finished…” You roll your hips up making your bare cunt grind against his bulge, “I want you inside me.”

Razor lets out a deep groan as you grind up into him, “What in where? Help..” You knew he was legitimately clueless but him asking you to be so specific sparked something inside of you. It turned you on. “I need your cock in my pussy. Fill me up. Breed me.” Those last two words did it. Oh he knew what that meant alright. Razor fumbles with his pants, wanting to free his throbbing length. You almost laugh at how hard he’s trying and you take over. Catching him off guard, you roll the both of you over, you now caging him in. You smirk when he looks up at you with surprise, “Let me do it.”

Razor almost pouts but stops the minute your hand wraps around his cock, his eyes goes wide at the new sensation and at a loss for words. He has so many questions but they’d have to wait because now your were slowly sinking yourself down onto his dick. He grips onto your hips as though you would disappear from him any second and his eyes almost roll back, “Good…. So good…”

Once you were fully seated on top of him, you begin to move slowly. You grind against him and then begin to move yourself, letting his cock drag in and out of your walls at a brutally slow pace. Every time his cock went back in to the hilt, Razor felt he was going insane. So much so that now he flipped the position yet again, leaning down to lick at your neck, and he growls, “Too slow.” Before you can even ask what he means, he begins thrusting inside your tight wet cunt as if this would be the first and last time he ever got to fuck you. You cry out, digging your nails into his scarred back, your legs wrapping around his toned waist to keep him close.

The growls and grunts that fall from Razor’s lips sound so primal, as if he’s just running in instinct at this point. And he really truly is. Every since he smelled that delicious scent, his instincts were telling him he needed to fuck you so full of his cum and make you swell with his children. The sounds coming from both of you and from the way his balls slapped against your ass and the way your pussy squelched with each hard thrust was so incredibly lewd. Razor leans back down to your neck, biting hard enough to break skin as he growls once more, “Mine.” This brings you completely over the edge, your sweet pussy pulsating around his cock as you cum.

It’s not long til Razor follow suit. He latches onto the mark he gave you, letting out a muffled, husky groan as he fills you with his potent load. The way his cock throbs inside of you makes you feel overstimulated for the second time that day. Razor stays still for a moment, not wanting to pull out. Not wanting to be done. He wanted to see your breasts grow bigger and your stomach swell. He wanted to make you his for life. The thought alone makes his cock begin to harden inside of you once more and he looks into your eyes, “Again.”

⚡︎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓃦⚡︎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓃦⚡︎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓃦⚡︎

a/n: this makes me want to write knotting/omegaverse fics😭

#razor smut #razor x reader smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin razor #genshin impact razor

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vortexbloom · 3 months ago

Text

Undeniable Gravity (OneShot)

Pairing: Phainon x Reader

Fandom: HSR (Honkai Star Rail)

Warnings: Spicy, Angst & Fluff, there isn’t really a plot, made this at my lunch break, Modern Au

─୨ৎ────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────୨ৎ─

Masterlist - Honkai Star Rail

Masterlist - Genshin Impact

Moodboards - Genshin Impact

Masterlist - Marvel

Boycott List

─୨ৎ────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────୨ৎ─

English isn’t my first/native language, so there might be misspellings etc.

I do NOT own any Characters !

Have fun reading this :D

The city skyline stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Phainon’s high rise apartment, the golden glow of streetlights painting long shadows across the sleek interior. You hadn’t meant to come here tonight, not like this, not after everything that had happened between you two.

Yet here you were, back in his presence, feeling the weight of his gaze on you like a gravitational pull you couldn’t escape.

"You’re avoiding me," Phainon murmured, stepping closer, his voice smooth like silk yet laced with something raw beneath the surface.

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms in defiance. "Can you blame me?"

The air between you crackled with unspoken words, a storm of emotions neither of you had addressed. Your past with him was tangled, complicated, intoxicating, frustrating. He had always been composed, controlled, a man who carried himself with an effortless charm that hid something deeper.

And yet, tonight, his control seemed to be slipping.

"You misunderstand me," he said softly, taking another deliberate step forward. "I never meant to push you away."

You swallowed hard, back meeting the cool glass of the window as he closed the distance between you. His presence was overwhelming, warm, steady, and undeniably alluring.

"Phainon…" you started, but your voice betrayed you, faltering under the intensity of his gaze.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his hand barely brushing against your arm, a ghost of a touch that sent shivers down your spine. "Tell me you don’t feel this, and I’ll let you walk away."

Your breath hitched. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, of course, you felt it. The tension, the desire, the way his mere presence made your heart pound like a drum.

But pride was a cruel thing.

"You…You make it so difficult," you admitted, your fingers clenching into fists at your sides.

Phainon exhaled a quiet chuckle, his golden eyes gleaming. "And yet, here you are."

His words unraveled the last of your defenses, and before you could think, before doubt could creep in, he closed the remaining space between you.

His lips hovered over yours, teasing, testing, waiting for permission. And the moment you leaned in, just the slightest movement, he captured you in a kiss that was nothing short of breathtaking.

It was slow at first, deliberate, as though he wanted to memorize every second, every detail of the way you felt against him. But then, something in him broke, and his hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against his body as the kiss deepened.

You melted into him, fingers threading through his silver hair, your body pressing against the cool glass behind you. The city lights outside blurred, the world beyond this moment ceasing to exist.

He kissed you like he had been waiting for this, aching for it.

And for the first time in a long while, you stopped thinking. You simply let yourself feel.

Because no matter how much you tried to deny it, Phainon was your gravity. And you were tired of resisting.

Have a good day/night/evening/morning/afternoon ☼꥟☽

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novaursa · 2 months ago

Text

The Second Daughter (blood of the dragon)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (short adult scene)

- Previous part: different shores

- Next part: different kind

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark @scarletdfox

The air inside the chamber was thick with something unspoken, a tension that curled like smoke through the dimly lit room. The torches cast shadows against the stone walls, flickering as a draft from the window stirred the heavy curtains, making them shift like ghosts in the firelight.

You hesitated for only a moment at the threshold, your senses sharpening in the silence, your breath steady as you listened. The weight of the day still lingered on your skin—the words exchanged with Rhaenyra, the truths unveiled, the memories stirred from their slumber.

And Jason was waiting.

You could feel his presence even before he spoke, a heavy, commanding thing that pressed into the space like a storm waiting to break. His breath was measured but deep, his body still, yet coiled like a lion poised to strike.

Slowly, you stepped forward. "Jason?"

No answer.

Only the sound of his breathing, the slight shift of fabric as he leaned forward.

You did not need your sight to know his eyes were on you—watching, waiting, something dark and unreadable lurking beneath the surface.

Your fingers found the edge of the bed first, then his arm—tense, solid beneath your touch.

He moved swiftly then, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, his touch possessive, unyielding.

"Jason, what—"

His lips crashed into yours. It was not a kiss meant for words, not one meant for slow deliberation or soft sentiment. It was a claim, a forceful, heated thing that demanded rather than asked, that reminded rather than reassured.

He pulled you into him, his hands firm, guiding you backward, and you felt the edge of the mattress press against the backs of your legs. His fingers traced the laces of your gown, working them loose with practiced ease, his breath warm as his lips moved to the curve of your throat.

"Did you think I wouldn’t know?" Jason’s voice was low, rough, his mouth brushing against your skin, setting fire to every nerve in its wake.

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling against his chest. "Know what?" you whispered.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it—only something raw, something on the edge of fury and hunger.

"That he still wants you," he murmured, his teeth grazing your collarbone, making you shudder. "That he always has."

Daemon.

The realization hit you instantly, and your lips parted in protest, but Jason didn’t give you the chance to speak. He tugged the gown from your shoulders, his calloused hands grazing your bare skin as he peeled away the fabric, his touch both reverent and demanding.

"Jason—"

"No, don’t," he growled, his mouth capturing yours again, his fingers brushing along your thighs, your hips, your waist—mapping every inch of you as if he were afraid of losing it.

His weight pressed against you as he guided you down onto the bed, his breath ragged, hot against your ear. "Tell me, wife," Jason whispered, his voice gravel and heat, "do you regret it?"

Your breath was uneven, your body burning beneath his touch, but your answer was swift, unwavering. "Never."

A sound left his throat, something like a growl, something deep and primal.

Then the lion took what was his.

His hands pinned you beneath him, his mouth searing against your skin, his movements urgent yet deliberate, as though he were carving his claim into you with every kiss, every touch, every whispered vow.

And you let him.

Because he was not Daemon.

Because you had chosen him.

And Jason Lannister would never let you forget it.

The wind was heavy with the scent of sulfur and damp stone as you stood with Jason and your children at the base of Dragonmont, the great volcanic mountain that loomed over Dragonstone. The heat that radiated from the fissures in the earth sent waves of warmth through the air, an eerie reminder that the land beneath your feet was as alive as the creatures that dwelled within it.

Jason’s presence was steady beside you, his stance firm, but you could feel the anxiety rolling off him in waves. This was not his domain—he had ruled the Westerlands for over a decade, commanded men, led battles, but here, beneath the shadow of the mountain, surrounded by fire and scales, he was out of place.

Your children, however, were not.

Rhaelya and Alysera stood side by side, their hair whipping in the wind, their eyes filled with quiet determination. Tygren, standing just ahead of them, was more rigid, but his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his nerves. Aelina was barely more than a shadow at Jason’s side, her small hand gripping onto his cloak tightly, though her expression remained unreadable. Maelys, ever restless, shifted his weight from foot to foot, staring ahead, eager for what was to come.

Ahead of you, Rhaenyra stood regal and patient, her hands clasped before her as she waited. Beside her, Jacaerys stood tall, a young man now, his eyes sharp as he watched the cavernous entrance of the mountain. The Dragonkeepers flanked them, their expressions unreadable beneath their helmets, their long staffs bearing sigils of flame.

And then, the ground rumbled.

Jason stiffened beside you, his hand twitching toward his sword by instinct, though he knew steel would be useless against what was coming.

You, however, merely lifted your chin, inhaling the shift in the air, the unmistakable scent of dragonfire stirring in the deep.

A growl echoed from within the cavern, deep and guttural, like the very earth was exhaling. The sound made Tygren take an unconscious step closer to you, though he quickly stopped himself.

And then, Vermithor emerged.

The Bronze Fury, the second-largest living dragon in the world, was a mountain of molten bronze and great muted scales, his wings unfurling like banners of war as he stepped into the sunlight. His massive head swung toward the gathered company, his molten eyes gleaming beneath ridges of thick, ancient scales.

Jason’s breath caught, and though you did not see it, you felt the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. Your children were silent, their awe palpable as they watched the great beast approach.

Rhaenyra stepped forward first, her voice calm, commanding. "Vermithor, you are called."

The dragon growled again, smoke curling from his nostrils as he lowered his head slightly, as though considering her words.

Jacaerys glanced toward the Dragonkeepers, who nodded solemnly.

"He has not taken a rider since King Jaehaerys," one of them murmured. "He waits."

Jason finally spoke, his voice gruff, uncertain. "Waits for what?"

Rhaenyra turned toward him, and though you could not see her face, you heard the faint smile in her voice. "For one worthy."

You felt Jason tense beside you, the weight of her words sinking in.

Then, one of the Dragonkeepers stepped forward, their voice measured and deliberate. "The young ones must now step forward, should they seek a bond. But know this—dragons do not give second chances. If they are not chosen, they will not be chosen again."

Jason exhaled sharply beside you. You felt him shift slightly, his stance more rigid now, his thoughts an unreadable storm. You turned your face toward him, your voice quiet beneath the wind. "Let them go, Jason," you murmured. "It is their birthright."

Jason’s jaw clenched, but after a long moment, he let out a slow, steady breath. "I know," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Seven bloody hells, I know."

And so, you let go of your children’s hands—and let them walk toward the fire.

The air was thick with heat and smoke, the very ground beneath your feet trembling as Vermithor shifted his weight, his massive talons digging into the earth. The great bronze dragon lowered his head slightly, exhaling a breath that sent embers fluttering through the air like dying stars. Rhaelya and Alysera stood before him, their small figures dwarfed by the might of the beast, their golden hair whipping wildly in the wind stirred by his wings. Jason’s breath was unsteady, his every muscle coiled, ready to move, though he knew there was nothing he could do.

You could feel the dread in the air, the sense of something ancient stirring, something that could not be tamed, only understood or destroyed. The twins did not move, their hands at their sides, their spines straight despite the sheer power radiating from the creature before them. They were brave. Gods, they were brave.

And then, Vermithor moved.

It happened so quickly.

The great beast lashed out, his tail whipping through the air like a battering ram, the force behind it enough to shatter bones, to send a grown man flying like a leaf caught in a storm. Rhaelya was in its path.

Jason roared, lunging forward, but hands caught him—Rhaenyra’s guards, their grips ironclad as they held him back. "Let me go!" he bellowed, his voice thick with fear, with fury, with the helplessness of a father watching his daughters stand before death itself.

Rhaelya barely had time to react—the great tail came crashing down, and at the last possible moment, she twisted her body, throwing herself out of its path. She hit the ground hard, rolling as the impact sent dust and debris flying into the air.

"Rhaelya!" Alysera cried out, her voice shaken but firm, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

But before Rhaelya could rise, Vermithor opened his maw—and flames erupted from his throat, a torrent of fire and fury aimed at Alysera.

Jason’s body snapped forward violently, his roar nearly deafening as he fought against the hands restraining him. "No!"

The fire rushed forward, the heat so intense it seemed to burn the very air itself, the flames blinding as they curled toward the small, fragile form of Alysera.

But then—

Silence.

Stillness.

The fire halted mid-air, the flames curling back as though suddenly retracted, as though a command had been given in a voice only dragons could hear.

Vermithor’s nostrils flared, his great wings shuddering, his molten gaze locked onto the two girls before him. His tail, which had been poised to strike again, now lay still, coiled like a serpent that had chosen not to strike.

Jason was breathing hard, his heart thundering in his chest, his vision dark with fury and fear.

And then—Vermithor lowered his massive head.

The movement was slow, deliberate, his snout lowering until it nearly touched the earth, until the tips of his massive black teeth were visible beneath his scaled lips. And then, without another sound, he exhaled. A slow, deep breath that ruffled the hair of the girls before him, but did not burn them.

Rhaelya, panting, still on the ground, pressed her hands to the dirt, pushing herself up, her eyes wide with understanding, with awe. Alysera, still trembling, stepped closer—only a fraction, but Vermithor did not move away.

Jason's breath hitched, his hands loosening from where they had been curled into fists.

You, standing still, your hands clutching at your skirts, felt the shift in the air, the turning of fate itself.

The moment stretched into eternity—and then Vermithor rumbled, a sound so deep it seemed to shake the very bones of the earth.

A sound of acknowledgment.

A sound of acceptance.

A sound that declared, to all who bore witness, that a dragon had chosen.

The air remained thick with heat and smoke, the dread still thrumming through the ground beneath your feet, even as Vermithor remained still, his great molten eyes locked on Alysera, as though seeing something beyond mere flesh, beyond mere blood. The Bronze Fury had chosen—or, at the very least, he had not rejected her.

Jacaerys moved first, his steps measured and cautious, his hands open at his sides as he approached the twins, his gaze flickering toward Vermithor’s massive head, watching for any sign of aggression. He moved with the steady confidence of someone raised among dragons, but even he was careful not to misstep.

"Come now, cousins," Jace murmured as he reached Alysera first, his voice gentle, yet firm enough to be obeyed. "Slowly now. No sudden movements."

Alysera’s breath was uneven, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her hands still clenched at her sides as though she barely believed she still had them.

"He stopped," she whispered, her voice almost lost to the wind, her lilac eyes wide as she looked at Jace.

"Aye, he did," Jace answered, giving her a brief nod before he carefully took her by the arm, guiding her backward, away from the massive beast who had nearly turned her to ash.

Behind her, Rhaelya slowly got to her feet, brushing dirt from her arms, her expression set in quiet disbelief. Her twin had nearly been killed, but Vermithor had stopped.

Not because of mercy.

Not because of hesitation.

But because something within him had decided against it.

Jason moved before anyone could stop him, his boots crunching over the scorched earth, his breath still uneven from the sheer helplessness of what he had just endured. He did not care who saw the fear still writhing beneath his ribs—he had come too close to watching his daughters burn before his eyes.

Jace had just begun to pull Alysera further back when Jason reached them, his hands finding his daughter's shoulders, checking for wounds, for burns, for any sign that she had been harmed.

"Father—"

Jason ignored her, pulling her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her in a grip firm enough to steal her breath.

"You could have died." His voice was hoarse, raw, barely above a whisper as he pressed his lips to the crown of her head, his body still rigid with the remnants of fear.

Alysera did not protest—how could she? She had seen death flash before her in the molten gold of Vermithor’s eyes. She simply let her father hold her, let him feel that she was alive, whole, unburned.

Rhaelya was next—Jason cupped her face, tilted her head this way and that, scanning her for any sign of pain.

"I’m fine, Father," Rhaelya murmured, though her voice was softer than usual, the weight of what had nearly happened settling deep in her bones.

Jason exhaled, brushing a thumb over her cheek before pulling her into a brief, firm embrace, his jaw tight with words left unspoken.

"Enough." Jason’s voice was low but unwavering, as he finally tore his gaze from his daughters and turned back toward Rhaenyra, who had been watching in silence.

She lifted her chin slightly, her expression unreadable. "There are still others, Jason," she murmured, glancing toward the smoking mouth of Dragonmont, where more dragons still lingered in the depths. "Seasmoke has been riderless since Laenor. There are wild dragons as well—Grey Ghost has been seen near the cliffs."

Jason’s jaw clenched, the remnants of his anger still crackling in his blood. "It is enough for today," he said sharply, his arm wrapped around Alysera’s shoulders, the weight of his presence shielding her as though he could protect her from fire itself.

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, but she did not press further. "Very well," she murmured.

But Jason knew that look in her eyes—this was not over.

And as he turned away, his daughters pressed against his sides, he knew this was only the beginning.

The corridors of Dragonstone were dimly lit. The air was still heavy with the scent of smoke and dragonfire, a lingering reminder of what had nearly transpired atop Dragonmont. Jason’s grip was firm, his hold on Alysera’s shoulder unrelenting as he guided his daughters toward the dining hall. His other hand rested against Rhaelya’s back, his steps long and purposeful, his jaw set in an ironclad expression of fury and restraint.

His daughters walked beside him, silent but unharmed, though the weight of the day still clung to them. The twins had nearly died—burned alive, crushed beneath a tail that could have shattered their bones like twigs. Jason could still hear the roar of Vermithor, could still see the blinding heat of dragonfire aimed at his daughter, could still feel the terror that had seized his heart in a way nothing else ever had before.

But the worst part?

They did not look frightened.

Not in the way their younger siblings did.

Ahead of them, the doors to the dining hall stood open, the glow of candlelight spilling into the hallway. The rest of their children were already inside—Tygren, Aelina, Maelys—and their expressions were not like those of their older sisters.

They were shaken. More than that, they were terrified.

The moment Jason stepped through the doorway, he felt their eyes snap to him, then to their sisters. Tygren’s face was pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his gaze darting between Rhaelya and Alysera as though he could hardly believe they were standing before him alive. Aelina, always the quiet one, sat stiff-backed in her chair, her wide eyes shimmering with unspoken distress. Maelys clutched at the edge of the table, his small fingers curled into the wood, his lips quivering as though he wanted to ask what had happened—but was too afraid of the answer.

Jason exhaled slowly, guiding the twins to their seats before finally stepping back.

You were already there, as you went ahead of them, sitting at the head of the table. Your face turned toward the sound of their approach, your hands resting gently on the table before you, as though bracing for what was to come.

"It was too much," Jason muttered as he took his seat beside you, his voice low but laced with barely restrained anger. "I never should have allowed it."

"They were never truly in danger," you answered softly, your tone steady, meant to ease him.

Jason scoffed, leaning forward, elbows on the table, running a hand down his face.

"Never truly in danger?" His voice darkened, his green eyes flashing with something manecing, something livid as he turned his gaze to you. "You did not see what I saw, Y/N. Vermithor nearly killed them. Rhaelya was thrown like a doll. Alysera was nearly burned alive. If that beast had changed his mind, I would be burying our daughters tonight."

Aelina let out a small, shaken breath, shrinking further into her chair at his words. Maelys clutched tighter at the table, his little shoulders trembling.

You reached out blindly, your fingers brushing over his hand, feeling the tension in his knuckles, the way his entire body had coiled like a bowstring. "And yet, they are here, Jason. They are unharmed." Your voice remained calm, even as his fury threatened to spill over the edges of his restraint.

Jason stared at you, his chest rising and falling, his body a storm of anger, relief, and helplessness.

"Aemerys was different," he muttered after a moment, his voice lower now, raw. "His dragon was there from the beginning—hatched in his cradle. He never had to—" Jason cut himself off, his jaw tightening once more.

"He never had to stand before death and pray it did not take him," you finished for him, your fingers finally wrapping around his hand, squeezing gently.

Jason's head dipped slightly, his shoulders still stiff.

Across the table, Tygren finally spoke, his voice quiet but filled with something unreadable. "Will… will Alysera fly Vermithor?"

A tense silence followed.

Alysera and Rhaelya exchanged a look, neither of them answering.

Jason’s jaw clenched so tightly it could have cracked stone. "No, she will not," Jason declared firmly, his voice brokering no argument, no discussion. "None of you will be near that beast again."

Alysera and Rhaelya stiffened, but neither dared speak.

And you did not loosen your grip on Jason’s hand.

The courtyard of Dragonstone was alive with the sound of wind whistling through the high walls, the distant roar of the sea crashing against the blackened cliffs below. Daemon Targaryen stood near the center, his arms crossed over his chest, his silver hair caught in the breeze, his keen eyes watching his daughters. Baela and Rhaena were standing with Moonadancer in the training yard, speaking in hushed tones to one another, occasionally glancing toward their father.

Rhaenyra approached with purpose, her expression unreadable, though there was something in the set of her jaw, in the way her hands remained perfectly still at her sides, that told him she had come to deliver news he was meant to hear.

Jacaerys walked beside her, his face caught somewhere between restraint and unease. He had grown into a fine young man, broad-shouldered, with a quiet confidence about him, but there was still something of a boy in the way he watched his mother for cues.

Daemon, however, did not move to greet them, nor did he turn his gaze from his daughters.

"You look like a man waiting for a battle," Rhaenyra observed, her voice low as she came to a stop beside him.

Daemon finally tilted his head toward her, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. "Aren’t we always waiting for one?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes before looking at Baela and Rhaena, who stood just far enough away that they could not hear the conversation. "I came to tell you," she said, her voice carefully measured, "Alysera has bonded with Vermithor."

Daemon’s brow lifted in mild surprise, his smirk deepening, but his eyes flickered with something else—something sharp and amused. "Hells, I wish I had been there to see that," he said, tilting his head toward her. "Did Jason lose his wits completely, or did he merely threaten to take his daughters and leave the moment it happened?"

Jacaerys stiffened slightly at his uncle’s flippant tone, but Rhaenyra only gave Daemon a stern look. "Jason was furious," she confirmed, crossing her arms. "He nearly tore my men apart when they stopped him from running to them."

Daemon chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Of course, he did. He is a lion, after all, isn’t he? Protective of his cubs, ready to claw apart anyone who threatens them."

"He is more than that, Daemon, and you know it," Rhaenyra warned, her voice sharper now, edged with something firm.

Daemon turned his full attention to her then, studying her, assessing her. "You think I should tread carefully with him, don’t you?" he mused, his smirk fading just slightly. "You think he is a greater obstacle than I give him credit for."

"I think he is a man who does not take well to being cornered," Rhaenyra corrected, her voice low and serious. "And you’ve done nothing but corner him since he arrived."

Daemon exhaled, turning his gaze back toward his own daughters, watching as Baela adjusted the saddle straps on Moondancer, her careful hands moving with practiced ease. "Jason won’t allow the rest of his children to claim dragons," Daemon stated after a moment, his tone utterly certain.

Rhaenyra lifted a brow. "He allowed Alysera—"

"He had no choice." Daemon cut her off, his voice carrying that same dark amusement. "Alysera stood before Vermithor, and the beast chose her. Jason had nothing to say about it."

Jacaerys shifted beside them, still silent, still listening.

"But now," Daemon continued, turning back to his wife, "he will not risk it again. He will refuse. You know it as well as I do."

Rhaenyra said nothing, but her silence was telling.

Daemon smirked. "So, tell me, what do you intend to do about that?"

Silence again.

Daemon's smirk did not fade entirely, but it shifted, turning into something quieter, more thoughtful as he leaned back against one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard. His eyes remained fixed on his daughters, watching the way Baela adjusted Moondancer’s saddle, the way Rhaena stood beside her, fingers brushing against the dragon’s cool scales, her mind far away, lingering on something unseen.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, lacking the usual biting edge of provocation he often used when speaking of Jason Lannister.

"I will speak to her."

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, her expression shifting into something warning, wary. "Daemon—"

"She is the only one who sees reason," Daemon continued, his tone measured but unwavering. "She has always understood that our blood is different, that our legacy is different. She will know that the rest of her children deserve the same chance as their sisters."

He turned his head, his violet gaze settling squarely on Rhaenyra, reading her carefully. "She will listen."

Rhaenyra did not blink. "You will stay away from her."

The words were not a request, nor a plea. They were a command. Daemon’s smirk flickered for a brief moment before vanishing entirely, his expression unreadable, quiet. "You still believe I would steal her from her husband, don’t you?"

Rhaenyra did not answer immediately, but her jaw tightened. "I believe that Jason Lannister is not a man who will sit quietly while you whisper into his wife’s ear," she said evenly. "And I believe you will enjoy testing how far he can be pushed."

Daemon let out a quiet exhale, tilting his head slightly. "And you? Will you sit quietly, then?"

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. "She is my sister." Her voice was low, but unshaken. "I will not see you pull her into something that will only bring more pain."

Daemon studied her, his eyes lingering for a long moment, silent, contemplative. Finally, he let out a short breath, shaking his head slightly. "It was never my intention to pull her anywhere, Rhaenyra," he murmured. "Not then. Not now."

"Then leave her be," Rhaenyra said, her voice quieter now, but still firm. "She is here for her children, not for war, not for politics."

Daemon was silent for a long moment, his gaze shifting back to Baela and Rhaena, watching them move as though he needed the time to decide how much of this he would listen to.

The courtyard remained tense, heavy with unsaid words.

Jacaerys finally broke the silence.

"I should check on them," he murmured, glancing between his mother and uncle. "The Lannisters. After today, I imagine they are not in the best spirits."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly, exhaling as she turned toward him. "Yes. Go to them. See that they are well."

Jace hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Daemon for the briefest moment before he turned and strode away, his boots echoing softly against the stone.

Daemon did not move.

He did not leave.

But he did not argue further.

For now.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #house targaryen #house lannister #the second daughter #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jason lannister #hotd jason #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n

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withleeknow · 1 year ago

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quiet. (m)

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluffy-ish, suggestive content; unedited. minors dni. word count: 0.6k note: SO we had an evening of obsessing over lino yelling and being loud as fuck in general and it... might've awakened something in me so here ya go lol k bye

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

The second you walk into your bedroom, Minho's hands are on your waist, holding you with your back against the door.

"Hey," he says, voice dropping lower. It doesn't help your dilemma at all. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Why?"

"I don't know. You've been kinda quiet since earlier. Were the boys too much?"

It was yours and Minho's turn to host game this week. All of his friends came over and wherever that group goes, anarchy follows. They were beyond chaotic, but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle. At the end of the day, those goofballs are still some of the most lovable people you've ever met.

"No," you say, "everyone was fine."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I promise." It's cute that he seems genuinely concerned about this, that he thinks something must've happened to upset you in some way when it couldn't be further from the truth. You lean forward to press a quick kiss against his cheek, before you shrug, asking him, "Do you remember when Hyunjin kept interrupting you and you yelled at him to shut up so you could speak?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought it was hot."

Minho takes a moment to stare at you, and you watch in real time as the worry in his eyes slowly dissipates to make room for something else as the realization dawns on him. Twinkling amusement.

Then he chuckles, shoulders slightly sagging with relief, before he pulls you closer to his body, shortening the gap between your face and his before he lets his lips brush against yours. Not quite capturing your mouth with his. Just a ghost of a kiss.

"Is that why you were so quiet?" he mumbles against you. "You got turned on?"

"Hmm."

"Silly. Got me all worked up over nothing." Another chuckle, and suddenly he's bypassing your lips, much to your disappointment. Minho moves to kiss your cheek, then along your jawline before he starts trailing down your neck. "You liked my voice that much?"

"I always like your voice. You know that."

"Then what's different?" he asks, pressing his mouth against that spot that he knows you love. It makes your breath hitch instantly. "You liked that I was mean to Hyunjin? Want me to yell at you like that?"

You laugh lightly, baring your neck for him to mark. "I don't know. It just felt like you were... authoritative. It was hot."

"Yeah? You were thinking about it while everyone was there? You were thinking about me?"

You could tell that your admission strokes his ego, judging by the way his hands slowly drift southward to grab your ass, holding your hips flushed against his.

"I thought about a lot of things."

"What else?"

"Thought about what it'd be like if you were more like that with me," you say, but then you feel a stupid need to clarify what you really mean. "In bed."

Minho detaches his lips from you in an instant, though his hands are still on your body. He looks down at you with darkened eyes and mischief swimming in those beautiful irises. His gaze flickers briefly to your lips before he asks, "Do you want me to?"

For some reason, you feel a hint of shyness prickling at the edges. You asked for this, quite literally just now, but maybe it's the way that he's looking at you that's making you a tad nervous, like he's a predator and you're his prey.

"Yes," you confirm after a minute. "I want you to."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, he takes a step back from you. The switch up is crazy, and coupled with the way his tone turns sultry in a blink of an eye, it's enough to make your head spin.

"Get on the bed," he tells you, palpable temptation dripping off every syllable.

"Minho..."

"On the bed. Don't make me say it again."

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know fluff #lee know smut #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #skz #lee know #lee minho

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rafecamerons-national-anthem · 4 months ago

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FORBIDDEN TERRITORY-RAFE CAMERON

𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕤𝕞𝕦𝕥

The night was quiet, save for the occasional chirping of crickets and the soft crash of waves in the distance. You shouldn’t have been there, alone, in Rafe’s bedroom, while the rest of Tannyhill slept.

The Pogues would never forgive you if they found out, and you weren’t sure you could forgive yourself. But something about Rafe was magnetic, undeniable. He was a storm you couldn’t help but walk into, even knowing you might not come out unscathed.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you said, your voice hushed as you stood in the middle of his room, arms crossed over your chest.

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His sharp blue eyes roamed over you with blatant hunger, making your stomach flutter despite your better judgment.

“Then why are you?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. You didn’t have a good answer. The truth was, you couldn’t stay away, not from him.

Rafe smirked, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “You keep saying you don’t want this, but here you are. In my room. At midnight.”

Your pulse quickened as he came closer, his towering frame making you feel small in the best way. “I…this doesn’t mean anything,” you stammered, taking a step back.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Doesn’t mean anything?” He stopped in front of you, so close that you could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. “Is that what you tell yourself every time you look at me like you’re about to let me ruin you?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You’re delusional,” you muttered, though the words lacked conviction.

“Am I?” he murmured, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. The touch was light, almost tender, but it sent a jolt of electricity through your body.

“Rafe-”

“Tell me to stop,” he interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper as his fingers trailed down your cheek to your jaw. “If you really don’t want this, yeah?”

You should have said it. You should have walked out of that room and never looked back. But instead, you grabbed the front of his sweatpants and pulled him closer, crashing your lips against his.

Rafe groaned into the kiss, his hands immediately finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. The kiss was desperate, all teeth and tongue, as weeks of tension finally came to a head.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of your thighs. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this.”

You gasped as he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He laid you down gently, his body hovering over yours as his lips trailed down your neck.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his hands sliding beneath your shirt to grip your waist.

You arched into his touch, your fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Rafe,” you breathed, your voice trembling.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough as his hands roamed over your body.

“Rafe,” you repeated, and the way his name rolled off your tongue seemed to push him over the edge.

In one swift motion, he tugged your shirt over your head, his eyes darkening as they raked over your exposed skin. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, leaning down to capture your lips in another searing kiss.

His hands worked quickly, sliding down to undo your shorts and toss them aside. You were left in nothing but your underwear, and the way Rafe looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered, made your cheeks flush with heat.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice full of reverence as his fingers trailed up your thigh.

Before you could respond, his hand slipped beneath the fabric of your underwear, his fingers teasing your entrance. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Rafe, please,” you whispered, your hips bucking against his hand.

He smirked, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Patience, baby.”

But he didn’t make you wait long. His fingers slid inside you, curling just right as he watched you fall apart beneath him. Your moans filled the room, your body arching off the bed as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

When you finally shattered, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, he groaned, his lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice rough with possession as he slid your underwear down your legs.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Rafe smirked, tugging off his sweatpants and positioning himself between your thighs. “Damn right you are.”

The feeling of him filling you completely stole the air from your lungs, your body trembling as he began to move. His rhythm was slow at first, deliberate, as if he wanted to savor every moment.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours as his pace quickened. “So fucking perfect.”

You could barely think, let alone respond, as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your nails dug into his back, leaving marks that only seemed to spur him on.

“Rafe,” you moaned, your voice trembling as you felt yourself teetering on the edge again.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice rough as he thrust deeper. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

His words sent you over the edge, your body shaking as you cried out his name. Rafe wasn’t far behind, his movements growing erratic as he chased his own release.

When he finally stilled above you, his breathing heavy and his forehead pressed against yours, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths.

“I hate how much I want you,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

Rafe chuckled, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Good,” he said, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Because you’re not going anywhere.”

𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 @nicholaschavezslut69

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jjjjeonww · 3 months ago

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What are performance's units, "I Don't Understand But I Luv U"?

genre - angst angst angst! (just ur regular yuna !), and hints of fluff at the end!! shout out to my one and only @hanniescookie for helping me!! imagine if i say i'll be working on dad!jeonghan soon, that would be crazzeee...(👀) plsplspls fill up my dms w anything, as long as i get to talk to you obviously inspired by "I Don't Understand But I Luv U" !! tags!: @kwonienana, @hanniescookie

˚ ༘ 🦖𖦹⋆｡˚ dino ⭑.ᐟ

dino's "I Don't Understand But I Luv U" is ... language barrier!

dino's lyrics!: "The guitar's melody, makes my desires desperately bloom again." "The waveforms of my emotions, increase with my desire. You know there's something more important between us than words." "You know that I don't believe me, but you still believed me. I'm a flower only blooming inside you. Spread, Flames." (italic words are meant to be said in korean! ..ykwim?) (bold words are meant to be said in english! ..ykwim?)

your fingers drifted over the guitar strings, the haunting melody filling the air between you and dino. dino listened, his heart swelling with a bittersweet ache, the music speaking volumes more than any words ever could. though a language barrier separated them, the emotions behind the notes transcended the need for translation. your eyes met his, and in their depths, he saw a reflection of his own longing, his own desperate yearning for connection. he sang, his voice a throaty whisper, "The guitar's melody, makes my desires desperately bloom again." your pulse raced, your skin prickling with goosebumps, understanding his sentiment even if you couldn't grasp every word. he reached out, his calloused fingers intertwining with yours, the warmth of your skin ignited a fire within him. "The waveforms of my emotions, increase with my desire," he murmured, his voice rough with feeling. "You know there's something more important between us than words." finally. you could understand a sentence he had said. your eyes shone with unshed tears, a soft gasp escaping your lips. you knew exactly what he meant. your bond, your love, was something that couldn't be expressed through mere language. it was a silent understanding, a soul-deep connection that needed no translation. "You know that I don't believe me, but you still believed me," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "I'm a flower only blooming inside you. Spread, Flames." dino's heart clenched, a fierce surge of love and desire coursing through him. he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around your waist as he captured your lips in a searing kiss. in that moment, the language barrier melted away, and you were simply two souls, lost in the flames of your all-consuming love. no words were needed; your bodies spoke the truth, your hearts beating in sync as you lost yourselves in the passion and promise of their embrace. the guitar's melody drifted on, a haunting soundtrack of the forbidden love story, a testament to the power of connection that knew no boundaries of language or reason. you and dino were trapped in a dance of desire, emotions intertwined, hearts and souls inextricably bound. and in that dance, you found a love that needed no words, a love that would endure against all odds.

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castieltrash1 · 2 years ago

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Blade runner!!!! Please!! Anything will do but I'm thirsty and need it to be quenched! Can you provide?

officer k x human afab!reader; smut, breeding kink (roleplayish?), pre-2049 events, dom!k, overstimulation, dirty talk

K’s rough, calloused fingers spread out against your lower stomach, an area of your body he’s taken more interest in recently than ever before. “You’re really gonna let me?” he asks, the tone of his voice so weak and desperate you wonder how he’s managing the strength to hold himself above you right now, baby blues boring into yours. “Say you will, please,” he adds, as if your answer will make a difference, that your words will defy the undeniable truths of the world you live in.

But you dig your nails into the nape of his neck, urging his flushed face closer, closer, closer, until his shuddering exhale hits hot against your upper lip. “Do it, K,” you plead, almost gasping at the way he instinctively twitches inside you, his cock buried to the hilt. The evidence of your earlier orgasms paints the inside of your thighs, easing each of his movements as he rocks into you. You hold his unwavering gaze. “I want it.”

You know if sheer desire were enough, his wish would already be granted. “Yeah?” he breathes, growing more confident from your reaction. “You want me to breed you?” The word is sharp on his tongue, too animalistic for his synthetic imitation to capture, but his determination never falters. He’s too human for you to comprehend. “I’m…” His pupils jerk erratically across your face, and you know he’s searching for words that have never occurred to him before now. “I’m gonna knock you up,” he finally decides, and the shiver that runs down your spine at his choice of verbiage only urges your body closer to his.

“Cum inside me,” you beg, overcome with something feral clawing at the inside of your chest. You can’t breathe and the lack of oxygen leaves you lightheaded, your vision blurring and darkening at the edges. Framed in a fuzzy vignette, K soothes your hunger with a gentle smile, rolling his hips achingly slow. He barely eases an inch or two of himself from you at a time, always letting your warmth pull him back in.

When he hits the most sensitive spot inside you, your heaving gasp is hushed by his soft lips lingering against your cheek. “Shh. I’ve got you, baby,” K reassures, scruff tickling your soft skin. “Gonna give you what you need, I promise.” Maybe it was your fantasy all along, stifled shamefully somewhere only he could reach. “Just say please.”

You force what little control over your body you have left into squeezing him, clenching so tightly he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. “Please.”

He trembles above you, mouth parting to release a breathy “fuck” that barely escapes before his release does, shooting inside you with a thick, hot pulse. “S-shit,” he gasps, instinctively pressing closer, his body desperate to meet its mark. His eyes squeeze shut and your own roll back in pleasure at the feeling of him finally filling you the way he’s been promising to all night. The sensation is so perfect, you could completely forget it isn't real.

K’s chest brushes yours as he lowers himself, using the last of his energy to shift you both to your sides. He doesn’t pull out, his firm hand on your waist ensuring you don’t let him either. “Well… If anything’s gonna work…” His lashes flutter as he gives you a lopsided grin, one so content you think he’s started to believe it himself. “What do you say?”

The world has surprised you before, but that’s not a sure enough answer. You stick to what you know.

“I love you, K.”

In the dim light of your apartment, he whispers it back.

gosling sleepover sunday (no longer taking requests!)

#blade runner 2049 #officer k smut #officer k x reader #officer k #blade runner #blade runner smut #blade runner 2049 smut #ryan gosling #t: writing #answered #anonymous

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hoshigray · 2 years ago

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Only You Can Tie My Hands | K. Nanami

Hear me out: Nanami returns home from work to his loving partner, and you happily welcome him. Taking off his blazer, led him to the bedroom, giving him a "massage," doing all the things to help ease the poor blonde of stress. But what does a "massage" entail, and why does it involve his necktie?

A/n: Although it may seem like I only write for Toji because most of the stuff I put out is about him (bc I'm his one and only domestic wife outside of his late one whom I respect), don't get it twisted!! Some of these JJK men can make me swoon just like him (Choso and Nanami, my darlings~~~), so I'm writing yet another lil something in honor of one of them! This draft was an option for a poll but wasn't picked for a drawing. However, that doesn't mean I can't post it at all sooooo you get a win, Nanami stans :D

Cw: slight dom! reader x Nanami - the reader is androgynous or gn! bc I wrote pretty ambiguously in this piece - slight bondage (you tie up Nanami's wrist with a ribbon cloth) - sex with a blindfold (using Nanami's tie) - sensual touching - kisses on the body - handjob - ball massaging - blowjob - pet names (Nanami calls you beloved, darling, love, sweet pea; you call him "babe" and "honey") - throatfucking kind of (??) bc you go at your own pace.

Wc: 2k

It was a difficult day, but that's usual for Nanami Kento.

Today he had meetings after meetings with many of his sorcerer subordinates, had to go on two missions, and, of course, had to deal with the ever-annoyingly casual Gojo Satoru.

Nothing he couldn't handle, but the poor blonde man would be a fool to say he wasn't exhausted. All he wants to do is be in his space, his home. He can practically feel the soft surface of his bed.

It's all he's thinking about when he opens the door to his apartment and crouches to take off his shoes.

"Kento!"

Okay, that was a lie. There was something else he's been dying to see once he left work. Something more precious than his bed.

Then comes you walking from the corner, and your bright smile was the first thing that captured him. It was filled with such a glow that his fatigue almost vanished there and then.

He offers a small smile and straightens himself to greet you. "Hello, my love."

Your smile beams harder. It was a good thing Nanami wore his goggles before removing them. You rush to kiss him, and he hums into your lips. Then your gleeful glow is substituted with instant worry. "Oh honey, what happened to you? You look as if you didn't eat anything!"

"I didn't," Nanami admits as you unbutton and take his tan blazer. He follows you to the bedroom, where you hang his suit in the closet while he flops onto the bed.

"Kentyyy~" You use his nickname before you lecture him. A smile quirks up on his lips because you're the only one who refers to him with said name, and he prefers to keep it that way. "You're so lucky I cooked up something. You know you have to eat!"

Nanami hums, readjusting to lie on the pillow and headboard. His eyes follow your figure sit beside him, a warm hand coming up to stroke his cheek. "I know, darling. I was just caught up in too much, is all."

And you know he's telling the truth. It's the fourth day in a row that Nanami comes from work looking way more exhausted than he'd allow. But it was worse yesterday when he returned from past daylight hours, surprising even him. His face still looks the same, but you can make out slight depictions of dark circles forming under his eyes and muscles tensing, not from lack of sleep but because of his body being worn out.

Despite your worry, all he asks is for you to stay safe and smile. And you do just that with a willing heart. Thank goodness it's a Friday.

"Well. since the weekend is finally upon us," a brow is drawn upwards from your building excitement. "I cooked your favorite: chicken alfredo. But!" You cheekily stop him from saying something because his mouth opens, yet no words dare leave until you finish your sentence. "With a bread bowl! And yes, the pasta isn't ribbon."

A chuckle is well-received as you smile harder. "Oh, really? Is that what you've been working on all day?"

"Uhh, of course!" You proudly huff as you lightly pinch his cheek. "You've been working too hard this week, so you deserve to be spoiled by me!"

"You spoil me already just by living with me, my love." He leans in to kiss you, which you gladly reciprocate. One kiss leads to two, and two leads to three.

You break the kiss when you feel a hand finds its way behind your head, giggling at his sneaky action. "Aht aht aht, can't go having dessert without a meal."

"Oh, I know," his forehead gently lands on yours, "but wouldn't you be so kind as to let a tired man like me have a little taste?"

The way his mocha brown eyes survey yours, practically begging you for any sign of yielding to his request, it almost has you drop your guard down. But something else comes to your mind, and you can feel your grin go from ear to ear.

"Perhaps I have an idea to relieve you from your stress, Mr. Nanami." You lightly push his back onto the headboard, your eyes silently commanding him not to move from that spot. He indulges as you get up and grab for something in the closet. You come back to the bed with a smooth ribbon fabric. "Please put your hands up above your head."

A brow is raised, yet Nanami continues to oblige your wishes. With grace and patience, you wrap the fabric around his wrists and tie them onto the headboard. Nanami now voices his thoughts. "Something tells me you're going to get more out of this than me."

You only giggle as you untie his necktie from his blue dress shirt. "I wouldn't say that when I haven't even started yet, Kenty." You then tell him to close his eyes and wrap the dotted material around them.

Completely vulnerable in his line of sight, Nanami feels the weight of your body dent the bed as you move from the side of him down to where his legs are. He feels your hands slide down from his chest in tease, fingers delicately tracing his abdomen after you unbutton his shirt to reveal his well-built physique. You sensually kiss his body as your hands roam to his tan pants.

His breathing goes uneven when you spread his dressed legs apart, leaving his clothed groin in your line of vision. He hears you hum in loving anticipation. Oh, you're definitely getting a kick out of this. The sound of the zipper on his trousers alerts him, and he'd be a fool if he denied the titillation brewing inside him.

As for you, the image of his hard cock in his briefs has you swooned. The urge to pounce him beats your head like a drum, but that will have to wait for later. Because right now is meant to be a moment for him to relax and possibly give you something to do after cooking all day. The groans from Nanami when you stroke his member through the underwear are so hot to the ears that your ass sways from side to side to ease the heat growing south.

When his length is set free, your breath hitches at the marvelous sight. Even after all this time being together, you can't control the arousing pulsation of your core that manages to creep up whenever you see his dick. It's good that Nanami's blindfolded because how you liked your bottom lip would've baffled him.

Speaking of him, the blonde isn't used to this. When it comes to intimacies, looking at you is the highlight. Watching you ride him while his rough hands propel you down to his cock, how your body struggles to take his fingers drilling inside your sensitive hole, or the beatific expression on your face as you beckon him to come close for a kiss as he drives himself deep within you.

Just looking at you as he does whatever with your body can drive him crazy. Take that away, and Nanami feels like he's in an uncertain territory where you do what you want with him. It's a rarity and totally out of routine...That doesn't mean he doesn't like it, though.

How can he, when he silently gasps for air when he feels a wet muscle slide along the underside of his shaft? Or when your lips place teasing kisses on the beautiful veins that decorate his dick? And, oh Lord, when your tongue laps around the tip, causing the man to bite down on his lip?

You laugh at his attempt to suppress himself. "It's alright, honey, no need to limit yourself. Let it all out." You coo at him as your hand snakes up to his dick as the other massages his inner thigh. Pretty fingers slide up and down the length, and the pads of your fingertips rub against the sensitive tip, causing the poor blonde to groan through gritted teeth.

"Haaaah, haaah—Hnngh!" You could listen to his whimpers all day. "Aghhh—Y/n, my beloved, you're so..." The way he slightly ruts his groin towards you is telling. You smile at him even when he can't see it, but he knows you are. He knows you're watching and listening to him dissolve into a mess.

"I know, babe. I know just how to make you relax, huh." The hand on his inner thigh moves to his sack as the other strokes the base. Nanami jolts at both your hands, sculpting his dick simultaneously as his mind runs in circles at the pleasurable torture.

When he senses your plump lips faintly kiss the tip of his cock, he knows he's too far in. He curses the restraints on his wrists and eyes because he only wants to see you take his length to the base right now. Now those thoughts are challenged as your lips take in the pink tip of his member and slowly inch downwards.

Your jaw relaxes while you take in all of him at your own pace, his cock sinking further into your mouth until your lips almost brush his pelvis. His penis pulsating inside your mouth and throat has you under a euphoric spell. You slowly bob your head up and down, putting your hands on his thighs to hold him down before he starts thrusting and screwing with your slow tempo.

Nanami does all he can to maintain his composure, but God, the feeling of your throat on his shaft is doing wonders. Not only do the inner walls of your oral cavity feel so warm around him, but the blindfold has him using his imagination of how you look right now. He can just picture your pretty hooded eyes looking up at him, gauging his reactions as your ass rocks to and fro, tolerating the neediness between your legs.

It kills him that he can't physically see and touch you; however, your fleshy touch, paired with his creative fantasy, is doing just as much. That is, until a hand returns to massaging his balls, urging him to hunch further. He's now close.

"Hnngh!! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," If you weren't so full in the mouth, you'd giggle at the blonde's curses. "I'm about to—Mhmm! Oh God..."

You decide to help him in his release, slowly withdrawing his cock from your mouth and going for the head, your tongue lapping and licking in his most sensitive glands. Your hand on his sack kneed presses down harder, and Nanami wastes no time shooting his load to you. You happily take in his cum with your mouth, none going to waste as you're licking in any excess amounts.

Once he's done ejaculating and you're done drinking his essence, a pop leaves the mark as your lips leave his twitching head while you sigh blissfully.

Nanami breathes heavily in euphoria, "I thought you said...dessert shouldn't come before a meal."

"Don't question the methods of a cook, babe." you climb on top of him to undo the ribbon cloth on the headboard, your pants mixed with his. "So, I hope that helped ease some stress of yours."

"No."

No??

And it was at that moment you realized you probably shouldn't have untied his wrists first. Because one moment you're above him, your back sinking deep into the mattress the next. His hands pin you down by the shoulders, and a leg is positioned between yours, a knee rubbing against the aching sensation between your pants.

Nanami takes off his tie to free his eyes, brown orbs now cast with the intoxicating guise of lust and want. Your blood runs cold. Oh, I'm in danger.

"N-Now, Kenty, we shouldn't be doing this now," you try to plead before he does anything rash. "You have to take a shower and freshen up before dinner or else—"

"No, sweet pea. I don't think it's fair you get to have a piece of me, but I'm subjected to wait afterward to do the same." He removes your pants in seconds and sets your legs on his shoulders. Heat spreads around your face when his face draws near your opening, and you already have a hand grab for his hair in anticipation.

"Dinner can wait, darling. Right now, I just want you."

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