#Ice Velvet fabric | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jjjjisun · 1 month ago

Note

Younger sis minji (newjeans) having an OF. Reader found it and instantly subscribed, getting himself off multiple times a day and uses it to chat with minji. Minji then finding out that it was her brother (from his pc, phone, or username) and then gets turned on but she doesnt know why. Chats w her brother and asks for cumtributes or just video sex (starts with just jerk off instructions so there’s no video, and minji decides to masturbate as well and turns on her cam, saying hello to her bro) and eventually inviting him to make a breeding video with him

Million-Dollar Experience

NJZ/NewJeans Minji x Male OC | 2663 words

TW: Incest

—

Buy me a Ko-Fi.

Book commissions here.

—

In the quiet of his sprawling penthouse, Jae poured himself a generous glass of Scotch, the amber liquid casting entrancing shadows in the dim lighting. He was a man of detailed observation, a skill honed by years of handling high-stakes business deals. Tonight, however, his attention was not on market trends or acquisition targets but on a curiosity that had piqued his interest over the past few weeks.

His laptop screen displayed the homepage of OnyFans, a website known for its risqué content. He'd stumbled upon it while investigating a potential business venture, but one name had caught his eye: Minji. His little sister, nine years his junior, was a mystery to him. She'd left home at eighteen, pursuing a life he'd never quite understood. Now, here she was, living in Seoul and working as a model and an idol. But in the dark, intimate world of OnyFans, she was "Minki," an irresistible blend of innocent and sultry.

Jae clicked on Minki’s profile. The image was evocative: Minji lying back on velvet, her hair a dark cascade, eyes coyly peeking over her shoulder. The video thumbnails promised a captivating mix of sweet and sensuous. He felt a pang of guilt, of betrayal, but Crimson had always been his refuge, his secret place of escape. He'd figured out Minki's account, just as he figured out everything. Besides, he rationalized, he was just looking out for her.

Jae settled into his favorite armchair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He selected a video titled "Wicked Whispers" and clicked play. The room filled with Minji's soft humming, the sound of a shower running, and the rustle of fabric. She was getting ready, her body visible in glimpses, a tantalizing dance of flesh and shadow. She was gorgeous, a fact he'd always known but had never quite acknowledged like this.

Suddenly, a chat window popped up. "Miss Minki, you look ravishing tonight," a user typed. Jae felt a twist of jealousy. He knew it was irrational, but he didn't want anyone else complimenting her.

Minji laughed, a sound as bright as a laugh could be in the intimate setting. "Why, thank you, handsome. You're making me blush," she typed back, her fingers dancing over the keyboard.

Jae saw his opportunity. He'd been watching, observing, and now he wanted to participate. He created a new user account, "J-regex," and sent a message, "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Minji's eyes widened slightly, and her face showed a hint of surprise. She took a moment before typing, "A girl like me? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

Jae felt a thrill. This was going to be fun. "A girl worthy of better company," he typed, his fingers flying over the keys with an ease belied by his serious demeanor.

Minji smiled a slow, intriguing smile. "Is that so? And who would you suggest?"

"Someone who can appreciate the delicate balance you strike," Jae replied, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Minji leaned back, her body stretching in a way that made Jae's mouth go dry. "Well, J-regex, you might be just the company I'm looking for."

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the laptop and the clink of ice in Jae's glass. He felt a stirring in his loins, the first tendrils of arousal. He was playing a dangerous game, but he'd never been one to shy away from risk.

Over the next few weeks, their exchanges became a routine. Jae would watch, would chat, would tease. Minji would respond in kind, her smoldering looks and suggestive words driving him to the edge of madness. He'd never felt so alive, so recklessly drawn to someone. And yet, he was painfully aware that this Minki was not his little sister. No, this Minki was a temptress, a siren, a woman he couldn't help but crave.

One night, as Minji lay back, her body glistening with baby oil, she looked directly into the camera and whispered, "I wonder what it would be like, J-regex. Would you be gentle, or would you take me hard and fast?"

Jae's breath hitched, his cock straining against his pants. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not ever.

"I'd start slow," he typed, his fingers trembling slightly. "Let you feel every inch of me. But once you're begging for it and breathless and needy, I'd give you everything. Hard, fast, until you're screaming my name."

Minji bit her lower lip, her eyes sparkling with desire. "I like the way you think, J-regex. Let's make that a reality, shall we?"

Jae's heart pounded. He'd crossed a line, a forbidden one. But he couldn't stop now. He was too deep, and Minji, Minki, whoever she was, was the most intoxicating woman he'd ever known.

Their relationship was evolving, becoming more than just a chat in a dark room. It was dangerous, delicious, and utterly forbidden, and Jae wouldn't have it any other way.

Jae stretched out on his king-sized bed, his laptop propped open before him. Minki was just coming online, her "Busy" status flashing to "Available." He felt a familiar thrill course through him, a dangerous mix of anticipation and guilt. But tonight, he decided, he would push the boundaries.

Minji appeared on screen, her hair damp from a recent shower. A towel wrapped around her hid what Jae knew were tantalizing curves. She blew a kiss at the camera, her smile mischievous. "Hello, everyone. Who's ready to have some fun tonight?"

Jae typed out his message, his heart pounding in his chest. "Say 'Oppa,' Minki." He knew it was a risky move, a taboo and intimate demand. But he wanted to hear it, wanted to feel closer to her.

Minji's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed, a hint of a challenge in them. She knew it was him. He'd hoped, had feared, but now he was certain. "Is that what you want, J-regex?" she typed back, her voice sultry as she spoke aloud, "Oppa, is that what you want to hear?"

The sound of it, the way it rolled off her tongue, sent a jolt of lust through him. He knew he should stop, should pull back, but he couldn't. Not now. Not when they'd come this far. "Show me," he typed, his breath coming faster.

Minji's lips curled into a slow smile. She stood up, letting the towel drop to the floor. She was naked, her body a work of art. She sat back down, spreading her legs, giving the camera, Jae, a perfect view. She started to touch herself, her fingers tracing a path from her collarbone down to the curve of her hip. "Like this, Oppa?"

Jae gasped, his cock straining against his pants. He should stop this, should put an end to it, but he couldn't. He was addicted, enraptured, entirely at her mercy. "Yes," he typed, his hands shaking. "Touch yourself, Minki. Make yourself come."

Minji moaned, a soft, sexy sound that seemed to envelop him. She followed his command, her fingers finding her clit, circling it slowly, then faster. She threw her head back, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her body writhing on the bed. "Oppa, I'm so close," she whispered, her voice ragged.

Jae couldn't take it anymore. He unzipped his pants, his hand wrapping around his cock, stroking it in time with her movements. "Come for me, Minki," he growled, his voice barely recognizable.

Minji's breath hitched, her body tensing, then she cried out, her orgasm coursing through her. Jae followed her, his release ripping through him, his body shuddering with the force of it.

As they both came down from their high, Minji looked directly into the camera, her expression serious. "We need to talk, J-regex. Or should I say, Jae Oppa?"

Jae felt a jolt. She knew. He should never have crossed that line, but it was too late. He typed a response, his heart pounding, "What do you want to talk about, Minki?"

Minji smirked, a hint of triumph in her eyes. "I know who you are, Oppa. And I think it's time we took this... relationship offline."

Jae felt a mix of shock, fear, and exhilaration. He'd always been the one in control, the one calling the shots. But here, now, he was at Minji's mercy. And she intended to use that to her advantage.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he typed, a lame attempt at denial.

Minji laughed, a sound as musical as it was taunting. "Really? Because I think you do, Oppa. And I think you'll like what I have in mind." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I want you to make a video with me. A special one. A million dollar experience."

Jae's eyes widened. He knew what that meant, the kind of content she was suggesting. It was explicit, intimate, entirely forbidden. But the thought of it, of being with her like that, made his cock stir again. He wanted it, wanted her, even if it meant risking everything.

"What kind of video, Minki?" he typed, his curiosity piqued.

Minji leaned in, her voice low and seductive. "A breeding video, Oppa. A million-dollar experience that you will get for free. All you have to do is say yes."

Jae stared at the screen, at the woman who was his sister, his seductress, his temptation. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump. Prepared to risk everything for this forbidden dance with Minji. Because even though he knew it was wrong, even though he knew it was dangerous, he couldn't stop. Not now. Not ever.

"Yes," he typed, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm in."

Minji smiled, a smile that promised a world of pleasure and danger. "I'm glad you are, Oppa. Because this is going to be one hell of a ride."

The door to Jae's penthouse clicked shut behind them, sealing them off from the world outside. Minji leaned against the cool, hardwood door, her breath coming in short, excited gasps. She looked up at her big brother, whom she'd once idolized. He stood tall, his eyes fierce with desire, a wolf ready to devour his prey.

"Minji," Jae growled, his voice hoarse with need. "Get on your knees."

Minji felt a shiver run through her. She should protest, should remind him of their blood tie, but the words stuck in her throat, swallowed up by the raw, primal desire coursing through her veins. She sank to her knees, her heart pounding in her chest.

Jae stepped closer, hisaconda unzipping his pants, his thick cock springing free. He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Open your mouth, Minji. Show me what a good little sister you can be."

Minji's lips parted, her tongue darting out to swipe at the bead of pre cum at the tip of his cock. Jae groaned, his grip on her chin tightening. "Tease," he hissed, but there was no anger in his voice, only desire.

She took him into her mouth, her lips stretching to accommodate his width, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside. She sucked him, her head bobbing back and forth, her hands gripping his thighs for balance. Jae's fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her, controlling her. He fucked her mouth, his hips moving in sharp thrusts, hitting the back of her throat with each stroke.

Minji gagged, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't pull back. She wanted this, wanted to give him pleasure, to feel his control over her. As if reading her mind, Jae groaned, "That's it, Minji. Take it like a good little sister. Big brother's cum."

His words, so dirty, so taboo, sent a surge of heat between her legs. She moaned around his cock, the vibration making Jae gravelled, "Fuck, Minji!"

He thrust one more time, deep into her throat, his cock pulsing as he came, filling her mouth with his hot, salty seed. Minji swallowed it all, her eyes never leaving his, a sense of power and satisfaction washing over her.

Jae pulled her up, his hands cupping her face, his lips claiming hers in a fierce, passionate kiss. "You're mine now, Minji," he whispered against her lips. "Mine to protect, mine to please, mine to breed."

Minji felt a shiver run through her at his possessive words. She wanted that, wanted to be his, to belong to him. She nodded, barely whispering, "Yes, Oppa. I'm yours."

Jae led her to his huge room filled with dark wood and leather. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her to stand between his legs. He undressed her slowly, his fingers tracing paths of fire on her skin. When she was naked, he leaned in, his lips wrapping around her nipple, sucking, teeth nipping gently.

Minji moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, holding him to her. Jae switched to her other breast, his hands roaming her body, cupping her ass, her pussy. He slipped a finger inside her, then another, his thumb circling her clit. She rode his hand, her body seeking release, but Jae pulled back, a wicked smile on his face.

"Not yet, Minji. Not until I say so."

He laid back on the bed, his eyes raking over her naked form. "Come here. Ride me."

Minji straddled him, her pussy aching to feel him inside her. She reached down, guiding his cock to her entrance, then sank, taking him in inch by inch. Jae groaned, his eyes closing, his hands gripping her hips. She started to move, her hips rolling, her body gliding up and down his length.

Jae opened his eyes, watching her, his expression intense. "Fuck me, Minji. Hard and fast, like you want to."

Minji moaned, her nails digging into his chest as she did as he commanded. She rode him hard, her body slamming down on his, their skin slapping together, their bodies fused in a dance as old as time. Jae's hands gripped her ass, guiding her movements, his hips thrusting up to meet her, their bodies coming together in a synchrony that was sensationally intimate.

"Come for me, Minji," Jae growled, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast. "Come on your big brother's cock."

Minji's body tensed, her orgasm washing over her, her inner walls pulsing around Jae's cock, milking him. As if that was his undoing, Jae groaned, his cock throbbing inside her, filling her with his cum.

They lay there momentarily, their bodies still joined, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then Jae rolled them over, his body covering hers, his mouth claiming hers in a soft, tender kiss.

"Minji," he whispered, his eyes searching hers. "What are we going to do?"

Minji's fingers traced patterns on his back, and her heart filled with a sense of peace and love she'd never known before. "I don't know, Oppa. But I want to be with you."

Jae nodded, his expression serious. "I want that too, Minji. And I promise you, if you lose this legal battle and can't be an idol anymore, we'll face it together. You'll be mine; I can make you my wife, and I will provide for you."

Minji felt a surge of love and desire. She smiled a slow, sultry smile. "And until then, Oppa, we'll make the most of our time together. Don't you think?"

Jae grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief and desire. "I was hoping you'd say that, Minji. Now, turn over. I've got a date with your beautiful ass."

Minji laughed, rolling over, her body already anticipating his touch. As Jae's lips traced a path down her spine, she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. With him, in this dance of forbidden love, they were ready to face whatever storm may come their way.

#newjeans smut #minji smut #gg smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #newjeans #minji #smut #kpop #newjeans minji #girl group smut #njz smut #njz minji #njz

643 notes · View notes

shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

wilted promises | sylus

synopsis : He once swore love was enough, choosing you despite everything. But now your marriage feels like a gilded cage—his warmth gone, his words cold. You stand in the ruins of what once was and wonder: Was it ever love, or just the fleeting illusion of it? content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, Sylus is mean, ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers. - "It’s amazing how someone can break your heart and you can still love them with all the little pieces." – Ella Harper

parts | one | two

“The datura blooms in the dark—beautiful, intoxicating, and laced with quiet poison. Much like love once promised, and now turned to ruin.”

The day you became his wife, you thought you were stepping into a dream—a life built on whispered promises and stolen glances.

But dreams fade quickly, and yours shattered beneath the weight of cold indifference.

Sylus, once the boy who traced love across your skin with gentle hands, had become a man of ice, his tenderness buried beneath sharp words and colder silences.

It’s been years since then.

Now, your marriage was a gilded cage, and you stood within it, wondering if the love you once shared was a lie—or if it still lingered, buried beneath the ruins of what you had become.

“I promise to you now, with this datura flower that I will protect and love you for all eternity!”

Do you still remember when you made that promise to me?

—•

It was like any other night when he held a celebration at the estate. The grand foyer buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses.

You tried to blend in, but it wasn’t enough.

He found you.

His hand seized your wrist, dragging you into the shadowed hallway. The wall bit cold against your back as he pressed you into it.

“I warned you,” he muttered, voice low and sharp.

“Don’t act like you know me. It’s bad enough that I married you.”

You became a ghost in your own life. Unseen. Unwanted.

“You do not belong here.”

But still, every time you looked up at him, your eyes shimmered with that same quiet plea—for love to return, to make you whole again.

Did you not say you would protect me forever?

You closed your eyes, as if that could shield you from his harsh words, while you stood helpless, your own tears slipping free—mourning the love you deserved but were denied.

After a while, he released you, frustration flickering in his eyes as your silence offered no satisfaction. With a huff, he stormed off, leaving you alone with the echo of his absence.

You lingered for a moment, then pushed yourself off the wall that had held you captive. Your steps were slow but steady as you walked away, blinking back the sting of unshed tears, determined not to let them fall.

Because you understood him, you always did.

—•

You found yourself curled by the windowsill, your knees drawn tightly to your chest as though they could shield you from the heaviness pressing against your heart.

Your gaze stretched beyond the glass, tracing the endless expanse of the meadow, its silver-tinged grasses swaying gently beneath the hush of night.

Lifting your head, your eyes, heavy with unshed tears, lingered on the sky above, where countless stars glittered like scattered diamonds across a velvet canvas.

Their distant beauty seemed almost cruel, each shimmering point a quiet mockery of your own helplessness—so close to your longing, yet forever out of reach.

The moon hung low, casting a soft, ethereal glow that bathed the world in a ghostly silver sheen.

Its pale light painted the landscape with shadows and whispers, and within that stillness, you felt a hollow ache settle deep in your chest—a longing for something you could neither name nor grasp, a yearning as endless and unreachable as the stars themselves.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the delicate fabric of the scarf draped around your body—a fragile barrier against the chill that crept beneath your skin, a cruel reminder of the warmth you craved but could never touch.

His warmth.

You closed your eyes, your heart aching as you sent a silent plea to the moon, begging it to carry you away, to lift you from the shadows that bound you.

You longed for escape, for freedom from the coldness that had settled not just in the room, but in the space where his love had once lived.

But your hands tightened around the scarf when you felt the sharp sting of realization.

You didn't want to run.

How could you dream of running when your deepest yearning was not for freedom, but for the love you still clung to, the love that once made you feel alive?

You wanted to stay.

Your gaze remained fixed on the tranquil meadow beyond the window, its quiet beauty a stark contrast to the chaos that lingered behind you.

You didn’t turn, not even when the heavy shuffle of footsteps broke the silence.

Not even when the air soured with alcohol.

You stayed still, rooted in place, unwilling to disturb the silence you'd built like armor.

He stopped just short of you, his shadow falling over you like a cloud.

You felt his eyes on you, lingering, uncertain.

He swayed slightly, an uneasy smile tugging at his lips—one that never quite reached his eyes.

He’d stumble into the room, words slurred with remorse, apologies falling from his lips like broken promises.

And every time, you wondered if they held any truth.

Or if his apologies just another habit, as hollow as the love that used to bind you.

“There’s my pretty wife,” he murmured, his voice soft but unsteady as he stumbled forward.

His hands were warm, almost tender, as they wrapped around your upper arms, pulling you gently against his chest.

You stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

The sharp scent of whiskey clung to his breath, stinging more than the words that followed.

“I’m so sorry…” he whispered, the words broken, fragile.

“I never meant… never meant for things to end up like this.”

For a moment, your heart faltered, warmth blooming in your chest at the sound of his vulnerability.

But it was a cruel warmth, laced with pain—because your heart wasn’t just softening, it was breaking. Over and over again.

Your expression softened despite the ache, and you coaxed him gently toward the bed, guiding him with a touch that was both careful and resigned.

He sank into the mattress, his body curling toward you, seeking comfort he didn’t deserve.

As his breathing slowed, heavy with exhaustion, his voice broke through the quiet one last time, a whisper soaked in regret.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you…?”

The question lingered, thick and suffocating. You said nothing, only brushed your fingers through his hair, your silence an answer in itself.

And as his breaths deepened and sleep took him, you stared at the shadows on the ceiling, your heart echoing the words you could never speak aloud.

“I ask myself that every day, Sy.”

—•

You stood by the mirror, your fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress, smoothing it as if that could erase the doubt gnawing at you.

The softest of hopes lingered in your eyes, a silent question you didn’t dare voice.

He stood behind you, his reflection sharp and cold in the glass. His gaze slid over you, lingering too long, too critically, before his lips curled into something cruel.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The words sliced through the air, sharp and precise, cutting deeper than any blade. Your breath hitched, but you said nothing. You only lowered your gaze, focusing on the tremble in your hands, the sting in your chest.

The silence between you was a blade.

He turned away first, already dismissing you, already walking out the door as though you were nothing more than a shadow.

You stayed where you were, staring into the mirror, wondering if the glass reflected the truth—or just the broken pieces of what you had once believed yourself to be.

You woke with a start, your breath catching in your throat as the cold emptiness of the room pressed in around you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The memories of that night rushed in like an unwelcome tide, blurring the edges of sleep with bitter reality.

But the harsh morning light, spilling cold and indifferent across the floor, offered no comfort.

The bed beside you was empty, cold, and still you were here, still trapped in this hollow existence. Your hopes frayed to threads.

Later, you sat in the quiet of the garden.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wilting blossoms.

It should have been peaceful, but the silence weighed heavy, mirroring the ache in your chest.

A servant approached, his footsteps soft against the stone path.

He set down a tray with careful hands, his gaze lingering on your face, etched with sadness too deep to hide.

His smile was gentle, laced with understanding—he had seen enough to know the truth that lingered behind closed doors.

He spoke softly, his voice carrying a warmth you rarely felt anymore.

“Missus, I’ve brought your tea. Would you like me to pour it for you?”

You nodded, your lips curving into a faint smile, though it barely touched your eyes.

The servant poured the tea with steady hands, the delicate stream of amber liquid filling the porcelain cup. Steam rose in soft tendrils, curling into the morning air like a ghost of comfort, ephemeral and fleeting.

You watched in silence, your gaze distant, pretending the warmth might last.

But the warmth of the tea—just like everything else—would be fleeting.

The white datura bloomed in defiant splendour, their pale petals like a ghost-flame against green leaves.

Each flower stood as a silent testament to the pain you carried, a reflection of the suffering that rooted itself deep within your soul.

As you sat in the garden, the delicate porcelain cup warm between your fingers, you couldn’t help but remember his words—sharp and cutting, carved into your memory like stone.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The tea was bitter—though not as bitter as memory.

Your fingers trembled as they reached out, tracing the soft outline of a datura’s petal.

The texture was smooth, delicate, nothing like the raw ache in your heart.

For a fleeting moment, the flower’s beauty offered you a distraction—a fragile mercy.

The garden was your only refuge, the one place where silence was a comfort rather than a weapon.

Here, you could be alone with your thoughts, your pain, and the quiet longing that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

“I wish I was as beautiful as you,” you whispered, your voice fragile and uncertain, the words trembling on the edge of hope and despair.

It wasn’t just a wish—it was a desperate plea, a longing to be seen, to be wanted, to be loved in the way you once believed was possible.

The daturas swayed gently in the breeze, their movements soft and graceful, as though they had heard you and offered comfort.

But their beauty only deepened the hollow ache within you, a cruel reminder of all that you were not.

The flowers were perfect, untouched by harsh words or cold gazes.

And as you looked upon them, you wondered if you'd ever been beautiful—or was that just another lie?

You traced the delicate petals of the flower, wondering if you would ever truly find acceptance—not just from your husband—from yourself.

Doubt bloomed in your chest, heavy and constant.

Loneliness was your constant companion.

“What happened to eternity?”

You were not born beneath gilded ceilings or within the embrace of wealth.

Your hands knew the weight of labor, your feet the uneven paths of cobbled streets.

You did not have the luxury of a noble name, no shield that protected one from the world’s cruelties.

You had nothing but your own spirit, your own quiet resilience.

And yet, against all odds, he loved you.

Once.

In the early days, his love had been a promise whispered beneath moonlit skies, a vow pressed into your palm like something sacred.

He had looked at you as if the stars themselves had settled in your eyes, as if the world could burn and it wouldn't matter. As long as you stayed.

You had thought he did not care for such things.

That love—your love, was enough.

When he took your hand and led you into his world, you believed it was because nothing else mattered—his family’s disdain, the weight of his image, the whispers of high society.

He chose you.

And in return, you had given him everything.

But time is cruel.

It unravels illusions.

Slowly—thread by thread.

Now, you stand upon uncertain ground, watching the distance between you grow wider with each passing day.

The love that once defied the world now wilts under the weight of expectations, of cold glances and unspoken regrets.

You search his eyes for the boy who once swore to love you, but all you find is a man sculpted by duty, hardened by obligation.

And for the first time, you wonder—was it ever truly love?

Or had you simply been a dream he once indulged, only to wake and realise it had no place in his world?

—•

“I’ll protect you from all harm,” the young boy had said, silver hair gleaming under the sun, red eyes sharp with confidence.

He had pushed a pure white datura behind your ear, his smirk as bold as his promise.

“I’ll marry you and take care of you for the rest of my life. You can’t escape me.”

You had only beamed up at him, your laughter light and carefree. “Okay!” you had giggled, eyes crinkling into crescents, unaware of the weight those words would one day carry.

It was true. You couldn’t escape. You didn’t want to.

You stood in the garden, fingers brushing over the snowy blooms—white daturas that thrived beneath your gentle hands.

You misted them gently, marvelling at their deceptive beauty, at how something so poisonous could flourish under your care.

A low, gruff voice broke the silence behind you. “May I join you?”

Ah, your beloved.

You gestured for him to sit while you continued tending to your flowers. Even as sunlight bathed the garden, a shadow seemed to linger—an unseen presence, like the grim reaper waiting to claim the death of what remained between you.

“Why do you love daturas so much?”

You could’ve told him about the care and patience it took, the time you’d poured into nurturing them.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

“No reason,” you said softly.

—•

As the years passed, and you learned to exist in the quiet, in the absence of warmth and words.

The house now felt colder, larger, echoing with memories that no longer seemed to belong to you.

You moved through it like a shadow, your steps soft, your eyes distant. You learned to stop waiting—for his gaze, his words, his apologies.

You caught glimpses of him, glass in hand, shoulders heavy with regret he wouldn’t voice.

There were nights you heard him outside your door, a faint presence, as if he lingered there, torn between entering and walking away.

But he never knocked.

Never crossed the threshold.

And that hurt more than his anger ever had.

It was simply easier to pretend you didn’t notice.

Easier to let the silence stretch between you both like a vast, impassable sea.

You couldn’t bear to reach for him again, to extend your hand only to feel it slapped away by his indifference.

So, you built your own walls.

You found comfort in the loneliness, in the numbness that settled over you like a shroud.

If he wouldn’t come to you, if he wouldn’t speak, then you would learn to exist without him.

And yet, when you sat by the window, eyes on the dark horizon, there were moments when you thought you felt him standing there, just beyond the door.

Close, but not close enough.

That was the real cruelty.

Not the insults.

The silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

The distance that he did not dare cross.

A giggle echoed through the empty, abandoned chapel.

A young girl stood radiant in the wedding gown her father had sacrificed his life’s savings for, its fabric a symbol of hope and dreams.

Beside her, young Sylus looked dashing in his tuxedo, his hands warm as they clasped hers.

Two souls, bound by innocent promises, painfully unaware of the cruel, unrelenting pull of the future.

Now, you sob quietly, your forehead pressed against the cool pane of glass.

Outside, the trees sway gently, whispering their silent consolation.

The moon drapes the world in silver, casting a serene glow that masks the storm within you.

In these moments of despair, you wonder how your life has unraveled into this—a marriage in name only, a gilded prison built from wealth and social standing.

A promise once made in love, now broken beneath the weight of reality.

You could have left—walked away from it all and started anew.

But you didn’t.

Some deep, stubborn part of you still clings to the hope that he could change, that beneath the hardened facade, the boy you once loved could be saved.

But the more reasonable part of your mind whispers the truth you try so hard to ignore.

People like him don’t change, no matter how badly you want them to.

No, because to you.

He’s still the boy you loved all those years ago.

You wanted to believe in love’s power to heal, to transform.

You wanted to believe that love could reach into the coldest heart and warm it again.

But the more you let yourself fall into nostalgia, the sharper the ache in your chest becomes.

“How could I have loved him?”

The thought tears through you, painful and bitter.

It’s as though you’re seeing the world for the first time since your youth—seeing it without the haze of love that had shielded you from the truth.

And with that clarity came pain, sharp and unyielding, as if the illusion you’d clung to had shattered all at once.

You surrendered.

Because he’s gone.

—•

You were in the garden again today, much like all your days, knelt in front of the bed of daturas that you had so painstakingly nurtured to life.

They were your hope, your last thread tethering you to him.

You heard the familiar crunch of footsteps behind you again, only this time, they sounded angry.

You turned around to see your beloved.

But.

It all happened too fast.

Snap.

“..no..”

Crunch.

“…stop...”

Snap.

“…please...”

Crack.

Another stem bent, snapping underfoot, followed by the weightless thud of a petal hitting the ground, fading into the soft rustle of the air.

You silently fell to your knees, reaching for the broken remains.

Your hands trembled as they hovered over the crushed petals, fingertips brushing over them as if trying to piece the beauty back together.

But nothing could fix it now.

Your garden lay ruined—just as your love had long been.

You knelt among the wreckage, your fingers ghosting over the ruined flowers as if touch alone could mend what was lost.

The soil was still warm, the scent of crushed blooms lingering in the air—faintly sweet, but tinged with bitterness.

It felt like a funeral, not just for the daturas, but for every unspoken word, every quiet hope you’d buried deep within yourself.

He stood above you, silent and unmoving, his shadow falling over you like a storm cloud.

Yet he said nothing, offered no apology, no explanation.

Perhaps there was none to give.

And as you gathered the shattered petals into your trembling hands, your heart echoed with a single, hollow truth—some things, once broken, could never be made whole again.

You didn’t cry—you simply sat there, as if mourning something deeper than flowers. Something far older, far more fragile.

It wasn’t just the flowers he’d destroyed that morning.

Days blurred into weeks, and the grand, empty halls of your home became suffocating.

You stopped reaching for him, stopped pleading for affection that was never returned.

Your tears had long dried, your heart hardened beneath the weight of rejection and cruelty.

You retreated into yourself, building walls of cold indifference that even his sharpest words couldn’t pierce.

It was safer this way.

You met it all with silence.

Your face an emotionless mask.

You wouldn’t offer him another fragment of your heart.

Not when he had crushed it beneath his heel so many times before.

You became a shadow, drifting through rooms that once held memories of laughter and hope.

You lingered in the garden, not for solace, but out of habit.

You sat by the fire, not for comfort, but because the silence was easier to bear than his presence.

And though it hurt—God, it hurt— you told yourself this was better.

Safer.

Because indifference was easier than hope, and distance was easier than love.

And yet, you knew he was there.

He was always there.

You felt his presence linger just beyond the doorway, heavy and hesitant.

But you didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him.

What was the point? Words had failed you long ago.

The glass trembled in your hand, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill in the air or the ache in your heart.

You traced the rim of the glass with slow, deliberate motions, focusing on the sensation, on anything but the weight of his stare.

Once, you might’ve called to him.

Once, you would have reached out, hoping for warmth, for comfort, for the man you had loved in another life.

But that man was gone, buried beneath cold words and cruel actions. And the woman you had been?

You weren’t sure if there was anything of you left.

So you sat there, still and silent, letting the firelight dance across your face.

If he wanted to speak, he would.

If he wanted to leave, he would. It didn’t matter.

Because you were already alone anyway.

You heard him take a hesitant step forward.

“I never wanted it to be like this.”

You didn’t turn to face him, your gaze still fixed on the fire. “But it is.”

His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t have to be.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft but sharp.

“I was angry,” he said, his words rushed, desperate.

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew. You just didn’t care.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “I care now.”

“It’s too late, leave.”

The words settled between you, heavy and final.

“Fine,” he growled, bitterness lacing his words.

“Stay in your prison, then,” he said, his voice sharp as glass.

“It’s what you seem to want.”

And with that, he walked away, the finality of his words lingered like smoke in the air.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t call after him.

But as the silence settled, a single tear traced the curve of your cheek, falling into your lap—silent, unseen, and unanswered.

His footsteps echoed down the hall, each one hammering against the walls of your heart.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak.

You remained by the fire, your gaze fixed on nothing, your hands cold and still.

The finality of his words echoed in your mind, bitter and heavy.

Stay in your prison, then.

You swallowed hard, the tear slipping down your cheek burning like acid against your skin.

But you didn’t wipe it away.

You let it fall, let it soak into the fabric of your dress, a quiet mark of pain you refused to acknowledge.

Because wasn’t this your prison?

These walls, this silence, this love turned to ash?

It’s what you seem to want.

He’s wrong.

You had wanted him—his warmth, his love, his promise of forever.

You had wanted the boy who once tucked a datura flower behind your ear and vowed to protect you.

But that boy was long gone, replaced by a man who wielded his cruelty like a weapon.

And yet, even as you sat there, your heart breaking in the quiet, you could still feel the remnants of that old love clinging to you like a child.

Love that refused to die, no matter how much pain it cost you.

You let the silence fill the room, heavy and suffocating, and wondered if this was how it would end—not with screams or accusations, but with quiet indifference, with love burned down to its embers.

Still, you waited.

Even after his footsteps had faded into the depths of the house, after the walls swallowed the last echo of his retreat, you waited for him to come back.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, filling the space where his presence had once been.

But he never did.

The realisation struck you like a blade to the chest, sharp and merciless.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever—not to that room, not to you, not to the memory of the promises you had once shared.

Your breath shuddered, a ragged, broken thing that tore through the stillness.

You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms as if pain could anchor you to something real, something that wasn’t crumbling beneath you.

And perhaps that was the cruelest wound of all.

Not his harsh words. Not the fights.

Not even the destruction of the things you had once held dear.

It was this—his absence.

His choice to walk away, to leave you there in the cold wreckage of your love.

His silence said more than any apology ever could.

He had left you.

Willingly.

And you hated him for it.

But more than that, you hated yourself for still wishing he would come back.

—•

Mindlessly, you began to paint with swift, deliberate strokes.

You drew upon the storm of anger and sorrow within you, channeling every raw emotion into the canvas.

Colours bled and swirled, each hue a reflection of your inner turmoil, a silent confession of all you could not speak.

When you finally leaned back, surprise flickered in your eyes.

There, staring back at you, was a portrait of your husband—his gaze dark, piercing, and unrelenting.

The image was shadowed yet captivating, an honest depiction of the conflicting emotions he stirred within you.

Your heart splintered beneath the weight of realisation.

No matter how cruel he had become, you still loved him—the boy who had once held your hands and whispered comfort into the darkness.

It was a bittersweet truth, a love laced with quiet agony.

How could you still care for a man who brought you nothing but pain?

How could the warmth of old memories survive beneath the shadow of his cruelty?

As your emotions tangled with the strokes of your brush, you traced the outline of a delicate datura blossom along the portrait’s edge.

Its beauty was deceptive, hiding a venomous danger beneath its soft petals.

Just like him.

You were exhausted. The relentless push and pull had begun to erode you, wearing you down piece by piece.

Staring at your creation—those crimson eyes that seemed to pierce through you—as the weight of it all crashed over your body.

Your hand flew to your mouth, but it couldn’t muffle the sobs that tore free, raw and broken.

The loneliness of the room closed in, wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud.

That was the moment your descent into madness began.

—•

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even pause.

Another painting—another part of your memories, another part of the past you shared, slipped into the fire, its edges curling as the flames devoured it with you alongside with it.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need them anymore,” you said, your voice low, steady.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

You didn’t need them.

You didn’t need him.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

It had been days since you had last eaten a proper meal, and your body felt as though it was devouring itself from the inside out.

Hunger gnawed at you, a relentless ache that clawed through your stomach and seeped into your bones.

Each movement was sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, and the simple act of standing felt like a battle against your own frailty.

The meals prepared by the staff, once rich and enticing, now repulsed you. The aroma that drifted through the halls, once comforting, now turned your stomach.

Everything tasted of ash and regret, and the thought of swallowing even a morsel felt impossible.

You weren’t sure if it was defiance or despair that drove your refusal, but either way, you welcomed the sharp pangs of hunger.

It was a punishment you could control, a pain of your own choosing.

Your gaze lingered on the portrait—your hollow eyes, the pallor of your painted skin.

The woman in the frame looked brittle, fragile, like she might break with a single breath. Perhaps she would.

The datura blossom in your painted hair mocked you, its delicate beauty a cruel contrast to your suffering.

Like the flower, you were toxic—wilting beneath the weight of your own pain.

And with each passing day, as your body weakened and your ribs pressed sharper against your skin, you wondered how long it would take before you faded completely.

You watched as it burned, the flames hungrily consuming the portrait until it was nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

A hollow ache settled deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating. The image of yourself—those tired eyes, that weary smile—crumbled beneath the heat, dissolving into smoke and shadow.

Yet, even as the portrait vanished, the bitterness it had captured lingered, thick in the air, clinging to you like a second skin.

You stared at the ashes at your feet, feeling as though they mirrored your own ruin.

All the hurt, all the broken pieces of your heart, lay scattered there—burnt and lifeless.

And yet, beneath the weight of it all, one truth pulsed relentlessly within you.

You loved him. You still did.

Despite every cruel word, every wound he carved into your soul, your heart remained bound to him.

You had wanted nothing more than to love him, to be enough, to be seen and cherished by the boy who once promised to protect you.

And that was the final straw.

Not the sharp sting of his words, nor the weight of his silence.

But the slow, aching truth that love had unraveled between your fingers.

Thread by thread, until nothing remained but emptiness where warmth once lived.

—•

It’s been weeks.

You stood there, watching him from the threshold, the dim light casting shadows across his face.

The man slouched in the armchair was no longer the Sylus you had once known.

There was no trace of the boy who had promised to protect you, nor the man you’d vowed to love.

All that remained was a hollow shell drowning in liquor and self-loathing.

His laugh echoed in the stillness, sharp and cruel, but it did nothing to stir your heart. You felt nothing.

No anger.

No pity.

Only emptiness.

This was who he had become, and maybe who he had always been.

Your eyes lingered on the glass in his hand, the tremor in his fingers, the desperation in his gaze.

You wondered if it was the alcohol that made his voice so brittle, or if it was the weight of regret.

Either way, it wasn’t your burden to bear anymore.

When he raised his glass and whispered, “To strangers, then,” you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

Some things didn’t deserve words.

Only silence.

And so, you turned. Your footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into the shadows.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The sound of glass shattering behind you was the only thing you needed—a final, broken farewell.

Soon, you holed yourself in the studio, the scent of turpentine and oil paints thick in the air, wrapping you like a drunken haze.

You painted with a feverish intensity, your hands trembling, your eyes wide and unfocused.

The brush moved as though guided by something outside of your control—desperate, frantic, relentless.

And always, it was daturas.

Daturas blooming in the dark.

Daturas wilting beneath heavy skies.

Daturas twisting around faceless figures, their vines coiling like serpents.

You painted them over and over, their red and black, poisonous petals staining the canvas like blood.

You whispered to them as you worked, your words soft and broken. “You’re all I have left,” you’d murmur, your fingers tracing the curve of painted petals.

“You’re the only ones who stayed.”

You looked deranged, the way you watched them dry, your gaze lingering as though they were speaking back to you.

You no longer saw the man who had torn you apart—only the flowers. Only the symbols of beauty, of danger, of betrayal.

They were your audience, your confidants, the only ones who understood the hollow ache gnawing inside you.

Sleep and food became distant memories.

You survived on bitter sips of water and the scent of paint.

Your body grew weaker, your mind sharper—every shadow in the corner of the room another datura blooming on a canvas.

And sometimes, you swore they bloomed for you.

You swore they watched you, their pale faces turned toward you as though they, too, mourned the pieces of yourself you’d lost.

“Ah, what pretty datura.” You’d say as you admired your work.

The brush quivered in your grip, dragging across the canvas with trembling intensity. Your voice, low and sharp, sliced through the silence.

“I promise to protect you from all harm.”

Stroke. A smear of red, like blood blooming on white.

“To love and care for you.”

Drag. The bristles tore the paint, rough and unforgiving.

“I’ll marry you and make you the happiest girl in the world!”

Scrape. Hard, cruel, final.

You laughed—a jagged, broken sound that echoed off the walls, sharp with sarcasm and bitterness.

“Oh, how happy I am,” you whispered mockingly.

The datura bloomed beneath your brush, dark and venomous. A twisted parody of love, petals inked with betrayal.

Each stroke felt like a wound reopened, each flower a grave for every promise he’d shattered.

Soon, the datura multiplied. Like a plague of ghostly blooms spreading across the canvases, like a sickness you couldn’t escape.

Each stroke was feverish, each flower more twisted, more grotesque than the last—petals like blades, stems like nooses.

They weren’t just paintings; they were screams, confessions, curses etched in oil and pain.

The studio reeked of turpentine and madness, suffocating in its intensity.

The walls closed in, adorned with your torment, each canvas a tombstone for the love you’d buried with your own hands.

What was once a sanctuary had become a crypt, a shrine to the betrayal that gnawed at your bones.

And still, you painted.

As if capturing the poison would give you control over it.

As if every brushstroke could bleed the agony from your veins.

The words echoed in your mind like a chant, a twisted mantra that danced around your thoughts, taunting you with the remnants of something you had once believed in.

Your fingers gripped the brush tighter, the bristles scraping the canvas with a violence that mirrored the chaos inside you.

Your movements were robotic, each stroke deliberate yet erratic.

The red of the datura on the canvas burned like a fever in your veins, painting the room in a scarlet haze.

You couldn’t escape them.

They consumed you.

Its delicate petals now mocking you, reminding you of every promise broken.

Every hope crushed.

The words from him, once sweet and tender, were now nothing more than a cruel joke.

“Your eyes are the most beautiful I have ever seen.”

They were beautiful, yes, but they had dried from endless tears, had grown cold from the endless betrayals.

The sparkle had dulled, replaced by an emptiness you couldn’t fill, not even with the most feverish painting session.

Your laugh was hollow, a bitter sound that barely rose above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked back to the canvas, staring into the crimson abyss you had created.

The flowers stared back at you, indifferent, cold—like him.

The promise of beauty and love had been nothing but a lie.

You dropped the brush, your hands trembling, covered in paint you did not bother to wash.

You were consumed by the endless sea of datura, but you knew one thing for certain: you were never going to escape.

“I’ll always protect you.”

“What a beautiful lie.”

Insanity came knocking, and you had welcomed it.

Day and night, you remain in front of the easel, lost in a whirlwind of crimson and black, colours that bleed from your heart onto the canvas.

The vibrant hues reflect the chaos within you, the echoes of a silver-haired man who once vowed to protect you, only to become the shadow that haunts your steps.

Your mind becomes consumed with painting, each stroke of your brush a desperate attempt to give shape to the emotions you can no longer voice.

The portraits of blood-red daturas that bloom across your canvases are more than mere art—they are confessions, silent screams captured in colour.

Every petal, every shadow is a testament to the love and agony entwined within you.

Your art becomes your only sanctuary, the brush your sole weapon against the pain.

Each painting is a battle fought in silence, an offering of your soul laid bare, layer by layer, stroke by stroke.

And though your hands ache and your eyes burn, you paint on—because it is the only way to feel again.

You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and searching.

There was a time when his gaze had meant the world to you—a silent approval you craved, a warmth you clung to.

But that woman is gone, buried beneath years of indifference and pain.

Now, his stare feels like a shadow, something you can step out of whenever you choose.

“Came to see the show?” Sarcastic, bitter.

His eyes flickered, confused, surprised.

A part of you wants to feel satisfaction at that, but all you feel is emptiness.

He can no longer break you, because there is nothing left to break.

And yet, beneath your calm exterior, something aches.

The smallest, cruelest part of you wonders if he would fight for you, if he would peel back the layers of distance and try to reach you like he once had.

But the silence between you both only stretches, confirming what you already know.

He wouldn’t.

He never would.

Let him linger in the doorway, unsure and powerless.

You were done waiting.

—•

The studio felt like a tomb, every inch of the room suffocating with the weight of your despair.

The canvas is an unforgiving witness to the storm that has consumed you—a mixture of vivid reds and sickly hues, each stroke painted with the agony of a love that has withered to nothing.

The datura flowers bloom in grotesque profusion, their twisted forms reflecting the nightmare your life has become.

But it isn’t just the canvas that carries the weight of your pain.

You feel it in your body—your very soul burning with exhaustion.

Your hands tremble violently as you tried to reach up to your mouth.

You can taste the blood, warm and metallic, as it splatters across the canvas.

Each breath feels like it could be your last, the world around you blurring as darkness creeps in from the edges of your vision.

You felt warm hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you with desperate urgency.

You try to focus, to make sense of the blurry figure hovering above you, but your mind is fading.

Sylus..?

Your heart, heavy with confusion and sorrow, still called out to him, the name slipping past your lips as though it were a forgotten prayer.

His pale face swims into view, panic etching every line of his features, his wild, silver hair rippled softly as he shook your shoulders, those carmine eyes that you loved so much reflected panic, but you can’t find the energy to care about him anymore.

You had no more strength left.

The world around you grows distant as you fall into unconsciousness, the last thing you see—the twisted flowers you have painted and the shattered remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, you wish that you could forget it all.

It’s the last bit of warmth, a small comfort before everything slips away into the darkness.

“Ah, what pretty datura.”

masterlist

797 notes · View notes

marinersapartmentc0mplex · 3 months ago

Text

Let The Light In

Damian Wayne x Reader smut

wedding traditions, henna, fluff, smut, penis in vagina sex, cunnilingus

Ao3 Link

The air in Nanda Parbat was crisp and cool, carrying with it a sense of mystique that seemed to emanate from the very mountains surrounding the ancient, sacred city. The stars above were scattered like diamonds across a velvet sky, their light casting a pale glow over the snow-capped peaks. The faint sound of a running stream, fed by the melting ice of the Himalayas, filled the silence with its tranquil melody.

Talia al Ghul’s fortress stood tall against the rugged terrain, its architecture a blend of ancient Persian influences and modern luxury. Sandstone walls glowed golden under the soft torchlight that lined the pathways, and intricate carvings adorned the arched doorways. Vines heavy with fragrant flowers climbed along the stone, their blossoms unfurling in the cool of the night.

Inside, the quarters prepared for the couple exuded warmth and tradition. The chamber was spacious yet intimate, with a low wooden platform bed draped in silk bedding of deep crimson and gold. Soft rugs covered the stone floor, their patterns as intricate as lace. A carved teakwood table sat in the center, surrounded by low couches cushioned with embroidered pillows in shades of emerald and sapphire. The room was lit by ornate lanterns that cast dancing patterns of light and shadow across the walls.

You sat cross-legged on the cushions, your hand gently cradling a delicate porcelain cup of green tea. The steam rose in soft tendrils, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine that perfumed the air. Across from you, Damian Wayne mirrored your posture, his sharp green eyes focused entirely on you. Though he often carried himself with a stoic demeanor, here in the quiet privacy of the evening, his expression was unguarded, his gaze filled with a reverence that made your heart ache.

“This fortress has a way of making the world feel small,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Your fingers traced the rim of the cup. “It’s like time doesn’t touch this place.”

Damian nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “That is the allure of Nanda Parbat. It exists outside the chaos of everything else. A sanctuary.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the moonlight poured in like a silver waterfall. “And yet, its beauty pales in comparison to you.”

The compliment caught you off guard, though it shouldn’t have. Damian had always been direct in his affections, his words carefully chosen and deeply sincere. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you looked down at the tea in your hands to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“Damian,” you murmured, your voice soft with embarrassment.

“I mean it.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours. His touch was light, reverent, as if he were afraid you might disappear like a dream. “Tomorrow begins the celebration, and everyone will see what I’ve known for so long—that you are extraordinary. That you are mine.”

Your breath hitched at the intensity of his words. Damian had a way of speaking that made every syllable feel weighted, like a vow etched in stone. You met his gaze, the green of his eyes glowing softly in the lantern light, and saw the truth in them. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only an unwavering certainty that left you both humbled and exhilarated.

The warmth of Damian’s hand lingered on yours as you held his gaze, the weight of his words settling into your heart. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, as though every unspoken promise he carried was woven into the fabric of his soul. For all his formidable presence and sharp intellect, it was these rare moments of tenderness that left you breathless.

Breaking the silence, Damian reached for the teapot that sat atop a small brass warmer on the carved teakwood table. The steam wisped upward as he poured more tea into your cup, the liquid a deep jade that reflected the lantern light. His movements were deliberate, the kind of precision ingrained in him through years of training, yet softened by the care he reserved for you.

“Do you know much about what tomorrow entails?” he asked, his voice low and smooth. The question was unhurried, as if he was savoring the peace of the moment as much as you were.

“Not much,” you admitted, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. “I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I didn’t want to overwhelm myself with the details. I figured I’d let it all unfold.”

Damian smiled faintly at that, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to warm his usually stoic features. “There is beauty in that approach,” he said. “But I should prepare you for what to expect. The henna party is one of the most cherished traditions leading up to the ceremony.”

Damian leaned back slightly, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. The soft glow of the lanterns framed him in a way that felt almost surreal, as though this moment were a dream conjured from the depths of your heart.

“The henna ,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of tradition, “is not just about the henna itself. The designs will cover your hands and feet, each symbol chosen with care. It’s an art form, a language that speaks to love, prosperity, and the bond we are about to share.”

His gaze flicked to your hand, his thumb brushing against the back of it. “Hidden within the patterns will be my initials. It’s customary for the groom to search for them later. If I can’t find them, I am expected to offer you a gift.”

You smirked, tilting your head at him. “And what if you find them?”

His green eyes sparkled with a rare playfulness. “Then I still give you a gift. A husband’s duty, after all.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound mingling with the quiet hum of the fortress around you. “You’re already spoiling me.”

“It’s what you deserve,” Damian said simply, his tone so earnest that it left no room for argument. He lifted his cup and took a sip, his expression softening further as he continued. “My mother will also present you with gifts tomorrow—gold, most likely. Jewelry that has been in our family for generations. She’ll want you to wear it during the celebration.”

The mention of Talia made you pause, your thoughts briefly turning to the formidable woman. While she had always carried an air of command and intimidation, her gestures toward you since your engagement had been nothing short of respectful, even warm at times. “Do you think she approves?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Damian set his cup down with deliberate care, his gaze locking with yours. “She wouldn’t have invited us here if she didn’t. My mother… she values strength and loyalty above all else. She sees that in you. And more importantly, she sees what you mean to me.”

The sincerity in his voice struck a chord deep within you, and you nodded, unable to keep a small, grateful smile from forming. “I hope I can live up to her expectations.”

“You already do,” Damian assured you. His hand found yours again, his grip firm but gentle. “And even if you didn’t, you’ve already surpassed mine.”

The intensity of his words left you momentarily breathless, and you found yourself leaning forward slightly, drawn to the quiet magnetism that Damian seemed to exude so effortlessly. He noticed the shift, his sharp gaze softening as his free hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“There’s more,” he said, his voice dipping lower, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. “After the mehndi , there will be a meal. A feast, really. Traditional dishes—many of them prepared under my mother’s watchful eye. But before that, there will be bukhoor .”

“ Bukhoor ?” you repeated, the unfamiliar word rolling off your tongue.

“It’s a tradition involving incense,” Damian explained. “The smoke is meant to cleanse the space, to bring blessings and protection. My mother’s attendants will carry it through the rooms, the courtyard… and over you.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you said softly, picturing the ritual in your mind. The idea of being enveloped in fragrant smoke, surrounded by people celebrating your union, filled you with a quiet sense of wonder.

“It is,” Damian agreed. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand again, the small gesture grounding you. “And then, when the evening is done, we’ll retreat here. To quiet. To each other.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and you felt the heat rise in your cheeks again. Before you could respond, Damian leaned closer, his free hand settling lightly against your cheek. His touch was steady, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath catching as he closed the small distance between you. His lips were warm against yours, his kiss soft at first, almost tentative. But as you leaned into him, threading your fingers through the dark hair at the nape of his neck, he deepened the kiss, his movements both deliberate and reverent.

The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the steady rhythm of your hearts. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was unhurried, each moment a quiet declaration of the love you shared.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling in the space between you. Damian’s eyes searched yours, his expression unguarded and tender.

“We should probably go to sleep,” you whispered between soft breaths, already thinking about the next day.

The morning sun rose slowly over the jagged peaks surrounding Nanda Parbat, its golden light spilling over the fortress like a blessing. A soft breeze whispered through the courtyard, carrying the mingled fragrances of jasmine, frankincense, and sandalwood. Everywhere, there was a hum of life as the preparations for the henna celebration—the mehndi —were brought to life.

The courtyard had been transformed into a sanctuary of opulence. Silk drapes of deep crimson and shimmering gold hung from tall wooden poles, fluttering gently in the breeze. Low, cushioned seating surrounded a central area where soft rugs layered the ground in a patchwork of rich colors and patterns. Brass trays laden with dates, figs, and nuts gleamed in the sunlight, alongside small glass bowls filled with fragrant rosewater and meticulously prepared henna paste.

Above, the sky was a brilliant blue, unclouded, and it seemed to echo the sense of boundless joy below. Strings of delicate white blossoms arched from post to post, their scent mingling with the incense that burned in clay censers, sending thin spirals of smoke into the air. At the center of it all was a raised dais, draped in layers of embroidered silk, where you would sit as the honored bride-to-be.

You stepped into the courtyard, your attire as regal as the setting. A traditional style dress of rich burgundy flowed around you, the fabric embroidered with intricate gold patterns that caught the light. The delicate scarf covering your hair was sheer, with gold thread along its edges. As you entered, the gathered women turned their attention to you, their cheers and smiles welcoming you warmly.

Among them was Talia al Ghul, standing with her signature poise in a gown of deep emerald that shimmered with hints of gold. Her eyes were sharp as ever, but they softened when they met yours. She approached with a faint smile, the regal weight of her presence both commanding and reassuring.

“You look radiant,” she said, placing a hand lightly on your arm. Her tone carried genuine approval, though her natural reserve was evident.

“Thank you,” you replied, your voice tinged with both gratitude and nervousness.

Talia gestured for you to take your place on the dais. As you moved to sit among the cushions, the women gathered closer, bringing with them the bowls of henna paste. The scents of saffron and orange blossom oil wafted up from the paste, filling the air with their delicate sweetness.

One of the older women, her face weathered but her movements steady, took your hand in hers. She murmured a soft prayer in Arabic, her words a blessing of happiness, prosperity, and love. Her voice was low, almost musical, and it set a calm rhythm to the start of the ritual.

The henna artist began her work with a fine-tipped wooden stick, dipping it into the paste and carefully drawing the first intricate lines. The cool touch of the henna against your palm sent a shiver through you, but the sensation was soothing. Slowly, your hands were transformed into masterpieces of swirling patterns—vines, flowers, and delicate geometric designs. Every mark held meaning: fertility, joy, and the union of two souls.

As the design extended to your wrists and the tops of your feet, a small detail caught your eye. Hidden within the patterns were two tiny Arabic letters – د and و . Damian’s initials, cleverly concealed within the ornate artwork.

“You’ll have to show Damian where to look for his initials,” one of the younger women teased, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Unless you want to make him work for it.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “He’s observant enough to find them – if he really tries.”

The ritual continued with more blessings and the presentation of gifts. Talia herself brought forth a large velvet box of gold jewelry, its contents dazzling in the sunlight. Delicate bangles, a necklace set with a teardrop ruby, and a pair of earrings that matched were placed before you.

“These are for you,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet pride. “They belong to the family now, as do you.”

The weight of her words struck you deeply, and you bowed your head in gratitude. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the swell of emotion in your chest.

The feast followed, a decadent display of roasted lamb, spiced rice, honey-drizzled pastries, and fresh fruits. The scents of saffron and cinnamon mingled with the smoky aroma of grilled meats, and the flavors were as vibrant as the colors of the courtyard. Between bites, you shared smiles and stories with the women around you, their warmth enveloping you like the silk shawl draped over your shoulders.

As the day transitioned to evening, the final part of the ritual began. A servant brought forth a brazier filled with glowing coals, over which they placed the bukhoor . The fragrant smoke rose in gentle plumes, its scent deep and earthy. The brazier was passed among the women, each of them waving the smoke toward themselves in a gesture of blessing and protection.

When it was brought to you, you hesitated briefly before following suit, your hands moving gracefully through the smoke, fanning it towards you. The fragrance clung to your skin and clothing, a tangible reminder of the sacredness of the day.

By the time the celebration ended, you were exhausted but content. The designs on your hands and feet had darkened as the henna dried, their intricate beauty a testament to the care and tradition poured into the day. The jewellery rested in a chest in your quarters, and the memory of Talia’s blessing stayed with you as you returned to the room you shared with Damian.

He was waiting for you when you arrived, standing by the window where the moonlight framed him in silver. When he turned, his gaze immediately fell to your hands, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the intricate patterns.

“Hidden letters,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re making me work for it.”

“You’ll find them,” you teased, holding up your hands so he could see them better. “If you’re clever enough.”

Damian stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly over the patterns on your palm. The tenderness in his touch made your heart skip a beat. “They’re beautiful,” he murmured, though his eyes remained fixed on you rather than the designs.

“So is the one who wears them,” he added, his voice low and reverent.

The quiet that followed was filled with unspoken promises, the air between you charged with an intimacy that no words could capture. And as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your henna-stained hands, you realized that this day, and the life that awaited you, was more beautiful than anything you could have imagined.

The room was quiet except for the gentle crackle of the brazier’s coals, their glow casting flickering patterns across the stone walls. Damian’s fingers lingered on your hands, his touch deliberate as if memorizing every intricate line of the henna patterns. His gaze, sharp yet soft in the low light, traveled slowly from your stained palms to your face, holding your eyes with a gravity that made the world beyond this moment feel irrelevant.

“You look like a vision,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, as if the words carried the weight of truth.

The compliment sent a warmth blooming in your chest. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, a small smile curving your lips. “You always know exactly what to say,” you murmured, though your voice wavered slightly under the intensity of his gaze.

“Only when it comes to you,” Damian replied, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles before he leaned closer. His hands left yours to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheekbones. The air between you felt charged, the space impossibly small and yet infinite all at once.

Damian’s lips hovered just a breath away from yours, his gaze searching your eyes for any hesitation. Finding none, he closed the gap, his kiss soft but firm, a silent declaration of the love he held for you. His hands cradled your face with a gentleness that belied his strength, his thumbs tracing small, soothing circles over your skin. The faint scent of the bukhoor clung to both of you, mingling with the jasmine in the air and heightening the heady intimacy of the moment.

When he deepened the kiss, it was unhurried, as though savoring every second. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking permission that you willingly gave, parting them to let him in. The kiss grew more fervent, yet never lost its tenderness, his tongue gliding against yours in a dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. The world outside the room faded away, leaving only the shared rhythm of your breaths and the quiet crackle of the brazier.

Damian’s hands slipped from your face to your shoulders, his fingers brushing against the delicate scarf that adorned your hair. He paused, his lips leaving yours as he rested his forehead against yours. “May I?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his reverence for you clear in every syllable.

Your heart swelled at his care, and you nodded, your voice caught in your throat. With deliberate slowness, he removed the scarf, folding it carefully and setting it aside as though it were as precious as you were to him. His fingers threaded through your hair, his touch both soothing and electric as he tilted your head back to meet his gaze. His emerald eyes held a devotion so deep it made your breath hitch.

“You are breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity. His lips found yours again, this time with more urgency, his hands sliding down to your waist and pulling you closer. The heat of his body seeped into yours, chasing away any lingering chill from the mountain air.

Damian guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. His hands lingered at your waist, steadying you as you sank onto the silk bedding. He followed, his movements fluid and purposeful, positioning himself beside you. His kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower, his breath warm against your skin. Each press of his lips was a promise, each caress an affirmation of his adoration.

When his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, you couldn’t suppress the soft gasp that escaped you. The sound seemed to spur him on, his lips curving into a faint smile against your skin. His kisses continued down the column of your throat, his tongue darting out to taste the faint traces of jasmine and salt. The sensation sent shivers coursing through you, your fingers instinctively tangling in his dark hair.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Damian murmured against your skin, his voice roughened by his desire but still threaded with care. “I want this to be perfect for you.”

“It is,” you assured him, your voice trembling with emotion. “You are.”

Your words seemed to ignite something in him. He kissed his way down to your collarbone, his hands carefully working to loosen the intricate ties of your dress. Each movement was deliberate, his fingertips grazing your skin as though it were the most delicate silk. When the fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling around your waist, he pulled back slightly to take you in. The way his gaze softened, the awe in his expression, made you feel cherished in a way words couldn’t convey.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your quickened breaths. His hands traced a path down your arms, his touch featherlight, before settling at your waist. Leaning down, he kissed the curve of your shoulder, his lips lingering as his fingers began to explore, drawing patterns against your skin that mirrored the henna on your hands.

When his mouth descended to the swell of your chest, he paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, silently asking for permission. The tenderness of the gesture sent a fresh wave of affection through you, and you nodded, threading your fingers tighter into his hair in encouragement.

His kisses were reverent, each one slow and deliberate as though he were memorizing the taste of your skin. His tongue flicked out, tracing a line along your sternum before moving lower, his lips worshiping every inch of you they touched. The heat of his mouth and the gentle scrape of his teeth left you breathless, your body arching instinctively toward him.

Damian’s hands moved to your hips, his grip firm but grounding as he guided you to lie back fully against the plush bedding. He shifted to hover over you, his lips never leaving your skin as he continued his descent. When he reached the intricate henna designs on your abdomen, he paused, his breath warm against your skin as he traced the patterns with his fingertips.

“Every line tells a story,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet wonder. “Every detail a part of us.”

His lips followed the path of his fingers, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. The sensations he stirred within you were almost overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and the deep emotional connection you shared. When he finally looked up at you, his green eyes darkened with desire yet softened by love, you felt as though you were the only person in the world.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rough but laced with concern.

“Yes,” you breathed, your hands cupping his face to pull him back up to you. “More than all right.”

He captured your lips in another searing kiss, his body pressing against yours as he deepened it.

Damian’s kisses grew more fervent as he trailed down your body, every touch a deliberate testament to the devotion etched into his soul. He shifted lower, his strong hands gently parting your thighs as he positioned himself between them. The cool mountain air contrasted with the warmth of his breath against your skin, sending shivers racing up your spine.

His emerald eyes locked onto yours, an unspoken question lingering in the depths of his gaze. You nodded, the anticipation tightening your chest, your fingers finding his hair and threading through the silken strands. Damian’s lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, soft and reverent, his kisses slow and purposeful. Each press of his mouth seemed to speak volumes, a silent promise of his love and desire.

He lingered, his tongue tracing lazy circles, tasting your skin as though savoring a rare delicacy. When he finally moved to your core, his hands cradled your hips, grounding you with their firm yet tender grip. His mouth descended, and the first touch of his tongue sent a bolt of electricity coursing through you. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as the sensation rippled through every nerve.

Damian was meticulous, his tongue exploring every inch of you with a skill and precision honed by his unrelenting focus. He worked slowly, teasingly, his lips closing around your most sensitive spot and drawing soft, deliberate pressure that left you breathless. The heat of his mouth and the gentle scrape of his teeth combined in a symphony of sensation, each movement building a tension deep within you that threatened to snap.

Your breaths came in shallow gasps, your fingers tightening in his hair as he continued his ministrations. Damian’s hands held you firmly, his thumbs stroking soothing patterns into your hips as if to anchor you to the moment. He was unyielding in his purpose, every flick of his tongue and gentle suction driving you closer to the edge.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured against you, his voice husky and low. The vibrations of his words sent another wave of pleasure crashing through you, your thighs trembling around him as you struggled to contain the building intensity.

“Damian,” you gasped, his name a prayer on your lips. He looked up briefly, his gaze meeting yours, and the sight of his flushed cheeks and the glistening evidence of his devotion only heightened your desire.

“You deserve this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your thigh before resuming his focus. His pace quickened, his tongue moving with more urgency as he sensed you nearing your release. The tension coiled tighter and tighter within you until it became unbearable, a white-hot crescendo that left you crying out his name as you shattered beneath his touch.

He didn’t stop, drawing out every aftershock of your pleasure with gentle, soothing strokes of his tongue. When you finally stilled, your body spent and trembling, Damian pressed a final kiss to your thigh before moving back up to you. His lips found yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, the taste of your release lingering on his tongue as he poured his love into every movement.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with awe and affection. You smiled softly, your hands cradling his face as you pulled him closer, the connection between you deeper than ever.

Damian’s lips remained a whisper away from yours, his forehead pressed to yours as your breaths mingled in the charged stillness between you. His hands, calloused yet tender, caressed your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch leaving trails of heat across your bare skin. The silk bedding beneath you cradled your body, but it was his presence above you that truly anchored you to the moment.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Damian murmured, his voice rough with restraint yet dripping with raw desire. His emerald eyes burned with intensity, their glow softened only by the deep affection he reserved solely for you. The contrast was dizzying—his unrelenting strength and the reverence with which he touched you.

“I think I do,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hands roamed over his sculpted back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his taut skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as the heat between you grew unbearable. “You’re mine, Damian. And I’m yours.”

The declaration hung between you, heavy with unspoken promises and an unwavering truth. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his body pressing against yours as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from you even for a moment. His arousal pressed insistently against your core, the heat of him making you ache with longing.

Slowly, Damian’s hand slid down your side, pausing briefly to brush his thumb over the sensitive curve of your hip before settling at your thigh. He gripped you firmly, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to leave a pleasant sting as he guided your leg higher around his waist. The motion brought him closer, the hard length of him rubbing against you in a way that sent sparks skittering across your nerves.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, his voice edged with concern but weighted with need. His other hand cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking along your jawline in a soothing rhythm as he waited for your response.

“It’s not,” you breathed, your voice catching as you tilted your head to press a kiss to his palm. “I need you, Damian. All of you.”

The words were all the encouragement he needed. His lips claimed yours again, the kiss hungry and consuming as he began to move. With a deliberate slowness that spoke of both his control and his desire to savor the moment, he positioned himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his arousal pressed against you, the heat and pressure drawing a gasp from your lips.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, rich and commanding. You met his gaze, the green of his eyes deepened by the flickering light of the brazier. He held your stare as he began to push into you, the stretch and fullness stealing your breath.

“Damian,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusted to him. The sensation was overwhelming, a delicious ache that left you trembling beneath him. He paused, his jaw tight as he fought for control, his hands steadying you with their grounding touch.

“You feel…” He trailed off, his words swallowed by a groan as he finally seated himself fully within you. “Perfect.”

The word sent a rush of heat through you, and you arched against him, your body pressing closer in silent encouragement. Slowly, he began to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both unhurried and devastatingly precise. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure rippling through you, building a fire in your core that burned hotter with every moment.

Damian’s lips never left your skin, his kisses trailing from your mouth to your jaw, down your throat, and across your collarbone. He worshiped every inch of you with his mouth and hands, his devotion written in every deliberate movement. The sound of his ragged breaths and low groans filled the room, mingling with the soft gasps and moans that spilled from your lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and reverent. “So perfect. I could spend a lifetime like this and never get enough of you.”

The sincerity in his words left you breathless, your heart swelling with emotion even as your body burned with desire. You clung to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he quickened his pace, his thrusts growing deeper and more intense. Each movement sent pleasure coursing through you, the tension in your core coiling tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable.

“Damian,” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. “I’m so close.”

His green eyes darkened, his gaze locking onto yours as he adjusted his angle, the new depth sending you hurtling toward the edge. “Let go,” he urged, his voice thick with passion. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

The words were your undoing. Your release crashed over you like a tidal wave, leaving you crying out as your body shuddered beneath him. The pleasure was blinding, every nerve ending alight as you clung to him, your nails raking down his back in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself.

Damian groaned, his movements becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep within you, his body trembling as he released with a low, guttural sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers leaving indents in your skin as he rode out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the mingled rhythm of your breaths as you clung to each other, your bodies still tangled together. Damian pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as he whispered, “You’re everything to me.”

The words settled deep in your heart, their weight a promise you knew he would always keep. You smiled softly, your hands brushing through his damp hair as you murmured, “And you’re everything to me.”

Damian shifted slightly, careful not to break the connection between you as he gathered you in his arms. He held you close, his warmth a comfort as you basked in the afterglow of your shared passion.

You could feel his fingertips tracing the intricate designs on your skin, each delicate touch sending a wave of warmth through you until they paused at your wrist. There, he traced the hidden initials.

You chuckled softly, your voice a whisper. "You knew they were there all along, didn’t you?"

A faint smile played on his lips, his voice low and velvet-like as he responded, “You underestimate me, beloved.” He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head before his fingers moved, entwining with yours, as if marking the moment, forever sealed between you.

As the night deepened, you both drifted into sleep, held in the quiet strength of each other’s embrace, knowing without a doubt that you would never face the world alone again.

I hope you all enjoyed this! I drew a lot of inspiration from the many Henna parties I have attended over the years, I know that these span over many different countries and cultures, but I mainly focused on the Arab traditions as that is what I am most familiar with

#damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne smut

846 notes · View notes

ego13 · 3 months ago

Text

CRIMINAL ── yjm.

─ having cheated in one of the underground casinos, you didn't think you'd be caught red-handed and punished in a rather interesting way.

now playing : Taemin - Criminal

warnings, sensitive content: semi-rough sex, too much dirty talk, gp!karina, sex with strangers, sex in public places, dry humping, fingering (reader recieving), facefucking, deeptroating, praise kink, hair pulling, pet names (kitty, good girl, princess), nipple play, spanking (even too much), riding, hickeys, breeding kink.

word count : 3,2k

The aroma of whiskey, pricey perfume, and the slightest hint of cigarette smoke clinging to the velvet upholstery filled the air inside the casino. Its deep crimson fabric, adorned with swirling gold filigree, hushed every footfall as the main character stepped onto the luxurious carpet. With the occasional outburst of jubilant laughter or the moan of someone who had just lost a fortune, the sound of jingling slot machines filled the room like a fascinating symphony.

Crystals in the glistening chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling caught the light and dispersed it in stunning patterns on the marble floors close to the entryway. There appeared to be movement in every direction as cocktail waiters with trays full of glasses and elegant, shimmering gowns moved fluidly between the tables.

Men in fitted suits sat at the blackjack and poker tables with stone faces, their palms hovering over chips, while others, more relaxed, flung their bets in with reckless abandon. As you navigated the maze of flashing lights and velvet ropes, you passed tourists who were ecstatic and high rollers whose eyes glowed with either triumph or despair.

The sound of falling cubes was drowned out by the clamor of electronic jingles and whispered talks as a dice game broke out in cheers to the left. A huge indoor waterfall poured into a glistening pool as the casino extended past the main floor and past the high-limit salons where the real kings and queens of the gaming industry played.

Oh, you clearly had a very interesting evening planned.

You walked to one of the tables, which stood almost in the very center of the gaming room, sitting down opposite a man unknown to you in an expensive suit who looked at you as nothing more than easy prey, well, you're clearly not against playing along and pretending to be a fool, knowing that he'll give you more than a few for one game.

"Well, shall we play, princess? Or is Texas Hold'em not suitable for girls like you?" He chuckled, making the men standing at the table laugh with this phrase, and you clearly caught a sign of falsehood in this feigned laughter, well, it looks like you're not the only one lying today.

You were playing with the stack of chips next to you with your fingers, which the man noticed, raising his eyebrow as if offering to place a bet with you.

"All in," you said so calmly, as if you were trying to strangle him with your indifference, to which his eyes widened, but then his face broke into a satisfied smile, after which he pushed his chips towards the dealer.

"Such a delicate girl, but she plays for big money," he said before taking a small sip from his glass of whiskey, hearing the ice cubes touching each other, creating a pleasant sound.

He drank the same half-full whiskey, never taking more than a sip, while a server, well-paid for his quiet, made sure his glass was never empty. The room was buzzing with excitement as the city's elite gathered to watch the match.

Following the face-down dealing of two private cards, a number of community cards were positioned in the middle. The choices to bet, raise, or fold changed with each round. You're was planning on read the man, playing on his confidence, and laying the ideal trap were more important than simply using the hand.

Because of the fact, that you first played conservatively, he was able to win a few hands, which boosted his confidence. Feeling in charge, the wealthy man laughed and threw back another drink. You patiently waited for the right time to happen, allowing him to believe it. With one ace on the table and one in your hand, they had the starting point for an almost invincible full house. Yet you remained composed, hardly responding, as though fortune had finally shifted in your favor. The fake hesitancy was misunderstood by him, who grinned. In the absence of weakness, he perceived it.

As you called the bet and set down your cards, the room fell silent. The murmurs followed by few gasps. Three aces, two kings, a full house. Fucking amazing. When the reality struck, his confidence crumbled and he went pale. Someone had played him. Exactly. In your direction, the dealer shoved the pile of chips. Just enough to acknowledge your achievement, but not enough to leave a trace, you glanced at the rigged dealer and gave him a little, contented smile.

He shook his head incredulously and muttered a swear. "You're simply lucky," he whispered. In a silent toast, your merely lifted your glass which a minute earlier had been filled with fresh whiskey by the waiter, who was still obediently standing next to the table, with ease, you uttered, "It's hard to call my talent luck."

You just chuckled, getting up from the table with your glass in your hands, looking for someone else, someone who would once again give you everything they had acquired that evening.

Having noticed a table with several people, you were about to approach it when you felt someone put their hand on your shoulder, turning around, you saw a serious man in a suit, «Security» said the badge that hung on his black formal jacket. This realization made you wince, had you been caught? Had someone noticed that the playing chips were counterfeit?

"You need to go with me," said the man, taking you by the wrist, pulling you, at that moment you morally said goodbye to your friends and loved ones, thinking that you were clearly going to be killed to hell now, but everything changed after a long walk, as it seemed to you, around the entire casino, you were not taken into a dark room, only the sofa stood in the center, and the door behind you closed with a loud bang.

"What a beautiful girl cheating," you heard a rough female voice, the cold look on Jimin's face only intensified as she took in the nervous fidgeting of the girl before her. Her piercing gaze seemed to bore into the very soul of your soul, making her feel even more exposed under the scrutiny of all four women.

"You're really beautiful, It's a pity that you act like a rat," the room felt stiflingly hot, the air heavy with tension and unspoken promises of punishment to come. She smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort, watching you shudder just from the feeling of the weight of their gaze on your body.

Once again, her hands were on your shoulders, the she smirked, feeling your skin get covered in goosebumps, slightly lowering the straps of your dress, "you know, all girls who behave like this should be punished," you lowered your head in shame, unable to maintain eye contact with them.

"Oh, what a shame, are you really embarrassed?" Jimin smirked at your timid movements, at the way you simply let her take off your dress like a person who had already resigned himself to his burden.

"As for being shy, don't be like that, I'll fuck the crap out of you," Jimin said, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to come closer, looking at the blush on your face with a smirk, "by the way, regarding your punishment..."

She backed away, sitting on the couch and patting her knees as if inviting you to sit down, "bend over, you fucking brat," the rough tone made you feel like your knees were weak, the other girls' hands pushed you to lean on Jimin's lap and bend over, causing them to exclaim your obedience.

A smirk played on Jimin's lips as you approached, the soft pad of her footsteps echoing in the spacious room. She watched, unmoving, as you leaned over her lap, the fabric of your dress riding up you creamy thighs. Her hand, already resting on her thigh, slid higher, fingertips brushing against the exposed skin.

"Oh, aren't you an eager thing?" She said, smirking and leaning closer to examine your body in more detail which made her lick her lips in anticipation, "Good enough to eat," she exclaimed, placing her hand on the bulge that had formed in her pants in such a short time, sighing heavily at the sensation of the touch.

Yu's hand crept further up, grip tightening, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh. She leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear as she hissed, "you better behave yourself so I don't fuck you senseless right now," with that, Jimin delivered a sharp smack to your ass, the sound of it ringing out in the room. She massaged the reddening skin almost immediately after, her touch a confusing mix of punishment and soothing caress.

"Taking her punishment like a good girl, fuck... I can cum just from this view."

Jimin let out a dark chuckle at your whimper, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction at the way you arched your back, her hand leaving a vivid red mark on the soft, supple skin. She could feel the heat radiating off your skin, could see the goosebumps prickling her flesh from the mix of pain and unwanted pleasure.

"Count it," she said in a rough vouce, raising her hand for another smack as her eyes glinting with a dark, twisted version of affection, Jimin growled, her voice low and threatening. Her hand leaned down on your ass once more, the sound of the smack echoing obscenely in the room.

"O-One!" you sniffled, making her smirk, tears pricked at the corners of your eyes but you blinked them back, not wanting to give Jimin the satisfaction of seeing you cry. Jimin's hand worked methodically, each smack harder than the last, each one leaving a more visible vivid red handprint on your tender skin. She could feel you squirming, could hear your breathy whimpers and ragged counting.

"E-Eight, nine, ten..." You gasped, trying your best to keep up with the relentless pace of Jimin's actions. Your delicate skin was on fire, each smack sending jolts of pain and something shamefully close to pleasure coursing through you.

Throughout the spanking, Jimin's other hand crept under the hem of your black dress, which during this time has managed to almost completely slide off you, fingernails raking up your thigh, dangerously close to where her legs met.

"Fuck, so wet from being spanked? Such a bad girl you are..." She raised her hand again, letting it hover for a moment, allowing anticipation and trepidation to build in the air between them. Then, with a contented grin, she brought it down hard, striking the same cheek as before. Her hand was relentless, moving from cheek to cheek with mechanical precision, each blow designed to punish and arouse in equal measure.

"Baby, I don't want to see you cry, you know very well that girls who break the rules are always punished," she said, stroking your flushed skin, giving you a few minutes to come to your senses while her other hand slid down to the front, cupping your pussy possessively, feeling the damp heat even through the thin fabric of your panties.

"Fuck... you're so soaked, kitty," She ripped away the flimsy fabric barrier, baring your cunt to the cool air of the room. Her fingers slowly circled your clit with a rough fingertip, feeling it swell and throb against the touch, as her fingers slowly slid inside, curled her fingers just right, knowing she'd found that spongey spot that would make you see stars.

"Such a drenched cunt, holy shit..." She punctuated her words with a particularly hard thrust, burying her fingers as deep as they could go and grinding the heel of her palm against your swollen clit, you let out a choked scream, hips bucking back against Jimin's hand, trying to take her fingers even deeper.

"Oh, aren't you a loud girl?" Jimin encouraged darkly, free hand coming down hard on your ass, leaving another vivid red mark blooming on the abused and sore flesh, she continued her relentless assault, fingers curling and scissoring, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside your walls.

"You're gripping me so tightly..." Jimin growled, feeling your pussy clamp down around her, you teetering on the brink of climax, "gonna cum for me, baby girl?"

She leaned down, teeth sinking into the side of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. She sucked and licked at the reddening skin, marking her possession, as her fingers never stopped their brutal pumping, fucking into your cunt with a single-minded intensity.

"Right now," with those words, she slammed her fingers in as deep as they could go and ground the heel of her palm against your clit, pushing you over the edge into oblivion. Jimin's other hand came down on your ass with a brutal slap, the sound echoing obscenely in the room.

"Good fucking girl, such a good girl..." She praised darkly, fingers pumping through your orgasm, drawing it out and making it last longer, she continued to grind against your swollen clit, rubbing through the aftershocks, until the you collapsed forward.

"On your knees," she said in a hoarse, rough voice that made you immediately climb off her lap on trembling legs, standing on your own knees, Jimin's hand drifted down, palming herself through her pants. She could feel how hard she was, how much she ached to shove her cock down your eager throat.

"You're going to take it all baby, every. fucking. inch," She punctuated her words by rubbing her clothed erection against your face, letting you feel the size and shape of her as her breath grew heavier, the anticipation building in her chest.

She smirked as she watched you scramble to obey, eagerly tugging at her belt and the button of her pants. The desperation in your movements was palpable, her need to free Jimin's cock an almost vulgar thing.

Jimin tangled her fingers in your hair, gripping the silky strands as she forced you to look at her, slowly and deliberately, Jimin rubbed the swollen head of her dick against your soft lips, smearing them with the musky essence of her arousal.

"Open up, kitty... Let me feel that tight throat of yours," As she spoke, she began to slowly push forward, the thick length of her cock made you to part your lips, invading the warm, wet cavern of your tight throat which you immediately tried to relax. She groaned at the feel of the girl's tongue sliding along her sensitive flesh, the slick heat of her mouth engulfing her.

She began to thrust, dragging her length in and out of your mouth, fucking her face with slow, deliberate strokes. Her heavy balls slapped against your chin with each pump of her hips, a filthy wet sound that echoed obscenely in the room, "Fuck, you're such a little cocksucker, don't you? Fucking hell..."

Yu could feel your throat constricting around her, the tight muscles fluttering as you struggled to accommodate her length. It felt incredible, the way you choked and gagged as you tried to take her more deeper, from the feeling of how she almost touched the back of your fucking throat made your head spin.

Jimin growled in pleasure, fingers tightening in your hair as she began to pick up the pace, fucking your face with increasingly rough, brutal thrusts, her hips moved like a piston, slamming into your throat. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched mouth, bubbling obscenely as Jimin fucked your throat raw.

"'m getting close," Jimin panted, the hand not tangled in your hair drifting down to grope and squeeze at your breasts, pinching and rolling the stiff peaks between her fingers, with a final, brutal thrust, Yu buried herself balls deep in your mouth, grinding against the back of her throat as she came with a guttural groan.

Thick, hot ropes of cum poured from her spasming head, flooding and forcing you to swallow around the heavy load. As the waves of her intense climax finally began to stop, Jimin slowly withdrew, her softening cock slipping from your abused mouth with a wet pop. She looked down at you, taking in the sight of your flushed face, messy hair, your ruined makeup and the way you gasped and choked as you tried to catch your breath.

She reached out, thumb and forefinger pinching your chin, tilting your face up to meet Jimin's intense gaze. Her eyes were dark, filled with a hunger that promised all sorts of sinful delights. She licked her lips as she stared down at her girl, a slow, filthy grin spreading across her face.

"Oh baby, I think I ruined your makeup..." she smirked, grabbing your wrist only to have you fall back onto her lap, gripping your hips tightly, "while you're riding me - makeup will be the last thing you need right now."

She leaned in, capturing your lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, all clashing teeth and tangling tongues. All the while, her hands continued their sensual assault on your breasts, kneading and massaging the soft, pliant flesh with a reverent hunger.

You sat up slightly, allowing her to slide inside, letting out a low moan into the kiss, causing her to squeeze your hips tighter, deepening it, It made Jimin's cock throb and pulse inside you, the sight and sounds of your pleasure stoking the flames of her own desire.

"Fuuck... tightest pussy ever..." She punctuated her words with a sharp thrust of her hips, slamming up into your dripping cunt. The wet, obscene sound of fucking filled the room, the lewd slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

Your whimpers and whines only spurred Jimin on, urging her to grope and tease more roughly, to pinch and tug at the stiff little peaks of your breasts. She could feel them hardening further under her ministrations, could see the pretty pink flush spreading down your neck.

"Such a good girl, taking me so fucking deep like you were made for it..." Jimin thrust up hard and fast, burying herself balls-deep inside your fluttering cunt. She set a rapid, almost punishing pace, fucking up into you with brutal, animalistic intensity.

"Gonna breed you, princess, make you full of my pups, fuck..." She could feel the pressure building, the coil of ecstasy winding tighter and tighter in her core. But she gritted her teeth, determined to hold back, to make you finish first.

With a final, brutal thrust, Jimin buried herself balls-deep inside your spasming cunt. She could feel your release crashing over you in waves as your pussy gripping and rippling around Jimin's thick shaft like a vice.

Jimin's body shuddered and convulsed as her own mind-blowing orgasm ripped through her. A guttural, feral growl tore from her, thick cock pulsing and throbbing as it pumped stream after stream of hot, thick cum deep into your spasming cunt.

"Fuck, fuck fuck!" Her eyes rolling back as she filled you to the brim with her seed. Her hips jerked and spasmed erratically, grinding her cock as deep as physically possible as she rode out the intense waves of pleasure crashing over her.

As the final aftershocks of your mutual orgasms began to subside, Yu slumped back against the couch, pulling your limp, sated body against her own. She wrapped her arms around your trembling body possessively, holding you close as they both struggled to catch their breath.

"Fuck... baby, I hope you're not dead, because I'm not done with your punishment yet..."

#gg x reader #girl group x reader #wlw #sapphic #kpop smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #girl group #girl group x fem reader #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina x you #aespa x you #aespa smut #aespa karina

676 notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 5 months ago

Text

⋆ arcane but it's a private university au ( for the girls: pt. i )

ice princess!f!reader x multi. f!characters. men & minors dni.

synopsis: private university!arcane headcanons but it’s really specific bc it’s based on my time at catholic private school except this au is just a private hold the catholic.

cw: this part contains scenarios for caitlyn, vi, & mel. the second part will contain sevika & ambessa bc i went a little crazy. suggestive content. notes: this was really fun to write. after part two, my attention will shift to answering the requests you sweet angels have sent me. i love you.

part two.

the road curved sharply as the gates came into view, their wrought-iron edges glinting in the low sweep of your headlights. beyond them, the school rose like smoke, its silhouette dark against the velvet sky, lit faintly by the soft gold of its windows. the building exhaled exclusivity, from the ivy climbing its stone façade to the manicured hedges lining the long gravel drive. you rolled down the window slightly for a bit of air. the breeze was scented faintly with pine and the cold, metallic promise of winter. you straightened your posture without thinking, your shoulders drawn back against the cool weight of your coat.

inside, the warmth hit you immediately, clinging to your skin like a lover's kiss. the chandeliers sparkled, their light soft and diffused, casting fractured shadows against the paneled walls. voices floated in the distance—low, murmured, intimate. you walked slowly, your boots clicking against the marble floors, eyes drawn to the oil portraits lining the halls. the faces in them were familiar in their arrogance: sharp jaws, heavy brows, lips set in expressions that commanded you to keep your mouth budded shut, like a flower.

your room was at the far end of the east wing, the door heavy and hinting at the beginnings of rot. the key turned smoothly, the lock clicking open with an almost luxurious softness. the space inside was all dark wood and rich fabrics, a fire already lit in the grate. you dropped your bag near the foot of the bed, its velvet coverlet cool under your fingertips. for a moment, you stood still, letting the atmosphere settle around you. outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and in the distance, you could hear faint laughter—a reminder that this place was alive, spilling with bloodlines as silver as the spoon in your own mouth. you wondered what they’d see in you, these strangers you were destined to meet. you wondered what you’d allow them to.

caitlyn kiramman: the academic rival.

୨୧ caitlyn was under the impression she’d be occupying a single suite. she strolled through the double doors, chin high, expecting the echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty room. instead, she found you curled on the floor, the soft creature of your body lightly clothed, flipping through a thick novel with its spine already cracked.

୨୧ you, too, had assumed the room was yours alone. after all, there was only one massive queen bed planted in the center, framed by ornate lamps that cast a soft glow over the wood-paneled walls. the two of you locked eyes, the silence loud with polite hostility. and then, as if on cue, both your smiles snapped into place—brilliant, practiced, and so painfully fake they practically gleamed. your families would be proud.

୨୧ you managed to get housing on the line after some deliberation over who would cave first. 'apologies, girls,’ the voice crackled through the old-fashioned landline. ‘there’s been an overlap in scheduling renovations. west wing residents have been moved to shared suites in the east. it’s only for a few weeks—after winter break, your single rooms will be ready, and you’ll receive a refund for the semester.’

୨୧ you clicked the phone back into its cradle and turned to caitlyn, flashing another dazzling smile. ‘well,’ you said sweetly, gesturing to her suitcase, ‘shall we get you unpacked?’

୨୧ during this time, you took her in—shamelessly, ravenously. she was tall and impossibly willowy, her movements languid like she’d been raised to glide instead of walk. her hair, a cascade so black it caught blue in the firelight (‘[name] it is blue.’), was swept into a ponytail so bouncy it could’ve been sculpted. she wore a thick knit sweater, tailored trousers, and a delicate diamond pendant—a ‘C’—that caught against her collarbone. her perfume hit you in waves: sweet, salty, like the black licorice you’d once eaten to excess in scandinavia. beneath it was something warmer—vanilla and caramelized citrus. you clenched your jaw to keep from leaning closer.

୨୧ at first, the sharing was civil. one of you curled up on the bed each week while the other resigned herself to the chaise in the corner. but one night, you woke to caitlyn’s face above yours, pale and soft in the moonlight. her almond-shaped eyes glittered as she pressed a deceptively strong hand against your stomach to wake you. her perfume cloyed your throat as she murmured, ‘come on,’ her voice rich and clipped with her posh english accent. she slipped back into bed, her braid glinting in the dim light, and you lay there, swallowing hard before following her.

୨୧ the real challenge wasn’t the shared space. it was caitlyn herself—her maddening proximity. the way her soft thighs brushed yours when she shifted in bed. the way her body, willowy as it was, still seemed to migrate toward you in the night, tangling with yours like it was instinctual. you woke up more than once during those weeks feeling hot, bothered, and frankly mortified, especially during the cruel timing of ovulation.

୨୧ to make matters worse, she was your equal in class. the professor announced your tied scores, and you caught her turning toward you, her bright blue eyes sparkling with something like satisfaction. she smiled, clearly expecting camaraderie, but this was your achievement. your moment. you forced a tight smile in return, already plotting your next move.

୨୧ and yet, caitlyn seemed determined to treat you as an equal. worse, a friend. she was everywhere—every party, every recital, every lecture. she linked your arm and whispered terrible jokes that you begrudgingly laughed at. she told you scandalous rumors about your professor and her husband, her lips brushing your cheek as the crowd jostled you.

୨୧ the glitter from her gloss smeared your skin, warm and wet, and when she tried to wipe it away, you told her it was fine. she blushed, and you hated how much you liked it.

୨୧ she was infuriating. borrowing your curling iron to tease out her perfect curls, dragging you to track practice where she outpaced you with ease, leaving snacks on your desk during finals with notes written in her careful script. she was just so—so perfect, framed in silk and lace and lit by courtyard sunlight, her laugh clear as crystal and echoing in your chest.

୨୧ wait.

୨୧ winter crept into the suite on silent feet, frosting the windowpanes and painting the air with a chill that settled into your bones. the two of you existed in an uneasy truce, navigating the space like chess players plotting moves several steps ahead.

୨୧ you thought you had her figured out, until one morning you stumbled into the kitchen to find her brewing tea, hair tousled and cheeks flushed with sleep. she offered you a mug without looking up, the steam curling between you, and you took it—hesitating only for a second.

୨୧ for all her elegance, caitlyn was infuriatingly human in ways that caught you off guard. she hummed off-key while studying, left tiny notes for herself tucked into the corners of her textbooks, and cursed like a sailor under her breath when she stubbed her toe on the chaise.

୨୧ it wasn’t fair how quickly she worked her way under your skin, the sharp edge of rivalry blunted by moments like these. still, you refused to let her win, clinging to the fire that flared in your chest every time she smirked at you after a particularly cutting comment in class.

୨୧ the tension came to a head one evening in the middle of finals. you were curled on the chaise, poring over notes, when caitlyn waltzed in, hair damp from a shower and wearing nothing but an oversized sweater that skimmed her thighs.

୨୧ she plopped onto the bed and stretched, a picture of unbothered grace. ‘don’t you think you’re overdoing it?’ she asked, her tone almost teasing. your pen froze mid-sentence. ‘excuse me?’ you shot back, eyes narrowing.

୨୧ ‘i’m just saying,’ she continued, utterly unruffled. ‘you’re going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this.’ the concern in her voice was infuriating, and you snapped. ‘not all of us can coast by on professors' favor and good looks,’ you said, your words cutting sharper than you intended. her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she schooled it into something cool and distant.

୨୧ the silence that followed was unbearable. caitlyn moved to the chaise later that night, leaving the bed cold and empty. you told yourself you didn’t care, but the knot in your chest tightened with every passing hour. finally, just before dawn, you slipped out of bed and crossed the room, standing over her sleeping form. her face was peaceful in the pale light, and you felt a pang of regret so sharp it left you breathless.

୨୧ ‘caitlyn,’ you whispered, your voice trembling. her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. ‘i’m sorry,’ you murmured, your throat tight. she sat up slowly, her gaze searching yours. ‘i didn’t mean it.’ ‘i know,’ she said softly, her words a balm to the ache in your chest.

୨୧ before you could overthink it, you leaned in, your lips brushing hers with a tentative softness. she responded immediately, her hands threading into your hair as she deepened the kiss. the world melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled in one another, practically climbing into each other’s skin, the air thick with the heady scent of her perfume and the taste of mint lingering on her lips.

୨୧ the next morning, you called housing together. caitlyn leaned against the counter, her arm brushing yours as you spoke into the phone.

୨୧ ‘yes,’ you said, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. ‘we’d like to stay in the east wing for the rest of the school year.’ you hung up, and caitlyn turned to you, her smile soft and knowing. ‘looks like we’re stuck with each other,’ she said, her tone light but her eyes dark.

୨୧ you squeezed your legs together and let a finger sweep at the dip of her collarbones. ‘it wouldn’t be the worst thing,’ you told her. she smiled.

violet: the lacrosse prodigy.

୨୧ the first time you saw vi, she was slouched in a mahogany chair at your parents' alumni dinner, looking like rebellion incarnate. her suit was expensive but deliberately disheveled—probably borrowed, you'd learn later—with the top button undone and a black tie hanging loose around her neck like an afterthought. you noticed her instantly: the sharp cut of her jaw, the shock of pink hair (freshly dyed, still bleeding slightly at her collar), and the way she balanced her chair on two legs like gravity was merely a suggestion.

୨୧ she noticed you too. maybe it was the way you held yourself, spine straight as a ruler, chin lifted in that practiced way that screamed old money. or maybe it was the way your silver-blue gown caught the light, clinging to you like morning frost on glass. either way, when your eyes met across the room, her smirk said she'd already made you her newest fixation. you looked away first, but you could feel her gaze following you for the rest of the evening, hot as a bruise.

୨୧ by the time classes started, her reputation preceded her like a shadow. vi, the scholarship student who played lacrosse like she was outrunning her past. girls whispered about her in bathroom stalls and behind textbooks: how she'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, how she'd fought her way into this school with nothing but raw talent and a stubbornness that bordered on spite. how she moved like she had lightning under her skin, all barely contained energy and sharp edges.

୨୧ you'd dismissed her first attempt at flirtation—a low whistle and a comment about how your uniform skirt looked specially tailored. she'd winked, and you'd raised an eyebrow so cold it could have frosted glass before walking away. but vi didn't take rejection personally; if anything, your indifference seemed to delight her.

୨୧ each time you passed in the halls, she'd find new ways to try to crack your composure: a deliberate brush of shoulders, a murmured 'morning, princess' that lingered in the air like perfume.

୨୧ what she didn't expect was for you to show up at her first game of the season. you perched yourself in the middle of the bleachers, legs crossed at the ankle, oversized sunglasses hiding your expression. the autumn air was sharp with approaching winter, and you wrapped your cashmere scarf tighter as you watched her warm up. she nearly missed a pass when she spotted you, her double-take so obvious it made your lips twitch despite yourself.

୨୧ she played like she had something to prove that day—all controlled violence and graceful aggression. you found yourself leaning forward despite your best intentions, watching the way she moved across the field like she owned it, her stick an extension of her arm. when her team won, she shot you a grin that was all adrenaline and victory, her chest heaving and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

୨୧ you didn't smile back, but something in your chest tightened when she lifted her jersey to wipe her face, revealing a strip of toned stomach marked with old scars.

୨୧ it became a game between you—her constant pushing, your calculated resistance. she'd find you in the library, sprawled across a chair like she was posing for a painting, her lacrosse stick balanced across her knees. 'studying hard, princess?' she'd drawl, her voice rough like she'd swallowed gravel, and you'd glance up from your books, unimpressed.

୨୧ 'some of us don't get by on natural talent alone,' you'd reply, your tone sharp enough to draw blood. but she never bled; she just grinned wider, like your cruelty was exactly what she'd been hoping for.

୨୧ the weather turned bitter, and you started noticing things about her you wished you didn't. how she wore the same three sweaters in rotation, all slightly too thin for the season. how she'd blow on her hands between plays, her fingers red with cold because she refused to wear gloves. how she worked twice as hard as anyone else on the field, like she was afraid someone would realize she didn't belong here and take it all away.

୨୧ one evening, you found yourself alone with her in the common room, the fire burning low in the grate. you were curled into the corner of the sofa, a cup of tea warming your hands, when she walked in. she hesitated for a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that you could smell the sharp blackberry of her shower gel mixing with the leather of her jacket.

୨୧ 'you're quiet tonight,' she said, her voice softer than you'd ever heard it. you didn't look at her, but something in your chest unraveled slightly. 'just tired,' you replied, and when she shifted closer, you didn't move away.

୨୧ after that, the boundaries between you began to blur. she started walking you back to your dorm after late study sessions, her stride easy and long beside your measured steps. 'i don't need a bodyguard,' you'd say, but your voice lacked its usual ice. she'd just shrug, hands stuffed in her pockets. 'maybe i just like the company.'

୨୧ one rainy sunday, she convinced you to join her on the empty field. 'come on, princess, live a little,' she said, pressing her spare stick into your reluctant hands. your perfectly manicured nails looked absurd wrapped around the grip, and you gave her your best withering stare. but then she stepped behind you, her hands covering yours to adjust your grip, and suddenly you couldn't remember why you'd been protesting. her breath was warm against your ear as she guided you through the motion, her body solid and sure against your back.

୨୧ you missed every shot, but the way she laughed—not at you, but with you—made your cheeks flush with something other than cold.

୨୧ you told yourself it meant nothing. that she was just another scholarship kid trying to prove herself, that her attention was just another form of rebellion against everything you represented. but then came the night after her team's crushing semifinal loss. you found her in the empty locker room, still in her muddy uniform, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else. without a word, you sat beside her on the bench, your expensive skirt soaking up puddles of field water.

୨୧ 'you played well,' you said quietly. she laughed, but it was hollow. 'not well enough.' you reached for her hand then, your fingers interlacing with hers, and neither of you mentioned how long you stayed there, sharing silence and something deeper.

୨୧ it happened during one of your late-night walks. the air was sharp with approaching snow, and the campus was quiet except for the crunch of gravel under your boots. she stopped suddenly, turning to face you with an expression you'd never seen before—all vulnerability and barely contained want. 'you know,' she said, her voice rough, 'you're not nearly as cold as you pretend to be.' before you could argue, she kissed you—hard and desperate at first, then softening when you gasped against her mouth. she tasted like cinnamon gum and possibility, and her hands were gentle when they cupped your face, like she was afraid you might collapse.

୨୧ the next morning, vi was back to her usual self, lounging against the dining hall wall with her teammates. but when you walked in, her entire face lit up, and the smile she gave you was different from her usual smirk—softer, private, just for you. you rolled your eyes but couldn't quite fight your answering smile, and when she fell into step beside you later, her pinky finger hooking casually around yours, you let her stay.

୨୧ you'd been raised to be ice—beautiful, untouchable, cold enough to burn. but vi had always run hot, all passion and impulse and raw honesty.

୨୧ and somehow, against all logic, against everything you'd been taught, you found yourself thawing.

mel medarda: the best friend.

୨୧ mel was your constant, like morning light through gauzy curtains or the first cherry blossoms of spring. she had been there so long you'd forgotten what it felt like not to have her around—her laugh echoing in your dorm late at night, her perfume lingering on your sweaters, her tinted lip balm marking coffee cups she'd left scattered across your desk like petals marking her presence in your life.

୨୧ you couldn't pinpoint when it started. maybe it was during those endless summer nights when you were sixteen, lying on her family's sprawling lawn watching satellites paint silver trails across the dark blue sky. or maybe it was in the quiet moments between lectures, when she'd fix your collar with careful fingers, her touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

୨୧ all you knew was that mel had carved out a space in your life that nobody else could fill, and you weren't sure you wanted them to try.

୨୧ she moved through the world like she was made of starlight and ambition, all sharp edges and soft smiles. in business seminars, she was their star student, her neatly slicked baby hairs drawing the sunlight as she spoke about case studies and economic theory with the kind of confidence that made professors lean forward in their seats.

୨୧ but in your room, she was just mel—shoes kicked off, braids falling loose from their carefully styled updo, gesturing wildly as she talked about her latest thesis project while you pretended to study.

୨୧ you both had your rituals. every thursday night, she'd appear at your door with takeout from that little place downtown that knew your order by heart, and you'd share secrets like candy between your teeth.

୨୧ you'd curl up on your bed, papers spread around you like a hurricane of responsibility, and she'd listen to you complain about your upcoming presentations until your words turned soft and honest. sometimes, she'd fall asleep there, her head on your shoulder, her breathing steady against your neck, and you'd stay perfectly still, afraid to disturb whatever this was between you.

୨୧ it was the little things that undid you. the way she'd absently play with your fingers during long lectures, tracing the lines of your palm like she was reading your future. how she knew exactly how you took your coffee (one sugar, splash of cream and two extra pumps of vanilla, but only before noon). the way she'd look at you sometimes when she thought you weren't paying attention like you were a poem she was trying to memorize.

୨୧ you cataloged these moments carefully, storing them away like heirlooms.

୨୧ you told yourself it was nothing. that best friends always felt this way—heart racing when they walked into a room, breath catching when they smiled, skin burning where they touched.

୨୧ you convinced yourself that the ache in your chest when she dated other people was just protective instinct, that the relief you felt when those relationships inevitably ended was purely sympathetic.

୨୧ but there were moments when the pretense felt impossible. like the night she dragged you out dancing at that underground jazz club favored by grad students, her body pressed against yours in the crowded space, her breath warm on your neck as she whispered something you couldn't quite hear over the music.

୨୧ or the morning you found her asleep in your bed after a particularly brutal finals week, wearing one of your old silk robes. you stood in the doorway for too long, memorizing the way the early light licked her dark skin gold, how her braids spilled across your powder blue pillowcase like spilled ink.

୨୧ she wasn't subtle about her affection. mel had always been tactile with you—casual touches, long hugs, the way she'd rest her head in your lap during study breaks. but lately, there was something different about it. something charged.

୨୧ she'd trace patterns on your skin while you talked, her fingers leaving trails of electricity in their wake. when you'd dress for formal dinners, she'd zip up your dresses with agonizing slowness, her braids brushing against your back as she leaned close, her knuckles tracing your spine like a gentle claim.

୨୧ it was after one of the university's prestigious donor galas that everything shifted. you were both slightly giddy on champagne bubbles and shared glances, stumbling back to your dorm with your heels in your hands.

୨୧ mel was wearing dusty rose, the color melting into her skin, and there was something about the way the hallway lights caught in her hair that made your chest ache. she was telling a story about some legacy student who'd tried to copy her economics paper, her voice low and amused, but all you could focus on was the way her lips formed the words.

୨୧ 'you're not listening to me,' she said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the empty corridor. you weren't. you were thinking about how many years you'd spent memorizing her face, how you knew exactly which smile meant she was truly happy and which one she wore like armor in the halls.

୨୧ 'i'm always listening to you,' you replied, but your voice came out softer than intended. she stepped closer, and you could smell her perfume—something expensive and warm, amber and animalistic.

୨୧ 'then what did i just say?' she challenged, but her eyes were soft, knowing. you couldn't answer because you were too busy watching the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, visible above the delicate lace of her dress.

୨୧ 'mel,' you whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. like every secret you'd ever kept. like years of wanting something you thought you couldn't have.

୨୧ she kissed you first, or maybe you kissed her—later, neither of you could remember who moved first. all you knew was that one moment you were standing there, years of unspoken feelings hanging between you like morning mist, and the next her lips were on yours, soft and sure and tasting faintly of sugar cookie lip gloss.

୨୧ she kissed you like she'd been thinking about it for years, like she was trying to make up for lost time, and you melted into her with a sigh that felt like coming home.

୨୧ when you pulled away, her lip gloss was smudged, and you knew yours was too. she looked at you with something like wonder, her hands still cupping your face like you might disappear if she let go. 'how long?' she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

୨୧ 'always,' you answered, and it was true. it had always been mel, even when you were too afraid to admit it. she smiled then, brilliant and real, and kissed you again, softer this time, like she was making a promise.

୨୧ the next morning, you woke up tangled together in your sheets, her arm draped over your waist, her breath warm against your shoulder. the early light set her skin to flame, and when she blinked awake, the smile she gave you was everything you'd ever wanted but been too afraid to ask for.

୨୧ nothing really changed, except everything did. she still brought takeout on thursdays, still fixed your collar with careful fingers, still fell asleep in your bed. but now you could kiss her whenever you wanted, could wrap your arms around her waist from behind while she made coffee, could tell her all the things you'd kept locked away for so long.

୨୧ your love for her was reminiscent of wine spilled on silk, deep and permanent and impossible to ignore. and finally, wonderfully, you didn't have to try to scrub it out.

679 notes · View notes

societyfolklore · 2 months ago

Text

Polite Punishment

Title: Polite Punishment

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Summary: Loki is a jealous man and when you make the mistake of talking to another during the celebrations, well he just has to remind you who you belong too.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Smut, jealousy, Possessiveness, Manhandling, Marking, Praise & Degradation, Slight Overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, wall sex, sex in hall way.. Loki Being a bloody menace

A/N: I’ve missed him! Been so Bucky focused I needed my slinky boy!

You barely had a chance to breathe before you were dragged into the shadows.

Loki’s fingers clamped around your wrist, his grip like iron as he pulled you into a secluded alcove in the Asgardian palace. The grand ballroom continued behind you, filled with laughter, clinking goblets, and the hum of a celebration. But here, in the darkness, the air was thick with something else entirely. The scent of candle wax and Asgardian mead lingered, but it was drowned out by the sheer heat radiating from him.

Loki shoved you against the cool stone wall, his body pressing flush against yours, his breath sharp and uneven. You tried to steady yourself, but it was impossible with his presence enveloping you, his touch an intoxicating mixture of anger and need.

His hands trailed down your arms, fingers ghosting over your skin before tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. He didn’t speak yet, only watching you, gaze flickering over your parted lips, your heaving chest. A predator assessing its prey.

He was furious.

But there was something else beneath the rage, something darker, hungrier. The kind of possessiveness that didn’t just demand, it devoured.

"Loki- "

"Silence."

The command was sharp, ice-cold, but the way his fingers brushed against your pulse betrayed something deeper. A barely-restrained desperation. He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, breath hot against your skin. His voice was low, rich, a velvet dagger pressed to your throat.

"Tell me, little minx- did you enjoy it?" His voice dripped with venom, smooth and dangerous, each syllable wrapping around you like a snare.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. "Enjoy what?"

His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up until his piercing blue eyes burned into yours. The air between you felt electric, his touch searing against your skin.

"Don’t play coy." His thumb brushed your bottom lip, lingering there, pressing just enough to part your lips. His touch was deceptively soft, the calm before the storm brewing beneath his frame. "I saw you let him touch you. That pathetic little excuse for a noble. His hands on your arm. His lips close to your ear."

Your stomach tightened, your breath hitching at the restrained fury in his voice.

"Loki, he was just being polite- " you tried, but your voice wavered, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears.

"Polite." Loki scoffed, the word rolling off his tongue like a venom-laced dagger. The corner of his mouth curled into something dark, possessive, and before you could react, his knee nudged between your thighs, parting them with slow, deliberate force. The movement was effortless, a show of control that sent a ripple of heat through you.

"Politeness does not make your breath hitch," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you unravel. "It does not make you look at him like that. Like a temptress, knowing full well to whom you belong."

A soft whimper betrayed you. You swallowed hard, your pulse skipping, heart racing as his hands slid lower, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your waist, a slow, possessive caress that burned through the fabric of your dress.

"He touched you." Loki’s lips brushed against your cheek, the faintest ghost of contact that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

His breath was hot against your skin, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I hope you enjoyed it, darling."

His fingers slid down your waist, gripping you with sudden force, dragging you flush against him, his body hard, unyielding. His scent- leather, spice, and something darkly intoxicating, filled your senses, overwhelming you. He was starving for you, but you could feel it, he wanted you to suffer for it, to beg.

"Because I’m about to make sure you'll want no one else to touch you again."

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as he spun you around, pressing your chest to the cool stone. His hands were everywhere, spreading your thighs, yanking up the layers of fabric between him and what was his. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh, as if he needed to remind you exactly who owned you.

"You belong to me, pet. Say it."

Your head swam, arousal pulsing low in your belly, your breath catching as the dominance in his voice sent a thrill straight through you. "Loki- "

A sharp slap landed on your ass, making you yelp, the sting of his palm leaving heat blooming across your skin.

"Say it."

Your hands braced against the wall, body trembling, your thighs squeezing together in desperate need. "I- I belong to you."

Loki hummed, pleased, his teeth grazing your neck before he bit down, sucking a deep bruise into your delicate skin. You could feel the smirk against your throat as he pulled away.

"Good girl."

His fingers slipped beneath your undergarment, teasing along your slick folds, and he let out a low, wicked chuckle.

"Tsk. And here you were, acting so innocent." His fingers pressed in deeper, gathering your arousal, his other hand steadying you by your hip as you whimpered, pushing back against him.

"So needy for me already." His tongue flicked against your earlobe, and you shuddered, your body betraying you. "Tell me, little one, do you think he could make you this wet? Think he could make you moan the way I do?"

You shook your head, lips parted, a whimper breaking free. He wasn’t satisfied.

"Say it." His fingers withdrew, leaving you empty, aching, until he thrust them back in, curling them just right.

Your body jerked, a strangled moan escaping your lips. "No- only you, Loki, only you- please- "

He growled, low and possessive, before flipping you back around before you could catch your breath. His eyes burned into you, his pupils blown wide, his smirk dark and sinfully cruel.

"That’s what I thought."

And then he was inside you.

You screamed, your back arching as he buried himself deep, stretching you so completely that for a moment, you couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure making your vision blur. He was huge, his length forcing you open, filling you to your limit, and still, he pressed forward, deeper, deeper, until you felt impossibly full, until you thought you might break.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as his pace turned brutal, relentless, desperate. He groaned, a ragged sound against your skin, his breath hot and uneven.

"Too much?" His voice was a cruel mockery of concern, but his hands were firm, gripping your thighs, holding you open for him as he dragged himself out just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before slamming back in with a force that left you breathless.

"Take it, little one," he murmured, his voice dark, silk-soft, wicked. "You can take all of me."

Your walls fluttered around him, body clenching, torn between the burn and the devastating pleasure that followed every punishing thrust. Loki growled, low and possessive, his fingers leaving bruises where he gripped you, his body driving you further, higher, into something uncontrollable.

You had never felt so completely his.

He lifted you effortlessly, pressing you firm against the wall, one hand gripping your thigh as he drove himself harder, deeper. Each thrust sent fire sparking through your veins, a delicious mix of pleasure and punishment. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the secluded alcove, your gasps swallowed by Loki’s hungry mouth as he claimed you in every possible way.

"Mine," Loki snarled, biting down on your shoulder, his hands leaving burning imprints on your hips. "No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear the way you moan. Do they darling? Need you to say it again."

You couldn’t think, could barely breathe, your body shattering apart as he pounded into you with devastating force. "L-Loki."

"You feel it, don’t you?" His voice was ragged, half a growl. "How perfectly you fit around me?"

You nodded frantically, tears pricking your eyes as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Yes- Loki, please- "

"Please?" His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and his hand slid between you to rub tight, torturous circles over your clit. "You beg so prettily, darling. Say it properly."

Your hands scrabbled for purchase against the stone wall, nails scraping helplessly against the rough surface as your entire body trembled with need. You barely had enough breath to speak, your voice breaking into a whimper. "Please, Loki- please let me come!"

"Good girl." His voice was dark with approval, a deep growl of possession that curled around you like a chain.

His fingers pressed harder, merciless and unrelenting, his pace turning feral, unstoppable- and the world shattered. The tension inside you snapped with violent intensity, pleasure cresting in a devastating wave that tore through your limbs, leaving you wrecked and trembling. You screamed his name, your body seizing around him, walls clenching tight as he drove into you harder, milking every last pulse of pleasure from your body.

Loki let out a low, broken groan, his grip bruising as he slammed deep one last time, spilling into you with a shuddering gasp. His hips jerked, lazy thrusts rolling through his aftershocks, making sure you felt every drop, every claim he had on you.

Your legs gave out, but Loki caught you easily, his strong arms wrapping around you as he sank to the floor with you still locked in his embrace. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your damp skin.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing, your pulse thundering in your ears. Loki pressed a slow, languid kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering as if he couldn’t bear to pull away just yet.

Then, his mouth curved into a smirk, his voice still thick with satisfaction as he nuzzled into your hair.

"You will not make me jealous again, darling." His lips grazed your ear, his breath sending another shiver down your spine as his fingers traced soft, lazy patterns along your skin.

Then, with a chuckle laced with dark amusement, he added, "But gods help me… I almost hope you do."

336 notes · View notes

f1girliefics · 3 months ago

Text

The Red Thread of Love

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: When Lewis Hamilton celebrates his new chapter with Ferrari, he plans a little surprise for you.

The invitation had arrived with little context, just a brief message from Lewis.

“Be ready at 3. Dress comfortably but leave everything else to me. You’ll see.”

You’d spent the morning wondering what he had planned.

It wasn’t unusual for Lewis to organize surprises, but the cryptic tone left you more curious than ever.

When the car came to pick you up, you were greeted by a cheerful assistant who offered no hints as you were driven to a grand studio in the heart of the city.

You were both nervous and excited.

Stepping inside, your jaw dropped.

The entire space was bathed in shades of crimson and scarlet, from the backdrop to the plush seating area adorned with roses and candles.

A rack of dresses stood in one corner, each more breathtaking than the last.

Red.

All over. Everywhere.

Red.

“Lewis... what is all this?” you asked, turning as Lewis walked toward you.

“Welcome to the celebration,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Celebration?” you asked, your eyes scanning the room. “This looks like something out of a movie. What are we celebrating?”

He stepped back, spreading his arms to gesture at the room.

“Ferrari,” he said. “A new chapter. And I couldn’t think of a better way to make it perfect than with you by my side.”

You smiled at just how sweet he was. “So, a photoshoot?”

“A photoshoot,” he confirmed, his excitement unmistakable. As if he was a child in an ice cream shop. “But not just any photoshoot. This is for us. To capture this moment, this feeling. And if the pictures come out half as stunning as you, I’ll call it a win.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Lewis.”

“Impossibly in love with you,” he took your hand and led you toward the rack of stunning dresses.

A stylist and her team appeared and took you away to work their magic.

Lewis disappeared to get ready, leaving you in awe as they helped you into a stunning red gown.

The fabric hugged your body perfectly, the intricate beadwork catching the light with every movement.

When you were ready, Lewis was waiting near the set, now dressed in a deep red suit that complemented your gown and his skin tone perfectly.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his eyes widening slightly.

“Wow. Just... wow.”

You smiled at him. “Not so bad yourself, Mr. Ferrari.”

He laughed, offering his hand to you. “Shall we?”

The photoshoot was filled with laughter, stolen glances, and playful banter.

The photographer guided you through poses, but most of the magic happened naturally.

Lewis was used to the camera, and there were moments when you almost forgot that there was a camera.

“Lean into him a bit more. Yes, perfect. Now, look at each other like you’re sharing a secret.”

You tilted your head toward Lewis. “Secret?” you whispered.

“I was going to say how stunning you look,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “But I don't think that is a secret.”

The photographer’s shutter clicked furiously as you laughed, unable to contain your joy.

Another setup featured a velvet couch, with you perched elegantly while Lewis sat beside you, his arm draped protectively over you.

“Let’s try something more candid. Maybe a moment of celebration?”

Without missing a beat, Lewis leaned over to whisper in your ear. “Remember when I said this was for us?”

You nodded.

“I lied. This is also for me. Because I get to show off the most beautiful woman in the world.”

You smiled at him, your genuine happiness lighting up the frame. It was heartwarming to see Lewis so proud and happy.

As the session wound down, the photographer prepared for the final shot. “Let’s end with something intimate,” she suggested. “A kiss, perhaps?”

You turned to Lewis, your heart full as he cupped your face gently.

The kiss was soft, tender, and unhurried, a perfect reflection of the love you shared.

The camera clicked, but the world around you seemed to disappear.

When you finally pulled back, Lewis pressed his forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For being here. For always being here,” he said, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you make me.”

You smiled, your eyes misting over. “You already do, Lewis.”

The photoshoot ended.

But now you have the pictures to always remember these moments.

Each photograph captured the joy, love, and hope that was your relationship with Lewis.

355 notes · View notes

m1rotics · 24 days ago

Text

the act of wanting

seonghwa x fem!reader

word count: 6.6k

warnings: nonconsensual drugging (reader receiving), noncon, sir kink, lil spit play, heavily implied cannibalism, seonghwa's a wee bit mean, trampling, light breath play, masturbation, thigh riding, humping, heavily implied dom/sub dynamics, mouth inspection, red flags all over the place, reader doesn't suspects anything at the end.

the wind bites at your skin, the tip of your nose. it seeps through the thin fabric of the dress. baby blue satin. painfully thin. you suppress a shiver, running your fingers over the goosebumps on your arms. the white fur stole keeps your shoulders warm at best, and the pearls wrapped around your neck are nothing but tiny ice cubes pressed against your skin. the necklace feels too tight, the dress feels too loose, your heels feel uneven. everything feels all out of sorts. all wrong. passer-bys create gusts of wind that leave your teeth chattering as a result.

the city bustles around you. cars passing, headlights blinding. people chattering as you pass, streetlights wrapping everything in a yellow film. the sidewalk is still damp from hours-old rain, puddles drying up in the middle. the air is thick. your feet ache. you wish the bus could just drop you off directly in front of his house, saving you from all this effort.

you're going to be late.

the realization hits you as you stand at the street-corner, waiting for the red light so you can pass. you check your phone as you cut through, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a taxi that races past, kicking up water. you have around twenty five minutes, and you're certainly not going to make it within that time frame. you mutter curses as you continue forward. that could've been you in the backseat of a cab, lounging in the warmth of a heater. however, money is tight, and you blew the rest of your spending money on takeout yesterday.

do you regret it?

a little.

would you do it again?

absolutely.

you check your phone again, joints screaming from the movement, but you need to make sure you're going the right way— luckily, you are.

you're heading into the nicer part of town now. where the houses are all well-kept and they’re surrounded by nice little picket fences. three stories, brightly colored. lawns so damn big, you'd make it less than half-way before running out of breath. their grass is all properly maintained.

the grass truly is greener on the other side, who would've thought?

you still have about ten more minutes till you reach his house.

seonghwa's house.

seonghwa.

the name bounces around in your head, sits in the hollow of your throat. it's a pretty name. still, trepidation coils around your bones. what if this doesn't go well? what if he's crazy and no one sees you again? he seems sweet from what you know through messages and occasionally calling. proper. handsome. he looked well off in profile, but you didn't expect this level of luxury. already, you feel so out of place like someone's gonna come out and order you to go back to where you come from.

soon, his house comes into view and it's different from the rest— it's huge, insanely big. mansion big. far too big for one person. your entire family could fit in there and still have room. it's far off from the rest, isolated. the house is painted a blackish-grey, contrasting from all the mint greens and yellows you saw earlier. it looks antiquated compared to the rest. dreary. his porch is plain. empty mostly. you take a second to make sure you look decent at the door, fixing your makeup, adjusting your dress. you ring the doorbell and take a step back.

it takes him a bit to answer the door, and you gawk when he finally does. he's bewitching; a siren trapped in human skin. straight nose, defined cheekbones, tan skin, plush lips. his black hair reaching his neck, and curling around his face. a gold chain sitting around his neck with a sanguine velvet suit. he looks decadent. regal. money made man.

pictures did not do him justice.

he regards you with mild interest, his eyes black and chamsic. sharp enough to gut you. he gives you a quick once-over.

“you're late,” he notes. curt in nature. you startle.

his voice is molasses thick. molten gold. you shift from foot to foot, fumbling with your purse. uneasy.

“the trip took me longer than expected,” you admit.

he nods, stares for a second, inscrutable, then steps to the side, “come in, you must be freezing.”

you walk in slowly, warmth encompassing you the further you go. you let out a sigh of relief. tension melting off of you.

“your place is really nice,” you comment as you glance around.

it's more modern than you thought it would be, definitely renovated over time. it's huge but that's not surprising anymore. most of his furniture is black with hints of gray. an occasional splash of white to break up the monotony. you don't want to seem nosy, so you try not to look around too much. it's clean, lacks pictures of any friends or family. there's an empty glass on the coffee table, a blanket thrown on the couch. you hear him shut and lock the door behind you. he strolls past you.

“thank you, you can leave the stole in here. i'm incredibly sorry for the mess,” he murmurs, folding the blanket and setting it on the sofa, “i was reading in here before you came.”

“oh, really? what were you reading?” you say, as you place the stole on the arm of his couch.

“a star wars book,” he replies honestly, and turns to lead you through a hall, and you have to muffle a chuckle. not because you're making fun of him, but because it's cute.

“I've heard so much about star wars, but i've never been able to get into it.”

“if you're willing, the next time you come over we could watch one.”

“even if i don't understand anything,” you tease.

“i'll tell you everything you need to know,” he rebuts easily.

“then it's settled,” you agree.

seonghwa leads you to the dinner table and it's made of tempered glass. you were sure it was gonna be some type of expensive wood painted black. the chair is soft, velvety, cushioning you as you settle into it.

“enough about that, you walked here?” he pulls your chair out for you when you reach the dinner table.

“well, not the entire time, I took the bus at first and then walked the rest of the way.” you explain.

he pushes you in, and you expect him to leave, but then his hands drop to your shoulders and he bends down to mutter, “i forgot to tell you how stunning you look at the door, i hope you don't find me rude.”

his warm breath caresses the back of your ear, brushing along your neck and you shiver. he's so close, too close, and he lingers. waiting.

you don't move a single inch, stuck staring at the empty plate laid out before you, counting silverware. gooseflesh threatens to break out over your skin.

“oh, um, it's fine,” you swallow, shaken by the sudden close proximity, “thank you, you look amazing too.”

his hands run over the bare skin of your shoulder and up to skim over the pearls around your neck as he stands up straight, “good, good. I'll go grab something to drink, is wine okay?”

you blink, “um, yeah, it's perfect.”

seonghwa excuses himself to the kitchen and whatever string holding you taut loosens. you slump, hands falling into your lap, hitting your purse with a soft thud. the racing of your heart makes your chest warm. the uncomfortable type of warmth that feels an awful-like fear. you chalk it up to nerves. first date jitters. especially given how drop dead gorgeous he is. he looks like he should be on runways, dripping dior and speckled with gold.

he comes back with a bottle, and pours your drink first. he fills his glass and sits down, puts his arm on the table and rests his cheek in his palm. shooting you a warm smile, you smile back. common courtesy. you take a small sip, and find that it's surprisingly sweet. he has good taste.

“tell me about yourself,” he says, “it'll pass the time while the food finishes cooking.

conversation comes easy after that, your nerves calming the more you tell him about working for your psychology degree, specializing in children's psychology, and in the meantime you're working at a little daycare. you tell him you moved further into the city to pursue your education, and that your family lives around an hour away.

“is there a story behind your choice of career?”

“no,” you confess, “i just like kids and i wanted to do something useful. i've always wanted to do something helpful.”

“you're perfect for the job if that's your mindset.” he replies.

he asks about your hobbies, and you happily tell him that you dabble in different types of art. your favorite would probably be drawing, but you also enjoy painting occasionally.

he admits that he writes a little.

poetry, he says, takes a sip of his wine with a little flush to his cheeks.

“I'm not any good, but it's something I like indulging in sometimes,” he mutters.

“well, if you're ever comfortable, i'd love to read some.”

you find out that he's a ceo through family connections. which, you have to stifle a chuckle because how cliche. he makes a point to clarify that he does actually manage things in the office and he does take his job seriously. you giggle, and give a totally-not-sarcastic sureeee which manages to get a laugh out of him.

it's melodical, soothing to the ears, and you wouldn't mind hearing it again.

you find he cooks to pass time, and at the moment, he's making steak. a beep sounds from the kitchen, and he excuses himself to grab it out of the oven.

he emerges with two plates in hand, smoke rising from them. they smell heavenly, you might float out of your seat with your nose pointing up cartoon style. your mouth waters when he sets the plate in front of you. the steak is drizzled in a thin red sauce and peppered with asparagus.

“did someone teach you how to cook?” you ask after taking a sip of your wine.

“I used to cook with my mother,” it's painfully frigid. all that previous fondness lost, bleeding disdain at the edges.

ashamed and slightly embarrassed at ruining the mood this early on, you fall quiet, cutting into your steak. it cuts clean, easily, straight through like butter. medium rare. the meat falls apart in your mouth, tender, juicy. delicious. it's different though. you don't think you've had whatever this is before. when you look up, you find seonghwa already looking at you, smiling. his food untouched. you're just happy whatever that was before is gone now. flushed down the drain, wiped clean. a new canvas. that movement of bitterness wished away.

“is it good?”

“good?” you scoff, “this is literally gourmet, are you sure you're not a famous five star chef, and you're just not telling me?”

seonghwa chuckles, deep and gauzy, “nope, just a corporate worker.”

“i don't believe that,” you snicker, “but if you insist, i'll take your word.”

“i’ll take what i can get.”

it’s silent after that, and you take to finishing your steak, but the more you shovel into your mouth, the more meat starts to taste like meat. fleshy and real and irrevocably meat. you make it half-way before your curiosity gets the best of you.

“what type of meat is this?”

“if i recall correctly,” he drawls, cutting into his steak. his silence stretches excruciatingly long. your fingers tighten around your fork.

“it's beef,” he says, lifting a piece to his mouth.

“for a second, I thought you were going to say human or something,” you quip.

seonghwa cocks his head, amused. blinks at you real slow as he chews. lazy and feline.

“you never know,” he replies.

seonghwa's smile gets eerie after that, the edges too sharp, showing too many teeth. it looks like it hurts. like his cheeks are contorted, stretched thin. uncanny. in the light, it looks like his lips are stained red, you tell yourself, it's just the wine. you can see the flex of his jaw, the slow, deliberate chews. meticulously grinding it down.

the moment drags on. seconds turning to minutes. or maybe a minute, but right now, it feels like hours.

you shift in your seat, stomach churning, a sour taste in your mouth. you take a gulp of wine to negate it. it doesn't work, and it makes you nauseous. it's too sweet. it causes the richness of the meat to stand out, staining your taste buds.

you can see the exact moment he swallows, it's like x-ray vision. you follow it down the length of his throat, his adam's apple bobbing as it works. you watch till you physically have to force your gaze away to look him in the eyes.

you're going crazy, you must be. you don't know why you're so on edge. he hasn't done anything. he made a joke. you can take a joke, it's normal. this is normal. it should be funny.

you suck in a deep breath, eyelashes fluttering.

you give a non-committal hum in replace of an answer. attempting to focus on one problem at a time. your food is good. well, it was, but you're hurtling into that territory where good morphs into bad. it's starting to repulse you, each bite a chore, you chew as little as possible. something about tastes too… you can't describe it. too sweet, too raw, too much. it's not right. you're queasy, there's pressure in the back of your throat. your stomach is pulsing, threatening, begging to hurl everything back up.

“are you okay?”

his voice sounds muffled, distant, like you're underwater and your ears are stuffed with cotton. time creeps by. your eyes dart to his, you swallow, blinking, “I'm not- I don't feel too good.”

a hand touches your shoulder, and you jump.

when did he get so close?

“do you need anything?”

“no, i don't think so,” you mumble, shaking your head.

you try to shrug him off and rise from your seat, planning to excuse yourself to the bathroom for a breather or something. but as soon as you're up on your feet, the world spins and your head begins to pound. you stumble forward, and seonghwa steadies you with a strong hand. you sag into him, forehead pressed against his chest. your head feels fuzzy. your thoughts static, dead line. you can't think straight, but seonghwa's so warm. so, so warm and he smells so good. tangy, citrusy. you can taste it in the back of your mouth, sticking to the back of your throat. his suit is soft against your cheek, and you fist it as you try to keep yourself up.

“sorry,” you murmur, “i’m so sorry.”

you don't realize how silent he's gone until he's shushing you, swaying the two of you. side to side. he's firm beneath you, steely and strong. a pillar propping you up.

there's something buzzing underneath your skin. unbridled energy turning into pure heat. it starts from the outside in, cooking you slowly. you feel gooey inside. center soft, ready to be bit into. sweat pricks at your forehead.

“seong…hwa, I feel hot,” you huff, thoughts foggy, and you feel his chuckle. it rumbles through him like the purr of a cat.

“I think you're getting a fever, sweetheart, do you want to lay down? you can use my bed.”

you nod, and seonghwa guides you through the house on wobbly legs. you're like a new-born fawn, hobbling and tripping over yourself. his room is nice, dark. clean. the smell is clement. neutral, almost. pleasant. he lays you down as gently as possible, and you melt into the mattress. you kick off your heels, and they hit the floor with a small thump. his bed smells like him but fainter, you bury your nose into his pillow. seonghwa clicks on a bedside lamp.

“do you need anything?” he asks, running a hand over your back, tickling your spine, and you squirm.

“I don't think so,” you whisper, hazy and small, blinking up at him.

seonghwa beams, eyes crinkling with sheer delight,“ oh, aren't you a sweet little thing?”

the praise racks through you, glides down your throat like syrup, and you shudder. it makes the heat worse. it turns blistering, boiling, like you're going to burst at the seams.

“seonghwa, don't feel good,” you sob, “make it stop.”

“you want me to help you?” he asks, and you nod with a flimsy mhm.

“get up,” he orders.

you hesitate.

seonghwa clicks his tongue, “I don't have all day. get up.”

pushing yourself off the bed takes tremendous effort. you're trembling, so much weaker than you normally are. still, the heat burns bright, and you're determined to listen because he said he'll help. he said he'll make it better. even if you don't know how exactly he'll do it.

you're wobbly on your feet, weak in the knees.

seonghwa sits on the edge of the bed, leaving space between his legs for you, “come here.”

you shuffle closer.

“on your knees.”

your knees sting from the impact. the hardwood doesn't help.

“you want my help?”

you nod eagerly and seonghwa laughs. the sound ringing in the air like heaven's bells.

“then ask politely, use your words,” he instructs, voice firm.

“please, help me,” you breathe.

“look at how lovely you are,” he intones, and cups your cheek, “you listen so well.”

a low whine crawls out of your throat.

seonghwa tuts, “when i compliment you, you say ‘thank you, sir.’ pretty things like you should always use their manners.”

you try to respond. you really do, but the words catch in your throat. your tongue isn't cooperating. instead some disfigured groan comes out, and seonghwa’s nails dig into your cheeks, punishing.

“spit it out,” he barks.

“t-thank you, sir,” you splutter. more pathetic than usual. too much breath, too shaky.

seonghwa doesn't respond, just hums. pleased. slowly runs his thumb over your bottom lip. he does it leisurely, takes his time, really looks at you. from your eyes, your nose, to your lips, the. back up. he slides his thumb in– you let him, opening wide. his gaze falls back down. his presses his thumb against your tongue, stroking it like he's petting a cat. he does it painfully slow. like time doesn't exist anymore, like the world has come to halt and night will last forever.

you think you try to talk because he shushes you, plush lips pulled into a tiny frown.

two fingers find their way inside your mouth, and plunge so deep down your throat. you can't help but gag. an unceremonious punishment. you take it in stride. seonghwa coos, entranced with how fast your eyes glaze over. you look so brittle, so doll-like. he hooks his fingers over your tongue, and holds them there, letting you swallow around them.

his fingers trail over your molars, lingering on each one.

“you did so well,” he sighs, “finished your plate. most people don't even make it half-way, they can't handle it, but you did. you’re so sweet, so good without trying.”

you gurgle a thanks around his fingers. you don't understand, can barely remember what he's talking about, but you know what praise sounds like when you hear it. you feel like you're floating. cloud nine. sky-high. the praise slinks down in between your legs, gathering in your chest. pure warmth. heartburn. you need him to do something about it, you need him to make it better. his fingers press into your incisors, dragging along the length of them. almost like he's measuring each one.

he pulls back to palms himself leisurely, leans all his weight on one hand. crests the outline of it. back and forward, forward and back. keeps the rolling of his hips nice and smooth. he's scrupulous, attentive. teasing. he's tenting his pants, a bit of a wet spot staining the nice fabric. he keeps his breathing steady, worries his lip.

his tongue begins to poke out in concentration, cheeks ruddy.

he pulls back to unbutton his pants, unzipping his fly to take out his cock. it's pretty– that's the only word to accurately describe it, long and a tad bit tanner than him. the tip flushed scarlet, beading pre-cum. your mouth waters, and you lean forward. just to get a taste, but seonghwa tsks and tugs your hair. not enough to hurt, but enough to sting.

“don’t touch.”

you want to protest, to scream and cry, and take him fully into your mouth anyway. but you're too dopey, too dumb, these ideas are fleeting. what's normally achievable seems far fetched now. your limbs are far too heavy to move willingly.

seonghwa extends his hand, and you stare.

“spit.”

you listen, collecting saliva on your tongue and drooling into his palm. his barely lubed fist loosely wraps around it, starting up a steady pace. not too fast, but not slow. seonghwa's groan is strained, trapped in his throat. his hips roll up into his hand. his eyes roam your face, darting around. bouncing from your eyes and your lips like he doesn't know what he wants to look at more. your gaze can't help but stick to the sight of him touching himself. he keeps his touches light. doesn't tighten his fist, barely giving himself enough.

he swipes his thumb over the tip for extra lube. it makes the slide easier, the sound of it wetter. more obscene. his grunts are bitten off and subdued, his mouth parted and slick with spit. strands of hair stick to his cheeks, a few on his forehead. sweat glimmers on his chest, a bead of it rolls down the column of his neck.

he oozes eroticism without even taking off his clothes. he looks deliciously sinful. a painter's greatest muse, someone who people wax poetic about, the perfect model for a sculptor.

true artistry.

you're aching with need, antsy with it, balling up your dress in tight fists. you're half-way as wrecked as he is and he hasn't touched you yet. he's being purposely cruel. he could give you something, anything. you'd happily grind against his shoe. you're a dog waiting for a bone, like a man starving, eyeing a piece of meat.

each pass of seonghwa's hands echoes throughout the room, a lewd squelching sound. seonghwa groans when his eyes lock with yours. they roll up, up, up into the back of his skull. his hips stutter, and they flick back to you.

he looks dazed, damn near delirious. his pupils are blown. shot. two little black holes swallowing you up.

“don't look away,” he demands, but it sounds like a plea. like he's begging you. he keeps his eyes trained on yours, doesn't blink too long, doesn't throw his head back. he refuses to miss a single second.

he's close. you can see it. his eyebrows pinched together, his lips red and swollen, the sweetest moans spilling from them like strawberry lemonade. his tip is an angry red, pre-cum cruising down his knuckles. he's rutting into his hand now. fucking his fist with real intent now. his cock twitches every so often and he chokes out a gasp.

he looks ready to pop like a balloon. cheeks dusted red, the tip of his nose, dipping down his chest too.

the most pitiful whimper escapes him when he wrenches his hand away. his cock twitches longingly, watery cum leaking from the tip like a broken faucet. his hips chase after nothing, desperate for the previous friction, and he whines.

deep from his throat. high pitched and needy.

his eyes clamp shut and he huffs. inhales hard and exhales slow. his cock weeps. small spurts of cum still dripping down, soaking into the fabric of his pants. his hands white-knuckle the sheets. his head lolls to the side.

finally, his eyes peel open.

he runs his fingers through the mess, and lifts it to your mouth, smearing it over your lips. he pushes the fingers into your mouth and you lazily suck on them, eyes shutting.

“i wanna fuck that pretty mouth of yours, but that'll have to wait,” he murmurs as presses down on your tongue. you whine in indignation. why can't he do it now? you want it. you want it so badly.

“you're so desperate,” he sneers and shoves his fingers a little deeper, your throat flutters around his fingers, “be patient. you'll get it soon enough.”

you're yanked off his fingers when he presses a foot to your chest knocking you back. you yelp, catching yourself on your elbows. you're on your back now, belly up like a dog. seonghwa stalks over and presses a foot to your chest before you can get up, holding you down.

“down, girl,” he jeers.

his heel digs into the softness of your stomach. you whimper from the discomfort, and seonghwa presses harder, crushing your ribs. you squirm, grabbing his ankle, trying to weasel away from him, shift his foot a little. it doesn't work, and he adds more pressure. your lungs ache, and your breath feels too shallow. thin. insubstantial. he increases the weight, and you fall limp. a little dizzy, a little sick. your stomach twists.

“hwa, sir, can't breathe,” you rasp.

he waits a beat before he removes his foot completely.

you sigh, chest heaving. your heart pounding in your chest. hummingbird fast. your chest throbs dully. seonghwa hikes your dress up your legs with the tip of his shoe, revealing the white of your panties. dainty and cute with a little bow in the middle.

“you're soaking,” it's said with a laugh, condescension dribbling from his lips like nectar. he rams his foot against your cunt, and your hips buck instinctually.

he pulls away and sits back on the bed, “come here.”

you move to push yourself off the ground, but he interrupts, “no, crawl.”

you're on your haunches, confused, blinking at him, “huh?”

“crawl to me,” he says plainly.

gingerly, you lay your hands flat on the floor and begin your trek to him, stopping in between his legs.

“stand up,” he instructs.

lifting yourself up is hard, you have to use his thighs to hoist yourself up. your knees popping under your weight. you're shaking, unstable on your feet. lightheaded. you sway in place, knocking into his thighs.

he rolls your underwear down your thigh, and you lift your feet out of them. he sets them somewhere off to the side.

seonghwa slots his thigh between your legs, “sit.”

you lower yourself carefully, gasping when you're fully seated. the pressure against your clit feels beautifully agonizing. seonghwa places his hands on your hips, leans in and presses a kiss to your mouth. his lips are petal-soft, smooth. he pulls back before you can deepen it. he places a kiss to the curve of your neck, up the length of it. he lingers at your pulse point, trails his tongue over it, lightly nipping. presses his teeth into the skin around it to leave little indents. he holds you there, face buried in your neck, not quite biting.

canting back to rest his hands on the bed, seonghwa tilts his head, bounces his leg, “hump my thigh.”

you take a moment to balance yourself, resting both hands on his thigh as you roll your hips forward. the glide of your hips is smooth, and you shudder, a pathetic mewl claws its way out of your throat. it's a bit awkward, the movement, the bend of your legs but you make it work.

it's hard to get friction because of how silken his pants are, and you press down hard enough to ache, shuddering at the delicious zap of pleasure it sends to your clit. your cunt clenches around nothing. you're gushing, leaking, dripping over him. a deep red stain growing on his thigh. seonghwa's watching you with that detached look— the one he gave you at the door. the one that looks a little bored and stony. barely held interest. mild amusement. black eyes pointed at you, piercing you. bullet through the heart. you let out a bit-back moan through closed lips.

“s-sir, ‘m so close,” you stammer, “can I? can I cum?”

“so well-behaved,” he grins, “go ahead, I'm not stopping you.”

you're so close. you can taste it on the tip of your tongue. the saccharine taste of relief. artificial sugar. your hips move faster, you grind harder. your nails press into his pants. you need it. you need it. you need it.

almost there– and then, the feeling stagnates. halts. everything stalls.

your vision is blurry, eyes glossy with unshed tears. your bottom lip wobbles. you don't catch the upward quirk of seonghwa's lips, the predatory curl. you're panting, in still recovering from your lack of an orgasm. your hips slow to a stop.

he flexes his leg, and you keen.

“go on, make yourself cum. make a mess,” he croons.

so, you do, or you try.

you rock your hips again, attempting to get more pressure against your clit. more stimulation. you grope your chest, pinching your nipples and rolling them between your fingers through your dress. still, your high remains just out of reach. something elusive. unreachable.

seonghwa doesn't make a move to help besides occasionally tensing his thigh and watching your body shiver. you're a pathetic display. a dumb little thing that he wants to squeeze the life out of.

but he won't— because he likes this more. likes watching you debase yourself like this. it's embarrassing really, but you don't seem to notice. pleasure clouding your judgement. lust-drunk and stupid.

then, a tear falls off your lash line. then another, then two more. until there's a constant stream of them running down your round cheeks, coalescing at your chin.

“you poor thing,” he coos, kisses your wet cheeks, “what's wrong?”

you sniffle, “can't cum.”

“silly girl, you need me to help you feel good?” he asks, “ want me to make it better?”

it comes out small and girlish, “uh-huh”

“manners,” he lightly chides.

“please, help me cum, sir,” you correct.

“there you go,” he purrs, plants a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “lay down for me, and then i’ll make you feel better.”

seonghwa helps you climb onto the bed, lifting your legs and keeping you from falling on the floor.

“on your back, sweet girl.”

you flip over, and seonghwa crawls in between your legs. he can't help but survey, take a second to admire. dress rucked up past your stomach, the straps falling off your shoulders. eyes glossy and wide. you're as dumb and docile as a sheep. your chest rises and falls. your fruity perfume tints his sheets. all soft at the edges. a cotton candy wet dream. you look… delectable. enough to make his teeth ache in anticipation. you'd be a wonderful dessert, but not now, not yet. he won't get ahead of himself and ruin it. he can wait. he'll always wait it out. his hand splays over your stomach, and he groans.

you're so soft. squishy. there's so much give when he pushes down. you're warm, too. like a living pillow, like a plushie that's been thrown in the dryer for a few spin. he lifts his hand to grab your hips, watching his thumbs dimple the skin there. so malleable. so fucking pilant. his eyes land on your plump lips and he bets you'd taste sweet.

leaning forward he captures your lips with his, and god was he wrong. you aren't sweet, you're cloying. literal honey on his tongue. your strawberry lip balm fills his mouth, and it takes a minute for your silly head to catch up because you just lie there. you don't kiss him back, and he presses harder, tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, jolting you into action. your lips part and your spit tastes like wine.

you are addictive. pure heroin– seonghwa is nothing but a slave to his vices.

seonghwa wrenches his lips from yours, and tugs his cock out, bucks his hips forward. it nudges your hole, and you start trembling like a sopping wet cat.

a small, soft bleat leaves your mouth, and seonghwa cock throbs. he gets a little lightheaded from how hard he is. you're so brainless. foolish. his hand wraps around your neck, but he doesn't squeeze. simply holds it there, pinning you in place. it seems like you've gone laconic, mouth parted but unspeaking, looking at him with starry eyes. your hips are moving, but there's nothing happening in that empty head of yours. seonghwa drags his hips back, and snaps forward bumping into your clit. he shouldn't tease so much but it's fun to watch you hiccup.

seonghwa presses a thumb to a clit, and your back arches like a woman possessed. garbled pleas spew out of you. your scramble against his hold, and seonghwa gives your neck a slight squeeze, and you melt. your hips rut into his hand. you're a messy little thing. slick is dribbling out of you, thick and viscid, sliding down your ass crack and pooling down onto his bed. it turns the sheets a stormy grey beneath you. he traps his tongue between his teeth, holds it hostage, a little awestruck at the sight of you. his cock aches, pre-cum dripping off onto your cunt, but he doesn't push in.

he won't. not tonight at least.

he rubs circles on your clit, watches how your face screws up. noting that more pressure makes your eyes shut and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. incomprehensible gibberish spilling out of your mouth, babbling like a baby. your hands are clasped over your chest like you're in prayer. you're close. he can tell. your pussy is clenching around nothing, thighs twitching, your breath speeding up. your hips moving so fast that occasionally his finger slips off your clit.

drool trickles down your cheek, and seonghwa coos. he angles himself forward and spits on your clit, letting it slowly drop so that it cools by the time it hits your clit.

your back stretches as you kick out your legs. your thighs attempt to slam shut, but seonghwa's body stops it, and this god awful squeal forces its way out of you. then, you still. your body shivering like you've seen a ghost. you're gushing. bursting. geyser. monsoon. catastrophic. horrible sobs ripping through you. seonghwa guides you through it, keeps rubbing your clit, other hand on your throat.

keeps you there like a pinned butterfly.

“what do you say now?”

your eyebrows pinch. you can't think. you don't know. you don't know anything. you only the euphoria overtaking you and the feeling of seonghwa's thumb on your clit.

“I don’, I can't,” you slur, fucked dumb.

“you're so ungrateful,” he hisses. spits it through his teeth, and you shake your head, rattling your brain.

“no, no” you warble, reedy, “I'm sorry, so sorry. ‘m thankful, very thankful. thank you- thank you, sir. feels good.”

he keeps his thumb on your clit until your shakes ebb away, until your breathing is mostly back to normal. your chest gently rocking instead of heaving. seonghwa latches onto your front, burying his head into your neck. his cock pressing into your stomach. slowly, he grinds his hips into the warmth, into softness. his pre-cum smearing over your skin. he's a living furnace against you. blazing sun. it's tacky and wholly uncomfortable. too hot, too cramp. seonghwa's heavy, leaning basically all of his body weight on you but you can't push him off. you don't really try to, you just let him take what he needs.

blinking slow, your eyelids feel like lead; your body a bag of brick, or maybe that's seonghwa. he's essentially crushing you. his thrusts lack any finesse. small little bunny humps that feel odd, a little slimy, a little dry. skin against skin. too much friction to possibly feel good, but seonghwa's groaning, panting, whimper. his arms somehow snaked around you and are now pushing you further into him. he's muttering something into the skin of your neck, too muffled to identify words.

he only pulls back when he cums, just to watch his cum paint your skin, pooling in your belly button and running down your sides. luckily, none of it reaches your dress. your eyes close, and seonghwa's scratches your head, crooning, “go to bed.”

the bed shifts, a light clicks off. sleep plucks you under after that.

you're uncomfortable.

you're quenched. your throat burns. your head is pounding, throbbing, sharp needling pain. your entire body feels like a pulled muscle, taut and sore, like you've done a ten hour work out. you need water, some food, and a deep tissue massage. scratch that, you need a new body. you roll over, kicking out a leg. sprawling yourself across it. your foot doesn't reach the edge.

this bed is too big to be your own. your eyes twitch open. this is not your room. panic doesn't flood you like it should, it comes in waves. you're too worn out to be emotionally overwhelmed right now. every swallow burns, you really do need a glass of water.

recollection happens as you come to your senses. you were on a date with a rich guy named seonghwa.

speaking of, where is he?

gingerly, you rise to your feet, shivering when they make contact with the cold ground. you don't pull your heel back on because you already know you'll fall. you fix your dress, pulling it to sit correctly on your chest, smoothing out a few wrinkles. you're sweaty but not too sweaty. however, you don't stink and that's what matters.

you exit the room and look down the hall. on the left there's a door, and on the right there's light. you follow it into the kitchen area, where you stand at a counter. seonghwa’s on the other side, back facing you, stirring something it seems.

“sorry for hogging your bed,” you say, sheepish.

“don't worry about it,” he hums.

you don't know what to see now, so you don't say anything. you let the silence ruminate, but it's not awkward so you can't complain. seonghwa turns around and places a glass on the counter, sliding it towards you.

“what's this?”

“water with some supplements,” he explains. you nod and accept it, taking a quick swig then setting it back down. the relief is immediate.

“do you feel better?” he inquires as makes his way to the fridge.

“nope,” you reply, popping the p.

“then stay a little longer, I'll drive you back home. I don't think it's good idea for you to walk by yourself in this state,” he pulls out a container of grapes, and turns back to you, planting on the counter.

you contemplate saying no, but he is right. walking here is what got you like this in the first place, and he hasn't killed you thus far.

“fine.”

“actually, i'd prefer if you let me pick you up from now on, you scared me last night.” he chuckles, but you can hear the concern. the seriousness imbued into it.

you fluster at that, “sorry for ruining the date.”

“you didn't,” he assures, “I still had a great time.”

“me too,” you mumble.

“so, you'll let me pick you up next time,” he asks, expectantly.

“fine,” you sigh.

the smile he flashes you is blinding and smug. it's cute in all the worst (best) ways.

#ateez x reader #ateez smut #park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa smut #park seonghwa x y/n #ateez fanfiction #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa #seonghwa #kpop smut #ateez au #fics (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)#kim hongjoong x reader #choi san x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #jeong yunho x reader #song mingi x reader

184 notes · View notes

sanchivelvets · 4 months ago

Text

The Modern Elegance of Foil Print and Digital Print Velvet Fabrics at Sanchi Velvets

Velvet, with its timeless beauty and luxurious texture, has always been a fabric that exudes sophistication. But in recent years, advancements in printing techniques have brought new life to this classic fabric. Foil print velvet fabric and digital print velvet fabric are two exciting innovations that are revolutionizing the world of velvet design. At Sanchi Velvets, we offer an exquisite selection of these prints, combining the plush luxury of velvet with cutting-edge design aesthetics. Let's take a closer look at these two stunning velvet fabrics and how they can elevate your creations.

Foil Print Velvet Fabric: A Touch of Glamour and Shine

Foil print velvet fabric is a unique fusion of classic velvet's plush texture with a metallic foil print that adds an element of shimmer and shine. This fabric is perfect for adding drama and sophistication to any design. The foil print is often applied in intricate patterns or bold designs, creating a stunning contrast against the deep, rich hues of velvet.

Key Features of Foil Print Velvet Fabric

Eye-catching Shine: The metallic foil print reflects light beautifully, giving the fabric an added dimension and making it stand out in any setting.

Sophisticated Designs: Foil print velvet often features geometric patterns, floral motifs, or abstract designs, which can add an extra layer of elegance and modernity to the fabric.

Versatile Applications: From evening gowns to home decor accessories, foil print velvet is perfect for creating pieces that require a touch of glamour. It’s ideal for fashion-forward pieces like statement jackets, skirts, and accessories or for luxury upholstery, cushions, and curtains.

Textural Contrast: The soft, velvety feel of the fabric combined with the shiny foil print creates an interesting contrast, making it a luxurious and tactile fabric choice.

At Sanchi Velvets, you can explore a variety of foil print velvet fabrics in an array of colors, patterns, and finishes. Whether you're designing for the runway or for a sophisticated living room makeover, foil print velvet offers an exquisite combination of style and texture.

Digital Print Velvet Fabric: Bold Designs with Precision

Digital print velvet fabric is a modern take on traditional velvet, using digital printing technology to create intricate, detailed patterns directly onto the velvet. This technique allows for highly precise designs, including photorealistic images, vivid color gradients, and complex illustrations. Digital printing has made it easier to produce vibrant, customized velvet fabric with fine details that would be difficult to achieve with other printing methods.

Key Features of Digital Print Velvet Fabric

Intricate Designs: Digital printing allows for incredibly detailed and precise patterns, from floral and abstract designs to intricate landscapes and geometric shapes. This gives designers endless possibilities for creating unique, personalized fabric.

Vibrant Color: The digital printing process ensures that colors appear crisp and vibrant, giving the fabric a fresh, modern appeal.

Perfect for Statement Pieces: Digital print velvet is perfect for fashion designs that need bold, standout patterns. From high-fashion dresses to statement blazers and accessories, digital print velvet allows designers to push the boundaries of creativity.

High-Quality Finish: Despite the bold prints, digital print velvet maintains the luxurious texture and softness of traditional velvet, making it an ideal choice for both apparel and interior decor.

Sanchi Velvets’ digital print velvet fabrics are available in a stunning range of designs, from floral and paisley patterns to more contemporary, artistic graphics. The result is a beautiful combination of plush texture and bold design, perfect for those looking to make a statement.

Choosing Between Foil Print and Digital Print Velvet Fabrics

When deciding between foil print velvet fabric and digital print velvet fabric, the choice largely depends on the aesthetic you're aiming for and the purpose of your design.

Foil Print Velvet is ideal if you're seeking a fabric that combines the opulent texture of velvet with a shimmering, metallic effect. It’s perfect for high-fashion pieces, evening wear, or any design where you want to introduce a bit of glamour and shine. Additionally, the reflective nature of foil prints makes it great for home decor pieces where you want to add an element of light and sparkle.

Digital Print Velvet is best suited for those who want to incorporate intricate patterns, vivid colors, and detailed designs into their fabric. This option is perfect for designers who want to create standout, custom pieces or those looking to print complex, one-of-a-kind illustrations on velvet.

Conclusion: Discover the Future of Velvet at Sanchi Velvets

At Sanchi Velvets, we are proud to offer a wide range of premium velvet fabrics, including foil print velvet fabric and digital print velvet fabric. Each fabric brings its own unique set of benefits to the table—foil print velvet offers an alluring shine and sophistication, while digital print velvet pushes the boundaries of design with bold, intricate prints. No matter what your project requires, our velvet fabrics are sure to provide the luxurious texture and stunning visuals you need.

Explore the future of velvet at Sanchi Velvets today and bring your creative vision to life with our exclusive selection of foil print and digital print velvet fabrics. Whether you're designing for fashion or home decor, these fabrics will add a touch of modern elegance and innovation to your work.

To know more about Sanchi Velvets visit us on:

0 notes

moshavelvetfabric · 1 year ago

Text

AR635 260gsm Ice Velvet With Embossing Upholstery Fabric

#AR635 260gsm Ice Velvet With Embossing Upholstery Fabric

0 notes

ingeniousmindoftune · 6 days ago

Text

Vampire Eyes & Velvet Nights.

South Central, LA. | 1997.

Stack Moore X black!OC.

Part 1 of ?.

Wednesday night. Moon low and swollen, smog turning its light to jaundice. The city roared beyond the walls, but inside the Sable Room it was hushed—wooden floors worn thin by dancers, walls plastered with torn flyers, candles guttering in iron sconces. Incense clung to the air.

Amaya stepped into the single amber spotlight. Her crimson lips gleamed like freshly spilled wine; in her hand, a battered notebook bulged with secrets she’d never dared whisper to a confessor. She read:

“He kissed me like midnight—my veins thrumming till dawn. Sleep fled the moment our lips met.”

A sharp SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. The crowd’s pulses thrummed in time.

In a back booth, a figure shifted. Hooded, broad-shouldered—only the glint of a gold tooth betrayed him when he turned his head. He didn’t clap. He didn’t snap. He simply watched, as if cataloging the sound of her heart.

They called him Stack. No one knew his name, no one remembered when he first drifted in. Some said he used to string words together in smoky bars; others whispered he’d risen from an unmarked grave. To Amaya, he felt ancient, like a storm waiting to break.

When her last line hung in the air, she climbed down, calves trembling. The buzz of the room rushed in. Stack was already at the bar, shoulders bathed in shadow, a black tumbler curled in his hand.

“You write like you’ve tasted flame,” he said, voice a warm rasp.

She tilted her chin; her gold hoops brushed the curve of her jaw. “And you watch like you’ve swallowed ash.”

A slow curl of his lips revealed an ivory flash. “Maybe I have.”

He waved her to a corner booth. She slid in opposite him; candlelight pooled across his cheekbones, over skin that looked too smooth to belong to the living. His drink stayed unmoving—no ice, no condensation, just an inky stillness.

She spoke in staccato bursts—her fear of loneliness, her belief that love was a bullet aimed at the heart. He sat so still she could count each shallow breath, could feel the pulse of the air around him, like static before a storm.

“Always by yourself?” he asked, lifting the tumbler as if reading her pulse.

“Safer,” she said, stirring the straw in her ginger beer. “People bruise you when they get close.”

He chuckled—velvet and crackle. “Not if you’re already broken.”

His finger brushed her knuckles. Ice bloomed under her skin; her blood thundered in her ears. He watched every hitch in her voice, every flicker of her gaze.

She leaned back. “Why don’t you ever blink?”

He tilted his head, dark eyes glittering. “I’ve seen too much to need it.”

She rose, legs still humming. Stack was upright in a breath—no scrape of wood, no rustle of fabric. He moved like a shadow slipping off a wall.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, soft command.

Outside, the sidewalk glowed under sodium lamps. Her heels clicked a lonely rhythm; behind her, he followed silent as night. Exhaust mixed with the scent of blooming jacarandas.

By her maroon Chevy, she stopped. “Who are you?”

He leaned close, breath cool against her temple. His fingers skimmed her cheek—marble-cold, sending fire down her spine. “Hungry,” he whispered.

Then his lips brushed her hand, deliberate and slow. Soft as silk, but she felt a flash of something sharp beneath. She didn’t pull away; instead her knees weakened, longing for that cold burn.

206 notes · View notes

ghostchems · 7 days ago

Text

it feeds - papa v perpetua x f!reader

your night is ruined(?) by an intruder

author's note: v is for vampire :) blood sucking, boob sucking, fucking and scary shadow stuff. death and dying. despair. 1.5k words. 18+! mdni! thank you king kong photoshoot for making me finish writing this. ao3 link.

“Hello? Something there?”

Your voice rings out into the darkness, loud and tinged with fear. The window is open, curtains billowing in the frigid night air. Scratching. Squeaking. You bring the comforter up to your nose. A vain effort to hide, to put something in between you and whatever lurks in your room. The shadows begin to twist and writhe, swallowing up the bright light from the moon.

You’re left in complete darkness.

Eyes squeeze shut and you pray for this moment to be over, for it to be sleep paralysis that you’ll snap out of soon. A hand drifts along the comforter. Gentle. Almost teasing. It starts at your feet, dragging upward, leaving goosebumps in its wake as it travels beside your body. You can feel each individual finger through the fabric, cold as ice.

“Please…” A whimper escapes your throat as the hand reaches your shoulder, long fingers twirling in your hair.

“Shhh, pretty thing,” the creature purrs, “open your eyes. See me.” You don't want to. Every fiber of your being screams at you to keep them closed. But your body betrays you, eyelids fluttering open against your will. There, in the pitch black, you see its teeth first - rows upon rows of gleaming white, stretched into an impossibly wide smile.

Then you see the rest of him, materializing from the dark like smoke . A high-collared coat frames his dark figure, buttoned to the base of his neck with a sleek turtleneck beneath. On the upper half of his face sits a silver mask that gleams in the darkness. His visible eye is pure white. The exposed skin around his mouth up to his nose is painted white while his lips are an inky black that parts to reveal those terrible teeth. His hair is smooth, falling in gentle curls past pointed ears.

He steps closer, and you feel the mattress dip under his weight as he perches on the edge of your bed. His long, skeletal fingers continue their gentle caress through your hair, and you find yourself unable to look away from that bone-white eye.

"You called out to me. Did you know that, pretty thing?" he asks, his voice like velvet wrapped around a blade.

"N-no," you stammer, shrinking away from his touch despite the magnetic pull of his gaze. "I didn't call anyone." It almost feels silly to argue but you’ll try anything to end this nightmare.

"Oh, but you did," he croons, leaning closer until you can feel his cold breath against your cheek. "Life got ya down? Feeling lonely? Lost in the dark?" His voice drops to a whisper, each question like a silken thread wrapping around your throat. Until you realize that his fingers have wrapped around your throat. "Those little whispers into the void - they're all little invitations to creatures like me."

You try to twist away, but his grip only tightens. Your thoughts have been mostly of a depressive nature lately; you feel stuck in your life and unsure if you’ve made the right choices. But your words weren't meant for him.

He knows what you’re thinking, his lips stretching into that terrible smile again. Frigid breath ghosts across your face as he speaks. “It’s not so bad. Let me help ease your burdens." His hand travels up your neck to settle beneath your jaw and he tilts your head to face away from him.

“W-what are you going to do?” Your voice is nothing but a breathless whisper now. Eyes dart around the dark room in fear, knowing that this is wrong. The thought of escape flutters through your mind, but he is overwhelming you. His free hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, an almost tender gesture that makes your skin crawl.

The creature chuckles, dark and silky, like poisoned honey dripping from his lips. "Despair is delicious, to me, anyway," he murmurs, and you feel those razor-sharp teeth graze against the tender skin of your neck. Your heart thunders as his grip tightens. "I'll take it from you, pretty thing. Make you feel…alive again”. He gives a shaky breath before his lips press softly against your throat. A kiss, gentle and cold, sends shivers down your spine. Your hands find their way to his back, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat without any conscious decision to do so. You’d be lying if you weren’t interested in his words.

Another kiss, and another, each one leaving trails of ice across you. You know you should be terrified but you’re subdued by his touch. He shifts on top of you, his kisses growing rougher. Your breathing quickens, eyes wide as you stare into the dark abyss of your ceiling. Thoughts scatter like leaves. The creature's nail catches the collar of your t-shirt and he tears it down the middle to the bottom hem, a clean, slow cut.

You make a surprised noise, unable to choke words out as your exposed to him. His fingers trail down your sternum, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Soft lips press against your collarbone, each kiss punctuated with a gentle scrape of teeth. You’re teetering on the edge of extreme danger and you know it - but you’re almost in a trance. Lost in how his mouth burns like frostbite. You feel his smile against you as his hands slide lower, splaying across your ribs. His mouth continues lower, kisses growing hungry and possessive. Lips hover over your heart, where your fear pounds in a violent rhythm. His teeth press down and you hold your breath, certain that this is the moment he'll tear into you. Instead, he chuckles against your flesh, dragging his nose further down your chest.

When his cold lips close around your nipple, you gasp and arch into the sensation. His tongue flicks against it as his other hand slides up to palm the other. A whimper escapes your lips as his teeth graze ever so slightly, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

His cold kisses and sharp teeth trail over you until his mouth hovers over your heart again.

This time he bites.

A flash of white light explodes behind your eyes and you cry out in agony. You’re transported somewhere else. A recurring nightmare of yours. You’re reaching out for the light as you fall into complete darkness. It moves further and further out of reach but instead of fighting, you let yourself go. Warmth spreads through your body. The darkness that once terrified you now wraps around you like a hug, soothing your fears away. The light above grows dimmer and dimmer, but your hands still extended toward it with no hope of ever touching it again. You don't mind anymore. Your muscles relax, tension melting away as you near the bottom of the pit.

The creature releases you.

Adrenaline explodes through your body, heart pounding against your ribcage as if trying to burst out of it. Lungs fill with a sharp, deep gasp of air. Your eyes fly open to find his face inches from yours, sharp teeth stained crimson with your blood bared. It drips down his chin, landing on you.

Before you can process, he crushes his mouth against yours in a brutal kiss.

The taste of copper fills your mouth as his teeth clash against yours. His tongue traces your bottom lip, cold and insistent. You can taste your own blood. You’ve already established that this is wrong, but everything feels electric. His cold fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your legs along with your underwear. The coolness of his touch soothing you. He unbuttons his pants. You feel his length press against your thigh, cold and hard. His mouth finds yours again in another bruising kiss as he positions himself between your legs.

The creature has made you come alive and now he wants to feel it.

He enters you slowly, stealing your breath away. The contrast between his icy touch and your feverish skin is maddening. His hips snap forward and you arch beneath him, a deep groan from your throat as he sets a merciless pace. His mouth finds your throat again, his teeth piercing your flesh once more as his thrusts grow more desperate. The sharp pain mingles with pleasure, making your head spin as you cling to him. Your nails dig into his back through the fabric of his coat.

His growls grow more feral with each thrust, vibrating against your throat where his teeth are still buried in your flesh. Your moans echo in the darkness of your room, unashamed and desperate. You're taking him deeper, harder, your body accepting everything he gives you. He releases your throat with a snarl, blood dripping from his lips as he looks down at you with that bone-white eye. His thrusts become more erratic, more animalistic.

Shadows pulse and swirl around you both. The creature's white eye glows brighter until it’s the only thing you can see. Your body convulses, waves of pleasure crashing through you as you cum. A strangled cry rips from the creature's throat, how you clench around him driving him to finish inside you.

The glow of his eye dims, and the shadows consume you.

“Oh, pretty thing," you hear from the darkness, "your despair tasted divine." His cold fingers trace your jaw. "And your liveliness... absolutely intoxicating."

Consciousness fades.

You do feel lighter.

#papa v perpetua #papa v perpetua x reader #vampetua #perpetula?#papa v x reader #papa v #ghost fanfic #ghost band fanfic #papa v perpetua x female reader

155 notes · View notes

lizzyiii · 9 months ago

Text

His Lady Love (5)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the taglist just add your username to this DOC

word count | 6k words

summary | aemond goes to reader for comfort after murdering luke. aegon throws a feast and reader and aemond sneak out.

tags | mentions of death, angst/comfort, vampire powers, tensionnnnn, mentions of incest, SMUTTTTT (MDI), oral (f), unprotected sex, vaginal sex, p in v

note | born to give aemond heirs, forced to write fanfics about him. also I loved writing aemond's pov, though it is way more difficult than reader's. also I might be projecting with that finn incident.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

In the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, the oppressive weight of the night enveloped you. The velvet drapes fluttered slightly with the soft summer breeze that whispered through the open window, a rare moment of tranquility. However, your slumber was a mere illusion, your mind cloaked in the abyss of darkness, devoid of dreams and visions that now troubled your sleep.

But your heightened senses—bathed in the echoes of vampiric instinct—felt the air shift, heard the soft footfalls quicken in the shadows. The atmosphere crackled with apprehension, jolting you into awareness. You turned, just as the chamber door burst open to reveal a figure cloaked in night and anxiety.

“Aemond,” you breathed, relief washing over you as you recognized him despite the disarray surrounding his presence. Yet, the relief was short-lived, for the anguish etched on his face struck you like a dagger of ice.

Without a second thought, you flung the silken covers aside, the fabric whispering against your skin as you stood, a vision of natural beauty in your nightgown. It was a modest garment yet beguilingly elegant, the way it clung to your form had no intent to seduce, but it still felt unseemly for him to be here.

“Aemond,” you intoned once more, your voice laced with concern that echoed in the silence of your chamber, frantic to breach the bubbling tension, “What troubles you?”

He remained mute, his expression haunting—a specter in the moonlight. Each heartbeat that passed deepened your worry, and so you closed the space between you, tenderness guiding your hands to cradle his sharp, angular cheeks, your thumbs brushing against his skin with a gentle intimacy. You sought to anchor him within your presence, as if your connection could dispel the shadows that clung to him.

“Please, Aemond,” you urged, your voice softening with each plea, like a lullaby meant to calm a frightened child, “Speak to me.”

At your touch, something flickered in the depths of his violet eye, swirling with shock and unutterable things. “I… I did not mean to,” he stammered, his breath coming out in ragged bursts, as though each word was a struggle against a tide of despair.

“Mean to what?” Your heart raced as you searched his gaze, desperate to uncover the truth beneath the turmoil. “Aemond, tell me what you have done that weighs so heavily upon you.”

He leaned into your touch, surrendering momentarily to the comfort you offered. “I have damned myself,” he breathed, a confession laced with the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

“Please, Aemond, tell me,” you implored, your heart thundering in your chest.

Aemond shook his head violently, his silver hair cascading like a waterfall of starlight, wild and untamed. “I cannot! You will condemn me.”

You withdrew your hands from his face, your fingers intertwining with his as you drew them toward your heart, your palms cooling against his warm skin. “I could never. Please, reveal it to me, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice insistent yet tender.

His breath hitched in his throat, a harsh swallow betraying the turmoil within him. As tears glistened in his violet eye—he turned away, shame etching deep lines into his brow. “I did not mean to. I did not mean to take the boy’s life, you must believe me.”

The air froze around you, a chill creeping in as your breath caught in your throat. You slowly led him toward the intricacies of your bed, pulling him with you into the sanctuary of silks and shadows. “What boy, Aemond?” you pressed urgently, your heart aching for the truth, a desperate need to understand the depths of his torment.

His voice broke, drowning in hysteria, a stark reminder of his usual composed personality made from steel, “I didn’t mean to— I swear, I didn’t mean—” he stuttered, desperation pouring from him like the dark tides of the sea.

Frustration welled within you, sharp and biting as the chill of autumn winds crept into the chamber. You pulled him down beside you, urgency fuelling your movements as you grasped his face, forcing his haunted eye to meet yours. “Aemond,” you said firmly, your tone dripping with the magic that came naturally to one of your kind. The allure of your compulsion wrapped around him like a silken trap, gently commanding his frayed emotions to still. “Calm yourself and tell me.”

Gradually, his breathing steadied, though the tremors of his fear still lingered. You held his gaze, and through the dark storm of pain reflected in his eye, he managed to choke out the words. “Lucerys. He was at Storm’s End. When I laid eyes on him, all I felt was fury—so I chased him through the skies, on Vhagar’s back…” His voice cracked like the thunder that often heralded the tempestuous nights, and he swallowed hard, “And then… I did not know Vhagar would react so violently.”

Your heart plummeted at the mention of Lucerys—Rhaenyra's beloved son. The weight of his loss hung heavily in the air, and the grim reality sank in; Aemond had killed him. The Blacks would demand retribution, blood for blood. "Tell me you lie, Aemond," you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, desperation seeping into every syllable.

He turned his gaze from you, shame encasing him like a shroud. There was a slow shake of his head, and it felt as though the world around you had muted, the chaos outside overshadowed by his revelation. "I cannot bring myself to lie to you. There is no penance that could ever atone for what I have wrought."

The sadness in your heart twisted anew as you murmured his name, "Aemond," the pain manifesting in your voice like a lamentation for the boy lost beneath the weight of his rage.

In the stillness that lingered between you, it seemed he had finally drawn a breath of composure, yet he refused to meet your eyes, speaking softly as if confiding a terrible secret. "I went to Aegon first, and he laughed... whilst Mother..." He faltered, the memory flickering like a dying candle. "She looked upon me as if I were a stranger, as if I were no longer her son."

Your heart ached for him, your hands clasped in his, both a comfort and a tether to the boy he had once been. Finally, he looked up, his eye reflecting a glimmer of vulnerability. "May I stay here with you?" he asked, almost timidly, as if fearing your rejection.

In that moment, you were transported back to another time, a fleeting memory of innocence—of the boy who had fled from the ignoble raucousness of a brothel, a shadow of the boy who once sought solace in your presence. You nodded, and the words flowed freely, tenderly, "Of course."

Yet, unease lingered in the air, evident in the way he fidgeted, lost amidst his thoughts. So slowly, you knelt before him, taking his leather boots in your hands, gently easing them from his feet. He remained poised on the edge of the bed, lost in his struggles. Next, you reached for his finely crafted doublet, peeling away the layers that held the weight of his distress. He remained clad only in his trousers and a simple cotton shirt, the stark contrast highlighting the tension etched into his features.

Your fingers found their way to his tousled hair, and with a tender caress, you could sense him leaning into your touch, a semblance of solace in the storm raging within him. But when your hand drifted towards the eyepatch concealing his scar, he recoiled instinctively, shaking his head as if to banish the very thought.

“Please, Aemond,” you urged softly, noting the flicker of resistance in his eye. “Remove it; it cannot be comfortable.”

His response was a stubborn shake of his head, reminiscent of a petulant child, “No, it is… hideous. You will turn away from me, repulsed.”

A sorrowful smile etched across your face as you cupped his cheek. Your thumb traced the remnants of his scar. “I have seen your truth before, Aemond,” you promised, sincerity tethering your words. “I swear on my mother's grave, it will not scare me.”

There was a moment of taut apprehension, then, led by both fear and a flicker of hope, he slowly lifted the eyepatch. You fought against the shock that threatened to break through your calm facade, for nestled where an eye once was, a sapphire gleamed—brighter than the sky itself. It was an iridescent gem, the very one you had gifted him just before you had left.

Slowly, you led him with great care to lie beneath the sanctuary of your blankets, cocooned in the warmth of your bed. After a moment's pause, you nestled beside him, drawing him close to your chest, his face instinctively burying itself in the curve of your neck, your arms enveloping him in a protective embrace.

After a time, Aemond's voice broke the silence, a mere whisper against your collarbone. "Do you hate me?"

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, your grip tightening around him. “I could never hate you, Aemond.”

He offered no reply, but the silence spoke volumes as you held him resolutely, the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down upon both of you. In that moment, it felt almost surreal, how intimately connected you were to his emotions.

Gently, you began to hum, your voice weaving through the stillness like a soft breeze. The lullaby your mother once sang to you, a sweet melody birthed in the warmth of her embrace, flowed from your lips as if casting a spell of solace.

You wished, with every fiber of your being, to take all his sorrows and put it upon yourself, so he might find peace at last. You longed to envelop him fully, to draw him into the depths of your heart, to safeguard him from the malevolence and peril that lingered just beyond your chambers.

Aemond Targaryen loathed this wretched place, the shadowed halls of King's Landing, where the very stones seemed steeped in whispered betrayals and the lingering scent of ash. The oppressive weight of recent events pressed upon him like a heavy cloak; the death of Lucerys Velaryon hung in the air, suffocating him with its bitter aftermath. His beloved mother, Queen Alicent, having made her choice, had cast him aside, suspending him from his seat on the small council as if he were some wayward pup rather than the proud dragon prince he was.

Now, as the flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows upon the walls, Aemond found himself trapped within a feast thrown by Aegon — a disgraceful celebration in honor of Aemond’s brutal deed. The hall was alive with the raucous laughter of lords and ladies feigning joy, their revelry a cruel mockery of the bloodshed that had transpired. How could they toast to this, when the realm itself was a tapestry of grief and strife?

Aegon, reeking of wine and folly, reclined upon his gilded seat, a silver goblet clutched in his hand as he guffawed with a drunken abandon that made Aemond’s skin crawl. With each passing moment, the king grew more intoxicated, rejoicing in his own foolishness while the kingdom itself threatened to unravel under the weight of his incompetence. Aemond could hardly bear to watch. How could they hope to usurp Rhaenyra and her support when Aegon was unfit to rule, lost in a haze of mead and merriment whilst the fires of war devoured their domain?

As the raucous clamor swirled around him, Aemond's thoughts turned treasonous. He was the prince with blood of the dragon coursing through his veins, rider of Vhagar, the mightiest dragon in the skies; he had wrested mastery over sword and word alike. His studies had taken him deep into the philosophies of Targaryen history, strategy, and the art of war — all knowledge he wielded like the sword strapped to his side. Why must he remain the second son, languishing in the shadow of a brother who was more a child than a king?

The Grand Hall was stifling, heavy with the clamor of lords and ladies engaged in mindless revelry, their laughter slicing through the air like blades of Valyrian steel. The goblet of deep red Dornish wine— he had forced down his throat—now boiled in his stomach. He stood abruptly, ignoring the wary glances of curious courtiers, and stormed toward the moonlit balcony, pursued by a dread that felt all-consuming.

Upon stepping into the cool night air his breath hitched in his throat as his gaze fell upon you. There you stood, framed by moonlight, leaning against the aged stone balustrade of the balcony as you gazed at the stars above. In that moment, the world around him faded, the cacophony of the court silenced, as if the realm had been reduced to just the two of you—two souls adrift in the sea of night.

The moon cast a silver halo around you, illuminating your features as though the Seven themselves had blessed you. You appeared ethereal, a vision of solace amidst the tempest of his thoughts. You were an otherworldly being, a divine presence—you reminded Aemond of an angel gazing longingly at her heavenly home.

You wore a divine gown of crimson, its fabric clinging to your curves and accentuating your remarkable beauty, stirring memories of the first time he had beheld you in childhood innocence. Your hair was artfully braided, interwoven among the strands were glimmering rubies, and nestled between your breasts hung a necklace bearing your family’s sigil, a house still entirely foreign to him.

The last time his path had crossed yours was after the wretched deed had been done—when he had barged into your chambers, a storm of pain and regret in his heart after slaying Lucerys Velaryon. You had held him tight, drawing him into the warmth of your embrace, while your gentle whispers—sweet reassurances—had washed over him, as soothing as a dragon’s breath on a winter’s night. He recalled the way you had traced fingers through his hair, the delicate caress of your breath against his skin, and how he had surrendered to your comfort.

When dawn had broken and shadows had retreated, he woke before you, overwhelmed by that precious moment, and with the lingering scent of lavender and warmth still clinging to him. He had kissed your forehead tenderly and slipped away, haunted by what he had done and striving to shield you from the darkness that threatened to engulf you both.

"Are you not enjoying the feast?" Aemond murmured, his voice a soft cadence as he moved closer to you.

You turned, meeting his gaze with a fierce intensity. "Am I meant to revel in a celebration held in honor of someone's death?" With a sharp breath, you averted your gaze, a flicker of regret crossing your features. "Forgive me."

Aemond’s eyes remained locked on you, the truth like a weight upon his heart—he had taken Lucerys' life, a shadow he must now bear. “You speak only the truth,” he admitted, the gravity of his words mingling with the cool night air.

You shook your head slowly, those captivating eyes piercing through the veil of his turmoil. “It is Aegon’s folly to throw such a feast given the circumstances,” you replied, your tone laced with a mix of frustration and sorrow.

Aemond couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth at your disdain for his brother's decision. "You tread upon treasonous ground," he teased, though there was an undercurrent of approval in his tone

With a resolute lift of your chin, an unbidden smile danced upon your lips, illuminating your beauty, "Do you intend to tell?"

In that charged moment, Aemond closed the distance between you, the space that once separated you now laden with tension. He leaned closer, whispering with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, "You know I shall never."

With a soft sigh, you began to turn away, “I think I shall retire to my chambers now.” Aemond feigned indifference, though he struggled against the urge to let out an exasperated breath at your obvious attempt to distance yourself from him.

“Then I shall escort you,” he declared, a hint of determination flaring in his violet gaze. He noticed the way annoyance shadowed your features but sensed no protest forthcoming.

The two of you slipped away from the feast, indifferent to the lingering glances that followed your hasty exit. Festive laughter faded into the background as you walked side by side through the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep,

As you walked side by side, silence hung heavily between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of your dress against the stone floor. Aemond cast furtive glances in your direction, grappling with the right words to breach the gap between you. The tension was palpable, and eventually, he settled on candor. “I wish to know more about you."

“Aemond,” you replied, and he could detect the undercurrent of hesitation in your tone as you reached your room.

With a sudden, almost frantic motion, Aemond pivoted to face you, his fingers brushing against your forearm, a firm yet gentle grip that sent a shiver down your spine. “Why do you persist in keeping yourself at a distance from me? You are like an angel I am forever barred from touching,” he implored, desperation edging his voice.

You yanked your arm away from him, your gaze fierce, betraying no hint of the storm brewing inside. “You must not perceive me in such a way! I am not the paragon of virtue you think I am.”

“Then share something,” Aemond pressed, his violet eye locking onto yours with an intensity that threatened to unravel your resolve. “Something dark, something impure.”

You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Is that what you seek? So you can soothe your own conscience?”

“Perhaps,” Aemond admitted with unvarnished honesty. He was, after all, a man well aware of his own self-serving tendencies, and he would not shy away from using emotional manipulation to achieve his desires. “But if you hold any affection for me, you will grant me this.”

Your eyes blazed with righteous indignation, and for a fleeting moment, he questioned if he had ventured too far. Yet, as the heat in your gaze began to dim, he felt an uneasy tension settle in the silence.

You drew your arms around yourself, a familiar gesture that he now observed closely. Your gaze fell away as you began to speak, “The Targaryens... Your customs are indeed strange. Some might even call them sinful or abominable. Yet there exists a rationale behind them, no matter how obscure.”

“There can be no justifiable reason for my desires,” you whispered, Aemond's brow furrowed in confusion as he sensed the shift in your tone. But when the next revelation slipped from your lips, it left him reeling with disbelief. “I once harbored unnatural feelings for my eldest brother.”

A surge of jealousy twisted in Aemond's chest at the mere thought of you harboring feelings for another. He cleared his throat, the taste of bile rising, and asked, "Did anything come of it?"

"A fleeting kiss—one I initiated. He loathed me for it thereafter," you murmured, your gaze falling to the ground in shame.

A grimace contorted Aemond’s features. "Loathed you?"

"He could scarcely bear to look upon me after that moment," you replied, your voice heavy with sorrow. Aemond felt a visceral urge to take vengeance upon your brother, to avenge the hurt he had caused you. "That was the moment I realized I had lost the only one who truly loved me."

"I recall you speaking of your mother’s grave," Aemond said softly.

You nodded, a glimmer of sorrow passing over your face. "She is gone," you said, and a bittersweet smile flickered briefly. "And I dare say, my family may be worse than yours."

Aemond shook his head with an amused glint dancing in his violet eye. “Impossible,” he replied, the word rolling off his tongue like the soft murmur of waves against the rocky shore. Then, in softer tones, he pressed, “Do you still harbor affections for your brother?”

“No,” you murmured, the admission barely escaping your lips, “Not anymore. Not for ages.”

Aemond studied your features, the interplay of moonlight illuminating the subtle lines of your face. A low chuckle escaped him, like the rustle of leaves in a breeze. Your brow furrowed, an indignant spark igniting within you. “What?"

“A mere infatuation does not alter the truth of my feelings, nor my perception of you,” he said with an air of certainty, the tension between you thickening as he took a step closer, almost as if the distance between your hearts diminished with every passing heartbeat.

“Then you must be a fool,” you whispered, breathless and yet emboldened, as his presence encroached upon you like the tide reclaiming the shore.

“A lovesick fool, indeed,” he replied, his lips tantalizingly close to yours, a mere heartbeat away. The memory of your last kiss flared in your mind— so in that fleeting silence, Aemond’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “May I kiss you?”

He could see the tempest of emotions raging within you, wrestling against reason and desire, your heart at war with itself. Aemond, sensing your internal struggle, began to withdraw, the flicker of disappointment clouding his striking features, but in a sudden rush of bold resolve, you seized the collar of his embroidered doublet, drawing him close, your lips colliding in a swift, fervent embrace.

His breath hitched at the warmth of your touch, and he instinctively cupped your face, anchoring you both in this stolen moment as if the world around you had ceased to exist. Tentatively, his tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entry, a question hanging palpably in the air—one you answered with the soft, desperate parting of your mouth.

Aemond’s heart raced, a primal longing igniting within him as he explored the depths of your mouth, each caress of his tongue inviting a sweet sound of pleasure to escape from you—a sound that intoxicated him, filling the air with a heady blend of passion and unanswered yearnings.

In that dimly lit hallway of the Red Keep, time lost its meaning, turning to mere whispers around you. The world outside faded, and all that remained was the intoxicating exchange of breath and soul, each sweet caress a vow sealed in secrecy and yearning. But the moment was fleeting; the distant sound of approaching footsteps pulled you both back to reality.

Without hesitation, Aemond seized your hand, urgency painting his every movement as he pulled you into the sanctuary of your chambers. You could not stifle the startled gasp that escaped your lips at his haste. Before you could utter a word, his mouth found yours again, this time with a fervor that struck like wildfire. It was wild and fervent, a collision of passion tinged with desperation.

He broke the kiss, his breath mingling with yours, heavy and frantic. "I need you," he murmured, his gaze dark and intense, searching your face for any trace of doubt.

But all resolve melted away in the warmth of his presence, and you nodded quickly, breathless and eager. "Take me, Aemond."

Though reason whispered for him to temper his passion, to shield you from the storm he bore and not taint your innocence, the dragon's need screamed louder still. His lips found yours once more, his hands exploring the fabric of your gown, tracing the soft curves beneath the layers of silk and lace.

A soft whimper escaped your throat, the sound intoxicating him as it echoed in the chamber. You tugged at his doublet, your voice a barely contained plea, “Get this dress off me, Aemond.”

A wild grin spread across his features, the kind that promised mischief and fervor. “With pleasure,” he declared, the words a fervent vow rather than mere amusement. In a swift motion, he spun you around, deftly severing the laces that bound your dress. You gasped as the fine fabric slid away, pooling at your feet, leaving you clad only in a tantalizing shift that clung to your form like mist in the moonlight.

Without hesitation, Aemond gathered you into his arms, your surprised laughter ringing like bells in his ears as your legs instinctively locked around his waist. He carried you with ease, the weight of expectations and honor forgotten in that moment as he made his way to your bed.

He laid you down gently, his gaze a blend of fierce devotion and raw desire, like a dragon surveying its treasured hoard, and he leaned closer, whispering a question that weighed heavily on his mind. “Tell me, sweetling,” he began, his voice a low rasp, “are you still a maiden?”

You nodded, your wide eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The confirmation sent a bolt of need through him, further arousing him as he hastily shed his own garments, baring himself to you. He crawled over you, a predatory grace to his movements, and as you reached out to caress his face, he halted, your touch grounding him.

"I wish to see all of you, Aemond," you whispered.

His lips twitched with a mixture of hesitation and determination. With a deft movement, he removed his eye patch, exposing his scar and sapphire. In response to his bravery, you leaned forward, claiming his mouth once more, the warmth of your kiss wrapping around him like wildfire.

As his lips trailed away from yours, they descended to your neck—his warm breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His hands roamed freely over your body, caressing and squeezing as if memorizing every curve. His fingers brushed against the hem of your shift, lifting the fabric with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment.

As his hand ventured beneath the fabric, his fingers brushed against the delicate curls of your mound, a low moan escaping your lips, raw and unbidden. "What treasure lies hidden here? Hmm?" he murmured against your skin, his voice low and intoxicating.

His smirk deepened as your hips instinctively lifted, surrendering to the ghostly touch of his fingertips gliding over your wet slit. In a moment of tantalizing tension, he withdrew slightly, seated back as he used two fingers to part your folds, exposing your glistening cunt to his keen gaze.

He was captivated by the sight—your essence glistening, beckoning him forth like a siren’s call across the sea. His breath hitched as he lowered himself, savoring the intoxicating scent that wafted from your cunt; it was a heady blend of desire and vulnerability. With a swift flick of his tongue, he brushed over the tender bud of pleasure, eliciting a startled gasp from your lips as your hips jerked in delightful shock.

Aemond’s dark laughter rumbled softly in his chest, a sound that resonated with satisfaction at your response. He ventured further, dipping into the folds of your drenched warmth, his tongue dancing along your slit as if tasting the sweetest of wines. Each movement of his mouth sent shockwaves of ecstasy through you, prompting your fingers to clutch at the silk sheets in desperate need of tethering.

You were ambrosia made flesh, a divine fruit of the gods that rendered him intoxicated with longing. He lost himself in the act, the rhythm of his tongue reflecting the primal hunger within him, driving him to worship at your altar without restraint or decorum. There was no pattern in his movements, merely the frantic need of a man raised in the crucible of ambition, now reduced to a ravenous beast by your taste.

His low moans vibrated against your skin as your fingers tangled in his silken hair, urging him closer, deeper. Each sound that escaped your lips heightened his fervor, sending him spiraling further into a haze of lust, where only the two of you existed.

He thrust his tongue deeper, igniting fires within you that threatened to consume all sense. A tremor raced through your body, a shuddering gasp escaping as his tongue flicked over your most sensitive peak. The intensity of the moment left him breathless with longing as he stole glances at your rapturous face, seeking the delight in your face as he skillfully coaxed you towards the precipice of ecstasy.

In one final surge of fervor, he took your pearl between his lips, sucking with fervent need. Your voice rang through the air, calling his name like a battle cry as your release washed over you, your body clenching and shuddering beneath his eager mouth, leaving him lost in the euphoria of your pleasure.

Spent and quaking, you fell back onto the sheets, your chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut as the final ripples of ecstasy coursed through you. Aemond watched you with an entranced intensity, his lustful gaze drinking in the sight of your debauchery, before he positioned himself between your thighs, claiming his rightful place.

With a swift, possessive motion, he grasped the neckline of your shift, ripping the fabric asunder with a growl that echoed his primal desire. The cool air met your flushed skin, and a fresh wave of longing washed over you, eliciting a soft moan as your hardened nipples strained against the chill. Aemond, unable to resist, descended upon you, drawing one of your peaks into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, relishing the way your whimpers filled the air. He felt your fingers weave into his silken hair, tugging him closer, urging him on with your breathless pleas.

He reveled in the contrast of your previously cool skin, now warming deliciously beneath him, the heat of your body igniting a primal fire within him. He pressed his hardness against your lower belly, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through both. “I could be so good to you,” he murmured, his voice low and sultry as he nipped at your shoulder, “So fucking good. So why do you deny the need that lies between us?"

Your breath hitched, interrupted by a soft moan as he pressed against you with deliberate intent. “I do,” you gasped, desire flaring within you as his cock pressed against your pearl. “I do need you.”

“As I need you, sweet girl,” Aemond murmured, a predatory glint in his eye as he continued to grind against you. Though he was no man of debauchery, the fiery knowledge instilled by whispered secrets and that one fleeting encounter coursed through him.

You responded to his movements with an intoxicating sigh, rocking your hips to match his rhythm, a melody of desire unfolding between them. Aemond’s breath caught as he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he breached the sacred barrier that had kept the two of you at bay. A yelp escaped you, sharp and sweet, and he immediately softened, pressing featherlight kisses across your face, murmuring apologies as he reveled in your warmth.

Gripping your hip with a fierce intensity, he drew a sharp breath through his teeth as he buried himself deeper, engulfed in the sensations of your tight, welcoming embrace. You were exquisite—so wet, so warm, so perfectly crafted for him. Aemond began at a measured pace, savoring the glide of his cock within you, the exquisite stretch as you enveloped him, but the fire within quickly ignited into an unquenchable blaze.

Once he'd found a rhythm, he succumbed to the recklessness of desire, thrusting with urgency, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the chamber, a rhythmic drumbeat of passion. His hips snapped against yours with fervor, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure cascading through both of you, an unravelling of control as he sought to claim you in the way that dragons claim their territory.

Your moans echoed within the room, each sound a sweet melody, a heady mixture of fervor and abandon that filled the space with a primal energy. You had long since discarded any pretense of modesty, your voice rising like a songbird caught in a storm. His name spilled from your lips, fervent and loaded with longing.

With an urgency born from need, you surrendered yourself to him, your touch igniting a fire along his torso as your hands freely roamed, fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles. You clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his with reckless abandon. Your lips found the curve of his neck, the warmth of your breath a tempting promise. There was a strange thrill to your bite, and Aemond swore your teeth felt unusually sharp, as you nibbled delicately at his skin.

Yet even in the throes of ecstasy, an insatiable hunger gnawed at him, a need for greater possession. He withdrew slightly, capturing your gaze with his own smoldering gaze. His hand gripped the delicate expanse of your throat, sturdy yet tender, while his other found purchase on your stomach, fingers pressing into your soft skin. “You are mine,” he growled, the primal command taking on a life of its own as he increased the fervor of his thrusts. “Say it.”

The intensity of his possession ignited a fire within you; you instinctively pressed against his hand, urging him to hold you more tightly, to claim you wholly. “Yours,” you breathed, “all yours.”

“Good girl,” he groaned, the phrase rolling off his tongue like a hot brand onto your skin. Your body responded eagerly to his words, an electric shiver rippling through you as you arched your back, another desperate whimper escaping your lips.

It was not long before the dam broke, your body convulsing around him, the tension unfurling like the petals of a flower awakened by the sun. Your breath hitched in a final, breathless moan, and in that moment of exquisite surrender, you tightened your grip around him, pulling him deeper into the abyss of pleasure. And with a primal roar of ecstasy, he followed you into that dark, consuming void, painting your insides with his seed.

@barnes70stark @izabell26 @urdeftonesgrrrl @helo1281917 @strangefunthornqueen @hueanhdang @elenapri0502 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @caged-birdies-blog @lenavonswartzschild @writtenbyhollywood @gl4ssw1ngp1xy @goddesslilithmoriarty @filmflux @esposadomd @littybeech @gyneve @https-kokomi @void21 @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @baby-i-can-see-your-reylo

As the last waves of pleasure subsided, your smile glimmered like the stars beyond the castle walls. Reaching out, you traced your fingers along his jaw, drawing him back into a kiss that spoke of unbridled passion and afterglow—a sigh of contentment escaping your lips as you two joined once more.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #hotd #ewan mitchell #the originals #mikaelson #vampire!reader

498 notes · View notes