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janumun · 8 months ago

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A Practical Demonstration (LaDS Sylus - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 9.8k Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Tags: size difference, oral and vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, rough sex, mild mentions of stalking (not Sylus or Mephisto for once LOL), inexperienced (NOT virgin) reader, edging, drinking, [im]proper use of evol, explicit sexual content

Summary: When you end up disclosing a mortifying truth to Sylus about your dating life, deep in a drinking session; drowning yourself within a bottle — or three — of alcohol until you black out is the only option left to you to avoid that sharp, intuitive gaze for the rest of the night.

That is, until Sylus throws a counter offer your way, one that sounds far too tempting to your scrabbled brain. Being the brilliant voice of reason you are tonight, you accept.

[A fic where Sylus shows you exactly how good sex with a perceptive partner feels like when you confess your less than optimal dating experience.]

Author’s Notes: Truly clown moment when I believed this fic would not exceed more than 4k words and yet again, here I am sitting on an almost 10k monster. I love what being horny for these men has done for my inspiration. Thank you so much to @chibamari for providing the prompt that birthed this fic. Already working on a religious desecration imagery angsty sex fic with Xavier and Queen MC, based on his first myth, as we speak.

The lingering remnants of your foiled meeting are muted with the press of rouged lips against the cusp of your cool glass, the liquor within, sliding easy down your throat with your fervent swallow.

Placing it back down with a defeated sigh, you lean your arm against the counter, cradling your warming cheek against the crook of your palm.

You never should’ve let Tara talk you into an impromptu date with a mutual acquaintance she’d considered ‘the perfect match’ for you; her giddy excitement and enthusiasm to get you a date had been too difficult to turn down. You cursed yourself underneath your breath at your inability to say no to those big, wide eyes and cheery smile; exactly the components that had saddled you deep into the disaster you’d considered that date to be — if it could be called as such.

You’d excused yourself half-way through the man’s self-absorbed prattling — ruining the taste of the expensive steak in front, one you’d been wanting to try for ages — on excuse of an urgent mission coming up.

A hand tucking your phone close to your ear, to reinforce your hasty lie while the other had slipped your card to your assigned waiter, making hasty work of settling your end of the bill. You’d swept up your coat and purse, striding out the lavish restaurant on swift-heeled steps before your sputtering date could so much as lift a hand in protest.

Which is what had now landed you firmly in your current predicament, within the confines of a cosy, well-known bar, not too far from where you’d started.

Nursing a budding headache within the bitter notes of alcohol, to help ease at long fraught nerves. In between the ever-looming threat of Wanderers and the obstructive wrench thrown into your investigation into the Ever group, along with how busy work usually kept you, you were exhausted, suffice to say. The insignificant man tonight had just been the icing on this long-ruined cake.

Tara’s suggestion; to put yourself out more and ‘let loose’ for a bit, had ended in mild regret in going along with it, in the first place.

It had been far too long since you’d been in a relationship — let alone enjoyed a date with a man; your professional obligations kept you busy, coupled along with an extremely low desire to invest yourself into the dating pool, to wade and weed through to one that matched your wavelength.

A flash of an alluring garnet gaze sparks through your mind’s eye in passing, at the thought, one you physically shake yourself out of.

Now there was a man entirely on the spectrum opposite to your frequency. Your inability to resonate with him had only been just one of many failures toward mutual understanding.

“Another one for you, Miss?” The bartender inquires; you’re nodding before you can think it through.

“Yes, thank—”

“She’ll have a mojito instead. The usual for me.” A deep, rich voice drifts at your back — before it scotches down, involuntarily and low into your belly — just as the large hand you feel slip across your shoulder in greeting. You close your eyes against the intrusion, hoping the hazy apparitions of your mind would gift you a damn break just once tonight; as if having had him conjured out of mere musings. You shudder.

The alluring man at your side does not dissipate as you’d direly wished, seating himself down onto the stool next to yours, completely at leisure at having snuck into your space, unannounced once more. You hated how infuriatingly easy the Onychinus head found himself able to pervade your every space, along with each of your thoughts — the latter of which you did not wish to dissect apart tonight. Or, ever, if you had the choice.

“What are you thinking of, with such a severe frown on your face?” He speaks, as if he does not know the exact reason for your irritation. “You’ll put a permanent knot in there if you don’t stop.”

You choose to ignore him in lieu of offering a resigned nod to the bartender for the order Sylus had placed on your behalf. You could use a less inebriating drink now, especially so if you were to deal with the man beside you.

“What’re you doing here, Sylus?” You sigh against the dredges of your last drink, letting the bitter liquid warm your throat.

“Has the alcohol numbed your memory as well, sweetheart? We had an appointment, did we not?” Your respective orders are deposited in front, just as he moves to take the drink in between long, tapered digits, bringing it up to his mouth for a taste.

The slow drag of his Adam’s apple against his throat as he drinks, tugs your gaze towards it — an involuntarily reflex you aren’t able to control. Sylus’ scarlet gaze canting sideways to capture yours is what finally has you wrenching away from the delectable sight, cursing your fast settling inebriation for the mis-step.

He was an attractive man, your mind had long made begrudging peace with the fact, even if you’d both started off on an extremely wrong — horrid, actually — foot. And he’d proven himself to be a reliable companion, when the two of you had caused waves within N109’s criminal hub, in a quest for the Aether Core. His side of the bargain he’d kept, in exchange for your deal to forge a steady resonation with him. One you had no thoughts of reneging on, you’d keep your promise to him for the massive aid he’d provided. And yet, you could not help bemoan the fact that this very man confounded you, to your very core, to the point you weren’t sure what to make of his intentions. And yours.

But surely, you weren’t this physically deprived that Sylus of all people was beginning to sprout this visceral a reaction from you?

“And I texted you I couldn’t make it tonight, sweetheart.” You quip, pinching your forehead in between thumb and index. “This really isn’t the time, Sylus.”

He raises a careful brow at you, and God help you, even that gesture is incredibly beguiling to your slushed brain.

“And you couldn’t make it because” he prompts, tapered digits drumming against the marbled countertop. “you wished to spend your time out here, dressed to the nines, in a party of one?”

“So what if I wanted to?” All your prickly response earns you is a discerning gaze, zoned in on you. You exhale hard through your nose, shoulders steeling to utter your next words. “Oh alright, I had a blind date tonight.” You’re not sure why exactly you’re divulging something this private to the man.

The way his brows shoots in simmering surprise before they bunch in at his forehead in a frown is almost comical, you would’ve snorted at the expression he’s pulling if not for his next words. “So that’s what had that imbecile out there on your trail, lingering at the door for.” He scoffs. “You may not have enjoyed your date but you certainly got yourself a love-struck fool nipping at your heels, kitten.”

“Wait, what?” Bewilderment wars cold within your mind at the disgusting revelation of the man tonight having possibly followed you and Sylus having caught him dead in the act. “What did you do to him?”

“It’s fascinating how your first assumption is that I did anything to him.” His pleasant chuckle curls within your ears; a low, throaty burr. And when you give him one of your own looks, “Alright, don’t look at me so. Mephisto presumed you had a far dangerous stalker on hand than that sorry bastard, when he saw him lurking about you.” He swirls his glass of whiskey in between casual fingers. “I gave him some cordial talking to and sent him on his merry way.”

A million queries hurtle within your mind — what did his “cordial talking to” ensue exactly? Why had Mephisto been trailing you? Why did Sylus feel the need to step in and personally take care of your potential stalker?

You reach to take a swig of your own glass, feeling that headache pinching once more at your brow. “I don’t appreciate you having your silly crow keep tabs on me, Sylus. But,” Reluctant gratitude stirs at the tip of your tongue as your mind slowly processes the situation at hand. If it hadn’t been for Sylus’ interfering ways, you might’ve been saddled with a problem far worse than the infuriatingly suave Onychinus leader on your hands tonight. “Thank you for taking care of that creep for me, I guess. I appreciate it?”

You think you catch the strains of barely there surprise within his gaze, along with an amalgamation of emotions you aren’t able to parse before they’re shuttered out of sight. Replaced with a cool smile, he angles at you. “The alcohol has you honest for a change, kitten. I can’t say I dislike it.”

That infuriating remark has you almost wanting to take back your thanks, almost.

“Your engagement for the night has scurried off home with his tail in between his legs, leaving you to your celebration of one.” His touch is a flitting, warm caress against the shell of your ear as he folds a stray lock of hair back in place. “Are you going to say why you’re out here by your lonesome yet, furiously downing liquor, instead of back in the safety of your house?”

A gibe sits sharp across your tongue at his probing, wanting to tell him to back off and out of your business, he had no reason to be asking whether you chose to go out on a date or throw yourself a self-wallowing party, to let loose for one damn night. You weren’t even sure why Sylus pricked at your nerves the way he did — riling you up in the manner he did. Each single touch, every look fraught with meaning. He did and went as he pleased, without a care for what people made of him; self-assured as if the world itself, he held, in between those devious fingers. And he probably did too, his reputation one of absolute power within N109 Zone and without.

That very same man — the one who’d told you he’d make full use of you, as you did him — perched atop a bar stool by your side, asking you a question that seemed devoid of his usual ribbing. And perhaps, it’s because of that one sole thought that you find your mouth moving — or simply, because the alcohol has sniped your inhibitions. “Tara’s been on my case lately, insisting I need to get laid to blow off some stress.”

“Oh? That hunter girl with the bob, the very eager one.” Sylus looks immensely amused; your mind sifts through memories to recall how exactly Sylus knew her before it clicks: ah, the company retreat you’d stumbled into Sylus a few weeks back at. How could you ever forget? The day had been a nightmare.

“The very one,” you blink. “Hence the failed date tonight and my immeasurable disappointment.”

“Why? Were you planning on sleeping with that loser?”

You shake your head at him, horrified at the mere thought. “No, it actually went as well as I was expecting it to. Bad, that is.” You take another enthusiastic swig of your drink, a modicum of clarity returning to your stuffed head. “The sorry state of the dating pool at large, for a hunter with limited time on her hands isn’t exactly stellar. Even less so for men who know what they’re doing. And my luck in that regard seems particularly disastrous.”

In hindsight, you knew you were word vomiting your thoughts out at this point, with way too much candour than was appropriate for the situation, you’d regret it tomorrow perhaps — no, most definitely. But at the moment, underneath the glazed pleasant bubble of alcohol loosening your tongue and the enticement of an extremely alluring man, who had his entire attention focused upon you, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He huffs an amused half-laugh. “What sort of men have you been with exactly, kitten?”

“Not that many.” You retort. “...Two and both during my schooling years, very briefly. I was a giddy teen, excited at the prospect of a loving boyfriend. Both their expectations from the relationship were obvious from a mile away, though.” You scrub a hand through the carefully primmed fall of your hair, not caring for the accessories you knocked askew. “God, I don’t think they even knew what to do with a woman, outside of getting their dicks wet.” You laugh at your own odd joke, tumbling within your brain.

“It’s actually crazy how I’ve never had a man make me properly come in all my years—” Your words die within your throat at the realization of your horrifying admission.

Surely, you’d thought them within your own mind and not just blurted your entire sob fest onto the man in front? A wretched sound of dismay leaves your throat at the inscrutable look upon Sylus’ face, shredding apart any sliver of hope you’d had that you had only been musing in thoughts.

Gods, Tara was right, your idiotic self did need to get laid, you’d gone mad at long last. And made of yourself, a fool in front of the man you were begrudgingly attracted to. There was no coming out of this and you woed the fact that you’d even let yourself drink in the first place.

“It does seem like your dating life has been rather disastrous up to this point.” Sylus responds, at last, insouciantly plucking his glass of whiskey off the counter for a swig, so at counterpoint to your rioting emotions.

“Sylus.”

“What is it?”

You reach over, a hand securing about his broad shoulder, as you tip precariously close into the man’s space, plucking the glass straight out of his hands.

“Hey—” Before darting back as far as you’re able, a feat Sylus did not think a woman even half-drunk was capable of.

Taking a large gulp of the acridly strong liquor down your gullet, in a prayer to knock yourself out like you’d originally intended to before Sylus had walked in all over your small parade. Anything to blot your memory of the knowledge of your mortifying words to Sylus. But curling vines of red and obsidian are cleaving through your plans just as swift, one sliding about your waist to prevent your precipitous tilt upon the narrow stool while the other plucks the liquor clean out of your hands after a single pitiful swig.

The swirls of misted red disappear just as furtively swift as they’d appeared once they have you righted upon the stool and out of harm’s way.

A low sigh rings heavy above your head at your absurdity. “That’s enough. We’re leaving.”

Affording you no room for feeble protests as he slips a cool palm around yours; long, thick fingers reassuring in between your own before he tows you away from the glittering inebriation of night life.

Clarity from the merciful remnants of your intoxication is unwelcome tonight — like cool gunmetal pressed fast against your temple, siphoning the entirety of the alcoholic flush from your system. Having utterly failed at your attempts at getting hammered so you would’ve had at least an excuse to fake post drunken amnesia in the face of your shame tomorrow.

Instead, here you were, deep within Zone N109 once more, incarcerated to the room Sylus had appointed temporarily as yours during your first visit to the place. One that had over time, turned into your housing and personal space, indefinitely, for whenever you happened to drop by on business with the Onychinus head. On business, you firmly reminded yourself. Even as the significance of the fact that Sylus had thought it fit to make space for you within his very own — his home — was not lost on you.

You remembered trying to sweep a kick to the back of his shins, back at the bar, for having you bodily dragged out into the sobering night air and towards where his car awaited, parked by the curb.

“Let go of me, you big brute.” Those vexing vines of red had curled about your leg mid-motion, tugging you up sharply before your world upended and you’d been tossed unceremoniously like a sodden sack of rice onto the broad expanse of one of his shoulders. You’d dug your nails into his back in punishing protest at his audacity.

Earning yourself a derisive snort for your efforts. “Continue pawing at me like that and I’ll have you trussed next, kitten.”

Your mouth had curled into a silent snarl, thumping futile fists against his solid back. “Try me.”

“Don’t think I won’t.” He’d warned mildly before he’d continued on his merry way, wide stride that had barely faltered with your struggles.

You sigh in defeat, scrubbing your palms down your face in recollection of the memory — your reflexive annoyance at his actions stemming more from your own mortifying situation than any real anger at him.

He’d brought you back to his place, closer from where the bar was located, instead of back home, where the two of you risked running into any of your acquaintances, Xavier for one.

And you couldn’t afford to let the people around you know of the Onychinus head — Sylus understood that instinctually, even if you did not speak of it. Content though he seemed to perpetually keep you in a state of life-threatening heart palpitations with his goading ways; absently recalling how Sylus had been Tara’s first man of choice for her date plan, owing to how he’d found it fit to barge in on their last team retreat.

Shaking your head, you press a hand against your forehead as you move to wipe your body clean, having opted for one of the more comfortable outfits to change into for the night, you’d brought over from your place to his during one of your earlier visits — amusement sparking at you to witness how Sylus had thought it fit to buy you a couple new dresses, to add to your sparse collection, hanging within your wardrobe. As if you two were something more than acquaintances and professional partners.

Your mind really seemed to have free reign over mad thoughts tonight.

A knock resounds through the quiet of the room, effectively piercing your thoughts. “Are you done yet?” His familiar, welcome burr sounds from the other side of the door.

“I am. Come on in.” The handle glides open, revealing Sylus standing in the doorway, having swiped his outerwear for a casual dark red button down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the firm strength of his forearms; a sight you aren’t able to tear your ogling from, as he steps into the room. He closes the distance in between you in three easy strides. Crowding you within a room that feels too small and sweltering all of a sudden.

“Feeling any better now?” His voice wrenches your gaze away from the sliver of skin revealed beneath the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened.

You sigh, cursing at licentious thoughts. This man, in his incinerating, sensual entirety, frustrated you to no end. “I am, Sylus. Thank you.”

“Good.” He hums. “Because you should stay awhile, a day or two at least.”

“What? Why?”

“I have to make sure that weasel you had tagged to you tonight doesn’t try getting too smart. Mephisto caught him lingering close to your streets after the whelp bolted following his wretched stalking attempt.”

The revelation has nausea stirring at your gut; what had you gotten yourself into with that despicable creep? You were going to throttle Tara the next time you saw her.

You sigh. “While that is disturbing behaviour and I’m grateful for the concern but I think I could’ve handled that idiot fine on my own.”

A frown belts at his brow. “He’s a colleague from work, isn’t he? Despite his absolute spinelessness, that weasel is a trained Hunter with an authorized weapon on hand.”

You raise a questioning brow at him, half inquisitive how exactly he knew your date happened to be a work acquaintance. Barely a few hours spent on his radar and the sorry fool already had all his information scraped and into the Onychinus head’s clutches. You did not envy his position, at the moment, massive creep though he was, having stood witness to how Sylus wiped his enemies clean out of existence.

“Sure you’re capable, sweetheart, and your weasel is an idiot but do you want to be vigilant, glancing over your shoulder for a stalker, round the clock?” He pitches his head, waiting for your answer.

His words give you pause, his reasoning not entirely without weightage. You mutter a quick curse underneath your breath, frustrated at how terribly disastrous tonight had turned out to be.

Sylus’ smile quirks, taking your expletives for the affirmation they are. “And besides,” his hand shifts against your cheek, skimming a thumb down the curve of it, “you did enthusiastically mention your hazardous luck with dates. Might as well take care of this one before the vermin starts to fester.”

A skitter of irked embarrassment bruises at your ego. “Are you making fun of me right now?”

“Not in the slightest.” His thumb has switched towards your bottom lip, trekking a ghosting path across the swell of it. A different kind of emotion spurts within your chest along with the simmering annoyance, at his testing touch. “On the contrary, I was going to make an offer, one of mutual benefit.” His voice skims an octave lower and scotches deeper into your belly. “What do you say? Would you like to hear it?”

His searing touch drifts down your chin, sweeping against your jaw. You’re unsure of the mesh of emotions that are surging through you at his evocative touch; indignation, surprise, reluctance... desire. You can barely focus on the words issuing from his mouth.

“Well?” He prompts. “I don’t recall taping your mouth shut, sweetie.” His thumb returns to caress a path across your parted lips as if to make a point; a hushed throaty laugh leaving him at the hitch of breath that action elicits. He knows what he’s doing to you and he’s rousing you on purpose; the absolute scoundrel.

“What’re you trying to say? Speak clearly, Sylus.” Your tongue darts forth to lap a quick path across the bottom of your lip; Sylus’ gaze rolling down your face to settle at your mouth when you do, a sudden simmer of heat flaring within blood-red. “I despise riddles.” Another deep chuckle issues from his mouth, one that stirs into your belly without permission, much like the man himself.

“What was it that you said earlier?” The tip of his thumb edges just past your lips. “Ah yes... you’ve never had a man make you come.”

You flush at the recollection, cursing yourself for the umpteenth time tonight. You’d made a terrible mistake and you swore you’d never drink again, if it meant Sylus would just fucking drop it. Or you would, and the ground would swallow you whole. You’d confided a mortifying secret within a man who confounded you to no end.

“So what?” A challenging grimace drags at your face, just as you sink a bite into his invading digit, hard. He does not so much as even flinch, his smile tugging wider instead.

“What a spirited kitten I’ve lured into my hands.” He muses. “I like the face you’re making right now.”

His eyes crinkle in at the corners, a mild thread of tenderness you think you catch streak through the simmering heat of his garnet gaze. It makes you want to turn away from the look, not wanting him to scrabble your heart any more than he has.

“No,” A tapered index and thumb curve about your chin, firmly tempting your gaze back to him. “Don’t look away, keep your eyes on me.”

And for that one instant, you listen. “My proposition is earnest, sweetie. Despite what your consensus may be, I’m quite fond of you, more so than you think.” Your breath snags in your throat at the admission; you’d be blind to not catch the clear insinuation in his words.

His mouth skews into a smile. “Would you be averse to the idea of me showing you how it’s done?” He swipes at the swell of your bottom lip, his voice several octaves lower. Yes?” A sensual caress in the opposing direction. “No?” Your eyes flitter in hooded desire at the allure of his rich voice, scotching low into your belly to pool in between your clenched legs.

You take a moment to inhale, slow, processing his words. Reaching a hand out to trace careful fingers against the strength of his jaw. “Do you realize the weight of what you’re implying, Sylus?” An inane question by all means. You’ve never known a man more self-assured in what he desires; you admit it’s rather arousing.

“Oh, I do.” The distracting curve of his smirk pulls wider. “But do you, sweetheart?”

Your fingers leave his face to drift across the open collar of his shirt, pulling him close. “You’ve been lodged in my mind for a long time.” You allow him a moment of that infuriating self-pleased smile. “Even without that pesky Evol of yours invading my skull.” Before you’re fisting his collar to rise on the tips of your toes to press your lips hard against that irksome, delicious mouth.

Sylus’ hands curve about the give of your waist, fitting you firmer against the hard planes of him, without hesitance. He allows you free reign for a while before he chases your retreating mouth with his own, not sparing a moment of reprieve for the hungering breath you try and draw back into your lungs. His tongue slipping past your lips instead, granting you a taste and breath of what he alone affords you in that moment.

Your hand flies to grip about the base of his neck, appreciating the firm musculature of his upper back that flexes beneath your touch when he moves to snare an arm about your waist. Fingers sinking harsh into your hip as he grinds you impossibly close to his body, siphoning the rest of your breath from your lungs.

You’re near dizzy with the way his tongue licks into your mouth, tip teasing its way across the roof before it withdraws to slick a path against your wet bottom lip. You insist your grip harder against the back of his neck, dragging him back to you in the swelling smile he presses against your damp sighs — the drench of them flaming across your chest to pool low into your belly and settle deep in between your legs.

Sylus lets out a low grunt against your skin — a sound that has your insides clenching in on desire — before his clutch upon the flare of your hip tightens, hand curving downwards about the swell of your ass before he lifts you up entirely on the strength of one firm muscled arm. The whimper you’re unable to tamp even against the aggression of his mouth, at his show of unrestrained desire.

“Hold on tight now, sweetie.” He murmurs, sultry, against your lips.

Sylus strides you both further into the room without breaking your kiss, the corded strength of his arm sturdy beneath your ass and you take that moment to appreciate what the position allows you access to, fully. Covetous fingers you run through the hair at the base of his neck to tug him into the kiss as you wish — his rewarding grunt in answer, warming your belly — against your mouth.

Rushing down the buttoned line of his shirt, making quick work of undoing more of his buttons. A hand you slip past the edges of his shirt once the cloth against his chest is no longer impeding you, caressing your fingers against the hard planes of his pectorals. Sylus’ chuckle reverberates deep within your mouth, your fingers flexing into his shoulder at the sound. “Someone’s eager.”

He stops at your bedside before he tosses you back onto the soft of your sheets. Not giving you the chance to even hoist yourself up on your arms before he’s towering over your body — crowded against his large frame.

Chest heaving from the earlier stretch of your kisses and how he’d hurled you back onto the bed, you press a halting hand against his torso, playing at the lower buttons you weren’t able to undo earlier. Making hasty work of your remaining task before your fingers slide in welcome against the defined warmth of his abdomen.

Your mouth parts in breathless wonder, eyes drinking him in voracious need, before they slip lower towards the straining length of his arousal through the placket of his pants — a sizeable bulge visible even through the pitch-black material. “Like you’re one to talk about being eager.” you quip, inquisitive digits dipping lower to ghost across the clothed length of him.

His breath deepens at the touch, a thick chuckle slipping past his lips. “Point taken.”

Your hand slips to curve against the swell of his cock above cloth, once more, feeling for the shape of him; larger than any you’ve had before, it sets a flitter of nervous anticipation into your chest. You want to see it, him.

Sylus cocks his head at your inquisitive touches but doesn’t move to stop when your fingers work at the confines of his pants, until his arousal is far prominent beneath the remaining layer of his briefs. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight — he truly is big. Rather intimidating, entirely exciting.

“Having fun?” He inquires, capturing your fingers in between long, tapered digits to bring them up to his mouth in a brushing kiss, a keen garnet gaze that refuses to relent from yours.

“Yes,” you answer honestly.

“That’s a good start.” He hums. “My turn.”

Red and obsidian spiral about the length of your body, toying at the straps of your camisole, the edges of it at your belly before they’re dragging the material up across your body, and with the reveal of skin, Sylus’ eyes follow; the serrated intensity of his heated gaze, enough to have you try to squeeze your legs together on instinct to relieve some of the overbearing burn in between them.

You can feel how mortifyingly wet you are, and yet in that moment, your mind cannot seem to muster shame.

His thick fingers trail next across the waistband of your shorts — vined red making quick work of the ribboned bindings of the silken material before Sylus’ thumbs hook on either side, to drag your shorts and panties, torturously slow, down the plush of your thighs in one go.

He’s hunching over to overshadow you entirely before you can make sense of it, face sinking close into the space in between your legs, hot gaze drinking in the sight of the thin strings of arousal that stretch from your pussy to your underwear before they bow and break into the sheets beneath. You watch him hum his approval, your head raised to observe the erotic picture he paints, in between your legs.

A moan scratches free of your throat, your head falling back in shuddered pleasure when Sylus does not waste a single moment in ruining you; the broad pressure of his tongue you feel against the length of your quivering cunt as he swipes up a taste for himself before withdrawing once more.

“Sylus.” You protest, fingers rushing to catch at his hair to pull.

His gravelly laughter is devious against the inside of your thigh — so close to where you want him. “That’s a beautiful sound you’re making there, kitten.” He blows a hot breath against your centre, your pussy spasming at that bare action. “Let’s see if you’ve got any more of those for me.”

“Sylus.” You try and let the irritation ring in your tone this time but all it sounds to your ears is a licentious plead.

“I hear you, sweetheart.” He pulses a kiss against your outer folds. “I made you a deal, didn’t I?” He wrests his now loose shirt off his body before his touch returns to you once more, this time without the barrier of clothes in between you both.

You're entirely vulnerable and naked underneath him, held to his mercies as his forearms flex about the pliance of your thighs as he hooks them about his broad shoulders. “You’re going to let me make good on my word tonight,” your legs spasm against his back — useless — as he keeps them held within steeled grips at your knees; large fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh. “and witness it too, with your entire body.”

You feel the corded, hard strength of the muscles of his back flexing beneath the heels of your feet as Sylus ducks closer to your slit to suck at the pleasured bead of your apex. Your hips fly up on instinct at that first brush of stimulation, a moan crippled free of your lips. His smug smile you feel buried against your pussy when it gushes further against the skewed stretch of those lips. “And you know I never renege on an agreement once made.”

Your thoughts blank entirely the next time that adroit tongue lands against your drenched folds, his mouth swallowing you up entirely as he works at your slick with all the practised propensity of a devil set to wrecking you within your sheets.

You’ve never had a man’s mouth down there before; you didn’t quite think it were possible to feel anything remotely close to what he was doing with your body at the moment.

Sparks of jolting pleasure thrum throughout the length of your body, you’re not even fully aware of how hard you buck against his mouth. How Sylus thwarts each unconscious attempt of escape by dragging your pussy back to his mouth each time you squirm from the overwhelming sensation.

His growl of pleasure is what drags part of your hazy attentions back to how white knuckled your grip is within his hair, tugging at the strands as if they were your sole lifeline to sanity. And you were beginning to suspect they were.

Sylus’ knuckles brush against your tightened clit, knocking a groan of pleasure out of your throat. “You’re so wet.” He hooks a thick, tapered index up into your walls, clenching at his filthy words. “That’s it, sweetheart, keep doing that for me.” His laughter is a deep, hoarse sound. “I’m going to take all you’ve got for me.”

He laps a path up against the junction of your thigh; a second finger teasing at the rim of your slit before it joins the first, in a slick easy slide.

“Sylus,” You’re no longer caring; to your sounds, to the fact you’re dripping enough you’ve wet the sheets beneath his thrusting fingers. “Oh God, don’t stop. O-oh. God.” Not caring for the slight twinge of heat that sparks with the roll of your head to catch Sylus watching your entire downfall from in between the space of your legs; fervid scarlet gaze fixated to yours, the bow of your mouth in a constant, pleasured O curve as moans of senseless appreciation and babbled curses tumble from it. Even as his tongue laps a languid path against your outer folds, at screeching odds to the deft fingers he works into you.

“Yes,” his growl is vehement, pleased. “Scream louder, no one’s going to hear you mewl down here, kitten. Let go.” The squelch of your arousal is loud within your ears, the pads of his terrifyingly nimble digits lighting up nerves against that one spongy spot deep within you that has stars wheeling within your wide gaze.

And just as you think this is how he’s going to end you — the pinnacle of pleasure — he betrays your expectations once more with the hot slide of his tongue back against your clit. You nearly sob at the stimulation, a silent scream clawing up your bruised throat at how close you feel to breaking.

“I-If you—” your words are garbled, hard to breathe. You're so, so close to a peak you’ve never fallen off of, in this manner before. “—I’m... hah, going to come.” Never had your own toys or hand or even another human, scrabbled your brains out this hard; a height so vehemently approaching, you’re afraid to fall.

Sylus seems to understand you even through your incoherent babbling, stretching you open on his fingers in harder thrusts. “Then do it. Come on my tongue, darling.” His mouth sucks the abused flesh of your clit deep into his mouth. A peak so in sight, you hurtle into it, your pussy spasming about his fingers, his mouth so hard, you’re near thrashing your limbs about the broad strength of his shoulders. Sylus creeps a hand beneath your ass, to lift your back and shove up deeper against his mouth as you sob out his name in senseless prayer.

“That’s it, you’re so hot like this, you know that, kitten?” His guttural words, muted within your pussy and lost through the white daze of your prolonged orgasmic haze. Sylus continues to lap at you until you’re tumbling into buzzing overstimulation; the heavy weight of him like iron fetters at your legs as you weakly push at his face, his steeled shoulders in whimpered protest.

“I— give me a break, Sylus.”

He affords you a modicum of mercy, glistening mouth and chin withdrawing to rise from between the confines of your legs to fix a skewed grin at you. And when you meet his gaze, he makes a deliberate, erotic show of sweeping the broad of his tongue, slow, feral, against the edge of his upper lip.

His fingers maintain their languid position still within your sensitive walls, each measured thrust has you shivering against the intrusion.

You cup a hand about his strong neck, dragging him down towards your mouth. His voice low, heated in between the taste of yourself he sweeps into your mouth. “Enjoying yourself?”

You secrete a hushed sound of approval against his exploring tongue. “I’ve never come this hard in my life,” you confess, breathless. “You’re crazy.”

“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic compliment.” Knocking that smug grin of his only wider. And then, a softer whisper settles against your wet mouth. “You’re so good for me, sweetie. You drive me insane.”

You withdraw from him to catch the simmering heat of his fervid desires and affection commingled within that scarlet gaze you’re so taken with. Sweeping a thumb at the clinging wetness of arousal, against the angle of his jaw, you marvel at the sensual sight he paints. “...I’m no different.” You meet his gaze, your honesty heavy on your tongue.

He chuckles at the confession, canting his head to catch the plush of your thumb against his teeth, worrying at the flesh as he laves it up into his mouth on an obscene suck.

The way he looks at you has arousal flushing anew within your cheeks; your insides clenching in on the fingers that languorously thrust into you, stretching you open. Lashes nearly trembling shut when his thumb traces a whispered touch against your clit before withdrawing, having your hips juddering up into his hand.

Restless digits quiver down the length of his sculpted torso, working at releasing him from the rest of his un-wanted clothing; cut, well-tailored pants you’d more than once found yourself admiring him in but at the moment, you couldn’t survive a second longer without uncovering the entirety of his captivating body to your gaze. Sylus gently pulls out of your pussy to help you along, thick fingers running along yours at his buckle to slide is smooth out its confines before his Evol curls about the belt to toss it easy, at the side of his bed. His pants and briefs follow soon after and you nearly choke at the sight of him revealed at last to your gaze.

Sylus’ cock is a devastating thing of beauty; thick and intimidating enough it has you salivating at the mere sight of it. You’ve never seen a man this big, blessed in both length and girth, it has your cunt clenching in on need at the sight of him. You wonder how he’d feel against your tongue if you tried taking him in, parched lips you wet with a swipe of tongue, parting at the thought.

“Like what you see?” His self-pleased words wrench you out of your self-imposed stupor until you see that smug grin painting his face too. Your fingers delicately curve about the girth of him in a gentle squeeze; has grin falling open in a low, breathy laugh of arousal.

Your fingers unable to wrap him up entirely within a fist, even as you stroke a slow, steady path up across his length. “You’re right,” you murmur in wanton desire. “I do like what I see.”

“Such an honest tongue.” he groans low, in pleasure at your languid ministrations. Hooking a thumb at your bottom lip to tease it into your mouth and onto the wet muscle.

“Honesty isn’t the only thing it can provide, you know.” You bait, in breathless, risqué whispers around the intrusion of his thumb in your mouth, sucking at him in imitation of what you truly desire from him.

Sylus hums a pleased sound, withdrawing his finger to sweep it across your swollen lips. “Later.” He silences your protests with the wet ingress of his digits back into your walls. “You’ll have me, you have my word. But right now...” Your broken moan mingles with the guttural sigh that tumbles from his lips to witness your face shatter in pleasure. “we’re here to see how good I can make you feel, aren’t we, kitten? So, lay back.” He eases the flat of his palm in between your breasts to push. “And watch how else I ruin you tonight.”

You moan at his filthy threat of a promise, hips rolling into the fingers he’s pressed into you, their rhythmic propulsions turning faster with each moment until he has your crest building once more.

“Sylus.” you gasp out, fingers spasming around the wrist buried in between your quaking legs.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” He draws down closer, body crowding yours against the sheets, the heat of his breath sultry against your sweat soaked skin. You feel the weight of his arousal ghost a searing path against your thigh and jump at the stimulation.

“You.” you plead. “I need you so stop teasing me now, Sylus. I’ll—”

His lips capture yours in an incendiary kiss, a violent clash of tongue, drinking your startled mewls up into his own as his fingers curl about the back of your head to hold steady underneath his assault. “You sure you’re ready for it?” He rolls his hips against yours once more in emphasis, making you shiver underneath the intimidating heat of his arousal.

“I am, I can take it.” you insist against his wet tongue. “And even if I can’t, you promised you’d show me how good it can get, didn’t you?” You shiver. “So quit edging me any longer and put it inside me.” Your back arches in need at a particularly adept press of his fingers. “Sylus.”

His answering groan at your fervent desires burns you higher, his soaked fingers dragging out of your clenching walls. “You really do know how to rile me up, don’t you, sweetheart?” Large hands settle about the swell of your hips as Sylus presses himself in between your legs. Letting the head of his cock, at long last, stroke at the wetness of your cunt, gathering moisture on to it. So close.

His hips undulate in languid pleasurable strokes in between the fall of your legs, and each time the flared head of his cock bumps up at the tight bead at your apex, your hips try and jump against the caged strength of his hands holding you down. Every single stroke — up, down — has your breaths turning laboured in need, each single time he brushes down close to your hole, you clench in on instinctual emptiness, wanting to pull him deeper into you.

“Some restraint, kitten. We don’t want you too overwhelmed too fast.” A low sound of disapproval soughs past his lips at your squirming. “Impatience is not a good look on a Hunter of your repute.”

Your mouth falls open on a silent groan; hooking a leg about the snatch of his waist, you try and urge him into you. Earning an amused, guttural laugh for your efforts. “You’ve had me plenty ready. You’re just baiting me at this point.”

“But you like me being this way, don’t you?” And God help you, if your brain wasn’t entirely mushed at what he’s done to you, you would’ve tried refute his observations with a lie of your own. But in this moment, you let him have his victory.

Sylus curves a palm about the crook of your leg, fingers ghosting the underside of sensitive skin, up, until his hold catches at your knee. Keeping you fixed firm down onto the bed with the other, while he rolls his hips against you once more. “Keep holding tight,” he taps at your knee hooked at his back one last time before his hand drifts to curl about the base of his cock, pressing more of your slick up against the bulbous head.

The first breach of him burns you open in pleasurable bliss, you hiss at the intrusion, back arching on instinctual chase of the man you’re so drunk on. Just the head in has you dizzy around him, grateful for the anchor of his large hand holding you grounded, at your hip.

More of his member pushes past your rim; Sylus’ grunt of pleasure breaking in the tight scrunch of his brow in concentration. A thumb flits about your pinched bottom lip, end to end, before he’s coaxing it open with a firmer press of the pad of his digit against it. “Breathe for me, sweetheart.” You don’t think your body is capable of drawing air in at all but you try and trudge past the closure of your throat, gulping in a few, needed breaths. “That’s it, yeah, take me in. Slowly now.”

It’s only when your body shudders underneath his with the ingress of almost his entire length settled into you do you realize the sheer, unyielding size of him inside, Sylus’ throaty groan of arousal, he bites into the sensitive skin of your wrist he’s had curled in between thick digits. Your cunt feels stretched impossibly wide around the shape of him, in a manner that has you whimpering on his next few testing strokes up into your walls. Sending him curling impossibly deep on each long, heavy thrust up into you until you feel him nudging, as if at the very ends of you.

Your head rolls in restless need across the down of your pillows, your fingers skittering up the length of his arms, sinking harsh into the taut muscles of his biceps. Angry crescents you’re sure you’re marking into the skin but all it seems to do to him is make him push into you with greater need, approval heavy in the fervid grunts that issue from his mouth.

One of his hands steals beneath your body to press in between your shoulder blades, guiding your body deeper against his as his hips piston into you. The wet squelch of your arousal heavy in the space, commingling with your damp, thick groans.

Sylus withdraws from your body on his next slide, nearly all the way out, before he pulses back, slick, without resistance; each time, your body taken by the pleasant shock of how fully he sheathes himself into you, the stretch sending you into a dizzying spiral of mounting need.

And despite it all — the hazy pleasure, his long, deep strokes into you — your ravenous body needs this man closer, a desire you aren’t able to word coherently.

Sylus’ diligent handling of you — although, a gesture appreciated — is not what you require of him in the moment. He’s your first in so, so long; desires shuttered in since forever, along with the intense need to be thoroughly loved over by this man; your need to have him fuck you without restraint, after a heart so long spent in warring against its yearning for him, overflowing off the cusp of your poor control. Manifesting in the fingers you rush about the angled cut of his hips to squeeze, your legs tightening their hold at the back of his waist to pull deeper inside.

Your eyes meet his in fevered haze; a slip of your tongue to drench parched lips, falling open to voice your desires before Sylus’ face crowds your vision. His mouth pulsing a quick kiss of violence against yours, it siphons your entire breath from your lungs at the aggressive curl of his tongue into you. “Alright,” he utters on a wet, hoarse whisper against your lips. No more questions, no more unsurety. “I’ll give you what you need.”

He’s gingerly worked himself into you up to the near base of him when large hands move to grip on either side of your abdomen, the pads of them pulsing into the pliance of your skin — heated scaffoldings of flesh. Heralding the slow, squelching withdrawal of his cock from your depths up to the tip. Until Sylus plunges back into you with a force vehement enough you see stars white the scape of your vision with the audible slap of hips meeting the back of your ass.

And it isn’t until he starts driving into you in that punishing pace, manoeuvring your body as if you were a mere doll meant to house his cock do you realize with primal joy that you love how he’s taking you. You’re delirious on the feeling of his cock ramming up into your walls — the massive stretch of him, each single inch of hot, unyielding flesh — hard enough he’s driving you up the sheets, your voice you do not realize is a shrill scream of pleasure.

Everything — you, him, your hot, clenching insides around him — is all too much, all of a sudden, you’re drowning in the ecstasy of the feeling of him overwhelming your senses.

And the man above, an unfettered beast; he folds you deeper into the mattress with the ardent swing of his hips, large hands gripping hard onto your waist as he guides your own weak thrusts back onto his cock with ferocious precision. Each single glide of the swollen head of his cock dragging him deliciously against that one spot inside that has you quivering apart around him. A deliberate assault of your sweet weakness. Truly, he knows your body as if he’d had you before several times already; the thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying, having your pussy spasm around him on instinct, dragging a vicious growl out of him that has you whimpering at the sound.

The sweat slicked concentration and fervid arousal that knits at his powerful brows is addictive, the heated flush of pleasure and effortless exertion — all of him an erotic sight, meant to throttle you into finishing ruin. The violent tatters of your orgasm you feel crumpling within your belly, fast approaching.

You try and buck against his hips faster, pace paling in comparison to the near bestial propulsion of his cock into your depths. Sylus groans at a particularly harsh squeeze of your cunt; a hand leaving your waist to feather his knuckles against the drenched slide of sweat and tears at your cheeks you know are ruddy in desire. “You’re taking me so well, kitten, so deep inside that small body.” You might’ve offered a word of approval if your throat wasn’t so swollen from the breathless moans and ruinous pleas he’s knocking out of you instead. “You’re clamping so hard around my cock. Do you not want to let me go?” His large hand drifting against the lower stretch of your abdomen, before he presses the flat of his palm in deep, as if he could feel for the place his cock pounds up as if against your very womb, angling his hips to brush at the sensitive bundle of nerves at your apex and you nearly weep at the tight stimulation.

“C-Clo—” is all the words your battered throat can manage out before your head’s falling back against the pillows, tear-strained gaze blown wide with the unrelenting intensity of his pillage of your body.

But Sylus groans in approval, understanding of your broken prompts. “I’ve got you. Let that pretty pussy of yours weep more for me, sweetheart.”

You moan unabated at the filth that issues from his lips, your body immediately moving to obey his instruction in the spasm of your walls.

His hand slides against the length of your hooked leg to hoist it up and over a broad shoulder as his large frame arches over you, nearly folding you in half. The new angle driving each of his wild thrusts hard against your swollen clit. Your back nearly snapping with the force of its curve up towards him with your next shrill scream of his name. “What a perfect, perfect girl for me.”

You're no longer coherent, a garbled speech and cotton head your constant companions — only dimly aware of the muted sounds of wood striking against concrete walls as Sylus drives your body violently up against the headboard. The distant absence of pain you only realize is possible when your cheek curls sideways to sink against the simmering warmth of the red and obsidian mesh of his Evol, keeping your head pillowed against the strength of his thrusts.

His face descends towards you, a thick hand easing beneath sweat soaked locks to grip at your neck, holding firm for the ravenous mouth that plunders yours, choking your moans against his tongue. Your spit trails useless past swollen lips, Sylus’ tongue immediately following a broad path against your jaw, your chin to lick at the combined essence of sweat and spit. His guttural moan at the taste, sending you nearly into your orgasm, so close at hand, you’re spasming useless about the great length of him.

Long, tapered digits flex about the delicate expanse of your neck, coaxing your pleasure-drunk gaze up towards his. “The way you’re looking right now...” You catch the flex of his other arm at the corners of your vision as it slinks in between your bodies. “a man could get addicted, sweetie.” His thumb presses against the abused bead of your apex in that instant, knocking a scream free of your parched throat, body arching in the slick slide of your breasts pressed flush against the broad planes of his chest. Even that stimulation at your nipples is too much; the heat in between your legs tempered to an inferno.

The precise, perfect strikes of his cock into your walls, along with the insistent pinch and press of your clit in between adroit index and thumb has your crest rising. White hot heat undulates through your entire body. The merciless sting of a delicious bite you feel Sylus sink at your straining neck, right beneath your jaw, “Come for me now, sweetheart,” accompanying the hammering thrusts of his cock, his thumb at your bundle of nerves is what finally has you ripping apart on an orgasm so intense your gaze blanks entirely.

Jaw falling open on a shriek so unlike yours, you do not recognize the sound of your own battered voice until Sylus presses two thick digits into your slack mouth to toy at your wet tongue as if he could capture that sound for himself. “You’re so damn beautiful.” His pace unrelenting through the violence of your orgasm, stretching your own peak so long, spasming about the wet heat of him until Sylus’ hips too stutter as he finds his release into your welcoming depths.

Pulse after pulse of ejaculate so abundant, hot, it drives you into another release — or perhaps, you’d never even stopped coming — a pinnacle so high, your fall from it is prolonged, pleasurable. Your mouth sucking hard at his fingers, willing them to serve your anchor.

Sylus’ gaze meets yours from across the small pocket of space in between your faces, heated and stifled with your breaths. Scarlet eyes, simmering, pupils blown so wide in low settling arousal as the two of you breathe deep in unison. Several moments of reprieve, you allow your bodies as you come down from your highs.

A small part of you distantly realizes a single session with Sylus has effectively ruined you for life and you’re unsure if you’re bemoaning the fact or thrilling in delight at it. You think you just might be far more infatuated with this infuriating man than you’d initially thought and the notion of being this adoring of him mildly terrifies you. Just as the sliver of tenderness that threads through that garnet gaze as he pushes back sweat soaked strands from your face to study you. “You alright there, sweetie?”

You can’t deny it any longer. “Never been better.” you wheeze past a sore throat. And God help you, the grin that skews at his beautiful mouth at your answer has your heart refusing to settle into rest, even after your mind-numbing release.

“That good, was it?” You do not have the energy to refute him, settling for a light slap at his bicep.

His arms flex about your body before he rolls you both over. Releasing himself, slow, from your depths — you groan weakly at the muted stimulation before he hoists himself onto his arm.

You reach a hand forwards, curving it about his face, thumb sketching at the angle of his jaw. “Stay with me tonight.” you ask of him quietly.

Mild surprise flickers within blood-red garnet before it’s replaced by the tender quirk of a strong brow. “Didn’t plan on leaving, sweetheart.” He tips his head further into the crook of your palm, pulsing a quick kiss onto the skin. “Sleep tight, now. Your eyes are glazing over.”

And for that one moment, you listen, letting the warmth of his engulfing embrace shepherd you into dreams of scarlet eyes and amused smiles — the only ones you’ve been able to think about for a long time now.

End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @chocomii-chan

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM!

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to chat or just squeal with me about hot characters, in general.

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misaerabl · 18 days ago

Text

The Other Side of the Ring

CAITVI X READER

𝝑𝑒 reader as cait's mistress

CW: actress caitlyn, caitlyn and vi are married, you're caits mistress, older cait and vi, infidelity, power dynamics, voyeurism, consensual but very complicated relationships, not proofread SUMMARY: You’ve been Caitlyn’s mistress for a while now, and things have been going smoothly—until her wife, Vi, walks in. You scramble to cover up, ready for the fallout… but instead of being mad, Vi wants you to continue

part 1 - part 2 (smau)

The elevator hums softly as it climbs. Gold-lit interior. Mirror walls. Polished floors. Your reflection stares back at you, lips rouged, dress clinging like sin itself, a coat draped over to feign decency.

The silence is thick with guilt and anticipation—though by now, the guilt barely registers.

You've done this before.

Same time.

Same hotel.

Same keycard slipped into your purse with a text that never says her name. Just: Room 1907. Use the back elevator.

She never texts twice.

She doesn’t need to.

You check your lipstick in the mirror, fix the slight smudge at the corner of your mouth with a practiced finger. Your heart should be pounding—but it isn't. It’s steady. Familiar.

You’ve learned how to breathe in stolen moments.

Ding.

The doors slide open to the private floor. Her floor.

The hallway is quiet, lights low and warm. Room 1907 is at the end. You walk slowly, each step echoing against plush carpet, pulse rising just a little. Not from fear. From want. From knowing what’s behind that door.

You don’t knock.

The door’s already cracked open.

Your hand brushes it, pushes it inward, and she’s there.

Caitlyn.

Hair swept back like she’s just taken off her earrings. White silk shirt unbuttoned halfway. Black pants hugging her hips. A half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, gaze heavy with recognition in the other.

She says nothing.

She doesn’t have to.

She closes the door behind you with her foot, and the lock clicks into place.

“You came,” she says, voice low and threaded with something between relief and regret.

You slip the coat off your shoulders. “You asked.”

Caitlyn sets the glass down. Crosses the space between you with slow, deliberate steps. Her fingers skim your cheek, trace the edge of your jaw.

“You wore the dress I like.”

“You never asked me to stop wearing it.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “I never will.”

And then she kisses you—quiet at first, like a secret. Like the beginning of something wrong that already went too far.

You let her.

Because if you’re the sin she keeps crawling back to...

You might as well be unforgettable.

Caitlyn kisses you like she’s starved. Not for sex—no, she could have that with anyone. She kisses you like she’s starving for the illusion of control, for the moments where she doesn’t have to be the polished, perfect wife.

Your lips break with a slick gasp as she spins you around, back pressing to the door she just locked. Her mouth is already on your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s too soft, too exposed. You tilt your chin up to give her more.

“I thought you were at a premiere,” you whisper, fingers in her hair. “Playing the doting wife.”

“I left early,” Caitlyn murmurs against your pulse. “She didn’t notice.”

You hum, but there’s venom under it. “Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why you’re shaking.”

Her fingers tighten on your hips.

“Don’t,” she says—low, sharp, almost pleading. “Don’t talk about her right now.”

You smirk against her jaw, knowing that line is your power. The thing that makes her unravel, every time.

“Then make me forget.”

That’s all it takes.

Your coat drops to the floor with a heavy thud, and she’s all over you—hands dragging your dress up, lips bruising yours, fingers trembling as they find the zipper behind your back. She doesn’t take her time. She never does when it’s like this.

Once you’re stripped bare, she takes a step back to look at you, breath heaving, eyes dark like thunderclouds.

“You’re too fucking beautiful,” she mutters, voice nearly cracking. “It makes me hate you.”

You walk her backward toward the bed with a lazy kind of grace, eyes locked on hers. “You don’t hate me.”

Caitlyn sits on the edge. You straddle her lap without hesitation, your legs on either side of her expensive slacks, bodies flush.

She kisses you again, deeper, messier—lipstick smearing, tongues fighting for space. Her hands slide along your thighs, then slip between them, fingers finding you already wet and wanting.

Her breath stutters.

You roll your hips against her palm, biting her lip until she groans into your mouth.

“You do this on purpose,” she gasps. “You come here knowing exactly what I need.”

You nod, lips brushing hers. “Because you never take it like you want it at home.”

She freezes for half a second, then slams you back onto the bed like you just challenged her pride.

Clothes peel away. Buttons snap. Her shirt’s barely off her shoulders before her mouth is back on your chest—biting, sucking, leaving marks where only you will see them.

“You want me to ruin you?” she mutters into your skin.

“I want you to remember who you ruin me for.”

That sets her off.

Caitlyn kisses her way down your body with deliberate, burning hunger. No hesitation. No sweetness. Just teeth on your hipbone, tongue sliding through slick heat, lips dragging across sensitive skin until you’re writhing beneath her, moaning into the crook of your arm to keep the neighbors from hearing.

She fucks you with her mouth like she’s angry. Like you’re her confession and her punishment all at once.

You come once and she doesn’t stop.

The second time is more of a sob. You fist the sheets. Her name, her real name—not a stage name, not a lie—spills from your lips like it’s been buried in your throat all week.

Caitlyn climbs back up your body, flushed and breathless, hand stroking your thigh like she owns you now.

You wrap your arms around her neck and drag her into another kiss, tasting yourself on her lips.

Then you pull away and whisper, “When are you going to stop pretending this is just sex?”

And she does what she always does.

She looks away.

You know she’s about to lie again—but she doesn’t get the chance.

Click.

The door unlocks.

The doorknob turns.

And both of you freeze—half-naked, tangled, breathless—as the hotel room door opens.

Soft click. A long pause.

You don’t move. Neither does Caitlyn. Her body is half over yours, her lips still swollen, her fingers still ghosting over your thigh.

You think—maybe she’ll think Cait left something here. Maybe she won’t look. Maybe—

“Cait?”

Vi’s voice cuts through the silence.

You scramble, grabbing for the sheets, pulling them over your chest like that can cover up the guilt soaking the room. Caitlyn’s hand is already gone from your skin. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even turn.

Vi walks in.

She looks tired. Still in her suit—tie loosened, jacket over one shoulder. There’s a beat where her eyes land on the pile of Caitlyn’s clothes. Then yours. Then Caitlyn herself, naked from the waist up, still between your legs.

And you. Flushed. Breathless. Marked.

The silence is strangling.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to run—but Vi just… laughs.

Not cruelly. Not even bitter.

A low, amused chuckle, like this was always going to happen.

“Well, damn,” she says. “Guess I was right.”

Caitlyn finally looks up. “Vi…”

Vi tosses her jacket to the chair by the window and steps further into the room.

“No,” she says calmly. “Don’t start lying now. I’m not here to scream, or throw shit, or cry. Just—keep going.”

You blink. “What?”

Vi shrugs. “I mean, clearly I walked in late. Don’t stop on my account.”

Caitlyn sits up. “Vi, this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” Vi cuts her off, voice still soft but firm. “Isn’t something you’ve been doing behind my back for months? Isn’t the same number I saw come up on your phone at 3 a.m.? Isn’t the reason you flinch when I kiss you too long?”

You don’t dare speak. You don’t even move.

Caitlyn’s mouth opens, then closes.

And Vi looks at you, really looks, for the first time.

Her eyes drag over your body—disheveled, wrapped in sheets, marked with Caitlyn’s lipstick and teeth. Her gaze lingers. There’s no disgust there. Not even jealousy.

Only… curiosity.

“You’re not what I expected,” Vi murmurs.

You swallow hard. “I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

Vi steps closer. “Maybe not. But you didn’t stop it either.”

Silence, heavy. Then she smirks—just a little.

“And neither did I.”

You glance between them, heart thudding in your throat.

“What are you saying?” Caitlyn finally whispers.

Vi slides her hands into her pockets. “I’m saying… maybe I don’t mind sharing, if it means I don’t lose you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

And then—her eyes flick to you again, dark with something unspoken.

“You up for that, pretty girl?” Vi asks, voice low. “Or do you only like fucking other people’s wives?”

The air shifts.

Caitlyn’s breath catches.

And you?

You don’t know if you’re about to fall… or fly.

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harmonysanreads · 3 months ago

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oh to baby the ever handsome flawless hero,,, phainon you deserve to be handfed and get your cheeks pinched and cooed at. i need to cut fruits for him i need to make sure he stays warm in cold weather. please maintain your whimsy if he loses that boyish smile i will END IT ALLLLLL

“You're so... cute.”

Being caught by surprise spells death for a warrior and you are a master at enacting that incantation every time. Phainon would've marinated in the bafflement of it all for a while longer, if his reflexes hadn't acted faster, arms springing forward to catch your figure — deliberately pushed towards himself.

“Haa — mmf?” his must look like a visage worthy of jeer, but his attention is too flighty to focus on anything less important than the press of your palms against his cheeks, mushing the flesh together to your whimsy.

It wouldn't be difficult to push you away, if his left hand hadn't been occupied with securing your balance on his lap, firmly coiled around your waist. But it would be incorrect to assume his wishes lay anywhere in that territory, his very free and very much functioning right hand dangling by the side seemed to provide evidence to his prominent disinterest in severing the contact.

Light falls on your back, veiling your exact expression from his curious eyes. But he can tell that you've leaned closer, feel the absence of heat from where your hand parted ways from his skin and settled amongst the ivory strands of his hair.

“How can a man be this... this adorable?” there's a frightening mix of endearment and frustration in your voice, unless he's losing his mind. Your vigorous ruffling of his hair next, assures him that he has not.

“It should be illegal to be this precious.” the pout that he's most certain exists on your lips bleeds its way to your admissions of how endearing he apparently is. He's unable to force words out of his parched mouth, blood clogged around from his ears to his cheeks — where you deliver a sharp pinch to, rouging the skin further.

His winch is promptly muffled by your skin, the abrupt pull your hand causing him to crash straight into your embrace. He can feel the barely-there weight of your cheek brushing against his hair, utterances of a line of words he vaguely recognizes as abstract terms of endearment bounces off his ears. You try to rock him like a newborn child, he assists by melting further in your arms.

The grip you have around him is by no means strong, but the thought that he could take advantage of it to liberate himself from this embarrassing situation does not once cross his mind. He doesn't even find it the least bit flustering, in fact.

Just as quickly as it started, you pull him away from your arms and all the muscles in his face drop. It does not seem like you thought it vital to be acknowledged either, focusing instead on scooping a few grapes from the bowl of fruit that Phainon cannot even recall you putting down.

“What are you thinking about? Open your mouth.” his jaw slackens at the command, at a speed that'd no doubt give many people whiplash. If wind passed by at that moment, it'd no doubt whistle in his head.

You push one after another piece of mouthwatering fruit, but his braincells scurry away from processing the tastes of them. Bright blue eyes cradle the pleased curve of your lips with utmost caution, caress the purse between them whenever he appears slow in following your motion. He feels moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. Your smile, your warmth, the timbre of his voice, all so heart-wrenchingly ethereal —

“Tsk, look at how messy you are, can't even chew a piece of fruit cleanly.” you suddenly remark, purposefully smearing some pomegranate juice on the corner of his lips. He blinks at the shift in your expression, you tilt your head to address his confusion, nearly burning the remnants of his conscious mind.

Your titillating gaze flits to the scene of your creation next, tracing over the arch of his lips and returning back to gauge his stare — challenging him to speak, to break free, to deny you as you lean closer, fixated on the stain of fruit residue you painted your intentions with.

He answers by decreasing a breath worth of space, the hand that rested so far in serenity on your back pushed you closer, while his right hand wrenched the dagger away from your knuckle tight clasp. Gone is the veil of dew that you cloaked yourself in thus far, expression scrunched in what he can only assume is incendiary displeasure.

He watched as your disgruntled eyes followed the twirl of the dagger now dancing between his fingers, “So close! I must admit, you're getting more and more creative with your approaches, melite!” his energetic response did nothing but worsen your existing disappointment.

You crossed your arms in petulance, no longer interested in keeping that searing eye-contact, “Maybe just poison my food next, eh? Definitely much easier than going through all this trouble.”

The casual lilt of Phainon's suggestion appalls you, compelling you to turn around to face his stupid wide smile, “What are you saying? Didn't you always want a Hero’s death?”

That puts a dent to his disturbing playfulness, he throws away the excuse of a dagger somewhere without care. Eyes glossing over in realization, “You remembered...!”

That earns him nothing but a deadpan.

A boom of laughter fills the air, “Okay, okay, I'll stop ‘messing around’, as you like to say.”

Traces of his amusement linger and gather round to form one last wink, “But I wasn't joking, it really did touch this little heart of mine.” he cradles the mentioned organ in cue, getting a seasoned eye-roll in response.

Now it's his turn to gather you close, you do your duty in pushing against the embrace, like you've done so many times before — losing before his strength like every time.

“And I also wasn't joking when I suggested that you can use more underhanded methods to kill me for good.” he looks directly at you, through you, trapping you in place to match his steps in continuing this charade.

“Why?” you feel compelled to ask and to your bewilderment, Phainon's smile softens.

“Because death by your hand, no matter the way, would be my greatest honor.”

#cannot have things being too sweet - some salt has to be thrown to balance everything #phainon #phainon brainrot #phainon x reader #yandere phainon #yandere phainon x reader #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #naraven

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cameronsbabydoll · 3 days ago

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— GET TO KNOW MY !READERS ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

SPOILED!KOOK!READER

(the brat in kitten heels.)

she was raised by billionaire parents who bought her everything the second she so much as glanced at it. she’s never heard the word "no" unless it was followed by "—but we can find something better."

she still keeps all her old barbie and bratz dolls lined up perfectly on glass shelves in her pink childhood bedroom. sometimes she talks to them like they’re real friends.

her whole wardrobe is pink, glittery, sparkly — it’s literally an explosion of color. she has hot pink satin dresses, light pink fluffy coats, and bright pink purses with rhinestones.

her nails are always long, acrylic, and decked out in sparkles or little charms. she changes them every two weeks and throws a fit if her nail tech cancels.

very much “paris hilton meets summer roberts meets elle woods.”

she speaks in a very high-pitched, sweet voice — she’s super animated when she talks, always playing with her hair or clicking her acrylics together.

she loves tiny little purses that can’t actually hold anything useful. her bag essentials are lip gloss, mini perfume, emergency $100 bills, and her pink bedazzled phone.

she’s obsessed with luxury brands — new chanel bags, vintage juicy couture sets, louboutins, cartier bracelets stacked on her wrists like candy.

owns a tiny baby pink convertible with rhinestone-studded seat covers.

wears little kitten heels everywhere — brunch, shopping, even walking through the sand at a bonfire (and gets mad if anyone tells her it’s impractical.)

she’s extremely ditzy — she’ll ask the dumbest questions with 100% sincerity (“wait... is alaska a country?”) but she's also sneaky-smart when it comes to getting what she wants.

constantly says things like “i’m literally a princess” and “that’s hot” without a hint of irony.

thinks starbucks orders are a form of personality ("i’m a venti pink drink with extra vanilla sweet cream and extra ice!")

drinks fruity cocktails with names like "strawberry kiss" or "barbie breeze" — anything pink and filled with sugar.

always smells like a mix of bubblegum, vanilla, and expensive designer perfume (think baccarat rouge layered over body spray).

cries when she breaks a nail. screams when she sees a cute puppy. throws tantrums when things don't go her way but somehow makes it look cute.

rafe has to literally carry her sometimes because she’ll refuse to walk if her heels hurt. ("i’m not walking another step. carry me.")

she loves photo ops and making rafe take 500 pictures of her in front of a sunset, a yacht, a boutique, whatever. (he complains but always does it.)

lowkey is a daddy’s girl and drops "my daddy’s lawyer will sue you" at least once a week even though she’s never actually sued anyone.

dreams of marrying rich and being a stay-at-home wife with a teacup poodle in a designer bag.

if she ever argues with rafe, it’s always followed by her sulking dramatically on a satin bedspread in her tiny matching pj set until he buys her something to apologize.

calls rafe things like "my big scary bodyguard" and "my mean mean man" whenever he tries to put her in check (but she loves it.)

BABYDOLL!READER

(the crybaby in a pastel bow.)

she's soft. like really soft — her heart is big, her emotions even bigger. she cries when she sees puppies, when she hears an old love song, when rafe brushes her hair without being asked.

she’s very baby pink, powder blue, butter yellow — all her clothes look like easter eggs in the best way. her entire wardrobe is pastel vintage pieces, old babydoll dresses with tiny embroidered flowers, peter pan collars, ruffles, little gloves she finds at estate sales.

she collects trinkets like a magpie — porcelain figurines, pressed flowers, postcards from the 1950s, ticket stubs, little heart-shaped lockets she’ll never wear but keeps anyway. every shelf, every drawer in her room has something sentimental tucked inside.

when she talks about her favorite things, her whole face lights up — she glows when she tells rafe about finding a new 60s vinyl at the thrift store or a dress that reminds her of audrey hepburn.

she plays her vinyls constantly. her room is always filled with the crackly sound of lana del rey, nancy sinatra, or elvis. (if she's sad, it's exclusively sad lana songs while she cries into a satin pillow.)

she absolutely forces rafe to take her to this 50s-themed diner at least once a week. she’ll dress up in a pastel swing dress and saddle shoes just for the aesthetic, dragging him inside while he grumbles but secretly thinks she’s adorable.

she’s obsessed with old hollywood — posters of marilyn monroe and audrey hepburn cover her walls. framed black and white photos of james dean, frank sinatra, and john f kennedy are proudly displayed in her closet. (rafe gets a little jealous when she gushes over how "handsome" james dean was.)

her closet smells like vintage perfume — powdery, floral, a little bit like old lace and sweet soap. she still has her grandmother’s pearl necklace tucked inside a little velvet box.

she’s so sensitive it’s almost comical — rafe so much as raises his voice and she’s sniffling and looking at him with glassy eyes like he kicked her puppy.

she's a hopeless romantic. she dreams about slow dancing in the rain, kissing in a convertible at a drive-in movie, getting love letters sealed with a kiss.

she’s ditzy sometimes — she’ll burn cookies because she got distracted dancing around the kitchen, or she’ll forget where she put her purse because she set it down to pick flowers.

rafe ends up carrying her home from the diner more often than not because she insists on wearing tiny vintage heels that always give her blisters. she clutches his neck and cries about her "poor poor toes" while he rolls his eyes but kisses her forehead anyway.

she loves baking sweets — cupcakes, sugar cookies shaped like hearts, strawberry shortcake. she wears a little frilly apron and gets flour all over herself every single time.

she’s very clingy — she loves curling up against rafe’s side while they watch old movies, always playing with the buttons on his shirt or tracing patterns on his skin.

she says “i love you” way too much and way too easily. ("i love you," she says while holding up a pretty leaf she found. "i love you," she says when rafe opens a soda for her. "i love you," she says when he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world.)

favorite outfit? a powder pink vintage babydoll dress with white lace socks and mary janes. a big pastel bow in her hair. always lip gloss.

favorite drink? a strawberry milkshake or a root beer float at the diner.

if she’s ever upset, the only cure is laying in bed wrapped in a dozen fluffy blankets, a black and white movie playing softly, and rafe feeding her bites of ice cream while she sniffles dramatically.

BUNNY!READER

(the soft, sweet crybaby who thinks the world is still made of fairy tales.)

bunny!reader is pure sugar and softness — like the inside of a strawberry cream candy. everything about her is gentle and soft-hearted, from the way she speaks to the way she hugs people (she clings for dear life like she thinks you might disappear).

she’s the kind of girl who gasps when she sees a butterfly and cries over commercials if they’re even remotely emotional.

she’s hopelessly gullible — if you told her the moon was made of marshmallows she would believe you and ask if she could try some. rafe constantly has to pull her away from scams ("no, bunny, you can't really buy a star and name it after me.")

she’s extremely clingy without realizing it — always grabbing onto rafe’s arm, slipping her hand into his back pocket, or snuggling up to his chest when they’re standing in line somewhere. if he moves an inch away, she's immediately following like a lost little bunny.

scent? always something sweet and light — strawberries, whipped cream, vanilla sugar.

she’s a candle hoarder — every corner of her room has some girly, pastel candle that smells like cupcakes or fresh laundry. (she lights them all at once and the room smells like a candy shop.)

she loves strawberry shortcake — the doll, the cartoon, the dessert. she has little stickers of strawberry shortcake characters on her phone case and folders.

she’s super sheltered — grew up under tight rules, very religious and innocent upbringing. she still wears a little cross necklace every day and goes to church every sunday without fail, carrying her tiny pastel bible with her name engraved in cursive on the cover.

fashion? lots of frilly white socks, pastel cardigans, soft baby pink skirts, lace-trimmed camisoles, mary janes, hair ribbons, little pearl earrings. she always looks like she stepped out of a 90s barbie dreamhouse ad.

she can't lie to save her life. if she even tries she turns red immediately, her voice goes all squeaky, and her eyes start watering because she feels guilty.

when she's upset she straight up sobs — giant watery eyes, trembling bottom lip, sniffles and hiccups, crying so hard she can't even get the words out. (rafe usually just scoops her up and shushes her, rubbing her back and letting her bury her face in his chest.)

she's obsessed with rom-coms — she thinks love should be exactly like the movies, complete with running through airports and standing outside windows with boomboxes. she genuinely believes every fight should end with dramatic declarations of love.

favorite things? baking cupcakes (and always licking the batter off the spoon), picking wildflowers, writing in her glittery pink diary, making little collages with stickers and magazine clippings, swinging on playground swings like a little kid.

bedroom aesthetic? stuffed animals everywhere (most with names), floral bedsheets, walls covered in polaroids, a basket full of bath bombs and lip glosses, a pink bible sitting neatly on her nightstand next to a strawberry-scented candle.

texting style? way too many exclamation marks, hearts everywhere, sends pictures of cute animals she finds on pinterest and captions them "us!!!!"

she genuinely thinks the best of everyone. like, painfully trusting. (rafe lowkey gets mad sometimes because she’s too nice to random people.)

she can be clueless in the cutest way — like not realizing when someone’s flirting with her or not understanding dirty jokes right away. ("wait... why is everyone laughing??")

she’s the type to ask rafe shyly if he thinks she’s “pretty enough” or “good enough” and when he teases her, she’ll get all teary-eyed thinking he means it seriously. (and then he feels terrible and kisses all over her face while she hiccups.)

she smells like strawberries, sugar cookies, and pink frosting.

BAMBI!READER

(the bookish sweetheart who smells like pumpkin candles and rain.)

she's the definition of cozy — her whole life is like an eternal fall afternoon. she drinks tea out of chipped mugs, wears oversized cardigans that swallow her whole, and leaves a trail of leaves wherever she goes.

gilmore girls is basically her personality. she quotes it without realizing, she always insists jess was the best option (she will give you an hour-long lecture about why rory messed up), and her dream is to live in a little house in a tiny town like stars hollow.

she loves her books more than most people. her bookshelf is overflowing — the bell jar (with notes scribbled all inside), crime and punishment, little women, wuthering heights, pride and prejudice.

she’s a total margin writer — hearts, underlines, little doodles and quotes she loves written in tiny handwriting. sometimes she writes "this made me think of you" next to passages and gives the book to rafe, blushing furiously the whole time. (he tries to read them... but usually falls asleep halfway and just listens to her explain them instead.)

she's obsessed with old bookstores. the smell of old paper and dust makes her giddy. she swears used books have more "soul." she’ll drag rafe along and spend hours picking through shelves, coming out with a stack of battered paperbacks and a starry-eyed smile.

she’s outdoorsy but not like sporty — more like picnic baskets, laying in fields, collecting wildflowers, saving earthworms off the sidewalk after it rains.

she has an entire tote bag dedicated to "book picnics" where she brings a blanket, her latest read, a notebook, and like three types of tea.

if she sees a stray cat or dog, it's over — she's crying and trying to coax it into her car with snacks. (rafe had to ban her from bringing home "every critter you find, bambi.")

she wears mary janes, loafers, pleated skirts, cozy sweaters layered over collared shirts. always with a messy bun, or her hair pinned back with little clips she picked up from thrift stores.

favorite activities? walking through trails when the leaves change color, baking pumpkin bread, annotating books late at night while a record spins in the background, yelling about fictional characters to rafe who pretends to listen but is really just admiring how cute she looks when she’s mad.

she’s a history nerd — if you get her started on ancient rome, world war ii, or victorian england, you’ll be there for hours. she thinks museums are romantic dates.

her dream gift is a rare edition of her favorite book. she would absolutely cry if rafe ever found her a first edition of anything.

she smells like cinnamon, vanilla, and fresh paper.

when she’s sad, she’ll wrap herself in three blankets, put on you've got mail or little women, and cry quietly while rereading her favorite comfort books.

her flirting is so accidental — she'll get all passionate about some character in a book and then realize she's been playing with rafe's sleeve or leaning too close into his space. (and rafe eats it up, pretending he doesn't notice but secretly loving it.)

she always thinks about little poetic things — like "this breeze feels like something from an emily dickinson poem" or "this sunset looks like the color of my favorite chapter in little women."

PUPPY!READER

(the bubbly, hyper little thing who just wants to be loved and played with all day.)

puppy!reader is all energy and excitement — always bouncing on the balls of her feet, twirling her hair around her finger, or playing with the sleeve of rafe’s hoodie because she just can’t sit still.

she’s so giggly — like, everything is funny to her. she’s the kind of girl who laughs so hard at her own jokes that she can’t even finish telling them.

she’s extremely affectionate — literal touch-starved puppy behavior. she clings to rafe's arm, wraps herself around him like a koala, nuzzles into his chest and makes tiny happy noises like she's purring when he plays with her hair.

she talks a lot, fast and breathless, sometimes changing subjects mid-sentence because her brain is moving a mile a minute. rafe just listens with a little smirk, letting her ramble about everything under the sun.

cat valentine coded — super sweet voice, a little high-pitched, always saying things that don't totally make sense ("rafe, do you think clouds get sad when it rains??")

she gets overwhelmed easily — too many people or too much noise makes her cling tighter to rafe’s shirt and go all wide-eyed, like a scared puppy at a firework show.

scent? cotton candy, lemon sugar, and those fruity body sprays you can only get from a tween store at the mall.

she loves snacks — always carrying gummy bears, lollipops, or little bags of chips in her purse like a kid at a sleepover.

she needs praise constantly — if rafe tells her she did a good job or that she looks pretty, she literally beams so hard it could light up the whole room.

crying style? full-on sniffles, watery eyes, little whimpering noises — and she hates when rafe sees her cry because she thinks it’ll make him mad. (he never is, he just scoops her up and rocks her gently until she calms down.)

she’s incredibly loyal — once she loves someone, that's it, forever and ever. she’ll defend rafe like a rabid little chihuahua if anyone dares talk bad about him.

texting style? voice memos (because she’s too excited to type), a million emojis (especially hearts and stars), dramatic “RAFFFFE BABY LOOK!!!” texts with random screenshots or memes she thinks are funny.

she pouts when she doesn’t get her way — big watery puppy eyes, bottom lip sticking out, tugging at the sleeve of rafe’s jacket until he caves in.

she’s a human golden retriever — ridiculously trusting, eager to please, always wagging her metaphorical tail.

she loves anything cozy — fuzzy socks, giant sweatshirts (especially stealing rafe’s), snuggling under huge piles of blankets and peeking out like a little creature.

she names everything — her plants, her car, her favorite lip gloss. she even named the stray cat she feeds every afternoon (even though it's technically not hers).

she’s the type to squeal and jump into rafe's arms the second she sees him, even if they were just apart for like, ten minutes.

naivety level? she genuinely believes rafe when he jokingly tells her she needs a license to eat cotton candy because it's “too powerful for civilians.”

she always smells like fresh laundry, cotton candy, and sunshine.

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euphemiaamillais · 1 year ago

Text

cry, kill, die - coriolanus snow

peacekeeper!coryo finds out you’re commander hoff’s daughter

based on this ask

cw: 18+//piv sex//fingering//spitting//mentions of guns

‘and what are you doing here?’ a rich voice rings out.

you snap your head around, coming face to face with one of the many peacekeepers who serve under your father. this one is more handsome than the others—icy blue eyes, and platinum blonde cropped hair. a smile quirks upon the corners of your lips.

‘is that any of your business?’ you inquire, knowing that you can test the patience of the peacekeepers, because who would dare to cross the commander’s daughter?

‘what, are you visiting your sweetheart, bunny?’ he teases, though there’s a rather stern look in his eyes.

you laugh in response, and attempt to continue on your way—you’ve got a meeting with your father, after all. however, you are stopped by a hand coming down to circle around your wrist. his grip is tight, and disgruntled, you turn back to face him.

‘come on, you don’t have to be so shy. there’s lots of girls like you here. little bunnies who like to spread their favours far and wide.’ he raises a brow suggestively. you can hardly believe he has the audacity.

you don’t know whether you should tell him who you are, or if you should just leave it. he’s not loosened his grip on you. you’re not sure how to answer it either.

‘are you accusing me of being a whore, private?’ you feign a shocked look. he laughs, running his hand up your arm. his touch is cold, like ice, and you shiver a little.

‘perhaps…’ a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. ‘maybe it’s the fact that you’re looking at me like that, just begging to be fucked.’

‘oh, really?’ you rebut—he’s so forward, like most of them are, but you’d never think they’d dare to actually touch you. not more than a few stray kisses at least.

‘now, are you going to be a good girl, and come back to my bunk?’ he says, a tone of dominance in his voice. his fingers are striking his rifle, which catches your eye.

‘perhaps…’ you purse your lips. you don’t know what would happen if your father found you getting too friendly with one of his men, and you didn’t exactly want to find out. but this one was so handsome… you liked how daring he was.

‘perhaps? come now, bunny. that’s not a very good answer, is it?’ he steps closer to you, his gun pressing against your bare thighs.

you shake your head, glancing up at him with wide eyes. he’s so tall, dwarfing you—it makes him all the more commanding. he moves to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

‘you’re going to be a good girl for me, aren’t you?’ his breath is hot against your ear, and you feel a flush creeping up your cheeks.

‘well, only if you can please me, private,’ you murmur, causing a flash of anger in his eyes. nobody dared to challenge his abilities in bed.

he would prove that to you, bend you over like the little whore you are, fuck you stupid until you couldn’t even cry out your own name. he did that often enough to the other bunnies that hopped around the barracks, hoping for a good time. he was very well practised now, not like the silly little schoolboy that he was back in the capitol with his golden curls and academy rouge.

‘if?’ he laughs, snaking one hand around to grab your ass. ‘not if, sweetheart. when.’

god, he was so full of himself.

deciding that he didn’t want to waste anymore time fooling around, he pulls you by the arm and began to lead you along the dirt track to the barracks. you glance around, watching as the uniformed peacekeepers march their way to large trucks or to training. it’s an all-too familiar site, ever since your father was stationed to 12. you’d have to be careful with this one, though. he was too handsome to be transferred to another district if you were caught.

the barracks are empty when you enter, and he doesn’t take his time with you, shoving you against the wall. he shoves one leg between your thighs, pinning you so you can’t run free. you feel your heart leap with excitement.

he leans in and presses a kiss to your lips—which you return eagerly. you slip your tongue inside his mouth, and move your hands to wrap around his neck. you’re desperate; you can’t help but ache for him, core wet and slick with want.

he moves his lips from your own, and trails hot kisses down your neck, sucking and nipping the delicate skin as he does so. you gasp out, clutching at the nape of his neck, urging him to bite harder. you’ll have to wear a scarf to hide these from your father.

‘so sweet, bunny,’ he mutters into your collarbones.

your hands roam to his ass, pulling him flush against you. you can feel his hard-on pressing against your thighs. you want him so bad, to take you and fuck you like the whore you are—cock filling out your tight cunt.

‘please,’ you whine, wanton and needy. ‘need you to fill me up.’

so direct, he thinks, a grin playing upon his lips. you look so pretty, pressed between his leg, hands grasping at his ass. what a fucking whore, begging him for it. he’s hardly even touched you and you’re already whining for him.

‘soon, bunny.’ he peppers a few kisses against your jaw, hands gripping at your hips.

you let out a mewl, fed up that he’s teasing you so much—he’s not even had the decency to stick his hand between your thighs. aggrieved, you grind down against his thigh, your soaked panties leaving a mark on his perfectly ironed uniform. that would be cause for some explaining to the laundress.

‘oh no,’ he puckers his lips. ‘don’t think you can get away with that… being so impatient.’

you scowl as he moves his thigh away, letting your legs fall to the ground. you stumble a little, trying to find your balance, but he’s quick to tug you along to one of the empty bunks. you wonder what your father would do, finding you in here with him—the peacekeeper who’s name you don’t even know—the thought of being caught makes it all the more thrilling.

he shoves you against the side of the bed, and rucks up your skirt to reveal your soaking panties. he laughs, looking at your pathetic face, trembling lips and wide, dumbfound eyes.

‘so fucking desperate,’ he remarks, kneeling and placing his hands against your thighs. ‘just another one of the little bunnies who likes to get fucked senseless.’

you shake your head, feeling his cold hands creep up your thighs. they latch around the waistband of your panties and tug them down.

‘god, look how wet you are,’ he scoffs, tossing the panties aside.

he slides one finger inside your cunt, and you let out a groan, hands clenching against the woollen sheets. a little daring, he slips another finger in, arching it as far as it can go. it feels so good, and he thrusts them in and out of your wet hole at a teasingly slow pace. goddamn him.

‘need you,’ you pant. ‘in me. please…’

you pout, hoping he’ll take pity on you. he slides his fingers out, gripping your thighs hard. more bruises. you’ll have a lot of explaining to do to your father.

‘does bunny want me to fill up her tight little cunt?’ he asks, fingers pinching at your skin.

‘yes please,’ you sigh, clutching at his shirt.

you attempt to pull him up, coax him to you. you wonder when he’ll figure it out… that he’s seen you before, standing beside your father in a pale pink dress, watching as the peacekeepers eye you. commander hoff’s daughter is supposed to be off limits. he’d shoot any of them on site if he caught them so much as ogle your pretty form making its way through the barracks.

he hangs over you now, elbows propping himself up as he grinds his crotch into the bed. your hands roam down to his waistband, and you stick your hand inside, palming his hard cock. he lets out a heavy groan, and you feel the precum coating his cock.

‘gonna fuck you so good,’ he grunts, hands going to unbutton his pants.

his cock is throbbing when you take it in your hand, guiding it to your entrance. he’s not the first you’ve been with—not that your father knows that—but he’s certainly the biggest. you sigh pleasantly as he slides himself in, not taking any time to ease into your cunt.

he begins to thrust, feeling your tight walls stretch around him, taking him all in. you reach one hand down to rub at your clit, which is aching with need. he slaps your hand away, seeing you touching yourself—it’s an insult to his abilities—and uses his thumb to rub soft circles on the sensitive nub.

‘harder,’ you plead, grabbing his ass and pushing him in; feeling the tip of his cock poking against your cervix.

‘what a dirty fuckin’ slut, huh?’ he coos, upping his pace. ‘begging me to fuck you like a little whore.’

you let out a groan as you feel him begin to pound you, each thrust increasing the pace. his fingers still rub deftly at your clit, which throbs with pleasure. you do have to admit; he is so good.

‘mhm…’ you sigh, head lolling back as he fucks you. ‘my father will kill you if he finds out.’

you decide to tell him—it’s too late for him to back out now, what, buried deep inside your cunt. he’s too struck by pleasure to think straight, at first, and so his answer is to merely laugh.

‘yeah? who’s he? don’t think he can tell a peacekeeper what to do,’ he grunts, cock pulsing with pleasure. god, you feel so good.

‘oh…’ a slight giggle escapes your lips, and you run your hand over his lower back. ‘you don’t know?’

he rears his head up, perplexed, brows furrowed. he’s still rutting into you, and you can see the shiny sweat beading on his forehead, his blue eyes glistening with confusion.

‘hm, bunny?’ he inquires.

‘well…’ an impish grin scampers across your lips. you trace circles in his skin. ‘you were wondering why i was here…’

he comes to a halt, causing you to frown. the expression on his face is one of pained loss of pleasure—having to cease his thrusts to clear his mind—and also slight fear, not that he’d never admit it. no, you couldn’t be. but he can see it, the eyes, the curve of your nose. you’re hoff’s daughter. of course. the one with the overly-friendly smile, who liked to wear her skirts too short as she waltzed past the peacekeepers.

‘oh bunny,’ he clucks his tongue in a scolding manner. ‘what would your father do if he knew you were begging for my cock like a little whore?’

your cheeks burn red, and he begins to thrust again. somehow, this has made him want you all the more. to have him see you being ruined by one of his own men—that would remind him that private snow was capitol. not just some pathetic district runt like the rest of the peacekeepers.

he pulls your legs up around his shoulders, adjusting the angle of his cock, and fucks into you like a common whore. you gasp at the feeling of his cock hitting the right spot—and you feel waves of pleasure coursing through your body, cunt throbbing and clenching around his big cock.

‘such a fucking slut, huh?’ he groans, feeling himself close to his peak. ‘taking peacekeeper cock while your daddy sits in his office just out there.’

you let out a moan, clutching at his shoulders while he pounds you. you look like a such a whore, tits bouncing, cunt so fucking wet for him. how fucking pathetic. who would’ve thought commander hoff’s daughter took cock so well?

‘mhm!’ you gasp, slickness gushing from your cunt. nobody’s ever made you finish just by using their cock.

‘so good,’ he grunts, thrusts growing haggard as he nears his end.

your body is humming with adrenaline, the waves of your orgasm still coursing through your veins. he moves one hand up to your cheek, coaxing your mouth open. you oblige, and as he gives a fucked-out thrust into your cunt, spits into you mouth.

‘swallow,’ he manages to murmur out as he spills into you.

your cunt is filled with hot, sticky spurts of cum as he finishes, and you obediently swallow his spit. it makes your cunt throb with excess desire, and you have to bite your lip to stop another moan from spilling out.

‘fuck… so good,’ he groans as he slips out of you, his hot load dripping down your thighs.

he tucks himself back into his trousers, and goes to sit down beside you. you’re splayed out, cunt exposed and dripping from his load. you look so pretty, completely fucked dumb, eyes wide with the excess of your want.

‘what’s your father going to say about this?’ he laughs, rubbing his hand against your aching cunt. your body tenses up from the overstimulation.

‘he’d probably have you shot,’ you muster out, propping yourself up on your elbows.

he laughs, a rich sound escaping his mouth. you reach to grab your panties, which are bundled up on the sheets, still wet. he reaches out and stops your hand with his own, taking the panties from you. you pout, and try to reach for them back.

‘oh, i don’t think so,’ he remarks cruelly, tucking them in his back pocket. ‘something to remember you by.’

he presses a kiss against your cheek—you can’t help but blush even though your heart pounds at the thought of having to walk back to your house with no underwear.

‘please…’ you plead, bottom lip trembling. ‘i can’t walk home like this… my skirt…’

he shakes his head and chuckles, looking at you like you’re his. you shove your skirt down, ashamed to be laying like this.

‘i don’t think whores get much of a say in things,’ he cajoles, eyes glistening a little manically.

he delights in the thought of you being humiliated, having to pretend like you didn’t just get your brains fucked out by a peacekeeper. he wonders what would happen if the wind decided to blow the wrong way…

‘i’ll tell my father about this!’ you threaten, but he only laughs again and throws his hands up in defence.

‘and let him know that you were so desperate that you let a peacekeeper fuck you?’ he scoffs. ‘i don’t think so, bunny.’

you feel your heart splintering a little—but two could play at that game, you supposed. you weren’t going to let him snap you up in his net.

‘you can come get them back next time,’ he grins.

your brows quirk up. you hadn’t intended on this happening again… but he was so handsome. and his cock was… well, huge. you did have to admit he was good. very good.

‘next time?’ your mouth rounds into a look of surprise.

‘oh yes, next time.’

#coriolanus snow #tom blyth #tbosbas #coriolanus snow x reader #hunger games #smut #coryo x reader #the hunger games #coryo smut #the hunger games x reader #tbosbas x reader #female x reader #x reader #coriolanus snow smut #tbosbas fanfic #tbosbas smut #fanfic #drabble #request

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wildfloweretbarley · 1 month ago

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Tuesday Rush — C.B.

Wherein Carmy defends your honour

fem!cashier!reader x carmen berzatto

warnings: substances, violence, sexual harassment swearing (its the Bear so obviously)

AN: first fic!! im so nervous please be nice i will take any and all constructive feedback i love you

A bunch of jackasses.

That’s who enters the Beef of Chicago this sunny Tuesday morning.

You can smell the remnants of booze and blunts on their grimy shirts over the hot greasy smell emanating from the kitchen to your left. Their obnoxious whooping and shouting pierces through the previously quiet front of house.

Working at register in this part of Chicago, you’ve met your fair share of… characters. So, these four clowns aren’t an anomaly for you.

“Good Morning,” you say through gritted teeth, feigning cheer, “Welcome to the Beef of Chicago; what can I getcha?”

“Hey, sweetheart.” one of the men says, stretching and slurring his syllables. Leaning over the counter, his face is so close to yours you can practically taste last night’s partying (and repercussions). His eyes conspicuously drag over your face and to your chest.

Slimy.

You purse your lips, shuffling back.

“Let me get two Original Beefs, and, uh, two garlic fries for the trimmer gents with me” The two heavier set men erupt in cacophonous laughter. The other three men seem to have noticed the real-live woman taking their orders at the counter, and begin to make eyes at each other while you ring up their buddy’s order.

You clench your jaw, “Coming right up.”

As you turn to give the orders to the kitchen, you hear wolf whistles and boisterous laughter behind your back.

“Man I’m telling you, females who look like that are just begging for some dick.”

Laughter.

“I’d love to smash that ass.”

“Whether she want to or not!” All four of them laugh with their chest. The hairs on the back of your neck stand tall. You pretend to not hear them as you wait for their sandwiches in the doorway of the kitchen.

Looking around, you admire the efficiency Carmy has achieved in there.

You see him in the back corner, poring over some notebook, deep in conversation with Sydney.

You must’ve been looking too long, as his eyes lock onto yours. You give him a swift smile and he returns it to you. He’s softer with you, since you’re not kitchen staff.

“Cash, let’s go, here’s your fuckin’ order,” Richie shouts—although, that seems to just be his regular volume—“Hey, cousin! Stop eye-fucking our cashier and get to fuckin’ work!”

Carmy’s cheeks rouge as he argues with Richie. Rolling your eyes, you take the tray of sandwiches to the men at the counter. You’re dealing with enough egomaniacal jackasses out front; you don’t need to hear them in the back, too.

You place the tray at the pickup station and ring the little bell to indicate their order is up. The men take the food outside to eat so they can smoke, too. After watching them leave, you pull out your phone to kill time before the lunchtime hustle.

“Princess,” you look up, raising an eyebrow. The man who ordered the food has returned and scans over your frame, licking his lips (ew.) “Yeah, you, babe. What do you say you and me go to dinner. I’ll treat you good, baby, and you know… we could get up to something.” He winks. You almost gag.

He’s big, though; and probably less than sober. You feel uneasy as the only person out front.

He goes to touch your arm, saying some other degrading and disgusting “pick up”.

You take a startled step back.

“Listen, dude, I don’t want to get dinner, man. I don’t want problems,” you find yourself saying.

He raises his voice “There ain’t problems, baby. Now if you’d stop being a bitch and—“

The kitchen door swings and out through it comes Carmy.

He runs his hands through his hair. You can’t help but take note of his biceps in his less-than-loose t-shirt. He begins, “Hey, Cash. Don’t listen to Richie, he’s… an idiot. I wasn-“

“Hey asshole!” Oh right. Romeo over here is still trying to get some. “Can you fuck off and let me talk to my fucking bitch!?”

Carmy’s eyes widen as his lips press into a thin line. He places his hands on his hips, “Cash, you know this clown?”

“No. He just starte-“

“Fuck you, bitch! You fuckin’ know me. Dressing like a fucking slut wanting any corner of the street man to fuck you—“

The last syllables of whatever offences he was spewing are lost as Carmy’s fist drives into the man’s teeth.

You barely process it as it happens. Your phone clatters onto the counter from the slack caused by the shaking of your hands.

What the fuck is going on?

Carmy has circled around the counter and is beating the tar out of the man.

You hear both men grunting as they struggle against each other. It’s clear the man is all bite, no bark. Carmy, however, seems to be bite, bark, scratch, rabies, everything.

“Don’t—” punch, “fuckin’—“ liver shot, “talk—“ ouch, got him in the teeth, “to—“ and with one final shove, “my fuckin’ staff that way.”

Spluttering, gripping his mouth, the man stumbles out of The Beef, lurching as he gets through the door.

Carmy turns to you, eyebrows knit and face laced with concern.

“Carm…” you whisper, “What the fuck was that?”

He exhales through his nose as wipes his bloodied knuckles on the end of his navy apron. His eyebrows knit together.

“I’m sorry—“ he starts, walking towards you”—that was… aggressive, and unprofessional, and wholly inappro-“

You cut him off by wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Thank you.”

Nervously, his hand trails up your spine, up between your shoulder blades.

“For you, Cash? Anything.”

Fin

#mariewrites #the bear #carmy berzatto #carm berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy x reader #carmy x fem!reader #carmy x gn!reader #carmen berzatto fanfic #carmy the bear #carmen berzatto fanfiction #richie jerimovich #sydney adamu #jeremy allen white #ayo edebiri #the bear series

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borrelia · 1 month ago

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shadow showing up at rouges place to mope around and be miserable near his friend (bad mental health day)(got triggered) and rouge says okay well. be useful. sit here in the light and let me practice some eye makeup on you. if it turns out bad, you can take it off. if it's good, you can wear it out with me. theres a gallery opening tonight she wants to attend, free champagne and hors d'oeuvres and hopefully some pretty ladies with expensive jewelry and open purses. shadow agrees to go with her and borrows some clothes for the occasion. he gets to see some art and watch rouge steal and get complimented on his makeup and have a good time.

#myaa #my tuoys

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Title: Azure Haze.

Pairing: Yandere!Dottore x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 0.9k.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Controlling Behavior, Manipulation, and Psychological Abuse.

[Commissioned piece. Donate to Palestinians in Gaza here.]

You’d never taken Dottore for the marrying type.

Not to imply that he was more of a rouge romantic, either, or dedicated enough to the Tsaritsa and her grand machinations to be married to his work, although he did clearly have a passion for experimentation. As a foot soldier, little more than a glorified errand-runner for the higher-ranking officers, you used to think of him (and the other Harbingers, by association) as almost god-like – gifted by your archon with eternal life and distorted by the weight of his many centuries, made too divine to ever feel tethered to something so intrinsically human. When you’d worked more closely to his side, you’d seen him as more demonic than anything; emotive but malicious by nature, uninterested in those beyond the part they played in the progression of his studies.

You wondered, sometimes, if his treatment of you was all a part of some elaborate, prolonged experiment. You wouldn’t put it beyond him, even if it did seem a little less gory than his usual whims. The heartlessness of it fit, though.

If Dottore could be relied on to be anything, it was cruel.

The ring, itself, is surprisingly unoffensive. You turn it over once, then twice in your hand, running the pad of your index finger over the sleek, silver metal. A pinpoint of sapphire glints up at you from where it’s nestled into the unornamental base, and a part of you is thankful that it’s not something more ostentatious, that he hadn’t committed to his musings on palm-sized diamonds and gold so pure and so polished, the archons would be able to see it from their thrones in Celestia. Another, disparate faction can only be devastated that it would take so little for him to claim you so completely.

“Is it not to your taste, love?” Dottore, your soon-to-be betrothed, asks. He’s positioned himself strategically, in spite of the limited space; on the other side of the exhibition table, allowing you just enough distance to breathe, but remaining between you and the door to the jewelry shop’s only private consultation room, ensuring you wouldn’t be able to run, not without passing him. The jeweler is mysteriously absent, but you can’t be surprised. Dottore has never been especially possessive, but he seems to prefer it when your attention remains undivided. “There are several more options, if you find my preferences lacking.”

Your eyes fall to the neat line of ring boxes on display in front you. Some are more gaudy than others, but they’re all silver, all studded with the same vibrant sapphires. Your gaze catches on one with curved, pointed teeth locking a roughly cut gem into place, then fall back to your lap. “Are you going to pick one out?”

His response comes in the form of a quick shake of his head, a coy smile. “Jewelry tends to get in the way of lab work. I’ll have to find another way to show my affection – a breastpin, perhaps, or a scale replica of your heart mounted on the wall of my office.”

You try to summon the revulsion you once had for his grisly humor, but fail to feel anything at all. At least he only claimed to want a replica, this time. “I won’t have to wear mine, then, will I?”

“You will.” His tone leaves no room for debate, but he continues regardless. “Unless you want me to remove your ring fingers and ensure it remains on a part of you myself, that is.”

You swallow dryly. “Both ring fingers?”

“One can never be too thorough.”

You purse your lips. Your fingers twitch once, then twice before dropping the ring in your hand and taking up another from its bed of velvet. The base on your newest selection is unique – crafted in disparate, thorned bands to make it seem as if it’d been made from braided vines, a pair of softly curling leaves encircling the jewel bed. It’s the gem that holds you, though; a shade lighter than the others when it catches the light, closer to a ruddy aquamarine than pure, never-ending blue. You slide it in front of Dottore before you can think better of it. “This one.”

To his credit, his smile doesn’t waver. “Are you sure? The gem is—”

“I’m sure,” you cut him off, almost breathlessly. “I… I like the color. I think it’s charming.”

He takes another moment to evaluate the ring, and then, to evaluate you – fighting not to shake in your seat. Finally, with an airy sigh, he shakes his head, his grin taking on a softened note. “Of course, love. Whatever makes you happiest.”

Measurements are jotted, the ring taken in for resizing with promises of swift craftsmanship. Days later, one of Dottore’s foot soldiers (and your former colleague) delivers a small, gold-foil wrapped box to you – a note from your dearly betrothed attached. You throw away the note without reading it and tear the box open. On a bed of cerulean velvet sat a silver ring of braided thorns, adorned with a single—

You let out a shallow, shuddering breath, tears already welling in the corners of your eyes.

A silver ring, adorned with a single, glimmering stud of the purest, darkest sapphire you’d ever seen.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagines #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin #yandere dottore #dottore x reader

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grenadehearts · 2 months ago

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you're so gorgeous, i can't say anything to your face!

authors note: e.kirishima x f!reader.. (yes the title is referencing a taylor song) m.list here and commissions are open!

You were utterly infatuated with the muscled redhead who had just waltzed into the bar, the purple hue of the strobe lights dancing beautifully across his tan skin.

And when you saw the scars adorning his arms and hands, you knew you were fucked.

As if that wasn’t enough, he just had to stalk his way toward you—long legs, long strides, straight in your direction.

Oh, and you were totally not prepared. Your hands were clammy, your eyeliner was definitely smudged—shit—and he was getting closer. Panicked, you shot up from your seat, drink in hand, and sprinted to the bar, away from your booth.

"Fuck."

The curse left your lips just as your drink sloshed over, spilling all over the man in front of you. And when you looked up—oh, you were sure God himself had turned this into your own personal hell. Because there, standing in the flesh, was the red-haired, muscle-bound man.

A string of muttered "please kill me, please kill me, please kill me" spilled from your lips as he leaned down, cocking his head to the side.

"What was that?"

And when you looked up—thump.

You bumped heads with him, the sound somehow audible over the crowded, loud room.

Yep. You were definitely never leaving your house after this.

Instead of saying sorry—or even acknowledging him—you turned and ran.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you speed-walked away from this stupidly gorgeous man.

But persistent, he was.

He jogged after you, fingers wrapping around your forearm. "Miss!" he called, voice firm but not unkind.

You twisted, trying to slip away, but in your haste, your heel snapped.

And down you went.

You barely registered the pain in your ankle before you hit the floor, your purse spilling open, its contents scattering across the ground.

And—oh, my god—before you could even get your bearings, before the hot, wet tears threatening to spill could even be blinked away, there he was.

All 6 foot of him, crouched in front of you, rough, calloused hands carefully gathering your scattered belongings. His brow furrowed in concentration, and—fuck—he looked gorgeous.

And you? You couldn’t even speak.

Then, as if the universe wasn’t already cruel enough, he turned to face you, kind yet devastatingly beautiful as he offered you a hand.

And the dummy—the stupid, terrible, awkward dummy—you were, you covered your face.

But, annoyingly perfect as he was, he simply placed his hands over yours, his voice impossibly gentle as he asked, "Is this okay?" before slowly moving your hands away from your face.

And then, the final nail in the coffin:

"You’re so pretty. Don’t hide yourself."

And just like that, you lost it.

Wet, heavy tears spilled down your cheeks, leaving you looking like a raccoon—flushed cheeks, pink nose—and you were sure a snot bubble just escaped as you hiccuped.

His face turned beet red as he sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. "Um… uh, shit. I’m sorry. Did I—did I do something? I’m—uh, not really this forward, and uh—" He trailed off, looking at your sniffling, snot-nosed mess of a face before groaning, palming his own face with a dramatic sigh.

"Oh no, I’m such a douchebag," he muttered into his hand. "You’re in such a vulnerable moment, and I just—geez, man, I’m sorry. But you were just so pre—"

Before he could finish, you scooted closer, cradling his rough, calloused hands in your softer ones. His shirt was still damp from the drink you’d spilled on him, but you didn’t care. You gently pulled his hands away from his face and murmured, "Don’t hide yourself, too, cute."

And yeah, maybe you were never this forward. Maybe it was the drinks.

Or maybe… just maybe, it was because he had seen you sprawled on the floor—a pathetic, heaving mess—and still called you pretty.

His eyes widened, the dark rouge of them deepening, as a blush spread across his face. Then, to your utter surprise, he ducked his head and buried his face into the crook of your neck, letting out a muffled groan.

You giggled.

Then, the voice low, warm his breath brushing against your ear, as he mumbled:

"I’m Ejiro Kirishima."

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azsazz · 3 months ago

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Infest (Part 2)

Stalker!Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel is on assignment to watch over you. He really really likes you.

Warnings: Stalking, mentions of guns.

Word Count: 2,116

(Part One)

_________________________________________

You’re sound asleep, and Azriel’s never felt more awake.

It’s been an hour and sixteen minutes since you stumbled back home without a care for your surroundings and your phone falling halfway out of your purse.

Azriel kept his distance, as he always does. As he was told to do. He’s always been a good soldier. Never gone rouge. Never abandoned a soldier even when he maybe should have. His finger has never slipped from the trigger.

There’s something about you that makes him want to, though. Remove his finger from the trigger just to run it down the slope of your jaw, tuck that piece of hair back behind your ear that falls dangerously close to your soft, parted lips.

You barely made it home. Barely made it out of your costume that sits in a crumpled pile on the floor, heels kicked off in two different directions and red cape draped over one of the posters of your bed. He can hear the snores of your friend Cassian from the living room, each rumble of his chest grates on his ears, the serenity he usually has when he stands at the foot of your bed and watches you sleep.

Cassian is a fly buzzing in his ear, is what he is. He could barely hold himself up better than you, and he wasn’t in seven-inch platform heels that looked as heavy as cinder blocks. Azriel wondered if he was going to have to scrape you off the sidewalk if your friend tripped and took you down. At least his mission would most likely be over.

But there’s something about spending his days and nights watching over you, waiting for the inevitable other shoe—heel—to drop, that keeps his head screwed on straight, keeps him calm. Keeps him ready.

His eyes trail your body again. Arm folded up beneath your pillow, the other resting over your side. The fabric of your sheets draped barely over that sinful red bow tied at the waistband of your panties. The oversized shirt you managed to wrangle yourself into hides the curve of your breast, the smooth skin of your stomach and shoulders that he wants to sink his teeth into to taste.

You didn’t have it in yourself to scrub the makeup from your face. After a pit stop at the local late night pizza joint with your friends, you parted with Cassian in tow, bright-eyed and giggling about your favorite rom-com you were going to force him to watch. Your favorite. You’ve watched it nine and a half times since Azriel started assignment.

If he never hears Matthew McConaughey’s voice again it will be too soon.

He stays by his spot at the end of your bed. Watching. Never touching. He hasn’t even lain himself upon your cozy looking comforter, the one scrunched between your legs right now, hasn’t slipped between the sheets and held you to the mattress like he’s thought about.

There will be time for that.

You shift, murmuring something incoherent beneath your breath, and roll, taking the silky sheets with you. Azriel watches for a long moment, counts in his head the time it takes you to sigh, for your shoulders to ease as you fall back into that heavy slumber.

He strolls lightly to the window, dodging abandoned jeans, a yoga mat that he’s never seen you unroll, but he uses when you’re otherwise occupied. There’s a pair of well-worn slippers that he avoids, along with a shoebox stuffed with photos you dug out of your closet and never put away.

Your apartment is lived in. Azriel’s not sure he can remember a time where he had things that would clutter his room. His life has been hospital corners on beds and a gun tucked under his pillow. Fully geared up while he slept on the cold, hard ground. Leaning up against a wall with a gun cradled to his chest. He would never have photos or trinkets that could compromise him, not that he has anyone nor anything that could be used against him. He is a solid, steel trap of apathy.

A void.

The sky is dark with cloud cover, no moon in sight. He scans the skyscrapers that surround your apartment, searching for any signs of movement. It brings him back to his time in the military, scoping out perimeters, keeping an eye out for snipers. He hates the location of your apartment. Anyone in a higher level could peer into your open windows, because you always forget to close your curtains. If there were anyone like him out there, you’d already be dead.

Motion in the corner of his vision rips his gaze to the boulevard. Streetlights line the street, the second one from the corner flickers, going dark for one long second, and when it bursts back to its short-lived brightness, a figure stands below it.

Azriel recognizes the body in point one seconds flat.

His jaw grinds as he examines the figure. Arms crossed over his chest, sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button undone. One leg crossed over the other as he leans casually against the pole. He’s sure there’s a satisfied smirk on the pricks face, knowing that Azriel has clocked him in an instant, and is already making his way to the door like the well-trained hound he is.

It's easy to skirt the hibernating giant on your couch. Azriel shoots him a dirty look on the way out, just because he can. He reaches behind into the waistband of his pants, palming his pistol, the metal of the weapon a comfort against his hand.

He takes the stairs, never the elevator. Shoves his way out of the lobby door and scans the street quickly. Not a car in sight, not another soul besides the one still lounging beneath the light. If he had a soul, Azriel might be surprised.

The closer he gets, the wider that foxlike smile grows. The harsh, yellow glow makes his teeth look sharp. Amber eyes glow like hot coals as Azriel approaches, halting just outside the ring of light.

Azriel doesn’t start the conversation. He never does. He gets his assignments, makes his reports, and finishes the job. He doesn’t ask questions, and his boss doesn’t question him.

So, what the fuck is Eris doing here?

There’s a reason his boss chose Azriel for this particular assignment, because Eris would have already thrown a bag over your head and tossed you into the back of the sleek, black SUV parked at the corner and towed you back to the mansion. Azriel isn’t Eris, doesn’t think they share a single trait, and he’s never been grateful about anything in his life, but he sure is about that.

Eris’ eyes flicker to your apartment window and if it were possible, Azriel would still. He’s well-trained. He keeps still. Doesn’t let a sliver of the white-hot rage that flashes through his body reach the surface, even when Eris’ gaze seeps that familiar glimmer of wickedness.

“What were you doing up there?” His voice is silky, a prowl almost. He quirks a brow, and it’s always been his mission to try to get Azriel to crack. Not once has his little jibes worked. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping watch from your car?”

Azriel doesn’t respond, only stares at Eris.

If only he could unleash a bullet from the chamber and empty it in his pompous face.

Following a long beat, Eris releases an impatient exhale. He rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a surprise they don’t stick. A glimmer of pride builds into nothing more than a whisper of a hair dragging across Azriel’s skin. He plucks it away easily; lets it float away with the gentle breeze.

“It’s been over a month. Boss is getting antsy.”

Boss. As if it isn’t his father that’s one of the most powerful mafia dons on the east coast. As if he’s not his son.

“She hasn’t shown any signs of knowing,” Azriel gives him this. The same seven words the reports he’s sent back to his boss every week has contained.

“Maybe she knows you’re following her.”

Azriel’s features sharpen in the darkness. Hazel eyes narrowing a fraction. Muscle of his jaw popping. Lips thinning a hairsbreadth.

“She doesn’t know,” he refutes, tone monotonous. “She doesn’t know anything.” Not about him, not about the world he lives in, not about herself.

He’s beginning to think that this mission is a lost cause. That you’re not the girl they’re looking for. Azriel doesn’t give up on missions, he sees them through, and he’ll wait as long as he has to, as long as he’s told. It’s not like it’s a hardship watching over someone so pretty.

“You can’t tell me she’s flown under the radar for this long without slipping up,” Eris exhales in frustration, shoving himself from the lamp post. So quick to anger. If Azriel knew anything about choosing an heir to a mafia empire, Eris would not be the next in line. He wouldn’t even be fourth in line, the pretentious asshole.

But Azriel is just a soldier, a mercenary at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Perhaps it was the right place at the right time.

“Read my reports. They’ll tell you all you need to know.” Azriel beings to turn to head back to his post. He’s been gone for just over six minutes now, and he knows better than anyone how much can happen in such a short period of time.

As always, Eris opens his fucking mouth. “Your reports don’t say shit. One might think that you’re sleeping with her for Mothers—” He doesn’t see it coming. Doesn’t have the chance to get the last word out of his mouth before the muzzle of Azriel’s pistol is pinning his jaw shut.

“Want to say that again?” Azriel asks, voice gruff. He’s not fucking around. He never does. His hands aren’t trembling like Eris is in his grip. His finger is poised, steady on the trigger, waiting for the moment to pull.

He doesn’t care that he’s aiming a gun to his don’s son. Doesn’t give a fuck if Eris runs right home to tell daddy what he’s done. It’s not the first time Azriel has pulled a gun on the impatient heir, and it isn’t the last.

Right now, Eris is a compromise to his mission. You don’t leave his sight, yet he had to leave his watch post in order to entertain the amber-eyed fool that glares up at him. Fucking idiot.

Not even the harsh metal of Eris’ gun digging into the flesh just above Azriel’s hipbone does anything to strike fear into him. He’s felt worse.

“Get…the fuck off me, man,” Eris bites, carefully so he doesn’t trigger whatever hairline tripwire Azriel lives on. He’s a fucking psycho. Which is probably why his father employs the ex-military man.

Azriel’s credentials never fucking lie. He wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse if he pulled the trigger right now. Boss has six other sons, even if most of them don’t show any promise to take over the family business.

Well, maybe one. Azriel always keeps an eye on that one.

“Get the fuck out of here, Eris,” Azriel says, deathly calm. He releases the auburn-haired man who stumbles back like Azriel pushed him. “If you compromise my mission again, you won’t be so lucky.”

“Fuck you,” Eris spits. His gun is clutched tightly in his grip, white-knuckled. He won’t use it. Azriel wouldn’t be surprised if he’s never killed a person a day in his life. Privileged in a fucked-up world, but privileged nonetheless. Eris takes another step back, the darkness of the city block draping his shoulders in black. The familiar blacked-out SUV screeches to a halt at the curb. Azriel knows who’s driving, who sits passenger, and the number of guns pointed in his direction. Eris’ hand lands on the handle, he tosses one, final scathing look over his shoulder, pinning Azriel with the harshest look he can muster. It’s all for naught, since it doesn’t affect Azriel in the slightest. “He won’t wait forever, you know,” he spits, and climbs into the van.

Azriel watches the vehicle take off down the street before the door even closes behind Eris. The engine revs, and whoever is driving blows right through the stop sign.

Azriel watches until the taillights disappear from view, and then some, before he tucks his gun back into the waistband of his pants and treks his way back to your apartment.

He’ll wait however goddamn long Azriel wants him to wait.

_________________________________________

Taglist: @prettylittlewrites @ushijima-stits @peaceandcrackers @sveretrice

#azriel x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel/reader #stalker!azriel #dark romance!azriel #azriel fanfiction #modern!azriel au

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ameliathornromance · 4 months ago

Text

“Really (Y/N), look at this!” Your Siren boyfriend flapped his netted tail, spitting salty seawater into your face, as you worked to try and untie the net from around his fins.

Pausing in your work, you wiped your lips on your sleeve, your boyfriend sighed, cupping his face with his hand. “It’s fine that you all want to eat fish, it’s why we farm them the way we do, but at least pick up after yourselves!”

“Well… that’s why I do what I do,” you mumbled as you returned to unknotting the plastic rope.

If someone had told you a year ago, that you would be working on trying to free a Siren from the confines of an abandoned fishing net, you would have laughed in their face.

It was a ridiculous notion; Sirens weren’t real. Even if they were, it’s not like the charity you worked for would specialise in cleaning them up. Sirens were, by all accounts intelligent and – from your experience – seemed to be very good at not getting trapped by rouge plastic.

The charity only worked on helping animals who’d been caught up in freak oil spills and plastic that had been thrown into the ocean. Usually, you helped seagulls, pollock, mackerel, sea bass, halibut, tuna. You know, the regular creatures you find at sea.

Not giant half-man-half-fish things that got caught up in a net every month.

And it was always at the same time too, every Wednesday afternoon when you were doing your beach garbage patrol-

At that realisation, you stopped trying to undo the net. “Hey.” You said, sharply.

The Siren, who had been picking at the sand underneath his claws froze and looked at you, “yes bubbles…?” His voice trailed in a sing song.

Oh, so he knew he was in trouble. “You know I tell you to avoid these things,” you turned your head around to look at him, eyes narrowing. “You know what they look like, how dangerous they are to you and the rest of the ocean…”

As the edge grew in your voice, your Siren boyfriend seemed to shrink with each inflected syllable. “So why,” you glowered. “In God’s green earth, do you always end up caught in them?!”

If it weren’t for the fact that your boyfriend knew he needed to be set free of this net, he would have sunk back into the ocean below the docks you sat on, and given you his innocent puppy eyes he gave his victims.

He tried it then, big yellow eyes widening.

“Nu-uh, don’t give me that look you know you’re not supposed to be doing this!” You pointed a finger at him accusingly.

Casting a look down at his tail, he sighed. “I know.”

“You know I’ve got other animals to look out for as well right? You can’t be taking up all my time like this.” You sighed, “this is, what, the eighth net I’ve had to free you from?”

“How would I see you then?” The Siren asked.

Words caught in your throat, “w-what?”

Your Siren sighed, giving a slow swish of his tail, “I feel like the only time I ever see you is when you’re working. And even then, I can’t approach you and speak to you, because of the other people you work with.” He frowned, “… this is the only way I feel like I can see you, it’s not like I can call you on that weird metal block you have.”

He made the shape of your phone by shaping his thumbs and index fingers into Ls and joined them together at the tips of his fingers to make a rectangle shape.

Pursing your lips, you thought about what he’d said. Going over the past few months in your head, you understood what he meant.

There had been a huge oil spill a few months ago and the company who was responsible for it was run by a selfish old fart who refused to pay for the clean up, and only did so when the Government forced his hand.

Luckily, the workers who were responsible for the oil spill, had been more than willing to help in their spare time, and worked hard to clean up fish as well as pick up any plastic waste they found.

You had been stuck with training them, as well as trying to clean up reluctant seagulls and any other kinds of animals which had been caught up in the toxic hydrophobic liquid.

Gripping the loose net in your hands, you sighed. “...I’m sorry about that. I hadn’t realised that I’d been spending more time away from you. It’s just because of that oil and the new volunteers-”

Your Siren furrowed the skin above his eyes. “I understand why, bubbles. But, if we could make some kind of agreement to meet up regularly… that might work for the both of us. I could hide out and wait until you came, and you could come whenever you’ve got the time and we can see each other then!”

You smiled at that. “That sounds like a great idea. How about sunset every Friday? It would be nice to be able to see you on the best day of the week.”

The Siren returned your smile, long, pointed teeth in his mouth. “Okay! As long as you can make it every time.”

“I swear I’ll be able to.” You frowned, “why didn’t you just ask me to do that instead of doing this?” You held up the net.

Your Siren’s smile fell. “I… didn’t want to make a difficult decision for you. The ocean is important to the both of us, and I didn’t want to impede on your mission to help it so…”

“Choosing between you and work, will never be a difficult decision.” You told him firmly. “Both are important, but I value our relationship. It’s thanks to you that I’ve been able to pull out so many fishing nets from the ocean.” You held up the net, and your boyfriend gurgled out a laugh.

“I’ll keep bringing you more if I find any.” And with that, he shook his tail. And just like that, the net came loose and he was free.

You stared, shocked.

At your expression, your Siren gave a mischievous grin. “What? It’s not like I could have gotten here with it on my tail now, is it?”

Hi! Thank you so much for reading my story! If you like this kind of content, you should check out my Patreon! There, I post stories twice a week and earlier than I post on Tumblr. I also post exclusive stories there too where you won’t be able to find anywhere else.

If you’re not sure about signing up, I have a 7 day free trial enabled so you can see if you like my work written there!

Taglist <3

@sunndust @greenie-c

#monster lover #monster romance #monster x human #monster x reader #monster x you #monster x female #siren x reader #siren x you #siren x human #siren x human reader

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thedemonofcat · 5 months ago

Note

Geralt knows the marriage is necessary to ratify the treaty, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

It’s not that he’s against marriage in general or has anything against his new husband—Julian seems lovely. And that’s the real issue isn’t it? This lovely man has been pressured into a marriage with a witcher. Even though Geralt was accepted as a warlord, people still considered witchers more beast than man.

His new husband is probably terrified or disgusted with him.

At the very least, Geralt knows the other man is nervous. He can smell it in his scent, hear it in his heartbeat.

When they enter the wedding suite, Geralt says, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Pardon?”

“We don’t have to do anything. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Out of all possible reactions to his offer, Geralt hadn’t expected anger.

Julian seethes, saying, “Are you FUCKING kidding me?!? Do you know how fucking long it took to get into these clothes? How long it took them to paint my face? It takes HOURS to look this divine, and do I get any appreciation? No! The least you could do is tell me I’m pretty and fuck me like you mean it!”

Geralt blinked, completely stunned. He stared at Julian—no, Jaskier—as the man planted his hands on his hips and glared at him with enough fire to melt silver. For a long, awkward moment, Geralt could only process one thing: Jaskier did look divine.

His doublet, an elaborate creation in deep blue and gold hues, shimmered in the candlelight. His makeup—a touch of gold on his eyelids and the faintest hint of rouge on his cheeks—made him seem otherworldly, like some naughty fey prince. And his lips, painted the colour of ripe cherries, were currently pursed in absolute fury.

“You—” Geralt started, then faltered. His voice sounded rougher than he intended, so he cleared his throat. “You look—very nice?”

Jaskier groaned and threw his head back like a man the universe had deeply wronged. “Very nice? Very nice?! I didn’t spend all afternoon enduring the indignities of corsetry and the horrors of powder puff brushes to be called very nice.”

“I—uh—apologize?” Geralt mumbled

“Oh, don’t apologize, you big lummox!” Jaskier snapped, stepping closer and pointing an accusatory finger at Geralt’s chest. “I don’t want your apologies. I want your appreciation. I want you to look at me and see more than just the treaty we signed this morning. I want you to see me, the absolute vision of beauty that I am, and understand that I deserve at least a modicum of effort!”

Geralt blinked again, utterly lost. “I don’t… know what to say.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically and threw himself onto the edge of the bed, arms splayed wide. “Say, ‘Julian, you are the most enchanting creature I have ever seen in my long, miserable life.’ Say, ‘Julian, your beauty eclipses the stars.’ Say, ‘Julian, I would crawl through fire just to kiss your perfect lips.’ Is that so hard?”

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pasukiyo · 1 year ago

Text

DRUNK ON YOU

journalist!anakin skywalker x f!ice skater!reader word count; 4,344 warnings; unprotected p in v sex, verbal and physical abuse from an ice skating coach?, anakin may or may not be following reader idk who knows!! summary; ice skating has been her life for as long as she can remember. she's not sure why her head hasn't been in it lately, and her coach certainly has something to say about it. thank god the cute and awkward journalist anakin was there though, right?

“Have you forgotten how to land a fuckin’ axel?”

Cold bit into her palms and pain flared up the muscles of her thigh as she pushed herself onto her knees, lips agape as she panted. She’d fallen so hard, bile was beginning to brew at the base of her throat, burning the pipe.

“Hey, are you even fuckin’ listening to me?”

Her hands were starting to numb and she should really get herself up off the ice. She was creating a scene— although this was a private lesson, she knew there still remained one man in the stands, one who she could see’s gaze fleeting back and forth between her and the ground from her periphery. Normally, she’d care enough about her dignity to get herself up as if nothing had ever happened.

But she was just so tired, so frustrated. Her legs hurt like hell, her feet feeling like they’d pop off any moment now. And her son of a bitch of a coach’s voice was really starting to irritate her.

“Hey!” Speaking of her coach, she was skating her way, deep rouge lips pursed in vexation. Her eyelids fluttered themselves closed as she sighed, rolling her head back to hang towards the ground below.

Finally, she pushed herself off the ice, wiping her palms against her leggings and the moment she opened her eyes, her coach was in her face, fingers that weren’t her own tangled in the hair on the back of her head. She pressed her lips together to stifle any sound that may come out of her mouth, a sharp exhale still sneaking its way past her nostrils as her coach tugged on the tendrils she had between her fingers, angling her face so that she had to look up at her.

“Where the fuck is your head, huh?” Her coach practically spat in her face, lips curling in disgust. “We’ve a competition in one week and you’re here actin’ like a goddamn fool,” she hissed. “You like embarrassing me?”

She said nothing, her eyelids narrowing as she stared back at the stormy irises of her coach. Her coach sniffed and leaned away, recognizing the narrowing of her eyes for what it was— a challenge.

“You wanna embarrass me here, kid?” Her coach said after a long moment of silence. “Fine. But trust me,” she stepped closer, too close to ensure she could look down at her student. “You don’t wanna fuck around and find out what happens if you try me out there.”

“You’re the one embarrassing yourself,” she spat in a low, hushed whisper in retaliation, glancing towards the stands where the man watched alone, a notepad clutched in one hand and a pen in the other. His head was bent down towards the notepad but even from here, she could make out the way he stared from between his top lashes, the bill of his navy hat casting a shadow over his face.

A journalist, she guessed.

Her coach whipped around to face whoever it was she was referring to, dropping the fistful of hair she had in her claw-like grip just moments before. Relief washed over her as the pain at her scalp finally began to subside and she rubbed her palms over her elbows as she watched her coach skate her way to the exit of the ice where the man sat, glancing away from his notes when her coach’s voice thundered through the rink.

“Who the fuck are you?” Her coach asked as she, too, began to skate her way towards the stands, her bag only a few seats away from where the man sat. As she approached, the man glanced her way, the dark blue waves in his irises crashing into her own.

For a moment, all was silent and for a moment, she couldn’t bring herself to tear her gaze away from his. There was something so… alluring about him. He wore round glasses and a navy Puma hat, locks of dark blonde hair peeking out from the sides, just above his ears. His stare was dark, like a raging sea on a gray, stormy day. The longer she stared, the more she felt like she was drowning, as if she were astray at sea, helplessly fighting against the crashing waves.

His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips and she felt herself flush, forcing her eyes away from him so that she could make her way over to her bag and get the hell out of here.

“Hey!” Her coach yelled again. “Did you hear me? Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here? This is a private lesson.”

She huffed as she sat herself down onto the seat beside her bag, leaning down to unlace her skates, sighing in relief when she pulled the first one off her feet.

“Just taking notes,” the man replied simply and she turned until she could see them out of her periphery, watching as the man held his notepad up for her coach to see. “Notes?” Her coach questioned in a scoff as she tugged her other skate off her feet, her lips falling open in a soft gasp as she stretched out her toes and rolled her ankles. “What? You some perv or something?”

“No ma’am. I write for the New Repub–”

‘I don’t give a shit who you write for, you realize you’re trespassing on a private lesson?” Her coach raised a hand to interrupt him. “That girl over there has a competition in a week and I won’t let some lowlife reporter let it spill that my client is incompetent enough to not know how to land a fuckin’ axle!”

Her eyes rolled in their sockets at this as she slipped her socks on over her feet, tugging her boots on over them. She rummaged in her bag for her hoodie and stood as she pulled it on over her head, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

“Relax, coach,” she cut through the argument as she approached, willing herself to not make eye contact with the man as he turned to look at her. “Besides, with the shit you just pulled, I’m surprised my axel is at the top of your priority list.”

Her coach parted her lips, a remark surely on the tip of her tongue but when the man turned back to raise an eyebrow at her, she closed her mouth and huffed as she skated away towards the other side of the rink’s stands where her own bag was.

For a few prolonged moments, silence fell between her and the man still sat beside her, and it wasn’t until he rose from his seat and cleared his throat that she allowed herself to look at him again.

“Sorry for causing such a scene,” he said at last, ducking his head so that their eyes could meet once more. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and shook her head just as she felt color begin to warm her cheeks once again. “Sorry about… her,” she replied, gesturing towards where her coach was angrily tearing her skates off her feet across the ice.

“Yeah, she’s…”

“A bitch.”

“Well…” the man rubbed the back of his neck, slapping his notepad down against his thigh with the other. “Yeah.”

She glanced down to his notepad against his jean-clad thigh, tilting her head curiously. “You doing a story on me or something?” She asked, daring to look back up at him. Color rushed to his cheeks and he turned to stare off into space, as if it had the answers he couldn’t quite seem to form on his tongue.

“Um, well I…” he stammered before dropping his head in defeat. “Sort of?”

She raised a brow at this, suddenly wary of the man before her. She was quick to let his looks fool her into thinking this man could be harmless when in reality, he could very well be far from it. He was alone, intruding in on a private skating lesson after all, taking notes on who knows what.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She questioned, her wariness evident in her tone. He must’ve picked up on this and sighed in defeat, a nervous smile tugging at a corner of his lips.

“Listen, I’m a journalist for the New Republic magazine and I was at your competition working on a story last week and I…” he trailed off, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as if contemplating his next words. “I was really intrigued by you.”

She nodded, understanding finally washing over her. “Ah. So you’ve been following me.”

The man’s pink lips parted and closed and repeated, and she fought the grin tugging at the corners of her lips. “Well no. Yes. Maybe? Ugh, I’m…” the man’s chest heaved as he drew in a breath, holding his free hand out for her to take. “I’m Anakin. And I haven’t been following you. You know, not in a creepy way.”

Amusement finally got the best of her and she chuckled, allowing her smile to take over her mouth as she took his hand, warmth pooling into her skin. “Nice to meet you, Anakin. I’m not sure if I’m fully convinced that you haven’t been following me but I’m finding this really amusing so I’ll let it slide. For now.”

Anakin chuckled nervously and smiled, white teeth peeking through the space between his lips. Her breath hitched in her throat at this and their eyes met once again, seemingly stealing the breath from her lungs.

He was… beautiful.

She wondered if this man really had been following her over the course of the past week. Certainly she would’ve noticed him had he been stalking her before, right?

The longer she stared at the man called Anakin before her, the more she wished to convince herself that he was harmless, that there couldn’t possibly be anything nefarious or sinister behind such a gorgeous smile. But when she found herself being sucked into the waters of that raging sea in his sockets like his voice was a siren song and his eyes were a wild, angry sea, she realized that maybe she wouldn’t care, so long as he looked at her like that.

“What if I could convince you over some dinner on me?”

It was safe to say that dinner went well.

Too well.

Ridiculously well.

His hands were all over her as their mouths ravaged one another, hardly making it inside his apartment before she was pressed against the door, the thin straps of her dress falling loose down her shoulders. Anakin’s palms were pressed against the small of her back, the other firm and gripping onto the hair at the back of her head. Unlike when her coach had snatched her hair only the day before, Anakin tugged with enough pressure to have her mewling for more.

Her hands were entangled in the dark blonde curls atop of his head as his tongue demanded control over hers, his kiss making her feel weak in the knees before his lips trailed down to her jaw, to her chin, to her neck.

She gasped when he nibbled on the space between her neck and shoulder, his name falling in a breathy whimper from her lips. His mouth kissed and sucked marks down to her chest where the tops of her breasts were spilling from over the hem of her dress. Anakin growled as he reached behind her to tug furiously at her zipper, tugging the dress down her body until it could pool in a puddle of fabric at her feet.

“Ana… Anakin!” She moaned as he unclasped her bra with one hand, tearing the glasses away from his face and tossing them into the wall beside them with the other. Neither were in the rind headspace to even care for the more than likely cracked frames as Anakin drew her back into his body, his mouth attaching to her nipple, her head falling backwards in ecstasy. She could feel the curve of his grin when she gasped as he nipped at the sensitive bud, guiding her back towards his bedroom with his hand against the small of her back, his mouth never once leaving her breast.

It wasn’t long until she was nude and exposed on the plush of his mattress, blinking up at him as he stared down at her through hooded eyelids, tugging his shirt up and over his head. She eyed the defined lines of his chest and stomach as he breathed, working at the buckle of his pants and discarding it across the room, his pants falling loose down his legs. Her heart thud against her chest in anticipation as he crept his way onto the bed above her, hovering over her like a looming predator.

She looked into the depths of his deep blue eyes now and was completely lost, blinded with libido, with the want for the man above her. “Please Anakin,” she whimpered, a hand slithering around to cup the back of his neck, desperate to bring their lips together once again. She couldn’t quite reach, unfortunately, but his breath was still warm against her face and she could still make out the outline of his smile against her mouth.

When she opened her eyes again, his own were somehow a shade darker than they were before, the sweaty blonde curls damp against his forehead making his face darker than the shadows already made him out to be. He was beautiful, yes, but he was dark, and an enigma. Through the haze of her mind, however, she couldn’t quite bring herself to figure him out. She wasn’t even sure she cared right now. All she cared about was the feel of his skin against hers, the feel of his hard length against her thigh, the way he was staring at her now as if she were his last meal. It was impossible to think rationally when such a man wanted her the way she wanted him.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered, bowing his head so that their lips were touching nut not quite, at least, not in the way she was wanting. “Anakin,” she panted his name again, a hand against the curve of his shoulder, the other tangled in the hair on the nape of his neck. She was so wet and she could feel it, could feel the evidence of her lust as it streamed down her folds, creating a pool on the duvet below. “Please,” she whispered again, her gaze surging into his, her brows furrowing in hopes to coax him inside of her.

Anakin took his time. He pulled his face away just enough to take a long look down her body, his hand not supporting himself on the mattress tracing a line up and down the curve of her waist, of her hips, the crease between her thigh and torso. She gasped when the tip of his finger came so close to where she was throbbing for him but yet again, not quite.

He was teasing her now, as if playing with his food.

She could practically feel tears stinging the outskirts of her sockets, every ache in her muscles screaming for him, every throb she felt in her core pleading with him to just touch her. Anakin cooed when his gaze found hers once again, shushing her and using the edge of his forefinger to wipe away the tears that had leaked from the edges of her eyes.

“I can’t believe you want this as much as I do,” he whispered as if in awe. “You know, the second I saw you, you had just stepped onto the ice and all I could think was wow. And then you started doing all those tricks and shit that I can’t even wrap my head around and I knew that all I wanted was you. I didn’t care how much or how long it would take, all I wanted to have was you.”

If Anakin hadn’t been dipping his hand in between her legs and brushing the tips of his fingers against her swollen clit, she might’ve had the sense to stop and really consider the meaning behind his words. With every stroke of his fingers up and down her folds and against her aching bud, he was reducing her mind to slime, turning each and every single one of her thoughts into nothing but putty. He was possessing every inch of her as if he were a parasite, as if he were doing some sort of mind trick on her, like he had her under some kind of trance.

And when he dipped a single finger past the barrier between her folds, she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

Her back arched off of the bed and her lips fell apart in a gasp, Anakin watching in awe as she mewled and squirmed beneath him. He ducked until his nose was against the crook of her neck, breathing her in like a vapor, letting her fill in his every sense. He was drunk on her, on the way she looked, the way she breathed, the way she smelled. She was just so beautiful, and now she was his.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have you,” he whispered as he added another finger inside of her, his other hand kneading at her breast. “Every time I went to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said, leaning down until his lips were against the shell of her ear. “I couldn’t stop touching myself thinking about you.”

She whimpered again when he added a third finger, pressing his lips against her ear before leaning away, kissing her jaw before pulling away altogether. She whined at the loss of his digits inside of her and Anakin watched as her cunt pulsed and throbbed with the yearn for him. He was aching for her as well, maybe even more than she was for hin. His cock was so hard it was beginning to feel painful, having edged himself for so long.

But he could let go now. He had her. He had her right where he wanted her all along.

Anakin leaned down to press his lips against hers and she eagerly drank him in like wine, mewling against his lips. He could feel the mix of her sweat and tears against his face, and he smiled against her mouth again.

And he let a hand trail down between their bodies until his hand was wrapped around his length, giving himself one solid pump. Then, with one snap of his hips, they were one.

She cried out in bliss as he entered her, back arching off of the mattress, her chest heaving into his as he sheathed himself inside her. Anakin pressed his lips together and grunted, wrapping his arms around her body to hold her close to him as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, throwing his head back in pleasure as he savored how good she felt wrapped around him.

Perfect, everything about her was simply perfect and made for him. He couldn’t believe he hadn't found her sooner, that she was the one he was waiting for all of his life. This was what he’d always needed– this girl underneath him, wanting him, wrapped around him, burning for him. There was no way in hell he was going to let her go now that he had her.

“Ana–!” She cried. “Anakin!” She barely managed to choke out the rest of his name when he snapped his hips against her again. She was just so full, so overstimulated that she couldn’t even form a single coherent thought.

Ice skating came like second nature to her. It’d been that way for as long as she could remember. But she swore, if you asked her to do anything now, she wouldn;t even know how to begin. All she could think was Anakin, Anakin, Anakin. He’d somehow found a way to put her under his full control until she was reduced down to nothing more than a mindless zombie for him.

“Oh… fuck,” Anakin cursed beneath his breath, using his hands against the mattress as leverage to stare down between their bodies where they were connected. His cock glistened with a mixture of their juices and oh, his mouth watered for a taste. He reached down until his fingertips were against her clit, her toes curling at the pressure and she cried out when he dipped his fingers inside of her for the briefest of moments to gather their mixture.

Anakin’s mouth was practically watering, fuck, he was drooling by the time he finally brought his fingers to his lips, moaning and his eyes rolling when their mixed arousals coated his tongue. “Fuck,” he moaned again once he had finally licked his fingers clean, snapping his hips before wrapping a hand around the base of her neck. “Come here.”

He met her halfway so that their lips could crash against one another and she hummed into his mouth when she tasted both of them, following his lips when he pulled away.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured, grabbing a handful of her hips with one hand and reaching forward to grasp onto the headboard with the other. “I can’t wait to taste you once you’ve come.”

Her eyes were rolling into the back of her head as Anakin pistoned his cock inside of her, quick to find that spot deep inside of her that had her seeing stars. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been fucked like this– no, she’d never been fucked like this. No man had ever been able to make her feel the way Anakin made her feel now, she knew that for certain. No man had ever been able to make her dumb to the point of no return, to make her so drunk on their cock that she couldn’t form a coherent though other than their name. No, only Anakin had ever made her feel like this.

Anakin thrusted into her again and again and again, ravaging her body like his life absolutely depended on it. There was something animalistic about the way he fucked her, something territorial as if this were the beginning of something she couldn’t quite wrap her head around at this moment. Not when she was so close that even Anakin could feel it, could feel it in the way she pulsed and throbbed around him. He gripped onto the headboard harder as leverage to give her everything he had, the bedframe making noises so loud that it was a miracle it hadn’t broken yet.

She was almost there. She was so close that she could already taste it, could already see it. She closed her eyes until she was submerged into a dark, seemingly endless tunnel. But there, off in the distance but approaching at rapid speed was a white, blinding light that she knew was her orgasm. She began to race towards it, meeting it halfway until they crashed together like a supernova, her back arching off the bed, her toes curling, fingernails clasping around Anakin’s wrists and burrowing deep.

Tears fell like rivers down the sides of her face as she thrashed, feeling so full and satisfied and overstimulated that she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” Anakin panted, his thrusts sloppier but still as forceful as ever. “Almost there, almost there, almost the– fuck!” He growled as he bottomed out with a single forceful thrust, spilling himself into her. She could feel rope after rope of his seed bursting inside of her and her vision blurred until all she could see was watercolor. She barely even registered the moment Anakin’s cock slipped out from inside of her and he kissed a trail down her body until his mouth was ravaging her sore, fucked out cunt.

She cried as she gathered a fistful of the duvet below, squeezing her eyelids shut, her head rolling until her cheek was flush with the mattress. Anakin’s tongue swirled inside of her as if he were hunting for every last drop of her spend and her eyelids fluttered open, her vision murky with bliss. She blinked away the blurriness as much as she could, making out photos on the wall beside his bed that somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt like she’d seen before.

It was hard to focus when Anakin was practically digging another orgasm out of her with his tongue but she zeroed in on one of the photographs, recognizing it as one of her from a competition she had done months ago. Her eyes darted to another, all of her, her at competitions that she’d done more than just a week ago, but some of her out and about on the street, at the grocery store, at the bar just a few blocks away from her apartment.

She wasn’t sure where these photos came from– she’d never seen any of these specific ones before anywhere. It meant that Anakin had to have been the one to have taken them but surely this wasn’t true– he said he’d only found her a week prior to her being fucked on his bed, didn’t he?

“Taste so fucking good,” Anakin purred against her pussy, hooking his arms around her thighs and burying his face in even closer. Her heart was pounding against her chest at the realization that even despite her horror, she couldn’t tear herself away from Anakin. Maybe he really did have her under some sort of mind trick, some kind of trance. Maybe she really was drowning, falling into that raging sea in his eyes with no hope of ever resurfacing.

She knew how wrong it was, how disgusting it was, but it didn’t matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but reach down until her fingers were woven in the dark blonde curls on his head, pulling him in even closer to her throbbing heat.

a/n; so hey! i've had this sitting around unfinished in my drafts for, like, ever and i finally just now got around to finishing it lol so sorry for not having been active! as some of you may know, i've been working on a book for the past couple of months on top of being in college and having a job so i've been pretty busy lately! i hope you all don't mind and still enjoyed this one nonetheless 🤭

TAGLIST;

@your-nanas-house

@chaoticevilbakugo

@k1ttenmittonz

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