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always-just-red · 5 months ago

Note

A multi-headcanon request please. How the boys react when they discover their s/o has been hiding a wound from them because she had it under control and didn't want to give them something else to worry about

Hi! Thanks so much for the request and all the support! Have written a little fic for each of the guys, starring... - Xavier, Deepspace Hunter extraordinaire ✨ - Linkon's worst best baking partner, Zayne 🍪 - Drama queen Rafayel 👑 - King of self-care, Sylus 💅

Putting On A Brave Face

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...

Genre: A lil bit of angst, mostly fluff + comfort!

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, some injury details/blood mentioned, teeeeency bit of suggestion (I'm looking at YOU, Sylus...)

| Word count: 4k (1k each!) | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

This is bad. Not ‘end of everything as we know it’ bad, but definitely ‘an obscene amount of paperwork’ bad.

You clutch one of your pistols to your chest— deep breath— and you listen carefully, your head leant back against the rock you’re using as cover. Your mind latches on to every sound: each growl, each rumble of earth that marks the movements of the Wanderers that have trapped you here.

You’ve fought worse odds, but then again, you don’t usually have to do it with a broken leg.

Or maybe just sprained? You shift a little, trying to move, and the pain that sears through you settles the debate in an instant. Your teeth sink into the back of your hand to keep you from crying out.

You hope Xavier’s ok. You sent him your co-ordinates minutes ago, and the lack of response has worry gnawing away at the deepest parts of you. You check your hunter’s watch.

Still nothing.

Another deep breath, and you readjust your position as much as you can. Balancing on your good leg, you manage to peer over the top of the rock to get a visual of your surroundings.

There’s four, no— five Wanderers. Stupid no-hunt zone; you’re never not outnumbered.

You can see your second pistol, abandoned in the middle of the clearing where you’d dropped it. There’s flickers of movement, too: further in the woods. More Wanderers. Shit.

You duck behind the rock you’re starting to think might be your new home. Then your watch flickers, broadcasting a map of the area, and there’s the co-ordinates of another hunter, closing in fast.

Something flashes in the clearing, lighting the dark of the forest like a stutter of lightning. Then again. Then again. There’s a blood-curdling roar, and it ends— abrupt— with another flash.

Everything goes silent, save for a familiar voice calling your name.

“Xavier!” you call back.

You peek over the rock to see your partner jogging towards you, dead Wanderers littered behind him. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soft as always, but his sword is still dripping blood.

“I’m ok.” You clamber up, using the rock as a seat when the small effort almost breaks you. “You?”

Xavier draws close— his gloved hands on your face, cupping your cheeks. His thumb grazes over a shallow scrape on your brow. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Did you find that weird Wanderer?”

He shakes his head: no. Steps back to check his watch. “It’s probably moved on to a different zone by now.”

“Then we should look for it,” you say, standing up. All of your weight is on one leg.

“Ah,” Xavier ponders, rubbing his neck, “really? I thought we should maybe head back.”

“No need.” And what’s the plan here, exactly? You can’t walk. You definitely can’t fight. Maybe you can wait here while he— no. He’s never going to leave you. “I told you I’m ok.”

“But you’re not.”

“I am,” you assert. You’re determined to convince him and your own, useless body. It’s just a sprain. It is just a sprain. You take a step forwards and stumble, your bad leg crumpling beneath you.

Xavier catches you, strong and solid, and he's holding you like you’re something delicate. He sets you down on the rock again. The pain is making your vision swim.

“You’re hurt,” he reasons gently, even though the truth of it is a knife that’s twisting in your heart. He seems to sense your reluctance: “There’s no shame in admitting that. It happens. Let’s go back.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m slowing you down, Xavier!” you gush. Your heart is split open and it has to bleed somewhere. “You have no idea what it’s like… being your partner.”

He’s looking at you with so much guilt and gods, you wish that somewhere was anywhere but his hands. “What do you mean?” he asks on a shaky breath.

“I love working with you.” Soften the blow. “I love being with you, but you don’t need me. You’re this incredible hunter. This figure of legend, of everyone’s stories. You can do so much on your own and I just don’t know how to keep up. I mean, look at me— I can’t.”

You feel sick. Empty. “You shouldn’t have to hang back for me,” you finish limply. “You’re you, Xavier. You can fight like a hundred Wanderers and still come out unscathed.”

The blue of Xavier’s eyes has grown understandably more turbulent, though it settles a little. He seems to relax. “Yeah… about that,” he mumbles hesitantly.

He turns around and your mouth drops. A savage cut drapes like a crimson sash down his back, splitting the white of his uniform. It’s not deep enough to be fatal, but it’s not good, either.

“Wha— Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to surge forwards, but your pain keeps you rooted. “You said you were ok!”

“So did you,” he frowns, bewildered. “Can we get out of—”

“Yeah, yeah.” You let him take your arm and help you to your feet.

He leads you through the clearing and into the forest, supporting your weight as you hop along beside him. There’s a murmur about how he should carry you, but you’re quick to reassure him he’s doing enough. You’re both hurting; you both just need to survive the short walk out of the no-hunt zone, where a med team can take over.

“You don’t slow me down, you know,” Xavier says quietly, after a minute of silence. “You’re the reason I can keep going.”

You squeeze his arm affectionately, mustering a smile even though you’re nauseous with pain and the idea that he’s been dwelling on your speech this whole time. “Well,” you chuckle through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna have to learn how to get by without me.”

“Huh?” He gives you a curious look.

You glance down at your leg. “Zayne’s gonna kill me...”

Zayne ❄

“I’m a doctor.”

You stop what you’re doing to fix Zayne with a questioning stare. “Ok…?”

“I’ve published dozens of research papers. Pioneered new surgical techniques. My work on Evol-based regenerative properties still has lasting implications for my field, and I’ve the accolades to show for it. The Starcatcher Award. The Linde Award, too— I was the youngest ever recipient.”

None of this is news to you, and you can’t help chuckling at this change in your usually-humble physician. You humour him: “The youngest ever recipient, huh?” There’s a crack as you split an egg on the side of the bowl in front of you. “That’s very impressive.”

“Is it?”

Zayne stands from his seat at your kitchen table: you hear the chair draw back. You feel his presence arrive behind you as you continue to stir your soon-to-be cookie dough. “Yeah,” you lilt with a smile.

“Really?” he pushes again, and his arms wrap around you as he bends to speak into your ear. “Because someone seems to think I can’t even recognise a—” he nips at it— “sprained ankle.”

His breath is warm on your neck and you let out a giggle. “Keep speaking to me like that and these cookies are never making it into the oven. Or your stomach.”

The man relents. He releases you, not returning to his seat but opting to lean against the kitchen counter instead. You glance up at him; he stares back, waiting for an actual answer.

“My ankle is fine, Zayne.”

There’s a sigh as he crosses his arms.

“It is,” you insist, even though you did sprain your ankle at work today, it does hurt like hell, and you do just want to sit down. You reach for the flour you’d measured out previously, tipping it into the larger bowl. “If it wasn’t, would I really be here— making you cookies?”

“Yes,” he says plainly.

“You’re delusional.”

“Ok.”

Well, that was a little too easy. Don’t overthink it, and definitely don’t read into the fact that he’s standing there oh-so-smugly, like he knows something you don’t. You finish stirring the flour into the mixture, then add the last of the ingredients. Just a pinch of salt, and then…

Where did you put the chocolate chips? You glance about yourself but they’re nowhere in sight. “Hey, Zayne? Have you seen the—”

“This cupboard,” he indicates with an upwards nod of his head. His eyes are relentless. “Top shelf.”

Ah. That’s ok. You’ve totally got this. You move beneath the cupboard, opening it and gazing up into the contents. You can see the pack of chocolate chips. You can get up there somehow, right?

“Would you like me to—” Zayne starts, but you cut him off:

“Nope.” You put your hands on your hips. “Please— if I can climb the back of an alive, awake, and very angry deluge wyrmlord to put a sword through its skull, I think I can make it onto the kitchen counter in one piece. Lemme just…”

Your knee lifts. You make it about a centimetre from the floor before Zayne’s hands are on your waist, grounding you. “Stop,” he instructs, and it's not a tone that allows for any rebuttal. Satisfied by your silence, he brings the chocolate chips down to you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly as they’re placed on the counter.

“You’re welcome."

Sheepishly, you spill a generous amount of chocolate chips into the cookie mixture. Your throat hurts in the way that keeps you from saying anything more. You already feel like an idiot, and your eyes are watering, threatening to make you look like even more of one.

Zayne’s hand appears in front of you, hovering over the bowl. You laugh in understanding: giving the half-empty bag another shake so chocolate chips fall into his palm.

“You… don’t have to explain yourself,” he says as he lifts them to his mouth. His next words are muffled: “But you can tell me anything, my love. I never want you to feel as though you can’t.”

You chuckle again; you can’t help yourself. Look at him: your oh-so-serious doctor shovelling chocolate into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at you, his lips still on his palm.

“I know I can tell you anything,” you smile, the ache in your throat receding, however much the rest of you hurts. “I did sprain my ankle. It’s not that I wanted to hide it from you, it’s just—” you stop stirring the mixture— “it’s just that your whole life is taking care of people at the hospital. You should get a break from it. You should get to be Zayne, here… at home. Just Zayne, not Doctor Zayne.”

Zayne’s hazel eyes have taken on a hue of regret. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a few seconds as he contemplates. “Are you a doctor?” he asks after a moment.

“No?”

“And yet, here you are, taking care of me.” He reaches for the abandoned packet of chocolate chips. “Tell me, does it feel like work to you?”

“Yeah,” you tease, drawing the packet away from his stretching fingers in explanation; you’re both grinning.

“Well, it never feels like work to me. Just Zayne likes taking care of you. And right now? He wants to bundle you up on the sofa and finish these cookies for you.”

You purse your lips: that’s some dubious wording. “Zayne, hell will freeze over before I leave you and this cookie dough unsupervised.”

He shushes you, pulling on the cord of your apron until the bow at your back comes loose. Before you can protest, he’s wearing the apron himself.

“Zayne, I’m not kidding. I know what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get rid of me, and then you’ll—”

“Shh,” he coos again, whisking you carefully off your feet, because it’s time for a taste of your own medicine. “You’re delusional.”

Rafayel 🔥

“Mmhmm. Mmhmm.”

“Raf, who are you—”

He holds out a finger to shush you. “Mmhmm.”

You cross your arms impatiently. Who is he even talking to, anyway? His lilac eyes are locked on you as he continues humming away, apparently very invested in whatever the person on the phone is saying; you’ve never seen him go this long without talking.

He narrows his eyes at you. You narrow your eyes right back.

All around you, guests of the exhibition are milling about, all dressed to the nines and minding their business, however much they want the attention of the man in front of you. A few of them linger as they pass him, like they want to say something, like they’re going to say something…

But they don’t.

It’s a wonder that Rafayel stands out in the crowd as much as he does. You’d seamlessly located him, back from your third trip to the bathroom to check on the bandages you’ve managed to conceal beneath this dress. He’s still holding your purse for you, his phone in his other hand, except—

That’s your phone. That’s your phone! “Rafayel!”

He shushes you again. “I understand,” he says solemnly, notably not to you, “thanks for letting me know.” The call is ended. He takes a deep, collected breath, then looks at you. “I knew it!”

“Knew what? Who was that?”

“Zayne.”

“You called Zayne?”

“Like I had a choice!” Rafayel retaliates. It is true; he’s spent the entire evening trying to get you to admit something was wrong, and you had no intention of giving him that pleasure. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital! What kind of idiot breaks out of the hospital?”

The lack of irony in the question almost breaks you. “Umm… you?! Like every other week?!”

He shrugs. “That’s different.”

“Rafayel, I swear, I’m gonna— ah!” you gasp in pain. You’d stepped forwards too quickly— maybe to strangle him, but that’s neither here nor there— and the wound on your side is clearly on his side. It stings like hell: punishing you, and you know the pain is self-inflicted.

Rafayel frowns in concern, maybe even guilt, and that’s why you didn’t tell him. “C’mon, we should go,” he insists gravely.

“It’s fine, Raf. It doesn’t even—”

“Stop lying! You said you wouldn’t hide stuff like this from me. You promised, remember?”

You’re losing track of all the promises you’ve made to the Lemurian, but you do remember that one. Guilt has its teeth in you, too. “I know,” you grumble, “I’m sorry, ok? I just knew—”

“What?”

“That you’d act like this! You’ve been working on this exhibition for months, Raf. Tonight is supposed to be about you. Not me— you. And I want it to stay that way. Everyone’s here to celebrate you and your work, and that’s how it should be. That’s what I want. To support you. To be here for you.”

Your voice has gone timid. You finish meekly: “Can’t you let me do this for you? Please?”

Rafayel’s eyes are wide and still the prettiest things you’ve ever seen, even in a room full of masterpieces and jewels you could never afford. They shine with uncertainty, but soften as he smiles, full of fondness and affection. “That’s sweet. But also? Really dumb.”

“Raf—”

“The only— and I mean only— reason I’m here tonight is because you are. I don’t care about what anyone thinks about me or my paintings. Just you. And you can see this?” He gestures around the gallery. “Anytime. My life’s your private exhibition, cutie. Exclusive access, 24/7, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He steps closer to you: close enough that he can see the tear that’s made it halfway down your cheek. He wipes it away with a chuckle. “Plus,” he adds, “I know you know I’m amazing. You don’t need these old sourpusses to tell you that, do you?”

You laugh tentatively. “No, I don’t.”

Your injury protests as you use the lapels on Rafayel’s blazer to pull him closer; you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He’s still grinning as he draws away, a light blush on his cheeks, but the sweetness of the moment vanishes as his gaze drifts lower.

“My eyes are up here, Rafayel.”

“Yeah…” he concedes mindlessly, but then he points: “you know you’re like, bleeding, right?”

You glance downwards to where the red of your dress is turning darker. There’s just a small splotch, but it’s growing. Shit. You must have reopened the wound.

“Thomas?” you hear Rafayel call, and then he’s stuffing a silk handkerchief into your hands— helping you apply pressure. “We have to get out of here,” he explains as a figure joins you.

His agent folds his arms; this is not dissimilar to stunts you and Rafayel have pulled before. “Fake blood, guys? Really?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t leave, Rafayel. I can just see the headlines tomorrow…”

“Dashing artist selflessly flees exhibition to save devoted bodyguard,” Rafayel concurs with a nod.

Thomas groans. “That’s not what they’re going to—”

“Help me out with this, cutie?”

“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.

A moment later, Rafayel has scooped you up into his arms. Your hero; he gives you a conspiratorial wink before glancing about frantically. “Quickly!” he cries out. “Everyone out of the way, please!”

“For the love of—” Thomas starts.

“Oh, gods!” you shout in agony. “It hurts. It hurts!”

Heads turn. Cameras flash.

Tomorrow morning, half of Linkon will be talking about one of their favourite celebrities and his long-envied bodyguard. A news article will pop-up on her doctor’s phone, and he’ll see the pictures and sigh.

Sylus 🩸

“It’s not too late to back down, sweetie,” Sylus sneers.

“Aw, but you got all dressed up for the occasion.”

Your eyes rake over the outline of the man’s abs, courtesy of the tank top he’s wearing, and it does take the sting out of the fact that he’ll be trying to hit you. He holds his wrapped hands before him, ready to defend, ready to attack. He’ll probably attack, right?

“Last chance,” he growls.

“Is it, though?” This is the third ‘last chance’ you’ve been given in the five minutes you’ve been teetering on combat. You beckon him with a curl of your fingers. “Come on, Sylus. This is getting old.”

He scoffs: “How do you think I feel?”

“Like you’re about to get your ass kicked?”

“Alright, enough.” His hands drop and it feels like you’re back at the academy, about to be scolded for not taking something seriously. Sylus turns his back on you. Moves to the edge of the boxing ring so he can retrieve a stool from outside of it and sit down in a huff. He starts peeling the wraps from his knuckles, and— wait, is he mad? Like, actually mad?

“What’s wrong, Sy?”

He laughs as though you’re missing something dreadfully obvious. Maybe irony.

“Sylus?”

“You really are heartless, sweetie. You know that?”

The words steal your breath away, if only for a moment. Yours is a relationship of pulled punches, but he won’t meet your gaze and that one was real, wasn’t it? He wanted it to sting. “Why—”

“I could have hurt you,” he snaps, his dishevelled, snowy hair falling to cover his eyes. His discarded wraps slide from his hands, pooling by his feet like blood. “You were going to let me hurt you.”

He looks at you, finally, but it’s not in the way you want. His gaze is cast low, trailing over your body and making you feel every bruise, every closed cut that wants to reopen and every ache, rooted almost to bone. You’d done your best to hide it, even going so far as to press make-up hastily over your purpled skin.

That Wanderer really did a number on you yesterday.

“You should have told me,” Sylus says, since you’ve made it onto the same page. “Honestly, kitten. Why would you—”

“Because Luke and Kieran told me, ok?”

Oh, they’re going to kill you. It was supposed to be a secret, and here you are, spilling like a fresh wound because you can’t stand the thought of Sylus being upset with you. You step closer, scrambling to dissect what you’ve done right in front of his eyes— holding it out to him: this is why. This is why. “They said you had a rough week. Some deals of yours had fallen through or something. And I’ve been too busy. I haven’t called, I haven’t even texted, and…”

You need him to understand, but the truth is a mess in your hands and how do you even start to explain it to him?

“You wanted to do something for me,” he finishes for you, and you don’t have to explain a thing.

“Yeah…” you confirm, bittersweet and still sad. “You do so much for me, Sylus. I just wanted to do what you wanted, for a change.”

Maybe it’s a round of boxing. Maybe it’s a dozen illicit dealings where he needs you to play enforcer— it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s happy.

“Come here,” he orders gently.

You close the rest of the rift between you, letting him reach for you and pull you closer. His knees have spread so you can slot against him, and his arms circle around you— trapping you— as he nuzzles into the warmth of your stomach.

“I’m sorry I called you heartless,” he speaks into you, his voice muffled as he gives you a chaste kiss. He then cranes his head upwards, resting his chin against you so he can profess more clearly: “I do worry about you, kitten.”

“I know—” your hands move to his head— “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“Mmm,” he hums in accordance, maybe even forgiveness, and his eyes close as your fingers card through the soft of his hair. “I lied too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confesses on a contented sigh. “I didn’t want to spend today… boxing.”

“What do you want to do today, Sy?”

His eyes flicker open and his hands find your hips. “What I really want…” he contemplates, as his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt to rub circles on your skin, “is to take care of you.”

There are lifetimes of need in his gaze.

“Won’t you let me take care of you, sweetie?”

…

“If he finds the terms so disagreeable, then he’s more than welcome to take his business elsewhere. Although—” Sylus’s voice is cold— “he might find his other options less… amenable than when he saw them last. Less communicative, too. You can tell him I said so.”

He ends the phone call. Smiles. “Sorry about that, sweetie.”

“Are the boys ok?”

The smile widens, even though you can’t see it. “They’re fine.”

Phone set aside, Sylus carries on with the important business Kieran’s call had distracted him from. You’re half asleep, your head in his lap as he brushes your hair: rose-scented and soft from the bath he’d drawn for you, hours ago. Every bandage is fresh and clean. Every ache has been dulled with a lazy massage and more chaste kisses, for good measure.

“Perfect day,” you mumble blissfully.

“Perfect day,” Sylus agrees.

#🖋rach is actually writing #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads x mc #shen xinghui #li shen #qi yu #qin che #lads #lnds #l&ds

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gyuwoncheol · 1 year ago

Text

Sir, Please.

Pair: Wonwoo x f.reader

Genre: Fluff, Smut. 18+ only (MDNI).

Summary: Wonwoo doesn’t mind keeping you at the edge if it means watching you fall apart.

Warnings: Dom!Wonwoo, Sir! kink, edging, cockwarming, unprotected sex (stay safe, children), squirting, clitoral stimulation, lots of making out, creampie, pussy slapping (like once), overstimulation, dacryphilia, breast play, wrist pinning, dirty talk, use of pet names (Sir, good girl, darling, love, baby, sweetie), glorious aftercare (Wonu is the best), fluff. Please let me know if i missed something. Not proofread, might come back to fix up errors.

WC: 3k

Author’s note: First smut piece for Wonwoo my love. This was only supposed to be post-sex cuddles fluff but thought it was the right time to finally write smut for my favorite boy. As is the plot of this piece, good things come to those who wait 😏 Enjoy!

Tagging fellow Wonu lovers @multi-kpop-fanfics @playmetheclassics for the chaos.

“What’re you doing?” Your boyfriend quizzed, your bare body still on top of his, a cheek resting against his bare chest.

“Doodling,” you mumbled casually as your finger continued to draw lazy patterns on his side.

“Darling, it tickles.”

“I don’t see you flinching.”

“You’re on top of me. If I flinch, you might fall.” He stated matter-of-factly.

You craned your neck to look up at him, flashing a wide grin momentarily, “then suffer.”

You shook along with Wonwoo as he laughed at your reply, a strong arm secured tightly around your torso, while his free hand cradled the back of your head.

A large smile was permanently etched on Wonwoo’s face as you both laid in comfortable silence. When he had collapsed onto you just minutes ago after reaching his climax, he had asked so nicely if he could stay inside a little longer and who were you to complain? You’ve craved for this kind of intimacy with him for awhile now after being both so busy with work.

“You’re lucky i love you,” Wonwoo declared as he kissed the top of your head.

You hummed in response, trailing your fingers again on his side, nails lightly scratching on his skin, “did you just write ‘i love you too’ on my ribs?” He laughs, and you nod an affirmative.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes and snuggling more into your boyfriend’s chest. Now would be a good time for time to stand still. The setting sun casted warm hues of light inside your bedroom and while the airconditioning was cold, Wonwoo was radiating just the right amount of heat to keep you from shivering.

“I’ve missed you,” you blurted out.

“I know, sweetheart. I’ve missed you too. I’ve missed this,” another kiss was placed on top of your head, “i’m sorry i’ve been so busy.”

“I’m sorry too,” you sighed, resting your chin on his pecs to face him. “I wish i had more time to visit you in practice, or even just see you for lunch.”

“That’s okay, darling. We’re both just in our busy season. It will be over soon, yeah?” This time, Wonwoo’s palm was rubbing circular motions on the small of your back. “I was thinking we should go on a vacation when this all boils over.”

Your eyes grew wide, excited at your boyfriend’s suggestion, “really?”

“Yeah, maybe the countryside? Or out of the country? Where do you want?”

A blush crept up your cheeks at Wonwoo’s gesture of letting you choose, but honestly, you could’ve just stayed at your home and it would be okay. The last time you had a vacation, he made you choose the place too but this time, you didn’t really have a shortlist of destinations. You craned your neck to kiss his lips shortly, “surprise me?” You smiled shyly, “maybe somewhere peaceful and with fresh air? Anywhere as long as it’s with you is all I want, darling.”

“Okay, i’ll plan it out.” He confirmed before rolling you both over so his body hovered above yours

“Where are you going?” You pouted when he made a move to slip out of you.

“I need to clean you up, sweetie.”

You hooked a leg around his waist in retaliation, not at all ready to feel empty just yet. You attempted the most doe eyes you could muster, looking up at your boyfriend through your lashes and clenching your pussy as you did so, “Don’t you wanna fuck me one more time?”

Wonwoo scoffed at your question, the corner of his lips pulling into a devious smile at your sweet tone, “can’t get enough, darling?” His voice was lower by a few octaves, enough to send a shiver through your spine and a gush of wetness in your cunt.

“N-no, sir.”

Wonwoo smirked at the nickname before doing an experimental thrust. When your eyes rolled to the back of your head, he simply chuckled before dragging his cock out slowly and then swiftly burying himself to the hilt, rendering you even more speechless than you were. He could feel the rhythmic spasming of your walls, causing him to grow harder and harder.

You cupped his face to bring it closer to yours, kissing him and sucking at his lower lip. Wonwoo smiles in the kiss, amused at your neediness especially when he feels you lift your hips and roll them on his.

“Eager are we?”

“Wonuuu,” you whined pathetically, clawing at his back.

“Wonu?” he questioned with a glare, pinning you to the mattress agressively, “that’s not what you called me minutes ago, darlin’”

“Well, I don’t know where he went. Maybe if you give me what I want then I’ll start calling you it again,” you smirked, dragging your nails a little more harshly on his skin making him hiss.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, only to dive into your right breast and suck harshly at the bud, eliciting a loud moan from you. He snakes his hand in between you both, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in circles, immediately feeling you clench around his dick again.He mutters something about you being responsive but it flies over your head as he picks up his pace. The slide is much easier given your mixed cum and your new arousal so it takes him record time to hit your sweet spot. Every ridge and vein on his cock drags against your walls in a way that’s more delicious than awhile ago.

“S-sir, pl-pleaasee,” you shake, the pit of your stomach tightening as you arch your back.

“Does my darling want to cum?” The nickname sounds sickly sweet as it rolls off his tongue and it only helps you get closer to the edge.

You nod your head repetitively, chants of ‘yes’s’ and ‘oh’s’ spilling from your lips, but then Wonwoo withdraws his hand from your sensitive bud and stills inside of you, a vice grip around your body as he licks the shell of your ear, “you don’t get to cum until I say so.” The words were loud, clear and firm, in a tone you knew all too well.

“But Won—“ you cry out loud, tears forming in your eyes as you feel your climax painfully float away.

“Nuh uh,” two harsh thrusts are delivered straight to your gspot as your boyfriend hooks one of your legs on his shoulder, “Call me wrong again and I will not let you cum at all.”

“Fuuuuck,” you mewl from the way his cock rams into you with the new angle, following it up with whines at the thought of getting no release, “S-sorry, sir! ‘M sorry!”

“There it is. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Wonwoo mocks, “now be my good girl and hold it out for me, yeah?”

You’re a incoherent mess as you try to obey him, but it isn’t so easy when his large cock is abusing your sore, sloppy cunt. Words of filth pair each one of his powerful thrusts.

“My dirty little whore”

“So fuckin’ needy for my cock.”

“Can’t get enough of this pussy.”

“Your pussy is mine.”

“All made for me.”

You were letting out moans of pleasure as Wonwoo pounded into you mercilessly, the knot in your stomach making itself felt again.

“Fu– ah! Fuck, s-sir! Please!” You asked, but it only fell on deaf ears. Both your wrists were tightly pinned with just one of your boyfriend’s large hand above your head and his blown out pupils were looking right at you.

“Make me cum, make me cum, make me cum, please!!!” you begged shamelessly, voice shaking and legs closing in as you teetered on the edge of your orgasm.

“Not. Yet.” Wonwoo withdrew fully from your hole and you shrieked at the loss, your hips lifting to chase after his dick only to have it slammed down by his free hand.

“Sir!!!” You scowled, eyebrows scrunching and eyes wide, anger and pain washing away yet another failed orgasm.

A proud, lopsided smirk appeared on your boyfriend’s face. He licked his bottom lip, enjoying the torture he beset on you despite his painfully hard cock.

“What?”

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t asking, you knew that much.

“Nothing,” you cowered and blinked back your tears, erasing the anger in your face much to your dismay.

“Good girl.”

You swallowed thickly, squirming once more when Wonwoo tapped his heavy length on your pussy, coating himself with your slippery wetness— not that he needed any more of it— before purposely slapping your swollen clit with his angry red tip. The stimulation from that alone already had your toes curling and it took every fibre of your being to not just unravel right there.

You should’ve known calling him ‘sir’ would lead to this, but behind the tearful denials, you knew immense pleasure awaits.

“Siirrr, p-please! I n-need it.”

“Shhh. Patience, darling. We’ve got lots of time.” The demonic chuckle Wonwoo let out had you whimpering pitifully, your hands fighting to break free from his hold.

It seemed your boyfriend was hell bent on prolonging your agony when he simply continues to endlessly tap his shaft on your clit as he pumps himself.

Wonwoo was not usually loud in bed, save for his occasional grunts and broken groans when he falls into bliss. However, he’s decided now would be the perfect time to make matters all the more worse for you. He was being loud about it all, no holds barred. The squelching noises of his dick against your wet lips is now easily drowned out by the guttural moans Wonwoo has let slip past his mouth. You thought his dirty talk is music? Well, this was a symphony.

You had thought you wouldn’t get close this time around since he wasn’t inside you but the relentless knocks on your clit and the obnoxiously loud moans of your boyfriend have proved you wrong. Your hands balled into fists and you squeezed your eyes shut, mentally fighting off the ball of pleasure in your lower abdomen.

“Look at you, fighting so hard,” Wonwoo snickers, pressing down the tip of his cock to your clit in slow circular motions, “show me how good you are yeah?”

“Yes yes yes! ‘M good! Your good girl, promise!” You were so far gone, pliant to each one of your boyfriend’s requests.

“So wet, you’re soiling the bed,” he points out the obvious, “what a fuckin’ mess.” Wonwoo saw another shiver run through you, indicating you were seconds away from release. So for the third time that day, he denies you of the very thing you crave for, letting go of your wrists and then landing a sharp smack to your pussy before completely backing away to watch you spasm and curl up into a ball of needy tears and pathetic whines.

Your head was spinning and your senses were more than heightened. The slippery feeling of your arousal between your thighs were making it harder for you to squeeze them shut and stay still. Wonwoo simply loomed over you, giving you enough time to stabilize your breathing and let your failed orgasm ebb away. He knew that if he’d put so much just as one finger on your skin, you’d cum right away. Contrary to his actions, he wanted you to cum, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see you cry for it first.

“S-sirr,” you sobbed.

A gentle touch carefully landed on your calf and when you didn’t flinch away, Wonwoo let out a sigh of relief, “Yes, baby?”

“Please,” your voice barely above a whisper, “n-need you…”

Whatever other words you had planned were swallowed by Wonwoo in a searing kiss. It was sloppy and messy, his skillful tongue darting to yours, teeth biting at your lips. You both moaned in unison when he impaled you on his cock once more.

“So big,” you groaned, initially amused at the delicious stretch until you realised, he’s had to hold off his own orgasm too.

Wonwoo gives it his all, jackhammering into you like it would be the last time. The sound of moans and skin slapping skin reverberate around the room. And then, there it is again, a coil so tight on your stomach, you fear you’re going delirious to the point of no return.

“Wo— Sir!” You quickly correct yourself, losing the least bit of dignity you had, tears drenching your cheeks, “i’m b-begging, p-please…”

The gentle kiss on your nose set a stark contrast from how his cock abused your sopping cunt, but relief finally took over you at the words whispered in your ear, “so good for me. Let go, baby. I got you.”

A strangled cry ripped out of your throat, your orgasm gloriously hitting you like a tidal wave. Wonwoo continued to talk you through it while holding down your convulsing body and slamming his hips into you, the sight of your pussy creaming his cock eventually producing broken moans from him.

“B-babe, too– ah! Too m-much!” More tears fell on your face as Wonwoo did deep snaps, his pelvic bone grinding on your clit.

“C’mon baby, m’ close. S-so close!”

Incomprehensible noises tumbled out of you when your boyfriend buried himself deep, pushing onto your sweetest spot and stilling there. Between his guttural groans, the perfect ‘O’ shape of his mouth and the thick loads of hot white cum that flooded your velvety walls, another coil snapped within you, a new round of arousal seeping out of your spent hole, except this time, much wetter and hitting you like a ton of bricks.

“Fuuuck, darling,” Wonwoo trembled as the last of his nectar oozed out, “did I just make you squirt?”

“Fuck off,” you scowled, wishing you had more energy to wipe the smug look plastered on your boyfriend’s face.

“So I did?” Wonwoo pursed his lips and scrunched his nose, a look you very much love but absolutely hate right now.

You let your bottom lip jut out in a pout, your brows drawing to the center of your face, “how could I not when you edged me like that!”

“You’re cute,” was his only response, very slowly slipping his softening cock out of you. Your sweet boyfriend peppered kisses all over your face, replacing your frown with a smile. “Did I make you feel good, darling?” He asked genuinely, not wanting to ever subject you to something which you didn’t enjoy doing.

You gave him a shy nod, pulling him closer by his neck to close the gap between your mouths and share a loving kiss, much like how it was way earlier. It didn’t take long for you to part, your lungs still recharging to full capacity after having all the air knocked out of you.

Wonwoo gave you more time to recover, resting his head on the crook of your neck to leave soft kisses on your skin, especially on the blooming bruises he left in his wake.

“Darling, you can’t sleep yet,” he shook you gently when he noticed your prolonged stillness.

A small whine escaped your lips, “but Woo… i’m tired.”

“I know, i know,” he hushed softly, “but we need to get you cleaned up and also, change the sheets. I’ll make it quick.”

You had no time nor energy to protest. You were simply being carried bridal style into the bathroom, your boyfriend making sure you peed before he went on to wash up yours and his sweaty body with warm water. He was so so tender with his touch, especially in all parts between your legs. He’d keep an observant eye to every reaction your face made, careful not to cause any pain.

“Can… can you be mine?” you squeaked, and Wonwoo giggled at the drunken look of love on your face. Every time you think nothing can top sex with your boyfriend in your own little list of World’s Most Wonderful Things, you’re reminded that aftercare by him exists.

“Darling, i’m already yours,” Wonwoo chuckles.

You noded with a grin, brain really starting to drift off into slumber, “I like that.”

He fixes his glasses by the bridge of his nose after giving you a once-over, now dressed in cotton panties and one of his large navy blue shirts which hung mid-thigh on you.

Wonwoo lifts you up to sit on the bathroom counter before cupping your cheeks to meet your eyes, “baby, can you sit here and wait for me for about 10 to 15 minutes, please? I need to change our sheets.”

He had expected you to whine and retaliate, knowing you were always extra clingy after sex, but you simply nodded and smiled. You think you felt his lips on your forehead but you aren’t too sure.

The moment Wonwoo slips out of the bathroom, you’re fighting not to fall asleep, but 15 minutes is long, and maybe you can just lean your head a bit on the cold marble tile—

“Let’s get you to bed, love,” the tall man chuckles as he lifts you in his arms. You swore it hadn’t been fifteen minutes, not even ten! But then he walks past your bed and out of your shared bedroom. The light of the hallway enough to stir your brain awake.

“Where are we going?” You ask, nuzzling your face on the crook of his neck as he cradles you into another room.

Wonwoo laughs at your question, “We have to take the guest bedroom for the night, darling. You’ve soaked through our mattress.”

#svt #seventeen #svthub #svt x reader #svt smut #seventeen smut #svt fic #seventeen fic #svt one shot #seventeen one shot #svt image #seventeen imagine #wonwoo smut #wonwoo fic #wonwoo imagine #wonwoo one shot #wonwoo x reader #paula writes ✨#paula writes smut

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peachesofteal · 1 month ago

Text

MELOS (PART THREE)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist

Part two here / Melos masterlist Azriel/female reader - 6.6k words - AO3 Tags - 18+ mdni, explicit content, hurt/comfort, caretaking, possessive behavior, usual warning for Azriel's self loathing. Brief suicidal ideation. Azriel willing to rip anyone to shreds for threatening his mate, complicated IC dynamics, Amren sucks. Oral sex - fem receiving, little bit of edging, Dom/sub undertones, praise kink. canon compliant.

Fear.

It slams into him, shakes the bond so violently he almost drops out of the sky, forces him off course over the jagged peak of Illyria, urging him to follow the intensity of your panic towards Velaris. Gone is his assignment, his contact awaiting his visit, his work. One objective rises above it all.

You.

The Palace of Bone and Salt is in shambles, but he hardly notices. Somewhere it registers in the back of his mind there’s been a quake, there are injuries, damage, but none of it matters.

The only thing that matters is his mate in front of him, trembling, eyes wide and glazed over, blood trickling down your face and blooming across your ribs. There’s a roaring sound between his ears, dread and rage and agony all compounding into a mounting explosion, and for a moment, he worries he might level the city for its crime of harming you.

Feyre is tense, and Cassian watches him warily. “What happened?”

“We found her under there,” he points to a dilapidated merchant’s stall, his stomach roiling at the sight of it, heavy stone counter cracked in half, wood and glass scattered across the ground, “protecting a little girl. We think she’s in shock.”

Not shock. Trapped in memories.

There’s a haunted look in your eye, a flicker of nightmares.

His brave girl.

He holds himself at bay, holds himself back from shooting into the sky with you cradled to his chest, carrying you as fast as the wind will allow to Madja, or pulling you into a cloud of shadow so he can arrive uninvited in her living room.

“She needs a healer.” His jaw has never been clenched so tight. The smell of your blood is making him sick.

“We know,” Feyre tries to reassure him, but at the same time angles her body to block his path. Cassian shakes his head, because he knows, just as Feyre should, standing between a male and his mate is a very bad idea. He loves Feyre, but his affection for her is nothing compared to what he feels for you, and her behavior in this moment, is reckless. “Az,” she tries to caution him, tone pitching low, serious, “maybe you should back-“

Remove her, the shadows snap, she is in our way.

“You need a healer.” He pretends she doesn’t exist, pushes his anger as far away as he can manage, and addresses you instead. You shake your head.

“I need to go. Home. I need to go… home.” Cassian snorts. Azriel wonders if it’s possible to break his jaw in one punch.

You’re slipping, unsteady on your feet, going somewhere in your mind he cannot follow and his panic ratches upward as he says your name and you don’t respond.

“Feyre,” Cassian murmurs, “step back.” She stiffens, but listens, and he surges forward, unable to keep away any longer.

His heart sings as he cups your cheek. It’s the first time he’s touched you since his hands brought you harm, and he chokes on a breath as you lean into his touch, satin against scars. “Look at me,” he soothes, trying to draw you back to the present, but it’s a losing battle. You’re going to pass out, and you’re scared, he can read it all so clearly, scared to slip away in the dark, scared to succumb to the nightmare in your mind. “It’s okay.” I’m here, he wants to scream, you’re not alone. You fist his shirt and blink like you’re trying to clear the fog from your head, but it’s not enough.

In one moment, you’re here, you’re with him.

And in the next, you’re collapsing in his arms.

Time is so fickle.

There’s not enough of it now. For so long, his existence was a plague, an endless agony rife with shame, a life undeserving. He dreamt, multiple times, of falling out of the sky and into the Sidra, sinking to the bottom and letting the cold water fill his lungs. He never wanted more, not truly. He had no need for time.

Now, it’s all he wants. More time for more chances to tell you how sorry he is and kneel at your feet, beg you for forgiveness. More time to know you. To love you. Time to learn your likes and dislikes, what makes your nose wrinkle, what adds a skip to your step. Time to take you flying, to trek through the forest with you on an endless scavenger hunt, watch as you bite your lip and furrow your brow at Moonflower’s worktable.

If the Mother would give him another chance.

If you would.

Time is fickle, because for months, he’s begged it to slow down, and now, he’s pleading with it to speed up, bring him to the moment where you wake.

Madja assured him you would make a full recovery within a day or two. She left a healing salve for the gash in your side, and some sleeping draught in case you were too uncomfortable to rest. You were exhausted, she told him, far weaker than she was comfortable with, body and magic wrung dry.

“Try to get her to eat something,” she said, “and then make sure she sleeps. She needs it. A lot of it.”

The guilt is insurmountable. It chews away at his insides, burrows itself deep beneath his skin like a disease, rotting his flesh and mind. All he sees is your face, terrified, tormented, first in his dungeon and again, in the Palace. He sees you shuddering amongst the ruin, eyes rolling back in your head, collapsing in his arms. He can still hear your gasps, your pleas from that night, the steady thump of your heart slowing as he took your air, again and again. It’s these memories, these moments igniting in his chest, pain so visceral it aches, the agony of his mate’s suffering tearing him apart from the inside out. No matter the end of his story, of yours, there will always be this cordolium within him, this stark regret plaguing his every step. You’re so beautiful it possesses the power to break him, a strange, beautiful creature, breathtaking from the tip of your nose to the depths of your mind, and he’s a monster, lurking in your nightmares.

A beauty, and a beast.

You whimper and twitch in the blankets, hands fisted, limbs stiff. “Shhh,” he strokes the apple of your cheek. He's been able to settle you somehow, lull you back to peace thanks to the music spinning between your soul and his, threads knitting around the frail, fledging bond, pushing you to take comfort in him as you rest. It's more than he could ever ask for. “You’re okay, sweet girl. You’re safe.” Your sleep has been fitful, at best, and he wonders if he’s the one haunting you, or something else.

He's still in the chair beside the bed when you begin to blink groggily, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. You’re clouded with confusion, echoes of apprehension strumming down the bond, and he meets it, tempering it with reassurance in hope it reaches the other side. “Hey,” he murmurs, holding perfectly still like you’re a small animal and he’s the predator determined not to spook you as you push up onto your elbows with a groan. “Careful. The wound in your side is pretty raw.”

“Where am I?” you croak, and he reaches for the glass of water waiting on the table.

“My house. I didn’t think you’d take kindly to me breaking into yours.” Mostly true. He can’t deny there’s a warm hum of satisfaction purring in his chest at having you here, in his bed, safe within his walls, and he was too unsettled by the thought of bringing you to the River House, or the House of Wind, even though Feyre tried to insist.

Over the course of his life, Azriel’s loyalty, his dedication to his family, his court, has been instinctual, engrained in him down to the core, and his drive to protect his loved ones, Velaris, has been one of his defining features for centuries.

But this instinct has now shifted to you, and you are still an unknown to his High Lord.

“You brought me to your house…” You glance around, unsure. He knows how it seems. A venomous trap laid by him to ensnare you, to hold you here, by his side, forever. A way to feed poison into your veins, stun you, paralyze you, so he can steal you away, shield you from the world.

“You needed a healer, and rest. This was the logical option." You hold his gaze. It’s one of those instances, one of many, where there’s nothing else but you and him, nothing else that matters, nothing that even comes close. He wishes they could last forever. “I had to make sure you’re okay.” He braces for your wrath, the tart, sweet contrast of a raspberry, pinching the pockets of his cheeks and rolling across his tongue. He had a taste of it in the Middle, with the swamp, and now he craves it. Your fight, your cunning. Clever witchling.

Your expression sours at the salve. “How bad is it?”

“A piece of marble crushed your ribs, and the jagged edge ripped your skin open. Madja says you’ll be healed in a day, but your body is exhausted and slowing the process. She left a sleep tonic, if you need it.” He murmurs, walking the line of too much and too little delicately, desperate to avoid crushing this fragile truce.

You shift, wincing, small yelp slipping free from between your teeth, and he stills you, brushing his hand along your arm before he can stop himself. “Easy.” The touch is electric, a live wire arcing through the room, crackling in the air, and he draws away out of fear, worry he’ll startle you. “We should get you home,” he says softly, and you nod. He won’t try to force it, push this farther. You won’t be comfortable here, and he’s cradling this burgeoning peace, fanning its flame, encouraging it to grow, trying to keep from ruining it. Working at something he's not sure he can achieve.

“Yeah I… I think that’s a good idea.” You sit up slowly, leaning to one side to alleviate the pressure on your ribs. “How far is it? To my house?” He frowns.

“Far. We’re on the other side of the city. Do you think you can winnow?”

“I don’t know.” You try to wriggle closer to the side of the bed, but it’s fleeting, and your shoulders slump with defeat.

“I can take you, if you’d like.” You glance at his wings.

“With those?”

“No, I wouldn’t fly with you in this cold.”

“With the shadows then.” You look down at your lap, and the weight of his choices crash like a wave upon his shoulders. The last time he took you through shadow, it was to the chamber, and then back. He swallows.

“It’s the quickest way.” You fix your gaze across the room, sweeping over his dresser, the nook lined with bookshelves and overstuffed velvet chairs, the chest of weapons on the opposite side. Charcoal grey drapes frame the floor to ceiling windows, aquamarine and citrine refracting through the stained-glass onto the deep, nearly black, green walls and polished wide plank wood floors.

“This is your room.” Your fingertips glide across the sheets, black satin, and his cheeks grow hot.

“Yes.”

“It fits you.” Your lips tilt into the thinnest crescent moon, something akin to a tiny smile, and optimism soars in his heart.

You hold out your hand, the tattoo a mirror to his, the ink and magic of salvation, his contrition, the thing he now bows to, idolatrously.

Without it, he’d be lost.

You take a long, deep breath and uncurl your fingers, opening your palm. The small sliver of trust knocking his entire existence askew.

The meaning of this-

This trust you deign to place in him now, when you’re vulnerable, when your magic is feeble and your physical strength is sapped, is an infinitesimal gift, divinity defying all.

Unworthy. Another thing you’re giving him that he’s unworthy of.

The threads sing, weaving notes together, highs and lows, one side of a fugue, one side still waiting.

Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you graze your fingertips against his. “You’ll take me home then?”

He’s not sure he can leave you here.

She’s in pain, the shadows bemoan as they carefully flutter at your ankles. You’re too fatigued to notice, too busy contemplating the stairs with trepidation. Climbing them is a daunting task, one he fears you may fail. You’re hurting, completely exhausted, and he’s powerless. He can’t fix it or take it away, like everything else that’s happened. Your eyes are nearly dead, drained, and the shadows flitter around you anxiously. She cannot hold herself up.

I know.

“Can I help you up the stairs?” You shake your head vehemently, and like you’re trying to prove something, attempt to take the first step on shaky legs, gripping tight to the banister like it will keep you steady.

Your knees give out immediately, and his self-restraint vanishes. He lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, petrichor and oakmoss flooding his senses, and you don't even flinch. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, “let me help.”

“I’m tired,” you whisper, voice smaller than he’s ever heard, and he tightens his hold.

“I know. Let’s get you into bed, alright?” Weak limbed and limp, you slump against him, giving yourself over. More trust, more of these things he does not deserve.

“Madja said your bandage won’t need to be changed before you’re healed, so you won’t have to worry about that tomorrow.” He carefully guides you back against your pillows, trying to ignore how caring for you, holding you, being here with you ignites a swath of feelings in him, possessiveness, protective instincts, obsession. Devotion. The rage, the hatred, the darkness haunting him slips into silence, drowned out by the music, the melody overtaking all.

“Okay,” you mumble, trailing off into a yawn as you squint at him. He wants to stay right here, sitting on the edge of your bed, his hip against your thigh, the neutral, barely there contact chasing off the stygian sullenness waiting to welcome him back to its embrace.

Don’t push it.

He stands. You follow the movement, head tipping back, exposing your throat. Such a vulnerable place, one he greatly wants to drag his lips across. “I’ll let you sleep.” He says instead, stifling the pleasure surging in his blood at the way your eyes track him. He swears he seems a flicker of sadness there, but it’s gone before he can truly process it, hold on it, commit it to memory. When you don’t say anything else, he nods, drawing a sable shroud around his shoulders, readying to step into-

“Azriel,” he freezes, catching your gaze, “thank you.”

“Of course.” He’d do anything for you, little witch. Anything you asked.

“I’ll see you next week?” There’s a tinge of trepidation on your tongue but it’s not fear. It’s uncertainty. His lips lift into a smile, a genuine one, one that only exists around you.

“Next week.”

He’s summoned almost immediately, and arrives in Rhys’ office to find an audience of his brother and Feyre, Amren, Cassian. The only one missing is Mor.

He quiets himself. Hides everything inside, pulls the shadows close, reinforces the walls around his mind. “What is it?”

“What is it?” Rhys hisses, anger flashing through the room’s thickened fog of magic. “What is it?” Azriel slips into the mask, the one he perfected long ago, and crosses his arms. A mirror image of the father he hated.

“Your mate is a witch.” He looks to Cassian, who shakes his head. He didn’t do it, didn’t betray the secret, this turbulent reality.

It was bad enough they discovered he had a mate in the first place, but disappearing for two weeks, without communication, has its consequences, and he has a hard time denying Feyre anything. When she asked where he had been, what had caused him to leave so suddenly without word, everything came out.

Almost everything.

“She’s not a witch, her mother was.”

“So she’s only half a witch,” Amren says drily, rolling her eyes. The shadows rumble, rankle with rage.

“I could smell it, Az, but she’s done nothing wrong. We don’t want to interrogate her.” Feyre looks at him with sympathy, and he only regards her with that same cool stare. Rhys who appears to be of a different mind, snarls at him.

“You will bring her to me, immediately, and I will determine what kind of-“

“No. She is none of your concern.” He will not play this game. He will not give Rhys a single second with you, if this is his intention.

“She is a witch, living in my Court!”

“And do you not trust my ability to evaluate a threat?” It takes everything, everything he has, to keep his tone measured. Cassian’s eyes dart between the two of them and then clears his throat.

“He tortured her, Rhys.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, “he is blinded by a mating bond.” He turns his attention back to Azriel, raw power crackling through the air between them. “You will bring her to me, or I will retrieve her myself, and you will not like what happens if I do.”

The room explodes in shadow. Midnight closes in from all sides, climbing the walls, crawling across the floor.

The bond thirsts for battle and blood, for his brother’s head, and Azriel’s vision tunnels, soaked in crimson, in wrath, malevolence worthy of a smote god.

Amren stands. Cassian takes a step forward.

“You would threaten my mate? Is this what we’ve come to?” He’s descended past reason now, encased in an icy coffin of fury, and his siphons gleam, the killing power inside him salivating at the potential for violence. For destruction.

His people are monsters, and so shall he be.

To protect you, to protect his mate, he’d become anything, a brute, a nightmare, it makes no difference.

“Az, let’s-“

“Cassian.” He seethes, refusing to take his eyes from Rhys, “while you may be more amenable to how your mate is treated by our brother, I am not.” Guilt flashes in Rhys’ gaze, and a breath catches in Feyre’s throat with a small, strangled sound.

“This is ridiculous. Just bring the girl and be done with it.” Amren snorts, casually inspecting her fingernails to appear as if she’s unaffected, but Azriel knows better. The shadows know her heart, her truths, how she mourns the loss of what she once was, how she loathes the fact that she’s High Fae. How she’s all too aware of her weakened state, hiding behind her posturing and assumed infinite wisdom that's slowly becoming irrelevant. Like her.

“Amren. Shut up.” Cassian bites out, his siphons casting a rubied glow around the room, mixing with Azriel’s cobalt blue, painting them together into deep purple hues.

“You will never touch my mate, Rhys. Never.” His brother’s face sparks with surprise and then his lip curls.

“Or what?”

“Rhys!” Feyre whips towards him, horror and disappointment settled into the furrow of her brow. “This is enough.” She looks at Azriel. “We trust your judgement Az, of course we do, and Rhys forgets I met her in the Palace saving a child’s life.” She hisses, her own power pulsing between the brothers, creating a physical barrier.

It’s not wrapped tight to Azriel, but to Rhys.

It seems his brother has been outranked.

We can break it, the shadows croon.

No.

This is his family, dysfunctional as it may be, as tumultuous it may be, they are still his.

Rhys is still his brother. His High Lord.

“Let’s take a breath, cool off.” Feyre coaxes, nudging at the fortress of Azriel’s mind. Go. I will speak to him.

Don’t bother.

He will listen to reason, just… give it some time.

He spares Rhys one more glance as his wings flex and shakes his head. “I am disappointed in you, brother. I had hoped by now you would have learned from your mistakes.”

He expects another challenge of some sort. “No swamp today?”

“No swamp.” You lead him to your workspace in the back of Moonflower, a light, airy space with shelves and shelves full of herbs, flowers, plants growing from glass jars, and hunk of rocks, precious metals, strips of steel haphazardly tucked beside them, all chaotic, all disorganized. Like your home, it’s fitting. “I figured you could hang out with me while I work.” It’s a trial in its own way, daring him to protest, to vanish, to be bored by you, disinterested.

He won’t. He’d never.

“What are you making?” The table is full of stuff. Books, a mortar and pestle, a brass scale. There’s a long, sharp knife next to a thick stalk of something purple that smells like lemon, flanked by two glass beakers, and a heaping pile of salt. A raised metal circle holds a sphere over open flame, its contents a cyan rich liquid just on the cusp of a boil.

“Today I’m trying to finish a batch of contraceptive tea, and a cleanser.”

“A cleanser?”

“It’s an elixir that pulls poison from the body. All the healers in Velaris keep it stocked. Works well for a hangover too.” You bless him with another smile, the second one today, and he tucks it away for when sleep struggles to come and he needs something to cling to.

You pin him with assessing eyes. Anything could roll from your tongue, a question, a request to fulfill the bargain, a demand to never see him again, and the precipice is agony. He wonders if this is how it would be to fall without wings, drop out of the sky and plummet towards the mountains, jump from a cliff and crash into the sea. Would his heart pound the same, lungs scream the same? Would he experience peace, the same he feels in your presence, would his past flash before his eyes, would his family, or you? Conflict shivers from behind your walls towards him, twisting through the bond. “You owe me an explanation, and while I… I do need to hear it, desperately... there are other things that weigh on me. The fact that you know well enough about me but I know very little about you." You draw a pattern through the heap of salt, suddenly distant. It passes, and you blow out a long breath. "Azriel… who are you?” He frowns.

“I am… the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, I’m-“

“No. What are you, if not those things, the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster. Who are you?”

“I…” the answer doesn’t come and there’s suddenly a nest of cotton muffling sound and thought, spinning tangled webs throughout his brain. Who is he?

“I'm clever,” you lift your nose and smirk, tracing the rim of the glass beaker to make low whistle tones, “and a friend. I make a very good honeysuckle whiskey cocktail, and I love to read. I’m a hunter too, of fungi and moss, the occasional crystal. I'm an alchemist, I balance nature and magic. I’m a daughter.” Your voice hitches on the last word, vowels pulled apart at the edges, longing lingering on your lips. It pains you. Another puzzle in the long list of surprises, another riddle you’ve posed without an answer, a truth he struggles to find. “Try,” you whisper, ever watchful.

“I’m a bastard.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, the stain upon his life since the day he was born. “And an Illyrian,” a brute, a monster, “I’m exceptionally skilled at causing pain and killing. I am warrior, a fighter. I have turned suffering into art. I am…” he doesn’t look at you. You’re the only thing capable of making him feel real fear, fear of your pain or suffering or anguish, the fear of your rejection, the fear of your disgust, and he can’t bring himself to see it on your face. “I am alone.” He braces for the pity, the same sharp sympathy given to him by his family.

“Well. Those are awful.” His gaze snaps to yours. You’re aggravated, and curious.

Always curious, our girl.

She is, isn’t she?

“You’re a brother, aren’t you? And an uncle?” He nods. “So, not alone. And you’re a bastard, probably mocked for it, hurt for it, but here you are, so I imagine you’re perseverant, strong. Strong in the physical sense too.” You peek at his shoulders, his arms, traveling down his chest before redirecting your attention to his face, somewhat abashed. “U-um, you’re-“

“Clever. Like you.”

“Clever, like me. Brave too, I think, and probably devoted, loyal, considering your line of work.”

“Yes,” he whispers, symphony rising, notes colliding with perfect pitch, ringing in ears, a celestial rhythm waiting for the crescendo to match.

“Loved.” It’s a blazing star shooting across the sky, a buttery sweet sentiment melting in his mouth, loved.

“You didn’t list it for yourself.”

“Because it didn’t belong.” Loved? You don’t consider yourself loved?

“Why?”

“Because there is no one left. I am a good friend, a great one, but my secret prevents others from being a good friend to me. You cannot be loved if you are not known, not truly.” It crashes into him, the severity of your words. You cannot be loved if you are not known, not truly.

Is he known? Truly known? Is he loved?

Molten silver bubbles over from the sphere to a beaker, polychrome and pearl trickling down the sides, sizzling into a powder at the bottom. “Ah!” You jerk away from the table, bringing your hand to your chest, and he goes cold, shadows vibrating.

“What?” He’s around the corner and in front of you immediately,

“It’s nothing, the silver just dripped on me.” You burned yourself. His chest tightens.

“Let me see.” He cradles your hand in his, shadows quivering around your fingertip as he pulls you over to the tap. He turns the handle to the right temperature, cool but not cold, before putting your blistered skin under the spigot. If he’s fast enough, he can stop it from scarring, stop it from marring your lovely skin, prevent it from being with you for the rest of your life. “How does that feel?”

“Good.” You’re not looking at the water splashing down into the copper sink, or the burn. Instead, you're studying him, contemplating, considering.

“Do you have any cream here? Or maybe one of the salves you make...” He trails off, trying to think about what he’s seen in the shop out front, but everything he means to ask dies in his throat when you wrap your other hand around his.

“I’m okay, Azriel.” Right. Of course you are. It’s a small burn, not even the width of your fingertip. Suddenly, he feels very, very foolish, exposed, and he ties a cloak of obsidian around his shoulders, pulling the tendrils down around his forearms.

“Sorry, I-“

“I know.” You caress the shadows curling around his elbow, dancing through them with grace, inspecting, studying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper, and his throat tightens.

“There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing.” You shake your head.

“There is… there has to be because I should you hate you, shouldn’t I?”

“You should.” You should do more than hate him, you should fear him, detest him, run from him.

“But I don’t. I don’t hate you, I’m not scared, and I don’t think it’s the safety net of the bargain. I don’t… I don’t understand it. I’m not frightened of you, but I am… I’m frightened of this.” Your palm flattens over your heart. He should tell you; he should confess-

but then he could lose you.

“I should tell you to leave, but all I want to tell you is you’re not alone.” He tries to dig his heels into the ground against the magnetism dragging him downward, farther and farther until he’s holding your face, nearly nose to nose, counting your breaths, each speck in your irises. Decision and indecision hums down the bond, an endless tug of war you fight, a battle he wants so badly to win for you. You push up onto your tiptoes-

and then crash your lips to his.

It’s hungry, lush, teeming with life like your beloved forest. You unknowingly push it all through the bond, desire, confusion, worry, each feeling a chord, a note, trying to complete the song. He’s losing himself in it, veering off the path and diving headfirst into the unknown, too incensed to think for a moment before he wrests his discipline back into place.

Stop.

Control.

He rests his forehead against yours as he draws a measured breath.

His. He’ll show you what it means. To be his.

“You are perfect,” he presses a ghostly kiss to the corner of your mouth, “brilliant, kind, brave. You are far more than I deserve, a blessing I never knew could exist. A goddess I would worship my entire life.” An endless pool of hesitance and longing eddies in your eyes, a paradox he knows too well, and he prepares to step away, disappear, run.

But you reach for him with a whisper.

“Worship me then.”

Fervor. Frenzy. It all explodes, detonates through him to you, whipping down the bond again and again, madness ebbing at the edge of his mind.

His. His, his, his.

The two of you collide, and he’s rough, unintentionally, but it’s met blow for blow in a distorted dance, hands, fingers, mouths everywhere, his tongue against yours. It’s not enough, your touch under his shirt, traveling up to his shoulders, a leisurely stroll becoming a hectic sprint, encouraging him, knitting your fingers in his hair, nipping at his jaw. He plucks the ribbon tying the neckline of your dress together, your breasts spilling out into his hands.

“Azriel,” you’re whimpering, rolling your hips against the thigh he’s nudged between your legs, shivering as drags his thumbs across your nipples and follows with his teeth, sharp for the sweet, “don’t tease.”

Wild one.

The shadows sweep everything off the worktable, and he lays you back, hiking the skirt up over your belly, dragging soft kisses on your skin beneath your navel as he spreads your knees wide, wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, exposing a pair of black panties, weeping pussy waiting for him underneath.

He has no patience and twists his fingers in the hem, tearing the fabric away from your body. “Cauldron,” he murmurs, running his knuckles up and down your seam, enjoying how you shiver each time he teases a little pressure against your clit. “Look at you- beautiful everywhere.” Dawn in a drizzle, your scent makes his mouth water, and his cock aches, painfully heavy. This is not about him, it’s about you, as all things are now.

He'll have plenty of time, he prays, plenty of time inside you, plenty of time to bury his cock in your slick, warm cunt.

He kneels. Kneels at the altar, kneels for you. This is veneration, the cleansing of his soul. He’ll make himself worthy, through fire, through ash.

You, you, it’s all you.

The bond is insatiable, it shrieks like a banshee in the night, his side slamming against yours again and again, hungry and hunting, trying to crash through the sky-high brambles blocking its path.

His. His. Hishishishis-

“Azriel,” you whimper, practically vibrating, fidgeting on the table, fingers gripping the edge. You go taut as he pulls your thighs over his shoulders and leans in to finally put his mouth on you, tasting, flicking his tongue over your swollen pearl. He’s too broad between your knees, the width of him leaving you completely exposed, every nerve ending on display, every drop of dew ready for him to drink. The size difference is startling, pleasing, and he rumbles his approval into your cunt, tracing your clit with a pointed tongue.

He wants to make you come so badly, but the fiend in him wants to play. “Can you take a finger?” You manage to rasp out a yes, and he feeds you one, unable to look at away at how you clench around it, pressing up past the knuckle, making you sing for him. “That’s it,” he works slowly, pushing and pulling as you arch on the table, toes curling against his shoulder blades, digging into his flesh, “good girl.” You’re tight, tight enough a second finger fills you, tight enough you squeak a little when he kicks them upward, searching for the spot, the one likely to make to go limp.

“Az,” you tug at his hair, and he kisses your pussy, mouth soaked, almost drowning in silken sap, fresh rain, salted earth, the strange and beautiful taste of you.

“Just a bit more,” he finds the textured velvet space and strokes, pinning your hip to the table with his free hand. “There it is, be still,” he croons, pleased when you listen, stammering something like yes and please, panting between syllables. Your nails scratch against the wood, walls clutching his fingers as you writhe, greedy, insatiable, wild as nature intended you to be.

He circles your clit with his tongue and your knees instinctively try to jolt closed, but he shakes his head, correcting you, commanding or coaching, lines too blurred to tell the difference. “Keep your legs open, sweet girl, nice and wide for me so I can make you come.”

“P-please, please.” Your spine arches and you grip the hand on your hip tight, rising to the crest of the wave he knows is about to crash down. He balances you there, just on the swell, pushing harder on the spot inside you, listening to the way your breath catches. “Ah, fuck, it’s t-too much-” you kick your feet and hiccup, head rolled to the side, eyes wide and brighter than the full moon, tears starting to gather on your lashes.

He'll eat you alive, lick you clean right to the bone, inhale you. Swallow you. Keep you inside himself forever, keep you safe and sheltered. Hidden away.

“I know, I know,” he coos. Normally he’d make you wait, drag it out until you were a mess far past this while he edged you into madness, but now is not the right time, the right moment.

Still. His blood yearns for it. For your tears, for the way you’d cry as he bounced you on his cock, as his body buried yours into his mattress, as he split you open, fucked you full of his cum.

But for now, this will have to do.

“Poor thing. Does it ache, sweetheart? Do you need to come?”

“Y-yeah, I need it please… I need… I need you.” I need you. If this is all he gets, if this is all he’s earned and it crumbles afterwards, he’ll hold onto those words, treasuring them with his last breath. I need you. He kisses your thigh and then sweeps over your clit, licking and lapping, coaxing your release until you break apart, clapping a hand over your mouth to smother your strangled scream. He praises you- my good girl, look at you, did so well, so perfect- and wrings every last drop of it from your body, only rising from between your legs once you’ve stopped twitching.

Your face is slack, sloped in a small delirious smile, and he licks his fingers clean, kisses the inside of your knee. “Are you with me?”

“Mhmm.” You try to hop down and end up stumbling forward, face planting directly into his chest. His arms come around you on instinct, cupping the back of your head, cradling it, skimming his nose along your hair and breathing as deep as he can, filling his lungs with forest and fauna, fresh snow in the twilight of the first winters day.

Don’t let go, don’t.

Everything in him is warm, at peace. Idyllic.

Your hand creeps across his thigh. “I can…”

“No,” he pulls your fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss to each one, slowly, savoring, “not today.” An easy smile spreads across his face at the sight of your blown pupils, swollen lips, but the bond thrums with confusion, unease.

“Do you not want me to…”

“I want to have you in any way conceivable, witchling,” he strokes your cheek, “but not here.” Your worktable is in shambles, and as if you forgot, you grimace and huff, pulling away. “I can help-“

“No, it’s fine.” The things scattered to each end begin to arrange themselves, finding their rightful places, glass beakers and molten silver, crushed bundles of herbs and finely ground powders all returning to how they were as if nothing ever happened, tinge of damp foliage and peeling birch rolling around you in a cloud.

“Neat trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” you protest, affronted, and his stomach drops.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ The side of your mouth quirks playfully, and he closes the gap, curls an arm around your waist as you place your palms on his chest, laughing. Just the brief sound of your happiness might kill him, stop his heart. He finds the curve of your ass instinctively and squeezes, kneads the flesh hard enough you suck in a sharp breath.

“Little brat.” He could take you right now. He wants to. Flip your dress up all over again and bend you over the table, pressing your cheek to the wood and kicking your legs open. You’d still be wet, wanting, pussy swollen and tight, milking his cock as he made you come on it until you couldn’t hold yourself up any longer.

Not now.

This, whatever this is, this step forward, this rebuilding of what could have been, is fragile, so incredibly tenuous it terrifies him. A small light trying to swell in a sea of sombrous fog, fighting for a chance to shine.

Anything could snuff it out.

“Our next… meeting won’t be until the very end of next week.” The sun is setting over the city, bathing it in a spectrum of opalescence orange-gold streaked with violet, it’s beauty paling in comparison to the brilliance of yours.

“Why?”

“I’m travelling.” A ripple of tension cascades along his spine. He planned other things for this conversation, hoped to broach the subject of the Solstice ball and ask you to accompany him, but now…

“Where?” The bond rumbles in apprehension, echoing from both sides, his wings rustling in response.

“Spring.” Absolutely not.

“No.” You glare at him.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

“I’m aware.” He should soften his tone, tread carefully, but the monster inside, the one fused to the bond overrides sensibility, caution, showing his true colors. Brute. Bastard. Illyrian.

“I-“

“I’ll go with you.” Balance. You sigh.

“I am fine on my own, Azriel.”

“I know.” But he’s not. “As you said earlier, I still owe you an explanation.” That gives you pause, your scrutiny harsh and piercing, more lethal than the fine point of a blade.

Finally, you acquiesce with a nod. “You do.”

“Let’s use that time for it then.” Please. He’s always pleading, digging a deeper hole, dragging himself across broken glass.

The bond is tightrope, one strung from his soul to yours. He tugs it towards his side, trying to drag yours from the vadon, flush your indecipherable thoughts free from the forest of your mind.

Eventually, your hard-bitten expression turns conciliatory and though you cross your arms in front of your chest, you bite out an agreement, teeth gnashed, defiance glittering in your gaze.

“Fine.”

#peaches writes #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #acotar #azriel shadowsinger

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aimfor-theheart · 25 days ago

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brush the sky no. 2: caught

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

|| vi x reader || part one || masterlist ||

tags: mafia au, bodyguard!vi, femme!reader, longing, a little angst if you squint. a little sevika in this chapter/reader flirts with her a bit

cw: drinking/alcohol. suggestive.

wc: 1.9k smh

a/n: this isn't a "part two" as in chronological order, but it's apart of the same universe as part one. calling this little series "brush the sky" and i'll add more if i write more! lmk if you'd like to see more...or if you ever wanna talk about this au, i'm always down <33 vi takes up like most of my brain capacity lately lol

dividers by @/cafekitsune

The night is young and blush-dark; perfect for trouble.

“You’re supposed to be grounded, missy.” Vi’s voice is a drawl, and underneath the tease of it, is a little irritation.

From your place perched in Sevika’s lap, you pick your head up to look at Vi. You smile slow and wicked, eyes glittering, fox-sharp and knowing.

“Violet!” You chirp, extending your arm to her, “so glad you could join us! Want a drink?”

Sevika snorts, “looks like your babysitter’s here.”

For a moment, the two women eye each other, size each other up. You feel the fissure of tension bolt through the air, watch as Vi shrugs out her shoulders to look bigger, taller. Sevika spreads her legs a little and you’re jostled slightly with the movement.

“I’m a little too old to be grounded or have a babysitter, don’t you think?” You finally say, voice laced with distaste as you rise to your feet and purposefully get between their gazes to break the standoff. “I am a big girl.” You say dryly.

“You’re not supposed to be out tonight—and you’re definitely not supposed to be out with one of Silco’s—“ Vi starts, but Sevika cuts her off;

“We were having a good time, kid. And like she said—she’s too old for this shit. Why don’t you tuck tail and go home?”

A muscle in Vi’s jaw feathers. Sevika’s reaching hand meets air as you step towards Vi now, knowing that the look in her eyes—darkening blue, all stormy and fierce—means trouble. You try to draw her focus to you by placing your hands on her chest, right around her collar bones.

You get in Vi’s gaze again, and watch as she focuses on you, softens a little.

“My father find out I disappeared?” You ask, trying to give your best eyes. Sweet, a little sheepish.

“Not yet,” Vi responds, “I’m here to drag you back before he does.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” You purr, thumb dragging over the exposed skin of the base of her throat.

She sucks her teeth, “and you’re a brat. Let’s go, princess. Night’s over.” She says, short and sharp and firm.

You pout at her, “but I didn’t even get to dance.”

“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” Sevika says around her drink, dark amber liquid sloshing as she takes a sip. She sets it down, ice and glass clinking, and leans forward. She grins at Vi, wolfish, “Why don’t you pass her back here, kid?”

Vi’s teeth bare and she jolts beneath your touch like she might lurch for Sevika. A dog on a leash. You step further in front of her to stop her.

“Easy, tiger.” You hum and to keep a brawl from breaking out, you add, “we’ll go home—let’s go—take me home, Vi.”

Slowly, that viciousness melts from Vi—all her muscles uncoil. Vi’s a good bodyguard because she’s overprotective. Vi’s also a bad bodyguard because she’s overprotective. She doesn’t like when people talk about you like that—doesn’t like when they sniff around you a little too long, doesn’t trust anyone near you. And she’s a person of action; if she doesn’t like something, or someone, she does something about it.

And tonight, you don’t feel like cleaning up any blood.

You turn back to finish your drink in one last gulp, then you lean forward and press a fleeting kiss to Sevika’s cheek. “Next time, maybe!” You chirp, before turning back to Vi, who clasps a hand down around the back of your neck—like you’re being taken by the scruff.

(Uh oh, you think, I’m in trouble now—)

Over your shoulder, you wave to Sevika as you’re pulled away, and out of the swanky little speakeasy—into the crisp, clear night.

Despite the firm hold on you, you lean towards Vi, into her side.

As if to say, I’m sorry, as if to say, I won’t run off. As if to say, you’ve got me now.

Vi let’s go of a hard sigh and the hand around the nape of your neck moves to your lower back. She takes your weight as you walk together, in step. “You’ve always gotta make my job hard, huh?”

“Don’t mean to make it hard for you—“ You say, “but I can’t be kept cooped up all day.”

“So you go out with Sevika?” She asks, and there’s bite in it.

(Maybe something more—jealousy simmers in the edges of her voice. Your eyes light up a little.)

“I didn’t go out with her. I went out and she was there.” You correct Vi, “she bought me a drink and…”

“She’s dangerous.” Vi snaps, “and she’s only sniffing around you because Silco and your father are rivals.”

“You wound me! You don’t think it’s because I’m charming and beautiful?” You try for levity. And anyway, you’re not naive—besides, who’s to say the reason you had your arms looped around Sevika’s neck like that weren’t for similar ones?

Your apartment isn’t far from the bar you were at and you head up to the top floor with Vi on your heels.

She snorts, “well, there’s no doubt about that. But—“ She drags a hand through her hair as you let the two of you back into your space. “You like to play with fire a little too much, princess.”

You toe off your heels, already unpinning your hair and shaking it out as you wander towards your bedroom. Much to your pleasure, Vi follows after you. You flop onto the edge of your bed, back hitting the softness of your mattress with a huff.

“Why’d you have to go out so bad anyways?” Vi asks and she takes a seat across from you, in one of the velvet loveseats.

You sigh, before pushing up onto your elbows to look at her and—the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder. Your hair is tousled, jewelry askew. You watch as she drinks you in slowly, from your head to your stocking clad toes. Warmth flickers deep in your stomach. Oh.

“A girl has needs, Violet.” You respond, lips quirking up into a little smirk.

“Yeah?” She asks, low and dark, “what needs are those that you need to head out to a bar at this hour?”

“Everyone needs a little love and affection. Besides, I wanted to dance.” You sigh.

“And you’re trying to find that with strangers? Think they’ll take care of you?” She asks, eyes stone-dark.

“And where should I have turned?” You parry softly, brows lifting, “who could take care of that for me?”

She licks her lips. Then she stands suddenly, crosses to you, gaze heavy.

Your stomach flips.

Without thinking, your knees fall apart to make room for her. You sit up fully, chin tipping up to look at her.

“Not strangers, sweetheart.” Vi says lowly and you feel her, just there, against your inner knees.

“Then who?” You press, your hand lifting to fan out against the jut of her hip, just barely her abs. “You?”

Vi sinks to her knees. Your hand falls away. Her eyes, endlessly blue, flutter as she takes you in—like this.

Splayed out, for her.

You part your legs a little, let one slide over her broad shoulder and your dress has ridden up enough that she can certainly see the sheer lace underneath, through the opaque cling of your tights.

(And there’s something about it—the layers between you still. The distance you can barely hold, like the thin, delicate threads of your tights. Your head swims.)

“Am I supposed to come to you for that, Vi?” You murmur, “you gonna take care of me?”

Vi, against her better judgement, lets her hands settle around your thighs, inching closer. She sighs hard and—

God you feel it, against your thigh. Her breath.

“You know I’ll always take care of you.” Vi says, voice hushed, brows furrowing a little in earnestness. She settles her cheek against your inner thigh, looks up at you with those sweet, blue eyes. Devoted. Heated. “But I shouldn’t—in this way.”

Your lip pushes into a pout, “Want me to beg? I can beg real pretty.”

Vi curses. Her hands squeeze the plush curve of your waist. And for one, burning moment, her eyes fall to the apex of your thighs.

Then back to your face.

She hangs her head like a guilty man.

“No—“ She gets out and her voice is frayed, desperate. “Don’t beg.”

Your fingers trail up around her face, hand moving to card through her tousled hair. You push it from her face, look at her.

“You look close to begging.” You hush, smile curving over the bend of your lips.

Vi laughs, soft and rough, “begging for strength here, princess.”

“Don’t always need to be strong.” You respond and—you realize you want her unguarded. You want her vulnerable. You want her split open and trembling and—

Vi turns her face towards your leg. She presses one, searing kiss to the inside of your knee. And then slowly, she detangles herself, she stands.

“In this way, I do.” She finally says, standing over you again.

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, only to realize your own heart was trembling—you were open and vulnerable.

You try to cover it up with a pout, “You’re such a tease.”

“Ha,” She pinches your cheek, “coming from you—that’s rich.”

You sniff delicately, swatting her hand away.

And after a moment of trying to get your heart and your head under control, Vi speaks up;

“Dance with me.”

You lift your eyes to hers.

She offers her hand. And you look at it, the scars and the marks, the way her fingers arch towards you.

You take it.

She pulls you up. She moves to the record player in your room, sifts through your collection a moment, before settling on one.

In a moment, slow, burning jazz plays from the speakers.

Vi takes you into her arms. You let yourself fall into her embrace, head against her sternum, hand in hers, other hand curled against her chest. You can hear her heartbeat like this. You can feel it, too.

She holds your waist, your hand. The callouses of her palm come up against the soft, unworked skin of your own hands. Her body presses to yours, ribs to ribs, heartbeat to heartbeat. She sways with you.

She holds you in a way you’ve never been held before—like you’re the world in her arms.

When the song ends, you lift your head and ask, “Will you stay with me tonight?”

(And you want to add—I’d take you in any way. In every way. Even if you just sleep beside me, or at my feet, even if I can only be beside you with a wall up. Or my hands chase you all night, never to catch you.)

Vi looks at you, takes you in slowly and you wonder what she sees, wonder how she sees you, or the thoughts that flicker over her mind. She’s not unreadable—but what you see in the ocean of her eyes—

She leans forward and presses a second, searing kiss to your cheek. She lingers there. Your breath stutters.

“Next time, maybe.” Vi echoes, lips lifting into a hint of a smile but its twinged with longing. An ache.

She steps away from you, moves towards the door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Goodnight, princess.”

You stand, alone, in the center of your room.

“Night, Vi.” You respond, and try and keep the disappointment out of your voice.

She’s gone in a moment, like she was never there at all, except for the warmth lingering in your hands. On your cheek.

You catch a glance at your face in your vanity mirror.

You wonder if she thinks hunger looks good on you, too.

#vi x reader #vi x you #arcane x reader #arcane x you #cielo writes!#cielo's writing!#brush the sky

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yunniverse · 3 months ago

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You’re My Dream

౨ৎ PAIRING— rockstar!jeong yunho x reader

౨ৎ GENRE— fluff, ended relationship, fem!reader

౨ৎ WARNINGS— angst, fluff

౨ৎ WORD COUNT— 1.4k

౨ৎ SUMMARY— you broke up because he was too focused on his music dream, but maybe you and love were the real dream all along.

౨ৎ A/N— i saw a lot of people saying they wanted a oneshot with the concept photos from the 2025 seasons greetings, so i made one! i hope you like it, even though it isn’t quite as angsty as you probably wanted :( still, feedback is appreciated and thanks for reading, lovelies! <3 (i’ll tag a few people who said they were interested if someone wrote one: @beabatiny, @goldendynastys, @kibs-and-bits)

Staring at the fire crackling, you try to hold back the tears that threaten to escape. When had it all gone so wrong?

Just last year, you had been enjoying your boyfriend’s Christmas show with his rock band, and now you’re sitting alone, the night before Christmas.

The crackling of the fire adds to your melancholy, the harsh cold winds blowing outside creating a gloomy atmosphere. You know you should forget like he has, but you can’t throw away two years of your life that easily.

The memories of last Christmas come flooding back to you, even as you try to suppress them. Memories of sitting beside the fire with Yunho, cuddling as you watched a cheesy Christmas movie. Or baking Christmas cookies together at his apartment, laughing as you threw flour at each other.

Turning to the remote controller, you press the power button, not expecting to see him on the screen. His band is playing, and you immediately feel a pang in your chest at the sight of him, his fingers dashing across the keyboard.

Even though he’s the keyboard player and not the lead singer, he has an air about him that draws you in, making it unable to look away, even as you know you should. Why is he still having this effect on you?

The song is one you recognize. “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call,” by Bleachers.

It’s a song he’d introduced to you last Christmas, and, even though it’s sad, it had been a source of joy for you in a way last year, because you remember dancing to the song with him, smiling and laughing.

Now, it really is sad.

When he gets up at the end of the song, leaning into the microphone, you furrow your eyebrows, listening.

“That song goes out to someone I lost a year ago today.” He looks right at the camera, his brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, baby. I wish it had been different, but know that I never really stopped loving you.”

You gasp, only momentarily questioning if he’s really talking to you, before you jump up, now determined to make things right for some reason. You know it’ll probably end in more heartache, but you have to try.

Grabbing your keys and coat, you hurry out the door into the winter storm, unlocking your car before hopping in.

Even though the roads are horrible tonight, you know the way to his apartment like the back of your hand, only slowing because of the snow.

About twenty minutes later, you arrive at his apartment complex, hurrying out of the car, through the blinding snow, and into the lobby of the building.

You try to calm yourself down, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button to the fourth floor.

When you get to the floor, you walk down the hall, slowing to a stop in front of his door. Taking a deep breath, you knock.

It takes about two minutes, but the door opens, revealing a messy-haired Yunho, a few locks of his dark blue hair having fallen in front of his brown eyes, which widen at the sight of you.

“Y/N?” he whispers, his hand clutching the doorknob so tight you think he might break it. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw the program.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, you rub your arm, biting your lip, really starting to wonder what you’re really doing here yourself. “H-How have you been?”

“Is that really what you’re going to ask?” Yunho asks, giving you a half-smile.

“What else would I say?” you question softly, suddenly feeling stupid for coming to see him. “I can’t just say Merry Christmas or something stupid like I’ve missed you—”

“Can’t you?” he asks, his dark eyes searching yours. “Because I’ve missed you.”

Sighing, you frown slightly, “This can’t be happening. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let me just—“

He grabs your wrist as you turn to leave, making your gaze snap back to his. “Every day without you has been torture. You came to see me for a reason. Do you feel the same?”

“Yunho, it doesn’t matter how we feel. It can’t work now anymore than it did then. We have different goals.”

“We don’t have to!” he exclaims, almost desperately. “I can give up the band if that’s what you want. You were upset it took up so much of my time? I’ll quit.”

Your eyes widen as you shake your head, “Yunho, the reason you couldn’t give it up for me before is because it’s what you love to do. I can’t take that away from you. I can’t make you live without it.”

“Well, I can’t live without you.”

His words hang heavy in the air, making you suck in a sharp breath, “Yunho…”

“Don’t say anything,” Yunho tells you, taking a single step closer. “Just tell me…”

“Tell you what?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“What do you feel?” he asks, just before he leans in, his face inches from yours. Your heartbeat quickens as his warm breath fans across your lips. “If you feel nothing, I’ll leave you alone.”

You’re torn between wanting to close the distance and knowing you shouldn’t.

You don’t have to wait for long.

It feels like the world stops when his soft lips brush against yours for the first time in months. It isn’t like an electric shock, with fireworks exploding, rather it’s like coming home after a long time away. Like warmth and softness and… love.

It only takes a few seconds for you to melt into him, the kiss deepening as he lifts his hands to cup your face, your hands finding his chest, his heartbeat quickens beneath yours fingertips.

After a few moments, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours as he pants softly, waiting for you to respond.

“I wish I could say I felt nothing,” you whisper, feeling a little helpless against your emotions. “But I can’t. I’ve never been able to.”

“Then give us another chance,” Yunho pleads, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. “I meant what I said during the program. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“But what about the band? What about all the reasons we broke up months ago?”

“You and I both know we were being petty then. And I can quit the band, like I said,” Yunho replies, his tone serious.

“I don’t want you to,” you respond quietly, making him furrow his eyebrows.

“What?” he asks slowly, confusion etched into his features.

“I don’t want you to quit what you love,” you clarify. “That’s what ended things between us before. We quit on our love, and I won’t let you quit on the band now. I was stupid to think you loved me any less because of your passion for music. Please don’t stop playing, Yun.”

“Are you sure?” he asks slowly. “It’ll still take up as much time as it did before, maybe more, since we’ve grown a little more popular now.”

“I don’t care,” you smile softly. “All I care about is being with you again. And I won’t let my jealousy over your time get in the way again… as long as you let me come to your shows.”

“Every single one.”

With a small laugh, you lean forward, pressing another soft kiss to his lips before burying your face in his neck, inhaling his calming scent you’ve missed so much.

“Maybe we should get out of the hallway?” Yunho chuckles, tugging your hand, guiding you into his apartment. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

You smile shyly, nodding, as you let him close the door behind you both.

Three months later, you’re cheering for Yunho and his band as he performs, smiling widely when he finally comes backstage, his arms open as you laugh, throwing yourself into his arms for a hug. “You did so well, Yunnie,” you whisper in his ear.

He grins, nuzzling his nose into your hair, “Thank you, baby. You’re always the best cheerleader.”

“Can’t say I don’t like the fake tattoos on your hands either,” you tell him wryly, tracing the markings with your finger.

“Oh?” he asks, chuckling softly, his eyes sparking with mischief. “Maybe I’ll leave them on for a little while. And I’ll be sure to tell the stylist you like them.”

“Good,” you grin. “I’m good with anything now as long as you never tell me ‘please don’t call’ like you did last winter ever again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

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mrsjellymunson · 1 month ago

Text

Something Old, Something New

Written for the @steddiemicrofic January challenge prompt ‘new’ || WC target: 517 || Rating: M || CW: very brief and vague allusion to sex, self-doubt, sentiment, fluff || Tags: nervous!Eddie Munson, background Steve Harrington, Wayne Munson, very background Al Munson

OLD

Eddie reaches into the collar of his shirt and runs his fingertips along the tarnished chain. It’s his old guitar pick necklace, the one he was wearing the day they met. He remembers how Steve asked about it, nervously. How he fiddled with it when they first spent time alone. How it swung over his face and chest when they finally—

“How are you doing? Really?”

Eddie looks away from the hotel mirror to regard his uncle. He tries to sound confident, but his voice cracks a little.

“I’m fine, honestly. You’re here, my friends are all here. It doesn’t get much better than that, right?”

NEW

“You look good, son.”

Eddie turns.

“Thanks, Wayne. But honestly, I think this suit is doing most of the work.”

He fusses in front of the mirror again, smoothing the black fabric and adjusting his tie for the dozenth time.

“Steve insisted I go to the same tailor he used, but also get something that was really me. I dunno though, I feel like a penguin.”

Wayne tries to quash Eddie’s self-doubt, which is clearly about more than the suit.

“Listen, I know you’re not used to someone taking care of you like this. But he’s good for you. He’s helping you to see your worth. And you’re good for him too. You keep him grounded, and will always remind him of how much he’s loved.”

Eddie gives him a thin-lipped smile.

BORROWED

Wayne clears his throat as he reaches inside his jacket. Pulling out a worn velvet box, he murmurs,

“I wanted you to have this, for today.”

Eddie takes it, a confused look on his face. He’s seen it at the back of Wayne’s closet, but never asked what it was.

He lifts the lid to reveal a watch, clearly antique. Gold or brass, he neither knows nor cares; it’s beautiful.

“It was your grandfathers. I managed to hide it, keep it from, well, you know…”

Eddie frowns and nods. Had his father known about this he would’ve pawned it without a moment’s thought.

Eddie places it on his wrist as his uncle fastens the clasp.

“I got the strap altered for ya. Had to measure one of those darned leather bracelets one day when you were in the shower. I felt like a goddamned secret agent’r somethin’.”

Eddie snorts as his uncle shakes his head.

He regards himself in the mirror again. The suit, the watch. He stands a little taller, a little straighter. Maybe Wayne’s right? He can do this. He deserves this.

BLUE

He glances out the window to where Steve’s baby-blue pick-up truck sits gleaming in the parking lot.

The Party’s decorated it with white satin ribbons, soda cans on string, and ‘Just Wed’ on the rear window in chalk marker. Eddie makes out geometric shapes, and wonders who suggested drawing D&D dice instead of hearts.

Wayne checks in one more time.

”You sure you’re okay, son?”

Eddie looks at his uncle and nods assertively, smiling.

“Definitely. It’s a new beginning. I’m marrying the love of my life, and I couldn’t be happier.”

A/N: You could take this literally, where the Something Old is Eddie’s necklace and/or the heirloom watch, and the Something New is his new suit and/or Steve’s pick-up. Or, you might prefer that Something Old is Eddie’s lingering self-doubt, and Something New is his burgeoning self-confidence and self-worth, or their new beginning, as they step into their new life together. Or you might pick both, or something different, it's entirely up to you.

A/N2: I initially wrote this to imply Eddie was getting ready to read the eulogy at Steve’s funeral, only to pull an abrupt switcheroo near the end. But quite frankly I couldn’t bring myself to write anything sad right now, even if it did end happily, as I think we all need cheering up given current world events.

And in case anyone’s interested, here’s the meaning behind the old rhyme:

“The Old English [Victorian era] rhyme is all about good luck charms, "Something Olde (symbolizes continuity), Something New (offers optimism for the future), Something Borrowed (represents borrowed happiness), Something Blue (purity, love and fidelity), and a Sixpence (maybe a 5 cent piece) in your Shoe (prosperity).”

Tagging my general list (open, just ask): @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland @evileyeandthecattywhumps @3rd-conchord @bellalillyrose

More Eddie & Steddie on my masterlist

#steddie microfic #steddiemicrofic #prompt: new #steddie #steddie fluff #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie fic #wayne munson #Steve Harrington’s new pick-up truck #steve’s blue truck #Eddie munson in a suit #WE HAVE A WEDDING #eddie munson fluff #steve harrington fluff #steddie wedding

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cupcakeslushie · 10 months ago

Note

For your brainwash au, do we get so see exactly how Donnie got captured by Kendra? And would this au be a full comic or just bits and pieces here and there? (Not pressuring just curious) Love the au and I hope you’re having a good day! :)

Don’t know why, but I felt like writing this part out instead of drawing it! (Sorry for bad grammar. I wrote this lying in bed, sleep deprived and did no editing)

——

The sad, pained look on his little brother’s face is enough to set off that dark protective fire in Donatello’s belly. And Michael has been a tiny storm of negative emotions since Leo slapped the small cast on his ankle. Donnie may not be able to pick apart and decipher all of the subtitles his brother is feeling right now, but he knows he’s in pain, and that’s enough.

“How many strips of bacon do you think we can get from Meat Sweat’s corpse?” Donnie ponders as he wraps an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, and carefully pulls him closer. Mikey lets out a quiet huff, but the joke doesn’t land the way Donnie had been hoping.

“Michael?”

“I’m okay,” Mikey assures. Then a hesitant second later adds, “it’s stupid.”

“Oh well if it’s stupid, allow me to grab ‘Nardo. He might be able to help you better.”

That gets the laugh he was looking for.

“I’m not in pain or anything. It’s just, tonight was the midnight signing of Joshua Bear’s new cook book. He’s a YouTuber chef that I’ve been following for years, and I went to his first release…I really wanted the second for my collection.”

Donatello does vaguely remember Angelo telling Raph something about this event last night, during dinner. He’d been so excited, and now he looks crushed at the idea of missing it.

“What if I went?” At the suggestion, Mikey’s face becomes brighter than a super nova, almost too bright for Donnie to stare at directly. It takes a moment for Michael to really calm down enough to speak.

“You’d really go wait in line for three hours? Just to get a book?” Donatello laughs at the question. Any opportunity in which his brothers were interested in the world of literature, no matter the subject (except maybe geology) was a time to be supportive.

Mikey pulls him in for a tight hug, and holds up his phone to snap a picture of them. Donnie snorts and slides out of his little brother’s hammock, careful not to disturb it too much. Mikey is already bouncing enough that he’s in danger of falling out.

“Yes, yes. Sing my praises on all your media socials. Let the world know how I’m your favorite older sibling!” Mikey drops the phone to his chest and holds his arms up, practically vibrating for one more hug. Donnie complies. He’s long given up maintaining his bad boy image when it’s just the two of them.

“You’re the best, Donnie! Really!” The words do a hell of a job replacing that previous fury he’d been harboring, the smile and warmth coming from Mikey, now fully restored. The proper order of the universe righted with a simple solution. This was what he loved most about being a brother. Fixing his siblings problems, in any way he could. And if healing the broken bone outright was (for now) out of his control—at least he could do this.

Donnie glances at his watch and notes he should get going if the turn out is going to be as big as Angelo predicts. He sneaks past the living room where he can hear his other two brethren yelling over a game of Mario Kart. He has zero interest in either of his brothers tagging along. He loves them, but neither are suited to standing in a long line for hours. For the last Jupiter Jim reboot, Donatello was seconds away from a double fratricide before they were even allowed into the theater.

Besides. He’s practically 18 (in four weeks). He can run up to the surface for a few hours, without having to call upon the archaic buddy system.

———

He’s in line for about an hour, when he sees suspicious movement out the corner of his eye. A young woman, parting the line a little ways ahead from where he stands, walks quickly into the closest alley. That alone might be no cause for alarm—maybe it’s a short cut. But the tall, hooded creep trailing after her, has his metaphorical hackles rising. It’s a clear case of sinister intentions. He quickly glances around to see if anyone else has witnessed this, but he’s the only one who seems to be showing any type of concern. Typical New York.

“What a town” Donnie sighs. He doesn’t bother asking the old man behind him to save his spot, seeing as he’s practically at the end of the line, and quickly races to the alley to play hero.

It’s a deep one, the lights of the street not quite hitting all the eerie nooks and crannies. Plenty of blind spots.

“Hello there? Stalker and or damsel in distress? Is anyone in need of assistance? Anyone hopefully bear maced and in need of a being escorted to the nearest precinct?”

No answer.

The non-existent hairs on Donnie’s arms stand straight up. Just as he’s reaching for his ninpo to materialize a bo-staff, something thick wraps around his neck from behind. The arm is almost as big as Raphael’s, if lacking in the muscle department.

But before his can break the hold, the solid feeling of a needle slides into the meat of his neck and something rushes into his veins. Within seconds he’s released and stumbling from the lack of support.

Someone is talking to him. It takes a second of his gaze bouncing around to pick them out. Mildly embarrassing, considering they’re standing right in front of him now. Out of all the colors popping in and out of his vision, Donnie only just catches the same turquoise hoodie that seemed to belong to the unassuming young woman.

A honey pot trap, he realizes, stumbling and falling pathetically backwards on his own ass.

He sees pink hair and is almost relieved, if humiliated. With all their enemies, the Purple Dragons are D tier. But the chances he can free himself before his brothers even notice his absence is high. Just the thought of the savage teasing he would be forced to endure if his brothers found out—Donatello is not eager to hear any of it.

As the nauseating colors finally bleed away, and start to leave black growing in their wake, Donatello swears to cause a big explosion on his way out.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise donnie #rise mikey #rise kendra #Kendratello au #ask slushie #rottmnt writing #kendratello au ask

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cutehoons02 · 3 months ago

Text

Draw me and you, to escape the emotions

*pairing: Artist frat? emo boy Hyunjin x Popular fashion student

*trope: Grumpy x Sunshine a little bit Enemies x Opposites attract

*tags: fluff, desperate boy, loves to touch you, jealousy, smut, hot drawings, rivals student to lovers? a lot of tension (pets name: Barbie, Princesses)

*synopsis: Hyunjin loved to draw anything, but for a couple of months her mind and drawings always represented the fashion design girl, what would happen if this girl found a hot drawing composed between her and that artist with whom she has shared lessons?

comments are apprecited

*word count: 5k (English is not my first language) my masterlist🩵

REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED

Hyunjin was an emblem of Y/n, he was his opposite in everything, he was quite cynical with people, he was slightly introverted and always stayed with his group of friends, he knew that he hated all popular and frivolous people, was always dressed in slightly mono color clothes and loose jeans but one thing that he loved Y/n of him were his hair slightly long, The lack of lightheartedness that he had when he was slightly made up with eyeliner or dark eyeshadows and his nails colored in black or with drawings made by himself.

"When will you stop watching him and go talk to him? Don’t tell me that one of the most popular girls in the art and fashion design course is intimidated by the artist loser emo boy?" You watched your best friend Winter as she checked out some shades to use for the next sketches.

"I’m not intimidated by him, but i know what he thinks of me. To him i am just a frivolous fashion student who has entered this course only thanks to my parents' surname and that o have a perfect life. I see how he looks up or how he teams me from head to foot when i walk into the courtroom"

Winter started to laugh slightly because for the first time, she saw her best friend definitely intimidated by making friends with someone or just talking to a guy, and it was not like her at all because Y/n was full of friends and people around him.

“You’re definitely intimidated by him Y/n, you can admit it I’m your best friend and you can also admit that you care, and not only you are interested in his art but also his beautiful face or how his hands hold a pencil or drawing paper and admit that you would like those hands to touch you, i’m leaving because i have History of Fashion. Good luck with the art drawing course or maybe i meant good luck with your favorite emo artist!"

Y/n looked up and loved Winter but since he realized you might have a little crush on Hyunjin every moment was good to make fun of and get you upset.

When you entered the art drawing room it was already almost full, your eyes looked where there was a place and black eyes watched you badly, Hyunjin could not stand you because now you were laughing and you were disturbing his artistic you were too noisy and thought that everyone should love or idolize you, when he looked at you you had as always something colorful in your outfit and in hand you had a notebook full of colored sketches and dresses with fantasies too eccentric to be real. He watched you approach his empty table and sighed loudly when with one eye he saw all your colored pencils leaning next to his drawing board and a perfume too sweet for him sinned his nose, He knew you would talk to him because every time you sat with someone you started being too nosy for his taste so took his headphones but while he took his design to put on something of KISS heard your sweet voice talking to him.

"Hey, you’re Hyunjin, right? I know you’re not part of the fashion design course..." did not even finish talking when an appetizing answer came out from his lips

"Congratulations on the deductions Barbie, what made you think? the fact that i don’t wear a sweater from i don’t know how many dollars or bracelets that will cost more than the rent i pay every month"

You looked at yourself as you were dressed and you swore to have worn a bracelet Van Cleef but a slight smile crept into you when you saw him put again the headphones away, maybe he wanted to continue the conversation

"Oh, so you are one of those classic artists who dresses slightly monochrome but somehow tries to get out his artistic vein by making up as now that you wear a light black eye shadow in the eyelids and that he paints his nails obviously black to make think to people that you are a tormented artist and that you express only your pain and nothing interesting?"

You leaned slightly into the chair to see his sketchbook and there were sketches of human figures with slightly sensual perspectives of their bodies, Suddenly closed his notebook and for the first time curdò you slightly with a grin and raised slightly his overtone where he had a piercing.

"Surely o design more interesting things than mannequins without expressions or emotions with clothes that we ordinary mortals can not afford even in another life. Can you please stop invading my art space, i don’t have time to waste with a princess, or maybe the name Barbie represents you more!"

He wanted to piss you off but you were used to people who made fun of you or teased you because of your choice of studies

"Wow, you seriously have a sharp tongue prince of darkness, it’s not that you need to compensate more, or maybe you know how to use it only to intimidate people"

"Rest assured that this language I do not only use to speak but also to do other things with it that princesses like you should not even know. Do you always need all this attention from others or is it a bonus for me?”

"No today is special, o wanted to attract the attention of the emo boy in the class and maybe learn something from your art to do as you said my portraits look more human!" Hyunjin was surprised by your statement for a few seconds but you couldn’t learn anything from someone like him, you were two worlds apart and all this exuberance would fly away when you went back to your fashion class.

"If you think you can learn something from me you’ve just in the wrong bench, come back to your stylist friends"

The professor came into the classroom and for your bad luck or good fortune he had in mind to make a project of his students and when you heard what he was talking about you would come back with lots of ideas.

"This project you guys will do in pairs composed by a student of Fashion Desing and the other by a student of Art, the art student will draw slightly sensual anatomical representations, and the Fashion Design student will express with his drawings sketches with clothes or lingerie that fit well to the sensual forms of the human body. The project will be based on the confidence that an artist must also express to his stylist and on the ability to relate between two worlds so close but at the same time distant between human figuration with emotions and expressions to a mannequin designed only to wear a dress."

You immediately sundown towards Hyunjin with a little smile and watched carefully his hands touch from the nervous his hair slightly long and puffed when he saw your small grin on your lips

"Well, i think we should work together Emo boy for a while, how about you give me your number so we can agree on where to find us."

"We don’t need to exchange numbers, I’ll come to your office on Thursday afternoon and find out because otherwise I won’t help you with anything and tell the professor that you didn’t take this project seriously."

You saw yourself leaving the classroom Hyunjin and sighed, what the hell had you got into because you did not choose another bench? You just wanted to become maybe her friend and understand her drawing style not become her guinea pig for her grumpy attitude during the lessons and project.

Thursday came too early for Y/n’s taste, next to her was Winter in their fashion art studio they shared together. " Y/n Rest assured, he told you in class that he would come to start the project in your studio, for now, you are not so famous and rich to have 2/3 studios spread around the city, so take a deep breath, and yes yourself with him."

"I can be myself as long as I want, she doesn’t like me or maybe even worse she hates me."

"But stop, it’s just paranoia you get. If he hated you, he would ask the professor to change her partner and then a beautiful mix could come out between you two. You might discover some cracks that he has if you buy so cynically with everyone and he could understand that you are not a frivolous girl who only thinks about money or clothes, but that you have real feelings and that you always feel overwhelmed by being perfect with everyone"

When you heard these words, you immediately shined Winter, and you and she came from two completely different worlds. She was not wealthy but had the moral and loving support of her family in everything she did instead you were too rich but your family always expected that I was the perfect girl of the family but at the same time they didn’t care much to spend time with you, for them there were only the businesses and the good publicity that reflected your surname.

A light knock intruded you from that moment of vulnerability and Winter walked out the back door of the studio and gave you an extra thumb to make sure things between you and Hyunjin went well.

When you opened the door in front of you there was Hyunjin with a small tail holding his long hair tight, dressed in a black tank top that made his slim but sculpted abdomen and a grey cardigan, of the washed jeans that made her long legs stand out and in the face as always she had light black eyeshadow shaded and wore earrings shaped as a ring; It was everything your parents or relatives didn’t want to have to do with but you found it so attractive and real for your taste.

"Can i come in or will you keep doing a full x-ray with your doe eyes of my Barbie body?" You feel your cheeks turn slightly red and move to let him into your studio

"I wasn’t taking any x-rays with my eyes Hyunjin, i was just surprised to find you at my door, in thought you wouldn’t come any more or that you would ask the professor to change partner" You saw Hyunjin getting dangerously close to you and I slightly lower my head to get to your height.

"Why should i ever ask the professor to change partners if I’m dealing with one of the most intelligent students in fashion design, Or maybe you’re not, and how people say your parents besides buying this study bribe the professors to get you high marks?" You sighed, knowing that he would bring it to your attention to tease you or make you weak in his eyes.

"No one in my family has corrected the teachers, you can ask people who do not stand me that I am always meticulous in all the projects or tests I do. I love what I study and it seems a waste of time not to prepare me or get bad grades if what want to do in life is to be a Stylist”

Hyunjin looked at you slightly surprised and nodded.

The study of Y/n was too full of colors for his taste and slightly messy and this thing definitely bothered him; if he had to draw and concentrate on a project the classroom had to be meticulously clean and tidy. It was full of lights with strange shapes and a variety of colored fabrics that he did not even know existed but at heart seemed a familiar and cozy place to be a studio of two students novice to the world of fashion.

"Don’t tell me that for you it’s too colorful or messy this studio because here I create my artistic masterpieces!" Hyunjin sighed because for him the "masterpieces artists" were the paintings of Monet, the various artistic styles like Cubism, French/German Expressionism, or Futurism not the mannequins with I do not know how many layers of stuffing.

"We have a different artistic concept and masterpieces artists me and you, let’s try to make this project come out a nice work, Barbie"

"You are too rigid and authoritarian Hyunjin, I am so disappointed that for you these mannequins can not express art, we are surrounded by art. You and I are works of art too, only that nobody draws us, I would pay gold to be born in those times when painters or sculptors were not afraid to paint or immortalize a scene or a person" Hyunjin sat down in the little chair that was around the drawing board and looked with a small smile at the exuberance of the little Barbie who had in front of her embracing a dummy without identity.

Who knows how it is to have those slender braids around my body or how they would fit perfectly to my neck while you tried to flip him...

You and Hyunjin began to agree on what to make and what clothes and robes he could create for the bodies he designed, You watched carefully as the long-haired boy drew, and I stood still and with my mouth slightly open to see how carefully and accurately and respectfully he drew the human body, But the thing that made you turn your nose a little was that in those two drawings the figures were anonymous, you could understand the expressions they made but they looked like two faces completely equal.

"Why in both these designations do people have no face? You said that the mannequins had no expressions and a true soul but also these two bodies seem to be mannequins but only represented with more human looks and slightly more sensual"

"I never found a subject that was worth drawing with more details, but if you want I can draw a face while just adding lips, eyes, and eyebrows"

His response was always well controlled and did not release any emotion but in what sense no one in 24 years of life had ever inspired him? You wanted to tease him slightly so you got a brilliant goddess but that led to a series of events that you would never expect in your life.

"What if I was your subject? I’m 100% sure you could do better than that Hyunjin with your drawings and I would be perfect"

"I knew you were self-centered but are you asking me to represent yourself in my designs? I have never represented any of my friends or family and you want to pose for me and be the muse of our project? You watched Hyunjin slightly embarrassed and nervous for asking him that thing but what would have been wrong if you were the two drivers of your performances this idea of yours had to tell her at another time because you had already brought up a bomb.

“Oh, my Hyunjin, I didn’t mean to be your muse but as the first model, you could represent me and then another person."

"I’ll think about it Y/n, meanwhile in these days, he throws down some clothes, dressing gowns, and lingerie for the project. I don’t want to see pastels or paillettes or glitter in your projects" You raised your eyes to the sky and smiled at the boy next to you

"You’re so boring, Hyunjin, but I’ll change your mind about fashion and make you understand that we designers need art just as much as you artists do."

Another week had passed when you and Hyunjin started having a two-day weekly routine where you met in your studio, Hyunjin began to tolerate the way you laughed or responded to his frosty jokes, how you moved around the studio while taking the various pictures or making him discover colors and fabrics he had never seen in his life, How you were excited to talk about fashion or how you were always amazed by the way she drew or put your ideas in her notebook. He found your style and your clothing slightly bold and too colorful for his tastes that went from black to white, to beige and a few times to bordeux; was slightly fascinating how you didn’t care what other people thought of what you were wearing but she would never admit it out loud.

Without noticing when he had free time and drew to clear his mind began to represent you in his sketchbook, the first drawing he made was of you sitting while you were coloring your sketch but slowly his drawings became slightly more and more. While kissing a demon with a human appearance with dark and long hair, you sit in a sensual pose with white lingerie and slightly pastel shades that you had created for yourself where he captured all your energy and spelllessness.

That afternoon you went for your first time in his studio because Winter had to be alone with her crazy ideas to create a dress for a theatrical show, then you found yourself inside the small studio of Hyunjin; was completely different from your studio but it represented absolutely his soul and his artistic vein.

Hyunjin thought it was a serious joke of fate, you had already started sewing lingerie for a couple of days and even the prototype of your dress that had to fit your body.

"Would you mind if I tried on lingerie and then the dress? so you could throw down a sketch of the harmonious part of my body with only the underwear and later of my body wearing the prototype of the dress" Hyunjin felt slightly warm and gathered with an elastic his long hair in a light ruffled tail

Hyunjin must have liked your lingerie and the robe you had created together not your body

“No, no there’s no problem in fact before we finish with the prototypes better if it is so then I can draw you and you start sewing and finish the work" Annuist and went to the bathroom to put on the lingerie and the robe in white silk with some shades of pastel blue, you felt very beautiful but you were seriously afraid that Hyunjin didn’t like me

when you came out of the bathroom Hyunjin was sitting and looked at you with a look that you had never seen before your was maybe a look of admiration for your body or maybe it was just petrified from the good girl vibes that you emanated dressed only in a robe in thirst white nd pale blue and a blue bra with tiny panties. where he would have wanted to put her dirty hands of artist with her black nails that would contrast with the sweet good girl you were.

When you put the dress on you didn’t like it at all as it made you feel it was too short and tight for your standards "Could you draw my skirt slightly lower while drawing me? If you want I’ll show you how I would like it, maybe i mismeasured and made it slightly short, and also the top of the dress I don’t like as much as I wear because it’s too tight." Hyunjin dropped his professional pencil on the table and came closer to you, always keeping the right distance to respect you and not make you feel uncomfortable but it was days that he dreamed of potteri touch even with a finger that skin always perfect.

"Where should i place your skirt Y/n?" You made a sign to pull it down a little bit and with his big hands Hyunjin slowly pulled your skirt down a few centimeters and unintentionally put a hand on your thigh a slight redness intruded in your cheeks, you looked at him carefully almost kneeling to make you fall in a less succinct way the skirt and when he stood up he looked at you attentively but to your great surprise his hand remained still in your thigh and after a few seconds began to draw light circles and felt little ones The thrills grow around you. "I seriously hope you missized this skirt because i would never have let you leave this studio dressed in such a short skirt where other men would be allowed to look at you."

Hyunjin’s other hand placed itself on your side and pulled you slightly to itself, your breast lightly hitting her sculpted chest and lowering itself at the height of your face to look at you.

“I, uh yes, seriously mistook the measurements maybe at that moment I was distracted"

You felt his hands go slightly up in your thigh but they never went near your underwear because Hyunjin was literally an asshole and wanted to hear you beg to have his hands inside your panties.

"If I remember correctly when you took the measurements you were with me, what made you so distracted that you made a mistake of your simple body measurements Y/n?" You felt his breath tickle the lobe of your neck and watched it come closer to your face.

"I don’t know what made me distract Hyunjin" the Korean boy slowly laid his meaty lips on your neck and pinched you slightly inside your thigh, a slight cry of surprise and frustration came out of your mouth and you felt him laugh. "I don’t like bad girls especially those who lie Y/n, if you want to have only a small part of me at this moment try to remember what made you distract at that moment" slowly feel his fingers stop near your panties and sighed, Where was the Y/n full of security and never intimidated by anyone?

"You distracted me, Hyunjin, your big hands distracted me, your locks that fell wildly into your face, your big lips distracted me and..." You didn’t finish listing the things that distracted you that you felt his soft lips touching yours, To your great surprise the kiss was initially a shy exploration, your lips that met and explored for the first time with delicacy but at the same time passion. Time seemed to stand still, every thought dissolved in that sweetness that gradually intensified. The kiss became deeper, but never intrusive. You barely sighed at him and you put your arms around his neck to bring him closer to you.

When Hyunjin just walked away, with eyes always looking for yours to make sure everything was okay, you gave him a little smile. Then, with a sudden gesture, he laid his lips on your neck uncovered just under your ear. The warm breath touched your skin, and small pleasant chills flooded both your body and Hyunjin’s.

The kiss on the neck turned into a series of small touches, until he stopped at one point, exerting a slight but constant pressure. Closed your eyes, and you felt his breath become slower, deeper. You felt that unmistakable feeling, a combination of sweetness and a hint of pleasant intensity, as it left you a mark, a little sucker of possessiveness that made the boy in front of you groan in turn. It was nothing intrusive but for Hyunjin it represented a lot of "You’re my Barbie, remember that".

It was exactly 4 days since you last saw Hyunjin and every time you thought about him your cheeks were painted red or you thought about how good it felt to hear him moan, I put my hands on your head and a slight cry of frustration came out of your lips.

"Wow, you’re completely fucked up by that guy if, for the first time in 3 years of college, I’ve never seen you dressed simply with a gray sweatshirt, and sneakers without your beloved jewels, the only thing that represents you is that skirt." You watched Jake sit down in front of you and put hot caramel milk on your face

"I hate it, I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life and besides it’s not at all in my sexual ethics to let me do I had to look in the house I don’t know how many shades of foundation so that my parents didn’t discover me with a purple and green bite that seems to have been made by a vampire and not by a human being" Jake started laughing and without being seen he looked around and saw that some table away there was Hyunjin with 3 other guys who were part of his group who were watching him

"Well every time I see him he gives me not vibes as a human being but as a demon with his long hair and those black shady eyeshadows that enhance those big eyes, I don’t know what you find so interesting in him but be careful, okay? I’ll keep quiet but you know there are moles in here and if they see you with "weird" people, your parents will find out immediately"

"It would be a bad thing if my parents found out that I kissed Hyunjin and had him make me a hickey and almost caress me." you watched Jake make a sign with his hand and his smile become more and thin until you felt a scent that you had learned to recognize from the distance of mint and spices, what did you do wrong to deserve all these shit figures with Hyunjin?

“Barbie is seriously surprised that you talk about these things, especially with a male, but shares arrived late to class if I had not come to pick you up and by the way, the lesson has been canceled so come to my house" You stopped suddenly when you felt that the lesson had been canceled but especially when you heard the words home

"It’s not better to go to my studio or I know look at your drawings in the library, what do you care about what do I talk to people is not as puritanical as you think I am, Hyunjin" You passed him and went into the corridor that led to the library but Hyunjin took your pulse and started walking in the university exit until you found yourself in front of a Mercedes

"I chose to go home because I forgot my sketchbook there and then we never went to the library to do the project, princess don’t tell me you’re afraid of being alone with me!" Watched you drive Hyunjin and you asked how it was possible that even doing such a trivial thing was attractive, that day he wasn’t made up he had only his usual piercing in the eyebrow and fake nerd glasses. It was strange for you to see him so naturally but even that fake version of "good guy" was beautiful in your eyes.

"When you stop taking full x-rays with those doe eyes, I know I’m attractive but I didn’t think you were so desperate by me" A little embarrassed laugh came out of your lips

"I’m not at all desperate for your presence, I just noticed that you weren’t made up and that for the first time, I see you with fake nerd glasses. You should wear them more often or maybe not, you already have a myriad of girls drooling on you!" You didn’t realize you said the last sentence until Hyunjin turned his head to your side and gently fixed a small rebellious tuft from your face to your ear and felt your ears turn all red with embarrassment

"I didn’t think that underneath the little princess was jealous of me and the other girls who asked me out."

"I’m not jealous, Hyunjin" stopped at a traffic light Hyunjin stretched slightly to get close to your face and blew you close to your lips "Remember what I said the last time we met, I don’t like lying girls."

Hyunjin’s apartment was really too clean and tidy to think that an artist lived there but in contrast, there were some of his drawings attached to the wall, modern works of art, and some picturesque paintings. You felt surprised and safe in that house and Hyunjin had given you permission to snoop around his world while he was cooking dinner, He had even given you permission to go and see his room and the shadow of his dog followed you all around wiggling his tail full of fur. Her room was slightly basic except for some sketches and some drawings scattered around the desk but the silver sketchbook full of paillettes made you slightly crooked nose, He hated with all his heart pallets or glitter what was doing something like that in his room?

You didn’t want to rummage through his private things but it was too hard for you not to look at that notebook so without thinking about it you opened the front page and in front of you there was a demon version of Hyunjin who kissed and embraced a girl and that girl with your big surprise it was you, You thought you were just imagining so you flipped through the notebook and in another sheet there was you sitting on horseback on Hyunjin where you kissed and he had a hand inside your jug that you had missized.

"Wow, this is interesting, to say the least" A slight redness formed in your cheeks and all over your body until you heard the voice of Hyunjin.

"What are you looking at?"

Hyunjin hoped that you had not found his paper full of sequins where he drew you and was slightly pale when he saw you make him sign that you had in hand that object full of pallets

"Don’t know, they look like very detailed drawings of you and me. I would say also quite explicit and then I would be the one who is desperate for your presence, it seems to me that the most desperate between you and me is you Hyunjin" saw him turn red from embarrassment and take a hand in his face

"Wait, wait. You didn’t have to look there! They were... they were just drafts!"

You slowly reawakened, showing a drawing where you were represented with a sensual pose while wearing the famous white and blue robe

“This seems like a draft? I would say that you put a lot of passion in detailing my... best profile but most importantly you have drawn my body harmoniously without sexualizing it too much"

Hyunjin came up to you and looked at you slightly sad "I’m sorry, i didn’t want you to find him so randomly, i would have shown it to you is why he was leaning so in plain sight on my table. If you feel uncomfortable or if you’re angry i can throw it away or if you don’t believe me we can set it on fire together" You looked at the man in front of you and lightly caressed his cheek “I’m not mad at you Hyunjin, no one in my life had managed to catch something of me and you have succeeded with these drawings"

Hyunjin held his breath when Y/n put his hand back on her cheek, his eyes slid into her features. and at that moment she was the one who felt she was not him, she was so different from him and came from two different worlds yet at that moment she felt unable to oppose.

His hand moves along his chest, drawing a slow and delicate path, almost to test the boundaries. He observes her, the breath becomes deeper, and when she comes to kiss him, she does not withdraw. Their lips meet in a kiss that is initially mild, almost shy, but soon becomes more intense, a perfect interweaving between his hidden desire and her security.

His hands, uncertain, rest on her shoulders, looking for a foothold. She moves away slightly, the smile is always present as she looks at him.

"You can touch me, you know. Where did the guy from last time go?

There’s nothing wrong with that."

He looks down for a moment, then, with a small smile, lets his fingers trace a light line along her arm, discovering how natural it is to touch her, How much he had wanted to do it since the first time he saw her with her self-centered clothes and her sparkling personality. She, encouraged by his timid audacity, moves on him, bringing their bodies even closer.

"I never thought something like that would ever happen with you, when i first saw you, i wanted to stay away from you because i know I’m not what your parents would want for their princess. As their lips seek each other again, the tension between them melts into something deeper, an intimacy born of the balance between his delicacy and her passion.

Omg i hope you enjoy this story🩵

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eraenaa · 1 year ago

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Casual

Inspired by the song "Casual" by Chappell Roan

Rafe Cameron x Reader Tag List

Synopsis: You would settle for causality as long as you had Rafe by your side.

Warnings: ¿Angst?, Mature, 18+, P in V Sex, Oral Sex (F receiving), Fingering, Choking, Not Proofread

Word Count: 2,126

A little break from Aemond fics because I just recently watched an obscene amount of Rafe edits, and now I'm obsessed.

“Rafe… fuck, Rafe,” you called— cried as he was stated between your legs. Your lusted eyes warily scanned the outside, mortified by the idea of you two being caught in such a state. “Shh… I’m doing my best work here,” He hummed and nipped the inside of your thigh, making you whimper. Your hands tangled in his hair, your lips were in between your teeth as his fingers slipped in and out of you, his ring adding a sense of coolness that only aided you in pleasure. “We—we might get caught!”You shirked as his lips sucked on your nubbin. “I really don’t fucking care, baby,” Rafe growled and nuzzled his face closer to your cunt.

You gasped and took hold of the grab handle of his truck as his fingers curled at the familiar sensation of you peaking was about to break. “Rafe!” You cried, and he just chucked and continued to draw circles on your clit, waiting for you to come undone on his lips. “Fuck you always taste so good,” he groaned as he lapped your cunt, and you tried to catch your breath. You slumped on the passenger seat, your back resting on the door and your head leaning against the fogged window. You sighed as his lips met yours, tasting yourself on his tongue while his hand went to cup your breast under your shirt. “We could have gotten caught,” You say against his lips when both of you parted for air. “So what? Let them see how great I am at eating you out,” he said with a sly smirk, enjoying the way your cheeks would flush and your gaze would bashfully go downward.

Rafe chuckled and kissed your cheek before settling himself in his seat and starting the engine of his truck. “Come on, let’s get you home,” he said, resting his large hand on your thigh. “Or would you rather go back to mine?” He asked, and you shook your head at his teasing tone. “I can’t. My parents are expecting me for dinner,” You said and stared at his hand on your thigh; it was odd that you found that part of his so attractive. Rafe hummed and squeezed the plump flesh of your thigh. “That reminds me, Rose told me to tell you you’re invited for dinner tomorrow.” He said as he turned a street. You slightly frown at his words. “Why?” You ask. It was unexpected— maybe even inappropriate because, though having known him and his family for a couple of years, you and Rafe were not on a level of social intimacy that warranted you joining him and his family for Sunday night dinner.

He had made it perfectly clear to his friends what the two of you were. That you two were just casual— just simply going about and fucking each other. “Nothing but a pastime— purely physical,” were his words. You would admit that it stung greatly. But you could not hold it against him because you perfectly knew that Rafe was not the committal type. He wanted something less serious and where there would be no strings attached. And you, who grew up with the idea of relationships stuck in your brain— being labeled as a hopeless romantic by your friends, settled for a casual fling with Rafe because… you wanted him— the whole of him. Even though he only wanted your body, that was enough for you to settle because you’d rather have him want you in a physical sense than not have him want you in any sense at all.

Rafe simply shrugged at your question. “Want me to pick you up?” He asked as he was pulling up to the driveway of your family’s estate. “Uh… no, I’ll just ask our driver,” you say because the act of him going out of his way to pick you up and drive you to dinner with his family was an act of intimacy that you would surely misinterpret and lead you to grow fonder of him whilst he still wants the casualty that did not come easily to you. “You sure?” He asked as his car stopped in the curve of your driveway. “Yeah, wouldn’t wanna impose,” You smile and remove your seatbelt. Rafe nodded and moved to kiss you again. And though you enjoyed kissing him, there was uncertainty on your lips.

“His step-mom invited me to dinner,” you told your friend through the phone. “Why?” They asked in the same confused tone you heard earlier. “I don’t know, too,” You say as you raid your closet for something to wear for the dinner that is fast approaching. “I thought you two were casual?” They asked—their tone hinting distaste. “We are,” You say and stare at yourself in the mirror, deciding which dress suits you best. Strategic in what to wear. You wanted your clothes to be casual but not come off as uncaring.

“Then why would she…?” Your friend trialed, and you debated if you should tell them the thought that pestered in the back of your head. If you should utter the hopefulness and optimism that you harbored. “What if… what if Rafe changed his mind? Maybe he doesn’t want casual anymore, and inviting me to their family dinner is a sign of formality— of exclusiveness.” You said, waiting for their reply. Your friend was silent, trying to find words that would not offend your ludicrous thoughts. They had only met Rafe twice during the summer, but they had the accurate image of him being noncommittal and just one to play around with girls.

“Am I reading too much into this?” You sighed as you were met with stony silence. “A bit, yes,” they finally spoke, making you sigh heavily. “I told you this was not your brightest idea,” they said, and you shook your head. “Just… be cautious. I don’t want you to get hurt. You gave him a lot of your firsts… it’s just— I, for one, know the regret and pain in tying your firsts to someone unworthy of it.” You bit your lip and nodded. Saying goodbye to your friend and promising to visit them in New York once spring break comes.

“You’re here! She’s here!” Weezy exclaimed as she abruptly opened the door of Cameron’s estate. Rafe’s younger sister practically bouncing around and beaming up at you. “Hey,” Race greeted as he descended down the steps, “What’d you bring?” He asked and took the box in your hands; his stepmom Rose coming to greet you in the foyer. “Oh… I brought cupcakes,” you smiled as Rose greeted you with a hug. “Oh, you shouldn’t have gone through the bother, but thank you. Come on, dinner is ready,” Rose smiled, and Weezy took the box and followed her mom. Rafe guiding you to their dinning room with hand placed on the low of your back, edging towards your ass and you had to elbow him in fear of being seen. His reply was only an amused chuckle.

The night proceeded with his parents getting to know you better. Interested in you because your family was one of the wealthiest— if not, the wealthiest on the island. Yet, unsociable because your parents had no want to participate and spend their off time in the country club nor attend the parties thrown by the island’s elite. You, however, were introduced to Rafe through his sister, Sarah, who was notably missing from the dinner table.

You were discussing something with Weezy when Rafe leaned closer to you and whispered something in your ear. “Meet me in the bathroom in two minutes.” He stood up, excusing himself, saying he had a call to take. You battled with yourself if you should do as he asked. It was completely inappropriate to have sex in the washroom whilst his parents and sister were at the dinner table. But the thought of Rafe pushing you against the bathroom counter, you watching him as he fucked you through the mirror… it was enough for wetness to come to your cunt, and you quickly excused yourself from the table.

You looked behind you before taking hold of the bathroom doorknob. The door swung open, and Rafe pulled you in, quickly smashing your lips and moving you to sit on the cool marble counter of the sink. “Thank god you’re wearing a dress,” He practically growled as his fingers were quick to be met with your cunt and your lips continued to dance. “They might get suspicious,” you breathed out as his fingers worked their way into you, and his lips moved to your neck. Rafe groaned as your hand cupped his length through his trousers. “Again, baby, I don’t fucking care.” You gasped as Rafe abruptly pulled you off the counter, turning you to face the mirror and bundling your hair in his hand. His other hand was frantically hiking up your dress and pulling down your underwear. “Such a perfect ass,” He mused and harshly gripped the flesh, making a wince.

You bit your lip and rolled your eyes in pleasure as his cock plunged deep into you. Rafe hissing in pleasure and gripping your hair tighter. “So fucking tight— if I weren’t the one to take your virginity, your cunt would have me believe you’ve never been fucked before… but we both know that’s not the truth, huh baby?” Rafe taunted as he rested your head on his chest, your back arched as he pounded into you. You let out a stifled moan as he removed his grip from your hair and instead placed it around your neck; his other hand, the one with his ring, found its way to the bundle of nerves on your cunt, determined to make you cry out in pleasure— for his family to hear your actions.

“Rafe— please… I—“ You rasped as you felt the need for release. “Aw… not yet, baby… you don’t get to come yet,” Rafe taunted and gripped your neck tighter, enjoying the way tears spilled from your eyes and the way your cunt clenched tighter around him. “Watch me fuck you, pretty girl. I want you to watch how pleasured you are by my cock.” You obeyed his order and watched at the pleasured state both of you were enveloped in, your eyes locking with blue ones through the mirror. You plead with him for release, which only spurs a deeper desire in Rafe. When his thrusts became sloppier, and his grip on your neck grew tighter to the point he was truly close to obstructing your breathing, that was when he finally let you come undone.

It had been a week since the family dinner at Rafe’s. Your parents were away on business, giving you and Rafe the opportunity to play house. The lines of casualness blurred when you had Rafe holding you close in sleep every night when he would wake you with his kisses and his lips on your cunt. The lines of casualness faded away when you cooked for him at dinner, and he served you breakfast in bed.

You started to wonder if being casual meant that you would take showers together, that you would be in each other’s arms as you watched hours of movies. Was it still casual when he handed you his phone because his sister wanted to talk to you? It’s hard to say you two were just casual when he went through the piles of your baby albums and forced you to tell the story behind each photo, making you recall your childhood with such interest that it made your heart flutter. It was far from casual when he lay on your lap and started to open up about his torn relationship with his dad and mum; your hand soothingly brushed his hair whilst the other was intertwined with his.

Hope was dangerously blooming in your heart that perhaps you two were starting to be more than casual. The actions shown led that way. You only had to muster up the courage to ask Rafe for more, to establish something stable between the two of you. So you went to his party with hopes that you two would be something more. Idealistic and idiotic because the moment you stepped foot in his house, with the crowds of people and the music blasting, all you could see was him in the corner, making out with another girl. Holding her in the way he held you, kissing her in the way he kissed you. Your heart pitted, and your mind scolded you for being stupid enough to hope. You hated yourself because you made yourself believe that Rafe Cameron would ever want something more than casual.

Part 2

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zevrra · 5 months ago

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—what i desire

synopsis: You need an upgrade but being short on cash, you go to your fav ripperdoc in hopes he’ll give you what you need; instead you get something you’ve always wanted.

tags: 18(+) only, mdni, suggestive content, no plot/only p&rn, mentions of f-m oral sex, teasing, slight dirty talk, swearing, mention of a facial, slight mentions of overstim, bottom(ish)!vik, the reader is v

“C’mon Vik,” You say, a pleading tone to your voice. “I’m in the big leagues now. Gotta have the good stuff.”

The older man stares at you. Listening to your pleas with deafening ears. You had finally gotten the chance for a big break in your mercenary work. This job would be the one to put your name up there with some of NC’s legends. Go big or go home was your motto after all. And you would need the proper cyberware to make that happen. Money was just a little too tight right now to be buying said cyberware.

“Plus you’re the best ripperdoc in all of Night City!” You sing in a light hearted tune. Hoping to sway the older man into giving you some new upgrades.

Viktor scoffs at the bribery of words, arms crossed over his broad chest as he looks slightly down at you. “Tell me something I don’t know, kid.” He replies. A smirk is plastered across his face. You can’t see his eyes fully behind the sunglasses he wears, probably wears them even in his sleep, but the smile is enough to tell you; you just might be getting your way.

Or so you think.

“I can’t keep passing out favors hun. You still owe me eddies from the last set I gave you.” Vik sighs, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. He too still had to make a living and you knew that.

The distant sound of whatever fight Vik’s put on plays somewhere in the background. For the few years you’ve known Vik now, and how you’ve grown to know his love for the ring, he’s tried to sign you up every day since. He obviously missed fighting. So much so he hoped you would one day decide to try your hand at it. But the sound of the fight is the only thing that draws between you two for the moment; as you watch Vik struggle internally.

On one hand, he needed to make money. Money wasn’t everything to him but to Night City it certainly was. You’d bleed gold before blood in this forsaken city. But on the other hand he was weak to you and you knew that too. Knew his gaze softened when you approached him. Or the several times he’d ring your holo just to see how you were doing. Maybe it was just an old man thing to do but you had your doubts. You could always feel the longing in his words when speaking to you. Could feel his yearning from across the room sometimes.

No matter what, at the end of the day, Vik liked you; and would try his best to give you what you wanted. And although you have come to like, and enjoy his company just as much, telling him was far harder than just teasing the older man.

“Please Viky. This’ll be the last time I ask, I promise.” You plead as your hands squish together, begging Vik to give you the newest implants he had. You always paid your dues when you could and Vik knew that.

Yet Viktor sighs, unsure if he should cave for you like he had done so many times before. And that was the dilemma he was struggling with now. He liked you. He really did. But some things were just too complicated. “V…” He begins but you cut him off before he can vocally tell you no and set everything to stone.

“Vik you know I’m good for my word,” You mumble, hands reaching out to grab the thickness of one of Vik’s biceps. Fingers running along the years of toned muscle he oh so casually flexes. “But if you’re having doubts…let me pay in another way.”

The suggestion takes Vik by total surprise. At first he’s confused at what you’re offering. His eyes scan your face behind his glasses as he tries to figure out what you mean. Your hand is very distracting on his arm. Tracing over every little smooth line etched into his skin. You had always wanted Vik. From the moment you two had first met. He was far too caring for a street punk like you. Without him, your leap up the food chain would never have happened. It was all thanks to him. You push your fingers under the hem of his shirt sleeve, making sure your eyes meet his. You could come up with the money within a few weeks but now, all of this, was just an excuse to act on your desires.

That's when Vik pieces all of the puzzle together. The sudden realization makes his face blush bright red. He lifts his free hand to his lips, clearing his throat in an attempt to say something but he’s unable to speak at all.

You push your luck just that much more by running a hand up to his neck. Moving slowly against his body. Feeling the flush of his skin against the pads of your fingertips. Can feel the heat of his body temperature rise with just a single touch of your hand. And for just a brief moment before you’re running a hand down his well toned chest. Even at his age he was in far better shape than most men in Night City; and that meant plenty of women most likely wanted him.

But you were the only one he wanted.

Your hand continues to travel the front of Vik’s body. Running across the buttons of his blue shirt, one by one. Teasing the older man as he stood and let you do it. Your eyes watch his every move; looking for any sign that he may get upset about you teasing him too much. Watch as his head tilts to the side, palm still pressed to his lips, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses he seemingly never takes off, and the darkening blush across his cheeks. You wonder if the red sprawling across his cheeks would reach his ears or better yet, his chest. You’d give anything to find out— and you sure as hell planned to find out.

Vik continues to shyly look away from you. So many wild thoughts must be running through his head. How he wanted all of this; how he should tell you to stop. How many times had he stayed up till the dead of night with you on his mind. In more than one way. At this point you’re just waiting for him to yell at you. To tell you off for fooling around, give you the implants, and write this off as a funny joke between friends. Except it wasn’t a joke and you didn’t want to stop. And by his silence, he didn’t want you to stop either.

“Mmm nothing to say?” You tease the older man with a smirk. Gripping the bottom of his tucked in shirt and giving it a tug to pull it loose from his jeans. He slightly jerks at the motion, tensing under your advancements as his shirt falls around his hips. With his shirt out of the way, you begin to drop down onto your knees. Your fingers move to wrap around the buckle of his belt, keeping your gaze fixed on his flushed face as you unbuckle the belt, and then slip the leather fabric out of the loops of his waistband. “Cute.”

“V.” Viktor practically growls, suddenly finding his voice. The realization of how quickly he was losing his composure was evident now. He knew he was mere seconds away from folding completely for you; just as he knew he should stop this. But knowing and doing are two different things because he certainly does nothing as your fingers clasp around the button on his pants.

“Relax, relax.” You laugh with a scrunch of your nose. Then you’re finally unbuttoning the front of his pants. You pop the metal button out of its secured place before you’re ever so slowly pulling down the zipper.

You unfold your prize like an eager winner. His black jeans come undone easily; and as you gently tug his jeans down, you smile at the reveal of the white of his boxers and the semi-hardening of his cock beneath. You knew you had wanted Vik before but now it was so clear to you as you sit on your knees before him.

You bite your bottom lip as your gaze slips over his body. Eyes flicking all the way up his chest until you’re surely meeting his eyes behind those pesky glasses. And your gaze stays there as your hands rub over the front of his boxers. Putting just a little pressure on the stiffness of his cock in an attempt to make him fully erect. “Look at me.” You softly demand with a small laugh, forcing him to watch your every move as you begin to stroke him through the fabric. Hand moving from the base, outlining every inch of his rather large shaft, to the wet tip, then back down to the base once again. And like a charm, your movement and eye contact does the trick fairly quickly. As now the great Viktor Vektor is solid as a rock beneath your touch.

His hand still covers his mouth but it does nothing to stifle the deep groan he makes as his underwear slides down. Finally letting his cock bounce free into the open air. You can’t help but breathe hot against his wet skin. Your eyes finally break from his to look at the massive member before you. The tip is an angry red and begging to be touched. The muscles of his abdomen flex and quiver at the building up of his want and desire. You were so close you could almost taste it. And you would. Even his body knew that.

Nothing stops you as your hand finally wraps around his twitching cock. The instant relief of being touched has Vik groaning behind his hand. His hips stutter forward, pushing himself further into your grasp to get any kind of friction. To push himself closer to the edge of satisfaction.

“Fuck, V.” Vik barely whispers. He stumbles just slightly back to put all of his weight fully on the desk behind him. His free hand reaches down to grab at his shirt. Tugging it up to get a better look at what you’re doing. Now you have his full unyielding attention.

Good.

You can’t help but lick your lips before diving into your meal. Mouth pressing right up against the head of his cock as you smear whatever precum you quickly could across your lips. The little bit of liquid helps you to push the tip of his cock into your mouth far easier than if you had tried to go without. Even from just his head you knew your jaw was in for a workout. He wasn’t long or relatively packing in the length department but his girth? Shit. Fitting all of him inside was going to be a little harder than you anticipated. Seeing as just the tip was already laying your tongue out flat inside of your mouth.

Him being thicker than you had realized would not stop you though. You wanted this man and you wanted him to feel good. Wanted Vik to feel so good that he would never allow anyone else the chance.

You press on with your eager notions. Using your hand wrapped around his base to keep him feeling good while you slowly got accustomed to his girth. Taking inch by inch until saliva quickly builds up in your mouth, threatening to spill over your lips with every bob of your head. Not a bad thing in this situation, as every drop would be used to work on sucking him off while sinking further down his shaft.

One hand grips at his thighs as you swallow more of him. The other hand is wrapped around the base of his cock to keep him still now. Spit finally dribbles down your chin as you’ve barely managed to hit the half way mark. Every breath you take is a chore now; forcing you to focus on not choking on him as he fills up every inch of your mouth.

You lean back just barely to move back to the tip. Sucking in any leftover spit and precum, tongue rolling over the underside of his head, before you’re pushing yourself further down. Using your newfound leverage to finally push the rest of his shaft between your lips. The hand on the base of his cock quickly moves away as your lips are steadily replacing where your hand once held him.

And with a few more seconds of dragging your mouth across the hardened flesh with every bob of your head, your nose firmly presses against his abdomen as you’ve finally taken all of Vik inside of your mouth.

Vik is a mess beneath you. He’s moan after moan with every single one of your movements. If not for the hand pressed tightly on his mouth you’re sure he’d be a loud, whiny, whimpering mess. Mhm, just how you want him to be. You can feel his thigh tensing under your fingers as he tries his hardest to still himself from thrusting his hips forward. Can feel him twitch in the back of your throat. And by the looks of his heaving chest, he was trying really hard not to unravel. But with your mouth wrapped around him, swallowing him up, sucking him off; it was making it harder and harder for him to remain composed.

With your nose pressed against his body, you manage to breathe in his scent far more easier than you could just hanging beside him. Now you could smell the cheap cologne; a mix of sandalwood and fire. Something strong yet tender just like he is. It made you groan.

Vik mimics your groan as you begin to move again after the brief break. Your mouth tightens around his base, quickly moving along the shaft, all the way back up to the tip, while your hand returns to follow suit. And just like that, you must be doing a good job at it too, as Vik loses his once restrained composure. His can’t help it when his hips begin to move with your flow. Thrusting forward when your mouth hits his tip, needing just that little bit more of friction to keep him feeling good. Chasing your lips in his high as if he’s almost afraid you’ll stop.

With every eager thrust of his hips, you knew he wouldn’t last long. His thrusts were gaining speed, pushing quicker into your lips; his chest heaving with every moan of your name, and you can feel his cock twitching with every brush against the back of your throat.

Good thing he was getting close too. At this point your jaw could barely take much more.

“Fuck, fuck! I’m,” Vik moans as his hand finally slips from his lips. It moves to grip the desk behind him for any sort of stability. From your crouched position you can clearly see the whites of his knuckles as he grips onto his desk. “Close!” Vik barks, ending in a whine as his hips continue to move, never once stopping as he seeks out the finish line of this little pleasant moment.

And it’s truly the sight of Viktor being so disheveled that keeps you going. His usual composure of this stoic, tough boxer, is crumbling apart every second you last that much longer. Now he’s just a man of pleasure; seeking the end of his high as he begs you for it.

His glasses slip off the bridge of his nose that finally gives you the chance to get a really ood look at his face. His eyes are lighter than you remembered and with the flush of his face, they stand out even more in the dim light of his office. And when he looks at you with those pretty, unfocused, blurry eyes full of lust— your heart pounds against your ribcage.

You crave for him like never before. Every night you wanted him to look at you like that. Down the bridge of his nose, hunched before his thighs, letting him fuck into your mouth as he gazes at you taking him so well. The thought makes you moan around the thick of his cock and that’s all he needs before his final straw snaps.

His hips stutter as he breaks down, cursing every curse word that’s ever been uttered before. The whine of your name falls short on his lips as he catches up to his high. Vik cums into the back of your throat. But you figured he was more of a visual man. You pull your mouth off of his twitching cock with a pop, with your hand you run up and down his shaft, pushing out the last few ropes of his cum onto your lips, hitting some of your cheek as well. Your hand keeps moving until Vik is visibly trembling from the quick on set of overstimulation.

Vik’s eyes stare at you but they don’t really see you at the moment. His mind is probably running a mile a minute while he also thinks of nothing at all. His chest falls and rises with every pant. The light of his eyes stares at the mess he’s made across your face.

Your thumb swipes across the mess that sits along your bottom lip. Flicking your tongue out to lick the sticky substance off of your thumb as a smile breaks out on your lips ; staring right back up at Vik as he’s slowly coming down from his high.

“Oh, Vik,” You hum all sweet and gentle to the dazed man. Like the devilish creature that you are, your fingers are once again wrapping around his re-hardening cock. “Wanna keep going?”

#zevrra zevrra!#add a lil spice 🌶️#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk x reader #cyberpunk #cyberpunk v #fem!reader #female reader #viktor x you #viktor x reader #viktor x v #viktor vektor #cyberpunk viktor #Viktor Vektor smut #this is pure smxt #god i love that old man #me next me next me next !!!!!

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cheollipop · 1 year ago

Note

YOU DESERVE THE 2K BABES!!! Here’s one for you;

Where San’s lazy to clean up after sex so he ends up falling asleep with his cock inside you. And the next morning ends up fucking you with his cum when he realises that his cock is still buried in you. He’s totally fucked out from the pleasure since he’s still half asleep. ❤️

Have fun with this huhu \(//∇//)\

2𝙠 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩

we've come full circle!! I started this sleepover with a somno drabble, and now I'm ending it with another one ^^ anonnie, I am not exaggerating when I say I nearly lost my mind reading this ask....I cannot. whenever desperate san is mentioned, I need to take a breather or else I might commit a felony. maybe it's because it's the last sleepover submission but...this turned out so fluffy and so sappy and ughhhh i love love so much. thank you so much for sending this in!! I had lots of fun writing it out, so I really hope I did it justice,, happy reading~ ( = ⩊ = )♡

pairing: choi san x fem!reader

w.c.: 1.0k

tags: smut, so fluffy, and sappy, somnophilia, morning sex, unprotected sex (👎), multiple creampies, breeding kink, overstimulation, mentioned oral sex (f), they're both very very desperate, and very very in love

nsfw under cut—minors dni!

The new day’s rays peppered kisses over honey skin, soft lashes fluttering open to take in the gold cast over painted walls. San was still groggy, remnants of his dream and hints of last night’s endeavours still clinging to the back of his eyelids as he fought off the insistent drowsiness. Your scent lured him in, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck while he drew you closer with arms around your waist, chest flush with your back as he inhaled what was left of your perfume.

He breathed out a soft groan against your skin, the pleasure shooting up his spine dragging him out of the idle state of somnolence he’d slipped into. Awareness flooded his senses—the morning birds sang a familiar melody, accompanying the steady pace at which your hips moved, dragging San’s hardening cock over your sweet spot, fluttering walls enveloping him in their heat. The thick cum he pumped you full of the night before now settled over your thighs and his, crusted over the fresh layer of sweat your ministrations drew out of your pores. San’s mind raced, and then calmed down under the blinding ecstasy coursing through him with every involuntary squeeze around his length, the fingers resting over your waist now gripping the flesh as he resisted the urge to fuck into you.

He allowed you to use him, angle your hips to fit San’s cockhead directly against your g-spot, and chasing your orgasm despite knowing he’d awoken. San grew harder, perhaps because you were so entranced by your own pleasure to pay him any mind, or perhaps because of the images his brain kept drawing up, the questions it kept asking—was his cock buried within your used cunt all night, or did you wake up so desperate to take another load of his cum that you stuffed it back inside yourself?

San groaned into your neck, sliding his hand down to your hip while he lifted his head to peek over your shoulder, the pretty ‘o’ painted on your lips going straight to his groin. Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth to your cheekbone, rolling his hips to meet your own, the steady echoes of skin-on-skin reverberating between the golden walls.

“I gave you so much last night, didn’t I? Oh baby, look at the mess we made,” he mumbled against your skin, fingers tracing a line down the dried-up stream of cum on your inner thighs.

“Sannie, ‘s not enough,” you whined, reaching around to dig your nails into his ass, guiding him into your needy, leaking cunt. “Want you, please, ‘want you so bad.”

“Ah, fuck—I’ll give you whatever you want, darling, I’m all yours,” he snuck an arm under your leg, spreading you wide open before snapping his hips into you once, twice, before his rhythm turned desperate. Desperate to please, desperate to feel you clenching around him, desperate to watch his cum seep out of you under the orange hue of the early morning sun. He fucked the moans out of your parted lips, the dizzying sound harmonising with that of the robins sat at your windowsill. “God, you feel so good. ‘Wanna fill you up again, watch your pretty pussy leak while we eat breakfast.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, repetitions of ‘yes’ and San’s name rolling off your tongue while you gripped onto the hand holding your legs apart, the wet squelch of your cunt as it spat slick out every time San buried inside you masked under the overlapping mewls and grunts shared in the air separating you.

And yet, you wanted more. San was in no way a stingy partner, and more often than not, he gave more than he took. Your mind sifted through hazy memories of the prior night: soft hands bringing you down onto his face, nose nuzzling into your clit while he curled his tongue between your walls; his sensitive cock—overstimulated yet still hard—pounding into you, spurting watery strings of cum deep inside you until the fatigue rendered you unable to ask for more, falling asleep with the twitching member stuffed inside you. Perhaps you were just too needy, too drunk on San, too addicted to his being to bare his absence, even if it were for a single second.

“You’re gonna take it all, won’t you? My pretty girl’s gonna let me breed her over and over again, until her pussy can’t fit any more of me inside.”

God, you felt dizzy. Pure bliss buzzed through your body as San guided you over the edge, holding your hand as you dove head-first into a warm ocean of blues, soft waves reflecting the orange beams of sunlight under which you basked. You clamped up around him, and his thrusts turned sloppy, slipping out with how wet you were. He pushed back inside, chest heaving against your back with raspy praise—‘just a little more,’ and ‘good girl, taking me so well’—muttered onto your nape, thighs shaking against the backs of yours while he used your stretched cunt to reach his high.

San’s cock twitched as he finally unloaded within you, his pace slowing into a languid grind, and the breath he’d been holding released over your skin, low-toned moans travelling into your ears as he milked himself of every last drop and fed it into your womb.

Comfortable stillness took over the room, and the thick scent of sex mingled in the air you breathed, but San’s warmth, his scent and body, engulfed your very being, and somehow nothing else mattered anymore. you shifted onto your back, his length slipping out of you with a hiss, and the familiar trickle of the translucent liquid sent a shiver through your spasming frame. San laid on his side, propped up on an elbow while he mooned over the tranquillity gracing your features, hints of sleep still imminent on your puffy eyelids, and yet he couldn’t help but find that endearing—wanting him, needing him, even while barely conscious. San wondered what good he had done in his past lives to be worthy of such unconditional love and adoration, but didn’t dare ponder for too long, afraid of missing the blessing—fucked-out and staring up at him—the universe had bestowed on his present.

#panda's 2k sleepover o(≧▽≦)o #cromernet #choi san x reader #choi san smut #san x reader #san smut #ateez x reader #ateez smut #choi san scenarios #choi san imagines #san scenarios #san imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines

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mintfullyyours · 18 days ago

Text

something borrowed

The poll results leaned Simon but since Johnny was second, I'm gonna go ahead and post his version first because I love him and the quiet way obsession creeps into my Johnny boy.

Also because Si's might be a multi-fic?? And I envisioned Soap's as a one and done.

I appreciate everyone that's been reading and dropping replies. I love chatting with y'all so much!!! lmk if you want to be included in my tag list too.

happy reading! check out my master list too :)

cw: obsession, slight stalking if you squint

The airport was a blur of movement—exhausted travelers rushing past, the murmur of announcements overhead, and the rhythmic whir of the baggage carousel. You had just arrived in Scotland, today marking the start of your new life on a work visa. It should have been exciting, but between the long flight, the bustle of customs, and the sinking realization that your pre-arranged apartment wasn't ready yet, all you wanted was to collapse in a bed—any bed.

At least your luggage made it.

Or so you thought.

You barely registered the weight as you pulled the black suitcase off the belt, adjusting your grip while balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear. "Yes, Mom, I landed. No, I haven’t seen the place yet—there was a mix-up, so I’m in a hotel for now. You're right, I should've called my land lord sooner. Yes, I’m being careful." You sighed, nodding along to the well-meaning concerns before finally managing to end the call.

By the time you reached the hotel, all you could think about was a hot shower and fresh clothes. You unzipped your suitcase, already reaching for your toiletries—only to pause.

Unzipping the case, you blinked down at neatly folded clothes that were absolutely not yours. A few button-ups, dark-wash jeans, a military-green hoodie that smelled faintly of something clean but masculine. A leather toiletry bag sat on top, half-unzipped to reveal a razor and cologne. Your stomach twisted as you rifled deeper, hoping— praying — that this was some bizarre mistake.

And then you found it.

Dog tags.

Your breath hitched as you held them up to the dim light of the hotel room. They clinked together softly, the name engraved on the metal stark and unmistakable.

John MacTavish.

You sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, flipping open the worn leather notebook you'd found in his suitcase. You hadn’t meant to snoop, truly. But after realizing the mix-up, frustration had led to curiosity. Tucked within a few shirts, a thick notepad. When you opened it, the first few pages were filled with intricate sketches—landscapes, weapons, and then… faces.

Your fingers hesitated as you turned to a drawing that sent a chill down your spine.

It was unfinished, but the shape of it was eerily familiar. The curve of the jaw, the way the hair fell just slightly out of place—your features were there, just vague enough to make you question if it was truly you or just a coincidence. Your pulse quickened. Had he seen you before? Had he drawn this from memory?

Or worse… from imagination?

You swallowed, flipping another page, half-expecting to find more sketches of yourself. Instead, there were tiny notes scribbled in the margins, barely legible in places. Soft eyes. Always moving, like she’s thinking of a thousand things at once.

Your breath caught in your throat.

This was insane. It had to be. He didn’t even know you… did he?

And yet, here you were, staring at proof that maybe, just maybe—

He’d noticed you first.

Now somewhere on the other side of the city, Johnny MacTavish leaned against the counter of his hotel room, watching as the ice in his glass shifted with the slow swirl of whiskey. His other hand rested on the suitcase he’d taken from baggage claim— your suitcase.

He’d told himself it was an accident. And maybe, technically, it was. He’d grabbed the bag without checking the tag, too distracted, too caught up in the chaos of the airport. That was the version he’d keep if anyone asked.

The zipper gives way with a low hum and Johnny flips open the suitcase. Soft fabrics. His fingers brush against the sleeve of a sweater, thick and plush, the kind that looks better stolen off a lover’s back. There’s a silky dress beneath it, something smooth against his fingertips that have been through too much brutality, and he exhales through his nose, jaw tight.

A well-worn hoodie that smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, the kind of scent that clung to someone effortlessly. He brought it closer, inhaling before he could think better of it. It was comforting.

This isn’t his.

But it’s yours.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t move to close the suitcase just yet. Instead, he lets himself indulge—just a second longer.

His knuckles graze against something rigid in the side pocket, and when he pulls it free, his breath catches. A photo.

It’s you.

The first thing he notices is your smile—wide, radiant, unrestrained. You're laughing, holding a little girl who’s absolutely covered in melted ice cream. Sticky fingers curled around your arm, a mess on your shirt, but you doesn’t look like you mind. If anything, you look like you're having just as much fun as the kid is.

Something tugs in his chest. Tight.

He swallows.

This is stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve already called the number on the luggage tag and set up the swap. But instead—

He turns the photo over.

Scrawled in messy, uneven handwriting, a child’s marker bleeds into the back of the paper:

“Best day ever.”

It’s like a punch to the gut.

Something in his chest clenched. Not just because the words were sweet, but because they felt like confirmation. Even the kid knew —you were good. The kind of person who made life feel lighter, brighter. The kind of person who deserved to be cherished. He could picture it too easily—you're in his kitchen, a little one on your hip, laughing as you wiped ice cream off their face. His kid. Their kid.

Christ.

His fingers tighten on the edge of the photo.

Call it luck that your luggages were swapped & maybe this really was an accident.

Or maybe, just maybe —

Johnny MacTavish saw you at baggage claim first.

And maybe, just maybe —

He took your suitcase on purpose.

tag list

@ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101 @galactict3a @star-buck-barnes @synamonthy @vylaris @vvenus-child @negomisan @heretoreadanddrinktea @mocalocha @icommitwarcrimes @readingcatinacorner @just-lilita @blackhawkfanatic

#SOAP DESERVES A FAMILY #someone give it to him #ok fine #I'll do it myself #call of duty modern warfare #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap/reader #john mactavish x you #soap #mintfullywrites

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fatesundress · 2 years ago

Text

⭑ observations ii. tom riddle x reader

part i here.

summary. two weeks after your last encounter with tom shatters all of your previous observations, tensions are high, and eventually, something's gotta give. (it's tom. he’s giving head)

tags. smut (so. so much. minors BE GONE TO WHENCE YOU CAME!), fem anatomy + reader is referred to as a woman by someone, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, again implied tall!tom or short!reader (take it however you prefer), jealous tom does not understand friendship but then again neither does reader apparently, a little wine is had, the room of requirement is used shamelessly as a plot device, did i mention smut, i’ve lost my mind etc etc.

note. this is a part two, so go ahead and read the first part and come back if you'd like :) obligatory preface: it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also woahh was not expecting the love on my last post so thank you! i'm still trying to figure this whole acc out so support, questions, (requests? never done those before) anything is appreciated ♡

word count. 6.3k

The next two weeks are agony. You don’t, in fact, stop meeting with Godefrey to study, because you do, in fact, still need a good mark in Ancient Runes and for all his faults he can reach the tallest shelves and he’s a faster writer than you. Also, Tom Riddle is fantastic with his hands but this does not make him God.

You find pureblood politics a bit archaic. You find muggle courting a bit stifling. This leaves very little space for what took place between you and Tom in the middle of a corridor two weeks ago (you can’t stop wincing at how insane that sounds) and very little patience for his utterly original and impressively humble request that you halt your studies with Godefrey. Godefrey doesn’t stick his hands up your skirts while the two of you are studying. He doesn’t silence your gasps with a shush and a finger to your mouth, doesn’t — wouldn’t (you’re so imaginative when you want to be) — tell you to keep reading as his thumb draws circles between your legs, tell you to repeat the words that get caught in your throat, tell you how much he likes it when your eyes go dumb and glassy and all you can say is his name. So, really, Tom should have nothing to worry about.

“I swear,” Selwyn says, picking at a plate you don’t think she’s actually eaten anything off with how distracted she is, “he’s looked over here at least three times.”

You don’t dare glance at who you know she’s talking about. “You’re obsessed.”

Pot. Kettle. Whatever.

“Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset him in Potions? Didn’t botch something that might mar his perfect record?”

You flick her forehead and she scowls. “I’m not an idiot, Selwyn. I handle myself just as well in Potions as he does — he wouldn’t —” Wouldn’t have complimented your rapport if that weren’t true, wouldn’t have said you communicate efficiently, make a good pair, probably wouldn’t have — fingered you in the hallway? — Yes, that too. Slipped your mind! So easy to forget.

You take a long exhale, and smile impassively at her. “I didn’t botch anything, trust me.”

She finally takes a bite of food. “Maybe I did something…”

And then she’s lost in thought again, eating now, at least, and you shake your head softly as you watch what are likely a million different theories flitting through hers.

“Morning,” Tom says to you when you enter Potions after breakfast, a delicate smile tugging at his lips.

You have, of course, trained for this.

It’s your fifth — sixth? — time sharing a table with him since that night and it is somehow easier by nature and harder by anticipation (of what, you have no idea) every time. The first was terrible. Unsalvageable and without a silver lining. It had taken almost an hour that morning to charm the violent hues of red and purple spanning the column of your throat, and ultimately, the marks were so persistent you’d forgone the glamours and decided to just wear a turtleneck. You’d been fortunate it was December, but that was about all there’d been to be grateful for. You hadn’t been able to look at Tom all class and his hand had brushed yours once to take a phial from you and you’d flinched so sharply it would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t caught it with a charm. And he’d smiled, as he’s smiling now, a soft, “Careful,” that honestly, for a moment, made you want him dead.

Now you could speak just fine, look him in the eyes in practised intervals, and almost, impressively, make articulate conversation with him again. Make stupid comments about Slughorn and Lestrange and bear the weight of his grin knowing it was there for you.

His, he’d called you. A very funny notion.

“Morning,” you answer on a smiling sigh, sleepy but jovial all the same.

You deserve applause for this. Ten trophies in the hall with your name on them.

“Tired?”

“Mhm. Essays for Ancient Runes are due Friday and studying has been keeping us up all night.”

His eyes flash with something you’ve yet to ascertain. Your research has been put temporarily on hold, scattered and splintered by the revelation that your first observation was, admittedly, a little bit off, and you have no means of figuring out a look like that when you can’t even begin to figure out anything else.

“Has it?” he asks, a tinge less friendly.

“Well,” you say, grinding the lacewing flies, “that’s commonplace, isn’t it? You take all sorts of advanced classes, I’m sure you understand the work it takes.”

“...Hm.”

That’s it. That’s all you get from him.

And if Selwyn’s concern over you botching your work in Potions wasn’t already, obviously dispelled, the glee on Slughorn’s face as he assesses your and Tom’s cauldron should do it.

“Brilliant! Utterly brilliant!” He claps a hand over Tom’s back, regarding you both with pride so thick it clouds his eyes, like he's drifted into a revery of the future (you and Tom, you expect, are his most prized graduates, making history under his name, proving his immense wisdom) before he appears to return to Earth. “Ten points between the two of you, hm? Very, very good — though, of course, no surprises there!”

He chuckles to himself as he evaluates the other students, and you catch a horrified wheeze of Godefrey’s name (bless his heart) as one of the cauldrons in the back begins to sputter and froth to the floor.

You look to Tom with some droll little comment at making it to the end of term with top marks, but his gaze is burning into Godefrey’s table in such a way you wouldn’t be surprised if it was what was causing his cauldron to boil.

Well. Perhaps not, then.

You and Godefrey hand in your essay that Friday with more relief than apprehension — you both decide it’s quite good — and you laugh loudly and breathlessly as he picks you up and thanks you a thousand times, spinning you until you’re dizzy. You refrain from making any promises to attend his Quidditch games, but he vows to let you have the snitch he catches despite absolutely having no right to keep it.

And Slughorn, you come to find, was not exaggerating his elation at your skill. After trotting after you on your walk back from Ancient Runes to invite you to the last Slug Club dinner of the year, your spirits are high with the blissful satisfaction of a job well done and a night to celebrate it with.

You can breathe, finally, when it’s the last week of school before Christmas break and Selwyn’s zipping the back of a last-minute dress you purchased in Hogsmeade.

“Gorgeous,” Selwyn says with a grin. “Wish this school would have a bloody ball so I could really dress you up.”

“Buy a doll, Selwyn, you can dress them however you like.”

“You are such a —”

You burst into laugher, swatting her wand away as she pokes your side with it.

“Just go then, before I hex you!”

“All right, all right!” you concede, arms raised in surrender. “Don’t ruin all your hard work now.”

“Oh,” she calls on your way out the door. You turn and there’s a mischievous look in her eyes as she tucks her wand back in her pocket. “And do tell me before I leave tomorrow if Riddle spends all night staring.”

You groan as if it’s a truly abominable thing to imagine. Riddle, staring with those dark eyes of his? You, the centre of his attention? Ghastly. You daresay you’d never recover from the horror of it.

“Don’t leave before I tell you how remarkably uneventful a night it was,” you say with a sidelong glare, and leave before she can edge in the final word.

You have no idea what a Slug Club supper typically consists of, but you imagine for Christmas he’s gone a little further with his festivities. His office is glittering in hues of green and red and fleecy, snow-dappled gold. The lights overheard (some similar charm to the one in the Great Hall but a tad less complex, you think) drip and then vanish into the air like squeezed berries, and the berries — served with pastries and ice cream — taste like they've been enchanted with something. Drizzled in elf-wine or sugar-something. Selwyn was right that the standard dress isn’t quite formal enough for a ball, but it’s… formal. The boys are in clean-cut dress robes and the girls are in fine gowns of slightly varied lengths. By the overwhelming number of them you recall being archetypes of pureblood fanaticism, it makes sense how expensive they all look. You yourself brush up nicely, if not a bit more frugally, but you've never been to an event like this at school, and that’s exciting enough on its own not to be bothered.

It’s another degree of training (Is there going to be a marathon? Are you at war?), an incredible leap from your preparations before Potions every other day, to be ready when Tom Riddle enters the room a respectable five minutes late with a gleam about him more captivating than any of the lights.

“Ah, Tom!” Slughorn exclaims, and ushers him into a seat you remark before Tom is even in it is discomfitingly near to yours. “We’re all here at last… Supper, then? Hope you aren’t too full already, I’ve got the House Elves running laps tonight!”

You’re spared Tom’s immediate proximity by a Ravenclaw couple seated in the chairs between you, their hands clasped under the table while they sip wine from shiny goblets, and you only realise the prolonged extent of your observation when Tom glances at you from the spot over, and you startle yourself into reaching for your own goblet to appear busy. It's a struggle pretending to enjoy the wine.

You eat. You listen to cluttered, unending tales of Slughorn’s time at school and how he earned his post. You drink, and then you regret not drinking before eating because there’s only a very light, very nice buzz that warms you when you finish your cup, and the Ravenclaw couple is — oh, no, it isn’t just them — they’re standing up to dance as a gramophone sparks to life and a low, dulcet orchestra begins to play. There are now two notably empty seats separating you from Tom.

What had you said this night would be? Blissful satisfaction? No, not that kind. You couldn’t blame Selwyn for suggesting you’d blundered Potions — you didn’t feel exceptionally smart right now.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Tom says, pulling the chair beside you.

Where is the bottle of wine? Nevermind. None of that. You behave regrettably enough sober.

You manage a simple, “And yet.”

“And yet.” His lips quirk before he takes a sip from his goblet.

You lament for a second that you’ve only actually kissed those lips once. They spent a great deal longer on your fortunate neck.

“Will you be here over break?” he asks, and it isn’t an unreasonable thing to ask, you suppose.

“I think so. Why?”

“I’d like to know whether to expect you or not.”

Expect you? No, yes — refer to observation two: unusual is not an apt enough word for him.

It takes you a moment to conjure a response befitting polite dinner conversation. That is, after all, still what this is.

“I suppose you can. I’ll be busy, of course.”

Well, you didn’t say you conjured something good. It’s a big fat lie. Placating, vague, empty. And you suspect Tom knows that.

“Pity.”

Yes, he knows. He’s all quiet amusement again.

You stare off, satisfied to be left alone —

"And what is it that'll be taking so much of your time?"

“Well, I'm —” And now you have to build the lie — “I’ve told Godefrey I’ll attend to his Quidditch practise. Since the pitch isn’t in use.”

God, it’s so stupid it’s almost impressive. You don’t even know if Godefrey will be here over break, and you could have chosen any number of excuses that would pique Tom’s interest less than it’s apparently consistently piqued by the mention of your study partner.

There’s that strange, indecipherable look again. Riddle is a perfect surname for him, you decide then, and you almost laugh at yourself for it, but that would probably not go over well should he ask what’s so funny.

“Have you, now? That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s hardly charity.”

“Hm, it’s kind of you to think so.”

You huff, tipping your goblet back to swallow the last meagre dregs of your wine.

“You look lovely.”

It’s just a little bit — just a tiny, straggling little bit of elderflower that captures your throat — and you cough into your goblet. “Thank — thank you.”

And, well, he looks lovely too. Obviously. Sickeningly so. You know as much about his personal life as he lets anyone but you’re positive he’s at least a half-blood, if not muggle-born, and it makes you wonder the influence of his renownedly plain black suit in a crowd of neat, long robes. He manages with little effort to look better than all of them at their best. And then his eyes drift over you in that way. Appreciatively, quick enough that it isn't rude, but — enough. They stir a devastating memory. You adjust under his gaze even when it’s situated on your face, far too heavy a thing for you to carry. “Does Godefrey call you lovely?”

What?

You blink at him, your mouth is probably open and you probably look stupid but he’s so… irritating. Yes, of course Godefrey calls you lovely. Godefrey tells you you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met (after his mother), and he drowns you with sherbet lemons at no cost, and he writes at the speed of light to match the quickness with which you recite your textbook, and none of it means anything. Tom is just —

“Unbelievable.”

He quirks a brow. “What was that?”

“I said you’re unbelievable, Riddle. Is it impossible for you to comprehend that I might have friends? That Godefrey is my friend?”

“Well, memory serves me right that you seemed a bit confused on the conventions of friendship last you mentioned it. Forgive my uncertainty.”

He — that was —

“Well, that’s because we are not friends.”

“No.” He leans in. “We are not.”

You push your chair from the table with all the grace you can manage for such an abrupt motion: a tight, impersonal smile on your face as you walk away and approach Slughorn, only realising when you get there that the neck of your goblet is clutched in your hand like you’re trying to strangle it.

Whatever he sees on your face, he isn’t drunk enough yet not to frown at. “Ah, our newest gem — hardly seen you all night! Not leaving already, are we?”

You glance at the clock. It isn’t as though you’re being impolite by abandoning his party in the middle of the event. It’s decently late, the servers are stuck to the walls with little to do, and most of the room has divided into waltzing pairs or hushed debates.

“I’m taking Selwyn to the train station tomorrow, sir. Unfortunately I need to be up quite early.”

Yes, yes, it’s all so tragic. You’re depressed to go.

“Such a shame,” Slughorn frets, wobbling a tad and balancing himself on the wall. “You’ll be all right getting back? Not at all dizzy, are you?” His laugh is cleaved by a loud hiccough, and then he laughs even more. “My, well, I myself may need to be carried!”

“...I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Oh, no, no... trouble at all — there’s — hm… ah, Tom!”

No, no — is it bad you almost reach over and slap your palm over your professor’s mouth? Is it at all impressive that you don’t? You should look on the bright side in moments like these. You should admire your restraint. But of course, Slughorn’s eyes don’t fall upon Tom for nothing. He's halfway across the room already, likely giddy beneath his mask, and Slughorn must have spotted him approaching to achieve this brilliant solution. “Tom can escort you back, no?”

Tom (unforgivably) is beside you now, a very mean, very pretty smile on his face.

“Not too much to ask, I should think? You know the castle best. Head Boy — sometimes I still can’t believe it!”

You look up at Tom and your jaw is clenched where you’ve since put down your drink. There is too much tension in you to know what to do with, and in whatever capacity someone like Tom can look thrilled, he assuredly does.

He holds out his arm. “It’s hardly charity, sir.”

You wonder what spell would catch him most off-guard if you were to blast him in the face right now.

Slughorn claps his hands together. “Ha! Yes, well… perfect, then! Off now, the two of you, off now. Do have a good — ” He hiccoughs again — “rest!”

You don’t even bother the diplomacy of smiling at Slughorn as your arm loops through Tom’s and you’re exiting the party.

Neither of you say a word through the corridors, and that’s very well.

If you could just get back to bed without speaking to him you may still consider it a good night. You may be able to push his strangeness and his entitlement and the annoying way his hair falls to another day, when he pesters you about Godefrey’s nonexistent Quidditch practise, which — come to think of it — you do think he told you he'd be headed home for the holidays. You really fumbled that one.

And then Tom’s thumb is brushing the bare skin of your arm and your step falters a bit. But he doesn’t mention it, and so neither do you.

And then he’s drawing down your elbow to your forearm so softly it almost feels like he isn’t touching you at all. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.

And then your arm, without really meaning for it to, is slipping from his and his hand is holding yours instead, feather-light as lithe fingers wrap over yours and your breath is not the same as it was when you left. He doesn’t mention it. He just keeps going.

His fingers work back up your arm and you shiver as they drag across your shoulder, gaze searing your neck as the soft digits find their way to your jaw, and you get the sense he’s remembering just how much he liked the taste of it, and you’re… you’re letting him. Again. You’re leaning closer, you’re seeking him out, you want him flush against you and even that might not be satisfactory.

You are, in the end, a half-decent observer and a terrible liar.

You’re grabbing his hand with a small amount of direction and a great deal of meaning. You suppose it's because, historically, you’ve proven to have trouble with words in moments like these, and you don’t really know where you’re taking him but god, you know where you want him. Somewhere soft, this time, thick enough that you can fist your hands around it and melt. Somewhere he can hover over you, maybe hold you down a little, just until — maybe, miraculously — you might make him break a little too. Clamber over his lap. Make him yours.

“Tom,” you mouth, some question in the way your eyebrows knit.

The moment you say his name he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours. And, ah, right, that’s what this feels like. You’d almost forgotten.

This kiss is not chaste, hardly tender. It resists in that it demands you push, plead, take this for yourself to prove how badly you want it, and he smiles into you when you do. And then, sated by your efforts, he lets you have him. You’re gripping the collar of his suit as his hands wander appreciatively down the back of your dress, pulling you into him by the waist as the kiss deepens. He’s savouring you like you’re something religious that’s been offered to him, and there’s the taste of wine between you and you’re still here, coherent enough that the symbolism isn’t lost on you.

“I've been thinking," he says between kisses, “about the way you felt when I touched you. I've been thinking how long it might take before you need it again."

You gasp at the sensation, and god, God, you've been wondering too.

You’re pulling him impossibly closer and something hard is pressing into your hip and you clutch tighter onto his shirt. You need it off, you think, and — has your dress been clinging to you so bothersomely all night? You need that off too. You need skin on skin. You careen him backwards without direction, your mind a muddled mess of all the many things your body is screaming it wants, like this is fucking imperative; to give it up would be catastrophic.

You suppose, based on what you’ve read, that that’s how the Room of Requirement works. It’s still funny to think it would apply to this.

To remove yourself from him to watch the door form in the stone (to see the dark, languid shape of his eyes bearing down on you, the wet, stained pink of his lips) hurts. Your awe that the door is forming in the stone at all only somewhat alleviates it. Tom seems to recover from the revelation much faster than you.

His mouth is on yours once more, a hungry kiss; spare fingers at your waist, guiding you through the door and shutting it carelessly behind him. He’s like fire against you, radiating as he presses in on you, his hand tangled in your hair and his hips flush against yours. It's a cheap trick when his mouth begins its descent — he obviously hasn’t forgotten how much you liked it the last time — from your jaw to your throat, as his lips trail down your chest and you're shivering into the warmth of him.

You’ve heard it said before, in some romantic sense, that it’s sometimes hard to tell where you end and a lover begins. This is not like that. You've never been more aware of anything than the point where you and him meet.

You’re tugging blindly and earnestly at him again, trusting in the nature of the Room like this isn't the first time you've been in it, and then you're stumbling onto a bed you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago (people say magic is a neutral force but evidently this is not the fucking case), fingers carding through Tom's hair as his body pins you to the mattress. His mouth is molten hot. You squirm and pant beneath him, your breath coming faster than it ever has. Everything feels sharper and deeper and more intense under his touch, every sensation heightened until it's almost impossible to tell pleasure from pain, his tongue from his teeth.

How did it take you this long to do this again? To need him like this?

And his — you should really have the mind to see the mistake in all of this but perhaps that's for later — his fingers are pulling your sleeves down, propping your back to arch as he reaches under you to unzip your dress, apparently too impatient to sit you up and take it off properly. It bunches around your waist where he leaves it. For a moment he stops to look at you, your chest exposed in the dim sconce-light, and then his mouth dips down to circle your breast and you're biting down on a pillow to hold back the whimpering gasp that longs to escape you. He hums around the flesh, kisses across your sternum to the other, laving tenderly. And then he’s at your stomach, kissing a stripe to your belly button before pushing past the dress he's left ringed around your abdomen.

You shimmy under the weight of him to prop your head up — to see past the mass of silk that obscures his face from you as moves lower and lower, hands spanning your hips to keep you still.

His face hovers above your thighs, and he doesn’t move.

“Did you enjoy my fingers?" he asks.

At that you freeze, thighs pressing together to bury the hand that's rising between them, and the reaction is answer enough.

Tom smiles somewhat. “Hm, you did."

He spreads your legs, one hand pushing your underwear aside and regarding you with delicate, shameless appetite — something that might even be adoration: like this is all he's ever wanted you to want.

“Do you think you'd enjoy my mouth, too?"

Words are gone. There's nothing left in you.

Tom doesn't mind. His head moves artfully between your legs, holding them apart and steady, pressing kisses to the base of your thighs. Your hands flail from the sheets, desperate to grip something else and you hold back a sound that feels like irritation and need at the same time. You need him closer, higher than this. He knows. You can feel his smile biting into your skin.

And then you manage a nod though you're not even sure he's looking at your face anymore (and what a picture to imagine he is) and you worry momentarily it won’t be enough for him — that he’ll ask you to be nice and say it out loud for him — but he hums with something merciful, and — his gaze lowers from yours. You catch the smallest glimpse of his tongue before it’s on you, wet and slow and unrelenting and you say his name, but it’s a mewl; you choke on it. It sounds like a cry.

Pitiful, needy, undone. Just how he wants you.

You think all efforts to remain even remotely composed are thrown to the wind as soon as his tongue is lapping at you, fast and then slow, everything you want and not even remotely close. He sinks all his weight down as if he can predict the moment you'll writhe before you do — and you do. With his grip he tells you to endure it. You only need him to say it with his hands and his mouth but he breathes back, licking his lips and he actually says it. “Be good.”

That makes your breath hitch and your cheeks swell impossibly hotter, and reality is a small glint in your periphery where everything else is burning red. “Y-you’re—”

His mouth silences you, tongue catching your clit in a drawn-out, agonising motion, and you gasp and lurch forward to inch through the sensation, craving more. Reason is lost on you, a throbbing familiarity forcing you to grind your teeth down on the pillow to stop yourself from telling him to — you don’t even know. Finish you. Abandon all reluctance. Just let you come as hard as you know he wants you to. But he pauses, observant as he raises to work his fingers against you. Watching how your slick coats them like it’s the most enthralling sight he’s ever witnessed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to push one inside of you, hearing your breath catch above him and the moan that comes tumbling out of your throat, pillow be damned.

You do your best to breathe through it, and you know he knows how to make you unfold like this, so the meticulous lightness of his ministrations tells you he’s trying to keep it from you now. You’re almost embarrassed about the fact that you’re dripping onto his hand regardless; his lips puffy, his gaze unnervingly, dizzyingly carving you in two.

“Just,” you rasp, clutching desperately at his wrist. “Tom, please.”

Your begging must be music to his ears. (It’s a rare, unplanned fifth observation: that you think he’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.)

He adds a finger. It’s encircling you, first, and no amount of restraint can stop the harsh gasp that leaves you, but then it’s his tongue and two fingers and he’s pushing into you how you wanted, and he makes a pleased sound against you, gripping you tighter with his free hand, still not allowing you movement and fuck, are you trying. Your body moves on impulse. Your mind is blank. All that matters now, like the last time, is this. Him. You moan, a low, throaty noise that's a little too loud, a little too wanton; you can't recall if anything has ever come from you quite like it and Tom devours you at the sound.

He wants more and you agree. It's as much an obsession as your observations: more, please, anything and everything.

It’s the precision of his touch — not some bored, hurried transgression — that brings your hands roughly to his hair. “Tom,” you whine, holding him tight, and the purr of his obliging mouth is something destructive.

As soon as you feel another swell of something deep down, your mouth is falling open.

His tongue is sliding through you, fingers curling deeper, and then your clit is in his mouth, and he’s looking up you between your thighs as your eyes wrench shut, and you’re coming.

Your voice breaks somewhere in the catastrophe of it. Your body spasms, static to every atom, and he pins you down through it. He doesn’t grant you the reprieve of escaping the frenzied, glorious torture of it. His mouth still lingers. His tongue moves thankful and unrelenting.

Tom takes all of you and something else, and you think it is destruction, creation, both. How terrifyingly similar they suddenly feel.

His lips are swollen and slick when he finally detaches from you and you want to kiss him, but he’s leaning back to admire his work from a new angle. You swallow, unable to blame him for it because you look down at yourself and — this is something else. Your arousal is dripping to his chin. You're shaking. Your legs are still clenching around his torso. They’re holding him so tight you can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.

But he just rolls off you. Adjusts his trousers and your abdomen flutters and you think, don’t. You don’t even realise you’re reaching for him until your hand is around his wrist and you’re still sighing through the come-down, panting into the hot air. He presses a kiss to your forehead, a real one this time, fingers damp on your jaw as he holds you. You make a note that that’s the second time he’s done that. That you thought it was strangely intimate the first time and nothing’s changed other than how much more you like it.

And it doesn’t really feel like you can help it but crawl with gooey, trembling legs onto his lap. Doesn’t feel like you can help it when you lean in and capture his lips with yours, bite down, moan unabashedly into his mouth at the stiffness that presses against your core when you do, steal his tongue and the taste of you on it.

When he pulls away he’s looking at you like he doesn’t think you can actually do this. Like you’d just crumble the moment you tried.

A low, determined protest rises in your throat and you’re kissing him again. You’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, you’re trembling to reach for his trousers.

When you can finally shrug his shirt off and press yourself against him, feel that skin on skin you wanted so badly, you find it somehow even more suffocating than its absence. You’re left wanting a more you aren’t able to fully conceptualise after what he's done to you already, but you’re grinding involuntarily against him and his teeth are scraping your neck and he's hissing at the sensation, and yes, there’s more.

Your breath is staggered when your hips stutter into a roll. You — fuck — you tug fruitlessly at his belt and he smiles against your throat. He takes your hands and guides them. You can feel him, hard against your thigh, and you’re spreading your legs to usher him where you want, clawing at his chest without really meaning to.

Tom, still with your hand in his, unbuckles his belt. He pulls down his trousers just enough to bare himself to you, and maybe he’s right that you can’t manage it yourself but he stops guiding you like the intrigue of finding out is too good to resist. There's something both intimate and imperious about the way he looks at you then. A challenge. It's a kind of intensity you have to believe is just for you, a challenge you meet by daring to believe you're right. You're more than happy to give yourself to it, to let his hands and his eyes and his mouth claim you for his own, so long as you get to claim him for yours.

You do. You struggle for it. He’s very patient.

But then it’s there — more — as you finally sink down on him and bite his shoulder and he shudders a low, almost pained exhale, clutching hard at your waist.

There’s a silent, suspended moment where neither of you move. The room feels entirely still. Your lips quiver over his pulse. Your stomach flips at the intensity of it, the undeniable quiver of his desire beneath you. You smile against him now, like he always does to you, conscious enough to mumble into his neck, “Mine.”

Tom stutters inside you, fingers gripping you impossible tighter as you dare to think he even gasps. You dare to think he likes it.

And then one of his hands grabs your jaw and his kiss is searing. He thrusts upward and you cry into his mouth, searching to match his pace in a way that you appreciate, for once, he seems unlearned in. It’s all a bit messy, a bit new, palms in fists, in skin, in hair, digging for every part they haven’t already taken from. The kissing has lost all elegance. The sound in the back of Tom’s throat is divine, the feeling of him inside you as he slips his hand back between your legs — like he needs everything, like he knows you do too — it’s ineffable. It coils somewhere deep, touches something you didn’t know existed. Your hips are rotating on instinct, thighs still soft and slack from coming apart on his tongue, but you’re determined. It feels like finding even ground. It feels like something you deserve: to make him feel how you did.

Your head rolls back, eyes pinching shut in bliss, but Tom is there at your jaw again, forcing your blurry gaze back to him.

His hips are inching even further, the intensity of his pace as he adjusts to you making you dizzy. You think, realistically, there’s sound coming out of you, but you aren’t entirely sure when it’s so close to him, when your mouth is between his fingers and your ears are ringing and he’s looking at you like you’re made for him.

“Mine.” And it isn’t a dismissal of your claim but a confirmation that one will not be without the other. His voice is raw and breathy and something about the way he whispers it makes you contract inadvertently around him, hands swatting his chest like they don’t know what else to do. There’s just too much.

You recognize you’re trying to say something. Some plea, a moan, his name (is there anything else left?), but you’re just babbling into his mouth and he holds you there to listen. He doesn’t kiss you. It’s your failing words against his lips. He mercilessly swallows whatever syllables try to shape them.

It’s there again when you need it most: the heavy, swirling feeling inside as he snaps his hips, his fingers digging into your waist with punishing firmness. His breathing accelerates, a low sound in his throat, and you push harder onto him. Your vision is gone again, head gripped in his hands to keep from rolling back so that, you suspect, he can watch defeat split you down the middle again — not over your shoulder, not with him squeezed between your thighs — with his eyes on yours, your every broken moan so near to him that he can feel the breath of each one.

You’re grappling desperately at skin that doesn’t feel like enough to hold onto, even though he’s rocking inside you, and you see the insanity of it, you see that it isn’t logical. Too much and not enough at once — you’re smart enough to know that doesn’t work, but it just is.

“Please,” you manage in a voice you don’t recognize. “Please, Tom, pleasepleaseplease —”

Had you said before it was foolish to call him forgiving? You take it back. Tom is very eager to satisfy.

He finds some place inside of you and you don’t know quite what it is that he changes but it's new, uncharted, and you break there. You dissolve. You’re liquid in his hands as you sob, stuttering around him, shaking like you didn’t know was possible, and you swear — you swear you’re going to take him there with you. It isn’t that you could stop yourself if you tried but your body is tightening around him, fingernails carving half-moons into his skin, and you’re pushing down on him through the ecstasy. You’re forcing your eyes open so he can see you break in full, watch them flutter back all soft and pretty.

You're sated by your ruin when it ruins him too.

The sound he makes is ragged. Undone. He can only bury it halfway with a kiss you think is actually more of a bite, twitching inside you as he fucks you through it.

For a moment that feels detached from time, you're lost in each other. His hips stutter to a halt, your body softens. And he’s pulling out of you like it hurts, mouth falling open as he does. You wince at the loss. There's a sweet soreness between your legs, and you’re held only by the weight of him. You think that if it weren’t for his hands, you’d fall flat off the bed.

But he sort of lifts you off as he lays you on your side, watches you for a long time as if to decide something important before laying down beside you. You watch him too. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, and when there’s not a single curl left clinging to the sweat on your skin, he continues anyway. You let him trace your lips, your jaw, your nose, and somehow, a bit terrifyingly, your final observation: nothing about it feels unusual at all.

You did say he was yours.

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