#This has been mildly eye opening lol

[violent138]

i think you shld just stick to incorrect quotes

I guess thank you for your honesty 🤡? May I ask what specifically made you realize this or if it was an accumulation of takes you didn't like?

Or if you think I make too much not-textpost/not-incorrect-quotes stuff, and I should just stick to that because you like that stuff?

[daryltwdixon]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 | Part 5

Summary: You and Tommy had been trying for a baby for years. When a trip to the gyno answers questions you didn’t even know to ask, your husband enlists the help of his one and only brother.

|| smut MDNI 18+, pinv, no outbreak, talk of infertility, not cheating but def not exactly kosher, baby makin', breeding kink, dirty talk, size kink, boundaries being crossed || notes: forgive me father for I have sinned. this is filthy. but also thinking about a part 2. kinda sorta maybe inspired by some crazy reddit stories. you'd be surprised how many there are like this LOL

You knew this was a crazy idea. Batshit crazy, actually. You were aware. But maybe, just maybe, if you spun it the right way, if you framed it with enough love and logic, it wouldn’t seem so absurd.

See, the thing is, you and Tommy had been trying for a baby for years. Trying and, well, failing. It wasn’t until your last visit to the OB-GYN that a simple question—"Has Tommy ever been tested?"—sent everything spiraling. A few weeks of waiting. A single piece of paper. An answer you never expected. It wasn’t you. It was him.

Not that you’d ever blame him. You loved him too much. But no matter how many old wives’ tricks you tried—holding your legs up after he emptied himself into you, orgasms before and after, cinnamon and honey in your morning tea—nothing could change the fact that no amount of effort would make it stick.

Which brings you to now. Sat at the kitchen table in your quaint, cozy home with Joel across from you, a few glasses of wine deep. His expression was somewhere between exhausted and mildly entertained from whatever dumb story Tommy had been telling. You’d needed a glass yourself, just to steady your nerves.

And then Tommy popped the question.

Joel blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, then shut again, then opened just enough for a noise—somewhere between a scoff and an incredulous laugh—to escape. He shifted in his chair, pushing back just slightly, like he needed to physically distance himself from what he was hearing.

“You…” he started, then stopped. Shook his head. “You want me to—?”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. Just motioned vaguely, like the words were so ridiculous they refused to come out of his mouth.

Tommy sighed, his grip firm around your hand while the other wrapped around your shoulders. “Yeah.”

Joel exhaled sharply, eyes darting between the two of you, like maybe, just maybe, this was a joke. That you'd all start laughing and point at him with a big 'got ya!'. His lips parted slightly, his forehead creased.

“You’re serious.”

“We wouldn’t ask anyone else,” Tommy said, voice steady.

Joel let out a breathy laugh, hollow and disbelieving. He dragged a hand down his face before pressing his palms against the table, fingers splaying out like he needed to brace himself.

“This ain’t a normal conversation to be havin’ over dinner, Tommy.”

“We know.”

“Do you?” Joel snapped, finally looking at his brother again, his voice sharper now. “Because I gotta tell ya, it really don’t seem like you do.”

“This ain’t easy for either of us,” Tommy said, his voice steady despite the tension winding between the three of you. “But we wouldn’t ask anyone else. We want to keep it in the family, so…the baby would still be related to me.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. His fingers gripped the stem of his wine glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. 

He looked over in your direction, but not directly at you, just at the table. At your hand in Tommy’s.

“And you’re…okay with this?” His voice was different now. Lower. Measured, like he was afraid of the answer.

You nodded. “We’ve talked about it. A lot. Ever since the results came back, we’ve been weighing options, and this—” You hesitated, swallowing, trying to gauge if he was even absorbing a single word. “It makes the most sense. More than adopting. More than a stranger. It keeps things in the family.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his ears tinged pink. He still wasn’t looking at you.

Not until you said his name. Soft. Careful.

His eyes flicked to yours, just for a second. Just long enough for you to see everything—the disbelief, the sheer what the fuck of it all—before he dropped his gaze again, shaking his head.

“You don’t have to decide now,” you said gently, exhaling softly. “Just… take some time to think about it.”

Joel didn’t respond.

A few minutes later, he left—no joke, no small talk of the next Sunday night football game could cut through the weight pressing down on the room. Just a stiff nod, a muttered see ya, and the quiet sound of the door closing behind him.

The following Sunday, it almost felt like the conversation had never happened.

The three of you sat at the sports bar, watching the Cowboys play on the massive screens, the air thick with the scent of beer and fried food. Tommy was his usual self, shouting at the refs, leaning into Joel’s shoulder every time the score tipped in their favor. Joel, on the other hand, was harder to read. He was relaxed enough, beer in hand, his usual dry remarks slipping out here and there, but there was something quieter beneath it all—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Not one mention of a baby. Not a single word about what you’d asked of him.

And maybe that was his answer.

When your husband got up, throwing out the excuse of takin’ a leak, the energy between you and Joel shifted. Not in a way you could name—just… thicker. More noticeable.

He sat a seat away, the empty barstool between you like a buffer neither of you had the nerve to close.

You tried to let it roll off your shoulders, but as you sat there, your mind wandered. What if Joel had said yes? What if it worked? Would the baby have his dark eyes, that heavy, thoughtful brow? Would they get that serious little crease between their eyes when they were thinking? His thick hair, his strong hands?

Tommy would still be their father. That was what mattered. That was the whole point. But the idea of seeing traces of Joel—subtle things, the shape of a nose, the curve of a smile…

The thought sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling curling in your chest.

It hurt, his lack of an answer, of course it did. But how could you blame him? You were asking for too much. Asking him to do something unnatural, something messy, something that could never be as clean and logical as you and Tommy had tried to convince yourselves it was.

You swallowed, setting your drink down as the silence stretched. “Listen, Joel—”

“I’ll do it.”

It was quiet. Like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud.

Your breath caught, as you stared at him, mouth agape. The side of his face gave nothing away as he kept his eyes on the TV as you waited for some kind of smirk, some sign that he was messing with you.

But he wasn’t.

Joel kept his eyes averted, like this was the kind of thing a person could say without looking someone in the eye. He took a long drink from his bottle, then set it down with a dull thud.

“You and Tommy deserve this,” he murmured, rolling the glass between his palms as he stared down at it. “To have a kid.”

Your heart constricted at the sincerity in his voice.

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “My life is better ‘cause of Sarah. Don’t think I ever told Tommy that outright, but… it is. I’d love to see him get to have that too.”

You blinked. “Are you…” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You serious?”

Joel turned to you finally, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since last week before you dropped the bomb on him, “Yeah.” he said finally, “Yeah, I’m serious.”

He was clearly uncomfortable, clearly still working through it—but the fact that he said it at all, that he meant it... that was more than you expected.

To be honest, you knew the baster idea wouldn’t work.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud. Not to your very loving, very kind, very hopeful husband. But deep down, you were pretty sure that by the time Joel had taken care of himself, transferred it into a container, driven it over, and you’d sat back on the bed with your legs up, whatever needed to be alive in there was long dead.

You didn’t bring it up. Couldn’t. Not when Tommy was trying so hard to make this work.

Across from you in the kitchen one morning, another negative pregnancy test sitting between you, your husband sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before reaching for his mug, “If I ask you somethin’,” he murmured, voice low, hesitant, “will you tell me the truth?”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Of course, baby.”

His hand rested on the granite, fingers close enough that you reached out, tracing them lightly with your own. His eyes drifted down to your delicate touch against him.

Then, he exhaled slowly and cleared his throat.

“Do you think we should try…” His fingers twitched under yours. “Ya know. The old-fashioned way?”

For a second, the words didn’t land.

Not until you saw the way his eyes found yours and he was looking at you—serious, thoughtful, like he’d been turning it over in his head for longer than he wanted to admit.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Tommy sighed, pressing his lips together before setting his coffee down. “I just think… for it to stick properly, we might need to try somethin’ more… natural.”

Your mind reeled. Heat crept up your neck, flushing your skin before you could stop it.

The idea of being with another man…

Tommy saw it. The way your lips parted, the way your breath caught just slightly.

He stepped closer, smoothing his hands over your cheeks, tilting your face up toward his.

“Only if you were comfortable with it,” he assured, voice gentle, steady. “I’d never ask you to do somethin’ you didn’t wanna do.”

You swallowed hard, still trying to process. “I—I don’t know, Tommy.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “And Joel would flip out if we asked that of him.”

Tommy hummed, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “Yeah, he might.”

Might was an understatement.

Joel was over the following day to help with your bathroom remodel, a project the brothers had taken on during the slow season. You were busy finishing whatever odds and ends you needed to get done upstairs when you heard his voice traveling through the house.

Not just his voice—but the volume of it.

“Are you outta your goddamn mind?!”

The sound rattled through the house, shaking the walls as you hovered at the top of the stairs, heart pounding.

“Joel—” Tommy’s voice, calm but firm.

“No. No, you don’t get to ‘Joel’ me right now, Tommy, because what you just said—what you just— Christ.” There was the distinct sound of something slamming—a fist on the table? A chair shoved back? You weren’t sure, but it made you wince.

“Look, man, I knew you’d be pissed,” Tommy started, only to be cut off immediately.

“Oh, did you?” Joel’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You knew I’d be pissed, but you went ahead and asked anyway? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m already crossin’ so many lines with what we’re doin’, and now you’re askin’ me to…to—!?”

You could picture it perfectly—Joel pacing the length of the room, one hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair, winding up, because when Joel was really mad, he didn’t just stand there.

“You’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it is,” Tommy tried, tone even.

Joel let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I misunderstand the part where you just asked me to fuck your wife?”

Heat crawled up your neck.

“We ain’t askin’ that, Jesus, Joel, don’t talk about her like—”

“You are absolutely askin’ that.”

“It’s not like that.”

“The hell it ain’t!”

Silence. Heavy, tense.

You swallowed hard, gripping the banister, unsure whether to go down there or stay put.

Then—Joel’s voice, lower now, but still laced with disbelief.

“Tell me you didn’t really think I’d say yes to this.”

And Tommy, just as steady as ever:

“I think you wanna say no.” A pause, and you could almost feel the shift in the air between them. “But deep down? I think you’re already considerin’ it.”

Joel let out a slow, sharp exhale, but he didn’t argue.

And a week later, he was back at your doorstep.

There were three rules.

1. No kissing.

That was the hard line, the non-negotiable. Kissing was too intimate— too personal, too close to something else entirely. You could rationalize everything else, strip it down to the mechanics of what needed to happen, but kissing blurred the lines. That made it mean something. And this couldn’t mean anything.

2. No talking about it outside the bedroom. 

No slipping up over dinner, no awkward mentions in passing, no weird jokes over a few beers. It had to stay contained. A thing that only existed in a room with the door closed and the world shut out. Because once it bled into the rest of your life—once it became something you acknowledged beyond those four walls—it would become real.

3. No names

No whispered Joel in the dark, he couldn’t say yours while he was inside you. Names had weight. Names had meaning. And the second you said them, it stopped being about a baby.

So when your ovulation window came within the next few days, you found yourself in your bedroom with the two brothers. When Tommy excused himself from the room—pressing a kiss to your forehead before heading out to meet his buddies at the bar like this wasn’t the weirdest fucking thing in the world— you turned to Joel

Over the years, you’d come to know him, grown comfortable with him. That familiarity should’ve helped, should’ve made this easier. But sitting here now, alone in the bedroom with him, awkward was an understatement.

Joel sighed, rubbing his forefinger and thumb along his brows as he stood at the edge of the bed. “Guess we better get to it, then.”

You nodded numbly, tucking your legs beneath you on the bedspread, looking up at him.

He was already tense, broad shoulders squared, avoiding your gaze like you weren’t even in the damn room. He exhaled sharply, then—without ceremony—unbuckled his belt. The clink of metal sent a strange ripple through your stomach, but you forced yourself to focus, watching as he shucked his jeans down to his thighs, taking his boxers with them.

Your breath caught.

Even soft as he was at the moment, he was bigger than Tommy. Thicker.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting his stance, one hand bracing against the bedpost while the other wrapped around himself. He wasn’t looking at you. Not even close. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere off to the side, jaw locked, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he started moving his hand.

It wasn’t working.

Minutes passed, the air between you thick and suffocating, but he remained… soft. The tension in his face deepened, brows knitting, his motions growing stilted.

You chewed your lip, watching as his frustration mounted.

“You don’t gotta sit there starin’ at me,” he muttered, voice gruff, like this was somehow your fault.

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m just… tryin’ to think how I can help.”

His hand stilled. “You’re fine. Just–just give me a minute,”

Then suddenly as the idea struck, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it up.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, eyes going wide. “What’re you doin’?” His voice was sharp, edged in something that sounded suspiciously close to panic.

You hesitated. “Just… thought maybe it’d help.”

“Well, don’t.” His ears were red. “Keep your damn clothes on.”

You huffed. “Jesus, it’s just a shirt.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but let it go, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

Another beat of silence, only the sound of skin on skin filling the air as he fisted himself.

“Can I help?”

His gaze flicked to yours, skeptical. “Help how?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. What do you like?”

Joel tensed. “…The hell kinda question is that?”

“A valid one,” you shot back, tilting your head. “C’mon, there’s gotta be somethin’. What do you like?”

He hesitated, shifting where he stood, uncomfortable. You rattled off a few suggestions, some kinks you’d heard of. He barely reacted.

Then finally, one seemed to slap him upside the head, “Do you like dirty talk?”

His entire body stilled.

His eyes finally, finally found yours.

Bingo.

A slow pulse of heat curled low in your stomach.

You leaned forward slightly, voice softer now. “What kind of things do you say?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you, the tension in his jaw loosening, his pupils starting to widen.

“Come on, Joel,” you said, then immediately pressed your lips together, realizing you’d already broken one of your own rules—not even five minutes in.

“Sorry—” You exhaled, shaking your head. “But c’mon, do you want me to talk to you? Or what do you usually say to women?”

Joel’s eyes were suddenly burning into you, his chest rising and falling just a little heavier now. He exhaled sharply, remembering himself as his gaze flickered around the room like he wasn’t sure where to land it, like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would stay clinical—mechanical.

“I uh…” He wet his lips, voice rough. “Usually will tell ‘em they’re bein’ real good for me,” he said, exhaling through his teeth. “Bein’ a good girl.”

The temperature of the room shifted, the air growing heavy, pressing down on you. A slow, pooling ache pulsed low in your belly. His nostrils flared as his eyes found yours again, like maybe he could see exactly what that did to you.

You swallowed, “What else?”

Joel’s hips twitched. He hesitated, his grip flexing around himself, fingers curling just slightly. You caught the bob of his throat, the faint shift of his stance. He was getting there.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Tell ‘em how pretty they look on their knees.” His voice had taken on a new weight—thicker, heavier, his drawl rolling low in his throat. “How sweet they sound when they moan for me. How bad I wanna feel ‘em wrapped around me, drippin’ and ready, beggin’ for more.”

The room contracted, the air impossibly tight, each breath harder to pull in. Your skin felt hot, your lips parting as you fought to keep your breathing steady. And you knew—knew—your pupils were wide, knew your face was flushed.

Because his was too.

His eyes had darkened, locked on yours, heat simmering beneath the surface. You inhaled deeply, the air between you charged, electric. You reached out, fingers grazing along his forearm. He tensed, muscles flexing beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“You wanna take this off?” you murmured, voice quiet but sure, fingers tracing up toward the sleeve of his shirt.

Joel let out a slow breath, something flickering behind his eyes—hesitation, uncertainty—but then, after a beat, he reached down and pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor.

Your gaze raked over him.

Christ. He was the epitome of masculinity—broad and solid, built like something carved from rough earth, from long years of labor and hardship. His chest was strong, lined with thick, dark hair that tapered down his stomach in a steady trail, leading lower—disappearing into the patch just above where he was hardening in his hand. 

Your mouth was dry, your pulse a slow, deliberate thrum in your veins.

You lifted your hands to the hem of your own shirt, pausing just slightly. He hadn’t looked away.

“Okay?” you asked softly.

His jaw flexed, gaze dark, unreadable—but after a second, he nodded.

You pulled it over your head, the fabric slipping away, baring more skin than you’d ever thought he’d see.

Joel exhaled sharply, his eyes dragging down your body, heavy and slow, his pupils swallowing the color of his eyes. Your nipples pebbled in the open air, a shiver running through you as his gaze settled there, his breath hitching just slightly.

You reached for him again, fingers trailing along the hard lines of his chest, dipping over the planes of his stomach. He was warm beneath your touch and he smelled like pine and musk and something richer, something leathered and sun-baked—something distinctly Joel.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “O—okay,” he exhaled, voice rough. “I think I’m… good,” he added shakily, and you could see his body finally catching up to the filth rolling off his tongue, the thick weight of him fully hard now. You swallowed dryly at the sheer size of him in his palm.

Standing slowly, your hands dropped from his body, but your eyes never left his as you slid your pants down your hips and let them pool at your feet.

Bare. You were both bare.

Your gaze dragged over him, from the broad stretch of his shoulders down to his stomach, the solid cut of his thighs, his cock standing thick and heavy between you. It was the most you’d ever seen of him. The most he’d ever seen of you.

And he was beautiful.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tight as his gaze traveled over every inch of you. Then, wordlessly, you laid back down on the bedspread, opening your legs for him.

He cursed under his breath.

You caught the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides before he climbed onto the bed after you, settling between your legs. His eyes darted down, locked onto the wetness pooling between your thighs, and his nostrils flared.

“All this from just a few sweet words, huh?” His voice was lower now, edged with something amused but dark, something he hadn’t meant to let slip through.

He shifted forward, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“I, uh…” You cleared your throat, suddenly shy. “It’s said that women are more likely to get pregnant if, um… if they orgasm during or… or before, I think.”

Joel stilled for half a second before a slow smirk pulled at his lips. “You doubt me so much?”

The teasing edge in his voice—the cockiness—made some of the tension in your chest loosen. You let out a breathless laugh, your body unwinding slightly from the tension earlier. “I just… I’ve never…”

Something shifted in his face. The smirk faltered just a little. “You’re sayin’ my baby brother doesn’t take care of his own wife?”

“No!” you said quickly, your hand flexing against his chest defensively. “He does, it’s just… I can’t finish just from penetration. Most women can’t, actually.”

“I know, darlin’.”

You gasped as the thick head of his cock suddenly swiped through your slick arousal, and he hissed, pressing his other hand into the pillow beside your head as he leaned over you.

“Fuck—”

His voice was rough, gravelly, wrecked, and something about it made your thighs squeeze around his waist, made the heat coil even tighter in your belly.

Joel lingered there, his cock sliding through your slick, slow and deliberate, teasing against your swollen clit with every pass. The thick head caught at your entrance, nudging just slightly, and a gasp broke from your lips before you could swallow it down.

His jaw ticked, fingers flexing in the pillow beside your head, his body wound tight like a spring.

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough, strained.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yes.”

He pressed forward, just an inch, just enough for you to feel the blunt stretch of him, and your breath hitched.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “So damn wet.”

Heat flooded your face, but you couldn’t think—couldn’t focus on anything other than how thick he was, how different he was from Tommy. You felt like you were being split in two, but you wanted more. Every inch only made that need, that hunger, grow.

His hand lifted from his cock, skimming over your hip before settling on your thigh, holding you open.

“Gotta take it slow,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the sheets beside you. “I can take it.”

His head dropped for a second, a quiet curse slipping past his lips. “Don’t say shit like that, sweetheart.”

Something about that word, the way it left his mouth—low and full of something dangerous—made your stomach clench.

The stretch was slow, unbearable in the best way as he pushed forward even more, your body giving inch by inch, and you let out a sharp exhale as he filled you.

Joel groaned, deep and low, his fingers tightening on your thigh as he finally buried himself to the hilt.

Jesus Christ.

The weight of him inside you, the way he fit—it was overwhelming, taking up every inch of space, leaving you panting beneath him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his hips flush with yours now, his jaw tight. “You’re—shit, you’re squeezin’ me so damn tight.”

Your thighs trembled around his waist, your body working to adjust to the fullness, to the sheer size of him, and then—oh god—then he moved.

A slow pull out, a deep thrust back in.

You moaned, head falling back against the pillows, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel’s breath was ragged, his grip tightening. “That’s it.”

As he began to set a steady pace, a deep thrust in, a gentle pull out, the tingling sensation you knew all too well was rising fast—too fast. It climbed up your spine, coiling tight, and your breath hitched in your throat. The sensation was familiar, so familiar, but not like this. Not from this.

Joel moved with deep, deliberate thrusts, each one stretching you full, dragging against every oversensitive nerve inside you with agonizing precision. His cock was thick, heavy, unrelenting—pressing deep, pressing right, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

His hand moved between you, thumb finding your clit with ease, the calloused pad brushing over the swollen bundle of nerves, a touch just firm enough to make you jolt. Your whole body reacted, thighs trembling, an involuntary gasp ripping from your lips.

His breath hitched as he felt it too, and he let out a dark, pleased hum.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate drag against your skin. His thumb moved again, slick and sure, working tight little circles against you. “Now, what was it you said again?”

Your chest heaved, your fingers gripping at the sheets, at him, anything to keep yourself tethered, because the pleasure was coming in hot, hard waves now—building, climbing, making your skin flush and prickle with heat.

“I—I never—” You gasped, voice breaking, lips parting as your back arched into the feeling, as you felt your muscles tighten and clench under him.

Joel leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. “C’mon, sweet girl. Use your words.”

Your hips met every thrust, dragging a moan from deep in your chest.

“I’ve never—ah!—never come like this before,” you choked out, breathless and desperate.

Joel swore under his breath.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he rasped, voice dripping in absolute filth and sin, “my pissy little brother never made you come on his cock before?”

The shame of it—the filthy, shameless truth of it—slammed into you just as hard as the pleasure. Your breath came in short, stilted gasps, your thighs twitching, heat curling low and tight, twisting like a wire pulled too taut. You gripped his biceps hard where they caged you in, your nails digging into his skin.

“I–”

“Never felt the way you’re squeezin’ the life outta me right now, baby?” His voice dipped lower, rougher, as his thumb pressed, rubbing slow and tight. “Never had you like this? Drippin’ and desperate? Makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ sounds I’ve ever heard?”

Heat flared in your belly, your legs shaking around him, pleasure tearing through you.

Joel felt it, the way you clenched down around him, and he grinned, breath hot against your mouth as he groaned through his teeth.

“Fuck—that’s it. Let me feel you.”

And you did.

Your body suddenly snapped. The orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and merciless, every nerve in your body firing at once, blinding you with pleasure so intense it was nearly unbearable. Your breath punched from your lungs as your back arched clean off the bed, thighs trembling, a cry tearing from your lips as waves of heat crashed through you.

Joel swore under his breath, hips stuttering as you clenched tight around him, and his mouth hovered just above yours, his breath mixing with yours, the air between you thick and electric.

He felt the way your body fluttered around him, still pulsing with the comedown of your orgasm, dragging him deeper, tighter—trapping him. His breath was heavy, coming in sharp, ragged exhales as he dropped his head, his forehead resting against yours.

His hips kept moving quick and uneven, dragging his cock in and out of your still-clenching walls. He was throbbing, thick and hot inside you, every roll of his hips sending sharp little sparks of overstimulation through your system.

That was when, after coming back to earth, you saw the way his lips parted slightly, his breath hitching whenever you squeezed around him just right. The tension in his face, the way his muscles coiled and flexed with every deliberate movement.

He was close.

You wondered…

Your breath was still shaky, voice unsteady, but you let it slip out, slow and sultry, testing the waters, “You feel so good,” you whispered.

Joel froze for a split second, a sharp breath punching from his lungs as he reeled his head back to look down at you.

"Does it feel good for you?” you whispered, your fingers trailing up the nape of his neck. “Filling me up? Making me feel so full? So good?”

Joel let out a ragged, wrecked sound, his fingers digging into your skin, gripping you like a lifeline.

And in that moment—fuck the rules.

Because this was anything but clinical now.

You pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, letting your breath fan against his ear as you whispered, gentle, teasing.

“You gonna give me a baby, Joel?”

Joel let out a wrecked groan, his grip on your hips tightening, his pace faltering. His thrusts turned rougher, sharper, his body moving on pure instinct now—chasing it.

And then he snapped.

A strangled moan ripped from his throat as he slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you as heat flooded you. His whole body shook, a ragged, guttural sound tearing from his chest as he came, thick and hot, spilling deep, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was trying to ground himself.

You gasped at the feeling, at the warmth spreading inside you, at the way his body shook above you.

Joel was panting, forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp at his hairline, his breath fanning against your lips, warm and unsteady.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Joel was still inside you, still filling you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His breath was heavy, warm against your cheek as he turned his head, his chest rising and falling against yours in slow, uneven waves.

“I should, uh…” His voice was hoarse, thick with something he wasn’t naming. He swallowed, clearing his throat as he sat up. “I should probably—”

You shifted slightly beneath him, still sensitive, still pulsing with the warmth of him inside you. Your thighs trembled, the ache delicious, spreading through you like slow heat.

“You can go,” you murmured, voice soft, a little sleepy. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.”

He hesitated as he looked down at you, your bodies still connected. 

You blinked up at him, lips curving in a lazy, satisfied smile.

“It’s said that if a woman stays lying down after, it increases the chances of conception.” You hummed, stretching slightly, body still warm and loose. “Just want to give it time to stick.”

You felt him twitch inside you, like his body had just caught up to the meaning of your words, and then he was pulling out, hissing under his breath as he eased away from you.

His heat vanished instantly, and a shiver ran through you at the sudden emptiness, the cool air replacing where he’d been pressed so solidly against you. You exhaled, tugging the covers up over yourself, shifting deeper into the mattress, letting your body sink into the afterglow.

Joel, on the other hand, was already moving, and fast.

He turned away from the bed, running a hand through his hair, reaching for his jeans like he needed them back on, needed the barrier, needed to be done with this.

“Hey,” you called softly as he stepped toward the door, one leg shoved into his pants.

He paused, turning slightly, just enough to look at you over his shoulder.

You blinked up at him sleepily, the blankets pulled up to your bare shoulders, your voice softer now. “You okay?”

Joel hesitated. Just for a second.

His hands hovered at his belt, his fingers twitching. His lips pressed together, like he was weighing his answer, like he didn’t trust whatever was sitting heavy on his tongue.

Then, he gave you a short, stiff nod. “Yeah. ‘M good.”

You hummed, unconvinced, watching the way his chest still rose and fell in uneven breaths, the lingering flush at his throat, the tension in his hands as he buckled his belt like he was fighting something.

“Okay,” you murmured, turning your head into the pillow, eyes half-lidded, “And, Joel?”

His gaze flickered back to you, hovering, like he was bracing himself.

You swallowed, shifting slightly under the blankets, warmth settling deep in your bones. “Thank you.”

Joel’s fingers twitched where they grabbed for his shirt, his throat working around something thick, something stuck. His eyes dragged over you one last time, heavy, unreadable, before he gave a single, curt nod.

“I’ll see you,” he muttered, voice rough, almost hesitant.

Then he turned, and with the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, he was gone.

[ervotica]

bartyyyy 33. hushed conversation in-between kisses in the hallway or something as reader tries to calm him down and stop him from murdering a fellow student for looking at her/saying something to her lols. maybe she fails and he still gets a little murdery

thanks for requesting my love! ✩ 600 words

You know Barty can rarely deny you anything.

Not when you coo in that honeyed voice, slipping an arm beneath his rumpled shirt to palm at his bare skin. Murmuring reassurances against his lips, smoothing out his jagged edges with sweetened promises.

You have Barty against the wall in the corridor as you nose at his cheek. You thread your fingers through the short hairs at his nape and scratch, your grin imprinting against the side of his face when he sags against you. The anger melts from his expression like softened butter.

He tips his head back against the wall and it thumps; to entice him closer, your lips push out into a pout you know he won't be able to resist kissing.

One kiss, two, three.

You pull back until your lips are just grazing his, and wedge your shoulder under his armpit, an arm slung lazily round his back. You start to murmur against his mouth.

"Ignore him, baby. You know I only want you."

McLaggen's been harassing you for a date for weeks. It's been harmless for the most part, but you know Barty, and you know he won't think twice before kicking the fucker's teeth out.

"That's not what I'm fucked off about, treasure," he says, smoothing a hand over the crown of your skull.

He gets you by the scruff of the neck, anchoring you back for another open mouthed kiss. You push closer and hum your appreciation. Your fingers splay wide at the dip of his spine, tickling until he squirms under your touch and drops his head to the crook of your shoulder.

You feel McLaggen's furious stare but pay it no mind, too busy doting on your lovely boyfriend to care who's watching. You don't so much as glance away until he knocks his elbow with yours as he breezes past with a faux arrogance you know is all for show.

"Fuck off, McLaggen," you spit, pushing further against Barty. You feel your boyfriend lunge outwards before you're pushing him back and putting yourself in front of him as a shield.

"Treasure, I love you more than life itself, but move," Barty hisses. You sigh.

"Please don't."

He smears a kiss over the top of your head in apology before you're being moved by means of those thick fingers round your waist, lifted until you're thrust against one poor, unsuspecting Regulus Black. You let out a terse breath, steadying yourself against Regulus' shoulder with a splayed hand.

"Sorry, darling," you mumble.

"You alright?"

You nod before your eyes snap to Barty once more. He has McLaggen by the collar, thick fingers squeezing his cheeks in an effort to force eye contact as he bellows down at the boy, loud enough to hurt your ears.

"You touch my girl again and I'll break your fucking jaw, you hear me? You so much as look at her and you're dead."

His eyes are wild and you know his pulse is thrumming something rotten now he's geared up for a fight.

"Barty!" you scold.

Regulus hooks an arm around your waist to keep you from darting off through the crowd that's formed. You harrumph in protest.

"Okay, you're done," you declare, dragging Regulus by the wrist through the crowd with you as McLaggen sags and collapses rather unceremoniously at Barty's feet.

Barty's features morph from triumphant to guilty in an instant. He simpers, eyes scrunching at the corners until his crows feet crinkle. You snort and turn to face him.

"You're lucky I love you."

His eyes blow wide and he looks utterly lovesick. Beautiful, albeit mildly pathetic.

His expression flares with a possessiveness you know all too well. He drags you up his chest for a searing kiss that makes your insides flip-flop. You're breathing hard when he pulls away, slick with spit and beaming like a madman.

"Come on, killer," you snort. "Let's go to your dorm."

[delugyu]

maybe this is evil but i’ve been thinking about txt when another member likes their bsf… or gf… i like messy hehe

i like the way u think hehe

(wc: 2k / warnings: soobin x fem!reader, jealousy, a ton of possessiveness and borderline obsession lol, insecurity, oral (f rec.), overstimulation, choking (f rec.), unprotected sex)

it starts off only mildly irritating. soobin doesn’t care all that much when beomgyu leans in to tell you a joke, or when beomgyu’s hand graces the skin of your arm for a second, or even when beomgyu chooses to sit right next to you on the couch. soobin’s secure enough to not think too much about any of that, even if he does find it a little odd.

beomgyu’s actions get a little less forgivable when he starts letting his touch linger on you. there’s no need for him to brush your hair back, and certainly not to let his hand rest on your shoulder longer than a couple seconds. soobin can’t even keep up with the conversation he was having with yeonjun and taehyun anymore, too focused on keeping an eye on you and beomgyu.

beomgyu surely knows you’re soobin’s girlfriend, so soobin can’t imagine why he’s doing any of this. he doesn’t even spare soobin a glance—even worse, neither do you. you’re just laughing and nodding along to whatever he’s saying, and it’s making soobin’s skin crawl.

soobin silently pulls himself out of the conversation he was in, striding towards you and beomgyu on the couch. a part of him feels at ease when you draw your attention away from beomgyu, smiling up at soobin instead. he nods at beomgyu in greeting before sitting beside you in the couch.

“what’s up?” beomgyu asks, and soobin thinks it’s funny how his friend suddenly wants to keep his hands to himself.

“not much. what have you guys been up to?” he thinks he sounds casual enough when he asks.

beomgyu shrugs. “just talking.” soobin looks at you then, to which you just meet his gaze with a smile. he throws an arm over your shoulders and pulls you in a little closer, and he doesn’t miss the way beomgyu’s eyes linger on the movement.

“anyway,” beomgyu says, looking back at you. your head swings to meet his gaze. “you think you’ll be there on friday?” he asks. soobin’s eyebrows furrow, confused.

“what’s happening friday?” soobin asks.

“there’s this band coming to town,” beomgyu explains.

“yeah, we both like their music. you should come too!” you say. either soobin’s delusional, or beomgyu’s face falters a bit when you make that offer. his arm stiffens around you a bit.

“i’ll go,” soobin says. there’s no way he’d say no and give beomgyu that opening to do whatever he wants without soobin knowing. beomgyu gives him a small smile.

“we should all just carpool then,” beomgyu suggests.

“and we can go to that new restaurant after,” you add. soobin has to keep his face from twisting sourly at the way your attention is still on beomgyu.

a gnawing sensation in his gut tells him to grab you by the hand and leave. the longer he sits here, the more insecure and jealous he starts to feel. he wants you to only spend time with him. he wants to be selfish and awful, and the childish urge to hide you away from the world comes over him.

soobin knows you’d never go too far; he trusts your love for him entirely. what he doesn’t trust is other men, not even his friends. you’re a beautiful woman with the kindest personality, so it’s only natural that people flock to you and try to swoon you. the only reason that usually doesn’t irk him is because you always run back into his arms, looking at him like he’s the only man in the world.

he’s itching to turn your face back towards him, to get you to stop talking to beomgyu and focus on your boyfriend instead. he wants to pout at you and make you feel bad, then he wants you to soothe him and rake your hand through his hair and tell him everything’s okay. he just wants you.

“do you wanna go soon? i’m kind of tired,” soobin says. it’s a little bit of a lie, but he’d do anything to be in a room alone with you right now. it feels like he won’t be able to breathe until you make him remember that your eyes are only for him.

you look at him then, and he can tell you find something in his gaze. “yeah, we can go,” you say. he almost sighs in relief. he doesn’t linger longer than he has to, saying a quick bye to beomgyu before heading out with you.

it already feels like the air is lighter when he gets back to his place with you. he sinks into bed with you, but the feeling of insecurity doesn’t quite leave him yet. he gets up on his elbow and turns to you. he runs his hand down your waist, a small frown on his face as he thinks about you and beomgyu earlier. you turn your head to him, and you look a little tired. soobin wonders if he should just let you sleep.

“lay back down,” you say gently, but he doesn’t. he moves until he’s hovering over you instead, slotting himself carefully between your legs.

“do you love me?” soobin asks, holding your face like you’re something fragile. he brushes a thumb against your cheek as his eyes dart between your own. he can’t help but ask, even if he already knows the answer. he’s dying to hear you say it. it’s like his heart won’t beat again until the words leave your mouth.

“i love you so much,” you say. soobin presses a kiss to your lips, rewarding your sweetness. he doesn’t stop there; his lips move to your jaw, then down your neck, letting his lips worship your skin.

his lips linger at your chest, dragging his bottom lip over your heart. “tell me again,” he whispers, looking up at you when his tongue licks a short stripe up your skin.

“i love you,” you whimper, hand knotting in his hair. he pulls away, only long enough to take off your shirt and bra, and takes in the sight of your skin greedily. he could never get tired of this. he trails his mouth further down, nipping and sucking at your flesh until he’s at your hips.

“you’ll never leave me?” he asks. his fingers dip under your pants, ready to pull them off. he’s hungry for all your attention and reassurance. he needs you to shower him in loving words, to let him get his fill of you while you tell him how perfect he is. he needs to know you love him half as much, half as obsessively and consumingly as he loves you.

“never. i want to be with you forever,” you say. that’s a good answer; it makes soobin smile a little. he pulls off your bottoms so that you lay fully naked and ready for him to please. he wants to be with you forever too, and if time could stretch infinitely, he’d choose for each moment to be spent with you.

soobin brings his mouth to your clit, sucking lightly and rolling his tongue over the bud. something about this soothes him—you giving up your sex to him, gifting him a part of you that’s only his. this and your heart, soobin wants them both at his whim. he’s selfish, and there’s always more he craves. his tongue dives into your cunt, desperately pushing into your walls. he wants to hear you cry, to feel you squirm, to find relief in knowing you’re only his.

“soobin,” you moan, a little quiet and breathy. he grinds against the mattress when he hears you, unable to stop himself. he wants to know you’re feeling good, needs the proof that he’s enough for you.

he goes back to your clit, sucking with more vigor now, wanting more and more. you squeal and jolt at the pressure, and it makes soobin feel like he’s worth something. he works harder for it, needing to see you fall apart for him.

“is it perfect? am i good?” he asks breathlessly, rubbing his fingers insistently across your clit, he comes back down to your hole, lapping up the arousal that spills out of it hungrily, moaning at the taste.

“mhm, so good, binnie, i love it, love you”—you’re cut off with a gasp, mouth falling open as you arch your back.

“i love you more than anything,” he says back, pulling his face away so he can watch when you cum. his fingers keep their relentless pace over your cunt, and he soaks up each little twitch of your body. “more than anything,” he repeats, biting into your thigh. he wants to mark you and make it an undeniable fact that you’re his.

“i’m cumming,” you whisper, sounding overwhelmed and fucked out and pretty. soobin could almost cry; he needs this so bad. your legs tremble and your hips stutter, but he keeps his hand steady. he holds you down to make sure you take it all in and absorb every second of the pleasure he wants to give you.

“so good, my perfect girl, my love,” he rambles, eyes zeroed in on your face as you slowly come back down. he smiles softly at you when your eyes start brimming with tears and you start trying to push his hand away. he doesn’t stop, too obsessed with the sight that no one else gets to see.

your cunt is soaked, and his hand dips down towards your entrance to collect your wetness before coming back to your clit. he coos and pouts at you when he sees you shaking, unable to handle so much stimulation. his poor baby. he can’t stop, though; he needs you to know that no other man would be so determined to get you off like this. only soobin can, only soobin deserves to.

“soobin, ‘s too much,” you whine, blinking a tear from your eyes. he shakes his head and kisses your cheek comfortingly.

“no it’s not,” he reassures. he grabs his cock from his pants and jerks it a few times. he taps his tip against your entrance. “won’t you let me fuck you?” he slides his cock between your slick folds, aching to be inside you.

“yes, i’m yours,” you say, bringing his face in for a kiss. he tangles his tongue with yours, moaning into your mouth as he breaches your entrance, sheathing himself inside you like it’s where he belongs. you wrap around him tight, making his head spin, nothing but primal instinct driving his actions. he groans into your mouth as he fucks you, keeping your hips still with his harsh grip.

“i’m yours too,” soobin pants, eyes flitting down your face. your lips are parted, breathing heavily as he continues ramming into you. “i need you to love me. i don’t want to live without your love.”

“i love you,” you say as if it was commanded. he thrusts a little harder, encouraged by your proclamation. you gasp, “i love you! oh, god, soobin..!”

he brings a hand to your throat, needing to see your body in his hands. he doesn’t want anyone else to ever make you feel this good. he presses lightly, just enough to make your eyes roll back, to feel your pussy clench around him. the feeling of you cumming around him is enough to send him over the edge too. he buries his head in your shoulder, sucking at your skin as he releases inside of you.

he stays there, panting against your skin as the two of you recover from your highs. he takes his hand off your throat and brings it to your chest, placing it over your rapidly beating heart. his heart, the heart he’s earned and worked so hard to win over.

“i love you,” he says again.

“i love you too.” your hand lands on top of his, and soobin finally feels okay enough to let his eyes close peacefully. sleep comes to him easier when he feels your love like this.

[ode2rin]

1 | ANYONE BUT YOU .ೃ

summary. as lines get blurred, hearts get flustered, and a scheme ensues, your brother's best friend suddenly seems way more interesting than he used to be.

content/warnings. 5k+ wc (part 1/3) reader has little to no college friends | reader hates kaiser's guts | PROTECTIVE kaiser lol | | pet names (dollface) & a lot of profanity (it's kaiser) | minimal proofread

💭 masterlist | next part

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go with you anymore.”

Your ears were ringing.

After the words hung over the line, a heavy silence descended, punctuated only by the dull thud of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The phone line seemed to distort, and the world beyond reduced to a distant murmur as a disorienting ringing filled your ears. Yet, despite the shock rippling through, you managed to maintain a facade.

“Ah, I see. It’s no problem. See you around!” Your chirped voice made you cringe internally, but it was a better front than sounding like a defeated kid whose mom said no over a piece of candy at a grocery store.

Before he could say anything else, you clicked the end button faster than he could spew some tacky excuse. Throwing your phone to the side, you settled onto your bed, lying on your back, staring at the uninteresting ceiling of your room.

Sure, it was no problem at all— the music festival was just six hours away, and your date had just canceled on you over the phone. It’s no big deal facing your college blockmates without a companion as initially planned, and it’s totally not a problem that you will most likely be a third– hell, a seventh wheel, actually, and have them talk behind your back – speculating about why you're going alone or if you were just making it up that you had someone to bring.

Yes, it’s not a fucking problem at all.

You don’t even like the artist lineup, anyway (maybe you’re mildly interested with one band that’s attending).  You wouldn’t bother if you weren’t just a sophomore still trying to find a group of friends you can call your own. It's embarrassing enough that freshmen even had it better than you. It’s not a race, for sure, but in college– the truth lies blatant that support systems help. A lesson you learned the hardest way.

“Y/N? Are you in there?” Three soft knocks on your door and a muffled voice, surely coming from your older brother, interrupted your pity party.

“Yes. Come in,” you confirmed. The door creaked open, revealing a mop of magenta hair leaning over your door frame.

“There’s food downstairs. We ordered your favorite.”

“We?”

“Kaiser is downstairs.”

Of course, he is. 

Your brother’s best friend must have really taken it to heart when your mom told him he can treat your family as his own. Too deep into his heart, if you could comment. You see him around the house more than you see your parents, and if that wasn’t tiresome enough, he’s literally a damn superstar in your university. Every corner, every room, in halls and library, everyone can’t seem to be over his name like a broken record.

You wouldn’t be this annoyed, hostile even, if said man was just as nice as your brother. But instead, he was far by the most obnoxious, foul-mouthed, arrogant prick you’ve ever known. Alexis should have never kicked some ball with that conceited oaf a decade ago. Life would have been so much better. But no— reality is, the bane of your existence in the form of blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, is in your house’s kitchen, probably gulping down your favorite drinks in the fridge. 

If you can’t seem to have friends, your older brother seems to be goddamn bad at picking his.

“Hey, dollface. Missed me?” Speak of the damn devil and he shall appear.

The first thing you’re met with after coming down is a sight of Michael Kaiser, sitting high and comfortably on one of the counter’s bar stools. Your gaze trails down to his hand where you see a peek of his crown tattoo— and would you look at that? He’s holding a can of your Coke Zero.

“Oh, so that’s why my life was going sideways again,” you feigned a sigh in disappointment, making sure it was loud enough for him to hear, “because you’re back.”

In your unwanted years of knowing this guy, you’ve soon realized that none of your words, no matter how sharp or snarky they get, would ever faze him. Evidence would be how he just openly chuckled at your remark. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I missed you and your smart mouth, too. Don’t worry.”

“Trust me, worry is not in the list of emotions I would ever feel for you.”

“Well, does attraction make it to the list?”

Years ago, perhaps it would have. Not that he needs to know—no chance. Your silly childhood crush on him was your deepest, darkest mistake. You might be overdramatic, but this was Michael Kaiser, and god, you would rather get caught having feelings for anyone but him.

Rolling your eyes at him, you sneer, “You wish.”

“Oh, trust me, I do wish,” he mocks your tone.

“Fuck off.” 

“That won’t get rid of me, I’m afraid,” he shrugs before winking at you. You shook your head in annoyance.

You took the seat across from him and settled. You were about to lean to reach the box of pizza at the other end of the countertop, when Kaiser reached for it first and placed it in front of you.

You turned to look at him, half expecting a smirk or yet another wink from the blonde, but instead, he was preoccupied browsing on his phone as if his body moved on its own to attend to you.

You shrugged off the weird occurrence and turned all attention to the pizza and its heavenly scent sipping through the gaps of its box, just in time for Alexis to take the seat next to his best friend. You drowned the noise of their conversation as they started talking about last away games.

Your brother and Kaiser had been the most valuable players of your university’s soccer team for as long as you’ve remembered. They were two years older, so by the time you entered university, they were already making big names in the field. Rumors had it that there were already offers lining up at their feet.

If you come to think of it, it wouldn’t be this hard making friends if you would just be vocal about being Alexis Ness’ younger sibling, but the limelight and pretentious popularity it came with was something you wouldn’t wish upon yourself. You wanted real and genuine friends, not people who wanted to be around you because it was a step closer to your brother and his best friend.

Like earlier, Alexis’ voice came reaching your eardrums, snapping you out of your thoughts. After hearing what he had to ask, though, you wished you had a way to physically block out his words.

“Are you not going to get ready for the festival?” your brother asked, meanwhile, his dear friend seemed to take great interest in what you’re about to say as both of them peered over you.

“Not going anymore,” you said, as nonchalant as you could to play pretend.

“Why? You’ve been looking forward to it the whole week.”

Heat crept into your ears and cheeks as embarrassment filled you. Sure, you might not be prancing around being all excited about it, but if your brother was able to notice it, your enthusiasm must have been evident then. God, you felt like an utter fool now.

“It got canceled,” you looked away from them.

Alexis looked at you with furrowed brows, “What do you mean? It’s not–”

“My date canceled on me. I’m not going anymore to save face and not make a fool out of myself. There, happy?” you snapped.

Before you could even feel the guilt from bursting out unprovoked to your brother, you swiftly got up from the stool heading back to your room, leaving the two of them in the kitchen looking concerned contrarily. One with worried eyes glancing at your room hesitantly, and the other one with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

It seemed everyone was testing your patience today, as for the second time, your ears rang—not from a last-minute cancellation this time, but from the persistent sound of your ringing phone.

Your heavy eyes fluttered open, weighed down by the sleep from your ignoring-the-world nap after the exchange with your supposed date and your brother. Disoriented and groggy, you reached out, fingers fumbling to check the caller deserving of your unrelenting fury.

Kaiser, the screen read, and suddenly, the urge to throw your phone at the nearest wall almost overwhelmed your senses.

But you answered the call anyway, because logic says that he was still your brother’s closest, and sometimes, that warranted a call that might be about him.

“I swear to god this better be important–”

“Get ready,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Look out your window.”

Groaning, you rose to your feet, moving your drapes aside to see what awaited outside.

Outside your house’s gates, a midnight blue sports car, all too familiar, was parked across the driveway. Its owner leaned lazily over its door, one hand in his pocket while the other held his phone pressed to his ear, looking right back at you with that shit-eating grin.

“What the hell are you on?” you muttered into the phone.

You instantly closed the drapes after meeting eyes with him.

It’s infuriating—He’s infuriating. But damn, does he look good when he smiles like that. And it’s not helping your case that he was clad in loose-fitting denim pants and a black shirt, sufficiently showcasing both his tattoo and his lean yet toned build.

It’s sorcery how he makes simple and ordinary clothing look like it was screaming high-end and luxury. Only he can do that, you admit.

“As I said, get ready,” he repeated over the phone, “We only have less than two hours before your music festival or something starts.”

He’s taking me to it? “Why?”

Only one word in response, yet the two of you understood what you’re pertaining to. Silence filled the line for a moment before you heard a subtle click of his tongue.

“Because you look ugly when you sulk,” and he hung up.

You should be irritated at him hanging up abruptly and calling you ugly, but for some reason you don’t know, it puts a smile on your face. 

The first one today.

Kaiser wishes he had a bigger car— which one would deem ridiculous, given that his car could easily match the price of two or even three minivans.

But if it meant having you sit not so close that your scent infiltrates his senses beyond his sound judgment, he’d gladly trade his lambo for a minivan any day.

You were intoxicating— not akin to the grip of liquor, because it would be inadequate in comparison. But rather intoxicating in the same way as the irresistible magnetism that beckons a madman to its vices.

And he must be really mad because you weren’t even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder close to him. You’re sitting comfortably at the passenger seat, a good distance in between, and yet he acts like a raging teenager who got locked up with his crush in the utility room. It is absolutely embarrassing, even for someone like him.

“Did Alexis ask you to do this?” you suddenly inquired, your gaze fixed on your side of the car.

Thank heavens you broke the silence first, because who knows what ungodly phrases he would come up with in an attempt of small talk with you?

“No. Though I bet he would have taken you himself,” he snorted, of course your brother would, “If our coach weren’t so pissed at him these days.”

Ah, so that explained why you hadn't seen Alexis around the house before hopping into Kaiser's car.

Momentarily, you turned to him. It was so swift that he might have missed it if he wasn’t so hyper aware of your every move in this damn confined space. “Is he in trouble?” you inquired to the blonde, your voice concerned and hesitant.

“Nothing you have to worry about, doll.”

“Stop with the nicknames,” you hissed, attempting to intimidate. 

Unfazed, he countered with a cheeky “Make me,” under his breath. His smirk practically audible, even without you glancing his way.

Silence overtook between the two of you once more. You fixated on the road ahead, noting the nearing destination as the glow of the festival stage lights peeked into view.

It’s your chance— your chance to release the words that have lingered at the edge of your tongue since he urged you to get ready almost an hour ago. You stole a glance at the man driving beside you. His eyes focused on the road, his left hand steady on the steering wheel while his timepiece-adorned hand rested comfortably on the gearshift. In another frame of mind, you might have found yourself lost in the rhythm of his long, slender fingers tapping against it. You snapped out of it before he could point it out.

You stole one last glance before turning away to whisper, “Thank you… Kaiser.”

Instead of saying welcome like a polite person would, your companion would of course, choose to say something as, “You owe me something now.”

Of course, you thought. Mentally rolling your eyes, you ask, resigning to his antics, “What do you want?” 

“Call me by my name.”

“Did you not hear? I said, thank you Kai–”

“The one you used to call me.”

Mikka.

It was a silly nickname you gave him– back when Alexis first brought him home for snacks nearly ten years ago. He and Alexis were eleven, and you were barely nine.

You remembered the blonde kid, all sweaty in his mud-stained clothes, clutching a worn-out ball by his hip, his gaze fixed on you with curiosity. “This is Kaiser,” your brother introduced, but the blonde stranger approached you, extending his hand.

“I’m Michael.”

“That’s… long.”

“What?”

“Your name– it’s long,” you echoed, looking up at him, “can I call you ‘Mikka’?”

“What?” Kaiser’s deep voice sliced through your reminiscence. “You had no problem calling me that before,” he pointed out.

“That’s before you beat up the boy you knew I like,” you scoffed at him, a familiar pettiness clouding your mind.

He chuckled at your retort, seemingly lost in his own memories. “Beat him up on the soccer field, you mean,” he corrected, though he wouldn’t particularly mind if it were an actual fight.

“Same thing.”

“Oh, come on! It was highschool!”

“Your point?” you countered.

“He was a snotface, anyway.” he rationalized.

“He was nice to me!”

“I suggest you rather get a dog instead— if nice is all you need. I heard dogs are fun to be around,” he sneered, “What do you think of pomeranians?”

You brushed off his question, preferring the depths of silence over the hypothetical responsibility of tending to a pup that bore more than a passing resemblance to him, both in appearance and, perhaps, in demeanor.

“I knew agreeing to come here with you was a mistake,” you sighed, exasperation lacing your words.

Surprisingly, Kaiser offered no retort. Taking his silence as a cue for your own, you settled into quietness, hoping for a peaceful remainder of the drive. Minutes drifted by until Kaiser broke the stillness with a whisper loud enough for you to catch.

“He was a slimy jerk,” he began, pausing as if hinting his careful choice of words, “and he was nice to you because he was trying to get into your pants.”

“How did you know?” you asked, meek and shy, fumbling with your fingers in your lap.  Seeking love advice and opinions from none other than the mighty Kaiser seemed absurd, but maybe, wisdom might sometimes fare well with age.

“Trust me when I say I know how boys can be,” he scoffed, a displeased furrow settling in his brows. “He wasn't the gentleman you thought he was.”

“And you? Are you a gentleman?”

Before you could stop your thoughts from escaping your rebellious mouth, the words spilled out like water through a breached dam. The lack of response from him compelled you to chew on your lip and fix your gaze on the road, refusing to spare even a glance his way, despite feeling his stare burning into the side of your face.

Meanwhile, Kaiser was aware he might be staring too long at your side for someone controlling a vehicle, but he couldn't help it. Not when you caught him off guard with a simple question, and especially not when you were trying so hard to avoid looking at him, your discomfort palpable in the air. You looked so cute—it made his mouth twitch.

Staring ahead at the road, he contemplated your question, needing no more than a minute to reach his conclusion.

When a man looks at his best friend's younger sibling in a way he shouldn’t, he’s not deserving of the title “gentleman.”

He was far from it, he concluded. With one last glance thrown your way before bringing the car to a full stop, he muttered in an uncharacteristically soft tone.

“Especially not one, doll.”

“Y/N! Over here!” a familiar voice cut through the cacophony, prompting you to scan the crowd until you finally spotted them.

Relief flooded over you at the sight of a familiar face amidst the crowd. Checking your phone had proven to be a wise decision; otherwise, you might have spent the night searching aimlessly through the vast expanse of the venue.

The venue stretched out before you was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that danced upon the senses. Laughter and chatter mingled with applause and the occasional roar of approval as performers graced the stage. 

Everywhere you looked there was movement and so much life. Yet amidst the bustling crowd and pulsating music, one figure occupied your thoughts more than anything else.

Kaiser's towering 6-foot frame loomed behind you, his broad shoulders carving a path of confidence through the crowd. He stood behind you like an immovable rock amidst a rushing river. And if your senses weren't deceiving you, you swore you felt the occasional brush of his hand against the small of your back, gently guiding you forward.

He was so close behind you that his breath on your nape soaked into your skin like ointment— warm to the touch, yet icy on your spine.

“Where's your date?” one of your blockmates inquired after the initial pleasantries were exchanged.

The question lingered, and suddenly, all eyes were on you. Mentally counting heads, you realized you were really on track to be the seventh wheel if you attended without a companion. Speaking of companions— you turned behind you with the intention of introducing Kaiser (not that they didn’t know him already), but your intention faltered when you noticed the scowl on his face.

“I’m the date, if you couldn’t tell,” he interjected. 

From his vantage point, he observed the widening of your eyes at his declaration. Yet, when he didn’t hear any immediate retaliation from you, he flashed you— and everyone else watching— a lopsided smirk. He sensed your blockmates’ curiosity lingering, some perhaps wondering if he was truly dating you. But none of them dared to probe further—maybe because he wasn't exactly the approachable type.

After a few murmurs of ‘oh’ and ‘really’ from your blockmates, they returned their attention to the stage, where the next performer was beginning their pre-performance monologue.

You, on the other hand, look like you were out for his blood from how you’re glaring at him. “Are you out of your mind?” you hissed under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

Yes. Perhaps he was. Irrationality had seized him upon hearing the question. After all, he was there with you, visible for all to see. Did they not see him? Did he look like a fucking chair to those people? Common sense must be a luxury these days, given its absence in this situation.

Yet, a small voice of reason within him attempted to intervene, suggesting that the question might have stemmed from genuine curiosity.

As his best friend's younger sibling, seeing the two of you together wasn't an unusual occurrence for those who attend the same university. They likely concluded that your presence with him at the music festival was simply a matter of normal friendship (which it was, but they don’t have to know that, nor does he desire for these extras to reduce it to just that).

“I’m helping you save face like you said earlier,” he tells you, still wearing that annoying smirk.

“How does telling them you’re my date help me save face?” If anything, you'd be hiding on campus after his stunt. You could only hope words won’t travel fast.

“Would you rather I tell them I'm chaperoning you because some jerk canceled on you?”

Your words stalled at the base of your throat, unable to counter his remark. That shut you up, much to your chagrin. He was right.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he quipped, grinning at your silence. “Come closer, there’s a lot of people.”

You huffed in irritation and decided to ignore him behind you, determined to make the most of your experience here. You’d let this slide for now. After all, he was here because of you.

But it wasn’t too long before you realized that ignoring him would be as futile as trying to pluck roses without being pricked by the thorns. You knew very well that this man thrives in getting under people’s skin.

“You should be flattered.”

Genuinely appalled, you ask, “I’m sorry?”

“Accepted.”

If it wasn’t night time and the blaring lights were replaced by the sun, he could have seen the twitch that your eye did at his retort.

At this point, murder is a tempting option. Sure, he’s taller and much bigger in physique terms, but you have the rage for it. Just one more insufferable antic—one more word— from this man and the whole university will be mourning their star player’s demise first thing tomorrow morning. 

You took a deep breath to calm your murderous nerves, “Is that so? What part of telling people— oh wait, our schoolmates who are probably whispering behind our backs— that you’re my date, is flattering to you?”

The asshole had the audacity to shrug, “Calling me yours was.”

“Well then, you should be flattered. Not me.”

“You don’t know how flattered I am to be yours,” he mused.

If you didn’t know any better, his attempt at flirting might have sent warmth to your cheeks. But this was Kaiser— no one can tell when he’s being serious or just being his usual menace self talking shit like he’s employed to do so. Good thing you had better plans than spend it on his guessing games.

Just when you’re about to berate him once more, words halted on your throat because of a sight you least expected to see.

Han— the guy you’ve been talking to for almost a month now. The same guy who was your supposed date, to be more specific.

“What? Cat got your tongue, doll?”

If cats come in the form of a familiar man who’s a few good meters away, clearly having the time of his life dancing with someone, and clearly showing no signs of unavailability to go to a music festival he asked you to, then yes, it got your tongue.

You stayed silent far too long for Kaiser’s patience. Your lack of snarky clapbacks were starting to unsettle him more than he would allow. Shifting closer to you, he followed your line of sight to see what got you stunned in silence.

Recognizing what, or rather who, got your attention, he turns to you, his voice coming out too indignant, “Do you know that guy?”

“Do you?” you counter, picking up on his tone being all too casual as if they’re acquainted. 

“He’s last week’s opposing team’s goalkeeper,” or was it ‘striker’? He couldn’t recall, so he’s more or less incompetent to him. One thing he remembers, however, “and he hates me.”

You threw him a glance, “Not surprised.”

“And do I give a fuck,” he shook his head, “Why do you keep looking at him?” Don’t fucking tell me.

Your answer wasn’t any better to what he was starting to imagine, “He was… supposed to be my date to this music festival,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet.

You didn’t want to see the look on Kaiser’s face, fearing you might see pity, and so you nailed your gaze to the ground. Totally oblivious of the man peering over you rather softly.

“Why can’t he then?” he asks, voice an octave lower.

“He said they had late notice training, so he can’t come.” 

“Well, that better be his fucking ghost yapping with a brunette then,” he scoffs, looking straight to the lying man who canceled on you.

Sick of his face and sloppy dance moves, Kaiser turned his gaze back at you, only to be filled with rage because of it.

You look sad— and it made his blood boil. Not towards you, but for you.

“Y’know what? Let’s go there,” he urged, head pointing at where Han was.

Is he fucking crazy? You immediately shook your head at his scandalous suggestion. You might be feeling a little betrayed and angry, but rationality still had its hold on you— and it’s saying to not let Kaiser go with his idea. 

Instead, you tug on his forearm, eyes still on the floor before looking up at him, “Can we leave, please?” 

Kaiser was taken aback by your sudden meekness. He wasn’t used to this— to you, being all deflated and zoned out. He was used to your deadpan expressions and your eyes that seem to roll every time he utters a single word. He was used to you being, dare he say, feisty. 

And he would rather have you stay like that all day long, even when he’s the receiving end of it.

But this? You, saying please to him, of all people? He doesn’t like it. 

If this is how he gets to make you say please, then he doesn’t want it. Fuck that, and fuck that guy. How dare he.

Kaiser didn’t say anything back at your request, but you felt big calloused hands grasp on your hand still resting on his forearm. The next thing you knew, you were walking with him, shoulder-to-shoulder while his other hand was on yours guiding you to walk out of the scene.

“If I see one—just one drop of tear, I swear I am turning this damn car around.” 

Your thoughts abruptly halted at the sound of Kaiser’s threat—his ultimatum, rather. It sounded more like a promise than a threat, and you knew this man well enough to understand that he never ate his words.

You shot him a glance and snickered. There was no way in high hell you’d ever cry in the same space where he was. It was the last thing you’d ever do, even if it meant convincing yourself that what you saw earlier was just a mere look-alike of Han.

“It's nothing. We aren’t even a thing,” you dismissed, your voice flat.

“But you thought you could be,” he countered, and damn if he wasn't right. “How do you even know him?”

“We're kind of talking, well, sort of—”

���Kind of? Sort of?” he scoffed.

“God—it's like a talking stage or something casual, Kaiser! There, got it?”

“That's not exclusive,” he remarked, adding insult to injury.

Irritation bubbled in your throat as his interrogation continued. But even before you could unleash your venom, you caught yourself. He was right. And while this man had never brought you good, it wasn't fair to make him the target of your bad.

“Yeah, it's not,” you admitted, a dry, humorless laugh escaping you. You recalled the brunette he danced with earlier. “I wasn't exclusive material for his reputation, I guess.”

What reputation? “That’s bullshit.” He gritted his teeth, his hand itching towards the steering wheel, clearly tempted to turn back to the festival.

“You said it yourself, he’s an athlete,” you pointed out, “You people never like to go exclusive with someone.”

“You people? Oh, please. Do not insult me by comparing me to the likes of him.”

The sass in his voice drew a chuckle from you. It was amusing how he said it with genuine horror, as if the mere idea of being associated with Han was an insult. “Why? Are you telling me you can commit to someone exclusively?”

“Someone like who? You?” He met your gaze briefly, “Absolutely.”

What the hell. “Stop messing around,” you snorted, effectively ending the conversation.

He was playing a dangerous game, saying that to you. Did he even realize what it did? Did he hear your stupid heart hammering in your chest? It was too loud, too obvious, a frantic drum solo against your ribs. 

And the realization settled— he made your heart flutter. 

His words, so simple, so casually tossed out, had landed like a bomb, sending shrapnel through your carefully constructed walls.

Michael Kaiser, of all people, made your heart flutter.

Suddenly, the air felt thin, the car an echo chamber amplifying the frantic rhythm of your traitorous heart. You knew you should scoff, dismiss it as another one of his infuriating jabs, but the truth was like a hot coal lodged in your throat.

“I’m not though,” he countered, eyes steady on the familiar road ahead. He sounded serious– too serious. 

As you were about to retort back, the car lurched to a stop, announcing your arrival. You glanced out the window, the familiar sight of your house doing little to ease the tension that had coiled tight in your stomach.

“We’re here,” Kaiser announced, his voice a low rumble.

Hurried and flustered by the unexpected shift in the conversation, your clammy hands fumbled with the buckle, the metal cold and unyielding against your sweaty palms. You tugged, then tugged again, frustration building with each failed attempt.

“Easy, doll.” 

Before you could protest, a large hand swooped in, effortlessly unlatching the buckle with a practiced flick. The sudden proximity sent a jolt through you, making your breath hitch. You met his gaze, his eyes a blazing blue as he held your stare for a beat too long before turning away.

Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself. You reached for the door handle, pushing it open and stepping out onto the familiar pavement. Before slamming the door shut, you paused, turning back to Kaiser with a newfound resolve.

Crouching down to meet his gaze, you surprised yourself with the words that tumbled out. “Be careful on your way home and,” you paused, “Thank you... Mikka.”

The nickname slipped out before you could stop it, leaving a blush blooming across your cheeks.

Before Kaiser could react, you slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the quiet street. 

Mikka. He repeats your words in his mind.

He watched you disappear into your house, a slow grin spreading across his face. Only when you were safely inside did he start the car, the image of your flustered face lingering in his mind.

Damn it, doll.

Meanwhile, you hurried to your room, clutching your chest where your heart still hammered a frantic rhythm.

Why did I call him that? you asked yourself.

The use of his nickname, a name you rarely uttered now, was a stark reminder that the two of you weren’t as close as you were younger.

It’s not a big deal, you tried to reason with yourself. He literally said you owed it to him, and calling it quits would be in the form of a stupid nickname. It doesn’t mean anything. Right— you were just returning a favor.

Your obvious self-deception was interrupted by the incessant buzzing of your phone, tossed carelessly on the bed. Picking up your phone, you opened one of the notifications, your breath catching in your throat.

It was a post on your university's gossip page, and there, plastered on the screen, was a picture of you and Kaiser. 

The image froze a moment in time, capturing him standing protectively behind you, his arms caging you against a barricade. Panic clawed at your throat. This picture, out in the open, could be misconstrued in so many ways. 

What were people going to think? Who took this photo, anyway?

Your eyes darted down the comment section, scrolling through a sea of unimaginable speculations, desperately searching for clues about the culprit.

Just then, a knock on the door startled you.

“Y/N? Can I talk to you?”

It was your brother— and his voice suggested he needed answers too.

Shit.

note. first mini series lmao xD will add cw as i go!

[twstfanblog]

Ok uh, can I request a Silver x reader? Bro you know how he only washes his hair and body with one bar of soap? Yeah, I just want to wash his hair. Bro looks radiant as is but imagine if he actually used shampoo. So yeah, we're washing his hair in the sink or the tub like a child

It's just a soft moment with some feelings realization. Like Silver just gets hit with the truck that is his feelings and is just like "how tf did I not notice this before?!"

Silver doesn't like to be idle but bro is gonna need a minute for this windows crash to process. Meanwhile Yuu has been trying their best not to jump this man from the get go and is currently just trying to figure out what to make for dinner after they're done drying this beautiful mans hair.

There doesn't need to be a confession or anything, just Silver being a walking loading screen is enough lol

Thank you so much!

Hair Care TLC

Silver x Reader

Silver wasn't sure how or why he had fallen asleep, but when he opened his eyes to Ramshackle's ceiling, he remembered.

The prefect had found him in the woods with a few of his animal friends, a bottle clutched in their hand as they approached. They had basically pleaded with him to allow them to wash his hair. A notion he had at first turned down, he had washed his hair only a day ago after all.

(He didn't say anything at the pinched expression they gave him).

But, as always, they only needed to ask a few more times for him to yield to their whims. The next day, he was seated in one of Ramshackle's beat-up chairs with his neck craned back to drap his hair into the kitchen sink.

He wasn't expecting much. He had washed his hair before after all...But as his droopy eyes blinked back into the waking world, he realized that was possibly the quickest he had ever fallen asleep.

The prefect gave a single laugh, telling him the second they had started to massage the shampoo along his scalp he had basically passed out ( Not mentioning them panicking for a few seconds when he suddenly went completely laxed in the chair). Only as they had stopped and were rinsing out the fruity-smelling soap did he wake up.

Silver knows he should speak, ease their concern for his well-being or at least apologize for falling asleep on them. Instead, he was suddenly captivated at the vision before him. The sun had started to sink in the sky, the rays now angled in such a way they back lit the prefect in an almost holy light. The perfect backdrop to their gentle smile as they ran warm water over his scalp and carded their fingers through his hair.

It seemed to fully awaken something in him. It was always there he noticed, soft and waiting patiently to spring forward and choke-slam him into the pool of adoration hidden inside him. He wasn't sure if he was blushing as he sat up, staring at the prefect in almost poorly hidden wondering as they spoke.

"You said you never used conditioner before and Vil only got me the shampoo. So...we're gonna just dry it and see how it all turns out!" They smile, managing to figure out the magical handheld dryer as they angle it to Silver's wet hair, "Tell me if it's too hot."

It was mildly worrying that Silver still said nothing, looking at them with a focused stare and only blinking when air blew directly into his eyes.

Before long, his hair was dry, silver strands shinier than ever before. Each lock almost godly in its volume and placement. The prefect couldn't help but be locked in their own silence of affection. Silver was always beautiful, both physically and in personality. And with his hair achieving new form in soft and shiny strands only showed how pretty he was. His aurora eyes staring into their own, reminding them of the cotton candy skies of a meadow from their dreams. They felt their face flushing, the images of Silver laying in that field with them with flowers in his hair filling their mind, "God, you're attractive..."

Seeing Silver's eyes widen, they realize they had said that out loud.

Clearing their throat, they shoved an old hand mirror into Silver's hands. Stammering as they turned away and tried to hide their reddening face with their own hair and hands, "Um. What do you think? Looks nice, right?"

Silver had looked into the mirror for a few seconds, looking back to them with a sudden fierce determination, "Can you do my hair like this for our wedding?"

"O-Our what?"

[stellactrums]

An Exercise in Trust 🗡️🩸 | AO3

Pairing: Abysswalker Rafayel x Princess MC Summary: The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. Rating: Explicit 🔞 Words: 7,857 Tags: POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, Unnamed Main Character, AFAB Main Character, MC uses she/her pronouns, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, PIV Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Fighting As Foreplay, Knifeplay, Bloodplay (kinda), Under-negotiated Kink (i.e. the aforementioned knife and blood play are not discussed beforehand but they're both little freaks on the same wavelength), Soul Bond, Mildly Dubious Consent (she compels him with the soul bond but make no mistake he wants her lol), Rafayel speaks Lemurian (but it's like four words and i made up three of them lol), Mild Gore (it's a brief line and does not actually happen) Notes: Originally posted to AO3 on March 7, 2025. I have the biggest heart eyes for Abysswalker, so here I am! I probably-maybe-definitely took some accidental liberties with the lore because all the different timelines confuse me, so I interpreted it as best I can. There's also some made-up Lemurian language. I tried my best based on the few phrases we've heard in the game. Endless thanks to my friend Sepia for beta-reading this and for hyping me up ever since this was still just an idea in my brain! And additional thanks to Sepia, Maz, and Belle for all giving me feedback when I was stuck. This fic wouldn't exist without you <3 Lemurian Translations: "Huerte mea" → "My heart" and "Vesta mea" → "My bride"

“I will cut out your heart with a dagger honed, my darling. And in Love’s name, your heart will become my faith. 

Your body will be washed clean, shine like a pearl. 

I will care for your heart. Till we meet again. And you reclaim it for yourself.” 

– Siren’s Ballad, Act III: Muia

The desert winds tonight are punishing, noisily rattling the structure of their tent, and the Princess of Philos shivers as she peers outside. She pulls the blanket draped across her form tighter around her shoulders and cranes her neck, turning her gaze up to the sky. 

Rafayel watches her from the corner of his eye. He has spent the previous half-hour sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, tending to his garb and attempting to mend a tear in the seams. But his fingers now idle, and the leathers are long forgotten across his lap, only half-sewn, as he finds himself too distracted to continue. 

It is, perhaps, the longest Her Highness has ever gone without saying a single word in his presence. Rafayel is accustomed to the sound of her continuous chatter as she flits from subject to subject like a hummingbird searches for nectar, so much so that her sudden silence is a void by comparison. It is almost like she has forgotten he is even there. He wonders what it is that has stolen her attention and has her so captivated.

Even with her back turned toward him, Rafayel still cannot help but stare. His gaze sweeps over her form, following the shape of her hair, held in place with pins made of diamonds and gold. The drab, tattered blanket that surrounds her is unbecoming of a princess, a stark contrast to the rest of her elegance.

He longs to reach out for her and replace the blanket with the warmth of his embrace. To banish whatever thoughts have been keeping her mind so otherwise occupied. It is an old yet familiar twinge of jealousy that has followed him through the ages. He wants to be the sole object of her focus.

But Rafayel stays his hand, tightening his grip on the needle between his fingertips, and desperately tries to silence the yearning in his chest. He cannot allow himself to go down this path—not again, not when he has already strayed too far simply by being here with her in the first place. 

A particularly strong breeze blows through the gap in the tent’s opening, strong enough that Rafayel can feel it from where he sits. The Princess draws in a sharp breath, turning away as the wind hits her face. She shivers again and mutters a low curse beneath her breath, wrinkling her nose in a way that is so unbearably endearing. 

Rafayel lowers his gaze. A faint smile touches his mouth.

“Your Highness should not linger so close to the entrance,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

He hears the sound of fabric rustling as she closes the flap to the tent, then soft footfalls. Her shadow enters his peripheral, morphing with his into a single, exaggerated shape, and Rafayel looks up when she finally stands in front of him. She kneels onto her bedroll that is laid out opposite of his, clutching the blanket close to her chest. 

“I wanted to look at the stars,” she replies. 

Flickering flames from the oil lamp that illuminates their tent cast shadows over her face and dance across her delicate features. The subtle pout of her lip indicates her disappointment, and her eyes shine even in the low light, as if the stars themselves have made their home within. 

A knot forms in the pit of Rafayel’s stomach. He sets his armor aside and sticks the sewing needle into it, marking his place. 

“Your Highness has seen the stars before,” he says.

“Not like these.”

“Are these same stars not visible from the palace?”

“They are much prettier out here than in the city.” Her Highness looks down as another chill runs through her body. She picks at the fraying edges of her blanket. “I wanted to admire them during our last trip out here, but the sandstorm prevented us from doing so.”

Rafayel sighs quietly. Before he can think better of it, he reaches across the short distance between them and covers her hands with his. Her fingers are cool to the touch from the night air, so he brings them to his lips and warms them with his breath.

The Princess’ eyes widen. A soft, surprised sound sticks in her throat. But then, she smiles, and the faint, melodic lilt of her laughter makes the knot in Rafayel’s stomach twist and tighten. 

She leans toward him. The blanket slips from her shoulders, falling to the ground behind her, and Rafayel stares at her over the tops of their hands. The gold embroidery of her tunic glitters in the dim light against lavender and black fabric, forming an endless web of intricate patterns that draw his gaze downward—over the swell of her chest, the dip in her waist, the sloping rise of her hips.

“Won’t you look at the stars with me, Rafayel?” she asks him, breaking his reverie.

Reluctantly, Rafayel releases her with a sudden pang of guilt, wishing so badly to tell her that he would give her the stars if he could. Instead, he pulls back, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashes through her eyes. 

“Your Highness… should retire for the night,” he says.

The Princess lowers her gaze, watching as Rafayel lays his hands across his lap, then looks back into his eyes. 

“But I’m not tired yet,” she says. “Also, you promised we would spar tonight.”

A flush creeps up the back of Rafayel’s neck and warms his ears. He clears his throat and shakes his head, recalling what transpired after their last training session. A repeat of events would not be appropriate.

“It is late, and the wind is too strong,” he says. Raising an eyebrow, he regards her with a look of amusement, unable to resist the urge to tease her. “And someone wanted to stay up to look at the stars.”

Stubborn as ever, the Princess leans in even closer. “But someone else gave me his word.”

“We have a long journey ahead of us come morning. I must ensure Your Highness’ safe return to the city.”

The Princess scowls at him, and Rafayel frowns when she shifts subtly over to her left, her hand twitching. Faster than he expects, she snatches his dagger from its place beside his pillow, clumsily twirling it in her hand before she jabs it in his direction.

Rafayel flinches, eyes widening, and raises his hands in front of him in self-defense. 

“What—”

“One lesson,” she says, interrupting him.

He eyes the dagger, then her. “Your Highness—”

“Your Princess has given you a command.” 

Rafayel blinks in surprise. Then, he laughs—at himself, at her request, and the absurdity of the circumstances he finds himself in. If only Her Highness realized the true power she holds, her words sharper than any blade could ever be. 

“Fine,” he agrees through a sigh. As if he even has the choice. “One lesson. Your Highness must rest after that.” 

Rafayel relaxes his posture and holds out one of his hands, reassuring her with a nod and a practiced, boyish smile. Satisfied, the Princess smiles back, then moves to place the dagger in his palm. 

It is exactly the opening Rafayel needs. Leaning forward, he clasps her wrist and pulls hard, twisting her arm so the dagger’s blade points away from them both. The Princess loses her balance and falls with a gasp, and Rafayel uses the momentum he created to spin her around and yank her down onto his lap. He wraps his arm around her stomach, holding her in place as she tries to squirm away. Once sure that she is suitably restrained, he wrenches the dagger free from her hand. 

“Rafayel!”

The Princess continues to struggle, clawing at his arm and desperately trying to escape his grasp. Rafayel tightens his hold on her and overpowers each attempt to break free. She finally goes completely still, holding her breath, when he presses the flat edge of the dagger against her cheek.

He lowers his lips to her ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of it. He feels her responding shudder against him and holds her even tighter. She winces at the discomfort of his tight grip, but dares not move otherwise.

“Tonight’s lesson,” Rafayel says, soft and quiet, “shall be an exercise in trust.”

Slowly, he moves the dagger down the side of her face. The Princess releases the air from her lungs in a shaky exhale, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Your Highness has failed the first test,” he goes on. “An assassin must never relinquish their weapon so freely.”

The Princess scoffs. “Then you also failed by letting me take it from you to begin with.”

“A bold assertion.” Rafayel laughs and brings the tip of the blade to her chin, turning her face toward him. “I do not believe Your Highness is in the position to argue.”

It is, of course, a mistake, because without another word, looking straight into his eyes, Her Highness lifts her leg and brings her heel down onto his toes—hard. 

Rafayel clenches his teeth as the pain spreads throughout his foot. When that is not enough to break free, the Princess elbows him in the ribs. Rafayel accepts the blow, doubling over with a grunt, and only then does she manage to slip out of his arms. Panic rises to Rafayel’s chest as he just narrowly avoids slicing her cheek. She falls forward onto her bedroll, crawling on hands and knees, and pulls something out from under her pillow. Whirling around, she unsheaths the simple dagger he gave her weeks prior.

Rafayel jumps to his feet and holds his blade out in front of him. Pleased with herself, the Princess grins.

“And now?” she asks him. Taunts him. 

Narrowing his eyes, Rafayel moves to strike, lunging toward her with his dagger raised above his head. The Princess stumbles backward, but she manages to catch his wrist and block his advance. Rafayel eases off, giving her a moment to reposition.

“Faster,” he growls, and charges at her again.

Her Highness reacts quicker than before. She crosses her arms and catches his wrist between them, trapping him in place with her dagger. When Rafayel does not break free on his own, she releases him.

“Again,” Rafayel says.

The sound of metal cutting through the air and the shallow puffs of their breaths echo throughout the tent as they perform each exercise multiple times. With limited space around them, Rafayel adjusts his maneuvers accordingly, taking care not to lead her too close to the supporting poles of the tent or the dwindling fire of the oil lamp. Their lack of armor poses another challenge. He will have to be especially careful not to injure her.

The air quickly grows warmer within the small space as a result of their spar, and the sound of their breathing grows harsher and more ragged along with it. Sweat glistens along the Princess’ brow, small strands of hair loosening around her temples and clinging to her skin.

“Your Highness is still too slow,” he says. “Each movement must be decisive and swift.”

He changes directions, aiming his dagger lower. The Princess blocks it effortlessly.

“An assassin must never hesitate.” He attacks her again. He nods in approval when she blocks him a second time. “Do not ever show an opponent mercy.” 

“Even you?” the Princess asks.

She said it so casually, her tone light-hearted, but those mere two words make Rafayel’s steps falter as if she just punched the air out of him. 

“Especially me,” he answers quietly.

They repeat the sequence several more times, settling into a familiar rhythm. Rafayel quiets his mind and wills himself to focus. Attack, block, reset. Attack, block, reset. Again and again, around and around. After the last cycle, he backs off, raising his hand to signal his retreat and taking several steps away from her. He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, catching his breath.

The Princess maintains their distance, holding her dagger in front of her, ready for anything. 

“Not bad,” Rafayel says. “However, Your Highness still has much to learn in the art of combat.”

He lowers his attack arm, pointing the dagger away from her. 

“A weapon must be a natural extension of one’s self,” he adds. He demonstrates by twirling his dagger, fluid and swift, seamlessly cutting through the air. “Your Highness holds a dagger like it is made of burning coals.”

She immediately tightens her grip around the hilt, wrinkling her nose in response to his teasing, but she remains firmly in place. Rafayel smiles and holds out his free hand.

“Come,” he offers. “Let me remind Your Highness how to wield it properly.”

The Princess does not hesitate: she crosses the distance between them and aims her dagger at his face with a shout. Rafayel quickly brings his own dagger up to block her, and their blades clash with a deafening, metallic clang. His smile stretches into a proper grin. 

“Good,” he says. “Your Highness has passed the second test.”

The Princess snarls, baring her teeth, and attacks him again. There is a lethal edge present in her subsequent movements that was not there before. She is faster, harsher, more decisive, and what she still lacks in finesse and experience she makes up for in sheer tenacity. Rafayel blocks and dodges, over and over, letting her maintain the offensive.

She is quickly backing him into a corner, leading him toward the other end of the tent. Rafayel moves from side to side, even more careful not to disturb their surroundings the more aggressive the Princess becomes.

Anger flashes through Her Highness’ eyes, her mouth twisting into a grimace. 

“You’re holding back,” she accuses him.

She moves to strike him. Rafayel catches both of her wrists, then resets, frowning at her in confusion. 

“Of course I am,” he replies. “This is a spar, not actual combat.”

Her scowl deepens. “I don’t care.”

“Your Highness—”

She does not let him finish, recklessly lunging at him again, her movements sloppy and unrefined. Rafayel lets out a huff as her blade comes down toward his face. He grabs her by the wrists once more and shoves her away. The Princess sways on her feet as she loses balance, but she manages to reorient herself before she falls.

Rafayel’s gaze softens as he regards her with no small amount of concern, fearing he has pushed her too far. 

“You tell me not to hesitate,” she says. “You tell me not to show you any mercy. Yet here you are—hesitating.”

She attacks him again.

“Showing me mercy.”

And again.

“Treating me like a helpless child.”

And again.

“Fight me”—and again—“like you”—and again—“mean it!”

Rafayel ducks as she slashes the dagger over the top of his head, snipping off a small lock of his hair. He sidesteps, barely managing to dodge another swing. 

He needs to put a stop to this.

No longer holding back, Rafayel moves in on her quickly, not giving her even the slightest chance to react. The Princess gasps when he disarms her, forcing her dagger out of her grasp, sending it flying and clattering to the ground. He kicks her leg out from under her, watching as she falls unceremoniously onto her backside, landing on her bedroll. 

With a frustrated growl, Her Highness wraps her legs around his and pulls him forward. Rafayel steadies himself as best as he can on the way down, but there is no use stopping it. He winces as he lands on hands and knees with a grunt, absorbing the impact, hovering over her. 

He sits up and wrestles his arms free from the Princess’ hands after she reaches out to grab him. She is bold, he will give her that, and fast. But he is still faster—and stronger.

He straddles her hips and points his dagger to her throat. The Princess seizes him by his wrists and steadies his blade, holding on so tightly her knuckles turn white. She digs her nails into his skin until it stings, making Rafayel hiss through his teeth. 

“Enough,” he grits out.

Her Highness gazes up at him with a defiant tilt of her chin, clenching her jaw from the effort of keeping him at bay.

“No.”

Despite the circumstances, Rafayel huffs out a laugh. “Even when faced with certain death, Your Highness does not surrender,” he says, each word laced with amusement. He tilts his head, curious. “That is unwise.”

A flicker of recognition crosses her gaze that gives Rafayel pause. She has looked at him that way before, whenever he would sneak into her bedchamber at night and find her with the fishtail beacon clutched tightly between her fingers. She has looked at him that way countless other times, in another life. In many other lives.

She looks at him like she remembers. 

“You would never hurt me,” she replies. “Not really.”

The certainty in her voice pains him, a familiar ache that echoes deep within his chest. Rafayel frowns as fragmented memories of many distant pasts coalesce in his mind like raindrops on glass, some indiscernible from others, overlapping moments across lifetimes. 

The God of the Sea and His bride…

Memories that occupy his dreams and every waking thought. 

…a Lemurian and the fearsome Witch of the Abyssal Rift…

Memories she will never remember. 

…an artist and his bodyguard…

Memories he can never forget. 

Rafayel wants so badly to believe that he will never hurt her, but fate has always been cruel to him, and the universe who wields it even more so. His eyes darken, clouded by the once-raging seas of Lemuria that now only thrash behind his gaze. 

“Would I not?” he asks. He lets out a low chuckle at the way she tightens her fingers around his wrists. “How can Your Highness be so certain? There is no one around to hear Your Highness’ cries for help. Even if there was…”

Rafayel pauses, searching her face, her eyes. He waits for her reaction—something, anything at all. 

“It would be too late.”

The Princess goes to speak, but the words seem to die on her lips, and she promptly snaps her mouth shut. Rafayel smirks, prepared to relish in his victory.  

But then, slowly, she loosens her hold on him, until her hands fall away entirely. 

A prolonged silence wedges uncomfortably between them, surpassed only by the wailing desert winds beyond their tent. 

“Do it, then,” she says. 

Rafayel holds her gaze. He expects her to look smug, but her expression remains deliberately neutral, a carefully constructed mask. 

“Do it,” she repeats. “Kill me.”

Rafayel keeps his hand steady, so steady that his wrist aches in protest. He very well could kill her right here and now, take back his heart, and fulfill his duty to his people—just like that. She does not realize what she is risking by offering herself to him so willingly.

Or perhaps she does.

She knows. She cannot remember, but she knows. 

She knows him. All of him. She has always known, even though she may never come to know it herself. In this moment, as Rafayel stares her down over the curved edge of his dagger, he truly believes that she does. 

He almost forgot what it is like to be known.  

But here they are once again, bound to one another in this life, and the next, and the many others that have come before. Despite everything, that has never changed. Their love is inevitable, their fate intertwined in a prophecy written in blood and stone—a fate he himself doomed them to long, long ago. 

For years beyond his comprehension, he has fought an uphill battle: desire at war with destiny, his pleasure versus his purpose, his love for her perpetually at odds with the love he holds for his people. The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. 

It would be so, so easy to kill her…

She should be afraid of him.

He will teach her to be afraid.

With a wave of his hand, Rafayel extinguishes the flame in the oil lamp. The Princess lets loose a gasp as they are plunged into darkness. 

“Does Your Highness not remember our previous lessons?” 

His eyes adjust quickly. The outline of her form comes back into view, followed by her face, bathed in shadow. Before she can answer him, Rafayel lazily begins to drag the tip of his dagger down her throat. 

Though she tries to suppress it, he does not miss the subtle shift in the Princess’ expression—the way her eyes widen almost imperceptibly—nor the hitch of her breath. Her body tenses beneath him, but even so, her quiet determination remains, made evident by the firm set of her jaw and the slight crease in her brow. Her resolve will not be broken so easily.

He waits for her to stop him, to beg him to stop, to surrender. The Princess remains silent. 

“An assassin must kill quickly, before they are killed first,” he says. “As Your Highness may recall, that is what makes the throat a favorable choice. One cut…”

Rafayel turns the dagger with a flourish, holding it horizontally against her neck.

“That is all it takes.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. Rafayel watches, transfixed, as the dagger moves along with it.

He blinks. He blinks again. His mind is slipping, thoughts passing like sand through his fingers. Images flash behind his eyes of the Princess laid out beneath him, blood pooling under her body, her heart carved out of her chest yet still beating in the palm of his hand. 

Rafayel shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, and points the sharp tip of the blade at her throat once more. Though not enough to break skin, he presses down just hard enough to leave a mark. A single line, raised and puffy against her otherwise unblemished complexion, follows his dagger from her throat to the top of her chest. 

If she feels any pain, Her Highness does not show it. Rafayel wonders just how far she will trust him to go.

He recalls a time, long before, when the artist left his mark upon her skin in a similar fashion, with red paint instead of a blade. He wants to leave his mark on her again now. 

It comes to him as easy as breathing. Rafayel turns the dagger carefully and begins to draw a familiar shape into her chest, watching the way her skin reacts the same way as before. For those precious few moments, the world around them falls away. He grows more and more mesmerized at the sight of angry welts forming the shape that mirrors his own mark—the brand on his chest that binds his soul to hers and burns whenever she speaks. 

When he finishes the final line, completing the elegant curve of a Lemurian tail, he flicks the dagger upright and roughly scrapes it against her delicate flesh. This time, he can tell it hurts from the way Her Highness’ eye twitches, but it is the only acknowledgment she deigns to give the pain. Tiny droplets of blood bloom from the small cut, trickling down her chest and disappearing underneath the scooped neckline of her tunic.

She is truly a sight to behold—her skin marked by his blade, her life in his hands. She trusts him implicitly, and it stirs something deep within him, like oil being thrown into a fire, an intense longing the likes of which he has never felt before. Heat rises steadily throughout his entire body, making the flush on his cheeks deepen and his ears burn as he averts his gaze.

Rafayel follows the blood trail with the point of his dagger. The sound of metal dragging against fabric, but not ripping, is nearly deafening. 

“Bone is a troublesome obstacle.”

His voice sounds so far away, unfamiliar even to his own ears, rough and hollow like the sea of golden sand outside blowing in the wind. He moves the dagger between her breasts, then lower, prodding at her sternum for emphasis. He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest as the Princess meticulously measures and counts each breath.

“To reach the heart,” he continues, “one must…”

He angles the dagger upward, notching it between her ribs on her left side, and points it at her heart. 

His heart. 

Rafayel narrows his eyes. He pushes her down harder into the bedroll, but still, she does not react—barely even winces. He feels dizzy and drunk, blood roaring in his ears, as if his mind is no longer his own. No matter what he does, she does not flinch. No matter what he says, she does not answer. 

The silence stretches between them, tormenting him. Mocking him. 

“Does Your Highness truly not fear death?”

Finally, the mask slips. The Princess’ gaze softens. 

“Are you afraid, Rafayel?” she asks him.

For a moment, his grip slackens around the hilt of his dagger. She is trying to disorient him. He chuckles again, a low and bitter sound. 

“There is nothing I fear,” he says. 

She frowns. “You’re lying.”

Rafayel presses the blade against her ribs. Though not strong enough to break skin, she goes tense beneath him once more.

“Everything I have ever feared has already come true.”

He lays his hand over her stomach, pointing the dagger in the direction of her womb.

“The worst nightmares that have ever haunted me, I have experienced firsthand, time and time again,” he continues, recalling every time he has loved her, lost her, never forgotten her. “But Your Highness…”

With a shake of his head, Rafayel grins. 

“Your Highness still has not answered my question.”

Beneath his palm, her heartbeat is strong, growing stronger by the second.

“No,” the Princess says. 

Rafayel looks up. “Your Highness refuses to answer?”

“No,” she repeats firmly. “As in, no, I do not fear death.”

To his surprise, she lifts her hand. He tries not to react as she draws near, but he has always been so helpless against her, and a short gasp escapes him before he can stifle it. She gently lays her hand against his cheek. Her fingers, cool once more, bring a modicum of relief to his flushed skin. Rafayel turns his face into her palm on impulse with a ragged exhale. Her touch is so tender, far more tender than he deserves.

“I do not fear death,” she says, without a single note of uncertainty in her voice, “because I do not fear you.”

There is a sinking feeling in Rafayel’s stomach, heavier than stone. He looks into her eyes, and for that moment, she is no longer a princess; she is a bride, a queen, a witch, a bodyguard, a muse, a lover…

She is everything. She is his, and he is hers. He has always been hers. 

He reaches for her in return, cradling her face so gently, almost reverently. 

“You should,” he says. His voice is quiet, choked with regret. “You really… really should.”

In the span of a single breath, the distance between them closes. Rafayel is not sure who moves first, but in the end, it simply does not matter—not when Her Highness’ lips are so soft and inviting beneath his, and the taste of honey and rosewater lingers on her tongue, and she clings to him like she has been starved, deprived, kissing him so deeply it steals the air from his lungs. 

He groans against her lips as she pulls him closer. Still holding his dagger, his dominant hand remains trapped between their bodies. The other trembles as he slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her forward.

A quiet moan vibrates in her throat. The Princess runs her hands down the length of his back and then up the sides of his shirt. Rafayel presses himself even closer, wanting to feel the entirety of her body molded against his. The single thread of self-control he has left quickly unravels into nothingness, and he struggles to hold onto a solid thought, his mind utterly consumed by her. She is so warm, trapped under his weight the way she is—so close yet still not close enough. He longs to touch her, to feel her skin against his, to watch her come undone so beautifully as he moves within her. 

Rafayel tears his lips away from hers and trails wet kisses down the side of her face instead, then along her jaw. He pulls her head to the side by her hair, groaning softly as she draws in a shaky breath in response. He sucks a greedy bruise over her hammering pulse, every beat of her heart spurring him on more and more.

The Princess’ hands continue to wander. She traces meaningless shapes against his shirt. She bunches the fabric within her grasp. Twists. Pulls. She ventures upward, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him against her, while the other hand lingers in the middle of his back. 

Rafayel pauses once he reaches her chest. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“If I truly am to die by your hand,” the Princess says suddenly, and Rafayel shudders at the unmistakable feeling of cold steel pressed against his spine, “your own demise will be just as swift.”

He freezes. Her Highness pushes the tip of an entirely new dagger between his vertebrae. His thighs go tense around her hips, locking them both in place. One wrong move and he will never walk again. 

Perhaps, he realizes, it is still he who should be afraid of her.

He lifts his head and stares at her in disbelief. “When did—”

She cuts him off with her laughter, clear and vibrant, giddy from her victory. Rafayel sputters, completely dumbstruck. He did not even hear her draw the weapon from its sheath, nor does he know where she even could have hidden it. The kiss was a total distraction. He cannot help but feel a little disappointed. 

But her joy is too infectious, and a smirk slowly spreads across Rafayel’s lips. “It seems I have taught Your Highness well.”

She grins back at him, eyes glittering with mischief and starlight even in the surrounding darkness. 

“An assassin must kill quickly,” she says, echoing his previous words, “before they are killed first.”

Rafayel hisses when the small blade scrapes against his skin, tearing through his shirt. Pleasure twists with pain and forces an involuntary groan out of him. 

Her Highness brings the dagger between them. It is tiny, small enough to hide in her boot or tuck into her belt. His blood glimmers at the pointed end, a single drop of crimson dipping onto the rumpled fabric of her tunic. Rafayel follows the droplet with his eyes as it falls. 

The Princess sits up slowly, making him sit up with her. His arms return to his sides, and he allows his own blade to fall from his grasp. 

“Do you trust me?” she asks him. 

The cord of restraint holding him back finally snaps, and something else inside of him withers and dies along with it. Regret. Shame. Guilt. Emotions he cannot even name, all of which no longer matter. 

None of it matters anymore. And all Rafayel can do is laugh.

“My princess,” he whispers, low and rough like gravel. He bows his head. “I am at Your Highness’ mercy.”

She places the tip of her dagger beneath his chin, lifting his gaze back to hers. 

“Rafayel.” Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks his name. “Kiss me.”

Their bond resonates from the depths of his very being, tendrils of agony that spread through his body, constricting him, punishing him for daring to ever deny himself the ecstasy of her touch. But even as he feels himself drawn to her, compelled by her, he does not need it. Not for this. Never for this.

He takes her hand and squeezes, guiding the pitiful little dagger to his chest. The blade harmoniously cuts into his palm and hers, their blood mixing together and trickling down their wrists. The Princess whimpers in pain. Rafayel leans in to kiss her again, deliberate and deep, swallowing down her cries. 

She writhes underneath him and tries to push him off her lap. When he does not budge, she draws his bottom lip in between her teeth and bites down in retaliation, soothing it afterward with her tongue. Rafayel gasps, a broken moan escaping him, pleasure coiling tightly in his gut. Letting go of her hand, he pushes her down against the bedroll once more, bending at the waist and leaning over her. A reawakened hunger flows through him, and his touch becomes frantic as he slips his hands beneath her tunic and lifts it over her head.

The Princess is beautiful. Rafayel stops to look at her, really look at her, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin—skin that has been marked by his blade and now begs to be savored beneath his lips. He starts at her shoulder first, then moves to her neck, mouthing along the hollow of her throat. He moves lower and lower still, until he finds the trail of blood he left behind before, messily smeared across her chest. He flattens his tongue against her skin and laps up the blood with a moan like it is the sweetest ambrosia, and he relishes the pleasurable sounds that slip past her lips, the breathless way she whispers his name. 

She slides her fingers through his hair and pulls, and Rafayel groans, closing his teeth around the soft mound of her breast. He kneads the other with his hand, ignoring the stinging pain of the cut across his palm as his own blood transfers onto her skin. Her answering moan is so divine, so unguarded, that it goes straight to his cock, and the front of his pants tighten uncomfortably. 

“Rafayel,” she says again, louder than before, arching up into his eager mouth. Rafayel lifts his eyes to watch her. Hot, urgent arousal curls in his stomach at the sight of her already so lost in pleasure, with her head thrown back and hair strewn about. One hand shields her face, her index finger wedged between her teeth, dagger pointed away from her.

He finally moves off of her lap and kneels between her legs, then reaches up to pull the dagger from her grasp. The Princess gasps as Rafayel slides the tip of the blade down her stomach, creating another faint but angry line. He follows it with his lips and soothes it with more kisses.

“Up,” he says, tucking his free hand under the small of her back. 

She complies and lifts her hips. He undresses her quickly, tugging her pants and undergarments down her legs, and then reaches behind his back to pull his own shirt over his head. He lowers himself down onto his elbows and holds her gaze as he trails fleeting kisses past her navel. Her legs fall open for him, and Rafayel moans at the mere sight of her.

One hand comes to rest against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Rafayel nuzzles against her and turns to press a kiss there. She continues to play with his hair, pulling gently, nails scratching against his scalp and sending a shiver down his spine. He looks up again and slowly brings the dagger up between her legs. 

“Your Highness tricked me,” he whispers, poking her thigh with the tip of the blade.

The Princess jumps in surprise, but she laughs under her breath, and some of the tension in her body ebbs away. Her eyes soften around the edges, and her smile melts into something more serene—more sincere.

“All you ever do is hold back,” she says. Her gaze flicks between him and the dagger. “I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Not from me.”

Rafayel’s breath catches as her words settle over him. Slowly, he presses the flat edge of the blade into her thigh, then the tip. He draws swirls and shapes as he continues to transform her skin into a masterpiece of his own making. A twist of the wrist, and he guides the sharp edge along her supple skin to create a fine cut. Her Highness hisses through her teeth, muscles twitching.

Setting the dagger aside, Rafayel chases the blood as it trickles down, catching it with his lips. He breathes in the heady scent of her as he noses the wiry curls between her thighs and parts her with his fingertips. He moans at the first taste of her, the mixture of her arousal and the coppery aftertaste of her blood on his tongue nearly driving him to the brink of total oblivion. 

The Princess sighs with pleasure and tightens her fingers through his hair when she begins to move, her back bowing. Rafayel allows her to set their pace and supports her weight with his hands, following each steady, sensual roll of her hips as she chases the heat of his mouth. 

“Oh,” she breathes. “Rafayel…”

He groans when her thighs clamp around him, and he imagines himself sheathed inside her, the urge to take her stronger than before. He pushes his own hips into the bedroll in search of more friction, clinging to any sense of relief he can find, determined to taste her release before he seeks his own. 

It does not take long, wound up as she is. The Princess lets out a sharp cry, hips flexing and thighs trembling as she comes. Whispered pleas tumble from her lips that grow louder and louder as Rafayel works her through her release, licking into her relentlessly, not pulling away until she is whining in protest from the overstimulation.

“My beloved.” His voice is breathy, soft. A whisper against her thigh. “Huerte mea… vesta mea…”

She collapses against the bedroll, her body going lax. Rafayel straightens, wiping the slick off his chin with the back of his hand as he gazes down at her prone form.

He kneels between her still-trembling legs, pushing her knees even further apart, and shoves his pants down just far enough. Taking his cock into his hand, he gives himself one stroke, then another, before he carefully guides himself forward. The heat between her thighs envelops him, welcoming him, and he lets out a reflexive sigh as he sinks deeper. He bites his lip and struggles not to close his eyes, wanting to watch himself disappear into her cunt.

His mind goes blank—whiting out for one long, blissful moment—once he is fully seated. Rafayel holds himself still, so still, even though he is all but coming apart at the seams, muscles twitching restlessly in anticipation, his own need desperate to be sated.

She holds him close, arms and legs wrapped around him in a sacred geometry that makes him feel more worshiped than any other offering or prayer or devotion ever has. Rafayel leans into her, his hips nestled within the cradle of her thighs. So long as he lives, reborn anew as many times as fate demands it, nothing else will ever be able to compare. Lemuria could fall a thousand times more, damning his soul for all eternity. He will do it all over, again and again, if it means coming home to her even just one more time, saving her just one more time—

And he does not know how much longer he will be able to hold back.

Her Highness moves her hands, fingers at his sides. He shudders beneath her touch, gentle and explorative, as she traces the faint, jagged lines of old scars etched into his skin. Rafayel bends to kiss her brow, but the Princess nudges him with her nose and searches for his lips, finding them in another needy kiss.

“Rafayel,” she whimpers. She wriggles her hips beneath him, urging him to move.

He answers her with a languid thrust that has her head lolling back. 

“As my princess wishes,” he says, and then he kisses his way back down, smiling against the side of her neck.

Rafayel gives her time to adjust, moving with short, steady strokes that roll into one another before he settles into a familiar rhythm. When she begins to move with him, he pulls her even closer—lifts her legs higher along his sides so she can cross them at the middle of his back.

The Princess fucks like she fights, breathless and eager, gradually moving with more confidence than she started with. She holds onto him tightly and takes what she needs, works her hips against his with determination as they rock together. Rafayel’s entire body thrums with pleasure, a heartbeat all its own, and he wishes he could spend all of eternity in this moment, drowning in her depths. 

She sucks in air when he nips at the delicate skin below her ear. His mouth gentles in apology, his next few kisses more tender, his tongue tasting the sweat on her skin. Rafayel presses himself closer, pushes himself deeper inside on every thrust. He is unable to resist for long, catching her earlobe between his teeth, biting down once more. Her Highness runs her nails down his back, and he nearly crumbles, pleasure and pain twisting and unwinding, consuming him whole—

“Fuck,” he sighs into her neck, kissing it again. “So soft… so warm…”

Rafayel props himself up on one hand and lowers the other to where they are joined to circle his fingers over her clit. He groans at the responding clench of her cunt, and the moan she gifts him with in return makes his blood run hot as her hips arch upward into his touch. 

“Your Highness always sings so sweetly for me,” he says, an urgent need threaded through every word. “Let me hear it again.”

He gazes down at her, taken with the way her body slides up, up, up against the bedroll with every snap of his hips. Rising to his knees, he settles his free hand at her waist, holding her there as he meets her with another powerful thrust, then draws her down even harder against him.

“Please,” he rasps. “Please let me hear it again—”

The Princess keens, lashes fluttering as her eyes slip shut. Rafayel does it again, driving forward harder than the first time, and then again, determined to hear her cry his name even just one more time. He cannot look away, never wants to look away, utterly hypnotized by the way her body moves, the way the muscles in her stomach flex and flutter. 

Curious, he releases her waist, then lays his palm flat against her lower abdomen and presses down—

“Rafayel!” the Princess cries out, and his name has truly never sounded sweeter. 

He feels it when she reaches her end, wave after wave, bearing down on him and clenching rhythmically around his cock and bringing him to the very precipice of his undoing. His eyes never leave her face, watching the kaleidoscope of emotion playing out across her features as she continues to writhe, as her already bruising grip on him tightens to the point of pain.

Desperation claws at him from within. Rafayel chases after the exquisite pressure low in his belly that grows stronger with each thrust. His rhythm falters as he pushes himself to move harder, faster, no longer able to contain it. He plants his hands back on the ground on either side of her hips for leverage as he drives into her, and gods, he is close, so close, each cry that escapes her bringing him closer, closer, closer—

“Your—Your Highness,” he stammers, voice cracking around the words. He lets out a low whine. “I’m—” 

Helpless against the inevitability of his own completion, Rafayel surrenders to it—a pleasure so intense it nearly pains him, makes his limbs spasm, makes his heartbeat even more erratic. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, broken little sounds spilling from his lips as he spills inside her, until he has nothing more left to give.

When he opens his eyes once more, the Princess is smiling. Her gaze is serene, almost dreamlike, and for a moment Rafayel wonders if he is, in fact, dreaming. 

The world falls away. Time stands still. There is only him and her. 

Arms shaking, he nearly collapses as he lies down next to her and curls up at her side. The Princess wraps him up in her embrace and holds him close, and he burrows into the junction between her neck and shoulder. Later, he will clean their bodies and tend to their wounds, then hold her throughout the night as they sleep. But right now, he needs only this.

The softness of her voice soon draws him from his thoughts: “Rafayel?”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to know what I fear?”

Rafayel’s pulse jumps against his throat. He lifts his head from her shoulder, and she reaches for him, gently guiding his gaze to hers with a finger under his chin. She runs her thumb over his bottom lip in a way that is heartbreakingly familiar.

“I fear that one day, I will call for you,” she says, “and you will not answer.”

Guilt runs through him like an arrow to the chest. The knot in his stomach returns, now a noose.

“I fear that I will one day know a life without you in it,” she continues, dropping her voice to a whisper. “That is a fate worse than death.”

He shifts onto his side, pulling her along with him, and touches his forehead to hers. Their noses brush, and Rafayel holds her cheek as he kisses her, even though his throat feels tight and he wants to weep at the mere notion of being without her.

“I have always looked for you,” he whispers back, and though she cannot comprehend the full weight of his words, he wants her to hear them. “And I have always found you.” 

The Princess smiles again, saying nothing. Her touch is gentle against his cheeks as she brings his lips back to hers for another longer, softer kiss.

She knows. She knows, but she does not remember. Cannot remember. And for the first time across his many, many lives, Rafayel wonders if maybe it is for the best. 

But he will. And should a day ever come where he is not able to find her, he will still remember.

It will not be enough, but he will always, always remember.

[smuttysabina]

COMM: Lisa gets Dommy-Mommyed

(Girl-Cock Celine x Lisa, 3.3k Words) Tags: OTV & BlackPink Collaboration, Not what I thought my first streamer x idol smut would be but here we are lol, Girl-Cock, Anal Oral Vaginal Sex, Dommy Mommy Celine, Multiple creampies, Unexpected voyeurism, Bathroom sex, Some cum play, Implied Impregnation

A coterie of girls relax in the restaurant booth, all of them chattering amiably about the concert they had gone to that night. All of them had enjoyed themselves immensely; after all, Blackpink were known for putting on a show, and they had not disappointed. The rather messy orgy that had occurred onstage had really only enhanced the performance's appeal, and the girls were more than a touch aroused by what they saw. The bustiest of the group politely excuses herself as the other girls go into the naughty details of what they had seen (watching Jennie taking five guys at once had been particularly impressive), and makes for the bathroom, discreetely covering her crotch. The next booth over, amusingly enough, the topics of discussion for the girls were themselves relaxing, though their discussion was far more pointed...

"...Oh please," the richly tanned Lisa was grumbling, "you're just making a big deal out of it because your brother doesn't want to fuck you." Jisoo sputters in outrage while Jennie and Rose snort into their drinks, "You fucking whore! Maybe I just don't want to do weird shit like you do!" Lisa rolls her eyes and sighs, "Whatever, I'm going to go piss, I swallowed so much cum I feel like my tummy is going to burst," and with that she squeezes out of the booth, leaving behind a stinking puddle that seeps slowly into the seat. Typical.

Celine, known to her adoring viewers as StarSmitten, had a problem, a surprisingly girthy problem, bulging from her crotch. She clamps one hand over her mouth, her bountiful breasts heaving as she struggles to contain her moans while she strokes her throbbing girl-cock. The only other bathroom stall had been occupied soon after Celine had entered, and whoever was inside of it was busily taking the messiest dump she had ever heard. The disgusting sputtering had at least provided her with an excellent cover to disguise the noise of her masturbating, but with pre-cum beading from her tip, she knew she would soon be wailing with pleasure when she climaxed. But now the din has died down, as Celine's neighbor groans with release and starts to clean up, even while the poor streamer is on the edge of painting the stall door with her semen. A sudden silence falls, as both girls grow quiet, their ears straining as they listen suspiciously to each other, one of them worried she had been caught, the other...

Lisa sniffs the scented air of the bathroom once more, certain that she had caught the scent of sex. The reeking contents of the bowl beneath her was not helping in the slightest, though after having several gallons of semen pumped into her guts, the resulting mess was going to be unpleasant no matter the situation. Lisa's brain soon filters out the foul stench, and once more she smells the distinct tang of freshly spilt sexual fluids; which meant that her neighbor was indulging themselves a little bit too much. A broad smile slashes across Lisa's face, having some fun in here would be much more preferable than dealing with Jisoo's puritanical ranting. She smoothly hops onto the toilet, using it to boost herself up to get a peek at whoever's masturbation session she was about to interrupt, and is mildly surprised by what she finds. A remarkably busty girl stared up at Lisa in shock, her tits on full display, her hands unable to stop stroking one of the largest cocks Lisa had seen that night. Both of them open their mouths, but before either can say anything, the girl suddenly moans as a rope of cum erupts from her cock, painting Lisa's bemused face with a thick ream of jizz. Delightful.

Celine is blubbering as she fumbles open the stall, only for Lisa to shove the door open, pushing Celine back into it before slamming the flimsy door shut and locking it. The idol wears a nasty smile as she licks the sticky cum off of her lips, as Celine's eyes widen once she realizes who's face exactly she had just unloaded all over, and she gasps out a stuttering apology that is only silenced when Lisa kisses her. The streamer moans as the taste of her own semen fills her mouth, unable to resist as her mind reels from the stupefying fact that one of her favorite idols was busy forcing her cum-slathered tongue down her throat. When Lisa breaks off the kiss, Celine is left dazed and more than a little aroused, "Lisa..." Celine groans, "Me!" Lisa agrees happily, idly groping her, "What, why are you here?" Celine sputters, "Does it really matter?" Lisa rolls her eyes, "I think we have better things to do than worry about the details," she runs a hand along Celine's bulging erection, "Bigger things..." Celine shudders as lust burns through her habitual shyness, urging her to take advantage of the unexpected interruption of her masturbation session by a beautiful and willing girl. Even if it was Lalisa Manoban.

Hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, Celine guides Lisa downwards to her knees onto the cool tiles of the floor, panting as her cock throbs against Lisa's pretty face. The idol playfully licks the sizable meat resting on her face, before slightly cocking her head, "I usually don't bother asking, but what's your name? I get the feeling we might be here for a while..." Celine pauses as she considers her answer, but some boldness within her makes her say, "Mommy, Celine," Celine breathes, and Lisa smirks in expectation, "Well then, Mommy, I've been a baaad girl..." Any restraint Celine still has snaps and she grabs the idol's head before shoving her wide cockhead into Lisa's waiting mouth, forcing her dick down her throat. Celine was sure that Lisa's oral techniques were superb, but at this point she was only able to think about pumping one of her rather pent-up loads into one of the idol's warm holes. Lisa gags enthusiastically as the streamer uses her mouth like disposable toy, Celine moaning uncontrollably as she works her repressed lusts from the Blackpink concert out on one of its main instigators, "You freaking slut, I was so hard the entire concert, I nearly fucked Aria watching you getting gangbanged!" Her weighty balls slap against Lisa's chin as her pace increases, "Oh god, oh god I'm going to cum in Lisa!" Celine cries out as she forces her cock as deep as possible down the idol's throat, shaking as she dumps her seed directly into Lisa's stomach while she squirms from want of oxygen.

Celine only relents when her orgasm fades, and she hurriedly pulls out to allow Lisa to gasp for air, coughing wetly as cum splatters onto her petite breasts. She looks coyly up at Celine, "Thank you Mommy, can I have some more?" she glances meaningfully down at her bared slit... Moments later Lisa has her back against the stall, her hips thrust outwards as Celine gorges upon her pussy, lovingly eating out her idol with cock stiffly at attention. Lisa groans with pleasure, holding the girl's head against her crotch, reveling in her slow but steady worship; women were always so much better at foreplay. The idol quivers as she climaxes, squirt running down Celine's chin as she drinks down Lisa's stinking juices like it was the sweetest nectar; and when the two kiss once more, their sexual fluids mix in their mouths. Drool connects their tongues when they break off the kiss, with Celine humping Lisa's toned stomach in anticipation of what was to come. "Oh Mommy, please! I need it so bad!" Lisa begs demurely, as Celine lifts up her leg to allow her sizeable cock access to the sweetness between her thighs. Lisa's eyebrows raise as inch after inch of girthy cock slides into her belly, making it bulge noticeably as it stretches her experienced cunt out; it wasn't the largest cock she had taken, but it was far bigger than most.

Lisa wraps her arms around Celine's neck as the latter pumps furiously between her sweaty thighs, both of them flushed from the passion of their sex. Fluids splatter onto the tiles beneath them from their messy coupling, with Celine's cock leaking copiously from the stimulation of Lisa's superior cunt. The idol's pussy was sopping wet, expertly squeezing and relaxing in time with every thrust, warming her shaft with its burning heat; only Pokimane's goddess-like pussy could compare. Celine pants as fucks Lisa, every motion sending more squirt leaking down her swaying balls, staring deep into her partner's eyes even as she rearranges her insides. Her soft, pale body presses itself against Lisa's much darker and leaner form, squishing it against the hard plastic of the stall, leaving her no room to escape even if she wanted to. The pair talk dirty as they mate, their sex talk swiftly going from naughty to downright depraved, as Lisa urges Celine to slake her nastiest fantasies using her nubile body. The wall of the bathroom stall rattles as the busty streamer tries to ram the limber idol through it, their erect nipples stabbing into each other's breasts with every thrust. Lisa feels Celine's orgasm before she can, the tightening of the balls and the pulsating shaft informing Lisa of her incoming insemination, "Give it to me Mommy!" she squeals, wrapping her legs around Celine's waist, "Give me your babies!" Celine groans as Lisa's words send her over the edge, she was going to knock up Lalisa and put a baby in her belly; and after a few powerful thrusts, she creampies Lisa's drooling pussy.

The pair shudder against one another as their dueling climaxes stimulate each other's genitals, until they both recover enough to resume their passionate make-out session. "Good girl," Celine croons between kisses, and Lisa preens at her praise, she was thoroughly enjoying her submission to this girl-cock wielding Mommy; she hadn't been mothered this hard since she had gotten spit-roasted by Jihyo and Momo. Celine suddenly grabs Lisa's leg and uses it to spin her around on her cock, a maneuver only made possible by Lisa's superb flexibility, but when it is over Lisa finds herself with her chest pressed up against the wall. The narrowness of the stall made doggy style impractical though, so Celine turns the idol about and forces her against the stall-door, before starting to plow Lisa from behind. Lisa moans loudly as she gets fucked, she loves it rough and nasty, so she was hardly going to complain about heading to round two before Celine's semen had even dried. The loud clapping of their flesh reverberates around the bathroom, and if anything the stall door makes as much noise as the stall wall. The sexual cacophony comes to a screeching halt however as the door to the bathroom suddenly creaks open, and the pair stop, panting quietly as their sexual fluids drip down onto the floor.

Someone walks into the bathroom before pausing in front of the pair's shared stall, rustling with their clothes before softly calling out, "Um Celine? I can smell what you're doing, do you need some... help?" Celine's eyes widen with shock, she had been gone for so long that Pokimane had come looking for her! And now here she was, balls deep inside of Lisa with two loads already roiling inside of her petite body. The idol in question noticed her lover's embarrassment, and decided to make the situation worse by being a naughty girl. Lisa stands up straight to allow for clearance, and shamelessly pulls the door open, revealing to whichever of Celine's friends it was that her girl cock was currently occupied. She raises her eyebrows in surprise as she stares at the curvaceous girl waiting in front of the stall, her pants already around her ankles in anticipation, her shirt and bra pulled up to reveal her impressive cleavage. Lisa smirks smugly at the shocked Poki, "Sorry, Celine is in use right now," "Oh! My god!" Poki sputters, "Wait Celine is that... from the concert?" Celine moans, utterly mortified that her dear friend had caught her in the act, her natural shyness overcoming her. Rolling her eyes, Lisa slams the door shut again in Poki's face before leaning against it once more, proactively moving her hips to get the streamer's attention back. "Cmon, Mommy," she purrs, "I'm so sorry your friend saw you, it must be sooo embarrassing..."

Her chagrin artfully diverted, Celine gets work plowing the sluttiness out of Lisa, her worry about Pokimane hearing her having sex fading with every thrust. The stall door rattles violently as Lisa gets fucked up against it, Celine leaning down to press her sizable bust against Lisa's back, squishing her into submission with her weight. Lisa's cunt makes disgustingly sloppy noises as the two blobs of soft warmth stick to her back, she had always had a weakness for large breasts, probably due to sleeping with Jihyo all the time, and with her girl-cock pounding her weak spot, Celine was driving Lisa wild. Loud squelching noises from the other side of the door indicate that the pair's unexpected guest was enjoying herself as well, and Lisa unabashedly howls as her squirt sprays onto the floor. Something else splatters onto the tiles, and the idol smiles as she smells the stench of another woman's squirt; cucking other bitches was such fun. But now the excitement of having a voyeur was starting to get to Celine and her thrusting took on a fresh energy, Lisa's petite cheeks glowing a rosy red as Celine's crotch slams against them again and again. She moans loudly as pleasure washes through her shaft and up into her body, hugging Lisa tightly against her as she pumps the idol's already clogged cunt full of yet more thick coils of semen. Lisa gurgles happily as warmth spreads through her belly once more, she could get used to this...

Celine sprawls back against the toilet, sighing with pleasure as Lisa sucks on her heaving breasts, while her hand busies itself stroking Celine's cock back to its full length. Lisa takes her time suckling on her Mommy's engorged nipples, her tongue lavishing each of them with attention as pre-cum drools down Celine's twitching womanhood. Pokimane meanwhile had ensconced herself in the stall next to theirs, and was noisily adding her own fluids to the putrid mess still steaming in the toilet. Her face flushed with arousal, Celine gives Lisa's ass an emphatic slap, "Sit on it," she orders huskily, "Use your ass this time," and Lisa happily obeys. She stands above the streamers upraised cock, before slowly sitting on the tip, before demurely pausing, her anus tightly gripping just under the head, "Mommy, you're too big..." Lisa simpers, "I don't know if I can take it all! Celine's delicate hands grasp the idol's waist, and steadily forces her down onto her dick, reassuring Lisa the whole way down, "Good girl," she coos as Lisa takes it to the hilt, her cock throbbing with the petite idol's guts, "now ride it for Mommy..."

Lisa complies with gusto, her initially hesitant grinding giving way to her naturally skillful technique as her own lust spurs her to abandon her bashful playacting. Celine's girl-cock spasms as it is massaged by Lisa's sloppy innards, her guts squeezing every inch of it as it slithers in and out of her ass; masterfully pleasuring it until it is on the brink of eruption. Using Celine's tits as handles, Lisa gives the streamer the best ride of her life, making a mockery of her past lovers' most enthusiastic efforts as Lisa tries to milk her of every last drop. Celine groans once more, holding onto Lisa's waist for dear life as her load spews into Lisa's asshole, who does not relent even for a moment as she rides Celine's orgasm out. She only slows once the streamer's cock stops pulsating, languidly standing back up to allow Celine's load to leak back down onto her glistening shaft. Celine lay back, utterly exhausted by Lisa's voracious asshole, still shocked by how thoroughly it had drained her. Lisa cuddles up against her, squishing her body against Celine's comfortingly as she daintily sucks on her neck; she was enjoying the downtime as much as the sex.

The bathroom door clangs open once more, causing everyone to start in surprise, as someone new stalks into the humid room. The girl sniffs loudly before sighing, "Are you done getting fucked yet, Lisa? I kind of have to piss." Lisa giggles from her resting place atop Celine's bodice, "Sorry Rose, I'm still busy in here!" Rose grumbles before kicking off her shoes, "Whatever, I'll just use the sink them, again," she groans with release as liquid hisses into the bowl, "Oh, and take your time, Jennie is busy fucking her way through the staff, and there were some sluts next to us that I've been training. We should be finished in an hour though so hurry it up!" The noise dies down and Rose hops back down onto the tile, slipping her shoes back on as she walks out. "See you in an hour!" Lisa calls at her as she leaves, before beaming at Celine, "So, want to make me late?" Celine blushes shyly, suddenly modest once more following her colossal orgasm, "Oh! Um, I guess- but I don't know if..." she looks embarrassingly down towards her crotch, where her noticeably flaccid girl-cock was sticking to Lisa's thigh. With a patient smile, Lisa slips down between the streamer's legs, and gets to work sucking some life back into her member. Celine moans and squeaks as the idol works her magic, the jumps in surprise as Lisa slides a finger into her ass, curling it up to massage her prostate. Which was more than enough stimulation to make Celine erect once more, but not enough to reignite her dominating fire. Lisa smirks knowingly up at Celine, "I'm ovulating remember...?"

A minute later and Lisa was on her back on the cold tiles, Celine pumping furiously between her thighs as she plows her into the filthy floor. Lisa's legs kick at the the plastic walls as she gets fucked in the cramped confines of the stall, her slutty cunt already painting the streamer's belly with squirt. "Oh Mommy," she moans loudly, "you can't knock me up in my ass!" But Celine does not relent, grunting as she proves her dominance of Lisa's greedy asshole by pounding it out of shape and flooding it with her cum. Only then does she push her cock into Lisa's inviting pussy, leaving the idol's anus gaping and leaking curdles of semen. The steady slap of flesh fills the bathroom once more as Celine mating presses Lisa, squishing her breasts against the smaller girl as she does her best to breed her fertile cunt. Lisa squeals as she climaxes once more, "Break me Mommy, break me!"

Three hours later Lisa saunters out of the bathroom, her holes gushing semen down her thighs, and rejoins the rest of Blackpink around the table. She had left Celine sprawled in a puddle of their conjoined juices, leaving her Mommy with just enough energy for her frustrated friend to get a load or two out of her; impregnation always got those cock-havers riled up. Lisa beams happily at the other girls, all of whom were equally naked and covered in sexual fluids, "Sorry it took so long! Is everyone ready to go?" The other members of Blackpink roll their eyes, getting up and leaving a hefty tip to pay for the damages. The four of them continue their bickering where it left off as they wind their way through the overturned tables and chairs, picking their way through the piles of pants-less bodies and puddles of cum.

Was it really a Blackpink event if it didn't end in an orgy?

[fairy-writes]

Would it be too much to ask for a William James Moriarty x Holmes sister reader? Like she's a travelling archaeologist/anthropologist who's a genius in the field and has found many artifacts and lost cities and can be a bit of an eccentric looney like her older brother Sherly but she's also incredibly kind to those in need and often donates her treasures to the less fortunate and even helps Sherly from time to time which is how he meets her and is impressed by her smarts and sarcastic wits. Also, a bit of a parkour junky likes to wear mens clothes tailored for her measurements and often wears her hair in loose buns or ponytails and loves riding horseback much to Mycroft's displeasure🤭

A BUSINESS PROPOSAL

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): William James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Mildly sexist behavior from Mycroft? It is the 1800s after all.

Notes: So this was super fun to write! 

Fun fact! I took an archaeology class for my associate’s degree in criminal justice and highly recommend taking one to anyone in college! 

I actually took several anthropology classes (intro to anthro, bio anthro, and archaeology). I even considered switching my major to anthropology at some point! (I switched it to English lol)

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

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Otis whinnies, and you reach forward from your place in the saddle to pat his neck.

“Easy, Otie, almost there.” You whisper to him and gently nudge him to turn down the familiar road of Baker Street. You could spot your brother’s flat from where you were at, an unfamiliar carriage parked in front. You frown briefly and then shrug. Sherlock could have whoever he liked over. 

But… he did promise to take you out on the town in celebration of your latest discovery. Did he forget?

No… He wasn’t the type to forget something like that. You had been exchanging letters for weeks about your coming home. 

A tall man was at the front of the carriage, tending to the horses. He had spiked black hair and a glove on one hand. He looks at you with skeptical eyes as you draw near and dismount your horse. The Cleveland Bay snorts, ruffling your hair as you smooth your hand up his snout and between his eyes. Then, you promptly tied his reins to the post outside 221B Baker Street and went up to the front door. 

The door knocker was more worn than you last remembered, with the shiny brass turning a glimmering gold color from all the hands touching it. You rap the door once, twice, then a third time, and wait, stuffing your hands in your trouser pockets. 

A young man opens the door, sandy blond hair combed neatly and brown eyes alight with curiosity. A grin breaks your face, and you step forward into his arms as he realizes just who is at the door.

“My dear John!” You shriek, and he chuckles, lifting you off your feet and spinning once in a circle before setting you down. 

“I thought you weren’t due back for another two weeks!” He replies excitedly, and you laugh gleefully. 

“We finished early! Anyhow, how’s Mary? Sherlock said you two were expecting!” You say and slap his shoulder good-naturedly. He ducks his head, a pink flush on his cheeks as he nods.

“She’s home at the mo. But yes, we’re expecting. The midwife thinks it’ll be a girl based on how she’s carrying.” He said, and before you could say any more, there was a noise at the top of the stairs. 

You turn, and your grin widens even more until your cheeks hurt. 

“Sherly!” You crow, and he bounds down the stairs to sweep you up in a bear hug. His boisterous laugh made your heart sing, and you buried your nose in his hair. He smelled like cigarette smoke and whiskey. He must have been on a case. He squeezes you tight and sets you down. 

“I thought you were coming back in two weeks!” He exclaims, and you roll your eyes,

“So John said, I told you we finished early!” You tease, and it is then that you notice that there is someone else in the flat. 

He was tall, probably around your brother’s height. He had blond hair and deep scarlet eyes that studied you with interest. He was dressed in a brown suit with a crimson tie. A lord. That much is obvious.

Sherlock notices that you notice his friend and gestures to the man at the top of the stairs. 

“This is Liam! A mathematics professor at Durham University and a friend of mine who helps me on my cases.” He says proudly as “Liam” descends the stairs and approaches you. 

You stick out a hand and introduce yourself. His hand is smooth like you expected, as opposed to your calloused one. You had bandages littering your fingertips from blisters from shovels and tools. 

“William James Moriarty. I’ve heard stories about you.” His British lilt is proper and endearing. You feel your heart flutter and your ears burn. But you smile warmly nonetheless and give his hand a firm shake.

“As much as I’d like to say the same, Sherly has yet to tell me about you in his letters.” You direct the last sentence to your older brother in the same teasing tone as before. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and punches your shoulder lightly while William watches on in amusement. 

“I got distracted!” Sherlock complains, and you break out into giggles. 

“I would love to hear some stories if you’re up to it.” William cut in gently before you, and Sherlock could start bickering. You brighten. A chance to tell stories of your work and not have someone get bored? It sounded like heaven!

That was how you got to where you were at the current moment. 

You were seated next to Sherlock at the Moriarty dining table, regaling them with a story of the most current dig you had been on.

“—and Egypt was absolutely smashing! It was so beautiful!” You say, waving your hands excitedly as you describe the tomb that had been uncovered. It had taken weeks to uncover everything, almost months. But oh so worth it. 

“Might I ask what you did with all the artifacts you found?” William inquires, and you hum as you sip at your wine. 

“Donated it all back to the locals. It’s the least I can do. Plenty of archaeologists steal their finds and bring them back to England to show in museums. I try and do the opposite.” You say and were pleased to see William nod in approval. 

At least someone shared your sentiment. 

You got a letter to your very old and very dusty flat a week after your return to England, summoning you to your eldest brother’s estate. You had been dusting and cleaning your furniture when the postman knocked on your door. You frown, brushing your pants on the seat of your trousers, and answer the door. 

The letter was short. 

Dearest sister, 

I have received news of your return to Egypt. I would like to have your company at the family estate for dinner to discuss business and your adventures. 

With best regards, 

Mycroft Holmes

A summons to the Holmes family estate that your oldest brother had inherited after your parents retired to the country. You look at the ceiling and groan, eliciting a funny look from the postman. 

This was going to be fun.

As soon as Otis realizes where you are, he tosses his head and tries to turn around. You tug the reins so he faces the right direction and nudge him into a walk down the road.

“Otie, I don’t want to do this either. But I’d rather not have Mikey send special forces after us or something.” You say to Otis, and when you reach the stables, Mycroft’s hired stable hand takes your beloved horse’s reins. “Take good care of him!” You nearly reprimand the stable hand who agrees and welcomes you back with ease. 

The maids welcome you in excitedly when you rap on the massive double doors, and you are ushered upstairs into the dining room. 

Mycroft was seated at the head of the table, where your father would be if he were here, and he stood to greet you. He offers a handshake, but you simply smile warmly and hug him tightly. He may have grated on your nerves, but he was still your brother. Mycroft stiffens and pats your shoulders awkwardly when you step back.

“As awkward as always, I see Mikey.” You said and took a seat at the table next to him like you did when you were kids. He clears his throat and calls for the kitchen staff to bring in the food. 

It wasn’t much, considering there were only two of you. But it was as extravagant as Mycroft always demanded it to be. 

“Would you like to change into dinner attire before we eat, sister dearest?” Mycroft says suddenly, just as you are about to dig into the delicious roast prepared by the staff of the household. You put your fork down and scowl.

“Don’t start with this, Mikey. You know I hate dresses.” You snap, and he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue. 

At least… he doesn’t until you are done with your meal and in his study, talking about your travels to Egypt. 

You down the rest of your whiskey and set the glass whiskey tumbler on the table between you two. 

“More whiskey?” He offers, and you shake your head.

“I want to be able to ride home after this.” You say and hold in a yawn. The excellent food combined with the fireplace blazing with a crackling fire is lulling you to sleep. 

Suddenly, Mycroft stands and walks in front of the fire, setting his own glass down on the mantle and turning to face you. 

“Might we talk some business?” He inquires, and immediately, your mood sours. 

So this was his end goal? Get you sleepy and drunk so you couldn’t ride home and were subject to his pleadings?

“I don’t want to hear it, Mikey.” You say and stand, holding onto the back of the wingback chair for a moment as the dizziness sets in. 

He scowls, 

“You are of perfect age. The season is just starting. You could still join in and find a potential suitor!” He tries, and you scrub at your face.

“I already told you I wasn’t interested in courting! I’m interested in—”

“Your work, I know. But what happens when the digs dry up and there’s nothing else for you to do? What will you do when you get too old for this?!” He snaps, and you whirl, steadying yourself with the chair as your anger flares. 

“It won’t dry up! There are thousands of years of history still to be discovered! Hundreds of thousands of cities and archaeological finds!” Your voice rises to a shout, and you hear distant footsteps as maids scurry away from you and your brother’s anger. 

This goes on for several minutes until Mycroft a bomb on you. 

“Mother and Father have decided. If you don’t find someone to court, they will no longer fund your excavations, and you’ll be stuck here with me.” 

You freeze, hands wound tightly in your hair, and argument dying on your tongue. 

“B—But that would mean—” Mycroft cuts you off gently and approaches, putting his hands on your shoulders. 

“You’d be stuck here until you find a husband—no more digs. No more artifacts. Not until you do as they and I ask.” Tears well up in your eyes, and you shrug off his hands violently and flee. 

Your boots pound against the hardwood floors, and you run outside where it has started pouring rain. Instantly, your clothes are soaked as you make it to the stables, dress Otis in his saddle and bridle, and swiftly mount his back. He tears out of the stables at a thundering gallop, and the stable hand barely dives out of the way to save himself from being trampled. 

Otis’s hooves dash against the cobblestone roads. You cling to his reins and hunch over his back as tears stream down your face and sobs wrack your body. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Taking away your funding? 

No one wanted to fund a woman on an archaeological dig! 

Much less one as young as yourself! 

You were screwed! Doomed to live as a housewife because that was society’s and your parent’s expectations of you!

Otis eventually comes to a halt, and you dismount, collapsing onto a bench, breathing hard as rain pours down your body. Your shirt sticks to your skin, and your trousers swim in water as you sit in a puddle on the bench. But you can’t bring it in you to care. 

A carriage rumbles to a stop before you, and you look up as the door opens. 

“Might I interest you in some shelter?” Comes a proper and endearing accent that you recognize. 

“William?” You sniffle, and he smiles, extending a hand. 

“If you’ll let him, Fred will handle your horse. How about you step inside the carriage, and we’ll take you back to the Moriarty estate.” He says over the rain. A young man with a blue scarf wrapped around his head gets off the front of the carriage and approaches. You hiccup and nod, handing Otis’s reins to the young man and accepting William’s hand into the carriage. He sheds his overcoat and offers it. 

It’s warm and heavy as you wrap it around your shoulders and sit down. Your boots squelch against the floor, and William knocks twice against the carriage's wall, and it starts moving once again. 

The Morairty estate is even grander than you remember, looming over you as the carriage stops by the front doors. You nearly slip in your haste to get inside and are taken up the stairs to one of the many bedrooms. 

“Draw a bath and get warm. I’ll have some clothes brought by. We can have a talk after you’ve collected yourself.” William says gently, and you nod, taking off his overcoat so he can have it back. He excuses himself, and you are left alone in the suite. 

The bath is nice and hot, and you let out a sigh as you shed your clothes into a pile on the floor and sink into the warm water. Your tears are drying, but your emotions are still raging like a rabid dog inside you.

How could they? 

Didn’t your family know archaeology was your passion? Your dream?! Of course, they did! You never shut up about it when you were but a little girl learning to play the piano! You babbled on and on about fossils and artifacts in between lessons until you were blue in the face!

It wasn’t long until you were done in the bath and dried off. As William had promised, some clothes were left on the bed. A button-down that looked like it might fit you, a pair of trousers that might be a bit too long, and a pair of undergarments. You tugged on the underwear and then the trousers, having to cuff them at the bottom so you didn’t trip. The shirt fit better than you thought so you pinned your hair out of your face and left the bedroom and down the hall. Hadn’t there been a sitting room just down the stairs? 

William was inside, stoking a fire with a poker, his back to you. He stood and turned when you rapped lightly on the entryway. His lips curled in a welcoming smile, and he gestured for you to take a seat. 

“Would you like some tea? I had Louis put the kettle on.” He said, and you nodded, sitting on the couch beside the fire.

“Thank you. For the clothes and… everything else.” You mumble, and he shakes his head,

“Don’t mention it. Sherlock mentioned you hated dresses.” He says and pours you a cup of tea.

It’s delicious. It warms you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your bare toes. You scuff them on the plush carpet as William sits across from you. His scarlet eyes are illuminated like glittering rubies in the oranges and yellows of the fire. They’re alive like a torch resides inside. 

“Now, might I ask why you were out in the rain?” William asks as soon as you’ve settled into your spot. You bite your lip and wonder if you can trust him with your problems. 

Sherlock trusted him well enough… 

Perhaps…

“I got into an argument with Mycroft. He said my parents will cut off my funding for excavations if I don’t find a proper husband.” You blurt, and he hums as he takes a sip from his cup. 

“I assume they’ve been funding your past archaeological escapades?” He says, and you nod.

“Correct. But that is going to change unless I get married.” You grumble, and he cocks his head to the side, setting his cup down on the tea table next to him and seemingly mulling something over. 

“This may be a bit forward, but I have a proposal. A business proposal, if you will.” He starts, and you narrow your eyes. A business proposal? You set your own cup down and cross one leg over the other. 

“Go on…” You say hesitantly, and he clasps his hands together as if working out a problem in his head. Sherlock did say he was a mathematics professor.

“I could marry you.” You inhale sharply and proceed to choke on your saliva. William half gets out of his chair to come to your aid when you finally get your coughing under control. 

“Why?!” You demand, and he shrugs, 

“I’ve done some research into you. You are spearheading the way in new archaeological techniques. You donate your finds back to the locals in need. And frankly, I find you fascinating. If we go ahead with this, you’ll have access to my brother Albert’s influence as well as the Moriarty name and fortune.” He says, and you sit back, stunned. 

“I could continue my work?” You say skeptically, and he nods. 

“Indeed. There’s no reason to stop you. I might ask for a lecture or two from you at Durham University. But that’s it. So…” He extends a hand for you to shake. “Have we reached an accord?”

You are speechless as possibilities run rampant through your brain. You’d be free from your parent’s influence as well as pleasing them. Though pleasing them was the last thing on your mind. Yes, you’d be married. But like William said… it was more of a business proposal…

You reach forward and shake his hand. His smile widens marginally as you speak,

“I accept your proposal.”

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

Expose Solomon's Surprise!

Solomon x GN! reader

Summary: It's your birthday, and Solomon has planned a unique lesson to make the day more memorable.

AN: Happy birthday @starry-miki!!!! 🥳🎉 Thank you for being such a sweet friend and I hope you have a wonderful day!! 💖💖

Warnings: Based on the card: Expose the True Solomon! (so slight spoilers for that), bad Latin translations lol (sorry I couldn't help myself)

“What are we doing today, Solomon?” you asked, pivoting on your toes after setting your bag down in one of the plush red armchairs scattered across his dorm room.

Curiosity and expectation swirled together in your eyes to create an endearing concoction that he loved seeing in you. He knew why it was there too – it was your birthday. While Solomon had long lost that pure excitement for his own, he was happy it was still present in you. In recent years the joy had slowly been rekindled thanks to your efforts and the help of the others. And he had every intention of making your day just as special.

But he was your mentor before all else today – he was going to make you work for it.

“I’m glad you asked,” he answered casually. “I’m teaching you a brand new spell. One I think you’ll be most interested to learn.”

Interested, you cock a brow. “And that would be?”

Glazing over the any mention of your birthday, he moves gracefully from the door to his desk with the pursuit of answering your question. The familiar mahogany draws near until he’s towering over it and thumbing through the pages of an old spell book he’d laid out with a certain spell hidden within just for the occasion – and for the scheme he’s dreamed up. The soft clicking of his tongue aids in his leisured search before he lets out an “aha!” while tapping the book. “Here it is: ‘Libre Translucidus,’ also known as ‘Libre de Vitrum.’ Want to take a crack at what it might entail?”

Solomon takes a half-step to the side as you carefully approach the desk. He can almost hear the cogs turning in your mind as the space between your eyebrows crease.

“Hm… Something to do with reading maybe? I’m not sure what those last words are though.”

“You’re not far off. The words translate roughly to ‘transparent book’ or ‘book of glass.’ It refers to–” You gasp suddenly, effectively cutting him off.

“I know what this is! This is the spell you used on that grimoire that one time, the one about Cerberus.”

Solomon’s mildly surprised you remembered his little trick. To him, that tidbit was something he admitted more in passing to quell your curiosity as to how he was able to read the contents of the grimoire without ever opening it. Something he thought made the magic less impressive.

“Correct. You have quite the memory on you,” he notes with a hint of amusement. “Yes, this is the spell we will be focusing on today. It’s fairly simple, and maybe a bit boring to such an eager mind such as yourself, but it’s a skill that may come in handy someday.”

‘And that someday just happens to be today,’ he thinks to himself, eyes simmering with his signature mirth.

With a clap of his hands, he collects himself and easily regresses back into the role of teacher. “Alright, let’s get started, shall we? Now, the first thing we do is what?” His eyes slide back to you, expecting your response. Instead, he finds you studying him intensely, a sharp contrast from your earlier excitement.

“Isn’t there something you want to say to me?” You vaguely motion, making it extra obvious he was forgetting something. He knew what you were getting at, but he feigns ignorance with a quick sweep over your appearance.

“Ah, you look very nice today. Though you look lovely everyday as far as I’m concerned.”

That was not what you wanted to hear. Solomon could tell as much as you softly clear your throat to choke down the hurt bubbling up and shift the conversation back to the lesson. “The um...first thing we do is clear our minds. A sorcerer composed is a sorcerer capable.” A mantra you normally repeated with pride was now filled with a notable dejection.

Solomon wouldn’t change anything about you, but the disappointment pulling down on your lips made him want to give in and turn that frown upside down. No, he had to stay strong.

‘I promise this will be worth it. Just stay patient,’ he silently pleads with you.

“Good. Go ahead and do what you normally do to prepare. We’ll start simple.” Quickly, he turns his back to you, forcing himself to focus on the lesson and not your hurt. It’ll only be temporary, he hopes. On the desk is a stack of yellow sticky-notes. Grabbing one of his fountain pens, he writes something simple on the top sheet before peeling it off and folding it in half.

“Ready?” Solomon asks, spinning around, making his coat fly and curl around his legs before settling again.

By now he can see you’ve composed yourself. Your features, while still holding some of the hurt they had before, now have taken on a more serious expression as you give him a slight nod.

“Ready.”

“Wonderful. This spell works purely from visualization, no matter what medium the words come in. Whether a thick volume like the one on my desk, or–” he holds the folded sticky-note up between his fingers, “a single sheet of paper, you just need to will the words to come to you. Pull them from beneath your fingertips and into your mind.”

There’s a few moments of silence before you finally respond, this time with a pout. “You make it sound easier than it probably is.”

Laughter bubbles up from Solomon’s chest. “I assure you it’s quite simple compared to what we normally work on. I have no doubt you’ll master this just as well. Here,” handing you the sticky-note, he begins his lesson. “Close your eyes and concentrate your magic to the tips of your fingers.”

You follow his instructions to a T, adding in a deep inhale to enhance your focus. The silence is deafening between the two of you, and while he attempts to observe your performance, he loses to his sentimentality. Like a scholar to a work of art, he studies you until he was sure he knew all there was to know about you – the steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your tongue darts out to wet your soft, sweet lips, your lashes fluttering subtly under the weight of your eyelids. And of course, he can feel your magic permeating the air with a warmth that near agitates his own to spark to life.

It’s what makes sessions like these so intimate to him. The closeness to you, another powerful sorcerer, whose magic wraps around his in a battle of tug-of-war that he’s losing. And happily, at that.

“Now what?”

The sound of your voice yanks him out of his trance. He’s internally thankful your eyes are closed so you don’t see the red creeping up his neck. Clearing his throat, he easily replies, “now allow your fingers to draw the words from inside the sticky-note. Pull them up to the surface and drag them into your mind as if your fingers were vessels your eyes.”

The scrunch of your eyebrows doesn’t go unnoticed by Solomon, but he says nothing, wanting to see if you can figure this out before he aids you further. Another beat of silence passes and your lips finally twitch to life with something. “Patience… Is… Key…” After reading aloud what you saw in your mind’s eye, you blink your eyes open quickly in both shock and confirmation. “Was that right?”

His eyes crinkle as his pride in you shines from the inside out. “Indeed it was. You caught on quickly and hardly without my help. You should be proud of yourself.”

The first smile since you arrived to his dorm room graces his vision, though it’s dimmer than your usual ones. You’re still hurt by his perceived lack of “remembrance” for your birthday. So, it’s time to put his plan into motion.

“Since you did so well, let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for your response before moving back to his desk, fingers inches away from one of the drawers before snapping his eyes over to you. “Close your eyes again please.”

A questioning look settles over your features, though without argument, you shut your eyes once more allowing Solomon the opportunity to tug on the knob of the drawer and grab an envelope hidden within. Nearly slams it closed from the anticipation that threatens to ruin this whole surprise, he turns back to you, and plucks the sticky-note from your hands and replaces it with the envelope.

“Alright, see if you can read this one.” He takes a small step back, watching carefully with his heart in his throat.

You dip back into your magic, assessing the new object in your hands. “It’s an envelope… It has my name on it.” Another few seconds pass as you push past the singular paging and into its contents. You visibly brighten. “Awe, it’s a birthday card!”

Seeing the smile he’s been waiting for burst forth makes one of his own grow warmer. He nods. “It is. Keep reading.”

“It says ‘Happy Birthday’ on the front. Ooh, and I can see a large cat-like cupcake underneath the words!” He notes how well you’re doing, even being able to grasp complex imagery in such a short amount of time. Of course, he never expected anything less from you.

“There’s...something in the card.” Scrunching your face, you pump a little more magic into your fingertips to be able to grasp what’s inside. When the mystery object reveals itself, you gasp in surprise. “Tickets! Tickets for a...three day magical getaway on a cruise!” The surprise in your voice migrates to your eyes as they flutter open, seeking him out. “You didn’t forget my birthday after all.”

Solomon only chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. “I’d never forget your birthday. I just wanted this day to be memorable for you.” He points with his chin at the envelope in your hands. “Keep going. There’s more.”

It doesn’t take much convincing on your part, quickly closing your eyes before he’s even done speaking. He watches you struggle to hide your excitement as you read beneath the tickets. A small column of his handwriting awaits your discovery.

Your words are slow and choppy as you begin to read aloud. “‘My dearest apprentice, you have no idea how proud I am to see your shining face everyday as you exceed in life. You light up every room you enter, and you’ve made my heart lighter by simply being around. I’m truly honored to have lived long enough to know you. You have me ruined by your presence, spoiled by your love, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll remain by your side until you tire of me. Until then, I sincerely wish you nothing but the best birthday and the best in life. Yours truly, Solomon.’”

A few fat tears slide down your cheeks by the end. Solomon’s about to snap into motion, wanting to reach out to wipe one away when you barrel into him, securing your arms around his neck in a tight, loving hug. “Thank you, Solomon. I hope you know I’ll never tire of you. You mean too much to me.”

There’s no hesitation as he melts into your embrace, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face into your neck. Your scent familiar and comforting to him. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad to hear you say that.” He plants a kiss on your cheek before adding in a whisper, “I’m truly the luckiest man in the world.”

[weirdkpopgirl]

only kissing you | jaemin fic #4

title: only kissing you

genre: college au, friends to lovers

warnings: slight angst, (y/n) is a little negative-minded, mildly suggestive, descriptions of kissing

word count: ~2.5k

author's note: hey guys, this was an idea that just sprang to my mind a week ago. i know the kissing booth trope has been done before and it might be a little cliché, but this is my take on it. also, i have a feeling you guys like this type of stuff lol. anyway, happy reading ^ ^

side note: "sunbae" is a Korean honorific for "senior." i wrote this story with the setting of the characters attending a korean university in mind.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You were sitting in the library peacefully finishing up an assignment that wasn’t due for another week. Yet you told yourself that staying ahead on schoolwork was far more productive than what most girls on campus were up to. The lively giggles echoing through the hallway reached your ears, drawing a quiet sigh of annoyance from you. 

“Someone doesn’t sound too happy,” the familiar playful voice of Zhong Chenle brought you out of your thoughts.

Glancing up from your laptop, you found the dark-haired male in a basketball jersey grinning down at you. Unsurprisingly, standing beside him was Park Jisung, a tall yet shy boy who had recently dyed his hair cherry red after losing a bet with Lee Haechan.

Your cheeks flushed when Chenle called you out, but you quickly tried to mask it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, feigning indifference by crossing your arms.

Unfortunately, Chenle wasn’t someone you could easily fool—  especially considering that he was able to crack through your reserved exterior by the end of your freshman year. Even now as sophomores, he could decipher your mannerisms better than your own family.

“Uh-huh,” Chenle replied, not sounding very convinced. “I think the fact that you’re like the only person here on a Friday night says otherwise.”

Jisung chuckled nervously, “Hey, let’s not peer pressure her.”

“Peer pressure me into what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. Your suspicion deepened when you caught the spark of mischief in Chenle’s eyes.

“Into going to the student council’s kissing booth, of course,” Chenle then answered, as if it were obvious. 

The mention of the fundraiser instantly set off alarm bells in your mind. “I still can’t believe Mark actually approved of that,” you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Well, Haechan managed to convince him,” Jisung said with a shrug. “And it is a pretty great way to raise money.”

You didn’t need to question further to know what he was referring to. Ever since the pink flyers with animated kiss marks had gone up, the campus had been buzzing with excited squeals from every girl on campus. Not that you could blame them when the line-up featured some of NCIT’s campus heartthrobs. 

Chenle lightly nudged you on the shoulder. “You should go (Y/n). Na Jaemin will be there, you know.”

“Yeah and that’s exactly why I don’t want to go,” you exhaled, tapping on the mousepad of your laptop to wake up the screen. 

Even though you dropped your gaze, the guys didn’t miss the way your cheeks started to turn red. For they were both aware of the “small” crush you had on the junior majoring in biomedicine. You cursed internally, wishing you were better at hiding your emotions. 

Out of all the popular boys at NCIT, Jaemin was known to be the most attractive with countless fangirls. While you weren’t nearly as dramatic as them, you were not spared from falling for him. To be fair, you hadn’t paid much attention to him at first. It wasn’t until this semester when Chenle started dragging you to join his group hangouts, that you began to see Jaemin more often. 

And it didn’t take long for you to understand why all those girls loved him. Na Jaemin was the definition of a gentleman. He was always respectful, holding doors open for you, and unfailingly kind in the way he maintained steady eye contact whenever he spoke to you. Not to mention his ridiculously long eyelashes that only added to his flirtatious charm. 

Although Jaemin seemed aware of how attractive he was, he never came across as cocky about it. However, when you found out he was participating in the kissing booth, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d misjudged him. Maybe he was just like every other guy after all.

Noticing the disheartened look on her face, her friends quickly tried to reassure her. “Hey, it’s not that bad,” Chenle said. 

“Yeah, they’re only giving out kisses on the cheek!” Jisung piped in.

Knowing that didn’t make you feel better. The thought of Jaemin, your sweet, kind Sunbae, kissing other girls—  even if it was just on the cheek—  made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t fully explain. Perhaps you were being selfish. It wasn’t like you were in a relationship with him or anything. He had the freedom to kiss whomever he pleased. 

You let your gaze fall to the table. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just not interested in going, okay?”

Chenle and Jisung exchanged a knowing look, one that you didn’t quite catch. Despite their teasing, they could tell this bothered you more than you were willing to admit. But they weren’t about to let you sit here and wallow.

“Look, you don’t have to get in line or anything,” Chenle persisted. “Just come with us to check it out. We don’t even have to stay for that long if you don’t want to.”

Jisung nodded, chiming in with a shy smile. “Yeah, we’ll stick together. Plus, Renjun Hyung said they’ll be giving out free snacks too!”

Their lighthearted banter and genuine effort to put you at ease chipped away at your resolve. Nibbling on your lower lip, you pondered whether it was worth the risk of seeing Jaemin. At the same time, you didn’t want to be the one to dampen Chenle and Jisung’s mood. So, with a small nod, you finally gave in. Hopefully, you won't end up regretting it.

┈◦•◦♡•◦┈◦•◦♡•◦┈◦•◦♡•◦┈◦•◦♡•◦

The event was being held in the courtyard of the student union. Just as you predicted, the area was packed the second you arrived. From a distance, you spotted the members of the student council gathered behind a long table draped with a light pink tablecloth. A bold sign posted on the table read: Hugs - $5, Kisses - $10.

Mark looked slightly reluctant in his seat, shifting awkwardly under the attention. Next to him, Jeno wore a bashful smile as girls giggled and pointed his way. Haechan, of course, was up to his usual antics, drawing laughter and cheers. And then... there was Jaemin.

He looked unfairly handsome, dressed in a knitted pink cardigan over a white shirt that complemented his honey-toned skin. With a smile as charming and inviting as his, it was no surprise his line was the longest. Yet, you couldn’t ignore the slight ache in your chest as you took in the scene. 

Just as you began to entertain the idea of backing out at the last minute, Chenle took charge. “Come on,” he urged, already nudging you and Jisung toward the booth.

Renjun, seated at the end of the booth managing the money as the student council treasurer, looked as the three of you approached. His eyes lit up when his eyes landed on you in particular.

“Hey guys! It’s good to see you, (Y/n),” he greeted, flashing a polite smile. “You’re not gonna get in line?”

You shook your head lightly. “No…I just came to show my support with Chenji,” you explained nonchalantly, gesturing to the boys next to you. 

The junior’s mouth parted in understanding. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m sure Jaemin will be happy to see you.”

An eyebrow raised, unsure of what he meant by that. Just as you were about to question him, Jaemin glanced up from his spot at the booth—  his gaze locking onto yours almost instantly. A kind, familiar smile spread across his face as he waved, making your heart skip a beat.

“(Y/n)-ssi!” Jaemin called out, his deep, warm voice cutting effortlessly through the noise of the crowd.

You couldn’t help but smile in response, the gesture almost instinctive. Just as you lifted a hand to wave back, you noticed him rising from his seat and making his way over.

“Hey, Chenle, can you cover for me for a bit? Thanks,” he said smoothly, flashing a quick grin at your friend before turning his full attention to you.

Chenle blinked in confusion. “What?!”

However, Jaemin didn’t wait for a response. With a gentle touch, he took your arm and guided you away from the booth, leaving a bewildered Chenle and a snickering Jisung behind, clearly amused by the unexpected turn of events.

Meanwhile, you were speechless as Jaemin led you to a quiet hallway on the east wing of the building. The silence around you was overwhelming, and your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. He turned to face you, offering a soft smile before letting go of your arm.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, his tone warm and genuine. “But I’m glad you came.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you nervously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Y-yeah, well... I thought it couldn’t hurt to visit you—  I mean all of you,” you stammered, your embarrassment growing.

Jaemin tilted his head, studying you with a playful glint in his eyes.“Are you sure you don’t want a hug or a kiss? I can give you one for free, you know.”

“What? Oh, that isn’t necessary Sunbae!” Your eyes widened, holding a hand up in protest. “It wouldn’t be very fair to all those other girls.”

He laughed, the sound light and melodious. “Relax, I’m just joking. Unless… you actually wouldn’t mind?”

Gosh, he was certainly being extra flirty today. It made sense given the kissing booth, but you definitely didn’t want to be another victim of it. Still, his suggestion didn’t make your cheeks burn any less.

“I-I’ve never…” Your voice faltered, too insecure to finish your sentence.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Never? Really?”

Unable to make eye contact, you fidgeted with your hands nervously. “It’s embarrassing, I know–”

“It’s not embarrassing,” he interrupted gently. “I’d be happy to be your first if you’d like.”

You stared at him incredulously. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” he replied, his expression unwavering. 

Your breath hitched as he took a step closer. You weren’t immune to the pull of Jaemin’s peach-tinted lips, yet you had never allowed yourself to indulge in the fantasy of what it might feel like to have them against yours. That seemed like a dream too distant to even consider. Though your mind screamed at you to say no, your heart overpowered any reason. Slowly, you nodded.

With a smile, he lifted a hand to rest on your nape. He then leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to back away. But you remained still, closing your eyes as a final yes. The first time his lips met yours, it was soft and sweet—  like a whisper. He pulled back briefly, his eyes searching yours. Something clicked in that single shared glance as if this unspoken agreement passed between you. In the next seconds, the both of you were leaning in for a deeper kiss without any hesitation.

His hands naturally slid from your neck down to your waist, while yours settled on his broad shoulders. As he pulled you in closer, his lips moved against yours in a steady, deliberate rhythm, the pressure deepening with each passing second. They were just as soft as they looked, and the more he kissed you, the more you felt yourself melting into him. At some point, the two of you stumbled and he was backed up against a wall—  though neither of you seemed to care as your lips continued their seamless dance.

Although this is not at all what you imagined your first kiss to be like, you couldn’t complain. The world of college seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of warmth and intimacy. His hands tightened tenderly on your waist, grounding you in the moment, while our fingers found their way to the back of his neck. They brushed through his soft, bleached hair, drawing a low hum from him that sent shivers down your spine.

What was meant to be an innocent first kiss inevitably turned into a make out session, but eventually had to come to an end. As the kiss gradually slowed, Jaemin pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you took a few moments to catch your breaths, cheeks flushed and heartbeats in sync.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and earnest. “Can I be honest?”

“Uh, yeah sure,” you said, unsure of what he had to say. Your lips were still tingling, feeling at a loss for words after that passionate exchange.

“I’ve been wanting to do that so long,” he confessed, his words hanging in the air like a secret he’d been holding onto.

You pulled back in disbelief, looking to see if he might be joking. “You have?”

“Yeah, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you after Chenle introduced us,” he began to explain. “As I got to know you more, I knew for sure that you were the girl I wanted.”

Though you appeared calm on the outside, your mind was racing with a whirlwind of questions. Was the man of your dreams really confessing to you? Had you been too pessimistic to see that your feelings weren’t one-sided? And if he’d liked you all along, why had he participated in the kissing booth?

Jaemin seemed to sense the confusion in your silence and spoke up. “I didn’t want to be in the kissing booth,” he said sincerely, “But all the other guys in the student council were doing it and Haechan wouldn’t stop spamming my phone until I agreed. And I wasn’t even sure if you liked me back so I thought-”

His sentence was cut off when you gently covered his mouth with your hand, giving yourself a moment to process everything. “Sunbae…I’ve had a crush on you for so long. But I just assumed it was unrequited.”

He took your hand, vulnerability shining over his eyes. “I like you so much, (Y/n)—  you have no idea. If I had known you felt that way, I never would’ve signed up for the booth. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“It’s okay,” you said, letting out a shaky laugh. The genuineness in his words was evident, and suddenly the kissing booth felt like a distant memory. 

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your heart for the umpteenth time today. “I just didn’t expect any of this. But I’m glad you feel the same way.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he smiled, “Because I don’t plan on going back there. From now on, you’re the only one I want to kiss.”

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, but they were the kind that made your heart overflow with pure happiness. As Jaemin pulled you into another kiss—  true to his word—  you started to realize that maybe, just maybe your quiet dreams weren’t that impossible after all.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

previous masterlist -> current masterlist

[archonsbane]

AND I TRY TO TALK REFINED

The one time Il Dottore speaks to you in another language, the one time he speaks to someone else in another language, and the one time you give him a taste of his own medicine.

pairing. dottore x reader

tags & content warnings. gn!reader. reader is the tsaritsa's child. reader is referred to by they/them. there's one (1) mildly suggestive sentence (and it's in a different language lol).

word count. 2.9k

author's note. so. i'm back from the dead. i have two fics for pantalone and one for diluc, around 8k+ words. (none of them are finished LMFAO) but of course i drop everything for this stupid ass man. the reader here is my tsaritsa’schild!reader, though this takes place before beauty is terror. this is set in the early days of their relationship and the start of dottore’s involvement in the fatui. reader's backstory is also implied here, but not outright stated. also i got inspiration from @fatuismooches lovely headcanons, though i strayed a bit far HAHA. thank you for letting me write this! and thank you to my two lovely delulu friends (you know who you are) bc i suddenly got into the mood to write because of them.  also, what is heavily implied to be the script of khaenri'ah in-game is based on latin, so i headcanon that latin is the language of khaenri'ah. also i had to sneak in a tsh reference lmfao it was too perfect not to. i promise i don't include it in all my fics it just so happens to be perfect for certain situations huhu. also i hope you guys catch all the little details i put in! reader and dottore have always been like this lol the title is from 'talk' by hozier.

You are undoubtedly the worst teacher Dottore has ever had, bar none. 

Flighty, distracted, and prone to seamlessly maneuvering to an entirely different topic without blinking an eye, leaving him dumbfounded. Your teaching sessions, if they could be called that, are filled with constant interrogations of his life and large infusions of food. Half the time you aren’t even teaching him, you’re simply rambling about whatever it is you ramble about (he’s learned to tune you out, partly because he doesn’t care and partly because he can’t understand what you’re saying). He is truly reconsidering forgoing learning Snezhnayan — at the pace you're going, he might as well take his chances and learn by himself.  

“But Mother said,” you remind him, petulantly, like a small child. Yes, the Tsaritsa commanded him to learn Snezhnayan, and commanded you to teach him, but he is greatly tempted to ask her to send another teacher. It has only been two weeks since your lessons begun and he might truly go mad. Sometimes he thinks this might be the worst thing a divine being has ever inflicted on him.

In truth, he already knows Snezhnayan, but only enough to hold a polite conversation. It is his least favorite of the languages he learned from his teachers in the Akademiya, and anyway, he never quite had a deftness for tongues. He is always most at home working with his hands, destroying and creating physical matter, covered in dust and soot, cracking open the world’s secrets like an egg. But the Tsartisa willed him to learn, and he is nothing if not a scholar. 

“But Mother said,” he mocks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. He’s learned that you have no convictions about his personality. If anything, you seemed to embrace it. Whereas he dons a respectful — as respectful as he can conjure, anyways — mask with the Jester and the Tsaritsa, it’s… looser, with you. Still, he is careful not to cross the line. He is only allowed this because he amuses you. You've been treating him like some sort of pet to be played with whenever you desire since his coming here. “Your mother also said to teach me how to speak Snezhnayan, but this is the third time you’ve called for snacks in three hours.” 

You flash a lazy glare at him and go back to eating your beloved pastilas. “You require a tremendous amount of effort to teach.” You’ve switched back to speaking the common tongue, obviously for his sake. “You’re a horrible student.” 

“You’re a horrible teacher!” 

You sniff and take another bite of your pastry. “You’re just really bad at learning.” 

For that, you get a glance heavenward. He is tempted to simply throttle you and be done with it. Treason seems like a fair price to pay for shutting you up. But he considers his options and decides that he would rather not be on the receiving end of your mother’s wrath — it’s too fucking cold here already. Still, greatly offended by this statement, he vents out his anger by cursing at you.

In the language of Sumeru. 

He does not really think of it; his use of his mother tongue has greatly decreased since coming here, but even then, it simply rolls off his tongue as naturally as water flows from a river's mouth.

Your brows shoot up. You open your mouth, pause, and for a moment he fears he is in danger of being exiled or thrown in the dungeon. But then you cock your head to the side. “What does that mean?” You ask. 

An idea unravels in his mind, sparkling with mischief. “It means you’re bad at teaching.” 

You frown. “For some reason, I feel like you’re lying.” 

He curses at you again. Your frown deepens. There is something so satisfying about the way those frustrated lines burrow into your face. When he does it a third time, you actually put down the pastila. 

“What does it mean?” You demand. “You aren’t saying anything bad, are you?” 

It means you’re an insufferable little bastard of mean intelligence and he hopes you fall into a ditch, so yes, he definitely is saying something bad. “It means you’re the most gorgeous, most wonderful person in the world,” he says, sarcasm dripping from the syllables. When you look genuinely taken aback, he lets out a cruel, derisive scoff. “It means you should trust me more.” 

“That seems like a horrible idea.” 

He shrugs and reaches over to take one of the pastilas, light pink with a white, foamy top, vaguely aware that another one of your language lessons has gone considerably off course. Perhaps that was too light a description. It shot in one direction and came speeding back the other way. “Suit yourself, Your Imperial Highness.” 

You smack his hand away, gently. Almost too gently. “Those are mine.” 

He eats it, anyway, and learns many new colorful Snezhnayan curses for it, though he detects no real annoyance in your voice. You ring for another batch of desserts. He counts it as a successful lesson. 

He continues speaking in Sumerian when you're near. It’s the greatest of treasures, seeing you frown and demand to know what he had just uttered in your presence. Sometimes he just says the first phrase that enters his head, most times he insults you and relishes in your clueless blinking. You can't do the same to him — he's been picking up on Snezhnayan at an exponential pace, and he's made sure to memorize all of the insults and swears first. Obviously. It’s his talent for machinations that he prides himself on, but lately, he’s been deriving vicious pleasure from the fact he can speak twenty languages, though it never mattered much to him before. It’s a good, safe outlet for his annoyance whenever you’re near, which you seem to always be, nowadays. 

Even outside the language ‘lessons’ (the word lessons being used extremely lightly) you seem to trail him wherever he goes. Ambushing him in the halls, materializing in the laboratory, and in general trailing him like some attention-starved puppy. He resents it, resents the stars that float through your eyes whenever he enters your view, resents the way you immediately disengage from whatever it was that you were doing to attach yourself to him, all smiles. 

He actively avoids you, but somehow you keep running into him. On purpose or accidentally, he has no idea. He suspects it is the former.

Today is one of those days. You’re by his side, again, chatting happily about… something. He’s trying to tune you out, focusing on the long walk back to his laboratories after a meeting with the Tsaritsa. He needs to do something about that, it’s woefully inconvenient to have to walk a mile every time she calls on him. Some sort of contraption that could go up and down easily would be of great use, and he wouldn’t have to climb so many fucking stairs.

Then — it happens. In your excitement, you bump into some government official accompanied by another, what his role is Dottore does not know and does not care to, but he must be quite high up if he allows himself to glare at you for an instant before it disappears into a cool stare. Or maybe he just has a lot of gall.

"Oh, my apologies sir," you murmur, ducking your head. 

"Quite alright, Your Highness," he says smoothly, "have a good day." He turns his back and starts to mutter to his companion, their heads bent together, completely unaware that with your godly senses and his recent enhancements to his body, you both can hear every word.

"How clumsy," the first man tuts, "what does their mother teach them? She's been too soft on them."

"She lets them run amok doing whatever they please. The other day, they—"

"—yes, I heard. Look at those clothes, aren't they too plain for the heir?"

His companion makes an agreeing noise. "And the company they keep… " 

Dottore doesn't particularly care about what other people think of him, and perhaps if it was only the last sentence that had been uttered he wouldn't have said a word, but the tirade of their complaints makes irritation, absurdly, flare inside him. He whips his head back to their retreating figures, and you throw him a glaring warning, so he clenches his jaw and stays where he is. He isn't one to do nothing, however. 

“Kol khara,” he says to them, viciously. Eat shit. He hears you stifle a sound that might be a laugh and briefly wonders why exactly you would laugh. 

The men turn back around. “Excuse me?” The first one says. 

“Nothing,” he says, curtly, his eyes like sharp daggers, “go on." They throw each other confused glances but say nothing further, going further down the hall until he can no longer see their backs. You both stay in the middle of the now-empty hallway, staring silently off into the distance.

You’ve never been able to contain your curiosity for long. After a good minute of silence, you turn inquisitive eyes on him. He’s been expecting your question.

"What did you say?" You ask.

He shrugs; makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. "I know it isn't nothing. It was something bad, right? You've said it to me before.” Clever you, he thinks briefly. Nothing gets past you. When he stays enclosed in icy silence, you press on further, “I won’t be mad. It doesn’t bother me — I think it’s funny. Just tell me.” He has no idea why you would ever think it’s funny. Nonetheless, he stays silent. 

You try again. “Tell me.” 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” 

“Tell me,” you say again, but this time you slip into the voice of the noble, unshakeable heir to Winter. The two words are a command, and they leave no room for argument. He must follow. 

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “It means I want them to eat shit.” 

A moment of silence passes and Dottore wonders if he should start running. Then, you start to laugh. A small laugh, so small he almost thinks he could cup it in his hands and never let it go. But he recognizes it as different from the laughs you’ve given him before. This one is warm and sweet, conjured from the belly upwards. Summer in a sound. 

He tries very hard not to smile when he says, “you aren’t mad?” 

“No,” you say, still laughing, “I suppose I do deserve it.” He silently agrees. “Anyways, after coming to my defense, I forgive you.” 

He snarls, that sudden irritation reviving itself. “I wasn’t coming to your defense.” 

You shrug, not looking bothered at all. “Fine. Defending yourself and by extension — and complete coincidence — me.” 

He decides it is best not to argue, and listens quietly as you walk with him back to his laboratory, chatting happily away once more. If you notice that over the next few days, his outbursts toward you decrease, you say nothing of it. And if you notice he is insulting other people more in other languages, seemingly for the sole purpose of making you laugh, you say nothing of it, too. 

You’re speaking Sumerian. 

Fluent Sumerian. Rapid-fire Sumerian, without blinking or stumbling over your words. Clean, pure Sumerian, speaking everything with the perfect enunciation of a noble. You don’t notice him behind you, utterly bemused, as you speak to a foreign dignitary from his homeland. The First drags him out of the underground labs from time to time in order to socialize and familiarize himself with the political atmosphere, but Dottore lets you do all the work for him. You engage in polite small talk, though delivered with much more enthusiasm than necessary. But the words are barely intelligible in his head. It isn’t possible that you’ve learned how to speak fluent Sumerian in such a short about of time. He will begrudgingly admit your brightness, small as it is, but even he cannot master a language within a few months. Which means there must only be one conclusion. 

When you notice him, your face morphs into one of surprised panic. Oh. He’s sure his fury is plain to see. It’s at that precise moment the dignitary — Dottore does not see the point in blessings but, Archons bless her — chooses to excuse herself, leaving you open and without a proper excuse to escape with. 

“You can speak Sumerian,” he says, plainly, having immediately taken the empty spot at your side. You take  cautious, half-step backwards. 

You look both amused and slightly abashed. 

He grits his teeth. “For how long?” 

“... since I was five." A pause. You look thoughtful. "Actually, it was your Greater Lord Rukkhadevata who first taught me."

This new piece of information surprises him so much that the flames of his anger are snuffed out, if only for a second. Then they come back raging, and he cannot contain it.

"You knew what I was saying this entire time!" He rages, jabbing an accusing finger at you. You cringe away. "You could understand all of it!"

"Not all of it—" When you see the exasperation that crosses his face, you smile. "Alright. Most of it." 

You begin to walk away, but he furiously follows you. "You lied to me!"

"You were cursing me to my face. I think it's a fair exchange." You shrug with one shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It was funny, anyway. Your cluelessness, that is." And then, "you should know, now that you know — I can speak the main languages of each nation." 

"I can too," he says haughtily, raising his chin up at you. 

"Really?" You laugh. "Cubitum eamus?"

"What?"

"Nothing." 

"What does that mean?" He demands, only half aware he's repeating the interaction you once had over a plate of pink and white sweets. He's never heard a language sounding quite like that. Perhaps it could be a dialect, but it doesn't sound similar to any currently existing language. "What language is that?"

You deliver your coup de grâce with such smooth smugness on your face. "It's Khaenri'ahn." The dead language. 

He blinks. Opens his mouth dumbly. And lunges.

As he chases you through the halls, your laughter floats warm and clear in the frigid winter air. You easily outpace him, but perhaps out of pity, you let him catch you and drag you to — well, he doesn't exactly know where he's going, only that he does not want to let you escape his rage. You thrash in his arms like a trapped animal, still controlled by a laughing fit all the while. 

"I hate you," he grumbles later, when you've calmed him with a slice of strawberry cheesecake from the kitchens. He's still quite angry, but not angry enough to not accept your peace offering. "You're horrible."

"So are you." 

A pause, then, "Teach me Khaenri'ahn," he says, leaning forward, a bright idea sparking in his chest. "There's so many texts I have yet to decipher — you have no idea the knowledge I can grasp if you teach me." He thinks of the old Ruin Golems in Sumeru. How hard it was to learn how to control them! But with your help, with your knowledge, he could crack the world open like an egg and watch its secrets spill like yolk. 

"I thought I was a bad teacher."

"Bad is better than none at all."

The utterly offended look that flashes on your face teases a grin from his mouth. "You're horrible."

"So are you."

He thinks he sees the corner of your mouth involuntarily curl upward. You twirl your fork in your fingers, humming thoughtfully. "Why should I?" 

"... For the pleasure of contributing to my research?" The look you give him tells him you're not at all convinced. He continues, "My research that is so very essential to the success of this nation?"

You scoff, but you cannot deny it. He would not be alive if he wasn't useful to Snezhnaya.

"You'll owe me," you tell him. 

He shrugs. "There's worse things in the world. Let's start."

It startles you somewhat. "What, now?"

"Yes, now. Unless you have other things to do?" 

You don't. Your language lessons with him already ended when he reached an acceptable mastery over Snezhnayan according to your mother, and he knows that though you have a schedule (mysterious and utterly incomprehensible though it is — not even he has been able to figure it out), you'd drop everything in an instant if something else interests you. Your other engagements are often boring things, too, and the only duty you ever truly commit to are the strange missions your mother sends you on, ones that could go for months on end. He's fairly certain you'll acquiesce to his request.

You pretend to consider it, before shrugging with hardwon carelessness and saying, "Fine."

You're exactly the same. Flighty, distracted, and prone to seamlessly maneuvering to an entirely different topic without blinking an eye. Half the cheesecake is eaten before you even start on the alphabet, and the journey to that is filled with endless detours that consist of bickering, fighting over the (large) cake, and kicking each other like children under his work table. His intelligence is insulted more times in half an hour than in his entire years of study at the Akademiya.

Dottore decides, with solid determination, after eating the last slice of cake, finally learning the pronunciation of the vowels and consonants, and being on the receiving end of an onslaught of Khaeri’ahn curses he truly cannot understand — which is horribly ironic considering the past few weeks — that he might as well beg the Jester for lessons instead, and no one can do a damn thing about it. He tells this to you, chin up, resolute and unwavering in his declaration. 

He never does get around to doing that. 

[lucygxybaird]

What about Billy doting over an injured reader? Or the other way around?

i'm not sure this is 100% what you asked for but i tried lol

It happens in a moment.

You’re riding home during a storm, the dirt roads churned into a river of mud by the deluge. It’s almost impossible to see, between the driving rain and your hair whipping in your face, strands plastered against your cheeks and your forehead. As lightning cracks the sky like a broken eggshell, you urge your horse faster, hoping to get home before the storm gets even worse. 

Your horse snorts in exertion, and you see her hoof plunge deep into a pocket of muck, her headlong forward rush arrested so suddenly that you both cry out, her whinny of alarm blending with your scream. You pitch forward, flying over your horse’s neck. The last thing you remember is the slate gray sky wheeling above you, spitting needles of rain, and then everything goes black. 

You don’t know how long it’s been when awareness creeps back in, heralded first and foremost by pain.  Aches thread themselves into your bones and your head throbs in time to the beat of your heart, which feels sluggish, as if it’s trapped in honey. Your arm feels strangely heavy, bent at an odd angle, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t find the strength to open your eyes. 

You feel a cool pressure against your forehead, trickling over your temples, and it takes you a moment to understand. There’s someone pressing a wet washcloth to your brow, and as your eyelids flutter, attempting once again to pry themselves apart, you hear a soft, low voice urging you to be still. 

The thing is, you’re fairly certain you would know that voice anywhere, and only its velvet-edged smoke could draw you out of the darkness weighing heavily on your mind. 

“Billy?” you croak, and this time, you finally manage to open your eyes. 

His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, with dark circles sitting underneath them like crows haunting a tree branch. Billy tries to smile, but his eyes are glassy, and he has to swallow hard before he says, “Hey, baby.” 

You swallow, too, wincing as it feels like barbed wire has wound itself around the column of your throat. You want to say that you’re sorry, but you’re so very, very thirsty. Instead, you manage to say: “W-water?”

Immediately, Billy reaches for you, helping you to sit up enough so you can drink from the cup he presses to your lips. There’s a tin pitcher on your bedside table, and the water is blessedly cold. You wonder how often Billy has freshened it, waiting for you to need it. “Here,” he’s saying, his arm around your shoulders. “Is that better?”

You nod, and then you tug on the collar of his shirt with your good hand, wanting him to lay down with you. It’s only then you notice that you only have one good hand. The other, along with your right arm, is wrapped up in bandages, a splint forcing the arm into an L-shape that’s bound to your chest with a sling.  Billy understands what you want before you can ask again, and he carefully shifts his weight onto the mattress beside you, his arm still wrapped around you.

Your body aches anew from the simple movement just required to sit up, and you sag against Billy’s chest, a little whimper catching in your teeth even as you try to prevent its escape by clenching your jaw. Billy’s forehead creases. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“I’m—” You shake your head. “I’m okay. I’m just…sore.” 

It’s putting it mildly, but you don’t want to stress him out any worse than you clearly already have. He sighs, burying his face against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The doctor will be back in the morning,” he says. “I’ll ask him if there’s anything stronger for your pain, okay?”

You nod, though now that you’ve settled in his arms, you feel better. Part of it is the warmth of his body, soothing away the ache, but more than that is the comfort of Billy himself: the familiar scent of his skin — the strength of his embrace, even as you can tell he’s holding you gently, carefully — the gentle carding of his fingers through your hair, an instinctive bid to comfort you. 

The two of you lay there in silence for a few moments, and you know (or, at least, you hope) that it’s doing Billy as much good as it is you, to be nestled in bed together after what happened. Which — you frown a little as your memory falters, and you realize you can’t quite recall what actually did happen. 

“Billy?”

You feel him jerk underneath your cheek, and you realize with a start that he’d probably dozed off in the cradle of silence. “What?” he says, and your guilt deepens at how groggy he sounds, and at once, how worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” you say, reaching up with your good arm to touch his cheek. “I just…I don’t really remember what happened.”

Billy softens at your touch, closing his eyes for a second. Your heart sinks. 

“Billy, when was the last time you slept?” 

He shakes his head. “I dunno, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ve been takin’ care of you. You broke your arm, y’know, when you…when you fell. That’s what happened, you fell off your horse. I…”

You wait, pressing your lips together. You start rubbing the heel of your hand in soothing circles over his chest, where his heartbeat is pressing a rapid drumbeat against the thin cotton of his shirt. 

“I was wonderin’ where you were, and I was gettin’ worried, especially with the rain bein’ so bad, so I…I went out and tried to follow the path I thought you might have used. I heard your horse first, makin’ the most godawful racket…I followed the noise, and she was panickin’, stuck in the mud, and then I saw…” 

He takes a deep breath. “I saw you, layin’ there, and you looked so…you looked like a broken doll, and you weren’t movin’, and I thought…”

You wait again. 

“Anyway, I—” He clears his throat. “I got you on my horse, and I was able to get your horse out of the muck, and I brought…I brought you home. Your arm is broken, and you’ve got bumps and bruises just about everywhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” you mutter, despite yourself, but you’re rewarded with Billy’s dry little chuckle. 

“They were…they were most worried about your head,” he says. “The doctors say you were lucky the rain softened up the ground so much, but still…”

“How long have I been asleep?”

He pushes a ragged sigh out of the depths of his chest. “A few days.”

You can feel every bit of his worry in the tension radiating through the sinews of his body, and you nestle closer to him, despite the jostle of discomfort. “Well, now you’ll just have to wait on me hand and foot until I’m all better,” you tease. “Pretty soon you’ll get sick of me.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds more like him. “I can’t imagine gettin’ sick of takin’ care’a you, honey.”

Not that you really doubted otherwise, but he’s true to his word. 

The doctor has decreed that you need to stay in bed for the next two weeks, and Billy is determined that you won’t set so much as a toe on the floorboards in that time. Every meal is brought to you in bed, he  drags the big metal bathtub into your room, and when you beg him for some sunshine, he carries you out to the porch and sets you in a rocking chair, nestled in blankets. 

“Mmm,” you sigh, your eyes drifting shut as Billy pulls a brush through your hair, using long, languid strokes from your scalp to the ends of your hair. “That feels so good.” 

Billy gives a low, soft laugh. “Yeah?” he says, and you hear a smile in his voice. “I’m glad, baby. You want it done up in a braid?”

You laugh, too. “Billy, you don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he insists. “I know you like to sleep with your hair plaited up. Let me.” 

With your arm still bound up, it’s not like you can really do it yourself, and in any case, you don’t have the heart to refuse Billy — especially not when you turn your head to look at him, and he’s giving you that patented pleading look. “Yes, please,” you relent, and at once his pout melts into another smile.

You close your eyes at the pleasant tugging sensation to your scalp, a soft sigh leaving your lips. “Thank you,” you say, and you can almost sense him shaking his head. 

“You don’t have to thank me, honey,” he says. “I love takin’ care of you. And I’m just…I’m glad you’re okay.” 

He ties off your braid with a length of ribbon, giving the knot a gentle tug to make sure it’s in place. You turn in his arms, the only unwieldy thing now being your broken arm. Thanks to Billy’s dedicated care, your aches and pains have all faded away, including the pain in your head. “I am okay,” you remind him. “You’ve been taking such good care of me, Billy. It means so much to me.”

Billy kisses your forehead. “You mean so much to me,” he says. “You’re my girl. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.” 

You purse your lips thoughtfully, and he raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks. 

Looking up at him from underneath your eyelashes, you wheedle, “Do you think you could let me make dinner tonight? I wanna take care of you for once.”

You can tell he’s actually thinking about it, wondering if you’ve regained enough of your strength. But it’s equally clear he’s going to relent when his shoulders soften. 

“Alright,” he says finally, and you beam. 

“Thank you.” 

Although you do manage to make dinner for the two of you, Billy insists on setting the table — which actually ends up being a blanket outside, under a phalanx of stars. “So I have a deal for you,” he says, after you’ve eaten. He has your head in his lap, and your good hand is combing gently through his hair. 

“What is it?”

He smiles, looking up at you. “I take care of you,” he says. “And you take care of me. Alright?”

You lean down toward him, giggling when he props himself up on an elbow to meet your lips.

“Alright.” 

[bonny-kookoo]

the 'I like you' couple is soo cute 💖💗💓❤️ but now we need to know! 🥺 does jungkook find a nickname for her? does he really think about it? does he try out a few before deciding which one he likes? or does she does or likes something random or particular and he gets the nickname from teasing her? or he just has a light bulb moment on a random moment? lol, I love them, can't get enough!!

A/N: Masterlist

"Baaaaaby-kookoo-love-of-my-life-" you whine, and he squints his eyes as he walks into his bedroom where you're laying on your back. "My tummy hurts." You complain, and he sits down on the edge of his bed next to you to take of his socks.

"...okay?" He wonders, and you kick him with your foot a little.

"Make it better." You demand, and he chuckles.

"How?" He wonders, and you scoff.

"The fuck do I know!" You huff. "Like, I don't know, talk to it? Maybe it'll get intimidated if you're all angry with it." You offer as a solution, and to your surprise, he turns around and points an accusing finger at your lower stomach.

"You better stop fucking hurting right now because I want to go sleep and God knows my spoiled princess won't shut up until you're quiet.!" He threatens at your body, before he turns around and closes the opened window before turning off the lights as he crawls into bed next to you.

It's quiet for a moment, until you speak.

"I'm both mildly turned on and offended right now." You say, and he snorts a laugh, hand patting over the blankets to find yours to hold in the dark. "Spoiled princess? Really?" You scoff.

"You are one." He defends himself.

"I mean, a princess? Hell fucking yes, and you better start carrying me around as one from now on, prince charming!" You laugh, and he rolls his eyes in the dark.

"You're spoiled enough." He says, closing his eyes.

"So?" You ask, before a slap is heard.

And its quiet.

For a good moment.

"Did you just slap my ass?!" You yell out, sitting up, and he laughs whole heartedly.

"Was it? I couldn't tell." He laughs.

"Oh so you just blindly aimed to smack me and ACCIDENTALLY hit my ass? Fucking lying piece of shit, you knew exactly what you-"

"Do I need to spank you again, or are you gonna be a good girl and sleep?" He asks. "You've got work at 6 am, and I need to be up at 5:30." He reminds you, and you suddenly fall back into the pillows, scooting closer, closer, until you're full on clinging onto him.

"...jungkookie..?" You ask quietly, awfully shy. He hums a reply. "Can you say it again?" You ask.

"You have work tomorrow-"

"Nooo, that part before that? Like, I did what you said so I'm aaaaaa~?" You draw out the last syllable, wiggling your toes as you wait, and he suddenly chuckles.

"Good Girl." He says, and you squeal to yourself, cuddling up to him.

It's the first time he's ever really comfortable saying things like that- and maybe it's the way you've gotten closer by now, not only emotionally. Yesterday he'd been so lost in kissing you that he didn't even notice you getting so riled up on his lap- and it left him both excited and terrified.

And these days, he's been trying out some petnames for you here and there to see what would stick.

Babe or baby are cute when you say it, but they feel way too boring to him. They're too basic, nothing special, and it just doesn't feel right.

Until you're out at a shopping center, randomly spending a day at the mall together when you spot something in a kid's store window. "Oh- did you know I always wanted to be a princess for Halloween?" You say, spooning up some icecream from your cup. "But my dad never bought me the costume, and we never went trick-or-treat-ing." You pout, making Jungkook smile as he tucks in a strand of hair that had escaped your messy bun on your head.

"Well, you're a princess to me now, no need for a costume." He shrugs. "And I even buy you candy, so you don't have to knock on stranger's doors either." He jokes, and you look up at him at that, pulling him down by the neckline of his shirt to peck his lips. "Huh?" He wonders, and you just smile.

"You're just so dreamy." You sigh dramatically. "Your flirting is getting a bit out of hand though. Makes me feel all fluffy and horny." You boldly admit, making him laugh as he shakes his head, taking your empty cup from you to throw it away in a bin nearby. "Ah, such a prince charming!" You giggle, and he takes your hand In his at that, kissing the back of it for a second.

Successfully making you blush for the first time since he's met you.

And he's starting to really enjoy making you flustered.

[chock-and-bates]

(trying to distract myself from The Horrors)

I am curious to hear more about the phone sex fic if you would like to share some details? is it tied to one you've already told about?

(i get it, this is a nightmare 😭)

i actually don't think i've talked about the phone sex fic, so i'm happy to share more. i've wanted to write phone sex for awhile, and i felt inspired recently. it's also a nice, easy fic to keep up with my writing while the rest of my life is such a mess lol. it's basic but filthy, very fun to write.

Premise: During a race weekend, Charles gets a late night call from Max. His boyfriend is frustrated, not only because he can't sleep, but also because Charles can't be in bed next to him. When Max suggests phone sex, Charles finds that he isn't that opposed to the idea 👀

should be out next weekend!

snippet under the cut (mildly spicy 🌶️)

“I said, I sleep better when you’re next to me,” Max says, a little testily, but Charles thinks he can practically hear his embarrassed blush through the phone.

The warm feeling from a moment ago returns ten-fold, and Charles has to smother his dumb little grin into his pillow, grateful that Max can’t see him. Five months together and he’s still bashful about the butterflies Max gives him.

“I’ll try to stay with you tomorrow night, mon amour,” Charles promises, hoping he doesn’t sound as lovesick as he so truly is.

“That’s lovely, baby, but it won’t help me tonight,” Max grouses, “Fuck, you’re sure you can’t come over? We haven’t been together in-”

“Five days,” Charles says, maybe a bit too quickly, giving himself away.

It’s just- it’s been a very long five days, and though Charles is too proud to admit, he’s missed his boyfriend quite a bit. Their relationship had bloomed in the offseason, and though there were plenty of days spent apart, it’s been pitifully hard ever since the season started to have Max so close but so untouchable.

Charles may have been going a little crazy. But Max didn't need to know that.

“Five shitty days,” Max sounds so agitated, something rustling on his end like he’s tossing and turning in his bed.

“We have been apart for longer,” Charles half-heartedly defends, “Remember in December, for the holidays? We didn’t see each other for two weeks until I surprised you back in Monaco.”

Max is quiet for a moment, “Back when you knocked on my door in the middle of the night?”

“Yes. I am just saying if we survived that-”

“Charles,” Max cuts him off, his voice suddenly raspier, “If you want me to think about being inside you, you could have just said so.”

Charles' breath hitches, startled, “What?”

“The sofa,” Max replies, “That night you surprised me.”

And Charles had even been thinking of that aspect of their reunion, but it comes back to him quickly- how Max had looked so surprised when he’d opened the door before breaking out into the cutest smile. He’d pulled Charles in for a kiss hello that had rapidly deepened, their time apart making them so hungry. They hadn’t even made it to the bedroom… instead stumbling over to the sofa, where Max had bent Charles over the arm, pressing him down, his big cock splitting him open-

Even as the memory makes his blood run hot, Charles eyes narrow down at the phone, realization suddenly dawning on him.

“Are you horny,” Charles hisses, accusatory, “Is that why you are trying to get me to come over?”

There’s another vague shuffling sound as Max snickers, “Can you blame me? You looked so good today. Had to hold myself back from smacking your ass when you walked by in the paddock… And so what if I am also missing the other stuff we do in bed besides sleeping.”

Charles groans, “I cannot believe you woke me for sex.”

[sleepymccoy]

I'm horny now. This is all your fault (definitely not mine for choosing to read the fic that was absolutely designed in a lab to make me horny)

Imagine writing it lol, it's been a horny two months! Designed in a lab that is my brain when i'm mildly turned on. Absurd! Hot!

Here's a snippet for those not following this fic. Basic premise is McCoy has to pretend to be Spock's sex slave, and they're trying real hard to keep it professional ya know

-

“I must be seen to punish you,” Spock muttered. “Have you any request?”

McCoy shook his head. He had no fucking idea, of course he didn’t. He sighed. “I think I should fight back. You can hold me down, come out on top. Clearly I’m not obeying orders well, may as well make- ”

“Do not speak so much.”

McCoy stopped. 

“Kiss me,” Spock said. 

McCoy’s heart beat hard, drowning out the conversation around them that he assumed was suggesting appropriate punishments. He wondered what ideas were being presented? What Spock had to choose from? Best not think about it too much. He crawled forwards the last few feet between them and knelt between Spock’s spread legs. The stool Spock sat on was so low he barely had to reach up. McCoy leant forwards and his face hit the wooden collar that sat in front of Spock’s face. 

McCoy pulled back and took Spock in. He was smirking. McCoy hesitated, then leaned in again and kissed the wood. 

Spock chuckled, which sounded weird and wrong, said something foreign, then pushed McCoy back. He raised his hand to McCoy’s mouth and pressed two fingers to his lips. 

“Kiss me,” Spock repeated, whispering. 

McCoy pressed his lips to Spock’s fingers. He breathed in through his nose, then opened his mouth and licked up the length of Spock’s slender fingers. Spock stayed still. McCoy kissed him lightly again, then took the tip of Spock’s fingers in his mouth and sucked. 

Spock made a small noise, a sweet one, then went quiet again. McCoy split Spock’s fingers with his tongue, running up between them. 

McCoy reached past the wooden collar and wrapped his hand around Spock’s jaw, feeling his pulse and breath through the fingertips resting on his throat. McCoy sucked again and Spock pushed, sliding his fingers deeper into McCoy’s mouth. McCoy moaned at the intrusion, but shifted his torso so the sensation didn’t tickle his gag reflex, and sucked again, moaning with it. 

He’d sucked fingers before. Not a Vulcan’s, but there was something heady in the idea that this might feel so starkly different to Spock. He hoped it was good, if they were going to do this, might as well make it good. 

Spock breathed out sharply. He wrapped his thumb and fingers around McCoy’s chin, fingers hooked to press to McCoy’s tongue, and held McCoy still. 

McCoy hummed his question, watching Spock for an explanation or direction. He couldn’t express much more with Spock’s fingers inside him like this. Spock met his gaze steadily. His other hand reached down and scratched at McCoy’s thigh where his tunic ended. Spock’s eyes were wide and worried, but focused on him. 

It would be alright. 

Spock’s hand shifted up, his fingers tracing the in seam of his briefs. McCoy held himself still, lips wrapped tightly around Spock’s fingers. How far was this touch going to go? And what ideas were being poured into Spock’s mind here? These constant, vicious-sounding whispers from the sideline would surely have an effect. 

aaand here's a link <3