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illyrianbitch · 2 months

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One Summer — Part Two

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol, cass & mor being bickering siblings, cass with facial hair, modern adaptions of bat wings aka tattoos, sexual n romantic tension, reader has a big fat crush

Word Count: 5.5k

Part One — Series Masterlist — Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“I hate it.”

Though Mor was seated beside you, her voice seemed to reverberate from a great distance, oscillating from one ear to the other. Your attention was not on your two best friends; their conversation filtering through your senses like white noise. Instead, your mind was entirely captivated by the view of the beach you sat on. The sun was setting and a golden hue painted the skies, its final light skittering across the soft waves of the ocean.

This was always one of your favorite times of day.

There was a specific sense of peace that seemed to settle among everyone as the sun gave over to the power of the moon, a peace that almost felt tangible on your skin, like the grains of the warm sand beneath you. You dug your toes further into its warmth as Mor scowled next to you, her gaze stuck on the horizon where Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys currently ran around, attempting to pin one another and throw each other into the waves.

The topic of conversation was what it had been every time Mor complained over the past week: Cassian’s new mustache.

It had grown exponentially over the last week, now fully formed above his top lip. Even from this distance, you could make out its shadow. But, in all honesty, it wasn’t his mustache that you were focusing on. It was his chiseled, bare torso.

The boys were always very fit, sporting defined bodies with even more defined muscles. But you hadn’t seen them like this in a while: shirtless, sun-kissed, tanned skin, and swimming shorts that created sleek, stark tan lines along their hips. Not since way back in the first summer you all shared. Last year’s break was filled with an internship to beef up your resume, moving into your new place with Mor and Feyre, and spending whatever free time you had with Eris and his family— far, far away from Mor.

The boys had grown even bigger since that first summer. Cassian, in particular, had developed noticeable definition, which you attributed to ROTC and his various sports activities. After all, ROTC combined military training with college coursework and demanded a significant amount of time and discipline. Balancing academics, those military duties, and being a student athlete seemed like an overwhelming feat, but Cassian managed it all. His physique was a clear indication of it.

Yet, despite his impressive build, it was Cassian’s face that truly drew attention. His large, beaming grin had a way of captivating anyone who saw it. It seemed to say more about his character than his muscular frame ever could, making it clear that beneath all that strength was someone incredibly approachable and genuinely good-hearted.

Your attention traveled to Rhysand next. Rhysand always held a certain grace to him, a regal essence of someone born to be a leader, to stand out among a crowd. You’d watched him come into his own in the past few years, watched as he fell in love with Feyre and began planning a life for himself outside of the pressures his father had implemented throughout his childhood.

Rhysand’s usually meticulously styled hair now hung in front of his eyes as he dodged Cassian and went under his arm. He was always a bit leaner than Cass, but still very built, with large, defined muscles that Feyre giggled about every girls' night. Rhys knew how to put those muscles to use, Feyre seemed to remind you every time she was three margaritas in. You didn’t doubt it, even if you and Mor groaned and pushed her further off the couch—and watched as she fell to the floor since Feyre’s balance tended to disappear when alcohol was introduced to her nightly diet.

Despite every fiber in your being begging for your gaze to fall to him first, your eyes went to Azriel last. You’d been fighting the urge, telling yourself that if you looked at him last, your eyes could linger just a few seconds longer.

You were currently mesmerized by the tattoo sprawling across his back.

The design was captivating—an elaborate pair of wings stretching gracefully across his shoulder blades, with their apex extending along the sides of his neck. The wings seemed almost alive, their fine details appearing three-dimensional against his golden skin. The spaces around the wings were filled with swirling patterns that looked like shadows, moving fluidly as though they were dancing across his skin.

The wings didn’t stop at his back; they extended over his biceps and down to his elbows. When he moved his arms, it almost seemed as if he was preparing for flight, the tattoo coming to life with every gesture. Cassian’s wings mirrored this design, stretching over his own biceps and elbows in a similar fashion. However, the empty spaces on his arms were adorned with sharp, angular patterns. Where the patterns on Az’s skin were fluid, like smoke and shadow, Cassians were rigid, sharp lines like that of a fierce fight.

Rhysand’s tattoo was distinctively more reserved. His bat-style wings were intricately etched into his back, spanning from his shoulder blades to his lower back, but they remained tightly confined to his torso. Unlike Azriel and Cassian, the design didn’t extend onto his arms. Instead, it was tattooed in a tucked, retracted position. Besides the wings, Rhysand’s collarbone was adorned with an elaborate tattoo of stars and swirling patterns that mimicked the night sky, with galaxies appearing to shimmer and shift across his skin.

Your eyes stuck to Azriel’s moving form— glued to his every gesture, really.

Azriel was always very cute. Handsome and pretty in a way that made chests tighten. But you hadn’t seen it much recently, hadn’t paid attention to anyone besides Eris, really. Now that you were broken up, it was as if you were seeing things in a completely new light, with new glasses that magnified every detail of the males around you. The reality was undeniable: Azriel had gotten more attractive over the past two years.

It was unfair. Completely and utterly unfair.

And you were completely and utterly overwhelmed by it— more so than you’d ever expected. God, you needed to check yourself, to reel in this strange crush that had begun to bloom like a flower in a new spring. You felt feral. It was embarrassing, to say the least, and you were grateful that your friends were often too absorbed in their own lives to notice your lingering glances.

Your fingers itched to trace the intricate ink on Azriel’s skin. You settled for running the pads of your fingers along the bare skin of your knee, mimicking the graceful movements of his tattoos. The act was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it helped channel the sudden urge to connect with the beautiful art that adorned him.

Feyre let out a hum besides Mor. From the corner of your eye you caught sight of her tilting her head in quiet focus. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, “It’s not that bad.”

Mor whipped her head to the side, her blonde locks cascading across her shoulder like a golden waterfall. She let out a shocked gasp.

“Feyre,” she scolded, “You can’t be serious.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow in response. “I’m serious. I’ve seen worse. It works for him, I think.”

Mor’s attention shifted to you. It took a minute before you were able to tear your gaze away from the view in front of you— the three boys illuminated by the soft glow of sunset; the delicate waves behind them that collected the remaining colors of the sky.

You turned to look at her, taking in her widened eyes and pursed lips. It was an expectant face, one she wore when she was waiting for important news— or in this case, for someone to agree with her. You offered a sheepish smile and shrugged, pulling your knees closer to your chest.

“Sorry girl, it’s kinda growing on me, too.”

Her mouth fell open and another dramatic, shocked gasp left her mouth. She returned her gaze to the view before her.

“It’s like I’m the only one with taste in this entire house.”

You snorted, turning to look as Mor shook her head in disbelief. Your gaze connected with Feyre’s as you leaned over slightly and you watched as her mouth curved into an amused smile, a small laugh leaving her delicate lips.

“You have a completely different taste than both of us, Mor. Maybe that's why you feel so passionate about this topic.”

Mor shook her head again, waving the comment off with an elegant hand— long red painted nails on every finger except for two: her ring and middle finger. The same style was mirrored on her other hand, currently at her side and playing with the sand.

“Actually,” Mor started, and you rolled your eyes at the tone of her voice, a smile tugging stronger at your lips. “It’s because I’m into girls that my opinion here matters the most.”

Your attention drifted back to the boys who had finally ceased their game. They were catching their breath, hunched over and panting, before gradually making their way back.

Cassian reached you guys first, his steps falling from a jog into a soft walk before he came to a complete stop. He brought his hands to his head, smoothing down the top of his pulled back hair and readjusting his bun. Then, he placed his hands on his hips as a grin broke out on his face, eyes trailing between you, Mor, and Feyre.

“Whatcha ladies gossiping about?”

His voice was still ragged from the running, coming out in a long breath and followed by a deep one. Mor frowned at him, crinkling her nose as she scanned his appearance.

“We’re talking about that disgusting caterpillar of facial hair you’ve forced us to endure the sight of.”

Cassian’s grin faltered. “Excuse me?”

Mor only raised a brow in response— a challenge. Cassian accepted wordlessly, crossing his arms across his bare chest and jutting his chin out defiantly.

“Don’t be a hater, Mor.”

She scoffed. “Hater is my middle name. Consider this a reality check: Shave.”

Cassian considered her response for a moment, lips pursing in feign contemplation. Nope,” he said, a hand caressing his mustache. “You’re just too stubborn to admit you might actually like it.”

Another scoff. Offended and insulted all at once, the presence of those emotions fully present in the sound as it left her lips. “There are many words to describe the way I feel about that monstrosity you’re touching. ‘Like’ is certainly not one of them.”

You tossed a glance over at Feyre. She caught your gaze, eyes glistening with a quiet amusement as she tugged her legs to her chest, her sitting stance mirroring yours. She placed her chin on her knee, eyes drifting back towards the two bickering adults.

“You’re so dramatic. This ‘stache isn’t for you, anyways. You’re not the population I’m aiming for.”

“And who, pray tell, is the target audience? Divorcees in soon-to-be foreclosed homes?” A raised brow. “Republicans?”

This conversation was one you’d heard almost every day since Cass had decided to grow his ‘stache out, opting to only shave his beard. The argument held the same structure everytime. Mor would complain that it was gross and an eyesore, offer a new metaphor to describe it, and insist that Cassian shave it off. Cass would wave it off, act offended, and explain his reasonings once more to her deaf ears. It’s for the indie girls at the festival, Mor, Cassian had whined two days prior, They’ll go crazy for a pornstache. It’s a trend now. Mor only complained more in response, groaning in disgust and telling him she was going to shave it in his sleep.

As the argument continued, Azriel and Rhysand finally approached. Rhys raised an eyebrow at the bickering duo, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. He flashed you a grin before flopping down next to Feyre. With a playful shake of his head, reminiscent of a wet dog, he sent droplets of water flying. Feyre let out a startled shriek and pushed him away, her eyes sparkling with annoyance as Rhysand’s laughter filled the air.

Meanwhile, Azriel approached slowly, the last rays of the setting sun casting a faint glow on his figure. As he neared, Cassian turned his attention to him, desperation evident in his eyes.

“Hey, man, help me out here,” he called, a hand extended in Az’s direction. “Tell her it works. Back me up.”

Azriel gave him a steady look before shaking his head. “I’m not going to do that.”

Mor let out a triumphant laugh. “Aha!” Her eyes glimmered in satisfaction. “Even Azriel agrees with me!”

Cass kicked a spray of sand towards her in response. It scattered in all directions and you sputtered, grimacing as the gritty texture found its way into your mouth and eyes. With a groan, you brushed it off, watching as Cassian’s face dropped and concern flashed across his widened eyes.

Both him and Azriel muttered curses under their breath, the two starting to move towards you. But Cassian was faster. With a swift motion, he plopped down beside you, arm reaching out to pull you into his side.

“My bad, my bad,” He said, his voice laced with sincerity as he tucked you against him, his damp arm warm around you. He gave you a reassuring squeeze, though you still felt the remnants of sand clinging to your skin.

You squirmed a bit, trying to escape his sweaty embrace, but Cassian held you close. Over your hunched back, he shot a glare at Mor. “See what you made me do?”

She squeaked. “What I made you do?”

“Yes you.”

Your cheek pressed against his chest, squished near the area where his arms met his torso.

“I didn’t force you to kick sand at me with your big ass feet,” she huffed.

A new argument arose, Cassian leaning further over your back to bicker with Mor face to face. The more enthusiastic he became, the farther he seemed to shove you into his form. You looked up and managed to meet Azriel’s gaze, widening your eyes in a plea for help.

He understood the look immediately. The corners of his lips twitched upwards in amusement as he stepped forward, knocking Cassian’s muscled calf with his foot.

“Cass,” Azriel said, “You’re suffocating her.”

It took him a moment to register the words. But when they finally hit, Cass sprung back, holding you out with his arms in a movement so swift you blinked to reorient yourself. He examined you with the same observant eye as a parent, looking over your exposed skin as if he was searching for any open wounds or deformities.

“My bad,” he repeated. He gave you a guilty grin as brought his hands to smooth down your hair. His large hazel eyes met yours, widened and soft like that of a puppy. “All better.”

You gave him a look— brows raised and scrunched, a deep crease forming in the middle of them.

“Get outta here,” you muttered, pushing his warm body away from you. But despite yourself, a small grin hung on the corners of your lips.

You still felt Azriel’s eyes on you— that faint warm sensation that filtered through your skin. You met his gaze momentarily, watching as his eyes bounced between all of you. He settled back on the large teddy bear next to you.

“Help me start the fire,” Az said, calling Cassian’s attention back to him. Azriel looked at Mor next, gesturing towards her with his chin. “You too, judgy.”

“What?” Mor paused, hands freezing mid motion of wiping sand off her thighs. “Why me?”

“Because you’re mean,” Cassian said, bringing a hand to stroke his mustache. “And mean people do labor.”

Rhysand snorted. You had almost forgotten Rhys and Feyre were sitting there, quietly in their own world until Rhys leaned back on his hands with a grin, obviously enjoying the argument.

Azriel rolled his eyes. “Get up, c’mon.” He gestured with his hands, herding them both like sheep. Mor let out a grumble but began to push herself up nonetheless.

“I’m getting up because I want to. Not because you told me.”

Cassian was in front of her before she managed, offering a large hand out. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Let's go.”

She threw him a scowl, but the act had no malice behind it. Taking his hand, she muttered, “This would be much sweeter if you didn’t look like my creepy uncle Chris.”

Cassian just groaned.

Thank you, you mouthed when Azriel met your eyes once more. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he gave you a soft smile. Something deep within your chest flickered, like a candle being lit aflame. He dipped his head in acknowledgement before trailing after the two.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Forty five minutes later, you found yourself seated around a crackling fire, the sound of Rhysand's offhand joke eliciting laughter from everyone.The night had fully descended and the sky above was dotted with dim, flickering stars. You’d all discussed the summer, the festival, and your plans for the month. It was a summer of living, you’d told them. A summer to sit back and let life do with you what it may—and hope that meant all good things.

The stretch of beach was empty except for your group. Whether Rhysand and Mor’s family owned this area or the rest of the world had simply decided to stay in, you weren’t sure. Either way, you were appreciative.

Cassian was beside you, but your attention was solely on Azriel, who sat next to him. The firelight played upon his skin, casting a warm glow that accentuated the sharp lines of his face. The embers illuminated his hazel eyes with a brilliance that made your breath catch every time he laughed.

Azriel met your gaze, his features softened by the dancing flames, and your heart skipped a beat. His mouth moved, forming words, and it took a moment for you to realize he was speaking to you. You blinked, the spell breaking, and slowly forced yourself to focus, bringing yourself down from the reverie you had drifted into.

“Are you cold?”

Azriel’s voice rolled over you like a small wave and you shivered at the sensation. You looked down at yourself and realized, for the first time, how the night’s chill had settled in. Goosebumps had risen on your skin, more pronounced than you had initially thought.

“Just a little,” you admitted, running your hands along your arms in a vain attempt to generate warmth. The friction offered little relief and you exhaled softly. “I can just move closer to the fire.”

You repositioned yourself, moving to scooch closer to the fire that illuminated your faces.

“Nah, don’t do that.” Cassian said. You turned to find him watching you, his gaze steady, shadows of flames flickering on his features. He gestured back towards the house with his chin. "I have a hoodie in the living room if you want to grab it."

You considered his idea for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It was a sensible suggestion. Placing a gentle hand on Mor’s shoulder, you let her know you’d be right back. She smiled in response, her eyes warm in the flickering firelight.

You brushed off your pants and walked towards the house, your feet sinking slightly into the still-warm sand with each step. The contrast of the cool night air and the lingering warmth of the sand created a soothing, almost nostalgic sensation as you made your way to the living room.

The dimly lit interior welcomed you with a cozy, muted glow and your gaze fell on the kitchen counter. There, amid Azriel’s keys and a variety of Rhysand’s rings, rested a camera.

You took a moment to examine it—a digital model. While you weren’t particularly knowledgeable about cameras, this one was nice; reminiscent of a simpler time. You weren’t exactly sure if it was the design that made you feel that way or the person that owned it: Azriel.

You knew without a doubt that it was his. You could also assume, with a fair degree of confidence, that the camera could beautifully simulate the look of film.

Azriel had mentioned his burgeoning passion for photography two years ago, expressing a particular fondness for the aesthetic of film. He’d said that a true film camera was beyond his budget at the time, but a digital model with film simulation would be an ideal compromise. Rhysand and Cassian had gifted him this very camera the following Christmas. From what Mor had told you, Az never felt comfortable enough to pick up the passion— kept telling her that he hadn’t found his muse yet.

"Hey."

Despite how soft the voice was, you still jumped, placing the camera back down on the counter as you turned to face Azriel. He always had an uncanny ability to move silently, almost as if he emerged from the shadows themselves. It was unnerving at first, but there was a certain comfort found in his stealth now. His presence wasn't loud. You appreciated it.

"Hi, Az." You smiled sheepishly. "You're so quiet. It's crazy."

The corners of his lips twitched upwards. Azriel’s gaze softened slightly, his hazel eyes now glowing with a gentle amusement.

“Sorry,” he said, accompanied by a small laugh. He moved around you and made his way to the fridge. It opened with a small clatter, the glass bottles stacked on the door moving with the movement. He pulled out a few bottles of beers.

“You agreed to be the errand boy?” you asked, a hint of playful reproach in your voice.

Usually, the boys argued over every action; who would grab the next drink, who would drive while the others drank— the options were endless. It was often settled with a game of rock, paper, scissors, or a classic nose-goes. Azriel always seemed to come out on top.

He glanced back over his shoulder, a casual shrug punctuating his response. “If I didn’t, no one would.”

His voice was quiet– steady. You studied his movements, taking in the details of his tattooed back that were too small to appreciate from a distance. He turned around, walking forward to place the bottles on the kitchen counter across from you.

"You could be a spy, y'know."

Azriel raised an eyebrow skeptically, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that suggested he was both amused and intrigued. You returned the gesture, leaning forward on your forearms. The kitchen counter was cold against your skin and you felt a slight chill run through your body.

“You don’t agree?” you asked.

He met your gaze through his lashes and shook his head, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. The curls otop of his head bounced with the subtle movement and the warmth in his eyes reflected the gentle glow of the dim kitchen light.

“Nah,” he responded. He popped the caps off the bottles. “Don’t know if that fits me.”

“I think it does. You’re an observer.”

“Careful,” Azriel warned with a playful edge. His voice was smooth in a way that made you clench, tone low and unintendedly seductive. “Don’t make me sound like a creep.”

”Okay, what would you like me to say instead?”

He contemplated. “I just like to people-watch.”

You had to stifle a chuckle, finding his self-description almost endearing in its simplicity. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that actually sounded worse— at least to you. Instead, you reached to the side, grabbing the camera that had been in your hands a few moments prior. "This kind of people watching?"

For a moment, you both stood in silence as you stared at the camera in your hands. When you looked up, you focused on Azriel’s face. His eyes traveled from the camera to your eyes, and in that moment, there was something alive in his gaze—an intensity that seemed to make the room itself disappear. Something warm and comforting.

“I remember you talking about wanting to get into photography,” you said, your voice softening with genuine warmth. With a smile, you extended the camera toward him. “I’m glad to see you’re pursuing it. At least for the summer.”

Azriel’s smile widened slightly as he reached out and took it from your hands, the brush of his fingers against your skin sending a pleasant shiver through you. Your smile grew deeper into your cheeks, pulled at the edges by his very touch.

But when the camera was finally in his hold, something seemed to change in his gaze, as if the weight of the it in his palm was transferred to a weight on his chest. He let out a small sigh.

"Don't get your hopes up,” he murmured, “I haven't taken any pictures yet."

He placed the camera back onto the counter with a slight thud, the sound echoing softly in the quiet kitchen. You gave him a face.

“It’s barely been a week,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “Six days to be exact.”

“That’s already a week behind.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, a small laugh leaving your lips. Azriel seemed to lock onto the sound, eyes glittering as his hand found the beer bottle again.

“Seriously?” You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms in a playful gesture of mock indignation. “It’s been six days and you’re already considering yourself behind schedule?”

He gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not just about having the camera. It’s about actually using it. I had high hopes for this week.”

“Sometimes its okay to just enjoy the moment, Az.”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes twinkling with playful intensity. You felt a catch in your breath at the way his expression shifted. It was enough to remind you that Az wasn’t just kind and attractive; he was a suave college boy when needed.

“Ah, but the burden of my artistic aspirations are too great,” he said, his voice low and playful, “How will I ever manage without my schedule?”

A comedian, truly. You raised an amused eyebrow. “And I’m the Type A one?”

"You are." He grinned. "Who counts the days they've been on vacation for, anyways?"

"Okay that's not fair."

Azriel chuckled and walked over to a vase on the counter. The vase, a clear, simple one that had come with a bouquet of flowers for Rhys’s mother, was part of a collection Azriel started—a small yet meaningful tradition of saving bottle caps from vacation. You took the opportunity to glance at his back again, taking in the intricate tattoos that adorned his shoulder blades. The designs seemed to pulse with life against his skin when they caught the light.

“It’s cool seeing all of the details in your tattoos. I never really noticed them before.”

Azriel turned slightly, his gaze meeting yours as he considered your observation. “Is this you admitting that you’re staring at my naked back?”

“Do you want me to be staring at your naked back?”

Azriel dropped the caps into the vase and walked back towards you. He gave you a nonchalant shrug, his mischievous smile lingering slightly on his lips, casual and knowing.

“It’s hard not to stare,” you added, tracing idle patterns onto the counter, unaware of how the motions mimicked the swirls on Az’s skin. “You, Cass, and Rhys have the most ink out of everyone I know. My eyes naturally gravitate.”

“And here I thought my back was special.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks and you quickly looked down at the counter, hoping it would hide the color spreading across your face. Your smile was so wide it almost hurt. You met his eyes once more. They were already on you.

“I will tell you that your wings seem a bit bigger than Cass or Rhys’s.”

Azriel’s grin widened at your response. He leaned forward, resting on the counter and lowering his gaze to meet yours. “Don’t tell them that.”

He took a swig of his drink. You watched the path of the liquid down his throat, tracing it to his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. You cleared your throat, laughing softly. “Never.”

He looked at you for a moment, gaze soft and contemplative. A thoughtful glaze found his eyes, as if he were lost in deep reflection.

“What?”

Your voice came out meeker than intended.

“I’m just really glad you’re here.” Azriel said. His voice was sincere, carrying with it a weight that made you pause.

You sucked in a breath. “Me too. It’s nice to be around you guys. All of you.”

“Would I be a dick if I said that I’m glad you and Eris broke up?” Azriel paused. “Because now you can be here with us.”

You bit back a smile, your cheeks warming slightly. “Maybe just a tiny bit.”

But the corners of your lips still twitched upwards, forming a lopsided smile.

He shrugged, a casual grin returning to his lips. “In that case, consider it thought, not said.”

You smiled at him, feeling a nervous flutter in your chest. The dim light of the kitchen seemed to cast a warm glow around him, making his features appear even more inviting than usual. He looked soft now, and you found yourself struggling to understood why, at one point, you were unbelievably intimidated by him.

Freshman year you would be having a heart attack now, truly. You could still feel her deep down in your mind, beginning to hyperventilate with excitement.

You looked down shyly, trying to steady your racing heart, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before pointing at the beers.

“Do you need help with those?”

“Sure,” he replied with a grin, pushing one towards you. “I can never say no to you.” His words sent a rush of warmth through you, and you bit your lip to prevent your smile from growing even more. Forget alcohol— subtlety is what you needed more of. He rounded the kitchen counter.

As he neared you, he paused, his eyes flicking to your forehead. Placing the beers back down, he reached out, his fingers hovering inches from your skin. You scrunched your brows in confusion, blinking rapidly as his face came closer to yours. His touch was feather-light, so soft it was almost imperceptible, yet it sent a shiver down your spine all the same.

“What—” you began, but the words caught in your throat.

“There,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. He brushed something from your temple, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. You felt your cheeks heat up, a growing blush spreading like wildfire.

You couldn’t help but imagine how Azriel must be with those he loved beyond friendship—how his gentle gestures must perfectly soothe the hearts of those he held dear. The soft touches, the attentiveness, the small actions that made Azriel so uniquely himself. The thought lingered as he pulled away, rubbing his fingers with a small, smile.

“Some sand,” he said, his voice casual, but the warmth in his eyes gave it a softer edge.

You managed to breathe out a thank you, the breath escaping you in a soft rush. Another shiver ran through you, not just from the chill, but from the unexpected intimacy of his touch. You stared at the counter, hoping it would hide the flush on your cheeks and the way your smile made your cheeks ache.

Azriel seemed to have a sudden realization. “Aaand,” he said, turning on his heel and walking briskly into the living room. Moments later, he returned with a small jog, tossing you a hoodie. “It’s mine, not Cass’s, but hopefully it’ll work.”

The hoodie smelled faintly of him—an understated blend of his personal scent that made you feel a little warmer. You took it from him, the fabric soft and reassuring against your fingers.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling as you pulled the hoodie on.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he grabbed the remaining beers.

You nodded, following him back outside. As you stepped into the night, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth on your temple. It felt as if the very spot on your head held an imprint of his touch, a marker of his fingerprints.

You smiled for the rest of the night.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Part Three

authors note: this series is the only thing keeping me going rn, just two sweethearts with crushes on each other and a lovely beach….and cass with a pornstache 😏

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254 @m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers

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cordeliawhohung · 2 months

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 12]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

love notes

cw: anxiety (per usual)

wc: 3.8k

Simon stares at the bathtub.

It hasn’t changed a bit over the last decade or so. No, it’s been a lifetime ago since he was thrown into this tub and its frigid water. Still has the same pale, cracked tiles with ancient peeling caulk. Perhaps the spout is a bit rusty — tiny speckles dot the iron like high impact splatters in old, oxidized blood brown. They sit and fester, like cancer growths on decaying lungs.

He swallows and doesn’t appreciate how tight his throat is. Serpentine constrictions plague his neck as if he were a tasty mouse — he’s surprised he can even breathe. This feeling is so unfamiliar to him, something he’s removed himself from, and now he doesn’t know how to handle it. How to force it into submission. A fluffy cotton towel and fresh set of clothes rest on the corner of the counter next to the sink. It screams at him. Reminds him of what he came here to do.

It’s only water. He’s bigger now.

Five minutes, he promises himself — five minutes, and that’s it.

In reality, it’s significantly less than that. Short hair is easy enough to wash and rinse, as is his body. A part of him is used to washing up quickly, in some terrified way. Less time under water, the better. Less time in here the better. Without any blood or grime to scrub away, he’s even more efficient. Soap, scrub, rinse, repeat.

Soap, scrub, breathe — breathe.

Then, the tiles start to whisper to him. Hushed echoes of the past bounce around at his feet, saturating the tub, filling it up until it’s at his knees. It’s all briney tears, spit, and viscous snot. Muffled cries that can’t quite leave his throat. Childish begging. The yearning for his mother. Fists gripping his shirt.

An unceremonious squeak sounds as the water ceases. Fat drops dribble out of the showerhead as clawed fingers drag the curtain open, cold air rushing in to meet his exposed body. Old scars pucker and dance along his skin as goosebumps form, and he sucks in a breath through the brume wafting around him. Pale blue walls turn grey; like dead, rotting flesh. He swallows. His throat is still tight.

Soft cotton rubs across his abrasive skin as he dries himself and quickly dresses. Moisture wicks from his skin and it feels like sweat instantly replaces it. It seeps from his skin. Anxiety brewing into something tangible and rotten. A thin fog obscures the mirror he attempts to look at, leaving only the shadow of him on its surface. Huffing, he rubs his bare hand across the glass. With such heavy nervosity gripping his throat, he half expects to see a scared child as the image of himself forms. Instead, it’s him — just him — his father’s eyes and all.

A knock declares itself with a sharp crack, but Simon’s eyes don’t wander a bit. He stays, hands on either side of the counter, gripping the tile as if he’ll fall through the floor if he doesn’t. The only thing that prompts him to finally move, to crack the stone encasing his body, is the soft sound of anxious feet shuffling against the floor outside the room.

When Simon opens the door, you’re certain you’ve upset him somehow. Furrowed brows and firm set lips make your grip tighten, nearly snapping your toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste in half. You look up at him like a wounded dog. Tail between your legs, lip caught in your teeth; you try to smile, but the malaise hanging around him is thick enough to suffocate even you. Then, something snaps. He melts. Eyes softening as his shoulders fall, lips parting to speak and then saying nothing. He looks you up and down, still dressed in your pajamas, and then smiles.

“Am I takin’ too long?” he teases.

“No, just wondering if I could squeeze in real quick to brush my teeth before breakfast,” you sheepishly admit.

Warmth swirls around your body and envelops you as Simon steps to the side, letting you steal a spot at the counter. Though Simon smiles at you kindly, something feels wrong with that room. It festers like a bad wound — a dead body that wasn’t quite cleaned up. Spoiled viscera still soaking the floor for the flies to eat. You stare at your hands — at the way your fingers grip your toothpaste, trying to squeeze it out onto the brush — and you think for a moment, that maybe; maybe that rot comes from you. Sullying everything you touch.

“Is that kid’s toothpaste?”

Fluttering eyes land on Simon as you open your mouth to reply. Nothing comes up but a strained laugh and a half formed smile as you bashfully look down at your items.

“Uh, yeah,” you nod.

“I’ve got real toothpaste if ya want it,” he offers, shaking the tube. You stare at it, that classic minty green freshness flashing in reflective foil as he does. Cracks form in your smile, and you feel your stomach turn. Even the mere thought of it nauseates you.

“No thanks I… erm… don’t like mint,” you admit.

Your admittance feels like you’ve laid some hot sin before him, and you avert your gaze in favor of spreading a generous line of paste on your brush. Imitation fruitiness coats your tongue as you shove it into your mouth, and you grimace. You had forgotten to wet your brush. The texture is rough and sandy, yet you persist.

Simon shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

You try not to let him see the way your eyes water when he begins to brush his teeth. Abrasive mint overpowers your senses, seeping into your nose and churning in your stomach. It’s too strong. Offensive.

You disguise your disgust with a cough.

Breakfast is a quiet event. With the Christmas cheer dwindling into the back of everyone’s minds, the delectable meal of pancakes, sausage, and eggs is brought to the front. Mrs. Riley’s cooking truly is remarkable, and you can feel yourself missing her meals already. Bruce keeps you fed plenty well at work when he can, but there’s something different about eating in the presence of her warm gaze. Pale blue eyes flicker like sapphire flames as she glances back and forth between you and Simon. The look on her face isn’t lost on you. That quiet simper that stains her lips.

It screams. Shouts at you. You are welcome here.

“So, back to London, then?” Tommy asks as he wipes his mouth clean of crumbs.

Humming, Simon nods. “Yeah. Work tomorrow night. Gonna get busy with the new year.”

“Everythin’ going well then at the club?” Beth chirps.

It’s a simple question — an innocent one. Still, it has Simon and Tommy sharing glances with one another. A million words are shared in an instant with one simple exchange. Tight lips, tighter fists; this is what happens with men like them. There is always bound to be some sort of dark secret they keep buried with the old versions of themselves; the versions they had to snuff out.

“Well as it can,” Simon nods.

Simon doesn’t completely beguile her. As far as anyone else is concerned, the club is doing fantastic. Only occasionally does he have to bloody his hands and toss out patrons who are too pissed for their own good. It’s an easy job. A simple one for a man of his talents.

But there are names that lurk in the depths. Swarming in ruined water, waiting to capture their next prey; their next victim. Andrei. Though he’s been off having his fun with you and his family, the bastard’s name and face etch in the grey matter of his brain. It’s quite the balancing act, hunting a man who vanishes into smoke and mirrors all while trying not to concern you with the mess. His skin itches at the thought — that terrible memory of you. Doubled over, blacking out.

What would have happened to you if he hadn't been there?

Clearing his mind, he reaches for the plate of toast just as you do. Knuckles knocking, you retract, hand falling back into your lap. Had he not known better, he would have thought he electrocuted you.

“Sorry,” you mutter, awkward laugh expelling from your lungs in a pitiful huff.

He looks at you, curled forward in your seat like a shriveled bug; always making yourself small. Always too afraid to take up the space you need. His hand persists, fingers gripping a golden slab of toast before placing it on the plate before you. Only then does he retrieve one for himself.

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.”

Once plates are cleaned, it’s time for farewells. Simon refuses to let you assist in packing things up. Only lets you gather your items into your bag before he’s stealing it like a bandit and shoving it into his car. You don’t know why you even bother to do anything for yourself anymore. Not when you’ve got Simon around.

“Gonna bring Chip home for Easter?” Tommy asks.

Once he’s managed to get your bag situated next to his in the backseat, Simon retreats, back straightening out and stretching as he slams the door shut. His brother leans against the trunk, arms crossed and shivering in the bitter Mancunian winter. For a moment, all Simon can do is shrug.

“We’ll see,” he deadpans.

“Oh, come off it,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Sleepin’ in the same bed as her, gettin’ all cozy on the couch; takin’ the fuckin’ piss outta me sayin’ shit like that.”

“What I do in my personal life doesn’t concern you,” Simon says nonchalantly, fingers shooing the man away. “Now up. Off my shit.”

Tommy huffs, and it’s cynical. Boiling acrimony laces his words as he mumbles: “Used to think the same thing once. Next I knew I was nearly gettin’ gutted like a pig.”

Flooding memories cause Simon’s eyes to gloss as they sear through his brain. Unpleasant bile eats at his esophagus as he recalls that day at his old job. A butcher’s shop. He would spend his life quartering swine, never once thinking about how similar humans are to pigs. Tender meat. The fiber of muscle and skin. A sharp blade sinks into flesh all the same, no matter what it’s called. The blood is just as warm. The gasps are just as cacophonous.

Tommy’s warning is clear. It causes his diagram to freeze as dark eyes cut through the air to find you. Like he’s scared you’re already injured. Like he’s ruined you. His heart ceases to beat when he finds you on the porch, little Joseph wrapped around your leg.

“Bye-Bye Auntie Chip!” he says, unabashed with his gaiety.

Red hot embarrassment burns Beth’s face until her cheeks are the same shade as her hair, and within an instant she’s beckoning her son off of you. Just as always, you are kind. Smile and shake off the awkwardness with as much grace as you can muster. You assure Beth it’s fine — you’re not sure what you are, be you an aunt or something else, but the title fits snug. Like the first thing you’ve ever worn that fits properly.

“It was lovely having you,” Mrs. Riley cuts in, easing the tension. She’s bundled herself up in a thick blanket draped over her shoulders like a shawl, and still she shivers so fiercely you swear she’ll turn blue. Despite the tremor, she reaches her arms out to you, welcoming and warm.

You accept her embrace without a second thought, and for a moment things are quiet. Nothing rings. Nothing buzzes at the tip of your brain stem. There is only the quiet, and the scent of lavender. It leaves your body yearning in a way you haven’t felt for quite some time. A bitter tainted nostalgia that dances along your spine and weaves through your ribs — and yet it is welcoming all the same.

“Thank you for having me,” you whisper. Your voice decays in your throat. Half formed and hardly ejected.

Mrs. Riley steps back, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. You know you should. You’ve always had to let go of everything eventually, but your fingers flinch and your arms twitch, and you realize this time you can’t. Some sort of mawkish pain squeezes your heart and you fear you’ll crumble. Crack and splinter into dust that the December wind will carry away without so much as a second thought. But she doesn’t let you. Instead, she holds you together, scooping you up in her arms until you’re buried in her. Pressure builds and twists behind your eyes, and you ignore the way your throat begins to shred itself.

“You’re always welcome here, dear.”

They wave from the porch when you and Simon leave. A proper send off that has you smiling to yourself and aching for their presence again. An odd sort of solicitude shrouds your thoughts as you hit the motorway. It’s useless. Doesn’t announce why it’s there or why it ails you, and yet you’re stuck with it anyway. Perhaps it’s just that skin you were supposed to outgrow. The one that tightens and suffocates over time until you’re gasping for breath.

Whatever it is, it carefully subsides as Simon settles in his seat, fingers reaching to turn the heat up. It’s impossible to pinpoint exactly why you’re stuck with such lassitude these last few days, but you only feel it worsen as the heat warms your skin. Leaning against him, nearly falling asleep on the couch, resting in his arms… he feels safe. Like you can rest and wake up knowing everything — including yourself — will be fine.

He offers you his coat to use as a pillow just as your eyes begin to grow heavy. You don’t even argue anymore. Don’t say that you’ll be fine. That you can stay awake. Or that you can just rest your head on the jittery window. It feels nice accepting his help. Allowing him to dote after you; you think he’s the only person who can be kind to you without leaving a bad taste in your mouth. So you take it. Bunch it up and curl into a ball in the passenger's seat as the hum of the engine sings you to sleep. Tobacco and nicotine envelope your senses; it’s stronger on his coat than it is himself. Washed less often. Burrowing into the stitches.

You sleep so well you don’t wake up until you reach the outskirts of London, and even then you’re only roused by Simon rubbing against your arm. Limbs extending, you stretch as much as you’re able to in the confines of the car as you rub at your face. The afternoon glow ignites the frost lining the railing that leads up to your apartment complex, but it looks like glitter on dull cement. A waste of something pretty. In whatever festive cheer your ancient, crabby landlord can muster, you notice a spindly wreath on the entrance. Perhaps it was his attempt at making that dilapidated building feel more homey — if anything, it feels more fake than ever.

Simon opens your door with a smile as he helps you out of the car. He’s still on a mission to refuse to let you carry your bag, and he lets you lead the way inside the building as he trails behind you like a good dog. Creaky stairs announce their existence all the way up to the second floor, but their song is quickly drowned out by the violent vibrating of Simon’s phone.

He plans on ignoring the call until he reads Johnny’s name as the ID.

“Hello?” he answers. His voice catches you off guard, and he watches as your head snaps over your shoulder to look at him. He gives you a reassuring smile as he shakes his phone, and you smile back.

“Got a hit on your dance partner.”

Simon’s heart skips a beat. That deadly killer in him begins to surface — the one that’s cold and calculated; the one that can’t afford to let feelings get in the way. His face hardens as images of Andrei’s face flash across his mind, but he knows he can’t be too standoffish. Not when he’s with you. Not when you don’t know something’s wrong.

“Workin’ through the holiday?” he asks, attempting to tease but it comes out too gruff.

“My girl was workin’ a double. Had nothing better to do,” Johnny shrugs. “Aye, but listen. You remember Milena Romanova? Makarov’s financier?”

Simon scoffs at the name, bitter bile rising in his mouth just as you both reach the second floor. “Plays well with Garrick’s mum, doesn’t she?”

“If by playing well you mean threatens, sure,” Johnny deadpans. “Anyway, Kyle caught sight of her at some bullshit aristocratic party his mum was throwing on Christmas Eve and Andrei — whose last name is Nolan, I’ve learned — was there with her.”

The tension in Simon’s jaw grows so tight he can hear the way the enamel in his teeth creaks with the pressure. It’s an easy conclusion to draw. One that has his chest growing tight.

“Whatever mess Chip has got herself in… Riley, if Makarov’s got his sights on her-”

“I know,” Simon interrupts. It’s sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t apologize for it.

Johnny sighs, breath crackling on the line. “One more thing… you’re really not gonna like this.”

Somehow, Simon’s managed to fall behind you. Several paces back, he sees you standing at the entrance to your apartment, and you’re frozen. Eyes locked on the doorknob, wide as saucers, lips parted as if to say something and yet nothing comes out.

“Security system here at the club caught some weird activity on cams yesterday,” Johnny continues. “Checked them out this morning and… well, it seems as if Andrei’s not the only one hanging around where he shouldn’t be. Marco was here, and it looked like he was looking for someone.”

Your door is open. Slightly ajar, hardly even cracked, but it’s open. You swore you locked it when you left, but it doesn’t matter when there’s splintered wood on the ground at your feet. Simon’s hardware and new screws held up plenty fine; the door plate isn’t even bent. Still, it can only do so much when the wood it’s screwed into is as soft as butter. The air is wrong. Too thick. Like water. Like smoke. Like it’s someone else’s breath.

Eyes welling with tears, you turn to look at Simon. His face is like stone. Hard set and rigid as he continues to hold the phone to his ear. The line has gone silent. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I gotta go.”

The line dies.

Neither of you speak when Simon gently pushes open the door. You hold your breath as he does. Quiet hysteria builds in your chest as you wait for an eternity to see what’s become of your home. The door creaks and whines as it falls open, hitting the wall, revealing the state of your apartment.

Nothing is in place. Plastic plates and cups litter the ground in the kitchen along with old pots and pans. Cupboards and drawers are open, completely emptied of their contents, all dumped into a pile on the floor as if setting up a pyre. The rubbish bin is knocked on its side. Old garbage is strewn about, staining the faux tile as nameless black bugs enjoy the rot.

As the two of you cautiously press inside, you catch sight of the way your clothes hang halfway out of your dresser. Plastic hangers lay shattered outside your tiny closet. The bathroom light is on, and when you meander inside, you find the mirror is shattered. Your reflection is warped. Wrong. And still, it perfectly reflects that terror. A drop of blood stains the sink. It’s old. Hagriding. Clotted. Hardened. You stare at it, and it screams back at you that you have made a very grave mistake.

There isn’t an inch of your apartment that Simon leaves unchecked. Hackles raised, he turns every corner with care, eyes darting around like an animal ready to strike. But there is nothing. Your flat has always been too small to properly house yourself, let alone hide away anyone that would cause harm. There is no one. No Andrei. No Makarov.

No Marco.

You stand in the midst of your home like a lost child, spinning in circles as you take everything in. Wide eyes, scanning like a hawk, or some clever fox finding her way out of some precarious situation. Trepidation coils around your chest as you attempt to hold back sobs, but your diagram shudders despite your efforts. You are both overcome with terror and yet so devoid of emotion, because in some way, you know you deserve this.

You brought this on yourself.

“Fuck,” you curse, hand slapping over your trembling lip.

Simon’s ears perk at your voice. Heavy feet crush rubbish and clothes as he reaches for you. He’s careful, as if trying to calm a spooked horse. Warm hands bleed through your skin as he holds you steady, but you don’t look at him. All you can do is continue to take in the mess around you.

“It’s gonna be alright. We’ll get this sorted, I promise,” he assures you.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

Hands brush against his chest as you push yourself away from him, a hyperventilated sob rattling your throat in the process. You nearly trip on a cup as you stumble away from Simon, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes.

“How the fuck could I forget. I’ve… never… fuck,” you mumble.

Simon says your name, but you refuse to hear it. Utterly disconsolate, you continue running away, feet meandering throughout your room as if you’re in a drunken stupor. He lets you. Watching you carefully as the emotions overwhelm you, lets you feel what you need to feel as you stare at the crumbled remains of your life.

The only thing that isn’t ruined is your bed.

You freeze. It’s perfect. Pillows fluffed. Blankets neatly pressed along the mattress. It looks professionally done with a folded lip at the top for ease of grabbing. Spotless — it almost looks lovingly done.

You don’t remember making your bed before you left.

Careful feet approach the furniture as your nerves begin to fry. You feel your mind begin to shut down. There’s no fear or anxiety or anger — there’s just you and your shell. You’re so far underneath the waves that there’s no use in screaming for help. All you can do is let the tide carry you forward.

A pristine envelope sits quiet and docile on top of your blanket. It’s unmarked, but there is no mistaking who it belongs to. Simon slowly approaches from behind, hands outstretched, requesting that you hand it over to him, but you refuse. Shouldering him away, your quivering fingers can hardly undo the seal. It tears. Shreds like cloth. You retrieve the note inside.

Missed you on the 25th. Will collect late fee on the 28th. You know better than to call the police. Don’t stand me up this time.

-M

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #f!reader #in limbo

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spurbleu · 2 months

Text

lassitude ✩︎‧︎⁎︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. the first time you are vulnerable with Ken Sato, you are half asleep. and for the first time, he is willing.

warnings: none, split pov

a/n: sorry for my lengthy absence, it got extremely busy for me lmao. i dont really like this- but i feel like i cant do much to make it better so here it is

word count: 1.7k

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

The mumble of the morning stirred you from the pockets of your mattress. It was barely noticeable- the shift of the comforter- cool early air pooling between the hairs on your arm. The faint creak of the floorboards, (never good at keeping secrets) the spruce mumbling an Irish goodbye.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t see it coming. The sight of him.

Skin relearning to stretch over shoulder blades, peeking through your lashes in familiar foresight. The way his hands searched for his clothes through the birth of daylight- its first breaths placid against the bedsheets.

It all felt too beautiful- the apathy. Buried in lithe, lifeless blankets rather than the rhythm of his pulse, the plush of his embrace. The sudden emptiness of morning’s coffin, quilt seams ripped by the assumption that a goodbye wasn’t necessary.

Ironic- for how lonely the man seemed to be, he looked lethargic in the act of leaving. Near comfortable as he dressed, relief from the reclusive slump of his posture breaching a harsh breath that left the gaps of his teeth.

You were more awake now- enough to question why you cared.

He made it easy- cleaned up half the mess, took the other half out the door. And when it was time to ruin it again, he did it with kindness- gentleness in his absence. There was nothing you should’ve resented- he was doing you a favor. But you found yourself hating it more.

You knew it wasn’t a superiority complex- you were near equals as you slept next to each other. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, because you knew within the next 12 hours, he’d be back again, pale in the face of his own affair.

Confounding. The principle that if he knew he was going to come back, why leave at all?

It struck you then- the putrid smell of your own confusion. The anger you held in the bed of your heart, fueled by the weak and needy creature of your own vulnerability. Its chubby hands wringing the veins that curled around your ribs. It spoke for you.

“Ken.”

It was weaker than you thought it would be- no louder than a whisper. At first, I didn’t even sound like his name- only a pathetic mumble that spelled out his silhouette. It became a bit more tangible, louder, when he turned to face you.

“Good morning.”

He slung his bag over the dip of his shoulder, dressed in the clothes from last night. They were wrinkled now, creased in the same shape as your bed, your floor, your home. It was hauntingly poetic- how he seemed to carry you with him in the quietest of ways.

A crease formed under the base of his lips- a smile. Still dry in early hours- complimenting the tanned sections of his jaw- spring kisses breaking the occasional sallow of his face. It was small, but under the shadow of his tousled hair, it looked near blinding.

(But that was Ken for you, wasn’t it? Blinding. Bright in the ways that make the air in your nose cold- fresh. Humane.)

“…Do you…need something?”

Fuck.

You should’ve followed the script. Typewriter font, black indifference, pretending to be asleep when he crept out the door. Feigning casual when reading the ‘text later’ note he’d leave on the counter of your kitchen, next to a day old, crushed protein bar (although, it would always be your favorite flavor).

But instead, you sat curled into the headboard of your bed, sheets protecting your fluttering gut as sleep fogged the more cohesive thoughts. It peeled back, though, the sensitive ones.

You wanted him to stay.

Although it felt like the first time you had admitted it to yourself, you found the blemish of your confession everywhere.

The pucker of your carpet beneath his socks. The indent on the left of your mattress- matching the round of his shoulder. The cool breath that escaped your lungs- collapsing against the rim of your heart.

And in the brevity of nerve, the one that spoke his name with so little foundation before, you answered him.

“Stay.”

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

It’s the tilt in your voice that curves under his adam’s apple in a slow gulp- dry. The softer tones blooming under your tongue, coloring your bottom lip in a nude pink- stainless and genuine. Your lash line drooping into a word that looked foreign to the valley of your cheekbones.

Please.

He mirrored you. The slow breath that hollowed ribs, the sharper edges of his shoulders bending to the will of your own. Even his smile began to falter into the same wary, desperate line that creased the corners of your cheeks.

The effortless effect you had on him.

He knew it was happening, somewhere in the canyon of his bone. Mind disconnected from the marrow, as the better parts of him seemed to reflect every vice of yours. Although it was maddening, conscious clawing at the cushion of his skull, he had learned to embrace it.

Held it as he cradled you- bow of your spine splitting his chest in two- revealing the plusher parts of him, affection safely shadowed by the midnight and your snore. (He’d never admit it to you, but he sleeps better in your bed than he does his own. Although Mina suggests it’s about the company rather than the mattress).

Similar to your aftertaste, he was familiar with your vulnerability- a lot worse at hiding it than you might think.

The haphazard stack of protein bar wrappers in the trash (ashamed to say he counted, once. You’ve eaten every single one he’s given you). The grip on his sweatshirt when you pull him through your door- flushed fingertips eager on the cool metal of its zipper. Even while you sleep your body betrays, burrowing yourself into him as if somehow, you’ll leave a mark (equally ashamed, but just a bit more hopeful, he wants you to).

Selfishly, he loved it. How much you made him feel wanted- needed, even. How the cage of your chest opened for him, his nails the shape of a key as he dug into the softer parts of you. Grime dyeing cuticles red, and he’s convinced that if he asked to crawl within you, you’d let him.

Reluctantly, if so. Looking away, pink on your cheeks, spurred by the flash of his teeth. Unwilling to admit he had asked you before you could have offered.

A begrudging devotion.

He swallowed it, syrup sweet against the cast of his teeth.

“You want me to…stay?”

He let his bag drop to the floor, relishing that as he took a step closer, knees to the bed, the center of your throat bobbed. Contrast to your bold request, a shyness in the creases under your eyes and mouth. It reeked of yearning, and made an illness bloom on Ken’s tonsils.

You nodded slowly as he came to lay next to you. If he listened more closely and focused less on the cross of your arms, he would have heard your heart pulsing a morse that sounded dangerously, sweetly, like his name.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Classical, predictable, the way his smirk warmed the edges of his lips.

“Because you never do…” anxious- eyes searching excuses for the lack of a real answer- “…and the protein bars are getting old.”

A genuine laugh furrowed the flesh beneath his collar bone, morning voice still breaking from the aridity of unuse. “What if I left an apple this time?”

You leaned into his chest, pulling the covers to your shoulder. God, did you look good like this. Tucked into him, a little wanting, a little kind. “You’re so boring. If you’re going to leave, at least give me something good.”

Ken placed a hand to his wounded heart. “Boring? Since when is your favorite flavor of healthy boring?”

You sank back onto the mattress, and he followed you, now facing you with his hands folded under his cheek, squishing his dopey smile. Although he didn’t know it- he looked beyond childish- silly in all respects. But that’s what you liked about him, wasn’t it?

“Since the last 200 times.” You exaggerated, imitating him as you leaned on your own hands.

He searched you- not dissimilar to the way he accesses another player. The gate of their shoulder, the click of their jaw- or that slight competitive crinkle that tugged the corners of their lashes- angered by his run before he even hit the ball.

Being in the sport for so long, he had become accustomed to observing others- even from afar. Off the field, he’d find himself looking between the normalcy of strangers under the dark tint of his sunglasses. Envious- to live in blissful ignorance at their own open, bleeding hand.

He supposed that’s why he liked you. Equally as guilty of your own susceptibility- heart on your wrist. But goodness- even this close to you, he couldn’t read the glass over your eyes. As if you were those paintings behind velvet ropes- details clear from a distance, but fogged when you stand too close. Imperfections visible- but never telling.

(did Michelangelo find the Sistine Chapel just as beautiful from the floor as he did from his ladder?)

He hummed, a hand coming to trace the spring freckles that appeared on the plain of your cheek. His heart purred as he watched it bloom, every circle he drew spurring ripples of pink. He was so charmed- to see exactly what he did to you- so closely.

“Alright,” his hand drifted to the strands of hair that covered your ears, tucking it to see just a little more of your blush, “no more protein bars.”

You sighed against his face- and for a moment he was reminded how he had been there- on your lips. The stench of his own fervor- honey sweet between the cracks of its clay.

“Thank god- I was really getting sick of them.”

In his arms, you both dipped into a lullaby of silence, the sunrise cradling the fragile parts of your embrace. Those pockets of insecurity- the questions of why you asked for him to stay, and why he did. The looming assumption that this made you more than what you had been before- made you something, made it different.

You could have spent hours there, steeping in the change- elementary kids too scared to admit they ‘like-liked’ each other. Instead, you both fell asleep again.

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

When you awoke- you were alone.

Once you slipped out of bed, it was well past 11. Your light feet and sweltering head brought you to the kitchen counter- where you found a plate of eggs, toast, coffee, and a note.

----

Home Soon.

-Ken

ps. hope this is better than the protein bars.

#ken sato x reader #ken sato x you #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x you #ultraman rising #ken sato #kenji sato #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot

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suguann · 3 months

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He’s attending one of your father’s summer company parties when he sees you in person for the first time.

The glossy photo perched on the edge of your father’s desk in his office doesn’t do you justice.

You walk onto the deck, sundress swaying around your knees, smiling with your whole mouth when a guy covered in tattoos wraps an arm around your shoulders. Gojo watches him squeeze your cheeks together and kiss you in a way that shouldn’t be allowed, with your parents mingling close by—how you look up at him with clear adoration on your face.

He finds himself thinking about it later when he’s in his big empty house with nothing but the soft humming of his air conditioner and a list of work emails for company.

Standing in the middle of his entryway, he wonders what it’d be like to have your bright smile and pastel dresses welcome him home.

So when your dad calls a few weeks later to ask if you can crash at his place until you’re steady on your feet, he cleans out one of his spare bedrooms that night.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing, and it’s not about fulfilling some fantasy of his. But when he comes home after a long day of work and finds you making dinner in the kitchen in one of your many tiny dresses, something stirs in his chest.

It’s imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Clear as day when he’s in the shower later and strokes his cock to the image of your breasts straining against thin floral fabrics and the curve of your ass barely peeking out from under the hem of the skirt.

There’s still the issue about your boyfriend.

"I don't like how the old fuck stares at you," Gojo hears him—Sukuna—tell you one night over speakerphone.

“He’s not old,” you argue. “He’s nice, and I like him.”

It’s an ugly thing that rears its head in him and has him thinking, plotting, of tangible ways he can have you all to himself.

It happens in a way that he doesn’t expect, but he thinks it makes it all the better; how your boyfriend gets so easily worked up about a few things Gojo said:

“She’s never going to cum like that.”

Sukuna scoffs, his fingers still trapped against your clit. “You think you can do better, old man?”

Gojo ignores him and pats his thigh. "C'mere, sweetheart."

You bite your lip and look at Sukuna hesitantly, who pulls you into a sloppy kiss before letting you slide off him, and you crawl across the couch to perch yourself in Gojo’s lap. He’s still wearing his tie from work, and you stare at it for a second until he cups your cheek to tilt your chin up, thumb pressing into the middle of your lips until it slips in and strokes along your tongue, giving you something to focus on.

“Listen, if I make you cum, I get to fuck you however I want,” he says, holding your chin to keep you from glancing at your boyfriend again. He can treat you better, make you cry on his fingers, his mouth, his cock—however you want it. He’s sure of it.

You try to speak around his thumb. “But I want—I want—,” vowels and consonants trailing into nothing.

He laughs. “How can you want something that you can’t even ask for, hm?” And he thinks—ah, you’ll learn how to take anything he gives you—just as your boyfriend starts stroking himself to the sound of your moans by another man’s doing.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo imagine #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fic #fem!reader #.things i write

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soulofapatrick · 9 months

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Kiss Me Tired - Percy Jackson x Female Reader

Summary: you can't sleep so go to find your best friend - Percy

Words: 1.9k

warnings: none

Y/N’s POV

I find myself tossing and turning, the sheets tangling around my restless limbs, as elusive sleep evades me once again. The Apollo cabin is quiet, the soft hum of night almost suffocating in its stillness. Moonbeams trickle through the window, casting gentle patterns of the wooden floors.

Grateful for being on the bottom bunk tonight, I slide from under the covers with practiced ease. The gentle thud as my feet meet the floor barely makes a sound, but each step feels amplified in the silence of the sleeping cabin. Slipping on a pair of shoes without lacing them up, I make my way to the door, my heart pounding louder than the muted thuds of my footsteps. The door creaks slightly as I ease it open, wincing at the noise before exhaling a relieved breath as it swings shut behind me.

Staying close to the comforting cover of shadows, I weave my way through the lingering clusters of campers, their hushed conversations mixing with the rustling of leaves in the night breeze. The children of Nemesis and Nyx, silhouetted against the faint glow of the campfire, seem engrossed in their own whispered discussions, oblivious to my presence as I navigate the edges of their gathering.

I skirt the edges of the Poseidon Cabin, a refuge I’ve often visited, and slip inside, grateful for the cover of darkness. The familiar scent of saltwater and adventure lingers in the air. The cabin is eerily quiet, echoing with the absence of Percy—the solitary presence that usually defines it.

My steps echo softly against the wooden floor as I venture further in. The moonlight filters through the windows, causing elongated shadows that dance across the cabin’s interior. Percy’s empty bed confirms his absence, leaving the cabin strangely deserted.

Curiosity propels me deeper into the cabin, my gaze landing on the backdoor open, leading to the pontoons. The moon’s silvery trail illuminates the pathway to the water’s edge, inviting and ethereal. The realisation settles in—Percy, the sole child of Poseidon, often seeks solace by the lake, where the water sings the tales of his father’s realm.

The sight before me steal a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Percy sits there, silhouetted against the shimmering reflection of the moon on the water, a portrait of quiet strength and contemplation. His unruly hair catches glimmers of moonlight, creating an otherworldly halo around him.

As I draw nearer, the tranquility that envelopes him seems almost tangible. The lake mirrors the night sky, stars dancing on its surface, and Percy, the living embodiment of that serene beauty, captures my attention entirely.

He turns at the faint rustle of my approach, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his pretty lips. His sea-green eyes, illuminated by the moon’s gentle glow, hold a depth that echoes the mysteries of the ocean. It’s mesmerising, the way he seems both a part of the night and a beacon within it.

Percy’s messy black hair catches the moonlight in a way that makes it seem like constellations have woven themselves into the strands, each unruly wave a testament to the untamed spirit he embodies. His lightly tanned skin, kissed by the sun’s rays and caressed by the gentle breeze, holds a warmth that feels inviting even in the cool night air.

As I settle next to him, a comfortable ease settles between us. Percy shifts slightly, adjusting his position, and I follow suit, instinctively resting my head on his shoulder. It feels oddly natural, as if this silent language of unspoken understanding has been written int he stars all along. The coolness of the night dissipates against the warmth of his presence. His shoulder, solid and reassuring beneath my head, carries the weigh of both the wards burdens and its beauty.

His sea-green eyes, s deep and enigmatic, gaze out into the horizon, the mysteries of the universe reflecting in their depths. The seven expression on his face speaks volumes, as if he’s a silent guardian, watching over the secrets of the night. The gentle breeze whispers secrets to the night, and I feels Percy’s arm, strong and comforting, wrap around my waist, pulling me a fraction closer to him. It’s a gesture of silent understanding, an unspoken invitation to share the weight of ur silent night-time musings.

“Why can’t you sleep, Mouse?” Percy’s voice, soft and inquisitive, breaks the tranquil silence with my stupid nickname he made for me. His concern is palpable, yet I hesitate to divulge the true reason behind my sexlessness, my heart pounding against the confession I’m afraid to voice.

I shift slightly, trying to evade the truth, the words catching in my throat as I struggle to articulate the turmoil within, “Just… thoughts, I guess. You know how it is.”

But it’s a hollow response, a mere veil covering the truth that simmers beneath the surface. The mere thought of Percy and Annabeth together as a couple, a union so celebrated and cherished among demigods, twists a knot in my stomach, a painful reminder of my unspoken feelings for him.

The fear of vulnerability and the ache of unrequited affection hold me captive in a silence that feels suffocating. I can’t bring myself to admit the ache his closeness evokes, the ache that surges every time I see them together, facing the world as a pair that everyone wants to see. The perfect couple.

A grumble of protest escapes my lips, as I know he sees through my lie as he stays silent, a frustrated sound that I can’t seem to contain. I turn my face, burying it in the comforting crook of his neck, hoping to hide the turmoil that threatens to spill over. His chest rumbles with a soft laughter, a sound that’s both comforting and teasing, pulling me out of my momentary retreat.

Before I realise it, his finger hooks gently under my chin, lifting my face to meet to gaze. The concern etched into his expression melts away any remaining resistance, coaxing me to open up even as my heart clenches with the vulnerability of it all.

“Hey,” He murmurs softly, his sea-green eyes searching mine, an unspoken invitation tp share whatever weighs on my mind.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to dissipate. The urge to confess tugs at my heartstrings, a silent plea to unburden the ache that gnaws at me. But the words romain elusive, trapped behind a barrier of fear and insecurity.

My heart hammers against my chest as his thumb traces a gentle path across my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth that seeps into the cracks of my guarded emotions. I meet his gaze, sea-green eyes holding mine in a silent conversation that speaks volumes.

I feel myself drawn to him, my eyes inadvertently tracing the curve of his lips. The soft moonlight casts an ethereal glow on his features, highlighting the contours of his face in a way that feels almost surreal.

As my gaze lingers on his lips, a surge of emotions—longing, fear, and a yearning for something more—swirl within me. Self-control wavers as my heart takes over, propelled by an undeniable urge to bridge the gap between us.

Without warning, without calculation, I lean forward, closing the space between us. My lips meet his in a moment that feels both suspended in time and yet over too soon. It’s a soft, tentative touch, a leap of faith and vulnerability woven into the tender connection.

For a heartbeat, the world stills around us, the air crackling with the unspoken truth of our shared emotions. The warmth of his lips against mine like a revelation, a stolen moment that lingers as a testament to the unspoken desires I’ve kept hidden. But, just as quickly as it happens, the weight of the moment hits me, the reality crashing down like a tidal wave. I pull away, breathless and wide-eyed, my heart thundering in my chest, uncertainty clouding my thoughts.

“Perce… Fuck, I’m sorry, I-“

Before I can finish my stammered apology, the words tumbling out in a jumble of regret and confusion, Percy’s gentle touch silences my anxious ramblings. He leans in, cutting off my faltering speech with a soft yet determined press of his lips against mine. It’s a kiss that carries a subtle urgency, a reassurance woven into the tender connection that leaves me breathless and wide-eyed.

His lips, warm and inviting, mould against mine in a way that feels both familiar and utterly new. There’s a tenderness to his touch, a silent promise of understanding and acceptance that sends a shiver down my spine. His kiss tastes like the promise of untold stories, of shared secrets whispered in the stillness of the night.

My heart leaps in my chest, responding to his gentle yet confident touch. I reciprocate, tentatively at first, before letting myself be swept away by the overwhelming rush of emotions. My hands, initially hovering uncertainly in the space between us, find their place, one resting against his chest and the other timidly finds its way to his cheek, relishing the warmth and softness of his skin.

His hands, strong yet tender, find their place at the small of my back, pulling me closer in an embrace that feels both reassuring and exhilarating. The closeness of our bodies, the shared warmth between us, creates a cocoon of intimacy that blurs the boundaries of friendship and something more.

The moment lingers, suspended in a haze of shared emotions, before Percy breaks the kiss, his breath mingling with mine as he gently pulls me onto his lap. My knees rest on either side of his hips, a sudden rush of adrenaline mingling with the warmth of our closeness. Then, he guides me down, our bodies molding together in a dance of longing and unspoken desires. His hands, firm yet gentle, cup my face, his thumbs brushing against my cheeks as he leans in for another kiss.

This time, there's a hunger in his touch, a raw passion that ignites between us. Our lips meet again in a union fuelled by the unspoken confessions of our hearts. It's a kiss that speaks volumes, a dance of lips and tongues that express the emotions we've kept buried for so long. His fervour is matched by mine as I respond eagerly, the longing I've harboured finally finding an outlet in this shared intimacy. The taste of his kiss is electrifying, a rush of emotions that consumes every inch of my being.

My hands find their place on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer in a silent plea for more. Our bodies meld together, the heat of our closeness building an unspoken intensity that blurs the lines between friendship and an uncharted territory of passion.

In the soft moonlight, our embrace becomes a symphony of desire and longing, each movement a testament to the unspoken connection we've discovered. And as we lose ourselves in this intoxicating moment, the boundaries of what we were and what we might become blur in the heat of our shared passion.

“Come on sweetheart,” Percy finally pulls away, “You can sleep here tonight.”

Riordanverse Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

#percy jackson #percy Jackson x reader #percy Jackson x you #percy Jackson x y/n #percy Jackson smut #percy Jackson fluff #percy Jackson angst #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo hoo toa #pjo #percy jackson series #camp half blood #pjo fandom #percy Jackson one shots #percy Jackson headcanons #Logan lerman

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beejunos · 5 months

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UNKNOWN TO ME AND YOU | Alastor x reader | PART 2

Summary: After your altercation with Alastor in the hotel lobby, will you be able to mend your relationship?

This is PART 2. Part 1 can be found here.

This is the continuation of @lustylita's wonderful idea, which can be found here. I just had the pleasure of writing it. I hope you enjoy the end of our little story!

Tags: Alastor x gn.reader, some angst

The relationship between you and Alastor had taken a sharp turn for the worse. What used to be a strained but neutral relationship was now strained, uncomfortable, and awkward at best. You found yourself doing everything in your power to avoid him whenever possible.

Each time you and Alastor coincided in a room, a surge of panic would engulf you. The urgency to escape the impending unbearable awkwardness was so tangible it left a metallic taste in your mouth. You would hastily concoct an excuse, no matter how feeble, to flee the scene. The same sense of panic would grip you if he happened to enter a room you were already in.

As you made your hasty retreat, you made a point to never meet his gaze. You were acutely aware that if you did, you would be confronted with the pained expression on his face behind the mask he liked to present to the world, a sight that would be unbearable. Despite Alastor's adeptness at concealing his emotions, you could now sense his anguish from the shadow he cast.

It was something you never anticipated. You never thought you'd harbour any kind of affection towards the man. Yet, after the end of your relationship with Alastor's Shadow, it felt like going through a tumultuous breakup with him. The pain of it all left you feeling raw, vulnerable, and insecure as if a part of you had been stripped bare of dignity and reason. You were left feeling smaller than you really were, with a heavy weight on your shoulders that dragged you down. As if everything was your fault.

But you had never known about Alastor's feelings for you. You didn't even know when his affection for you had begun and why he had buried them so deep within his heart that his shadow had to break free to soothe its ache. Only when his shadow broke free did you realise the extent of his emotions and how deep they ran.

The days felt like they had grown longer and lost all their colour without the presence of Alastor's shadow. Hollow and lifeless. Whilst you could argue all you wanted with yourself that it was the shadow that you wanted and not the man, the reality was that the shadow was the man.

They were not separate. They were one.

To love one was to love the other.

What ... love?!

Pain can be subjective, just like any emotion, but that does not diminish its impact on one's life. The heart will make itself known to the mind whether the mind wants to know or not, but sooner or later, the heart will make the mind yield to the pain, the longing, and the wanting just to get a moment of peace.

And that's where you were right now, at the door where your heart had broken down, letting the reality of your emotions spill at your feet. A door it begged you to walk through, but you were scared. You were a coward. For Alastor saw you through his darkness, his shadow, and you saw him through his.

To knock or not to knock. That is the question.

It had been 23 days since your altercation with Alastor in the hotel lobby. When he had branded you with a kiss that still burned. Marking you with a curse that tore your heart out and poisoned your mind. Longing for the time when it had been just you and Alastor's shadow, but now all your memories of the shadows had been replaced with the man himself. Giving you a genuine smile that only your eyes were allowed to see. To be given the privilege, the trust, to see him. To see the man and not the sinner. To see the soul and not the demon.

Everyone longs for love, no matter what form love comes in, longing for companionship. Trust. Strong arms to fall into with hands that could hold us up when our legs can't bear the burden anymore. And you knew that Alastor could be the arms you wished to fall into, but did he still want to fall into yours?

To knock or not to knock. That is the question.

The door to Alastors room felt like the doors to an impenetrable fortress. A domain that used to reek of him but now lured you with promises you longed for but feared as well.

With your crossword puzzle in hand, you counted down from five to zero before lifting your shaking fist and knocking on the door softly. A part of you hoped that he wasn't there so you could run back down to the lobby and forget that you had ever had this stupid idea. The idea of mending your relationship.

However, you were not so lucky, for Alastor soon opened the door. His smile twitched as his eyes fixed on you, and if you weren't imagining things, you thought you heard a soft chirping sound behind him.

"Yes?" Those were the first words he had uttered to you in 23 days. The only words you had allowed him to say to you in 23 days.

Swalloing the stone in your throat, you let out in a rushed ramble:

"Canyouhelpmewithmycrossword?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My crossword," you said, trying not to have a shaky voice, "can you help me with a clue? I can't figure it out."

You held out your newspaper with the crossword to him, pointing at the specific clue you had in mind. In reality, you had already figured it out 30 minutes ago, but Alastor didn't need to know that. He looked from you down to the newspaper, then back up at you again. His eyebrow raised.

"Very well," was all he said as he looked down at the newspaper and the clue again, but by bending down, you now had his head right beside yours. You wondered if his big ears meant he could hear better and if he could hear your heart trying to beat out of your chest. Could he hear how it called out to him? How it had howled at your mind to let him back into your life again.

"The answer is Erato, the muse," answered Alastor and straightened up again.

"Oh, right. That makes sense," and that was when you remembered that Erato wasn't just any muse, but a muse whose name meant desire, and never had you desired for the smallest of touch from another before. Looking down at his lips, so red and soft, knowing what they had felt like on your cheek but maybe never getting the chance to touch them again was torture.

"Was there anything else?"

Like a record scratch, you were hurled back into reality, looking back up at Alastor, who was studying you intensely. This is where your mind won over your heart, and you became a coward again.

"No! Thank you for the help!" you practically screamed as you stiffly stormed down the hallway, away from the sinner who closed the door to his domain, and you wondered if it was painful to die.

Work was slowly killing you, and it was not a pleasurable experience. Buried in paperwork, you had been staring at a document for the past half hour without really taking in the information. No matter how many times you would re-read the document, the words made less sense as you kept reading. Blurring together in one big mess that drained you of all your energy, the clock had not even struck 09:00 yet.

Overwhelmed, you buried your face in your hands, your body leaning on the desk for support. You wondered how you were going to make it through the day if it continued at this excruciatingly slow pace.

After a slight knocking, the door swung open, and someone entered your office.

"Not now, Charlie," you said softly so as not to offend without looking up, "I told you I'm fine. I don't need you to check on me."

However, no answer came, and when you looked up, you realised that it wasn't Charlie who had come knocking at your door again but Alastor, who was holding your favourite cup in his hand and a bag in the other.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was you," you said and began to stand up, but you slowly dropped down when Alastor walked over to your desk and sat down your cup. The smell of coffee filled your office and the mere thought of having that sweet beverage filled you with delight. Beside the cup, Alastor put down the brown bag he had held, and you instantly recognised the logo of the bakery from across town that you loved so much.

As you looked at the bag, you felt a sudden jolt of surprise that made your body shake. You raised your gaze to Alastor, who was standing in front of you, and then back to the bag. You couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth spreading through you as you thought about the blueberry muffin that was waiting inside. It was such a simple thing, but it made you feel wanted. What a wonder that such a small thing could make you feel so special and warm on the inside.

That warmth was something you hadn't felt in a long time. Ever since Alastor's shadow stopped visiting your office, you had felt incredibly lonely. You missed the little conversations you used to have with him and the way he always seemed to know just what to do to make you feel better. You even found it hard to go to the bakery and get your muffin in the morning because it made you feel too alone for your liking.

But now, as you had the bag in front of you, you felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe things were finally starting to look up again. Maybe Alastor was back in your life for good, and you could once again look forward to those little moments of happiness that made your day a little brighter.

"I... thank you, Alastor. I greatly appreciate it." Your heart skipped a beat when Alastor looked down at you and gave you a small, genuine smile.

"You're welcome, my dear," he said softly as he turned to leave your office. His demeanour was calm and collected, yet you could sense a certain warmth and friendliness in his voice.

"Have you seen the roses yet?" the words rushed out of you before you could hold yourself back, too desperate for his company now that you had gotten it back.

"Pardon?" asked Alastor without turning around to look at you fully. His hands were resting on his microphone cane.

"The roses, in the garden. They've bloomed, almost all of them. They're... they're breathtaking. You should see them." Your knee started to nervously bounce under your desk as sweat began to gather in your palms. The man had managed to render you a nervous wreck so fast, his presence alone stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within you.

"No, I haven't seen them yet. I'll make sure to walk around the garden on my break today. I can imagine that they are lovely."

Thinking this was the end of the conversation, you turned back to your dreadfully dull documents.

"Would you care to join me?" asked Alastor, his soft yet hesitant voice making your heart skip a beat. It was as if the air around you had suddenly become charged with an unspoken tension, making you wonder if he was nervous as well.

"In the garden?"

"Yes."

"I... I would love to."

"Wonderful. I'll come to get you around twelve if that works for you."

"Great! I look forward to it."

As he walked out, you couldn't help but sit back in your chair and take a deep breath. You felt a sense of relief and contentment, knowing that Alastor still seemed to want to try a new connection—something new and unexplored. You picked up your coffee and took a sip, letting the warmth of the liquid spread through your body. Alastor had managed to wake the butterflies within you again with a single act of kindness.

Your and Alastor's relationship had improved immensely over the week. However, there was just this little problem that kept bugging you. Alastor had not touched you in any way, not even laid his hand on your shoulder or offered his arm when the both of you had walked through the rose garden. While this wasn't uncommon, you rarely saw him really touch anyone in the hotel except for the odd pat on the head, but his shadow had been so physically affectionate that you yearned for the intimacy of it all.

While not overly affectionate, the shadow had not hesitated to hold your hand or rest on your shoulders. It wasn't that you wanted to carry Alastor on your back, but the simple act of holding hands seemed like a distant dream.

You sank deeper into the sofa in the hotel lobby as you glanced at the deer demon sitting by the fireplace above your newspaper—your crossword puzzle long forgotten. Alastor was sitting cross-legged with a book in one hand and a glass of rye whisky in the other, silently humming to the song he played from the antique radio he had summoned, and for some reason, you thought that he had never looked more attractive.

Satan's sweaty balls, you used to party every weekend and only come home after you had tried every type of alcohol the club had to offer, and now you were in love with a sinner whose favourite pastime was listening to jazz while drinking whisky. Your younger self would have hated what you had become, but in the present, you felt a deep sense of contentment, wanting nothing more than to have a quiet evening with Alastor, where he would read out loud to you from his book in front of the fire with your head in his lap, listening to jazz.

Angel Dust shouted a loud good night and started to walk up the stairs to his room after another hour had passed. Charlie and Vaggie, who had been sitting by the dining table and doing a jigsaw puzzle, were the next ones who left the lobby. Charlie's good night was barely audible because of how much she was yawning. The last one to leave the lobby was Husk, who you knew stayed longer than he usually did just so he could keep an eye on you. You quickly shot him a meaningful glaze, trying to tell him that everything was fine, which he seemed to understand.

"Night," grunted Husk as he started to walk up the stairs.

"Good night, Husk!" you shouted back, grateful that you and Alastor had some more time alone. That is if you actually dared to do anything.

The chance to change the mood was almost too good, too romantic for you to think clearly. There were so many possibilities as to what you could do. You could ask him about his day, but that felt too predictable. You could ask him about his book, but what if the book is boring and you can't make the conversation sexy? Would he even like that? He was flirty in a very subtle and charming way, but would he like it if you took a more direct approach?

Without knowing it, you had spent all your time thinking of all the things you could do with Alastor now that you were alone with him that you completely lost track of time. It wasn't until he closed his book and stood up that you were pulled away from your thoughts back into the present.

"Well, it is getting quite late. Sweet dreams, my dear."

Panicking again like he so often made you do, you blurted out the first thing you could think of to make him stay.

"Do you know the dance foxtrot?" You fucking idiot, of all the things you could have asked, why did you ask that?!

Alastor turned to you while raising a brow, and even if he looked at you with a curious gaze, you could not help but feel like the biggest fool in all of Hell. You used to be smooth when flirting and look at yourself now.

"I do. Why do you ask, my dear?"

There was no backing down anymore, so you took a deep breath, cheeks and ears burning, and confessed;

"I've always wanted to try it! I've seen others dancing it, I even know the moves, but I've never had anyone to dance with."

In the blink of an eye, the music on the radio changed from a soft and slow jazz song to one with a more precise and faster beat. Alastor bent down and left his book on his chair before he walked over to you.

"May I have this dance?" he asked with a mischievous smile.

Not caring anymore about dialling down your excitement, you gave him the biggest smile as you took his hand. Letting him pull you off the sofa. His hand was warm and soft, sending tingles up your arm as he gently stroked his thumb over your knuckles.

As Alastor pulled you towards him, he quickly established that he would lead the dance. With your hand on his shoulder and his between your shoulder blades, he pushed you into the first step of the foxtrot. The rhythm of the music began to take over, and he started to spin you around the empty hotel lobby. You couldn't help but laugh, feeling the wind rushing against your skin as you twirled around and around.

As he spun you, his red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. You felt like the only person in the world as you looked deep into each other's eyes, lost in the moment. It was a look you didn't see often, but sometimes, when it was only you and him, you could catch a glimpse of a softer look from Alastor. A look that made the butterflies in your stomach make loops in excitement. It was a look that made you feel cherished and admired, and it was a feeling unlike any other.

The dance seemed to last forever, and you didn't want it to end. You felt free and alive, and you knew that this was a moment that you would never forget.

When the song came to an end, a new song began directly after it. This one is slower than its predecessor, one that you couldn't necessarily dance the foxtrot to, for it was a song that called for a type of slow dancing.

Without hesitation, Alastor pulled you closer towards him as his hand moved from between your shoulder blades down your back. Leaving a trail of fire under your skin as his hand pulled you closer to him after it stopped in the middle of your back.

None of you said anything but continued slowly dancing to the music on the radio. His red eyes, heavy-lidded, looked deep into yours as he slowly dipped down and kissed your lips.

Happy 'burn a big ass bonfire so the witches who are flying to the devil's party fly into the bonfire instead' day, everyone! (If you can guess which country I'm from, from that, I'll be really impressed)

Taglist for the part 2: @littledolly2345 @slytherin4ever @wendds @beelz3bub @adamwarlockislife-blog

@ilikemyteawithmilk @cherry-cola-100 @xia21 @rae-pottah @xsoftdead18

@arrozyfrijoles23 @maulsgf

#alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor x you #x reader #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x you #alastor x reader angst #hazbin hotel alastor x reador angst #hazbin hotel angst

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scribs-dibs · 5 months

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Japanese Denim

spoilers for 2.1 (aventurine's real name), gn reader, soft aventurine hours <33

wc; 944

You don't miss the breath that blows over your face, relief lifting the weight off of his chest. It's you. He's safe. He can slumber for just a moment longer.

Sunlight is unfamiliar with the planes of his face. It dances across it; gold tracing the curves of his jaw, running playfully in and out of the dip and curve of his nose, contrasting the shadows of his bottom lip. It highlights his lashes, blonde and long and casting dainty streaks on top of his cheek bones. Aventurine —no, Kakavasha— is beautiful even in sleep. He feels ethereal beside you, blurred along the edges, you are just barely able to believe him to be tangible, with the way the morning clouds part to shine down upon him. But he's real, and the both of you no longer reside in the opalescent bubbles of Penacony. You're home. He’s home.

There's a strand of hair that coils over the dip of his cheek. Slowly, like approaching a stray, your hand moves to tuck it behind his ear.

His eyes flicker open before you're halfway there.

Kakavasha is a light sleeper. There isn't time for long rests, what with danger shadowing his every step, coiling around his lungs in the form of fear, deadly memories taking the form of nightmares every time he dares to drift off. You mourn the loss of his comfortable sleep, an apology hot on the tip of your tongue, searing it the longer it stays tucked behind your lips, but his eyes flutter shut again before you get the chance. The embers disperse.

You don't miss the breath that blows over your face, relief lifting the weight off of his chest. It's you. He's safe. He can slumber for just a moment longer.

You cross the remainder of the distance between you, fingers brushing over the fullness of his cheek. There is magic in his returned affections, his bare palms holding you there against him, honeyed skin nuzzling into you. He kisses the heel of your palm, sweet and simple, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

“...Good morning,” his voice is weighed down by his drowsiness, nearly gravely from disuse. You realize that this is the latest he's slept in months, without the buzz of his phone interrupting what little time he lends himself to the vulnerability of rest. His words slur together, a change to the steady, calculated speech he uses normally— at the poker table, at the IPC Headquarters, at all times. Like this, though, exposed and sleepy, he's a bit more upfront. A bit less guarded.

“...‘S so earlyyyy…”

And a lot more whiny.

You've become acquainted with Kakavasha’s greed by now. It is his twin, his shadow, mimicking his every movement and curling around him like smoke ; all-consuming and burning through his flesh. So you aren't surprised when the beast bares its fangs, arms entangling around your middle and holding. It's fair— the pair of you are accustomed to loss, to the feeling of holding someone for the last time before the feeling of them fades away like a faraway memory, your own hands move down to hold him, too. For a sweet, blissful moment it is just the two of you. Your breathing rises and falls in tandem with his, blonde locks tickling the crook of your neck and greedy, greedy hands shifting at your back to tug you even closer. There is a void in Kakavasha’s chest, one that yearned for so long —an open wound— for someone to hold onto, completely and freely, only to have its wants go unanswered. But you are here now, wrapped up tight in his arms, peacefully. He'll be damned if he lets go now.

You sigh, and it blows past his ear, “Clingy today, huh?”

How could he not be? When the gods spited him, when everyone in sight turned his back on him, you still stood firmly at his side, unrelenting. You are more than he will ever deserve, but selfishly he still holds you.

Kakavasha stretches, cat-like, and you can see an expanse of pale skin when the silk of his nightshirt shifts with the movement. He settles right back against you, your legs entangled thoroughly.

“You're comfortable. It's nowhere near my fault.”

To make a point, Kakavasha pulls you impossibly closer. He even makes a point to huff, as if offended you even asked.

“Right, right,” your hand is absentmindedly twirling the ends of his hair with your pointer finger— you don't remember when it got there, but doing it feels so natural you don't question it for another second.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to cut this time short. I need to get up—”

“Why?”

He says it so quickly you can see he even surprises himself —eyes wide and mouth agape— but he recovers, clearing his throat:

“What's the rush? We have a day off for once, remember?”

He’s pouting. He tries to hide it under the weight of his glare, but his bottom lip, chapped from a deep slumber, betrays him. Kakavasha does not beg, and you are the last person to ever get him to try, after all he’s been through, but his bright eyes seem to plead with you.

“Right,” you agree, nodding simply, “But one of us needs to make breakfast,” you see it, the way his brows furrow further and he opens his mouth to protest immediately, “No, it cannot wait. I’m hungry.”

At that, he scoffs.

“Fine.”

Kakavasha swings his legs over the plush of your mattress, getting up in one smooth motion. You don’t have time to ponder what he’s doing– his hand latches onto your arm and pulls you up with him. Your face breaks into a smile– he cannot bear to part with you for even a moment.

“If you insist, we’ll do it together.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

rbs w/ comments appreciated !!! ty for reading <33

#aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail headcanons #honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine hsr #☆.writing

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seungminsbaldspot · 26 days

Text

Six Years, Five months and Two days | FIVE X READER

pairing: five hargreaves x reader

Part one: Six Years, Five Months, and Two Days | Five X Reader

Word Count: 5329

Genre: angst / smut

General Notes: Lila x Five did happen here folks :/, sexual themes, crude language, this does not correlate with whatever happens during seasons 4 other than Lila and Five jumping into a different timeline together for seven years, Reader is referred to as female and wife

Trigger Warnings: Sexual Content: Explicit descriptions of sexual activity and references to sexual encounters, Cheating and Betrayal: Emotional fallout from a partner's infidelity, Emotional Manipulation and Gaslighting: Attempts to manipulate emotions and control within a relationship, Non-Consensual Physical Restraint: Instances of physical restraint, such as pinning against a wall or holding wrists down, Physical Aggression and Violence: Descriptions of forceful movements and aggressive behavior, Themes of Anger and Hate in a Relationship Context: Emphasis on anger, resentment, and hate within a romantic relationship, Rough or Aggressive Sexual Behavior: Elements of rough and aggressive sexual encounters, bordering on non-consensual behavior, References to Self-Worth and Insecurity: Reflections on feelings of inadequacy and questions about self-worth due to a partner's actions, Emotional Pain and Trauma: Heavy themes of emotional pain, grief, and unresolved trauma, and Language and Tone: Use of harsh and aggressive language, including profanity and confrontational statements.

Notes: f! oral receiving, low-key toxic reader ( to be fair five cheated and I support women’s wrongs ) Handjob, Edging, dirty talk, vaginal sex

Author’s note: I have not watched season 4 and I still do not plan too, mwah

Spoiler: All you get is, There will be a part 3

Click here for next part three!

Click here for the previous part one!

The anger hasn’t waned; it has only solidified into a constant, heavy presence in your life. You’ve withdrawn from everyone around you, the thought of facing anyone else too overwhelming to bear. The pain and frustration have driven you to isolate yourself, seeking solace in solitude rather than the company of others.

The only person you’ve managed to speak with at all is Allison. She’s the lone exception to your self-imposed isolation, offering a semblance of normalcy and a listening ear. Her patience and understanding are a rare comfort in this tumultuous time, though even your interactions with her are tinged with the shadows of your unresolved feelings.

Five, on the other hand, feels like a constant, painful reminder of everything you’ve lost. Each time you catch sight of him approaching, a wave of instinctual panic drives you to flee. You avoid him as if he’s a physical manifestation of your anguish. When you see him heading your way, you almost immediately retreat to the room you once shared. There, you lock the door behind you, creating a tangible barrier between yourself and the world outside, a small fortress of solitude where you can escape the reminders of your broken trust.

Your new daily routine has become a predictable cycle. You stay confined to your room for most of the day, emerging only for the latter part of dinner when everyone gathers to eat. You join them just long enough to pick at your food, barely participating in the conversation. The silence and the strained glances from others only deepen your sense of isolation. Once you’ve finished, you retreat back to your room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that echoes the loneliness you feel.

You’re maintaining this ritual, this enforced distance, until one evening when you’re heading back to your room. As you walk through the hallways, the familiar routine feels almost comforting in its predictability. But tonight, something shifts in the air. The hallway seems quieter, more oppressive, and the weight of your emotions feels heavier than usual. Each step toward the door of your sanctuary feels more burdensome, as if the act of retreating is becoming more than just a physical escape but a symbol of your own entrapment.

You reach for the door handle, your mind a tumultuous mix of pain and anger. Just as you’re about to close the door behind you, a sudden sound from the hallway makes you freeze.

It’s Five.

Before you can react, he’s right behind you, closing the distance with an urgency that catches you off guard. His hand wraps around your wrist with a firm grip, and before you know it, he’s pinning you against the wall. The pressure of his hold is both commanding and desperate, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that cuts through the fog of your emotions.

The hallway around you seems to dissolve into the background, leaving only the two of you in this charged, claustrophobic space. His breath is uneven, mingling with the tension that hangs heavily in the air. His face is a complex tapestry of frustration and something deeper—something you can’t quite put your finger on.

The familiar surge of anger rises within you, a fiery response to the violation of your space and emotions. “Get the fuck off of me,” you snap, trying to wrench your wrist free from his grasp. Your voice is sharp, laced with a mixture of hurt and defiance. The intensity of the moment amplifies your feelings, making the struggle against his hold feel even more urgent.

Five’s grip tightens momentarily, as if he’s trying to ground himself, but his eyes soften just enough to reveal a glimmer of vulnerability. “I know you’re angry,” he says, his voice rough yet edged with desperation. “I know I messed up. But I need you to listen to me. We can’t keep doing this.”

You shake your head, the anger in your voice unmistakable. “No fucking shit, you fucked up. Now leave me the fuck alone, Five,” you grit out, struggling against his hold. His eyebrows furrow, his frustration evident. “Diego and Lila made up. Why can’t we?”

You grit your teeth, your voice steady but sharp. “I’m not dumb enough to fall for some shitty make-up sex,” you reply, your words cutting through the air.

He shakes his head, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. “Of course not,” he says, his voice softening. “I’m not saying you are.”

He switches his grip, each hand now holding one of your wrists firmly but gently, as if trying to convey earnestness through his touch. The change in his hold is subtle, his fingers wrapping around your wrists with a delicate urgency. He looks into your eyes, his gaze pleading yet determined. “What I’m trying to say is that we need to talk about this, really talk. We can’t just keep avoiding each other.”

You try to pull away, your frustration boiling over. “Leave me the fuck alone, Five,” you snap, yanking your wrists free from his grip. You rush for the door, desperate to escape, but Five moves quickly, catching the door before you can open it. He pulls you back into the room, forcing both of you into the space you once shared.

“What the fuck? Get the hell out,” you grit out, trying to push him away.

Five shakes his head, his expression set with determination. He grabs your wrist once more, his grip firm as he overpowers you. In a swift, almost frantic motion, he pulls you both onto the bed. You land flat on your back, and before you can react, Five sits across your waist, his position intended to pin you down. His weight is a physical reminder of his resolve, and he tries to stabilize you, his face inches from yours.

“I’m not leaving until we can make up,” he says, his voice a mix of desperation and determination.

You groan in frustration, your anger bubbling over. “Then fuck, we’re gonna be here till we fucking die,” you retort, struggling against him.

He smiles, a touch of defiance and resolve in his expression. “I’ve got till the end of the world, babe.” His tone is both challenging and tender, a reminder of the stubbornness that has defined so much of your relationship.

“Fuck you, Five Hargreaves,” you grit out, bucking your hips in an attempt to unbalance him. Five’s eyes narrow slightly, his grip tightening as he struggles to maintain his position. Despite the shift, he doesn’t move, his resolve unwavering.

“Fuck, why can’t you just forgive me?” he says desperately, his voice tinged with frustration.

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You fucked Lila, for fuck’s sake. Five, we’re married and you’ve never even seen me naked. How am I supposed to just forgive that?”

He sighs, the weight of your words visibly affecting him. With a defeated gesture, he loosens one of his hands, pushing back his hair, though he keeps his other hand firmly on your wrist. His expression is a mix of weariness and regret, struggling to find the right words amidst the turmoil.

“I know. I fucking know.” He says, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m so fucking sorry, alright? I don’t know what else to do.” His eyes search yours, a raw vulnerability in his gaze.

You sigh, your gaze drifting away from his. In a swift, determined motion, you buck your hips, shifting your position to straddle him. You look down at him, your expression a mix of frustration and intensity. “You’re so fucking infuriating all of the fucking time,” you say, your voice tinged with both anger and a deeper, unresolved hurt.

“I don’t fucking understand you,” you say, your voice trembling, “All of these years, and I feel like I just met you.” Your words cut through the air, laden with the weight of all the emotions you’ve been grappling with. He groans, his frustration evident. “Do you think I love being confused all the time, huh? It’s not exactly easy for me either.” His eyes, still locked on yours, as if he’s pleading for you to see things from his perspective, to understand that he’s struggling just as much as you are.

“I don’t give a single flying fuck about what happened in that timeline,” you spit out, your voice sharp and unyielding. “You fucking cheated on me. Someone you’ve known for 50 years.” You lean in closer, your breath mingling with his, every word laced with venom.

Five closes his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed in anguish. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice strained, almost pleading.

Your heart clenches at his words, but the fury quickly surges back, hot and consuming. “I fucking hate you,” you whisper, leaning in to crash your lips against his, rough and unforgiving. You taste the salt of his regret, and it fuels the fire in your veins.

You release his wrists, not out of mercy but because you need them to support yourself as you shift your weight. As you begin to pull away, his hands find your hips with a desperate urgency. His grip is firm, almost bruising, and it ignites something primal inside you—a dark thrill at his neediness. He sits up, pressing his body against yours, trying to close the distance you’ve purposely created.

You try to jerk away, but he doesn’t relent. His mouth finds yours again, his kiss insistent, bordering on frantic, as if he could somehow erase the betrayal with the intensity of his touch. His nails dig into your sides, a biting reminder of his desperation to hold on to you, to keep you tethered to him.

“F-Five…” you hiss through clenched teeth, your voice trembling not with desire, but with the fury that he can still make you feel this way.

He hums in response, a low, needy sound, as his lips trail across your face and neck. Each kiss is too tender, too earnest. It grates against your skin like sandpaper, a mockery of the intimacy he once shattered. You grit your teeth, hating how his touch sends a heat pooling in your core, hating him for still knowing exactly how to get under your skin.

“I hate you so much…” you whisper again, but the words feel thin, brittle. They don't carry the weight of your rage the way you want them to.

He doesn’t stop. His kisses become more erratic, as if he’s trying to drown out your words with the only language he thinks he knows. His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips brushing your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch. You curse under your breath, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming pull to lose yourself in him, if only to forget for a moment how much it all hurts.

He tugs at your shirt, and for a split second, you consider pushing him away again, making him suffer. But then you think, Fuck it. Maybe if he sees you like this, sees what he could lose, he’ll finally understand. You nod, a slight, reluctant movement, and his eyes light up with a mix of relief and urgency.

He rips your shirt over your head, his lips immediately trailing hot, fervent kisses along your neck. Your breathing quickens, your body betraying your anger as it responds to his touch. He fumbles with the hooks of your bra, and you don’t help him. Let him struggle. Let him know that this isn’t forgiveness—it’s a punishment. When he finally unhooks it, your bra falls away, and you watch his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But his gaze is intense, almost reverent, and you hate him even more for it.

The room is thick with tension, the silence broken only by your ragged breaths. His eyes roam over your chest, and you feel a flicker of insecurity. Did he like hers better? Are mine not good enough? The questions stab at your already bleeding heart, but you shake them off, forcing your anger back to the surface.

Without warning, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a bruising kiss. You’re not gentle; you’re taking from him, using him. He doesn’t get to have this, you think bitterly. He doesn’t deserve this.

He gasps against your mouth, surprised by your aggression, but quickly falls into rhythm, kissing you back with a hunger that makes your head spin. His hands grip your bare waist, pulling you closer, his touch igniting your skin in a way that makes your heart race with a confusing blend of hate and desire.

You reach down, grabbing the hem of his shirt, yanking it up with frustration. You want him exposed, vulnerable, just like he made you feel. You want to see him stripped of everything—his clothes, his defenses, his excuses. You pull his shirt off roughly, and he lets out a soft grunt, his eyes wide with surprise at your forcefulness.

Your hands move to his waistband, tugging with more force than necessary. Five understands the message immediately, quickly shedding his pants, leaving him in just his underwear. His hands are on you again, this time more urgent, more desperate, as he pulls your shorts down your legs. His movements are hurried, almost frantic, as if he’s afraid you’ll change your mind and leave him half-naked and abandoned.

His hands roam down your body, grasping and squeezing your ass with a possessiveness that makes you bristle. He hooks his finger in the band of your underwear, pulling it away from your skin and letting it snap back. The sting makes you gasp, not in pleasure, but in shock. You bite your lip, glaring at him, hating how even now, in the middle of your rage, he can still get a reaction out of you.

He doesn't deserve this, you think again, but you’re already too far gone. You’re in too deep, both with him and with your own conflicting feelings. You hate him, but you want him, and that contradiction tears at you, making you reckless, making you want to hurt him the way he hurt you.

He smiles and lays you down flat on the bed. He slowly pulls your underwear down to your ankles.

You glare at Five, anger coursing through you like a live wire. His eyes lock onto yours, hesitant, as if he's unsure of his place with you now. You hate the way he looks at you—the way his gaze drifts over your body, as if trying to remember every inch, every curve. He has no right. Not after what he did. Not after the betrayal. But damn it, you still want him, and that infuriates you even more.

He cheated. The thought burns in your mind, a searing reminder of why you're here now, in this moment, letting him touch you, letting him come this close. You want to use him, to make him feel some fraction of the anger and hurt that's been simmering inside you since the moment you found out. You're not here to forgive; you're here to take what you want.

Five leans down, his lips pressing a tentative kiss to your inner thigh. You feel his breath, hot against your skin, and it sends a shiver through you despite yourself. Anger and desire mix in a confusing swirl, and you have to bite back a frustrated moan. You shouldn't be feeling this way—not after everything—but your body has other ideas. You're furious with him, with yourself, with how easily he still affects you. His hands slide up your legs, parting them with a gentleness that almost makes you want to scream. It's too soft, too careful, and you can't stand it.

"Don't," you snap, your voice sharp. "Don't pretend this is something it's not. You fucking cheated, I’m gonna use you."

Five's fingers hesitate, his eyes flicking up to yours, searching. But you're not giving him anything—no reassurance, no forgiveness. Not now. Maybe not ever. His touch resumes, more deliberate now, his fingers tracing a path up your thighs. You feel his uncertainty, his regret, and it only stokes the fire inside you. He’s trying to be careful, to tread lightly, but you don't want careful. You want raw. You want him to understand just how much he's hurt you, just how deep the wound goes.

When his lips brush against your core, you don't hold back the sound that escapes you—a moan that's filled with anger as much as it is with desire. It's a sound that tells him everything he needs to know: you're not doing this for him. You're doing this for you. His tongue moves against you, hesitant at first, but you grab his hair roughly, pulling him closer, forcing him to go deeper. If he thinks he can just make it all better with a few soft touches, he's dead wrong.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you arch against him, not in surrender, but in command. You're directing this, controlling it, making sure he knows exactly what he's lost, exactly what he threw away when he chose someone else. You grind against his mouth, not giving him a chance to catch his breath. You’re angry, and you want him to feel every bit of it.

He groans against you, his hands gripping your thighs harder, and you can't tell if it's out of pleasure or frustration. Maybe both. Good. Let him feel it. Let him understand that this isn’t about making amends. This is about you taking what you need from him, nothing more.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you climb higher, teetering on the edge of a release that feels like it could shatter you—or maybe put you back together. You’re not sure. You only know that you want it, need it, if only to drown out the anger that’s been suffocating you. His tongue moves faster, more desperate, and you can feel him trying to please you, trying to make up for what he’s done. But you don’t want his remorse. You want his surrender.

When you finally let go, it's with a cry that's part pleasure, part anguish—a sound that echoes around the room, raw and unfiltered. Your body shudders against him, every nerve ending sparking with the intensity of your release. You pull his hair harder, dragging him with you as you ride out every wave, every pulse, every ripple of sensation that he’s drawn from you.

As the pleasure fades, you push him away, catching your breath, your heart pounding with a mixture of satisfaction and lingering rage. Five looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of confusion, regret, and something else—maybe longing, maybe loss. You don't care. You're not ready to decipher his feelings. This wasn't about him. This was about you, reclaiming some sense of control.

You reach down his torso, into his underwear, that was still on. Your fingers wrap around his length, feeling him hard and throbbing beneath your touch. Five's breath hitches, a soft groan escaping his lips as you begin to stroke him slowly, deliberately. You can feel his body tensing, responding to your touch despite the anger that still simmers between you.

Your movements are slow, calculated, as you watch Five's reactions closely. His eyes are half-lidded, his breathing shallow, and you can see the conflict in his expression—the desire warring with the guilt. You increase your pace slightly, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction as he struggles to maintain his composure. This is your power now, your control, and you intend to wield it mercilessly.

You tighten your grip, watching as Five's hips involuntarily buck into your hand. His eyes squeeze shut, a low moan escaping his throat. You can feel him trembling beneath your touch, fighting against the pleasure you're giving him. It's intoxicating, this power you hold over him, and for a moment, you consider pushing him further, seeing just how much he can take before he breaks completely.

When his breathing becomes more erratic, you suddenly stop, earning a desperate moan from Five. His eyebrows furrow as he looks into your eyes, confusion and need evident. You smile at him, shaking your head. His gaze holds a mix of frustration and longing, but you relish the moment of dominance.

You lay flat against the bed, peering up at Five. Despite your anger, you can't ignore the fact that this is your first time, while he's had experience. The realization sends a mix of emotions coursing through you - vulnerability, defiance, and a touch of insecurity. "It's my first time, you know," you say, your voice wavering slightly between accusation and confession. "And clearly, you have had experience." The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications and the weight of recent betrayals.

Five's expression shifts, a grimace crossing his features as the full impact of your words sinks in. He nods slowly, acknowledging the truth in your statement. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, perhaps grappling with the consequences of his actions. Then, with a deliberate movement, he crawls over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. His gaze is intense, searching, filled with a complex mix of desire, regret, and something that might be longing. He opens his mouth, clearly on the verge of saying something, but you're not ready to hear it. Not now, not when you're balanced on this razor's edge of anger and desire.

You place a firm hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. "Just save it, alright?" you say, your voice low and tinged with a hint of challenge. "Fuck me." The words are both a command and a surrender, a way of taking control even as you give yourself over to the moment.

Five hesitates, his eyes roaming your face as if trying to read your thoughts. You can see the conflict in his expression, the desire warring with concern. But you meet his gaze steadily, unflinching, silently daring him to back down. Finally, finding no uncertainty in your eyes, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the heat of him, the promise of what's to come, and your breath catches in anticipation.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Five pushes into you. The sensation is overwhelming - a complex blend of pleasure, discomfort, and an intense feeling of fullness that makes you gasp. It's more than just physical; it's emotional too, a connection that feels both right and wrong given the circumstances. Five stills, allowing you time to adjust, his gaze never leaving yours. In his eyes, you see a swirl of emotions - desire, concern, and something deeper that you're not ready to name.

You clench your jaw, trying to suppress a moan as the initial discomfort gives way to a building pleasure. It's intense, almost too much, but you refuse to show any sign of weakness. Five begins to move, his thrusts slow and measured, each one sending waves of sensation through your body. Despite your anger, despite everything that's happened, you can't deny the intensity of the moment, the way your bodies seem to fit together perfectly. It's as if your bodies remember a connection that your minds are trying to forge

A moan escapes your lips, betraying the tumultuous mix of emotions surging within you. You bite down on your lip, determined to keep the upper hand, but it's becoming harder to ignore the mounting pleasure that spreads through you with each of Five's movements.

He maintains his slow, deliberate pace, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort. You can see the concern etched across his features, but it only serves to stoke the fire of your anger. You don't want his pity, his guilt, or his regret. You want to take control of this moment, to reclaim your power in the face of the betrayal that still lingers between you.

“Harder,” you grit out, your voice low and demanding. You dig your nails into his back, urging him on. You want to erase everything—his betrayal, your pain, the confusion that lingers in every shared glance.

Five’s breath hitches at your command, his grip on your hips tightening as he adjusts his pace, thrusting deeper, harder. The intensity spikes, a mix of pleasure and pain that sends electric currents through your veins. You arch against him, every nerve alight, every sense heightened. The friction, the heat, the sound of your bodies moving together—it's overwhelming, consuming. The anger that has been a constant presence within you begins to shift, transforming into something raw and primal, a need that you're only now beginning to understand. It's not forgiveness - not by a long shot - but in this moment, the hurt and betrayal fade into the background.

You arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his movements, matching his rhythm with a newfound intensity. Every sensation is amplified, every touch, every thrust sending you spiraling further into a haze of conflicting emotions. You hate him for what he did, for the pain he caused, but in this moment, all of that fades into the background, leaving only the raw, electric connection between you.

Five's breathing becomes more labored, his grip on your hips tightening as he increases his pace. You feel the pressure building within you, a tight coil that threatens to snap at any moment. Your hands claw at his back, leaving marks in your wake, a physical manifestation of your anger and frustration. You want him to remember this, to carry the evidence of this moment with him, just as you've been forced to carry the weight of his betrayal.

"Is this what you wanted?" you taunt, your voice breathless but defiant. "To fuck me like you did her?"

Five's eyes flash with something you can't quite place—a mix of anger, regret, and a desperation that matches your own. His movements become more erratic, his grip on you almost bruising in its intensity. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin. "No," he growls, his voice rough with emotion. "I want you. I've always wanted you."

The words strike a chord deep within you, igniting a fresh wave of conflicting emotions. Part of you wants to believe him, to let yourself be swept away by the intensity of the moment. But the other part, the part that still clings to the pain and betrayal, refuses to let go. You push against his chest, creating a small space between you, just enough to remind him—and yourself—of the distance that still exists between you.

Despite the brief reprieve, the pleasure continues to build, a relentless tide that threatens to pull you under. You feel yourself teetering on the edge, your body tightening with anticipation, and you know that you're close, so close to the release you've been chasing. You dig your nails into his back, urging him on, needing him to push you over that final precipice.

You cling to him, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. “Don’t you fucking dare stop,” you warn, your voice breaking with the force of your emotions. You need this, this moment where everything else fades away and there’s only the sensation of his body against yours, inside yours.

Five responds with a deep, guttural moan, his face inches from yours. His rhythm becomes more erratic, driven by a mix of desperation and need. His breaths are hot against your skin, his forehead pressed against yours as he moves faster, his thrusts becoming more frantic. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound a rhythm of its own, matching the pulse of your racing heart.

You feel your body tensing, the coil of pleasure tightening, and you know you’re close. You grip Five’s shoulders, holding on as the wave builds, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. His name escapes your lips in a broken moan, a sound filled with all the anger, all the need, all the conflicted emotions that have been burning inside you.

His hands roam your body, one slipping between you to find that sensitive spot, his touch sending a shock of pleasure through you. It’s too much, too intense, and you throw your head back, a cry tearing from your throat as you come undone around him, your body convulsing with the force of your climax.

Five’s thrusts grow more uneven, more desperate, as he chases his own release. You feel him tremble, his grip on you tightening as he reaches his peak, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he spills into you, his body collapsing against yours in a tangle of limbs and sweat.

For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of what just happened settling between you like a heavy fog. Five doesn’t move, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his breaths warm against your skin. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

Eventually, Five pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, forgiveness, maybe even love. But you’re not ready to give him any of that. Not yet. You turn your head away, your jaw clenched, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the way your heart still races from the intensity of it all.

He tries to move closer, but you place a firm hand on his chest, stopping him cold. The heat of his body against your palm contrasts sharply with the coldness in your voice. “Don’t,” you warn, your tone low and laced with menace. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re still a fucking cheater.”

His eyes widen slightly, a mix of shock and regret flashing across his face. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to keep his composure. His gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet yours. The intensity of the moment hangs heavy in the air, the silence between you almost palpable.

You feel a flicker of satisfaction at his obedience, his silent acknowledgment of your terms. His body tenses under your hand, a clear sign that he’s accepted the boundaries you’ve set. Your anger and sense of control are temporarily sated, a bitter victory in the aftermath of your cathartic release.

The room is filled with the soft, ragged breaths of both of you, the aftermath of your shared moment lingering in the charged atmosphere. You've gotten what you wanted—at least for now.

“Get out,” you command, your voice firm and unyielding.

He opens his mouth to protest, a “But—” escaping his lips, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head. “Leave me alone, Five.”

He hesitates, his eyes darting between you and the door. “We just fucked. Are you sure about this?” he asks, a mix of confusion and vulnerability in his voice. You stare at him coldly, the remnants of your anger still simmering beneath the surface. “I’m sure. Just go.”

He swallows hard, clearly torn, but he nods slowly, turning to gather his clothes. The silence that follows is heavy, each breath a reminder of the intensity of what just transpired. As he exits, the door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone in the stillness.

Tears slip down your cheeks, unbidden. Why do you love him so much?

#tua season 4 #tua #tua s4 #the umbrella academy season 4 #five x reader #five hargreeves #five x lila #tua five #number five #hargreeves siblings #the umbrella academy #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreaves x you

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nothingbutsweetwords · 5 days

Text

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."

Word count: 5,000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!

RELEASE — 14. Him.

“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.

His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.

The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.

“What?”

“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.

“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”

It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.

“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.

“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.

His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.

Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.

“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.

At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.

Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.

They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.

Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.

The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance.

Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.

Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.

The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.

What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms.

His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues.

And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.

Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.

He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.

“Perchance that is exactly what we need” Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.

He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.

Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.

His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.

The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.

Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”

“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.

He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.

Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.

Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.

Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.

The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.

Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.

In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.

She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.

From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.

That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.

His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.

After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.

The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.

Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.

Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.

When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach.

He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.

“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence.

The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.

He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision.

The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation.

Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.

She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand.

And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament.

In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.

Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.

With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.

He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.

The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?”

“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.

“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.

“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”

She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second.

He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.

“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.

“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.

“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.

Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.

The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.

“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”

Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for.

“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative.

He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.

“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.

“Was it only once?”

“Yes.”

“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”

“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”

“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”

“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.

“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”

He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.

Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her.

“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“No” he breathed out.

“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”

A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.

A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.

With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.

Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.

For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.

On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.

“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.

“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”

“It was a grievous mistake.”

“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”

“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”

“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”

She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”

He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.

Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.

“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.

She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.

The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.

“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”

Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”

He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.

She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.

He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.

In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”

When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic.

“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.

“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”

“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”

Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.

A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified.

“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”

“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.

She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.

Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.

Yes, he was a child.

It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.

The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.

His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest.

With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.

Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness.

As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability.

“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”

“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.

After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness.

Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.

“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside.

With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.

As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.

He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.

He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.

“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”

In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.

@callsignwidow @purplegardenwhispers @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @squidscottjeans @fossface @truly-abysmal @congenialcat @that-girl-named-alex @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x reader #ewan mitchell #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fluff #hotd fanfic #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #cregan stark

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hana-no-seiiki · 1 year

Text

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐄

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐒 + 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐱 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 (𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝟏)

“Athanaxious. We are going back right this instant!” An adult male siren called out to his brother. His beautiful gradient tail of obsidian to violet shimmered underneath the water filtered sunlight.

“Oh stop being a prickly pufferfish for once, Vasileios. We’ll be in the deep once again in a moment. I just have to—“ ‘Athanaxious’ replied with a huff. No matter the uncountable times he had come to the shoreline, it was still difficult navigating through shallow water on such a rocky beach. His tail, an exact opposite of his companion with its sandy ivories and gold, flicked in all directions as it tried to propel him away from harsh terrain.

His hands gripped tightly to a leather sling bag across his exposed chest.

“Have to wh—“ The albino creature attempted to ask but was thwarted by a hash tug on his arm, “Hey!” He stretched out his arm to slap Athanaxious in retaliation only to pause at the sound of singing.

“All I ever wanted was the open sea and sky; freedom from the life I always knew.”

Both men froze. A chilly delight crawled through their spine, their limbs and eventually the tips of their fingers and fin. Vasileious had never heard of a voice that entrancing. He has heard several of his fellow sirens luring humans to their demise, but none of them could even hope to compare to this sound. It echoed within the chambers of his heart, the matter in his brain, and the longing that lied dormant within.

But then he saw it’s source and the features on his face soured.

A human.

You.

“Now all I am is haunted as days and hours roll by…” You continued with your song, and then you abruptly halt. The next line wouldn’t come out properly. Your eyes run over the words, slowly getting frustrated with how it wouldn’t fit in.

Athanaxious doesn’t waste a beat. He knew that adorably annoyed sneer you’d make and what would fix it. “All I ever think about is you.”

Vasileious gasped. Athanaxious never sang. Always going on and on about the safety of the sailors on sea and how he didn’t want their blood on his hands. Yet here he was freely providing his — quite literally — magical voice to this human.

“Athanaxious, what are you—“

“Than! You’re back! I was just thinking on ways to improve that verse. Thank you.” You ran, the ruffles on your chiffon blouse flowed through the wind. You flinched and stumbled as the pebbles scraped the sole of your bare feet. Your luxurious leather heels long forgotten.

“Of course, your highness. I wouldn’t miss our reunions here for anything.” Athanaxious winked, just like how you taught him a while back.

You chuckled. The siren had noticed how the clothes you wore contrasted to those he’d usually spot at sea. ‘Couture’ you called it. But all he could think of was those pictures of human prince and princesses, and thus the little inside joke started. “I told you I’m not . . . “

Your eyes trailed from your raven haired companion to the albino. Athanaxious’ tail always fascinated you, but the new siren’s looked out of this world. Further reminding you of how different the worlds you lived in actually were. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, him?” Athanaxious rolled his eyes, another mannerism he learnt from you, “Just one of my older brothers.”

“You didn’t tell me you have an older brother.”

“Y-you didn’t tell me you were fraternizing with a- a- human! What would father think about this?Not to mention mother . . .” Vasileious’ fins shivered at the thought.

“Father knows.” Athanaxious shrugged whilst looking throw the bag he’d wrapped around him. You have gifted him many things, tangible or not, throughout your friendship. So he thought of bringing something back to you.

A pearl necklace. He was actually going to give you the clam it came from but judging from what fishermen looked for and spoke about, he thought giving you the biggest, shiniest pearl he could find would have been more appropriate.

As soon as you received the gift, you swiftly embraced him in an attempt to hide the empty look on your eyes before mustering the most sincere ‘Thank you.’ you could do.

“In any case, don’t humans have siblings as well? I just didn’t think it would be interesting enough to mention in our conversations. Our time together is often far too brief.”

“Far too brief it is.” You stared at the iridescent pearl. A sigh escaped your lips. “Than, I have an event scheduled on a beach—“

Vasileios attempted to cover his little brother’s mouth but it was too late.

“Magnificent! We’ll be there!”

“Excuse me, I didn’t agree to this—“

“—across the continent.” Your cheerful temperament dissipated.

Athanaxious asked, confused at why you seemed so upset about such a fact. Didn’t more events meant you get paid more in those currencies you spoke about? He shook his head, perhaps you were forgetting he wasn’t human like you always did and said, “Your highness, do I like I wouldn’t be able to swim there?”

“No, of course not. You seem quite capable.”

Athanaxious’ cheeks turned a dark shade of blue at your words.

“Besides you must have plenty of royal duties to accomplish.”

“I have no such thing—“

“Thank you for reminding me, human.” Vasileios’ patience had ran out. He loved his brother to pieces — he really, truly did — but feared the wrath of his parents much more. “Mother asked us to survey the reefs. If we come back without a proper report. . .”

“Oh fine.” Athanaxious slapped the other siren’s hand away, and then faced you with his sharp teeth. “Fare thee well, your highness.”

“You too, Than. Twas a pleasure to meet your brother.”

You sighed one last time. Annoyed at your lack of confidence in conveying the message you wanted to.

Athanaxious will find out sooner or later that it was your very own wedding he would attend by himself,

and the nickname he gave you? Might have some truth to it soon.

[ AUTHOR’S NOTE ] - status: unedited

Have an old ass draft that has collected dust atp.

If this gets idk, 1000 notes I’ll make artworks of our siren brothers and switch out the one I have featured on the header.

This fic will have three-five acts in total. Of which the story I’ve already planned out. It’s pretty much just a twist on the classic little mermaid story to end our pride month with a bang. We love our historic gays as much as our contemporary ones 🏳️‍🌈

reader is amab and will have more stuff alluding to their masculinity in later acts.

[ LINK TO NEXT ACT HERE ]

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere siren #yandere mermaid #yandere imagine #yandere oc #yandere fic #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere core #yandere insert #male yandere #yandere various #yandere harem #yandere harem x reader #gender neutral reader #dom reader #amab reader

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sanakimohara · 20 days

Note

I'm hoping it's not just me that gets honey by taking nudes (semi even). Literally with each piece of clothing gone, I become horny(er). So I was thinking about hyunjin seeing reader taking nudes 🤭

[ NXDE ] H. H.

pairing/s: hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: having a new, rich, and entitled step brother has its ups and downs…

playlist:

warnings: smut + mdni + nsfw + blackmail / degradation…? + mastrubatuon + degradation + pervhyunjin + cumeating / oral

type: headcannnon \ semi specific plot

authors note: eons later I finally get to this…please forgive me…

[ not proofread ]

Hyunjin walks in on you by accident. Swallowing a loud groan, he watches you from your bedroom doorway. Your back is towards him, laptop open, webcam running, and your phone propped up in your hands as you lay on your side and snap an overhead picture of yourself with the sluttiest smile he’s ever seen.

Hyunjin dares to shift his gaze away from your face, eyes falling half-closed, seeing your pink sundress tossed at the end of your bed, sheer tights lying on top of the discarded clothing, and your bralette soon joining the pile. He digs his teeth into his tongue, seeing the light fabric leave your skin, the curve of your breasts visible from the back as you sit up on your knees and pose for another photo.

Hyunjin isn’t above watching you in silence, awed and too painfully aware of his growing erection. He stays for the show you put on -performing for the cameras to please no one else but yourself. That’s what he’s convinced himself, hoping you don’t notice him observing, praying you don’t hear the whisper of a groan he lets out as you slowly widen the space between your knees while circling your hips to settle down.

Hyunjin can’t take his eyes off you, gaze flickering between the cameras you provocatively pose for and your body. You take all the time in the world to snap and film yourself, mirroring positions he’d only dreamt of putting you in himself, able to mimic doe and siren eyes on a subconscious cue, and the point of it all driving him insane as he stands in your bedroom doorway.

Who could you be taking these photos for?

Why couldn’t he convince himself to leave, to slam the door shut and forget he ever saw you doing something so private and depraved?

What could he possibly do to stifle the near painful heat in his abdomen, the constant pulsing of his cock through his black sweat, or the twitch of his fingers as he forced his body to remain stone still and out of your sight?

There are too many questions and not enough answers.

Hyunjin can’t help the chill crawling up his spine when you finally notice him watching you strip and photograph every inch of skin he dreamt of touching with his own hands. Your eyes cut through him via your laptop lens, a sweet smile slowly spreading across your face and a mocking rise of your hips as you shift to look at him directly over your shoulder. His chest is weighted with tangible shame.

He shouldn’t be doing this, watching his new little step-sister taking vulgar pictures of herself for god knows what reason and fantasizing that her motives for doing so had something to do with him and no one else.

He shouldn’t have enjoyed the evident smirk tugging at your peach-plump lips, the haze in your eyes as you beckoned him towards you with a single finger, or the tilt of your head when he shook his head to refuse.

He stares at your bare breasts, full and looking soft to the touch, among other details he took in about you at the moment. His voice skated on the edge of a whisper, trembling with illicit desire, “I…I should go..”

You sat up straight, a pout on your lips as you shifted to sit, your knees pulled up just slightly from the bed, and your arms helping to balance your weight in the new, relaxed position. “Why? I liked having a little audience…even if it was my pervert of a stepbrother..”

It’s no insult; your light tone and quiet giggle clarify the possible misconception, but they still manage to irritate him.

“I’m not a pervert…” he mutters back immediately, glaring straight at you but failing to uphold his protest as that very same glare lowered to the space between your partially opened legs.

Hyunjin exhales heavily through his nose, entranced by your barely covered cunt peeking back at him. Your slit is made evident by the dewy patch of arousal seeping through your lace underwear, soft folds nearly swallowing the thin fabric. He can’t see it, but your walls throb the longer he stares where he shouldn’t, a boldness snaking its way into your train of thought, seeing his body visibly waver against the doorframe he stood in.

Hyunjin is in a dazed trance as you begin to touch yourself, lazily sliding a hand to caress your inner thighs and gliding that very same hand over the slick expanse of your folds while a shiver racks your body. His tongue darts past his lips, strands of dark hair falling over his sultry stare, the heat pulsating in his chest pouring into his cock as your middle finger gently rubs past the puffy and wet slit holding his interest.

A smirk travels onto your face; your voice is sweet and low as breathy moans float between your words. “Mhmm…but look at you…Hyunie...”

“…watching me touch myself…”

Your finger dips past the fabric of your panties, immediately covered in your sticky arousal and the sound of the single digit echoing softly through his ears. He swallows hard, eyes sliding shut to snap open a moment later as you whimper from the loss of eye contact. “Look at me…please..” you feign desperation, aware of your stepbrother's struggle to sustain morality or indulge in what he can’t have.

You, his oh-so-spoiled little stepsister, got away with everything.

Who haunted his fantasies like a slippery ghost for the hell of doing so.

Hyunjin holds his resolve for a moment longer, weighing all his motives, stare flickering between the slow and steady pump of your fingers diving in and out of your creamy walls. Leaving now would be so easy; his absence could wipe the little triumphant smirk off your pretty face and give him something to hold onto your head.

But what’s the fun in that?

Hyunjin takes his chances, pushing off the doorframe with a huff and reaching a hand behind to slam your bedroom door shut and lock it for good measure. You don’t stop what you’re doing; your body is racked with delicious tingles of anticipation as your index and ring fingers join the assault of your cunt. Your lips slowly fall open from the mountain in your lower stomach, the tight feeling accelerated by his steady gaze and nearing body heat. He’s given up denying your backhanded compliments, cursing under his breath in awe as your doe-eyed gaze falters into an utterly desperate haze and your fingers dive into your walls at a faster pace.

“N-need your help…” you whisper, thighs trembling slightly as your fingers barely graze against the spot you need the most friction. It’s not enough; you could never make it enough, especially knowing he could do much better at the task.

Hyunjin let his body move independently, sinking to the floor on his knees without a second thought. His large hands smoothed up your bare and warm legs to grip the back of your knees. You fidgeted under his touch, having thought about several occasions, but you were startled to feel the slight roughness in his skin.

Your timid reaction induced no pause from him, his hold tightening just enough to drag your body close to him with one tug, and you obediently complied with a soft whine flying past your lips. “You’re … so…disgusting…”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, not sparing your face a glance as he slaps your hand away from your soaking cunt, irritated by how slowly you’re touching yourself. “Shut up…take my help or not…I don’t care…” He forces an edge to the response, not meaning a word of it but hyper-focused on the mess you’ve already made.

One piece of fabric left on your body, drenched by cum, and obnoxiously useless in his eyes.

You open your mouth to mock him again, face flushed by his last retort, but your pride is too enthralled for you to accept defeat and his intense stare on your cunt not helping your wavering confidence in the situation. “Mak-“

Hyunjin is quicker than you, head diving straight between your thighs before a completely notable phrase leaps off your tongue while he licks a thick stripe from sipping entrance up to your relatively neglected clit. “Fuck!..” you help in shock and delight as he laps at your cunt with little regard for anything else, hands trailing down to scratch at your inner thighs and holding them open as his head rested on the right one. Your eyes lower, watering with pleasant tears watching him eagerly delve his tongue along your slit and past your drizzling entrance.

A question of his integrity floats in the back of your head, fizzling out on your tongue as a trembling gasp fills your chest. “H-Hyunjin..?”

“Hmm…?” He groans, immersed in the taste of you, lips placing tender to your clit when his tongue isn’t swirling on or around it. You bite your lip, swallowing a moan as your parents unlock the front door, which carries you up two flights of stairs and into your oddly quiet room.

Hyunjin hears them too but refuses to acknowledge their hovering presence as he presses his head further between your trembling thighs, the fluff of his hair tickling your heated and sensitive skin, and the force of his shift in position knocking you onto your back. There’s no longer a point in showing hesitation; he’s come to terms with that and entirely abandoned the facade of maintaining dignity, hearing your shy moans feel the air with every slip of his tongue into your fluttering hole.

You can’t stand looking at him directly anymore, blushing rose red as he purposely spits into your entrance, lapping up the mixture of your arousal and his drool with an excited and guttural groan as your hands fly to weave through his dark tresses.

“F…mhmm f-feels so…” The praise twists in your chest, verging on coming out, but you are strangled by the constant pressure of orgasm as he shoves your legs further up and out.

Hyunjin smirks as you choke on a silent scream from the new position he’s put you in, nearly folded in half, and left no choice but to let him have his fill of your creamy pussy with your discarded clothes slipping off the bed's edge. One glance up at you makes his cock throb almost painfully, sweats constricting the tense twitching seeing your pleasured expressions and writhing body reflected in the laptop's webcams and your up-standing phone camera.

He could get used to catching you in the act.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d be a sweet little stepsister for once and take more than a few pictures and videos for him and only him.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?…

authors note: yall aren’t going to believe this… but I went fucking camping and I hated it tbh…

other links: n/a

[ bonus content + ]

Credits to Creator 🖤 Also, what do you guys think of the members' solo stages so far? Which ones are your favorites?

#skz #stray kids #hyunjin smut #hyunjin x you #skz smut #stray kids x reader #skz imagines #hyunjin stray kids #skz x reader #hyunjin headcanons #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin hwang #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin series #hyunjin hard thoughts #hyunjin hard hours #stray kids hyung line

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h5eavenly · 3 months

Text

Fallen Star┃Jake Sim

seventeen- can't you see the human in my being? warning: suggestive all over other than that enjoy yn+jake bonding!! and grab some snacks cus this is a long one

Masterlist ✶ prev ✶ next

The feeling of cool water surrounding you is celestial to say the least, albeit the smell of chlorine that cuts through the small space sharply, it meshes with the fragrance of your shampoo. It’s a dizzying scent if you focus on it too much. You hum to yourself, the enervation that has been clinging to your body amidst your busy schedule for the past couple of days, slowly dissolves, becoming one with the droplets trickling down your skin.

From seemingly long and dreadful red-carpet interviews you watched Jake go through, a couple of runway shows accompanied by your messed up sleeping schedule thanks to the time difference. This relaxing time was much needed.

With the pool having an open rooftop, the moonlight seeps in, illuminating the dark, reflecting against the water as if tiny million diamonds are swimming alongside you. The sight brings a silly smile to crawl up your face. In this moment, your life doesn’t feel as tangible as the warmth spreading throughout your chest.

Your tranquil silence is heckled by the sound of a door sliding open, footsteps following. You swivel your head around, a startled expression overtaking your smile at the sight of Jake. An amused arch of an eyebrow coaxes forth his own surprise upon seeing you.

“Hey?” You speak, swimming closer to him. Your hair slicked back, your face bare of anything and a natural flush settling upon your cheeks. It’s a sight he was not prepared enough to behold stumbling from between his cold sheets.

Hence why it takes longer than essential for your words to penetrate his brain, stretching seconds for him to compose himself.

“I was wondering who the fuck is crazy enough to be swimming at 12 am. Of course it’s our precious bunny.” He teases, a smile curling at the end of his lips as he sits on one of the lounge chairs, by the edge.

Precious

It’s unfortified, a scarce display of a sentiment that settles right atop your heart, evoking beats mellowed down to a mere hankering for him. It’s simply serendipitous despite the knowledge that you know he doesn’t mean it endearingly, not one bit. Not with the way mischief colors his grin. Yet, your cheeks obliterated with a darker flush, foolishly you could only pray it’s not visible enough for his eyes to catch it.

“I couldn’t sleep.” An all too adorable of smile spreads across your lips, Jake blames it on his lack of sleep as he eyes you wading to him, till you’re close enough to rest your arms upon the side of the pool, a sparkle matches the light emerging from the moon swims in your gaze, your sweet scent invisibly travels all the way to him.

“So, you decided to take a swim in the middle of the night?”

“Mhm.” You relax your chin in the palm of your hand “I had to call Niki as well. I haven’t talked to him ever since we landed in Paris.”

“How is he doing?” he asks, leaning back on the chair and his eyes growing half-lidded as he tips his head back, they’re growing unabashed, lowering over the length of your slender neck.

A knot forms in your stomach at the ferocity.

“He’s alright.” You breathe out, softly.

“Is it morning in Korea?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip and you, with enormous exertion will enough self-control not to let your eyes wander.

“Yeah, I think I called him in the middle of class but oh well.”

“You miss him?”

“a little bit. Is that too loser of me?” you breath out a giggle, diffidently brushing a strand of your hair away from your face, even though it never moved out of place.

“it’s cute.” He replies, with integrity fettering his words. Your breath hitches ever so slightly, stolen by the fondness coating the air.

It’s a stillness that is unfamiliar yet welcome, twirled with the warmth of your chest and his peace of mind.

“You’re calling me cute?” he rolls his eyes playfully, a smile forcing its way on his face and your giggles turn discordant, evoking the air to sparkle with your effulgence.

“I’m saying you missing your brother is cute.”

“So, I’m not cute?” you push your lips into a pout, a strive to capture fallen praises from his mouth. He leans forward, pressing his index finger into the skin of your forehead, tipping your head back and you follow with ease, a lazy smile climbing up your lips.

“You’re annoying.” He jokes, leaning back in his chair.

“You said it so fondly I’m taking it as a compliment.”

Jake doesn’t say anything back to that, only tilts his head to the side with an enticing simper and you fall into tune with an amicable song. It’s plaited with stares brimming with desire, curls of his smile and the fluttering of your lashes. Induced with your cheeks glowing pink, your heartbeat remains abiding.

A silent movie that unfolds right amidst your eye contact.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” you ask, a venture in tries to dissipate the tension daunting on you, you tell yourself it’s out of nowhere, yet the look in Jake’s eyes has been as transparent as ever.

Push and pull, a servant to overflowing lust.

It’s instantly deemed a failure when his silence stretches, his eyes are too busy watching you, too patently diverted with how inviting your lips look.

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t sleep for some reason.” he shrugs.

Perhaps it’s the way his pale skin almost glimmers under the moonshine that has your breath hitching. As if stars traveled for years only to disintegrate with enough force upon his first breath into the universe. Amassing atop his skin, in the flickers of shades in his eyes and in-between the black strands of his hair. Even with fatigue staining his undereye, evidence of his tossing and turning in the mess atop his head. Jake remains the most dazzling star you got the chance to behold.

Not dancing along to this all-too-familiar song of allure is impossible. You fall into step way too easily, it’s embedded with the way your own eyes cloud with desire, a bite to your lower lip as you attempt to push your breasts together with an innocent grin, induced with charm. His eyes flit down immediately, tongue darting out to wet his own lips.

“There’s gotta be a reason. Weren’t you pretty tired earlier?”

“Mm.”

“You should relax.”

“Oh? How do you think I should relax?”

“There’s a lot of ways to relax.”

“Like what baby?”

Ah fuck. You don’t expect it and it shows in the way your eyes widen, crushed rose petals traverse across your cheeks and triumphant blooms upon his just as strong. The endearment goes straight to your core. A fire slipping down your folds.

You avert your eyes for a moment in futile attempts to collect your thoughts, to not turn into putty under his stare. He remains ruthless with his intensity, your body growing impossibly hot.

When you look back at him there’s newfound seduction coating your lips, tilting them upwards.

“I don’t know,” you start with a shrug “Maybe you’re just hungry Jake?” Your words spill like candied sweets, melting his tiredness away and rendering his senses awake. His brows raising in pleasant surprise, galvanizing him into leaning forward.

“Famished.” He answers, quickly, no sense of hesitation.

“You should eat then.”

“I should.”

You smile with your eyes before your lips, even with air tinted red with lust. A hue of brightness surrounds you. It does nothing to the way he watches you with undevoted attention as you amble out of the water. You take your time, dawdling past him to grab your towel. The minutes ticking by agonizingly slow as you dry yourself.

His eyes run wild, in their own race against his sinful cravings, trailing all over your body with no shame to hold him back, submerged with ripples of heat, it’s in the fire setting a trail form him to you ablaze. Surging up with beguiling invitation. By the slowness of your hand’s movement, it’s clear you’re holding back your cards, leading with teasing batting of your lashes, darting stares and giggles.

However, tonight Jake has no time for premeditated moves.

He already bared them all on the table.

“Come here bunny.” He says lowly, an order lacing his tone.

“Where?” you ask, faux abstinence has your eyes widening in pureness. He sees past them all, pulling on his own end of desire with a raise of brow at you. Colored with lead that makes your mouth water.

Yet he still lets a chuckle slip, overtaken by merriment. He pats his thigh silently; it is more than enough for you to follow. You trudge towards him, his eyes growing heavier with each step, darkening with a daze of lust.

As soon as you’re within distance, his hand wraps around your hip, his thumb brushing over your tattoo with tenderness that has you exhaling.

“I forgot about this little guy.” He comments, eyes fixated on your hipbone.

“You hurt his feelings.” You retort in a hushed whisper, albeit impishness, you’re closer to stifling on the mere idea of him.

Keeping his gaze interlocked with yours he leisurely inches forward, his other hand curling around your waist and tugging you towards him and you allow it with adroitness dripping from the softening of your fingers pushing through his hair. His lips part marginally, just enough for him to place an open-mouthed kiss right over your tattoo.

“Sorry.” He murmurs halfheartedly, the twitch of his lips should annoy you like it always does and yet you don’t find it in you the same way you don’t find an answer to give back.

You’re mutilated, particles that only ever come together under his diverting touches of adulation.

At your silence, he kisses it again, closing his eyes as if to savor the flavour of your skin, as if decades have managed to mesh within the negligent hours of his workdays since the last time he felt your skin on his lips. It feels closer to that when you let a whimper out, your fingers tightening in his strands as his lips slowly travel up. With bruising kisses akin to infatuation seeping into your skin, whizzing with your blood. he leaves a trail of stardust behind, seared onto your skin with electricity that will surely remain for days.

“Jake.” You moan, overtaken with debility that has him groaning.

As if a coil that snaps, a tempest of lechery he cannot hold back anymore, his hold on you consolidates, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he pulls you to straddle his lap, your arms find his neck naturally and the proximity is enough for him to wave his vanquishment haughtily

“I want you.” He whispers wantonly right atop your lips, his breath reeking of mint and your legs tremble with his honesty.

“You can have me.” you press your chest into him, lust erupts from between your words all the way down to your core.

You collide with feverish force, your lips unfurling almost promptly as his tongue invades your mouth. Your kiss turns messy and wet sinfully quick. His hands are all over your body, on your ass one minute and then your waist only to end up on your breasts, kneading them with the same yearning unfolding within you, it has you grinding down on him.

With desire coating your hands, they slip down his body with their own purpose, slipping past the constrictions of his undergarments, your palm wrapping around his shaft, he groans against your lips and the sound is enough to have your hand moving up and down languidly. It is ample for pleasure to seep into him, breaking from your kiss with a moan. A sound so melodically profaned, your own core shakes all the same.

“fuck” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours and you kneel into reverence with force, kindled with adoring eyes lingering on every expression that passes by him.

Every twist on his face, crinkle of his brows and then the way his eyes catch yours, not stumbling by a blunder but rather with intention. Akin to butterfly wings grazing the softness of petals. Entranced by their beauty and you, with one another, sweetness manages to mesh within all the fissures of ambivalence between you. He manages to stay the prettiest even with pleasure fogging his essence.

His hand encircles your wrist, halting your movements with a bite to his lower lip and you exhale, not realizing you were holding yourself back from breathing in all along.

“Let’s go to my room.” He says, voice a mere whisper with your lips almost touching, your chest heaving. As your eyes dart between his darkening orbs and his mouth, you nod.

Your appetency to feel his body against yours, and his greed for your mewls to spill into him overwhelm every other sensation with vigor, painting the inside of your mind with emptiness, induced with echoes of need for him. It all unwinds between his sheets and his hips moving against yours, with lust drunk kisses and stares that stretch way too long to be deemed appropriate for the relationship you two have.

You don’t allow yourself to dwell on it, even when Jake kisses trail from your lips to your cheeks with delicacy dusting them before he rolls off you.

After the both of you are showered, you learn on the doorframe of his bathroom, in a bathrobe and watch as Jake gets dressed in alleviated movement. He turns to face you, no usual disquiet etched onto his features. Instead, his skin glows brighter with city lights from his window.

“You wanna eat together?” you open your mouth to answer, yet before your words even manage to exist, your stomach grumbles, the sound cutting through the air forcefully.

He chuckles and your cheeks grow warm, with adorable discomfiture.

“I’m really hungry.” You smile.

��Me too.”

Jake ends up ordering room service, despite the late hour you’re guessing it’s one of the privileges you get when you’re the most famous person in Korea. With a table full of food separating you. Your chatter fills the room, with gleaming eyes and a beam on your face, your words unraveling parts of your past with funny situations and random pictures you had of your friends. Jake listens fastidiously, with seemingly uprunning attention and nods when it’s imperative.

“This was at Niki’s last birthday party. Wonie got so drunk there’s a not a silly thing that could cross your mind that he didn’t do,” you explain with a soft laugh, showing him the video, you took a few months back, falling into the warmth of nostalgia.

“Wait who’s that? Next to Ryujin.” he asks, fingers pointing at your screen.

“Oh, that’s Heeseung.”

“He looks different in everything you show me I swear.”

“Really? I feel like he looks the same.” You retort with an endearing giggle, one that has him clearing his throat as you scroll through your cameraroll “Maybe it’s the hair. He dyes it a lot.” You murmur, more to yourself as you tilt your head at the screen of your phone.

“Is he the one who gave you the alien tattoo?”

“Yes.” You groan, covering your face with your palm. It has a fond smile spreading across his face.

“What’s all that about anyways?”

“It was a stupid fucking bet.”

“Mm. tell me. I’m intrigued.”

You stare at him with dewy widened eyes, pulling your lips into a pout saturated with desires to run away. It does little to nothing to grate through his façade, it stays unwavering as he arches an eyebrow at you, scuttling gaze and you sigh. Knowing you’re cornered.

“I don’t want you to laugh at me.” You whine, a glisten takes place between your lashes, it evokes his fondness to enlarge.

“I won’t.”

“you’re already smiling,” your pout deepens, and his smile only stretches.

“Tell me.” you sigh with defeat.

“Basically, there was this guy I was obsessed with back in highschool. So, me and Heeseung made a bet that if I confessed to him in front of everyone, he’s gonna give me money.”

“How much?”

“Like 300$.”

“Damn. And the tattoo?”

“He said if I lost, he’d tattoo that stupid toy story alien on me. I thought there’s no way I’m losing so of course I agreed. Besides I had heard stuff about how the guy also likes me so I thought this should be easy.”

“Okay? What happened then?” you sigh, bracing yourself for the heat already crawling up the length of your neck with immense speed.

“I ended up confessing to the wrong guy.” You admit, looking at him through your lashes, Jake’s expression drops, crossing his arms atop his chest.

“You confessed to the wrong guy?” you nod, and he lets out an exhale of a chortle, crossing all the way to your chest and spreading just like you imagine an angel’s wings to unbosom “How?”

“They looked the same from the back. And I just went up to him and spilled the contents of my heart and you know what’s the worst thing about it?”

“Yeah?”

“It was during lunch time and in the middle of cafeteria, so everyone heard me.” you grouse, the embarrassment of the situation clambering over you all the same.

“So, you humiliated yourself and managed to get a shitty tattoo all at once?”

“Pretty much.” You answer with a chuckle.

A short silence settles, not twisted with excruciating awkwardness but rather a pleasant warmth, like the feeling of sunrays upon your skin after a dreadful cruel winter. It’s in the way Jake’s freshly clean hair falls over his eyes as he looks at you. It’s seraphic, enough to have you falling breathless, yet you don’t find the urge to run away from his gaze in you. Conjuring up enough gallantry to envelope his atoms with the affability of your smile.

His eyes dart down to your plate, a frown taking over his face at the sight of it being empty.

“Eat bunny. Who do you think I got this food for?” He berates with a tsk, adding pieces of steak onto your plate and you watch with amusement clinging to your features.

“You didn’t need to order this much.” You comment, digging into your food regardless.

“I told you I was hungry.” He replies, adding steamed vegetables onto your plate as well “Your diet is so shit. Have some veggies.”

“Excuse me? my diet is not shit- oh my god stop adding so much I can’t eat all of this Jake!” Giggles erupt from between your lips, amid bites you cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

“It is shit. All you have is sugar and coffee.” He falls back into his seat, bestowing you some mercy and leaving your plate alone.

“I have other stuff.”

He hums, resting his chin upon the heart of his palm. Watching as you indulge into your food with a smile of joy overriding your antecedent stubbornness.

“Why do you love sweets so much?” he asks after a while, after he has given you enough minutes to chew a good chunk of your plate.

“I don’t have a specific reason. It’s like my comfort amidst the chaos of life.”

Comfort. It tumbles out your mouth so easily, unrestricted by the shackles of hardship yet it reverberates with crudeness throughout the nooks of his brain, tastes pungent on his tongue. Nevertheless, it swirls in his mind with prodding questions. It translates into his gaze fogging up. Nebulous with conjectures if comfort were in the cards for him.

Surprisingly, you seem to be catching on to his telltales of running eyes and busy brain, as you pretend to pick your fork, your hand brushes against his briefly, akin to the feeling of Forget me nots on the tips of his finger. Like spring, warmth on the contrary to the coldness of his soul. It’s enough to bring him back to you. Eyes focused as they flit between your hand and your face.

“Do you have something like that?”

“Like that?”

You look out the huge window and Jake’s eyes stay on you, the marvelous city lights reflect upon your face, a sparkle manifesting in your eyes that is just as bright. As if every speck that is meant to shine only ever does so for you. it’s only evoked by the smile knitted with the rapture of existing on your face. It’s a little unjust – Jake feels, the realization that no matter what city he ends up in, no matter what roof he’s under and what kind of flavors on his tongue you’ll remain extravagant.

“Something that brings you comfort. when the world gets too loud, where do you find your silence?” You continue after a few seconds of quietness.

“I don’t think I have that.” He answers honestly.

There’s a rare vulnerability coating his words, cladding his being, it’s in the way the words fall from his lips, in the way he looks at you and it’s enough for you look back at him with similar vulnerability. The softening of your gaze does not summon his impulses to the surface. He doesn’t feel like running, instead he settles, right under Sakura petals. with a bated breath and you with a stirring heart that comes to life with emotions twinging into something much deeper than sexual attraction.

“Do you believe in hope?” you’re acutely aware of the confusion that fills his being at your question, raking through his mind for an answer that would make enough sense, deemed sane enough to give.

Please let me in you want to tell him don’t hide yourself from me you wish to speak yet you’re aware of the vow you’ve made. Of keeping yourself in check, never too far in. not this time.

“I don’t remember what hope feels like.” He starts, eyes flickering between yours and your chest tightens, not necessarily out of pity but rather as if a mirror had metalized and you’re looking at yourself. Relics of a human who has been too scratched up to recall anything else. There’s nothing as heavy as carrying around a bruised heart and more than anyone, you have memorized the weight.

“What is your hope like?” he asks, tilting his head at you with full attentiveness and your lips tilt up into a gentle smile, one that feels like soothing waves of comfort upon his heart.

“My hope is a lot of things.” You breathe out a chuckle “My hope is seeing Niki happy and healthy. My hope is seeing people’s worries flee their eyes when you help them with something or seeing the flowers I’ve been watering finally come to full bloom right under my gaze.” You trail off sheepishly, your smile growing the more words spill from your mouth “My biggest hope remains in Japan.”

“Japan?” he asks, and you nod along.

“I want to open a bakery in Japen. A cute little, small one where I sell my baked goods and I get to witness people’s smile upon their first bite.” Jake sees it all in your face and in your words – the pure euphoria that comes solely from dreaming. Not in desperate attempts to find happiness in melancholic hours of your everyday life but rather while floating away alongside the clouds, elicited by what could have been and what could be.

It is a little foolish, he finds it to be. He had long given up on looking for what cannot be tangible, what he cannot sense between the grasp of his fingers. Yet within his dark sky a singular gleaming star is born, sparkling into life and it is merely coaxed by the way you’re looking at him right now.

“That sounds magical bunny.” He comments and it’s genuine, coloring every letter yet for unascertained reasons you find yourself longing to give him touches of your magic.

Though deprived of unbridled happiness. You don’t recall moments when you got to enjoy crumbs of gaiety without worries of tomorrow or the future invading your mind. Hence dreaming, hope remains a taste of joy amidst the bitterness that comes with living and growing older.

You can’t help but grow a want to give him the same hope.

“If you could do anything you want do right now, without consequences and without worries,” you start, voice much quieter than before “what would it be?”

He is silent for a moment, his eyes drifting to the window and this time it’s you with a lingering gaze at him, overtaken by the glaze of his irises.

“I want to be able to love music like I used to.”

Aleit the months you have spent by his side, beholding the facets he likes to wear and witnessing the rare moments where it’s just him. Right at this moment, it’s just Jake and his grief. Tinted with a glacial agony that only comes from forcibly letting go of love. For them to pull your heart out from the unrelenting clutches of your hands, and yet you’re empty handed.

A glacial agony that runs through your bloodline just as deep.

“Can’t that be your hope?”

“No.” he laughs swiftly, but it’s void of emotions, not a spark of humor can be distinguished, no happiness “Music can never be my hope. Not again.”

“Why?” you ask, tentatively “Why can’t you love music the same way you did?”

Jake never gives you an answer, he isn’t unkind in any way, not vicious in any sense. He is as placid as still waters, nowhere near as wild as your heartbeat as he smiles at you, it’s benign.

can't you see the human in my being? the same one clad with agonizing torment? the one with scars that are deeper than i could ever show?

“Should we go to sleep? We have a long day tomorrow.”

Your conversation with Jake haunts your mind for much longer than you anticipated. When you lie your head on your pillow you don’t drift to sleep like you had hoped. Instead, you stay awake for a little longer while thinking about his words. They all lead you to more questions. After seeing the amount of crowd that had been waiting for him at the airport you realize he is truly Korea’s biggest celebrity so what exactly happened for him to leave Paranoia? How did he end up here with clear longing for music? What is stopping him? And why does everyone around him seem to be ignoring his clear symptoms of OCD?

Nothing makes sense to you, not him or the people you’re working with. Most importantly the ache that has nestled in your chest at the way he smiled at you stays the most confusing.

You tell yourself you should look up Paranoia, yet you end up falling asleep with your phone between the clutches of your hands.

The next morning comes with a gentle breeze swirling the streets of Paris, taking your thoughts away with the passing wind and the ache that was present last night is long perished, eluded by Jake’s mitigated face that greets you as soon as you’re downstairs. Your sleepiness long forgotten as you lock eyes. His warmth traverses through all the space you create between you as you settle two chairs away from him. Right next to Sunghoon who greets you with a fist bump.

Albeit the unfamiliarity, you find yourself smiling down at your plate.

You and Jay go through Jake’s schedule together. With him not having anything till a Prada event that is set later that evening, it feels more like an off day than anything. As the team gathers to eat breakfast Jennie tells you’re free to do whatever you want all morning.

Sunghoon and Sunoo decide to go back to sleep while Jay grumbles about promises he made with Soojin. It’s only you and Jake. Despite Jennie’s assurance to you that you could spend the day alone if you wanted to. You deemed that to be way too lonely, and boresome for you.

And so, you end up sticking to Jake’s side as he strolls through the city, with an undeniable joy woven into his features, in the steps he takes. It’s a refreshing sight to behold. Has the same joy nestling into you, overtaken and completely dismantling any negative thoughts you had. You never imagined a day to come like this one. Where you’ll able to see him so carefree, smiles find home onto his lips easier, laughs escapes him candidly.

Albeit the couple of bodyguards and a cameraman following you around - something about filming a vlog for Hype’s youtube channel – he looks the happiest you’ve ever seen him. You keep your distance, not wanting to disturb or get caught on camera on accident.

Never too far in. you remind yourself.

It’s only after you pass by a couple of bakeries that the small group of his team stops moving, therefore halting your steps as well. You, overtaken with confusion watch as slowly they separate, as if drawing a path for you and at the end Jake is standing there, waiting for you with a lopsided smile, induced with charm as he beckons you with a wave of his hand.

“Come here, bunny.” With a racing heart, limbs traced with chagrin at everyone’s eyes on you, you walk to him.

As soon as you’re close enough, his palm envelopes yours with a tug, it is so abrupt, you don’t get enough time to settle into the feeling. Of having him this close to you outside the realms of his bedroom before he pulls you into one of the bakeries. It is so unexpected, and that is solely why your heartbeats are so loud it rings in your ear. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself, even after Jake had ordered three different kinds of pastries and urges you to try each one.

“How does it t taste?” He asks, as you’re standing outside, and his eyes are pasted onto you.

A dark flush seems to have found perennial refuge upon your cheeks, an exposure to all the clamorous beats coursing through your chest, as if your heart is about to ooze through your blush, you chew slowly on the cream cheese Danish, it feels like an explosion of flavours in your mouth. The cream cheese balances the sweetness and the berries on top give it freshness.

It has your eyes widening with an all too known gleam, excitement courses through your body and you hop your feet in place as you face him.

“It’s really yummy!” You reply with evident enthusiasm tinting your voice, awakening his own.

“Let me try.” He tells you, lips curling up into a grin, an underlining endearment at your reaction.

You nod eagerly, just as you’re about to cut the piece of goods in half with the assumption that he probably doesn’t want to eat from the same place your mouth has touched, his hand encircles your wrist, a phantom of gasp scurrying out your lips as he guides your hand with the Danish in it to his mouth, you’re forced to stand on your tiptoes as he takes a bite.

Your heart pulsates against your ribcage, watching him with incredulity all over your face.

Unlike you, Jake is completely nonchalant to the way he acts, instead his eyebrow only raises slightly at the taste.

“y-you don’t like it?”

“It’s okay.” He shrugs and you snort playfully, shaking your head as his grip loosens around your wrist.

“I forgot you’re like impossible to please.”

“It’s not that. I just think yours taste better.”

“Mine?”

“Yeah, the stuff you make taste so much better.”

His words shatter through your vow with facility. Dispelling the promises you repeated to yourself as if they’re mere specks of dust. You don’t have enough of stability to focus on what fact first, the one where he admits he has been eating your baked goods that you bring to work all along or the one where he spills compliments into you as if they’re meaningless, as if their sentiment doesn’t overwhelm your being.

“Stop lying.” You whisper, eyes fixated on him.

“I never lie, you know this.” He says, effortlessly “try a different one.” He urges, pointing at the leftover pastries.

Absentmindedly you nod, with flushed cheeks and an increasing heartbeat. A heat seared with a circle around your wrist as if his hand is still around you. Despite his touches that you have felt upon your skin, in ways deeper than you’d ever admit outside the walls of his bedroom. Unwittingly your body makes room for one more sentiment to nestle into you. Not with force, but rather serene.

The same one that fills the tips of your fingers as you this time extend your hand to him, he leans down, eyes locked with yours as he takes a bite from the dessert, right over where your lipstick stained.

“This one taste better.” He hums, and you swallow around nothing, deeming yourself closer to demented with the way you keep staring at his lips.

“I like the other one more.”

“Probably because it’s sweeter.” He chuckles, swiping right at the corner of your lips with his thumb, you almost shriek with an itch to curl onto yourself “Your lipstick was a little messed up.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, inadvertently bringing your fingers to your lips right where he touched.

The following hours unfold with you two going in and out of stores. With notorious intentions like buying gifts for your friends or simply to check out something that managed to catch your attention. Jake follows with a small smile gracing his face, mainly at your overflowing exuberance as you drag him from one place to another.

“What do you think?” you ask, looking into the mirror, a light brown coat draped over you.

Jake hums, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes trail over your figure. At the lack of appease in his gaze, you face him, grinning at him and twirling around “So?” You urge, and he could only shake his head with a soft laugh, amused by the way you seem to pull it from him unequivocally.

“It’s cute bunny,”

“But?”

“But I think the baby blue would suit your skin tone so much more. This brings a gloomy and serious aura to you.” He adds.

“But I wanna be serious.” You mumble, turning to the mirror with a pout adorning your face.

Jake tips his head to the side, hands in his pockets as his eyes focus on you. primarily you end up trying the baby blue one and just like he said, it suits you so much better, bringing out the colors in your eyes rather than dim them.

“I like it!” you clap your hands diligently, perked up compared to when you tried the one before.

“Get it.” He encourages and you would have nodded eagerly if not your eyes have shifted in the mirror, your attention stolen by a pair of earrings, a different type of gleam takes place onto your face, one that is never directed at yourself.

“Oh my god Niki would love these earrings!”

Jake watches as you shrug off your coat, long forgotten as you make your way to check out the jewelry that had caught your attention. Aleit disappointed he isn’t surprised; he had noticed this tendency of yours coming to the surface all day. Managing to find something worthy to buy for your friends in every store the two of you had stumbled in. anyone but yourself it seems.

Putting yourself as the last resort appears to come to you naturally, constantly at the back of your mind is your own enjoyment, finding it elsewhere and it merely exists in spending your money on other people. Truthfully it did infuriate him more than he’d ever admit. For some odd reason something akin to disillusionment curls into the bit of his stomach each time he watches you casting aside a piece you originally were enthralled with.

Abandoning yourself then leaving with the waves with no intention of coming back.

He strolls behind you leisurely, eyeing the pieces of jewelry and pauses in front of a certain necklace. A sliver chain with a bunny to be specific, it’s rather simple yet the pure design of the bunny has a small smile stretching upon his face. It’s uncanny similarity to you has him purchasing the necklace without much thought and it isn’t until he’s at the cashier paying, he realizes he foolishly followed his impulses.

Who is he to gift you something as endearing as a necklace that reminds him of you? it’s absolutely ridiculous.

“What did you get?” you ask once you’re out the store, eyeing the small bag between his hands.

“Nothing important.” He replies, averting his eyes as he attempts to hide the bag behind his legs. It’s a clear indication of running, an avoidance that you allow. Nodding to yourself.

Never too far in.

It’s only a bit later when you’re both drawn in by a crowd that you catch yourself too far in, Jake stops, with a wandering gaze pasting onto a busker, playing in the middle of people with immense enthusiasm, it’s the passion coloring his gaze and the smile stretching upon his face as if the sun has only rose today for his music to fill the streets. You’re not taken away by his tunes rather by the man standing next to you.

Involuntarily your eyes dart over Jake’s face earnestly to find answers, His eyes are softened, tinged with longing, yearning. One like missing an old friend that you have spent countless nights with, or a soul crushing longing for an old lover that you cannot longer see, touch. The ache a soldier feels for one day to come back home.

Despite the love, pain remains a constant in every single one and you see it in his gaze.

Silently you walk to place money into the busker’s hat, and he throws you a thankful grin. Jake watches you with a gentle smile, a foreign warmth engulfing his being as you walk back to him, you with a craving dripping from your fingertips, one to disassemble his intricate sorrows and him for the veneration infiltrating his bosom at how effortlessly kind you are.

“Should we go back to hotel?”

“Yeah. let’s go back.” You reply with a smile of your own, adoring your face.

The Prada event, unlike the last one, goes by fluidly with Jake’s glamour taking by the cameras and you stand close by, with a hushed secret curled into the palms of your hands. One stroke of glimmer amid the silence in your mind as you watch him. It’s akin to privilege at knowing no lens, no matter the price could ever capture his beauty the way your eyes do. like given the pleasure to behold the flutter of colorful butterfly wings for the first time, you smile faintly to yourself.

The afterparty that follows goes just as lithely, alongside the buzz in your system due to the couple of shots you took. You feel great, dancing with Sunoo and Sunghoon to the blaring music. It’s only an hour later, when a thin sheen of sweat covers your neck that you take a seat right next to Jay. Your eyes heedfully searching the place for a glimpse of your boss.

“Where’s Jake?” you finally ask, turning to face the latter.

“He went back to the hotel.” He answers, “He also told me you should enjoy yourself and don’t worry about going back early for him.”

“I forgot he doesn’t really like parties.” You comment, your fingers picking at your red latex dress. A vague disappointment blooms ever so slightly in you, tracing your veins merely driven by the fact that Jake isn’t here to see it.

“Yeah, not really his scene.” Jay answers with a breath of a chuckle.

At that you perk up, your disappointment is momentarily pushed to the side as an idea swirl in your mind. Coming to life by the questions that have haunted your mind the previous night

“I never would have thought that an ex-rockstar hates parties.” You comment, clearing your throat as you side eye him.

“He’s gone to enough parties to last a lifetime. Now he’s like an old man when it comes to late nights. He’d rather sleep early or stay home.” Jay replies with a shrug.

“Was he that wild in Paranoia?”

“I wouldn’t say wild but more like normal rockstar wild, you know?” He answers vaguely and it only feeds your confusion, filling you with even more prodding questions.

You chew on your bottom lip, contemplating on what to say next. Perhaps it was the alcohol in your system, blurring your filter into nonexistence or it was the curiosity invoked in you by your conversation last night. Or maybe it was the grief haunting Jake’s essence, as if skin draped upon his bones and he cannot seem to take it off.

“Can I talk to you about something?” you ask, and as he leans closer to you to hear you clearly, amidst the chimes of music you ponder for a second if this is the suitable place for you to obtain answers.

“Anything.” He replies right away, and you inch closer, your shoulders touching.

“Throughout my stay with Jake these past few months I’ve noticed some things.”

“Okay? Like what?”

“I’ve been with him almost every second of his everyday life and I’ve noticed that he has some serious OCD symptoms,” Jay falls into a nerve wrecking silence for you, it’s ample for the seeds of doubts in your mind to grow horrendously brisk “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping or perhaps saying something I shouldn’t. my concerns only come from worry for him.” You continue, your eyes darting over his features rapidly in search of a sign.

“It’s okay yn, I know.” he responds.

“You know?” you question, a frown taking over your face quickly.

“Yeah,” He sighs, as if it’s a secret that have finally broke into the world although it’s only you who listens, its existence hangs heavy “It’s pretty obvious if you know him well enough that he has undiagnosed OCD or something along those lines. He probably even knows it at this point.”

“At this point? If you had doubts, why didn’t you suggest he goes to therapy? Surely that would make everything easier for him.” Your frown is only enhanced by your growing questions.

“I have. But he doesn’t want to so I’m not gonna make him.”

“But why?”

“Because he would have to talk about what he doesn’t want to relive yet. And I cannot blame him for that or take it away from him.”

But what is it that he doesn’t wish to relive? What kind of misery has been casted upon his soul for his wish to flee to remain? An inexorable desire draped with facet of darkness.

“doesn’t that make it harder for you as well?”

“yn he’s not incompetent. You’ve noticed how he deals with and alters his triggers so he’s able to function normally,” he starts, eyes pouring into yours with conviction, a strive to plug out your doubts with vigor “I’m his manager but I’ve been his best friend for years. I trust him and when he does eventually deem himself ready to see someone about it then good for him.” His lips swiftly curl up into a gentle smile as if trying to dismantle your worries “right now he’s handling it really well considering everything and we could only have his back throughout it all.��

Your words wither at the tip of your tongue, not with incentives like contentment but rather with realization that what lies in front of you is something much more tremendous than you thought. It isn’t solved by scratching the surface or a few shared words of comfort between souls. It is attempting to free your closet of skeletons but to cower in fear every time your fingers graze the doorknob. It’s to spend every breathing moment in searching for light only for night to persist, for tears to descend upon your cheeks even after swearing to find happiness in the trivial things.

It’s an anomaly, constantly growing the need to abandon your heart, merely because it bears too heavy, too much.

You understand more than anyone.

So, you stay quiet.

With an ache dragging through your limbs, you make it into your room with a sigh. You immediately throw yourself on the bed as soon as your heels are off. Yet you don’t get to settle into the softness of your sheets before a thud captures your attention. With a furrow you peak at the ground and notice a small bag that you surely didn’t buy has fallen.

You forthwith sit up recognizing it as the bag that was between the clutches of Jake’s hands earlier. your tiredness replaced with an intrigued gleam as you open the bag.

What greets you is not something you have prepared for, not with a hazy mind and surely not with a heart as fragile as yours, it trembles with the scent enveloping the box. His scent. it courses through your being with vivacity, one that has your eyes widening as a necklace with a small bunny pendant stares right back at you.

Your fingers caress the bunny softly, the same way your eyebrows drop and interchangeable from the feelings creasing your being, running alongside your blood is nothing far from adoration. It’s in the way your chest warms with magnificent vehemence. As if the sun has finally shone after years of unwavering cloudiness, sunrays sundering through and it all translates into a smile dispersing across your lips, mostly uninvited.

Taking note of the card hiding in the bag, you take it out and read it.

For whenever your hope wavers

May this bunny help liquidate all your worries.

Your lips curve up in a smile induced with the magnitude of his words, albeit they’re not long they still touch your soul with warmth, evident with the way your irises shake with your heartbeat as they trail over the words over and over again. Placing your palm upon your heart you feel it reverberate, and you let yourself sink into the feeling. Abandoning the confines of the past, of what’s morally correct and what you should do. For tonight and maybe tonight only you allow yourself to feel, for your frail heart to find purpose in such minuscule words and for Jake’ scent to invade every fiber of your being with serene.

You allow yourself to reach for your phone, your fingers scrolling through the contacts, and you call him.

Jake answers on the third ring.

“Hello?” his voice is a tad deeper on the phone, enough to have you sucking in a breath “bunny?” he calls after your silence has lasted.

“Thank you.” you whisper softly.

“Mhm?”

“For the gift. It’s so pretty Jake, I love it.” Despite the fact that he can’t see your face, he can discern your sincerity through the cadence of your voice. It is enough for him to fall silent for a couple of minutes, listening to you breathe.

“How was the party?” he finally asks, evading your previous conversation.

“Really fun!” your usual liveliness is sneaking back into your voice and it has him smiling “I’m a bit tipsy I’m gonna be honest.” You continue, throwing your head back onto the pillows with a sigh.

“Yeah, Sunghoon sent me a video of you dancing.”

“What? Oh my god!” you exclaim, burying yourself into the pillows with a whine, albeit a bit childish, strangely it doesn’t annoy him, growing accustomed to your antics.

“You got some sick moves yn.” He quips.

“I’m gonna kill Sunghoon.” You grumble, words muffled by the pillow but audible enough for him to chuckle, the sound goes straight to your tummy, breathing life into butterflies to flap their wings “I probably looked like a mess too.” You trail off, turning on your back.

“You always look beautiful.” He retorts, softly and despite giving permission for your feelings to unfold, your being isn’t ready for his first words of flattery to fall upon your ears.

It has your breath hitching audibly, a shift in the air as you squeeze your thighs together.

“Don’t let it get to your head though.” He taunts, taking note of your lingering silence.

“I won’t don’t worry. I’m not Jake Sim.”

“I’m the humblest celebrity to exist what are you on about?”

“You just called yourself a celebrity you’re not humble in any way.” You reply with a snort.

“That’s just facts.”

“Just like how you’re full of yourself is facts?” you muse, rolling onto your side and yet finding yourself squeezing your thighs together at the chuckle he lets loose.

“Since when were you allowed to tease me this much, mhm?” he replies, tone dropping lower with volume, his playfulness is still apparent, it feels closer to warning, one that is whispered before his teeth sink in to you.

“My apologizes boss.” You say, with an evident irony coloring your tone.

A tranquil silence follows, woven with your placid mind yet raving heartbeat. It’s a paradoxical state to be in, especially with how hazy your thoughts are coming out to be. It doesn’t give you room to decipher the reason behind lust climbing up your spine and taking over every coherent sentence you could mutter. It is absolutely unhinged how even the sound of his breathing reminds you of his mouth pressed against your ear as he’s buried deep inside of you.

“You should get some sleep, or you’ll probably feel like shit in the morning,” his voice cuts through your quietness with vigor albeit its lower tone, settles deeper into your being, painting the inside of your brain dark with desire.

“Probably.” You reply breathlessly, eyes dropping, heavy lidded.

“you okay?”

Snapping yourself out of a daze is a strenuous task, one that you are too fatigued for and yet you try, clearing your throat.

“Yeah, just got a lot on my mind. You’re right I should sleep.”

“What are you thinking about?” his voice no higher than a whisper, as if he also could read the contents of your mind, take a look into all the aberrant fantasies manifesting.

“Nothing. You should go to sleep as well.”

“What’s on your mind bunny?” It’s no longer a question rather an order, induced with his stern tone and it has you falling apart in all the same ways he knows, all the same ways you hate.

“You.” you admit with a whisper, as if your embarrassment will subside yet your blush remains.

“What about me baby?”

“You can’t call me that.” You whine, unwittingly burying your face into the pillow yet again, your thighs rubbing together with hopes to relief some of the heat crawling over your being

“You hate it?” he asks with a bated breath, a small victory in knowing you’re not the only one affected by this.

“no.” your voice fades out, overtaken by your heaving chest “Do you like it?”

“Jake.” You don’t mean to be as whiney, yet they spill uncontrollably.

“Tell me.” he demands, oozing with paramountcy there’s no other possible way for you not to fall into him with submission.

“..I like it.” You breathe out, your underwear drenching with your arousal unfairly fast, it has you chewing on your lower lip, your fingers trail an invisible path on your thigh.

“What were you thinking about bunny?” he asks, the same arousal flooding his being, persevering in tainting you both.

“Just you, all over me.” you reply, your words falling with hushed whispers, bated breaths.

“What do you want all over you?”

“Your hands.”

“Where do you want my hands?” his questions stay persisting, It has you squirming upon your sheets unsure if you’re looking for an escape or for his voice to seep into you. He hums when you’re too quiet, urging for your words to follow and you swallow around nothing.

“Want them inside of me.”

“Yeah? what about my mouth?” his own voice grows strained, evidence of his fingers trembling against the rails of control.

“Want it too. Want it so bad.” Your confession falls boundlessly, no time for them to straggle by your deepening blush

“I wanna taste you too. Want you to come all over my tongue.” The mewl you let out at his words is unanticipatedly sinful, enough to have him groaning. A myriad of pictures flash in your mind, each one of them has him in it, infused with deviant touches and lustful kisses.

“Are you touching yourself?” his tone is gentle, a muzzled mutter in contrast to the situation you both found yourself in, you shake your head vigorously even though he cannot see you, you aren’t sure how is it possible for something as trivial as the lilt of someone’s tone to permeate your being this diligently.

“No but I want to.” Your filter is long shattered, your desires spill with nothing holding them back now.

“Don’t” he warns, and you bite back a whimper, swallow it down with vigor “I’m coming to your room. Wait for me.” He ends with a promise, snapping you out of your dazed enjoyment.

“Hurry.”

Is your last request before your call ends. With an itch in your fingers, you hold back with an immense force you don’t know how you manage to find. That is until ten minutes pass with no sign of Jake and soon after the ten minutes turn into fifteen, you roll off your bed with a huff, mind running a little wild with worry at his absence and an underlining exasperation at your lust being unattended to.

And so, you make your way to his room, albeit the throb of tiredness still evident in your bones, you knock on his door with too much of a force to deemed discreet. You don’t get to linger for hope, one like praying you didn’t disturb anyone else. Before the door opens, a somewhat disheveled Jake comes into view. The first few buttons of his white dress shirt in unattended to, exposing the top of his chest and perhaps you spend way too many fleeting moments staring.

“Bunny- fuck” he breaths out with a draining groan.

“Is everything okay? You said you were coming but- “before your sentence could fully come out your mouth, your eyes shift, darting to the figure behind him and your expression melts off vastly unexpected.

“Jake! Come back!” Soojin yells with a whine, kicking her feet on the ground as she trashes around the bed, discernibly drunk.

“Is she okay?” you ask, eyes fliting between the two.

“She’s just drunk and a little troubled.” He explains warily, running his hand through his hair “I’m sorry about this I’ll make it up to you later, okay? I- “

“Jake!!” Soojin whine cuts into your conversation once again and your smile curl up with force “I’m coming” he retorts, turning his head at her for a moment before facing you once again “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Is there anything I could do to help?” you ask, concern etched upon your face and the sight warms his chest the tiniest bit.

“Not really. It’s something between me and her so you don’t have to worry about it.” He explains.

Between me and her.

It’s unjust, how hastily a couple of words can founderwith your confidence with so little effort, for them to dispel every emotion that was flowing through your veins and an abyss to comes to life in the middle of your chest instead. Your star unceremoniously plugged out from between the grasp of your fingers only for you to recognize it was never your star to begin with, your sky is not yours either, it is one everyone was looking at all along, inscribed with the same longing twirling in your eyes.

Your paralyzing idiocy remains a part of you and your insecurity stares right back at you with derision, how stupid to ever think of yourself worthy enough of anything ever fluorescing scarcely for you.

“I’m sorry bunny. I promise to make it up to you.” he pledges, and your eyes soften despite the heaviness weighing your heart.

“it’s okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” Just as you’re about to turn around to leave, Jake’s palm envelopes yours, halting your movement and you look at him in question.

“Can you please keep this a secret from Jay as well? I don’t want him to know about this.” His words twist the knife deeper into your heart, a puddle of your misery lies beneath your feet.

“I get it. It’s between you two I won’t tell anyone.” Your smile is strained, and your nails dig into his palm unwittingly.

You return to your bed heavier than you left. Heeseung’s comfort from a couple of weeks ago swirls around your mind and you manage to find solace in them. Albeit momentarily it’s ample for you to doze off, head plagued with thoughts of Jake and Soojin. As your interest has seemed to grow immensely in him during this trip you can’t help but let your thoughts wander. Evoked by what kind of past the two must have. You can’t help but feel like Jake has some sort of affection towards her, one that he cannot seem to let go of. An old flame that you always end up crawling back to although the burns adoring your skin.

The next morning comes with a minor ache forming in your head, not too bothersome and it slowly wears off as you shower and get ready for your day, it’s only when you’re in the middle of your make-up that a knock on your room door halts your routine. Surprise sneaking into your expression when you open it, and Jake is standing there. You invite him in after he greets you and he ends up sitting on your bed as you finish the last bit of your make-up. Eyes dark as they assess your body appreciatively, watching with devoted concentration as you apply your lip-gloss on.

“Can you help me?” you ask coyly, catching his eyes in the reflection of the mirror, your bunny necklace between your fingers.

“Of course.” Jake replies instantly, voice doused in emotions as he walks towards you.

“How’s Soojin?” you ask once he’s close enough, handing him the necklace.

“She’s all good now don’t worry.” He answers, although his tone is massively void, clearly uninterested.

you move your hair to the side and out of the way, his fingertips delicately brush over the skin of your neck, causing shivers to erupt upon your skin as he gently clasps the necklace, you could sense something unfurling in the depths of your stomach. You feel his chest against your back, every inhale, exhale vibrates through your being all the same. You lock gazes in the mirror, and you wither away, akin to dried autumn leaves, easily crushed by the force of his eyes as he slowly leans down, placing feather light kisses on the nape of your neck.

“Did you guys figure out whatever it was between you and her?” you breath out, tilting your neck further to grant him better access, his hands sneaking to your waist as he pulls you flush against him.

“Mhm.” His kisses turn unforgiving, melting your thoughts.

“W-what is it that you guys were talking about anyways?” your curiosity in unrelenting, pushing at the roof of your mouth with force.

“I don’t wanna talk about Soojin right now bunny. It’s nothing of importance.” He grumbles against your skin, dousing you in arousal as his lips trail up, kissing behind your ears and you shiver “I promised to make it up to you remember?” he whispers against the shell of your ears and you shiver, your palms tracing the veins on his arms.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

Evidently your doubts leave momentarily, overtaken by the pleasure he inflicts on you, and it all translates into you two both giggling over breakfast, throwing teasing remarks at each other and unaware of the way Sunoo and Sunghoon are staring at you both with evident bewilderment etched onto their face.

“What the fuck?” Sunghoon speaks, tone laced with shock as his eyes flit between you two “Is Jake fucking chuckling?”

“Pussy is really one magical thing.” Sunoo murmurs, shaking his head with now disgust climbing over his face.

“Amen.” Sunghoon replies with a snort.

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ronearoundblindly · 2 months

Text

Yield

Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

a vague sequel to Warning Signs (not required to read before this)

Summary: Steve takes your mind off a recent tragedy for the team.

Fluff, hurt/comfort with emphasis on the comfort, references to death and trauma but not explicit, SEVERAL sweet kisses 😍. Adjusted (from its languishing, dusty doc) for @bigtreefest's Summer Lovin' Celebration using the elements: hand kink--although this work is for all-ages--and "ew gross, that's not what I thought would happen today"--except I fudged that a bit. You're welcome even though, yet again, no one asked for this! WC ~2.3k

It’s a dreamless sleep, the kind that feels like you blinked but hours passed. Awareness comes long before awakeness.

Your head aches. You feel as shriveled and puckered as you were laying in the bath tub, soaked but thirsty, letting water steadily drip between your paralyzed, parted lips for so long yesterday. Your eyelids are sandpaper, but they’ve not opened yet.

Minutes tick by—perhaps another hour—and you attempt to remember what’s happening or happened.

Two people died. Gone. Brought back in the belly of the same plane you arrived home in, they are now lost, lost somewhere dark like this, lost like you are for so long as you can stand to keep your sore eyes closed.

Well…you are home but not home all at once.

You’re in a bed, that’s clear, but the pillow isn’t your own. The scent is off. Heavy. Musky. Not unpleasant. Somehow still familiar.

You tick through snapshots of sullen faces trying to remember.

Over you lies a soft, thick blanket. Again not yours. Again pleasing. It has heft. It comforts without constraint.

The hardest sensation to figure out is your hands.

They are…sticky and weighted. You’ve sweat and clammed up upon yourself. Your hands are not clasped in each other. Why the feeling then?

It’s cold—or cool, rather—but not beneath the blanket. The contrast to the battlefield’s heat yesterday is stark though no less repressive. The external pressures of fighting have turned inward, pushing your emotions to the brink. Your won the fight, and after, you lost the war with yourself.

You remember losing that war alone, so what are you holding?

Finally, you look.

There’s someone else in this foreign bed, one of the faces from the sorrowful slideshow behind your eyes.

Steve Rogers sleeps beside you, recognizable only by his size and his crown of golden hair because his head is bent, his hands encasing yours. He’s pressed himself to the bundle of fists between you.

The numbness has yet to lift. That’s why it all reeks of distance and projected celluloid. Yesterday happened but only in that far away world playing on the back of your skull. All you can process as real is that he’s right there and you are right here, simultaneously.

You try harder.

You try to flood color and sound onto the memories until they come closer.

The mission, the deaths, the flailing sense of loss, the unending bewilderment of “what do I do now?”: they become…undeniably tangible. They happened, and they happened to you. You heard the captain promise to stay with you. You heard him…

He called you ‘sweetheart.’

That’s the first thought that stirs something soft among the sharp recollections. That’s when existence returns.

Rogers came to your room. He wouldn’t leave until you were safe. He took care of you, and he called you ‘sweetheart.’ In your months of working with the Avengers, the captain has never once casually assigned an endearment. He says ‘ma’am’ more often than not and barely has nicknames for the teammates he’s worked with for a decade.

Everyone is Agent, Sir, or Miss. Your last name has always been enough.

You were none of those things last night. You survived a horrid battle, a crippling loss, and a solitude which almost drowned you; it’s silly to admit how he heals your wounds with one simple word.

Sweetheart. A warm cocoa hug to your chest. A gentle embrace. A guidance back toward the light.

Maybe he’ll never say it again. Maybe he meant nothing by it. He only tried to help you. He only wanted you to feel better. Since no one else was around, it’s an easy assumption that Steve simply—

Rogers.

He’s Captain Rogers to you. A coworker. A teammate. That’s all.

It’s difficult to even call him a friend because the man is so professional, so shy.

That shy professional probably saw you naked last night. Whoops.

You shimmy deeper under your covers, tilting your gaze down to the shirt and shorts Rogers dressed you in—his shirt and shorts—but those movements stir the man with your hands.

In a split second, you clamp your eyes shut again and wait in the dark, fighting not to twitch at the dry-sand prickle.

He shifts with a quiet scratching of the sheets, and he sighs, the hot air grazing your knuckles.

One traitorous eye gives a curious peek.

Rogers’s head cranes back to show his sleepy smirk.

“Morning,” he rasps, blinking slowly. He ducks away again to yawn, his face stretching to life, before softly continuing. “How you feeling? Can I getcha anything?”

You tuck your lip under and say nothing. Words have left you.

After allowing the pause, Rogers lets go of your hands, cold flooding your damp skin.

“I’ll get us some water then.”

He doesn’t rumple your blanket. He doesn’t hold eye contact. He just dutifully rolls out of his bed and gets two glasses.

The paralysis is making you quake slightly. What do you say? Will he take you out of the field for this? If not already, will he bench you from how you act next? How will you act next?

He leans a knee onto the still-warm spot he abandoned and tsks.

“Come on. Couple of sips and I’ll leave you alone. Sleep all day if you want, but first—“ He inches the offered water closer.

You rake your eyes up his arm until meeting baby blues.

“Do you mean—“

Rogers’s phone rings. “Shoot, sorry. One second.” He plunks both cups down on his bedside table and answers quickly. “Yeah, Sam, I—no, no run today, I think… Seen her? Um, yeah, she’s…she was—“ glancing back at you over his shoulder, he pulls his hand over his mouth in thought “—I’ll look in…okay, sure thing. Talk later.”

You’re offered another smile and chance at water. “Where were we?”

“So this is where you go to be—“

The failed observation echos in the garage while Captain Rogers kneels by his bike (one of half a dozen). You can’t say ‘alone’ since you’re here, too, so you awkwardly kick your feet over the edge of the steel table he told you to sit on.

Captain America is important enough to be assigned one of the coveted, private garages along one side of the jet hangar, and he assured you, no one bothers him as soon as he closes that door. Where else was he supposed to take you? It’s hot outside, just like yesterday, your room is still trashed, and his room is not exactly neutral territory.

Rogers simply smiles, ticking his head to one side. “Hand me that socket wrench?”

Quick as a rabbit, you hop down, and suddenly, as his fingers drag the cool metal handle from yours, you get it. You forgot all about everything for a split second.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispers, smile still gentle, eyes still brilliant blue.

Your insides swoop more than the mid-air jump from your perch. You tuck your lip in your teeth to stifle the glow threatening to shine out. It feels wrong. You can’t be happy today. You shouldn’t. It’s not right.

Right?

Twice. Twice now he’s slipped. Maybe. Yesterday is mostly a blur. It’s hard to imagine he means to say that. It’s not like the captain to be kind. Well, of course Steve is kind, but in a professional way, a distant way. Instead, this is a tender sort of kind, tenderness like holding onto your hands while you sleep.

He’s watching your every reaction, probably to make sure you don’t fall apart again, probably to make sure you don’t shut down entirely, but you’ve a new focus: him.

“Help me?” Rogers asks, tongue swiping out, nervous. “If you want,” he adds with a shrug.

You shrug, too, but sit on the floor next to him.

He exudes unending patience, explaining the basics of what he’s working on, mentioning nothing when you clearly zone out. You lose whole minutes to either staring at him or staring at nothing. More flashes of yesterday overtake your vision from time to time, even though your eyes are open.

“Should have taken you to the infirmary,” he mutters as you shake off your latest blip.

You drop the tool dangling in your limp hand, and despite knowing there’s an object falling to the concrete floor, you jump violently at the clattering it makes.

You grip at your temples, shielding your face. “Perhaps you should have.”

A warm, steady hand lands on your knee.

“I can finish up here and take you.” He hurries to do something on the bike, and you’re sure he’s about to send you for a psych eval.

That’s the last thing you want. You have to convince him you are fine, better than fine, strong.

You grab for his wrist to get his attention back, but the move makes him twist a cap too hard and thick brown oil comes steaming out all over both of you. It drips from your forearms down and splashes from the drip pan up, the flow quickly tapering off with a thick glug from the pipe.

“Ew, GROSS,” you blurt without thinking. You resist the urge to shake it off. No need to cover more of the room in your shame. “Sorry, Cap. I—That was—“

“No, no.” He’s just laughing, thank goodness. “My fault. Was gonna change that anyway…in a couple months. You alright?” He waits for a nod. “Let’s get this mess off at the sink, yeah?”

Rogers carefully points to the corner. You maneuver onto your feet and alternate raising and lowering your arms, thick rivulets threatening to paint the floor if you let the oil run too far in one direction.

“Wipe what you can off with the towels first.”

You sort of knock the roll over and nudge it across the counter. A strategic elbow turns up the tap and depresses the soap dispenser.

“‘Steve’ is fine,” he says as he massages lather over your palms, “by the way.”

You’re damn right Steve is fine.

Your breath catches while he continues to work the oil off your skin, avoiding eye contact.

After a minute or so, rubbing around and down your fingers, specifically scrubbing along your nails, he clears his throat.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you—“ Steve concentrates on circling each knuckle “—horrible as that sounds.”

You take control of the hand helping you, applying pressure as you feel a small tremor rattle the fine bones, unable to see the clear truth of his words beneath righteously long lashes.

He lets you wash him for a while, rubbing between his fingers, scrubbing along his nails, lathering over his palms.

His voice is so quiet, a low breeze from the distant, retractable ceiling letting in the world.

“Not supposed to say that,” he rumbles, inches away at most, “diminishing as it is to the dead.” Steve halts you and slides his hands up your forearms. “But that’s the point, yeah?” He looks up finally. “Focus on the living…”

You’re frozen, hanging on every word you’re convinced he can’t be saying.

“Is that a quest—“

Steve’s long lashes descend to narrow his path, supple lips grazing yours for the briefest moment before a curt “no.” He moves in for a proper kiss then, head tilting to take full advantage of your shock. A new shock. A different kind of shock from the one you’ve barely recovered from since…

Twenty-four hours. Horror. Sweetheart. Limbo. Sweetheart. Bliss.

He’s right. The heat of him signals life and passion, desperation and spirit for the best kind of danger: a leap of faith from the heart.

A sweet heart.

It’s at this shocking and romantic turn that you realize, you’d follow him anywhere, just as he’s followed you onto a doomed battlefield, into your chaotic mind, into a cold and lonely shower. You had nothing but doubt; he offered nothing but hope.

Your weight leans into the clutch of devoted sinew and reverent tendons. Steve takes that as a welcome encouragement.

One day it might be him or it might be you, and as difficult and painful as that would be, it helps to focus on who is still here. Both of you. Together. Now.

He’s lavish and indulgent, intense because his wet hands can’t pull you closer. His tenderness and decency saturate every atom of connection between you. Each generous touch conveys something undying and pure.

Your hold on each other slips in the running tap when Steve get a little greedy, his body pinning yours to the rim of the sink.

Immediately, he apologizes, retracting into a shell of chivalry and sympathy.

You swallow to compose yourself, minimal effect achieved.

After a fair few thundering heartbeats pulse past you ears, you manage, “that’s not what I thought would happen today.”

The baby blue irises are the picture of horror. “Bad? No?”

Steve steps back only once before you follow.

“Why me?” you counter softly.

He huffs in his infinite patience with you and rolls his eyes in disappointment with himself. Steve hangs his head, propping his arm on either edge of counter nearest him. A dark, bitter chuckle escapes before he finally confesses.

“Because every other day I feel very little, but with you, I want so much more.”

Is this how you looked to him yesterday? A raw wound begging for help in blinding light? Did he have this fear that he couldn’t offer enough?

It is enough though. It has to be enough to try for what you want, to live even in kindness and duty. He’s taken a step, and so can you.

You smile, close the remaining distance, and whisper one word into Steve’s waiting mouth.

Promise—

Question or statement, it doesn’t matter, or perhaps, you’ll figure it out on any other day. Today it simply means you're both alive.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

A/N: Hope this turned out okay and that you enjoyed the fluff! If not, don't worry. I've got a smutty lifeguard!Steve one-shot in the works, too!! Tags will be in a reblog since they've been so wonky lately.

#essie’s summer lovin’ 300 follower celebration #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers hurt/comfort #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #summer lovin’ celebration #essie’s 300 follower special

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