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a-ikuoliver · 7 months ago

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god is a bit of a freak, why's he watching me getting railed on the couch, staying pure for a wedding, he's got fucked up priorities — aka an ancient, obsolete god of fertility hears your prayer

pairing: fertility god!katsuki bakugou x fem!reader w/c: 2.8k warning/s: voyeurism, oral (f!receiving), references to sex rituals and safe sex lmao, i think that's everything, mostly lead up notes: sorry i wrote this fucked up from a cold lmao i hope u all enjoy either way! inspo/acknowledgements: god is a freak by peach prcty @kweenkatsuki-fics @aquadenks @peachsukii @rabbbitseason for ur interest teehee

crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • wip updates & voting • kofi • askbox

the ancient tongue was dead, dying a slow death as all languages did, evolving again and again with every civilisation that rose and fell, until it faded into obscurity. with the death of their language, their communication with their believers, the gods faded, too, their followers dwindling more and more as their names were buried along with the civilisations they led. once adored, worshipped, feared, now, their names only existed on scrolls, yellowed and deteriorated beneath layers of mortal history, unspoken in aeons.

katsuki kicked the door shut behind him, the bag of produce in his hand swinging back and forth with the movement. there was once a time where he was lavished with offerings of food he now had to purchase; countless altars he tended to piled with vegetables, wines, fire, soil, blood, accompanied with prayers to answer. he'd all but assimilated into living as a mortal; cooking (he was grateful, at least, for electric stoves, cooking lerthargically over a fire not quite how he wanted to spend eternity), showering, learning, exploring and working alongside the humans that once lived in his shadow.

he was one of the first to deflect from utopia, to abandon his temple, to give up on the belief that the gods, their language could return to how it was, and with it their followers. katsuki had simply grown bored of waiting alone in the stone temple, of wandering the perimeter hoping to find a lost mortal he could grant a miracle to, to find a mortal to bring meaning to godhood again. after all, what was a god without his believers?

he hadn't given up his blessings or miracles, albeit on a smaller scale than he once had, he still granted wishes as he had in utopia's heyday, the offerings he received now smiles across counters as people passed along paperwork, hoping to be one of the lucky ones, praying over pregnancy tests in bathrooms instead of in his altar. he gave up godhood, but he refused to give up his miracles, even if the mortals didn't know he was responsible.

the pot was finally at a rolling boil, his knife poised above the produce when he felt it, the sensation freezing his blood in his veins, the pull of a prayer in his veins, an echoing whisper of his name lighting his nerves alight. the god freezes, blond hair slipping into his eyes as his ears burnt, twitching at every noise, waiting to hear the sweet sound of the prayer once more.

"bakugou."

his face falls from shock to a scowl almost immediately, his pupils dilating, his skin itchy from adrenaline, his stomach twisting. it couldn't really be his name. this couldn't be a prayer. not after all this time.

the obsolete incantation runs off your tongue seamlessly; almost melodic, light as you cite the prayer carved into the stone at the base of his statue, your dialect nothing like what the prayer used to sound like, but the more you read, the harder he finds it to hate. your voice clouds his head, every word past your lips making the fog denser behind his eyes. there was a dull pain alongside it, an ache that pulsed with your every breath, the pain of a prayer.

the call of the prayer felt… foreign after so long (a millennium he thinks? maybe more, maybe less, years, decades, centuries and millenniums all blurred into one for immortals), katsuki was accustomed to the silence every god feared, the silence of being abandoned by your believers, of dwindling power and control. even with how it was feared, this almost felt worse; a single prayer cornering him in the kitchen after an aeon alone, a single spotlight in the darkness worse than the endless pitch black.

"told you it was bull." barefoot, he paces back and forth in the apartment, shifting uncomfortably as you traced a fingertip over the carved inscription, the touch feeling as if it was on the very nerves of his scalp, down the curve of his spine, catching on every bump of his vertebra. crimson eyes droop, a thick hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose, an attempt to soothe the pain of your voice bouncing around his head, the sensation of your touch on his effigy.

"hey, stop that," your giggle almost has his feet sliding against the tile, nearly tumbling backward as he stops in his tracks; his muscles straining to follow the magnetism of your voice, the melody of your intoxicating laugh while he rationalises your existence at all.

"is that why you brought me here, huh? you think being in some ancient sex temple means you'll get some?"

perks of being a god: immortality, immeasurable strength and influence, impenetrable skin (with maybe a couple flaws). downsides of godhood? the power of their followers over them.

it was… overwhelming, the itch beneath a gods skin when a devout believer called their name, the weight of a prayer, the unshakable desire to follow the call. thankfully, the perks also included the facilities to do so; something akin to teleportation, the voice like a blinding beacon in the night, guiding the god.

once upon a time, civilisations ago, it was a lot, too much, the night always lit like it was daylight with the light his followers cast out. his temple existed for this very reason, devout believers building the god a home, a sanctuary for the light of his followers, complete with the marble sculpture of the built god. then, it was at the centre of the village he ruled over, now, you and your lover had hiked up a mountain, and back down into the valley to find it, the stone weathered and covered in vegetation, it was a miracle you'd been able to work your way inside.

dragging his finger over cold stone, every ridge and bump as it once was, katsuki reminisced about a time before the silence, before the darkness, a time when people lined outside his temple with dreams of a child. years ago, women came alone to his temple, clad in robes they'd weaved specially for the fertility ritual (sometimes gifted at their weddings), kneeling in the altar to offer anything they had in exchange for their heir; piles of gold from queens who begged for a prince, beloved and wise to rule their kingdoms peacefully, warriors armed with iron to wish for a knight, strategic and strong enough to return home from battle again and again, farmers gripping their herbs with soil-stained hands, praying for a child born with kindness and thumbs so green the village would survive the winters once more, a marble statue of the god, towering at over 9 feet tall from a sculptor wishing for a child with as much passion for the arts as their parents.

visitors now were only accidental, stumbling upon the temple in the darkness of the valley, seeking shelter, safety, protection. never a prayer tumbling from their lips for an heir (he answered their prayers nonetheless, never allowing harm to befall anyone on his blessed grounds).

peeking from behind a pillar overtaken by the vegetation, he finally spotted you.

you sucked the breath from his lungs, walking further into the temple, a cute, mischievous grin tugging on the corners of your soft lips, chasing your lover with your eyes as he spoke, "you don't think it's romantic? fucking in an ancient sex gods temple?"

"he was the god of fertility, not sex." you step onto the age worn sigil by the base of the imposing statue, brushing layers of grey dust away.

you look so similar to the countless women before who laid on his mark, the way you studied the carved sigil carefully, curiosity and stars sparkling in your eyes, a heat burning beneath your skin, adrenaline spiking in your veins. eras ago, women were bare on the sigil, stone icy against their skin as they drew runes, marking their skin with blood, dirt or ink, in the language native to the gods.

"what's the difference?" their voice was low, lips brushing beneath your jaw, biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, nimble fingers sliding beneath your shirt to tug it higher, higher, on your torso, tugging the material over your head with a flick of his wrist.

the god was no stranger to topless women, probably seeing hundreds and thousands of them in his prime, but the way the man in front of you toyed with the fat on your chest nearly making his eyes meet the inside of his skull. your allure was impossible to resist when your boyfriend rolls your nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, tugging on the sensitive skin to pull a delicious whine from your throat.

the silence had made him soft.

"i've been waiting all day for this," katsuki's blood rushes in his ears when you both fall to the floor, limbs already beginning to tangle together, bodies becoming one at the mouth, at the hips, at the chest. your sweet sounds echo in the temple, increasingly breathless the longer you kissed and nipped and sucked and bit at your boyfriend.

the ancient tongue was dead, katsuki knew that, knew you had no way to know what you'd read, like some naive final girl in a cliche horror film, that the very god you were laid at the base of was real, that he could see and hear you, that his cock throbbed watching you. you had no way of knowing what you'd started. carmine eyes study the beat of your heart in your chest, the way your tits look when your breathing quickens, how irresistible you look when deft fingers trace the seam of your panties.

katsuki prays himself for the first time in his long life that he's the only god to see you right now, to watch your face change the lower your boyfriend travels, dragging his tongue over your skin as he goes (katsuki's thankful for every time the mortal man bites at your skin, for the yelp it elicits anytime his canines sink into your flesh). his fingertips twitch at his sides, itching to finalise the ritual you'd started with the single murmur of his name, the first syllable of a language foreign on your tongue but you'd recited it so naturally.

you exclaim your lovers name with another sweet giggle, his hands now gripping your ass, tugging your obstructive underwear down your pillowy thighs, tossing it as far as he can the moment the garment is free from your ankles.

the god's ears scald at the way you sound when the brunet's tongue flicks against your skin, sucking at your pussy just to draw increasingly needier sounds from your pretty mouth. he's not even watching you and he already knows your hips are jumping from the stone floor, grinding onto your lovers mouth and nose to work yourself closer to an orgasm. your moans echo in the stone temple, bouncing in every corner before travelling back to his ears, tempting his attention to you.

he stays steady, sharp carmine eyes narrowing on the altar.

more specifically, the lump of material atop the bench.

your underwear is draped across like an offering of its own to him, far more lewd than gold, iron and herbs, but it made his core ache when the moonlight caught in the centre of the fabric, a small damp spot glistening in the light.

fuck, it hurts, every nerve aching, screaming to finally put an end his celibacy, unbroken for far too long. he hadn't felt a need for a mortal like this since the beginning of his existence, the pure want filling his head with fog. this is a duty, this power he has, it is what he was made for, there was never this heavy, dense fog filling his head before, no follower making his blood burn like you were. and you didn't even know what you'd done.

bakugou's gaze is finally drawn back to you, your spine arching away from the stone, fingers tangling at the base of your boyfriends skull, tugging the hair harshly as you chanted his name, your hips stuttering, grinding messily back and forth on his face, until you stopped. you were still wound tight, your thighs clamped tight around his ears while you recovered, a dopey, lovesick smile planted firm on your cheeks.

your squeal makes his dick twitch, one last flick of his tongue over your overstimulated clit, blond eyebrows furrowing so hard at the centre it makes his head pound, you were making his head hurt. a desperation to finish the ritual filled his lungs, every breath a reminder of his name on your lips, of your panties across the altar, of your naked body atop his mark.

he needed this, needed to bury his cock in a pretty cunt, to fill you until you were a babbling mess, needed you.

sitting back on his knees, your lover wiped your creamy cum from his chin with the back of his hand, spreading it from his face to his fingers, hardly doing anything to clean the mess you'd made of his mouth.

your boyfriend finally moves out of the way, giving katsuki the front row seat he deserves, your thighs shining with slick the masterpiece he'd come to see. unblinking, he thinks he's squeezing his cock through his pants, he's not sure, too hypnotised by the way your hips still twitched, chasing your boyfriends warmth. onyx and ruby eyes alike study your face, glued to the way your eyes roll into your skull when his fingers, still wet with your cum, trace your clit once more, teasing the entrance of your pussy before circling your sensitive nerves once more.

katsuki knows he's stroking his cock now, frantically tugging at the zipper still preventing him from relief, his fist moving at the same pace you grind your hips down to your lovers hand, sucking his fingers into you, squeezing your cunt around them until your thighs shook. his hips rock into his hands when your tongue lolls from your mouth, your moans getting faster and faster once more.

he has to bite his lip to stifle a groan of his own, his fist pumping faster and faster again, squeezing the base of his cock when you press a kiss as soft as silk to his lips, looping your hips around his, tugging him closer when you came again.

"fuck, baby, next time you cum, it's with my cock inside you." dark hair shields your face from katsuki's vision momentarily, your boyfriend leaning over you, searching his discarded coat for something, tugging it closer and pulling each pocket inside out.

your thighs slip from his hips as he moves, wincing as your thighs made contact with the icy stone instead of his warm skin.

"shit, i think i left the condoms in the backpack," sliding the empty jacket over your chest, you tuck it beneath your arms, clutching it close to you with one hand, the other waving your boyfriend off as he ventured back toward the entrance of the temple, your gaze lingering on his ass until he was out of sight.

another perk of godhood: the blessed ground was subject to the chosen gods whims. some gods had their temples in the centre of labyrinthian mazes, others had their temples impossible to find, buried beneath the earth or deep in the ocean, hidden between mountains, camouflaged in vegetation, some invisible until the winter solstice, or until the new moon. katsuki never quite cared for that, leaving his temple as his followers built it for him, not implementing challenges for believers to prove their dedication like others had, only protecting his hallowed ground. until now.

stone scrapes against stone harshly, the coarse sound painfully invading your ears as the temple entrance seals. you drop the jacket into your lap, rushing to shield your ears from the sound with your palms pressed hard to your ears, searching around the room for your boyfriend, for his protection, katsuki supposes, like a mortal man could save you from the god you summoned, from what you started.

stepping out from the dark corner, his figure casts a sharp, long shadow as he stands to his full height in front of the statue. like this, you look identical to the women he used to bestow his miracles on; splayed on his sigil, staring up at him with dewy eyes (your blown pupils imperceptibly widening when your gaze rakes over his large form, taking everything in; blond mess of hair, darting crimson eyes, ruffled shirt as he rushed to hold it in his mouth watching you get your cunt eaten, his still-unzipped pants and finally the impressive bulge of his cock), your lips parting when he finally relaxes his shoulders, now standing easily at the shoulder of his statue.

"you-re—" your eyes dart between the imposing statue and his steely face, your voice airy, wobbling slightly as you continued, "you're real?"

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

#katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou smut #bakugo smut #katsuki bakugou smut #katsuki bakugo smut #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugo katsuki smut #「mercury writes」#「kat <3」

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thewritingrowlet · 24 days ago

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The Second Lease on Love, ft. Red Velvet Wendy

tags: creampie

length: almost 8k

author's note: I have nothing else to say except that I've been busy.

“O-oppa,” Wendy calls to you, “I-I’m still tight, right?” “You’re very tight, my love,” you whisper into her ear, thus sending goosebumps all over her. “T-then make love to me, oppa.”

You move your hand from her belly to her waist, holding on to her for balance as you prepare to get into rhythm. You notice the way she’s gripping the pillow with every thrust you’re giving her. “Love, relax—I swear I won’t be rough,” you whisper to her. “Y-you’re just s-so big, oppa,” she replies. You pet her head softly with your left hand. “If it hurts too bad, we can stop here.” She takes a few deep breaths. “L-let’s pause for a moment.”

You ask if she wants you to pull out, but she declines; she wants you to stay inside her while she gets used to your size. “Have I told you that you’re so hot?” She lets out a mix of a moan and a giggle. “B-based on how hard you are, I-I can tell you’re enjoying my body.” “I’m not enjoying your body, love; I’m enjoying this intimate moment we’re sharing,” you correct her.

Wendy turns her head to look at you. “You have no idea how thankful I am to be with you.” You show her a gentle smile. “I’m also thankful to be with you,” you return her words. She closes her eyes, and you take it a step further by coming in for a kiss. “My world is bleak without you, and I’ve now realized that I can’t live without you,” you say to her. Wendy’s eyes are getting teary. “I can’t live without you either, oppa.”

She gives you permission to start moving again, citing her desire for more pleasure. “As you wish, my love.” The first moan she lets out when the tip of your cock reaches her deepest spot is nothing short of angelic. “Y-you’re in my belly, oppa.” You chuckle. “You’re exaggerating, love.” “I’m not, though,” she defends herself, “I-I can feel you in my belly.”

You take on this moderate pace, aiming to provide pleasure for Wendy on only her second time. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?” She shakes her head. “I-it’s very good, actually.” Every once in a while, you make sure that the entirety your shaft gets inside her pussy, and every time you do it, Wendy lets out loud moans. “God, that’s so good, oppa.”

You lift her leg in the air. “Let’s try something, love.” “S-sure,” she replies. You begin fucking her fast, and her moans turn into screams. “Oppa, wait—fuck, fuck, fuck!” She’s squeezing the pillow again because of the overwhelming stimulation. “C’mon, baby; let’s do this.”

You make sure your arms are strong and steady so that Wendy stays in place as you’re smashing into her from behind, no longer taking her as a rookie but rather a “proper” woman. “I-I want to pee—fuck, I want to pee so bad.” You don’t answer her, too occupied with fucking her tightness.

You happen to pull your cock entirely out of her pussy after a deep thrust, and as timing has it, Wendy happens to burst, thus soaking the (presumably) new sheets, screaming from the top of her lungs as she does. A part of you is concerned about the noise, but you’re promptly reminded that no one else lives on this floor.

“Hehehe,” you laugh a little, “congratulations on having your first orgasm.” Wendy is panting heavily, tossing her head around as her euphoric orgasm takes her to cloud nine. “You’re alright, baby; you’re doing so well right now,” you offer her some assurance.

After a few minutes, Wendy stops shaking. You lift her arm and notice that she’s weak. “Love, are you okay?” She nods weakly. “Y-you’re so mean, oppa,” she slaps you on the thigh, “h-how could you—oh, fuck—how could you be so rough with me.” You rub her belly gently. “I’m sorry, love; I just thought maybe you’d like it.” Wendy exhales deeply. “I-it was too much, you know.”

You pull her into your arms, feeling apologetic for being so careless. “I’m so sorry, love.” She gives you a peck on the cheek. “It’s okay; I-I know you meant well.” You hold her face with both hands. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She nods with a smile. “Alright, let’s get some rest, then,” you say.

Wendy pokes your cheek repeatedly to wake you up.

“My love, wake up, please.”

“Hngh?”

She giggles. “You’re so cute, and as much as I hate to break it to you, we need to get ready for work.” You rub your eyes to get yourself together. “What time is this?” Wendy looks around, looking for something. “Oh, where’s that little clock.” She opens the drawer of the bedside table. “Oh, here—it’s just a bit past 6,” she says. You sigh. “And we leave for work at 7, I assume?” She shakes her head. “No, we’ll leave at 8.” You chuckle. “We’ll be late, won’t we?” She laughs. “It’s not like anyone can fire us.”

Wendy climbs onto your body and gives you a deep kiss. “I love you, oppa,” her eyes are glassy as she rubs your cheek with her thumb. “I love you more, sweetheart.” A tear escapes and flows down her cheek. “That’s joy, isn’t it?” She nods, a beautiful smile decorating her face. “Imagine what it’s like for me to finally be able to hold you like this.”

You pull Wendy down so that you can kiss her. “You’re all I have, my sweet love; no one else matters to me anymore,” you say. Wendy wipes the tears off her cheeks. “We’re all we have, and we’re all we need—isn’t that right, oppa?” “Absolutely, love.”

Wendy pulls you into a seated position. “Oppa, do you want to tell people about our relationship, or?” You shrug, clueless. “I feel like that question is yours to answer—do you want people to know that you’re running around with a regular guy like me?” She looks at you straight in the eyes. “What do you mean you’re a regular guy? You’re the man I love,” she says. You smile, touched by her sweet words. “Yes, but I’m no rich corporation guy.” Wendy scoffs. “Oh, please, I’d rather be with you than those brats.” “That’s touching, actually,” you chuckle, “well, in that case, it’s up to you if you want to let people know about us.”

“Miss Son,” you get in character as soon as you step into the lobby with her, “is there anything you’d like me to do before the day starts?” She looks away as an attempt to stay professional. “Erm, can you make us a cup of coffee, please?” You nod. “Certainly; I’ll send it to your office soon.”

You part ways with her; she heads to her office while you head to the social area to make some coffee. After digging through the kitchen set, you find the ground coffee. “Still the same brand,” you think as you hold a bag of Morning Magic in the air.

With two cups of coffee in your hands, you make your way to her office. “Miss Son, the door, please—my hands are full,” you call to her from the other side of the door. The door swings open, thus revealing the smiling woman. “Hi, love,” she greets you, making your cheeks hot. “Erm, hi,” you greet her back.

You set the cups on her desk, and Wendy immediately drags you to sit on her chair. “Yes, Miss Son?” She climbs onto your lap. “Please don’t call me that; the day hasn’t started yet,” she says. You glance at her computer that’s showing the time on the lock screen, and it says that you still have around 10 minutes before the workday starts. “Of course, love.” You hear a small giggle from her. “You sound cute when you say it.”

Wendy leans against your body, her arms wrapped around your nape. “If only we could stay at home all day,” she says. You pinch her waist lightly. “Was it not your idea to go to work today?” She pouts as she realizes something. “I could’ve called in sick or busy, couldn’t I?” “Something like that,” you say.

Suddenly, there’s someone knocking at the door, thus interrupting the intimacy you’re sharing with her. “All I ask is a few minutes of peace—is that too much of an ask?” Despite the complaint, Wendy still gets ready to leave your lap, but before you let her go, you turn her face towards you. Once she’s looking at you, you give her a fleeting kiss to erase the sourness off her face. “Thanks,” she says with red cheeks.

The person knocks again, and that’s your cue to act properly. “One second,” you say out loud. You have Wendy sit on her chair while you open the door, and you see that it’s Sooin. “Good morning, oppa,” she greets you. “Good morning, Sooin-ah—are you here for Miss Son?” She nods, so you step aside to let her in.

“Miss Son, how were the trainees?” Wendy puts up two thumbs. “They were pretty good—could use some more training, but they’re in a good position right now.” Sooin unlocks the tablet in her hands. “You have a meeting at Son Industries in about 90 minutes, so I suggest getting ready soon.” Wendy’s face turns sour for a split second before putting on a smile. “Thank you, Sooin-ah.”

Sooin soon leaves, and when you make eye contact with her, she smiles, to which you respond by smiling back. You quickly close the door behind her and then return to Wendy. “Are we leaving now?” She laughs. “We haven’t even touched our coffee yet—relax, oppa, damn.”

You take a seat on the empty chair on the other side of her desk, and Wendy quickly sits on your lap again, giggling because of the excitement. “I should wear pants tomorrow; straddling you in a skirt isn’t comfortable.” You laugh. “Of course, love.”

She twists to get a cup of coffee from her desk. “Take a sip, oppa.” You take a sip as she asks—wait, this isn’t the same Morning Magic she used to drink. “This tastes different—it tastes more… coffee-y,” you comment. “I think the word is fruity,” she corrects you, “it’s good, though, no?” You nod. “It is, especially because it’s your hands that are holding the cup,” you attempt to flirt. She slaps you on the chest. “Oh my God, stop—I can only blush so many times in a day.”

You notice her less enthusiastic expressions as you enter the supposed meeting room with her. “Miss Son, are you okay?” She shakes her head. “Not really, no,” she says. You ask if you can help lift her mood, but instead of answering, Wendy opts to hold your hands. “I promise I’ll tell you everything after this, oppa—just bear with us for now.” You’re getting nervous, but you make sure it doesn’t show. “Of course.”

A man in a neat black suit enters the room, and you happen to have just let go of her hands. “It’s always a pleasure to meet you, sweetheart,” he says. You can’t believe your ears; there’s no way he just called her that. “You too, my dear.” Wendy’s reply makes you really uneasy about the meeting. Your eyes move rapidly between the two people in front of you as you try to figure out what sort of relationship they have.

Your heart begins racing when Wendy and the man shares a warm hug—it doesn’t help that their faces are adorned with smiles. “What the hell is going on,” you ask yourself. In a moment of confusion and worry, your eyes shift away from them and land on the small note in your hands. “Surely this isn’t another heartbreak,” you write down your thoughts.

The man invites Wendy to sit next to him, and she does as he asks. “Sweetheart,” he puts his palm on her knee, “have you been well?” She nods. “I’ve been very well, dear—look, my assistant has finally returned,” she points at you.

The man looks at you, and it might just be his facial features, but he seems to not like your presence. “I wonder what’s so good about him that you longed for his return,” he says. Wendy chuckles. “Nothing, really; it’s just that he knows so much about us that I’d rather have him on our side.” The man laughs. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart; we’ll kill him should we need to.”

You can’t take this anymore; this doesn’t feel like a conversation you’d like to listen to. “Sir, madam, if you’d excuse me—I have some things to take care of.” The man’s face is sour as if disgusted by you. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” he waves you off. Just before you step out of the room, you turn your head towards them. The man must’ve said something funny because Wendy is laughing out loud.

You guess that they’ll be in there for quite a while, so you go to the convenience store on the next block to get some things. You opt for a bottle of cold water, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. You haven’t smoked in years, and you wonder if you still remember how to.

You take a seat on a bench near the side of the road. You put a cigarette between your lips and light it up, using your free hand as cover so that the wind doesn’t kill the fire. You close your eyes as you take a puff. “This tastes like watermelon juice—what do they put in cigarettes these days?” The flavor becomes more prominent on the next puff. “Hell, didn’t know I’ve missed this.”

You let go of other thoughts and concentrate entirely on the long-lost bliss that is smoking. “Maybe I should buy another pack,” you say out loud. “No, you fucking don’t.” You hear a woman’s voice coming from the left, and when you look, it’s Wendy, huffing and puffing as she comes towards you fast.

“What the fuck are you doing, oppa?” You show her the half-burned cigarette between your fingers. “Smoking,” you answer plainly. She slaps your hand, thus making you drop the little stick onto the concrete floor. “I hate men who smoke.” You shrug. “You’re free to hate me.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “What the fuck do you mean?” You chuckle. “I could tell you liked that guy—heh, not only that, but you’re now so comfortable swearing in front of me.” Wendy tries pulling you onto your feet, but you don’t cooperate. “Let’s go already; we need to talk.” “What is there to talk about?” She looks at you with teary eyes. “Please, oppa; let’s just get out of here.”

You leave your seat and beeline towards the car, not caring whether Wendy is following or not. You press the small button on the handle, which unlocks the car, and get in the driver’s seat. “T-take me home, oppa,” her voice is getting shaky. You look at the time. “It’s not even lunch yet.” “Please, j-just take me home,” she begs.

Wendy is the only person who can unlock the penthouse door, so you enter after her. “Well, we’re home,” you state the obvious. She turns around to face you, but her eyes are straying away from yours. “I-I promised that I’d tell you everything, d-didn’t I, oppa?” You sigh. “I’ll be honest with you; I don’t know if I want to hear it.” Wendy begs that you give her a chance to explain everything and get you up to speed on the things you’ve missed during your absence, so you sit with her on the sofa to have a conversation.

Wendy gets on her knees in front of you. “Please try to listen and understand, oppa.” You simply nod as a response. “T-that was Shin Woojin, a-and my father wants me to marry him.” That’s quite an interesting plan. “So that was what the pet names were for, then?” She nods. Wendy then continues to explain that she has been playing along with her father’s game, hence the intimate gestures and names, but she wants to escape that arrangement now that she has you.

When you ask Wendy who Woojin is and what his role is at Son Industries, she reveals that he’s the one who replaced Wendy when she left to establish a record label subsidiary. Hearing it makes you chuckle. “I figured he was an important guy—y’know, since the always-wise Mr. Son chose him to be your spouse.” Wendy looks down at the floor, her chin almost stuck to her chest. “You haven’t even assured me that you want to be with me and not him,” you press her further.

You’re startled when Wendy bows to kiss your feet, and you immediately have her straighten her posture as you’re not a fan of such treatment. “I belong to you and only you, oppa; please don’t doubt that.” You accept her words but aren’t entirely satisfied just yet. “Is that all you have to say?” She begins crying. “W-what else do you want, oppa—I-I’ve been nothing but honest with you.”

Wendy begins breaking down even more when she sees you staying silent, taking it as a sign that you don’t believe her words. “Hey, now,” you pull her onto your lap, “you’re alright, love.” “I’m so sorry, oppa,” her voice is trembling, “I-I never meant to hurt you like this.” When you try to open your mouth, Wendy interrupts. “I-I don’t hate you, oppa—fuck, I don’t want to hate you.” “I don’t hate you either, love,” you assure her.

You think that it’s best to continue this in bed so that the two of you can be comfortable, so you take her to the safest haven of them all: the bedroom. “No one will be mad if we leave work at noon, right?” Wendy shakes her head. “I-if someone dares yell at you, I-I’ll fire them without thinking twice.”

You lie in bed with Wendy, hugging her tightly in your arms and still petting her back to help comfort her. “I wish I could bleed for you again—again, and again, and again,” she says. “No, no, no; the fact that it could only happen once means that it’s very special,” you reason. Wendy presses her face into your chest. “You’re special, oppa.” You smile. “So are you, my love.”

“Oppa,” her muffled voice barely reaches your ears, “how can I quit this arrangement?” You sigh. “I feel like talking to your father is the best way, but I don’t know if he’d be open to such a conversation.”

Wendy looks up at you. “What if we find a way to frame Shin Woojin?” You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you mean frame?” Wendy points out Woojin’s “hobby” of touching women without their consent, specifically when he’s drunk, and thinks that she can use that against him. “Okay…?” Your voice is laced with confusion and uncertainty. “How confident are you that it’ll work, though?” She chuckles. “Oh, it will; my dad hates that sort of behavior.”

You sigh—you’re still not entirely sold on the idea, but if it means that Wendy can escape the arrangement, then it’s worth trying. “Can you clue me how we do this?” She suggests that you be Woojin’s chauffeur for a day tomorrow. “He always goes to the club on Friday; you can follow him around the club and take videos of his drunk ass.”

You’re nervous because of a couple of reasons: number one, you don’t know what Woojin thinks of you after he saw you storming out of the meeting; number two, what if he thinks that you’re spying on him on behalf of the Son. You express these concerns to Wendy, and while she acknowledges the first worry as valid, she doesn’t think that Woojin will figure out that he’s being spied on. “Alright, if you say so,” you say, and with it, the plot is underway.

“Oppa, I can’t sleep,” she complains. You ask what time this is. “It’s, erm, 2 a.m.”

You gather your strength to sit, leaning against the headboard for support. “Come here, sweetheart,” you invite Wendy to fill the empty space between your legs. Wendy leans against your body, and you secure her in place by wrapping your arms around her.

“Are you okay, love? Is something bothering your mind?” She sighs deeply. “Shin Woojin is bothering my mind,” she says. “What about him?” She sighs again. “I wish I hadn’t entertained his attempt at courting me.” Your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean? You said it was an arrangement?” Wendy falls silent, presumably thinking whether she really wants to reveal this. “Ah, who am I kidding—you deserve to know,” she says. “He took me home one day, oppa, a-and I might or might not have let him enter my house.”

It's your turn to fall silent; you need time to process what you’ve just been told. “Please say something,” Wendy urges you. “Something,” you say plainly. Your singular word doesn’t satisfy her. “I’ll do anything to convince you, oppa—just tell me what to do.” You shake your head. “You’re alright, love; you gave me your flower, so that’s enough proof that you didn’t fool around with him.”

Wendy leans against your chest again. “I-I was so close to giving him my flower.” The sudden reveal makes you furrow your eyebrows. “What the hell did you just say?” The way you suddenly flip scares her to tears. “P-please, j-just listen first,” she begs, so you ask that she continue. “I-I was getting tired of waiting for you to come back, s-so I-I thought it was okay to… y’know, be with him.”

You see an opportunity to pretend to degrade yourself and see how she’ll react. “I mean, I’m a nobody, and he’s one of the richest guys out there, so I see why he’d be attractive to you.” Wendy sighs. “I don’t need a man’s money; I only need his mind and heart, and Shin Woojin can’t give me those two things.” Not the most assuring answer, but that should be enough for now—it’s better to stop arguing sooner than later anyway. “I suppose,” you say, thus putting an end to the back-and-forth.

Woojin has you stop the car on the side of the road, right in front of his favorite club. He’s confused when you follow him out of the car. “What are you doing?” “Miss Son wanted me to keep an eye out on the surroundings for you, sir,” you reason, giving him a peek at your holstered stun gun as proof of commitment. “Do you always carry that?” You nod. “Mr. Son made it very clear that I carry a weapon whenever I’m with Miss Son.” You can tell that Woojin still isn’t convinced, but hearing the names makes him powerless. “Let’s just get inside,” he says.

A security guard halts the two of you, but as soon as Woojin lowers his shades, the guard steps aside. After getting inside, Woojin is immediately greeted by a staff member who then leads him towards his reserved spot. You see that there are two women (who you guess are a few years younger than Wendy) in minimal clothes waiting for him.

“Hi, cuties,” Woojin greets the women. “Sorry for being late; this new chauffeur is so bad with directions.” It’s almost amazing how easily he can come up with a lie on the fly like that. The women made some comments such as how Woojin should fire you and things like that, but the most interesting sentence you hear is how one of them hasn’t had her period yet and is demanding Woojin to be ready to take responsibilities.

It’s really hard not to smirk; you’ve just heard a huge reveal which you’re sure Wendy would love to hear as well. You turn your back against them and pull out your phone. “Looks like Mr. Shin is in deep trouble,” you text Wendy a vague message. She types a reply right away, but before you manage to read it, you feel a tap on your shoulder, so you quickly hide your screen from his vision.

“Yes, sir?” Woojin tells you to find a staff member and order six bottles of Ilpoom Jinro Soju for him. “Of course, sir.” You tread through the club’s interior to find someone, and you stumble upon the same person who guided Woojin to his table earlier. “Hey, my boss wants six bottles of Ilpoom Jinro Soju delivered to his table,” you forward the message to the staff. Based on how he doesn’t ask who your boss is, it looks like he remembers your face from the first meeting, and before long, the staff member says that he will sort it out.

After thanking him for the help, you make your way to find the security room where the CCTVs are monitored from. You see a closed door with the text “SECURITY” written on it on the other side of the building, so you part the sea of people to get to your destination.

You knock on the door, and someone from the other side opens it slightly. “What?” “I’m with Shin Woojin, and he wants me to keep an eye on him from the CCTVs.” You hope this guy recognizes the name. “Yeah, one second.” You’re relieved to see that he indeed knows the name, and before long, you’re sitting next to the guy in the security room. “Hey, erm, Mr. Shin wants me to get the recording—you can give it to me, right?” He nods. “Just make a copy from that hard drive.”

You’ve been sitting in the security room for almost an hour now, keeping your eyes stuck on the feed from the camera that’s pointed at Woojin and the women. It looks like Woojin and the late-to-have-period woman is talking about some stuff while the other woman looks at them from the side. You try zooming in on them, but the feed becomes more pixelated, so you return to the normal zoom level. You think that as long as you have clear video of what they’re doing, it should be enough proof.

You keep watching as Woojin shakes his head, seemingly frustrated about something, and reaches for a bottle of soju on the table. He keeps making these sharp head turns towards the woman as his lips keep moving. Not only that, but the other woman looks to be uneasy; she keeps tapping Woojin’s thigh as if trying to douse his anger. “Go on, Shin Woojin; do something stupid,” you think.

The woman gets on her feet, and with her purse in hand, she begins to walk away from Woojin. Suddenly, Woojin grabs her by her wrist and yanks her backwards until she falls seated on the sofa again. “Oh, shit, here we go.” You take a mental note of the timestamp so you can find the spicy part easier later.

So far, the scene hasn’t caught anyone’s attention just yet, but based on how Woojin is towering the crying woman and seemingly yelling at her, it won’t be long until someone calls something out. It is worth noting that the other woman is very active during all of this; she keeps trying out different ways to get Woojin to calm down.

Suddenly, Woojin drags the woman away from the table and, in turn, out of the camera’s vision. You try turning it around, but it can only cover so much before Woojin and the woman go out of frame again. “Hey, does Mr. Shin has a room or something here?” The security guy reveals that he indeed has a private room which only he and his guests can enter. You ask where it is, and it’s actually located separately from the club; you need to head out of the back door, and once you’re out, his room is in the small building in the rear parking lot.

You rush to follow Woojin, and since he’s (presumably) raging, he won’t have the head space to think about you. You get through the same back door he did. There he is: Woojin is dragging the woman towards that small building, exactly like what the security guy said.

“Looking for your boss?” The shock almost makes you pass out—it’s the other woman from earlier. “Something like that,” you say, trying to play it cool. “Where are they heading?” She sighs. “He’s going to… talk some sense into her.” The phrasing intrigues you. “What do you mean?” She takes a deep breath. “Often times love blinds you, and Shin Woojin isn’t someone you’d want to fall in love with.”

You lean against the wall like the woman does. “Can I ask what your names are?” She nods. “I’m Kim Soohyun, and that is Kim Sooyeon—we’re not related, by the way.” You ask what kind of relationship they have with Woojin, and Soohyun reveals that they’re his sugar babies; they’ve just graduated from university, so this is their peak in terms of physicality and sexuality.

“I assure you, mister; I just wanted the money,” Soohyun says. “Sooyeon-ie, though… she, erm, she loves Woojin-oppa—like, she wants to be with him.” You can only nod along as her words enter your ears. Soohyun places a hand on your shoulder, and when you turn your head towards her, you see tears on her cheeks. “Save her, please; she doesn’t deserve any of this—she just wants to be loved like any other woman does.”

You run as fast as you can towards the building, and when you get there, you lean your head against the door. You hear faint screams and cries coming from the other side, but before you barge in, you open the voice recorder app on your phone to catch every sound made.

“Mr. Shin,” you call out to Woojin as you knock on the door. “Mr. Shin, please open the door.” You get nervous when the screams become louder. “Ah, fuck this shit.” You kick the door as hard as you can, thus forcing it to swing open, and your jaw drops in horror.

Shin Woojin is forcing himself onto this woman.

“Mr. Shin, please stop,” you try to talk some sense into him. “Mr. Shin, please, you can’t ruin yourself like this.” Woojin steps away from the crying Sooyeon and punches you square in the face, thus forcing you to tumble backwards and onto the floor. “What the fuck do you know about me, you little shit?” “Sir—” Before you can say your words, a kick lands on your head. “You know nothing about me, dipshit.”

You’re cornered, but you don’t want to use your weapon just yet. Maybe—just maybe—Woojin is still willing to hear reason. “S-sir, Mr. Son w-will kill you himself i-if he hears a-about this.” Much to your surprise, he storms you with more punches and kicks. “Mr. Son? That old fucker? You’re out of your mind!” You toughen up as Woojin kicks you a few more times—one of them even lands on your head. “Let this be a lesson to everyone that you don’t fuck with Shin Woojin,” he boasts.

Woojin turns around again, and while he’s not looking, you gather the strength to pull out your stun gun. “A-and you don’t fuck with the Sons, S-Shin Woojin.” With that said, you pull the trigger, thus electrocuting him until he drops limp onto the floor. “Y-you’ve messed up big time, Shin Woojin.”

The entirety of your body is hurting; your limbs feel heavy, and you can’t keep your head straight. You fight through the pain and pull your phone out of your pocket. You’re somewhat relieved when you see that it’s not broken. You first end the recording before calling Wendy who picks up right away.

“Yes?”

“T-the police,” you say weakly.

“Huh?”

“C-call them.”

Wendy ends the call, probably so she can call the police, and before long, she’s calling again.

“Y-yes.”

“What on earth is happening?”

“S-Shin Woojin was t-trying to rape a woman, a-and he beat me up.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Fuck, do I sound like I’m fucking lying!?”

Wendy falls silent; you’ve never cursed at her before, so she knows that you’re being serious.

“I’m on my way,” she says, and with it, she ends the call again.

You’re sitting on a bench in a park across the street while an EMT tends to your wounds, applying iodine and putting on bandages where necessary. “Should be enough for now,” he says. “Thank you, mister.”

Your gaze lands on the other ambulance on the site where you saw Sooyeon get carted into on a stretcher. “Just take her to hospital already, man.” A wave of relief washes over you when you see the driver turn on the vehicle. “There you go,” you mumble. You smile a little when the ambulance starts speeding with sirens blaring.

“Oppa!” You hear Wendy’s voice coming from your right, but since you can’t turn your head towards the source, you opt to wait until the speaker appears in front of you. “Oppa, are you okay?” You put on a smile for her. “I am golden, sweetheart.”

Her eyes are getting teary. “Please don’t cry, baby,” you say. “B-but you’re literally hurting now.” You shake your head, grunting a little in the process. “It’s okay; it was for an important cause.”

Wendy can’t hold her tears back anymore; she puts her forehead on your knees and begins crying to her heart’s content. “I-I shouldn’t have let Woojin get close to me.” You don’t want Wendy to start blaming herself, so you make sure she stops right now. “This is how it was meant for him and us; there’s no use in regretting it.”

With an arm wrapped around your shoulders, Wendy helps you get on the bed for the night. Initially, you lie on your stomach, but she then flips you over onto your back. “I can’t cuddle you if you’re on your tummy,” she says in this aegyo-esque voice.

You promptly let out a grunt when Wendy wraps her limbs around you. “Oh, oh, sorry—does that hurt?” You laugh. “No, I was just playing with you.” She pinches you on the arm. “You’re very funny, oppa.”

Wendy makes use of the fact that the two of you are naked and lets your limp cock enter her pussy. She exhales deeply at the first penetration. “I can’t do this right now, love.” “Neither can I; I just want to share my warmth with you.” You chuckle. “You’re warm alright.” Wendy then continues to slowly lie down on your body, paying attention to your reactions as she does. “This doesn’t hurt, right?” You shake your head. “Everything is so nice and warm—thank you, love.” A sheepish smile appears on Wendy’s face. “Y-you’re welcome.”

Just before you drift off to sleep, Wendy taps your arm to get your attention. “Love, erm, dad wants to see us tomorrow.” “Then we will see him tomorrow, love.” You’re oddly confident about meeting the big boss. Wendy asks what you will tell Mr. Son. “Everything he wants to hear; I won’t hide anything from him.”

Wendy lets her head rest on your chest. “Dad wants to see me be with a proper man, and you’re nothing short of that, oppa.” Your cheeks are getting hot because of the praise. “You know you deserve the best from me, love.”

You and Wendy enter through the door of Mr. Son’s home office. You were so confident about meeting him last night, but now that you’re actually in front of him, you’re very nervous that your knees are weak.

“Good morning, papa,” Wendy greets her father, and he smiles in response. “Good morning, princess—have you been well?” She looks at you before looking at her father again. “I mean, oppa has been taking care of me so well.”

Mr. Son looks at you. “Is that so, son?” “That is precisely so, sir,” you say, your tone firm. The smile on his face doesn’t disappear—if anything, it feels more sincere than the previous one. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Mr. Son asks the two of you to sit on the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Mr. Jin, I have received information about your most recent… adventure.” You stay silent in hope that he will continue. “Can you tell me about it?” You nod firmly again. “Sir, Mr. Shin Woojin was forcing himself onto a woman, so I had to stop him.” He asks why you cared so much about Woojin. “It wasn’t about Mr. Shin at all, sir; it was about Miss Son—I had been informed about his poor behaviors, and I was concerned that would continue if Miss Son ties the knots with him.”

Mr. Son leans forwards. “That wasn’t what the recording suggested, Mr. Jin.” You inhale sharply; you remember talking about how Woojin couldn’t “ruin himself like this” when you were trying to stop him. “Sir, it was just a heat-of-the-moment thing—I was also still in character,” you try to reason with him. Mr. Son looks taken aback. “Character? What character?” You explain all the details of the arrangement you had with Wendy which involved getting proofs of Woojin’s bad behavior towards women. “That was quite the elaborate plan,” he sounds impressed. “It was all Miss Son, sir; I was just following instructions,” you say.

Mr. Son then turns towards his daughter. “What are we thinking about, princess?” “I want to be with him,” she answers vehemently. His right eyebrow rises (a common thing he does), not expecting such an answer from his daughter. “You love him that much?” Wendy nods. “No one else but Changmin-oppa—I’m not interested in those brats in the slightest.”

Mr. Son leans back in his big chair. “Very well, then,” he says. “Have you two decided on a date yet?” Wendy looks at you momentarily. “What date?” “Well, a date for the wedding, of course.” Wendy chuckles. “What about the first of February?”

You’re flustered; Wendy and Mr. Son are moving so fast that you’re struggling to keep up. “C-can we not talk about it for a bit first?” They both laugh. “What is there to talk about, son—my daughter loves you, and you love her back; why not tie the knot quickly?” Your jaw drops. “You said the first of February, didn’t you, princess?” The big boss looks at the calendar on his computer. “First of February sounds good,” he says.

Mr. Son laughs when he sees your face. “Princess, pull your boyfriend back down, will you?” Wendy hugs you after dragging you onto your feet, and you kiss her on the top of her head instinctively. “Works like a charm,” she quips.

Mr. Son sends you and Wendy out of his office, saying that the two of you should start planning the wedding from today since there are only 21 days left until the agreed date. “Sir, I will do my best to become the man Seungwan-ie deserves.” You bow to him, and only now do you realize you just said her “private” name. Mr. Son simply nods. “Believe me, son; you don’t want to mess this up,” he says, and with it, you part ways with him.

Wendy pulls you into a passionate kiss as soon as you enter the penthouse. “Bedroom, please,” she whispers. You chuckle. “Can I sort these bags out first?” She shakes her head. “Just put it down somewhere—I’m not in the mood for waiting.” You let the bags drop onto the floor. “Like this?” She giggles. “Yes, just like that.”

You lift Wendy into a bridal-style carry. “Yes, so far so good, oppa,” she expresses her approval of your action. You arrive at the bedroom after a brief walk that is decorated with smiles and giggles. You carefully lower Wendy onto the—or not; she’d rather cling onto you. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?” “I just want to be in your arms.”

You take a seat in the middle of the bed, still keeping Wendy in your arms like she wishes. Wendy shifts around until she’s seated on your lap. “Thinking about having fun?” Your question makes her blush. “Erm, something like that.” You guide her hands to reach your shirt. “Feel free to undress me,” you say.

Wendy undoes the first two buttons of your shirt but then stops with a hint of frown on her features. “Is something bothering your mind?” She places a finger on your chest. “You have a bruise here.” You nod. “You know who did that.” She huffs. “I swear we’re going to make him pay for everything.” You sigh. “I expect nothing less, especially from your father.”

With that out of the way, Wendy continues undoing your button until the last one. “Your turn, oppa.” You undo the four big buttons of her sleeveless blouse, and Wendy simply lets it drop, thus leaving her bra-covered breasts for you to see. “Keep going,” she urges. You reach around to unlatch her bra, and once again, she simply lets it fall.

Wendy quickly unzips your pants and drags them down your legs. She then wastes little time to get to what she wants, which is your cock that’s almost hard enough for the occasion. “Get hard for me, please,” she says as she strokes your cock. Once she’s satisfied with the stiffness, she takes you in her mouth. “Whoa, that’s new,” you blurt.

You lean against the headboard while Wendy gets busy with your cock, moving her head up and down along your length. “You’re a natural, aren’t you,” you say after noticing the lack of gagging. You place a hand on the back of her head and push down a little to see how she will react. Much to your pleasure, she doesn’t seem to mind taking more of your shaft in her mouth. “You’re doing so well, love,” you praise her.

Soon, Wendy removes you from her mouth with a pop. “That was exhausting—my jaw is exhausted,” she says. You pull her towards you to kiss her fleetingly. “You don’t mind?” You shrug. “I mean, it was me; would’ve been different if it was another man.” She chuckles. “I suppose that makes sense.”

You ask if Wendy wants to keep going, and without a word said, she slides your cock into her pussy from a cowgirl position. “Oh, I’d say we’re still quite far from done.” Without being told, she begins moving up and down slowly, moaning freely with every move. You let her do whatever she wants with you; your hands that are placed on her hips serve no purpose other than to simply hold her.

“I love you,” Wendy mutters. “I love you more, sweetheart,” you reply. A smile appears on her face. “The name sounds so cute coming from your lips.” Wendy leans to kiss you, and you welcome her warmly. “You can actually feel my love, can’t you?” You nod. “Your tight grip is the perfect cherry on top.” Your little joke makes her giggle. “Sure, oppa.”

Before long, Wendy tells you that she’s getting exhausted from bouncing herself on your lap, and before you take this to a typical guy-on-top position, you ask if she can try grinding her crotch against yours. Wendy complies right away; she’s curious as to how it will feel. “Oh, this is nice,” she whispers. “It is, isn’t it—we’re so in love, and things feel so pure and sincere.” Wendy nods. “My love for you is sincere,” she piles on.

You don’t know how long Wendy has been grinding on you, but one thing that’s certain is that you’re approaching your finishing point. “Love, we’ll switch now, okay?” “What—ah!” Wendy suddenly finds herself lying underneath you. “Sorry, but we need to keep going,” you say. Her heart starts racing; the idea of not having control during sex is still quite intimidating for her. “S-sure.”

Wendy hides her face in the crook of your neck as she takes fast and deep thrusts from you. “Fuck!” A loud scream flies out her lips when your cock hits a particular spot. “Love, again—please, please, please,” she chants, eager to feel such stimulation once more.

To fulfill her request, you make sure your cock gets as deep as possible into her, and this is when Wendy’s eyes start rolling backwards. You laugh internally—the graceful and elegant woman most employees often refer to as boss is becoming such a mess in bed. “You’re cute,” you quip.

Soon, Wendy announces that she’s going to burst, so in this final stretch before she blows, you make sure you don’t let up the stimulation, trying your hardest to maintain the pace of your movements. “Please, please—oh, fuck!” Orgasm takes Wendy high to cloud nine, her mouth stuck open. You slowly pull out of her, and this is when her a bit of her juice leaks out onto the bed. “I’ll get us some water, baby.”

You return to the bedroom with a glass of water and help Wendy take a sip. “Thank you, oppa.” You notice that she’s still panting rather heavily. “Do you want to catch your breath for a moment?” She shakes her head. “Let’s continue; the sooner we finish, the sooner we can rest.”

Wendy rolls over onto her stomach, and with her permission, you slide back into her from behind. “Please be gentle,” she says, and you’re promptly reminded that you went a bit too rough on her a few days ago. “Of course.” You start off slowly but then gradually pick up the pace. “This is fine, right?” Wendy nods. “Y-yes, this is good.”

The fact that her thighs are closed makes her feel even tighter than before. “Fuck, so tight,” you blurt. “Just for you, my love—fuck, how are you this big.” You bend forward and peck the back of her head. “Just for you, my love,” you return her words. She chuckles. “You’ve forgotten that Jiho bitch, haven’t you?” You squeeze her neck just enough to make Wendy realize her mistake. “S-sorry,” she says.

You return to the task at hand after that brief pause, and you notice something. “I won’t last long.” She nods. “You’ve lasted long enough anyway.” You chuckle; it was just a simple sentence, but it feels like she’s fanning your fire of ego. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

“With the authority that has been given to me, I declare you husband and wife.”

The room explodes into claps and cheers; it seems that those who are present are as happy as you are today. You glance at Wendy’s parents who are in the most front row, and the smiles on their faces. “Thank you,” you mouth, and they nod in response.

“You may kiss your spouse.”

His words make you laugh. “I’ve kissed her plenty of times, mister,” you joke. Wendy joins you in laughing. “God, just kiss me already.” With it, you pull your wife into a kiss, and the crowd cheers once again.

“Congratulations, sir and madam; I hope that you have a good life together.”

You thank the man for the kind words while deep inside, you also pray to whatever higher being is listening in for a happy life with your new wife, your second lease on love.

“Hey, love,” her words snap you out of your trance. “I love you.” You exhale deeply. “I love you more.”

#girl group smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #male reader #male reader smut #smut #red velvet smut

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beware-of-pity · 2 months ago

Text

You believe me like a god (I destroy you like I am) V

Masterlist

Previous Chapter - Next

Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

TW: Self-hatred/Implied Self Harm. Complicated family relations. The reader is a Targtower.

Cross-posted on Ao3

Chapter V: Not a lot, just forever (Intertwined, sewn together)

What have you done? How could you do such a thing?

You had practically run back to your room, Ser Rickard following close after. Before he could inquire about your state, you closed the door behind you, sliding down on it, shaking your head, sweating cold blood as you panicked.

You foolish girl, had you learned nothing? This is how it begins, your downfall, your own end.

You had shut yourself in your room, no one to enter unless you wished otherwise. As such, your meals were left at your doorsteps, which you cared not to take.

That same day, in the late afternoon, Jacaerys came to see you. Still shaken by your choice of actions, the whispered words, and the untold understanding between you and Lord Reynford, you gladly accepted his entrance into your room to get yourself off your raging mind. As if him being there with you could soothe your itching soul.

Oh, how much like your mother you were. Feeling guilty for wanting things you thought were within your rights to be yours, to demand for yourself, to want, to yearn. You yearned for things like a normal person. You had desires, wants, and needs, could it be so wrong to reach for what you wanted? Freedom is such an abstract concept. What is freedom? You’re free right now, within the confines created for you, but even farmers’ daughters were freer to do as they pleased themselves. So, how come you ate at yourself for being human?

Why did your chest burn with the guilt of treachery? Why did your mind chastise you with words of petulance?

How could it be your fault when the gods made you in the same image of the mother whose womb you were born from? The womb that gave you life, the womb that shaped you into who you are? From the father’s whose seed created you in his liking? The hands that, in the haze of pleasure, moulded you?

The gods made the sins they make common people like you afraid of so much stronger than the nature of mankind. A nature you were taught to fight against, to negate, to reject. But how could you when your soul demanded of you to be like others? They temped, they tethered, they schemed, awaiting, with baited breaths, as they watched you descend into a madness of your own making. For the moment, you’ll slip into the trap set for you to fall in. The gods are cruel, but they’ve been crueller.

Jacaerys had come for two reasons. One, because he had learned that you had shut yourself in your room, not wanting either maids or visitors to come in. And two, he had witnessed something he had never seen before in his life.

A dragon in distress.

He was very much aware of how close the bond between dragon and rider could be, and upon learning from one of your maids, one he paid to keep an eye on you, of your ‘situation’ once he returned to the Keep, he wondered if your indisposure and been the cause for Silverwing’s more than alarming state.

When he, Baela and Rhaena had gone to the dragonpit earlier that day, he was told that he could not access the cave where Vermax rested. The dragon keepers told him it would be too dangerous to venture into the dark of the pit when Silveewing, a dragon known for her friendly nature towards humans, was in such disarray with herself.

He had not heeded the advice given to him, citing that Silverwing had not hurt anyone ever before, even those who attempted to claim her and were unsuccessful in doing so. You were kind, and so was your dragon, he trusted that your nature fed off to Silverwing.

But when he approached the cave where Vermax rested, just a few paces from where Silverwing’s was, he understood why he was cautioned not to. She was whining, wriggling around, the chains pulling at her neck, clearly not used to them. Why would she? When she was a dragon known for her freedom. He remembered how often you used to fly with her, many times a day, almost every day. It was your only freedom, the one autonomy you were allowed in this world of men and gods. Something your mother used to reprimand you for, citing it was not good for a lady of your station to be more on the wild saddle than participating in courtly matters.

The moment Silverwing saw him, she tried to walk to him, possibly out of recognition of the many flights you and her had taken with him and Vermax in the past, until she was pulled back once more by the chains, agitating her.

When he didn’t try to help her, she grew angrier, batting her wings and snapping her jaw at him, baring her pointy and sharp teeth. Before he could make another move, she was blasting her blue flames at him, making him stumble back in surprise. She had never done that before, not to him, not to anyone. He was used to her friendliness, and her erratic change of attitude worried him.

He had not gone for a flight that morning. Instead, he waited for Baela and Rhaena to return with Moondancer, Rhaena riding with her since Morning was still too young for her to fly with. After all, the pink beauty was only four years of age, just a big hatchling still. It would be long before Rhaena could fly atop her.

With the time he was given, he contemplated what he had just found himself at the hands of. It was no secret that you missed Silverwing, the separation from your other half leaving you, at times, a shell of the person you used to be. He knew how much you yearned for the skies, not just for the sake of flying but to feel the air blow through your hair, flesh against your skin when you did so with the mount you used to spend your days upon.

Perhaps today, more than any other day, you felt more melancholic than usual, the disparity of your situation truly pulling at you.

There were….days when everything got the better of you. When you refused to go out, to eat even less than you already did, to get out of your bed. He worried for you; he truly did, and his worry did not come from a place of pity, which he knew you hated. It came from a place of care and concern for you, your well-being, and your sanity.

Jacaerys always felt that you had a special place in his heart, one he would always reserve for you. His childhood had not been the best despite his more-than-awaited royal birth. His mother shielded him as best as she could, but she could not change the nature of the world they both lived in. You were the only one, aside from Helaena, who saw him as more than what he was, seeing through the prejudices and rumours spread about him. Kind, ever the open-hearted and understanding girl you were, you made a point to defend him from your brothers when their words would get less than kind in his regards. You two read together, under the weirwood tree in the Godswood, mostly histories of Valyria and the history of House Targaryen, which you always seemed more versed on than him, one of the reasons why you also taught him most of the Valyrian he knew, which you had taken an affinity than he couldn’t compare to, even years after, when he had become a studied mind and an ample linguistic in the old tongue of his ancestors.

He remembers how you used to show him every single needlework you would sew when you first picked your needle and thread because of the lessons your mother had made you take. Your first true work was an embroidered handkerchief with Silverwing and Vermax on it. He had never felt his heart swell so much as it did that day. He was eight years of age.

He was so enamoured by the gesture that he used to sleep with the handkerchief under his pillow, worried that someone would try to steal it from him, like little Luke, who would surely tease him endlessly for it. Even now, years down the line, he never parted from it, a true testament to just how much it meant for it. It weighed in the pockets of his trousers as he watched you intricately weaving the needle in the fabric latched into the wooden hoop. A silent reminder of who you were for him.

“What will that be?” He asked, his voice just a murmur so as to not break the silence that filled the room, the flickers of the fire crackling in front of you two.

“I don’t know yet” you muttered. He noticed how you were quieter than usual as if something you did not want to say would come out of your mouth otherwise.

“I like the colour,” he said, watching the red strings sawn together “It would go well with gold”

You raise the hoop to get a better look at the weaving dragon you were sewing before moving to hold it up against his doublet to see how it would fit upon it, or something similar, like a shirt or cloak.

“Or black,” you said, before looking at his face, only for him to stare back at you. “If you like it I shall give it to your seamstress. Perhaps she can make good use of it. A shirt or doublet”

“I wouldn’t want to take away such creation from you for a mere shirt” he huffed, not taking his eyes off your inquisitive ones.

“Even if I insist?” It wasn’t often that you were so bold as to order around or dictate to others, especially not your servants, who you were always kind to and left to their own devices most times because you did not want to bother them with your bothersome nuances. Hence, Jacaerys knew that when you insisted upon something, you did so because you genuinely wanted to. It seemed now that you wanted him to have this piece of embroidered fabric for him to do as he pleased with it.

“You did the same with your last piece, I cannot accept any more” he argued against the offer, taking your free hand in his, absentmindedly caressing the skin of the back of your hand. “And I’ve yet been unable to repay you for your free labour”

You scoffed, admittedly not out of anger or annoyance, but, maybe, as an instinct of sort to show your displeasure with his words, “How can I show you that I do not do any of the things I do because I seek recognition or payment from it?”

Your words hit a nerve, it seemed because you noticed and felt his hand tighten slightly around your caged one “I did not mean it like that”

Jacaerys didn’t want you to believe that he saw you in the same light as he would a maid or a servant, who did things that they were asked to do only so they could be praised or honoured for their work later, such as that maid he pays to watch over you, who only betrayed your services because of the pouch of golden coins he handsomely bestowed upon her.

Loyalty can be such a fickle thing if you know just how to bewitch lonesome victims. To her fairness, the maid had a family to feed, and self-preservation demanded that if the occasion for her to improve her impoverished conditions would lay at her feet, she should then throw herself at them to do so. He was sure you, too, would not blame the maid for her treachery if unmasked, and she begged for your forgiveness for her disloyalty. After all, you were not privy to how desperate means called for desperate measures. And as a product of her own environment, you would not expect less of her.

“I know you didn’t, but, truly, I want to” you sighed “I would not get any use of it anyways. I would rather have you have it, than for it to gather stifle dust in this storage of a room”

Jacaerys tightened his lips at your words. He did not like your living conditions either. Your previous room, back in Maegor’s holdfast, had always been a sight to behold for him, rich in decorations and luxury. Full of Hightower heritage, green had dominated the space —and the more devout your mother became, the sparer everything had begun to look around the Keep, a reflection of your mother’s strong desire for order and control. There were a few things that made your personality stand out among your mother’s undigitised desire to be everywhere, like your collections of books and trinkets. Helaena liked bug collecting, but to the sometimes messy and soiling activity, you much-preferred flower pressing, amounting to a collection of books containing them that rivalled Helaena’s many viewing screens for her insects.

When he was younger, he liked to come with the two of you to the gardens, watching over as you and Helaena spent your afternoons and mornings indulging in your preferred pastimes. Sometimes, when Helaena was too afraid of certain bugs to pick, frightened at the possibility of hurting them, he would pick them up for her, swallowing his own fright and the revolting sensation that washed over him at the bugs crawling in his hands. He, too, preferred the art of flowers more than that of bugs

Instead of pressing them, you would bind them, creating small bouquets of all sorts of arrangments for him to bring back to his rooms, the freshness of the newly picked flowers haunting his room with their smell. In an effort to impress you, he tried his own hand at it, often creating bouquets of all colours, which clashed against one another, not quite as effortlessly as you did. He much liked yours better.

You appreciated the effort nonetheless, complimenting him and trying to help him by giving him bits of advice for him to follow. His mother, of all, delighted in the bouquet he presented to her for her name days.

He had hated watching you be stripped of all your possessions. Your room had been given to Rhaena, who had wished for it to be rearranged in a style more to her liking, as she should be able to as the new proprietor. Whenever he went to visit her, often having tea with her and Baela there, he would let his eyes stray around, noticing how different everything was and how you would, certainly, arrange your things differently than Rhaena did, were you still living in this quarter. He sometimes missed the white and green of it all, now replaced by soft pinks and pastels, Rhaena’s most preferred colours, reminiscing of the times you two had spent together in it.

The room in the vault your family was confined to, was second rate to what you had been used to in the past, and though you never complained about it, Jacaerys imagined it to be difficult to be living in such conditions either way. Small windows, with barely any light coming from them and little to no air picking up in this part of the castle. The bells of the Sept beside the vault would create this almost monastic environment, and he would muse about how this room almost seemed to befit a Septa more than a royal princess.

He had stayed long enough to have dinner with you. To say that the ensemble on the table was pitiful would almost be a compliment to the food. Stable boys ate better than you did.

The servants ducked their eyes at his stare as they placed the food on the table. Bread, although stale, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, old ones he was sure were stuffed in the back of the pantry, a rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of tea. A sullen assembly. Still, he watched as you dived into the food with no complaints, wondering if you did not care about the conditions of the food because you had grown used to it or because you were famished out of the lack of substance you denied yourself.

Guilt is a disease, one he hoped you would soon heal yourself from. He hated how passive you seemed to become of everything, and if you were not willing to stand for yourself, he would. Had you known how he rounded the servants that had served you your food tonight, you would have surely reprimanded him about how you were more than capable of standing up for yourself if you wanted.

He had inquired, if not outright demanded, who had insisted for food of such quality to be served to you, and to his surprise, or rather, to his predictability, they had told him that it was Lord Bartimos’ orders. Celtigar, clearly, did not know how to stay his hand, a mere councillor to his mother, he had gone behind everyone’s back, his, his mother, and her hand, his grandfather, to give out orders that he had no jurisdiction to give.

It was no wonder, that the next time they had crossed paths in the middle of the halls of the Keep, Jacaerys made sure to remind him of his place and station, adding on a subtle threat that future misconduct would not receive the same mild reception. Something about being ‘fed to the dogs in the streets’.

The next time he stayed for dinner, he was more than pleased to see what you had been served. There was hot bread and fresh churned butter, a thick beef soup, capon and carrots, and peaches in honey. Even the air could be tasted, sweeter than anything you had surely eaten in months, he thought.

He had watched with a hidden delight how you had taken a spoonful of everything, letting the different flavours melt into your tongue, each delicacy bursting your tastebuds with sensations long forgotten. From then on, he took to spending his suppers in your room, eating alongside you, to entertain himself in the sight he had come to love most. Word had spread around about his ‘encounter’ with Lord Bartimos, his household and that of many, he wagered, abuzz with spreading rumours spoken by fickle tongues.

He had no time for rumours or gossiped words; he was too busy showing his newly sewn black doublet with a proud red dragon embroidery on it. Many wondered whose intricate hands had weaved such dazzling composition.

If only they knew.

Taglist: @esposadomd @aleemendoza2425-blog

If anyone else wants to be added, please comment so, and you'll be tagged in the next chapter

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abbyslev · 7 months ago

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papamin finding out you and yuuji are dating

a/n: THIS WAS SO CITE TO WRITE MY HEART

nanamis first time dressing you up was for a corporate christmas party.

he called his mother, asking for advice. eventually, his neighbor who so happened to be a kind lady with kids around your age helped you. after a few lessons, he learned. from them on, he dressed you up, doing your hair.

nanami didnt believe in leaving you behind, bringing you to every party and event he possibly could. something about you having him by his side, plus you kept everyone entertained, always telling them about how your daddy was a superhero and that he’s a hard worker.

nanami’s last time dressing you up was your formal dance.

he zipped your black dress up, moving your hair back into place. you turned around, waddling in front of your mirror. “what do you think?” you place your hands on your hips, cheesing. “i think you look beautiful, hun. as always.” he smiled at you. three quick knocks echoed through your home. “i’ll get it.” nanami left the room quickly before he started tearing up.

it long after, itadori bursted into your room, flowers in his hand. pink, the same shade as his hair. “these are for you!” he handed them to you, politely bowing. “thank you.” you hug him. “hey, you got a haircut!” you run your hands through his somewhat combed through hair.

god, you two were not beating the dating allegations. (that were very true, but you were terrified of your father finding out you were dating itadori.)

“do you like it?” “love it.” “i love your dress, black is your color.” “thanks!” you blushed. nanami cleared his throat. “sorry, nanamin!” itadori turned red, facing him. “photos?” nanami pulled out his phone. “you know it!” you grinned. itadori placed his hand in a respectable place, his grin wide and cheese flushed.

nanami took a couple, before turning around and taking a surprise selfie. “beat you to it.” he chuckled. “it’s okay, i got you earlier and you didn’t even know it.” you stuck your tongue out.

“alright. let’s get going, you two. be back before curfew and have lots of fun, okay?” nanami waved the both of you off. “yes, dad. i love you!” “love you, hun.” he watched as your and itadori made it down the stairs.

“that was a lot of fun. i wish jujustu had more dances.”

“oh, for sure. i didn’t even get to show you all of mine!” itadori laughed. “thanks for walking me back.” you leaned against his shoulder. “not a problem.” he blushed. the boys dorm wasn’t far from the mentors homes, anyway.

“i’ll see you tomorrow at training. and thanks for the shoes by the way.” you scratch your neck. itadori had taken his shoes off and tried his best to tie them tight after your heels had given you blisters. “no problem, anything for you.” he took the key to your house, opening the door.

“i love you.” itadori leaned down, giving you a quick kiss. “you be safe. don’t be late, i love you.” you waved him off, grinning from ear to ear.

“well, you certainly didn’t tell me you had a lover.” “dad!” you jumped up high, hand over your chest. there you stood, lipstick smudged and itadori’s suit jacket over you, with his huge shoes on your feet. nanami stared in confusion. “my feet hurt. and i got cold.”

nanami pointed at his lips, eyebrows furrowed. “oh.” you covered your lips. “im just messing with you. you two aren’t so secretive as you think.” nanami laughed. that was the day nanami realized you weren’t his little girl anymore.

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indigovigilance · 10 months ago

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Bullet Theory

Thesis: Crowley passed Aziraphale a bullet during the Final Fifteen kiss. This bullet contains his memories. He tucked it under his tongue, then began to access the memories during the ride up the elevator.

Edit: debunked by God himself, in response to this post. As a reminder, please don’t send fan theories to NG.

Proof:

Glint in the mouth

Inspo credit to this post by @somehow-a-human

Yeah so we were already paying way too much attention to that very special four-letter word we thought Aziraphale was going to say, but it so happens that during that cut-off phoneme is the only time you can see this shiny object in his mouth. (catching this on the right frame was emotionally painful and I’m sending Gavin Finney my therapy bills (actually no I’m not I love you very much sir)).

So that’s the basis of this theory. Crowley passed Aziraphale a bullet that he then tucks under his tongue.

Add’l Evidence Post-Kiss

Aziraphale works his jaw after raising his fingers to his lips: [gif]

Then when the Metatron comes in, he turns his back on the Metatron and raises his hand. I originally thought he was wiping his eyes. Now I think he’s raising his hand to his mouth, maybe to spit out the bullet, maybe to make sure it’s secured under his tongue.

Credits Scene

Aziraphale has the craziest fucking look on his face through the credits, we can all agree. But towards the end, his eyes flicker back and forth, as if he is watching or reading something. Then he smiles. I hypothesize that he is still accessing his memories during this time, and getting the information he needs to [redacted].

Thematic Justification: The Bullet Catch

Aziraphale having a bullet in his mouth as part of a two-man act of deception is not a fresh concept by the time we get to The Final Fifteen.

Additionally, the use of surreptitious modes of communication, where messages are passed from person to person inaudabily, is introduced in this same magic trick.

NB1: I wish I could credit the person who I first saw point this out (relatively recently). It wasn’t even tagged as meta, I don’t think. But the gist was there’s some parallelism between “aim for my mouth but shoot past my ear” and the “pin the lips on the lips” move that Crowley pulls in the Final Fifteen. If I find it I will properly cite.

NB2: One hypothesis that has circulated around, I think creditable to @sendarya, is that Aziraphale mouths “trust me” to Crowley just before he gets on the elevator. This isn’t necessary to the Bullet Theory but it would be thematically consistent.

Small objects carry memories

Why a bullet? Well, it’s a small object that has meaningful significance between the pair of people involved, much like:

Beelzebub introduces us to the idea that a small object like a fly can be used as a storage container for memories. We also see that the object entering the body of the person is a viable way for the memories to be delivered.

(btw Jon Hamm if you’re reading this, you have very pretty eyes)

“I keep a derringer in a hollowed out book”

K, so it’s not like Crowley is just carrying a bullet loaded with Aziraphale’s memories around with him at all times, is it? (I mean, it could be, but probably not. I’ll just point you to this meta for my theories on why, if Crowley had anything that needed to be kept safe, he would keep it in the bookshop.)

We learn in S2E4 that Aziraphale keeps a gun in a hollowed out book somewhere in the shop. A gun wouldn’t be any good without bullets, right? This may not be the reason the derringer was left as a Chekhov’s Gun for S3, but it’s a possibility. If Crowley wasn’t already in possession of a bullet, he knew that he could find one in the shop. Even more likely, the exact bullet used in the 1941 magic trick is a precious keepsake being kept somewhere in the bookshop, and Crowley chose to use that exact bullet because of the memories already directly attached to the object.

Why Aziraphale even has memories to be returned to him

We know that Aziraphale could have had his mind wiped because Heaven has done it before. Certainly once. Probably twice. We know this because when Metatron is announcing that Gabriel, alongside having his memories erased, is being demoted to 38th class, Muriel pipes up and reminds us that they are 37th class:

So this wasn’t a “just Gabriel” thing. Mind-wiping is a routine form of personnel management in Heaven. There is NO reason for us to believe that it didn’t happen to Aziraphale. But in case you need a reason to believe it, here goes:

We know from our interactions with Jim that the person whose memories are missing (1) doesn’t necessarily know and (2) isn’t necessarily distressed by that fact, even if they do. Muriel also fits this “cheerful empty shell” archetype. You know who else does? Ding ding ding. The one and only A. Z. “wiggles with delight” Fell.

I can already hear your very valid counter-argument. This guy is actually terrified out of his mind on any given day that his romance with a demon will be discovered. Yes. Because he’s involved in a romance with a demon. The other two angels we’ve met don’t have this issue. Beyond that, though, these three characters share more in common with each other disposition-wise than any of them do with the other angels we’ve met (Uriel, Michael, Sandolphon, etc.).

We also know that Aziraphale has been [demoted] at some point from Cherub to Principality. This is book canon:

"Technically Aziraphale was a Principality, but people made jokes about that these days."

This has also been confirmed (insofar as Neil Gaiman ever confirms anything) by Word of God:

(marketing video screengrab clipped for brevity)

We don’t know for sure it was a demotion, but I think we have enough evidence to infer that with a high degree of confidence.

Anyways.

Summary: Aziraphale is a cheerful angel who was demoted and has a name that is not biblical canon. This evidence indicates that was probably mind-wiped. This is not the first time I’m proposing this. It won’t be the last.

How Crowley Did It

My meta on Continuity Errors gives the complete proof for why I believe that Crowley is able to stop time without Aziraphale knowing, and I propose in that meta that the kiss was a cover-up for the exertion of effort necessary to pull that off. I further proposed that during the pause, he retrieved something from the bookshop. At the time of writing, I didn’t know what. Now, I have an inkling that it was a bullet.

If you need a refresher on Clock Theory, here’s one. The idea is that the clock behind Aziraphale shifts by fifteen minutes from before the kiss to after the kiss. This is consistent with a theory that Crowley paused time (but the clock kept running) in order to retrieve the bullet, dump Aziraphale’s memories into it if he hadn’t already, and then return to transfer the bullet to Aziraphale.

Why Crowley Kept the Secret So Long

As with Continuity Errors, I am ending this meta with a very unsatisfactory “I don’t know.” The motivation for Crowley to keep Aziraphale’s memories from him until the very moment he’s about to leave must have been a strong one. I think it has something to do with why Crowley was so insistent on trying to get Aziraphale to run away with him, instead of dealing with whatever’s coming. But as with Continuity Errors, I suspect that the good omens meta hivemind (and the vast collection of people who are posting clues, you have no idea how important you are) will assemble yet more breadcrumbs that we can follow to some sort of hypothesis.

Until then,

(here's my meta index if you would like to read more stuff like this)

#good omens meta #bullet theory #the final fifteen #crowley #aziraphale #good omens gabriel #good omens muriel #good omens #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #good omens theory #good omens speculation #good omens analysis #good omens clues

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genderkoolaid · 11 months ago

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Hi :3

Regarding your post on transmasculine cross dressing and prostitution, do you have anymore sources on specifically the Italian instances?

Also I'd love to hear more of your thoughts on it, both in general or in any specific part :3

Here's the source the paper cites (Venice: A Documentary History 1450-1630):

Sexual dissimulation condemned, 1480 From the Latin. Decree of the Council of Ten, 15 March 1480 The coiffure [habitus capitis] which Venetian women have recently taken to wearing could not be more indecent in the sight of God and men, since by means of this coiffure women conceal their sex and strive to please men by pretending to be men, which is a form of sodomy; and therefore be it determined that by the authority of this Council the Heads of the Ten or at least two of them shall go to our Lord Patriarch and persuade him, by means of the confessors and also through an edict to be published in all the parishes, to prohibit the hairstyle [gestamen capillorum] which women adopt, and which they call a 'mushroom' [fungus], and which hides the forehead; and to order the hair to be drawn and tied back behind the head, and the forehead and face to be made free of it, that they may be seen as women, just as God made them, and as was their custom before the presented corrupted age: all of this upon pain of excommunication.

Also the art of a cross-dressing sex worker used in the paper:

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, I haven't been able to find anything else discussing this.

Its honestly wild to me that in all the discussions of transness and sex work, even specifically historical sex work, I haven't heard anything about this. People seem so uncurious about transmasc history? Its the same thing with the pilipili of Inanna. Like, I've heard so much about the gala as the transfem priestesses of Inanna, but I can barely find anything on the pilipili.

I just wish people would be more self-critical about the absence of both information on transmasculinity, and the lack of interest in analyzing things from that perspective. Stop viewing transmasc absence as natural! People need to start feeling the hole where transmasc stories should be in our cultural and realize how purposeful this exclusion is.

#m.#ask box #transmasc history #examples of transandrophobia

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midnightsun-if · 10 months ago

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God now I'm picturing child!MC seeing Saraya pull Helena away from her work while saying something like, "I'm here to rescue you my love!" and then trying to pull something similar on Cienna the next time she has to pull double duty as family heir and babysitter. Like MC starts to tug on her hand and when she asks what they want, MC just looks up at her and says, "I'm here to rescue you 🥺"

Saraya does do that. Or she’ll do something worse (in Helena’s eyes)… she’ll begin to pout. So, it’s completely possible that the MC would have seen Saraya “rescue” Helena from her busy work schedule… especially if she wanted her wife’s attention.

“I’m here to rescue you.”

A statement uttered with the epitome of innocence, wide eyes staring up at her with an expression that only a child could create. One that hasn’t been marred by the world, that hasn’t been sullied by the darkness that it brings. An open honesty that would tug at any heartstring, even her long dead ones.

“You’re here to rescue me, huh?” Her lips curl upward, trying to ignore the way her emotions bubble within her chest at the sight of your enthusiastic node in response. “May I ask what I’m being rescued from?”

You giggle, pointing at the desk she had been hunched over the last four hours. “That.”

Electric blue eyes glance towards the scattered paperwork, ruminating on her next actions. Two paths stretch out before her… The path of a responsible heir, sending you on your way, citing that there was no rescue needed. Or, she muses, looking into your innocent eyes. The path that makes me the responsible sister.

To Cienna there was no contest.

“Truly?” She tilts her head, slowly rising from her high-back seat. “You wish to rescue me from those papers?” At your nod, her smile begins to grow into a grin. “That’s odd.” Cienna tilts her head, tapping her chin with a single finger. “Do you know why?”

You shake your head, watching her with rapt attention… Exactly what she wants, because, quicker than your eyes could catch, she quickly snatches you into her arms and twirls you around.

“Because there’s been reports of a little Beastie running about.” She spins around again, the sounds of your laughter ambrosia to her soul. “Know anything about that, my little protector?”

#midnight sun #asks #sc: cienna #midsun: snippets

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spikesbicth · 1 year ago

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Your Whole World

Astarion x Reader!Female!DarkUrge One shot

approx 3.2k words.

CW: 18+, minors DNI, face fucking, oral sex, fingering, PiV, smut, choking, bleeding, biting. rough sex, creampie, blood play

cross posted on ao3

A/N: oh hi everyone… I couldn’t resist adding an Astarion smut to my repertoire. Besides, he has such a chokehold on me right now. A few things; if you have read my other posted one shot, you make notice a few similarities. I’m very proud of that fic and this being my first time writing in over a year, I borrowed a few elements from it to inspire me and get ideas flowing. It’s minor, but just FYI. also, sorry if there are any glaring grammatical mistakes/typos/tense errors. also i barely proofread. the majority of this was written in the middle of the night so I could give all of you sadistic fucks the most heinous christmas gift ever. So enjoy some sex and a dash of fluff. please don’t hesitate to give me feedback :)

Nothing sparked a glow in Astarion’s eyes like watching you standing over your most recent kill; bloodied and battered beneath you moments after landing your final strike. Lowering your hands and brushing loose hair from out of your face, you lift your gaze to meet his.

“Gods, it never gets old watching you work” he purrs, stepping towards you to further relish the moment now that the enjoyment of the bloodbath you created could begin.

Months had passed since you freed yourselves of your pasts. Astarion, exacting revenge against Cazador and ascending to his present form. Yourself through your rejection of Bhaal. Together you destroyed the Elder Brain, banishing any doubt that either of you would be puppeted by anyone, ever again. You remembered the night it all ended fondly, Astarion pressing you to accept his gift of immortality. Though you declined at the time, citing your desire to experience the rush of near death but a few more times, you assured you always planned to accept and commit to an eternity with him. You also remembered the way he fucked you that night, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy and back. How he promised to make you edge for every so-called “rush-of-near-death” you wished to experience before entering immortality with him. How he fed on you until you were nearly drained, exacting his dominance over your life. How much you

fucking.

loved it.

In the time since that night, you had parted ways with your companions and set forth on your journey together. Time was spent ravaging the nobles estates, killing off anyone who threatened you, giving in to every sadistic whim and desire. Nothing but the exacting of pure chaos as a victory lap before getting down to the real business. Power was still to be exacted.

“My Queen of the Hells��” He breathes, stepping towards you across the white tiled floor of the home belonging to whatever Mage of High Sorcery you had just butchered. Still meeting his gaze, you watch his pupils dilate as the scent of your own blood from the oozing gash on your cheek overcomes him.

You smile, extending your hand for him to take. His hand meets yours for a brief moment, before tracing his fingers up your forearm across to your waist and holding you firmly against his body. The both of you take a moment to admire the bodies that dotted the main floor of the ornate home, and the blood that so starkly contrasted the white decor.

“Shall we explore?” You ask, a cunning smile spreading across your lips. Astarion nods, his face dotted with specks of blood and his pupils so black they eclipsed his crimson irises.

“My love, you know I want to.” He affirms, his voice liquid velvet echoing the grand hall you stood in. After all this time, even his smallest endearments still fill your abdomen with warmth.

Together, you proceed up the opulent white tile staircase to the second level. There is no secret as to what you were looking for. Nothing filled you with lust and desire the way watching Astarion dominate his opponents in battle did. His most malicious attacks read like a dance, it seemed even his enemies were not immune to melting in his striking gaze. Though you promised to yourself that you would never be a servant to anyone again, the rules were much more malleable when it came to Astarion. You adored being under him, subject to his control and desires, the feeling of existing to pleasure him. Property he cherished, though still his property, he once declared.

At the end of the hallway at the top of the stairs, the former tenants bedroom lay vacant and freshly tidied. You watch as his graceful hand turns the doorknob and unlatches the door. On the other side was an appropriately opulent bed chamber dimly lit by fading mage light, now that the magic of the previous owner had begun to dispel. Upon entering the room, Astarion’s focus intensifies on you.

“Gods… you’re so beautiful…” He turns to you, his eyes examining your face, one of his fangs caught on the outside of his slightly parted lips. He brings his free hand to your bloodied cheek, pressing his thumb into it. You welcome the wince of pain at his hand and lingering for a moment. You could see the lust in his darkened eyes, hear the desire in his gruff voice.

You bring your hand to meet his on your face, and press his thumb deeper into your wound. The pain elicits a sharp exhale, and you watch Astarions eyes flicker to yours then back to your wound. Every sensation he imparts upon you was a taste of bliss. He slips his hand out from under yours, and brings his thumb to his mouth, gently licking it before closing his lips around it. A soft moan escapes him. He wants all of you.

The moment he removes his thumb from his mouth, you move to meet his lips with yours, entering a forceful and hungry kiss. You taste the slight sour of your blood in his mouth as he teases your lips with his tongue. You press your body against his, feeling a growing bulge in his pants.

“May I, darling?” He asks as his hands find the bottom of your shirt . You nod, and he tugs it over your arms and head. Your freed breasts bounce gently from the movement, and Astarion quickly brings his fingers to your erecting nipples. You press yourself further into him, kissing him hard. He hadn’t yet removed his light armour, and the coolness of the metal tingles your nipples and hardens them even further. He kneels, trailing kisses down your chest as you stand, and makes quick work of the tie holding up your trousers. He slides them off you with your undergarments and aided you in removing your shoes. He rises to standing again, gently nibbling at you on the way up to meet your lips again.

You pull away from the kiss for a moment, bringing a hand down to the base of his top, awaiting him to assist you in the removal of his layers.

“Mmmm..” He moans in anticipation, “Not this time my pet.” A sultry growl in his voice. He places his hands on your shoulders, and slowly presses you down. “On your knees, my precious thing.” He orders.

You obey, lowering to the floor. The cold hard tile digging into your kneecaps as you look up to Astarion from the ground.

You are his precious thing.

He takes a step back to remove his own armor and clothing as you watch, kneeling naked on the floor in front of him. Your heart quickened and you felt your folds dampen with arousal as Astarion removed his pants, freeing his erect cock that had been buldging for freedom just moments prior. His tip already slick with precum, glistening in the dusky room. Your mouth waters in anticipation. He indulges in a few strokes of his length before stepping closer to you, your eyes level with his muscular lower abdomen. There you sat beneath him, eyes wide with admiration and chilled from the cool tile floor, dripping in your own arousal, waiting.

“My love, do open your mouth for me.” He asks, his voice a breathy hush.

You obey, parting your lips and letting your tongue slide out. You knew how he wanted to use you, how you wanted to worship him. With your hands clasped behind your back, you welcomed his cock into your mouth. Your mouth waters at the saltiness of his precum and Astarion’s composure falters as a moan escapes him. He adored fucking you this way.

His cock quickly met the back of your throat, and you began to salivate fiercely to welcome it. You try to swallow but your throat closes around Astarion’s cock, and saliva begins to pool in your lower jaw. He slowly fucks your mouth, pulling out so that his tip met your lips, then thrusting hard to push his cock further and further down your throat, digging for your gag reflex. You cough, and your vision blurs as tears well up in your eyes.

“Oh, that’s it pet,” He moans, pushing deeper into your throat. Tears spill over, running down your cheeks and you blink to clear your vision as well as you can. He feels the flood of saliva building in your mouth and withdraws, then cocks his head to one side in admiration of you. Saliva flows down your chin and neck, dripping on the floor between you. You gasp for air, then open your mouth once again. He smirks, and runs his hand through your hair. He aligns his cock with your mouth again once more, you allow him to enter but not before teasing the spot below his glans that you know will send thunder through him.

The delicate moment is lost upon an abrupt thrust of Astarion’s hips, forcing his cock as far down your throat as he could. He continues to fuck your face with concentrated thrusts at the back of your throat, blocking any air from entering your lungs. A burning sensation grows in your chest as you try and fail gasp for air. Your vision grows fuzzy as a dark veil begins to shroud the corners of your vision, and you begin to choke. He takes a fistful of your hair and pulls you off of your cock, leaving a string of saliva pulling from your mouth to the tip of his throbbing length. Tears trail down your cheeks and you quietly gasp for air. Seconds after you inhale he shoves his cock back into you, fucking even harder than before.

“That's it my love, I know you yearn for breathlessness, I could give you this forever.” He praises, tightening his grip on your hair and humming with pleasure. You catch him with his gaze towards the ceiling, enjoying the filthy sounds. Beginning to feel the fire in your chest building again, Astarion pulls himself out and you gasp for breath, this time with enough time to notice the tears and saliva mixing with the blood from your face flowing down your bare chest.

Nearly as exerted as yourself, Astarion comes to his knees to greet you, meeting your slick and swollen lips with his own.

“Look what you’ve done to me…” you whispered between kisses, reaching up to feel the wetness on your face.

“I am not nearly done with you yet,” Astarion growls, pulling away from your lips then tonguing over his own, relishing the taste of your blood. He placed one hand on your mid back, and another to guide you down to lay gently on the floor. The chill of the tile on your warmed skin sent a shiver through your body, causing your nipples to erect once again and goosebumps to cover your body. Astarion smirks, admiring your body and the arousal leaking from between your legs. He works his way down your neck placing loose, open mouth kisses down your neck and chest, allowing his fangs to catch on your skin as he moves. He finds your left nipple and began to trace his tongue around the hardened sphere of flesh, sucking and flicking.

“Astar…ion….” you moan, fluttering your eyes. Now he was just teasing you, waiting for your patience to wane. “A..Ast..star..ion” you moan again, your clit swelling and throbbing between your legs. “P…p..please… Ast..star..ion” you beg, undulating your hips to touch his, attempting to alert him of your desires.

“Impatient tonight are we, my dear?” He coos, looking up to your eyes from where his face rested on your breast.

“P..please… touch me..” you beg, and you see a grin spread across his face, his two fangs glinting in the light.

“Now am I supposed to say no to that?” he asserts, not breaking his gaze as he begins kissing and lightly biting down your abdomen. Your stomach fluttered as you watched him move towards your pelvis. You admire his beautiful silver curls shift on his head while he moves his hands to your thighs to signal you to spread them, and you obey.

He traces circles with his fingers on your thighs, sending shivers through your body. Slick fluid drips through your folds and you feel your walls pulsating with the beat of your heart, you are desperate for him. You are certain you have never wanted anyone more than you have ever wanted Astarion, beautiful, powerful, Astarion. His aspirations, his ascension, and your mutual freedom, his unwavering devotion to you and only you. Gods, was there anything else you truly needed besides him?

You are snapped back to reality when he licks his cunning tongue up your folds, circling quickly around your clit. You take a sharp breath in and wrap your legs over his muscular shoulders, taking a fistful of his curls in your right hand. He wraps an arm around one leg and pressed down on your lower abdomen a few finger widths above your pelvic bone, not breaking the contact between his tongue and your clit. His ascendant strength holds you down as you adjust your hips, begging for him to indulge you. He teases your entrance with an icy finger, and you clench around nothing. A moment later, he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you, hooking them rhythmically to catch your G-spot. Your back arches and waves of warmth course through your body, reveling in the pleasure he was bestowing upon you. He drags you up to the “Darling, I thought you’d never ask” he responds coyley. It was often routine for him to feed on you while he fucked you, elevating his own ecstasy and you enjoying the way he held your delicious little life in his hands.

He kisses his way to your left inner thigh, and without warning, pierces his fangs into your tender skin, and blood begins to spill. You breathe out slowly, enjoying the pain he inflicts on you and the pleasure from the fingers still toying with your clit. You feel him drinking from you and your blood pressure dropping, sending a shockwave of dizziness to your head. This was pleasure like you had never experienced before him.

Astarion rises from his feed at your thigh, and slinks his way back to meet your mouth with his. Once again you taste your own blood in his mouth as he kisses you with such urgency and near corporeal desire.

“I need you… to be inside you..” he desperately speaks between kisses, and you feel him shift his weight to fumble with his throbbing cock. His facade has cracked, palpable, burning eagerness leaking through. He parts your folds and drags his cock against his bite, still exuding blood. For a moment he teases your entrance with his tip, but you know his grip on his composure was slipping. Carnal. Insatiable, it was coming.

He thrusts inside of you, and you moan with adjuration. Your walls expand for him, and you spread your legs, bending your knees to allow him the deepest thrusts he could muster. Your breasts bouncing in rhythm with him, and you reach your arms around his shoulders to pull him nearer to you. You moan hungrily in his ear, knowing this and the filthy noises of your fucking would drive him duly mad. He moans, breathing heavily and kissing you hard, enjoying every sensation of you around his cock. It was clear that he was edging to his finale, but it was now your turn.

You untangle your arms from him and press your hands on the front of your chest, and gain enough leverage to roll him off you and onto his back, you, only an instant behind him. You slide him back inside of you, then bring your hand to his mouth for another taste of your wetness and blood. He closes his eyes and licks your fingers, preparing himself for your turn of the fun.

His cock flexes inside of you and you find his wrists and guide his arms above his head, gripping them tightly to the floor. Your extended position leaves your breasts hanging just above his mouth, and he lifts his head to lick and suck. Slowly at first, you lift your hips so only the tip of his length remains inside of you, linger for a moment, only to come crashing down to him. His eyes widened and mouth opened, an aching moan coming from within him. You repeated the motion, watching him gasp and moan, withholding and flooding him with pleasure. The stickiness of your arousal, his precum, and your blood mixing on his thighs, squelching with each of your movements. After demonstrating your control over him, you release your grip from his wrists above his head, and lean back, forcing his cock to press into your walls. His hands find your hips, and he digs his fingers into you as you rhythmically fuck him. You push him closer and closer as slowly as you can handle. You push him to the edge, so, so close.

You find your swollen clit with your free hand, and begin rubbing in heavy circles. Astarion loves watching you pleasure yourself on him, using him to reach your own peak before allowing him his own. As you rub yourself and ride him, you feel intense pleasure rising within you.

“I- I’m going to come,” you moan, moving your hips faster and faster on his cock while applying more pressure on your throbbing clit.

Astarion opens his mouth to speak, but no words arrive, only fast, broken breaths.

You sing his name while you squeeze him with your thighs, gushing over his cock. Finally, you are over the edge. An intense euphoria floods through you as your walls contract around his cock. Your heart races and you gasp for breath, reveling in the pure pleasure you were experiencing. Astarion bucks his hips into you, desperate to spill himself inside. His silver curls now clung to his sweat-dampened forehead.

“O-oh f.. oh fuck…” He speaks, now fully lost his control and desperate only to join you in your pleasure. The contractions of your walls on him are sending him over. A powerful moan rises from his chest and with a few beastly thrusts inside of you, he spills. When he comes, he throws his head back and moans your name so it echoes within the tiled bed chambers.

His thrusts mellow, and eventually his twitching cock inside you calms. You lay forward on him,

His breath slows, and he wraps his arms around you, welcoming his coolness. He kisses your temple, then begins to rise. He helps you to the freshly made bed, and rests beside you.

“I love you, Astarion.” you say quietly, delighting in his arms woven around you.

There you lay together in your nakedness, the sweetness of your undying love cleansing all desire for anything more. No promise of power could be worth the sacrifice of losing each other. Despite both your aspirations and contributions to chaos, the constant of having each other for eternity was an invaluable prize to you both. You turn and delicately kiss his neck, breathing in and savouring his scent garnished with the metallic of your blood that was beginning to dry and crack on your skin. You feel his embrace tighten around you and you close your eyes, listening to his beating heart and melting into the arms of your little star. And he loves you too.

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huramuna · 1 year ago

Text

wine red, tears gold - chapter 3.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

a 'what if aegon didn't get poisoned and the greens technically won the dance but at what cost' au. basically aegon, alicent, otto and jaehaera are the only greens alive. and larys i guess. someone get rid of this guy.

word count: 3.8k

no more taglists unfortunately (i always forget and then feel bad) so please follow & turn on notifs for @huramuna-fics

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity

jealous sea - meg myers • drinking lightning - AWOLNATION

warnings: oral (f receiving)

Waves upon a placid sea, bobbing with the tide. The warmth of the water enveloped her and was something akin to comfort— something she was severely lacking these days.

Lyanna imagined herself as a piece of driftwood lost in the ocean, strewn back and forth with the motion of the swells, wishing and hoping to wash ashore, but not actually moving.

Opening her eyes, she sat up in the tub, filling her lungs with air. Her maids gasped and fretted over her, citing that she could drown doing such things. Mayhaps she could, but it was unlikely. If the Gods were to strike her down and have her drown in a bathtub after being the queen for approximately a fortnight, then so be it. She would be of a similar laughing stock as Rhaenyra was around the Keep. The two of them would be dubbed ‘The Half-year Queen’ and ‘The Drowned Queen’. The jest almost brought a smile to her face– almost.

It had been a half-month since she had moved to her own chambers, since Aegon had dubbed her hideous and unworthy of his time. She fell into a deep depression for about three days, only allowing Alicent in her chambers. Tears weren’t shed, no– she was too numb for it. She felt as if she was living outside of her body, chained to her husk like a ghost.

On the fourth day, something in her snapped. Mayhaps it was the last of her innocence, of her girlish and naive view of the world finally shriveling up and dying– but the numbness didn’t hurt any longer. It was just there, an ever present reminder that this was her life now. As melancholy as she was, she felt it a duty to herself to atleast make an effort. So, on that fourth day, she picked herself up and requested a golden and green dress to wear, having her hair up in a half-do with intricate braids. Her posture was set rigid, her hands clasped over one another, now adorned in rings. She walked the gardens with Alicent and some other ladies, visited the Sept, and read in the library.

Aegon was nowhere to be found during those times and she wondered if he was avoiding her– it would be good, if so. Let him.

She decided to make a statement– to attend the Small Council meeting, another one of Alicent’s suggestions. Lyanna wished to be taken seriously, and should have her hand in many pots, so to speak, at the Keep and in King’s Landing. The Small council was one of those.

This morn, a half-month since her wedding, it was particularly dreary. Storm clouds hung above King’s Landing like an oppressing force, hiding away the sun and churning up the seas. Instead of indulging in the gloomy weather, she had her maids dress her brightly– a dress yellow like the sun, embroidered with gleaming jewels and a sweeping decollage to match, leading to an ornate depiction of a golden stag. Her hair was braided into two buns, fixated to her head with interweaving golden accents and pearls.

As she entered the council chamber, which was already in session, the heads at the tables turned to her. All of the men at the table stood up and bowed their heads except for one.

Aegon sat across the table, leaned back in the chair like a sloven cad, looking less than enthused at Lyanna’s presence. “My dear wife, dressed so brightly,” he mused, his fingers grasping around the marble ball at the table– his was golden and pink, an homage to Sunfyre– “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Husband,” she greeted back in a similar temperature, her facade warm. She looked at him head on, unwavering in her stance. Outwardly, she was the symbol of stalwart, a small smile gracing her lips. On the inside, she was remembering everything he had said, what he had done– she wanted to run away, to cower like a little girl. Lyanna smoothed down her skirt, “I simply wished to sit in on the meeting. Forgive me for my absence these past two weeks, my lords. I’ve needed much time to adjust to the capitol– but I am ready now to attend each meeting going forward.” she spoke evenly, moving towards an empty seat. It was across from Aegon’s. She pulled her own marble out from her pocket and put it in the circular ramekin– hers was colored gold and green.

“Each meeting?” Aegon drawled. “Certainly there is no need for that– mayhaps your time would be better spent with the court ladies, organizing luncheons and the like.”

Lyanna seethed beneath the surface, resisting the urge to pick at her cuticles. She took a deep breath. “Yes, each meeting. I don’t see why I cannot attend each small council meeting and organize luncheons with my courtiers, husband. Now, what is the topic of discussion?”

One of the lords spoke up, she recognized him as Ser Wylde, “Ah– yes, your grace,” he bumbled slightly, trying to remember the subject of conversation before she had come in, “There are… some emissaries from Dorne arriving on the morrow. We are ascertaining what sort of welcome they should receive.”

Otto Hightower was sitting near Aegon, his eyes not leaving Lyanna since she had arrived in the chamber. He seemed amused. “We were speaking of the cost it would be to give them a warm welcome. A feast, a celebration and the like– the coffers won’t support such an event.”

Lyanna perked a brow, her thumb and forefinger rimming around the marble idly, not dissimilar to how Aegon had been fiddling with his before– this was by coincidence, however– “Well, if I may be so bold as to put myself in their shoes,” she began, “It is quite a long and tenuous journey from here to Dorne, if I recall correctly. If I were a diplomat from Dorne getting off the boat after such a dreary travel, the last thing I would want is an extravagant party and hundreds of people to meet and entertain. What if we gave them a warm, intimate welcome? Mayhaps dinner with the King and I, some food and music, wine and a bit of dancing. Nothing overly… pompous.”

“They are from Dorne. They are overly pompous. Surely they would be bored of a small gathering and take it as an insult?” Aegon countered.

“What would you suggest then, my king?” Lyanna quipped back, leaning forward in her seat. Her leg was bouncing under the table errantly as she tried to contain her anxious energy.

Aegon stared blankly at Lyanna, the marble still rolling between his fingers. Then, he slammed it back down onto the wooden placing. “It is the best idea we have had. Very well. Small and intimate. Grandsire, you and mother shall attend as well. You’re much better at… diplomacy than I. Mayhaps we shall see how my dear Lyanna fares at her first taste of it, hm?”

After about thirty more minutes of back and forth about other subjects, the meeting was adjourned. The Lords left, leaving Lyanna and Aegon alone in the chamber.

She picked up her marble and placed it back in her pocket, straightening her skirts as she got up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Aegon spoke then, having come up behind her quicker than she could register.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You haven’t spoken to me in over a ten-day and you show up to the council meeting looking like… a beacon of the sun– and challenging me in front of the council. That is what I am speaking about.” Aegon’s hand grabbed her wrist as it came back out from her pocket, looking over it.

Lyanna glowered at him. “I am simply doing my duty as Queen. A good queen is informed about the going-ons of her small council, is she not?”

Aegon snorted. “Oh, yes– another page out of my mother’s book. Arriving somewhere you weren’t invited to fashionably late wearing the loudest outfit possible with the subtext of wanting attention. Do you even have an original thought in your head, wife? First, you could only parrot your oaf of a father’s words, and now my mother is trickling her spew down your ear. Truly, you’re like a fucking puppet. Where are you strings, puppet?” he sneered, pinching at her bare collarbone.

She let out the tiniest of whimpers at his pinch, doubling down and smacking Aegon right across his face.

He answered with a whimper of his own, his bottom lip pouting out for a moment. “Still not original, little rabbit.” he growled, squeezing her wrist tightly.

Over her stint locked away in her room, she thought of many things she wished to do to Aegon– anything to make him feel a semblance of the pain he had put unto her. Her knee came up, knocking him straight in his balls.

“Fucking, fuck,” he groaned, releasing her wrist and doubling over.

She expected him to explode at her, unsheathe his sword and cut her down for raising a hand– and knee– to him. But, when he looked up, he was smiling. “T-that… was original,” he croaked out, chuckling. “I kind of enjoyed that.”

Lyanna’s lip curled up. “You’re a pig.” she promptly picked up her skirts and left the room, not entirely sure what had just happened.

–

Up until that moment, Aegon hadn’t felt anything but mostly indifference to Lyanna. She was boring, plain featured and nothing to write home about.

Still, even after all he had said to her– he had meant it– he still felt… odd that she hadn’t spoken to him since then. Being married to Helaena was a hell in itself, but even hell can become familiar. Aegon was a creature in need of affection, of touch. Even when it was his mother slapping him or his grandsire pushing him– that meant that they loved him, in some way, right? With Helaena, she didn’t like touch like he did, shying away usually. They came to a middle ground during some point in their marriage that when Aegon needed touch, he could lay his head in Helaena’s lap while she embroidered or talked to bugs. They wouldn’t speak to one another– they just knew, and so it was.

Helaena was gone now, though. And now it felt that the only physical contact he got from others was those that he paid for and those that he earned from his mother and grandsire. And now, Lyanna, apparently. Her hand was warm when it came across his face and her lip quivered like she was on the verge of tears again. He couldn’t resist getting another jab in– and neither could she, apparently, as she kneed him in the balls. That was a new one for him and it fucking hurt– but it sent an electric shock to the fucked up part of his brain– wasn’t that all of it? – and he somewhat liked it. Not in a sexual way, contrary to what one might think, but in a way that he needed… contact.

He mulled it over for hours after it happened, deep into the night. He wanted to knock at her doors and explain the entirety of his fucked up life and his previous fucked up marriage to his sister and how she used to let him lay his head on her lap– and if he could do it with her.

But he would be an idiot if he thought that would work.

The following day, into the feast welcoming the Dornish emissary, an unfamiliar feeling bubbled up in his chest as he sat at the table.

Lyanna, dressed in sunflower yellow, looking as radiant as the sun, was dancing with one of the Dornish men. Prince Qyle, he remembered. His hands were grasped firmly around Lyanna’s waist– she was corseted tighter than normal today, he noted– as they danced.

He tried to pinpoint the feeling– it was a warmth simmering in his gut, threatening to boil over at any moment if this man didn’t get his hands off of his wife. Aegon’s pulse thrummed in his neck, his blood searing hot in his veins.

She laughed– Lyanna laughed. Aegon didn’t think he had ever heard that noise before but he longed to hear it again. He bit down on his lip, drawing blood. Why did he care if she was dancing with him? Aegon didn’t even really like her– she… she wasn’t hideous, of course, and in the right light and colors, she was pretty but– she was boring! A boring woman with nothing to offer him, when he could easily procure any woman of his choice just outside the castle walls. A boring woman who… he had made cry. Who he had said horrible things to– who was now dancing with a fucking Dornish prince and laughing. A Dornish prince who had his hands on his wife, the fucking queen– he was jealous.

Jealous? Jealousy never really permeated him until he was intertwined with Lyanna. At their wedding, with the men pawing at her– and now.

His blood was on fire and he needed to quell it. Immediately.

Hours passed during the feast and Aegon didn’t make a move– until he saw Lyanna leave the hall and go back to her chambers. It was a horrible idea, in truth, to follow her– but he couldn’t help it. As she went to close the door behind her, Aegon stopped her hand, slipping in and closing it.

“Hello, wife,” he murmured, trying not to sound as if he was in pain– which he was, the blood of the dragon running through him like sweltering lava. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Lyanna looked surprised to see him, her big brown eyes glazing over once more like they had when they first met– like a rabbit in the snare of a predator. “Husband,” she responded slowly, her hands reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. “Yes, I enjoyed myself quite thoroughly. Prince Qyle is a fantastic dancer.”

“Oh– I’m sure. You let him put his hands all over you like you’re some sort of commodity.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me, did you like him touching you? Holding you close and no doubt whispering sweet nothings in your ear?”

Lyanna simmered for a moment, plopping down the pearl pins onto her boudoir. “Are you quite finished yet?”

Aegon bit the inside of his cheek, his blood still stoked to a flame. “No, the opposite in fact. It’s hilarious, really— how I was so ready to grovel at your feet last night, offer an olive branch to you,” he paced back and forth, twisting his rings, “But then you just have to throw it back in my face, hm? Parade yourself like a whore with a fucking Dornish prince of all things. Is this your idea of getting back at me? Hm? Notching your corset tighter and… looking like the sun itself and letting another man put his hands on you?”

She stopped fiddling with her hair as the last pin came loose, letting it fall down her back in dark brown waves. “You really have the audacity to call me a whore, Aegon?” she murmured, fingers gripped on the wooden edge of her vanity. “You are a whore, Aegon. As much as any of the ones you pay to sleep with you.”

The king scoffed, an unbelieving chuckle coming from his throat. “A whore. You call me a whore?” he glanced at her with red rimmed eyes, brow furrowed.

“Yes, you’re a whore. Mayhaps I should treat you like one. If I threw you some coin, would you grovel at my feet as you were so ready to do so last night, apparently?”

His mouth went slightly dry at the notion, his clothes feeling a bit tighter than before. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the collar of his doublet. “I have no need for your coin,” he retorted, “I’d do it for free.”

This caught her off guard and she turned to him. “… what?”

“I’ll grovel. I’ll prostrate myself for you like a whore— if,” his voice changed tone, something akin to uncertainty. It reminded Lyanna of their wedding night. “If you… will indulge me for the evening.”

Lyanna looked dumbfounded, her abashed confidence melting away. “You want to… couple with me?” she murmured with confusion.

“I can make you feel good if you just… let me sleep here tonight.”

She blinked profusely at his seemingly timid offer. She didn’t exactly know what he meant by it, but it made a warmth tingle within her at the thought. “… okay.”

Aegon’s eyes flicked up to her in disbelief, he didn’t expect her to say yes. He resisted the urge to smile smugly, as not to irritate her further. “Can I touch you?”

Lyanna nodded slowly.

He came before her as she sat at her vanity, very much still dressed from the feast. Kneeling down, he rucked up her skirts and dragged a testing finger near her inner thigh.

“… tickles.” she mewled, twitching slightly. They both must’ve indulged too much in wine this eve, or else this may not be happening.

“Damned skirts,” he growled, flitting through layers of tulle and silk. Throwing caution to the wind, he unsheathed the Valyrian Steel dagger at his hip, “Stay still.” he started at her chest, bringing the blade downward to slice the fabric apart like butter, effectively cutting her out of her outfit. She was left in her underclothes and corset.

Her face went beet red at the gesture, the unexpected precision of Aegon made that heat within her continue to build. “Y-you could’ve taken it off like normal, Aegon— this was Myrish lace!”

“Too much time and effort. I think you quite liked it as well,” he hummed, bringing the pad of his thumb to the apex of her thighs, feeling a growing wet spot. “Seems I was right.”

“… hmm,” she murmured, hiding her face behind her hands.

He pressed a hand to her corseted chest, leaning her back against the desk, his other hand prying open her legs further, to where she was positioned exactly how he wanted her. He hooked his arms under her thighs, effectively throwing both of her legs over his shoulders. Peering up at her from below, the way she hid her face, the edges of red blush eking out from her parted fingers, her now tousled hair falling over her like a curtain— it made something deep within him stir, something he couldn’t quite name yet.

Sliding the soft cotton of her panties to the side, he observed her form. He had been up close and personal with his fair share of cunt, but not usually in clear lighting and not black-out drunk. Her folds were a lovely shade of pink, curtained by dark brown curls. Parting them with his fore and middle finger, he found what he was looking for. His tongue prodded at her pearl experimentally, testing her reaction.

Her fingers opened slightly, the deep color of her eyes staring at him hazily. “W-wh— what was that?”

Aegon almost felt bad for her, poor thing had likely never touched herself before— surely this had to be an act of kindness and service that he was introducing this to her. “Your clit, dear,” he spoke before rasping at it again with his tongue, extracting a surprisingly delightful little whimper from her. “Feels good?”

Lyanna’s fingers were closed once more as she hid. “Mmhm…”

Wishing to hear her little noises again, he pulled her closer to his face, his hands gripping her bottom like a lifeline. He started slow, licking up and down her folds, savoring and enjoying her taste. Then, he decided he was done being merciful. His mouth latched onto her clit, suckling at it like he was a man starved. Her whimpers of pleasure turned into a siren’s song, breathy moans, broken strings of his name— she didn’t even know what she was asking for, but she wanted more.

“A-Aeg— w—,” Lyanna cried, the coil of warmth within her coming to a searing height, “S-some… something—,” her hand had autonomously threaded into his hair, pulling on his strands. He had seen the expression of bliss and ecstasy on her face, with the light of the candles illuminating the delicate planes of her face as she came and he thought she looked… beautiful. Her climax hit her hard and fast, her legs shaking as she unraveled completely, thighs snapping close around Aegon’s face.

He didn’t mind, of course— if he was to suffocate between a woman’s thighs after making her come, so be it. As a bonus, he kept up his ministrations on her pearl, not letting go until she pulled him off like a leech.

“S’too much— t-too much,” she heaved. Lyanna’s skin was pinkened, legs shaky still like a newborn fawn. “W-what was that? That wasn’t coupling— it wouldn’t result in a child.”

Aegon wiped his face with the back of his hand. “No, it wasn’t. It’s called pleasure, Lyanna. You surely have a lot to learn about it, it seems.”

“… I don’t understand.”

“That’s what whores do, they are experienced in the art of pleasure. It all isn’t just to make children— that isn’t the end all be all of it— sometimes, you can do it just for fun, for release, for pleasure— and also for love and romance and all that.”

“Hm.” she huffed, “So you aren’t… going to fornicate with me?”

Aegon smirked. “You put it so delicately, my queen,” his grin was toothy and made Lyanna feel faint, “No. Not right now at least— although, I am not opposed to it in the future. It is expected to conceive an heir but we have time for that.”

“Oh. Well… what about your… pleasure? Your release?”

His brow furrowed for a moment. This was the part where he’d have a whore ride him to completion or take him in her mouth— but he didn’t exactly feel the need to do it now. He was aroused, to be sure, but it wasn’t an overwhelming need like usual. He felt… satiated by satiating her. “No need.”

He helped her out of her corset and into her nightgown, relishing in how she subtly leaned into his touch.

“So, you just wish to sleep here tonight?” she asked as she climbed into bed.

“Yes— and I have… a request,” he climbed in after her, discarding everything but his small clothes on the floor. “Can I rest my head… here?” he pointed to her lap.

He fully expected her to laugh at him, to berate him— even if, deep down, he knew she wouldn’t— but she just nodded. “Just… lay?”

“Just lay.”

She pat her lap and he slowly descended, putting his head down. It felt… good. She was soft in all of the right places and she smelled… pleasant. And she was warm. He curled up next to her, bringing his body into itself and closing his eyes.

Sometime during the night, he felt her fingers glide through his hair, drawing soothing circles on his scalp as he slept.

He hadn’t slept better since he was a child.

this is what lyanna's 'revenge' outfit looked like.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon ii targaryen angst #aegon ii targaryen fluff #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #my writing #wine red tears gold

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sushiwriterhere · 1 year ago

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summary: your shoulders won't stop aching and Nanami sits across from you at the cafe | 3.1k warnings: nanami x reader 18+, reader is (lightly) cursed, PiV (unprotected), nanami follows reader around sorta (for protection purposes), oral (f receiving) notes: this is my first jjk fic, pls let me know what u think <3 (to all my tg fans.. hope u can forgive me). not sure who to tag but i hope if u read u enjoy!

It’s late. The letters on the screen blur as you try to keep reading–you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been sitting here, trying to slog through your latest assigned reading. It’s not usually like this for you, like pulling teeth or climbing up ten flights of stairs, usually law school feels like a blessing.

Everyone warned you about competitive peers and cutthroat curves, but instead you found a community of people who shared your passion for the law and didn’t find it odd that you could launch into a twenty-minute rant about the poorly designed logic of originalism at any moment. It was comforting to feel like you’d found your place in the world, to feel like you’d found your path. Was, being the operative word here.

Lately everything felt heavy, felt, off balance. Some days, you stayed in bed until you were sure you would miss the bus to your lecture hall, only to make it by some grace of god, half disheveled and not sure you’d brought everything you needed. Some days, your apartment was too quiet, the one-bedroom you’d always longed for feeling more suffocating than the freeing space you’d needed it to be. You’d smile at your peers but gently reject invites for drinks or group study at the law library, citing your internship or a family call, but really, you just couldn’t bring yourself to spend more time than you already were in other peoples’ presence.

Your only bright spot is Nanami. Every week, without fail, at least three times a week, you find yourself sitting across from him at the cafe down the street from your apartment complex. It’s an odd, unspoken arrangement. The cafe had been crowded one Thursday morning and he’d wordlessly stood behind the chair across from you before sitting after you’d nodded once. He always orders the same thing, a hot Americano–though he’s taken to sliding a muffin across to you ever so often.

Sometimes you think that when he looks at you, he’s the only person who can really see you. Other times it feels like he’s almost looking right past you, like he’s trying to make out the face of someone far over your shoulder.

Even so, it is a tender set of interactions that buoys you throughout the week, until you find yourself sitting in front of Nanami at a quiet restaurant. Whatever you’ve ordered at random is savory and tender, and pairs beautifully with the wine he chose. It’s also exactly what you would’ve picked.

The candlelight illuminates his face in a way that throws his features into stark relief, masculine, chiseled, and so beautiful. He’s saying something, and you wish you could put your hand on his chest to feel the rumble of the baritone you know is there. You think it might ground you in a way you haven’t felt in a while. You feel like you’re watching the entire interaction outside yourself.

Then he’s paying the bill and pulling out your chair, taking you by the hand as he walks you to the coat check. You let him slip your jacket over your bare shoulders, missing the way the way he stiffens when his fingers brush your bare skin. Everything feels so far away then, and you almost stumble out the door.

You move your lips to form words, to thank him for the meal, the company, the kindness, but you can’t. The world is foggy and somewhere between your shoulder blades is a deep, aching sort of pain.

I should see a chiropractor, you think to yourself, wondering if all your time laying on your side looking out your apartment windows has finally caught up to you.

Standing in front of you, Nanami considers you. But he’s not looking at you, instead he’s looking at the curse curled across your shoulders. It’s small, but that doesn’t matter–he sees the way it pulses with a dense cursed energy. If he strains his senses, he can pick up on its scent, the almost acrid stench.

It’s been feeding on you for a while now–he first spotted you from across the crowded cafe you both frequent–a small thing at first. He hadn’t wanted to startle you by trying to exorcize it in the middle of that crowded room. Instead, he sat across from you, made friends, even?

Despite the curse, he enjoyed your presence. You had gentle features, smelled nice, and your brow furrowed whenever you were thinking particularly hard about something until you would reach up to smooth a few fingers over your brow as if push the wrinkle away. The feelings were on accident, really. He’d just wanted to keep an eye on you, make sure the curse wasn’t giving you too much trouble.

After that he’d learned too much about you in his effort to ‘keep you safe’–

(“Nanami, where are you off to at this hour?” Nanami ignored the other man as he pulled on his jacket.

He’d spent a few minutes too many indulging in a hot cup of coffee, now he was going to be late if he didn’t hurry. You always got off the bus at this hour, and the curse was starting to really settle in. He didn’t like the faraway look you had in your eyes as you walked; he wasn’t sure you’d notice someone following you or coming up behind you. You hadn’t noticed him yet.

Gojo really couldn’t help himself, he was too nosy for his own good. Which was why Nanami couldn’t tell him, rather, refused to tell him about you. But he was running out of excuses and Gojo was getting particularly good at delegating, so he was spending more time than ever hanging around looking for someone to bother.

“Lock the door behind me.” Was all he said in response, cutting off the other sorcerer’s garbled protests.)

Now, standing across from you, he sees a beautiful woman being drained of her life as a filthy curse digs its talons into you.

Against his better judgment, Nanami steps forward towards you. In the restaurant, the candle light lit your face from below. Here, the street lights are above, emphasizing the darkness under your eyes. You haven’t been sleeping.

Your eyes are glossed over when you look up at him, but you place your hands on his chest, his dress shirt dimpling under your fingertips. Rising on your toes, your hands smooth over his shoulders. Something curls pleasantly in his chest at the way your eyes widen when your hands find his muscles.

His hands find their way to your hips, slipping underneath the coat that you didn’t bother to button.

The curse thrashes angrily the closer Nanami gets. He ignores it. He can smell the perfume you put on you dotted on your wrists, the insides of your elbows, and it makes something twist in his gut. It’s a startling realization to understand that you want someone’s smell on your sheets for the rest of your life.

You watch as Nanami turns his head, nose dragging across the sensitive inner side of your forearm to dot a kiss in the crook of your elbow. It sends a shiver down your spine at the same time as the pain intensifies in your back. Your knees buckle as he catches you.

Nanami carries you home. He picked a place close to you just in case he needed to get you alone (not like that) to rid you of the curse. You’re lucid enough to push your purse into his chest so he can fish the keys out and unlock the front door.

The inside of your apartment is as much the one-bedroom of a law student as he’d imagined it. There’s a desk by the window with textbooks stacked on one side, and one open in the middle. Highlighters of every color are arranged neatly next to it, a stack of cutesy sticky notes tying everything together.

“Can you stand?” His voice rumbles in his chest next to your ear, and for a few moments you’re free of pain and that ache, like some sort of noise therapy effect.

You let him stand you upright until, in a flash, your breath is stolen from you.

What did he just do to me? Who did I let into my house? You think in a moment of panic until you realize your back doesn’t hurt anymore.

Nanami’s staring at you, a tender look in his eyes. One of his large, warm, hands is gripping your shoulder over your coat, and it grounds you.

In a moment, your lips are on his. Maybe it’s the way he carried you back to your apartment, maybe’s it’s the way he’s been sitting across from you for three months now, steadily buying you sweets and paying for your coffees and teas. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so tall, and so broad, and he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

You hang on to the lapels of his coat as his mouth works furiously against yours. Weaving one hand into his hair, you clutch with the other at his shoulders for dear life as he pulls you into him. He’s got one hand cupping your face, the other around your waist.

Suddenly you feel so full of life and you want him, desperately. You go to throw off your coat but he pulls back for just a moment.

“Are you sure?” The mere tone of his voice does something indescribable to you, and you nod furiously as you tear off the garment.

He shoulders off his coat as well and toes out of his dress shoes as he walks you backwards into the nearest wall. You groan in appreciation as he noses down your jawline, behind your ear, to the dip at the base of your neck.

A shiver tears down your back as you realize he’s smelling you, inhaling the perfume you put on earlier. You pant as he just holds you there, taking you in. The tip of his nose is slightly too cold in contrast with the warm softness of his lips that follow.

“Nanami,” you try, gripping at his shoulders for dear life as he goes to kneel before you. You want his lips on yours, want to taste the wine you both drank earlier from his mouth.

“Patience,” He murmurs as he takes one of your legs over his broad, broad, shoulders and you keen, high, reedy, in the back of your throat at the way his teeth scrape at your inner thigh.

You feel more alive than you have in six months and he wants you to wait? With everything in you you want him to hurry and fuck you, to feel the weight of him in you and around you in your bed, to have him tangled in your sheets. And yet he takes his time.

Nanami is a patient man. He knows what it is to bide your time for the good things–he used to be a salaryman after all. He has waited for this moment. The part of him that sympathizes with what you must be feeling right now, the surge of energy after the months of being drained like a maple tree. But though ever patient, Nanami knows what he wants.

What he wants is exactly this–tugging your damp panties to the side with a crook of his fingers, tilting his head up and forward to lick up your center and to taste you. What he wants is to keep hearing the sounds you’re making, the sighs and staccato’d ah-ah-ah’s you can’t hold back as he sucks insistently on your clit. What he wants is to keep feeling the way you hug his two fingers, hot, and wet, and so tight and fluttering.

You tremble against the way he leans against you, keeps you up against the wall. You’ve had people go down on you in your time, you’re in your late 20s not dead. But none of them have done this–have eaten you out like it’s for them, and not you.

Nanami stays where he is til your hands twist painfully in his hair, til you’re shaking with overstimulation after cumming so hard you think you might’ve blacked out for just a moment.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, yet in the most tantalizing way, as your nipples strain against the satin fabric stretched over your chest. Your eyes are wild and your cheeks are flushed as he leans in to kiss you ever so gently, only bothering to wipe his chin with the sleeve of his dress shirt so it doesn’t drip onto his chest.

He has to wear that home tomorrow, you think to yourself, and something curls almost painfully in your chest from arousal.

One by one, you open the buttons of his shirt as he kisses you intently. He runs his tongue along your teeth as you tug the bottom of it out of his slacks and his fingers tighten on your waist as you unbutton his pants and stick your hand in his briefs. God. He’s heavy and thick and hot in your hand, and you think you can feel his pulse from the way he throbs in your grip.

He grunts softly when you slide down his length only to tighten your grip and twist your wrist. There’s not much room between the two of you, not with the way he’s pressed up against you, but you make an effort anyways.

“Take me to bed, Nanami.”

So he does. He pulls himself away from your reach with a final peck, before grabbing your thighs and picking you up. It’s a certain sort of primal attraction you feel at the effortless way he carries your weight and sets you down ever so gently on your sheets. At this angle, you have the perfect view.

His shirt, untucked and unbuttoned reveals a trim waist and a broad, muscular chest. The one you’d felt earlier. His slacks are tented and there’s a small damp patch just to the left of the middle seam. He flexes his hands once before kneeling before you once again. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch as he slides your heels off one by one, ever so gently.

You’d forgotten you were wearing them.

As he shrugs his shirt off, you twist yourself around so you’re sitting on your heels, so you can pull your dress up and over your shoulders. His pants are halfway down his thighs when you reemerge and then you two are frozen in a momentary staring contest.

Nanami doesn’t think he’s gawking per se, but his gaze isn’t innocent by any means. Your satin dress is pooling off one arm, no longer framing your figure just so. Your nipples are hard and he thinks your tits might be the perfect size to fit in his palms (he’ll have to find out). Your panties are lace trimmed, and although Nanami of ten years ago might’ve rolled his eyes (“I’m going to take them off anyway.”), the man before you swallows dryly. The eroticism of watching you undress cannot be overstated.

He finishes pulling off his slacks to give himself a distraction. You’re so beautiful it makes his chest ache, especially now that you’re not weighed down by grief and anger and sadness.

You’ve made your way to the edge of the mattress by the time he stands to his full height again. Your hands are warm and soft against his skin as you explore the planes of his chest, scratching softly at the waistband of his briefs. You press a kiss to his sternum and something terrible blooms right underneath his skin.

He leans down to press you into the bed so he doesn’t have to dwell on that for too long. Below him you’re soft and warm and so responsive. You sigh into his mouth when he drags a fingertip over your nipples, when he rocks his hips into yours.

Eventually he rids himself of his briefs, and you wiggle out of your panties, an excited look gracing your features. He pretends it doesn’t affect him the way it does.

When he finally sinks into you, he thinks he can’t breathe. It’s not some overwrought metaphor about being inside you it’s about being with you. You’re here with him, after he took you to dinner, carried you home, got rid of the curse. It’s you who’s moaning his name, scraping your nails across his shoulders and back.

You’re tilting your hips up into his, gasping in pleasure, whispering filthy sweet nothings– “Been thinking about this since I first saw you–” “Feels so good, Nanami, you feel so good–” “Only want you like this–”

He finishes with a punched out groan and he feels the way you clench around him at the sensation. A hand slips between you two and he finds your clit again with his fingers, determined to get you off again. It’s only fair.

Your face contorts in pleasure as you finish again, and the way you bear down on him makes his head spin. He holds himself above you as you both come down, resting his forehead against yours and trying to catch his breath–certainly not from physical exertion.

When he pulls out, when he goes to stand, to find something to clean you up, make you comfortable for sleep, you catch him by the wrist.

“Stay.” Is all you say, smiling softly at him. It’s so much closer to how Nanami imagined you’d looked before the curse, without its weight on your shoulders that he thinks he might be sick.

And stay he does. He cleans you up tenderly then coaxes you into the bathroom so you can wash your face and brush your teeth. He follows your instructions dutifully on where to find a clean pair of sheets and hangs your dress up back inside the first empty garment bag he spots inside your closet.

Nanami lets you press a toothbrush into his palm, lets you peck his lips with your lip mask on, and push him toward the bathroom with a smile. He made the bed. Your dress is hanging in the closet.

It’s painfully domestic and nurturing in a way you maybe didn’t expect from someone who bed you on the first date. But then again, you’d wanted him to. (The underwear, the perfume–men.)

When you finally watch him climb into bed next to you, you’re more than satisfied by the way he tugs you into his arms and just holds you. There’s no pretense, no motive, nothing other than wanting to hold you and feel your skin on his. You feel lighter than you have in months.

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