#because you know you DO have to take measures to guard your heart when things are going off the rails. (i'm not happy about this but i know | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reignpage · 4 months ago

Text

Art Student!Choso

Renaissance: worship

Word Count: 5.4k Contents: 18+ mdni, plot with smut, mostly fluffy, direct continuation of the part 5 smau, and concludes pre-relationship Choso's story, not proofread so idk how much sense this makes, let me know if it’s complete bs and I’ll redo it or something

You’re staring at the most beautiful mural you think has ever been created. It’s made up of harsh strokes of ash, curving and spiralling into one another, sprawling across the entire back wall of the gym. The smudges and the streaks breeze from corner to corner, bouncing along the edges as they create layers of shadows which seem so thick you could feel it from where you stand.

There, in the centre, you can make out a face. It’s contorted, mouth stretched inhumanly, eyes bulging and threatening to pop out. Fragmented and clawing itself, tearing skin and pulling until its face morphs into something you can’t quite make out. Dissolving into the fray, with the stark chalk, it spirals into frenzied strokes, suffocating itself.

A gasp leaves you when you step back, taking more of it in at once, and you see amidst the smoke and the chaos, symbols, jagged and torn up. They make up even more faces, just as contorted and as uncanny, all stretched out in silent screams that pierce your soul and render your knees weak.

It’s haunting.

You had no idea you would walk in to find this when you were searching for Choso. And when you meet his eyes from above, leaning against the railing, you think you might actually fall to your knees. It’s the same eyes that match the big ones on the wall, both equally broken, accusing and full of heat as it never wavers from yours.

There are so many things left unsaid, things that are desperate to get out, to be screamed at him so he’ll understand, so he’ll know. But only silence remains.

Choso doesn’t say anything, just lets the moonlight streaming from the windows encase you both in half light, half-darkness. You can’t see the smudges on his hands, but you can see the yearning in his eyes, like he too has so much to say, so much for you to understand and accept.

Click.

Both of your eyes dart to the entrance, there’s a security guard, holding a flashlight, aimed right you. There’s no way to escape. That’s what your thumping heart is telling you; you’ve been caught. And you haven’t done anything wrong.

“Hey! Did you do this?” He yells.

You’re rendered speechless, frozen from the realisation that there’s no way out of this. Without looking at him, can’t bear to discover what expression he’s wearing now that it’s all unravelling between you, you walk to the guard and let him drag you of there.

You don’t look back.

——

“What would possess you to vandalise private property?” The Dean questions.

His bald head is shiny, and the light’s reflection is all you can focus on as he thumps his fist against the mahogany desk separating you both. Thank God, too, because by the looks of that bulging vein on his forehead, he's pretty keen on giving you a lesson or two. It’s just you and him in his stately, stuffy office. The walls are lined with tall, dark wood bookshelves, which in turn are filled with old, leather-bound books in perfect condition, not a single dust in sight.

“I’m sorry.”

“It goes without saying, I’m sure, that I’m disappointed in you,” he ignores you, voice gruff and measured, all condescending and pretentious. You’re convinced that’s not even his natural accent. “You have the talent, the potential, to do anything with your gifts. Your works have won many awards, and you could one day find them in museums or galleries across the world. Instead, this —this is how you choose to leave your mark?”

The chair squeaks when you shift uncomfortably, and your eyes choose to scan his meticulous desk, as opposed to his beady ones. There’s not a single paper angled wrong, no pens misaligned, not a smudge or even a water mark.

“You’ve disgraced this fine institution. Our beloved Eden University for the Excellent has stood as a beacon for ambition, sophistication and innovation! And with every act of ‘artistic rebellion’ with your ‘cursed death paintings’, or the like, you have threatened everything we have built for centuries!”

You could try and defend yourself, could rebuff the accusations since you are, of course, innocent. But, well, the evidence is damning: you were at the scene of the crime, you’re an art student, you have attended practically every protest on campus, have liked posts from Cursed Womb’s fan-pages, and damn it, you had paint all over your shirt and hands.

You’re fucked.

He leans back in his chair, sighing as he folds his glasses onto the desk. “There are no excuses; none I will accept. Therefore, it is with the deepest regret that I hereby — “

The door slams open.

You both jump.

“Dean Hanami,” a sneer projects through the office and you recognise it immediately as belonging to a guy that knocked on your door and glared at you as if you were dirt on his shoe. “We have much to discuss.”

When you twist in your seat, you’re alarmed to find three men: Sukuna in a newer looking jacket than you remembered, an old man in a suit, and a guy you haven’t seen in almost two weeks.

Choso’s not looking at you, he’s not even entering the room, choosing instead to hang around by the doorway.

“Mr. Ryomen, I am in the middle of a meeting,” the Dean splutters.

Sukuna pokes your shoulder with a pen he picked up from the desk, looking over at you with complete disgust, like you’re a little cockroach. Still as rude as ever, he’s signalling for you to leave and as you look between the two men, one much older than the other, you choose to go with your instincts and rush out of there.

“This is how it’s going to work,” he drawls, sliding into your seat and snapping his fingers at the man in a suit, “you’re going to give back everything I want, and you’re going to let this Cursed Womb farce go.”

The last thing you hear is the sheer humiliation of the Dean’s defeated stammering. You close the door behind you.

Without looking at Choso, you walk down the hallway.

“Y/n, we should talk,” he follows beside you.

“Now you want to talk?” You sigh. You know you’re not being fair. Counting to ten, you try a softer approach. “Listen, Choso, it's been a long morning. Can we have this talk somewhere private? These hallways are so depressing.”

He nods, his pigtails moving with him. Wordlessly, he leads you outside, to his parked car, it’s all shiny and sleek, classic Ryomen money, and you get into the passenger seat.

It’s odd being in such close proximity with him when he’s avoided you for so long, but you try to get comfortable regardless, ignoring the elephant in the room. There’s a Cursed Womb sized hole between you and there’s so much to be said but you’re afraid you’ll push him, that you’ll say the wrong thing and everything will be for nought; you’ll go back to being strangers, passing each other by, just like last year.

And, whatever you feel for him, you just can’t let that happen.

“Choso,” you begin, voice soft, “what happened? What happened between us?”

Driving, he doesn’t dare look at you, can only chew on the inside of his cheek before seemingly deciding on the right words. “I liked you. From the very beginning, I liked you. People either like me ‘cause of my family or 'cause of rumours, but you’re one of the very few people that actually reached out, saw me as an equal.”

You’re silent. He’s opening up in a way he has never before and you don’t dare disturb his flow, like one would watch a Master at work. Everything about him is compelling, the whites of his knuckles as he grips the steering wheel harder than he should, the furrow of his brows as he thinks hard, the way his gaze slides over to you, just not meeting your eyes, and even the way he studies you, in just your thin jumper and jeans and turns up the heater without asking.

Trees fly by, everything a blur as you keep your gaze fixed solely on him. He drives pretty smoothly, unlike you. You're always pressed right up against the wheel, eyes darting to every mirror like a car would appear in the millisecond you looked away. But him...he drives like it's second nature, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick.

“Despite me not being very open and particularly approachable I guess, you still made the effort to reach out, to include me in discussions, to ask if I’m coming to class — even lecturers have stopped asking. And you’re very smart! I like how passionate you are, you’re so full of great ideas, practically beaming with them. You never lose your optimism even when your art gets critiqued too harshly.”

This is the first time anyone’s ever described you like this, like he appreciates you by pure virtue of your existence and the way he sees your hard work, the strength it takes to get back up that you hadn’t recognised in yourself -- it feels like the way one would appreciate Starry Night.

You can tell he practised this speech.

“But,” there’s a tremble in his voice and it makes your hand twitch, “you don't like me. Not like how I like you. And it makes me upset. Because you're so great and nice and pretty. Not that I like you because of your appearance, even though you have a very nice body. I mean that respectfully! Okay, actually just forget I said that. I like you for lots of different reasons. And I've been trying to get you to see me as more than your classmate or just your friend. But it's all pointless because you like Cursed Womb.”

“Choso, you are Cursed Womb.”

The car screeches to a halt.

His hand flies out, pressing hard on your chest to stop you from flying forward. Thank goodness you’re wearing your seatbelt. And thank goodness the road is empty.

“What the fuck!”

“Sorry!” He pants. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise.”

Like you’ve been possessed, you laugh. It’s more a cackle than anything else to be honest, but the look of utter shock and disbelief on his face is making you tear up, your sides hurting as you cradle them. “Oh my god, Choso, you should have seen your face. HA!”

He’s panicking, hands waving in the air as he tries to decide between lifting your hair up to inspect for damage and going to the steering wheel so he can drive off to safety, where the chances of a car accident caused by your blunt mouth are slim. Conflicted, he decides to keep them in his lap as he winces at your chortles. You’re finding this way too funny.

“You’re being mean,” he pouts.

Wiping tears from your eyes, you’re desperately trying to calm down, trying to school your features into something more neutral or, better yet, something serious so you can have a mature, adult conversation. But he’s just so adorable you can’t help yourself.

“Sorry, Choso,” you playfully frown at him, making a puppy dog pout so he’ll cave in. “But be honest here, sweetheart. You didn’t actually think you were slick, did you?”

Like a child, he smacks his steering wheel, all grumpy and upset. “No one else knew.”

“That’s ‘cause no one else tried to know. Sure, people were investigating, trying to piece together clues, but no one really wanted to know; the mystery was addictive, and that’s what peopled liked. But you think you’re the only one who pays attention? I watch you all the time. Plus, your family’s presence today was concrete proof; Sukuna would never do that just because you asked, right? And on top of all of that, you’re not a very good liar, sweet Choso,” you coo.

He stutters, “B-but you never said. You kept talking about him l-like —"

“Like he’s not you?” You finish for him.

“Yes! Even that night when I asked you to hang out, you didn’t want to go with me but when I mentioned the painting, you said yes.”

Your hand reaches out to play with a loose lock of hair from his messy pigtails and he lets you, his eyes flutter shut when your hand grazes his cheek. Heart clenching, you sigh again. “I was genuinely busy, Choso. But when you mentioned that ‘your friend’ painted again, I knew that meant trouble. What you do is dangerous, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“What about the other time when you didn’t want to have lunch with me? And you just wanted to work?”

You giggle, playfully pulling at his hair, and he has to pretend he’s not getting hard. “Choso, you do realise we have to balance our project on top of our schoolwork, right? Like we have to actually study and work, to meet deadlines?”

Choso pouts again and you smush your thumb against his plump lips, easing away the tension there. All muffled, he whines, “But I wanted to have lunch with you!”

“And we enjoyed sandwiches, did we not? Which by the way, you never paid me back for. But eh, that's okay. Just treat me out next time -- I'm a broke college student.”

He groans, pulling away to smack his head against the wheel. It honks and you laugh again. He’s clearly embarrassed and frustrated and he doesn’t know where to begin, so you try for him.

“Choso, sweetheart,” you rub his back, “don’t be upset. I’ll be completely honest: I was messing with you. I kinda just wanted to see how far things will go. I mean, I knew as soon as you told me he’s your ‘friend’ that you were Cursed Womb. It’s such an obvious throwaway; I hope you weren’t feeling very proud of yourself.”

Scrunching his nose at you, he sinks back into his seat. The road is still empty, and he doesn’t seem to have any desire to drive off yet. So, you let him take it all in, rubbing his shoulder in pity for the poor guy who was clearly so proud of himself for keeping such a huge secret from everyone.

“What’s gonna happen with the Dean?” You just realised technically you were expelled or were going to be expelled. No longer a student, you aren’t sure what you would do as a non-student — would you even make a very inspirational contributive member of society?

What’s next?

Taxes and mortgages?

You shudder.

Choso grabs your hand, holding it in his lap as he fiddles with your rings, clinking them with his own. His nails are painted black in true male art student fashion and his fingers are so beautifully long and slender you’re not afraid to admit that you’ve stared at them a little too long during clay sculpting class.

“The family’s going to take care of it. Make it go away like they did when Sukuna beat up some guy who pushed Yuji. Or when I got caught by some other security guard.”

You nodded. “Where does that leave us?”

“Us?”

“There is an us, right, Choso?”

He fiddles with your ring finger, and you try really hard not to notice the hearts in his eyes. “Do you want there to be us? It’s not because I’m Cursed Womb, is it?”

Of course, you don’t blame him for feeling this way; you played around too much, gave him too much power when you really should have made the decisions to begin with, forced him to confront everything that was unspoken between you much sooner. Then there wouldn’t be this awkward energy that's holding him back from meeting your eyes.

“Choso, I never liked you because you were Cursed Womb. Sure, I liked Cursed Womb. I stand by everything I said — he’s cool, he stands for what’s right, he sends a message and isn’t afraid to put his art out there to be critiqued by the masses. How many people can say that? But I liked him like one likes a pop star! You, on the other hand, I like you as you are. All shy and sweet and considerate. And I know the picture of me was from you, by the way.”

He opens his mouth to argue, and you shut him up with a stern look.

“We’re project partners, Choso!” You laugh. “I’ve seen your handwriting and the way you write your Cs, you silly silly boy.”

“But you teased me anyways."

With a shrug, you explain, "You liked it."

And then he’s kissing you.

His seatbelt is off, and you’re being pressed back into your seat, his hands cradling your face. It’s soft and sweet and gentle and it’s so Choso you can only moan in his mouth. He’s holding you like the two lovers of Rodin, with so much care, so much passion, it's leaving you breathless. You feel so much warmth and adoration through every lick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth and every moan of your name he’s breathing into you.

You push him back, taking your belt off so you can climb into his lap whilst he pushes the seat back. He kisses down your neck, sucking your pulse point and gripping your hip as if he’s scared you’re just a figment of his imagination. And when you grind down on his hard length, he moans your name again. You’re soaking.

“I’m sorry for teasing you too much.”

With tentative hands, he lifts your sweater up your stomach, searching your eyes for any resistance. You smile and take it off for him. He wastes no time sucking a tit, flicking the hard bud with his tongue and you’re gripping his pigtails. That makes him groan.

“I’ll forgive you if you do one thing for me,” his words are garbled, on account of him trying to swallow the entire globe of your breast, cheeks all puffed up, and you can’t help but press a kiss against his forehead. “Call me Cho again.”

“What?” His teeth graze your sensitive nipple and you arch into him, eyes crossing.

“You only call me Cho when we’re like this, touching in a way we shouldn’t.”

“Do I?” Grinding down on his dick, you tug a pigtail back so you can tilt his face away from your wet tits and back to your mouth. You kiss him again, craving his taste, his warmth. “Sorry…Cho.”

He bucks into your clothed core, straight up to your clit and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths. This isn’t enough, you both need more. Neither of you even care that you’re on the side of a road and it’s midday.

“I want you,” he whispers, and he’s tearing up, the frustration building up to a point where he’s clawing your jeans off and burying his face between your tits and inhaling deep. “Can I? Can I have you?”

“Of course, Cho. I’m yours,” you kiss his hair. “You can do whatever you want with me, baby.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have said that.

Because the next thing you know, the seat is folding back and you’re being thrown onto the seat, facing the plush roof. He’s tugging your jeans down, pulling the material as if it’s singlehandedly his worst enemy. You can only rub his head as he frantically looks between your face, your tits and your panties like he doesn’t know where to begin. He’s desperately asking for permission, for guidance.

“Choso, we can do whatever you want, just take your time.” And then, as an afterthought, you add, “Although, you shouldn’t take too long since we are outside. If we get caught, I’m not sure your family can take care of the charges we’ll face.”

He nods and then with dark, unfocused eyes, he shoves his face between your leg as he kneels on the floor, spreading your thighs with his strong arms. Sniffing is all he does, inhaling deeply and moaning. You blush, pushing his hair from his face. And, as if the urge has gotten too much, he pushes your panties to the side and licks a strip up your slit, from quivering hole to the clit.

Your back arches off the seat.

Moans and groans escape you, shaky breaths fanning the air as he sucks your clit, mumbling your name and the vibrations leaves you lightheaded.

“Tastes so good. Knew you would taste so good.” He pushes in a finger inside and he groans with you when he wriggles it. “So wet, baby. You’re so hot a-and wet and I want to stay here forever.”

He curls his fingers inside, rubbing against that spot inside of you that has you gushing cream all over his mouth, and he laps it up like he’s starved. Just as a car drives past and he dives deeper into you, you find yourself cumming all over his mouth and fingers, clutching his pigtails harder.

"Fuuuuuck, don't stop, Cho!" You ride out your orgasm on his face, spreading your wetness all over his chin and his cheeks, clit bumping against his nose.

Shuffling up, something wet and hard traces your lips. It’s salty. You don’t hesitate to widen your jaw, letting him push his hot and hard length into your throat. It’s an awkward angle, with you laid not fully back and him having to crouch down, but you manage a few suckles before he gets frustrated and embarrassed, and he climbs back down to pet at your pussy.

"That's just going to have to wait later, I guess," you chuckle.

A blush blanketing his cheeks, he nods and strokes his dick. He must have taken it out when he was licking you. It's long and hard and your body remembers the feel of it in your hands. And Monet! His tip is flushed red, leaking cum like a faucet. How adorable.

You see him lining his beautiful cock to your quivering hole, but you have to press a hand against his chest to still him. “Tut tut, Cho. Do I need to lecture you on the importance of safe sex, silly boy?”

He blushes and pats his pockets with frantic, panicked movements. You sigh. You didn’t bring one either.

“Well, you’re not allowed inside without a condom,” you mutter to his cock, telling it off as if it’s responsible for its owner irresponsibility. “I mean, really, Choso. You’re a grown man, a college student! You should always have condoms, silly.”

“I didn’t think we’d ever be together so I didn’t buy any,” he mumbles, laying down on you so he can hide his sheepish expression in your shoulder.

The implication warms your chest, making you pout and rub his back. You coo, “Aw, did my baby not want to fuck anyone else? Just me?”

Pushed to his limit, he bites your neck and then quickly soothes it with his tongue as if upset at himself for hurting you. But it’s you who feels the most guilt; you played around too much, teased him too far, and now his hips are making short thrusts against your pussy. He just can’t help himself. It’s as if the magnetic pull of your cunt is too much for a weak man like him. You’re going to have to work very hard to earn his forgiveness even if he’s willingly thrown it at you.

Starting, of course, by wrapping your legs around his hips and pressing him closer. You whisper, “Make yourself cum on my pussy, Cho.”

He groans. Maybe it’s the seductive way you ordered him to, the vulgar term you used, or perhaps it’s the fact that you called him a nickname he loves to hear. Well, whatever it is, it’s making him whimper in your ear as he thrusts against your lips, coating his length with your juices. His tip bumps against your clit and you both moan.

“I-I missed you, y/n!” He cries in your ear, warm breath tickling your skin.

Again and again, he thrusts, still clinging onto you and holding you close. You can feel his desperation, sincerity, and his pre-cum all seeping into your skin. Rolling back, your eyes disappear — this is supposed to be for him, and yet you’re panting too, holding him tight, shirt threatening to rip under your claws.

The fact that you’re naked and he isn’t is making you sensitive all over, from the way your nipples are rubbing against his chest and how he pinches at one all the way to the mumbling of your name, like a mantra, against your neck.

You’re going to cum too.

“Ngh, Cho! Keep going!”

He must have liked that because his thrusting gets more frantic, his cock head meeting your clit again and again and you’re both nearing your high. Your nails dig into his back and he bites your neck to stifle the broken moan that escapes him. Hot ropes of cum paint your stomach and it makes you arch your back once more, eyes closing shut.

"So warm ngh!" He groans into your ear.

Hips stuttering, he drags out his orgasm like his body can’t help himself and a beat or two passes. He falls on top of you, still muttering your name like his brain has short-circuited and it’s all that’s left in there.

“You like me better than Cursed Womb, right?”

You laugh. “Cho, you silly man. You’re the same person.”

Choso pushes himself up onto his elbows, slightly out of breath and dazed, a blush highlighting his face tattoo. You kiss him on the nose which brings out what sounds like a mewl from him. He copies the movement, and it tickles you. That makes him smile, still panting.

“I know, but I want to know who you like better,” he licks a bead of sweat from your forehead and you have to smack his back.

Sighing, you push him off, concerned over the fact that you’re naked and in a public space. He lets you scramble back to your seat, fixing your panties and leggings and he hands you your jumper. All in silence, you get settled back in.

He starts the engine, looking a little upset and you have to still his hand with yours. Words aren’t really enough, you know that. So, the only thing to do is to show him.

“Take us to my place, Cho.”

—

He’s confused, head tilting and brows scrunched together like a little puppy as you lead him to your dorm room. Whereas you’re practically buzzing with excitement, struggling to get the keys in due to your shaking hands. But you manage and you welcome him in.

It’s the first time he’s been inside your place — there wasn’t a particular reason why you waited, it was really just because his place is bigger and cooler and generally a much better place to work in.

Despite it being a pretty standard room, he’s marvelling at the space, eyeing the pictures of your friends strewn across the walls, the fairy lights and the open journal on the table full of your watercolour works. Choso looks like he just entered Santa’s workshop, and you giggle as you press your face in his back, hugging him and swaying you guys side to side.

“Sorry about the mess, Cho. I didn’t know you’d come over.”

He holds your hands, swaying with you, but his focus is on only one thing.

There, on your easel, stationed by the window for natural lighting, is a sketch. The lines are messy and criss-crossing, overlapping each other, the lead of the pencil unravelling to create a face loss in thought. It’s tilting its head as its own creation, examining the angles and the proportions, and you can tell it’s completely entranced in its work, losing grip with reality and wholly immersed in their own imagination.

It’s the kind of expression you’ve decided is most beautiful in all your years of looking and sketching and studying. In all the models, in all the strangers, and in all the works of art you’ve come across, only one figure has captivated you as much it has.

“Recognise him, Cho Cho?”

Despite the teasing tone of your voice, you’re actually pretty nervous. This has never been a problem for you; you’ve presented your work to countless of people, by virtue of being an art student, you’ve consented to being ripped apart again and again. But this time, you’re feeling a certain kind of insecurity you never have before.

“Do you like it?”

“This is me?” He breathes out.

You bury your face harder in his back, feeling a blush creeping up. “Yeah, Cho. I started it back in first year. I never got to finish it because, well, we’re art students and we all have ADHD or whatever. But when we became project partners, I’ve been adding to it, adding lines and details for every time I noticed something new about you. In fact, I was working on it that night you asked me to hang out and I almost turned you down. Sorry about by the way, baby.”

Waving a hand over the general area, you explain further, "At the end of first year, you got that face tattoo, and I struggled all summer adding it in because I only saw it once and wanted to recreate it from pure memory. But I couldn't ever seem to get the proportions right."

"Y-you started drawing me in first year?"

Pressing a kiss to his back and smiling at the flex of his muscles, you think back to a memory. "It wasn't like I was obsessed with you, or anything creepy, I swear. It's just that, you're a pretty handsome dude. The List agrees and well, when I first saw you in the lecture hall, I thought wow, someone needs to capture that guy in a drawing or something. And you know how us artists work — we develop fixations. I guess, you could say you've been my on and off one for a year now."

That was a lot of words and you’re not sure he registered any of it because of how silent he is, but then he’s clasping your hands tightly. And you’re shocked into silence when something cold slides down one of your fingers. On your left hand. Your ring finger.

“Cho?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he shakily whispers.

You want to laugh — it’s such a sudden admission and you’re fairly convinced it’s just that post-nut high. But the way he says it, the way it’s so serious, so real makes you pull away.

He turns, desperate to see your face. And with another whisper, he admits, “I have one of you too.”

“What?”

“I painted a portrait of you. In my place.”

It strikes you there. You remember. The painting with the tarp over it. That was of you, and he hid it because you were coming over. With a grin, you raise your hand up to eye the golden signet ring on your finger, way too big and threatening to fall off if you don’t hold it tight.

“We’re a pretty cool duo, aren’t we?”

Choso falls to his knees, pigtails bouncing, an expression of desperation and torment written all over it. He's never looked more beautiful staring up at you. "Please let me be your boyfriend!"

You laugh again, hands on your hips as you shake your head in disbelief. Rolling your eyes playfully, you respond with, "Alright, I guess I can grant you that one wish. Actually, since you gave me two orgasms, I'll give you another one."

He reaches for your hand with his eyes closed and you let him press it against his face. Cupping his cheek, your smile drops and you feel a fire burning inside and explode in your chest when he presses a distressed kiss to your wrist, full of panic like his brain is malfunctioning and he can't settle on one thought or feeling.

Then, his eyelids fly open and meet yours with a clarity that has never been there. Never. Not even since first year when you made eye contact in passing and you couldn't get his face out of your mind. And it's like all the anguish you saw that night is gone, the chalk mural fading from view.

More certain than ever, you know he'll give you all the opportunities you need to finish your portrait of him, and every new one you'll make. And your project will be renewed with a deeper level of teamwork, because you've transcended the definitions of your connection.

“I want to eat you out again.”

And well, who are you to say no to a man on his knees?

#jjk x reader #jjk choso #jjk smut #choso x reader #jjk fluff #choso smut #choso fluff #jjk drabble #jjk fic #choso drabble #modern au

800 notes · View notes

dyaz-stories · 1 year ago

Text

put your arms around me and i'm home || Cha Hyun-Su x Reader

summary: In the dead of winter, you have to do a run to go get fuel for your generator. Things go wrong, but fortunately, Hyun-Su is here to save you.

word count: 3.7k

warnings & tags: canon-typical violence, gore, monsters, hyun-su and reader get injured, reader briefly thinks hyun-su is dead, monster!hyun-su makes a brief appearance, hyun-su needs a hug and he gets one!, angst, hurt/comfort, season 2 canon compliant.

previous · next

A/N: this can be read on its own, but there is another one-shot, if you're interested! for context, this takes place during season 2. reader and hyun-su know each other from high school and reader runs into hyun-su after the events of the first three episodes. reader also doesn't know that he is a monster/neohuman.

You’re not one to get caught off guard, not usually. You’ve always been cautious, measured, far-sighted. It had been an advantage back in high school, and you’re pretty sure it’s what kept you alive thus far.

Yet, in this new world that you never asked to be a part of, unforeseen complications were the norm. You could plan, and plan, and plan ahead, but here you were, freezing in your living room, because the biting cold of the lasting winter meant that you’d run out of fuel for your small generator, and everything else you used to generate electricity wasn’t functioning the way it should.

If you didn’t want to freeze to death, you had to act, and act quick.

You’d already held out a few more days than was reasonable, hoping that the weather would clear and your solar panels would be useful again, or — but you hadn’t dared to voice that thought — that Hyun-Su would come by, and you could ask for his help. He’d offered before, after all, even if he had always kept you at arm’s length whenever you’d returned the favor.

But things were dire now, and you couldn’t wait any longer, so you’re kneeling in your living-room, preparing yourself for a hazardous trip in the outside, shivering as you do. Things are dangerous enough on a good day, but the snow that’s been continuously falling only makes you dread it more. It swallows sounds, means you’ll leave tracks behind you, and you’ll consume twice as much energy just to move around.

The last thing you pack is a map, which you make sure to keep available, though you hope you won’t need it in between breaks.

You’re heading for a four-stories parking lot, where you hope you’ll find fuel in one of the cars, but that’s not the dangerous part. What’s risky is that monsters love these kinds of places, with all their nooks and crannies, all the dark places to hide, and fear already has your heart beating twice as fast as usual before you’ve even opened your door.

Still, you take a steadying breath, haul the backpack over on your shoulders, and exit the house without making a sound.

Everything is quiet outside. Snow is falling gently, and the sight would be heart-warming, if it wasn’t for all the overturned cars, the gaping hole torn into the building opposite from yours by one of those missiles a few months ago, and the worrying fresh footprints going towards the river. The snow also covers the decomposing bodies, and you can only hope that you don’t accidentally step on one as you start walking.

At least it fills your tracks behind you. By the time you’ve reached the other side of the street, which was one once an impossible task due to how bad traffic you used to be, nothing leads back to your door, and you leave with, at least, the reassurance that home will still be here waiting for you when you come back.

If you come back.

There’s comfort in knowing that you’d planned well, this time, to get to the parking lot. You get to your destination with only expected complications. You spot the monsters before they spot you. You have to reroute twice, but that had been accounted for, and you don’t even have to pull out your map. You reach the building right before noon, and after surveying it for a few minutes, you let yourself in before you can chicken out.

In the dark, you make your way to the first floor, where you will be able to have the greyish light of the day, instead of having to use precious batteries for your flashlight.

It’s not long before you’ve picked out the car, a familial minivan with an untouched baby seat in the back. You try not to think about the people it belonged to as you kneel by the side and prepare to siphon the tank. You make quick work of preparing it, with the tanks and hoses you’d brought for that purpose.

Maybe it’s your confidence that’s to blame for what happens next, or maybe it’s another one of these unforeseeable accidents. Either way, you catch movement from the corner of your eye and you jerk your head back as a reflex, but you’re not fast enough and unnaturally long claws dig into your cheek.

You manage not to scream despite the pain, scramble back and away from the van. There, standing on the roof, is a creature. Though it stands on two legs, there is nothing human about it anymore. The side of its face are sagging and drooping like it’s centuries old, covering where you assume its shoulders would be. It brings its claws to its lips, and your realize with horror that your blood is dripping from them.

Bleeding, in this world, might as well be a death sentence. You don’t bother wasting energy in stopping the tears from spilling from your eyes.

“Younnnnng,” the monster screeches. “Give— meeeeee…”

It at least snaps you out of the stupor, and you grab your bat, unwilling to go down without a fight.

But it’s not much of a fight, not when the scent and the noise are waking up all the other creatures hibernating around here.

You swing wildly as the thing, and manage to send it tumbling back. It’s only a short respite though, considering pain is only ever short lived for them, while blood is dripping down your chin and onto the concrete.

You throw your backpack on your shoulders with trembling hands and grab the first cannister that you’ve filled, abandoning the rest behind to start sprinting towards the exit.

You already know you won’t make it. You know you’ll have to run through the pitch dark ground floor, which is no doubt filled with more of those nightmares, and that the chances you’ll make it out on the other side are slim to none.

But you owe it to yourself fight until the very end.

As it stands, you don’t even make it to the downward slope that leads there. There’s the sound of something charging towards you, and then the— the head, it has to be, of a bull-like thing catches you in the ribs, and sends you flying into a car. Your breath is instantly knocked out of you, your vision goes blurry, your head starts reeling. You’re aware of the thing crashing into a concrete pillar. It at least stays there, struggling to pull itself out, but that’s barely any relief, because soon enough the first creature is calling out to you again, stretching out a skeletal arm towards you.

“Younnnnnng… Give meeeee…”

It kicks you in the ribs, and you roll onto your back, only to be met with the horrifying sight of its arm in the air, claws out and ready, preparing to cut your throat open.

You refuse to close your eyes.

And then, just as you think everything lost, someone steps in between you and the monster, blocking its arm with your very own baseball bat. You stare blankly at the large back, the unkept black hair, as the man forces it to step back and kicks it in the chest.

Then Hyun-Su turns around, and holds his hand out towards you.

He looks nothing like what you’re used to. He’s usually so lost, so hesitant, when he comes to you. Now he’s focused, purposeful, and in many ways, he reminds you of the boy you once knew, the captain of the football team who would without fail lead his team to victory.

“Let’s go,” he urges you, and when you weakly take his hand, he pulls you to your feet effortlessly.

You wheeze as the two of you run to hide behind a car. You press your free hand against your ribs, hoping to lessen the pain — it doesn’t work, of course.

“It’s going to find me,” you mumble to Hyun-Su as he keeps an eye on the thing. “It can— It can smell my blood.”

Hyun-Su’s head snaps towards you, and his expression darkens at the sight of the wound on your cheek. He lifts his hand halfway, as if to touch it, then lets it fall down again.

“You should—” Your voice breaks. “You should go. If it can find me… It’s not the only one.”

A strange expression that you can’t quite decipher passes on his face, before he shakes his head firmly.

“I’m not leaving you here.”

The relief you feel when he says those words is immediately overshadowed by embarrassment. You shouldn’t be happy. He needs to go, or he will die here with you, and what would the point be in that?

“What— What are you even doing here? How—”

You don’t know if he doesn’t answer on purpose, or if he hears a sound that takes his attention away from you.

“Can you run?” he asks you, glancing over the car.

Your body’s going to hurt like hell when the adrenaline wears out, but for now you give him a decided nod.

“Do you trust me?”

You should probably take your time to answer him, actually think about the question.

“Yes,” you answer instead, like it’s a reflex.

He exhales quietly, squeezes your hand in his.

“Then run.”

Then he’s pulling with him, running at full speed towards the open wall of the parking lot. Fear spikes through you. Even though you’re only on the first floor, it’s still too high to land comfortably. That fear is completely erased by the sight that greets you, briefly, of monsters stumbling and climbing all over each other to make their way up from the ground floor. There is a whole swarm of them teeming here already, and you can’t think of any other way to make it out alive — frankly, you have a hard time believing that this will work. But you cling to your faith in Hyun-Su like your life depends on it, because it does, and when he yells for you to jump, you do it without question.

While you’re flailing in the air, you feel him pulling you towards him. Strong arms wrap around you, and keep you caged and safe. You hit the ground brutally, rolling on the floor until you land on top of him.

“Fuck,” you mumble, painfully pushing you onto your elbows. “Hyun-Su, are— are you okay?”

The obvious answer to the question is ‘no’, and yet Hyun-Su doesn’t look worse for wear as he sits up, his eyes instead going over your body to make sure you weren’t too badly injured.

If you shiver when his hands run up and down your arms, it isn’t because of the cold.

“Let’s move,” he says, letting go of you all too quickly.

But, by the time you’re both on your feet, monsters attracted by the smell of your blood have started falling from the parking lot. The two of you sprint, but you’re no match for them and you know it. You regain the tiniest hope when you make it past a corner, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the snow will swallow your smell if you hide well enough — and then something wraps around your ankle.

In a second, you’re torn out of Hyun-Su’s grasp, and when you manage to roll onto your back to see who your assailant is, all you can do is let out an inhumane scream.

This particular monster has eight legs, like a spider, and its somewhat human torso and head is completed by two long mandibles instead of a jaw. You manage to grab a knife from your pocket, but by the time you can cut its— web, you suppose, it’s charging towards you at full speed, and it’s close, too close for you to even get on your feet before—

When it attacks you, the first thing you see is what you first identify as a black wing, before you realize that it’s made out of a complex mix of flesh, bone and other materials that you can’t quite recognize, instead of feathers.

The wing pushes the creature back, and then Hyun-Su’s back is in front of you once more.

It’s his, you realize, brain awfully slow all of sudden. The wing. It’s attached to his shoulder, and all you can do is stare in confusion and horror. It flutters as he turns around to look at you.

You’re not fully in control when you scramble back, whole body shaking — because of the second near-death experience in ten minutes or because you’re terrified, you don’t know. What you do know is how hurt he looks, and how he turns his head the other way to face the monsters that are still coming after the two of you.

“You should run,” he says, low enough that you could miss it. He sounds hollow again. “Don’t turn around.”

You shake your head quietly, try to form some words. They all fail you. You don’t— you have no clue what’s happening. All that you know is that Hyun-Su is a monster and that he’s just used that to save your life.

The wave of monsters reach him just a few seconds later, before you’ve managed to decide anything. He pushes them back with practiced ease, one by one. You hate that you’re just sitting here, unable to move, as he fights for your life, yet your body just refuses to answer to you, even if you’re begging it to react.

Soon, the spider is the last one standing — or rather, the last one who hasn’t yet decided that you’d make a fairly meager lunch, considering how hard it is to get to you. It keeps attacking, and Hyun-Su keeps pushing it back, again, and again, until the creature manages to ensnare him in its web. Hyun-Su writhes, manages to pull his wing free, but it’s clear that he’s now at a disadvantage, and the mandibles click threateningly as the monster gets closer and closer to him.

Finally, your body agrees to react.

You run.

You don’t go very far though. You find the cannister you’d dropped and then you’re rushing back to throw the gasoline at the creature, half emptying it. The monster wasn’t paying attention to you, too busy trying to bite Hyun-Su’s head off, but its head snaps towards you when the liquid reaches it. It lets out a threatening hiss, which you ignore.

Instead, you find the lighter in your pocket.

Aim.

And throw.

The screams start right away, but it drops Hyun-Su, at least, as it tries to escape the fire.

For a second, you think you’ve made it — you’ve both made it, that is. Hyun-Su pulls himself to his feet. The wing flutters again, slowly starts to retreat back into his body to go back to a human arm.

He looks at you, expression unreadable.

And then one of the spider’s limb pierces through his chest. It’s not even calculated this time — just a movement it’s making as it tries to free itself from the flames that are consuming it.

You hear yourself scream. You don’t remember asking your body to move, this time, but you know that a second later you’re reaching Hyun-Su as he falls to his knees, and your arms are around him while you cradle him, pulling his head into your lap. Tears fall down your cheeks and onto his, as one of your hands tries, and fails, to apply pressure to the gaping wound, even if you know there is no point.

“No,” you beg. “No, no, no, no… Please, please, someone, please…”

You don’t know how many times you say it, how long you stay there. Snow starts to cover both his body and yours, and you realize you have a decision to make, if you don’t want to freeze to death. You just can’t bring yourself to do it.

Until Hyun-Su’s lifeless body arches in your arms with a gasp.

When his eyes open, they’re a clear, cold, uncanny blue.

You don’t dare to do anything then — not to let go of him, not to move away, not to break eye contact. It makes no sense, but you’re afraid that the slightest movement would have him gone again.

Slowly, his lips curve into a smirk, an expression you’ve never seen on him before. You’ve seen him smile, bright and sincere, and more recently, soft and subdued. But this amused, flirtatious smirk, that is completely new.

“You’re still here,” he comments, casually getting up, like nothing happen, like he can’t feel pain, like there isn’t a hole in his chest.

Even his voice is different. There’s a drawl to it, light and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Hyun-Su?” you say, unsure of what’s happening. He was dead a minute ago. Then again, now that he’s breathing again, your brain is able to form the thought that he is a monster. An abnormal one, sure, and you don’t know enough to draw any conclusion, but it could be an explanation.

The smirk widens.

“Close enough,” he answers. “Are you scared?”

You’re not sure. You think you’re too emotionally exhausted to be scared.

“Should I be?” you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t trust this version of him to tell you the truth, and yet— All your senses are telling you that this is still Hyun-Su. And you don’t think he’d do anything to hurt you. Ever.

“It would break him if you got hurt,” not-Hyun-Su says, tilting his head. He lifts his index finger to tilt your head up. “I don’t want him broken.”

“Is he—” You interrupt yourself, unsure of what even is happening right now. But before you can start asking for answers, there is something you need to know. “Is Hyun-Su okay right now?”

He scoffs.

“He’s taking a break,” he replies. “He’s worked hard.” A beat while he seems to think about it. “Also, he thinks you hate him now.”

“I could never hate him,” you say, too easily, because it’s just the truth.

“Well, he is a monster,” not-Hyun-Su says with a shrug. He doesn’t seem to mean it as an insult, just stating a fact. You suppose he’s not wrong, and yet…

“The people I loved all turned into monsters,” you whisper quietly. Your mother, before you even made it home. Your best friend, who begged for death so she wouldn’t hurt others. Your father, who disappeared to protect you. You miss them all so much it sometimes feel like your heart’s been ripped out of your chest, and you’d give anything to have them back. So, if there is any way that you can still have Hyun-Su… “As long— as long as he’s not trying to kill me, does it really matter?”

The man watches you with interest, tilting his head to the side. It’s interesting. You haven’t been hurt by this world the way others have. Monsters caused death and destruction, but you watched half-monsters doing their very best to avoid hurting others, not unlike what Hyun-Su is doing right now.

The monster in him wonders what it would take, to destroy that ill-placed trust in others around you. The rest of him… is far too intrigued to give in. He grabs your chin between his thumb and his index finger, pulls your face closer to his.

“Doesn’t it?” he echoes your words. “What if I do hurt you?”

You swallow, call back the images of Hyun-Su easily taking out these monsters earlier. But you can’t forget that he’d been doing it to protect you.

“Y–You won’t,” you reply, even if your stutter betrays your lack of confidence.

It’s a leap of faith, but it seems to amuse him.

“For now,” he says, before his eyes roll into his head and Hyun-Su collapses in your arms.

You stumble back, barely manage to keep him up, before he seems to regain some control over his limbs and starts coughing. Even then, you don’t let go of him. You wrap both of your arms around him, head resting against his shoulder, and keep him there, against you.

Hyun-Su remains still for a while, breathing pained and ragged. The snow is still falling, but his body is warm.

“Are you okay?” he whispers with a hoarse voice.

“I am,” you answer. “Thanks to you.”

He lets out a pained sigh.

“Did he— Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, barely moving away so you can look at him. He doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes — black again, you note — fixedly in the other direction.

Like he can’t bear to know which emotion is on your face right now.

“I’m so happy you’re alive,” you say quietly. “I thought— I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Silence.

“Don’t leave me,” you beg, voice so low and broken you don’t think he’d hear if he wasn’t inches from you.

Hyun-Su’s body starts shaking against yours. Finally, finally, he wraps an arm around your waist, burying his head in your neck, and wet tears roll down your collarbone. In the freezing cold weather, they feel burning hot.

“Don’t hate me,” he begs in response, crying in your arms, fingers digging to the fabric of your clothes in a desperate attempt to keep you there, against him — even if there is no need for that right now.

You wish you could tell him that he just saved your life, that he’s been a guiding light in your cold, dark life this past few months, that you love him more than words can say. But that would take too long, and the situation calls for something shorter, more direct, and just as meaningful.

“You’re the only good thing about this world,” you say instead, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

Under the snow, for long minutes, Hyun-Su holds you like he never wants to let go.

When the two of you eventually detach from each other, he keeps your hand in his the whole walk home.

i hope you liked this installment! i'm probably going to write something much softer next, still for this couple (but it's hyun-su so it's still going to be angsty). if you're enjoying this, please let me know your thoughts, reblog or send in an ask. hearing from readers is so motivating and makes me want to keep writing!

next part

#hyunsu x reader #cha hyun su x reader #sweet home #sweet home netflix #cha hyun su #sweet home x reader #sweet home season 2 #hyun su x reader #cha hyunsoo #cha hyunsoo x reader #hyunsoo x reader #my writing

1K notes · View notes

kokonoiis · 10 months ago

Text

gentle lover── pt. 02 ❝ his favorite place to kiss you ❞

Ⅰ. tokyo revengers ft. r. ken, s. manjiro, b. keisuke, h. kazutora, m. takashi, s. haruchiyo Ⅱ. blurbs Ⅲ. tw. slight angst in sanzu's, and also slight mention of obsession in sanzu's. Ⅳ. a/n. second round lets fucking goooooo !! writing another round of guys because i know everyone deserves to be softly loved by their faves

── ryuguji ken. forehead taking care of people comes naturally to ken, everyone already knew that long before it was ever said out loud. he likes knowing that you've eaten three square meals a day, and that you were going to sleep on time and waking up early enough that you had time to lounge around before you really had to do anything. he liked to cook for you and take care of you, often doing your hair in any way that you were feeling that day, knowing intimate things about you without you ever needing to speak up and tell him. he just knew you, heart and soul. the surprising tenderness of a man like him especially shows when he's getting ready to leave for work that day, his fingers finding their way to your chin to tilt your head up as he kissed your forehead, lingering for a moment longer than truly necessary before pulling away. he'd let you worry over his appearance, straightening his collar and smoothing over his outfit. he'd tell you not to miss him too much as he goes out, and that he'll be home before you know it. he'll be thinking of your kiss throughout the entire day.

── sano manjiro. shoulder as much as mikey pretends he's strong as tough, he loves being in your arms. he loves being near you, able to touch your skin, feeling your warmth against his body. it's what brings him peace at night, and what calms him down when he needs a moment just to be human. he loves knowing you're safe, right there in his arms, and he's safe in yours. he doesn't have to worry about much, doesn't have to put on a brave front. he can just simply be mikey, a much softer person than people liked to give him credit for. and that softness is present when he snuggles into your body to press little kisses all along your shoulder, feeling the softness of your skin underneath his lips. sometimes he would stop kissing and just rest his forehead against your shoulder, breathing softly and just taking in the tranquility of the situation. you made him feel safe, and cared for, with your arms around his frame, holding him close to you like you never wanted to let him go. mikey could stay in your embrace forever, just like this for as long as you'd let him be.

── baji keisuke. lips keisuke is not a man who just waits for what he wants, he takes it whenever he feels the need. and that includes kissing you. he doesn't play around, not when he wants your lips on his, although he's always being told that he shouldn't be quite so... much with it. the way keisuke is much like his personality - fiery, strong, passionate. he kisses you like he's never going to be able to kiss you again and he doesn't want to regret his final kiss. even in front of others, he kisses you with the same passion, proudly proclaiming his love in front of anyone around. he doesn't shy away from the thought of people knowing you're his, and he's yours in turn. you mean so much to him that he couldn't possibly deny you of any type of kisses you wanted, but he loves the feeling of your lips on his, kissing him back even if he took you off guard with his kiss. you'll be able to feel him smile into this kiss as his hand finds your chin to steady you, keeping you there for a moment longer as he enjoyed himself. and when he does pull away, he pecks you one more time on your lips, just for good measure.

── hanemiya kazutora. jawline no matter how many times kazutora tries to tell you otherwise, he's impulsive. all the time, he does things without thinking much about it, whether its silly little blunders to accidentally creating a bigger problem that the two of you are going to have to tackle together, and that includes how he loves on you, too. he kisses you without having a direct goal in mind, he just wants to cover you in as many kisses as you'll let him before the two of you have to get on with life. he loves kissing your face, letting you know that you're loved everywhere, always mumbling something under his breath about how attractive he really found you with his hands in your hair. he'll kiss your jawline right underneath your ear, cuz he's able to feel the muscles in your face as you smile and giggle about his cute little ministrations. from there, he can choose where to kiss you depending on his mood. he could kiss lower down your neck until he gets to the crest of your neck, or he could kiss higher up until he reached your lips, it really just depends, but he always starts right there, and had no intention of changing that.

── mitsuya takashi. nose mitsuya really doesn't mean too, but sometimes he finds himself babying you just a little bit. he does enjoy taking care of people, but he also knows that people need to be independent and walk on their own sometimes, too. while he's more than willing to help you out with anything that you could possibly need of him, sometimes he realizes that he could treat you as if you weren't able to do it yourself. of course, he catches himself from doing this any time it starts, and his way of apologizing is always the same. a sincere sorry, saying that he knows you're more than capable of doing this on your own, but he's always there to help you if you need it, and then he presses his nose against yours in a little symbol of his affection for you, before moving away and giving the tip of your nose a little kiss, his hands holding both sides of your face in a loving embrace. it never fails to make you scrunch your nose and giggle a little bit, which is exactly what he was looking for. he loves making you happy, loves knowing that you trust him so much to have him by your side, and he'd kiss you as many times as you'd let him.

── sanzu haruchiyo. wrist knowing that you were alive and okay was everything to sanzu. he needed to know every day that the heart inside of your chest still beat. it wasn't incredibly obsessive, it was just him worrying. he worried that someday he might lose you, or that something bad might happen, even when life was good and calm. always being on alert, several times throughout the day, he would take your hand lovingly, turn it over, and gently press a kiss against your wrist. it was just a cute habit of his to you, but to him, he loved that he could still feel your pulse steadily beating, and especially when it starts to race a little bit for him. there, he would trail up his kisses from your pulse to your arm, depending on whether or not you had the time, until he got to your shoulder, and then your neck, until his lips rested against yours, and his body heat had invaded yours, holding you as close as possible with his fingers now laced in yours. kissing you like this meant the world to him. it let him know that you were safe and healthy in his arms, and that you were still as in love with him as he was with you. and to him, that was everything.

──kokonoiis 2024

962 notes · View notes

waliminium · 5 months ago

Text

Tailored Encounters

Pairing: Harvey Specter x Reader Warnings: implied age gap, fluff, light romantic tension, no major triggers Word count: 659 Summary: As the daughter of Frank the tailor, you’ve always been surrounded by impeccable suits and high-end clients. But none quite as captivating as Harvey Specter. When he starts making regular visits for minor suit "adjustments," you begin to notice a pattern: it’s not just the clothes he’s interested in.

The bell above the door chimed softly, and you didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. You’d recognize that confident stride anywhere.

“Harvey,” you greeted, glancing up from the workbench where you were adjusting a hem. “Back so soon?”

“Frank in?” he asked, his tone casual.

You gestured toward the back room. “He’s on a delivery run. You’re early, though. The suit isn’t ready until Thursday.”

“Actually…” Harvey adjusted his already-perfect tie, his gaze sweeping the shop. “I think the cuffs on my last suit might be a little tight. Thought I’d stop by and have them checked.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tight cuffs?” You’d measured that suit down to the millimeter, and you knew it was flawless.

“Yeah,” he replied, with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Snug.”

“Uh-huh.” You fought back a grin, setting your tools down. “I’ll get the measuring tape.”

He didn’t seem particularly concerned about the supposed cuff issue. Instead, he wandered around the shop, casually running a finger along the fabric bolts stacked neatly on the shelves. He lingered by the counter, watching as you prepared.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly.

You blinked, startled. “At tailoring?”

“At everything,” he clarified, with a glint of something you couldn’t quite place in his eyes.

The next day, the bell jingled again, and there he was—Harvey Specter, sharp as ever, holding an accessory box in his hand.

“Forgot to pick up a tie pin yesterday,” he announced, setting the box on the counter.

You gave him a look. “You don’t usually forget things.”

He shrugged. “Even I’m not perfect.”

You opened the box to inspect the pin. “This is the one you ordered last week. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” He leaned against the counter, his smirk firmly in place. “But maybe you can suggest something better.”

You rolled your eyes but humored him, pulling out a few alternatives. As you showed them, he asked, “So, are you always here, or do you take time off?”

You tilted your head at the sudden change in topic. “Depends. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Later that evening, as you were locking up, Harvey strolled in again, no excuses this time. “You’re late,” you teased, holding the door open for him.

“Had a meeting,” he replied smoothly. “I was hoping to catch you.”

You let him in, flicking the lights back on. “Don’t tell me—another cuff issue?”

“No,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

You paused, caught off-guard by the sincerity in his tone. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re always busy in here,” he said, gesturing to the shop. “Do you ever take time for yourself?”

You shrugged, fiddling with a stray thread on your sleeve. “It’s a family business. There’s always something to do.”

“Maybe you should let someone else handle it for a night.”

“And do what instead?”

He smiled, but this time it wasn’t his usual smug grin. It was softer, warmer. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

The next day, he returned—because of course he did. This time, there were no pretenses, no accessories to inspect.

“I meant what I said last night,” he began, leaning on the counter. “Dinner. Just you and me.”

You crossed your arms, feigning skepticism. “Is this another one of your deals? Butter up the tailor’s daughter for a discount?”

He chuckled. “No deals. Just an honest invitation.”

You hesitated, trying to ignore the way your heart raced. “I don’t know, Harvey. You seem like the kind of guy who always has an angle.”

“Not this time,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll even let you pick the place. No strings attached.” You studied him for a moment, searching for the catch, but all you saw was sincerity. Finally, you relented.

“Fine,” you said. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his grin widening.

#harvey specter #harvey specter x reader #harvey specter x you #harvey specter imagine #harvey specter fanfic #suits series #suits imagine #suits tv

180 notes · View notes

rabbitinashell · 3 months ago

Text

Dainsleif.

The things I have to say abt this man are very concerning to feminism.

That's all there is.

Just Dainsleif.

Dainsleif in the Sheets: Intense, Devoted, and Deeply Intoxicating

Dainsleif is a man burdened by time, loss, and duty-but in the rare moments he allows himself to indulge, he does so with deep, unwavering intensity

He is not a lover of casual encounters. If he chooses you, it is because you have earned a place in his guarded heart, and he will ensure you never forget what it means to be desired by him.

1. Patient, But Utterly Consuming

• Dainsleif is not rushed - he savors every moment, every reaction, every sound you make.

• He treats your body like sacred ground, exploring it with aching slowness, as if memorizing every inch.

• His touch is both reverent and possessive, ensuring you feel claimed cherished and utterly undone by the time he's finished

2. Strength That Overwhelms

• He may carry the weight of centuries, but that does not mean he has lost his strength.

• His grip is firm, unyielding, his body towering over yours as he holds you exactly where he wants you.

• He won't hurt you, but he will make sure you feel the full extent of his control, power, and hunger.

• "Do not doubt my restraint... but test it, and you will feel what lies beneath."

3. Unshakable Focus & Endurance

• Dainsleif is not easily distracted, meaning when he sets his mind to something - or someone - his focus is absolute.

• Expect long, drawn-out sessions where he takes his time, making sure you're trembling, breathless, and utterly satisfied.

• He does not stop until he is certain he has left his mark on you, body, and soul.

4. A Voice That Melts & Controls You

• His voice is deep, slow, and commanding - he doesn't need to raise it to make you obey.

• Every word is measured, deliberate, and laced with quiet authority

• "Let go. I will not allow anything to harm you - not even yourself."

5. A Perfect Mix of Dominance & Devotion

• He does not own you - but he makes sure you know that you belong to him in every possible way.

• He is firm but never cruel, controlling yet endlessly giving

• He doesn't just take - he worships, he adores, he ensures you are left trembling beneath his touch.

Bonus: Kinks & Preferences

• Slow, Methodical Domination - Dainsleif is in no rush - he will take his time destroying you.

• Edging & Overstimulation - He knows exactly how to keep you on the brink, just to make the release that much sweeter.

• Possessiveness & Devotion - You are his, and he will make sure you know it.

• Strength & Restraint - His control is unbreakable... until you push him too far.

• Mind Games & Seduction - He enjoys watching you fall apart under his quiet, commanding presence.

6. Aftercare: Silent but Deeply Intimate

• Dainsleif is not overly affectionate with words - but his actions speak volumes, just like Diluc

• He will clean you up with quiet precision, ensuring you are comfortable before pulling you against his chest.

• His hand may trace slow, absent-minded patterns on your back, his breath steady as he lets himself simply exist beside you.

• "Rest now. I will not leave your side."

Final Verdict: A Timeless, All-Consuming Lover

Dainsleif is a man of unwavering devotion, endless patience, and deeply buried passion - and when he unleashes it, it is like drowning in something far too powerful to escape.

To be desired by him is to be worshiped, unraveled, and utterly consumed - and once you have felt his touch, nothing else will ever compare.

Who's next?? You can choose from other games.. even TV shows or movies

#genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin x reader smut #dainsleif #dainsleif x reader

112 notes · View notes

miustrz · 4 months ago

Text

LET THE LIGHT IN

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

PLOT: you never signed up to be a mother, but it won’t hurt to try.

WORD COUNT: 1K

WARNINGS: none… if you squint

"Excuse me?" The words came out almost like a gasp, and you could hear the tension in his voice.

"Will you just think about it—" Nanami’s voice cracked, full of frustration and something deeper, something you couldn't quite place.

"No. Nanami, can’t you think about me for once? Please, don’t you see I’m trying my hardest here?" Your own voice was strained, almost pleading. You were exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The constant tug-of-war between what Nanami needed and what you needed was starting to feel unbearable.

Nanami was silent on the other end, but you could almost feel him processing. He always did that—took his time, calculating what he should say. But this time, he didn’t sound measured. He sounded… lost. "I know, and I’m sorry. I keep pressuring you to take care of him, and I haven’t been the best towards you. I… I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

"Ya think?" Your words came out sharper than you intended, and the bitterness you couldn’t suppress seeped into your voice. You regretted it immediately but didn’t apologize. You didn’t have the energy to.

There was a pause. The silence was thick, heavy with unsaid things, with the weight of too many responsibilities falling on your shoulders.

"Listen, I… I don’t have a problem with taking care of him. I don’t. I love him, you know that. He makes my day with that cute little smile of his, and I’m so grateful for him. But… when he’s constantly begging for his dad, it breaks me. It’s like I can’t even be enough for him, and it’s only been getting worse. You need to understand that I can’t do this alone. You need to find some time, any time, to give him your full attention. To be present with him."

He felt the sting of your words, the guilt settling deep inside him. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to help.

"Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?" Nanami’s voice rose, cracking at the edges with a mixture of anger and helplessness. "You don’t get it. You’ll never get it. Ever since his mom died, I’ve been terrified. Terrified of how this will affect him when he’s older. I know it doesn’t show much now, but you have no idea what kind of pressure that puts on me. I need him to grow up with a mother. He needs you. He needs your love, your presence. I can't do this by myself, and you keep—.

He stopped himself, as though realizing he was on the edge of saying something he couldn’t take back. The anger that had been bubbling beneath the surface deflated, and what replaced it was exhaustion.

"I don’t know how much longer I can do this, alone." His voice was barely a whisper now, but it cut through the line with the clarity of a dagger.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. The emotion in his voice, the rawness of his fear, caught you off guard. For the first time, you realized just how deeply he was struggling. You had always known he was carrying a heavy burden, but it hadn’t truly hit you until now.

"I—" You started, but your throat tightened. What could you say? The truth? Or something that wouldn’t hurt him further? You swallowed hard, fighting the lump in your throat.

"I don’t want to be the one who breaks him, you know?" Nanami’s words came through quietly, but the impact of them hit you with the force of a thousand unspoken thoughts. "I don’t want to be the one who lets him down. You can’t be afraid of him growing up with a hole in his heart, because I’m scared too. I’m so scared."

The phone line went silent, the kind of silence that felt deafening. No words came. You could feel the space between the two of you expanding, stretching into something cold and distant.

You leaned back in your chair, your gaze wandering absentmindedly to the bed beside you.

The room was dim, the soft light casting a peaceful glow on the little boy curled up under a blanket. His tiny chest rose and fell gently with each breath, his face peaceful in sleep, the innocence of his expression pulling at something deep inside of you.

Without thinking, you walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers brushing through his dark hair. It was soft and silky, like the softest thread of silk between your fingers. As you ran your hand through it, you felt the tenderness inside your chest grow.

You had never once realized it, but you had come to see him as your own. Not just someone else's child, but someone you wanted to protect, to love, to care for. A child who had lost so much—who still needed so much. The thought that you could somehow replace the love his mother gave him seemed impossible. But the truth was, you couldn’t ignore the bond that had grown between you. And that bond, no matter how complicated, was something you weren’t willing to walk away from

Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe there was room in your life, in your heart, for him. And maybe, just maybe, was right. Maybe it was time to take a step back and re-evaluate what you could offer, what you both needed.

You watched him sleep for a while longer, thinking of all the things you’d never said out loud. And in that quiet moment, with the soft glow of the night settling around the room, a thought emerged: You were more than willing to try. For him. For Nanami. Maybe you could be the one to fill that gap, even if you didn’t know how.

But you couldn’t do it alone.

#nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami angst #jjk nanami #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #i’ll have all of your babies #sigh

105 notes · View notes

foreverisntenough · 2 months ago

Text

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 3- 'See You' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11.6k

‘I don’t want to play with you’ was what you had said to Trent outside in the corridor which was a lie to begin with but in the dark bathroom your body was already begging for his, desperate for any game he wanted. It was hot. Thick, unbearable heat as his grip tightened, pulling you into him. You let out a soft, helpless whimper as his fingers skimmed down, over your ass, to the backs of your thighs. Then—lifted. He lifted you effortlessly, turning, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, his body pressing flush against yours as he placed you onto the cool marble counter beneath you, the contrast of heat and chill making you shiver. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as felt the hard planes of him between your thighs. Trent stared at you, through you, his pupils blown, deep, rich, desperate, his lips slightly parted, breaths heavy. His fingers dug into your hips, his self-control slipping, shattering by the second.

“No?” he taunted your blatant lie outside this room that felt like it was about to combust. His voice was drenched in something wicked. He was questioning your verbal rejection, his voice teasing because your body spoke a different language. But his hands—his hands gripped you like he needed you to breathe. “If you want me to stop…” He exhaled sharply, his control was slipping, his forehead nearly pressing to yours. “We don’t have to. You can take your hands off me. If you don’t want this.” He said it laced with genuine care but also in equal measure, it was taunting because you both knew you didn’t, you did want this. You watched as your hands slid down his chest, confirming you wanted them there, feeling the solid warmth beneath his black tee, feeling the heat, the tension rippling beneath the fabric, the way his muscles tensed under your touch. Then you flashed your gaze up to his and shook your head telling him you didn’t want him to stop as one of your hands found the cool metal of his chain, a finger hooking beneath it, while the other slipped to the nape of his neck, your nails raking over the fade of his hair. Trent inhaled sharply, his restraint unraveling thread by thread. His eyes squeezed shut for a brief second before snapping open again, burning with something lethal. “Tell me then,” he murmured, rough and breathless. “I need you to tell me you do.” Your lips parted.

“I do.” A breathless whisper tumbling out before you could stop it, greedy, pulling him closer to you with a tug on his chain. That was it. Trent had his verbal confirmation, consent, you were game to play with him, the very thing you had tried to convince both himself and you, you didn’t And the second the words left your lips, his smirk deepened, pure, male satisfaction flashing in his dark eyes. His hands—big, strong, burning through your skin—slid up your thighs, kneading the soft flesh with slow, deliberate pressure. The contrast of his rough fingertips against your sensitized skin made your head swim, heat pooling low in your belly.

“Yeah? Do I make you wet, baby?” The whisper was low, rasping, thick with something sinful, something that sent a full-body shiver racing through you. Then, his mouth—hot and teasing—brushed against the crook of your neck, his breath fanning over your pulse. Your head lolled to the side, giving him more, unable to stop yourself. The first press of his lips to your skin was like a live wire igniting every nerve in your body. Your stomach flipped, your chest rose with a sharp inhale, and even though you fought to keep yourself composed, your body betrayed you. You arched—just slightly—but he noticed. His hands moved higher, his thumbs dragging the fabric of your dress up, exposing more of your thighs, the smooth heat of his palms pushing against bare skin. One hand slipped higher, gripping the soft crease where your thigh met your hip, his thumb pressing, teasing, lingering dangerously close to where you ached for him most. Your breath hitched, the room impossibly silent save for the steady, muted thrum of bass vibrating through the walls. But inside this space—inside this moment—there was only him. The way his fingers teased, the way his mouth hovered near your neck, the way he was everywhere and nowhere all at once, keeping you in a torturous limbo. He leaned back just enough to look at you again, his lips curled in that smug, knowing smirk, his eyes dark with lust and amusement. “You gonna prove me wrong or something?” His voice was like silk, low and edged with mischief. Your mouth parted—intending to say something, anything—but nothing came. Because you couldn’t. You had never been this turned on in your entire life. He had stolen the air from your lungs, the words from your mind, leaving only the sharp, undeniable pull of him. Trent’s smirk deepened, understanding exactly what your silence meant. He leaned in to the other side of you, his lips ghosting over your ear, his breath hot and taunting. “Tell me your tight pussy isn’t dripping for me.” The words were a sinful whisper, a dark, husky promise, and the second his thumb dipped into the waistband of your lace panties, your entire body clenched. Still, no words. Just a shaky, shallow breath. Trent let out a quiet chuckle—not at you, but at himself, at his words, at the unbearable tension thrumming between you, at how much he wanted this. Needed it. Needed you. “C’mon, baby.” His voice softened, laced with patience, teasing but never pushing too far. “Just let this happen if you want me… I know I turn you on.” His thumb dragged the tiniest circle over the lace covering your core, and your thighs instinctively squeezed together, trapping his hand there, keeping him close.Your pulse pounded in your ears, your resolve unraveling strand by strand. You swallowed thickly.

“I never said you didn’t.” Your voice was weak, breathy, but there was a flicker of defiance there—a last stand. Trent’s brows lifted at your response, intrigued, amused. But more than that—thrilled. Because you were biting back now, challenging him in your own way. And he fucking loved it. You reached for him again, hands sliding up the firm planes of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee, tugging. He let you, let you have control for a fleeting second before he moved—stepping fully between your thighs again, locking you in place.

“I get it,” he murmured, voice molten, rough with desire. “You don’t have to say anything.” His smirk was slow, devastating. “Your body speaks for you.” Then his other hand slid up your side, dragging over your ribs, his touch featherlight but scorching, until he reached the curve of your boob. His fingers cupped you through your dress, thumb flicking over your nipple, teasing the sensitive bud through the fabric. A breathy whimper tumbled from your lips before you could stop it. Trent inhaled sharply, his pupils dilating at the sound, his control slipping just a little more. He loved it. He lived for it. But some part of him—some teasing, cocky part—was still playing the game. Because the second that bathroom door has closed, the second you let yourself want him, your walls crumbled. You weren’t resistant anymore. You weren’t immune to the effortless charm, the raw, unchecked attraction between you. He leaned in, his lips a whisper away from yours, close enough that you could feel his breath, taste the tequila lingering on his tongue. “Tell me you don’t want my hands on you.” His voice was a challenge, dark and honeyed, and it sent something desperate and needy crashing through you. Your resolve shattered.

“Please.” It was a whine, a quiet, desperate plea, your eyes wide and burning with need. And the second he saw it—that tiny flicker of surrender—his mouth twitched into a smirk, victorious. There it was. He had broken you down. He had won.

“Good girl,” he murmured. Then his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was all-consuming, a wildfire of hunger and desperation, lips parting, tongues brushing, hands grasping, pulling, taking. His fingers curled into your waist, dragging you against him, pressing you flush to every hard inch of his body. Your nails raked over his scalp, tugging at his hair, swallowing his sharp inhale. And yet, you never wanted it to stop. The air was thick with heat, the scent of liquor and faint perfume swirling in the dimly lit bathroom, the bass from the club pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. Outside, Ibiza roared—laughter, music, chaos—but in here, it was just the two of you, a slow-burning inferno waiting to consume everything in its path.

And then, the roles reversed.

Trent had kissed a hundreds of lips, felt a hundred hands pulling him in, had women looking at him like they wanted to be devoured by him. But this—this was different. This was dangerous. Because for the first time, he felt like he was losing control. Kissing you felt like slipping into something intoxicating and unstoppable. Want. Need. A hunger that clawed at him from the inside out. Your moan vibrated against his lips as you reached for him, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, yanking him closer like you could somehow fuse your bodies together. Your hands slipped under the fabric, finding his skin, hot and taut over hard muscle, your fingertips trailing over the ridges of his abs. His stomach flexed at your touch, a shudder rolling through him as if he could barely take it. His mouth broke away from yours, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your jaw, along the column of your throat. But it wasn’t just kisses. No, he was marking you, dragging his teeth over your pulse point, sucking just hard enough to make you gasp. A little pain, a little pleasure. A promise. He groaned against your skin. “Fuck, you’re so sexy, baby.” Your fingers tangled into his curls at the top of his, then your nails scraped back down his scalp as you arched into him, helpless against the way he had you unraveling. His kisses trailed lower, over your collarbone, down, down, as his hands roamed your body like he was memorizing it—soft caresses that felt electric, possessive, worshiping. His hard cock pressed against your core through his trousers, the friction making your breath stutter, a desperate little whimper slipping from your lips. He felt it—how much you wanted him—how your body responded to every brush of his fingers, every teasing stroke of his lips. “Let me have you,” he growled, his voice raw, thick with need. You whimpered as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips harshly, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. His gaze was molten, sweeping over you in admiration before his lips found yours again. The kiss was desperate, sloppy—tongues tangling, teeth clashing, like neither of you could get enough. His hands roamed your body like they had no patience left, and your own were just as eager, yanking him impossibly closer.

“You have me,” you whispered against his mouth, your hips tilting up into him in silent invitation. Trent exhaled sharply, his restraint disappearing. His fingers curled around your thighs, pulling one leg up around his waist, pressing you tighter against him. “Please… take me,” you breathed. His grin was slow, lazy, drunk off you.

“Let me.” His thumbs dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs before they trailed up, up—until they reached the lace of your panties. His fingers ghosted over the fabric, and then, just barely, he brushed over your sensitive clit. The lightest, cruelest touch. Your breath hitched, your body instinctively jerking forward, seeking more. Trent’s smirk deepened as he watched your reaction, as he felt how wet you were for him. “Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his fingers over the damp lace again, slow, deliberate. “So fucking wet for me.” You shuddered, your hand flying up to his neck, thumb brushing over his sharp jawline, forcing his gaze to meet yours. And then there in that look, there was a silent confessional made - want. But with it, there was hunger there—the pure, unfiltered lust—made your stomach tighten, your thighs clench. His fingers slipped past the waistband of your panties, gliding over your slick folds, teasing, exploring. A sharp gasp left your lips, your body jolting at the first slow, lazy circles over your clit. “There you go,” he praised, voice husky. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me.” His fingers pressed deeper, spreading your slickness before one slid inside, pushing in slow, teasing you open. You clenched around him, a broken moan escaping as your head fell back against the wall. His lips found your neck again, biting, sucking, as he fucked you with his finger, slow at first, then a little faster, until he felt you relax enough to take another. His knuckle pressed against your entrance with every thrust, adding a delicious friction that had your thighs trembling.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your hips rolling into his hand, desperate for more.“Oh my god, that feels so good. Right there.“ Trent’s smirk pressed against your skin as he curled his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that made your entire body jolt.

“Right there, huh?” he murmured, watching the way you came apart under his touch. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body shuddering as the pressure built, climbing higher and higher. His pace never faltered, his fingers working you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “That’s it, hmm?” His voice was velvet, coaxing. “Cum for me, baby.” And then—you shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, waves of white-hot pleasure crashing over you as you moaned his name, your body convulsing against his, your nails dragging over his skin. Trent groaned at the sight, his fingers slowing, milking every last tremor from your body. Your chest heaved as you slumped against the counter, your legs weak, your body spent but still burning for him.

Trent pulled his fingers from you, slick with your arousal. He watched the way they glistened in the dim light, a flicker of something almost possessive flashing in his eyes before he brought them to his lips. His tongue flicked out, licking them clean.

“Fuck.” You swallowed hard, watching him, utterly wrecked. He chuckled, dark and knowing. But the look in his eyes told you—he wasn’t done with you yet. The air was thick with heat, perfumed with sweat, sex, and the lingering scent of expensive liquor. Outside, Nikki Beach pulsed—music thrumming like a heartbeat, neon lights flickering, the bass so deep it rattled through your bones. But in here, the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Trent’s breath was ragged, his lips still glistening from the taste of you as he dropped to his knees, dark eyes burning with a hunger that sent a fresh wave of arousal straight to your core. “Taste fucking unreal, baby.” His voice was husky, thick with desire, and the sight of him there—cocky, worshipful, desperate—had your thighs clenching on instinct. But he wouldn’t allow it. Large hands gripped your legs, thumbs pressing into your soft flesh as he spread you open, his gaze locked onto yours with unrelenting intensity. “Need more of you.” His voice was a rasp, his words a promise. “Gonna let me have more of you?” He asked you as he leaned in slowly, deliberately, his hands sliding up your thighs, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he took his time savoring the moment. You nodded desperately.

“T please.” The anticipation was unbearable. This was not how you thought this was going to go. Your breath hitched as his lips ghosted over your inner thigh, and then—his tongue flicked out, tracing the lace of your panties. A jolt of pleasure shot through you, a sharp gasp slipping past your lips. Trent smirked, keeping his gaze chained to yours, and then—rip. The delicate fabric tore in his hands, leaving you bare beneath him. The audacity. The sheer, unhinged need in his eyes. It sent shivers rippling down your spine. “Fuck,” you breathed. He groaned, low and guttural, before his mouth descended, tongue dragging over your soaked folds in a deep, possessive kiss.

He devoured you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow, teasing, dragging through your slickness before he lapped at you, tasting, exploring, like he had all the time in the world. A slow hum of satisfaction rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your core. Your fingers found his curls, gripping, tugging, hips jerking toward him, but his hands tightened around your thighs, pinning you in place.

“So greedy,” he murmured against your wet core before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking. A strangled moan ripped from your throat. Your head hit back against the mirror, the cool glass a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. He worked you like he needed this, and he felt like he did. You were like a class A drug he was trying for the first time and he was addicted from the first hit. He was drawing pleasure from your pleasure, like nothing had ever tasted sweeter than you on his tongue. His fingers joined the torture, slicking through your folds before one pressed inside you, curling, coaxing. Then another.

“Oh my God. Oh my fucking—” His pace quickened, tongue flicking, fingers thrusting, the obscene, wet sounds of your arousal echoing through the bathroom, mixing with the muffled bass from the club outside. “Please.” Your voice was a whimper, breathless, wrecked. “Please, T. Oh my God, I’m gonna cum.” Trent didn’t let up. If anything, he worked you harder, holding you down as he feasted, his mouth relentless, tongue rubbing against your swollen clit in messy, eager circles. His lips were god like. Not only did they look good, they felt fucking good.. “I’m gonna—” Then you broke. Your body jerked, pleasure crashing over you in violent, shuddering waves. A cry tore from your lips, your thighs trembling against the broad expanse of his shoulders as he kept going, licking you through your orgasm, drinking you in like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. Your hands slipped from his curls, arms going limp as the last tremors of pleasure rippled through you. Your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, your body boneless, trembling.

Slowly, Trent kissed his way back up, leaving a trail of wet, reverent kisses over your thighs, your stomach, his hands sliding up your dress, brushing over your tits. The fabric was thin, barely there, and his touch sent sparks racing beneath your skin. He finally reached your lips, hovering there, his breath mingling with yours, still tasting like you.

“So fucking good f’me,” he murmured. You grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand to your lips taking two of his fingers in between your lips. Tasting yourself as you swirled your tongue around them teasing Trent with the idea of you doing that to his cock until he pulled them out with a pop. He exhaled and leant forward, his forehead pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face as he looked at you—really looked at you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. “Knew you’d sound so pretty when you cum.” Your heart clenched. Because it wasn’t just lust anymore. It was more. It was something deeper, something neither of you could name, something dangerous. And as his lips claimed yours in a searing, soul-stealing kiss, you knew—this wasn’t just a night you’d never forget. This was a man you couldn’t forget. Even when the music stopped. Even when the sun rose over the Ibizan shores.

And as you looked at him now, those deep brown eyes blown wide with desire, pupils eclipsing the warm dark hazel, you felt something shift. Something terrifying. Something that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the way he was staring back at you—like he saw something in you worth worshiping. It was more than attraction. More than just a need to have you. There was softness in his gaze, genuine interest, maybe even something close to love. And that was the scariest thing of all. Your chest still heaved from your orgasm, legs trembling when you decided to slide off the counter, trying to regain some control. But the moment your feet touched the ground, you wobbled, Trent’s hands found your waist, steadying you instinctively, as if they belonged there. As if they’d never let go. You needed to step away. To put space between you before you lost yourself in him completely. But when you tried, he caught your wrist. Not rough. Not demanding. Just a silent plea. A tether, holding you there—not just in this bathroom, but in this moment. Your eyes flashed down in an effort to not be guilted, but instead you caught sight of something that you’d been thinking about for two days now. The hard line of his cock straining against his pants, proof of just how much he wanted you. A thrill ran through you at the thought that just touching you, tasting you, pulling you into this hidden world had wrecked him like this. But there was that guilt, too. Because he’d given you everything, and you had given him nothing in return.

“I have to get back,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. Trent’s lips parted slightly, a soft exhale as your hand reached for him, drawn by some gravitational pull you couldn’t fight. Your palm cupped his cheek, thumb running across his full lower lip, swollen from his sins. His enviable lashes fluttered for a brief moment before his lips parted, tongue flicking against the pad of your thumb in a slow, torturous tease. He smirked then, the cocky bastard, because he knew. He knew you knew he was hard. But the way he looked at you now, the way he leaned into your touch—it wasn’t just about his arousal. It was about you. He was vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. All the filthy things he had just said, all the pleasure he had given you, now lingering in the air between you. Words he couldn’t take back. He was the one caught out this time. Not you.

“Just tell me something…” His voice was softer now, the bravado slipping, replaced with something real. “I make you feel good?” You swallowed, pulse stuttering.

“Yeah,” you murmured, barely audible. His gaze flickered over your face, searching, reading between the lines. He wasn’t just talking about the way he’d just torn you apart with his tongue. He meant being with him. Just being with him. And you meant it, too.

His fingers curled around your wrist, bringing it to his lips. He kissed the inside of it, right where your pulse fluttered wildly against his mouth. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because Trent wasn’t just sexy. He wasn’t just the boy you’d met on holiday or the man who had your head spinning. He was soft. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t lock the door or strip you down. He didn’t chase you when you pulled away, didn’t beg. He just… waited.

“Remember that,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “Think of me making you cum. Just… don’t forget, yeah?” His words should have sounded crass. Should have been cocky. But they weren’t. Because he wasn’t just talking about this. He meant more than that. ‘Don’t forget him.’ You nodded, biting your lip as you slipped past him, and this time—he let you go. Was he disappointed and mildly shocked you wanted to leave, yes. He wasn’t nearly close to satisfaction, he was aching for release. He wanted more, he wanted all of you, and yet, a part of him felt lucky to have even gotten a taste.

The hallway swallowed you both back up, reality crashing in as the music roared back to life, vibrating through the walls, chaotic and frenzied. And it was in that moment you realized that even as crazy and famous as he was, cheeky as he was, he somehow managed to be a moment of quiet. Of stillness. Of something unexpectedly safe in a world that was anything but. The quiet was behind you, only chaos up ahead. You had almost made it back when you felt him again. His touch. Trent’s large hands found your waist, pulling you back against him one last time, not letting you go back just yet, his fingers splaying possessively across your hips.

“C’mere.” The warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the pure electricity crackling between your bodies—it was too much. You turned in his arms, facing him. “I’m gonna…” His voice was barely above a whisper, a nod toward the VIP section where his brothers and friends still sat, oblivious to what had just happened. A pang of something dangerous hit your chest. You didn’t want to leave this moment. And you hated that you felt that way.

“Gonna fuck someone else now?” you cheekily asked, keeping your voice light, but the question wasn’t a joke. It was a fear. You liked him. Not just for the way he made you come undone but for the way he had looked at you afterward. For the way he saw you. And now, all you’d done is wound him up and were about to push him back into a beach club full of beautiful women. But that didn’t matter. Not to him. Trent let out a low, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. He couldn't believe how certain he was in the answer he was going to give you.

“Nah.” That sound—his laugh—it sent butterflies swarming in your stomach, bursting like fireworks against your ribs. “Nah,” he repeated, smirking. “Gonna go back to the villa and probably have to have a wank now.” The honesty. The humor. It was so him— his smile lazy and lethal all at once. You laughed, shaking your head as your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. His grip on you tightened, fingers pressing into the curve of your ass as he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed yours. “But if you wanna cum for me again tonight,” he murmured, voice dripping with sin. “If you want me…” His lips grazed your cheek, his breath hot against your skin. And the thing was, as Trent said those words, terrifyingly it occurred to him that he wanted you to want him. “You come get me. Yeah?” You swallowed, body betraying you with the way it leaned into him. Unbeknownst to Trent, and surprising to you all the same, the truth was—you did want him. You wanted to come for him again. You wanted him. But you didn’t say it.

“I’ll see you.” You whispered. And the way Trent looked at you then—like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was anymore, like you had just thrown his entire world off its axis—made your heart stutter. You were something he hadn’t expected. Something real. Your hands drifted up, fingernails scratching lightly against the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing you in, and when they opened, there was something dangerous in them. You were so close. Close enough to taste him. Close enough that one wrong move and you’d be back against the wall, back in his arms, back in a moment that neither of you would be able to come back from. But you knew better than to kiss him. Because you were scared. Scared that if you did, you’d drag him right back down the hall and sink to your knees for him. Trent smirked, but it was softer this time.

“You’ll see me.” He murmured. Then he turned his head, looking away—because he wanted to kiss you, too. He really really did and he knew if he did, it wouldn’t just be lust. It would be something far more dangerous. Something neither of you were ready for.

The night was alive, breathing, pulsing—thick with heat and wild energy. The bass thrummed through the air, a heartbeat in its own right, rattling through crystal glasses and rippling across skin slick with sweat and spilled liquor. The scent of expensive perfume, spiced rum, and something darker—something untamed—coiled around you, wrapping the club in a haze of sin and seduction. Dim lights flickered like fireflies, dancing across the crowds, casting fleeting golden glows over Trent’s face—the unfairly pretty face that, just moments ago, had been buried between your thighs, worshiping you like a man starved.

“Where the fuck did you go, mate?” Kieran asked, furrowing his brow, confused by Trent’s absence. Trent barely looked at him, instead watching as you slipped back to your friends, looking every bit the picture of mischief and satisfaction. The curve of your lips, the flush in your cheeks—you were radiant. And he was helpless against it.

“Was hungry…” Trent shrugged, voice lazy, but his gaze was locked on you, unashamed. The innuendo went over everyone’s head but Trent’s hunger was fresh in his mind as he stared at you. Marcel turned to him, expectant, suspicious, and when his eyes followed Trent’s line of sight—when he caught the ghost of a smirk threatening to spill across his brother’s lips—he knew. And you—damn you—felt it, too. The tether between you, humming beneath the music, louder than the club, louder than the crowd.

Your head turned, seeking him, as if pulled by some invisible force. And when your eyes met, a current crackled through the space between you, something unspeakable, something dangerously sweet. Trent smirked—slow, knowing—and shot you a wink, and fuck, it hit you like a shot of tequila straight to the veins. Your stomach flipped, a giggle escaping before you could stop it, as you reached for your half-finished bottle of Don Julio. You tipped it back, the burn of the liquor a poor substitute for the fire still licking at your skin, the memory of his mouth still haunting your body. And right then, you wished Don Julio was him. Wished it was his pillowy lips cushioning yours, not the cold glass of the bottle.

The late-morning sun hung high over Ibiza, casting golden light over the terrace where you and your best friends lounged, the remnants of last night’s chaos still clinging to your skin like the salty summer air. The scent of fresh oranges and sizzling chorizo wafted from the kitchen, mixing with the crisp bite of mimosas and the familiar comfort of laughter. The four of you were draped lazily around a white linen-covered table, oversized sunglasses shielding tired eyes, but nothing could dull the electric energy bouncing between you as you finally, finally spilled your secret.

“He what?!?!” Delaney, Foster, and Campbell’s collective scream tore through the quiet hum of the brunch crowd, drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby tables. Not that any of you cared. You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you.

“He ate me out when I went to the loo last night. You heard what I said.” You took a sip of your drink, acting as if your world hadn’t just tilted on its axis as you looked at them through the blue tint of your Loewe sunnies [ref index]

“Oh my fucking god!” Foster practically shrieked, slamming her hand down on the table. The sheer volume of her excitement sent the group into another round of cackling, heads thrown back, laughter bubbling over like spilled champagne.

“So you did get fucked! Praise the lord!” Delaney grinned, raising her mimosa in a mock toast, her sunglasses sliding down her nose as she smirked at you.

“No! No…” you protested between giggles, shaking your head. “That’s not what I said! I said he ate me out.” You leaned forward, biting your lip, your smile turning impossibly cheekier. Campbell, ever the perceptive to you, eyed you suspiciously.

“So do you have plans? Are you gonna see him again?” She asked and your grin faltered for just a second. A small pause. A flicker of something deeper.

“I don’t have his number.” The admission sat between you like an unfinished sentence. You hadn’t thought about it in the heat of the moment—the tequila haze, the pulse of the music, the way he had made you feel. But now, in the clear light of day, it was glaringly obvious. You didn’t have his number. No plans. No promises. Just a memory. Campbell’s lips curled into a knowing smirk.

“Do you want it?” She meddled knowing it was right in her messages a few days ago. Your instinct was to brush it off, to say no, to play it cool. But your friends knew you too well. Campbell, especially, saw through you like glass. You hesitated, twirling the stem of your glass between your fingers.

“No, he didn’t give it to me.” The way you phrased it sounded… bad. Like you’d been left behind, forgotten. And you hated that. You didn’t want to care. You wanted to be unbothered, unattached. But when Foster leaned forward with a teasing grin, you knew she sensed the shift in you.

“No, he just gave that pussy some yum,” she quipped, waggling her brows. You groaned, throwing a napkin at her, but it did little to distract from the truth pressing at your ribs.

“Stop! I don’t know…” You sighed, running a hand through your hair, the memory of Trent’s touch still ghosting over your skin. “There’s… something there. It’s weird…” The words hung in the air, light but laced with an undeniable weight. “I don’t know what it is,” you admitted softly. And for the first time since last night, the thrill of it all settled into something else. Something scarier. You couldn’t describe it to them but in your mind you knew what it was. It was chemistry The Ibiza heat pressed down on you, thick and heavy, but it wasn’t nearly as suffocating as the realization creeping in. You wanted more. And that? That was dangerous.

The sun blazed high above, glinting off the rim of your glass as you took another sip of your mimosa, the cool bubbles popping against your lips. The terrace buzzed with the lazy energy of a late-morning brunch crowd—groups of tanned holiday-goers nursing hangovers, the clinking of silverware against plates, the distant bass of a beach club setting the rhythm for another sun-soaked day. Your friends were still reeling, their laughter slicing through the air like a blade, sharp and amused.

“I’m sure his thirsty ass fucked someone else that night after we left anyways.” You smiled at them, shrugging as if the thought didn’t sting. The rim of your glass met your lips again, but before you could take another sip, Campbell reached out and pulled it away with a pointed look.

“You don’t mean that.” You tilted your head at her, silently pleading with her not to do this—to not look at you like she could see through the paper-thin defense you were trying to hold up.

“No, but for me, best to think it.” You flashed her a smile, one that was meant to end the conversation, but she wasn’t convinced.

“Fair,” Delaney chimed in, adjusting her bikini strap under her sheer cover-up. “But you should follow him on Instagram or something.” She knew you, understood your hesitations, but also didn’t want you to let the moment slip through your fingers. Before you could even react, Campbell and Foster cut in with a unified shriek.

“Fuck no!” The whole table burst into giggles, the tension dissolving into the warm air, but then—

“Ladies, sent for you.” A waiter appeared at the table, a pristine bottle of champagne cradled in his hands like something sacred. It wasn’t just any bottle—it was expensive, way too nice for a casual brunch. The four of you exchanged glances before Foster furrowed her brow, scanning the room with a smirk.

“From who?” she asked, already playing detective. Your curiosity got the best of you, and you turned slightly in your chair, following her gaze, eyes sweeping over the crowd—until they landed on him. Trent.

As if the universe had cast a spotlight just for him, he lounged effortlessly in the distance with his friends, the golden glow of the morning catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips, the quiet confidence in the way he sat back in his seat. His eyes found yours easily, as if he had been waiting. You sighed, shaking your head with a soft smile, mouthing a small, ‘No,’ though there was nothing in your expression that said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. Your glossed lips unable to stop from curving. His lips twitched, his dimple peeking through before he tilted his own glass toward you in a subtle toast. You turned back around and Trent silently groaned in his head seeing your exposed back again. He wanted to rip that dress you had on off, and the bikini underneath it. Back at your table, the waiter set down your freshly poured glass, but before he stepped away, he placed a folded napkin down next to you. Your brows furrowed as you reached for it, and the moment your eyes skimmed over the inked words, your breath hitched.

'If I never get to feel your lips again, it was an absolute pleasure, baby.'

You shook your head, but you were smiling, your fingers tightening around the napkin like it was something delicate, something worth keeping. Foster gawked at the message, jaw slack in astonishment.

“Guess it was yummy, baby.” Campbell hummed into her glass, unsurprised but endlessly amused, while Delaney let out a giggle, sliding the napkin closer to examine it like it held the secrets of the universe. You should have rolled your eyes, should have dismissed it as nothing more than a cheeky playboy move, but you couldn’t. Because as much as you tried to fight it, there was no denying the truth—he didn’t feel like just some momentary thrill and you hoped this wasn't a goodbye as much as it was a see you soon.

–

Trent was cooked. Not by the Ibizan sun—though, yeah, that too. His tan was coming in nicely. But no, the real problem? You. You’d walked out of that brunch picking up your bill, your bag and your friends, and he prayed the napkin, without so much as a goodbye, just a soft, knowing smile that had done irreparable damage to his sanity. You could’ve said something cocky, thrown him a teasing remark, but no—you’d just looked at him like that, mouthed a simple ‘See you’ before leaving him there, heart pounding like some lovesick idiot. But that 'see you' meant confirmation for you. You didn't want never again you wanted a million times over.

Now, hours later, his friends were sprawled across the loungers by the pool, soaking up the afternoon heat, but not Trent. No, Trent was a man on a mission. Under the shade of an umbrella, a towel draped dramatically over his head to block the glare, he squinted at his phone screen. He should’ve been swimming, drinking, doing literally anything else, but instead, he was being a detective. Because Trent Alexander-Arnold did not just let a girl like you walk out of his life without a trace. Except, well—he kind of had. He didn’t have your number. Didn’t even know if he had your last name. Rookie mistake, mate.

But then—divine intervention. Or, well, Campbell’s Instagram story. He clicked on it absentmindedly, expecting to see the usual boozy brunch chaos, but then, in small white font, there it was. Your username. Finally. Thank you, Campbell. He should’ve sent the bottle to her just for her help alone fueling this delusional crush. Trent hummed, narrowing his eyes as he clicked on your profile, resisting the urge to zoom in on your photos like a creep. God, you were fit. But something in your bio distracted him. A second Instagram handle. A name he recognized. Curious, he clicked. And just like that, the rabbit hole deepened.

Your work page was filled with sleek, polished images—portraits, editorials, behind-the-scenes glimpses of high-profile shoots. But most interestingly…Footballers.

Trent sat up a little straighter, scrolling with a sudden intensity. Did you work for a photographer? Was this someone else’s account? But then he checked the list of people it followed—only about twenty odd names, most of them industry professionals, and there you were again. Your personal account. Oh. Ohhh. He scrolled faster now, realization hitting him like a truck. You weren’t just working for a photographer. You were the photographer.

“Oh…” He said it out loud, eyes fixed on his screen, heart thudding for an entirely new reason now. There it was—your name credited under shots from a Louis Vuitton campaign. A behind-the-scenes snap of you on set. Another post, a carousel of work that included—Marcus Rashford? Trent frowned, his scrolling slowing just a little. How professional were these shoots, exactly? He didn’t really pin you like that and that made the thought of the question all the more embarrassing to him. He clicked on another Instagram dump of yours, searching for clues, for something—anything—to confirm that he wasn’t just another name in your mental archives. But the answer was clear.

Incredibly professional.

Painfully so, in your opinion. You weren’t just some girl who took photos—you were the real deal. You worked with some of the biggest names in the game, and yet… you barely let them get your surname. You were a shadow behind the lens, a quiet force in the industry. A name typed in an email from your agency, a friendly face on set but never more than that. And Trent? Well, he had been more than that. Right?

Trent was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble. He’d started this whole thing with the upper hand—cocky, self-assured, confident. A cheeky line at a club, a wager sealed with a kiss, his name scrawled on a napkin like he was so sure you’d come looking for him. But now? Now, he was sitting under a goddamn poolside umbrella, towel over his head like some desperate gremlin, while you single-handedly ruined his entire summer holiday. He was jealous. Fucking jealous.

Of Rashford. Of the other footballers you’d shot. Of the fact that they’d had your full attention, maybe for hours, maybe days. That they’d been the focus of your lens, your voice giving quiet direction, your hands adjusting lighting, your eyes scanning them like they were the most interesting thing in the room. Meanwhile, he had barely lasted a night in your orbit. Still frowning, Trent kept scrolling, pulling your page down refreshing hoping for a sign of life and then—like the devil had it out for him—you posted.

A new grid post. He swallowed hard, thumb freezing as he took it in. A curated, sun-drenched montage of your trip, effortlessly cool and so you—a pitcher of sangria sweating on the table, Campbell mid-laugh, a perfect row of striped beach umbrellas, delicate gold jewelry scattered on a marble sink. It was the kind of post that made someone wish they were there, wish they’d been part of the moments. And Trent? He didn’t just wish. He ached.

But then—the last slide. He almost didn’t catch it at first, his mind still dazed from the photo of you stretched out on a lounger, back arched, sun dripping over you in a way that should be illegal in only a tiny tiny string bikini. His entire body reacted instantly—groaning, he tipped his head back against the chair, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe through the sudden rush of heat flooding straight to his length. Jesus. You were impossible. You were sexy, effortless, carefree—no calculated poses, no thirst traps, just you. Untouchable. And then, just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore, there it was—the last slide.

A snapshot of the napkin he’d sent to your table. The one with his note, his number, flipped over, the embossed restaurant name a confirmation, the faint tint of his ink leaking through the otherside. Except now, you’d written on it too.

‘They can be yours… again. xx’

Red ink. Perfectly placed. A direct hit to his ego, his gut, his—fuck. Trent stared, his entire world tilting. The words were a play on his first line to you, stolen and thrown right back at him. He’d started this, thinking he had the control. A shot in the dark, a gamble at a club. But now? Now, he was crumbling. Because he’d once offered you his lips for the night. And now? All he could think about was yours.

Autumn arrived like a quiet sigh. September rolled in with its crisp air, golden evenings, and a silence that stretched between you and Trent like an unspoken truce. Neither of you reached out. Too proud. Too stubborn to be the first one to bend. Campbell had tried, of course. Tried to nudge, hint, flat-out push you into making a move. But you refused, pretending it was nothing, just a passing holiday fling. Trent? Barely remembered your name. That was the official line you both fed your friends. But it was a lie. Because Trent did remember your name. He remembered the way it felt rolling off his tongue, the way it sounded when you laughed. And he missed it.

He found himself lurking in corners of the internet he knew you might exist in—scrolling through comments on a footballer’s post you recently worked with just to see if you'd left one. Clicking through women’s fashion editorials, hoping for a behind-the-scenes glimpse of you at work. Embarrassing. He’d clear his search history before his mates came over, because God forbid they saw “Trent Alexander-Arnold + photographer + Ibiza” “London + photographer + Y/N + boyfriend” in the search bar.

And you? You were just as bad.

You, who claimed not to care, were now watching random Premier League YouTube videos about players’ favorite foods—just for a two-second clip of Trent laughing. You streamed his matches from your phone, curled up in bed on cold Tuesday nights, letting the sound of Champions League commentators saying his name lull you to sleep like a damn bedtime story. But like anything worth waiting for, timing mattered.

And as fate—or fashion—would have it, September meant Fashion Week.

Trent was in Paris. Tired. Sore from the weekend’s match, legs still heavy from a knock he’d picked up. He was sprawled across the sofa in his hotel room, waiting for room service, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. His algorithm had changed—his usual feed of football highlights and music clips replaced with… well, you. Not directly. Not at first. But it had started slow. A fashion week recap here, a vogue clip there, the kinds he usually ignored. But not now. The more he lingered, the more the app fed him exactly what he wanted before he even admitted to himself that he wanted it. And then—there you were. A street-style video. Travis Scott’s voice thumping over muffled reverbed bass. You, yesterday, walking down Rue Jean Goujon.

Golden hour draped over you like a personal spotlight, turning your skin radiant, turning you into something straight out of a daydream. You were wrapped in more layers than he preferred—tragic, really—but even under the high fashion, he saw you. Saw the sharpness of your cheekbones, the slight pout of your lips, the effortless way you moved. Trent let out a slow breath, thumb frozen on the screen. He envied the sun outside his window. Because it got to touch you, while he was stuck inside, watching from a screen.

Trent swallowed hard watching you walk down the Parisian street with all the ease of someone who belonged there. Your tiny exposed waist still visible as the wind blew open your coat [ref index], your heels impractically high, opened toed and potentially making your feet cold. Oh my days was he really worried if you were cold, he shook his head but continued watching the video again and again to see you carry yourself as if the world were tilting to accommodate you.

Trent had never been the type to dwell. He prided himself on his ability to let things roll off his back, to keep moving forward without getting caught up in what-ifs or maybes. But this—you—had settled into his mind like an imprint he couldn’t shake. It had been weeks since Ibiza, since that night at the club, since brunch, since you’d walked away without so much as a lingering glance. And yet, here he was, lying on the couch in his Paris hotel room, his mouth going dry trying to remember the taste of you. He shut his eyes for a moment, willing it back but it had been too long.

He hadn’t seen you in motion since Ibiza, hadn’t been forced to reckon with the way you moved, how you existed so unbothered, so self-assured. His memory had failed him—because this, this was worse. You were stunning in a way that made his body tense. His thumb hovered over the screen. And then— without thinking, without hesitating, without stopping himself—he hit ‘save video.’ The realization struck him a second too late. His stomach dropped.

"What the fuck am I doing…" Trent groaned, immediately opening his camera roll to delete it. His fingers hesitated over the screen before he dropped the phone into his lap, dragging a hand over his face. He needed to get himself together. This was ridiculous. And then—laughter. A quiet, amused sound from across the room.

“I think she’s too bad for you, bro.” Trent’s head snapped up. Marcel was lounging in the chair near the window, watching him with open amusement, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. Trent exhaled sharply.

“Who are you even on about?” He kept his voice level, uninterested. A lost cause. Marcel merely shook his head.

“You can pretend all you want, but it’s not like you don’t have a way of seeing her.” He stretched out lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to pick Trent apart. “You stare at her Instagram every week. Just follow it.” He shrugged. “You’ve got mutual friends. It’s not creepy, mate. You’re gonna run into her at some point.” Marcel explained earnestly to his older brother too wise for Trent to stomach. Trent clenched his jaw.

“Fuck off, bro” Trent curtly replied shifting in his place.

“She here?” Marcel tilted his head, sharp as ever. “Is that why you’re spinning out?” He asked. He hadn’t seen the video Trent was just watching, he’d seen enough. He knew what was on the screen or who rather.

“I’m not spinning out. Maybe she’s here, maybe she isn’t but it doesn’t matter.” Trent’s voice was firm, a clear dismissal. “Marce, we didn’t hook up. I don’t know the girl.” Trent explained frustration creeping in as he sat up straight.

“Yeah but you told me you did.” Marcel raised a brow. Trent’s jaw tightened. Mistake. “You did get to know her…” Marcel really wasn’t pestering. Trent knew that but it was easier to pretend he was. He had confided in Marcel once, admitted that breakfast in Ibiza with you was different, that it had turned into something unexpected, something that had stuck with him far longer than it should have. That he made you cum in the toilets of Nikki Beach. But that had been a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment. He should have known his brother wouldn’t forget.

“I said I did,” Trent muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “but I didn’t mean it. Just wanted you off my back.” His voice was edged with frustration because that wasn’t what had happened at all and they both knew it. “Drop it, mate.” Marcel didn’t argue. He just sat there, watching him with that same infuriating expression, the one that said he saw right through him.

“Trentski—” Marcel tried to say more. A knock at the door. Room service. Trent didn’t think he had ever been more grateful for food in his life. He exhaled through his nose, standing up, ready for the distraction, for anything that would pull him out of this spiral. He wasn’t sure what had happened to him, how a brief encounter had turned into something that clung to the edges of his mind like an echo. It made him sick to think that maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t given him a second thought.

“It’s cool, bro,” Trent said, reaching for the door handle, forcing nonchalance he didn’t feel. “I’m cool.” It was a blatant lie but they both just accepted it for now.

The Louis Vuitton show was tonight, and Trent sat in his hotel room, high above the hum of Parisian streets, hands resting on his thighs as a stylist crouched to lace up his sneakers. He should have been thinking about the event, about the cameras and the seats filled with people who mattered. But instead, his mind was somewhere else. On you. A stupid smile tugged at his lips before he even realized it. He caught his reflection in the mirror, the gleam in his own eyes betraying him. What the fuck am I doing? This was getting ridiculous. He was acting like some lovesick teenager over a girl he’d barely spent time with. A girl he’d met in a club. A girl who, by all accounts, had walked away from him first. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Enough. This had to stop.

If—if—he saw you tonight, it wouldn’t be fate. It wouldn’t be some cosmic sign that you were meant to be in his life. It would be a game. And games had to be played in order to be won. If he saw you, he’d make his move. The game was only on merely so it could end. He wanted to fuck you into the mattress and never see you again because he never wanted to save another Tik Tok, and he definitely never wanted to get butterflies in his stomach or see that stupid smile on his face again.

He’d get you beneath him, he’d fuck you into the mattress and never see you again. Make sure that you’d never forget the name Trent Alexander-Arnold. And then, that would be it. No more saved TikToks. No more scrolling through the depths of the internet for traces of you. No more fucking butterflies in his stomach because he never wanted to see that stupid smile again. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, like a lifeline.

And when the show began Trent’s eyes remained forward, his posture composed, his face unreadable. He nodded along as models passed by, keeping his mind disciplined. Jacket, shirt, pants, shoes. Jacket, shirt, pants, shoes. A cycle. A rhythm. An exercise in focus.

I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. But his heart had other plans.

The crowd was thick, a sea of bodies moving in waves, all trying to funnel out of the venue. You had no interest in the madness of the main exit, the flashing cameras, the shouting press. You just wanted to slip away unseen. So you took a quieter route—through a back hallway, down a side passage meant for press and staff. Your press pass let you move freely, let you weave between security and through a door meant for celebrities who wanted to dodge the chaos. But even here, in the so-called quiet exit, there was a crowd. Not the screaming kind, but the important kind—editors, models, designers, people waiting for private cars to take them to afterparties hidden behind wrought-iron gates and velvet ropes. You exhaled, shifting on your feet, glancing down at your phone. Maybe you should just take the Métro. This was insane.

And then—it happened. A shift in the atmosphere. A pull at the edges of your consciousness. Trent saw you first. The moment his eyes landed on you, his pulse kicked into something frantic, something desperate. His stomach clenched so hard he thought he might be sick. He hadn’t prepared for this. He hadn’t planned for you. Not out here. Not now. For a split second, he hesitated. The crowd was too thick, the timing was wrong. He hadn’t even figured out what he was going to say yet. And then, his body moved before his mind could catch up.

Through the throng of people, past the blur of conversation and laughter, like some invisible force was pulling him to you. His feet carried him forward, slinking through the crowd with the precision of a man who had spent years anticipating movement before it happened.

And then, there you were standing at the edge of the street, just before an alleyway, huddled with a small group of people you didn’t know, scrolling through your phone. Unbothered. Unaware. He leaned against a lamppost, watching. A smug smile played at his lips, slow and knowing, the kind of smile that belonged to a man who had already made up his mind.

Game on.

Paris was a living, breathing entity—golden light from the streetlamps pooling on the damp cobblestones, casting soft halos on the glistening streets. Conversations hummed around Trent, overlapping in a symphony of French and English, punctuated by the low purr of engines as sleek black cars crept along the curb. The air carried a slight chill, the kind that settled deep in the bones, yet Trent barely noticed. At first, it was just a flicker, a passing glimpse of someone impossibly familiar. But then his gaze focused, sharpened, and suddenly it was you standing at the edge of the crowd, head tilted down, your phone balanced in one hand, the other absently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was effortless, thoughtless, and yet Trent felt it like a physical thing—a tether drawing him forward.

The world around him blurred, his pulse tightening in his throat as he took you in. You were in a green miniskirt [ref index] that skimmed high on your thighs, your legs disappearing into over the knee heeled boots that made your posture impossibly poised, effortlessly confident. The dim glow of the streetlights kissed your skin, accentuating the soft curve of your cheekbone, the delicate slope of your nose, the barely-there part of your lips as you focused on something unseen. There was an ease about you, a quiet self-assurance, but Trent saw what others wouldn’t—the slight furrow of your brow, the way your gaze flickered along the line of cars, scanning, searching. You were looking for an escape. The realization settled like a stone in his stomach. Of course you were. You always seemed to slip away just before he could catch you, leaving nothing but the ghost of your presence in your wake. And yet—he moved. He didn’t think, didn’t second-guess. His body acted before his mind could talk him out of it, guiding him through the clusters of people with the quiet ease of someone used to navigating chaos. His breath stayed steady, his hands loose at his sides, but his pulse was a different story—wild, erratic, pounding in a way that made his fingertips tingle.

Close enough to catch the faintest hint of your perfume, something warm and feminine and so achingly familiar it sent him reeling as he leaned up against that lamppost, waiting just a moment, allowing the anticipation to settle, to stretch, to coil between you like a taut wire before finally—finally—he spoke.

“Work or play, beautiful?” He asked. It was effortless, a line laced with that easy confidence that had always come naturally to him. But underneath it, beneath the charm, the bravado, there was something else. Something raw. Something desperate. Because he wasn’t sure what would happen if you turned, if you met his gaze and looked at him the way you had all those weeks ago. He wasn’t sure he could survive it. And yet, the moment you stiffened—just a fraction, just enough to betray your awareness of him—he knew he was gone. You turned slowly, deliberately, and his world tilted. The moment stretched, seconds bleeding together as his gaze drank you in. Up close, you were even more devastating. He didn’t forget how you looked up close but he forgot what it felt like to have you up close. Your lips parted on a quiet inhale, the barest flicker of something unreadable flashing across your face before you smoothed it away with a well-practiced ease. But he caught it. He felt it. A thousand things must have been racing through your mind—shock, hesitation, maybe even something close to regret—but you hid it well. Too well. Instead, you smiled, a slow, measured thing that barely curved the corners of your lips but still managed to shake him to his core.

“Working,” you answered lightly, though Trent didn’t miss the way your fingers flexed against your phone. A lie. And not even a particularly good one. You got invited because of work, yeah, but working as in getting paid, and taking photos, no. Not the case. You felt stupid and flustered like a teenage girl with a crush. You turned your head to look down the street as if you could single out your ride in the long line of blacked out suvs. His gaze flickered over your face, his smirk deepening. He should call you on it, push back, make you squirm. But he couldn’t. His gaze had already dropped, locking onto the bare skin of your arm as if magnetized, and then—he touched you.

“You have any say in the invite, then?” He stepped closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to test. It was instinct more than intention, his fingers wrapping around your forearm, thumb brushing over the delicate skin just below your wrist. It was a fleeting thing, just a squeeze, but it was enough to make your breath catch, enough to send something molten rushing through his veins. You looked down, lashes lowering, and something in your expression shifted. It was subtle, but he felt it. He watched as you registered the touch, as memory took hold, as your breath hitched just so. Trent watched it unfold in real-time, watched the way your eyes lingered on his hand, how your lashes fluttered just slightly as memory took root.

Ibiza. The press of his hands against your skin. The heat of it. The slow, unrelenting pressure. The way you had melted beneath him, unraveled in his arms, undone by the very same touch you were staring at now. A slow, sharp ache coiled deep in his stomach.But then—you looked up.

“No, sorry.” You exhaled with a barely there smile. You said no. ‘Leave Trent’ was the thought in his head. But you also said sorry, like you wish you had, like maybe you wished he was here. Trent swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside. He should let you go. He should be the one walking away. But he didn’t know you did wish he was here. You just weren’t sure why that want was so scary to you. Why the desire was causing you to feel more hesitant with him. And when your eyes met his, steady and unwavering, suddenly, he was drowning and he didn’t want to come up to the surface.

The noise of the street faded. The weight of the past month settled heavily on his chest. He had spent weeks trying to convince himself that this thing between you was fleeting. That the pull he felt was nothing more than lust. That if he saw you again, he could play the game, win it, end it on his own terms. But standing here, caught in your gaze, he knew the truth. He had already lost.

It was unfair, the way your gaze locked onto his, steady and unwavering, peeling back every ounce of control he had built around himself. The world blurred into a simple ache. The silent war raging inside of him, one he had no hope of winning.

“What you doing tonight?” he asked, keeping his voice smooth, steady, even as his heart hammered wildly in his chest. You hesitated. It was so slight, so fleeting, but he saw it. And for that split second, hope flickered in his chest—reckless and stupid and all-consuming. And then, from the corner of his eye, Trent saw movement. A sleek black SUV rolled up to the curb, a friend leaning out the window, waving you over. Your way out. He knew it the moment your gaze flickered toward the car, knew it when your weight shifted just slightly, when your fingers brushed against his for the briefest moment before—you stepped back. Just enough to break the contact. Just enough to remind him who was in control. And then you smiled—slow, knowing, devastating.

“Maybe you,” you murmured, voice light, teasing, as if you hadn’t just shattered something inside him. And then, because you were cruel, you winked. Before he could react, you turned, heels clicking sharply as you made your way toward the waiting car. As you scurried down the alleyway, the clatter of your boots against the cobblestone echoed between the narrow walls, a hurried rhythm to match the wild thrum of your pulse. The SUV door was open, your friend waiting inside, but something—someone—pulled at you like an unseen force.

Just before climbing in, you turned, glancing over your shoulder, and in the low golden glow of the Parisian street lamp, you found him. Still standing there. Trent. His expression unreadable, caught between frustration and something softer, something raw. The kind of look that could haunt someone if they let it. And then, without thinking, without meaning to hurt—because you hadn’t fully understood yet that you could—you mouthed it.

"See you." Two simple words, weightless in sound but devastating in meaning and in memory. And just like that, it wrecked him. Because as much as Trent tried to convince himself that he didn’t care, that you were just a passing thing, just another pretty girl he could let slip through his fingers without a second thought—those two words sent him hurtling back. Back to Ibiza.

To the way you left him then, slipping through the crowd and into the night like a ghost, like something beautiful and fleeting, something never meant to be his. He remembered standing there, watching you go, the cool ocean breeze doing nothing to soothe the burn of wanting. And now, here you were again—turning away, disappearing into the city, leaving him standing exactly where he swore he’d never be left again. It hurt. More than he was willing to admit. More than he had prepared for. Trent exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face as a quiet, incredulous laugh slipped past his lips.

“What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. Somehow, without even realizing it, he had ended up playing a game he could never seem to win. Worse still? You didn’t even know you were playing.

The hum of the city was muffled inside the car, the low murmur of voices and the occasional honk of impatient drivers fading into the background as you exhaled, pressing your head against the cool glass. Outside, Paris moved on—oblivious to the storm raging inside you. Your fingers absentmindedly dipped into your pocket, finding the familiar weight of your Contax camera. A habit. An instinct. You weren’t working tonight, yet here you were, capturing. Framing. Freezing a moment you didn’t understand. Through the tinted window, your lens found him. Trent stood alone in the dimly lit alleyway, his head dipped low, one hand raking through his curls in frustration, in disbelief—in something you didn’t want to name. The glow from a nearby streetlamp cast his silhouette in sharp relief, highlighting the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth parted slightly like he was about to say something—to call after you—but he didn’t. And you took the shot. The shutter clicked, quiet yet deafening in your ears. A single frame, a flicker in time that would soon exist on film, tangible and unchangeable. But why? Why did you just take that photo?

You swallowed, gripping the camera tighter as a strange, unfamiliar weight settled in your chest. You wanted to remember him. That much was clear. It was like you wanted to remember him, but he wasn’t going anywhere, you likely were going to the very same place. But why did it feel like he was already slipping away? You were the one who had left. The one who had turned, who had run like some teenage girl with a crush too big to hold. You had thought yourself clever, cheeky—leaving him with that parting line, a playful wink, a final act of control in a game you weren’t even sure you were playing. You began to wonder if it was cringey you just said that at all. And now? Now you weren’t so sure. Because even as the car rolled forward, even as the alley faded into the distance, you felt it—that strange, sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach. The feeling of having lost something before you ever even had the chance to hold it.

And maybe that was the very thing neither of you understood. This wasn’t about winning or losing. It wasn’t a game. It never had been. This was a person. A moment. An imprint on your life, whether you wanted to remember it or not. And you could feel it happening—something irreversible, something already set in motion. The film would develop. It always did. A latent image, unseen yet already there—waiting. Trent had poured himself into your world like chemicals in a darkroom, slipping into your bloodstream, into the spaces between memories you weren’t ready to claim. And now, whether you wanted it or not, the picture was forming.

Permanent. Unchanging. Completely insensitive to the light.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next Part - Chapter 4 - After After Party

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

89 notes · View notes

obliviouscxnt · 1 year ago

Text

Home Azriel x Reader

a/n: forewarning I'm a firm believer in things getting worse before they get better. I hope you enjoy!:)))

synopsis: azriel has to resort to desperate measures in order to ensure your safety

Warnings: SA, depictions of RAPE, angst, violence, minor fluff

5.3k words

pt.1 | pt.2

The feeling was unshakable, those hands grabbing you, forcing you into the darkness. The freezing cold void of absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

It’d been a day since the incident, the bruises and scratches on your body were already healing, getting better by the second.

You hadn’t felt anything since then, no presence in the corner of your mind, no eyes on you, just silence.

You didn’t know why its absence brought you no comfort. Why it made you feel worse. Like your body was trying to warn you about something your mind hadn’t caught up with yet.

However, that was the last thing you wanted to think about as you lay beside Azriel’s form. Listening to his soft heartbeat. Letting the rhythm soothe you into a state of calm.

You were so tired, you just needed a little bit of sleep, to rejuvenate your brain. And if you had any hope of avoiding that nightmare you had to keep it far out of your thoughts. Distract your mind with other things. Conjure a nice dream for yourself. A dream about you and the shadowsinger.

A dream where the two of you could just exist together. With no worries, no foreboding feelings in your hearts, just you and him, and your family, and happiness.

Slowly that disturbed twisting feeling of unease faded away, and you closed your eyes. Ready for sleep to take you away.

Then it rushed you.

Darting out from whatever crevice it had been lurking in. Invading your mind, taking hold of your senses.

It tore apart your dream, cracked open your fabrication, and sent a shockwave through your system. It felt like the magic under your skin flinched.

You gasp, eyes snapping open as you sit up.

You feel Azriel’s hands on your shoulders, then you see his face in front of yours. Hazel eyes darkened with worry.

It had been hiding from you, waiting for you to let your guard down. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to grab you and pull you into its never-ending darkness.

It snapped your dream world in half.

You shiver.

“I don’t know what to do.” You confess to him. “It’s like it has a mind of its own.”

Azriel’s hands grip you tighter and pull you into his chest. His wings cocooning you. “We’ll go see the sisters first thing in the morning. You can give it back to Elaine. Let her deal with it.”

You swallow. Knowing that wasn’t an option. It would destroy her. And in turn, destroy Feyre.

He reads your face. “You think you need to keep it? That because of your abilities you have some obligation to? You don’t. What if your abilities make it worse? At least, with Elaine it can’t take form.”

You don’t voice your thoughts, you can’t fight with him.

You don’t say that it would eat the newly turned Fae alive in her fragile state. Pick away at her mind until there was nothing left. That you at least had a fighting chance against it, even if you hadn’t quite figured that part out yet.

But you don’t need to say anything, not when he could see it all in your eyes. The shadowsinger sighed, so frustrated, so powerless, he wanted to do so much more, wanted to ease your stress, but he didn’t know how other than by being with you. Offering you his support.

It didn’t feel like nearly enough.

He held you the rest of the night.

*****

You’d abandoned sleep. Until you could find a way to counter this thing, to keep it caged, you would stay awake.

You were very experienced in nightmares, probably the most experienced. You could manifest the perfect nightmare for any person, reduce the finest warrior into a sniveling coward at your feet. But you’d never taken somebody's nightmare before. Never had to hide from someone else’s fears.

Even if you wanted to give it back to Elaine, you wouldn’t know the first thing to do. It was very different than twisting someone’s fears.

So for the past week, you’d been doing research. Re-reading those books from Helion, scouring the library for anything else that mentioned dreams, nightmares, or the subconscious. When your brain needed a break from words you trained your body. Joining Cassian from time to time.

The training backfired miserably, making you more tired, body aching with fatigue every hour, minute, and second of the day.

But you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t go in that cauldron again. Not when it could hold you there. Keep you from waking. And even though Rhys had started sleeping at the House of Wind to ensure that you wouldn’t be trapped, you couldn’t risk it.

You didn’t know if it would continue to attack you, like normal nightmares did, you had no way of knowing what its next move would be. It didn’t act like anything you’d encountered before.

It could attack someone else next time, attack Azriel.

That thought alone was enough to keep you awake for the past week.

But with each passing day, keeping your eyes open got harder and harder.

“You can’t let this continue.”

Azriel hadn’t even noticed his brother’s presence. You’d taken all of his focus, diminished the spymaster to a man who couldn’t even hear Cassian’s footsteps. Which were not at all quiet.

The two Illyrians watch you from the library doorway. You sat with a multitude of books scattered around you, the one you were currently reading almost wider than the length of your hand and you were already halfway through. They watch your eyelids slowly fall, watch you try to fight it by blinking rapidly and shaking your head.

Azriel was in full agreement with Cassian. This couldn’t go on.

Azriel feels hopeful when your eyes finally close, you’re head falling back against the sofa cushion. He holds his breath as he waits for you to sink deeper into sleep, not daring to make a sound in fear of startling you awake. But you shoot up a moment later.

Eyes flying open as you grab the couch like you had to catch yourself from falling. Head snapping to and fro as you frantically search for something that isn’t there. Harshly rubbing the sleep from your eyes over and over, but it only makes your eyes burn with a fire that could only be sated by letting them shut.

In a moment of desperation, you grip your wrist, letting the sharp claws dig into your arm. Repressing the sleep in your system with pain.

Your hand is snatched away.

“Stop!” Azriel yells panicked. Watching as blood began to drip down your arm. “Fuck. Cassian can you-“

His brother was already handing him a first aid kit.

The sounds of shaky breaths and ruffling bandages fill the room. You don’t look at him as he wraps your arm, so mortified, so embarrassed he had to see you this way. That anyone could see you this way. So weak.

He grabs your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He’s not rough, but he’s not gentle either. So much emotion filled his face.

So much worry, and love, and sadness.

Then his eyes harden. “You need to sleep.” You try to shake your head but can't with his grip on you. “It’s not a suggestion.”

Tears fill your eyes. No. You can’t. Not when you knew it was salivating at the thought. If it managed to kill you in your sleep, only the Gods knew what could happen. If that horror would be unleashed on the world.

You couldn’t risk it. You wouldn’t.

At first, the shadowsinger was torn on what to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of ordering you to suffer. Still can’t. But you were suffering anyway. He couldn’t watch you deteriorate anymore.

He would sacrifice your trust in him if it meant you were healthy.

*****

Dinner was quiet, Rhys and Amren were busy. So that left you, Azriel, Mor, and Cassian. The Acheron sisters ate in their rooms and kept to themselves, though you had seen the older sister a few times. She joined you in the library every once in a while. She never spoke, never looked your way, but she stayed.

“You look like shit.” Mor had said when she saw you, slapping a hand over her mouth as if realizing she spoke aloud. Leave it to Mor to speak the truth.

“Gee, thanks.” You replied, wanting to send her a smile to let her know you didn’t take it to heart but could only find the energy to slide ungracefully into the chair next to her.

Mor turns to you, forgetting her full plate of food. “Gods, look at you!” You tense as she reaches for your face, fingers brushing the bags under her eyes. Her touch made sleep slowly enter your system again. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” She asks as if she didn’t know the answer to that question. Which she most certainly did.

You don’t have it in you to say anything so instead you start shoveling the tasteless food in your mouth. Forcing yourself to swallow it even though it felt like you were chewing chalk.

“You know we’re here for you, don’t you?” She continued, and the food became increasingly hard to swallow with every word she spoke. “You don’t have to fight this alone, it wasn’t even your battle to begin with.”

Your heart drops at her words. Not your battle?

That’s right, this all started with your selfish need to feel useful. So you wouldn’t have to lay around like a weakling. All you did was make everything worse. Of course, you did.

You reach for your water when you feel the food start to rise back up. The water doesn’t help. Your whole body starts to feel clammy, and your head starts to spin.

So you pause leaning back to take a few slow deep breaths through your nose, swallowing the spit that didn’t stop gathering in your mouth.

“Feyre would hate to see you like this.”

Those words were the final blow.

You jump from your seat, hand on your mouth as you dash out of the dining room. Running for the nearest bin, the house seemed to hear your inner pleas because a bucket was waiting for you in the hallway. You fell to your knees in front of it. Too busy hurling up all the food you just ate to cry out at the pain of your kneecaps slamming into the stone floor.

You feel his warm gentle hands on you. Softly rubbing your back, and pulling away your hair. Waiting patiently for you to finish heaving.

When you could breathe without gagging you leaned into him, letting him wipe your face with his sleeve. Ruining the fine shirt he wore. “Can you call Madja? Tell her I need another tonic?”

The little shots of energy that’d kept you standing the last two days, were all you could think of. You needed them before it was too late. Before a week's worth of sleep could catch up on you.

Before that thing was free to roam.

Azriel looks to Cassian, expression grim, and he nods. The general was rushing off the next second. You hope he’s getting Madja.

A moment later Cassian was running back over and crouching beside you, pushing a glass of water in your hands. You wanted to protest, remembering how the water hadn’t helped just moments before, but Azriel takes the cup and puts it to your lips.

“Drink.” You comply. He tilts the cup up and up and up until you drink the final drop. “There you go.” He whispers, setting the cup aside so both of his hands are free to soothe over your body. “That’s it.”

The effect was swift.

That magic that was always writhing under your skin begins to slow. It’s vibrating energy dying out. Until it wasn't even a tingle.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and your heart dropped. What did he do?

Your head becomes foggy, and your body is no longer your own. You can’t fight it as you slump back, can’t do a single thing when your eyes fall shut, can’t even think as your brain powers off.

All you could do was sleep.

Azriel holds you close to him, lip curling at the smell of your fear permeating through the air. “I’m sorry.” He whispered again, though he knew you couldn’t hear him now.

“It will work,” Mor said from where she leaned against the wall, watching you with a solemn look on her face. She, along with everyone else in the inner circle, was on board with the idea the moment Madja brought it up earlier in the week.

“It better.” He was reluctant until today, until he watched you hurt yourself. The fact that you couldn’t keep your food down was the cherry topper.

Azriel just hoped the Faebane in your system would last longer than the sleeping tonic.

The drug succeeded in quelling your magic, succeeded in its purpose of ridding your mind of that awful thing. But it also succeeded in other things.

Without your magic, you were unable to conjure a happy dream for yourself.

Leaving you trapped in your very own nightmare.

*****

Your mother smiled with pride as she adjusted your hair. “Every male will want you.” Your whole life had led up to this moment, everything you had been taught was for this night. The night a male would choose you.

The night you would submit.

So why weren’t you excited?

“Stop that frowning. It’s unsightly.” Your mother leads you to a mirror. A pressure settles on your chest when you look at yourself.

The sheer white gown did nothing to hide your body. Giving anyone who looked a full view of what was underneath. Your face was painted, your skin shaved and silky—glowing from whatever substance she’d lathered on you—and your wings were spread wide, fluttering at a pace that made every intricate design viewable.

Your mother looked the happiest you’d ever seen her. The expression uncanny on her. “They won’t be able to keep their hands off you.”

You felt something inside you twist at the thought.

“Mother?” You say before you can think better of it. She meets your eyes through the mirror. She looked at you like you were a trophy, an object to be displayed not loved. Not that you ever knew the difference.

I don’t want to do this.

The words were right there. At the forefront of your mind. All you had to do was give them a voice.

But it was like your lips were wired shut. Your mouth doesn’t move, your voice doesn’t work. You say nothing.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you had anyway. You didn’t have a choice, you never did. “Don’t worry, child, none of the others can compare with your beauty. You will not be left unpicked.”

Her words brought you no solace.

You hold your chin high, as she leads you out of the hut and toward the growing horde. You make sure you stand straight, shoulders squared like you had been taught. Make sure your hips swayed just slightly, just enough to keep their attention like your mother had shown you.

Make sure your teeth don’t grit, and your legs don’t shake. Make sure your wings don’t twitch, and your smile doesn’t fall.

Your mother parades you around for every male to see. Laughing at some of the comments they made, insinuating banter between the rowdy ones, reveling in the way they fought over you.

With each laugh, each yell, each claim made upon you that pressure in your chest grew. Except it wasn’t just in your chest now, it was in your stomach, and in your head, and under your skin.

Your wings folded subconsciously, making your mother sink her sharp claws into your wrist. Not enough to bleed, she wouldn’t ruin all her work, but enough to hurt. Enough to make your wings snap back open.

Is this really it?

The feeling gets worse when she leads you toward the other women, and then it doubles when she leaves to sit with the onlookers. Not so much as a goodbye, or even a second glance as she walks away.

Your heart pounds as you blend yourself in with the sea of white.

Maneuvering through the women was easy, each and every one of them was silent, tense, and scared. You try not to look at their faces for too long, didn’t want to be able to notice which ones were missing once everything was over.

It wasn’t uncommon for males to lose themselves to the night, last year seven woman were found dead. Brutalized.

You swallow, heart beating so loud, so fast, it’s all you can hear. It drowns everything out.

I don’t want to do this.

You don’t hear the horn blow. You only know it did when everyone around you began heading through the woodline. You almost trip over yourself as you dash forward. You had to run. You had to hide before the second horn blew. You had to make it till dawn.

Your bare feet don’t feel the sharp rocks and sticks that stab into them. Adrenaline fills your body, pumping through your blood, and muscles. Blocking out the pain.

The shimmering barrier is what makes you come to a stop. You’d never seen them before, the wards that kept your community safe, but there was no denying it. That wall of energy was where your colony ended.

Beyond it, death was inevitable.

There was no hope in flying, male wings are much different from females. Stiffer, sharper, stronger, the males would always be superior in the sky.

So you stay on the ground hiding in a nearby thicket just on the edge of the wards. Arms hugging your knees to your panting chest, making yourself as small as possible.

You hoped nobody would search this far. But you knew the males in your community. They stop at nothing and do anything to get what they want.

When a distant scream echoed through the woods you knew you’d missed the second horn. The males were already hunting.

You hold yourself tighter, trying to force slow breaths in your nose and out of your mouth. Frantically trying to slow down your palpitating heart. But it felt like you weren’t getting air. Your whole body was shivering from the adrenaline, that pressure still building.

You would get found by the sound of your breathing if you kept it up.

“No! Ple-!” Your head snaps in the direction of the scream, much closer than the other one. You try not to think about how it cut off so suddenly, about what could’ve happened to her. What could’ve made her object to a male.

You just need to make it till dawn. Just need to keep hiding. For six more hours.

It was hopeless, there wasn’t nearly enough ground to give the women a fighting chance. The men greatly outnumber the women, making the former even more desperate, even more competitive.

Where was the fun if everyone had a chance at winning?

No, they had to yearn for it. It was what made the Ritual work.

Your head falls to your knees.

You don’t want to end up like your mother.

Three years ago your father had grown tired of her, he participated in that year’s Flowering and never spoke to either of you again. As your mother is far from pure, she can not be used in the ceremonies. Instead, she was made a community whore.

A female for the pent up males who had no luck on Flowering to fuck as they please.

Your mother always said it was necessary. That all the things your people did, there were reasons for.

That Flowering Night was a gift, it provided the magic that grew our blooms. The blooms that supplied our only food source. Nectar.

Of course, you believed her, you’d never known any reason not to. The Middle wasn’t a resourceful place. It was too dangerous to send hunters beyond the wards, and there weren’t even any animals to hunt. Only other monsters. And even they weren’t worth hunting. Bodies usually emaciated with no meat on their bones if any at all.

It was necessary, but that didn’t mean you wanted to do it.

You wouldn’t know until much later that your people were just addicts. That hunting wasn’t an impossible thing, not when they had wings. That they could’ve flown to the Day Court to hunt, or even the Winter Court, but they chose not to. Because nothing could ever compare to their precious Nectar.

Snap.

Your blood runs cold as an older male sniffs around. Fifteen feet from you. His hard wings make a low buzz as they vibrate against each other with frustration.

The male was a brute, muscle stacked upon bulging muscle.

You hold your breath as he slowly gets closer, the buzz becoming louder. If he caught your scent, no amount of shrubbery could keep him from finding you.

He gets closer, and your heart pounds faster. That pressure you feel under your skin now throbbing. Pulsating.

He’s almost ten feet away, if he got any closer he’d undoubtedly smell the fear that left your body in waves.

White dots started filling your vision. You fight with your body to hold it.

A blessing came in the form of a scream, this one even closer than the last. Your throat constricts trying to force air into your system. Your teeth ache from how tightly you clench your jaw.

The male started in that direction. Your throat burned, your head pounding.

Just a second more.

But you couldn’t stop yourself from gasping for air.

The male stops. Then he looks right at you.

You’d never known terror till that moment.

*****WARNING: until the next scene change dark themes will be depicted such as rape and violence, if you do not wish to read proceed to the next “*****”

He pounced, dragging you out of the bushes by the base of your wings. Even though you don’t struggle.

He throws you to the ground, not wasting a second before straddling your thighs. Pinning down your legs. His hands grip the fabric of your gown, tearing it off your shoulder. You want to cover your body, but instead you lay still. Let him run his filthy hands over your breasts, let them squirm their way between your legs.

You let him cause it��s all you’ve ever known.

Even though your mind was screaming.

He is anything but gentle, forcing his way inside, digging around. You can’t stop the cry of pain that leaves you, the tears that fill your eyes, and he moans. Touch becoming rougher, harsher, trying to force another cry from you.

The pain becomes worse when he adds more fingers, shoving his way though.

Like he was trying to rip you open.

His head buries into your shoulder. Sniffing and groaning in your ear. Rutting against you like a wild animal.

Then he bites down, and you scream.

Your hands find his head and that pressure, that jerking energy under your skin devours him.

The male collapses, body twitching on top of you. Teeth still embedded in your shoulder. You're stunned for a moment, but that's quickly replaced with revulsion.

Your arms shake with the effort it takes to roll him off of you. Whimpering when his teeth slowly leave your shoulder.

His hands don't leave you, even though he was now out of reaching distance you could still feel them. Touching, grabbing, digging.

You feel nothing but disgust as you look at the male, watching him mumble, whine, and mewl in his unconscious state. You don’t even get the time to question it, to think about what happened. The heavy footsteps that head your way get closer by the second.

I don’t want to do this.

So you don’t.

For once in your life you disregard all of your teachings. Every rule beaten into you. Each false instinct that’d burrowed into your body. And you run.

Right past the wards.

Because you’d rather die than end up like your mother.

You run and you keep running until your lungs are stabbed with pain, until your legs give out from beneath you, and you crash to the ground.

Your nails dig into the soil as you lay there. To breathe. To think. To cry.

Maybe you could just wait here till dawn. Maybe then you could go back. Nobody would have to know you even left.

But the chill of the crooked woods laugh at you. You hear the sound of old trees creaking in the wind, calling you foolish.

You couldn’t go back, you’d attacked a male. There was nowhere for you now, just death.

Still, there was a senseless part of your brain that hoped this was all a wretched night terror. That any minute now you would wake up to your mom’s voice. And you would be in bed. And Flowering will have already passed. And you wouldn’t have went because your mom knew you didn’t want to. And she wouldn’t have wanted you to go through it either, because of how ruthless the males were. And your life would go on until the next year came around. And maybe then you would be ready. Maybe then you would have accepted it.

The other part of your brain was ready to be done with it all.

“[name]?”

Your breath catches, unsteadily lifting yourself from the ground. You look around, searching for that familiar voice.

“Mother?”

“[name], my child…” You see her. She was completely bare, something you were used to, her beauty a stark contrast to the spindly trees around her. She walks toward you crouching before you, you sob when she rests a soft hand on your cheek. So, so different from how she usually held you. Then she spoke in such a soft voice, a tone you’d never heard leave her mouth. “You looked so beautiful when you were screaming.”

The next moment it felt like you were punched in the shoulder, a heat unlike any other burned your skin. You look down to see a blade sticking out of your chest, a shriveled-up hand attached. Not the smooth skin of your mother.

When you look back into your mother's eyes they were no longer hers. Replaced with a milky white that gleamed in the moonlight. The face no longer female or beautiful. It’s skin was stretched taught over its thin bones.

Then as it spoke again with a smile so wide, teeth so rotted, and breath so pungent you knew what it was.

“Cry for me, child.” It said, sounding like a million different voices at once.

A creature that preyed on the weak, found pleasure in the act of killing. It cannot be reasoned with, its only joy is to watch the life leave someone’s eyes. To watch people die a sad miserable death in the form of the ones they loved the most.

The Mymic.

You scream, and it laughs. You scream louder as it twists the blade inside you and then drags. Ripping each nerve, muscle, and vein as slowly as possible. So you could feel each and every tear.

The creature howled in ecstasy as it tore into you, cutting you open endlessly.

No one would save you, not this time.

Nightmares don’t have happy endings.

“So beautiful…” It sighed pulling the blade out of your chest only to play with the blood that pooled out, finger-painting your white gown red.

*****

He couldn’t stand it, you were so still that Azriel had to keep making sure you were breathing. He holds you against him, unable to keep his hands from wandering, soothing you. Shadows doing the same.

You’d been sleeping for two days straight. Madja kept assuring him and everyone else that you were okay. That it was a good thing, that your body was responding well to the tonic and catching up on the sleep it needed.

The Faebane had cleaned out of your system after the first twenty-four hours. But no Hybern soldiers made any appearance, no evil king, not even a flicker in the fae lights.

His head leans against yours, watching your chest lift up and down. He moves a hand to rest there, watching it rise and fall. Finding comfort in the repetitive motion.

Maybe you weren’t made for him. Maybe the cauldron didn’t deem you mates. Maybe he didn’t care.

Azriel was content to just share something so real with you, so raw.

A bond didn’t make what the two of you had any less intense. He didn’t need to be tethered to you to know what you were feeling. Didn’t need fate to tell him you were the love of his life.

He’d always pick you.

A small sound reaches his ears, he was so worried about you that he’d started having audio hallucinations. But then he heard it again, louder this time, and he knew it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

Your breathing becomes irregular, another little noise leaving your parted lips. Azriel’s hands rub you soothingly. Waiting patiently for the sleep to fade from your body. Whispering when he could tell you were conscious enough to hear him. “Hey.” He drawls, making sure he's quiet. When you open your gorgeous eyes and look at him his heart stops. “There you are.”

You blink at him. “You drugged me.”

Azriel flinches at the words. Actually flinches. Then he nods.

“My magic… I can feel it now but it was…”

His hand reaches for yours, feeling relief when you let him take it. He runs his thumb over the smooth skin. “Faebane. We got some when Rhys was captured.”

You look down at your free hand, willing a small moth to appear there. Checking that everything was working correctly. The moth flies up toward Azriel but it dissipates before it can get far.

You weren’t mad. Quite the opposite. You’d woken up and found yourself relieved. Relieved to see him there next to you. Relieved to be home.

You weren’t angry because you knew he did it to help not to hurt. Sure, he could’ve gone about it in a different way, maybe presented the idea to you instead of just slipping the drug in your water. But you couldn’t fault him for that either, Azriel was a man of action and few words.

Still that didn’t stop you from asking. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t even want to agree to it at first. So little is known about your kind, your magic, there was no telling if the Faebane would even effect you. I didn’t want to risk you getting stuck in that nightmare without the ability to heal.”

Your eyes widen at the information. If he’d told you that, nothing would’ve gotten you to agree. But he took that chance? Azriel wasn’t a gambler.

Your face must’ve shown what you were thinking because he continued.

“Then you hurt yourself and I couldn’t take it anymore, [name]. You needed to get better.” He squeezes your hand. “If I have to fight off a living nightmare so you can get a night's sleep, I will.”

“Did you?” You ask, wondering if the male had made an appearance or the Mymic.

Azriel shakes his head. You sigh in relief. Ignoring the way your stomach grumbled with hunger, in no hurry to force down tasteless food. No hurry to leave your male. You lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You say, and he shakes his head at you in confused questioning. “For letting it get that far.” For not being strong enough to get a grip.

The shadowsinger holds your head to his chest. “I’m sorry.” He presses his lips against your head, saying the words into your hair. “I wish I knew other ways to help.”

Your hands grip him. Nails clinging to his bare skin. “I missed you.” The worst part about reliving that Nightmare, was that you hadn’t known he existed. That someone so amazing was out there, and capable of loving you.

“I never left.”

taglist <3: @acourtofbatboydreams @xreaderbooksreads @gorlillaglue25 @anuttellaa @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @mybestfriendmademe

#acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you

749 notes · View notes

lady-phasma · 1 year ago

Text

A willing pawn

Daemon Targaryen x fem! Dornish!reader

A huge thank you to @zaldritzosrose for this amazing board. You read my mind and I don't know how you did it! An equal thank you to @black-dread for providing the missing puzzle piece to make this fic work.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, hurt/comfort if you squint, little bit of size kink, use of an infantilizing pet name (because Uncle Daddy Daemon), flimsy plot, creampie (and I truly did not plan what was going to happen there, Daemon just does whatever he wants in my brain, cheeky bastard)

Summary: You had a mission in the Stepstones, but he wasn’t as fearsome, this prince, as you had been led to believe. I’m not sure about my soft!Daemon but here he is. 4k words

The encampment was dark, lit only by dying fires. This night had been chosen because it would be moonless. Your soft-soled shoes were silent on the rocky earth as you crept between tents. You had planned your path at sunset, marking in your memory where the prince’s tent stood. As the orange light had faded from the sky, your stomach had begun to knot and twist with anxiety.

Could you really follow through with this? You knew you were able but were you capable of such a thing. The circumstances didn’t offer you any choice in the matter. Prince Qoren Martell wanted to avoid the costs of war, in gold and lives. His war counsel thought of every possible measure they could take to win this war, including involving House Yronwood. You were a cog in a larger plan and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

You ducked around another tent and tiptoed to the edge of the large royal tent. This is as far as you had gotten in your strategy. From this point forward you could only hope for luck, as stealth wouldn’t matter when faced with the prince’s guards. You were sent here with the barest of plans and what little plan there was, was foolish. You listened for movement inside the tent and heard none. As you neared the front you expected a half-dozen guards but saw only two. You held your breath.

You couldn’t walk right up to the tent and demand to be let in. Sneaking in seemed to be impossible, but if you could, what next. Your heart pounded in your ears. Godsdamn it, you thought. You let out a shaky breath and slunk back into the shadows. When you turned around you almost walked face-first into a giant wall of armor.

The guard almost threw you into the tent but did not relinquish his grip on your elbow. You grunted and jerked your arm away from him as you stumbled into the large room. You caught your balance and stood up straight. The ground was covered in rugs. A table laden with maps and documents stood in the center. Next to it sat the Prince.

“We found this creeping about outside, your highness,” the guard grumbled.

Prince Daemon lounged in his chair, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He was peeling a pear, paused mid-knife-stroke, and looked up from under his brows. They raised slightly, seemingly amused, but he didn’t bother to lift his head. He resumed his peeling.

“Leave us,” he commanded without looking up. You heard the guard’s armor as he left but didn’t take your eyes from the prince.

“What terrible deed have you been sent to do child?” He didn’t look at you, only sliced a bit of pear and popped it in his mouth. When you didn’t respond he brushed aside papers to make space on the table and laid down the knife and pear. He wiped his hands on a napkin, dropped it next to them, and stood up. Finally, he looked at you. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped one corner of his mouth with his thumb.

He strode toward you, sucking the pear juice off his thumb and assessing you. Much of your face was covered by your hood, stay strands of dark hair were visible but your features were cast in shadow. He dipped his head slightly and looked closely, standing only a few paces in front of you. His silver hair swung loose from his shoulder. The violet of his eyes was unnerving. You squared your shoulders.

“I am no child,” you replied, leaving off the honorific. He was no prince of yours.

“Is that so?” Daemon reached for your hood and flicked it back from your head. The only hint of surprise he allowed to show was a brief widening of his eyes. You were well aware the effect your father’s blue eyes had when set against the sienna skin you got from your mother. You narrowed your icy eyes at him.

“I’m gown enough to make it this far into your camp, am I not?” Daemon chuckled and flipped his hair back over his shoulder. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at you.

“I suppose so… but you did get caught, little one.”

Your cheeks flamed and you wanted to strike him but the smile on his face caught you off guard. Had he just winked at you? You were too frustrated to think and that wink made your blood boil. This was not going at all how you had expected when the guard snatched you up. Daemon didn’t so much as blink when you moved your hands from inside your cloak to push your hood back further. He was amused with you. The handle of your dagger glinted in the candlelight and caught his eye.

“So you were sent here to assassinate me?” He smiled that infernal smile. “Would you say it is going well?”

“Time will tell,” you answered through gritted teeth. Then he laughed at you, actually laughed. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides.

He took a step toward you and you tensed. You hadn’t the faintest idea what this man would do. You had only heard the rumors and propaganda in Dorne. When he reached out, you tried to take a step back from him.

“Uh-uh,” he commanded quietly. Then his hand dipped into your cloak and before you could move to stop him, he snatched your dagger out of your belt. He spun it lazily around, watching it dance in the light.

“This might have done the trick,” he spoke to the blade, not to you. “But I imagine someone with more experience should have been entrusted with it.” His eyes flicked back to your face. “Though, perhaps there were none as fierce as you.”

With absolutely no thought in your mind, you lunged forward and tried to grab the weapon from him. He deftly moved it out of your reach and grabbed your wrist with his other hand.

“As I said: fierce,” he quipped. You tugged your arm against his grasp to no avail.

“But I must!” You almost snarled at him. His expression wasn’t surprise but interest. He let you go and turned to lay your weapon on the table. When he faced you again a small smile was set on his mouth.

“Must you?” He raised an eyebrow. “If a child assassin has been sent to slay me, Dorne must be desperate indeed.”

“I am not a child! I am a woman grown, of 20 years!” You had no idea why this infuriated you but the prince knew that it did. He grinned again.

“Pardon me, my Lady. I should have said a ‘small’ assassin,” he mocked you. It was somehow kind. You were taken aback by his jest, by his demeanor. You hadn’t taken the time to pause and evaluate Prince Daemon. You had only been concerned with the ramifications of your failure.

Now that you looked, you saw a man not much older than yourself. A man who moved with experience in battle, with an ease not unlike your own. Graceful, even. Then he did the most unexpected thing. He extended his hand, offering you to sit in the chair opposite his. You had come here to threaten his life and now he was treating you like a guest! You gawped.

Before you could decide what to make of the situation, Daemon slid down into his chair and stretched his legs out again, completely unwary of you. He glanced at you one more time as he reached for his unfinished pear. You were too shocked to do anything other than sit. You closed your mouth and sat down across from him. You slipped your cloak off of your shoulders as you sat. Your common clothes weren’t uncomfortable but you weren’t used to them. You tried to adjust them as you sat but instantly became more frustrated. Daemon’s eyes on you didn’t help to easy your new-found insecurity. You were meant to have been unseen.

“Who sent you?” The blunt nature of his question startled you.

“And why should I tell you?” you retorted. You were behaving as if you were at home entertaining men you had grown up with. This was madness.

“I believe I am owed an explanation as it was my life you were planning to take. Also, what else is there to do?” He popped a slice of pear in his mouth. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Let’s start with your name, shall we?”

You hesitated, but he was right: what else was there to do. You could sit in silence until he decided to have you executed. You could try to run from the tent only to be caught and executed sooner. So you told him your name and your house name.

“Very good,” he tossed the knife and pear back on the table. “What did Martell threaten? What predicament did he put you in?”

Your eyes widened. Was Prince Martell’s reputation so tainted, so sullied, outside Dorne?

“Not him,” you spoke quietly. “Though I suppose, ultimately, he knows. We are not a political house but we have wealth that is necessary for Dorne to succeed.” Your eyes flicked down from his at the last word. You weren’t sure why but you felt ashamed for being in this position, had all along if you thought about it.

“So if not the prince himself…” Daemon paused, waiting for your answer.

“His war counsel,” you replied. “They have many strategies in play, I’m sure, but one is to ‘motivate’ certain houses to bring the war to an early end. I have no knowledge of the other plans. I only know that my father was threatened. Whatever that threat was, it was powerful enough for him to send his youngest daughter to the Stepstones.”

There it was. You had spilled it out to the enemy in a gush and felt like vomiting or crying or fleeing. You looked up from your lap. Daemon was studying you. Once again he surprised you. Perhaps you expected him to mock you but the kindness on his face somehow made your situation more real. You bit your lip to stop the tears. You would not cry. You were angry and frightened and when the prince had called you a child it made those feelings more real.

“What choice did you have?” He sounded almost compassionate. This couldn’t be the petty tyrant you were warned against, who would rape, or torture, or kill you if you were caught. “You came all this way on an errand not of your choosing and meant to go through with it. That’s more than a little honorable, don’t you agree?”

You had no idea. You were confused and overwhelmed and angry. You had never been a zealot, but you had been more sure of your mission when the target was evil or cruel. Perhaps he was at times, but not now.

“I suppose so,” you muttered, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Well what do I do with you now?” He leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t set you free. Yet I don’t want another prisoner. And you don’t want to return home as a failure. I can see that. I could keep you as a hostage and demand gold for your safe return. Would that keep your honor intact?”

You blushed, not just from his nearness but from the fact that he could see your thoughts so clearly on your face. You and your family would be dishonored if you returned unsuccessful. It would also be unfavorable to the prince to appear compassionate to would-be assassins.

“It would,” you answered. “But I do not think the ransom would be paid.”

“No? Not for a young woman as fierce and cunning as yourself? Not for someone so precious?”

Your eyes flicked up to his at this curious word. You watched him, suspicious, as he slid out of his chair and knelt in front of you.

“I think you’re quite frightened of either choice: being sent home or being held here. I don’t want you to be frightened. Maybe the Crone had a purpose for bringing you here.”

You felt your breath catch. He looked so sincere. He was intoxicating but you believed him. You didn’t want to feel relief at the prospect of no longer sneaking, hiding, being a stowaway, but you did. Almost instantly, you imagined a hot bath, a dress and not these rags, and food that wasn’t brown. Then something else flashed in your mind and the heat returned to your face.

Daemon slowly reached out to you and stroked the side of your face. He skimmed a lock of your hair with his fingers, watching it catch the light. Its deep brown shown with hints of gold. You studied him closely. When he turned his gaze back to you, your heart pounded in your chest. His eyes searched yours as he cupped your cheek in his palm.

“Gevie,” he whispered. You thought it was High Valyrian but you weren’t sure. Your lips parted almost involuntarily as you looked up at him. He leaned toward you, silver hair cascading off his shoulders. You felt his lips on yours and closed your eyes.

His hand holding your face felt safe. His lips were warm and tasted of pear. You dared not move. You were overwhelmed and confused. However, there twisted in your belly some need, some desire for him. Your chest ached with the delicious feeling of being safe. You didn’t question how this was possible so far away from home and with your “enemy” no less. So you kissed him back.

Daemon slid his other hand to frame your face. His kiss wasn’t rough, but it was deep. You had kissed men before, you were experienced in the most basic of ways. You realized now that all the men before had not kissed you, they didn’t see you. They saw a Yronwood daughter or practice for their marriage beds. You had made those choices willingly. You weren’t concerned with being married for political reasons and had enjoyed your freedom. Until now. In this moment, you felt… precious.

Tentatively, you raised a hand to him, your fingertips grazed his jaw and neck, and came to rest on his chest. He slid his hands from your cheeks as he broke the kiss. As if waiting for your permission, Daemon rested his hands on your upper arms. You kissed him in answer. His arms swept around you and scooped you up as he stood. Your head spun but you steadied yourself by putting your hands on the back of his neck.

Daemon sat you on his bed and smoothed your hair back from your face. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor as he leaned down to kiss you. You made room for him on the bed, drawing him toward you with your kisses. He knelt between your legs, kissed your neck, and slid a hand under your shirt. You arched your back, pressing into his palm.

He brushed the underside of your breasts with the tips of his fingers and his other hand glided up your ribs. He pushed your shirt up above your breasts, fixated on your hardened nipples. His hair slid over your chest as he took one nipple in his mouth. He propped himself up on one hand and cupped your breast with the other. You moaned and writhed under him. You instinctively ran your fingers through his hair and held him against you. Daemon groaned and the sound vibrated from your chest to your core. When he pulled away you realized you had been grinding against his leg and flushed. He smiled down at you.

Wordlessly, he guided you to raise your arms so he could remove your shirt. Then he began to unlace your breeches. You watched his muscles move as he slid your pants off. You lifted your hips and giggled a little when you plopped back down on the bed as he tugged them off your legs. You weren’t shy but the action was awkward and you were quite exposed now. He tossed the breeches on the floor and smoothed a hand up your thigh. He stared, rapt, at the dark hair between your legs, so different from the silver of his own.

You bit your lip as you looked from his face, down his chest, and to the evidence of his arousal. His breeches looked uncomfortably tight now. His hands absently stroked your legs and your lower belly but paused as you sat up. You held him between your legs. When you kissed his stomach he hissed in air through his teeth. Your hands grazed over his hips and to the laces in the front of his pants. You let your fingertips glide over the shape of his erection before undoing the knot. You kissed seemingly every inch of his stomach then looked up at him as your hand dipped inside. His face was curtained by his hair as he looked down at you. You smiled as you stroked him.

Daemon moved his hands from your legs, smoothed over your hair, and then gently pressed your shoulders back. You laid down, already missing the feeling of him in your hands, but the sight of him between your legs was almost as pleasant. He leaned over you, kissing your forehead gently, then your lips, and pressed his forehead against yours.

You gasped as his fingers slid between the lips of your cunt. He licked his lips and continued to explore your wetness. Stroking, searching, learning. He circled your opening, your clit, and back again. One finger slid in easily and he grinned. You lifted your mouth to his as you lifted your hips to his hand. He slid in a second finger.

“You are so tight, little one,” he grinned down at you. You rocked your hips against his hand and moaned in reply. You placed one hand on his arm, pulling him deeper into you. With the other you smoothed his hair behind his ear and trailed your fingers down his jaw. You drug your fingertips over his lips. His eyes were dark as he watched you pleasure yourself on his hand.

“More, Daemon, please,” you moaned, saying his name for the first time. Hearing his name come from your lips pleased him immensely.

“Say it again,” he breathed as he curled his fingers inside you.

“Daemon, please.”

Slowly and with a tinge of disappointment on his face, he pulled his fingers from you. He was enjoying the sight of you but couldn’t wait any longer. He freed his cock from his breeches. Then he slid his hands up your thighs to your lower back. As he sat back he guided you onto his lap. The transition was clumsy at first, legs bumping and twisting. You both smiled as you held onto his shoulders. When you knelt over him you rubbed your clit against his cock. You rested your lips against his forehead as you rocked your lips. You moved your mouth nearer to his ear and murmured his name.

Daemon lifted your ass and placed you above his cock. With one hand between you, he guided himself into you. You sank down onto him slowly, watching his face. He clenched his jaw tight. You felt his hand move back to your ass. He let you set the pace, let you move against him. You pulled up and then sank down again, taking all of him. The moan that came from your lips was lewd and deep. You clutched at his neck, the back of his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He groaned but did not move to meet your hips. You rocked back, then forward, finding your rhythm.

He kissed your chest and breasts. His hands stroked your ass and lower back, constantly moving. You leaned forward slightly and pressed yourself against him. At this angle he wasn’t as deep in you, but you found friction against his stomach. You ground your hips into him, almost, but not quite able to get what you needed.

“Seven hells,” he panted against you. His hips had begun to move in time with yours. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair and you tried to find that much-needed angle again. When he realized what you needed he slid a hand between you. You threw your head back as his fingers circled your clit. You sped up, fucking him hard. He kept pace with you, circling and pressing his fingers against you. You couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. You felt him brace your lower back with his hand and pull you closer to him, steadying you, supporting you. You felt your climax tug at your core and sank further onto his cock with each stroke.

“Come for me,” Daemon whispered into your neck. You did. You cried his name, clinched your fists in his hair, and buried your face against his head. You sank all the way down onto him, thighs resting on his as you shook. Your cunt spasmed around his cock but he didn’t stop moving his fingers. He pressed into you with his hips, rocking under you, and bringing forth tiny gasps from you. You lips found his and you panted into his mouth. Tiny sounds mingled with his name flew out of your mouth with every movement of his fingers.

When you thought the overstimulation might be too much he moved his hand from between you. He slid his hand under your arm and pulled you down onto him by your shoulder. A new wave of pleasure crashed into you as he spilled into you. His hips stilled, holding his cock deep inside you. He came panting and moaning your name.

You wanted to sink all of your weight onto him. It took too much effort to support yourself on your aching knees. Neither of you wanted to move yet, though both of you needed to. You released your hands from his hair. You kissed him and smoothed his hair back from his face.

You smiled at him as you rose shakily from his lap. He helped you as much as he could, but your legs were numb and your head was empty. You all but fell back onto the pillows. He watched you grind your hips against the air as the last of your climax left you. His eyes were locked on his seed sliding out of you. He leaned forward, his legs shaking as well. You watched him through half-closed eyes and settled yourself on the bed. His fingers slid through his cum and you twitched as he grazed your throbbing clit. He looked into your blue eyes as he gathered more of it on his fingers. You smiled seductively as he leaned over you and raised his fingers to your lips.

You opened your mouth, your eyes never leaving his, and he painted your tongue with his seed. You closed your lips around his fingers and let him feel you swallow. He slid his fingers out and surprised you by kissing you deeply, tasting himself in your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist. You playfully pulled his weight on top of you. He let you but also guided you both to lay on your sides. Your legs intertwined and you were a tangle of limbs for a moment. Then you buried your face into his chest and breathed in deeply. You sighed as he smoothed your hair and rested his chin on the top of your head. You were quite small in his arms. Daemon breathed deeply as he stroked down your back, your buttocks, and up again. You curled against him, one hand between you, the other resting on his hip.

“I have you now, little one,” he murmured against the top of your head.

Masterlist

325 notes · View notes

nightlyrequiem · 5 months ago

Text

Be Still My Heart

Chapter 14- Homesick

Masterlist AO3 Next Previous

New Chapter Every Saturday

You're the best in the meth industry but a new product suddenly pops up. You and your boss, Valeria, must figure out who is making it so you can take back the market. All the while tension is building between the two of you.

A/N: I've been consuming a lot of Dr. House lately. Now I want to write a Dr. House AU with the cod characters.

Tags/Warnings: Illegal Substances, Boss Employee Relationship, Angst, Some Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Manipulation, Suggestive Themes, Smut (But Only in CH19.), Dual POV

You pace around the carpeted office. Ignoring the dull ache climbing up your calf. It's good to work the muscle, otherwise it will weaken and shrink. Valeria sighs after your fourth lap and looks up at you.

"If you need something to do you can work on this stack of paperwork." She remarks dryly. You look back at her, eyes briefly drifting down to her lips before rising back up to her eyes. You can still taste the smoke in your mouth.

The last thing you want to do is sit down and do more paperwork. If you do more paperwork, you are sure you'll go mad. It's so mind numbingly boring. Your thoughts drift back to the lab and what you did in the lab. Mixing and measuring chemicals. That's what you want to be doing. Not playing assistant to Valeria. You're above personal assistance.

"How long until we have the new lab set up?" You ask. Deciding to sit down when the pain starts to become borderline unbearable. Valeria's lips thin warningly.

"Not for a while," She says. "the explosion destroyed everything, including the space. I still need to find somewhere else to put all that new, expensive machinery."

Her pointed words have their intended effect. You're aware that you messed up. You're still actively suffering from the consequences of your carelessness. You give your leg a small shake. Still suffering, even if you're healing quickly.

"I know." You say. "I'm sorry."

Valeria scoffs. "I'm sure you are." She says, looking back down at her work. She rests her forehead on her palm, clearly also finding the work to be boring and life sucking.

"... So about El Paso." You murmur.

She glares at you. "Enough about El Paso. Quit bothering me about it."

The group still hasn't returned. Valeria told you she wouldn't come up with a plan until they did, but you know her well enough to know she already has something brewing in her head. There's always a plan when Valeria is involved. She should be involving you as well. It concerns you as much as it does her.

"I know you have something, Valeria." You say. "I'm your cook, and currently the one handling your paperwork. Tell me."

"You've done maybe five pages of paperwork over the course of a couple weeks." She growls. "You haven't done anything useful since you injured yourself."

Valeria's voice is harsh and full of irritation.

"That's not true." You frown. "I organize your files, and I've done more than just five pages."

Valeria leans forward in her chair. Eyes narrowed. "No, you haven't. I don't know if it's because you genuinely can't go any faster or if you're too stupid to do paperwork without having to re-read the same document five times just to understand it."

You stare at her. Caught off guard by her abrupt rudeness. "I'm not stupid." You reply defensively.

"Are you sure?" She raises her brows. "Because you keep acting like I won't replace you."

Valeria got up close to your face and held your jaw in her warm hands. She looked into your eyes and blew smoke into your mouth. She's reassured you when you were low only to tear you down again. You don't understand it. It's like she gets a sort of satisfaction from puppeteering your feelings.

"I'm starting to understand why no one ever wants to hang around you." You say shortly. You see her gaze darken but you continue anyway. Not at all worried about her hurting you. "If this is how you treat your friends, I'd be shocked to learn you still have any."

"I am not your friend." Valeria snaps.

"No, you're not." You snap back. You stand, not wanting to be in the same room as her anymore.

She straightens, brows lowered. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere else." You reply, walking out of the office before she can argue.

Valeria is complicated. She is your boss, but you're not dumb enough to think that's all she is. You've had too many 'little moments' for it to stay that way. It's frustrating. Hanging onto those small threads of normalcy while she saws at them with a dull razor. you aren't sure what will happen once they snap, and you're left free falling.

You avoid Valeria for a while. Working on exercising your leg and pouring over your notes with intense focus. You're tired of people undervaluing you and thinking that you're some sad little wallflower that they can walk over all they want. You stretch your leg out over the bed and flex it. You're able to walk around without the crutches now. With mild struggle, but you can. Staying here is becoming all the more pointless. You can walk on your own, can shower without help. You still aren't entirely sure why you were here anyway. Why she insisted you stay. Valeria said it was because she would be getting something out of it but you aren't sure she did.

You stretch and lay down. Enveloped by the soft white sheets. They smell like you now. A knock on the door startles you.

"What?" You ask. Valeria pushes open the door.

"Sleeping?" She asks. Leaning against the doorframe.

"Yeah, I'm fast asleep." You say dryly.

She looks like she's biting back a retort. "Are you going to ignore me for the rest of your life?" She asks. "Because both of us will have a hard time doing our jobs without any communication."

Valeria preaching the practice of communication feels ironic in a way. Her attempt at lecturing you like you're some wayward teenager aggravates you.

"Yeah, might be hard to blow smoke into my mouth then call me an idiot right after if we aren't speaking to each other." You hum.

Valeria frowns at you. "Yeah, might be."

"Are you sorry?" You ask. Narrowing your eyes at her.

She furrows her brows at you, uncrossing her arms. "For?"

"Gee, I don't know Valeria, why don't you guess?"

Valeria closes her eyes as she makes an active effort to reign in her temper.

"I am sorry that your feelings were hurt." She says. Opening them and looking right at you, flicking over your body as you sit up straighter.

"That's not an apology." You say firmly.

"Sorry you feel that way."

You shake your head. For some reason you feel disappointed in her inability to apologize. To show that she respects you enough to do only that. Like she failed a test neither of you were aware of.

You change the subject, deciding that it's pointless to try and ring an apology out of her.

"I think I'm good to go home tonight." You tell her. Watching as her expression morphs into confusion.

"No you aren't." She says confidently. "You can still barely walk."

"I can walk fine, Valeria." You reply.

Something seems to have agitated her. She crosses her arms. "Not that I can't replace you, but if you injure yourself and die at home finding someone else to cook meth for me will be a real pain in the ass." She remarks.

Her words make you feel so appreciated. Regardless, it's good to know that you'd be hard to replace. it means your job is somewhat insured and by extension your life.

"Most of my wounds are almost healed completely." You speak. "It's time for me to stop intruding on you and leave."

Valeria steps closer. "You aren't intruding."

You rise to your feet, stumbling slightly when they tingle from being in the wrong position for too long. "Still, whether or not I am, I'm good to go." You say. Looking at her. "I'm getting homesick anyway."

A frown crosses Valeria's features and she actually looks like she's about to argue with you but eventually she relents. Turning away from you.

"Fine. Get your things." She replies stiffly.

After she leaves your room, you begin to repack your things. The clothes you brought, your toothbrush, hair care, skin care. It takes you only thirty-three minutes. You find Valeria waiting for you down in the living room, scrolling on her phone with lowered brows. She looks up when she hears you approaching.

"Let's go." She says. Without waiting for you she's out the door.

The car ride home is tense. There's no music or talking to fill in the silence between the two of you but based on the grip she has on the steering wheel she probably won't have anything nice to say. She reaches a red light and slows to a stop. Valeria is, after all, a good, law-abiding citizen. You finally arrive back at your apartment. Seeing the washed out, cracked brick building. You glance at her.

"Thanks." You nod.

"Hm."

Her dismissive response makes you frown but you let it go. Opening the car door, you step out. You open the back door and fumble around the backseat for your bags before walking away from the car to the dirty glass entrance. Valeria hurries off without waiting for you to go inside.

#cod mw2 #valeria garza x reader #valeria garza x fem!reader #modern warefare ii #valeria garza #valeria garza cod #cod mwii #cod #cod x reader #valeria garza x you

46 notes · View notes

mlqueen89 · 3 months ago

Text

Six Sentence Sunday

... because i'm not yet asleep, it still counts as sunday, so here she is. a not six sentence sunday. a snippet sunday, if you will. not sure if this is anything yet, but this is a thing that happened because i have a glen powell problem obsession and he makes me want to die in the best way.

The director, Isla Rivera, stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the monitor. The scene had been shot five times already, and each take was measurably worse than the last.

“No, no, no!” Isla finally shouted, throwing up her hands. “This isn’t working. The audience isn’t going to feel anything! There’s no tension, no connection. It’s, it's... flat!”

The actress playing the female lead, a rising star named Lila Marks, looked over with an apologetic shrug. “I’m trying, Isla, but—”

“It’s not about trying, Lila,” Isla interrupted, pacing in frustration. “It’s about being. This kiss is the pivotal moment, where the characters finally give in to everything they’ve been holding back. It’s longing, it’s vulnerability, it’s fireworks—” She turned to Aimee, who had been standing just off set, scribbling notes in the notebook with the crooked binding. “You,” Isla jabbed a finger in Aimee's direction, “you wrote this scene. You are this scene. You know it better than anyone.”

Aimee blinked, caught off guard, suddenly aware of the amount of eyes on her. “Uh, yeah, I guess, but—”

“Perfect,” Isla said, her eyes lighting up with determination. She waved a hand toward the set, as if it were nothing. “You’ll do it.”

Aimee’s stomach dropped into her toes. “Wait, what?”

“Get in there. Show them how it’s supposed to look. You and Glen. Right now.” Isla huffed, sipping on the green smoothie she never seemed to run out of, her too large headphones hanging around her neck as she settled back into her usual chair.

Glen, who had been leaning casually against a prop table, straightened and raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that, Isla?”

“Absolutely. Lila needs to see it. Aimee, you’ll step in for her, just for one take. No cameras rolling—this is strictly for reference.”

“I don’t think this is—” Aimee started, but Isla wasn’t listening, her hand already waving at the crew standing around to reset.

“Let’s go, people!” Isla clapped her hands, beckoning Aimee toward the set. “Glen, hit your mark. Aimee, come on. Stand on the tape. You’re doing the scene.”

Aimee hesitated, glancing at Glen, who gave her a small, reassuring smile. “No pressure,” he said with a slight shrug, though his tone was teasing.

“Right,” Aimee muttered, her cheeks already warming as she reluctantly stepped onto the set. She felt completely out of place as the crew adjusted lights and set pieces around her.

Isla scuttled over, positioned Aimee carefully between the table and Glen. “Okay, Aimee, remember, this is the big moment. You’ve been fighting this attraction for the entire story. Now it all comes spilling out. Go with it. Glen, you know what to do.” Isla clapped him on the bicep before skipping away, her excitement palpable.

Aimee swallowed hard as Glen stepped closer, his expression shifting into something serious, intense. Her heart started pounding in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“Ready?” Glen asked softly, his voice low.

Aimee nodded, her throat suddenly dry.

"And, action!" Isla's voice followed by a clap of her hands carried over to Aimee.

The scene began as it had the last five takes before this one. Glen took a step toward her, closing the space between them. His gaze locked onto hers, his hands hovering near her waist but not quite touching her. The air between them felt charged, like it might spark if they moved even an inch closer.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he said, his voice filled with the perfect blend of frustration and longing, just as she’d written.

“That’s not my fault,” Aimee replied, her own voice shaky but real, the line coming to her as easy as when she wrote it last year, cursor blinking on her too small laptop screen.

“It is,” Glen murmured, leaning in. “Because every time I look at you—”

He didn’t finish the line, because the moment had already taken over. His face was just inches from hers now, and Aimee felt the heat of his breath against her skin. It felt real—too real.

Her eyes fluttered shut instinctively as he leaned closer, the distance between them almost nonexistent. Then—

“THAT!” Isla’s voice cut through the moment like a clap of thunder. “That is the chemistry this scene needs!”

Aimee jolted back, her eyes flying open as reality came rushing back in. Glen took a step away, rubbing the back of his neck, looking as flustered as she felt.

Lila watched from the edge of the set, wide-eyed. “Okay, yeah. I get it now.”

Aimee, her cheeks burning, quickly stepped off the set, avoiding everyone’s gaze. She heard Isla continuing to lecture Lila about connection and timing, but the words barely registered, her mind swimming.

Glen caught her eye as she passed him, and for a second, she thought he might say something, but he didn’t. He just gave her a small, almost imperceptible smile. For that, at least, she was thankful.

Aimee fled until she reached the safety of the craft services table, grabbing a bottle of water and pressing it to her overheated face. She could still feel the ghost of the moment—the way Glen's eyes had burned into hers, the way he’d leaned in.

“Get it together, Aimee,” she muttered to herself. But the pounding in her chest wasn’t going anywhere.

i can do it with a broken heart - glen powell x ofc

#glen powell #top gun maverick #glen powell fanfic #twisters #tyler owens #twisters 2024 #glen powell x reader #anyone but you #six sentence sunday #glen powell x writer #glentervention

34 notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 1 year ago

Note

WIBTA if i cut off someone reaching out for help on tumblr? i am a very anxious person. ive been on tumblr a very long time because most all other social media terrifies me as someone who grew up with the wild west internet a decade past (im in my late 20s) so i feel sometimes with how reckless and spurractic people can be online in chatroom and especially clearly public platforms where any stranger, malicious or otherwise can just archive your digital presence for personal use.

more recently as someone who has been here during the pornban and as an asexual really enjoyed the quiet with no drama farming and a slow pace to talk about more unique political topics in a measured way it is something im strangely nostalgic for and a great example of my sensibilities to people when they insist that i use other platforms like discord or twitter or whatever clone for these services comes out of the old guard introducing feature creep to copy everyone else or any other indi "were the anti corporate version" of the endless scroll apps. i just dont want it. tumblr is special because im desktop only, been here for years, and i have kept track of every single change made so i have manually adjusted the change through hacks to evade every bad decision on here and make my set up look identical to how it was in 2010. so let it be understood that i tend to be a loney person because of this stubbornness. web 3.0 is too dangerous to people with addictive tendencies that my adhd brings out and my need to wear my heart on my sleeve. so i hope i defended my personality type enough to show why someone like me would see a post about some horrible abuses they have fell victim to who also share alot of the marginalized status as me and writing depressive things in the replys of others posts as to attention seek about it.

i directly interact with this person, not only to check if they are real (but wow, modern chat bots make this part horrifying for me. we really cant ever know for sure what is real anymore. trying to find warmth on the internet feels impossible now a days) i have multiple conversations at this point both venting and just casually shooting the shit. but the begging for me to constantly repost their paypal makes me so nervous in a way that i feel so guilty for because it reminds me of all the scams that get associated with this kind of ebegging and the reminder that capitalism takes away all warmth from human interaction to make them purely transnational and conditional. but then it just has been escalating where im so scared that now its not enough that im reposing on my 8 follower, all mutual blog, they are asking me to share it on other socials. accounts i do not have i have a flip phone and a laptop and i am tinkering with a windows 7 tower that will never be connected to the internet so i can always have software sit perfectly in its time capsule for when i need it. i do not have a way to help this person outside of what i learned from collage psyche classes. a part of me is so scared to just abruptly cut them off and just delete my entire account like i tend to do often on tumblr for a multitude of reasons, its a part of what lets people survive being here this long but i worry that would crush them if i did that, i dont want to make them feel more hopeless and unwanted then they already talk about. but i am text on the internet through a screen. i can only do so much. so would i be the asshole if i just deleted my account with a "i hope you hang in there, the world is a harsh place but keep moving" to cut someone so similar to me who is struggling out of my life?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

96 notes · View notes

alex-wrestling · 6 months ago

Text

Feel Your Healin’ Rivers Run

Jey Uso/Sami Zayn

Summary: Sami feels insecure about his body. Jey finds a way to make him forget about it.

Warnings: SMUT!! 18+!! Insecurity, Top!Jey, Bottom!Sami (trust me), praise, teasing, enthusiastic consent (consent is sexy!), blowjobs, anal sex, just boyfriends doing boyfriend things.

A/N: not confident in my smut writing yet, but practice makes perfect! No time period for this one, just follow your heart. Title is from The Wonton Song by Led Zeppelin.

Sami looked at himself in the mirror, turning to his side and then back to the front as he eyed his bare body with disdain. I'm in good shape, right? I can still perform all of my moves. I’m overreacting. He didn’t have the ‘look’ you’d normally expect from a professional wrestler, even he could admit that, but he’d never had any comments about it before this. He worked out, he ate well, isn’t that all that mattered?

“Sami? What’re you doin’, boo?”

Sami turned around to see Jey standing in the doorway, a sad smile on his face.

“Um-nothing, it’s nothing, Jey,” he managed to stutter as he slowly crept away from the mirror.

“Uh huh. Doesn’t look like nothin’,” Jey said, walking toward Sami and turning the Canadian’s body toward the mirror. “Think you’re feelin’ a bit insecure.”

Sami’s eyes raked across the mirror, taking in every line and curve. “I’m not insecure, I just…” he trailed off, meeting Jey’s eyes through the mirror. “Ever since we told the public we’ve been dating, people have been saying that you must’ve been ashamed of me or something because I look like…me, I don’t look as good as you, you’re way out of my league. And it hurts.”

“I’m so sorry, Sami,” Jey said, kissing Sami’s neck. “People are dicks sometimes, you shouldn’t read too many of those comments.”

“I know that,” Sami said, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I hate my hair too! No wonder everyone thinks I’m ugly!”

“Hey, calm down baby. You’re not ugly.”

“But I-”

Jey held a finger against Sami’s lips. “I ain’t gon’ let you talk like that. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I did?” He flashed his pearly whites at Sami, and he ducked.

“Even your smile looks better than mine,” Sami mumbled.

“That’s it!” Jey exclaimed, picking Sami up with ease and flinging him over his shoulder.

“What are you doing! Put me down!”

“Nope! Desperate times call for desperate measures!” Jey said, a deadly seriousness to his voice that caught Sami off guard.

He set Sami on the bed and got on top of him, holding himself up with sturdy arms. “I’ve let this go on long enough. I’mma tell you all the things I love ‘bout you, and you ain’t gon’ interrupt.”

Sami looked at him with his dark brown eyes. “H-huh?”

“You opposed to that?”

“No,” Sami mumbled.

“Good. I’ll start right here.” Jey kissed him, slow and gentle. “I love your lips,” he mumbled as he pulled away, “they fit on mine perfectly. I love kissin’ you, could do it all day.”

Sami’s lips turned upward. “Love that smile,” Jey said, “I don’t why you hate it so much, I love when you’re happy and that smile lets me know. It’s like a sunbeam right into my eyes.”

“It is?” Sami asked tentatively, eyes locking with Jey’s.

“Yeah. Love your voice, it’s the perfect pitch. Wanna listen to it all day.”

Jey trailed kisses up Sami’s face. “Love this beard. Suits you perfectly, and it feels so soft.” He kissed it, then he kissed Sami’s nose. “Perfect nose. Like it was sculpted or somethin’. And your eyes,” Sami’s eyes widened as Jey met his gaze, “perfect shade of brown. Wouldn’t change a damn thing about ‘em.” He ran a hand through the wild curls on Sami’s head. “So soft. Love runnin’ my hands through your hair, and it frames your face perfectly.”

He moved down Sami’s body, his lips leaving a trail of kisses that set Sami’s body on fire. “Love this hair on your body,” Jey said. “Like baby hair, so soft and fine.” He looked at one of Sami’s nipples and back up at him, a mischievous grin making its way across his face. He kissed towards it, making Sami squirm. “Love how sensitive these are,” he said, using his tongue to brush against it, making Sami whimper. He debated going to the next one but decided against it. He had more important things to do.

His kisses continued down Sami’s stomach. “Where do I even begin?” He asked, catching Sami’s eyes and seeing the disgust in them. “Love cuddlin’ up to you and wrapping my arms ‘round you. You fit me like a puzzle piece.”

He saw Sami struggling with his emotions. “You-you like it?” Sami asked, eyes welling up with tears.

Jey smiled. “‘Course I do. I love everything about you.”

Sami wiped at his eyes. “Thank you, Jey.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I'm not done.”

“You’re not?”

Jey shook his head. “Nope.” He looked down and continued his kissing spree. “Love that I have something to lay on. Other people I’ve dated were too skinny, but you’re easy to lay on and cuddle with. Makes me feel safe.” Jey continued down to Sami’s waist. “Love me some love handles. Something tells me I’ll get to use these soon.” He saw Sami’s cheeks turn bright red, making him laugh. He dug his fingers into the waistband of Sami’s pants and dragged it down, tugging it off of him with a practiced flair. Eyeing Sami’s semi-erect dick, he elected to go to one of Sami’s thighs. “You can feel the muscle,” he said against Sami’s skin, “perfect for me to sit on.” He licked a trail up to Sami’s balls but didn’t touch them, instead savoring the whimpers that came from him. Kissing back down Sami’s thigh, he came to his calf. “Look at the muscle here, too.”

“Jey,” Sami whined.

“Oh? You want somethin’ boo?” Jey asked, smirking at Sami’s hot and bothered expression.

“You’re teasing me…”

“‘f course I am. I like how you look when you beg.”

“Please, Jey. I need you.”

Jey felt his own dick strain against his pants. He always loved hearing how much Sami wanted him, and this was no exception. “You do?”

“Yes, please!” Sami cried out. “Please Jey, just fuck me already!”

Jey took his shirt off and followed with his pants, leaving him clad in only his underwear. He moved up Sami’s body and straddled him, laying himself flush against Sami’s body. Sami met him halfway and kissed him, pulling him down by the back of his head. Jey decided to indulge him, and when Sami’s tongue licked across his bottom lip, he opened his mouth and let Sami explore. He ground down lightly with the noticeable bulge in his pants, making Sami moan. Jey ran his hands up and down Sami’s body, taking in every bump and curve on his boyfriend. He was the most beautiful man Jey had ever seen, and he wanted—hoped—that he’d conveyed it to Sami.

He broke the kiss up, leaving them both panting. Jey started attacking Sami’s neck next, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin there, smiling slightly when he heard Sami’s ‘ah-ah-ah’s. “I know everything about your body. You know that, right?” He picked his head up and looked at Sami.

Sami nodded. “Must-must be a good one for you to want to know all of this.”

Jey grinned. “Now you’re seeing what I’m seeing. I think you’ve earned a reward.”

Sami’s eyes lit up. “Please, Jey. I need you inside of me.”

Jey shook his head. “Not yet. There’s one more thing I need to do.”

“No…” Sami whined, but Jey was already going down. He stopped right above Sami’s cock, seeing Sami nod violently. He huffed out a laugh and stuck his tongue out, lapping at the head. He felt Sami’s fingers go into his hair, not tugging but coming close. “Hands to yourself, boo,” Jey said teasingly, and Sami drew his hands back and clutched at the sheets instead, a low moan coursing through his throat.

He put the head between his lips, hearing Sami let out a “fuck” from above him. He licked the sensitive spot, the spot he knew would make Sami unravel. Sami’s hips bucked up and he let out a “fuck yes!” Jey went all the way down his cock with ease, twisting his tongue and bobbing his head the way he knew Sami loved. He tasted the precum leaking out of Sami, and he made his way up and licked it right off. Sami’s moaning and squirming was starting to work him up as well, and Jey had to rip his boxers off before they tore. “That feels so good, fuck, keep going.” He could feel Sami’s dick throbbing, and knew he was close. “Jey, don’t stop, please-”

Jey stopped, picking his head up and wiping the precum and drool from his mouth. “Why did you stop?”

“Don’t you want me inside you?” Jey asked, amusement in his voice at Sami’s obvious need.

The redhead turned around immediately, bearing his ass for Jey. Jey ran a hand over the cheeks. “Never seen a more perfect ass,” he said, making Sami wiggle against his hand.

He made his way to the drawer and found a packet of lube. He shook it in front of Sami like a person jingling their keys, and Sami responded by reaching out to grab it. He realized that his hand was too far away, and he let it fall to Jey’s dick.

Jey sucked in a breath. “Damn, Sami.”

Sami looked up at him with murky eyes. “Please.”

Jey ripped the packet open with his teeth and squeezed some onto his fingers. He traced Sami’s hole with his fingers, before putting a finger in. “You want me, Sami?”

“Yes!” He moaned. “Fuck yes, I want you. I want you inside of me already. I need to feel you filling me up!”

Jey slipped a second finger in. He carefully spread his fingers out inside, making Sami whine in frustration. “Not as bad as I want you, Sami. I wanna feel you throbbing around me. Wanna worship you.”

He slipped a third finger in. “Hurry up, please! I-fuck…” Sami panted heavily next to him, back arched, ready to take him.

“Gotta stretch you out more, boo. Don’t wanna hurt you,” Jey said. As difficult as it was to deny Sami, he didn’t want to cause him any pain if he could help it.

“Mmph.”

Jey laughed as he curled his fingers, making Sami bury his head in the bed. “You’re taking it so good, baby boy. You think you’re ready for me?”

“Yes!” Sami shouted, “please, Jey!”

Jey squeezed the rest of the lube onto his rock-hard cock. He withdrew his fingers, making Sami whimper once again as he clenched down on nothing. Jey rubbed the rest of the lube down his dick as he climbed onto the bed. He pressed the head of his cock to Sami’s entrance. “You ready?”

“Please,” Sami said, begged, reduced to a writhing mass underneath him.

Jey pushed in, going slowly so that Sami could adjust. “Fuck, boo, you’re so tight. Add that one to the list.” He waited until Sami was more relaxed before continuing, Sami clenching around him and Jey felt himself leaking already. “You feel so good, baby. Just perfect.”

“You feel good too,” Sami said, his voice muffled. Jey reached up and grabbed Sami’s hips for leverage.

Jey loved the view from the front, don’t get him wrong, but the view from the back might be his favorite. Seeing Sami’s heaving form as he pushed an extra inch in, his hands bunched into the sheets, the allure of his hips, it was almost too much. Jey leaned down and kissed Sami’s shoulder, making Sami shiver. “You look so good underneath me. Wish I could stay like this forever.”

“Wish you could too,” Sami mumbled.

Jey pushed in further, burying his dick into Sami’s tight hole. “Relax for me, handsome.”

“Handsome? You think I look handsome like this?” Sami asked nervously.

Jey let his hands roam as he slowly pulled out and rammed back in, making Sami gasp. “‘Bout the sexiest thing to ever exist. Especially when I’m doin’ this,” he pulled out and went back in, “to you. God, Sami, you drive me crazy. It takes everything in me to keep my hands off you.” He felt Sami clench around him, and Jey could barely stave off his impending orgasm. “You close?”

“Yeah,” Sami huffed. “I doubt you are, though.”

Jey caught the doubt in his tone. He let go of Sami’s hips and ran his hands over Sami’s torso instead, pulling him back in. He leaned forward, kissing Sami’s neck and sucking on that sweet spot. He brought his hand down to grab Sami’s dick, making him moan low and deep. “The second I pulled your pants down it was a fight not to cum, babe. You’re the only one who can do that to me, you know.” Jey felt his cock throb. “No one I’d rather make love to. You’re perfect, Sami.”

Sami muttered something in a language Jey didn’t know, but what he did know was that Sami rocked back against him as his orgasm hit like a natural disaster. Sami groaned, and the sound made Jey growl as he picked up speed.

“Cum in me,” Sami begged, “need to feel you inside me.”

That sent Jey over the edge, his balls constricting as cum poured out of him. Sami went limp underneath him in the throes of pleasure, but Jey could hear the heavy panting as Sami rode out his orgasm.

Jey stayed inside of him until he felt himself go limp. He slowly pulled out, a stream of white following him. Sami fell over on his side, smiling and content. Jey staggered to his feet and nudged his boyfriend. “Gotta getchu cleaned up, boo.”

“Tired,” Sami said.

“My dick that good?” Jey asked, picking Sami up and carrying him to their bathroom. Sami just nodded, not wanting to ruin his post-orgasmic bliss.

He let Jey run a bath for him, filled with some kind of vegan bath bomb that smelled like lavender as the Samoan rubbed some shampoo into his hair. “Je t’aime.”

“Love you too. All of you.”

Sami looked up and met Jey’s eyes, so full of love it made his chest pang. “I know. Kinda hard to be ashamed of someone when you’re pounding them into the mattress,” he joked.

Jey laughed. “I hope you know how much I love you and your appearance. Just…I’m happy that you’re seein’ what I’m seein’ now.”

“I'm not sure,” Sami gave Jey a lopsided smile, “maybe another example wouldn’t hurt?”

“It doesn’t take much to tempt me, Sami Zayn, especially when it comes to you,” Jey said. It was intended to be a warning, at least Sami thought so. He didn’t really care anyway.

The redhead stretched his arms out and made a grabbing motion, wanting to be the one to hold Jey. He understood, climbing in with him and laying his back against Sami’s stomach. Sami breathed in the smell of sweat and arousal in Jey’s black curls and was filled with content. It didn’t matter what the idiots on the internet said; as long as he had Jey, he was happy.

#jey uso #sami zayn #samijey #fanfic

27 notes · View notes