#blue and gold velvet curtains

[fvsm4x]

𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 (you) !

synopsis. Prince Satoru has just come of age, and it’s tradition in his kingdom for the crown prince to be presented with potential suitors. Despite his power and prestige, he’s lived a life of strict rules and sheltered isolation, knowing little about romance and even less about pleasure. His parents arrange for a tutor to guide him on how to properly fuck and pleasure a partner

+ warnings/content. Prince! Gojo S. + tutor fem! reader - satoru is a virgin and inexperienced - virginity lose - p in v - feral gojo a bit - royal au - gojo has a big dick - oral (fem. receiving) - fingering - size difference a bit - gojo is pussydrunk - shy/soft gojo

+ word count. 9.1k (Oppsie daisy)

a/n. This is prolly one of my favs works so I HOPE U LIKE IT

banner by unknown (tell me if u know from who it is!!)

The doors to Prince Satoru’s chambers loomed before you, tall and intricately carved, a testament to the wealth and grandeur of the palace. Your fingers hovered just above the handle, and you took a steadying breath, reminding yourself of the role you were about to step into. The position was an unusual one, to say the least—both highly honored and slightly scandalous, whispered about only behind closed doors and far from the ears of the public.

When the queen had summoned you, you’d expected to be given a task of courtly refinement—perhaps tutoring Prince Satoru in diplomacy or etiquette, something befitting his status. But the court had other plans. Prince Satoru was soon to come of age, and despite his immense power and status, he had led a remarkably sheltered life. Royal duty dictated that he was to be groomed for the throne, but there was more to kingship than formalities and court rituals. To make matters more complicated, it was tradition that the crown prince be well-versed in… more intimate knowledge.

And so, here you were—his tutor for this secret, delicate subject. The court deemed it crucial that Satoru gain a proper understanding of how to navigate romantic and physical intimacy, skills thought essential to his future rule. And though this education would be handled with the utmost discretion, the weight of it wasn’t lost on you. This was about more than teaching the young prince; it was about shaping the experiences that would prepare him for life, even if it meant starting with things he’d never before dared to touch

One of the royal guards gave you a nod, signaling that the prince awaited inside, and with that final reassurance, you pushed open the heavy doors.

The room was grand, adorned with tapestries of deep blue and golds, velvet curtains framing the windows to keep prying eyes out. Soft candlelight bathed the chamber, casting warm, flickering shadows that seemed to make the room feel smaller, more intimate. And there, in the midst of it all, stood Prince Satoru.

He looked as regal as ever, his white hair falling around his shoulders in soft waves that caught the light, yet his expression was tense, the lines of his jaw just slightly taut as he took in your arrival. He stood tall, shoulders straight, but there was a nervous energy about him, a flicker of uncertainty in his piercing blue eyes. For all his power, he was, in this moment, simply a young man facing something entirely foreign.

He looked almost hesitant, his fingers curling at his sides as he took a few tentative steps forward.

“Are you… the tutor?” he asked, his voice soft but clear.

You bowed, folding your hands in front of you. “Yes, Your Highness. I’m honored to serve you.”

He returned your bow with a slight nod, his gaze hesitant but unwavering. “Thank you for coming,” he replied, his voice quiet and just a little rough around the edges. After a pause, he continued, “And please— call me satoru.”

You blinked at him before replying,“of course, Satoru.“

He continued,“I understand you’re here to… teach me certain things

There was a vulnerability to his words, as if he were admitting some private, embarrassing truth, and you felt a flicker of sympathy. “Yes,” you said softly, taking a step closer. “I’m here to help you learn at your own pace. We don’t have to rush anything. It’s perfectly normal to have questions, and we can take things one step at a time.”

He let out a breath, and a faint, almost sheepish smile flickered across his lips. “That’s… good to know,” he murmured. “To be honest, I’m not sure where to begin. I’ve read about some of it—romance, intimacy—but it always seemed… different in stories. Simpler. Or maybe more dramatic.” He paused, then quickly added, “But I have no practical experience. I don’t even know what’s expected of me.”

Was he really that inexperienced?

It was hard for you to believe. Prince Satoru was strikingly attractive, with an air of confidence that most people would expect from someone well-versed in such matters. Yet here he was, seeming genuinely lost. You’d have guessed he at least knew the basics—how to start, how to read a moment. But the way he looked at you, the way his questions hovered in the air with such uncertainty, made it clear that he truly knew next to nothing.

You nodded, taking in his words. “That’s perfectly alright,“

Satoru’s gaze flicked away, almost as if embarrassed by his own curiosity. “It’s strange. I’m supposed to lead a kingdom, yet I feel so… out of place when it comes to this.” His eyes returned to yours, vulnerable but resolute. “It feels almost… childish, not knowing these things.”

You smiled gently. “It’s not childish at all, satoru. You’ve been raised in a very particular way, with rules and responsibilities that few can understand. Besides, being inexperienced doesn’t make you any less capable.”

He studied you closely, his intense blue eyes absorbing your words, as if testing their weight before trusting them. There was a softening in his expression, a subtle shift from wary curiosity to a quiet resolve. “I think I understand,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… where do I start? What do I need to know?”

Slowly, you stepped closer, letting him feel your presence before you closed the distance entirely. Your hand hovered in the air, close enough for him to notice, but not so close as to assume his permission. “May I?” you asked, your tone gentle but firm, a reassurance that he was in control of every moment.

He seemed caught off guard, his gaze briefly dropping to your hand before meeting your eyes again. There was a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps a bit of nervous anticipation—but he nodded, his voice soft yet steady. “Of course.”

You reached forward, your fingers just grazing his hand, warm and slightly tense under your touch. Slowly, you guided his hand toward your waist, resting it there carefully. His fingers settled against you, his grip hesitant but steady. His hand was large, enveloping the curve of your waist, and the warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric, grounding both of you in this small, shared moment.

Satoru’s hand flexed, his fingers instinctively pressing into the soft give of your waist. His touch was cautious, like he was still testing the sensation, and you could feel him catch his breath. His eyes flickered down, watching his own hand as if seeing it in this position was almost surreal. Then his gaze lifted to yours, his expression a mix of awe and a little self-consciousness, like he was realizing just how new all of this felt to him.

For a moment, time seemed to still, the air thick with something unspoken. His fingers remained gently on your waist, his grip firm but careful. His eyes held yours, searching for something—maybe understanding, maybe comfort.

You felt the heat of his gaze as his eyes lingered on you, his expression searching, as if trying to find reassurance or perhaps permission. His attention felt heavy, intense, and you could feel your cheeks warming, a faint blush creeping over you. You forced yourself to brush it aside, focusing on him, on the quiet yet clear connection between you.

Drawing a breath, you leaned in, rising onto your toes until your face was just inches from his. Your eyes dropped to his lips, your gaze lingering there for just a second too long, and that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. His eyes fluttered shut, and his fingers dug slightly into your waist, pulling you in closer with an unexpected urgency. Your breaths mingled in the narrow space between you before his lips met yours in a rush of movement.

The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, almost clumsy in its eagerness. His lips pressed hard against yours, his movements lacking the practiced finesse of experience but carrying a raw intensity that made up for it. He kissed you with an almost desperate enthusiasm, his lips parting messily against yours, the faint taste of his breath mingling with your own. There was a wetness to the kiss, his inexperience clear in the way he seemed to lose himself, following only instinct rather than skill. He kissed you with unabashed need, a little too much spit and an endearing awkwardness in the way his mouth moved against yours.

You could feel his inexperience, the way he struggled to find a rhythm, his lips and tongue a bit too eager, too messy. But there was a certain sweetness to it, a sincerity that made the kiss feel even more intimate. It was unrefined, almost childlike in its enthusiasm, yet it was deeply honest—a kiss from someone exploring a world he’d never known, trying to understand it one uncertain step at a time.

Slowly, you brought your hand up to his face, brushing your fingers along his jawline, gently guiding him to slow down. You felt his breathing hitch at the soft touch, and his lips stilled for a moment, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. His gaze held a mixture of surprise and something more vulnerable—a spark of uncertainty, as though he was asking if he was doing things right.

“You’re doing just fine,” you whispered, your words a gentle reassurance. You could see the tension ease from his expression, the smallest hint of relief softening his gaze. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and gave you a shy smile that felt so out of place on someone as commanding as him, yet so fitting in this moment.

With your guidance, he leaned in again, his movements now a bit more measured, a touch gentler. His lips met yours with newfound purpose, still a little messy, but now slower, as though savoring each second. This time, he lingered, allowing the kiss to unfold naturally, his lips brushing against yours with a sweet, unhurried warmth.

Your hands slid to rest on his shoulders, fingers tracing the lines of his frame, feeling the subtle tremor under his skin as he let himself fall into the moment. The kiss grew deeper, a quiet exploration, as though he were learning you, learning this intimacy he’d never experienced before. And in that moment, it felt like there was only the two of you—caught in this delicate exchange, each touch building a fragile new understanding.

After a long, breathless pause, he drew back, his expression softened yet still intense, eyes clouded with newfound desire. His lips, now slightly swollen from the kiss, parted as he looked at you, as if searching for something—permission, maybe, or reassurance. His hand remained at your waist, fingers tightening gently, grounding himself in the unfamiliar intimacy that had formed between you.

Without another word, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was harder, more confident than before, as though the hesitation had melted away. His hands slid down your waist, fingers tracing the shape of your body until they reached the back of your thighs. In one smooth movement, he lifted you, his strength evident as he held you firmly. A gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms looping around his neck for support as he carried you with ease.

Your back met the cool, solid surface of the wall, and you felt a rush of heat at the sudden closeness, the way his body pressed against yours, anchoring you there. His hands, still beneath your thighs, slid upward slightly, fingers grazing the curve of your ass before giving it a small, tentative squeeze. The unexpected boldness of the touch sent a spark through you, and your breath hitched, a faint blush coloring your cheeks.

His lips found yours again, and he kissed you with a fervor that felt worlds away from the shyness he’d shown moments before. His mouth moved against yours with a raw intensity, devouring each kiss, leaving no space between you. You felt the heat radiating from him, the rhythm of his breaths growing heavier as he pressed himself closer, as though wanting to close any lingering distance between you.

The contrast was dizzying—just moments ago, he’d been so cautious, uncertain in every touch, every glance. And now here he was, holding you in his arms, his kisses almost desperate as if he’d found something he didn’t want to let go of. You clung to him, fingers tangling in his hair as you let yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace, the steady, grounding pressure of his hands keeping you anchored against him.

He kissed you with a fervor that left you breathless, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that seemed to grow with each passing second. His fingers tightened on your ass, his grip steady and possessive, pressing you more firmly against the wall as though he wanted to keep you there, close, unmovable. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and heavy, mirroring your own.

His mouth left yours only for a moment, his lips brushing along your jaw, trailing down to the curve of your neck. Each kiss was a mix of soft and hurried, as if he were savoring the taste of your skin but couldn’t quite hold back his growing desire. His breath was hot against your neck, and you felt a shiver run through you as his lips lingered there, taking his time to explore, to feel you.

The way he held you felt powerful yet tentative, as if he was discovering just what he could do, and it sent a thrill through you. You felt the tension in his hold, the slight tremble in his fingertips betraying a mix of nervous excitement and unrestrained want.

You whispered his name softly, and he stilled for a moment, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes, usually so confident and sharp, held a softness, a vulnerability that made your heart race. He seemed to study you, his gaze searching your face, as if he needed to see that you were still with him, still wanting this as much as he did.

“S’toru…” you murmured agaib, your voice barely a whisper, filled with all the unspoken reassurance and encouragement you could offer. He swallowed, his cheeks faintly flushed, and gave a small, hesitant smile, looking a little relieved, a little emboldened

With newfound determination, he pulled you closer, his lips capturing yours once more, this time slower, savoring the moment.

As Satoru’s kisses grew deeper and more assured, the intensity between you became undeniable, and you could feel his breathing growing heavier. His hands roamed along your thighs, fingers grazing over the fabric of your clothes, and each touch seemed to carry a little more heat, a little more urgency.

Then, suddenly, you felt it—a subtle but unmistakable pressure against your stomach. His hips had shifted closer in his fervor, and now you could feel him pressing against you, hard and undeniable. The realization made a shiver run through you, and you felt your own face flush, heart pounding at the sudden intimacy of it.

Satoru froze for a moment, as if only now aware of the way his body was reacting. His cheeks turned a deep shade of red, and he swallowed, his breath catching as he struggled to pull himself back, an awkward smile tugging at his lips.

“I… didn’t mean…” he stammered, clearly embarrassed, his gaze dropping as though he didn’t quite know how to handle his own reactions.

But before he could pull away, you brought a hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb gently along his skin, letting him know it was okay. “It’s alright,” you whispered, voice soft and reassuring. “Do what you please.“

He looked at you, relief mingling with something deeper, a flicker of excitement shining in his eyes. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours again, this time with a slower, more deliberate passion. As he deepened the kiss, his body pressed closer, and he stopped resisting the way his hips aligned with yours, letting himself feel the closeness without overthinking it.

Your hands slid over his shoulders, steadying yourself against him, feeling the strength in his frame as he held you, his body tense with barely restrained desire. The pressure against your stomach grew, a steady reminder of the effect you were having on him, and you could feel his hesitance melting away bit by bit. His kisses grew bolder, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you closer, as though he didn’t want any distance left between you.

,S‘toru” you whispered against his lips, voice breathy and soft, and he drew in a shaky breath, his eyes heavy-lidded, as though he was barely keeping himself grounded. He was fighting to stay in control, to process the new sensations flooding through him, but he could hardly hold back.

“Feels s‘ good…” he murmured, his voice a low, shaky whisper. Slowly, his hips moved, pressing into you, creating a delicious friction as his hardness rubbed against you, even through the layers of clothing. The movement was tentative but grew more confident with each slow thrust, his breath hitching as he sank deeper into the feeling. His lips found the side of your neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses there, letting his lips map the curve of your skin.

A quiet whimper escaped you, unintentional yet undeniable, and he froze, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes, still filled with that raw need, softened slightly, as if wanting to make sure he hadn’t gone too far. But when he heard the faint, breathy sound again as his lips brushed over the same spot, he seemed to realize just how much his touch affected you. A flicker of excitement flashed in his gaze, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to your neck again, this time more deliberately, letting his tongue graze the sensitive skin.

You whimpered again, the sound slipping from your lips before you could stop it, and you brought a hand to your mouth, instinctively trying to muffle the sound. But he reached up, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, pulling your hand away with a gentle yet firm hold. His gaze held an intensity that made your heart skip.

“Wanna hear ‘em… your moans,” he muttered, his voice low, the words dripping with newfound confidence. He leaned in, his lips trailing back to your neck, and this time, his tongue traced slow, heated lines against your skin, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.

Each kiss, each brush of his lips, became bolder, more purposeful, as though he was learning exactly how to make you feel every single touch. His hips continued to press against you in slow, unhurried movements, creating a rhythm that sent sparks through your entire body.

His fingers, which had gripped your Thighs with a firm intensity, began to trail upward, brushing against the fabric of your shirt. With his breath warm against your skin, he paused, looking up at you for a moment, his gaze filled with a mix of excitement and curiosity.

His hand moved to the top button of your shirt, fingers slightly trembling as he hesitated. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching for any hint of uncertainty. When you gave him a soft nod, a silent reassurance, his face softened, and with that, he began to slowly undo the buttons, one by one, his gaze never leaving yours as though anchoring himself in the trust you shared.

His breath caught as he reached the last button, letting your shirt slip from your shoulders to pool at your feet.

His gaze dropped, and his eyes widened, filled with awe as he took in the sight of you. His hands, initially tentative, began to trace gentle patterns along your shoulders and collarbone, his touch warm and reverent. He seemed captivated, almost in disbelief, as his fingertips trailed downward, lingering at the curve of your breasts.

Satoru swallowed hard, his cheeks flushed as he looked up at you, his gaze both shy and filled with wonder. “You’re… so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, as if he feared speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. With a hesitant hand, he reached out, his palm gently covering the soft curve of your breast, his touch both tender and careful, as though you were something precious.

Leaning in, his lips brushed softly against your skin just above your heart, leaving a trail of warm, reverent kisses as he explored with growing confidence. His hand, which had rested at the curve of your breast, wandered over the full softness, squeezing with a tentative pressure that sent warmth flooding through you. His thumb and forefinger found your nipple, giving a small, instinctive pinch.

The sharp pleasure made you gasp, a moan slipping from your lips, but you couldn’t help flinching at the unexpected intensity. “Not ser‘ hard… they’re sensitive,” you murmured, gently pulling his hand back. He froze, meeting your gaze with an apologetic expression, his face flushed even deeper.

“ sorry..” he whispered, genuine remorse in his voice, but the look in his eyes was also filled with curiosity and need. Without a second thought, he lowered his head, bringing himself level with your chest, and his lips brushed over your sensitive skin in a soft, almost reverent kiss.

Satoru’s lips wrapped around your nipple, his warm mouth enveloping the sensitive peak. He kissed it softly, savoring the taste of your skin, his tongue flicking out to tease you gently. The sensation sent electric currents racing through you, and you gasped, arching into him, encouraging him to continue.

As he continued to explore, he paused for a moment, pulling back slightly to look up at you with wide, earnest eyes. “I’m really sorry for being too rough,” he murmured, his voice filled with genuine remorse.

Then, as if his apology extended beyond you and into your body, he turned his attention back to your nipple, planting a soft kiss on it. “You just look s‘ perfect,” he added, the words barely escaping his lips.

He resumed his gentle kisses, trailing his mouth over the delicate skin around your breast, still mindful of your sensitivity. Each kiss was filled with a newfound tenderness, as if he was not only trying to please you but also to make amends. “Please forgive me,” he whispered against your skin, his breath warm, brushing over you like a gentle caress.

With each delicate kiss, he continued to express his reverence, kissing your nipple again softly as though it were a cherished treasure. “I promise to be better,” he vowed, his gaze intent, as if making a sacred promise to both you and your body. He lavished attention on your breast, his lips trailing kisses that were sweet and reverent, the gentle pressure of his mouth a stark contrast to the earlier clumsiness.

You couldn’t help but giggle softly at his earnestness, feeling a warmth spread through you, not just from his touch but from his sincerity. “You’re doing just fine, you‘re just learning afterall.” you reassured him, your voice breathy and filled with affection.

His eyes lit up at your encouragement, and he dove back in, his lips returning to your nipple, kissing it with a newfound tenderness, allowing the moment to envelop you both.

from your breast to your collarbone and back again, savoring each reaction he drew from you. The warmth of his mouth sent shivers down your spine, igniting a desire that only grew stronger.

But suddenly, he pulled back, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of excitement and determination. He gently wrapped his arms around you once ahain, lifting you with surprising strength.

He carried you effortlessly across the room, your heart racing as you held onto him, feeling the strength in his arms. The thrill of being so close to him, both physically and emotionally, sent a rush of warmth through you. As he approached the bed, he leaned down, carefully laying you onto the soft mattress, his gaze never leaving yours.

Once he set you down, he paused for a moment, taking in the sight of you stretched out before him. His heart raced in response to the intimacy of the moment, his breath hitching as he drank you in. “You’re really beautiful,” he whispered again, as if he couldn’t help but marvel at you.

Satoru leaned over you, propping himself up on his forearms, his gaze filled with a mix of admiration and longing. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear, and he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

He pressed his lips against yours again, kissing you deeply as if trying to convey all the emotions swirling within him. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve, every dip, as if memorizing every detail of you. You felt his weight resting against you, warm and safe, and it filled you with a sense of comfort and exhilaration.

As the kiss deepened, his hands wandered, fingers tracing along your sides and down your arms, drawing you into the warmth of the moment. He seemed to lose himself in you, his kisses growing more passionate, yet still tender, as if he were balancing the thrill of desire with a profound respect for the connection you were building together.

Satoru pulled back slightly, his breathing uneven, and looked down at you with an expression that held a perfect blend of desire and vulnerability. His eyes softened, and a flicker of concern appeared as he took in your face. “Are… are you okay?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with an almost shy uncertainty. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your heart swelled at the thoughtfulness in his tone, and you nodded, feeling a warm sense of safety in his presence. “I’m fine,” you murmured softly, reaching up to brush a reassuring hand along his arm. “I should be asking you that.”

He nodded, his gaze briefly meeting yours before looking away, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “I’m… I’m okay,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper, almost as if he were still processing his own feelings. After a beat, he hesitated, then glanced back at you with a hint of nervous curiosity. “What should I do now?”

You sat up slightly, leaning forward so you could hold his gaze, though he quickly looked down, the blush deepening on his face. “Pull your clothes off,” you instructed softly, giving him a small, encouraging smile. “But leave your underwear on.”

Satoru’s eyes widened at your words, the blush spreading rapidly across his cheeks, almost as if he hadn’t quite expected the suggestion. “Yeah… okay,” he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of nerves and excitement as he reached for the hem of his shirt, hesitating only briefly before he began to lift it.

His hands trembled ever so slightly as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned lines of his chest and shoulders. His skin was warm, slightly flushed, and he kept his gaze averted, as if trying to gather the courage to keep going. He let the shirt fall to the floor, then took a deep breath before moving to undo his pants, casting a quick glance in your direction as if seeking reassurance.

When he saw your soft, encouraging expression, he continued, pushing his pants down and stepping out of them, leaving only his underwear as you’d requested. His movements were tentative, almost shy, but there was a certain determination in his actions that spoke of his trust in you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you watched Satoru, your heart pounding in sync with his as he settled in beside you. His eyes lingered on you, filled with curiosity and an unmistakable nervousness, though he gave you a shy smile when you met his gaze.

With a reassuring nod, you began to reach down, fingers slipping to the waistband of your pants. His eyes followed your movements, captivated, as you slowly slid the fabric down your hips, exposing the soft skin of your legs. You kicked the pants aside, leaving you in only your underwear, mirroring him. His breath hitched as his gaze roamed over you, the admiration in his eyes unmistakable.

Now both in only your most vulnerable layers, you shifted back on the bed, motioning for him to come closer. Satoru followed, his movements tentative but filled with a certain eagerness, as though he was soaking in every detail of the moment.

He settled between your legs, his body hovering above yours as he propped himself up on his hands. His eyes were wide, sincere, holding a quiet wonder that made your heart flutter. He seemed to lose himself in the moment, drinking in the sight of you with a softness that was almost reverent.

You reached up, placing a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips. His breaths were shallow, matching yours in rhythm, and a slight shiver ran through him at your touch. “Just take it slow,” you whispered, your voice soft, reassuring, as you leaned in close enough that your breaths mingled, faces only inches apart. “We don’t have to rush.”

He nodded, swallowing as his gaze remained locked with yours. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with gratitude and awe. Tentatively, he brought his hand to your waist, his fingers brushing over your skin with a gentleness that spoke of both caution and growing confidence. His touch was almost feather-light, his fingertips tracing small circles as though memorizing each curve and dip. You felt his hand tighten slightly, pulling you closer, grounding himself in the warmth of your body against his.

You leaned up, closing the space between you to press a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there as you savored the warmth of his skin. Satoru’s eyes fluttered closed, and he exhaled a shaky breath, leaning into your touch, almost as if he were melting under your care.

When you pulled back just slightly, he turned his head to face you, his expression filled with an intense, tender gaze. His eyes flickered down to your lips, and for a brief moment, he hesitated, his lips parted as if caught between nervousness and longing. Finally, he leaned in, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that was both tender and exploratory, filled with a sweetness that made your heart race. He kissed you slowly, savoring every second, as though he wanted to remember this moment forever.

His hands began to wander from your waist to your hips, his fingers tracing along the curve where your underwear sat against your skin. He paused, his fingertips grazing along the line of fabric, hesitating, as if seeking permission. You could feel his hand trembling slightly, both from his excitement and his nerves, his fingers brushing over the skin just above the waistband before moving back down.

Satoru’s gaze was locked on yours, his eyes a mixture of wonder and nervousness as his hands continued their tentative exploration along the edge of your underwear. He seemed to be gathering courage, his fingers tracing gentle, almost reverent patterns across your skin. Your own hand covered his, a soft reminder, and you murmured, “You can take them off, y’know…”

He paused, visibly swallowing, his blush deepening. “Yes… yes, I know,” he replied, voice barely a whisper as he gathered the courage to slide the fabric down your hips. He moved slowly, carefully, as if savoring every second. When your underwear finally slipped from your legs, he let it fall from the bed, his gaze turning back to you with a new, unguarded vulnerability.

When he looked down, his gaze dipped between your legs as you spread them slightly, giving him space to take in the sight of you. He was visibly struck by the intimacy of the moment, a hint of awe flickering in his eyes, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, making you equally self-conscious and drawn to his quiet, genuine curiosity.

This wasn’t something you’d ever imagined doing, especially not as a tutor. The queen’s request had surprised you, and even as you’d agreed to guide him, you’d never anticipated how intense and meaningful this moment would feel. But with Satoru, there was a warmth and care that put you at ease—a softness in him that made you want to help him learn, to give him this experience.

Satoru’s breath was uneven as he drew his hands up your thighs, the warmth of his touch making your skin tingle. His thumbs moved slowly, pulling your legs apart just a little more, his touch almost reverent as he brushed his thumb against the delicate skin of your inner thigh. The sensation made you shiver, a small gasp escaping you.

His gaze never left yours as he brought his hands to your center, his fingers trembling slightly as he parted your folds with his thumbs, exposing your most sensitive area to the cool air. You let out a quiet gasp at the sensation, your breath catching as he focused on the glistening sight before him, his eyes filled with awe. He seemed mesmerized, watching the way your body reacted, the soft, pulsing invitation of your skin against his touch.

For a moment, he simply watched,

Satoru’s fingers trembled slightly as he held you open, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and uncertainty. His gaze flickered to yours, a question forming on his lips. “I… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do next,” he admitted softly, his cheeks flushed, looking for guidance as he tried to understand how to please you.

You reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his, your touch steadying him. “It’s okay,” you murmured, giving him a soft smile. “I can show you.”

He swallowed, nodding as he leaned in closer, visibly eager to learn. “Where should I start?” he asked, his voice low and sincere.

You held his gaze, feeling a sense of warmth at his openness. “See here?” you murmured, gently guiding his thumb to a small, sensitive spot at the apex of your folds. “This is the clit—it’s the most sensitive part, and it responds a lot to touch. You’ll want to start by focusing here.”

Satoru’s eyes lit with newfound understanding, his gaze turning to admiration as he looked down, processing your words carefully. His thumb brushed experimentally over the wet spot, his movements slow and cautious. You let out a soft, encouraging sigh, and he glanced up, his expression almost childlike in its intensity, clearly focused on learning how to make you feel good.

“So, you have to… prepare someone, right?” he asked, as if confirming his understanding. “Before anything else?”

You nodded, your voice soft. “Yes. You prepare a woman for… more,” you said, feeling a blush heat your cheeks. “Touching, kissing, and things like this—all of that helps get her ready, so it’s more comfortable. You have options, too. You could use your fingers, your mouth, or both… whatever feels natural for you.”

He seemed to absorb every word, nodding slowly, his brows furrowing with concentration. “I think I understand,” he murmured, his gaze flicking between your eyes and the sensitive spot he’d just discovered.

Satoru leaned in, his thumb brushing over your clit again, this time with more confidence, his movements gentle yet focused. You let out a soft sound, and he paused, eyes widening in wonder. He glanced up at you, a small, satisfied smile forming on his lips as he realized he’d done something right.

He leaned in, closer than before, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, letting his lips linger, and you could feel the warmth of his breath as he explored with a gentle touch. You could tell he was savoring every new sensation, every slight shift and soft sigh. With each kiss, he grew bolder, moving closer to your core, his hands still steady on your thighs as he continued his careful approach.

Then, his lips brushed over your folds, his breath hitching as he pressed a lingering, almost worshipful kiss there. “So soft,” he murmured, sounding as if he were speaking more to himself than to you, awe evident in his voice. His mouth moved lower, placing another slow kiss before he began to taste you, his tongue moving hesitantly at first, as if familiarizing himself with each inch.

The first gentle stroke of his tongue made you gasp softly, and Satoru’s eyes flicked up, eager to see your reaction. Seeing the pleasure in your expression, he smiled, a slight, bashful grin, and leaned in further, letting his tongue explore with more confidence. The way he worked his mouth over you, savoring every taste, every sound you made, spoke to the intense curiosity and focus he was channeling into each motion.

“Fuck—” he whispered, his voice thick and slightly shaky, pulling back for a moment to catch his breath. His face was flushed, his pupils dilated as he looked at you with something close to worship. “Pussy’s s‘ sweet— tastes ser’ good,” he murmured, almost to himself, before diving back in with a new kind of hunger.

His tongue found your clit this time, pressing gently before giving it a soft, experimental bite that sent a shock of pleasure through you, making you arch into him. He continued, lapping at you with slow, broad strokes, as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands slid up, gripping your hips and pulling you even closer as he kissed and licked every inch, fully lost in the experience.

He seemed completely intoxicated by your taste, by the way your body responded to him. Each movement of his mouth became more confident, more eager, as he continued his relentless exploration, his tongue swirling around your clit before lapping at your entrance again, catching every bit of wetness as if it were precious. Satoru was utterly lost in you, pressing closer and moaning softly into your skin, entirely absorbed in the pleasure he was bringing you.

His hand slipped back to your thigh, gently squeezing as his mouth worked in perfect rhythm

Satoru’s grip on your thighs tightened as he became even more engrossed, his mouth moving over you with a hungry, eager rhythm. His eyes flickered up every so often, watching your reactions with an almost boyish awe as he learned exactly what made you gasp and arch into him. Each sound you made seemed to spur him on, fueling his growing confidence as his tongue moved with more purpose, more intent.

He let his tongue glide up from your entrance to your clit in slow, drawn-out strokes, savoring every taste, as though he couldn’t get enough. “Ser‘ good,” he murmured between breaths, his voice thick and heavy, almost reverent. “Can’t believe— fuck- how perfect ya taste.” His words were laced with genuine awe, and each syllable seemed to sink into you, heightening the warmth building deep in your core.

His lips wrapped around your clit then, and he sucked gently, sending waves of pleasure radiating through you. You gasped, fingers tangling in his soft hair, tugging him closer as your hips moved instinctively toward him, urging him deeper. Satoru moaned softly at the feeling of your hands in his hair, the vibrations of his voice against you only adding to the sensation.

“Just like that,” you whispered, your voice shaky as he continued, his enthusiasm and care blending into a perfect, overwhelming rhythm. He responded by doubling down, his lips pressing more firmly, his tongue flicking and circling, as if every movement were a way to learn how to make you feel even better.

As he continued, Satoru looked up at you again, his gaze dark with desire yet softened with admiration. “You taste like… everything I’ve ever wanted,” he mumbled against you, his voice muffled, but full of devotion. He leaned in once more, mouth covering you completely, tongue moving in long, slow strokes, savoring every drop and every reaction.

He became almost methodical, his mouth working in steady, purposeful motions, alternating between licking and gentle sucking, pulling quiet moans from your lips with every movement. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you steady as he continued his eager exploration, his mouth mapping every inch of you, each touch bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Finally, as his pace quickened and his movements became less restrained, you felt the growing heat build to a near breaking point. Your hips bucked against him, and he only gripped you tighter, pressing his mouth more firmly against you, tongue swirling and lips pressing as he pushed you right to the brink, lost in the need to give you everything he could.

Satoru’s eyes never left yours as he continued, his focus unwavering. Every gasp, every arch of your back seemed to spur him on, and as he watched you getting closer, a new determination filled his gaze. His hands slid up your inner thighs, his fingers brushing over your skin with a light touch before hesitating at your entrance. He glanced up, silently asking for permission, and at your encouraging nod, he took a deep breath, pressing a finger against your slick entrance.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed inside, his movements tentative as he watched your expression, making sure you were comfortable. His finger slid deeper, and he marveled at how warm and soft you felt, his gaze full of awe as he worked his finger gently, moving in time with the soft caresses of his mouth.

“Is… this okay?” he whispered, voice low and unsure, yet filled with genuine care. The gentle curve of his finger inside you was cautious, and when you let out a quiet moan in response, he seemed relieved, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, s‘toru,” you murmured, voice thick with desire, encouraging him to continue.

Emboldened, he began moving his finger slowly, curling it inside you as he searched for the spots that made you shiver. His mouth returned to your clit, tongue flicking in gentle, deliberate strokes, the combination of his movements creating a steady, delicious rhythm. Each motion was measured, his focus absolute as he seemed to get lost in the feel of you around him, the way your body responded to every touch.

As he gained confidence, he added another finger, stretching you just slightly, his gaze still attentive, looking for any hint of discomfort. But when he saw only pleasure in your expression, his movements grew a little bolder. His fingers curved and pressed deeper, brushing that sensitive spot within you, sending a wave of pleasure through your body that had you clinging to his shoulders.

“God, pussy‘s s‘… perfect,” he breathed against you, his tone filled with reverence, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. His fingers pumped steadily, his mouth following their rhythm, drawing out soft moans that seemed to intoxicate him further.

Each gentle thrust of his fingers, each flick of his tongue was filled with growing intensity, a desire that seemed to drive him to bring you closer and closer to release. His face, now completely flushed, showed a newfound hunger as he became entirely engrossed in every moan

Your body tensed as Satoru’s fingers curled inside you, pressing perfectly against that sensitive spot, his mouth still worshipping your clit with a relentless rhythm. The pleasure built rapidly, each movement of his fingers and every flick of his tongue intensifying the sensation until it became overwhelming.

Your breath hitched, and you felt yourself teetering right on the edge. “Satoru… I’m close…” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. He looked up at you, his eyes darkening with both determination and awe, as if he couldn’t believe he was the one bringing you to this point. Encouraged, he kept going, maintaining that steady pace, his fingers pumping and curling with just the right pressure, his mouth warm and relentless against your clit.

Your body arched, and the pleasure surged through you in a powerful wave. A gasp escaped your lips, turning into a cry of pure ecstasy as you reached your climax, your body trembling under his touch. Satoru didn’t stop, his fingers and mouth working you through every second, letting you ride out the pleasure fully, his gaze fixed on you, captivated by every reaction.

He slowed only as he felt your body begin to relax, his fingers gradually easing their rhythm until they finally stilled. His lips pressed one last, tender kiss against your clit before he withdrew his hand. You watched, breathless, as he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, savoring every taste as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Pussy’s so sweet,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a mix of awe and raw need thickening his tone. His pupils were blown wide, his face covered in the remnants of your release, and he made no effort to hide his pleasure, licking his lips, his tongue tracing over the faint glisten left on his chin. “Want more…” he breathed, voice low and desperate, as if even this closeness wasn’t enough to satisfy the pull he felt toward you.

With a shuddering breath, he shifted, his hands moving to his briefs, and without hesitation, he slid them off, tossing them somewhere off the bed. He wrapped a hand around himself, giving a few slow, steady strokes, his own arousal now fully bared before you.

You couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped your lips as you took him in. He was big—thicker and longer than you’d expected, his arousal flushed with a deep, heated pink at the tip, beads of precum already forming and trailing down along the pale, veined length. The sight alone made you clench in anticipation, a mix of nerves and longing swirling within you.

Satoru looked down at you, his cheeks and chest flushed, the intensity in his eyes making him look almost dazed, drunk on the need coursing through him. “Can’t… can’t wait any longer—” he murmured, a slight tremor in his voice. He leaned closer, his tip brushing against your clit in a teasing tap, smearing his precum around your entrance.

“Please,” he whispered, almost as if pleading. “Please… let me… I need to feel you. Need to be inside…”

You felt his desperation in every word, his restraint fraying with every second that passed. His gaze held yours, dark and pleading, and you gave him a soft nod, granting him the permission he so earnestly sought.

“Please…” he whispered again, positioning himself carefully, his gaze never leaving yours, even as he slowly began to press forward, inch by aching inch.

A shiver ran through Satoru as he began to sink into you, every inch he pressed forward met with a quiet gasp or soft sigh that only seemed to make him more desperate. He moved slowly, his gaze fixed on your face as if wanting to memorize every reaction. The stretch was intense, his thickness filling you in a way that had you curling your fingers into the sheets, and he took his time, his movements careful and deliberate as he entered you.

“God—” he whispered, a tremor in his voice as he tried to keep his control, his brows knitting together in concentration. His hands found your hips, gripping firmly but gently, anchoring himself as he slid further. He exhaled shakily, and his breathing turned ragged, his lips parting as he lost himself in the feeling. “Feels so good…*hic* better than I imagined—” he murmured, almost to himself, as if he couldn’t believe he was actually inside you.

As soon as Satoru pressed fully inside you, he froze, his whole body tensing as if he’d been struck by lightning. The heat, the way your walls clung to him, warm and tight, had his eyes fluttering shut, his head falling back in pure, unfiltered bliss. A deep groan escaped his lips, raw and needy, and he gripped your hips so tightly you could feel the tremor in his fingers.

“Fuck—” he choked out, his voice thick, barely coherent, as he tried to process the overwhelming sensation. His head dropped forward, gaze dazed, his pupils blown wide as he looked at you, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was feeling. “So… s’ fucking tight,” he muttered, almost in disbelief, his words catching as his hips gave an involuntary thrust. “God—you’re… clenching around me so perfectly—”

You felt his fingers digging into your hips as he rocked into you again, the motion instinctive, almost primal. His restraint shattered in an instant, and he began moving with a newfound hunger, his hips snapping against yours with an intensity that had his head spinning. Each thrust made his eyes flutter, his lips parting as he gasped for breath, his mind barely able to focus on anything but the sensation of you wrapped around him

He buried himself deeper, his pace turning relentless, desperate. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing over your skin as he panted, “Feel so fucking good, can’t—can’t stop…fuck!” He sounded wrecked, completely undone, his tone almost pleading as he kept moving, his rhythm wild and unrestrained.

Satoru’s eyes rolled back as he lost himself in the feeling, the pleasure flooding through him too intense to control. “Pussy’s so *hic* warm,” he slurred, his words muffled as his lips brushed over your skin, his hips pressing into you harder, needier, every sound you made only pushing him further. Each thrust felt deeper than the last, his breaths ragged, desperate as he surrendered completely, letting the sensation consume him.

Satoru’s movements became a frenzy, his hips snapping against yours with a desperation that was almost uncontrollable, his breathing erratic and voice reduced to hoarse groans. Every inch of you enveloped him in a warmth so tight that his composure shattered with each thrust, his hands gripping you as if afraid to let go.

“Fuck—can’t… can’t get enough,” he mumbled, his voice rough, eyes half-lidded as he stared down at you with a dazed, almost feral hunger. His mouth found yours, capturing your lips in a feverish kiss, messy and demanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he kissed you deeply. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath coming in heavy pants as he looked at you, captivated, overwhelmed.

Your moans and gasps only fueled him, every sound you made seeming to push him further over the edge. His hands roamed your body, fingers digging into your skin as he tried to pull you even closer, his thrusts rough but filled with raw need. “You feel… so fucking perfect,” he murmured, barely able to get the words out as his rhythm grew erratic, his hips moving instinctively as he chased the building pleasure that was consuming him.

Lost in the sensation, his pace faltered, his movements growing sloppier, more desperate. He pulled you tighter against him, his body shuddering with every thrust, his head falling to your shoulder as he let out a deep, broken groan, his voice strained and breathless.

“God… can’t… gonna come…soon” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and helplessness as he felt himself teetering on the edge, holding on only by a thread as he lost himself completely in the warmth of you.

With each thrust, Satoru’s body trembled, his breath hitching as he felt himself nearing that precipice. The warmth enveloping him tightened further, the way your walls pulsed around him driving him wild. His movements grew more frantic, instinct taking over as he chased the overwhelming pleasure coursing through him.

“Please—please..” he gasped, desperation lacing his words as he quickened his pace, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the room. He was lost, intoxicated by the feeling of being inside you, and it was as if everything else faded away. The world outside ceased to exist; it was just the two of you, tangled together in a whirlwind of passion.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, the heat pooling in your core intensifying with every movement. “S’toru… yes—yesss just like that,” you encouraged, your voice breathy as you matched his rhythm, pushing him closer to the edge. Your words seemed to ignite something primal within him, and he let out a deep, guttural growl, thrusting into you with abandon.

“Fuck—so good… you’re so good,” he gasped, his eyes rolling back again as he felt the pleasure building rapidly, tension coiling tightly in his belly. Every sound you made, every gasp and moan, drove him closer to madness. He could feel the pressure mounting, an almost unbearable intensity that threatened to consume him completely.

“I can’t hold back much longer,” he warned, his voice low and strained, nearly a whine as he fought against the overwhelming need to release. “I want to feel you—want you to feel me…”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you completely, his body shaking as he let go, pleasure crashing over him like a tidal wave. “Oh—fuck!” he cried out, his voice echoing with a mix of ecstasy and disbelief as he came, filling you with warmth. His body quaked with the intensity of his release, and in that moment, everything faded into pure bliss, leaving only the two of you tangled together, breathing heavily in the aftermath

As the waves of pleasure began to fade, Satoru’s breath came in uneven gasps, his eyes still glazed with the aftereffects of the ecstasy he’d just experienced. He looked down at you, the warmth of your bodies still mingling, and a sudden thought struck him—a spark of wild desire that seemed to take over his senses.

“Marry me,” he blurted out, the words tumbling out with an urgency that surprised even him.

Your eyes widened, momentarily caught off guard. “Wha—what?” you stammered, disbelief flickering across your face.

“I know it’s crazy since we just met, but… you’re just—so amazing, and I don’t wanna let you go! That was—” he hesitated, a dreamy look crossing his face as he recalled the sensations. “Your pussy’s s‘ good. I can’t just… I can’t just walk away from this. I don‘t want anyone else now..”

You let out a soft laugh, a mixture of incredulity and amusement bubbling up inside you at his unfiltered honesty. What is happening? you thought, still trying to process the whirlwind of events that had brought you here. “You don’t even know my name!” you exclaimed, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I don’t need to know,” he replied, leaning closer, his eyes half-lidded with that intoxicating mix of lust and affection. “I just know you’re incredible. It’s like—like fate or something. I want you to be mine, like— forever.”

His words, though impulsive, were laced with sincerity, and you could see the way his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, even as excitement radiated from him. This is insane, you thought, but there’s something so genuine about him. “You’re serious?” you asked, searching his eyes for any trace of jest, but the sincerity in his gaze was unmistakable.

“Dead serious,” he confirmed, his expression earnest but still slightly dazed, the effects of what had just transpired clearly clouding his thoughts. “I don’t want to waste any time… so, uh, what do you say?” His voice wavered slightly, betraying his nervousness despite the confident facade he tried to maintain.

Could this really be happening? you thought, your heart racing at the idea of such an impulsive commitment. You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest at his unexpected proposal. “Alright, let’s see where this goes, Prince,” you replied teasingly, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. “But you better be ready for more than just this.”

“Y-yeah! Totally!” he stuttered, his enthusiasm shining through the haze of lust. “I’m all in. Just… just tell me your name, and I promise to be the best husband ever.”

© fvsm4x : do not translate, plagiarise or steal my work.

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of this poly fae 141 x human reader (different take)) cw: bittersweet

The palace breathes for you.

It bends around you like soft wind around reeds, gently guiding your dazed steps through moonlit corridors and blooming halls. Time has no anchor for you anymore. Some mornings, you wake to suns that burn blue instead of gold, moons that double and chase each other through the sky. But it doesn’t matter, because the castle knows where you are meant to be even if you don’t.

When you rise, the curtains part without a hand to touch them. They sigh open like petals, letting soft light bathe the velvet floor. Your robe- light as spider’s silk- slide from their hooks on their own, floating to wrap around your body with reverent care. Your slippers are waiting at the side of your bed when you swing your legs over. They’ve been warmed by the hearth, and when your toes slide in, the threads whisper your name back to you in tiny, enchanted stitches.

The walls pulse faintly with warmth when you pass, as if the stone itself loves you. the chandeliers above never burn too bright; their glow always softens when your gaze turns up, as though they remember you used to hate harsh light when you read.

A cluster of servants waits quietly at your chamber doors- not because they must, but because they care and they want to, and had eagerly offered to be of service when you’d requested your own chambers. Gentle-handed dryads with hair like woven moss, old pixie seamstresses who chatter softly in riddles, even a hulking troll-footman who ducks his head so low it scrapes the frame. They do not speak unless you speak first, for sometimes you forget words, and silence is a safer thing to carry.

Then, soak in a bath drawn by nymph-handmaidens who speak in ripples and laughter, though mirror clouds when you stare too long- it doesn’t want to upset you, doesn’t want you to see how much time has tried to touch you, even when magic holds your youth like a fragile glass.

Today, your steps take you toward the gardens. The floor glows faintly under your feet- not because it needs to, but because the castle thinks maybe it helps you find your way. Everything- every stone, every breath- remembers you, even when you don’t remember yourself.

Or maybe you meant to go to the library. You aren’t sure- but the will-o-wisps know.

They flit ahead of you, little balls of mischievous light usually known for luring travelers into the woods until their bones turn to moss. But not you, never you.

They hover like faithful stars orbiting the sun, bobbing through the air with a delighted hum, zigzagging ahead in slow trails so your wandering feet follow the right turns. They tinkle like laughter when you stumble near a wrong archway and dart to the correct one instead.

You find yourself in your garden, after all, where the gardeners wait. Not the usual ones- no, the Queen's Garden has been assigned only to the most trusted now. A century-old elf in gloves of woven bark, a dryad who grows her own apron from her chestnut branches, and even a silent golem of moss and marble who only speaks in scents. They have trimmed the hedges into soft spirals and arranged the blooms into delicate mosaics.

Today, they have laid out a path of starpetals- tiny, glimmering flowers that shimmer faintly under moon or sun. Once, long ago, they were your favorite.

But now-

“I don’t like those.” You murmur as you pass, staring at the trail.

The golem stills, the elf looks up sharply, and the dryad tilts her head, concerned.

Kyle, who’d been a quiet shadow just behind you from the moment you stepped out of your chambers, slows his steps. “You always used to ask for them,” he says gently. “Had us plant ‘em everywhere your shadow touched.”

You frown. “… I don’t remember that. I don’t like them.”

“It’s alright,” he says after a short pause, and offers you his arm. “We can pick new ones. Whatever you like, love.”

You nod, but you don’t take his arm. Your fingers drift toward the flowers, brushing one before you turn away again.

Later, as your thoughts begin to drift again, the flowers are gone without fanfare. By the time you return to the courtyard, it is filled with soft white ferns and wandering frost-ivy that glows faintly in the dusk.

The castle heard you. It always does.

You wander deeper into the woods near the edge of the palace, where the magic gets older, thicker- where even the bravest guards rarely step.

A warm breeze carries the scent of jasmine and crushed duskberry petals. The patient trees sing here not with voices, but with the rustle of knowing leaves, always parting to give you gentle shade or letting sunlight filter through just when you like it.

There stands a shadow that heralds the first whispers of death.

Thrain.

The phantom stag, horned and enormous. He stands between two trees gnarled by age and shaped like reaching hands, his antlers scraping the sky, mist curling around his hooves.

But for you?

He bows his head.

You smile and reach for him as if you’ve done it every day of your life- and maybe you have. Maybe there’s no need to remember if the body still knows. And he lets you pat the velvet between his antlers, lowering his massive head so you can nuzzle your cheek against him. His body radiates cold like the mountain peaks, but it doesn’t sting. It soothes. Your hands slip into the thick mist of his mane, and you close your eyes.

You nap there, nestled against the beast feared by all.

When you stir again, you’re no longer alone.

“Thought we’d find you here.” Gaz murmurs, his voice quiet like the wind between reeds. He kneels beside you, offering his usual steaming cup- tea brewed with memory-moss and lemon-pearl leaves.

You drink. You always do, when he brings it.

“You missed lunch.” Simon says gently. He’s seated on a nearby root, his mask still on, though you know his eyes soften when he looks at you.

Johnny is already braiding moonflowers into your hair, humming a fae tune that turns the leaves brighter with every note. He doesn’t say much, just keeps you close with the warmth of his touch.

You blink slowly at them, still a bit sleep-soaked. “…Thrain didn’t want me to leave.”

“Aye, well,” Johnny grins. “He’s protective, tha’s all. You’ve got everyone wrapped ‘round yer little finger, haven’t you?”

Your head droops again. The fog curls soft around your thoughts. But then- you feel it; the weight of a gaze like a promise, like a spell woven in devotion.

John.

You don’t turn, but you feel him draw near. You always do, always will. His presence thrums like a second heartbeat in your chest, steady and storm-deep. He places a warm hand on your back, the other sliding under your legs as he lifts you into his arms.

“Time for rest, love,” he murmurs into your hair, the crown of your head. “You’ve wandered far enough for today.”

Thrain snorts, mist coiling between his antlers, but does not follow. He only watches as your husband carries you back into the palace, trailed by your silent protectors and glowing will-o-wisps.

“I don’t like the starpetals,” you say again, feeling the need to inform him. “They make me sad.”

His steps falter once, but then he is gently pulling you closer, his forehead against yours. “We’ll find new flowers, then,” John whispers. “And you can love them for the first time. As many times as you need.”

And the castle sighs with peace. Its walls bend again, opening the path home.

P3

[killthemwithyourawesome]

Phoenix Dining Room Enclosed Mid-sized minimalist travertine floor and beige floor enclosed dining room photo with gray walls and no fireplace

[aleksatia]

🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.” 

A pause. 

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

 “—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin. 

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

[rowdydevs]

+18 -> smut | rafe comes and visits the reader on a business trip in vegas

𝓼𝓾𝓫𝓒𝓔𝓞!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓻!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: sub!rafe x dom!reader, lap dance, semi public unprotected p in v in a private room, teasing, pet names, begging, dirty talk, rough sex + ⚠︎ cross-posted on my nhl account ⚠︎

2.4K

Club Mystique is different… That’s the world you move through every night. No sticky floors or strobe lights: velvet booths, chandeliers, private rooms. The kind of place where the air smells like rich cologne and champagne, and every glance costs something.

The nights are always good. The tips are heavy; the men, eager. But none of them matter, not when he’s in town.

He only comes a few times a year whenever he’s in town for a conference or a big meeting. The door swings open, and there he is. His hair is perfectly tousled, sharp blue eyes catching everything—and a mouth that knows exactly how lethal it is when it curves into that lazy smirk.

He wears the hell out of a suit—rich maroon tonight, tailored to his athletic body. His shirt is undone just enough, the faintest line of tanned chest visible beneath, the glint of a thick gold chain.

He’s every inch the powerhouse—the kind of man people watch from a distance, the kind you don’t touch. Unless you’re you.

He finds his spot, always the same private room, tucked deep in the back. He orders a bottle of champagne, something expensive, something he’s hoping to share with you, and then he waits

The second you pull back the curtain, his tension unspools. You feel his beautiful eyes on you—burning and reverent—like he flew out here for you and you alone.

When you reach him, his cocky veneer is already gone. It’s almost sinful, how fast he softens for you. His breath catches when you touch him, fingers twitching, desperate to reach for you but careful not to overstep.

“Hi, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low enough to melt right through you. Before you can answer, his hands are already sliding around your waist. Rafe’s big, warm palms drawing you nearer. He pulls you in, slow and careful, savoring it.

His face dips close—so close you feel the whisper of his breath against your mouth, and you know if you leaned in even an inch, he’d kiss you. He wouldn’t even think twice. But you don’t, not yet.

Instead, you let him hold you, let him get drunk on it, the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips, the way your body curves into his.

He exhales against your temple, arms tightening just a little like he never wants to let go, and you know why. Because once he does, everything becomes transactional; a performance, dancing, teasing, touching without touching.

‘No hands Rafe’… Those dreaded three words. Not until he’s broken for you. Not until his whole body aches with it, cock straining against his designer slacks, so desperate he’d give anything just for the privilege of feeling you again. But he loves it.

You dance for him and only him moving in slow motions that have nothing to do with performance and everything to do with control. Every step, every glance is deliberate. Meant to bring him to the very edge and leave him there, trembling for you.

He watches you like a starving man, body rigid with restraint. His big hands grip the edges of the seat, white knuckling the armrests, every muscle in his big body pulled taut because you haven’t given him permission to touch you.

You trail your fingers over him—slow, featherlight touches over his broad chest, his powerful thighs, the thick muscles straining under his clothes.

Rafe’s body shudders when you skim the chain resting against his chest, the way his cock throbs when you lean in close enough to whisper, “Good boy.”

His breathing gets rougher, heavier, the longer you play with him. Little, broken noises start escaping him—soft whines, low desperate sounds that make you smile because you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

He’s begging without words. Begging with every shake of his hands, every twitch of his hips, every desperate glance he throws you like maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally let him have you.

“You’re…” He breathes, eyes glassy, voice breaking, “…You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” The praise spills out of him helplessly thick. “I’ve been counting down the days… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want anything else, just—” He cuts himself off with a ragged inhale, desperate and breaking right in front of you. “Please, baby. Please let me take care of you.”

You smile wickedly, rewarding him for being so sweet, sliding into his lap, settling the weight of you right over the thick, aching cock straining against his pants.

You can feel him throb under you; hear the way he gasps at the contact holding his breath to keep those needy sounds inside. Still, you don’t let him touch.

You peel off his suit jacket yourself, slipping it from his broad shoulders, baring the strength of him inch by inch.

You take your time undressing yourself too, moving slowly, making a show of it, letting him suffer with how much he wants to reach for you. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, twitching, desperate, but he’s good. He’s so, so good.

You turn, grinding back against him, feeling the hard, desperate throb of him through his slacks. You take his big, trembling hands in yours, dragging them up your body, over your waist, up your ribs, to your bare breasts.

He groans—low and loud—pressing his big palms against you. You feel him moan against your shoulder; feel the way his whole body shudders under your touch.

He tucks himself into the curve of your neck, taking in your scent, breathing you in. His big hands knead you, twisting your nipples between his fingers, squeezing you tight.

You feel his lips drag along your skin, the man dying to kiss you but knows better. He wouldn’t dare, not without permission. His need thrums through him, bleeding out in every broken breath and trembling of his fingers against your skin.

He groans, low and gruff, clutching you like he might fall apart without the feel of you under his hands. He buries his face against your neck, mouthing at your skin without kissing.

You start to move against him—slow and sinful—grinding your hips in lazy circles that drive him insane. He tries to stay still but his body betrays him, hips rocking slightly to meet your movements, his body quivering underneath you.

His cock throbs, pushing against the fine fabric separating you, the rough pads of his thumbs catching along the rhinestone straps on the hips of your panties. You can hear the starved sounds he’s trying to swallow—the mumbled praise as his lips ghost across your bare skin.

You lean in, dragging your mouth slow and hot along the line of his jaw, your breath feathering across his ear making him turn into you, urging him closer without physically pulling him in, your body like a magnet.

“Show me how you’d fuck me,” you whisper.

He grips your hips harder, guiding you, grinding you against the thick, pulsing length of him. Leading you to ride him exactly how he dreamed you would.

You can see him picturing it now—how it would feel to slide inside you. How you’d tighten around him, soak him, break for him.

“Just let me feel you. Please. Let me feel how wet you are on me,” he groans.

You trail your fingers down between your bodies, popping the button on his slacks with one flick, making him moan in anticipation.

You drag the zipper down next, feeling the thick, desperate heat. Rafe lifts his hips instinctively, helplessly—offering himself up. And fuck is he big, heavy and flush, leaking at the tip as his cock slaps against his stomach.

You slide your thong aside, feeling your own slickness coat your thighs, and lower yourself, not taking him inside, resting your soaked pussy against the thick, throbbing length of him.

He shudders so violently you feel it vibrate through both of you. “Please,” he rasps, voice shaking, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

You tease him, leaving his pleas unanswered, rolling your hips slow and steady, grinding your soaked pussy up and down the length of his cock, dragging you wet slick all over him.

He whimpers under you every time you pass over the sensitive head. You can feel how badly he’s holding back; how close he is to losing it without even being inside you. You lean down, sucking along his neck, dragging your teeth lightly across his pulse point.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmur against his skin. He chokes on a whimper, his hands trembling where they grip your hips. “You’re so pretty when you're desperate,” you breathe as you grind down a little harder, drawing another pathetic groan from deep in his chest.

“So big…” you murmur, almost to yourself, letting your fingers lightly trace his pulsing vein along the top as you lean closer, lips dusting over his ear. “Would you even fit inside me?”

“I want that more than anything,” he gasps. “Whatever you want. However you want it. Just—” He cuts off with a shuddering whimper, “—just the tip. Please. Please, baby.”

You stay poised above him, letting the moment stretch on, grinding against him again, letting him feel exactly how ready you are. You lift your hips, circling them just above where you would be if you sunk down on him and he knows it.

He grabs himself in his fist, lip tucked between his teeth, jerking himself a few times with his eyes locked on the place between your thighs he dreams about ruining.

You lower yourself, until the fat, leaking head of his cock slips inside. The stretch is brutal in the best possible way, your ears flooded with his gasps; his whole body locked up like he’s fighting the urge to fuck up into you.

His fingers dig into your hip, desperate to hold you there, and you do, watching as he fights for his life under you.

You roll your hips just once—slow and shallow—and a moan rips from his broad chest. “Is that all you wanted?” You tease and he shakes his head frantically because of it. You smile wickedly, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Tell me what you want, baby—”

“I want to be buried inside you,” he cuts you short and swallows hard. “Please. All the way. I need it. I need you.”

You lean in, mouth brushing his ear. “Why don’t you take it?” The second the words leave your mouth, he moves, frantic and desperate. Thrusting up into you so hard, it knocks the air out of your lungs—his thick cock stretching you so messy and wide it punches a gasp out of both of you.

He doesn’t stop, thrusting up into you like he’s been waiting for this forever. Every sharp snap of his hips rocks you deeper, drives him further into you, until you swear you can feel him in your guts.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the private room, mixing with his low moans and your fucked-out cries.

You’re gripping him now, fluttering around his cock with every hard thrust as your thighs start to shake. Your nails dig into his shoulders; into the solid muscle of his back.

You’re close. So close you can barely breathe and he feels it. Feels the way your body clutches at him, trying to pull him deeper, begging for it without words.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “So fucking good for me. Cum for me, please. Please.” His thumb finds your clit, pressing down, circling rough and fast, dragging you closer to the edge with every touch. “I need it, baby,” he begs.

You crash over the edge with a loud cry, your whole body seizing up around him. Your pussy clamps down so hard he can barely compose himself, two rough thrusts til he’s spilling inside you, his cock throbbing with every pulse of his orgasm.

Rafe clutches you to him, burying his face against your neck, groaning your name as he emptied himself inside. The heat of him floods through you, leaking out around where you’re still joined. He doesn’t stop moving right away, still grinding up into you in slow, shaky thrusts—like he needs to make sure you get all of it out, every last drop.

You let yourself melt into him as your ears ring in the aftershock of your orgasm, the club music outside the private room fading to nothing.

Finally, when he can breathe again, you feel him shift, pushing tender kisses along your shoulder, your throat, the curve of your jaw. Thankful with his touch like he can’t believe after all this time you let him have this.

You cup his jaw, tilting his face up to yours. You brush your thumb across his bottom lip, slow and sweet. He smiles; that sinful smile that tell you everything you could ever want to know and more but still you ask nonetheless, “how was that, baby?”

He chuckles dizzily, tossing his head back as a blush creeps across his cheeks. “So fucking good, pretty…”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

He lets you go with a soft, reluctant groan, watching you like you just ripped his heart out and he’s thanking you for it.

Rafe straightens his suit as best he can, running his fingers through his hair as you fix his tie for him, smoothing it down with a little smile.

You can tell he doesn’t want to leave, not really. But he knows the rules, he knows he got to break them, and he wasn’t going to push it. You kiss his lips, soft and sweet, lingering in a way that lets him know this can’t be the last time. And for him, it won’t be. He disappears into the golden haze of the club without looking back.

You walk back to the table, your legs trembling still, opening the leather check holder. You look down at the tab; a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you see the charge for the private room and the time spent; the bottle of Louis Roederer you shared. Nothing more.

You could have charged him anything and he would’ve paid it, but you didn’t. He tucked next to the thick stack of cash—ten times what the night was worth—a room key, his phone number, and a note…

@rafesthroatbaby | @matthewssweetheart | @slut-4-rafey | @blair-bears-blog | @iikximii | @akobx | @gri959 | @misatxox | @ch4rrykisses | @st8rkey | @laniirackssss | @barnesboo1967 | @justdamnpeachy | @dylsdaily | @rafesapprentice | @rafesheaven | @my-name-is-baby | @wtfisastiles | @skye-44 @romaescapes | @anothershorthuman | @rafeslovergirly | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @v3n1ce-bxtch | @maybankslover | @theater-bitch | @frankoceanluvr11 | @rcameronlova1 | @lhhlver | @yourmomdotcom42069 | @cameronsprincess | @kdoll-7 | @angelicameron | @imsiriuslyreal | @alphabetically-deranged | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @hyperfixationgirl | @faephoria | @wtfdudesblog | @rafesdoll | @yasmin-oviedo | @lizzysmith110 | @ietss | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @lilithblackkk | @premiumshitt | @littlelamy | @dulcescorderitas | @prettybabyyyy | @star017 | @hannieskzzz | @biascriptum | @laylalovesbmth | @aris-void | rafesbabygirlx

[reilemon]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch. 1

Chapter Title ♥︎ Down The Rabbit Hole ♥︎ ch.2 𓂂 ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: A simple foraging trip takes an unexpected turn when you wake up in a mansion hidden deep in the forest. Now four captivating men are nursing you back to health, but their intentions—and identities—are a mystery.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

♡︎ cw: depictions of head injury and fever

♡︎ tags: vampire au, slow burn (-ish), eventual romance, eventual smut, eventual polyamory

♡︎ word count: 4.3k

♡︎ a/n: the first chapter of the sixth and final story for kinktober 2024. I wanted to finish off kinktober with a gang bang, but I got carried away and now this is going to be a multi chapter story. I hope you'll like this one.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

"Poor little bunny." The blue eyed man coos as he find the source of the sudden loud noise - you. The clumsy human probably slipped and fell when the sky opened and heavy rainfall started. He carefully scoops you in his arms, with your head resting on his shoulder.

A small whine barely hits his ears and he catches the moment you briefly gain consciousness. He softly chuckles when he hears your silly question before passing out again. He ignores how a little of your blood is mixing with the rain on the fabric of his coat and starts walking away.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆���ྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your eyes flutter open, heavy and bleary. You adjust slowly to the dimness around you, the fireplace in front of your bed the only source of light. The ceiling looms high - a ceiling you don’t recognize. The walls are covered in wallpaper, worn and peeling in places. You don’t recognize that wallpaper either. The royal purple catches the dim firelight, a color you could never possibly afford.

You shift against the bed beneath you, the silk sheets cool and smooth against your skin. Over you is a heavy wool blanket, its weight like a comforting presence. A low groan escapes your lips as you rise and rest on your elbow. The room is beautiful, with expensive furniture, but there is this dormant energy to it.

You glance at the thick velvet curtains covering the window. The sliver peeking in the corner shows you a glimpse of the outside world. It’s nighttime, the downpour relentless, drops thrumming against the glass.  

‘The rain!’

You sit up abruptly, a sharp pang of pain zapping through your skull, making you wince and press your fingers to your temple. Your fingers try to rub the pain away as you lean on your other arm to rest. Right, the rain. After closing up the bookstore, you've gone to the forest to search for some mushrooms and sweet chestnuts. A hearty dinner and sweet dessert would be a great start of your two week long vacation. The last visitor commented how their elbow hurt which meant a thunderstorm is coming. You politely smiled and packed up their books. You should've listened to their elbow.

Now, staring around this unfamiliar room, unease twists in your stomach.

‘Where the hell am I?’

Right on cue, the door creaks open, and a tall, raven haired man steps into the room. He pauses in the doorway as his eyes meet yours.

“Hello,” he says, his voice smooth and deep. “How are you feeling?”

You swallow, his presence suddenly making you aware of the mess you must look. Embarrassment prickles your skin, and you rub your temple, trying to compose yourself, only to see his brows knit with concern.

“Um, I’ve been better,” you manage, forcing a chuckle. The grogginess in your voice doesn’t help the embarrassment. You smooth a hand over the blanket, feeling a little exposed. “Why am I here?”

“My friend found you,” he explains, “Out in the forest, just before the storm. You most likely slipped on the mud and hit your head.”

He nods towards your forehead, then reaches for a small, gold hand-mirror resting on the bedside table. The antique metal glints softly as he holds it, and you take it with a hesitant hand. As you lift it to inspect your reflection, you catch a small bruise just above your brow, the skin tender and slightly swollen. Considering the circumstances, you think, it could’ve been much worse.

The man, whose name you still haven’t learned, clears his throat. “I was the one who changed you into dry clothes,” he shifts in his seat, averting his gaze briefly before meeting your eyes again. “For that, I apologize. I wouldn’t have done it if there were any other choice.”

You shake your head with a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really. If you hadn’t, I’d probably be shivering with pneumonia right now.”

His expression softens with relief. “I’m glad you understand. I would still like to listen to your lungs, Would you be comfortable with me examining you?” then he adds, “I’ve been in the medical field for quite some time, I assure you.”

Something about his demeanor, calm and controlled, makes him look trustworthy. And considering how thoroughly he must have tended to you—removing every speck of mud, leaving you dry and warm in a comfortable bed—it’s clear he has your wellbeing in mind. You nod. “Of course.”

He gives a curt nod and shifts closer to the bed. “You don’t need to do much, just sit as comfortably as you can,” he murmurs, the calm, low timbre of his voice steadies you. The shirt you wear—a loose button-up clearly meant for a man—hangs loosely over your shoulders, open at the collar. Suddenly, you feel the pulse of your own heartbeat, wondering if he might hear it already. His hand moves lightly over the fabric, as he leans closer, and then he places his ear gently against your chest, just above your heart.

The moment feels both entirely professional and so intimate. You tell yourself that this is completely normal, this is the usual routine. But he is not your doctor, and you can’t shun the butterflies you feel from having a handsome stranger resting his head on your chest. His hair, thick and dark, grazes your collarbone as he listens, his breath warm against your skin. Your heartbeat, which you’re certain must be thudding wildly beneath his ear, betrays you, a deep flush creeping up your cheeks as you try to steady yourself.

“Breathe in deeply for me,” his voice a soft murmur, his cheek brushing against you.

You comply, feeling his presence with every rise and fall of your chest. When he shifts, his head moves closer to your collarbone, the tickling brush of his hair sending a wave of goosebumps along your chest. You’re conscious of every small movement, every slight intake of his breath.

He shifts back a little, his hand grazing your shoulder as he adjusts to press his ear against your back. “One more time,” his tone is still composed, though you’re unsure if you catch a hint of restraint.

You breathe in, slowly, deeply, feeling the warmth of his palm on your shoulder. He holds still for a moment longer, listening intently. Then, he slowly pulls back, settling into his seat with a neutral expression.

“You do have a small fever,” he calmly states. “Although, there are no signs of anything serious.” He offers a faint, almost apologetic smile. “You should lie back down and rest.”

Your cheeks are warm, and not just from the fever. You nod and do as you’re told, sinking under the comforting weight of the blanket. The man briefly explains that you were unconscious for around two hours, and that your clothes are being washed.

You nod again, processing the details. “Thank you… that’s all very considerate of you.”

He offers you a faint smile. “It’s the least we could do.”

He rises from his seat and steps toward the door, his hand resting on the brass knob. “I need to check on my friend in the kitchen. There may be a fire to manage. And I’ll bring you some herbal tea.”

You chuckle. “Well, thank you, Dr…?”

A flicker of amusement lights his eyes as he opens the door, pausing for a moment. “Just call me Zayne.”

You tell him your name in return, and with that, he’s gone with the soft click of the door.

After Zayne leaves, the room slips into an almost eerie quiet. You prop yourself up against the plush pillows, trying to get comfortable despite the persistent ache in your muscles and the dull throb in your head. The room feels larger now that you’re alone. Every detail catches your attention—the thick velvet drapes, the intricate patterns on the worn wallpaper, the faint smell of stale air. You’d get up to investigate the room or try to figure out more about where exactly you are, but your body protests with every small movement. So you have to settle for gazing around the space instead, picking out details you hadn’t noticed before. The furniture is old but well-kept, the kind that belongs in a property far grander than any home you’ve ever been in. This place—it’s not like the humble cottages back in your village. No, this is different. Larger. More isolated. Somewhere far from the familiar streets you walk every day.

A shiver crawls down your spine at the thought of how far away you could be from your home. You’ve never ventured beyond the edge of the forest. You’ve heard stories about the other side. It was always whispered between older folk who’d lived through enough strange events to keep their superstitions alive. Vampires, werewolves, creatures of the night. They’d mention them, always in passing, as though acknowledging them would draw something out of the shadows.

At first, you’d dismissed it. What else could it be but old folklore? Some scary tales to spice up their lives, stories passed down from generation to generation. Something for them to talk about when the nights grew long and dark, to keep the children from misbehaving. Those creatures don’t exist. You were certain of that.

Or, at least, you had been.

You replay the events in your mind, trying to make sense of it all. Zayne said that his friend found you unconscious in the woods. They’d brought you here, tended to your injuries, and kept you warm. His behavior had been nothing but kind, gentlemanly even.

But then, why does your skin prickle as you think of him?

What if he is one of them? The pale complexion, the unnerving quiet, the way he’d moved with such elegant grace. And those eyes... there was something about the way he looked at you. Your pulse quickens. You try to reason with yourself—if this man, Zayne, were a vampire, wouldn’t he have done something by now? You were unconscious and vulnerable. He could have easily taken advantage of that moment, but he hadn’t. He’d taken care of you.

But what if... what if this is all part of some darker plan? You swallow hard, trying to silence the growing paranoia. What if they want to keep you here? What if, right now, they’re simply playing a long game, to coax you to be their little blood doll—

‘Stop.’ You force yourself to take a deep breath, trying to calm your spiraling thoughts. There’s no proof, no reason to believe that Zayne—or anyone else—is anything other than a human.

You glance toward the window. Your body feels like lead at the moment, but tomorrow you will probably be well enough to leave. The storm can’t go on forever.

A sharp knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts.

"Come in," you manage, your voice wavering just a little.

Zayne steps in, balancing a tray of a delicate ceramic tea set. The gentle clink of porcelain against porcelain brings comfort to your senses. Behind him, another figure slips into the room��a man with handsome, soft features. His tousled, blonde-gray hair looks like it would be soft to the touch. And his eyes, though shadowed by the dim lighting, have a dreamy quality, like someone lost in thought.

A faint smell of something burnt drifts into the room, cutting through the soothing scent of the herbal tea. You can’t help but frown a bit at the scent, but neither man acknowledges it. Zayne places the tray on the small bedside table, the teapot steaming. The air feels warmer now, not just from the tea.

The second man steps forward, offering you a polite nod, “Hello.” he says, his voice silky and mellow. “I’m Xavier, the one who found you.”

His soft smile makes your heart stir. It takes you a beat to find your voice to introduce yourself.

“Thank you… for, well, rescuing me,” you say with a shy smile.

Xavier gives a gentle shake of his head, his smile widening. “Why were you so deep into the forest with a storm on the way?” he asks, his tone feels almost like teasing.

You chuckle nervously as you feel the faintest flush of embarrassment creep up your cheeks. “I – Well, I wanted to gather some things for dinner,” you admit. “It’s my first real break from work, and I may have gotten a little too excited.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, as if he’s trying to fully take you in.

“You’re lucky he was done fishing at the time.” Zayne adds as he hands you a cup of tea. His fingers brush lightly against yours as you accept it, deepening the flush on your cheeks. You are lucky to be here. Even though you’re sitting in a room with two men who are strangers, they still have cared for you with such tenderness. You could feel their warmth in every gesture, in every word. It’s hard to hold onto fear when faced with such care. Even now, you can feel yourself relaxing, the tension in your shoulders unwinding.

You take a sip of tea slowly, trying to mask the strange tide of emotions flooding through you. You had been so afraid, so convinced of something dark lurking beneath the surface. But now, in this quiet moment, with the warm tea in your hands and their watchful eyes on you, you feel strangely safe.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The clock on the mantel ticks softly, the brass hands showing it’s almost 1 a.m. The fire burns low, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. Your eyelids feel heavy now, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in your bones. You turn onto your side, pulling the duvet tighter, forming a cocoon around you. The warmth, the softness—everything lulls you closer to sleep. But your mind drifts, recalling the conversation with Xavier after he’d brought you dinner.

He’d placed the bed tray gently over your lap, making sure everything was within reach. Before he turned to leave, the sound of your voice stopped him.

“Did you manage to catch anything?” you asked, your voice quiet but curious.

Xavier had looked confused for a moment, then his face lit up with a soft smile. “I did. Fried a few, but Zayne didn’t let me serve it to you.” He chuckled. “Said he didn’t want you choking on a bone.”

You laughed too, the sound easing the leftover tension you’ve been holding. That explained the faint burnt smell that had lingered earlier, and why Zayne had to rush to the kitchen.

“And don’t worry,” he added. “I brought back your basket too. Everything’s intact.”

You were about to thank him, but then an image flashed in your mind—a fleeting memory of him, his hair wet and clinging to his face. The moment felt so vivid, so real, that it stopped you mid-thought. You stared at him, squinting slightly.

“What’s wrong?” His voice softened with concern, his brows furrowing.

You shook your head quickly, flustered for being caught staring. “Nothing… it’s just—did I say something to you?  When you found me?”

Xavier hesitated, his lips twitching as though trying to suppress a grin. He glanced to the side, his hand coming up to cover his mouth, but his eyes gave him away. “Oh no…” you said, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “Was it something embarrassing?”

“No,” he replied, though the gleam in his eye said otherwise. “It was cute.” He paused, then looked back to you, “You opened your eyes for a moment, and asked me, ‘Are you my prince?’ Then you passed out again.”

Your heart practically leapt into your throat, your face instantly flushing. “Oh, that’s definitely embarrassing,” you groaned.

Xavier laughed then, his voice soothing. “Don’t worry, I’ve been called worse.”

And just as you wished for the shadows to come alive and swallow you, Zayne entered, saving you from further humiliation. He brought you a bowl filled with ice and a cloth. You thanked both of them, adding that you planned to leave in the morning.

Their faces changed for a heartbeat when you said that, though you didn’t miss it. It wasn’t worry exactly, more like hesitation, as though they weren’t entirely convinced you would be gone by morning. Or perhaps… that they didn’t want you to be.

That thought lingered now, swirling in your mind as your body sank deeper into the mattress. Their kindness, their calmness—they made you feel safe, soothed the fears that had gripped you earlier. Yet, there was something unspoken between the three of you.

A sigh escapes your lips. You can feel sleep creeping over you, warm and heavy, pulling you under. The memory of Xavier’s reassuring smile and Zayne’s attentive gaze lingers in your mind, their faces blurring at the edges as your thoughts dissolve into a haze.

They are both so kind. And so handsome.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

A low whine escapes your lips before you even open your eyes. The ache in your body is heavy and relentless. Every muscle protests as you shift, but you force your eyelids open. The room is warm, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth. Someone must’ve light it while you were still asleep.

‘I said I’d leave in the morning.’ You glance over at the clock—it’s 11 a.m. That’s not really morning, but it is time for you to leave. If only you felt better.

You wince as you slowly, painfully, push yourself out of bed. Your legs feel weak, your body sluggish, like you’re moving through water. Every movement sends a wave of soreness through your bones, but you grit your teeth and push through. You don’t want to linger here any longer than you have to.

Grumbling under your breath, you stagger toward the door, your feet barely shuffling across the hardwood. You’re still dressed in the warm clothes Zayne gave you, though they feel a little too big now. You’ll just ask for your things and be on your way. You’ll return their clothes once you fully recover.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin as you open the door, the chill air of the hallway shocking your senses. It is completely quiet, only the soft creak of the floorboards under your slippers breaking the silence. More doors sit along the hallway, likely bedrooms as well. You glance at them briefly, but you step towards the staircase ahead. The polished mahogany wood gleams faintly, and you internally groan at the thought of making it down the steps in your current state.

You’re about to take your first step when—

“Hey!”

The voice comes out of nowhere, stopping you in your tracks. You freeze, your heart jumping in your chest as footsteps echo from above, growing louder as they approach. Turning, you find yourself face-to-face with a man descending the stairs. He’s tall and moves with an almost feline grace. His hair is gorgeous - messy curls of muted violet and his eyes, an unusual blend of blue and pink, are sharp and full of curiosity. His plump lips are pulled in an amused smirk.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is teasing, though there’s a touch of disapproval in it. His arms cross over his chest, as he takes in your disheveled state.

You blink at him, still trying to shake off the fog in your head. “I - I need to leave.”

He narrows his eyes, looking you up and down. “You should stay in bed,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

He is right, you do feel like you’re about to collapse, yet you can’t help but notice how striking he is. His hair, his eyes, even the way he moves—it’s all captivating. But you force those thoughts away, shaking your head slightly. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

He uncrosses his arms, offering a small smile that’s both charming and a little smug. “Oh, right. I’m Rafayel.” His voice dips slightly, your name falling from his lips. “I’m staying here too. Zayne told me what happened.”

You blink again, taken aback by how easily he says your name. You hadn’t expected to meet another guest in the house. “Rafayel,” you repeat.

He nods, brushing a hand through his unruly curls. “Yeah. I took care of your clothes. They’re drying in my room,” he adds. “It’s still raining, though, so they might take a while.”

At his words, you pause and listen. Sure enough, you hear the soft, steady patter of rain against the windows. You’d been so focused on leaving that you hadn’t even thought to check the weather. ‘Of course it’s still raining.’ You sigh inwardly, frustration and weariness settling in your chest.

“What about Zayne and Xavier?” you ask, hoping to at least get some help from them.

Rafayel smirks, shaking his head. “They’re sleeping.”

You frown. “Sleeping?”

“Yup,” he says with a shrug, almost dismissive.

Your mind races. You know why you are up so late, but why are they still sleeping. Your mind is about to wander to that corner again, but you stop yourself. ‘They must’ve been exhausted from taking care of an injured stranger.’

Still, the unease lingers. Rafayel’s gaze flickers over you, his eyes softening slightly as if sensing your discomfort. “Look,” he says, his voice gentler now, “you really don’t look like you’re in any shape to leave. Why don’t you rest a bit longer?”

You hesitate, your body aching with every breath, the fatigue weighing you down with each second. He’s right. You’re not ready to leave yet.

Rafayel’s eyes hold yours for a moment. “You’re safe here,” he adds softly.

Just as Rafayel is about to steer you back toward the bedroom, another voice cuts through the air, deep and teasing, with a velvety edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Is that the lost kitten?”

You look down the stairs, and there he is. The man who appears next makes the very air around you seem heavier. He’s taller than the other men, with strikingly sharp features. His white hair is tousled yet elegant, and his eyes - a deep, mesmerizing wine-red, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

Before you can even react, the man is standing right in front of you, his height towering over you. You can’t help but gawk, unable to stop yourself from tracing every detail of his sharp jawline, the way his lower lip looks so plump and soft.

Rafayel’s voice, sharp with annoyance, snaps you out of the trance. “You know her name, Sylus.”

But Sylus just smirks. He takes your hand, his fingers long and strong, enveloping yours completely. Your breath catches in your throat as the warmth from his touch sends heat rippling through your body. His hand is so much larger than yours, making you feel almost fragile in his grip.

“My name is Sylus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Your name drips from his lips, and he bends forward and presses a tender kiss to the back of your hand. The sensation of his cool lips against your flushed skin sends tingles across your arm. You can’t help but blush under the attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rafayel roll his eyes, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. “You’re shameless.” he mutters, though there’s a playful lilt to his voice.

Sylus simply laughs, a low, rich sound, before releasing your hand. With a light touch on your back, Rafayel guides you back toward the bedroom, his hand steady and firm against you. Sylus trails behind, watching with an amused expression.

When you’re back in the bedroom, Rafayel’s hands gently but insistently push you down by the shoulders, guiding you to sit back on the edge of the bed. “Seriously,” you protest, exasperated, “I feel better already! I don’t want to be a burden.”

Sylus leans lazily against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a smirk dancing on his lips as he watches the scene unfold. "You look much too cute to be any kind of burden, kitten," he says, his eyes fixed on you.

Before you can say anything else, Rafayel presses you back into the blankets, his firm but gentle insistence impossible to resist. As you sink back into the bed, Sylus pushes off from the door and approaches with an almost predatory grace. The teasing glint in his eyes fades slightly as he crouches beside the bed, his expression softening as his hand reaches out to press against your forehead. His touch is cool—no wonder, since the rest of the mansion is freezing—and the sensation sends a refreshing chill through your heated skin.

“You still have a fever.” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple.

Rafayel shakes his head, giving you a disapproving look. “See? You’re in no condition to leave. I’ll prepare you tea and breakfast.”

Your protests die on your lips as Sylus pulls away, his touch lingering on your skin. Both men turn around and leave before you can say anything else.

The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone once again. You sink deeper into the bed, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your thoughts swirl, still caught in the lingering effect of their presence. You turn on your side, facing the window, staring at the thick velvet curtains that block out the view of raindrops racing down the tall windows. As much as you want to leave, as much as you should leave, you know your body isn’t ready. The fever might not be severe, but it’s enough to weaken you. Slipping away now—especially into the woods with no clear path—feels like a death wish.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips. For now, the best option is to rest and regain your strength. You can’t deny how safe their presence makes you feel, even if you don’t fully understand why. Something about them pulls you in, something more than just their looks.

You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion pull you under.

[bjlipss]

the world is still.

you wake to silence—not the threatening kind, not the loaded pause before chaos, but a rare, quiet kind. the kind that feels like the pause between heartbeats, like something sacred. the kind you want to hold in your hands and keep.

and you wake in his arms.

levi’s arm is curled around your waist, firm but gentle, like even in sleep, he knows exactly where you are. like some part of him refuses to let go. his breath moves steady against the back of your neck—slow, soft, human. it’s a rhythm you don’t hear often from him, and it steals the breath right from your chest.

you don’t move.

not yet.

this is the first time you’ve had him like this—unguarded, unburdened, asleep beside you. this is the first time he let himself sleep with you. not in the next room. not sitting upright in a chair with a blade nearby. with you. and somehow, that feels more intimate than any kiss you’ve shared, more vulnerable than any word he’s ever spoken.

you shift just enough to see him.

and gods—you nearly forget how to breathe.

his face is turned slightly toward you, his hair mussed, his mouth relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache. the lines that normally cut sharp across his brow are smoothed out. there’s no scowl, no tightness, no walls.

just levi.

and in the half-light of dawn, he looks like something the heavens forgot to take back. not because he glows. not because he’s ethereal. but because he’s real—solid and sleeping and yours, just for this moment.

you want to trace your fingers along his cheek. you want to memorize the curve of his lashes, the faintest pink of his mouth, the way his breathing falters for just a second like he knows you’re watching. but you stay still.

you think to yourself, this man has killed monsters. and yet he holds me like i’m made of something rarer. he’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.

not in the way poets talk about stars. but in the way survivors talk about safety. in the way the earth talks to the sun, saying you found me again.

his hand twitches slightly in his sleep, fingers curling against your side.

and it hits you, suddenly, how rare this is.

you know levi. you know the walls he’s built. the battles he’s fought. the ghosts that sit with him when he thinks no one sees. and still—still—he chose to share his bed with you. his sleep. his silence. his peace.

you close your eyes for a moment and press your forehead gently to his.

you don’t say it out loud. not yet. but the words hover on your lips, trembling, fragile:

i love you. i love you. i love you.

outside, the sky begins to shift—colors bleeding in like watercolors on paper. soft gold, faint rose, pale blue.

a sliver of sunlight pushes through the curtains and finds his face, kissing the bridge of his nose, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. and something in him stirs.

his lashes flutter.

his eyes open, slow and unfocused, heavy with sleep.

you freeze.

and then—

he blinks, frowns faintly, and then his gaze finds yours. and the frown softens into something unreadable but warm, like mist catching the early sun.

“watching me, huh?” he murmurs, voice like gravel and velvet.

you smile, a little breathless. “only because you’re pretty.”

he huffs. barely. but you feel the way his arm tightens around you, just slightly. the way he leans in and presses the softest, sleep-drunk kiss to your hair.

“brat.” he mutters. but it’s not an insult. it’s a name that means i’m glad you’re here.

you nestle closer, tucking your face against the curve of his neck.

and levi exhales—like maybe he’s been holding his breath his whole life and only now lets it go.

you think again, overwhelmed with brewing affection, he’s the most precious thing i’ve ever touched.

and this time, you don’t keep the words in.

“i love you,” you whisper, so quietly you’re not even sure he hears it.

but then his hand finds yours under the covers.

and he whispers, “i know.”

like it’s the only thing in this world he’s sure of.

the room is still bathed in that early morning hush. the kind of silence that carries warmth, not loneliness. you stay like that for a while—curled into him, listening to his breathing shift from sleep to wakefulness, letting yourself believe that maybe this is what peace feels like.

but eventually, duty starts whispering at the door.

levi’s the first to move, of course. he always is.

he stretches a little, slow and stiff, like someone who never lets himself fully rest even in sleep. his body’s been at war for too long. you reach out instinctively, pressing your palm between his shoulder blades. a silent i know.

he glances back at you, and there’s something unbearably soft in his eyes.

“we’ve got fifteen minutes before they start knocking,” he says.

you sigh and sit up beside him, hair tousled, sleep still clinging to your lashes. “five more minutes to pretend we’re just normal people?”

he doesn’t answer with words. just leans over and kisses your temple like a promise. five minutes, then we armor up.

—

the two of you move through the morning in near silence, not because there’s nothing to say—but because everything is being said in the way he hands you your towel, the way your shoulders brush as you stand side by side in front of the small mirror.

you brush your teeth beside him, leaning against the chipped sink, watching in the reflection as he buttons up his shirt with quiet precision. his sleeves roll up halfway as he washes his face, water dripping from his jawline, eyes still sharp despite the hour. it’s ridiculous how beautiful he looks in the mundane.

you catch yourself staring. he notices. doesn’t comment—but you see the corner of his mouth twitch just slightly.

“you look good in the morning,” you say, voice muffled by your toothbrush.

he spits, wipes his mouth, gives you a look.

“you look like you got hit by a cart.”

you snort.

“a handsome cart,” you amend.

“tch.”

he reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness so careful it nearly undoes you.

“your hair’s a mess,” he murmurs, but there’s no bite in his voice. he is already reaching out for a comb at the edge of the sink, hand on top of your head as he urges you to turn around.

you laugh, breathless, and oblige, glancing at the reflection in the mirror once more to burn the sight into your mind. “yours too.” he tugs on a knot and you yelp, the sound quickly turning into giggling.

the teasing fades into comfortable silence again as you both return to the bedroom. the gear sits at the foot of the bed like armor waiting for its warriors. the reality of who you both are begins to settle back in.

your uniform lies folded at the edge of the bed—his beside it, neatly stacked. of course it is.

he pulls his shirt on first, then reaches for yours, offering it without a word. when you take it, your fingers brush, and his linger just a moment longer than necessary.

levi helps you first.

he steps behind you without being asked, fingers expertly sliding the harness into place across your shoulders. he fastens the buckles with silent focus, tugging here and tightening there, all the while brushing hair out of your face and smoothing the wrinkles in your collar.

his touch is precise. practiced. reverent.

“tight enough?” he asks.

you nod.

then it’s your turn.

you help him slide into his own gear, careful with the clasps. you tug his strap tighter than necessary just to hear him grumble, and he gives you a flat look in return—but you catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

his cape goes on last. yours, too.

and when you’re both fully dressed—when you’ve slipped back into your roles, no longer just lovers in the quiet but captains again—you both pause.

you face each other.

the room is quiet, but outside you can already hear the stirrings of the barracks. the scrape of boots, the distant bark of orders. your moment is closing.

so levi reaches for you first.

his hand slides behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, and he leans in to press one last kiss to your lips. it’s not hurried. it’s not frantic. it’s deliberate. like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. like he’s reminding you: i will always come back to this.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“come back in one piece.” he murmurs, barely audible.

“you too.” you whisper back. “or i’ll kill you.”

he huffs. “i don’t doubt it.”

you open the door together, and the light pours in.

outside, the world sees two soldiers. two leaders.

but beneath the green capes, the blades, the names—

are two hearts still beating for each other. quietly. fiercely.

and somewhere deep inside, both of you are already counting the hours until night falls again.

[creatchie8]

The First Daughter

Summary: Hopelessly in love with the agent assigned to protect you, you devise a plan to reveal his true feelings

Pairing: Secret Service!Robert Floyd/First Daughter!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minors DNI! Oral (F receiving), alcohol consumption

A/N: I got obsessed watching the 2004 film, First Daughter, and took lots of inspo from that movie. I'd love to have him sworn to protect me ;) (Not proofread, I wrote this speedy fast)

Word Count: 3,500ish

The two of you had been playing eye tag the whole night. 

And with every sip of the red wine you took, the more bold you became. Your cheeks felt warm as the alcohol slowly made your body buzz with excitement, ankles wobbling just a bit on the dancefloor in your red-bottomed heels. The orchestra that was hired played absolutely magnificently, the music changing between jazz and waltz, filling the (already full) large ballroom. 

Marvelous gold chandeliers basked everything in a soft, warm glow. The regality of it all took you back in time, you imagine this is what it would look like if you were a princess in the 1920s. The paintings of your forefathers adorned the walls along with rich brown velvet curtains, a perfect contrast to the light walls and columns. 

It was the second New Years with your mother as President, the first with Agent Robert Floyd by your side. 

Robert was younger- mid thirties, some modest Navy man looking to change his career path when he got assigned to you after completing his training at the JJRTC in South Laurel, Maryland. He was incredibly unassuming, following you around quietly as you went about your day at Harvard or home. 

How you ended up here at your mother’s party in DC trying to get a reaction out of the man, you don’t know. Maybe you were delusional, somehow you had convinced yourself that he felt something for you (love or lust, you didn’t know). It was the man’s job for god sakes, to follow you around and make you feel safe. You were not special to him in any way. 

Within the last five months though, it felt like one of those steamy romance slow burn books you are always hearing about on social media. Lately, his gaze lingered longer than it should have when the two of you were in private. He opened up more, responding in detail when you would ask him questions about his life instead of the short one word answers he used to give before analyzing your surroundings again. 

His voice was soft when he spoke to you, his hand finding your lower back like it was his own personal polar star when the crowd around you thickened. It was like the longer he was assigned to you the more his shell melted. Robert of course had time away from you, even as your agent he must eat and sleep. But when he would return and replace whoever was watching you before, he would ask to be caught up on when he was away. 

No agent had ever had interest in you like that before. 

You were probably just incredibly horny, being the President’s daughter doesn't get you much action, or at least not the kind you want. And you knew it was bad to want Robert Floyd, but somehow that made you desire him even more. 

The dress you were wearing tonight may or may not have been picked out with your agent in mind. Floor length and velvety black, the soft fabric smooth against your middle. A neckline that was perfectly flattering of your chest, a simple necklace sitting on top of your collarbones delicately but also working to help draw eyes to your cleavage. Surely modest enough for the gathering but eye catching for sure. 

He was stationed near a pair of opened doors, pressed against the wall in a neat black and white tuxedo, a metal american flag pinned neatly on his left lapel. It was standard dress for every agent that was there, but to you Robert stood out as by far the most handsome one. Light brown hair combed perfectly to the side. His blue eyes scanned the crowd in a zig-zag motion, stuttering and stopping on you when you were in view, his unique glasses glinting in the light. 

The whole night you had been inching closer, using the excuse of mingling to hop from table to table (intermittently being taken to the dance floor by your father or some diplomat's son) and closer to his door. At one point you looked up from where you were leaning on a table, catching his eyes. 

A few times tonight that had already happened only for him to look away swiftly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he straightened his shoulders. But this time he held your gaze, almost defensively as his brows furrowed the tiniest bit. He probably assumed you would take one for the team and back down first this time. But that second glass of wine you were halfway done with was leaving you valiant, his determination causing the side of your mouth to tick up the tiniest bit. 

The muscles in his jaw twitched as he admitted a silent defeat, flicking his eyes elsewhere. 

Never a rude host, you turned your attention back to the guest you were chatting with, letting her finish her story before politely excusing yourself elsewhere. With your clutch in hand and your wine abandoned at the table, you set off to the open door. With this newfound confidence you strut (albeit somewhat off balance) like you had every intention in the world to just leave for the bathroom and come back with no ulterior motive. 

But you like to think Robert knew you like the back of his hand, watching him bring his right arm up, speaking into the microphone in his sleeve. An agent still had not relieved him as you passed by, eyes forward even though in your peripheral you noticed his head turn to you. 

It wasn't until your heels hit the magnificent marble staircase that you heard his footsteps following you, echoing through the hall. Your left hand grabbed the front of the dress, hiking it well above your ankles as you climbed the stairs. Shockingly, there was no one loitering in this part of the building. Passing by a grandfather clock on the opposite wall you squint to make out the thin arms, concluding that it was in fact, almost midnight. The smell of pine lingered outside the ballroom, drifting into almost nothing the further you got. 

You had already passed by two bathrooms as you led Robert on a wild goose chase through the building, trying to find the perfect spot. He was beyond patient with you, finally caught up and only a few short steps behind. 

When you finally found what room you were looking for, you stopped short, letting his muscular body bump into yours before spinning around. Robert looked mortified, already stuttering beginnings of apologies as you grabbed the lapels of his jacket, thumb accidentally turning the pin askew before pulling him into the empty room (with remarkable force you might add). 

In a whirlwind of moving bodies you suddenly found yourself back against the closed door, that same mortified look on his face as he stood there trapped in the room. In the shuffle you had dropped your clutch near your feet, the beaded satchel slumped against the dark mahogany floor. 

The room was simple, a pool table in the center and a few chairs nestled close to the unlit fireplace. There was a bookcase somewhere in the room, hidden by the veil of darkness. The moonlight showed through two good sized windows on the wall facing you, his back illuminated by the light. 

“I thought you needed to go to the bathroom.” He stated, clearly confused as his brows furrow. You could barely see his face and it might've been the alcohol but you were falling hard. 

“I changed my mind.” You crossed your arms, body heavy against the great door. 

“You wanted to play…” He turned towards the pool table then back to you, “pool?” His eyes continue to search the room, mapping out his surroundings like he always does. 

Huffing at his lack of interest in you, you get straight to the point, “Robert, do you think I’m attractive?” It comes out brattier than you intend and you close your mouth with an audible click.

“What?” His attention is back to you in an instant, eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“I asked, do you think I’m attractive?” Repeating yourself, biting your bottom lip hard at your own boldness. It takes a few seconds for him to respond to you, opening and closing his mouth a few times while he processes your question. 

“Y-You're incapacitated, please let me help you back downstairs.” He says calmly, but you can see right through it. The mask he is putting on causes you to roll your eyes dramatically. Robert steps forward, hands outstretched to presumably grab your shoulders so it's easier to guide you back to your parents. The action makes your stomach light up in excitement, your first reaction is pushing yourself off the door and away from his reach, further into the room. 

“I am anything but ‘incapacitated’. I’m tipsy.” You declare matter of factly, cheeks burning in the warm room. Now your back was to the window, your positions switched. 

“That still falls under the definition of incapacitated.” 

“I think you're attractive.” Your voice was suddenly much quieter, now toe to toe with a man visibly sweating bullets. “I've thought about it since I met you-” The sober part of you shuts your mouth, a nonsense love confession pushing against your teeth. He refused to respond, still as a statue sans his blue eyes tracing your face.

“Why were we playing eye tag from the moment the party started?” You press, determined to not back down until your question was answered. 

“My job is to look after you.” A very real explanation to your question. The opposite of what you want. 

“Is it your job to clench your teeth when I dance with other guys?” Just the mere mention of it has his upper lip twitching, and you know you've got your answer. You look up at him through mascaraed eyelashes, sweaty hands reaching up (surprisingly more shaky than you thought) to clutch at his black lapels. 

You would've thought he’d stop you, it would be easy in your impaired state to grab your wrists and haul you down to the party in a cloud of shame. But he watched as you focused on his pin, pinching it between your forefinger and thumb to adjust it.  

You don't process that he’s moved his hand up until he is brushing the hair out of your face that escaped your modest updo. His fingertips are gentle, and you begin to worry that this is the end before it has even begun, that he’s about to open his mouth and let you down easy. Pressing your hands firmly against his warm chest you weakly try to push back, the fear of rejection drenching your whole body.

He caught you unexpectedly by the shoulders, fingers wrapping around your bare upper biceps. Holding you close firmly, you gave up pushing away and dropped your arms to your side. Robert was searching your eyes before letting a long sigh out his nose. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that-” You close your eyes and tilt your head back to the ceiling, “I guess I am a little incapacitated.”  Placing emphasis on the word to lighten the mood, not wanting to look at him to save yourself from embarrassment. 

You were aware of everything on your body with your eyes closed. The tickle of your hair on your neck, the way your dress hugged your body, you could even feel the way your heels teetered on the hardwood. Worst of all, you felt his warm, calloused hands smoothing down your naked arms. 

Then you felt one of his hands leave your arm, trailing up and up to your neck and cradling the back of your skull. Robert pulled your head up but still you kept your eyes closed. 

“You don’t understand what you’re asking." A quiet waltz played from the floor below, accompanying his words that stung like rubbing alcohol in a cut. Your eyes snap open in an instant, rapidly blinking to clear them from the blurriness. You could barely think coherent thoughts between his hand still on the back of your neck and his painful words. 

“I do know what I’m asking-” You exclaimed defiantly, “and I’m not stupid-”

“I never said you were stupid.” He cut you off abruptly, his warm breath fanned across your face in short puffs. You clenched your fists by your sides, your body itchy with annoyance.

“Robert. I swear to god if you interrupt me aga-” 

And then he kissed you. And all you could do was rip yourself away from him in vexation, opening your mouth to hiss something at him about fucking interupting you again. 

As you stumbled back you realized something. He was looking back at you like you had sprouted a third ear, and the disbelief in his eyes made you want to go search for a mirror to see if you actually did. 

“Oh.” You touched your lips, desire starting a low buzz beneath your skin. He had kissed you. And it felt good. 

“Yeah.” Robert said, almost sheepishly. 

“Ohh-” Was all you could get out before he was on you again, his hands connecting with your waist while yours cupped his cheeks and jaw, pulling him closer. 

It was frantic and messy, you felt light headed by the lack of oxygen. Your lipgloss had smeared all over your lips and his, the soft vanilla flavor all you could taste when you licked into his open mouth. Warmth blossomed in your chest as his hands sank lower to cup your ass through your dress, his lips migrating from yours to your jaw, leaving a light trail of saliva in their path. 

Hands trailing up to rest against the nape of his neck, the short hair tickling your palms as you bit your bottom lip, stifling whines as his lips worked against the sensitive parts of your neck. It was too much yet not enough as his hands roamed over your body and yet managed to miss everywhere you needed him the most. 

“S-Stop teasing me.” You managed to pant out, a gasp leaving your kiss-swollen lips as Robert’s cold glasses pressed into your neck. You grab his hand from where it was resting under your breast, walking backwards blindly in search of the pool table. Your other arm was outstretched behind you, acting as a buffer in case you trip and fall. 

Robert stumbled along like an obedient dog, reaching up with his unoccupied hand to yank the earpiece from his ear so it just dangled from his button up collar. When your bum hit the pool table he lifted you up and set you upon the edge with no hesitation, making butterflies kick up in your stomach. You were still in awe over his strength that you didn't even realize he had delicately slipped your straps from your shoulders and his hands were behind your back, pinching your zipper.

“May I?” He asked softly, awaiting your response. He was absolutely gorgeous, the moonlight illuminated only one side of his face. His hair was tousled and his lips were red from the kisses. Fine lines carefully etched into his features, the only sign of his age. 

Your stomach flipped as you nodded, inhaling a deep breath through your nose as he invaded your space, slotting himself between your thighs. Robert looked over your shoulder and pressed a few soft kisses there as he carefully unzipped your dress. Your hands drifted up and grasped at his belt, the silver metal burning your fingertips with cold as you clumsily fought with it. 

His lips returned to your mouth as he slowly pulled the dress down over your breasts, urging your hands away from his now unzipped slacks and through the arm holes of your dress. Although the air was warm to your cheeks and back, it made goosebumps rise along your chest, nipples perking up as the top fell to your lap. 

You hardly noticed his lips leaving yours until you felt him push on your left shoulder, guiding you back so you were propped up on your elbows on the deep green baize. A protest died in your throat as his lips wrapped around a nipple, his warm tongue lapping at the stiff peak. A startled cry left your mouth as you felt his hand tweak your other nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

You let your head drop back as his mouth switched to your other nipple, his fingers pinching the other. The black dress still was around your legs, thighs straining the fabric as you silently begged for him to touch your now aching core. You lifted up a heeled foot, pressing one of his thighs closer to your center.

Robert takes the hint, much to your relief and slips his hands down your body. You can feel every callous, every fingernail as he presses them into your soft skin and eventually grips his fists into the dress gathered near your knees. 

 You try to focus on the ceiling, which looked like it stretched miles above the both of you, crown molding decorating the edges and hand painted vines adorned the flat space between. 

Slowly, just as Robert lifts your knees up and over his shoulders and sinks to the ground, you lower yourself flat against the green, arms outstretched above your head.  

Your lower half was bare, save for the midnight black dress pooling around your waist. Robert’s breath huffed against your clothed core, drawing your attention back to him. 

“Fuck…” You hear him whisper hoarsely. And only then can you feel his fingers drawing your panties to the side, a sharp gust of cold air drifting over your dripping pussy. The praise heats your cheeks, a swell of shyness bubbles within your chest. The panties are placed over your core and Robert presses his face against the silky black fabric, startling you. 

You start to sit up on your elbows again, a moan caught in your throat as you watch him bury his nose and mouth in the damp silk, taking a deep inhale with his eyes closed. Savoring your smell as he mouths against you. It was tortuous, his blunt fingernails digging into the meat of your thighs. His cheeks are red, his groans vibrating against you as his glasses begin to fog. 

“Please, Robert. I can’t-” Is all you can get out before he is ripping your panties to the side and licking you whole. With that one motion your thighs are already quivering on either side of his head. His flush trails down to his neck, hiding under the tight collar of his button up. 

Your stomach tightens as the tip of his tongue circles your clit, sucking it into his mouth and savoring it like a piece of hard candy. With your mouth open, all you can do is stare with blurry eyes. Robert was consuming you like a man starved, his ministrations relaxing your muscles and turning you into jello before him. 

“Robert, I-” You begin, outstretching your arm to grasp at his hair.

“Hmmm?” He hums, his mouth still working against you, jaw clenching as you attempt to push him back. Robert looked up at you through long eyelashes, eyes glazed over as if he was the one getting the most pleasure out of it. 

“Please more- oh god do not stop.” You were not above begging. And thank god because that was all it took to convince him. At once he returned to your needy pussy, his right hand slipping from the top of your thigh to your juncture. His middle finger prodded at your entrance, slipping in with little resistance. 

Back arching, you drop down to rest fully on the soft baize. Gasping as he managed to press another finger in. They were big, stretching you. The sensation bites but is quickly soothed as he curls them, beckoning an orgasm out of your body. 

Your chest heaves as your body tightens, moaning nonsense as you get closer and closer. The man between your legs doubling his efforts as if you had told him you were almost there. 

And then your body snaps. It’s like submerging yourself in a warm bath, you cannot breathe, in fear you might drown in the water. But weightless nonetheless. 

He rises to his feet, and you are still boneless on the table. Pussy pulsing, only to be covered up again by your wet panties. The feeling is terribly uncomfortable, drawing a whine from your chest. 

Even more shockingly, you do not even get a moment to revel in the afterglow before he is pulling you up by your elbow.

“Hey! What are you doing?” You huff in half hearted annoyance as he is already pulling your straps up and attempting to zip your dress.

“It is almost midnight-” He finishes zipping up your dress, “I suggest we go celebrate it with your guests.” 

You blink and look up at him, reaching up and fixing his hair as a soft smile graces his features. Your cheeks heat as you remember the party downstairs, how only the two of you know that his face was between your legs just moments ago. 

“Y-Yes.” You clear your throat and adjust your straps, offering him your hand, “I suppose we should.”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fool's Gold

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x OFC (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, mild angst, mentions of pregnancy. Word count: ~2.5k

Summary: Daemon returns from the Stepstones to a welcome he was not expecting. Part of the Perzys se Rūkla universe, but can be read as a standalone.

Author's note: Day two of Smuffmas - presents and praise kink. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

It had been three months since Daemon last set foot in King’s Landing. The Triarchy had been causing trouble in the Stepstones once again, and Corlys Velaryon’s fleet had begun to struggle to defend the ships requiring passage across the Narrow Sea. With trade between Westeros and the Free Cities slowing as a result, the Crown had been forced to intervene. Rhaenyra had dispatched her husband, Laenor, and his dragon, Seasmoke, to help his father’s cause, and Daemon had insisted upon accompanying him on the back of Caraxes, not trusting the King Consort to get the job done without the aid of him and his blood wyrm. 

Having burned the pirates’ forces to cinders and with the shipping lanes clear once more, Daemon had returned with haste to the capital, eager to be reunited with his wife after so many nights spent apart from her.

As Hand of the Queen, it would be proper for Daemon to report directly to his niece, to deliver the news of their victory, however, he has never been one for propriety. Melessa is his first priority, and if Laenor can tarry with his squires in the wake of the battle, with no sense of urgency, then he does not see why he should be held to a higher standard. 

The metallic clanking of his armour echoes off of the stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, as he advances towards the apartments he shares with Melessa and their son, Viserys. He holds his dragon shaped helm tucked beneath one arm, and carries a heavy linen sack in the other. A slight smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he imagines the way Melessa’s delicate features will light up once she sees its contents.

Throwing open the heavy wooden doors, Daemon strides purposefully through the space, making his way towards the solar. Melessa is exactly where he expects her to be. He does not announce his presence straight away, taking a moment to appreciate her in silent contemplation.

She has had the chaise moved to sit by the balcony doors, which are both open, allowing a light breeze to rustle the gossamer fabric of the ivory coloured curtains and cool the room. She reclines upon the crimson velvet with her eyes closed, though he knows she is not asleep. The afternoon sunlight that filters through the windows shines upon her flaxen hair, making it look like spun gold. She has left it loose today, the soft waves falling almost to her waist, against the loose fitting green robe she wears, pinned closed with a golden rose brooch.

Daemon has always adored that, despite being married to a Targaryen prince, she has never forfeited the colours of House Tyrell. In his mind, it is her way of clinging to some of her youthful innocence, a reminder of why she had initially captured his attention.

His eyes fall upon the swell of her stomach, where her hands rest. She is bigger than when he left, of course she is. She had been three turns of the moon into her pregnancy when he had departed, barely noticeable. Another three had passed, and the evidence of their second child growing within her was now irrefutable. It makes his heart swell with pride and his pulse race with possessiveness.

Finally, Daemon clears his throat, and her eyes flutter open, her blue eyes widening in surprise as she sees him, struggling to rise into a sitting position as her hand cradles her distended belly.

“Don’t strain yourself, petal,” he tells her, placing his helmet down upon a side table and striding towards her. He sets the canvas bag down by the foot of the chaise, glad to be rid of its weight as its contents tinkle loudly against each other. 

She settles back against the plushness of the pillows. “You did not send word that you would be returning,” she says softly, as he leans down to press his lips tenderly to her forehead, before pulling back to stare affectionately at her, his calloused thumb stroking a lingering path along the peachy softness of her jawline.

Her eyes do not hold the joyful sparkle he so adores, instead she looks upon him with concern and apprehension, she visibly stiffens at his touch and he cannot understand why. Perhaps it is an unfortunate consequence of her being pregnant – he knows that being in such a condition takes a toll on women and their bodies.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmurs, kneeling down with difficulty under the cumbersome weight of his armour, resting his forehead gently against her abdomen. She moves her hands, placing them either side of her to give him space as he cradles her belly. “Rytsas, zaldrītsos,” he whispers to the babe that grows within, “rōvyktys issa.” Hello, little dragon. You are bigger.

“Have you been to see Rhaenyra?” She asks, her tone lacking the warmth and excitement that Daemon had been longing to hear.

“She can wait,” Daemon says, lifting his head to look at her.

“She will be cross with you,” Melessa tells him matter of factly.

He sighs, her coolness disquieting him. He stands, walking over to the settee in the corner of the room, and begins to unstrap his armour, placing each heavy piece upon the wooden surface, until he is left in only his breeches and undershirt. The relief of the burden upon his body is welcome, though the tension in the room serves as a further uninvited weight that he is keen to be rid of.

“I sense that you are also cross with me,” he says, finally turning to face her, eyeing her curiously as she stares off out of the open balcony doors, her hands idly stroking her belly.

She turns slowly back to look at him, her shoulders sagging as she sighs, and he sees a defeated tiredness within her features that he had not noticed before. Her mouth is downturned, there is a darkness beneath her eyes.

“Have you been to see Viserys?” She asks, looking listlessly at him.

“There will be time enough for his sticky hands and shrill voice later. I want to spend time with my wife,” he says exasperatedly, walking towards the small, round table that is positioned next to the chaise that Melessa rests upon. He lifts the pewter wine jug, giving the golden liquid inside a sniff – cloves, cinnamon and ginger invade his nostrils, making him grimace - spiced honey wine from Lannisport. Horrible swill that is far too weak for Daemon’s liking, but he supposes Melessa cannot stomach anything stronger due to her pregnancy. He pours himself a cup and takes a generous gulp, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he swallows thickly and sets the cup back down, before continuing; “the boy likely won’t even have realised I was gone.”

Melessa scowls, positioning herself to sit up straighter. “He is three, Daemon, of course he notices when you aren’t here!”

Daemon scoffs, growing irritated. He had climbed onto Caraxes’ back and flown straight here once the battle was won, it now seems it was hardly worth bothering, considering the frosty reception he’s received.

“I brought you gifts, both of you,” he argues, moving to the foot of the chaise and lifting the heavy canvas bag, “one for every day that I was gone, look–”

He begins to pull treasures from the bag; bracelets of solid gold, sapphire encrusted necklaces, silver chalices, each item crashes loudly against the flagstone floor as he drops it. Corlys had allowed his men to loot what was left of the Triarchy’s ships, and Daemon had ensured he took what he considered to be his fair share.

Melessa’s brow furrows further as she watches him, before she holds up a hand, halting his actions. “A few pretty baubles do not make up for your absence.”

“Then what would you have me do?!” He snarls, dropping the sack. It hits the floor with a mighty crash, as he stares at her wide eyed, his fragile patience worn down to the quick as his chest heaves with anger.

She doesn't even flinch at his outburst, and for the briefest of moments he wonders what happened to the timid little thing he had approached by the tapestries all those years ago. He supposes it would be foolish of him to marry a woman and not expect her to be influenced by his fire. His delicate Highgarden rose has grown a spine.

“You should not have gone!” she shouts back, leaning forward slightly, her face twisted in an anger that he has never seen in her before. Her eyes are so wide they border on wildness.

Her response shocks him into silence and he exhales heavily, bowing his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The anger has fizzled from the both of them as he comes to sit by her feet upon the chase, wrapping a hand around the shin of one of her outstretched legs through the silk fabric of her robe and stroking softly – a gesture intended to ground himself as much as it is to soothe her.

“I had to go,” he insists, “Rhaenyra commanded it.”

“She did not. She sent Laenor. You invited yourself along and she knew she could not refuse you. You left her without a Hand for three months, Daemon.”

Deep down, Daemon knows that Melessa is right, but he cannot bear to allow himself to admit that. He knows that the battle was won more swiftly because of his efforts, so he had done the right thing in going, whether he had been asked to or not. He watches as her hands rub slow circles over her stomach. Though her previous anger has left her, her expression is still sullen, a slight pout to her rosy lips.

“The battle would still be ongoing and the shipping lanes still blocked were it not for my presence,” he explains, “I did my duty as Hand by speeding things along.”

“You could have done your duty as Hand by staying here. Aemond rides the largest dragon in Westeros, Rhaenyra could have sent him if she felt that the Velaryons required further aid.”

Daemon feels his fingers squeeze reflexively upon Melessa’s leg and quickly draws his hand away, lest he unintentionally hurt her due to such a ridiculous suggestion. He laughs, though it is a bitter sound with no genuine humour, and he looks away, averting his gaze to the ceiling at the far corner of the room.

Melessa tuts, pushing at his thigh with the heel of her bare foot, to draw his attention back to her. “I know you feel that Alicent’s children are not trustworthy, but if Aemond harboured ill intent that he intended to act upon, he would have done so by now. He could burn us all in our beds, if he wanted to. If he was intent upon treachery then he would not wait for a war in the Stepstones to act upon it.”

“Why should I remain idle while that impulsive wretch plays the hero atop his dragon?” He mutters, grasping the foot she had nudged him with and placing it in his lap.

“Ah, and there it is,” she smiles triumphantly, a hint of playfulness in her voice, “you didn’t want to help, you wanted to fly to battle and glory.”

He purses his lips, rubbing his thumb up and down the delicate arch of her foot. “And what is the alternative? I remain here and grow soft as I sit on my arse around the small council table?”

“You could never grow soft,” she reassures him, her head tilting slightly in sympathetic understanding, “and you are needed here, I need you, your children need you.”

“It was not because I wished to be parted from you,” he tells her gently, his face softening as he moves closer to her on the chaise, reaching out to sink his fingers into the softness of her pale hair. The familiar scent of rosewater and almond oil envelopes him as he pulls her close, comforting him with the feeling of home, while also making his cock stir within his breeches.

“I have missed you,” she whispers, clutching at the fabric of his undershirt as she nuzzles her face into the scarred flesh of his neck.

“Even though you are cross with me?” He asks quietly, smirking as he feels her smile against his skin.

“I am cross because I want you here with me,” she responds, pulling away to look up at him through her lashes as her hands move downwards from his chest to his abdomen. “You do not need to fight wars and bring home treasures for me to think you are worthy, you already are.”

He watches intently, feeling himself rouse to life as she plucks open the lacings of his breaches.

“You are Daemon Targaryen,” she coos, leaning in once more to press a kiss to his neck, as she slips her hand inside the opening and wraps her fingers around his shaft, “blood of Old Valyria, closer to gods than men, you need not prove yourself to anyone.”

He groans, his head falling back as she begins to pump her hand, and he feels himself grow fully erect, fighting against the aching sensation that tempts him to buck his hips like an untamed beast.

She continues to stroke him from base to tip, before swiping her thumb across the head of him, using his arousal to help ease the glide of her hand upon him. “There is no one that I am prouder to call my husband, no one whose children I would rather carry. Just you. Only you.”

“Fuck!” he hisses, his fingers tightening in her hair, as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers as he begins to pant. He can feel the telltale pressure building at the base of his spine, knowing he will reach his end with embarrassing swiftness if she does not stop, yet he cannot bring himself to make her.

“I am so proud of you, and all you do for our family. It is why I cannot bear to be parted from you,” she whispers hotly against the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

His balls tighten, her words are his unravelling as warmth spreads throughout his body, causing his hips to jerk and his mind to go blank as he pulsates against the strokes of her palm, coating her fingers with his pearly spend, as his focus narrows upon the exquisite torture of the throbbing that overtakes him.

“Gods…” he utters breathlessly, once he is lucid again to speak. His lips part in disbelief as he watches her clean his release from her fingers with delicate kitten licks. “...I did not bring you back enough gifts.”

Chapter six || Series masterlist

[arkaiveofurown]

Between Thrones and Ashes - Part I

Pairing: Sabo x Celestial Dragon!Reader

Part 2 SOON!

A spoiled Celestial Dragon, used to getting everything with a snap of her fingers. A reckless Revolutionary, defying the world with every step. What would happen when their worlds collide?

tags: series, enemies to lovers

my masterlist here ♡

——

There were three kinds of people in Mary Geoise: those who served, those who groveled, and those like you—who never had to lift a finger unless it was to point at something you wanted.

You lounged on a throne-like chair, legs tucked beneath you, surrounded by an entourage of attendants. One brushed your hair with a golden comb. Another held a chilled drink to your lips. A third waved a fan carved from phoenix feathers, despite the temperature being perfectly controlled.

“It’s too quiet,” you sighed, snapping your fingers.

Within seconds, a pair of violinists emerged from behind a silk curtain and began playing something soft and expensive-sounding.

You rolled your eyes. “Not that again. Play the one I heard in the Rose Ballroom last week. The one with the sparkle.”

The violinists flinched. “Y-Yes, Lady Y/N!”

At your feet, two maids knelt beside your jeweled slippers, ready in case you decided to grace the corridor with your presence. Behind you, silent guards stood with their heads bowed, hands resting on the hilts of ornate weapons—not to protect you, not really, but to remind everyone else what happened if they disrespected a Celestial Dragon.

Not that anyone dared. You were a Holy Noble, a World Noble—one of the so-called gods who lived above the clouds.

You didn’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. Literally. A clear glass bubble helmet sat beside you on a velvet pillow, polished daily by the same maid who washed your sheets with milk and flower oil. You wore it any time you descended to the “lower world”—the Red Line or, heaven forbid, the Blue Sea below.

That helmet was your inheritance. A symbol of status. A barrier between you and the filth of the outside.

And you hated it.

You hated the way it fogged up your vision, made your nose itch, flattened your hair. It turned you into a walking snow globe, admired but untouchable.

“Lady Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you—your head maid, gentle and a little too observant for your liking. “Shall I summon the bathing fountain? Or perhaps the exotic pet parade? The squirrel-lions arrived from Totto Land this morning.”

You flicked your nails. “No. I’m bored of panthers. And squirrel-lions are so two seasons ago. Bring me something fluffier. Maybe from Wano this time. None of that North Blue trash.”

“Yes, my lady.”

A butler with graying hair and shaking hands stepped forward and bowed so deeply you thought his spine might snap. “You have a poetry recital scheduled in the East Wing with Saint Charlotte.”

You stared at him. “Cancel it. Tell her I’ve fallen into a sugar-induced coma.”

His face paled. “A-ah, very good, my lady.”

Once he scurried off, you laid your head against the silken cushions and closed your eyes. Everything smelled like perfume and honeyed tea. Too sweet. Too still.

You were surrounded by luxury—cherry blossom incense burning from dragon-shaped censers, fine gold-thread carpets from Dressrosa, imported desserts so rare entire villages starved to grow the ingredients—but it all felt dull lately. You didn’t know why.

Maybe it was just the silence. Or maybe it was the way no one ever spoke to you like a person. You were always “my lady,” never “you.”

Even your own family treated you like an object—something delicate and glittering that couldn’t be let out in the rain.

You liked nice things. Shiny things. Compliments. Attention. But you didn’t like cruelty.

No, you’d made that decision very early.

You didn’t own slaves like your uncles did. You refused to attend the Human Auction, no matter how many invitations you received. Your cousin called you “soft,” “silly,” “a girl playing princess instead of goddess.”

But you preferred your servants paid, your animals pampered, and your furniture not made from people.

You were spoiled, sure. But not evil.

“Lady Y/N,” the maid said again, “shall we prepare the sky garden for your afternoon nap?”

You exhaled. “Has it been re-perfumed with the jasmine fog?”

“Yes, my lady. As requested.”

“Fine,” you muttered, standing slowly. They draped you in a soft robe of sunspun silk and slipped your slippers on like a coronation. “Bring the strawberry milk. And the parasol shaped like a koi fish.”

As you were escorted through the palace halls, walking on plush rugs embroidered with family crests and history you didn’t care about, your slippers made no sound—just like everyone around you.

It was a life of softness. Of silk and silence.

And somehow, it was still never enough.

——

You walked, your thoughts drifting idly, as your entourage followed closely behind—just as they always did. But today, the weight of being constantly observed felt heavier than usual.

“Leave me,” you muttered under your breath, already irritated by their proximity.

“My lady?” one of the guards asked, stepping forward.

“Leave,” you repeated, sharper this time. “I wish to be alone.”

After a moment of hesitation, they bowed and scattered, disappearing behind the rows of hedges and fountains. Finally, silence. Alone, you felt the tension in your shoulders ease for a brief moment.

You were about to take a seat when a figure caught your eye—an unfamiliar face stepping out from behind a pillar, his presence unmistakable in the otherwise empty space.

You froze.

Without hesitation, you called out. “Who the hell are you?”

He didn’t flinch, but the slight shift of his eyes told you he’d heard you loud and clear. Slowly, he raised his head to meet your gaze, his posture casual, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes.

“Didn’t think I’d run into someone like you here,” he muttered, his voice smooth but with an edge. “This garden’s a bit too perfect for my taste.”

You stood taller, narrowing your eyes. “This is my garden. Who are you, and why are you here?”

He took a step forward, his hands tucked in his pockets, like he was in no hurry. “I’m just looking around. What’s it to you?”

Your gaze sharpened. “You’re trespassing. Leave.”

A small, almost amused smile tugged at his lips. “I’ve got a bit more time to kill, and I don’t take orders from people who think their titles mean something.”

You felt a flicker of anger in your chest. “You’re speaking to a Celestial Dragon. You think you can talk to me like this?”

“And you’re proving my point.” he replied coolly. “Entitled. Arrogant. Completely disconnected from reality.”

His eyes darkened, but his tone didn’t shift. “People like you hide behind power and titles. But all I see is someone who thinks they can walk around acting like the world owes them something.”

You could practically feel the judgment in his words, and it stung. The audacity. The arrogance. He was just another person lumping you in with all the other Celestial Dragons, assuming you were no different than the rest.

“You think you know everything about me?” you said sharply, stepping closer. “You don’t.”

He scoffed. “I know enough. You people don’t lift a damn finger unless it’s to point at what you want.”

“You don’t know me.”

There was a beat of silence. He looked at you for a long second—long enough to maybe question you, but not long enough to care.

“No,” he said flatly. “And I don’t need to.”

——

You stormed back into your private quarters, the doors swinging shut behind you with a thud. Your maids stood at attention, but you waved them off without a word. You didn’t want company. You didn’t want anyone. Not after that.

That man. That arrogant, presumptuous man with his sharp eyes and sharper mouth. Who even was he? How did he get in? And who had the nerve to speak to a Celestial Dragon like that?

You paced, arms crossed tightly, the hem of your silk robe dragging behind you. The words echoed in your head:

“I don’t need to.”

So smug. Like he knew everything. Like he had the right to judge you.

You didn’t own slaves. You didn’t scream at servants. You didn’t punish people for breathing too loudly in your presence. Sure, you were spoiled—what of it? You were raised with everything handed to you. That was normal. It didn’t make you cruel.

Still, his words lingered. The way he looked at you—not with awe or fear, but with… disgust.

You frowned, then marched to your balcony and leaned over the marble railing, trying to cool off. That’s when you saw him again.

Down in the courtyard.

You blinked.

The same man.

He wasn’t skulking around this time. He was just walking, like he belonged there. Like this place wasn’t crawling with guards who’d kill an intruder on sight. Except—there were no guards. You’d told them all to leave earlier. That was on you.

Your hands curled into fists.

Without thinking, you threw open your balcony doors and yelled, “You again?!”

He looked up, completely unfazed. “Huh. You live up there. Figures.”

You nearly threw your glass at him.

“What the hell are you still doing here?!”

He shrugged. “Walking.”

“This is private property!” you snapped. “You’re lucky I haven’t called anyone to throw you in the sea!”

“Then call someone,” he said calmly. “I’m not stopping you.”

You stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. “You’re asking to be arrested?”

“I’m asking you to think for yourself,” he replied coolly. “Not just fall back on the guards and the status and the stupid bubble.”

You clenched your teeth. “You are the most infuriating—!”

“Good. You needed it,” he said and turned to leave again, as if you weren’t worth his time.

You raced down the steps barefoot, fury boiling in your chest. You caught up to him in the next hallway, breathing hard. “You don’t get to walk around here and insult me like that! You don’t know anything about me!”

He stopped, slowly turning. “Then show me I’m wrong.”

Your chest heaved, but the words caught in your throat. You wanted to argue. Scream. Prove him wrong. But all you could say was:

“Why are you even here?!”

He paused.

A flicker of something crossed his face—calculation, maybe—but he covered it fast. “Because someone has to see what’s really going on behind these gilded walls.”

You blinked. For a moment, you heard more than just the insult. Behind these walls. As if your entire world—your life—was something shameful. Something fake.

Your brows furrowed. “You’re not just a trespasser…”

He huffed a breath, low and cold. “No. I’m someone who’s sick of the way this place pretends the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

You bristled. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know enough,” he snapped. “I know what it looks like when people live in gold palaces and the rest of the world burns for their comfort.”

Something in your chest twisted—sharp and unwelcome. “You think I asked to be born here?”

“I think you’ve never questioned it,” he said, stepping in close, his tone still hard. “I think you wear that bubble helmet and walk past people like they’re decorations.”

You stared at him, your breath caught in your throat. You had nothing to say—not because he was right, but because you didn’t know if he was wrong.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:

“…Then take me with you.”

He stopped dead.

“What?”

You stepped forward, voice lower now but steady. “If you think I’m just another sheltered noble, prove it. Take me outside these walls. Show me how wrong I am.”

He looked at you like you were insane. And maybe you were. But you held his gaze anyway.

“I don’t do charity,” he said flatly.

“Good,” you shot back. “I’m not asking for a favor.”

He let out a cold laugh and turned his back on you. “Stay in your palace, princess. You wouldn’t last a day.”

This time, you didn’t stop him. But your hands stayed clenched at your sides long after he was gone.

——

He disappeared around the corner, coat swaying behind him like a challenge. The hall felt too quiet without his voice cutting through it.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

No slippers, no guards, no reason. You just stormed after him, fists tight, steps echoing off the pristine floor. You caught him at the foot of the west garden stairs, already halfway to the lower terrace.

“Hey!” you called.

He didn’t stop.

You picked up your pace. “I’m talking to you!”

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder. “Changed your mind? Gonna summon your guards now?”

You reached him in three long strides and shoved his shoulder. “What is wrong with you?!”

He barely moved, just raised a brow. “You’re really not used to people saying no, are you?”

“I’m not used to people insulting me without even knowing me.”

“I don’t need to know you,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen what people like you do. How they live. That’s all I need.”

“You keep saying people like me,” you shot back. “But you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smirk. “Then why don’t you educate me, princess?”

You ignored the sarcasm. “You think I’ve never seen outside these walls? I’ve been to other islands. I’ve seen what the world looks like.”

He tilted his head. “From inside a bubble helmet and a guarded procession? Spare me.”

You stepped into his space. “You don’t scare me.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not here to scare you.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to make you feel like the marble under your feet might crack.

“I’m here to make sure people like you don’t get to keep playing god while others die for scraps.”

You flinched. Just barely.

Then you gritted your teeth. “So that’s it. You see one noble and assume the worst. You’re not here for justice. You’re here for revenge.”

The look in his eyes changed. Just for a second.

You didn’t wait for an answer. “Fine. Go ahead. Run your little mission, spy on whoever you’re here to spy on. But don’t act like you’re some kind of saint. You’re judging me for things you’ve never even seen me do.”

He stared at you. Then finally—finally—his voice dropped to something almost thoughtful.

“Why are you following me?”

The question hit harder than it should’ve.

You paused.

“…Because I’m tired of everyone pretending I’m like the rest of them. And you’re the first person who’s had the guts to say it to my face.”

He studied you again. Longer this time. The edge was still there, but something behind his eyes shifted.

He turned away.

“If you follow me again,” he said, “you better mean it.”

Then he was gone—into the garden shadows, coat trailing behind him like a closing door.

——

Two nights passed.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened. Not the guards, not the maids. You just sat in your chamber, ignoring the pearls and silks they tried to dress you in, staring out at the edge of the garden where he vanished.

You met again in the garden. This time you didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He was already there when you stepped into the moonlight. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, arms resting loosely on his knees, watching the stars like they owed him answers.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed. “You’re brave. Coming back again.”

He looked over, that same amused expression twitching at his lips. “Or maybe I was waiting to see if you would.”

You stepped closer. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“And you still haven’t kicked me out.”

You huffed. “Don’t mistake that for kindness.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He straightened up, facing you fully. His voice dropped, not threatening—just serious. “Why are you really talking to me?”

Your fingers tightened over your arms. “Because I want to. Does that bother you?”

“No. But it surprises me.”

You stayed silent.

He kept watching you. “Most Celestial Dragons wouldn’t waste a second on someone like me.”

“I’m not most Celestial Dragons.”

He tilted his head. “No. You’re not. But you still live like one.”

You bristled. “Is that your problem with me? That I have more than you?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice steady. “No. My problem is you don’t question why.”

That hit harder than it should’ve.

You looked away, swallowing the flare of shame before it could rise.

“I didn’t ask to be born into this,” you muttered.

“Neither did the people you’re standing above.”

The silence stretched again.

Then, quietly, you said, “I don’t own slaves. I don’t hurt people. I don’t even let my guards punish the staff. That’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

He blinked. It was the first time you’d seen his expression falter.

“No,” he said after a pause. “But it’s not enough.”

You stepped closer, now only a foot apart. “Don’t pretend you know everything just because you’ve seen the world from a gutter.”

He didn’t flinch. “And don’t pretend you understand it just because you’ve read about it in books.”

Your eyes locked.

Neither of you moved.

Not a breath of wind between you, but the air crackled—tension, challenge, and something else. Something neither of you dared name yet.

You spoke first. “You’re infuriating.”

“So are you,” he said, almost fondly.

But then the fondness was gone, hidden again under his calm.

You took a slow breath, your words coming out carefully. “I want to leave here. Just for a while. I want to go with you. See what it’s really like out there.”

His brow furrowed, the surprise barely visible in his eyes. “You want to go with me?”

You nodded, your voice soft but firm. “Not forever. Just… I want to know what it’s like beyond this place. What it means to be free. I’m tired of being stuck in here.”

He regarded you for a moment, silent. “You don’t think it’ll be dangerous?”

“Maybe,” you said, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “But it’s better than staying here.”

He stood, taking a step closer. “I can’t promise it’ll be easy. You won’t be able to go back to the way things were.”

You didn’t flinch. “I don’t want to.”

He studied you for another long moment. Finally, he let out a small sigh, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Is that a yes?” you asked, almost daring.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. For a while, at least. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A small grin tugged at your lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The tension between you two lightened, just slightly, but it was enough. Something had shifted, and maybe for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were about to do something real.

——

You managed to make some excuses—said you needed time alone to reflect, maybe take a short trip to another island for a change of scenery. It wasn’t perfect, but it would work for now. No one would question it for a while.

“Just don’t get caught,” He warned, his gaze sharp.

“I’ll be careful,” you assured him, feeling the tension of sneaking away for the first time in your life.

The night air was cool against your skin as you and the man you met slipped out of the luxurious estate. You stuck to the shadows, careful to avoid any patrolling guards. The further you got from the center of Mary Geoise, the lighter the weight on your chest felt. For the first time, the shackles of your title seemed miles away.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, glancing at you.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steady though the uncertainty still lingered in the pit of your stomach. “It’s just… different. I never thought I’d actually leave.”

He let out a low chuckle. “That’s the point. You don’t need to stay tied to something that’s never been yours to begin with.”

He offered a knowing smirk. “You’ll get used to it. Trust me, there’s more to the world than your gilded cage.”

As you walked side by side through the quiet streets, your thoughts raced. You were outside the walls, a step closer to freedom, but the fear of getting caught still gnawed at you.

“Are we really doing this?” you asked, mostly to yourself, as you glanced back toward the estate.

“We are,” He replied without hesitation. “No turning back now.”

You gave a small, shaky laugh. “Guess not. So, what’s the plan? How do we get out of here without making too much noise?”

His eyes flickered ahead, and for a moment, you could see the strategist in him, calculating the safest route. “We’ll take the back roads to the nearest port. I’ve got a ship waiting. After that, we’ll decide where to go. But for now, the less attention we draw, the better.”

You hesitated. “You’re sure no one will notice I’m missing?”

“They might, eventually,” He admitted. “But we’ll be long gone by then.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his expression softening for a moment. “Don’t worry. You wanted out. This is your chance.”

Your stomach flipped, excitement and fear mixing in equal parts. “And what happens if I want to go back?”

His smile was small, almost unreadable. “When you’re ready, we’ll figure it out. But right now, focus on getting away.”

The two of you continued walking in silence, the weight of your decision sinking in as the walls of Mary Geoise receded into the distance. It wasn’t a perfect escape. There were too many risks. But for the first time in your life, it felt like you were doing something for yourself.

The world beyond those walls was waiting. And you were finally free to explore it.

[biscuits-and-gracie]

Lights, Camera, Action

summary: "you know I can't make it on my own"

characters: diretor! rafe. movie star! reader

warnings: dark. toxic! controlling! rafe

word count: 1.2k

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

The warehouse breathed old Hollywood-if old Hollywood had died and been taxidermied. Velvet curtains bled from exposed rafters, their color a bruised red that lingered somewhere between desire and danger. The concrete floor, long buried under faded Persian rugs, smelled like dust, antique perfume, and something sweeter-like a secret left out too long. A single spotlight buzzed above you, humming like a warning. Its heat clung to your skin, making you sweat even though the air was otherwise still and cold, the kind of cold that felt curated.

Nothing about the room was accidental.

At the center sat a couch-pink velvet, faux vintage, cushions worn down in all the wrong places. Behind it, a projection screen flickered with static, soft and persistent, like ghosts murmuring just out of reach. A camera on a tripod stared you down, its red light blinking. Watching. Recording. Already choosing which version of you to remember.

Rafe stood behind it, unmoving. All black. Sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms smudged with ash and quiet authority. He didn’t posture-he didn’t have to. There was a stillness to him that pulled the whole set taut. Like the breath before the curtain rises.

“You’re early,” he said without looking up, his voice deep and deliberate, smoothed over like whiskey poured in a quiet room. “Good girls show up early.”

You stood beneath the spotlight, the only soft color in the room besides the red. He’d put you in a baby blue slip dress-thin and wrong for the weather, for the occasion, for anything but this. It caught the light just enough to make your skin look unreal. Like something he’d conjured. Not clothed, not bare-just exposed.

He looked at you then. And smiled.

“Let’s begin.”

Your nod felt practiced. Not rehearsed, but inevitable. Lips painted pink, trembling at the edges. You couldn’t remember when the part started, only that he’d given it to you. There hadn’t been an audition. Just a choice. His.

“Sit,” he said.

You did. Movements neat, quiet. The couch whispered under your weight. The camera adjusted with a soft whirring sound, its lens narrowing in on you like it already knew your lines. Rafe stepped forward, movements slow, deliberate-artist or architect, it didn’t matter. He was building something out of you.

“Lights,” he murmured, and the set turned gold and low-lit, like dusk caught in a jar.

“Camera.” The lens blinked, then blinked again.

“Action.”

You swallowed. Voice thin, airy-just how he liked it.

“Put me in a movie.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched. Boots heavy on the rugs, he approached, a silhouette split by shadows and light. Not touching. Not yet.

“Again,” he said, his tone softer now, but charged. “Say it like the world ends if I don’t.”

You licked your lips. Met the lens.

“Put me in a movie,” you whispered, with just enough breath to make it fragile.

He tilted your chin with two fingers, angling your face toward the light like a sculpture. Studying you.

“You can be my daddy,” you breathed.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty-it was full. Waiting. Holding its breath.

Rafe smiled, slow and satisfied.

“That’s my little star.”

The camera didn’t blink. The red light didn’t waver. And still, he never called cut.

You sat exactly as he wanted-knees together, hands folded, gaze wide and practiced. The spotlight pulsed overhead, its hum growing louder. The kind of sound that settles in your bones.

He circled you, steps soft. Measured. Like a wolf pacing the perimeter of its own invention.

“You’re stiff,” he said. “Too aware. This isn’t a recital. You’re not here to be polite. You’re here because I made you something more than forgettable.”

You didn’t answer. The space between you stretched, quiet and taut.

He knelt in front of you, elbows on his knees, hands steepled like he was about to pray-or confess. The air between you smelled faintly of smoke, cologne, and static. Something heavy clung to the room. A stillness pretending not to be a threat.

“Let’s try something else,” he murmured, almost kindly. “This is the scene where you ask me to never let you go. Because if I turn off that camera…” His voice dipped, “you disappear.”

Your breath caught. That was enough for him.

Behind you, the projector blinked to life. Footage from earlier played in grainy loops-you, in the same dress. The same posture. But in that version, your voice cracked more. Your desperation looked prettier.

“You were better then,” he said flatly. Not cruel. Just factual.

You flushed cold. Humiliation crawled low and slow through your belly.

“I can do it again.”

He finally turned toward you. “Then do.”

You stood, hesitant. The rugs shifted beneath your feet. The camera followed your movement, the sound of its motor a quiet purr. The spotlight cast your silhouette long across the back wall.

“Put me in a movie,” you tried, voice cracking like old film.

Rafe didn’t blink.

“Again.”

“Put me in a movie. I-I can’t make it on my own.”

He inhaled through his nose, slow. Pleased.

“Now,” he whispered. “The secret.”

You took a shaky step closer, the lens swallowing everything else in your view.

“You can be my daddy.”

The light above flickered.

“Again,” he said, almost reverent. “Whisper it. Like it’s just for me.”

Your breath fogged the lens.

“You can be my daddy.”

He smiled like a magician proud of his best illusion.

And somewhere in that moment, you forgot the scene had ever begun.

The camera never stopped. Rafe never called cut. And still, you stayed-because you weren’t sure there was anything beyond this stage. He blurred the lines too well. The role too tight. The spotlight too warm.

Rafe stepped into view, shadows stretching behind him like spider legs. His presence didn’t need to be loud to be consuming. He moved like someone used to rearranging reality to his liking.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, voice low as velvet.

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“To be in the movie.”

He tilted his head. “Wrong.”

A pause. Then, closer:

“You’re here because I see you. And no one else ever did.”

You flinched. He smiled.

“I built this stage. This light. That dress. I built you.”

He brushed your jaw, not to comfort-but to claim. Then moved behind you again. One hand grazed your spine, just enough to correct your posture.

“You need me.”

The words sank in like wet concrete.

He flicked the projector again. This time, the screen showed the set without you-empty. Lifeless. Colorless.

“That’s the world without me,” he whispered. “You only exist because I said ‘action.’”

Your knees weakened. He stepped forward, took your hand-not to hold it, but to mold it. He lifted your fingers to your lips.

“Everything you want is yours,” he said. “But only if you remember who made you worth watching.”

The camera blinked red.

Still recording.

Always recording.

You didn’t cry.

Good girls don’t cry on camera.

[supercap2319]

"This is Doug." Ben clapped a hand on a nerdy boy with thick rimmed glasses wearing a blue and gold marching uniform. He had been one of the band members who played for Y/N and the others when they arrived. "He's going to help you with your class schedules and show you to your dorms. Speaking of which..."

Ben turned to Y/N. "Unfortunately, we didn't have another room for you, and since all the boys have a roommate, you'll be bunking with me for the time being."

Y/N wasn't sure who was more shocked. Him, his friends, or Audrey. Did Prince Hot Lips really just say a vk was moving into his bedroom? Oh, this was delicious. The cotton candy fool. Y/N had to suppress the smile that threatened to make its way towards his mouth.

"I'll see the rest of you later, okay? Y/N? If you would kindly follow me." Ben said. He walked upstairs, and Y/N followed him, trying to ignore the diry comment Mal made to Evie about Y/N sleeping with "Prince Benny-Boo."

Ben talked about the rich history of the boys' wing. How it was built and who built it. Y/N wasn't paying attention. All he could think about was how he couldn't wait to get his hands on Prince Ben. Not in that way, mind you. Just to mess with him and stuff. Make his life a living hell.

They walked down a hallway with only a door, and when Ben opened it up, the sight of the Prince's bedroom made him want to gag. The matching blue and gold velvet beds with soft white pillows and navy blue curtains fluttering gently in the fresh air breeze from an open window. There was also a blue and gold chaise chair and a giant flat screen TV with a walk-in closet and a bathroom.

"What do you think? I know the blue and gold are a bit on the nose, but I'm willing to redecorate." Ben said.

Y/N looked around the room. It was sickening. It was bright. And it made Y/N want to scream in delight. He didn't tell Ben that, though. He looked at the Prince. "You got anything against black?

Ben just chuckled.

[mazeeelabyrinth]

❃.✮:▹ DAGGERS AND KISSES ◃:✮.❃

❃.✮:▹ CHAPTER III: The Devil Waits For His Turn

You scoffed, though your pulse was hammering. “And you? You’re so much better?”

“No,” he said, rising to his feet in one smooth motion, voice a whisper wrapped in steel. “I’m worse. Because I don’t just want to own you—I want to ruin you for anyone else.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Pairing: Sylus x AFAB Fem!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Tags: 18+, power dynamics, possessive behavior, jealousy, public display of affection (?) lol, stockholm syndrome (?), explicit sexual language, dubious consent, dubcon kissing, verbal humiliation, public humiliation, minor violence, reader is not mc, canon divergence au, ooc?, minor male original characters, slow romance

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Summary:

The debauched masquerade night had left you marked, used, and more entangled with Sylus than ever.

When morning came, he stayed. Calm. Smug. Sipping his coffee like he hadn’t ruined you in plain sight. But you weren’t finished playing. That afternoon, you flirted with danger—and with other men—testing the limits of his possessiveness. He watched it all, smiling like a wolf, letting you hang yourself with the very rope he gave you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ Word Count: 5.1K

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚➷ A/N: I went crazy for the smut last chapter, so I dialed it down a bit and added another oc for the plot.

➷ D&K TAG LIST ➷ MASTERLIST ➷ AO3 ➷ NAVIGATION

The world came back to you in fragments.

Soft sheets against your bare skin. A dull ache between your thighs. The subtle soreness of overindulgence, of being taken, claimed, and paraded like something beautiful and broken.

Your eyes snapped open.

Dim morning light spilled through the window of the luxury suite, casting delicate gold bars across the polished floors. The soft hum of the ocean beyond the glass sounded too serene for what had happened the night before.

The dress was gone. So were the heels. You were dressed in one of those silk sets from his closet—a powder-blue camisole and matching shorts, expensive enough that your resentment sharpened. Your wrists were still marked, faint bruises peeking out beneath the lace trim. You hated the way your body remembered him. Hated it more that it… thrummed at the memory.

But what twisted your gut even worse was the scent.

Bitter, roasted, dark.

Coffee.

You turned your head sharply.

Sylus sat by the window, languid as a panther post-hunt. His suit jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up, the crisp white of his shirt tugged open just enough to reveal the curve of his collarbone. His legs were crossed, one ankle resting on his knee, and in his hand was a delicate porcelain cup—his morning ritual, already underway.

He didn’t even look at you. That smug bastard didn’t need to.

"You’re awake," he said lazily, without turning. His voice was like the steam rising from the cup—smooth, scalding, unforgivably calm. As if he hadn’t had you writhing on his lap and made you suck his cock in public—a moaning, ruined mess behind velvet curtains while the world danced mere feet away. "Slept well?"

The silence clung to your throat.

Your body rebelled, shifting uncomfortably under the sheets, the memory of his touch branding every inch of your skin. Your mouth was dry, your jaw tight. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something.

You sat up, the sheet falling to your waist, and his gaze finally flicked to you. Like a predator assessing the movement of prey it already knew couldn’t escape.

“Don’t pretend this is normal,” you snapped, dragging the blanket higher with sudden defensiveness.

Sylus finally looked over his shoulder. A flick of his eyes down your form—messy hair, flushed skin, bare feet on the cold floor—and then he took another sip.

"It’s only as normal as you let it be." A pause. “But I do enjoy how you pretend you hated it.”

He sipped his coffee slowly, now watching the rim of the cup instead of you. “You’re glaring like I’m the one who should feel embarrassed.”

You barked a humorless laugh. “You should.”

His brow arched lazily. “For what? Reminding you how easily your body gives in to mine?” He set the cup down on a glass table with a gentle clink, then leaned forward. “Or was it the way you moaned into my neck while a dozen strangers laughed and drank two meters away?”

You flinched, not because the words weren’t true—but because they were. Vivid. Seared into your memory like a hot brand.

You stood abruptly, dragging the sheet with you like a flimsy shield. The expensive fabric of your dress—the one you wore last night—lay discarded across the chaise lounge, bearing a dried, telltale stain near the hem.

“Or you secretly enjoyed that little interruption from the server?” Sylus taunted, a grin played about on his lips. “After all, I had felt your throat tighten around my cock.”

The humiliation rose, acidic and sharp. You crossed the room before you realized what you were doing, hand raised, fury clenching your jaw.

He caught your wrist mid-air—swift, unflinching. The force of his grip was subtle but undeniable. Not pain. Not yet. Just power. His fingers coiled around yours like a snake testing how hard it needed to squeeze before bones cracked.

“I humored you at the masquerade,” you spat, breathing heavily. “That doesn’t mean you own me.”

A smirk played on his lips. “No. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

He stood, releasing your wrist, and you hated the flutter in your stomach when he towered over you again, invading your space with his heat, his scent, his certainty.

“You didn’t crawl away,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with mock tenderness. “You didn’t stab me in my sleep. You didn’t even scream.”

“I thought about it.”

“I bet you thought about other things too.” His thumb trailed along your jawline. “Like how my cum still stains your thighs.”

You struck out again—not with your hand this time, but words. “You're not special, Sylus. You're just another controlling bastard who thinks he can break me.”

His smile didn’t falter. “Darling, if I wanted to break you, you’d already be in pieces.”

“You think you’ve won,” you said, the words trembling with restraint, with shame you refused to name. “You think this is some kind of game—”

Sylus stepped closer, slow, deliberate. There was no urgency in his movements, no apology. Just the slow unfurling of a wolf who hadn’t yet finished playing with its food.

“It is a game,” he said simply. “One you keep losing because you’re still pretending you’re not enjoying it.”

You clenched your fists, your teeth, anything to keep your expression unreadable.

“You humiliated me last night.”

“You asked for it. I made you mine,” he corrected, voice low, inching toward a growl. “I didn’t hide it. I didn’t lie. Everyone in that room saw you leave with me. But only I got to hear how you begged when I touched you.”

The silence between you cracked like ice. You could hear the way your breath hitched, feel the goosebumps rising along your arms. The tension between you wasn't just lust or anger anymore. It was something murkier. Something worse.

Because you didn’t know which one of you wanted to win more. And you didn’t know if you even could anymore.

Sylus stepped back first, only to walk toward the small table near the bar, where a second cup sat—steaming, untouched. He lifted it, walked back to you and held it out.

You stared at him.

“Americano,” he said, voice lowered. “No cream. No sugar. Just the way you take it. Bitter, like your pride.”

You took it with a clenched jaw, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. But the thing that unsettled you most wasn’t that he remembered. It was that he remembered everything.

And he wasn’t going to stop. Not until he had it all—your body, your loyalty, your rage, your surrender.

You sipped the coffee, eyes locked on his.

It was bitter. It was perfect. And you hated how much you liked it.

The air between you stretched tight like a wire pulled to the edge of snapping. You could taste the tension—metallic, electric.

Sylus reached for his coffee again, and without looking back, he murmured:

“Get dressed. We’ve got a full day ahead of us. And I want to see how long you can keep pretending this isn’t exactly where you want to be.”

You dressed in silence.

The garments laid out for you—impeccably tailored, undeniably expensive—reeked of Sylus’ influence. A deep crimson dress with a plunging neckline, soft enough to seduce but structured enough to command attention. Underneath: matching lingerie, thin as a whisper and deliberately snug where your skin was still sensitive. He wanted you to remember every mark he left. And you would.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, Sylus was already waiting, his jacket casually slung over one shoulder. His eyes tracked the curve of your thighs, the slight limp you tried to hide in your step. That smug little smirk tugged at his lips again.

“Better,” he said. “You look like you belong here.”

You couldn’t ignore the way his hand lingered at the small of your back as you exited the suite together. Nor the fact that no one—not a single soul—so much as looked surprised to see you on his arm as you entered the upper decks of the cruise ship.

The afternoon played out like a power play disguised as paradise.

The upper deck was hosting a private garden brunch for “investors and VIPs.” Champagne flowed like water. Gentle music drifted on the breeze. The ocean sparkled beyond the glass balustrades. If not for the predators circling in suits and designer sunglasses, you might’ve believed the illusion.

He kept you close, always a step behind or to his side. Every time you tried to step out of sync, his hand would settle on your hip, or your wrist—subtle, yet binding. A constant reminder.

Still, you learned.

You noted which lieutenants deferred to him and which ones hesitated. You memorized names, power structures, flirtations that doubled as threats. If you couldn’t strike back yet, you could at least gather your knives.

And he noticed.

He watched you like a chessmaster eyeing an opponent too clever to be sacrificed early. His fingers trailed up your spine as he leaned in to whisper behind your ear.

“You’re sharper today,” he murmured. “Good. I like you better when your claws are out.”

You didn’t answer. You simply clinked your champagne glass against his and smiled.

Later, he brought you to the observation deck, quiet and wind-kissed. A place to “catch your breath,” he said, though the way he pressed you against the railing said otherwise.

“Look at that view,” he murmured behind you, both hands braced on the rail, boxing you in. “Hundreds of miles from land. No escape.”

“I’m not trying to escape,” you said, gaze fixed on the horizon. “I’m gathering intel.”

He chuckled. “Are you now? What have you learned?”

“That you’re surrounded by yes-men and sycophants who kiss your ass because they’re afraid of what you’ll do if they stop.”

“And you?”

You turned your head slightly, smirking. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple, a breath too warm. “Liar.”

His hand slid down, tracing the sides of your breast, snaking around your waist, pausing just above your mound. A subtle pressure. Teasing. “You still tremble when I touch you.”

“Muscle fatigue,” you replied, voice razor-thin. “From holding back the urge to kill you.”

He laughed again, low and pleased. “Now that’s my girl.”

You hated how your pulse reacted. How part of you wondered—just for a flicker of a second—what it would feel like to push him over the edge instead of always being the one dragged there.

You both stayed in your spot, nestled in somewhat seemingly… a couple’s embrace. The tense verbal sparring juxtaposed whatever you two were doing.

Every barbed remark was delivered with a small kiss on your temple or the crown of your head. His arms wrapped around your waist as your back pressed against his chest. Every so often, he would nip your earlobe—not meant to hurt—or deliberately push the bulge tenting beneath his trousers against your derriere.

Yet, you didn’t pull away. Instead, your body revelled on it—violating every inhibition you had been holding on to. Maybe his soft kisses drowned whatever filth he was murmuring behind your ears.

As the sun dipped toward the sea, casting golden fire across the deck, Sylus finally pulled away.

“We’ll dine with the executives tonight,” he said, adjusting the collar of your dress like he had every right to. “Try not to embarrass me.”

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

The Onychinus executive dining hall was an ode to decadence—dark wood panels, crystal chandeliers, and velvet-draped windows framing the sea like a captive mistress. The table spanned half the room, laden with wine, glass, and greed. A string quartet played something delicate in the corner, and laughter curled like smoke between crystal glasses.

You were now donning a dress of his choice, of course: a black velvet gown clung to you like sin, slit high up your thigh, the neckline low enough to make liars stammer. It wasn’t just revealing—it was possessive. A silent brand. But this time, you didn’t shy away from it.

You embraced it.

You’re going to test just how unshakable Sylus really is by dancing on the edge of defiance and seduction… in front of his peers. After all, if you’re going to be displayed, you might as well shine blindingly enough to burn him.

Sylus walked in beside you, hand low on your back, the weight of his ownership tangible. You played the part for the first ten minutes: obedient, sleek, silent.

The lieutenants filtered in—men and women who commanded fleets, who’d slit throats for favor, who whispered empires into being. You gave each one your smile: not demure, not sweet. No. Yours was the kind that suggested secrets shared in candlelight and claws raked down backs.

And they noticed.

You let your gaze wander across the room. Caught a man staring too long at your lips. Another whose knuckles tightened around his wine glass when your thigh brushed the edge of the tablecloth. They weren’t weak, these men—lieutenants, billionaires, killers in suits���but none of them were Sylus.

But then, a man took the seat beside you, occupying the empty chair on your other side. A lieutenant you remembered from the brunch, his gaze lingering a little too long on your chest, your lips.

Irevan—as you remembered it—was his name. Tall, blond. Broad-shouldered. Smug, too pretty for someone with a confirmed body count in the triple digits. He slid into the seat beside you with a predator’s grace, offered you a half-smile and a greeting wrapped in flirtation.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said with a slow grin. “I was hoping you weren’t just a one-night ghost.”

You didn’t answer right away. You felt Sylus’ attention tighten like a snare beside you, his wine glass pausing at his lips.

“I’m full of surprises,” you replied. “Depends who’s watching.”

Sylus didn’t speak, but you felt the shift beside you. A stillness. He was listening now.

Good.

Irevan smiled, and it was all teeth and intention. “I didn’t get the chance earlier. But what’s your name, beautiful?”

You turned to Irevan with a tilt of your head and that wicked curve of your mouth.

“Oh, I’m no one,” you purred, offering your hand. You turned further slightly, letting your cleavage do the rest of the seduction. “Address me as you wished. Though… make sure it’s apt for dining.”

You winked at the man, sipping your wine, your lipstick stained the rim.

Irevan chuckled as he shook your hand.

“Keeping things mysterious,” he said, gaze slipping down from your lips down to your cleavage. “I like that.”

Sylus stiffened beside you. Just slightly. Enough. But his knife hit the plate with a clink that spoke volumes.

Perfect.

Dinner passed in a blur of veiled glances and charged silences. You laughed at one of Irevan’s dry remarks, leaned in too close when passing the wine. You even whispered something in his ear that made him choke on his drink—and left Sylus' jaw rigid.

He kept silent. Just giving occasional chuckle and terse replies to his other subordinates who wanted his attention.

But you felt it—the stillness in him. The simmer.

His leg pressed against yours under the table, firm and unyielding. At first, you thought it was by accident. Until his hand found your thigh.

You didn’t flinch. You spread your legs slightly, just to see what he’d do. You never pulled away from Sylus’ touch. That was the genius of it.

Sylus couldn't call you out. Couldn’t drag you away in front of his own subordinates without admitting you were slipping through his fingers. So he watched. Smiled coldly. Sipped his drink like it wasn’t the only thing he wanted to break.

By the second course, the storm in his eyes was undeniable.

You pressed a cherry between your lips slowly, deliberately. Let your gaze flit toward Irevan’s lips. You smiled at him, bit into the fruit. Juice slid down your lip.

The man’s smirk widened, his head subtly shaking in amusement—or arousal.

Sylus' wine glass cracked in his hand.

You turned to him finally, like you’d just remembered he existed. “Something wrong, Syl?”

Audacious—calling him by a nickname.

His smile was sharp, calm. Too calm.

“No,” he said. “Not at all. I’m simply enjoying the food.”

A challenge.

And beneath the table, his hand slid higher.

You kept your face neutral, your breath steady, even as he slipped his fingers beneath the silk barrier of your dress, his touch cool and unyielding. A punishment, a reminder, a warning all in one.

Still, you leaned closer, whispered against the shell of his ear.

“I thought you wanted me to make an impression.”

His gaze met yours. Hungry. Infuriated.

By dessert, you were dancing on a knife’s edge. You brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, exposing the bite he left last night, just beneath your jaw. You caught Sylus watching. He knew what you were doing. He was letting you—for now.

But then Irevan leaned in. Close enough to put pressure on the invisible string of tension brewing between you and Sylus—now stretched stretched taut and left humming, until it would finally snap.

“After this,” the blond murmured, “come find me. I want to see what kind of war you start when you’re not sitting beside the devil himself.”

You didn’t get to answer.

Sylus stood. The scrape of his chair echoed like a gunshot.

“Dinner’s over,” he said, voice calm and icy, like a glacier before it cracks.

No one argued. Chairs shifted. Conversations halted.

You bid farewell at the other man as you rose with the grace of a queen. But as you stepped past him, Sylus’ hand gripped your elbow, deceptively gentle.

You didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, so low only you could hear.

You leaned in close, lips barely brushing his ear. “Well, you said this was a game, remember?”

The silence that followed the dinner was louder than any reprimand.

Sylus didn’t speak a word as he guided you from the dining hall with a hand at the small of your back—civil, polite, possessive. His expression was unreadable, carved in marble. No one stopped you. No one dared.

You half-expected him to drag you back to the suite, to slam you against a wall, to rip the dress off your body with words made of fire and ice. But instead, he let go.

Just outside the elevator, his hand slipped from your back like a breath exhaled. He stepped in first. You didn’t follow right away. You hesitated.

That infuriating smirk now wiped out from the curve of his lips. “Coming?” he simply asked.

You said nothing, but your heels clicked against the floor as you entered, keeping your chin high. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking what he was thinking. Because you knew exactly what he was doing.

He was waiting. Letting you simmer in your own defiance. Letting you think you’d won.

He didn't touch you in the elevator. Didn’t so much as glance your way. But you felt him, like heat rolling off a blackened sun. The way his gloved hands stayed loose in his pockets. The slight twitch of his jaw.

Predator restraint. Whatever.

By the time the lift opened onto the suite floor, you were nearly breathless with anticipation. And still, he said nothing.

The hallway back to the suite was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked ahead of him—your heels echoing like gunshots on marble, your back straight despite the tremor in your breath. He barely said anything since dinner. Not a glance. Not a whisper. But you felt him.

A shadow at your heels. A pressure behind your ribcage. Still, you expected him to finally break the silence—but Sylus simply unlocked the suite and stepped aside like a gentleman.

Mockery in manners.

"After you," he said, his voice carved from polished restraint.

You didn’t thank him.

The suite was dark, lit only by moonlight pouring in through glass windows. A storm brewed far across the sea, lightning flashing in the clouds like something ancient and vengeful. You watched it as you stepped inside. He shut the door behind you with a soft click that sounded… final.

You waited.

And waited.

But Sylus just walked past you, loosened his tie, and sat in the velvet armchair like a king watching a jester who didn’t realize the punchline was her own neck. That scared you more than a slap would have.

You turned, arms crossed, defiance on your lips.

“Well? Nothing to say?” Your voice rang out too loud in the suite, brittle around the edges. “I expected you to at least be a little more—possessive.”

That earned you a slow blink. A cruel smile.

“Oh, I am,” he murmured. “But I prefer to let the poison soak in before I carve it out.”

You swallowed. The air between you turned lead-heavy.

“Irevan’s cute,” you said, pushing again, reckless now. “Smart. Attentive. He knows how to flirt without using threats.”

Sylus didn't move. But you saw it—the barest flicker of something behind his eyes. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands steepled before his mouth.

“You really think he wanted you?” he asked quietly.

Your smile faltered.

“Men like Irevan don’t flirt. They hunt. They test the boundaries. He probably thinks you’re too easy to get. You were a dare, not a desire. And he was audacious enough to do it.”

You scoffed, though your pulse was hammering. “And you? You’re so much better?”

“No,” he said, rising to his feet in one smooth motion, voice a whisper wrapped in steel. “I’m worse. Because I don’t just want to own you—I want to ruin you for anyone else.”

He stepped toward you.

You backed up once, then steadied. “Is that what this is? Some power trip? You think you can just—”

“I know I can.”

He was in front of you now, lifting your chin with two fingers. His voice was low, venomous velvet.

“You flaunt yourself in front of my lieutenants like a lamb trying to dress as a lion. Do you really think I’d be threatened by your little rebellion?”

“I wasn’t rebelling,” you hissed, eyes flashing. “You parade me around like a trophy, dress me up like your doll, and when I flirt back to remind you I’m not yours, you—”

“I never said you weren’t mine.” His voice cut through yours—low, quiet, final. Those crimson eyes weren’t cold anymore. They burned.

“I just like watching you forget,” he continued.

“Watching you twist and squirm to prove you’re untouchable.” He took another step. “You want to bait me, darling? Fine. I’ll bite.”

Sylus then raised a hand. Not to strike—to touch.

He traced his fingers along your collarbone, slow and light, until you shivered. His touch ghosted down to the dip of your cleavage, not claiming—claiming control by not claiming at all.

“You didn’t humiliate me at that table,” he said softly. “All you did was remind them that you’re exquisite. And when they touch themselves tonight,” he added, his thumb grazing your lips, “they’ll all think about how you moaned for me. Only for me.”

You hated how your body responded. The ache blooming again. The flush rising to your throat.

“You want me to snap, don’t you?” you spat.

“I want you to beg. And you will. But not tonight.”

He pulled away. The cold rush of air between your bodies nearly made you stumble.

“You’re not punishing me?” you asked, wary now.

“No,” he said, walking past you to the bedroom like a man dismissing a meal he planned to return to later. “I’m marinating you.”

The door shut with a whisper. And you were left alone in the stormlight, trembling with a cocktail of rage, arousal, and dread.

The storm outside now engulfed the cruise ship as the clock ticked.

Not silent, no. Silence is peaceful. This was quiet in that eerie, unnatural way—like the moment before the crash of a wave or the split-second before lightning sears the sky.

You stood alone in the sitting area, staring out at the sea, your reflection ghosted faintly in the glass. The ocean was black, ink spilled over the edge of the world. In the distance, the storm Sylus had ignored rumbled, low and hungry.

That bastard. That utter bastard.

You turned away from the window and moved through the room slowly, deliberately, trying to ground yourself. Stripping off the ridiculous luxury gown he’d made you wear. Each layer felt heavier than it should, like you were shedding pieces of a role you hadn’t agreed to play.

In the bathroom, you caught sight of yourself again—neck still bruised, lips still painted with a burgundy shade, a flush still lingering on your chest. The mark he left in the booth peeked out from your collarbone, mocking you.

You stood before the full-length mirror in the dim suite bathroom, the overhead lights turned off. Only the suite sconces filtered in, golden but cold, painting you in sharp contrast.

A stranger stared back at you.

Not the bounty hunter. Not the predator. Just a woman—barefoot in borrowed luxury. Skin brushed clean but marked in ways water couldn’t wash away.

You traced your fingers over the red indent still fading from your wrists, where the cuffs had bitten into you the first night he caught you after your failed attempt at assassination. The ache was dull now. Familiar. You’d lived your whole life surviving pain—this should’ve been no different.

But Sylus was not pain. He was corruption. And you weren’t surviving him. You were sinking into him.

“I’m not his,” you whispered to the mirror. It sounded weaker than you'd meant.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the cleanser on the counter. Branded luxury, of course. Everything here was expensive, curated, soft on the surface and sharpened underneath.

Like him.

You washed your face roughly, trying to scrub the sensation of his fingers from your skin. But it lingered. Everywhere. In the throb between your thighs. In the ache of your sore wrists. In the possessive way he’d watched you—always watching, as if you were a puzzle to be dismantled, not solved.

He’d said he was marinating you.

God.

You clenched the edge of the sink and breathed deep, trying to anchor yourself with logic. You’d been trained to outmaneuver people like him. To seduce, manipulate, endure. You knew how to lie, how to survive.

But this wasn't a strategy anymore.

This was… personal.

Too personal.

You grabbed one of the silk robes from the hook and wrapped it around yourself tightly, knotting the belt twice, as if it might hold you together. Your legs moved on autopilot back to the bedroom’s edge, but you paused before crawling into the bed.

His scent was still there—masculine, earthy, crisp spice. You hated that you’ve come to know it so well.

You stood there, arms folded, the ache in your chest finally louder than the hum of arousal he’d left you with. You wanted to hate him. You should have. But the problem was, your body remembered too much. And worse—it wanted more.

Goddamn him.

Goddamn you.

You had to find a way out. A real one.

You wanted to leave. To escape. To sabotage everything he built and watch it burn. You had a mission. A past. A purpose.

You couldn’t keep playing his game and pretending it wasn’t doing something irreversible to you. The plan B had been to spy, to bait, to use what you gathered to expose him then kill him. But now? You weren’t sure anymore. You didn’t know if the real plan had drowned somewhere between your thighs in that velvet booth.

Now you were tangled in something far more dangerous than any bounty: desire, veiled and vicious. You weren’t a captive in the physical sense—you knew that. No guards stood at the door. No chains kept you bound.

And yet, when you looked toward the bedroom where Sylus had vanished, your legs didn’t move.

That was the worst part.

You could run, if you try hard enough. But some dark part of you wanted to stay.

You padded barefoot before the bed, the storm outside howling its warning. The sheets were turned down again, pristine and welcoming, like he knew you’d eventually come crawling back to them. You slipped beneath the covers, but sleep didn’t come.

Your body was too awake. Your mind, too full. Memories of the few days you spent time with him burned through you in flashes:

The press of Sylus’ palm between your thighs under the table…

His voice—a threat disguised as devotion…

That brutal, breathtaking orgasm you fought so hard to hide in public last night at the masquerade…

The way he’d whispered afterward, “No one else will touch you like this. They’ll try. But they’ll fail.”

And worse, the truth that your body believed him. It was nothing but brief, charged moments with him, but it felt like forever as you stayed longer on his cruise ship.

You turned to your side, curled into the pillow, gripping it like an anchor.

Was this all part of his game? Was he letting you sabotage yourself? Letting you try to resist so that when you broke, it would taste sweeter on his tongue?

You swallowed hard.

“I need to find a way to turn this around,” you whispered to the empty room. “Before he makes me forget who I was.”

But even as you said it, you knew you were already forgetting. Not everything. Just enough.

Enough to dream of his hands on your throat and wake up wet.

Enough to crave his approval even as you plotted his downfall.

Enough to think, maybe, the only way out… is through him.

There were only two paths now:

One, find leverage, gather intel, escape before he sank his claws in further.

Two… fall. Give in. Let the mask slip. Let him see all of you—and gamble with your sanity.

You pressed your lips into a thin line.

No.

You’d play the long game. Let him think he was winning. Let him think he’d broken you.

You’d let him taste the illusion of control—and when he needed you the most, when he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you…

That’s when you’d strike.

But until then…

You stared up at the ceiling. The sheets were soft. The air smelled like him.

You hated how safe it felt.

And you hated how much you wanted him to come back.

➷ TAG LIST

@alastor-simp @washingmachineheart-13 @estarlias @snowkyouka @theshadowsdragon @basicallyjeankirschtein @ladshub @boinkboinkkitten @m00njinnie @nyxserenity0815 @arimartinez1140-blog @opoyend

[heylittleriotact]

WIP WHENEVER

Thank you for tagging me, @roguishcat and @xxnashiraxx! I haven’t written much over the past few days because art, but here’s a bit of what I’ve got going on for Chapter 12 of i heard people are dying to get in here

Tagging: @allofthebarks @aldisobey @thepalehorsevictoria @emmg and @preciouslittlebhaalbae

It was always a bit disconcerting to wake up in someone else’s bed for the first time, but as Rook lazily wandered the path between sleep and waking, becoming aware of the thick, heavy duvet she was huddled in, while her fingers dragged over the luxurious texture of linen sheets she couldn’t even begin to put a price tag on, that fleeting confusion gave way to a warm feeling that touched every corner of her.

Granted, she had no idea where Emmrich had gone, but she was surrounded by him even in his physical absence: his sheets, his bed, his scent - even the subtle ache between her thighs was his doing - and it felt amazing.

Unsure of what time it was due to the black-out curtains over the windows, Rook reached over the bed for her phone on the nightstand, squinting into the bright screen until her eyes adjusted.

7:15… on a Saturday. Who gets up this early on a Saturday?

Emmrich, evidently. How long had he been awake? And why wasn’t he cuddling her?

Unacceptable.

She flung back the down-filled duvet and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, taking her phone with her to use the flashlight so she could find a light switch on the wall and illuminate the room properly.

When she had, she looked at her duffel bag on the gold damask chair in the corner of the large room - it contained enough clothes to last the weekend, and enough underwear that even if she shit herself numerous times before Sunday afternoon, she’d have fresh clean ones.

She had brought along a pair of sweats and a couple of comfy tees, but…

Instead she went to the chest of drawers against the wall, tall and handsome like Emmrich, and she could tell by a glance that it sure as shit wasn’t comprised of pressboard and dowels.

Solving murders for the cops as a side-gig is clearly not without its side-benefits…

Looping her fingers into the solid brass handles of the uppermost drawer, she was greeted by a plethora of designer underwear and socks in nearly every colour and pattern imaginable. Giggling, she slide the drawer shut and opened the next one: ah, more cashmere sweaters - he likes his knitwear, doesn’t he?

The next one yielded a variety of casual chinos and one single pair of dark grey jeans at the very bottom that looked like they’d been in that exact spot for years.

The bottom drawer contained what she was looking for (amongst sweat wicking athletic shirts, and to her delight, a few pairs of breezy pants that wouldn’t have been out of place in a yoga studio): a stack of t-shirts, carefully folded like everything else, but bearing the same air of untouched neglect the jeans had.

Settling onto her knees, Rook pulled the stack out and balanced them on her lap, feeling utterly at home with the act of brazenly snooping through Emmrich’s dresser.

“Mhmmm…” she murmured, lifting the topmost shirt and unfolding it, holding it up before her. “I knew there was more to you than Beethoven…”

Pink Turns Blue - she wasn’t familiar with the band, but there was no mistaking that this was indeed a band shirt. It was old: the black cotton faded nearly to grey, the screen printed graphic cracked and lightened by countless washes.

Draping it over the edge of the drawer, she unfolded another.

Depeche Mode, nice.

Then another.

Bauhaus… ooooh…

Siouxie and the Banshees, The Birthday Party, The Legendary Pink Dots, The Velvet Underground

The Cramps…

“Ewww gross: The Smiths,” she wrinkled her nose and put it down. “Judging you, for that one, Emmrich.”

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Einstürzende Neubauten…

“Can’t have one without the other, right?” She smiled at the purple and gold stylization of a stick-man and the crimson splash bursting out from behind it, the band’s name picked out in the same ochre shade that outlined the stick-man.

This one looked to be the most threadbare and heavily worn: the neckline was riddled with small notches where the elastic had deteriorated, and the material was so thin in places it might tear if handled too harshly. Sure enough, the seams under the armpits were lined with holes where friction had stressed the cheap garment the most.

She cast a glance over her shoulder towards the door to ensure Emmrich and his soft footfalls hadn’t snuck up on her, and when she deemed the coast clear, she brought an armpit to her nose and gave it a tentative sniff.

Oh yeah. This smells like a favourite.

The fibres were steeped in the permanent, detergent-resistant musk of a garment that had been worn and sweated in and washed hundreds of times: the lingering ghost of Emmrich’s booze (and potentially other substance) fuelled escapades of youth.

An image of Emmrich, lankier even than he was now, clad in tight leather pants and tattered combat boots, grooving sullenly in an 80s goth club wandered through her mind. He was sweaty, bare-faced, and the amount of hairspray in his dark hair undeniably contributed to the hole in the ozone layer. A flat gin and tonic dangled at his side and he puffed on a dirty ass clove cigarette as he watched the band with half-lidded disinterest, swaying in place to the music.

[littlelamy]

happy birthday rafe pt.2

lamy's notes: photo credits to @nemesyaaa , she literally inspired to write more for burlesque!reader so i for one am so excited for her to read it…again lmao!!!

it started with a single note, a sultry hum from the speakers hidden in the corners of the room. the heavy, velvet curtains of the tannyhill lounge were drawn, candlelight flickering off dark wood, casting golden pools of light against the walls. rafe had been sipping on his bourbon, expecting a quiet night with you, just like he asked. but then the music swelled, and the slow, deliberate clack of heels against the marble floor made his head snap up.

except this time, his wrists were shackled, cold steel biting into his skin. the expensive leather of his chair groaned slightly as he tested the restraints, but they held firm. a perfect, infuriating match for the cocky smirk tugging at your lips as you stepped into the room.

you stood there, bathed in the low, amber glow, wrapped in chains and gemstones, shimmering like sin itself. the deep blue crystals caught the light as they draped down your body, framing every curve, every tempting dip of skin. rafe’s grip tightened around the armrests, the tension in his forearms visible as his throat bobbed. his eyes darkened, flickering from the curve of your hips to the silver glint of the handcuffs holding him captive.

“happy birthday, baby,” you purred, voice honey-sweet, thick with something wicked. the slow roll of your hips matched the rhythm of the music as you stepped forward, heels clicking deliberately, teasingly.

rafe’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze dark and hungry as he leaned back, legs spread, one eyebrow quirking despite the situation. “what are you up to, y/n?” his voice was low, thick with something between amusement and raw need, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching against the chair, desperate to touch.

“just a little surprise.”

the moment you turned, giving him a full view of the way the gold chains draped over your bare ass, barely held together by the delicate, shimmering thong, he let out a quiet curse, shifting in his seat, the leather creaking under his thighs.

then, you moved.

hips swaying, body rolling, you let the music guide you, let the sultry rhythm dictate every slow, deliberate movement. your fingers trailed over your own body, teasing at the gemstones, at the delicate chains that framed your curves, before you let them slip, letting the cool metal glide against your skin. rafe’s breathing grew heavier, the sound barely audible over the music, but you could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers flexed against the restraints as if he could will them to break just to get to you.

“fuck, y/n,” he rasped, dragging a hand through his hair before remembering, with a sharp clink of metal, that he couldn’t. his pupils were blown, eyes locked onto you like a predator watching its prey, but there was nothing he could do except sit there and burn.

you turned again, slower this time, letting the shimmering piece barely covering you cling to your skin, teasing him with glimpses of bare flesh beneath. the way his fists clenched against the cuffs sent a thrill down your spine. you were driving him insane.

and you weren’t done.

your fingers danced down your own thighs, teasing at the gold chains that clung to your skin, before slipping under the thin strip of fabric at your hip. you tugged, just enough to make his breath hitch, just enough to have him shifting again, legs spreading wider, the bulge in his slacks impossible to ignore now.

“you like your present?” you teased, dragging your nails lightly over your thigh, your chest rising and falling with every deliberate breath. the look in his eyes was practically feral, but the steel kept him seated, bound, a king dethroned and helpless at your mercy.

“come here,” he demanded, voice rough, laced with something dangerous, something desperate. the way he leaned forward, muscles straining against the cuffs, sent a spark of satisfaction through you.

but you weren’t going to make it that easy.

instead, you danced closer, but not close enough to touch. his fingers twitched, reaching instinctively before he remembered, the motion ending with a sharp rattle of the chains. a wicked smile curved your lips. the low growl that rumbled from his chest sent heat pooling between your thighs.

“baby,” he warned, voice strained, dark. “don’t fucking tease.”

but that’s exactly what you planned to do.

because the night was young, and he wasn’t getting free anytime soon.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @nemesyaaa

[raccoonfallsharder]

sunshine ☀︎ ⋆⁺☁︎⋆₊⊹ book one of kinktober 2024

kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction 18+ only | no use of y/n | f!reader | 4 parts | word count: 37,320. read book one now ☀︎ ⋆⁺☁︎⋆₊⊹ [COMPLETE]

you take a stranger home for a night of celebration. why not? after all, it’s not like there will be any longterm ramifications. an expansion on day 15 of kinktober 2023.

CONTEXT: mcu-based, post-endgame, grumpy/sunshine vibes (obviously), “secret affair” (no cheating), workplace romance??, angst, comfort, relationship anxiety. sub reader/dom rocket. HEA of course.

☁︎⋆⁺☀︎ part one | dawn | wednesday, october 8.  a raccoon walks into a bar. KINKS/WARNINGS: public sex, spanking, pussy slapping, light praise/degradation, brief titplay/cunnilingus. use of "slut"/"fuckdoll" (affectionate).

☁︎⋆⁺☀︎ part two | merediem | thursday, october 10. after what was intended to be a one night stand, rocket & sunshine reader navigate the awkward aftermath of being new crewmates. oops. KINKS/WARNINGS: free-use negotiation, light dom/sub vibes, public sex, temperature play, light praise/degradation, inappropriate use of a coffee mug.

☁︎⋆⁺☀︎ part three | golden hour | wednesday, october 16. rocket steals all the warmth he can get before the sun inevitably sets. aka, last call. KINKS/WARNINGS: free-use, sex toys, edging, brief somnophilia, nipple-play, dom/sub vibes, pussy-claiming, sensation play, light dom/sub vibes, light praise/degradation, shower sex. 

☁︎⋆⁺☀︎ part four | vespers | saturday, october 19. a little hair of the raccoon who bit you (and other remedies for heartbreak). KINKS/WARNINGS: free-use, soft/pleasure dom vibes, somnophilia, praise kink, body worship, edging??, biting/marking.

excerpt below. also, for the record, i do realize the ship in the moodboard is the milano and not the benatar, but the benetar is apparently a fucken cryptid that i can't get a good shot of.

The sound system you slip between is cacophonous, but the space behind it seems muted. For a half-second you consider the mechanics of sound and how all of it seems to be pumping away from you, but then the stranger uses your body’s momentum to sling you around by your wrist. You stumble into the little alcove, tumbling against the gold-velvet curtain and the exposed brick behind you — steadied only when the stranger catches you firmly by the hips, claws pricking you right through the satin in a way that makes your thighs clench unexpectedly. Your breath catches at the strength of his palms. You hadn’t realized how strong he was when he’d been guiding you through the dancers and drunks — probably because you’d been so eager to follow — but the way he manages the imbalance of your body despite his low vantage point has your eyes widening as he crowds you back against the brick. Your shoulderblades and spine hit the rough surface bruisingly, and the wall scrapes against your skin, stinging. The stairs and the wall and the curtain — the back of the speakers — all muffle the noise of the club, but you’re still close enough to the stage that you can feel the music: thudding, thunderous — vibrating your collarbone and lungs. Elsewhere, too. The stranger stares up at you, eyes still flashing like dark grenadine and stoplights in the flakes of spinning light. He stands in the opening of the curtain and the staircase, and you can see the haze of people and glitter and sound behind him, spangled with the reflections off of cocktail glasses, and prisms of iolite and topaz and opal. You lift your right hand to press against the underside of the steps, and your left to brace against one of the load-bearing columns that hold up the loft. The brick must be gray, but it looks blue in this light, rough and scraping against your back. “You sure, doll?” He’s not yelling, but you can tell he has to raise his voice so you can hear him. You reply only by licking your lips and taking a breath to steady yourself, then dropping your hands to your sides. You curl your fingers into the tight, gleaming black satin of your dress, and inch it slowly up your thighs. You don’t take your eyes off his. He doesn’t look away either — not even as his hand reaches out, slow and tense. He pauses, and then taps his fingers lightly against your inner thigh. It’s meant to be a question, you think — but you oblige immediately, wiggling the skirt hem higher, widening your legs so he can slip in deeper between them. Closer. You can feel the warm, smooth calluses of his fingers and the prickle of his claws as they slide between your thighs, the side of his palm brushing against the gauzy-thin fabric over your cunt — thumb suddenly offering a single, deft stroke between your folds to nudge against your clothed clit. You jolt, every muscle suddenly locking, core turning absolutely molten — dripping right into the sheer panel of swiss-dot lace between your thighs.

read book one now ☀︎ ⋆⁺☁︎⋆₊⊹ kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

orange support/mdni banners and fairylight dividers by @/saradika-graphics | yellow flower dividers by @/thecutestgrotto