#come and let me love you and your muse(s)

[streetslost]

What would be the best way to start an interaction with you if we’ve never written before?

hello, lovely nonnie! thank you for the inquiry! i've been a bit slow/busy lately, so two of my go-to suggestions for me are a bit awol at the moment... which is i love to like starter calls and also i tend to make them! but since i've been trying to catch up, i've not been doing either lately ajsdfkl;jaf the best way to start things with me these days is just to message me if you have something in mind! doesn't need to be a full plot, but if you have a barebones idea or a relationship you'd like to explore, just slide into my askbox or ims or hmu for d.isco. i'm a bit slow depending on work but plotting/chatting through things helps a lot and will make it easier for me to write when i can get to it! i also think establishing a basic reaction with cat is super nice because it helps dodge some of the awkward intro stage. another way is to send memes! i don't have a lot on my blog but i got a few i like. i feel like memes are easier to set up an intriguing situation without necessarily having to plot or the like. but if you do have a verse preference or interaction preference, just include that in the ask! random ask interactions in general also work just as well if not better at times tbh. lastly... honestly if we're mutuals, just ask/let me know you'd like to make me a starter and pretty much 99% of the time i'll say yes! as long as you understand i'm as slow as molasses right now ( work is in crunch mode for a bit ) ajfskl;ja and if you don't have plots or ideas or anything yet, you can always just message me to chat, get to know each other, ask questions about our muses, yatta yatta! sometimes my ability to converse is low because work takes a lot out of me and so i apologize in advance for that at times but. despite what it may seem, i adore chatting/connecting with others. my focus just doesn't always lol. i hope that helps any? long story short. i'm a slow, busy bean, but i love people and writing and am trying to get back in the zone so just give me some patience is all!

[reignpage]

❀ In which Nanami is put to the test by his insatiable, pregnant wife

Kento’s libido has always paled in comparison to his wife’s. That isn’t to say he can’t keep up or doesn’t, far from it. You may start the fun, but it’s he who ends it with you drooling, limp, and buzzing behind the eyes, barely able to even mumble a ‘thank you.’ 

It’s probably more apt to say that his libido only awakens when yours does, whether it’s from your light touches, the mischievous glint in your eyes, or low, sultry whispers in his ears — everything you do and say sparks his sexual spirit. You even joke that he’s wife-sexual and he doesn’t argue against that. 

But these days, he’s starting to question whether there are limits to his appetite and whether you have any at all. 

Now washing the dishes always ends up with your soft, protruding belly pressed against his back and your arms roving his front. You muse about how amazing his muscles look from the back, how broad his shoulders are, and how his hips seem to be getting narrower and narrower (it’s impossible, of course, but you're adamant). With his hands still sudsy, he knows he can’t sate your desire with his fingers alone, so he gets down on his knees, keeps his eyes on yours, and tastes you on his tongue until you tap out. 

Returning home from work comes with surprises too, usually involving his wife on her knees wearing nothing but the ring he kisses every morning and every night. Driving anywhere, for example, involves some heavy petting during traffic or, when you cannot possibly wait any longer, parking somewhere obscured and having a quick and steamy romp in the backseat. 

Or two. 

Up till now, he’s managed rather well; every needs you have are met and expeditiously, even before you were pregnant and especially so now that you are. But, when he wakes up, dazed, confused and with his cock being sucked and slobbered on, he’s met with your adorably round eyes and shiny, swollen lips wrapped around his equally swollen and plump cock, as he pulls the covers away. 

“Oh, s-sweetheart. It’s late. Did you get -hah- antsy again?”

You nod, cheeks hallowed to slurp on the bubbling pre-cum at his tip. He groans, head thrown back and blond hair spilling all over his pillows. His darling wife isn't the greatest in the kitchen or reading the room, but good God, are you amazing at bringing him to his knees? 

Inspirational, really. 

Cooing, he brushes your hair out of your face and sends a shaky smile your way. “F-feeling empty, my love? Lonely? Come up here, sweetheart. Let Ken take care of you.”

A pout graces those lips he loves so much when you nuzzle his palm.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Kenny. I really tried to hold back, I swear! It’s just like a craving, y’know?”

He’s got you straddling his lap soon, your huge shirt framing your larger-than-normal body, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, and nipples pebbled under the thin material — you look nothing short of the embodiment of temptation, the paragon of seduction.

“What did I say before? Hmm?” A thumb begins rubbing circles over your clit, concealed behind soaked cotton and it squelches under his touch. You’re both breathless, moving slowly, gently, lovingly in the dark like you have a million times before and will a million times after. “You can always come to me for your needs. I’d resent myself if I ever made you feel embarrassed or alone in this pregnancy. Every high and low, we face it together, remember?”

Growing more and more hungry, you find yourself no longer grinding down on his hand; instead, you’re gripping his length between your pussy lips, sharing in the wetness and seeking to hear more of his low groans as if it fuels you. “Ngh, Ken, I know. You’ve been so good t-to me; I just feel bad asking for more when you’ve —fuck, I’m gonna cum!— g-given me everything.”

These days you're more sensitive than usual and it's maddening trying to go easy on your poor cunt when his eyes are rolling back and his cock seems to have grown a mind of its own as it pounds your clamping, sloppy inside. Overstimulation is a common theme now and it's a bother to hide the twitch of his lips when you cry from your fifth orgasm in an hour with the end nowhere in sight. He never thought he'd like to see tears trail down your cheeks but this pregnancy's rewiring everything in your bodies.

“Have I not done a good enough job of making sure you know —that’s it, sweetheart, grind down on me, ah, s-such a good girl —e-everything that’s mine is yours?”

Gasping and whining, you admit, “Yes! Yes, you have.”

“And how m-many times—“ He groans, voice deepening into a growl, sounding almost angry that you need yet another reminder of your place in his life. “— have I told you that you don’t need to -hah- a-ask? That you can t-take from me whatever you like, whenever you like.”

Sweat is beading down your body, thicker thighs pushing through the ache from grinding down on his cock. His huge hands, safe and warm, are pulling you down. Kento’s perceptive eyes see the way they quiver with your feeble attempt to keep most of your weight off of him, but what you don’t know is that he can take it. That he doesn’t mind. That he craves your complete and utter reliance on him. 

“All the time!”

Needlessly worried about the growing heaviness of your body, he takes every opportunity to remind you that he doesn't work out for aesthetics. All that he does is intended to make you happy and he knows how much you love the burliness of his body, the strength in every limb, every muscle, and every flex. Sometimes, he puts on a show just to watch you press your thighs together.

“Then please act like it,” he hisses. “Please, just use me without hesitation. Fuck, d-don’t even bother with pretences. Just slide my —God, you’re so wet, s-sweetheart— s-slide my cock inside you and ride me till you cum. Until you’ve had enough.”

Your husband is close, too. His abs, sharp and well-defined, are tensing up, and the veins in his arms are popping with the effort to keep from cumming all over your sopping cunt before your cum drips down his balls. It’s crude, vulgar, downright shameful, he knows that. But you have a gift; you can drive him to insanity, to the very edge of reason, of self-control, dangling him right where you want him, sweating and babbling about another baby before you even had your first one, and then you pull him back to safety, and he returns as your husband and not your walking sex toy. 

"I wish you would just touch m-me without worry, my love. I hate to see you dig your nails into your own skin —your lovely, beautiful skin, so pretty and hnngh! all for me— b-because you're trying to hold back."

Mewling and clawing his clammy chest, you promise, "I will! I'll just take what I w-want. I'll k-kiss you and touch you and fuck you when I need to, 'kay, K-ken? Even when you're busy!"

"N-never too busy for you, darling."

Spasms wrack your body as he growls out, more to himself than to anyone else, "Never."

When you slump onto his body, shaking and mouthing adorations into the blond splattering of hair on his chest, he doesn’t even care that his orgasm was stifled. He can only rub your back reassuringly as he begins worrying about the pressure you’re applying on your belly. 

You laugh. “This pregnancy has changed you, Ken. You're just as bad as me, sometimes. Maybe your hormones are going crazy, too.”

He kisses your head, eyes crinkling at the corners and cock throbbing under your stomach from the sweet scent of you filling the air. “It’s only made me bolder, honey. More honest. Now, have you had enough, love? Should we get you back on your side of the bed? The doctors said you need as much sleep as possible and we have a big day tomorrow with our crib shopping, remember?”

Grinning ear to ear, you sit up again.

Kento recognises that glint in your eyes and he sighs. He's in for a long night.

“Are you insane? The night is still young, Kenny honey, and we need practice for baby number two, remember?”

Hooking your panties to the side for you, a chuckle leaves his lips, which he licks subconsciously, eyes drawn to the shiny lips slowly but expertly engulfing his cock, inch by inch. 

“I have a feeling we won’t be stopping at baby two tonight, darling.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

diva

in which flirty!reader shows up to work in a bad mood and it’s spencer’s job to deal with her attitude. not that he minds. (bandages universe)

fluff warnings/tags: fem!reader, mentions of reader coming to work from a casual hookup, flirting, lots of teasing, the BAU being silly geese bc this is before all the trauma, insecurities about reader's job performance, spencer wants to be a cyborg, borderline cuddling hehehe a/n: nanana diva is a female version of a hustler (bandages!reader theme song) no but really i just missed them so much lowkey always accepting requests for these two!! I hope you guys likeeee bc i loveee them and also this was based on a request so i hope u see this LOL

As soon as Hotch calls wheels up in thirty you’re slumping forward, resting your head on folded arms. The to-go cup on the round table in front of you has long been emptied but you look at it longingly anyway. 

Morgan chuckles, slapping his folder down on the table next to you. “Aw, look at that. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“It’s Sunday,” you groan. “It’s seven in the morning. Excuse me for not being ready to carpe the diem.”

“It’s just carpe diem,” Spencer interjects, standing and slipping his file into his bag. You sit up and give him the most indignant look you can manage, though it’s hard when you’re this tired and he’s that cute. Slacks. Sweater vest. Button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. An enviable waist. 

“Whose side are you on?”

He frowns, brushing a tuft of shining-clean brown hair out of his eyes. 

“If I was on anyone’s side other than my own it would cease to be their side. We’re all always on our own sides.”

“No, you’re on my side. Defend me.”

His brows only dart up and he looks back down to his bag. It’s a look you know well. Don’t get me involved. 

Morgan spins in his chair to face you, one elbow resting on the table. 

“I’m just saying, if this is your Sunday morning, I’d love to see your Saturday night, little miss forty five minutes late.”

“You heard Hotch say he called me half an hour earlier than everyone else. It was technically fifteen,” you frown. “And I… was at church.”

Rossi gestures at you with his coffee cup. “You step foot in a church, your shoes are going to start smoking.”

Your jaw drops. 

“Wow. I thought old people were supposed to be sweet. Come on, Spencer.”

Spencer knows better than to put up a fight as you get up and grab him by the hand not holding onto your cup and folder, dragging him to the bullpen to sit at your desk until the team is ready to go. 

He stands in front of you, hands in pockets, as you plop into your own chair. “I… can’t tell if you’re actually mad.”

“I am. At you. For not being on my side.”

Spencer sets his bag down and leans against the adjacent desk, arms folded. You stopped caring a long time ago if he’d notice you ogling the long, lithe lines of him. Maybe you never really cared, if you’re being honest with yourself. He’s a little harder to scandalize these days, anyway. But you’ll never stop trying. 

He bites his lip thoughtfully. 

“If you’re mad at me, why am I the one you dragged down here?”

“I’m not taking questions, Reid.”

He hisses. “Ouch. Reid.”

“Mhm. That’s how mad I am.”

“Okay, grouchy. Do you want a refill?”

You borderline pout, continuously perplexed by his kindness in the face of your insolence, but holding out your hollow cup for him anyway as you slouch lower in your seat. 

“Don’t call me grouchy.”

“Then don’t call me Reid,” he says, taking your cup as he passes, and you think you sense the faintest wash of amusement coloring his tone. 

The jet doesn’t do much to put pep in your step. 

“Aberdeen,” Morgan muses, letting his file closed on his lap. “Isn’t that where, uh, Kurt Cobain grew up?”

Spencer sits down in the chair next to you, setting the day’s third cup of coffee in front of you on the small table. “It is. It’s also where Washington’s first suspected serial killer William Gohl resided.”

“First of many,” Rossi amends. Reid nods. 

“In the US, Washington State comes in fifth place in terms of serial killers per capita. Some blame a widespread vitamin D deficiency. Just under eight hours of sunlight in the winter, the least in the contiguous United States.”

Emily gives an abhorrent rendition of a famous Nirvana riff, imitating a twangy electric guitar, before gesturing to your boss. “Hotch, you’re from Seattle. Did you ever get into Nirvana? The whole grunge scene?”

Hotch lowers his folder, giving her an unimpressed look. “Did you?”

While the exchange is amusing, the coffee is not perking you up and you’d like to be slightly less upright, if possible. You bump Spencer’s knee with your own, and he looks over at you obediently. 

“What’s up?”

“I wanna move to the couch.”

He nods and gets right back up. When you pass, and he doesn’t immediately follow, you turn around. Maybe the lack of sleep has rendered you unable to hide your look of contempt as he tries to sit back down. 

“What are you doing?”

Morgan snorts. “Uh oh. Lapdog almost forgot his training.”

“I am not a lapdog,” Spencer defends, giving Morgan a harsh look of his own, before following you, much to the amusement of the rest of the BAU. 

“Don’t listen to them,” you mutter as you step aside to let him pass. 

He settles into the corner of the couch. “I almost never do.” When you cozy up next to him, he seems surprised. “Um, hi?”

“I’m cold. You’re warm.”

“This is… unprofessional.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh my god. They don’t care.”

That’s enough to shut him up. Eventually he relaxes, and though he doesn’t put his arm around you (they remain crossed in front of him) he doesn’t seem too distraught over the way you’re leaning against him, head on his shoulder. The sky is a soft grey where you can see it through the little rectangles lining the far wall, like a pale tea with plenty of milk. 

“What’s up with you, anyway?” He asks eventually, gingerly, and though he’s bold to ask it you know the last thing he means to do is offend. Luckily for him, he’s your soft spot. You let your eyes flutter shut against the boxes of diffuse light. 

“Tired.”

“I know that. You’ve had three cups of coffee and you’re still about to fall asleep.”

“Well… that’s all it was.”

“Mhm.”

“God, you’re—” you lift your head, about to give him a good old fashioned verbal lashing, but he’s so sweet looking, and he’s so kind to you even when he’s not, that you deflate—all your air coming out on a sigh as you settle back against him. “I… was… not home, when Hotch called me.”

“Yeah, you said you were at church?” He sounds utterly bewildered. Your heart melts, and you can’t hide the fondness seeping from every pore as you look up at him through your lashes. He really is so beautiful. 

“That was a joke, Spence. I was with a friend.”

His brows knit and a faint blush tinges his cheeks. 

“Oh. I knew that.”

And he really is getting better at detecting your brand of sarcasm. One day you doubt you’ll be able to pull any over on him, and he’ll stop being so adorable and bashful and embarrassed and sweet all the time. You don't relish the thought.

“What were you doing this morning?” You ask, in a bid to quell the very embarrassment you covet, because you’re not actually a demon, despite what Rossi had implied earlier. 

“Sleeping.”

You hum. Imagine taking his hand. Don’t really take it. 

“Me ’nd you should hang out outside of work more often.”

“Like… in the mornings?”

“Uh, probably not,” you laugh, your own face heating at the implication he’s only sort of and undoubtedly accidentally making. “I mean—we could. We could have breakfast sometimes.”

“I like breakfast,” he muses. “I know a couple of good spots. I can show you when we get back. There are these ube pancakes that are like bright purple on the inside. Have you had ube? I think you’d like them. The pancakes and the tuber. They’re the same color as your laptop case.”

You giggle, too tired for anything more dignified and too charmed for anything less authentic. Spencer has a moment of apparent self-awareness and after a second chuckles along with you, and like 99% of your moments with him, it’s a nice one. 

It slowly fades, and you sigh. 

“We’d probably get called in right in the middle of breakfast.”

“It’s always a possibility,” Spencer agrees, and you feel him nod. He smells really nice—clean and sort of cedar-y. Warm. 

“You ever think about how we’re just… robot arms to do the bidding of the federal government? We’re not even people. We’re cyborgs.”

“I’d love to be a cyborg.”

“But then you wouldn’t be so warm and comfy.”

“If I were a cyborg I could install a heating element. I’d still be warm. I don’t know about comfy. Maybe if I kept the biomechatronics to one side of my torso.”

“You’d install a heating element just for me? So we could keep cuddling?”

He clears his throat. You smile to yourself. 

“Why are we cyborgs, exactly?”

“Because we don’t get personal lives. The job comes first. I could be doing anything. I could be in the middle of eating bright purple pancakes with my good friend and colleague Spencer Reid and it doesn’t matter. If we get called in we have to leave.”

“If we were in the middle of breakfast, we could just… take our food to go and finish it at our desks.”

“Well—I guess it would be different if it was us, but with my other friends… it’s kind of a bummer, sometimes.”

You’re thinking about the friend you left this morning. Nobody you’re particularly invested in, but you wonder if that friend is still asleep in bed—and you realize you don’t much care. You’re glad to be here, and not there. 

“I think if the job didn’t feel worth it to you, you would’ve left by now. But you haven’t. You can complain all you want, but you show up every day.”

You scoff. 

“Fifteen to 45 minutes late, depending on how you look at it.”

“That is… atypical. You’re usually on time.”

“Usually…” you repeat darkly. A moment passes. An uncomfortable insecurity begins to bloom and ache like a rotting tooth. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“Do you think…” you falter, unused to this kind of vulnerability. A cloud swallows the jet and the cabin darkens into a place for secrets. “Do you think I’m worth the trouble?”

You know Spencer senses the unease like a sheepdog can sense a storm from the way he perks up next to you. He’s always been like that—incredibly attuned to the moods of others. You hope he doesn’t think profiling is just another of many learned skills. It’s a genuine talent, a sort of savantism in its own right. You can’t imagine him doing anything else as passionately as he does his job. Sometimes it almost makes you insecure. 

“What trouble?”

“Like… Hotch having to call me half an hour earlier than he calls the rest of the team. Or you, accepting my constant teasing. I know I’m—I can be kind of a diva. I don’t always really feel as professional as you guys. Or… qualified, maybe.”

You can imagine the way he’d narrow his eyes as he thinks this over, though you’d still like to see it for yourself—but you keep your head on his shoulder. In a way, he’s already getting a closer look at you than you usually grant to anyone. 

“I think… you’re good at your job. And you care more than you’d like to admit. That thing you do—where you sometimes show up a few minutes late, or you piss Rossi off on purpose, or you flirt with Hotch—I think… we all have things like that. We all self-sabotage, because it’s a really hard job, and I think we all wonder if we’re really qualified for it, or deserve to be in these positions, or if we even want the responsibility of trying to save people’s lives. But you’re a genuinely good person and a gifted profiler. And everyone else knows it, too.”

The deep thrum of the jet’s engine blurs the rest of the team’s incomprehensible chatting and the pounding of your heart into one big muddied streak of paint. Hopefully Spencer can’t feel the heat of your cheek through his shirtsleeve. 

“Oh,” you murmur. 

A moment passes. 

It’s a relief when Spencer’s anxiety comes bubbling up before your own can. “Sorry, was that too much?”

“No,” you hurry, “no, it was—no. That was really really nice of you to say. Thank you, Spencer.”

He relaxes. “Well… it’s all true.”

How could anyone ever deserve him? How does anyone get lucky enough to know a man like Spencer Reid?

When you burst through the other side of the cloud, the sun has come out. It burns away the milky early morning fog and makes your eyes ache just enough to finally wake you up. You blink and stretch against him like a cat. 

“Spence?”

“Hm?”

“I just want to clarify… I don’t flirt with Hotch. I flirt with you.”

[sethsclearwater]

Can you do a Jacob black x female reader during mating season please and thank you ?

here you go lol

...

"fuck, bend over-" the words hadn't even fully left his lips before jacob's hands were on your hips and spinning you around so he could press your chest down on the cool marble of your apartment's bathroom counter.

"jake-" you whined when you felt the sensation against your bare chest, your nipples already beyond hard from how much he had been toying with them earlier in the night. a loud gasp left your lips as he sheathed his cock into your tight channel in one quick thrust.

he could hardly contain his laugh when he saw the way your fingers curled into fists in response to the sudden intrusion, his hands keeping their bruisingly tight grip on your hips while he prepared to fuck you senseless.

he only gave you a moment to stretch around his length before he felt your walls fluttering around him and he decided he couldn't wait any longer, immediately setting a ruthless and unforgiving pace as he snapped his hips against yours.

you were letting out loud whines and moans, the thought of your poor neighbors hearing the two of you not even crossing your fuzzy mind. jake had gotten over to your apartment early that morning, more restless than he currently was as his rut first set in.

you'd answered the door without a clue in the world, quickly finding out that he'd planned on fucking you senseless for the next few days while he went through his first rut with you in his life.

one hand was snaking around your hip in search of your clit, the loud moan you let out a few moments later alerting him that he'd most definitely found the sensitive little nub, "jake please-" you sobbed out, suddenly much more aware of the tears that must've started spilling over your waterline a few moments prior as you looked into the mirror to make eye contact with your imprinter.

jake let out a laugh when he saw what a mess you were, his smile still soft despite the harshness of his thrusts in and out of your pussy, "c'mere," he chuckled, reaching his free hand up to thread his fingers through your hair, tightening his fingers so he could pull you up from the counter so your back was flush against his chest, "you wanna cum on my cock?" he asked, rolling your clit between his fingers as you watched the way he was absolutely ravaging your pussy in the mirror.

you couldn't find the words, just gasping as you nodded, desperate to cum on his cock, "'s what i thought," he chuckled, "let me play with you for a few more minutes and then you can cum, yea? wanna stay in this pussy for a little while longer," he mused, his voice somehow remaining steady despite how hard he was fucking his cock into your tight little channel.

you sucked in a desperate lungful of air, sniffling as you nodded, already knowing he was more in tune with how much you could handle than you were, "mhm," you hummed, letting out a loud moan and dropping your head back against his neck when he pinched your clit between his fingers, his silent way of thanking you.

jake dropped his head so he could pepper your neck with kisses, the softness coming in bruising contrast to the havoc he was currently wreaking on your lower half, "look how good you look with my cock in you," jake chuckled, releasing his grip on your hair so he could slide his hand down to your belly, absolutely loving how he could see the faint little bulge that came each time he filled you with his cock, "taking me so well," he added in between kisses.

you were barely coherent, just doing your best to remain upright as your thoughts continued to get fuzzier and fuzzier as you tried not to cum on his cock. jake knew you were close from the way he felt your walls tightening around him, his own orgasm rapidly approaching as well as his thrusts somehow picked up the pace to the point you were sure you'd have bruises littered all across your middle tomorrow morning.

once he was confident he had marked your neck up to his satisfaction, he was lifting his head to press his lips to your ear, "you can cum," he murmured sliding his hand up from your belly so he could wrap it around your chest and secure you against him, already knowing he'd be responsible for supporting you while you came undone on him.

you whimpered, lifting your gaze to make eye contact with him through the mirror, moving to respond but before you could, jake rolled your clit between his fingers and sent you right over the edge to your orgasm.

jake held you close to him while you came, his thrusts getting sloppier as he chased his own orgasm and supported you through yours, your throbbing walls pulling his own orgasm out of him within a few moments of yours.

"fuck me-" jake groaned, pushing his hips into yours as much as he could, burying his cock inside your pussy as he shot his seed into your throbbing channel.

you were nearly limp, wrapping your hands around his forearm that he has wrapped around your chest to support you. breathing ragged and heavy, the two of you were both struggling to catch your breaths as you both came down from your highs, "nice and easy," jake murmured breathlessly against your ear, his breath hot as he gave your ribs a squeeze, smiling to himself when he saw how hard you were struggling to regain your senses.

"there you go," jake encouraged, both of your breathing slowly evening out as he peppered the crook of your neck with gentle kisses, a stark contrast to the way he had his cock stuffed inside you.

once he was sure he'd finished filling you up, he slowly pulled his hips back enough to pull his softening cock out of your walls, his release following shortly after as it began trickling down your thighs.

he slowly unwrapped his arm from around you, "i got you," he reassured when he heard the soft whimper you let out, both of you already knowing there was no way you were going to be standing on your own for a little while. both his hands remained steady on your figure as he helped spin you around so he could pull you close to his chest for a hug, "did so good for me sweet girl," he praised, lips curling into a smile when he heard the breathy giggle you let out at the complement.

"let's get you on the bed, okay? gonna clean you up and then you can have a break," he suggested, already knowing you weren't in any kind of headspace to be coming up with any counter-arguments to his proposition despite how much you hated being cleaned up.

you just hummed, allowing him to scoop you up in his arms and carry you back into the bedroom so you two could finally take a break.

[reveriebae]

You Wrote That For Me, Didn't You?

pairing(s) : Idol!Yunho x Atiny!reader

word count : 1931

summary : After casually revealing your face on Tumblr, a well-known smut writer attend an ATEEZ fan meet, unaware of the consequences. When you sit in front of Yunho, something feels off—the way he looks at you, the way he lingers. Then, just before your time is up, he drops a bombshell. He follows your account. He’s read everything. And he’s not letting you go that easily.

genre : suggestive

warning(s) : Slight dub-con vibes (power imbalance), heavy tension, teasing, suggestive language, explicit themes, idol-reader dynamics, Yunho being way too confident and knowing, mild obsession undertones, reader’s worst (or best?) nightmare coming true. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N : this one got my toes curling SKSKKSKSKSK. Here's the part 2!

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐fic under the cut🪐

You never thought twice before posting your fics. Why would you? It was just writing—just words strung together for thirsty Atinys who craved something a little more. Some of your works had gone viral, and you had a loyal following of readers who loved every filthy thing you put out.

So when you finally did a face reveal on your Tumblr, you didn’t think much of it. A casual selfie, captioned with something dumb like “Since y’all keep asking… here, take it”. A few hundred likes, some teasing comments, and that was that.

No big deal.

At least, that’s what you thought.

The excitement of the fan meet buzzed in your veins as you finally sat down in front of Yunho. Seeing him this close was unreal—the warmth of his presence, the way his smile reached his eyes, the deep, smooth hum of his voice as he greeted you.

But something felt off.

You couldn’t quite place it at first. It was subtle—just the way his gaze lingered, a little longer than it should. The way he studied your face like he was placing you, as if you weren’t just another fan in his long line of meet-and-greet interactions.

Then came the compliment.

“You’re really pretty in person,” he murmured, and his voice had a weight to it, like there was something more behind the words.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Ah—thank you!”

The response felt automatic, but your brain was still trying to process the way he was looking at you. Not just with the usual idol-to-fan warmth, but with something… different. Like he knew you.

His fingers tapped lightly against the table, rhythmic and patient, as if he was waiting for something. Then, just as the staff was about to signal your turn was up, Yunho leaned in ever so slightly.

And then he said it.

“You should be more careful about what you post, Jagiya.”

Your body stiffened.

Your mind blanked.

Did he just—

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, eyes widening in pure, unfiltered panic. But Yunho? Yunho just smiled. A slow, knowing curve of his lips, dark amusement flickering in his gaze.

“I follow you on Tumblr,” he continued, voice dropping just enough that only you could hear. His tone was smooth, casual, like he was discussing the weather. Like he wasn’t completely wrecking your reality in real time.

Your stomach twisted. No, this had to be a joke. A coincidence. There was no way—

“Mm.” His fingers brushed against the table, casual and lazy. “I recognized you the moment I saw your selfie.”

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

You had so much smut on that account. And not just any smut—detailed, filthy scenarios that had Yunho doing things that could get you banned just for thinking about them too hard.

“I—” Your voice came out weak, shaky, and you were suddenly painfully aware of how warm your face was.

Yunho chuckled, the sound low and pleased. “You look flustered,” he mused. “Why? You weren’t shy when you wrote all those things about me.”

He was teasing you.

No—he was toying with you.

Your fingers clenched around the edge of the table as you swallowed hard, trying to force your brain to work. But you could barely breathe under his gaze, let alone form a response.

He leaned in just a little more, close enough that you could catch the faintest hint of his cologne. His voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the edge behind it when he said—

“You wrote that for me, didn’t you?”

Your time was up.

The staff was gently urging you to move along, but you couldn’t move—wouldn’t—until Yunho tilted his head, gaze flickering to the line behind you.

Then, just before you stood up, he murmured one last thing—low, quiet, for your ears only.

“See you later, baby.”

You walked away from the table in a daze.

The voices of other fans, the bright lights, the excited chatter—everything blurred into a distant hum, like white noise. Your body moved on instinct, following the line toward the exit, but your mind was stuck. Frozen.

Yunho knew.

Yunho read your fics.

Yunho—Jeong Yunho—had been watching your blog, scrolling through your late-night thirst posts, reading every filthy thought you had ever put into words.

Your breath shuddered as you stepped outside the venue, the cool night air doing little to calm the heat burning under your skin. Your heart was pounding—too fast, too hard—like you had just run miles instead of sitting for a harmless fan meet.

Except it wasn’t harmless.

Because Yunho’s voice was still ringing in your ears.

"You wrote that for me, didn't you?"

A shiver ran down your spine, and you had to physically shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of it. No. No, there was no way this was real. Maybe you had misheard him. Maybe he was just teasing.

Maybe—

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You nearly dropped it when you pulled it out, fingers trembling as you glanced at the screen. A notification from Tumblr. Someone had just liked one of your posts.

A post from two years ago.

Your stomach dropped.

Slowly, hesitantly, you opened the app. The notification led you straight to the post—a particularly filthy piece about Yunho, one that had gone semi-viral when you first wrote it. And sitting right there, at the top of the notes—

A new like.

From a user you didn’t recognize.

Your pulse hammered as you clicked on the profile. It was nearly empty—just a default avatar, no posts, no bio. But there was one thing.

The blog name.

"ateezyunho1999."

Your mouth went dry.

No. No, no, no, this had to be a joke.

Then another notification popped up.

A message.

Your vision blurred for a second as you forced yourself to tap on it, breath shallow as you read the words.

"Come outside."

A pause.

Then—

"I'll be waiting."

Your hands shook as you stared at the message.

You could feel your own pulse in your throat, hammering like a warning. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Yunho was an idol. A celebrity. There was no way he would actually—

Your phone buzzed again.

The third message.

"Don't make me wait, baby."

The air in your lungs turned heavy. Your brain screamed at you to walk away, to ignore it, to go home and pretend none of this ever happened.

But your body?

Your body was already moving.

Like you had no control over yourself, your feet carried you toward the back of the venue, slipping past groups of lingering fans, past the staff still bustling around. You shouldn’t be doing this. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this.

And yet—

As soon as you turned the corner, stepping into the dimly lit alley behind the building, you felt him before you even saw him.

Yunho.

He was leaning against the side of a sleek black car, one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, the other holding his phone. The glow of the screen lit up his face, casting soft shadows along the sharp angles of his jawline. But it wasn’t the way he looked that sent a shiver down your spine.

It was the way he smirked when he saw you.

Slowly, he slipped his phone into his pocket, pushing off the car as he took a step toward you.

“You listen well,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk. “That’s good.”

You should have said something. Anything. But your tongue felt heavy, thoughts tangled into knots as you stood frozen in place.

Yunho tilted his head, eyes flickering over you in a slow, deliberate sweep. His gaze was too knowing, too intimate—like he had already stripped you down in his mind.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come,” he continued, his tone almost teasing. “But then again…”

A pause.

Then—

“I know what you want.”

Your breath caught.

Yunho chuckled, the sound deep and satisfied. He took another step forward, closing the distance between you inch by inch. He was so tall, so effortlessly imposing, and when he finally stopped in front of you, the heat of his body was enough to make your skin prickle.

“You didn’t think I’d notice you, did you?” His voice dipped lower, smooth like honey but edged with something darker. “You wrote all those filthy little things about me, and yet, when I look at you now…”

He reached out, fingers brushing along the side of your jaw, so lightly it almost wasn’t a touch at all.

“You look so shy.”

A slow smirk curled at his lips as he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“Tell me, baby.” His voice was a whisper now, barely audible, but it wrapped around you like a vice.

“Do I match your imagination?”

Your breath came shallow, uneven.

The question sent a violent shiver through you.

You wanted to deny it. To shake your head, pretend you weren’t completely unraveling under his gaze. But the moment you tried to step back, his hand moved.

A firm grip on your chin.

Not rough, not forceful—just enough to keep you still. Enough to make your knees weaken.

He hummed, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed along your lower lip, and his gaze darkened.

“You’re not answering,” he murmured. “That’s cute.”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

This was dangerous. This was a situation you had only ever fantasized about—except now, reality was so much worse. Because in your fics, Yunho was just a character, a version of him built from your own desires.

But this Yunho?

This Yunho was real. And he had read everything.

His thumb pressed against your lip, just enough to make you part them. The smirk that followed was pure sin.

“Mm,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “I wonder…”

He let the word hang in the air as his fingers trailed down, a featherlight touch along the column of your throat. A tease. A warning.

“Does the way I touch you match your imagination, too?”

Heat pooled deep in your stomach, a slow, unbearable ache curling at your core. Your body betrayed you before you could even think—back arching just slightly, like you were reaching for more.

Yunho saw it.

And he liked it.

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and pleased. “Ah,” he sighed, thumb tapping against your chin. “So responsive.”

Then, just when you thought he might close the distance completely, he pulled back just enough. Enough to leave you breathless, desperate.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch was deceptively gentle, like he wasn’t the same man who had just whispered filth into your ear moments ago.

Then, his lips curled again. That smirk.

“I should get going,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just ruined you with a few words and touches.

Your body screamed in protest, but before you could even think of stopping him, he was already turning toward the sleek black car parked nearby.

The door opened. He paused. Then—

He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes locking onto yours one last time.

“Don’t stop writing,” he murmured. “I like seeing what you come up with.”

A slow, teasing wink.

And then—

He was gone.

[espresso1patronum]

rival!gojo x f!reader mdni | your enemy loves having you at his mercy

satoru’s fingers slide between your folds, teasing slow, lazy circles over your swollen clit. his touch is light, almost frustrating, like he’s daring you to beg for more. when he feels how wet you are, he lets out a low chuckle, his smirk widening.

“damn, you’re dripping,” he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick. “guess you like this more than you wanna admit.”

your whole body burns with humiliation, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch at his touch.

“i f-fucking hate you, gojo,” you manage between ragged breaths, trying to sound defiant.

satoru just laughs, deep and cocky. “yeah? your tight little cunt says otherwise.”

before you can snap back, he pushes two fingers inside, curling them just right. your breath catches, your back arching as pleasure sparks up your spine. he moves slowly at first, dragging it out, watching the way your body reacts to every little motion. then, without warning, he picks up the pace, fucking you on his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world.

“s-satoru—” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets.

“hmm?” he tilts his head, amused. “what’s that? thought you hated me.”

you want to wipe that smug look off his face, but you’re too busy trying to hold yourself together. his fingers hit that perfect spot, over and over, and the heat in your core tightens, unbearable.

“fuck—” your whole body trembles as the orgasm crashes over you, pleasure rolling through you so hard your mind blanks for a second.

satoru watches the way you shake, your thighs squeezing around his hand, your release dripping onto the sheets. slowly, he pulls his fingers out, slick with your cum. he holds them up to the light, then, without hesitation, slips them into his mouth. his eyes flutter shut for a second, like he’s actually savoring the taste.

“shit,” he groans, licking his fingers clean. “you taste so fucking sweet.”

you turn your head away, embarrassed, but he doesn’t miss the way your breath still comes in shaky gasps. his phone buzzes, and with an irritated sigh, he straightens up.

“guess i gotta go.” he runs a hand through his hair, then flashes you a lazy, knowing grin. “too bad—i’d love to stay and ruin you properly.”

he winks, and you swear you’ve never wanted to punch someone so badly in your life.

mostly because you hate how much you wish he’d stay.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

★ 𝓗𝓔𝓐𝓓𝓛𝓞𝓒𝓚, 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕.

𐚁̸ sum : mydei puts you in a headlock & fucks you roughly.

𐚁̸ tws : fem!reader. nsfw/smut, man handling, fingering, pet-names, overstimulation, breath-play, size difference/kink, degradation, forced arousal, clothing play & slight dubcon.

You barely had time to react before a strong arm wrapped around your neck, yanking you backward. You let out a surprised squeak, hands flying to claw at Mydei’s forearm, but it was useless. His grip was iron-tight, pressing against your throat just enough to make you gasp.

"Seriously, princess?" Mydei’s voice was laced with amusement, his breath warm against your ear. "You really thought you could get away that easily?"

you wriggled in his hold, your skirt riding up slightly as you kicked your legs. "’S not fair—!" You whined, voice breathless from both the sudden hold and the way he so effortlessly manhandled you. "I was just playing!"

He chuckled, tightening his grip just enough to make you go slack for a moment, your body instinctively reacting to the pressure. "You play too much," he muttered. "Running around like a little menace. What am I supposed to do with you, huh?"

You pouted, but the slight burn of his strength against Your skin sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe let me go?" you offered sweetly, tilting your head to bat her lashes at him despite being practically trapped against his chest.

Mydei scoffed. "Not a chance, princess." He leaned in closer, voice dipping. "I think you like this too much."

Your cheeks burned, a breathy little noise escaping her lips as you weakly struggled again. He was right—you did like it. Maybe a little too much.

You whimpered as Mydei’s grip stayed firm, his arm flexing around your throat, keeping you in place. Your body went weak against him, your back pressing flush to his chest as you squirmed, feeling the heat of him everywhere.

"See?" Mydei chuckled lowly, his breath teasing the shell of your ear. "You’re not even tryin’ to get away now, pretty. Bet you like bein’ handled like this."

Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, the heat pooling between them unmistakable. You shouldn’t be reacting like this—shouldn’t feel the dull ache of need just from the way he was holding you down. But fuck, he was so strong, so effortless in the way he controlled you.

"M-Mydei—" you whined, voice breathless.

He loosened his hold just enough to tilt your chin up, making you look at him. His golden eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something darker behind them now, something possessive.

"You wanna tell me why you’re rubbin’ those pretty thighs together, princess?" he murmured, his free hand sliding down to squeeze your hip, pulling your ass flush against the growing bulge in his pants. "Feelin’ needy?"

You gasped, your hands clutching at his wrist, but not to push him away. "I—I dunno what you mean," you lied, your voice sweet and airy, but your body betrayed you. You pressed against him, your pussy throbbing at the feeling of his cock, thick and hard against your backside.

Mydei clicked his tongue. "Lyin’ to me, huh?" He adjusted his grip, shifting just enough so that his hand could slide between your thighs, his fingers pressing against the damp heat of your lacy panties. "Princess, you’re so fucking wet."

A soft, broken moan left your lips, your body jolting as his fingers pressed against the thin fabric, teasing.

"You really like this," he mused, his voice dark with amusement. "Bet I could make you come just like this—trapped in my hold, pussy dripping all over my fingers while I don’t even let you move."

You whimpered, your nails digging into his wrist, your body trembling against him. He had you—completely, utterly at his mercy. And god, you loved it.

"Mydei—" you gasped, your voice a breathy whine as his fingers rubbed against your soaked panties. You were trembling now, your body reacting before your mind could even catch up. The grip around your throat stayed firm, not enough to hurt but just enough to remind you—you weren’t going anywhere.

"Shit, Princess," Mydei chuckled darkly, pressing harder against your clothed pussy, his fingers easily gliding over the damp fabric. "You’re dripping all over my hand."

You let out a broken moan, your nails digging into his wrist. He was teasing you, barely giving you enough friction, keeping you pinned so you couldn’t grind against him properly. It was torture—his cock was hard against your ass, his fingers playing with you, but he wasn’t giving you what you needed.

"P-Please," you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for.

"Please what?" Mydei taunted, his grip tightening for just a moment, making you gasp. "Say it, Princess. Tell me exactly what you want."

Your cheeks burned, the words catching in your throat. You shouldn’t want this—shouldn’t be soaking through your panties just from him holding you down, from the way he was teasing you, mocking you. But you did.

"I—I need more," you admitted shakily, your thighs clenching. "Need your fingers, Mydei…"

He hummed in approval, his lips brushing against your ear. "Good girl," he praised, before tugging your panties aside and pressing two fingers against your slick folds.

You cried out, your body arching against him. He was still holding you in the headlock, still keeping you trapped against his chest as he played with you, his fingers sliding up to circle your clit before dipping back down to tease your entrance.

"You’re so fuckin’ tight," he groaned, slipping one thick finger inside you. "You really are just my little Princess, aren’t you? All helpless, so easy to mess with."

You could barely form words, your body shivering as he started pumping his finger in and out, slow and teasing. He added another, stretching you just enough to make you whimper.

"You gonna come just from my fingers, Princess?" Mydei mocked, his voice deep with amusement. "While I’ve got you locked up like this? Pretty little pussy squeezin’ me so damn tight."

You moaned loudly, your body twitching as he curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. The pressure around your throat, the way he had you completely at his mercy—it was too much.

"Mydei—fuck—I’m—!"

Your orgasm hit you hard, your walls clenching around his fingers as a sharp cry left your lips. Mydei held you through it, his grip firm as you trembled against him, your pussy pulsing around him as wetness coated his fingers.

"That’s it, Princess," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Come for me."

You went limp in his hold, panting as aftershocks ran through you. Mydei finally loosened his grip, letting you collapse against his chest.

But he wasn’t done.

"Now," he mused, pressing his cock against your soaked folds, "how ‘bout I put that pretty pussy to better use?"

You barely had time to whimper before he pushed you down, making you brace yourself against the nearest surface. You knew—you knew—he wasn’t letting you go until he was satisfied.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[godjustkys]

you asked me for this and it's an idea so—

wondering if we could see dean getting absolutely ruined in the backseat of his baby while he gets degraded for being so damn desperate that they had to pull over and into a field during the middle of the night while the radio is still playing or something, idfk and they have passionate sex in the backseat because dean's that much of a whore? (male reader obviously on top)

pretty please? 🙏

THEME: passionate car sex with a desperate dean.

CHARACTER: male reader x dean winchester

NOTE: i love writing dean to be an absolute mess. ALSO THANK YOU <3

idfk what im doing. WHY IS EVERYTHING I WRITE SO SHORT.

p.s. requests are always open!

WARNING: car sex,, degradation,, raw dogging it fr,, pet names,, light dacryphilia,, extremely pathetic dean,,

“ngh— don’t- jus’.. come on, fuck.” dean whined quietly, his back pressed to the car door's panel, head resting against the window. “what? no prep? I can’t fucking believe it..” you mused with a scoff, briefly glancing at the radio that was playing. “you are being such a slut right now,” you mumbled, pushing the tip of your cock inside of dean's hole, slowly. good thing you had a bit of lube on it, otherwise dean would’ve been writhing already. “taking my cock like this, in the back of Baby. in the middle of fucking nowhere, too,” you continuing berating him, even with a gentle voice. “you’re— mghh, shit..” dean cut himself off, resisting the urge to shy away as it was slightly uncomfortable. instead, he forced himself to push his hips down, groaning as he clenched around your length. “you’re the one who gave me a handjob, w—.. while I was driving.” he forced out, his hands gripping your biceps. “need I remind you that you’re the one who asked for it? begged for it, I should say.” you cleared up, pulling out slowly; though your tip caught on his rim.

with a harsh thrust forward, dean's stomach tensed. a whiny moan left his throat, eyebrows furrowing at the same time. you started to move slowly, unable to resist the urge to fuck him to the rhythm of the music playing; some early 2000’s upbeat song. dean tilted his head back as much as possible, gritting his teeth, his hands clenching around your arms. “that’s it, baby, yeah, keep takin’ my cock like this.” you breathed out, leaning down so your lips would be in line with dean's ear. “just like you were made for this, you desperate whore,” you mumbled softly, your lips grazing his earlobe. he squirmed slightly in response. you knew he was ticklish but still, it was fun. “i- i am n—” dean started with a strained voice, though you quickly cut him off. “don’t you try to deny it. i’m the one fucking you in the backseat of your car..” you trailed off just a bit, your mind reeling at the feeling of dean around you. it just always amazes you. “..in a stupid field.. all because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.” you continued, now ignoring the beat of the music and slowing your pace to a deep, yet leisure one.

“mmm— i jus’— you know damn well it wasn’t like that—” dean explained with a pleading voice, bordering on whiny now. his thighs moved to wrap around your waist, squeezing slightly. “yeah?” you mumbled with a harsh thrust, bottoming out. your tip just grazed against his prostate and he was gone. dean gasped breathlessly, his back arching off of the seat a little. “with the way you’re moaning right now, i’d say this is what you’ve been thinking of all day.” you mumbled, pressing an opened mouth kiss to the side of his jaw. dean squirmed once again, letting out a small whimper as his hands slid up to hold onto your neck. “i mean, you didn’t.. fuck.. you didn’t even want to get prepped.” you spoke against his skin, your lips grazing his stubble. “you’re just that desperate for my cock, huh?” you cooed softly, kissing him tenderly. dean reciprocated, though he was late and his kiss was sloppy, extremely uncoordinated. you continued the deep thrusts, bit by bit increasing your pace. “oh— mghhh..” dean whined out, his blinking excessive and frequent. he kept you close, looking at you through his eyelashes, his eyes narrowly open.

“want me to fuck you good, hm? you can moan as loud as you want to, pretty, no one’ll hear you.” you spoke in a hushed tone, your eyes locked on his. suddenly, dean focused on the car rocking, creaking, every time you thrusted into him. he let out a soft, small whine, tilting his head back as much as he could, his mouth open in a little 'o' shape. his thighs trembled slightly, his chest heaving. “you’re a sight,” you murmured, shifting your hips to a more suitable angle. “quit—! it..” dean managed weakly, his eyes screwed shut. his fingers pressed to the nape of your neck, keeping you as close as you’d let him. you just grinned in response, your own hands on the soft flesh of his thighs, quickening your pace to a fast yet steady one. little “ah-ah-ah’s” left his open mouth each time you thrusted in, his body somewhat arched off of the seat. it was a matter of time until you drove deeper and deeper into him, abusing his prostate. dean’s moans got significantly louder, whinier, more high pitched. he started to writhe, his hands getting clammy, eyelashes fluttering. he was coming undone.

dean’s voice was breaking mid-moans more often than not. he even let out a squeal of all things. “you feel so fuckin’ good..” you moaned out, your voice low. dean’s hands shakily glided down your torso, his fingertips catching onto the material of your shirt. he was begging to feel your skin with no words, only actions. “hh-hah..shit.. shitshitshit, ah— nghnnn..” dean’s hips jerked as he clenched around you, his face scrunched so adorably. if you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he was in pain. your cock was unfathomably deep inside dean, he could feel it so well; every vein, every small ridge, everything. he was tight, no matter how many times you have done this, he was always impervious. just for you. your cock. one of your hands skimmed up, just over his v-line and his weeping dick, brushing your fingers across the happy trail. he was so, so fucking pretty. “g—gah- mothe—rr..fucker.” he grunted out, his voice strained, raspy. his fingers gripped your shirt and pulled you close, just as you noticed the tears on his lashes. your lips ghosted over his and you pulled your face away swiftly, causing dean to let out a pathetic whimper, chasing after your lips desperately. “mh, you’re close, aren’t you?” you teased, your digits wrapping around his cock, giving him slow experimental pumps. dean’s pupils were blown wide as he looked up at you, his gaze blurry. the sounds that were spilling from his mouth were filthy; slutty, downright whore-ish. he fit so snuggly around you, you just couldn’t help it. you had to ruin him.

dean inhaled sharply as he felt your hand around him and his hips jerked upwards, into your hand. pathetic, yes, but he didn’t care. “agh—! oh.. oh- oh fuck—” he spoke through gasps, his back slightly sliding downwards, the back of his head now resting against the door panel itself. he was about to cum; it was obvious. he started whispering your name like a prayer. you felt him twitch in your hand and contract around you. “make a mess like the whore that you are. c’mon baby.” you encouraged him sweetly, his thighs shaking relentlessly around your waist. you were close to your orgasm as well. who wouldn’t be with such a scene in front of them? “nnnhhh— ah- hahh..haah, hhnn—” he cut himself off with a choked mix of a whine and sob, his abdomen tensing as he finally came. you slowed your pace yet kept the depth the same, making it easier for dean to ride out his orgasm. he clenched around your cock time and time again as he heaved, even though he had a hard time inhaling oxygen. he was really out of breath. you came inside dean with no warning and he let out a high-pitched, extremely loud whimper, the feeling of that warm liquid pooling inside him making him very horny again. you glanced up, noticing the foggy windows. you took a moment to catch your breath. “again? really wanna make you moan your lungs out.” you mused nonchalantly, keeping your cock buried inside dean.

dean blinks up at you, his voice hoarse and small as he speaks. “y-yeah.. yeah again. fuck.. make me scream, don’t care. jus’ don’t stop.”

[parfaitblogs]

'tis the damn season ❀ s. reid x reader

in which christmas is the season to crawl back into your ex's life, and you accidentally do so one drunken night. 

pairing: ex!spencer reid x fem!reader genre: flangst tags: still in love exes. alcohol consumption. (sleepy) drunk reader. spencer reid's fear of dementia. word count: 1.3k a/n: obligatory do not contact your exes this holiday season. just fantasise about doing it to spencer reid. it’s opening night for my play so!! here is this while i go off to do that!!! :D

❄︎ advent calendar masterlist

Fourteen missed calls.

Spencer Reid had fourteen missed calls, from a number he did not have saved, but could recognise despite the months that have passed and the seasons that have changed. 

Why did he have fourteen missed calls?

Christmas was always an awful time for him. The striking reminder that he was alone in a big city, for his mother does not remember him this year, his father does not exist in his life, and his friends have families of their own. 

And then there was you. Oh God, there was you. 

He thinks even when he grows old and his brain begins to delete files from his expansive memory, you will stick around forever. He thinks he is physically incapable of forgetting you, even if he tried. Sickeningly so. 

Shaking hands answer the sixteenth call before it can ring through, having watched the fifteenth come and go. He was met with a lot of silence, and he had to question if he even had picked up the call. 

But yes, you were there. Quietly. Breathing into the phone, perhaps surprised by the fact that he had actually answered. Or maybe this wasn't you. Maybe you had changed your number, or gotten your phone stolen, or—

"Spencer?"

If anything were to pierce the silence in his apartment, it might be the shattering of his heart as he listens to you speak his name for the first time in thirteen months. Your voice was so familiar, yet so different, too. You had thirteen months of growth, and yet you sound the same as you had the day he first met you.

"Hey," he finally breathes out, and he hears you shakily exhale. 

"Can you open your door? S'really cold out here."

He freezes. The causality in your tone tells him there's something else motivating your random reappearance in his life, followed closely by the faintest hint of a slur in your words. 

Oh.

He heads to his door, and sure enough, on the other side of it, stands you, in something borderline ridiculous for the December weather. No wonder you were freezing. 

"What're you—why're you—come in—it's freezing," he stammers out, eventually deciding on stepping to the side to let you into his warmer apartment, the visible relaxation of your shoulders providing some comfort to him in light of your state. 

"Your hair," you say, eyes wide as he coaxes you inside and to his kitchen countertop. His fingertips probably burn holes through the fabric of your dress as he guides you. 

"My hair," he replies, and though it isn't posed as a question, he is confused. 

"It's longer," you clarify for him. "I like it."

He provides a weak smile. "Thank you. Are you cold?"

"Not anymore," you shake your head, finding a seat at his island, folding yourself in half over the edge of it, resting your head on the marble. "Your apartment's warm."

He nods his head, walking around to the other side of it, using his hands to lift your head back up. "Don't fall asleep."

"'m not," you mumble in response, though your head growing heavier and lolling into his left palm claimed otherwise. 

"Liar," he muses, and you huff, quietly, but force your eyes open regardless. He ignores the heavy feeling in his chest when the two of you lock eyes. "There she is. Why're you here?"

"I dunno, actually," you say, and his heart sinks. "My friends put me in a taxi an hour ago. Or two hours. I don't really remember," he presumes one hour — you were still so drunk. "And I asked him to drive me around. He said okay, but he needed a final destination too. I guess I gave him your address."

"Why?"

"Habit, maybe," you murmur.

"It's habit to take a taxi back to my apartment?" 

You shrug your shoulders. "'Cause I used to. Back when..."

We were still together, hangs off the end of your sentence. 

"Christmas party?" he then asks you, and your head nods against his palm. 

"For work," you end the word with a yawn. "I wanted to Merry Christmas my way back into your life, I guess."

He knew it was your lowered inhibitions spilling these details out to him, and he should pretend you aren't saying things like this for your own benefit. But he also couldn't stop the visceral reaction he has towards your admission of wanting to reenter his life. 

"You shouldn't," he replies. 

You pause, searching his face all too intently. "D'you not want me to?"

It's a loaded question, and he knows the response he wants to say is vastly different to the response he should say. But you're staring at him, albeit inebriated, and he has nothing left to do but curse his impeccable memory for reminding him of everything he hasn't had for thirteen months. He misses you. 

"I don't want you to do something you regret," he settles on saying. 

"Well, 'm already here," you mumble, and his hands soften on your cheeks, before he slips them away. 

"Yes. You are," he nods, standing up straighter. "Do you have a way home?"

"Um, Uber, I guess."

"It's too late and you're too drunk for an Uber alone," he disapproves. 

"I took a Taxi here alone—"

"—I'm not letting you go home — alone —from my apartment in your state," he counters immediately. "I don't really care how you got here."

You relent quite easily though, murmuring a quiet, "Okay," that shocks him. 

"Do you want to shower?"

You nod, your feet slipping from the stool and landing on the floor. He's moving back around to you to help the second he watches your hands brace on the edge of the countertop, an arm looping around your waist that makes your stomach swim. 

"I can walk, y'know."

"Uh-huh," he doesn't believe you fully, and you don't have it in you to fight with him as he leads you to an all too familiar bathroom. As he sits you down on his toilet lid, he says, "Stay there. I'll get you some clothes."

"Yes, Doc."

His cheeks puff as he expels a sigh at the nickname, shaking his head as he disappears back into his bedroom. 

By the time he's returned, your eyes are fluttered shut, your head sitting probably uncomfortably against the wall next to his toilet. But your chest is moving evenly enough for him to conclude that you had fallen asleep that quickly, and he didn't have the heart to wake you back up. He'll take your frustration in the morning.

You barely stir as he carries you into his room again. Instead, he swears you curl further into his bedsheets the second he places you down on his mattress. 

"Spence?"

He's barely two footsteps towards his door when you speak again, and his heart shatters. He turns over his shoulder, and though you're speaking, your eyes are barely cracked open. 

"Where're you goin'?"

"The couch," he says, confused by the frown that tugs your lips down. "What?"

"Come back. This is your bed."

"It is," he nods. "But you're in it."

"'m not gonna bite," you say, your hands weakly stretching out towards him.

He takes a few beats to determine whether or not he'd take up your offer. But he is too weak of a man to not give in, and he doesn't know if he'll ever get you in his bed again. So, he sighs, and begrudgingly climbs back into his bed next to you.

"Hey," he turns his head, a question dancing on his tongue. But when he finds you again, you're fast asleep once more. Habitually, as if it hadn't been thirteen months, he brushes the hair that had fallen out of your face, and he smiles.

And, to no one in particular, he murmurs, "I'm glad you Merry Christmas'd your way back into my life."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[bytemee]

۶ৎ STUNNER — yu jimin.

“my little angel in disguise..."

⌗ in which— you're a painter who hasn't picked up a brush in months. then one night at your best friends gallery, you meet a stranger who inspires you more than you ever thought possible. you don’t know her name. you don’t know that she’ll disappear before morning. you don’t know that when your hands finally remember how to move, how to paint, it’ll be her face staring back at you from the canvas.

but—when your best friend sees your finished piece, she says eight words that change everything:

"why the hell did you paint the princess?"

pairing. princess!karina x painter!fem!reader

warning(s). language, mentions of alcohol and smoking, mild angst, kissing + implied nsfw but not explicit, happy ending.

word count. 5.7k

authors note. @bimkayd for u. i also have to update my masterlist...bad.

when creativity strikes, it strikes.

like, really fucking hard. and it always comes at the worst times—when you’re in the shower, when you’re half-asleep, when you’re five minutes away from an important meeting you don’t even want to be at. but for the past few months, it hasn’t come at all.

time blurs when you’re stuck in the same four walls, staring at blank canvases like you're trying to have a staring contest with them. the paints dry in their tubes, waiting for you to wake up from whatever this is—this rut, this drought, this fucking nothingness in your head.

yunjin tells you it’s a phase. "everyone goes through it," she says over the phone, her voice tinny with excitement, too busy preparing for her own gallery opening to properly pity you. “come to my exhibit tonight. it’ll help.”

so you go to her art gallery opening. you haven't been out of the house in weeks. you haven't painted anything worth showing in months. it's a miracle you can dress yourself and brush your teeth without collapsing.

the gallery is packed when you arrive, an ocean of well-dressed bodies moving in slow currents, sipping expensive champagne from delicate flutes and admiring the artwork. most of these paintings are by yunjin herself—all bold colors and abstract shapes—but there are a few others here, too, and you spend some time wandering around, looking at them all.

your favorite is a painting done in blues and greys, full of sharp angles and harsh shadows. the paint looks thick enough to feel under your fingertips. there's a small plaque in front of it that reads "untitled" and nothing else. you stare at it for what feels like hours, but it must only be minutes because when you look up, yunjin is standing beside you, smiling.

"do you like it?" she asks.

"i love it," you reply. "it's stunning."

she laughs. "that's what i was going for."

yunjin nudges you playfully with her elbow. “so? feeling inspired yet?”

you scoff, but it lacks real bite. “i don’t think staring at other people’s work is going to magically make me able to paint again.”

“maybe not,” she muses, taking a sip of champagne. “but getting out of your own head for once might.”

you don’t have the energy to argue with her. not when she’s right. not when she’s always right.

you then let her drag you through the gallery, introducing you to people whose names you’ll forget before the night is over. collectors, critics, other artists—everyone here looks effortlessly put together, as if they belong in a world you haven’t touched in far too long. you nod, you shake hands, you make small talk. it takes every ounce of strength you have just to act normal, as if you haven't been locked inside your own head for months now. as if there isn’t a black hole where your creativity used to be.

"your work is so… bold," says one woman, sipping from her champagne flute. "i love it."

"thank you," you say, hoping your smile doesn't look as strained as it feels.

you glance around the room, looking for anything that might distract you from this conversation. a familiar face. a bathroom sign. anything. but all you see are unfamiliar faces and unreadable paintings on the walls, and suddenly you feel dizzy.

claustrophobic.

you need to get out of here.

now.

"excuse me," you mutter, slipping away from the woman before she can ask another question.

you don't know where you're going, but it doesn't matter. as long as it's somewhere else. your shoes click against the tile floor as you weave through the crowd, eyes focused on the exit ahead, sliding out the door into fresh air.

the night is cool on your skin, but not cold. you can still hear the sounds of the city echoing off the buildings, muffled music from inside the gallery mixing with distant traffic and the occasional car horn. it's a beautiful night, perfect weather for an art opening. if only you could appreciate it.

you lean back against the wall, fishing your pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. they're crumpled up but still intact, thanks to the tin foil wrapper you put around them before heading over here. you've been trying to quit lately, but old habits die hard.

besides, you figure you deserve this one.

you light a cigarette and inhale deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly, watching as it curls and dissipates into the air. it tastes terrible—like ash and chemicals and bitter regret—but it calms your nerves, just a little bit.

and then the door swings open again.

at first, you think it's security. some guy ready to kick you out for loitering in the wrong place. but then you see her, stumbling out the back entrance of the gallery, looking flustered and annoyed. she's wearing an expensive-looking gown with a slit up one side, showing off her long legs, and heels so tall you'd trip over them yourself if you tried to walk in them. her hair is perfectly coiffed and her makeup flawless, but her expression says she wants to be anywhere else.

you stare, transfixed. she’s all contrast. elegance and frustration. poise and unrest. a picture-perfect masterpiece comes to life.

"do you have another?" she asks, motioning to your cigarette.

her voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you arch an eyebrow. she looks too perfect, too put together, to be standing here asking you for a cigarette. "you smoke?"

a pause. then, "no. never actually."

you laugh to yourself, not in a mean way, more like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't actually happening. "so why'd you ask me for one?"

"because i want to try," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "i want to try something new."

she’s so fucking out of place here. all that polish, all that perfection—it makes her look like a mirage, something that can't possibly be real. her hair’s perfect, her makeup looks like it was painted on by a master, and that damn dress? it’s made for a runway, not this alley. she’s like someone dropped a fantasy into a real, gritty world, and for some reason she ended up here.

her eyes don’t leave yours as she waits—most likely for you to respond, to offer the cigarette she asked for, to say something, anything—but you stay silent because your mind is working faster than your body right now, and you need a moment to catch up.

“you wouldn’t like it,” you finally say, once the gears have started turning again, your words sounding much steadier than you feel.

her eyebrow furrowed, her lips turning down just slightly at the corners. not quite a frown, not yet, but a near thing. you've never wanted to capture an expression on canvas as much as you do right now, her face in all its beauty and annoyance.

"why not?" she asks, sounding indignant, almost insulted. "do you not trust my judgment? my tastes?"

she seems to be talking herself into it, the challenge sparking something behind her gaze. and though her posture doesn't change, you can practically feel the determination radiating off her.

you laugh. "you're missing out on the exhibit, you know."

"i could say the same to you," she counters. "why are you out here?"

you could give her a simple answer, something about needing a break, needing air, needing to get away from the suffocating crowd of people who actually have something to show for themselves. but none of that would be the truth, so you simply shrug and say—

"—wasn't really feeling the whole art world pretentiousness thing."

"strange place to be if you're not a fan."

"my friend dragged me." you admit, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of your shoe.

she cocks her head to the side, eyes flicking down to the now extinguished butt before looking back up. it's her turn to stare at you. to take in your appearance—the plain button-up, dark dress slacks, and polished black leather shoes. if not for the tattoos peeking out from your sleeves and collar, you'd just look like another patron, dressed to impress and blend into the crowd.

"are you an artist as well?"

you smile at the question, "used to be."

her gaze softens, "used to be?"

"haven't painted in a while."

the pout is back, her eyebrows scrunching together as she stares at you, clearly processing this information, taking in your words and decoding them, working through their implications and how they fit into the context. she settles with, "well, do you plan to ever again?"

it's a simple question. one you should have a simple answer to, but life isn't simple. and art, well, art's a fucking mess. your shoulders rise before dropping.

"why not?" her eyes narrow. "have you given up?"

"not giving up." you tell her. "just stuck."

her lips press together like she doesn’t quite believe you. like she’s debating whether to push, whether to pry, whether you’re just making excuses.

"stuck how?" she asks, arms crossing over her chest.

you huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “you ask a lot of questions.”

“i like knowing things,” she says easily. “and i like understanding people. you intrigue me.”

it shouldn’t affect you the way it does. but those words—you intrigue me—they lodge themselves somewhere deep, twisting and turning like a key fitting into a lock you didn’t realize was waiting to be opened.

you glance down, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the pavement, considering how to answer. the truth is ugly. the truth is that you used to paint like your life depended on it—because, in a way, it did. it was your lifeline, your voice, your way of making sense of things when nothing else made sense.

and then, one day, it just—stopped. the inspiration, the fire, the need—all of it dried up, like a well you kept going back to, only to find it emptier each time.

"you ever look at something so much you forget what made it beautiful in the first place?" you ask instead.

she doesn’t answer right away; she just watches you, eyes flickering over your face. trying to read you is like a puzzle box. or a book. you wonder what kind of story she thinks she finds on your face. what she sees, besides the tired bags under your eyes and the slight tremble in your hands.

when she speaks, her voice is quiet. low. it carries across the distance between you and hits you right where it counts.

"i think everything can be beautiful again. if you look at it the right way."

"yeah?" you say, a little more bitter than you mean to. "that easy, huh?"

her lips quirk, not quite a smile, but close. "i didn’t say it was easy. i just think… maybe beauty isn’t lost. maybe it’s just waiting to be found again."

you swallow, forcing yourself to scoff lightly, to shake your head. "you always this philosophical, or is that just the champagne talking?"

she laughs, soft but real. "i haven’t had a single sip tonight."

"then what are you doing out here?"

"i needed fresh air."

your fingers twitch. she speaks again.

"and maybe you just need a new muse."

you wonder if she even realizes what she’s saying. if she knows that, somehow, without even trying, she’s already painting herself into every blank canvas in your mind.

the night unravels like a half-finished painting—smudged, chaotic, too many colors bleeding into each other. you don’t remember who kissed whom first, only that one second she was looking at you like she saw something worth figuring out, and the next, your hands were on her waist, and she was breathing against your lips.

it’s desperate. messy. her dress pools on the floor of your too-small apartment, and her skin feels like something you’re not supposed to touch but can’t help but reach for anyway. you don’t ask her name. she doesn’t ask for yours. it’s better that way.

and then, when morning comes, she’s gone. no note, no number, nothing. you don't have to guess if it was real or not because the memories are too vivid, too sharp, for it to be anything but. you lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything over and over in your head.

the way she looked. the way she tasted. the way she felt.

your hands are itching, craving the feeling of your brush in your hand.

it’s not a choice. not really.

your body moves before your mind can catch up, reaching for the brushes, the paints, and the canvas that’s been gathering dust in the corner. the moment the bristles touch the surface, it’s like something clicks back into place—like an old wound finally scabbing over.

she appears in fragments first. the curve of her jaw. the slope of her neck. the way her lips parted like she was about to say something, only to change her mind. it’s obsessive, almost. you don’t even think about what you’re doing, only that you have to do it. the need rushes through you like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

you don’t know how long you sit there, lost in the act of pulling her from memory onto canvas. hours, maybe.

that’s how yunjin finds you.

she kicks the door shut behind her, dropping a bag onto the counter like she’s another name on your lease. "you alive?" she asks, but then she sees you—sees the paint on your hands, your clothes, your face. sees the finished piece propped up in front of you.

and she stops short.

"oh."

her tone is surprised, breathless, then she laughs, loud and disbelieving.

"oh my god," she says, eyes wide with something between amusement and shock. "why the hell did you paint the princess?"

you blink, exhausted. “what?”

she gestures to the painting like it should be obvious. “why did you paint the princess?”

your stomach drops. “the what?”

she stares at you. “you’re joking.”

“i—” you look at the painting. at her.

your pulse thuds in your ears.

“yunjin,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

it’s a joke. it has to be.

you wait for yunjin to laugh, to tell you she’s messing with you, but she doesn’t. she just stares at you, then back at the painting, then back at you again like you’re the dumbest person alive.

“you seriously didn’t know?”

your mouth is dry. you shake your head. yunjin lets out a sharp breath.

"oh my god. you—you slept with the princess, and you didn’t even know?” the words hit you like a punch. you stare at the painting—at her—but it doesn’t make sense.

princesses don’t sneak out of fancy events. princesses don't try to bum cigarettes off strangers in alleyways. princesses don’t have one-night stands with random depressed artists they meet in the back of art galleries.

you swallow hard, rubbing a hand down your face. “fuck.”

“yeah,” yunjin says, crossing her arms. “fuck.”

you stare at her, then at the painting, and then back at her. the gears turn in your head, trying to connect the dots, trying to fit this new information into the picture. "are you sure?" you ask, even though you know she wouldn't lie about this. "like, absolutely fucking positive?"

"of course i'm fucking positive!" she throws her hands up. "do you not pay attention to the news at all?"

your mind whirls with the new information.

it’s not that she was just some stranger slipping out before sunrise. she's a princess. a whole gorgeous untouchable, have you said untouchable? — princess.

and now she’s everywhere. on the news, in magazines, her face staring back at you from glowing screens and glossy pages. every headline, every camera flash, every fucking update on her. princess karina seen leaving in the royal car. princess karina attending an art gala. princess karina, princess karina, princess karina.

you try to forget. you try to be normal again—whatever that means. you go back to ignoring your canvases, sitting on the couch, flipping through channels you don’t really watch. you even let yunjin drag you out a few times, shove drinks in your hand, and tell you to move on already. but it doesn’t work.

because she’s still in your head.

so you chase.

not in the obvious way. not in the stupid, reckless, get-yourself-arrested-for-trying-to-climb-the-palace-gates way.

you chase in the quiet ways. the ways that don’t make sense to anyone else. the ways that make yunjin groan and say, “you are literally the most tragic idiot i’ve ever met. but i'll help you anyway."

and that's how you find yourself here. in a palace that is stupidly big.

like, what do you even do with this much space? big. it’s all gold and chandeliers and marble floors and suits of armor standing around, looking vaguely threatening. it makes your skin itch.

you don’t belong here. you know that. but neither did she, that night outside the gallery. and if she could slip out of this world for one night, maybe—just maybe—you can slip in.

yunjin had connections. she always did. you didn’t ask questions when she got you in, just pulled the sleeves of your borrowed suit down and tried not to look like you wanted to throw up.

you have a plan. it doesn't go smoothly.

"i'm sorry, miss. only those on the guest list may enter."

"oh, i—" you scramble to find an excuse. any excuse. "i am on the guest list."

the guard doesn't move. he doesn't even blink.

"what's your name?"

"uh—" your mind blanks. "it's a very long name. very, very long. with a lot of letters. like, a lot of them. you wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

the guard doesn’t look amused. or convinced.

"try me."

you throw out the first thing that comes to mind. "it’s, uh… y/n… the first… y/ln… the third."

silence.

then yunjin, from beside you, coughs so hard you think she might pass out. you nudge her with your elbow, but she’s already turning away, shoulders shaking.

the guard, however, does not laugh. he just stares at you like you’re the dumbest person to ever breathe.

"that’s not a real name."

"it could be," you argue weakly.

he crosses his arms. "it isn’t."

you exhale through your nose, willing yourself not to turn and run. not yet. not when you’re this close.

yunjin, finally recovering, clears her throat and steps in. "okay, okay, my idiot friend here—who, i assure you, is actually very harmless—just has a little bit of trouble with names. what they meant to say is that they’re a guest of lady yu."

the guard squints at you both, skeptical. "lady yu?"

"yes," yunjin says smoothly. "you know, lady yu. very high society. loves art. huge fan of… uh, brush strokes."

you resist the urge to slap a hand over your face.

the guard exhales, clearly debating whether dealing with the two of you is worth his time. eventually, he lifts a radio to his mouth, murmuring something you can’t hear. a beat later, he nods.

"you’re clear to enter."

you don’t ask how yunjin pulled that off; just grab her hand and pull her inside before the guy can change his mind.

and then you’re in.

the palace is even more ridiculous further inside. every inch screams money. gilded ceilings, more enormous chandeliers, even shinier marble floors that make you extra aware of how not rich you are.

you scan the room, searching, heart pounding in your throat. and then—

there.

at the far end of the ballroom, half-surrounded by nobles and dignitaries and all the kinds of people who actually belong here, she stands. regal. poised. effortlessly untouchable.

princess karina.

and she’s looking right at you.

you swallow. she arches an eyebrow. her expression shifts, then she's up and moving. in your direction. then, without a word, her fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but not rough, and she turns, pulling you with her.

you barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re weaving through the gilded halls, past guards who barely spare you a glance, past murmuring guests too distracted by their own conversations to notice the princess slipping away with some stranger in a borrowed suit.

she doesn’t stop until you’re deep in the palace, past the public rooms, past the private suites, past everything anyone else has a right to see. only then does she let go.

you swallow hard, rubbing at your wrist. "subtle."

she ignores you, crossing her arms. "what the hell are you doing here? you're not supposed to be here."

your throat feels dry. "i know."

"then why are you?"

you lick your lips, suddenly 1000x more nervous than you were standing outside the palace gates. "i—" you inhale sharply. "i tried to forget you. and i couldn’t."

"that’s unfortunate."

your chest tightens. "is it?"

she exhales softly through her nose. "what do you want, really?"

and it hits you, all at once, all over again. why you’re here. why you had to come.

you take a step forward, closing the distance between you. your eyes never leave hers. "do you know what it means to be a muse?"

that throws her. a small crease forms between her brows. "i—"

"it means you exist everywhere," you cut in before she can finish. "even when i try to ignore it. even when i don’t want to think about you. you show up in every color, in every stroke of my brush, in every painting i try to create. you are impossible to forget."

her mouth opens and closes. "that doesn’t—you can't—"

"it means you stole something from me," you continue, your voice growing softer as you close the last bit of distance between you. "something i didn’t even realize i was missing until you came into my life and showed me what it meant to feel alive again. you're my muse."

her breath catches at that, lips parting just slightly, as if to speak, but no words come out. you take advantage of the moment, reaching up to cup her face in your hands, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. she leans into your touch, eyelashes fluttering against her skin, eyes falling shut for a moment. and then they open again, dark and intense and so, so beautiful.

she searches your face as her hand reaches up to rest against yours. you want to kiss her, want to tell her you want her in the simplest terms, in a way that even a princess can understand. you lean forward, pressing your forehead against hers, and ask, "do you feel the same? was it real, what i felt between us?"

you barely whisper the question out loud, barely hearing her inhale as she closes the space between you. her lips brush against yours, featherlight but enough to make your stomach flip. “i can't be that for you,” she says against your mouth.

and your heart breaks. you know you were just a one-time thing, just a quick fling for her. it's the whole princess thing. you knew it would be complicated, but you couldn't stop thinking about her, and she's looking at you with such an intense look, a look that says she can't forget you either, and that has to be worth something, right?

you don't realize you said all of it out loud until she pulls away, blinking rapidly. "wait, no—that's not—that's not what i meant," she stammers, suddenly looking much younger and more vulnerable than you've ever seen her. "that night at the gallery, with you, was real. that was—it was the only time i've ever felt that way."

"but," like always

her gaze softens. "we can't. you can't just come in here like this."

she says the last bit as if you've done something wrong, and her hands pull back to her sides. you don't have it in you to care about her rules anymore. her hands fall to her sides, but you stay still, your forehead hovering near hers, your breath mixing.

"i don't care about protocol," you whisper. "i care about you."

"stop," she says, softer than before. "you can't just say things like that and expect me to—"

"expect you to what?" your voice rises, sharp edges showing. "feel the same? you already do. you’re just scared. and i get it. i do. but don’t pretend this didn’t mean anything."

"i'm not pretending," she snaps, taking a step back, composure cracking. "i haven't stopped thinking about you either, okay? but that doesn’t change the fact that this—us—it’s impossible."

"why? because you wear a crown and i wear paint under my nails?"

"because my life isn’t mine!" she yells. "because everything i do is watched and calculated and twisted into something ugly. if they knew you were here—if they saw us like this—"

"then let them see," you say, helpless and stupid and in love. "i'll stand in front of every one of them and say it. i'll tell them how i look at you like the sun rises in your mouth and sets in your goddamn spine. i don't care."

"well, i care!" she shouts, her voice shaking now, full of fire and something just comparable to fear. "i can't afford to want things. not like you do. not recklessly. i don't get to choose who i love."

it's quiet.

"you need to leave."

you don’t move.

"if you don’t, i'll call the guards."

you flinch, and she notices. her jaw clenches. it takes everything in you not to beg.

“don’t make me do that,” she whispers. “please. just go.”

your throat is tight. you nod once.

you turn, heart heavy, the room blurring at the edges. when you open the door, yunjin is waiting, quiet and still in the corridor, like she knew this was how it’d end.

you don’t say a word as she walks beside you down the long hallway, past the grand ballroom, and out of the palace. she doesn’t push for information or ask about what happened. she just lets you stew in your thoughts, and you are grateful. when you get back to your apartment, you collapse onto the bed. you don’t cry—you never really did, even in high school, and now doesn't seem like a good time to start—but you come pretty fucking close.

you lie there for hours. maybe days. hard to tell. just you, your ceiling, and the hollow space behind your ribs where your heart used to sit before she carved it out with a single sentence and left like it didn’t matter.

you tell yourself it was stupid to fall for her. she’s a fucking princess. what were you expecting? that she’d run off with you into the sunset like a fairy tale? that she’d burn her whole world down just to be with someone who wears the same hoodie four days in a row and forgets to buy groceries until you’re eating plain rice and mustard?

but it still hurts.

the gallery night is yunjin’s idea. she throws a flyer at your chest and tells you to “get a grip and make rent.” you roll your eyes, but deep down you know she’s right. you need something to do with your hands, something to keep you from climbing the palace walls like some deranged romantic with a death wish.

you don’t expect anyone to show up, but people come. some friends. some strangers. a few art freaks who talk way too much about your “use of longing and space.” you just nod along, pretending you're three seconds away from yelling in their face.

everything is her. every painting. every messy, unblended brushstroke. every fucking streak of white paint on the canvas because she wore that blue dress when you first met, and now it’s like your brain can’t forget.

the last person leaves, some guy who said a lot of things you didn't understand, and you don't really remember the specifics of it, but you're pretty sure you shook hands, and maybe he wrote down your name and contact info? you don't remember. but there are no more guests. so you’re cleaning up. closing things. mentally debating whether or not you can drink paint thinner and survive.

the door creaks open behind you, and you don’t even look.

“sorry,” you call over your shoulder, wiping your hands on a rag. “we’re closed. private event's over.”

no response. just the sound of the door shutting. then —

“are you always this rude to royalty?”

you freeze.

slowly, slowly, you turn around. and she's standing there, in a white coat with her arms folded against her chest. there are shadows under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping either. it takes everything in you not to run to her. not to kiss her until she forgets all the reasons why she ran the first time. you settle for swallowing hard and clearing your throat.

“you could’ve just knocked."

“i did." she lifts her hand. “twice. and then i panicked and came in anyway.”

you stare. she fidgets.

she looks down at her shoes. looks back up again. looks back down again. like she doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she's here. finally, she takes a step forward. you take a step back. it's reflex at this point, some instinct to keep her from getting too close.

"i came to apologize," she starts, sounding unsure, which isn't like her at all. "for—everything."

karina runs a hand through her hair. your throat goes tight at the familiarity of the action, at how much she reminds you of that night, that stupid dress, and the way she kissed you, indicating that she didn’t care what came next.

you exhale.

"don’t apologize," you say, because the words feel heavy and foreign in your mouth, because she's been living a life you can't even begin to imagine, because none of that matters if she's here, looking at you like this, and you have to believe in something. "you didn't do anything wrong. and if anyone needs to apologize, it should be me. i shouldn't have—"

"you were right," she cuts in before you can finish.

it throws you. "what?"

she swallows hard, glancing down at the floor, at your shoes. then back up again, holding your gaze this time. "i don't know much about art, but i know what you meant…for someone to be your muse." her voice drops low. "and i think you're mine."

you blink. "oh."

a pause. her cheeks flush, eyes widening in panic.

"was that—did that make sense? i probably sound like a—"

"yeah."

you nod, trying not to smile as you watch her rambling, trying not to stare too obviously at how her whole face is blushing now.

you want to tell her everything. to show her everything.

you settle for, "i mean, it does make sense."

it does. it doesn’t. none of this does, not in a normal way. it's the kind of thing you tell your grandkids about someday. or maybe a therapist, if you can ever afford one. either way, it makes something flicker deep within your chest.

you pause.

"so what do you mean, exactly?"

her lips purse. her eyes are pleading now. she looks younger. more human. not so much a princess anymore as she does someone trying to figure out how to tell the world to screw off. you're struck, again, with how much you love her. it feels like a physical ache in your chest.

"i want this," she says quietly, gesturing between the two of you. "i want this so much it scares me."

you're not used to this, to feeling seen by someone who isn't yunjin, and it throws you off. you clear your throat again, shifting from one foot to the other. "i want this too."

a pause. you try not to stare too openly at her lips. you fail miserably.

"we'll figure it out," she says softly. "together. whatever that looks like."

"together."

the word hangs between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. and then—

you don’t even realize what's happening until she's already moving forward, pulling you down to her level. you can smell her perfume. you can see every single detail of her face as she stares back at you. your lips are a breath apart. she hesitates.

"tell me you don't want this," she murmurs. "and i'll go."

your chest constricts, throat tight. you want to tell her it'll never be easy, not when you're you, and not when she's her, not when this could be so much more complicated than either of you are prepared for. but you also want this, want her, want to know what her skin feels like against your palms and whether or not the words i love you sound good when spoken aloud. you swallow hard, hands tightening on her hips.

"i can't," you whisper. "i don't think i've ever wanted anything more."

a smile flickers over her face. it's gone too quickly. "good."

her lips are on yours, soft and gentle, and everything in your life shifts back into focus, into place.

there are things you can't explain. the way she feels pressed against your chest, warm and perfect and yours, for now at least. the way your hands shake when you brush your thumb over the curve of her cheek. the way she tastes like starlight.

and there are things you don't have to.

[bruisedboys]

thinking of jacob giving u the best hugs after a long week. maybe your social battery has died and people keep asking u to help them so he scares them off (temporarily)

drew my angel thank you for the request!! love u

jacob black x fem!imprint!reader (reader is shorter than jacob)

Jacob Black has a one track mind when it comes to you. You’re all he ever thinks about, all he cares about, the only thing that really matters to him. He worries about you when you’re not together and clings to you when you are together. He’s totally obsessed, and he likes to think that if it weren’t for the whole imprint thing, he’d still be equally obsessed with you. Who wouldn’t? You’re kind, and smart, and beautiful. You don’t care that he’s a monster and you love his pack family even when they’re a pain in the neck.

Like now, when they’ve dragged him out for patrol and left you at Sam’s, when all Jacob wanted to do tonight was take you home and kiss you stupid. You’ve let him go without a complaint, ‘cos you’re perfect.

Jacob, in his wolf form with the rest of the pack spread out within the woods around him, realises too late that he’s been musing over you in his mind. The others are laughing at him.

Really, Jacob? Paul’s voice says in his head. We haven’t been gone ten minutes.

Shut up, Jacob thinks back, but he stops picturing your face in his mind and tries to focus on the task at hand instead.

A few uneventful hours later, the pack finally heads back to Sam’s. Jacob, the fastest not only because he’s naturally quick, but because he’s desperate to see you, gets there first. Back in his human body he feels much more comfortable, and at least now no one can read his thoughts. He can think about you all he likes without getting an earful for it.

He’s unsurprised when he finds you in the kitchen with Emily.

“Hey,” he nods to Emily, who’s getting something out of the oven, and crosses to where you’re standing over the sink, up to your elbows in suds.

“Hi,” he says fondly, moving up behind you. He pushes an arm across your lower back and dips his head to lay a kiss in your hair. “Missed you.”

You turn to look up at him and smile, and you’re so, so pretty, but your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Hello,” you say softly. Your voice is heavy and slow, like someone’s poured honey down your throat. “Missed you, too. Where’s the others?”

“I beat ‘em,” Jacob tells you proudly, at the same time as voices and laughter start trailing in from the living room. Jacob winces. “Just.”

You laugh softly. “Will you dry these for me?” You ask, nodding towards the clean dishes on the bench. “Before it gets too rowdy in here?”

Jacob helps you with the dishes. You were right when you guessed it would get rowdy — the pack are starving and eat the meal you and Emily have made like, well, wolves. Paul’s in a mood tonight, a good one but a loud one, and as a result everyone jokes and laughs and talks over one another. You’re decidedly quiet, and when you’re done eating Jacob pulls you into the hallway, out of the way of all the noise.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks, hands on your upper arms.

You heave a sigh. “I’m really tired,” you admit. You’ve long since given up on trying to hide how you’re feeling from Jacob, because he’s so persistent and stubborn that he always ends up weasling it out of you, anyway. “Not like, sleepy. Just, my battery is really low.“

Jacob frowns and rubs his thumb over the hill of your shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says. It somehow feels like his fault.

You give him a look like you know what he’s thinking. “S’okay,” you say. “Just had a long week, you know?”

Jacob hums. “Yeah, I know. You want a hug?”

You nod like you were waiting for him to ask, and Jacob makes quick work of wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you into his chest like he’s done a million times before. You push your arms around his waist and cling to him, while he rubs your back with a warm hand. He’s tall enough that he can rest his chin atop your head so he does, and lets you push your face into his neck, your mouth warm where it presses against his skin.

You sigh softly and go almost completely limp in his arms.

“Thanks,” you say, muffled.

Jacob opens his mouth to say let’s go home, but then Embry appears, calling your name in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“Y/N! Can you come help me— oh.”

He stops short at the sight of you limp as a ragdoll in Jacob’s arms. That, plus the look Jacob gives him.

“What, Em?” Jacob says, and it comes out a bit more harsh than he’d intended. He amends, “Sorry, she’s really tired. What do you want?”

Embry has the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Never mind,” he says.

You pull your face from Jacob’s neck, one arm still curved around his waist. “What is it, Embry? I can help, it’s fine—”

“No you can’t, we’re going home now,” Jacob interrupts, throwing you a look, annoyed and endeared by how sweet you are. “Ask someone else,” he tells Embry bluntly.

He’s pretty sure Embry rolls his eyes as he leaves, but he doesn’t care. You turn to look at him once Embry is gone.

“You’re mean,” you say, but you make it sound like I love you, and you wrap your arms around him again.

“And you’re tired,” he says back, ducking his head to press a quick kiss to your forehead. He pulls away but rubs your arm as he goes. “C’mon, I really am gonna take you home now, okay? Dad’ll already be asleep so it’ll just be me and you.”

You raise both eyebrows, pleased. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, feigning intrigue.

Jacob grins. “Whatever you want it to mean, sweetheart,” he says, though he hopes he’ll get to kiss you stupid like he’s been wanting to do all night.

[auragasmics]

HE LOVES IT WHEN I...

∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ synopsis! sugar daddies just love their sugar babies. but for you, these rich dilfs have a soft spot for your antics!

∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ pairings! sugar daddy iwaizumi hajime, kuroo testsurou, oikawa toru x fem!reader

∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ cw! 1.3k, drabble + headcannon format, age gap (hq men are early 40's, reader is late 20s), fingering, cl♡ t slapping, dom!iwa is a little mean, spoiled!reader, daddy kink (sry not sry, let's grow up ://) phone sex/video call sex, vouyerism, exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, pillow-tribbing

∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ xoxo, chris! love hq men...love and cherish them!

Sugar Daddy!Iwaizumi loves it when you throw tantrums!

He finds it all the most alluring, fueling the dominance within his veins. Whether it’s Every bit of attitude, pout, and sass you give him, he absorbs it, keeping careful count of each occurrence. 

Unbeknownst to you, Iwaizumi finds such joy in your little tantrums, especially right now. He knows how you’ve been crushing on some new bag, he still remembers your presentation of the newly released collection you swiped through a few nights before. To keep his precious girl happy, he’s taken the day off just to court you himself. 

But all that comes crashing down when the heel of your pearly white stilettos threatens to pierce through the glossy white floor of the boutique when he denies you of that purse you claim to need —oh so— much. He chuckles intently, guiding his pouty princess back out to the car with the driver waiting patiently. 

He gives you a few minutes to calm down, soothing you with soft pecks along the crook of your neck. He knows exactly what gets your legs spreading and those curvy hips bucking in the air. 

His girthy digits drift down to your panties, ripping the gossamer material to the side. Iwaizumi toys with your clit for a while, sighing at how easily the tender bud slips against his calloused pads. It’s satisfying to both of you, giving birth to the arousal brewing at the pit of your belly. 

“You must hate me, I know, I know. But y’re makin’ such a mess you’re making on my fingers, baby. So fucking cute,” he grins, teasing the slit of your cunt with pulsing fingers. Just when you prepare yourself mentally for the delicious stretch, an abrupt jab of pain distracts you—the fresh sting of Iwaizumi’s thick fingers crashing against your clit. 

“Hajime, wait!” His name comes flying from your gaping mouth. Your eyes peer down at Iwaizumi’s hand reeling back to land another slap. But there’s a certain detail that makes this little session of punishment even worse.

What makes it worse is how Iwaizumi’s display of dominance turns you on and the proof decorates his calloused hand. It’s disgusting how the flat of his palm glimmers in your slick—almost like the gems from the handbag you wanted so badly. 

Before you could even think, Iwaizumi laid his lips along your ear, his warm breath nipping at the flustered shell. He had a message for you and he thinks that this time, you’ll get it loud and clear.

“Don’t you ever embarrass me in public like that again, or else I’ll fuck the reminder into that thick skull of yours.”

Sugar Daddy!Kuroo loves it when you call his name!

He swears it fills his stomach with those innocent butterflies, hearing his bubbly muse coo his name. It’s a cute purr, flows right off your tongue, and ends in a smile that could make Kuroo empty out his bank account right at that moment. He likes to play dumb sometimes, claiming his hearing fades in and out from time to time. Yet, Kuroo always stands tall and giddy with perked ears, waiting for you to repeat yourself.

Kuroo especially loves when you call out to him in grace for his services, ranging in a multitude of forms. His favorite one, of course, is when your orgasm hinges at the tips of your freshly manicured toes, the nerves prickling at the surface of your supple skin.

With his cock buried so deep inside your—his—cunt, it drags along your walls with such intensity. But Kuroo doesn’t dare to increase the pace, his hips lagging behind a languid drive. Not as it matters, even without using a pummeling force, Kuroo still manages to have your body on edge. 

“Aww, what’s wrong, Angelface? Use your words, what do you want from me?” He’ll tease, using those thick fingers of his to squeeze your cheeks together, forcing out a wet pucker from your drooling lips. It’s all just overwhelming, the heat of the room, his hunkering frame shadowing above your own. 

Your hands claw at his forearm, proving his resolve to be stronger than your own. It wasn’t your fault, it was Kuroo’s stubborn ego, acting as the driving effort to see that his needs are met. Kuroo lays a trail of pecks up to your neck, lingering along your jawline and ending at your cheek, each one dressed with apathy.

His words are just teasing, the only solace being his hitching pants warming the shell of your ear as he spoke smugly. 

“Say it with me now, Te-tsu-rou…c’mon Baby, say it for Daddy. Tell me just how you wanna cum all over my cock.”

Sugar Daddy! Oikawa loves it when you send him pictures!

It’s a boost of confidence, sending the man photos whenever you decide to frilly yourself up for the day. Even if it’s just running to the store, Oikawa wants it all. 

He loves to have a collection of his precious baby looking her best, making up for all the times he couldn’t join you. Whether he’s away for work or tucked up inside a stuffy hotel room, he’s swiping through his file of photos reserved just for you and that gorgeous smile. Yet when it’s the ungodly hours of the night, he’s upping his game from pictures to full-blown videos, even video calls to please his fancy. 

Each one of these calls consists of you dollied up and dressed in his favorite set of lingerie. And with what he likes, it barely leaves anything to his imagination. To have those sheer panties hanging around your waist, just for the inner seam to leave you crotchless. What's better than getting straight to the chase? 

That’s what he likes and that’s what has your phone propped against the headboard, giving his heavy tourmaline hues the scene of you desperately rutting into his pillow on the bed. The satin pillowcase dragged along your clit, taunting the sensitive bud with its smooth material. 

Your inner thighs scrape along the plush fabric, your hips rocking into the cotton. Keeping a constant pace is key to your impending high, the soft moans flowing from your mouth like a crystal clear stream of the purest water. Oikawa had his sights pinned on you, watching your desperate search for a climax unfold before him. 

“Feels good, right Princess?” He’ll ask with a heavy chest, Oikawa wincing at how rough the palm of his hand was. It was nothing like your touch, the plush skin of your digits that would struggle to hold his length.

He was struck by an off sense of nostalgia, memories of his salacious youth being re-lived with each uncaring stroke of his fist. Just to even come close to your touch, Oikawa removed bits of his barreling strength, the pad of his thumb swiping at the blushing head of his dribbling cock. He bit his lip greedily, his ears piqued for your reply. 

You hum in response, clutching the puffy mass in your fist. It did feel nice, working yourself into an orgasm underneath Oikawa’s watchful eye. Knowing that he’s on the other side, stroking that fat cock of his with his rough hands, and wishing he had your sputtering pussy instead is all the motivation you need.

“I-I’m so close, wanna cum with you, ‘Ru,” you mew out, increasing your mere nudges to erratic bucks of desire. Oikawa could only growl in return, the frustration of his inadequate touch pitting him against time. Tossing his head back, the apple of his throat bobs at his staggering pace. At the final moments of his stability, Oikawa groaned out his final request of the night, something you couldn’t attempt to defy.

“Cum for me, Pretty. You better make a fucking mess for me to come back to, got it?”

∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ xoxo, chris! a repost from my old blog, but i hope you still enjoyed!

[lifeasadorkwithnolife]

Tortured Thoughts (Azriel X Reader)

Word Count: 3900

The reader and Azriel really don't like each other, so in a an effort to force them to get along, Rhys arranges a mission. But when the mission goes wrong and Ariel has to watch you get tortured, he realizes he would do anything to get you home.

“If anyone is going to save anyone, Azriel, it’s going to be me saving you.” You spit, fists up as you two circle each other on the small sparring pad. Both of your leathers were off, and you were drenched in sweat as the sun beat down. His eyes roll in a way you’re used to.

            You can sense the kick coming and block it easily. He’s now on the other side of the ring, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m sure you wish that was the case.” He replies, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

            You run at him, trying to jump onto his shoulders so you can wrap your legs around his neck. His arms catch you, and suddenly your slammed into the ground. The wind is knocked out of you and you scrunch your eyes closed, trying to breath through the discomfort.

            When you finally open your eyes, Azriel s large shadow is blocking the sun and he’s staring at you in concern. You take a breath and cough, sitting up to catch your breath. “Asshole.” You mutter.

            He reaches a hand out to help you up, but you slap it away, getting up on your own. He rolls his eyes, again, and stands up from his kneeling position, wiping his hands off on his pants “Are you done?” He asks warily.

            “No chance.” Your fists rise again, no trace of a smile on your face anymore. Azriel stares at you, a look on his face. He opens his mouth to speak before he is interrupted.

            “Although I’m sure you two would love to try to kill each other for another couple hours, I have some errands I need done.” Rhysands voice echoes, and you both turn to look at where the high lord has seemingly materialized.

            “What is it?” Azriel asks, you sigh, placing your hand on your hip.

            “I need to send a message to Eris.” Rhys muses, looking between you two, as if sensing the palpable tension in the air. “I would like you both to go, to cover each other’s back.”

            “Oh please.” You laugh, turning to Azriel. His facial expression doesn’t change from the solumn look on his face. “Azriel would feed me to Eris at the first opportunity, wouldn’t you shadow singer?”

            It’s now Rhys that rolls his eyes, and his gaze turns to Azriel, who looks between you two. “I’m not really…asking.” Rhys says, his voice growing sterner. “Cassian is busy, and I’m not letting Az handle this alone. You two need to learn to get along.”

            “Fine.” You mutter, turning around and collecting your fallen clothing from the ground. “I’ll be ready within the hour. Azriel, if you’re not ready, I’ll do it myself.”

            You storm off, slamming the door to the house behind you, leaving Rhysand and Azriel behind.

*

            The flight was long and uncomfortable. Due to your lack of wings, Azriel had to carry you bridal style, one strong hand wrapped around your upper body and the other holding up your knees. Despite your weight, he didn’t seem to struggle, his wings making strong and powerful thrusts through the air as you went.

            You can’t help but stare at them, you haven’t ever had a moment to appreciate their beauty because of who they are attached to. With the sun behind them, you could see the velvet texture, the strong muscle under them tensing and releasing with each beat.

            As your eyes wandered to the other wing, they lock on Azriel’s curious ones. Immediately, you can feel the blush coming to your face and you choose a spot at the ground to look at instead. Trees, ranging in shades of dark green to orange, you were nearly there.

            “What’s the plan?” You ask ,not turning your head towards him due to your proximity. “Are we just going to storm in there and demand to see him?”

            “We have a meeting place.” Azriel replies, his voice gruff and serious. “We need to be careful, although we may have this thing with Eris, Baron would not hesitate to take us out if he found out we were here.”

            “I’m not dumb.” You mutter, angrily looking at him. “I am careful, I haven’t died yet- have I?”

            “I don’t think your dumb.” Azriel insists, you could feel his fingers flexing around your torso.      “We’re about to land, hold on.”

            The descent is fast, but his landing is nearly flawless as he drops to the ground. You quickly jump out of his arms, trying to create some space between you two. You stared at the male, why did you hate Azriel so much? Was it just because he hated you first?

            “Lets get this over with.” You mutter, brushing off your sleeves and looking around you. You’re in a small circular clearing, trees on all sides in varying shades of red and orange. You look back at Azriel, and he is already walking the other direction.

            You jog to catch up with him, letting out an annoyed huff as you glare up at him. “What happened to stick together? Have each others backs?”

            Azriel smirked, turning his head down to look at you. “Not my fault you were going the wrong way.” He almost teases, you slap his arm.

            “I’ve never been here before, how am I supposed to know where I’m going?” You ask, and he shrugs.

            “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you knew it all already.” He teases again, and you almost smile at his tone.

            You two walk in silence, and you look at the trees around you. “it’s beautiful out here.” You whisper, looking up the sun through the swirls of orange and red leaves.

            “It is.” Azriel whispers, and you look at him, nearly stopping in your tracks as your eyes lock with his. In that moment, with the red hues of light shining on Azriel’s features and his blue eyes sparkling, you knew that Azriel was the most beautiful male that you would ever see.

            Suddenly, an arrow whizzes through the air, interrupting your moment. You turn, hands immediately grabbing the daggers strapped to your thighs. “Fuck.” Azriel mutters, and you can hear the tear as he pulls an arrow out of his wing. You look back at him in worry, and in that brief moment, you can hear the sound of an arrow being released, and feel the thud as that arrow lands in your thigh.

            Your daggers move before you can think, immediately impaling your attacker in the chest. Another arrow is released, and Azriel makes another grunt. You can feel the ground start to move under you, and you look to Azriel. “Run, Y/N.” Azriel grunts, falling to his knees as the poison works through his system. But it’s too late.

            The first thing you notice when you wake is the throbbing pain in your thigh, the second thing you notice is that when you go to reach your thigh, your arms are tied tightly down. You open your eyes, almost shutting them immediately due to the firelight.

            “Looks who’s awake.” A mans gruff voice muses, and you open your eyes again, letting them take a moment to focus on the male in front of you. You didn’t recognize him, but you knew he must be one of Berons.   

            You struggle against the bonds, shaking the chair in place but it doesn’t move. Panic starts to rise in your chest as your head whips around, looking for Azriel. You see him, and his eyes are already on yours. He shakes his head, in a silent plea to stay still.

            You still, looking back at the male. He walks towards you, knife in one hand, tapping it against his palm. “I know the shadow singer, but who are you?” He asks, and you shake your head.

            “I’m no one.” You whisper, trying to keep your voice small. Maybe if he thought you weren’t a threat, you would be able to escape this and call for Rhys. You knew that Az and Rhys had a connection, but it was probably too far.

            The knife found your cheek, and you could feel your body betray you as fear coursed through your system, your eyes closing in a wince. “Please, I’m no one. I swear, I was just..”

            “She was my guide.” Azriel says, and the knife leaves your cheek. The man walks over to him, and you can clearly see his restraints. While you have one rope around each wrist, he has chains wrapped around his, and not just one, but multiple.

            When you look closer, you can see blood trailing up his arms, almost as if he was struggling to get out- if Azriel couldn’t escape these bonds, how would you be able to? The male, his shining head reflecting the firelight, came up to Azriel. After a moment of silence, his fist flew through the air and connected with Azriel’s jaw.

            A scream left your lips as you tried as the chair shook as you tried to get out of it, but it was no use.          

            “Why are you here, Shadow Singer?” The man asks, his voice raspy and deep.

            “I was sent here by our healer.” Azriel explains, spitting blood on the ground. It leaves a slight red mark at the corner of his lip. “To pick up fireberries, they are very effective in treating fevers.”

            Another fist flies, and Azriel takes it. Tears well in your eyes as you stare at him, but he doesn’t look at you. The male pulls out another knife, “Maybe this will help you talk.” He muses, slamming it into Azriel’s thigh.

            You pull on the ropes again, seemingly more effected by the handle of the blade sticking out of Azriel’s leg than he is. The male pulls it out, becoming angrier at Azriel’s nonchalance.  Another fist is thrown at Azriel’s face, and another, and you hear the sobs escape your body as you watch him.

            “Stop!” You shout at the male. “You prick, he’s not lying.”

            Azriel’s eye peeks open, and the glare he gives you could kill. The male turns slowly, cocking his head at you. He pulls on Azriel’s shirt and wipes the blood off his knife. Instead of looking at the male, you stare at Azriel. His face is bloody, and his cheek and lip have busted open. Blood is openly pulling from his thigh, and even though this mans focus was on you, you were glad you didn’t have to watch Azriel get hurt anymore.

            “She doesn’t know anything.” Azriel states, spitting on the ground. “Hey asshole, I said she doesn’t know anything.”

            The male turns back to Azriel, and Azriel’s spits at him, and it lands right on his cheek. The male chuckles, using his hand to wipe the spit away. You all stare at it for a moment, before his fist rises up and connects with your temple.

            Your world is loud and cold for a fleeting moment as your head whips back, and then you feel the pain radiate to your eye as the moment ends. The male grabs you roughly by your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Tears brim in your vision as you stare at him. “What do you know?” He asks, and you shake your head, not even able to open your mouth to speak.

            Another blow, even harder than the first one, causes your head to whip in the other direction. You hear Azriel’s shouts, but it’s almost drowned out by the ringing in your ears. Your head gets pulled back up to meet the eyes of the male. “Okay Shadow Singer, what are you two doing here?”

            “Don’t-“You try to speak, and then the knife has left his hands and is in your own thigh. You scream in surprise, looking down at the blade handle protruding from your leg. You look up at Azriel, and his face is filled with complete panic and horror. His arms are flexed as he tries to escape the chains holding him down. “I’m okay, Az. I got-“

            The knife is pulled out, and before you can shout in pain, it’s shoved into your other leg. A sob leaves your throat as you try to bend over, the blood from the first wound starting to trickle down the back of your leg.

            “I’ll tell you!” Azriel shouts, nearly frantic. You look up at him and his eyes are still on yours.

            You shake your head, but he keeps talking. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Azriel tries to get the males attention back on him. “I’m working for Lucien.”

            This phrase peaks the male’s interest, and he turns to look at back at Azriel. “How so?” The male asks, slowly stepping towards Azriel.

            “Azriel- don’t.” You shout weakly, and Azriel hesitates.

            “I need a map, I will tell you everything.” Azriel swears, and you hang your head in defeat. Your weakness, your inability to handle pain, was going to cost you everything- cost the night court everything.

            “Okay, I’ll be back.” The male states, looking between you and Azriel. He then opens a door, exiting to a hallway.

            After a few moments, another quiet sob escapes your lips as you stare at the dagger handle that’s jutting our of your thigh. “Hey, hey Y/n, look at me.” Azriel pleads, and your blood-soaked face looks up to meet his. “I will kill him.” Azriel promises, “but you need to do something for me.”

            You nod, “anything.” You whisper, and he nods. “I need you to get out of those ropes.”

            “I can’t.” You sob, pulling at them uselessly. He shakes his head.

            “Stop, stop, look at me, please.” He pleads again, and you look back into his eyes. “Y/N, fuck, I’m sorry for getting you into this.”

            “It’s not your fault.” You whisper, and he shakes his head.

            “I need you…I need you to try, please.” Azriel whispers, “for me. Just think about how much you hate me, and use that to get out.”

            “I don’t hate you.” You cry harder, sobs wracking your body.  

            “Please.” Azriel’s voice cracks, and he stares at you with a desperation you hadn’t seen on any male. “If you can get to that dagger, I promise- I will do whatever you want. I’ll stop fighting you, I’ll stop teasing you, I’ll stop egging you on, please Y/N, I will do anything- I just need to get you out of here.”

            Your arms strain as you try to pull yourself out from under the ropes, but they were too tight. The door opens and the male walks back in, a large map in his hands. He eyes you suspiciously, and you can’t help but sob again.

            “Damn.” The male mutters, clearing the table in the middle of the room and laying down the map. “You females and your emotions, you never know when to shut it.”

            You cry harder, your vision blurring as the man starts to ignore you and speak to Azriel. You pull on the ropes again with your other arm, feeling the rope give just by an inch. You grit your teeth, forcing your wrist to wriggle under the rope, nearly popping it out of it’s socket.

            The sound causes the male to turn, and before he can defend himself, the dagger is ripped out of your thigh and is flying through the air. He ducks out of the way, but the dagger lands right in the link of Azriel’s chains.

            The male backs up, his back bumping into the table as Azriel rips the chains off layer by layer. His hands flex, and the male has the decency to look absolutely terrified. You look down at your leg, at the blood oozing through your leathers. You don’t feel the urge to fight your way out anymore, you were only fighting for Azriel anyway, now he would be okay.

            Your head slumps forward and you close your eyes, feeling the tendrils of sleep find you. Suddenly a hand is gently slapping your cheek, and you feel irritation until your eyes meet Az’s. “Az.” You whisper, he’s quickly undoing your ropes that are around your torso and other arm. “You’re safe, you’re okay.”

            “I’m okay.” Azriel promises you, suddenly you’re being picked up into the air and you hear strong footsteps. “And you’re going to be okay too, I promise.”

            “I was right.” You whisper again, a small smile coming to your face. You open your eyes again, he’s looking forward and there is a hallway past you two. He must be running. “I saved you”

            “You’re always right.” Azriel pulls you closer to his chest, and suddenly you two are out in the night, and you breathe in a breath of fresh air. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me now.” Azriel warns, and you shake your head.

            “Az….”You open your eyes, and you realize, if you were to die anywhere, you would rather it be in his arms than anywhere else. You stared at him, even with his swollen eye and bloody lip, he still looked like the most beautiful male you had ever seen.” I’m sorry- for making you think I hated you.”

            “Apologize later.” Azriel retorts, and you shake your head. Suddenly, his arms are tightening around you and you’re in the air.        “You’re going to be fine, Y/N. I got you.”         

            You watch the sky behind Azriel seem to blur together, and his eyes finally lock on yours, his eyes the only thing in your focus. “Az…” You whisper. He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “You were going to tell them about Lucian, about everything-“

            “Yes I was.” Azriel says, “You are the only thing that matters to me.”

            You could feel yourself become more tired, and your eyelids started to drop. “I’ve always loved you-“

*

            Days passed, and Azriel doesn’t leave your side, waiting for you to wake. Madja explained that it was the mixture of the poison from the arrows, blood loss and head force trauma that was causing you to take your time waking up.

            Cassian and Rhys had both offered to stay with you, even promising to come running as soon as you woke, but Azriel did not move. He sat at your bedside, unmoving, watching each exhale and waiting in agony as he waited for your next breath.

            “it’s not your fault, brother.” Rhys tries to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Azriel shrugs it off, his eyes never straying from your unconscious form.

            “It is my fault.” Azriel mutters, the guilt eating away at his gut. “I could have asked her out like a normal person, but instead, I arrange for us to go on this mission so we can spend time together and nearly get her killed.”

            “Nobody could know that would happen.” Rhys tries to soothe, and Azriel shakes his head. “Az-“

            “I don’t want to talk.” Azriel dismisses Rhysand, and Rhys sighs, taking a look around the room. He sees the fresh flowers on the night table, and pain-relieving potions, ready for you when you wake. He looks back to Azriel, seeing the bags under his eyes, but knowing there’s nothing that he could do. If that was Feyre in that bed, unconscious, he knew he wouldn’t be as reasonable as Az was being.

            He leaves the room, and Azriel stews in his thoughts, watching your chest rise and fall, your last words to him still ring in the air. “I’ve always loved you.” Cauldron, what was wrong with him? Why did he somehow hurt everything he loved?

            His eyes finally leave you, and his head falls into his hands, pulling his hair. He stays in this position, and against his will, falls into unconsciousness.

            *

            “Hey.” You whisper, poking at Azriel, who’s passed out in the most uncomfortable looking position you’ve ever seen. His wings are pressed to the wall, and he definitely does not fit in your small beside chair. “Az-“

            The speed at which his head moves almost scares you, causing you to clutch your chest. “Oh my- Azriel, are you okay?”   

            “How do you feel?” Azriel is immediately above you, holding your cheek and looking from one eye to the other. “Any pain, dizziness, are you sick to your stomac-“

            “Azriel, I’m fine.” You pull his hand away, keeping it in yours. You had a few moments to yourself while he slept to recounter the events that went down in the night court. You took a closer look at him, noticing the bags under his eyes and the specks across his face- was that dried blood?

            “Please tell me you’ve haven’t been sitting here since we got back.” You whispered, and he looks away. “Az, you look horrible.”

            “As long as your alive, I don’t care how I look.” Azriel’s voice is full of relief, and you slowly move your hand up to touch his cheek. Your fingers run across the ridges of his cheek bone, and then down his jaw.

            “You’re so annoying.” You mutter, and a frown crosses his lips. “No- I just mean that somehow you can get beat up and still look so good.”

            A small smile crosses his lips, but then it’s almost instantly gone. “Really, Az, I’m okay.” He takes a shaky breath, nodding his head. You pat the spot next to you, scooting over and wincing at the pain in your legs.

            He quickly hands you a vial, and you take it, recognizing it as one of Madjas mixtures. “Please, sit with me.” You insist, looking at him. “I..I just want to talk, please.”

            Azriel nods, taking the place next to you and leaning back on the headboard. You two sit in silence for a moment before you finally break it. You look at him, “I…did you mean what you said?”

            “Every word.” Az whispers, and you nod, grabbing his hand and playing with his fingers. He watches you, and you sigh.

            “I am so glad that you are okay.” Your eyes tear up, and you look at him. His brows furrow, and his hands grip yours tightly. “being there- seeing you tied up, it made me realize that although we fight, you are the only person I really care about. You’re the only person who..you’re the only one.” You can’t even make a comprehensive sentence.

            Azriel nods, giving your hand another squeeze. “Y/N, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it now, none of it matters without you.”

            You nod, wiping a stray tear from your eye as you smile weakly at him. “I will never let you get hurt again.” Azriel swears, and you nod. “I would go to the ends of the world to save you.”

            You squeeze his hand, and you both lay back on the headboard. A few, quiet moments later, he’s asleep. You look at the male, the male you love, and also lean back in contentment, closing your eyes and falling asleep right next to him.

[wandassweetheart]

WET WRATH!

pairing - bf!trevor x fem!reader

warning! - 18+ mdni, smut, shower sex, unprotected sex (avoid the dread, cover your head)

a/n - some fluff at the end where reader says “i love you” for the first time 🥹. also guys, this was my first time writing smut?! there’s defo more to come. anyways, enjoy!

“shit…” trevor drawls out as the water creates a wet, glistening look for your tits. his tits. he’d always prided himself when it came to your body, he worshipped it like it needed to be, because quite frankly in his eyes you were a goddess. and goddesses are worshipped aren’t they?

so now, as you both stood beneath the running shower head, his hands coursed around your waist and he coiled down so that his lips could reach the slip of your neck. his hard cock pushed against your back, the closer he pulled you towards him. steam clouded your vision as you rested your head back on trevor’s shoulder to give him more space to go further down your body. his one hand remained steady on your waist whilst the other snaked its way up to grope your tit as he still remained locked onto your neck. your hands find its way to his buzzed hair as you softly run them up and down, causing a groan from trevor.

the hand that was initially on your waist slowly slid its way down to your dripping, wet pussy. trevor lets out a low murmur, “see how much this body reacts to my fingers? haven’t even touched you with my cock yet, baby,” he mused. his fingers continued to slide down in between your folds, a quiet whimper escaped your parted lips, encouraging him to rub his fingers along your clit. his other hand progressively got rougher against your tits with every rub of your clit.

“inside, trevor… please?” you tried to form a coherent sentence, mind blank from the upcoming orgasm you were about to receive. “why don’t i give you my cock instead, baby? how’s that, huh? only for my girl ‘kay?” his fingers suddenly stop, making you whine from the sudden seclusion. instead, he picks you up and presses your back against the cold shower wall, you automatically wrap your legs around his lower abdomen and his hands reach your ass to steady the both of you. without another second wasted, he pushes his cock deep into you making you shriek with pleasure and him groan against your skin.

“your pretty pussy ‘s always so tight for me.” trevor lets out a shaky breath before thrusting his hips back and forth into you. “fuck, trevor!” you cry out and his thrust become more fast paced. both your breaths were hot and heavy disguised by the vapour the hot water let out. “y’like that, huh baby?” trevor let out in between deep kisses. “yes,” is all you could manage to whisper as your eyes rolled to the back of your head from the intense pleasure. trevor’s stamina wasn’t giving in but soon enough it was going to let out. his hands now started to knead your ass, you could feel the bruises starting to form but all you could think about was how good he was making you feel. you’d never had anyone like trevor.

“shit, trevor. i’m gonna cum…” you moan out, your head hits his shoulder as you prepare for the oncoming wave of pleasure. “me too baby, hold on f’ me, okay?” trevor quickens his pace even more which you didn’t even know was possible. “c’mon baby, y’ ready? cum for me.” trevor gives you his permission and with that your body spasms beneath his, your legs start shaking from the immense satisfaction. “shit, shit, shit!” trevor yells out. his thrusts become sloppy and slow as he gives one final push and you can feel the warm fluid heat up inside you.

trevor slowly sets you down, yet still holds onto your fragile, shaken body and lets out a soft chuckle after turning off the shower. “y’ okay, baby?” he asks, as you both step out and he wraps a fluffy towel around you. “i’m okay,” you reply with a tired mumble. he starts to dry you off carefully, setting you down on the counter. “love you, trevor.” you say quietly, not having really said those words to anyone. trevor is taken slightly aback but then smiles down at you.

“love you too, baby.”

[chiwhorei]

i don't have a specific request in mind js pls bless us with icky big bro caleb and icky daddy sylus content I'm on my kneeeees🧎🏻‍♀️

How about icky big bro Caleb AND icky daddy Sylus together ?? My head is S P I N N I N G tw: incest, pseudo-incest, dubcon (?), manipulative and yandere-ish behavior.

Based on the Tomorrow’s Catch 22 event, Sylus is your guardian and Caleb is still the “childhood friend” (🙄 which to me means blood related big brother OBVIOUSLY) that you grow up with. So let’s say Sylus takes the two of you in when you were kids and raises you both. But of course Sylus has a distinct favorite- you, his precious little bird. (Ꮚ˘ ꈊ ˘ Ꮚ)

And both your brother and adopted father are LETHALLY protective over you. You’ve always been caught in the middle of their affection, feeling the tug from one side to the other like dogs with a rope. Sylus disappears for several years, and in that time Caleb has you all to himself. He knows how much you miss the only father-figure you’ve ever had, but he LOVES being the sole recipient of your attention now. You lean on your big brother heavily, and Caleb takes SUCH good care of you.

So when Sylus decides to show up again, Caleb itches to hide you away in a place only he can find. You start to notice his demeanor shifting, and try to reason Sylus’ sudden reappearance. “Dad’s just trying to make up for lost time, can’t you at least try to get along with him?”

God, Caleb hates when you call that fucker your Dad. He’s not, and he shouldn’t have the pleasure of hearing the name curl around your tongue. You always used to get away with anything, just by flashing Sylus a wide eyed “Please, daddy.”

Sylus can’t say he’s hurt by the tension between himself and his eldest “son”. Caleb’s always been more of an obstacle to him anyway. But now, he’s got the advantage. Caleb lives and works in Skyhaven, leaving his poor little sister in Linkon to fend for herself. It’s only natural for Daddy to suggest you move in with him. And the thought alone has your brother reeling from the thought of you playing house in the N109 Zone.

So now your life is spent like a tennis ball being volleyed from one man to another, spending every weekend Caleb has free up in Skyhaven and every weekday with Sylus. Both men always trying to one up each other, buying you pretty things, taking you on lavish trips, doting in you in every way.

The way Caleb fucks you is often hostile, jealous of all the time he’s sure you’ve spent in “Daddy’s” bed. He makes you scream his name, makes you beg for big brother’s cock, makes you cum around him so many times your poor clit starts feeling numb.

After a weekend at Caleb’s you come home with hickies and bruises everywhere. Sylus shakes his head and tssks you, musing at how much of a cum whore his daughter became. But don’t worry, daddy can’t ever stay mad at you for long, especially when you curl up between his legs so sweetly and beg for forgiveness. You’ll suckle at his cock for hours with tears streaming down your face. You’ll let Sylus fuck your face and take his load on your chin “just like my little cumslut daughter likes”

It’s a vicious cycle, really.

[queers-gambit]

Shower Shenanigans

part one: Perpetual L's and Overwhelming Dubs

prompt: midnight callers turn your quiet night upside down, but at least it ends with you riding your stranger in the shower.

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 4.7k+

note: nobody asked for this but he's my muse now

warnings: cursing, smut (unprotected, in the shower, she's on top), blood, wounds, brain rot, author isn't British, probably setting up for part three, wonky brain doesn't care what warnings are missed.

A storm had rolled over Osaka, a steady thrumming at your hotel window creating a calming ambiance as you lit a couple of the candles you ordered from the front desk. Curled up on the tiny loveseat offered in the small living space, you flipped through your latest novel you grabbed before running into Tangerine at the train station. Speaking of, you glared at your phone for the hundredth time in an hour, feeling a sort of overwhelming dread that he hadn't called yet - or at the very least, texted.

Was it silly? Oh, you KNOW it was.

But he had said some really pretty things that rang in your ears on a haunting repeat the rest of the train ride. Then the whole taxi ride through Osaka, and the three days it's been since meeting him - he just wouldn't leave your conscious. Every meeting you had was vaguely interrupted by some sort of thought about your mysterious stranger, driving you up the wall.

Sure, you could call him, but the idea of calling a stranger for no reason other than to hear his voice felt a little too vulnerable to you. Yo could ask where he was, if he wanted to come for a visit - or hell, even before you departed Japan back for London, England, you could come see him... If he so wanted.

But your mind refused to let you dial his number, which was left in your recents after he had texted himself in the bathroom. The memory of your ex was still so fresh, making you feel silly for having such vivid, intense fantasies about a man you've met once. And for the love of Christ, you didn't even know his real name! Just his silly, fruity codename!

Man, if you hadn't been embarrassed before, the memory of moaning a fucking fruit surely made you cringe to the point you wanted the Earth to open up, swallow you whole, and never spit you out.

Your trip was soon to end with your departing flight tomorrow night, giving you just a day of leisure time in the city - but you didn't feel like doing much since the storm. Your book was interesting enough, keeping you entertained with a cart of hot food from room service within arms reach. Your tea was lukewarm by now, being much easier to drink, bowl of air-popped popcorn sat in your lap. Over the sounds of thunder, there was a knock at your door.

More like a banging, but hey, logistics. This was odd considering it was close to nine in the evening and you hadn't called for anything.

With a sigh, you marked your page and stood; annoyed by the continuous knocking, oversized tee shirt falling back over your thighs, socked feet stuffing into your slippers before traveling to the door. You called in Japanese, "Who is it?"

There was a small scraping, making your brows furrow and call your question again - but with much more urgency. "'S me, love, open the door, please," a raspy, British accent croaked seemingly through the crack. You left the chain lock in place, slowly opening the door a fraction to discover Tangerine - bloodied to high hell - leaning on the doorframe of your hotel room with two other bloody men behind him.

"What the fuck? Jesus Christ," you hissed, shutting the door, snapping the chain off and yanking it open once more. "Get in here, are you okay?" You asked, gasping right after when Tangerine stumbled a little, making you catch him; assualting your sinuses with the smell of citrus, metallic blood, and cigarette smoke. "All right, all right, you're safe now, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon," you muttered, helping him over your shoulders and into your decently spacious hotel room. "C'mon, you two! Step lively before you trigger hotel security!"

You shuffled your stranger into the room and deposited him on the sofa; hearing his grunt of exaggerated pain. You looked at the others, sighing as you moved things out of the way, inviting the other two men to sit around the furniture. You tried not to worry about the cleaning bill you would surely get for all their blood.

"Jesus Christ, did you get shot?" You asked, seeing the fleshy wound in his shoulder that was very poorly staunched.

"That arsehole did it," he panted, pointing at the blonde stranger.

"Hi," the arsehole waved, "it was an accident, for whatever it's worth. I, uh... I have bad luck, don't really like guns," he shrugged meekly.

"You lot look like hell," you sighed, shaking your head and standing to your feet to take a few steps away. You asked over your shoulder, "Guess I shouldn't bother asking what happened?"

"Train wreck," the man Tangerine had been with earlier answered.

You blinked in shock, the men all wincing as they were seemingly finally able to relax. Only now, you noted they were all in the same clothes as days ago, just tattered, torn, burnt and singed, soaking wet from the storm, stained with blood. You looked at Tangerine, demanding, "Is that why you told me to get off the train? You were gonna crash it!?"

"No, no, darlin', that wasn't the plan," Tangerine coughed, head tilted back. "Just... Happened."

"Call it his bad luck, huh?" You shook your head and moved for the hotel's phone, dialing the front desk and waiting. When they answered, the cheery front desk girl asked how she could help and you asked her what first aid supplies the hotel kept stocked. She answered and you asked if you'd be able to get enough for three kits - claiming you were practicing for a medical school final. She was more than happy to oblige, telling you her brother did much of the same, and she'd send the kits right up.

Thanking her, you hung up, and turned back for room. You found a pair of shorts and hopped into them for modesty, using your ice bucket to fill with water, grabbing whatever hand towels and washcloths you could. You set the bucket to the coffee table, dipping the cloths in for the two strangers, asking, "You guys wanna clean up a bit?"

"Please," the blonde wheezed.

You nodded, handing over the wet towels and moved the bucket a little closer for them to reach. You introduced yourself to them, offering a smile, turning for Tangerine and taking a seat beside him to start cleaning him up. "Lemon," your companion's counterpart introduced.

"Ladybug."

"More fucking codenames," you mumbled, shaking your head, trying to mop up Tangerine's forehead. "Jesus, fuck, sweetheart, what did you do? Bash your head through a glass wall?"

"Window, actually," he mumbled, reaching up to caress your wrist and cracking his eyes open. "Thank you, darlin'."

"Hush," you smiled, wiping the blood from his mouth. "You guys are gonna need showers and new clothes, huh?" You looked at the other two, who were scattered around the room to use whatever reflective surface they could find.

"That'd be nice," Ladybug nodded. "Anyone any cash?"

You sighed, "I've got you guys, 's all right."

As you reached for the bucket of warm water again to rinse the washcloth and wring it out, you missed the looks Lemon and Tangerine exchanged; both mildly impressed with your generosity and kindness. Certainly, someone who would never get tangled up in the lot of them on regular circumstances.

The knock at your door made the entire room still, you sparing them a skeptical look and reprimanding as you stood, "Relax, it's just the supplies."

Still, Lemon and Ladybug made sure they were out of sight as Tangerine just couldn't move once deposited on the sofa. You greeted the service worker, strategic in how wide you opened the door, and accepted the supplies; thanking the man, closing the door, and depositing the materials on your still-made bed.

However, a new thought occurred and you picked up the phone once more. When it connected to the front desk, you asked if your conjoining room was vacant - and to your shock, it was. You asked if they would add the room to yours because your friend suddenly decided to join you (not a total lie), and some 20 minutes later, you were giving Ladybug and Lemon their own room keys. You propped the conjoining door open, the two men using the first aid kits and the other room's shower as you got Tangerine to a point you didn't think he would bleed out.

"Okay, sweetheart," you caressed his jaw, "I'm gonna pop over to the shops across the street, okay? Grab you guys some necessities."

"You don't have to, we shouldn't burden you like this," he whispered.

"You guys can't walk around in these clothes," you chuckled.

"Have been."

"Yeah, on the side of the road, huh?"

"Back of a tangerine truck for a bit, too," he chuckled.

"Well, that's fitting. Look, just," you sighed, leaning in to peck his lips softly, "stay here, rest, eat, I'll be right back. Get a shower if you feel able, yeah?"

He nodded, just looking you over for a moment. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shaking his head, "I didn't know where else t'go. Whole plan went t'shit, we were out of options, love, just... Didn't know where t'turn ta."

"How'd you even find me?"

He shrugged, "I have my ways."

"Well, that's doesn't vaguely make you sound like a stalker." Another peck to his amused smile. "I'll be right back, promise," you stood, found a pair of sweats, a hoodie, and changed your shoes before heading out the door.

Was it stupid to leave three strangers alone in your hotel room? For sure. But you still went, you were a caring person by nature and the idea of making them fend for themselves felt wrong.

Especially after the state they showed up in, Tangerine's soft words about not knowing where to go; you just wanted to help since you had the ability to.

Across the street, splashing through puddles, you zipped around what was available and gathered three sets of sweatpants, shirts, jackets or hoodies, and figured their shoes were fine for now until they could change them later. You grabbed a few snacks and bottles of water, sports drinks, and energy drinks, paid, and made it back to your hotel room.

"Oh, blessings, you sweet girl!" Lemon gasped when you presented the change of clothes and snacks. "Oh, fuck yeah," he whispered to himself, taking the gift and going to change as you tossed Ladybug his own set.

When you found Tangerine, he was in the same place - but at least he didn't look worse. Just exhausted.

"Hey," you cooed, caressing his head and watching his eyes crack open.

"You're back," he smiled.

"Mhm," you hummed, "and you need a shower. C'mon, then you can get in bed, get some rest."

"Nah, love," he groaned when you took his wrists, "let's jus' go t'bed."

"Tan, you're absolutely disgusting right now, you'll feel better under the water. C'mon, there's a shower seat, you don't have to do anything, I'll help you."

He winced when you helped him on his feet, hobbling into the bathroom as Ladybug and Lemon were chowing down on whatever they could get their hands on. In the bathroom, you shut the door, set a clean towel on the counter, and turned to see him leaning on a wall, just watching you. You offered a soft smile, starting the shower to hea up, and then approaching him.

"Easy," you whispered, helping him unlatch his belt, step from his shoes, and then shed his trousers. His waistcoat followed, then his button-up, you gasping lightly, "Oh, fuck! Oh, my God. Yeah," you gently pet his side, prodding the dark wound, "you've got some broken ribs, sweetheart. Fuck's sake."

"That arsehole did that, too," he mused.

"Seriously? Damn, how'd you get your arse handed to yah by a lad named Ladybug?" You joked, dropping his boxers and pulling him from the wall. You made sure he was on the shower seat before stepping back and stripping yourself, joining him in the heat and getting to your knees.

With another washcloth, you gently suds over his body, the soap helping sweep away from grime. He let you work, scrubbing his feet, then working up his legs, rinsing, reapplying the soap, and continuing on your way. You washed his thighs and up his hips, to his waist, ignoring the way his cock stirred to life, bobbing into your elbow as it swelled. You were gentle over his bruises, the water feeling nice over your tired bodies; the soft scents of the soap soothing.

When you straightened up to wash his chest, you missed the way his eyes scanned over your soaking wet form. Feeling your hands on his collarbones, he reached down to seize your hips and heave - making you yelp. "The hell are you doing?" You gasped, needing to stabilize yourself on the wall and his non-shot shoulder.

"'S been three days too long, just wanted yah close," he whispered, sighing as his hands smoothed down your hips; gripping the flesh until indentations appeared.

You tisked, "You're hurt, you don't need t'fuckin' lift me. Use your words next time, won't you?"

He chuckled, "And what? Risk you sayin' no 'cause you don't wanna hurt me? Nah, love," he sighed. "Just wanted yah close, t'feel yah."

You hummed, "Close your eyes."

"Hmm?"

You held up the shampoo bottle, squirting a generous amount into your hand before starting to lather it into his scalp. He groaned, hissed at a few intervals, but overall let you work your fingers through his curls; pulling out any knots, shards of glass, and loosening the dried blood.

"You all right?" You checked, lifted on your knees to work; breasts all but pressed into his face.

"Mhm," he hummed, coiling his arms around you so he could literally just press his face into your cleavage. You chuckled, giving him a quick cuddle as he pecked your skin slowly, and continuing your work. When you lowered yourself back to his lap, your bare cunt drug down his shaft, making you both groan. "Baby," he seethed through his teeth, gripping the back of your neck to keep you close, "please, just - get on me, yeah? Need yah - on a biblical level, darlin'."

"You're hurt," you weakly refused, your resolve barely hanging on by a thread.

"Not so hurt that I can't enjoy this, huh?" He argued, licking over your lips to halt all rational thought. "C'mon, love, we hiked it three days here - after a fuckin' train wreck. I would've dropped if not for the thought of you, seein' yah, touchin' you again. Don't even gotta move, just sit there, love."

"If I do, will you finally just sit still and let me clean you up?"

"Whatever baby wants, she'll have, swear it," he grinned, hoisting you into his arms so he could grip his throbbing cock, lower you, and line himself up until you were impaling yourself on him. "Jesus, fuck!" He snapped, mixing with your whimper at his impossible stretch. "Ah, you feel so fuckin' good, doll, this is it - this is what I needed, huh? All I fuckin' needed - fuck - right fuckin' here."

"Hush," you whispered with an embarrassed smile, glancing back. "I need the shower head."

"I got us," he answered, holding you tight and standing with a small grunt. He easily grabbed the shower head, handing it to you, letting you rinse his hair out as he turned to pin you against the wall with his hips for balance.

"This isn't just sitting," you mocked, soap flowing down his shoulders and chest. "Close your eyes, please," you whispered, wiping the frothy suds from his face as he did. "God, your curls are magnificent, seriously, why does God give the best qualities to men - who don't even appreciate what they have?"

He laughed lightly, "Gotta get your attention somehow."

"Mhm, these lashes? Not even a drop of mascara," you mused, pecking the tip of his nose while one hand held his jaw. "And this jawline? Baby, this alone could cut glass."

"Like your nipples, right?" He teased, nipping your collarbones; both acutely aware of your pebbled nips dancing across his flesh each time you moved. He chuckled, readjusting you when you reached to set the shower head back in the holder; making sure it could cascade over the bench still. "We done?" He asked softly.

"Nope, got the conditioner," you rolled your eyes, holding his shoulders when he moved back for the seat; still firmly inside you. When he sat again, you released a high-pitched breath when the position pushed him further into you; your legs folding beside his thighs to keep the ideal grip.

"In a second," he smirked, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "Just need this, yeah?" He spoke against your lips, licking into your mouth. "Been hiking with a fucking hard-on for days, love, just fuckin' need this," he hissed into your mouth, teeth raking over your bottom lip in a possessive bite. You moaned quietly, lost in the ministrations of kissing him like a drunk teenager, barely aware when he started moving your hips over him.

"Tan," you tried.

"C'mon, love, we both need it," he shook his head. "Tell me to stop and I will, but I think we both need this."

With a long sigh, you pet his cheek, deciding, "Fine, but we're taking it easy, you're still - " But then there was a loud knock at the bathroom door, Lemon calling your name in question. You slapped a hand over Tangerine's irritated mouth when he looked ready to yell his protest, answering, "What is it, honey, are you guys okay? What's wrong?"

"Yeah, just, uh... Can we order a couple things from room service? Bit starving, thinkin' something hot?"

"Oh, yeah, whatever you guys need!" You encouraged happily, Tangerine biting your palm and making your hand retract with a small whine and pout.

"Oi!" He called over the shower stream.

"Yeah?" Lemon was heard laughing.

"Don't run up her bill, mate!"

"It's okay," you whispered, pecking his forehead. "Get what you need, Lemon," you called, "but order Tangerine something to eat, too, please!"

"On it, love! Thank you!"

"Oh! Of course!" You beamed back at Tangerine, who offered you a mild look of annoyance.

"Now, why do that?" He asked, grinding your hips on his again. "Huh? Those two will eat you outta house and home, love."

"It's fine, you guys have been through a lot," you promised, connecting your lips in a long kiss. "Now, you wanna keep talking financials or put the rest of this hot water to use?"

"There's my girl," he grunted, standing from the bench to move fully under the water; pinning you to the wall again.

You grunted when you collided with the cold tile, but the warm tongue in your mouth was plenty distraction. You held his neck like it was your single tether to life, teeth clashing, tongues wagging, lips wet and creating obscene sounds the more intense the kisses turned.

"Fuck," you felt the air punch from your lungs when Tangerine pulled his hips back to start thrusting; brows furrowed together in concentration as he worked in and out of you at an already brutal pace. You didn't complain - he obviously needed this, and by God, it felt otherworldly.

"'Ats my girl, so fuckin' good for me," he muttered, needing this more than you have ever before; each hand holding a thigh to keep you spread open for his taking, hips hammering into yours as his balls slapped the apex of your cunt to echo around the room.

You felt incoherent when he picked up his speed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder when your head was thrown back as he worked you closer, closer, closer to your release. There was no thought in your mind, just Tangerine; drunk on his smell, taste, touch, never wanting this feeling to end.

Just outside the bathroom, Ladybug was accepting the room service order when he heard the messy, obscene noises coming from the bathroom; looking wide eyed at the closed door. Lemon laughed, "Might wanna walk away, Joburg, he don't like nobody listening in."

"Kinda hard to when they're that loud," he blanched when you released a pornographic moan as Tangerine readjusted his stance so his cock was piercing what felt like straight through you. Lemon laughed at Ladybug being startled so much he literally scurried away.

"C'mon, love," Tangerine panted.

"Go back," you moaned, pawing at his shoulders as you felt too slippery in this position.

"Huh?"

"Sit!" You insisted, him pulling back from the wall and backing up until the bench hit the back of his knees - dropping him. "There's my boy," you mocked, a hand on the wall, the other on his good shoulder, supporting you to vigorously ride him. You felt renewed energy now that he was obviously okay, only his bullet wound still weeping - something you'll patch up once out of the water.

"Oh, holy fuck," Tangerine moaned, louder than you would've thought; his head thumping back to the wall and losing all composure. "That's it, doll, keep like that - ohhh, fuck me!"

"Exactly what I'm doing, yeah?" You teased, moving your hand to his throat and keeping pressure enough not to fully choke his air supply, but enough to make him moan at the feeling.

His mouth dropped open as you rode him enthusiastically, feeling determined to reward him for coming all this way to track you down. Yeah, sure, for a moment, it was concerning, but now, you simply didn't care that three strangers had found your hotel room and now crashed with you.

Nothing mattered when this deliriously delicious cock was inside you.

"Jesus!" Tangerine moaned, hands to your hips to help you move, but it seemed the years in your youth as an equestrian was truly paying off. Call it muscle memory, but years after mastering the posting trot and the correct canter diagonal, you were riding Tangerine as if you'd drop dead if you didn't. And he felt it, he felt all of it. "Yeah, you're too good at this," he groaned, "so fuckin' good - Goddamnit - fuck me. Just like that, love, keep going - fuck, I'm right there."

You smirked, pushing his neck back so we was pinned to the wall now, his eyes locked with yours, mouth agape, your breasts bouncing with vigor. You squeaked when Tangerine braced his feet, his own hips thrusting up into you to match your movements; adding to both your mounting pleasures as the shower created a cloud of steam around you both in a welcomed lung-choking heat.

You honestly didn't mean to, but the absolute gut-wrecking pleasure you felt was enough for you to moan in Tangerine's ear, "Daddy."

It seemed the right word as Tangerine groaned in an echo, thrusting faster to the point you couldn't keep up. You could only moan, groan, squeak, cry-out as he jackhammered up into you - something that made Lemon and Ladybug exchange looks, gather their things, and rush back over to their adjoining room to leave you both a fraction of privacy.

"Yeah, tell Daddy how good it is," he seethed in your ear, opening his mouth, and biting down on your neck; hand tightly wound in your hair.

"So good."

"How good?"

"Too good, Daddy, please," you sobbed, braced on his shoulders and chest as his arms held you tight to let him thrust with abandon. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, yes, yes, yes," you praised, your orgasm rushing higher and higher to a new height. "Fuck," you moaned in his ear, "need this cock everyday. Went three days without, felt like I was losing my fucking mind."

"Feelin's mutual, love, so fuckin' mutual," he agreed, his cock swelling, "just needed t'get here, find yah again. Shit, fuck," he looked to where you were conjoined, praising, "gonna need yah home address - ain't no way we're goin' without one another, huh? Hey?"

"Yes, yes, yes," you squeaked, "there - there - there!"

His thumb pressed to your clit and you were done for. Grinding and humping into his hips, you crashed over the other side of your orgasm; feeling mildly limp as you slumped against his shoulder, letting Tangerine thrust a few more times.

"YES!" He shouted your name through clenched teeth, holding you with a vice grip as he bottomed out, balls contracting, squirting his full load inside you with shuddering breaths.

"Oh, my God," you sniffled, holding onto him as your legs were spent and you knew, the odds of you moving any time soon were slim to none.

"Yeah," Tangerine chuckled, leaning back to the wall as he panted; keeping hold of you. "Yah all right, love?"

"Uh-huh," you breathed, still absentminded.

"Yeah," he mused, pecking below your ear. "Just what the doctor ordered, huh?"

"Think the doctor would want your wound closed," you slowly sat off him, looking to the bloody hole and frowning as you pet around the irritated skin. He winced gently, making you frown, "Let's go, love, you need this tended to."

Only, when you dismounted, his cock flopping out of you once released, you tried to find your feet but only found the floor.

"C'mon, love, you just sit," he sighed, scooping you up and switching spots. He set you on the bench, stood, rinsed off under the water, readjusted the stream so it hit you a little better as he lathered conditioner into his curls with one arm.

"You're supposed to leave it sit for a bit," you tisked when he washed the conditioner out; shaking his curls.

"'S all right, still does the job."

"Your girlfriends never taught you haircare?"

He cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he avoided your eyes. "Never really had one outside of secondary school. Job doesn't make dating the easiest, yeah?"

You furrowed your brows gently, then nodded, "Okay, well, just means you've room to learn, right?"

"Yeah, sure. You gonna teach me, love?" He mused, slicking his hair back in the water before shutting it off; wringing a few strands out.

"Why not?" You smiled. "But you gotta teach me something in return."

"Hmm? What's that you wanna learn?"

"How to shoot a gun."

He offered you a long look, seemingly skeptical. You accepted his hand and got from the bench, squeezing when the weight of your body made them tremble lightly. Stepping out, you both dried off with towels as he offered, "Why d'you think I know how to shoot a gun?"

"Tellin' me that Ladybug fellow is the only one? That's fine, I can ask him," you quipped, making him instantly respond,

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, don't do all that, I'll teach yah, love."

You smiled softly, wrapping your hair in a towel and approaching him - still naked. "Thank you," you whispered, kissing his lips in a soft, sweeping motion that made him hum in the back of his throat and reach for your bare arsecheek. "Now, c'mon, let's get you stitched up before you go startin' something you can't finish."

"You met me, love? I always finish," he gave a cheeky squeeze.

"Mhm, might be the last time, too, with this blood loss. Huh?"

He relented in a head nod and wrapped the towel around his hips, watching you shrug on a fluffy white robe and tie the sash. He took your hand, laced your fingers together, and exited the bathroom - only to come to a shocking halt.

There was blood trailed all over the room, medical supplies strewn around, and several food wrappers. "Told yah, love," Tangerine sighed.

"It's okay," you smiled, "they'll clean it."

"You're so sure?"

"I'm very persuasive," you eased. "C'mon, sit," you ushered him back to the bloodied sofa, figuring damage was already done and anymore blood wouldn't make much of a difference. You grabbed whatever material you could, snapping on rubber gloves and taking a deep breath. "Ready?" You asked Tangerine.

"One more kiss and you can have at it," he sighed, leaning in until you met him happily; offering several swipes of his tongue before resting his forehead on your own.

"It'll sting for a bit," you warned, holding the bottle of alcohol.

"C'mon, darlin', 's all right, I can handle - OH! FUCKS SAKE!" He cursed when you poured the disinfectant over his bullet wound.

In the next room, Ladybug and Lemon shared a look before snickering as if two juvenile boys at a sleepover. And honestly? Spot the difference.

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Bullet Train masterlist