#cw wardrobe what are you doing

[wri0thesley]

eyes - neuvillette x reader (8.5k)

you have always known, one day, you would be married off to someone not of your choosing. but you certainly never expected it to be the iudex himself.

cw: not sfw text. explicitly chubby virgin reader, some insecurity, arranged marriage. double dick neuvillette, cunnilingus, bathing together. reader is afab but referred to with neutral pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

There are certain standards one must follow as a child of Fontainian society; certain things that are expected of you. A certain way to speak and move and act - a set of rules that have been laid out clearly for you since the day you were born. You will know which fork to use at which mealtime. You will know the difference between what is appropriate to wear to a matinee and to an evening show. You will trust your elders to guide you, and you will be grateful for the life that they have oh-so-painstakingly laid out. 

So you are not surprised when your mother tells you that you are to be wed. 

You have even been expecting it. Since you became of a marriageable age, you have looked at all of the other children of society and wondered what kind of match your family might make. One of your own generation? Older, perhaps - more secure in their wealth and their status and position? You have even laughed about it with your friends, when you were out of earshot of all of your elders - discussing who would be the worst options, gossiping about who has had who over for tea recently. 

She’s surprisingly tight-lipped about who you’re going to wed, too. That’s not unexpected either, though it does make anxiety roil hot and sour in your gut. Plenty of children have run away from home so as not to be wed to somebody decades and decades their senior, or somebody with a reputation for cruelty - or sometimes even because the match that has been made has not taken into account a love affair unbeknownst to the elders of the family. 

You have no such love affair to romantically dash off into the sunset with; you have been a good and dutiful child your whole life. And though you do, perhaps, wish that you could know what it was like to have a love so fiery and passionate you would disobey the only life you’ve ever known . . . you have come to accept that will not be your lot in life. 

You have even worried once or twice that somebody, upon finding that they were engaged to you, might wish to run away. You have looked in the mirror and scrutinised your face, your posture, your body - a body that has fallen out of fashion recently, the beauty ideal in Fontaine being very much ‘look as much like Lady Furina as possible’. It is your body, though - and it has stood you in good stead, and the night in which you are finally to meet your betrothed your mother and your maid stand in your bedroom looking approvingly at how your gown falls over the soft peaks and curves of your hips and chest. 

All you know about this person who you are to be wedded to is that every time your family talks of them, they can barely hide the smiles on their faces and the superior lilt to their tone. Whatever match has been made for you . . . they are utterly ecstatic about it. 

“I think he’ll be more than pleased,” your mother says, tugging at a fold of fabric - she had chosen to have this dress made in pale blue, though it is not a colour that has been in your wardrobe before. A man, then; a well-placed man who makes your family giddy with excitement - a man partial to the colour blue and a spouse whose figure runs more to curves than lines. 

It is not a lot to go on. 

So you do not know what to expect, as you are brought down the stairs and into the dining room. All kinds of thoughts dance through your head; some pleasant, some . . . not so. You know that you will meekly accept what you have been given, the way you have been brought up to do - and it is not lost on you that the trajectory of tonight will perhaps influence your life for years and years to come. There is always the chance that, seeing you in person, your parent’s intended will reject you--

Your mind is churning at a hundred thoughts a minute as you step inside the dining room - but when you see who is seated at the head of the table, all of those thoughts seem to clatter to the ground at once. 

It is a wonder that your mouth does not drop open. 

In all of the time you have spent gossiping about possible matches in society, nobody has ever mentioned - even off-handedly - the possibility that the Chief Justice of Fontaine may be looking to marry. 

But there sits Monsieur Neuvillette - a little awkward, yes (he is being chattered to most insistently by your father), but straight and tall and handsome in his chair, his robes of office perfectly pressed, his face schooled carefully into a polite look of vague interest. Your mother coughs, and he looks up--

And his eyes, the colour of the evening sky or a perfect sapphire, widen just a touch. His mouth opens, the barest amount - and you swear that as his gaze sweeps over your form in your carefully chosen blue dress (a choice you are beginning to understand), he visibly swallows. 

“Ah,” he says, and he stands - walking towards you, bending and inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to . . . finally meet you in person.” You’re still rather stunned speechless by everything that is happening - you cannot help but feel as though things are happening around you, and not to you - but as Neuvillette uses one of his gloved hands to take yours and to press a lingering kiss on your palm that makes your entire body feel as though it is on fire, you are suddenly all too aware of just what is going on. “You look radiant tonight.”

“M-Monsieur,” you say in return, and you sweep what must be the clumsiest curtsey of your life. “I . . . I have to admit that this is a surprise.” 

“Not an unwelcome one,” your mother puts in before he can respond. “Of course, we’re delighted with this match, and we’re absolutely sure you’ll be delighted with them--”

“I understand,” Neuvillette says, his eyes not leaving you. “If I may be frank with you, until recently I had never thought to marry.” 

Questions rise in your throat. If he had not thought to marry, why was he doing it now? And why you, when surely he must see the upper echelons of society every single day? What had brought him to your family’s door, asking after your hand over everyone else he must have had first pick of? But these are not polite questions for the dinner table, when your mother and your father are already ushering the two of you to your seats beside one another and beaming so brightly that it hurts to look at them. 

The dinner table is a place for light, polite conversation; the last opera you saw, the weather. Neuvillette smiles into his wine glass - a glass you notice is filled with water - when you mention that it has not seemed to rain much recently. You notice him looking at you every so often, over rims of glasses and delicate bites of foods . . . but you know that you, too, cannot help but sneak a glance at the Iudex of Fontaine seated by your side. 

Your future husband! Your betrothed! The man you will spend the rest of your life with! 

As much as you may wish for a moment alone with him, you know it is not proper; so when he stands and kisses your hand again and your father takes Neuvillette into his study to hash out some further details of your impending nuptials, you swallow your disappointment and remind yourself that you will have years with Neuvillette, to learn his secrets - to discover why he has decided to take you as a spouse. 

There is little time for getting to know one another beyond the most surface of levels when a marriage has been arranged for you - there is even littler time when the man you are going to marry is one of the most powerful and busiest men in Fontaine. Even the few times you see each other as the wedding looms closer - the period your parents optimistically refer to as ‘courting’ - there is little time to get to know his heart. 

You realise, at the final fitting for your wedding clothes, that the first time you will be truly alone with the man who is to be your husband will be the night of your wedding. 

And that particular thought . . . 

You know the ways of the world. You know what will be expected of you, in order to properly consummate a marriage - you know that you will be intimate with Neuvillette for years to come. But the idea that the first time that the two of you will be able to snatch time with one another with no parents or gossip-mongers or anybody else around will also be the time in which you and he will legally become one (and you know, from experience at the Opera Epiclese, that Neuvillette is nothing if not a stickler for the law) . . . oh, it is enough to make you reconsider one last time running away from your responsibilities. 

“Mother?” You ask, your voice quiet, the night before your wedding. You have spent the entire day overseeing flowers and being asked questions, watching the cooks and the waiters bring in fine delicacies from all over Teyvat (Neuvillette had not wanted hosting duties; you get the impression that as long as the ceremony was done legally, he would be pleased enough to call you his spouse. But your parents have been preparing for this your whole life, so they had indeed wanted the spectacle of their child marrying the most powerful man in Fontaine. With no family to speak of, he had acquiesced to their desires. Your parents are in shivers of delight that Lady Furina will, too, grace the halls of your family home). “What if . . . what if I do not please him?”

You are sitting before your dressing table, in your sleeping robe, haunted by thoughts of all of the things that could go wrong whilst your mother double checks your wedding gown and the jewellery you are to wear tomorrow. She looks over at you - her face is normally hard, but as she sees the knit of your brow and the bite of your teeth into your lip, she sighs softly. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says, stroking your cheek. “The Iudex asked for you specifically.” You blink at her, wide-eyed, and she laughs a soft little laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head, now; they have been badgering him to marry for some time . . . but he did ask for you, out of all of the people he could have had. So take heart in that. Do you think him a foolish man?”

“No,” you shake your head, your voice a soft whisper. You suppose that Neuvillette is many things, but ‘foolish’ would not be one that would cross your mind. 

“There. You and he are going to have a happy life together.” A sly look steals over her face. “Ah . . . are you worried about the wedding night itself?”

“Mama!”

“It’s something we all go through, my dear.” She catches your chin in her hand and smiles at you, and for a moment, despite all of the times you have disliked her for the life you have been forced into . . . you are reminded that she is your mother, and she wants this to work just as much as you do. “Do not be frightened of him. Do not be overwhelmed by him. He has chosen you to be his equal, but he will not expect too much of you. I promise . . . everything is going to be fine.” She gives you a wink. “And if I were you, and were to marry a man who looked like the Chief Justice - why, I’d be positively thrilling with excitement at the thought of my wedding night!”

“Mama!” This time, your scandalised tone brings her out in peals of laughter, and she kisses the top of your head as she leaves the bedroom. The door clicks behind her. 

Your final night in your childhood room; your final night unmarried. One last slumber amongst your own silken pillows and sheets (what kind of bed, you wonder, does the Chief Justice sleep in?). 

That night, you dream of a sea that churns with a similar anxiety to the one that you feel in your own belly. 

The morning of your wedding day, it is raining. Your family fuss over it, but as you stand at your window with people running all about you, messing with your hair and rearranging your dress and having arguments about your bouquet, you cannot help but find it comforting to watch the rain fall in droplets, stopping and starting again, mirroring your own still-nervous heart. 

You think you will falter at the last hurdle, as you stand outside of the Opera Epiclese - normally a place of theatricals, but also a place of the law, and the place that the most important part of your wedding day will occur - and take a deep breath ready to start your new life. The bouquet in your hands is full of rainbow roses and romaritime flowers, bursting with colour; you are grateful to have it to hold on to, as the doors are thrown open and you walk slowly down the aisle of the theatre. 

Your eyes desperately seek out someone who will provide you an ounce of comfort in the crowd, all peering at you curiously to see the person who has finally tamed the Chief Justice. This is a spectacle as much as a wedding, you suppose; and as you see some people whisper behind their hands, you wonder if you have been found wanting. You bite your lip hard to stop yourself crying - and then, onstage, his hands clasped over his cane, your gaze finds Neuvillette himself. 

The patter of the rain on the roof of the Opera stops all at once. For a moment, you swear everything falls silent, as you and he look at each other. 

Slowly, his mouth breaks into a small, secret smile, and the buzz of whispering intensifies - but that smile is enough to steady you. To remind you he has been nothing but kind and polite. To whisper to you that perhaps this union is a thing to look forward to, and not to be feared. 

He looks as handsome as ever; his suit perfectly-pressed, his hair streaming in a neat silver white tail behind him. There are flowers that have been braided into it; and you see, as you ascend the stairs to the stage, that there are a group of Melusines sitting in the front rows with matching little bouquets of Lumidouce bells grasped in their little hands, beaming up at the Iudex. 

Lady Furina presides over the proceedings, tossing her hair and preening and holding the audience in the palm of her hand - another reminder that theatrics are more respected than the law in a land like Fontaine. But you cannot bring yourself to mind too much - not when Neuvillette’s smile is steady, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Not when, as he repeats the words in a clear voice like a ringing bell, he whispers them again as if they are only for you. Not when he takes his bare hands - ungloved, for the exchange of the rings - and holds your own, soft and round and dimpled, as he slides the ring onto your finger as if you are the most delicate thing in the world. 

When Furina - with more glee in her voice than you would have expected - announces that he may now kiss you, you feel your shoulders draw up in anxiety. The entire audience goes quiet, waiting with baited breath for this - as if it is one of the things they have been waiting for all day. Neuvillette, though, keeps his gaze on you. He acts as though there are not a thousand Fontainian citizens watching your every move - slowly, he places his arm around your waist and draws you closer to him, so close that the crowds seem to melt away and there is nobody but the two of you. 

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear, angling his head so that the crowd cannot see that he has said something that is only for the two of you (no doubt they would be baying to be privy to the marriage bed, if they thought they could get away with it) - and then, his lips brush against yours. They are cool and soft; the lightest tang of sea-salt remains on your own after he is done. The crowd roars with their approval as he steps back and bows to you, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand - and you stand there, trembling, excited and nervous and frightened and on display all at once, as your new husband takes you by the hand and gently, gently leads you back down one of the aisles of the opera, out to the waiting carriages to spirit you away from the spectacle of the opera house and into the spectacle that your parents have designed as a celebration. 

As it turns out, it is not so bad. Your parents have understood, at the very least, that the two of you will be retiring early to Neuvillette’s residence (your trunks already packed, already loaded onto a carriage to be delivered in the next few days). They have managed to rein themselves in; only invite the most important echelons of society to this celebration, despite the luxury and the excess that has been coming into the house for weeks now. 

So you bow to Lady Furina and accept her compliments with a stutter and hot cheeks, Neuvillette by your side, his steadying hand on your waist. Neuvillette expertly manages to weave around your family’s ballroom as if he has been doing it all his life - but then, remembering how much older he is than you, you suppose that he has been doing it at least as long as you have been alive. He has a remarkable way of remaining polite, yet not brokering too much room for small talk and gossip, as if he can tell that this kind of thing is not your favourite. 

You overhear, when you have been spirited away from your husband’s side for ten minutes by some of your friends, an older couple accosting Neuvillette. 

“You had all of the choice in the world,” the man says, poking Neuvillette in the centre of his chest - from the slur in his words, you think he may have partaken in a touch too much of your parent’s imported dandelion wine. “Whyever did you make this one?”

Your heart stutters in your chest; a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of your wedding gown. This is what you have been fearful of, this whole time - you being found wanting, you being seen as not good enough for Neuvillette--

But your new husband merely smiles. 

“I have eyes,” he says, mildly, and he turns away from the couple and brings an end to the conversation that you know must leave them utterly blistering. He comes to find you, instead - apologising most profusely to your friends for having to steal you away. 

You stay for as short a time as you can manage, with the congratulations and the toasts and the speeches (a Melusine or two makes a speech for Neuvillette; you much prefer their simple honesty to some of the awful gushing things that come from the mouths of connections of your parents who have never given much care to you before), with the cake being cut--

“Here,” Neuvillette murmurs, and your cheeks go hot as he feeds you a bite of his own slice from the same fork he has been using. “I must confess that this is rather too sweet for me.” 

By the time that Neuvillette begins to make his excuses, bowing and smiling and thanking his hosts and the guests, the moon is already hanging white and plump in the black velvet of the night - and as you say goodbye to your parents, your Mama gives you a wink that makes you go hot all over. 

Neuvillette’s residence is surprisingly unassuming; it is smaller than your parents house, and he does not employ half as many maids or staff. For a moment, his gaze flitters over to you, and you sense a nervousness in the air. 

“I am sorry if it is not what you were expecting,” he says, voice clipped - but you shake your head, and try and let some of the anxiety drain from your tight shoulders. 

“It’s lovely,” you say, firmly, as he helps you out of the carriage. This time, when his gloved hand - he has chosen to put his gloves back on, his wedding ring glinting over the black satin - touches your waist, you gasp. The frisson of promise that runs through the touch makes you feel dizzy with possibility. Neuvillette looks at you with those dark sapphire eyes of his, and murmurs;

“I apologise if you’re nervous. I have no wish to . . . make you do anything you don’t want to. I am more than willing to wait-- the law does not require we consummate directly on our wedding night, and if you are frightened--”

A drop of rain lands on your cheek. 

“No,” you breathe out, all in a rush, surprised to find it falling from your lips as you say it. But then you think of his lingering kiss, of the way he shut down that couple at the wedding reception, of that private smile he had given you to soothe your fears as you walked down the aisle, and you’re even more surprised to find that you mean it. “Not at all. I-- I am nervous, but . . .”

He gives you another soft, gentle smile that makes your heart feel ready to burst out of your chest. The raindrop you had felt has no companions; simply a freak occurrence in the weather. 

“I must admit,” he murmurs, as he helps you towards his front door. “I am very pleased to hear that. I hope you won’t find it remiss of me to admit that I have been . . . rather looking forward to it.”

Your cheeks go hot again. The idea of Neuvillette, imagining you like that, even waiting for it . . . it is hard not to find it at once flattering and embarrassing. Neuvillette opens the door for you, but as you go to step inside--

“Ah, just a moment--” He leans his cane against the front door, and reaches for you. “I’m aware there’s a custom about bringing one’s new spouse over the threshold, and I would hate to break tradition--”

“You don’t have to,” you say, stuttering on the words. “I’m not light--”

But Neuvillette has already reached for you, already wrapped a surprisingly strong arm about your waist - and before you know it, as if he hasn’t needed to exert any energy at all, you have been pulled into his hold, held like a princess being rescued by a knight. 

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, his smile soft once more. 

“You feel perfectly light in my arms,” he tells you, as he steps over the threshold with you and gently places you down as softly and carefully as he had picked you up. You were not expecting the strength from him - he wears his robes of office, of course, and he certainly has the height, but there’s a kind of willowiness about him that does not exactly betray him being able to do such a thing. 

(If he can do that, a wicked little voice in your head whispers, imagine what else he could do to you - how easily he could manipulate you in a more intimate moment--)

It’s almost as if he can read your mind. He laughs a clear, silvery laugh like the rushing of a river. 

“Shall I show you to our bedchambers?” He asks you. “I’m sure you’ll want to get all of your finery off soon; it looks rather heavy. If you are not opposed . . . perhaps we may bathe together?”

Your heart, beating double time in your chest. Neuvillette’s eyes, cool and calm. The way your blood seems to sing in your veins. You smile back at him. 

“I would like that very much.”

Neuvillette’s house may not be as extravagant as expected, but the bathroom more than makes up for it - and most of all, the bathtub set into the floor, as wide as a swimming pool. He sees your look of surprise and laughs, sounding for once a little embarrassed.

“I enjoy being able to relax in water - natural water most of all,” he tells you, “but it would be rather . . . scandalous, if an ordinary citizen were to find me unexpectedly. This is my compromise. One of my vices, you may say.”

As vices go, it is a tame one, and you look at the bathtub - already full of clear water, so you can see the mosaic tiles on the bottom (the tub itself is stepped, so one can simply sit and relax at one end or perhaps even use the other end to swim a few strokes). 

“I loved to swim when I was little,” you say, wistfully. “As I got older, my parents thought the idea of me wearing my swim clothes too often was improper, but . . .”

“Well,” Neuvillette says, placing his hands upon your hips with only the lightest of pressure as if he is still too afraid to touch you too much. “You are welcome to use this bathroom for swimming whenever you wish. It is not quite the same, of course, but I want nothing more than you to be happy here. What’s mine is yours now, sweet one.”

It’s the first pet name he has used for you, and it makes your mouth go dry. Slowly, you turn towards him. You are about to be naked together, you suppose - even if you are going to bathe before anything more intimate happens - so you ought to be braver. You reach for his face, palms warm on his cheeks - and though his eyes flash in surprise, he gladly leans in to let you kiss him. 

This time, you let the kiss linger for longer; this private moment in the sanctity of a home that is to be shared between you. He sighs into your mouth and pulls you closer himself, so as you cradle his face his palms rest upon the ample curve of your hip. His teeth tug, almost shyly, at your bottom lip - and you feel your lashes flutter, your heart give an answering skip in your chest. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you part your lips, allowing him to take you as he wants - but even this ‘taking’ is done slowly, carefully, like a man who wishes to savour you. 

You pull back, your breath coming in soft little gasps - Neuvillette’s eyes are half-lidded, but it does not stop him smiling at you, putting you at ease. 

“We ought to disrobe,” he tells you, kindly - and he gently motions for you to turn, so that he may work at the difficult laces and hooks of your bridal outfit. You feel a little shy, as the fabric pools around your ankles, and you are left bare - but then he is turning you around, and in his eyes you see something that must be close to worship. 

“I am a man who says what I mean,” he tells you, tilting your chin upward toward him. “I have not spared your ego, little one - everything I see before me is . . .” He shakes his head, letting loose a ragged breath, more undone than you’ve seen him before. “More than I could ever have asked for.” One gloved finger trails across your lips, tracing a patch from the corner of your mouth down to your throat, your collarbone - reaching behind you to unclip your undergarments, so they fall to the ground with your gown. “You’re truly the loveliest creature.” 

“I--”

He shakes his head, smiling still. 

“Perhaps in my choice of a spouse,” he murmurs, “I let my own desires overtake me a touch . . . but ah, if you could see yourself the way I see you--”

You hesitantly hook your thumbs into your underwear and stand before him, naked completely - and you win, for your bravery, another ragged breath. 

“I must warn you,” Neuvillette murmurs, as he reaches for his own collar and begins to unbutton, to untie, to work the trappings of his own outfit off of himself. “You may be . . . surprised.”

“By what?” You feel brave enough to give him a little smile, though your heart is still beating faster than you’ve ever felt it. “Am I to discover you have been hiding extra limbs?”

Neuvillette’s gaze does not falter. 

“Something like that,” he agrees, mildly, as he slips his shirt and coat from his shoulders. His skin is milky pale in the moonlight streaming in from a window set high in the wall, his hair glimmering silver. He takes your breath away. 

Who would have thought you would ever find yourself in this position with the Chief Justice of Fontaine? 

He unbuttons his placket slowly - and as he carefully works down the fabric of his trousers, you realise exactly what it was he was warning you about. 

“I hope I do not disappoint you,” he says, as your mouth falls open at the sight of his cocks; resting one atop another, both half-swollen already. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of your wedding night, still to come. “I assure you, I know exactly what to do with them.” 

“I--I didn’t mean to--!” Your voice comes out a little panicked - but then, Neuvillette lets out a soft huff of laughter. 

“It’s quite alright,” he tells you. “But I will reiterate; I will not hurt you. You are . . . more than welcome to touch. But if we do not get in soon, I fear the water will have gone cold.” 

Neuvillette helps you into the bath, surprisingly unashamed of his own nakedness. At the press of his body against yours as he helps you down the steps inlaid into the tub, you feel his cocks jump against you, the wet smear of something against the dip of your back - but then, Neuvillette is lowering himself into the water beside you and letting loose a sigh of pure bliss that sends a coil of heat spiralling to between your thighs. 

You have never partaken in the gossip that surrounds Neuvillette, about his pointed ears or his inhumanly lovely face or his age - you would never have expected what he is hiding in his trousers. But as you sit beside your new husband, you cannot help but feel as though it makes perfect sense - a man like him could not be ordinary. And you trust him when he tells you he will not hurt you; when he says he knows what he’s doing, you think of all of the time he has on you and you have to suppress a shiver of desire for what he may have to teach you. 

He touches you, as the two of you bathe together. Lets his fingers massage the shampoo into your hair, lets his hands slide the washcloth over the contours of your body until you can barely breathe for the hot trails of fire that he leaves in his wake. You do not think he means to inflame you so - but then, he allows you to do the same thing to him, and he shudders and leans back into your touch, a soft noise almost like a purr falling from the back of his throat, and he realises exactly what bathing together is doing to you both. 

Still. The two of you linger there; touching one another. Getting to know one another’s bodies without any fear, for beneath the water all is muffled and calm. His fingers learn the shape of your nipples when he pinches them, how they pucker and harden beneath him. His palms learn the weight of your breasts, heavy and ample in his hands. His mouth learns the taste of your shoulders, as he drops hot, wet kisses across the span of them, the nape of your neck. And in return you feel the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his skin, the feel of his corded muscle beneath his deceptively slender frame. 

By the time the two of you are wrapped in fluffy towels the colour of an early morning sky, you are both hot with want. Neuvillette’s twin cocks seem to pulse with his desire; you can no longer tell if you are slick and wet from the bath or from the space between your thighs. You shyly look at one another through lowered lashes, though, as the wedding night and all it entails comes closer and closer and closer. 

“It’s a beautiful night,” you say to him, when the two of you have finally entered the bedroom. Neuvillette’s window is open a crack, enough so that the lacy curtains flutter in the light night-time breeze. “You would hardly think it’s been raining on and off all day.”

“Mmm,” Neuvillette agrees, as you feel him come up behind you. He slowly takes your hands, encouraging you to drop the towel; and then you stand before him, naked again, but with something far more than a bath in your future. He leans in and presses a kiss to the sensitive place where your neck and shoulder meet, just barely grazing it with surprisingly sharp teeth. “I should not wonder if it doesn’t rain again for some time.”

Neuvillette leads you to the bed, his hand firmly around yours. He is unerringly gentle and patient with you, as he urges you to sit upon the bedcovers - and your breath catches when you do as he asks, and instead of joining you he sinks onto his knees. You have never thought to imagine the Chief Justice kneeling before you, and the sight of it makes you buzz all over in anticipation. He smiles at your unsurety - and leans in, pressing a kiss to your knee, gently urging you to spread your thighs for him. His gloves are stripped away, but his wedding ring gleams on his finger as his fingers sink into the soft, full skin of your thigh. 

He leans in, pressing another kiss to the side of your knee. Higher, higher, higher he trails them - and his breath fans cool against your heated core, and your fingers clench into the bedsheets in surprise at what he might be about to do. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs to you, his cheek pressing silky against your skin, as he suckles a love-bite into the part where your leg meets your pelvis. “I merely want to ensure you’re adequately prepared.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” you say, breathless, hot, embarrassed and needy all at once. This is an act of such intimacy, you do not know how to parse the thought of the Iudex doing it to you - but he gives you a smile that is not without a hint of fang, the wickedest look you have seen upon his face so far, and he reaches between the two of you to use his thumb to pull apart the lips of your sex so you are revealed to him. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “But I want to, sweet one. And . . . looking at how wet you are for me, I daresay you want me to do so too.”

“M-Monsieur--”

“Neuvillette,” he murmurs, and he presses a kiss directly onto your sex, slick and wet with your own excitement, his nose brushing across the swollen nub of your clit. “Use my name.”

“Neuvillette--” It comes out rather thin and reedy, but Neuvillette does not seem to notice - instead, he seems rather preoccupied by what lies between your thighs. Your fingers tighten when you feel his tongue slide across you, gathering your slick upon the tip. There’s a strange quality to it, almost as if it is longer and firmer than a human tongue ought to be - and as he flickers his tip over your clit, again and again and again, and you shudder from the sensations he draws forth . . . you wonder if, too, his tongue is forked--

Thoughts quickly dissipate from your head when there is a man knelt between your thighs, though, and it is no different for you. The wondering is quickly chased away by the hungry way that Neuvillette laps at you, like a man who has been parched for water for months. 

Through it, he urges you to part your thighs as wide as you can, so that he can more thoroughly attack you with his tongue - and with every stroke, with every suck and lick and groan of him against you, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach in a way you have never experienced. It is like his mouth is a match, setting fire to your core - despite how you can feel wetness dripping down you, onto his bedcovers, surely soaking his chin and his lips. 

He does something with his tongue - a twirl, a flourish - and his name comes spilling out of your lips like a prayer, and the idea that he may at some point stop using his mouth on you flashes across your synapses like a tragedy. Without realising you’re doing it, you move one hand to grip his silvery hair, to keep him anchored against you - you realise, too, that it is not merely his name spilling out of you like an overturned wineglass. Pleas and whimpers and begging have joined the fray, and you would ordinarily cringe at being thought so wanting. But with Neuvillette’s mouth, with the promise of what he is trying to wring from you--

Shame seems unimportant compared to the way he shudders at your hand in his hair, the way his tongue intensifies flicking against your clit. 

He pulls back, breathing heavy, mouth glittering with your slick. 

“I’m going to put a finger inside you,” he tells you, and you are grateful that he too sounds a little breathless. You cannot imagine just how embarrassing it would be to be the only one falling apart. 

“I want . . . you,” you say, not without a touch of petulance, and Neuvillette lets out a hoarse little laugh. Still kneeling before you, he reaches up to touch your warmed face - his thumb, too, glitters with your arousal from the way he had held you open. You cannot bring yourself to care when he softly smears it across your bottom lip like an offering, and he lets out a shuddering groan at the sight of your tongue swiping it off. 

“I want you,” he says. “Oh, you have no idea how much I want you. But I will not hurt you, sweet one. Let me prepare you.”

It feels very much like him; this way of taking charge, his firm words. This time, his hand curves up your inner thigh, and your breath catches as his finger slides between the valley of your sex, wetting itself in your slick and his saliva. Your toes curl into his plush carpet as he nudges your clit with his fingertip, as a soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth and he chuckles. 

He slides one finger inside of you with no resistance at all. His earlier ministrations have seen to that. It’s a strange sensation, to have something inside that is not one of your own fingers (rather smaller, rather shorter than his) - but it is hardly unwelcome. You whisper out his name, your eyes closing, and Neuvillette makes a gentle noise of encouragement. 

“That’s right,” he murmurs to you, as he slowly begins to pump his finger in and out of you. “You’re doing so well - you’re taking it beautifully. I’m going to put a second one in--”

He does exactly as he says, and the hand still knit in his hair tugs at the silvery strands a little harder. It is not that it is painful, but simply that it is a stretch you are unused to - and one, too, that you know will continue to intensify. 

You feel a strange, cool shock at the entrance to your sex - and you chance a glance down and realise it is his wedding ring, pressing against you. The sight and the knowledge makes you shudder, and Neuvillette huffs out a noise of want in return. 

You think of the cocks, straining beneath the vee of Neuvillette’s pelvis. You cannot see them now, but from the way they had looked when the two of you were just bathing, you feel certain they must be swollen stiff and hard, waiting for their own chance (and too, from the spots of colour on Neuvillette’s cheeks, the way his words have a strange, dry edge to them when he speaks). How will he put those inside of you? One at a time? Both at once? 

“What are you thinking about?” Neuvillette asks, raising his gaze to meet your own, a smile tugging at the corners of the lips. “You suddenly tightened around me.” 

“I--!” Your cheeks go hot, embarrassment making warmth seep down your back. Neuvillette laughs. 

“No need to keep secrets,” he murmurs, slowly establishing another rhythm, a slow pump of his two fingers inside of you, scissoring slightly to open you up. “We are married now, sweet one. We can share everything. Mmm . . . let me see. Were you imagining my fingers to be my cock?”

“Neuvillette--” Your voice is a weak little protest, and you avert your gaze shyly even as you force the words out. “I was . . . will you put them both inside of me?” Your gaze slips over his face again, nervous to see his reaction - his eyes widen in surprise, but it is not at all a look of anger. 

“Not tonight,” he tells you, and he smiles again. “I fear it may be too much for you. Ah, but if that’s what you want . . . my dear, I know you’d feel exquisite.” 

His fingers, pumping in and out, curling inside of you. His words, velvet-draped and deep - the look of concentration on his face, insistent on nothing more than drawing pleasure forward from you. You feel the hot tension inside of you reach a breaking point - a pot, ready to bubble over. 

“I must confess,” he breathes, leaning in, breath hitting your sex hot and close. “I was worried you might be afraid. I’m terribly glad to know what an effect the idea has on you.”

As he finishes the sentence, he lets his tongue drag out one slow, final lap of your clit - and it is just enough to push you over the final edge. The bubbling pot within you reaches boiling point - and the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt, like molten heat, suffuses you entirely. Your head falls back. A noise of sheer enjoyment falls wanton from your lips - your thighs and your hips and your entire body trembles and shakes in the pleasure, and you feel your sex pulsating and throbbing around the two of Neuvillette’s fingers that are inside of you. 

“Lovely,” Neuvillette murmurs, watching you in awe, his fingers slowing down as he lets you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Oh, you’re . . . exquisite.”

“Neuvillette,” you say, collapsing back onto the bed, your breath coming in harsh pants. “I was afraid, at first. But I don’t think I could be. Not knowing what you’re like now. Not anymore.”

“Sweet thing.” Neuvillette stands. He steps forward and you see him again - his cocks are indeed straining, silvery precome dripping from the dual tips and smeared over the flat planes of his stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me. May I . . . ?” 

He does not need to ask. You think you would grant him whatever he asked for - you cannot imagine Neuvillette overstepping your boundaries, when he has been so sweet and so careful and so guiding for as long as you’ve known him, even knowing he could do whatever he wanted to you and nobody would blame him. But it warms your heart that he asks even so. 

“Please do,” you breathe, and you spread your thighs wider to accommodate him on the bed. 

His hands scoop under your hips, his palms firm on your ass as he moves you higher up the bed, ensuring that your head and shoulders are propped up with a mound of pillows. Even with his cocks practically twitching, he prioritises you before himself, and you cannot resist another show of appreciation, wrapping your hand around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. 

He groans into your mouth, the movement clearly welcome - but when he mouths at you now, he is far messier than he has been before, his teeth just a little more present. You think he must be losing some of his control, and as his cocks nudge against your inner thighs, you are proved correct. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your lips, pulling back just far enough to be able to speak. “I cannot hold myself back a moment longer--”

“Please, Neuvillette,” you whisper, fingers still in his hair. 

His lower cock nudges against your sex, the ring of muscle that will grant him entrance - and as he opens you up, his second cock rubs over the swollen over-sensitive nub of your clit and you whine. 

He covers your whine with another kiss. He eases into you, moment by moment, inch by inch - you have nothing to compare it to, but you think from the slow tempo he goes at and the way his gaze keeps flicking over you, checking you’re alright, he must be larger than average. 

But he has prepared you well. The stretch is an ache, but a pleasant one - it does not send painful shockwaves all through you. Your thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him as close as you can manage, and Neuvillette sighs. 

“Will you kiss me again?” He murmurs, so softly you almost do not hear him. The request makes your heart feel like bursting in your chest - the soft way he looks at you, his unwillingness to pull away from you, his desire to be as close to you as he can even when he is buried inside of you. 

You do. Arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands find purchase on your hips. His mouth and yours dance against one another - his tongue learning yours as if he is learning a new language. 

He fucks you like that. 

He is not rough with you, that first night; he does not, as you have heard so many new husbands do, take you and have you and ignore what you might want. Neuvillette cherishes you. 

The slow rock of his hips, indulgent in their rhythm. The way he kisses you. He is chasing his own release, but he does not feel any need to fuck into you with abandon. At least not yet. 

But time ticks on. The two of you seem to meld into one entity, and the kissing and the fucking grows sharper at the edges. You feel that Neuvillette is hovering on something, his expression almost desperate, as he rearranges the angle of his hips and the speed of his thrusts. 

“Please,” he whispers, broken-voiced. “I’m close--”

You let go of him and he lets out a noise of distress at the lack of contact, a noise that makes you shiver with the idea of how much power you may one day have over him. But instead of anything else, one of your hands darts between you, to take a firm grip on his second cock. Neuvillette hisses through his teeth at your hand, hot and firm. 

You do not know what you’re doing, not really, but that does not seem to bother Neuvillette as he increases the speed of his hips. In fact, he does most of the work - fucking his lower cock inside of you, hot and deep and wet, and fucking the cock atop it into your fist. You manage to work out a kind of twisting motion that makes him growl in the back of his throat--

It’s a fascinating noise, really. It makes you think of him as an animal, something feral and possessive - and you wonder what, later on, you may learn about him--

But then your name is falling from his lips like a prayer, and his cock is twitching inside of you and in your grip, and your back arches at the same time as he leans forward and sinks his teeth into your shoulder--

(Almost like a claiming bite. Almost like a mark to say that you are his). 

And both of you come, together, in great waves and pants and gasps of breath. His come paints your fist and the round softness of your stomach at the same time as it paints inside of you, your body once more pulsating around his cock as if it never wants to let you go. 

Like a tide on the shore; like a moon rising high over the lakes of Fontaine. Neuvillette lets himself lay atop of you, his head against your heart, his breath coming in great heaves. 

You do not need to think this time; you simply lift your unsoiled hand and begin to stroke the silver of his hair in slow, careful motions. From the back of his throat again comes that noise, something like a purr and something like a chirrup. His eyes close contentedly. 

“Neuvillette?” You whisper into the darkness, and your husband makes a soft ‘mm?’ of response. “You really . . . could have had anyone. Why did you choose me?”

“Hmm, sweet one?” He lifts his head from your chest and looks down at you like you have asked him why the sky is blue. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I certainly did have my pick . . . I perhaps wouldn’t have chosen to marry if Lady Furina hadn’t been so insistent, but I was lucky enough to be able to choose anybody I wanted. And I had seen you.” He shakes his head, a huff of laughter falling from his mouth. “Like I said - I do have eyes.”

Your cheeks feel hot. The thought of being coveted by Monsieur Neuvillette, when you had worried about your body and your match and your future so often it felt like second nature--

“Oh dear,” he says, looking down at the two of you - at the sweat-slicked hair, at the come drying on your inner thigh. “I fear we’ll need to have another bath before bed.” 

“And you won’t mind if I join you?”

He chuckles. 

“Why,” he says. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

[exuvianen]

dating hc's with dr. ratio, aventurine + blade!

headcanons about what these hsr men do in a relationship witth you <3

cw: x reader, gn! reader (no physical descriptions), mostly fluff, sfw, headcanon style

notes: hsr brainrot… ahahaha... i hope i have a fairly good grasp on these characters and wrote them well. 

wc: ~1050 words, around 350 words per character. all under the cut!

feel free to drop an ask or to add on to my thoughts! likes + rbs are appreciated  <3

✎ Dr. Ratio:

He likes parallel play, or being alone together with you. He works on his own projects, like grading papers or writing a new thesis while you’re doing your own thing, like playing video games or reading. Occasionally, he might ask you for your input, such as ideas about his next thesis or what pose he should sculpt himself into next. 

He has a spare desk and chair for you in his office. You can choose to do work or entertain yourself there when you visit him and he’s still teaching a lecture, but feel free to take a nap on the plush sofa he bought just for you. 

He will nag you about your health but in an annoyingly endearing way. He fusses over you, telling you about appropriate attire for today’s weather, offering you an umbrella, and reminding you to drink water. 

He entertains all your ideas, no matter how silly or illogical. He’ll hear you out on anything you say, though he might have some very strong disagreements or objections to your ideas, especially if they are silly or completely nonsensical. However, he never turns you away when you bound up to him with a mischievous gleam in your eyes - he just sighs and prepares himself mentally to hear whatever goofiness comes out of your mouth. 

He’s your biggest cheerleader, supporter, and advocate. Though he may come off as intimidating, he is always willing to help advance your career or work. He has many connections and vast knowledge of the universe after all - why not utilize them for his beloved? 

He’s very good at dispelling any irrational thoughts in your head. If you’re panicking and your mind is disoriented, he’ll sit next to you and hold your hand gently, but firmly to ground you. He doesn’t speak at all when you vent out all your frustration, confusion, or anger - rather, he’s silently contemplative and then asks questions when you finish talking. He’ll indirectly guide you to a solution while gently calming you down as he dispels those pesky thoughts from your head.

He makes a custom alabaster head for you. 

♤ Aventurine:

A big fan of matching accessories and clothing. You don’t need to wear the exact same outfit, but he likes wearing complementary colors and jewelry to yours.

If you’d like, he’d be more than happy to bring you to casinos and public events with him. He wants to show off to you and let you witness his wit, talent, and skill like a peacock presenting its colorful feathers. 

He likes it a lot when you trace his skin through the spade-shaped hole in his outfit.

He hates the feeling of being vulnerable, but he likes being around you. This creates conflicting emotions inside of him. Oftentimes, he doesn’t know how to deal with it and just lurks by you. Pull him into a hug to quiet the voices in his head. 

He will send you packages or luxury items from the planets he’s visiting. You’ll be greeting a disgruntled Topaz or IPC soldiers at your door as they hand you various gifts ranging from limited-edition jewelry to flowers that bloom only once every 200 amber eras. He gifts extremely grand things, but he always knows how to find things that suit your tastes.

He’s a big spender on you. If you’re unused to the amount of money he’s willing to throw at you, he’s going to give you a lot of “exposure therapy” with his generosity. He’ll invite you to private auctions, lavish galas, luxury boutiques, and high-end jewelry stores. He’ll start filling your wardrobe with tailor-made clothes with the excuse that you should match his outfits when you attend formal events together, but his clothing contributions eventually infiltrate your closet pretty deeply. 

He enjoys being pampered and pampering you. Self-care nights are a must - as a representative of the IPC and one of the ten Stonehearts, he has to keep himself presentable and looking sharp, and that goes for his partner too! He’s more than happy to spend money to fund your trips to the salon or buy you any beauty products to use at home. He’d love to put on face masks together and share a drink or two with you. 

☠︎︎ Blade:

If you want to, and Elio’s script permits, he will bring you along on missions to safer planets. He’ll drop you off at a commercial district - feel free to go shopping or try out some novelty food while he wraps up his Stellaron Hunter business.

He likes getting his hair brushed. One of his favorite activities is sitting down and letting you comb through his hair after he cleans up from a mission. It’s an activity that leaves him vulnerable, but he doesn’t mind if it’s with you.

He’s an acts of service kind of guy. He moves to take your bags before you even say anything, holds open doors, and pulls out chairs for you. Brings you a cup of water and some fruit when you’ve been working for too long, and silently drapes his jacket over you when you shiver.

Tell him you like a certain pastry and he’ll show up every day and bring some. Show him a picture of a pretty flower and he’s boarding a spaceship to bring the flower to you personally. If you want something, he’ll do his best to get it.

He’s pretty quiet, but he’ll remember everything you say, what your preferences are, and what you like. He secretly writes it down in case his memory gets murky, and he’ll often reread his notes to remind himself.

He gives simple but traditional gifts to you, such as jade bracelets and pendants, and combs and hairpins if you have longer hair to wear or use them.*

He’ll treasure anything you gift to him. If you make an accessory for him, he wears it at all times. If your gift is small enough, he’ll stow it safely in his pockets and take it everywhere with him.

If family is important to you, he’ll send funds their way and ensure that they’re taken care of. 

As someone who’s often dead and then undead, his body can get stiff. He’ll enjoy it immensely if you massage him, and accompany him for his daily stretches and calisthenics. Even if you just hold him for a while, he finds that his muscles will relax from the warmth emitting from your body. Therefore, he quite appreciates having you physically near him.

* Combs, hairpins, Jade bracelets, and pendants were given as tokens of love and affection in Ancient China. These gifts have a deeper meaning/symbolism, but for the sake of post length, I did not write them all out. 

[wandaslittlebird]

Confessing (Alternate)

Mean!Stepmom!Wanda x Pervy!Reader

After months of spying on your stepmother, you’re finally caught and made to confess far more than you’d expected.

CW: Non-consensual spying, underwear stealing and other nefarious acts, mentions of masturbation, stepmom/stepdaughter, intense questioning, dacryphilia (kinda), humiliation, spanking, mommy kink, accidental orgasm, arousal tasting, allusion of oral (W receiving)

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: This is literally the exact same fic I posted yesterday but with a non g!p reader. The only things that have changed are the reader’s anatomy and the ending.

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, still mostly naked from the long shower you’d just taken. You stood up on your tippy toes in order to highlight the main attraction: your new lacy thong underwear.

You’d stolen them from your stepmother Wanda's wardrobe earlier while she was busy making dinner. When you’d found them, you just knew you had to have them.

It was the first time you’d ever stolen her panties to wear, and the act both scared and aroused you. It was one of the boldest moves you’d ever made in your months of silent admiration of Wanda.

Not to say that the stuff you’d been doing up until this was innocent or tame, by any means. This was just the furthest you’d ever pushed the envelope.

It’s not that you wanted to get caught, per se, but the risk was enticing. It was sort of like exhibitionism. The risk of being in public added excitement, but that didn’t mean you wanted to get arrested for public indecency.

“Honey! Dinner’s ready!” Wanda’s voice cut off your thoughts from the dining room.

You frowned, not ready to get dressed quite yet. Nonetheless, you shouted from the bathroom, “I’ll be down in a second!” before slipping on your plaid pajama pants and an old band t-shirt. It’s fine. You’d be nice and quick with dinner, then you could slip away to the privacy of your room for the rest of night. You had a better mirror in there anyway: a full body one that would solve this tip toe problem. Maybe you could even put on a bit of a fashion show for yourself, trying on all of your favorite bras and deciding which one made for the best set.

You took a deep breath, trying to mask your excitement. It was going to be a perfect night. All you had to do was make it through dinner first.

You walked nervously down the stairs into the dining room where you found Wanda dishing out pasta onto each of your plates. She offered you a gentle smile upon arrival. “Oh good, you made it. I was worried for a second there you’d make me eat alone. Just pasta tonight, nothing fancy. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, uh, it’s no problem at all,’” you assured. “Anything you make will surely be delicious.” You tried to offer her the same smile she’d offered you, but it came out awkward and uneven. It was clear you were nervous. You cursed yourself for your inability to hide your feelings from her.

She tilted her head in slight confusion. “Are you feeling alright? You look a little flushed.”

“I… uh… yeah I’m fine. I must’ve just taken a really hot shower,” you attempted to explain. She clearly wasn’t buying it. You shrank back in your chair a little bit. While it was sexy, the thin cut of the underwear wasn’t exactly comfortable. You shifted around as the fabric crept up into uncomfortable places.

“Are you sure?” she asked, unconvinced. “Let me feel your head.” She leaned over the table, giving you a clear view down the front of her shirt. Fuck. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath her blouse. You inhaled shakily, shifting even more obviously as you felt yourself grow wet at the sight of her.

She touched your head with the back of her hand. Her brows furrowed in confusion as your uncomfortable wiggling became more pronounced. “Darling, you seem terribly restless. What’s going on?” She was starting to catch on, at least, to the fact you were keeping something from her. Though she couldn’t pinpoint what it was, she was certain she could get it out of you. You were never very good at keeping secrets, especially not from her.

You scooted your chair backwards, determined to escape this situation as quickly as possible. “I… uh… Actually I am feeling a bit poorly. I better go up to my room.” You made a move to try and get up, but she grabbed your wrist before you could escape.

You turned to let her and you were met with a glare that nearly made you crumble. She looked at you like she was looking into your soul, like she was some sort of omnipotent goddess that already knew every secret you’d ever tried to keep. “Honey,” she said, voice even and emotionless, “I think we need to have a talk.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you collapsed back down into your seat. “I’m sorry, mommy,” you whispered tearfully. How could she possibly know? Did she see something by accident?

She smiled knowingly. She had you now. That poor little head of yours couldn’t come up with a lie right now no matter how hard you tried. She circled the table and squatted down next to your chair, squeezing your hand and soothingly rubbing your temple with her thumb. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s not mad. I just need you to tell me what happened, okay? It’s okay, you can tell mommy.”

You swallowed. So she didn’t know. If you played your cards right, you could still make it out of this. Subconsciously, you crossed your legs, squeezing them tightly together to hide yourself from her. It was a painfully obvious move, but her soft voice and her hand on your head were making it so very hard to think clearly.

Wanda smirked and ran her hand up the side of your hip. Whatever you were hiding was somewhere in here.

Her hand slid over the fabric of your baggy pajama pants. Oddly enough, she couldn’t feel any underwear underneath the pants. Your secret wasn’t just that you weren’t wearing underwear, was it? No. As her hand got further up your waist, she felt them. It was different from anything she’d ever known you to wear. The fabric didn’t make its way around your waist until it was up over your hip bones.

“Honey,” she said calmly. “What are you wearing under your pajamas?”

Your mouth went dry and you froze, unsure how to answer her question. You decided it was best to play dumb. “W-what do you mean? Underwear.”

“Oh come on now darling,” she said, voice soft but slightly perturbed. “You know what I’m talking about. What underwear are you wearing right now?”

Your eyes darted around the room, avoiding her gaze at all cost. She wasn’t going to check if you lied, was she? “Just my… white cotton ones.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, unconvinced. “Do you mind if I lift up your shirt so I can make sure?”

Your hands flew to your waist, pinning your shirt to your body. “I… uh… I don’t feel comfortable showing you my underwear.”

She pursed her lips, annoyed with your evasiveness. She had started to believe that her soft mommy act wasn’t going to cut it, if she really wanted you to confess. “Darling, I’ve seen you in your panties countless times before. Hell, I probably bought you those underwear. Why are you getting so bashful all the sudden?”

You curled up tighter. You knew she was on to you by this point, but the humiliation of revealing yourself was too much. “I just… I don’t wanna show you, okay?” Your bottom lip quivered, tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

Wanda stood up, pushing your chair back until it hit the wall. You gasped, looking up at her, frightened as she loomed over you menacingly. “Alright, darling. If you can’t be a good girl and tell mommy what’s going on, I’m going to have to pull you over my lap, push your pants down to your ankles, and spank you in whatever panties you’re wearing, okay? So I’ll ask you one more time. What. Underwear. Are. You. Wearing. Right. Now?”

Your eyes went wide. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest. Your entire body started to shake as you stared up at her, frozen. Her gaze was harsh now, face unmoving as she waited on an answer.

Finally the dam broke. A cry ripped from your throat and tears poured down your face. You crumbled to pieces underneath her. “I’m not wearing my underwear, I’m wearing yours! I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have done it. And I know I shouldn’t have lied! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You sobbed.

She shrunk back down, squatting again on the floor in front of you. She could hardly hide the pleasure she got from watching you shake and sob underneath her. She took your hand in hers, wiping away your tears. “See, baby? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You melted into her hand. You were truly hers now. No more lying, no more games. No more thoughts in your precious little head aside from “do exactly what mommy tells you to do”. Any resistance you had had melted away.

“Can you tell mommy why you were wearing her panties, sweetheart?” She asked softly.

“I wanted to be pretty,” you cried weakly. “Like you.”

Wanda tilted her head. You had plenty of underwear of your own. She even let you get the fancy stuff sometimes. Certainly your own underwear collection was more expansive than hers. “Were your own pretty panties not working for you? You just had to steal some of mommy’s?”

You nodded. Your head was so jumbled it felt like the confessions were spilling out of you. “I see you through the door sometimes, when you’re getting dressed. You just look so… perfect with your matching bras and panties,” you confessed.

“You see me through the door?” She asked, noting how you had said ‘see’ rather than ‘watch’. “Do you spy on mommy while she’s naked? Do you watch me when I change my clothes?”

Your head lulled to the side. “No! …yes… sometimes.” You confessed, getting quieter with each statement.

She raised her eyebrows, surprised and amused by your unswerving honesty. She’d known, of course, about your little habits. You weren’t as sneaky as you thought. However, having you blubbering under her, confessing every little thing you’d ever done, brought her immense satisfaction.

She ran her hand up your upper thigh again, lightly tracing shapes with her fingers. “How long have you been spying on mommy, huh?”

You sighed, feeling the wet spot on the underwear grow. Her touch was so memorizing you nearly forgot to answer the question. She pulled her hand away, grabbing your face and raising her eyebrows expectantly. You snapped out of your haze. “I don’t know! I don’t know how it started! Please! I promise I’m not a naughty girl!”

Her hand moved up to your hair, gently wiping it from her face. Her rapid switching from gentle to harsh was making your head spin. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s not mad. You’re doing a very good job being honest with me.” She leaned forward, so close you could feel her breath against your ear. “How does it make you feel, watching me in my room like that? Watching me change my clothes and seeing my pretty lingerie?”

“G-good,” you answered hazily. “I just… I like to see, sometimes.”

She was slowly climbing up your body, almost in your lap now. “You just like to see sometimes, hmm?” She repeated. “Is that all?”

“Sometimes I-I like to… um… to-touch my… in the hallway while I watch,” you confessed, too scared and hazy to lie to her anymore.

A faint smile grew on her lips. She could hardly believe how vulnerable she’d made you. She’d never quite seen you like this before. “That’s quite naughty of you, darling. You can’t just touch yourself in the hallway like that. Someone could catch you, you know.”

“Dad almost… one time he saw… but he didn’t know what I was doing and I pretended I was waiting on you.”

She sat on your knees, rubbing soothing circles on your collarbones and shoulders. “Dad almost caught you, huh? And what were you doing, exactly?”

“Just… rubbing… on the outside. I didn’t have my h-hands in my pants or anything,” you stammered.

She leaned forward again, moving her hands down to your hips. “That was a very very naughty thing to do, little girl. I better not catch you rubbing yourself in the hallway again.”

You shook your head. “It will never happen again! I promise!”

She grabbed your face again, significantly softer now that she’d already broken you. She simply lifted your chin to look her in the eyes. “No more lying, darling. I want to know the truth. Are you going to stop spying on me?”

You nodded frantically, determined to never find yourself in this situation again. “Never! I swear!”

“Good girl,” she cooed. She gently rubbed your cheek with her thumb. “And no more stealing my underwear, agreed?”

You nodded again, driven to yet another confession you hadn’t planned on making. “No more! And no more stealing the dirty ones either. I won’t even snoop again! I promise!”

“Oh?” Wanda purred, “So you’ve been stealing my dirty panties too? Not just the clean ones?” Once again, she had been noticing her panties in your laundry instead of hers for months now. She was under no illusion that they were ending up there accidentally.

“This… this was the first time I stole any clean ones! I’ve never worn them before either!” You defended.

She hummed softly, pretending to ponder your confession. “Hmm. And what, exactly, do you do with my dirty panties?”

“I just… smell,” you confessed. “Some I use them to… t-touch myself with.”

“You use them when you touch yourself?” She asked, her voice still gentle and sweet. She ran her hands through your hair with an air of possession.

You nodded. “One time I had… I had a taste. But just one time!”

She chuckled smugly. “Oh?” She smirked down at you. “You took a taste, huh? Just once?”

You nodded. You were so terribly embarrassed. You wanted to throw yourself into her and beg her for forgiveness, but you doubted it would help.

“And how did I taste, darling?” She asked.

You moaned a little at the memory, hips bucking up as you felt yourself grow even wetter. “Really g-good. I’d never… finished that much before.”

“Aww,” she chuckled again. “Did you cum really hard when you tasted mommy?”

You nodded. Her hands traced light patterns on your hips, making their way to your stomach. “Just from a little taste?” She asked again, egging you on for more details.

“I… it kinda sprayed everywhere,” you explained. “I’ve never done that before.”

You were so wet now, you’d soaked through both the thin fabric of the underwear and your pants, leaving a wet spot on your chair. Wanda looked down at the spot and smirked smugly.

“It looks like maybe you enjoyed it, huh?” She lightly traced the waistband of your pants, getting close but not quite touching the wet parts of the fabric.

You whimpered and bucked your hips up, trying to get her hand closer to where you needed it. “Y-yeah. I didn’t know it could… happen like that.”

Wanda hummed, pondering your words. “Yeah, sweetheart. It happens like that sometimes when you feel really really good.”

You nodded, still sniffling. The whole ordeal had you beyond embarrassed, yet you noticed that your arousal persisted through the embarrassment. Perhaps it was even worsened by it.

“Can-can I go to my room?” You stuttered. You had to get out of here, to somewhere more private before your humiliation and arousal bubbled over.

“Aww, sweetheart,” she cooed with fake sympathy. “Did you really think after all of this I would just let you go to your room?”

Your eyes went wide with terror. There was only so much more of this you could withstand before disaster struck. “B-but you said you weren’t mad!”

“I’m not mad, honey,” she reassured. “But what you’ve done was very very naughty, isn’t it?”

You nodded, another wave of tears threatening to fall.

“And when little girls do naughty things they have to be punished, don’t they?” She said, affectionately combing through your hair.

You nodded again, whimpering under her gentle touch. “But you’ll go easy on me, right? Because I was a good girl and I was honest and I told you everything?”

She chuckled. Your description wasn’t exactly accurate, but she couldn’t help but take at least a little pity on you. You had confessed in the end, even if it took a little pushing. “Of course, baby,” she soothed. “Now go upstairs and wait for mommy. I want you over the end of the bed in nothing but mommy’s panties, okay?”

You nodded frantically, running up the stairs and assuming the position as soon as she got off your lap.

She chuckled, amused by your eager obedience, and boxed up the pasta she’d made so she could easily heat it back up after this was over.

It only took her about five minutes to make her way up to the bedroom, but to you, bent naked over the edge of the bed, it felt like hours.

You had to fight to keep your head down on the mattress when you heard her open the bedroom door. You whined as you watched her pull the wooden hairbrush from her nightstand. “No mommy! Please not the hairbrush! Please I was so honest and-and I answered all of your questions-“

She cut you off by rubbing gentle circles on the swell of your ass. “Shshsh,” she soothed. “Mommy’s only doing this because she loves you, okay? I have to remind my sweet girl what happens when she’s naughty so she’ll remember to be a good girl, right?”

You whimpered and squirmed under her, trying to be patient and still but also desperate to get away from the hairbrush. The thin fabric of the underwear offered you little to no protection.

“I want you to count for me, okay?” She instructed. “If you can keep count like a good girl, we’ll only do 15, but if I have to count for you, I’m gonna have to do 25, okay?”

You nodded, determined to be good and keep count. However, you weren’t traditionally known for keeping a clear head during your punishment. “Can-can I hold onto a pillow, please?”

You couldn’t see your face, but the tears in your voice made it hard for her to deny you anything. “Of course, baby,” she said, pulling a pillow from the headboard and tucking it into your arms. She kissed the side of your teary face. “Mommy loves you very much, princess. It’ll be over soon.”

She tapped your ass twice with the hairbrush before placing the first smack firmly on your left cheek. You cried out, wailing more with overwhelming embarrassment than pain.

“One!”

She hit you again with perfect precision in almost the exact same spot.

“T-two”

She switched sides, smacking you again on the other cheek.

“Three!”

You made it to seven before you inevitably lost count. She waited for a moment after the strike before she decided your wailing was not going to give way to a number, and she officially started counting herself.

By ten, you had resorted to begging. You knew better than to flail and kick your legs, she’d have you pinned over her lap with a far worse punishment in store, but you were allowed to cry and plead all you wanted. “Please mommy! Please, I'll be good. I learned my lesson mommy please no more!”

You sounded so pathetic she was tempted to have mercy on you. You weren’t even halfway through your punishment now that she’d pushed it to 25. But she would stick to her word. That was, after all, what was most important when it came to discipline.

It wasn’t even so much the pain, you were trying to escape, but something far more alarming that boiled in your lower belly. Having her, a commanding force over you was awakening something in you. The humiliation of a confession, matched with wearing her underwear and being spanked like a child over her bed had a coil building in your lower stomach.

By 15 spanks, you realized it was inevitable. You were pleading with her more quietly now. Your hips bucked against the bed in what she thought was an attempt to get away, but by the 20th spank the coil snapped. In a humiliating display of desperation, you came, all over the sheets.

She stopped spanking you, taking a second to realize what just happened. “Did you just…?”

You wailed into the pillow, burying your face into it until it nearly suffocated you. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry mommy I didn’t mean to! I’ll clean it up! I promise! Please no more spankings mommy! Please, I'll be a good girl!”

Wanda laughed sadistically. “Good girls don’t have little accidents when their mommies spank them, do they?”

Your voice trembled. You could hardly breathe. “N-no.”

Wanda tapped your sore ass twice with the hairbrush. It hurt worse than when she’d done it earlier. “Get up, sweetheart.”

Reluctantly, you got up, standing naked at the foot of the bed next to a clothed and composed Wanda. Every bone in your body wanted to run out of the room, but her intimidating demeanor had you locked in place.

She grabbed the back of your hair roughly, causing you to gasp. “Do you like it when mommy spanks your little ass?” She asked.

“N-no,” you whimpered.

“Really?” She asked before roughly pushing your face down until it was hanging just above the mess you’d left on the bed. “It sure looks like you did. Tell mommy the truth. Do you like it when I spank you?”

You whined, tears falling from your face and mixing with your cum. “Yes! Yes I like it when you spank me! Please mommy!”

“Lick it up,” she commanded.

“W-what?” You stuttered. She couldn’t seriously be asking for what you thought she was asking.

“You heard me. Lick. It. Up.” She repeated. “If you wanna make a little mess on my sheets, you're gonna clean it up yourself.”

You stuck out your tongue, licking the cum from the mattress. It was disgustingly salty, mixed with the tears that were continually streaming into it. You sobbed in embarrassment. You were certain you’d never been more humiliated in your life. Yet, you still felt your arousal growing.

“Oh?” She said, presumably noticing the arousal still building between your legs. “Is my little girl enjoying this too? Do you like it when mommy gets rough with you?”

Deciding this couldn’t get any worse, you just nodded.

Her grip on your hair loosened, switching instead to a soft stroking. “That’s a good girl,” she praised.

She gently pulled you back up from the mattress when she deemed it sufficiently clean. She pulled you to face her. “Let mommy have a taste.”

You hesitantly parted your lips, slowly meshing them with hers. She hummed contentedly, running her tongue along your own.

You grabbed her by the back of the neck, losing yourself in her. You stopped caring that you were naked and sobbing and pathetic.

Her hand fell from your hair to your chest. She pushed you backwards so hard you crashed on to your back on the mattress.

She crawled on top of you, kissing you again. You could feel her hands reach down to unbutton her jeans. You moaned into her mouth as her smooth bare legs met yours.

She straddled your waist, breaking the kiss to crawl further up your body.

“If just a taste from my panties made you squirt before,” she started, “I wondered what I can make you do with the real thing.”

[ellecdc]

I just want to start off by saying I live for your writing!! I was hoping to request a poly!moonwater x reader? one were reader has inattentive adhd? she forgets to do chores around the house and sometimes even eat, and Remus and Regulus just have to remind her? you can tweak it however you want, I really wouldn’t care I love your writing! anyways hope your doing well! 🩷🩷

thanks for your request, lovie!! hope I did it justice <3

poly!moonwater x fem!reader who has inattentive ADHD [968 words]

CW: symptoms of ADHD, reader gets frustrated with herself, the boys are quite enamoured by the whole thing, fluff

Remus and Regulus entered your shared flat and paused when they noticed the rather chaotic state of it.

Though the kitchen did indeed look to have been swept, the mop and bucket (of pristine soapy water) sat dejectedly against the lower cabinets. 

“Oh, amour…” Regulus sighed - lips quirking into a smile and tone full of fondness - as he placed his grocery bags on the counter and moved to grab the mop. “Think she’ll be upset if I finish this for her?” 

Remus made a sound of consideration. “It may embarrass her; why don’t we go find her first?” 

If they hadn’t been following the growing number of baskets and bins of clothes and hangers, they would have been able to follow the sound of your playlist emanating from your phone.

The music was playing in your bedroom which was nothing short of a disaster, but - unless you were hidden beneath one of the various piles of clothes and linens - you weren’t in it; the only evidence that you had been in there was your phone charging on the nightstand and the entire contents of your wardrobe spilled out onto the bed and floor. 

The sound of a machine whirring alerted them to the fact that you were in the den, and they followed the noise to find you hunched over the sewing machine as you sewed a patch onto an old denim jacket. 

Remus had to fight the urge to let out a sweet cooing sound - ever enamoured and fascinated by the way your mind works - and based off of Regulus hiding his smile behind his hand, he felt much the same.

“Hey, dove.” Remus called gently, though loud enough to reach your ears over the sound of the machine, causing you to startle.

“Oh! Hi!” You called, lowering the needle of the machine to save your spot before turning to give them your attention. “What are you guys doing here?”

Remus and Regulus shared a quick look before the latter answered. “We’ve just gotten home from the shops, amour.”

Remus watched as your brows furrowed before your face fell. “You guys are back!?” 

You nearly knocked the table with your sewing machine clean over in your haste to stand and made a beeline for the hallway. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” You apologised as you paused in front of the bedroom. “Shit; I swear I’ll clean all this up!” 

“I know you will, dove.” Remus tried to placate, but you were already bending over and grabbing bins and boxes. 

“When I heard your laundry stop, I thought I’d switch it over for you, and then I figured I should probably do my laundry too, you know? And then by the time the laundry was done and I went to put it away, I realised my closet was overflowing and I figured I should downsize. But then I found my old denim jacket that I loved but had a rip in it in the back of my wardrobe! So I grabbed that - and your jumper, Rem - and started to sew.”

“It’s okay, amour.” Regulus assured you, though you stomped your foot in clear disagreement. 

“It’s not okay! All I was supposed to do was mop the-” Your jaw fell open as you turned to your boyfriends in horror. “I was supposed to mop the kitchen…” You nearly whimpered, and Remus’ heart squeezed when he noticed frustrated tears welling in your eyes.

“And it will get done, dove, hey-” He mollified as he encouraged you into his chest. “Why don’t we help you finish up what you’ve gotten done so far, and then-”

“I’m not supposed to need your help!” You argued, though your protests were muffled by the fabric of his jumper. “I should be able to manage a few measly chores.” 

“And you can amour. But you also have two handsome and helpful boyfriends who live to serve you.” Regulus teased, subtle mischief shimmering in his grey eyes that felt like home to Remus. 

“S’not funny.” You pouted.

“I’m not making fun, my love, honest.” Regulus assured you as pressed a kiss to your hair and rubbed a soothing stripe up your back. 

“You were very busy today,” He murmured into the side of your head then, “did you leave yourself any time to have something for lunch?”

Remus had a hunch, but the way your body tensed at Regulus’ gentle accusation was all the proof he needed.

Remus pressed another kiss to the crown of your head before pulling you away from his chest to look down at you. “How about you get the room organised enough that we have somewhere to sleep tonight, and I’ll make us something to eat before Regulus finishes mopping the kitchen?”

“But-”

“Great plan, Rem.” Regulus butted in quickly, turning and beelining it for the kitchen before you could even begin your protest.

“Let him help, dovey.” Remus encouraged. “He loves it.” 

“I just…” You started, and Remus continued rubbing his hands up and down your back as you searched for the words. “I just wish my brain worked normally.”

Remus squeezed you tight against him at your admission. “Well, I understand that you’re frustrated, but if it’s any consolation, I love your brain just the way it is, and I know Reg feels the same too, yeah?”

You let out a groan but returned his hug, and Remus accepted it for the acquiescence it was.

“What do you say? I think we ought to go find Regulus before he does all the chores and leaves nothing for the rest of us.”

And as much as he had been teasing, the two of you scurried out of your bedroom rather quickly knowing that Regulus - the notorious clean freak - would absolutely do just that if left unattended for too long.

[latenightdaydreams]

Blacksmith!König x Farmers Wife Part 2 (fem)

Part 1

MDNI🔞

Master List ✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, cheating, p in v, oral

1.3k word count

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You wake up before the sun begins to rise. The first thing you do is rush to the bathroom to wash your body well; you want to smell fresh for König. Last night he consumed your dreams. Dreams of his hard, muscular body pressing up against yours as he drips sweat down on to you. The thought sends chills down your spine.

As you linger in front of the wardrobe dripping wet you grab your mauve red dress, the fanciest one you have. You dress quickly, spritzing yourself with the perfume you were gifted the day of your wedding; it’s remained on your vanity untouched all this time. With one last look in the mirror, you rush out the door to the stables.

The ride seems to pass by quicker than before, your mind wandering to unholy places helped consume that time. You turn down the familiar dirt path, riding up to the barn to dismount your horse. He’s not in the barn, so you turn towards his home instead. You climb the two steps to his front door, knocking softly.

König sits in his kitchen, sipping on a cup of coffee when he barely hears your knock. His eyes dart towards the door and step forward. Only wearing jeans, he opens the door to look down and see you. Your eyes drop to his chest before meeting his gaze again and smiling. The golden hue from the sun causes your eyes to shimmer and skin to glow. He stands there for a while, looking down at your cleavage then slowly back up to your eyes.

“What can I do for you, Schatz?”

The way he speaks sends a shiver down your spine; his wandering eyes don’t go unnoticed by you, causing you to blush. For a moment, you forget the reason you came here. All you can focus on is his sculpted body and shining blue eyes.

“I- I forgot my ax.”

“Ja?” König leans against his door frame, looking you up and down still. “Let’s go fetch it then.”

You step aside as he walks forward, closing the front door behind him, following him like a little puppy to the barn. His back muscles flex, almost putting you in a trance. He looks exactly like the drawing in books of Greek gods.

König pulls open the door of the barn, looking down to where he remembers you placing it. He bends down and grabs it, turning to face you now. You hold your hands out to grab it, but he doesn’t give it to you. Instead, he just lingers, gazing down at you as he steps forward. The smell of your floral perfume hits his nose as he stands only a few inches from you.

“You came all the way here, dressed in such a lovely dress…” König reaches out with one hand to rest it on your waist, “smelling of flowers, just as the sun comes up…for an ax?”

A small blush crosses your cheeks as he calls you out. His massive hand on your waist feels so warm and welcoming, making you crave the feeling of his arms wrapped around you. Only a jumble of words spills out, not able to think quickly on your feet while so flustered.

“You came back for more, ja?” König leans in closer. “You came back for me?”

Before you even answer he leans in and kisses you, carefully dropping the ax to the floor. With both hands he grips your hips and squeezes as he pulls you against his chest. His mouth opens, slipping his tongue past your lips. Your tongues swirl around one another’s, causing your pussy to tingle from excitement.

König lets his hands slip to your ass, squeezing as he lifts you up into his arms; you wrap your legs around his torso as he walks forward with you. He takes your lack of protest as consent for him to do what he’s about to. Knowing Michael, he can imagine just how desperate and touch starved you are. Such a low man with such a goddess of a wife.

As König walks you into his home, you kiss and bite on his neck and chest; the salty taste of his sweaty skin becomes addicting. You breathe in the intoxicating musk you got a sample of yesterday; you’ve been craving it ever since. His hands hold you tightly as he crosses the threshold into the bedroom. He gently tosses you on to the bed, his lips crash against yours while his hands travel underneath the hem of your skirt.

In his hands he bunches up the fabric, slipping his fingers between your legs. You’re already soaked, causing König to let out a pleased hum. “God, I want you.” He whispers as he pulls away and lowering his head between your legs. The sweet smell of your arousal consumes him as he kisses your pussy.

He licks his lips, tasting you before leaning back in and completely burying his face in your cunt. His long, fat tongue finds your tight pussy, pressing himself in and wiggling his tongue as his hands part your thighs. You look down as you pull your fabric back more, watching as he eats you up like a starved man.

König swipes his tongue up, flicking over your clit before taking your small bud into his mouth and sucking. This causes your abdomen to tense, you cry out, begging him to not stop. He can’t stop, your pussy is like a delicacy and he’s just only begun.

“K- König…god…”

He shakes his head back and forth, his fingers digging into your supple thighs even more as your moans become loud pleas for your ever approaching release. Your thighs press against his head, bucking your hips up against his tongue as you cry out for König. If he tries to breathe, all he gets is a strong and overwhelming smell of you; it’s perfect.

König doesn’t stop as your legs slowly relax. He looks up to watch you untie the corset of your dress, exposing your beautiful breasts to him. With one hand he moves up to pinch your perky nipple, tugging on it slightly as his tongue laps between your folds.

“I want your cock.” You beg loudly. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Gladly.” He growls as he pulls back.

König stands, his eyes glued to your breasts as he undoes his belt buckle and pulls down his pants. His heavy cock springs free from the restraints of his pants, the tip leaking; desperate to feel your tiny cunt. Without even slipping out of your dress, he grabs your thighs and pulls you towards the edge of the bed. He looks down, watching as he lines the head of his cock with you.

“Mein Gott.” König moans as he watches your tight pussy swallow his massive cock. “Look at you, taking all of me.”

He pulls back and slowly pushes back in, his slow motion almost a tease for you. All you want is to be destroyed by him; bruises, bites, and all. “Please, fuck me harder.” You beg, your tone of voice almost pathetic.

By the time you stroll back towards the farm, the sun has begun to set. The whole journey back, you sniff your dress and enjoy the lingering scent of him on you. You can’t help but to smile and act giddy as you recall the events of today. Hours in bed with König as he took his time to learn every inch of your body; you’ve never experienced that type of love making before. Even when it was rough, he was still careful with you.

You stable the horse and walk towards your house. Michael sits on the porch drinking a beer as usual, with an unpleasant look on his ugly mug. His eyes travel over your dress. You never wear it, so why today?

“Where the fuck have you been?” Michael shouts as you get closer.

You say nothing, already annoyed that this is the man you’re forced to return home to after experiencing König. Instead, you drop the ax at his feet and walk past him into the house. Offering him no explanation. He looks down at the ax stunned. Did you…no. You wouldn’t, right?

[daydreams-after-dark]

Good things come in small packages Part 2

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Mini Han x fem reader

Synopsis: One year ago you purchased a ‘miniature companion’ named Hannie. He’s the size of a Ken doll but alive and horny. But something unexpected happens on your one year anniversary.

Word count: approx 7.4 k

A/n: SURPRISE!!! I know I said this was being released approx next Monday, but.... I wrote it quicker than I expected. I want to thank you for your patience with this installment. There was a point there where I almost didn't have it in me to write it. But your words of encouragement helped spur me on.

I hope that you enjoy part two of this fic. There's a lot of emotions, sickly sweet moments, and a surprise character features too.

CW below the cut

C/W: unprotected p in v sex, oral sex, rough sex, angst, brief themes of depression, fear of suicide (just a fleeting thought), size kink?

Previously:

"Hannie?" You whisper, lowering the lamp, letting it drop to the floor.

"Why is everything so small? Wait. Why am I naked? Noona, have you been playing with me in my sleep?" He looks up at you confused and worried. "Noona, why are you looking at me like that?"

His eyes land on his pajamas, torn to shreds next to him. He picks up the scrap of fabric that was his pajama top, and his eyes widen. "Why are my clothes so tiny?"

"Hannie," you take in the man before you, naked and taking up most of the bed. "You're big."

------------

Han just stares at you blankly. Then realization hits him, causing him to spring out of bed and look around the room frantically.

"Hannie?" You say again. "Hannie, look at me." You take a step closer to him and he finally looks at you. It's as though your gaze anchors him and he appears to calm down somewhat. His eyes soften and he looks at you like he's looking at you for the very first time, just as you are with him.

You already know he has an incredible physique. Broad shoulders, slim waist, toned muscles. But standing before you right now he’s breathtaking. But you don't love him for his body. You love him for his heart.

Standing fully naked in front of you, he seems less real than when he was small. How can this be happening? It's impossible. Right?

"Noona?" His eyes drop to where your gaze has fallen. Right on his cock, still semi hard from his morning wood. It's the most delicious thing you've ever seen. So much bigger than you expected too. You can't help but imagine all the things you want to do with it. You have imagined it plenty over the past year. How you want him to fill you up, or make you choke on it. How it tastes. How it feels in your mouth.

"Hey!" he covers himself with his hands. "I'm going through a crisis and you're staring at my dick!" He exasperates. He narrows his eyes. "Oh my God, Noona? You know what this means?" His eyes light up with excitement.

"I do, Han. Trust me, I know. But first we need to figure out what is going on. Why this has happened." You take another step towards him, closing the distance, and with shaking hands you reach out and touch his chest. You feel his heart pounding and it makes your heart beat faster too.

He's real.

"Do you think my wish has finally come true?" he whispers. "I wish it every night before I fall asleep. That I'd wake up and be human sized."

You look up to meet his gaze. His gorgeous big brown eyes. "I wish it every night too. It's just... this doesn’t make any sense.” You pause. “Wait. The manual. Maybe it says something in that?”

Without giving him any warning, you snap into action and disappear into your walk-in wardrobe, returning with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized tee.

"Here. Put these on. I can't be getting distracted." You say and hurry out of the bedroom.

----------

"I thought you said you'd studied the manual?" Han says suspiciously whilst chewing on the scrambled eggs and toast you quickly cooked for him. You were quite happy to forgo your breakfast so you could search for answers, but his stomach rumbled so loudly you couldn’t ignore it.

While he scoffs down his breakfast, and you're still in your pajamas, you pore over the instruction manual spread open on the dining table, looking for any information that might help.

"Well... I kind of only read about how to keep you alive. You know, like how often I needed to feed and water you." you reply casually. Inside, you wish you had read the rest of the information. Maybe you would have had a heads up about this and you could have prepared yourself?

"Do you think I'm going to be like this permanently? Like the first year was a test of your commitment or something? Maybe I could learn guitar? Or cook? Or-"

"Okay. I've got something." You interrupt. "It says here: At twelve months of ownership, your companion will transform into typical human size-"

Han's eyes light up excitedly. "Wait! So this means?"

You hold up your hand to hush him. "There's more." You say. "He will remain in this state for 48 hours, before returning to his original size."

“Oh.” Han’s fork clatters on his plate. You look up at him as his expression changes from excited and hopeful, to absolutely crestfallen and deflated.

"I'm so sorry, Hannie." you whisper. You know how badly he wants to be big. You watch as he swallows a lump in his throat, and without a word, he stands and walks into the kitchen to look out of the window above the sink.

————

Forty eight hours? So It's not permanent? What kind of fucking idiot is he to think he'd ever be able to be a human? He tries to fight back the tears as he looks out of the window.

It's a beautiful, sunny morning, and usually on a day like this he'd climb up onto the windowsill and watch the world. There's a little strip of shops across the street that he especially loves to watch. His favorite is the flower shop. Observing the customers going in and out buying flowers and bouquets for loved ones. They’re such pretty colors too, the flowers. He’d love to be able to buy flowers for you.

A lady about your age works there, and sometimes another man is there too. Han doesn’t see him there often, but knows he’s someone special the way the shop owner and him look at and hold each other. Maybe he travels for work? He's often wondered as he sits on the windowsill.

He's broken from his thoughts when he feels your arms wrap around his waist and you lean against his back. His eyes close softly, and his body relaxes as he savors the feeling of being embraced in this way for the first time.

"Hannie, I know we don't have long, but maybe if we see it as a gift?"

He turns in your arms to face you, and wraps his own arms around you. You feel so good like this. In his arms. Holding so much of you in one go. Feeling your entire body pressed against his. It's better than he ever imagined.

"You're right." He says finally. "We can't waste a minute of this precious time. There's so much I have to do to you." His dick twitches when he sees your cheeks flush. He knows you're not shy, but if you feel anything like he does right now, then you’d have to be trembling on the inside.

His hand slides up to hold your jaw tenderly as he brings his lips close to yours. Sure he's kissed you, parts of your lips - both sets even, and other parts of your skin. But your lips in their entirety? He feels so scared, so nervous. What if he's a shit kisser?

"Stop thinking, Han Jisung." You say and connect your lips to his.

His lips fit yours perfectly and he melts into them with a moan. He kisses you slowly and carefully and a warmth spreads throughout his body. He hardens immediately when he feels your tongue slip into his mouth to find his. Your tongue, the one that’s licked his entire torso in one sweep, is currently inside his mouth. 

He allows his hands to wander lower to cup your ass. He loves your ass and often stares at it when you're doing housework in your tight little exercise shorts. Another moan escapes him when he pulls you even closer against his body. Touching so many parts of you all at once has him feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. What will it be like when he’s inside you as well? He has to know.

He lowers his hands a little more to lift you up and you wrap your legs around his. Then he’s carrying you - actually carrying you - to your bedroom.

Your room is still filled with the warm sunlight, and Han is glad because he’ll be able to see absolutely everything. He lays you gently on the bed and kisses you deeply, then sits up to kneel between your parted legs.

“I think these need to come off.” He announces, flicking the waistband of your pajama shorts.

You smirk. “You do, huh?”

“Yes. We need to be naked.” He starts tugging off your clothes, then his own.

You look stunning beneath him, and you feel the same way about him. The sunlight hits his honey skin perfectly and you feel a surge of love for the man above you.

This is actually happening, is the thought going through both your heads.

Han gulps as he drinks you in with his eyes. Where to begin? He decides to start with your breasts. Holding them in his hands, massaging them. He loves the pretty noises you’re making as he kneads them. He leans over to take a nipple in his mouth, flicking the tiny pebbled nub that he normally has to stretch his mouth around. It goes straight to his dick and he can’t help but grind his cock against your core. This is too much already. He sits back up between your legs to try and regain his composure. He doesn’t want the first time he has intercourse to be over before it begins. To bide some time, he slowly runs his hands down your stomach and massages the tops of your thighs while his eyes lock onto your pussy. Home.

His favorite thing in the world is to eat you out, and he’s excited to taste you. Firstly, though, he is dying to explore you with his fingers. He drags his thumbs through your folds. “Wet for me as usual, Noona.” He states, glancing up to see your flushed cheeks. He chuckles to himself knowing how flustered he’s making you.

“Hannie…always soaked for you.” You say with a breathlessness to your voice. 

He rubs circles on your clit with his thumb whilst using his other hand to spread you wide. 

“I need your fingers inside me, Hannie.” you wiggle your hips to give him the hint.

“Like this?” He asks innocently as he slips two fingers into you. You moan in relief, making him smirk again.You’re so tight just around his fingers that he can’t imagine how you are going to fit his cock. He partially withdraws his fingers then pushes them back into your warm, wet, cunt. He repeats this a few times, your moans and ‘yes’s urging him to go a little harder, a little deeper. He remembers watching you finger fuck yourself and that there’s a spot inside you that when you stimulate it makes you come. He needs to try it. 

He angles his fingers a little differently and fucks you with his hand. The response is immediate. Your pussy begins to make those lewd, but arousing sounds, that he has heard when you’ve made yourself cum on your dildo. Your back arches off the bed and your thighs start to tremble. He knows the signs of you having an orgasm. He’s made you come so many times. But not like this. He leans over you to slide his tongue into your mouth, capturing the moans from your orgasm while his fingers work you through it until you’ve settled back to earth. Stunning. Erotic. Perfect. That’s what you are to him right now.

Now he can eat you out. Lick up all that arousal leaking from your delectable pussy. He nestles between your legs, his agonizingly hard cock squashed between his stomach and the mattress. He knows it’s leaking all over your quilt.

Firmly holding your thighs apart, he licks a long stripe from your vagina to clit. You taste perfect. He is careful not to go too hard or too rough. When he’s tiny he needs to use all his energy and strength to get you off, but right now even the most delicate of licks or suckles has you whimpering for him.

He spits on your clit and then sucks it off. Then moves lower to slip his tongue inside you. He has to hold you still as another orgasm starts to build for you. He loves making you feel this way.

He needs to make you come again, so he slips a finger into your pussy while he laps at your clit. He feels you come on his face, shaking, quivering, covering him in your juices. Yep. Still his favorite thing to do.

He removes himself from between your legs to hover over you to take you in an urgent kiss, smearing your arousal all over your lips. His dick throbs.

“Hannie,” you pull away from the kiss. “I really need you inside me. I need it so much it hurts.” You look up at him with desperate eyes.

“Me too, Noona.” He gulps. He’s so fucking scared and hopes you don’t notice.

“Are you nervous?” You reach up and stroke his cheek. 

Of course you noticed it. You always know how he feels. He nods. “Yeah. I am actually. I am a virgin you know?” He chuckles awkwardly, like you didn’t know he’d never actually fucked before.

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck and pull him close. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just let it slip in. Dicks usually find a way into a pussy.” You whisper in his ear.

He trusts you and grinds the length of his cock against your slipper pussy. It’s already beyond incredible feeling your soft skin against his obscenely hard cock. You both moan equally in pleasure and the frustration of needing more, so he shifts his hips to allow the tip of his cock to prod at you. 

“Yes!” You cry out against his ear. “Fuck…Hannie…need you. It’s so close…” 

All it takes is a slight adjustment of the angle of his hips and he feels the tip slip inside you. 

“Please…hurry.” You sob. “I love you so much, Hannie.”

“I love you too, Noona.” he says with a shaky breath, and then he’s inside you. All the way to the hilt. You both moan in relief. 

“You’re so tight.” he declares, his eyes rolling back into his head. He’s not going to last even a thrust. It’s already too good. But he begins to move anyway, eventually finding a slow, deep rhythm.

He was wrong. This is his most favorite thing to do. Be buried in your pussy, with your arms and legs wrapped around him as you moan his name over and over. Definitely his favorite.

“Faster…please… harder…oh Hannie…fuck.” You claw at his back trying to pull him even deeper. He obliges, picking up the pace, fucking you harder. He kneels between your legs again so he can see all of you. The sight is erotic. Seeing all of you at once, with your legs folded and pushed up high and wide. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust. And the expression on your face as you look down at where you’re connected almost makes him fill you right then and there.

“I’m coming, Hannie… I’m…don’t stop! Come with me. Come inside me!” You’re already trembling beneath him, and there’s no way in hell he’d be able to stop himself coming inside you even if he wanted to. He’s about to burst. Not just his cock, but his heart too. He loves you too much. He takes his thumb back to your clit and focuses on bringing you over the edge. He feels your walls squeeze tight around him like a vice, and it sends him over as well. With a few last shaky thrusts, he releases himself inside of you with a deep moan.

“Noona… Fuck…” he pants and collapses on top of you. “That was the best feeling in the whole world. I don’t know how anyone gets anything done when they could be doing that!” 

—-----------

The day passes far too quickly as you fill the rest of the day with lovemaking, food, drinks, and even more lovemaking. You both don't want to miss a single moment of each other. Night comes too quickly, and despite trying your best to stay awake, sleep eventually takes you both as you lay in his arms.

-----------

The sun streams through the window waking you from your sleep. You feel Han's arm laying heavy across your waist. It wasn't a dream. Your eyes snap open to find him fast asleep, mouth open, and still very much human size.

You watch him until he finally stirs and opens his eyes. "Am I still big? Are we still naked?" He asks sleepily.

You grin in response. "Yes. You're still big. And we’re still naked. " You lean down and kiss his cheek.

"So we can have more sex today?" he adds, rubbing his eyes.

"Anything you want, my love." You say and let your hand wander down to rest on his erect cock. Flicking the sheet off of him, you begin to kiss your way down his body, savoring every inch of his skin, ensuring you remember this moment forever. You pause when you reach his cock, admiring the way it looks. Fucking perfect. Mouthwatering. You waste no time taking him in your hand and bringing your tongue to the underside of his shaft. 

He releases a sharp breath. “Fuck, Noona. Please…are you gonna suck me off? Please suck my cock, Noona.” he begs, lifting his head and looking down at you. You give him a sly look and swirl your tongue around the tip, and he throws his head back down onto the pillow, surrendering to you and your plans.

You take your time teasing him, alternating between kitten licks to the tip, to long languid strokes of your tongue along the shaft. His breathless pants turn to whimpers, then finally a deep, relieving groan as you sink your mouth over him. You take as much of him into your throat as you possibly can, and even though your eyes start to water, you take him even deeper.

“Baby, Noona…This is…your mouth… How can you even breathe right now?” He can barely get the words out. “So good… ngh…s’good.” he squeezes his eyes closed trying his hardest not to thrust into you. His hands thread through your hair and rest on the back of your head. You hope he pushes you down further so you take absolutely everything, and when he does, you feel your cunt tighten and your arousal leaking between your legs. 

Your lips are pressed to his pelvis and he isn’t letting you go. You are finding it hard to breathe, but you don’t care. You want more. You feel him getting close when his cock hardens even more and he starts thrusting into your throat. Yes. This is what you need. 

Han gets noisier as he approaches his climax, then you feel it. The familiar taste of his hot cum hits the back of your throat. He cries out then stills, releasing his hands from your head and relaxing into the bed.

As usual, you swallow every last drop. There is so much more compared to normal, the fluid coating the back of your mouth, then you make your way up to kiss his lips. 

Han grins at you with hooded eyes. “Fuck, Noona! That was so fucking goog.”

“You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured doing that for you, Hannie.” You smile and curl up to his side.

“Noona?” he says, stroking your arm.

“Mmm. Yes my love?” you hum.

“Do you think…after we fuck again, we can go out? There’s something I want to do.”

You turn your head to gaze at him. “Of course. Anything you want, my love.” you say again, but this time with a curious tone.

-----------

"Are you sure I don’t look weird?" Han isn't convinced that the sweatpants and tee you have given him are gender neutral.

"You're fine, I promise. Just trust me?" You reply, locking your front door.  You take his hand in yours and begin to up your front path. As you reach the sidewalk, he begins to have second thoughts. Sure he's been out of the house with you before. In your handbag, hidden away. Safe. Unseen. Maybe this isn't a good idea after all, he thinks to himself. Maybe he shouldn't have such lofty ideas? But he's not going to have another opportunity to do this. So he has to be brave.

“”What would you like to do, Hannie?” 

“There’s something I’ve thought about doing for a while now. Buy you flowers.” He gestures to the flower shop across from your home. 

Your eyes light up and a smile washes over your features. “I’d absolutely love that!” You squeeze his hand and look up at him. “I love you Hannie.” You say and kiss him on the lips.

“Noona, y-you can’t do that!” He stutters.

“Do what, sweetie?” You tease, and kiss him again. This time a little longer.

He pushes you away gently. “You’re getting me hard.” He whispers sternly and looks around to make sure no one can notice.

“Okay, Han. No public display of affection. Got it.” You pinch his chubby cheek.

The flower shop isn't very big, but it manages to accommodate so many flowers and bouquets that fill every corner and surface. Han takes in the floral scents, and the vibrancy of the colors, and smiles when his eyes land on what he's looking for.

"Can I help you with anything?" the shop owner asks cheerfully.

"Yes, can I please have the bouquet of purple tulips?" he says proudly.

The owner, who's name tag says 'Jules', takes the bouquet back to the counter to ring up the price. "That will be $60."

That's right. He has no money. He closes his eyes for a moment, berating himself. Of course he can't pay. He has no bank account. No identification. He's not a citizen of... anywhere really. He's an alien.

"That's okay, I've got it. He forgot his wallet today." You step in from out of nowhere and take care of paying for the flowers.

Ashamed by his inadequacy, Han steps away from the counter, and busies himself by looking at the corner with some potted houseplants. He quite likes the houseplants you own, often sitting underneath the leaves pretending to be somewhere outdoors. He chuckles to himself at how silly that sounds when movement behind one of the pot plants catches his eye.

Intrigued, he crouches down and ever so slowly nudges one of the plants to the side. His eyes widen and he almost stumbles backward when he sees a little man, the size of a Ken doll, looking up at him.

The same man that he’s seen kissing and holding Jules the shop owner multiple times.

Han blinks, not believing what he is seeing, but when he opens his eyes the little man is gone. Where did he go? Did he imagine it? He starts shifting plant pots around, desperately trying to find him.

"Hannie. I'm done now." you call to him from the shop entrance.

----------

"Hannie, what's wrong?" You ask as you both step outside onto the sidewalk. "Is it about paying for these?" You hold up the tulips.

"No, Noona. It's not that." He turns to look back at the shop.

"Han? You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you okay? Are you feeling okay?" You press your hand to his forehead. Sweaty and warm. Is he getting sick?

"I'm fine. Just... the forty eight hours are coming to an end tonight." He frowns.

You drop your head. You have been trying your best not to think about it. Today was so perfect, spending time with Han like a proper couple. It felt so heartwarming watching him with his big, curious eyes as he interacted with his surroundings.

You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the flowers. "What made you choose these?" you ask him curiously.

"Well," He starts, as you begin to walk back towards your home. "From what I read on the internet they are a symbol of perfect love." He smiles sheepishly. "It also said that they symbolize rebirth, as well as being known to help us let go of the past and embrace the future with renewed optimism and hope." he adds, proud to have remembered the details he'd read.

"I think that sounds perfect." You smile warmly and kiss him on the cheek.

---------------

Dinner is a quiet affair. The quietest it’s ever been. Usually at dinner time you share your day with each other, listening intently, offering advice or support, or whatever each of you needed that night. Tonight you’re both thinking about the same thing. That your time together like this is coming to an end. Neither of you want to talk about the elephant in the room, so you both stay silent. 

After a while you see Han set his knife and fork on his plate and stand up, walking around to your side of the table. You look up at him and he offers his hand out to you. Wordlessy, you take it and let him lead you to your bedroom.

He’s not gentle as he pushes you down onto the mattress and practically rips your clothes off before climbing on top of you and taking you in a rough, heated kiss. He shoves his tongue past your lips and you thread your fingers through his hair to pull him into an even deeper, even more feral kiss. He pulls away only to remove his own garments, then he forces your legs apart so he can line his cock up to your entrance. 

Without any preparation, or warning, he pushes the entire length of his cock into you in one go. You cry out at the intrusion, but part your legs further. You need him inside you, to consume you.

He’s careless with his thrusts, and his hands grope and squeeze, bruising your flesh. There’s a look of anger and resentment in his eyes. You know it’s not because of you, but at this whole situation. It feels so unfair to have a glimpse of how life could be, and know that it’s never going to be like this again. You love Hannie no matter what. But this feels so good too. Why? Why let you experience this, only to have torn away so quickly?

“Are you gonna remember me like this forever, Noona? How full I make you? How deep inside you I am? How hard I can fuck you?” He growls. “Tell me. Tell me you’ll never forget it. Cos I’m never going to forget how your pussy feels around me. Squeezing me tight. Tell me I’m your favorite. Tell me I feel better than anyone before me.” 

Han’s words are aggressive, and so is the way he’s fucking you. But his voice is full of heartbreak and angst. You want him to give you everything. His sadness, his anger, you want him to take it out on you. 

He thrusts his hips even harder against your body, and his cock slams into your cervix, causing you to cry out his name.

“Hannie!” You choke. He doesn’t slow down or go easy on you. You can barely breathe. 

“Say it… please…Tell me your mine.” he sobs, but he doesn’t slow down.

“I’m yours, Hannie…forever.” you whimper.

He leans down over you, caging you underneath him. “Come for me. Come on my cock.” He growls, his hot breath against your ear. “I wanna feel your pussy choke me one last time.”

It’s too much and you come hard around him, sobbing against his shoulder.

“That’s it…Yes…Fuck! I’m coming too!” He grunts as he thrusts his hips a few more times and empties himself inside you.

You stay like this for a while. Breathless and sweating. Eventually, he lifts his head and looks down on you. “Did I hurt you?” He asks with a concerned expression.

You shake your head. “It was passionate. I needed you to fuck me like that.” You sigh. He closes his eyes softly in relief, then withdraws his softened cock from you. 

Neither of you move to clean up, or even get a drink, or even say another word. You simply lay in the comfort of each other’s arms as though the world was about to end.

---------

You fall asleep first, but Han can't sleep. He doesn't want to sleep. So he watches you sleep instead. He cups your cheek. He needs to burn the image of this into his brain, for tomorrow his hand will barely be able to wrap around your pinky finger. These past forty eight hours were a dream come true, but he’s not sure how he’ll get over it either. 

-------------

You wake to find your bed empty. "Han?" You call out and search the bed, lifting the blankets. Sometimes he ends up tangled in them, but he isn't there.

You hop out of bed, slip on your robe and head out into the kitchen. You find him sitting on the windowsill above the sink. Small as ever. You feel a sadness in your chest and bite your lip as you approach him. "Hannie?" You say softly, leaning your arms on the counter next to the sink so your face is close to him.

"I'm okay Noona." he sighs, but doesn't turn to face you.

"You want me to fix you some breakfast before I go to work?" You ask hopefully, but he shakes his head.

The usual conversation that you have when you get ready for work is replaced with a heavy, awkward silence.

"You know, Hannie, you are perfect to me no matter what. Your personality, your heart - it’s bigger than that of any man in the world.” You say as you turn to leave the kitchen and head out the front door for work.

--------------

Han hasn’t left the windowsill in days. He hasn’t washed, he's barely eaten. The spark you love so much in him has dimmed, and you’re frightened that it won't come back. It's not like you can get him therapy. No one knows about him. No one can know about him.

Every day you leave for work not knowing what you'll find when you return home. What if he’s left? What if he's-" No you won't let yourself even go there.

Those forty eight hours of him being big was not worth it, and if you could take it back and go back to how things were before, you'd do it in a heartbeat. You just want your Hannie back.

--------------

Han knows you love him. But he can't help but feel depressed. He feels worse now than he has ever felt in his entire, albeit short, life. It's like him becoming big was some sick, cruel joke. Like it was to taunt him. To show him how good it could really be, how good it could really feel, to be a human, just to snatch it away from him.

It isn't just depression that's consuming him. It's an obsession with the flower shop and that little man he had seen that day.

For ten days now he’s stared at the shop hoping to catch a glimpse of...something... anything that might give him answers or closure. They know something. He can feel it.

Then finally it happens. Han hurries to a kneeling position, face pressed against the glass to catch a better look.

The man is back. As a human sized man. Han guesses he's seen this man maybe four times over as many months. He stands in the doorway waving to a customer before going back into the shop. It definitely looks like the little guy he saw standing by the pot plant.

You probably imagined it. You were probably over excited from the sex with Noona. Can sex make you hallucinate? Han isn't sure of anything anymore. Except that the miniature man was either imaginary, or, he has the answers Han's looking for.

-------------------

You leave work early and pick up a cheesecake. Han hasn’t eaten in days and you hope his favorite dessert might perk him up a little bit, even if it’s just a sugar rush.

You open your front door kicking your shoes off, and make your way upstairs to your main living area. The house is eerily quiet, even with a depressed Han it's too quiet. Something is off. Something is wrong.

“Hannie?” You call out. No answer. You place the cheesecake box on the counter. He’s not on his windowsill. Maybe he’s asleep somewhere? You check your bedroom next. He isn’t there either. You search every room, calling out his name.

Nothing.

He’s gone. He’s actually gone! Why? Why would he leave? Where would he go? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s - you gulp. You start to panic and begin to check everywhere again. Maybe he fell into a drawer? Maybe he’s stuck somewhere?

Again, nothing.

He really was gone.

—-----------

Han has never ventured out of the house by himself before. Well this month has been full of firsts, he thinks. Why not climb down the stairs and sneak out of a slightly ajar window?

He jumps down from the window sill and tumbles into the garden, surprisingly unscathed. He is on a mission and nothing is going to stop him.

Determination takes over any fear of being eaten by the neighbors cat, or being runover by a car, as he carefully treks across the road to the flower shop.

He hasn't even planned what he’s going to say. What if he's mistaken and the owner faints? What if she kills him? Or kidnaps him? Tortures him? No. He shakes his head. The lady was really nice the other day. People love to go to her shop. It'll be fine.

By the time Han reaches the threshold he is hot, sweaty and very thirsty. He looks up to looming doorway and swallows hard. Here goes nothing.

He slips inside, carefully seeking the cover of a nearby flower pot. The shop looks gigantic compared to last time he was there.

He notices something that he missed the last time. That the entire shop is set up suspiciously accessible for him. Like it was made for someone his size. Strings from buntings and signs dangle in such a way that Han would be able to reach just about any shelf he wished. Some shelves look to have mini rope ladders, and there seems to be plenty of places to hide and watch customers, or your Noona.

He quickly climbs up one of the rope ladders where he can get a better view of the sales counter. Jules is there finishing serving a customer. But where is the man?

Han doesn’t have to wait for long. The man emerges from a back storeroom with a gift bag for the customer.

“Oh Minho! You’re back in town!” The customer exclaims in a high pitch voice. “How was your work trip?” She gives this Minho a kiss on the cheek.

“Adventurous as usual.” He winks at her.

“Well it’s good to see you.” She takes her flowers and gift bag, smiling as she leaves the shop.

“Take care Mrs Maple!” Minho waves after her then turns to Jules. “Finally, I’ve got you alone, kitten.” He smirks and closes the gap between them. “Maybe we could close up for lunch? Head back into the storeroom?” He kisses her neck.

“You’re always so horny, Minho.” She teases. “Don’t think I don’t know you masturbate behind the flower pot while I work.”

Wait! What? Han’s eyes almost pop out of his head and he stumbles knocking an ornamental garden gnome off the shelf.

Jules and Minho’s eyes land on the smashed gnome. Then they lift their gaze, eyes landing straight on Han.

Fuck! He freezes to the spot.

The pair look confused and make their way over to where Han is standing pretending to be gnome himself, and crouch down so they are eye level with him.

“It’s the customer from the other day.” Jules remarks. “He didn’t have any money.” She adds.

Han crosses his arm and pouts.

“He’s the one I told you about. The one that saw me on the shelf.” Minho adds.

“Excuse me?” Han interrupts. “I was hoping you could help me. You see, I live across the street with my Noona. She was the woman I was with when I came in the other day. And…anyway… I sit in the window sill and watch the flower shop. Not in a creepy way.” He is sure to add. “And I’ve seen him…Minho, or whatever your name is,” he points to the man “a few times… Then when I came in, he… he was small.”

“And you were big.” Minhos’s eyes glisten and he rubs his chin deviously. “And now you’re small!”

“Exactly! And I need to know… are you one of those miniature companions like me? And if so, why do you keep getting big? And… and is it the same for all of us? Is it different depending on the batch? Do some of us get big and others don’t?” Han’s out of breath by the time he’s finished.

“What’s your name?” Jules asks kindly.

“Han.” He replies and plops down, crossing his legs.

“Han?” She repeats thoughtfully.

“Do you recognise the name, babe?” Minho enquires.

Jules nods. “Yes. I believe he was also part of the range I purchased you from. The Skz range. I don’t think he was ready yet. How long have you been with your owner?”

“Just on a year.” He replies.

Jules and Minho exchange looks, then turn back to Han.

“Well, Han, buddy,” he says. “I think we might be able to answer your questions.”

—-----------

Eventually, after tearing your house apart in the hopes to find Han and failing, you flop yourself on your couch feeling empty and numb. You don’t even notice that your doorbell is ringing, but then a loud knock on the door makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“Yeah okay, I’m coming!” You call out as you head downstairs. With a sigh, you open the front door to find the woman who owns the flower shop across the street, and a man who you’ve seen a few times around the place, standing there. The woman holds a basket in her hands, and the man holds an amused look on his face.

Great. You’re not in the mood for interaction.

The woman’s eyes widen when she sees your tear streaked face.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Jules. From the flower shop across the street.” She smiles awkwardly. “And this is my, um, partner, Minho.” She gestures to the man next to her.

You continue to stand there, saying nothing.

Jules coughs, clearing her throat. “We’ve brought your Hannie home.” She declares.

“Noona!” Han’s head pops out of the basket.

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth. “Why do you have my Han?” You choke. Your eyes dart from Jules to Minho, confused and scared. Han is supposed to be a secret. You can’t have outsiders knowing about him.

“I went to them, Noona. They have something to tell you! Can’t you let us inside already?” He whines.

A whining Han is a good sign. You nod and usher them inside.

————-

You’re back on your couch, this time with Jules and Minho on the couch across from you, and your little Hannie on the cushion next to you. You’re relieved he’s back, but also so mad at his reckless behavior. He could’ve gotten himself killed. He and Minho are enjoying a piece of cheesecake, like this is some normal afternoon gathering of friends.

“So you have something to tell me?” You say looking to Jules.

“We do. You see, Han came to us because he saw my miniature companion in the flower shop the day you both came in.” She starts.

Your eyes widen. “You know about them? You’ve got one?”

Jules nods. “Yes. Minho here is my companion.”

“Hi.” He waves.

“He’s your companion?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yes, he’s got his monthly grown up pants on at the moment, but most of the time he’s small like Han.” She nods her head towards Han.

You shake your head in disbelief. “One minute Han is doll sized, then suddenly out of nowhere he’s big.”

“She really didn’t read the manual, hey Han?” Minho chuckles.

“Then I find out there’s another tiny man running around across the street?” You continue, ignoring Minho’s remark.

“Hey, I’m far from tiny!” Minho turns to you with a deadly glare.

“Calm down sweetie.” Jules pats his thigh. “He’s not really cold and cynical.” She reassures you.

“He’s cocky isn’t he?” You say lightheartedly to Jules but your eyes are firmly on Minho. “You know you were able to read their traits on the website and select accordingly?” You say jokingly.

“That’s why she chose me. For my cock-iness.” Minho leans back into the couch.

“He was the only one who was cat friendly. I have three cats, you see.” Jules playfully punches Minho in the arm.

“Hah! You love my cock-y personality.”

“I do.” Jules admits and leans against him.

The pair are fascinating, but you need to know more. “What did you mean by monthly grown up pants?” You ask.

“Once a month I grow into the size of a human for two days.” Minho shares. “It’s a fault in the Skz manufacturing process.”

“You didn’t receive the recall email from the company?” Jules turns back to you surprised.

You shake your head.

“There was a form in the back of...the manual...that you could send in so you’d receive any important information. Like recalls and such.”

“Noona only read up to the part where it says I can ejaculate.” Han pipes up, his mouth full of food.

“Hannie! Don’t, you’re embarrassing me. Sorry, he hasn’t been socialized.” You say bashfully.

“I think these two will become best friends.” Jules laughs looking at the two men. “Han did say this whole human size situation came as a surprise to you both.”

“I feel so stupid. I didn’t read the whole manual.  I’m such an irresponsible companion owner.” 

“There was a recall on the Skz range because they were only supposed to grow big the once, not once every month. Purchasers were given the option to return the companion if they chose.”

“And she chose to keep me.” Minho adds.

“Would you have sent me back, Noona? If you’d known about the recall?” Han looks up at you with his boba eyes.

“Of course not. I love you. I just wish I’d known all this so we could have been prepared. Looked forward to it, even.”

“It’s okay, Noona. I think it has worked out for the best this way.” He looks at each of you. “I’ve finally got friends!” He says gleefully.

Jules and Minho leave shortly after, to have some alone time before his “grown up pants become too big”.

Han is exhausted from his adventure, and just wants to snuggle up on your chest and watch anime. Neither of you say much. There's no point in being angry at him for venturing out alone, and you're just happy to have him back in one piece.

Neither of you are really watching the anime either. Instead you're both smiling inwardly, imagining what life is going to look like from now on.

—————-

A little update on our y/n and Hannie:

Over the next year, Han and Minho have become inseparable, spending almost as much time with each other as they do with you and Jules.

You’ve introduced Han to your family. He was so nervous at first, but once he realized they approved of him, he was okay.

He learned to play guitar, and even commissioned a guitar maker to make a scaled down working model of an acoustic guitar so he can play whenever he feels like it.

------------

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little fic. I loved writing it, even though it took me so long to have the energy to put the ideas into words. Thank you so much for reading. Your support encourages me to keep writing.

If you enjoy the more plot driven, lovey dovey fics, I have a few others on my main blog @moonlightndaydreams and I think I will probably cross post this fic as a oneshot over there to keep all my longer Hannie fics together.

Sorsha x.

----------------

@kayleefriedchicken @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @katsukis1wife @jeonginsleftcheek @ihrtlino @ivydoesit23 @gnab-nahc @skzstan12345 @youcanstayyeah @binnieonabike @hanniemylovelyquokka @moasworld @binniesbabe @courtnort455 @yongbokkiesworld @felixleftchickennugget @bangchans-angel @heerinnie @meilix

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[alcoholfreenayeon]

Shower sex w/ g!p Karina please🙏

Hot mess

CW: G!p Karina x reader, nsfw, smut, shower sex

A/N: well this took longer than I wanted it to😭I just forgot how to write smut suddenly and this was the reason why😭

You stand under the shower, turning it on and stepping back, letting it heat up a bit before you get in. You leave to decide what you’ll wear after in the mean time. You open your wardrobe and look through your clothes, thinking carefully when you feel a pair of hands wrapping themselves around your waist from behind and a head rest on your shoulder, sighing contentedly into your neck. You immediately relax, recognizing the hands instantly, leaning your head towards her head.

“Ah, you’re done? Weren’t you planning on playing with the girls till late?”, you ask curiously to Karina.

“Yes, change of plans”, She says without offering any further.

You stifle a smile and glance at her, “change of plans for you or for everyone”.

Karina narrowed her eyes at you before exhaling exasperatedly, “They were bullying me okay! I quit.”, she states and pouts.

You chuckle, turning to face her, stroking her face softly, “But that always happens when you are late to a game they’ve already been playing.”

“I. Don’t. Care.”, Karina huffs, her hands tightening around your waist.

You giggle, “So now are you going to pout around for a bit before practicing relentlessly for a day and then joining them back next time so you are caught up or ow!”

Karina gently slapped your back as you exposed her habits to her, making a face at you.

You smirk at her teasingly, giving her a quick kiss before remembering about your shower. “Ok, baby, can you pick out something cute for me? I’m taking a shower.”, you ask as you head into the bathroom.

“Oh su….”, Karina pauses for a moment, a mischievous expression creeping up, “yeah sure I can do that!”

However you don’t pay attention to that, undressing and checking the water temperature hesitantly to see if it’s warm enough. You then feel a slap on your ass and yelp, turning around in surprise to find a half dressed Karina smirking at you.

You feel your cheeks burn, it wasn’t uncommon for Karina to join you showering but for some reason it always made you blush. Even though it was nothing new for the two of you. You playfully glare at her, your hand moving to the slapped spot.

“I’m feeling frustrated after the game…a shower will probably help me calm down…”, Karina says nonchalantly, “unless you have a better idea to relieve this frustration.”

You roll your eyes playfully and turn your back to her, glancing at her, beckoning her to join you. And Karina obliges, sighing as she steps into the hot water with you, wrapping her arms around you again, gently biting your neck drawing a moan out from you. She continues to bite and suck, leaving marks while her hands wander, playing with your tits. Groping and squeezing excitedly, Karina bites your shoulder hard causing you to squeal.

“Seriously?”, you sigh, “we haven’t even started showering and you are already”, you glance at her hard cock, “already so excited?”

Karina squeezes your tits before turning you around, kissing you eagerly as she pushes you against the wall. “I can’t help it. You drive me crazy. Now let me use you please.”

You playfully poke her belly, “Fine but don’t-hey!”, you yelp as Karina interrupts you, turning you over again, pushing you against the wall roughly as she lines up her cock.

You moan sharply and squirm a little under her firm grip, biting your lips as you feel her enter you, stretching your walls. She begins to thrust quickly, holding your waist tightly as she repeatedly thrusts hard and deep.

Your breaths begin to get ragged as she pounds you relentlessly, her fingers digging into your skin as Karina lets her primal urges take over.

You start to moan softly as you feel her hit your sensitive spots just right, feeling your legs weaken. If that wasn’t enough, Karina suddenly pushed herself as deep as she could and begin growl to in your ear, “I can’t hold back anymore…I’m going to breed you right here.”

At this point you don’t even care, closing your eyes, and resting your hands against the wall tightly, you brace yourself for the pounding Karina promises to give you.

She doesn’t disappoint and almost immediately you feel her pull her cock back till it’s at your entrance before ramming it all the way in, her tip brushing against your cervix causing you to gasp. She repeats this, each repetition a bit faster and harder, slowly gaining rhythm.

Meanwhile, you feel your legs buckle with each thrust, you can’t believe she’s able to make you feel this way. You can’t even moan properly, letting out a half gasp and half moan every time she thrusts. The way she’s holding onto your hips only turns you on more. You can barely feel the water from the shower anymore, it’s like all of your nerves are choosing to focus on Karina’s cock right now.

You can feel her cock throb as she begins to get closer to her release. And that’s when your first orgasm hits you like a truck, your eyes roll up and you feel like you can’t breathe, your body thrashing under the ever increasing waves of pleasure.

As you slowly come down from your high, you feel Karina dig her nails into your hips tightly as she was close. Still sensitive from your earlier release, her measured thrusts were proving to be too much almost immediately as she felt your body getting limp rapidly, your pussy on fire. It felt like she was touching your very soul each time she rammed her cock in you. Matter of fact, the only reason you weren’t on the floor already was because Karina was holding you up now, breathing raggedly, her face focused.

You feel a second orgasm quickly approaching and at the same time you hear Karina groan out loud, pushing herself into you, going as deep as she can before she cums. You gasp when you feel the first wave of cum shoot out into you and cum when you feel the second wave. Karina spurts out a couple more waves before sighing contentedly. On the other hand, you feel weak, sated and blissful. The feeling of her semen and cock filling you up entirely being so amazing. A couple minutes later, Karina pulls out of you, slowly letting you down til you are sitting on your knees lazily. You sigh softly, feeling her cum begin to slowly seep out of you. You squeal when you feel a splash on water on your face and look up to see Karina grinning.

“What are you daydreaming about”, she teases

“Shut up”, you bark back, blushing and splashing water towards her now. “I’m tired…”

She giggles and offers her hand which you lazily accept as she pulls you up. “Want me to wash you baby?”, she asks with a small smile.

Your heart skips a beat and you give her a quick peck, smiling sweetly. Karina chuckles and kisses your forehead, her hands drifting and begin lathering you up, starting with your hands before slowly moving to the rest of your body. Halfway through, you smile mischievously as you feel her cock harden again and poke you.

“Ready for round 2 already love?”, you ask looking back at her.

She pokes your side causing you to squirm and gasp, “I’m always ready for round 2 babygirl, in fact…I want round 3 and 4 tonight as well. I feel really needy about you right now….”

Soon enough the two of you are making out again, forgetting about completing the shower yet again, lost in your passionate tryst…

[earlgreydream]

His. | Loki x reader smut

I finally the Loki tv show… this does NOT have any spoilers, it’s set on Asgard with a newly appointed king and his coronation gift…

cw: d/s

“Leave any traces of fear in this room.” The command was clear, spoken sharply by a royal attendant.

Your gaze didn’t leave the fragrant water of the bath you knelt in, the attendant taking care to wash every inch of your skin. Other women pulled fluttering silks from a wardrobe, lying it out for you and finding jewelry to match. So much led to this moment, and yet it didn’t seem real — anticipation and anxiety buzzing in your head. You’d been told once already to contain the obvious fear that lingered in your chest, but the daunting task of doing so seemed impossible when your fate was waiting on a silver platter, the moment you left the private chamber you were being bathed in.

“Come, out of the water before your skin wrinkles,” you were hauled to your feet, wrapped in towels and rubbed down by several girls with movements so quick, you were barely left time to react.

Hands massaged your tense limbs, covering them in oils that bloomed with exotic scents, leaving your skin gleaming. At the same time, your hair was fixed, emeralds — his favorite — twisted into the locks and fastening to bare your neck.

“It’s customary to dress her in white,” a handmaiden spoke of you as if you were not there.

“The prince prefers black.” The will of your all-powerful god silenced any protest, everyone moving to do his bidding.

The women fretted — you had to be perfect for him. They prepared you to be presented to the god, as a divine gift to honor the crown prince of Asgard. You were bathed, decorated, and dressed, all to please the god you were gifted to, an expectation that you’d been bred for. It was a great honor to be taken from the hills, to the castle of the gods, to walk amongst the divine, even if it meant your role was to do as your master saw fit, obeying every command. You had come to terms with it, knowing that upon prince Loki’s rise to the throne, you were the sacrifice — the gift — of the kingdom, a promise of good fortune and favor granted in return.

It all seemed like a far-away, distant dream in a future that would never come. Despite that, here you were, relinquishing your whole self to Asgard’s throne. You had never met the god, and never seen him up close. Of course you’d heard the stories, the wrath and prowess of the young prince, and even seen him from a distance — but being in his presence was something entirely new, before being expected to spend the rest of time at his mercy.

Asgardian silk draped over your skin, so light you wouldn’t know it was there. Your decency was concealed beneath expensive black fabric, hiding what was only meant for Loki to see in the moments after this. The handmaidens’ fussing finally ceased, ending the long evening of preparation.

“Come with me, and do as you’re told,” the woman in charge ushered you forward, opening the chamber doors, releasing you out of known captivity into unpredictability.

You swallowed the fear in your throat, steps silent as you followed her to the throne room, the festivities growing louder as you approached your fate. Before you were given a moment to hesitate, you were led into the cavernous room of gold and heavenly magic.

All at once, it fell silent as soldiers escorted you to the throne. There he was — the god himself, draped over his golden throne. Loki was the only one adorned finer than you, a golden helm atop his onyx waves, wild cerulean eyes that bore straight into your soul.

“Your majesty, a gift in exchange for your benevolence,” the ceremony’s representative from your kingdom presented you to Loki, a hand on your shoulder forcing you to kneel before the throne.

A dangerous smile curved the god’s lips, placing his scepter aside as he rose to his feet.

“A very generous gift indeed,” Loki’s lyrical voice wrapped around your throat, stealing the air from your lungs.

He was impossibly tall and lean as he approached you, toned muscles visible even through the heavy layers of leather and gold that adorned his figure. Loki was no mere prince, but a god of mischief, holding an entire world in the palm of his delicate hand. A dark mischief glittered in his eyes, the gorgeous royal leaning down to look closely at you.

He tilted your chin up, looking him directly in the eye, immediately disarmed and vulnerable as you did so. His expression changed almost imperceptibly, gone from his eyes in a flash as he looked away from you, addressing the court who had handed you over.

Your ears were ringing too loudly to hear what he said, your head spinning. A solider moved to guide you to sit at the base of the throne, at Loki’s feet, when you were suddenly snapped back into the present moment.

“You will not lay a hand on what is mine!” Loki’s shout thundered through the chamber, stopping the man before he could touch you.

The soldier quickly fell back, recognizing the lethal danger of disrespecting Loki. An entire room held its breath, the seconds agonizing, exhaling only when Loki motioned for festivities to resume.

Despite the advice to hide your fear, Loki could practical feel your startled fright. Everything else blurred into the background, the celebration entertaining itself, leaving you and Loki at the center of your own universe.

Loki leaned down with an outstretched hand, his expression softening as you met his gaze. He had not yet spoken directly to you, but you didn’t need instruction to place your hand in his, allowing his strength to move you forward. Loki guided you to kneel at his feet as he resumed his place on the throne, slotted between his long legs.

Delicate fingers gently tilted your chin to look up at him, the touch startlingly gentle, a stark contrast to what you’d been warned of.

“There is a long night of festivities ahead, you may rest on me if you grow weary,” Loki granted you permission to lie your head against his thigh, to sink back into the new shelter.

You gave a small nod of understanding, looking back down as his attention was demanded from another round of celebration.

Despite the dizzying commotion of Loki’s ceremony, your limbs became heavy and keeping your eyes open was a losing battle. Loki peered down at you as you slowly laid your head against his leg, letting your exhausted body rest for the first time.

A fierce desire to protect you swelled in Loki’s chest, suddenly cross with the noise and lights that combatted your sleep. As he continued to entertain offerings of exotic fruits and tributes from his kingdoms, Loki moved a leg in front of you, glaring at anyone who so much as looked too long in your direction.

He couldn’t imagine how drained you were, to sleep through the chaos. Your weight rested against his leg, though you didn’t let yourself fully drift into deep sleep, some part of you making sure that you were upright, not wanting to displease him.

Loki carefully supported you as he stood, lifting you off the floor with godly strength. The festivities continued without him — kings, gods, and valkyrie reenacting stories of battles and playing with magic in the great halls.

He’d had quite enough of the noise and empty affection, and desired nothing more than some quiet time alone with his offering.

“Careful,” he warned softly as you began to stir, strengthening his grip to keep you from falling.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled, your first words spoken in a haze of exhaustion.

“It’s alright, you’re free to rest,” Loki laid you down on his bed the moment you entered the privacy of his chambers.

Golden floors were etched in sweeping illustrations of history and mythology, telling the stories of your god beneath the bed draped in dark green silks. Huge doors opened to a veranda, a summer breeze ruffling the curtains, allowing glimpses of glittering astronomy overhead.

Your mind yearned to stay awake, to learn your surroundings and stay vigilant in the presence of Loki. Despite that, your body screamed for sleep, sinking into the soft bedding he had placed you on.

.

Loki watched you sleep.

Exhaustion kept your body rigidly still, not moving once the entire night. You stayed curled up in the very corner of the expansive bed, out of reach of Loki, who eventually took his place as the sun cracked the horizon.

The only indication you were real, was the gentle rise and fall of your back as you breathed. As you slept, the frightened expression vanished from your face, softening the your features. Loki couldn’t take his eyes off of you, studying your almost peaceful face.

Loki drifted in and out of sleep, not bothering to wake you after such a late and overwhelming night. You must have been weary, because you couldn’t have been comfortable, making yourself as small as possible at the very edge of the bed, not wanting to take up too much of Loki’s space.

You slowly opened your eyes, sunlight streaming in through the open veranda. The morning seemed impossibly peaceful, despite waking up into a new life of servitude. This didn’t feel like what you’d expected — waking up in a comfortable bed with the warm sun on your face, the scent of breakfast wafting from a huge spread on the chamber’s dining table.

“Good morning, darling,” Loki’s voice was much softer in the privacy of the chambers, without an audience.

You sat up, looking over as he stood from a couch, setting aside a novel. He was more relaxed, wearing loose black linen, his hair tied up loosely.

“Hi,” you whispered, at a loss for words — partially in awe of how gorgeous he was, and partially cautious, as if he were a cobra waiting to strike at any wrong move.

He watched as you observed your surroundings, inspecting your golden cage in the light of day. Loki’s chambers were beautiful, bright, and serene. It seemed so divorced from the perception you had of the god before being let in to the most private part of his existence. Loki moved smoothly throughout the room, delicate hands attached to a lean, muscular body. Loki’s face was sculpted out of marble, so stunningly beautiful it left you breathless. Green eyes pierced straight into your soul, laid bare when he looked at you.

“Eat something,” he gestured to the feast at the table, as if he were the devil, offering food to a goddess to keep captive in his lair forever.

It was your job to obey, your body moving before your mind even considered protest. The shimmering gown you were wearing the night before swept the floor as you walked, Loki admiring how beautiful you were, even slightly disheveled.

You hesitantly took a berry from the table, bringing it to your lips, licking the sweetness off your fingertips. The sight stirred something inside of Loki, his gaze focusing on the contours of your body that were visible through the just-sheer parts of the fabric draped over you.

“Master?” You could feel the weight of his gaze, invisibly drawing you to him.

Loki stepped toward you, pleased as you sank to your knees without any encouragement, easing into his submission. You wanted it, needed it, like your lungs needed air. A shimmer of green made your clothing disappear, baring you fully to Loki’s intoxicated gaze.

“Look at you, fit for a god,” he praised, slowly circling you as you kneeled, appreciating you from every angle.

“Only for you, master.”

“Loki,” he permitted you to call him by name, a request that pulled the corners of your lips up with small satisfaction.

The floor was cold beneath your knees, and your skin began to prick beneath a cool breeze from the veranda. Loki swelled over the recognition that you were his, and his alone. He was hard in the loose linen pants, eager to claim full ownership of you in such an intimate way. You willingly surrendered to him, practically desperate for him to take you, to consummate your submission to the god.

Your hands smoothed up the solid muscles of Loki’s thighs — limbs you wish to be bent over — before clutching the linen waistband and dragging down his trousers. The sight of him hung heavy made your mouth water and your cunt throb, desire swirling in your belly.

“Go ahead. Touch me as you please, I’m as much yours as you are mine,” Loki murmured, realizing you were waiting for permission, to do as you were told.

Long fingers wove into your hair, cradling the side of your head, pulling only slightly as you licked the tip of his cock, sending a shock up his spine.

He leaned back against the wall, smirking as your left palm flattened over his toned abs to brace yourself, pleased that you were trusting his words.

“Gods,” Loki swore when you took him in your mouth, letting him push you down until he was filling your throat.

Pretty tears welled at your lashes at his size, your throbbing need beginning to smear between your thighs. Your free hand worked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, your tongue dragging up his shaft. He was both long and thick, his skin like velvet on your tongue. It was a feat to take even half of him in your mouth, and you moaned and the thought of him fucking you, and how you’d beg to take it all.

“If worshipping my cock makes you wet enough to drip on my floor, I’ll let you do it every morning,” Loki purred with a grin, clearly taking notice of the effect he had on your body.

“Please,” you whimpered respectfully, dragging your fist up his length, giving your mouth a break.

“I’m close, darling, you’re doing beautifully,” he praised, watching your thighs squeeze together at his words.

“I want to come in that gorgeous mouth, feel myself in your throat.”

You tilted your head back just a bit, both to gaze up into his eyes and to let him in deeper. A low whine vibrated around his cock as his hand wrapped around your throat, gently squeezing.

“Fuck,” Loki hissed, spilling over into your mouth, filling your senses with his salty taste.

“Swallow it,” Loki commanded, and you were all too willing to obey, wanting to please him.

His thumb swiped over your lips, cleaning up the bit of mess he made, kneeling in front of you as you both caught your breath.

“Was that okay?” the question slipped out before you could stop yourself, puzzling Loki.

“Of course, it was perfect. Haven’t you done it before?”

“No, I’ve been kept pure for you,” you answered, earning a profane string of Norse as his dick twitched.

“You’ve made me insatiable,” Loki pressed a quick, messy kiss to your mouth that was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“No!” Loki shouted, standing up, displayed in his full glory to the guard who opened the door.

The furious god stood in front of you, blocking any eyes from catching even a glimpse of your body.

“Get out, now, or I shall have your eyes torn out!” Loki thundered, fiercely possessive over you.

“I’m so sorry, your highness. Odin has called on you—”

A sharp burst of Loki’s magic sent the man flying backward with a yell, the door slamming shut behind him.

“I’m sorry-” you began, as if you needed to apologize for being nude.

“I will never let anyone else touch you, see your body, or covet what is mine.”

A warmth spread through you at the words, taking his hand to stand up. He took a cloth, carefully cleaning you up, before guiding you into a closet that was full of the finest Asgardian fabrics.

“We’ll continue this later, darling, but for now, you’ll accompany me on whatever nonsense I’m being summoned for,” Loki explained, moving to dress himself as he left you to choose what maids had left for your arrival.

You chose green, pleasing the god as you adorned his colors, another sign of your growing devotion. Loki kissed your wrist, before a band of gold appeared in a shimmer, bringing a smile to your face.

He wordlessly led you out of his chambers, a hand at the small of your back. Being with him was intense — but the castle and all of its people was overwhelming. You found yourself leaning into Loki’s side, away from the noise of shouting and chaos of the everyday happenings.

He looked up from the throne to see what was bothering you before pulling you to sit between his legs where you could sink back into him and ignore the noise.

“We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished. Until then, you can entertain yourself by picturing what I’m going to do to your precious little pussy,” Loki whispered against the side of your face, gently nipping your ear.

You shuddered against his chest, feeling him chuckle beneath you as his arm tightened on your waist. Warmth flushed your cheeks and you turned your face into his arm, shy at the filthy words from Loki. He could feel your heart racing inside your ribs, anxious to tear the emerald gown from your body.

You were lost in your thoughts when Loki banished everyone from the expansive throne room, giant doors embedded with gemstones slamming shut, sealing you alone with him.

“Now, where were we?” Loki asked, mouthing hot kisses along your neck and shoulder.

“I believe you were about to fuck me, Loki,” you chirped.

“I love hearing those dirty words on your lips, all for me.”

“Only you,” you promised, closing the gap as he hovered above you.

The kiss was heady, his tongue warm and dominating as he pushed it past your lips. The sensation nearly distracted you from his hands, that were tearing the fabric around your torso, letting it flutter to the floor in shimmering pieces.

“I’m going to fuck you here, on this throne, like a proper king.”

You parted your legs, letting his hand drop between them. Loki smirked into your neck as he cupped your sex, feeling how wet you were, desperate for him as heat radiated from your center.

He didn’t bother to turn you over, perfectly happy to fuck you while you were on top of him, lying on his chest as he sat upon his throne. He glided his cock along your wet lips, only a moment until you were squirming with desperation.

He wanted to hear you beg, but even he couldn’t wait any longer, slowly sinking into you, every inch stretching you impossibly further. The sweet sting made you cry out, your head dropping back on his shoulder when he nestled himself fully inside you.

“You’re perfect for me,” Loki praised through gritted teeth, fighting not to slam into you like an animal. He could feel your walls throbbing around him, muscles burning as they were forced to take the stretch to fit him inside — and you loved it.

You doubted anything would ever feel so good, until his hips started to roll forward, the god fucking you deep and slow, holding your body against his chest. He buried his face in your shoulder, soaking up your squeals of pleasure as he lost himself in you.

Before he even thought to play with you, your cunt began to clench around him with an impending orgasm. Your startled whimper shot straight to Loki’s dick, and he fucked you harder, unable to help himself.

“Come around me, darling, let me know how good you feel,” Loki urged, nearly spilling into you as you trembled in his arms, coming with a scream that echoed off the walls.

“There you go,” he murmured, twitching before he filled you with his seed, painting your insides with him.

Your breaths were ragged and uneven, mind completely foggy in the aftermath. He breathed in your scent as he stayed inside you, preserving the moment for as long as possible.

“I’m yours, forever,” you whispered, as if reading his mind.

[syoddeye]

kinktober - day 25 - borrowed clothes

soap x f!reader | 880 words cw: and they were roommates, references to masturbation, pervy thoughts a/n: if you lived with soap, he would never wear a shirt. and i stand by that. summary: johnny borrows a shirt. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

You can’t decide if the universe is cold and uncaring, or extremely bored and too interested in torturing you specifically. Regardless, every day, it fucking tests you.

No. That’s unfair to the neverending, bleak void of space. 

John MacTavish tests you. Every. Day.

Well, he tests you on the days he’s at home in your shared flat. Sure, his direct deposit never fails, and you enjoy peace and quiet when he’s gone, but the man’s insufferable when present.

Cabinet and cupboard doors? Open. Dishware? Half of it’s missing. The couch? He hogs it. He spreads those thick legs, wears tight joggers, and puts those muscular thighs on display. An arm slung over the back. He barely moves when you join him, and there is always some part of him touching you.

It’s sick and twisted that he’s infuriatingly handsome and seemingly clueless about it. It’s devastating that picturing him crawling on top of you is the only way you’re able to get off anymore. Door locked, music on, vibrator on a too-low but quieter setting—eyes shut and ears open, listening to him meander around your flat while you imagine him bursting through the door to dramatically take you. God, you come so hard, hand glued to your mouth.

It doesn't help that he’s perpetually shirtless.

He’s constantly on the move and complaining that he’s warm. It’s hard to not stare when he enters a room. His broad shoulders stretch out wide, muscles firm and thick beneath his skin. Dark hair covers his chest and dusts his arms, always shiny after his morning runs and near-daily push-ups. Rugged and imposing, the kind of body that just makes you want to climb. You want to smash his face between your thighs, yank him by the mohawk, and sit on those stupid, hot shoulders. Drown him until he cries uncle.

But today, you can’t stand it anymore. He's elbow-to-elbow with you, tidying the kitchen, still damp and glistening from the shower and clad only in a pair of sweats.

“Johnny?”

“Mm?”

“Do you…mind,” you stare out of your periphery at the size of his hand compared to the sponge he’s holding. “Putting on a shirt?”

He stops. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

The sponge drops onto the counter, and he leans into your personal bubble. “Ye sayin’ a man cannae be comfortable in his own home?”

You grit your teeth and focus so as not to let your gaze drop to the pec right next to you. The scent of soap wafts off of him. You want to lick—

“Well?” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be subjected to a half-naked man every moment of my day.”

A second passes in silence. Then another. The corner of his lip curls, and he raps his knuckles on the counter, chuckling. “You’re a tricky one, hen, but I s’pose I can oblige ye. I dinnae ken if I have anythin’ clean, but…”

“Not my problem.” You hiss through a clenched jaw and return to furiously scrubbing the oven.

He’s gone for a few minutes. Long enough that you clean a section well enough to stare at the vague blob of your embarrassed face. Maybe you ought to put yourself out of your mystery and start looking for a new flatshare. 

This time, when he returns, you keep your eyes forward.

Until he clears his throat. “Like I said, nothin’ of mine’s clean, so I had to make do…”

With an exasperated sigh, you glance over to see what he’s on about and freeze. A glob of cleaner slops onto the ground from where it leaks out of the oven. Yeah, me too, you think distantly.

John’s gone and taken one of your shirts from your things. He went into your room, probably rifled through your wardrobe, and stole a shirt. And not just any shirt, but a ratty, shrunken shirt you’d bought as a joke on a girl’s trip years ago. You hadn’t ditched it for purely sentimental reasons, and now, his nipples stand at attention underneath the worn, whisper-thin fabric. His arms strain the babydoll sleeves. It cuts off above his navel. The top tufts of his happy trail stick out.

The words ‘Female Body Inspector’ stretch across his chest.

Maybe you died, and this is your hell. Or heaven. Hard to tell.

Your mouth dries. “Where–Did you get that from my room?”

“Hope it’s alright. Picked somethin’ I didnae think ye’d miss.”

Rising to your feet, you strip the long rubber gloves off your hands and toss them in the sink. You swallow and run your tongue across your teeth. You slowly close the distance, staring dumbly at the man in front of you. Fuck. Were you really doing this? An old silly shirt’s the catalyst?

He grins, his voice deceptively soft. “You’ve gone quiet again. See somethin’ ye like?”

“Johnny, if you’re amenable to it, I’m going to ride you to the River Styx and back.”

His brows shoot up. His eyes gain a wild glint. “Oh?”

Some responsible part of your brain implores you to see reason and remember how sleeping with your housemates is generally a bad idea. It shuts up when you see him twitch in his sweatpants.

“Mhm. My room in two minutes. Leave the shirt on.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Seeing Green

Gwayne had enough of you and declared he would not be accompanying you on your travels to the town ever again. How glad you were to know Harwin would in his stead.

bodyguard!Gwayne Hightower x Lannister!Reader x Harwin Strong | 2k+ | cw: fem!reader, enemies to lovers, forced proximity ig, im just a girl!reader, angst?, jealousy, typos, etc.

A/N: this is a p2 to seeing red but you dont have to read it to understand whats happening. I have made a next part!

Tagging: @lancedoncrimsonwings @targs-on-zorses @barbieaemond @arabellasleopardcoat

"GWAYNE!" I stick my head out of the carriage window. I scoff as I watch the armored man walk off, "you can not be serious!"

"Serious?!" he snaps, turning back to me with a raised brow and a tense jaw. He rubs his lips as he storms back towards me. His glare is so grave that I actually lean back into my seat and clench my skirt.

Gwayne stomps his foot on one of the steps up the carriage. A line forms between his brows, "you have WORN me!"

I grow tense as flails his hand around.

"I have done nothing but exact your cumbersome and frivolous commands with patience!" He snaps, "and now that I've met my limit yet you have the gall to ask me if I am being serious!?!"

Gwayne's eyes are wide and clearer than the skies. His pointed stare is piercing and I cannot deflect it as he speaks to me of my unreasonableness. Admittedly, my requests were some meant to annoy him, but I did not expect him to act so acridly. I mean, surely he was accustomed to it by now. Was I truly becoming too much to bear for him?

His face is flushed with rage. I stare at him, unable to speak, for in truth I did not know how to meet his apparently genuine frustration.

"Oh," he scoffs, chuckles bubbling out his throat, "she does not speak, for there is nothing else true to say." He grips the carriage door, "what? Have you realized you do work me worse than your own employed servants? That you ask of me more than what I am required of?"

"But it is my right!" I pipe up, though my voice is still small, "you must accompany me wherever I so wander."

Gwayne's jaw feathers, "I am tasked to protect you from peril and to prevent you from doing the unwise," he steps back, "not to carry your clothes and hang them in your wardrobes!"

I stare at him, dread building in my stomach.

"What?!" he quips, "do you truly not see the brunt of my frustrations?"

"... I do not think it unreasonable to-" I gaps when he closes the door with unnecessary force before storming away.

In truth, the gesture was harsher than it needed to be and bothers me more than it should. There is a tightness to my chest as I slowly open the door and watch the man so readily forsake me. Against myself, my eyes begin to prick with tears.

"Gw-" I shut my mouth at the sound of my voice breaking. I chew my lower lip and take deep breaths to calm myself.

I did not mean to make him cross— not like that. I feel my throat tighten as I replay what just happened. Guilt eats at me more each second and soon salt cascades down my cheeks. I sit there until the coachman knocks and asks if we should away. I dismiss him and tell him I will stay here for a little while.

I don't. It feels like an hour passed of me trying not to cry, crying, and calming myself. I start when someone knocks on my carriage door.

"My Lady Lannister?" a deep voice speaks, making me wipe my face in a panic.

I try to stifle my sniffle and use my skirt to dry my tears.

"Tis Ser Harwin Strong. You cannot leave your carriage here."

I clear my throat, but my voice still betrays me with a crack, "ap-ologies. I will have it m-" but my coachman is not here. I sigh and stare at my lap. My lips wobble as helplessness creeps up on me.

A prolonged moment of silence ensues before the man outside speaks again, "my lady... are you well?"

I huff and concede to simply opening the door.

I wipe my philtrum on my sleeve and feel twice as dreadful as I see the dark haired and bearded man outside my carriage. He is a beauty. His blue eyes narrow in concern, "my lady."

I shake my head and gather my skirts.

He instinctively reaches out a hand to me and assists me as I exit my ride. Once I am stood before him, I realize just how tall and broad he is. His brows tighten as he releases my hand. I offer him a smile, "I beg your pardon for the inconvenience. I do not have anyone to move the carriage."

Ser Harwin shakes his head, "one of the stable boys can move it." He turns over his shoulder and hollers for someone to do just that. A boy approaches us, nodding politely before climbing up the driver's seat to do what was instructed of him.

My stomach rolls when the towering man looks back at me. His demeanor is starkly juxtaposed to his stature. He ghosts a hand on my shoulder and raises an arm. He leads me off to the side and speaks softly, "is there anything I can assist you with, my lady?"

I shake my head, "I am well."

He nods and clutches his hands once we find ourselves standing just by the entrance of the Keep, "forgive me, but as a guard of the City Watch, it is my duty to uphold justice. I cannot stand idle in the face of trickery."

My brows quirk at his words. I tilt my head, "do you call me a liar, ser?"

"Yes," he answers simply.

My lips part as his brazen admission.

"True, it is not uncommon for one to weep with joy, but I recognize the distress laid upon your brow," he shakes his head, "would it not be simpler for you to say you require nothing of me than to pretend you are well?"

His words make me choke. I feel my eyes begin to fog with tears.

Ser Harwin's face falls. He raises his hands, "forgive me. I only meant-"

"No," I mumble, "you are right. I injure myself! I speak before I think and create inconveniences for entertainment." I scratch my tears away before they can fall. I look up to the man, feeling dread bite at me. I resist my instinct to slip further into my emotions and try to speak as evenly as possible, "the truth is... I had a... disagreement with my ward... we always get into disagreements, but... this time it was visceral."

The man shifts on his leg, "might I ask what the disagreement was over?"

"He says I work him like a dog, that I ask much more than what he ought to do," I sniffle, "and... perhaps it is true," I evade his gaze by turning to the sky. My lips quiver, "but I did not realize my presence was so heavily insufferable." I look back at him, "I am easy on the eyes, am I not?"

The man chuckles softly, "your features are quite comely indeed, Lady Lannister."

I nod once, "that is the only correct response, ser."

A rich chuckle fills the space between us. He hums and raises a hand, "have you expressed your orders were mere reasons to keep his company?"

My expression drops at his words. I laugh but it goes dry when I realize he spoke no jest. "Ser, my ward is Gwayne Hightower. He loathes me just as I loathe him."

"And do you normally weep for your enemies?" he tilts his head.

"I weep because he regards me so cruelly!" I snap in defense, "it is most twisted for one as he to raise his voice and show aggression to one such as I!"

Ser Harwin sighs.

I wipe my philtrum, feeling my body tremble with a mix of emotions.

"What was this errand you needed to be chaperoned to?"

I gulp as I bring my hands to my hips. I debate the sincerity of his words and decide he does not have the face of a man who would use my words against me. I huff, "the tailor's. I was to have a new dress made for me for-"

His brows quirk at my abrupt halt.

I feel blood rush up my neck, but I decide to ignore it and speak with as much scorn as I could muster, "Gwayne's nameday celebration."

I observe him carefully, ready to pounce and pound him if he so wishes to berate me for the honest admission. In truth, I am taken aback by the curtness of his reply. He nods and offers me an arm, "if it pleases you, I can accompany you to the tailor myself. I have finished my patrol and have nothing better to do."

My eyes dart from the curls framing his face to his meaty arm. My lips part as I find the words to say, "would you... rather not rest for the day?"

"My honor would not allow me after beholding a lady in her distress."

I stare at his arm for a few seconds and cautiously take it.

A good while passed until Gwayne returned to the stables to find his irritating lady. When he sees the Lannister carriage parked, he sighs and marches over, preparing himself to meet the rage of the woman that was still sitting inside in protest.

"Will you sleep-" he starts but stops when he opens the door to nothing. He raises a brow and closes the door. His attention falls on the passing servant, "you. Where is the lady of this carriage?"

The man looks at him then the carriage.

"Lady Lannister," Gwayne clarrifies.

He perks in recognition, "the lady Lannister and ser Strong headed to the tailor on horseback."

"On horseback," the knight scoffs in disbelief, "Lady Lannister?" his voice fades into a laugh. And he so enjoys himself laughing for a moment before sighing, "why, I applaud the good ser for his powers of persuasion."

Upon realizing that he no longer needed to be here, Gwayne grins and nods at him, "thank you my good man. Your news has made my day."

With that he walks off and heads to his quarters.

The next day, Gwayne has a spring to his step as he heads down the hall.

I am in the middle of having my hair fixed when I hear a knock on my door. I look at the reflection from the mirror before me, "come in."

I behold Gwayne and his grin as he struts towards my bed. He leaps into it, landing on his chest. He instructs one of my servants to get him a cup of wine. Each of these things would normally be cause to chew him up; all of these combined would make me unleash upon him the wrath due to his impertinence, and yet, I find myself uncaring of his blatant misbehavior. I merely instruct my servant to fetch the sapphire necklace that match my velvet dress and sit tight by my vanity.

Gwayne takes the wine that is served to him and sips before speaking out, "I hear Lord Harwin Strong was he who accompanied you to town yesterday."

I ignore him in lieu of twirling the baby hairs by my ears.

"And on horseback, no less," he takes another sip, "how ever did he get you to ride a horse by yourself?"

"I didn't," I turn to my servant who returns with my jewels, "we rode on the same horse."

Gwayne stills. He scrunches his face at the cup in his hand then looks at me, "what?"

I smile at myself on the mirror as the necklaces is clasped around my neck. I adjust the blue stone that sparkled between my collarbones and admire the look of it.

He sits up from the bed, careful not to spill his drink, "you rode the same horse?"

"Of course we rode the same horse," I roll my eyes, "he is not a fool who expects me to enjoy such sport."

The red haired man raises his brows. He waits for me to expound further, but finds I am distracted by my reflection. He scoffs, sipping again more before saying, "I pity the steed."

I grin at myself, pleased with my image.

"I pity the steed," he repeats, "that had to carry a knight, a brat, and her hundred dresses."

My eyes dart to him. He is already looking at me from the mirror. "He did not ride with me on the way back. He is not cruel like you."

"So he walked?" his forehead curls, "and on the way back, no less." He scoffs once more before drinking again, "well, the tailor is not that far."

I inspect my attire one last time before standing and heading to the bed. Gwayne lifts his eyes; the corner of his lips soon follow. He shifts on his spot and drinks deeply.

"You are dismissed, Hightower."

He licks his lips as his brows furrow, "what?"

I tilt my head and clasp my hands together, "you do so love making sport of me repeating myself."

Gwayne pulls his head back before standing. He lifts his nearly empty cup, "are you saying you— you have no plans for the day?" He purses his lips, "no errands you wish to force upon my being."

I clench my teeth but manage to pull a smile. Gwayne finds such endearment in the forced grins, not that he would ever admit so. I nod in agreement.

"So," he holds his cup with both hands, "I am free to do what I will for the day."

"Even more so to do it as far away from me as possible," I raise my hands before walking towards him to push him out of my room.

The man chuckles as he finishes what is left of his wine. He manages to hand the empty cup to one of the servants just before we both step out of the room. He licks his lips and tilts his head at me.

The smile that spreads on his face makes my stomach roll and I combat it with a glare, "do not wait on me. I will be promenading with a friend."

"Promenade?" he chuckles. The lines on his cheek remain as he raises his brow. He looks me once over, eyes lingering on the sapphire on my décolletage, "and pray tell, who in the Keep has merited the friendship of someone so high-nosed as you?"

"Ser Harwin Strong."

His grin falters.

I do not care to wonder why as I walk off and meet the man I named in the gardens as we had arranged.

Gwayne watches. He is left alone in the corridor. He chuckles to himself and heads off to the library to unwind. The closer he inched to his destination however, the more sour the taste in his mouth became. Before he even comes near the library, he finds himself marching off to look for gods knows what he'll find.

And it seems the gods do want him to find the source of his sourness. As he marched down one stairwell, he heard an unmistakable sound of laughter that made his ears perk. He heads to the hall and looks out the window.

There, he sees a man stood in front of a woman sat upon a bench, both of them giggling and both of them in blue. His eye twitches as the dark haired fool carelessly picks a flower from a bush and offers it to her.

Gwayne finds no relief when she does not take it, for instead it seems she instructed him to place the flower on the side of her hair.

"Ha," he scoffs, pulling away from the window, "promenade, says she? Ha!" Gwayne shakes his head as his feet take him back towards the library, "neither of them are walking. HA!"

Gwayne cannot help the way his hands clench and unclench as he storms off. He scoffs once again, "fucking Strong," the ire in his chest is molten, prickly, and painful as he adds, "fucking Lannister."

[dmitriene]

THOUGHTS ABOUT CAVEMAN SIMON AND VILLAGER READER.

synopsis: spring has come, and with it the time for sacrifices to someone, who lives far from people and scares everyone who pokes their noses into the forest, and what could be better than bribing the one you fear, so you were chosen as the one who will bear all the gifts deep into the forest.

cw: fluff, comfort, smut, possible dubcon, story set not in modern time and might be unrealistic, not based on real knowledge about cave people, possible ooc simon since he's a caveman, virgin reader, mentions of cannibalism (not in action), biting, licking, groping, simon is rough around the edges, pet names, cunnilingus with dubious consent, simon is inexperienced, male and female intimacy, many mentions of bare flesh, overstimulation, crying, aftercare, kinda kidnapping. pairing: caveman simon ghost riley x villager fem reader

author's note: this idea was born from an absolutely spontaneous conversation with @suimon, and i'm grateful to her, because without her encouragement i wouldn't decide to write such an interesting story, which is kind of new for me, but i still hope those who will read it enjoy, it's my first attempt on writing this kind of plot, that ended up being 4.5k words.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

long melted snow, allowing fresh green grass to break through the once dissipated white fluff of snow, bright flowers decorating endless meadows and forests surrounding the village exactly along the perimeter — all this brings with it spring, warm weather, fresh juicy fruits and vegetables, and after them the time for a sacrifices.

behind the forest clearing, where the trees become thicker and seem to be getting darker, lives one whose cave, the exact location of which not many people know, are afraid to approach, and you never heard the exact answer, the exact reason, but everyone was afraid of this place more than fire, but were justified by a man who was frightening to the point of trembling, as if they had seen a living ghost.

naturally, you had never seen him, and you treated his stories as if they were fairy tales — an attempt to intimidate the kids from going too far during walks, nothing more, or so it seemed to you, until you were chosen as the one who would go to him with the onset of spring with fertile gifts, an attempt to appease the so-called monster, which terrifies the entire village with its very existence, and you couldn’t understand why you should go to the one you’re afraid of, and also with gifts?

but one way or another, it was not in your authority to refuse the election of the head of the village and the people, so you were dressed up in the best dress from your meager wardrobe, the white fabric flowing to your feet seemed as soft as silk, an absolutely light linen, diluted a wreath woven from fresh, sickly sweet flowers, and in your hands a basket of the freshest fruits and vegetables, with a rope on your wrist, a thick plexus leading to the neck of a good, well-fed cow, the devil knows what he will do with the poor, as you would think, animal, but one way or another — your task is to give, even if you looked the most appetizing here.

walking through the forest is difficult, especially when, of all the attempts to navigate, you only have — “go straight ahead and stop when you see the cave„ and the only thing left to do is to listen, periodically stop when the cow bends down to nibble fresh grass, and then walk again until feeling of dull pain in the legs, due to the fact that making your way through trees and large branches with almost bare feet is uncomfortable, a little painful, and you have to pick up the white dress in your hands so as not to get it dirty, trying to maintain a festive look as possible, not drop the basket, and still get to this damned place.

more and more doubts creep into your head, maybe no one lives there at all, or does, but it’s just a wild animal, and villagers just couldn’t see it in the dark clearlier?

but it’s hard to believe that in the thicket, which every time becomes darker and denser, in which there are more and more bushes and broken branches, and somewhere where there are even tree trunks lying — someone really lives, and while thoughts are wandering around your head like a prodigal wind, and the path completely disappears under your feet, you finally reach the right place, meeting your eyes with a stone cave, assembled from stones in a stable structure, sprinkled with greenery, moss and tree trunks.

really someone’s abode, albeit open, and looking as if it could become your undoing.

even the poor animal seems to be enveloped in fear, the cow bursts into a loud moo, resting her hooves on the ground, and with all due respect, you cannot push such a weight behind you, but you will not let her escape, tying the poor thing by a rope and to a tree trunk nearby, allowing her to calm down a little, to be distracted by tufts of grass, while your gaze rushes forward into the darkness of the cave, and your legs tremble slightly.

— “well.. here i come, cave man, huh..„ slips from your lips encouragingly to your own self, although your voice trembles, but you cannot return to the village with the same full hands, and in any case, you will most likely be sent again after this, damn old people, so the only way is forward.

the branches crunch under your feet, it seems to you, until you notice glimpses of animal bones, and it’s as if you are tugging from the inside, your step immediately quickens, and you practically stumble, clutching the basket to your chest and swallowing nervously, saying in your mind over and over — “it doesn't belonged to someone, it doesn't belonged to someone„ but it didn’t get any easier, as if the deeper you went, the more terrible it became, there was only pitch darkness ahead, not planning to make way for you even for a second, so you walk, almost blindly, closing one eye and making your way with the other.

— “is.. is someone there? hello??„

your voice echoes against the stone walls, but it becomes clearer under your feet, and a little brighter ahead, so you continue to walk even despite the dead silence, step by meek step, getting out to the center of the cave, where the walls become wider, and your eyes get used to darkness, letting small details immediately scatter before your eyes — some kind of wooden cabinet, a small rectangular table with a single chair, and above it a shelf with plates, everything is just like in your own house in the village, however, the bed is not very similar to the usual one, full of skins, located quite low, and you hesitantly step deeper, saying

— “hey?.. i'm, uhm.. i mean no harm, hello? someone?„

your voice sounds a little quieter, patient, as you walk to the table and allow yourself to place that same basket on it, carefully adjusting it along with the vegetables and fruits mixed in it, before moving away, smiling at the more welcoming composition, besides, it decorated a small surrounding emptiness, you even forgot for a while that you were in a cave, you felt comfortable, until the moment you turned around, noticing a dark figure in the corner that turned around sharply, and you screamed uncontrollably.

a large, massive figure in the very corner of the cave turns to face you, demonstrating its immensity and body, hidden under only one piece of fabric, vaguely reminiscent of pants, but what catches you, or rather scares you, is the skull attached to his face, and the skull would be less frightening if it belonged to an animal, but the shape was human like, separated from the back and leaving only the front, somehow attached to a dark piece of fabric stretched over the man’s face, showing the world only his sunken, dark eyes.

simon overreacts to the sound, furrowing his brows and clenching his hands into fists that hang on either side of his wide hips, not liking it when someone barges in uninvited, especially like this, but watching you shake like a cornered rabbit , he softens, and at the same time resolutely begins to walk in your direction, without warning, which makes your heart jump right up to your throat and back into your chest when you calm a bit inside, but still take a couple of steps back from approaching figure.

— “uh, h-hi? i'm sorry, i must scared you.. i-i screamed pretty loud, yeah?„

you babble, the words fly out of your soft lips hastily and with an attempt to justify yourself, and he freezes, breathing somehow displeasedly through his nose and causing his bare chest to heave, but still, he grumbles somehow approvingly, tilting his head to the side, as if having mercy on you and giving the opportunity to justify yourself, and you don’t dare to miss it.

— “uh, i was sent from village, you know, not far from here! i brought you some fresh vegetables and fruits, and cow.. you know, that does moo„ the words come out in one breath, while you spin around, pointing first at the basket that suddenly appeared on his table, then towards the exit, talking about the cow, telling him about it as if you were talking to a child, as if mistaking him for a completely savage, and simon squeezes out a rough, dry laugh, crossing his burly arms over his wide, scarred chest, cutting off your explanations

— “i know what a cow is„

his voice is hoarse, tart like coffee beans on the tongue, and you stop, taking a deep breath.

simon has already realized that you are from that stupid village full of fools who take him for some terrible animal, but instead of the usual fear like in other people’s eyes, in yours he sees some doubt and sincere guilt, like in a child’s who was scolded by his parents, and this causes amusement in his gaze, a flutter in his light eyelashes

— “i'm, sorry.. it's just, the villagers acted like you are some kind of wild animal, and i.. i thought..„

the words get confused in your head and on your tongue, one way or another, you, even if not for long, believed to the words of the people living in the village, believed that he was less human than many, now trying to justify his honor and your words, standing under his gaze and trembling as if leaf in the wind, your legs shook as you squeezed them together, feeling his strange, ardent gaze where your plush thighs began behind the thin fabric, and goosebumps ran down your skin as his lips stretched into a wide, wild grin.

you stand before his eyes like a prettiest gift, a prey — you are shaking like a little rabbit, or a newborn doe, as if your legs are about to lose control of your weight and collapse on the stone floor, even though a carpet of someone’s skin lies under your feet, he wouldn’t want you to return back to the village in a deplorable state, or maybe you yourself were sent as a sacrifice?

he doesn't know, because you look incredibly attractive and alluring in that light outfit with just panties underneath, the silhouette of the fabric of which he can see on your hips before his gaze goes up to where your round, soft breasts are hiding under the finest cloth, and up to the strands of your hair, decorated with a wreath of fresh flowers, he knows it by the sweet smell and by the fact that he has already seen such in the forest, and simon has never tasted people, has not eaten human flesh — but looking at you, at the softness, at the sweetness, maybe he should give it a try?

— “i never tasted human flesh before„ words roll off his tongue in advance of rational thoughts, a rich baritone from the thin line of pale lips behind the fabric of the mask and the shape of the skull where he licks them like a predator.

and you are theprey, the one which trembles and whose eyes widen when you hear his unexpected speech, wild, causing the blood in your veins to freeze and your legs to obey the instinct of escape, and you take off from your place, turn around on the thin sole of your sandals and move your body towards the exit and impenetrable the darkness from which you came, which previously let you in — and will no longer let you go without the permission of its owner.

you can’t even hear simon’s steps behind you, because of how adrenaline is pumping in your ears and blood echoes like white noise in the background, as his figure wraps around yours like a shadow and pulls you, he clings to the light fabric with dirty fingers and squeezes with a heavy weight around your waist, first with his fingers, then with his hand, heavy bonds that drag you into the air and there’s no point in even twitching your legs, he immediately turns you around in his arms, places your soft flesh in his palms, relishing in the softness, warmth, fingers greedily kneading the soft, supple skin between his fingers on top of the now slightly stained fabric, pressing you into a cold stone wall as you close your eyes tightly.

your body is trembling, you’re waiting for the touch of someone else’s teeth on your body, a sharp flash of pain, surrendering to the clutches of creeping death in the guise of a person without resistance, having resigned yourself in advance, even on the threshold of this cave, even when the dark, densely trees swallowed you in the depths of the forest, but no pain comes, no sensation of rough, sharp teeth in the skin, just his hands that slide from your butt, where he shamelessly touched you, to your hips and thighs, tracing the skin and bones over your dress, forcing you to twitch, squeezing your legs together.

something inside you is twisting shamefully hotly, curling into a coil in your lower abdomen and setting all your nerve endings on fire, you still don’t look, your eyelashes and eyelids are trembling, and simon takes pleasure in your instinctive fear, akin to the animals he mercilessly catches in the depths of the forest, kneeling in front of you just as he once knelt in front of them, but you were distinguished from a dead animal by your vitality, sweet aroma, soft warm body which he wanted to taste until greedily accumulating saliva in his mouth.

— “pretty„

he growls low from his throat, causing you to flush with a flash of blush, your fingertips prickling nervously, it seems that he’s saying this from a sadistic point of view, not really to you, rather than to your body, to what he will eat, and you refuse to look at the eyes of your fear, even when rough, calloused hands run along your legs until he lays them on his broad shoulders, lifts up the dress that gets in the way, exposes the skin to your thighs and carelessly leaves them rumpled to dangle there, when his bare mouth pierces your skin and licks.

your eyes immediately widen following the hitching breath that flies through your parted lips, and you look at him, this beast, this man, standing in front of you on both knees, and even between your legs he seems immense, but strangely tender, when he licks and gently bites a path to your thighs along the soft flesh, pressing his nose into it, you see it’s slightly crooked form briefly, the black fabric falls to cover everything except his mouth, which greedily tastes you like no one has ever tasted.

his dark eyes meet yours fleetingly, yours are frightened, his are peaceful and satisfied, the corners of his lips rise forward and spread on his face, and you feel every movement of his lips on you in dangerous proximity as he crawls higher and higher, settling between supple thighs with his head, sticking his nose and mouth into a place that attracts him with sweetness and wetness, a small sticky spot on the thin fabric, into which he buries himself greedily, opening his mouth wide and licking the fat stripe along your panty clad pussy, burying his nose in your twitching clit and grinning at the reaction of your body, as well as at the quiet, ringing moan that arose from the depths of your throat.

the light, thin fabric gets wet from the amount of saliva in his mouth, mixing with the moisture that is released from your hot, bothered pussy, causing the gusset of your panties become almost transparent, as simon buries himself deeper, without asking, he just takes it, squeezing your thighs until there is a slight, uncomfortable pain burning on your skin, as your legs kick forward and attempt to squeeze together because of the new sensations that you don’t understand, didn’t experienced before, but he’s not going to let you escape just yet, but you squeak, a shushed, soft sound, which makes him soften nonetheless.

simon's gaze studies you through his light eyelashes, he sees the conflicting emotions on your face, how your chest is heaving, how moisture collects on your lash line, threatening to release and turn into tears, so his arms wrap around and squeeze your legs a little more carefully, stroking the soft skin with awkward, uncertain circular movements of his fingers, he hasn’t interacted with people for a long time, especially in the moments like these, when his face is buried between your thighs while he laps lightly against your panties.

fear slowly leaves your body along with rational thoughts, you lose your vigilance in the hands of a stranger, a person who shamelessly touches your private parts, but touches you so well, so carefully, igniting that warmth in the bottom of your belly more and more each time and allowing you to twitch, squirm as much as it possible while being held half in the air, thus only pushing your hips forward, towards his wet mouth, and shuddering with pleasure and new flashes when his nose nuzzles harder into your little clit, making your toes curl, and he growls.

— “so sweet„

comes out as a muffled growl, and you don’t know if he’s talking about you or your pussy, but he licks you more actively, making your folds stick to the absolutely wet fabric of your panties, while he slurps and sucks your folds and clit, his movements are messy, uncertain, he's been isolated from people and any contact with them with his own hands, but that doesn't stop him from having a taste, as his tongue runs between your folds and he continues to tease you with slow, exploring movements.

you make more and more unusual to yourself sounds, quiet moans, breathy mewls, wet squelches that he swallows whole as your hands find support on his head and you dig your fingers into his mask, as you grow more and more impatient in your movements, just in time when simon gets tired of this unnecessary, wet piece of fabric, a barrier to the sweetest fruit and nectar in his life, so he bares his teeth and clings to the waistband of your underwear, helping himself with his fingertips and tearing them away down your legs, exposing your fluttering, wet hole to his hungry eyes and mouth.

the mere sight leaves him swelling with hardness in his pants, and your gaze catches on the silhouette of his cock, leaning heavily against his meaty thigh and bulging against the thin fabric, one little sight had you swallowwing nervously before your eyes roll back from the sharp contact of his bare lips with your bare cunt, he swipes his thick tongue once, twice, licking your wet folds and slurping your juices as an endless source of quenching his thirst, he licks and licks until you begin to lose yourself in how long you've been in this position, where your folds and clit swell, and simon just presses himself unexpectedly deeper before suddenly diving in further.

a loud sigh and a whiny moan spread through the cave, his tongue curls at the tip, when he accidentally, but with pressure, pushes your folds apart and into your fluttering hole, his tongue flattens against your entrance, before licking and thrusting inside, into the warmth of your velvety walls that tighten around his muscle right there, and he growls with satisfaction, akin to a muffled purr, moving his head up and down, smearing his entire jaw and lips in your slick, surrendering fully to your softness and warmth.

every movement of his tongue inside leaves you trembling, your legs intuitively spread apart further along his broad shoulders, your hips find a natural rhythm and constantly buck forward with every lick of his fat tongue against your walls and his sucking on your clit, noticing what reaction it causes in you and trying to hear more of your absolutely innocent, wanton squeaks and moans, enjoying the knowledge that you act and feel this way because of his actions, so he presses his knees into the stone floor harder and leans forward further.

your stomach twists more and more, and you push his face away from you with sharp, broken whimpers, when his tongue touches your spongy spot again and again, your body seems to be engulfed in flames, your spine arches away from the wall, resting your entire weight on his face and curling over him, breathing loudly and shakily when the tip of his tongue thrust rapidly, abusing your sweet, spongy spot with his hungry, drooling mouth.

he only grunts as you lean your full weight on him, continuing his assault on your throbbing and clenching hole, alternating between grazing his tongue against your folds and clit, or thrusting his muscle deep inside your core in fast, albeit languid movements, just until your loud whimpers and hoarse mewls echo against his stone walls, and your stomach twists and turns as your body convulses in an unexpected feeling of sudden orgasm, cunt clenches and pulsates around his tongue, letting go of your sweet slick and milky cum for him to have, covering his chin and mouth in the huge amount of liquid that he actively drink and lap up, opening his mouth wide and licking you clean, drinking till the last drop.

simon doesn’t stop, as if not knowing the line, which he doesn’t really know, continuing to run his tongue against your slit and cling to your hole, as he sukles on your clit, your whole body is buzzing strangely, your head begins to ache from the endless pleasure and overstimulation that his actions and touches bring, making everything between your legs swell and tingle, you desperately claw his bare back with your hands, adding to the scarred canvas of his flesh, trying to push, resist, but he doesn’t care, right until a loud sob escapes your lips.

he reacts instantly, making something close to a questioning grumble before retreating slightly between your legs, licking his thin lips around the edges and all your fluids on your thighs, you hang on him like a sack of potatoes, trying to grab his back with your hands and at the same time not allowing him to move away from you normally, quietly, pitifully sobbing, which cause him to growl, and with a rough grip of his wide hands on your hips, unhook you from him.

simon holds you more carefully, more gently, his hands are still shamelessly squeezing and pawing your hips, going down to the swell of your plush ass, touching the skin and also pulling down your dress to cover you and provide you with the minimum comfort possible in your position, where your panties lie torn on the floor, and endless salty tears flow down your raw, cowered in slight blush cheeks, and he feels even more sympathy for you than all the times before, frowning his light eyebrows and pursing his lips.

— “don't cry..„

he mutters in frustration, carefully releasing one hand from under your butt to carefully wipe the wetness of tears from your cheeks, while you sniff your reddened nose, your head and body pulsating with a strange surge of fatigue, there's still an uncontrollable throb between your legs, and the very thought of this feeling makes you sad, as your eyelids gradually get heavier with a dissatisfied whine escaping from the depths of your throat.

— “shh„

simon whispers quietly, shamelessly moving his face closer to yours to lick your wet cheeks, making you frown and grimace, resting your hands weakly on his shoulders before he gently begins to rock you in his bulky arms and press you against his chest, changing your position so that he supports you under your knees and your back rests comfortably on his thick bicep, curling up, and you no longer care about everything that happens.

you were in a comfortable, floating state between sleep and consciousness, not struggling or scratching like most of the little preys he meet, allowing him to carry you carefully away from the far wall and to a place that vaguely resembled a human bed, full of soft animal skins and located closer to the floor, on which he lays you down and immediately wraps you in the warmth of various furs, fleetingly touching the top of your head while carefully stroking your hair, reaching to the already slightly tattered wreath with flowers and throwing it away somewhere, to which you don’t even react, on the contrary, you cuddle in response to his touch with your head and face.

this makes him chuckle hoarsely, a sound that makes your skin crawl, but he carefully lays you down more comfortably and strokes your warm cheek, going down to your shoulder and drawing the same awkward circles here with the tip of his finger until you are taken into deep sleep, first with your mind, then with your body, allowing your eyes to close and plunge into darkness in a place unfamiliar to you, going limp and burying your nose in fur that smells sharply of musk, something tartly foresty and reminiscent of him, plunging you even deeper and further in viscious sleep, following the rough whisper, that is contrasting with his careful, soft touches.

— “sleep well, my pretty sacrifice„

simon mumbles practically under his breath, his dark eyes following every flutter of your eyelashes and the sigh that slips from your parted lips, before making sure that you are in a deep sleep and getting himself up from his haunches, the movement is accompanied by a slight crunch of bones and a grumble from his lips, he looks around his own cave, a torn, damp cloth lying on the floor, a wreath with scattered petals and a basket with some sort of offerings on the table, which he will use later.

for now he rests his hands on his hips, licking his slightly dry lips and looking at the prominent weight between his legs, resting against the fabric of his pants and responding with warm, tingling arousal and slight drippling moisture, but he will take care of this later, for now, simon will collect all the unnecessary garbage from the floor and get it as far away as possible, and then take care of the cow you brought with you from the village, even if he doesn't prefer to use meat from someone else's hands, he can definitely let it pass now, because he will need to persuade you to stay with him, as soon as you wake up.

simon will not allow something like you to escape, he has denied himself contact and warmth for too long, and now, having touched the forbidden fruit, he knows one thing for sure — he will never let it go again and will not refuse it, so you are in his abode for a long time.

[hyunsvngs]

𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 - lee minho x fem!reader

wc: 5.8k

cw: this is a piss fic, you have been warned - don't like don't read, established d/s dynamics in a relationship, SMUT MDNI.

synopsis: your boyfriend has something he wants to try in bed. you didn't expect to like it so much.

a/n: like i said before this is a piss fic, if you don't like don't read! thank u to the sweet girl who commissioned this & thank u to my babies may and nessa for proofreading and also my ems <3 i was super nervous about this so i hope u like <3 smut warnings ofc under cut

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sw: PISS, established d/s dynamics, dom!minho, sub!reader, subspace, SERIOUSLY THERE’S PISS, face fucking, oral (m rec), very negotiated kink, minho calls reader a plethora of pet names, nipple play, one (1) face slap, minho’s condescending and MEAN, choking, vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, degradation, squirting, reader calls minho sir briefly, brief aftercare but more offscreen!!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It’s always daunting when Minho gets like this. You know exactly what’s going to go down tonight - you’ve discussed it extensively. You always have to discuss it extensively. Minho is nothing if not a good dom, and there’s rules and regulations that you have to adhere to, even if he is your boyfriend.

It still catches you off guard. He paces across the room to your shared wardrobe, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and exposing his veiny forearms. You’re perched on the bed, the exact way he told you to be in your plain black underwear. The fresh sheets are a welcome coolness on your warm skin. You’re overheating in excitement. You can’t wait. 

He’s going to piss on you tonight. He’s going to piss on you tonight, or maybe even in you, he’d said - he wanted to make you well and truly messy. Just the way he liked you. He told you he’d be mean, maybe even meaner than normal, and you’d agreed to it all before climbing into his lap and begging him to take you on the flimsy dining table chair in your kitchen in all of your excitement. He had chuckled, brushing a hand over your head with a teasing little “you want it that bad, huh?”. He still fucked you, so your plan went as hoped.

“I want to talk to you about something before we start, jagi,” His voice is smooth, low in volume, yet you hear every word loudly. You nod in response, and he turns and blinks at you, slow and cat-like. Oh, yeah. You were forgetting yourself already.

You blush in embarrassment of how far gone you are already, and he smiles, soft and barely noticeable. Fond. “Yeah, Min?”

The blush only continues to spread when he finally, finally climbs onto the bed next to you. He’s still in his work clothes, shirt tight on his broad pecs and his trousers tight on his thighs. You try not to stare. You fail, and he chuckles, using two fingers to prop your chin up to look directly at his eyes.

“This scene is a little harder than the other ones we’ve done,” He looks at you. It would feel scrutinising, the way he’s sizing you up, but his eyes are so full of fondness you can’t feel perceived at all - only admired. “I’m a little worried you may fall into subspace. Do you know what that is?”

He’s using his dominant voice on you, you swear. The tone of voice that’s level, not quite monotone but very, very straightforward and firm. Almost strict. It makes you rub your thighs together in need. Your boyfriend is so sexy when he’s like this. 

A quick scratch to your chin has you blinking back into reality. Yes. “Yes, I do know what that is. I’ve never done that before though, have I? So I probably won’t now, and-”

“We don’t know that,” He’s firm when he cuts you off, but presses a kiss to your nose nonetheless. “I need to know if you’re okay with me continuing if I notice you getting all floaty, jagi. I won’t if you don’t want me to. This is all in your hands, yeah? You know you run this show.” 

He chuckles, lightening the mood, but he’s right. When Minho first introduced you to this, you realised very quickly that despite the dominant being physically in charge, it was definitely the submissive that held the reins. It’s hard giving yourself over to someone so viscerally - it’s a vulnerable state to be in, letting someone decide your limits and decide what’s best for you.

Despite that, you’d let Minho fuck you outside in six foot snow, so you were definitely down for being fucked in subspace.

“Yes. Yeah, I want you to- I think it’d be hot, I think,” You’re babbling already, and Minho smiles again, his teeth glinting in the low light of your lamp. “I think it would be hot if you carried on, and I was like- all fuzzy, and stuff. You know?”

It’s silent for a beat, and then he presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “Cute. Remember I love you, jagi, okay?”

Oh. Oh, you were starting? He normally only said that before you started, and before you can question him, he’s pressing his mouth against yours firmer, harder. It’s messy, the way he dominates your mouth instantly and uses one hand to tangle in your hair, yanking your hair back. You whimper against his lips, and he bites your bottom lip in response, finally moving to press you down to the bed with him on top of you. He starts to trail kisses down your face and your neck, and you can't help but let out a small noise of excitement. Before you can beg him to leave his mark on you, he quickly moves back up to your lips and starts to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth in an act of possession. You wrap your arms around him and bring him closer, feeling yourself getting a lot more than just worked up.

His chest is muscled, the slightly toned soft muscle that only makes sense on Minho. He’s not heavy on top of you, only a presence where he licks and sucks into your mouth until you’re leaking into your panties. He pulls away, his lips dropping to your neck, and you can’t be anything more than pliant the way you let him use your skin and mark you as his. You are his. Mentally, emotionally, physically - any way he wants you, you’ll let him.

“I love this body,” Minho groans, his voice low and gravelly. “Such a filthy fucking body. You’re gonna let me piss on it, aren’t you?”

You whine, loud and unabashed, and Minho chuckles. It’s a puff of air against the exposed column of your neck and your hips cant up, searching for friction. 

“Oh, you are,” His hand moves down to your bra, searching through the lace for your pebbled nipple. The lace is thin, pitch black and almost sheer, and a grin forms on his face when he manages to pinch your nipple meanly. “Look at how excited you are for it. Your nipples are so hard, are you that excited for my piss?”

You try to nod in response, but a quick slap against your cheek using his spare hand has you reeling to try and form words. You’re babbling before you can even think. “Y-Yes! Yes, Minho, I’m excited. I can’t wait, I wanna- I wan’ taste it, will you let me? Please?”

He hums in consideration, yanking down the cups of your bra to expose your tits to him. He was right - your nipples are hard and pebbled, dusky against your flesh, and he ducks down to engulf one in his mouth. His lips are full, plush like pillows, and his tongue darts around your nipple in small kitten licks. Soft, wet, warm. Pliant. His.

Minho’s bunny teeth are quick to bite at the peak, and you whine, back arching up to get more of the painful pleasure. He coos at this, finger running over your areola once when he pulls back from your chest. He sits back on his haunches, fingers deftly making quick use of his belt. The way he pulls the belt from the loops on his trousers have you remembering all the times he’s whipped you with it, and your eyes go blurry. You’re staring directly at the extremely prominent bulge in his trousers as if you somehow have x-ray vision and can see his cock in all its glory already.

“I’m going to fuck your face,” He explains, pushing down the expensive branded boxers to his thighs. His thighs are thick, muscled from years of dance, and you nod at his words despite having your vision solely trained on the bulging muscles. You can’t even keep your attention there for long - his cock springs out, hard and flushed and so big, so thick in the tight ring he forms around the base. The veins look as though they could be practically throbbing beneath the skin with arousal. “I’ll fuck your face, and I’ll piss down your throat. Do you want that? Tell me.”

He’s asking you, and you can’t believe it. Of course you want it, but you respond anyway. “I want it. I want it so bad, Minho. How do you want me? On the floor, on my knees? Or do you-”

“On the floor,” He looks towards the ground, pleased with himself when you heed his commands immediately. You’re quick to dive off of the bed and sink to your knees on the floor, and Minho lets out a fond chuckle before standing in front of you, ever the image of dominance. The hardwood floor doesn’t save your knees, still feeling hard and uncomfortable, and the way the pain bites into your legs has you shifting even more. It turns you on, being used and treated like an object, and being put on the floor to suck cock doesn’t help any. You’re positively ruining your panties by now.

His trousers are pushed down to his ankles, the perfect juxtaposition of black, thick material against his milky skin. His shirt is rolled up just enough for you to see the bottom of his tummy, hairy and soft above his cock. You expect him to keep it on, but you watch in awe as he unbuttons his shirt quickly and throws it to the side. His chest is exposed to you then, all broad muscle and dusky pink nipples against his skin.

He pumps his shaft in his hand a few times for good measure, just barely a few inches from your face, and then he’s tapping the cockhead on your lips. “Open wide. C’mon, kitty cat.”

His tone is condescending, almost patronising, and you hold back a whine. When your lips fall apart, he’s pushing into your mouth before you can even process it. A blistering, feverish pace immediately takes over his hips, and his cockhead is ramming down your throat with only a slight bit of pain beneath all of the pleasure. You try to run your tongue over the tip, to trace the veins with the tip of your tongue, but it’s impossible. He’s using your mouth like he’d use your pussy, unabashed and downright mean.

“Take it,” he grunts, looking ever the ethereal being above you. If you didn’t know him, you’d swear he was an angel - no, a fallen angel, debauched and with black, wiry wings sprouting from his back. Sweat covers the top of his chest, shiny and wet, and his cockhead presses firmly into the back of your throat. Your eyes water with the intense ministrations on your throat, hands aching to reach out and grab onto Minho’s thighs. They stay securely on your own limbs, and Minho groans, his eyes staring down into yours.  “Fucking take it for me. Take my cock, dirty kitty. Don’t you dare fucking cry about it.”

You’d swear he was composed if it wasn’t for the way he was looking down at you. Minho’s mostly quiet in bed, only a few sparse noises, but the fire in his eyes is visible.

The sounds in the room are filthy. Your eyes are hazy already with the force that he’s rutting into your mouth, but when his hand goes into your hair, yanking with all of his might, you hear yourself whine between gags and you’re not even trying to. You’re floating, fuzzy where your boyfriend fucks his cockhead into your mouth - you can’t even consider what’s going on, not too out of it but out of it enough to question what’s actually happening around you. Is this what Minho was talking about before? Subspace?

“Oh, Jesus. Are you feeling fuzzy already, kitty?” He pulls his cock out, tapping the cockhead on your bottom lip. A string of drool attaches his cock back to your mouth and he groans in approval, feline eyes narrowing. “Went down so easy for me, huh? Do you think you can take a little more?”

You’re nodding then, subconsciously, but a slight smile on your face. You want more. You need more. You need his piss, wherever on your body that he deems acceptable - it’s like he’s marking you as his territory. It’s such a primitive act that gets you more than just hot under the collar. If he pisses on you, or in you, it’s as if he sees you as an object that’s beneath him, not worth anything more than his piss. 

“Good,” He muses, and then his hand is forming a tight ring around his length. It’s throbbing, long and thick where it protrudes from his groin with drops of pearlescent precum, and he presses it past your lips again with a small sigh. “I’ve gotta take a piss, kitty cat. I want you to swallow it all for me, and then you can have some milk in that pussy for being good. How’s that?”

You can’t reply, because he’s already bouncing your head on his shaft. He’s resorted to pulling you up and down on his shaft by your hair this time, not grinding his hips rhythmically into the hot, wet cavern you’ve provided. 

“You know, I really thought you’d say no to this,” How the fuck is his voice calm right now? “But then I realised that of course you’d be into it. My filthy little fucking urinal.”

You moan loudly around his shaft. Minho chuckles, and then he’s pulling back again, your throat abused and aching at the alleviation of pressure. His cockhead stays at the entrance of your mouth, and he drops a hand from your hair to pump it a few times, raising an eyebrow at you.

“It’s coming,” He warns. “Are you ready? Are you ready for my piss, filthy bitch?”

You moan, nodding, and when your tongue lolls out of your mouth, Minho lets out a loud groan. It’s primal, and you watch silently as he shakes his head and flutters his eyes closed to try and gain some control of himself. He runs his finger over the slit of his cockhead, and then he’s pushing the tip past your lips again and - oh. 

His piss begins leaking out of his tip, a slow and steady stream that tastes surprisingly a lot like you expected. It’s purely Minho, raw and unfiltered, and you whine and whimper and let him fill your mouth up with his piss. It feels filthy, your pussy positively dripping through your panties and onto the floor by now. The stream floods down your throat even as you continue to gulp it down greedily, and you allow your hands to finally find purchase on his thighs, fingernails digging into the muscle. He allows it, his hands both moving back to your hair to bob you on his tip just a little to get the rest of his piss out.

Minho pulls out of your mouth with a soft noise, his eyes staring down at you almost menacingly. You dip your tongue into his piss-slit once more, moaning at the remnants of the taste, and then you’re whining, loud and un-muffled. 

“Minho,” You say, voice high and needy. You feel as though you want to say so much, you want to beg so much, but nothing is coming out of your mouth. You’re so fucking turned on you feel like you could die. “P-Please. Please, please. I can’t, I can’t, please, please-”

He positively growls. You’re pulled up by two hands underneath your armpits and thrown onto the bed less than unceremoniously, his body sidling up next to you. He’s kicked his trousers off, you notice, body warm and firm next to you.

“Was it that good? Dirty little thing,” He hums, tongue licking one fat stripe up your neck. “C’mere. Let me taste it on you.”

Minho’s lips are firm against yours, and his hands are anything but gentle as he slides them down your body. It’s like he’s igniting you with electricity, every area of skin that he touches feeling warm and too sensitive. His lips trail down your neck, leaving another trail of fire behind them. You’re pliant, letting him pull you by your hair and your throat into his dominating, overwhelming kisses.

His fingers reach your panties, and his finger dips underneath the waistband. You gasp, holding your breath and wishing, praying that he’ll push his whole hand into your underwear, but he simply pulls his finger back with a small amused puff of air. 

“Hnnfg, Minho, Minho, please, I don’t, I can’t-“

Minho leans over you more then, his eyes dark and half-lidded when he stares into yours. His gaze is all-consuming, but there’s a slight hint of a teasing smile on his lips. “Jesus, kitty. Be quiet,” His voice is low, amused, until all signs of a smile drop from his face upon his fingers finally delving into your underwear. His forearm obscures your vision, muscled and veiny, but you can feel the way your wetness immediately drenches his fingertips. His eyes flicker from your face to your core in awe, lips slightly parted. “Fuckin- shit. Jagi, tell me this is a joke. You’re fucking drenched.”

You are. His fingers smear around in your wetness, spreading it all around your folds. He drags his middle and ring finger down to your hole, wet and sloppy, and you look at him with pleading eyes. You’re not sure you could talk even if you wanted to.

Minho simply smiles that toothy smile that you love, eyes crinkling. You’re confused - he’s being nice - until he’s shoving both fingers into you at once. It was a stretch you hadn't been prepared for, and you jolt with a squeal, hands going up to grip onto his forearm. 

“Do you remember what I said before, jagi?” He muses, fingers curling up into that spot that makes you whine. You do whine, legs thrashing around and toes curling against the sheets. “If you have any in there, I’m fucking having it. I want you to piss all over my cock before I fuck you with it, remember? I want you to treat you like the dirty little thing you are.”

You nod, brain still fuzzy and way too overwhelmed. Your pussy squelches loudly around his digits, and his spare hand wraps around your throat in a dangerous grip. It’s not too hard, but definitely there, and you whimper in approval. 

Your eyes roll back into your head at the pace he sets against your g-spot, and after a brief, tight squeeze, Minho removes his hand from your throat in favour of using two fingers on your clit along with his harsh fingering. His arm is curled underneath your waist in a position that must be painful to him, but you ignore it in favour of your own pleasure. 

You feel like you could scream, and you do let out some strangled noise that sounds nothing at all like you. Just when you think it can’t get any worse - or any better, actually - he slides another finger in, stretching you out with three of his digits. You’re dripping down onto his knuckles and you wail, starting to hump against his hand. You’re going to cum embarrassingly quickly.

“You better be fucking thinking of asking for permission, bitch,” Minho hisses in your ear. You moan in response, nodding. Of course you’ll ask. Something about your boyfriend just makes you want to be good. You want to obey him so he continues to give you such nice things. “You don’t make the decisions. I'm the one fucking that hole with my fingers right now, I'll be the one who says you can cum.”

His fingers thrust into you faster, if it was possible, and you thrash around. The movement brings Minho’s cock against your thigh, and you gasp at the realisation that he’s next to you, naked, in all his glory. Your fingernails still dig painfully into his forearm, but he doesn’t seem phased. “Minho, Minho- I’m gon’- please, please, please, I wanna cum, let me come, it hurts, I-“

“Oh, I know, I know. It just feels too good, doesn’t it? You can’t even fucking control yourself, writhing around like that,” He groans, eyes fixated on your face. You know your expression is screwed up in pleasure, eyes watering from the feeling of his fingers inside of you. His fingers begin to slide around on your clit rather than provide any direct pressure due to how wet you’re getting, but you still hump against the sensation with gratitude. You’d never have anything other than gratitude when Minho’s being so nice like this. “You’re behaving like a fucking whore. Beg me for it. Beg me to let a fucking whore like you cum all over my fingers, tell me how good it feels.”

He starts kissing up your neck again with the open-mouthed, wet movements, and you feel like you’re about to burst. Just a little more. Just a little more, and you can, you just have to will your brain to speak. “I-I love sir's fingers, fuck, I love when sir fingers me like this- fuck, sir I'm gonna- can't hold it- I, hnng, I can’t, I don’t- pleasepleaseplease-”

Minho pulls away from your neck with an alarmed little snort. “Sir? God, you are far gone,” He points out, but then he’s pinching your clit meanly with his fingers. It makes you hump his hand a little faster and whine a little louder. It’s quiet for a beat, and then he’s sighing as if he’s annoyed. You swear you catch him rolling his eyes through your blurry vision. “Okay, fine. Go on then, if you want to cum so badly. Cum.”

With one word, you feel like your whole world is falling apart. A gush of wetness bursts from you and all over the bed, probably soaking Minho too. Your ears are ringing and you can feel the tears brimming in your eyes begin to fall, fat streaks of wetness painting your skin. His fingers don’t slow, but he’s groaning in your ear now, coaching you along. He pulls his fingers out, rubbing over your clit with a wet hand that only made you let out another gush everywhere. You were sure you'd screamed.

You wail and thrash through your orgasm, and then you’re panting, body dropping back onto the bed. You don’t register Minho groaning, licking his fingers clean - you only realise he’s moved when he’s on top of you, yanking your soaking wet underwear down your legs and finally unclasping your bra. Your hands go above your head, pliant and willing, letting him take control. You’re fucked dumb by now, anyway. You’d be no use.

“If you had all that in there for me, you have some piss in there,” He muses, and you whine, shaking your head.

“D’nt need to pee, Min,” You insist, head lolling back on the sheets. You’re pliant, and Minho grabs your chin with his hand, making you face him. His ears are burning a shade of delectable pink, the flush travelling over his chest and making him look almost embarrassed. You know this state of Minho all too well, though. He’s so horny he feels like he’s about to explode.

“You do,” He responds, quick as a flash. You whimper as he presses his cockhead into your folds, just barely teasing the ruddy, flushed tip at your hole. Your hands move to grip onto the sheets next to your head, and just when you’re sure he’s going to put it in, Minho leans down, and then his hand is pressing on the bottom of your stomach. You wail, shaking your head. Minho chuckles knowingly. “You need to piss, don’t you?”

You do. Embarrassingly quickly, just from him pressing on your bladder. “I- it’ll make a mess, Min, I can’t, I can’t-”

“I want it to make a fucking mess,” He scoffs, pressing harder. He continues to drag his cock through your sopping wet folds with his other hand, his feline eyes staring at you with a renewed fire burning behind them. He’s daring you to disobey. You would never disobey him. “I want everything you have to give me. Piss all over my cock. Do it.”

You clench your thighs, stomach tensing. It doesn’t take much, only a slight rubbing of Minho’s hand on your tummy and you’re pissing. The stream erupts from you in a messy spurt, and Minho groans, pumping his cock to coat it in your mess. You whine, trying to shift your hips to catch his cock inside of you, but the mess you’re making ensures that it’s too slippery to do so.

“Stay still, you’ll get it in a second,” Minho mumbles, hand tightening around the head of his cock. It’s substantially lubed now, but he still continues to pump it, hand easing up on your stomach. Something about it has your mouth watering, staring at his cock and wondering how it tastes. Maybe he’ll let you suck it clean next time, let you taste his cock mixed with your own piss. “That’s it, kitty. Get sir’s cock nice and wet with your piss. Dirty little thing.”

When the stream finally finishes, you shift against the sheets, soaking wet and definitely a lot more aroused than you were previously. There’s still only one thing on your mind. “Can- can I have it now, please, please?”

Minho nods, his cheeks blazing red. He’s losing his composure. “Yeah. God, yeah, kitty. You can have it, c’mere,” He sighs, finally pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It slides inside easily with the wetness of your pussy and the mess you’d made on him, his thick shaft stretching you out and making you moan out for him. You catch sight of Minho’s eyes rolling back into his head, a long, drawn out noise leaving his lips. “Fuck, this is so fucking dirty. You’re filthy, letting me do this.”

No. You’re not, are you? Are you dirty? “Filthy?” You question, completely in bliss at the feeling of him finally inside you. You’ll be filthy if it means he’ll fuck you. Minho chuckles, and then his hips start to move, a sinuous grind against yours. The noises your pussy is making are beyond debauched, wet, slapping sounds from how soaking wet you are. You whine, bucking your hips up, and Minho lets you, gripping your hips to pull you off of the mattress.

“I’m gonna go harder, okay? I want you to take it for me, all of it,” His voice is close, leaning down to whisper it against the skin of your neck. You nod eagerly, and he pulls your thighs up to rest your ankles on his shoulders. The change in position has his cock hitting you deeper and you gasp, fingers moving to grip on his biceps. He sits back slightly, pulling you closer to him, and then he’s pounding into you. With little to no buildup, you can’t help but squeal, your pussy gushing around his fat length. “You love this, don’t you? My cock, covered in your piss, stretching your little cunt out. You love being filthy for me.”

“Hhnnfg, hhng, Min, Min, Min, you made me pee, you-”

Minho scoffs, hand threading into your hair. He wraps your hair around his fist and pulls, bent half over you while he pounds your pussy into oblivion. “Don’t make stupid fucking excuses for yourself. I can see it in your eyes, you love being like this for me.” 

You whine, tears brimming in your eyes again uncontrollably. You can’t do anything but just lay there, pliant and gripping onto his biceps for him to stretch your pussy out with his veiny fucking cock. It feels almost too good, too overwhelming. The ridges of his shaft are pressing against your walls, causing a delectable friction that has you clenching down on every outwards motion from him. It’s as if your pussy doesn’t want him to leave, and you don’t want him to leave, pulling him close by his arms every time he thrusts inside of you. 

Minho pushes your thighs apart, and then he’s bending you into a sort of mating press. Your legs rest on his upper biceps and his body folds you in half for him, making you whine at the stretch on your muscles. You’re loud, embarrassingly so, little “ah, ah, ah”’s leaving your mouth with every thrust. The change in position allows him to hit your cervix with his length, long and throbbing inside of you, and you’re only louder and more pathetic for him. 

“Can you hear that, kitty cat?” He whispers, and you hold your breath. Once you’ve stopped making so much noise, you can hear it - the sound of your pussy is even louder, wet and messy and when you look down, his cock is soaking with you. With your piss or your slick, you’re not sure, but it has you clenching down deliciously anyway. “I’m fucking your own piss into you, and you’re whining like a little bitch.”

You can’t even make sense of what he’s saying. Your previous slight fuzziness has morphed into full blown floating, and you think you’re crying, but you’re not sure. All you can hear is your own noises, loud and desperate while he ensures your pussy never forgets the shape of his cock. “Ah, ah, I don’t- sir, I don’t, I can’t, I don’t know- ah, oh, I can’t-”

“Ah, fucking hell,” Minho hisses, gritting his teeth. You watch in disappointment as he pulls his cock out of you, forming a tight ring around the base with his fingers. “I need to cum inside you. I need to give you your milk, kitty cat, c’mon. Flip over for me.” 

He tells you to do it, but helps you anyway. You feel his hands go to your hips to flip you over, and then you’re face down, and some part of you finds the strength to push your hips up to present your pussy for him. But, milk? You’ve been good enough for that?

He sinks back inside you, his cock slick and fat and too much for your little pussy. “There you go, jagi. Biiig stretch, feel it,” He moans, and you push your hips back on him easily. In this position, your lips are parted and you can feel yourself drooling up a puddle on the sheets. It adds to the mess, filthy with piss and slick and sweat, and you want Minho to lick it all up and spit it in your mouth. He immediately resumes his punishing pace, hips slapping against your ass with every thrust and hitting that delicious spot inside you so well. “Fuckin’ tight pussy, ah, it’s so good.” 

“H- haa, Minho, have I been good?” You question, eyes blurry and bottom lip slick with your own spit. Minho groans, deep and loud, reverberating through your whole body. He knows you need reassurance, and he nods, a little smile on his face despite his lust-filled, half-lidded eyes.

“You’ve been so good. So good I’m giving you my cum, yeah? Gonna breed that little pussy, filled it with your piss already, needs my cum now,” He’s babbling, which is a sure sign that he’s close - but you can’t even fathom it in your state. “Little girl, kitty cat, so good for me, c’mere.”

You don’t move, but Minho slinks one hand around your hip to rub at your clit. The added pleasure has you jolting with a whine, and Minho lets out an amused puff of air at your reaction. His fingers slide around your clit wet and imprecise, but it’s enough to have you hurtling towards your second orgasm. His cockhead slams against your g-spot, bordering on painful, but the sensation only adds to the throes of bliss he has you tumbling through.

“Min, Min, Min, it’s- ‘s so good, so good, so big, so- Min, Min, I g’ta-”

“You can cum whenever, jagi. Give it to me, I want it,” His voice is higher, more desperate, and you nod eagerly. He sidles over your back, his sweaty chest pressed to your skin, and then he’s pressing his lips against yours.

It’s less of a kiss and more of a messy exchange of spit and breathing into each other's mouths. Minho’s tongue slides against yours as he continues to rub messy circles around your clit, and before you know it, you’re cumming around his cock with a sharp gasp of pleasure against his lips. He swallows your noises, finally engulfing your mouth with his, and you moan and sigh freely through gushing all over his length, the electric feeling making your toes curl.

Minho envelops your hair tightly with his spare hand, thrusting harder and faster, his breathing becoming ragged as he approaches his climax. With a broken whine, you feel his cum fill you up, thick and hot and heavy.

He flops on top of you with a sigh, his body weight a welcome presence for you. You ignore the feeling of the sheets beneath you in favour of closing your eyes and humming contentedly. You’re still floating, but it’s calmer now, softer. It feels like you’re on a cloud. “So good, Min.” 

“Yeah?” Minho grins, his hand now stroking softly through your hair in favour of yanking on it. “You did so good for me, jagi. You were so, so good, made me cum so hard.”

“You made me cum hard, too,” You respond, opening one eye to see his face over your shoulder. His cheeks are flushed, hair sweaty and floppy over his eyes, but he has a blissed out smile on his face. When he catches sight of you looking at him, he smiles, and the sight of his bunny teeth has your heart singing. How can he look so cute after fucking you like that? Before you can say anything else, you yawn, and Minho giggles. “‘M sleepy.”

“Bath first, jagi,” He coos, kissing your hairline. “My sweet girl. Let’s get you nice and clean and then we’ll nap.”

“Mm, okay,” Minho hops off of you and you stretch out leisurely like a cat, your body sticky and defiled. You hear him tinkering around the room behind you, humming a tune to himself, and you smile fondly. “Love you, Min.”

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

[adverbally]

Wind Up Like the Wreck You Hide

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “Angst With a Happy Ending” | wc: 1,096 | rated: T | cw: hospital, heart attack, parental illness | tags: hurt/comfort, taking care of each other | title from “I’m Still Standing “ by Elton John

———

Eddie runs into the emergency room and directly into Steve’s arms. He can’t catch his breath, having hyperventilated the whole drive back to Hawkins and sprinted from the parking lot, but he’s able to gasp out, “Wayne-?”

“He’s okay,” Steve reassures him, rubbing his hands up and down Eddie’s arms. “He’s gonna be okay, they’re just gonna keep him overnight for observation.”

“He’s okay?” Eddie parrots. What does that mean? The words haven’t sunk in yet. Eddie was in Indianapolis getting ready for tonight’s show when Steve had called him from this very waiting room to explain that Wayne had a heart attack and Eddie needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Two hours later, he’s just… okay?

Steve shifts his grip to Eddie’s shoulders. “He’s okay. We got here fast and they took great care of him. He’s asleep upstairs right now.”

Eddie feels faint with the relief that sweeps through him. Though, as his knees go weak and he stumbles into Steve, it occurs to him that it’s probably just his adrenaline crashing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Steve catches him under his arms and drags him upright again. “Let’s go sit down while I catch you up.”

Eddie doesn’t know what he needs to know other than ‘Wayne had a heart attack and it didn’t kill him,’ but he lets Steve steer him toward a bank of plastic chairs in the corner. He falls into a seat like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Steve, angel that he is, pulls a notebook out of his pocket and begins telling Eddie what Wayne’s doctors had said. He had carefully written down phrases that he knew he wouldn’t remember once Eddie got there. Atherosclerosis. Nitroglycerin. Percutaneous coronary intervention. Angioplasty with stent. All the information Eddie would need about his uncle’s care, noted and defined in Steve’s neat handwriting. There are some items with question marks beside them, things that they might need to ask the doctors about.

Eddie’s eyes begin to water. Steve didn’t just do this for him, he did it out of love and concern for Wayne. He spent two hours gathering information and taking notes so he could understand what happened and figure out how to help. The notes on aspirin, the crude diagram of a blocked artery, the bullet point at the bottom of the page that says ‘diet?? medication??’ are all so Steve can take better care of Wayne.

Steve grips Eddie’s hand when he hears his sharp intake of breath. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’ll make more sense once we go upstairs and talk to Wayne’s doctor.” His tone is low and soothing.

“Thanks. I’m glad you were here to look out for him.”

“Yeah, of course.” He looks a little embarrassed by Eddie’s gratitude, like it’s a given that anyone would do the same thing. “He’s important to you, so he’s important to me. But he’s also a good man. A good dad,” he adds tentatively.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “You should call him that to his face, he would love it. Finally, a son who will watch sports with him and properly sort the laundry!”

“I don’t expect you to get it since ninety-nine percent of your wardrobe is black, but separating whites and colors really makes a difference!” Steve argues, blushing at Eddie’s teasing.

Eddie squeezes his hand. “Seriously, Wayne loves you. He calls you his son-in-law when he talks about you with his poker buddies. He brags about how all the kids at school love you and you’re the best second grade teacher in the state. Hell, I think he spends more time with you than he does with me.”

“He really does all that?” Steve asks quietly, like a wish that won’t come true if you say it out loud. When Eddie nods, Steve frowns, his lower lip quivering slightly, and looks down at the scuffed linoleum floor. “I didn’t know.”

Oh, shit. Eddie didn’t even think to ask how Steve was doing through all of this. He had called 911 and ridden in the ambulance with Wayne, had almost certainly paced around the nurses’ station waiting for news. Then, instead of going with Wayne, he stayed downstairs until Eddie got there so he could update him about Wayne’s condition as soon as humanly possible.

It was just like Steve to focus on taking care of everyone else, so natural that Eddie didn’t even think twice about accepting Steve’s comfort while offering nothing in return. And now that the immediate crisis is over, now that Steve has had a chance to breathe and start processing, Eddie thinks Steve might be on the verge of a meltdown.

Wordlessly, Eddie loops an arm under one of Steve’s and tugs him to his feet, herding him in the direction of the single-stall bathroom around the corner. By the time they’re inside, Steve’s whole body is shaking; by the time Eddie flips the lock on the door, fat tears are rolling down his cheeks.

“Sorry, I don’t know why…” Steve gestures at his face a little helplessly.

Eddie still doesn’t say anything, just pulls Steve into a tight embrace. His shirt grows damp where Steve has buried his face in his shoulder, and he feels Steve’s back shudder as he tries to stifle his sobs.

“I was really scared,” he confesses between gasps. “I just kept thinking how horrible it would be if I had to tell you—“

“It’s okay, baby,” Eddie murmurs into his hair. “You did great, he’s okay.”

Steve sniffles loudly. “I know, I’m just being stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” It comes out more forcefully than Eddie had planned. He hates when Steve does that, puts himself down and invalidates his feelings. “That was a medical emergency. Just because it turned out fine doesn’t mean it wasn’t stressful.”

“I guess.” Steve pulls away long enough to grab a paper towel so he can mop up his face. He goes easily when Eddie guides him into another hug.

Swaying them both gently, he tells Steve, “You know, you don’t always have to put on a brave face. Let me take care of you once in a while.”

“I know,” Steve croaks. “I’m working on it.”

They stand there for another minute, both drawing strength from the other’s presence, before Steve clears his throat and releases Eddie. “I think I’m good. We should go upstairs now, Wayne’ll want to see you.”

“He’ll want to see you, too,” Eddie reminds him.

Steve’s smile is small but radiant. “Okay, let’s go.”

[russellsppttemplates]

They're my babies! (Lando Norris)

While preparing for baby number three, you start to notice just how grown up Matilda and Fraser are

Note: english is not my first language. I'm back and I'm not sure if I still know how to do this 🫣 Thank you for being so patient ✨️ I hope it's enjoyable to read!

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm not actively taking requests right now, so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to send them in but know that I don't know when I'll be able to get to them!

my masterlist

Cw: reader is pregnant, mentions worries associated with pre-eclampsia, prematurity and themes associated with them

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog @hiireadstuff @c-losur3

"And where are my two boys going?", you inquired as you heard Lando tell Fraser to finish his breakfast so they could get ready to go.

"Daddy is taking me to get a haircut!", Fraser beamed as he ruffled his curls, "they're hindering me in the eyes", he explained.

"I'm getting my hair trimmed as well", your husband offered, kissing the top of your head after he set your tea next to your plate.

"Thank you, love", you whispered, "me and Tilly are staying in today, aren't we, princess?", you checked with your daughter. When you were putting her to bed the previous night, she asked if you could stay home for the day so she could help you with preparing the nursery for the arrival of your babygirl - the furniture was already in place, now you just needed to fill it with clothes bedding and all of the products you needed for your baby girl.

"Yes, I'm helping mummy with Lottie's things!", your oldest daughter smiled before taking a spoonful from her porridge.

"That's very nice of you, sweetheart", Lando praised, kissing the top of her head and getting the plates from the table to put in the dishwasher.

The boys headed upstairs to change while you and Tilly stayed back downstairs, giving her your undivided attention as she told you about what happened in school. With the approach of the baby's arrival, you and Lando made extra effort to spend alone time with each of your kids.

"Mummy! Tilly! I want to show you something, where are you?", Fraser called just as you were getting ready to go upstairs yourselves.

"We're heading upstairs!", Matilda replied.

At the top of the stairs, you were met with your husband and your son dressed in a white t-shirt and dark green shorts. Apart from the little cartoon Fraser 's t-shirt had, they were identical to the eye.

"Are you matching? Look at you two!", you cooed, stretching your arms so you could take him in and have the little boy close to you.

"I don't want to hurt you, mummy - I'm a big boy", Fraser mumbled as he set him on your hip.

"You won't, my love, I'm good", you assured as Lando also rubbed your back, "you two look so handsome".

"It's true, daddy and Fraser look handsome! Can we match today too, mummy?", Matilda asked.

Lando blushed slightly at the attention he was getting, hiding his face on your daughter's neck and blowing a raspberry there, making her let out a loud squeal followed by her melodic laugh, "that tickles daddy!".

"You look really beautiful, mummy", Fraser whispered on your ear, resting his head on your chest and playing with your hair.

"Thank you, baby boy", you kissed his cheek, "are you planning on giving me a new hair do too?", you joked.

"No, it looks pretty like this, but I just like to play with it", he mumbled.

The four of your stayed in the hallway for a bit before, just taking in the moment before Lando and Fraser really had to go, not wanting to miss their appointment.

Matilda helped you pick out a loungewear set that was comfortable and breezy before she went to her wardrobe to grab one of her lavender dresses, thinking the colour was perfect to match your own clothes.

"Where are we going to start, mummy?", Matilda wondered, sitting down on the rug inside the nursery and looking at all the boxes filled with unfolded clothes.

"These are all washed so we just have to fold them and organise them into the drawers - I'd you want to play or do something that you find more fun, you can do it, Tilly, I don't mind", you assured, hardly thinking folding clothes would be the funnest activity for your seven year old.

"No, mummy, I want to help you! Can you just put some music on your phone, please?", she asked, prompting you to play some of your favourites in your Spotify app.

"The top ones can be for the baby grows - we'll go through a lot of them so they need to be quick and easy to grab", you explained as you got the folded clothes from her hands.

"This one here is so pretty, mummy!", Matilda pointed to a babygrow you remembered her wearing when she was a baby.

"We got this one from uncle George and auntie Carmen when you were born", you smiled, unfolding the piece to take a good look at the embroidered stars on the piece. Despite having been worn multiple times by both Matilda and Fraser, the piece was still in good quality given the materials it was made out of.

"Me? Was I ever this little?", Matilda argued softly, standing behind the piece so she could see the difference, "wow, it's so hard to believe that", she mused.

Your emotions got the best out of you as your memory took you back to the times of newborn Matilda. You and Lando were first time parents and naturally things didn't fall into place right away - there was a lot of learning still and finding out what worked for your baby and your family despite everything you read on the books, but the newborn bubble was a time you cherished fondly.

"You were! I even remember this one being a little loose on you, daddy had to roll up the sleeves so they wouldn't bunch up on your hands", you recalled your husband doing so, holding her to his chest as he adjusted the fabric on the little one's body.

"I'm so much bigger now!", Matilda smiled before folding the piece again and placing it in the drawer.

"Yes, you are", you gulped, keeping the tears at bay as you watched your not so little girl independently carry on with her task.

A call interrupted you, Matilda handing you the phone from its spot on the chest of drawers so you wouldn't have to get up.

"Thank you, my love - hello!", you asked to the other side of the line, engaging in conversation with your sister in-law.

"Is it Nana Cisca or auntie Cisca?", Matilda asked when you put the phone on speaker so they could talk too.

"It's auntie Cisca, Tilly! How is my little princess?", she asked over the phone.

As soon as they talked about everything they needed to talk, and ending the call with a promise of a drawing session in the garden for when the weather looked nice, your daughter and you bid goodbye to your husband's sister.

"Mummy!", you heard Fraser call after the door closed just as you were plating up some snacks for you and Matilda.

"You boys got home just in time for snack time!", you called back, bringing the plates to the table before Lando and Fraser stepped inside the kitchen.

The sight before you could only be disguised as double vision. Fraser always looked a little bit more like Lando when compared to the physical traits he got from you, but right now, there was Lando and a mini Lando.

"Do you not like my haircut, mummy?", your son asked as a tinge of insecurity made it to his voice.

"Of course I like it, Fraser - I love it!", you quickly assured, picking him up so you could take a good look at his handsome face, "you look so handsome, my love! You and daddy look so much like eachtoher, that's why I was quiet for a bit", you explained.

Lando approached you, pecking your lips and rubbing your baby bump, "the hairdresser said the same actually", he mused as he sat next to Matilda and stole one of her strawberries.

"There's enough food for all of us, let me make some more", you smiled at their antics.

"I want to go down, mummy", Fraser asked so you could set him on the floor.

Lando took the opportunity to swap with the little boy, offering him his spot at the table and heading to stand next to you by the counter.

"And do I look handsome too?", your husband whispered on your ear as he circled your waist, his hands landing on your baby bump and feeling her move.

"The most handsome of all, although Fraser is serious competition", you giggled.

"He's one cute little dude, isn't he?", your husband stated, "what can I say? We make really cute kids, Y/N Norris", he kissed your neck, "and we're about to have proof number three of that - how has she been?".

"She's been well behaved today, although as soon as she hears your voice, she goes back to being a wiggly baby", you chuckled as you felt a particularly hard kick.

"Calm down, sweet girl, daddy is excited to be home too but we can't kick mummy like that, can we? You can't be a trouble maker already", Lando spoke softly, kissing your cheek one last time before he carried on helping you make something to eat.

"And that way, she always knew that she could count on her friends", you finished Fraser's bedtime story, tucking him in properly before setting the book back on the shelf.

"Good night, mummy", Fraser mumbled sleepily, "I love you to the moon and back".

"Sweet dreams, Fraser, I love you all the way around the milky way", you mumbled back, kissing his forehead and leaving the room once you turned off the light.

You could faintly hear some noise coming from Matilda's bedroom, knocking on the door softly before opening it and seeing Lando sat on the bed with Tilly on his arms, a finished book on his thighs as they spoke softly.

"Still not asleep?", you nudged.

"I wanted Tilly to show you this", Lando pointed to the drawing on top of her desk, "tell mummy what that is".

"This is our family, and we can use this to teach Lottie when she's born", Matilda clarified, "Nana Cisca has the same name as auntie Cisca, Lottie can be confused, mummy", she reasoned.

"That's very nice and thoughtful of you princess", you smiled, tracing all the lines on the paper.

You and Lando wished her a good night before leaving her bedroom, Lando popping into Fraser's room to kiss him goodnight another time and to check if he was asleep before meeting you in the bedroom.

"This morning, Tilly found the baby grow with the stars George and Carmen gifted us and she held it up against her chest and I have been a mess since", you admitted as Lando held out his arms for a cuddle.

"She's really grown up, isn't she? I have no idea how she thought about the names", Lando chuckled.

"Your sister called this morning and she wondered if it was her or your mother - she seemed to stick with the thought but I didn't think much of it", you shrugged your shoulders as you rocked in eachother's embrace.

"She's really clever, she gets that from you, that's for sure", Lando offered.

"Seems right since you managed to get rid of my little baby boy and bring back a mini you version from the hairdresser!", you scoffed as Lando looked at you with a quirked eyebrow, "don't act all innocent! Fraser was my cuddly baby boy this morning, then you took him to get a haircut and suddenly he looks like a pre teen! And he said he didn't want to cuddle me", you pouted.

"Well, I did take him for the haircut, but I didn't actually do it myself", Lando argued playfully, earning him light slap on his chest, "but I did tell him he had to be careful with you now that you're towards the end of the pregnancy", he nudged.

"Lando", you pouted.

"I didn't tell him to not cuddle you! I just told him that he needed to be careful with you carrying heavy things and stuff like that - he was the one to suggest that from now on he would only cuddle you when you were laying down!", your husband told you in his defense.

"He's still my baby! And Tilly is too! I want cuddles with my babies no matter what!", you stated, feeling Charlotte kick Lando's tummy since you were still glued together, "you too, my love, in due time", you mumbled the last part.

"I tell you what, tomorrow we'll have a cuddle session in bed, all of us and I'll make sure Tilly and Fraser are as close to you as possible", Lando smiled.

"That sounds good", you agreed, kissing his lips before you started getting ready for bed.

As you sat down after pulling the covers, Lando noticed there was still something that was leaving you unsettled.

"I can tell something is worrying you still - you have that frown line Fraser has on his forehead too", Lando nodded as he rubbed your feet and ankles since they had swelled a bit lately.

"What if I can't be a good home for this baby, too?", you asked as Lando quirked an eyebrow at you, "Fraser had to come earthside earlier because my blood pressure was a mess, and before that I spent days in hospital trying to make sure he had the least amount of deficits possible. What if I can't carry to term this time around either?", you whispered the last part, almost like if you said it any louder, it was bound to happen straight away.

"I'm scared too, my love", Lando spoke after gathering his thoughts, "but we are doing what we can to make sure this baby cooks for as long as she has to before coming to us - we're having extra appointments to check with everything, we're being active and healthy, I'm also travelling as less as I possibly can, and we have both of our parents coming here for help on a schedule so you don't stress out so much - I know you'll never admit it because you think it's a dirty expression, but those two?", he pointed in the direction of the kids' bedrooms, "they're definitely my children because of the chaos they cause and it's stressful. I love them to death - I'd do anything for them -, but, my word, is it hard sometimes?!", he giggled as you nodded in agreement, "I'd never want you to feel all the parenting stress on your own, it's not good any other time and it's especially not good when you're carrying our little girl", he smiled, kissing just above your baby bump.

"I just want to be a safe home for Lottie", you rubbed your babybump.

"And you are, Y/N, her first home and the safest of them all - and even though I'm not wishing for it, if it happens again, we know we can handle it and most of that is because your such a strong woman", he praised as he sat next to you and held your hand in his, "we're in this together and you can always come to me whenever these scary thoughts come around", he kissed your lips.

"Thank you", you whispered again, pecking his lips.

"That's not a nice greeting, I deserve better, gorgeous girl", he smirked, supporting himself on his arms while carefully hovering over you while he was still able to, "you deserve better, and apparently they say this can be very relaxing and lower your blood pressure, so you're in for a fine night, pretty mama", he said as he stole a proper kiss from your lips.

[iiseult]

Oooh open requests! May I have King Baldwin with a wife reader who sweetly helps him treat his wounds regardless of how he tells her not to come into direct contact with his skin? Please, do it nice and fluffy, if it's not too much trouble! Thank you!

Wedding Night: Baldwin IV x reader

CWs → fluff, probable historical inaccuracies, she/her pronouns, leprosy, christianity and mentions of god, reader and baldwin just got married!

Note: This is the first request I've ever responded to! Thank you so much for sending it in, I really hope you enjoy! <3 Also this was supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away

Wordcount: 2k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin was laying on his stomach with his bandaged arms and legs stretched out across the large mattress, and his face nuzzled into a plush pillow. The day had been strenuous for him, requiring much more standing than he was accustomed to, and his body ached terribly. Though originally just on his hands and face, the disease had recently spread up past his wrist and onto a small patch of his back, causing an uncomfortable burning sensation every time his clothing brushed against it. He was waiting for his physician to arrive and apply his nightly soothing salve, which usually helped to relieve some of the discomfort that resulted from the intense dryness of his skin. But when the door opened, instead of his physician, it was you. 

Hastily, he sat up, looking around to find something to cover himself with. Besides the bandages wrapped around his ribcage, arms, and the middle of his face, the only thing he had on was a pair of white linen shorts. You covered your mouth and giggled as he scrambled to grab his robe from the nearby chair it was draped over.

“My lord, that really won’t be necessary. I’m only going to take it right back off once you put it on,” you said playfully, closing the door behind you and sauntering towards him. You were carrying a small basket in your left hand. He furrowed his brow and instinctually clutched the fabric to his chest, hoping it covered most of his exposed skin. A wave of heat rushed to his head, and he suddenly felt a bit dizzy.  

“Lady Y/N– I mean, Your Highness, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice betraying his mild panic as his eyes followed you across the bedroom. You had changed out of your wedding gown in favor of a tightly fitting dress of a deep emerald green and a low neckline– typical attire for a bride on her wedding night. Heat rose to his cheeks as he admired his new queen’s attractive figure, on display just for him. He really hadn’t been expecting this. You had to know that, given his condition, consummating the marriage would be more trouble than it was worth, and attempting to sire an heir with him would be a completely fruitless endeavor. Why, then, were you standing before him, looking like the very picture of grace and beauty? You smiled gently at him, setting down the basket and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Let me help you. Please, lie back down so I can take those bandages off,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. You waited a moment, but he only gawked, eyes still shamelessly concentrating on your choice of wardrobe. You sighed and placed a hand over his bandaged one, looking deeply into his eyes. 

“I promise I’ll be gentle.” 

He hummed sadly, shaking his head no, knowing he could not give you what you wanted. 

“I believe that you would, but I cannot allow it. If you were to come into contact with my bare skin…” he trailed off. You bit your lip. You knew he wouldn’t agree to it. 

He noticed your disappointment, and his eyes softened a little. 

“Look at you, your skin is so pure…if anything were to happen to it on my account, I could never forgive myself. Not only because of the pain it would inflict upon you, but also for my own selfish reasons.” He spoke slowly, letting his words sink in. 

“My wife, you are so beautiful, and so smart. You have so much to give, and you are everything I am not. If you were to put yourself at risk of becoming like me, you would be condemning yourself to a short, bitter life of wasted potential. Though I may not be long for this world, I want to spend the remainder of my days admiring you and all that you bring. Please do not forsake the gifts God has given you for fleeting desires of the flesh,” he begged. His blue eyes were so wide, pleading, swimming with genuine emotion, but it wasn’t enough to break you. You knew what you wanted.

“Baldwin,” you said, addressing him directly for the first time, “Just this once, please. Let me do this for you.” 

You tugged lightly at the fabric bunched up in his grasp. He resigned, allowing you to pull it away and discard it at the foot of the bed, leaving his mostly bare chest exposed to your intimate gaze. No woman had ever seen this much of him before. He watched as your eyes traced his body, beginning at his delicate neck and protruding collar bones, then down to the smooth expanse of creamy skin covering his chest, and finally to his well-defined middle. Those parts of him had yet to be contaminated by his affliction. You had yet to ever come into contact with his bare skin, but the way you were studying him, he could almost feel the sweet sensation of your fingertips ghosting over his body. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry if you had hopes of…enjoying a true wedding night with me, but I must be honest with you, even if it does cause me great pain and regret-” 

You hushed him quietly, clasping his hand in yours a little tighter. 

“No, my love, you don’t have to explain to me. I understand. That is not what I came for. I simply wanted to take care of my husband.” You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you gazed down at him lovingly. He let out a breath and untensed his shoulders, relieved that he wasn’t letting you down after all. The sight of you smiling down at him with all the love in the world melted his heart, and his resolve broke. 

“Alright. But please promise me you will cleanse yourself thoroughly afterwards. We must do everything we can to prevent the spread,” he whispered, dropping his hand to allow you to have your way with him. 

Slowly, carefully, you reached for him, stretching your fingertips out and finally grazing them against the middle of his chest. He inhaled sharply, watching in awe. Your touch was feather-light, but it sent a spark of heat straight to his heart. His skin tingled. Gently, you applied a bit of pressure, encouraging him to lay back. He stared into your eyes and refused to look anywhere else as he readjusted his position, locks of blond hair shifting away from his brow as he reclined.

“That’s it, just like that. Perfect. Now, just relax, I brought some oils and salves for you. I’m going to take this bandage off now, okay?” You said, reaching for his wrapped hand. He nodded, and you slowly began unwinding the linens, peeling them away to reveal the most decayed part of his body; his right hand. Any skin left intact on it was shaded by a grayish hue, and the rest was just angry, red, open sores. You fought the urge to wince, not because it disgusted you, because it didn’t, but because you empathized with Baldwin, feeling the pain he must have felt in that moment. The bandages you removed were dotted with blood and other secretions from the angry wounds. 

You continued unraveling, all the way up his arm, and its condition gradually improved the further up you got. Then you moved to the other arm, repeating the same process. Soon, it was time to attend to the linens coiled around his torso, protecting the rash on his back. 

“Can you sit up for me, please?” 

He wordlessly obeyed, watching you work through his curtain of fine, golden hair. You scooted over until you were fully seated on the bed, face to face with him. He was suddenly glad for the bandage covering most of his cheeks and nose, so you didn’t detect the blush rapidly spreading across them. 

You reached around with your left arm and placed your cool palm against his shoulder blade to steady him as you pulled away the bandages. He sat as still as possible, not sure what to do with himself. His heart was about to beat out of his chest. Your hand was so soft, so slow…it was lulling him into a trance. He sighed deeply, letting the air roll all the way through his lungs. You deftly unweaved the bandage with your delicate fingers, working swiftly to avoid any discomfort that the pulling might cause him. Soon, all that remained was his face. 

Wordlessly, you slid a hand up the back of his neck and cradled his head in your palm, threading your fingers through his curls. He let his head fall back, confident that you would support him, and closed his eyes. A quiet rumble emanated from the back of his throat when he felt your fingertips brush his forehead. Then, you peeled off the last bandage, finally exposing the sensitive skin of his face to the cool evening air. 

Yes, his complexion was blemished and inflamed, as you expected. His nose was red and dry, some of the skin flaking off completely. His lips were in much the same condition. A smattering of pink blotches covered his handsome cheeks. But to you, nobody had ever looked closer to perfect. You grinned and cupped his face between your hands, gently circling your thumb over his cheek. His pretty blue eyes crinkled up at the corners as he smiled back, letting out a short laugh he never meant to let out. 

“You are such a beautiful boy, Baldwin. I love seeing your smile so much,” you said, tracing his bottom lip. That smile only grew as he closed his eyes in bliss. Your warmth was almost too much for him to handle. 

“I’m going to apply the salve now, okay?” you asked, gently laying his head down on his pillow and reaching for a bottle from your basket. 

“Mhmm,” he hummed contentedly. The smell of lavender and chamomile permeated the air as you scooped up a large blob of the salve and gently smeared it over his cheekbones. He sighed in relief as soon as it touched his parched skin, his pink lips parting. Soon, his face had absorbed most of the moisture, making him glisten in the candlelight like he was made of porcelain, and you moved onto his back, having him turn over. You ran your hands over the plains of his shoulder blades, massaging the tissue to help relieve any aches that may have built up. He groaned into the pillow in satisfaction. You smiled, continuing your ministrations. 

Needless to say, Baldwin had never experienced anything remotely similar to this before. The way you handled him and didn’t shy away from coming into direct contact with the most afflicted parts of his body made his stomach do flips. Maybe he could get used to this. 

‘I think I’m all done, my king. You can turn back over,” you said softly, putting the cork back in your bottle and stowing it away in the basket. Baldwin stretched leisurely and rolled over, hair partially obscuring his half-lidded eyes and crooked smile. He suddenly looked so young; only eighteen years old and he had already led an army. 

“Thank you, love,” he murmured, reaching out to grab your hand, bravely intertwining your fingers. He figured the damage had already been done, and there was no harm in a few more precious seconds of warmth. So he swiftly lifted your hand and pressed it to his delicate lips, almost burning your skin with the lingering passion in his touch. 

Now it was your turn to blush. 

[wri0thesley]

my heart a frozen thing (I of III)- capitano x reader

the tsaritsa's handmaidens are enviable indeed; perfect, chaste, and honoured beyond measure. a well-oiled machine. but you do not quite fit in. lucky, then, that the tsaritsa herself has intervened, to find you a position that befits who you once were - to arrange your marriage to one of her most trusted lieutenants.

cw: arranged marriage, mentions of death/freezing to death, corpses, weird religious themes, bullying. reader is referred to as a 'handmaiden', wears a gown, but no pronouns are used. wc: 5.4k. sfw.

a/n: capitano and his little handmaiden are a little thing i've wanted to explore for a while; i don't usually do series, but i have a very clear idea of where this is going and i hope i can get it there! in my head this ought to run to three parts, but here is the first! i had a lot of fun just making up background for this honestly fbgnkjgbfn.

i.

The halls of Zapolyarny Palace have never felt so cold. 

They are halls that you have walked a thousand times, at the behest of your Goddess; chambers that you have traversed for as long as you can remember. You learnt yourself here - so much so that the person you once were, the family you once had . . . that has faded to nothing. You have been a ward of the Tsaritsa since you were six years old, and you would not have had it any other way. 

After all - are you not one step down from divinity? Do you not follow in her wake, untouchable and lovely? Do you not provide her with anything she could need? You see the Fatui members who walk these halls, the Harbingers - their hands are stained with blood up to the elbows, their figures stooped from war, their faces twisted with their troubles. They have clawed their way up the ranks -

And you? You have done no such thing. Something about you had called out to the Tsaritsa and she had welcomed you to her bosom and you had accepted, allowing yourself to be draped in furs and glittering crystals, to stand proud and haughty, to kneel for her and ensure her skirts are never dirtied, her every whim is met . . . 

Until today, you suppose. 

Her lips had felt like ice when she had kissed you on your forehead, and you had known then that you would walk from her chambers freezing cold and stripped of everything you held dear. You have always known that your fellow handmaidens did not like you; that they had envied you the Tsaritsa’s favour, that they have whispered that you are unworthy. Such things are easy to ignore when you know that you are cherished, though - and you had ignored them. You had ignored how they had ripped holes in your stockings and sent you on wild goose chases and errands, how they whispered behind your back when you fell into formation looking harried and rushed and imperfect because you had not been able to find your hairbrush in the morning. 

But the handmaidens of the Tsaritsa are supposed to be a unit. You are all supposed to see one another as siblings; to think of nothing more than Her, and how you may serve Her. It is this that the Tsaritsa had said to you in your private meeting, as you had shivered and burned with the cold ice of humiliation. 

“I love you,” she had said, with her voice as lovely as shattering crystals, as she had pressed that traitorous kiss onto your forehead. “Do not worry, little one. I shall ensure that you will not be thrown to the wolves.”

And then she had told you exactly how she was ensuring that, and you had had no choice but to stand before her, trembling, chin jutting proudly up - and pretend that you agreed with her decision. 

There is nobody in the dormitory when you go to pack what little things you have; you are glad of that, at least, so that those who have brought you down to this station in life cannot gloat at you. You do not have many things of your own; of course, the handmaidens are given fine clothes, but they are more uniform than ordinary wardrobe. You pack your hairbrush, a book, a few other creature comforts - but you are supposed to be a homogenous unit, after all, and to make yourself too individual would simply not do. 

One of the Tsaritsa’s servants is waiting outside of the door for you when you emerge. You shiver in the cool air, but try to keep a thread of your calm; give her a trembling smile. She looks at you with curiosity in her gaze, but she does not pry; that is not the way of things here. You soon lose track of where she is taking you.

In Zapolyarny Palace, there are paths that you walk every day; to the chapel, to the Tsaritsa’s chambers, to the hallowed halls and meeting rooms and anywhere else a handmaiden may be needed. But you do not wander freely beyond that. You know there are offices and spare bedrooms and studies and libraries galore - it is a most magnificent work of architecture - but you are not at liberty to explore them. So you soon lose your bearing as the servant brings you through hallways you’ve never seen, past doors you never knew existed. You feel your heart begin to beat too fast in your chest, anxiety crawling up your throat. 

You do not know what is to happen to you now. 

You know in theory what the Tsaritsa expects to happen, and you ought to believe her - find her infallible, as your Goddess and Archon surely is - but you have learnt, today, that nothing is infallible. You do not think any handmaiden in the history of Her Majesty’s service has ever been let go like you - and, too, you know none of them have suffered the humiliation of being--

You can barely even think the words. You think of the first Harbinger again, the one directly beneath the Director; the looming presence, the always-worn mask, the whispers that follow in his wake . . . you cannot imagine yourself on his arm. Cannot imagine yourself in his bed. Cannot imagine yourself standing beside him at an altar, promising him eternity--

“We’re here.” The servant’s voice is timid; even though she must surely know that you are disgraced, there is still - in your bearing and in the fine white furs and silks you wear - the reminder of what you were before disgrace came knocking at your door, and she has been taught that the Tsaritsa’s handmaidens are pure and perfect and precious. How you wish you felt that way. 

“Thank you,” you say to her, swallowing to try and clear the dryness in your throat, trying to summon a smile. She bobs an awkward curtsey and inclines her head before she scurries away down the corridor, no doubt to whisper to someone about the scandal that is unfolding within the palace’s halls. 

You look at the door to your new life. It is carved with swirling snowflakes; a solid impenetrable wooden shield from the rest of the palace. You do not know if it will stay your door, but you have nowhere else to go now. You cannot go running back to the dormitory of the handmaidens; surely, by now, they will all have been told exactly how you have been disgraced--

Your gloved fingers fasten about the doorknob as you force your traitorous heart to beat evenly. You must take things as they come; there is no point getting too frightened just yet. Some of the Harbingers do indeed keep quarters in the Palace - Pantalone, you know, has a wing set aside for his use. And Pulcinella, too, needing to be near the beating heart of Snezhnaya, has rooms here. 

It is in the nature of a handmaiden, you remind yourself, to be calm. To keep their wits about them. It is proper of you to maintain an even voice and a pretty face, to be ready to be called to your service at a moment’s notice; and though you are not, really, a handmaiden any more . . . your entire life has been governed by these rules, and such things do not desert one so easily. So you keep your head held high as you step into the room, your chin jutting out, your eyes wide, your face proud--

And you do not let the tears fall, like your life is collapsing into the sea around you and leaving you adrift with no safe harbour (your beautifully designed ice sculpture of an existence), until the door is closed and nobody but you and the sharp coldness of the mirror mounted on the wall opposite is there to see it. 

ii.

You are expecting to be brought before him, as would befit a man of his status - a status that now far outranks your own. You are expecting Fatui grunts or serving maids to come and fetch you from the neatly appointed little room of the Palace, to drag you before the Harbinger you are to become reliant upon, and to have every part of you scrutinised. Perhaps he will find you wanting, you think bitterly; perhaps he does not want to be a part of this mockery any more than you do. Perhaps he will snarl beneath the mask and despite the Tsaritsa’s attempts to save your life, will have you banished to some cold unfeeling corner of the Palace where you will freeze to death and nobody will find your corpse. 

(It would hardly be the first time such a thing has occurred in Snezhnaya). 

You are not expecting that the first of the Fatui Harbinger, he of the war glories, second only in the chain of command to the Director himself, would lower himself to come to you. 

But come to you he does. 

The room that you have been given is lovely if impersonal; a bedspread patterned with sprigs of blue flowers, an ornate mirror, a wardrobe and a shelf of knick-knacks. You, as a handmaiden, have never had cause to tend to the guest rooms - that is for those whose service is less important, whose place in the world is less holy - but you do at least know enough to know that is what this is. And you suppose, too, that is what you are now too. 

No longer somebody who truly belongs in the Palace; no longer one of a flock of beautiful befurred doves, cooing and twittering over who will be granted the honour of smoothing Her Majesty’s dress, of combing her hair. Simply a guest - a person waiting to see what the next step in their life will be. Perhaps Zapolyarny Palace will be a pitstop; perhaps your new betrothed will have somewhere else to put you like an ornamental doll. 

Perhaps he will take you to his camps, his fields of war, install you in his tent until you have forgotten the luxury of silks and glass and the blood he sheds stains your white furs red. Your nails dig crescent moons into your palms at the thought of it; of all of the ways your life could spiral into decay and dirt when it has only ever been pristine and beautiful before. 

You are sitting on the bed when the knock comes, when the door is opened before you can even call out. You see the faintest outline of some Fatui soldier, before his bulk is silhouetted in the doorway and your breath is robbed from your chest. 

Seeing him pass by you in hallways, or at the table when you have been called to the Tsaritsa’s side, does not do the man justice. He seems to tower over you; his presence in the room makes it seem like a dollhouse more than anything functional. Your eyes flitter, afraid to rest upon him too much lest you see something terrifying staring back at you. 

You cannot describe it, but your entire body seems to go into a freeze response; you sit there, exactly like the ornament you are so afraid of becoming, your gloved hands neatly balled into fists upon the luxurious fabric of your handmaiden’s gown, your eyes wide with surprise and fear.

You expect him to stride in; to take what he has been given, self-assured as only a member of Her Majesty’s most esteemed lieutenant can truly be. Thoughts flash through your head; of him throwing you upon the prettily patterned bedsheets and having his way with you, of him grabbing you roughly and letting his hands explore the merchandise he has been granted. 

Certainly, the visual of him makes those seem the most likely course of action. The massive stature, the shadows that his shoulders throw across the room. The impassive iron mask; the armour that he dons, whether he is on official business or not. Your shoulders draw up against your ears, preparing for something, though you know not what. You catch a glimpse of eyes, bluer than the hottest fire--

And then Il Capitano sinks to one knee in front of you and reaches for your trembling, gloved hand. Your breath catches in your throat as he draws it closer to himself - but then, he presses his mask against the fabric in an echo of a kiss, and from beneath the helmet he wears comes a voice like an echo in an iron chamber. 

“Little handmaiden,” he says - and then, “I regret not coming sooner.” 

“I--” Your tongue will not work around the syllables. It trembles in your mouth; only your willpower alone stops your teeth clacking together like some awful grisly musical instrument. “My Lord Harbinger, I . . .” 

“Do not worry,” he says, his voice still a strange echo - you cannot imagine getting used to it, cannot imagine it whispering words of love into the shell of your ear. You can imagine it, though, booming across a battlefield, and the thought makes your heart seize in your chest. “I have no intention to hurt you. I am . . . most honoured by the privilege that has been entrusted to me.” 

You realise with a start that you are the privilege; that this is punishment for you, but it does not seem so to him. The thought gives you pause. 

Even the word . . . ‘privilege’. He does not call you a reward; does not act as though he has been given you as some Archon-won right, to do with as he pleases. For the first time, you let yourself wonder if perhaps your fate is not to be as cruel as you had feared. 

“Thank you,” you say to him, your voice a thready little mouse-whisper of noise. Capitano does not move from his place before you, kneeling upon the parquet flooring of the room - his hand does not let go of yours for a moment, as if he cannot quite believe that you are real flesh and blood there before him. You cannot properly see his eyes behind the helmet - only that bluefire suggestion, the glow of something behind the ornate visor - but in your time as a handmaiden of the Tsaritsa, you have grown used to the sensation of being looked at, and that is certainly what he is doing. 

“I intend to do this properly.” He tells you, with the door still open, with the Fatui soldiers who had accompanied him still stationed outside of the door listening to every word that he says. “I intend to make you mine in the eyes of the Tsaritsa and everyone else who matters.” 

You think once more of the altar; you think of your uniform of pure white furs, traded for something lacier and gauzier, something more of a wedding gown than a ritual dress. You think of being chained to this man for all eternity--

And though he has been kind to you in these few brief moments, though your Archon had said she wished to see no harm come to you . . . once more, you think of Capitano’s reputation. Of the war fields and the bloodshed, of his victories and his spoils, of the way you have heard he throws himself into conflict like it is the only thing that keeps his blood pumping through his veins. 

But you cannot say a thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he tells you, and he says the word like a sacred thing - a prayer on his breath. “Tomorrow, I will marry you, and I will take you home.”

He does not leave his words in a question; there is no space for you to reply. You swallow your protestations as he stands back up and bows his head like a gentleman, though you know he is stained with blood in a way you had never expected to be yourself. 

(You think of his hand on yours; imagine bloody fingerprints where he had clung to you. Marked. Soiled. No longer pristine and pure; no longer one of the Tsaritsa’s favourites. You stand upon the precipice of becoming something else, and it terrifies you). 

“Tomorrow,” you echo, but the door has already closed behind him. 

iii.

You cannot sleep. 

The bed is fine; finer, perhaps, than the one in your dormitory that you have slept on for decades. The blankets and coverlets, with their pretty patterns, are warm (warmer than you are used to; the handmaidens are kept close to Her Majesty, and coldness permeates the air wherever she dwells. You had not realised just how cold you were used to being until you had slipped into this bed in a guest-room of the place you thought of as your home).

But your mind will not quieten. 

You cannot stop thinking of Capitano, and all that his future entails; cannot stop the whisper of his voice, constrained as it is by his helm, when he says the word ‘home’. What is a home for you, now? At this moment in time, ousted from Her Majesty’s Service and not yet yoked to the first-ranked Harbinger, you are a creature that has nowhere to lay down their roots. 

If you slipped out of this room, and out into the cold Snezhnayan winter . . . you would be another nameless person, another corpse frozen to a block of ice. You have not been out amongst the general populace in some time - that is not a duty that befits one of the handmaidens - but what memories you do have, before six, remind you that you would hardly be the first. Indeed, finding some poor soul frozen into the next life is an occurrence that happens to all citizens of Snezhnaya, eventually. 

A memory rises unbidden to the forefront of your mind; another child, who looks like you but older, concentration writ clear on their face as they try and unbend fingers from a poor man rimmed with frost with lips of pale blue. An older woman, shouting - a sickening snap--

You squeeze your eyes shut and force the memory away. There is nothing, you remind yourself, before the Tsaritsa’s tender care. If there ever was, it has gone the way of snowstorms and blizzards; there is no use remembering. It has been so long that all of the figures in your memories, too, are perhaps no better than markers in the frozen ground. 

If you cannot sleep, you tell yourself forcefully, you are not going to allow yourself to be haunted by nightmares of your own making. You will lie here, in this lovely little room. You will let yourself think of the warmth that seeps into your bones; you will let yourself remember it. 

One final night; the first night you can truly remember where you are free. 

And as for what tomorrow holds - as for the thought of standing beside Capitano, as to the thought of his home - be it tent or wing of rooms or little shack or anything in between - you will not think on them. You will think of how, if you wished, you could toss and turn and no other handmaidens in the dormitory will hiss anger at you beneath their breath. How you could sing in this room, like a pretty bird, and nobody would shout for you to shut up as they throw their pillows at you.How there will be no ringing bell in the morning, no sidelong glances from your fellows who do not think you deserve to play the role you are given. 

There is blissful silence; the luxury of having a bedroom to yourself, of being an individual when you have for so long been an entity made up of so many. 

You do fall into sleep, eventually. 

You dream of being a beautiful white horse, your hooves leaving distinct prints in the snow, blending alone into the barren landscape of your homeland. 

When you awake, there is a dress hanging on the wardrobe opposite the bed. 

You do not question it; how they found time for your measurements, who made it, whether it is Capitano’s design. Your training does not fail you; things happen, and you must accept them. The easy freedom of last night is gone, and the weight of what you are to become settles like a mantle around your shoulders. 

It is still service, you tell yourself, as you bathe in the little basin in the adjoining room. The soaps and potions that are lined neatly up on shelves are scented like something fresh and clean and floral; the kind of flower that makes you think of rolling hills and ticklish breezes. The handmaidens used toiletries scented with spearmint and frostflower, as the Tsaritsa had chosen - you wonder if these bottles here are the choice of your betrothed, or merely coincidence. 

You perform your ablutions and ignore the fact that you are preparing yourself for something you do not fully understand. If you stop to think too hard upon what it is you are primping and preening for, you do not know if you will be able to keep the thread of your calm - as it is, your hands are shaking when you step into the gown left for you. 

It is undoubtedly a wedding gown. 

It is not cut in the Snezhnayan fashion; there is no trimming of pale blue diamonds, of furs or feathers or warmth. This is the gown of a beloved maiden in a tower; something to be worn whilst dreaming of gardens, all pretty eyelet lace and delicate embroidery. Wearing it, after being so used to the garb of one of Her Majesty’s attendants, feels almost like being naked. 

There is nothing for your hair; you leave it unbound. There is no other ornamentation; you suppose, when you think about it, your glimpses of Capitano have never suggested him to be a man of excess. If it were one of the others you were to wed - Pantalone, perhaps - you have no doubt you would be draped in jewels. 

If it were Pantalone that you were to be wed to, you think, he would not have been satisfied with a mere ceremony, rushed through the next day. You know from gossip he is a man who thinks he deserves better than the world has given him, that he would never take less than excess. A brief gladness that it is not the Regrator that your Archon has given you to flashes across your mind--

And then you remember Capitano, the size of him, the mystery of what lays behind his mask, and you swallow the lump in your throat. 

There is a serving maid at the door, holding a bunch of flowers in her hand - they are delicate things, white petalled and lovely, scattered with pink roses. You breathe in the scent to calm yourself and recognise them as the same scent that lingers on your skin and in your hair - and the serving maid gives you a small, nervous smile. 

“They’re Cecilias,” she tells you. “from Mondstadt. The Captain asked for them specifically.” 

She says his name in the same way so many of the citizens of Zapolyarny Palace do; with respect, and reverence. There is none of the fear that edges those who whisper of other Harbingers in her voice - you have heard horror in the tones of those who speak of Dottore, the Doctor . . . But Capitano seems to command awe and respect. You want it to be comforting - but you cannot help but wonder if it is merely that those who know his true nature are quieted by his sword. 

“Thank you,” you say, for you cannot make your voice shape any other words. Your tongue has grown leaden in your mouth, the moisture gone from it completely, and you know the thing that has sapped your ability to speak is fear. She gives you another smile, and looks at you in your gown. 

“You’re beautiful,” she says to you, as if to reassure; perhaps misunderstanding your terror of your bridegroom as the normal nerves of someone about to tie their life to someone else’s in matrimony. The whispers of your dismissal have had time to grow their own stories, after all; few things move faster than gossip in a place like this. “Come. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

You’re helpless to do anything but let her lead you. The hem of your gown trails on the floor behind you, but the Palace is spotless; it does not gather dust or dirt. You pass through the halls like a ghost, and you wonder if that is how you look. 

As a handmaiden, you had moved with purpose, with the assurance that you were Somebody. As the betrothed of a Harbinger, you move like somebody sentenced to execution, your heart pounding in your throat. The halls seem silent around you. You wonder, if given the chance to do it all again, how you would stop all of this so you would not find yourself in this position, walking to what could very well be your own doom. 

“Here,” the serving maid whispers, stopping by a door. You look at it with dumb terror in your heart, but you keep your face an impassive mask as you have been taught to do. You know where you are; you know this chapel to be the Tsaritsa’s most sacred place. You have been given access only a handful of times; the handmaidens who serve your Archon here are far more senior than you. In time, you had hoped you would become one of her most trusted, one who could sit with her in prayer in this private sanctuary--

You suppose that is a dream that will never come to fruition now. 

You give her a smile - a trembling thing, but you have been taught how to behave - and as she opens the chapel door for you, you square your soldiers and summon all of the courage you have (what little there is; courage is not a thing that is encouraged amongst the handmaidens, amongst those who must move and act as one), and you place one foot in front of the other as you begin your walk down the aisle. 

You tell yourself you will not look at the pews - hewn of glass, the more to resemble the Tsaritsa’s beloved ice - but as you begin a walk that feels as though it lasts forever, you cannot help it. The chapel is still a sanctuary; it is almost empty, in fact, but for a few faces sitting at the very front. 

The Tsaritsa herself presides, and you immediately lower your eyes to the ground. You have seen her before, of course - have tended to her when called - but it would not be proper of you to stare. She is still your Archon. Your fingers tremble where they are wrapped around your bouquet. 

Capitano stands, as patient and as still as a massive statue, at the altar. He is dressed still in his armour; the only concession he has made to the idea of a wedding is a buttonhole tucked into his chest, of matching roses and Cecilias to your own. You can see that burning bluefire from across the room, and as you walk closer and closer to it you are hit by the urge to laugh at the thought that perhaps you are simply walking into hellfire. 

And a few other familiar faces fill the first row; that is Pierro, you know. The Director. He sits ramrod straight, the second-largest man in the room, his cloak serving to highlight the severe lines of his face. There is The Knave, too - in her beautifully-cut suit. There is the smallest smile playing on her lips, as she looks from you to Capitano and back again. 

Not all of the Harbingers have come to see this spectacle - you are silently glad of the absence of the Doctor - but there are enough there that you feel sweat prickle down your spine, gathering in the small of your back. You force yourself to swallow and to breathe. This chapel’s aisle has never felt so long before. 

But even though it feels as though the aisle will never end, end it does - too soon, too quickly, and you are at the end of your last walk as somebody free and unmarried. You are standing beside Capitano, ready to pledge yourself to him as your Archon has demanded you do. 

You wonder if he is smiling beneath the helmet. Your own face, you’re sure, must have the look of a deer staring down a bow and arrow; wide, frightened, terribly aware suddenly of its own mortality. But there is nothing a doe can do when she is a hunter’s quarry, and there is nothing you can do now either. 

So you say the words, after they issue forth from the Tsaritsa’s lovely voice and she commands you to repeat them. You listen to Capitano make the same oaths, his voice still a strange echo. You do not hear them, not really - but it does not matter, because they are binding in the eyes of your Archon and it is your Archon who has witnessed them being said. 

Your hand is shaking when Capitano takes it to slide the ring upon it. It is plain, too; a silver band, etched all over with some decorative scrollwork and words in a language you do not understand. 

You have never seen a marriage. The handmaidens do not do such things - they are chaste, and pure, and when they are done with the service of the Tsaritsa they remain so even when cast back to the powdery snow. But you have read books, and you know that a marriage usually ends with a kiss; a sealing of the pact that two people who love one another have made. 

You steel yourself, then, to see below Capitano’s mask. You try not to dwell on possibility; the idea of him being monstrous or disfigured or perhaps even just perfectly ordinary. You try to prepare yourself for the feel of another’s lips upon yours. 

But the Tsaritsa never decrees that it is time for Capitano to kiss his spoils. 

Indeed, Capitano takes your hand - his own like a massive claw, yours delicate and tender in his grip - and leads you back down the aisle. He does not look at you as he does it; but you have the strangest sensation that he is . . . uncomfortable, with the way that everyone is looking at him. That such pomp and circumstance is perhaps not something he would generally choose. 

In fact, when the door closes behind you - when you and he are briefly, briefly, briefly along in the corridor . . . something in him seems to unknot. He lets forth a rattling breath, his shoulders sagging just a touch, that would perhaps be invisible to any other eyes but the eyes of a frightened, lonely little mortwal who has been torn from what they thought was their purpose in life and thrown to the whims of somebody that may yet be a monster. 

“Little handmaiden,” he rumbles, from somewhere low in his chest, and you wonder if it is indeed relief that makes his tone seem almost comforting. “The formalities are done with. You are mine, and I am yours.”

He tilts his helmet, and that bluefire burning behind the visor finds your own eyes; almost imperceptibly, perhaps because he sees the terror in your gaze, he seems to soften at the edges. 

Hesitantly, he reaches out a gloved hand; just as hesitantly, he cups your face, the metal cool against the softness of your cheeks. He turns your face towards him, with a grip that you expect to be rough and possessive but is as gentle as the first layer of snow upon a shooting leaf. 

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

Home brings to mind your dormitory; the identical rows of beds, the identically dressed handmaidens, the comfort of routine. Home whispers in the back of your mind of something cooking in the oven, of a rowdy family gathered around a battered old table, of three children older than you and three children younger than you. 

You cannot return to either of those places. 

So all you can do, then, is smile for the man who could be captor or lover or liberator, but is now, inarguably, your husband. 

And let him lead you home.