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mortaldreams · 4 months ago

Text

breathing room (m ver.)

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: smut, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers

word count: 5.9k

warnings: sexually explicit content (MDNI), swearing, arguing, non-explicit descriptions/depictions of violence, tension of both the general and sexual sort, heeseung is a Talker

note: this is an extended (and explicit) version of my sfw story breathing room, which can still be found on my main blog stllmnstr. but this one has, you know, smut. enjoy!

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

In your mind, Lee Heeseung is nothing but a thorn in your side and an obstacle in your path as you struggle to fight your way way up the ranks in combat training. But even with your knife against his neck and flames in your eyes, he finds a way to catch you off guard.

or,

heeseung doesn't need a knockout. he just needs an in.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Lee Heeseung is having a hard time breathing.

Partly because he’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of him. A little bit because of the year-old rib injury he had neither the time nor patience to let heal completely.

And mostly because there’s a blade being held to his throat.

Yours, to be exact.

It’s a nice one, all things considered. Despite its lethality, it’s small, delicate almost. From this angle, he can just make out the detailing on the hilt. A series of vines wrap around each other intricately, forming kaleidoscopic patterns that extend all the way from the blade to where your fingers are wrapped around the hilt, knuckles white from the way your hand is straining.

Jesus, he thinks. If it takes that much concentrated effort for you to not let the knife press any harder against his skin, draw any blood, then maybe he should start taking the threats you throw his way like extra change a little more seriously.

Lazily, he lets his eyes trace a line from your fingers to your face. Skipping over the rather boring details of the plain black training shirt you wear, he directs his attention to the way your brow furrows in concentration instead.

Under usual circumstances, a knife to the throat would encourage all of his senses to narrow in on the sensation of metal against his pulse point. Would spur his brain to work a bit faster through all the biological fight or flight mechanisms in a last ditch attempt at survival.

But these are not usual circumstances. In fact, ever since the two of you were split into separate training cohorts a handful of months ago, this has become a rarity. And the only thing Heeseung wants to do is enjoy it a little more.

Without his self-preservation instincts kicking in, his brain has plenty of room for other things. The forgiving surface of a training mat beneath him, slightly soft where he lets his body relax into it. The unusually warm air of the training room, courtesy of a busted air conditioner that no one has gotten around to fixing just yet.

The way your hair falls around your face as you lean over him, chest still heaving from your recent bout of exertion. Your eyes are pure fire, embers and ashes and every stage in between as you sit atop his ribcage, knees on either side of his torso where you pin him to the mat.

But even as the lead trainer adds another tally underneath your name for another sparring match won, your gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t brighten in the afterglow of victory.

After all, victory only tastes sweet when it’s earned. Judging by the way your lips twist above him, Heeseung thinks the victory he just handed you on a silver platter must be horribly bitter.

Slowly, he raises his hands in mock surrender. There’s a half smile that looks a little too much like a smirk tugging at his lips when he says, “I concede.”

“No fucking shit.” You flick a strand of hair out of your face. Your knife presses a little tighter against his throat. “Did you even try?”

Heeseung maintains eye contact. “I think I’m doing us both a favor by not answering that one.”

Narrowing your eyes, annoyance makes itself the most prominent of your visible emotions. “Interesting choice of words from someone with a knife to his throat.”

Heeseung all but rolls his eyes. “What are you gonna do? Kill me in front of everyone?” The way he wraps sarcasm up in every syllable is almost as infuriating as the way he just let you win without putting up any semblance of a fight. “You’ve got a mean streak, princess, but that’s a bit much, even for you.”

The pressure on your blade increases, and Heeseung fights a wince as he feels it break the barrier between his skin and blood. It’s a miniscule cut, surface level at most, but he hears the threat all the same. “It’s like you want to die,” you marvel.

Heeseung’s eyes betray nothing, other than the fact that they can’t quite seem to stray from your own. Does he? No matter how deep inside himself he searches, the answer is always a resounding no. Despite the effort he put into this particular spar, or rather lack thereof, his survival instincts are still kicking. His pursuit of life is still alive and well.

So no, he doesn’t want to die. Quite the opposite in fact. But if he were to explain in plain terms that he never feels quite as alive as he does in the moments when you’ve got a knife on his throat and hatred in your eyes, he has the distinct feeling you might well and truly make good on your frequent promise to send him to an early grave.

And it’s not like he means to do it, not really. Heeseung might be a glutton for punishment these days, but there was a time when he tried to get your attention in all the regular ways. As he quickly found out, sweet words did nothing but make you roll your eyes, and his skills on a sparring mat were only as impressive as they could be used to hone your own.

He was a tool in your eyes. A means to an end as you did your best to work your way up the ranks.

You never looked at him, the person behind all the hand-to-hand combat training and advanced levels of weapon artistry.

At least not until he started annoying the ever-living shit out of you.

Back then, it had been easy. As new recruits, you were in the same training cohort, which meant you had the same daily schedules. As long as Heeseung had the chance to beat you to the last piece of toast in the dining hall at breakfast or tie the laces of your training boots together the night before an early morning, he was guaranteed at least one of your signature glares and a few choice words that would make his grandmother blush.

Granted, he knows that one-sided hatred is not a very stable foundation to build anything solid on, but he thinks of it in the same way he thinks of sparring.

He doesn’t need a knockout. He just needs an in.

A little bit of breathing room. Something that will have his partner lowering their guard, weakening their defenses just enough for him to strike. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over until the match is won and victory rests on his square shoulders.

Heeseung’s in this for the long haul, and he’s come to find that he doesn’t really care how many bruises he picks up along the way.

Across the room, the lead trainer heaves a long sigh.

“Alright, ___, that’s enough. You’ve earned your tally.” The most of anyone in today’s group. But you’re still glaring at him, and he knows it isn’t enough, not for you. “Heeseung, get it together. I expect better from you next time.”

You scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Expectations are only met when people are held to them, and you doubt Lee Heeseung has even become acquainted with the concept of a consequence.

Releasing one final, sharp exhale, you pull your knife away from his throat, tucking it back into the sheath on your upper thigh in one fluid motion. Swinging your leg over his torso, you remove your body from his own, give your anger some space to breathe. Without looking back, you let your strides eat up the distance between you and the exit.

Someone – you think it must be Jay, or maybe Jungwon – tries to catch your attention on the way out, asking about a maneuver you pulled in the middle of the match. A tricky bit of knife work you’ve been perfecting over the last few weeks.

Something that looked stupid as Heeseung did nothing but stand there, as if your blade was nothing but decorative. Made you look stupid as he stood and watched with nothing but a mildly amused expression on his face.

You hate him for it. Want to show him just how pretty your knife can be stained with the deep crimson he must bleed as surely as anyone else.

Lips pulled in a taut line, you unsheath the blade at your thigh once again, this time sending it spinning with deadly accuracy towards the line of trees that skirt the outside of the training facility.

You don’t miss. You never do.

It still feels like defeat.

…..

Heeseung notices when you’re not at dinner later that evening. Despite the fact that you no longer train together, the inter-cohort spars have shifted this week's schedule. You should be here, sitting next to Jay and Jungwon, probably, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

But you’re not. And he can only think of one other place to find you.

The training hall is dark when he arrives, but Heeseung is no fool. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he sees you soon enough. Silhouette dark against the empty expanse, he has half a mind to intervene before you shred yet another punching bag to irreparable pieces. Instead, he just watches for a moment longer.

He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that start to simmer, that always linger. Doesn’t know if it’s admiration or longing or something far worse.

But he wants to. Wants to examine them until he knows them as intimately as the back of his own hand, until he can recite them by name and express them in ways that don’t make you want to press a knife against his neck.

And he wants to keep watching, keep looking, keep noticing.

Even from a distance, even in the dark, he can read the frustration in the set of your shoulders, sense the exhaustion in the way your legs move just behind the rest of your body.

You need a break.

He needs an in.

Across the room from you, Heeseung clears his throat.

Startled, you nearly fall on your ass mid-kick before you turn to the source. It’s dark, but you know it’s him. Who else would it be?

Chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion, you finally catch your breath well enough to tell him, “If you’re not here for a rematch, then you have exactly ten seconds to get out of this building.”

A beat passes.

Another.

Heeseung exhales. “And if I am?”

Bathed in the dying glow of moonlight, you go still. “Then you better put in your best fucking effort.”

Heeseung is across the room before you can release another breath. It’s ridiculous how quickly he disarms you. And you’re caught off guard, yes, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Your knife in his hands, he throws it to the corner of the room. And then it’s just the two of you.

Heeseung spares neither time nor effort knocking your legs out from under you, sending you careening towards the mat. Screwing your eyes shut, you brace for the impact of a training mat that never comes, the back of your head cradled in a hand that serves as a barrier between you and the ground below.

It’s a complete reversal of your earlier roles as he lets his legs fall to either side of you, face inches from your own. There’s no knife on your neck, and he was gracious enough to break your fall.

But suddenly, you find your breath a difficult thing to catch regardless.

Above you, his eyes are dark. Your noses nearly touch. “This is what you wanted?” he breathes, and you feel his words as much as you hear them. They dance across your cheekbone, your lips. Have your bones feeling molten, all your hard edges malleable. “You want me to fight you like I mean it? To really fucking spar with you?”

You’ve rehearsed your answer too long to deviate, even as your mind screams with sudden uncertainties. “Yes.”

Heeseung doesn’t spare it a second thought. “Too bad.”

“Why? You have no problem f–”

Despite the way he has you caged, your hands are unbound. You could stop this, if you wanted to. Stop him.

You don’t.

Slowly, his hand begins to track an upward journey, taking your hem with it. The air of the room is warm, choked with summer heat and the odd sensations that simmer just beneath your skin, but you suppress a shiver anyway as a sliver of skin is revealed.

You know what he’s after, where his eyes fall to. It’s his fingers that hesitate. Dangle with uncertainty a hair's breadth from the scar that sits just above your hip bone.

Heeseung inhales, eyes returning to your own for a moment. They’re searching for permission you won’t give and boundaries you won’t set. If he wants to walk this tightrope, he’ll have to navigate on his own.

It’s a challenge he rises to. On his breath out, Heeseung lets his fingers find a home on the bare skin of your stomach, trace the jagged line that’s a shade paler than the surrounding area.

It’s a scar you hardly think of, one you can’t believe he remembers. Gifted to you in your early days of training, when a fellow recruit thought the best way to better his ranking was to discard the strict sparring rules set by your superiors and draw blood as a last ditch attempt at victory.

You’d still won, even with a fresh stab wound on your lower abdomen. And he’d been shown the door, like all recruits that break protocol.

“So what?” Your voice doesn’t come out nearly as biting as you intend it to. You curse the waver in your words. “I get one scar and suddenly I’m delicate?”

Heeseung glances up, something sincere in his eyes when he matches your gaze. His hand is still on your skin. “We’re all delicate. And we all have the scars to prove it. I’ve just developed a particular… aversion to seeing evidence of it when it comes to you.”

You’re quick to school your features into neutrality. At least on the outside, you won’t give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Apparently not,” Heeseung counters. “Since I’m not the one begging for a fight.” He holds your gaze when he adds, “And I have to say, princess, if you wanted me to put you on your back, there are much easier ways to ask.”

It’s as if you’ve been submerged in hot water, as if you’ve been burned, when you push him off of you with a speed that’s almost comical. And from the way heat rises in your cheeks, you just might have been.

Your voice is dangerously low when you tell him, “You have three seconds.”

“Until what?” Heeseung knows better than to be hopeful.

“Until I find my knife and put it to good use.”

He knows better, yes. But what are limits for, if not to be pushed?

Heeseung looks up at you from where he still lies on the mat. Propping himself up on one hand, he lets his gaze trace you from head to toe. Lazily, like he has all the time in the world and none of his inhibitions. “Is that a promise?”

You do your best not to squirm underneath his wandering gaze. But evidence of your embarrassment still stains your flushed skin. And from the way his lips start to quirk upwards, you can tell that he’s enjoying this.

You’re flustered, and he loves it. Loves that when you stutter a bit, start to trip over your words, it’s by his doing.

Standing above him, your scowl is unconvincing. A stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in your cheeks and the way you can’t quite match his eye. “What is wrong with you?”

“Several things.” Below you, Heeseung bites back a smile. “Would you like an itemized list? Or would you prefer the details of my depravity in essay format? Or I could–”

“Stop it.” Your face is still flaming, but your voice has changed. It’s not shy or breathy or even biting. It’s just… frustrated. A little bit pathetic. Pleading in a way Heeseung wasn’t prepared for.

“Just stop it.” On the training mat, Heeseung goes still. “God, you do this every time. I come here and I work my fucking ass off every day, and all you do is sit there and mock me for it.” The fire is draining from your eyes. The fight is draining from your shoulders. It’s wrong. It’s not what he meant. But it’s spiraling and he doesn’t know how to stop it. “Is this…” you trail off. Deciding your pride is already torn to shreds, you ask, “Am I some kind of joke to you?”

Heeseung is standing again before you can catch your breath. Crowding your space. Or at least, he tries to. The backwards step you take maintains a steady distance.

“No.” Now he’s the one that’s scrambling, lost for words. “No,” he repeats. “Fuck, ___” he cards a hand through his hard, pushing it away from his face. “You have to know that’s not what I think of you.”

You scoff in exasperation, but your eyes are starting to shine. Reflect the unshed tears of frustration that have begun to gather in your lash line. Heeseung’s fingertips twitch with the urge to wipe them away. “How would I know that? You always do this.” Your words are coming out too fast, spilling from parted lips in the most painful river of honesty he’s ever gotten from you.

“You don’t take me seriously. You won’t fight me. You won’t do anything but lay there with that stupid fucking smile.” You’re angry. Clearly. But you’re not getting in his face, not forcing your words down his throat by invading his space.

No, instead, you’re closing in on yourself. Eyes trained on the ground, you won’t even look at him. Arms wrapping around your torso, it’s as if you want as many barriers between the two of you as possible. “All you do is tease me, because you know it makes me…” Shaking your head, your words die on your lips.

Heeseung can’t let it go so easily. “Makes you what?”

Slowly, you drag your gaze back to his. There’s no sound here, in the expanse of a barren training room. Just the mingling of your breath with his. The quiet remnants of your anger. You won’t answer his question. You can’t.

Instead, you whisper “I hate you.”

Heeseung takes a step closer. This time, you don’t retreat. He shakes his head. “You don’t.”

Feet planted, you have to tilt your chin to look up at him now. “I do–”

“You don’t,” he interrupts. “You don’t hate me, and you have no idea what to do about it.”

A spark flickers through your eyes again/ This is the kind of sparring match you’ve become familiar with when it comes to him. “Typical,” you bite, voice low. “And so fucking presumptuous, to assume that you know me better than I do.”

Heeseung presses into your space further. You can feel the heat that radiates off of his skin, that threatens to consume you whole. “I tease you, yes,” he admits. “But you’ve never been a joke to me. I take you as seriously as death, princess.”

“Don’t call me that–”

“And don’t act like you’re any better.” Features slackening, your eyes widen as he doubles down. “You want to talk about taking people seriously? Fine.” There are flames in his eyes now, raging through his dark irises. “You never looked at me twice. Never thought of me as anything but a stepping stone to make yourself better. You want me to fight you? You want to use me to test out all your fancy little tricks and improve until you’re the only one at the top?”

He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Fine. I’ll give you what you want.” Fingers sliding beneath your jaw, he cups your chin with a light, but demanding grip. Forcing your gaze upwards, you have nowhere to look but his eyes when he demands, “But look at me while I do it.”

In the span of seconds, you’re on your back again. Trapped beneath him as he pins your hands above your head, both of your wrists entrapped in the grasp of a single hand. Knees on either side of your torso, you’re effectively trapped.

Frantically, without any of your usual finesse, you begin to thrash, desperately trying to free yourself. His only response is to close his knees tighter, restricting your movement further.

Fuming, nearly immobile, you bring one knee up in a well-aimed jab. But Heeseung hasn’t been fighting all these months. Not really.

He predicts your movement with a practiced ease and stops the blow in its tracks. Spare hand wrapping around the back of your thigh, he shakes his head at you.

“Ah, ah,” he scolds, voice dangerously low. “I thought I told you to look at me.”

Beneath him, your chest heaves. “As if I’d ever listen to you.” But your eyes lock on his anyway. As if you can win this sparring match through sheer will alone.

Heeseung doesn’t say anything. Hardly so much as blinks as his hand wraps around your thigh a little more firmly. And then, he’s adjusting it.

Dragging it upwards with a scalding touch until he guides it to wrap around the base of his hips. Again, his touch is light. Something you could break free from if you really wanted to. All of his command lies in his eyes, his gaze that still burns into yours.

The space just above your cheekbones is flaming again. But this time, for a different reason.

You feel it more pointedly than you ever have, a sharp, pulsing tug that snakes down your spine and settles just beneath your navel.

You’re warm there, too. Too warm.

The clothed expanse of your inner thigh, just above your knee, rests against the outside of his hip. But it’s not enough. Does nothing to soothe the building ache, nothing to ease your mounting desperation for friction, for something.

It’s too much. It’s almost involuntary, the way you start to squirm again,. But this time, it’s not freedom you seek.

Overwhelmed with sensations you have no idea what to do with, you screw your eyes shut.

Your body feels like one big muscle, drawn taut, fraught with tension. And it’s so warm, so unbearably hot.

Shrouded in darkness of your own making, it’s almost worse. You can feel everything. Every desperate pulse that throbs in time with your heartbeat. Every shallow breath that scatters across your overly warm skin.

The gentle, light pair of lips that ghost over the space between your brows. That brush against the side of your tightly shut eyelid. That comes to rest along the shell of your ear, inspiring a fresh round of shivers down the length of your spine.

He feels it too. You can tell by the way his breath shudders against you.

His lips part against your earlobe, touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. “Please,” he begs, and you think you might actually die. If this is what defeat feels like, you’ll hand him his rightful victory. “Look at me.”

You’re still sparring. You’re sure of it. Giving into his demands would feel like defeat. But so does hiding, lying immobile and shying away from sensation as if you’re afraid.

You are. Afraid, that is. But you’ll die before you let him see that.

So you obey his command. Eyelids fluttering open slowly, you’re met with the sight of him. Hair falling over his forehead, his nose nearly touches yours. There’s heat in his cheeks and his gaze and his skin.

Something in him sings with desperation, too.

Still, there’s a hint of something else. Something softer. Something that almost sounds like fondness when he matches your eye and whispers, “There she is.”

You feel molten, pliant beneath his touch. Again, your hips shift of their own volition as you swallow down the whimper that threatens to escape.

Heeseung is so intricately attuned to it. Every miniscule movement. Every shallow breath. He notices, feels it too.

And he’s always held a certain love for this. For the chase. For the build up.

But his patience can only stretch so far, and he won’t leave you hanging for long.

You expect it to be bruising, desperate, angry. Everything that’s it’s always been between the two of you when he finally brings his lips to yours.

It’s not.

Heeseung’s lips drip with desperation, but they’re slow where they begin to move against your own. Slow and deep and searching, like he’s looking for something he never thought he’d find.

Late summer heat washes over your skin, and this time, you can’t hide the whimper that drips from your tongue. That he swallows with a renewed vigor.

It’s as if a light has been ignited. The hand, the one that still cradles your thigh, doubles down in its grip. Drags your leg up further.

Until he’s just as trapped within it as you are beneath his body. The action brings him closer to you, touching in places that send a fresh wave of shudders radiating from the cradle of your hips.

“God,” he pants, the syllable sliding past your open lips. “Fuck, ___.”

He moves his hips again, this time in a more deliberate way. A repeated motion that has you seeing stars. That quells the rising ache in your core just as much as it expands it.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “Feel what you do to me?”

You shudder beneath him, body slack to sensation. A live wire under his touch. “Please.”

But patience, restraint, are old friends of Heeseung’s. He wants to hear you say it. “Please, what? Use your words, princess.”

You’ll give it to him, whatever he wants. But words are difficult to come by. You can’t form them with your tongue, can’t push them past your lips. You can’t think. “I don’t… It hurts–”

Heeseung might have patience, but the sound of you begging erases what’s left of his self-control in one fell swoop. He’ll finish the words you can’t quite work out. “Yeah? Need me to make it better? Need me to make you feel good?”

But he does want at least one thing from you. With his hand on your jaw, he forces your gaze to his again. “I’ll do it. I’ll give you whatever you want.” It’s a promise. One that bleeds with sincerity. One that’s just as evident in his eyes as it is in his words. “Just need you to tell me.”

In the scant inches that separate your lips, you whisper, “I want it.”

Heeseung is hanging on by a thread. “Want what?”

You unwind it just as quickly. With starlight dancing over your features, half shadowed by his body over yours, you tell him, “Want you.”

And you can feel it, the way his facade of composure starts to slip. The way desperation starts to become his only driving force.

Even still, you’ve always been something he chooses to treat with care, and this will be no different.

Slowly, he releases his grip on your hands above your head.

With movements that soothe as much as they ache, and gestures that feel a little too much like love, he pushes a stray strand of hair away from your heated forehead.

And then, once again, his hand falls to the hem of your shirt. There’s less hesitation, even if his fingers still shake slightly, as he begins to drag it upwards. Inch by agonizing inch, the expanse of your stomach is laid bare to night air and the wandering intensity of his gaze.

Your ribcage follows. It’s not cold, but you shudder all the same.

He stops, fingers suddenly immobile as they trace the top of your ribs. Uncharted territory. A final barrier between the two of you.

But you’re getting better at this, too. With a firm grip, you bring one hand to grasp his wrist. Looking him right in the eye, you tell him in a heated whisper, “Touch me.”

It’s all he needs.

Hesitation sizzles against the open air everywhere it bleeds from his fervent touch.

His hands are on your skin, and his mouth is back on yours. It burns in a way that’s distinct from hatred. There’s no bitter aftertaste, no sharp sting, even as his teeth catch on your bottom lip.

There’s little grace here, even as he takes his time with you.

Here on the training mat, it’s a far cry from romance, even if your head swims with dangerous thoughts all the same.

His breath, his body, his touch are all tangled in yours. As his hips find a home in the space against yours, it feels less like sparring and more like a dance. Careful choreography that your bodies already know.

Again, he moves against you. The sounds that crawl from your throat and drip through his open lips are obscene. Would be hopelessly embarrassing in any other context, but his touch soothes your anxieties as much as it stokes them.

Lying beneath him, skin bare to his gaze and his touch and his intentions, you suddenly feel like a novice. An easy opponent. The nervous holder of the lower hand.

But Heeseung never wanted to best you, and this is no exception. Gentle fingers dance across the band of your training trousers. Plain. Utilitarian. Designed for function.

Your sudden insecurities aside, he doesn’t want to best you. He doesn’t want to win.

He tells you as much. “Relax,” he coos against your feverish temple. “Just gonna make you feel good.” It’s an iteration of an already established claim. A promise he’s already made.

But here, trapped beneath his body, consumed by a touch that soothes as much as it burns, you decide that would feel like losing, too.

“You, too,” you insist, finding the fragmented remnants of your voice. It’s a whisper that lands on his collarbone. He shudders with the insinuation. “I want you to feel good, too.”

Pulling back slightly, he pauses his ministrations. Looks you right in the eye and asks, “Are you sure?”

He might have spurred this, might have brought you here, but you’re burning with it now, too. The desire to see him come undone. Fall apart by your doing.

You bring one hand to his temple, and he relaxes into your touch like he’s familiar with it. His head cradled in your palm, you say for the third time, “I want to make you feel good.”

He shudders, and for a moment, everything is still. The room around you holds its breath, his gaze locked on yours.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he rolls his hips again. Slowly. Surely.

Watches as you struggle to keep your eyes open against the sudden onslaught of sensations. Marvels at the small, desperate sounds he’s dying to swallow.

It’s still, until it’s not. Until his fingers find their mobility again and the rest of you is laid just as bare as your torso. Until long moments later, your hands are the one to make him follow suit.

Sweat sticks to your skin, makes every movement, every motion, feel all the more sordid.

But when he guides your other leg around him and whispers against the shell of your ear, “You feel so good,” something between the two of you feels sacred, too.

There’s little finesse to the way he finally guides himself inside of you. Little grace to be found in the way your bodies connect, breath and body and soul combining and colliding into one.

There’s too much sensation, too many months and weeks and hidden dreams for it to be perfect. Too much care and pleasure and feelings for it to be anything but.

And Heeseung…

Heeseung is seeing fucking stars.

He’s always found you beautiful, but this is new. This is different. This is just for him.

Every desperate sound he drags from your throat, every involuntary movement of your hips as you beg for relief only he can give you. It all belongs to him.

His own pleasure is lost somewhere behind clouded eyes as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes open under the intensity of his touch. He chases something bigger, something far more dangerous than the pathways of his own baser desires.

He needs it. Burns with the urge to watch you drowning in pleasure for him. Because of him.

The only thing you’ve ever shown interest in him for is his prowess on a training mat, and he’s desperate to show you that he’s worth more than that. That he can serve you what you need on a silver platter and predict what you want without you having to say a word.

He’s a quick study. He watches, observes the way your skin flushes with every filthy, adoring, sweet nothing he whispers against your ear. With every inch of pleasure he forces you to swallow.

You’re shaking beneath him, practically vibrating with the intensity of it all, and Heeseung wants nothing more than for it all to last just a little longer. Stretch into a slighter bigger pocket of infinity that only the two of you are privy to.

But even slivers of forever have their inevitable ends, and Heeseung senses this one in the way your whimper drags out, in the way the last remaining bits of tension drain from your shoulders while you clench around him.

He’s no better. In the moments that follow, he crowds himself impossibly further into the heat of your body while he follows suit. Makes good on your wish that he finds his pleasure, too.

And when it’s done, and the only thing left in the afterglow is exhaustion, he hears you whisper, “Heeseung?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. He’s never heard you say his name like that before. All hesitation, no trace of venom. His throat feels scraped raw when he hums against your collarbone, “Mm?”

Your hands are in his hair, a gentle repeated motion that soothes. That has hope surging in his chest.

“I don’t…” you sigh, fighting against the urge to swallow your less combative words, even now. “I don’t hate you,” you finally admit. Like it’s still a secret. Like he can’t read the truth in the way you wrap strands of his hair around your fingers, in the way you let him rest against your skin.

But it’s not easy for you to admit, even if it’s obvious, evident in everything that’s passed between the two of you. It still takes no small amount of bravery for you to whisper it to him in the dead of night in an abandoned training room.

Bathed in the fading remnants of deep seated pleasure and the dying glow of distant moonlight, it almost makes him want to smile.

“I know,” he whispers. Leaning a little further into your touch, he repeats, “I know.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: this was for YOU heeseung girlies ♡♡♡ it's been a hot minute since I wrote anything with actual smut, so I hope this reads alright! let me know what you thought, and as always, I hope you enjoyed ♡

#heeseung smut #heeseung fanfic #heeseung fanfiction #heeseung x you #heeseung x reader #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfic #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x you #enhypen x reader

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nerdygirlramblings · 27 days ago

Text

someone's in a rut 🤭 and we meet Ren's family (part 1)

a/n: part of this chapter inspired by Broken Beyond Bearing by @lostintransist and by comments from @pyxrin

cw: poorly executed accents, omegaverse biology, heat/rut cycles

Days begin to blur together. A run followed by infiltration and exfil trainings on the moon (what the others called the rubble-strewn field). Or weight training and asset retrieval in the brick, the windowless building in the hangar, before sparring. Grift work, your own term for information retrieval, before the shooting range. Never the same thing two days in a row. On rare occasions, either Soap or Gaz had you along while training recruits. It was the closest thing to working with your old squad.

And each time, just as you find your footing with the advanced field training, Price introduces new elements: time restraints, 'enemy' combatants. You have never felt as lost before, so unsure of your place. The only thing that keeps it from being completely disheartening isn't Gaz's reassurances or Price's praise or Soap's compliments. It's Adam. It's stopping in to requisition a windcheater in your size and hearing how you made it out of the brick faster than Ghost or how Soap struggled for a long time with grift work. It's confirmation from an outside, and thus unbiased, source that your progress is fine. That they won't regret asking for you.

Until Price calls you into his office. All you can think about is how you didn't know about the standardized step size and the trouble it caused on the moon. Or how you went three rounds without finding the needed intel before Price called time. That Soap teasingly pointed out, "Yer thinkin' tae hard," like saying it will make you get out of your own head even though it's all you know how to do. Crowded pubs and loud, dark clubs flash in your memory, each one a failed attempt to manipulate a mark.

You're sure he's going to put you back into the rank and file. Who needs a woman, and an omega at that, who can't master the basic things the task force needs to do. You're terrified and heartbroken before you even get into his office.

The desk seems more imposing than ever, and Price's face, for the first time, is unreadable. Even his scent is locked down, no dying ember smell wafting around. He's smiling, but you've been taking pseudo acting classes from him for more than a fortnight. The smile could easily hide his intentions.

He clears his throat, and you pull your gaze from where you'd been staring at your hands. For the first time since you met the man, Price seems nervous. He reaches up, scratching his beard and running his hand over his scent gland. "Er, we 'ave some leave coming, me an' the others, and I wan'ed ta see if ya'd like to stay here or go home?"

A long moment passes before you respond. "I'm not sure I understand, sir. You take leave tagether, but I'd go home?" The furrow between your brows deepens. Before he can clarify, you ask what's been eating at you. "Is this yer way 'a transferrin' me off the team?" Even you can hear the plea in your voice. Please don't let me go.

"Oh, Ren, no! No. Tha's not what this is," he rushes to say. The blush that creeps up his neck is a surprise. Is he embarrassed?

"'S just, well, we try not to use suppressants unless we're on a mission. Fucks too much wi' the body's natural rhythm, yeah? Throws off anyone on 'em too long." You nod in understanding. If you didn't have such a bad reaction to them - foggy thoughts and slow movements - you'd prefer to be on suppressants all the time. Instead, when your heat hits, you take yourself to medical for a heat-induced isolation. They're horrendous on the system, but it's a short-term problem while you're in the service, though your omega purrs that a pack would remedy that problem.

"So, er, we made the decision years ago to take our leave together when, er, one of the alphas has a rut." He's fully blushing now, and you get it. He's just told you either he or Ghost - he didn't specify, and betas like Gaz and Soap don't have ruts- is going to lose themselves to their base instincts soon.

You're quiet through all these revelations, and he plows ahead, only the faintest hint of ozone in the air to alert you to his distress. "Simon's rut is in another week or so, so we'll take leave from this Wednesday ta the following Friday ta give everyone a cushion on either end for prep and recovery." The room feels warmer, and you know it's because your own internal temperature is spiking, your omega excited about the idea of Simon's knot.

"So, er, ye'll all be gone, sir?" you clarify, forcing your omega to think of other things.

He nods, a hint of smoke in the air. You can smell his distress dissipating, replaced slowly by ease and contentment. "Yes. We 'ave a place on the edge 'a the Lakes. We'll head there and be back after the rut. Adam said yer dad's due with a litter soon?"

The idea that Adam shared that bit of your family with Price puts you on edge until he adds, "Adam suggested ya take leave when we do but go an' see yer family." He rushes to add, "If ya want."

Now it's your turn to be embarrassed. Once again, it's Adam to the rescue. It warms you down to your center that Adam made such a thoughtful recommendation to Price and that Price took it. If you hadn't heard it yourself, you'd think he was takin' the piss.

"Yes, sir," you stammer, lost at what else you could say to this plan. "That would be lovely. I know my family pack will be happy ta have me home."

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #omegaverse #omegaverse 141 #omegaverse tf 141 #a/b/o #a/b/o 141 #a/b/o tf 141 #john price #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #simon riley #nerdygirl says

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folkloreandfable · 7 months ago

Text

Culpa mea

Synopsis: All will pay the price for their follies. Even you. One mistake drove a wedge between you and your betrothed. Now, with a looming war, you must make choices that will alter your life. For better or worse. Pairing: Jacaerys x targtower!reader Warnings: None. A/N: English is not my first language, so please excuse any errors.

ALICENT HIGHTOWER’S FINAL BIRTH was the most excruciating. Hours of pain and sweat-glistened skin until, finally, shrilling screams drowned out her sobs of exhaustion. A set of twins. Boy and a girl. Daeron is the spitting image of dragon blood, silver hair, and amethyst eyes. You, however, had dark hair with tinges of red and deep dark eyes that turned to the colour of a dying ember when caught in light.

You were unlike any of your siblings. You lacked the inherent cruelty seeded in Aemond and Aegon, but possessed the spiritedness lacking in Helaena. Growing up, you were aware of the games and power struggles that were woven into the undercurrents of your family, yet remained ambivalent. When your mother warned you about not getting too close to Rhaenyra’s ‘bastard’ children, you paid no mind. Not like you had any idea what it meant, either. You happily went out to play with them, anyway. Until the incident, at least.

Aemond got into a fight with Luke, which lost him an eye. You were furious. Your brother lost his eye, yet your father did nothing. No one punished Lucerys. Instead, your father declared you betrothed to Jacaerys while you seethed at them behind your mother’s skirts. That night, he came to you; you demanded he and his brother apologise to Aemond but Jacaerys argued Aemond was in the wrong. The quarrel ended in no resolution and you saying “Mother was right, we should have never associated with bastards!”

Which you came to regret. You stayed up all night, tossing and turning, thinking of how you would apologise to Jacaerys when you see him again. Come morning, your mother declared you are to be sent away to Old Town with Daeron. She would not have her blood sullied by a bastard and your grandfather came up with the idea to send you away until they could find a proper ‘fix’. Though Alicent and Otto promised Viserys that they’d call you back when you are of marriageable age.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Six years later,

YOUR GRANDSIRE has yet to convince your father to break off your engagement to Jacaerys and find a more ‘suitable’ match. According to your father, there is no more suitable a match than the heir to the Iron Throne. When the Viserys fell ill, your mother reluctantly calls you back at his behest. You arrive post-haste on the back of Silverwing, donning Hightower Green and a pendant of the seven. You saw something flicker in your mother’s eyes when she received you, but it dissipates as quickly.

Your sister arrived with her uncle husband and their brood. Soon you’re at the grand hall, standing with your mother and siblings, in opposition to your eldest sister and her children. There were two more since you last saw them. Jace had grown up to be quite handsome as well. He’d make a fine King, even more so once starts slouching less. You eagerly await until you finally his gaze and offer a small smile, but he looks away. It was like a knife piercing your heart. You have not left on the best of terms, yet a part of you hoped that there was room for reconciliation. You sent him letters, profusely apologising for your words and offering amendments. Yet all went unanswered. It wore on you that things might never go back to the way it was. And part of it was your fault. In your rumination, you almost did not react when Daemon cut Vaemond’s head off. But that was the conclusion of a strenuous ordeal. Alas, the worst was still to come.

Supper was a tense affair. Your father decided to play pretend a happy family for one night and who could deny him? You often forgot that Viserys Targaryen was your father. That fire ran through your veins. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps forgetting you were a Targaryen meant that envy and resentment wouldn’t consume you as they consumed your brothers. But their anger was misplaced. But it was also seeded by your grandfather. You may have been away, but you were not ignorant of what was at play here. The distance may have given you more clarity in your judgement.

You were sat opposite Jacaerys who avoided your gaze at all costs, finding the uncomfortable toasts far more interesting before giving one himself. Though you revelled in Aegon’s uncomfortable expression when Helaena made her toast, andit turned indignant once Jacaerys invited her to dance. The table settled into a somewhat comfortable atmosphere, and you took a few sips of wine as a personal celebration of that achievement. Though you should have known better when Aemond suddenly stood to give his toast.

“Come, let us drain our cups to these three��strong men.”

Your heart sank into your stomach when he finished his sentence. It was a good thing that your father was taken to his chambers a while ago. The grip on your goblet tightens as a fight ensues and the weakly woven tapestry of a loving family completely unravels. You all get sent to bed by Daemon and on your way out, you distantly hear about them leaving for Dragonstone.

As the night got eaten away by daylight, you awaken to the sounds of bells and panic as a heavy dread settles within you. And your instinct did not betray you. Your father was dead and Aegon would be king.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

YOU PACE RESTLESSLY, stone clacking underfoot and fire crackling in the hearth. Nothing felt right. And it wasn’t just Aegon being missing. Why would your father, who unwaveringly insisted Rhaenyra was his heir, change his mind regarding something so detrimental and only express it in his dying breath with no other witnesses? You did not have the highest opinion of King Viserys, but knew he had the wisdom to know better. You paused in your steps, casting a side-long glance at your mother, who sat at the table with steepled fingers and a contemplative look with no show of guilt. So either your father truly had a change of heart on his deathbed or something else was at play here. Though your mother was clever, much of her cunning came from Otto's influence. She would never have been capable of lying about something like this. At least, not without it surfacing in her countenance.

“Your grace,” Ser Cole’s voice pulled you both out of your stupor as he stepped aside to reveal Aegon at the doorway. They found him, and you do not know what to feel except the lead-like weight settling on your chest. You were not one to believe in bad omens. It was but a creation of the cynical human mind that was incapable of believing in anything good. But you weren’t so sure anymore.

The coronation was arranged swiftly with all of King’s Landing gathered in the Sept to watch the crowing of a new dragon. You almost pitied Aegon seeing his downtrodden stance as he walked down the aisle. But you also knew Aegon. Once he tasted power, this will all become a happy memory. Your mother greeted him with a small kiss on the forehead before handing him over to your grandfather. You press your lips in a thin line and let your gaze wander to the crowd. Somany faces, all of whose fate lives in the House of The Dragon. No matter who wins the game, they lose. As the Septon recited prayers, you noticed a hooded figure in the crowd who reeked of suspicion, but your attention was pulled back to Aegon before you could follow it.

The conqueror’s crown now rested upon your brother. Aegon the Second, lord of the Seven Kingdoms. His eyes swept those at the altar as they lowered their heads, one by one. And with each one, you could see unearned pride seeping into his bones. You, too, lowered your head when the time came.

A slow smile formed on his lips as he turned to the crowds with arms wide open and they erupted into cheers. He revelled in it.

*SCREECH*

A sudden shrill permeated the halls, along with a cloud of smoke, and the cheers turned to screams of terror. You held on to Helaena, cowering as you whispered prayers for protection. Smallfolk pushed and shoved against one another, eager to escape the monster revealed to be Meleys as the dust settled.

“OPEN THE GATES!” Your grandfather’s voice bellowed through the halls, your mother rushing to Aegon whose bravado dissipated like the heat of a burning ember submerged in water.

You slowly lift your head to see Rhaenys looking down proudly from her steed.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

YOU WERE THE USURPERS there was no doubt in your mind left. You had your suspicions, but Rhaenys siding with Rhaenyra cemented it. Truthfully, you should do nothing. You had all to lose and nothing to gain. But you had this pesky honour and integrity that does not allow inaction. Your mind wandered to Jacaerys. He was sure to believe you were involved in this betrayal, and with your father gone, there was no reason for your betrothal to continue. You swallowed hard, feeling a knot forming in your chest. All your hopes threaten to shatter into smithereens.

Before you could ruminate further, your door opened with a creak, followed by the urgent footsteps of your mother.

“Is all well, mother?” You ask, propping yourself back up against the pillows as you take in Alicent’s tense shoulders and fidgety hands. She gives you a small nod before taking a sit next to you. Dipping the mattress ever so slightly.

“I thought we should talk.”

“Well, it must be a rather disconcerting discussion to agitate you so,” you offer an easy smile.

Alicent tried to return the gesture. Instead, she reached forward to grasp your hand. “Your grandfather and I have been discussing your future. Now that Rhaenyra believes us to be usurpers to the throne, there is really no hope of reconciliation, as your father hoped.”

You feel your heart begin racing at your mother's words. The lead dug deeper into your chest, but you gestured for her to continue.

“So we’ve arranged for you to be wed to Aemond.” And the pendulum drops. You don’t stop the tears prickling your eyes, but you try to keep your voice steady.

“But Rhaenyra has yet to make an indication she wishes to dissolve the arrangement. If she believes us to be traitors, then usurping her son’s betrothed after his throne would be the greatest offence–”

“Enough.” Alicent firmly shuts down and further retorts from you. “You do well to remember your place, daughter. And your place is next to a man of good breeding, like your brothers. Not some lowly bastard.” She spat out the last bit like spoilt wine.

“But–“

“Not. A. Word.” She squeezed your hands tight for emphasis before standing back up as if nothing happened. “Aemond is at Storm’s end, and we will announce your betrothal once he returns.” With that finality, she left, leaving only the echoes of her fading footsteps.

Alone once more, you allow the sobs bubbling in your throat to be free. This can not be happening. As much as you skirted around your feelings for Jace, there was no point in hiding from them. You loved him. Yes, it waxed and waned over the years but never diminished. The walls were closing in. Like an encased tomb of a prisoner whose only salvation lay in suffocation. A passive victim of fate. No. You needed to move. You could go back to Old Town, but it would only be a temporary respite before Alicent ordered you to be brought back by your uncle.

There was only one path for you left. It was uncertain and dangerous. But you would not rest until you saw Jacaerys, and he assured you that you were truly alone in the world.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

JACAERYS VELARYON always knew deep down that he was a bastard. The words uttered under hushed whispers and his utter lack of resemblance to Laenor Velaryon. He always suppressed those insecurities. He and his brothers were loved by their parents. All three of them. And received acceptance from their grandfathers. What were the words of a few lowborns to the words of a king? But he never understood that words could leave welts like lashes until they came from the tongue of the one he loved in secrecy.

We should have never associated with bastards.

The immediate regret in her eyes was a balm of sorts but the damage was done anyway. So he left. Part of him believed that they were out of anger and not from the heart. But she said it anyway. Even so, he was ready to forgive and forget it all with one word of apology. The messengers came and went but with none for him. Still, he perhaps deluded himselfinto believing she would be different despite Alicent’s influence.

He thought wrong.

“Are you sure of it?” Rhaenyra asked Master Gerardys once more.

“Yes, my queen, it is said that Queen Alicent’s younger daughter wishes to marry her brother Aemond and dissolve the betrothal with the crown prince.”

Jacaerys curled his fingers, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. “And what of it?” He snapped. “The betrothal is of no benefit to us and if she is willing to marry Luke’s killer then it is all the more good reason to dissolve it!”

The eyes of the entire council landed on him at his sudden outburst but his mother just knowingly smiled. “We have more pressing matters to attend than a supposedly dissolved betrothal, anyway.” The queen smoothly changed subjects, which Jacaerys was grateful for but it never left his mind.

Later in the evening, Jacaerys sat opposite his mother's desk with his cheek on his hand, looking over papers. At least trying to. “It does not befit a prince to pout.” Rhaenyra chided with all but anger in her voice.

“I’m not pouting,” he murmured without a change in his stance.

Rhaenyra sighed, pulling her son’s hands into her own. “You truly did not believe that–“

“I do not wish to speak of it,” Jace swiftly interrupted.

“Very well,” she let go of his hands with a small squeeze. “But I wish to speak of my sister and I know she would never betray you like that. However the greens are, my sisters have not a cruel bone in their body.

“You know what she said to me–”

“I know, but that was years ago and her brother lost his eye. But I also saw the way she looked at you when we were in King’s Landing.”

Jace stiffened, swallowing the dryness in his throat, suddenly finding the woodgrains very interesting. “Really? I haven’t noticed.”

Rhaenyra only smiled and reached over to cup his jaw. “I want you to be happy, do not let petty misunderstandings and political games take it away.” Jace looked away again, focusing on his lap instead as his mother pressed a small kiss on his hairline.

There was always the possibility of a carefully crafted misunderstanding between him and you, but he never allowed himself to fully consider it. To do so would risk hope—hope that would only lead to his heart being shattered into dust again. So he chose to assume the worst, that you were just like your family, complicit in all their schemes.

Their moment would be soon interrupted by the heavy footsteps of Ser Erryk, who spoke with great urgency. “Your grace, we’ve spotted a dragon not our own heading for the castle.”

Rhaenyra shot up, her expression hardening as she rushed toward the terrace, Jace following with his sword half-drawn. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the sky, searching for the creature soaring among the clouds. It was far too small to be Vhagar. “Stand down!” she barked, her voice sharp and commanding. The dragon drew closer, its form almost camouflaged by the grey skies, its dark silhouette flickering through the mist like a phantom.

Jacaery’s hand dropped from the hilt of his sword in astonishment.

“It’s Silverwing…”

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You land Silverwing on the shores of Dragonstone and feel anxiety reel its ugly head again. You have no idea how you will be received on your arrival. Especially after the stunt Aemond pulled. Putting it mildly. You were not close with your half-sister, but she always treated you kindly in your minimal interactions. However, you would not blame her for anyhostility or suspicion toward you. She has every reason to distrust you.

Even so, you steel yourself, disembarking from Silverwing and tightening your grip on your skirts. In hindsight, wearing green was probably not the wisest choice either. But it wouldn’t be the first foolish decision you’ve made on this journey. You keep your gaze so low as you ascend the steps to the castle that you almost miss the woman standing on the landing, her presence sharp and unmistakable.

“Y–your grace,” you stammer, stumbling back a step to avoid colliding with Rhaenyra. She doesn’t move, only watches you with a gleam of curiosity in her eyes, the corners of her lips hinting at amusement. “I—”

"You’ve come a long way," she said, her words slicing through yours with practised ease. "We shall speak more on the eve." With that, she vanished inside—or so you assume, because everything blurred when you were met by a pair of smouldering brown eyes glaring from just behind her.

“Jacaerys.” ─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─── Note: This is definitely part 1 of 2. Thank you so much for reading <3 Inbox: Open

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd s2 #hotd season 2 #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jace x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #asoiaf #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower

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lvmimis · 8 months ago

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ember - izuku x reader

cw: spoilers to the end of the manga. reader with vaguely described quirk. izuku and reader are married. short and sweet. a/n: establishing my own new canon, tyvm.

On an evening out in September, six months after you tie the knot with Izuku Midoriya and three years after Izuku returns to active Pro Hero duty, you find out three crucial things about him.

One, Izuku meant it when he said he loves you possibly more than life itself; two, Izuku might not have lost all of the embers of One for All, after all, and three, Izuku is a fucking idiot.

Your body feels unbelievably rigid as though you were in a car accident, and in a way, you were, and your guts should be strewn all over this sparsely populated street if not for the fact that you’re wrapped up, safe, cocooned in your lover’s protective hold, his back curved over yours, and the truck that should have crushed you both instead is partially crumpled itself at its front end, metal twisting around Izuku’s raised forearm. The two of you are panting heavily, the adrenaline coursing through your veins giving you the sensation of having just run a marathon, and he’s looking at you with frantic eyes, scanning you for safety. That long familiar green spark in the air surges around him like electricity, the glow in his green eyes, fading quickly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, breathlessly, not out of exertion but out of shock.

“I-Izuku, you’re not…”

He still hasn’t realized what has just happened, focusing on the fact that you’re alive and okay and didn’t turn into roadkill right in front of his very eyes. Unwedging his somehow intact forearm from the grille of the truck, he turns his body completely to you, rubbing his hands over your shoulders and down your arms, and helps you rise to your feet. The static feeling emanating from him slips away second by second and your lips wobbles as you’re at a loss for words.

“Are you okay?” he repeats again. He’s patting you over quickly, looking for broken bones, bruised skin, and your mind is still racing, computing what just happened and why you’re still alive.

He shouldn’t have been able to cross that distance so quickly - you were just waving to him from across the street, the road clear when you looked before crossing, and in seconds the vehicle had barreled at full speed out of nowhere; he couldn’t have moved before screaming your name fast enough, maybe years ago when you were both teenagers with impossible superpowers but not now, years later with superhuman gifts dwindled to nothing.

He couldn’t have, but he did.

“I-Izuku, the suit… you’re not wearing your suit,” your voice carries shakily, and as you see his eyebrows unscrunch and raise instead in surprise, he turns, and sees the stopped vehicle, the broken glass and distorted metal, a man hurriedly jumping out of the passenger seat and shakily apologizing, and finally his torn jacket sleeve and it occurs to him.

“Oh, fuck, I’m not.”

—

You watch Mei type on her computer, not bothering to try to decipher her thoughts from her facial expressions, knowing full well that she’s never been readable before. Even years after high school you find that this continues to be true, but the blank but friendly and entranced look on her face is somehow pleasant the more you think about it, and you let yourself let out the breath you’ve been holding.

It’s been just a few weeks since the night Izuku’s Quirk - at least some of it - flickered back into life for the first time, and after you’d berated him for using his literal body to shield you from a danger that could have killed you both, you’d taken the time that evening to use your own Quirk to see if something about his body had gone haywire. To both of your surprises, you’d gotten a flicker of something similar to the old him, but unsure and unwilling to get either of your hopes up, you’d decided to consult with Mei and other experts who worked with Quirk pathophysiology and augmentation (a few of which you’d taken courses with yourself years ago), and now you were back in Mei’s laboratory, trying to see if you could get to the bottom of this.

Since then, the following strange things had happened:

You’d dropped a plate and Izuku had dove for it, the wisp of a Blackwhip tendril just brushing it before it ultimately crashed to the ground, the two of you too stunned to speak.

A group of Izuku’s students heckled him as he leaned in to accept your kiss outside UA, and all of you ended up in a purple haze before you knew it.

Izuku’s midday nap on the couch found him face to face with the ceiling when you finally discovered him, and

A sudden unintentional use of Fa Jin made things very interesting in bed.

“I guess my baby’s doing a better job than I thought it would!” Mei grins. You hunch over her screen, while Izuku’s too hooked up to a tangle of wires to get a good view of the screen himself, and she compares Quirk levels from the beginning of the suit’s conception to now, a previously long-standing flat graph with a steadily rising bump.

“A miracle,” you whisper under your breath.

“I find that personally offensive.” Mei replies, her facial expression lacking the cheek to compare to her statement as she watches Izuku watch you from behind the glass. She presses a button on the intercom; Izuku grins at you while Mei gives him the instructions to try to activate Blackwhip one more time, and you can feel warmed all the way through.

—

Slowly but surely, over time, the Quirk levels start to recover, and you, Izuku and Mei try your best to keep it under wraps.

Of course, Katsuki finds out with direct questioning, the purple haze event showing up on an anonymous internet forum propelling him to show up at your doorstep and demand personally that Izuku tell him if he got his quirks back or not.

“We’re not sure how permanent this is, Kacchan,” he offers. Katsuki might as well spit on the ground before him in protest but you’re seated in the living room, and even Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight has enough decorum to not make a mess in someone else’s home.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Midoriya!”

“It’s not a lie!” Izuku insists, and he turns his gaze to you for backup which you swiftly provide.

“Listen, we’re not sure yet, and they’ll probably never get back to normal, but he’s doing his best.” Katsuki grimaces, which annoys you further.

“You’ll get your damn rematch, be patient.” you add, rolling your eyes. Katsuki leers, and his partner pats him on the shoulder.

“He’s just excited,” she translates for him, and Katsuki mumbles something about not needing her for translation every time which doesn’t waver her smile one bit.

“Excited to get his ass beat,” you murmur, reaching over to pour her some more tea. Izuku and Katsuki both stare at you, Izuku with nervous concern and Katsuki with irritation, and just like old days, you and Katsuki’s arguing match begins anew.

—

As the two of you brush your teeth and prepare for bed, you do your nightly routine of checking how strong Izuku's reawakened Quirk is with your hand on his chest, and he presses his free hand over yours.

“You know, my favorite part of this is you’ll finally start to worry less.” He chuckles and squeezes your hand gently.

You let the water run and clear spittle from the sink, and gargle before you answer, your hand still captive by his, then look at him.

“To be honest, I’ll never stop worrying about you, Izuku. Even if you become God.”

But you understand what he means. You’ve had many a nightmare about suit malfunction, only a few of these you’ve shared with him, among other things that have to do with being a Pro Hero in the capacity he insists to be in. This is a small help.

A small bit of providence.

He expected this answer, lips pulling into a smile as he takes your hand fully and pulls the fingertips to his lips to kiss them.

“I’m glad that won’t change,” he replies.

Moments later, you’re laid in bed together, and as you both muse on the potentially altering future in quiet, love-flushed cheeks and hands intertwined, he turns to you suddenly.

“There’s one thing I’m still missing,” he says.

Your eyes refocus to him. He’s pensive now, not sad or upset, but thoughtful. You move closer to kiss him on the lips once before nodding for him to continue.

“What are you missing?”

“Danger Sense,” he says.

“But everything else is back,” you reply. He nods, letting his arm drape around your waist.

“Yeah, but I think I liked that one the most.”

You snort lightly. “Not being able to lift a train, or fly, but 'Super Anxiety' was your favorite?”

You’re making light of the issue to keep the mood from getting too heavy, but he frowns, and you frown back, apologetically.

“Well, ‘Super Anxiety’ made it so that I knew when bad things were about to happen, and often these bad things could involve you.”

He has the tiniest scrunch to his eyebrows, one that in another situation would have compelled you to rub out with your fingertips, but now is not the time to be playful.

You twist your mouth to the side and a few more moments pass between you, before you add:

“I don’t think you need it, though.”

He raises an eyebrow, and you press a kiss to his forehead.

“All this came back because you wanted to protect me,” you remind him. “You moved without thinking, for me, as always, like you knew I needed you. That's better than Danger Sense by far.”

His face softens as he cups yours in his hands. You're thankful that you've reached him.

“Always for you,” he says.

Even if this miracle is transient and despite your best efforts, his quirk levels fall back to normal instead of steadily growing, the love he has for you, and the love you have for him, will never, ever burn out.

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #pro hero izuku x reader #deku x reader #mimidoriya #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes

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ilium-ilia · 24 days ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Three: sanguine hunger

tw: violence

It has been a long time since Simon last tasted blood, and like the bad dog he is, he craves it more than anything.

His parched throat screams as his fingers curl around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the pedal, car hardly keeping below the speed limit as he weaves throughout London’s streets. Countless photos of you stare up at him from the passenger’s seat—they scream. Wail worse than a motherless child. He feels your gaze on him, heavy even through the film. It’s betrayal—it’s why couldn’t you save me?

It’s then that Simon realizes that he’s failed before he even began. This notion of protecting you, of saving you—it’s always been out of his grasp. He’s failed for years since. You, clad in your school uniform, baby fat still in your cheeks, eyes wide enough to see the world and all its shining glory—it’s gone. Dead. Smothered. He never got the chance to see you like that, and now he never will.

Marco robbed you of that.

You were so young—only a child.

It all collapses and crumbles into razor shards that rip him apart from the inside out, bowels spilling in his abdomen, spoiling the meat of his muscles, forcing him to rot before he’s ready. Everything he’s suppressed—his anger, his ache for vengeance—solidifies into a solid stone he can’t purge. It weighs within him. He’s hated Marco since the day he met him. Since the day he threatened his brother. Since the day he chuckled at him as he huffed, covered in blood, an innocent boy’s teeth engraved in his knuckles.

Since he hurt you.

Tommy had to pay.

You have to pay.

When is it Marco’s turn?

Simon has known from the very beginning that right and wrong rarely coexist separately in this world. The lines are blurred. Rusted with dried ichor and smudged with tears and anxious fingerprints, but the growing want that bites in the pit of his stomach feels right. He knows it is—this anger is righteous. Even still, when he pulls into Tsar Trading’s car park, he does not feel more just than he usually does—but he does know that when he leaves, he will be cleaner.

Cracked asphalt slithers along the earth, leading Simon right to the front doors covered in peeling stickers and sunbleached signs blabbing about interest rates and vague threats about non-payment. The hinges squeak like jail cell doors as his senses are quickly smothered with stale nicotine and rotten marijuana. Wasted hard work lies behind glass display cases, locked tightly, and paid for in blood. He passes cases of jewelry, family heirlooms, and unimportant trash as he walks up to the front counter.

A woman with hair fried from bleach carelessly puffs away at her cigarette as she watches him approach with dull eyes. Lines settle deep in her face, leaving creators along her lips as she puckers them, draws the smoke between her teeth, then exhales with a sigh. A smoldering pile of ash sits in a tray on top of the glass case. She rests her vice against the rim but refuses to smother the embers.

“Can I help you?” Bored—her voice carries a hint of an accent.

“I need to speak to Marco.” Simon’s words are sharp—piercing through the air faster than a bullet, worse than a blade.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m asking.”

The woman tilts her head as she leans against the table. Her low cut shirt shows her collarbones; dainty, fragile, pushing through her skin as if her skeleton urges to break free. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t intend to take up much of his time,” Simon mutters, fingers curling.

Pausing, her eyes slowly drag along his body, looking him up and down, before settling on the ridge of his nose. “Sorry. No appointment, no visiting.”

“Look, love, I’m doin’ this to be courteous to you. That’s it,” Simon snaps. His arms cross, shoulders broadening, old scabs on his knuckles fully on display as they rest against his biceps. “I’m not leavin’ without talkin’ to him, so either you’re gettin’ him for me, or I’m breaking the goddamn door down. I’ll let you choose how much of a mess you wanna clean up.”

She pauses. Mulling his words over, Simon watches the way a sly smirk tugs at the corner of her lips before she straightens herself. Waifish fingers snatch her still burning cigarette from the tray before puffing away once more. “Wait here.”

Simon’s arms uncross as she vanishes behind a door. Every muscle in his body goes taut—ready, on standby. He’s an animal waiting to lunge, a predator yearning for blood, an attack dog ready to do his job.

When his prey strides into the room, all Simon can see is red. Indignation clouds his vision like the thick fog of an impending storm, and it only deepens when he sees the smile on Marco’s lips. Happy—content with himself and his actions—he greets Simon with an ostentatious flair of his hands.

“Simon Riley. To what do I owe the-”

Marco’s words die in his throat as the sound of tearing fabric echoes through the smoky air. Fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, Simon yanks the man forward before slamming his spine against the wall. Cranium cracks on wood, and still, Marco’s smirk endures as he chuckles.

“I take it you got my letter, then?” he goads.

“I knew Makarov worked with human filth but I never thought he’d conspire with a nonce,” Simon spits.

Another hearty chuckle bleeds from Marco’s lips, flashing his too-perfect teeth. Simon wants to break every single one of them. “Bit of a strong accusation there, Riley.”

“You better cut the shit, I’m not in the fuckin’ mood to play,” he growls. His grip on Marco’s shirt only tightens, but Marco’s lack of reaction is beginning to eat away at his resolve. It would be so easy—he realizes—to end it all right now. To snap his neck and be done with it; to free you from the monster that’s been terrorizing you for years. “I know what you did to ‘er. You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ yourself if you think I’ll let you get away with it.”

“Guess those pretty lips of hers finally loosened up some.” There’s a short pang that echoes across Marco’s face, but he still keeps a level head as he reaches a hand to grip Simon’s wrist in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his chest. “You know, I gave her an easy way out. Could’ve had all this settled a long time ago if she wasn’t such a prig.”

“She was sixteen,” Simon barks. His voice cracks, malice bleeding into every syllable, and his fingers scream. They want to curl—they want to feel the way cartilage pops beneath a simple squeeze.

Marco laughs, and it’s horrisonant. It scrapes over flesh like dull teeth and greedy nails. The red in Simon’s vision only deepens. As does his desire for blood.

“Look at you, pretending to be all high and mighty,” Marco goads. “If you saw what I saw that day, you would’ve done it, too. How could you resist? Have you ever seen her cry, Riley? Her eyes get shiny, like stones. Or the way her skin trembles when you touch her? It’s better than any drug, better than-”

Simon’s knuckles split along the marred scabs that have yet to heal—blood flows from his skin, but the pain is muted. Dark eyes train on Marco’s face as he watches his neck snap to the side, head bouncing against the wall, lip splitting as the tender flesh kisses the edge of his teeth. Finally, he is no longer smiling. Stunned, he watches the sage green of his eyes go blank, thoughts muddling in his mind too much for him to catch his words.

But the callosity that hangs in the quirk of Marco’s lips leaves him reeling, and once more Simon finds his arm pulling back; fingers curled, knuckles dripping. The moment his flesh makes contact with Marco’s again, he feels something tear. It rips like a butcher’s blade through pig meat, but more crass. Undisciplined. Once more, Marco’s neck snaps, but Simon’s the one to feel pain blossom.

Looking down, he sees the way Marco’s blade slices past his abdomen, glancing off his ribs, sloppily cutting the side of his torso. Ichor seeps through the gash, wetting his stomach, soaking into the cotton of his shirt, but Simon doesn’t care about the pain, or the florid color painting his pallid skin.

“Easy, Riley,” Marco taunts. He smiles, porcelain teeth stained pink, unable to halt the blood gushing from his nose. “Everyone always says you’re a dog, but I didn’t expect for you to come in here acting like one.”

“You keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, ya hear me?” Simon seethes. “You don’t talk to ‘er, you don’t send ‘er any more of your shitty fuckin’ letters, you don’t do anything. You keep your filthy fuckin’ mitts off of my girl, yeah?”

Acidulous laughter cuts through the air as Marco is no longer able to hold back his titter. He pulls his knife away from Simon’s side, who hardly grunts at the sting. “Your girl? Is that what this is? Some great love story? Do you really think you can save her?” Pausing, his face softens. Head tilting to the side, he sighs, tongue swiping across his teeth, swallowing down the blood. “Yeah, that’s what this is. You’ll save her, just like you did your pathetic brother, right? Does she even know what you did? Because, I’m sure if she saw what I saw that day, she wouldn’t be too keen on fleeing to you for protection.”

Rage dwindling, Simon’s teeth grit as his grip on Marco’s shirt loosens. There’s no real way for him to win this battle—not here where there’s no doubt ten men waiting behind that door, armed with illegal weapons. There’s not much use for him to leave himself as a useless corpse—something too dead to protect you. He steps back, ignores the way his mind rages in defiance, and Marco hums as he closes his switchblade and stows it back in his pocket.

“How does it feel? Huh? Knowing that could’ve been her? That day, when you paid off that debt?” he continues to exhort. “Would you still have done it? Anything for Tommy, right?”

Shaking his head, Simon’s eyes hold a searing flame that he doesn’t bother to extinguish. “This is the last time I’m talkin’ to you. Next time you pull shit like that, I’ll just kill you.”

Simon wanted blood, and now he has it. All over his hands, staining his steering wheel, smothering his tattered shirt. No amount of pressure will stem the bleeding—it soaks through every packet of gauze in his first aid kit, now sitting in a sopping pile in the passenger’s seat. He wanted blood, and now he has it.

It won’t stop coming.

He thinks of his time back in the butcher’s shop when Tommy rushed in, tailed by Marco’s boys, and the subsequent bullet he took because of it. Muted pain seared through his skin before embedding in his shoulder—there was so much blood running down his arm, streaming to his fingertips, pooling on the ground. Despite his brother’s cries and desperation, he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. But now, he thinks of you, and what your face would look like if he doesn’t come home, if he were to lose himself over this petty flesh wound, and he knows he has to be concerned.

So he goes to the only place he can think of—deep within the heart of London where the buildings tower high and the streets are cleaner. Pampered pedestrians adjust their coats as they enjoy the evening’s dying sunlight. Lovers pack tightly into highly acclaimed restaurants for their Valentine’s Day supper, and love hangs heavy in the air on speakers outside department stores, but Simon does not feel any of the cheer as he awkwardly slides into an apartment complex.

The receptionist calls out to greet him, but the chipper bite in her voice vanishes the moment her eyes settle on his face—on the blood staining the first aid kit he keeps clutched in his rigid fingers. When he enters the lift, he takes care to press the buttons with his elbow before settling in for the short ride. He knows he’s arrived on the floor he needs when his ears pop, and he stalks out of the lift and down dimmed hallways until he reaches a thick door padded with every security system known to man.

It takes two minutes for Kyle Garrick to answer his door half dressed and dotted in smudged lipstick marks. There’s a faint sheen of sweat that glistens along his bare chest and collarbones, but it suddenly vanishes as Kyle’s eyes widen.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, opening the door wide. “What kind of trouble did you get yourself into, mate?”

“You said Lucy was off today, didn’t you?” Simon asks, ignoring his question. “Think she can patch me up?”

Kyle huffs��exasterbated and caught off guard—but eventually tells Simon to sit tight and not get blood on his new sectional. As he waits, he eyes the empty take-out boxes that line the kitchen counter, and the strong smell of cologne and perfume that wafts through the air. The scent makes him nauseous, and the clamminess plaguing his palms does not aid his spinning head and thoughts.

“Wow. You’re quite the sight.”

Lucy struts into the living room donning nothing but a black robe. Her mussed hair sits in a ratty bun held by nothing but a claw clip, and her tired eyes are further outlined by the smudged eyeshadow and mascara that sits beneath her waterline. He tries not to take note of the dark marks that line her neck—love bites bleeding into her skin—but they scream at him anyway. Her eyes quickly find the source of Simon’s ichor, and she’s already picking him apart with her gaze.

“Sorry to bug you, love,” he sighs. He turns his first aid kit over in his hands a few times before holding the bloodied bag for her to take. “I’d do it myself, but I can't quite reach it.”

“Well, I’m no surgeon, but I’ll see what I can do,” she says, waving her hand.

She has him strip his shirt off, though the fabric sticks to his skin and only lets go with a wet smack. Laying on the floor on his side, Lucy gets to work stitching his marred skin back together with hands as delicate as a chainsaw. Each time the curved needle bites through his skin, Simon’s molars grind together. He breathes. Huffs like a bull. His skin tightens with each suture made, but the pain only worsens—raw skin against raw muscle, pressing together, holding too tight.

“Who did it?” Simon hears Kyle’s footsteps echo through the floor he lays on, and when he walks into view, he notes how he’s cleaned up the side of his neck and donned a shirt.

Closing his eyes, Simon exhales through the next set of sutures. “Just some punk.”

“Bullshit,” Kyle snaps. “No punk gets the better of you like this. It was one of Makarov’s men, wasn’t it?”

Simon doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Sighing, Kyle situates himself on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head hanging low as he watches Lucy work her magic. The laceration is long—slicing deep along his ribs like an untrained butcher. Blood flows through the open skin and onto the floor, but no one makes any comment on the mess.

Before the conversation can continue or derail, Simon’s phone begins to vibrate. Lucy stops her sutures long enough for him to fish it from his pocket, and he’s already stained the screen with his mess before he can fully make sense of your name illuminating it. His heart stills, moving muscle turning rigid as stone, and he tries to steady the tremor in his hands before answering.

“Hey, baby.”

“Simon!” Your voice drips with desperation—an odd relief and something more incensed. “You had me worried sick! You weren’t answering any of my texts, and you- I just- You promised me you would come straight home! You promised me!”

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I just got caught up with somethin’ that’s all,” he attempts to assure.

“Marco was there, wasn’t he? Fuck, I knew this was a bad idea,” you continue. Lucy’s hands move, sharp, steady, pinching Simon’s skin together, and his wince bleeds through the speakers like the hiss of a snake. He catches the pause in your breathing. “Are you hurt?”

Simon swallows, and it’s thick enough to choke him. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, sweetheart. I couldn’t let him get away with it, and he won’t.”

Your sniffle hardly makes it through to Simon’s phone, but he catches the tail end crackle of it. “You promised me you’d come straight home.”

Another pinch, skin sewn together, blood stemming, wound mending—Simon squeezes his eyes shut. “I will, baby. I’ll be home soon, yeah?”

Then, there’s your hesitation. He can envision it in his mind—lips turning down, eyes glossing over, trembling skin trying to keep yourself from spewing. “Okay.”

Simon’s hands ache for you the entire drive back home.

It radiates from his knuckles, up his metacarpals and down his phalanges; hairline fractures carving his very desire into his bones, etching them with want. Pictures of you stare up at him—ones he can’t stand to look at—and he shoves them in the glovebox, but the reprieve amounts to nothing. Lucy’s handiwork leaves his skin raw and burning, as if someone holds coals against his bare skin. The only thing that haunts him worse than the pain is her parting farewell to him as he cleaned himself up in the kitchen sink.

You better do something nice to make it up to her, Riley. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day.

But his mind buzzes too much to think about begging for forgiveness. An angry wasp burrows deep into his brain, rattling every neuron until all he can think about is you, and Marco, and how much he wants to snap a neck. His hands unsteadily unlock the front door. The house is quiet when he enters—not even the television hums in welcome. There is only you, quiet, sitting on the couch, cheeks still wet and eyes just as glossy as Marco would have him believe.

“Simon? Is that…” Your voice fades as your eyes fall low on his body. Torn shirt, cotton stiff with dried blood, grey fabric now dyed a deep russet that won’t ever wash out.

“It’s nothing,” he says, but he pulls his arm around his body, hiding the wound peeking through. “Just let me clean up, then we can talk.”

His answer is poor, and so is your response. You follow behind him to the bedroom like a fawn on wobbling legs, arms crossed and brows narrowed, frustration seeping through every pore on your body until you’re soaked in the noisome aroma—the scent stings your eyes. “How did it happen? Simon, what did he do?”

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, let me breathe,” he snaps just as his hands settle on his dresser.

Your throat tightens. Constricts to the point of asphyxiation. Your arms pull closer around your body, and Simon can feel the way you shrink behind him. How you cower. Sighing, his head lowers, fingers tapping against the wood before him, he can’t bring himself to look at you.

“He had pictures of you. Bad pictures,” he admits. There’s a warble in his voice you’ve never heard before. It sounds like the rippling of water—the fracturing of glass. “Shoved ‘em all inside of a nasty fuckin’ card addressed to you. I wasn’t gonna stand by and let him do somethin’ like that. Went straight to Tsar Trading and talked to the cunt myself.”

Anxious feet shuffle behind him, and he feels every muscle along his back tighten.

“Simon… let me see you.” He doesn’t move. Still as a statue, he’s motionless for so long you fear you’ve lost him. “Please, Si.”

He turns—slow. Steady. Scared. When his eyes land on you, curled forward, hugging yourself, thigh resting against the edge of the bed as if you might fall without the support, he begins to crumble. He trudges forward like a wounded dog, limping from a lost battle, unable to look his owner in the eye. Your fingers twitch as you push his arm out of the way, soaking up the wound that taints the side of his torso, sutures peeking through the rip in his shirt.

Your bottom lip begins to tremble as you shake your head. “I told you not to do anything stupid,” you say, sussurus breaking against your vocal cords.

“I couldn’t let him get away with it. He can’t keep hurtin’ you like this, I’m not gonna stand for that shit,” Simon defends.

“No, you can’t do shit like this, Si!” Your hand clenches, fingers clutching the tattered remnants of his shirt in your palm. “I can’t keep losing people! My dad, my mum, Aelin’s dad—I’m so sick of it! I’m so tired of people getting hurt because of me! I couldn’t handle it if I lost you! Seriously, Simon!” Your anger quells just as quickly as it began, and it dies in a fizzle. Not even the smoke remains. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

You stare up at him, eyes wide, deep, searching. Poking and prodding, you’re looking for the answer in his gaze, but you don’t like what you see. That devotion. The dangerous kind that gets people killed.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but I love you,” he says, voice low. Knocking your hand away from his chest, he cups your cheeks in his palms, thumbs caressing over your skin, tender from the tears that have nettled where they shouldn’t. He refuses to let you look anywhere but him. “I love you, and I can’t just stand by when someone hurts you like this. I’d do anythin’ for you. Fucking anything. But… but I am sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, baby, I just… I love you too much to not do stupid things for you.”

Duteous as ever, your Simon Riley has baffled you by words alone. Closing your eyes, a few more stray tears dribble down your cheeks where they’re instantly caught and brushed away. When you open them, he is still there. Still staring. Still holding you as if he holds the world.

Somehow, you find the strength to smile. It cracks across your lips small—faint. “You’re an idiot.”

When Simon’s lips fall on yours, palms still cradling your face, his appetency for blood suddenly vanishes. It’s quenched. So far out of his mind he can’t remember what the hunger pain feels like. That beast quells until it’s so small he can’t feel anything else anymore—he only feels you. Warm against his lips, sourdough bread still on your tongue, tangible in his grasp—his. His girl.

He tries to pull away, keeping the kiss chaste, but you won’t let him. Arms snake up around his neck like a noose he wouldn’t mind dying to, constricting, holding him tight, keeping your bodies bound. His avaricious hunger returns with near bruising force against your lips, drawing a hum from your throat before you’ve even made sense of the building pressure in your core.

It hurts. It swells enough to swallow you whole, and still you don’t push it away, not even as Simon digs deeper. Neck twisting, knees bending—he steps forward, sending both of you tumbling on top of the bed. The mattress springs beneath your back, Simon’s hands now digging into the duvet; his weight sinks into you.

Eventually, he pulls away. Legs on either side of your body, he stares down at you as his bruised, bloodied knuckles rub against your face. Your lips part, eyes fluttering—you reach for his shirt. Finger hooking into his collar, you gently tug. A simple request. A quiet plea.

When your eyes meet, both of you know that there is nothing—not a single thing in this treacherous world—that can hold either of you back from what happens next.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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stllmnstr · 5 months ago

Text

breathing room

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Lee Heeseung is having a hard time breathing.

Partly because he’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of him. A little bit because of the year-old rib injury he had neither the time nor patience to let heal completely.

And mostly because there’s a blade being held to his throat.

Yours, to be exact.

But even as the lead trainer adds another tally underneath your name for another sparring match won, your gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t brighten in the afterglow of victory. After all, victory only tastes sweet when it’s earned. Judging by the way your lips twist above him, Heeseung thinks the victory he just handed you on a silver platter must be horribly bitter.

Slowly, he raises his hands in mock surrender. There’s a half smile that looks a little too much like a smirk tugging at his lips when he says, “I concede.”

“No fucking shit.” You flick a strand of hair out of your face. Your knife presses a little tighter against his throat. “Did you even try?”

Heeseung maintains eye contact. “I think I’m doing us a both a favor by not answering that one.”

Narrowing your eyes, annoyance makes itself the most prominent of your visible emotions. “Interesting choice of words from someone with a knife to his throat.”

And it’s not like he means to do it, not really. Heeseung might be a glutton for punishment these days, but there was a time when he tried to get your attention in all the regular ways. As he quickly found out, sweet words did nothing but make you roll your eyes and his skills on a sparring mat were only as impressive as they could be used to hone your own.

He was a tool, in your eyes. A means to an end as you did your best to work your way up the ranks.

You never looked at him, the person behind all the hand-to-hand combat training and advanced levels of weapon artistry. At least not until he started annoying the ever-living shit out of you.

Granted, he knows that one-sided hatred is not a very stable foundation to build anything solid on, but he thinks of it in the same way he thinks of sparring.

He doesn’t need a knockout. He just needs an in.

Heeseung’s in this for the long haul, and he’s come to find that he doesn’t really care how many bruises he picks up along the way.

Across the room, the lead trainer heaves a long sigh.

You scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Expectations are only met when people are held to them, and you doubt Lee Heeseung has even become acquainted with the concept of a consequence.

Someone – you think it must be Jay, or maybe Jungwon, tries to catch your attention on the way out, asking about a maneuver you pulled in the middle of the match. A tricky bit of knife work you’ve been perfecting over the last few weeks. Something that looked stupid as Heeseung did nothing but stand there, as if your blade was nothing but decorative. Made you look stupid as he stood and watched with nothing but a mildly amused expression on his face.

You hate him for it. Want to show him just how pretty your knife can be stained with the deep crimson he must bleed as surely as anyone else.

You don’t miss. You never do.

It still feels like defeat.

…..

But you’re not. And he can only think of one other place to find you.

He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that start to simmer, that always linger. Doesn’t know if it’s admiration or longing or something far worse.

And he wants to keep watching, keep looking, keep noticing.

Even from a distance, even in the dark, he can read the frustration in the set of your shoulders, sense the exhaustion in the way your legs move just behind the rest of your body.

You need a break.

He needs an in.

Across the room from you, Heeseung clears his throat.

Startled, you nearly fall on your ass mid-kick before you turn to the source. It’s dark, but you know it’s him. Who else would it be?

A beat passes.

Another.

Heeseung exhales. “And if I am?”

Bathed in the dying glow of moonlight, you go still. “Then you better put in your best fucking effort.”

You’ve rehearsed your answer too long to deviate, even as your mind screams with sudden uncertainties. “Yes.”

Heeseung doesn’t spare it a second thought. “Too bad.”

“Why? You have no problem f–”

“I was there, you know.” Unbidden, the hand that doesn’t hold your head falls to the bottom edge of your black training shirt. Heeseung pauses there for a moment, lets his fingers trace the seam. Something in the air shifts, tightens, waits. Despite the way he has you caged, your hands are unbound. You could stop this, if you wanted to. Stop him.

You don’t.

You know what he’s after, where his eyes fall to. It’s his fingers that hesitate. Dangle with uncertainty a hair's breadth from the scar that sits just above your hip bone.

It’s a challenge he rises to. On his breath out, Heeseung lets his fingers find a home on the bare skin of your stomach, trace the jagged line that’s a shade paler than the surrounding area.

You’d still won, even with a fresh stab wound on your lower abdomen. And he’d been shown the door, like all recruits that break protocol.

“So what?” Your voice doesn’t come out nearly as biting as you intend it to. You curse the waver in your words. “I get one scar and suddenly I’m delicate?”

You’re quick to school your features into neutrality. At least on the outside, you won’t give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard. “That sounds like a you problem.”

It’s as if you’ve been burned submerged in hot water, as if you’ve been burned, when you push him off of you with a speed that’s almost comical. And from the way heat rises in your cheeks, you just might have been.

Your voice is dangerously low when you tell him, “You have three seconds.”

“Until what?” Heeseung knows better than to be hopeful.

“Until I find my knife and put it to good use.”

Heeseung doesn’t need to be told twice.

#heeseung x you #heeseung x reader #heeseung fanfiction #heeseung fanfic #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #heeseung scenarios #enhypen scenarios

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hockeyboysimagines · 3 months ago

Text

Summer Heat

Pairings: Matt Rempe x Female reader

I know I said I’d never write for him, but I’m trying something new for the new year. He’s grown on me, and I wanted to shake up my blog a little bit. Please be nice. I’m treading unfamiliar waters here.

Let me know what you guys think!

Warnings: Drug consumption(weed), mentions of drinking, skinny dipping, nudity, kissing, sex, references to sex

The music was pounding so loud it was making your chest hurt as you made your way through the house, sidestepping a puddle of liquid you hoped was alcohol and left the kitchen. Sweaty bodies of people you’d known for years were laughing, dancing, toasting and doing keg stands in every corner of the room and you smiled a little as you watched it.

Summer was arguably the best time of the year here at home. Everyone was suddenly free of plans and responsibilities, and parties erupted at the drop of a hat. What had started as a casual hangout with just a few people had evolved into a rager and you were having a great fucking time.

“Hey!” You turned in time to receive a giant ass slap from Darcy, your best friend as she came up behind you “I’ve been looking for you for ages. Where were you?”

“In the bathroom…” you trailed off, reaching in your pocket and glancing over your shoulder as you pulled out a joint, twirling it between your fingers “Wanna take a walk.”

“Hell yeah I do come on.” She followed you out the back door and off the deck, weaving in and out of people and heading past the rows of cars till you reached your own and the two of you huddled behind it.

You gripped it between your fingers as she flicked the lighter and lit it. The embers glowed bright orange in the darkness as you took a drag, inhaling and handed it to her so she could do the same. As she took her own hit and blew out the cloud of smoke you heard a voice.

“DEA hands up.”

You both turned, joint still in her hand and came face to face with a waist, eyes moving up till they landed on a face. A familiar face.

Matt Rempe.

“Damn. I think you got taller.” You said with a small laugh and a cough.

“Nah that’s just the weed talking.” He said with a chuckle, stretching an arm out and tapping his fingers together at the blunt. Darcy passed it to him and let out a long exhale of smoke.

“I didn’t know you were back.” She said glancing over at you.

Your relationship with him was weird. While you were pretty good friends, it had always been on the verge of something else. It would become intensely flirtatious for several days and then fizzle out. Each time it happened it got flirtier and filthier than the last and Darcy swore this time was when it was going to blossom, and then nothing happened. When he returned home, and you saw him again, both of you acted like it never happened the next time you saw him. It wasn’t even a situationship. More like a flirtationship. You’d never even kissed the guy, though you wanted to, but at this point it had been going on since highschool and it was getting a little bit old. Either he liked you or he didn’t, but days of flirting and then nothing at 22 was just annoying. After the last time, in which several photos and vulgarities had been exchanged and then he faded out of your life, again, you swore to Darcy over a Vodka Cranberry, that you were done with him romantically, sexually and flirtatiously forever. Realistically though, the three of you had the same circle of friends so it wouldn’t be possible to avoid him forever. Sooner or later you would have to see him. You had just hoped it wouldn't be this soon.

“Yeah aren’t you supposed to be in jail or something?” You said with a snarky smile. You weren’t saying it to be funny. You were saying it to be rude and Darcy knew it based on the small giggle she let out. You weren’t about to tell him you’d been keeping tabs on his season, but you had. He’d made quite the impression when he hit the NHL and it was impossible to not see him all over the internet. You would be lying if you hadn’t watched him fighting online multiple times. Even if he lost, it was totally hot.

But you would never EVER tell him that.

“Nah they can’t catch me.” He mumbled, joint between his lips as he took a drag. He blew out the smoke glancing up at the sky and then at you “So what’s up with you? I haven’t heard from you in like 5 months.” He swatted an ash off the end of it before he handed it back to Darcy.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.” You said crossing your arms. Darcy glanced between you and cleared her throat, extinguishing the end of the joint and putting it in her pocket.

“I need to pee. I’ll be back…later.” She sent you a small smile and an arm squeeze as she walked past you “Good to see you Matt.” She called over her shoulder as she made her way up the front yard.

“So?” He asked again “What’s up?” He was looking at you expectantly and you weren’t really sure what he wanted. He knew why he hadn’t heard from you, he just wanted to hear you say it.

You shrugged “Nothing really. Just doing my own thing.”

He frowned “So that means we can’t talk?”

“No. It just means that I’m not waiting around for your week of flirting and dirty talk and then nothing anymore. I’m too old for that and it’s getting tiring.”

He looked clueless “I didn’t know it was a problem. And what dirty talk?” He said with a chuckle.

You rolled your eyes “It’s not. But either you like me or you don’t at this point. And come on. How is “I’m going to bend you over and fuck you stupid” not dirty talk?”

Even in the darkness you could see his face turn red and he coughed “Do you think I would flirt with you if I didn’t like you? That’s dumb.” He said leaning down so he was almost at eye level with you.

“Nice aversion. Yeah? Then I guess I’m dumb.” You turned away, annoyed, but he caught you by the elbow, and turned you back around.

“Woah whoa whoa. Why didn’t you just like…ask me.” He was smiling a little “If you wanted to know that’s all you had to do. I thought we could talk about stuff like that.”

“I don’t know. I just felt like if you did you would have made it clearer than just random flirting now and again. You’ve been home. You never made a single attempt to get together while you were here and now you’ve just appeared at a party and I didn’t even know you were home.”

He nodded “Okay. That’s fair. Sorry I guess I just didn’t think you wanted anything out of it.”

“And if I did?” You said raising your chin “Want something?”

He glanced down at your feet and then all the way up, before his eyes landed back on your face and realization lit his eyes up like a lightbulb. Talk about dumb. You leaned forward a little bit, motioning for him to come closer. His lips were almost touching yours when you leaned your head back and stepped away from him, pulling your elbow from his grip.

“I think I’m going to go swimming.” You turned on your heel, making your way down to the lake as quickly as possible to beat him there, knowing he was following, but also forgetting he was a real life giraffe and would likely be right on your heels.

“Wait hey what-“ he called from behind you, but you weren’t waiting around for him to question you further.

You hurried down the crude rock steps, the only sound being the music as it grew more faint and the slap of your flip flops against the ground as you neared the water. It was probably terribly cold, and there was nothing sexy about lake water, but it would have to do for now. Your entire body felt hot and sweaty and you needed to cool down. Plus you had almost kissed him and then chickened out so you needed to actually go swimming now to cover it up and make it seems like you were being coy. The weed had kicked in by now and the edges of your brain felt fuzzy as you neared the water, a haze coming down over your eyes and in an instant your chi was centered and you felt relaxed enough to let your guard down.

As you reached the edge, and kicked your shoes off you turned to find him halfway down the bank.

“Hey how are we going to go swimming if-“ but the words died on his tongue as you looked him in the eye and pulled your shirt over your head and kicked your shorts off, leaving you completely naked. He stood open mouthed, frozen mid step as his eyes loved all the way down to your feet and back up.

“Answer your question?” You called as you hurried into the water, praying to every god imaginable that no one else had seen you besides him. You made it a point to only be naked in front of a limited number of people and as Darcy had seen you naked countless times, and now Matt, two people at one party was enough. The water was frigid and the only thing that kept you from screaming was the fact that your body was on fire from the near kiss and your strip show just seconds prior. What was in that joint. Whatever it was disappeared as the shock of the cold water had sent you straight back into sobriety.

You were already chest deep in the water by the time he reached the waters edge and you turned your back while he undressed, scrunching your eyes shut from the cold before turning around to find he’d paused, shirt half off.

“So you rip your clothing off and then don’t want to watch me do the same? What gives?”

“It’s not fair that you get a great view and I get an average one now is it?” You said turning away from him, legs kicking under the water.

He made a noise of indignation from the bank and then mumbled something too quiet for you to hear. You heard him wade into the water but didn’t turn around until the splashing quieted. When you did, he was waist deep watching as you swam around.

“I can’t figure you out.” He said after a moment, moving forward a little bit.

“What’s the figure out?” You tipped your head back and closed your eyes, gently moving your legs so you were almost floating. The water in your ears was drowning out the music from the party behind you, and the moon was shining down on the water, catching each ripple as it came off of your body moving gently in the water.

“Well I don’t know but you almost just kissed me up there, stripped, now you won’t even look at me. Is this a test?” He asked wading in deeper. He looked confused and for a second you almost felt bad but then you remembered your whole relationship with him was confusing and the pity went away.

“If it was you’d be failing.”

He was closer now, almost up to his shoulders in the water, circling around you like a shark “So you like me right?”

“What makes you think that?” You asked turning to watch him as he made his way in a circle. You stayed low in the water, the end of your ponytail just touching the surface, careful to keep all your vital parts covered.

He looked down at the water and then back up and smiled “I mean. You are naked under there so.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Your legs were burning from treading water and you were hopeful the slimy thing that had just touched your ankle was a fish. Playing coy naked and cold was no easy feat “Darcy’s seen me naked before. That doesn’t make you special.”

“Really?” He said appreciatively eyebrows raised “But you didn’t almost kiss her….wait. Did you?

You shrugged and made a face “I’ll never tell.” As you turned to swim away, you felt an arm slide around your waist and hold you in place. He wasp ressed against you from behind, and any chill you had was gone now. He slid a hand across your waist, and turned you to face him.

The kiss was slow, wet, sloppy and a little bit awkward as he pulled you closer, wet hands and limbs sliding against eachother as you wrapped your arms around him, pulling yourself up to reach him. Kissing him was weird after the build up over the years. Though it was all your expected it to be, you felt like things just weren’t right.

After a moment he pulled away, and looked down at you, eyebrows furrowed.

“That was-“

“Yeah.” You answered, arms still around his shoulders. He had a large hand on either side of your waist and he chewed on his lip.

“Should we try again? You know. For science.”

You giggled and then shivered a little but nodded “Okay. For science.”

When he kissed you again, it was different. It was like you’d figured eachother out now, mouths fitting together perfectly. You gripped the hair that was wet and stuck to his neck, as he ran his tongue along your lower lip. You felt like the water was boiling as his hands moved lower down your back, moving beneath the water to slide under your legs and hoist you up.

Your heart was hammering but before you could do anything further, a sudden breeze reminded you that you were now half out of the water and completely naked.

“Uhm. I’m committing a crime here. It’s called indecent exposure.” You whispered against his mouth. He glanced down and smiled.

“I’d say that’s pretty decent.” He set you down and glanced around to make sure you were still alone.

“Let’s…get out of here. I’ll get your clothes.”

You sank lower in the water and took a large, deep breath eyes closing.

You knew what was coming, and the anticipation of it was making you shiver, or maybe that was the water, or even the weed which you had hoped would chill you out but it hadn’t. Either way you needed a towel, a blanket and a cold drink asap.

“Coast is clear.” He motioned for you to get out and held up his shirt so you could slip your bra and shorts back on and extended a hand to pull you up the bank.

The air still had a little chill in it in mid June as you followed along behind him silently, teeth chattering for a few moments before you asked “Where are we going?”

“I’m not sure honestly” he said with a small chuckle and a glance over his shoulder “We could leave I guess. Go somewhere.”

“We can’t go to my house.” You said shaking your head “No boys allowed, and I’m not doing anything in there.” You pointed at the house behind you. You’d accidentally walked in on two hookups before he got there, once in a bedroom and one in the bathroom and while you hoped it had been great for both of them, you didn’t want to be on the other end of that.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes “We’re in our 20s. It’s supposed to be easier to find places to hook up not harder.” He turned to face you now, resting a hand on either shoulder and looked down, running his thumb across your collarbone “We can drive to my apartment, but it’s like 40 minutes from here.”

“Can you wait that long?” You asked arching an eyebrow.

He smiled slowly “No.” He said as he pinned you against the side of the car, hands everywhere as he kissed you heavily. You couldn’t breath, your skin was hot and your shorts were wet in a way that had nothing to do with the lake water you’d never dried off.

“My car. Let’s go to my car.” You gasped out pointing to it and giving him a nudge. You realized then that you were still wearing only a bra and your shorts were unbuttoned and you were standing way out in the open, making out against someone’s car. He leaned around you to look at it, a 4 door Honda and scoffed.

“There’s no way I’m fitting in that backseat.” He said shaking his head “No way.”

“Uhmmmmmm.” You looked around “What about that backseat?” You pointed at Darcy’s SUV that you knew was unlocked. She would let you use it if it meant you were getting laid and she wouldn’t get mad.

And even if she did, you’d get it detailed for her.

“Who’s car is that?” He asked as you pushed him towards it.

“Does it matter? Who cares just get inside.”

“Okay damn.” He said pulling the door open and holding it for you to leaned down and pull the seats down. You felt your shorts slipping down your legs, and you were sure the strap of your thong was hanging out the top of them, so you hoped he was enjoying the show. As you struggled with the lever, you felt him grab either side of your hips and pull you back a little so your ass was against his front. You gasped and jumped, bumping your head on the car door frame, as one of his hands splayed across your lower back.

“What is this?” You half turned to find him staring down at your lower back.

The tattoo

You’d forgotten all about the collection of little flowers that had been inked across the skin of your lower back, right above your thong line.

He glanced between it and you several times before he gave you a push “Get in the car.”

You crawled inside to pull the other one down, and he was on you before you had time to completely pull the lever. You went flying backwards as the lever released and he pushed you back at the same time. Lips moving feverishly against each others he moved over top of you as you backed yourself up to the trunk. The carpet was already giving you rug burn on your elbows. You felt something soft brush against your shoulder and pulled yourself away to glance over.

You giggled “Look at this. She even has a blanket.”

“She’s gonna be the best soccer mom like maybe ever.” He said pushing his hair out of his eyes as you quickly laid it out behind you and turned back to him. He pushed himself up, hissing in pain when he hit his elbow on the back tire casing, before heaving himself forward, foot hitting the seat. He looked annoyed as he finally got comfortable and focused his attention back on you.

He leaned forward, hand sliding over your shoulder to grip the back of your neck and pull you forward. He’s gained some confidence now and any awkwardness there was before was gone. His weight came down on you as he kissed you again, tongue pushing right into your mouth this time. He ground his pelvis into yours causing you to gasp against his mouth, and let out a tiny noise of surprise. He slid a bra strap down your shoulder, long fingers sliding pleasantly across your skin. As you leaned up to move your mouth across the underside of his jaw you were pulled immediately back down.

“Wait your on-my hair hang on-“ you said tapping his elbow.

He moved up and cracked the top of his head on the window with a loud smack “Ow Jesus CHRIST.” He growled frustratedly rubbing the spot as he fell forward, his weight collapsing on you and knocking the wind from your lungs.

You huffed in annoyance, eyes finding his in the darkness “This isn’t working.”

“Your right. We’re gonna have to find a bed.”

“If there’s one you can fit in. Move over, let’s try this.” You wiggled out from under him, taking the opportunity to kick your shorts completely off and pushed him backwards by the shoulders, swinging a leg over him so you straddled his midsection.

He leaned backward, hands coming up to rest on your thighs and glanced upwards. You raised yourself upwards a few times to ensure that your head wouldn’t hit the ceiling before your eyes moved down his torso.

“Take this off.” You breathed out, tugging at the hem of his shirt. He was bigger, broader than he had been since the last you’d seen him, and you needed to examine every inch. He had always been long and lanky, but over the course of his season away muscle had started to pad his frame.

He leaned upwards and pulled his shirt over the back of his head, tossing it to the side and leaning up to kiss the underside of your jaw, mouth leaving a wet trail down your neck to your collarbone. His body felt hot against yours and he slid both his hands up your legs to your waist. You fumbled, hands shaking, with the button and the zipper on his shorts, finally springing them open and yanking them down, tossing them playfully at him. He smiled and propped himself up on his elbows to watch you as you kissed the base of his throat, and made you way down his upper body. You glanced up and leaned down, leaving a wet open mouth kiss on his abdomen, never breaking eye contact as you pulled the waistband of his boxers down agonizingly slow.

“Jesus.” He said throwing his head back against the floor of the cargo hold with a soft thump. You pulled them off, over his legs and tossed them in the front seat, making a mental note of where they landed so Darcy didn’t find them later.

“My turn.” He said snapping the band of your thong. You glanced down.

“How are you gonna get those off? You can’t sit up.”

He looked around and frowned “Fuck.” He let his head fall backwards and his hands fell to his sides “I hate this car. You do it. But do it really slow.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled yourself up and slid them slowly down your legs till they were at your knees and looked up.

He was staring at them, lips pursed, eyes squinted for several seconds before he looked up at your face “Just you wait till I get us to a bed.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips as you wiggled them off and made your way back up.

The windows in Darcy’s SUV had started to fog up and you were glad she’d parked so far from the house because the amount of movement the car would be doing in a few minutes would be a dead giveaway as to what was happening inside.

A shiver went from your neck to your lady parts as you swung a leg over him, positioning yourself over him, You took a deep breath, pushing up on your knees before sinking down on him. The sensation of him inside you made your stomach flip sideways and stars explode across your vision for a split second. Your head fell backwards, hair spilling down your back as you braced a hand on the window. You let out a gasp, eyes closing and head falling forward as you lifted yourself up and did it again, going deeper this time. His eyes were closed, fingers gripping the skin on your hips tightly. You began to move up and down, the stretching sensation between your legs was almost overwhelming as you moved slowly. You placed a hand on his lower stomach to steady yourself and he opened his eyes to look up at you as you rocked your hips forward, the other hand braced on the window.

It was a long slow drag of friction that was almost overwhelming. The burn in your abdomen was unbearable, heat pooling in between your legs as you moved up and down. A thin sheen of sweat had appeared on his chest and your back as the air inside the car became thick and heavy, cold and hot, and your breath could be seen with every movement. Your legs and arms felt heavy, but you weren’t done yet.

“Tired?” He asked, sitting up slightly to palm your lower back.

You nodded and leaned forward on him, using the close proximity to thread your fingers through his hair and tip his head up to kiss you. He put a hand on either side of your waist and pulled you up and then back down, his own hips moving up to meet yours.

You let out a low moan as he did it again, hitting a new even deeper angle than before, digging your nails into the skin on the back of his neck. He moved his mouth across your chest, lips pressing lightly against your sternum as he helped you move up and down his length faster. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled your face down to his “Look at me.” He breathed as your orgasm hit you full force, you let out a strangled cry and your eyes slid closed, breath coming out in gasps.

You were spent, exhausted, and overheated, vision fuzzy as you leaned forward forehead resting on his shoulder. You could feel his heart beating and let out a long breath, looking up at him. He was smiling and reached a hand out to grip the side of your face, thumb stroking across your cheek.

“I told you I was gonna fuck you stupid.”

Your mouth fell open and you slapped his chest, kissing him on the cheek and easing off him. He reached into the front, grabbed the clothing and you both awkwardly got dressed in the small confines of the car without speaking. He got out first, glanced around and extended a hand for you to get out as well.

“I should find Darcy.” You said straightening your shorts out and smoothing your shirt.

He nodded and leaned against the side of Darcy’s car “What are you doing later?”

You pulled your phone out and checked the time “It’s 12:30.”

“And?” He said staring at you blankly.

“Nothing I guess. Why?”

“Come over.” He said with a smile.

“To do what?”

He just smiled and kissed your cheek before turning and making his way towards where his car was parked some feet away.

“Hey!” You called “Did you just come here to hook up with me and then leave.”

He smiled and shrugged “I’ll never tell. See you later.” He called as he disappeared into the darkness. You watched him leave, turning in time to see Darcy making her way over.

“There you are. Did you and him talk things out?”

“Oh. Yeah you could say that.” You trailed off.

“Have you been here at my car this whole time?” She was frowning as she watched his car pull out of the driveway and make its way down the street.

“Mhmm. So about your car…” you said clearing your throat, looking at her with a guilty expression.

Her frown disappeared and she looked at her suspiciously “You didn’t.”

“Oh we did.”

“Yeah right.” She said waving you off with a small laugh. When you didn’t say anything her smile faded “Your kidding. No? Not kidding.”

You shook your head and held back a giggle as her mouth fell open “Are you fucking kidding me? You climbed that tree? IN MY CAR?” She peered in the back to see the seats folded and her blanket spread across the cargo hold.

You blew out a long breath that ended in a laugh “After we skinny dipped.”

She gasped and clutched her heart, gripping your arm “This is the best day of my life. Is it everything I think it was? Did it live up to the dirty talk?”

“It did. Good call on that blanket by the way.”

“That’s my girl! Up top!” She grabbed your hand and slapped her own with it she grabbed your face and kissed you on the cheek. She swung an arm over your shoulder and reached in her pocket, pulling out the half smoked joint and waggled her eyebrows.

“Round two?”

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sweetrevxnge · 9 months ago

Text

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Seven

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter-specific CW: torture (what fun!), period-typical sexism

A/N: the dead speak! lmao at least that's what it feels like coming back after an entire YEAR??? I kinda got sucked into playing 1,200+ hours of baldur's gate 3, romancing a certain vampiric elf time and time again, which gave me plenty of inspiration to continue this fic. I never meant to be gone for so long, so if you're still interested in this story, please let me know!

───────── ❅ 🦇 ❅ ─────────

What have you done?

To say that you were restless would be an understatement. The first order of business when you returned to your chambers was finding a safe place to store your stolen weapon, and now, hours later, you had yet to succeed.

You paced the room, wearing holes in the soles of your slippers as you wondered if you had made the right decision. It was unlike you to have sticky fingers, but then again, these were unprecedented times. Boldness meant survival.

Above all, you feared Ren was privy to your thievery, despite his silence on the walk back to your chambers. The prick of blood seemed enough to distract him for a moment, or perhaps he was practiced in hiding his tells. Either way, the consequences of him knowing gnawed at your sanity.

Rey had tended the hearth while you were away, ensuring your chambers were kept warm and filled with the familiar scent of dry wood. Her diligence as a handmaid proved to be an unforeseen complication in hiding your contraband.

Instinct urged you to keep it close to your bed, but reason told you it would be found too easily there. Same with the lounges circling the hearth, whose velour cushions could conceal many things if asked to. Though a dagger lodged in one’s rear would raise many concerns, as well as promise unspeakable punishments to come.

For these reasons, you ultimately settled on the bookcase.

Towering in the corner was a collection of books and texts, dense enough to put even the most curious scholars to sleep. A perfect place to hide a dagger.

Dragging a footstool over as a makeshift ladder, you reached for a leather-bound book embossed with gold letters along its spine. Imperium Nunquam Fuit. Though written in Old Basic, you understood its meaning.

The Empire That Never Was. A phrase coined by Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin to describe the destruction of Alderaan during the Revolution. An unsavory way to speak about a fallen civilization—considering he was the man responsible.

You made quick work of hollowing the historical text, skimming the page you’d turned to before defacing it. This passage detailed the last of the Imperial attacks on Alderaan, near the end of the Rebellion. One of the more infamous sieges of the war, earning its place in history with a tithe of blood and destruction.

The lines of script told the story of how Imperial soldiers salted Alderaan’s lands and butchered the citizens—babes and crones included. The Empire was thorough, wiping out an entire civilization over a mere conspiracy. With few survivors, and even fewer successors, Alderaanian blood was a rarity. You supposed that was one of the many things that set General Organa apart from the rest.

Considering the contents, it was a book of little interest to the First Order—a perfect hiding place.

The point of your blade pierced the parchment with ease, as if slicing through a block of butter rather than a thousand-page text. Tragic as it was to ruin a book like this, what other choice did you have? Hosnian Prime’s Grand Archives likely stored dozens of copies; one locked away in the depths of the First Order’s fortress would not be missed.

The fit was snug, but it would do for now. As for the pages you’d carved out, they laid in a pile at your feet, a messy reminder that your room was not private.

You slammed the book shut and returned it, hurrying to clean the shreds of paper scattered across the red carpets. Despite your efforts, the fragments proved too difficult to clean with just your hands alone, forcing you to sweep them into your skirts.

As you carried the pieces to the hearth, a gentle knock sounded through the oak doors. “Gods,” you muttered as you rushed towards the fire, dumping the pages unceremoniously onto the crackling wood.

Another rap on the door.

“Just a moment, please!” It was impossible to hide the panic in your voice as you prodded at the withering pages with an iron poker. Time seemed to slow as you watched the flames engulf the ink, turning Alderaan’s history to ash once more.

“It’s me, my lady.” Muffled by the wood, Rey’s voice was barely audible over the fire, hissing with fresh fodder. If any good came from her being your visitor, it was her staunch etiquette. She would not barge in uninvited—unlike some of the castle’s residents.

Brushing the slivers of evidence from your gown, you opened the doors, mindful of the lingering ash in the hearth. “My apologies. I was…” You cleared your throat, smoothing out your skirts before finishing your lie. “Indecent.”

Demure as ever, Rey dropped her gaze as she curtseyed before you. “It’s no matter, my lady. I was sent to fetch you; the Supreme Leader requests your presence.”

The moment his name left her lips, cotton filled your mouth, forcing its way down your throat as you swallowed your fear. What reason would the Supreme Leader have to summon you—at this late hour, no less?

Your thoughts immediately turned to Commander Ren. Perhaps he had noticed your theft after all and reported your offence to Snoke. If that were true, you vowed to slice his throat first.

“Did he give a reason?” you asked, trying to maintain your resolve.

Rey’s throat knocked in her slender neck. “He did not say.”

Part of you wanted to take the damned blade with you, but recklessness wouldn’t serve you. Though you did not recognize him as your ruler, you were not keen on adding treason to your ledger.

You sighed, coming to stand beside Rey at the door, shoulders pressed back and hands folded over your lap. “I’m surprised he didn’t send you with manacles.”

She said nothing, but the trace smile on her lips told you all that you needed to know. You couldn’t blame her for watching her tongue around you. Given what transpired last night, you would do the same in her position.

The two of you walked in near silence to the throne chambers, passing countless tall windows with panes stained a deep red, dark enough to block most light from entering. What little light did manage to seep through painted the halls crimson, giving the appearance of blood spilling over the floor.

The burned pages of text flashed in your mind.

Every step forward was committed to memory, including the number of paces between notable fixtures, as well as where each one stood in relation to your chambers. Still, there was no sign of an access point in this section of the castle. But your resolve did not falter. If there was a means of entry into this accursed fortress, there must also be a means of escape.

As you rounded the corner to another corridor, you glanced at your handmaid, noticing that her usual singular bun had evolved into three smaller ones, meeting the nape of her neck in a uniform line.

“You’ve changed your hair.” The observation came out as more of a question than a comment.

“Yes, my lady,” she said, delicate fingers reaching to touch the one near her collar. “An effort to be closer to the gods.”

You furrowed your brows. “How’s that?”

“As there are three of them, there are three knots. We servants are forbidden to worship openly, so we find other ways.” She closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her chin towards her chest. “Divine strength allows clarity of the mind.”

While you were not necessarily a pious woman, you were familiar enough with the gods from your upbringing to understand what she meant. As a child, you often prayed at your family’s shrine, asking for a bountiful harvest, good health, and, most of all, peace in the realm. For many years, they fulfilled your wishes. Now, your faith provided you with little comfort.

“Certainly,” you said, not wanting to discuss the subject any further. “Are we nearly there?”

“Just down this hall,” she said, her tone clipped. Either she was annoyed with the change of subject, or just as uneasy about seeing the Supreme Leader as you were.

True to her word, Rey came to a stop near the end of the corridor, leaving a short distance between you and the two looming oak doors, with iron enforcements woven into the grain and a guard posted on either side. Their faces were concealed by crimson veils, the signature regalia of the Praetorian Guard. Those tasked with protecting the ruler of these lands, whether they carried the title of Chancellor, Emperor, or Supreme Leader.

The warmth drained from your face at the sight.

“This is where I leave you, my lady.” Her face lacked its usual peachy hue, her freckles washed away by the candlelight. “The Supreme Leader does not allow us to enter these chambers, save for when he is passing judgment upon us.”

Standing before the faceless guards, you understood her unease.

“Will you be here to escort me back?” you asked, palms growing damp as you clutched the fabric of your gown.

“It is late. I must turn in for the evening.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting between you and the guards, whose presence seemed to loom over you from meters away. “Besides, I should think you do not require my assistance from this point.”

With that, she turned on her heels and retreated, her steps muted as she faded into the stretching darkness of the hallway. Turning to face the guards, dread settled in your stomach. Surely these warriors would not accompany you back to your chambers.

You studied them for a moment, the strategist in your mind seeking to understand what threat they posed. Both were tall and well-fed, given the size of their uniforms. The one to your left carried a bisento, while the other held a tall voulge, both equally unnerving. Their blades were pristine, foreign to combat. You wondered if the same could be said for those wielding them, too.

As if seeking to test your theory, they readied their weapons as you approached, each blade humming as it sliced through the air.

You came to a halt, the hair on the back of your neck now stiff. “I’ve been summoned by the Supreme Leader.”

The two remained poised to strike for a long moment before returning to their sentry state, offering one another a brisk nod as they pushed the heavy doors open, revealing the grand throne room. With tentative steps, you approached, pausing at the threshold.

Black marble columns lined the walkway to the throne, each manned by a knight of the Praetorian Guard, their crimson armor matching the First Order banners draped along the cobbled walls. Above the throne was the room’s sole window, with red stained panels filling the space between the spokes of the First Order insignia. Six steps carved of the same dark mineral as the columns led to the throne, lined with black velvet upholstery and a towering slate backing. Perched comfortably in the seat was Supreme Leader Snoke, draped in golden robes that flowed over his limbs like smelted ore, barely concealing the matching jewelry wrapped snugly around his fingers.

The paragon of humility.

He was joined by another: the fire-haired General Hux. His gaze snapped to you as the doors creaked open, beady eyes piercing you like darts from across the chamber.

“Ah, my guest of honor,” Snoke crooned, clasping his hands before his chest in delight. His tone fell icy as he turned to address the General. “Leave us.”

Confusion spread across his pale features as he turned to face Snoke once more. “But, Supreme Leader, there is still much to be discussed.”

“Perhaps I did not make myself clear. You are to leave these chambers at once, General Hux, or you will be removed.” Snoke’s gravelly voice rumbled through the hall with the force of a thousand footsteps, and reluctantly, Hux obeyed.

You watched the scene play out before you from the safety of the doorway, your feet rooted to the floor.

Snoke relaxed in his chair once more, beckoning you in with a hand gesture. “Please, come in, darling.”

Willing your feet to move, you did as he asked, eyes flitting between the Praetorian guard and the approaching General Hux, whose expression could only be described as irate as he brushed past you, black coat fluttering behind him.

Your heart was lodged in your throat as you neared the throne, feeling like a lamb being shepherded towards the maw of a lion. You stopped in line with the last of the guards before the Supreme Leader, leaving some distance still.

Snoke watched you with keen eyes, a stark contrast to his stoic front. “I do hope you are well, my dear. I can only imagine the days spent in anticipation of your wedding are agonizing.”

You frowned. “Is that why you summoned me? To ask me about my wedding?”

“Of course not. But pleasantries are the foundation of any proper conversation.” The humor fell from his voice. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” The words left a sour taste in your mouth, like wine crafted from grapes plucked too early.

Satisfied, he settled back into his throne, resting his hands over the ornate armrests. “See? Deference needn’t be cumbersome.”

His mocking tone made your vision red, but you held your tongue. Invisible threads tied you to him and his guards, each one pulled taught in the silence. It would take nothing more than a misstep to cause one of them to snap.

He spoke again, this time with authority. “It has come to my attention that you are unaware of what is expected of you as a noblewoman.”

You let out a terse exhale. “I suppose I am. Perhaps that is because of the conditions under which I am becoming one.”

A thin smile curled on the Supreme Leader’s lips. “These are unprecedented times, lieutenant.”

The emphasis on your title made your skin crawl. Snoke was calculated, sadistic. With his power, he was untouchable. The red veils surrounding you served as a constant reminder of his invulnerability.

“Now, I am curious. How did you manage that?” he added, tilting his head in intrigue. “A commoner like yourself rising to the rank of a commanding officer is no easy feat—even more so for a woman.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hardly see how this is relevant to my new status as a noblewoman.”

Despite your outward naivety, you knew too well what being a noblewoman would entail. You’d known from the moment your betrothal was announced. You were to be the docile wife of a commander, providing him an heir, a spare, and a warm bed whenever he pleased. Your military career would be swept away by the title of Lady Ren, all traces of your independence lost to time. You couldn’t think of anything less appealing.

“As a Lady of the First Order, you will be granted privileges seldom given to others, such as this.” Snoke motioned to the surrounding space, and you found yourself unable to decipher his meaning.

He isn’t referring to having an audience with the ruler of the realm as a privilege, is he?

He continued, “The safety of the castle. Our stronghold. You will be protected within its walls.”

Oh. Of course.

You suppressed a scoff. “I find that hard to believe, considering Commander Ren has attempted to strangle me twice over since my arrival.”

“I see,” he mused, pressing an index finger to his lips in thought. “My mercurial underling. If only his mind were half as quick as his temper.”

Somehow, your first instinct was to defend Commander Ren from his inflaming remark. While the Supreme Leader was correct about Ren’s temperament, he didn’t see the side of him that you saw—however infrequently it may have showed itself. There was a tenderness to him, fleeting in nature, like a luminescent star ripping through the night sky. You saw it in his eyes as he sat before your hearth, again when he laced your bodice.

Or perhaps what you felt was just the lingering effects of his charm.

Snoke’s rough voice broke your reverie. “Nevertheless, I’m sure Commander Ren had his reasons. Just as I’m sure whatever actions may have led to these outbursts will cease henceforth, won’t they?”

Before you could answer, a searing pain sliced through your skull, its barbed tendrils reaching into the deepest part of your consciousness. Every muscle in your body became succinctly rigid, frozen in place as an invisible force suspended you midair. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to call out; for the gods, for your mother—even for Commander Ren.

“You will behave yourself, insolent girl, or you will be disposed of.”

Despite your efforts, no sound would come from your throat. An eternity seemed to pass as the Supreme Leader kept you trapped, holding your feet to the fire of his anger. Mustering every ounce of strength, you forced your chin down in agreement, hot tears distorting your vision.

Without moving a muscle, he relinquished his hold on you, your knees cracking against the marble floor in an instant. The violet fabric of your gown pooled around you like the blood of a slain enemy, collecting the tears that fell from your chin.

Before you could find your voice, the creak of wood and subsequent rustling of armor behind you swiped your attention. The guards had readied their weapons, aiming at something other than you.

You flinched as the doors slammed shut, followed by a heavy—yet quick—footfall.

“What is the meaning of this?” Commander Ren’s voice was biting, filled with untamed fury as he entered the grand hall. His cloak rippled behind him like the night sea, silver sword in hand as he marched forward.

You scurried backwards on your tender palms, caught between his rage and the throne. He drew closer, only stopping at the intersection of two of the guards’ blades.

“Commander Ren, what a welcome surprise,” Snoke crooned. “Your bride was just leaving.”

His eyes found yours in an instant—wild and dark. Silently, you pleaded for his cooperation. If he were to strike at the guard, your life would be forfeit.

Outnumbered by eight blades, he stowed his own. “What have you done?” he demanded.

Though he was looking at you, his question was directed at the man atop the throne, whose enthusiasm at his subordinate’s display was palpable.

“Nothing you have not already done yourself,” Snoke growled. With that, he stood to his feet and stepped down from his throne, closing the gap you’d deliberately left and standing over you. “See her back to her chambers, Commander.”

A snarl flashed across Ren’s face as he pushed past the guards and kneeled before you, extending a gloved hand for you. Though he was quiet, his eyes were heavy with guilt.

With legs like a new foal, you accepted his help, gripping his hand like a lifeline as you stood. “Thank you.” The words floated from your mouth, burning your throat as they passed through.

He only nodded in return, guiding you away from the chamber. Because of his intrusion, the outer guards were now sealed inside, allowing some privacy in the dimly lit hall.

Ren came to a halt, moving both of his cool hands to rest on your shoulders, inspecting you. “Are you hurt?”

Averting your eyes, you shook your head dismissively, ignoring how your knees seemed to rattle with every step.

He let out an amused hum. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you will, Commander,” you managed to say through your dry mouth. “I’m fine.”

At that, the two of you carried on in silence, meandering through the castle, passing knights and servants alike down each corridor. Ren’s emotion rolled off of him like heat from a flame, slowly dwindling the further you were from the throne room.

As your legs regained their strength, so did your voice. “How did you know I was in there?”

“Does that really matter?”

“I’d say so. For all I know, you’re the reason he summoned me in the first place,” you argued, head spinning as you tried to recognize your surroundings. Only when you realized these walls were unfamiliar did your pace falter. “Stop!”

He obeyed, meeting you where you stood. “What?”

“Answer me.”

He let out a terse breath. “No, I am not the reason he summoned you. Come, we can discuss this later.”

At that, he began his stride again, but you didn’t follow. “No. I will not take one more step. Not before I know where you are taking me, as it is clearly not my chambers.”

“I’m bringing you somewhere private,” he finally answered.

“Are my chambers not private enough?”

“By the gods,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, it is unbecoming of me to be seen entering your chambers before we are wed.”

You scoffed. “How pragmatic of you.”

Ignoring your comment, he continued, “After your encounter with the Supreme Leader, I think it’s best if we avoid unnecessary speculation—for your sake.”

You couldn’t argue with him. If Snoke was inclined to submit you to the rawest agony over the slightest display of defiance, you could only imagine what else he was capable of.

“Fine,” you conceded, seeing reason in his words. “But let it be known that my cooperation does not reflect my satisfaction with this decision.”

A smile ghosted over his lips. “I know.”

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a-b-riddle · 6 months ago

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Sins of the Father

cw: shifter romance. A/B/O dynamics. Angst. Grovel. Hurt/comfort. Sick children. Loss of parents. Last name mentioned for reader (sorry but they have to call her something). I’ll add more if I think of any. I’m back in my wattpad era. cringe. Reader is early to mid twenties. Related to story sorry :(

pairings: poly141 x OFC

Summary: For seven years you have lived as an outcast in your own pack. Shunned, you had to make due to ensure not only your own survival but your younger sister’s as well. Now, after years of failing to shift and being labeled as broken, the connection that the gods had chosen for you clicks into place. Much to uour dismay, it’s not only person who sentenced you to exile, but his three betas as well.

There were two rules above all else in your world:

1) Don’t disobey the Alpha.

2) Don’t sneak off packlands.

Since there was a direct order from Alpha Price to stay in the territory, you were breaking both. But the alphahole was twisting your arm at this point. It was either obey him and let Rosie die or say fuck it and she might be able to fight the infection.

Rosie 13 months old when your mother went missing. Four months later, your father had challenged Price. His wounds had been fatal and the consequence for his betrayal had fallen upon you and Rosie. She was still a baby and you were still a child yourself. But you guess the daughters were meant to pay for the sins of their father.

And Rosie had paid nearly all of her life for what your father had done. No medical aid given. Your monthly rations were whatever was leftover. Year after year the rations had dwindled down to the point where it wasn’t enough to sustain you both through a quarter of the way through the winter.

You had learned long ago that being a part of a pack didn’t make you part of the pack. Which was why you had to rely on trading with the humans in order to get medicine and non-perishable goods.

Tonight was the night before the run. No one except border patrol would be out and no one keeps tabs on what happens to the Blackburn girls. No one would be looking out for the pack’s pariah at this time of night.

You couldn’t breathe easy until your cottage came into view. You were thankful that you were so far away from the rest of the pack and remained at the edge of the border. The five mile trek had been taken down to a little over two.

Rosie was still tucked in bed just as she had been the last two days. The cold cloth on her forehead no doubt warm now. She stirred awake as the door creaked shut behind you. “Sissy?” Her voice rasped, sounding more like old hag than a 9-year-old girl.

“Hey Rosie Posey,” You greeted softly as you pulled the pill bottle from your backpack. “Miss Oliver says hi. Hopes to see you soon.”

Miss Oliver was a doctor that you had met years ago. Anytime Rosie got too sick for you to handle, you sought her out. She had always been willing to help. Even given the difference in species.

Rosie took the medicine without fuss and settled back into bed after offering a quiet, “thank you.”

You put away the supplies you had gotten. After changing out of your sweaty clothes, you had washed off with a basin of water and a rag in the corner of the room. The fire had now dwindled down to glowing embers.

You laid down next to her and almost by instinct, her body moved closer to yours. No doubt seeking any warmth she could.

It was hard. Having maternal feelings for a child who was meant to be your sibling. Having to become a mother before you really got the chance to be a sister.

You were just grateful she was still here.

It was moments like this when the hate you had for Price and the pack left your body body. When Rosie’s breathing becomes clear and her skin doesn’t burn beneath your touch. Where for just a moment you don’t live a crumbling shack. You feel safe and the worries of tomorrow escape you.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #angst #angst with a happy ending #grovel

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starseungs · 9 months ago

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from the past, beyond the present, and into tomorrow. ksm. ( teaser )

kim seungmin x fem!reader — following the last wishes of her beloved grandmother, y/n finds herself moving back to her family's hometown. deep into the countryside and miles away from the bustling noise of the city, the change was supposed to be a new experience. that was, if only the mayor's son didn't bring along years of unknown familiarity with him.

GENRE/S — drama, slight angst, slight fluff, just sentimental, soulmates au, multiple lifetimes, high school au, a slowburn • teaser: 2.1k words (10k+ overall fic)

WARNING/S — y/n gets referred to with she/her pronouns, setting is heavily influenced by japanese environments (but still made vague enough for other preferences), main characters are aged eighteen, possibly more to be added upon release.

NOW PLAYING — tracing that dream by yoasobi

( ✒️ ) this is the product of seungmin covering one of my favorite songs ... now im gonna make him a shoujo anime love interest !!! and yes the teaser is long asf. i, too, am concerned about the total word count of this fic. (road to 20k wc i guess)

( 📌 ) STATUS: UNRELEASED • TAGLIST IS OPEN !

You had dreamt of a specific scene once when you were thirteen.

At least, you were the one who considered it a dream. It was something you had tried to bury in the depths of your mind—locked away in a tiny chest placed in the furthest corner and behind closed doors. If it were someone else, you knew that they would’ve already exhausted all means to figure out what the dream meant.

After all, it certainly wasn’t every day that you got to dream of something that felt so vividly real to the point you could’ve sworn it was a memory.

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

Why?

Because in no reality could an authentic memory be of a time that shouldn’t even exist yet.

“I won’t ask you to congratulate me,” the vessel you were seeing the world through spoke. In the scenario being played out, you could feel yourself smile warmly. You could only guess why the positive action was contrasted by such a somber tone of speaking. “Never once have your eyes lied in front of mine.”

The sound of joyous laughter that surrounded the area almost felt too jarring to compare to the mood present between what was supposed to be you and another male. He sat completely still, unmoving amidst the dim evening despite your earlier comment. Flickers of embers from the sizable-looking campfire reflected in his eyes, telling of the fact that the absence of a response was not because of a lack of focus but rather his inner thoughts getting swallowed up by the burning flames.

His looks would range him older than eleven. Yet, you didn’t seem phased by it—not even in the slightest. Perhaps this was something you should have expected. The voice that came out of you was notably not one of an eleven-year-old either. So you gave up on the matter.

Instead, you waited for an answer to what you had previously uttered. Even if it was just a simple hum that came out of his mouth.

He let the fire crackle a bit more.

“Does it make me a bad man to say that I envy you?”

The breath that you didn’t even know you were holding escaped your lips the second he spoke. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean,” was your reply.

The silence came back for a second. Surprisingly, it didn’t seem as heavy as the one you two had just broken. You watched his movements, almost mesmerized, as he took his eyes off the fire. The concentration only faltered when his sight came up to meet yours. “You’re off to go do greater things over in the big city,” he starts. “And yet, here I am, getting left behind in this quiet town. A place not a single soul even yearns for—where everyone starts off but never stays.”

It was odd. The way you felt your heart race at his words.

To be completely honest, you didn’t think much of what he had just said. You didn’t even know exactly what it meant—both for you and for him. Yet, the sudden spike of adrenaline in your veins told a different story. It was making you feel breathless while also making you tear up.

“You could always come with me.”

He shook his head. Did he just reject your offer? “It’s no use. My life’s responsibilities will still lie here. What would I even gain from leaving this place?”

Another beat. You could care less if it was of silence or your heart. In what seemed like a blink, the environment felt too overwhelming for you to function in. It was almost like you were sinking. Down deep to who knows where.

Though muddled, you tried your best to bring yourself back to the forefront by listening to the variety of other sounds outside the small bubble you two had created. Children running around screaming with laughter, adult men howling with amusement at whatever conversation they were in, and a female voice yelling to prepare the fireworks.

How fun. A celebration right next to a brewing storm. All under the same night sky.

“But,” you forced the words out. “You also have your own dreams.” His eyes softened at the mention. The way your heart shattered echoed a little too strongly throughout your body.

“That’s why I’m letting you go like this.” The young male smiled, making sure to let you know it was only directed at you. “So that at least one of us gets to achieve them.”

Your lips quivered. “Why do you speak as if I’m never going to come back for you?”

Silence again. You were beginning to develop an intense dislike for them.

“That’s just the way the world works,” was the response that came to soothe your growing anxiety. “It doesn’t revolve around a certain person. And it certainly doesn’t revolve around me. Go and live the life you want without any regrets. When the time comes that you’ve done everything you’ve wished for in life, come and find me again.”

A shake of a head.

“I could always just stay.”

A weak chuckle.

“Then, neither of us will be able to grow.”

A clench of a hand.

“What if I take too long?”

A minute passes by. You’ve come to really hate these momentary pauses.

He stands up. “There will be no such thing,” the young male assures you, moving closer only to stop at arm's length. You fought the urge to reach out and hold him. “Even if it takes multiple lifetimes, I’ll always be here. Waiting for you.”

“What if you forget about me?”

The world fell into one last hush. Your well-held tears finally started falling one-by-one, just like the first drops of rain. He sighs at your state, taking another step forward.

“I really don’t think I ever will.” He cups your face gently to look at him. “That’s why to you, who my heart will always choose in every lifetime—”

A loud bang. You watched as the fireworks bloomed into the sky through his glistening eyes.

“—Please live well until you come back to me.”

Hushed whispers filled the room.

You should’ve expected this. No matter the place, all high schoolers were bound to be the same, either one way or another. If you really had to make sense of it, your best guess would be that it was simply human for them to act this way. Universal traits are what makes a species. Perhaps you would’ve found it much more uncomfortable if the students in front of you didn’t find your situation interesting. After all, the genuine interest seeping out of those youthful eyes did make the atmosphere a lot lighter. At the end of the day, you could never actually fault them.

Still, enduring the poor attempts of adolescents trying to keep their curiosity hidden for more than a tick of a clock was harder than you thought. A part of you so badly wanted to believe that it was because this whole ordeal was tiring—bothersome, even. Unluckily for you, your brain knew a little bit too much for its own good.

Next to the classroom’s front door, one of your female classmates drops a pen accidentally. You watched it roll down two seats away, only to stop underneath the chair of a guy who was animatedly discussing something with another that was to his right. The latter enthusiastically reciprocated the conversation; his seemingly dominant hand spinning a blue-colored pen while doing so. You balled your hands, only to release them not even a beat later. They felt slightly damp.

You were nervous.

“Settle down now, class!” The homeroom teacher, Mrs. Cheon, ordered. Like well disciplined soldiers, the students quickly ceased all sound. Their undivided attention made you swallow heavily. “Starting today, we have a new addition to our class. Let’s all listen to her introduction.”

Your eyes almost popped out of their sockets at her order—only barely holding back from painting shock all over your face. This was not the plan you were made aware of. You wanted to protest. Throw a tantrum like a little child at the way she had just thrown you into a den filled with lions with no choice but to fend for yourself. Back in the faculty room, she had clearly stated that she was the one who was going to introduce you to the class. What was the point of asking you all the standard information about yourself if she wasn’t even going to use it?

Mrs. Cheon merely stood there, anticipating for you to start. Her neatly managed fingers were laced together behind her back, presenting the dark purple dress she was wearing in all of its glory. You kind of wished it was brighter; just so you could complain about her blinding you without seeming rude. Now you realized that you shouldn’t have trusted her words in their literal sense. It was foolish of you to believe that all you had to do for your formal introduction was to stand there until you were settled.

You took a discrete, heavy breath.

“Hello to you all. My name is Y/N,” you start off as cool as you could manage. “Eighteen. I just moved here from the city, so I am still in the process of getting familiar with the environment. Please take care of me.”

If you could give yourself a pat on the back at that moment, you would’ve. Unfortunately, you had yet to get a grasp on how things worked around here, so it was probably better not to do anything that would make you stand out more than you already did just by being new. And who even transfers schools two months into their last year of high school? Plus, with their stares so intently directed at you like they were studying a fascinating specimen, you couldn’t lift a single finger anyway. So you settled for pursing your lips instead.

A male student with puffed cheeks from the second row raised a brow at you. You bit your cheek lightly. Great.

“It seems like that’s all for Y/N’s introduction,” Mrs. Cheon says, clearing her throat. You internally glowered at the way she awkwardly moved on. You could only wonder how painful your introduction now seemed. “You’ll be seated next to Seungmin. Raise your hand, please.” She ordered.

To which not one soul followed.

If you had not enforced every single ounce of control you had, you were sure your jaw would’ve dropped to the ground. This was already proving to be one of the worst moments of your life, and yet life seemed way too eager to make it even more unforgettable. Your eyes snapped to the figure sitting on the slot in the back row, right next to the windows.

Granted, you already knew who this ‘Seungmin’ was. It was quite obvious, really. The only other desk free to use in this entire room was the one next to the guy you were currently burning a hole through with your gaze. He was staring out the window without a worry in the world, seemingly lost in his thoughts. His posture screamed relaxation, and anything more than that meant infusing into the wooden chair he was leaning back on.

While normally you would have found this guy relatable, right now you could just wish that he finally acknowledged Mrs. Cheon’s call so that you could now erase your presence for the rest of the day.

Luckily for you, it seemed like your homeroom teacher was also getting impatient.

“Kim Seungmin!”

The male with the same name as the one just yelled out leisurely broke off his staring contest with that one cloud in the sky to give you two at the front a glance. It was then that you finally got a good look at him.

His black hair was cut short, brushed down into bangs, but not enough to cover a notable undercut. Despite his clean appearance doubled by the meticulously ironed uniform that hung on his figure, his face was grim in a way that showed great dislike for the situation. You wanted to scoff at the frown decorating his lips, sending everyone the clear message that he had just been bothered. Fighting off the urge to twitch an eye at the slight scrunch of his nose was proving to be the most difficult challenge of the day.

“Oh?” He reacted monotonously before raising his hand as requested. That obviously meant he did hear Mrs. Cheon. “Yeah, here.”

You grit your teeth, already feeling an overwhelming sense of annoyance radiating out of you. From what it looked like, he felt it too—shifting his gaze from Mrs. Cheon to meet yours. Yet, your eyebrows furrowed as the feeling dissipated the moment your eyes locked.

Huh.

How come he seems awfully familiar?

FIC TAGLIST ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka @starlostastronaut @soobnny

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ailoda · 4 months ago

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updated: 09.03.25

ᯓ★ series

Undisclosed (❤❅✘): desperate to outrun a secret that could cost you your life, you seek refuge in a small mountain town. Its deep forests and small cabins make it the perfect place to hide, but the travel website hadn’t mentioned anything about the quiet, burly lumberjack that wouldn’t leave your thoughts. No one had warned Bucky about you either. - lumberjack!au (@pellucid-constellations)

Just One Kiss (❤❅): Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but you’re determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all he’s asking for is just one kiss? (@sarahwroteathing)

For the Love of the Game (❤❅✘): Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYU’s top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldn’t figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore off—and his feelings for you began to grow—he made it his mission to fix it. (@pellucid-constellations)

Twin Flames (❤❅): Grumpy x Sunshine Series - avengers!reader (@anonymityisfunwriter)

↪︎ Two Sides of the Same Coin (❤❅): TFATWS Version.

Guiding Light (❤❅✘): it was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra. While you struggle to stay alive and hold your sanity, Bucky begins to lose himself to a darkness and gives into the soldier because he doesn’t know how to breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can. (@wkemeup)

Decades Apart (❤❅✘): what if Bucky decided to return to 1949 with Steve? Back to his old life, back to the world he knew. Back to the love of his life that he couldn't - wouldn't - forget, even though they were decades apart. (@catharsisfalls)

Ashes to Embers (❤❅✘): when an unfortunate event forces you to confront the crush you’ve had on your neighbour since you moved in, you learn that Bucky knows you better than you know yourself. As the two of you grow closer, how does he deal with his past without pushing you away? - firefighter!au (@redwing4life)

By Any Other Name (❤❅✘): when Agent Barnes is assigned undercover within Hydra, he finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife to the head of Hydra… you. - detective/fbi!au (@wkemeup)

My Own Soul’s Warning (❤❅✘): this is a series of one-shots that revolve around you, a cosmic entity who falls in love with Bucky Barnes and sacrifices everything.(@aquaticmercy)

Southpaw (❤❅✘): tied up in the criminal world your godfather has built, you have no reason to leave, until you find one in the man they call Southpaw. - boxer!au (@gogolucky13)

Delicate Edges (❤❅✘): your family’s beloved flower shop was not the only thing you inherited when your parents passed. Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, you bear the cost of your father’s desperate bargain. It’s only in moments when the charming Bucky Barnes walks into your shop that you can forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. The border is crumbling. You’re trapped in the middle. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (@wkemeup)(warning: sexual harassment)

Honey, There Is No Right Way (❤❅✘): when you agree to be the feared mobster Bucky Barnes’ sugar baby, you expect to get enough money to pay your bills. what you don’t expect is to fall head over heels for him. (@bonky-n-steeb)

Yours To Wield (❤❅✘): with the enemy threatening to obliterate your family, you’re left with no choice but to take the hit just so he would spare your loved ones. Belonging to a mafia family requires sacrifices to be made at every step, and in order to save your family you make the ultimate one - you offer yourself up to the enemy. Bucky Barnes isn’t a man one negotiates with, he owns this city and whatever he says is considered law. But when you come to him with an irresistible offer, he bends his own rules for you. What starts out as an agreement becomes so much more, and the two of you find love where it wasn’t supposed to be. But rare are the love stories which don’t include some sort of war. (@sinner-as-saint)

Brotherhood & Bullets (❤❅✘): the 107th motorcycle club had always and would always be the protectors of their small, charming hometown — such a responsibility required strong shoulders to uphold the weight of it all. Your venture to their town would harbour twists and turns for you to navigate, all while you became the angel on the President’s shoulder; the tips of your angelic wings tinged red by your own demons. (@vesearlee) (links to AO3)

Call Me Baby (❤✘): returning to Brooklyn for the summer after a year of travelling from city to city, you hadn’t expected to find your best friend, Peggy Carter, hopelessly in love with a biker, and when she decided to introduce you to the rest of his club, you hadn’t expected to fall for one either — that was until you met one with pretty eyes and a habit of calling you baby. (@cherryrogers)

Starting Over (❤❅): when Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending. - mob!au (@sashaisready)

Promise Me (❤❅): Y/N kept being reincarnated into the world for seemingly endless of lifetimes with the lasting, vivid memories of her past lover during the 40's, Sargent James B. Barnes. While she thought this was a 'punishment' for her sins, she was also unknowingly oblivious to the fact that James was still alive somewhere, almost forever frozen in the time. (@winterarmyy) (warning: graphic violence. deaths. mention of suicide)

Bad Romance (❤❅✘): in Brooklyn, everyone knows the unwritten rule: you don’t cross James Barnes. When you return after nearly half a decade, things are anything but the same. After the murder of your Uncle, you begin to learn that no one is who they say they are, and that you may have accidentally given your heart to a mobster; The White Wolf of Brooklyn. More dangerous than that, he’s given you his. (@samthemarvelfan)

Tempestuous (❤❅✘): with his kingdom flourishing in peace, and no threats from enemies; recently crowned King - James Buchanan Barnes sets out at sea. With his finest ship, the best crew ever recruited, and a deep desire to see whether the edge of the world truly exists; the King sets sail. Hoping to find the marvels of the ocean, to find beauty and magic even; however he ends up finding a fiery soul – one he cannot get enough of. But then again, no love story is ever perfect, is it? (@sinner-as-saint)

Promises (❤❅): when your parents are murdered in cold blood, you turn to the most feared man on the east coast for answers. (@preciousbarnes) (warning: graphic depictions of murder)

Missing Piece (❤❅): when Bucky first arrived to the compound, Steve was his only friend and the only person he trusted himself around. That is until Steve introduces him to you, his best friend. Bucky was fascinated by how often you and Steve would hug each other. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him in such a loving way and it didn’t take long before Bucky found himself craving your touch, but whenever you’d get too close he would flinch as if someone had hit him. His trauma still too fresh a wound for him to be comfortable with someone touching him. Then one day, he finally fights his instincts and let you touch him. He hadn’t realized how truly touch starved he was until he feels the warmth of your skin against his. Something clicks for the both of you in that moment, you had found your missing piece. As long as you were with each other, you were home. You both tried to fool yourselves into thinking you were just friends, really close friends. Friends that needed to be together almost every minute of every day and who needed to hold each other to be able to sleep at night. (@likeahorribledream)

Beneath The Milky Twilight (❤❅✘): being Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant has been tough, balancing a full time job while taking care of your younger brothers has you running yourself thin. Then, things take a sharp turn after a dinner with your boss when you disclose your financial situation. (@bucksangel)

The Witness (❤❅✘): owner of a bar full of criminals, maybe you shouldn’t be surprised when you’re the sole witness to a hydra hit. In comes Detective Barnes, the quick-witted, flirtatious cop who somehow became a regular at your misfit bar. When he takes it upon himself to ensure your safety off the books, you learn to rely on someone else for a change and find you don’t mind it at all. Not when it’s him. (@wkemeup) (warning: torture and descriptions of violence)

Heart of Steel (❤❅✘): Sir James is known throughout the lands as the most fearsome and honorable warrior. Ballads have been written about him. Men fear him. He is the most trusted knight of the King Henry. So why has he given up the glories of war and pledged his loyalty to Princess Y/N? (@invisibleanonymousmonsters)

new! In The Name of Love & Law (❤❅✧): this collection follows the love story between Detective Bucky Barnes and you, one of the most notorious prosecutors in New York, working alongside the detectives of the Brooklyn homicide precinct. In the midst of navigating the chaos of your jobs, you also have to navigate the growing feelings between you and Bucky that seem to be going nowhere no matter how hard you try to ignore them... (@elixirfromthestars)

new! Like a Phoenix (❤❅): an attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen. (@marvelstoriesepic)

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lvnchh · 4 months ago

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Burnt Edges

Ellie Williams x Fem reader (with PTSD)

I’m a minor and if you want to complain or insult me about it, just don’t interact. 🙏🏻 It’s my life, and I’m free to write whatever I want as long as I’m not bothering anyone. Also, please don’t judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I’m sorry if the whole story isn’t that good.

TW: I have PTSD (DIAGNOSED), and what you’re about to read is based on my personal experiences. Writing about it is a form of therapy for me. If you are sensitive to topics like violence and domestic violence, please do not continue reading. Thank you 🙏🏻

Btw I need more Ellie x PTSD reader stories because I want to feel less alone and represented

story below the cut

The roof was quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the old building beneath you. You leaned back, one hand braced against the rough shingles, the other holding a cigarette lazily between your fingers. Beside you, Ellie sat with her legs dangling off the edge, her posture loose but her expression as tightly locked as ever.

She was like that—a fortress of dry wit and cold deflection. It had taken you weeks to even crack the surface, and even now, the glimpses of vulnerability she let slip were fleeting. Still, you stayed, drawn to her in a way that felt both dangerous and grounding. She didn’t make you feel fragile. She made you feel alive.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Ellie muttered, breaking the silence. She blew out a stream of smoke, the ember of her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim moonlight. “Roof’s unstable.”

You glanced at her, arching a brow. “What, you care now?”

She shot you a side-eye, lips twitching in the faintest hint of amusement. “Not really. Just don’t wanna scrape your ass off the ground if it collapses.”

“Touching,” you deadpanned, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. The wind carried it away almost instantly, as if even it didn’t want to linger too long.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it never was. Ellie had a way of making silence feel purposeful, like it was meant to be filled with thought instead of noise. You liked that about her, even if she was the most guarded person you’d ever met.

She broke the quiet again, her tone sharper this time. “You’ve been jumpy all day.”

You stiffened, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. “What makes you think that?”

“You twitched every time the generator kicked on. Thought you were about to bolt when Jesse slammed that door.” Her voice was cold, almost clinical, but you caught the undercurrent of concern buried in it. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated, staring down at the glowing tip of your cigarette. The memories clawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to drag you under. Your dad’s yelling, your mom’s pleading, the sharp crack of his fist against the wall—or worse, against her. It was all there, always there, no matter how far you ran or how many years passed.

Ellie didn’t press, but she didn’t look away, either. She had that kind of presence, the kind that made you feel seen even when you didn’t want to be.

“My dad,” you finally said, your voice quieter than you’d intended. “He was… violent. Toward my mom. Toward me, sometimes. I don’t know. Days like this, it just… sneaks up on me.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened, her eyes flicking toward the skyline. “Yeah. I get that.”

You glanced at her, surprised. She didn’t elaborate, but you could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever ghosts haunted her, they were just as heavy as yours. Maybe heavier.

She took a long drag of her cigarette, then said, “You ever wonder if this shit just… sticks to us? Like no matter how far we go, it’s always gonna be there. Screwing with us.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Every goddamn day.”

Ellie turned her head to look at you then, her green eyes catching the faint light of the moon. “You’re handling it better than most,” she said, her tone serious, almost begrudgingly respectful. “Better than me.”

You smirked, leaning back on your hands. “What can I say? My PTSD made me hotter.”

Ellie froze for a second, then snorted—actually snorted—before catching herself. She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to suppress it. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Maybe,” you said, shrugging. “But I made you laugh.”

“That wasn’t a laugh.” She exhaled sharply, flicking the ash off her cigarette. “It was a pity chuckle.”

“Sure,” you teased, grinning. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered, softening her edges just enough to make you feel like you’d won something. The two of you fell back into silence, the kind that felt warm despite the cool night air.

Maybe the scars would never go away. Maybe the memories would always be there, clawing at the edges of your mind. But sitting here, with Ellie by your side, the weight felt a little lighter. For now, that was enough.

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captain-hawks · 1 year ago

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CRIMSON INCLINATION

♡ — osamu miya x f!reader

It’s a ritual—the way Osamu shows you just how much he missed you after away games and training camps, in a tangle of limbs and lips and rumpled sheets. And despite the unfortunate timing of his latest return, to Osamu, it’s just an opportunity to try something new.

18+ ONLY

wc — 3.8k

prompt — period sex

additional content — established relationship, complete and total filth, sexting, blood, fingering, oral sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, so much cum + INARIZAKI UNIVERSITY!OSAMU

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

Osamu: catching the next train Osamu: be home by 6

After tapping out a response to Osamu, your finger idly swipes through the rest of the recent messages lingering in your text thread, including a gallery of incredibly unflattering pictures of Atsumu sleeping. But once you reach your conversation from several evenings ago, an ember of heat flares to life in your gut.

>>> Are you back at the hotel yet?

Osamu: not yet, out for dinner with the boys Osamu: whats up?

>>> Put your phone under the table ;)

Osamu: ???

>>> [image sent]

Osamu: FUCK Osamu: i miss you so much

>>> [image sent]

Osamu: fuckfuckfuckasdklj Osamu: wait Osamu: ok i’m in the bathroom now Osamu: [image sent]

>>> [video sent]

Osamu: i’m so fuckin hard right now christ Osamu: look what you do to me Osamu: [image sent] >>> The vibrator doesn’t feel as good as you :( >>> [video sent]

Osamu: babyalkdfjadsf Osamu: wanna feel you so fuckin bad Osamu: make a mess for me Osamu: please

>>> [image sent]

Osamu: good girl Osamu: fuck Osamu: oh oops Osamu: got cum all over the mirror and the sink Osamu: now Tsumu’s dumb ass is banging on the door Osamu: [image sent]

Your conversation had been interrupted part way by several text notifications popping up at the top of your screen from the blonder Miya—

Atsumu: Samu’s either fuckin dead in the bathroom right now Atsumu: or he’s jerkin off Atsumu: don’t answer that Atsumu: but either way can u tell him to hurry it up we need to pay the bill

—

Despite Atsumu’s entirely shameless attempts at flirting when you first met the twins during freshman orientation week at Inarizaki University several years ago, the more outspoken Miya never stood a chance. After learning you had only recently arrived in town from Tokyo, both brothers took it upon themselves to help you acclimate and find your way around, and much to the self-proclaimed eldest’s chagrin…you only had eyes for Osamu from the start.

Somewhere in between his softer disposition and wry sense of humor, Osamu had a habit of taking your breath away and filling in all the cracks of perpetual anxiety that you’d begun to splinter with over moving all the way to Hyōgo by yourself.

(“Yer really just gonna look me in the eye and say ya prefer the diet version of me?” Atsumu had balked the first time he caught the two of you fooling around on the couch, clutching his chest in mock-offense right before Osamu nailed him in the face with a throw pillow.)

To most, Osamu may seem like the more mild-mannered, less high-strung of the Miyas—which isn’t untrue, necessarily.

(Until the two of them start arguing, at which point it’s like watching a mirror hurl childish insults at itself for forty-five minutes straight.)

But that same untamed, wild energy that Atsumu radiates in spades isn’t entirely absent from your preferred twin, he just has a particular outlet where he lets that kindling spark and catch.

A far more private one.

Beneath those kind eyes, that gentle smile, and the soothing cadence of his voice, Osamu Miya is fucking filthy. In between the sheets, the wanton curve of his lips and his steely, lust-blown pupils are an omen of sinful intent, his rough, gravelly tone a hot, stroking caress that snags on each and every notch of your spine.

(“Forget what I said about never forgivin’ ya if you move out,” Atsumu had grunted over breakfast one morning in their old shared apartment. “If I have to listen to you two fuckin’ like bunny rabbits for one more night, I’m takin’ a bath with the toaster.”

“How ‘m I gonna make breakfast then?” Osamu lazily drawled around a mouthful of toast.

Atsumu taped a hand-written eviction notice on his bedroom door that afternoon.)

So the sex?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

But Osamu’s university volleyball career often finds him on the road between a constant array of games and training camps, which puts a bit of a damper on the frequency of your extracurricular activities in the bedroom.

(see also: the couch)

(see also, also: the shower)

(see also, also, also: the kitchen counter)

(...and that one time on Atsumu’s bed during a party—a secret you and Osamu will both take to the grave.)

Thus, more often than not, your text threads while he’s on the road shamelessly resemble low-budget erotica.

(Atsumu made the mistake of snatching his brother’s phone from him once at the wrong time on a particularly long bus ride.

He called him Ernest Dickingway for a month straight.)

Unfortunately for both of you, there’s something throwing a significant wrench into Osamu’s current plans to—in his words—fill you so deep when he gets home, it’ll still be leaking out of you tomorrow. Groaning as another sharp cramp in your abdomen overrides any lingering lustful thoughts, you sigh pitifully as you envision your boyfriend’s crestfallen expression at the terrible timing of your period.

—

You’ve only just shut off the scorching hot stream of water and wrapped a towel around your naked body when the bathroom door creaks open, Osamu’s gray head of hair poking through the doorway. A grin that sets your heart fluttering in your chest crosses his face as he catches your gaze, wasting no time in striding forward and cupping your face, kissing you hard.

“Hi,” he says quietly, carrying some of the chill from outside, and you can feel the smile on his face as he says the word against your lips.

“Hi,” you whisper, running your fingers over the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

“Missed you,” he exhales, lips careening off course and trailing along the curve of your jaw, nose nuzzling against the side of your neck.

“I missed you, too, Samu.”

Despite the fact that you’re dripping wet and naked beneath the towel, Osamu takes his time reacquainting himself with your lips first, his hands firmly grasping your hips as he places you up on the counter and loosens the fabric just enough to slot his body between your legs. Your heart burns bright, thrumming insistently in your chest as his tongue skirts along the seam of your lips, imploring them to part. Opening your mouth, he deepens the kiss, fingers dancing along the damp skin of your neck, still warm from the blistering heat of the shower water.

He tenderly kisses his way down to the hollow of your throat, lips skirting off to the side to wetly mouth at your left collarbone, earning him a sharp intake of breath as you react to the sensation. Your legs wrap around his waist as you scoot to the edge of the counter while pulling him flush against you, your towel falling further open. He groans, nipping at your tender skin while his erection strains against the front of his sweatpants and presses insistently at your core.

“I know ya said you wanted to order takeout first when I got home,” he groans, “but I don’t think I can wait.”

You don’t argue, and so with that, he picks you up, nudging the door open wider with his foot as he carries you toward the bedroom. Fingers fumbling with his shirt, you finally wrench it free and send it flying across the room right before both of you go tumbling atop the bed. Your towel falls open, leaving nothing left to the imagination as you lie splayed out naked atop the sheets, Osamu’s graphite eyes drinking you in.

“I’m never leavin’ you for that long again,” he breathes out as your toe catches in the waistband of his sweatpants, one of his hands reaching down to help you shuck them off. His boxers are fighting a losing battle against his throbbing erection, a dark spot of precum already staining the front of the cotton material.

“I don’t think your team would like that very much,” you muse, reaching up to twirl a rogue strand of his hair with your finger.

He takes your hand into his own, kissing the tips of each of your fingers. “I’ll quit ‘n open up an onigiri shop downtown instead. Then I’ll be home every night to see your pretty little face when I do this.”

Right on cue, your mouth falls open with a moan when he drags a hand up your side and palms at one of your tits, teasing your pebbled nipple with his thumb. While you’ve mostly dried off, his fingers slide through the damp area that remains on the underside of your breasts, spreading the thin sheen of water until your skin absorbs what’s left. Any and all remaining thoughts swiftly leave your head when you feel the huff of his hot breath against the swell of your breasts moments before he takes one of your nipples into his mouth and begins to scrape his tongue against it.

Your breasts are so tender and swollen, the aching relief of his attentive touch makes your chest heave. And unfortunately, it’s also the sensation of Osamu suckling at your sore breasts that brings you crashing back down to reality, breaking through the dam of arousal to give way to an unfortunate reminder of why there’s a dull ache in your abdomen.

“Osamu…wait.”

He immediately pauses in his ministrations, fingers gently feathering over your skin as he looks up at you expectantly, spit-soaked lips slightly parted, hair already sticking up in several directions. “Hmm?”

“We might need to take a rain check on the sex,” you sigh, wincing at the feeling of another sharp cramp.

He furrows his brows, sitting up slightly and looking down at you with concern. “You alright?”

You mumble something about having your period under your breath. Not because you’re embarrassed—Osamu’s the poster boyfriend for doing tampon runs without so much as batting an eye—but rather because you feel bad that you completely forgot about it the moment he started kissing you.

Osamu’s quiet for a few moments, mulling over something in his head until he finally responds, “I don’t mind.”

You smirk. “Well yeah, I still have a mouth.”

He tilts his head to the side, an odd expression on his face. “S’not what I meant.”

There’s a butterfly-soft caress of fingertips dancing along the top of your thigh as he speaks, the silence that hangs between you now dripping with the implication of his words, adding an invisible weight to his touch.

With communication as a solid cornerstone of your relationship, neither of you has ever shied away from conversations about exploring different kinks and sexual desires—one of the most recent having found your legs wrapped around Osamu’s waist as he fucked you in the equipment room after practice, a scenario you’d jokingly tossed out across the mattress and into the meager space between your pillows one night.

(“Is it…weird that it turns me on imagining you fucking me in there after practice? Covering my mouth to try and keep me quiet so none of your teammates catch us?”

It’s something that people would expect from Atsumu, without a doubt.

But not from this Miya.

“Better wear that pretty new dress you just bought when ya come watch tomorrow’s practice, then.”)

And that’s what turns you on even more—knowing that you’re the only one that gets to experience that part of Osamu, sweat-slicked hair plastered to his forehead while he hotly mouths at the side of your neck in the dark, the sounds of his lingering teammates just on the other side of the closed door. The press of his hand against your lips, muffling the sounds the repeated thrusts of his cock are pulling out of you no matter how hard you try to stay quiet. His forehead against your own, a boyish grin on his face, shoulders shaking in breathless, silent laughter as the two of you narrowly avoid getting caught.

So standing on the precipice of trying something new with Osamu right now? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

But this.

Does he really mean…?

You’ve never dared entertain the thought, the mere idea of it a step too far to even consider broaching the topic. And yet Osamu seems entirely unruffled by his suggestion, like he hasn’t just thrown you completely off kilter.

“You want to…” you trail off, eyes darting down to your lower half before looking back up to meet his again.

“I bet you’re real sore and haven’t been feelin’ too good all day, huh?” he asks, fingers skimming over your hip bone. You nod in response, and he begins tracing circles up the inside of your thighs as he continues, “Well…how about I make you feel real good now?”

If Osamu wasn’t the one that brought up the idea in the first place, you’d be embarrassed by how turned on you feel at the thought of him delving between your legs at this exact moment.

Glancing at the bed, you thumb the edge of the towel that you’re still lying on top of. “It’ll probably get…messy.”

He leans down, ghosting his lips over yours in a whisper of a kiss. “And if I said I want ya to make a mess for me?”

The sharp feeling in your gut isn’t pain this time, but a searing jolt of desire that makes you restlessly shift beneath him.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m so goddamn hard just thinkin’ about it,” he tells you, voice rough.

Letting your entire body relax, you whisper, “Then touch me, Osamu.”

Osamu’s eyes remain trained on yours as his hand makes its way between your legs, your breath hitching in your throat when he deftly swipes a finger through your drenched folds. Your slit is soaked in arousal, but it’s also dripping with blood. You know just how slick and dirty it feels—you’ve touched yourself like this in the shower before. But to have someone else’s fingers rubbing deliberate circles over your fluttering entrance, smearing your bodily fluids along the inside of your thighs?

It’s absolutely filthy, and you’re not sure if you’ve ever felt so turned on in your entire life.

He watches you with rapt attention, gray eyes darkening like a storm as he drinks the way your body trembles with each stroke. Without warning, Osamu sinks a single finger into your cunt, the simple sensation nearly shoving you over the precipice of an early climax. You keen underneath him, legs spreading wider to bring him deeper inside of you.

“Osamu,” you exhale, biting down hard on your lower lip.

He groans, inadvertently grinding his cock down against your thigh. “Fuck, you’re so wet. Holy shit.”

A second digit joins the first, if only for the novelty of it, because you’re so goddamn soaked there’s no need to actually prepare your cunt for the stretch of his cock. He crooks his fingers, dragging them along your plush inner walls, and you whine, running your hands over your swollen breasts.

“Feels so good, Samu.”

He begins to roughly palm himself through his boxers, the leaking head of his cock poking up through the waistband that’s now shifted low on his hips.

“You have no idea what I wanna to do to you right now, ” he tells you, his own imminent loss of composure evident in his rasping tone.

“Show me,” you plead as you rock your hips.

But for all that Osamu’s made it abundantly clear that he wants to do this, you’re still not expecting what happens next—his head between your thighs, the press of his fingers inside of you replaced by a broad stroke of his tongue up your slit. You cry out, bucking your hips into his touch as he sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves before returning his attention to your quivering entrance.

His hands grasp the inside of your thighs, and all you can do is brokenly moan as he slips his tongue into your cunt. The sounds of him eating you out are downright obscene, the wet squelch of his mouth devouring your bloody, soaked pussy leaving you in a dizzy haze of arousal. Osamu, meanwhile, is just as affected as you are, his boxers askew, ass partially hanging out as he ruts against the mattress.

It doesn’t take long for the heat churning in your gut to start to unfurl, your muscles going taut with the rapid approach of your climax. And Osamu, ever the overachiever, is quick to shove two fingers back into your cunt, the pads of the digits curling tight to firmly stroke your spongy inner walls as he sloppily mouths at your clit.

If his intention was to make you squirt, something he’s become mildly obsessed with since the first time it accidentally happened, he passes with flying colors. His name is a choked out sob on your lips as your orgasm rips through you, clear liquid spraying from your cunt as you moan and shudder. Osamu groans loudly against your pussy, and you shudder with oversensitivity as he laps up everything you give him.

“Almost came in my pants,” he breathes out unsteadily as he looks up at you, wiping at the blood that’s smeared all over his lips and cheeks with the back of his hand. It’s a futile effort, and he opts to use the corner of the towel instead, though it still leaves behind a lewd stain on his skin.

“Glad you didn’t,” you reply, running a hand over the outline of his dick.

“Mmm, why’s that?” he asks, shifting his body to finally slip his boxers off.

The idea of him humping the bed so desperately while eating you out that his boxers are sticky and soaked with cum afterward is undeniably hot, yes. But—

An image of Osamu’s cum and your blood dripping out of your cunt and down the inside of your thighs flashes through your head, and it’s all you can do not to impale yourself on the thick shaft that’s bobbing between his legs.

“Want you to fill me up,” you murmur, sliding one of your own fingers through your folds.

There’s an awkward beat where you regret letting those words slip, belatedly uncertain of where Osamu might draw a line between himself and the bloody mess between your legs. You’re not even sure if the two of you have any condoms lying around currently.

But you’re both on the same page, because he lets out a shuddering breath as he notches the head of his flushed cock at your entrance and firmly squeezes the base. “Feel like ’m gonna come as soon as I put it in.”

The mere thought of just how close to the edge Osamu already is sends a bolt of desire surging between your legs. And even if he does blow his load prematurely, you know he’ll be fucking his cum right back into you the moment he coaxes his dick back to life again anyway.

“What're you waiting for?”

Osamu plunges into your cunt, your tight walls so slippery with fluids that he immediately bottoms out, slamming into your cervix. You both moan in unison, the blood, cum, and arousal creating a far more wet and slippery surface than any of the various bottles of lube nestled in the drawer of your nightstand could ever hope to achieve.

“Haaaaaaaaaah—fuckfuckfuck,” he groans, forehead falling against yours as he involuntarily jerks against you.

“Holy shit,” you echo his sentiment, fingernails digging into his back.

Osamu begins to move, though his normally precise, thorough thrusts are far sloppier than usual, thanks to unbelievably slick tunnel your cunt has become, paired with his downright lust-fuelled, pussy drunk state. You’re desperately pliant beneath him, your cunt greedily sucking his cock back in with each wet, heavy stroke.

You can only imagine how his shaft looks right now—painted red with blood, sticky with cum, and glistening with the sheen of your arousal. Each plunge of his shaft into your sodden hole elicits the filthy, lewd sound of excess fluids squirting and dribbling out from between the two of you, dripping onto the towel below. Pleasure builds rapidly in your abdomen as you both fight to keep any semblance of a rhythm, though it’s ultimately a lost cause.

“This is so fuckin’ hot,” Osamu pants, hardly able to get the words out between his groans.

His thumb finds your clit again, and your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head when he makes contact with the sensitive cluster of nerves. “Come for me again,” he murmurs.

Osamu Miya never needs to ask you twice.

The ache between your thighs flares white-hot, a scorching wave spreading beneath your skin as you reach the crest of your climax. Osamu fucks you through your trembling bliss as you whimper and moan beneath him, his own composure walking a tightrope as your walls spasm and contract around his thick shaft.

“Come in me,” you whine, the back of your head still pressed firmly into the pillow as your body slowly begins to relax from its tense, arched position.

With no willpower left to stave off his orgasm after resisting the urge to let your slick cunt milk his cock the moment he sunk into the heat between your thighs, Osamu gives you one last sloppy thrust.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” he moans, burying his shaft balls deep in your wet cunt.

Your sensitive walls flutter around his cock as he pulses deep inside of you, filling you to the brim with thick, hot cum. And even when he begins to pull his shaft from the warm confines of your pussy moments later, he still can’t stop coming. A broken moan crawls up his throat as he grabs his slick, throbbing cock with one hand, the other fingering your succulent, fucked out hole while a creamy flood of blood and cum drips out of you. He fists his length as he finger fucks you, groaning as more ropes of his sticky cum paint your thighs and your stomach.

“One more,” he chokes out roughly, completely fucking gone on the filthy, depraved mess you’ve both made.

It’s too much.

It's not enough.

Your cunt is so overstimulated, you’re oscillating between pleading moans and desperately gasping for air.

But Osamu knows you, knows how much you love when he pulls every possible orgasm out of you, till you’re a moaning, shuddering, cum-soaked mess for him.

And after the last remaining coil inside of you snaps, leaving you to whine his name as you buck upward into his touch, Osamu’s softening cock nearly jumps back to life, one last spurt of cum dripping out and landing squarely on your clit.

He collapses beside you afterward, arm slung across your chest as he nuzzles against your shoulder, and you can feel the sheepish grin spread across his lips as he mutters against your skin, “Yer tellin’ me I get a whole week of this?”

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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