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daryltwdixon · 2 months ago

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Joel Miller meeting your parents

this is just a stupid little thing from seeing this gif of him in this post ok thank you and goodnight. Been having writers block so if an idea can get this far on docs I’m posting it

|| fluff, little bit nsfw, daddy kink, old man joel, peepaw joel meets your parents, reader's dad is kind of a hard ass, I suck at flirty banter tbh, cracking up at some of the shit I put in here, enjoy ||

“Baby, I’m serious—” Joel said, but his hands betrayed him, gripping at your hips like he couldn’t help himself as you climbed into his lap. Your knees framed his thick thighs, still clad in worn denim, while his green plaid shirt had come untucked and bunched around his waist. A sliver of soft, tanned stomach peeked out as he leaned back against the bed frame.

“I’m serious too,” you murmured, voice thick with want as you pressed your mouth to his neck. Your fingers wove through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Need you, Joel. Been thinking about this all day.”

“We’re gonna be late if you keep this up,” he rasped, even as his head tipped back to give you more of his throat, groaning low when your teeth grazed the scruff along his jaw.

“Don’t care,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “They’ll be fine.”

You hiked your skirt higher, rocking down against him, already expecting to feel that familiar ache of him beneath you—but instead, your hips stilled at the softness of his lap. You blinked, confused, pulling back just enough to search his face. But Joel wouldn’t meet your eyes. His gaze darted everywhere else, over your shoulder, to the wall behind you, the damn nightstand—anywhere but you.

“…Joel?”

He still wouldn’t look at you. You moved your hands to his chest, flattening them against the flannel, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your fingers.

“You okay?” you asked, softer now, studying him. He looked nice tonight with his hair slicked back, beard freshly trimmed, and his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms.

You cocked your head, more curious than concerned now as you really looked at him. “Are you…” You reached up, cupping his jaw, gently turning his face until his eyes finally met yours. “Joel Miller, are you nervous?”

He let out a long breath, his voice low and a little rough. “Course I’m nervous, baby.”

“Why?” you asked, easing back in his lap. You could still feel the warmth of his hands on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow, steady circles. It was more soothing for him than you now, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“Any man’d be nervous meetin’ his girl’s parents for the first time,” he muttered, eyes flicking away again. Then, quieter, “Even if they weren’t his own damn age…”

You smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips—gentle, unhurried. He let you, kissing you back with a quiet sigh, the kind that said he was trying not to get pulled under. You hovered close, noses brushing, before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“They’re gonna love you,” you whispered.

Joel gave a dry huff, eyes flicking away. “They’re gonna think I’m a damn pervert.”

“You are a pervert.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, narrowing just a bit, the muscles in his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his brows dipped or how his eyes darkened, heat stirring just beneath the surface.

You bit back a grin, fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

He rolled his eyes, still glaring up at you, and you let your shoulders drop, giving in. “Okay, so you’re older than me, who cares? You’re also respectful. And kind. You’re a good man. You even built my cat a window catio.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though he still wouldn’t look at you.

“And you didn’t have to say yes to any of this,” you added, quieter now. “But you did.”

He let out a breath, one hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

You leaned in, your nose brushing his. “And if I thought for one second they wouldn’t like you, I wouldn’t be dragging you into this.”

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, unsure but searching.

You gave him a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to prove. Just… be yourself. Maybe with slightly less scowling.”

His lips twitched into even more of a smile then, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. “But if it helps…” you murmured, lips grazing his jaw now, “I can think of something to get your mind off it for a minute.”

Joel let out a slow breath, one he’d been holding in the entirety of your reassurances, his head falling back against your pillows again.

You smiled against his throat, lips curved with mischief. “I mean… if you really want me to stop…” you murmured, pressing your mouth to the spot just under his jaw. “I could get off your lap.”

Your hips shifted like you might, and his grip on you instantly tightened.

“But then…” you went on, voice all innocent and sinful at once, “what should I do about all this?”

You reached down, took his hand in yours, and guided it between your thighs, right over your panties, where the heat of you was unmistakable. His palm pressed flush against the soaked fabric, and you felt his breath catch sharp in his chest.

He hummed low in his throat, something dark and approving, and as your fingers slipped away, his own pressed harder. His touch was firm, possessive, like he’d been dying to do it but holding back until now.

“This’s all for me?” he finally muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Just from sittin’ in daddy’s lap, huh?”

You whimpered, rocking into his hand, desperate for more friction as you nodded. He gave it to you, slow circles with his fingers that had your breath stuttering, your thighs trembling around his. Even with the fabric between you, you could feel his rough calloused pads of his fingers perfectly against the heat of you.

“Joel,” you whined, barely even meaning to say it.

With a grunt, he shifted, and suddenly your back hit the mattress with a soft thud. He was over you in a flash, his body heavy and hot as he settled between your legs, looking at you like he was starving.

“You got me all worked up now,” he muttered, voice thick and low as his hands dragged your skirt higher, exposing more of your thighs. “Can’t let you walk out that door like this.”

He dipped his head to your neck, lips brushing over your pulse point before suckling gently. The scrape of his beard followed, rough and hot, as he worked his way lower, mouthing at the curve of your collarbone. Then down further, pushing your shirt up as he went, lifting it just enough to mouth at the soft skin of your chest.

“Let me take care of you,” he rasped, dragging his tongue over the top of your breast, nipping at it like he couldn’t help himself. “Let me take care of this little problem, huh, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Knew I’d get your mind off it, old man.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your thighs, gripping your hips, pushing your panties aside just enough to slide his fingers back where they belonged in your wet, glistening entrance. His mouth returned to your skin, kissing and suckling until your back arched and your breath hitched in your throat.

Joel finally lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry as he hovered over you.

“You gonna be the one tellin’ your parents why we’re late?” he quirked his eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked, hands sliding up his shoulders and onto his neck, tugging at the nape of his hair, “I’ll say I had to help you calm your nerves. Blow off some steam. Pretty sure I’m doing everyone a favor.”

Joel huffed a low laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at you. “That so?” he murmured, his smile pulling a little wider. “You’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

You grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and warm in his chest. But then something shifted, his gaze lingering a little longer, smile easing into something softer. His eyes flicked around your face like he was locking it into his memory. The mischief faded, replaced by something deeper, something heavier.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t playful anymore. It was deep and unhurried, messy and slow, full of everything that had led up to this night, where you were finally taking this next step, where things became even more real. One hand braced beside your head, the other deep inside you between your trembling legs, dragging you closer to the edge with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips.

Your breath caught. He pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, barely audible, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Love you too, big guy,” you whispered, smiling as you pulled him back down to you.

The porch light flickered on above you as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the worn steps. Joel stood just off-center in front of the door, fingers loosely laced, jaw tense, shoulders drawn up like he expected to be called into a principal’s office.

You watched him for a moment, the way his eyes kept scanning the darkening yard, how his foot tapped once, then twice. He was wearing that soft brown light jacket over the green flannel, the one you loved so much. His hair was smoothed back now, but you could still see the faint tousle where your fingers had been tangled in it less than an hour ago. There was something boyish about how nervous he looked.

You stepped in close and laid a hand flat against his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You’re okay.”

His eyes finally met yours, soft and searching, and you offered him a small smile as your fingers smoothed out the front of his shirt, pressing down a wrinkle that wasn’t really there.

“You’re gonna be fine, Joel. It’s just dinner.”

“Do they know that I’m–?” he mumbled.

You leaned up, brushed your lips over his, cutting him off. It wasn’t hungry or rushed, just soft, sweet, and steady.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet. “Relax. Like I said, they’re gonna love you.”

He exhaled through his nose, a little shaky, and gave a small nod. His hand came up to rest gently on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. You turned just enough to see the porch light glint off your dad’s glasses.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught doing something criminal. “Sir,” he greeted, stepping forward to shake your dad’s hand.

Your father was stone-faced, giving Joel a single nod as he returned the handshake. He stood in the doorway, quiet and watchful, eyes moving between the two of you without a word.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Are they here!?” came a familiar voice from just inside. A second later, your mom popped her head around your dad’s shoulder, her hands clutching his arm. Her eyes lit up the second she saw you.

“There she is!” she squealed, practically barreling into you for a hug.

You let out a soft laugh as she wrapped her arms around you, warm and overwhelming in the best way. She pulled back just enough to hold you at arm’s length, eyes flicking over your face like she was making sure you were really here.

Then her gaze shifted.

“And you must be Joel!” she said brightly, stepping toward him with a big smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” she waved him off, offering her name instead.

You caught the twitch of a smile on Joel’s face as he repeated it, his voice soft with that drawl you knew so well.

She reached out and placed her hands on his arms, eyes roaming over him with zero subtlety. “Well, aren’t you handsome,” she said with a wink.

“Mom…” you groaned under your breath.

“Come inside, you two. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Joel glanced at you, his jaw tight but his eyes softer now. There was still a flicker of nerves there, but beneath it was something quieter. Maybe even grateful. Like he couldn’t quite believe he got to be standing here, hand still warm from your dad’s handshake, your mom’s voice ringing with welcome, your hand just a breath away from his.

You offered him a small smile, one he returned without thinking, and the two of you stepped inside together.

You leaned up to kiss your dad’s cheek as you passed, and he returned it gently, one hand settling on your arm in a quiet, welcoming squeeze.

“So,” your dad’s voice carried from the head of the table, “what is it you do, Joe?”

“It’s Joel, dad.”

Your father raised his eyebrows like he hadn’t noticed the correction, even though he absolutely had.

“I own Miller Contractin’,” Joel said, calm and steady. “We build houses, do commercial work, though mostly stick to residential these days. All across the county.”

Your dad nodded, still not looking up from his plate, chewing a little harder than usual. “Miller Contracting… That just you, or you got a crew?”

“My brother and I are partners, we got a good crew of guys.”

“Hmm.”

A long sip of iced tea later, your dad’s voice pipes up again: “What kinda permits you gotta pull for that subdivision on the west side?”

You blinked. “Dad—”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the parcel. New builds gotta go through the county first, then the town for inspection sign-off. If it’s remodels or additions, we skip the land survey.”

Your dad finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “And your license number?”

Joel raised an eyebrow right back. “You wanna write it down?”

That earned a chuckle from your brother across the table, who quickly masked it with a bite of roll.

Your dad gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything, then pointed his fork across the table. “You hunt?”

“Not in a while,” Joel said. “Used to. Mostly just keep a few rifles around now, in case somethin’ needs shootin’.”

Another nod.

Then, after a long pause, your dad took another bite and mumbled around his food, “Built that deck out back myself, y’know. Back in ’98.”

“Yeah, when I was 8 months pregnant and bout ready to burst from stress,” your mom quipped with a little scoff.

Joel, bless him, didn’t so much as smirk. “It’s a good build. Still holdin’ up well.”

Your dad’s fork hovered in the air, then he gave a small, barely-there nod like Joel had just passed some pop quiz of his.

You finally started to relax until he opened his mouth again.

“One last question, Joel,” your dad said casually, sawing through his steak.

Joel’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yessir.”

Your dad glanced across the table. His eyes flicked to your neck, then to Joel. Then back to you. With his knife, he gestured loosely toward your collarbone.

“That a hickey on my daughter’s neck?”

You nearly choked on your water.

Joel froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

There was a beat of stunned silence before your mom smacked your dad’s arm.

“David.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence, still chewing.

Joel cleared his throat. Loudly. “I—uh—must be… a-a nasty bug bite or somethin’.”

You stared down at your plate, cheeks on fire, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Your dad just grinned around another bite, like he’d just scored the winning point in a game no one else knew they were playing.

Later, the two of you ended up shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trading off dishes and bumping hips as you loaded the dishwasher and tackled the giant roasting pan your mom had insisted was “vintage, not ancient.”

Joel rinsed a plate, set it in the rack, and glanced at you with a sly grin. “You always this bossy with kitchen duty?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I’m not bossy. I’m efficient.”

“You barely let me step up to the sink before you were shovin’ the dryin’ rag in my hand.”

“I did not.”

“Reckon ya did, sweetheart. And to think I’m just tryna be a good guest.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I just know where our strengths and weaknesses lie is all.”

“Uh-huh.” He held up the rag and dish in hand dramatically. “Well, I’m puttin’ it on my résumé.”

“Oh yeah? Skills: contracting, firearm safety, surviving dad interrogation, and above-average dish drying?”

He turned to you, eyes playful. “You forgot exceptional boyfriend.”

You pretended to think about it. “Jury’s still out.”

He gave you a mock glare. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re gettin’ another one of them hickeys on your neck. Right on the other side. Bet your dad would love that.”

Your eyes widened. “Joel.”

“Symmetry,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

Joel stepped back from the counter, towel still in hand, and playfully flicked it toward your backside. You squealed, swatting at him with your sudsy hand, and nearly bumped into the oven.

You were both laughing when the kitchen door creaked open and your dad leaned inside.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught red-handed again, shoulders stiff.

Your dad gave a long look at the two of you, then cleared his throat. “Joel.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You drink beer?”

Joel blinked. “Sure do.”

Your dad nodded once, like he’d already made the decision before asking. “Come out on the porch. I got a few in the cooler.”

Joel shot you a quick look, like he was trying to read if this was good or bad.

You just smiled and mouthed, go.

He followed your dad out, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he went. You watched him go with a little flutter in your chest.

“Oh,” a sudden thought crossed your mind, “daddy?”

Both men turned.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Yes, honey?”

The silence that followed was crippling.

Joel went stiff as a board, like he’d just realized he’d stepped off a cliff and was waiting for gravity to finish the job. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He looked between you and your dad with eyes wide as saucers, face draining of color.

Your dad was staring at him. Hard.

You turned crimson, choking on air. “I—I was just... I was gonna ask if you wanted some—Mom said there was pie for dessert. Or maybe it was cheesecake? I don’t–I don’t know. Actually, let me go ask her.”

You slapped the sponge onto the counter and bolted, eyes on the floor, muttering something that might’ve been English as you fled the kitchen.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, a slice of pie balanced on your lap and your second glass of wine halfway gone. The living room was dim, lit mostly by the lamp beside your mom’s armchair and the soft flicker from the TV, playing some home renovation show you weren’t really watching.

Your mom leaned back, swirling her wine. “So… he’s cute.”

You smiled behind your fork. “Mmhm.”

“And polite. Little stiff.”

“He was a little nervous. Bein’...” you shrugged, “You know, same age as you guys and all.”

Your mom raised her eyebrows, taking another sip from her glass. “Please. Age is but a number these days. The amount of older men I dated when I was your age…” she chuckled to herself at the memories.

You snorted, shaking your head as you scooped another bite of pie, the quiet of the house settling in around you like a blanket.

She tilted her head, watching you with that knowing, mom-look. “He seems like a good man, honey.”

“He is,” you said softly, nodding.

Your mom’s gaze softened as she looked at you over the rim of her glass. “I see the way he looks at you. The way you two laugh together. It's nice… seeing you like this.”

You felt your smile pull a little deeper, the warmth in your cheeks not just from the wine. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It feels nice, too.”

The moment settled between you, quiet and soft until your thoughts drifted to the porch. You tried not to let your mind wander, but it crept in anyway. Whatever conversation Joel and your dad were having out there… you hadn’t wanted to hear it. After the fiasco in the kitchen you just hoped he was alive. But then you heard the back door open, the low rumble of Joel’s voice, and your dad laughing about something involving backyard irrigation, you knew whatever happened, it hadn’t gone badly.

Joel and your dad stepped into the living room, their voices trailing off mid-conversation.

“—and I told him if he tried to DIY those stone steps without checking the grading, he was gonna bust his ass in the first rain.”

Your dad huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong. Maybe I’ll call your company in spring.”

Joel just gave a polite smile, his eyes finding yours immediately.

Your mom rose to her feet and crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek, then turned to wrap her arms around you. “Thank you for comin’ tonight. Come back anytime, you two.”

You smiled, hugging her tight. “We will.”

“You picked a good one,” she whispered in your ear, giving you a little squeeze before she headed toward the hallway, bidding you goodnight.

You turned just in time to see Joel and your dad shaking hands. It looked firm, respectful, less like a test this time and more like an understanding.

You crossed the room and kissed your father goodbye, and while he didn’t say much, his hand on your back lingered for a second longer than usual. That was about as close as you were gonna get to a blessing.

You and Joel walked out to the truck in the cool night air, his hand brushing your lower back, just enough to feel steady.

Once inside the cab, he pulled the door shut and let out a massive exhale, sinking into the seat like he’d just survived a firefight.

You grinned at him, cheeks warm from the wine and your heart even warmer.

“You did good tonight,” you said softly.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a ribbon at the county fair. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Really good. You survived my dad. Didn’t insult his deck. Kept it very buttoned up.”

He huffed a laugh, “It is a nice deck.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, looking at him through your lashes. “Kinda hot, actually. Watching you all nervous and respectable.”

He gave you a look. “Few times in there I wasn’t so sure. Thought he might shoot me right then and there when he asked about your neck. And don’t get me started on your stunt in the kitchen.”

You groaned and covered your face. “I didn’t meaaaan it.”

Joel chuckled, the sound soft and low as he reached over and gently tugged your hand away from your face. “Still nearly gave both me and your old man a heart attack.”

You grinned at him as he kissed your hand gently, one knuckle at a time, “But you’re my old man.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as his smile tugged wide and helpless. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

You leaned in, bumping your nose against his. “Worth it.”

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us

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maskedbyghost · 2 months ago

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What’s better than a jealous, possessive Simon? Nothing. Get ready for all the drama and dirty you didn’t even know you needed. cw: jealousy, possessiveness, explicit language, rough sex, dirty talk... MDNI

You didn’t mean anything by it.

Really, you didn’t. Just a harmless laugh at some half-assed joke from one of the new guys on base. He was nervous, awkward, trying to find his footing among a team full of people who didn’t blink twice before throwing themselves into the line of fire.

So you were being nice. You smiled. You touched his arm when he said something funny. You laughed—not even your real laugh, just the polite one. The one that lets people think they’re charming even when they’re not.

But Ghost saw it.

He was halfway across the room, but he saw the way you leaned in, the way your lips curved, the way you let your hand rest on that guy’s forearm just a second too long. His jaw clenched, his arms crossed.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye and figured he was just being his usual silent, broody self. But the look he gave you? That wasn’t just disapproval. That was something else...

You forgot about it after a while. Finished the briefing and headed back to your room. You got halfway through pulling your shirt off when there was a knock—no, a thud—at your door.

You barely had time to register it before the door swung open.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask. He just stepped in, shut the door behind him, and locked it.

“Something you need, Lieutenant?” you asked, arching a brow, still standing in your half-unbuttoned pants.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, jaw tight behind the mask, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. Then he walked toward you, calm and quiet, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked. “Ghost—”

His gloved hand came up, grabbed your chin—not rough, but firm enough to shut you up.

“You like makin’ other men laugh?” he said low, his voice rough and close.

You swallowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” He tilted your face toward his. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought I was watchin’ my girl giggle like some fuckin’ schoolgirl over a guy who couldn’t make you come even if you spelled it out for him.”

You snorted nervously, trying to keep it light. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He leaned in until his mask brushed your cheek. “Next time you flirt,” he growled, “I’ll put a leash on you.”

Your breath caught, and that’s all it took.

He grabbed the waistband of your pants and yanked them down in one smooth motion, spinning you around and pressing you up against the wall. His hand was at the back of your neck, pushing you forward until your cheek was flat against the cold surface.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the sound got caught in your throat when you felt him behind you—already hard, already pressing into you through his gear.

“Ghost—”

“Simon,” he corrected. “You’re gonna say my name when I fuck the brat out of you.”

His hand slid between your legs, rough gloves against bare skin, and you gasped when he touched you—no teasing, no buildup, just dirty, possessive fingers sliding right through your slick, like he’d expected it.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured, voice darker now, lower. “Drippin’ for me while you’re out there laughin’ at other men’s bullshit. You think they could make you feel like this? Think he’d know what to do with a needy little thing like you?”

You whined when he pressed harder, after yanking off his gloves and sliding two fingers inside, curling them deep, rubbing against that spot that made your knees weak.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, he wouldn’t,” you breathed out, already shaking.

“That’s right.” He pulled back just long enough to undo his belt, shove his pants down, and drag your hips back against him. “You’re mine. Been mine. Just forgot for a second. S’right—I’ll remind you.”

You moaned when he pushed in, when his cock stretched you open without warning, just thick, hard, possessive pressure that made you arch your back and grab at the wall for something to hold on to.

He groaned behind you, one hand fisting in your hair, the other wrapped tight around your throat. “Fuckin’ tight,” he muttered. “Can feel how wet you are—fuck, bet you were thinkin’ about me when he made you laugh. Bet you were hopin’ I’d get like this. Mean. Messy. Jealous.”

You couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe past the way he was fucking into you, deep and rough, hips slamming into yours with every thrust like he wanted to fuck the memory of that other guy right out of your body.

“Let me catch you lookin’ at someone else again,” he said, teeth at your shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise. “I’ll make sure they know who you belong to. I’ll fuck you in front of him if I have to. Let him watch you come on my cock while you scream my fuckin’ name.”

“Simon—fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s it. Say it again.”

“Simon—please—”

“Please what?” he snarled, snapping his hips harder, angrier, dragging every inch of him out slow before slamming back in like he needed to ruin you.

“Please don’t stop,” you gasped, fingers scrambling at the wall, legs shaking.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Not until you learn your fuckin’ lesson.”

He reached around, rubbed your clit in tight, messy circles, just enough to send you spiraling. You came with a cry, body locking up, trembling around him, and he didn’t stop—not even when your legs gave out. He held you up, kept fucking into you with punishing pace, chasing his own release like he had something to prove.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice ragged now. “I’ll fuck you so full you’ll be leaking for hours—so every step you take reminds you who fucked you stupid.”

You whined, barely able to keep upright, and with one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, filthy growl, his hips jerking against you as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out. He just stayed there, chest heaving, hands still on your hips, like he couldn’t let go.

After a long pause, he leaned in and said, right against your ear:

“Do it again, and I’ll make sure the whole base hears what you sound like when you’re mine.”

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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon riley smut

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leclerc-hs · 7 days ago

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safety first - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you always had a thing for oscar in his helmet OR oscar fucks you with his helmet on.... warnings: smut smut smut, all smut, p in v, dirty talk, language, filthy, hot hot hot, thigh riding, slight degradation, NOT PROOFREAD! word count: ~1.4k author's note: hiiiii sorry if its a little too short for y'all. my brain is just like mush after this past week being so busy so this was all I could come up with at the moment! I hope y'all like it tho!!! xoxo

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You never expected him to keep it on.

But when he walked into the room still suited up, the neon helmet covering every inch of his face, your mouth goes dry.

And you’re already lying back, thighs spread and waiting. You should be embarrassed. Should say something sassy. But he kneels at the edge of the bed, gloved hand around his cock. Hard and leaking.

And you swear your brain short circuits.

And then he’s there.

Head tilted, pulling you up. Sits back against the headboard and shifts you until you’re straddling his thigh.

The suit is hot against your skin. A little rougher than you’d expect.

“Don’t make me say it,” He grunts.

And you whimper, grinding down against him without thinking. Slick dripping onto the fabric.

“Yeah,” He groans, head falling back, neck flushed. “Just like that.”

Your clit drags along the curve of his leg. You moan. Over and over. Until your entire body is rocking, chasing the friction.

“Y’that fuckin needy for me, aren’t you?” He teases. “Gonna come from this?”

He taps the side of his helmet with two fingers. Nods.

“Kiss it.”

“What?”

“You’re coming from it.” His hands flex around your hips. “Thank it.”

Your body clenches. And you lean forward, pressing your lips against the glossy shell.

And you keep grinding. Keep kissing. Until his hands are hauling you up, flipping you over to your back and he’s hovering over you.

His cock already pressed between your thighs when he says it.

“Say it.”

And the helmet dips closer. The Monster logo smearing across you like a brand.

His voice crackles. Voice low through the helmet, gloved hand tightening under your knee as he shoves your legs open wider. There’s a slight rasp in his tone. As if he’s fighting to stay composed.

And you’re soaked. Slick leaking out of you, smearing against him as he slowly drags his cock through your folds.

He hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not properly at least.

You gasp. “Fuck, Osc…”

“No.” He grunts. “Say it.”

You bite your lip and his hips thrust forward just a little bit. Just enough for the tip of his cock to push into your cunt. And your moan breaks out before you can stop it.

He grinds in slow. Teasing.

The helmet visor catches the bedroom light, flashing your reflection back at you. Eyes half-lidded, jaw slack, body twitching from nothing but the way he’s holding you there.

Glossy black streaked with wild reds, greens, and blues wrapped around. And it’s all too bright for what he’s doing to you.

The visor’s pitch black and you can’t see anything behind it. Can’t see his eyes. Can’t see his expression. Just your own ruined reflection looking back at you.

He watches you like he’s trying to memorize every twitch.

“Say what?” You whisper.

“That you’re soaking the fuckin’ sheets because I’m still in this stupid fucking helmet.”

Your back arches off the bed.

“Say it or I don’t fuck you.”

You clench around nothing. Skin burning. “I’m..fuck…Osc. I’m soaked. Because of it.”

“Because of what?” He presses on.

You whimper. Frustration bubbling up inside of you. “Because you’re still in the helmet. Because I can’t see your face and I…..I don’t care. I just need you to fuck me please.”

His groan muffles through the speaker. “That’s my girl.”

And then he pushes in. Splits you open.

Inch by inch until you’re full. Stretched around him. His cock stuffed inside of you.

You cry out, nails digging into his skin. And he doesn’t pull back. Just stays buried inside of you, his helmet brushing your cheek.

“So fuckin’ tight. Y’love this, yeah?”

You nod frantically. One arm clutching at the back of his fireproofs, the other gripping the pillow beside you.

“Bet if I came home like this every night, you’d drop to all fours before I even said a word.”

He pulls out halfway and then slams back into you.

“Bet you’d let me bend you over the table in a full kit. Still suited up. Not saying a word.”

And you choke on a moan. Air knocking out of your lungs. And he doesn’t even flinch.

He’s still steady. Calm. Still in the fucking helmet.

“So sensitive,” He mutters. “I’ve barely started.”

Your nails dig into the fabric, clinging. Trembling.

“What? Just the tip and you’re melting on me like that?” He mutters. “Y'make it too easy.”

He thrusts in again. Brutal. Sharp.

And he hums, like he’s thinking.

“This thing must really fuck with your brain.” He says. “The helmet. Can’t even see me, and you’re still making those noises like some whore.”

He pulls back again. Slower. Deliberate. Your cunt tightening around nothing.

Body twitching. Aching.

And he just stays there. Tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.

The silence makes you whimper. The denial makes you ache.

And Oscar…he stays completely still.

“Y’want it that bad?” His voice is lazy. Cruel in the calmest way. “God.” He lets out a sharp laugh.

You nod. Frantically. “Please…”

He clicks his tongue behind the visor.

“Y’hear that?” He mutters. “The sound your cunt makes every time I even think about shoving into you?”

You sob his name out, begging. Pleading.

“Need me to fuck you?” He grunts. “Need to be used by a helmet and a voice and my cock?”

He hisses softly at the movement of your hips. And then finally pushes back in. All the way.

He fucks into you deep. Bottoming out.

“Fuck…listen to that,” He groans. “Can barely move. So fuckin’ tight.”

He pulls out just a bit, and then sinks back in hard.

“That’s it,” He grunts. “Take it.”

And you do.

Mouth slack, head tipped back, clenching around him. And he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speed up either.

Just fucks you through it. Lazily. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Y’gonna come?” His voice is heavy. Hushed. “Gonna soak me from this?”

And you sob out. Nodding.

You choke on a moan. “M’gonna come, Osc….fuck..I’m gonna..”

“Yeah,” He cuts you off. “Fuckin come for me.”

And you do.

It hits hard. Convulsing around him, vision blurred, skin hot as he fucks you through it. Hips snapping harder into you. Finally losing that lazy rhythm he had.

He buries himself so deep into you that you feel everything. His orgasm hitting him only moments later. Spilling into you with low curses as his helmet rests against you.

And he’s still buried inside of you. But he’s breathing too hard now.

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fuck…I can’t…”

You blink up at him. Dazed.

“Need it off.” His voice is urgent.

And then he’s moving frantically with one hand. Shoving the helmet strap free. Fumbling with it.

The helmet slips to the floor with a thud. And suddenly his face is there. Flushed. Sweaty. Eyes blown wide. Desperate.

And he kisses you like he’s starving.

Tongue pushing past your lips like he couldn’t get deep enough. Fingers shaking as he threads them through your hair.

“Couldn’t breathe in there,” he mutters. Bringing his lips to your cheeks, to your jaw, your nose. “Fuck…wanted to kiss you so bad.”

You moan, wrapping your arms around his neck. Shivering. Still full. Legs wrapped around his waist.

“Y’didn’t sound like you were losing it…” You whisper.

And he lets out a breathy laugh. Wrecked. “Yeah? Felt like my brain was mush in there.”

He thrusts forward once, slow. Deep. And your body twitches.

His hips move again. Another long stroke. Not hard. Just deep.

“Y’gonna keep me in all night, hm?” His teeth graze your jaw. “Just let me fuck into you all night?”

You lift your hips into his next thrust. Moaning.

He groans. Kisses you again. Lazily.

“Good.” He glances at the helmet for a brief second. A sinister look on his face.

His lips brush against your ear. Hot.

“Y’gonna wear it next time.” He states.

And your brows raise. “What?”

“The helmet,” He grins. Voice rough with need. “Wanna see you fall apart with that fuckin’ thing on. Wanna see you ride me.”

Your breath catches.

And he hums. Like he’s already imagining it.

“Bet you’d be all shy until I stuffed you full. Grinding down on me like some fuckin’ addict.” He teases.

And he laughs. Kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Next time, baby.” He says. Dragging his thumb against your lip. “Next time.”

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

Text

Their Reaction When You Whisper Something Not So Innocent | SKZ OT8

Synopsis:

You whisper something not-so-innocent in their ear, expecting them to get flustered—but some of them give it right back. From blushing messes to smug revenge, how does each of them react when you catch them off guard?

Warnings: Fluff | Teasing | Slightly Suggestive | Humor | GN.Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

- Requests are open

Bang Chan

Smirks when he feels you leaning in, expecting something sweet.

But then you whisper, "I can still feel you on me from last night."

His smirk falters immediately.

Clears his throat and shifts in his seat, suddenly very aware of his surroundings.

Tries to play it cool with a low chuckle, but his ears are already red.

"You're playing a dangerous game, baby."

Pulls you closer, making sure his lips graze your ear.

"Say that again. I dare you."

If you repeat it, he grabs your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.

"You're lucky we're in public right now." His voice is lower, rougher.

Looks you up and down, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, like he's processing his life choices.

Murmurs against your skin, "You really know how to distract me, huh?"

Doesn’t let you walk away without some kind of payback.

If you’re in public, he keeps a hand on your waist, gripping it just enough to tease you.

If you're alone, expect him to pin you against the nearest surface, his knee between your legs.

Later, he sends a text that just says, "You're in trouble."

Lee Know

Squints suspiciously when you lean in.

But when you whisper, "I still remember how your hands felt on me."

He blinks once. Then twice.

"Huh?" Like he didn’t hear you, but he definitely did.

Slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Smirk. That damn smirk.

"Say that again, but slower."

When you refuse, he just laughs under his breath.

Pulls you onto his lap out of nowhere.

Murmurs, "You really want to start something right now?"

Taps his fingers on your thigh while pretending to think.

Looks way too calm, but his ears? Red.

Whispering right back, "You're gonna regret that later."

Acts like he's letting it go, but he's not.

Later, when you're alone, he corners you against a wall.

"I hope you’re ready to deal with the consequences."

Changbin

Immediately suspicious when you get too close.

"What are you up to?" But lets you whisper anyway.

But when you whisper, "I can still feel your hands on me from last night."

Freezes. Like. Completely.

Ears turn pink in 0.2 seconds.

Clears his throat so aggressively it sounds painful.

Tries to act unbothered but fails miserably.

"I-I don’t know what you’re talking about." Avoids eye contact.

Suddenly decides the gym is the safest place to be.

"You—um—shouldn’t say things like that."

Secretly loves it but is too flustered to function.

Texts you later: "So… about what you said earlier…"

If you bring it up again, he just hides his face in your shoulder.

After he recovers, he plans his revenge.

Whispering something even worse in your ear next time.

Hyunjin

Gasp.

Literal gasp.

Pushes you away just to dramatically hold his chest.

"EXCUSE ME?"

Fake offended but lowkey obsessed.

Covers his face with his hands and groans.

When you whisper, "You left me aching for you last night."

Starts pacing the room like he's in a drama.

Suddenly super shy but also clinging to you.

Buries his face in your neck.

"You just ruined my whole day. I can’t focus anymore."

Later, gets bold. Whispers something even filthier in your ear.

"Now we’re even."

Smug, but avoids eye contact for the next hour.

Still thinking about it at 2AM.

Han

Chokes on air.

"Wait. Wait, what?"

Starts laughing nervously like a man who wasn’t prepared for this moment.

"You can’t just—out of nowhere—WHAT?"

Hides under a blanket.

Peeks out with wide eyes.

When you whisper, "I still remember the way you moaned my name."

Trying so hard not to combust.

Literally grabs his chest like he’s been shot.

"I need a moment. I need therapy."

Pretends to be mad but he’s just overheating.

Eventually whispers something back. But it’s probably dumb.

Texts you later: "Hey… so about earlier… wanna continue that convo?"

Can’t look at you normally for at least a week.

But brings it up randomly when you least expect it.

Seungmin

Seungmin doesn’t react at first. Just stares at you with his usual deadpan face.

"That’s the best you got?" Smug. Too smug.

When you whisper, "I still feel you all over me from last night," he blinks slowly, side-eyes you, and then smirks.

"Oh? That sensitive, are we?"

It backfires immediately.

He leans in closer—way too close.

Whispers right back, "If I left such an impression… maybe I should make it worse next time."

Now you’re the one overheating.

Smirk. Full menace mode activated.

You regret everything.

"What? No comeback? That’s what I thought."

He will not let you live it down. Ever.

Brings it up at the worst times.

Game over. You lost. He wins.

Felix

Blushes instantly.

"W-Wait, what did you just say?"

Ears and neck turn red.

Tries to giggle it off but is lowkey panicking.

When you whisper, "You ruined me last night," he freezes.

Buffering. System failure.

Covers his face with his hands.

"Why would you say that?!" His voice cracks.

Legit needs to sit down.

But then… oh no.

Deep voice Felix activates.

Gets bold out of nowhere.

Whispers right back, "You say that like you didn’t love every second of it."

Now you’re malfunctioning.

He grins like the devil because he knows he got you back.

Jeongin

Biggest fake gasp ever.

"Oh my god, you’re so bold." But he’s smirking.

Acts shocked but is secretly thriving.

When you whisper, "I couldn’t stop thinking about your hands all over me," he raises an eyebrow, way too smug.

"Huh. All over, you say?"

Evil smirk unlocks.

Turns the tables immediately.

Leans in and whispers, "If you ask nicely, I’ll do it again."

You’re done. You’re finished.

Laughs when you get flustered.

"What? You started this. Own it."

Suddenly way too confident.

Never lets you live it down.

"So, should I clear my schedule for later or…?"

2K notes · View notes

arkaiveofurown · 1 month ago

Text

he overheard you saying you love him

Pairings: Sabo x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, and Zoro x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000 - 2,000 words each character

tags: pre-relationship, fluff, confession

my masterlist here ♡

——-

Sabo

You weren’t sure when it had started.

Maybe during that first mission with Sabo—when he pulled you out of a collapsing tunnel with smoke in his lungs and soot in his hair. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you during meetings, when everyone else spoke over each other and his eyes quietly sought yours like they were the only steady thing in the room.

Regardless, you’d never told him.

Instead, you wrote letters. Quiet, aching, folded-up things in the corners of notebooks and between pages of Revolutionary Army maps. Pages filled with things you could never say aloud. Sometimes it was just a sentence. Sometimes full confessions. But you never gave them to him. You didn’t need to. Writing them was enough.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Outside, a soft breeze shifted through the trees, and the only sound in your room was the scratch of your pen.

You were curled up at your desk, writing again. Candlelight flickered beside you. You didn’t hear the knock. You didn’t notice the door creak open.

“Y/N?”

You jolted. “Koala—!”

She froze in the doorway. Her eyes dropped to the open page on your desk before you could hide it.

“Wait. What is that?”

“Nothing.” You slammed the notebook shut, your voice too sharp.

Koala blinked. Then her eyes narrowed.

“…That’s your handwriting.”

“So?”

She stepped in, shutting the door behind her. “So that was definitely Sabo’s name.”

You groaned. “Koala—please.”

She raised a brow. “Is that a letter to him?”

You turned away. “It’s not for him. I mean—it is, but—I wasn’t gonna give it to him.”

A beat of silence passed.

“…You’ve written more than one, haven’t you.”

You didn’t answer.

She came closer, her voice gentler now. “Y/N.”

Your shoulders dropped.

“It’s just… easier to write it than say it,” you whispered.

Koala sat on the edge of your bed. “You really like him, don’t you?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

Your voice cracked a little when you said it. You didn’t even mean to. You covered your mouth, eyes burning suddenly with tears you hadn’t expected.

You hated this—how hard it was to hold it all in sometimes.

“I like him so much it hurts,” you confessed. “And he doesn’t even know.”

Another voice answered:

“Yes. I do.”

⸻

Your head whipped toward the door.

Sabo stood there, hand still on the knob. He looked as if he’d frozen in place. Behind him, the hall was dark—he’d come alone. No footsteps, no warning. Just his silhouette framed in low light.

You stared. “Sabo—?”

He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I came to return Koala’s map notes. I wasn’t—” He cut off, brow furrowed, and looked at you. “You really meant it?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—I didn’t know you were listening.”

“I was,” he said softly. “Every word.”

You turned to Koala, but she was already slipping out the door with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry!” she mouthed before vanishing.

Now it was just the two of you.

“I didn’t plan to say that,” you said, voice trembling. “I just… It’s been a long time. I’ve been trying to keep it in.”

Sabo’s steps were slow. Careful.

“How long?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Since Baltigo.”

“That long?”

You nodded.

He moved closer. You felt him pause just beside you.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

You hesitated. “Because we’re in the middle of a war, Sabo. And you’re important. And brave. And reckless. And always getting yourself into danger—”

“That’s not a reason not to tell me.”

You looked at him then.

His eyes were soft. No teasing, no judgment. Just that same steady, thoughtful Sabo you’d always known—only now closer than he’d ever felt before.

“I was scared it would ruin everything,” you said quietly.

He gave a small, almost broken laugh. “I’ve been scared of that too.”

You blinked. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Y/N.”

You stared, stunned.

He gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I never wrote letters or anything, but… if I had, I probably would’ve filled a hundred pages by now.”

Your breath caught. “You really mean that?”

He looked away, ears turning red. “Yeah. Every word.”

A laugh broke from your lips—half disbelief, half relief. “You idiot.”

He looked back at you with a faint smirk. “Says the one who actually wrote letters.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

And suddenly it felt all real.

——

A few days later, Sabo knocked on your door. When you opened it, he was holding something out.

Your notebook.

“The one with the letters,” he said with a grin.

Your eyes widened. “Where did you—?!”

“I didn’t read them,” he promised. “I swear. But… if you want me to, I will.”

You stared.

Then you reached out—and flipped to the last page. Your handwriting was still there. The ink fresh. The one you’d been writing the night he overheard.

You tore it out, folded it neatly, and handed it to him.

He blinked. “Just this one?”

“For now.”

He looked at it like it was something precious. “Can I read it in front of you?”

You nodded.

He opened it slowly.

You watched his eyes move across the page—watched the flicker of a smile, the subtle shift of his expression. By the time he finished, he was quiet.

Then, carefully, he looked at you.

“Do you want a letter too?”

You blinked. “You’d write one?”

He leaned in, closer than ever before. “I’d write one every day.”

And when he kissed you, it felt like the answer to every unsent word you’d ever written.

——

Ace

It was a quiet afternoon on the Moby Dick. The sun hung lazily above the sea, casting golden warmth over the deck. Laughter echoed faintly from the other side of the ship, but Ace wasn’t with the others. He sat alone near the back, arms crossed over his knees, a troubled expression clouding his usually bright face.

He’d overheard a few new crewmates whispering—again.

“Roger’s son, huh? No wonder he’s so reckless.”

“I still don’t get why Whitebeard lets him wear the mark.”

Their voices replayed in his head, sharp as knives. No matter how far he came, how hard he fought, those words always lingered. Was he just his father’s shadow? Was he even supposed to exist?

You found yourself talking to Marco later as you leaned against the rail, eyes watching the horizon.

“You think Ace is okay?” you asked softly.

Marco raised a brow. “You’ve been watching him all day.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “He always looks like he’s trying to prove something. Like he doesn’t believe he’s enough. I just wish he’d let himself feel… loved.”

“You’re in love with him, huh?” Marco said with a smirk.

You didn’t even deny it.

“Yes. I love him.” Your voice dropped. You hadn’t noticed Ace was nearby—standing still behind the corner, frozen as the words sank in.

——

Ace kept tossing fire between his fingers like nothing happened, but his heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. She loves me? The words played over and over in his head.

He approached casually, as if he hadn’t just overheard something that shook him to his core.

“What are you two whispering about?” he asked, flopping down beside you, a teasing grin on his face.

You jumped a little. “Ace! Uh—nothing really. Just… talking.”

Marco snorted and walked off, giving you two space.

Ace tilted his head, pretending to look bored. “Sounded like something deep.”

You hesitated, then offered him a gentle look. “I just… worry about you sometimes.”

His smile faltered slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“But I do,” you insisted. “You’re always trying to be the strongest, the most reliable… You don’t need to carry it all alone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to his hands.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve been born at all,” he said quietly, voice barely audible over the waves.

Your heart clenched. “Ace…”

“I hear the things people say. About my father. About me. It never really stops.”

You touched his arm gently. “You’re not your father.”

He glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“You’re you, Ace. I care about you because of who you are—not because of your name, and definitely not in spite of it.”

⸻

Ace couldn’t sleep that night. He paced the deck in the dark, wrestling with your words. He’d heard so many lies in his life. So many people who wanted something because of the blood in his veins—or wanted nothing to do with him because of it.

But your voice was different.

He found you in the galley, wrapping up a late-night snack. You turned, surprised.

“Ace? You okay?”

He looked… unsure. And for someone like Ace, that was rare.

“I heard what you said to Marco earlier,” he admitted, leaning against the doorway.

You froze, eyes wide. “You… you did?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, but it was hollow. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just… kinda happened.”

You shifted awkwardly. “Well… I meant it.”

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I’m not my father, Y/N. But sometimes I think people only ever see him when they look at me. Like I’m just waiting to become him.”

You walked up to him, eyes soft.

“You’re not him. You never will be.”

Ace stared at you, caught in the sincerity of your gaze.

“I love you,” you said, voice steady. “Not because you’re Gol D. Roger’s son. Not because you’re Whitebeard’s commander. But because you’re Ace. And that’s enough.”

Ace stared at you, his eyes flickering with something raw and real. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he breathed. “Not just because you see me… but because when you do, I finally feel like I deserve to be here.”

Your heart swelled as you wrapped your arms around him.

“You do, Ace. You always have.”

And for once, he let himself believe it.

——

Law

The Polar Tang was unusually quiet that evening, save for the hum of the ocean against the hull. You sat in the galley with Shachi and Penguin, half-listening to them banter while organizing mission notes. A familiar name drifted into the conversation.

“I’m just saying,” Shachi smirked, “if Captain has a secret admirer, it’s gotta be someone on board. Who else could handle that grump 24/7?”

“Yeah, right. Can you imagine anyone confessing to Law?” Penguin snorted.

Your hand froze over the page, heart thudding. You gave a weak chuckle, trying to stay casual.

“…I think he’s different than people think,” you said quietly.

The two fell silent, glancing at each other before looking back at you. “Different how?” Shachi asked.

You stared down at your notes, unsure why you were still speaking. “He’s cold sometimes, yeah, but there’s a reason. He’s… carrying a lot. But underneath that, he’s kind. Steady. I admire him. I love him, actually.”

You didn’t notice the door slightly ajar—or the shadow that had paused just outside. Law, on his way to the infirmary, heard every word. He didn’t move. Just stood there, stunned, your voice echoing quietly in his chest like a scalpel carving into old scar tissue.

——

Later that night, you found yourself sitting near the back of the ship, watching the stars shimmer through the porthole. You didn’t expect company—until his footsteps neared.

“Working late?” Law asked, standing behind you.

You turned, startled. “Oh. Hey. Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and added, “Neither could I.”

You nodded slowly. There was something unusual in his gaze—measured, intense. Like he was holding back words with every breath.

“I heard you,” he said bluntly. “In the galley.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

He didn’t look away. “You said you loved me.”

The silence stretched long between you. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t mean for you to—”

“You meant it though,” Law interrupted. “Didn’t you?”

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

He stepped forward. Just one step, but it felt like a line being crossed. His voice softened. “Why?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Why me?” His tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed the storm behind them. “Why would anyone… love me?”

You swallowed hard. “You’re strong. Not just in power—emotionally. You always show up. You carry so much but never drop any of it. And you… you protect people. You saved me more than once, Law. You care, even when you act like you don’t.”

He looked away sharply.

“You don’t have to earn it,” you added quietly. “Love doesn’t work like that.”

His breath hitched.

Law didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quietly:

“You sound like him.”

You blinked. “Who?”

He sat down at last, elbows on his knees, eyes far away. “Corazon. He told me once, I didn’t need a reason to be loved. That someone could love me just because.”

“…He was right.”

Law’s hand twitched. “I hated hearing it back then. Thought it was a lie. After he died… I convinced myself I wasn’t meant for that kind of thing. Not after what I did to survive.”

You looked at him—truly looked. His jaw was tense, but his shoulders were slumped like someone carrying too many ghosts.

“Sengoku told me, after everything… that Corazon loved me like family. And I kept asking myself why. Why me? Why would he care so much? I’ve been so bad to him. Even now, I still don’t know.”

Law leaned back against the wall, head tilted up toward the ceiling.

“You know,” he said, “I used to think if I kept everything locked up, it wouldn’t hurt. That if no one knew what I felt, no one could use it against me.”

“That’s a lonely way to live,” you whispered.

“It was.” His voice was quieter now. “Until you.”

You inhaled sharply, heart catching in your throat.

“I’ve been watching you too, Y/N. I always noticed when you sat closer during meals. Or brought coffee when I was holed up for hours. You always knew when to say something—and when not to.”

He looked over at you now, eyes unreadable but softer than you’d ever seen.

“You’re not a secret I want to keep locked away anymore.”

The words hit you like a wave. “Law…”

He stood slowly, stepped in front of you, and reached out—hesitating just for a breath—before his fingers gently cupped your face.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “But I want to try. With you.”

Your eyes stung with tears you hadn’t realized were forming. “You’re already doing just fine.”

His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then fuller, deeper. You melted into him, and he kissed you like someone who finally let the gates fall. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours.

“No more secrets,” he whispered.

——

Zoro

The fight had been brutal. Zoro, despite his immense strength and endurance, had taken a hit he couldn’t recover from quickly. Blood stained his clothes, and the crew had rushed to stabilize him, quickly patching him up as best they could on the ship.

You were a wreck. Despite being part of the crew for so long, despite the battles, seeing him hurt like this… it was too much for you to handle. You were pacing back and forth near the medical room, your heart in your throat as your mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Nami and Robin stood nearby, trying to comfort you, but nothing could settle the growing panic inside.

“I—I can’t do this,” you muttered, wiping away the fresh tears that had formed. “What if—what if he doesn’t make it?”

Robin placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her voice soothing, but there was an undercurrent of concern there too. “Zoro’s strong. He’s not going anywhere.”

But you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop worrying, couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Your chest ached at the thought of him not making it through this.

Nami’s voice, usually so steady, was now quieter, though there was still a reassuring edge. “You need to calm down. He’s tough. Zoro will pull through.”

But no matter how much they tried to comfort you, the fear was too overwhelming. You couldn’t stop thinking about the worst outcome—what it would be like to lose him. How he was always so strong, always so dependable, and yet, this time, you weren’t sure it would be enough.

“Please,” you whispered through your sobs, barely audible but full of pain. “Please don’t leave me, Zoro. I love you… I love you so much. I can’t lose you.”

You didn’t realize how loudly you’d said it. You were too caught up in the panic, in the fear of losing him, that the words just spilled out without thinking.

In the shadows of the hallway, hidden from your view, Zoro had heard everything. He had been leaning against the doorframe, trying to muster the strength to stand up on his own after the injury, when your words reached him. At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. But when you repeated it, in that broken, desperate tone, he felt the weight of your confession hit him like a freight train.

He stood there, frozen for a long moment, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. His heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, everything felt overwhelming—more so than the injury itself.

——

Zoro had managed to make his way to the deck quietly, not wanting to disturb you. He needed a moment to process what he’d heard. But it wasn’t just the words that had shaken him—it was how much they revealed. How deeply you cared, how much you were hurting, how afraid you were for him.

He’d always known you cared for him. You had always been there for him, quietly supporting him, and he’d grown fond of your presence more than he ever intended. But hearing it like this, in a moment of vulnerability, brought something to the surface that he had spent so long suppressing.

The wound on his side throbbed painfully, but it wasn’t the physical pain that weighed him down. It was your words. The quiet admission that you loved him. Zoro leaned against the railing, trying to clear his head, but the ache in his chest wasn’t going away.

Meanwhile, you had secluded yourself in your room. The crew had calmed down enough to leave you some space, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Zoro. You kept replaying the words over and over in your head, cursing yourself for letting them slip. You didn’t want to burden him.

But what if he didn’t feel the same? The uncertainty gnawed at you, and you hugged your knees to your chest, your face buried in your arms.

——

It wasn’t long before there was a knock at your door. You didn’t want to face anyone, but the soft voice that called your name made you hesitate.

“Y/N? It’s me. Can I come in?”

Your heart jumped in your chest. You didn’t have to ask who it was. You stood and opened the door to find Zoro standing there, looking tired but determined. His clothes were stained with blood, and his usual carefree posture was slightly off, but there was something in his eyes that made you freeze.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re injured. You need rest.”

Zoro smirked, but there was no usual arrogance in it—just a tired, soft kind of affection. “I’m fine. I’m not the type to stay in bed when I’m still breathing.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Zoro cut you off before you could speak.

“Listen,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “you don’t need to apologize for what you said earlier.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Zoro, I didn’t—”

“Don’t deny it.” Zoro took a step closer, his hand reaching out and gently lifting your chin so that your eyes met. “I heard you.”

You swallowed, heart racing. His gaze was intense, but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant. It was something more—something you hadn’t dared to hope for. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to make you feel awkward.”

Zoro’s fingers brushed lightly against your skin, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to apologize. I just—” he hesitated, his usual tough exterior faltering for just a moment, “I need to say it too.”

You blinked, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. “Say what?”

Zoro’s eyes softened, his usual guarded nature slipping just slightly. “I’ve known for a while now. I’ve just been too stubborn to admit it to myself. But I care about you too. I think… I think I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were both standing there, both finally facing what had always been there but had remained unsaid.

“I—I love you too, Zoro,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I was just too scared to say it.”

Zoro’s lips tugged into a faint, almost shy smile. Then, without another word, he closed the distance between you and kissed you softly, his hand still gently holding your face. The kiss was slow, tender, filled with everything that had been left unspoken for so long.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if you’ll have me.”

And at that moment, everything fell into place.

——

a/n: my first ever multi-character fic phew that’s challenging! haha hope you guys like it ♡ feedbacks are greatly appreciated xoxo

1K notes · View notes

velarisdusk · 1 month ago

Text

This Tempest, Ours

Rhysand x Reader

summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. word count: 11.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ] author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah... ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals stirred thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33

The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.

You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.

You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low.

Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”

You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”

A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”

You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”

You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border.

The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.

Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.

You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this.

“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”

You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”

You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality.

“Fine.”

You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.

Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you.

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”

He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”

“Put it away.”

Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.

“Warmer now?” he said dryly.

“Mm.”

The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you.

His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed.

“Rhys.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”

You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile.

After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter.

“We’ll find it tomorrow.”

You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.

He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”

You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.

“You always this optimistic at night?”

He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

That pulled a small, tired smile from you.

“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.

“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”

Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.

Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.

The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.

Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight.

You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.

Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings.

The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.

You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn.

Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled.

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.

The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.

You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.

That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.

The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.

Maybe it did.

You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.

You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.

You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.

You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.

You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.

You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it.

You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.

You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.

And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone.

You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.

The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck.

But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.

Like the one you’d just awoken from.

Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.

His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat.

And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.

His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.

And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.

Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.

Almost—

Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows.

You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.

Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.

It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.

The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—

But felt, somehow, like it had.

Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.

Your heart was still hammering when—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it.

A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—

Glamour. Now.

Your scent vanished in an instant.

You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.

Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.

Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows.

Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”

But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like he was only trying to spare you.

You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark.

Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp.

You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there.

“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”

You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night.

You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct.

But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.

Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.

His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again.

You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before.

“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.

After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved.

Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”

Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ‘blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.

You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”

“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.

His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.

“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.

You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”

“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”

You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both.

“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”

You smiled faintly. “Wise.”

Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired.

After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips.

“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word.

You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”

He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.

“It tastes like wet flowers.”

You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”

“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it.

You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.

“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”

The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it.

The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler.

Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.

“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”

You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.

He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”

“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”

You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep.

“You should lie down,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”

You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have.

You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse.

He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

“You don’t have a side.”

“I’ll make one.”

You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Define funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours.

Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”

He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Solstice.”

You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”

He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”

“Sure, not this year.”

You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.

Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.

You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.

“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.

He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”

You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”

His grin was wicked. “Oink.”

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea.

By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.

You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”

“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.

Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.

Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”

You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”

You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”

“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”

You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.

He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet.

And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here.

“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.

His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”

“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”

A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”

It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently.

You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”

A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.

“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”

You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”

He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”

You stared at him for a second.

“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.

He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”

That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”

His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you.

“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”

That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs.

You didn’t answer.

He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”

You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish.

Instead, you said nothing.

Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.

You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with.

“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”

His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”

Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…

You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…

You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”

“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”

Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.

Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—

“I thought about kissing you.”

You looked at him, heartbeat racing.

“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”

You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.

Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”

You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.

“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.

His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”

A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”

You shook your head once.

Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”

That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”

His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”

You huffed. “Don’t push it.”

“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.

“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”

He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”

You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.

Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”

Your heart stopped.

No, surely not—

You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?

You blinked. “I did not.”

His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”

Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”

He looked far too entertained.

“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”

“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.

“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”

Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”

“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”

Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”

You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.

“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.

“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it.

Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”

This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.

You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”

He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”

Your silence said enough.

He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.

And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”

You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”

That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.”

You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.

Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”

That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.

“…Can I?”

You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.

You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before.

You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.

Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.

Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.

Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.

And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.

When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.

The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.

You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.

So you let him see.

The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.

Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.

Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.

The pace of his thoughts shifted.

You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.

You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.

The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.

Rhys.

You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.

Rhys.

The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.

Taking. Taking. Taking.

Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.

Rhys.

His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.

And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.

A groan.

Low. Wrecked.

Rhys.

Your eyes snapped open.

Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.

The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.

And he was there.

Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed.

No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.

Warm. Alive. Here.

Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”

He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

The words landed low in your belly.

Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before.

He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”

And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”

He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own.”

Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”

And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.

Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.

Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.

Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud.

Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation.

A pause.

“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.

You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.

You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.

That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.

But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.

It was deeper this time. Hotter.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just inevitable.

Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.

While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.

You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.

He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.

His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.

His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”

You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?

You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.

Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.

You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.

His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.

Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.

“You’re sure?”

Not a tease. Not a dare.

Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.

You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.

Just honest.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.

And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.

Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.

But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.

It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.

Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”

He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”

You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften.

“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”

His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”

He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”

Your thighs twitched. He smiled.

“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”

You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.

“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”

His hand stilled. Breath shallow.

“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”

A pause, thick with restraint.

“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”

His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—

Just sleep.”

A beat. A slow, shaky inhale.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”

“Rhys,” you breathed.

“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”

Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.

“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”

His smile turned feral.

“And there it was again.”

You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once.

Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”

You shook your head, barely.

He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”

His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”

You thought you were alone.

Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan.

Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way.

He had to know you thought you were the only one home.

You never would have left your room like that if—

“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”

Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.

“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.

But he was far from done.

“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”

You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.

“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.

“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”

Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”

He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”

You bit your lip.

His fingers stilled instantly.

“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”

He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”

“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”

You nodded helplessly.

“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”

Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.

You gasped.

“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.

You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”

His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”

“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”

He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”

And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.

“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”

He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.

His mouth was on you in a heartbeat—hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.

And gods, he was good.

He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.

“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”

You whimpered. “Twice.”

His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—

And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.

You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.

“Like this?”

He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.

“No teasing,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, and then—

He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”

He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.

Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”

That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.

Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.

His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”

One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat.

“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”

He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”

And his hips never stopped moving.

The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.

“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”

He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.

You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.

“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”

His hips slowed.

You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.

He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.

You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”

“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.

“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”

You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.

“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.

“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.

“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.

Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—

You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.

“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”

And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.

He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.

You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”

You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.

“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”

He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”

“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.

“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”

You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.

“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”

He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space.

Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window.

You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.

“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

#acotar #rhysand acotar #rhysand #rhysand x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #this tempest ours

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em-ontv · 7 months ago

Text

Need some space — d.w.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x lover!fem!reader

Summary: Dean could never keep his hands off of you, latching onto you whenever he could

Content: fluff, established relationship, clingy/touch-starved Dean, not proofread, English is not my first language, mistakes should be present, sorry!

Word count: 912

Dean was a lot of things—sharp-tongued, reckless at times, stupidly brave—but you hadn't expected "clingy boyfriend" to be added to the list.

Yet somehow, here you were, flipping through dusty books with his head in your lap, eyes half-closed like an oversized housecat. He shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch, clearly uninterested in the research you were trying to get through.

"Dean," you sighed, nudging the book away from where it almost brushed against his face. "How am I supposed to read with your giant head in the way?"

"Don't mind me, sweetheart." he mumbled, eyes closing and voice bordering a purr. "You're doing great. Keep it up."

You gave his forehead a flick, earning a dramatic groan. He swatted half-heartedly at your hand but refused to move an inch. Instead, he stretched his legs out further, making himself even more comfortable.

"Seriously? You're not even gonna pretend to help?" you glared at him. "You know, I'd really appreciate it if you started flipping through some books too."

"Helping," he said lazily, cracking one eye open and giving you a smirk. "Emotional support."

Without waiting any further, he reached up, took your hand, and pressed it to his head. Your fingers tangled in his hair instinctively, and he melted under your touch like butter on a hot pan.

When you stopped and started to pull your hand back so you could flip a page of the book, he let out a pathetic whine, pushing your hand back against his head, like he’d die before letting you go.

"You're such a baby. I have to get this done before Sam comes back." you muttered, squishing his face between your fingers, making him pout.

"Cut it out," he grumbled, frowning up at you, though the way his frown dissolved when you laughed said otherwise.

"If you're not gonna help, you're not gonna complain either." you said, and he retaliated by kissing your wrist, peppering soft, warm kisses all the way up your arm.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. Dean's touchy-feely tendencies had only escalated since you started dating. Take the case last week, for example.

You'd been interviewing a witness at a diner, trying to keep your questions subtle and professional. Dean, however, had other ideas.

"So, you're saying the lights flickered just before you heard the noise?" you asked the frazzled waitress.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, glancing nervously between you and Dean.

Before you could respond, his hand found its way to the small of your back. Not a casual graze either—nope—it was a slow, deliberate caress, his fingers curling just enough to make his presence known. You froze, shooting him a warning glance, trying to shrug him off, but he was already leaning in closer, the picture of shamelessness.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "You're doing amazing. Keep it up."

"Dean," you hissed through a forced smile. "Go sit down."

"What? I'm just keeping an eye on you," he replied, all wide-eyed innocence, grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The poor waitress looked like she wanted to crawl into the freezer.

And then there was that time in the library when you'd been deep into research, scanning page after page. Dean had sauntered in, plopped down next to you, and proceeded to rest his chin on your shoulder while humming AC/DC under his breath.

"Keep reading, sweetheart. I’m comfy." he murmured when you tried to shoo him off, knowing he'd just distract you. His arm snaked around your waist, and before you could protest, he was already pressing slow, feather-light kisses along your jaw.

Or the night you snuck into the kitchen for some quiet time with a PB&J. Five minutes later, Dean appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked half-asleep, his brows pinched in sleepy frustration.

"What are you doing?" you asked, mid-bite of a PB&J.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, padding over to you with a frown. "Why'd you leave?"

"Dean, I was gone for five minutes."

He made a noise of dissatisfaction, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, nuzzling lazily into the crook of your neck. "Come back to bed with me." he muttered, his voice soft and heavy with sleep.

It was ridiculous. The same tough-as-nails hunter who'd taken on demons, monsters, and literal death couldn't go five minutes without missing you. But as much as you teased him for it, it brought a certain warmth to your heart.

Because for all his bravado, Dean was just a guy who'd spent most of his life terrified of losing the people he cared about, loved. His over-the-top clinginess? It was his way of making up for lost time.

"Alright, fine," you said, swallowing the last bite of your sandwich and dusting your hands off.

He grinned—smug at first, but it quickly melted into something far softer. He let out a content hum, nuzzling closer.

"Right now, please." he murmured, his voice heavy with drowsiness.

"Alright, just don't fall asleep on me in the middle of the kitchen." you said, rubbing his arm, leading him back to the comfort of your shared bed.

Under the covers, Dean curled up against you, his arms wrapped around your body, his face buried in your neck. His breath was gentle and even, warm against your skin. Just before sleep took him, he murmured faintly, "Love you, sweetheart."

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester spn #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural #spn #supernatural family #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #spnfandom #jensen ackles

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everlastingserenitys · 3 months ago

Text

NEXT DOOR DISTRACTION

summ. your perverted next door neighbour who couldn't help but end up inside you one night

pairing. sylus x f!reader cw. perv!sylus, masturbation, sex, fingering, kissing, dry humping, dirty talk, needy!sylus. a/n hello trying tumblr! gonna post my series from ao3 on here haha... no specific order, going with what I like !!

cross-posted from ao3 ;3

Sylus knew he picked the right option, and he wasn't going to back away from it now.

Ever since you moved into the house next to his, he was immediately hooked. Well, the first thing that actually hooked him was your outfit. The way your tiny skirt raised up your body when you bent over, made his cock ache.

Or the way your breasts bounced in a rhythmic movement as you jog from the moving truck, back to your house. Oh how Sylus wanted to see more.

He did offer to help you, but you kindly rejected him, and for some reason, that just made Sylus like you even more.

He was so dazed by you, he believed love at first sight was a thing. And he was going to try everything to win you over, to his bed.

Sylus started to workout outside more often. Usually, every morning he would notice you sitting on your porch and relax in your seat as you watched the view ahead of you, so he took those opportunities to at least try to impress you.

It worked, a little bit.

He would specifically stand somewhere in your sight of view and start his workout, he snuck quick glances at you and noticed your eyes glance away every time he looked at you. On some mornings, you both would have the smallest conversations. And all of them went out as expected.

“Morning.”

“Good morning.”

That was it.

But this morning was different.

“Morning” Sylus’ voice echoed through the quiet, bright neighbourhood as he started on his workout.

“Good morning.”

Sylus paused his movements and turned his body towards where you were sitting. He took off his gloves and stepped towards you. “You know, I was thinking…”

“Hm?”

“Spar with me. The invisible man is doing me no good. But don’t worry, I won't go too hard on you.” Sylus directed the large gloves towards you and waited for you to take them.

“Are you sure? Don't you think it's a bit early in the morning for this?” you chuckle awkwardly, instinctively taking the gloves from his hand and getting up from your seat. Sylus chuckled in response and dragged you to the pavement in the front of your house.

“If you don’t like it we could just stop after a bit.”

You shook your head and got ready in position, “let’s start.”

“Let’s do it, sweetie.”

Sylus got in position and mockingly sent the first punch, his fist was flying towards your face at lightning speed, you ducked your head to dodge the attack, but before you could keep balance you stumbled on your feet and fell onto your ass.

A low whistle left his lips and he reached his hands towards you, to help you up.

Sylus’ eyes were everywhere but on yours. His ruby iris averted left and right as he helped you up. You didn't even notice it at all, but after you got up, you patted down your silky pajamas and glanced back up at Sylus, whose eyes were still on your chest. You cleared your throat and he shook his head, looking you in the eye.

You notice his body twitching slightly at the mere second the two of your eyes meet. Sylus shifted away from you and got ready in position. Confused, you just get ready and continue fighting him.

You were winning practically every round, and he totally lied about going easy on you. This man was difficult. But after memorizing his patterns and secret tricks with the little time fighting him, it was way too easy now.

You sent a punch in his direction but you didn’t notice his foot slip in between your legs, and in one step, you fell, again.

This time, on top of him.

You groaned as you felt Sylus’ fingers slip through your hair, he lifted your head from his chest and stared at you with a strained look. Sylus’ hips buck the slightest and that was when you felt his hard-on thrust against your lower abdomen.

You bit back a whine that was about to slip out of your lips and after an awkward second of silence, Sylus quietly apologized and lifted you off of his lap.

After that moment, Sylus immediately rushed back to his place, it wasn’t because he felt embarrassed that he made you fall or any of that, but it was because he felt like his cock was going to burst any second now.

“Shit…” he muttered, slipping his pants down and placing his large hand on his boner. He gave it a few rubs before tucking his hand under his boxers to pull out his searing, hard cock.

Sylus silently scolded himself as his thumb glided on his leaking tip, sending a spark of pleasure rushing through his body.

More fingers wrapped around his length, Sylus grabbed onto the bottom of his shirt and shoved it in his mouth as he stroked quick, intense movements. He closed his eyes and leaned back, thinking about what you looked like back there.

He moaned as he remembered the way your breasts bounced at every punch you sent him, or when you fell on your ass and a little moan slipped out of your lips.

Or when he dry humped you.

A loud groan escaped his lips, he didn't even notice he already came at that thought.

Sylus sighed and rested his head against the wall behind him, letting the shirt slip out of his mouth moments later.

He brought his fingers to his sight and stared at the white mixture coating his long fingers before he headed to the bathroom to clean himself up.

He should totally ask you to spar more often.

Several hours had now passed and Sylus was getting restless each hour. It was way too difficult to think of anything else to get you in his bed. He was contemplating on whether he should just barge in your house and fuck you right then and there but yet again, that would probably not be a good idea.

Sylus sighed and rested his head against the kitchen counter. Even thinking about you was getting him hard, he needed to see you again.

So Sylus got up from his seat and went to the window that was adjacent to your room.

Sylus’ perverted eyes peered through the blinds and he saw your curtains were wide open, and noticed you getting changed into a new outfit.

Great timing, Sylus.

As much as he knew this was wrong, his eyes couldn't help but stay locked on you. The way your fingers glided through the soft fabric bonding with your body, slowly removing them, it was as if you knew he was watching.

Sylus’ breath hitched and he tried to hold back, he was trying so, so hard.

You already had your shirt removed and it was now your pants left.

He peered the blinds wider and continued staring. He needed to see more, more, mo–

Sylus froze in his spot when he saw your eyes make eye contact with his, you couldn't see him, right?

Wrong.

You stared at your window, looking at the glowing red iris illuminating through the glass, it was painfully obvious he was staring at you the whole time.

And it got to the point you actually didn’t mind it.

After all the moments of him being a little creep, you kind of enjoyed it. The way he still acts flustered after accidentally making eye contact with you, or how he twitches at the feeling of your skin grazing his, it was obvious he needed more.

Sylus still had his eyes locked onto you, you knew he was waiting for you to take your pants off and he wasn't going to leave the window until you did. But instead of taking them off, you beckon a finger at him.

You had never seen him leave the window so fast.

Seconds later the doorbell rings and you quickly put on your shirt, heading downstairs to open the door.

You open the door and notice Sylus a little out of breath, his eyes stare up and down at your outfit before looking back up at your face.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll make it up to you if that's what you want sweetie.”

You hesitate for a second, intrigued, you agree.

“Fine.”

Sylus chuckled and stepped inside, his footsteps grew louder as he stepped towards you.

Your breath hitched when you felt his fingers glide against your jaw, he looked into your eyes, filled with desperation as he leaned in closer to you.

“May i?”

“Mmh”

He scoffed and captured your lips in an aggressive, needy kiss. Sylus’ tongue shoved into your mouth and tied his tongue with yours. Your tongues intertwined together as he pushed you closer to the stairs.

In a swift movement, he lifted you off of the ground with one arm and carried you up the stairs. While still having his tongue shoved deep into your mouth.

He eventually found the way to your room and he placed you on the bed before pulling away.

Sylus stares at you with a breathless look, he brought his fingers to the hem of your shirt and played with it while his chest heaved heavily.

He was already going insane and going slow was making it worse for him. Sylus slipped his fingers under your shirt, his cold fingers making contact with your warm skin, he needed more of this warmthness.

He removed your shirt and soon, your pants.

You were left completely bare and exposed underneath him. Sylus grinned at the sight, not in a creepy way, more like in a ‘I won’ kind of way. His eyes captured every curve and perfection of your body, and he was already addicted.

His fingers slid down your stomach and made their way to your soaking entrance. He rubbed small circles on your clit, making gasps and quiet moans escape out of your lips, he needed to hear more than that.

A finger slid in your dripping cunt and Sylus groaned as he pulled down his pants. His cock twitched at the feeling of your pussy clenching around his fingers. He couldn't wait any longer, he pulled his fingers out, and aligned his tip with your dripping entrance.

“Ready?”

“mh–mhhh?!”

Sylus continued thrusting his length deep inside you, his fingers held onto your hips and he rocks himself back and forth, back and forth…

“You like that? Hm?”

“Yes! It's sooo good.. more please!”

“More? Shouldn’t I be asking that?”

Sylus’ rhythmic thrusts were interrupted with desire blinding his eyes, he didn't even care how quick he was going anymore. He grabbed onto your ankles and lifted your legs over his shoulders.

“You're squeezing me so tight..hah.. lift your hips for me, sweetie.”

You obey and a small praise escapes his lips, you moan in response and beg to release already.

“Already? Dirty girl.”

“S-says you!” you huff and thrust yourself deeper in him.

“You’re the one thrusting yourself in my cock, and I'm the dirty one?”

“I'm gonna cum..please” you gasp, shutting your eyes as you continue driving yourself in him, Sylus groaned in response as his grip tightened around you. With a breathless moan, you couldn't hold it in anymore, a stream of hot, wet cum pooled out of your hole as Sylus still had his cock buried into you.

But that didn't stop him from continuing. Sylus only pulled out for a second, just to watch the dirty mess you made, pour out of you and he eventually put his tip back against your drooling cunt.

A wave of pleasure spiked through you as Sylus’ cock slicked your cum in and out of you, making a huge mess on the bed.

“Ya hear that? You’re taking me in so good…mgh yes…”

“Sylus!”

“I’m here, keep calling my name, I'm close.” he moaned.

“Sylus! Sylus! Sy–”

With one final thrust a spike of pleasure washed through you as the warm white mixture spurted inside your body, you froze in shock and Sylus pulled out of you, plopping on top of you, absolutely breathless.

“Thank you, neighbour.” he chuckled against your neck, planting small kisses along it. You sigh and ruffle his hair, attempting to get up but your legs were aching.

“You’re welcome, creep. Let's get cleaned up.”

“Mhmm”

part 2 of untamed desires | sylus -> next work

#love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus smut #love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #lads smut #sylus love and deepspace

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poguehearted77 · 7 months ago

Text

Wild Child

summary: after being sent away to boarding school for being a wild child you're finally back and celebrating your return in the only way you see fit.

smut: pool party, ragers, drug use (alcohol, vapes n weed), size kink, Rafe is cocky, mentions of old flings, manhandling, hot tubs, they do it on her parents' bed, rough sex, step-mom slander, reader is such a flirt n a tease, curvy reader, dom! rafe, bratty! reader, skinny dipping, mentions of body shots, choking, spanking (like once).

The morning sun was ascending high into the sky when you finally managed to get yourself out of your king-sized bed, fit for someone of your status and your parents' financial standing.

Your socked feet took padded steps towards your window where you overlooked the hills of figure eight. This was the first time you'd looked out your bedroom window in years. With a deep inhale a soft smile etched its way across your lips. You were finally home, and you had the house all to yourself. Or so you thought.

Your ears pick up on muffled indistinct chatter that managed to travel from the kitchen, down the halls up the elaborate staircase and into your room. Quickly, you headed for the source of the voices and were disappointed to see your dad and his wife plaything, Maria, conversing over coffee at the kitchen island.

"I thought you said the Jet leaves at dawn? What are you guys still doing here?" You try not to sound too curious, arms crossing naturally with your inquiry. With a clearing of his throat, your dad speaks up, "You only just came back two nights ago. Maria and I just don't think it's the right time to leave you alone for the weekend."

You scoff, "Why? You still don't trust me after what happened last time? Get over it, I'm twenty-one now, you can trust me." As you walked over to the fridge for a glass of water, you heard a muted exchange of ideas behind you.

"You can't expect us to forget about all the damage you caused. We still haven't found anyone to repair my crystal vases." You take a long sip, trying to swallow your toxic thoughts with the water.

She thinks she can just waltz up and down the house with that huge ring on her finger and think that her opinion carries any value to you.

You took a deep breath and plastered on a fake smile, pitching your voice to become as sweet as honey.

"I can never apologize enough for what I did back then, but how will I ever earn your trust if you don't give me the chance." Your doe eyes land on your father, specifically his weakened composure.

You're about to break him, you can see it.

He exhales, all the air escaping through his nostrils.

Broken.

He glances down at his watch, "Fine, but if you throw another party so help me god Y/n you'll never see grass again." You play it cool, thanking him with a simple hug and completely disregarding Maria before you make your way back upstairs.

It's as though a weight had been lifted off your chest. You needed them out of the house, you'd been planning this party since you got back and made sure all the guests knew to keep it on the down low, just until they were gone.

The hours fly by, and you hardly keep track of time as you and some of your long-time friends set up the house for the party that you shouldn't be hosting, but you're Y/n Sinclair. Parties are your thing.

"Macy, you let the people in, kay? I'm gonna go get changed." The sun was beginning to set and the music was already blasting, vibrating over the marble floors of the house. Every lyric was punctuated with a shaking of the speakers that could be felt even outside.

The neighbours hated to see you coming.

You know your dad's jet was en route to Fiji and he wouldn't be able to reach you until he landed which wasn't for another six hours at minimum but by then the damage will be long done and far too late to stop.

You make your way up the stairs, the bass thumping through the house and vibrating beneath your feet. As you step into your room, your reflection catches your eye, excitement sparking in your gaze.

With a quick flick of your wrist, you reach for the strappy black and red two-piece, slipping it on, the cool fabric hugging every curve just right. Each strap crisscrosses elegantly, bold yet balanced, making you smile at how perfectly it all came together.

Next, you grab the sheer cover-up, wrapping it loosely around your waist so it drapes with a hint of movement, a playful edge that sways with you. You run your fingers through your curls, scrunching them gently to bring out their bounce, each coil framing your face in soft waves. Reaching for your lip gloss, you swipe it carefully over your lips, catching the light with a glossy shine.

One last look, and you’re ready, your heart beating in rhythm with the music below. The speakers are already blaring, the energy practically calling you back down. You step out with a final tousle of your curls, ready to join the night.

The energy crackles through the backyard as you make your way to the top of the outdoor staircase. The sun has slipped beneath the horizon, casting a dusky glow over the massive pool below, illuminated by floating lights that shimmer across the water.

The bar is buzzing with people grabbing drinks, and in the corner, the foam pit is already filling up, laughter and splashes mixing with the heavy beat of the music.

A neon sign hangs across from the bar, glowing boldly against the evening sky: The Queen of Kildare is Back. You grin, amused at the sight of it knowing it was 100% Macy's doing, and take a step down. Conversations hush, replaced by the roaring blast of excitement as heads turn your way. Hundreds of people, from familiar faces to those you only vaguely recognize from your past in Figure Eight, pause and look up, anticipation brimming in their eyes.

As you descend, your cover-up billows behind you, revealing the bold lines of your black and red two-piece. The crowd’s reaction is instant, erupting into cheers, whistles, and applause that echo across the yard.

"Y/n! Y/n! Y/n" They chant and you laugh. Every step closer to the party, you feel the atmosphere thicken, charged with that infectious blend of excitement and admiration. By the time you reach the bottom, someone’s already handing you a drink, while friends rush over to pull you in for hugs and greetings, their voices nearly drowned out by the music and shouts.

"Y/n Sinclair, s'Been a while."

There's a voice all too familiar addressing you from behind, prompting you to pivot to come face to face with a much taller Rafe than your brain could recall.

"Rafe Cameron. Long time no see." He goes in for the hug, your arms reaching over his broadened shoulders while his longer ones wrap around your waist before pulling back. He not so subtly checked you out, his tongue darting out over his lips briefly as he took you in and you did the same.

The buzzed hair sharpens his features, you think. Making his eyes seem darker, more intense, as they focus on you. His open linen shirt falls loosely over his frame, giving glimpses of his toned chest and the subtle gleam of a thin chain resting against his skin.

The shirt flutters with the breeze, barely hanging on his shoulders, hinting at the strong lines of his arms and drawing your eyes down to his relaxed, dark swim trunks.

He’s saying something, leaning slightly toward you, and his voice cuts smoothly through the bass of the party. Your eyes wander back up to his face, catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he knows he’s caught your attention.

"You look good, too good. How long's it been?" It's hard for you to think with the heat of his gaze on you, but you don't falter, never surrendering to this never-ending game between the two of you.

"About 3 years." He hums, the way he looks at you, casual yet purposeful, makes your pulse quicken, and suddenly, every sound around you fades, leaving only the warmth of his presence and the way he looks right at you, but you remind yourself to focus.

Rafe looks around the scene, eyes lingering over the wet t-shirt contest and then the game of chicken being held in the pool while others lounged on the various floaties or indulged in ungodly amounts of alcohol at the bar. As he does so, the pungent scent of weed drafts across your nostrils.

"Your old man know you're hostin' tonight?" You had to laugh, "Oh please, like he would ever let me have any kind of fun while he's in town. He and the skank are in Fiji."

The slight smirk that etches over his perfect lips taunts you. "So the house is yours?" He leans in, a little closer, closing the gap between you. "Until he comes back and banishes me again," You place a confident hand against his chest, pushing him away, "But for now, I'm here to party, and you should be too."

With that said you walk away from him, letting your hips sway with seduction radiating with each step. Rafe lets his thumb and fingers stroke over his jaw, feeling the weight of the pressure you'd just applied.

God, it was good to have you back.

The party raged on, slowly approaching its peak, body shots were going on at the bar, girls were doing lines in the bathrooms and the guys had insisted on a drunk game of volleyball in the pool.

Rafe took a break from the events of the party and watched from the sidelines on the couch, taking another hit of the vape that someone had passed to him, he's not sure he can remember who, and it wasn't relevant anyway.

The only person he had his sights set on is you. Watching you have the time of your life with your friends on the platform in the middle of the pool. Your little group, clearly intoxicated danced carefree while you'd begun to put your hands on the ground and throw your ass in circles.

Rafe choked, sitting up, some smoke coming through his nostrils at the interrupted airflow. He leaves his shirt behind on the couch with the abandoned vape, just as he heads for the pool topped hands him a beer which Rafe accepts before he gets in.

Maintaining a straight face as his body acclimatizes to the cool water he's almost immediately swarmed and roped into a round of whatever the current pool game was.

His icy gaze looks up to the center of the pool where you once were but are now nowhere to be found. "Looking for someone?" Your voice was mocking and he was grinning before he even turned around.

"I am actually." With little ripples in the water, he steps towards you maintaining a respectful distance that was driving you insane. "I was looking for someone to join me at the bar," He puts on a convincing facade but you roll your eyes, feigning innocence.

"Let me know if you find her," He slowly steps towards you and step back, "Don't play dumb with me, Y/n." Your plush lips form a gut-wrenching pout, "What do you mean?" Another step forward, another one back. The cycle repeats itself until he has you backed up against the edge of the pool.

Rafe’s hands find your waist, and before you can react, he’s lifting you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of the pool. You're reeling at the slutty display of his sheer strength.

Your legs dangle, brushing against his chest, and he steps closer, slotting himself right between them. His hands rest on either side of you, his arms framing you in as he looks up with that sly grin, every bit as teasing as you are.

“Always out here playin' games, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low, a quiet rasp just for you. “Gotta say, I respect it—always sticking it to your old man, doing your own thing.” He leans in, his gaze drifting down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “Not many people around here have the guts for that.”

You scoff lightly, though your heart skips as his gaze lingers on you, intense and challenging. “Oh, please,” you tease, rolling your eyes. “Since when do you care about any of this?”

A quiet laugh slips from him as his fingers trace slow, deliberate circles along your thigh. “You think I haven’t been paying attention to you all these years?” he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath warm against your neck.

“You might’ve been gone a while, but don't think I forgot all those nights we had our fun.” His words hang heavy between you as he pulls back slightly. Now his hand rests on your waist, his voice dropping lower.

He tilts his head, studying you with that familiar glint of mischief. “Now that you're back, I think we should relive some of our traditions, for old time's sake,” he says, leaning in until his lips brush against your jaw, light and teasing, close enough to make your pulse race. He pauses, his thumb skimming your cheek, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting. “But don’t act like you don’t want this as much as I do.”

Before you can snap back, his mouth claims yours, the kiss charged with all the years of pent-up tension and that all-too-familiar heat. His hands slide up to cradle your face as you wrap your legs around him, pulling him even closer. The kiss deepens, and when he finally pulls back just enough to catch his breath, he watches you with a smug, knowing grin.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your lips, his thumb tracing your jaw as if memorizing every inch. “That look you get right before we make a mess of things. I knew it—you missed this just as much as I did.”

If only someone could recount how the two of found yourselves stumbling up the stairs towards your room, your soaked sheer cover-up left forgotten somewhere in the house after Rafe pulled it off of your frame.

"Shit-- Rafe," your teeth dug into the flesh of your bottom lip as you reached to open your bedroom door, horrified to see two other people had monopolized it. They hadn't even noticed the door was opened so you quickly closed it.

"What the fuck, I thought everyone knew my room was off limits." With a quick scan, you noticed items were hanging off almost all the guest rooms in the hall letting others know the room was occupied.

"Shit, there's nowhere else to go in here?" You think quickly on your feet before rushing off to get something before returning with a key in your grip.

Rafe pulls you close with a smirk as you clutch the key to your father’s room, the gleam in your eyes daring him to follow. “Breaking all the rules tonight, aren’t we?” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with approval. His hand slips around your waist as you unlock the door, both of you glancing down the hall to be sure no one’s watching.

You twist the handle and push open the door, and his hand slides down to squeeze your hip, pulling you against him. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he whispers against your ear, his lips grazing your skin, sending a thrill down your spine.

Once inside, you barely have a chance to lock the door before he has you pressed up against it. His lips are on yours, urgent and fierce, his hands roaming over your body with possessive ease. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he breathes between kisses, his fingers tracing the bare skin of your waist as he lifts your top, letting it fall to the floor. “Thought I’d forgotten?” you tease.

Rafe just about growls, dipping down to kiss along your collarbone, his hands sliding lower as he backs you towards the bed. His fingers hook under the waistband of your bottoms, tugging them down with a smirk that sends heat rushing through you.

Your heart races as you feel the cool, forbidden sheets beneath you, the thrill of defying every rule and having Rafe look at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. His hands slide up your thighs, lips trailing down your neck as he leans over you. “You know,” he murmurs, voice heavy with desire as he takes in the sight of you sprawled out before him, “I always knew you were trouble. Guess that’s why I can’t stay away.”

With a smirk, he leans in, his lips brushing over yours as his hands explore, both of you savouring the thrill of being tangled up in each other once again.

"Look at these perfect fuckin' tits." He curses, big hands cupping your breasts, kneading them and rolling your nipples between his index and thumb. Your back arches slightly with a gasp, chest pressing up into him and he laughs.

"Still so sensitive here, angel? Some things never change." He reminisces and you roll your eyes, "Fuck off, Rafe." With the blink of an eye, his much larger frame was caging you in from above, his bulging biceps giving him an erotic juxtaposition in comparison to your head.

Balancing himself on one arm he slinks his palm around the expanse of your throat with a weighted pressure. "Been gone so long you forgot your manners? Mm? That's fine, I'll be sure to fuck some sense back into you."

Your eyes flutter shut at his filthy words as you feel his hand move and begin to work you between your legs. "Your pussy's fuckin' soaked--shit." He hisses, gaze hungry and his body acts on his thoughts faster than you can register.

A particularly loud moan slips from you as you feel his tongue skillfully lap over your folds, splitting you open as the warmth of his tongue protrudes into your core. "Yes, fuck! Please, don't stop Rafe." You moan, one hand reaching down to hold him by the hair and it hits you that he'd shaved it all off.

You let out a frustrated gruff, both hands fisting the sheets while you're forced to feel the vibrations of his sick laugh running through you at your dramatics. Even the tip of his nose had been covered in your slick, your juices running down his chin as he ate you out like a man starved.

He wouldn't be surprised if they could hear you from outside, but he knows everyone is far too high, too drunk or both to hear you. It wasn't long before your legs were beginning to shake and came with his name falling from your lips over and over like a prayer.

Taking deep breaths to recover from debatedly the best orgasm you've ever experienced, Rafe walked over to the far wall, out of sight, doing something you couldn't see before returning.

Without speaking he scoops you up into his arms, bridal style, another shameless display of his strength but it would be a lie to say it didn't drive you crazy. "What-what are you doing?" Your questions are ignored until he approaches the bubbling hot tub.

A wicked smirk curls across his lips as he eases you onto your feet in the warm water, his hands lingering on your waist, keeping you close. He gazes at you with that knowing glint, the steam rising around you both.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, his eyes trailing down your figure, unapologetic. His fingers skim over your sides, sending a shiver through you that’s from anything but the water.

“Are you really just gonna stand there?” you call, feeling the thrill of his attention but wanting to turn the tables, your voice laced with playful challenge.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he chuckles, unfastening his swim trunks and letting them fall to the side with a carefree grin. “I plan on joining you,” he says, slipping into the water and closing the distance between you two with smooth, unhurried steps. You take a hard swallow at his size, you don't remember him being this big.

He was going to destroy you.

You raise an eyebrow, matching his smirk. “Pretty bold of you, Rafe,” you say, your voice teasing as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Just like old times, hmm?”

“Better than old times,” he murmurs, dipping his head so his lips graze your ear, his voice a low rumble. “Because now, nothing is stopping us.” He punctuates his sentence by pressing his body up against your back, elevating you a bit so your torso leans over the edge of the tub, granting him easy access to you.

"Fuck, can't believe your ass got even more fucking perfect since last time." His hand raises and comes back down with a loud spank that pulls a sinful moan from your throat. "Rafe, stop teasing." You whine, arching your back and pressing back against him.

His composure already weekend, he decided to let you get away with it this time before he lined up the swollen head of his thick cock with your entrance, "Better grab onto something." That's the last thing you hear before you're being impaled on his dick, your upper half immediately falls forward, and he stills, giving you a second.

You're breathless, it feels like his cock was taking up all the room in your lungs. Some water had splashed over the ledge but that was the least of your worries. Your mind was hazy and focused on Rafe's grunts that escaped him with every snap of his hips.

"Wish you could see how hot you look right now. The Sinclair wild child knows how to take big dick like a champ." His words run straight through you like electricity, fanning the flames of the burning heat that was beginning to form in your belly.

"Shit--This pussy was fuckin' made for me, y'know that?" You moan at his possessive statement. You can only nod, your body had gone limp long ago as he drilled into you. "R-rafe! I'm-" As if you weren't close enough, his fingers begin to rub over your clit aggressively and you jolt with a shriek.

"Oh- fuck, don't stop! Fuck! I'm gonna cum! Please, Rafe." You beg, over and over, arms hanging onto the edge of the tub for dear life as more water splashes around you.

"Wait for me, hold it until I say you can come." You're chewing your lip raw, desperately trying to hold yourself back as he wrecks you from the inside out, his moans getting more frequent, a little more airy and breathless as he tumbled toward his edge of pleasure.

"Cum with me, Angel." Your body spasms as you finish together and he leans his weight against your back, his laboured breathing fanning your ear as you come down from your high.

"Not bad, princess." You couldn't respond and Rafe took note of this, carefully holding you up with one final smug remark, "Hope I didn't wear out the queen of Kildare."

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whambamsami · 19 days ago

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private show pt.2

summary: what happens in the private showroom, stays in the private showroom...stripper!bucky pt.2

pt. 1 pt.3

warnings: 18+ language, alcohol, almost smut! i promise theyre gonna fuck like bunnies in the next part of this lmao

note: if this doesnt flow super well im sorry, i didnt proofread and i did rush it a bit! i also dont totally understand how tag lists work so forgive me if i messed that up too haha, small chance i delete this and try to make it a bit cleaner!

taglist!: @sebastians-love @marianastudiesart @bowscale @staley83 @opheliabbarnes @hhyukasworld @unicornqueen05 @defn0tonyourleft <3

If the bouncer noticed your nerves, he didn’t let on. He just pulled back the plush red curtain and waved you in.

You stepped inside before you could decide against it.

The door shuts with a soft click.

The room smells like leather and cologne. Dim lights flicker warm over plush velvet seating. Your heart’s pounding in your chest. And you’re frozen where you stand.

Because in the center of the room, the man you’d seen on the stage was leaning against a pole, shirtless now, glistening faintly in the warm, low light. One silver chain resting against his collarbone, made of the same metal that made up his left arm. Tattoos dotted his chest and abs, thin black ink delicately drawing your eyes lower. A dangerous smirk on his lips.

Bucky, they had said his name was.

Wonder if that was his real name.

“Oh.” You breathed.

His smirk turned wolfish.

“So you’re the girlfriend,” he said, voice low and deep as he stepped closer. “Didn’t expect you to say yes.”

“...And if I had said no?”

“Then I guess I would have had to come out there and ask in person,” he said, eyes raking over you. “And that could’ve gotten messy.”

You sputter just for a second before catching yourself.

“I- yeah. Thanks for the rescue. I really appreciate it.”

He tilted his head. “The rescue?”

“Yeah. Saved me from my asshole boyfriend and his gross friends. I owe you.”

That made him pause for a beat. Considering. Calculating.

Then he’s back in control like nothing happened.

“Is that what you think this is?” he smiled gently, stepping even closer.

You blink. “Um. Yeah? You got me away from Nick and made him look like a jackass. Not exactly a hard thing to do, but still-credit where credit’s due.”

Bucky laughed-low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He had a nice laugh, you thought.

“Sweetheart”- and you do a great job of showing how that nickname doesn’t affect you one bit, you’re sure of it- “I didn’t save you. I picked you.”

Your stomach did something traitorous as he popped the champagne, and you didn’t miss the evil glint in his eyes when the head of the bottle was swallowed by frothy foam before he could capture it with the flutes.

He handed you a glass.

You needed it.

“What does that mean?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to something that wrapped around your spine like silk.

“It means I saw you sitting out there, looking like you were five seconds from either crying or setting the place on fire, and I figured you could use a reminder that not everyone in the room is a complete asshole.”

Great. More pity. Just what you needed.

But then he continued.

“And I could see your thighs squeezing together when you saw me. All the way from up on the stage.”

You let out a soft breath, surprised at how much that hit you.

But he wasn’t done.

“It also means,” he added, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, “I wasn’t gonna let some sweaty, insecure little prick keep looking at you like you were an object. Not when I know exactly how a woman should be treated, how you deserve to be treated.”

“Wow,” you breathe, almost to yourself, “you’re like… dangerously good at this.”

He grins. Like he had you right where he wanted you.

And suddenly the room around you felt like it was shrinking. You instinctively go to tug your dress down a bit, feeling overexposed. But he’s quicker, catching your hand in his own.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, “you’re perfect like this.”

You should laugh it off. You should roll your eyes.

But you don’t.

Because the way he says it- like he means it-makes something deep inside you clench.

“I liked your show.” and it feels like a confession, like something you weren’t allowed to say out loud.

“I know.” and you roll your eyes playfully before he cuts you off with, “So did your thighs.”

You choke on your laugh.

“Confident, aren’t we?”

Bucky tilts his head a bit, and you can’t tell if he’s getting a better look at you or analyzing exactly where he needs to touch to make you weak.

“Don’t act shocked. You started it. Squeezing your thighs together while I was on stage? That’s flirting.”

“That’s called crossing my legs.”

“Cross them around my head next time, and we’ll call it even.”

You blink.

“Are you always this subtle?”

“Sweetheart,” he grins, “subtle gets you half the fun. You want subtle, go back to your boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes. “Ex-boyfriend.”

He takes another step forward. Then another. Gently leads you to sit on the red couch, so soft it felt like you were being sucked into it. God, you didn’t even want to think about what this room would look like if you turned on a blacklight-

He straddles your lap.

And you forget how to breathe.

His knees bracket your legs, not quite touching you. His hands rest on his own thighs, muscles flexing just slightly, forearms thick and inked.

He’s shirtless. You were clever enough to have noticed that when you first entered, but now, up close, it was all-consuming.

The glow of the lights dances across his chest, down his stomach, and whatever oil he must have used on himself amplifies every divot of his toned body. He must have spent years eating clean and hitting the gym to get this kind of figure. Every inch of him screams control.

He looks like a god.

“You ever had a dance like this?” he asks softly.

You shake your head, sure that it’s the last move you’ll make before you become paralyzed forever.

“Good,” his voice is raspy, like he’s almost whispering, “I want to be your first.”

He leans forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“And your favorite.”

Then he moves.

His hips roll slow and deep, grinding just above your center, close enough to feel the heat of him through your clothes. His hands rest on the couch on either side of your shoulders, caging you in.

“How do you want this to go, doll?” he murmured, voice low and sinful “You want me slow? Gentle?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He was close-too close. You could smell him. Feel the heat coming off his skin.

“Or…” His metal hand gripped the back of the couch behind your head. “You want me to show you what your asshole boyfriend never could?”

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he doesn’t need to.

Because the way he watches your reaction-how your lips part in a silent gasp-it’s like he’s memorizing you.

You exhaled shakily.

“That one.” you say before your brain can catch up to your mouth, “That one sounds- sounds good.”

“Good,” he coos, “let’s make your boyfriend nice and jealous. Show him how a woman like you deserves to be treated.”

“God, can we please not talk about my boyfriend right now?” you mutter, doing your best to keep your hands rooted at your sides like you’re cuffed there.

Not a bad idea.

He chuckles wickedly above you.

“You’re right, pretty girl. Sweet little thing like you, and he’s taking you to a dirty place like this? Doesn’t he know what happens when you don’t take care of your things?” he coos, rolling his hips once more, closer this time, “Someone might take them away. Take better care of them. Someone like me.”

You hear a soft, pathetic whine pass your lips before you can stop yourself.

His mouth curls.

“That’s my girl, let me hear it. Let me hear how much you want this.”

He’s licking up your neck, biting gently at your shoulder, sucking the sensitive spot where your neck and collarbone meet, nibbling at your earlobe.

“Bet he’s never touched you like this, doll. Never had you whining, begging for him, not like I do. And I haven’t even shown you my best moves.”

“What, the ones that require me to buy two drinks minimum?”

“Mmm. The ones I really want to try on you. The ones that might get me fired.”

Then he moved-really moved.

His hips were flush against yours. His abs brushed your chest as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek. And then he finally brought his hips to yours.

Slow. Deep. Grinding down like he already knew exactly where you needed him most.

You gasped.

Your hands shot out on instinct, landing on his thighs, hard muscle under your palms. Just as quickly as you touched him, you pull away, internally cringing at your lack of control.

“Sorry, I-”

“What are you sorry for, doll? Touch me all you want.” and he’s grabbing your hand in his, the vibranium arm still rooted behind your head. He brings your shaking fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he gives your fingers a soft kiss, and then he’s dragging your hand down his chest, letting you feel every smooth valley and crevice of his delicious body, still rolling his hips into yours.

Your fingers curled around his legs as he rocked into you again-slower, rougher, the friction making the growing heat between your legs grow more intense, drawing a gasp from you.

“God, the sounds you’re making,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “You ever been this wet with your clothes still on?”

“Jesus, Bucky-” and he’s back to his attack on your neck.

You’re gonna think about this later, aren’t you?” he said against your skin. “Gonna lie in bed and replay this in your head…fingers between your thighs… wishing it was me.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, rocking your hips up to meet his.

“There she is.”

You’re not even sure when it happens.

One second, Bucky’s hips are rolling slow and smooth against yours, his hands slipping beneath your dress in ways that definitely broke some rules, his voice wrecking you in your ear.

“You feel that, baby?”, he rasps, “That’s all me. For you.”

You’re just about to cave, to beg for him to just take you right there.

Then the door slams open.

“What the fuck?”

#bucky barnes #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barns imagine #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #the winter soldier #stripper!bucky

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ellewritesx · 14 days ago

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final clause

(final part of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: Rules are made to be broken.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, fingering, protected sex (we cheer), praise kink if you squint, lots of feels

A/N: brb i'm gonna go cry about the series ending. somebody send me requests for bonus parts/check-ins asap!!! i can't believe it's finally here, wow :,) i'm really happy with where the story went though, and i'm so honored so many of you have stuck around this long. enjoy lovelies, let me know what you think x

Word Count: 7,154 (you're welcome)

...

The words hang between you like smoke lingering after a wildfire. I'm in love with you. You blink. It's the only thing your body remembers how to do. Everything else, breathing, thinking, speaking, collapses under the weight of those five words. I'm in love with you.

Harry stares at you, eyes glassy under the rooftop lights, jaw tight, fists trembling at his sides like he wants to reach out to you but fights the urge. Like he's afraid you'll shatter if he dares to move.

For once, there's no trace of confidence or arrogance. No trace of the man who always had the upper hand. He looks... terrified. And gut-wrenchingly sincere.

''I don't expect you to say anything,'' he says quietly, the tremor in his voice so vulnerable and defeated that it nearly knocks you over. ''I just needed you to know.''

For a long, suffocating moment, you don't say anything. You can't. Not because you don't have anything to say, but because you don't know where to start. Your heart is screaming too loud for you to so much as hear yourself think.

You're flooded with disbelief, distrust, with all the reasons you should walk away right now. But you're anchored in the ground.

''You hurt me,'' you say, gaze hardening as you stare at him, your voice low but steady. ''So many times.''

He looks injured, like you've ripped out his heart and set fire to the shredded parts. But you don't take it back. You can't. Because this is what he always does, he takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and you're the one left behind to pick up the pieces.

But he just nods. No defense. No excuses. Just pain behind his eyes.

''I know,'' he murmurs, swallowing hard. ''I thought if I kept you at a distance… I could control it. But I couldn't. I never could. You were under my skin before I even realized I'd let you in.''

You look down for a second, jaw clenched, trying to fight the sting in your chest. ''You were cruel, Harry.''

''I know.''

''You used your money like a leash.''

''I know.''

''You made me feel like I wasn't good enough unless I followed your rules. You treated me like an object, like a toy you could play with and throw away when it was convenient for you.''

His voice cracks. ''I know. And I hate myself for it.''

''You kicked me out like I meant nothing. And now, what, you say... that, and I'm supposed to jump into your arms?''

''I know, Y/N,'' he repeats, louder now, voice laced with desperation. ''I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I swear to God, if I could take it back, if I could undo what I said that night, I would. A thousand times over.''

You want to look away. It's easier, when you can't see the way he's looking at you. Like you're some kind of lifeline.

But you don't. You hold his gaze. Because he needs to see that you're not tolerating the way he's been treating you, not anymore.

There's a silence that follows, heavy with unspoken thoughts, unnamed feelings. He runs a hand through his hair like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

''I wanted safety,'' he blurts, eyes locking with yours. ''Because I never got that. Not growing up. Not ever. Love was always transactional to me. If I was good, I'd get affection. If I failed, it'd be taken away. So I learned to control everything. To be the person with the power to take things away, so it couldn't be done to me.''

You stare at him, heart clenching.

''But you…'' he continues, ''you got past all of that. And I didn't know how to handle it. So I pushed you away before you could do it first.''

He takes a careful step forward, testing the waters. You don't stop him, but you don't move toward him either.

''I miss you,'' he says. ''I miss your voice. Your laugh. The stain of your lipstick on my coffee mugs. The way you always steal the pizza crusts off my plate. The way you look at art like it's telling you a story. I miss you. Everywhere, all the time. I miss us, whatever we were.''

You close your eyes. It hurts. So much.

''I've been a coward,'' he admits, voice breaking. ''But I'm not scared anymore. So if you want me to beg, I will. I'll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. Want me to get on my knees? I'll get on my fuckin' knees, Y/N. Want me to apologize every day for the rest of my life, spend the rest of my time proving to you that I'll never hurt you again? I'll do it. I'll do anything. You name it and it's yours.''

You don't answer. You just stare at him, taking him in. His voice trembles with every plea, with the effort of lowering his walls, of revealing everything he's hidden behind them, bare and awaiting your judgment. He's bleeding honesty, messy, raw, real.

The rooftop feels too quiet, too still, like the city's holding its breath, too, bowing down to the weight of the moment.

He takes one last step, barely a breath away from you. ''Please,'' he begs softly, barely audible.

You finally whisper, ''Why now?''

''Because... I lost you. And it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.''

That does it.

Something breaks, relents, and you crash your lips to his before you can think it through. He lets out a choked gasp against your mouth like he was suffocating and you're a breath of fresh air.

Months of miscommunication, longing, heartbreak, it all crashes to the surface like a tidal wave. You press against him, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt. It's desperate, urgent, but the way his hands come up to delicately brush a strand of hair behind your ear and cradle your face is the exact opposite.

It's gentle. Testing. A question mark. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his shoulders are still slightly slumped, a heavy, deep-rooted guilt that seems to be pulling him down.

You wind your fingers through his hair, and he pulls you close like he doesn't care if the world ends right here, right now, as long as you're in his arms. There's a soft frown on his face, a deep crease between his eyebrows you used to press kisses to until he smiled, even if it was forced, even if it was just for a second, just for you.

You know what it means. He's worried. He's worried you're kissing him for one last time, for closure, a silent goodbye. He's worried the moment will end before he's committed it to memory.

He's terrified of being relieved, of being happy, because it's fragile. It never lasts. Because you can take it away, and he couldn't stop you if you did. He's powerless in this situation.

Your heart aches, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly closer, wanting him to feel your presence, your affection, your love. A wordless ''I'm not going anywhere''.

But just as your hands brush down his arms, as your pulse starts to race with something deeper, something needier, he stops.

His hands come to your waist, pushing you back and holding you there, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. ''Wait.''

You freeze, tilting your head in confusion, squeezing his biceps in an attempt at getting him to look at you. ''What's wrong?''

''I can't,'' he whispers. ''Not here. Not yet.''

''What?'' You blink once, twice. He's never denied any of your sexual advances before. Your stomach drops, but he seems to know exactly what you're thinking, because he's quick to reassure you.

''Hey, I want you. Christ, I want you so bad it physically hurts.'' He presses his palm flat against your cheek, breathing hard. ''But not like... like this. I want to do it right.''

He looks at you like he's trying to memorize you. Like he still believes that you're going to turn around at any given moment and this will be the last time he ever sees you. ''I don't want the next time I have you to be like this. Not rushed. Not because it's a habit,'' he continues, fingers affectionately brushing against your jaw.

Your brows pull together, heart pounding. ''Harry…''

''I want to take you on a date,'' he says with conviction, voice steady. ''A real one. Just us. No strings, no games. I want to hold your hand and show you off and not worry if someone sees. I want to walk you home and kiss you on your porch. And when we… if we make love, I want it to be something we both remember. I want to give you the love story you deserve. I want to be the man you deserve, Y/N.''

You stare at him for a long moment.

''You've never turned me down before,'' you huff out a quiet laugh in disbelief.

A small, almost pained smile tugs at his lips. ''I've never been in love with you before, either.''

Something cracks open inside you, not in pain this time, but in awe. This isn't the man who bought your time and your body and called it business. This is someone else entirely.

Someone who wants you to choose him because you want to, not because it's expected of you. Not because you're getting paid.

Someone who's in love, maybe for the first time ever, and doesn't shut you out or run scared. Someone who stays.

So you nod. ''Okay. Take me out, Styles.''

He laughs, breathless and stunned and almost disbelieving. His mouth opens and closes, like he'd had this all planned out up until your inevitable rejection, and now you've flipped the script and given him a second chance he never thought he'd get, and he's speechless, his heart taking a moment to catch up.

You smirk, already walking back toward the elevator. He follows you, his fingers brushing yours like he can't help it.

You don't pull away.

...

You've never been on a date with him before. Not really.

Sure, you've spent evenings wrapped around him in the velvet shadows of his penthouse, tasted expensive wine from the edge of his lips, worn dresses he bought you to glittering galas just because he liked the color against your skin, but never like this.

Never with the intention to impress you, to please you.

It's a museum, of all places. Quiet and sunlit. Not a flashy one either. There's no red carpet grand opening, no boring CEO's or politicians cutting ribbons, no pretentious auction.

Just a local gallery hidden in a narrow street in your neighborhood, with squeaky floors and handwritten placards. It smells faintly of old paper and lemon wood polish. Harry meets you outside the entrance, hands in his pockets, wearing soft brown trousers and a button-up that gives a glimpse of his tattoos, making your stomach flutter.

He doesn't touch you at first. Just greets you with a crooked little smile, like he can't believe you actually showed.

You walk through the first exhibit in comfortable silence. He stays close, not crowding, but present. Your shoulder brushes his once or twice, and the air shifts each time.

You watch the art. He watches you.

It takes you longer than it should to realize he hasn't looked at a single painting.

''Harry,'' you say sternly, tilting your head as you eye him suspiciously, ''do you actually like museums?''

His mouth twitches. ''I like this one.''

You arch a brow.

He shrugs. ''I like how your nose scrunches when you read something interesting. And how you get this little crease between your brows when you're trying to understand something abstract. You're the most interesting thing in this building.''

You roll your eyes, but your bashful smile gives away the butterflies in your stomach. ''So you invited me here just to stare at me?''

He looks at you, and for once, there's no teasing in his tone. ''Yeah. Kinda.''

You forget how to breathe. He's trying.

There's a moment, later, when you're standing in front of a moody oil painting of a forest, observing the black shadows and eerie stillness, that he suddenly says, voice hushed in the quiet museum, ''I used to be scared of the woods when I was little.''

You blink up at him. ''Really?''

''Yeah. My dad used to take me camping. Said it would toughen me up. I hated it. The sounds, the dark... It made me uneasy. Still does.''

You nod softly, but say nothing, just let him share. He keeps going, in small pieces, as if testing how much you'll let him unravel before you realize he's more than you can handle.

He tells you he used to draw, when he was a kid. He stopped because he feels like he lost the imagination to do anything creative, like he lost the privilege to pick up a pencil because he knows it won't be good. You encourage him to try again, without the pressure.

He shyly reveals that he loved watching 2000s romcoms and once cried during 13 Going on 30. His dad had scolded him for it. ''Boys don't cry'', he'd said, and that Harry should ''grow a pair and toughen up''. He never watched it again. You suggest a movie night for your next date, and he smiles in relief when you look away.

Next date.

He tells you that he can't listen to Springsteen without thinking of his mum humming along to the radio in the car. He misses her. You frown and ask him if she's gone. He shakes his head. She's not, but he doesn't elaborate, and you don't push.

He tells you that he has a small scar on his left hip from falling off a bike at thirteen and never telling anyone because he didn't want to look weak. You mention you noticed it once, in bed together.

All of it seems ordinary. But to you, it's everything. Because he's never talked like this before. Talked at all, really.

Afterwards, you wander into a tiny market tucked between cobblestone alleys, all pastel awnings and mismatched booths packed with scattered trinkets. It smells like roasted almonds and sun-dried fruit and lavenders. There are hand-painted postcards, rows of cheap rings in velvet trays, someone selling resin earrings shaped like various fruits, someone else selling pocket-sized poetry books with uneven bindings and ribbon bookmarks.

It's chaotic and colorful and bizarre, and you love every second of it.

Harry lets you lead. Watches you point out porcelain dishes with intricate flower details and antique mosaic lamps and glass candle holders he wouldn't even have noticed if it wasn't for you. He smiles fondly at your taste. You're the polar opposite of him. Where he only sees flaws, you see beauty. Just like you do with him.

''You should redecorate the apartment when you move in,'' he says thoughtfully, his eyes widening when his brain finally catches up with his mouth, blood rushing to his cheeks in record speed.

''When I move in?'' Your eyebrows raise, a smile tugging at your lips.

He's an idiot. You've given him a second chance he didn't deserve to begin with, and now he's already gone and screwed it up. He didn't mean to say it, he didn't even mean to think it. But you were walking around the market in that sundress, a skip in your step, and his mind just wandered to a future where this could be his regular Tuesday, where he could wake up next to you and press soft kisses to your skin and suggest going on a spontaneous date just to see you smile.

It's the first date. He shouldn't be thinking of this yet. He's in love, and he's doing it all wrong. God, he sucks at this. He's terrible at it.

His stomach tightens like he's bracing himself for your disgust, for the moment you realize he's new to this and he has absolutely no idea what he's doing, and running the other way.

He wouldn't blame you if you did.

He frowns, eyes flitting over your face, memorizing every feature while he still can. This is it.

''Harry,'' you say pointedly, snapping him out of his spiral. ''I'd like that. Decorating the apartment, I mean,'' you say soothingly, brushing your fingers against his and intertwining them slowly, tentatively.

''Yeah?'' he sighs in relief, releasing a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding, studying your face to make sure you're not just lying in a futile attempt to let him down easy.

''Yeah. C'mon, let's keep walking,'' you smile reassuringly, hoping to get his mind off his slip-up.

He nods, letting you tug him to another booth. The tension dissipates quickly when you spot a stuffed animal, discarded on the table in a way that tugs at your heartstrings painfully.

Carelessly tossed into a corner is a turtle plushie, colors slightly faded, a comically grumpy frown on its face.

''Holy shit, I'm in love with him,'' you pout, picking up the stuffed animal and holding him out with both arms to show Harry, who's leaning against a pole and watching you with a dopey smile.

''That thing?'' he scoffs in disbelief when his gaze drops to the scruffy turtle. It's wearing a pink tutu, yellow rainboots, and holding a purple umbrella, clearly moping over the imaginary rain.

''Hey, he might hear you!'' you defend him passionately, covering the space where his ears would be.

''Of course you would get attached to something like that.''

''What's that supposed to mean?'' You squint at him when he takes a step closer, almost daring him to say something that'll offend you.

''You take pity on the ugly ones, baby.''

''Probably why I agreed to this date.''

He snorts at that, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment, before tugging his wallet out of his pocket and lifting up the turtle's foot to read the scribbled price tag on the underside of its boot.

He hands the vendor five pounds and tells him to keep the change. When he turns back to you, you're grinning from ear to ear, overjoyed you get to keep this worn piece of fabric you call a plushie.

''Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm going to name him Greg and keep him forever,'' you press a firm kiss to Harry's cheek.

He blushes. ''It was only two pounds, love. No big deal.''

''It's a big deal to me. Thank you, Harry,'' you smile gratefully, clutching Greg to your chest and grabbing his hand again.

He grins, and God, it's so easy right now. He's not the man who took his frustrations out on you and slammed the door in your face. Who dragged you out of bars by your arm in fits of jealousy, who treated you like nothing more than territory to mark.

He's just Harry, the guy who smiles nervously when you hold his hand a little tighter in public, who smells like cedar and orange peel and whose face is full of reluctant hope.

You stop for drinks at a stand in the shadows beneath a weeping willow. Lemon soda for you, black iced coffee for him. He insists on paying, and for once, it's not a power play. Just a gesture. Small. Thoughtful. He doesn't offer to buy you anything else, no bags of gifts, no diamonds, no showy purchases to stake a claim.

It's weirdly perfect.

You sit beneath the tree for a while, just talking. About anything and everything that comes to mind. Books, music, life. Sometimes about nothing at all, just quietly enjoying eachother's company.

It's when you're both getting up to leave, brushing off your hands and grabbing your empty cups, that he turns to you with a soft voice.

''I used to hate silence.''

You glance at him.

He looks at the ground. ''Grew up in a house where silence meant someone was mad. Or something bad was about to happen. So I learned to fill it. With noise. Music. Sex. Anything.''

You stay still. Let him keep going.

''But with you…'' He looks up, vulnerable. ''It never feels scary. It just feels... normal. Safe.''

You don't know what to say to that, so you just wordlessly slip your hand back into his.

He walks you home as the sun sinks low. The streets are bathed in that glowy haze of the golden hour, and your fingers are still loosely laced together, even through the bustling crowds. Everyone can see that you're together now, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

Women usually ogle Harry. You don't blame them, but your stomach still dropped every time. Your arrangement had been exclusive, but that didn't stop him from smirking when women practically fell at his feet. He'd politely decline them if they actually made any advances, which you respected. But it killed you nonetheless.

Now, women eye him and smile giddily at you, almost like saying ''you go, girl'', before looking away respectfully. You squeeze his hand softly, and he squeezes back, a little shaky.

When you reach your building, he stops at the steps leading to your door. Doesn't assume. Doesn't push.

''I had a really nice time,'' he says, smiling, his eyes soft and content. ''Thank you for coming.''

You smile back. ''Of course.''

There's an awkward silence.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, like he's gathering his courage, and clears his throat. ''Would it be okay if I kissed you?''

The question is so gentle, so hopeful, it nearly breaks you.

You nod once, and he leans in like he's afraid you'll vanish if he moves too fast. The kiss is slow, sweet. He kisses you like you're the most precious thing he's ever been trusted with.

When you part, you lean your forehead against his and whisper, ''Do you want to come up?''

His breath catches, eyes searching yours. ''Are you sure?''

You step back and smile, swallowing nervously. ''Yeah.''

And that's how he follows you through your front door, his fingers brushing yours, both of you silent but pulsing with something warm and electric. You're not thinking about rules anymore. Not about contracts or fine print or keeping your heart in a box.

You're thinking about him.

And he can't think of anything besides you.

...

You lead him through the narrow hallway of your apartment, past your shoes kicked off by the door and the coat rack that leans slightly to one side. It's dim inside, because one of your ceiling lights has been out for weeks and you haven't cared enough to replace it.

You watch him take it all in, how small it is, how cluttered. There's a pile of laundry you forgot to fold in a basket on the table, a blanket your friend knitted as a Christmas gift strewn across the couch, a mug from this morning's tea still sitting on the coffee table.

The walls are littered with mismatched frames: photos, postcards, dried flowers flattened behind glass. It smells like your favorite candle, half-burnt and sweet, and maybe something faintly citrusy from the cleaner you used earlier.

It's not curated like his place. It's not neat or sleek or polished.

It's not just a space someone has lived in, it's a space someone has loved.

And he looks like he might cry.

His fingers brush the edge of a bookshelf that bows under the weight of your books and various knick-knacks. Lingers on a chipped pot with a small plant on your windowsill. Runs across a Polaroid tacked to the wall, one where you're posing with a group of people, big smiles on your faces, blurry but joyful.

He follows you into your bedroom with a reverent slowness. It's chaotic, full of color and soft textures. Your bed isn't made, and there's a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner. One of your posters is curling at the edges where the tape has loosened.

But his eyes don't scan the chaos with judgment. He absorbs it like he's learning about you for the first time all over again.

It's the opposite of his pristine penthouse, the opposite of the control and dominance that seems to be etched into the walls there. Maybe that's why he doesn't quite know what to do with himself now, more intrigued by your room than the museum you were in earlier.

Then he turns to you.

''It's cozy,'' he points out.

''Messy, you mean,'' you tease, kicking off your shoes by the bed and tossing your jacket over your desk chair. You carefully place Greg onto the crumpled blankets on your bed.

''Like you,'' he grins playfully, taking in the space with a curious glint in his eyes. ''Do you live alone?''

You nod. ''For a couple of years now.''

He hums, still looking around. ''Your place is so...''

You smile. ''The complete opposite of yours?''

''Yeah,'' he says, almost sheepish. ''Mine never felt like a home. Except for when you were there.''

That settles deep inside you. But you don't say anything, just step closer and put your hands on his chest, making him look down at you. And when he does, it feels like the whole world fades away, and it's just the two of you in your tiny apartment.

Instead of pouncing like he usually would, he waits. You nod, breathing out ''Come here,'' soft as a breeze.

When he presses his lips to yours, it's tentative at first, a hesitance lingering between you, a fear of ruining the second chance you've given him. He holds your face with both hands, delicately cradling your skin like he's afraid you'll break otherwise. His thumbs stroke the apples of your cheeks, slow and reverent.

You lean into him, pressing your palms to his chest a little firmer and sliding them up around his neck. He groans, low and pained, like he's coming undone just from being so close to you. He doesn't hesitate then, kissing you like the tension of everything that's ever passed between you is finally, finally, melting away.

He's warm. Solid beneath your hands. He smells like bergamot and linen and something darker, something that's so him, it nearly makes you want to burst into tears.

You kiss him harder.

And he lets you. He matches you.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. His mouth opens under yours, sighing against your lips, and everything deepens, slows. It's no longer hesitant. It's want. It's need.

Your hands fumble with the buttons of his jacket, both of you huffing out a laugh between the kisses when you struggle to tug it off, until it finally slips off his shoulders like silk.

He blindly walks you backwards toward your bed, bumping his knee into your desk chair, letting out a low, startled ''Fuck,'' and you giggle into his mouth, grabbing onto his biceps to steady him.

''Sorry,'' you breathe against his lips.

''Should've worn shin guards,'' he mutters, lips brushing your neck.

Then you're undoing the buttons of his pants slowly, carefully, like it's an ancient ritual. His fingers ghost over your waist, the curve of your hips. You move back toward the bed, tripping over your own bag in the process, and he catches you with a quiet ''Gotcha,'' pulling you closer with both hands splayed against your lower back.

''Jesus. Is this a hazard zone?'' he chuckles against your skin. You simply kiss him again to shut him up.

Your bedroom is barely big enough for the two of you. The bed is small and the sheets are rumpled and your bedside table is cluttered with lip balm and receipts and a cheap alarm clock that never works.

When you finally collapse onto your bed together, it lets out a loud, groaning creak that makes both of you freeze.

''Oh my God,'' you whisper, mortified.

Harry stares at you, deadpan, but his lips are twitching. ''That the sound it always makes?''

''It has… character.''

He snorts, and the sound turns into a surprised belly laugh when your mismatched bedsheets get tangled around his ankle, causing him to frantically try to kick them off, but to no avail.

''Jesus, this bed is a fuckin' death trap,'' he curses.

''Want me to call a cab?'' you tease, breathless and grinning.

He presses his forehead to yours. ''No. I want this. Want you.''

Then you're kissing again, slower this time, your fingers sliding up under the fabric of his shirt. He lifts it off with a practiced ease, baring all the skin you've missed so terribly, the smooth planes of his chest, the ink etched over his ribs. His cross necklace brushes your collarbone as he leans in, and when his lips drag down your throat, you sigh and let your head fall back. You've missed him.

It's not smooth, not like it always was at his place. He's taller than your bed is long, and one of your pillows gets knocked to the floor when you move. He tries to shift his weight without sinking the whole mattress, and the frame creaks dramatically again under the weight of him, tall and broad and out of place in your little world.

You throw your head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he laughs along with you. But he just kisses you again, deep and passionate, like he's chasing a high he can only get from your lips.

He's gentle when he undresses you. Reaches under your shirt like it's a science. His fingers skim your ribs, your hips, your spine. He kisses every inch he uncovers, worshipping you, and murmurs things you can barely make out. ''You're so soft…'' ''I missed this, missed you. You have no idea, baby.'' ''Never letting you go again.''

When your shirt falls away, he pauses.

You hold your breath.

He brushes a hand over your bare chest, thumb hesitantly tracing a smooth line across your sternum. His gaze is adoring. No jealousy. No possessiveness. Just awe.

He watches your face the whole time, taking you in with the softest expression, other hand brushing up to cup you, thumb grazing the swell of your breast. He leans down to kiss your skin.

''You okay, love?'' he whispers against your jaw, pressing kisses to every stretch of your skin like he's making amends, voice low.

''More than okay,'' you reassure him quickly.

''Tell me if I do anything wrong, anything you don't like. I mean it.''

You look at him, heart nearly bursting out from behind your ribs. His curls are falling onto his face, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast. And yet, in his eyes, there's patience. A gentleness and intimacy you've never quite seen from him before.

''I will,'' you say, and mean it.

''Can I?'' he asks, vaguely gesturing to your body.

You nod. ''Please.''

He dives in and kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest, your stomach, careful and slow. Every touch feels like a confession. Every sigh is a promise.

''You're so beautiful,'' he whispers, voice wrecked.

You drag him down to kiss you again, moaning into his mouth as he presses you into the squeaking mattress. His hand slides lower, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of your pants.

''Off,'' you request softly. ''Want them off.''

He gets the message. He helps you, pulling and kicking and shifting until your clothes are in a pile on the floor, your body bare beneath him. He sits back on his knees, mouth slightly parted as his eyes trace over every inch of you, like he still can't believe this is real.

Then he stands, toeing off his boots and undoing his belt. Your heart stutters as he drags his trousers and boxers down, thick cock already hard and flushed, resting against his stomach. You bite your lip, thighs rubbing together involuntarily at the sight.

He notices.

''You want me?'' he asks, low and hoarse, but it isn't a demand for an answer. He's asking, secretly insecure, needing the confirmation.

You nod, determined. ''I do. I want you.''

He leans over you again, bracing on his forearms as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. You gasp when his hand finds its way between your thighs, fingers parting your folds, collecting slick.

''So fuckin' wet for me already,'' he whispers. ''You're so perfect.''

You whimper as he rubs slow circles over your clit, back arching. ''Harry, please.''

''I've got you. Gonna make it good, baby. Gonna take my time.''

He slides a finger into you, and you keen, hips lifting. Then a second. His mouth finds your nipple, sucking gently as he works you open, curling his fingers just right. He knows your body better than you do. It trembles under him, hips rocking, thighs beginning to shake.

''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' you gasp, head thrown back onto the pillows, your hair sticking to your skin.

He pulls his fingers out, smirking when you whimper. ''Not yet, love,'' he says soothingly. ''Wanna feel you around me.''

When he crawls back onto you, you take your time. Run your hands over the familiar lines of his body, the softness of his stomach, the freckles you love so much, the little scar on his left hip he told you about earlier today. You kiss him hungrily. He sighs deeply.

You reach for the nightstand, fumbling for the top drawer to grab a condom, but he catches your wrist and brings it up to his lips to press soft kisses to the sensitive skin there.

''Let me.''

You blink up at him. ''Okay.''

He rolls it on, slow and careful. Then he looks down at you, hovering above, his arms caging you in but not pinning you down.

''Are you sure?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you breathe. ''Are you?''

He leans in, face softening, and kisses your nose. ''More than I've ever been.''

When he sinks into you, it's not like before. There's no rush, no game. Just intimacy. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers, and presses it to the mattress as he puts his weight on his arm.

You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you slowly, gently. Inch by inch. It's overwhelming, the feel of him, thick and hot. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your neck.

Your legs curl around him like you never want to let go. He curses softly under his breath, rests his forehead against yours, and stays there. Doesn't move. Just feels. Lets you adjust.

Your free hand finds his back, his shoulders, the curls behind his ears, breath stuttering as he bottoms out with a shudder. And he breathes, deep, like he's letting himself exhale for the first time in months.

It's not frantic. Not greedy. It's not about release or dominance or performance. It's about love, about two individuals coming together and sharing something intimate.

''You feel so good,'' he rasps. ''So fuckin' good, love. Don't ever leave me again, fuck.''

His words make your chest twist, your hand tightening in his hair. ''Then don't push me away again.''

He stills for a moment, temple pressed against your cheek, as if the weight of your words just crashed into him. Then he kisses you again, deep and remorseful, but grateful. A silent promise.

He starts to move slowly, carefully, like he's worried that you'll break. Or that he'll break. But it'd be worth it. He'd die a happy man.

The bed creaks loudly beneath you both, springs groaning under the weight. You both freeze for a second, then burst into quiet laughter. It makes something twist in his chest. You're laughing in his arms. Naked. Wrapped around him. You're his. And he's yours.

He moves again, languid, deep thrusts that make your toes curl, make your walls flutter around him. His hips roll against yours, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Every drag of him inside you is like poetry, like punctuation to every word he never knew how to say to you before now.

''You feel so good,'' you whisper, kissing his shoulder, his jaw, his lips. ''So fucking good, Harry. You're so good to me. So perfect''

He moans when you praise him, heart bursting at the seams, picking up the pace slightly, still controlled, still taking his time. He kisses you like he means it, like he's pouring all his feelings for you into it.

He whispers things into your neck between thrusts, soft and shaky. ''I'm not going anywhere.'' ''I'm so in love with you.'' ''You changed my life.'' ''You're my whole world.''

You almost cry at his words, so heartbreakingly genuine, falling from his lips without a second thought, walls tore down.

For once, he's not calculating his every move, not carefully picking out his words. He's not focused on you surrendering control to him. Instead, he's devoting himself to you, whispering ''I'm yours,'' into your skin over and over again like a broken confession.

Your bed squeaks with every movement, the mattress dipping and shifting beneath his weight. It's too small for both of you, but you make it fit anyway by puling your bodies closer to eachother. Neither of you are complaining, legs tangled, hearts pressed close.

His pace stutters when you moan his name, soft and breathless. He grips your hips tighter. His eyes close.

''I love you,'' he chokes out. ''I love you, Y/N. I love you so much.''

You crash your lips to his, love flowing between the two of you, whispering a soft ''I love you, Harry'' into his mouth.

His hand slips between your bodies again, fingers circling your clit while he fucks you, murmuring praise into your skin.

''You're doing so good for me,'' he pants. ''So pretty. So perfect. Can't believe you're mine. I'm the luckiest man alive.''

You cling to him, nails digging into his back as the pressure builds, your body spiraling. He's so deep. So thick. You're so full. His body clinging to yours. His breaths of pleasure in your ear. The way he looks at you like you're everything to him.

It's too much.

''Harry, I'm gonna—''

''I know, love. I got you,'' he whispers. ''Come for me. Let me feel you.''

And you do.

You unravel with a content sigh, clenching around him as your orgasm crashes through you, thighs trembling. There's no theatrics. No screaming. Just a slow, building pressure that crests in your chest and spills out with a soft cry against his mouth. He groans, fucking you through it, thrusts growing erratic.

''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' he growls.

''Come for me, Harry,'' you whisper, dazed and desperate. ''You're so beautiful. God, I love you so much.''

That's all it takes.

He spills into the condom with a broken sound, gently biting your shoulder to muffle his moans, body shaking. You feel every pulse of him, warm and thick, your bodies joined and your hearts racing. His broad frame collapses on top of you, a grunted 'oomph' leaving you, his arms shaking from the exertion.

He doesn't move. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck. The room is quiet. Still. For a moment, you just breathe. Wrapped up in each other. Quiet. Content.

You're the one who whispers, a breathless chuckle escaping your lips, ''This bed's gonna collapse if you roll over.''

He laughs heartily, twisting his neck to press a quick kiss to your temple. ''Then I won't.''

You go quiet at that. Bury your face in his hair.

And when your heartbeat starts to settle and the warmth lulls you into a sleepy daze, he shifts slightly with a contorted face, groaning as he reaches for something under his hip.

''Ow, what the hell—''

You blink as he pulls something out from under him, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling.

Greg.

The shabby secondhand stuffed animal he got you at the market this afternoon.

Harry holds him up by one leg, squinting at him. ''No fuckin' way.''

''Greg,'' you say solemnly. ''The horrors you've witnessed. I'm so sorry. I'm a terrible mother.''

Harry snorts softly, which quickly turns into full-blown laughter that shakes his shoulders and makes him drop his face into the crook of your neck. He kisses your bare shoulder. ''This is ridiculous.''

''Better get used to it.''

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you, eyes soft, kissing you again. You've never kissed in a way that wasn't followed by him ripping off your clothes. You've never kissed, not out of lust, but just to kiss. It was a nicety, a thing people do before they have sex.

But now, he does it just to make sure his affection for you sinks deep into your bones and settles there.

You pull the blankets further over both of you from where it pooled around his hips. He pulls you close, his head resting on your chest, and lets out a long, quiet breath.

There's no satin sheets, no floor-to-ceiling windows. Just you. Your way too tiny bed, your colorful sheets, your mismatched pillows, and a turtle named Greg. He's certain it's the best night of his life.

Besides, of course, your wedding day, sometime in the near future. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the thought. Don't get ahead of yourself, Harry. God, he's smitten.

He never would've guessed that meeting you would've flipped his life upside down. He's not sure if he would recognize the man he was before he met you. And he's not sure if that guy would recognize the person he is now, because of you.

He strokes your hip gently. ''I meant it, you know.''

You pull back a little to look down at his face.

''All of it,'' he says. ''The date. The sex. This. You... Loving you. I don't want to control you or own you, not anymore. I just want to know you. Be with you. However you'll have me.''

You press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his favorite shampoo clinging to his curls. ''Okay.''

His sighs in relief.

And in the dim glow of your room, on a bed that creaks every time you shift, with love soaked into the sheets, you finally believe him.

It's just you and him now. Raw and real and brand new.

And for the first time in his life, he thinks that maybe love doesn't have to be a transaction. That it can be unconditional.

And messy, and complicated, and absolutely terrifying.

And perfect.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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