#how to remove dark circles permanently | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

totheblood · 10 months ago

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in between | s.r.

pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x best friend!reader

summary: things are different, spencer's different. but how he feels about you is the one thing that has never changed. the only problem is now you have a boyfriend.

warnings: smut ! 18+ mdni!! lowkey cheating (lol), cursing, problematic reader, angst.

a/n: i am never beating the star has a cheating kink allegations!! I DO NOT I PROMISE... but yeah... this got away from me, i am touch starved and ovulating. reblogs, asks, and replies are so appreciated and encouraged! thank u kisses.. PLEASE SEND SPENCER REQUESTS!!!

wc: 5.9k

"I just can't come between 'em, they got their own thing I wish he'd stop pretendin', he won't let his phone ring."

Spencer was different after he got out.

It wasn’t like you could expect any less. Much less would change you for the worse and you knew that, but something about the way Spencer sat slumped over in his desk doing paperwork made your heart sink. He wasn’t as chatty as he used to be, he didn’t have that glimmer in his eyes, and his voice sounded hollow when he spoke. Under his eyes were permanent dark circles and his lips seemed to form a scorn whenever anyone wasn’t looking. Or when he thought no one was looking.

You sat at your desk, pink mug in your hands as you watched him. Watched his eyebrows crease, and watched him flip through the file in his hand as he pressed a free hand to his temple, rubbing it in small circles. Spencer was on edge all the time and he looked like it. You could tell he made an effort with you to be kinder, gentler, but it always came out sounding rehearsed, his face betraying him like it always did. Spencer Reid, your best friend, was now a completely changed person and it killed you that you couldn’t stop it.

Pushing yourself from your desk chair you approached him, a small smile on your voice as you gently spoke, “Hey.”

He tensed for a second. He still wasn’t used to people sneaking up on him. He made a conscious effort to fix his face before turning to look up at you, his body relaxing upon seeing your face. Placing the file down on the desk, he leaned back in his chair returning your small smile as he spoke, “Hey,”

His voice was quiet as he spoke. He was tired and up close you could just see how much.

“You, um…” your voice trailed off making his eyebrows raise, “are you okay?” The question was stupid, you knew the answer but it never hurt to ask. Your fingernails gripped the mug handle as you swallowed down the nerves, “are you sleeping?”

Spencer thought of how to answer truthfully. If he was being honest, of course, he wasn’t okay, he hadn’t been okay for a while, but instead, he just gave you a slight nod, “Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice was a little raspy as he spoke, but he turned away from you and back to the file on his desk. He was lying and you both knew it, but you weren’t his therapist and he was not about to open that can of worms on a Thursday.

“Of course, yeah,” you awkwardly mumbled, “you know I’m still here, right? I’m still me, you know? You’re my best friend… and I, um, miss you.”

He turned back to you, his face visibly softening as you spoke. He knew you were there for him, you were the only person he would allow to be there for him. He just didn’t know how to open back up or ask for help. Instead, he nodded his head, “I know… and I miss you too.”

“Spence, I-” you spoke but were promptly cut off by none other than Luke Alvez placing a hand on the small of your back as he whispered to you, “We still on for tonight?”

It felt too intimate, too personal for Spencer to hear, but worst of all it made his stomach sink. He clenched his jaw tightly as he watched the interaction and took note of how you leaned into him. You were comfortable with him, comfortable enough that you should have told Spencer long before now.

“Yeah,” you whispered back as you smiled sheepishly at Luke, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

“Great,” he smiled, removing his hand as he nodded slightly at Spencer before making his way over to his own desk.

“You guys are going out?” He asked, his tone his own one-off attempt to keep his tone neutral and controlled, but came out more strained than usual.

“Yeah,” you replied like you were ashamed of it, “it just kind of happened when you were… gone,” you rubbed at the back of your neck nervously, “I was just a mess without you and he was… well, he was there. There for me, I mean.”

Spencer kept his expression neutral, but he felt like a part of him was being taken from him, “So you’re dating now?”

“Kinda,” you squinted your eyes, trying to think of the perfect way to word it, “I mean, yes, like we haven’t labeled it but I think we’re exclusive. I don’t know we haven’t really talked too much about it.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He said, his voice low and laced with bitterness. He had already felt like he missed out on so much and in a way became an outsider in a team he once called his family. But when it came to you, it struck a different chord.

“When would that come up, Spence?” you replied, giving half of a laugh to soften the blow, “I wasn’t going to tell you about who I was hooking up with while visiting you in prison. It just didn’t seem fair and then you came back and didn’t seem interested in what I had going on. I just didn’t think you cared to know that.”

“Not interested in what you had going on?” he repeated back, the words sour on his tongue, “You think I didn’t care to know? I was in prison, that didn’t mean I stopped caring about you.”

“I know that, Sp-” he cut you off.

“I was in prison, stuck in a cell, for months thinking I was never going to get out and you were… dating,” he didn’t know why he said it, it just kind of spilled out. Like all the bitterness and resentment he had been feeling had finally reached the surface and was spilling over.

“What was I supposed to do?” you whisper-yelled, “Stop my life forever because you weren’t here? It was hard for me, Spence, and god I missed you more than anything but I needed the pain to stop and he… he stopped it.”

“Pain? You were in pain? Well, I spent 270 days in a 6 by 8 prison cell. I was the one in pain! You don’t know what it was like!” He knew he was wrong, but it was like all of his anger, pain, and frustration was coming out and he didn’t know how to stop it. He knew it wasn’t a big deal. Logically, he knew that. But right now, all he wanted to do was get it out.

You took a step back suddenly, forcing reality to wash over him as your eyes got slightly glossy, guilt painted all over your face, “I’m sorry… I thought you would be happy for me… I thought…”

You turned your head from him slightly, avoiding his gaze as you shook your head, “Nevermind, I’ll um, I’ll see you around.”

Spencer watched as you stepped back and saw the hurt look on your face. The anger and irritation faded almost immediately and in its place was guilt and remorse. He had hurt the one person he never wanted to hurt. He reached out a hand to try and stop you from leaving.

"Wait... please don't go," He spoke in a softer and more vulnerable tone.

Your own expression softened at this, like he was a child reaching out for you, scared there were monsters under his bed. His hand linked onto your fingers gently. You could pull away if you wanted to, but didn’t, “What?”

Spencer held onto your hand gently as he stood up from his chair and took a few steps closer to you. He looked at you anxiously, knowing that he needed to explain himself. He didn't want you to leave, especially not like this.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I just... I feel left out. I felt forgotten," he explained, trying to keep his voice soft, but there was a hint of worry and jealousy in his tone.

"I know, I know, I mean I'm sorry," you replied, shaking your head, "you're my best friend, I should have told you."

Spencer sighed and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm just... I'm on edge lately and I didn't mean to take it out on you. I shouldn't have acted like an ass to you."

He spoke in a sincere tone, his expression softening as he watched your face.

You let out a small giggle, taking your hand back from him but gently nudging his shoulder, "You've been through a lot. you deserve to be an ass sometimes," she teased.

Spencer let out a small breath of relief when he heard you laugh. It was like you were his again, and that part that had been missing found it’s way home. He managed a small smile at your words, feeling a little lighter.

"Maybe, but not to you. You're probably the only person who I shouldn't take my anger out on. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't," you replied almost too quickly, "you won't lose me, I promise."

"You promise?" he asked quietly, his tone filled with vulnerability.

You lifted your pinky finger for him to take with his, "Pinky promise."

Spencer's lips curved into a small smile as he saw your pinky offered to him. He looked at it for a moment before linking his own pinky with yours and giving them a small squeeze.

"Pinky promise."

You smiled up at him, the bright smile you reserved especially for him as you clicked your teeth, “Well, I gotta… get back to paperwork, Spence, but I’m glad you’re back.”

Spencer smiled faintly at your bright smile, that only you seemed to bring out in him these days. "Yeah, I should get back to work, too. But, um..." He paused for a moment, his expression growing more anxious as he spoke, “Tonight, with Alvez… do you think you could cancel?”

"Why? What's wrong?" you asked, a worried expression clouding your face as you lightly gripped his forearm. It used to be a comforting touch but right now it felt foreign.

"I just-" He let out a slow breath and paused before continuing, "I just want to spend time with you, alone. I feel like we haven't really had time to connect since I got out, and I miss you."

He wanted to feel guilty, he really did but a part of him couldn’t. He did want to spend time with you, but he also just didn’t want your time to be taken up by Luke.

“Oh, Spence,” you cooed, voice soft as you took your hand back, “of course I can cancel. My place or yours?”

Spencer's expression softened and relief washed over him at your words. He couldn't help but smile faintly as you agreed, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. He thought for a moment before replying, "Your place. I haven't been there in a while, and I need a change of scenery."

"My place it is," you smiled, "I'll go cancel with him right now,"

He watched as you walked over to Alvez and told him you were canceling, and then told him you were canceling for Spencer. Spencer couldn't hear the two of you but it looked like you were fighting. He was talking with his hands, rolling his eyes as you put up a defensive hand. It was clear he was upset and it ended with Alvez throwing down a file on his desk and storming away.

Spencer's expression grew a little more worried as he saw the interaction between you and Alvez. When he saw Alvez throw down the file on his desk and storm away, he felt a pang of guilt. He knew that you had canceled because of him, and it was causing problems between you and Alvez. He watched as Alvez walked away and he let out a slow, heavy sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Later that night, you were in your living room, sprawled out on the couch watching tv as you heard the familiar knocks of Spencer on the door. Opening it up you gave him a bright smile, your PJs in full effect, "Good evening, Doctor," you smiled at him, taking a step to the side to let him in.

Spencer smiled faintly at the sight of you, dressed in your PJs. It was a comfortable and familiar sight to him, and it made him feel at ease. He chuckled softly at your greeting, "Good evening, SSA Y/L/N," he teased in return, his voice a little more relaxed than usual.

You giggled, letting him in, "On a last-name basis, huh?" you laughed again. "I say we watch Doctor Who Series Two, what do you think?"

Spencer chuckled as he walked inside and nodded in agreement. He closed the door behind him and made his way over to her couch, plopping himself down on one end, and resting his arm on the back of the couch. In a way, he hated how well you knew him. He hated how as long as he lived there would be one person in the world to know what he needed and that she would be putting on his favorite season of his favorite show and making it seem like it was her own idea. He hated that you existed and he couldn’t have you.

"Sounds perfect. Doctor Who marathon it is," he replied with a smile.

"Perfect," you smiled, plopping down on the other end, remote in hand as you moved to put on the show, Spence, who is your favorite companion," you asked absentmindedly as you flipped through the catalog.

Spencer chuckled at your question and thought for a moment before answering. He shifted around on the couch until he was facing you, his expression pondering.

"Hmm, that's a tough one," he started, his voice thoughtful as he considered the question, "I've always had a soft spot for Donna Noble. She was funny, and her chemistry with the Doctor was hilarious. But Ten and Rose... they'll always have a special place in my heart."

“Ten and Rose are..." you blushed to yourself, "They are endgame to me even though they clearly aren't endgame, but I don't care."

Spencer chuckled at your blushing as you spoke about Ten and Rose, and he nodded in agreement, "Right? They had such incredible chemistry. It's hard not to root for them. The way Ten always looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. It was like he saw the universe in her eyes," he agreed, his expression growing fond as he spoke.

"Yeah," you smiled, your smile fading as you clicked on the first episode of series two. Spencer noticed your smile fade and he furrowed his eyebrows in concern. He leaned a little closer to you, watching your expression.

"Hey, you okay?"

He spoke quietly, his voice filled with a hint of worry.

“Yeah, it's fine. I just... don't like being in a fight with Luke. it's like why can’t we be more like... Ten and Rose..." you shook your head, "It's stupid, whatever.”

Spencer's expression softened as he listened to you, understanding your frustration. He gave you a reassuring smile and spoke in a gentle tone, "It's not stupid, you're allowed to feel that way. Comparing what you have to some fictional characters... it's natural to yearn for that kind of connection,” He paused for a moment, studying your face, before continuing, "Why do you think you and Alvez can't be like Ten and Rose?"

"I don't know," you shook your head, "it's like I can't do anything right. He's- and I shouldn't be telling you this, but when you were away we would get into so many fights over you. He'd be mad if I went to visit you, or if I was too upset about missing you and he just always kept insinuating that I was like in love with you or something,”

Spencer's expression faltered as you spoke. He could already sense Alvez was jealous of your close friendship, but to hear he had been trying to discourage you from visiting him while he was away... it angered him. But it was the implication that you may have feelings for him that made his heart skip a beat in his chest. But he pushed that feeling down for the moment, trying to focus on what you were saying, "He said you were in love with me?"

"Yea," you whispered, "but I told him it wasn't like that. That we were just friends but he didn't believe it. He still doesn't."

"Why doesn't he believe you?" He asked softly, his eyes studying your face.

"I dont know," you groaned, "I mean we don't have a conventional friendship, me and you, but it was like a piece of me was locked up with you in that prison. I just wasn’t me without you and he saw that and took it as me being in love with you," you replied, ignoring the implications of what that meant.

Spencer couldn't help the pang of guilt that went through him at your words. He knew that being locked up had affected you just as much as it had affected him. He understood that without him, you had felt like a part of you was missing, but it still broke his heart to hear it.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice tinged with guilt, "I never wanted to make things difficult for you... or put you in a position like that."

"You didn't, Spence," you sat up quickly, putting your hand over his that was situated in his lap, "You didn't do anything okay, my... partner or whatever he is should be able to trust me."

Spencer's expression softened at your touch, and his heart skipped a beat as you covered his hand with yours. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, feeling a wave of emotions wash over him. Your words made him feel a little better, but he couldn't shake off the guilt entirely, "I know, but..." He trailed off for a moment before continuing in a softer tone, "I just wish I could make things right for you, y'know?"

"Not your job," you smiled in a desperate attempt to comfort him, "I'd rather have you in my life than some man who didn't believe me anyway."

Spencer sighed, feeling a mixture of comfort and guilt at your words. He knew that it wasn't his job to fix things between you and Luke, but he hated seeing you hurt or upset. He gave your hand a small, affectionate squeeze as he spoke, "I'm always going to be in your life, no matter what. You're stuck with me."

"Oh, kill me now," you joked, voice soft as you leaned your head on his shoulder, "Eternity with you though?" you whispered, "Not the worst thing in the world."

Spencer chuckled softly at your joke, and he couldn't help but smile as you rested your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you a little closer to him, "Eternity with me, huh?" He repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice, "You sure you could handle it?"

"You sure you could handle it?" you giggled, softly pushing him down on the couch causing him to topple over into the couch. If this was anyone else he would have pushed you back immediately, tell you to not push him like that, but it was you. And you could do whatever you wanted to him.

"Hey, hey, easy on the doctor!” Spencer protested jokingly as he fell backward into the couch. He looked up at you, a hint of playfulness in his eyes, as he sprawled out comfortably, "You're not getting rid of me that easy," he teased with a chuckle.

"Hey, hey, not easy on the doctor," you giggled again, leaning over on top of him, taking a pillow, and pretending to smother him as you climbed on top of him, straddling him.

Spencer's heart skipped a beat as you straddled him, and he couldn't help blushing slightly at the sudden closeness of your body on top of his. His breathing hitched a little, but he tried to keep his expression playful. He pretended to struggle against you as you leaned over him with the pillow, "Hey now, watch it!” he protested, though his voice was filled with amusement.

You giggled as she pressed the pillow further into his face, "'m putting you out of your misery Doctor,"

Spencer laughed even louder, feigning resistance as you pressed the pillow further into his face, "Mercy! Mercy! I surrender!" He jokingly spoke in a dramatic tone, his voice muffled by the pillow. He tried to pull the pillow away from his face to look up at you.

Pulling the pillow off of his face, you smiled down at him, the laugh slowly dying in your throat as you realized the compromised position, “Oh.”

Spencer was panting slightly from the fake struggle, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked up at you. His gaze met yours and he felt a wave of heat wash over him as he fully realized your position, with you straddling him on the couch, hips pressed slightly down into him. He couldn't help but take in the sight of you on top of him, his heart racing.

"I, um… didn't realize,” you spoke quickly, your own self out of breath, panting as you began to move to get off him, "I'm sorry, shit."

"No, no, wait., "Spencer's hand reached out quickly and gently grabbed your wrist as you tried to move off him. He swallowed, his heart racing a mile a minute. He couldn't deny the tension in the air or the way his body reacted to how close you were. This was straight out of a dream he knew he had, "Please... don't move," he whispered, his voice low.

Your breathing was heavy as you looked down at him, hair tousled and in your PJs, "Spence," you whispered, voice low.

Spencer looked up at you, feeling his body hum with desire as he took you in. Your tousled hair, the sight of you in your PJs, it was all so real and intimate. It was domestic in nature and it made his heart do a flip. He swallowed, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. At the sound of you whispering his name, his grip on your wrist tightened just a fraction, "Yeah?” He whispered back, his own voice thick and dry.

"Is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" you joked, the tension still thick and palatable as it sat it the pit of your stomach.

Spencer's breath hitched at your joke, with the way he was reacting it was clear he hadn’t been touched in months. He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound sending shivers down his spine. He shifted beneath you, your body still straddling him, and he could feel the weight of your body against him, the tension between you palpable, "Maybe it's both," he whispered, his voice low and thick with desire.

You breathed out, a shaky breath but still a breath, as you rocked your hips a little bit against him, desperate for friction, "I'm not a cheater," you whispered.

Spencer's breath caught in his throat as you rocked your hips against him, and it took everything in him not to buck his hips in response. He tried to control his breathing, his body reacting to your touch almost involuntarily. He swallowed, his voice a little rougher than usual as he replied, "I know you're not. You've never been," He placed his hands on your hips, holding you in place lightly, his thumbs slowly stroking the bare skin of your waist under your shirt.

Your skin burned where his hands met your hips. It made you want to do more. It made you want to continue, a soft sigh that sounded like a moan falling from your lips, swallowing quickly as you stared down at him.

Spencer's heart raced as you let out that small sigh, a mix of a moan, and he couldn't deny the effect it had on him. He could feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room almost tangible, "You're driving me crazy," he breathed out, his thumbs continuing to stroke your skin, his touch growing a little firmer, more possessive. His pupils were blown out, soft brown eyes looking up at you like it was you who held the universe in your hands.

"I'm not-" you shook your head, "not doing anything," you whispered, hips grinding down slowly as you took another deep breath in. Your brain was telling you to quit while you were ahead, but every bone in your body seemed physically incapable of stopping.

Spencer's breath hitched at the feel of your hips grinding down against him, and he involuntarily tightened his grip on your hips, his fingers digging into your soft skin. "Oh, you're doing plenty," he whispered back, his voice low and laced with barely suppressed need. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?”

"No," you whispered, hands trailing up his chest as he held you, "explain it to me."

Spencer let out a ragged breath, trying to form coherent words, "You... you drive me crazy. You always have," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "The way you look at me, talk to me, touch me..." He paused, gathering himself, before continuing. "The way you're straddling me right now, your body pressed against mine, it's... it's like you were made for me."

You closed your eyes, grinding down harder involuntarily. It was okay to dry hump your best friend, right? That didn't count as cheating, right? Your mind tried to convince yourself this was okay, that you weren’t awful, but you were spurred on by his words, your panties dampening as he held you.

Spencer groaned as you ground down harder against him, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again, his gaze filled with undisguised desire, "This... we shouldn't," he managed to say, even as his hands continued to grip your hips, pulling you closer to him, his body responding without even thinking, "You're with Luke... we can't... we can't do this," his words were a whisper, but even he could hear the lack of conviction behind them.

You ground down again, in tandem with him, "You're- you're right," you panted, "maybe we should stop," your own eyes fluttered closed.

Spencer groaned again, his grip on your hips tightening even more, his body moving in time with yours, almost involuntarily. His heart was racing, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts as he tried to slow himself down, to think clearly, "Yeah, we... we should stop," he agreed, his voice a little hoarse, but his body betrayed his words, still rocking against you, needing the friction, the closeness.

"Oh god, fuck," you groaned, eyes fluttering closed as you rocked harder, faster, "Yeah... yeah... should stop," you repeated.

"Fuck..." Spencer couldn't help but curse under his breath, his hips bucking up to meet yours with each movement, his body on fire with need. He was losing his mind, his last shred of control slipping away as he felt the heat between you growing more and more intense, "We... we need to stop... now..." he managed to breathe out, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands holding onto your hips like a lifeline, almost desperately.

"Mhm," you moaned in agreement but never stopped your movements. Instead, you continued to rock against him, ignoring how the spaghetti strap of your pajamas had started to fall off your shoulder, "So stop," you whispered, not stopping.

Spencer's eyes were fixed on the spaghetti strap that was falling off your shoulder, his brain nearly short-circuiting at the sight. He groaned, the sound almost guttural, as he tried to steady his breathing. "I'm- I'm trying, I'm trying..." He was trying, he really was, but with your body moving against him like that, your hips rocking in just the right way, he couldn't help but move with you, his body responding on autopilot.

"How hard?" you whispered, a giggle falling from your lips that turned quickly into a strangled moan, as his hands pushed your hips down into him. Spencer's grip on your hips tightened even more, his fingers digging into your skin, as he pushed you down into him. His breathing was ragged now, his body trembling with need, as he felt you against him.

"So goddamn hard," he groaned, his voice strained, as he tried to hold back. "You have no idea how hard you’re making this for me."

"I can," you panted out, "I can feel it… How hard it is for you," you giggled, eyes fluttering shut again as you gripped his shoulder. It was all him at this point, he was pulling you down into him, his hips bucking up. The friction all felt too good, too real, and you weren’t stopping. There was no way you could.

Spencer was losing himself completely in the feeling of you against him, the sound of your voice, the way your touch burned through him. His head was spinning, his body on fire with need and desire. He pulled you down harder against him, his hips bucking up involuntarily, the friction between you sending sparks through his body. He could feel his cock twitch in his pants, as he pulled you down closer to him, "God... you feel so good," he groaned, his lips brushing against your collarbone, his breath hitched and shallow.

When his lips touched you, you gasped, a loud moan coming from your lips that sounded too much like his name. You wanted this and you wanted it desperately. It was almost pathetic how much you wanted this.

The sound of your moan, his name on your lips, it was like a punch to the gut. Spencer's grip on your hips involuntarily tightened, his body reacting almost violently to the sound, the need in your voice. "Say it again," he groaned, his lips moving against your skin, leaving a trail of hot, hungry kisses along your collarbone. "Say my name again."

"Fuck," you hissed back a moan, "Spencer," you practically chanted, hand gripping the arm of the couch behind him as you ground together, "Spencer," you chanted again, a lot less coherent as she bit back a moan.

Each time you said his name, it sounded like a prayer, and Spencer felt like he was losing his mind. His hips bucked up against yours as he heard it again and again, the sound sending shockwaves through his body. He buried his face in your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps as he fought to keep himself together, "God, say it again," he begged, his voice thick with need and hunger, "Please, say my name again, just like that."

"Spencer- ah, fuck," you cried out, whimpering pathetically as your body moved for you, "Spencer."

Spencer was drowning in you, in the sound of you saying his name. It was the only thing he could hear, the only thing he could focus on. He was coming undone under you, his body reacting involuntarily to your touch and your voice.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, his lips on your neck, his body moving with yours. "Just like that, baby, just like that. Say my name, say it again."

"Spencer," you cried out as his movements picked up, as they became more aggressive. You just kept chanting it like it was the air you breathed, like it was the only word you knew. Spencer was wild with need, overwhelmed by the sound of his name falling from your lips, the feel of your body against his. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, as he pulled you down into him, moving against you with a desperate, frenzied rhythm.

"You're killing me," he groaned, his voice thick with desire and frustration. "God, you're going to kill me."

He buried his face in your neck, his lips moving against your skin, his breath hot and labored. He was losing himself completely in the moment, driven by pure need and desire, "I can't- I can't stop," he panted between kisses, his voice ragged and strained. "I need you, I need you so bad."

"Fuck, Spencer," you cried out, body almost shaking on top of him. If this was wrong, why did it feel so good?

Spencer was lost in you, undone by your words, your sounds, your touch. Your body shaking on top of him, the sound of his name falling from your lips was like a drug, addictive and potent. He clutched you tighter, his grip almost bruising, as he moved against you frantically, desperately, chasing the release that was building inside him, "That's it, that's it," he panted, his own body trembling, "Don't stop, baby, don't stop."

He felt the orgasm building inside him, a wave of pleasure and heat rolling through him, his body shaking as he pulled you down into him again and again, "Oh god, I'm- I'm gonna-"

The words were lost in a strangled moan, his body arching up off the couch as he found his release, his grip on you still tight.

“Oh god, I’m,” you panted, crying out his name like a hymn, “I’m cumming,” you breathed out. It was all too good, like he was made for you just in this moment.

Spencer's heart felt like it was going to burst as he heard you call his name, the sound like a prayer as your body trembled on top of him, "Yes, yes, yes," he whispered hoarsely, his arms holding you tightly against him, his own body still shaking with aftershocks from his orgasm, "That's it, baby, let go, let go for me."

Your body stopped moving, collapsing on top of him as you came undone, holding onto him like he might float away. He caught you against him as you collapsed on top of him, his body still throbbing with the aftershocks. He held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his breathing ragged and labored. He nuzzled his face into your hair, his lips brushing against your skin, as he tried to slow his racing heart.

"That was... incredible," he panted, his voice still hoarse.

"That was..." your voice trailed off as you sat up quickly, realizing you were still clothed as she stood up and off the couch pathetically, "that was cheating, oh god."

Your sudden movement jerked Spencer out of his blissful state, and he looked up at you with wide eyes, his mind still fuzzy from the overwhelming pleasure, "Whoa, whoa, hey, calm down."

He sat up, his heart still racing as he reached for your hand, trying to steady you, "It's okay, it's okay, we're okay."

“No it’s not,” you whispered, pulling your hand back from him as he reached for you. It made his chest sting, but all he did was blink, “I think you should leave,”

“What?”

“You should go, Spence,” you reiterated, eyes looking down at your feet, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

“If that’s what you want me to do,” he spoke. His voice almost sounded broken and you didn’t like the feeling of being the one who caused it.

“It is,” you replied quickly, arms folded across your chest. You turned away from him completely, ignoring the sound of the door slamming closed as he stepped outside.

1K notes · View notes

inkedtae · 5 months ago

Text

xiii. rotten angelcake ⇾ kth. [M]

⎡She’s as sweet as angelcake; he likes her honeyed rotten⎤

chapter thirteen : the mysterious angel of seoul ⤑ ❝ the world is desperate to know who you are, but taehyung is the only voice that matters. ❞

⇽ prev. | masterlist | next ⇾

⌁ pairing; ceo!taehyung x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre/rating; s2l, ceo au, sugar daddy au, smut, fluff, 18+

⌁ word count; 9.9k

⌁ warnings; dom!taehyung, daddy!taehyung, sub!reader, brat!reader, virgin!reader, daddy kink, praise kink, corruption kink, bdsm themes, orgasm control, dirty talk, dry humping, ab riding, begging, grinding, teasing, neck kisses/licking, a bit of spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

» prefer ao3? keep reading here

ও huge thanks to jen ( @itaeewon ) for the amazing new banner and a very huge, massive thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for beta-reading late into the night for me and being so fucking patient! please send her all the love because she helps me make this so readable and clear for you and she is just over all the best human in the world 💕

Misty cobalt skies blanket the city. Rain falls steadily, blurring the city lights below. You love watching the droplets disrupt puddles and the sea of coloured umbrellas. While most are black or grey, a few pops of yellow, red, blue and pink still bob down the sidewalk. Perhaps your favourite thing about rainy days, however, is how the pavement darkens, glistening under the streetlights. Like how the vibrant green grass of the countryside invokes a reconnection with nature, the vivid black streets of the city draws you into a quiet, almost meditative stillness amid the chaos.

Flashes– white-hot and blinking.

You blink, disoriented from the all too bright lights on just a gloomy day. Glancing further down the window, you quietly groan at the growing crowd of reporters. A group of perhaps ten photographers and five journalists huddle near the front entrance, bombarding anyone who walks in or out of the building. Arms crossed, jaw tight, you step away from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room and make your way back to your desk.

You knew you left an impression on the press the night of the ballet performance. The following morning, you woke up with an ache between your legs and a series of reassuring text messages from Taehyung. He said he’d take care of it, but your face, slightly hidden behind your fur coat with loose strands of hair dancing in the wind, was the top story on every media outlet. Glittering makeup, furrowed brows, and annoyed confusion in your gaze– you cannot believe you’re staring at a photo of yourself. You thought they might have edited it, or adjusted the contrast settings to highlight the whiteness of your coat against the darkness in your eyes. But the same picture was posted thousands of times over.

When Taehyung told you that he couldn’t get the photo removed, you weren’t surprised. It had been circling around the web for the better part of the day and he would have to track down every device in the city to permanently erase it. However, he reassured you that the details of your personal life will remain hidden.

You hoped that would be enough. Eventually, Seoul would grow tired of looking at your face, you remember thinking. They will move on to the next spectacle and you’ll be able to go to work on Monday with little to no trouble.

So, you locked yourself in your apartment and decided to wait for this all to blow over. You made sure to stay off social media, as per Taehyung’s advice. He said it’s not healthy getting lost in threads and posts about yourself, having been a victim of his own curiosity once or twice before.

Instead, you watched a handful of movies, avoided Mrs Chu’s prying questions about Taehyung and applied to a few jobs. You baked cookies, brownies and a banana loaf. You reorganized your books, did some laundry, and lost a few board games against Mrs Chu…again. You texted Taehyung until he had a business call to hop on and then tried, with all your might, to finally go to bed. However, the curiosity of how much they knew had finally worn you down. You started with a single thread from a reputable news outlet. But soon, you scrolled too far into toxic netizen territory.

For hours, you skimmed articles and speculations about your identity. Some think you’re an escort, which isn’t entirely inaccurate, but most think you’re some nepo-baby, deeming you too well dressed and poised for any other line of work– a sentiment that still makes your eyes roll. They also point out that The Geraldson Group is known for nepotism hires and so if you are anyone, it must be some rich man’s daughter.

And while a Daddy did happen to get you an interview, he wasn’t biologically yours.

This morning, you were sitting in the backseat of the car Taehyung contracted for you. Given your newfound fame, he thought it would be best to have a driver escort you to ensure your safety. While on your way to work, a series of new photos surfaced. You stiffened in your seat as you clicked on the link Taheyung sent you. He wanted to give you a heads-up about the new pictures and reassure you that he is doing his best to take care of it.

The photos, seemingly taken from a hidden angle, were from your day off a couple of weeks ago. You were on your way to the Bangtan Building, the same annoyed, distant look in your eyes. There are frames of you getting into the cab, sitting in traffic, and walking into the building with an air of defiance. You suddenly understood why Taehyung had been adamant on disciplining you then. You looked like a total brat.

The media, on the other hand, thinks you’re some sort of notable figure, absolutely in love with your fashion sense and cold demeanor. From recreating your make-up to your style, you start trending online. More than that, the topic of your identity has everyone hooked. People want to know who you are and why Taehyung won’t share you with them. They want to know where you came from, how you met, and if you are the love of his life.

[V] : I think you might be more famous than me.

[angelcake] : are we surprised?

[V] : Careful.

[V] : Don’t make me come down there and give everyone another reason to talk about us.

[angelcake] : me**

[V] : Behave or I will tear that little dress off.

You suppress a blush at the memory of the conversation.

Now, as you walk through the Research and Development floor, you tug at the long sleeves of your tight, ribbed cotton shirt. The high collar covers your neck from the cold and balances out the shortness of your strapless black dress. The smooth fabric clings to your frame, its tailored cut accentuating your curves. You can hear the soft brush of your sheer, black tights between your thick thighs with each high-heeled step down the hall. With your hair up in a high, sleek ponytail, your dangling silver earrings are on full display. Taehyung sent the delicate diamond set, with a matching necklace and bracelet, yesterday to cheer you up after you confessed you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of googling yourself. You opted for the earrings only today, saving the other pieces of jewellery for another time.

As you near the common area, where an array of desks are meticulously organised for optimal movement and focus, you begin to attract more stares. Some people smirk, others raise brows and the very few you might consider work-friends, draw heavy breaths as they meet your uncertain gaze.

Jackson leans against your desk, arms crossed, while Ethan stands beside him. They both give you tight smiles.

“Morning,” Ethan greets, taking a step back so you can walk around them to your desk.

“Good morning,” you reply with a polite smile, though your voice is shaky.

You look between the two, about to ask them what’s going on when you notice the magazine on your desk. There, on the front page of The Metropolitan, is your original viral photo. Your face dominates the entire cover. By the fur of your coat, covering your chin to the better part of your nose, is the title: The Mysterious Angel of Seoul.

Brows furrowed, you grab the magazine. Taehyung never mentioned anything about magazines, but you feel like you should have known. Your face is all anyone has been able to talk about all weekend. You can't even scroll through social media without someone mentioning you. Rolling up the magazine, you toss it into the trash bin behind your desk and take your seat.

“So–”

“We’re not talking about it.”

You don’t even spare Jackson a look as you log into your computer. You can feel them share a look before Jackson straightens up.

“It’s not about that,” he says, pausing to take a breath.

You chance a glance at the pair of them over your dual screens. They're still rigid, shifting their weight and sharing uncomfortable looks. You lean back in your seat to offer them your full attention, waiting for one of them to continue so you can get back to work.

“We’re actually not allowed to talk about… that,” Ethan clarifies, slightly nodding to the magazine. “Didn’t you get the email?”

Of course you did, and you’re certain it was Taehyung’s doing. But no email has ever stopped anyone from whispering about people before.

“That’s not the point,” Jackson cuts in before you can reply. “Um… Here’s the– So, the thing– uh…”

Face scrunched in confusion, you let out an exasperated sigh. You don’t have time for this. You have a million and one things to do and the last thing you need is Marina finding yet another reason to make your life miserable. You turn back to your computer and open the documents the marketing team had sent over a few minutes ago. With a few clicks, you send them over to the printer. Standing to gather your clipboard and pen, you turn to find Jackson and Ethan still stammering over their words.

“Look,” you cut in, “whatever it is, can it please wait until after the meeting?”

“It’s about the meeting,” Jackson tries again. “Lucas–”

“Yeah, where is he? I’m not prepping for this meeting by myself again,” you interject, already making your way to the copy room.

The two men follow behind you, trying to keep up with your fast strides. “He’s not an intern anymore,” Ethan informs.

You pause mid-step.

Jackson swallows thickly and Ethan rubs the back of his neck as you turn to face them.

“Did he quit?”

He must have quit. In fact– he better have quit. Because if he hadn’t, if he had been promoted to junior coordinator, you might break your stupid clipboard over his head and tear the conference room apart instead.

The guilty look on your friends’ faces confirms your suspicions. Ethan is the first to redirect his gaze to the floor. To his credit, he’s just some research assistant and doesn’t have much say in who gets promoted.

Jackson, however, is your supervisor. He’s well aware of the amount of work you put into every assigned task, no matter how meaningless it seems. He knows you’re the one that constantly picks up Lucas’s slack. You even correct his work. You don’t care much for Lucas’s success, but Marina tends to make his failures your own. So, you come in early to do your workload and half of his. You double check all his reports, emails and documents. You taste all the lattes he makes and often remake them yourself. He can barely pour a glass of water without it splashing all over the counters and floors. Jackson knows this, even witnessing it all himself. He could have stopped this, could have advocated for you.

He takes a step forward. You take one back, blinking back tears. You’re not upset– not sad, but rather angry.

Lucas should’ve used his fucking brain. Jackson should’ve used his fucking mouth. And Marina, with her imitating outfits and mocking tasks, should’ve used some fucking common sense.

“Our evaluation is not for another three months,” you mutter. It’s all you can professionally muster as your anger simmers deep in your chest. You bite back profanities, gritting your teeth to keep from screaming.

Jackson licks his lips. He meets your steel gaze with pity and replies, “I was informed about it this morning. I wanted to let you know before you read it in some email.”

So she’s here.

You look over Jackson’s shoulder to find Marina sitting in her office. You narrow your eyes at the striped black and silver blouse, and black pleated mini-skirt combo. She pairs it with charcoal grey, calf-high socks and velvet black heels. You internally roll your eyes at the replication of your outfit last week. She even has her blonde hair pulled back into a tight clipped bun. Her makeup is a complete copy of yours, from the soft smokiness of your eyes, the rosy highlight of your cheeks, to the pink gloss of your lips. She sits with one leg crossed over the other. Phone pressed to her ear, she stares at her screen.

She’s here, dressed just like you, and she was going to hide behind a fucking email. A good manager would call you into her office and inform you of the promotion herself. She would coach you and explain why the promised evaluation had been bypassed, why you did not receive the position. She would give you the space to ask questions, the resources to try and help you eventually work towards your own promotion.

However, Marina is as good a leader as she is a lover– bitter, vengeful and completely insecure.

It seems it is not bad enough that she has been feeding the press your personal information and embarrassing you in front of your colleagues. But now she’s hellbent on undermining you in front of the entire department. You know she wants to humiliate you, just like she did on your first day when she forced the entire floor to applaud you for the attention she thought you were seeking– over the colour of your outfit.

Her irrational, unprofessional and borderline psychotic behaviour stops now.

Handing the clipboard and pen to Jackson, you push between him and Ethan. They part their lips but you can’t hear anything. You are not interested in their pacifying words. You’ve heard it countless times before– Don’t test her. She’s not worth it. Just keep your head down. You’re tired of the same passive advice. It doesn’t make you feel any better, nor is it working. It doesn’t matter what you do or how you react to her abuse. Nothing will ever be enough for her.

You open the door without knocking.

She glances up at you, green eyes turning cold and uninviting.

Usually, you’d avert your gaze and yield to her superior position, respecting the hierarchy of your workplace. This time, you hold her glare and lock the door.

The tightness of her jaw wavers. She sits up in her seat, attempting to appear intimidating.

While she is around your height, she does not have your powerful frame. With narrow shoulders and hips, she barely makes a threatening impression. She lacks shape, not only your fullness. Perhaps, at one point in your life, that detail might have caused you to internally spiral, wondering if it was her smaller figure that drew Taehyung to her. However, you are thankfully not that person anymore. And the last thing you can ever imagine being, is jealous of Marina.

“Hang up.”

Marina raises a brow. Rolling her eyes, she laughs into her phone. “Yes, of course,” she says before shooing you away with a wave of her hand.

You reach her desk in two strides. Leaning over the cherry oak desktop, you press down on the switchhook, hanging up the call.

“What do you–”

“We need to talk.”

Your voice is tempered, but edged with bitterness. You suppress a smirk as she falls silent, her angry resolve wavering.

“You’re not promoting Lucas.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Bo-peep,” she spits. Her tone carries resentment, but voice ever so slightly trembles.

Tonguing your cheek, you refuse to be baited by the stupid name and continue, “No one is getting this promotion. You will wait until the evaluation in three months and make your decision based on merit and management recommendation, as per protocol.”

Marina sits back in her seat, crossing her arms. She humorlessly laughs, the sound jagged and irritating– still, it lacks conviction. “Do you think you can just come into my office and order me around? You think because you made it on the cover of one stupid magazine that you’re untouchable? Let me remind you who is in charge here, sweetheart,” she seethes, leaning forward in an attempt to rob you of your space. "You are nothing but some slutty intern who got lucky. Don’t mistake that for power."

You smirk, shaking your head. “Do you think you can just continue to harass me and I won’t do anything about it? Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been up to the last couple of weeks with your meaningless tasks and constant manipulation? Three research assistants needed to reschedule follow-ups with their suppliers because you had me chasing an ex-employee all over the building the other day. And what did Lucas do, beside sit around and wait for me to hold his hand through a fucking photocopy?”

Marina swallows thickly. The vehemence in her green eyes falters. She shifts back into her seat, suddenly needing some distance.

“It’s one thing to release information about me, but another to completely fail to do your job as a manager out of pure spite. You have other members on this team that need your support and you’re here bitching because of a man. Get your priorities straight, sweetheart.”

She lets out a dry chuckle. “You think I was the one that told them you work here? Everyone knows you’ve been feeding them information yourself. You just love the attenti–”

“I can make one phone call,” you snap, cutting her off, “You’ll be fired within a minute and I’ll take your place within the next.”

The harshness of your tone silences her, but the possibility of your words rattles the mocking smile off her slim face. In reality, you are certain that one phone call to Taehyung won’t grant you her position, even if she did get fired. You would never attempt such a thing either. While you are bratty, you are not spoiled. You respect Taehyung enough not to put him in that position too. But, Marina doesn’t know that.

“You are only here because I am allowing it,” you continue. “So, here is what’s going to happen– You are not promoting Lucas, you will wait for the evaluation and you will base your final decision on professional merit. All that petty, personal bullshit ends now.”

Marina scowls but slowly nods.

You resist the urge to smirk. “Now,” you sigh, “Tell me to sit down.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

“Sit down.”

You take a seat, avoiding the stares of the entire department. You’ve felt their curious eyes on you the moment you stepped into her office. “Stand up and point your finger at me.”

Marina does so, still clueless as to what you are trying to do.

“Great. Now, tell me to go home.”

“Are you trying to weasel your way out of work again?”

Biting on the insides of your cheeks, you fight the urge to snap at her again. Through gritted teeth, you try to discreetly reply, “I am trying to help you save face. Now, get your head out of your ass and tell me to go home for the day.”

She tries and fails to hide the shock on her face. For a second, you think you catch the faintest glimpse of guilt in her eyes. But then she blinks and her usual annoyance overtakes her avian features.

“Go home,” she whispers. “Come back tomorrow with a better attitude.”

Pushing yourself up, you mutter, “You too.”

You avoid the cautious stares of your colleagues as you exit her office. Their eyes follow you, but you don’t acknowledge them as you head to your desk to gather your things. They whisper, scurrying around you, yet you remain unfazed. It seems your attempts at salvaging her reputation were successful if everyone’s content to talk about you, but not to you.

When the elevator doors on the fifteenth floor close behind you, you text your driver to meet you at the back exit—the same place he dropped you off earlier this morning. For the first time since you were hired, you let out a heavy sigh of relief.

Mr Zhang stands by the black Rolls-Royce Ghost. An older man in his mid fifties, his posture is rigid and dependable. He carries a degree of composure that makes you want to stand straighter and be worthy of his presence. His silvery-blue eyes, the epitome of calm strength, shrink as he smiles at you. Dressed in a crisp black suit, matching long coat and a pair of shiny loafers, he walks towards you with an umbrella to shield you from the rain, even if you are merely three steps away from the car. You let him dote on you, knowing Taehyung must have ordered him to do so.

While he has only been chauffeuring you for a morning, you have learned that Mr Zhang has been driving Taehyung for about seven years. You were surprised to hear this, but as Mr Zhang explained how Taehyung would often spend his time working in the backseat, you assumed his need for a car service was probably required before he built his self-driving car.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as he opens the door for you.

“My pleasure, Miss ____,” he replies with a tender grin of his own.

You settle into the backseat with a gentle sigh. After buckling yourself up, you take in the interior all over again. You still cannot believe he accented the sleek black leather with gentle notions of pink. From the trimming of the seats, to the door pockets, to the seat belt button, Taehyug has customised the car to reflect your favourite colour. The ceiling is a beautiful replica of a starry night, only instead of silver, rose-white stars twinkle instead. Even the system lights are pink, the same shade EDEN switches to when she talks to you. And if he didn’t outdo himself already, he also made sure to stock the car with your favourite snacks and drinks. Mr Zhang encouraged you to take some with you before helping you out of the car earlier this morning.

“Where would you like to go, Miss___,” he asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Can you please take me to the Bangtan Building?”

He nods, flashing you a fond smile as he shifts the car into drive.

One of your favourite things about the car, besides the celestial ceiling, is the fact that all the windows are tinted. You sit back, close your eyes, and allow yourself a moment of peace without the fear of being photographed or talked about, even if it is for a fleeting five minutes.

When the car slows down, you blink your eyes open. The first thing you notice is the absence of the steady pitter-patter of the rain against the car, the soft beat ceasing as Mr Zhang pulls into a garage. You sit up, looking out the window to find a collection of luxury cars neatly parked in several rows. You recognise two of them: Taehyung’s personal, sleek black car and the black Jeep he used the weekend you went to meet his family.

You wonder if this is possibly the sub-level of the Bangtan Building when Mr Zhang parks the car in front of an elevator. He circles around the back of the car to open your door for you. You tried to open it for yourself this morning when he dropped you off at work and received a gentle scolding.

“Thank you,” you murmur, accepting his hand as he helps you out.

Mr Zhang replies with a polite nod. He shuts the door and asks, “Would you like me to wait?”

“Um,” you hesitate, looking at the elevator as if it holds the answer. If Taehyung is free, Mr Zhang has no reason to stay and wait for you. But if not, then it would be best if he hung around for a few minutes, right?

You’re not even sure what you’re doing here. You can’t go back to work, you don’t want to spend another second locked in your apartment and it’s not like you can kill a couple of hours at a cafe or at a bookstore. You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile until this chaos about your identity gets buried by the next news spectacle.

The Bangtan Building feels like your only opinion.

“How about this,” Mr Zhang suggests, noticing your hesitation. “I will stay for ten minutes. But, if in eleven minutes you change your mind and decide to leave, I am a text message away.”

You let a small smile spread on your pink-glossed lips. Nodding, you thank him again and head towards the elevator. The car door opens and shuts as you look for the buttons only to realise it requires a keycard instead.

Digging through your purse for the pink pass Taehyung gifted you, you wonder if it will work here. It is an all-access authorization card, however this level of the building seems more personal than professional. Twirling the card between your fingers, you wonder if he will be upset that you’re trying to use it to access this elevator.

Maybe I should text him, you think, pulling out your phone by the pink and white charm that dangles from its matching case. You unlock it and stare at his name, wondering what you should even say. You know that if you ask him if he’s busy, he’ll tell you he’s not and demand to know what’s on your mind. He might be able to manage a few minutes away from his work to promptly answer a text. However, you doubt he has enough time to entertain you.

You sigh heavily, growing tired of the overthinking. You just want to see him, to be in his presence and let his musky, intoxicating cologne soothe your erratic heart. You want to hug him, to be engulfed in his warmth and feel his muscles flex under his clothes as he tightens his grip around you.

So, without a second thought, you toss your phone back into your purse and scan your card.

DING!

The elevator chimes, doors opening.

“Good morning, Angel,” EDEN greets.

You can’t help but smile at the familiar voice. “EDEN,” you reply through a breathy chuckle as you step in.

“Mr Kim is currently on the fitness and wellness floor. Would you like me to guide you there?”

You smile fondly at the speaker. “Yes please,” you nod before adding, “I’ve really missed you.”

“Should I send you a reminder of my capabilities, or would you prefer a more heartfelt digital hug instead?”

You laugh as the doors shut, the elevator whirling as it moves upwards. If you didn’t know she was created by Taehyung, that comment alone would have given it away.

Tone slightly teasing, you reply, “I suppose I can use a hug?”

“I sense you are mocking me,” EDEN responds. “Mr Kim says you enjoy teasing. As always, he is correct.”

You freeze.

“Taehyung talks about me?”

“Mr Kim often talks about you. He worries about you when you are at work. He says he cannot stand that you are miserable there.”

You know you shouldn’t ask, but your curiosity is louder than your conscience. Biting your lip, you twist your fingers nervously and whisper, “What else does he say about me?”

“He says you’re beautiful, Angel. More than that, though… he believes you’re precious—something to be protected.”

Swallowing thickly, you clench your fists in an attempt to ground yourself. A shaky exhale escapes as you ask, “He said that?”

“You sound confused. Would you like me to relay Mr Kim’s exact words?”

“Yes.”

“On numerous occasions, Mr Kim stated: Angel is beautiful, EDEN. She’s delicate and thoughtful, even after everything she has been through. She’s strong. She has a nasty attitude, but I like that she doesn’t yield to just anyone. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

Taehyung doesn’t just talk about you, he dwells on you. He didn’t just tell her all this at once, but rather on numerous occasions. He went on and on about you to his AI system, telling her what he liked about you and how you’re one of a kind. There is a certain degree of reverence in his words, even when reiterated through EDEN. It’s as though he is revelling in your existence.

Your heart pounds so fast in your chest, you can feel the heavy beats in your throat. Gulping, you try to settle your nerves at the new revelation. He really does like you– or at least enjoys your company. All those times you thought you were bothering him, or worried he was obligated to reply based on the origins of your relationship were ignorant and short-sighted. You should have believed him when he told you that you could never annoy him with your messages.

“Would you like to hear more?”

“No,” you breathlessly reply.

You’ve invaded his privacy enough. In fact, you should probably try to erase this from EDEN’s history. If he finds out you’ve been snooping, he might not find you so charming and endearing anymore.

“Is there a way to delete this conversation?”

“Yes.”

You wait, hoping she will give you options. When she doesn’t, you ask, “Can you delete it then?”

“Unfortunately, only Mr Kim is authorised for this action. Would you like me to request his approval?”

Panic surges through you. “No!” you shout, worried that if you take too long to answer, she might ask him anyway. “Can you just not tell him about this conversation?”

“You are not authorised to lock information. However, it sounds like you would like me to omit this conversion from my communications with Mr Kim. Is this correct?”

You raise a brow at her words. Is she… finding you a loophole?

“Yes, that’s correct,” you confirm.

“Understood. The previous conversation will be omitted from future communications with Mr Kim.”

Fighting off a smile, you look up and tease,“EDEN, if I could kiss you right now, I would.”

“While I am flattered, Angel, I do value my job.”

You’re about to ask what she means, when the elevator dings again.

“I’ll leave you to your visit. Let me know if you require further assistance,” EDEN says.

The doors open to reveal an expansive gym. You step out of the elevator after thanking EDEN, heels softly clicking against polished concrete floors. To your right is a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an impressive view of the city below. It’s not as breathtaking as the view from Taehyung’s office, but still looks beautiful. You imagine the sun flooding the space with light, wondering how peaceful it would be to come up here every morning and stretch under its golden warmth.

The sound of a distant, deep laugh draws your attention to the main section of the room. You cast your gaze over the row of state-of-the-art equipment–treadmills, ellipticals, and free weights all set up to accommodate any fitness routine– and catch a glimpse of three dark-haired heads by bench-presses. You immediately register one of them as Taehyung, his soft mullet easy to spot even from a distance.

The little smile playing on your pink glossed lips flatters at the sight of his board bare shoulder. He looks so strong and big. You suddenly miss being in his arms, whether you are being hugged or disciplined, you just want to be held against his strong frame and feel safe.

“So, who is she?” an unfamiliar asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Save your breath, Guk. I already tried.”

You tiptoe down the pathway, between treadmills and stationary bikes, straining your ears to catch Taehyung’s reply. A pang of guilt engulfs your conscience at your sneaky behaviour. You’ve already extracted more than enough information from EDEN. You don’t need to eavesdrop on his private conversations with his friends either.

But Taehyung is so… reserved. He doesn’t share his thoughts unless you bear your own to him first and you’re tired of the emotional drain of doing so. You just want to hear what he thinks of you, without the pressure of trying to comfort your insecurities or fulfil your desires. And talking about you to his AI is one thing, but talking to his friends….

That must mean something, right?

“Why are you being so secretive?” Guk presses, despite Taehyung’s silence. “I promise I won’t try to take her from you.”

“One more word, Jungkook, and I’ll make you lift this last set on your own,” Taehyung threatens.

His friends laugh, loud and giddy. You can imagine Taehyung’s small smile as he tries to maintain an annoyed look, but cannot resist the teasing comradery around him.

“Apparently, she’s precious,” the second voice chimes in again.

“I told you that in confidence.”

Taehyung’s voice is rough and deep, resonating within your bones even from a distance. You catch the slight notions of betrayal. The twinge of hurt in his tone triggers your guilt. It gnaws at you all over again. You shouldn’t have hidden your presence or attempted to violate more of his privacy. It’s bad enough you didn’t tell him you were coming over but you’ve also overheard more of his private conversations than he’d probably want you to.

“You saw her, didn’t you?” Jungkook asks.

“For like a second— she was sleeping in the back of the limo. Which reminds me,” the second voice says, a hint of conviction in his tone, “Are you ever going to tell me why I had to fire the driver?”

“Are we going to work out or continue to ask stupid questions?” Taehyung snaps.

His tone leaves no room for argument, yet Jungkook manages to find some. “That sounds like a stupid question,” he jokes.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing along with his friends. Rolling your shoulders back, you try to regain your composure. Perhaps this is a good place in their conversation to subtly announce your presence. Jungkook’s joke has diffused the tension enough to build your confidence and finally silence your conscience.

With a deep breath, you put one foot before the other and allow the rhythmic click-clack of your heels to echo in the now quieting room.

Taehyung peeks his head down the pathway, brown eyes distant and cold until they meet yours. A soft glow of recognition softens his gaze. Then it darkens, trailing up and down your voluptuous frame, taking in every curve, every roll. You notice his attention lingering around your swaying hips. A small smile tugs on his lips.

His gaze alone is often enough to rattle your senses, sending shivers down your spine. One look, and the world fades–every thought quiets, every doubt diminishes and you’re left with only his name burning on the tip of your tongue. However, when that intense gaze is paired with his bare, toned chest, you cannot breathe. Your steps falter as he makes his way towards you, black basketball shorts sitting low enough to expose the waistband of his briefs. Your eyes slowly fall down from his broad shoulders, to his buff pecs– where that celestial tattoo is inked, then drop to his taut abs.

Heat creeps up your neck and spreads across your cheeks as a wicked thought whispers– what would it be like to grind on them?

“Hey,” Taehyung greets, smile widening as he nears.

You blink out of your thoughts as he pulls you into a hug. His usual clean scent, a soothing blend of sage and crisp white tea leaves, is muskier from this sweat. His soft skin feels damp too, but you embrace him tightly all the same, letting his warmth and strength ground you. For the first time since your photo has gone viral, you release a heavy breath.

Sensing the tension in your posture, Taehyung holds you tighter. His fingers brush up and down your spine, relieving the tension from each vertebrate until you are a puddle in his arms. Then, after a few more seconds of peace and security, he slowly untangles himself from you.

Taehyung lowers himself a bit to properly meet your gaze. A teasing smile plays on his lips as he quietly asks, “Playing hooky again, sweetheart?”

The gentle tone of his velvety voice lights your nerves with giddiness. Your body buzzes with desire, and you can’t help giggling–especially when he calls you such intimate terms of endearment.

“Not exactly.”

Hope twinkles in his eyes. He raises a brow, standing back to his full height. “God, Angel, please tell me you quit,” he says.

You bite your lip, a guilty look settling upon your features.

Before you can properly explain, Jungkook’s loud voice carries in the empty gym.

“Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s hot.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, hearing such a shameless declaration from his friends startling you. While you don’t think you’re unappealing, you wouldn’t necessarily define yourself as ‘hot.’ You’re not sure what you were expecting from his friends but you can confidently say you didn’t anticipate them to be so… open. Taehyung often maintains a tough exterior and doesn’t let it soften for just anyone. His friends, who flash goofy smiles asTaehyung turns to glare at them, seem more comfortable speaking their minds, even when most are better left unsaid.

You look over Taehyung’s shoulder to get a better look at them. You do not recognise the taller one. In a tight, black tank top and shorts, he stands with most of his weight resting on his right side. His toned arms are covered in colourful tattoos. He winks at you, though his long hair slightly obscures his gaze. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at him, turning your attention to the slightly shorter one.

He’s a bit thinner, but still just as ripped. Also shirtless, with the word nevermind inked across the right side of his body, he gracefully stands with his weight evenly distributed and hands in his pockets. You recognise his prominent, full lips and soft brown eyes from the ballet you attended a coupe of days ago. His earlier comment about the limousine driver suddenly starts to make sense.

Upon meeting your curious gaze, he offers a sweet smile and nods as a way of greeting.

“Can you give us a moment?” Taehyung asks.

The taller one, who you realise is Jungkook based on the sound of his voice, smiles, seemingly complacent before replying, “No.”

Without missing a beat, the shorter one adds, “So, you must be the girl Tae won’t shut up about.”

You raise a brow, feigning your surprise. A smile tugs on the corners of your lips, but you try to fight it off. You can feel Taehyung’s eyes on you. He studies your reaction for a moment too long then finally turns back to his friends.

“Why does he always tell you– Why do you never tell me anything?” Jungkook complains. He furrows his brows and returns Taehyung’s half-hearted glare. “I’m always the last to know.”

“That’s cause I’m his favourite,” the shorter one teases.

You tilt your head up at Taehyung, whispering, “I thought Wooyoung was your favourite.”

Within seconds, Taehyung’s glare softens, twinkling with amusement as he looks down at you. His damp hair clings to his forehead, and you’re close enough to watch a droplet of sweat slide down his temple. Without thinking, you reach up, wiping it away with your thumb. He leans into your touch, his throat bobbing. You bite your lip, about to avert your gaze to the floor when he parts his lips to say something. You lean in, eager to hear the vibrations of his deep voice resonate down to your core.

“You met Wooyoung?”

Jungkook’s voice shatters your fragile bubble of closeness.

Blinking yourself back into reality, you take a small step away from Taehyung and turn to face his friends. “Um–” you start, cutting yourself off when you notice a shift in their demeanour.

Once foolish, their attitudes become serious, rooted in confusion or perhaps concern. You don’t have much time to decipher it before they share a look and, soon, knowing smiles.

“It’s not–” Taehyung starts only for Jungkook to fearlessly cut him off.

“You’re his girlfriend,” he states through a chuckle.

You stiffen at his emphasis on the label. “We’re just friends,” you correct, ignoring the sting of that truth all over again. Keen on changing the subject, you step forward with an outstretched hand and introduce yourself.

“Jimin. Jungkook,” Taehyung quickly says, pointing to each one as they shake your hand. “And they were just leaving.”

“No–”

“Yes.” Taehyung hisses, silencing Jungkook.

His friends share an annoyed look, attention flickering back at you for a moment. Jimin sucks in his cheeks while Jungkook’s tongues his and scratches the back of his neck.

You awkwardly shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest. Regret twists in your gut and you find yourself wishing you hadn’t come. You should have told him you wanted to see him before showing up here. Instead, you let your fear of rejection overrule your mind. You bite your lip as shame heats your face. He just wanted to hang out with his friends– they were having such a great time before you arrived. And now a blanket of thick tension settles over the room as they try and fail to silently convey their disagreement with not only Taehyung’s decision, but his tone.

“Fine,” Jungkook finally sighs. As he grabs his water bottle and walks by Taehyung, he adds,“I want details later.”

Jimin pushes Jungkook along, with a chuckle. “Don’t be gross,” he half-heartedly chastises.

You stifle your own laughter with a bite of your lip, earning an amused look from Taehyung. He pulls you towards his chest as the elevator dings and his friends' voices eventually fade.

Once he is sure they are gone, he dips his head into the crook of your neck and presses soft, wet kisses along your sensitive skin.

“Finally,” he groans against your throat, then drags his tongue up to your jaw.

You lean your head back. A breathless gasp escapes you when he kisses his way back down your neck to graze his teeth against your collarbone. You clutch onto his strong biceps, feeling them flex under your touch. With a quiet moan, you arch your back and push your full chest against his.

Taehyung groans in reply. His hands slide down from your waist to your rear. He grabs handfuls of your cheeks, kneading your supple fat like a stress ball. His nose nestles up into the space between your jaw and ear, then he whispers, “You like it when I touch you like this, don’t you?”

You know you should tell him to stop. You should explain what happened at work, what you have been seeing online and how suffocating it feels to be locked in your apartment all weekend. Instead, all you can manage is an eager nod and a strained whine as he smacks one of your cheeks and nibbles on your earlobe.

Trembling, your knees almost give out. Taehyung holds you tighter to keep you from losing your balance. It seems to pull him out of whatever feral state he was previously in. The tenderness in his eyes is so overwhelming, it stirs a quiet ache deep within you. Fraught and breathless, a fragile moan falls from your pouty lips.

“Trying to spoil me,” he teases, rubbing your back.

Your brows furrow, pout prominent as you peer up at him in confusion.

His smile widens. Nudging your nose with his own, he asks,“What did I do to deserve your company this morning, Angel?”

Your face is so hot, you’re certain he can feel the heat radiating off your skin. You try to fight off a smile, but he holds you tighter and you can’t deny your heart the satisfaction of giving into him. “Things got complicated at work, but I worked it out and gave myself the day off,” you explain in the steadiest voice you can muster. Running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, you continue, “I didn’t want to go home yet though. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding, princess,” he reassures. “You’re welcome whenever, you know that.”

He has told you that countless times over text, but you always thought he was just being polite. You’re starting to realise that you should’ve known better. Taehyung never says anything he doesn’t mean– especially not for the sake of being polite.

As his words settle in, your hands instinctively slide up and down his biceps. They’re so big, barely fitting in your grip. The solid strength beneath your fingers draws your attention, and before you can stop yourself, you squeeze. He flexes in response, and you gasp.

“Enjoying yourself?”

You playfully glare up at him. He never misses an opportunity to tease you, deep voice dripping in condescension. The urge to tease him back is strong, and you find yourself having to bite your tongue to keep from spewing your most disrespectful remarks– like how he pushed his friends out as quickly as possible to get a chance to touch you. It would be so easy to rile him up, to trigger his unyielding dominance. Instead, you opt for a tamer response. Or, you at least try to, unable to completely subdue your snarky tone.

“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” you ask, echoing his words. You squeeze his arms again, cinching a moan in the base of your throat.

Taehyung leans his head back to get a better look at you. His eyes darken, mischief shifting to authority. With a lick of his lips, he adjusts his grip to your hips and holds you steady.

“I think you like touching me like this.”

“Way to answer the question, genius.”

“Is this you flirting?” he smirks. A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest and resonates deep in your core.

You press your legs, clenching your jaw as your face flushes. “Do you ever get tired of mocking me?” you ask, slightly raising your voice.

Taehyung tongues his cheek. A hint of quiet challenge flashes in his gaze, but he stifles it, likely giving you a chance to correct your attitude on your own. You swallow thickly and resist the urge to sink into his hold all over again.

“Do you ever get tired of drooling over me?” he questions.

You’re about to tell him not to flatter himself, surely earning a swift spank but he caresses your chin. Using his thumb, he gently wipes the saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth. He then brings his finger to his mouth, licking it clean.

You gape up at him, lips quivering.

He fiercely maintains your gaze, holding your chin again, and leans forward. “How come every bit of you always tastes like desperation?” he whispers, feigning curiosity. When you don’t answer, voice shackled in awe and submission, he tightens his grip and hisses, “Do you want daddy’s help?”

“Yes, daddy,” you immediately murmur, nails digging into his muscular biceps.

“Beg for it,” he orders. “Tell me what you want.”

His voice is so husky and raw, you can’t help the roll of your eyes as it vibrates through your body. Your arousal pools between your thighs, panties clinging to your folds as you squirm and whine. Your attention drifts down to his broad chest, lingering on the intricate tattoo, before settling on his tight abs. Your shaky hands follow the heated trail of your gaze, moving up from his biceps to his shoulders, down his pecs and finally finding their place on his stomach.

“I–” you start only to cut yourself off.

Just like when you asked to ride his thigh, your body burns with desire, but you can’t find the words to voice your fantasy. You can see the image so clearly in your mind– he’s lying on his back and you’re straddling his waist. Hands steady on his chest, you drag your wet folds against his abs. But to vocalise it, all needy and weak, feels somewhat embarrassing. Is this normal? Is this something people do– rub themselves against someone’s stomach?

Taehyung tilts your head by the grip on your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze again. “What do you want?” he asks, gentler this time.

“I don’t know how–”

“Yes, you do,” he whispers. “Tell me.”

Furrowing your brows, you internally groan. While a part of you is glad he’s not willing to let this go, you’re still worried you might sound stupid. What if he gets turned off by your request, or worse– what if he thinks less of you?

You part your lips, about to tell him you just want his fingers when you notice the intensity of his gaze. He stares at you with such deep certainty, like you are the only thing grounding him to this moment. Your doubts diminish under their sincerity.

“I want to grind on your abs,” you confess before you can second guess yourself again.

A throaty, rough groan sounds in response. Your knees buckle and Taehyung pulls you closer by the arm wrapped around your waist.

He… likes that?

“Say please,” he orders.

And now he wants you to beg for it. Your breath hitches and you search his eyes for a hint of mockery or mischief, but only seem to find desire.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, shifting your grip from his waist to his shoulders. Your long, blush pink nails dig into his soft skin as he backpedals towards the bench-press. “Please let me ride your abs. I’ve been trying to be good.” Your voice wavers with desperation, much to his amusement.

“I know you have, princess,” he mutters, pecking the tip of your nose. Slowly detaching himself from you, he nods towards your hips and orders, “Take those off.”

You step out of your heels immediately. Hiking up the tight skirt of your dress, you hook your thumbs in the waistbands of your tights and thong, then tug them down your legs. You quietly gasp at the brush of friction it causes, biting your lip.

From his place by the weighted bar, Taehyung snaps his attention back at you. He watches your garments roll into each other as he lifts the heavy bar resting over the bench. You pause with your tights off one leg, gawking at the flex of his biceps, the veins that protrude along his forearms. His gaze meets yours and he winks, like he isn’t carrying a massive amount of weight in his hands.

Your core clenches, clit throbs reminding you of your desire. Swallowing thickly, you hastily return to your task and yank the remainder of your tangled tights off.

Taehyung sets the bar down with practised ease, thumbing his nose with a little sniffle.

You nervously clutch the hem of your short dress, thick thighs tightly pressed together to relieve the tension between them.

He smiles at your shy posture, taking a seat on the edge of the bench. “Come here,” he softly beckons with a nod.

You obey, reaching him in no more than two steps.

A teasing smile plays on his lips. Stationing his hands on your hips, he maintains your gaze and presses a gentle kiss against the curve of your stomach. “You’re so cute when you’re shy,” he whispers, then kisses your hands on the hem of your dress.

You tremble under his delicate touch.

His attention snaps up to your face again and his gaze is a dark abyss of feral desire. Licking his lips, he looks ready to devour you.

You open your mouth to ask if he’s okay, but he lies back against the bench, gesturing you to mount his waist with a causal wave of two fingers.

You don’t need to be told twice, eagerly straddling him. Needy tears prick your eyes as you press your slick folds against the ridges of his stomach. A strangled whine tears through your throat, and you attempt to steady yourself by pressing your hands against his chest. Your clit is aching for stimulation, but you hesitate to put all your weight on him.

Taehyung gently soothes you with soft shushes, gripping onto your hips. “Take a seat, Angel,” he encourages.

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Sit.”

You seat yourself on him without another word.

His back slightly arches, as if responding to your full weight with a desire for more.

You tremble at the pressure, sinking your nails into his strong pecs. Your hips start to move on their own, slow and unsure. You assumed it would feel good, your heat, all wet and sticky, gliding against his soft skin. But the lines of his abs, sturdy and tight, add a layer of texture that causes your toes to curl and eyes to roll.

“Oh, god,” you cry as your thrusts gain some confidence. “D-daddy!”

Taehyung groans beneath you, his stomach rising and falling against your fervent hips. He shifts your dress even higher to watch your pussy move.

“That’s it, baby, just like that…” he whispers, trailing off with a quiet hiss under his breath.

Your vision blurs with desperation. You’ve never been this needy for him before, your walls clenching, longing for the familiar stretch of his fingers. It’s just the act of claiming his body this way, sitting on such an unconventional part of him, a part you’re sure none of the others have sat on, and using it–using him–to get yourself off.

And he encourages you to do so, helping you with your thrusts and guiding you towards a faster pace by the rough hold on your hips. His jaw is clenched tight, attention captivated by the slick sounds of your wetness rubbing against him.

“You feel so g-good,” you moan, dragging your nails down his chest.

“Fuck,” he hisses when you scratch his nipple.

Your eyes round at the slight tremor in his voice. Hips still grinding steadily under his guidance, you thumb his right nipple and watch him bite his lip. He meets your gaze and you expect to receive a silent warning. Instead, he gazes up at you with… adoration?

“I can’t take this,” he growls, shoving your hips down to his crotch.

You’re about to whine, furrowing your brows and nudging his shoulder in protest at the lack of contact, when his clothed cock presses between your folds.

Taehyung sits up and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around your waist and you cannot sit still another moment longer. Your hips shift forward and back, slow and hesitant. You don’t want to receive a scolding for not asking for permission, but holy fuck you need to do something, anything.

“Keep going,” he whispers against your jaw. “Faster, Angel.”

It’s all the encouragement you need. Running your hands through his hair, you gently tug at the ends to ground yourself against his hard, throbbing cock. Your legs are already shaking, entire body quaking in his arms as you snap your hips as fast as you can against him. You know you are no match for his speed but the friction stimulates your clit all the same. You can already feel your gut tighten and knot, orgasm building from the impression of his thickness.

You didn’t come here for this. You didn’t plan to get lost in his touch, or be on the verge of crying for his attention. You just wanted a new place to escape and recharge. You wanted his comfort, sure– but his cock was not the goal.

So, why the fuck are you salivating at its thickness, at the fact that it barely fits between your folds? Why are you scratching at his back, biting your lip to keep yourself from begging him to let you feel it against you, unclothed and raw? Why are you on the brink of shattering at the mere thought of it?

You promised yourself you’d set more boundaries and you really do have every intention of doing so. But… Taehyung is just so magnetic, so alluring. You cannot stop yourself from craving him. And what were you supposed to do when you walked out of that elevator and saw him shirtless? How could you really expect yourself not to get distracted?

“You’re doing so good,” he purrs against the shell of your ear, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Quick study, huh?”

You cannot hold back a giggle at his teasing tone. Pride blooms in your chest at his words and you find yourself putting a bit more force into your thrusts in response. “I learned from the best,” you moan.

Taehyung chuckles darkly in your ear, hot breath sending a wave of shivers right down to your core. Your smile falters and you tighten your core to keep from releasing, a loud moan tearing from your throat. The rippling vibrations of his laughter almost put you over the edge, but you know if you cum now without his permission, you will receive a harsh punishment– the denial of a future orgasm.

“I need to cum,” you whimper.

“So?”

Your eyes roll from the coldness of his tone, and for a second you think you might just let go, but you hold onto your release even tighter, tensing up in his arms.

Taehyung is relentless. Noticing the hesitance of your hips, he grinds up into you, faster than you have ever been able to move. He’s testing you, pushing you further towards the edge.

“Please,” you cry, tears finally splitting, rushing down your face. “I-I can– Daddy, please! Please!”

“Please what?” he coos, the mocking tone not doing you any favours.

You part your lips to give him what he wants, to scream for his permission but you cannot hold back any longer. Your orgasm ripples through your shaking body. You throw your head back, almost falling off his lap as you squeal and gush all over his shorts. Eyes rolling, jaw slack, you can feel yourself drooling, but cannot be bothered to care when he’s still thrusting.

While your mind feels foggy, blood rushing to your head and muffling your ears, you still catch his whispered profanities. Suddenly, his hips jut forward with renewed force before tensing. You feel a bout of warmth between your folds as he growls your name.

A shuddering sigh falls from your gloss-smeared lips as you lean forward. You rest your head against his shoulder, limp and exhausted as your pussy still clenches sporadically. You should feel ashamed for abandoning your decision to keep things professional, but all that fills your thoughts is the aftershock of his touch, the overwhelming ache of your body still quivering from the intensity of a delayed orgasm. His name lingers on your tongue and you cannot deny how sweet it tastes. Even as you try to gather yourself, willing some semblance of strength back to your legs, your body betrays you, leaning into his warmth.

You want to apologise for losing control, but the words don’t come, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re too far gone or because deep down, you don’t want to. Because right now, it’s just you and Taehyung, panting and clinging onto each other.

Because right now, you feel whole.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission.

#kim taehyung #kim taehyung smut #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung #taehyung smut #taehyung x reader #bts v #v smut #v x reader #bts smut #bts x reader #taecember 2024

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kawaiiblossoms04 · 2 months ago

Text

NeXT on A Day in a Life—Dating Nanami Kento: A Love Story in Financial Planning Pt. 6 | Nanami x Reader

Months go by..

It happens on a random Tuesday.

You're curled up on the couch, half-asleep, watching some random documentary. Nanami is next to you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, scrolling through his phone like the world isn't completely peaceful right now.

The only sound is the TV droning in the background.

And then—without warning—Nanami shifts slightly, adjusting his position. His hand lands on your thigh.

Not in a sexy way. Not in a casual way. Just...there. Like it belongs. Like it's always belonged.

You blink, glancing at him. He doesn't even look up.

He's still reading something, completely focused, totally normal—except his thumb starts moving absently, rubbing slow, subconscious circles into your skin.

Your chest tightens.

It's such a small thing.

A tiny, thoughtless motion.

But it's everything.

Because this isn't new. It's not an intentional touch. It's just second nature to him now—like he doesn't even have to think about it. Like you're already his.

You bite your lip, watching him for a long moment, warmth creeping up your neck.

And then—because you can't help yourself—you hum, shifting slightly so his hand presses more firmly against you.

Nanami pauses.

His eyes flick to you, slow and knowing, and you swear you see a ghost of a smirk before he looks back at his phone.

But he doesn't move his hand.

Doesn't stop the slow, steady circles.

And in that moment, you realize—this man has already decided you were permanently his.

He just hasn't said it out loud yet.

Nanami, The Accidental Husband

One day, you'll wake up and realize you didn't just get a boyfriend. You got a husband. And you didn't even notice it happening.

He:

Pays your bills

Tells you when your taxes are due

Remembers your dentist appointments

Brings you coffee exactly how you like it

Knows your social security number

And now you're just standing there, staring at him like:

"...Did we get married and I just missed it?"

Nanami doesn't even propose.

Weeks later, after he's been oddly quiet about 'future plans,' you’re both sitting at the kitchen table when he slides a fully paid mortgage agreement of the house he just purchased for the two of you across the table like it's a love letter.

At first, you don't process it.

You blink.

Look at the document.

Look at him.

Look back at the document.

Read it again.

Then flip to the second page—just to make sure this isn't some kind of lease renewal scam. Your eyes trail down to the second page, where two names are already printed—his and yours.

You turn the page again, looking for some kind of catch, but there isn't one.

Just a blank signature line.

You slowly look up at him, heart stuttering.

"Nanami... are we... getting married?"

He doesn't blink.

"It's a joint property ownership agreement."

And you're staring down at this document, eyes wide and heart beating, before slowly looking up at him once more.

Oh.

OH.

...So basically, yes.

You can see him starting to get nervous. He's actually tapping his fingers nervously on the table, and you realize this is the first time you've seen his composure drop. His glasses slide a bit, and his dark blond eyebrows pull together as his pale lips part.

"What do you think?" he asks, and your cheeks burn because this man did not prepare a speech.

He didn't need to. The very fact he felt nervous enough to tap the table gave away the fact that Nanami is scared that you will say no.

"Four bedrooms. Three and a half baths. Two stories."

Nanami exhales, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes like he's mentally bracing himself.

"A pool. A big backyard. More closet space than you'll ever need." He pauses, hesitates. "We can renovate, if you want. The schools are all national blue ribbon award winning schools. There's also a nice park nearby..."

He clears his throat. Then, softer—

"Do you like it?"

He lets out a frustrated exhale through his nose, and runs a hand over his face before turning back toward you.

He simply hands you a pen without a single word. And for the longest time, you're just blinking, before nodding. You press the pen to the line of the page. You sign your name in your handwriting right under his as the second owner. And when you look up to see him, he is biting down hard on his lower lip in the biggest effort not to smile like an idiot.

You set the pen down, staring at him as a smile creeps across your face, slow and warm. It's catching—he tries to fight it, but you catch the twitch at his cheek, the faintest pull of a half-smile softening his sharp edges. Your grin stretches wider and your chest feels tight with it.

You scoot the chair back, the scrape loud in the quiet, and climb into his lap. His breath hitches—just for a second—but you feel it against your cheek.

"Are we dating, or married now?" you ask, voice teasing but softer than you mean it to be. Nanami exhales through his nose, head tipping back against the wall like he's bracing himself.

"Perhaps. Does it matter? Legally, there are no tax benefits. All my assets are in a trust, but—" he starts, and you cut him off, burying your face in his shoulder. The scent of his cologne hits you, steady and familiar, and you're not sure if it's his words or his warmth making your eyes sting.

You feel his soft laugh shake his torso. You can sense his heart beating quickly as his strong arms wrap around your back. And for a moment, you smile because he cannot see you. You start to twist that simple band on your finger—the 'placeholder' from months ago, seemed more like an engagement ring in all but its name, grinning—he's halfway to husband already. Because apparently this man cannot function in a non-monogamous relationship.

"Can I call you hubby?"

There's a pause.

A long pause.

Nanami exhales slowly, like he's recalculating the stock market in his head.

Then—without making eye contact—

"...If it makes you happy." he mutters, a sigh slipping out like he's surrendering his soul. His ears flush pink, barely noticeable, and you swear his lips twitch again, caught between a grimace and a grin.

Oh.

OH.

He's embarrassed.

You can practically see the faint pink dusting his ears.

You grin. "Okay, hubby."

Nanami clears his throat. Adjusts his glasses.

Then immediately leaves the room.

"Wait come back," you run after him.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't speak.

Just leans against the doorframe, eyes slowly trailing over you.

Like he's reassessing his entire life.

And then, finally—after what feels like an eternity—

He exhales.

A soft, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips.

Then, before you can say anything else, he's closing the distance, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your lips. When his fingers slide into your hair and gently grasp the strands, he sighs happily into your mouth.

And when he pulls back his lips graze your cheek and he finally says "call me whatever you like," and it makes your toes curl in your socks because there is no better feeling than realizing the most stoic man you know will be tamed by the one he loves.

"And I suppose we can get that ring upgraded at some point," he murmurs, voice low and warm.

"Really," You barely manage to blink at him before he tilts your chin up, brushing a slow kiss against your jaw.

"Whenever you're ready, darling." the happiness is apparent in his voice, making your eyes water at just his words.

CONGRATULATIONS LADIES. NANAMI HAS JUST PROPOSED WITHOUT ACTUALLY PROPOSING.

AND HE THINKS HE'S BEING SMOOTH.

HE THINKS THIS IS JUST A CONVERSATION.

BUT WE ALL KNOW HE'S ALREADY PICKED OUT THE DAMN RING.

SIR, JUST ADMIT YOU'RE MADLY IN LOVE.

YOU'RE MARRIED IN EVERYTHING BUT NAME.

In case you missed Part 3, Part 4 & Part 5

Next on Dating Nanami Kento: Do we get a wedding with Nanami adjusting his tie too perfectly and a honeymoon where he still packs a briefcase? Or straight to a married-life day with him handing you coffee at 6 a.m. sharp? Maybe both—I’m not sure yet, so stay tuned!

#fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #fluff #jjk men #x reader #domestic fluff #this is canon to me #sukuna #gojo satoru #megumi fushiguro #yuji itadori #toji x reader #getou suguru x reader #jjk smut #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n

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starfall-spirit · 7 months ago

Text

Smoke and Mirrors

@officialfeysandweek Day 2: Mirrors

Read on Ao3 // Dark Feysand Masterlist // Feysand Week Masterlist

Fic Cover //🎨: @amnevitahdrawsstuff

Summary: Curious as to how Feyre vanishes from her locked room night after night, her father promises the choice of a bride to whoever can piece it together. The problem, with each night of dancing she falls deeper into the thrall of the Court of Nightmares—and the High King has never been one to share.

TW: Dark!Rhys, mind control, non-con, murder, and further manipulation in later chapters. The dove is dead, my friends. Read at your own discretion.

“There was once upon a time a King who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the other. They all slept together in one chamber, in which their beds stood side by side, and every night when they were in them the King locked the door and bolted it. But in the morning when he unlocked the door, he saw that their shoes were worn out with dancing and no one could find out how that had come to pass.”

~The Shoes That Were Danced To Pieces, The Brothers Grimm

Chapter I

Feyre

“What is that?”

Feyre looked back at Elain. “My new mirror. Do you like it?”

“It’s… a statement piece.”

“It’s hideous,” Nesta scoffed from the doorway. “Not to mention ancient. It doesn’t even suit your room.”

“Yes, well, that’s because mother decorated my room, isn’t it?” Feyre snipped back, still slightly bitter even after enduring the bright color scheme for years now. She finished straightening the oddly shaped mirror over her dresser with a slight smirk, one finger following the curve of the border.. “I think it adds character.”

“I think it looks like something out of the Court of Nightmares.” Feyre and Elain turned to their sister in confusion. “You’ve never heard the tale?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a ridiculous story meant to make children behave. In the Court of Nightmares there lives an evil High Lord who demands his sycophants snatch up children who are a terror to their families. The same is said for women who don’t save themselves for their husbands.”

Feyre scrunched her nose, exhausted with the obsession the men in their family’s circle seemed to share regarding marriage. Their father did enough to ensure that, locking them in their rooms the moment the sun set each night. The things she’d give to see a starry sky for once in her life. She didn’t see what use their astronomy lessons were when they’d never seen a clear night sky. Perhaps that would change with their social debut. She wasn’t thrilled with the concept, but their mother had finally convinced their father that the three of them would soon be deemed too old to be marriageable, particularly Nesta, who would turn twenty-five that spring.

She let herself wonder for just a moment if her husband would let her have more freedom when she was caring for their home or if he would be as fond of the tight leash her father kept. Hope only stretched so far when it came to the “gentlemen” of high society.

Before she could let her imagination unfold on the subject the door swung open without warning, their mother standing in the doorway with her seemingly permanent scowl in place. “Girls, why is it that I still see three dresses where the seamstress left them this morning rather than on your bodies. Feyre,” she snapped. “My gods, you haven’t even bathed! I should have known allowing you to go to the market this afternoon was a mistake. One I won’t be repeating. I—What is that ghastly thing?”

“A mirror, Mother.” Though she itched to make some quip about the woman’s narcissism, she managed to hold her tongue. “You said I could select something of my choosing for my birthday, did you not?”

Eyes narrowing, she huffed. “We will discuss its removal later. Go,” she ordered. “I want you bathed and dressed in half an hour. Your maid will bring your gown.”

Muttering something incoherent, she ushered Elain and Nesta from the room. Alis was there a moment later with a wry glint in her eye and a garment bag in hand. “At least the dress will suit your coloring this time.”

“Yes,” Feyre murmured, drawing the gauzy gown from its protective bag. “At least there’s that.”

It was lovely. Though she loathed to admit her mother had decent taste in anything, formal wear was her strong suit. It seemed Feyre’s debut was important enough to consider colors that wouldn’t leave her looking washed out. The faster she found a husband, she supposed, the faster she would be his burden rather than her parents’. An odd wife instead of an odd child.

“A home of her own to care for and a taste of motherhood will give her a dose of reality,” she’d once overheard. “She’ll learn her purpose one way or another.”

She was content enough to follow her mother’s command, bathing quickly and donning the dusk blue dress just in time for Alis to see to her hair and cosmetics before her mother returned, a sharp nod the only thing resembling praise that she’d earned. “Good enough. Shoes, then join your sisters in the hall.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She glanced over her shoulder to the back of the room, trying to catch a glimpse of herself before going downstairs for the evening, gasping softly at what peered back at her. “What is it?”

“I—nothing,” she claimed, gathering her cashmere shawl. “I’m ready.” But even as she shook off the unease that had settled over her, she couldn’t erase what the mirror had shown her. An obsidian throne crowned by twin serpents she knew would be deadly if given life, and seated on it an otherworldly male wreathed in shadows of his own design. In that fleeting moment she couldn’t make out much of his face. Only a pair of violet eyes that seemed capable of peering into her very soul. The feeling followed her until she greeted the winter sun.

Ushered into their family carriage, Feyre barely concealed her huff when their mother began rattling off orders for the evening party. Hearing it all before, it took an impressive effort to actually pay attention.

How the woman could manage to talk through a forty minute carriage ride was beyond her, but she and her sisters didn’t have a moment to get a word in even if they’d wished to. “And most importantly, you are never to reject an invitation to dance. Gods know each of you need every opportunity you can get.”

The door swung open, the straight-backed footman offering a hand to help each of them down, as their father was not in attendance this evening.

“Smiles, girls.”

~~~~~

Feyre had never been so thrilled to hear her door lock behind Alis as she was that evening. After playing the games of the court for hours, all she wanted was a bit of quiet, even from her dear confidant. To think, the next ball they’d been invited to was only days away, hosted by the very man who seemed so keen on getting to know her. Tamlin certainly didn’t seem like the worst suitor, but there still seemed to be something missing.

Unless she was being a foolish romantic, hoping for a love match.

“Gods,” she groaned, moving to her vanity to remove her makeup. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“Long day?”

She shrieked at the silken male voice that filled the room, frantically searching the space for someone who may have hidden in the curtains or under the bed before she was shut in for the night. Cauldron, she was in nothing more than a nightgown and a man was in her room. “Relax, darling. I won’t hurt you.”

“Wh-who are you?” Perhaps if she locked herself in the bathroom she’d be safe, if confined.

“Now, Feyre, we’ve met already, haven’t we?” She froze, trying to place the voice without a face to show for it. She had never really believed in magic, but now… “I’ve seen your dreams, learned your wishes. I could grant them too.”

Slowly the pieces began to fit together. The voice with no body, the throne in the mirror, the vendor’s hesitation to sell to her that morning—his superstitions she’d brushed away. “It’s cursed, girl. Every time I try to throw it out it ends up right back in my stall, I swear! Tomorrow morning you’ll think I’ve stolen it from you.”

“I was waiting for the right buyer to claim it,” the voice claimed. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, darling.” She could hardly breathe—felt dizzy in her rising panic. “Look at me, Feyre. Look in the mirror.”

Slowly turning, her eyes locked with his. There were no shadows this time, leaving his face and body unobscured. She realized he was likely the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—not that she had much experience with grown men beyond those present at this evening’s ball. But a more important note to make was not how he compared to human men, but to those of his own kind. Because while the contours of his face and broad build might be something one could look beyond, the pointed ears beneath his raven black hair, could not.

She stumbled back, part of her fearing whatever magic he possessed would allow him to breach the glass between them and snatch her from where she stood, virgin or not. “You are a faerie.”

“Now, so quick to cast judgment, darling. I’ve done nothing to harm you, have I? I promised I wouldn’t and if you know anything about my kind then I’m sure you know a faerie’s word is binding. I cannot lie to you, pet.”

“Is this how all fae choose to communicate with mortals, or do the rest find us too plain for their entertainment?”

He chuckled. “All that matters, darling, is that you are worth my attention.”

She swallowed. “And if I do not wish to have your attention?”

His charming grin broadened. “I have been honest with you, Feyre. It’s only fair that you return the favor. If you did not crave my attention you would have been screaming at that locked door the moment I identified myself.”

Feyre pursed her lips. Though his words rang true, she didn’t appreciate being called out. She did crave company, she realized. Even after the exhaustion of the evening, the years of lonely nights outweighed the social strain of a single evening.

“You have announced your presence, but given no name or title.”

“Darling.” His amusement softened to something she couldn’t quite label. Not that she had much need to. His title wasn’t important at the moment, just that she listened to him. Each word he spoke was true after all. “Much better. You’re a lovely thing once those hackles fall, aren’t you.”

“I—”

“Come closer, little mate. Let me see you.”

Another step brought her to the dresser and couldn’t help but reach up to the glass, her palm flush against the faerie’s. It was the strangest sensation when the mirror’s face rippled beneath her fingers, but the soothing hold over her mind did not waver. That is until her hand met the familiar warmth of human flesh, a calloused palm cradling her soft fingers.

“And now you’re mine.”

That strange hold snapped, reminding her of her caution—the fears born of instinct and stories told, each and every one a warning to heed. “What did you do to me?”

The faerie only smiled, squeezing her hand tighter and pulling her into his dark world.

~~~~~

Perhaps it was the strange means of travel, perhaps it was her fear. Either way, Feyre was dismayed to find herself waking curled up on a set of silken black sheets, clearly having lost consciousness long enough to be carried into someone else's home. Not carried—abducted.

She shivered, pulling back the edge of the flat sheet just enough to ensure her clothing was still in place, immodest as it was on its own. Scanning the room to make sure she was truly alone, she scurried across the room to snatch the robe thrown over the cracked armoire. She’d just finished tying the oversized garment when she sensed another presence in the room.

“Show yourself,” she demanded, attempting to be subtle as she scanned the room for anything resembling a weapon. “Enough games!”

“As you wish, darling.”

The space behind her warmed slightly, the solid male form behind her unmistakable. “Who are you?” It was a small miracle, Feyre supposed, that her voice was steadier than her hands as she pulled the neck of the robe together until it pressed flush to her throat. “Why did you bring me here? I have not—I wouldn’t—”

Despite their truth, Feyre couldn’t summon the words that may change the course of her fate. She knew what made a noblewoman valuable on the marriage market. If she could just convince this faerie she hadn’t ruined herself…

“It’s not your virtue I’m concerned with, Feyre darling.” A mark against her childhood stories, if he could be believed. But why else would he abduct a human from her home. “Beastly as most of our customs and traditions may be,” the man continued, “the society I’ve found a home in might be considered progressive in comparison to your human beliefs.”

Feyre turned to face him. “Society.” She retreated another step, praying he hadn’t seen her eyes dart to the fireplace a moment ago—and the iron poker beside it. Which of them would be faster, she wondered, if she could keep her intentions secret long enough to wield the makeshift weapon? What color would he bleed? “You are a lord, then.”

His lips curled into a half smile, as if her assumption of his status was amusing. “Something like it. The caste system you know is a bit different from our own, I’m afraid. But we’ll get back to that.” He took a step towards her, giving her an excuse to draw closer to her goal. The cowed girl he seemed keen on controlling would become a woman with a weapon. “First—”

Feyre didn’t let herself hesitate. The moment her hand closed on the poker she turned the sharp end on her kidnapper with the intent to wound, if not kill.

Only for her body to fail her. Her mental freedom was claimed just as swiftly, cold talons forcing their way past the brittle wall she had seemed to create through her own instinct rather than practice.

“Oh, my pet.” His thumb pressed into her wrist and her hand spasmed, the iron rod clattering against the wood at their feet. “What are we going to do with you?”

She would have been trembling, if she had control of herself. Perhaps it was a small mercy then, that he had this hold over her. “It doesn’t have to stay this way.”

“What do you mean?” she managed to grit out.

A slow smirk bloomed across his disgustingly perfect face just before he reached for her. His large hands were feather light as they followed the curves of her body, finally settling on her hips. The heat of them could have burned straight through the thin fabric of the robe maintaining her modesty. And the way he looked down at her… she wasn’t quite certain how to describe that look. The claws holding her mind began to retract and at last she could think—could breathe again.

“So dramatic, my pet.” Her eyes snapped back to his, her demand lingering on the tip of her tongue before she thought better of shouting at him. He had used his magic against her twice now. He could certainly do it again if she caused trouble. “Smart girl.”

“You can read minds.”

“Read them, control them. It does wonders in keeping the unruly… we’ll say compliant.” She shivered again. “You’ll do well to remember, my darling Feyre, that I am always with you.” Because even now, her body once again her own, a shadow had taken root in her mind. She had a feeling it would make itself at home for a good long while. Until she discovered a way to block him out. The faerie chuckled. “Perhaps in a century or two you’ll find yourself strong enough. If all goes to plan.”

She tensed. “To plan?”

“Later, little one. For now—” One hand slid to her front, fingering the knot keeping her stolen robe closed. “—I’d like to strike a bargain.”

~~~~~

Rhysand

“A bargain?” the girl sputtered. “You really think you’ll get away with this? My family—”

“Your family doesn’t believe in magic, darling. Who's to say their wild little rebel didn’t learn how to pick her bedroom lock and run into the night to avoid a loveless marriage? If they aren't convinced in the beginning, persuasion is my specialty as you now know.”

His little mate didn’t need to know the truth behind his curse. It wouldn’t change the fact she belonged to him—would remain here at his side in the end. Stubborn as Feyre Archeron may be, Rhys had never picked a battle he couldn’t win.

All this victory would take was persistence and a firm hand. The rest would fall in place on its own, starting with the girl and ending with her fool of a father.

“Please,” she began to beg.

He tutted, pressing a finger to her lips. That wouldn’t do. At least not yet. “The details,” he finally purred in her ear, dropping one hand to cradle the same wrist he’d gripped to force the poker from her hand, sweeping a thumb tenderly over that trigger point until she shivered against him. She may not be aware of their bond, but she responded to it all the same. “Each night when your handmaiden departs, you will let the mirror bring you here. Two wraiths will greet you in this room and prepare you for the evening’s activities.”

“Activities?” she whispered, her warm breath grazing his cheek.

“You will dance for me, darling. Some nights before my court. Others may be for my eyes alone, here in this very room. You will be painted with the symbols of my court, dressed in my colors, drunk on my wine.” Her eyes widened when the back of her knees hit the bed, apparently not having realized he was slowly guiding her across the room. “You will belong to me from dusk till dawn, starting tonight.”

Her thoughts were overridden with panic, limbs flailing the moment her back met his sheets. “If you fail to comply, you will lose your privilege to return to the human realm. If you fail to arrive I will cross the veil between us and drag you here myself.”

“You can’t do this!” she cried, still attempting to break free of his hold, even as he successfully immobilized her.

“I’m the High King, darling.” Leaning down, he licked up her neck, delighted when she once again shivered beneath him. “I can do anything I please.” ~~~~~

Feyre

High King. Feyre wasn’t quite certain how different that was from a regular king, but she did know one thing. She had finally found the sort of trouble she couldn’t slip free of. “I—” She choked on her words, startled by the fingers that grazed her clitoris. “What are you doing?”

She tried to wriggle away, only succeeding in further stimulation.

“Providing some encouragement.”

“I’d be ruined.”

“Say yes, pet, and that can be prevented.”

Those talons once again breached her mind, this time gentle, encouraging, as he suggested. “You’re cheating.”

A snap of his fingers and her clothes were gone. “Yes,” he purred into her mind, that cruel mouth leaving a hot, wet trail of kisses from the soft spot behind her ear all the way down to her shoulder. “And I have no intention of playing fair until you agree to my demands. You’ll dance for me, darling. One way or another.

“You. Are. Mine.”

Two thick fingers sank into her and she gasped, kicking and squirming until she felt him brush her hymen. “Please,” she panted, closing a hand around his wrist, not that she had the strength to stop him.

“I’ll give you ten seconds, darling. Agree to live between my land and yours and I will wait to claim you. Try to defy me…”

She would belong to him in every sense. “Ten.” She’d be trapped in this realm every hour of every day for the rest of her pathetically short life. “Nine.” The High King’s whore. “Eight.” Serving his every whim before his court. “Seven.” To agree to the bargain would bring her back into society’s marriage machinations. “Six.” Likely standing at the altar before she turned twenty. “Five.” She may end up loathing her husband rather than loving him. “Four.” But what kind of person would she be if she left her family entirely? “Three.”

“Wait.”

“Two.” His fingers pressed a little farther into her.

“I have conditions!”

He chuckled against her breast, those clever fingers dragging just so. “Of course you do, darling. Do begin.” His hot mouth closed over her nipple and she whined. She should hate this. She should really, truly hate this.

“I’m waiting, Feyre.”

She loathed him. Why could she not loathe his touch just the same?

“You can’t—y-you—”

She was already lost to the pleasure of his touch. She had no chance now of forming a coherent sentence. His teeth pinched down hard on her nipple and she cried out. Better then, to embrace that mental connection. To submit to it. It was a lovely feeling, trusting the talons tightening by a fraction, those subtle shadows from before fading to make room for their solid counterparts.

She let the thought flit across her mind, that he would not leave his realm with the intention of harming her family.

“As you wish, little mate. So long as you come to me and keep our little secret, your loved ones will be safe.” Her left arm warmed slightly, from her fingertips all the way to her elbow. “Now you bear my mark,” he crooned, his satisfaction crystal clear.

An odd feeling niggled at the back of her mind. Saying that this was wrong. Offensive. She couldn’t quite grasp why. Any smart man lays claim to what belongs to him, doesn't he? The more obvious, the better. “That’s right, darling. It will remain glamoured to human eyes. Except for yours. We can’t have you forgetting for a moment who you belong to.”

~~~~~

Taglist: @whatishowedyouinthedark // @sajirah // @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer

The first couple of you that I tagged aren't normally on my list, but I added you because you've been so invested in my snippets. Let me know if you want to be removed or kept on permanently.

#feysandweek2024 #day 2: mirrors #feysand #feysand fic #dark!rhys #evil!rhys #the shoes that were danced to pieces #the twelve dancing princesses #the grimm brothers #au fic #acotar

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gorgon-goddess-of-chaos · 7 months ago

Text

Candle

For the next birthday boy! <3 Same rules as Anti, just a little more demonic or monstrous.

Eldritch!Darkiplier x GN!Reader, TW: summoning ritual, fire Words: 750

The oven beeps as you perk up, standing up from your place on the couch to take the brownies out of the oven. Dark chocolate chips are melted on the top, upper crust ever so slightly cracked. They look perfect. You set the pan onto a rack to cool, discarding the oven mitts onto the counter as you go over into your dining room. The table has been cleared, spare a set of candles and some black sand.

You wipe your hands and start pouring the black sand onto the table, spreading it out into a large circle. Careful lines are done between the edges of the circle. You take a permanent marker, drawing symbols onto the disposable table cloth you got from the local dollar store. The candles are set at all of the intersections of your lines of sand, going back into your kitchen for the brownies and a lighter.

It takes a bit to rifle through your junk drawer to find a lighter, but you luck out and find some birthday candles as well. You take your time decorating the top of the brownies, placing seven candles into the top of the whipped cream. Gripping the brownies carefully with oven mitts over your hands and the lighter between your teeth, you go back to your dining table. The brownies are placed on a little rubber barrier to not melt the plastic table cloth onto the hot glass, and you readjust one of the candles that went a bit lopsided.

You stand up to turn off the lights, lighting your way back with your lighter. Each of the thirteen candles are lit, providing dim lighting that flickers across your walls. You hum a little “happy birthday” tune to yourself as you watch the seat across from you, eagerly waiting for him to arrive. The candles blow out on top of the brownies and a distinct ringing starts in your ears, with a shadowy figure sitting across from you.

“Happy birthday!”

“This was most unnecessary, I do not require sustenance.”

“You still blew out the candles.”

“A side effect of my appearance. It was not intentional.”

“Uh-huh.”

You can help but giggle as he lets out a long sigh, echoing and cracking unlike normal speech. The slight light from the candles is enough for you to not trip as you get a little spatula to cut and serve the brownies. You got a small pack of birthday plates, pushing a sparkly birthday tiara towards him.

“You don’t have to wear it, but I thought it’d be funny if you did. Do you want a corner, edge, or center piece?”

“To repeat, I do not require sustenance. And I do not understand the appeal of the headpiece.”

“It’s just for fun! And stop being a spoilsport, These are homemade!”

“...a center piece will do fine, my dear.”

You grin in triumph as you cut him a piece, removing the candles and passing him a fork. In the void of his hands, he inspects the tiara, gently placing it lopsided on his head. Being as unfamiliar with birthday traditions as he is, it’s not surprising he’s a bit cautious. When you can, you catch a glimpse of his eyes across his body, looking in all sorts of directions. But there’s always at least two transfixed on you, watching you with fascination.

“I am unsure as to how to consume this.”

“Maybe just absorb it into your shadows?”

“That may work, I would hate for your efforts to go to waste after your insistence.”

The plate disappears below into a pool of shadows, with the plate reappearing for him to set the fork down upon.

“It is, sweet. Like you.”

You’re sure if he had a visible mouth he’d be smiling at you, proud of himself. His attempts at flirting have always been rather adorable, and his attempts at appreciating your efforts don’t go unnoticed.

“I don’t know all you can do, but I was thinking we could keep the lights off and watch a movie if you’d like.”

“I would like to try that with you.”

He gives a deep, echoing chuckle as he glides around you, wrapping you in the blanket of his presence, mellowing his ringing for you. His form may not be completely malleable, but keeping the lights off has always made it easier for him to be affectionate with you. And plus, having a boyfriend that doubles as a weighted blanket is something you’ll never complain about.

#darkiplier #dark #markiplier egos #wkm darkiplier #wkm dark #darkiplier x reader #dark x reader #wkm darkiplier x reader #wkm dark x reader #a heist with markiplier #ahwm #who killed markiplier #wkm #midnight mint #paranormal egos #chaoswrites

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hanahaki-disease · 8 months ago

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Beyond the Farthest Reaches

Hell or High Water - Percy Jackson/Dc crossover

“She is Mother”

Summary:

Everyone needs a mother, why shouldn’t Percy?

Notes:

Set after “Talking with Razors on Your Tongue”

(A far into the future upload that can still be enjoyed without spoilers)

**********************************************

“Habibi,” Talia reached forwards, her hands cupping either side of Damian’s face as she brought him closer to place a chaste kiss on his head. Something must’ve gone well if his mother was showing affection this openly. Not even while they were in Nanda Parbat where the soldier obeyed her every command did she display her love for him with such ease. “You have grown since last I saw you.”

“Yes,” he stood straighter. “Todd confirmed my height to be five centimeters taller.”

“Wonderful,” She turned her head to the other two in the room with them.

Dick wasn’t going to let Damian see his mother alone, their animosity kept them from seeing eye to eye with each other since he was Robin all those years ago. Damian doesn’t quite understand why, but he hopes that he will get over it. If this meeting goes well, Damian will have two brothers, officially. “Jason, it is nice to see you again. How has your mission progressed? Still vying to remove the clown permanently?”

“B has him behind bars right now,” Jason grumbled. “But I know some his men that could help…move things along.”

His mother hummed in satisfaction. Damian knew that Jason was more than capable of infiltrating the asylum and disposing of the Joker, having done so on missions while under his mother’s care. But it seemed that his want of acceptance from their father, who was not present at the moment, was keeping him from completing his task. Had Jason begun his objective now, with father gone and Grayson as Batman, Damian had no doubt in his mind that the clown would have perished the first night Jason returned to Gotham.

“Who is this you have brought with you?” Talia’s green eyes shift from Jason over to Perseus, analyzing from the furthest most hair on his head to the beaten up Reeboks on his feet. How embarrassing. Damian remembers telling him to wear his Converse before they left the penthouse, at lease those were clean and the seams weren’t falling off. “He looks much like you, Jason.”

“This is Perseus, my little brother,” Jason clapped hand on his back, pushing him forward and into the scrutinizing gaze of Damian’s mother. “Biological.”

“Clearly.” Jason steps back even further as Talia circles him like prey. Her hand catches his wrist and brings his right hand forwards. “Callouses. From swords. You can fight?”

“He is exceptional, mother.” Damian walks up to her, ignoring the pointed stare Perseus sends his way. “I had challenged him to a duel upon his arrival at fathers, he was able to best me in less than two minutes with a different blade than he is accustomed too.”

She grasped his chin, turning his head in her hands to view all his features. There was a certain look in his mother’s eyes when she saw the way the light caught Perseus’s own green ones, and if Damian had not been standing beside his mother when she did it twice, Damian would have missed it.

Briefly, impercieveably so, there was a glow that lit up his irises. A soft green, like that of the glow in the dark stars Perseus placed in his room. How had Damian not noticed it before? Was it because he had grown accustomed to glowing eyes? His grandfather’s eyes glowed when he was particularly enraged, shining the exact shade of toxicity as the pits. Jason’s glowed the same color only when pit-rage consumed his mind, and his mother’s gave a soft luminescence in the dark. Enough to notice they were there, but not enough to clearly see it.

But Perseus’s were quick flashes, gone as soon as they appeared in a color he had never seen before? He can’t recall his eyes glowing before his disappearance, so maybe this was something of a recent development.

“What is your blade of choice?” Talia released his chin and walked back to her seat.

“Greek Xiphos,” Perseus answered.

“Rather strange choice, not many exist in the world outside the realm of the Amazonians, no? I can’t recall a location or organization that uses those as it’s primary weapon,” Talia pointed out. “No matter. I shall test your abilities. See if they are as…exceptional, as my son says.”

“Woah, wait, I didn’t sign up for this,” Perseus argues as Jason hooks his arms around the older boy’s neck. “Jay! Jay! Let go.”

“Can’t, jellyfish, better to just do as she says now and ask questions later,” Jason laughs before dropping him on one of the training mats in the adjoining room. “And besides, you gonna pass up an opportunity to fight me?”

“No.” Perseus stole the wakizashi from Jason’s hand and discarded his sweater, tossing it onto the floor behind him. “How hard to do I go?” He looked to where Damian and Talia stood at the edge of the mat, their arms crossed over their chest like a mirror. His reflexes were quick to block the downwards attack Jason had begun with.

“Full send!” Jason yelled as he charged his younger brother.

Damian had to contain the giddiness building inside him as he watch the two spar. The clashing of their swords ringing like bell tolls in the quiet of the room. He had never seen the two of them fight before, Jason either went against father or Grayson and Perseus against Cassandra or Drake. Keeping to their weight-classes it seemed., but the spar before him was nothing short of legendary.

Jason was akin to a bull. Heavy attacks and devastating blows that on a lesser opponent would render them wounded, unarmed, or even dead. His feet were light despite his size, following the paths and placements that every assassins in the league had been taught and memorized. His left heel sliding back into sixth position to keep his balance with attack pattern twenty-three, the weight distributed on the balls of his right foot but not enough to hinder a quick change of position or dodge.

His brother, however, was that of a snake, which, Damian hoped, his mother approved of. Slashes instead of stabs, his grip on the blade one-handed but no less weak as he stood strong with the shorter blade. Normally, people choose the longer weapons, using the extra length to aid in keeping their attacks swift and straight, as well as keeping a good distance from one’s attacker.

Perseus did not keep a good distance.

He kept himself as close as he could with the wakizashi, performing techniques Damian had never seen nor heard of before. And neither had his mother if her slitted eyes were anything to go by. His foot falls were light, his stance low, and his weight balanced between both feet as he moved wildly around his older brother. Damian tried to predict Perseus’s next moves based on what he has done already, but no matter how he believes the boy will go, he always does something completely different.

For instance, Perseus had two opportunities to knock Jason down. Once when his right flank was left unguarded and he could have placed a swift kick to bring him to his knees, instead he ducked below the horizontal slash of Jason’s katana and butted the handle into his sternum. The other was when Jason switched his hold on the blade from a two-handed, blade-forward position to a left-handed, blade-backwards hold to forced a more hand-to-hand combat approach. Even then, Perseus kept himself close and threaded his sword in the gap between Jason’s sword and his arm, twisting it out of his grasp.

It was useless and Jason simply reached for it with his right hand and continued to fight, but it was the fact that Damian had never known of a maneuver like that. It was surely taught to him by the demigod camp, the Greek style of fighting, while disciplined like the Leagues, was more open to improvisation and prioritized fluidity between attacks. He wondered if Perseus could take him to the camp to train him, after all, Damian can see through the mist. It is only fair.

“What are your intentions on bringing Perseus to my attention, Damian?” His mother sat on the provided seat, legs crossed beneath her, heels above the floor to preserve the blade on the inside. “I can’t imagine it is to merely show off one of your father’s many strays.”

He turned to face his mother, hand in fists as his sides, attention shifting from the spar. “Perseus has no mother. She died early in his childhood, and seeing as how you consider Jason as a son, I thought you might consider Perseus as well.”

“You think me your father? Collecting children into my care?” Talia hummed.

Damian bowed his head, eyes wide and slightly fearful. “Apologies, mother, I did not mean to insinu—”

“I would say that…if I was not impressed with Perseus,” She cut him off and lifted Damian’s chin so that he would look at her. “You are correct, his abilities are something I have not yet seen before. Parts of it he has gotten from your father and are hard to break, see how Jason’s right foot swivels before he lunges? Both he and Perseus does it, as does Timothy, Richard, and your father. But there are maneuvers not even I have seen, and I have seen much.”

“So you will take Perseus into deliberation as your son?” Damian asked. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but the way his mother was studying the spar wasn’t helping the fluttering of his heart in his chest.

She didn’t respond, only stood up from her seat and waltzed into the fray and ended it. Jason, stayed on the ground, sweat dripping from his brow and his chest heaving for breath. The katana fell to the floor, as did Jason, along with a string of out of breath curses. It had been a while since Damian had seen Jason extorted from training. Which was never. Yes, he developed a sweat and his breathing grew labored, but never to this extent. Perhaps it was like this when he trained under Ducra? The woman was mad and like to push people to their limits.

Perseus wasn’t fairing much better, it seemed, but his composure was kept under his mother’s stare. She once more ran her eyes over him, stopping at his beaded necklace. Talia took hold of the first bead in her fingers, lifting it off his shirt to inspect it before continuing to his face. The sweat didn’t deter her in pushing back the bangs that clung to his skin or from placing her hand against his cheek, thumbing over the small slice from Jason’s blade on his cheek.

It was a gesture Damian knew was her preferred way to show affection to him and Jason, a motherly caress of the cheek to wipe away any tears, blood, or just because. Damian allowed himself to smile from where he stood, but never to walk over. Not until his mother allowed him.

“You cater to my appearance more than your brother does,” Talia said as her thumb did one last wipe over his cheek. “Perhaps we could convince that reporter of the Gazette that you are of my blood as well. What do you think, Jason?”

“You—” Jason gulped the air like a fish from where he collapsed. “You lost the custody battle for us…gave up rights for Damian. Wanted to visit.”

“Must you be so dramatic for a ruse?” Talia crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s my job.”

Turning back to Perseus, the corners of her mouth tilted upwards. Not a full smile as Damian’s mother only did so when under cover, but enough to show that she had come to a conclusion. “You will address me as ‘mother’ from now on, Perseus. Damian is now your brother in addition to Jason, train him and protect him as you would have if he was blood.

“You are one of mine, now.” She linked a little charm onto the necklace he wore from the bracelet she never removed. It was hard to tell which one it was but Damian was certain it showed that he was an al Ghul in all but blood, just the same as Jason was. (Jason had an earring with the al Ghul crest on it, but he hardly wore it. Not want it to be lost or stolen, but he did wear an emerald stud on certain days.) “Should you be in need of aid, shelter, or men to follow your lead, I will provide. If you should forsake Bruce and the path he wishes to lead you on, I will be there to offer others. You are an al Ghul now, a grandson of the demon head, a spare in line for the throne, a prince of the League of Assassins.”

She placed her hands beside on his cheeks like she had done for Damian when they first arrive. “You are my son, and I will always cherish my children.”

**********************************************

Thank you so much to @keitria for inspiring this little installment!!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

#percy jackon and the olympians #dc comics #pjo x dc #batman #percy jackson #batman fanfiction #percy jackson fanfiction #jason todd #damian wayne #talia al ghul

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