#i can write and draw smut without issue

[senselessalchemist]

Always end up romancing the wrong character in vidya games with romance options 😔

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Hello! Could you please write a stubborn, jealous hc for Miguel o'hara? Thank you!!

I had the brainworms, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thanks for the ask <3

Jealous!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: jealous!Miguel O'Hara x reader

summary: stubborn HCs for jealous!Miguel O'Hara. 

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble and i basically wrote a full fic. i have zero self control lmfao

warnings: smut (fingering, f receiving oral, slight brat taming, etc) right at the very end, 18+ from then onwards, the rest is more pg-13

wc: 3.5k ish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long story short: he's a stubborn little shit.

Pig-headed as fuck and it shows up in little things. 

Let's say you first met as coworkers, and you were a lab technician at Alchemax. 

Think: unstoppable force meets immovable object. He likes his labs just so, with very specific equipment in a very specific configuration. 

It drives you crazy, regularly having tiffs outside the labs; much to the chagrin of your coworkers. 

"Jesus." Your coworker mutters, wincing at the seemingly heated argument by the water cooler. 

"Ignore it, Maeve." Another coworker rolls their eyes, nudging Mave with a snort. "They're at it again . S'pose they'll tire each other out by the end of the day."

Not that they were wrong. But this time, it wasn't your fault: dealing with O'Hara's bullshit had really taken it's toll. He was insufferable, prone to nitpicking and just plain mean. You could hardly be blamed if you gave him some of your own choice words. 

"My notes were basically paint-by-fucking-numbers!  How could you mess up a simple distillation? When I specify precision glassware , you don't think that's fucking important?" 

"Your notes ," You draw air quotes pointedly at him. "-are illegible, you fucking cretin! Maybe if you didn't write like a goddamn pre-schooler-"

"- preschooler? Oh , fuck you!" 

"Get your nose out of that highschool Chem textbook, O'Hara, this is a fucking job."

"Yeah? Stop using it to wipe your ass and you might learn a thing or two."

"Oh , so that's what we're doing?" You laugh in his face, so angry your hand curls into tight fists. You get close, staring him down as you look upwards through your lashes. His own face is contorted into a grimace; bushy eyebrows furrowed into deep shadows around his eyes. You can feel his steady breathing before he speaks, low and rumbling. 

"I could do this all day, princesa. " 

You scoff, ignoring the way his words weaken your knees. The one time you asked for a break during a long lab and he won't stop calling you a spoilt princess. His laughter then stings in your ears now, the ghost of a smirk on his face as you storm off. Miguel O'Hara: smug bastard. He would be the death of you, you're sure. 

~~~

You spend many a late night with him, unwittingly, and find out he's more than a stubborn little shit. 

You find out he's funny, and shares the same anti-Alchemax tendencies you do: both preyed upon by the company immediately after graduation, young and naive. 

He's kind, even though he'd never admit it, often finishing up the lab notes and doing more than his fair share of work so you can go home at a reasonable time. 

You both still butt heads, but it turns into a tentative friendship - coffees in the morning hidden as blaise convenience, covering for each other at work, and defending the other when office gossip goes too far. 

That's why when he comes back to work after a week-long stint away - something about a blow up with the boss, an issue described as 'miscommunication, promptly smoothed over' by anyone official - you notice… something's different about him. 

You first noticed something was off when he walked in without a snide remark. You left a mug overnight at the counter, something that would usually draw a sarcastic comment at the least , but he gives you… nothing. Blank, glassy eyes as he opens up his workstation - clicking away at the keys without so much as a glance.

"O'Hara?" You call, but he doesn't even look up. You walk to his workstation and knock at the desk. He jumps. God, he looks worse for the wear. Heavy bags under his eyes and a bruise blossoming under his collar. 

"You okay?" 

He rubs his temples, eyes flitting up at you.  "Yeah, just…. just a long week, s'all." 

You put a hand on his shoulder, and you swear he leans into your touch. "We can reschedule, tonight. The calculations can wait, Miguel."

He gives you a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "S'okay. Need to make sure you don't fuck it up."

"Don't push your luck, O'Hara."

~~~

As you get closer, you notice just how stubborn he is to admit the growing tension between you two. 

Late nights at the lab turn into takeout at your place, morning coffee turns into a pleasant 20 minutes on the rooftop away from the hustle and bustle - just you and Miguel, talking and joking with a cup of shitty coffee in hand. 

Wholly, he seems more assertive at work, not as quick to roll over. 

It's hot, you have to admit; watching him fight with someone else other than you. 

You're at work drinks with the other technicians and engineers, nursing a watery beer when another colleague makes small talk with you at the bar.

You’ve never been that close to him, and the conversation is amicable enough, but you’re almost bowled over when you see Miguel, in the corner, staring straight at you with a stormy look.

You suppose it's a little pathetic, getting all dressed up for a casual drink. Lips shiny with gloss and gently powdered with makeup, you feel a little out of place. For all your talk at work, actually being here was another thing. Suddenly, your blouse is too tight and your skirt too short. With a manicured finger, you trace the lip of your glass filled with watery beer. You sigh. You don't want to admit it, but you were only here because of Miguel. He said he would come, and now you're sitting on a barstool counting the chips in your glass. 

It was probably for the best. You sink into the absentminded chatter of your colleagues around you, until there's a tap at your shoulder. 

"Is someone-" He clears his throat; a tall man dressed in a sharp suit nodding gracefully towards the empty chair. "-is this seat taken?" 

You shake your head, grateful for the company. He's handsome, sharp features curving into a wry grin as he calls for a drink. 

"...and something other than shitty beer for the pretty girl, too." It makes you laugh, light and lilting in the bustle of the bar. 

He stretches out his hand, and you take it. 

"Eddie Crouch. I work in marketing."

Eddie…. as in… head of the most profitable division of Alchemax? Your eyes widen involuntarily and you try to clamp down your immediate shock, somewhat unsuccessfully. He narrows his eyes as you tumble over your words. 

"Y-Yeah, same! I mean, not same , I just work in the l-labs and I thought it was just for us guys, working behind the curtain, y'know? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here, because we a-are." You spill out, wincing. "....Is this about the performance reviews? Because I know output was down this quarter but our projections are-"

"I'm not here to talk about work." He chuckles. You squint, not convinced. As if to alleviate your concerns, he loosens his tie and undoes his top buttons with a flourish. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in, and the air becomes thick with expensive perfume. He twirls the signet ring on his finger, a ring probably worth more than your monthly paycheck. 

"Your boss invited me," Discreetly, he stretches a finger at your boss; a man ruddy cheeked and red-faced with alcohol. "Guess he thought it would boost morale. He's a fucking idiot if he thinks having me, the one guy that could fire your entire department without recourse, exchange empty platitudes would boost morale. But, I digress. So here I am, dragging my feet to this bar, thinking I'm gonna get in, read the lines and get out. But then, " He pauses with dramatic effect. "I see the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, just sitting by the bar. Like everyone isn't already falling over themselves to talk to you."

The irony is palpable. It's sickly sweet, and a line that wouldn't usually work on you. But usually, you weren't pining over a man so prickly and stubborn, you shouldn't have feelings for. Here you were, bright cocktail in front of you and a moderately attractive man by your side. He wasn't quite Miguel, but in the words of one of the greatest thinkers of the past age: country girls make do. 

And so you make lazy conversation with the man. So lost in a tipsy haze, you barely notice Miguel walk in; dark jacket on his shoulders and deliciously loose slacks. You're drawn to him, his eyes seemingly searching the room, and you sigh into your drink. Technically, he looks like shit: eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, a cut at his brow. You think he is gorgeous, eyes tracing the slope of his nose and plush lips. Like he can sense it, he glances over in your direction and you look away hastily. He's watching , you can feel its burn as you turn, pretending to listen to the man besides you. A little cruelly, you lean into him, not breaking eye contact and curling a hand around his arm to laugh at a stupid joke. Eddie laughs with you, oblivious, as you glance behind him. 

Miguel stands with a drink thrust into his hands, looking straight through him, eyes low and gazing at you. 

~~~

He insists on walking you home, a steady hand on the small of your back as you stumble through the streets of Nueva York.

You make light conversation, tipsy and giggly from the alcohol. Miguel seems a little more put together, but his chest still creaks with rumbling laughter.

He definitely walks on the side of the pavement nearest the street, because he thinks it keeps you safer. 

He walks you up the stairs and by the door of your apartment, like a gentleman. You watch him get nervous suddenly, and he hesitates, stubbornly digging in his heels and pausing you from opening the door and coming in. 

You don't want it to end, opting to take the walk up the stairs as opposed to the lift. It's one of your more questionable decisions as you stumble up the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet. Miguel is quick to catch you even though he was just as drunk. Arm around your waist, he leaves searing touches to your hip. You giggle despite yourself, and he can't help but smile at your clumsiness. 

"If you break your legs I won't carry you, princesa ." A lie and you both know it. He would carry you to the ends of the earth like a blushing bride, if you asked him. 

You both stagger to up the stairs and through the corridor until you reach your front door. You rummage around your bag for your keycard, it's contents click-clacking in the quiet of the hallway. Miguel watches, quieter than he was in the journey. If you looked up now, you would see something else behind his eyes - a storm of apprehension and tension. 

You find your keycard, and look up to find Miguel placing a careful palm on the door. He's surprisingly still, eyes on your lips as he steps closer. You look everywhere but to meet his eyes, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his exposed forearm, and the tempting juncture of his strong jaw. You watch it tense, as he brings a gentle hand to your chin. His thumb swipes over the fat of your lip. 

"Got somethin' right… there." He mumbles, before tucking his hand away. You can barely breathe. Without thinking you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together like a gentle hug. You bring his hand to your waist, and he squeezes, ever so gently. Your hand drops and he moves his slowly, knuckles dragging along the smooth silk of your blouse, and then sending shivers when he reaches your bare neck. 

He has to bite down the plethora of things running through his head - his drunken brain threatening to spill all his thoughts. You are so beautiful and soft it makes him short-circuit, desperate to pull you close. Instead, you do: hand inching up his chest and laying to rest on his shoulders. 

He kisses you, finally ; a little messy and impossibly soft. Like his lips on yours would shatter you both. You deepen the kiss and wrap his arm tighter around you, angling your chin to drink up even more of you. You both come up for air, panting in the heat of one another. Miguel's eyes are full of lust and blown out. 

"Do…do you want to come in?" You whisper. 

Something catches in his throat and his expression changes, like he just woke up from a dream. Do you just want to sleep with him? He's not built for one night stands, can't do just sex, especially if it's you. No matter how much he wants to, he can't, he won't, "....I shouldn't."

The disappointment on your face is palpable. You want to ask why - after he kissed you like that - why doesn't he want you? Instead you nod dejectedly. He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, lingering, and a shaky smile. 

You open your door with a buzz, and slam it in his face. 

~~~

It takes Miguel some time to properly put a name to what you two have: not knowing if the kiss was a drunken mistake, animal attraction or something more. 

He's not a grand gestures kind of person, he believes in action rather than words. 

Which is why it takes so long for him to admit just how in love with you he is. 

He steals glances at you all the time at the office, and tries to anticipate  all your needs. 

When you stretch and yawn in the morning, he happens to pass by your favourite coffee place and happens to buy one too many cups of your go-to order. 

So imagine his shock when he arrives from his lunch break, churros and coffee in hand, and there's one of the top brass from the night at the bar perched on your desk - 2 polystyrene cupfuls of something half drunk on the desk. 

He's never been insecure, but he can't help but feel possessive, something tense and tight growing at the base of his stomach. 

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" You step into the equipment cupboard, Miguel close behind you. You rub your temples, anticipating an argument. "O'Hara, if this is about my calibration tests this morning, I swear to God -" 

"No, no , nothing like that." He's quick to say. "They were… okay." He strains. 

You raise an eyebrow. Okay? Since when did Miguel pass up an opportunity for a mindless fight? Your mind races with his actions of the past few days. He has been different since the night at the bar, a little nicer, sure, but nothing this out of the ordinary. 

"That guy you were talking to. I saw him at the bar, and now here. Who is he?" 

Your eyebrows shoot up. "You do not have the right to ask me th-" 

"Are you fucking him?" A pause, and you study his expression, deducing that he is completely fucking serious . 

"Are you insane? You definitely don't have the right to ask me that." You make for the door, and he steps in front of it, blocking it with his body. 

"I need to know. Tell me and then I'll leave you alone, I promise." His voice is low and thick with something. 

You step closer and he wraps his hands around your waist absentmindedly. The pressure feels good, and makes your brain fog up. 

He repeats himself, softer. "Are you fucking him?" 

You look at him for a moment, before shaking your head. His facial expression  is steady, just as unreadable. 

"Do you want to?" 

You hesitate, wanting to be cruel and say yes, just to see his reaction. Perceptive, he sees your hesitance and says something that almost knocks you over. 

"I could fuck you better than he ever could," He kneads your thigh now, lips close to the shell of your ear in the tight space of the cupboard. " Princesa , look at me." 

You look at him, almost whimpering and putty in his hands. He's like a siren and you are lost in the pull of his gaze. It may be the proximity, but you swear you see a tinge of red in his eyes, like deep pools of lust. 

"Will you let me fuck you?" He pulls you closer so the meat of his thigh presses against your clothed cunt. Your stretchy pencil skirt rides up suggestively, and you rock your clit against him, searching for sweet pressure. You nod. 

Miguel titters softly, a hand on your chin pulling your lips to his. You moan into his kiss, body aching. It's hot and heavy like the kiss outside your door, but he swirls his tongue around yours and expertly nips at your lower lip. He guides your hips to rock against his thigh, tensing to make sure it's corded muscle hits the right places. He wants to break you apart, leave you so cock-drunk, you wouldn't think of even glancing at another man. 

You separate and he dips a hand under your skirt. He pulls it up and places a big palm at your pussy, with a well timed slap. You bite into his neck with the pressure. You definitely don't expect it when he rips open your stockings like they were paper. 

"Fuck, Miguel." 

"It's okay, baby, I'll get you new ones." Your eyes roll back as he slips aside the gusset to run a finger through your lower lips. Shamelessly, he slips a finger in, then two, basking in the wet squelch of your heat. You claw at his forearm, as he curls them into that sweet spot. 

You press your forehead to his shoulder, chasing his fingers with your hips. His sharp eyes watch every movement, every stutter and start that his fingers pull from you. He's practical, a man of action, and he is desperate to show you how much he cares. 

"I've thought about you… about this." He hisses as you cover your mouth to dampen your moans. 

"Wanted you for so long, princesa. Want to know how you taste, what this beautiful pussy feels like. What you look like when you cum."

His wrist aches with the back and forth motion but his pace barely faulters. 

" M-Miguel …"

He applies pressure to your clit, and watches in awe as you spasm, nails digging into his forearm. 

" Oh, there it is. Right there, hmm? Does that feel good?" 

You nod frantically with a stifled sob. 

"Not quite, baby. Need to hear you say it. Or I won't let you cum."

"...fuuck you."

" Oh, you'd like that. Still not what I want to hear. Tell me how much you like it when I fuck you with my fingers."

"F-Feels good." You stutter. He stops, wrenching his hand out of your pussy to leave you clenching around nothing.You almost scream.

"You're being a brat, not my princesa , hmm? Only good girls get to cum."

" Miguel , please. I'll do anything." He guides you along his thigh, still lodged between your legs, and licks up your wetness on his other hand. "You m-make me feel so good. So good. And I want you so much it hurts, sometimes. I just want to cum, don't even need your cock. Fuck me with something , please." 

"Miguel? Not asshole? Or fucking idiot, this time?" 

"Please, Miguel ." Your pleas go straight to his cock. He throbs with need, cock rock hard under his slacks. 

He relents, not able to bear your dopey puppy-dog eyes for much longer. He slips three fingers in, without bothering to prep you. He hisses at the tightness of your heat, pounding into you and knuckle deep with his fingers. Shamelessly, you fuck yourself back on them, hips rolling over his thigh. He can't tear himself away from the sight, palming himself through tented trousers. 

You kiss and nip at his neck, as he whispers obscenities at you under his breath. 

"Can you cum for me, princesa? Cum f'me, and I'll take care of you, I promise."

You clamp down on his fingers and moan into a kiss as you ride out your orgasm. It's intense: leg-shaking and leaves you shuddering in the aftermath. You were rusty, sure, hadn't had sex with someone in a while. But Miguel made you cum so hard you saw stars, with only his fingers. Your chest heaves with the thought. 

You thought he would leave you, torn stockings and all, in the little cupboard. But he stays, to sink down to his knees and lap at your folds. You rest a hand on a shelf for purchase, head back in bliss. You cunt is still sensitive, throbbing at the orgasm he's just given you, as you licks you clean. He's taking care of you. You card your hands into his hair, tugging gently as he moans into your pussy. 

He gives your clit a gentle kiss, and swipes up a trailing tear that rolls down your inner thigh. You watch as he pops his fingers into your mouth, cleaning off the cum. Your cum. 

Miguel gives you a lazy grin in the bare bulb of the equipment closet. He seems completely unfazed by the fact his fingers were in you not a moment ago. 

"Are you free after work?" He asks, and it takes a moment for you to process. 

"Uhhh… s-sure. Probably?" 

"Let me take you for dinner, somewhere nice."

All you can do is nod, dumbly, ripped stockings still around your ankles. 

"And then I can fuck you properly, princesa." 

_

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[leighsartworks216]

By Such A Little Taste

Sylus x fem!Reader

This got so far away from me ngl One minute you're staring at Sylus's hands while he plays the claw machine, the next you're writing 4k words about those hands

Title from "Hooked (Addicted You Might Say)" by Eleisha Eagle

NSFW, smut below the cut

Warnings: smut, fingering, cunnilingus, cumming untouched, hand/finger kink, marking, biting, kissing, teasing, dacryphilia/crying, swearing, praise kink, choking, breathplay, pet names, nipple play, embarrassment, shyness

Word Count: 4,085 (Y'ALL 😭)

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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“Which one do you want me to get?”

You look through the glass of the arcade machine. The attendees always make sure to keep it clean from any kids leaving sticky fingerprints on it, so every plushie is on full display. A red fox with a little wintery cape, a hermit crab with an ice cream cone on its back, and a cockatiel with bright red cheeks. You just love looking at them all.

“Do you think you can get the Cone Crab?” You point to it through the glass, without touching of course. “I don’t think I have it yet.”

Sylus smiles down at you. “Whatever you want, sweetie.”

He inserts the token smoothly, pressing it into the slot with his thumb. You cozy up to his side like you always do, holding his elbow while trying not to restrict his movements. His hand rests lazily on the joystick, fingers relaxed as he adjusts the claw. His fingers occasionally tap thoughtfully against the red top, trying to decide the best plan of attack to get the plushie you so desperately want.

Though, now that you’re here, the plushie is the last thing on your mind.

You’ve always known that Sylus has nice hands. They’re huge, easily dwarfing yours every time you hold them. Sometimes, you even hold onto just a few of his fingers or his pinky, just so your hand doesn’t get too tired. He loves it, too. He loves when you’re curled up into him, playing with his hand, comparing the sizes.

Tonight, though, those thoughts go a little bit further. You think about the way it effortlessly curled around your neck in the photobooth earlier tonight. How his fingers traced along your back when the crowd at the mall got a little too dense for your liking. The way they showed no mercy to Wanderers, yet tenderly bandaged your wounds.

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when his elbow gently nudges you. “What’s on your mind, kitten?”

Your cheeks burn red hot, as if he could possibly ever know what you were just thinking about. You scoff. “Nothing.”

“Oh? Is that so?” He leans down to whisper by your ear. You can hear the satisfied smirk in his voice as he says, “Then, why aren’t you claiming the prize?”

Claiming the- Oh. You jolt away from him, blush creeping up to your ears as you reach down and push open the flap to grab the Cone Crab. You hug it to your chest and determinedly avoid meeting his eyes. You nod into the machine again. “Okay, what about a Snowy Fox? The one I have is getting a little lonely.”

He chuckles and wraps his arm around your shoulder to draw you back into his side. “Of course. Try to pay attention this time, sweetie,” he purrs the pet name.

You can feel his muscles shift as he wraps his arm around your shoulders to hold the joystick once more. It’s hardly an issue with how tall he is, but you can tell he’s drawing you in closer than necessary… That being said, you don’t move. No, you just bite the inside of your cheek and stare down the claw like you have a vendetta against it.

It shifts along the top, honing in on a Snowy Fox plushie that sits off to the side. Thankfully, it’s not right up against the wall, or else he wouldn’t even have a chance of getting one without using his Evol. He hums, the sound deep and resonating within his chest right by your head, as he presses the button. The claw descends, loosely “grabs” at the fox’s head, and drops nothing but air into the chute.

Unfortunately, the proximity draws your eyes right back to his hand.

You really try not to keep staring. Really, you try. But it’s a useless attempt at best and woefully futile at worst when he chuckles, staring down at you with that knowing glimmer in his eye after he catches you staring at the prominent veins that run through his hand.

He shifts his hand back so his fingers curl sinfully around the red top as he pushes it forward to hover back over the Snowy Fox he missed just seconds ago. Your breath hitches in your throat as his lips graze the curve of your ear. “I see where your mind is tonight,” he muses.

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Instead of responding, he lifts his hand off the top of the joystick until just his fingers, long and practiced, trail along the front as he shifts the crane back a touch. His thumb, coming around the side, shifts it to the left.

“Remember to breathe.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs. He chuckles, standing up straight as he presses the button. The claw comes right down over the fox and finally gets a good grasp on the plushie. You watch it get carried through the air and to the chute. He releases you so you can retrieve it, clutching it to your chest with the crab.

“Would you like a turn now, sweetie?”

You narrow your eyes up at him. He’s planning something, you just know it. But it couldn’t be worse than watching his hands at work. You shove the plushies into his chest. He takes them and steps back. You definitely do not notice, at all, how both plushies fit in just one of his hands.

He slips another token into the slot, arm brushing against yours teasingly. You don’t react. The bear has been poked plenty, you don’t need to rile him up any further.

Eyes on the prize, the Golden Throat, you move the claw so it hovers just over the bird. Mephisto would surely love to play with it. (Even if playing with it meant ripping it to shreds.) The thought eases the tension in your shoulders. With a few minor adjustments, you press the button. And… nothing. The cockatiel falls over onto its side, staring forlornly up at you.

“Would you like some help, sweetie? Remember, you’ve only got one shot left.” He brings his hand around, golden token shining in the dancing lights of the machine as he slips it between his fingers. He holds it up with his thumb, pressing the coin face into the side of his index finger. It’s so small in his hands.

“No, I can do it.” You take the coin from him and jam it into the slot. Your face is scrunched up with concentration as you realign the crane.

You take a little longer than usual to line it up. A warm hand covers yours, engulfing it as his fingers curl overtop yours. “You’re so close, kitten,” he muses. The double entendre isn’t lost on you. “Just a little…” His index slides between two of your fingers, pushing them aside until it nestles at the crook. You feel your face burning again. “There.”

You push the button, too dazed to even check his work. His breath fans across the back of your neck. If the arcade was crowded today, you’re sure you would have been kicked out by now. The winning jingle sounds with a flash of lights.

“Good girl.”

And that’s what breaks you.

You practically push him away so you can grab the toy, not even taking the chance to cradle or admire it like usual. You shove it into his arm while he laughs, taking his free hand to drag him out of the mall as fast as possible.

He’s even worse in the car ride home. One of his hands is on the steering wheel, calmly turning it with just the flat of his hand around corners, or running his thumb in circles over the hardened leather all too knowingly. His other is on your thigh, between your legs, almost but not quite where you need him right now. It takes all your willpower not to guide him there yourself in the middle of traffic.

Once you’ve passed the border into the N109 Zone and he’s recklessly speeding up now that there are no laws to stop him, he squeezes the fat of your thigh. “You’re being so patient, kitten. Just a little further.”

Your sigh comes out shaky and impatient. “You’re still an asshole.”

Sylus just smirks.

You thank your lucky stars that Luke and Kieran are nowhere to be seen when you get to the mansion. The plushies all haphazardly lay on their sides in the back seat. You can’t think to feel bad for them, can’t think about anything else but the need pulsing between your legs, as you grab his hand and drag him inside.

Once you’re past the threshold, he’s lifting you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You squeal at the sudden shift in perspective, before wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his neck. His other hand holds your thigh, fingertips digging lightly into the plump flesh, thumb stroking just under the hem of your dress. You kiss behind his ear, along his jaw, bite at his pulse. He nips at the helix of your ear playfully.

As soon as you’re in his room, you’re being laid out on the bed, his hand cradling your neck so you don’t land too harshly. His knees cage your hips as he supports himself over you with one hand. Warm lips slot over yours. His free hand slides under your dress, slowly working it up your body. His touch feels heavenly, igniting every nerve that was already burning on the way here.

The kiss is languid, remaining so no matter how much you try to deepen it. His wicked grin taunts you. “What happened to all that patience you had earlier?” he teases. You bite his lower lip. He hisses at the sting, moving down to bite just under your jaw. “Behave,” he warns. “I’ll take care of you.”

He sits up to fully remove your dress. You’re a vision that would be coveted by the Romans who would think you a goddess of the highest renown. Your chest rising and falling, already panting with desperate need. Your eyes staring into his, begging for more, more, more. Your hands reaching out to grab the hem of his red sweater. He grabs them, securing both wrists in just one of his hands to pin them above your head. He tsks with a grin.

“Not yet, darling. I need to make sure I fulfill all your fantasies from earlier, first.” Your face heats up. You have to look away, turning your head to hide your embarrassment against your arm.

He releases your hands, his own sliding down and reaching under you to undo the pretty lace bra you’d bought for yourself with his black card. He’d teased you about trying it on for him when you got back, having seen the purchase on his phone. It very quickly became one of his favorites. He drops it off the side of the bed with your dress, but leaves your panties on, even as you buck up against his hips.

“Patience, remember?”

You groan pathetically. “Please, Sy,” you beg. “Just touch me, please.”

“I was already planning on it, sweetie.”

He leans down over your body again, keeping himself up by his knees as he trails open mouth kisses along your neck. His hands mirror each other, running down the sides of your ribcage, down to your stomach and back, until they reach your breasts. His mouth seeks out your nipple, sucking, licking, savoring the soft flesh against his tongue. You gasp when his teeth nip at the hardened bud, back arching to press your chest further against his mouth.

A beautiful coating of saliva shines on your breast when he pulls away. It becomes lubricant for his thumb as he rubs slow, teasing circles along your areola, pushing his spit around like paint on a canvas before it finally brushes over your nipple. His other hand guides your neglected tit into his mouth, squeezing rough enough to leave marks as he takes his sweet time tending to you.

His red sweater rubs against your overheated bare skin. The soft fibers scrape over your stomach, tickling you and making your body flinch away on instinct. His pants are no better, acting as a solid barrier between your aching heat and the bulge pressing against you. You try to cant your hips up again, trying to get the friction you need, but his hand lets go of your breast to hold you firmly against the mattress.

Your nipple is released from his mouth with a wet pop, covered in saliva and red markings. His lips find your pulse, leaving gentler kisses over the artery. “I wonder what you were thinking about,” he muses, voice rough with lust. He can feel your heart racing against his lips. He’s tempted to bite down like the vampire from his story, but he settles for sucking a mark into the unmarred skin instead. It sends shivers down your spine and goosebumps up your arms, still staying obediently above your head. ���Watching my hands… What did you picture, sweetheart?”

The thoughts come rushing in all at once. The beautifully prominent veins on his hand. The way his fingers curled around the joystick. The sinful way he teased your fingers apart while helping you…

The whimper comes utterly unbidden when his fingers trail from your hip to dance across the top of your panties. “Talk to me,” he encourages in a low purr. His fingers curl under the elastic band, slowly teasing one side off of your hip. “What were you thinking of?”

Your face is burning red hot with embarrassment and desire. You always struggle with speaking like this, when he asks you something so simple but so sinful. But you know that he’ll reward you so nicely if you speak up. It’s a dangerous motivator sometimes. “A-At the photobooth, when you wrapped your hand around my neck,” you stutter out.

His eyebrow quirks up with a smirk to match. “Do you like having my hand around your throat, sweetheart?” He lifts his head from your neck, watching as his hand trails from your panties, along your body, over your collarbones to your neck. The way your body twitches with every light brush is addicting. “Do you like knowing…” His palm rests over your trachea, fingers curling around the sides of your neck. “... just how easy it would be for me to… choke you?” He squeezes his fingers lightly for emphasis. He feels when you swallow, throat bobbing against his palm.

You nod slightly, biting your lip to fight back the noises he so easily draws from you. Even still, small whimpers emanate from your throat.

His index finger shifts up to rest along your jaw. He turns your head to the side slightly, taking notice of how your eyes flutter shut under his control.

“Oh, does this kitten like to be controlled? Should I get her a lovely little collar?”

The thought alone draws a mewling whine from deep within you. He chuckles, tilting your head back in place with his thumb as he leans down to capture your mouth. He pulls your lip from your teeth, sucking on it until it's beautifully swollen before he kisses you properly. His tongue delves into you, licking into your pliant mouth with deceptive sweetness as he tightens his hold again. He growls when he hears the hitch in your breath.

“Good girl,” he whispers, releasing the pressure and rubbing his fingers soothingly along the sides of your neck. “What else were you thinking of, hm?”

His red eyes bore into you so calmly, so naturally. It’s hard to keep looking at him, especially as you fight to answer his question. “How big they are,” you admit.

He smiles. It’s such an innocent remark. He knows how big they are compared to yours, how much you love laying your hand over his just to remind yourself. He leaves his hand on your throat, raising the other one to brush his knuckles along your arm as he seeks out your hand. You curl your fingers between his almost instantly, holding onto him like a lifeline. He turns them over to bring your hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles tenderly. “What else?”

You whine, closing your eyes to hide from his stare. “Please don’t make me say it,” you beg.

“Why not?” You don’t answer his question. “Hmm. Shall I guess, then?”

He disentangles from your hand after one last kiss, bringing it to rest in his hair. You dig your hand into the soft locks immediately, like it’s second nature. He kisses your lips softly. The feeling lingers even as he trails kisses down your body once again. Down your neck, over your sternum, taking one detour to bite at your tits. His hand follows in his wake, massaging and caressing your skin.

He shifts to be kneeling between your legs, resting them over his thighs as he reaches your navel. His hand passes him, however, pulling your panties down your other hip. “Am I warm?” His hot breath fans over your stomach, making you shiver. His lips brush sinfully over the edge of the elastic band. His eyes meet yours again.

You nod. His thumb caresses your jaw, a silent praise for answering him. You lift your hips experimentally, worried he’ll push them down again, but his hand slips under you instead, dragging down the fabric over your ass. As more skin is revealed, his kisses get lower. You tug at his hair, trying to push him closer. “Sy, please…”

He hums, tilting his head to rest his cheek against your hip. “Hm? What is it, sweetheart? Do you feel like telling me what you were thinking of now?”

You halfheartedly glare at him. “You’re such a bastard.”

He chuckles. “I know.”

His hand glides smoothly over your ass, fingers guiding your panties further down your thighs. Before you can be fully uncovered, he leans down between your legs to kiss your cunt through the soaked fabric of your panties. You gasp sharply, opening wider for him. He makes sure you’re watching when he gathers the material in his teeth and drags them down. You hope you never forget that sight.

He sits back to remove the final piece of your attire, slipping off your heels in the process. You wish you could sit up and tear his clothes off of him, throw them to the side with reckless abandon to expose his body to you. That thought is immediately gone the second you feel his fingers finally dragging through your folds. Just like he mimicked at the arcade to your fingers, he parts your lips until he finds your clitorus.

“You’re so beautiful,” he hums, the rough edges to his voice softening. He kisses your thighs as he gathers up your slick on two of his fingers, groaning at how absolutely soaked you are. “So fucking gorgeous.”

He raises his coated fingers to your lips. You suck on them without question, moaning around them as you taste yourself, as you lick up every drop he gathered until all that remains is your saliva. He presses down on your tongue, choking you gently at the same time until you gag. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, soothing his thumb over your bottom lip. “Good girl. Such a good fucking girl.”

Your scent fills his senses. All he can think about is how good you must taste, how you’d feel clenching around his fingers and tongue as he ravages you, your heady scent consuming his every coherent thought until he’s utterly drunk on your cum.

He can’t wait any longer.

His hands slide down your body to grasp your thighs, spreading them wider, guiding your calves over his shoulders as he dives in like he’s starving on death row and you’re his last meal. He moans as he licks a stripe up your cunt, swallowing everything you can give him and seeking more. His fingers create divots in your skin as they press down, promising bruises as they tug you closer and closer, until your head is barely on the pillows anymore.

You cry out his name through moans and gasps. Both of your hands tangle in his hair, keeping him firmly against you. He nudges his nose against your clit. Your hips jerk to ride his face and he nearly lets you. Any other night, he would have loved to flip you over so you could sit on his face, use him, ride him, until he’s suffocating in all of you. Tonight, though, he pulls his mouth from your weeping hole to suck on your clit.

It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. You’re torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, begging him mindlessly, though you don’t know what for. One of his hands releases your thigh to take over where he left off. One long finger pushes slowly into you, easily accepted with how fucking wet you are, dripping slick down his hand. It fucks into you, curling to rub at your g-spot with a professional expertise. His second finger slides in just as easily, creating a steady rhythm that draws you closer and closer to your orgasm.

Tears slip down your cheeks, so fucking lost to the intensity of his attention to your clit. You’re so fucking close already. Air gets caught in your throat, forcing its way out through ragged moans. You can’t even get the words out to warn him. That swell of pressure builds in your abdomen too fast. Your cunt clenches harshly around his fingers, trying to draw them in deeper. Sylus’s eyes watch your face in a half-lidded haze, desperate to catch the exact moment you come undone for him.

Your thighs squeeze his head as your orgasm snaps inside you. Your head is thrown back against the pillows, fingers in a death grip in Sylus’s hair as your cum gushes out of you. He eases up on your clit when you tremble, shaking your head without conscious thought as it becomes too much. His fingers gently ease you through the afterwaves, hand drenched in your delicious slick. When your hands and your thighs relax, he pulls away.

You blearily open your eyes to watch him clean his hand with his tongue. It curls around his fingers, slides up his wrist and forearm to ensure he doesn’t lose a single drop; licks his lips as he pants for air. His eyes flicker to your cunt. Your walls clench around nothing. Your clit is swollen and sensitive to all hell. As much as he would love to go back in, clean you up with his tongue alone, he resists.

He gently lowers your legs from his shoulders, massaging your thighs to ease the lingering tension from them as he leans down to kiss you softly, sweetly. All you can taste is yourself on his lips. You comb your fingers through his hair, carefully trying to make up for any pain you may have caused. He sighs into your mouth, completely relaxed with your touch.

It’s you who pulls away first, tilting your chin up to get him to let up. He trails his kisses along your cheek instead. “You still haven’t been taken care of,” you point out.

He chuckles airily. “I assure you, I’ve been well taken care of.” You turn your head so he sees your look of confusion. He sighs as he sits back up. Sure enough, there’s a wet spot on the front of his pants that is definitely not from you. Your face burns as you look up at him.

“I… You came just from eating me out?” you gape in disbelief.

His cheeks are pink, too, despite the way he playfully shakes his head. “Don’t let it inflate your ego too much, sweetheart.”

You watch as he gets off the bed to go to the ensuite bathroom. It’s not hard to tell it’s uncomfortable being in his soiled pants, but he gets a wet cloth to take care of you first. You lay back, grinning like an idiot as he tends to the mess you’ve made. “I’m flattered.”

“Leave it alone, kitten.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll spend the rest of the night finding every single way I can make you cum without touching you.”

“...”

“... Promise?”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021

[nymphoniah]

can I request old man Logan where he’s looking for his glasses and he finds the reader sitting in his seat wearing them & teasing him how can he see without them. Then something primal inside him overcomes him to put her in her place

I hope that’s not too silly of a request I just drool over old man Logan especially with his glasses

i love this old man… i need him like air!!! ackkkk </3. tysm for sending this request in, we all need a grumpy logan in our lives :3 also i just read the old man logan comics and lord!!! i absolutely need to write more of himmmm

pairing: old man!logan x younger!reader

content/tags: NSFW minors dni, 18+ only, implied age gap (reader is in their 20’s), soft dom!logan, afab!reader, boot riding, smut, daddy kink, swearing, pet names (princess, doll, etc), a little bit of dacryphilia, logan refers to himself as an old man, porn w a lil bit of plot if you squint, crybaby!reader

you absolutely love the way logan’s glasses hang off of his nose bridge—always making sure when you’re peppering his face in kisses, you kiss the little bump that accentuates his features.

logan was a little embarrassed at first, wearing his glasses around you. thought it made him look older, already felt senile just taking them out of the case.

“c’mon!” you tease, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose. “i like the way you look in them,” you push him further, toying with the frames of his glasses.

“i look older in ‘em,” he says, playing off your kind words, “never was a fan of wearing them in the first place,” logan continues to drone on.

“charles says otherwise,” you snap back, your fingers playing where his glasses sit on his ears, flipping the glasses slightly up and down off his nose bridge.

logan chuckles, allowing you to continue playing with his glasses. “fine, i’ll wear ‘em,” he obliges much quicker than you thought he would—god knows the man loves to put on a fight.

but for you? he’d fold instantly. that’s what you do to him, you’re his little soft spot.

“only ‘cause you like it, princess.”

so when time passes, and you start to see him wear his glasses less and less, you decide to mess around with him a bit—give him a little surprise!

now here you are, sat in his armchair with a small smirk forming at the corner of your lips. your legs crossed, eyes peering up at him, but this time—his glasses perched on your nose.

logan approaches you slowly, his footsteps heavy, his figure towering over yours. he’s just come home from work, dressed up in his black and white suit, his tie slightly undone. he looks especially tired, like he’s had a long day.

“you broke your promise,” you trail off quietly, losing your smugness as logan looks down at you, his eyes sullen. “forgot these at home,” you continue, pointing at the glasses.

you try to ease the tension in the air by cracking a joke. “bet you couldn’t even drive straight without these.”

your words draw no reaction from logan. it’s painfully obvious that he’s drained from the day, and has no patience for whatever you have planned.

“i don’t have time for this,” he shrugs you off, pulling at your arm to get you up on your feet, “get ‘outta my spot, need to have some fuckin’ peace for once”.

you hate when logan gets like this, refusing to let you know what’s occupying his thoughts, keeping you in the dark—pushing you away.

so being the stubborn girl you are, you stay limp, refusing to move from the armchair. “no.” you retort, voice low and quiet.

logan can obviously lift you out of the chair with no issues, no tugging on your wrists or anything of the sort. but he sees that you’re at least trying to ease him up, make him feel the tiniest bit better. so he bites.

“can’t hear ‘ya, princess” logan says, the timbre of his voice gravelly, his eyebrow now raised, watching for your next move.

“no.” you respond sternly, shifting your weight further into the leather, tugging your arm away from his grasp.

something inside logan snaps. maybe it’s just ‘cause he had a bad day at work, or perhaps he just got riled up, seeing you get all bratty with him. knowing him, it was probably a combination of the two.

“no?” he mocks, sounding bitter as he lets out a tsk. “wrong fuckin’ answer, sweetheart.”

and that’s when the mood changes. the tension is still there, but there’s a shift. you feel your stomach turn, in a weird, twisted way—aroused by the way logan looks down at you with displeasure.

“need me to put you in your place, huh?” logan spits out, grabbing you by the wrist, finally pulling you out of the armchair.

taking little effort, he makes you stumble to your knees, your palms hitting the ground of the hardwood floor. you’re kneeled in front of logan, feeling foolish, stupid for trying to pester him after a long day.

“m’sorry,” you mutter, eyes glued to the floor, his glasses sliding low on your nose.

logan perches down to your height, bending down so that he’s level to your ears. “it’s a bit too late for apologies now, doll,” he coos, cupping your face with one of his hands.

he squishes your cheeks together, making it so that you’re looking up at him now. his eyes are sullen, facial features stern, the bags under his eyes a bit darker than usual.

streams of sorry, sorry, sorry is all you can manage let out of your pretty little mouth. you feel so guilty, upsetting him. sure, you had no ill intentions, but you know you pushed him—you should’ve just gotten out of the stupid chair, could’ve avoided this stupid mess.

the thoughts continue to drill into your brain, the regret. your eyes start to get teary, you just can’t help it. after everything that logan’s done, all the shit he’s been through, you didn’t wanna add onto his problems, cause any unnecessary stress in his life.

“don’t cry, princess” he consoles you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. logan steadies himself back up, seating himself into the leather armchair where you once sat.

you shift around, slotting yourself between his legs, your pink, teary eyes looking up at him. “m’sorry still, didn’t wanna make you mad,” you sniffled out, taking off his glasses, placing them on the coffee table.

you leaned your head against his leg, your cheek nuzzling into the fabric of his slacks, your tears staining the pants a darker shade of black.

logan looked down at you, his tired eyes admiring the way you sat below him, practically worshiping him. “you’re just needy for your old man, hm?” he says, patting your head gently as you continue to weep.

“can’t help it, lo,” you murmur, tears becoming less frequent as he continues to tangle his fingers in your hair. “you’ve been gone a lot.”

your eyes fall down to his black leather dress shoes, the stitching of the shoes frayed, the material slightly worn at the edges. your fingertips play with the toe of his boots, trying to ground yourself.

“i know, i know, doll,” he replies, wiping away a stray tear from your cheek, his eyes catching the way you were staring intently at his shoes. “show me how much you missed me.”

your mind is still racing, trying to find a way to ease the pain you felt on your heart, the residing guilt you felt from earlier.

that’s ‘till you let your body think for itself, mindlessly hovering your clothed cunt on top of his boot. your breath stutters, trying to make sense of your actions, but it’s the last thing you wanna do.

all you want to do is turn your brain off—make sure that the pain goes away, that all your troubles could be temporarily solved.

“need this, need you,” you whine, placing yourself firmly on his boot, slowly grinding against him, pressing the temple of your head onto logan’s knee.

logan feels himself hardening at the sight of you getting off on him, his cock twitching as you paw at his slacks, your roaming hands finding their way to his crotch.

“fuck…” he hisses out, tilting his heels slightly upwards, making it so that the toe of his shoes angles right against your cunt. “my filthy girl just needed her old man to comfort her, yeah?”

you moan out in pleasure, your eyes shutting tight as you pace yourself, rutting against the rugged leather rhythmically. your cunt was leaking with your arousal, the excess slowly dripping down the sides of his shoes.

“missed you… so bad… d-daddy,” you cried out in between pants, your breath quivering, feeling the pressure in your core building up. “don’t know what i’d do… without ’ya…”

“you don’t need to worry about that, princess,” logan coos, “daddy’s right here,” he punctuates by nestling the toe of his shoe deeper inside your messy cunt.

“shut your pretty little brain off and keep riding me like that.”

[synsacra]

catharsis

pairing: modern best friend's dad shanks x fem!reader

contents: smut, unprotected piv, ooc shanks maybe, soft shanks, age gap, kitchen sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), praise, loooots of pet names (darlin', sweetheart), aftercare

words: 4.1k

a/n: not proofread also this is my first time writing shanks and i know barely anything abt him i just know he's silly and hot as hell so yeah :P this fic stems from my SEVERE daddy issues and need for comfort if u dont like, dont read

You're sitting on Uta's bed, the soft hum of the air conditioner a comforting backdrop to your thoughts, and the scent of that sickly sweet vanilla candle that Uta loves fills her bedroom. You’ve been here countless times before, but today feels different. Your heart races as you glance at the door, half-expecting it to creak open. You can almost hear Shanks' deep voice echoing in your mind, sending shivers down your spine.

Uta is downstairs, chatting away with her dad while he makes lunch. You should be there too, joining in on the conversation, laughing at their jokes, but you can't bring yourself to move. Your fingers trace the outline of a photo on the bedside table–a candid shot of Shanks and Uta from last summer. He’s grinning, his only arm slung casually around her shoulders, his red hair glowing under the sun. His eyes, though, are what draw you in. They seem to hold a depth of experience and warmth that makes you squirm.

You feel a flush creep up your neck as you imagine those eyes meeting yours, boring into your soul. You shake your head, trying to get rid of the thought, but it lingers, growing stronger with each passing moment. You close your eyes, picturing him standing before you, towering over you with that easy confidence that always seems to dominate any room he enters.

"You okay?" Uta's voice snaps you out of your daydreams.

You jump, startled, and turn to see her standing in the doorway with a concerned look on her face.

"You looked like you were miles away," she says, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you reply, forcing a smile. "Just... thinking."

She plops down beside you. "About what?"

You hesitate, not sure how to answer. The truth is too embarrassing. Instead, you shrug and say, "Nothing important. Just school stuff."

Uta raises an eyebrow but doesn't press further. She leans back against the pillows, propping her feet up on the bed. "Dad made sandwiches if you're hungry," she chirps.

Your stomach flutters at the mention of him. "Sounds good," you murmur, still unable to shake the image of Shanks from your mind.

As if on cue, the door opens again, and there he is. Shanks stands framed in the doorway, holding a tray laden with sandwiches, chips, and drinks. His presence is magnetic, commanding your attention without even trying. He strides in and sets the tray on the bed between you and Uta.

"Thought you girls might be hungry," he says with a smile, his eyes briefly meeting yours before darting away. Something in his gaze, something unreadable, sends a jolt through you. You nod shyly, picking up a sandwich and taking a bite.

Uta chatters on about her plans for the weekend, but all you can think about is Shanks. What would it feel like to have those strong hands on you, to feel the heat of his body so close? The thoughts make your breath quicken and your skin tingle.

Shanks excuses himself after a few minutes, heading back downstairs to give you some privacy. As soon as the door closes behind him, you exhale sharply, feeling both relieved and disappointed.

"He really is the best, isn't he?" Uta says, her eyes bright as she eats.

"Yeah," you agree softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "He really is."

The afternoon drags on, each minute feeling like an hour as your thoughts circle back to Shanks. You try to focus on Uta and engage in the conversation, but it’s useless. Your mind keeps drifting, imagining scenarios that leave you breathless.

After a while, Uta yawns and decides to take a nap, leaving you to your own devices. You lie back on the bed next to her, staring up at the ceiling, but your thoughts are far from restful. Images of Shanks flood your mind–his smile, his laugh, the way his body looks beneath his shirt–until you can’t stand it anymore.

You slip out of the bedroom, moving silently down the hall towards the stairs. Your heart pounds with every step, but you don’t stop. You need to see him, if only for a moment.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you pause, listening for any sign of movement. The house is quiet, save for the sound of water coming from the kitchen. You take a deep breath and step forward, your pulse racing as you approach.

And there he is, standing at the counter, his back to you as he rinses a dish under the running water. The sight of him fills you with a mix of fear and excitement.

“Shanks?” His name slips out before you can stop it, your voice trembling slightly.

He turns, wiping his hands on a towel, his eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, slowly, he smiles, a warm, knowing smile that makes your knees weak.

“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth and low. “What can I do for you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “I… I was just wondering if you needed any help. With anything.”

He chuckles softly, setting the towel down and leaning against the counter. “You don’t need to help me, sweetheart. But I appreciate the offer.”

His casual tone only heightens your nervousness, your resolve wavering. You take a tentative step closer, your eyes dropping to his chest, where his shirt is open.

“Are you sure?” you manage to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tilts his head, studying you for a long moment before he speaks. “Is everything okay, darlin’?”

His words are soft, but they carry a weight that makes your chest tighten. His gaze pierces through your composure, and you find yourself frozen, unsure of what to say or do next.

“I…” Your voice falters, the excuse you had in mind dissolving under the intensity of his attention. You glance at the floor, desperately trying to collect yourself.

Shanks pushes off the counter and takes a slow step toward you. His movements are deliberate but unthreatening, his head tilting slightly as if trying to read your thoughts. “You seem a little off,” he says, his tone gentle but probing. “If there’s something on your mind, you can tell me.”

You look up at him, meeting his eyes for just a moment before the rush of emotions becomes too much, and you glance away again. “It’s nothing,” you mumble, shaking your head. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” he replies, his voice steady. “But you’re not a very good liar.” There’s a flicker of amusement in his tone, but it’s tempered with genuine concern.

Your cheeks burn. The words are on the tip of your tongue—an apology, an excuse, anything to break the tension—but they never come. Instead, you say, “I just… wanted to talk.”

It’s not a lie, exactly, but it feels like one. Shanks leans back against the counter again. “Alright,” he says, his expression softening. “I’m all ears.”

The weight of his attention presses down on you, making it hard to breathe. You shift nervously, your fingers twisting together as you search for the courage to speak. The room feels too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator doing nothing to mask the thundering of your heart.

“I…” You trail off, biting your lip. Just say it. Get it out. But how? How do you confess something that feels so big, so impossible?

Shanks doesn’t rush you. He stands there, patient and calm, his steady gaze encouraging but not overbearing. Somehow, that makes it even harder.

You glance at him, taking in the way the light catches his red hair, the ease in his posture, the warmth in his eyes. “I’ve been… feeling something,” you begin, your voice trembling. “And it’s been hard to ignore.”

His brow furrows slightly, though his expression remains kind. “What kind of feeling?” he asks gently.

Your mouth is dry, and your hands won’t stop trembling. You force yourself to meet his eyes, your resolve strengthening just enough to push the words out.

“About you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

The air between you seems to shift. Shanks straightens slightly, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He waits, letting you continue at your own pace.

“I know it’s wrong,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You’re Uta’s dad, and you probably think I’m just some kid who doesn’t know what they’re feeling, but… I can’t help it. Every time I see you, I feel like- like I can’t breathe, like anything other than you doesn't matter.”

You pause, your chest heaving with the effort of saying it all out loud. The silence stretches on, heavy and suffocating, as you wait for his reaction. Shanks runs a hand through his hair; his expression is complicated–a mix of surprise, understanding, and something you can’t quite place.

Shanks stares at you for a long moment, his expression softening as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if amused. “Well,” he says, his voice gentle, “that’s not what I expected to hear today.”

You feel your cheeks flush with heat, embarrassment threatening to swallow you whole. You lower your gaze, fidgeting with your hands again. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, your voice thick with emotion. “I know it’s crazy. I just… needed to say it.”

Shanks steps closer, closing the gap between you. His expression isn’t one of pity or condescension but of genuine care. “Hey,” he says softly, his deep voice washing over you like a balm. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Feelings are tricky, darlin’, and they don’t always make sense.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding in your ears. His words are kind, but the tenderness in his tone sends a fresh wave of longing through you. You bite your lip, unsure whether to say anything more or just let the moment hang in the air.

“Shanks…” you begin hesitantly, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to make things awkward. I just… I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

His expression softens further, and his lips quirk into a small smile. “It’s not awkward,” he murmurs, his hand lifting slightly as though he’s about to reach for you but stops short.

You can’t hold his gaze any longer. You glance down at the floor, wishing the ground would swallow you up. But then you feel the warm, gentle touch of his fingers under your chin, tilting your face back up to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says softly. You obey, your breath hitching as you take in the intensity of his gaze. “You’re not crazy for feeling what you feel. And… you’re not alone in it.”

Your heart stops. Everything around you seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet space of the kitchen. “What do you mean?” you whisper, not believing what you just heard.

Shanks exhales slowly, his thumb brushing lightly against your chin before his hand falls back to his side. “I’ve been feeling things too,” he admits, his voice low. “I’ve been fighting it, telling myself it’s wrong, but… you’re hard to ignore.”

“You really mean that?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. “I do. But it’s complicated, darlin’. So complicated.”

For a moment, Shanks seems torn, his internal conflict written all over his face. Then, with a sigh, he gives in to his desires. His hand lifts to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin as he leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.

You don’t.

When his lips meet yours, it’s like the world stops spinning. The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant, as though he’s testing the waters. But it deepens when you press closer, your hands gripping his shirt to anchor yourself. His lips move against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

The kiss is everything you imagined and more–warm, consuming, and full of unspoken emotion. When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, his forehead resting against yours as you try to steady your racing heart.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you stand there, clutching Shanks' shirt as you try to catch your breath. His hand still cups your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin. You can feel the warmth radiating off his body, his scent filling your senses.

"Shanks," you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with longing.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze soft yet intense. "I know," he murmurs.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans in to kiss you again. This time, the kiss is deeper and more passionate. You can feel the hunger in it, the pent-up desire he’s been trying to deny. His tongue slides against yours, teasing and exploring, and you melt into him, your body responding with a need that surprises you with its intensity.

His hand travels down your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. You can feel the firmness of his body pressed against yours. The sensation sends a shiver of anticipation through you, and you find yourself grinding against him, eliciting a low growl from deep within his chest.

Shanks pulls away slightly, breathing heavily as he asks, “Can you hop up on the counter for me, sweetheart?”

You do as he asks, climbing onto the counter with a soft smile, your heart pounding in your chest. The cool surface beneath you contrasts with the warmth of his presence as he steps closer, his hands gently resting on your thighs. He steps between your legs, and his hand slides under your shirt, exploring the softness of your skin. You arch into his touch, yearning for more, as his fingers trace the curve of your waist before moving higher, brushing the underside of your breasts.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back as you give yourself over to the sensation. Shanks takes advantage of your exposed neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down to your collarbone. His teeth graze your skin, nipping lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue.

Your hands tug at his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. Shanks breaks the kiss just long enough to pull the garment over his head, revealing his muscular chest. 

The sight of him takes your breath away, and you can't help but reach out to touch him, your fingers tracing the contours of his muscles, the scars that tell the story of his life. He watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, his breath hitching as you explore his body.

With a swift motion, Shanks removes your shirt as well, his gaze roaming over your figure with an appreciation that leaves you feeling both vulnerable and empowered. He leans in to kiss you again, his hand cupping your right breast through the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing your nipple into a stiff peak.

You fumble with the clasp of your bra, eager to feel his skin against yours. Shanks moves to assist you, his fingers deftly unhooking the garment and sliding it down your arms. His gaze locks onto your exposed breasts, and he groans with desire before leaning in to capture one of your nipples in his mouth.

The sensation of his tongue against your sensitive flesh sends jolts of pleasure coursing through your body, and you clutch at his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on one breast and then the other.

As the intensity between you builds, Shanks' hand slips between your legs, pressing against your aching core. The thin fabric of your pants provides little barrier to the heat of his touch, and you buck your hips forward, seeking more.

"Please," you gasp, your body trembling with need.

Shanks meets your gaze, his eyes dark with desire. "Tell me what you want," he commands, his voice rough with his own need.

“Want you," you breathe, your voice shaking. "So bad… need you so bad."

Shanks hums in acknowledgment, and he moves his hand away from your clothed cunt, his fingers hooking under the waistband of your pants. His touch sends a shiver of anticipation through you, and you can't help but gasp as he starts to peel the fabric down your legs slowly.

The cool air of the kitchen brushes against your bare skin, making you hyper-aware of your own vulnerability. But the hunger in Shanks' eyes as he takes in the sight of you, clad only in your underwear, makes any sense of unease vanish.

He steps closer, his body pressing against yours as he kisses you again. His hand roams across your skin, exploring every curve with a gentleness that takes your breath away. You can feel his clothed cock pressing against you, and the knowledge that you have this effect on him fills you with a sense of power.

"You're so beautiful," Shanks murmurs.

His fingers find the edge of your underwear, and he hooks them under the soft material. You lift your hips, helping him to slide the garment down your legs. He takes a moment to step back and drink in the sight of you, completely bared to him, and the raw lust in his gaze makes you feel like the most desirable person in the world.

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips before trailing a path of fiery kisses down your neck. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, his touch light and teasing.

You gasp as he suddenly grips your thigh, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. Shanks drops to his knees before you, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your body tense with need.

His fingers gently part your folds, exposing you to his hungry gaze. You feel a flush of embarrassment at being so thoroughly on display for him, but the desire in his eyes quickly chases it away. "So perfect," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe.

The first touch of his tongue against your sopping cunt makes you cry out, your back arching in pleasure. His hand moves to grip your hip, holding you in place as he explores you with a thoroughness that leaves you trembling. His tongue circles your clit, each flick sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You can't help but grind against his face, your fingers tangling in his red hair as you lose yourself in the sensation. He groans against you, the vibrations sending a surge of heat straight to your core.

Shanks' fingers join his tongue once you’ve stopped squirming, first one, then another, sliding into you with ease. He curls them upward, finding that sensitive spot inside you that has you seeing stars. His movements are slow and deliberate, designed to drive you mad.

Your breath comes in short, desperate pants, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each passing moment. The pressure builds within you and threatens to shatter you into a thousand pieces.

Just when you think you can't take any more, Shanks sucks your clit into his mouth, his fingers pumping into you with renewed vigor. The combination sends you spiraling over the edge, your vision whiting out as the orgasm crashes over you.

You cry out his name, your body convulsing around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. Shanks continues to lick and suck, drawing out your orgasm until you're left a boneless, panting mess on the counter.

He stands, his lips glistening with a mixture of your slick and his spit. His eyes meet yours, dark with desire and satisfaction.

Shanks doesn't give you a chance to recover, quickly pushing his pants and underwear down his hips and kicking them away. His cock springs free, hard, and ready, and your heart races at the sight. 

His hand grips your hip, lifting you slightly as he positions himself at your entrance. You look into his eyes, seeking reassurance, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile. "I've got you, sweetheart," he says, his voice filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

He holds your gaze, his expression intense as he slowly starts to push inside you. You feel your pussy stretch to accommodate him, your body welcoming him with a warmth that leaves you both gasping for air.

The feeling of fullness is almost overwhelming, but Shanks gives you a moment to adjust before he starts to move. His strokes are long and deep, each one hitting just the right spot to have you crying out his name and your back arching.

“Shhh… quiet, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna wake Uta up, would we?”

Shanks’ words have your walls clenching around his cock; the thought of your best friend walking in on you fucking her dad strangely arousing. 

You cling to his shoulders, your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you with increasing urgency. The sound of skin slapping fills the kitchen, accompanied by the occasional growl from Shanks as he struggles to maintain control.

"You feel so good," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "So tight... so perfect."

You can feel another orgasm building, the pleasure coiling low in your belly. You cling to Shanks, your fingers digging into his skin as you move together. 

With each thrust, Shanks fucks you closer to the edge, until finally, with a cry that echoes off the kitchen walls, you reach your peak. He follows soon after with one last thrust, his cock pressing against your cervix as his cum floods your cunt.

Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze, and there's a tenderness there that you've never seen from him before, mingling with the remnants of desire. His lips part as though he's about to say something, but instead, he just presses a gentle kiss to your mouth.

You watch through half-lidded eyes as he pulls out from you, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks of pleasure. He catches you looking and offers a lopsided grin that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

Shanks steps back between your legs, his hand coming up to cradle your face. He studies you for a long moment, his thumb stroking your cheekbones in a tender gesture that brings a lump to your throat. "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a bit rough.

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "More than okay," you assure him, your voice still shaky from the force of your orgasm.

His smile widens, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time, with a languidness that speaks of contentment. You melt into him, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck. It's a sweet, lingering kiss that speaks volumes.

When he finally pulls away, it's only to press a series of soft kisses along your jawline and down the side of your neck. You sigh happily, your fingers threading through his hair as you tilt your head to give him better access.

After a moment, Shanks steps back, his hand moving to take your right hand in his. He helps you off the counter, and you can't help but wobble a little on your still shaky legs. Shanks wraps his arm around you to steady you. 

"Easy there," he murmurs, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Wouldn't want you falling over."

You laugh, the sound light and airy, and you lean into him, comforted by his warmth and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. For a long moment, you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, neither of you in any hurry to move.

Eventually, though, reality starts to creep back in. You become acutely aware of your nakedness, and with a flush, you begin to gather your clothes from the floor. Shanks watches you with a heated gaze, his appreciation evident in the way his eyes roam over your body.

As you're pulling your pants on, there's a soft creak from the hallway. You both freeze, your eyes darting to the doorway of the kitchen. Shanks puts a finger to his lips, signaling for you to be quiet. The last thing either of you wants is for Uta to catch you like this.

The sound doesn't repeat itself, and after a tense minute, you both let out a sigh of relief. Shanks moves towards you, a playful smile on his face. "Almost got caught," he chuckles, and you can't help but giggle with him. 

[moonylantsovs]

Heyyy can u plz write a season one Bellamy blake x reader griffin/Kane SMUT where they are enemies and leaders of the 100 but don't see eye to eye on anything but have too much sexual tension and attraction towards each other and decide to give into their desire for one night cause they think if they screw each other they get their attraction out of their system?

Invisible String [B.B]

summary: hating him was easier than loving him. especially when clarke went through so much trouble to keep them away from each other. but for some reason, her attraction to him was much larger than her dignity

pairings: bellamy blake x caroline griffin (oc) a/n: the oc has no description, so feel free to imagine whoever you wish, I just write better when the main character has a name

tags: (18+) wells jaha lives, cursing, the nickname "princess" cause it's kind of cringey but fits their dynamic, SMUT; hate sex, (kinda) dom!bellamy, dirty talk, hate sex, hair pulling

Hating Bellamy Blake was almost too easy.

He was too cocky for his own good and was even worse at listening to orders than Caroline. He had been tormenting her, her sister and Wells since they landed.

But a long time has passed since their first days on Earth. The camp was functioning well and Caroline and Clarke found a way to work with Bellamy. After a kid died and Murphy was banished after being accused of killing some privileged kid, they formed a truce. Bellamy was the one leading the hunting trips and watching over the delinquents who were building the wall, Clarke was in charge of keeping the peace with the Grounders (the liberty of her having a thing with their Commander) and Caroline decided who got which job and worked with Raven to make radios and get in contact with The Ark.

She was not that thrilled about her mother coming down because, before she got arrested, she was not exactly mother of the year. Still, she felt guilty about the innocent people who were dying up there while there was a safe planet waiting for them.

Caroline let out a sigh and stood up, instantly drawing Raven’s attention to herself. She wiped her sweat off of her face with a rag and placed it down on the table, before saying, “I think that I’m done for today. I have to discuss some stuff with Bellamy.”

Raven snorted and raised an amused eyebrow, her tone taunting. “Oh, I bet. So much for staying away from him.”

The Griffin rolled her eyes at the reminder of her sister’s warning and wordlessly walked out of their work tent. Bellamy was very blunt with his flirting when they weren’t spitting insults at each other and when he wasn’t sleeping with half of the camp. Caroline was slightly annoyed and brushed it off quickly, but Clarke was down-right pissed. Her protective older sister was on and she was quick to tell Caroline how bad of an idea getting involved with Bellamy was. Her lecture was at least five minutes long but Caroline did not listen to a word that she said. She was not stupid. She knew that even flirting with Bellamy was a bad idea, but she was not planning on it. She liked to believe that she had standards.

“Hey, Princess.” Bellamy greeted her when she entered his tent without knocking. “You’re early.”

“No, you just slept in.” Caroline deadpanned while scanning his bare chest with a blank look on her face while he sat on the edge of his makeshift bed. “Some of us have been up and working for hours.”

Okay, yes, Bellamy was an asshole. But he was a hot asshole. If you asked her, she would say that the fact that he was annoying only made him more attractive. But that might just be her daddy issues talking.

He furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Shit, is it really late?”

“Yeah, it’s almost lunch.” She shrugged and walked across his tent to grab one of his shirts. She absentmindedly threw it on him, silently telling him to get dressed. “I told Wells to let you sleep. You were keeping guard pretty late last night.”

She told herself that it was because he needed his eight hours of sleep if he was going to function properly. He was even more grumpy when he slept for only two hours.

Bellamy’s lips tugged into a grin and then fell open as he let out a dramatic gasp. “Was that you being nice?” She rolled her eyes and he was quick to add, “I’m sorry, I only ever saw you being nice to Clarke and Wells. Is it snowing outside?”

“Shut up.” Caroline muttered, her eyes involuntarily flickering toward his hands. “Just get dressed. We have work to do.”

He grabbed the blue shirt that she gave him but made no move to put it on. He simply raised a knowing eyebrow. “Are you sure that you want me to do that? You don’t want to keep checking me out?”

Caroline felt heat rushing to her face. Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no words came out and she was desperately trying to find something to say. A couple of seconds later, she simply blurted out, “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that good looking.”

His smirk only grew. “Oh, so I’m not that good looking?” He stepped closer and she wished that the ground would swallow her whole. “I knew you liked me, Princess.”

“You wish,” She shot back, but made no move to step away from him. His scent was intoxicating and she could not look away from his face. His dark eyes were flickering between her eyes and her lips and she swore that they only got darker when her breath hitched.

Bellamy lifted his hand to brush some of her hair away from the face and he licked his lips, an action that only made her stare at his lips longer. He pushed his face closer to her own and just as he was about to lock their lips together, Wells’ voice rang through the air.

“Bellamy, did you take my─” He cut himself off when he looked up from the ground to see his best friend standing inappropriately close to the guy that she hated for months. His eyebrows shot up in surprise and he silently looked back and forth between the two of them for a couple of moments. He swallowed and awkwardly croaked out, “I’ll come back later. Or never. Probably never.”

Caroline watched the place he was standing at a couple of seconds ago in shock. She quickly stepped away from Bellamy and cleared her throat. “Get dressed and meet me in the map tent.”

Bellamy watched her leave the tent in a rush and chuckled to himself the second she left.

-

Caroline wished that they could simply work in silence, each on their own side of the tent. After what happened earlier that morning, the last thing that she needed was to spent the next couple of hours before lunch with Bellamy. Especially because he seemed completely unfazed. If anything, his amusement only grew every time he would catch her staring at him which would lead to her having to look away or narrow her eyes into a glare to seem annoyed rather than flustered.

He saw right through her. That might be the reason why she hated him so much. She had always tried to keep her walls up as high as possible because she was afraid of letting people in. But Bellamy could read her like an open book.

“We should move Jasper from the gate and get Miller there.” Caroline suggested as she leaned over the map of their camp. “I love him to death but he runs at the first sight of danger. There is no one better than Miller. I trust him to stay there more than anyone.”

Bellamy surprised her by shaking his head. Her eyebrows furrowed. Was Miller not his best friend? “Guarding the gate is a big responsibility, yes, but it’s also dangerous. The guards there are usually the first to go. We have to put someone disposable there.”

Caroline let out a humorless laugh and looked at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? No one in this camp is disposable. We put the most competent person there, no matter how much either one of us cares about him.”

The Blake shrugged. “I don’t know if losing him is worth it.”

“And losing someone else is?” She retorted and stepped away from the table and scoffed. “I cannot believe you. You talk shit about The Ark, Jaha and the privileged for sending us here and labeling us as disposable but you are not any different. For some reason, those kids out there trust you but you are willing to sacrifice any of them if it means saving your ass and the two people you care about.”

Bellamy clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing with anger the second that she compared him to the monsters that killed his mother and locked up his sister. He stepped closer to her and glared down at her. “Stop pretending that you know me, Princess. You can’t psychoanalyze everyone in your life just because of one decision they make.”

Caroline glared back at him, not intimidated. “And you can judge people based on who their parents are? That’s ironic. I would not be surprised if you were planning to tell me that I should guard the gate since you clearly hate me so much. Putting me there is the easiest way to get rid of me, right?”

“Maybe I do hate you?” His words made her falter in surprise. “How can I not? You always have something to say about every decision I make. You take every opportunity to argue with me. Whenever I think that we are starting to see eye to eye, you do another thing to drive me crazy. And I hate myself for it a lot more than I hate you because despite you being everything that I’m against I still…” Bellamy did not finish his sentence and simply stared at the clueless look on her face. After a couple of seconds of silence, he muttered, “Fuck it.”

Caroline stumbled back in surprise which led to her sitting on the desk. Before she got the chance to kiss him back, he pulled away. His breath fanned across her lips and he stared at her, trying to find any hint of disgust or hesitance. He did not find any. But this time, she was the one that kissed him. She gripped his shirt to keep him closer while one of his hands tangled in her hair. Her breath hitched when he used his grip on her cair to pull her head down in order to reveal her neck. He did not think twice before he messily started placing open-mouthed kisses over her exposed collar bone.

She moaned and spread her legs so he could comfortably stand between them. His other hand found her waist and she ran her fingers through his hair, pulling on his curls lightly to spur him on. He pushed down her shirt to reveal her bra so he could keep sucking hickies down to her breats. The hand on her waist squeezed it and he paused, squeezing his eyes shut to get it together.

“Did you─ did you ever have sex?” Bellamy asked,his dark eyes practically piercing through her soul.

Caroline’s eyes almost softened at the genuine worry in his voice. He was grounded enough to ask the eighteen year old, who spent the last six years of her life locked up, if she was a virgin or not. Luckily, after Clarke broke Wells’ heart, she was more than fine with being his rebound to keep her mind off of other things.

She rapidly nodded, tugging at his shirt so he could get back to what he was doing before.

“Words, Caroline,”

Caroline. Not Princess or Baby Griffin. Just Caroline.

“Yes.” She breathed out. “I had sex before. Now stop being so uncharacteristically considerate and kiss me.”

Bellamy did not need to be told twice. He leaned back down to kiss her and her hands quickly found their way around his neck to pull him closer to her despite them already being chest-to-chest. His tongue slipped into her mouth and easily won the short battle for dominance.

Caroline placed her hands on his chest to push him away. He gave her a confused look which disappeared when she pulled her shirt over her head. He smirked and then copied her actions, exposing his chest. This time, she shamelessly checked him out.

Bellamy was pleasantly surprised when she reached down to pull his pants down along with his underwear. Her hand wrapped around his dick and started to slowly move her hand up and down, almost as if she was teasing him. He let out a low groan and leaned his hands on either side of her. He rested his forehead against hers and kept his eyes on her as she jerked him off.

“Fuck, Princess.” He cursed, his breath hitching. He was ashamed of how close he was just from her jerking him off.

He pulled her hand away and just as she was about to ask him what he was doing, he pulled her off of the desk in order to pull her hands down. He wrapped his arms around her thighs to place her back on the table and she gasped in surprise when his fingers slipped between her legs. His fingers teased her opening until she was whining into his mouth.

“Don’t tease.”

He chuckled and dipped one of his fingers inside of her. “Patience.”

She did not argue and simply leaned back, letting him pump his fingers in and out of her while he rubbed her clit. She moaned his name lowly, aware that if they were too loud, the others outside could hear them. Bellamy almost moaned at the sight of the girl squirming and trying her hardest to stay quiet on the table. The girl who never kept her mouth shut and was a force to be reckoned with was completely at his mercy.

Before Caroline could finish, he pulled his hand away. She panted and gave him a weak glare. “You’re a dick,”

“I didn’t hear you arguing when you were moaning my name.” He shot back and cupped her ass to bring their bodies closer together. He wrapped one of his hands around his dick and slid inside of her. He let out a deep groan and she let out a high pitchen moan due to his lack of patience. Bellamy placed one of his hands over her mouth and whispered, “Be quiet for me, Princess. You don’t want the rest of the camp to hear how much you hate me, do you?”

She shook her head and her eyes rolled to the back of her head when he pulled out and roughly pushed back inside her. He was no better than her. He was cursing and groaning as she rolled her hips back into his own.

They spent a couple of minutes like that, soaking in pleasure and the thrill that they got from the fact that anyone could walk into the tent at any minute. “I’m close.” He muttered and used the hand that was not covering her mouth to rub her clit in order to get her closer to the edge.

Caroline’s nails dug into his shoulders and the moaned against his hand, almost reaching her peak. He groaned at the pain and only snapped his hips against her faster. Her vision blurred and her eyes squeezed shut when she finally fell over the edge and came around him. Her walls squeezing him like a vice was what pushed him over the edge and he was quick to pull out and finish on her stomach.

Caroline panted and leaned her forehead against his chest when his hand fell from her mouth.

"So much for hating me, huh, Princess?"

She groaned. "Clarke is gonna kill me."

[xjoonchildx]

kanalia | jhs x reader | chapter five: the king is a fool

banner by the amazing, incredible @kth1

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.

⚜️word count: 10K

⚜️notes: the queen is hot and bothered, literally & figuratively. the king puts several Ls in the disappointed but not surprised category, everyone gets drunk at some point. lord min is a terrible archer, yeona remains round and winning. the queen could melt steel with her sexual frustration, lord jung is not faring much better but at least he knows what he's doing, slightly awkward marital smut. the queen fights with everyone.

i could never have finished this chapter without these amazing authors & minds @miscelunaaa and @vyduan and one person who would probably level us all with her first fic if she decided to write one, @hobi-gif. please let me re-iterate how much it means to me that any one of you reads my stories, and it would make me endlessly happy to talk to you about it. you can talk to me here 💕

previous chapter final chapter

Hyeri is curious.

She examines the stains at the hem of your walking dress with narrowed eyes, pausing her thorough study of the red-brown splotches only to steal the occasional furtive glance your way.  

Her lips purse as she shakes dirt loose from the grooves of your walking boots. She watches the sediment fall to the floor with a raised brow, uncharacteristically quiet as she reaches for the broom to sweep the mess away.

But her bewilderment only grows as she draws closer.

The older woman’s posture stiffens as she regards you, lips pulling into a thin line as she takes in the state of your wind-swept hair and grimy fingernails. You must reek of the ill temper you’ve brought back from your ride, the smell of it as pungent as the sweat and horse on your clothes. She tests your temperament in much the same way as she tests your bathwater, query as feather-light as the fingertip she skims along the surface.

“Are you… well, this evening, Your Grace?”

“As well as I ever am,” you answer succinctly, accepting her hand and stepping carefully into the tub. Woven into the spaces between each of your clipped words is rebuke; a silent warning to proceed no further. Your handmaid, who is by no means a meek woman, has the good sense to heed it.

So Hyeri says nothing as she takes a comb to the tangles in your hair, working them apart with peach oil. She says nothing as she scrubs away the dirt embedded beneath your normally pristine fingernails. And she says nothing still when you wince at the ache in your thighs as she helps you from the bath.

When the heavy chamber door finally pulls behind her, shutting the stares and the questions safely out, you make your way to bed. You extinguish the lamp on your nightstand and welcome the shadows.

And then you succumb to the darkness that envelops you, inside and out.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Steamy heat has put an end to weeks of pleasant fall weather. 

You’ve sought refuge this afternoon beneath a tree at the edge of the castle’s sprawling open field. The oak, though grand, offers scant protection from the midday sun. A bead of sweat trickles down your neck and disappears into the linen at your décolletage. 

“Between you and me, I’ve always found hunting to be an appalling sport.”

Boram shakes her head at the scene in the distance. The King and his men claim to be training for an upcoming hunt, but by all appearances, there is little training taking place. Instead they look to be bandying about like mischievous little boys, scrambling for position in front of the straw targets with bows in hand. 

“I find it to be an exercise in vanity more than ability. Little more than male preening disguised as sport.” Boram dabs at her brow with a handkerchief and sighs. “What do you think?”

You don’t answer Boram’s question on account of your distraction. Try as you might to keep your eyes on the dashing elder Lord Kim or the charming young Lord Jeon or – heaven forbid, your husband – they wander to Lord Jung instead, over and over and over again. Your gaze pulled to his strong face as though drawn by a magnet.

He turns his head and his dark eyes find yours across the distance.

The butterflies you’ve felt in his presence before are not to blame for the unsettled feeling that comes over you now. The very sight of the man makes your stomach turn over, as though you can taste the vivid recollection of the last time you saw him. 

The memory of that wonderful ride – and of the horrible way it ended – are still bitter on your tongue. Like picking the most beautiful fruit in the orchard only to find it sour and decaying inside. 

“Your Grace?”

You blink.

“I say this to you as my friend and not my Queen,” Boram says, pausing to clear her throat. “You don’t seem yourself today. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nothing at all,” you lie quickly, smoothing down the damp curls springing up around your ears. “I’m fine, truly. Though I suppose it is possible the heat is making me cross. I can barely think in such conditions.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Boram laments, reaching over to give Yeona’s belly a tickle. The baby curls into herself like a starfish, giggling as she rolls around on the blanket. “Yoongi says it will take a rain to break it. But until then, we must all suffer.”

“And suffer we shall,” you echo under your breath, watching Lord Jung load his bow in the distance. He sets his lithe body in a precise stance then draws his arm back and releases his arrow. It flies in a tight arc and lands just below the bullseye on the target. The men erupt into raucous cheers. You resist the urge to scowl.

“As for the hunting,” you add, “I think men are just as guilty of the frivolity they so often accuse women of. Not that any one of them is likely to admit it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Boram laughs. “Men are not known to be skilled in the art of introspection.”

“They certainly are not.”

And why should they be? Men never have to stop and consider the consequences of their actions. They alone decide the rules of engagement. They are free to be as vain and as frivolous and as thoughtless as their hearts desire. Horrid, infuriating creatures.

Lord Min steps up to the target. His stance is uneven and his arrow is wild the very second he lets it loose. It flies yards from the target and lands off in the grass. The men jeer loudly.

“Poor Yoongi,” Boram winces as she watches the men tease him. “He’s never been much of an archer, I’m afraid.” But the good-natured Lord Min appears to take it all in stride, shrugging off their taunts as he trades his bow for a fresh tankard of ale.

The King takes his turn next – the lines of his body thicker and stronger than Lord Jung’s, but no less elegant. The men circle around your husband as he draws the bow back with one strong arm. He takes careful aim with his arrow and deftly plants it just above the target’s bullseye. The sound of the men’s whooping echoes across the field.

And so it goes for a while, with the men taking turns loosing their arrows to varying degrees of success.

Lords Park and Jeon both prove to be adequate archers, hitting the targets more often than not. The elder and younger Lord Kims are less skilled and spend the lion’s share of their time plucking arrows from the grass behind the targets. Lord Min quickly gives up on the endeavor entirely, opting instead to sit with his ale and heckle the others.

But the two best archers on the field refuse to be distracted by drink.

The King and Lord Jung set an arduous pace, loading and firing their arrows in quick succession. Even at a distance, even with your meager knowledge of archery, you can discern that both men are quite evenly matched in terms of skill. They load, fire, and strike their respective targets with precision.

On and on they persist – despite the brutal heat, despite the fact that the other men have begun to tire. One by one the other Guardsmen surrender, abandoning their bows and collapsing onto the grass to watch. 

“These two seem quite serious, don’t they?” Boram notes. 

They certainly do. The air of silly fun that’s sat over the group for much of the afternoon is all but gone now and what began as a diversion for all of the men has clearly become a challenge between just two. The other Guardsmen seem to sense the shift in atmosphere as well, their faces earnest as they watch the King and Lord Jung compete.

Physically, the two men are quite different. The King’s muscular arms and chest serve him well as he steadies his bow and fires. In contrast, Lord Jung’s body is lithe, sleek. He moves with an agility the King cannot. But both wear matching expressions of determination. And though this competition might have been amiable at the start, it’s now evident that neither man is willing to leave the field without a clear victor.

Lord Min calls out to them both – voice too distant for you to make out his words – and the men appear to nod in agreement. They both step back from the targets, increasing the difficulty of each shot. But it takes only a few more arrows to prove that the added distance is no hindrance to either man. Both set their stances again, both aim and fire, and both land their arrows with ease.

The Guardsmen sitting nearby fall silent, and in the absence of their racket the King’s answering growl of frustration echoes over the entire field. 

“Oh my,” Boram whispers. “I’d heard there was some tension between them, and it would certainly appear to be so.”

It certainly would. Right now, the King and Lord Jung look more like rivals seeking to settle a score than lifelong friends. 

The King’s agitation is apparent in every move he makes, in the way he jerks the arrows out of the straw targets and stalks back into position. Lord Jung’s agitation is equally apparent. He accepts a skin of water from Lord Min without so much as a thanks and hands it back once he’s drained it.

It’s a strange thing to see the handsome Guardsman challenge his King with the very same passion in which he’d defended him just days prior.

“Has the King spoken to you about it?”

“No,” you admit stiffly, “He has not. Are you determined to keep me in the dark, as well?”

“Heavens, no,” Boram protests, pulling Yeona into her lap. She hands the baby a rice cake and Yeona sets to gumming at it right away. “I would never want you to think that I’m speaking ill of the King, is all.” 

“I could never think that of you.”

There is hesitation in Boram’s face when she flicks her dark eyes back to meet yours. 

“Well, the details I have are few,” she starts slowly. “But what I know is that the King expressed a wish to see Lord Jung married again and Lord Jung, from my understanding was – ” she pauses, carefully considering her next words,“ – less than amenable to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Yoongi says they fought over the matter. Quite thoroughly, from what I’ve been told.”

“I see,” you say, taking great care to keep your expression impassive. “And did Lord Min explain why Lord Jung is so opposed to marriage? He’s still a young man. I can certainly see why the King would think it a logical proposition.”

Boram’s lips purse as she thinks.

“I do not know that I can say. Though I consider Lord Jung to be a dear friend, he can be terribly private about some matters.”

You cut your eyes towards the field to search for the man in question. 

Does she really know Lord Jung? Do you? Today there is no sign of the man who’d leveled you with a smile in the Great Hall, no trace of the man who’d teased you about riding clothes before helping you onto your mount. The man you see now wears a strained expression as he watches the King take aim, his energy volatile like a pot ready to boil over. 

Perhaps you’d been foolish to think him so different from the King. Perhaps they are as evenly matched in the art of duplicity as they are the skill of archery.

“So what will come of it?” you ask after a while. “Will the King – make him marry?”

“I don’t know,” Boram admits. “And therein, I suppose, is where much of the tension lies. Lord Jung has already taken a bride once in service to the Kingdom. I can’t imagine he’d be inclined to do it again.”

There’s a sudden commotion on the field then, an outburst that has Lords Park and Jeon on their feet. The younger men rush to meet the King and Lord Jung mid-field, nodding as the King speaks. Both take off running at once. 

“I’ve no clue what that is all about, but I do wish they’d end this already,” Boram grumbles, watching the young men disappear behind the tree line as they go off in search of whatever it is the King’s asked for. “I don’t know how much longer I can last in this heat.”

“Nor I,” you agree, watching the King and Lord Jung speak to one another. Both men look sober, the lines of their faces hard. “But it seems we’ll all have to endure it for just a bit longer in order to humor this contest of male prides.”

Some arduous minutes later, Lords Park and Jeon make their return to the field.

The dust kicked up by the horses they ride precedes them, the ground parched from weeks without rain. Both men arrive in a cloud of grime – Lord Jeon on the King’s mount and Lord Park on Lord Jung’s– and dismount without delay, handing the reins over to their elders.

So this is how they will decide the victor.

“Well, let’s hope they keep their wits about them,” Boram sighs. “Lest they both break their legs in the heat of competition.”

“Yes, let’s,” you mutter.

The King is first to take his turn, of course. 

He mounts Jeonsa with ease despite the horse’s grand height and takes his time warming the warhorse up. The King runs his mount in circles around the target until he’s satisfied with his plan and the timing of his shot. He steadies himself against the jostling with his strong thighs, pulling his bow back to fire. The arrow hits the target just below the bullseye. 

The men, who’ve spent hours now drinking in the hot sun, erupt into a chorus of ruffian cheers. 

Lord Jung wastes no time taking to his own mount. His horse is leaner and quicker than Jeonsa, and it’s clear that he commands complete control of the animal’s every step. Both horse and rider move as one as he urges his mount faster, straightening his back to fire. The arrow hits the target just above the bullseye.

The men are getting rowdy now, egging on both competitors as they circle on their horses. Their shouting is louder, more animated, and you would not at all be surprised if there were a few healthy wagers underway. You wonder which of the men they’ve bet on. 

You wonder which of the men you would bet on before pushing the thought away and reminding yourself that you’re not particularly fond of either at this moment. 

The King circles Jeonsa around the target once again, taking his time about it. He seems to consider every circumstance surrounding his next shot – the angle, the speed, the light wind that blows east. After a great deal of circling and thought, he rears back to release his arrow.

It lands on the target, just above the arrow planted by Lord Jung. 

The shouting from the men becomes a low roar.

Lord Jung pointedly ignores the commotion, rolling his shoulders as he stares down the target, brow knit in concentration. Soon he’s urging his mount to move, the pair fluid as they circle the target. 

Just like the King, Lord Jung circles longer for this shot than he had for the first. Twice he draws back as though ready to fire and thinks better of it. But after painstaking deliberation, he finds his stride. He pulls his arm back and sets his stance. Then he releases his arrow. 

And it misses the target entirely.

It flies off the end of Lord Jung’s bow with astonishing speed, gliding just to the right of the straw and landing off in the distance. The men are on their feet now, jumping and yelling and slapping one another on their backs. Lord Jung shakes his head in disgust.

“Well,” Boram reaches for her basket, loading her things into it with haste. “That’s settled now. I certainly hope at least one of them feels better. Let’s move into more liveable conditions, shall we?”

You open your mouth to agree just as you spot the King barreling towards you atop Jeonsa, leaving the men celebrating his victory on the field behind. 

You nearly stumble over the hem of your dress in your rush to rise to your feet. Your husband is grinning widely when he reaches you, stopping his mount long enough to extend one large hand. You place your hand in his and he dips his head to plant a kiss on your fingers.

“Well done, You Grace,” you demur, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “A hard-fought victory.”

“Thank you. I’m quite pleased with the outcome.”

The King acknowledges Boram with a smile before turning his mount to ride back to his men. You put a hand to your brow to shade your eyes and watch as they cheer for him – reward him with the adulation he’s clearly worked so hard for. 

But a thought occurs to you as you examine the scene in the distance. 

There is no sign of Lord Jung. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King comes to you that night – hair damp and smelling of fine soap, breath tinged faintly with ale. 

He coaxes you to your knees just as he’s done so many times before. His fingers slide against your most secret place, slippery just as they’ve been so many times before. And then he’s pushing inside you, hard and hot just as he’s been so many times before.

But there is something different about him tonight.

Your husband’s touch is rougher than you remember. His grip on your waist is harder than you remember, large hands moving from your waist to your backside to dig his blunt fingertips into the soft flesh. His thrusts are more forceful than you remember, more erratic, powerful enough to push you up the length of the bed. 

You fist your hands into the bedding and push back, refusing to allow your knees to buckle under the pressure. That earns you a low groan from the King – a sound that strikes a strange chord inside you; sends a shiver racing up your spine. You press your hot face into the sheets.

Perhaps Namjoon is still feeling the effects of an arduous afternoon in the hot sun. Perhaps he’s still in his cups after a night of drinking with his men. 

Or perhaps it is all just a trick of your mind.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Morning brings no improvement in your mood. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

You wake snappish, jarred from a fitful sleep by the sudden appearance of light in your chamber. Shafts of it – hot and harsh – stream through your windows, spill across your duvet, assault your eyes. You bury your face in the pillow in a futile attempt to avoid it, sweat beading at the nape of your neck until the uncomfortable warmth forces you to quit the bed.

But the rude manner of your awakening is only one reason for your irritation.

The other is the lingering tenderness between your legs, a dull ache you can feel with each careful step. The sensation is more an annoyance than a true discomfort, but it vexes you nonetheless. Each muted throb serves as an unwelcome reminder of your visit from the King, of the peculiar way he’d bedded you last night. 

Your face flames as you think of it.

What is he about, your husband? And what of the juvenile, chest-thumping nonsense you’d witnessed yesterday afternoon? The combative way he’d gone up against Lord Jung and the grand show he’d made of coming to you to fête his victory. Boorish, absurd behavior – all of it. 

You go about your morning ablutions in silence, unwilling to meet Hyeri’s eyes for even one moment. You are in no mood to withstand her meddling today – well-intentioned or otherwise – and so it is for the best that she helps you wash and dress in relative silence. 

If there is something the older woman means to say, she has the good sense to swallow it, murmuring only a quiet warning about the heat as you slip out the chamber door.

And heavens, how you are wholly unprepared for the heat.

It, too, has worsened overnight – the air around you nearly thick enough to drink. You hurry towards the aviary, spurred on by the promise of the shade beneath its trees, but by the time you are finally seated at your desk you are soggy and sticky all over. Slick with sweat between your thighs and beneath your arms and breasts. 

Perhaps you should have heeded Hyeri’s warning. 

The thought rankles you as you open your book and attempt to pick up your story where you’d left it. You start and stop the same sentence over and over again, the heat so tyrannical that you can barely breathe, much less think. Even the King’s prized birds refuse to fly under such conditions – opting instead to perch on the highest branches, wings lifted to cool themselves with the occasional passing breeze. 

The stillness unnerves you; makes your aggravation mount with each unbearable minute that ticks by and before long, you throw your novel down in frustration. This will not do.

Loathe as you are to spend another day confined to the castle’s thick stone walls, there is no avoiding it. You’ll not survive another half hour in this heat, which means you’ll certainly not be able to pass an entire afternoon in it. You huff as you throw your things back into your basket and stalk off towards the aviary’s entrance.

But perhaps you should have been more mindful.

Immersed as you are in this black mood, you don’t notice the brambles growing at the edge of the heavy gate. You brush past them in a hurry, only to be wrenched back by the thorns that take hold of your skirt. You tug at the material with your free hand, successful only at tearing a hole in the fine linen but unsuccessful at pulling yourself free. You drop your basket in the struggle and the contents spill out, an apple rolling to a stop at your feet.

It is then that you do something very unladylike, something that would have earned you an exaggerated gasp from your sister or a sharp rebuke from your mother. 

You swear. Loudly.

You summon all of your frustration and scream what is perhaps the most undignified word you know at the very top of your lungs, the vulgarity echoing in the aviary’s eerie quiet. And though it’s done nothing to solve your current predicament, there’s something truly satisfying about speaking the nasty word out loud, about shouting it into existence.

That is, until someone coughs.

“I take it you need some help, Your Grace?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you whirl in the direction of the voice.

Lord Min approaches slowly, eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in your sorry state. You’ve no idea where he came from, but at this very moment you’ve never been so horrified and grateful to see him, all at the very same time. 

“Yes, I – ” you start and stop, flustered by both your behavior. “ – I’m stuck. The brambles are caught in my skirt and – ”

“Oh yes, I see,” he says, leaning down to examine the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He tugs at the bottom of your skirt and you wince at the sound of the fabric tearing. “You’ve got yourself quite tangled up here, haven’t you?” 

“I believe I have,” you admit with embarrassment. Lord Min gets down on his knees and begins plucking thorns and burs out of the fabric, brow knit with concentration as he attempts to extricate what remains of your fine linen dress.

You clear your throat.

“My Lord, I hope I didn’t – Well, rather, I hope you were not offended by that word you heard me say. It’s not a word that I usually use, not really. Well, not ever. What I mean to say is that I know of coarse language, of course, but I’m certainly not in the habit of using it.”

“What word?” Lord Min interrupts your rambling from his perch at your feet, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Did you say something, Your Grace? I must not have heard it.”

The corners of his mouth curve into a cautious smile, which you return with a timid one of your own. His teasing is welcome. It brings badly-needed levity to your embarrassing situation and lightens the heaviness of this atrocious day.

“What’s this, Min?”

At once, the gesture dies on your lips.

Lord Jung comes into view by way of the same path taken by Lord Min, though his sudden appearance does not bring you the same kind of relief. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The very moment he’s standing before you, critical gaze moving from you to Lord Min and back, you feel absolutely lightheaded with anxiety. You wonder what he must make of the scene he’s stumbled upon: Lord Min on his knees, at your feet, hands fisted in your skirts. 

“You Grace.” The lines of Lord Jung’s beautiful face are hard as he acknowledges you, his voice stiff and formal in a way that makes it foreign to your ears. He bows to you much in the same way, body rigid as he performs the required motion.

“My Lord,” you return with similar formality.

“Her Grace is stuck,” Lord Min explains, unaware or perhaps unbothered by the provocative position the two of you have been discovered in. “I’m trying to free her without ripping this linen to shreds. Could use your help, seeing as you’re standing there. Push that branch back for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Oh, but now you feel a migraine coming on. Lord Jung squeezes into the space beside you, leaning over Lord Min to push the brambles back so that the older man may have both hands free to work. At this point, both men are too close, but he is far too close. Heat blazes a path up your neck and into your cheeks. 

Inhale, you twit. Exhale.

“Last few, Your Grace,” Lord Min announces, voice muffled by your skirts. “I think the linen will need a bit of mending, but not much more.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Lord Jung’s gaze connects with yours. His dark eyes, normally so warm and expressive, are flat as he regards you. In fact, everything about the handsome guardsman’s countenance is uncharacteristically severe today, from the deep knit of his brows to the way his bow-shaped mouth presses into a firm line. He looks away from you without so much as a smile.

Is he – is he angry with you?

Your mouth nearly falls open at the realization. What right would Lord Jung have to be angry with you? It was he who’d laid the trap with the promise of a perfect afternoon spent riding and he who’d sprung the trap by defending your husband’s dishonesty. 

If either one of you had a just claim to animosity, it would most certainly be you. 

The awful word you’d uttered at the very start of this ridiculous dilemma springs right to the tip of your tongue. If only you had the courage to spit it at him. Horrid, infuriating man.

“There now,” Lord Min announces. “I think we’ve got it. Hang on to that bramble for a bit longer while Her Grace steps away from the gate.”

You start forward slowly, steps mercifully unencumbered by gnarled plants. Though Lord Min has done his best to salvage the fine linen, your skirt is now covered in a fine dusting of grime, torn in places from your knees to your ankles. Hyeri will have a fit when she sees you, but you couldn’t care less about the state of your ruined dress. The only thing that matters now is quitting this place at once.

“Thank you so much, Lord Min,” you breathe, dropping to your knees to gather your scattered things. The elder guardsman helps you retrieve the wayward charcoals and papers, which you hurriedly stuff back into your basket. “I’ll be off now and won’t take up any more of your afternoon.”

With that, you rush to your feet and turn on your heels to leave. You try not to think about the scene you’re leaving behind – Lord Min puzzled by your sudden exit, Lord Jung affronted by the fact that you’d pointedly ignored him in your thanks. 

You make haste with those first few steps towards freedom, only to be pulled back once again. Only this time, not by jagged brambles.

“Your Grace.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at the sound of the gruff voice behind you. You turn around slowly, acutely aware of both men watching your every move. When Lord Jung steps forward, your eyes fall to the gently worn leather binding in his hands. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You take great care to school your features, though the panic rising inside of you threatens to spill out. Your most private thoughts are inside that book. Fragments of poems and unsent letters and one horribly incriminating sketch of a man who is most certainly not your husband.

“Thank you, My Lord,” you mumble, resisting the urge to run to him and snatch the book right out of his grip. You can feel him watching your every move as you approach to accept it with unsteady hands.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

A storm is coming. You can feel it.

Never mind that the sun is shining – or that the sky outside is a perfect, crystalline blue. The clouds dotted across the horizon hang in the air, unmoving. There is no wind to rustle the leaves in the trees. The calm is ominous. Foreboding.

“... think none of the people in this kingdom have ever seen this kind of display before. I imagine they’ll be quite awed by it. I’ve only ever seen it once myself, in a village far North. A strange lot, those people are. After all these years, they still dabble in the dark arts.”

At the other end of the long dining table before you sits the King. He’s been prattling on like this for the better part of ten minutes now; far too absorbed in his grand talk of the festival to note that his audience of one has yet to engage with a word that’s come out of his mouth.

“It’s strange though, to think of celebrating a Fall Festival in this heat. Though I generally prefer the heat to the cold, these conditions are quite beyond the pale. We’ll have to have just as much water on hand as we do ale.”

You make a sound under your breath that you hope will pass for discourse.

“Of course, there’s still much to be done. But the stewards assure me that everything will be ready in time. And there will be much to celebrate this year as I’m told the crops in all our holdings are faring well. The wheat has – ”

The King’s jabbering comes to an abrupt stop.

“You’ve barely eaten,” he notes, in a sudden fit of awareness. He regards you over the rim of his wine glass, curious. “Is the jajangmyeon not to your liking?”

“It is to my liking,” you insist, pushing the wheat noodles around your bowl in a half-hearted attempt to appease him. “As always. I suppose I’m just not very hungry tonight, is all.”

“I find that surprising,” the King says, as though you’d asked his opinion on the matter. “I understand you were brave enough to venture out into that awful heat this afternoon. I would have thought you’d be famished tonight.”

Every muscle in your body tenses at once.

“Oh?”

“I spoke with Hyeri this afternoon,” the King elaborates, oblivious to his misstep. “She said she’d warned you against leaving the castle under those conditions, but you’d off and done it anyway.” He chuckles under his breath as he recounts the conversation. “I think you surprise her at times with how strong-willed you can be.”

Beneath the table, your hands ball into fists.

The thought of Hyeri disclosing the details of your day to the King, no matter how trivial, incenses you. You imagine them together over tea, sharing a laugh as they trade observations about your shortcomings. Or worse – meeting with one another somber-faced as they commiserate over your inability to produce a child. 

That thought is the most insidious. Your nails dig savagely into your palms.

“Do you and Hyeri discuss my comings and goings often, then, Your Grace?” 

Your husband shrugs, helping himself to another generous serving of noodles.

“Often enough, I suppose.”

“So am I then to assume that when you ask me about my day, you are merely standing on ceremony? Surely you must be, given that you’ve already had a full report from my handmaid.”

The King sets down his chopsticks to look at you, perplexed by the contentious turn in this conversation. But he’s careful to school his features as he considers what to say next.

“Of course not,” he starts slowly. “I ask after you because I genuinely want to know about your day. It’s a consideration that I would think customary between husbands and wives.”

Is he – is he toying with you?

What on earth would His Grace know about what’s customary between husbands and wives? He is the one who’s made this marriage into a farce with his deceit and adultery. He is the one who’s held you at arm’s length from the very start in order to protect the woman he truly loves. Your husband’s hubris is as astonishing as it is aggravating. Horrid, infuriating man.

“Well I, for one, would genuinely like to know about your day, Your Grace,” you say, unable to keep venom from seeping into your every word. “So tell me then – as is customary between husband and wives – how did you pass the afternoon?”

The color drains from the King’s face. 

You should shut your mouth now and say no more, you know it – but by now you are far too consumed with anger to give much thought to the consequences of sharp words. You push the bowl of jajangmyeon away and get to your feet.

“Nothing of interest to share, then?” You raise a brow as you stare down at your husband, unwilling to look away for even one moment. “What a pity. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The King’s eyes narrow but his mouth stays shut. He says nothing in his own defense, says nothing to attempt to placate you. 

And he says nothing as you turn your back on him and walk out the door.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first crack of thunder sounds just as you’re readying for bed. You stand at your window and watch the storm roll in. 

Black clouds build off in the distance, discernible only by the occasional flare of lightning. Each bright flash is followed by an earth-shaking rumble that satisfies you somehow, as though you’ve manifested this squall with your thoughts. The violent wind and rain it carries with it a mirror of the tempest inside you.

“Do you require anything else, Your Grace?”

Hyeri’s voice comes from behind, timid and small. She’s been tiptoeing around your chamber all evening, clearly disquieted by the cold reception you’d given her upon your return. The well-bred, well-behaved woman inside you whispers that you should turn to her, do something to reassure her, but you refuse. 

Fortified by your anger, you keep your back to Hyeri and go on staring at the storm clouds.

“No,” you say firmly. “You can retire for the night.”

“But I – ” Hyeri starts, stops, and then sighs. “Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”

And you do wish. You wish for Hyeri to leave you – not just tonight, but every night. And you wish not just for Hyeri to leave you – but all of them. You’ve grown quite tired of humiliating yourself in this kingdom; of placing your trust in people who’ve made you into a fool time and time again. 

There is rustling as the older woman hurriedly gathers her things, then a brief pause before she slips out the door. The heavy thud that finally announces her departure brings you some small measure of peace, but it does not last.

Your bath-damp body is warm when you slip beneath the heavy duvet. Too warm. Though the storm raging nearby brings with it the promise of cool rain, it is still too far off to displace the humid air in your chamber. You toss and turn beneath the heavy covers for a while, your thin nightgown soaked through with sweat by the time you finally kick your bedding away.

So you lie there in the dark, close to feverish with heat and unable to settle down. Every time you close your eyes, you’re taunted by images – of Hyeri, of the King, of the child that never comes. What you would give to be able to quiet your mind, to have some respite from the reality of your circumstances.

But there will be no respite, not any time soon. The thunder outside is close enough now to shake the castle’s heavy walls with each new blast that rips through the sky. You feel the tremors right down to your bones, the sensation causing goosebumps to scatter across your skin. 

In spite of the heat, you shiver. 

There’s a prickling that starts at your scalp and goes right down to your toes. It makes you itch with the desire to drag your nails down your arms and legs. It makes you want to squeeze your thighs together, tight and tighter still until your agitation is gone. Perhaps that is the solution. 

You cup your breasts through the damp, thin material of your nightgown. They feel sensitive, tender — and the very moment you brush your fingertips over your nipples they come to life, pebbling against the gauzy fabric. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine that your hands are not your own. That the fingers that close around the aching buds, teasing and testing, are not your fingers. That the dormant pleasure the pressure rouses inside you has instead been roused by someone else. 

In your mind, the hand that steals between your thighs is not your own. It’s larger than yours, the fingers longer and rougher than yours. You imagine that hand parting your legs, coarse fingertips slippery against the wetness gathered at your entrance. And you imagine it caressing you there, expertly stroking the spot that makes the air leave your lungs. 

What would it be like to be touched like this? To have a lover’s lips at your neck and his hand between your thighs? To have the weight of him pressing down on you, the scent of him enveloping you – to feel his warm breath fan over your skin?

These thoughts only serve to make the ache between your legs more pronounced. But the more you attend to it, the sharper it becomes. Pleasure blooms with each inexpert pass of your fingers over that place, but in its wake your desperation grows, too. 

You whine under your breath as you touch yourself harder, faster – a heaviness building at your core that makes you feel full, overripe. There is relief on the other side of whatever this is, and you know it. 

But can you reach it? 

Your imaginary lover would know how to help you reach it. He would take you in his arms and in his mouth and leave no inch of your body untouched. He would fuse himself to you, skin-to-skin, and show you how to beckon your pleasure at will, help you realize its full potential. 

In your mind’s eye you can see him – legs and arms strong and lean, golden skin illuminated by firelight. The mouth he sets to your aching nipples would be soft, lips pretty and bow-shaped. And his hair would be dark and his eyes would be a rich chocolate and his face would be – 

A clap of thunder explodes in the sky. 

Your eyes fly open – unseeing – as you gasp from the shock of it. It leaves you trembling, body slick with sweat and limbs tingling from the sudden fear. You lie there in the dark, panting as you wait for your heart to stop racing. 

And just like that, the pleasure you’ve been chasing is gone. Quick as a rabbit. 

Outside your window the heavens weep, the rain beating against the ground like a hail of arrows. 

The dry earth enjoying a relief that always seems to elude you.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“Magnificent, Your Grace.” 

Hyeri passes a hand over the embellishments in your bodice, chest puffed with pride as she examines the dressmaker’s handiwork. Though her brown eyes have long gone dull and gray with age, they shine as she steps back to take you in from head to toe. “Just magnificent.”

It is magnificent – far and away the finest garment you have ever worn. 

Rich, plum-colored velvet embellished with gilt thread, the plunging neckline and bliaut sleeves lined with pressed bezants. You hardly recognize the woman looking back at you in the mirror, the one with her hair swept off her neck in an intricate braided bun, eyes darkened with kohl, ears and neck adorned with sparkling gold. Whoever that woman is, she is far bolder and far more sophisticated than you.

“There’s nothing like his work,” Hyeri muses, running a thumb over pattern pressed into the hem of one sleeve. “Frail as he is, it takes him ages to complete a dress. But he’s worth it. Worth the wait and worth every single won.”

You study the intertwining gold patterns stitched into the bustline. No doubt the King has paid dearly for this dress and all its fine accoutrements. The thought of your husband spending an obscene amount of money on it nearly puts a smile on your face. 

“You look remarkable in this dress,” Hyeri remarks quietly, wrinkled mouth lifting at the corners with a cautious smile. “Well, of course, you look remarkable everyday, but especially tonight.” 

Her expression is bittersweet as she reaches for you, gently tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen loose of your braid behind your ear. This newfound emotional distance has been hard on her, you know. It’s been hard on you, too. And though holding her at arm’s length has proven difficult at times, it feels somehow vital to your self-preservation.

“Don’t forget your shawl,” Hyeri says softly. “It’s gotten quite cold out there.”

It certainly has. The storm that ripped through the kingdom just days ago took the insufferable heat with it, leaving behind a pure, crystalline cold. The night sky is clear enough to see for miles. 

So you accept the shawl from Hyeri with a quiet thanks, avoiding her eyes as you slip out the chamber door.

By the time you make your way to the great hall, the revelry is already well underway. You can hear it pulsing through the slats of the heavy wooden doors, the music and commotion contained within powerful enough to stir the ground beneath your feet. The footmen posted at either side of the entrance bow deeply as you approach, then move to pull the doors open.

You raise a hand to still them, wanting a moment to steel yourself before entering the fray.

“I’m not – If you’ll just give me – ”

One of the guards steps forward to speak when your words falter.

“No need to explain, Your Grace,” he says earnestly. “Just let us know when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” You take as deep a breath as your elaborate gown will allow. “Truly.”

You already know what awaits on the other side of those doors. Artificial smiles that hide whispers about your empty womb, honeyed and hollow words of praise from your exasperating husband. Pity too, perhaps, from those connected enough to be privy to the true state of your marriage. 

But you’ll bear it. You must. Because it’s what’s expected of you and because your political survival in this kingdom depends on it.

“Well then,” you say, smoothing down your velvet skirt with trembling hands. "I believe I've had time to collect myself."

The very same footman that had spoken to you just moments earlier gives you a sympathetic smile as he places one hand on the door’s ornate wrought iron handle. He pauses to look at you before signaling to the other footman, one brow raised as if to say are you sure?

You swallow thickly and nod your affirmation.

Slowly, the heavy doors are pulled open, creaking as they part. You step forward to enter, feeling a rush of cool air at your heels. The brief hush that falls over the great hall makes your heartbeat quicken.

But then the King stands. 

He rises to his feet and bows to you, and every person inside the great hall follows suit. You return his bow and then straighten, holding your head up high as you set off to fulfill your duty.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King makes no mention of the tense meal you’d shared just a few nights prior. Not that you’d expected him to. If anything, your husband’s predilection for avoidance has been one of his most consistent traits. And if he’s harbored any ill feelings about the curt words you’d spoken that night, surely they’ve been washed away in a torrent of ale.

He’s already a bit drunk when you take your seat beside him – pleasantly so, if his ruddy cheeks and leisurely smile are any indication. His dark eyes are glassy as they sweep over your form, taking in the grandeur of your dress. But they linger at your bust for just a heartbeat too long and it takes all the self-control you can muster to not kick him beneath the table.

“You look fetching in that dress,” the King notes, reaching for his tankard. “The color suits you.”

“Oh? Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve dozens more just like it on the way.”

You startle a laugh from the King just as he’s taken a drink and he splutters on it, coughing until tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “Very good of you to warn me before the bill comes due,” he wheezes.

“But of course, Your Grace.” You infuse your words with cloying, contrived sweetness, putting a hand over your heart for emphasis. “It is the very least I could do.”

The King chuckles as you turn to look out over the room. 

The tables below the raised platform on which you both dine are teeming with people, their long wooden benches bowing beneath the substantial weight. They are littered with food and drink, tankards and platters and goblets scattered for as far as the eye can see. 

You sip your wine and watch partygoers reach over one another for noodles and steal dumplings from their neighbors’ plates.

It takes a minute for you to spot Boram. She and Lord Min are tucked into a corner, cozy and close. Your dear friend is the very picture of contentment; resplendent in a royal blue gown, glowing in the torchlight when her husband presses a kiss to her temple. Your heart aches as you watch them. What you would give to have what they have – to know the fulfillment they’ve found in one another.

In fact, the Mins make for such a compelling tableau that you nearly overlook the one behind it. Lord Jung is dressed in an arresting black and gold tunic, dark hair styled away from his face and a tankard of ale in his hand. And he is not alone.

Seated close to him – so very close – is a woman. A beautiful woman, as best you can tell from a distance. Her dark red dress in perfect contrast to her shiny fall of dark hair, the garment cut to accentuate what can only be described as a generous bust. She leans in to Lord Jung as she says something, décolletage on full display when she throws her head back to laugh.

Your grip on the wine goblet in your hand tightens.

The woman is brazen, that much you can tell. Her proximity to the Guardsman is far too close to be proper, her scandalous –  if stunning – manner of dress far too self-indulgent to be benign. And though you cannot make out clearly how she’s been received by Lord Jung, the very fact that he has not sent her away is telling. Is this the woman he intends to marry, then? Or just a diversion for the night? 

You drain the wine that remains in your goblet and signal for the serving girl to bring you more.

Moments later Lord Jung, too, flags down a passing servant to fill his tankard. For a man who once took great pride in extolling his discipline with spirits, he seems to be exercising very little of it tonight. In fact, he looks to be indulging as much or perhaps even more than his fellow Guardsmen. Perhaps that is why he does not he does not move to distance himself when the alluring woman at his side places a hand on his arm.

You swallow another large sip of wine.

“It’s nearly time for the evening’s entertainment,” the King says. “I think you’ll be impressed by what’s in store.”

You cannot tear your gaze from the scene before you. You cannot stop staring at the comely woman at Lord Jung’s side – stiffening in your seat when she leans over to whisper in his ear.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you say absentmindedly, lifting your wine glass to your lips once again.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

When you were a girl, barely ten years old, your father had come home from a long journey with a fantastic tale. 

He’d spoken of fire – in shades of red and green and gold – launched into the sky, embers raining down on the earth in a magnificent display. You’d been spellbound by the picture he’d painted for you, wishing desperately to see this phenomenon for yourself.

And now you have.

The King’s promise of a surprise well exceeds your expectations. Each new flare sent up over the open field is met with a hush from the crowd, followed by loud cheers and applause as it explodes into color.

“I brought them back from a village up North,” the King explains, preening at the crowd’s reception. “And though I wanted to show them right away, I made myself wait until the most advantageous time. What do you make of them?”

“They’re splendid,” you answer earnestly. “I’ve never seen anything so grand.”

The King hides a satisfied smile behind the rim of his tankard. By this point in the evening, he’s crossed the line from agreeably drunk to good and well soused – as have many of the others in attendance. You, too, are feeling the effects of your wine, experiencing that strange weightlessness that can only be brought on by drink.

And you are glad for the distraction of the fire display. 

It’s helped pull your focus away from Lord Jung and that woman. Though each time there is a brief break in the presentation, you cannot help but search the throng for any sign of them. You wonder where they are right now. What they might be doing. But then you drown the bitter thoughts with the wine in your goblet.    

The night wears on and the crowd around you becomes rowdier, louder – the ale barrels slowly disappearing one by one. Even the King is looking a bit worse for the wear. He’s sagged into the chair beside you, heavy-lidded as he watches the bright detonations that light up the sky.

You are not faring much better. A dull throb taps at your temples, no doubt the consequence of drinking too much wine, and you suspect that it will be far more pronounced come morning. You ought to retire for the evening now, while you still have some of your wits about you.

You open your mouth to say as much to the King at the very same time you catch sight of a slim man ambling away from the crowd. Though he’s hundreds of yards away and though there’s little light beyond the torches and the occasional embers in the sky, you recognize him right away. 

You would recognize him anywhere.

Impulsively, you get to your feet and utter a rushed goodbye to the King. He bids you farewell with a sluggish smile and not a moment later he’s gone back to gazing skyward, mesmerized by the lights. Just ahead, Lord Jung slinks off into the shadows, moving with an unsteady gait. 

And you follow him. To what end you cannot be sure.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Clearly, you’d given no real thought to this course of action. 

If you had, you’d not be scurrying across damp grass right now, struggling to keep your balance in your beautiful velvet dress. The heavy fabric weighs you down with each step, making each footfall precarious. In fact, if you’d stopped for even a moment to consider the implications of stealing away to pursue a man who is not your husband, you’d have ended this lunacy long before it even began.

But here you are in the dark, chasing after Lord Jung. With only the moon to light your way.

The slender man moves quickly, unburdened by the trappings of women’s formalwear and assisted by his long legs. You lift the hem of your dress off the ground and do your best to keep up on the shadowy path. Just a short distance ahead you can make out the lines of a thatched roof and wooden fence. 

It’s the stables, you realize, and the pieces start to fall into place.

He’s come here to meet that woman. The two of them must have agreed to leave the festival and come here for a secret tryst. Were you a woman in your right mind, that realization would stop you cold and send you running straight back to the castle. But you are absolutely not in your right mind. You are dangerous tonight; fearless from the wine flowing freely in your veins.

As such, the very thought of Lord Jung arranging for a passionate liaison with this woman has the opposite effect. It infuriates you. And you’ll not be satisfied until you can see the proof for yourself and then end this fixation once and for all.

Overhead, a flare of light illuminates the darkness just as you’re nearing the horse stalls. It’s followed by the sound of sizzling gunpowder, and it draws your attention skyward. You look up just in time to see wisps of fire tumble back to the earth. But when you fix your gaze forward again, Lord Jung is gone.

What on earth?

You’ve barely begun to consider your next move before your body is moving of its own volition, jerked right off the walking path by a hand that wraps around your arm like a band of steel. Lord Jung drags you behind the horse stall with one hand and claps the other over your mouth to smother the sound of hysteria that threatens to escape.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

He hisses the words, one by one, his low vibrato thrumming with barely-contained anger. You’ve yet to recover from the shock of being accosted in the dark and so you stare at him, bewildered and mute.

He releases you, dropping the hand covering your mouth to walk to the edge of the stables. You watch as he ducks his head around the corner to check the walking path. Once he’s satisfied you’ve not been followed, he rounds on you.

“Anyone could have seen you.”

“No one saw me,” you scowl, finding your voice. You rub your forearm where his fingers dug painfully into your flesh. “They’re all far too drunk to see anything, I assure you.”

The Guardsman shoves a hand through his dark hair and exhales deeply.

“What are you about tonight, Your Grace?” 

A fair question, and one you ought to have considered before dashing off into the night. But you’d been so hellbent on hunting the man down that you’d given no real thought to what you’d do if you actually caught him. You hesitate for so long that he grows impatient, closing in on you.

“What,” he repeats slowly, “Are you about?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well, you ought to know,” he growls. “You ought to know damned well exactly what you’re about before you go off following men into the dark.”

But it’s not as though you’ve followed just any man into the dark, is it? You’d followed him. The admonishment riles you, bringing your temper back to a full boil. You straighten your spine and sear him with a withering look.

“That woman tonight. At the feast. She wants you to bed her.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes go wide just before they narrow. He stalks towards you slowly, forcing you to retreat until your back is flush to the stable’s rough wooden slats. Slivers of moonlight play off his angular face, making the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced.

He’s beautiful – even like this – even when he’s so irate that he can barely stand still.

“I know what she wants,” he murmurs, voice sinking to an octave that raises goosebumps on your arms. “What I do not know is what you want. What I do not know is why you are here.”

“So you intend to bed her,” you challenge.

Something dangerous flickers in the man's expression as he regards you, gaze potent enough to almost make you regret your sudden bout of daring. Almost.

“No.”

And so there is no tryst. No agreement between secret lovers. Adrenaline floods your veins, bringing with it a clarity that you’ve not had since you began drinking tonight. You’ve been reckless – so, so reckless – and now there is no undoing what you’ve done. 

“I’ve answered your question and now you will answer mine,” Lord Jung warns, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What. Do. You. Want?”

All the fire has left you now. Whatever force possessed you to confront this man in this way has disappeared, leaving behind only a sickly taste in your mouth. You’ll feel more than just the wine in the morning, you know it. 

“Brave enough to follow me into the dark, brave enough to demand I explain my plans for bedsport,” he continues, brows knit as he stares you down. “But somehow, not brave enough to tell me what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“I – ” 

“Tell me then,” he goads, growing more agitated by the minute. “Open your mouth and speak. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

You ought to have slapped him across the face. At the very least, you would have earned the look he’s giving you right now – this frozen mask of incredulity that’s come over him. He backs away from you slowly, as though poised to run. But he doesn’t.

“You’re mad.”

“I am not mad,” you say evenly, with a poise you’d not thought yourself capable of. “You asked me what I want and I’ve told you. I want you to kiss me.”

Another burst of color explodes in the sky. A loud cheer goes up over the field nearby, a disquieting reminder of the hundreds of people milling about just a short walk away. The commotion seems to sober him.

“Go home, Your Grace.” His words are strangled, forced. “You are playing with fire. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

You stiffen, lifting your nose in the air. 

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you lie.

Your insistence only serves to make him even more agitated. He begins to pace back and forth, glowering at you as he moves.

“Go back to your castle, Your Grace. Go back to your fine life and your fine things and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I will not,” you refuse, petulant.

Lord Jung delivers his last blow, the fatal one, in a voice so graveled it sounds as though the words are spoken by a stranger. And perhaps he is a stranger, this man you’ve been so infatuated with. Perhaps he’s nothing like what you’ve made him in your own mind.

“Go back to your husband,” he growls. “Your King.”

Your humiliation is instant and acute. You burn with it, the embarrassment so all-consuming that it nearly makes you see stars. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, feel your heart pounding in your throat when you finally manage to speak.

“The King doesn’t want me,” you say stiffly. “Though I am certain you already know that.”

“The King is a fool!” he explodes, surging forward and slamming his hands down on either side of you. The outburst is violent enough to shake the horse stall and the venom in his countenance nearly makes you come out of your skin. His mouth hovers terrifyingly close to yours, so close that you can nearly taste the ale on his breath. You stop breathing altogether. 

Then he wrenches himself away from you, staggering backwards as though he’s been burned.

“And so am I.”

i’d love to hear from you about this chapter! you can talk to me here. otherwise, i hope you enjoyed it and only the final chapter is left 💕

[goldengalore]

Never Alone

An anxious!reader fic.

Summary: Harry wants to meet Y/N’s family, but she is hesitant to introduce him to them and he can’t figure out why. When he discovers the reason, he’s hurt that she felt the need to hide it from him. This makes Harry question Y/N’s feelings for him, while she thinks he’s doubting her anxiety issues.

Word count: 6.8k

Warnings: anxiety, toxic family, invalidation of mental health issues, angst, mentions of sex but no actual smut

A/N: Listened to Matilda and Renegade by Big Red Machine ft. Taylor Swift a ton while writing this. Also, to anyone reading this who has ever felt invalidated about their mental health issues, I see you and I hope you know you are never ever alone ❤️

***

Harry and Y/N hadn’t been dating for very long when he introduced her to his mother, Anne, and his older sister, Gemma.

He knew that meeting them in person for the first time would be stressful for Y/N because of her social anxiety as well as her obsession with making an excellent impression on every single person in his life. So, he cleverly began easing her into it by having her pop in briefly during his usual FaceTime calls with Anne and Gemma.

It worked because when he asked her to come home with him for Christmas, she didn’t even hesitate to say yes. That didn’t mean she wasn’t nervous about it though. Between her anxiety and his excitement, they were both a ball of jitters on the ten-hour flight from LA to London.

Harry’s family fell in love with Y/N. Once she conquered her initial timidness, she fit in perfectly with them. This didn’t come as a surprise to him at all, but Y/N was completely blown away by the love and warmth that his family showered her with. She was even brought to tears from it.

After a joyous holiday with his family, Harry found himself imagining what meeting Y/N’s family would be like. To him, that was the next logical step in their relationship, and he was eagerly anticipating it. So, when they’re a whole year into their relationship and she still hasn’t introduced him to her family or expressed any intention of doing so, he can’t help but wonder what might be holding her back.

She even had the opportunity to do so when she recently visited her family for a few days. She could have taken him with her. He even offered to tag along, but she refused, claiming that her mother had come down with some nasty stomach bug, so it wouldn’t be the best time.

He can’t lie. Her refusal hurt. Although he tries not to make a big deal out of it, it eats at him over the next couple weeks, so one day, he just decides to bring it up.

For most people, it’s a lazy Sunday—the perfect opportunity to sleep in and not get out of bed until noon. Not for Harry and Y/N though. No, the two creative souls got up bright and early to use this time to write and draw. Harry sits on one couch with his guitar in his lap and his songwriting notebook next to him along with his phone, which is recording everything he plays. On the other couch is Y/N, her sketchbook perched up against her bent legs, her pencil gripped between her skillful fingers as she works on a drawing.

Harry has been staring at her for some time now while mindlessly strumming his guitar. She’s too immersed in her task to sense his gaze on her.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, baby?” she responds without looking up from her sketchbook.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm?”

He pauses the recording on his phone before asking, “Why don’t you want me to meet your family?”

The question pulls her attention away from her drawing to his face. The hand holding her pencil is frozen on the paper.

“I told you,” she says softly. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them. I’m just... waiting for the right time.”

He cocks a brow. “The right time? Will there ever be a right time? We’ve been together for a year.” He really doesn’t want to sound pushy or demanding, but he also just wants her to know how he feels. “You and my mum are constantly sending each other cat videos. You and Gemma have inside jokes that I’m not even a part of. Meanwhile, I find myself wondering if your family even knows who I am.”

She gives him a small, slightly amused smirk. “H, they know who you are. Trust me.”

“You know what I mean,” he mumbles, looking down at his guitar. Sure, they may know him as “Harry Styles the singer” or “Harry Styles the actor,” but that’s not what matters to him. He just wants them to know him as Y/N’s boyfriend, that’s all.

“They know that we’re in a relationship,” she confirms.

He waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. “Okay... And? How do they feel about that? Do they ask about me? Do they even want to meet me?”

She averts her gaze, her pencil moving across the page again. “They ask about you every time I see them.”

“Then what’s holding you back?” he inquires gently.

Her response is so delayed that he wonders if he’s even going to get one. “I’ll talk to them,” she says after a minute. “We’ll arrange a time for you and me to go see them together.”

His eyebrows lift up in surprise. “Really?”

She nods. “Yeah. If you really want to meet them, I’ll try to make it happen.”

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He didn’t expect her to concede so quickly. “Thank you, lovie,” he says once the words finally come to him.

She just gives him a brief smile and returns to her drawing, making a few more pencil strokes before asking, “Wanna see what I drew?”

“Always.”

She tries to bite back an excited grin as she turns her sketchbook around to show him. He shifts the guitar in his lap and leans forward to take a look. He instantly recognizes himself in the sketch. It’s him sitting as he is now, on the couch with his guitar. Every detail of his facial features is intricately depicted from the focused furrow of his brow to the shape of his nose to the stubble on his jaw.

He stares at it in awe. “That looks amazing.”

“Thanks!”

He tears his gaze away from the sketch and looks at her. “You were drawing me this whole time? I thought you were brainstorming ideas for your next piece.”

“I was, but you just looked so cute sitting there with your guitar. I mean, you were practically begging to be drawn.” She shoots him a flirtatious grin.

“Mhm. Right.” He shakes his head at her, smiling. “Can I keep it?”

“Of course.” She carefully rips the page out of her book and hands it over to him.

“Another one for the collection,” he states happily, referring to his growing collection of sketches that she’s drawn of him over the past year. In the beginning, she used to hide them from him. Then one day, he stumbled upon her sketchbook sitting on the dining table, opened up to a page containing a flawless illustration of his Vogue magazine cover, and he was astounded. Y/N’s whole face flushed red when she found him staring at it, but he was quick to reassure her that he liked it and asked if he could keep it.

“I don’t mind, you know. That you like drawing me,” he told her that day. “It’s a compliment, if anything, and it’s no different than me writing songs about you.”

Her face brightened at his revelation. “You write songs about me?”

“All the time.”

Ever since that conversation, she no longer hesitates to show him these drawings and he makes sure to keep each one in a safe place.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been saving them all,” she says now. “You really haven’t thrown a single one away?”

“I could never.”

***

A whole week passes by, and it’s like their conversation about arranging a time to meet Y/N’s family never even happened because she doesn’t bring it up again. Harry starts to wonder if she only said that to appease him for a while and stop him from asking. That annoys him. It would be one thing to tell him that she doesn’t want him to meet her family; it’s another to make false promises just to shut him up.

He wishes he could drop it. But he can’t. Especially now that he is almost certain that she’s hiding something from him.

She has a meeting today with the owner of an esteemed art gallery in LA, who offered her the opportunity to hold her first solo art exhibition. She has spent the last couple months preparing for the exhibition, which is less than two weeks away. Her best friend and business partner, Rosie, will be accompanying her to the meeting. Rosie shows up at Harry’s house around 10:30 that morning.

“Y/N’s upstairs, still getting ready,” he tells her after inviting her in. “Should be down soon though.”

“I’m surprised I’m ready before her for once. That’s quite the accomplishment for me.”

“Yeah, I, um—” He releases a sheepish laugh, touching his fingers to his lips. “I may have made her a bit late getting out of bed this morning.”

Rosie opens her mouth to say something, then closes it. He raises his brows at her expectantly, but she waves a dismissive hand and says, “Oh, I was just going to ask what you two were up to, but then I answered my own question.”

A coy grin tugs at the corners of his lips, as the memories of his sensual morning with Y/N play back in his mind.

He and Rosie take a seat in the living room. He offers her something to eat or drink while they wait, but she politely declines. That’s when the thought occurs to him. If there is anyone who knows Y/N better than him, it would be her best friend, who has known her for the majority of her adult life. Surely, if Y/N is hiding something from him, Rosie could be the key to helping him figure out what and why.

“Hey, this might be a random question, but have you ever met Y/N’s family?” he asks.

“Yeah, a few times.”

“What are they like?”

Her hazel eyes narrow slightly. “Why do you ask?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Don’t you think it’s a bit strange that Y/N and I have been together for a year and she still hasn’t introduced me to her family?”

Rosie hesitates. She glances over her shoulder at the stairs before answering quietly, “Look, let’s just say... Her family isn’t very supportive of her.”

His heart sinks. “Shit. Really?”

She nods. “They’re like the type of people who think mental health problems aren’t real problems or that tough love can fix everything, including anxiety.”

He winces.

“Yeah…”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he says, referring not only to Y/N’s reluctance to introduce him to her family but also her emotional reaction to his family accepting her with open arms. “Why didn’t she just tell me that? I would’ve understood.”

“You know how Y/N is. She keeps a lot to herself, and she doesn’t even do it on purpose most of the time.”

“I know, but...” He shrugs. “I just thought we’d reached that stage in our relationship where we could tell each other anything. At least that’s how I feel when I’m with her.”

She had so many chances to tell him the truth about her family. Even if she didn’t want to get into the nitty-gritty details of it, all she had to do was tell him that they’re not nice people for him to drop the topic altogether. He feels guilty now for bringing up her family so much, but she never gave him any indication that they were bad people. Even when she went to visit them recently, it didn’t seem like she was dreading it. So, how was Harry supposed to know? How can he possibly know anything about her if she refuses to open up to him?

They hear her footsteps rapidly descending the stairs now.

“I’m ready!” she shouts.

Her outfit for the meeting is sleek and professional—a teal blouse loosely tucked into a pair of slim, high-waisted black trousers. Harry helped her pick it out this morning when she was struggling to decide between a few different options.

“How late are we?” she asks breathlessly at the bottom of the stairs.

Rosie checks her phone. “Not that late. We can still get there with five minutes to spare.”

As Rosie heads to the door, Y/N walks over to Harry to kiss him goodbye.

“Bye, baby. I’ll see you later,” she says.

He squeezes her hand. “Best of luck with the meeting. Remember to breathe.”

“I’ll try!”

And then she’s off.

***

Sometimes, Y/N can’t tell if someone is actually behaving differently around her or if her anxiety is causing her to see things that aren’t there. There have been instances where she thought someone was acting off around her and became convinced that they were upset with her only to find out that they were just having a bad day and it had nothing to do with her at all.

She wonders if this might be the case with Harry. He has been acting strange the past few days. The shift in behaviour is subtle. A kiss that ends a moment too soon, a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, a laugh that feels just a little bit forced. Most people wouldn’t take notice. But the thing about anxiety is that it forces you to notice everything. It’s as if the brain is in a constant state of hypervigilance, scanning its environment for the slightest sign of a threat.

Harry has been at the studio all day. She saw him briefly around seven o’clock this morning when her eyes fluttered open to find him all showered and dressed for the day, grabbing his phone off the nightstand.

“Heading to the studio. Love you,” he told her, planting a hasty kiss to her forehead before leaving.

She couldn’t fall back asleep after that, so she decided to start her day too and put some finishing touches on the drawings for her upcoming exhibit. However, her overthinking mind made it impossible to focus. She ultimately decided to take her drawings over to her apartment and work there instead.

Over the past six months, she has practically lived at Harry’s house with how much time she spends there. But her apartment has always been there in case she needs some time alone or, like today, she just needs a change of scenery to sharpen her focus.

It didn’t occur to her at any point to text Harry and let him know where he can find her after he finishes up at the studio. Or perhaps, her subconscious made her withhold that information on purpose to see if he would even notice or care for her absence.

Late that evening, she receives a call from him.

“Hey, where’d you go?” he asks when she picks up.

“Oh, I’m at my apartment. Couldn’t focus today, so I thought I’d try working here instead.”

“Hm. Wish you’d told me. I would’ve headed straight there from the studio.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles in response.

“It’s all right. Be there in a few.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

A nervousness seeps through her after their call. A kind of nervousness she hasn’t felt since the very early days of their relationship when she wasn’t quite comfortable around him yet. She doesn’t like this feeling and tries to distract herself by cleaning up the kitchen where she just finished having dinner not too long ago.

Harry has a spare key to her apartment, just like she has one to his house, so when she hears it turn in the lock, she knows it’s him. Her heart is in her throat.

She’s washing her hands in the kitchen sink when the door opens.

“Hi, my love,” he greets her. He’s wearing her merch today. Well, technically, it’s his merch that she helped design. Their merch, as he would call it.

“Hey,” she replies. As she wipes her hands on the towel by the sink, he walks up behind her and slides his arms around her waist, burying his face in her hair. She turns around to face him. “How was your day?” For some reason, the question comes out sounding awkward, at least in her head, but Harry seems unfazed.

“Productive. We wrote so much today. Song after song. I couldn’t believe it. Tyler suggested we pull an all-nighter, but everyone was tired, so we decided to go home…” A dimpled smile emerges on his face as he adds, “And I wanted to see you, so…”

He plants a sweet, lingering kiss to her lips. She should feel the stress dissipating from her body. She should feel a sense of calm washing over her like cool ocean waves on a hot summer day. But none of that happens.

His hand sneaks under her shirt, squeezing her bare waist before wandering upward to her breast.

“Sorry,” she says, pulling away suddenly. “I, um, I’m not in the mood tonight.”

He blinks a few times, thrown for a moment. “Oh. Okay. No worries.” He takes a step back and scratches the back of his neck, eyes searching her face. “Everything okay?”

She doesn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, I think I’m just starting my period soon, so you know…”

“Ah. Well, maybe we can just cuddle then. If you’re in the mood for that.”

“Mhm.”

They lay on her plush black couch together, her head on his shoulder, his fingers running through the lengths of her hair. He’s humming some unknown melody—probably a new song he’s been working on. She feels her heartbeat slowing down, finally.

Then he says, “Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Her heart picks up again. This is it. This is what she’s been dreading. She has no idea what he’s about to say, but of course, her mind jumps to the worst case scenario.

“Yeah?” she says, trying to keep her voice level.

“It’s about something Rosie told me.”

She frowns. “Something Rosie told you? What would that be?”

“She told me about your family, how they… they’re not supportive of you and your struggles.”

Her frown deepens. “She told you that?” She sits up now. “Why would she do that? She has no right to be sharing that kind of information about me.”

He sits up too, confusion taking hold of his features. “It’s not like she shared it with some stranger, lovie. I’m your boyfriend. Why is it so bad that she told me?”

“Because I didn’t want…” She trails off.

“You didn’t want me to know?”

She wordlessly looks down in her lap.

“Why?” he asks, the hurt apparent in his voice.

Forcing herself to look at him, she answers, “I didn’t want to disappoint you. You seemed so excited to meet them, and you bring them up all the time—”

“Yeah, that was when I knew nothing about them. If I’d known how they’d treated you, why the fuck would I want to meet them?” He runs a hand through his hair, clutching the ends briefly before letting go. “And I brought them up all the time because you were always so bloody vague about the topic. What was I— What was I meant to think? I’m not a mind-reader, Y/N.”

“I know. I know you’re not a mind-reader.” She tries to reach out to him, but he doesn’t seem to notice her outstretched hand as he turns away, so she lets it fall on the couch.

“Well, sometimes I feel like you expect me to be one because you never tell me how you really feel or what you’re really thinking, and I’m left to figure it out on my own.”

“Okay, that’s not true.” She shakes her head, growing a bit defensive now. “I know I used to be like that in the beginning, but you can’t tell me I haven’t gotten better since then because I have. You’re just angry right now and I—I can understa—”

“I’m not angry,” he insists, though he sounds pretty close to it, and it’s making her panic because although she has seen him get angry before, it’s never been at her.

His eyes fall shut for a moment. He seems to compose himself before continuing calmly, “I’m just frustrated because I feel like I’ve told you everything about me, I’ve bared my entire fucking soul to you, and I know it’s not as easy for you to do the same, but it’s not like it’s a walk in the park for me either. You say that it’s your anxiety that keeps you from opening up to me, but at this point, I can’t help but wonder if you just don’t feel as strongly about me as I feel about you.”

She flinches at the last part, a sense of betrayal settling like rocks in her stomach. “Y—you think I use my anxiety as an excuse?”

“That is not what I said.”

“That’s what you implied.”

“No,” he stresses, clenching his jaw. “You’re purposely misunderstanding me.”

“Why are you here, Harry?”

Puzzled green eyes stare back at her. “What?”

“This has clearly been on your mind for some time now. If you really think that I don’t feel strongly about you, that my anxiety is just some cover-up, then why are you still wasting your time with me?” Her heart thuds wildly in her chest as she spouts, “Is it just for the sex? Is that it? I mean, that’s why you came here tonight, right? Just for a quick fuck. And when you couldn’t have that, you decided to pick a fight with me.”

It was mean. Quite possibly—no, definitely—the meanest thing she has ever said to or about him. And it was undeserved. And she regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth.

The expression on his face switches from disbelief to disgust to pure pain in a matter of seconds.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing thickly. “You’re right. That’s what I’m here for, Y/N. Just a quick fuck. Because I’m some lowlife prick that would use you for sex and get mad when I can’t have it. You figured it out. Amazing job.” He claps his hands and stands up, taking long strides to the door.

“Wh—where are you going?” she stammers.

He ignores her and shoves his socked feet into his Vans. On shaky legs, she hurries over to him.

“H, where are you going?”

As his left hand reaches for the doorknob, she grabs his other one.

“No, wait, don’t go.”

“No, you’ve made it clear to me the kind of person you think I am. Thanks for your honesty, Y/N.” He speaks without looking at her. She can only see his side profile, but it’s enough to catch the tears forming in his eyes.

He tries to pull his hand away, but she squeezes it tighter, pleading with him, “I didn’t mean it. Please don’t go. Baby, please—”

“I’m tired, Y/N,” he sighs out, sounding utterly exhausted. “I just want to go home.”

He manages to yank his hand free from her grasp and leaves the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Y/N stands there, staring at it for the longest time, before making her way back to the couch in a daze.

She doesn’t know why she said it. He was just trying to explain his inner thoughts and feelings, not attacking her, but her brain latched onto that one comment about her anxiety and blew it way out of proportion. It struck a nerve somewhere inside her, reopening old wounds created by people in her past who invalidated her struggles.

But Harry is nothing like those people. No, he is a far cry from them. No one has shown her the level of kindness and understanding that he has, and she fears that no one else ever will, which makes the thought of losing him catastrophically more painful.

She lies down on her side on the couch, curling her legs into herself as the first sob of many escapes her body.

***

The big day has arrived.

Y/N’s very first solo art exhibition that she’s been working her ass off on for the past few months takes place tonight. The gallery that offered to display her work made an agreement with her to donate a portion of the profits to a local mental health charity—something that Y/N has always wanted to do. She’s always dreamed of using her art to give back to causes that matter to her, and she is finally at the stage where she can do that.

Her art career has taken off this past year. She was doing well before, but this year has catapulted her career to heights she couldn’t have imagined. She knows Harry has a lot to do with it, since the limited edition merch she designed for him attracted millions of new eyes to her work, not to mention the fact that she started dating him afterwards, which further piqued people’s curiosity about her as a person and an artist. But Harry, being the humble man he is, argues that it’s her talent that keeps bringing people back to her work, not him.

Whether he admits it or not, Harry has changed her life in more ways than one. Even if he never speaks to her again, she will be thanking him for the rest of her life.

Over the past week, she has typed a hundred different apologies to him, deleting each one without sending it, convincing herself that it’s not good enough, that he doesn’t want to hear from her, that he probably hates her guts.

She has missed him all week, but tonight, that feeling cements itself deep inside her chest, mixing perilously with the fear of having to talk about her art with strangers. It would’ve helped to have Rosie here at least, but her fiancé’s mother was in the hospital after a medical emergency and she needed to be there for them.

Y/N feels incredibly alone.

The people working at the gallery have been lovely. She hardly had to do anything at all because they took care of the entire setup. Now, they’re preparing the refreshments table, and just the mere sight of all that food is making her nauseous.

As hard as she tries to keep her shit together, she crumbles and bolts towards the exit. One of the gallery workers tries to inform her that the exhibit is about to start, but she barely hears him through her heart pounding in her ears. Once outside, she starts walking down the sidewalk in a random direction and finds an opening between two buildings where she can take a moment to herself, away from other people.

The fresh air entering her lungs is somewhat soothing, so she tries to focus on that, leaning a hand against one of the buildings.

“Y/N?” says a deep, familiar voice from behind her.

It can’t be, she thinks to herself, but when she turns around, there he is. Standing on the sidewalk. Dressed in dark, indiscriminate clothing and a hat, which casts a shadow over most of his handsome features. He’s wearing his Gucci square-framed glasses that make him look like a college student.

“Harry? What are you doing here?”

He steps towards her, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I was sat in the cafe across the street, waiting for your exhibit to start. Saw you run out. Are you okay?”

Instead of answering his question, she asks in a weak voice, “You came to see my exhibit?”

“Of course I did,” he says, as if the concept of him missing it is unfathomable. He places his hands on his hips and adds with a faint smirk, “You think I, your number one fan, would miss out on your first solo exhibit? C’mon.”

Tears flood Y/N’s eyes, blurring her vision.

Harry’s face falls. “Oh no. Don’t cry, lovie.”

The tears streak down her cheeks now, ruining the makeup she spent so long on applying tonight. “I thought you hated me.”

He reaches towards her and delicately places his hands on her arms. “I could never hate you.”

“But you should! You should hate me because you’ve been nothing but patient and understanding with me and I treated you like shit in return and I hate myself for it and I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not!”

“Shh, come here.” He pulls her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest, holding her there until she calms down. Then he draws back and lifts her chin to make her look at him. “Listen to me. I did not come here to make you cry and ruin your big night, okay? I came here to support you. Now you’re going to put on that beautiful smile of yours and you’re going to go back in there and you’re going to put on this wonderful exhibit—”

“I don’t think I can.” She shakes her head.

“Yes, you can. You’ve worked so hard for this, my love. You deserve this. Don’t let your fear tell you otherwise.”

She sniffles, thinking for a moment. “You’re going to be there?”

“Yes. The whole time,” he reassures her. “I promise to be discreet though. I’m not about to steal the spotlight from you.”

“I wouldn’t mind even if you did, to be honest.”

“See, that’s the fear talking.” He pokes her softly in the chest. “This is your night and your night only.”

A part of her wishes he would just pull her back into his arms and let her stay there forever, safe and warm and comfortable. But he’s right. She has worked too hard and come too far to allow fear to stifle her now.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay, I’m going to go back in.”

He smiles widely. “That’s my girl.” He kisses her and sends her off with a few more encouraging words.

For the first fifteen minutes of the exhibit, as the first batch of visitors trickle into the gallery, the voice in Y/N’s head is screaming at her to run out the nearest exit and not look back. It takes everything in her to keep her feet planted where she is and withstand the racing heart and the churning stomach and the sweaty palms.

It isn’t until people start coming up to her to ask questions about her art that she begins to feel any semblance of calm, which is surprising, considering that this is the part she was most afraid of. Once she gets into artist mode, articulating her artistic ideas and techniques in front of these strangers comes naturally.

She spots Harry every now and then, wandering around the gallery with everyone else, blending in remarkably well in his dark clothes and hat and glasses. At one point, while she’s talking to someone, she sees Harry in the distance, holding up his phone with the camera aimed at her. He winks when he catches her eye.

By the last half hour of the exhibit, Y/N’s throat is dry and hoarse from talking so much. She can’t believe how many people were interested in discussing her work with her.

While she’s taking a break to have some water, she hears someone shout, “There she is!”

She turns to find Jeff and Glenne walking towards her, smiling and waving like proud parents.

“So sorry we’re late,” says Glenne. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

Y/N shakes her head. “No, it’s totally fine. I didn’t even know you were coming.”

“Are you kidding?” says Jeff. “We’ve been looking forward to this.”

Y/N told them about the exhibit when she and Harry invited them over for dinner last month. She didn’t expect them to remember. The fact that they did means everything.

“We were going to buy something, but it looks like everything’s sold out, huh?” says Jeff, looking around.

“Oh, we’re so coming early for the next one,” says Glenne.

Y/N smiles at the determination in her voice. “Thank you for coming. You guys have no idea how much it means to me.”

Her heart is so full. Whereas the night started with her feeling petrified and alone, she now feels more loved and supported than ever. To say that the exhibit was a success is an understatement, and having Harry, Jeff, and Glenne all there for her was the cherry on top because success tastes so much sweeter when you have people to share it with.

***

Harry is bursting with pride. Watching Y/N put on this exhibit tonight has been quite a treat. She has blossomed from someone who used to not think very highly of her artistic capabilities into a self-assured artist right before his eyes, and he has loved being able to witness her growth.

Now they’re at his house, having Thai food, and Y/N, who hasn’t eaten all day due to nerves, is devouring everything so quickly that he worries he might not have ordered enough food for them. Luckily, that doesn’t end up being the case.

Afterwards, as they’re placing their dishes in the sink, Y/N tells him, “I saw you sneaking pictures of me at the exhibit. Like a little fanboy.”

He laughs. “I hope you don’t mind. You just looked so in your element.”

She bites her lip. “Can I see them?”

“Sure.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens up his camera roll. He places it on the counter so they can both look together.

Each photo shows Y/N talking to people who came to see her work, her hands poised in the air as she describes her creative process or her inspiration behind a specific piece.

“You look so confident,” he comments. “And happy.” He looks up at her from his phone and nudges her softly with his arm. “I’m proud of you.”

For a second, it seems like she’s about to break down into tears again but then contains herself.

“I really don’t deserve you,” she says.

He gives her a gentle look, knowing that she’s referring to the hurtful words she fired at him that night in her apartment. The words that burrowed deep under his skin for a few days until he gained some clarity and realized that she’d only said them because she felt attacked, that she didn’t actually believe them. Of course, that didn’t make it okay, but it did soften him towards her a little. And knowing Y/N, he could safely assume that she was far angrier at herself than he was at her.

“Y/N, I know you didn’t mean what you said. I mean, it still fucking hurt, but I know they were just words said in the heat of the moment… Right?”

“Yes,” she replies without hesitation. “And I’m so sorry, not just about what I said that night, but also what I didn’t say about my family, for hiding that from you.”

“No, I never should’ve pushed you to tell me in the first place.”

“But you never pushed me, Harry.” She turns her body towards him fully, leaning against the counter. “You just asked because you were curious about that part of my life, the same way I was curious about your family before I met them. It’s just that my family is… They’re nothing like yours. It’s not like they’re terrible people. They’re just not warm or affectionate, and they see any display of emotion as a sign of weakness.”

He quirks a brow. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, lovie, but they sound like robots.”

“You’re not far off,” she replies with a shrug. “They have this toughness, this stoic resolve that I used to envy when I was younger, until I realized that I didn’t want to be like that at all. As a child though, when your whole family is like that and you’re the anxious one who can’t get your emotions under control, it’s hard to feel normal. My parents didn’t know how to handle my anxiety, so they tried to mold me into them, and when that didn’t work, they just started denying my feelings altogether. Every time I would try to talk about my feelings, they would shut me down, tell me to suck it up and toughen up and stop being so goddamn sensitive.”

Hearing that makes Harry’s chest ache. Y/N is a sensitive person, sure, but he never viewed that as a shortcoming. In fact, it’s one of the many things that drew him to her because he is the same way. His sensitivity has allowed him to be more empathetic in his relationships and more vulnerable in his music—qualities that he also noticed in Y/N.

“I got tired of trying to explain it to them,” she continues, “so I left and tried to make something out of my art career. And God, my parents hated that. They were never the creative types; they thought anything related to art was a waste of time. They kept telling me I was wasting my potential to be something bigger, something better than an artist. And at one point, I started believing them, but then I met people like Rosie, who weren’t emotionless robots and who actually appreciated art for what it is.

“And I made a life for myself out here, pouring my heart and soul into my art, and I’ve tried so hard to keep this new, amazing part of my life separate from that part because I don’t want them to ruin this for me.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me to meet them?” he asks gently.

“Well, that and the fact that they’re convinced that you’re just some hotshot superstar stringing me along while sleeping with ten other girls at the same time because they don’t see how someone like you could ever fall in love with someone like me. And they make sure to remind me of that every time I go see them, which is just so fun,” she says sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

Harry doesn’t really care that her parents see him as some pompous asshole obsessed with sex. What does bother him, however, is that they try to make Y/N feel like she somehow doesn’t meet his standards, that she isn’t good enough for him because that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“How come you still visit them?” he asks. “Not judging, just curious.” If it were up to him, he would never let them see her again.

She sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I always felt obligated to? I felt like they did care about me, even if they sucked at showing it. But the older I get and especially this past year, I feel less obligated to put up with their shit. I’ll probably keep visiting for now, just not as often anymore.”

“You don’t have to deal with them alone, you know.” He takes her hand in his. “I’m more than willing to go along for moral support.”

“That’s really sweet, but… It’s hard enough hearing them say disrespectful things about you when you’re not there. If you were there, I think I might start throwing hands.”

He chuckles. The idea of his dear sweet Y/N, who couldn’t hurt a fly, threatening to fight her family for disrespecting him makes him melt inside.

“Okay, well, I understand if you’d prefer to go on your own,” he says. “My offer still stands though, if you change your mind.”

She smiles. “Thank you. I appreciate that. And I promise to be more open and honest with you moving forward. I really am trying.”

“I know you are.” He looks down at their hands, rubbing his thumb over the back of hers. “Can’t be easy when you were told to bury your feelings down all through your childhood.”

“Yeah…”

When he looks up from their hands, he finds a peculiar look on her face, her eyes tender and almost hypnotic as they stare back at him.

He frowns slightly. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just feeling extra lucky tonight.”

“Oh.” He smiles, nearly blushing under her intense gaze. “Sooo, when’s the next exhibit? Because I have some suggestions.”

Her brows lift up curiously. “Suggestions?”

“Yeah, mostly for the refreshments table. I feel it was a bit lacking.”

She gasps. “Not the refreshments table! I worked so hard on that!”

“Hm, well, clearly not hard enough.”

She pouts. He chuckles and pinches her bottom lip before leaning in for a kiss, stopping just by her lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispers.

“Love you more.” She completes the kiss.

***

Thank you for reading! For more anxious!reader and other fics, check out my MASTERLIST

[physalian]

How to Make Clean Romance Entertaining

@bananasugarwarrior ask and you shall receive

As an ace/arospec, I approach writing romance very differently than many authors and this is kind of my wish-fulfillment list more than anything.

Biggest detractor of implying anything in scenes you didn’t write: You don’t have those scenes to explore character development. I touched on this in What No One Tells You About Writing #6 and the problem I ran into a few times when writing ENNS and other works is that if you fade to black, you can’t continue important conversation or an exploration of boundaries, or fluffy new emotions, if they’d otherwise be in those missing scenes. Sex scenes are, unfortunately, prime real estate for some rich character development.

So you have to work all that rich character development around it. It’s up to you where you want to draw the line of “use your imagination” but everything up to the missing smut, and after, remains more prime real estate. You have loads of other options to explore clean intimacy and some I borrowed from this list that I reblogged about ways to show non-sexual intimacy between characters.

There’s more to a relationship to explore between your characters than just how good each other is in the bedroom. Here’s a few suggestions:

Tragic Backstory stuff and emotional boundaries

One teaching the other a niche or important skill to succeed/survive

A common physical threat, like monetary problems, job insecurity, sickness, or an actual challenge/quest/adventure/mission

A common emotional threat, like a lack of communication, or exercising an anxiety or phobia, or issues over speaking their minds

A common goal: Marriage, children, a new car or home, competing for joint acceptance into a team/group/club/prize competition

There’s also plenty for your love interests to think about their significant others aside from how sexy they are and how badly they want to get in their pants.

Introvert A can love how much B is an extrovert, or vice versa

A loves that B is good with animals, or children, the elderly, etc

A can love B’s skill and passion for their hobbies or a movement they believe in, or their stances on morality and the actions they take to back it up

A can love B’s skill as a teacher, their patience, kindness, and understanding

A can love B’s relationships with their friends and family, their maturity (or lack thereof), their work ethic

A can love B’s quirks and tics, like how they organize things or if they sing in the shower or how they dance when they’re listening to headphones

Point being:

And take this with a grain of biased salt because I’m ace and think sex is superfluous anyway: If you can’t write your characters in love with each other without sex, I won’t believe they’re in love with sex. Fiction, for me, that takes the narrative shortcut of “these two are the main couple of course they’re going to get together, I don’t have to do any work on writing why they’re in love you just came here for sex” annoy me, and quite a lot of other people, too, if the amount of gay ships that ignore the canon hetero couple are anything to go by.

The arc of their relationship doesn’t have to culminate in sex. Their arc should be specific to what these two characters want to achieve out of a romantic relationship. For a lot of people, that’s sex, but for others, maybe it’s just someone to cuddle on the couch with and watch movies, or someone they can finally trust and let in and be emotionally vulnerable with. Someone they can explore the town with, or travel, or take to dinner. Someone who doesn’t belittle them or laugh at them or disregard their interests.

Substitute relationship climaxes other than sex:

A finally trusts B with a secret they’ve been hiding for fear of ridicule, and B accepts them wholeheartedly (not Liar Revealed)

A and B finally perfect some routine they’ve been slaving over for months (like a dance or if they’re combat partners, a difficult maneuver)

A has been in love, but in doubt, and finally understands that B is The One when B is the only one to show up for A’s big speech/recital/presentation/gallery that no one else cares about

A has never let themselves be in love and it’s something wholly unspectacular that completely bowls them over with an epiphany

A is touch-averse and their biggest leap into physical intimacy is a huge hug, and B can’t be prouder of them

A and B narrowly survive some dangerous situation and have a serious realignment of priorities and newfound mad respect for each other

Actually, circling back to the whole “gay ships that ignore the canon hetero couple” thing:

This has been said before but if you’re looking for how to write a romantic relationship without sex, look no further than the male leads of many mainstream pieces of pop culture. Here, the presumption of romance isn’t built in, thus the writer has to actually put in effort to make these two characters like and respect each other, and give them things to talk about that isn’t just flirting. That’s what makes them feel more believable than the main man’s relationship with the cardboard lady lead.

[demonshauntingthedoves]

Paramour : a lover, especially the illicit partner of a married person.

Pairing : Yandere jungkook x reader

Genre : Yandere, erotica.

Summary : He hated that he couldn't resist the pull. The leash of temptation around his neck kept tugging him to the sanctuary of his secrets. To you.

Warnings : Yandere behaviour, angst, non-con, dub-con, other women trope, problematic jungkook, greed, anger issues, arguments, fight, infelidity, anal sex, fingering, hair pulling, rough sex, smut.

Wordcount : 2732

A/N : hii guys, so I fell in a ditch and was found just yesterday after six months, alive. hahahah! just kidding. the writer's block is a bitch, so forgive me! this story was rotting in my drafts from long, needed to post. hope you like my poop writing!

"I'll miss you." She kissed him one last time before dragging her suitcase in the direction of the airport.

She turned around and waved at him with a sad pout on her face. Jungkook smiled and waved back.

As her uniform cladded figure disappeared behind the glass gate, he sighed in relief and walked back to his car and settled in. As the car shuddered to life, Jungkook glimpsed past the shut window one last time, a kaleidoscope of lights dancing on it from the overly lit airport.

He whirled the steering wheel, leading the car on the dark road. Street lights flickered on his shadowed face as he passed by the closing city.

Red. The car halted at a crossroad. His right leg bounced as he glared at the signal. He swallowed, needing to hurry before he changed his mind. Temptations teased him. He chewed harshly at the inside of cheek, contemplating his choices. He had decided not to give into the lure of the darkened night. He would not.

He trusted himself at least that much.

Didn’t he?

Yellow. His grip tightened on the wheel, as he grappled with his self control. He could endure the restless pleas in his head for so long, so it shouldn't be so difficult now. He wanted to decide for once and all. He could resist these urges that were creeping in. He wouldn't let them grip him. Not this time.

He'd go home and sleep peacefully after dropping his beautiful wife who'd take off tonight. Wouldn't he? He'll go straight home.

Green. He shifted the gear stick harshly and let go of the clutch.

The way home was straight ahead.

But he rolled the wheel and took a turn, feeling hopeless. Yet again succumbing to his desire. Defeated and angered.

He lost yet again.

His knuckles turned white. He was seething. He hated that he couldn't resist the pull. The leash of temptation around his neck was tugging him to the sanctuary of his secrets.

To his secret.

His dirty little secret.

To you.

The car accelerated, the engine roared, mirroring the urgency within him.

He was pulled to you inexorably. Like a man possessed by a siren's song. The draw was so lethal. And he absolutely hated it. The control you had on him. The illicit magnetism that drew him to you.

The beguiling path took him to your apartment and then to your door. He’d taken the extra pair of keys out to unlock your door. Normally, he’d just knock but now was not the time because he was too agitated and desperate to see you, he couldn't wait.

The room was dim and quiet, but his heart started lurching the moment he saw your body, blithely sleeping on the couch, bare legs sprawled deliciously. Your poor excuse of shorts barely covered your upper thighs. He can still find the pretty praises he had bitten into your skin. Now fading, just like his promises.

You had made him promise that he wouldn’t disappear on you after an argument. But he had. He left for his miserable military service without any goodbye. That was your punishment to piss him off.

But it felt like he punished himself. It was just as difficult for him too. He had spent hours dwelling, decided to finally let you go. Suffocate his greed for you. Refused to contact you in his grey days.

He’d worked hard in training and was rewarded a ten day leave for his performance. His wife had eaten up his six days and he had indulged in blissful ignorance. He pretended to forget you. He wasn't going to come back. Really he wasn't.

But how could he not? He wasn't that cruel. He could not abandon you.

He didn't disturb his doll because after you woke up, he’d make sure you weren't going to get any rest. He knew you would be angry. He’d compensate for his mistakes, smooch apologies on your lips, splutter promises and assurance, that would be enough for you to soften and give in. Then he would lap your skin like the hungry dog he was, nibble aggressive red hickies of his dire claim on you.

He was greedy, he knew that from the start.

You had reached him out on your house hunt, young, meek and clueless, had come to pursue masters in his city. He had rented you the place, came around the first few days to sort any issues with switches and taps and helped to put your things. But because he was greedy, he kept inviting himself in and you had no problem with that. But was he really greedy? He had never made you pay the rent. See.

You were nothing like her, she always filled him with self-doubts and insecurities with how perfect she was but you on the other hand, eased it all by letting him vent it on you.

He was so ready to let it all out on you the second he entered.

But instead, he picked your phone up. He smirked when the screen lit up with his picture, he went to your call logs and chats to check who you spoke to in the last three miserable months. You blocked him, that was how you tortured him, he was a little pissed and a little pleased because he saw no male names in contacts. Good.

You had made him promise that he would never go through your phone but the insecurity was gnawing at him and he had to. Now that he got a good chance to do so.

After being satisfied enough, he reached down to sweetly peck the top of your hair, only his insides know how much he missed you, he’d been away for straight three months. He knows his doll would’ve felt very alone without him but you would never know that he was going feral without you.

Jungkook left kisses, lingering there. He pushed his smiling face in your hair, sniffing blissfully.

But instead of being content, he was livid. He was beyond livid. His calm shoulders tensed again.

He quickly went to switch on the ceiling lights, eyes looming over you. He nudged you, called your name. But you barely stirred, such a heavy sleeper you were.

He tapped your cheek, few times, trying to do it delicately despite his broken temper. He didn't want to be harsh with you. He wouldn't break the promise of never hurting you.

Your eyes fluttered open after some shouting and shaking, you groaned, face creasing in annoyance then grimacing in realisation when you saw him.

"Who came here?" He asked in a strained voice. Controlling his tone.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You sat up, your sleepy swollen face again morphing into geniune confusion.

"You brought a man into this house? In my house?" He growled.

"What the fuck are you saying?"

His eyes took in the house only to see the unnoticed carton boxes littered in one corner. He went near them for confirmation, holding the brown tape in his raging hand. He was on the right time. So you were really packing. You were leaving. Leaving him. For whom? Who did you find? He chuckled in disbelief.

“So this is what you do behind my back.”

He marched to your bedroom to check. You followed him, the daze from slumber vanishing as you saw his haywired state. His insides boiled when he sniffed the strong male perfume again. He wasn't here for three months then where did the scent come from?

"I see.You got another man. I should have known I wasn't the only one you were whoring with?” He spat throwing daggers at you. Here he was leaving everything- his perfect life behind for you, only for you to backstab him like this.”Is he here right now?" Because if he was, Jungkook wouldn’t think twice before tearing his flesh in shreds. "Tell me?" He shouted.

Listening to what he excused you of, your hurt face morphed into anger. The audacity! You snapped, ready to slap him but he caught your hand and turned you around, brutally twisting your wrist behind. You groaned in pain

He tore the brown tape and wrapped it around your wrists.

"Let me go! You fucking assh…..mmhp" He turned you around and taped your mouth too.

Jungkook fisted your hair and tugged you closer to him. His eyes darkened with rage.

" Doll, you surpassed your limits. You dared to go behind my back and fuck others. And now you agreed to become their personal whore too. That's why you're leaving my house and going to theirs, aren't you? " He shook his head, face full of disappointment.

"You crossed your limits. Now watch me cross mine." he whispered dangerously in your ear.

He slammed your face on the glass window, making it vibrate. Your head throbbed from the impact. The coldness of glass prickled your pressed cheek. You heard him unbuckling his belt. Soon after, your shorts were tucked down too.

"So he fucked this hole?" You winced feeling his cold fingers tracing your labia. His fingers drew further back tracing your puckered hole. "What about this one? He didn't invade this property, did he?" He asked.Your eyes screwed shut feeling helpless and humiliated.

" I think it's time I fill this one. What do you say, doll?" Your eyes widened, head vigorously shaking in a no.

He pulled your ass back. Your face leaned further on the glass when you felt his tip kissing your core. His cock slowly prodding your stubborn hole.

“Relax and let me in, doll! Or you know it wouldn’t be good for you!” He warned.

But you tensed up even more.

He sighed irritated, he pulled out and entered again with a hard thrust, he drew out a muffled scream from you. Tears leaked from your eyes, your hole burned from the sudden intrusion. It was painful. It burned so bad.

"I had to do this, doll! You compelled me. I had to rearrange your guts, so you remember this before going against me.” He plummeted his cock into your tight hole while emphasising each word. He groaned feeling your walls squeezing him in.

"How dare you? How dare you let him touch you?!!"

He slammed into you wild, your body jerking forward with each thrust, the window pane shook vigorously.

“And you thought of leaving me for him!? You shitty cock-licking slut!” He angrily pressed you against the window. You knew just how filthy his mouth could be.

You looked out, the city lights twinkling. Good that there was no apartment complex facing yours. No one could see your dirty business closely. You shuddered coming all over by that thought alone.

"Coming already. What a whore! Aren't you thrilled that someone down there will catch us doing this. I know you are!!"

You yelped when he smacked your ass. Hands binded and legs trembling, your body felt limpless. He groaned as he came. His seeds trailed down your thigh as he pulled out.

You faced him, tear stained eyes staring at his darkened ones. He removed the tape softly from your lips and hands.

"Who is he? Tell me-"

"It was your scent."

" What?"

"I sprayed it all over the house and on my clothes to feel your presence here. Because I- I missed you and you weren't there. And this is what I got." You were so mortified. He didn't deserve to know that. But he should feel ashamed.

"No Y/n, you're lying. It's not the sam-same scent and you didn't tell me-"

"Did you let me? You fucking taped my mouth." You shouted, fed up with him.

Your pelvis throbbed with each move as you wore your clothing back. He clutched your elbow, turning you to face him.

" I'm sorry, Y/n. I didn't know that. I'm extremely sorry." He gripped your hand and held it in his begging ones, his eyes feigning guilt. He tried to leave consoling pecks on your fingers but you swatted his hand, disgusted.

You picked the brown tape and left him there, ready to wrap the remaining boxes.

“You think I don't know where you disappear to all the time?” his breath stuck in fear. You had never spoken to him with so much mirth.

You walked back in the living room despite the burning pain you felt down there.

“You think I don't know where you leave to?” Your soft eyes had never glared at him with that intensity.

“I know her.”

“Wha-what are you talking ? You know I left for the ser-service.” He was trembling with panic.

"You know what. I should be sorry for you. You're so fucking disgusting, so fucking insecure. You know that one day your air-hostess wife will ditch you. So to protect your big ass ego from hurting, you've kept me. To feel the pride that you ditched her first and secure your fucking ego. You think I don't know!!" You spat at his face.

He froze in your confrontation.

"I'm no more living here. I'm not helpless anymore, I can find another place. I will not let you sway me."

" You're going nowhere." His voice was strained again. He tried to get a hold of you.

You glared at his scowling face.

“You got the audacity to touch me after what you just did.”

“ Please, I'm sorry.”

"Oh, I know why you're worried, Mr. Jeon Jungkook. Your backup plan failed. Oww, but I'm not staying with a sicko like you. You don't even love-"

Amidst your rambling, you were yanked by your nape.

" Never say I don't love you. Do you know how restless I was when you didn't call me? Do you know how much I wanted you instead of her? " His breaths fanned on your face as he furiously confessed.

"No! Don't say that! Don't prove me as the homewrecker. I didn't even know you were married and that is my only fault, I shouldn't have been such a dumb bitch.” You cleared.

It hurt. His jaw hurt from how hard he was clenching it. You were spewing one insult after the other, but he had no room for accepting it.

“I'm moving and don't worry I’ll pay the rent due this past seven months, I’ll not eat your money up.”

He had enough of you.

“You really want to leave me?” he asked in a bear whisper.

“Yes”

“Then go, go right away, the door is open.”

Surprised, you turned to him, a faint grin on his face but what scared you was the sharp glare.

" Wait, let me escort you out." He gripped your elbow, dragging you towards the door.

"Go" He said calmly, testing you.

You twisted the handle but before you slide the door open, you were yanked back. You cried in rebel, as your chlothes were peeled away, and in mere seconds, you were bare.

“These clothes were bought from my money too. You need to leave them as well.”

Embarrassing tears filled your eyes. This was unfair, so unfair. You would not bear this mistreatment. There was no dignity left for you, anyways.

“You’re so cruel.” Enraged, you turned to leave again.

Only to be cornered in no time, Jungkook growled as you thrashed in protest, trapped in between.

“You want to give a show, don't you? You're a goddamn whore for real.”

“Stop.” You recoiled when he cupped your folds. He hooked your knee to his hip and rubbed on you. You shrinked in yourself when he drew circles on your clit.

“This is not you, doll. This is not your mouth. Someone is giving you brains. Feeding you lies. I know it, I should have rid your friends sooner. Or is it someone else? Hmm?”

You cried when his finger entered you.

“You missed me so much, so why do you do this?” He kissed your tear stained face.You wailed pathetically, feeling conflicted and aroused.

“Look doll, I have only four days left of my leave, do you want me to make the most of them with you or want me to busy myself killing your friends? You decide.

You droopy defeated eyes stared at the monster in front of you. Wrath glaring at you.

And you knew you could never rid yourself of him.

Main Masterlist

[m1lfsh4ke]

Heyyyy, would you be able to do a student reader (student is 18) x Marilyn fic where student is cockwarming with Marilyn. Basically Marilyn is busy marking papers in her office but reader wants to be with her so Marilyn makes her sit on her lap whilst Marilyn is inside her??? I know this is a lot to ask so feel free to not write if it makes you uncomfortable 😭😭

Full of you | (18+)

warnings : cockwarming + riding + teacher/student + dirty talk + smut

hi anon :D ! I want to be entirely honest with you, this is my first time actually writing something that dealt with cockwarming, so my knowledge is poorly limited. I've read a few fics here and there to understand the fundamentals but I'm not sure if it does me any justice😭.

"Staying up late again?" your body lazily dragged itself to Ms. Thornhill's private office, her big hazel eyes darting towards the door as you closed it behind you with a click to the lock.

"Sweetheart.." she breathed out, "shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

"The bed felt empty without you, made it hard to get some rest." you pouted, pulling Marilyn's chair out enough to make some space just to squeeze yourself in and sit on top of her. "mph.. much better.." you softly whimpered, burying your face in the croak of her neck taking in her bittersweet scent, as one of her hands held you at your lower back, and the other resuming to marking papers.

As her hand rubbed the small of your back, she started to become aware of the clothing you were wearing. The fabric glided up beneath her fingertips when her hand hiked up your spine, making her feel a slight touch of your bare skin when she lowered it back down.

"You wore your nightdress when coming down?" Her voice interrupted you, making you pull away from the warmth of her neck to look up at her.

"I'm sorry, yes?" you giggled, not knowing what the issue was when its 11pm--way past the students time to be roaming the campus. "Is there a problem?" You fucking knew how possessive Ms. Thornhill was when it came to her star student being perceived by others, but you found it painfully attractive to be put in place by her.

"What if someone saw you in this." The dress was white, silk making it easier to draw out the shape of your breasts and your hardened nipples.

You got closer to her ear, planting a kiss just below her earlobe, feeling her body shiver. The hem of your nightdress was above your thighs, making your movements easier as you ground your clothed pussy down on Marilyn, making the two of you whimper. "They're not the one fucking it off of me" you breathed out with a smile, still continuing to grind down on Ms. Thornhill's already evident bulge.

She dropped her pen, whimpering at the friction as her hips stuttered up to feel more of you. "Poor baby.. here, let me get that for you." Your hand snaked its way to the waistband of her pants with your fingertips lightly playing with the hem. "Continue grading your papers, I'll take care of you" You kissed the side of her lips, finally dipping your hand past the waistband of her pants as she gasped, feeling your fingertips graze her dick.

"Fuck- keep playing with me, feels so good-" Her hips started to buck to your touch which you found adorable.

Tugging her pants along with her boxers down, you licked a stride of your hand and started to pump her dick, making her eyes roll to the back of her head. "feels good doesn't it? little slut loves to fuck herself on my hand, yeah?" She tried her best to make her handwriting look neat and not wobbly, but that came to no avail as you started to line your dripping pussy atop of her.

Sinking down to her length, she let out a guttural moan as you hushed her with a kiss, tugging on her bottom lip.

"Sh-fuckk!- So big, Mari.." you whimpered, fully taking in her whole while you sat there for a moment. You could feel her dick throb inside of you as she tried her best inputting test scores.

"C-can I fuck you, please?" Her big doe eyes looked up at you as you looked in awe, caressing her face and brushing her hair away from her eyes.

"My polite baby, of course" Placing a kiss on her forehead, you grabbed her by her wrist and settled them on your hips as you sort of lifted yourself up from her lap, making her moan at how wet you felt.

She tightened her grasp on your hips as she started to fuck up to you, whimpering at how easy it is for her dick to slide in and out of you.

"That's it- ri-right there, yes!-" You slammed your hips down, taking her full length again, making the poor woman cry out a moan.

"My sweet angel, is this too much for you? Mommy fucking this dick good?" You panted out, continuing to relentlessly ride her as a strap from your dress began to fall down to your shoulders, exposing your cleavage as your boobs bounced every time you rode her.

"Fuck- Let me cum please- Wanna make sure you walk back to the room with my cum leaking down your thighs-" You moaned at her words, bouncing on top of her even faster as you leaned back against her desk

"Mari, sh-shit!-" A loud wanton moan escaped past your lips as she fucked you deep, painting your walls white. Her legs shook when you continued to slowly bounce on her, helping her ride out her high.

[peachdues]

Hiiiiiii Peach .

Could you do a NSFW alphabet with Sanemi and Setsuna. It'd be so cute to see their intimate intentions and how they treat each other in bed and stuff.

Also I hope you're having a good October and that everything us well with you. I honestly wish you nothing but the best dear.

Xx

SOMEONE ASKING ABOUT SETSUNEMI??? HERE??? lamalakakalalsmnslsms i am starry-eyed right now!!

Tbh, Wind & Moon is Setsuna’s and Sanemi’s story — I’ve been writing it with Setsuna as the FMC, and I plan to search + replace all references to “Setsuna” with “you” when it comes time for publication alsnskaksma. In that sense, I can’t give much away without giving away key parts of the story/their relationship.

That said, if people are interested, I would share the smut scenes I *have* written for Sanemi and Setsuna — I guess that depends on whether people want to read “Setsuna” or still would rather see Sanemi x Reader, if that makes sense? Like, this is the best example:

So, yeah 😭 this is directly from Wind and Moon, just in its original form. If people want to see more, I’m cool with that! But if they’d rather read it from the x Reader POV, I get that.

All in all, I will give you some key takeaways to answer your ask:

Sanemi is a virgin in this. I deliberately leave open whether Setsuna/WAM!Reader is based on earlier events in the story, and I want people to draw their own conclusions

Because of said events earlier in the story, Setsuna is NOT open to missionary or doggy for a long, LONG time. Either she tops, they’re on their sides, or they’re standing/sitting, but her back is a big issue for her. They do eventually do it in missionary though (after one prior failed attempt).

She tends to be a little more focused on her movements during the deed than he is. Sanemi has more of the lost in the sauce/caught up in the emotion of the moment kind of vibe.

Both cry at various points during sex because both get overwhelmed by their feelies.

Sanemi is just as much of a pussy connoisseur in this as I’ve HC’ed him elsewhere — and he’s a VERY fast learner

The first time they kiss, they almost fuck — against a training pole at his estate. They get interrupted, and he tells begs her to meet him back at his estate later that night. She ends up shooting him down. Angst. But there are funnier bits/sweeter moments later on.

He’s incredibly gentle and patient with her at all times.

Finally, peep below for a bonus look at her turning his ass down that first time, if you’d like!

“Setsuna — wait —“

His fingers closed around her wrist, halting her. And though Setsuna did not resist him as he tugged her around to face him, she did not bridge the distance between them. She did not move to embrace him again.

With a shaky breath, she peered up at him through her eyelashes and beheld his anxious, pleading stare.

Sanemi’s eyes searched hers as though he already knew. “Don’t go.” He pled. “Stay —“

“I can’t.”

Sanemi stepped closer, his head bowing down toward hers until their foreheads nearly touched. “Why?”

“You know why.” She whispered.

He shook his head, his fingers gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before caressing her cheek. “If you’re not ready, we can wait. As long as you need. I won’t push you — I’d never push you —“

It took everything she had not to melt into the comfort of his touch. “It’s not a matter of whether I’m ready, Sanemi. We can’t do this — you and I both know we can’t.”

[doormatty3]

Pushing Further - Josh POV (Josh Lambert x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Summary:

[Josh Lambert x Female Reader] [Josh Lambert x You] In hindsight, I could sense the trouble brewing before I knew it. However, I failed to anticipate that the trouble wouldn't manifest in Daltons and my usual arguments but rather in the form of one of his fellow students. She’s beautiful, funny, and yet, inconveniently, she happens to be not only my son's friend but also considerably younger than I am. Despite the inherent complications and the boundaries that should logically keep us apart, there's an undeniable magnetic pull drawing us closer together, a force neither of us can seem to resist – like celestial bodies orbiting each other, inevitably destined for collision. And boy, do we collide.

OR: How I fucked his friend in a college dorm room.

Wordcount: 8,611

Warnings: 18+, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, smut, dirty talk, older man/ younger woman, daddy issues

A/N: I was asked to write this story from Joshs POV - so here we are. If you want read-chans POV - click here

God, why did I tell Dalton I’d take him to college?

It seemed like a good idea at the time, a chance to bond and perhaps bridge the gap that seemed to widen with each passing day. But now, as I navigate the car into the crowded parking lot, I’m not so sure anymore. Dalton, with his sharp wit and unforgiving judgment, always seems to find fault in my every word. 

The college, a towering grey stone building, only adds to my unease. Its presence looms over us, a silent witness to our strained dynamic.

We exit the car silently and wordlessly, our shared tension palpable in the air. Words linger on the tip of my tongue, but they dissolve into the abyss of uncertainty. Together, we retrieve Dalton’s belongings, each shouldering a backpack and crate. 

As we trudge towards the entrance of the college, the weight of the crates mirrors the weight of our shared silence.

The sun casts its golden glow over the bustling campus, illuminating the scene with warmth, and I find myself immersed in a vibrant tapestry of new beginnings. Students move about, their laughter and chatter filling the air with excitement while parents guide their children towards the threshold of their next chapter. 

Yet, amidst this sea of optimism, melancholy washes over me. 

I observe the seamless interactions around me and the apparent ease with which other parents navigate the situation. They exude confidence and composure, their futures brimming with promise, while Dalton and I struggle to exchange even a civil word without it erupting into conflict.

As we stroll along the campus pathways, my gaze drifts lazily over the lush canopy of trees that envelop the college grounds.

Suddenly, my breath catches in my throat as my eyes settle on her. 

A woman, nestled beneath the shade of a sprawling tree, captivates my attention. She’s young, probably a senior or a new professor, finding solace in the embrace of nature. 

The wind teases the strands of her hair, coaxing them into a mesmerising dance, rippling and swaying with every gust. Each movement seems orchestrated, a ballet of nature’s own design, accentuating her effortless grace. 

Despite my best efforts to avert my gaze, I find myself drawn to her, captivated by the ethereal beauty she exudes. 

I quickly shake my head, chastising myself for entertaining such thoughts. It’s unwelcome, inappropriate, a mere distraction from the turmoil brewing in my life.

Each step feels uncertain. The distance between us echoes the chasm of misunderstanding that has grown over time. As we traverse the campus pathways, the vibrant pulse of student life surrounds us, a stark reminder of the vibrant community we’re a part of yet somehow apart from.

The dormitories loom ahead, their brick facades standing as silent sentinels against the sky’s backdrop. I steal a glance at Dalton, noting the furrow of his brow and the tension etched in the lines of his face. Despite our shared silence, a sense of determination flickers within me. Perhaps amidst the chaos of new beginnings, we can find a moment of clarity, a chance to bridge the chasm that divides us.

_____

As we reach Dalton’s dormitory room, a sense of anticipation lingers in the air, mingling with the faint scent of freshly laundered linens. The door swings open to reveal a surprisingly inviting space, a quintessential collage of collegiate life. The room is cosy yet functional, with twin beds neatly made, their comforters adorned with vibrant patterns that hint at the personality of its occupants.

Sunlight filters through the window, casting a warm glow upon the worn wooden desk and mismatched chairs that occupy the room. 

With a nod of approval, Dalton steps into the room, his eyes scanning the space with a hint of satisfaction. 

“Alright, you get first dibs,” I announce, relieved to find Dalton’s roommate absent. With a grateful sigh, I set down the folding crate on the sturdy wooden table, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling into my muscles from lugging Dalton’s belongings.

_____

I watch silently as Dalton retrieves his drawings and paintings from the crate, his movements purposeful as he begins to arrange them on the wall above his bed. My gaze drifts downward, drawn to a particular pencil drawing among his creations. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, I reach out and pick it up, my fingers tracing the delicate lines with reverence.

It’s a portrait of my mother - his grandmother - a hauntingly beautiful rendition that captures her essence with startling clarity. A pang of loss reverberates through me as memories of her flood my mind, her presence a bittersweet reminder of the love and warmth she brought into our lives.

“Wow, this is intense,” I remark softly, unable to tear my eyes away from the drawing. “Is that what you’ve been working on?”

Dalton turns around, his expression clouded with annoyance as he sees me holding the drawing. With a weary sigh, he mutters, “Put it back.”

But I can’t bring myself to comply. “No, this is really good,” I insist, my voice tinged with a hint of frustration.

I wish he would just accept the compliment, let down his guard and allow me to share in his world. 

I gaze at the drawing once more, my eyes tracing the intricate lines and shadows that bring my mother’s image to life. “Did you do this from memory?” I inquire, my curiosity piqued.

“No,” Dalton replies quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s from a photo I found at the house.”

I nod in understanding, a swell of pride swelling within me. “Wow, it looks like she’s...” I begin, searching for the right words to convey the mix of emotions stirred by the portrait. But before I can finish my thought, Dalton interjects with a sombre observation.

“Like she’s hiding something?” he suggests, his tone tinged with melancholy.

His words catch me off guard, prompting me to furrow my brow in confusion. “What do you mean?” I inquire, my mind racing to make sense of his cryptic statement.

“It’s what it feels like,” Dalton explains, his voice tinged with resignation. “Felt like for the last few years.”

His words hang heavy in the air between us, a silent testament to the unspoken tensions that have simmered beneath the surface of our relationship. 

“She had a tough go, you know, being a single mom,” I murmur, my voice heavy with empathy.

As Dalton begins to speak, I tear my gaze away from the portrait, focusing once more on his words. “Yeah, yeah, that’s tough,” he replies, his voice carrying a note of resignation.

I can sense the unspoken pain lingering beneath his words,  knowing that his acknowledgement extends beyond mere recognition of my words. It’s a painful reminder of the sacrifices my ex-wife made, the burden she bore alone in raising our children.

With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly set the photo down once more, my gaze drifting back to the folding crate, trying to busy myself with unpacking.

____

I pivot on my heels, my gaze drawn towards the wall adorned with Dalton’s paintings. Each one is a testament to his talent, his brushstrokes capturing moments of intimacy and connection - moments that prominently feature his mother and siblings. But as I scan the array of images, a pang of bitterness lingers within me, a reminder of my absence from his artistic portraits.

“Guess I didn’t make the wall, huh?” I remark bitterly, unable to suppress the pang of hurt that accompanies the realisation of my exclusion.

Before he can offer an explanation, I raise a hand to halt his words, and my jaw clenches in an effort to mask my disappointment. “I don’t blame you,” I mutter quietly, the words heavy with resignation as I turn away, unwilling to confront the pain that lingers beneath the surface.

Turning away, I busy myself with organising the remaining contents of the folding crate, the weight of disappointment settling over me like a shroud.

I feel Dalton’s gaze linger on me, his silence weighing heavily in the air between us. With a heavy sigh, I muster the courage to speak, the words tumbling out in a rush as I attempt to articulate the tangled mess of emotions swirling within me.

“You know, I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately,” I confess, my voice tinged with a mixture of regret and vulnerability. “Of course, my dad wasn’t around at all...but...so it could be a lot worse.”

I pause, searching for the right words to convey the inner turmoil that has consumed me in recent years. “I’ve just been a little foggy these last few years,” I continue, my voice faltering slightly as I try to explain the inexplicable fog that clouds my thoughts and memories.

Admitting my struggles to Dalton is a daunting task - one that fills me with a sense of shame and inadequacy. But I need him to understand, to see beyond the facade of strength I’ve worn for so long.

“I don’t know...my brain just...” I trail off, my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. “I just...haven’t been able to manage time for you, your brother, and sister,” I confess, my voice tinged with a note of desperation. It sounds like a flimsy excuse, I know that, but it’s the only explanation I can offer at this moment.

It feels feeble and inadequate in the face of the pain I’ve caused my family through my absence. 

“Have you ever thought about getting help?” he asks, his voice gentle yet probing.

As Dalton’s voice breaks the weighty silence, I’m momentarily taken aback, my gaze lifting to meet his with a hint of surprise. His question hangs in the air, heavy with concern and genuine curiosity. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips, touched by his willingness to broach such a difficult topic.

The thought of seeking help feels foreign - like an admission of weakness, a testament to the brokenness that lurks within me.

“I...I’m just trying to push through,” I reply hesitantly, the words feeling hollow even as they pass my lips. It’s a feeble attempt to brush off his concern to avoid confronting the uncomfortable truth between us.

Before our conversation can delve any deeper, the dorm room door swings open with a sudden jolt, interrupting our exchange. A girl stands in the doorway, her arms laden with belongings, her expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment as she nearly stumbles into the room.

Caught off guard by the unexpected intrusion, I exchange a brief, apologetic glance with Dalton before turning my attention to the newcomer, offering a hesitant welcome smile.

The girl introduces herself as Chris Winslow. Dalton and I exchange a bemused glance, sharing the mutual confusion over the unexpected twist in his roommate assignment.

“I’m gonna go down to the housing office and get this all sorted out,” I announce, already turning towards the door to address the unforeseen situation.

However, before I can move, Chris speaks up. Her voice is calm and assured as she assures us that she’ll take care of the situation.

Caught off guard by her confidence and initiative, I hesitate momentarily, unsure whether to insist on handling the matter myself or trust in her assurances. But as I meet Dalton’s gaze, a silent understanding passes between us, and I nod in acquiescence, deferring to Chris’s offer to resolve the unexpected hiccup.

As Chris departs, leaving Dalton and me to process the unexpected turn of events, a chuckle escapes my lips. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on me. But as laughter subsides, my thoughts drift to the flyer I had stashed in my pocket earlier.

“Hey, uh,” I begin, rummaging through my pocket until I retrieve the crumpled flyer. “I snagged this for you.”

I extend the flyer towards Dalton, a hopeful glint in my eyes as I encourage him to consider exploring the opportunities presented by the frat party. “You should check it out. If you hate it, no worries,” I add, a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “But you’re not gonna hate it.”

However, instead of the excitement I anticipated, Dalton’s expression shifts to one of disappointment, evident as he meets my gaze.

“You really don’t know me, do you?” he retorts, his tone tinged with frustration. “I mean, do you really think I want to join a frat?”

His words strike a nerve, and my smile falters as a wave of frustration washes over me. “It’s just a party, Dalton,” I reply, my tone more defensive than intended. “Go. Have fun. I mean, do it for me - I drove you here.”

But even as the words leave my lips, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that I’ve missed the mark, that my attempts to connect with Dalton have fallen short once again. As I watch him grapple with his frustrations, a pang of regret washes over me, a silent acknowledgement of the barriers that still stand between us.

The accusation cuts through the air like a knife, leaving me momentarily stunned. “You didn’t even want to,” Dalton asserts, his frustration boiling over.

“Of course I did,” I retort, my voice tinged with defensiveness. It’s true that my ex-wife had urged me to drive him to college, but deep down, I had genuinely wanted to spend time with him to bridge the growing divide between us.

“Stop lying to me!” Dalton’s voice rises, his words laced with anger. “I heard what Mom said at the funeral.”

His accusation lands like a punch to the gut, leaving me reeling. 

The exchange of harsh words hangs heavy in the air between us, a testament to the simmering resentment and unspoken pain that has plagued beneath the surface for far too long. My anger flares at Dalton’s biting retort, his words cutting deep into the already fragile bond that binds us.

“Well, I still did it!” I shoot back, my own frustration bubbling to the surface.

His response, laced with sarcasm and bitterness, only fuels my anger. “Oh, so that makes you father of the year now?” he retorts, his tone dripping with disdain.

A pang of hurt pierces my heart at his words, the weight of his accusation heavy upon me. “Well, at least you got a father,” I snap back, my own voice tinged with bitterness.

But Dalton’s following words strike like a dagger to the heart, his anger seething beneath the surface as he lashes out with cold, calculated precision. “Stop blaming your dad for shit you screwed up,” he hisses, his finger pointed accusingly in my direction. “He left like 40 years ago. Get over it. God knows I’m not gonna be defined by you.”

The venom in his words cuts deep, leaving me reeling with a mixture of anger, sadness, and regret. As my temper flares, I unleash a torrent of hurtful words, the weight of my pain driving me to lash out in desperation.

“Are you kidding me? After all we’ve done for you?” I spit out, my voice trembling with emotion. “When did you become this ungrateful little shit?”

The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them, the sting of remorse washing over me like a tidal wave. But it’s too late; the damage is already done as Dalton’s gaze hardens with hurt and betrayal.

“No wonder Mom divorced you,” he throws back at me, his voice cold and unforgiving as he tosses the party flyer aside. “Thanks for the ride.”

With a heavy sigh, I watch Dalton turn away, his dismissal a painful reminder of the chasm separating us. As he retreats into the solitude of his anger, I find myself standing alone in the aftermath of our bitter exchange, grappling with the weight of my failures as a father. With a heavy heart, I turn and leave, the silence of the empty room echoing the emptiness in my soul.

As I hastily make my way down the corridor, the weight of my emotions threatens to overwhelm me. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. Desperation drives me forward, my steps quickening as I yearn to escape to the safety of my car.

Suddenly, a collision jolts me from my thoughts. I stumble backwards, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch the figure crumple to the floor with a loud thud. 

I look down to see it’s her - the beautiful young woman from earlier, her striking eyes filled with surprise and confusion.

For a moment, I’m frozen in place, torn between the instinct to help her and the overwhelming urge to flee. But as the weight of my emotions threatens to overwhelm me, I find myself unable to do anything but mumble a hasty apology before turning away.

With each hurried step, I feel the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. The corridor stretches endlessly before me, a cruel reminder of the distance I must traverse to reach the sanctuary of my car. As I finally break into a run, the echoes of my own footsteps reverberating against the walls, I can only hope to contain the storm raging within me until I’ve reached the safety of solitude.

_____

As I continue to grapple with the aftermath of our heated argument, the weight of guilt and regret hangs heavy upon my shoulders. Each voicemail message left for Dalton feels like a futile attempt to bridge the chasm between us, a desperate plea for forgiveness and reconciliation.

But today is different. Today, I’ve taken action to show Dalton that I’m committed to making amends and proving that I can be better. 

I’ve scheduled an MRI appointment with a brain specialist, hoping to shed light on the fog that has clouded my mind for far too long. 

I’ve already informed Dalton of this on one of the countless voicemails, but I feel compelled to tell him in person, to see the flicker of hope in his eyes, as I promise to make things right or at least wholeheartedly try. And so, with a mixture of trepidation and hope, I find myself driving to his college, the anticipation building with each passing mile.

Yet, as I approach the college campus, a part of my mind wanders to the chance encounter with the beautiful young woman from earlier. 

Despite my desperate need to seek forgiveness from Dalton, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind, urging me to seek her out and offer a belated apology for my clumsy actions.

With a conflicted heart, I push aside the distraction and focus on the task at hand. Today is about Dalton, about salvaging what’s left of our fractured relationship and rebuilding the trust that my shortcomings have shattered. 

As Dalton opens the door with a look of confusion, I offer him a tentative smile, my heart pounding in my chest with anticipation. “Hey,” I begin, my voice tinged with nervousness. “Sorry for the surprise visit. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by and talk to Dalton.”

I glance around the room, taking note of Dalton’s company - a mix of relief and apprehension swirling within me as I spot Chris, his temporary roommate, and her.

With a quick clearing of my throat, I introduce myself, a faint blush colouring my cheeks as our eyes meet. “I’m Josh, by the way.” 

Lost in a trance of admiration, I find myself unable to tear my gaze away from her. Drawn to her like a moth to a flame, I absorb every detail as if I’ve been starved for her presence. 

My eyes wander over her captivating face, drawn to her sparkling eyes, flawless skin, and perfectly formed features  -  her nose and lips, all wonderfully sculpted. The way her clothing hugs her curves seems almost tailored for her, accentuating her figure in all the right places.

As my mind wanders, consumed by the intoxicating fantasy of her, I can’t help but entertain forbidden thoughts. What would she taste like? Would she arch her back in pleasure if I were to kiss her neck? The mere notion sent a surge of heat coursing through my veins, igniting a fire within me that I struggled to contain.

A pang of self-awareness cuts through my reverie as I realise how fixated I’ve become, my thoughts echoing with a tinge of self-consciousness.

God, I sound like a teenager, I chide myself internally, desperately hoping that no one else has noticed the intensity of my gaze. The last thing I want is for her or anyone else in the room to realise that I’ve been unabashedly ogling her.

My reverie is abruptly shattered by Chris, who stands beside her, purposefully clearing her throat. Startled out of my trance, I blink rapidly, my mind snapping back to reality with a jolt.

Feeling a surge of nervousness coursing through me, I wet my lips, which suddenly feel dry as desert sand. “Well, I should get going,” I mumble, my voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

As if drawn by an invisible force, my gaze flickers back to her once more, unable to resist stealing one last glance before I leave. “It was nice to meet you,” I add, the words coming out in a soft murmur laced with genuine sincerity and lingering apprehension.

With a quick nod and a hesitant smile, I turn to leave, the weight of uncertainty hanging heavy in the air around me. 

As I step out the door and close it behind me, a wave of self-doubt washes over me, leaving me feeling utterly foolish. It dawns on me that the beautiful young woman I had been so captivated by is not only a student but also, therefore, even younger than I had initially assumed. 

The realisation only serves to compound my embarrassment as I grapple with the absurdity of my infatuation.

But even more troubling is the fact that she is Dalton’s friend - my own son’s friend. 

Everything dictates that she is off-limits, yet a part of me hesitates to acknowledge that truth. The undeniable pull I feel towards her, the electric spark of connection that seemed to flicker between us, refuses to be dismissed so easily.

With a heavy sigh, I berate myself for entertaining such foolish thoughts, for allowing myself to be swept away by a fantasy that can never be. I remind myself of the boundaries that must be respected, the lines that cannot be crossed. And yet, even as I chastise myself, a small voice within me whispers of the undeniable allure of the forbidden, tempting me to entertain the possibility of something more.

_____

The next time I encounter her, I exit from Dalton’s dormitory, stepping out into the openness of the day. The day’s warmth embraces me as I inhale deeply, savouring the sensation of freedom after being confined indoors.

Her soft voice cuts through the air, calling out my name with a touch of warmth that fills me with a sense of unexpected delight, “Hey Josh!”

Turning towards her, I’m greeted by her radiant smile, reflecting the genuine joy she feels at our chance encounter.

Without hesitation, I mirror her bright expression, instinctively returning her smile with equal enthusiasm. “Hey,” I respond warmly, the words flowing effortlessly from my lips. It’s nice to see you again.”

As my gaze sweeps over her form, I’m struck once again by her beauty, her figure accentuated by the snug fit of her clothing. From the gentle curve of her shoulders to the graceful line of her waist, every detail seems to beckon me, drawing me in with an irresistible magnetism.

Despite my efforts to maintain composure, my eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary on the neckline of her tight shirt, drawn irresistibly to the allure of her form.

“I’m sorry for running you over when we first met,” I begin, my voice tinged with genuine remorse as I scratch nervously at the hair on the back of my head. “Or at least for just walking away and not helping you up again.” The words spill out of me in a rush, fueled by the sincere desire to make amends for my past actions.

In response, she reaches out and places her hand on my forearm, the contact sending a subtle jolt of electricity racing through me. For a moment, I’m rendered speechless, my senses overwhelmed by the warmth of her touch and the intensity of our connection.

Unable to resist the pull any longer, I reach out and cover her hand with my own, marvelling at the stark contrast between the size of my hand and the delicate fragility of hers. Her touch feels like a lifeline, anchoring me in the present moment as I struggle to navigate the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me.

As if guided by some unseen force, I intertwine our fingers.

With each gentle stroke of my thumb against the back of her hand, I feel the tension between us easing, replaced by a quiet sense of comfort and belonging.

In that suspended moment, it feels as though time itself has halted, leaving us both entangled in a mesmerising trance. We stand there, locked in a silent exchange, our gazes intertwined in a dance of unspoken understanding and longing.

Driven by an instinct I can’t quite comprehend, I move closer to her, drawn in by the magnetic pull of her presence. As I do, her intoxicating scent envelops me like a comforting embrace, filling my senses with a heady mix of freshness and floral sweetness.

 I’m captivated by the sight of her, illuminated by the golden glow of the sunlight, her eyes sparkling with an inner light, and her skin luminous with a soft, radiant beauty.

But the spell is abruptly shattered when someone bumps into me, inadvertently jolting me back to reality with a sudden start - my mind finally catching up to what I’ve been doing and what we’ve been doing. 

With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly allow my hand to fall away from hers, stepping back from her as if to create a physical distance between us.

“I - ” I begin, my voice faltering slightly as I clear my throat. The remnants of our charged moment still linger in the air between us. “I should get going.”

With a sense of regret tugging at my heart, I tear my gaze away from her, unable to linger any longer. As I turn to leave, a part of me lingers in that moment, reluctant to let go of the fleeting connection we’ve shared. But I know that it’s the right thing to do. 

_____

The weight of the unresolved tension between Dalton’s friend and me casts a shadow over my thoughts, a constant presence that I cannot shake. 

Despite my best efforts to forget her, I find myself making frequent stops at the college, each visit accompanied by a faint glimmer of hope that I might catch a glimpse of her once more.

It’s a charade, really - a facade of repairing my strained relationship with my son, Dalton, that I maintain for the benefit of those around me. Even my ex-wife, Dalton’s mother, seems impressed by my newfound dedication to bridging the gap between us. 

But deep down, I know the real reason for my frequent visits - I long to see her again. 

Yet, each time I stop by Dalton’s dorm room or pick him up for an outing, she’s conspicuously absent.

Part of me wonders if she’s deliberately avoiding me, perhaps sensing the undeniable attraction that simmers beneath the surface. And yet, despite the rationality of her actions, I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment at her absence.

In my desperation to see her again, to confront the feelings that have been gnawing at me from within, I find myself entertaining reckless thoughts. 

Maybe, I think, she’s the reasonable one of the two of us, choosing to distance herself for the sake of decency. 

After all, our connection is fraught with complications, from the difference in our ages to the delicate balance of friendships and familial relationships. But another part - the part that’s consumed by longing and desire - yearns for the chance to reconnect, to even broach the subject of what has been weighing on my mind.

But I can’t deny the pull I feel towards her, the undeniable attraction that lingers between us.

So, I find myself grappling with conflicting emotions as I contemplate the possibility of reaching out to her if only to ease the ache in my heart and find some semblance of closure.

And that’s why I’m currently in Dalton’s room, the minutes ticking by in agonising slowness.

And then, as if on cue, the door swings open, but it isn’t Dalton who greets me - it’s her.

My heart skips a beat as I drink in the sight of her, the details of her appearance etched into my mind like a cherished memory. From the way, the sunlight catches the subtle highlights in her hair to the soft curve of her lips.

“I didn’t expect you here,” she says, her voice tinged with surprise and something else - something that I can’t quite decipher. 

For a moment, neither of us speaks, the air heavy with anticipation and unspoken words. And then, with a newfound sense of resolve, I find my voice.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” the words escape my lips before I can stop them, the accusation hanging in the air between us. I watch her closely, searching for any hint of a response in the depths of her gaze.

Silence stretches between us; the only sound is the steady rhythm of our breaths, which is audible. And then, without a word, she steps closer to me, her movement like a silent invitation that I can’t ignore.

With a sense of determination coursing through me, I close the remaining distance between us, the space between our bodies narrowing until barely a breath separates us. I reach out, my hand coming to rest on the door beside her head, the warmth of her presence seeping into my skin.

With a swift, fluid motion, I push the door closed, the sound of it clicking shut echoing loudly in the room. 

Her gaze holds mine captive, her eyes like beacons drawing me in, and I cannot look away. It’s as if she’s cast a spell over me, trapping me in her irresistible allure and leaving me powerless to resist.

Time seems to stand still in our embrace, enveloping us in a cocoon of blissful silence. The world outside fades into insignificance as I lose myself in her presence, my senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating allure of her nearness. I can feel the weight of her gaze upon me, her breath growing heavier with each passing moment, mirroring the surge of desire that courses through my veins.

She’s enchanting beyond words, and every fibre of my being yearns to surrender to the allure of her touch. But even as I revel in the euphoria of the moment, a voice of reason whispers in the depths of my mind, reminding me of the consequences of indulging in this forbidden attraction.

“Tell me to stop... tell me to walk away,” I murmur, my words barely more than a breathless plea. I need her to reject me, to push me away and spare us both from the inevitable heartache that awaits if we give in to temptation.

But her response shatters my resolve. Her voice is soft and full of longing as she whispers, “Kiss me.” It’s a command I can’t resist, a siren’s call that beckons me closer, drawing me into her irresistible embrace.

Without hesitation, I lean in, my lips meeting hers in a fervent kiss that ignites a firestorm of desire between us. It’s urgent and consuming, as if we’ve both been waiting for this moment. My hand rises to cup her cheek, savouring the warmth of her skin beneath my touch.

For a fleeting instant, I hope she’ll pull away, that she’ll realise the folly of our actions and put an end to this madness. But instead, she draws me closer, her hands finding purchase on my shoulders as she presses her body against mine.

I break the kiss reluctantly, my body buzzing with desire as I meet her gaze with a mixture of longing and disbelief. 

“Fuck,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice laced with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

The smile that graces her lips sends a surge of warmth coursing through me - it’s enough to make me taste and kiss her and never let her go. 

So I do just that, and with each open-mouthed kiss I press to her jawline, I can feel the tension building between us, a palpable electric charge that crackles in the air.

“Well, I have an idea,” her voice is breathy, her words barely more than a whisper, but they send shivers down my spine. It’s clear that she’s just as affected by this intoxicating connection as I am.

My hands instinctively find their way into her soft hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands as I pull her closer. “Yeah, tell me,” I murmur, my voice husky with desire.

Capturing her bottom lip between my teeth, I bite down softly, eliciting a breathy gasp of my name from her lips. Encouraged by her response, I trail kisses along her jawline, savouring the taste of her skin against my lips.

Her soft whimpers and heavy breathing only fuel my desire, urging me onward as I continue to explore her neck with fervent kisses. When I suck a mark into the tender flesh of her neck, her moan sends a jolt of arousal coursing through me as I feel my cock hardening.

As her fingers dig into my shoulders, I groan softly, the sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

With a sense of urgency, she lets her hands roam over my back, her touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. And when she lifts the hem of my shirt, slipping her hands beneath the fabric, I can’t suppress the loud groan that escapes my lips.

Desperate to show her what she does to me, I press my hips against her, making her feel my hard dick.

But as she begins to grind against me, igniting a primal need that demands to be satisfied, I force myself to pull back. The momentary respite allows me to regain some semblance of control, my gaze flickering down to the delicate straps of her dress.

I swallow heavily, my mind racing with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and desires. On one hand, I know that crossing this line could have serious repercussions, threatening to shatter the fragile balance of our lives. But on the other hand, the intoxicating allure of her touch is impossible to resist.

When she pushes against me once more, her movements driving me to the brink of madness, I find myself unable to resist any longer. With trembling fingers, I slip beneath the straps of her dress, a silent acknowledgement of the choice we’re both making now.

As the fabric falls away, exposing the soft curves of her skin to my hungry gaze, I know there’s no turning back. 

I feel my cock getting even harder when I see her perky, bare tits. A quiet groan escapes my lips as I look at them - perfect, round, and inviting to touch.

As I reach out, my fingers trembling with anticipation, I gently run the pad of my thumb over her nipple, watching as it hardens under my touch.

Deliberately, almost teasingly, I trace patterns across her chest, my touch growing bolder with each passing moment. I revel in the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips and the way she responds to my caress with soft gasps and sighs of pleasure.

As I flick my fingers against her hardened nipples, her breathy moans drive me wild with desire. With each tug and roll of her tit, I can feel the tension building between us.

My exploration of her chest continues, my lips trailing a path of kisses along her collarbones. I nibble and suckle on the tender flesh, leaving a trail of marks in my wake. Some primal part of me yearns to mark her as my own, to leave a tangible reminder of our shared passion.

Through the haze of desire that clouds my mind, I can sense her frantic need for me, her hands clutching at my belt loops as she pulls me closer. The sensation of her grinding against my cock sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through my veins, making me groan in response.

I pull back slightly, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I try to regain some semblance of control.

Despite the offence evident in her expression, I can’t help but feel a rush of amusement bubbling up inside me. With a smirk playing at the corners of my lips, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close once more as I press my lips against hers in a hungry kiss.

With a soft groan, I press my thigh between her legs, feeling the heat of her clothed cunt against my leg. The friction elicits a moan from her lips, confirming that she enjoys the sensation as much as I do.

Her hands are frantic as she breaks the kiss to undo my belt and jeans, her fingers fumbling in her haste. I watch with anticipation as my jeans fall to the floor with a soft thud, my hard cock straining against the fabric of my underwear in anticipation of her touch.

Even as my arousal pulses through me, I can’t help but feel a twinge of self-consciousness as she eyes me with hunger. I know I’m not as young as I used to be, my body bearing the marks of age and experience. But all doubts vanish as her fingertips trail over my chest and stomach, with nothing but appreciation and desire in her gaze.

I find myself struggling to contain the rising tide of desire that threatens to overwhelm me, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I allow her to explore my body at her own pace. 

But when her hand cups my hard cock through my underwear, all semblance of restraint vanishes in an instant. 

With a deep, guttural groan, I can no longer hold back, wrapping my arms around her and lifting her as I crush my lips against hers.

Biting down on her lip again, I relish the way she whimpers into my mouth, her body responding eagerly to my touch. I feel a surge of desire as I run my fingers over the soft flesh of her ass, prompting her to wrap her legs around my middle in a desperate embrace.

My mind is clouded with desire as I scan the room for a suitable surface, my gaze landing on the desk in the centre of the room.

In one fluid motion, I set her down on it, sweeping aside books and other belongings to make room.

I’m intoxicated by her presence, too lost in the haze of desire to care about anything else. Slotting myself between her legs, I tangle my hand in her hair, pulling her head back to meet my gaze. The way her breath quickens and her eyes darken with desire tells me she’s just as eager as I am.

But even amid our heated passion, a small voice of reason whispers in the back of my mind. With a ragged breath, I remind her of the importance of consent, my words heavy with sincerity.

“If you want to stop - at any point - you tell me,” I say, my voice filled with urgency and concern, a silent plea for her to acknowledge the gravity of our actions.

Her silent nod is all the confirmation I need as I gaze into her eyes, mesmerised by the raw desire burning within them. Her eyes are blown wide and on me, her lips pink and swollen, and I think I have never seen anything more beautiful. And I just know that I will never be able to stop craving her. 

I press a quick, fervent kiss to her lips, my hands deftly hitching her dress up higher, revealing more of her enticing curves.

My fingers find their way between her legs, tracing over the fabric of her panties. The heat and wetness that greets me nearly drives me over the edge, a primal growl rumbling in the depths of my throat.

As I drag my finger through her slit, teasing her clit. Her response is immediate and intense, her back arching into my touch as she lets out a breathless moan of pleasure. Encouraged by her reaction, I repeat the motion, feeling her nails scrape against my back in a deliciously sharp sensation.

The thought of bearing the marks of her touch for days to come only adds to the intensity of the moment, fueling my desire to be inside her. With a low, guttural moan, I press closer to her, my cock throbbing with need as I long to be enveloped by her warmth.

But I know that I have to make this good for her and prepare her before I take her. So I seat myself between her thighs, yanking her ass over the edge of the desk as I pull down her panties. 

Wrapping my hands around her thighs, I hold her open, exposing her pink, glistening pussy to my hungry gaze. The sight alone makes my mouth water in anticipation of tasting her sweetness.

She looks absolutely irresistible, and the sight of her arousal sends a shiver down my spine. Unable to resist any longer, I lean in and press a kiss to her clit, relishing in the taste of her as I swirl my tongue around it.

A low groan escapes me as I feel her shudder beneath me in response to my touch and cry out.

Pulling back slightly, I meet her gaze with a sense of urgency, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I speak. “You need to be quiet, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice laced with a hint of warning. “Wouldn’t want anyone to come in here, right?”

She nods in response, her eyes wide with desire and her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Though I can see the struggle in her eyes, I know she’ll do her best to remain silent. As much as I want to hear her, we can’t afford to be caught in such a compromising position.

I lean down again, my palm pressing firmly against her stomach to hold her down as I lick a wide stripe over her cunt, eliciting a whimper of pleasure from her lips.

With each lick and suck, I explore her pussy, eager to discover what drives her wild and sends her over the edge. Her reactions are nothing short of intoxicating - the way her back arches off the desk and her hips buck against my mouth, seeking more of the pleasure I’m giving her.

The wood beneath her is already stained dark from her arousal. 

I revel in the feeling of her tightness around my fingers as I push them deeper inside her, curling them just right to send her spiralling towards ecstasy.

When she clenches around my tongue and bucks her hips, I know she’s on the brink of orgasm. With a sense of urgency, I pull her even closer, attaching my mouth to her clit and sucking hard while thrusting my fingers into her wet heat. 

The sensation of her spasming around my fingers only serves to heighten my arousal, my cock throbbing in response.

Before long, she’s cumming hard, her screams of pleasure filling the room as her body tenses and spasms in release. I continue to drink her greedily, relishing in the taste of her as she rides out her orgasm.

Only when she whimpers, clearly overstimulated, do I finally pull back, a satisfied smile on my lips as I take in her flushed appearance. She lays there, spread out and open, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, her eyes glazed with pleasure.

With her fingers digging into my shoulders, I rise to my feet, my knees protesting as I pull her close and capture her lips in a hungry kiss.

I press my hard, clothed cock against her cunt, relishing the sensation of her grinding down on it. A deep groan escapes me as I feel her heat against me.

As our lips meet, her hand slips into my briefs, wrapping around my aching dick. I can’t help but buck my hips involuntarily at her touch, the warmth of her hand sending waves of pleasure coursing through me.

With a sense of relief, she pushes down my underwear, freeing my throbbing cock. I watch as her hungry gaze fixates on it, her hand reaching out once more, enveloping me in warmth and pressure.

Another groan escapes me as she pumps my shaft once, the sensation driving me wild with desire. I ache to take her then and there, to lose myself in the heat of her body.

But when I see her intentions to slip down the desk, I place a firm hand on her thigh, gripping it tightly. My voice, husky with desire, cuts through the haze of lust as I speak, “You can return the favour next time. We have to be quick.”

I hope there will be a next time, and by how she looks at me, I can tell she feels the same.

I wrap my arms around her again, stealing another passionate kiss before lifting her off the desk. I refuse to fuck her on such a shoddy surface - she deserves the comfort of a bed. With purposeful strides, I walk us both over to the bed in the room, gently laying her down on her back.

With a hunger in my eyes, I lower myself on top of her, bracing my weight on my elbows as I hover over her. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, trailing hot kisses along her pulse point, savouring the intoxicating taste of her skin.

Feeling her soft body pressed against mine, I revel in the sensation as she pulls me even closer to her.

Her voice, wrecked and hoarse with need, sends shivers down my spine as she pleads, “Fuck me, please.”

With a low growl of approval, I press my lips to hers once more.

I grip my throbbing shaft firmly, guiding it against her slick folds. With deliberate care, I tease her entrance, tracing the outline of her slit and nudging her sensitive clit, eliciting a whimper from her – I need to ensure she’s ready for what’s to come.

Slowly and deliberately, I push just the tip of my cock inside her, feeling her tightness enveloping me. I pause, allowing her to adjust to the sensation, relishing in the heat and tightness of her depths.

Her impatience is evident as she whispers, “Josh, please.”

With a deep breath, I begin to inch my cock further into her with short, shallow thrusts. I keep my eyes locked on hers, gauging her reaction and ensuring her comfort with each movement. My own breathing becomes ragged as I feel her clenching and bucking against me, her arousal evident in every movement.

When her eyes flutter closed in ecstasy, I stop and wrap my hand around her throat, wanting her to look at me as I take her. With one final, deliberate thrust, I bury myself deep inside her, relishing in the sensation of her tightness around me.

“Just like that,” I whisper, “You’re doing so well”, feeling her clenching around me in response. At this moment, I know she’s ready – and I won’t be holding back.

She whimpers when I pull back, leaving only the tip of my cock inside her, craving more of the fullness I provide. Then, with a primal need, I slam my entire length back into her, eliciting a loud moan from her lips. Each thrust feels like I’m carving a pathway into her pussy, her slick walls parting before the force of my cock.

Her moans grow louder as I fuck her relentlessly, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room. The noises spur me on, driving me to fuck her harder and deeper. I can feel my balls slapping against her with every rough and hard thrust, the sensation driving me wild.

Feeling myself getting closer to the edge, I reach down and begin to rub my thumb over her clit, eliciting an immediate and intense reaction from her. She loses herself even further beneath me, her movements becoming more frantic as she clutches at the sheets as she clenches, bucks and whimpers.

With one particularly rough thrust, she shatters around me, her screams filling the room. I register her loudness, so I crush my mouth against hers in a rough kiss, muffling the sound as I continue to pound into her.

As my climax approaches, I push myself as deep as possible inside her before I tip over the edge, ensuring every last drop of my cum will be inside her. With a loud groan, I release inside her pussy, filling her up.

I kiss her passionately as I use her cunt to milk myself dry, ensuring that every last drop of my cum fills her completely.

I push the damp hair from her face as we both catch our breath. With a lazy tenderness, I press my lips against hers, savouring the softness of her touch as her hands weave through my hair, eliciting a contented sigh from deep within me.

As we lie there, I feel my cock softening inside her cunt, and I’m completely content in this moment of intimacy with her. 

But our blissful reverie is abruptly interrupted by her urgent voice piercing the air. “Shit, Josh. Get up,” she exclaims, her words tinged with a hint of panic.

Panic floods through me at her words, my first thought being that she regrets what just happened. However, when I notice her gaze fixed on her cunt, that’s gaping a bit and leaking my cum onto the bed, I realise the true reason for her urgency - We’ve just had sex in my son’s dorm room, and we’ve completely ruined the bed.

A soft chuckle escapes my lips, the tension evaporating as I lean in to kiss her again. It’s a silent reassurance that we’ll navigate this situation together. 

“It will be fine,” I whisper against her lips, my voice laced with reassurance.

Her bright eyes meet mine, wide and filled with warmth, as I gently trace her lips with my thumb. “Let’s get cleaned up first. And then I’d like to take you out for some food,” I suggest, eager to prolong our time together beyond the confines of this moment.

“Yeah… yeah, I’d like that,” her voice is soft, barely audible in the room, yet her beautiful face radiates a smile that fills me with warmth. In that fleeting moment, I realise that this is not merely a one-time occurrence. It’s a beginning, a promise of something more profound and meaningful. And as I gaze upon her, basking in the glow of her happiness, I silently vow to do whatever it takes to keep that smile on her face.

[wehaveimagineshere]

Hmmmmmm. Noticed no one has requested some Carlos smut yet and that last fic gave me an idea. How about a fic where the two "break in their new bed" for the first time. afab if you need specifics. Happy writing!

(Also idk if this will be an issue but could you avoid the topic of degradation? It's a bit of a trigger for me. Just wanna make sure cuz sometimes people add it in when I don't specify. Thanks.)

Thank you for being my first Carlos smut request <3 I've been so excited to write this, you have no idea.

Of course! Honestly, I'm not much of a fan of degradation myself. Besides, I think Carlos has a huge praise kink and wouldn't even think about degrading unless it was something his s/o was into. Thank you for specifying and making sure (: I always want to write something that makes the requestor happy, so I never want to make you uncomfortable. The more specifics, the better!

~*~*~

A new place always came with an undercurrent of excitement. Finding where each little nick knack belongs, decorating just the right way to scratch that long time itch, learning more about the person you're with by seeing how they unpack with you.

It was always a lot of work, but by the end of the day, seeing all the new placements and knowing everything is yours can't be beat.

"Look at it," you hear Carlos from the bedroom as you peek your head in. Hands on hips, you find his eyes surveying the bed.

"Look at...the bed?" you ask, lips pulling up.

"Yeah, look at it. It's so...neat."

"....Yeeaahh?"

"We can't have a neat bed."

"....Wwhhyyyy?"

"Because you and me don't do neat beds." He smiles at the utterly confused look you give him. "We need to break it in."

"Break in a bed?"

"Yeah. You. Me. Naked. On this bed. Having the hottest sex of our lives."

Your eyebrows raise as you give the bed another, different appraisal, and the heat in your eyes as you shift your gaze back to your husband makes him smirk. Giving a dramatic sigh, you lean against the doorframe. "I really wanted to get the kitchen all unpacked before the day was over though."

He takes a step toward you. "Did you?"

Looking at your nails in faux attention, you sigh again. "It might take all night."

You hear him chuckle, then feel his hands glide down your sides to rest on your hips. "You need to take a break at some point." His fingers find the edge of your shirt and push up, fingertips grazing your skin.

"Breaks are important." Abandoning your nails, you wrap your arms around his neck and plant a kiss to his jaw. "What did you have in mind?"

Warm hands trail up your sides and spine, tugging your shirt up with them. "You, me, and this bed." Before you can respond, he steals your lips with your own, diving his tongue into your mouth almost desperately.

You immediately draw closer, pressing your body up against his, returning the kiss with equal fervor. He breaks apart only to shuck your shirt off, hands immediately going back to trailing fire across your skin as your own fingers find their way into his hair.

His kisses are always intoxicating, and by the time your knees hit the edge of the bed, you've lost your pants and he's lost his shirt. As your back hits the brand new comforter, his lips find your collarbone, trailing down your sternum, find a nipple and suck it in, teeth biting down just enough to smart.

Your back arches without your consent, flames licking down your veins as his tongue flicks across your nipple before moving to the next, a stray hand stroking gently down your stomach and along the edges of your panties.

You're squirming by the time his lips abandon your chest and move lower, that incessant hand still stroking, teasing. It's not until his lips graze your panties that that hand hooks and takes the fabric down your thighs, bearing you to the tongue that quickly slides between your folds.

Hands grip the comforter as your breath hitches, and you can feel Carlos' smile against your skin as he licks you again, and again, gripping your thighs to keep you still. He keeps a slow, agonizing pace, pressure almost a whisper, and you love and hate that he's pressing your hips down to prevent the friction you so crave.

When your nerves are wired and anticipation drips between your legs Carlos finally leans back, quickly chucking the rest of his clothes to the floor and slides up, positioning himself at your entrance as he kisses you, your taste flooding your mouth.

"Ready sweetheart?" he asks, voice husky, and all you can do is nod.

He goes slow, giving you time to adjust as he slides in. Your hands grip his shoulders as he fills you, stretches you, the fire turning to molten lava when he makes it to the hilt and slides out. A nod from you tells him you're okay, and that's when he really moves.

Not too fast, not too slow, he finds just the perfect rhythm to get you a squirming, sweating mess. Breathing becomes an afterthought as his thumb pressing against your clit and all you can feel is him, the pressure, the movement, the friction, and you know he's driving you the climax when your stomach tightens.

"Look at you," you hear him breathe, thumb rubbing circles over your swollen clit.

"Carlos," you nearly beg, language slipping from your mind and tongue like sand.

"I know, baby. Cum for me."

So you do.

It slams into your hard and fast, wiping your vision into white as you arch back and cry out, nerves fraying and snapping as wave after wave of pleasure crashes into you.

"I've got you," you hear him beside your ear, not knowing when he'd wrapped his arms around you. "I've got you." Kisses pepper your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw. "I've got you."

Finally you can take a breath, the stars in your vision fizzing out. Carlos brings your head to his chest, his heartbeat loud and fast. "Give us both a couple minutes and we can keep going."

A chuckle escapes as you lean over and give his cheek a kiss, a hand already gliding down his stomach. "You think you get a rest, big guy?"

The smile he gives you is absolutely wicked.

[ohallthecrushes]

YOU’RE A STORM IN A TEACUP AND I’M STARTING TO LIKE THE CHAOS.

I can't, I can't... But i will 🥵 It's been a while since i've written a smut, so let me know what you think or what can i improve, cause damn... I've had so much fun writing for Elias and I want to write more smuuuuut, but I feel self-conscious about it. („• ֊ •„)

Without further ado!

Summary: Evelyn is a young-troubled woman who’s just escaped a highly guarded psych ward (twice, but this time causing havoc on her way out)

Now she’s running through the city, hiding from police. A not-so-accidental encounter with a man named Elias Voit will change her life forever. And she’ll change his. His seemingly selfless help is laced with danger, hidden agenda, manipulation, endless tension, and…love? Slow burning inteligent-idiots-in-love trope. But mind you, just because it’s a love story, doesn’t mean it ends well.

General warnings throughout the story: Manipulation, illegal activities, murder(s), Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, explicit content, language… The whole pack. It’s Criminal minds after all.

In this episode: Elias craves Evelyn with every fabric of his being. He isn't a gentle man, and this won't be a gentle sex. He intends to overwhelm her, to take her apart, to claim her, to break down any defiance that's left in her. He wants her surrender to be complete. And if that'll happen to be too much for her?

Oh well, he thought, she'd seen that coming.

Back at the cabin, the air between Evelyn and Elias was thick with unspoken words and unclear tension. As she moved towards her room, hoping for a moment alone to process everything, he stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. His expression was serious, his eyes focused and unwavering.

"We need to talk." he simply said, his voice calm but authoritative. "There are some rules you need to remember and follow. And this isn’t negotiable. The rules are there for a reason and they're not just a suggestion."

She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, knowing this conversation was inevitable. She nodded, biting her lower lip, waiting for him to continue. She prepared herself for being reprimanded.

"First." he began "you need to listen to me. Don't wander off without letting me know where you're going. Don’t engage with strangers unless absolutely necessary, and never reveal the location of this cabin. You can't tell anyone your real name. We are still dealing with a dangerous situation, and your disobedience could bring us serious trouble."

He paused, watching her closely to make sure she understood. "The last thing we want is to draw attention, especially from the authorities. Remember, you’re still a refugee. The police are still looking for you. If you make a mistake, it could mean being locked up in a psych ward again."

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. She nodded again, acknowledging the seriousness of the situation. Her mind drifted briefly to the past, being institutionalized again was one of her biggest fear. She knew he was right, even if his tone was harsh. But he was still much calmer than she'd expected. She'd thought he'd lash out at her, yell even, but apparently his anger lessened a little or maybe he was more self-controlled than it seemed.

Seeing her compliance, he dismissed her, watching her going back to her room.

Problem had been addressed, but he knew that there was another matter that needed his attention - the sexual tension between them... he couldn't leave it unresolved. It was causing issues, and he knew that they need to defuse it. But addressing it, talking about it wouldn't do it. He knew her well enough already to predict that she would likely deny it, ignore it or even refuse to acknowledge it. And ignoring it wouldn't make it go away. It would only complicate things further.

He could insist of course, tell her to make up her mind, to stop lying to him and herself. To stop contradict herself only because she couldn't control her own damn urges. After all they both knew that if he hadn't pulled back, she'd have let him fuck her.

But this approach wouldn't help him achieve what he wanted. He imagined her biting her lip, trying to find the words to respond, but nothing would come. The room for her would start to feel too small, the air too thick... She would retreat to her room again.

He needed to be smart. He needed to recreate their dance, but this time he'd be the one in control.

Later that day Evelyn noticed that the front door, usually locked solid, hung ajar. Disbelief crossed her face. Elias wouldn't be so careless, leaving the door unlocked. The door was open on purpose.

She walked towards them and peeked outside. The sound of rhythmic chopping drew her attention. It came from the back of the cabin. Curiosity got the better of her, and she followed the sound. The area at the back of the cabin was bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun. And there, in the center, stood Elias.

He was shirtless, his toned back and his muscles glistening with sweat. He was holding an axe and swinging it with ease, each hit splitting a log with a loud crack.

The image of him was captivating. He was everything she wasn't – controlled, disciplined, a stark contrast to the impulsive chaos that lived within her. She couldn't help herself and drifted closer, mesmerized by the display of his strength. She wanted to watch, just for a moment...

The rhythmic chopping stopped suddenly. He turned, his gaze landing directly on her. He smirked as he caught the blush creeping up her cheeks. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know.

His plan to bait her was unfolding perfectly.

"Enjoying the view?" he teased arching his brows, his voice casual, almost indifferent.

She stiffened, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "Just… surprised to see you chopping wood and... shirtless." The last word came out as a mumble, only deepening her blush.

He raised an eyebrow. "Does it bother you?"

He took a deliberate step closer, she could fell the heat of his body radiating towards her even across the distance.

"Please, you're not that impressive." she retorted, but her tone lacked conviction.

He knew she was trying to maintain her composure, but her act was transparent. Amateur, he thought with amusement. She was terrible at playing indifferent. He'd seen seasoned criminals maintain a poker face under torture; her attempt was as transparent as a child's lie.

"Liar." he simply stated.

She opened her mouth ready to defend her lie. But as she was preparing herself to argue with him, he turned his attention back to the task at hand, lifting another log onto the chopping block.

"Anyway." He said gesturing at the logs, not looking at her. "I could use some help stacking these logs. Unless you'd rather head back inside, unimpressed by my strength."

The sudden casual dismissal, as if he didn't care at all, left her momentarily stunned.

She watched him for a moment as he chopped another log. The sudden shift in his behavior, his nonchalant demeanor, left her feel... ignored? She was upset, not only because this was a clear manipulation but also because of the unsettling realization that she might actually wanted his attention. That she might liked the idea of his mouth back on hers, on his body pressed against her. That she might liked him.

No, no, no...she had to deflect it.

He turned to her once again, waiting for her answer. "Sooo?"

Before she could stop herself, the words spilled out of her. "Don't think for a second that I don't know what you're doing. It won't work! I'm not attracted to you in a way you think, despite of what we did. I don't like you!" Her voice was shaky, betraying the truth behind her denial. "You're a criminal, and I'm not that crazy to get involved in some… some cheap, meaningless affair with you. You have no power over me. You're not even that good-looking." The last statement was an obvious lie, as much to herself as to him.

Her voice rose to a near shout, a desperate and probably pathetic attempt to silence the traitorous whisper of her own heart.

"Back at the mansion I... what happened, what I allowed to happen was because…" she stammered, her mind a chaotic mess as she struggled to find a solid reason and articulate her confusion. "Because it was… It doesn't matter why." She shook her head. "It won't happen again, it can't happen again, so don't even think that you can just…" Her voice trailed off, her hands gesturing wildly as if trying to physically describe his manipulation.

The outburst wasn't the powerful declaration she'd wanted to achieve, but at least, she thought with a shaky breath, she'd managed to expel some steam.

He stood there, axe in hand. It was funny to look at her passionate denial. It was good. Her outburst, though clumsy and filled with transparent lies, was far more entertaining than a simple retreat. He'd hoped for a strong reaction and she had delivered. He set the axe down, wiping the sweat from his brow, and took a step closer to her.

His voice was low, measured. "You keep telling yourself that, Evelyn. But we both know that I'm having this effect on you that makes your knees go weak and your pants get soaked and you can't ignore it, no matter how hard you try." He paused, letting his words sink in. "And denying what you need that would help you finally satisfy yourself? That won't make it go away. You're just lying to yourself."

He watched as her expression shifted from frustration to astonishment. His gaze lingering on the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"As for power." he added, his tone softer but no less intense. "you underestimate the pull you have, Evelyn. You may not see it, but you've already disrupted the carefully orchestrated game I was playing." With that, he turned back to the woodpile, picking up the axe once more, leaving her to struggle with her emotions.

They both were quiet for a moment, before he broke the silence sensing her presence still behind him.

"I. Don't. Like. You." he repeated her words to himself but loudly enough for her to hear it too, mimicking her tone for emphasis, but clearly mocking her. He'd been trying to be serious about her outburst a moment ago, but her obvious lie and the way she'd delivered it, was too funny to let it slip.

He straitened up and put the axe down again, his hands on his hips as he turned to her. "You know, it's weird how desperately convincing you've tried to sound, because your body tells a different story, sunshine. Maybe you should trust your instincts more… or trust me. But that's the problem, isn't it? You're afraid of giving in, because you think you can't trust me." his tone soft but teasing. "But you know that you will give in eventually, just like in the mansion, just like after the wine session... Just like before, and it makes you angry."

She glared at him. "No. Whatever you think may happen between us, it won't." she said, but her voice sounded even less certain than before.

"Let's put that to the test, hmm?" he suggested, his tone deceptively casual. "A little trust exercise. What do you say, princess?"

She hesitated, her pride was warring with her logic. "Trust exercise? You want me to trust you?"

"I want to prove it to you that you can trust me, despite how difficult it seems to you. Because not trusting me isn't the real issue here. If you give me and yourself a chance and trust me for a moment, you'll see what I'm talking about."

She crossed her arms thinking about it. She didn't agree with him. He couldn't be trusted because of who he was and the problem laid exactly there. But if he thought that he could prove something else... that was the issue, right? A vicious circle of wanting to trust him but not being able to.

After a moment and a long sigh, she asked. "What do you have in mind?"

"Ever chopped wood before?"

She shook her head, confused. "No."

His lips curved into a smile. "Come over here." He said as he picked up the axe and handed it to her. She took it and weighted it in her hands, it was heavier than she'd thought. She wasn't sure if she could handle it even though it looked easy, but there was first time for everything, right? And hey, if she didn't like this exercise she could use the axe on him, she thought smirking.

"Don't even think about it. You'd accidentally hurt yourself before you hurt me." He warned her as if reading her mind.

She rolled her eyes. "So what this exercise is about?"

"I'll help you chop it, but you have to trust me in this." He said as he positioned himself behind her and wrapped his arms around her. His hands over hers on the axe handle, guiding her grip.

"Now, let me guide you..." He said softly.

Their bodies were pressed together in a way that was both intimate and unsettling. He basically enveloped her with his body, his scent and heat surrounded her senses and she held her breath for a moment to remain calm.

"Close your eyes." he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, his voice another thing that made her shiver.

Feeling his bare chest pressed against her back, the closeness was almost overwhelming. She hesitated for a moment, but with a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the axe.

For a moment, he reveled in the physical contact, the feel of her delicate form pressed against him and the scent of her hair shampoo filling his nose.

Pushing the thought aside, he focused on the task.

"Trust me." he murmured in a husky whisper. "You'll be fine."

He could feel her tension, the way her body trembled ever so slightly. He tightened his grip on the axe handle, guiding her hands upwards. Then, with a swift, controlled motion, he brought the axe sharply down.

The wood cracked splitting in half. He held the axe suspended for a moment before he released his hold on her, stepping back just a tiny bit.

Still holding the axe she opened her eyes, blinking against the sudden sunlight. Her gaze fell upon the perfectly split log.

"See, not so scary, was it?" he said. "Trusting me, letting go of control… it doesn't have to be something to fear. I know what I'm doing, Evelyn. I can guide us, if you let me."

Of course she understood what he was trying to say. That it was safe to trust him, that he could guide her to accomplish something together. That letting him being in control didn't have to end up badly for her… But would it really be like that?

She spun around, her back slammed into his chest as she met his gaze. His nearness was an intoxicating distraction, that made it difficult to think clearly.

"Clever allegory." she finally managed to say, her voice tight. "But it doesn't prove anything, I still refuse to believe that the real issue lies elsewhere. And that I'll ever give in to you."

He smirked aware of her body reaction and internal conflict. He was already considering another exercise, another opportunity to push her boundaries and confront her denial head-on.

"Let's see how strong your convictions are." he said. "You can put the axe down."

She did what he said propping the axe against the log. He took a few steps back, finally giving her some space.

"Close your eyes, and don't open them until I say. Let me take control." he continued searching for her gaze. "Unless, of course, you'd rather retreat back to the safety of your denial and empty lies?"

She glared at him, knowing he was baiting her, but also putting her in a position where she couldn't say no, cause her retreat would only prove him right.

"No, why would I retreat? I'm having fun." she forced a smile, clearly sarcastic.

"Excellent. Close your eyes." he instructed with a playful command. "And this time, keep them closed until I tell you otherwise. Trust is key, remember?"

Not knowing what he was up to, but not wanting to pull back on, she fluttered her eyes shut. She stood there, tense and uncertain, every nerve on edge. He didn't approach her immediately, letting the suspense build, deepening her uncertainty. He circled slowly around her, his footsteps rustling the leaves on the ground. Her head slightly tilted, following the sound. Finally, he stopped behind her, close enough for her to feel his scent. With a slow movement his fingers gently took her chin, tilting her head up, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. Her entire body went rigid, unsure of what was coming next. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

"This is your chance to prove it." he whispered with a dangerous undercurrent. "Prove that everything you said before was true. Prove that you're not attracted to me. That you'll never give in. All you have to do is… resist."

Before she could even open her mouth to protest, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. He lingered there for a moment, slightly licking the spot as his other hand wrapped around her waist. It was maddeningly gentle, he was teasing her with the possibility of more. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, every muscle in her body straining with the effort to resist the pull towards him. But when he captured her lips with his, all her resolve crumbled. She found herself responding against her better judgment.

It was a slow exploration, a testing of the waters. He wanted to see her reaction, to see if denial would triumph over the undeniable chemistry between them.

A strangled sound escaped her, half gasp, half choked protest. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to resist him, to hold onto her hatred and distrust.

The kiss deepened, and she turned to face him, her hands reaching up to rested on his shoulders. He tasted the lie on her lips, the denial she clung to so desperately. But with each passing moment, the resistance becoming weaker. A soft moan escaped her lips, a sound that aroused him.

This wasn't about trusting him, a harsh realization dawned on her. It was about trusting herself, the very part of her she'd spent so long suppressing. The real issue he'd been talking about. She struggled with trusting herself more than with trusting him.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes, usually calculating and cool, now filled with desire and hunger.

"So much for not being attracted."

He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, a silent demand to open them wider, but she closed her mouth not wanting to give him a full satisfaction of bending her will completely.

"Still a stubborn little brat, aren't we?" he smirked. It was fine, he liked to work with a little disobedience.

He leaned in again and kissed her, parting her lips with his tongue. His hand slipped down her back, pressing her body flush against his. He wanted her to feel the length of his desire, the arousal that he felt because of her. He intended to show her exactly how much he wanted her, and how futile her remaining resistance truly was.

When he finally pulled back, she was left breathless. She knew it was useless to deny him anymore. She failed this exercise, but did she really mind?

"Let's go inside."

It wasn't a question, it was a command, one she found herself powerless to resist. Her steps were unsteady, but her body followed him without hesitation, and as they crossed the threshold, she knew there was no turning back from this moment.

The cabin door slammed shut behind them. He didn't waste any time. His grip on her tightened, as he led her straight to her room. He pushed her slightly inside before his hands grabbed her shirt and pulled it up, taking it off. His lips met hers again, as he reached at her back to unclip her bra.

He wasn't interested in a slow, drawn-out foreplay. He didn't care about slow reveals, about building anticipation. He craved the feel of her bare skin against his, of himself being inside her. He'd waited long enough already.

He felt her body tensed slightly. Her hands on his chest, once pulling him closer, now pressed against him in a weak attempt to slow him down. He smirked with amusement. She was aware of the choices she was making, however fleeting that awareness might be. But her resistance was weak, easily broken by his touch.

"Scared?" he murmured in a husky voice, looking for a sign in her eyes that could indicate that she didn't want him to continue, but all he found was excitement, a firm resolution with a hint of nervousness and self-conscious.

She was a bit scared, but it wasn't that kind of scare that would make her want to flee. Quite the contrary.

"A little bit scared, but... it makes me pretty pumped." She replied honestly, but with a hint of shyness, knowing that he understood what she meant. "Just...slow down, would you?"

He tilted his head as if considering her request, before he looked down at her bare breast and her nipples harden with arousal. No, he didn't plan to slow down, he wouldn't let the fragile hesitation derail their momentum. He wrapped his arm possessively around her waist and kissed her again.

A tremor ran down her spine, she could feel her body reacted with an unexpected submission. It both terrified her and made her more aroused. The sound she made against his mouth, a soft, breathy moan, was pure lust that made him growl.

He pushed her on the bed and came on top of her, recreating the abruptly broken moment at the mansion. But this time he wouldn't stop, this time he would take what belonged to him.

He quickly removed her jeans and every last piece of barrier there was. She laid there completely exposed and panting with anticipation, watching him taking off his own clothes. His cock hung freely as he removed his boxers, hard and longing for her warm walls.

She had a brief moment to comprehend the situation, to grasp the weight of their actions. She was aware that this moment would change their dynamic, rewrite her role in his life and probably complicate their relation even more, but the consequences seemed to be a distant thing now, a minor issue she could deal with later.

He climbed back on top of her, his hands instantly on her body, exploring her curves with a possessive intensity. With one hand he grabbed her boob and his fingers twisted her nipple, making her gasp from pleasure and slightly pain. His mouth and teeth marking her neck with hunger and urgency she'd never experienced before. It was a little bit too much, too overwhelming. Her hands landed on his back trying to hold onto something. When his lips captured hers, the strangled sound she made morphed into a desperate plea, but what was she begging for exactly, she wasn't sure.

But one thing was certain, Elias wasn't a gentle man, and this wouldn't be a gentle sex.

He intended to overwhelm her, to take her apart, to break down any defiance that left in her. He wanted her surrender to be complete. And if that would happen to be too much for her?

Oh well, he thought, she'd seen that coming.

He reached down with one hand, his fingers slid up and down her already wet folds with pleasurable strength, making her moan against his lips. When he finally pulled back and looked down at her, his eyes blazed with a possessive hunger that made her whimper with plead. He studied her for a moment. Overwhelming pleasure? Yes. Craving for more? Also yes. Fear? Maybe a little bit.

Her warm and wet walls swallowed two of his fingers as he scissored them in and out, hitting the sweet spot inside her.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" He asked in a low husky voice, watching her nodding her head, but not being able to answer.

He enjoyed watching her so vulnerable, so responding to him. He had a power over her and it only made his lust blistering, his cock almost painfully hard, demanding an action. He couldn't wait to finally be inside her, to claim her wholly and mark her as his. He could see that her breath also fastened and her cheeks colored with lovely pink. But he didn't let her relish this moment for much longer as he pulled his fingers out way too quickly.

"Not yet." He said, his voice low and commanded. "Spread your legs open for me."

She groaned dissatisfied, but did as he told her. He positioned himself between her legs and lowered his body. His cock pressed against her entrance as he pushed his hips forward with no warning. It was clear he wasn't waiting for permission, he was taking what he craved.

Her fingers curled on his back, scratching his skin at the sudden sensation of his cock sliding inside her with one swift motion.

"Fuck." She breathed closing her eyes.

It hurt a little, but the fullness she felt when he was all in, the pleasure it gave her, was intoxicating.

He looked down at her and started moving, relatively slow at first, savoring the feeling of her walls around his throbbing member, the delicious look on her face and the realization that she was finally his.

She opened up her eyes, his face was so close, his lips parted as he moved in and out. She pulled him even closer, feeling the weight of his body pressing her down to the bed. Their bodies closed any gaps that were between them as he leaned down and nibbled on her neck. She slid her fingers in his wavy hair and pulled back a little when his love bites got sharper, almost painful. He hissed and bit her neck in respond sucking on her skin until he left a big red mark there. It was clear that he was the one in control, the one who dictated the terms, and her subtle attempt to slow him down, only made him go rougher on her.

And weirdly, a part of her that she'd been barely aware of before, didn't mind that at all. His dominance fulfilled her hidden need to be completely at his mercy, to be completely submitted to him. It was something she didn't know she had in her. It was a revelation.

When he fastened the pace she tried to match his urgency, her hands roaming over his back, her nails digging into his skin, her lips capturing his. A guttural sound, a desperate need, he ripped from her throat as he pushed himself a little deeper inside her.

He reveled in her unrestrained passion, the way she met his every touch with a demanding fervor of her own. She wasn't just giving herself to him, she was taking him in return, demanding as much as she gave. He didn't mind, not entirely. He guided her with a firm hand, dictating the pace and the rhythm. He was in control and she had to obey.

"You're so fucking wet, jesus..." He said half in disbelief, half praising her as he slightly changed his position. Now he was pounding into her from a different angle, hitting a different spot. His hand reached down and rubbed her clit.

"Elias, I... I'm going t-to..." she moaned with her eyes closed.

He suddenly stopped and withdrew his hand to her displeasure. "No." He growled.

She tried to protest, but he silenced her with his hand. "You will come only if and when I say so. Understand?"

"Yes." she muffled, unused to this kind of dynamic in bed.

Satisfied by her respond he took her hand off her mouth and he changed his position once more. This time to go deeper.

She tried to withhold herself, but it was difficult, her pussy was throbbing, aching for release.

"Elias, please... Please, let me..."

Her begging was a symphony to his ears, a nice contrast to her usual dull defiance. He couldn't help and prolonged this little torture for a bit longer before he finally let her come. When the release came he watched her body stiffed, her back arched, her mouth open wide. She wriggled her legs and moaned his name over and over in a daze as he pounded inside her, until her orgasm subsided.

He gasped feeling shivers run down his body. It was an image that would be imprinted on his mind forever.

"You look incredible like that." He whispered with a softer voice that surprised even him, watching her smiling.

At this moment he knew she was hoping for him to slow down or even stop to let her catch a break, but he did none of that. Instead he fastened his pace pinning her down to the mattress again. She gasped in surprise.

"Wait..." She tried to stop him, but he only growled, focused on his own pleasure now, ignoring her plead. He kept pushing faster and harder, pulling one of her leg up to go even deeper. She squirmed and wriggled underneath him, his named rolled off of her lips like a whimper.

"Elias, s-slow down... I , I can't... take... it."

The sensation overwhelmed her oversensitive body. The pleasure he'd given her a second ago mixed now with roughness and pain that consumed her entirely. She was falling apart underneath him and it was too much to handle.

His reply however was far from what she excepted. Gone was the soft tone, replaced by a command.

"I don't care if you can't, you fucking will."

Her hands moved to his chest in a weak clumsy attempt to slow him down, but he quickly shifted and grabbed them, pinning them above her head.

"Stay still for me, I won't repeat myself."

She wriggled some more unable to control herself. It was too much, too fast, too rough but surprisingly not unpleasant. Her body ached with a new unexpected sensation, a pleasant tremor that boded another orgasm. She surrendered to him, her legs wrapped around his hips as she came the second time in hot waves, stronger than before.

He growled feeling her orgasm around his shaft. He was trying to push deeper, but his moves became more shaky, his pace more unsteady and soon after, he followed, releasing himself inside of her.

"Fuck!" He growled as he closed his eyes shut.

The warm spurts of his cum filled her fully as he pushed himself all the way in, his body shaking in ecstasy. After a moment he lowered himself on top of her, releasing her hands, but not pulling out. He hid his head in the crook of her neck, panting heavily.

They both stayed like that for a while, too tired, too spent and too elated to move. They were basking in the afterglow, delightfully lost in the moment. Right now, nothing else mattered. Not the rules, not the consequences, not the complicated aftermath they'd have to deal with later. The truth was, they'd taken each other, and there was no turning back now.

[1425fivefive]

Fic Writer Interview 💕

tagged by @lovelylotusf1 & @foggieststars tysm for the tags 💕

How many works do you have on AO3?

9, which is a surprise to me. I swear I can only remember 3 things I've written at any given time. Every other fic does not exist to me.

What's your total AO3 word count?

126,149. I don't wanna talk about how much time I've spent writing this year (I haven't finished a book since July ���)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Don't Want Your Sympathy, Just Your Company (1,259)

Sexy to Someone (Is All I Really Want) (631)

Be Sweet for Me (Only Me) (631)

Feline Fever (575)

I Wouldn't Ask You (To Take Care of Me) (496)

To this day, I'm so surprised by how popular Sexy to Someone is (my first completed fic, featuring Carcar). Like the fact that it has equal kudo to my most popular Lestappen fic shocks me every time.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, always! I'm always so stunned and grateful someone's taken the time to leave a comment about my writing that like ... it would make me so sad not responding to them.

Sometimes it takes me longer, especially when they're comments on older fics, just because I don't really remember fics after I've written them (object permanence issues I guess) and I have to go back and reread a bit of it, especially if the comment is engaging with something specific about the fic

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Lmao as if I could write an angsty ending. Maybe Sexy to Someone, because it's sort of ambiguous what Oscar and Carlos's relationship is at the end of the fic (even though the sequel makes it clear these two bitches are certainly mutually obsessed and made for each other). But I just need people to be happy. I didn't realize I was such a romantic until I started writing fic

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Don't Want Your Sympathy. Oscar asking Lando, "I'm hoping to have you forever, if you'll let me," and Lando saying, "Forever sounds pretty good to me"?? This is the closest I will ever get to writing engagement or marriage in any of my fics

Do you write crossovers?

No!

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Never, probably because I lock all my fics. I only receive hate for the opinions about drivers that people project onto me lmao

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I recently posted about how I feel like I should only write smut, so. Yes. I genuinely tried writing a fic without any smut (my Landoscar genie fic which is only 1,000 words away from being finished) but I got so bored and fed up I had to shelve it. I just. Love writing about sex and desire and shame and wanting someone so badly it makes you kind of wretched and pathetic. I would describe most of my smut as dealing with the mortifying ordeal of being known. Like the terrifying intensity of finding someone who fully matches your freak

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

This is so insane, but my friend and I in uni wrote joke fanfic about ... our lives starring like vaguely fictional versions of ourselves and people we had crushes on. We only shared it with each other and honestly like ... lock us up. She wrote me a fic for my birthday about me having a threesome with Aubrey Plaza and Adam Brody. Like we were really unwell

What's your all-time favorite ship?

All-time ship for me for years was Veronica and Logan from Veronica Mars, and it probably still is if I manage to completely ignore season 4. Within F1, my favorite ship to read is probably Galex or Maxiel (the quality of fic is just so high in those ships), but my favorite to write is Landoscar. I just think Landoscar are kind of pathetic losers (affectionate) around each other and it suits so many different tones in fics. A rich canon to draw from etc. etc.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Too many. Probably my Lestappen exes-to-lovers vacation fic. I realized it was just like ... too much work for a fic I wasn't that invested in. I might condense it and turn it into a oneshot with a few flashbacks interspersed.

What are your writing strengths?

Characterization and smut. Like I truly find writing sex so easy. And characterization (for most people, I find Charles weirdly hard) comes pretty easily just because I watch a lot of videos and like imagining how people would respond to different situations

What are your writing weaknesses?

Plot plot plot. I hate planning fics. I have vibes and ideas and scenes and themes, but I despise figuring out how to get from point A to point B. Especially because I'll be writing a fic and think, "He would not fucking say that," but I need him to say it to make the plot work. So then I end up scrapping the plot because I can't bear to have people act out of character

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Lmao I get such secondhand embarrassment when I read my Carcar fics. Why was I having Carlos say those things? (My excuse is that my partner speaks Spanish and uses a lot of those nicknames for me so ... write what you know and all that)

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Star Trek Next Generation. I wrote a full screenplay of an episode when I was like nine where the ship computer became sentient and took over the ship

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Norstappen. I need it. I need to write it so bad. I just wrote a scene between Lando and Max in Learned Behavior (my current wip) and ... oh my god their dynamic is so awful and weird and delicious to me

What's your favorite fic you've written?

Don't Want Your Sympathy is the easy pick, just because it was so much work and I felt like I had no idea what I was doing, but so many people love that fic and reading it back I realized I also really like it, even if I felt an insane compulsion to edit it.

But my secret pick is Feline Fever. Like the porn in that is literally all of my kinks, and it was my first truly rarer pair to write and I felt like I was trying to dig for treasure with no map. It was so freeing to realize I could just do whatever I wanted with them because people didn't really know what to expect!

No pressure tagging @disarmd, @wedriftlikelonelyplanets, @utopiastri, and @beensinning if you all are interested!!