#i hate the feeling of cold things touching my skin generally

[glacierruler]

That feeling of boredom in between boiling one large pot of water multiple times to take a hot bath because your water heater is broken is not fun. Because it boils quick enough that while I can draw, if I'm doing something precise that I need to keep the app open for, I can't or else I mess with the time I actually spent drawing. But there's really nothing else I can do.

[soluversworld]

Caught him in 4k! Oh wait, Both of you are...ones! - Solivan Brugmansia x Yan! G.N Reader (Smut)

Genre: smut

Summary: —REQUEST COPIED

Reader is the same from the Sol series!

I apologize for this late, I hate this smut. I hate my writing, self doubt era came again..If you're Edgar poe allan's fan You might...enjoy a little.

I HATE THIS, THIS IS SUCH A BAD AND OLD DRAFT PLEASE, DON'T COME AFTER ME. sol is kinda top in this

( Reader is a g.n!)

words : 13k (WHY)

Content & Trigger Warnings (TWs/CWs):

Sexual Content / Heavy Suggestiveness

Sensual Touching / Physical Intimacy

Mutual Exploration / Inexperience

Strong Language / Dirty Talk (implied or actual)

Blushing / Flustered Behavior

Piercing Play (mentioned/suggested)

Power Dynamic Shifts (playful, consensual)

Mentions of Arousal (non-explicit but direct)

Emotional Vulnerability & Clinginess

Faint D/S Tension (soft dom/sub dynamics – non-explicit)

Heavy Romantic Tension / Love Confessions (implied)

Fade to Black or Cut-off Scene (depending on how you end it)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

“Take care of Sol for me, okay?”

And just like that, he walked away.

You slipped into your apartment, shutting the door behind you. The darkness wrapped around you like a second skin. You groaned, fingertips brushing the wall as you searched for the switch.

The silence buzzed in your ears.

You flicked on the lights and were greeted, as always, by the warm, flickering glow of a single bulb that probably hadn’t been changed since the dawn of time. Your apartment—your god-awful apartment—looked just as miserable as you left it.

Peeling wallpaper curled like dead skin off the corners of the ceiling. The floor creaked with every step you took, protesting your presence like the building wanted you out just as badly as your landlord did.

The place. Your apartment.

Handpicked by Mr. Z himself—how generous, right? A second-floor rat hole near the park, not far from your school. A commute on rainy days, a walk on sunny ones, like you lived some idyllic city-life dream.

It didn’t allow pets. Something about "past complaints"—as if the neighbor’s roaches weren’t already squatting rent-free in the walls. The broken window in your room? Still unfixed. And if the landlord caught wind of that, he’d chew your neck like a starving mutt.

But it wasn’t just a crappy apartment. It was yours.

Or... it was supposed to be.

The land.

The land your father entrusted to you. The land Mr. Z came to take, that smug little bastard with his crisp suits and crocodile grin, calling himself a “nice guy” while casually tossing people off metaphorical—and sometimes literal—ledges.

You had no idea why he was so willing to shoulder your rent, your food, your tuition, your entire fucking life. But deep down, you knew the truth. It was never kindness. Never charity.

It was a game.

A trade.

Your land... or your head.

You stood in the middle of your shitty apartment and tried not to shiver. Not from cold—but from how close you were to snapping. You clutched at the thought like a lifeline. That land. That land was everything. It was the one thing still tying you to your past, to your family, to your sense of self. And losing it?

You would break.

Your hands trembled. Your mind spiraled. A sharp twist of pressure built in your chest, scraping against your ribs like rusted wire. You could feel the insanity curl up your spine like vines—

—until you remembered Sol.

The pressure cracked.

You remembered how Sol tilted his head, how his voice curled around your name like a secret. You remembered his laugh. His eyes. How safe and dangerous he made you feel all at once.

And just like that—you started laughing.

You pressed both palms to your cheeks, barely able to hold your face together, tears streaking down in hot, erratic lines. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp before it broke into messy, shaking laughter.

“FUCK...” You wheezed, half-sobbing. “Fuck, Sol...”

You dropped to your knees, the cracked tile biting into your skin. Your body rocked with hysterical laughter, voice raw.

“Heheheh—ahhh!!” You screamed. “FUCK—HAHAHA—FUCK!!”

You scrambled to your desk like a lunatic possessed, yanking out your sketchpad, markers spilling like blood across the surface. You started to draw him.

Your fingers didn’t stop moving, even as your breath hitched and stuttered, even as you cried harder and harder, smile widening until it hurt.

“Sol,” you whispered between gasps and giggles. “I saw you. I got you. I have you...”

And maybe that was the scariest part.

You weren’t scared anymore.

You were thriving.

You held your thumb, biting down on it like it could muffle the whimpers bubbling up in your throat. One hand clutching the bandages he'd left behind, still faintly smelling like him—like sweat, like warmth, like danger. You crushed them to your chest like a lifeline.

Ah... ahh... It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You wanted more. More of him. More touches. More of that soft, sinful voice that wrapped around you like silk and chains.

Your body rocked forward, a small, broken sigh slipping through clenched teeth as you leaned over your sketchpad. The lines on the paper blurred, not from poor technique—but because your eyes were swimming.

Your hand kept moving. Drawing him. Like your fingers were puppets and his memory was the puppeteer.

"A-ah..." you choked out again, lip trembling but pulled into a wide, cracked smile. Your cheeks ached. Your chest hurt. Your lungs burned. But you didn’t care.

He made you smile. He made you smile.

And that was terrifying. And that was beautiful. And that was real.

You huffed, then giggled—this sharp little exhale that turned into a manic sound that could've been a sob or a laugh or both.

Your face dropped into the crumpled bandages as you whispered,

"Why the fuck do you do this to me..."

And all you could do was draw him again. And again. And again.

You clutched the bandages to your chest, the fabric warm against your trembling skin—soaked with the scent of him, like fire, like ash. There was no relief, no escape from the madness that churned inside your bones, for you had been marked, bound in an invisible thread by a presence both suffocating and sweet.

Your thumb, trembling and pale, bit into your own flesh, the taste of salt and blood a poor attempt to smother the ache rising from within. Each movement was a silent plea, a frantic whisper to make it stop—or to make it drown you completely. Ah… ahh… It was not enough. The hunger within you, the hunger for more—more of him, more of this maddening, intoxicating thing—grew unbearable.

Ah, the drawing! The lines on the paper blurred like forgotten dreams, impossibly distorted through the heat of your fevered mind. You could feel your hand shaking as it moved, guided not by reason, but by a wretched longing to capture something of him that you could not possess. His form, his smile, his scent—how desperately you sought him in this crude reflection.

“Ah…” A sound, a whimper that escaped your lips, twisted between a sob and a laugh, hollow and broken. The act of drawing—was it an attempt at salvation or a cruel ritual that tethered you to your torment? Your chest heaved, and the corners of your lips pulled, stretched into a grin that was not your own. A grin that he had planted deep within you, like a seed of poison that bloomed with every passing thought of him.

The ache in your cheeks, the weariness in your body, could not quench the fevered delight that surged within you. He had made you smile. He had brought you this strange, sickly joy—this thing that cracked your soul wide open and spilled it for the world to see, for the world to consume.

And yet, in the depth of your torment, there was no true horror, no bitter revulsion. Only the strange sweetness that clung to you, like a drug that tasted of ruin. Your heart raced. The laughter spilled from you like a madman's confession, sharp and jagged, the weight of it bearing down on you like a thousand unseen hands. Why? Why did he do this to you?

The question, like all the others, hung in the air, unanswered, abandoned in the void where reason had long ceased to reside.

You wanted to laugh. Ah—ah!!

The sound ripped through your throat like a gasp turned inside out, manic and breathless, dancing the razor-thin line between agony and ecstasy. Your shoulders shook. Your jaw ached. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when you're far too gone to cry. The kind that doesn't ask for permission—it erupts, uninvited, like wildfire through a paper house.

Your fingers twitched, still dragging that pencil over paper like a ritual knife carving holy symbols. His eyes. His mouth. That stupid smirk that made you want to scream and kiss and bleed all at once.

"Ah—ahAHA—!" Your head tipped back. Your knees hit the floor. You clutched your sketchbook like it was a holy relic, like it was the only thing anchoring you to a body you weren’t even sure was yours anymore.

He was there. Not really— But in the lines, the scent, the burn in your lungs as you whispered, “Sol… Sol, you bastard…” A shaky breath. A grin. “What did you do to me?”

You laughed again. You had to.

Because the truth was dripping from your lips like honey-laced venom:

You liked it. You liked this. You liked him.

And that… That was the funniest part of all.

You decided to skip dinner. Again. Your stomach growled like a feral animal, but you ignored it—because food meant risk. Food meant trust. And trust was a noose you weren’t ready to slip around your neck.

You hadn’t even touched the second batch he left you. The first might’ve been drugged. Might’ve been poisoned. Might’ve been laced with something that tasted like care and went down like control.

And Sol... your dear Sol... he’d smile through it all, wouldn’t he? He’d say something sweet with those devil-dipped lips, tilt his head in that soft, curious way, like,

“Don’t you trust me?”

And you’d say yes—even if every fiber of you screamed no. Because the worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the want.

So you didn’t eat. You wrapped yourself in your blankets like armor and pretended to sleep.

Not for rest. Not for peace. But to watch him.

You kept your breathing steady, shallow, perfect. The way your body stilled, the way your lashes fluttered—convincing enough for someone who wanted to believe you were asleep.

You listened. You watched. The way he moved. The way he stood over you, like a god admiring his creation. The way the shadows kissed the curve of his jaw, how he looked down at you with something terrifying and holy in his eyes.

And in that moment, you kissed his bandages. Pressed them to your lips like a prayer, like a confession. They were still faintly warm, carrying the echo of him—his presence, his pain, his claim.

You tucked them away. With your secret stash of photos. The ones you took when he wasn’t looking.

Then, finally, you slid under the covers. Curled up in the dark.

And went to bed.

Still pretending. Still smiling. Still his.

You closed your eyes, but sleep never came. It never could, not with the way your mind thrummed, electric, on edge—waiting. Hoping. Terrified.

And then—the sound.

Clink. The window. Your window. Slight, deliberate. Like the whisper of a knife slipping between ribs.

Your breath caught. Not out of fear—no, that wasn’t it. Not really. It was him.

He’s here.

Your fingers clenched around the pillow like a lifeline, knuckles whitening. You kept your body still, perfectly still, except for the frantic hammering of your heart. Maybe if you focused on pretending, you could convince even your own nerves.

"Hm...? Still broken, huh?" That voice—his voice—low and smug and impossibly soft. It slithered around the room like smoke. "You should be careful, pumpkin..."

You almost bit your tongue holding back the laugh. Fucker. Smug, smug, smug.

You teased him in your heart, biting the inside of your cheek to stay quiet. He thinks you’re asleep. Let him. Let him play his role. He’s more dangerous when he thinks he’s the only actor on the stage. He’s more honest. More him.

You swore you could hear the grin behind that mask of his.

Clad in black from throat to toe, with a mask of matching shade obscuring his face—except those eyes. God, those eyes. Red like a dying sun. Like the first blush of spilled blood. And they were glowing.

Glowing with love. Twisted, possessive, pure.

He moved closer, each step slow, reverent. Like he didn’t want to wake you—like he wanted to devour you whole.

And then—his touch. A single finger, tracing down your cheek.

Gentle. Precise. Claiming.

Your skin tingled. Your breath nearly hitched—but you kept it steady. You had to. Your heart? That traitor was doing backflips in your ribs.

He hovered there, beside you. Watching. Worshiping.

Sol: "Look at my sleepy sweetheart..."

The voice—his voice—slithered through the chamber like a dying hymn, each syllable weighted with a reverence so profound, so profane, it might have been uttered by a mourner at a lover’s grave. His tone was not one of cheer, nor of mirth—it was the tone of a man who beheld divinity in ruin, of a soul cradling its own damnation and whispering sweet nothings to the flame.

You lay still, a corpse feigning sleep, breath shallow, lashes shuttered over trembling pupils. The air hung heavy, cloying, perfumed with rot and roses. You could feel him before you heard him—felt the heat of him as though your body were naught but tinder awaiting the match. And oh, he was fire. A slow, crawling blaze. Not the kind to light a room—but the kind that swallowed it whole.

He stepped closer, and the night moved with him. Clad in black, cloaked in silence, his mask was the color of the abyss, hiding a face carved from longing and lunacy. But his eyes—ah, his eyes—were exposed. Red as a wound. Fever-bright. As if every heartbeat carved poems into his chest, and each stanza bore your name.

Sol: "Makes me wonder who supplies Hyugo those sleeping pills."

He scoffed, low, amused, the sound curling like a grin pressed against your ear. You wanted to scream with laughter—those shitty pills don’t work, Sol, not on me, not when I’m like this. But your mouth was sealed, your jaw locked in some twisted covenant of silence. You could only pretend, could only endure—and ache.

He reached for you. Not as a man reaches for a woman—but as a moth reaches flame. Slow, reverent, inevitable.

The mask fell away.

And then his face—that face—lowered, descending like a ghost of your most debased desires. He leaned in and breathed, breathed, burying his face into the tender hollow of your shoulder. A kiss fell there, light and damning, and the shiver that racked his body was not from cold.

It was need.

He inhaled. A deep, trembling, hungry inhale. And then he shook.

Like a man who had just tasted opium and couldn’t tell whether he was floating or buried alive. You felt it—the quake of his form, the tightening of his fingers, the stuttering hum against your skin. He drew you into his lungs like the scent of rain before the flood. His drug. His madness. His.

Your body burned—your fingers clenching in your pillow, the only tether between you and the scream coiled in your throat. You wanted to moan, to shudder, to call his name with all the madness he inspired in you—but instead, you lay there in martyrdom, in silence, in delirium.

Sol: “Fuck… you smell so good…”

The words were broken glass dipped in honey.

Sol: “Pardon me.”

His lips brushed your cheek, and your soul left your body in a quiet, choking cry that never reached air. Your pulse thundered like cathedral bells during a storm, and still you held on—fingers white-knuckled in fabric, breath held like a secret between two graves.

You were not asleep.

But God, you were dreaming.

And Sol—your blessed, ruined Sol—was the dream that would gut you from the inside out.

Ah—ah! The cry lodged itself inside your throat, thick and trembling, like a hymn unsung, trapped in the cathedral of your body. The ache curled tighter in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like thorns as he leaned closer, ever closer. His shadow loomed over you like a stormcloud starved for lightning. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t dare.

His hand—warm, calloused, trembling—slipped into yours. So slowly. So gently. A reverent act. A prayer disguised as a touch.

And oh, you wanted to squeeze back. To lace your fingers through his and hold him like he held your very breath in his palms. But you couldn’t—you mustn’t. This charade, this silent theatre of sleep, was your only sanctuary. If he knew—if he knew—the spell would shatter, and you would be lost, devoured whole by the flame you've been kissing in secret.

And then, he kissed your neck.

Soft. Tender. Possessive. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. A lightning bolt made of lips and heat. He lingered there, buried in your skin like a whisper that left bruises. And you—helpless, trembling beneath the weight of his love and your own starvation—nearly broke.

Your face. Oh God, your face. You didn’t know what expression had spilled across it, only that it must have betrayed you. Must have shown too much—too alive, too consumed, too awake. Did he see?

He paused.

Sol (in a murmur, sweet and broken): “Look at you… even in sleep, you ache for me.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw your arms around him, to weep into his chest and tell him, yes, yes, I do, I ache, I burn, I’m drowning in you. But your fingers only curled harder into your pillow, bones aching from restraint. He kissed your hand next—tenderly, worshipfully—as if you were porcelain and he was a priest.

Sol: “F-Fuck... you’re so sweet. It’s not fair.”

He laughed then. A low, breathless thing. Not cruel. Not amused. It was the sound of a man who had found heaven in the shape of a sleeping girl—and didn’t know she was burning alive in her silence.

You could feel your thighs trembling. Your spine was ice and flame. And still you played your part, the sleeping beloved, untouched by the tempest that pressed its lips to your skin and called it mercy.

But in your mind? In your chest? You were already ruined.

And somewhere beneath that blanket, your fingers twitched with the ache to touch, to hold, to moan. But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Sol: “Quite ticklish, aren’t you…”

The words fell from his mouth like sin dipped in honey—gentle, taunting, worshipful. And still, he pressed forward, a man drunk on the sacred altar of your skin.

His mouth returned to that spot—that spot, right where your shoulder met your neck, the very place where your breath hitched like a dying prayer. He kissed, then licked, and kissed again—slowly, deliberately, until the tender flesh bloomed with a feverish red. A mark. A wound. A brand. His.

Sol (low, bitter): “Those filthy scums think they could touch you…”

The softness was gone. In its place—rage, veiled in grief. The sheets beneath his hands crumpled like paper under flame as his fingers curled, trembling. His breathing turned ragged, heavy with possessive anguish.

Sol: “You’re mine. No one else. No one else.”

Each word was a vow.

—each syllable trembled like a blade held to the throat of fate itself.

Sol (a whisper, venom-soft): “You belong to me…”

His voice was not loud. Oh, no. It was a hush—a murmur that crawled beneath your skin and wrapped itself around your spine like a silken garrote. The kind of whisper that could undo kingdoms. The kind that could kill.

His fury did not burn; it smoldered. A low, steady ember in the pit of his chest, threatening to rise, to consume. But not you. Never you. You were the altar at which he knelt—bloodied knees and all.

Sol: “If I ever see those bastards again…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

His hand—gentle now—rose like the tremble of a dreamer in the throes of fever. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, movements reverent, as if you might shatter under anything less than worship. Then he pressed his lips to your forehead, a kiss so delicate it felt like a prayer.

And then—oh gods, and then—his mouth grazed the corner of your lips. Just there. A ghost of a kiss. A promise. A brand.

A shiver tore through him like a tremor through the bones of the earth. His breath hitched, caught between hunger and reverence.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear the sky in half and pull him inside your chest and never let him go.

Your fingers curled deeper into the pillow, the only tether you had left to the lie of sleep.

You wanted to hold him—oh, how you wanted to hold him.

But still you lay there, silent and still, skin alight, nerves screaming, as his breath ghosted over your neck again.

Sol (softer now): “You’re everything…”

He buried his face there again, at the cradle of your throat, where your pulse fluttered like a secret bird beneath your skin.

He kissed it once more. Slow. Possessive.

And you nearly broke.

Your thighs clenched beneath the sheets, your chest ached, and your throat pulsed with the weight of a scream you dared not let out.

Ah—ahhh…

Your heart beat like the wings of a trapped moth—wild, doomed, and so, so in love.

After sometime, he began to put on his mask.

WHAT

NO?

WHY!?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

One hand darted out, fingers closing around his wrist. The other pressed against his chest—his heartbeat kicked hard under your palm, like he’d been caught mid-sin.

He froze.

Not like a man caught in the act. Like a ghost realizing it had been seen.

And then—your lips brushed his neck.

Not gentle. Not asking. A brand. A spark struck to dry leaves.

His breath hitched. Sharp. Audible. His whole body trembled above yours like the strings of a violin pulled tight—too tight.

You felt the heat rise off him in waves.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

He whispered your name like it hurt.

Like a confession, a prayer, a curse.

His eyes—those impossible eyes, red and gold and glassy with disbelief—met yours. Wide. Unmasked. Wounded. Worshipful.

You saw it hit him all at once: you were awake. You had heard him. You had kissed him.

And you weren’t running.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him down, mouth ghosting his jawline now, hot breath against flushed skin. You wanted to drown in the scent of him, the weight of him, the ache in his touch.

He was shaking.

You’d never seen Sol shake.

He opened his mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to apologize—but all that came out was a choked sound. His hands hovered uselessly at your sides, like he didn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart.

Your forehead pressed to his. Skin to skin. No more lies.

And he whispered, barely a sound:

“…don’t leave me.”

You pulled him closer.

Not a word was spoken after that. There didn’t need to be.

That final thread snapped somewhere behind his eyes, the horror and the hunger crashing together in a kaleidoscope of realization. You didn’t forgive him.

You matched him.

“You’re not scared,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re not running.”

You laughed softly, cupping his face again like he was something sacred—fragile porcelain wrapped around dynamite. “Scared? Oh, Sol, I ran toward you.”

And he broke.

Right there. That beautiful, quiet little fracture. The air between you both was trembling now—charged like lightning trapped in a jar. You saw his pupils dilate fully, swallowing the gold in his irises like ink in water. His throat bobbed with a shallow swallow, and then—

“You...” he said again, like if he repeated it, maybe you’d finally flinch.

But you just smiled wider. Like a saint. Or a devil.

“I'm not dumb, Darlin!" you whispered, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. “You didn’t notice, did you? That I was baiting you just as much?”

His breath hitched. “You wanted me to—?”

“I wanted to see how far you’d go,” you cut him off, your voice featherlight, yet sharpened to a blade’s edge. “And darling, you exceeded expectations.”

He stared at you, that smug little mask he always wore peeling away at the corners. For the first time, maybe ever, Sol looked like he didn’t know what came next.

But you did.

“You asked me why I don’t hate you,” you said slowly, your lips ghosting just over his again, barely a breath apart. “The truth is…”

You leaned in, pressing your body just close enough that he could feel your heartbeat crashing against his chest like a war drum.

“Actually fuck that! I just love you! So tell me, Sol,” you purred, your voice dipped in sugar and venom, “What the hell are we gonna do with each other?”

He finally moved—only a twitch—but it was everything. His fingers clenched in your shirt, his mouth opened like he was about to confess or damn himself, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You licked the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate. Just enough to make him freeze.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you giggled, brushing hair back from his temple like a mother, like a lover, like a goddamn maniac. “You thought you were the monster in this story.”

He choked on a breath.

“But I think I just proved,” you whispered, nose brushing his cheek, “that we’re both wearing the same mask, darling.”

Then, you pulled back just slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. Both of you locked there, staring into something so horrifically perfect, it almost felt holy.

“So…” you said, your voice breathless, trembling with affection and madness, “why don’t we seal it?”

He blinked. “With what…?”

You grinned like the end of the world. “A promise. A kiss. Blood whatever! I don’t really care. Just make it hurt a little, Sol—so I know it’s real.”

You couldn’t help it—you were losing your mind for him. The way Sol looked at you with those eyes—soft, adoring, like he didn’t see the frenzy boiling under your skin. Like he didn’t realize you would ruin everything just to keep him close. Just to have him like this.

And yet.

You leaned in slow, your lips brushing the corners of his mouth again and again—taunting, torturing, giving him nothing but scraps. Little kisses like broken promises. You were so cruel.

He shivered each time, chasing after your mouth like he needed it to breathe. His hands wandered desperately over your back, trying to pull you closer, closer, like he didn’t understand that you’d already crawled inside him—mentally, emotionally, obsessively.

“Hah,” you giggled, that sharp little laugh you gave only when your heart was spiraling. Your voice dipped into something unstable. Sweet. Possessive. “Do you even understand how much it hurt when you kissed everywhere but my lips?” Your breath hitched. Your eyes glistened, wide and glassy. “The corners,” you whispered, like the word itself made you tremble. “You kissed the corners, Sol. Did you know what that did to me?”

You thought he’d be scared. You thought he’d flinch. But instead—

He looked beautiful.

So beautiful you wanted to crush him. Preserve him. Pin him open like a butterfly and say “mine.”

And then, finally—finally, your lips crashed against his. No teasing. No space. Just the kind of kiss that says you belong to me and I’ll break you before I ever let go. You held it, mouths locked together like you could pour your love down his throat.

Only when oxygen clawed at your lungs did you break away, panting.

Sol gasped—so pretty when he gasps—then surged back in. His tongue traced your lower lip, trembling, gentle, desperate. It shocked a breathy sound from your throat, high and too sweet. But your body didn’t hesitate—of course it didn’t.

He tugged you down by the back of your head, pulling you deeper, swallowing every sound you made. You were still on top of him, legs bracketing his hips, his mouth warm and wet and starved for you—just like you were for him.

Tongues tangled. Spit shared. You kissed him like you wanted to carve the memory into your bones. Like your heart would stop if you didn’t.

You shifted your weight to one arm, just enough to free your hand—because you needed to touch him. Not wanted. Needed. Craved it like air. Your fingers ghosted down the front of his shirt, the rough weave scratching delicately against your skin like it was daring you to go further.

But the way he wore it—tucked in all proper, all teasingly inaccessible—almost made you laugh. Was he trying to make you work for it? You didn’t mind. You liked peeling him apart.

Pinching the hem, you tugged the fabric free from his waistband, deliberately slow. Watching him. Waiting to see if he’d stop you. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Your hand slid beneath the shirt, palm pressing flat against the heat of his stomach. His skin twitched under your touch. His breath stuttered—oh, he was trying to hold it in. Cute. That only made you push higher.

Sol let out a shuddering gasp and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath—hot and uneven—brushed against your lips, your cheeks. You drank it in like it was sacred.

Your hand moved higher, fingertips skimming up until they found the firm curve of his pecs. You let your palm settle there, then squeezed—not gently. You wanted to feel him tremble. You wanted him to know it was you who made him weak.

And he did. His fist found your nightwear, fingers curling tight in the fabric, pulling at it like he couldn’t stand the tension building in his chest. His lips parted—but whatever he said was lost in a breathy, strangled sound. Mumbled. Meaningless.

Didn’t matter.

You translated for him. The whimper in his throat. The way his body leaned into your touch, even as it shuddered. You knew exactly what it meant.

He liked it. He liked you.

Your fingers roamed again, tracing every muscle, every dip and ridge like you were memorizing it for the last time. Sometimes you squeezed, just hard enough to watch him flinch—just hard enough to remind him he was yours. Entirely, irrevocably yours.

And he was so good for you. So beautiful, shaking under your touch like that.

God, you loved him.

You’d carve his name into your soul if it meant never losing this feeling.

Sol pulled you in like he couldn’t bear a single molecule of distance. His arms locked tight across your back and waist, holding you as if he was afraid you might vanish, might dissolve in the heat of the moment if he didn’t anchor you.

When his lips met yours, it was anything but gentle. The pressure—his mouth, his arms, his presence—closed around you like a vise. His legs shifted against yours, slotting into place along your sides, and for one brief moment, you thought: He’s letting me drown in him.

And then—without warning—he moved.

Your stomach flipped as Sol rolled you both over in one fluid motion, suddenly slamming you against the mattress with a low thud. You gasped, the breath ripped from your lungs not just by the motion but by the sheer force of him—the way he hovered over you now, the air thick with heat and tension, and something desperate clawing at both your chests.

The kiss had broken—but barely. A thread still tied you together, breath mingling, lips centimeters apart. His eyes remained closed like he was savoring the memory of the kiss… or afraid that if he looked, he’d see regret on your face.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when he was above you like this. Not when your body screamed finally, finally, finally.

When he finally let his eyelids flutter open, heavy-lidded and glassy with emotion, he blinked down at you.

And something shifted.

Because that’s when he realized. Realized what he’d done. The position. The weight. The pinning. The overwhelming closeness. And how you weren’t pulling away.

How you were staring up at him like he’d just handed you the entire world.

How your fingers gripped his biceps like they belonged there.

How you wanted more.

“Ehh, Sol,” you muttered, breath still hot and heavy against his lips, “you can actually top.”

He froze. Blinked. You felt the tension ripple through his whole body like a wave crashing—and then retracting.

His face went red.

The kind of blush that climbed from his neck all the way up to his ears, like his body was trying to reboot but the wires got crossed somewhere in his brain. His grip faltered just a bit. His mouth opened—no words.

Oh no.

You ruined it. You ruined the moment.

…Except—you didn’t think so. You thought he was adorable.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, suddenly hit by an overwhelming urge. “You’re so cute I’m gonna die.”

Before he could react, you reached up and squished his cheeks together with both hands, making him pout involuntarily.

“Jesus Christ, look at you! You’re blushing! Over me!”

“Y-Y/N—!”

You giggled. Cackled, actually. Then you leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose like you were branding it, your lips lingering obnoxiously long just to watch his brain implode in real time.

He went stiff. Completely red. Entire systems down. Emotion.exe stopped responding.

Sol.exe has stopped working.

“…You’re not normal,” he mumbled, stunned. But his hands were still on you. And his eyes were soft. And his heart was sprinting.

“And yet you’re still on top of me,” you whispered, eyes gleaming, voice soft but dangerous. “Who’s the real weirdo here, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

Sol’s breath hitched like he’d just been shot—by you, no less, loaded gun of a smile and that kiss to his forehead still echoing in his bones. He clutched at your sides like you were vanishing fog, blinking too fast, lips trembling around syllables that never made it out alive.

“You.. I… you r-really mean—” kiss Another one. Right to his temple this time. Gentle. Grounding. And ruining him.

His face flushed all the way to his ears, blotchy and blooming like a fever dream. Pupils blown wide, chest rising like he was preparing to confess to something unforgivable—or to worship.

And then your eyes dipped down. Your grin twisted. That deranged little sparkle lit behind your lashes.

“Oh... Sol,” you purred like you’d caught a secret. “You’re really…”

He looked mortified. Not from shame—no, shame couldn’t shake a boy like this—it was desperation. He was trying not to die. Trying not to implode right here in front of you.

Your laugh—God, that laugh—shattered the moment like a mirror.

“You’re hard already?” You cooed. “That forehead kiss really did you in, huh?” His hands were trembling now, clutching fabric like he could anchor himself through sheer will.

“I– I didn’t mean— it’s not— you kissed me and I just—!”

“Shhh,” you cut him off, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Even though I wanna take the lead…” Your voice dipped lower, silk wrapping around a blade. “I wanna see what you can do.”

You felt him twitch.

“I’ll have my turn later,” you whispered, almost reverent, almost cruel. “But tonight? Tonight we’re gonna help ourselves to everything. Slowly.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his too..

He exhaled like he’d been gut-punched by God.

His voice was barely there, breathy and wrecked already, like the mere idea of asking might ruin him:

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

God, as if he had to ask.

You leaned in, voice low and honey-slick, almost cruel with how soft it was: “You don’t have to ask.”

And then your hand—slow, deliberate—dragged up the inside of his thigh. You felt the jolt run through him, like a shiver made flesh, hips twitching the tiniest bit under your touch. His breath caught like he’d been holding it all night just for this moment.

He kissed you.

But not shy. Not sweet.

Starved.

It started slow, lips brushing like he was scared you might vanish mid-breath, but then he melted—tongue tracing yours, cautious at first, then bolder, desperate. His hands found your waist, fingers splayed wide, clutching like he needed you to stay real beneath him. You tasted the heat off him, tasted the tension and want and the way he kept breathing your name in pieces between kisses.

Your fingers gripped tighter on his thigh, and he gasped into your mouth, swallowing it back with another kiss, deeper this time, wetter, messier. His tongue moved with a purpose now—slow licks, teasing flicks, a rhythm he built between stolen gasps and muffled whimpers.

He kissed like he’d been dreaming of it for months. Like you were the only god he’d ever pray to again. Like every second without your mouth was a curse undone only by this.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, your lips swollen and his pupils devouring you whole—

You whispered against his mouth, “Sol… you kiss like you’re gonna die without it.”

He just moaned softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and shook.

Your hand threaded through that wild mane—black with streaks of radioactive green, warm from the heat pooling between you. His hair was soft despite the chaos, falling like ink between your fingers, that middle bang brushing your nose as you tilted his head just right.

You murmured, "Let me see you," and he did—eyes fluttering open, and fuck, they glowed. That twisted sunburst of color: burnt orange at the core, ringed in blood-red. Like staring into the last seconds before a supernova.

Then, oh… oh, you got greedy.

You kissed the spider bites on his lip first—just a soft nip, enough to make him shiver, then soothe it with your tongue. He whimpered, voice cracking like a prayer slipping into sin. Next? That long upside-down cross earring. You took the chain between your teeth and tugged it. A small sound escaped him—half gasp, half please—as your fingers trailed down his neck to his choker.

You nipped that buckle too. Clink. Your teeth caught the edge, and he twitched beneath you, body tense, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice barely hanging on. “You’re—ah—cruel—”

“Oh!!!" you purred, kissing up the line of his jaw, “we’re not even halfway.”

And then came the piercings.

You kissed each of them. Every little stud, hoop, and ring you could get your mouth on. You nipped, licked, and grazed teeth along every piece like they were your own personal playground. You even whispered to each one like they were separate lovers.

Left ear first—lobe stud, then the helix. Your tongue flicked over the metal, and he arched. Right ear next—double helix, slow kisses between them, then one quick bite that made his hips jerk. Then? The necklace—that key. You bit down on it and dragged your mouth up the chain like you were unlocking every inch of him.

And gods, when you finally tugged up his shirt and saw those nipple piercings—

You moaned like you’d found treasure.

“Awh, Sol… these? These are mine now.”

You nipped one with your teeth, and he cried out, thighs clenching, head thrown back so fast it nearly knocked you off-balance.

He was shaking. Writhing. You hadn’t even touched the hard part of him again yet.

And that was the plan.

"You're gonna beg, sweetheart," you whispered, lips brushing the metal again. "One piercing at a time."

You kissed them—slow and savoring. Each nipple ring cool against your lips at first, but that changed fast, your breath warming the metal, your tongue flicking against it just to hear him gasp. The piercings twitched with every flick, every soft suck.

His hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting without permission, a helpless grind into nothing. "Fuck—" he hissed, voice strangled, barely hanging on.

Your tongue circled one of the hoops, slow as sin, before you sucked—deep and filthy, like your mouth had every right to claim it. He whimpered, and the sound was wrecked. Like he was unraveling beneath you.

“Sensitive?” you teased, dragging your teeth along the ring before biting down just enough to make his back arch. “Thought you could handle a little attention.”

You switched sides, letting your mouth trail across his chest, kissing the space between—slow, possessive, like you were mapping him out. When you reached the other piercing, you didn’t wait. You closed your mouth around it and sucked hard, lips tugging until he moaned so pretty for you, like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

One hand stayed on his chest, keeping him steady. The other slid down—slow, slow—to rest just above his waistband. Not touching yet. Not giving—just threatening. Teasing.

"You’re falling apart and I’ve barely even started," you whispered, breath ghosting hot across his chest. "Gonna let me ruin you, Sol?"

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, pupils blown wide, chest heaving under your lips.

So you kissed the ring again—gentler this time, a silent good boy—and smiled against his skin.

"Don’t worry," you murmured, "I’ll take my time."

Your palm hovered just above the heat between you, barely grazing, and still—you felt it. Throbbing. Desperate. So hard it almost ached to look at. Sol’s breath hitched the second your fingers brushed over him, even through the layers. His hips twitched up, chasing the contact like he couldn't help himself anymore.

“I wanna help you,” you breathed, voice thick, trembling. “I wanna make you feel good, Sol…”

His name tasted like devotion and danger on your tongue. Your eyes, glossy and glassy, locked with his—and God, the way he looked back at you, pupils drowned in red and gold, lips parted, flushed and shining from where you'd kissed him raw… He looked like he’d break if you stopped. Like you were the only thing keeping him together.

"Please," he whispered, broken and breathless. “I… I need you…”

You pressed your forehead to his, panting together, your breaths hitching and stuttering in tandem. Two heartbeats pounding in sync, two souls tangled in fever. Your free hand came up to cradle his jaw as your lips ghosted over his—kissing without kissing.

Then you said it. Sweet and deranged, like a promise only you could deliver:

“This night’s for us. We’re gonna do everything, Sol… every slow, messy, perfect thing…”

And your hand slid lower, down, down—ready to show him exactly how much love you had to give.

Your breath hitched—not from the crushing hug (though god, Sol really didn’t know his strength), but from the heat radiating off him. That sound… the unmistakable, slow click of a belt being unbuckled. You froze, blinking up at him as he pulled you even closer, burying his face into your neck, like he was trying to hide the sheer intensity blazing across his flushed skin.

“Y-you don’t have to know everything…” he whispered, voice low, strained, shaky with nerves and want. “I’ll… I’ll teach you. If you’ll let me.”

Then you peeked under the covers—and there it was.

Throbbing.

Your cheeks flushed so fast it felt like a fever. You couldn’t look away. His cock twitched, hard and leaking, resting against the slope of his thigh, flushed so dark it almost looked angry. You swallowed hard, lips parting on a shaky breath as your eyes darted back to his face.

Sol wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely wrecked just from being seen.

“You’re so beautiful like this…” you said before you could even think to be embarrassed.

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Your hand wrapped around him again—this time softer, a trembling curiosity guiding your touch. Sol gasped, his whole body jolting like you'd struck a nerve, forehead pressing hard against yours as he choked back another moan. His lips hovered just above yours, parted, hungry, desperate.

“D-don’t hold so tight,” he whispered, the breath of it fanning across your cheek, voice raw and pleading. “J-just… yeah. Like that…”

You adjusted instinctively, sliding your palm down the length of him with slow, reverent strokes. The way he reacted—hips twitching, lips falling open with another helpless sound—made your stomach clench with molten need. God, he was beautiful like this. Ruined just by your hands. Yours.

He groaned your name like it was the only word left in his vocabulary, each syllable dripping with devotion. His head tipped back, throat exposed, sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the low light. You couldn’t stop yourself—your lips found the curve of his jaw, then his throat, tasting the salt of his skin as he shuddered under your touch.

Your pace quickened. He was getting louder. So were you.

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t careful. It was consuming. Teeth, tongue, heat. A clash of need and reverence, of wanting to devour and worship at once. You moaned into his mouth..

He cried out your name like it was a prayer and a curse in one—shattered against your hand, clinging to your body like a lifeline, hips stuttering as he finally, finally let go.

Warmth spilled across your clothes, thick and hot, soaking the front of your nightwear..

Both of you froze.

Sol’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, then dropped to the ruined fabric between you. His entire face flushed crimson.

“...Oh f-fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, voice still broken from the high. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

You stared at the mess, then back up at him. Your smile was slow and wicked.

“Well, someone owes me laundry,” you murmured, leaning in to steal a kiss from his swollen lips. He melted into it immediately, pliant and eager, still twitching from the aftershocks.

Then you pulled back just enough to whisper, breath hot against his mouth:

“How are you gonna make it up to me, Sol?”

His eyes widened—then darkened. Hands trembling, he cupped your cheeks, like you were something holy. Something he’d ruin again and again just to worship better the next time.

"I'll....!"

His breath hitched as you tilted your head, offering your neck like an invitation, like a challenge. And Sol? He was never one to back down from a dare—especially not when it tasted like your skin and sounded like your voice moaning his name like sin.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse and reverent. His fingers ghosted down your sides, just shy of where you really wanted them. “You know what happens when you tell me I can start…”

You didn’t answer with words—just arched your hips, smug and wicked, watching his pupils blow wide. That was answer enough.

Sol’s hands moved with a hunger he could barely hide anymore, sliding under your wear to trace the slope of your waist, then curling possessively around your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You tease me like that,” he muttered against your collarbone, lips brushing the heat of your pulse, “and expect me to behave?”

He bit down gently, enough to make you gasp—then soothed the sting with his tongue. Marking you, loving you. He trailed kisses down the side of your neck, slow and messy, until he reached the hollow between your shoulder and throat. He sucked a deep bruise there, then pulled back just to admire his work.

“Mine,” he whispered. “Mine.”

His hands slipped lower—one grounding you by your hip, the other sliding down between your thighs, teasing the waistband like he wanted permission even now. But you’d already handed him the reins. And the rope. And maybe the whole damn chariot.

You gasped when his fingers dipped in—just one at first, slow and gentle, testing. You clenched around him immediately, and his breath caught.

“Oh my god,” he moaned softly, forehead pressing to your shoulder. “You’re already—fuck, you feel so good.”

He didn’t even give you time to catch your breath before the second joined in. His rhythm was deliberate—patient, almost reverent—but the way he curled them? Filthy. Perfect. Designed to make you sing for him.

And sing you did.

Every whimper you gave, every gasp and curse and half-begged Sol, had his cock twitching against your thigh again. But he didn’t rush. Not yet. He was watching you—fixated, obsessed, cataloging every flutter of your lashes, every hitch of your breath, like you were a song he was learning by heart.

“God, you’re so beautiful when you get like this,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “All smug and cocky one second, then falling apart for me the next…”

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then buried his face against your neck, fingers picking up speed as your hips rocked into his hand.

“I wanna ruin you slow,” he murmured. “I want to. Make you cry out so sweet no one’ll ever look at you again without knowing you’re mine.”

You moaned his name—raw, needy—and that was it. His pace faltered, then grew firmer. Deeper. Devoted.

You could feel the heat coiling tighter in your belly, dragging you under with every curl of his fingers, every dark promise against your skin.

His fingers hovered over your chest, tracing the lines of your body with a slow, deliberate touch. It was almost torturous, the way he teased—lingering, never quite touching where you needed it, like he was savoring the way your body reacted to each brush of his fingertips.

"You feel so good," Sol murmured, eyes dark with desire as they dropped to your chest, his breath hot against your skin. His lips followed the trail his fingers had just left, trailing kisses down the curve of your neck and then across your collarbone, moving lower with each slow exhale.

The pressure on your chest was light at first—barely there, like he was testing the waters—but you knew better than to mistake it for innocence. His touch was possessive, controlled, a slow burn that had you gasping, heart racing.

He grazed over the soft fabric of your shirt, fingertips just brushing your skin, making you crave more. "You like this, don’t you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, like he was enjoying the power he had over you, the way you melted under his touch.

Without waiting for an answer, Sol's hand slid beneath your shirt, cupping your chest with a possessive pressure. The heat from his palm spread through your body like wildfire. He didn’t hold back, kneading and massaging gently, just enough to make you shiver, to make you ache for more.

He loved the way you responded—so responsive, so eager to give him what he wanted. His thumb brushed over your nipple, once, twice—deliberate, circling, drawing out a whimper from your lips. He smiled at that sound, pressing his chest to yours, the weight of his body only adding to the intensity.

"I won't let an- Not him....Especially him....," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His other hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, giving a subtle push to coax you closer to him.

"Y/n.."

You gasped, your chest rising sharply with each breath as his touch became more insistent, more demanding. Each stroke sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel your body responding, tightening, yearning for more of his hands, his touch.

Sol’s mouth found yours again, messy and desperate, and he groaned into your lips as his hands kept working you over, feeling every inch of you like he couldn't get enough. His fingers were all over you now, pulling at your shirt, tugging it off with impatient desperation.

Sol’s hands roamed over your body, the facade you’d been holding onto—your smug control—started to slip, thread by thread. His touch was unrelenting, driving you closer to the edge, pulling out the needy parts of you that you usually kept buried beneath layers of deflection.

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid down to the sensitive spot on your inner thigh, the heat radiating from his touch setting your skin ablaze. You tried to hold it together, tried to keep your usual cool, but it was becoming harder and harder with each passing second. His teasing was pushing you past the point of control.

“Sol...” Your voice came out breathless, softer than you meant it to be, a desperate plea slipping from your lips before you could catch it.

He paused, just for a moment, his fingers hovering on your skin as he looked up at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t that cocky smirk you were used to—it was softer, almost knowing. Like he could finally see through you, see that all that smugness you’d been holding onto was just a shell.

“Are you finally gonna let go?” he whispered, his voice laced with something far more tender than you expected, despite the hunger in his eyes. “You need me, don’t you?”

You tried to bite back a moan, tried to hold onto the last shreds of your defiance, but it was impossible. The need was there—aching, overwhelming, raw—and you couldn’t hide it anymore. You gave him a look that was no longer playful or mocking. It was pleading, exposed, a silent surrender.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. “I need you.”

Sol’s breath caught, the realization dawning on him as he saw the shift in you—how you were no longer in control, no longer the one who was teasing and taking what you wanted. Now, you were the one needing, the one falling apart in his hands. His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the raw intensity of his desire match yours.

“I need you, too,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with something deeper than lust—something possessive, something real. His hand moved again, more urgently now, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

The shift in the air was palpable now, the balance of power changing in the space between you. He was no longer just teasing you—he was giving you what you craved, just as you had given him everything he wanted. Your walls were gone, shattered by the intensity of his touch, and now all that was left was the raw need you both shared.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear with a sinful sort of gentleness. “I said I was gonna go in,” Sol murmured, voice thick with promise—and before you could even gasp out a “Wait—”

—his fingers pushed in.

The sudden stretch made you jolt, hips instinctively jerking forward into his hand. The gasp that left your throat was half surprise, half moan, and your fingers clenched tight around the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t stop—no, he curled them slow, deliberate, like he was already memorizing the shape of you, the way you reacted, every twitch and breath and tremble. You bit your lip, but that smug composure you wore so well? Gone. Utterly demolished.

Sol noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he looked so smug about it.

"Thought you were the one teasing me," he whispered, kissing your jaw, his fingers moving with aching patience. "But you're already falling apart on me, Pumpkin."

You tried to glare. You really did. But all that came out was a whimper as he added a second finger, your body tightening around him, breath coming in short, shaky bursts.

“You're...!” he murmured, dragging his lips down your neck, tongue teasing the skin before he bit down just hard enough to leave a mark. “I'm making you feel like this. No one will ever...!”

Your head tipped back against the pillow, overwhelmed—by the heat, the stretch, him. Your legs fell open just a little more without thinking, hips starting to rock in slow, desperate rhythm against his hand.

"You're clenching so tight, Pumpkin." he muttered, mouth brushing your ear again, "Like you don’t wanna let me go. Like your body knows it’s mine.”

You let out something between a curse and a plea, and Sol—bless his sinful heart—just chuckled low in his throat, fingers working deeper, stroking just right.

His cock pressed against your sex, hot and heavy, his other hand still between your thighs—fingers slick with everything you gave him. His breath stuttered, voice low and wrecked as he leaned in, lips ghosting over yours.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he murmured. “So damn warm around my fingers… can only imagine how good you’ll feel around this.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving faint trails as your body trembled under the weight of him. You barely had a second to respond before—

He pushed in.

Slow, relentless, deep—filling you with every inch, drawing a strangled sound from your throat as your forehead dropped to his shoulder. The stretch had your whole body clenching, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the way every nerve lit up under his touch.

“F-fuck,” Sol hissed into your neck, voice thick with awe. “You take me so well… like you were made for me.”

That did something to you. Your whole body reacted—pulling him in closer, tighter—and he groaned, caught between control and desperation. One hand slid up your chest, teasing and playing with every sensitive spot he could find, making your hips rock helplessly into his.

He started to move. Slow at first—deliberate, dragging each thrust out to feel every inch of you shudder around him. You couldn’t pretend anymore. The smug mask you wore had shattered, replaced by whimpers and gasps and the way your nails bit into his skin.

And he was drinking it all in. Obsessed. Devoted.

He kissed you again—hot and hungry, his tongue slipping against yours, coaxing more of those beautiful sounds from your lips. He needed them. Needed you.

“Too much—ah! S-Sol…!” you choked out, barely holding onto words as your body arched into him, trembling and raw with every overwhelming sensation.

His rhythm faltered, just for a breath, and his gaze flicked up to meet yours—concern and lust tangled in those deep, dark eyes.

“Wanna be on top this time?” he rasped, voice soft but hoarse with need. “You can set the pace... take what you need.”

You tried to nod, but the moment you moved, your limbs faltered. You were boneless, wrecked, trembling from the aftershocks still rolling through your nerves. “I… I-I—” you tried, but the words melted against your tongue, leaving you breathless and aching.

He kissed you. Slow and reverent. A kiss that tasted like yes.

You shifted, trying to reposition yourself with what little strength you had left—but your body shivered from the stretch, the heat, the sheer intensity of him still buried inside you.

“Hey, hey…” Sol whispered, arms catching you gently. “Let me help you, pumpkin.”

He guided your hips with a care that almost made you cry—like you were something precious, like he could fall apart just watching you fall apart. The moment you finally sank down on him again, your back bowed, a sharp cry slipping from your lips as your hand flew to your mouth—biting into your thumb and nail just to ground yourself.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching your reaction like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “You feel incredible... Look at you.”

Your breath stuttered. His hands cradled your waist, steadying you, but you could feel his restraint unraveling with every passing second.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathed. “You’re perfect like this. Want me to move with you? Or… just let you take what you want?”

You swallowed hard, still biting your thumb, unable to answer—so you just rocked your hips experimentally, and shuddered when the sensation ripped through you like lightning.

Your moan came out shattered.

And Sol?

He looked like he’d die happily just to hear that sound again.

Your forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, lips brushing over the sensitive skin there as you tried—tried—to move.

He held you close, arms wrapped tight around your back like he could fuse you to him, breathing heavy and ragged against your shoulder. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and trembling.

You nodded against his neck. “Y-Yeah, I just—” You shifted your hips, slow and shaky, but even that made your breath hitch and your legs quiver. The overstimulation hit like a wave, rolling up your spine and curling your toes.

Then again. Just one more push. Just one more move.

Your thighs shook. You bit your lip. Everything felt too good, too much, and it made your muscles jelly.

“Shit,” you hissed, nails digging into his back. “What’s… wrong with me?” You half-laughed, half-whimpered, breath catching in your throat. “Why am I so—why are you so damn deep?”

Sol’s arms tightened around you instantly, and you felt it—the way his breath stuttered, the way his heart slammed in his chest right against yours. That wicked, warm chuckle rumbled through him.

“Guess I just fit you too well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Or maybe you’re just that gone for me, huh?”

You whimpered, biting your knuckle again. He tilted your head back gently, nose brushing yours, voice thick with a mix of awe and filth.

“You’re not broken,” he said, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You’re just so full of me you don’t know what to do. Let me help.”

And before you could protest—he rolled his hips up into you.

Slow. Smooth. Deep.

“Guess I’ll have to help a little,” Sol murmured against your ear, voice honey-slick and low.

His hands moved to steady your hips, fingers splayed wide as he guided you slowly—gently—down again. Your breath hitched hard, every nerve flaring as you sank into the heat of him. He was already shaking, just from watching you fall apart above him.

“You’re really trembling inside,” he groaned, awe and reverence tangled in his voice. “Pumpkin… I never thought we’d be doing this. Not like this. Not so—” His voice cracked as he looked up at you. “So close.”

You tried to say something back, but all you could do was whimper, your voice lost somewhere between need and disbelief. Your face was burning, your whole body flushed from the inside out.

And Sol saw it—every flicker of emotion, every twitch of your lips, every clench of your fingers in his hair.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “Your face right now…” He looked wrecked. Adoring. “I wanna satisfy you more. Make you fall apart again. And again. Until that smug little mask drops for good.”

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your fingers curling in the sheets. Sol met you halfway, hands still guiding you, breath syncing with yours as the rhythm built between you like a secret language only your bodies could speak.

n Sol’s eyes—something darker, more needy than you’d seen before. His hands were still guiding you, but they were trembling now, almost desperately, as if he was afraid you might slip away from him. His chest rose and fell with each strained breath, and his gaze never left your face, burning with intensity.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice rougher than before. “I can feel every inch of you. Your heart, your breath, your body... I can’t get enough of it.”

His lips brushed against your throat, hot and possessive, as if marking you, claiming you with each kiss. It was almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, like he was driven by something more than lust—need. You could feel it in the way his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, urging you deeper. His lips trailed along your jaw, desperate but gentle, like he was savoring every second of this.

“Don’t... don’t pull away,” Sol gasped, his voice low, strained. “I need you... I need you with me. Don’t go anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. He kissed you again, his touch becoming more urgent, more possessive, until you could feel the weight of his emotions crashing into you—raw, unfiltered, as if he were willing to burn everything just to keep you here.

And in that moment, you realized: it wasn’t just his body that he was offering—it was his soul, his vulnerability, his fear of losing you.

His words were barely a whisper against your skin: “You’re mine, right? You’re not going anywhere...”

"Sol... shit, I—" Your voice cracked on the edge of a gasp, spine arching helplessly into his touch. "I’ve never been so—so greedy... I need more..."

Your words were barely coherent, trembling out of you like confessions in the dark. You clung to him, breath hitching with every aching movement. Your whole body felt too hot, too sensitive, too full—like one more touch would shatter you completely.

And Sol, sweet Sol, was smiling down at you with a look so tender it hurt. His fingers were still working you open, slowly, lovingly, obsessively—his other hand cradling your cheek as if you might break. You looked up and—fuck—you were gone.

“Hey, Y/N,” he whispered, voice syrup-sweet, eyes glittering with something deranged and soft all at once. “Look at me.”

You did—and instantly regretted it, because those eyes—those spiraling, impossible eyes—locked you in place. That inner ring of burning orange, surrounded by crimson-red, swallowed you whole. Your breath caught. You couldn't look away if you tried.

“Swear to me,” he murmured, his voice suddenly trembling at the edges. “Swear you’ll stay with me. Always. I need to hear you say it.”

“I—I’ll stay,” you gasped, lips brushing against his. “I’ll stay w-with you, Sol—Sol!! AHHH—!”

Your words broke off in a cry as another wave hit, tearing through your body. His name was the only thing left on your tongue. Your thoughts dissolved completely, leaving behind only raw need and that voice—his voice—telling you how good you were, how much he wanted you, how much he needed you to stay.

Sol kissed your cheek, then your neck, then your lips again, all while whispering like a man possessed: “That’s right. Mine. You’re mine, pumpkin... forever.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against yours—wild, unhinged, terrified in its own way.

No one had ever held you like that. No one had ever wanted you like that.

Sol started to move—slow at first, like he was savoring the moment, savoring you. Every shift of his hips sent another shock of heat through your already overwhelmed body, and you couldn’t stop the gasps that tumbled from your lips, couldn’t hold back the broken whimpers as the pleasure spiraled way past what you thought you could take.

You were barely conscious of your own voice—just helpless, dazed sounds between half-finished words, desperate declarations tumbling from your mouth like confessions in a fever dream.

“C-can’t... can’t think—ah, Sol—! I wanna stay—I belong to you—!”

Those words snapped something inside him.

He froze for half a second—just one—but his breath hitched, his grip on you tightening as if he was anchoring himself in your heat, your need, your truth

His eyes were wide, glassy with something raw—something shattering. And then he moved again, with more force, more need, like your words had sunk straight into the core of him and detonated.

"Say it again," Sol gasped, voice cracking like his heart was too full, too fragile. "Say you belong to me—"

You couldn’t even speak. Your body was trembling, helpless in his arms, your face pressed to the crook of his neck as he held you like he’d never let go. All you could manage was a choked, breathless whimper of his name, and that was enough. Too much.

He kissed the side of your face like he was praying. Like you were sacred. Like he'd break if he ever lost you.

"You’re mine," he whispered hoarsely, a promise and a plea. “You’re mine and I’m yours and—gods, I don’t care if this world burns, just stay with me.”

You tried to nod—tried to respond—but the waves crashing through your body stole everything. Your breath. Your thoughts. Even your strength. You could only cling, nails digging into the fabric on his back as your body arched into his, as he moved faster, deeper into whatever bond had fused your souls together.

Sol was unraveling. You could feel it—every sound he made, every tremble in his voice, every desperate grind of his hips said the same thing:

"I love you. I need you. I can’t lose you."

And just when it felt like your world would collapse from the inside out—

He buried his face against your neck, gasping raggedly. "Y/N—!!" His voice cracked as he reached his peak, breath hitching, movements slowing into deep, shaking pulses. You felt him fall apart around you, within you, every bit of that obsessive love spilling out in every broken whisper and trembling kiss.

And even in the aftermath—panting, sweaty, and trembling in his arms—you knew:

This wasn’t just need.

It was devotion. It was possession. It was love—sharp-edged, overwhelming, maybe even dangerous.

You didn’t even know when it shifted—when your legs were pushed back, when his weight settled over you like a storm you couldn’t escape, didn’t want to. Sol’s hands gripped under your knees, spreading you open with a reverence that burned. His gaze locked to yours, wild and worshipping, like he could see straight into your marrow and wanted to carve his name into every inch of it.

"Look at me," he panted, voice low and ragged. "I need you to feel how much I want you—how much I need you. Like this. Always like this."

Then he sank back in.

Deep. Full. Unyielding.

You cried out, fingers scrambling at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch, the impossible closeness. His body caged yours, chest pressed flush to yours, his mouth kissing your tears away even as he wrecked you with every thrust—slow at first, almost reverent.

But it didn’t stay slow.

He snapped his hips forward, hard, fast—desperate.

The sound of skin on skin echoed, lewd and dizzying, your broken moans swallowed by his kiss. His arms trembled with restraint, but his pace never stopped, hips grinding in deep with every stroke like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

“I can feel you,” he gasped against your mouth. “Clenching around me like you were made for me—like you belong to me.”

Your body gave no answer, only a choked sob of pleasure that made his pupils blow wide, made his control unravel at the seams. He hooked your thighs tighter around his waist, angling himself just right until stars exploded behind your eyes.

And when you cried out his name again, broken and raw and holy, Sol lost it.

He slammed into you with a grunt, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling as he moved faster, harder, chasing something that felt more like a fall than a climax. “That’s it—take it, take all of me—”

You were shaking, overstimulated and breathless, but he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. His rhythm turned erratic, deeper, needier, like every thrust was a vow:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And then he shattered.

With a strangled cry, he drove in to the hilt and came undone—his entire body trembling, hips twitching with every pulse of release, his face buried in your neck as he chanted your name like a lifeline.

“Y/N… Y/N—fuck, I love you—I love you so much I can’t—can’t breathe without you—”

You held him as tightly as you could, every part of you aching, humming, complete. He stayed buried deep inside you, wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go, like pulling out would unravel everything.

And maybe it would.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was him giving you everything.

His obsession. His madness. His love.

And in that dazed, dizzied haze, as your body trembled in the aftermath and his heart thundered against yours, one thing was clear:

You were never getting out of this.

And gods help you…

You didn’t want to.

You didn’t even get a moment to breathe.

Sol was still inside you, still trembling from his high, but his mouth was already moving again—soft kisses, scattered like devotion across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. And then, without a word, he rolled his hips.

Slow. Deep. Heavy.

Your body jolted. A strangled sound caught in your throat, half-moan, half-beg, but it never made it past your lips—because he kissed you.

Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Tongue claiming, teeth grazing, swallowing every ruined sound you tried to make. You couldn’t even gasp. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was feel—his hips grinding into yours again, filling you to the hilt, his body somehow more feverish, more hungry than before.

“You can take it,” he breathed between kisses, voice dark and reverent, wrecked by love and lust and something far too raw to name. “You’re perfect—gods, you feel so perfect like this. So full of me.”

Your nails dragged down his back, helpless, overstimulated, trembling from how much you needed him, even as your body screamed from the intensity. He moved deeper, slower this time but with that same unbearable pressure—like he wanted to melt into you, fuse your bodies until there was no more him or you, just us.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even as his hips rocked into you again. “I can’t stop. I should—but I can’t. Not when you’re like this. Not when you feel like—like home.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent, lips dragging over yours like he could taste your soul on your tongue. You whimpered against him, tried to speak, to moan—but the pleasure was too much, the fullness too overwhelming. All you could do was sob softly into his mouth as he started to move faster, desperate for another high, another chance to lose himself in you.

“You’re mine,” he breathed against your lips, fucking you through the aftershocks, through the haze, through the surrender. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Sh-shit—Sol—wait—!” you choked, but your voice cracked on a sob as his hips pounded into yours again, no room to think, no room to breathe, just the sound of slick, obscene rhythm and your own whimpers catching in your throat.

You tried to push at his chest, not really meaning it, just needing something to hold onto—but he only groaned, low and wrecked, and leaned down to kiss you—soft, almost sweet, completely at odds with the way he was driving into you like a man possessed.

“Just a little more,” he panted into your mouth. “Just a little more,Pumpkin—come on, stay with me.”

You couldn’t. Your back arched, legs trembling, pleasure shattering through you again so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs. You moaned something—his name, maybe? A plea?—but it was swallowed by the way he bit down gently on your neck, groaning against your skin like he was trying not to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasped, still thrusting, still holding you so sweetly, like you were precious even as he ruined you. “We’re gonna be together, okay? From now on. Just us.”

He licked over the bite he left, kissed your cheek, and kept going—slower, now, but so deep, like he was trying to carve himself inside you permanently.

“We’ll eat good food. We’ll be happy. You won’t need anyone else, Y/N,” he murmured, voice shaking with something more than lust. “You’re mine. I’m yours. No one—no one will love you like I do.”

You stared up at him, dazed, lips parted to respond but all that came out was a soft, broken cry as your body clenched around him again.

He smiled, so soft, eyes wide and in love and unhinged.

“And you won’t love anyone like you love me. Right?” he whispered.

You tried to say yes—tried to breathe it, to nod, anything—but your body betrayed you, trembling and writhing beneath him, lost in the feeling of him pushing in, pulling out, fucking that question into you like he needed the answer etched into your bones.

And he took it as a yes.

He kissed your temple, lips brushing the sweat-slick skin like a promise.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just us.”

His name tore from your lips in a gasp, and with one last, deep thrust, he came—hard, pulsing inside you, shaking as if he'd just been brought to the edge of some abyss.

His body tensed, fingers digging into your skin as he gripped you close, holding you like his very existence depended on you being there—on being his. He buried his face against your neck, leaving soft, ragged kisses as his breath hitched in the aftermath, his body trembling with exhaustion and still needing more.

You could feel him inside you, warm and spent, but there was no relief—not really. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began, the line blurred by the way your bodies intertwined, by the way he held you so tight, so desperate, as if there was nothing left for him to hold onto except you.

He whispered your name, broken and raw, so tender despite everything.

“You... you’re mine. I’ll keep you safe. Keep you close. Never let you go,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and shaky.

Your mind was a haze, thoughts swimming as you struggled to gather yourself, but he kept you there, pressed against him, unable to move, unable to break free from the pull he had on you.

“I love you. I need you,” he said softly, his voice cracking on the last word.

And then, as if the intensity of what had just happened wasn’t enough to bring him to his breaking point, he pulled you even closer, his lips brushing your ear.

Sol’s grin was like a damn sunbeam, glowing with something that was all devotion and satisfaction, his chest still rising and falling quickly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, like he couldn’t get close enough to you. The moment was everything to him—the sweet aftermath, where the world felt soft, and all he could do was hold you and drown in how good you made him feel.

You were too dazed to speak, too lost in the warmth of his body against yours, the softness of his breath on your skin.

His lips were gentle as they pressed against the sensitive spots of your neck, leaving kisses so soft, so loving, it almost felt like worship. He pulled you in closer, not letting you go, even though you couldn’t form a coherent thought at the moment.

“You did so good, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice still thick with need but now touched with tenderness. “So, so good. I’m so proud of you.”

He said it like it was a sacred truth. His words melted into your skin, every word a claim, a reminder that you were his—and he wasn’t letting you forget it.

His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you tighter, his grip firm but with an underlying softness that only spoke to how deeply he cared. He tucked you against his chest, his heart still beating hard against you, as if it couldn’t slow down just yet.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice muffled and full of warmth. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, Y/N. I’ve got you.”

You felt like you might melt into him, his warmth spreading through you, his kisses and soft reassurances so grounding you couldn’t help but sink into the safety of his embrace. There was a sweetness to him now—clingy but in the most affectionate, secure way—as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He wasn’t letting go. Not now, not ever. And you couldn’t deny how right it felt to be so completely his.

You could barely keep your eyes open, the world spinning and your body so spent from the intensity of everything that had just happened—but something inside you snapped.

The laughter bubbled up, low and deranged, escaping your lips before you could even think twice about it. It was manic, almost delirious, but it was real. You were feeling it—feeling him, feeling that wild, crazy need to take control now, to flip the script just a little.

Sol, his face still buried in the crook of your neck, froze for a moment. His breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, eyes wide and glowing with that possessive hunger, that unshakable devotion.

“What… what are you—?” he started, but you silenced him with your eyes.

You could barely keep yourself together, but there was fire in your chest. You were done being so lost in him, done just lying there while he took the reins. No, this time, you were going to show him.

“I wanna take control too,” you muttered, voice raw, the grin pulling at your lips almost feral. “This isn’t over yet, Sol. Night’s ours. Let’s love each other too much, okay?”

His eyes widened, pupils dilated, the grin curling on his lips as he tilted his head slightly. He was shocked—and yet, the way his hand slid over your side, the way his thumb brushed against your skin, made it clear: he loved it.

“Fuck, Y/N… you think you can handle me?” His voice was low, teasing, but that gleam in his eyes said something else entirely—something darker, something like he was ready for you to burn everything down with him.

His arms were still tight around you, but now, it was almost like he was daring you. Daring you to take the reins and lead him somewhere new, somewhere he was all in for.

You woke up, your body still humming with the aftershocks of last night. But something was... different. You looked around, confusion clouding your mind for a moment—until your gaze fell on the pretty man beside you. The one who had stolen your breath away with his wild, captivating energy.

Sol.

His hair—black with those electric green streaks—looked even more striking in the soft light of morning. It cascaded in a half-up-half-down style, those bangs framing his face in a way that made his eyes even more arresting. His irises—oh, gods—those hues of orange and crimson, like they could see right through you, like they were made to entrap you.

You couldn't look away. Even as he lay there, peaceful, so effortlessly beautiful in his sleep, you found yourself staring, not even caring if it was a little unsettling. He was yours now. You couldn’t stop the way your heart raced at the thought.

You reached out and gently patted his head, your fingers grazing the strands of his hair, feeling the soft texture. It was almost too much, too perfect, too real. And just like that, those vivid eyes blinked open, meeting yours with that sleepy confusion, before they sharpened and narrowed, those mesmerizing eyes locking onto yours.

"Good morning, Sol..." you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips as your pulse quickened. You had to explain. You had to claim him.

"We need to take a bath... Y’know?" Your voice was light, teasing even, but underneath was something darker, a promise of what was to come.

For a moment, Sol stayed silent, his gaze steady, those eyes studying you. There was something about the way he looked at you now—it was almost like he was waiting for you to confirm what this was, what you were. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You held him gently by the face, your fingers brushing against his skin, before pulling him closer, locking eyes with him as if you were both trapped in this moment. This love.

“This isn’t a dream,” you murmured, voice turning darker, more twisted. “We’re together now, Sol. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Forever.”

Your smile, deranged, yandere-like, spread across your face as you whispered it again, your hands gripping his face more firmly now.

“I love you. I love you so much, Sol,” you confessed, the words leaving your lips like a vow. Your voice was almost manic, desperate. "No one else could ever love you like I do. No one can have you but me. You're mine—body, soul, everything. And I'll never let you go."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and you wanted to savor every second of it. The world outside—irrelevant. All that mattered was that Sol was here with you. And you were never letting him leave.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, your breath shaky, heart thudding in your chest.

"You're mine, Sol. Always. Forever. And there's no way out, is there?"

You managed to hobble to the bathroom with Sol’s help, giggling the whole way like you weren’t on the verge of collapsing. He bathed you both gently, sweetly, as if you were glass he’d cracked with his love last night and was now trying to piece back together. His touches were reverent, every kiss to your shoulder like a whispered apology and a promise.

And then—he said it.

“Let’s skip university today.”

You blinked at him.

"Together?"

He grinned, still wet from the bath, towel hanging low on his hips, eyes sparkling like he’d won the damn lottery. “Yeah. Let’s just... be us. Just for today.”

You could’ve cried. But instead you nodded and muttered something like, “Okay... only if you make curry.”

That made him laugh. A full, warm laugh, like you hadn’t completely shattered him the night before with how much you loved him.

Later, he was at the stove, humming while the smell of spicy, warm curry filled the air. You tried to help. Really, you did. But when you tried to stand—

“Ah—!” you winced, collapsing right back onto the futon, legs still jelly.

“Hey—hey, hey!” Sol rushed over, panic rising. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, grinning way too wide. “Can’t walk because you... you know.”

His face flushed a deep crimson, but he didn’t deny it.

Then, as he was stirring the curry, his voice came soft. Too soft.

"...Did you look after me too?..I mean"

Your grin widened—slow, almost foxlike.

You raised your hand and pointed to the cupboard in the corner. Sol tilted his head in confusion, then padded over.

When he opened it...

Silence.

He stared.

There, in a neat but deeply unhinged box, were dozens of photos of him. Drawings—some accurate, some bordering on manic. His used bandages. Pieces of fabric from his worn clothes. The one with a heart drawn around his face in red marker. Oh. And the other side?

Your notes.

Obsessive, stalker-style notes. Favorite foods, times he left campus, places he sat when he was sad, one particular napkin , Multiple drawings of him "Y/N + Sol 4ever" scrawled beneath.

His hands trembled as he picked up a drawing of himself you did from memory—wildly off-proportion, but filled with adoration. The kind of adoration that could turn a person feral.

You tilted your head and asked sweetly, “Why’re you red, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

He collapsed.

Like, full-on faceplant.

“SOL?!” You scrambled (as best you could) over to him, panic blooming. “SOL ARE YOU OKAY?! BREATHE, BREATHE—OH GODS I BROKE YOU—”

You pulled him into your lap, frantically patting his cheeks as his body shuddered, somewhere between laughter and a panic attack. His face buried in your chest as you whispered urgently, “You’re mine, Sol. Don’t break. I can’t fix you if you break—!”

But Sol just let out a breathy, dazed laugh.

“I—I was the-” he muttered, staring blankly at your shrine box. “I thought I was the insane one. I thought I was obsessed. But you—you—”

You grinned, cradling his face, nose touching his. “You love me, right?”

He blinked at you, dazed. “Yes—of course—”

“Good.” You kissed his forehead. “Because You loved me first. I’ll love you forever. And if you ever leave me, I’ll carve your name into my skin and haunt you!”

He just stared. Still red. Still broken.

Still so yours.

And somewhere in the kitchen, the curry began to burn. But neither of you cared.

[sp4ceboo]

Atonement: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: fic i wrote with @triluvial 's lovely idea

tw: 18+, smut but pretty soft, oral (f recieving), so so so so much angst, fluff after tho dw, swearing, hints of sa and pedophilia from the baron, baron is also creepy to reader but not explicitly, u gotta bear with my yapping in the beginning but it gets good i promise, inkpie

wc: 3.9k

headcanons for this universe

When you married Feyd-Rautha, you were warned of many things. His cruelty, both in and out of the bedroom, his bloodlust, his uncontrollable rage, his violence, his complete and utter lack of mercy. They told you he was psychotic, he was a cold blooded murderer, he was insatiable and that you’d be lucky to last a year with him, and yet, they never cautioned you of his sheer, unerring indifference.

Before your marriage, you fancied that he’d be like fire; raging, searing to touch. You went as far as to wish to tame his inferno. Late at night, when you could not sleep and doubt wreathed your thoughts, you also considered that he’d be like ice, like the colour of his piercing eyes, glacial and cold, devoid of anything soft or sweet.

As a child, you saw him fight in the arena. There he blazed with passion, his victor’s smile a cruel curve upon his face, his knife blade stained dark with fresh blood: he was mesmerising. At that time you were beginning to understand that your future had been sold to this violent man, and you resented your parents for it - now you realise that it went deeper than that, that it was rooted in generations of religion, of whisperings of the Bene Gesserit. Still, even then, you found the way he burned intriguing, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But you were wrong. He turned out to be neither fire nor ice, just stingingly, dismissively apathetic. His eyes slide right over you when he happens to pass you in the corridors, as if you’re lower than a servant, lower than the rare rats that survive Giedi Prime’s conditions. You suspected your marriage would be painful, wedded to a man such as he was, but you didn’t think it would be this damn lonely.

You wished he hated you.

That way, at least you’d mean something to your husband. At least then vehement, savage emotion would rise within his gaze whenever he looked at you, not that horrible, polarising blankness. You wish you disgusted him, because then he’d at least he’d speak his mind - you had learnt that he spoke with brutal honesty, uncaring of the consequences.

Maybe to him, that’s all you are. A consequence of being high born, of being the na-Baron. You mean nothing to him, and he treats you as such; to him, you are less than the speck of dust on the floor, less than a grain of sand in his beloved arena.

It’s not that you wish for him to dote on you, nor love you or devote himself to you. You just wish he would look you in the eye and feel something; you’d rather him stare at you in revulsion and call you names that you can’t even think up yourself than the dead, lifeless detachment that clouds his face when he sees you in your shared chambers.

Feyd-Rautha has never laid a hand on you in violence; in fact he rarely touches you at all. The last, and only time he kissed you was during the wedding day, and he makes no moves to be in bodily contact with you any more than he has to be. You are obliged to produce an heir from him, yet even in these infrequent encounters it seems as if it is a chore for him - he takes no pleasure in your body nor does he try to pleasure you, and he makes no sound when he takes you, staying as long as it takes for his seed to fill your womb before leaving without a word. On those nights, your thighs tremble as you stumble to the bathroom, only allowing your tears to fall once the shower water is searing on your skin.

During the first month of your marriage, you did everything in your power to please him. You thought maybe you weren’t pretty enough for him, maybe you were not desirable as a wife, so you always smiled at him, made an effort to fill the silence that pervaded the air around him, bringing up topics you knew he would enjoy, like the arena, like his love for knives and duels. To even that he would not reply, rebutting your questions with monosyllables or simply ignoring you. You stopped once he began to leave the room while you were mid sentence.

It is now your fourth month locked in this marriage with an uncaring man, and all you feel is bleak, crushing resignation. Somehow, Feyd-Rautha seems to take more interest in conversing with his brother than you.

You wonder if he has forgotten your name. He addresses you simply as ‘wife’ - that, and nothing more, the title leaving his lips like an accusatory curse, reminding you that if you did not serve a purpose to him, and if decorum did not restrain him, he’d have disposed of you by now, either by slitting your throat or simply abandoning you outside the palace grounds, not even bothering to end you himself.

The palace in question is lonely, but you feel the loneliest when you lay awake at night, shivering on your side of the bed as Feyd-Rautha slumbers to your right. Tears always prick your eyes during those moments, but you stifle them, afraid that you’ll rouse him with your crying; you do not know what you’ve done to garner his mistrust, but many times you’ve glimpsed the knife he keeps beneath his pillow, the cold blade glinting in the moonlight.

Often you wonder if he has a secret lover, and that is why he does not bother with you. You wake up sometimes and he is gone, but soon you realised that he would visit his concubines, especially after he had bred you. You would finish your shower, unable to wash off the feel that you were dirty, you were just an animal, a mindless thing to produce an heir for him, and he would be lounging in the antechambers of your quarters, ignoring your presence with the three harpies wrapped around him, whispering in his ears and caressing his moonlight skin. They accompanied him everywhere he wished, even in public, and to begin with, you felt humiliated that he would so explicitly show that you were not to his satisfaction.

Now, it just makes the solitude even worse.

You find solace in no one. More than once, you have walked in on the servants laughing behind your back, and as it became evident your husband was uninterested in you, they did not hide their mocking. The Baron’s other nephew you hardly saw, and the Baron himself terrified you: there was something in the way that he stared at you, his beady eyes glittering from where they were set deep within his putrid flesh, that made you feel more soiled than even after Feyd-Rautha took you.

So you remain isolated, speaking only when spoken to, drifting through the palace’s wide, dark hallways like a ghoul, a mourning spectre. You can barely remember your life before, just wisps and fleeting flashes of colour that ridicule rather than comfort you.

To Feyd, it is obvious who you are. A spy, commanded by his uncle to report every single one of his doings to you; he cannot slip up once around you, cannot reveal his weaknesses, that he is desperate to be loved, to be seen as someone whose only use is not war. He sees the way his uncle looks at you, hungry for information you do not have because he does not impart it, the way the Baron comments on you and the way you flinch at his words, pretending that you do not report to him.

Feyd is determined in his resolve to give nothing away. His uncle has held power over him since he was young, he refuses to give him even an inch over him now. He still has nightmares of it, which he wakes up from with his pale skin sheened in clammy sweat, clammy like the hands of his uncle.

Sometimes, he sees the tears in your eyes after he fucks you. The first time, he almost stopped, almost asked you where it hurt, but you turned away before he could, acting, always acting; acting when you smile graciously at him, acting when you ask him what his favourite type of blade is, what his favourite form of swordsmanship is. You are good at pretending, but of course you are - his uncle is the Baron, a man who bathes in power. No doubt he would get only the best of spies.

Tonight, you are not where you normally are. At this hour, you are usually asleep, or feigning it in the very least, curled up small on your side of the mattress, yet the bed is still made, the sheets unrumpled and smoothed down as they were this morning. Feyd thinks that maybe he might catch you reporting to his uncle, so he strides out of your shared chambers, pausing in the doorway to listen carefully; as a boy, he hunted in forests that have now been chopped down and industrialised, but he has maintained his keen ears long after the last wild plant on Giedi Prime’s surface choked on the fumes of pollution.

There’s a soft noise, barely perceptible, that echoes down the corridor to his right. Silently, he tracks it down the labyrinthine passages of the palace, servants scurrying out of his warpath, bowing their heads to him - he wonders if they too report to his uncle, if they travel now to his quarters to inform him of his beloved nephew’s whereabouts.

Feyd wishes he and Rabban were brothers first before rivals. Then he could have someone to rely on, someone who he trusted in this palace built on lies.

Pausing, Feyd cocks his head. You huddle in a crumpled heap at the end of the corridor, your knees hugged tightly to your chest, head low as if under a crushing weight. It occurs to him that maybe the Baron was displeased with your efforts to gain information and made it known to you - a pang of pity tugs at him, for he knows what his uncle’s wrath is like. At least you have been spared from the sole thing worse than that - the Baron’s thirst.

"What are you doing, wife?"

Your head snaps up, Feyd-Rautha’s unfeeling voice kindling a rare burst of temper from you. Is it not evident to him what you are doing? Or is he just too blind to see the tears streaking down your cheeks? Your words are injected with venom when you speak, and you hope that it stings him for leaving you alone in this cold, dark place.

"So now I am of concern to you?"

Feyd is taken aback by the indignant arch of your brows, the resentment displayed in your eyes. It takes him a moment to register the harshness lacing your voice - you have never addressed him in this way - and another to digest your words. There’s a bleakness in your wet, tear stained face as you stare up at him, and shock too, as if you did not expect yourself to speak against him this way.

Something clicks into place.

Feyd recognises that look in your eyes. He recognises it, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times before; haunted, harrowed, lonely. He remembers nights when he trembled beneath the cold sheets of his bed, when he was small enough that he felt like he was drowning in the black satin, his eyes wide as the fabric seemed to wend around his limbs, tying him there as he lay fearful of everyone, fearful that his uncle would summon him. Even young, he was so terribly aware of not knowing who he could trust and who would turn to the Baron, bearing information like knives to split open his childish skin and spill his guts on the freezing stone floor.

It broke him. He is barely a shell of a sentient being, repressed emotions wreathing like ghosts around his frame, his eyes hollow, his heart decaying. In his fear, he was blinded, and he pushed you to the place where he had been all those years ago, so terribly, terribly alone - you are stronger than him, for lasting this long.

Sharp, plunging, dread sinks in his stomach, weighs down his soul; he has done unspeakable things to you, treated you like a dog, like a whore - worse. How can you look at him without hatred in your eyes, spite?

Bile rises in his throat, his heart seized by a dark, burning anger. He has done this to you, he has slashed your skin and left you bleeding, and yet all you did was try to please him. In an effort to save himself, he trampled you under foot; in order to keep you out, he left you surrounded by shadows. Feyd has never hated himself so much, has never despised who he has become with this much furor.

Slowly, he crouches before you. Eyes wide, you shrink away, misreading the direction of his rage, flinching when he reaches out a hand. Pressing your back against the wall behind you, you turn your head away from him, fear causing tears to spill down your cheeks: he sees the way you will the stone to swallow you up, knows the feeling.

"Please don’t hurt me," you choke out, hands trembling uncontrollably.

Something deep within Feyd’s soul withers and dies at your words. Forcing his jaw to unclench, his hands to release the fists they held, he shoves down his anger. The fury is for later, for when he has made things right - for now it is you that is his priority. Too late, a voice whispers in his ears, too late, too late, too late -

Gods, he deserves to burn at the fucking stake for this. He deserves eternal hell for this, he deserves worse. He is a fool: a blind, blundering fool, stuffed to the brim with paranoia and cynicism.

He sucks in a breath. "I will not hurt you. You have my word, whatever it is worth to you. I - I have made an irredeemable mistake, I - "

After his first sentence, you have not heard him. Tears of relief soak your face, and you whisper needless apologies for them; it is an arrow through his heart that you fear him so - yet the pain is where it is due, justifiable for the way he has shamed you, belittled you.

"May I - may I touch you, my wife?"

You do not know why you nod in reply of your husband’s strange request, but the moment you do, strong arms pull you into a solid chest, and a sob leaves you - he is so warm, warm enough to banish the seeping cold embedded in your bones, warm enough to let your sorrow flow anew, soaking his shirt as your hands bunch in its fabric, so that if he is cruel enough to leave you here, at least he will have to fight to do so. You have not been held in a long time.

Each of your shuddering sobs is a knife blade twisting in Feyd’s spirit. He lets the pain wash over him, clings to the way you burrow into his arms, a kind creature in the embrace of a monster. At one point, in the throes of your crying, you beat at his chest, telling him that you hate him, and he takes it with a bowed head, stroking your hair and holding you tighter once you exhaust yourself; this is only a fraction of his atonement.

You fall asleep in his arms. He carries you back to your quarters, and only once the door is closed behind him does he let his tears mingle with yours. Keeping you cradled to his chest like a child, he pours a glass of water for you to drink in the morning, knowing you will be dehydrated; he sets it on your bedside table before laying you down on the mattress.

You don’t let go of him, even in your sleep. His heart clenches, tight in his chest, and he drops a kiss in your hair before lying down beside you.

He believes he will love you, if you will let him.

Consciousness leaks slowly into your mind, and you blink, squinting through the beam of light that filters in through the curtains. From your months spent here, you’ve realised that Giedi Prime’s atmosphere is normally churned up with violent storms and choked with pollution, so this ray of sun that falls against your pillow, warming your face is far from unwanted - nor is the pale forearm tucked around your waist, firmly so, but not trapping you either.

Your husband’s chest fits snugly against your back, his breath warm and steady against your skin; his fingers splay out across your stomach, gentle, communicating so many things that were left unsaid. Vaguely, you remember falling asleep, nestled against his chest, tears drying on your cheeks.

When you roll over, you’re unsurprised that he’s already awake. With blue eyes softened by the sunlight, he regards you, fingers settled at the small of your waist. Something clouds his gaze, and he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I owe you an explanation."

You wait silently, unperturbed by the way he clenches his jaw. He vowed to you last night that he would not hurt you, and you trust that. Wordlessly, his lips open, then close, and you patiently watch him, far too well acquainted with how this man struggles to let down his guard - even now, you cannot read the twisting of his features, the way his eyes squint as he looks at you.

"I - I thought you were a spy sent by my uncle," he finally confesses. "My uncle… when I was younger, he,"

Reaching out, you cup his jaw in your hand, running your thumb along his cheekbone until he relaxes. You see the battle in his eyes, to let go, to tell you the knowledge that he thinks you deserve, but you see with it the years of hurt, of solitude. Something hopeful, something beautiful blossoms within you - the realisation that this wounded beast before you is someone that you could grow to love; you want him to bare his scars to you, those that are long healed and those that still seep with blood.

"All in good time, Feyd," you assure him quietly.

He sighs, touches his lips against your palm. "I am sorry, my wife."

Slipping your hand down to grip his shoulder, you lean closer towards him so you can kiss him. An anguished sound leaves him, and you see clearly how he realises that he has wronged you, how it pains him, and yet how the taste of you awakens something tender within him - you marvel at it, that it has survived, buried within him for so long. Perhaps he will let you love him.

Feyd is neither forward nor insatiable in the way he kisses you. In fact, he pulls away first, moving to get up from the bed despite the way your hands grip his shoulders, and you almost doubt that he wants you before you glimpse the longing in his eyes that lingers before he pushes it down. You wonder if this man knows how to make love or if he just knows how to fuck, you wonder if he feels the same molten feeling in his stomach that you feel and that is why his movements are tinged with nerves as he gently escapes your grasp. It is clear to you: he does not want to scare you.

"Must you go?" You ask, tugging at his fingers.

He tilts his head. "I don’t know if you want me here, after what I have inflicted upon you."

A streak of bravery takes ahold of you. "Please, Feyd, I want you."

You delight at the fire that ignites in his eyes upon your words. He wastes no time in returning to your side, dropping a sweet tasting kiss to your lips before taking your chin in his hand, eyes searching yours as he sits between your thighs.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he says. "Yes?"

"Yes," you echo, blood heating your cheeks.

Feyd kisses you again, giving you time to rescind your reply if you want, but you just tug at the hem of his shirt, drinking in his sculpted chest when he pulls the black cloth over his head. Delicately, he trails his lips down your skin as he undresses you, his broad hands warm where they encircle your waist, holding you flush to him as his calloused palms explore your body, skimming over your spine and caressing your breasts before settling on your thighs and pulling them open.

You’re terribly aware of how wet you are when his eyes settle on your pussy. Instinctively, your knees tip inwards, your face growing hot at the hunger in his gaze, but his broad shoulders block your legs from closing, followed closely by his hands which gently push them back open. He smiles at the blush high on your cheeks, rubbing his thumb over your ankle in order to put you at ease.

The sound you make when he pushes his fingers into your cunt and curls them almost makes Feyd moan. You tremble for him, bashful, and he can feel himself rock hard against the mattress, aching for the tight clamp of your velvet walls. He wants to bury himself between your thighs, and so he does, your sweet slick exquisite on his tongue - he presses kisses like butterflies to your thighs, your hips, worshipping you as his fingers pump in and out of you to the same pace as your heaving chest.

You look beautiful, gilded by the sunlight, lower lip trapped between your teeth, but he doesn’t miss the way you grip the sheets with one hand, the other clapped over your mouth, panting as he pleases you. Stroking your thigh, he pauses, licking your slick off his lips.

"Let me hear you," he bids.

You blush again but obey him, tremors wracking your body as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over it until you throw your head back, eyes rolling as you come, your honeyed moans and hot release exquisite upon his senses. He wants more, needs more of the taste of you, but you tug at his shoulders, whining for his cock, and he’d rather die than deny you.

The way you say his name when he buries himself inside you sets his soul on fire. You look beautiful beneath him, shaking and whimpering from the hot pulse of his length, clawing at his shoulders until he wears red marks that he’s proud to bear, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you. It seems you cannot get enough of him, and Feyd is more than fine with that because he finds himself addicted to the feel of you under his hands, begging him for more.

Feyd remains entranced long after he comes inside you, with you, your cunt spasming around him. You draw close to him, intertwining your legs with his as he kisses your face, your neck, your chest, making sure he has not hurt you, making sure you are sated. Curling your fingers under his jaw, stopping him, you look him in the eye and smile before kissing him, and he finds himself mesmerised again by you.

He is certain you will let him love you. He is yours.

[helenazbmrskai]

Mating Act (m)

Title [Mating Act]

Pairing [Alien! Yoongi x Human Slave! Reader]

Genre [Alien AU, Sci-fi, Smut, Angst, Fluff]

Summary [You make two choices that change your life entirely. First, you make a choice when you decide to save a family and get kidnapped instead of them, the second you make is when you force imprinting on an alien that takes one wife in his life which you decide will be only you.]

Words [5,2k]

Warnings [General warnings: slavery, bad treatment, dystopia setting, human trafficking, Sexual content: playful neck grabbing, teasing, sexual tension, first-time sex, dirty talk, manhandling, mention of human and wife a lot, alien anatomy (black ink, coldness and a very hard, big and cold dick also magic saliva), fingering, oral (f and m), unprotected sex, belly bulge, size kink, positions (cock riding, doggy, missionary), y/n cries that is how good she feels, overstimulation, buckets of cum, creampie(s), begging, blow job, possessive alien yoongi]

Rating [+18]

A/N: I’m very excited to share this with you guys since I think this would be a great successor to my previous work that many of you liked called “Mating Season” It’s kind of the same but entirely different. This story is in the same universe but it takes place before mating season!

Masterlist //

Your scrunched eyes open slowly, first, you only see a blinding light your ears focus on the cracking sound of neon. It’s cold and you’re not wearing enough clothes for the cool temperature. It takes a few seconds for your senses to return to you and then you can fixate on your surroundings, it’s outdoors and midday as you see the sun going up high in the purplish blue sky.

It seemed that by the time you were unconscious, you arrived at the slave trading planet. The light grey iron bars are cold to the touch and it’s extremely noisy out there. Different species roam the cells it might be hundreds if not thousands of cells lined up for sale, and you’re one of them: a rare find, a human.

Your introduction is displayed for the buyers in numerous languages. There are a few that you speak so you can read it with ease: female human, breedable, young. You hate how the aliens size you up some even get threateningly close until you back up. They openly talk about you thinking that you can’t understand a single thing. Humans are stupid and weak. You’re a race that is almost at extinction. Only a few of you are left and your life expectancy is around eighty years old, it’s short compared to others but all too long for you humans. You managed to survive this long which is a miracle on its own. How pathetic of you to get caught in international body trafficking because you decided to save someone. At least you hope that the family you tried to protect is safe somewhere else you don’t have anything left to protect so you accept your faith.

Deep in your thoughts, you thought you lost all faith in survival. You don’t have anything to go back to but you’re still unable to give up.

You still don’t want to die.

Your defiant gaze meets with a young male. Shorter than his friends he has bland black hair with the same eyes that almost look human. You know that he’s not one of your own though he speaks a different language with his friends and has weird marking on his skin that looks exotic in your eyes.

“Do you like her?” A man next to him stops to read your description. They almost look sorry for you as they see you behind the cell.

“No.” Black hair says without giving it a second. His eyes bore into yours and when he decides to stop looking at you you make a second split decision. You’re going to choose him. Your hands grip the bars as you get as close to him as you can. It’s been a long time since you used that language but you have to try.

“Take me.” They can clearly understand your words, you speak their language. You point at the black-haired man.

“Oh, it seems to like you Yoongi.” A friendly voice slaps him on the shoulders. They talk animatedly among each other finding you intriguing. Books say that the human race is stupid and weak but you look none of those things. His friends encourage Yoongi to get closer to you and for once you don’t step back as he approaches after a little push in your direction. His hands grab onto the bars before he can regain his posture and you use that opportunity to put your hands on his. His hand is cold to the touch the cold blue veins on his hands are in contrast to his pale white skin.

“Yoongi.” You call out the word you heard them say that you think might be his name.

“We’re running out of time. Let’s take her and leave.” A man speaks up his eyes fixated on the holo panel that shows the time and some kind of message. He has some weird-looking glass in his eyes, you think he might be the captain of the ship. You’ve seen that type of accessory somewhere before.

“I didn’t say I will buy it.” Yoongi pulls his hand away like you dirtied him. You rack your brain on how to make him take you with him. Black hair and black eyes, cool skin and vine-like black ink make you think of a race. You loved to read books this is how you taught yourself a few of those languages and you remember reading about his species once. This decision might take you closer to your end but it will be better than rotting in this place so you grab his clothes and smash your lips on his through the tiny gap between the bars.

A race that takes one wife in his lifetime. You’re going to bet on that.

Your tongue forcefully enters his mouth using his surprise against him to successfully imprint your taste on him. After his mind catches up he pushes you away so hard that you land on your butt. His eyes almost look feral as he watches you, he’s very angry but closes his eyes to push the feeling down.

“Get up.” You haul yourself up from the floor getting close to him despite his hard gaze on you. You don’t flinch when he grabs your hair and pulls you close so that your faces are inches away from each other.

“You want to come, then come.” It’s not a calm and collected sentence that he whispers so close to you. It sounds like a threat but you smile and nod. Even if he hates you he has an obligation to you. With that kiss you sealed your fate with his, you’re his. His one and only human wife for all eternity.

Your back collides with the wall behind you as soon as you see your kidnapper his torture that you had to endure is replaying in the forefront of your mind as he fiddles with the cell keys your hostility is not lost on the young men that wait for your release. Yoongi paid for you in digital cash don’t have more time to waste.

He intends to take you with him so he asks for the ownership process to be sped up.

The kidnapper yanks you out of the cell not caring about how you almost land on your face through the force he uses. Yoongi catches you easily lifting you in his arms. You forced him into accepting you but he still does his job of protecting you. His glare is not meant for you this time as he looks displeased by your idle treatment right in front of him. His big hands are curled around you in pretence protection. You must be crazy because you actually relax in his secure hold.

“Hi.” One of his friends gets your attention as he waves. He looks at you with curious eyes he seems like he has a lot of questions for you.

“Hello.” You reply in a hoarse voice. You don’t remember the last time you ate or drank something.

“What’s your name? I’m Hoseok.” He points at you and then at himself. It’s nice of him to talk slowly so you have time to interpret his words. No one else speaks to you as you go. Probably on their way to their ship since one of them implied some important business. Yoongi doesn’t look at you but his hands are firm around you.

“Y/N.”

“Your name is weird.” Hoseok slaps his friend but you don’t take it in the wrong way. Of course, for them, a human name will sound weird.

“You’re being rude Taehyung.” Hoseok scolds the other guy before he turns back to you swaying in Yoongi’s arms. “I think your name is pretty and you speak our language pretty well. How did you learn it? On Earth?”

You shake your head. If you think about your home planet your heart starts aching. “No. I taught myself reading books.”

Now his other friend looks interested in the conversation. The one who has that weird-looking glass.

“Fascinating, to find a smart human like you. I want to run some tests.” Hearing that crazy scientist talk again brings back bad memories as your face becomes uncomfortable and your relaxed figure goes rigid inside Yoongi’s arms. He could feel you tense up in fear and he reacted by holding you more firmly to his chest.

“You’re scaring her. Stop it.” This is the first thing he says after he bought you. Namjoon looks sheepish and apologises and even Hoseok reassures you that he’s just not good with words and you won’t be a lab rat at all.

You accept their apology. You think they mean well and are quite friendly to your utter surprise. They seem like good guys. You feel like it’s a good time to reveal some of your thoughts.

“Just because you read my description doesn’t mean you know anything about me. I wouldn’t reveal anything that would put me at a disadvantage. This is how I could survive until now.” The words taste sour in your mind and you think about all the things you had to do and endure just to be here. Was it worth it? This life. You have thought about it more times than you would have liked to admit.

“It must have been hard for you.” Hoseok shows you empathy and you give him a smile back in silent thanks.

“Why did you choose Yoongi?” A younger male looks at you with curious eyes. They don’t show it but this is the question they all were curious about all along. Even Yoongi perks up when he thinks you’re not looking.

“My instinct told me to trust him.” As for why, you don’t know either. You saw countless men and women walk in front of your cage but you only wanted him to buy you. The moment his eyes unknowingly lingered on you you decided to go with him. He must have felt something too. You saw him before he saw you. He never looked at anyone else but you. If you ask him he will probably deny it but you’re sure of it.

You probably looked desperate. Now that you replay your impulsive behaviour in your mind colour blooms on your cheeks in embarrassment. You learned how to kiss from a book it didn’t occur to you before but what if you were a bad kisser? You started spiralling until your surroundings faded and you locked yourself inside your head. You didn’t register when you arrived on board or when he carried you to his room.

You shiver when he puts you down on his bed. The temperature of his room is colder than you’re used to.

You panic when he tugs your clothes without a word. You grab his cold hands and look into his eyes with widened ones. He looks back at you with predatory. You once read that humans had a ceremony to be pronounced wife and husband. You never experienced it as a human but it sounded romantic.

Thinking back on what you read.

Yoongi is an alien. His species only takes one wife and their ritual is different from yours. The road to becoming his wife is simple enough.

“Look at you being surprised. As if you didn’t know what you did when you kissed me first.” You didn’t know, you just acted impulsively without thinking. You wanted to say that to him but only a gasp left your lips as he pushed you down on his large bed. He won’t listen to any of your pathetic excuses now.

“You forced my hands. Even if you don’t want it anymore you have no other choice but to be mine.” You gulp down the saliva that accumulated in your mouth, his fierce eyes pin you to the spot lying helplessly under him. His hand is so cold as he wraps it around your neck gently he can feel your heartbeat accelerate under his palm. He studies your features taking in every inch of you from head to toe. Committing everything about you to memory. Yoongi curls a few locks of your long hair around his fingers inhaling your scent his nose rubs against your pulse point. Your hands hold onto his waist digging your fingers onto his side but he doesn’t care about it as he kisses the skin on your neck.

You’re dirty and dishevelled in appearance your captor was not kind to his prisoners and you look like a shell of yourself after everything that you’ve been through. Your average beauty doesn’t matter to Yoongi. He’s going to take you regardless of how beautiful you look in other's eyes or not. The kiss already sealed your fate as his bride. Imprinting your taste on him means that he can’t escape you. While Yoongi wants to take you right then and there he realises that you need to be in a better shape to undertake the ritual. He did get a reaction rise out of you. So amusingly innocent.

“Take a shower, you reak.” You awkwardly look to the side unable to meet with his confident smirk. He likes to watch your face turn red. He pulls away from you and you take in a long-needed breath of fresh air. The coldness seeping back into your body makes you sober up and you scurry to his joined bathroom. Yoongi laughs as he sees you hide behind the door he makes sure you can operate the shower before he goes out to get some food for you. You don’t have any clothes to wear but you’re at least clean.

You find a clean cloth to wrap around your body in makeshift clothes it’s better than nothing as you need something to shield you from the cold.

Yoongi comes back before you can organize your thoughts. You could barely calm your heart as your mind kept replaying his soft lips on your neck and his body weight on you not to talk about those alluring black eyes. You could still see your reflection in them as you lock gazes. You look away when he puts the tray down in front of you full of food that you don’t know the name of. It’s not too bad once you take a bite but it’s bland the more you consume. It meets the purpose of filling you up as you no longer feel that gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach.

You jolt up when you feel his hand pull your wet hair to the other side making his way to your neck. He takes a long whiff of air finally smelling your natural scent that was previously masked by the dirt and sweat. He takes the opportunity to cover you in his scent rubbing his nose up and down your throat.

You can’t concentrate on eating anymore.

“Eat. You will need it.” As if he could read your mind he halts all movements simply deciding on laying his head on your shoulder. You pick up more food and try to ignore how his possessive touch engulfs your body in a backhug. You remember how angry he became once you forcibly kissed him he even pushed you hard enough to lose your footing. The way he accepted you is too sudden.

“Are you going to …” Unable to say the words you stop in the middle.

“Am I going to fuck you? Yes, I will.” You gulp.

“Don’t you hate me for kissing you?” You close your eyes when Yoongi wraps his fingers around your neck again this time with more force but gentle enough that you’re not choking on air he just pulls you against his chest holding you by the neck as his nose rubs against your left cheek.

“I am angry. You selfishly decided this on your own. I bet you don’t realise half of the mess you got yourself into. I don’t hate you though. There’s something about you that caught my eye.”

It’s only a small peck on your cheek but your hands tighten around the tray. You take in a much-needed breath when you realise he doesn’t hate you. It makes you feel better knowing that it’s not entirely your imagination. He did look at you.

“I admit I don’t know much.” You sheepishly reply confirming his words. You read some things about his species but there’s no proof that everything is accurate.

“It doesn’t matter as you will be mine anyway.” His hand pulls you close his fingers splayed over your stomach. You only have a thin cloth over your naked body while Yoongi is fully clothed.

“Put down the tray.” You follow his order bending down slightly to put the tray down onto the floor. You let out a surprised yelp when his hands find your ass under the thin material, your backside is on full display for his hungry eyes. Your fingers have a deadly grip on the edge of the bed as he kneads the soft flesh.

“Your smell comes strongly from here.” His thumb parts your folds some wetness is gathered there that sticks to his finger when he pulls back. “I read a few books about you too, enough to know that this means you like the idea of me fucking you.”

Yoongi hates how he can’t see you acting coy biting your lip so he forcibly pulls you back against his chest and pulls your face to the side. You land on his lap your legs dangling on either side of his thighs. He runs his finger up and down your wetness watching your expression turn hazy and your mouth open to let out a silent moan.

“You like this don’t you? Having your human pussy touched by me.” Yoongi finds your clit quickly finding out how your moans increase in volume when he rubs circles over it. You’re gushing over his fingers.

The black ink on his arms moves to stain your body with blackness until it circles over your thigh in two pretty hoops. Your body is getting overheated as his touches devour your body. Fingers dance around your folds, your hips. The black hoops around your ankles and thighs are a reminder of what you started. You’re going to become Yoongi’s and no one can stop that from happening.

Feeling overwhelmed you reach up to kiss him and he does with a growl. He doesn’t push you away like when you stole his first kiss. No. He pulls you closer turning you around until you’re chest to chest.

Your hand rests against his shoulders your fingernails digging into his skin as you feel one of his fingers enter you without warning. Yoongi swallows your sounds with his mouth pushing his finger in and out of your pussy until your essence is running down his wrist. He adds another one and another one stretching your walls as he devours your mouth your hips moving along without you noticing. Getting into the rhythm of riding his fingers. You need to pull back to get some air in between the kisses. His hungry expression manages to steal your last remaining string of sanity. The cloth around you barely covers you anymore and Yoongi goes to remove it and leave you entirely naked before him.

His attention goes to your perky nipples both hands grabbing a handful and pepper kisses around the mound.

So far he doesn’t look strange. Not that you have any experience of what you should see in a situation like this. You conclude that your newly formed tattoos are one of the few things that are specific to his race.

His tongue is cold it makes you shiver when he sucks on one of your nipples. He’s so cold but his coolness is welcomed by your feverish body.

“Lay down.” You do as he tells you. Eagerly and shamelessly open your legs and welcome him between them. This is really happening you realise when he takes off his clothes. His pale skin is pretty and cool against you. Even his cock lined with cold blue veins is pretty and cold when he rubs it between your folds. It’s big and hard like a rock against you. Yoongi can see how you tense up after seeing his size.

“It won’t hurt if you do as I tell you.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb kissing you surprisingly sweetly.

“O-okay.” You nod. You wanted this. You can’t back down now. This is your only chance to live a life without hardships. You’re going to take everything that he gives you.

“This will make it feel better.” Yoongi licks his finger and when it comes into contact with your clit you feel an overwhelming pleasure bloom inside you. His saliva is heightening your pleasure having some kind of chemical in it that helps you feel kind of high. It blocks the pain when his veiny head pushes through the tight rim of your muscle. You and Yoongi watch how his long cock disappears in you inch by inch. It doesn’t hurt at all as he keeps his thumb on your clit, only making you feel full.

“Too much.” You put your hand on your stomach and feel him sitting inside. He makes way no matter how much your body tries to constrict around the intrusion. He reaches your deepest part shaping you into his size.

“There. All in.” Yoongi chuckles when he sees you struggle. You want to stay still and move at the same time. It feels good and strange but too good. You want him to move but on the other hand, you need time to get accustomed to this fullness. Yoongi can see the outline of his cock bulge out of your tummy and he experimentally pushes against your skin. Your pussy pulse around him and get tighter as he massages your lower belly. “How does it feel my little human? Do you feel good?”

You nod kissing him back with passion as your tongues rub together. He continues his descent down your body kissing your neck and breasts. Filling your body with pretty black ink. You pulse and throb around him as he remains unmoving inside you. Not enough you roll your hips trying to show him you want him to move.

“Answer me. Does my cock make you feel good?” At first, he only pulls out a little before he thrusts back testing the waters before he pulls out more as he uses a steady pace to rock into you.

“Yes. Yes. So good please don’t stop. Fuck me harder.” Yoongi wonders how his wife learned how to say such dirty words in his language but he’s thankful for it as his cock appreciates the compliments. Just like you asked he fucks you harder hitting that spot inside you with more deep thrusts.

“Yoongi. Yoongi.” The way you moan his name spurs him on, grabbing your ankles he sinks the remaining inch inside you.

“Ah. Y/N.” He responds with your own name. Grabbing your hips he pumps his cock in and out of you at a fast pace until you can remember his shape. This is the first time he says your name and your walls constrict around him hearing him moaning it. He’s growing addicted to the feel of you. He can hear and smell and see you. The way your pussy swallows him in your tight and wet heat ruined every expectation he had before.

You feel way better than he imagined.

Your tits bounce with each thrust and your moans never cease to slip from your dry throat as he buries his shaft to the hilt.

“Yoongi, I feel weird.” You grab his hand need something to hold onto as you feel this weird tightness in your belly. Yoongi could sense you were almost there tripping over the edge of bliss you became tighter around him. You’re growing sensitive.

“I know. Hold onto me, my sweet wife.” You hold his hand as he twists it behind your back the position is uncomfortable but the minute his cock slips back inside your heat you forget about it as it reaches new places inside you. Your back is arched one hand is firmly holding you and the other is placed on your hips.

This position allows him to hit even deeper the tip of his cock curves around a spot that has you see stars. You’re panting with your face nearly suffocating against the bed. Unable to move or hold yourself up you’re entirely kept in place by the help of Yoongi. The tightness in your chest explodes as you cream around Yoongi’s cock. He doesn’t stop there he fucks you through overstimulation keeping up with his ruthless pace you tear through the bedsheets. His long fat cock claims your pussy as his with a heavy load of cum. The tattoos on your body all settle down as he finishes with a few sloppy thrusts into your buttered hole.

Once he pulls out you can feel his thick cum pour out and his fingers trace your tattoos painting your body with his whiteness until everything about you is covered in him. He doesn’t stop there, he pries your shaking legs open and latches onto your sensitive bud. Yoongi pushes his cum back with two of his fingers as his tongue flicks over your clit. It’s too much and you try to push his face away but he doesn’t budge. He holds both of your hands in his tight grip on your stomach as he continues to feast on your pussy.

“Yoongi. Oh, uh.” You squirm but you can’t escape his hold. “Please. Stop, i-it’s too much.” Tears start to roll down your cheeks the next orgasm you experience hurts so bad but you can’t deny how it feels incredible at the same time. More intense than the previous one you had you let go with a cry of his name and cum around his fingers.

“No. More.” Yoongi looks up after registering your hiccup and goes up to soothe you. His tongue licks your tears away showering your neck and face with kisses until your crying subsides.

Yoongi looks you over and while he finds you utterly appealing covered in his cum he has a concerned look in his eyes. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” He pulls you close to his chest but after your senses come back one by one you start to feel his sticky cum all over you. Some still gush out of your hole as he hugs you to his body.

“No.” You shake your head reassuring him with a kiss. You don’t want to admit you cried because he felt so good.

This is the first time you experienced something like this. You’re in no way an expert but you know that his dick is not like any human males you’ve encountered in your books. They shouldn’t be so cold and big and the small ridges that kept rubbing your insides felt weird but incredibly good at the same time.

Even when he’s not aroused he’s so big. You want to touch it. “Can I?” Asking for permission you reach for his cock that rests against your leg but you don’t touch it until you get the green light for it.

“Sure.” Yoongi chuckles at your curiosity. It hasn’t been a hot minute that his dick was inside you but you want to touch it.

“It’s cold.” You muse, it’s slick with both of your cum so you could drag it up and down easily. Yoongi’s gasp catches in his throat it’s still sensitive but he lets you pump it until it’s hard again. You grow curious about how it tastes so you lick around the head as your hand moves up and down in slow motion. It doesn’t really taste like anything to you. Easy to swallow. You take your place in between his legs to get comfortable. Yoongi shivers when he feels your hot mouth around his most sensitive cockhead. You dip your tongue into the slit earning a loud groan from Yoongi his hand rests on top of your head only moving to get the hair out of his view of you sucking his cock.

“Do you like it?” You wonder if it feels good for him. This is the first time you’re doing this.

“Y-Yes, keep going.” You take more of him into your mouth encouraged by his hooded eyes that watch you. “Your mouth is very warm. It feels incredible.” You hum around a mouthful of cock he’s too big for you to get even half of him into your mouth. You stroke the skin that you can’t lick and you focus on his head instead of trying to choke on his cock. Even though you don’t think he wouldn’t like to see you choke on his length trying to fit everything. He reassures you that he likes everything you do to him. He doesn’t try to push your head down and you appreciate his thoughtfulness with an enthusiastic bob of your head up and down his length. He fills your mouth so much that it’s hard for you to swallow around it.

He's throbbing between your lips as you kiss the tip. He shows you how much he’s enjoying it with his lewd moans and sweet touches on your face and the back of your head. Contemplating what you should do with yourself you decide to give in to the desire once more. You want to have him again that it outweighs your concern to be able to take him after such a short time but it doesn’t deter you as you climb on his lap.

“Help me?” You ask shyly rubbing on his fully hard cock.

“Of course,” Yoongi replies with a smirk he can see how needy you are and he won’t deny his pretty wife anything. He kisses your lips sucking on your tongue as he guides your hips to hover over his cockhead.

He touches and kisses every mark and tattoo that appears on your skin.

You sink slowly at your own pace feeling full but you overcome the stretch of your body remembering his shape makes it easier for you to bury it fully into you. He’s big and hard as a rock inside you.

You need him to help you move but he’s more than eager to lift you and have you bounce on his cock. He’s wound up from your previous actions he had no idea he would be this turned on by seeing your small hands and mouth wrapped around his dick. You smell delicious he can’t help but kiss every inch he can reach as he guides you through the motions. You bounce on his cock your expression entirely clouded by pleasure as he hits the best spots inside your spongy walls. Yoongi kneads your ass pulling them apart to watch his cock disappear inside your small pussy. Your body might be coated in his cum but his cock is entirely coated in your arousal and cum until he shoots a fresh load inside your spent hole.

The others don’t see you the next couple of days only catch the back of Yoongi as he carries fresh food for you.

[yonseibananamilk]

“𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒆."

synopsis 𓂃𓈒𓍼ོ living with fyodor was the same as living without him. however, the night of his return reminds you, embarrassingly so, just how close the two of you are. literally. (~4k wc)

a/n 𓇢𓆸 i think i may or may not be starting to hate my writing BUT i really stretched beyond what im used to in certain parts of this and i am quite proud of myself for that ^^

content 𓍼ོ𓂃𓈒 canon compliant, suggestive themes(especially around the end), fyodor is very cold temperature-wise, soft!fyodor(hes soft in his own way), references to my work song fic ! + connected directly to it will come back as it is a part 2 ^^

ᡣ𐭩 special special જ⁀➴ this fic is in collaboration with @musamora ‘s new talk!fic ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و please try to check hers out too if you can — shes a brilliant writer and a lovely person overall <3

Books upon books knitted themselves compact inside the towering shelves that pressed into the walls of what you assumed was Fyodor’s home. He had never called it his home, in fact, you explicitly remember when he did bring you here —

“Welcome to this humble abode. Feel free to touch and grab whatever you desire. Everything here belongs to you, дорогая.”

— Ever since that blind date (gone wrong(but then right in the end)), the Russian had let you stay for as long as you liked. One night led to two, which led into you bringing over a few things for just a few more nights.

Which led to you staying with Fyodor for nearly a month now.

You shook your head at the thought. If anything, he was the visitor. The man was hardly ever home, therefore you weren’t even living together. And you were, like anyone else with experience in a leaky apartment, eager to accept a place as generous as this.

The house held two stories; the first floor with the living room, foyer, and utilities, and the second floor with the bathroom and bedroom. Not to mention there was even an accessible attic-study.

In the beginning, he had stayed the night with you on the couch while you remained upstairs. But it had been weeks since then. Your Russian companion, much to your dismayed crocodile tears, was now predominantly busy with his ‘mission’. You couldn’t argue with that.

Though, on one of the times when Fyodor did stay longer than just a few hours…

“Please? I don’t mind, I swear! Besides, we’re both adults, not some teenagers that’ll go off at the first brush of skin. You don’t have to sleep on the couch..!”

You didn’t want to admit that you had actually stained the sofa downstairs on the first day of being here — even if Fyodor knew about it already, with all his observance — and it also felt… wrong to have him sleep on the couch. Cold. In the dark. And very, very, very lonely.

With a desperate and dramatic gesture of your arms, you tried to make the bed as dreamy as possible to his cherry wine eyes. “See? So comfy!”

To prove your point even further, you jumped on yourself with a muffled noise in the comforter.

“How amusing.”

Your point was most certainly not taken.

Therefore, you began to deflate into the sheets. Even more muffled now, and perhaps even softer than before, you mumbled out — “Is ‘modesty’ really the only reason why you won’t share anything with me?”

Everything in the room stilled. As if gauging the weight behind your words. Then, faintly, a gust of a sigh fell into the golden air of your nearby nightlamp. The candle flame was tickled into a dance thanks to the Russian, twisting and spinning hypnotically.

So hypnotically that you failed to catch the shift in the bed beside your head.

Not until a chilled hand fell atop your head. Bony fingers of ice itself urged your face up and away from the fire. Your attention was rewarded with a smooth, humming smile.

“There is more, дорогая.” He admitted. “But those reasons have nothing to do with you. After all, you are the sole reason why I would like to sleep here.”

Briefly, so much so where you barely even caught it this time — a thumb brushed over your lips. Cherry wine eyes batted down at you, reflecting the flame behind your burning face. Like the sun was the center of his very being.

“Then why don’t you?”

As his thumb curled into the corner of your lips, the rest of his hand glided over your skin. Two fingers read the curves of your jawline. Its adjacent pair followed down to the side of your neck.

He could grab your entire head with ease.

Fluttering ties in your stomach unraveled and twisted again in an endless heap of knots. Why wasn’t he saying anything? What was he thinking of? Why is he getting closer?

A chilled breath brought respite to your burning cheeks. But only for a moment.

Why is he moving away?

“Be wary of the fatigue that will eat you, if you do not sleep soon, дорогая.”

Pale feet revisited the cold, yet still warmer than him, floors. Wood welcomed him with a tired creak, following the man’s every step until he reached the doorway. By then, you had turned off your back to finally face him yourself.

“But I’m not tired.” Horribly, a yawn tore through your last syllable. The heaviness of your eyelids was never apparent until now.

Another amused hum brought you back to the Russian before you, hand on the knob as he smirked down at you. Slowly, the sharp edges of his little grin faded into something softer, fuzzier.

A smile, he had gifted you.

“If you are not tired…” Your heart skipped a beat, anticipating every little thing for his next suggestion. As if crying out — “What? Yes? What is it?”

“Then remember this: there is danger in giving into one’s desires, дорогая.” Icy red eyes rove over your laden figure with an unreadable spark. He always looked at you so curiously.

“I would be wise to not fall victim to such dangers. As would you.”

The closing door halted itself instantly when you let out the smallest of huffs.

“My offer still stands…” With a dragging breath of protest, you fell underneath the blankets.

Black swirls encapsulated your mind as you managed to spin his words effortlessly; “Remember this: there is reward for passing through danger.”

…

Unknowingly shooting through the Russian’s morale — you fell asleep with the same singular weight of your own on the bed. However, the door was still ajar in the morning upon your awakening.

But that moment was weeks ago. The memory of it proven by the clear frown on your lips — twitching up and down every now and then based on whatever the book you read said.

You wouldn’t spend your time thinking about someone who wouldn’t even give you so much as a clear answer to ‘How was your day?’

A creak of wood whipped your head around in urgence. Only for nothing to be there.

Nothing but a pang of disappoint. All at the absence of a certain Russian.

Well. Maybe you would spend a bit of your time.

With a ruffled sigh you fell back against the chair, pages still in hand as the grandfather clock behind you whisked the day away. These moments of solitude had become a daily part of your life — ever since popping out of Fyodor’s floorboards like a daisy in the snow.

But they might as well have been your floorboards too.

The creak of wood glided past your ears. Followed by the light shuffle of a coat being draped over the rack nearby. Then the ghosts of footsteps slowly but surely making their way toward the living room.

“Hm?”

Much to his amusement, there you sat. Old book in hand atop the gentle rise and fall of your chest. In a peaceful slumber too.

“How adorable.” The R rolled after his deep chuckle, growing slightly in volume as he drew closer to your laden frame. “Falling asleep to folktales, are we? Hm, дорогая?”

Frostbite ghosted over your cheek. A chill fell over your fingertips — the lingering absence of your now-taken book. Burgundy eyes flitted over the title with a deep hum.

Surprisingly enough, you had managed to find one of the few English books that hid in his shelves. The vast majority were Russian(as he wasn’t the best with learning new languages).

“Orpheus and Eurydice?” His tongue read. “Now what on Earth compelled you to read such a tale..?”

Firewood slid off one another as it ate away at itself in incessant hunger. A desire for something warmer than what it already had. A rod poked it stable in no time.

“Perhaps my дорогая is more romantic than she lets on. It makes me wonder…”

The shadows around him chuckled in tandem before, again, rippling as the fireplace was muted once more.

‘What a foolish thought.’ His brain reprimanded.

Yet his heart leapt not once, but twice — as you began to slowly stir awake. With orange light painted across the dips of your babbling lips in a silent dance with dark.

“Uah… who’s there..?”

Raven locks fell to the side as he tilted towards you slowly. Akin to an animal watching something unusual. Unexplainable. Unimaginable. A thick silence filled the air as Fyodor lagged to translate your words — no thanks to the strange foreign tingling south of his head — all by the sight of you.

‘How vulnerable.’ He mused. ‘How adorable.’

Despite knowing full well what was coming out his lips — despite knowing just what it could risk for him —

“Федя is here.”

He had willingly revived something. Something that had lied dormant for dozens of hundreds of years. All for you. You and your daftly half-conscious state. He hadn’t been called such a simple name since childhood.

And since his family was alive.

Despite his already-dissipating regret, icy tips glided reverently over the crown of your head. The locks of it threaded like yarn. Each part sifted through like flour. The back of it all was cupped tightly — encouraging your limp head to face him.

“Fe… diya…?”

Oh how adorable you were. So sleepy you couldn’t even pronounce a simple nickname. A diminutive. An endearment.

Nor could you realize how special you were right now. Though, that was the norm at this point.

“Yes. Can you indulge Fedya for a moment, дорогая?” The Russian cooed with a smile both condescendingly familiar, and unrecognizably tender.

Your whined nod was enough to coax him closer. Arms atop the sides of the chair. Frosted breath wafting just shy of your pulse.

“Can you tell Fedya what you were thinking of? Hm?”

Lithe fingers haunted the cover of your little folktale with echoed taps. His cherry wine gaze hooked onto the half-lidded glaze in your eyes.

“Tell him what you were thinking of when reading such a story?”

As slurred syllables pooled from your tongue, Fyodor locked himself onto every quiver, bite, and sound. Each was greedily soaked into the prodigy’s mind — held in higher regard than any mazed tactic.

Although just as half-lidded as yours, his eyes were far more awake than they had been during his accursed mission earlier.

After all, if Fyodor knew such a sweet sight waited for him here — he would’ve destroyed everything in his path to get back as soon as possible.

Frosted breath ghosted over the angle of your jaw, waiting patiently for something more.

“I… I thought that Eurydice was very lucky to have been loved so dearly... Regardless of what happened at the end.”

Black brows rose at you. “Lucky?”

“Yes. I’m a bit envious — being loved so dearly is…” A shake of the head pauses your sleepy train of thought. With a deep breath, your head reclined further into the plush of your seat before correcting yourself.

“Being loved is a very lucky thing indeed.”

Well weren’t you the lucky one?

The gentle squeaks of the couch were thankfully muffled by your weight, settling further and further into its cotton fabric. Your warmth soaked into it well. Though, much of that warmth was the fire’s — which only seemed to be growing.

Just along the edges of your peripheral, a certain smiling Russian was also present — leaned over your shoulder closely. Close enough for the scent of black tea to flood your nostrils yet again.

“Could you imagine it?”

A chill ran over the hairs on the nape of your neck. Fyodor’s breath was cold. His lips too.

“Imagine being loved…?” Your voice was far softer than expected. “I… suppose it would be nice. Very nice, in fact. I’d like to be cared about…”

Shifting your eyes, the golden text of the book was now being circled by Fyodor’s idle fingers. Lithe enough to perfectly recreate the intricate cursive. And cold enough to make you shudder at the mere sight.

Nonetheless — the image of such hands snug around you was as warm as the shared fireplace.

“Wouldn’t everyone?” He cooed. Slender fingertips rhythmically tapped atop the book cover.

“Being loved…” Cherry wine eyes reflected the orange fire beside you. “Or wanted…”

You swallowed a lump in your throat that certainly wasn’t there before.

“Is a very human desire.”

Another swallow. Glued to the fiddling hands in your lap, your heart leaped with you upon asking;

“Do you desire it as well?”

Briefly did his eyes widen.

It was borderline impossible to catch Fyodor off-guard. But, as luck would have it, you succeeded at it like any other mundane task. You always did.

It’d be terrifying if not so attractive.

“I suppose…” Once unoccupied fingers found their way atop your shoulder. Chills ran through your arm. As well as an unwelcome spark through your entire body. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

A flicker of your shared fireplace caught your eye. Avoiding the piercing gaze of Fyodor Dostoevsky as he, much to your confusion, stared into your very essence. It was as if he was analyzing every curve and groove before completely committing it to memory.

That sly, condescending chuckle reeled you home to him. All semblance of earlier surprise had drained from his eyes. “What a curious question, дорогая. Were you picturing it in your mind?”

Blackberry strands fell against the white fabric of his shirt, flowing in tandem with the inching of his face.

“Thinking… pondering… wondering…”

Orange light danced within the seeds of his eyes.

“Imagining what it’d be like to be loved by me?”

You didn’t know whether to fuse with the couch or disappear completely.

Whatever happened to the fire danced over your already-burning cheeks — radiating against the chill of Fyodor’s face as he bordered closer and closer.

“Can you imagine it?”

Close enough to count each eyelash.

Close enough to taste the scent of black tea and iron on your tongue.

Close enough to feel the subtle heat of his cheeks.

“Imagine being loved by me?”

Your lower lip began to tremble. Sweat sprinkled from your shaky palms. That same spark shocked you from head to toe yet again.

Everything felt heavy. Heavy and warm.

And your nose itched. Itched and twitched. You couldn’t help but sniff — which only amplified the hot water in your eyes — already glittering in your lashes. The unsaid border between the two of you dwindled like a candle in the wind.

All you knew was that you were sweaty, shaky, and far too warm to be considered normal.

A snort caught itself in his throat. While perfectly timed with just how stiff you were getting, your little sniffle was not out of embarrassment. Simply an incoming sneeze that he would gladly bless you for in: 3, 2—

“Achoo!”

…

He did not want to finish that countdown.

“Woah…! I got my boogers on your face! Hah!”

“That you did.” The Russian begrudgingly muttered, closed eyes subtly twitching under the weight of your giggles and dabbing sleeve. “Bless you.”

Despite all your unceremonious, uncouth, undisciplined whatnots — the sheepish smile you flashed to him was hardly ignored. “Thank you… Did it get in your eye?”

“Fortunately not.”

“Aww. Better luck next time then.”

The caught snort from before clawed its way out of Fyodor and into a throaty, hearty, genuine laugh.

No cocky chuckles. No sadistic grins. No sly hums.

Just a normal laugh. With golden fire reflecting off the sides of his face like framing sunrays. And a usually imperceptible ombre of deep magenta in his otherwise black hair — thanks to the generous amount of light the fireplace provided a few feet away.

Sure, it was akin to the cawing of crows at the crack of dawn — Fyodor most certainly hadn’t laughed like that in what seemed like centuries. But it was touching nonetheless.

Very much so.

“It’s rude to stare, дорогая.”

It was even harder to look away when he was smiling so warmly.

“I bet Orpheus wouldn’t think Eurydice was rude — even when her boogers got in his eye.”

An unfamiliar emptiness frosted over your shoulder when the Russian leaned away. “Perhaps, дорогая. Perhaps.”

You couldn’t recall a time when he was ever so warm.

“There are no more wool blankets.” The Russian patted through the wooden cabinets with a small hum. “Дорогая, you wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?”

Looking over his shoulder, a cherry wine gaze poured over your freshly showered & dressed body. You learned to always stay snug for the cold that managed to occasionally sneak its nightly way past the fireplace — crackling happily a hallway down.

You hummed back, offering the man a smile warm enough to rival it. “I do.”

“And whatever happened to them?” Knowing lips cooed. The answer fell sweeter when it was from your tongue than his mind.

“I put them in the attic because they scratched at my face,” Rubbing at your arms, a wave of apology washed over you. Maybe Fyodor preferred blankets that way? Scratchy and itchy. He was a strange man after all.

Even more strange now that he was finally content with sharing a bed. You don’t think you’d ever seen a man smile for so long. However eerie though, at the end of the night, it was… endearing.

Tonight, he had changed out of the usual wear for war(or whatever he did outside of the house) — a fluffy white robe wrapped snug around Fyodor. Tied together by the loose cotton belt.

“And so you have been sleeping in a single blanket? Instead of the multiple wool ones I had given you?” The urge to hang your head was woefully strong. You opted to shuffle your feet instead.

“Yes, Fyodor. I… I can give you the blanket for the night if that’s what you want?”

Briefly, his roving eyes met yours. With a small lilt of his voice, which was another strange way of expressing amusement for him, the Russian cooed; “And leave a woman to fend for herself against the cold?”

Another spark of warmth crackled under your skin. The sensation swam through your bones in a melting frenzy that burned your face once it reached it.

“T-then we can share…?”

Cherry eyes crinkled in delight.

“Wonderful idea, дорогая.”

As your knees slowly crawled up to meet your chest, the sway of his hair encapsulated you in a garden of imagination — with cherry wine eyes to drink and straight locks that rivaled shades of the ripest blackberries. Such sweet attributes for such a cold man.

Literally. He was colder than the air itself when sitting on your bed. The man could’ve drunken up all the warmth in the room, and still ask for more.

“You’re freezing!” You whined out, curling into a shuddering ball. “Maybe you should take that blanket, you might as well take the ones in the attic too.”

A frown quipped its brows at you. Yet, despite all his shown annoyance, there lacked a general sense of danger that once lived within.

Every glare was now punctuated with a cooing riddle of warning but quickly followed by a soft smile — imperceivable to all he knew. Excusing you.

“And I assume that means you are warmer? Hm?”

“Well, duh. I’ve been soaking in the fireplace all day waiting for you.”

“Oh?”

Under the gentle fire of your candlelit bedside, a meek coral bloomed across the slim cheeks of his face. His ears were red too — how long had he been that way?

“So, you were waiting for me?”

“Yes.” An exasperated breath left you feeling flustered and confused.

“Diligently?”

“And I was very lonely the whole time.”

A sense of deja vu sprung over you like a freshly pouring fountain.

Candlelight brewed against his face. Cherry wine eyes raked over your every inch. Pale skin, now painted with pink, smoothly approached closer and closer and closer —

Until the two of you are face to face once again. Illuminated only by generous candlelight and warmed by a singular blanket, except for Fyodor leeching off your heat.

“Дорогая, if I didn’t know better, I’d assume you thought we were married. With you waiting so, what was the word...?"

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

"Ah yes. Diligently for my arrival.”

Freezing fingertips grazed along the bridge of your jaw. Dancing over the skin like whistling air, then halting at the chin. Two fingers held it gently, softly, reverently even.

“Though, my words are not necessarily a complaint.”

Candlelight pooled over the side of his face, glistening in the corners of Fyodor’s eyes like water lanterns at nighttime. You could only hope he was staring at you because you looked just as beautiful.

Gulping, a strained noise tumbled from your lips —

“Oh? Whining now?” A chilling thumb ran over the shine of your bottom lip. He was closing in.

“I did not whine.” Your voice cracked. “I just—”

Words left you. Tumbling freely from your throat in an entanglement of broken syllables and whines.

And with each mishap, his grin only grew. Evident by the crinkled underside of his trailing gaze.

At long last, a semblance of defense clicked into mind — spilling out with almost-paralyzing heat inside. And yes. Your voice cracked a second time.

“You caught me off-guard!”

“I did?” He crooned. The weight of your blanket was peeled off — making way for Fyodor to finally join you. Which you would’ve been over the moon about — if your thoughts weren’t so scrambled. You only hoped his were, too.

Every restrained laugh. Every languid movement. Everything he did — you prayed that he felt even a semblance of the bashfulness you did. Maybe then, it wouldn’t feel so embarrassing.

“Oh, дорогая.” Frostbitten lips sighed. “You truly are adorable.”

Time melted into an infinity of simply you and Fyodor. With your brain dry of anything else to say, and his hopefully the same. With one last strained noise, you turned away to bury yourself into the cotton of your now-shared bed.

A candlelit silence bloomed over.

As the sheets’ soft heaviness cradled back over you, Fyodor included now, the man slid himself behind your burning face — peacefully watching the uncharacteristic heat fizz out of your little head.

Blackberry locks stretched over the expanse of the pillow like grape vines across a fence.

Amid all your muffled sounds, the cotton had begun to seep a sense of sleep into your skin, added on by Fyodor’s granted silence. With a sniffle, you reluctantly let go of his blundering words — slowly but surely relaxing into the candlelight bed. But not without an evident pout.

A haze of warmth enwrapped you. Cozy.

The edges of consciousness were held by none other than a familiar pair of cold hands. Which slithered their way around your waist — pulled you snugly against their owner’s body — allowing him to soak in the feast of your body heat.

Oddly enough, as the Russian slid himself closer, not an inch of his frigid temperature leaked into yours. Quite the opposite.

Your slumbering body thawed away at his cold one.

Save for one place that did not need any more warming. Like his cheeks, for example. Or elsewhere.

taglist ᯓᡣ𐭩 @aureatchi @soleelia + people that also wanted to be added but please know time is my greatest enemy

translations! (these are rough translations, and if there are any inaccuracies please let me know)

дорогая - ‘darling’ i just cant envision fedya saying ‘baby’. darling is the only accurate one.

thank you so much to @musamora for betareading again !!! she is quite literally the sweetest writer i know and this fic couldnt be possible without her ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

also thanks to @/saradika-graphics for all the wonderful dividers! the images for the banner were either found on pinterest or edited by yours truly <3 thank you for reading !

© yonseibananamilk 2024 - please refrain from copying, plagiarizing and/or reposting my works on other platforms. reblogs, notes, and comments are very appreciated!

[deadguywalkin]

seb x fem farmer/you hcs

all lot of these can be gender neutral! i probably won’t be making more of these.. i am a bi seb truther, but my blog is gonna continue to be very sebxsamxalex centric since i just wrote these up for sab hehe

fixes your hair/bangs when he sees something wrong without saying anything. just randomly pushes them to the side for you or touches it up a little, cuz he knows how annoying it can be esp when you can’t see them yourself

loves having his chest slept on. a hand up your shirt with his slightly cold hand moving up and down on your back (he has cold hands FIGHT ME.IF YOU DISAGREE!!!!!

also likes having his lap sat on. he likes having slight pressure/weight on him a lot

isn’t very affectionate just right away/generally but randomly ruffles your hair or holds one of your cheeks while pecking the other

random naps in the middle of the day together. it’s a whole routine and this will happen every single day

watching sci-fi/horror/fantasy movies all cuddled up on the couch and just constantly commenting on and making fun of everything that happens. giggling at the way an actor said something weirdly and just turning them into little inside jokes

keeps a hairtie on his wrist at all times

sitting with you while he eats somethign and you’re not eating anything, he just feeds you little bites without even offering it first

‘darling’ ‘my dear’ ‘my love’ , ‘my bat’ if we’re feeling extra emo

face, neck, waist grabber. needs to be as close as he can to you so he just pulls your waist closer while you’re kissing, fingers borderline digging into your skin

does small gestures, no questions asked, doesn’tsay anything. he doesn’t expect anything in return but he just enjoys being there for you

acts tough and introverted but he’s actually very needy and soft. just because he isn’t vocally affectionate doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be smothered with kisses and loved very gently.

notices all the little things. if you do your hair or makeup a little differently, if you’re wearing a new perfume, anything. he knows you by heart and will notice any little change

random hugs and pushing his head over your shoulder, placing little pecks to your neck

bold and flirty, making suggestive jokes but CRUMBLES the second you flirt back

a lot of hand holding, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. pressing soft kisses to your knuckles before looking at you with half lidded eyes and a little smile that puts his dimples on display

random motorcycle rides whenever you get tired of being in town. riding off to god knows where, but finding a random empty field out of town to sit in and talk in the middle of the night

creeps up behind you and spooks you every once in a while. it is so annoying but a little endearing and it also kind of puts you on edge when he hasn’t done it in a while

not the best at communicating, but he’ll let you walk him through it because he knows you know how to do it better than he does (?) idk how to word it

naturally has very flirty narrow eyes. anything he says sounds flirty with the way he looks at you

HATES showing people his baby photos. he’ll let you keep one in your phonecase though, you’re the only exception for anything to him

very eepy. leans on you a lot,

if you guys are double emo, heart shaped blood vials of each other’s blood that you just carry everywhere or wear as a necklace

[agirlwithglam]

TEENAGE SUMMER (12-16yo)

so summer has finally arrived and school has ended. and ofc, we want that hot girl summer with the perfect body, mindset, habits, holidays, and a great time in general but what if we have sorta strict parents who are just.. parents. so here are some tips to have your dream summer and glow up but also make it family/ teenage friendly!

GLOW UP:

external glow up tips:

numero uno: WORKOUT. yes, ofc this is on here, what did u think? work.out. decide why u wanna workout first: healthy body? dream body? abs? being stronger? for happiness? for fun? then, you can find a workout on youtube / pinterest for the one you want. (also what i love doing is the workouts on pinterest where its related to a tv show- or just search up [movie/ show name] workout)

smell nice! perfume, scented shampoos/ body scrubs, etc.

SUNSCREEN. trust me, u DO want to put it on.

skincare! moisturiser, lip gloss/ lip balm, exfoliation, etc.

put cold spoons under your eyes in the morning to reduce puffiness.

u dont like something? fix it! i didn't like my teeth for a while, so i got braces. you can't fix it? stop worrying about it and just give it to god cus u got better things to do

MANIFESTING:

affirmations!! affirmations in the mirror, listening to them, repeating them, thinking them, they helped me SO much!

Believe you’re hot. As simple as that.

Visualisation. Imagine people giving you compliments and staring at you all day long

internal glow up tips:

confidence. duhhhh! heres a guide to self love& confidence

abundance mindset. everything works out in YOUR favour.

detachment. stop taking shite so seriously. honestly, if someones hating on you then pity them or laugh then move on. like ur too busy to spend even a second of your day to make someone feel bad about themselves or argue about something pointless.

keep learning! educate yourself, expand your knowledge and your mind.

HAPPINESS. the real glow up starts when you're genuinely happy with who you are and where you are. be a light, carefree, bubbly girl but also remember to set standards and boundaries. when you're just genuinely happy, life truly does start to get better.

hotness is a mindset.

other tips:

channel your little kid energy

take a bunch of photos! (at the end you'll basically have a pretty summer mood board)

don't be on your phone all the time. try to ✨socialise✨ your time on earth is limited don't waste it on crusty, unhot stuff. ur parents will thank you for this as well

romanticise it. (laugh. smile. wear nice clothes, talk to people, get lost in a daydream. appreciate the beauty in stuff. even if its just a sofa.)

be positive. quit complaining. be happy and focus on what you have. spread love and happiness! you're privileged and you are a privilege. act like ittt!

stay present minded. live here, now.

listen to groovy, aesthetic-themes music. to get u into the moooddd!

become a better person. a better daughter/ son, sibling, friend, person in general.

GET OUTSIDEEEE!!!! TOUCH SOME GRASS. its sunny, its summer, why tf r u staying indoors????

sleep girl. sleep. just because you don't have to wake up early tomorrow, does not mean you can stay up till 2am watching netflix. sleep makes your skin glow, makes you look prettier, makes you happier and 10000 more benefits. so sleep.

channel your creativity! (paint, draw, sketch, write, poetry, music, etc.)

play. you're still young!! have fun and do silly and embarrassing things while you still can!!!!!!!

create a summer mood board!

channel a certain era- barbie summer, blair waldorf summer, hot girl summer, etc.

bucket list ideas:

go to a park

redecorate your room

spa day (w friends)

girl slumber parties! (face masks, girlie things, movies)

volunteer somewhere

beach day!

write letters and kiss them (like those pretty pinterest summer!)

go biking (i love doing it in the mornings)

bake! (cakeeee)

get back into some old hobbies (childhood nostalgia)

gardening. care for a plant (then talk to it when you feel sad ur won't be insane i promise)

look at the sunrise / sunset

read dude. just read and romanticise it with a pretty comfy space

make a goal. then work on it so hard that you get it!

learn something new (for me i rly wanna learn crochetting)

scrap booking

do a workout with friends

video diary!! (film everythinggg)

make jewellery (u can sell them after if u want. also there are tons of jewellery making kits on amazon or toys r'us!)

donate / sell stuff (like books and toys)

flower press (with printer tho)

dance with your friends

wear jewellery!! summer necklaces, bracelets, etc!

go for walks (w friends)

get your nails done. (you don't have to go out to get them done. you can do it yourself. i dont have nail polish but my friend does so we love putting it on together)

make some new friends! (join clubs, visit new places, talk to people, join classes,)

go to the beach

"what makes life so beautiful is the fact that it ends"

[therandompagesblog]

Hunting Your Soul Chapter 6 🫀Y/N🫀

Trigger Warnings: Stalking, manipulation, self pleasure, orgasm

Could a stalker be seen as sweet? Caring? Attentive? Or, were these things I imagined as the days went on? Chan's nature had changed. He was filled less with riddles and more with statements. Statements of truth. He was going to take me. I knew that much. I knew I was going to be turned into a monster that lived in the darkness. When, was my question, but he never answered. Chan always answered my other questions. My questions about his feelings toward me. They were vague yet unexplainable. He always referred to me as his. That I was meant to be his. That my heart was his. It was an animalistic description. One that frightened me but didn't. Every time I was frightened or worried he would mask it with care. Kindness. Chan never directly spoke to me. Only through words on a screen. Otherwise, he would shower me with gifts. Flowers, pyjamas, iced cinnamon buns. It was a generational romance. Texting. Never to be seen. I hated it. I hated the waiting game. I wanted to see him. I wanted to see what he looked like. I wanted to see his cold gaze, pressing into me. I wanted him to consume me. Feed off me. They were stupid desires. Reckless even. They were thoughts and feelings I gained over the course of three days. Three pitiful days and I was craving him. The only nuisance was he slept during the day. It was Inconvenient for me and I wanted him to know that. I wanted him to pay for it. Pay for the ways he was making me feel. I wanted to play his game. Me: I want to hear your voice. Chan: If you're a good little flower for me. I will. Me: Fine. I'll suffer then. Chan: Careful with that attitude. I have to work today. Be patient.

I rolled my eyes in frustration hitting the bed. I was annoyed at myself. At him for making me feel this way. I should feel sickened, but I wasn't. Chan gave me no reason to. The only thing he did was text, call or watch. He wasn't really stalking either. He was too quiet to be a stalker. Too quiet. Too careful. He was harmless in the eyes of the law. A report would do nothing to him. He was untraceable. He wasn't even real. If I did report him, the police would tell me they could not do anything until something happened. Until the harassment escalated. I could report his number, but all Chan would have to do was get another and he would still keep texting. Calling. But if he was a monster, then he was invincible. He was deadly. Very deadly. And right now that was hot. And I was hormonally hot. It was despicable yet erotic to have a watcher. It was something that kept my mind preoccupied as I started to have sick fantasies. Fantasies about his deep voice. The voice that burned into my soul. Fantasies of his touch and the way he would feel. It was already a catastrophic downfall. I was damned for him and I did not care. I did not care in the way I wanted him to suffer too. I wanted him to feel my frustration at his lack of communication. His lack of verbal communication. His lack of physical communication. His–his lack of presence. I shuddered at the thought of meeting him soon. My body shivered at the thought of his face. His touch. I wondered more about his musky smell. I wanted to smell him again. Throwing my head back with a sigh. I closed my eyes, thinking about faceless hands. Touching me. Guiding me softly. I wondered if the monster had fangs or claws. Or both. Would they cut into my body deep or scratch the surface? My body was starting to get hot as I thought about the blank kisses trailing across my skin. An irrational thought crept across my mind. I wanted to phone him. Force him to listen to my arousal like he forced my emotions to yearn for him. It was a sick and twisted idea but my hormones were everywhere, and considering he stole my tampons. A little moan was the icing on a sweet cinnamon bun. My hand found its way into my trousers. Slowly touching myself as I felt my body getting hotter. I reached for my bedside to grab my silicone vibrator and turned it on. I allowed the vibrating sensations to toy against my clothed folds. My back arched as I pressed harder against my clothed clit, thrashing. I stopped. Smirking to myself as I looked at my reflection. I took my clothes off and spread myself open. Open for him. A stranger. I pressed the toy against my clit. Circling slowly as my hand reached for my phone. I slid the toy across my folds. Then back up to my sensitive bud. I thrashed. Whimpering away. I looked at my phone. Clicking on Chan's number. His phone went straight to voicemail. The beep sent my devious arousal into new heights. "Chan... Ch-chan." I whimpered loudly. Louder than I normally would. I clicked the button. Speeding it up as I arched myself. Allowing the state of bliss to watch over me. Then it came. The dread. The fear. I fucked up. I incredibly fucked up. I could feel it deep within my warm bones as I waited for him.

18+ Taglist for those who are not turning back

@catlove83 @itsyourleilei @whatudowhennooneseesyou @leeknot @estella-novella @fackeraccount @eastjonowhere @cocofia143 @jennibahng @noerinspace @sleepingmissingprincess @ye0lkkot @hiitsmebbygrl16 @shhimhereforsmut @jaeminie-cricket @stayceebs97 @ritiiiiiii @chlodavids @beautystarry @hyunjinhoexxx @hash2013 @jeonginontopforever @catnipchannie @kaqua @fairy-lixie @myflowercloud @galaxy4489 @velvetmoonlght

[istoleyoursk1n]

How do you think the companions would be with a tiefling gn Reader who's insecure about their horns and tail / just in general being a tiefling? Idm which companions!

•❅───────────✧❅✦❅✧───────────❅•

How would they react to a tiefling Tav who's insecure about being a tiefling?

(Little note, I personally love tieflings, I think they're so pretty)

.

.

: ̗̀➛ ASTARION

“Oh, poor thing, you’re gorgeous! Whoever told you weren’t? My, you’re simply the prettiest little tiefling I’ve ever had the pleasure to see, and trust me, darling, I have seen many.”

Baffled that this would be something you’d be ashamed about. I mean, he’d tell you to your face if you were hideous but he hasn't now has he?

He doesn't quite understand what's there to be insecure about, you look just fine in his eyes but if you need his honest opinion then he’ll give it to you.

He thinks tieflings are fascinating in their own right.

With long curled horns, rigid skin, and a gaze as intense as the fiery pits of hell, you’re not exactly the worst thing he's seen.

He’s not a poet but he’d show you how much he adores every inch of your body to prove just how stunning you are in his eyes.

Damn anyone who says otherwise, he’d reject the heavens in favor of a more hellish embrace that comes in your shape.

He really likes touching your horns/grabbing onto them, he’d never explain why but the texture of them under his cold fingertips is something he pleasantly enjoys.

: ̗̀➛WYLL

“Love, you are above the heavens itself. No angel could compare to the warmth I have found in your every touch. You’re someone I am proud to call my lover, horns and all.”

He gets it, I mean he was turned into some sort of devilish fiend by his wretched patron.

He understands how it could make anyone feel insecure. The horns feel heavy, your skin isn't as smooth as most, and there are cases in which people easily judge you for what you are.

Though, are those reasons to make him love you any less? Absolutely not.

You looked at his transformed self and still chose to love him, so of course he’d do the same for you. In fact, he loves you even more now.

He’d call you beautiful in every way he knows how, concealing each thought of you in words that all come to praise everything that you are and more.

Besides, there's something rather poetic about two devils dancing in the moonlight.

Would compliment every part of your body you feel the most insecure about on a daily basis so that perhaps someday you’d love yourself the same way he loves you.

He’d fall in love with you and those fiery eyes again and again if he could. You hold his heart.

: ̗̀➛GALE

“No magic can compare to the spell you’ve cast upon me. Akin to a moth drawn to a flame, I will gladly fall into your fiery embrace.”

Upset that you view yourself in such a way.

He understands that a bad light is often shed amongst tieflings but he didn't think it would affect you to this degree.

He’s completely in love with every bit of you, he can't bear seeing you hate yourself like this.

If anything, this gives him more of a reason to praise you more, going above and beyond to make you feel like the god/goddess he sees in his eyes.

He’d speak in loving whispers about each and every part of your body so that not an inch of you goes unloved.

He loves staring into your eyes, they dilate and pulse in a way that bewitches him to a point where he’d rather meet your gaze than look up at the stars.

You could describe yourself in the most downright horrendous way possible and he’d still look at you with the most smitten expression you've seen a man hold.

He’ll help you get over your insecurities little by little, doing everything he can to make you see yourself as the specialty you are.

: ̗̀➛KARLACH

“What?! Why would you be? You’re only the greatest thing that's ever happened to me! The hottest thing to come into my life! You’re amazing.”

I mean she gets it, there's a dark stigma around tieflings that she faced herself. For a long while, she was seen as this brutish devil who’d kill children!

But tieflings can be cool, she thinks tieflings can and are badass! There's nothing else like them.

Would constantly reassure you that there's nothing you should be ashamed about, you’re amazing as hell and she loves you for it.

Fuck anyone who tries to slander you for who you are, she’d gladly set them ablaze.

The constant heat she feels on a daily basis is nothing compared to the burning feeling you give her. It makes her go weak at the knees.

Very direct about how much she loves the way you look, it's impossible for anything she says to be a lie.

She’d scream it out loud for the hell of it, making sure all of Faerûn knew how gorgeous you were with all your devilish little features.

She thinks the tail and horns are hot, nothing you say can make her ever think otherwise.

She’ll love you until every part of her body burns into ash in the hopes that by then, you will have learned to love yourself.

: ̗̀➛SHADOWHEART

“Hm. Well, I suppose we all have our own insecurities… if it makes you feel any better, I think… no. I know you’re beautiful. You’re beyond every loving word I could ever use to describe you.”

Surprised by this but she doesn't take it against you. Instead, she’ll find her own little ways of helping you out of your insecurities.

The stigma around tieflings is bad but it is something she herself can relate to with once being a follower of the goddess Shar and the misconceptions that come with it.

Gentle reassurances of your appearance and her love for you would constantly come unprompted.

She’d notice you sadly staring at your horns in a reflection and she wouldn't hesitate to walk up to you and remind you about how pretty they are.

If she sees you scratching and your rigid skin, she’d come up to you and gently take your hand into hers, proudly confessing how much she adores your skin.

She wouldn't bombard you with compliment after compliment but she'd certainly be there if the self-hate gets too much.

She would carefully drag you out of that darkness just as you did for her.

She’d gently drag her fingertips across your horns and every rigid part of your skin, entangling her hand into your tail if not for a simple display of affection.

There's not a single part of you she hasn't come to adore and she’ll make sure that in time, you’ll come to adore those parts of you too.

: ̗̀➛LAE’ZEL

“Insecure? How could someone like you be ‘insecure’? Your mind has no place for such degrading thoughts. You’re better than that.”

She doesn't quite grasp the concept of being ‘insecure’ about something other than it being a sign of weakness hence her confusion at first.

She sees you as a brilliant warrior, someone she deeply admires, how do you find yourself hating anything about yourself?

She sees no reason for your self-loathing and may across as rudely direct such as telling you to simply move past it.

But soon enough she’ll realize how much these ‘insecurities’ of yours may be affecting you and go out of her way to try a different approach.

She’ll start off by saying how being a tiefling doesn't make you any weaker or lower than anybody else, in fact, you are more than worthy of praise and respect.

She believes every part of you is attractive, you’d never have to worry about her ever falling out of love for you.

Besides, aren't tiefling’s fire resistant? That's another thing you should be proud of, some do not have the privilege of being able to withstand strong flames.

It's mostly listing every advantage your body holds against others before ever so subtly squiggling in an actual sweet compliment that she sort of hopes you don't pick up on.

She couldn't have asked for a better partner, you are far better than anything she could have wished for and she wouldn't have you in any other way.

: ̗̀➛HALSIN

“Nature has built you in the shape of beauty, my heart, every part of you was intended to be loved. Even the prettiest of roses are put to shame in you’re presence.”

He looks more hurt than you by the newly found information.

He believed nature had made all its creatures perfect to every single degree, that includes you.

He could hardly bear hearing you degrade yourself in such a way, not when you’re the most precious thing he's ever laid his eyes upon.

He’d have to sit you down, and allow both of you to discuss your insecurities and where they could have possibly stemmed from.

After which he goes on an entire monologue about how deeply infatuated he is with you and everything that you are, horns and tail included.

If anything, he thinks your horns and tail are adorable. You’re the very peak of beauty in a world filled of glorious things.

He’ll compliment and praise every part of yourself you've come to hate until you’re a speechless, blushing mess.

Try convincing him otherwise and you might as well faint from the amount of sweet little whispers he’d be sending your way.

There is no way he's letting you get away from this without feeling like the most loved thing on this planet.

•❅───────────✧❅✦❅✧───────────❅•

[confused-alienated]

this is not a writinf prompt but PLLLEEEAAASSEEEEE clancy OR clancybearer headcanons i am absolutely living for your torchbearer ones.

Clancy hc time!!!

-Trans masc - he/they

-Tall, like 5'11

-Clear skin, scars from dema and general stupid things. Most obvious is the one on his nose.

-He has the most luscious lashes you've ever seen.

-shaved head. Pretty boy.

-Is so gay for torchie it's diabolical. They make me sickkk

-Ptsd, has frequent flashbacks and panic attacks. Triggered by touch, loud noises, sai songs, any mention of the bishops.

-Post sai era he tends not to sing as much turns out if you're tortured and forced to sings to promote suicide you don't really wanna do it anymore.

-Permanently smeared, causes brain fog.

-Scared of dogs, he's trying to get over it and is kinda desensitised to Jim now but before he was scared shitless of him.

-Sometimes misses dema (Stockholm syndrome kinda) misses the structure.

-Feels so guilty. He often wonders how many became glorious gones because of him. Also guilty over Torch, he's seen what he's done to himself and knows that it's his fault despite torch trying to tell him otherwise.

-Permanently sleep deprived. Torch sleeps too much, Clancy has insomnia. He often stays up watching over Torch. He just wants to keep him safe. Eyebags 🤤🤤🤤

-Cries a lot, he's sensitive.

-The banditos are kinda scared of him, they know he seizes others.

-Was horrendously underweight during sai era. Now gaining, he's slowly healing.

-Tries so hard to take care of Torch, he often ends up neglecting himself.

-Tried to escape soo many times. Successfully escaped 6 different times.

-Tries to get the projection to talk. He misses Torch's voice.

-Seizing is addictive, he loves the feeling too much. He tries to do it as little as possible. He loves the power, loves how strong it makes him feel.

-Eyes turn bright gold when he's seizing. He hates it.

-Goes through periods where he'll only eat if prompted. He forgets.

-Might become a bishop to help take down dema (who knows).

-Gets sick a ton, has the immune system of a wet paper towel. Always sniffling or coughing.

-Helps Jenna in the kitchen as much as he can. He likes her and likes being helpful.

-Awful temperature regulation. One moment he's sweating, the next he's shivering. Hands and feet are always cold, poor circulation.

-Originally from Keons district but Nico wanted him. Cue the messiest custody battle you've ever seen (ended in Keons dead). Was a bishop in training until he first escaped.

-Also needs a blunt and a proper night's sleep.

Sorry there's not as many as Torch's clancy doesn't live in my brain like he does 💔💔💔💔

CLANCYBEARER HCS

I looooove clancybearer

-So horrifically gay for each other. It's disgusting.

-Clancy loves to kiss Torch's scars.

-Torch likes to map clancy out with his hands. Especially likes to touch the scar on Clancys nose.

-Clancy tries his best to care for Torch. Torch thinks he doesn't deserve the help but allows clancy to because he's clancy.

-Jim is like their son (that Clancys a little scared of.)

-Banditos shipped them until they finally got together. A lot of people placed bets on if and when it would happen.

-Married post Paladin. Jim was the ring bearer.

-Clancy tries his best to help torch when he gets confused. The worst is when Torch wakes up and forgets he's blind, has to calm him down from many panic attacks.

-Torch is the little spoon!!

-Matching everything.

-Clancy will give torch his jacket. Torch loves it since it smells like him.

-Clancy helps torch dye his hair.

-Clancy is constantly reassuring Torch that he's perfect just the way he is.

-They don't talk about dema.

-They don't talk about what happened during the SAI era.

-They don't talk about Torch's bad habits.

-Clancy gets touch adverse sometimes, Torch gives him space.

-Torch gets CLINGY. Almost always touching Clancy when he's comfortable with it.

-Clancy gets Torch to leave his tent. If he had it his way he'd stay in all day everyday.

-Clancy took Torch to the first bonfire since he'd given up his vision. Torch cried.

-Clancy doesn't want to admit how much he actually needs Torch. It's embarrassing how codependent they are.

-They don't kiss before Paladin strait. It would feel too much like a goodbye.

-When they reunite post Paladin strait they both sob because they did it. Then they kiss. It's cute.

-Clancy has a secret stash of Torch's safe foods in one of his drawers.

-Torch is vocal, Clancy praises.

-Black cat and golden retriever!!

Okay I'm out of ideas, it's past my bedtime

[valentine-cafe]

how would rasui feel about a lover who is constantly clining to him because they're so, so cold all of the time? any time he's home or you're around him, you're just attached at the hip, always cuddling just trying to steal all his warmth... of course you reward him with lovings and kisses in return to him dealing with having you around all the time.

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ verse 9948e rasui

. ˚◞꒰ 🍰 ꒱fire elemental x reader, mercenary leader x reader ⊹ ۪ ࣪

oh rasui is all over a lover like this. as someone who is beyond touch-starved - he loves having you hanging off of him 24/7. especially because of how busy at work he can get.

“you using me for my warmth?” he would tease. if only to chuckle and kiss away your soft “noooos” and “don’t say thaatttt.”

he especially loves when you nestle yourself into his lap and cling onto him so tightly. slipping your hands beneath his shirt so that you can feel his skin. he always rests his chin against your head or buries his face into your shoulder.

recently, he found out that you also love it when he lays down onto you. so that you can feel his heat. initially he was a bit hesitant on that because of his body weight but you kept assuring him that you were fine.

“are you sure? last thing I wish to do is break you back.”

“break it, it’s fine.”

“what?”

“break. it.”

in general he also loves how affectionate you get whenever you cling onto him. your seas of kisses and cuddles. he always makes sure to give all of it back as much as he possibly can. he knows that you hate whenever he has to leave in the mornings or during emergency missions.

so he’ll always leave you with a few extra kisses and cuddles. always makes sure to kiss your head when he comes back and you immediately wrap yourself around him again.

[sillyromance]

Shelter

It's a very self-indulgent fanfiction I wrote when I was struggling to complete my university studies and feeling quite bad about how things were going... Yet, I still hope you will enjoy it!

Warning: angst, hurt/comfort, a vampire pred, swallowing is painful for prey, reader is an artist who wears glasses, kisses and nibbles.

- Cara Mia?

I don't respond. Just continue to sit, motionless, my head nesting on my crossed arms, staring at the paintings laid before me. Those I was drawing all previous day, forgetting to eat, or rest properly. My glasses are put aside, hair loosened.

I hear Aro coming closer; cold wind washes softly around my back. Squinting at the mirror, I see his hand hanging a few inches away from my shoulder. Yet, the vampire hesitates, then, locking eyes with mine, pulls back.

He takes another stool and settles nearby, carefully examining me.

- Would you mind telling me what's wrong, mi amor? Or should I look through it?

Still silent, I take the initiative and maintain connection first: my fingers gently curl around his pale, icy hand, and a few seconds he doesn't speak, gaze empty and distant as he looks through my past. Only for his eyes to turn furious, then regretting, compassionate afterwards.

- I'm sorry, tesoro.

His second hand subtly covers mine. I sigh.

- All these... Hours of work... Struggles to come up with anything... For nothing.

I take one of my favorite compositions and study it, at the arm's distance, then zooming it right to my eyes. Finally, I handle it to my undead partner who looks at it - and at me expectedly.

- What do you think about it? Honestly?

Aro's lips bend into a soft smile.

- Perhaps, you should have made the background a bit darker. But I think it's more than pretty just as it is. - He states confidently. - Caius would agree with me, I'm sure. You are making progress!

My head slips on the table as I feel tears swelling at the corners of my eyes. I squeeze Aro's hand tighter as my emotions take the best of me.

- She didn't even say anything. Just glanced at everything briefly and asked if that was the only thing I'd made.

My voice is a whisper. I'm afraid if I raise it, I might end up sobbing. Aro shouldn't see me that weak; I hate when he does.

Yet, it's hard to hold myself in check. Ashamed, I turn away and try to stand up, already wondering where I could spend the rest of the night and not bother anyone else in the castle. But, before I could make a move, swift, overwhelming strength entrappes me; to my surprise I find myself on Aro's lap, his arms coiling around me in a manner of two gentle chains. I sense his palm on my burning forehead; light, cool touch soothes the pangs of my everlasting headache.

I can't help but lean against it with a pained moan.

- I'm so, so very sorry, cara mia... Your work is valuable. You're valuable. No one can take it from you; especially those who are yet to learn how to appreciate others' efforts.

His speech is melodic, calming, like a river. Such a strange, complex creature... Being his mate, I've seen many things which are not for the faint of heart. At times I wonder if he is actually able to feel anything, and, maybe, all this is just a play, a temporary obsession until he gets bored and drains me dry for good.

However, now, pressed against his cold body, I somehow know he isn't as soulless as he claims. My skin tingles and crawls, covered in goosebumps, but my heart is overflowed with incredible warmth and love my undead man generously pours on my fresh wounds.

However, once my shivering grows too noticeable to ignore, Aro lets go of me and allowes the human to jump off of his knees.

- I better leave you be before you freeze to death. - He chuckles as I rapidly wrap a blanket around my trembling shoulders

- Well, as I remember, you have different plans on my future, so you're correct.

The vampire grins contently at my joke, and for a brief moment I can enjoy the view of his fangs flickering dangerously in the viciously-red light of the sunset.

- I can't wait for the day when you would ask me to turn you, cara mia. - He admits, hunger and longing entering his predatory eyes. But as he notices me shrinking nervously on the bed, he is quick to shoot me a reassuring smile. - Don't worry. I won't try to earlier than you give me your permission, tesoro. You're the one to choose time and place... If you ever want to.

- As if I had a choice...

I can tell my low spirit saddens him deeply. Before I can blink Aro is already beside me, at the distance, yet close enough to reach and take a hold on my hand again.

He spreads himself over the sheets, and so do I, my eyes never leaving the circle of his moon-white face. Despite the chills, I rest my head on his solid, broad chest, baring my neck and shoulder which get instantly washed in affectionate kisses and nibbles. His teeth press cautiously at my veins - one wrong move, and I'll bleed out in a flash. But he release me in time, just to push the limits again a second later.

This subtle reminder of his true nature is practically intoxicating; I lean closer, chirping excitedly, drowning in his monstrous affection which I didn't know I craved so desperately.

- Beautiful, sweet... - He breathes out in my ear, leisurely tracing the line of my collarbone, my cheek, my temple. - Delicious. If you are so good already, I'm afraid to think of what your boiling blood tastes like...

- I can always give you a try.

- No!.. No. I'm afraid then I won't be able to restrain myself... I don't want to hurt you.

His hair's silky glitter tempts me to stroke them - and I don't resist. My vampire's smile is beaming, blinding; a cat who is scratched behind its ear doesn't look that happy. He says I'm beautiful, but can my features compare to his wild, magnifying grace? A purring lynx, a friendly snake... And me, a rabbit.

- You know... I like when you call me sweet. - I play with a smooth black curl, slowly wrapping it around my finger. Soon my other hand takes part in the game, and together they start lazily braiding it. - Then I wish you didn't resist that well. Perhaps you know I have... these thoughts...

Aro rolls on his stomach and looks at me seriously.

- Yes, I do. But I don't mind listening to you explanaining them. I'm still struggling to understand what exactly is into them that you find so nice.

Slight nervousness shakes my core.

- As you know, I often think about you eating me. Whole. It's impossible, but yet... It's something that comforts me when things turn too hard. Me, disappearing behind your jaws, gently cradled within your body, safe, secure... What a lovely image, isn't it? Of course, It would be pretty cold, but a small inconvenience is a low price for being that intimate with you.

Now he is sitting, looking down on me with a strange mix of worry and curiosity.

- But why do you want to be that close? Especially to me? I know what you think of me - and you're right. I'm a monster, a cursed being that can't be forgiven for the sins it's committed. I try to be as humane towards you as I possibly can, but I'm not human anymore, cara mia... You're in constant danger. Yet, for some twisted reason you still stay here in my mansion. I've learnt to cherish that little... Now it's you who want more. Why?

My gaze travelles from him up to the painted ceiling: plump cupids dance to mysterious heavenly music in the gardens of Eden. It has always fascinated me how Volturi could cherish art and disregard people. Perhaps, it happens because art and science are the only things as eternal as death vampires bring to mortal shells those treasures hid in?

- It's a complicated feeling, Aro. You tell me you know what I think about you, but you don't see through. I hate you, and I love you more than I can express. You're a monster indeed, but at nights you tuck your nose in the crook of my neck and brush my hair in the way that makes me cry. You could kill me long ago. And you refuse, and I don't think it's a promise you've given that forbids you from harming me. I... I just find it soothing to picture myself this vulnerable with you, because, mentally, I'm already are. A thought of me encapsulated by you, trapped within your body, but still alive, saved by you, is something that makes my heart flutter with tenderness. I've been hurt, badly hurt. And I want to believe you won't do that. You prove that every time when your lips caress me. But swallowing me, if it was possible, would be a step forward, when you could give in and consume what's me. Only to say that I'm not just food.

I pause; a sentimental lump rounds in my throat.

- I just want to hide, Aro. To hide in you, because your darkness has been kinder to me than the darkness of the world around me.

Not able to hold back anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my face, crying. Am I stupid? Will he loath me after everything he has seen and heard? My bones are shaking.

The cold splashes on me; his grip is on my wrists, and now my puffy, blushing face is on full display. I want to look at him, but suddenly my vision is blocked by his palm.

- Stay still. - He commands.

I don't know what's happening and it frightens me. His breath is so close; it smells like frost and earth as if I was standing before a freshly dug grave. Something wet slides over my forehead; my skull is pushed in a tight space, and my hair are rapidly soaked in viscous, sticky liquid.

It's... his tongue.

His saliva.

His mouth.

Slowly, patiently, I am guided at the back of his throat. His teeth can chop my neck now, and I whimper as it seems that's what about to happen. But no harm comes to me - instead, there is a thick, struggling swallow. Aro's grasp is very strong now, and I understand, pushing a wish to squirm aside.

He doesn't want to hurt me.

The further it goes, the harder. His insides are ice, my teeth stutter, I suffocate as my ribs collapse inwards every time his muscles contract - but I'm still alive, and he has got the taste. He is fast, he is desperate as he devoures me; my vampire has finally been granted a gift he has been denied, and though waves of pain crush on me, I'm welcoming this suffering with readiness and pleasure.

In no time his lips slide past my knees and ankles. My feet are the last thing to devour; Aro stops, and we rest like this as if asking each other if what we do is right. I use the moment to catch my breath; half of me is already squished in his belly, meanwhile the legs are stuck in the esophagus.

Does he give me a chance to retreat?

I consider this. But then smile and grant my partner a gentle tap on the wall

- It's OK, Aro. You can proceed.

And one last gulp steals my last chance for escape.

I curl up. The flesh is strangely soft and much warmer than the rest of him. Maybe, it's because vampires still need to eat, and some of their parts are living a life of their own. It tingles, yet doesn't hurt. Will I be digested? Or just held here? Honestly, thinking about it I don't know what I would prefer most. Everything is already so bizarre... Aro's hand lies on top of me, grounding, comforting. Now, my mind is absolutely exposed, and I stay mute for there is nothing he doesn't know anymore.

- Don't be afraid, mi amor. My body is safe for you.

Aro's tone is soothing. I can tell he is enjoying my presence in here, judging by how eagerly the folds of his stomach cradle my tensed form.

- I didn't know you could actually do this...

- There are many secrets in my sleeve, darling. - I can practically see a proud smile on his angelic face. - I hope it's exactly how you imagined it to be.

I carefully listen to my sensations. Plushy walls hugging me and gentle flattering of his hands tracing my form send soothing waves down my spine. In an instant, I'm calm and sleepy. My lids fall, my muscles weaken.

No need to prolong this stupid comedy I've been stuck into for so long.

It's time to rest, at last.

- Thank you, love... - I mumble, nuzzling deeper into him, peaceful and content.

- Always here with you, Cara Mia. - He replies, strocking me gently as I'm drifting away into the dimension of dreams.

I couldn't ask for more...

[that-one-creepy-hoe]

do you have like general or relationship head canons for ej? :)

I love talking about one of my 348 husbands!1!1

Eyeless Jack General + Relationship Hcs

Warnings:Basically fluff, EJ just being autistic, I think I used no pronouns I think Pairings: EyelessJack x GN!Reader

General HeadCannons

 He is a very big quiet man

To me, he’s probably 6’’9 at his full height

But he does hunch over a lot because he is aware of how much his height makes some people scared of him

While he typically doesn’t care about if regular people, or if the proxies are scared of him, he does do it mostly so the more timid people don’t get frightened 

He’s basically a mute until he absolutely has to speak

His voice is very rough and deep from years of not being used much

I headcanon him to be autistic with slight OCD issues 

Because of this, he sticks to his routine and wears lots of baggy clothes because he cannot stand most skin-to-skin contact

Actively recoils when people are too close or touch him

Tends to obsessively reorganize his things constantly

While he may seem shy he is not a pushover of any kind

He only knows how to be a weird kind of nice that most people don’t take as nice/ Really cold and distant

He’s kind of like a cat where he just watches people he likes without care

He has lots of scars on his jaw and the corners of his mouth from his teeth(I hc that he clawed through his cheeks when he first turned bc he couldn’t handle the way his teeth felt in his mouth)

He’s always unusually hot or ice cold and really can’t tell too well

If you want to ever get close to him you would most likely need to be close to Hoodie, or Sally

He’s a nice guy just very out of touch with the world around him

Romantic HeadCannons 

If you somehow romanced this man I applaud you because he absolutely hates being around people unless he thinks they’re cute (in a small kid/ pet kind of way) or if they can have an actual intelligent conversation with him(AKA hoodie)

But somehow you have wormed your way into his dead heart and at first he will most definitely hate you for it

He doesn’t like the feeling of being attached at first (Since he’s far too used to people betraying him) but soon he craves for you

Expect him to attempt to have charisma (he has none)

Think crow that gives its favorite human weird gifts 

If you try talking to him that might help just try not to be too loud

Be ready to do enough talking for the both of you

Once he warms up he will speak some here and there

He’ll give you things he thinks you might like such as; books, clothes, trinkets

If you give him things he will absolutely adore you and never get rid of it

You will most definitely have to be the one to initiate a relationship even then he may think your joking

If you reassure him then he’ll get soft for you and let you do things that he would normally hate (EX: touching him, being louder, borrowing his things)

He’s really insecure about himself so be ready to reassure him a bunch

Total romantic lover, poetry, letters, candle-lit dinners, all of it

[notsodailykurudoro]

Day 50

He clenched his jaw in uncertainty, glancing at the other then at the screens in front of him a couple of times before nodding, perhaps a little more clumsily than he would have liked and instantly thanking the impossibility of such a gesture to reach the ninja's dysfunctional eyes.

“Yeah, go on, suit yourself, hope you washed your hands.” He agreed, vocally this time, feigning nonchalance and pairing it with useless gestures that would go unnoticed.

Dororo looked pleased, that empty gaze brimming with patience sharing an indivisible smile.

“I can assure you that I take good care of my personal hygiene.” He spoke, beneath the mask, emphasizing the statement with both hands in the air.

Kururu held back the need to cackle, the verbal tic dying in his throat as he swallowed. He turned around in his spot, giving the taller frog free space to do his thing, intrigue and anxiety building up in his stomach, perfectly masked and with plenty of advantage.

“If you get to feel uncomfortable, I shall stop with just one word from you.” The ninja warned, getting closer to the technician with smooth, fluid movements.

“Ahhh… Safe word?”

“Uh… If you so desire then, yes.”

“Curry.”

“Very well-”

The Sergeant Major used every fiber of self control he had over his body at that moment to not jump when he felt a hand position itself on one side of his face, considerably colder than the rest of his body and yet abnormally smooth, a phantom touch gradually pressing against the skin. He wanted to swallow again but repressed it too, outlining further the permanent grimace on his face and fixing his attention on the concentrated expression of his partner, his own eyelids closed, brow barely furrowed.

He inhaled, it wasn't hard for him to be quiet, that's how he usually went through life. That's how he managed to scare unsuspecting morons who didn't detect his unnerving presence, and that was just yet another thing that united them both.

Still, the temptation to say something was almost unbearable, almost, he was bad at this kind of thing, he wasn't even entirely sure in which tone of the sociocultural spectrum of his universe or remotely anywhere around it could fall whatever was happening at that moment.

Dororo kept going anyhow, groping, cold phantasmagorical touch tracing the general shape of his face, (It wasn't like it was that hard.) running his fingers along the surface of his skin, at some point adding the opposite hand to the equation.

He could almost see the calculations running through the shinobi's brain, how he processed the new information, how he reacted to it, and he hated to admit that it made him uneasy too. So far Dororo had only heard his voice and a few descriptions of him, he had never let him lay a hand on him and it was more than justified. Nothing personal, he was just very reluctant to foreign contact. Reluctant to show himself to anyone in general, figuratively speaking. Letting himself be mapped by a blind ninja fell into the category of showing a certain level of vulnerability and that made him somewhat nervous.

Dororo ran his thumbs over a certain spot on his cheeks and massaged it a little, the slight movement of his brow rising indicating that he had noticed something. Kururu thought he knew what.

“I don't like them, people usually associate them with something cute.”

“Oh...?” The ninja was slow at getting towards a proper reaction. “Oh! Honestly, I find them unusual in the best of ways.”

Kururu clicked his tongue.

He moved on from that spot, even though he took his time there was a distant premeasured urgency in what he did, just starting to break out in a cold sweat. The technician noticed it and tilted his grin, feeling slight sympathy at their mutual nerves, somewhat amused by the strange intimacy of the situation.

He traced his lips relatively quickly, as if he had already came to terms with the fact that the mocking bite of his words was due to a habit of arching his mouth and only half-confirmed suspicions when he finished. Kururu considered the remote possibility of saying Curry.

He moved up to his eyes, slowly, giving him time to close his eyelids so as not hurt him accidentaly, Kururu moved forward and raised his glasses, letting them rest on the top of his head, held in place by the red cap he wore, he needed a break anyway.

“...You shouldn't have such an unfavorable sleep schedule.” He commented after a moment of inspection, thumbs placed on the heavy bags under his partner’s overly tired orbs.

“You’d be surprised what three days of being awake can do to a motherfucker.” The Sergeant mocked, chuckling to himself with one eye half open.

“We’ll discuss about it later.” His frown deepened, stern, though not annoyed.

“If you can get to remember, ku-ku-ku-”

Dororo shook his head, amused, continuing with his work.

He felt his superior’s face with his entire hand, several times, doing the same with the surroundings of his head, noticing the headphones, which explained a few more things.

He went down, groping, stroking, massaging, mentally drawing his partner's superior build and being rather pleased with what he kept discovering, such feeling spreading towards the happiness with the progress he was making with the yellow devil.

He knew Kururu, he knew what the people said about him, and he had experienced it first hand too; a brilliant misunderstood mind that enjoyed himself committing misdeeds, no matter how far fetched they tended to go, but as the interactions became more and more frequent between them, such only by fate, he not only discovered that there was more beneath the senseless chaos, but they both found out about the similarities between them and at the same time the abysmal difference in their personalities. They had his jabs here and there, a bit of psychological warfare, some gaslight, some failed attempts at moral instigation, some succeeded attempts at moral instigation, but they managed to get along either way.

He recalled for a moment the law of magnetism, more specifically the Sergeant's voice explaining said rule, and he couldn't help but smile.

He accidentally pinched the skin of the yellow frog’s stomach, instantly the unexpected reaction on the part of the shorter one being not only to squirm but to let out a short laugh against his will. He could have sworn he heard a messy try at pronouncing “curry” before his brief outburst.

“Ah, my apologies!” He quickly pulled both hands away, raising them defensively.

Kururu had shrunk into himself, cursing internally. He knew the reason why tickling happened, he was only giving himself away and could only hope that said nonsense would go unnoticed by the shinobi like almost everything else he did outside his non-existent vision.

He swallowed.

“... It’s okay.” He didn’t want to hear him apologize a thousand times.

He relaxed gradually, normalizing his breathing.

“Continue.”

Dororo nodded shortly, returning his phalanges to the scientist’s body. Soft, once again that phantom touch that was becoming more noticeable as it moved along his arms. Kururu wondered for a moment if it was necessary to be memorizing the shape of his extremities, and in general anything other than his face, but decided not to give comments on it.

It kept sending shivers down his spine with every patch of skin that wasn’t used to the contact, which was practically all of him, and he hated it, blaming it entirely to the physical reactions he had absolutely no control over and making more excuses the more scenarios he came up with.

Another deep breath helped him normalize his heartbeat, trying with all his might to not show even a pinch of reaction to the crushing reality of his touch-starved self, a fact he lived trying to push under absolute denial and his in fact very true hatred and discomfort for the physical.

Dororo, to his luck, seemed to remain oblivious to all of this, perhaps unable to understand said affliction, too clumsy to read the room as usual or perhaps too noble to decide not to comment on it.

“You’re… very tense.”

“I’mnot.”

“I can… stop, if that’s what you want.”

“I’mfine.”

Concern settled on the shinobi's features, his eyes opening completely, showing those expressionless pearls that still found a way to shine through his blooming emotions, giving himself away like an open book. Or at least a book only readable by someone with an exceptional ability to analyze other people.

“... Curry?”

“... Yes.”

“Very well…”

He politely withdrew, taking some distance.

Kururu let out the air he didn't know he had been holding. The glasses fell into place.

He practically deflated in his seat, taking advantage once again of not being visible to other’s eyes.

That had been intense and he had no idea why.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“No…”

“I can leave if-”

“No.”

He remained silent, they both did.

Although their long pauses were characterized by not being uncomfortable as both had a certain taste for the lack of sound, now the same stillness seemed suffocating, more so for the yellow sociopath.

“... Did ya get what'cha wanted?” He lazily spoke.

“Oh, yes, indeed, and I thank you deeply for the opportunity.”

“Good.”

And there it was again.

The Sergeant Major bit his lower lip, hard, longing to make himself bleed and take advantage for the umpteenth consecutive time that he couldn't see him. But it would be annoying to clean up afterwards and he was pretty sure that Dororo could smell blood.

He'd gone and done it several times, reminded him of a hound even. Maybe it was pretty obvious if he thought about it for a bit.

Sometimes he can't help but wonder what things are like for him. Like sure he has trouble seeing because he has like eighteen thousand degrees of myopia, but he knows it's not the same thing.

“... Do you smell colors?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Forget it. I was thinking about what I would do if I plucked my eyes out, kuukukukuku-”

“Oh god…” he paused briefly to grimace before processing. “… Were you pondering what it feels like to lack vision?”

“… Sorta."

“I could teach you if you like.”

“You ain't going to pluck my eyes out, shinobi.”

“Good grief, no! I would never commit such an atrocity!”

“Kuuukukukukuku-”

“I mean it!”

“I’m fuckin’ with you, don’t let it keep you awake… What'chu got in mind?”

“Ah…” The ninja pouted, indivisible as ever, before standing up. “Do you happen to have a way to make the place completely dark?”

Kururu already knew where this was going. He thought about it for a few beats.

“Aye.”

He turned back on his chair, then skillfully pressed a series of buttons to write the necessary command, a small confirmation screen materializing on the board that soon disappeared when he pressed the “accept @u@” box next to the “I messed up @m@” one.

A distinctive sound took out all the lights in the place, which, being reinforced and thousands of meters underground, managed to remain completely dark.

“Haven’t done this since that time some idiot snuck in. I think he’s still lost on level G8, kukuku-”

Dororo refused to inquire about that.

“Perfect, now, can you see my hand?”

The Sergeant tried to turn to where he thought the ninja was, obviously failing in the attempt, though not by far.

“No.”

“Can you get up and follow my voice?”

“‘K”

And he tried.

Surrounded by nothing but darkness, he reached out for his partner, muscle memory keeping him from colliding with the scattered scrap metal and other irregularities on the ground.

“Keep talkin’.”

“I’m over here.”

Was it only him, or did he seemed farther away now?

“When one of your senses has abandoned you, the most important thing is-”

“Sharpen the others, blah blah blah, I know, I’ve heard that crap a lot.”

“...”

An unfamiliar hand gave him a small push and disappeared before he could turn around and return the gesture.

Funny.

He was tempted to activate some function on his hearing aids or even his glasses, but they were doing this peculiar activity for a reason, so instead he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

Dororo was fast, skilled, too much so for someone who can’t see, however his footsteps and movements sometimes followed a certain pattern, as well as making a sound, very barely perceptible, but it was there, it was like hearing a leaf stick to your face, if that made any sense.

But now he couldn't see, and he didn't know very well where it started either, so the best he could do was guess.

Or listen to what he told him for the first time in his life.

"I think you're cheating."

"Often what you throw can come back to hit you in the face, sir."

"Are you still upset about that time I left you in my mind and forgot about it?"

"N-No-...!"

Kururu smiled, his head turning gravitationally towards Dororo's almost exact direction.

"I should be the upset one, I'm almost sure you saw things you shouldn't have seen..."

“I disagree, that experience allowed me to know that you are a Keronian and not an Oni born from the agony and misfortune of others!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Doro…”

The ninja felt a chill run down his spine, and before he could respond to Kururu’s provocations two unknown hands grabbed him by the shoulders from behind and pulled towards that direction.

“I am.” Kururu mumbled, gruffier than usual, before giving him a small push and letting go.

If he didn’t know who was there and what they were playing, Dororo would probably have died of a heart attack right on the spot. He put a hand on his chest.

“...Well played.”

The technician's peculiar nasal laugh echoed around the place, as if being cast through speakers, even though he was standing in the same place. He considered the possibility that perhaps he was an Oni born from the agony and misfortune of others.

Freaky.

“So? What did I won?” The yellow frog asked, mockingly.

There was no answer.

“…I won?”

“You did.”

Two familiar hands positioned themselves on either side of his face, immediate panic setting in on the technician’s currently invisible features.

“Hah!?” He practically spat, alarms ringing and bursting inside his head.

He felt an alien breath inches away from him, all of his senses began to sharpen and he feared the allegory as much as the assumption. He froze under the trained assassin’s cold touch, and for some reason the possibility of saying “curry” didn’t even crossed his mind.

He found himself leaning in before he could command his body to do so, and before he could literally process anything they both connected.

shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit

Kururu's mind was buzzing, pure interference mixed with confused and incomplete sensations, all amidst an endless darkness that would remain that way until he staggered to the switch, if he could manage to find it.

They parted, one as stiff as a board left for weeks in an industrial freezer and the other melting from embarrassment, his palms sweaty and his face uncovered.

“cool.” they said in unison, both grateful that eye contact was a near-permanent impossibility.

And a new kind of silence settled in.

It was neither comforting nor unpleasant, much less one they actively fought to combat but neither one they would endure for long.

Kururu cleared his throat, Dororo coughed.

“I’m going to assume that was the… touch lesson, or… some….”

“The what?”

“You know, senses, contact.”

“Ah, yes… AH, yes! Precisely!”

“Well… I think I want to retake the test, didn’t get to study very well, kuukukuku-”

“I shall gladly impart this lesson again.”

Dororo gave a small bow, which was surprisingly caught by Kururu.

And so they kissed in the dark for the next two hours.

This doesnt count as kissing cuz it's not a drawing fuck you..........

[poppurini]

holding his hand

incl. malleus & f!reader┊reader wears a dress

note. not proofread i word vomit

malleus was deprived of physical touch ever since birth. aside from his grandmother and the country’s trusted general, people and animals alike have avoided him like plague if possible. servants back at the castle bowed their heads and retreated quickly whenever they spotted him, birds have fled and the animals have left their precious dinner behind when malleus stepped into their vicinity.

the man understands since childhood that it was due to his position and the power he possessed, but he would never harm them. he was certain he would never abuse his power and harm innocent creatures, he was not a monster. well, he was a little upset with the way he’s being treated but it never really occupied much of his mind, really. he had stopped gazing out windows, standing on his tippy toes when he was a mere toddler to watch the town children running around and play-fighting with each other. it had stopped bothering him, he had grown accustomed to it. only until this very moment where he’s sat beside you, that is.

to others, it may have been a little embarrassing. the future king of briar valley had fallen quick and deep for this child of man he had coincidentally met during one of his strolls in the forest. it was cliché, really. but how could he not be intrigued by someone who did not flee at the sight of him? instead you held an endearing curiosity in your eyes, clearly alarmed by the stranger but still, you did not flee.

his feet brought him back to the very same spot the next day, hoping to encounter you again and, well, maybe make a friend? he never had a friend. he should take the initiative. malleus preferred you come out from hiding first, though. surely you’re aware of him noticing your presence? he had chuckled a little, this human was poor at being discreet.

and before malleus knew it, his heart yearned for you. not a second goes by where his mind was not occupied by the intriguing girl he had met that fateful day. the young fae finished his lessons quickly and stepped out, he’d hate to be late and make you wait.

malleus hope he wasn’t being too obvious about it but oh, what is this feeling, anyway? he does not know, but he likes it. he likes the way you make him feel, it was such a pleasant feeling he find himself smiling at the mere thought of you.

there is one thing troubling him, however. he wishes to hold you oh so desperately. the distance between you two had closed gradually the more you see each other but he still could not find the courage in him to just initiate touch. yes, the mighty fae was shy. how embarrassing, truly.

he had a hunch you reciprocated his feelings, malleus had seen the bashful look on your face when he draped his coat over your lap. it was windy that day, you looked a little cold to the man and your pretty dress did not cover all of you, he find the way you stuttered thanks adorable.

it was a gesture that occurred to him naturally, he hadn’t thought much about it. but holding hands? oh, how scandalous.

he had given much thought about how he should execute it. i mean, he could really just ask outright. may i hold your hand? that wasn’t hard, but it would be extremely sudden and maybe a little awkward, he admit. or he could sneak his way in? you are sitting very close to each other, after all. if anything the slight graze of your skin against his was driving him to the edge. if only there was something that—

“I pricked my finger today, did you know that some flowers have thorns on them? So scary!” a small laugh escaped you while recalling the little accident you had today, too distracted by its beauty. there was definitely still much to learn for you.

you showed him the small injury, the blood had stopped but it still stings, you told him. malleus’ gaze softened as he gently held your hand. “You should’ve been more careful, child of man.” concern laced his voice as he casted magic, healing your little injury. “Does it still hurt?”

the look you had made him smile. it was but a simple spell, the most basic one, and yet it got you so astonished. there were many surprises to you that he could not wait to unravel them all.

it wasn’t long until malleus stiffened, his heart racing in its cage, threatening to burst. he was holding your hand in his, and you did not pull away. even after the little treatment was done.

he cleared his throat and prepared to pull away, an apology already at the tip of his tongue but you held on. you took his hand in yours and even sat closer to the man with a quiet giggle, almost leaning against him.

“Thanks, Malmal.”

you continued on about the adventures you had today while mindlessly playing with his slender fingers, and it didn’t take malleus long to intertwine them with yours as he hummed in response to your stories.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

Re: the sneeze thing, do you think it would be hot if a guy wearing a super fancy traditional suit with the pocket square thingy like Marquis or Santino actually used it for its original purpose???? Maybe a ficlet about that?

Why yes. I do. Supremely hot.

I didn't specify a person, just a general mafia boss. (FYI, I try to keep these kinds of asks on my @snzcaretaker blog normally. I'll see you over there in the future.) Alright, let's get into it! TW: sneeze kink, cold

❤︎ Matching Pocket Square ❤︎

The boss sits square-shouldered at the end of his gleaming, hardwood table, the picture of manly grace. Everything matches: the polished black shoes correspond to the shiny black buttons of the waistcoat, the icy smile matches the mirthless glare, the gold silk pocket square brings out the gold silk tie. And the droplets welling up at the corner of his eyes match the tiny drop beginning to form under the tip of his nose.

He sniffs, to no avail.

He's been coming down with something since yesterday. A sore throat, tiredness. Nothing to worry about. But it turned terribly congested this morning, and it was too late to cancel negotiations. As if he'd give it up anyway. This deal is critical. It could mean the difference between doubled profits, or an all-out turf war.

Does he even care anymore?

Another sniffle. The inside of his nose is starting to throb, deep and demanding, somewhere in the back of the sinuses. He'll have to sneeze sooner or later, but just...just hold out a little longer... Meanwhile, the rival don is rattling off a long list of demands in a monotone voice, rings glinting and grin vicious. He tries desperately to answer with the same sureness, to pay attention to anything other than how stuffy and exhausted he feels, and the urgent sense that he can't hold back much longer. It's such a disheartening feeling.

He hates being sick. It's so much trouble to hide it, to avoid the mocking conversations that would otherwise ensue. It reminds him that he's never really safe, that he has to be strong, that no one honestly cares about him. He resists the urge to put his head in his hands and instead sniffs against the impending sneeze one more time, even more desperately.

Wrong move. Now he can't even breath without setting himself off. "Excuse mbe," he manages, "phone call," and rushes out of his seat, pretending to go for his cell phone.

He finds himself standing in the hallway with the same problem: that he's about to sneeze all over himself with no recourse. Half by instinct, his hands goes to that perfect pocket square. It's so crisp and nice and not intended for this at all and it's a bad idea but -

Very abruptly, it's too late.

A harsh, explosive release snaps his head forward, ending in a half-grateful, half-miserable moan. "Mmmff…ugh." He needed that so much. And this is the most luxurious "tissue" he's ever enjoyed. Embroidered florets press against his skin, mercifully silky. It feels like burying his face into a fresh, soft pillow where he wishes he could just lie down and rest. An inanimate thing, but safe for that very reason. Nonjudgemental, nonthreatening, just so welcoming that he blushes from the comfort, eyes scrunched closed.

The distinctive scent of dry-cleaned fabric, so pristine it has barely ever touched flesh, floods up into his nose. He sneezes again, and again, harder. Might as well - he's already soiled it. He just lets everything go.

He muffles a loud, sickly nose blow against the cloth and scrubs at his nose when it's done, as if he can clean the cold out of it. He can't. His airways are clearer now, but at the cost of feeling a little lightheaded, of feeling the fever creeping up the back of his neck with chills that make him long for warm arms around his shoulders. No, no, don't get emotional. He sighs, trying to catch his breath.

His eyes are puffy and watery now. If he's not careful, he'll look like he's been crying. He dabs at them politely with the corner of the kerchief and sniffs again, with a sense of finality. There, that's a little better. But he still looks downright vulnerable. Nothing can hide the irritated flush at the tip of his nose, which is already starting to drip again. And when he goes back inside, his pocket square will be mysteriously missing.