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gracieheartspedro · 3 months ago

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Nobody Likes A Secret

pairing: no outbreak rich older!joel miller x fem!reader.

how to help the palestinians and what it means to write for the last of us characters

word count: 3k words

description: a rich wealthy playboy who becomes enthralled by his neighbor's daughter. it never ends well when he can not fathom having happiness for himself.

warnings: ANGSTY!!!!!, age gap (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her mid 20s), wealthy!joel, neighbor!joel, reader is pretty naive and delusional, taboo relationship troupe, mentions of parent death, VERY BRIEF SMUT, joel is borderline evil and very mean. joel calls reader "kid". joel is also a liar. talks of having children.

author’s note: I wrote this all in like... two nights. I listened to illicit affair by taylor swift and nobody likes a secret by lizzy mcalpine a lil much and it ended up here. sorry if I make you sad.

You creep into the large 4-car garage, seeing Joel pacing the oil-stained floor. He’s still in his work clothes, but he looks a bit disheveled. His eyes are wild, his face downturned into a deep-set frown.

“Joel? Everything okay?”

He shakes his head. “He knows.”

You know only one person who would ruin this.

‘This’ being an 9-month-long affair with your older neighbor. Months and months of meeting in dark corners, hardly ever seeing each other in the light.

“How?”

Joel fumbles trying to pull his phone out of his pocket, showing you the 5 missed calls from your Dad. You stare at it blankly, tightening your jaw at the possibility that your Dad is too smart for his own good. Shit, he does know, doesn’t he? He throws the phone down on a nearby leather couch that is positioned near a workbench. Joel was pretty good with his hands, but lately his mind has been anywhere but tinkering with wood in his garage.

“He came over an hour ago. Sat me down and told me that he was getting suspicious of some outings you’ve had over the last couple months. Said he realized you were not going to the places you said you were going to. So he assumed you had a new boyfriend or something. Then last night…”

You curl your hands into a fist. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck,” Joel grumbles, running his hands over his face, dragging his lower lids down in frustration, “He said that if I know anything or see anything, I am to let him know immediately. He’s worried you’re fuckin’ around with the wrong guy.”

You had snuck out of your house last night and tiptoed your way into Joel’s car, which was parked in a nearby cul de sac. He promised you a nice late dinner in the city and then he ravished you in a hotel room you two didn’t even spend the night in. He brought you home around 4 am and you snuck back into your bedroom, ensuring nothing in your home was stirred. When you woke up the next morning, your father left you a note that he wanted to do dinner with you that night. Meaning tonight.

You know this is detrimental, and while you do not want to freak out immediately, you can not help but feel like someone is stabbing you directly in the chest. Joel’s body language is giving off negative signals, so even though you want to hug him and tell him that you can talk to your Dad, you know it’s not going to change much.

Your eyes well with tears, thinking of how this was going to ruin everything. After months and months, you thought you were being so smart.

“We can’t do this anymore,” He whispers.

And God damn, did Joel hate seeing you cry.

But the tear-filled eyes you are giving him are warranted. You don’t turn away from him like usual. You never wanted to show him any weakness.

This time you confront him, your nose turning upward and your eyes full of disdain.

“You said we were being careful,” You murmur, the salty tears falling down your cheeks.

“Not careful enough.”

The bitterness tastes like blood in your mouth. You want to scream at him but keep an even tone instead, “Joel… Just let me talk to him.”

“You knew where this was gonna end up,” He states plainly, his voice not wavering.

And maybe he was right, but you enjoyed living in a loved-up delusion. Maybe it was the sex or maybe it was the looks he gave you from across densely populated parties you were forced to go to. You would put on a show long enough to make your father happy and then you would somehow sneak away with Joel. You knew if your father caught you with the much older man, he would lose his mind, so you were always cautious. You made sure the doors were locked. The moans would stay hushed. The car was parked far from your front door. And during the time spent away from the house, you would get a girlfriend to lie for you. You were always so careful.

“Maybe he suspects it’s someone else.” you try to reassure him, but you know it’s falling on deaf ears.

“You know he knows it’s me.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Joel rolls his eyes. He knows that your father’s words were simply a warning. If you two continued this schtick, you know better than anyone your father would find out. You knew he already kind of had eyes on you and Joel had caught on to a couple of neighbors watching him from their bedroom windows. He gives your father credit, he was thorough.

“We have to stop.”

You did not realize how much your heart was banking on making this work. Joel was about 25 years older, so deep down, you knew that no one would accept the relationship. But in your wildest fantasies, you imagined you two would run away together. He had tons of money, you had nothing tying you down, and it could be a perfect escape. You had brought it up one night after you snuck over to his bed and he didn’t explicitly say no. He just giggled and continued tracing circles on your bare back.

You bite the inside of your cheek, “So you just… don’t want me anymore?”

He huffs, already annoyed you were making it seem like he had a choice.

“It was never gonna work out in the first place, kid.”

You just stare at him. The nickname hit harder than it ever has. After months of sneaking around with you, Joel only ever saw you as that. A kid.

“Don’t call me that. Ever.”

He notices the rise in your voice and quickly realizes he made a mistake.

“Listen-”

It’s like every terrible emotion you have ever had comes bubbling to the surface. The resentment you held towards him when he ignored your calls some nights. Or when he refused to get near you at any party. You had your grievances, but you sat there like a good girl and just accepted him the way he was.

It’s like acid in your throat, it burns.

“No, you listen,” You snap, “You don’t get to play the kid card. You chose this just as much as I did. You told me that my age didn’t matter. You told me that you would want children with me one day. You filled my head with all this bullshit and now when shit gets real, you walk away. You’re a fuckin’ coward, Joel.”

“My reputation and livelihood is on the line for this! You think I don’t still want those things?”

“If you wanted them bad enough, you would fight for me.”

It makes his face drop. His furrowed eyebrows relax and his mouth droops down into a subtle frown.

You do not know where to go from here. The atmosphere in his garage rises with tension, words just hanging in the air.

The Annual Miller Christmas Party was the talk of the town. Everyone who received an invitation would proudly display the cardstock on their huge fridges and show their uninvited neighbors to brag. When Joel came over to hand deliver you and your father’s invitations, he told you to wear something sparkly.

You searched everywhere for the perfect gown for weeks. He had only really shown you attention when forced to be in the same room as you, so you needed to be eye-catching. He was never the guy to wave to you when he was leaving for work or say a quiet hello at the grocery store. Joel was a very regimented man. He never strayed away from his routine which was usually work, hookups with random women, and sleep. He never kept a woman around for too long. You noticed the circulation of women changed every month or so. Joel never wanted to settle down. He had tried that once 15 years ago and his ex ended up with half of his company.

But you always loved the way the man carried him. Despite his playboy behavior, you were entranced with him. You always thought he was handsome and when you came home at 25 to help your mother who had fallen sick, you knew that your crush had morphed into borderline obsession. Living next to him would be dangerous.

The dress you chose was red, which was fitting for the occasion. And of course, it was sparkly. Just what Joel ordered.

You spent all day preparing for the evening and when you showed up on his front door on your Father’s arm, he could not peel his eyes away. You were so radiant and perfect. The twinkle in your eyes shone brighter than the glitter on your gown.

During the night, you drank a couple of glasses of champagne and chatted up some of your Father’s colleagues. You notice Joel’s eyes following you every so often. You can vividly remember thinking, “This man wants me so bad.”

That night Joel cornered you in the hallway by the bathroom. He asked you if you were interested in literature, but really he just wanted you alone in his study. You being you, you enthusiastically said yes and followed him down the unlit corridor. Once he shut the huge wooden double doors, you knew that you would be slipping out of that gown for him in no time.

And that’s exactly what happened.

He drove you crazy, peppering kisses all down your body. He would groan every time he heard your shaky breath, knowing that the effect he had on you would become a dependence for him.

When he first pressed into you, it was different than any other woman he’s ever been with. You did not throw your head back, moaning obscenities. Instead, you stared into his eyes and nodded, encouraging him to continue his movements. It was so sensual and passionate, by the time you two finished, he held you in his arms for 20 minutes. He was never one for pillow talk or aftercare, so he surprised himself.

You were different than any other woman he had ever encountered.

You had slipped over to his front door a couple of days after the Christmas party, knocking to ask his assistant if he was home. When she brought you into his office, he told his assistant to shut the door on the way out. His eyes never left yours as you bantered to him. He loved your confidence. He bent you over his desk after 10 minutes, tugging up your skirt and swatting your ass for showing up on his doorstep looking “this beautiful”.

Joel always made you feel so good. His dirty talk went to Harvard. He could make you cum over and over with his husky Southern accent. Every time he called you “darlin’” or “princess”, you would come undone.

A couple of months into the entanglement, your Mother’s health deteriorated overnight. You and your Father stayed by her side when she took her last breaths. It was devastating, seeing the woman you looked up to your entire life slowly slip away. You felt like a shell of a person, unable to really harbor any feeling other than pain.

Joel called you and let you know he would not be able to attend the funeral due to work commitments. You did not care, understanding that there’s never a good time for someone to die and he had no obligation to come. You arrived at the funeral home and saw a huge arrangement of purple and blue flowers. On the card, was scribbled in his handwriting.

“What a breath of fresh air she was. Thinking of her family, always. Joel Miller.”

When it was time for the burial, you watched a large SUV pull up right before the final words were going to be spoken. Joel hopped out the back and slowly approached, keeping his distance from you and the rest of the attendees. Once she was lowered into the ground, Joel came over to give his condolences to your inconsolable father.

You stayed back, watching everyone except him leave. You sat in the first row of fold-out chairs, watching them throw dirt over her casket. He sat down next to you, never saying anything. His hand extended out, touching your hand that was resting on your lap. It was an unspoken thing, but you never felt more seen in your entire life. He somehow knew exactly what you needed.

Someone next to you.

After a couple of months, you felt more like yourself. You called him one night, asking if he was available for a drive. He parked his truck in your usual meet-up spot. You crawled up into the passenger seat and asked him to drive. You did not care where. You two caught up and once he could tell you were getting back to some semblance of yourself, he made his move. He was stopped at a red light when he placed his hand on your thigh. It was the first time you had sex in his truck. That night kickstarted the affair again, which led to the secret meetings in hotel rooms. You two got more bold with your rendezvous, even taking a weekend to the mountains. You don’t even remember the lie you told your Father as to why you were gone.

Joel always thought you were capable. He admired you for being such a dynamic woman. To be so strong and delicate at the same time was unheard of. Even though you were much younger than him, you were well-versed in everything. You were professional and smart when it came to business. All the while, you were polite and empathetic. He would frequently come to you when he needed advice about work or an opinion on something ethical. He enjoyed hearing you ramble on about things you were passionate about. And God, did he love your laugh.

He did not expect to keep you around as long as he did. But your body was like a drug and Joel had a nasty habit. You were always eager and available, and after a while, Joel started thinking maybe it was too much all at once. When you became comfortable enough to sleep over in his bed and make him breakfast, he knew his world was tilted on its axis.

He needed to find a way to ruin it for himself, as he had done so many times before.

He “slipped up” one night. As he and his chatty neighbor Jeff sat outside and smoked cigars, he spoke about his desire for you. He didn’t particularly say that you two were together, but simply insinuated that he would like to have you alone. And the rumors spread quickly. Soon enough a little birdie was in your Dad’s ear, feeding him information.

Joel kept up the act with you, even though it was not really an act. He did like you, hell, he may have even loved you. But he did not want you to need him. So when people started paying more attention to you and him, he knew his plan was set in motion. In no time, it would all come crashing down.

“If your Dad takes this to the board, I will lose my company. Do you understand that?”

You hated that you understood stupid business jargon. You knew that Joel losing his company would be devastating. But at this point, you could not care less. Because for as long as your affair, you watched his walls fall away. He had let you in more than once and in your delusional state, you believed for a second that he would choose you over his job.

You clench your teeth as you suck in a sharp breath, tears still streaming down your warm face.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then we just end it. This has already gone too far.”

You finally turn away from him, your eyes falling to the concrete floor. As soon as he says those words, chills run down your arms.

“You know Joel…” You drift off, using your shirt sleeve as a tissue. You wipe away a couple of tears and glare back up at him, “I would have given up everything in my life for this. My job. My relationship with my father. Everything. And the fact that you won’t even give me a chance to talk to my Dad to see if he could spare you and this whole charade, really fucking hurts. I’m not worth that to you and that… That’s what hurts the most.”

“Babe-”

“No. You don’t get to call me that anymore. You don’t get to call me anything.”

The tears flow again as you watch him exhale, his hands on his hips. His hair is unkept and the tie he’s wearing has been loosened.

“I’m sorry,” Is all he can say while your lip quivers. You are trying not to lose it completely.

You just shake your head, “No. You’re not sorry.”

He was. He was sorry, but he could not let you ruin everything.

Joel would soon know that you were everything. And as you left the back door that evening, leaving behind the scent of your perfume, he knew that the smell would somehow taint his sheets, even though you had not been in them for weeks. He already started to miss the feeling of your lips. When he tried to go about his evening, he swore he would see you in the shadows of his large house. He even thought he heard your laugh. You were already haunting him even though the death of your relationship happened just hours before.

You moved on after a couple of years. Met a guy at your 9-5, settled down, and popped out a few kiddos. Some nights you would lie awake, wondering to yourself if Joel was really happy. You never learned the truth of his deceit. After all, your Father was just grateful that his warning to Joel led to his desired outcome, which was him being gone from your life entirely.

And Joel would be haunted for the rest of his life. No woman. No drugs. No party. Nothing ever filled the void you left behind. And it was all his fault. Just like it always had been.

#joel miller fic #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfiction #tlou joel #joel tlou #pedro pascal #affair au #check tags #angsty joel miller #fic: nobody likes a secret

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onlydijah · 8 months ago

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જ⁀➴ FAMILIARITY ❪ LES ❫

𝜗𝜚 CATCH IT! fem!reader, mentions of kissing and intimacy (no smut).

𝜗𝜚 WORDS FROM ME! this is NAWT❌ “fluff of the year” material i fear LMFAO i lwk lied thru my teeth srry guys🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️ wrote this instead of finishing part 2 of “BAD HABIT” but that’s almost done and should be out next week!

𝜗𝜚 :: time was never in KENJI’S favor, however, the very few and far between times it was, he never hesitated to devote it to you.

✧ WORDCOUNT :: 986

“KENJI! STOP!” you giggled, keeping your voice low as you ultimately failed to remove yourselves from Kenji’s firm grip.

“Come on baby, just 5 minutes,” he pleaded, “They won't even notice I'm gone, promise.” Kenji stuck out his pinky, eyes filled with a mix of mischief and devotion, praying his pleas didn’t fall upon deaf ears.

You anxiously looked side-to-side, analyzing the barren hallways for any sound or sign of people approaching. “2 minutes.”

“Fine.” Kenji conceded in a breath, too shortsighted to realize how little time your compromise left him with. You extended your pinky, to which he hooked his around, yanking you through the wide, changing room doors.

The state of the art equipment, carefully selected decor and pleasant hum of the electronics in the room were all drowned out as soon as Kenji crashed his lips onto yours, his soft breathing fanning your face.

You pushed him into a chair, pressing small, glassy pink proclamations of endearment on his chiseled face, courtesy of the strawberry flavored lip gloss you had applied moments prior.

Kenji dipped his head back in merriment, ghosting your lower back with his hands, leaving just enough space for you to move freely, but still close enough to catch you if you faltered in your straddled position. As he relished in the warmth of your tender affection and the feeling of your muffled giggles against this skin, you focused on other parts of his alluring face. The side of his nose, below his cheekbone— anywhere you might have missed.

“Is this gonna stain?” He remarked lowly, his slender fingers subconsciously pressing shapes into the sides of your hips.

“Shhh— don’t ruin the moment,” you pleaded, continuing. The changing room was pitch black, the only source of light being the measly floor lamp which was in desperate need of lightbulb change. The faint illumination covered Kenji's face like a soft blanket, softening his harsh features.

As the minutes dwindled into seconds, the faint roaring of the crowd began to get progressively louder, now being audible from inside the room you occupied. Your lips nuzzled against his neck, rolling down the skin tight, black compression shirt’s turtleneck and placing more tinted imprints down his neck.

Everything was serene and cozy, until you pulled away quickly when you heard discernible footsteps passing by the suite, the soft noise bringing you back to reality. The boy in front of you let out a small groan, voicing his displeasure with your sudden cut of contact. But looking at it from an outsider’s point of view; you were in an unlocked staff only room, perched on their star player’s lap, with smudged lips matching the exact color of kiss marks that were now littered across his face.

Suddenly, Kenji’s dissatisfaction wasn’t your biggest concern anymore.

You stood up instantly, flattening out your lightly wrinkled jersey and stealing Kenji’s black baseball cap, smoothing out your disheveled hair to the best of your ability and placing it on your head. “Okay, that was waymore than 2 minutes..” You proclaimed, smiling slyly when you glanced at Kenji’s flushed face.

His eyebrows drew in with discontent, “Can I atleast have my hat back?” He grumbled with mock venom. “Nope, you don't need it. I do.” you replied. Grabbing a mini rolled towel from the side table next to you, you began to lightly rub off the reflective marks one by one with the same care you inhibited when began intricately placing them, “You look funny, I should leave you like this.” You giggled, seizing hold of his chin. “Look to the left for me please,” Kenji obliged silently, turning his head.

As you gently wiped his face, his eyes couldn’t help but wander to yours, housing a foreign look of deep affection and devotion. He admired how your hair fell by your side when you looked down, and the soft touch of your manicured fingers on his skin.

Finishing quickly, you left only one by his neck. You adjusted the neckline fabric tediously, hiding the kiss to the best of your ability. You glanced up at him, surprised at the way his eyes had been focused on yours for quite some time now, eyelids glossy and mind deep in thought.

“Ken—“

“Kenji?” a deep voice called, footsteps nearing closer.

“Shit!” He whispered under his breath, “Okay, you should go now,” he gave a breathy laugh, the whites of his teeth peeking out as he smiled feebly.

“Bye Ken, good luck,” you wished him well, stealthy running out the room’s back door. Giggling as you silently passed by his manager.

Cade opened the door slowly, greeted by the ominous darkness and silence of the area. “H-hello? Ken. They need you out there, now!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Kenji turned around, frantically looking for… something? “I’m.. where did I put it?” Kenji mumbled to himself.

“Your helmet?” Cade blurted out, unsure.

“Yup, that mhm.” Kenji latched onto the premature lie, nodding his head slowly, the movement stiff and constrained in motion.

“Umm..” The elder stared at the player curiously, “Well I’m sure they have extras on the pitch, let’s go!”

SAFE TO SAY YOUR “LUCKY CHARM” WORKED, the giants winning 8-3.

“We should do that again sometime, huh? Before every game would be great.” Kenji smirked in your ear, walking beside you to the exit.

“Nuh-uh No more. 3 more seconds and we would’ve been caught.” You shook your head stubbornly, grabbing his hand and turning a corner.

“And?” Kenji quirked his brow, dumbfounded.

“Let me rephrase that..” you abrubtly freezed, “3 more seconds and I would’ve got caught— me.”

“I’m still not seeing the problem?” Kenji questioned, stopping along with you.

You huffed, “How do I explain this to you— I would look like a groupie.”

“Ohhhh” he smiled, “Yea I see it now, ‘s a shame.”

“Yea.”

masterlist

#𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒. ⟡ كتابات #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x you #ken sato x you #kenji sato x y/n #ultraman rising #ken sato #ken sato x y/n #ken sato imagines #ken sato x reader #kenji x reader #kenji sato #fanfic #ultraman x reader #x reader #kensato

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fairene · 8 months ago

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Fic idea!! maybe some sick lando? like taking cares of him, kinda overlapping with Austrian Grand Prix?

i love your writing; am always rereading it and still have the same effect as reading the first time :))

sweet love / ln4

anon!!! i love this idea.

lando norris x f!reader

no use of y/n, as always.

a/n ⋯ felt the most grueling muse for this as lando has been sick. needed to spill out my love for this man. he needs all the support he can get for the race tomorrow! took a break from writing beneath the moonlight, too, just for a brief time. i wrote this whole thing at work haha. as usual, reader's looks are left up for interpretation, and whatever outfit you choose. hope you all enjoy, cheers!

warnings ⋯ no smut, kissing, anxiety.

wc ⋯ 2.3k (unedited.)

this weekend, you knew, was going to be difficult. within the past few days from barcelona’s grand prix, lando had come down with something. he woke that morning beside you, snoring louder than usual, with a hoarse voice and a congested nose. it startled you upon waking, thinking that it would be much worse than you suspected.

ultimately, you believed it was.

when you were getting ready this morning, taming your hair and throwing on a relaxed fit for the sprint race, you were watching him. you watched him from the ensuite, hunched over the side of the bed with his head in his hands. he sniffled and blew his nose relentlessly.

your shoulder leaned against the bathroom’s door frame, his hoodie covering your figure completely. with arms wrapping around your body, your head lolled to the wooden plaster. “lan,” your voice came soft, rugged with the toils of sleep.

he turned to face you, slinging his legs on the end of the bed. he replied with a small ‘hmm?’ and you felt your heart wrench.

he shouldn’t race today. he shouldn’t. but you knew he had to. this wasn’t a sport where you could simply take days off, but looking at lando in his disheveled state had you overcome with worry.

you let out a sigh when you approached him, running a hand over his shoulder. he relaxed into your touch, needing it now more than ever on this cloudy morning. you shuffled your way between his thighs, settling above him. you captured his face between both your hands, angling him to look up at you.

what you were met with was a sea of despair and disappointment. his eyes were bruised, bloodsohot, weak. but your lando wasn’t a weakling. this was an obstacle for him to overcome, and you’d help him in any way that he needed.

“don’t,” he said, attempting to shake off your grip. but you remained strong and firm, unrelenting to his disapproval. “don’t want to get you sick.”

you scoffed. “you think i care?”

“you should.”

you shook your head. with both of your thumbs you swirled circles across his scruff of a stubble. “i care about you.”

he let his weight fall limp against your body. his entire chest leaning against your abdomen, head nuzzling just beneath your breasts. you combed through his curled, mahogany hair, soothing him the best you could before you decided to make him breakfast.

he groaned into you, letting you know of his adequate discomfort, and sniffled a few more times. you finally gained the strength to to lift his head, curling a hand around the back of his neck, the other beneath his chin. his stubble had grown long and itched at your fingertips, but the sensation was more than welcome.

your eyes were connected with one another again. he blinked slowly, his pupils blowing wide. you looked angelic looming above him, stroking the rough skin of his face. he’d never felt so much ease as he had before beneath your hands. your wondrous, careful hands. he had so much love for you, and it only grew tenfold when he saw how worried you were. worried that his sickness evolved to an ailment of his performance. he decided then that he would try his hardest for you.

“i love you.” he whispered, turning his head to the side to kiss the open palm of your hand. he let his mouth wander up your wrist, kissing the vital veins that ran beneath your skin. your heart was thummering at a stable pace, calming him much further from his rampant anxieties for the upcoming sprint race.

you knew he meant his words with his entire heart, and the universe combined. you were awed by his courage to want to race today–not that he had much of a choice– but you knew that he would perform to his utmost capabilities. you were proud of him, though the race wasn’t starting for a few more hours.

“and i love you, baby,” you breathed, sucking in a tight breath when he kept kissing up the length of your arm. his lips were tender, caring, a way that he expressed just how much he meant to you. “come on, i’ll make you some soup.”

he had a spur of energy at those words and didn’t hesitate to rise to his feet. he stood a bit taller than you, and planted a kiss on your forehead. his mouth lingered at your hairline, his nose brushing through the strands of your hair. you savored this moment. hands coming to his chest, you gripped at the fabric of his shirt.

“you’ll be okay.” you said the words not only to consolidate him, but to soothe yourself. he hummed a soft sound of approval, music to your ears, and kissed your forehead once again.

“get dressed. your soup’ll be done soon.”

he sighed a soft thank you when you detach yourself from his grasp. you made your way to the small kitchen, and began to work with the ingredients you had on hand. lucky for you, you had ordered an instacart order for prepping dinner. you had everything that you wanted and more, and couldn’t be more thankful that you had prepared. you had a feeling that with his illness, the only thing that could make him feel better was a warm cup of soup.

into the pot went the essentials. stock, protein, and over the burner it was lit. it wasn’t until another hour that the soup was ready to eat, but you had gotten to work hastefully.

lando emerged from your shared bedroom and immediately aimed for you. his arms wrapped around from behind you, riding up the expanse of your body, gripping at his most favorite parts of you. his hands were tight as they held on, desperate to feel you, and you leaned into him as you stirred the goodies in the pot.

“smells delicious.” he commented, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. you smiled, angling your head to kiss his cheek.

in only just a few minutes you had plated the soup for him in a cup from the cupboard. he was eager, but couldn’t find himself to sit down. he was latched on behind you the entire time, littering tender kisses down the column of your throat. you noticed that he became touchy, needy, when he was sick. not that you were complaining, just about ready to give him the whole world if he asked.

“come on, lan,” you urged him, placing the bowl at the table for him with a spoon and napkin. “gotta eat. we’re leaving soon.” you had checked the time an he only had a half hour to eat before the car would be here.

his head buried into your shoulder. his words muffled against your sweatshirt–his– “don’t wanna.” if you heart could shatter even more, it split into pieces. you knew he was struggling, and he would only share these disparities with you.

your hand came to hold the side of his face. you squeezed his cheek. “i know.”

he finally sat down, tucking himself against the table, and began to eat. he was in heaven, truly, with how your soup tasted. it brought back nostalgic memories for him when he was a boy, and it could only be described as euphoria. a feeling or state of intense happiness.

he made a sound in the back of his throat, guzzling the soup with earnesty. “fuckin’ good, baby, thank you.”

you smiled, coming to rub your hand along his back. he was in his mclaren kit, the papaya color shimmering beneath the kitchen lighting.

it didn’t take him much longer to finish. you had filled his water bottle for him, full of icecubes, to soothe his burning throat. you even gave him some lozenges to pocket. he washed his dish and the pair of you moved in comfortable silence. your eyes never left him, as if you were waiting for him to change his mind to race today.

but he didn’t. and you could only hold his hand tight when you left the hotel room, the door shutting quietly behind you.

you arrived at the track and were met with the onslaught of paparazzi. lando clung to you closer than usual, hiding his face from the shutters of photographs. instead, you took the heat, and even talked to the paparazzi that wished to speak with you.

you took up the majority of the media for the morning walk to mclaren hospitality. with a plastered smile and good manners, you took all the selfies you needed. you were happy to do it, but your mind wandered elsewhere. lando loomed quietly, eerily taught, and it worried you even more. he hadn’t said a word except for a few pleasant hellos.

arriving through the pitlane, you joined with alexandra. she was bubbling with happiness, a ray of sunshine, and she cleared the dark clouds of worry from your shoulders.

“how’s he feeling?” she asked after giving you a greeting of dual cheek kisses. you crossed your arms with a shrug, mclaren hat atop your head to hide your woes.

“not well.”

she let out a soft sight, offering you a brief reprieve. “well, i’m here for you and him. anything.” you thanked her sincerely, looking around for your british driver. he was waiting for you, standing in conversation with will, his engineer, and his brows uplifted. it was a desperate attempt for him to urge you over without his words.

you responded quickly, bidding alexandra a quick goodbye with a hug, and moseyed over to your boyfriend. you tucked an arm around his waist and he topped your cap with a kiss. you could feel the pressure of his lips, hot and clamoring, and squeezed his waist.

in the heart of the hospitality, lando was still hovering behind you. he’d been needed for press, but he denied as much as he could.

you were standing by the coffee station, prepping a cup of tea for him. the water boiled as he scrolled on his phone, sniffling as quietly as he could with an occasional cough.

prepared to his liking you snapped the plastic top on. you swirled it a bit with a wooden stick and handed it to him. he glanced at you, unexpectant of the treatment, and he smiled for the first time that day.

“you’re an angel, you know that?” you laughed softly. it seemed like one of the most quiet moments you could muster for the days activities.

“go do your press. i’ll be here when you come back.”

he leaned down to kiss your cheek. you pulled his chin back between your fingers and kissed him fully. your lips on his, it was a kindhearted gesture, one that filled him full of comfort, and washed away the squall of his anxiety falling away. he tasted of the soup you made him, and smelled of his cologne that you loved so much.

his forehead leaned against yours. his nose brushing your own. he took a deep breath in and nodded. you did, too, encouraging him further.

he left your side with an “i love you,” and you didn’t see him for another hour.

he came back in his fireguard, prepared to hop in his car for the race. you met up with him, fixing his collar and brushing off the excess rubber from the car. you could feel his beating heart beneath your fingers, your bottom lip catching beneath your teeth. he saw it then, just how anxious you were.

“i’ll be okay.”

the words meant a great deal to you, but it did little in the grand scheme of your concern. you nodded your head.

“you’ll be okay.” you agreed. though you couldn’t help but think of the worst things that could happen, and the guilt that you would carry. “tonight we’ll watch a movie, yeah? more soup when we’re back, too.” your fingers wrapped around his neck.

he smiled again, cheeky and toothy. you loved him so much, and he you. “you’ve got it all planned, don’t you?”

you knew he was making an attempt to lighten the mood. you allowed it, the sun shining on your darkness.

“something for you to look forward to out there.” you offered in return. he took a final deep breath in, and you took an inhale. you wanted to take his exhaustion from him. you’d take it all.

you reached your lips to kiss the scar across his nose. then, to his lips. he leaned into you, deepening the connection. your hand came to cup the back of his neck. you were lost in one another for the moment, and that was okay. it was tribulating to see him go out there, but you’d be cheering him on. you’d always cheer for him. your man, your man.

“ice cream, too?” he asked against your mouth. you chuckled.

“of course. anything that helps.”

he kissed you again. teeth clashing with yours, tongue daring to swirl against yours. “this helps.” he promised, hand against your back pulling you closer. but you heard the bell, an alarm that meant your time was up.

you broke the kiss, but lathered two more onto both of his cheeks.

“let it rip, baby.”

and he did. with the thought of your evening on his mind, he’d do his best during the race. it was a tough battle, but he would do anything to taste your sweet lips again.

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deanbrainrotwritings · 8 months ago

Text

— stone flower

SUMMARY : aka. part two of i believe in a thing called love. quickly attempting to find out what’s wrong with his girlfriend, dean makes a dreadful (objectively funny) discovery about what’s actually going on

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : sam, castiel

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), dirty thoughts/reminiscences, fluff, crack?, cas being an angel LOL

WORD COUNT : 1.9k

A/N : title from a muse song. this fills the someone is cursed square on my @jacklesversebingo card. if nothing makes sense, it’s bc I wrote this at 3AM :’)

It felt strange to you now, knowing that Dean was your boyfriend and that he had been for years.

You felt naked beneath his gaze.

Not entirely in a sexy way.

He had the advantage of knowing everything about you. Naturally, that made you feel vulnerable. Part of you dreads to think of the things he knew about you, but part of you found it arousing. The way he just… seemed so hooked on you was making your heart soar like Icarus did towards the sun.

As soon as Dean realised you weren’t joking about not knowing him, he rushed you into changing more modestly, hardly giving you any time to recover from the two orgasms he pulled from you. Once you were both decently dressed, you legged it out of his bedroom, his hand in yours guiding you through a dark hallway with dozens of rooms that you were curious to explore.

The two of you were still flushed, still physically glowing with that post-orgasmic euphoria by the time you reached Castiel in the kitchen attempting to eat a sandwich after you woke Sam from his slumber. You’d forgotten all about it until Castiel gave you and Dean an inquisitorial look.

It was embarrassing. You’d attempted to tame your hair, but you knew you were screwed, and quite literally looked like you’d been properly, thoroughly screwed by the same man you claimed not to remember.

But worst of all, your body could still feel him.

You were still wet from your two orgasams—with his and with your own release. You could feel it dampening your underwear as Sam and Castiel spoke to Dean. You shifted uncomfortably in the library chair, the table was scattered with old books, the pages were filled with strange images of monsters and beautiful herbs.

As lovely as they looked written on the now-yellow pages, you couldn’t focus much on what Sam and Castiel were saying, not when Dean’s eyes were fixed on you. Not when your clit continued to pulse and ache alongside your sensitive pussy.

Part of you figured he was only concerned, but the way he swiped at his pillowy pink lips with his tongue whenever his eyes dropped to your lips—which made your heart flutter—told you he was also still aroused.

It was driving you nuts.

He was so hot.

Your heart hammered quickly in your chest and you tried to ignore the way his gaze heated your skin like the sun you couldn’t see in the “Bunker” you were trapped in. Your nipples tightened in his shirt and your pussy fluttered around nothing but the memory of once having him inside you.

You bit your lip and tore your gaze from his to look at his brother.

You would have been more embarrassed about the state of you if Sam’s hair had been neatly hanging down his jaw, but it was dishevelled and parted in a way that didn’t seem to be his typical style. He was dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and some blue and green plaid pyjama pants. He wasn’t even obvious about whether or not he noticed the way you looked so fucked out.

You feared that you simply couldn’t hide it.

But you mostly felt so alive, so electrified by Dean’s presence and how much he seemed to adore you. You felt beautiful.

Dean’s hand blindly found yours and for once—at least since the morning when you woke up—you could tell the way your stomach fluttered was not from lust. His thumb brushed tenderly over your knuckles, he squeezed your hand gently, he did all of that subconsciously as he spoke to his brother. Your heart only slowed down because you felt safe, assured. In any other situation, you’d be stunned by his affection and your heart would leap out of your chest—but it’s as if your body still remembered him.

You only then realised how many other lovely things you must feel just being around him. Part of you missed not knowing what it was like, what he was like. You only felt, deep inside, that it must be much more intense and tender if you only remembered. You wanted to remember it all so bad.

You tore your eyes away from Dean’s beautiful hand around yours to look at Castiel when he spoke.

“I can try to fix it,” he offered, then gazed into your eyes. His blue eyes nearly drowned you as they studied you. You thought to yourself something you don’t even remember learning from anyone: only psychopaths don’t blink. His gaze was intense, so you looked away.

“Yeah, let’s, and then we’ll move on to the next theory if it doesn’t work, we gotta fix this, now,” Dean agreed and, once again, he squeezed your hand gently. He finally looked at you again, and while all the hunger had faded into concern, there was a lot of love in his eyes that heated your cheeks.

“We’ll fix this, Dean,” his brother reassured him.

Dean hesitantly looked away from you to contemplate his brother. You admired him for a few moments, the curve of his plush lips turned into a frown, the line of stubbled jaw, the flutter of his beautiful lashes. Castiel’s coat rustled beside you and you felt his cold fingers on your forehead before you could turn to face him.

Your eyes fell shut on instinct and you felt warm for a few moments before Castiel’s fingers stopped pressing against your forehead. You peeked an eye open to question Dean quietly. He looked at you expectantly, as if he were holding in a long breath, waiting for you to show a sign of something, but you were only confused.

“Okay…?” Dean leaned forward to take both your hands from your lap. Was that supposed to do something? You regretted watching the hope fall from Dean’s pretty face, but you’d rather be properly fixed than pretend you could remember him.

“I still don’t know who you guys are,” you shrugged and looked at Castiel for answers. He squinted his eyes at you and then looked over at Dean. His mind worked quietly and quickly as he analysed you and Dean,

“The source for her loss of memory is not in her,” he revealed, then pursed his lips as he walked behind you to get to Dean. You tried to follow him as you thought of what he meant, your frown deepened, his large hand fell on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looked down at his hand, puzzled.

“What?” You and Dean asked simultaneously.

“You are the source, Dean.” You stared at Dean with wide eyes and he mirrored the expression on your face. “It feels… like a mind parasite, similar to a mind STD-”

“STD?!” You both turned to the man, bewildered.

“Not really,” he soothed your concern with the most casual expression on his face. “I said it's more of a parasite, it burrowed to your mind—and it’s attached to her now too, feeding on her memories of you to keep it alive.”

“Okay, well how the hell do we get it out of my head?” Dean exclaimed, shrugging off Castiel’s hand to get up and pace. His hands rested on his hips and he chewed on his lip. You didn’t know how to comfort him, and it frustrated you.

“That’s going to be the hard part. Parasites make you crave whatever it is it’s hungry for-”

“So, what? No sex!?” Dean instantly asked and rested his hands on the table, right beside you.

“That’s what it is?” Castiel asked, brows furrowed in perplexity.

“Why does it matter?” You interrupted, your entire body heated up uncomfortably with shame. Both of them looked at you. Castiel took the bait and began to think.

“Don’t tell me I need to go cold turkey on sex,” Dean mumbled mostly to himself, but you still heard him. You rolled your eyes at him half-heartedly and felt yourself smile. He relaxed visibly at the sight and returned a small smile that made you feel more confident about finding a solution.

“Can you really not stop… I don’t wanna say it…” Sam groaned with a grimace. You really could have blown hot air out of your ears from humiliation at the implication of his words about his own brother—about you.

God, how horny were the two of you regularly? Is that why they don’t question the fucked-out state you were both in? Because they were used to it? Unbelievable.

Sam didn’t need to verbalise what he was saying. You glanced up at Dean. He frowned and pondered for a long time, then he looked agonised at whatever he was thinking. “Come on, we gotta find something else.”

“You’re gross, Dean,”

“I’m sure we can go a few days without… sex,” you tried to reason with him. You really just wanted your life back, all of it, if it meant remembering Dean. He gave you a look, it challenged your words. You could already feel your body react to him, the feeling of his gaze was like foreplay. You were both doomed.

“Dean-”

“How the hell did I even get this-what, parasite?” Dean broke the spell before Sam could make a comment about it. You exhaled shakily and sank back in the chair to think deeply, trying to force your mind to seize the memories and fight the parasite.

“Remember that witch you were being a dick to in Lafayette last week?”Sam asked after a few moments of shared silence between the four of you.

“Wha- that bitch! I knew there was something off about her!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam got up from his chair after closing the book he was reading, smug and amused. “She’s long gone and the only thing we know can work is if we keep you far away from each other.”

“But…” Dean pouted and gazed longing at you. You looked up at him and his wide green eyes. God, you wanted to give him everything.

“It might be the parasite making you afraid of being away from her,” Castiel offered, but Sam scoffed. Dean rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, and you frowned. Could that be true?

“Come on, he’s like that on a regular basis,” Sam argued. Today was just not your day. You sank deeper into your seat, hoping the heat wasn’t visible on your face. And if it was visible, you hoped the chair would come alive and devour you whole. Part of you was flattered. “Remember when you and her got stuck for two days in that angel trap? Dean didn’t even wait for us to get out of the car-”

“Okay, I get it!” Dean saved you from the embarrassment of events you didn’t even remember and threw his hands up. He was blushing, too, and it was so adorable. “Look, fine. I’ll do whatever I have to do for a short amount of time if it means spending the rest of my life with her—with her memory intact.”

They turned to look at you. You sat up normally in your chair and focused back on Dean. He was already making you fall in love— and hard. Somehow. You wanted that life with him and all the memories of how embarrassing the two of you are together.

“You know, I don’t know anything about anything, so… if this is the solution, I’m in.”

taglist

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do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

#dean x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #dean x female!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader

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itachislbeloved · 5 months ago

Text

Look at that

"Look at that. Look up in the mirror, or I will stop. Keep looking at the way your whore of a pussy is clenching so hard around me. Look at the way it is holding onto me for dear life." As he said that, you looked up to see your disheveled state. Your face was red from all the crying and still he had one of his hands wrapped around your neck while he continued pounding in you from behind. You could see his other hand rubbing on your clit from the mirror, as it added more to your pleasure.

"Yes, just like that, my dirty little whore, if you close your eyes or stop looking at us in the mirror I will stop." He warned you as you looked in the mirror at the sinful image of him pounding in your sensitive pussy. You continued moaning as he continued pounding in you, "Choke me harder please." You begged as he chuckled in a deep voice, in your ear from behind, "You like it, slut, huh? You like it when I choke you?" He asked as he choked you harder and you could feel your head feel lighter as he continued pounding more into you. His thrusts got more rough and you were sure that his grip on your throat would leave marks.

You couldn't help the loud moans that escaped past your lips due to his relentless thrusts. You looked at the image of you two in the mirror through your half lidded eyes as you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge and he chuckled in your ear as he felt you clench around him tightly, "Are you going to cum, my little slut?" You could just nod your head and looked at him with a pleading look through the mirror and his hand tightened around your throat as he whispered in your ear from behind, "Come around me, make a mess, show me how much of a dirty little whore you are."

As soon as those words escaped his lips, you came undone around him and heavy breaths escaped your lips while his poundings didn't stop and you felt him twitch in you and you grinded your hips around him, "Mhm, darling, I'm going to come in you, is that what you want? Want me to pump you full of my cum till it oozes out, hm?" He asked in a hoarse voice and you couldn't speak anything but just nod your head with little whimpers escaping your lips as he pounded in your sensitive pussy. "Fucked you so dumb that you can't even form a sentence, huh." He said smugly and you felt ropes of thick cum paint your insides and you yourself felt cumming around him again.

---------------------------------------------------

Geto, Toji, Kakashi, Shikamaru, Sanemi Shinezugawa, Gojo, Shisui, Sasuke, Gaara, Sukuna, Madara, Tobirama.

(I can't think of other characters, do let me know if I missed others <3)

I don't know what this is I just wrote anything I'm so sorry😭

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st4rgzer · 10 months ago

Text

now playing…DOWN BAD (spencer reid)

summary: in which passion takes a form of frustration when you can’t have what you want, the object of your adoration being spencer reid.

genre: fluff/angst

cw!: making out

a/n: i literally just wrote this, i apologize if it looks unfinished but i think that’s the vibe of the song! masterlist

you desperately tried to not look at spencer, strands of hair framing his face so effortlessly. the way his lips moved when he talked intricately about anything he could think of. his voice was sweet and melodic, you could hardly focus on what he was saying, though. he looks golden. rays of light hitting his honey eyes, the sun echoes through them. you can’t help but remember what happened the night before, if his eidetic memory had replayed that moment in his mind, like you had done.

his nose brushed against yours, mouth hovering over your lips momentarily. your breath short and expectant.

“you know i adore you” he spoke, his hot breath bringing heat to your cheeks. you are desperate to pull apart, to break eye contact. but it’s impossible, you’re helpless.

“you do?” your voice was breathy, eager and soft.

he nodded. you glanced at his lips momentarily. he ran his thumb over yours, tracing the shape of them. before dipping his head and placing one gentle kiss upon your lips. this didn’t last long, sweet short kisses turning into long and wanting ones. his hands came up from your hips to the side of your face, grabbing your jaw and kissing you like a starved man.

his teeth clashed against yours. messy kisses and breathless sounds filled the room, his tongue chased yours. you bit his lower lip slightly, earning a groan from him. his thumb caressed your cheek softly, contrasting the heat and passion of his kiss. before anything else could happen, he pulled apart.

your chest heaved at the absence of air you had just experienced, wondering why he had pulled apart so urgently.

“wait” he warned you, as you leaned in slightly, tugging on the hem of his shirt.

“we-we can’t do this” he sat up, shaking his head, mumbling incoherent words.

“what- why?” you whined, looking up as he straightened his tie and grabbed his blazer from the arm of the couch.

“it’s wrong- we’re coworkers for gods sake” he almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than you. sighing as he looked at your disheveled state, lips swollen and hair fuzzy. his brows creased as he forced himself to look away and turn around.

“no, that’s not fair, you said!-“ you got up, hurriedly chasing after him. you grabbed his arm, making him pay attention to you.

“that is not fair spencer. there isn’t any reason why being coworkers has to prevent this from being something!” you begged, vulnerability seeping through you.

his eyes scanned you and for a second, you could see him falter. but he turned around and closed the door on his way out.

you were left there perplexed, brows furrowed trying to pinpoint something that went wrong. trying to figure out what was going through his mind.

‘for a moment i knew cosmic love. now i’m down bad crying at the gym, everything comes out teenage petulance.’

“fuck it if i can’t have him, i might just die it would make no difference” you complained to penelope, eyes puffy from your previous breakdown.

“sweetheart, don’t say that! i’m sure he has a good reason, and if he doesn’t, fuck him.” she rubbed your shoulder reassuringly.

“yeah that’s exactly what i want!” you cried, foolishly behaving like a teenage girl, understandably though.

“oh my god” pen sighed, dragging her hand across her face.

how dare he think it’s romantic, leaving you safe and stranded?

taglist: @ilovesadiesink @sp3ncelle @lvtilzs

*comment to be added*

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds

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crguang · 6 months ago

Text

wasted with longing, part 3

Knowing Kafka is a rollercoaster of emotions you can’t escape from no matter how much you beg to touch the ground.

friends with benefits, f!reader, some domestic bliss before the storm, 6.5k words

A/N: no smut warning woah…. actual development woahhh… cant believe i wrote this much without throwing in some sex i think i might like this criminal :/

part two part four

“So… Can I come in?”

Kafka’s self-assured tone sounds lazy, indifferent to the predicament she finds herself in, and her lips are fixed in that practiced smile like she’s genuinely happy to see you despite bleeding through her shirt on your doorstep. You stare at her disheveled state, a hundred questions dancing on your tongue and unable to voice any of them. Instead, you open the front door wider and urgently usher her into your apartment with a hand wrapped around her uninjured bicep. Kafka makes a sound of surprise, though it fails to convey any. She lets herself be moved and quietly walks further inside your place.

“What happened?” The door shuts behind you, but you’re already leading her down the hallway towards your small bathroom. “Where do you even come from?!”

Your words quaver more than you would like as you flip the switch and motion for her to sit on the toilet seat. You can feel her eyes on you while you messily rummage through the cupboards beneath the sink, pushing old medicine bottles aside and cleaning products out of the way. The weight in your stomach grows heavier the longer you search for your first-aid kit, shutting the wooden cupboards and throwing open the one behind the mirror desperately. Apart from prescribed and over the counter medication, you find nothing that would be of help at this moment.

“Where is it?… Fuck, where is it?!” You lay your palms flat on the counter, head dropping low to think.

“Calm down,” Kafka says calmly, a slightly amused lilt in her voice, “I’m not going to die.”

You ignore her horrible attempt at reassuring you and try to recall when was the last time you used the bandages in the kit. You cut yourself cooking some weeks ago but you remember going to the bathroom to fish them out… It has to be around here somewhere. You bite your bottom lip anxiously, your pulse in your ears like an oppressive presence, and force yourself to take in a breath so you don’t succumb to your panic. If it’s not in this room, it must be laying in your storage closet. You spare the other woman a glance to find her already looking at you, obediently silent. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain but you know it’s a facade, you’re only taken aback by how easy it is for her to pretend that nothing is amiss. You straighten up, run a hand over your face to clear your head and order her not to move before walking out to find the aforementioned closet.

You make an even bigger mess of your storage closet as you search for the med kit, lifting boxes you don’t recognize and throwing plastic bags full of random trinkets out in the hallway. Your heart is in your throat, you can feel your eyes sting with the familiar weight of unshed tears, but you can’t stop looking. The thought of Kafka bleeding out before anything is done appears in your distressed mind and worsens your anxiety despite the probability of it happening being low. If this wound turns out to be something you can’t stabilize on your own, you’ll call the emergency services. You push aside a basket filled with yarn, letting out a shuddering breath at the sight of a clear case with a red cross on it. You waste no time grabbing it and heading for the bathroom, not bothering to close the closet door. When you walk back in, Kafka has managed to take off her bloody shirt and is facing the mirror over the sink, a hand still applying firm pressure on her shoulder. She turns your way to acknowledge you and takes a peek at the box in your hands.

“What are you doing? Sit down,” you swallow the lump in your throat so you don’t sound as strained.

Putting the kit on the counter and lifting the lid, you take out a few non-stick bandages. From your peripheral vision, you see Kafka complying with your shaky command and suppressing a chuckle. She hasn’t said much so far, which is uncharacteristic of her quick witted nature. You pick up a clean face towel from one of the shelves in the corner and rinse it with warm water. You step in front of her and gesture to the wound.

“Let me clean it.”

Once again, Kafka doesn’t protest. Her guarded gaze is on you, following every twitch of your brows and inaudible intake of breath, almost sizing you up as you lean in close to treat her wound. Her small smile is frozen on her face, and you can’t tell what it’s meant to convey anymore. She carefully takes her hand off her shoulder. The small puncture wound leaves a bloody trail down her skin, but even you can tell that it’s no longer bleeding profusely; the worries filling your head shrink and finally allow you to think more rationally. You bring the wet towel to her skin. You’re more meticulous with your hands than you thought you could be, softly washing away the specks of dried blood on her shoulder and around the injury. At this distance you see faint bluish veins that you had no reason to notice before, they slither down her neck and fade away above her collarbone. You wipe the deep red from her usually flawless skin, brushing over it with a mindfulness opposite from the lustful touches you’re accustomed to; your sole intention is to soothe her pain instead of taking pleasure from her. You are suddenly aware of her proximity in this unfamiliar context. She sits close without the headiness of sex, quiet and alert, and you can feel the warmth of her body from where you stand, your head is bowed and one of her thighs rests between yours.

Kafka looks up at you through her lashes but you have no way of understanding the light behind her eyes. You think perhaps all of her strength goes to withstand the pain she’s in. You still feel your beating heart against your ribcage, its erratic pace gently growing steady, while her chest rises and falls easily. Your breaths fill the silence around you. As the cloth delicately clears away the blood, you sneak a glance at her and your eyes meet. Your hand falters on her skin. Her rosy-lilac irises speak of tenderness that does not fit her, like a deceiving front to conceal her emotional distance. You see them but there is nothing beyond them, nothing that she allows you to glimpse at. Even so, you’re privy to a side of her you don’t yet know. There’s still traces of blood on her cheek she meant to wipe off before seeing you, and without thinking, you lift the towel higher to clean it off with a few smooth strokes. Kafka blinks once and you do the same rapidly, sharply turning away from her piercing stare to finish dressing her wound. In the stillness of your home, new truths are unknowingly written.

To stop the bleeding and prevent infections, you take out square non-adhesive bandages and peel one of them off. She’ll have to see an actual doctor for treatment, but you realize that the situation is not as bad as you initially thought. The sight of her bloody shirt and glove terrified you at first glance; you slowly realize that all of it must not have been hers. Unease settles in your stomach a second time. What could she possibly be implicated in to show up at your door with an injury like this?

“Why’d you come here?” You ask softly now that the worst has passed, eyes focused on carefully applying the bandage to her skin. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital for this?”

“Wasn’t serious enough,” Kafka replies nonchalantly. She gazes at your furrowing brows and incredulous expression like she’s been doing since you opened the door. She doesn’t answer the first question.

“Serious enough? Your shirt is dyed red. How’d you even get this?”

“It’s just a gunshot wound. A little Band-Aid should fix me right up.”

“What the fuck?!”

In your loud disbelief your fingers press into the small hole in her shoulder and Kafka winces, clenching her jaw tightly. You quickly withdraw your hand. The bandage is halfway peeling off from her skin and she brings a gloved hand up to properly apply it herself.

You step back from her frame, lips parted in incredulity. “You got shot?”

Kafka uses her free hand to peel off the second bandage and apply it over the first one, not looking at you as she does so. “Relax, the bullet didn’t go all the way in and I already took it out. It’s a minor scrape now.”

“You got shot?”

“Ugh, not so loud… I’ve had a long day.”

“You need to see a doctor. Are you insane?”

She raises her head towards you. “I don’t need a doctor, just a place to stay until tomorrow.”

You swallow thickly, lifting a hand to your hairline and pacing back and forth in the enclosed space. You can’t believe what she’s saying. No normal person just gets shot on a random Thursday and acts so nonchalant about it— having seen the proof of it, your mind is reeling with questions you’re not sure you want the answers to. Kafka has always had an air of mystery around her and the kind of confidence that makes you think that she’s invincible. Looking at her now, sitting in your bathroom after you tended to her wound and seemingly unbothered by the favor she’s asking of you, your chest constricts with a foreboding feeling you can’t name. Your gaze drops to her discarded shirt on the floor. You want to ask her what she’s done, whose blood is on her clothes, but your throat tightens as if begging you to keep your mouth shut. Kafka watches the emotions play out on your face and speaks up again.

“You stayed home.”

It takes a few seconds to meet her eyes, your reply agitated, “What?”

“Last time we talked, I told you not to go to work today. Despite your lack of trust in me, you stayed home. Why?”

She seems to be genuinely wondering why, but you don’t have an answer to give her. You don’t know. There was something about the seriousness with which she suggested you call out of work that made you uneasy come this morning, all traces of her usual aloofness were gone, even if she meant for her delivery to be casual so as to not rouse any suspicions. It was a split decision, you picked up your phone and called in sick before fully understanding the implications of your actions. You trusted your gut, not her.

“Something came up,” you lie instead and confront her, “You knew something was going to happen today— or planned to come by, that’s why you wanted me here, right? You know I get off work at 7 and I wouldn't have been home.”

Kafka gives nothing away but you know she doesn’t believe your white lie. If she feels anything about this show of distrust, she keeps her cards close to her chest. She shrugs with her uninjured shoulder.

“Maybe I just missed you.”

There it is, that flirty, teasing expression you’re used to seeing on her face. She’s deflecting and is for once doing a terrible job at it. She won’t tell you the truth, you know that much. Irritation burns the walls of your throat. In a way, you’re both lying to each other so you shouldn’t expect something you yourself are not ready to give her; then again, she’s the one who showed up at your door with a swelling injury and she has the guts to ask you to stay overnight while blatantly ignoring your attempts at finding out the circumstances of her situation. You don’t react to her taunt, you only cross your arms and stare at her, unamused. Your heartbeat has picked up several paces and you’re uncomfortable with the awareness of it drumming inside you. Kafka sighs in faux-exasperation.

“It’s only for tonight. I’ll be gone in the morning.” When you don’t reply, she hesitantly adds, “Please.”

You’re torn, her stubbornness will keep her from seeking a medical expert and you have no idea what she did to get it in the first place. Either way, she’s putting herself in danger, and if you let her stay for a while at least you can make sure she doesn’t worsen her condition before her wound stops bleeding completely… You run a hand over your face. Might as well make dinner for two.

Kafka’s in the shower and you’re chopping the vegetables you bought earlier this afternoon, your mind a few miles away as you move efficiently around the kitchen. You told her that if she was going to sleep over, she should change into more comfortable clothes. Weirdly, she didn’t make any lewd comments and simply accepted the oversized shirt and plaid pyjama pants you gave her before walking out of the bathroom.. She must have a lot on her mind too, you suppose. Maybe she’ll be more inclined to share a little later. The pasta is currently boiling so you get started on the sauce, letting it simmer on the stove while you take care of the veggies you’ll be steaming to eat as a side. The running water quickly becomes background noise while you busy yourself, a sound you’re not very used to hearing when you’re not the one showering, but the pitter-patter relaxes you a touch. You’re no longer on the edge of an anxiety attack, though worry still resides in the depths of your heart considering the situation you find yourself in. You try to focus on the dinner you’re cooking instead of the bloodstained memory of Kafka’s clothes. They’re in the washing machine now, but you remember how soaked they were vividly, crimson and haunting. You instantly thought the worst, and when suddenly confronted with the prospect of losing her, you panicked. Anyone would have reacted the same in the face of a bleeding person, you tell yourself, but you can’t deny that the thought deeply unnerves you.

You don’t register the sound of the water being turned off. You stir the rosé sauce and lower the heat under the vegetables, then incorporate the pasta into the creamy goodness. The smell of freshly cooked pasta fills your nose and reminds you of how little you ate today. You take out two plates from a cabinet and pour a generous serving in each one, adding a little more vegetables for yourself. You’re gently laying them on the kitchen island in the middle of the room when Kafka walks in with her hair still damp from the shower. Her face is bare, her long locks loose past her shoulders, and she’s wearing the clothes you lent her. The shirt hangs around her thighs over the cotton pants, big enough to be cozy on her. She looks… mundane, more refreshed than an hour ago. In such plain attire, she doesn’t seem as enigmatic or intimidating, but rather like your average citizen. It’s a harsh contrast to the way she presents herself and the cocky, in control woman you usually see. She strides into the kitchen and leans on the island to glimpse at the food you made. You don’t realize that you’re staring until she looks at you and raises an eyebrow, a small confident smile on her lips.

“See something you like?”

You avert your gaze and turn around to take out the parmesan from the fridge. Your skin warms up from the embarrassment of getting caught, but you manage to hide your flustered expression from her sight. Your stomach buzzes with a feeling you attribute to bashfulness. This is yet another side of Kafka you’re discovering, she’s never stayed until morning light before. You’ve long exceeded the limits of what you’re familiar with tonight, the feeling is the same as the night you undressed her for the time; excitement and nervousness swirled in your belly, each caress revealing inches of unexplored skin to your eager touch. You face her again and find that in this moment, you feel no disquiet.

“Is that for me?” Kafka sits on the stool across from you and points to one of the plates.

You grate some parmesan on top of the pasta before pushing the portion towards her. She stares at it for a few seconds then lifts her questioning eyes to yours. She seems to hesitate for the time it takes you to pull out a fork from a drawer and give it to her, but she eventually thanks you quietly. She means it for more than dinner. You nod once in acknowledgement.

You take a seat on the stool next to her and glance at the way she turns the fork over in her hand, looking at the food in search of answers instead of eating it. For a couple minutes there’s only the sound of metal on ceramic as you eat while Kafka is lost in thought, absentmindedly picking at her vegetables. After swallowing another bite, you decide that you’re sick of the awkward silence.

“You don’t eat pasta?”

Kafka blinks. In an instant, her cryptic smile stretches her lips and she stabs some pasta onto her fork, sticking it into her mouth. Her face lights up after the first chew. “Mmm. Never had a home cooked meal that actually tastes like food.”

“Really?”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She purses her lips, silverware hovering in the air, though she’s not offended.

“I just can’t picture you wearing an apron.”

“That’s because you usually picture me wearing nothing.”

You make a face but don’t refute her point, to which Kafka’s smile widens an inch. You stuff food into your mouth to give you time to think of a reply. She watches you with an amused look, leaning her chin in her hand.

“Not even a little protest…”

“Oh, shut up,” you shot back indignantly, “should’ve dropped the bottle of hot sauce on your plate…”

Kafka’s deep chuckle compels you to look at your dinner instead of her. “Makes no difference to me. My pain tolerance is pretty high, it might make the flavors pop out a bit more.”

You’re reminded of how easily she kept her composure earlier, as if getting shot at is a regular occurrence for her. Flashes of her bleeding shoulder come back to your mind and you quiet down a bit, poking a broccoli with the tip of your fork. Kafka immediately senses the shift in your mood. She pauses, watches you toy with the vegetable for a short moment, then twirls her own fork in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she reads your mind effortlessly, “a scrape like that will heal in no time and will barely leave a scar. Besides, you won’t care much for it the next time I’m undressing in front of you.”

You roll your eyes at the innuendo but it successfully brings you out of your thoughts for the time being. You lightly shake your head.

“Is sex the only thing on your mind?”

“Not the only thing…” she drawls, but the way her gaze drops to your chest and leisurely trails up to stare into your eyes, the beginnings of a smirk on her lips, suggests otherwise. She rhythmically taps the island’s surface with a finger.

“...Just eat your food.”

Kafka laughs softly and complies. You’re thankful for her restraint to make a dirty joke. As you both eat, the atmosphere around you shifts into a comfortable space you don’t feel the need to fill with mundanities. Still, you end up telling her about yourself after some prompting, about your friends, how it felt to move away from your parents and get your own place— even the doubts about your career and how you don’t think it’s something you want to do anymore. Kafka watches you all the while, her cheek in her palm, and comments on certain things but mostly keeps quiet. You don’t realize how much you’ve confided because she’s surprisingly an excellent listener and you get a little high from her undivided attention. Your almost empty plates lie forgotten on the kitchen island. You turn on the stool to face her fully at some point, your knees brushing her thigh, and the casual, innocent contact makes your heart race. Her presence is just as exciting outside of the context of a hookup, your pulse creates a melody for this moment. Unbeknown to you, you've already made up your mind; she looks prettier under the kitchen lights at night.

“You should quit,” Kafka repeats the advice she told you days ago, following the movement of your head as it tips backwards in exasperation. “You can make money doing anything, you might as well enjoy what you do.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argue, “my life is stable as is. I don’t even know what I want— it would be so irresponsible to drop everything just because I’m not fully satisfied with how things are now.”

“Then find out what you want and execute it.”

You sigh loudly, leaning on the island to rest your forehead on your arm. She makes it sound easy but quitting your research job in an engineering department might damage the fragments of relationship you have with your parents. You only see them a couple times a year, sometimes for a week during the summer, but they make sure to let you know how proud they are that the money they invested in you is paying off. You know they can’t control you anymore and yet, the guilt of them struggling to put you through school is ingrained in your gray matter. Despite the heavy weight they constantly put on your shoulders, you truly do want to please them. You moved to another corner of the world and can still hear your mother’s disapproving voice in your ears.

“I wish I knew if whatever I end up doing is the right choice,” you mutter, laying your chin on your forearm and staring straight ahead. “It’d be nice to know how this all ends.”

Kafka doesn’t respond immediately. She ponders for a while, fingers drumming on the stainless steel.

“Mmm. There’s more joy to be found in the unknown, I think,” she says after a pause. “More excitement.”

“More anxiety too.”

“They often come together, don’t they? Both make you feel alive, having one without the other might breed a certain… emptiness.”

You furrow your brows. “You’ve clearly never felt anxious.”

Kafka only smiles softly. “In any case, you can’t live your life fulfilling other people’s wishes. I’ve never found selfishness to be ugly.”

Once the plates and pans are washed half an hour later, you stop by the bedroom to pick up a blanket and a pillow for Kafka to sleep with. You walk back into the living room, items under your arms, to see her sitting cross-legged on the couch, TV remote in hand. The screen is bright in the dim light and illuminates the room around it, painting moving shadows on the walls. You put the pillow down on the armrest with the folded blanket over it. Kafka is scrolling through your streaming applications and stops to acknowledge you.

“Want to watch something?” She asks. “I don’t remember the last time I sat down for a full movie.”

The invitation is so ordinary that you hesitate for a few seconds. Watching a movie after cooking her dinner…? A corner of your mind is screaming that this sounds like a casual date but you quickly shake that thought away for its absurdity. She needed a place to stay for the night, that’s all. Once again, she’s more using you than anything else, you’re a safe place to come to because you have trouble refusing her. You prove your own theory right by accepting her offer and closing the hallway and kitchen lights before taking a seat next to her, putting a reasonable distance between you. You fold your legs on the couch and lay a forearm on the armrest as Kafka continues to scroll through the different apps. She lets out comments like “sounds boring” and “ugh” after skipping certain movies. She’s mostly talking under her breath, eyes fixed on the TV screen. The blue light applies a similar hue to her skin tone and adds vitality to her irises, they appear more vivid and alert. The sharp shadows in her hair are even darker against such a vibrant source of light and the sight of her brings to mind a beautifully composed photograph. You take a mental picture of her like this, in sleepwear with her hair free of the ponytail she puts it in every day, staring intently at the screen like a kid who’s been allowed to stay up past her bedtime.

“What about a horror movie?” You propose, taking your eyes off her frame to look at the TV.

“No. They’re never scary. This one looks less mediocre than the others.”

You read the synopsis of a psychological thriller together. The movie doesn’t particularly speak to you but you tell her it seems nice anyway. You’re not surprised to learn that she enjoys mind games. Kafka adjusts her position on the couch so that she’s mimicking your own and presses play, leaning an elbow on the armrest to rest her cheek on top of her fist. You try to focus on the movie, the pacing is too slow to catch your tired mind’s attention for more than ten minutes at a time, and an hour passes with you sneaking glimpses at the woman next to you from your peripheral vision. She’s not close enough that you can feel her warmth like you could in the bathroom earlier, but the air around you feels the same; a sort of domestic intimacy that has no place between the two of you because you can’t imagine meaning that much to someone like her. You can’t snuff it out, no matter how many times you tell yourself to look at the scene in front of you. Since she’s waltzed into your kitchen hours ago, you can’t help noticing habits that give you the false impression that you know her. Her fingers twitch when she’s lost in thought, they typically drum on whatever surface she can get her hands on or subtly move in the air like she’s conducting a symphony. She eats her vegetables last. She doesn’t shy away from eye contact when you speak. These little things don’t make up a person, and yet, for someone who doesn’t reveal much of herself, they’re quirks that few get to see.

Kafka is watching the movie with an unimpressed expression, which has you suppressing a smile. Occasionally, she comments on whatever is happening—mostly complaints about the direction the movie is going or how much better it would be if the human responses were more realistic. You simply nod along, already somewhat dozing off near the climax of the story. The aftermath of your anxious evening is catching up with you and you’re in a comfortable enough position at the moment, it doesn’t take long for fatigue to descend on your body. Your eyelids can’t bear their own weight and you rest your eyes for a couple of minutes, leaning your head on the armrest. You don’t witness how the movie ends. You’re falling asleep on the couch, the TV acting like background noise, and you forget that this is where Kafka is supposed to sleep. You don’t register soft fabric being laid over you, only catch sweet notes of vanilla belonging to the soap you use in the shower.

A sore ache in your neck pulls you out of a dream whose contents now elude you. Your brows twist indignantly, a muted groan vibrates along your throat, and you drowsily turn over on the couch to face the back cushions. You hear the bathroom door open and close, which eventually reminds you that you’re not alone in the house. Your eyes slowly blink open at the thought, momentarily blinded by the living room’s semi-darkness. It takes a minute to regain your bearings, you turn over a second time and notice soft threads of morning light seeping through the cracks of the closed blinds. It must be a new day already, though not very early based on how gloomy it still is outside. You have the reflex to check your phone for the time and realize that you don’t remember its last location. The cozy blanket falls to your lap when you sit up to look around the room. You’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you recall the events of last night; Himeko calling, opening the door to a disheveled Kafka, rushing her to the bathroom for basic treatment… In between two of those, you must have discarded your phone somewhere here out of panic and didn’t touch it once afterwards, too preoccupied by the dizzying sensation of finally seeing past Kafka’s usual demeanor. Pulling the blanket off of you, you quickly scan the coffee table and check the couch cushions in case you threw the device on it yesterday and it fell through the cracks. Your fingertips touch the silicone of your phone case deep between the cracks of back pillows. You only struggle to pull it out for a few seconds, sighing in relief when you have it back in your hands, Tapping open the screen, you learn that it is currently a little past 5 in the morning and curse under your breath at the reminder of work in a couple of hours after spending the night on your couch. You scroll down the notification screen to see if you got any last night.

You’re confused at the amount of text messages you didn’t receive due to your phone being on silent. You blink rapidly at the dozens of concerned texts wondering how you are coming from your friends and some coworkers you get along with. You got a message from Himeko right after you hung up on her, but it’s just three question marks in succession so you make a mental note to call her back this evening. Opening the multiple texts a coworker sent you, you don’t comprehend them immediately. Your thumb hovers over the screen as you read the words “Stellaron Hunters” and “infiltrated”, and in a moment of denial, you exit the conversation to open another from a friend repeatedly asking if you’re safe. They sent an article attached to the first message; it’s a publication dating from around 6 PM last night posted by an IPC affiliated news company popular in the city. You don’t feel the instant your chest stutters at its contents. Unblinking, you stare at the urgent sentences reporting an incursion in the building you’ve worked in for years by a group of people you’ve only vaguely heard of from gossip around the office. The Stellaron Hunters, interstellar criminals notorious for their worth in credits, had the means to break into the mechanical engineering research lab of the Intelligentsia Guild with the goal of stealing hardware for a machine you remember personally working on about 8 months ago. You were part of the team of researchers assigned to this project to make sure it was a viable one before it could be produced. Once the green light is given, it gets sent to the lab and is out of your hands. You recall doing extensive research for it in a small time frame because it was a priority for your supervisors to start working on it as soon as possible. Now, the key component was the target of a larceny.

As you read, the world outside of the screen and the muffling in your ears disappears. Your digit quivers over the words “multiple casualties”. Most of them are security guards who attempted to stop the thieves in action, but some of the engineers you once met in person have also been stated as losses. Your eyes sting from being kept open for longer than a minute, you can’t hear the trembling breaths clumsily tripping past your lips either. The death toll is 19 human lives— all for a piece of hardware. Your collar seemingly constricts your throat, choking you silent. You are trapped by sudden guilt, it teasingly snakes around your guts and squeezes them tight like tentacles around an easy prey. What-ifs rush at you as if mocking your cowardice; what if you hadn't worked on this project and hadn’t allowed it to see the day, what if you switched careers like you’ve been wanting to for a long time… You don’t look at your hands but your mind supplies the image of them dipped in blood regardless. The white page of the article burns your retinas, yet you scroll further down to read the end of it. The IPC has taken matters into their own hands and sent out forces to apprehend the culprits while they still hide in the city, which does nothing to alleviate your distress because the Stellaron Hunters wouldn’t have earned a reputation if they were so easily caught. You dread the idea of facing your coworkers again after such a tragic event, even more so the simple thought of walking back into that building knowing what transpired there. You finally squeeze your eyes shut with a shaky exhale, trying not to picture red stained floors and mechanical equipment. When you open them again, the attached pictures at the end of the publication freezes the blood in your veins.

This is your first time associating faces to the group of criminals who are only ever mentioned by their faction name. The phone screen turns dark from inactivity but the wanted poster is seared into the walls of your occipital lobe, creating a reality-perfect image of the woman’s enigmatic smile and unmistakable rosy irises. Your reflection stares back at you, expressing consternation, and in the same instant, the bathroom door opens again. Heeled footsteps make their way down the hallway like a foreboding rhythm, clacking across the wooden tiles on a mission to reach the front door. The weight on your chest grows heavier once they’re close, and they eventually come to a stop behind the couch you’re sitting on. Your fingers tremble at the sound of her voice near your ears.

“You’re awake.”

It hits you, then. What happened last night, how Kafka received that gunshot wound, her advice from earlier this week—- it was a warning rolled in a layer of passivity, a peculiar request she couldn’t tell you the extent of without revealing her hand. If you had gone to work yesterday, one of the casualties could have been you. Her and the Stellaron Hunters must have been planning this for a while, perhaps weeks or months. You feel as though you’ve fallen in the ocean from a great height in the middle of the night, an icy wave of hurt clogs your ears and has you succumbing under the tumultuous waters.

Kafka tilts her head to the side and makes a teasing remark about you not being fully up and about, rounding the couch to wave a gloved hand in front of your face. Your head mechanically turns to look up at her. She’s dressed in the clothes she wore yesterday that she put in the dryer as you were washing the dishes. Her hair is in its everyday loose ponytail, aside from the sunglasses over her head and down to her asymmetrical boots, she’s ready to go. Her coat is on, leading you to believe that she planned to slip away while you were still asleep. Kafka observes the brewing emotions on your face and the heavy rise of your chest, then takes a quick glance at the phone still in your hands. Her relaxed smile drops an inch. You stare at each other for a moment and she doesn’t say another word during that time, reading you through the purse of your lips and the contempt in your eyes. After a minute of quiet, she lazily crosses her arms under her breasts.

“You don’t seem scared,” she says without breaking eye contact, like she’s close to figuring you out but is missing an important variable.

You don’t dwell on the fact that you are indeed not afraid of her or what she’s capable of, mainly wounded by the amount of stuff she’s kept from you. If you knew who she was back in that store, you would have never let her approach you no matter how intriguing she looked. It’s as you think this that you realize something else; her efforts in pursuing you coincide with the time you had just finished working on that major project and you can’t help thinking that all of it might have been premeditated. Your stomach churns.

You manage to find your voice, swallowing once to wet your dry throat. “Were you never going to tell me?” Your sentence comes out weaker than it should have, bordering on pathetic affront.

“No.”

Her honesty gives you whiplash. For all she’s lied about and omitted, she chooses to be honest when it hurts the most.

“It was always going to play out like this,” she continues, “some things are inevitable and all possibilities are already written. This way is less gruesome than the others, don’t you think?”

“What does that mean?”

Kafka smiles with her eyes closed but instead of a comfortable familiarity, it raises the hair on your arms.

“Well, I’m happy to know that you heeded my advice. I even looked for you and got hurt in the process. Quite chivalrous of me, isn’t it?”

Her lighthearted comment sounds like it’s meant to assuage the maelstrom of feelings mounting inside of you. It is so ridiculous, so devoid of genuine meaning, that it only stokes the burning embers under your skin. You struggle to contain your outrage, the sight of her pleased smile and indifferent posture has your fingers curl into a fist.

“Aw, don’t make that face,” Kafka uncrosses her arms and pulls at the ends of one glove so it fits snuggly on her hand, “this is the best possible outcome. I made sure of it.”

“Out.” You’re surprised the word made it out of your clenched jaw, and by its frigidity. She looks you over and even after everything, you notice the slight dip of her lips. You repeat yourself. “Get out.”

“Still upset?”

“Leave, or I will tell the authorities where you are.”

In a flash, a light glimmers in Kafka’s eyes and her features twist with amusement. “Really? You’d be accused of complicity.”

You know that. Your anger is impulsive and a darker part of you wishes to cause her turmoil like the one she’s putting you through. Kafka watches you closely. Her attention doesn’t fluster you anymore. She finds whatever answer she’s seeking in the determined stare you’re giving her.

“Gutsy…” Her muttered reply is more directed at herself but betrays her attraction. Her eyelids drop as she glances at your lips, then she meets your gaze with a fake sigh. “Oh, fine. I’ll see you later, then.”

“No—”

Kafka lifts a hand up to wave at you cheekily and is outside the door before you can tell her that you don’t want to see her again.

#honkai star rail #hsr kafka #kafka x reader #hsr x reader #kafka x you #hsr x you

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lie-lacdreams · 3 months ago

Text

Tender (Curly x Reader)

here's a little oneshot that takes place in Thermodynamics & Turmoil but can be read separately. Sorry if the writing is a little weird - I wrote this at 3 am. I'll create a masterlist soon to clarify timelines as I write more of these.

This goes out to anyone who feels like there’s never an end in sight. I’m right there with you. Things will get better and all your hard work will pay off.

Engineer! Reader x Curly Word Count ~ 1.1k

Dread is an all-consuming feeling – she would know. Disaster always felt imminent, and if she didn’t burn the midnight oil, skip another meal to conserve a precious thirty minutes of time to scan through pages and pages of steam tables, her failure to figure out her responsibilities would fall on her crewmates.

It was times like these where the cortisol would flood her system, leaving her in a permanent state of anxiety, numbing her to any other emotion.

(Y/N) had her limits. She was human, after all. Pushed beyond her capacity a long time ago, she had no choice but to continue – she wouldn’t dare think about what would happen if she didn’t succeed.

She was currently in the lounge, the familiar spread of her texts and loose papers over the table. Hungry and tired, she promised herself a snack after she had a breakthrough, but things weren’t looking promising. Just this morning (or was it technically yesterday morning now?), she sat where she was now, having spent the entire night with books open as the lounge screen grew brighter and brighter. At some point, Swansea made his way in to get some coffee and raised an eyebrow at her, wishing her a good morning. It embarrassed her to no end to be caught, and she tried to lie and claim that she just woke up early to get a head start on work. Scrambling to collect her things, she made her way somewhere else so she wouldn’t get caught by anyone else.

(Y/N) knew at this point, Curly was very likely worried about her, but she knew that he would know better than to interrupt her when she needed to concentrate the hardest. While she wanted nothing more than to crawl into his arms and sleep, she knew her work was far from over.

At this desperate hour at night, the bar for comfort was a low one. Taking a moment to strain her eyes towards the night time display, she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had seen all day. Looking back at the compressibility chart in front of her, waves of lines seemed to melt and swirl together into insignificance. She needed to sleep, but with so much at stake, she knew she couldn’t. Every hour down to the last minute counted now as the ship’s steam tunnels were a ticking bomb unless she could figure out how to decrease the pressure building up.

Blame it on the heat exchangers that corporate failed to add safeguards to. Or the worn and weathered valves they refused to replace on the insulators. If only the ship were running the way it was supposed to, (Y/N) wouldn’t have to jump through hoops and reinvent the wheel. But alas, she was here now, fighting a valiant battle to keep her eyes open and her brain wired.

The door opened, and (Y/N)’s eyes darted over to the noise and stuck to the man who entered through it. She typically never saw him out of uniform and in such casual clothes (she assumed what he was wearing now to be his pajamas). A simple white t-shirt spread over his chest and shoulders while he wore a simple pair of sweatpants. His wavy hair, usually parted and somewhat styled, was unruly and disheveled, likely from sleep. The tired expression on his face was unwavering, a deep seated frown and furrowed brows were not budging.

“Hun, what are you still doing up?” He sounded disappointed, and she slouched further in her chair, ashamed.

“Duty calls. I’m working on a tight deadline, Captain. The ideal gas law waits for no one, no matter how tired they may be.” She let out a loud sigh as he pressed the pads of his fingers into her shoulders in an attempt to sooth all the knots that accumulated in her muscles.

“It’s frustrating knowing that I can’t do much to help you. I wish there was something I could do to make it better.” He sat beside her now, gently holding her face in his hands as he caressed the dark circles under her eyes with his thumbs. He brought her head closer to his lips to kiss her face. Her heart leapt, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his arms and feel the weight of his hold.

Suppressing a whine, she put a hand over his. “You just being here now makes things better already.”

Curly’s eyes brightened for a second before he stood up, tugging her hand to get up with him. “Come on, I have an idea.” He helped gather all of her supplies as they moved to the couch where he dragged the coffee table closer, moving board and card games to place her things down. Sitting down in front of the table, he patted the spot between his legs, inviting her to sit with him. With a small chuckle, she sat, continuing with her work once more as he pressed a kiss on her neck and rubbed her shoulders. For an hour they sat in silence as (Y/N) worked diligently, the feeling of being under his hands grounding her to a greater degree than she was before.

Finally, she put her pen down, leaning her back into Curly’s chest as he wrapped both of his arms around her. “All done?” He asked, hopeful.

“I think I’m in a good place to stop until tomorrow morning. At least this way I can get a couple of hours of sleep in. Swansea will need to help me with tightening and loosening the valves for what I need next, anyway.” There was a rush of giddiness that flooded her as she turned around and kissed him. They both leaned back more into the couch as he wrapped his arms around her and returned the kiss. Their movements were slow and lazy, likely a direct result of the fatigue they felt, but the grasp Curly had on her was warm and firm – secure and safe.

“Thank you for staying with me. You made that more bearable than it typically is.” She looked down at him, now laying on his chest. He brought her to rest against him, one of his hands still rubbing her back.

“I got you, hun.” he said simply. They laid in the silence of the early hours of the morning, savouring the warmth they shared a few minutes longer before (Y/N) reluctantly got up, Curly following suit. But even as they moved towards the door to head to their beds, his touch was ever present on her waist, and at her door he gave her one last kiss goodnight before heading to his own room.

Working for Pony Express was harsh and unforgiving for her; she was never disclosed the amount of responsibility she would have to shoulder when she first joined, but now, lying in bed, exhausted and starving beyond belief, she couldn’t bring herself to feel regret and disdain. The job was hard, but at least she was here with him, and he treated her so tenderly.

#curly x reader #mouthwashing x reader #curly mouthwashing #thermo & turmo #captain curly x reader #fanfic #fluff #mouthwashing #comfort fic

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onlyseokmins · 6 months ago

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mischief maker • y.j.h.

Pairing: yoon jeonghan x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), angst, priestess!au, fantasy!au, gods/goddesses!au Warnings: magic, mentions of blood, war, cruelty, tyranny - all that good stuff, mentions of religion (au-specific), violence (i.e. suggestion of murder), (death) threats, and possible gaslighting 💃🏻 jeonghan is an absolute FILTHY menace, light slapping, uh I wrote this so long ago and just finished it so lmk if i forgot anything?? WC: 4.2k A/N: also another thing rotting in my drafts </3 anyways kinda proud of this one but it's also obscene and hard to follow so sorry </3 let me know if you have any theories hahah!!! this goes hand-in-hand with Ashes and Cinders, so definitely recommend to read that one if you haven't already

"Look at how heavenly you are. The lengths you'd go, so dedicated to prove your servitude."

Droplets of perspiration turn into diamonds, littering the bare skin of your back that's exposed more than usual due to the disheveled state of your robes. Neither the dewy sheen coating your skin nor the cold stone you're pressed against causes the chill that sets off tiny bumps decorating your sweat-soaked figure. It is from the sensation of a plethora of tiny gems crystalizing against your heated body before they slide to the floor.

Each precious jewel that falls creates a tinkling melody. Echoing the sound of the ones wrapped around your neck and sewn into the fabrics that were once draped elegantly over your curves as you moved through the temple.

It's difficult to focus when your eyes are nearly crossed. Your elegant, upright visage is beyond recognition. Instead, a depraved image is reflected in the pristine water of the blessed fountain that flows out into a shimmering pool encased by polished marble. You were always quite meticulous about upholding the beauty of the temple you oversee.

Yet, who's the one sullying all the hard labor the maidens endure under your watchful guidance?

Drool dribbles past your lips, sore and swollen from how many times teeth have bitten into and at them. Now, they have no choice but to stay open and release a series of successive, sultry moans being drawn out of you and resonating throughout the chamber. Head lolling and vision starting to swim, losing count of how many times you've been brought to and over the overwhelming peak of pleasure.

"How does it feel?" Sweeping back long, flaxen bangs out of his glowing gaze with the finesse a mortal man could only dream to possess after hours upon hours of fucking, Jeonghan smirks. Miniscule encrusted diamonds grow, glisten, and gleam, bestowing a dazzling glitter on his forehead before they drop. "How does it feel for your god to bury his cock inside this tiny blessed cunt, my precious priestess?"

If a verbal answer was needed, the both of you would be shit out of luck. Fortunately, as a sentient being, he can hear the innermost thoughts of many. Usually a low murmur in the back of his mind unless he focuses on them or they are an extremely devout believer in prayer.

And you just happen to be the high priestess of Yoon. The model of devotion. Possibly the only mortal capable of handling the god of the temple in his true, divine form.

By now, he has to chuckle at how your little head is only full of nonsensical thoughts. More, more, more, and Jeonghan, god, Jeonghan are the only comprehensive things that cry out to him. Even within the physical tremor of your body beneath him and the fluttering squeezes of your pussy. So much pleasure writhes throughout your very being that it races like electricity in a wire and surges inside his own, erupting into unadulterated waves of even more bliss for the both of you.

He leers in victory. Bringing you to your knees was a lot harder than expected, especially for someone who was supposed to serve the people in his name. To be completely honest, he was the one who ended up on his knees first — cleaning up the tantalizing slick gathered between your legs with his tongue. It was after you had spread them teasingly upon his arrival, accidentally summoned to your bedchambers at the seductive cry of his name. Cock-throbbing whimpers that had fallen from your lips while pleasurably climaxing from your fingers dipping in and out of the wet warmth between your legs. Eager to let go after playing for quite some time with such sweet, pooling arousal.

That was the day he found out just how much more delicious you were than the frothy nectar of the gods overflowing from their goblets during festivities.

And he had become addicted.

But now, look at you.

Your saintly garments are an unholy mess. Saturated by a mixture of both of your releases, the pure white colors practically become transparent. Especially following an… unfortunate tumble into the holy spring.

Normally, it would be a punishable offense to defile the holy waters. But when it's a priestess capable of the most powerful purification skills being encouraged to ride the cock of the temple's worshiped being who very much doesn't give a damn — well…

It's why you're splayed across the pool's ledge, lower body on full display for the god to use. Not entirely the most comfortable of positions. But it's somewhat of a respite for your tender breasts that are littered with sore bites and nips from Jeonghan while he muttered praises bards might be inspired to repeat as songs if they weren't so filthy.

You're unable to think a single thought in that pretty head of yours. His hips snap rapidly at such a pace to bully his dick deep within your cunt and with the force that would've broken a human of the same stature's bones otherwise. Lanky, sinewy muscles buzz with a faint glow to match the radiance of his irises.

"What would the maidens that look up to you in awe think if they saw you like this? Your loyal priestesses that respect you? The followers that worship the ground you tread on almost more than how strongly they pray to me?"

You were an influential figurehead of society. Ever since you walked in the steps fate laid out for you by a grand oracle's prophecy, you became the pinnacle of holiness in the surrounding lands. Virginity as a requirement was only practiced in the days of the old texts, and though your romps with the handsome and beautiful people of the citadel were not fully behind you, Jeonghan would make sure no one else could ever satisfy you like he can.

Besides, who could ever fuck a human as well as only a god can?

His stamina is on a whole other level. Unthinkable for a divine being well known for his laziness in the so-called dignified parables spun by the mortal tongue for generations. Maybe it's fueled by the intricate bond formed between the two of you, but it would be a lie to say it wasn't by far the best dicking down you have ever received. Jeonghan's not the thickest cock you've taken, but he sure is the longest and knows exactly how to use it.

"Dirty little priestess, the way this sopping pussy clings around me like a vice." He scoffs at the realization. "No wonder even the mightiest of gods bows down and lays with his mortal queen every chance he gets."

The distraught huff torn from your lungs paired with filthy wet noises when he pulls out of your sloppy hole is music to his ears. Akin to the harps and flutes the muses and their delicate fingers pluck and play to grace the court of deities present among the clouds.

His palm splays out, flying across your ass cheeks with a resounding crack visually reflected by the responsive jiggle and wiggle of your hips following the cruel motion. Scratch that. He bites his bottom lip with glee, the same hand fingering your cunt to scoop up the mixtures of his multiple releases and yours from earlier. The delightful squelching is much better than the heavenly harps of the gods.

Jeonghan figures that's where you'll end up one day, sitting all pretty. Whether or not you'll be a divine being — he refuses to use his wily brain to think harder about that. Though with the way the two of you continue to defile one another, a trip to the underworld may be in your future cards instead.

He reckons you'd love the delightful heat of the lava baths and the cute little boiling bubbles that pop at the surface. Especially if you decided to sink down on his cock… the god shivers delightfully at the thought.

"Vices. How fitting for you mortals."

Tugging the back of your ear with his unsoiled hand so you can turn your head, squishing a cheek against the marble and blearily struggle to look at him through unfocused pupils. Still, you're able to make out the v-shape of his pointer and middle finger — and even the clear strands of arousal stretched between them — before he sticks his tongue out to lick up. All while maintaining eye contact with a smirk, continuing his venomous words.

"Silly brother of mine, wasting time to concoct a drink for the gods who have no need for refreshments. Stupid humans who attempt to brew it with their measly tools as an homage." His thumb returns to circle your sore clit, drawing out more garbled moans. "All those efforts when this," another swipe and he's slurping it up again and tossing his head back with a throaty groan of pleasure, "this is the real ambrosia."

Jeonghan, Jeonghan, Jeonghan, cries your body, your mind, and your soul.

So much that your very being resonates and calls out his true name, causing the god's aura to glow brighter. Dozens of rubies, crystals, jades, and emeralds spill out from his pores at the effort and exertion of his dick slamming back inside of you. It's more thrilling and stimulating than participating in the senseless wars his brothers like to lure him into.

Strength fills him like never before. No one would think the god of mischief would have many believers but humans were petty. They may pretend to walk the righteous path yet they thrive on the downfall of even those close to them. You delivered messages from the god with little thought, for greater forces spiraled his playfulness into much more ominous threats if they chose to — swallowing up his domain for their own brutal goals.

"Why do you not wish for more power?" you'd dared to ask him on the rare days he appeared at the temple. Lounging about on the architecture's high peaks without a care in the world. "Surely you could have greater control."

"My dear high priestess," Jeonghan chides. He's not completely unaware of the effect his acknowledgment of your existence and title has. "The strenuous move of my pinky finger is enough effort asked of me for the next millennium. That alone could cause a child's village to go up in flames just because of a little prank gone wrong."

Your posture remains as refined and poised as always, yet your eyes wistfully trace his features — wishing it could be your hands instead. "I see."

"I imagine the creator molded me the way I am for the benefit of the world. Think of the havoc I could wreak if I was motivated to do so?"

Unbeknownst, the creator did take it into account. Though they made no concerted effort to intervene in the consensual exploitation the mischievous god took of the beautiful priestess. Or maybe it was the other way around? Fully aware of the unspoken thread weaving through the temple of Yoon, content to watch the god become more interested in life as he whispered in your ear. This time, bold words that were definitely not meant to be relayed to his followers.

The creator let fate be, for the current gods can only fall for a new world to rise.

"Ambrosia that would bring a transgressor due enlightenment and a savior," Jeonghan continues with a dark chuckle, "or a god to their knees. All for this sinful, perfect little cunt."

Moan after moan leaves your mouth, shamefulness long gone the minute the god saw your spread legs, and his azure eyes were immediately drawn to what was in between them. His cock continued its brutal assault, pistoning in and out of what he deemed the world's finest treasure.

"But no one will ever get a taste of this one. It's mine. Mine!"

His slender fingers wrap around the back of your neck. Surprisingly, he lifts your head up gently — just enough for you to nod your head at his growl of "Isn't that right?", though when only more drool drips out of your mouth, Jeonghan shakes your head roughly in a "yes" motion.

"I could break you," he hisses as if he hasn't already nearly done so. "You are as fragile as a blade of grass in my hands." Another harsh slap lands on your backside. "Yet so resilient to my wrath, this hole of yours is always so welcoming. Why?"

Yours, yours, yours.

Jeonghan agrees with a feral growl, one not of this realm. Like a sounding bell and beckoning call from the vast unknown, it sends a vision flashing across your eyes. The sun freezes in the sky with its brilliant, harsh glow yet the world turns eerily cold and not into dust and ashes as expected. Then the sky turns black, a terrifying darkness, and a howling moan of despair.

The moon joins its counterpart like two eyes glaring at the universe. They shudder in tandem, vibrating at a shaking frequency until you realize. They are staring right at you, unwavering. Like a face. Like a reflection.

A crash and a boom and a roar — then you're coming undone on Jeonghan's cock for an unbelievable amount and length of time. Shuddering as the world falls apart inside your brain, screaming and writhing though not quite in actual pain as the god kindly fucks you through your climax.

"Turn you into one of us, then you would no longer have such a weak mortal body. But even that's not possible… unless it's the creator. Perhaps even then…"

You don't register his words and maybe it's good you don't. He refuses to bare the heart he doesn't have. An ultimate weakness. Not like his foolish brothers.

And yet…

While waiting for the shaking of your body to subside, his hands ghost over your form as if to ease the trembling. Listening to your heart rate until it no longer beats as crazily as you find rest in lean arms that cradle your body without sexual intention for the first time since the god's descent. After placing your weary body in the fountain, you're soon lulled into a dreamless doze by the soothing lap of the tiniest of waves against your skin and Jeonghan's gentle caresses.

You awaken much later. Feeling a lot more refreshed by some well-deserved rest and your innate healing powers aided by the holy spring's rejuvenation. Flowers in varying shades matching the luminescent color of Jeonghan's eyes litter the bed. Surrounding you with the same sweet scent when in his embrace. Picking one up, you thumb at glossy petals that remind you of the god's silken hair and smooth skin.

Truly a symbol of his likeness.

"Priestess."

Your head jerks up when the subject of your thoughts silently materializes. A scratchy throat turns even drier and makes it hard to swallow upon spying a glint of silver pinning up Jeonghan's long locks. Another symbol — this one of the god's chilling wrath — is a spear disguised as a fragile hairpin.

Carved from the bones of an ancient beast slayed by a hero of legends, the shining spear was crafted and embellished by the hands of a talented blacksmith gifted it in the name of his fellow brother and deity. The one that stands before you now, Jeonghan, the god of mischief.

Tales of the legendary weapon thrown from his slender fingers and whistling through the battlefields to mercilessly strike down foes and enemies alike are documented on ancient scrolls in the oracle's grand library. As the only other one with access to such rare treasures, you'd poured over the delicate artifacts for days to learn more about the god you serve, eyeing the tiny circlet that hangs around his neck, certain it's the powerful aegis that supposedly wields the ability to turn those into stone.

"Drink." A chalice disrupts your view of the god and you take it, grateful at least for something to soothe how parched you feel. If he even notices your anxiety, he stays quiet and sits on the edge of the bed. Playing with a flower stem until you finish, the representative plant somehow looks both foreign yet perfect in his hands. "You saw something, didn't you?"

"Some sort of vision. One that was quite… frightening."

"Describe it to me."

"Th-the gods. I think, my goodness, I am certain that they were at war."

As you explain in greater detail, weaving your tale of the bleak sun into it, Jeonghan's sapphire irises grow darker. Colder. By the time you've finished, the stem he'd been twirling in his hands has snapped in half and you no longer dare to look him in the eye even when he hums.

"The sun… hm? How interesting."

"Yes."

You nod knowingly, and he lets out a dramatic sigh. There's a shing! noise and the god stands, a visible aura radiating around his form as the fearful spear elongates, revealing itself. It looks less deadly than described in stories, though you suppose no one who has been pierced by its shaft has lived to tell the story of its killing nature. Delicate and thin with a beautiful glow around it in this peaceful moment. But you know better than to trust what the eye — even one as perceptive as yours — can see and shudder.

"Is it the holy war you fear? Doubt that you'll receive a divine blessing of protection?"

A wry smile graces your lips. "I don't need to worry about being protected. It is my duty to defend the temple no matter what."

Jeonghan snickers, remembering the sharpened tip that almost grazed him. Caught off guard on his first visit when a priestess greeted him with a nocked arrow rather than a subservient bow of respect. And who knew he'd end up bedding that very same priestess, addicted to your body and all that it offered him.

"Nothing will strip away the divine barrier encasing us so easily," you also point out and he nods, eyes lifting to the sky displayed through the high, open arches of your sleeping quarters.

"I suppose you're correct. Though I do not know if you'd be able to fend off all my brothers…" The god lets out an undignified snort. "I do not believe they are planning an uprising so I must see what this vision of yours could be about." Jeonghan stretches, sending a lazy grin your way. "Do you trust me?"

You think back to gentle touches after a rough session. Whispers of sweet nothings and meaningless pledges when he thought you had drifted asleep. Waking up clothed in gossamer silk — a gift each time — and various reminders of his touch in the aches of your body that had yet to recover, visual ones scattered about the bed you rested upon each time.

You recall what your purpose is. The oath you must uphold is proven by your namesake. Your destiny. And more. It is something you cannot forget. Ever.

"Of course," you assure him and Jeonghan laughs carefreely. Like he can't believe your faith in him himself. Neither can you.

He shakes his head, strands of hair shining like gold threads. Taking the chalice from you and lifting your freed hand to place a chaste yet flirty kiss to your knuckles. "Don't forget about me, my priestess. I'll return soon."

Another empty promise. Though you don't refute, playing along with his teasing remarks of you welcoming him back with open legs. Bidding the god a rather casual farewell before he disappears — but not with a wink followed by a bright flash and loud thunderclap.

Once you've sensed his presence is truly gone, you rise from the bed. A lyre sits in the corner and you run your fingers melodically across the taut strings while refining your appearance. You have a job to do after all.

The shrill cry of a raven draws your gaze to the open window where the black bird lands. It hops around, tilting its head curiously and rustling feathers expectantly. You smile, laying out a collection of gems on the ledge for it to inspect and play with. Summoning the maidens of Yoon, you speak to your confidante, stroking its midnight plumage while waiting for them to make the journey up to your chambers.

"Foolish gods, always underestimating. Jeonghan may have forgotten… everyone must have cast it from their minds." Your avian companion lets out a low croaking noise, nuzzling your palm with its beak as if to comfort. "But I… I will never forget."

Do not. Forget.

Don't you. Dare. Forget

"I won't. I can't."

The voices in your head would never let you. And they will only get louder as time marches on, especially without Jeonghan by your side. But that is neither here nor there. You can't do anything about it except the one thing you — and only you — can do.

By the time the eldest maiden has ascended the steps, you are alone again. Dressed in the purest of white robes and not a hair, jewel, or garment out of place. There are no black feathers, radiant jewels, or azure petals found in the humble and barren chambers of the high priestess. Just you, with your hands clasped together, and a fixed smile on your face.

"It is time." None of them notice the empty look in your eyes as they bow before you, heeding the declaration that comes from your lips. "It is time to spread the prophecy to the world. The real one."

"Yes, Mother," comes the obedient chorus.

The young women's eyes remain cast downward out of respect and the ambience of power emanating from you. For though they loyally represent the god of mischief, there could be no higher honor than serving a greater goddess such as yourself.

Jeonghan is clever. Wily. Smarter than he lets on which can be a true asset to those unsuspecting. But by no means is he ambitious. He is young too, and though the shell you reside in was destined to be his high priestess, the ancient bind to your soul has a stronger pull.

"He is coming," you murmur to yourself as the maidens set about the command you've ordered.

There's a warm glow bursting from the horizon, a fiery heat swathed in a tender caress making those erratic flames calmer. Softer. You're accustomed to what should be a sweltering wrath full of rage and the indicative hint to the tempered nature makes you smile. But the fuzzy feelings are tainted by a bitter tang of what is to come after the god of the sun's visit.

And so you prepare yourself for Seokmin to bring his eager request in your private chambers, stroking the head of your elusive feathered companion at your side while you wait. Watching as the sun rises higher and higher and an auburn-haired figure makes his way closer and closer.

Meanwhile, a flaxen-haired god's grip might nearly snap the spear he's holding in half. He stares at his eldest brother, aghast.

"You're lying."

"I am many things, Han, but I am not a liar."

"Brother —"

The king of the gods holds up a hand. "You don't have to believe me but it is the truth."

And though Jeonghan wants to fervently deny it, the dragged-down weight of his mortal shell's bones fight against what his godly head refuses to acknowledge.

He's brought back to what he was envisioning while bored out of his mind at his brother's lengthy counsel session. You — touching yourself, needy and forlorn without him there to fill you up — and him — returning to find such a scene and punishing you in the most salacious way possible.

But it's warped by his prophetic powers, proving his brother to be correct. Instead, you call him to bed and of course he follows, seduced by the way your body moves and everything else he wouldn't dare admit. And just as he finishes painting the inside of your cunt with all that he's worth and more, heavily spent from the throes of passion — you strike. Like a cobra lying in wait for its prey.

"Why?" is what he pathetically says as golden ichor drips from the corner of his mouth. The dagger you'd struck into his chest hurting a lot less than the actual damage truly dealt to what no human should ever be able to touch — his heart.

Blinking out of the painful vision, Jeonghan scowls at his brother. "You didn't know we've had an enraged primordial goddess on our hands?"

"Don't turn this on me when you've been fraternizing with said goddess."

Just as he's about to retort, the sudden darkness below the heaven's distracts both gods. The sun slips from the skies and a wail of grief so loud and chilling echoes, the harkening sign to the beginning of an apocalypse. The end. And for the first time ever, they feel a rush of emotion they've never felt in their whole immortal lifespan.

Fear.

As if that's not the worst of it all, he hears your voice. You're slyly drawing on that mental connection between the two of you, so that the phrase can be heard so crystal clear that his knees almost give out at the damnation you've orchestrated.

"And so… let the gods pay as they fall."

onlyseokmins: September 2024 ©

#ez.creates #svthub #svt.smut #smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #kpop smut #jeonghan smut #yoon jeonghan smut

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thewulf · 1 year ago

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Who Did This To You? || Rafe Cameron

Summary: Request - Rafe fic based on song wait in the truck by Hardy. Basically he sees her one night that he’s going for a drive to calm down picks her up and drives to the house of maybe her dad or boyfriend and shoots them... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wrote this quick but had so much fun omg love a protective Rafe!! Thank you so much for the request @loving-and-dreaming

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k+

Rafe’s truck raced down the winding street on the Pogue’s side of the island. He stopped at Barry’s needing to pick up another supply for the party he’d planned to be at that weekend.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was you stumbling along the side of the road completely disorientated and disheveled beyond repair. He parked his truck close to your trembling body that kept trying to walk but seemed to betray itself.

“Y/N?” He called seeing you off in your own head. He shivered seeing the amount of blood that coated the front of your body once you turned responding to your name. He didn’t see that. You were fucked up. Beaten up by somebody who clearly wanted to hurt you. But who could have wanted to do that to you? You might have been a Pogue, a Maybank even, but damn he’d be lying if he didn’t say you weren’t a big ass ray of sunshine. Despite every shitty circumstance thrown at you, you handled everything so well.

“Who did this to you?” Rafe asked brushing your shoulder careful not to touch anywhere you may be bleeding from. There was so much fucking blood. It made his own damn head queasy, and Rafe was used to blood. He wasn’t sure how you were even standing. The metallic smell of the drying liquid brought him back to the urgency of the situation, “Maybank,” He raised his voice a bit but cursing to himself when he say you shy away, “Hey, Y/N. Who did this to you baby?” He asked once more trying to help. But the alarm in your eyes told him he’d fucked up somehow. Was he standing too close? Did he touch you where you might’ve been hurting from?

You shook your head trying to get away from his grasp. This wasn’t the Rafe Cameron who ragged on you day in and day out. He’d never, ever call you baby. No, you were hallucinating. Just had to keep going, JB’s cottage wasn’t too far now. You tried your hardest but whatever it was you were dreaming was stopping you from moving.

“Y/N?” He asked pulling you back towards his truck. He didn’t want to hurt you, but you clearly weren’t in the state to be wandering down a dark ass road with what looked like half the blood in your body coating every inch of exposed skin and drenching the clothing you had on.

“Please.” You whined trying to pull your hand away from his gentle embrace, but you couldn’t. You didn’t have any more damn energy to try and fight him off.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He brushed the hair that was clinging to the dried blood on your cheek away drawing a soft groan from your lips, “I’m so sorry pretty.” What you thought was the hallucination whispered at you, “Why don’t you sit down in the truck Y/N?” He asked you. Worry laced his eyes seeing a blown-out pupil in one of your eyes as he finally made eye contact with you. He knew you were in rough shape. A blown-out eye was never a good sign.

“I can’t. Have to get…” You coughed feeling the adrenaline wearing down and the full effects of the beat down from your father start to set in. He’d hit you before, yes. But never had you experienced the full wrath of your drunk and likely stoned dad. It was a damn miracle you were even alive right now. Had you now been able to get a kick to his chest knocking him off balance you weren’t sure if you’d be breathing right now.

Gingerly, Rafe placed his hands on either side of your head trying to get you to focus on him, “I’ll take you, okay? Just, sit down. Please baby? You’re hurt. Really fucking bad Maybank. I need you to sit in my truck.” He said with a little more authority trying to get you to acknowledge him. Sure, he’d never been exactly kind to you but seeing you like this? Broken and shattered? That enraged Rafe.

You weren’t each other’s biggest fans, but he still grew up with you. He watched out for you at parties. He knew what his friends said about the younger Maybank. He also knew you had your brother and his friends protecting you. He was never worried about you. So, seeing you looking like you’d just escaped a crime scene on the side of the road at ten o’clock at night sent alarm bells ringing through Rafe’s head.

You nodded into his hand, “Okay.” You croaked out noting how damn bad it hurt to speak.

“I’m going to pick you up, okay?” He asked softy, only more concern and worry lacing his eyes as you listened to him.

You nodded not having it in you to answer him.

That’s all he needed to scoop you right up as quickly but gently as he could muster. It made him sick seeing you so broken in his arms. He’d always thought you were beautiful. Everybody on the damn island thought you were. What set you apart from the others was your kindness though. No matter how nasty he and his friends were to you and yours you always greeted him with a smile and sometimes even a wave. No matter what. No matter what nasty comment he threw your way. You always handled him and his stupid ass friends with grace. Something your older brother lacked greatly. What he lacked in your made up for greatly and vice versa.

Rafe set you down as softly as he could in the passenger’s seat of his truck, his father’s truck. Not really giving a damn about the blood that would surely be staining the seat below you. Never in his wildest imagination would he thought this would be the reason he’d be hiding the truck from his father until he could get it detailed. He always thought he’d wreck it, or it’d be his blood coating the seats beneath him. Never would he have guessed it could be you in this scenario. He’d always had a soft spot for you. Always picking on you a little less and a somewhat more lightly than he did any other pogue.

“Can you stay awake there for me Maybank?” He asked reaching over you to buckle you in. When you didn’t make a sound he panicked leaning back to look at you, “Y/N?”

“I’m trying.” You sighed closing your eyes while leaning your head back. God, you felt like absolute death. How in the hell did John B and JJ get into this shit so often? It was downright painful. Boys were mad you’d concluded quickly.

“Thank you baby.” He buckled you in making sure to pull it the seat belt tight knowing you weren’t really in the state to hold yourself up, “I’m going to take you back to my place okay? Get you cleaned up. Then, we can find your brother when you’re feeling up to it?”

You couldn’t stop the tears that slipped from your eyes. It was too much. All too fucking much. It felt like Rafe was killing you with kindness. He wasn’t acting like the guy you thought you knew. You thought he was an absolute dickhead with literally no redeeming qualities. But this? This had you reeling. Rethinking everything that you thought you knew. He was being so sweet. So kind and gentle. So loving.

“Hey, hey. Y/N? Are you okay?” Another round of panic flashed through his eyes seeing your tears roll down your face now. So softly, so unlike anything you thought you knew, he brushed those tears away with the pads of his fingertips.

You let out a shaky breath nodding your head, “I’m okay.” Finally, you opened your eyes to look him over. He looked, rough. To say the least. Panic had thrown his appearance out of whack. It was hard to see with one eye being nearly busted but he didn’t look like the confident Rafe who never seemed to break.

He gave you a long look over, almost unsure with your answer. You clearly weren’t okay. But you were alive. You were tough. You were Y/N. The beauty of the island. The girl who seemed to brighten anybody’s day without even realizing it. A gem among mounds of coal. A fucking Maybank of all people.

He gave you a curt nod before shutting the door. Not a moment later he jumped in the driver’s seat, “You can stay in my room tonight. Dad and Rose are on the mainland working a deal. Sarah is with John B for the night. Wheezy is sleeping over at a friend’s. The house is mine, ours.” He spoke while starting the engine. Looking over to make sure that was fine with you.

“Sounds good Rafe.” You spoke softly, finding it easier than speaking at a normal volume.

He had to ask again. Looking you over as he drove back towards his house it was a damn miracle he’d found you. He wasn’t even supposed to be on that road, but he stopped by Barry’s on a whim. Low and behold he fond you. Broken and barely moving.

“Who did this to you, Y/N?” He asked with a little more authority in his voice. The anger rose as he heard you wheezing, seemingly trying to gasp for air. Likely a broken rib making it hard for you to breath in.

“I don’t…” You tried but he quickly spoke over you.

“Yes you do Y/N. Who did this to you baby? Please tell me. Please” His tone of voice turned to one of pleading. You looked over at him seeing his broken look studying the road ahead of him, careful not to put you in more danger than you already were in.

You let out a broken sigh. Why were you trying to protect the scum bag anyway? You were tired. So, fucking tired of hiding from him. Screaming at him when he was wailing on JJ. Screaming at him when he was punching you. This wasn’t a life you wanted. Wasn’t one you could stand much longer.

“My dad. My dad did this.” You clenched your hands together to stop the shaking.

Rafe looked at you incredulously, almost as if he didn’t believe you, “Your dad?”

You nodded silently closing your eyes once more. Afraid to see what judgment might form in his look.

“Is your dad still at home Y/N?” He asked a lot more seriously than he had been moments before.

“Yeah I think so.” You spoke quietly. You felt the truck slow and change directions, “Where are we going Rafe? I thought you said we were going back to yours?”

He hummed, “We are. Just making a stop at your place first.”

You shook your head, “No, Rafe. Don’t. He’s not worth it.” You knew him stopping could only mean trouble.

He kept driving knowing you weren’t in the state to put up even a little bit of a fight, “Look at you Y/N. I’m just paying old man Maybank a quick visit.” He cooed seeing how distraught you were right next to him. A gentle hand laid to rest on your thigh. He rubbed his thumb in circles trying to soothe you just a little, “You just wait in the truck baby, okay?” He asked not giving you much of an option.

More tears spilled, “Please be careful Rafe.” You felt an internal sense of dread as his truck rolled up on the gravel sidewalk in front of the piece of shit trailer you, JJ and your dad lived in. You should be grateful, or so your dad always fucking told you.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll get you cleaned up, yeah?” He leaned over placing a soft kiss on your forehead. Surely, you were in some sick dream. Who in the hell was this man? He was so gentle, so soft with you.

“Hurry.” You whined feeling your body losing to the grapple of consciousness. Rafe must’ve sensed your fading into blackness as he nodded before hopping out of the truck. You didn’t miss him grabbing the gun under the front seat. You gulped as you heard him beating on the front door calling out for your surely passed out father. He wouldn’t be very happy when he came to. But you didn’t hear the rest. You succumbed to the darkness letting the hold of darkness take control for the first time in a while.

“There you are.” Rafe’s voice made you turn your head toward him. You felt him grab at your hand giving it the most delicate squeeze. Acting as if your hand was made of the finest porcelain.

“Rafe.” You sighed, “What happened?”

He gulped turning away from you, “I’ll uh… I’ll let your brother explain that.” He gave you a soft laugh, “Let’s just focus on you right now, how are you feeling baby?”

“Baby huh?” You finally commented on his newly used pet name on you. You were usually ‘Muddy Maybank’ or the ‘Pogue Pleaser’ as he so kindly called you.

Rafe smirked knowing this meant you had to at least feel a little bit better if you were commenting on it, “Sure. Suits you.” He nodded his head brushing the hair out of your eyesight knowing you were probably far too sore to be moving so soon.

You quirked an eyebrow in surprise. Maybe you looked really fucking bad because this wasn’t the Rafe you’d known for the last fifteen years, “Does it?”

He nodded giving your hand another soft squeeze, “If you want.” He left it up to you.

You thought for a moment. You weren’t blind. He was bloody fucking gorgeous the man was. Tall but not stalky. Built but not too muscular. Fine as hell. Dapper as could be. Style beyond recognition. Class further than you could ever imagine. But… he had that mouth that put you down so often. Put your brother and friends down too. You’d sworn him and his type off completely long ago. But why, for the love of God, did it make you feel the tiniest amount of giddiness when that word came off his tongue?

“Maybe I do.” You admitted.

His smirk only grew to a smile as he heard you, “Yeah?” he scooted the chair closer to his bed that you were lying in. You looked yourself over impressed at how well he’d managed to clean you up while you were unconscious.

You nodded giving him a soft smile, “I like the sound of it.”

He hummed using his free hand to run his thumb along your unbruised cheek bone, “Then it’s settled. I’ll call you baby so long as you let me.”

You grinned feeling that dull flutter turn to more rapid nerves in your stomach as you let yourself fall more and more into the man sitting so closely next to you, “Rafe?” You asked feeling the exhaustion come over you once more.

“Yeah?” He answered you with a small amount of concern seeing your eyes flutter closed once more. Had he missed something? Were you still feeling bad? Were you bleeding internally?

“Will you sleep with me? I’m tired.” Your soft voice broke him from his own train of thoughts.

He looked you over seeing the delicate state you were in. But that sweet begging look on your eyes when you looked at him had him agreeing with you too quickly, “Anything you need baby.”

He climbed into the bed next to you. Softly he grabbed at your waist pulling you as gently as he could towards himself letting you adjust to him as best as you could, “Thank you.” You whispered letting yourself nuzzle into his chest falling asleep before he could even respond.

“You have no idea, sweet girl.” He knew you were asleep, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and giving you a soft kiss on your forehead. He didn’t miss the sweet smile that came to your face as you slept in his arms. Rafe could certainly get used to this.

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dustofthedailylife · 2 years ago

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Cereal Debates

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Pairing: Alhaitham x (gn!) Reader

Summary: You get the urge to tease your boyfriend every once in a while. And today was another day like that. And what better way to do that than to bring up the age-old question: Is cereal soup?

Tags: Crack, a bit of fluff toward the end

A/N: I wrote this like a possessed woman when I thought about the idea. Especially since Alhaitham HATES soup... and don't we all want to rile him up at times? I sure as hell do, especially since he made me lose three 50/50s on his banner now -.-

You sat on the sofa in the living room, flipping through the daily newspaper and eating a bowl of yogurt with fruits for breakfast.

You suddenly hear the floorboards in the direction of the bedroom creak and not too long after you could hear a yawn and some feet shuffling towards the living room.

“Good Morning.” Alhaitham groaned sleepily.

He rubbed his eyes and squinted as soon as he was faced with the morning sun falling in through the windows. He had always been somewhat of a morning grump and to be honest, it sort of made him look cute.

The disheveled hair and clothes, the imprint of his pillow still on his cheek, the sleepy expression, and the frown as he slurped his coffee in silence every morning. It took all your willpower not to jump and squeeze him tightly. No one would think someone like Alhaitham could manage to look so adorable, but you had proof he did.

“Good Morning! Slept well?”

“Mhm.” He hummed briefly before vanishing into the kitchen without another word. Like mentioned before - morning grump.

You could hear him press the button on the coffee machine before a familiar buzzing sound could be heard from the same device. He seemed to also get himself something to eat since you could hear him clink some bowls together.

Not long after, he emerged from the kitchen with a steaming cup of black coffee and a bowl in hand and sat down at the dining table.

When you decided to join him, your eyes couldn’t help but fall onto the bowl. It was a bowl of cornflakes that he was expressionlessly shoveling into his mouth.

You amusedly bit your lip because you knew he usually hated everything soup-like, and cereal was no exception to that. And you sometimes couldn’t help but want to tease him a little. And this morning the perfect opportunity presented itself to you.

“Never thought I’d see the day you'd eat soup out of your own volition.” You smirked, knowing full well that you said “soup” and not “cereal”.

“We had no more bread left.” He explained with another grumble, putting another spoon full of cornflakes in his mouth before suddenly pausing in his movement and looking back at you completely irritated. “What did you say?” He inquired horrified, with his mouth still half-full.

“I said, I never thought I see you eat soup voluntarily.”

He knitted his brows further before gulping and pointing at his bowl. “This is cereal.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what it is. I have eyes. Cereal can be considered a soup-like dish.” You stated matter of factly as you bit back a smirk.

You pretended to go back to eating your yogurt and reading your newspaper but you could see his completely shocked and low-key annoyed expression from the corner of your eye.

“Cereal is not soup. Cereal is cereal.” He grumbled.

“Is that so?” You raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes. Soup is a liquid food, especially with meat, fish, or vegetable stock as a base and often contains pieces of solid food.” He recited the definition he knew, only Archons know where, from. Suppressing laughter became harder and harder by the minute, especially seeing how serious he was taking this debate all of a sudden.

“Especially with meat, fish, or vegetable…”, you pondered putting an emphasis on the first word. “So that means it is mostly cooked that way but not always. So milk can serve as a base just as fine. And technically if you use soy milk or pea milk it would count as vegetable stock, no?”

You could see the muscles in his jaw tense as he gazed at you, thinking hard of what to reply. You could practically see the gears turn in his head before he started to smirk triumphantly. You knew him well enough to know that he must’ve come up with, what he thought was, an irrefutable argument.

“There is something you just said. Cooked. No heating in the process of making a bowl of cereal whatsoever. It’s served cold - therefore it isn’t soup.” He leaned back in the chair with a self-satisfied grin, expecting you not to be able to counter his argument further.

But he shouldn’t count the chickens before they’re hatched.

You stayed silent for a minute and already had a counterargument in your head from the get-go. You just wanted to wait until he took a sip from his coffee before you dropped it.

“Explain Gazpacho then.”

You could see his eyes widen and train on you over the rim of his cup before he put it back on the table with a loud thud. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking annoyed once more.

“What about French Vichyssoise? Also not soup according to you, just because they’re served cold?”

“Okay, I get it.” He grumbled once again, before pondering for a brief moment. “But all of these soups have something in common.”

“Oh? Please enlighten me, Grand Sage.” You continued your teasing.

“It’s Acting Grand Sage.” He emphasized, lightly rolling his eyes with a huff. “But anyway. Soup isn’t sweet. Neither of the ones you named is sweet. They’re savory. Cereal is always sweet.”

He smirked at you once again, fully believing he now had you cornered.

Wrong.

“Ginataang Bilo-Bilo, Koldskål, Zenzai…” You started listing sweet soup dishes from all over the world, watching how his face showed an ever-so-slight hint of surprise as well as horror.

“Now you’re just making things up.” He huffed.

“Want me to show you the soup recipe book we have over there on the shelf? Not that you ever looked at it.” You replied with a teasing lilt.

He had his hand clutched so tightly around his spoon by now that his knuckles were beginning to turn white. You knew he hated losing arguments and battles of wits and this wasn’t going in the direction he had imagined at all. Much to your amusement, however. You could practically see little clouds of steam rise from his head because his brain was racing at a million miles per hour. You just knew he was wrecking his brain to come up with a counterargument once again.

“Okay.” he finally said getting up and grabbing something from the kitchen. He came back with a triumphant smile as he placed a raw, unpeeled potato on the table in front of you.

“What’s this?” He asked, motioning in your direction.

“A… potato?” You replied in confusion, unsure where he was trying to go with this.

“Correct.” He nodded, putting one finger on his chin after placing a bowl of dry cereal right next to it and looking at you expectantly.

“That’s cereal.”

“Also correct.”

“Alhaitham, I’m not sure I follow.” You raised an eyebrow at him, still highly amused about how invested he was in this crack debate.

“A potato is a condiment you can make soup from. But a potato by itself is just that - a potato. You have to prepare it in a special way in order for it to become soup. The same goes for everything else you named. Cereal is always cereal, whether it swims in milk, water, broth, or nothing at all.”

“Okay, fair. Can’t refute that argument.” You admitted with a nod, hearing a small sigh of relief from the other side of the table.

You were no longer able to hold back your laughter now that you looked at his borderline exhausted and relieved expression.

“What? Don’t tell me you still have a counterargument?” He inquired as his eyes widened.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t. You should see your face right now though, it’s hilarious. I was just trying to tease you a bit, I didn’t think you’d get this invested.” You wiped a tear out of the corner of your eyes as you continued giggling.

“You–” He grumbled playfully as he clenched his jaw before he started smiling. “Come here!”

He got up from his chair and lifted you out of yours, walking over to the sofa, and throwing you down it together with himself. He started tickling your sides while holding you tightly to his chest so you couldn’t escape his playful attack.

Out of breath from laughing so much you leaned your forehead against his chest before snaking your arms around him.

“I love you, you dork.”

“I love you, too.” He replied, lifting your chin up and pressing a featherlight kiss on your lips. “Even if you start arguments about soup with me first thing in the morning. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated and motivate me! Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

#genshin impact #astronetwrk #genshin fanfic #genshin x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #alhaitham x y/n #genshin fluff #genshin crack #genshin alhaitham #genshin x y/n #genshin impact fanfic #genshin drabbles #genshin scenarios #genshin brainrot #genshin headcanons #🍁 dust writes #🍁彡 gi

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byuntrash101 · 2 years ago

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facetime

switch!reader x switch!mingi

smut | mdni

1.1k

mingi has a small favor to ask you real quick

nsfw tags under the cut

phone sex, established relationship, slightly perv!mingi, sub leaning mingi i guess?, mingi is obsessed with your boobs (as he should be), slight body worship (if u squint), masturbation (m), very very mild degradation (mingi is called a perv), orgasm (m)

a/n: i wrote this on a whim after i saw a video of mingi in a fancall event and he was flirting without shame with op and i was going insane for him again so yeah.... here we go ♡

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You were surprised when you received a facetime call from Mingi, normally he doesn’t call you when he’s at work. You were just lounging on the couch of your shared apartment. Catching up on the newest netflix show before you get inevitably spoiled on tiktok. Comfortably laying on a legion of fluffy pillows and wearing your boyfriend’s favorite oversized graphic t-shirt.

You sat back straight and pushed some of the cushions aside. Before swiping the green icon and answering his call.

“Hi babe!” you greeted him, happy to see his face emerge from the dark screen. “What’s up?”

“Hey baby, can you show me your tits, like real quick?”

…

“What?” is the first thing that comes to your mind. Your tone is a lot closer to confusion than indignation despite the rather straightforward nature of the request.

Upon closer examination, your boyfriend appears to be a little pink at the cheeks and also kind of agitated. But that’s not completely abnormal, he was rehearsing and probably dancing his heart out so appearing a little sweaty and disheveled wasn’t an alarming sight. Until you noticed the camera seemed to be rather unstable too…

“Baby…” his deep voice sounded a little needier than usual. “I-I j-just” he stammered. “Well I’m practicing like crazy and I thought I’d quickly go to the bathroom and you know jerk off real quick” You cock an eyebrow, which seems to push him to justify himself. “You know? To get the edge off?” You crossed your arm over your chest, still holding the small screen in front of you.

“Baby please I just need you so bad. I’ve been trying to cum for so long but I just can’t. And I just can’t stop now. I’ve gone too far. I need to cum.” He panted, you could tell this whole time he hadn’t stopped stroking his cock just from the way the phone in his other hand kept shaking. “Please baby help me get off” he begged, his eyebrows meeting on his forehead, sad droopy puppy eyes pleading in such a way you couldn't refuse.

“Fine” you cave in as you lift up the loose t-shirt over your breasts, holding the soft fabric at your neck.

“Yes thank you!!” he exclaimed, deep voice laced with gratitude.

You then lowered the phone to aim the camera at your chest. You heard your boyfriend suck in a deep breath as soon as you did so.

“Ffffuck yeah” he breathed out. “That’s what I needed. Perfect fucking tits” he said, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Instantly he felt closer to his release. He gripped his aching length tighter as he practically burned into his eyes the image the screen was reflecting. Drinking in the two beautiful lumps of flesh staring back at him through the device. At this point his hand was gliding so smoothly along his cock, made so perfectly slick with his precum.

He was so close now.

You could tell that much. It was easy to guess as his short bleached hair struck to his forehead and how his jaw went lax except when he caught his lower lip between his teeth just to spit it out all swollen and red. But that probably was nothing next to his cock.

What wouldn't you have given to see the state of his dick. You could only imagine it as you guessed he was gradually picking up the pace, the camera becoming even shakier.

“You’re close?” you asked, feeling your own arousal pool in your panties, lightly squirming on the sofa.

“Yesss. So fucking close baby” he breathed, voice coming out a little squeaky as he was trying so hard not to make to much noise, one large bead of sweat hanging under his chin. “Fuck, baby. Can I see your face too? Can I have your tits and face ?” the question sounded more like a desperate plea.

You held the phone a little further so both your chest and face would fit in the frame. And Mingi instantly squinted his eyes, trying his best not to close them from how good he felt. He wanted to keep looking at you.

“Fuck baby. You’re so pretty. So fucking perfect for me” He sighed, now focussing the rapid strokes on his cock head. He moaned again, his voice going up on octave, right before pinching his lip between his teeth again to shut himself up, so hard that he could have drawn blood but he didn’t care at this stage. He couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the agonizing pleasure of his fist tightly holding his fat, pulsing and weeping cock.

“Yeah you like that?” you asked, your own voice soaked in lust. “You’re such a perv! Jerking off in the stalls at work like a creep.” you smirked when you picked up on the micro expression of shame flashing on his face.

“Fuckkkk” he growled. “I’m so fucking close baby. So fucking close for you!” he said, applying just the right amount of pressure to his tip with his thumb.

“Yeah?” You swiped your tongue on your bottom lip. “Then cum. Cum for me now. Cum all over my tits and face baby” your ordered pressing your tits together with your available hand.

“Fuck yeah. Cumming. C-cumming for you now” he warned in a strangled whisper as he finally reached his peak, his huge cock uncontrollably twitching in his clenched fist, delivering large ropes of cum on his hand and against the door of the stall, some large squirts even crashing on the tiled floor.

You didn’t dare to blink, scared to miss even one split second of your boyfriend’s beautiful features contorted into divine agony. He was so perfect, you thought as you gazed at him with heart eyes through the screen and felt your soaked panties uncomfortably cling to your drenched folds.

He gradually slowed down before coming to a stop. He chuckled lightly as he wiped his sweat forehead in his elbow, now looking at you with this ravishing smile that you came to adore.

“Thank you baby” he said, as innocent as could be. Almost making you doubt the sinful expressions of bliss you witnessed only moments ago.

“You’re welcome, baby. I expect you return the favor once you get home” you said grinning, a mischievous glint hinting away in your orbs.

Mingi poked the tip of his tongue on the corner of his lips being pulled into a smirk.

“Of course my love”

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IF YOU ENJOYED DONT FORGET TO REBLOG 🖤

a/n: i hoped you enjoyed <3 i know i did (a little too much maybe lol). come tell me if you did <3

#mingi smut #ateez smut #mingi #ateez #ateez mingi #ateez fanfic #ateez ff #mingi x reader #mingi x you #mingi x y/n #ateez x reader #ateez x you #atz #atz mingi #atz smut #mingi hard hours #mingi hard thoughts #ateez hard thoughts #ateez hard hours

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un-love · 8 months ago

Text

— afternoon | kmg

mingyu x f!reader

a/n: i wrote this last august and forgot about it. self indulgent asf bc my period is a horror story 💢

“good game, guys. i’m gonna log out now.” putting his headphones aside, mingyu was greeted by complete silence in the house. it had been an hour since he left the bedroom to let you sleep in peace. the week of your period was always a hard time for you. hard is an understatement, really. he couldn't physically understand how you felt but the first time he saw you cry out in pain and struggle to walk yourself to the kitchen, he had decided to be there for you without you ever having to ask for his help; that’s the least he could do after all. the little widgets on his phone notify him of the approaching doom every month without fail, and one might even say he’s as prepared as you now (maybe more).

as he approaches the living room, his ears perk up. he opens the door carefully, and catches you wincing as you try to sit up. you look even worse than how he left you, somehow. sunken eyes and disheveled hair, there really wasn’t any way to romanticize this pain. “why didn’t you call me?”, he whispers and immediately springs into the practiced routine he’s got down. you're too far gone to protest as he props up your pillows, gets you a reheated hot water bottle and orders you to open your mouth as he makes you take your prescribed pain meds. regaining some consciousness after feeling the burn of the hot bag on your skin, you can’t help but smile at the concerned expression on his face as he assesses you. the way his brows furrow and a little pout appears on his soft lips soothes some of the ache in your body.

“what are you smiling at?”, he asks. “you’re just so cute like this. worrying about me and all.” the look he gives you is one of fondness. it’s somewhat relieving for your boyfriend to see you talk like this, despite the state you’re in. he could tell how disoriented you were by the way you hadn’t met his eyes the whole day. “who said i’m worried?”, he says cheekily, before disappearing into the kitchen again.

“i don’t feel good; i think i’m going to throw up”, you call out from your new resting place on the couch, chewing on scraps from the kitchen for lunch. mingyu had asked you to move to the couch (read: carried you) so he could change the sheets and clean up the room a little. it still felt embarrassing to have him take care of you like this, but his kind eyes and kinder hands made you go along with whatever he said.

thinking back, you had tried to avoid seeing him the first few months after you started dating, for this very reason. he knew you were having a hard time with your diagnosis, so he never wanted to push you too much; until the day you had woken up in a pool of blood with him next to you on your bed. you had sobbed endlessly (from frustration, pain, embarrassment) before threatening to poke his eye out with a butter knife if he ever made fun of you for this. this was all very bizarre to your new boyfriend, who grew progressively more concerned for you after that. had someone made you feel bad for something like this before?

a head pokes around the door with a determined expression you could read extremely well. another wave of nausea rocked over your body. “don’t come close to me, kim mingyu. i haven’t showered since yesterday. i stink.” “but you don't know what i’m going to s—” he tries to go on but you cut him off. “the sound of the air conditioner is making my skin crawl.” “but-” “the fabric of my tshirt is touching my skin in the worst ways and the birds won’t stop fucking chirping outside the window and you- you’re here seeing me like this. i want to dig a life sized hole and bury myself in it right now. just go away, please.”

he’s careful when he comes closer to you and stops right before sitting on the couch. “baby, i promise you, nothing about you can disgust me. unless you do something unforgivable like putting milk first in my cereal bowl”, he says, and you finally look at him. success. “and i’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want. but can i get you something else for the pain or a hot drink first?”

how could you say no to him when he looked at you like that? with those big brown eyes, trying his best to read your face. freshly washed bangs falling into his eyes, and his pretty hand outstretched towards you. your eyes get distracted by his tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip, a nervous habit of his you found adorable. in the split second between his question and your response, you imagined pulling him by the shirt and kissing him breathless. swatting away the (welcome) visual in your head, you let yourself fall against the soft cushions, the fight leaving your body. it's time you let somebody love you.

fin.

#i'm scared to post this #period comfort #kim mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu fluff #mingyu imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen #svt #svt x reader #svt fluff #svt blurbs #svt scenarios

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dreamscapesofimagination · 6 months ago

Text

Bedside Manner

A/N: I'm suffering through a cold right now and took the day off of work to die peacefully at home, and thought of this while in the bath attempting to "steam" my nostrils clear lol.

Summary: How Jiro takes care of you when you're sick.

Warnings: Fluffy, reader has a nasty cold, Jiro's sweet and i love him- kind of modeled after how my fiance has been taking care of me since being sick, established relationship but its kind of new?

-----------------

You were a miserable sight, standing in the doorway before Jiro.

He took in your disheveled state- tangled hair, flushed cheeks but overall pale, glassy eyes, and your red nose.

"I'm here to do your health check- though it appears you are not well." his deep voice was matter of fact as he looked down at you, concern twinkling in his tired, ruby eyes.

"I'm gonna die before the year is up." your dramatic sigh was punctuated by a wracking cough.

Jiro rolled his eyes, gently pushing you inside so he could shut the door behind him.

"No, you're not. Sit." He gestured to a pew, and you lowered your shaky body down.

"Tell me about what you're experiencing," Jiro ordered while he got his tools out.

You sniffed, watching with hazy eyes.

"Yesterday my nose felt itchy but I assumed it was just allergies."

He hummed as he clipped a pulse-oximeter onto your index finger, indicating for you to continue.

"I woke up super early because i felt hot and was coughing. Since then my nose hasn't stopped running and I'm just so tired."

"Here, put this under your tongue." He held up a thermometer. You did as told, while he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your arm.

After the thermometer beeped, he wrote down your vitals.

Putting on his stethoscope, he slipped it up your shirt, the cold metal causing you to shiver as it touched your feverish skin.

"Christ, Jiro, maybe warn me next time," you hissed, narrowing your eyes at your boyfriend.

"Sorry." he didn't sound sorry at all.

You rolled your eyes, supressing a sneeze as he listened to your heartbeat.

Thankfully, the feeling faded as he slipped the stethoscope to your back.

"Deep breaths." he murmured, eyebrows furrowing as he listened intently.

He sat back on his haunches, hanging the stethoscope around his neck.

"I don't hear anything crackling in your lungs, so I'm fairly confident whats going on is upper respiratory based on your symptoms. Your heart rate was elevated, but I'm assuming that is due to the stethoscope and not illness."

You nodded as he spoke- it made sense because while you were coughing it didn't feel like it was a deep cough.

"So, what do you think it is?" you asked, sniffing again as you felt mucous begin to try and escape.

Jiro tilted his head, watching you closely.

"Probably a common cold and post-nasal drip."

"So, just fluids and rest, right? It's a virus so antibiotics would be useless." you said, settling back on the pew.

"Mostly right, I'm going to ask Yuri ti bring some symptomatic treatment from Mortkranken- pain killers, fever reducer, and a decongestant. I'll bring a cough supressant as well, but thats only if the coughing gets too severe. Overall, its best if you blow your nose because if you keep sniffing you will make the post-nasal drip worse."

Jiro stood, packing is bag and setting it to your side.

He pulled you to your feet, wrapping his arm around you.

"I'm going to get you back to bed, you need rest."

You didn't protest as he helped you up the stairs.

He pulled your blankets around you, tucking you in carefully.

You sank into the soft bedding, watching him with a small smile.

"I'll be downstairs waiting for Yuri if you need anything." Jiro said, finally satisfied with how he had you situated.

You frowned, "don't you have other health checks and things to do?"

Jiro tilted his head, "forgive me if I'm wrong, because I am new to the whole 'relationship' thing- but isn't one supposed to take care of their partner? Especially since I am one of the medical professionals on this campus."

You watched him carefully as he continued.

"Another student can take some of my responsibilities for today, and I do enough for Yuri that he can manage without me for a day," he gently stroked your cheek, "you take priority as my girlfriend, which isn't entirely logical but its the truth."

You smiled, "I guess I can't complain if it means I get you to myself the whole day." You flailed, pulling the blankets down enough to make extra room.

"Since I'm so sick and you said I take priority, I'm cold and I think I'd feel so much better if you were to hold me."

Jiro raised an eyebrow at your antics as you coughed, groaning as it ended.

"See? I'll die if you don't."

He laughed, rolling his eyes as he slipped off his shoes.

"Awfully dramatic for someone with a cold." he remarked, carefully sliding into bed with you.

You nestled into his chest, closing your eyes in satisfaction.

"Yeah, but being dramatic means I get to sleep on you, so I'll keep being dramatic"

You felt his chest rumble as he chuckled at you.

"Just rest. I'll get you up when Yuri is here with the medications."

"Mm" you hummed, feeling yourself doze off, finally feeling warm enough.

Sure, Jiro was still getting accustomed to dating, but he was doing his best and he made you happy- and when you need him, he was there with no reservations.

#tdb #tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker imagines #tdb imagines #tokyo debunker x reader #jiro kirisaki imagines #jiro tdb #jiro kirisaki #mortkranken

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mae-lou-ron · 4 months ago

Text

Keeping You Around

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x reader

Summary: Commander Wolffe's assignment to embark on a reconnaissance mission takes an unexpected turn when he finds himself stranded with you—a development he was far from prepared to deal with.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, canon typical descriptions of violence and mild injury, mando'a nicknames, mutual pining, idiots in love arguing, Wolffe kriffs up, stubborn Wolffe is stubborn, but stubborn reader is stubborn. Fluff and slightly suggestive at the end.

Word Count: 3,700 (it was supposed to be like 500 but again, brevity is not my strength, okay?)

A/N: Real talk I wrote this in about 3 hours last night. Barely proofread bc I’m a dangerous woman trying to stop falling down editing rabbit holes at 3am. Lots of familiar tropes and scenarios ahead, but my goal was to practice writing conflict dialogue and thought Wolffe would be fun to try. Inspired to write this while watching Nick and Jess argue in New Girl S1E22 😜

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"Cyar'ika!" Wolffe's voice boomed through the dilapidated hangar, the sudden sound of it nearly making you drop your spanner. "Cyar- Maker… there you are. What is wrong with you?!" Wolffe demanded as he strode over to you from a room off to the side, angrily trying to get his pauldron to snap back into place.

"Ah, Commander, I see you’ve regained consciousness," you said drily, not looking up from the panel you were rewiring. Your hands were growing tired, just like the rest of you from the tedious task of fixing the power supply in hopes of getting a signal out to the 104th.

"Care to explain why I woke up in a strange room with half my kit off?" Wolffe demanded, his voice a dripping with irritation.

"Because you were much easier to drag without it… and I needed to make sure you weren't bleeding internally while you were unconscious," you said matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry—if I had time to wait for you to come around, I would have asked," you said, your voice losing its edge incrementally as you met his eyes for the first time. “Not like you would have admitted you were injured anyway,” you muttered under your breath.

He regarded you carefully, his expression severe. You could see his mind racing through a hundred scenarios while he’d been unconscious, though thankfully none had come to pass. His ARC trooper instincts kicked in as his eyes scanned the space for potential threats.

"Relax," you sighed. "I cleared the place, there's no one here. By the state of things I don’t think anyone has been here for a long time,” you gestured around to the various consoles and furniture covered in a thick layer of dust and debris. “Except for the scurriers, at least,”

"How… where's the shuttle?" he turned his head towards the closed hangar doors. No shuttle in sight.

"About 5 klicks east where we crashed it…" The panel before you flickered a few times, the power pulsing it to life before it cut out again. "Dank farrik!" you swore and kicked the side of it as the last of your patience with the blasted thing finally left your body. "It's no use, I can't keep the power on long enough to start anything up," you grumbled as you pulled yourself to your feet, wiping your hands on your flight suit in frustration.

When you looked up at Wolffe, he was staring at you with the same unreadable expression. His brow furrowed slightly as he took in your disheveled appearance and the scattered tools around you. His hands perched on his belt, mismatched eyes glittering.

"What?" you shrugged, slightly unnerved by his stern gaze.

"Where we crashed it, Lieutenant?" Wolffe's deep voice thick with implication. "The last thing I remember is you ignoring my direct order to put the ship down in that clearing."

"If I had, the clankers would have advanced on our position, cutting off what looked like the only civilian escape route,” you countered. "Landing further away drew them to us instead…it wasn’t part of the plan to get shot down…" you added as you remembered the chaos of the crash. The impact had been jarring, a barrage of tree branches cracking against the hull like breaking limbs. A second impact threw an already off balance Wolffe into one of the wall panels, knocking him out.

You managed to keep the shuttle in the air long enough to find a patch where the trees thinned out. In all honesty, it wasn't even your worst landing to date. As soon as it stopped moving, you immediately went to Wolffe. The shuttle was trashed, but you thanked the Maker one of the speeders stowed within it had survived. With great difficulty, you dragged Wolffe's unconscious form from the wreck, your muscles screaming in protest as you moved him to a safer distance away. There you were able to quickly assess his injuries, relief washing over you when you found a strong pulse and no signs of severe trauma. A few bruised or broken ribs, maybe, and thankfully he was wearing his helmet in the crash, but you still needed to check him for a concussion.

With Wolffe secured, you turned your attention to finding shelter, knowing that staying put wasn't an option. Your initial scans of the area indicated a hidden structure not too far from your position. So, with even greater difficulty, you heaved him onto the back of the speeder with whatever supplies you could quickly grab, and took off to higher ground.

“We’re both alive, relatively unscathed, gave the civilians a chance to escape, I handled it, Wolffe,” you reasoned, annoyed but not surprised at his reaction. Wolffe was a textbook control freak, but over the last year it had become almost endearing to you. Relishing in the way his eyes widened when he was flustered, or how his gravely tone would elevate ever so slightly when you pissed him off.

Like right now.

"Maybe if you listened to orders for once, you wouldn't have had to," Wolffe retorted, through gritted teeth.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, because you're such a shining example of following protocol?" Referring to all the times Wolffe and General Plo bent protocol to keep their men alive, to secure the mission’s success.

"That's different and you know it," he growled, taking a step closer.

"How? How is it different, Wolffe?" you challenged.

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Because I'm trying to keep you safe, dammit."

"And who's been keeping you safe?" you raised your voice, your frustration bubbling. He bristled, but you could tell your words surprised him when he deflected back to you.

“You can’t just keep running into the fray like that, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Ok, that’s actually kinda hilarious coming from you,” you chuckled sardonically.

“You’re not a soldier…and lately you seem set on going against everything I say trying to keep you alive!” his voice grew louder with every word.

“Wow, Wolffe. Do you even hear yourself?!” the words came out of your mouth, stopping him in his tracks, scowling at his puzzled expression.

“What?" he snapped in a deep voice. His eyes blazed with both anger and confusion, clearly caught off guard by your outburst. The tension in the air was palpable as you both stood there, locked in a silent standoff.

“I can take care of myself, and believe it or not, I always have, with or without you around,” you growled. “And I don’t appreciate you making me out to be this fragile little thing who needs to be taken care of…I volunteered for this mission, and I dragged your heavy ass here away from the droids while you were taking a nap,”

“I wasn’t aware I was responsible for what happened while I was unconscious, cyar’ika,” his tone filled with warning.

"And I certainly wasn't aware that saving your life would piss you off so badly," you spat, your chest heaving with exasperation.

The tension between you simmered, neither willing to yield. Wolffe had been acting strangely ever since he learned you volunteered for this mission. His behavior grew even more peculiar when you were paired to conduct recon scans for command. It made sense—you were a decorated pilot, and he was a decorated commander—yet his unease was obvious.

While Wolffe is a lot of things, he is not someone who will willingly talk about his feelings. So you stood there, glaring at each other, both too stubborn to acquiesce. You were slowly moving towards one another, your determination coming off you in waves.

“When are you going to stop being so stubborn,” he said, chest puffing out slightly.

“Maybe I’m waiting for you to do the same,” you hissed.

“Don’t count on it, cyar’ika.” he took another step in your direction. The clones were already formidable in their presence, but Wollfe’s brightly painted armor made his presence even more powerful. It took you gritting your teeth and clenching your fists at your side to quell the impulses that were firing in your brain. You closed the distance, showing you weren’t going to back down. Not on this.

“Well, Commander, next time I’ll be sure to avoid any missions you’re assigned to, then you won’t have to carry my ‘dead weight’ around…” you half regretted the words as soon as they left your tongue, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe— maybe you’d misheard things. But it looked like you were going down this road anyway.

His eyes flashed with anger, but also a realization at your words. For a moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability beneath his tough exterior. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a sheepish anger that spoke volumes.

“Yeah Wolffe, I overheard you talking to Rex before we left,” you said as you bit back the fire in your lungs. “Ironic, don’t you think?” you sighed after a few long moments of silence.

Wolffe's conversation with Rex had echoed in your mind, each word a dagger twisting deeper into your heart, fueling your pain. You couldn't shake the feeling, the knowledge that someone you cared for so deeply likely saw you as nothing more than a burden.

His face fell as your words deflated him. “You…” he sighed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that…”

“Clearly. But now that I know how you really feel about my abilities we can stop pretending, so thanks for that I guess,” you looked at the floor, unable to keep the hurt from your voice now.

Wolffe's expression shifted, a sadness crossing his features. He reached out but stopped mid-air, unsure. "That's not... I didn't mean it like that," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with a hint of desperation. "You have to understand, cyar’ika, the situation is-"

“Will you stop calling me that!?” You nearly screamed, your voice echoing off the bare walls in the hangar. You could have sworn he winced, the only sound being the wind blowing through the cracks in the door. Wolffe opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, clearly struggling to find the right words.

"I would never speak about you like that, Wolffe, especially not to Rex," your voice was uncharacteristically small as you crossed your arms protectively. You had considered dropping the mission, faking an injury—anything to avoid this. But Wolffe was still one of your closest friends in the GAR; he'd have seen right through you. So instead, it lit a fire in you to prove him wrong. You knew it was childish to crave his approval, to want him to be proud of you. But what else could you do when you were desperately in love with the man?

Wolffe's eyes searched your face as he stepped closer, shoulders slumped incrementally, but his voice was low and earnest. "Those words were never meant to hurt you," he softly called you cyar'ika again. You ignored it, waiting for him to continue. "What you heard... it wasn't what you think." He reached out once more, but you stood firm against the pull of his warmth. "Please, let me explain?"

His tone was softer than you'd ever heard from him. A tingle ran down your spine as you glanced at his hand, then back into his tawny eye. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you raised your eyebrows, daring him to continue.

"I'm all ears, Commander."

Wolffe grabbed a nearby stool and pointed at it, which you took only after he took a seat on the stool opposite you. He suppressed another wince with a hand over his ribs, you’d apply more bacta later, you thought to yourself as your knees nearly bumped his, but you ignored that too as he let out a ragged sigh. Running a hand through his cropped hair, he sent a few tendrils astray and you had to avert your gaze to avoid being distracted by the sight.

"You’re right, I didn't want you to come here with me," he said quietly. When he felt you bristle and open your mouth to protest, he touched his fingertips to your knee, seeking permission before he continued. “But then you volunteered- and what was I supposed to tell you- tell them?”

“You didn’t think I could handle it,” you said softly shaking your head and shifting in your seat with your eyes still on the floor.

"It's not that," Wolffe said, his voice low. He leaned forward, his knuckle gently nudging your chin. When you looked up he was gazing at you with an intensity that made your heart thrum. You could feel the weight of what he was trying to say in his long pause. “I didn’t think that I could handle it,” he confessed, eyes guarded as he gauged your response.

Wolffe's confession caught you off guard, revealing a rare vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior. The bands around your heart loosened as understanding dawned, pieces falling into place. His overprotective nature, steely demeanor, and reluctance to have you on this mission suddenly made sense. Gently, you placed your fingertips over his where they rest on your knee, a silent acknowledgment of this newfound insight. But still, what he said to Rex still had its bitter sting.

“Anything would have been better than you letting Rex think I was a liability, Wolffe,”

“I know…I’m…sorry, I can’t even imagine how angry I’d have been if I were you." He paused, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m still angry,” you said quietly, but a glimmer of your softening resolve shone through, he saw it making his posture relaxing incrementally.

“And I deserve it,” he turned his hand over beneath yours, wrapping his gloved fingers around your palm. The gesture surprising both of you. “I’ll talk to Rex as soon as we get out of here- but I don’t even think I’ll need to once he reads our mission report,” he mused.

You both sat in silence for a moment, the weight of your conversation hanging between you. The anger that had fueled your argument earlier had dissipated, replaced by a different kind of tension. Wolffe's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand.

“I won’t make this mistake again, I promise you,” he said before he brought your hand to his lips, gently pressing them to your knuckles. You felt his breath fan over your skin, making your own breath stop in your throat at this unfamiliar, but not unwelcome side of Wolffe.

“Thank you,” you murmured as you moved your hand from his lips to his cheek. "We've always been quite the team," your eyes locked with his mismatched gaze. “We can protect one another. Together. I don’t need a savior, I just need to know you’ve got my back, as I have yours. I always will…”

Wolffe's eyes softened, a mix of gratitude and admiration shining through. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours in a gentle Keldabe kiss. "Always, cyar’ika," he murmured, his voice low and filled with promise. "Together.”

You chuckled softly at his pet name for you. "Wolffe, why do you keep calling me that?" The question had been on your mind for a while, but you'd never asked before. Truthfully, you were afraid to know the answer. You'd always assumed it was some kind of teasing nickname, especially given how his brothers snickered whenever it slipped from his lips around them.

Wolffe shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. A strange and unfamiliar site, but you couldn’t help but smile internally at your ability to unearth this side of him. After a moment, Wolffe seemed to find some resolve. His gloved hand reached up and brushed a stray hair from your eyes. When you looked at his face again you swore you saw pink in the man’s cheeks.

Wolffe can blush? You thought to yourself, eyes growing wide at this information. “It’s mando’a…there are words in basic that would cover it, but it’s…it’s more like a feeling. A sentiment…” he trailed off. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a hint of vulnerability in his expression. "The closest thing I can think of is…darling, beloved," Wolffe swallowed, his voice low and tender.

The realization dawned on you like a class two Venator crashing down, and between all the tension from the mission and trying to survive on this rock, you could help but burst into a fit of soft laughter.

“What?” Wolffe looked confused.

“So it doesn’t mean ‘idiot’?” You bit the inside of your cheek to stop your giggles.

Wolffe chuckled, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "No, cyar'ika. It definitely doesn't mean 'idiot'." He paused, his eyes crinkling as they met yours.

“I sure feel like one right now,” you murmured, your eyes distant thinking back to some of the times it slipped out in conversation.

“I’m the dik’ut in this case, cyar’ika,” he gazed at you softly, hand brushing another stray hair from your face.

“Well…” you said, leaning in closer. Your skin flushed with the renewed electricity between you. “I suppose it’s alright, now that I know why your brothers have been laughing when you say it…”

Wolffe slapped his forehead. "Kriff," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll need to have a word with them when we get back." His eyes softened as they met yours again, a hint of amusement dancing in them. "But right now, I'd rather focus on you, cyar'ika." His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin as he leaned in closer. "Have you any idea how long I've wanted to kiss that scowl off your face?" he said softly, his nose brushing against yours. He paused there, giving you time to pull away.

You scowled at him for good measure, “So, what are you going to do about it, Commander?” You whispered, eyes locked on his.

Wolffe's eyes narrowed, something swirling in their depths. Without another word, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a tentative kiss. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he poured all his unspoken emotions into the gesture. When you finally parted, breathless and redfaced, he rested his forehead against yours, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Believe me now, cyar’ika?”

"Yes..." you murmured dreamily, your eyes still closed. "But I think I could use a little more convincing," you added, savoring his taste as your tongue grazed your bottom lip. He grinned and leaned in again, this time with more fervor, eager to kiss you properly—to kiss you the way he'd always longed to but never thought he could.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your lips.

You swallowed thickly, your eyebrows knitting together slightly. “What for?”

He put both of his hands on your cheeks, thumbs caressing your skin lightly. You found your eyes fluttering closed at his touch.

“For saving my life,” he whispered.

Your eyes snapped open. The sincerity in his voice made your heart skip a beat. You couldn't help but smile, your hand coming up to cover his on your cheek.

“Don’t mention it,” you grinned. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance to repay the favor before we get out of here,” you chuckled.

“At least once, I reckon,” he huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “and about ‘cyar’ika’— I won’t call you that anymore, not if you don’t want me to. It just sort of…slips out…”

You interrupted him by ghosting your lips over his. “Don’t you ever stop calling me that…”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in to kiss you again. The warmth of his lips against yours sent a shiver down your spine, and you found yourself melting into his embrace. As you pulled apart, breathless and giddy, you couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this insane mission had been worth all the trouble after all.

“Now,” he said, reluctantly pulling away. “As much as I’d like to see where this goes, cyar’ika, we should probably get back to finding a way to contact General Plo,” he said with the faintest edge of regret in his voice.

“I would have gotten it working if you hadn’t interrupted me,” you teased.

Wolffe chuckled, shaking his head. "Is that so? Well, I suppose we'll never know now." He stood up, offering you his hand. "Come on, let's see if I can get that comm working while you get some rest. I can tell you haven’t slept since the crash," His eyes sparkled with a new affection and familiar determination, reminding you why you'd fallen for this gruff commander in the first place.

“I still need to check you for a concussion…” you pointed your finger into his chest plate as he guided you towards the room he’d just left.

“Oh I think it’s safe to say I am— so you’re just going to have to figure out a way to keep me awake tonight I guess, Lieutenant,” he said ominously, but his face gave nothing away.

You couldn't help but laugh. "Is that an order, Commander?" you teased, quirking an eyebrow at him. Wolffe's lips curled up in a rare, mischievous smirk as he pulled you closer, his voice low and husky as he murmured close to your ear. "Consider it a personal request, cyar'ika."

#star wars fan fiction #the clone wars fan fiction #tcw fan fiction #commander wolffe x reader #commander wolffe x f!reader #commander wolffe x you #commander wolffe fluff #mae lou ron writes

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