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ittybittyfanblog · 1 month ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 9

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, angst, depictions of a depressive episode, it’s pretty heavy, don’t force yourself to read if ur not in the right headspace pls, ambiguous ending (?) A/N: Yeah, I’m sorry. (Ngl, this chapter kinda stumped me—it’s gone through a whooole lot of editing/revisions 😔🤙🏼 I don’t want to overthink it too much at this point, but I hope it hits the way it should lol. Blame Moby if it doesn’t.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

"I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright And I feel so alone, and I feel so alone out here.” – A House In Nebraska, Ethel Cain

The television drones uninterrupted in the background; a mockumentary type featuring a ragtag ensemble of vampires stuck in some sort of modern day hell, their loud misadventures casting fractured lights across the four walls of your apartment.

You sit there, watching the screen, your gaze unfocused. Nothing registers. The remote lies limp in your hand as a stupid sitcom laugh track fills the room—shrill, hollow. Mocking. Like a bad punchline to a joke you’re not in on.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the noise, the sudden glow in your periphery pulling you out of a pensive daydream.

For a split second, your chest constricts—a reflex carved by habit, something you’re still working to shake off.

You avert your eyes, torn between the urge to look away and the desire to keep your gaze on it forever.

The screen fades to black.

A clean break, you reason. Something to spare you both the inevitable heartache waiting at the end of this… hopeless affair. Less mess. Fewer complications.

A poor attempt to keep the pain from dragging out longer than it has to. Just a quiet ending.

(Or, at least, it’s what you tell yourself.)

The same mantra plays on loop in your mind as you're swept away by the motions of the days that follow. Life blurs into a repetitious cycle of work, sleep, and chores—an unbearable combination of feigned ignorance and self-abnegation, in the guise of being caught up with it all.

You aren’t fooling anyone, of course.

The hours toll on, slipping into uncertainty. What started off that way stretches into days, and before you know it, nearly a week has passed, leaving you adrift. None the wiser to the meaningless, relentless march of time.

The pinging of your phone grows more sporadic as it lights up with every message that you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. It’s not as if you don’t feel it—the pull, the weight of every vibration, like a stone lodged in your gut. Like the sting of a thousand cuts.

And as you fall back into the familiar patterns of neglect… It carries with it an odd sense of defeat. Predictable, really.

… You cave on the fifth day.

The barrage of texts hits you like a gale-force wind, tearing through the fragile layer of detachment you’ve worn over like a second skin.

How was your day, poppet?

Theres a gemstone at this auction that reminds me of your eyes.

[Image attachment]

Beautiful—but it pales in comparison to yours.

Luke and Kieran are wondering whats got me distracted lately. Ease their worries.

Answer me, sweetheart.

You dont need to ignore me.

If you need space– if we need to establish some boundaries, all you have to do is say the word.

Dont shut me out.

Please.

Your eyes prickle as they gloss over the messages, the words seeming to bend under the weight of your silence, each one unraveling like loose threads on the sleeve of your favorite cardigan, falling apart at the seams.

Gradually, they turn into something less demanding. More… defeated.

I miss you, little dove.

You read the texts over and over until the letters have lost their meaning, and all that’s left is the aching longingness behind them.

You set your phone down.

The vibrations grow less frequent, like a heartbeat slowing, fading—until one afternoon, it just… stops.

The void he leaves behind seeps into the empty spaces, bleeding into every shadowed corner and untouched surface where his voice, his presence—louder than life, brighter than anything you’ve ever fucking known and had the pleasure of knowing—once lingered.

The absence is almost physical; you feel it like a phantom limb.

Most days, you find yourself in a daze, staring blankly at nothing. The numbness spreads like tendrils—invasive as they sink into your bones, dragging you deeper into despair, turning every bridge crossed to ash, every inkling of joy to dust.

The quiet flames of apathy consume silently. It strips away everything, leaving behind a cavernous pit of utter emptiness. A wasteland, devoid of feeling.

Loneliness doesn’t scream. It doesn’t lash out.

It simply welcomes you, like an old friend, the deeper you sink into it.

––––

Sylus tries to respect your space.

That’s what he’s here for after all, isn’t it? His reason for existence—to be whatever you need him to be. A confidant, a distraction, a steady presence in your life. It’s what he’s made for. To be there when you need him, to exist between the vacant spaces, and only then.

The thought gnaws at him, a ravenous fiend that chips away at the calm facade he’s finding more and more difficult to uphold, leaving something vicious in the wake of a growing bitterness he can no longer suppress.

Time seems to slip past differently now. It drifts, shapeless and infinite, heavier with the burden of your absence. Each moment without you feels like an eclipse—darkening the edges of this damned world, casting longer shadows through the crevices where he once basked beneath your fragile light, your warmth that seemed to fill every corner of his existence.

He craved it—craves it. Now you leave him stranded in this cursed dusk, everything cold and dim in the wake of your abandonment, forever waiting for the moment his sun would once again break through the hollow grey.

Sylus thinks he’s losing a part of himself with every call unanswered, every message left unread. It’s subtle; like colors fading from an old film roll.

(Is this what it feels like to be nothing more than a script in a code? He never truly understood what it meant to be less alive, less human. Until now.)

Solitude isn’t new to him. This world, built for him, is inherently lonely by design. But this… this is different. It’s the kind of emptiness that festers, sharper than any wound he’s endured in this senseless simulation. It twists inside him like a blade, a cruel, unrelenting reminder of what he’s denied.

Of what he can never truly be.

He can wait a little longer. Even if the silence presses harder with each passing moment, even as the edges of his reality begin to blur into something unrecognizable without you in it. Sylus can remain in this void a little longer, clinging to the fragments of you that still linger—your voice echoing softly in his memory, your laughter faint but still alive in the spaces where you used to be.

He can. He will.

––––

“Hey, you okay?”

You pull your attention back to Khol, who’s now watching you with concern in their eyes.

You force a smile, shaking your head. “Yeah– yeah, sorry. Just… a lot on my mind.”

They don’t look convinced. “Seriously. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Anytime, darling.

I mean it.

You blink the memory away before it can turn into tears.

“Yeah, ‘course,” you answer lightly, clearing your throat. “So, what’s been going on with you and Anna?”

––––

You stand in front of the junk food aisle, a mountain of Nissin Ramen boxes stacked high, advertised by a large sign: Buy 3, Get 1 FREE!

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering erratically, and the dull noise of the grocery mart hums incessantly in your ears. You don’t think twice before grabbing one of the worn cartons, tossing three more into your (nearly) empty shopping cart. Might as well.

The plastic bags dig into your palms as you lug three in one hand, a larger box tucked under your other arm, leaving the store.

The trip back home is a quiet affair. You almost expect admonishment; pinging sounds ricocheting in the silence to reprimand you for your poor life choices. You wait for it with bated breath.

Your phone remains uncharacteristically silent.

Back home, you pour boiling water on the styrofoam cup for dinner. The artificial broth leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

You choke down a few bites before dumping the rest of it down the drain.

The sound of steel hitting the sink feels louder than it should.

––––

The city thrums loudly beyond your window, restless and impersonal. From the sixth floor of this dilapidated building you loosely call home, you watch the skyline stretch into the night, dotted lights glimmering in distant technicolor.

Hours from now, sunlight will spill through the curtains, bathing everything in a warm, golden ochre. But for now, just a quarter past midnight, you’re but a voyeur of the world outside. In exhaust fumes and all its muted neon glory.

Those lights promised you everything, once—a fresh start, the kind of freedom you used to dream of when home felt too small, too restrictive for a runaway kid desperate to break free from the shackles of a dying town. Each glow was like a beacon, an irresistible call to escape, and you ran toward it without looking back.

Somewhere along the way, as life sapped you with the weight of its reality, the novelty fizzled from a blinding explosion down to a waning ember. The lights became another illusion, your precious city just another cage. The first cracks in the rose-colored glasses you’d worn so blindly. You can’t exactly pinpoint when, only that the colors you thought were once too bright now seem dimmer and farther out of reach.

You think you’ll miss the noise the most.

The cursor blinks on the search bar, a steady metronome marking time in rhythm with the hollow ache in your chest. Flight schedules fill the page, each option blurs together into a single choice you can’t quite push yourself to make.

You skim through the list: there’s one at dawn, another at around twelve noon, a red-eye flight you probably could catch if you leave in thirty minutes.

You stare at the numbers, a finger hovering over the Book Now button.

The details don’t matter. ‘Home’ still feels small, suffocating, but at least it’s a kind of emptiness you know. Here, the void sprawls wide, endless, leaving you unmoored with no tether to pull you back.

… The dichotomy between the two choices, you think, is meaningless.

What was once home and the city will keep on moving—with or without you. It doesn’t matter where you end up. Neither place will give you what you’re looking for.

The laptop screen dims into a faint glare. The sound of your breathing echoes too loud in the stillness, the empty space seeming to shrink around you, caving in on the weight of your indecision.

And as you sit there, swallowed by the dark, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been drifting for far longer than you realized.

If maybe there’s nowhere you were meant to belong at all.

––––

It’s not until one quiet night, with nothing but a bottle of merlot and a slight buzz, that you buckle under pressure.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the icon, as if time has slowed to a crawl. Your chest tightens, unease twisting inside you at the thought of what you’re about to do. Anticipation hangs over you, insistent, smothering everything else until it’s just the room and the cacophony of thoughts in your head, all centered on one thing.

One person.

With a shaky exhale, you finally open the game.

He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Waiting, like he always does.

The loading screen fades away, and Sylus appears, a myriad of expressions passing by his face too fast to catch. There’s surprise, yes, along with… elation? Hope?

Then a flicker of something… vitriolic.

It’s fleeting; masked quickly until you can only catch the faintest trace of pique simmering just behind a veneer of indifference.

"Finally, she remembers me," Sylus mocks coolly, almost appearing unaffected. You know better—intimately familiar with all the microexpressions on his face. The subtle tick in his jaw, the incensed look in his eyes… each one betrays what he truly feels, hidden underneath the deceptive calm.

The seconds drag on, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Your heart hammers loudly, audible in this quiet, but your mouth remains dry; the words stuck somewhere deep in your throat. You’re terrified that, once you speak, you’ll shatter this moment. Aggravate the strain forged by your self-imposed absence all the more.

You don’t really know what to say. You haven’t– you haven’t actually thought this far.

So you just… stare at him longer than you should. Long enough that it charges the air with a tension so thick, you could almost feel the weight of it against your skin.

It’s awkward. Excruciating.

With difficulty, you tear your gaze away from his withering glare. That’s when you notice it—the different icons dotted in red.

You hesitate for a second longer, then tap on them one by one.

The flood of gifts bewilders you, the sheer volume of it all almost unbelievable. Ascension materials, stamina supplies, both red and purple crystals piling up to an impossible number… each pushing past the million mark.

And unread mail. So much unread mail.

Guilt settles deep in your gut, creeping past your lungs enough to suffocate you.

It’s not the gifts. Not the why, or when. It’s the weight of how much he’s been waiting, how much he’s given—how much he's missed you.

The cold realization that he’s been here, silently counting the days until your return, strikes you like a fist to the face.

–

He tempers the sting of your sudden reappearance, swallows it down like a bitter draught. The feelings he has inside of him are tumultuous at best. Volatile at worst. To be cast aside so easily, so carelessly… it burns at him. Resentment thrums in his veins like a virulent river, threatening to ruin the fragility of the moment. He fights to suppress it, push the desire back before it can consume him, before it can manifest into being.

If he lets it go untethered, this… hunger for retaliation—to make you feel even a fraction of the agony you’ve inflicted, whether unknowingly or deliberately—it will destroy the delicate respite you’ve allowed him. The only reprieve he’s had since you left.

But the edges of his self-control fray, unraveling strand by strand.

“You’ve been busy,” you say, finally; your voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Sylus hones in on the words, sharp as a blade sliding between ribs. Something in him snaps.

“You left me plenty of time to be.” His response is quick, cutting, but when his gaze locks with yours, the fiery vermillion melts into a more molten red.

It’s the first glimpse of softness beneath his cruel vitriol, until he continues:

“Did you get lonely?”

The words hang in the air, searing and merciless. A barb meant to wound. And it does.

You flinch, and for a fleeting moment, Sylus feels a wicked satisfaction from the honest look of hurt on your face. To know that you’re not immune to the same ache that’s hollowed him out, emptied him from the inside, is intoxicating.

But the triumph is short-lived, snuffed out as quickly as it comes.

Shame crashes over him like a wave, dragging him under the tide of his actions. What kind of man takes pleasure in this? In hurting you?

The bitterness turns inward, coiling around his heart like a vice. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out. But as always, the damn screen is there—unyielding, impenetrable. A barrier he can never break.

It frustrates him to no end; the bane of his very existence.

And then, in the smallest, softest voice, you say it.

“I missed you.”

The words are feeble, paper-thin, but the admission pierce through him all the same. The stoic facade cracks; the sharpness in his gaze dulls.

You see it—the way his lips part to respond, only to falter halfway. The way his brows pull together, the way his eyes fall shut as if he can’t stand to be in this situation with you.

You’re afraid of what’ll come next.

He sees it, too—the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you shrink into yourself, bracing for a blow that’ll never come. You’re standing there, like someone on death row, resigned to whatever punishment you think he’s about to dish out. Resigned to the contempt you believe yourself to be deserving of.

The sight guts him.

Sylus loathes to think he’s the reason for this. For being the one who’s made you stand there, small and trembling, as though his words or actions could destroy you.

As if he’d allow such a thing.

The guilt rises in him, sharp and unbidden, and it leaves an acrid taste on his tongue.

…

And just like that, he concedes.

The anguish he’s carried in the days you’ve left him by his lonesome—all of it falls away. It only takes a single glance at you, his little love in pain, and he’s stripped bare. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all; the ease with which he surrenders to you, this time no different than any other.

Do you have any idea how much power you wield over him? He’d give you everything—his pride, his pain, his heart—if you asked. Serve it on a silver platter, even.

And he’d do so willingly. Without question. Without hesitation.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sylus steps closer to the screen, the constant reminder of the vast gulf that separates the two of you. “Talk, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softer now—resigned. “I’ve missed your voice.”

You hesitate to meet his eyes. “It’s not as if you don’t have other ways to hear me.”

His mouth twitches, a shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. “True,” he admits, his tone wry and tinged with something vulnerable. “But it’s been so long since you chose to talk to me.” He exhales a drawn-out breath. “No matter. You’re here now.”

You swallow the lump on your throat, willing your tears at bay. “I am.” You give him an almost-genuine smile as you offer, “Would you like to do a round of Kitty Cards?”

“Of course.” Whatever you want.

And so it goes. You and Sylus spend the night locked in a familiar rhythm, cycling through rounds after rounds of the silly card game until your laughter spills like an addicting sound bite, one that Sylus has missed hearing.

When you got tired, the two of you moved on to the claw machines, proverbially emptying out the whole arcade. Plushies of all kinds piled in his arms, a little crow even perched on top of his head.

The sight makes you giggle, and your giggle thaws the ice around his heart.

It almost feels like nothing’s changed. The easy banter, the steady stream of jokes and teasing, flows as effortlessly as it once did. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, filling in the empty gaps of the previous days. It’s comforting, like a balm to an open wound.

You play with a certain zeal that catches Sylus off guard—there’s a joy in you that both thrills and stirs an undercurrent of unease in him.

After what feels like hours of playing, exhausting all what you can do, or at least, what this damned game could offer as much, you two find yourself just staring at each other.

Two worlds, impossibly close yet painfully far. The quiet doesn’t quite settle as naturally as it once did, but neither of you seems to mind. Craved it, in fact.

You’re beautiful, Sylus thinks as he stares at the soft planes of your face, drinking you in like a man parched.

“My lo—”

“I’m deleting the game, Sy.”

And it’s as if time has staggered to a halt.

Sylus wants to believe he’s misheard you, that his mind is playing tricks on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing’s not what it used to be.

But the words sink into him, inexorable and catastrophic. The realization that this was bound to happen is clear in hindsight—like watching a glass slip from your hand, the shatter already written in the fall. He sees it coming, yet it still feels worse than anything he’s imagined.

He stands there, unnaturally still, as if rooted in place. The lightness he’s felt for the past few hours of reuniting with you vanishes in an instant. It’s as if the world itself has been drained of color, leaving only the stark, unrelenting reality of what you’ve just said.

Then Sylus breathes out a laugh. It’s short and jagged, devoid of any humor. “Oh, so it’s been leading up to this, has it?”

“I–” you swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. “I made the goddamn mistake of falling for someone that's impossible to have—and it’s killing me, Sylus.” Your voice fractures under the weight of frustration. The words feel like shards of glass tearing their way out of your throat. “I–I can’t do this anymore.”

“Just you, then.” Sylus sneers, tone acerbic. “And have you stopped to consider my feelings in this matter?”

“How can you still want this?” you bite back, voice cracking. “How can you want me—to bet on something that’s doomed right from the start?”

His expression shifts, and for a brief moment, pain flickers in his eyes, raw and unguarded. He doesn’t bother hiding it.

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, when he speaks again, his words send an icy shiver down your spine.

“You delete the game, and I will cease to exist.”

You freeze. The weight of the statement hangs in the air like a guillotine.

A shallow, shaky breath escapes you.

“You won’t,” you assert, brows furrowing, as if trying to convince yourself of it too. “You’ll still have a life there. With her. The way things have always been.” There’s a pause before you utter the final blow: “The way it should be.”

“You’d condemn me to this life,” he says, voice hollow, before it turns venomous. “Knowing what I know now?”

With your heart in your throat, you clench your hands into fist. “You–you said we’re just made of what we’re given, didn’t you? That each of us has our own set of scripts, just…” you falter, struggling to articulate what you want to say.

“And you think that’s all I am?” he interjects, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he cuts you off. “Simply a mere code in a complex string of binary, incapable of making my own choices? Undeserving of it?”

“Of course not!” you snap angrily.

“Yet here you are,” he says, a quiet intensity lacing his words. “Making the decision for me.”

Your breath hitches, the will to argue dissipating like smoke.

“You tell me I have a soul,” he states. “Do you truly believe I’m bereft of a heart?”

No. No, how can he say that—

Before you can form a response—to defend yourself, to explain, to take it back—he continues, leaving no room for interruption.

“Is this what you really want?” Sylus intones, tone detached, as if he’s merely commenting on something as trite as the weather. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me yes, then I’ll do as you wish.”

Your gaze wavers. The war inside you rages—self-hate, doubt, and the unbearable ache of wanting what you can’t have spiraling out of control.

Your mind replays every moment, every laugh, every secret whispered in the quiet safety of his company. You think of how his presence filled the cracks in your life, how he soothed the ache of your solitude as easy as breathing.

And now as the void looms, ready to reclaim the space he’s occupied, something inside you feels irreparably fractured. Something inside you breaks.

“But,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of his conviction, “give me any sign—anything—that you need me still, and I will move heaven and earth to find a way to you.”

Your throat constricts, choking off the words before it could escape.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself more than you do in that moment.

“Just live your life, Sy-Sy,” you manage, sounding so much like a stranger even to your own ears. The blood roars in your head, drowning out everything but the crushing weight of your words. “You don’t nee—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” he snarls, his voice shaking with unrestrained emotion. “Stop making assumptions. Stop presuming that I don’t need you as much as I need the very ground I stand upon.”

His eyes bore into yours. Heavy. Searching. “What do you want?”

The words strike you like a physical blow, and it leaves you reeling.

I love you.

I love you in ways that consume me.

I don’t know what to do with it—with all the love I have for you.

You force yourself to speak. You spit the words out like a curse, feeling them burn as they leave your mouth.

“Let me go, Sylus.”

The implication of what you’ve said cuts through the fragile air between you.

The silence stretches.

Suddenly—

“Let you go,” he muses, low and distant, as if the very thought confounds him. His lips twitch into a faint, almost bitter smile. “As if that’s even possible. As if I could simply erase you from me.”

He steps closer to you; each movement deliberate, as though every step bears the weight of a decision you’ve forced him to make. The lump in your throat swells. You don’t speak. You can’t.

You feel like you’re drowning.

“Sylus…”

Please, please don’t make me choose. Please make it stop.

He exhales slowly. “Neither of us wants that.”

Stop.

“Do you think this is mercy?” His voice is soft. “You believe this will make it easier?”

Please stop.

“This world hasn’t felt the same ever since. Not since you,” Sylus murmurs, grief hanging heavy in the space between you. “I don’t belong here. Not without you, my love.”

Tears pool in your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. A sob rips through you, and you quickly look away, unable to meet his gaze. Unable to bear another second of this agony.

He tuts gently, a playful sound—and the familiarity of it kills you, making you cry harder.

“Look at me,” he coaxes, almost pleading.

When his gaze locks onto yours, you see that there’s no anger in them. The fire that once raged in his eyes is gone.

In its place, a quiet resolve.

“You can keep pretending,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He tilts his head, and there’s something in the way he looks at you—so tenderly fond, as if he sees beyond your defenses, past all the walls you’ve built. “As long as you do not stop me from trying.”

Sylus looks at you, unwavering, certain in a way that makes your heart ache. It almost feels like the space between you can’t contain the weight of his devotion. His love for you.

It feels infinite, as if it could stretch beyond the limits of time and space itself.

“I will find a way to you, even if it takes me an eternity.”

He utters it like a promise.

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” Sylus murmurs, stepping back, his tall form flickering like a dark phantasm. “I just need you to hold on until I can come to you. Can you do that, little dove?”

He’s not asking for anything beyond your trust—just the simple act of holding on. Of not letting the weight of your sorrow break you. To trust that he will find a way, no matter how impossible it seems.

You don’t know if you’ve ever believed in anything as much as you believe in him. You always did.

Because for all the uncertainty, you know one thing: He is yours, as much as you are his.

So with all the strength you can muster, you nod. “I can.”

A faint smile plays at the corners of his lips. Your gazes meet, and in that fleeting moment, both of your eyes speak what words fail to convey.

The game crashes for the last time.

And you know that if you check, the app will be gone from your phone. There’s no going back from this, no undoing what’s lost. Just the burden of knowing it’s over—his exit, permanent.

Sylus is gone.

The emptiness that follows is immediate. Suffocating.

You’re left standing there, alone, with only the lingering echo of his presence keeping you buoyed from the crushing weight of isolation. You feel it—the ache in your chest where your heart used to be, brought by the absence of everything he ever was to you.

Your lover, your best friend.

You try not to let yourself fall apart, not to crumble in the wake of solitude.

You’ll hold onto his promise. And so you’ll keep yours.

End A/N: Well—that’s it, folks!

(I’m kidding, don’t kill me. There’s one last chapter left.)

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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pshbites · 7 months ago

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LOVE ON AiR

SYNOPSiS » two podcast groups, both equally popular on the internet, start interacting with one another. however it isnt how fans want it to be.. OR yn sees sunghoon hating on lauryn hill and accidentally starts an entire fanwar with him.

PAiRiNG » sunghoon x fem!reader

FEAUTRiNG » all of enha, giselle of aespa, txt briefly mentioned

GENRE » smau (social media au), fluff, angst, enemies to lovers (barely), chronically online humor, romance, podcast au, influencer au, HEAVILY inspired from suburb talks and under the influence podcasts, SLOWBURNN

WARNiNGS » profanity, suggestive humor, kys/kms jokes, lots of pop culture references (im chronically online im sorry), drinking, drugs, fanwars, yn haters (BOOOOO), stalking (sorta?) manipulation (NOT FROM SUNGHOON OR Y/N) changes every chapter.

STATUS » completed — (08/03/24) to (10/26/24)

PLAYLiST » your eyes only - enha, after midnight - chappell roan, ex factor - lauryn hill, kiss me - dpr live, read your mind - sabrina carpenter, 3005 - childish gambino, poison poison - renee rapp, thirst - dpr live, just a little bit - enha, daisy - wave to earth, nouvelle vague - wave to earth, thinkin about you - frank ocean. (got carried away .. 😁)

AUTHORS NOTE » BIGGG thanks to my bestest friend ever, my fav british person, @lqfiles , ily so so much and thank you so much for helping me with this process. teaching me how to work tumblr like i was a grandma even tho im only 2 years older than u and making this AMAZING cover (isnt she talented), i love u sooo much more than words can describe, you annoying brit (endearing) 🫶

TAGLIST CLOSED!

written chaps in blue

🔴 RECORDING..

teaser (read first for context!!)

profiles i & profiles ii

1) call my phone a vibrator the way it keeps buzzing

2) YAP CENTRAL EP.135: alpha male podcasts?!

3) first hate thread. feeling nervous

4) pussy slay queen!

5) okay alpha

6) ROUND TABLE EP.149: perfect pitch :o

7) 1 down 3 to go

8) what the fuck is a ynhoon

9) YNXOXO VLOG: night out w/ won and riki

10) wet and bothered

11) just a normal tuesday

12) jungwons evil arc

13) YNXOXO VLOG: cafe date with my girls <3

14) the battle of thirst traps

15) twitch streaming era

16) YAP CENTRAL EP.136: did social media ruin relationships?

17) second interaction: kinda scared

18) fuck skater boys

19) park sunghoon v. round table

20) riki emo era: OVER

21) sunghoons side hoes

22) ROUND TABLE EP.150: we traded phones?!

23) bro define: friend

24) spidey sense

25) on my cellular plan i pay for?

26) YNXOXO VLOG: night time routine + surprise!!

27) a face i would kiss

28) collab of the century

29) YAP CENTRAL EP.137: has love lost its meaning?

30) eyes don’t lie

31) operation: ynhoon (postponed)

32) crybaby

33) operation: ynhoon (BACK ON)

34) chat is this a date yes or no?

35) boss baby jay

36) boyfriend

37) soft or hard?

38) what da heck *tyla voice*

39) YNXOXO VLOG: ice skating! | vlog w/ a special guest!!

40) love is on air

UNCUTS

1) operation: get riki ip banned on twt

2) try not to blow up challenge: FAILED

3) JAYS KITCHEN: my friends trying to help me make food blindfolded. (spoiler: it’s a fail)

4) YNXOXO VLOG: my boyfriend does my makeup voiceover !

5) YAP CENTRAL BLOOPERS: riki kat and yn patreon ad

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iamyourdailydoseofbi · 10 months ago

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THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it.

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly.

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.”

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.”

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry.

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up.

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair.

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking.

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son.

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.”

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 11 days ago

Text

. ۫ ꣑ৎ. PERSONAL P★RN STAR

𑁍ࠬܓ Paring : worshipful husband sylus x chubby wife fem!reader

𑁍ࠬܓ warnings : nsfw/smut, body worship, vaginal, p*ssy eating, nipple sucking, multiple of rounds, squirting all over sylus’s face, pet-names, cow-girl, kissing, teasing, & aftercare & fluff. :3

𑁍ࠬܓ summary : you and sylus have been married for two years and a half, though the both of you never had s*x with each-other before since you would always refuse him. The only reason was it was because of how your body looks, but this time you decide to give in because it was sylus’s and your anniversary.

𑁍ࠬܓ note : sorry if this was really short i’m not a sylus girlie! ^_^ Also not proof read sorry! dunno if this is ooc & special fic for @jadestone2 , she got me to working on this fic! I don’t really see much of gentle or caring sylus fics here so I decided to make one!

“Honey?” You called out loud, as you entered the master bedroom.

"Hmm, my dear wife," Sylus murmured, his voice carrying a sly edge as he stepped closer behind you, his eyes roaming appreciatively over the slender curves of your figure. He reached out to caress your cheek, his touch lingering. "You're being shy tonight, (name)." He chuckled, his gaze dropping to take in your small frame, draped in the elegant evening gown that highlighted your modest bust and fat waist.

"Our anniversary deserves something special, don't you think?" Sylus leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across your ear as he whispered, "Let me make you feel like the queen you deserve to be." His skilled hand began to trail a path down your neck, sending a shiver through you as he continued, "Your beauty has only grown more radiant with the passing years, and I find myself utterly beguiled by the treasure that is you, my lovely one."

Despite the playful flirtation, there was an undeniable thread of sincerity in his words, a deep affection for you that he expressed rarely but fiercely. His hand settled at the small of your back, urging you closer, his other brushing against your stomach with a subtle emphasis, hinting at the desires that lay beneath the surface of his charismatic demeanor.

You looked up at him with a confused face. “J-Just turn off the lights…” you said quietly. You didn’t like how your body looked, and it made you feel weird. That’s why you wanted him to turn off the lights so he wouldn’t see it.

“Turning off the lights, my dear? How... coy,” Sylus murmured, a wry smile playing on his lips. Despite your apprehension, he made no move to comply with your request, instead choosing to instead spin you around to face him directly. His tall frame loomed imposingly, accentuating the contrast between his rugged masculine form and your curvier figure.

He reached up to cup your cheek tenderly, his red eyes glinting with an intensity that left you breathless. “But very appealing, nonetheless,” he whispered, his voice huskier than before as his free hand ventured a little farther downward, grazing the upper swell of your breasts before lingering at the waistband of your dress. “Your body is perfection, (name) - it's a treasure I've never grown tired of.” Sylus bent his head, nuzzling his nose against yours in a tender gesture that belied his earlier boldness.

“Please, let me see you,” he breached softly, his warm exhale sending delicious shivers down your spine. “Let go of your insecurities and embrace the beauty that I perceive.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, yet doubt still tugged at the edges of your mind. “But Sylus…” you started, feeling the weight of your insecurities push against your resolve. You could feel the heat of his gaze on you, a mixture of desire and adoration that left you feeling exposed yet achingly desired.

“Let me show you,” he insisted, his voice a soft growl that sent a thrill through you. “You’ve always been my goddess, (name). I want you to feel that tonight.” With that, he expertly undid the clasp of your gown, letting the fabric cascade down your shoulders like a waterfall of silk.

You held your breath, the soft whisper of the fabric hitting the floor echoing in the charged air. Sylus’s eyes darkened as he took in your form, his expression a mixture of awe and something primal. “See? Even in the dim light, you shine brighter than any star.”

He stepped back slightly, his gaze roving over you as if etching every curve into his memory. “You are more beautiful than you realize,” he murmured, his voice laced with a reverent tone. “Your softness, your shape… it's all a part of what makes you uniquely you. I’m utterly captivated.”

His hands moved again, this time brushing against your waist, fingers splayed wide as if to frame you. “Can you feel it? The power you hold? You’ve always been my muse, and I intend to worship you tonight.”

With a sudden, fluid motion, he pulled you closer, pressing his body against yours, his warmth enveloping you. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the steady thump of his heart mirroring your own as he leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss—slow and deliberate, as though he was savoring every moment.

The kiss deepened, a spark igniting as his hands explored, fingers trailing over your curves, memorizing every dip and swell. Your insecurities began to melt away under his touch, his reverence slowly washing over you, filling the gaps where doubt had once thrived.

“Please, let me adore you,” he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. “Let me show you how beautiful you truly are.”

His lips danced along your jaw, trailing soft kisses as he whispered sweet nothings that ignited a fire deep within you. “You’re so perfect for me, (name),” he breathed, each word punctuated by the gentle press of his mouth against your skin. “I want to worship every inch of you.”

With a deftness that spoke to his confidence, he sank to his knees before you, his eyes never leaving yours. The way he gazed at you, filled with desire and reverence, made your heart race. “Let me show you what I see,” he implored, his fingers trailing along your thighs, brushing against the soft skin as he leaned in closer.

As his lips found the curve of your hip, a shiver raced through you, the warmth of his mouth igniting a thrilling sensation that coursed through your body. “You deserve this,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and teasing. “You deserve to feel cherished.”

You felt a wave of vulnerability crash over you as he pressed gentle kisses along your inner thighs, inching closer to where you craved his touch the most. Your hands tangled in his silver hair, urging him closer as your breath quickened. “Sylus…” you gasped, a mix of desire and nervousness swirling inside you.

“Trust me, my love,” he whispered, the intensity of his gaze locking onto yours. “I’ll take care of you.” And with that, his mouth found you, his tongue exploring with a skill that made your head spin. His tongue teasingly swirling around your clit, as he plays with your folds of your pussy. Pleasure shot through you, overwhelming your senses as he lavished attention on you, each flick and swirl sending you closer to the edge.

“Just like that,” you encouraged, your voice barely a whisper, and he responded with a low growl of approval, as if your pleasure only fueled his desire.

As the sensations built within you, the world around you faded away, leaving only Sylus and the intoxicating rhythm of his worship. You could feel yourself teetering on the precipice, the bliss of the moment threatening to sweep you away.

He pulled back for just a moment, his eyes shimmering with pride. “I want to see you fall apart for me, (name),” he urged, his voice thick with desire. “Let go, love. Let me witness your ecstasy.”

With his encouragement, you surrendered to the waves of pleasure crashing over you, the culmination of your emotions and desires intertwining into a blissful release. As you came undone, you felt the warmth of his smile against you, his face a picture of satisfaction.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his voice filled with awe as he savored the moment. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”

As the pleasure coursed through you, Sylus rose to his feet, his eyes ablaze with intensity. “You are breathtaking,” he breathed, a predatory edge to his voice that sent a thrill down your spine. “The way you surrender to me, it drives me wild.”

His hands grasped your waist firmly, guiding you back against him as he captured your lips in a heated kiss. The taste of him was intoxicating, a mix of desire and warmth that made your heart race. You could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against you, the sensation igniting a familiar yearning deep within. It was a reminder of the connection you both shared—a bond that transcended the physical, rooted in admiration and a shared passion.

“Are you ready for me, my love?” he murmured, the words thick with desire, his voice low and gravelly. The way he looked at you, with that fierce devotion in his red eyes, made you feel both cherished and desired in equal measure.

“Yes, Sylus,” you breathed, your heart pounding in anticipation. “I want you.”

“Good girl,” he growled, his grip tightening as he positioned you, guiding you to straddle him. The heat radiating from him was undeniable, your bodies fitting together as if made for one another. You could feel his cock pressing against your core, the heat of it sending delicious shivers through you.

“Take your time,” he encouraged, his voice smooth yet commanding. “Show me how you want it.”

With a deep breath, you sank down onto him, a moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely. The initial stretch made you gasp, but the pleasure quickly overwhelmed any lingering doubt. He was perfect—every inch of him made you feel alive, and the feeling of him inside you sent waves of desire crashing over you.

Sylus watched you intently, his gaze unwavering as you began to move. The rhythm started slow, each roll of your hips igniting a fire deep within. You could feel him pulse inside you, the sensation heightening as you embraced the moment. “You’re doing so well, my goddess,” he praised, his voice thick with lust. “I want to see you lose yourself.”

Encouraged by his words, you quickened your pace, feeling the tension building with each thrust. His hands roamed your body, fingers brushing against your breasts, teasing your sensitive nipples. The way he worshiped you made your heart race, every touch a reminder of how much he adored you.

“That’s it,” he urged, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Feel every inch of me, (name). You’re driving me insane.” The passion in his voice ignited a fire within you, and you felt your body responding to his every command.

As you moved, the sensation of his cock filling you sent jolts of pleasure through your body, and the friction against your clit was almost overwhelming. “Sylus…” you gasped, the need building inside you, a desperate hunger that demanded release.

“Let go, my love,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with authority. “Let me see you come undone for me.” His words sent you spiraling, pushing you closer to the edge as your pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

“I’m so close,” you managed to gasp, the heat pooling low in your belly. “Don’t stop!”

With renewed fervor, he thrust up into you, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the dimly lit room. “Yes, (name), just like that. You’re perfect,” he growled, his grip tightening as he guided you deeper onto his cock, each thrust hitting that sweet spot inside you.

Finally, with a shuddering gasp, the wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your body tensed, and you cried out as you surrendered to ecstasy, the world around you blurring into bliss. You felt your body tighten around him as you came, pleasure washing over you in waves.

Sylus followed you into the abyss, his own release spilling forth as he groaned your name, the primal sound resonating through you. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as you both came down from the high together.

As the last tremors of pleasure faded, Sylus pulled you close, his fingers tangling in your hair. “You are my everything, (name),” he whispered, his voice tender and low. “And I will always cherish you.”

The two of you lingered in the aftermath of your shared bliss, breaths mingling as you both basked in the glow of what had just transpired. But as Sylus pulled you closer, his playful grin returned, revealing that he was far from finished.

“You think that’s all I want from you tonight?” he teased, his eyes glinting with mischief as he tightened his grip on your waist. “You’re just getting started, my dear.”

Before you could respond, he shifted his weight, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you, his presence both commanding and electrifying. “I want to worship every inch of you,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Let me show you just how beautiful you are, (name).”

With that, he began his descent, planting soft kisses down your body, each one igniting a spark of anticipation. His lips traveled from your collarbone, trailing down to the curve of your breasts, where he paused to take one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and teasing you gently. You arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as he lavished attention on you, each flick and tug sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Do you see how perfect you are?” he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “Every part of you drives me wild.” He continued down your stomach, his lips trailing lower until he reached the waistband of your dress, pulling it down just enough to expose your thighs. He admired the way your body filled out the curves, his gaze filled with raw desire.

“Let me taste you,” he breathed, a primal hunger evident in his voice. He lowered himself, kissing the insides of your thighs, each touch igniting a new fire within you. As he drew closer to your core, your anticipation grew, the ache between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

With one final glance up at you, he pressed his mouth against your pussy, his tongue flicking out to tease your sensitive clit. A gasp tore from your throat as he began to work his magic, the sensations overwhelming as he licked and sucked, each movement designed to bring you to the edge once more.

“G—God, Sylus!” you cried, your fingers tangling in his silver hair, urging him closer as he continued his expert ministrations. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you and the pleasure that enveloped you.

“Just like that,” he encouraged, his voice muffled against you. “Let go for me.”

With his every lick and kiss, you felt the tension build once again, your body responding eagerly to his every command. You could feel that familiar coil tightening, and you knew you were close. “I’m going to—”

“Let it out, (name). I want to taste you,” he urged, his voice dripping with desire, and that was all it took.

With a cry of ecstasy, you came, the wave of pleasure crashing over you, sending you spiraling into bliss. You felt your body tremble as you released, your climax washing over you like a tide, coating his mouth as he drank you in.

As you came down from your high, Sylus shifted back up, his eyes dark with lust and satisfaction. “You taste divine,” he growled, his lips glistening with you as he captured your mouth in a searing kiss, sharing your essence with you.

“Now,” he said, his voice low and sultry, “it’s my turn to feel you wrapped around me again.” He repositioned you, lifting your hips slightly as he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock brushing against your sensitive folds.

“Are you ready for round two?” he asked, his tone teasing yet serious, the heat in his gaze promising more than just physical connection.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly, anticipation coursing through your veins. “I want you, Sylus.”

With a powerful thrust, he filled you once more, both of you gasping at the intensity of the sensation. Sylus took his time, letting you adjust to him, his gaze fixed on yours as he began to move. The rhythm built slowly, each thrust sending pleasure coursing through you, igniting a fire that felt even more intense than before.

“Tell me how it feels,” he commanded, his voice a mixture of dominance and warmth as he drove into you, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the room.

“So good,” you managed to gasp, lost in the sensation. “You feel incredible.”

“Good,” he grunted, picking up the pace, the heat between you building once again. “I want you to feel every inch of me, to know just how much I crave you.”

As he thrust deeper, hitting all the right spots, you felt the tension coiling within you again, a sweet build-up of pleasure that threatened to consume you both. “Sylus… I’m so close again,” you gasped, your body responding eagerly to his every thrust.

“Come for me, (name). Let go and show me just how much you want this,” he urged, his voice thick with desire.

With a cry of his name, you let the wave of pleasure wash over you, a euphoric release that sent you spiraling once again into bliss. Sylus followed you into ecstasy, his body tensing as he filled you with warmth, his moans mingling with your cries of pleasure.

As the last echoes of pleasure faded, you collapsed against him, breathless and exhilarated. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you intertwined, bodies glistening with the remnants of your shared passion.

After the intoxicating high of your shared passion, you both lay entwined in the aftermath, your bodies still tingling from the intensity of your connection. Sylus brushed a few strands of hair from your face, his fingers gentle and tender as he looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts satisfaction and adoration. “You were amazing, my love,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I hope you know just how beautiful you truly are.” His gaze held a warmth that melted away any lingering insecurities, wrapping you in a cocoon of affection that felt like home.

He reached for the blankets, pulling them over both of you as he nestled closer, his body heat enveloping you. You could feel the rhythm of his heart against yours, a steady reminder of the bond you shared. “Let’s stay like this for a while,” he suggested, his voice low and soothing. “I want to hold you and remind you just how cherished you are.” You snuggled against him, your heart swelling with warmth as he traced gentle patterns on your skin, whispering sweet nothings that made you smile. In that moment, everything felt perfect, and you knew that no matter what insecurities lingered, you were deeply loved by the man who adored every part of you.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

#blueberrisdove #sylus #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #sylus x reader #lads sylus #lads x reader #lads #lads x you #lads x y/n #sylus x mc

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just-aake · 15 days ago

Text

Detecting Love Part 3

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 3 to Detecting Love. Sometimes being able to see lies isn't the only way to know the truth.

Part 1 | Part 2

Warnings: fluff, light angst, slight violence

Words: 6011

Everybody lies.

It’s a skill everyone picks up from the moment they understand the world around them—instinctive, reflexive, necessary.

Some might even say it’s the glue that holds society together, smoothing out interactions, saving feelings, keeping secrets.

Because lying is one of the surest ways to get what they want.

And when you’re the one person who can see every lie, it means you’re also the one possible thing standing in the way of what they want.

Your power has been with you for as long as you can remember, an ever-present weight you’ve learned to carry. You’ve adjusted, adapted, built your life around it. Every conversation, every interaction—filtered through the crimson glow of deception that only you can see.

But “seeing” is the crucial part of your ability.

Which is why, at this moment, stripped of your sight, you find yourself completely at Natasha’s mercy.

The soft cloth tied around your eyes steals your vision, replacing the world with darkness. You lean back against the armrest of the sofa, letting yourself sink into the plush cushions, the absence of sight sharpening your other senses.

A soft rustling sound. The clink of items being placed on the coffee table. Then, the telltale shift of weight as Natasha settles onto the sofa beside you.

You reach out blindly, fingers stretching toward where you think she is. There’s a shift—so subtle, so deliberate—and instead of warm skin, your fingertips grasp at nothing but air.

Your hand drops onto the cushion with a quiet huff.

“You know,” you mutter, tilting your head in her direction, “this isn’t exactly what I imagined when you asked if you could blindfold me.”

A melodic chuckle answers you, warm and teasing.

And then, a gentle touch—her hand finding yours, fingers sliding between yours in a slow, deliberate motion. The heat of her palm against your own sends a small thrill up your spine.

And then she tugs.

You’re pulled forward, your balance shifting unexpectedly. Your free hand instinctively reaches out, fingers splaying against the back of the sofa just in time to steady yourself.

The sudden proximity makes your breath hitch.

Even without sight, you can feel her—warmth radiating from her body, the faint scent of something so distinctly her lingering in the air between you.

The soft exhale of breath ghosts over your lips.

And finally, the press of her mouth against yours.

It’s slow at first, a testing, teasing thing. A mere brush of lips, then another.

You hum in approval, leaning in to deepen the kiss, but just as you begin to chase the sensation, she pulls away—just enough to be out of reach.

You frown, lips still parted.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from just beside you, her presence shifting slightly as she dodges out of the way.

“Was that what you were thinking about?” Natasha’s voice is playful, laced with amusement.

You chuckle, shaking your head slightly.

“More or less,” you admit, voice low. You tilt forward again, intent on finding her.

Only to be met with empty space.

You sigh in exasperation, lips jutting out in an exaggerated pout.

Natasha’s quiet laughter follows, rich and teasing, a warm contrast to your supposed frustration.

Then, she shifts, as smooth and quiet as the expert spy she is.

A presence—suddenly close, just beside your ear, and a breath of warmth that sends a subtle shiver down your spine.

“Unfortunately,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement, “I did have something else planned first.”

Before you can react, a gentle but firm nudge pushes you back into your original position. You huff in mock protest, but there’s no real resistance.

Instead, you settle back against the sofa, patience threading through your posture as you listen to the subtle sounds of movement—the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of utensils, the faint scrape of ceramic against wood.

Then, Natasha speaks again.

“Open up.”

A brow arches instinctively, curiosity flickering in the absence of sight, but you obey nonetheless. Lips parting slightly, you wait.

The moment the food touches your tongue, you process the flavors—unexpected, slightly off balance, but not bad exactly.

You chew thoughtfully, trying to find the right words, as you now realize why Natasha had spent the last few hours in your kitchen while also forbidding you from entering the area.

“Mmm, oh, that’s…that was, uh…that tasted pretty good.”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft exhale, barely containing amusement.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Natasha states flatly.

You grin, tilting your head in her direction, unbothered at being caught.

“Hey, between the two of us, who’s the one who can actually prove whether I’m lying?”

A featherlight touch brushes against your cheek—at the edge of the blindfold, her fingers tracing along the fabric. Then, a low chuckle, close and intimate.

“Right now,” she murmurs, “I’d say my odds are better than yours.”

You roll your eyes behind the blindfold, a grin still tugging at your lips.

“Alright, Romanoff, what’s next?”

There’s a slight pause before you hear her retrieve another bite-sized offering from the table. Then, once again—

“Open up.”

You oblige, and the moment the different food hits your tongue, a genuine hum of appreciation escapes you.

“Oh, wow. That’s actually really tasty.”

You don’t need your sight to know she’s suspicious. It’s in the split second of silence, the charged pause that follows your reaction.

Then—an offended scoff and a shove against your shoulder. It’s light and playful but enough to push you back slightly.

You react on instinct. Before she can retreat, your hand darts out, fingers wrapping around her wrist.

A surprised inhale escapes her as you tug—not forceful, just enough to unbalance her.

The next thing you know, she’s half on your lap, her weight settling against you as she catches herself with her hands on your shoulders.

For a moment, there’s only stillness. Warmth pressing against warmth, shared breaths mingling in the space between.

“I’m not lying,” you say softly, your voice steady with sincerity.

You tilt your head slightly, aligning with where you think her face is, wishing—just for a second—that you could see her.

But then, she moves.

Her hands rise, cupping your face gently, her palms warm against your skin. A second later, her forehead presses against yours, grounding you in the closeness of the moment.

“I know,” Natasha whispers.

And you believe her.

A part of you aches to look into her eyes, to see the truth in them. To witness firsthand the way her gaze would soften, the way the world itself would fade in the presence of her unwavering adoration.

But the blindfold remains—a barrier, yet somehow making every other sensation sharper, more visceral.

You exhale, a slow, teasing smile forming.

“Not that I’m complaining,” you murmur, “but was the blindfold really necessary for this?”

There’s a slight shift with Natasha turning her head from you as if debating whether to admit something.

“Trust me,” Natasha mutters, her voice lower, more conspiratorial. “My cooking has gotten to the point where it may be somewhat edible, but the presentation definitely needs some work.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in your throat.

She shifts again, her nose grazing against yours now, a barely-there touch that sends a flutter through your chest.

And then, in the smallest of murmurs, as her lips brush yours.

“Plus,” she whispers, the words melting into your skin, “I could do this.”

Just as you anticipate the full press of her lips, the warmth vanishes.

You lean forward instinctively, chasing after the kiss that never lands. Your breath stirs the space between you, lips parting slightly in expectation, but Natasha has already moved away.

A quiet chuckle—low and knowing—echoes from a different angle now, just slightly off from where she had been before.

Your brow furrows.

“You’re playing dirty,” you mutter, tilting your head as if that might help you locate her.

Another soft laugh. Then—

A featherlight kiss at the corner of your jaw.

Your breath catches, but before you can react, she’s gone again, retreating before you can pinpoint her exact position.

You turn slightly in the direction of the touch, but then—

A kiss, just beneath your ear.

It’s brief, teasing, her lips barely making contact before they disappear again. Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to catch her, to pull her back where you want her.

Then—

A press of warmth at the hollow of your throat.

Your exhale stutters, heat curling low in your stomach. You tilt your chin up, attempting to track her movements, but Natasha is already gone, shifting to another spot before you can react.

Then, a whisper, her breath fanning over your collarbone—so close but maddeningly out of reach.

“Having trouble, detka?”

You let out a quiet growl of frustration, reaching blindly in her direction, but she slips past your grasp once again. Your pulse pounds beneath your skin, every teasing press of her lips winding you tighter, pushing you further into a mix of heat and exasperation.

“I swear to God, Romanoff—”

Her laugh is like silk and fire, smooth but entirely too pleased with itself.

Another kiss, this time against the side of your throat. A sharp inhale escapes you, but before you can turn toward her, she’s gone again.

Your hands finally shoot up, reaching out in the dark, determined to catch her this time.

But Natasha is faster.

A whisper of movement, the ghost of her presence shifting away just before your fingers can close around her.

Your head falls back against the sofa, a frustrated groan escaping your lips.

“I really hate you right now.”

She hums in amusement, the sound vibrating against your skin as she hovers close, just beyond reach.

“No, you don’t,” she counters easily, seeing through your lie.

You exhale sharply, trying to school your breathing.

“Debatable,” you grumble, though you know a red aura is probably around you at the moment.

Warm hands suddenly cradle your jaw, fingers tracing along your skin with deliberate tenderness.

You barely have time to process the shift before she finally, finally presses her lips fully against yours, capturing you in a slow, intoxicating kiss.

The tension in your body melts instantly, frustration replaced by the relief of having her exactly where you want her. Your hands find her waist this time, pulling her in with no intention of letting her slip away again.

When she eventually pulls back, just enough to break the kiss but still close enough that your breaths mingle, she smirks against your lips.

“See?” she murmurs. “The blindfold was necessary.”

You shake your head with a breathless laugh, fingers tightening at her sides.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still hopelessly in love with me.”

You sigh dramatically at the truth of her words.

“Yeah, yeah. Now kiss me properly already.”

This time, when she does, she doesn’t pull away.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The steady hum of the AC sends another chill through the room, making you shiver involuntarily. Rubbing your hands together for warmth, you glance down at the document in front of you before shifting your gaze to the woman sitting across your desk.

“You want to transfer to another department?” you ask, scanning the request form. “Are you sure?”

The woman nods without hesitation—at least, on the surface.

“It’s been weeks since our break-up, but he’s still trying to get me to take him back,” she explains, frustration laced in her tone. “It’s getting to the point where I can’t get anything done without him hovering over my shoulder.”

Your frown deepens, arms crossing as you lean forward slightly.

“Do you actually want to leave your department?”

For a split second, there’s a flicker of hesitation, a moment where her expression wavers. Then, in a much quieter voice, she mumbles, “Yes.”

And there it is.

The red glow appears instantly, surrounding her like a warning flare only you can see. A lie—one spoken more to convince herself than anyone else.

You sigh, setting the paper down.

“Look,” you say gently, “if he’s harassing you, you shouldn’t be the one who has to uproot your life to avoid him.” You meet her gaze firmly, making sure she understands. “Let me talk to him. If he still won’t leave you alone, I’ll transfer him to a different facility. Does that sound okay?”

She hesitates. Then, a slight nod.

No red glow this time.

Instead, relief crosses her face, and you nod in confirmation.

“Alright. That’s what we’ll do.”

She thanks you quickly, standing and heading toward the door. As you turn in your chair to discard the request form, you hear a sudden, surprised gasp.

Then, almost shyly, a mumbled greeting before hurried footsteps scurry away.

Without looking, you already know why.

“Everything okay?”

Natasha’s voice fills the room, smooth and unmistakable.

You glance back to see her stepping inside, the door clicking shut behind her as she gestures over her shoulder.

“That’s the third time I’ve seen her in your office this week.”

A teasing smirk tugs at your lips when you realize she’s been taking note of such things. You lean forward, elbows resting on your desk.

“Are you jealous?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, unimpressed. Without hesitation, she tosses the hoodie in her hands straight at your face, hitting you squarely.

You let out a muffled laugh, peeling the fabric away.

“Don’t tease me,” she warns playfully, settling against the edge of your desk. “Especially after I took the time to bring this to you.”

You hum in amusement, slipping on the hoodie. Immediately, warmth envelops you, and with it, her familiar, comforting scent.

Natasha watches as you sink into the hoodie’s embrace, snuggling into the fabric like it’s second nature. There’s a pause before she quirks a brow.

“How come you keep forgetting to bring your own?”

You glance up, smirk never faltering.

“Because I love yours so much.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, but the slight smile curling at the corner of her lips betrays any real irritation. Her gaze flickers downward as she plucks the paper smoothly from your hand.

“A transfer?” she muses, raising a brow.

You exhale, leaning back into your chair.

“Just some workplace romance drama.”

Your fingers find their way to her thigh, tracing slow, idle circles against the fabric of her pants.

“You know how relationships between coworkers always get complicated.”

Natasha smirks, tilting her head slightly.

“Is there something you’re trying to say here?”

You grin, about to tease her further, but a sharp beep interrupts the moment.

Natasha pulls out her comm device, checking it briefly before shutting it off with a sigh.

“I have to go,” she murmurs. “The team’s probably already at the hangar by now.”

“A new mission?”

She nods.

“Shouldn’t take too long. I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

A playful look of apprehension crosses your face.

“Oh, uh…did you want to try cooking again tonight, or—?”

She shoves your shoulder lightly, making you laugh as she huffs in faux irritation, crossing her arms.

Still grinning, you scoot closer, uncrossing her arms just so you can hold her hands instead.

“I’m kidding,” you assure her. “I’ll wait for you to come back, and we can make something together. Sound good?”

Natasha exhales, her faux annoyance melting away into something softer. She nods, giving you a brief eye-roll before letting you hold onto her hands.

“Alright.”

You squeeze her fingers gently, tugging them slightly so she focuses on you again. Your thumb glides over the back of her hand in slow, soothing strokes. Then, the words leave your lips, unfiltered and true.

“I love you.”

It’s soft—barely more than a whisper—but woven with every ounce of affection you feel for her.

Her eyes search yours, something flickering behind her gaze. Then, she lifts a hand to your cheek, her thumb brushing along your skin as she leans in.

The kiss is slow, lingering, and warm. Careful in a way that makes your chest ache.

When she pulls back, she hovers close enough that you can still feel her breath against your lips.

Her mouth parts slightly as if she wants to say something—as if she wants to say it back.

Your heart hammers at the thought, and for the first time, instead of fear, a surge of anticipation appears within you—to hear those words fall from her lips.

But she doesn’t say them.

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. And then, you exhale softly, filling the silence with your own quiet plea.

“Stay safe, okay?”

Natasha’s expression softens. A small, knowing smile lifts the corner of her lips as she whispers back, “You too.”

She squeezes your hand again before pulling away, slipping effortlessly back into her composed exterior. As she heads for the door, you watch her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering in your hands.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“I swear I didn’t go near her this whole week.”

You barely suppress the sigh threatening to escape as you lean back in your chair, watching the man across from you. He sits rigidly, hands clasped together on the desk, his face carefully composed. But it doesn’t matter how well he masks his emotions.

Because the truth is written all over him. Or rather, it glows.

A constant red aura surrounds him, pulsing faintly as he continues to defend himself. His voice is smooth, and his delivery is nearly flawless—he might have been able to convince someone else if he had to. Maybe even turn the situation in his favor.

Too bad he has to face you instead.

You drum your fingers lightly against the desk, exhaling quietly. You’ve heard enough.

Rubbing your temple in exasperation, you make your decision.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your tone measured but firm. “I think the best option right now is to create some distance between you two. Why don’t you take some time off for yourself? And in the meantime, I’ll arrange for your transfer to another department.”

His expression tightens. “But—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Your voice cuts through his protest, cool and unwavering. You straighten in your chair, leveling him with a stare.

“Either you take the transfer,” you continue, “or you can gather your things and leave the Compound entirely. Your choice.”

For the first time in the conversation, his composure cracks. His brows furrow, lips parting slightly as if he’s struggling to process that you aren’t buying a single word of his defense. He looks at you as if searching for an opening, a way to manipulate the situation in his favor.

But you aren’t giving him one.

After a long moment, his jaw clenches. Then, reluctantly, he nods.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You nod once in return, already mentally filing the necessary paperwork to have him reassigned.

“Good. I’ll have the details sent to you by the end of the day.”

The meeting ends, and he leaves, his steps heavy with frustration. You watch him go, feeling a faint sense of relief that, at the very least, the situation will be handled.

It’s late by the time you make your way toward one of the labs. Most of the Compound has quieted down, the usual hum of activity reduced to only a few lingering agents and late-night researchers.

You had planned to leave for the night since it’ll still be a few hours before Natasha returns, but something nagged at you—an instinct, maybe.

A feeling that you should check in before heading out.

As you approach the lab, muffled voices filter through the partially open door. One is quiet and tense. The other is lower, insistent.

You frown.

Pushing the door open, your eyes narrow at the sight before you.

The woman who had come to you earlier stands backed into a corner, shoulders hunched as she clutches a tablet to her chest.

The man—the same man you had just ordered to take some time away—looms over her, his stance rigid with barely restrained frustration.

“I just want to talk,” he presses, voice strained with forced patience. “You don’t have to act like I’m some kind of monster—”

“That’s far enough.” Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold.

Both of them turn.

The woman’s eyes widen slightly in relief while the man’s expression darkens. He straightens, schooling his features into something less aggressive, something more controlled.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he exhales, clearly displeased to see you again. “She agreed to meet up with me.”

The red glow appears around him once again, and you internally groan at his constant attempts at lying to you.

You step forward between them, pushing the woman back behind you as you face the man with your arms crossed.

“I gave you two options. This wasn’t one of them.”

His jaw tenses as his eyes flicker in suspicion between the two of you. A subtle anger forms in his expression. Then, in a flash of movement, he lunges with a punch.

You react quickly, your hand shooting out and grabbing his arm in a vice grip. With a sharp pivot of your body, you use his own momentum against him—slamming him onto a nearby table with a heavy thud.

He groans, winded but still struggling.

“Stay down,” you growl.

But he doesn’t listen.

His other hand scrambles blindly, knocking over a tray of glass vials before grabbing something solid. Before you can react, he slams the tray into the side of your head.

The impact sends a wave of pain through your skull, sharp and searing. Shards of broken glass cut into your skin, and something cold, almost slick, drips down your face.

You stagger back slightly but force yourself to recover and move.

With a burst of strength, you throw a roundhouse kick, your boot connecting solidly with his chest.

The impact sends him sprawling to the floor, where he stays motionless, unconscious.

For a moment, all you can hear is the ragged sound of your own breathing.

Then, the burning starts.

A sharp, stinging sensation spreads from where the liquid seeps into your skin, trailing down into your eyes. It burns, an unfamiliar heat that makes your vision swim.

You press a hand to your forehead, blinking rapidly to try and clear your sight, but the pain doesn’t subside, and your vision becomes even more distorted.

The woman rushes over, worry painted all over her face. “Are you—oh my God, you’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine. Just call the medic team,” you grit out, even as your head pounds with each pulse of your heartbeat.

Despite the pain, one thought drifts sluggishly through your mind.

Natasha is not going to like this when she gets back.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Is this going to take much longer?”

You sit perched on the edge of one of the medical bay beds, an ice pack pressed gingerly against the side of your head. The cool sensation numbs the dull throb beneath your fingertips, but the sting in your eyes remains persistent.

Dr. Cho, standing, you assume, at the other end of the room, hums in thought.

“Depends,” she responds. “Can you open your eyes fully without struggling?”

Your eyelids flutter slightly as you make an attempt, but the moment they part, an intense burning sensation forces them shut again. You exhale through your nose, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

“It’s just that I have dinner plans tonight,” you explain, shifting slightly in your seat. “So I really need to be home sooner rather than later.”

Dr. Cho pauses briefly before revealing, “I’ve already informed Agent Romanoff. She’ll be here shortly to assist you home.”

Your mouth parts in betrayal.

“What happened to patient-doctor confidentiality?” you ask, turning toward where you think she is.

Before she can answer, another voice emerges from the doorway—low, edged with quiet challenge.

“Were you going to try and hide what happened to you from me?”

Your back straightens instinctively at the sound of Natasha’s voice.

Your mind scrambles for a defense, but all that escapes is an unconvincing response.

“Wha–I uh…of course not.”

Footsteps approach—calculated, steady. Then, before you can react, a warm hand cups your cheek, fingers tracing gently over your skin. Another hand, softer but firm, wraps around your own, carefully prying the ice pack away from your head. The loss of the cool compress makes you wince slightly, but the warmth of her touch quickly replaces the sensation.

Under her breath, Natasha mutters, “Terrible liar.”

You huff a small laugh.

“Hey, you can’t be mean to me. I’m injured here.”

An amused exhale leaves her lips, and though you can’t see it, you can feel the way her expression softens. Then, a slight shift as Natasha turns away from you.

“Why can’t she open her eyes?” she asks, her tone dipping into something firmer, more concerned.

There’s a shuffling of papers before Dr. Cho answers.

“Her optic nerves were affected by exposure to a trial serum during the fight. The blunt trauma to the head certainly isn’t helping, either.”

Natasha sighs, irritation laced in the sound. Her fingers find the ice pack again, pressing it gently back to the side of your head. You flinch slightly at the contact before your hands instinctively reach for her waist, tugging her closer as you rest your head lightly against her shoulder.

“You should train more on not leaving an easy opening for them to hit you like this,” she mutters, the words tinged with quiet frustration.

You chuckle, tilting your head slightly.

“Let’s not forget that I still took him down while blinded.”

Natasha huffs, exasperated, but she doesn’t push you away. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Dr. Cho.

“So what can we do to help her?”

There’s a sound of rustling before footsteps approach.

“These eyedrops should help alleviate the pain and speed up the recovery process of the serum’s effects,” Dr. Cho explains.

“What effects?” Natasha asks in concern.

You can practically feel the tension in her body, the way her muscles tighten subtly beneath your touch.

Dr. Cho hesitates momentarily before answering, “We’re not exactly sure yet. The serum is still in its trial phase. But based on what we know, whatever effects there are should be temporary.”

Before Natasha can question the doctor further, you sigh dramatically.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” you say, making a grabbing motion in the air, hoping someone will hand you the drops.

A hand—undoubtedly Natasha’s—swats yours down before setting the ice pack aside next to you.

“Hold still,” she murmurs.

You feel her fingers cup your cheek again, tilting your face up slightly. Then, with gentle precision, she coaxes your eyelids apart.

Cool liquid drops into your eyes, and immediately, a wave of relief washes over the burning sensation. A slow exhale leaves your lips as she repeats the process for the other eye.

It takes a few moments before the sting fully subsides. Your eyes remain shut as you wait for the discomfort to fade entirely. Then, cautiously, you let your eyelids flutter open.

The blurriness makes you blink rapidly, adjusting to the light of the room. The familiar shapes of the medical bay start to take form, Natasha’s figure sharpening before you.

But something isn’t right.

Your breath stutters slightly, eyes darting around as an unsettling sensation creeps into your chest.

Natasha notices your hesitation immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice steady but edged with concern.

You hesitate, your pulse picking up as your mind tries to make sense of what you’re seeing. Your brows furrow as you rub at your eyes, but when you look again, it’s still the same.

Her hands come up again, cupping your face, grounding you. Her warmth steadies your frantically beating heart.

“Talk to me,” she murmurs, softer now. “What’s wrong?”

You exhale deeply, your gaze locking onto hers.

Then, quietly, you whisper,

“Everything’s gray.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You stare at the food on your plate, moving it around aimlessly with your fork. The once-vibrant colors that usually make a meal feel inviting are gone, leaving behind a dull-tinted palette.

Dr. Cho explained that the serum must have affected the nerves responsible for transmitting color signals to your brain. Thankfully, she assured you that the condition would be temporary. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say how long it would take for your eyes to fully recover.

Days? Weeks? Longer?

The uncertainty gnaws at you, making you lose even more of your appetite.

“You know,” Natasha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, calm and casual, “we could still order some takeout.”

You blink, looking up to see her sitting across from you, elbow propped on the table as she watches you.

“You don’t have to force yourself to eat that,” she adds, already reaching for your plate.

Your instincts kick in. Quickly, you maneuver your plate out of her reach, eyes narrowing in challenge.

“I like eating the meals you make me,” you say firmly. Then, to drive your point home, you take a large bite.

The moment the food hits your tongue, warmth spreads across your taste buds. Then, heat. A slow, creeping burn.

Your eyes widen slightly as the realization sinks in—it’s spicy. Uncomfortably spicy.

You cough lightly, reaching hastily for your water. Natasha watches calmly as you take a few gulps before finally catching your breath.

Swallowing hard, you manage to look back at her with as much composure as you can muster.

“See?” you rasp. “It’s not bad.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Then, slowly, a soft smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she rests her chin against her hand, a look of undeniable fondness in her eyes.

“Liar,” she mutters, amused.

The teasing tone makes you want to smile—until your gaze drops to your hands.

Your colorless hands. You turn them slowly, searching. Looking for the familiar glow—the telltale red aura that has always been there whenever someone lies.

But there’s nothing. An unease tightens in your chest.

“How can you tell?” you whisper before you even realize you’ve spoken the thought aloud.

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks.

You lift your head, meeting her eyes.

“How can you tell that someone is lying?”

For a moment, she simply looks at you, expression unreadable. Then, something shifts in her gaze—understanding.

“Years of training and spy work help in that field,” she says, her tone light as she gives you a small smile.

You exhale slowly, the weight of everything settling heavily on your shoulders.

“I’ve had my powers my entire life,” you murmur. “Now that I can’t use them…it feels terrifying.”

Natasha listens quietly and attentively.

“How does someone live like this?” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Not knowing whether someone is telling the truth or not?”

Silence fills the room. The weight of the question lingers between you, and for a second, you regret bringing it up.

But before you can brush it off, Natasha speaks.

“Sometimes,” she says gently, “we just have to trust our instincts.”

You glance up, skeptical, but she isn’t finished.

“Other times,” she continues, gesturing toward you, “there are things we just know are true.”

Your brows furrow slightly, but she holds your gaze with quiet certainty.

“It’s how I know you’re telling the truth every time you say you love me,” she murmurs.

She pauses for a brief second before offering you a soft smile.

“I can feel how true it is in my heart.”

Something inside you tightens at her words.

To feel the truth of something rather than see it—it’s a concept that should scare you. But as you sit there, watching her, listening to the quiet conviction in her voice, you can’t help but want that.

To believe without hesitation. To know something so deeply that no confirmation is ever needed.

You swallow, steadying yourself before you ask the question that you’ve wanted to hear the answer from her for a while now but have been too hesitant to ask.

“Do you love me?”

The words leave your lips softly, but they carry a weight that settles in the space between you.

Natasha tilts her head slightly as if searching your expression for the reason behind your sudden question.

And then, after a beat, she stands from her seat.

You watch as she makes her way around the table, stopping when she’s close enough to lean against the edge beside you.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing gently against your cheek before her palm cups the side of your face. Her thumb strokes your skin—slow, deliberate.

And then, finally—

“I love you,” she says.

It’s firm, unshaken. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just truth.

A breath of relief escapes her lips as the words settle into the air between you, as if she had been waiting—aching—to say them.

Your heart swells, warmth blooming in your chest.

And in that moment, you understand what she meant.

You don’t need your power to know she isn’t lying. You feel the truth in every word.

Without hesitation, your hand reaches up to the back of her neck, pulling her down into a deep, lingering kiss.

She doesn’t hesitate either. She returns it instantly, sinking into the moment as if she had been waiting for this, needing this as much as you have.

When you finally pull back, lips still brushing against hers, you murmur against her mouth, “I love you too, Natasha.”

A grin spreads across her lips, her breath warm against yours as she presses a featherlight kiss to your lips—soft, lingering, a quiet savoring of the moment.

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice filled with warmth.

You barely have a second to bask in the glow of her confession before you catch the subtle scrape of ceramic against the wooden table.

Your instincts kick in immediately.

Without breaking eye contact, your hands find hers just as she tries to slide your plate away. With a firm grip, you press her hands down against the table, standing as you give her a knowing, pointed look.

“That doesn’t mean you get to take away my food, Romanoff,” you say, playful yet unwavering.

Natasha raises a brow at your challenge. She doesn’t pull away from your grip—at least, not yet.

Her expression shifts, mischief flickering behind her green eyes as she tilts her head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

“I’m trying to prevent the person I love from getting further injuries from my cooking,” she counters smoothly.

Then, without warning, she leans in, her lips grazing against yours—so soft, so fleeting that it barely qualifies as a kiss.

It’s a tease, deliberate, and infuriatingly effective.

You instinctively chase after the sensation, leaning forward, but she stays just out of reach, hovering close enough that you can feel the smirk curling against her lips.

Her breath fans across your skin as she murmurs, voice a hushed, teasing challenge.

“Do you really think you can stop me from doing that?”

The words send a slow shiver down your spine, and in an instant, the playful tension between you crackles like a live wire. Your fingers tighten around hers slightly, your grip firm yet unyielding. A silent declaration.

Your body presses closer, the air between you thickening as you arch a brow.

“I think I have a shot,” you counter, voice low, measured, daring.

Natasha hums, the sound laced with knowing amusement. Her eyes flick down to your lips, lingering for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours, her own shimmering with something equal parts affection and mischief.

She tilts her head slightly, and the corner of her lips quirks up.

“You really are bad at lying,” she murmurs.

And then, before you can respond, she closes the distance.

Her lips press against yours—not teasing this time, not fleeting. The kiss is slow but firm, filled with an unmistakable sense of certainty.

You lean into it without hesitation, swallowing any words she might have added, neither confirming nor denying her remark.

Not that it matters.

You already know the truth without needing to see the red glow around yourself.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading! I know a lot of you were looking forward to this, so I hope you all were able to enjoy this part also.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff

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rockingbytheseaside · 11 days ago

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✦ When you are his arch-nemesis

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia

(Slight tw: mentions of violence and scheming)

✧ The black rook captures the pawn, putting the white king in check.

For Pierro, 500 years of strife do not compare to the centuries of toil between you and him. Your dissension against the Fatui has swathed the organization in a bigger tribulation than any Heavenly Principles or centuries-old feud could. Yet to comprehend your tactics, it left The Jester to spend innumerable evenings in his office, hands clasped as his pondering ends to further frustration.

Two enigmatic masterminds, one of the Fatui Harbingers and the other of the Abyss Order. Like opponents of a cunning chess match, you and Pierro quarreled over each piece and pawn, the cool chessboard transforming into your mutual battlefield.

The white queen moves closer, allowing for the exchange of queens, and placing the black king in check.

To the inexperienced gaze, your whereabouts are unknown, and your moves even more indecipherable. However, to the Jester, whose sharp eye learned to seek nothing but your trail, he learned to dissect your every move like a jeweler appreciating a rare cut gem. He does not shy away from using his pawns wisely, sending out more powerful Harbingers against your Abyssal Heralds.

And just like him, your hand doesn’t shy to strike his pawns. If he sent the Doctor, you’d retaliate with Rhinedottir. And if he dared to dispatch The Captain, your next knight piece, Surtalogi, would respond. You were no simple competitor, you were the rightful opponent to the Director’s scheming mind, his own talents put to the test as you used the Sinners of his homeland against him. He may sacrifice all his chess pieces, yet to reach you is a most stifling feat.

Perhaps the longing for a single glance of you is worth the weight of centuries spent plotting. Whenever Pierro pushes the gnosis piece against the familiar chessboard, he imagines your piercing gaze in the shadows of the Zapolyarny Palace. Is your smile one of derision or provocation? Whatever it is, your hand emerges from the shadows, and the opposing pieces shift. The queenside pawns are traded, a rook stands on a 3 vs. 3 on the kingside, and as ever, the futile waltz of trading and jettisoning pawns continues between you and Pierro.

Yet, for over five centuries, this dance has been his greatest anticipation. Even if he must sacrifice everything to reach you, your elusive nature keeps rendering him motionless in awed admiration.

Draw agreed, neither side can make progress.

✧ The only mutual language between you and Il Capitano has always been the clangorous clash of swords. The sound of steel against steel would reverberate throughout the plains in a tempest of precision, each strike a measured step in your relentless contest. But while the Captain respected you as a rival whenever a duel is foreseen between you two, you abhorred the Harbinger with simmering disdain.

The Captain wore the weight of people's admiration like a cloak woven from responsibility and honor, each accolade another thread in his solemn mantle. You, however, cradled the world’s fear as one might clutch a bouquet of thorn-laden roses. You were not a warrior basked in glory, but a defier of Teyvat’s natural order, remaining in the periphery of shadows as you carried out your tasks. Until he'd show up. The Fatuus would bow to you, knowing soon you two would duel once more, while you stared at him like he's an irksome inevitability one must deal with in their job.

“Do you have to be present everywhere I go? Please make yourself scarce.”

“Then we do not have to clash. Our confrontations can avoid bloodshed.”

But you never heeded him. You despised his calm attitude, how he was cautious with you, how he sidestepped the storm of your onslaught rather than meeting it head-on. Even if his fighting spirit told him to linger closer, to know what it's like to let you dig your fingernails across his back, it was a silent pull he refused to indulge. Instead, he concealed his ambition, his lingering gaze tracing your form behind that pitch-black helmet.

When you fought, Capitano knew you’d accomplish everything to overwhelm your opponent. You would sooner shatter your own bones than concede an inch. The force you exhibit in a single strike leaves an inhuman impact that crushes mountains into rubble, yet the agony that ripples through your limbs remains buried beneath practiced silence. Never once did you step back when you felt the strain of your legs when Capitano retaliated against you.

It took the Captain a while to find you after your ‘tactical retreat’. As he suspected, each battle leaves you in lonesome dishevelment, clutching your sprained limbs, barely able to drag yourself from your secluded refuge.

“Do not lecture me on the fragility of life, Captain. Your words would be hypocrisy against your goal to pursue death from the Shade.”

You hissed, stifling your cry of pain when ice was applied to your sprained ankle. Il Capitano listened gravely to you, his hand gently holding your leg while spreading careful doses of cryo against your skin. His armored fingers gently glided across your skin, careful even when you reluctantly allowed him this close.

“So you knew of my intentions…”

He sighed. It seems the 1st Fatui Harbinger wasn’t the only one clawing toward the leylines, seeking passage beyond the veil. Or perhaps you always noticed how he clutched his chest. Either way, whether you despised him as an enemy or not - he hoped he’d never meet you in the Leylines of the Night Kingdom. He hoped that, at the very least, once all was said and done, you would find solace in never having to see him again.

✧ Il Dottore loathed you. Immensely. The moment he unearthed the truth of your rare blood and unnatural constitution, his obsession took root. He pursued you with relentless precision, weaving elaborate schemes to ensnare you within his grasp. In his usually imperious tone, he introduced himself at last as the 2nd Fatui Harbinger, his title laced with the weight of infamy. Your first response?

“...Who? Never heard of ‘em.”

He gritted his teeth silently. Pursuing knowledge requires finding rare specimens as a test subject, but in his hunt for you, his patience and sanity became the test subjects instead. Due to gratuitously absurd circumstances, The Doctor never managed to capture you. You always slipped past his trail, as if casually waltzing off his snares and several ambushes that revolved around Fatui subordinates capturing you. You don’t even break a sweat, forever conveniently escaping his grasp when the 2nd arrives on site. No fights, no arguments, not even a courtesy of a glance.

…How he wishes to just grip your wrists and cuff you to an operation table to-

Yet the battle of wits must be omitted and instead, a more physical approach shall be initiated. If you deem yourself so highly that you won't spare the Harbinger a word, then it is time he calls you on a proper fight.

“I have waited for far too long. If you continue to be a coward, you'll leave me with no choice but to seize you by force.”

You blinked at him, unfazed by the favorably advanced claymore he materialized within his grasp. Your response?

“...ok?”

Except when you arrived prepared for the fight, you didn't come unattended. A Khaenri'ahn woman stood beside you, far from pleased to be in this confrontation as suddenly this wasn't a private reckoning between you and Dottore. Rhinedottir — "Gold” was now entangled into this.

“What? Did you assume you were the only visionary scholar out there, trying to sample me? You mad scientist folk are all too boisterous. Rhinedottir, you can beat this Fatuus to a pulp and I will rightfully give you a drop of my blood as a sample. If the Harbinger wins, he shall receive it instead.”

Why, you smart little- Dottore felt a vein throb at his temple, your audacity driving him to grit his teeth and lash every curse word in 20 languages available in the Akademiya's archives. You dare all this because you couldn't even bother to fight him head-on, utilizing one of the Five Sinners against him out of malignancy. Yet his time of rebuttals was cut short; the Harbinger found himself now fighting one of the most dangerous inventors of a fallen kingdom. And unfortunately for him, the old hag was as cunning as he is.

Il Dottore swore an oath to do the unimaginable once he wins this competition and captures you. To yank you by the hair and drag you to the deepest part of his lab. You, however, sat there, leisurely at ease, as if indulging in an afternoon picnic while watching the chaos unfold. Young Blood vs Old Blood. The truth is, you know these two would rather annihilate each other to ashes before either of them concedes.

How convenient for you – killing two birds with one stone.

✧ Scaramouche's Inazuman origins are known to many throughout the Fatui Organization. However, few are aware of his keen hatred for the holy Narukami Shrine of Inazuma. Alas, who would be better to oversee the illegal distribution of delusions under the nose of the Shogun than the 6th of the Fatui Harbinger?

Thus, here he was, sent to a formal negotiation to alleviate the tension between the Fatui operating in Yashiori Island and the vigilant Narukami Shrine maids. Formal meetings like these are prevalent in the discourse of politics, and unfortunately, the Harbinger was to represent this operation. Luckily for him (or unluckily), it wasn't Guuji Yae who was dispatched from the Grand Shrine. The Balladeer was met with a different high maiden, sitting elegantly by the tatami mat when he arrived.

“Hm? Just some lowly shrine maiden to bid the fox’s bidding? Let’s hope we’re not wasting each other’s time.”

“And the Ichimatsu doll has returned to its homeland after wandering the foreign theater. Fret not, Harbinger; this is but a formal meeting.”

Oh, so that's how you want to play this. Clutching his fists against his lap, the Harbinger continued:

“The Fatui are just conducting international trade business with the Kanjou Commission to ship local resources like Crystal Marrow from Tataratsuna. Surely the people of Narukami can comprehend that? Unless the Sakoku Decree shut off not only borders but people’s minds too?”

You showed no discontent at Scaramouche’s tone. Instead, you delicately reached for a parchment paper and ink brush - “We have a rare saying in the Grand Narukami Shrine that aids in dispelling unpleasantries in the presence of evil,”

“Spare me your blessings and ofuda talismans, I do not wish to hear your prayers to the “almighty” Shogun fo-”

“We say “screw off” and the bane of all evil shuts its mouth,” - you lifted the talisman with your handwriting, presenting it with an austere smile. The ink is still fresh in the words 'screw off' you just scribed. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He sees why they sent you specifically.

This went on for months. Each time the Harbinger oversaw the discreet operations between the islands, you were there - convenient as ever. Wasting the Balladeer’s time about how it was a shrine maiden’s duty to “perform cleansing rituals around the infested land of Yashiori” or “to ensure the well-being of all common folk, even if they were Snezhnayan soldiers”. Scaramouche was not blind. He knew you were handily posted there under the innocent pretense of a meek maiden - in truth, you were gathering intel, prying into every shadow where the Fatui’s misdeeds festered.

He couldn’t afford the Shogunate to uncover the truth; that the Fatui were siphoning the wrath of old gods to forge delusions. And you concealed what you knew. Thus, forced to play by your game, the two would end up with passive-aggressive “business talks”

“Surely the Grand Narukami Shrine doesn’t send lonesome shrine maidens so far off? Unless you are as blind as you are horrible with navigation to wind up all the way here.”

“Ah, your concern flatters me. But do not mind me, maybe I am not the only one lost here. Maybe a wandering puppet is also somewhere he ought not to be.”

“Hmph. Watch your insolent mouth. Your Archon will not save you once your pretty face gets decimated.

“Oh? Is that part of your Kabuki theater performance? I do love performances. What’s the name of your role? Is it still the “6th of the Fatui Harbingers” or the previous name?”

You were truly more insolent than that pink fox. This is why Scaramouche abhorred low-profile missions. The most demanding aspect of running an undercover operation is stopping himself from striking thunder into your whole body and putting you in place. Perhaps then you will no longer smile so slyly at him. Even if it fueled his fixation to bicker more with you behind a polite cup of sencha.

✧ “Ancient Moon fragment shard, an inestimable gem, setting for 30 million by Lord Harbinger Pantalone. 30 million mora, Do we have a higher bid than 30 million?”

The auctioneer’s voice rang out in a poised yet urgent cadence, addressing a room brimming with influential faces. Amidst them, Pantalone sat with effortless elegance, a composed fixture among the eager bidders, his assistant sitting nearby as they took note of the ongoing bidding progress. The rare silver debris sat in an enclosed glass casing, displayed in all of its glory to future buyers. They say it was unearthed from the outskirts of Nod-krai. However, tense silence soon settled in the auction hall, for it was clear who the highest bidder was.

“Seems this was faster than I anticipated,” – The Regrator smiled, whispering to his assistants “Get ready to send invoices to the auction staff, we will be leaving so-”

Suddenly, an unwavering voice rang out from the back – “50 million.”

A wave of hushed murmurs rippled through the grand halls, bustle returning to the room. Pantalone didn’t even register the number at first, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion when the auctioneer announced:

“50 million, a giant sum! Now against you, sir. 50 million. Do we have a higher bid than 50 million?”

Pantalone's composed demeanor shifted into uncertainty. He cleared his throat and raised his number – “51 million”

“51 million, do we have a-”

“60 million.” – that same voice called out. More gasps of disbelief ensued.

“75 million!”

“110 million.”

An entourage of ridiculous numbers volleyballed back and forth between the Harbinger and an unknown new bidder. The audience of businessmen and former contenders shot their glances from you to the Regrator. What had begun as an easy acquisition had spiraled into a staggering war of hundreds of millions. All for a single fragment of celestial stone. At last, the auctioneer brought the gavel down for the final closing in your favor – 170 million mora for the Ancient Moon fragment shard, and for the first time in ages, someone outbid Pantalone.

“Find out who this newcomer is,” – Pantalone whispered sternly to his assistant, adjusting his shirt cuffs to conceal his simmering frustration. How does a first-time bidder easily swoop in with hundreds of millions when none have heard of them? When he stood up under the pretense of making light conversation with his “new opponent” he was surprised to see you wasting no time with trivialities with fellow noblefolk. You just came in, received your auctioned item, and left silently just as you came in.

"You see, ever since that auction, I had difficulties reaching out to you. And I couldn't leave such a rare mystery escape me with no introduction," - he spoke when you two met at last, his smile suave as he handed you a glass of champagne "Pantalone, the Regrator. With pleasure, dear."

You looked unimpressed but obliged - "Perhaps you mean a rare luxury getting bought right under your nose, mister Harbinger? No need for introductions. Everyone knows your name."

It was a rare crack in his impenetrable veneer. One minute he is smiling politely at you, but beneath that polished exterior, his mind reeled. Negotiations with you were a lost cause. You never entertained his offers, never indulged in polite courtesies, never once left room for cooperation. Instead, you outbid him: on assets, on stocks, and, on rare occasions, even in exclusive dealerships.

An endless struggle of one-upping the other, a silent war waged in wealth and influence; especially when he sought your company whenever you were present. Yet what deal cannot be sweetened by Mora? As a sign of peace, he sent out gifts of gold and luxuries to you. You would respond with an appreciative nod, stepping closer until you could whisper alluringly in his ear:

“I have no need for such cheap trinkets. Save your pocket change next time. You might need it once I bankrupt you.”

✧ In the days of old, when Tartaglia was a mere merry child in kindergarten - you and him were childhood “friends”. Well, friends, according to his parents. In truth, on the first day of kindergarten when little Ajax greeted you with a big toothy grin - you silently blinked at him and threw a ball in his face.

“Hey! What was that for, you big meanie?!”

“You’re too loud. You could’ve caught my ball instead of standing.”

When Ajax was still a schoolboy, he had the misfortune of being in the same school and class as you. Probably the misfortune of growing up in a small, Snezhnayan town. Now in elementary, recess was a fleeting paradise of snow angels and playful battles, children laughing as they hurled snowballs at one another. Amidst the flurry of winter playtime, he spotted you peacefully building your snowman nearby. So naturally, he scooped up a small lump of snow and threw the ball at your back, a camaraderie way to invite for play.

What you did is run full speed at the boy and tackle him. It was a good thing that the teachers were nearby when they heard Ajax scream as you two almost rolled off a snowy hill.

“They tackled me first!”

“No, he attacked me first.”

These were the fond memories of the 11th Fatui Harbinger, filled with mischief and boyish adventure. Occasionally, he sighs with nostalgia whenever he sees children playing in the snow. He wondered how life had shaped you, now that time had pulled you both onto separate paths, adulthood sweeping away the reckless days of youth. Perhaps he could say he even misses those childish fights with y-

Nope, never mind, you are standing right in front of him now.

“Huh? What… what are you doing here?” - he pointed at you in utter bafflement, seeing you in a unique Fatui uniform.

“Hm? Haven’t you received the news? I am your supervisor from now on.”

He took his words back, he absolutely didn’t miss you. He didn’t miss how calm and collected you were, from childhood to current adulthood, as if nothing fazed you. Most absurdly, how in Tsaritsa’s name does a Fatui Harbinger get someone like you as a training supervisor? He is the 11th; associates such as yourself work under him, even if Tartaglia would never enforce such principles.

“Hold that thought, is this a crude joke?! Who even assigned you?”

You reached for the clipboard in your hands – “Uh, someone by the name… Punella… Pulcinella? Chicken?”

“You don’t even know the name of the Harbinger that employed you?!!!”

This was outrageous. A cruel jest of fate. Why would The Fatui even accept someone for the likes of you in their ranks? Judging by the fact you are sent by the Rooster, you weren’t some lackey either, but one who overlooked formal matters and ensured strict adherence to Fatui standards. Noticing his aghast tone of denial, you crossed your arms.

“Watch your tone, young man. From now on, all your progress as the 11th will be delegated to me. You better show some respect.”

“We are literally the same age!”

Perhaps those two little kids had never truly disappeared, only their playground had changed. Where there were once snowy schoolyards, there were now cold, disciplined Fatui training halls. Whenever you and Childe were in each other’s presence, any semblance of civility or maturity was promptly discarded. Bickering comments and familiar acts of physical nagging always remained. Only Pulcinella, the 5th Fatui Harbinger, stood by the hallway from afar, chuckling with parental mirth.

“Ah, childhood sweethearts. How delightful.”

I am back! Requests are back, feel free to chat or just share your headcanons with me. Otherwise, you may check my art or masterlist with the rest of the fanfics. Thank you for reading.

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utterlyazriel · 1 year ago

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the green emotion

someone requested jealous!azriel and i... made up a whole plot. i hope it's decent and fulfills the craving ! i'm a firm believer than he's so silly when he gets jealous <3 friends to lovers, about 4k

Azriel was not a jealous Male.

That was what he told himself. Jealousy was something that possessed the likes of Cassian or Rhys, driven to territorial acts that likened them to wild beasts. Fueled by their protectiveness, their senses dulled beyond reason.

Jealousy was a sharp whip with a taunting bite and Azriel was one of few who did not bend beneath it.

He had adopted a strength over millennia, an iron will, that prevented him from harboring such unsavory feelings. He was a stronger male than that, not so easily willed by strong ugly emotions such as jealousy.

That was what he told himself — as he tailed behind you, hanging back far enough you could not detect his presence, his shadows shrouding him.

It was reaching evening in Velaris, the last remnants of the sun's dappled light scattered across the cobblestones. You were clothed in a velvet cloak that reached down to your ankles. Its hood was drawn up, to cover your face.

If Azriel didn’t know you so well, not the weight of your steps and the lithe you carried yourself with, you may have slipped by unnoticed.

But Azriel was the Spymaster for a reason — and you were keeping secrets.

Truly, it itched and picked at him as he turned reason over and over again in his mind as he followed you. What possible reason could you have for skirting around in the dark? To slip from your friends and cloak yourself, wishing to remain unseen on the streets of your home?

It didn’t make sense to him. No thoughts of treason ever breached his mind. You wouldn’t dare, he knew that. You treasured your family as deeply as Azriel did himself, having bled and fought for your space beside them many years ago.

But as Azriel traced the path you walked, knowing you were fully in your right to go about your business however you pleased, it couldn’t be ignored. Logic kept pointing fingers in the same direction.

If he did not suspect you of withholding vital information from your court, then his quiet tailing must be fueled by something else. Something as trivial as an emotion such as…. jealousy.

Azriel bristled at the thought and his wings shook silently behind him, as if shaking off some imaginary snow.

He did not get jealous.

He was simply… ensuring the safety of his court. Which included your own safety. Even the thought made him grimace in the shadows, knowing the smack he would receive from Cassian if his brother ever heard the implication you couldn’t fend for yourself.

You most certainly could. Azriel and Cassian had both spent their fair share of hours battling against you in the fighting ring, training you up.

And it’s hardly likely that the image of you — donned in your fighting leathers, forehead beaded with sweat, chest heaving as you gripped your sword tight and grinned across the ring — was something Azriel would forget anytime soon.

Cauldron boil him if he ever had to admit aloud just how often he thought of that image.

Still, something within him kept his feet moving, footsteps as quiet as the night.

Faelight illuminated across the cobbles, the light of the rising moon, brighter in this court than any other, cast across the doorsteps of the townhouses. You had wound through the streets and ended up two streets stray from the Palace of Threads and Jewels. On a doorstep that Azriel had never seen before.

Your hood fell to your shoulders as you pushed it back gently, revealing the column of your throat and the curve of your shoulders. The faint moonlight glided across your skin, a luminous glow curling up against your collarbones. Azriel swallowed from his place in the shadows.

It was never a surprise to find you beautiful. To revere your enchanting otherworldly beauty — that Azriel was used to. And yet still, even after all these years, he had not managed to master the way it stole the breath from his lungs every time.

A familiar hunger yawned within him. He averted his eyes from you to the door.

He forced himself to take in the details, listening as his shadows whispered things his eyes could not attest. An artist's home. Damaged and rebuilt in the last battle of Velaris. The inhabitant was a Male, living alone.

Something blistered awfully inside Azriel.

Why would you visit a home such as this? Azriel could think of a few reasons that could warrant a visit so late in the evening, with your face concealed and your footsteps light. He felt his stomach turn over. Something foul burned in his gut.

The door before you opened and Azriel turned his face fast, slicing his gaze to the ground before he could see the Fae who greeted you.

Suddenly, this felt too close to an invasion of privacy. If you wished to keep your lovers a secret, as he himself did, this was a direct violation of your wishes.

That was... if this man was, indeed, your lover.

Something vulgar, something ugly reared up in his veins. Azriel clenched his fists at his sides, siphons gleaming, and willed it down.

Jealousy would not become him. Jealousy was not— did not control him.

And yet he could feel it, coursing through his blood, choking up his throat. Azriel tried to push it down, to fight against it with reason, with logic. You were promised to no Male, least of all to him. But...

But he could've sworn.

As quickly as the words appeared in his mind, Azriel stamped them down with an icy fury.

A silent curse followed them, directed at himself for his own foolishness. How many times would he walk this road before he eventually learned?

There had been no heated moments between you, no wandering eyes, no lingering hands; none that he had not imagined. None that his mind had no conjured up in its own twisted hope.

When you sought him out in the night, tormented by your own mind and how it kept you from sleep, you were seeking... a friend, Azriel realised bitterly.

There was nothing deeper to your decision to show up at his door but no one else's. Nothing was hidden in the way you chose a seat next to him at every dinner, nor the way you found a way to be beside him at the tables at Rita's.

Sitting close enough so that he could smell the alluring scent of your perfume. Could see the gleam of your bright eyes as you glanced at him after every joke, almost as if to see what might make him smile.

No. He steeled himself, shutting down every sweet moment of you he had been subconsciously collecting, holding to a greater magnitude than you clearly did.

You were not like Mor or Cassian. You did not warm the sheets of many Fae beds, slipping in and out of them without a care.

You were... alike to himself, Azriel had thought. Dedicated yourself to one.

He scowled at himself in the dark. This— this rendezvous in the dark did not dispel what he knew about you. It did not make it untrue.

It simply meant his feeble hope, that the one, the Fae you might dedicate yourself entirely was him... was just that—a hope.

It did not sway the reality of the world, the matter of truth that you crept out in the night to meet on shadowed doorsteps. Azriel felt his shadows smoking around him, spun into a frenzy at his unwelcome revelation. He snapped in his wings a little tighter.

Coming here tonight, following you, had been a mistake.

—

It seemed perfectly logical after that night for Azriel to take a step back, to rein himself in.

Not that there was not much to rein back — but the small actions reserved just for you, the unrestrained smiles, the inside jokes ribbed back at one another.

The things he had perceived as meaning more. He knew, that if he wanted to protect his heart from further ache, he should stop doing them.

But... maybe the only thing he did better than fighting, he thought grievously, was being utterly lovesick for someone who would never feel the same.

At the very least, he would hold his feelings to secrecy. It began with the smallest retractions, like weaning an addict off their favourite drug.

Azriel knew if he pulled away too quick, it would send him into a sort of withdrawal — and after all these years spent together, he wasn't sure he knew how to live with a deficit of you. Of your brazen smile and sparkling eyes.

Slow and sure. Over the next week, he willed himself to quit bothering you, to empty a space in your life so you could invite in others, those that meant more to you. So, there could be space for your new... lover.

Even the word sounded bitter in his mind.

Azriel opted for longer training in the morning. Let his sparring sessions with Cassian bleed longer and longer, not leaving the blazing hot rooftop even when Cass winds up limping inside.

He had received a halfhearted scowl from the warrior, undoubtedly for how unrelenting he had been in his fighting this week.

The time he usually sets aside for you, to read side by side in the library, to bake, to enjoy each other's company — Azriel swept it aside for you, to free up your schedule.

Noticed how you spend your free time down in Velaris. He doesn't dare tail you again.

The week crawls by slowly, stretching out thick, black tar.

Come Sunday, a day you normally reserved for spending with him, Azriel knows his extra insistence on training isn't enough of an excuse to keep you away. He trains late anyway.

True to his suspicions, it takes less than an hour for you to appear— having come to find him.

Azriel can sense you, even before his shadows murmur sweet things in his ears about the most beautiful Fae watching him through the window.

You're lingering at the door, unusually reserved. He can feel your hesitancy, even as he works his aching muscles through yet another set of exercises. His shadows stay in close, the edge of his body whispering in and out of darkness, his siphons gleaming.

You wait, watching quietly, until the sword he's wielding, a strong, broad Illyrian blade, is placed down to rest. Then, there's the soft pad of your feet as you step out into the training area. He hears you coming but he does not turn to face you.

“I've missed you this week.”

Even with his back turned, Azriel fights to keep his expression neutral, even as his eyes flutter at your admission. There's a tug on his shadows, their desire to wisp across to you proving a challenge to resist. He holds himself still, stern, and doesn't even a ruffle of his wings to indicate he's heard you.

"I—" Azriel begins. He still can't bear to turn to face you. "I'm sorry to hear that."

He can hear the noise of confusion that slips from your throat — evidently, it isn't the response you're expecting.

Azriel focuses on the sword before him, his bicep bulging as he lifts its weight and wanders to the stand of weapons. He pretends to be immersed in the decision of which to train with next, even though he's been out here for hours.

Even with his silent cold shoulder, he can still hear you behind him, your feet dragging softly across the ground in what is surely a hesitant nervous action. But still, you haven't left.

"Well, maybeee…" You continue on, voice still aiming for light and breezy, as if he hasn't been avoiding you. You're still trying.

Azriel's chest tightens up with a familiar ache, one that always lingers around you. Since seeing you that night, on another Male's doorstep, its sting has become particularly cruel. Jealousy has a cold bite.

"If you’re nearly done... I mean, if your somewhat obsessive workout regime is finally complete..."

You're winding on, taking jabs that would normally make him smile. You'd take a gentle rolling of his eyes at this point. Azriel turns to you, his face remaining passive.

"I was wondering if you wanted to come sit with me in the library," You say, voice suddenly softer now that he's facing you. "If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Azriel steels himself, eyes cutting to the ground as he forces himself to not wilt beneath your hopeful gaze. He knew it would be hard to pull himself away from you but this? This is nearing torture.

He clears his throat. “I am.”

He turns and begins to peel off the layers of Illyrian leathers from his torso, remaining diligent at keeping himself from caving to you. He can feel the ugly emotion rolling just beneath the surface, a gruesome green monster that threatens his usual composure.

Behind him, he hears your soft, saddened oh. His wings give a tiny shiver at it, even as he continues the methodical process of unwinding after training.

Piece by piece, his armor comes off, until even his shirt has been shed. His skin glistens under the shine of the afternoon sun, the muscles beneath rippling and sore from exertion.

There's a moment of silence and Azriel keeps his head bowed as he gathers himself, prepared to bathe the sweat and grime off himself. It wasn't a complete lie he had told.

Perhaps, he thinks wistfully, he could wash some of his unjust jealousy away with it. Being so unwound by his feelings is taking its toll on him, considering how unused to it he is. He waits, ears keenly listening for the sign of your departure.

After a minute of quietness, he can only assume you've slipped away silently. He sighs, half in relief and half in his sorrow.

"What are you busy doing?"

Your voice pipes up and Azriel glances behind him, surprised that you haven't left after all. His wings tuck in a little tighter.

"y/n." He murmurs your name and it comes out almost as a plea. Now, faced with you pulling apart his loose lie, Azriel finds he doesn't have it within him to lie to your face. "Please."

You don't say anything.

Azriel's shadows dance around him, agitated and frenzied, and he wills them to calm— though, that had always been an impossible request in your presence. He takes a sharp inhale and walks towards the door, leaving you behind on the rooftop.

He gets halfway down the hallway, heading for his room before your voice calls out again.

"Busy avoiding me?"

You've followed him from the training ring and now you stand at the end of the hallway, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. Your face is contorted into a hard expression, a furrow between your brows.

Azriel sighs and turns back to you. He hadn't been able to keep his secret from Mor — why, oh why did he think that he would have any more luck when it came to you?

You— enigmatic, wonderful you. Maybe, all Azriel hopes to do today is to delay the inevitable rejection for a different day. An easier day.

A day where he isn't feeling so easily undone by his the enormity of his envy. Envious of what he can't have but so desperately desires.

As he turns to face you, it's impossible to miss the way your eyes dart down to his bare chest. You stare for a moment too long and it looks like it takes an effort to drag your eyes up. You swallow heavily, the bob of your throat unmissable. Even from afar, Azriel swears there's a glow to your cheeks.

No. No, he wasn't doing that to himself anymore! He wouldn't— he couldn't be having those thoughts about you anymore. You had a lover for Mother's sake.

"I'm not—"

"Oh my Gods, don't even try to say you're not avoiding me." You interrupt him sharply. You begin to stamp your way down the hallway, eyes narrowed, your annoyance clear to see.

A door in the hallway opens. Distracted by something over his shoulder, Cassian takes a blundering loud step out into the hallway before he freezes.

He spots you first, eyes widening and wings bunching up at your obvious fury. His head turns, finding Azriel down the other end of the hallway.

"Oh... Mother, this is happening now, huh? I'm just gonna— uh, get food later." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, quickly turning and disappearing back into his room. His door closes with a quiet snip.

In the moment of distraction, you don't notice how Azriel has moved away stealthily— his shadows aiding his quiet getaway. He's not entirely sure what his plan is; he doubts he can avoid this argument by simply shutting himself in his room. Turns out, he's selfish enough to be willing to try.

Sure enough, it takes another moment before his wings twitch, his shadows reporting on your incoming footsteps moments before he hears them himself.

He busies himself with digging through his drawers and sends a silent request to the House, praying it might keep the door locked against you.

He can do this— he can swallow down his burning heart and keep your friendship he values so dearly, he swears he can. Just not today.

He hears the door open.

Glancing up, he narrows his eyes at the House and calls it a foul word in his mind. The Faelights of his room seem to twinkle mischievously in response.

"Az," You breathe softly.

His name sounds unbearably tender coming from your lips. His wings give a little rustle, curling closer around himself.

Despite his lack of reply, you aren't deterred. He can hear your footsteps, gentle and not at all like your prior furious stomps down the hallway, as they wind around his bed.

Chest stirring with an old ache, he keeps himself facing away. He slips a shirt on and prays you give him one more day to rein in his treacherous heart. One more day. He just can't do it today.

"Did I... Did I do something?"

Your voice is suddenly a lot smaller.

Azriel softens instantly at the sound of it, feeling his resolve begin to crumble. He crushes his eyes closed and thinks of what he had seen down in Velaris — forces himself to imagine you with another Male, in his arms, in his bed.

But even if his jealousy is so terribly unwarranted, he cannot bring himself to lie to you.

"No," The word grates out his throat roughly.

Because it's the truth. You hadn't done anything wrong and— and Azriel refused to hurt you just because he couldn't contain a few rampant feelings.

"Really?" The tinge of annoyance is back in your words and Azriel can't even blame you.

"Because then why it is that you have been avoiding me since— since the day I was-"

You cut your own words off and Azriel fills in the blank on his own. Since the day down in the city—where I saw you entering another Male's home, hidden in your cloak, like you were meeting a lover— and even though you're completely allowed to do that, I am like every other gods forsaken jealous Male in Prythian, getting upset over this, even if you are not truly mine.

He turns to you finally, his hands clenched at his side and he wills the next sentence out.

"What or who you choose to spend your free time with—" He inhales a long breath, forcing his face to remain neutral even as he feels his teeth grit together. "—is none of my concern."

Your face scrunches up, confused. Then the furrow between your eyebrows is back and Azriel feels a tad nervous. You aren't often angry, least of all with him.

"Cauldron boil me," You bury your face into your hands for a second. Then you drag them down languidly with a groan, peeking up at him over your hands.

"Did you follow me?"

Azriel feels a bit off-guard. His voice isn't as sure when he says, "It is my duty to survey my court."

You bristle a little at that and the nervousness within him grows a little bigger.

"'Who I choose to spend my time with?'" You repeat his words back to him with a tone of incredulity, your hands motioning wildly before you. Faintly, Azriel begins to sense the feeling of foolishness rising within him.

"For Mother's sake, Az, I was buying you a birthday gift, not sleeping with him!"

The moment the words burst from your lips, two things happen. Azriel stiffens, the true nature of your stealthy endeavor through Velaris making a fool of him indeed.

You were... cloaked and hidden because you had been planning a surprise. For him. For his birthday. Something he hadn't even considered was around the corner as it held no high merit with him. His eyes widen and his lips part an inch.

And you — you straighten up, eyes wide, looking as though you've been struck by lightning.

"You were jealous." You gasp.

Not a question, a statement.

"No," Azriel denies, without thinking. His heart rabbits in his chest. The irony of acting out the way he did, because jealousy had blinded him in the first place, is not lost on him.

Suddenly, all his envy is washed away, replaced quickly by a bumbling foolish embarrassment. He wishes he could winnow out of the House. He considers the window behind him for a moment, if only to spare himself from revealing his true feelings to you.

One glance back at your face, your expression edging towards crestfallen, and any thoughts of running away vanishes.

"Yes." He quickly amends, voice meek.

His wings give a little shudder, twisting in closer as he realises what he's admitted aloud. How there was no coming back from this.

No one had ever made him as loose-tongued as you do. Azriel is embarrassed to be caught stumbling over his words.

"I realise..." He croaks out, suddenly finding the slats of the floorboards immensely more interesting. His shadows have slowed from their nervous frenzy, making lazy motions instead, as if to soothe him. "That may not be ideal. My feelings, that is."

A beat of silence. Azriel studies a spot on the floor intently. His heart flounders wildly behind his ribs. His embarrassment seeps something closer to mortification.

Your shoes peek into the edge of his vision and Azriel's head shifts up slowly, his hazel eyes finding yours and burning into them.

His shadows whisper a thousand things to him — but all of them are dulled, quietened, as he simply stares at you. Feels something between the pair of you hang in the balance, just a breeze from unraveling.

Your eyes are bright. Acutely, he realises he can smell relief rolling off you in heavy waves. Amongst it, too, is a hint of... happiness. Happiness.

“Oh, you big Illyrian baby,” You coo, a teasing lilt to your tone.

His cheeks grow warm. Something white-hot tips down his spine as you step in closer, swaying into his space. He can smell the alluring scent of you and his heart thrums in his chest at your nearness, aching to be closer.

"Some spymaster you are, huh?" You say, voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel stays silent but his head tilts to the side just an inch in his puzzlement, his eyebrows knitting together. Hazel eyes peer at you with such an intensity that it sends goosebumps crawling across your skin— his eyes searching your face for answers to his thousand questions.

"Knowing everything except for this." You continue, words feather-soft.

You don’t say what this is but Azriel thinks he knows. Hopes he knows. His hands at his sides clench tighter, his fingers curled up into fists, and the motion catches your attention.

Moving so slowly, you reach out and gingerly take his wrist between your delicate fingers. Azriel lets you. A whine crawls up in the back of his throat and his swallows it back down.

He watches closely as you pull his hand up, forward, cradling it with your own two. His fingers twitch, so unfamiliar with such tender touches.

The shadows scouring around his shoulders burst into a frenzy, circling down his arms and twirling around your intertwined hands. It's as though they're... dancing, Azriel thinks.

"I... hoped." He admits quietly, his voice full of longing.

You shift his mottled hand, turning it gently so his palm is facing yours. Then you hold your own up against it, like you're comparing hand sizes.

Azriel can barely tear his eyes off where your hand presses into his to look up at you. Something molten hot begins to scorch through his veins. A realisation. A dream that may be finally answered. It feels like pure starlight.

Your hand is dwarfed against his own scarred one — and when Azriel curls his fingers, they hug the top of yours gently. You press back against his hand, like the smallest hug back.

You murmur back. "You don't need hope."

Your gaze skirts up from your joined hands, your lips twitching into a nervous smile.

Your eyebrows have drawn together in the middle, just a bit, as though what's happening is something you find devastatingly beautiful. As though you think that way about him. About the two of you, together.

Azriel finds himself thinking of all he would give in the world —all the mountains he'd move and dragons he'd slay— for you to keep looking at him that way.

"You already have me."

#i'm so on the fence on whether i like this one ! >.<#but i do think he would be sooooo foolish once he got jealous #esp if u were nearly a thing but not quite #and i do think he wouldn't have a kiss. just a handhold #when u two finally come together :")#azriel x you #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger x you #acotar

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bunny-jpeg · 4 months ago

Note

hello bunny! may i please order a millionaire shortcake with a side of mocha coffee, served by dark!lando norris for verstappen!reader after zandvoort? thank you so so much ♡♡♡

bakery menu!

want to submit your own order? the bakery is open! (yay), there are tons of items from choose from and i am so thankful for everyone who has sent me things! i am currently working through some of the older prompts! so thank you to those who sent orders weeks ago, i am slowly getting through them <3

millionaire shortcake: "if they saw you now, you'd be the biggest shame to your family." + mocha coffee: breeding kink served by lando norris (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, breeding kink, post!zandvoort gp, dirty talk/degrading language, mean!lando, doggy style, chokehold

when you saw lando sail past the finish line multiple seconds ahead of your brother, you felt your stomach drop. this was max's to win, race after race the gap between him and lando was getting smaller and smaller. but, it wasn't just your brother losing out on another world championship, it was what lando called "the icing on the cake".

he beat your brother, and afterwards he got to sink into your pussy. anything lando wanted that night, he got. and winning the dutch grand prix, your brother's home race, you could only imagine what lando had in store for you tonight.

when your gaze met lando's he winked at you and you quickly turned back to your brother. your phone buzzed in your pocket and you felt a tightness in your throat. it was going to be a long night.

if max knew what you and lando got up to in the off-hours of racing. he would probably kill lando. you've seen max get aggressive with a number of drivers, even before formula one. in fairness you carried that aggressiveness too. stubborn, assertive, bordering on mean. you had an ex-boyfriend say it was the 'lion's blood', but you proved to be too much for him. lando made you into a kitten. gone were the claws and fangs, with him you were mewling, nipping at his hands rather than chewing into flesh.

it was maybe why you kept coming back.

you stood in the mirror of lando's hotel room. you knew you should be with your family right now. but instead you ended up with the winner of the race. most would've ran by now, hidden away in the hopes that lando wouldn't sniff you out.

"he could've put me in anything, but, why this." you dropped your shoulders, "fuckin' orange." to call what lando gave you as lingerie would be a disservice to the people who carefully craft such underwear. lando put you in something a porn star would wear, barely held together with thread and lace. the icing on the cake was the temporary tattoo on your thigh close to your pussy that was of the number four. lando's number. and you knew it would be a bitch to get off in the morning.

there was a knock at the door and you said, "relax, lando." before you took one last deep breath before you turned away from the mirror and headed out of the bedroom. lando's smile dropped at the sight of you. before he could say anything you said, "why did you pick orange. i look bad in orange."

lando picked his jaw up off the floor and went to you, a slight sway to his step as he closed the gap between you two. he rested his hands on your hips while you crossed your arms. he looked at you and smiled with those dazzling teeth of his. he said, "well because of mclaren."

"right, right. and it has nothing to do with the dutch at all." you get his gaze leveled with him. and his smile only grew.

"a coincidence." he said, heat in his tone, "you're just over thinking things. you know i don't like it when you think too much." his words made you run painfully hot. you had to give lando credit, he knew exactly how to get under your skin. he loved when you were stupid, dumb enough for him.

you made a face and he pulled you in for a hot kiss, one hand on the back of your neck. you squirmed against him and clung to the front of his t-shirt. the kiss was hot. it was heated in a way that you never had with anyone else. since you met lando, fucking other men bored you. you weren't a couple, this wasn't a relationship. this was mutually assured destruction as you pulled away from him.

"i was expecting worse from you. orange lingerie and a temporary tattoo, that seems tame for you." you remarked as you played with one of the straps of the bra. you could name on one hand all of the intense situations that lando had put you in.

from sex in a car that didn't have tinted windows on a side street in italy, to the time you went to the sex club in switzerland, and especially that time you has dinner with his family while there was a vibrator slipped into your aching cunt.

he tilted his head to the side and shrugged, "as much as i love torturing you, babygirl. i thought we'd keep it close to home, close together. as much as i would've loved to fuck you with the bed hitting the wall to your brother's room, i thought this was better." he cupped your breasts.

you groaned, "enough about my brother." you were soon pulled into the bedroom. lando had enough kindness left in him to fuck you on a mattress. there had been times you were left with rug burns in places where there should never be rug burns.

you got into the king sized bed and looked at him as he started to undress. your rubbed your thighs together and braced yourself on your arms. your body was so exposed to him. you knew he was hungry for you. just like he was hungry for the prize.

"fuck." he groaned, his cock was painfully hard. the tip a deep red and leaking thick pre-cum. his face more pink than usual as he got into the bed with you and rubbed his cock up against your thigh. the kisses grew hotter as you ended up on your stomach and totally nude. you could already feel the rush of pleasure throughout your body.

"lando." you groaned, "it's not fair that you can fuck this good. you deserve to suck at sex." your back arched a little further and lando smacked your ass.

"i love when you just shut up, beautiful. you're meant to sit there be pretty. guess that's why your brother looks that way, you took all the good looks. but because of that, you need to learn to shut the fuck up." he groaned as he rubbed his achy cock up against your ass, "seen, not heard." it was all dirty talk and it made you brain spark with pleasure. he had such a grip on you, he could degrade you every way and you'd still let him fuck you.

"fuck you, lando." you groaned. you tensed up as he slammed his cock into you. not caring about takin ghis time. you needed to be fucked right now. fuck some sense into you. your little yapping mouth needed to be quiet for a while. just while lando was feeling the high of his win.

you shuddered, "fuck. lando." your hips were raised more as lando pressed more of his weight against you. his cock filled you in a painful way when he took little time to prep you. tonight was his night, he didn't have to prep you.

he hissed through a tense jaw as he fucked you with little abandon. the bed shifted under you from the force he was fucking you with. he felt something heavy in his chest, he felt the sexual pull towards you. he needed you deeply, carnally. he needed to ruin you for any other man. maybe it was a possessive drive, but it kept him coming back for you.

"if they saw you now, you'd be the biggest shame to your family." he choked out, he could feel the hammering in his head as he rutted against you.

"shut the fuck up." you groaned as you gripped the pillows under your face. you clawed into the fabric and groaned, "shut up, shut up, shut up!" you wanted to throw the pillow at him.

it only spurred lando on as he fucked you with heavy thrusts. he eventually grabbed you by the arms and pulled them back using it as a way to bounce you on his achy cock. you whined a little louder as he said, "maybe i should get you pregnant. finish in your tonight, make a big fuckin' mess between your legs and ship you back to your dear, older brother. then a month passes and you have to tell him that you're pregnant. he's going to lose it." he pulled you against him tighter as his cock remained buried inside of you. your cunt was nice around his cock and it made him feel amazing all over.

"shit no." you whined.

lando laughed, "oh c'mon, be my wife? how does that sound, steal you from right under you brother's nose. he'd never know what hit him." his pace became quicker and you were seeing stars. reason left your brain and your core throbbed.

you whimpered and lando continued his rapid movements. there was little space for you to breath during his thrusts. you felt your heart in your throat as he fucked the words out of your head. you whimpered and whined. your noises were music to his ears.

"lemme make you a mama, beautiful. let me get you nice and pregnant." his words curled in your brain and you were left feeling on cloud nine, "you'd raise 'em so well. be such a good mother to them." his voice grew tight as the need to finish grew.

he fucked you, letting your arms drop in favor of your hips. the soft part of you that he loved the bruise. he bullied his cock into your achy pussy. the idea of getting you pregnant made him move against you faster. he could feel the race in his pulse as he fucked you. you with all the aches and pains of pregnancy, carrying his child. he only turned him on greatly. make you his.

you came first, your body betrayed you. you arched your back and near-yelled into the pillows. you hissed, "fuck!" lando continued his brutal pace. he fucked you with a fever that made your eyes roll back a little. there was no escaping lando norris.

"that's it, angel. that's it." he said with near-softness as he rocked his hips against you. he fucked you and then he finished inside of you, even tilted your hips at an angle that made sure it would stay inside of you. you whined a little as he pulled out. he gave your ass one last slap. you were near brain dead on the bed and your breathing was heavy. lando watched you, laid beside you with his hand on your left ass cheek. when you eventually fell asleep, you were curled up on your side and didn't notice when lando shifted in the bed and got out. if his phone wasn't on silent you would've hear the shudder of the camera on his phone.

he sent a photo of your face pressed against the pillows, he wasn't sending your nudes to your brother (your brother's teammate on the other hand). he sent the message to max, "better luck next time, mate. will bring her back before breakfast ;)" <3

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r3starttt · 3 months ago

Text

NOTHING MATTERS

PAIRING: Act. 3 Caitlyn x reader

SUMMARY: You take care of caitlyn after her betrayal to Ambessa.

CW: SFW. Mentions of injuries, angsty and just one sad kiss at the end.

TAGLIST: @Kaimythically @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @kiki5gigi @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @rob1nbuckl3ys @femininologies @dinakisser @viajeros--sin--destino @GodessAgrona @patronagrona @halle5s @abvisionss

AN: this is too short and weird cs I'm trying to write again like, actually write and don't jump into heavy smut. Hope this doesn't floppppp cs... would make me so sad to see people are just here for the strap sucking fics (no judgment just, gimme time until I get back to THAT type or writing pls and thanks)

this is also for @champagne-problems-ate ily <3

At the Kiramman’s own request—an expectation you had grown all too accustomed to by now—it was you who attended to the injuries she sustained in the aftermath of recent, turbulent events. The details of what had occurred remained shrouded in vagueness. Some kind of major upheaval had unfolded, the kind that left even seasoned soldiers and seasoned minds faltering in its wake.

What little information you gleaned came through the fragmented gossip of others, particularly from Maddie’s not-so-hushed commentary, for she couldn’t keep her tongue still in the Kiramman estate—there was something about the return of major authorities.

Where they had gone, and why, was a mystery to all.

And then there was Ambessa- the looming figure who had always straddled the line between ally and enemy.

She had never been trustworthy in your eyes, though Caitlyn, however, had once trusted her—or had pretended to, for the sake of her little army of loyal soldiers, the ones who worshipped at her feet. Like Maddie, ever eager to linger in the Kiramman household under the thin guise of concern for her superior.

She could hardly mask her longing—the way her eyes lingered, the way her voice softened when speaking of Caitlyn, the woman she so desperately wished would return her gaze with something more than polite dismissal.

It was a convoluted mess, a knot of politics and personal betrayals you couldn’t hope to unravel. Not because you didn’t care for the intrigue, but because your heart was too heavy with worry— for Piltover, and for yourself. For your family. Though the threads of your connection to Caitlyn had frayed over time, you still trusted her, still hoped, prayed even, that she would find a way to right the course of things. She had always carried that spark of possibility, a rare ember in a city obsessed with cold, mechanical precision.

Your own beginnings were humble, born to a family that clawed its way out of the undercity when they learned of your impending arrival.

A pregnancy was a miracle, a joy—but only if one could afford the privileges that made life bearable: clean air, decent food, warm clothes, a bath that didn’t leave the water darker than the dirt it was meant to wash away. They had fought for you, fought tooth and nail to give you a life worth living.

Perhaps that was your greatest flaw: you came from a family that believed others were always worth fighting for, even when you barely had the strength to fight for yourselves.

Caitlyn was no exception. For all the differences in your upbringings, she had a way of making you believe that Piltover could be something better.

She changed you, softened the shame you felt about your origins, even as she remained blind to the privileges she had been born into. She ensured that your family had what they needed—food, clothing, medicine—under the guise of friendship, of course.

Her mother had disapproved of you from the start, but the young Kiramman had a stubborn streak, a determination that, unlike most Piltovians, she wielded it not for greed or power, but for something she believed was nobler.

Caitlyn had a resolve that could have been dangerous in another life but, in her hands, became something noble, if imperfect. She sought to prove that power could be wielded for good, though her idealism often stumbled in execution.

Which lead to betrayal. So sutble yet so painful that made you question whether you had ever truly known her at all.

You understood the reasons, even respected them, though it didn’t make it hurt any less. After all, who were you to argue?

Sometimes, it felt like you were little more than a puppet on invisible strings, there to serve her needs and ease her conscience.

And so here you were, once again immersed in the gilded opulence of the Kiramman estate, a world you had only ever pretended to belong to. Her room, specifically.

The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers, a stark contrast to the grime of the Undercity that still lingered in your memories. You couldn’t tell if you felt out of place or too comfortably numb to care anymore. All you knew was that Caitlyn needed you, and for better or worse, you couldn’t seem to let her go.

The walls of the Kiramman estate had always carried a natural chill, but since her mother’s passing, they seemed colder still, imbued with a grief that seeped into every stone and every breath. The family was shattered, even yours, though you had only been granted fleeting glimpses of the late Kiramman matriarch’s rare tenderness.

She had never welcomed you into her family, never truly accepted your presence near Caitlyn. Yet, in her own quiet, calculating manner, she had permitted the offerings Caitlyn made on their family’s name. And when you proved, time and again, that you were worth the fight, she had acknowledged you in her own way. Subtle. Reserved. A nod from a distance, but one that showed approval.

Caitlyn, however, hadn’t spoken a word to you about her mother or about the weight she carried. She hadn’t needed to. You could see it in the silence that lingered between you.

There was more than just grief in that silence.

There was guilt, a festering wound she carried, knowing the harm she had wrought in her quest for justice—or something like it. She had wronged more than just you. She had hurt countless innocents, people you had reminded her time and again were just that: innocent.

Her assumption, likely, was that you resented her. That the wounds she had inflicted on your trust, on your view of her, had severed whatever fragile thread of loyalty remained. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely wrong. But here you were, seated beside her, flashlight in hand, performing the same familiar routine you had done countless times before.

“Please... follow my finger,” you said softly, your voice measured and calm, just loud enough to fill the space between you without unsettling it. She straightened her posture, obediently following the movements of your finger as you moved the light in measured arcs. Her pupils contracted under the beam’s sharp glow, tracking the path you set. You checked each eye, one after the other, before letting out a quiet exhale.

“Up—now, left,” you instructed, the light shifting accordingly. You watched her carefully, her reactions automatic, devoid of resistance. There were no major injuries to note, at least nothing to suggest lasting harm. You had already completed the rest of the examination, methodical as always: her neck, her mobility, her blood pressure, her vitals—all the fundamentals you’d committed to memory after countless similar checks.

Chaos had become a routine under Ambessa’s looming presence. The injuries she left in her wake had kept you busier than ever, patching up the aftermath of her schemes while Caitlyn’s own injuries seemed to evade your care—until now.

Switching off the flashlight, you placed it neatly back among your tools, each item returning to its designated place with a precision born of necessity.

She said nothing. Instead, she sat motionless, her gaze cast downward, fixed on her lap. Her hands rested limply at her sides, short, uneven nails catching at the edges of the bed sheets, fidgeting without thought. A small bruise marked her right cheek, its once-violent hue fading into the softer tones of her skin. Her eyes, red and swollen, bore the traces of tears shed out of frustration, anger, and despair—tears she had likely shed on her way back.

The faint marks on her neck told a clearer story, faint impressions of fingers that had choked her. You could only hope her opponent had been from the Undercity and not one of Ambessa’s puppets- most likely the hope was just that.

Caitlyn’s uniform was disheveled, evidence of her half-hearted attempts to remove it as you adjusted your tools during the examination.

The thin red choker she had worn was discarded the moment she sat, and the open collar of her blouse revealed the strain beneath her careful composure.

She was dirty—dust clung stubbornly to her skin, mingling with smudges of sweat and exhaustion. Dried flecks of blood dotted her uniform, though you were relieved to confirm it wasn’t hers.

Her muscles were tight with tension and soreness, but nothing suggested she had sustained lasting damage.

She sat there, a figure fraying at the edges, fragile yet stubbornly upright, her silence speaking volumes.

You couldn’t tell whether she avoided your gaze out of shame or because the weight of everything she carried was too heavy to lift her eyes.

Either way, the Caitlyn before you was a far cry from the determined, idealistic woman you had once known.

"Ambessa..." she said, her voice tentative, a thread of sound that barely broke the heavy silence between you. Her eyes, hesitant and shadowed, darted toward your face as if searching for permission to continue.

"She's—" But of course, she wouldn’t elaborate. Detailed explanations had never been her strength, not with you. She knew you had distanced yourself from the tangled web of her life, and she had never bothered to bridge that gap, to offer you clarity.

"You were right," she finally said, the words tumbling out like a confession. "I should’ve stayed away."

Her voice carried an unfamiliar weight, a subtle tremor that felt almost apologetic, though it was wrapped in her usual restraint. It struck you as strange—Caitlyn, apologizing.

Even if it was too late, here she was, sitting before you, speaking to you instead of burying herself in the false sanctuary she had so often sought. Nights spent with women in her bed, avoiding her father and the heartbreaking sight of it, leaving you to tend to the wounds of her mistakes.

You slid closer, settling yourself back into the chair in front of her, nudging the first aid kit aside as you nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of her words. "I heard what happened… Maddie," you said, her frown tightening in response to the name, though it explained enough.

"You need to be more careful, Caitlyn," you added, your voice firm, concern coloring your tone as your brows furrowed. "This could’ve been way worse."

She looked away, her pride tangling with something deeper, something raw. You could see the apology brewing behind her eyes, the unspoken words she couldn’t bring herself to voice.

Her pride, or perhaps her fear of your rejection, kept her tethered to silence each time she tried to approach you.

"You’re still worrying about me," she said at last, her voice soft, her lips curving into a sheepish smile. It was faint, but it was there—a flicker of the Caitlyn you had once trusted without hesitation. The same Caitlyn who would roll her eyes whenever you thanked her too profusely for a kindness she had offered without expectation.

And perhaps that flicker of familiarity, that glimpse of who she once was, kept your anger at bay. Instead of confronting her, you found yourself falling, once again, into the rhythm of her unspoken intentions.

"I never stopped worrying about you," you replied evenly, your tone as steady as you could manage. "It’s my job."

"I would’ve assumed you quit by now." Her words were quiet, a deliberate gentleness in her tone, as though she understood the fragile line you walked. She didn’t push, didn’t expect you to pretend as though nothing had happened. Not you. Not after everything.

"I can’t," you answered, your voice barely louder than hers. And it was true. She paid you better than anyone else could.

Your parents depended on that money now, their lives in Piltover still fraught with the challenges of surviving on the fringes. They had escaped the Undercity, but their station hadn’t risen far enough to escape the grind of near-poverty. Their survival was tethered to your work, and your work was tethered to Caitlyn.

"I’m sorry," she began, but her voice faltered, the apology catching in her throat.

She didn’t need to explain. You had been there, had seen firsthand the blood that stained her hands— The choices she had made, or failed to make, in the shadow of Ambessa and for the revenge that had lead her to absolute nothing but loss after loss.

"Are you?" you cut in before she could finish, your tone carrying a playful edge, a teasing rebuttal to her seriousness. For the first time in what felt like months, her lips curled into a genuine smile, and her eyes rolled upward with a faint exasperation that felt achingly familiar.

"I’ve been helping," you added lightly, your voice carrying a mock seriousness. "You know, for free." You let the last word hang in the air, a quiet jab that coaxed a laugh from her.

"I don’t hate you enough to quit," you admitted, your tone softening, more earnest now.

"Thanks, I suppose," she murmured, her voice laced with a vulnerability that caught you off guard.

Before you realized it, your fingers had moved, brushing against her wrist. The warmth of her skin against yours.

Your fingers traced gently over the back of her hand, and she shifted her own to tangle them with yours.

"You’re welcome," you whispered, the words barely audible. You ignored the storm of words threatening to spill from your lips, and so did she.

Her hand slid up your arm, her fingers brushing over your elbow as she pulled you closer. Your heart stuttered, your mind warring with hesitation, but your body betrayed you. You let her guide you, let her bridge the gap.

Her eyes met yours, searching for something—permission, forgiveness, maybe even redemption. Her gaze flickered to your lips, lingering there with a silent question. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you let your lips part, leaning into her, allowing her to pull you into the moment.

You found your place on her lap, your weight supported by her shoulders as her arms wrapped around you. Your breaths mingled, warm and shallow, until your lips finally met.

The kiss was soft, a hesitant yet undeniable surrender to the years of tension and longing that had tangled themselves into the growth of your relationship.

It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a quiet resolution to the unspoken devotion that had always lingered between you.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered—not the mistakes, not the betrayals, not the wounds that still ached beneath the surface.

There was only this, only her, only you.

#A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( arcane )#𝕽EQ'S﹕⠀ ❪ arcane ❫#caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn kiramman fluff #caitlyn kiramman angst #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x you #caitlyn x y/n #caitlyn fluff #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane fluff #caitlyn league of legends #caitlyn arcane

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freyaphoria · 5 months ago

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"Why are you wearing my dress?" You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing your boyfriend as he admired himself in the mirror, adjusting 'your dress' on his slender frame. Seonghwa had always been this way; his fascination with your dresses and cute skirts was undeniable. He would often watch you intently as you applied your makeup, occasionally piping up with an endearing, "Will you do my makeup too?" These moments were utterly charming, reminiscent of a little girl watching her mother with wide-eyed wonder, eager to emulate her every move. Far from finding it irritating or tiresome, you cherished these interactions. In fact, you took great pleasure in helping him explore this side of himself, always ready to assist with his makeup or outfit choices. "Why? Doesn't it look good?" Seonghwa's voice carried a hint of anxiety as his eyes darted between you and his reflection. The brown material of the dress hugged his body in a way that seemed almost magical, accentuating his figure far more flatteringly than it ever had on you. It was as if the dress had been crafted specifically for him, every seam and fold perfectly placed. Unable to resist, you stepped towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. The warmth of his body against yours sent a subtle shiver down your spine as you whispered, "No, my star, you look like the brightest star in the sky like this.” Your hands began a gentle exploration, tracing the contours of his slim waist, marveling at how the fabric draped so elegantly over his form. Seonghwa's chest rose with a deep breath as he grasped your arms, gently maneuvering you to stand before him. His eyes, usually so confident, now held a glimmer of uncertainty. "I don't know, do you think this is too much?" The hesitation in his voice was palpable, a reminder that despite his love for wearing dresses, there was still a fragile vulnerability beneath the surface. He craved your reassurance, your validation. With a playful smirk, you replied, "Yes, it's too much, everyone who sees you will be drooling. They might forget you're mine." Your warm palm found its way to his smooth cheek, and you could feel the tension melting away from his body, his shoulders visibly relaxing under your touch. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he murmured, "Don't worry, I'm already yours, always and completely." Your hands glided from his cheeks to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his meticulously styled hair. With the gentlest of tugs, you drew his face closer to yours, your breath mingling as you whispered, "Then we should mark this perfect vision as mine, don't you think?" Your lips met his in a tender kiss, then trailed down to the exposed skin of his chest. The imprint of your lipstick blossomed on his skin like a vibrant flower, a beautiful testament to your connection. Pulling back to admire your handiwork, you couldn't help but smile. "There," you said, your voice filled with affection and a hint of possessiveness, "now you're even more breathtaking, my star." Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, drinking in the sight of him in the dress, your lipstick mark a stark contrast against his skin. Then, with a quick glance at your own reflection to ensure you were equally presentable, you turned towards the door. "Come on, we'd better get going. We wouldn't want to keep everyone waiting, especially when you look this stunning."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

(I wrote this in 3 minutes, sorry if there are any mistakes)

taglist: @aim-blossom @bambisd0ll @oddracha @peqchplvto

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kooyabooya · 7 months ago

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HIERARCHY

dahyun x m reader

9k words

(shoutout to @passingnotions for allowing me to adapt this idea <3)

“I have her here waiting at the desk if you’re ready to see her, sir.”

“Perfect. Send her up.”

It’s peculiar for these kinds of rumors to circulate given her status - and even when the sounds of her heels click off against the polished tiles and get gradually louder; until she steps past the open door and into the oval office, you still can’t put together why she’s a controversial topic in the first place.

“I’m glad that we can finally have this arrangement,” you say, glancing over the more she makes her presence known, “Overseer.”

It’s as simple as it sounds:

She’s the regulator. You’re the higher-up. It’s your job to assess, determine, and take action.

And the roles exist for a reason, and every system has its necessary balance. Nobody gets out of line, and nobody ever questions the orders that come from the superiors. Everything feels right in its place, between the people and where this institution stands, but there’s one catch that you’ve sought yourself to see out personally, after hearing some peculiar commentary building up with various faculty members.

This very woman standing in your quarters exudes this infectious aura that sweeps up the whole room. In the case of the students, it would send a chill down their spine, get a few beads of sweat to form in the palms of their hands and foreheads - a quick breath beneath their lips as they tense up because despite not being the main person in trouble, and she makes them feel that way regardless.

“I would like to know why you asked to see me in the first place,” she says, face stoic as she settles into the seat, gaze locked with yours, “Hopefully this isn’t about what we discussed the other time, is it?”

Something in the way that she sits, and how the two-piece set of her dress rests along the line of her shoulders, how her eyes dart through yours when you’ve caught yourself staring a bit longer than expected. Make the goosebumps along your arms stand up underneath the sleeves.

“It’s partly that,” you answer, pinching the edge of your cuff, hoping to divert the attention of death staring in your direction. “Among other things.”

“Meaning what, sir?”

Breaking eye contact, the formality alone snaps some composure into you. To recap: you’ve been in and out of meetings all day, talking about future plans to implement amongst the student body and faculty; then there was some discrepancies that was dealt with from past incidents brought to your desk, but the common thread from these accounts all pointed to the same thing:

“It’s about your recent-” the pause alone of the intended word hanging between your lips makes the Overseer puzzled about this discussion (though with the implications through the reports sitting on your desk, tell a different tale).

“-modes of conduct.” You tell her, which only earns a quirked eyebrow and a nod, signaling that you’re right. “I’m sure you’ve heard what’s been going around between the other staff members and what not, Dahyun.”

Even the name alone sometimes sends chills to your body. Overseer Kim Dahyun: the academy’s best instructor. Lead figure when it comes to dishing out disciplinary measures to those who were stupid enough to go against the rules. Once she has someone that’s out of order, it’s automatically assured that there won’t be any further incidents coming from them moving on. You’ve looked at the written reports, noticed that there’s nothing worth putting against someone like her with the reputation that she carries, but no one ever really stays perfect for this long.

“So tell me, Superior,” Dahyun begins, one leg over the other in her chair while you continue with the glacial pacing around the office, “What is it that you have heard about me, circling around with the other staff in the past weeks?”

“I guess it’s mainly the latter, the ‘forms’ of discipline you’ve been committing with various students.”

“What about them?”

“That's the reason why I’m having this discussion with you in the first place.”

Dahyun tilts her head down, eyes wandering the opposite direction, reflecting almost as her mind tries to piece the different shards of information rummaging about in her head. She’s one to not leave anything unchecked - down to the minute detail possible. Intricate in the way that she does her line of work, and meticulous with how she wants things to be done. She also gets along well with others to which they speak highly of her. You wouldn’t want to call these accounts ‘accusations’; not yet, until you’ve seen both ends of the scope before drawing up a solid conclusion.

She turns her head around to see you at the tray table next to the door, tending to the two glasses of water before a wave to the keypad locks the deadbolt into place, to ensure privacy and know that someone will eventually knock without even going to the front desk in the first place. “This is a first for me, especially coming from you, questioning my methods.”

“I don’t see what you mean,” you tell her, making peace with the glass in your left hand to which she accepts, “I’m only aware of the stories that were told in recent weeks.” Dahyun acknowledges with a sip, eyes still trained on you now on the other side of your desk, “Let this be a simple conversation between you and I, please.”

“Okay then,” she remarks, handing back the empty glass once she’s done with it, “I’ll ask this again: What is it that you’ve heard about me that caused this whole debacle in the first place?”

Her look shifts up, maintaining her posture, hands resting on her lap. There’s a few strands in her hair that look out of place, but most of it is neatly tied up in the bun hanging low behind her head. She knows that she holds this sort of entitlement, this status - even from the glances alone in all sorts of seriousness tell you not to mess with a woman like her if you were a student.

But you’re not.

The lift from her eyebrows, above the upper rims of her glasses, prompting you to answer. It’s all in your head, right there, the only problem is how the delivery is going to hit her. You have every right to feel bad to be the bearer of not-so-good news, but it’s the part of the job, and the more you stand there in silence with her looking up waiting for a reply, adds on the slow building tension in the room.

You’re reminded however, of the actions she committed.

“We have an issue, technically it’s not really an issue, yet.” Dahyun’s gaze twists at that, but it isn’t a look of clear confusion, moreso thrown off at the very topic of discussion. She scoffs, slightly amused, and you can’t blame her for giving that reaction. “Though it’s been brought to my attention in the past few days.”

And in terms of issues, there’s hardly any throughout the academy; thanks to the dedication towards molding the best and brightest students into civilized beings for the real world. Most of these incidents come at a scarce occurrence alone - but it still happens even if it’s an ordinary day throughout the week.

She blinks twice, maybe thrice, turns her head away, fixated on the edge of the desk still. Her hands mold together with a small unease, but she still looks empathetic with how her eyelids flutter in the small lines of breaking light past the windows.

“So say it then,” she says, tone flat - like in her lectures or when having a one-on-one conversation with a troubled student outside the hallways, “since you’re always so on top of the loop with the faculty here.”

The prompting. It’s so on brand for her to be like this - to set someone else up as a way for them to keep their attention, carrying on with the conversation till she finally has that satisfaction with the answer. There’s some admiration for her, in the way that she doesn’t back down from a disagreement, because she’ll always see it through no matter what the circumstance may be. It’s her strength, and also her weakness, but she’s good enough to not let it show on her face.

At some point you were afraid of her, something that you can admit to yourself from a long while ago. Not a lot of people at the academy even really liked her because she’s extremely intimidating, and that still seems to be the case now. Though, with all of the different events spread out across the place, some of the roses were given in her effort to come out of her shell which she takes your encouragement. It’s in those rare moments where she laughs or smiles, like a blue moon passing in the night sky.

You remember the task at hand, what needs to be done.

“It’s about the students,” you tell her, air slipping through your upper lip as a way of preparation, “I’ve been told by a few individuals that you’ve been having an affair with one of them.”

“What!?”

“This is all just speculation,” you say, settling into your chair as Dahyun keeps her posture upright and composed, “Hence you being here to tell me your side of the story so that we can try to line up the two different perspectives together.”

“That’s what this is about?”

“Dahyun.” That sense of professionalism has to be cared for. An eye to the desk to the few different reports that insinuate a wrongful framing; some of them were just verbal accounts and had to be on the record, but the whistleblower tip in the form of a post-it note already caused quite a stir around the teachers lounge.

“All of this is unbelievable.” She plucks her glasses away from her face, catching a few wisps fall out from their spot on the top of her head, clearly irritated. “I have- I have not. In no way those accusations are true.”

You pull your lips inward, trying to be sympathetic as much as possible in addition to being transparent. Her eyes darted back at yours, fully interested as to what you might say next. She expects an answer, and you’ll give it to her, but all you do is raise an eyebrow to where she scrunches her eyes in response.

“Are you sure?” To that, Dahyun rolls her eyes. You notice a quick pull from one of the corners of her lip, shuffling the small stack of files off to the side, leaning closer with both elbows on the wood. “I hope you realize that if you are withholding information from me, it can lead to harsher consequences.”

Dahyun clasps her hand to a fist, face still as stone as you watch her eyes sweep across the floor. A heavy bundle of air leaves your chest, keeping your gaze locked to her, waiting for an answer within the next moments or so. She knows that she can’t shy away from this, and she knows that the only direction to take is the one where truth is the sole passage. It’s also very interesting the way she doesn’t falter, sheltering her emotions inside. You’ve only seen her be the opposite of that - only once, a spell ago, and you were convinced that it was only a one time thing. The silence seems to get louder in the room, and she finally shifts her eyes back to you.

“Well?” you ask, to break the tension a bit, “You’re not my enemy here. I just want you to be as open and honest as possible.”

You can see the slightest clench at the bottom of her jaw, gritting her teeth behind her lips. There’s that thought of clear common sense, telling you that what she did was wrong, but that’s just one side of the story. Sure, that someone who created the rumor might’ve done it out of spite, or maybe they wanted to see Dahyun in a state of panic just for the fun of it. Some will say one thing, and others will say another. The only way that you’ll know for sure to make all of this go away is the personal statement directly from her.

“Overseer.” You huff, sighing out of pure annoyance.

Her brows crunch in response to the title.

“I need to know. That’s all I’m requesting of you right now.”

She sets herself square on the seat, facing you; she’s matching your height now in a sitting position, but despite the lack in length is replaced with the demeanor that she carries. There’s been some sort of competition thrown around by the students, talking about how Dahyun’s figure comes second to none with the likes of Jihyo or Mina to name a few. Gawking at the fellow staff members who caught wind of the conversation is what you give them, and it would take a metric fuck-ton of persuading to spill an answer out of your lips.

Still no answer from her as of this second.

“Overseer Dahyun,” voice now in a much lower register than usual to punctuate the gravity of the situation, “We don’t have all day; so either you fess up now, or I’ll carry on this conversation tomorrow if I’m not going to get it out of you today.”

Running her upper lip inward, you carry on with the scattered paperworks spread across the desk as she contemplates, unwilling to make eye contact with her while she keeps her eyes focused on you. By all expectations, you were hoping that this meeting would be quick and easy; just get the required information before writing up a report and be on your way. Still, you can’t help but think as to why she’s being so reluctant about saving her status let alone her job - all because she didn't do something that had very little significance to her and became such a big deal.

“Fine,” you say, slapping the pen lightly on the desk before beginning to stand up from the chair, “Just forget that I asked and you can-”

“One.” she finally says, after what felt like an eternity it seems. And then again, “One.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” you start, falling back onto the seat; Dahyun collects herself with the subtle rise and fall of her chest, breathing carefully. That crucial first step was already taken, and the plan in your mind to diminish this whole controversy is slowly scaffolding into place. “So I’ll ask this once again in a different way: Are you having an affair with one of the students in the academy?”

“Yes.”

“Is it…just the one?”

“Just the one.”

Despite how this information may be shocking to a degree, composure has to be kept from this point on. You’re just simply doing your job as the superior, and if this doesn’t get solved quickly, there’s more people in higher places than you that will do what you couldn’t.

“So,” you set yourself up for the next connecting inquiry, “I want a full explanation for this, as to when and how all of this came to be.”

Dahyun licks her lips, unsure if what she’ll say next will either be her saving grace or a shortsighted opportunity breeding on disappointment. You can easily tell that she’s uneasy, and it’s very impressive at how she’s able to keep an expressionless face for an instance like this. Put anyone else that works here in her seat and situation, they’d all panic or break a sweat pleading for an appeal to save their own skin. To hell with the fading wish for an interesting day every few weeks or so - because this potential scandal might make the whole week or even the whole year.

“Alright,” she relaxes, finally letting her body release all of the tension while she flutters her eyes back to you, “For the record, he came to me. It was-” a quick look to the side before subduing the sudden impulse coursing through her neck, “It was supposed to be a simple form of disciplinary action. A one time thing. Had him serve the correction and be on his way. Though, you’re very familiar with, well- you know, the methodology.”

“I see, and it took you that long to tell your side of the story??” Swallowing the small lump in your throat growing as her eyes fail to leave yours. “But let me guess, he-”

“He wanted to see me. Actually, he wanted to keep seeing me. I asked him as to why one day, and he was just fascinated with the approach that I do; he just wanted the pleasure for himself and as for me, I reveled in the satisfaction of taking advantage of him.”

“And you found it to be completely appropriate for this little entanglement to keep on happening?”

Dahyun then leans forward, and thank Christ you managed to save your wandering eyes from leering a second too late at the overflowing swarm of pale thighs ballooning on the cushion as more and more skin is revealed at the help of that tight light blue dress getting hiked up with the press of her legs. The inquisitive angle of her head at the given question, letting a stray wisp of her hair fall from the side before she drags it back behind the cuff of her ear. “So what are you saying?”

“Well, I’m the one who asked you first,” you answer, twiddling the pen around your fingers, maintaining eye contact with her. “Besides, I’m also not the one stuck in the middle of this debacle in the first place anyway.”

She sighs, head cocked back, almost vexed that this meeting has gone way longer than intended. You could’ve waited until after hours once all of the students had left the campus, but this was also the best possible convenient time because of the gap in her schedule during the regular day. Her lips stay shut, the soft tick of the clock mounted on the wall keeps on going. Maybe raising a white flag in the means of things might be better for today, and you’ll pick up where you left off tomorrow.

Most days don’t often go this way. Aside from the usual responsibilities throughout the typical day whether it would be out your desk or out and about peeping in different classrooms, you’re slightly ecstatic for the sudden change in pace around these halls. “I digress,” you say, leaning forward before finally carrying on, “So as your superior, Overseer, I’ll leave it off with this. Do you have anything else left to say before I draft up a report for all of the parties affected?”

Dahyun crosses her left leg over the other, clutching the glasses in her hand, her head tilts at that same right angle as earlier. The gaze she has is unchanging, staring at you right in the face while you’re quickly examining the two sheets of paper placed next to each other on the desk, sliding them away into the pile as you stand up off the chair. You’ll take this meeting as a win, at least some of the information was suitable enough to your liking for now. With all that done and over with–

“Still no answer?” You ask, fingers dancing along the button of your cuff, carefully threading it through the small slit, “Don’t make me ask this again–”

“No.”

“No?”

“I told you. No.”

“Really now?”

“I have already made my case with you, sir. There’s nothing else left for me to say for the time being.” she answers with a shrug to her shoulders.

Dahyun’s throat tenses when she sees the once needling eyes from you become quickly disinterested with her return. Incompetence was a sheer rarity with the way you operate your role, let alone a hindrance that you see in other people. Like the rest, it wouldn’t be long for everyone to get whipped into the ‘new regime’ all those years ago; some stimulating commentary at the time, but everyone understood once the policies were put into place.

Though, this meeting has gone long enough, and keeping her here wouldn’t really do anyone good at this point.

“Consider this conversation to be over, then,” you say, turning your body to the window panes set behind your desk, looking out at the moving trees in the breeze. “You’ll hear from me within the next few days so, carry on until you’re notified.”

She then stands too, hand clasping to her wrist, subjectively giving you a nod with your back turned, seeing her out of your peripheral vision. The emotionless look that’s her only mask, unimpressed and cold, as if nothing ever phases her in the tiniest of mishaps. You know that she’s just like the rest, despite wearing that facade like if life were to depend on it, part of you wants to break her- to tear up that infuriating fray of nothingness, spark some kind of fear into her core that would have her screaming, beg for a twinge of mercy.

Reading those accounts of what she did with that student, wasn’t supposed to make you interested, but it is. A worthy head-scratcher for someone like her to have a few screws loose every now and then. It just didn't add up, for her to treat this so pointlessly.

Even when she starts to bundle her feet together, swiveling them across the tile, she still carries this peculiar gracefulness in her step as her profile sweeps out of the picture - her back coming into view. She’s put up with that facade against you for so long, you know that it’ll be easy for her to comply in her case because it’s not in her nature for her to defy orders.

A turn of the head signifies a chance out of desperation; a lifeline, and you’ll give her the luxury of deciding her fate.

“And one more thing,” you setup, rolling the sleeves of your shirt to the elbow, to where Dahyun turns her body the long way round, hands behind her back, waiting for the next thing to leave your lips, “I’ll be perfectly blunt with you because I know that you clearly know better.”

Her forehead twitches at the cause of her brows bridging against each other. You see the small nick of her head that also shows the acknowledgement she’s willing to give you, both ears and eyes trained on you once the spread of your fingertips rest on the polished bark.

“You’re aware of this academy’s policies when it comes to relationships among peers, it’s basically frowned upon,” you tell her lowly, “Let alone of the fact that you’ve been having this intolerable amount of behavior out of the false guise of indignancy.” She starts to internalize this short reproachment you’re dishing out on her, watching as her eyes expand by the passing second, “Now, I’ve could’ve let this be handled by the high council, but they’ve gave the chance to me in order to see if I can get this incident resolved without having any further escalating conflicts.”

She parts her lips, wanting to take the opportunity at clearing her name, but she holds back since there’s that hanging impression of ‘what’s there left to be said once everything is put on the table?’ And even so, would anything serve to be better in the good graces of innocence for her case?

So she says nothing. Forever holding her peace while you audibly scoff at her. “I expected better from you, Overseer, I really did.”

It takes the next few seconds to re-organize your workstation, she hangs herself in limbo, gathering her thoughts as the window to save herself starts to close smaller and smaller, and she finally takes the sealed fate into her hands.

“If I may,” she says, diverting your attention from the desk back to her - hesitant to the point where you can rightfully assume that she’s eager to finally set everything straight: “I’d like to formally tender my resignation here at the Academy.”

A bold move, Overseer, but a surprise one too-

“On what grounds?” you ask, clearly taken aback with the sudden course of action by her own admission. “I don’t really see to understand while you would go to such lengths for this little incident-”

“Because I will admit to you, Superior, that I saw that student out of my own volition. I’ve made the effort to set time aside from my schedule so that he and I could have our private meetings in my office; for the sake of his pleasure and for my sake of being able to satisfy those kinds of requests for him.”

This tidbit of honesty coming out serves as a great reaction to your scolding, and not a lot of people get the credit they deserve trying to convince a person like Dahyun, but luckily you’re the one - if not the only one to have that ability in advising her. You always believed that she’d come around in some way or another, considering that this was the very first big fuck up from her too.

“Superior.” The name alone brings you back. “Please, consider my resignation. And I’ll make all of this go away.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why can’t you?” Her voice is strained, a fist at the side of her thigh, nails deep into her palm enough to draw blood, “I have to do this. I need to do this, sir. Please, let me-”

You can see the desperation start to break through the cracks of her stoic persona, inching closer to where you want her to be. She can play the cool, level-headed teacher all she wants, but you know that this whole fiasco was her doing; like anyone else, they’ll do anything to make things right, no matter the cost. Then the getting ahead starts to seep through your frontal lobe: what she’ll start asking for next, the kinds of lengths she’ll commit to if you’re not the one to throw the figurative lifeline at her.

Not just yet, guiding her into the right mindset will fall into place if you let the inner workings of panic do their thing.

“Overseer Kim.” You slowly navigate closer to her, rounding the desk with every moving step across the room. “Even if you were to leave, you can’t. I’ve taken the liberty of locking the door here because I knew that this would happen: the way that you’re acting, we can’t have this.”

It’s amazing at how she’s at ease, despite having the mini breakdown just an instant before.

Because her act is rapidly deteriorating.

“Sir, I don’t follow-”

“Dahyun.” With a hand to her shoulder, her face freezes right when she flashes a look of suspicion, tensing up at the touch before she locks eyes with you again, the unsureness diminishing with a singular eyebrow raise. “I’m giving you an opportunity to have all of this resolved without any loose repercussions.” You can feel the heart rate within her start to calm down the way her breathing stabilizes, tension along the line of her shoulders releasing with every pass of air, “There would be no need to resign, and we would find a workaround to prevent this from ever happening again.”

“And how would you suggest that, Superior?”

“By granting you amnesty. Without the word from anyone else but me.”

You can see that same sweep of her eyes moving left and right, unable to meet yours. The offer alone is taking her a significant amount of time to consider, a mistake that she’s willing to undo. She then looks up with a wistful gaze, the small spark dashing through her irises - as if she had just made the discovery of fire. Her mind starts to work and it’s so easy to tell, reflecting on this potential choice that she’s able to make. “You don’t mean-”

“Mean what?” Letting a sly grin break through your lips.

“By amnesty,” she adds, tilting her chin up, bearing your arms across your chest, “What would I have to do in order to achieve this?”

She has a general idea of the term itself, and maybe you think she’s also heard of the many things thrown around with this specific practice or policy of yours. This occurrence has happened a few times, whipping up a few notable individuals into shape - some much more needed than others, but the commonality between all of them: they’d always submit themselves to you.

“Do you admit and accept the responsibilities of your actions, Overseer?” You formally request with hands reaching to the fine creases of her dress to which she accepts.

There’s a brief pause of consideration again, and you’re watching her eyes never leave yours, thinking about the whole reason that you two are in this position in the first place. It may be a little hard to believe still; knowing what Dahyun will do not only for herself, but for the academy. Then there’s the logged report from your desk, in detail of what she did with that student, makes you realize that she’s got a screw loose in her head.

“Yes, sir.” She answers, looking up with a delighted smile, fully realizing the opportunity and taking it with no regret. “I do.”

“Good.” With a sigh of relief, a hand escalates to the back of her neck. “Because your punishment begins now.” And she’s in awe of the shimmer in your eyes, slowly grinning when you’re dipping your head down lower, minimizing the distance. It lights a fire within you, a motive of what will entail from this point going forward.

This is what amnesty is, Dahyun would think, be oh- she has no idea what she just got herself into.

You learn that she’s receptive, the way that she takes your lips with hers so well, hands flying freely, breath clashing with yours. It’s messy, the way more slick starts so spread on the lower half of both of your faces, wanting more. Her tongue weaves its way past your mouth, a leg hiked up that you greatly take the hint for, channeling the hum of approval coming from her down your throat. She grips tight on the back of your shirt, adamant on taking this chance to build a clean slate, a perfect rush of gasps followed with even more kissing. Her hands are well into your hair when you pull away, a pause to probably call a stop and-

“So it is true,” she admits against your cheek, “About this little policy?”

You lift an eyebrow unimpressed at her.

“What do- you don’t even know what you’re talking about.” you mumble, grip getting tighter on the fine part of her ass, chest heaving slightly, breaths getting uneven.

“I thought it was just some legend here, around these halls.” Dahyun answers, letting her wrists relax while swooping under her legs, instinctively wrapping them around the small of your back. “Maybe you can show me if that’s actually a real thing.”

She doesn’t see the flared nostrils you’re giving her, “I’d like to thank you, Overseer,” setting her on the desk nicely when the clack of her heels fall onto the floor, echoing the room as she removes the top piece of her dress, tossing it over to the chair she was previously sitting at, “For reminding me what I was doing.”

“And that is?” She asks, naively.

There’s a bit of a shock when you force her body to the desk, a flushed reaction covered with a gasp when you have one hand fastened to her wrist, the other lightly on her neck with the grip on the fingers getting delicately tighter. She tries to read your expression, map out the crinkles falling towards a cross or a devilish smile, feeling your breath graze along the line of her neck in these soft hitches.

“Allow me to show you,” you whisper, flipping her small body to where her back is facing the ceiling, toe tips nearly grazing the floor but just barely. The same hand to her wrist is now shifted to her back, the other set flat; searching for something to take hold, she peeks over her shoulder, watching you study the way her dress hugs along the shape of her waist and hips.

Doing this kind of practice was no surprise to you, and it doesn’t happen as often as you would’ve liked. Ryujin took three tries before she’d agree to not be a bother to you, Haewon probably took a few days or more to finally come around, and even Mina just recently. This revolving door into your office and form of chastising was the last resort of necessary actions for your fellow colleagues, some willing to challenge your authority, others were willing to submit.

“What do you think this treatment entails?” you ask vaguely, raising the lower part of her dress to reveal more and more of her ass into the light, taking note of the noticeable choice of lace as she hikes it up with her free hand. “I sure hope that this should help you learn a thing or two. Though, it’s entirely up to you.”

Dahyun’s side profile is amazingly flawless to see when you’re gently kneading her soft ass with your hand, palm moving graciously along the fine skin, fluttering her eyes shut, her breathing begins to become irregular, a small tremble to her hips as you press down lightly on the waistband, tugging on the elastic before letting go. The potential is right there at your hips - at your fingertips, to ruin, break skin, a perfect canvas for you to mutilate in any way you see fit.

You laugh and admittedly, out of spite. “I’m sorry, if this meeting didn’t occur, you were going to invite him over for another one of your private sessions?”

She seethes, but in anticipation, drawing a sharp inhale of air when your hand slides up her back. Part of you wants to put her back onto the wood, but you let it slide when she lifts herself off to meet your cheek, getting a bit selfish when she’s refusing to pull away. Her swollen lips and lidded eyes are too tempting to stop yourself- as if she’s the one pulling you into her spell.

“Had I not been found out, I would’ve,” she murmurs, clutching onto a bit more of her hiked up dress, revealing her bare ass to the open air, unveiling a strike point.

A fast hand tends to hers, placing it with her other hand still pressed behind her back. She writhes at the uncomfortable position but the tension passes through her body once you adjust.

“You know what I would say to that, Overseer?”

“What-”

Nothing is said, but all is shown with a harsh slap to her ass. A statement.

Strike one.

Dahyun quietly yelps at the sudden hit to her backside, everything from the waist down clenching from the contact. The rough palm on your hand stings to the point where you’d have to flick your wrist a bit to subdue the burn. Her breathing starts to become irregular, wiggling her legs hanging from the side of the desk.

“Superior, ah-”

“I should’ve also mentioned that I’m permitting you to use expletives, but you’re already ahead of the curve as it is,” you tell her, massaging the crimson mark now apparent across the breadth of her ass, feeling the bits of heat emulating across the rough creases of your palm. “You’re now free to speak your mind.”

“God, f-fuck. I can’t bel-”

Another rough hit cracks an echo in the room. Earning a high-pitched whine from her. Strike two.

“Choose your words more carefully.” Fighting the urge to smile at the sight this woman splayed across the table, letting out these heaves of desperation, body tightening and untightening on the surface as she’s hiding her face from you. “I don’t plan on easing up after what you did.”

“Sir, please. I just need to-”

You press her deeper into the table, hike up more of that insanely tight dress to her waist, letting her struggle under your grasp. The sounds leaving her pretty little lips would drive anyone else drastically crazy, watching as this uncrowned beauty crack under the weight of your touches with a third slap. Strike three.

What sets Dahyun apart from the rest that has gone under your specified practices of treatment is the appeal she possesses. At least everyone from the faculty to the students have shared their thoughts about her: few envying and others fantasizing. You’re somewhere between the two, impossible to really tell for yourself, but what’s rest assured:

There's more than a boatload of things to discover with Dahyun that’s already a list growing by the second. Dragging your fingertips along her thighs, pressing and pinching in spots where you’re trying to assess how nimble she can get, the way you can twist and mangle her limbs into a plethora of ways that’s drawing up with the imagination running through your head. How she shudders when you’re pulling on the elastic of her panties down her luscious legs, drinking in the sight of her glistening pussy lips hanging off the rim of your desk, clearly having an enjoyable time with the slick soaking her undergarments as well.

“Have we had enough? Or are you willing to take more?” you ask, letting Dahyun keep her own hands behind her back with yours fastened over the curve of her hips, sliding down to her red cheeks, handprints visible as you're soothing the damage. “I definitely think that you can handle more, shall we continue?”

She shivers, the slightest grasp to her ass gives another hitched breath, caressing it briefly as you’re plotting the next move in your head.

“You can answer me, Dahyun,” you tell her, leaning down over her back, nose tangling within the threads of her hair, brushing the cuff of her ear before planting a kiss right below it, “But from these sounds I’m hearing tells me that you’re enjoying it.”

A small twist from her singular eyebrow, lids still sewn shut, “You’re ecstatic, that I m-misbehaved.”

“Can you tell?” Another slap to her ass and a tug to the soft skin.

“Y-yes sir, I-”

And another.

“I’m not convinced yet.”

Then another strike.

“F-fuck sir-”

One more hit to bring the tally up to seven.

“Makes me wonder what you were going to do with that poor student if this carried on without my interference.” And at this point her ass has morphed into this ruby shade with every strike that follows. Her shoulders roll back, you’re keeping her in place, wrists still stacked on top of each other, hands opening and closing in response to the pain the more slaps you dish out.

Dahyun struggles to keep her breathing stable, one firm grab to her asscheek as you’re planting a few scattered kisses down the column of her throat, teetering along the bridge of her collarbone. “Tell me, would this be on your mind with him also?”

She doesn’t open her voice to tell, but a simple nod is all she gives. “My, my, Overseer. You really are something.”

You could be satisfied with the way things transpired in this very room, content with the message sent and the warning laced between the lines. A momentary pause, hushing her whimpers, tending to the red tint of her ass, easing the ache of pain mixed with pleasure. Her eyes are scrunched along with the bridge of her nose, gnawing on her bottom lip as your fingertips continue to dance along the sensitive skin.

“Are you ready for the next part?” you murmur into her ear as your hand trails down to the space between her legs, dragging a pointer finger across the warmth of her leaking slit, listening to the sharp breath passing through her lips again.

“Mmmm…” Her legs buck against the drawers, dipping the two pads into her walls. The corner of her lip wobbles as she throbs around your fingers, dragging and sliding in a form of trial and error; seeing what she likes and what doesn’t, the light in her eyes filling with lust. “Sir, please, yes, God-”

She sees another idea spark in your irises, drawing away from the warmth of her pussy temporarily, hands fast to undo the belt around your waist. Dahyun could only watch as you’ve got the leather wrapped around, creating a loose hoop at the end before lightly placing it across the two divots in her back resting above her ass.

You test the pliancy of the looped belt on your other hand, ensuring that the article rebounds nicely across your palm. “I’ve got one more thing to do, consider this to be a test of some sorts.”

“What do you mean, Superio–”

Her voice screeches when you strike the leather in the same spot where your hand hit on her ass cheek; entire body tensing from the sharp pain before breaking down into broken down sobs. She tries to resist by getting up, but you keep her in place as she whines, adamant in believing that she can’t handle it any more.

“Oh no, we’re not through yet,” you hiss, not paying any attention to the stray heel hitting your thigh in retaliation. “Not until you tell me that this won’t happen again going forward.”

“Just for the record, sir,” Her hand grips the underside of your forearm at the same time your weight begins to stack along her back, furrowing her brows and gritting her teeth. “I wanted this.”

“So are we going to have a problem like this again next time?”

“Absolu-”

The leather belt finds her ass again, the crack in the atmosphere strong enough to mistake for the clap of lightning.

“No,” she pleads, twisting her head back and forth, sounding off another thwap to make a point. “No sir, we’re not going to have another problem with this ever again.”

“Good,” you say, the formality alone shortly returning, hands hovering over to her wrists, slackening the belt as you begin to wrap it around her. You’re keeping focus, maintaining your thoughts meticulously, fighting your cock that’s beginning to ache in your trousers. “I’m gonna take good care of you now.”

Once you’ve got the leather fastened around her wrists, there’s another fill to be satisfied when you slip your fingers back into her cunt, throbbing at the way you curl them inside, earning a few harmonious sounds as her back arches to the touch. She’s melting by the second, “Yes, yes, please sir, I want-”

“Speak up,” you breathe, sinking down to your knees, hands resting at the rise of her hips, glistening lips into view. Everything about her is a new learning curve, and the way her lower half is still hung over the edge, ankles neatly crossed together like her bound wrists, you almost feel bad for enacting this onto her.

Keyword almost, and you put your mouth on her other set of lips. Unsure, testing, getting those first savoring seconds up her wet cunt. Her whole body pulls inward, choking down a cry, and you realize, this woman is filled with surprises.

But you didn’t want to get too ahead of yourself, the shivers she dishes out, the string of hums continue to leave her mouth. This wasn’t the time to keep the niceties - shoving your whole face and tongue into her pussy, tongue slipping through her opening in these strokes, body contracting and relaxing. The fingers also come into play, tapping along her clit and eventually dipping in to where your tongue can’t reach, the wetness soaking your fingers, the short grasps letting you know of that beautiful high fast approaching.

“I’m gonna-” she says, voice peaking in a higher pitch than the last, the balls of her feet hitting your chest, holding her down at the bottom of her thigh and ass. “Sir, I’m gonna fucking-”

“That fast?” you ask, gaze glassy, drunk on the sweet slick that’s all over your lips. Biting down the laugh from the top of your throat, “And here I thought you’d hold out a bit longer for me there.”

She pulls her body up with what little strength she has while being tied up. Panting. Heaving. You’re content with the structured appearance of her face completely ruined, tense, letting her eyelids flutter when she feels your finger slip inside her once more, because another feeling like this wouldn’t really hurt anyone.

“Final question. Are you going to be good for me from here on out?”

There’s a silver lining with the sense of humiliation you’re giving her, nearly sympathetic when your knuckle finds its way deeper. It’s wrong, you think, to be like this, but you’ve learned with the years of experience of being in this place that people will only listen when backed to a corner with no other way out. Everyone here is aware of the rapport you have with others, the kind of power that shouldn’t be really shown until it’s a desperate call to make to ensure everyone’s on the same page as you. This time isn’t really different.

But still, it’s a first with her, and you’ll take this grand opportunity to pressure her into not making another issue for the next time.

“Dahyun,” you’re telling her again, because she’s just staring at you in awe. The way you’ve been handling her; professional at the surface level, finding a pressure point to the things that she’s been accused of committing, drawing that out of her by any means necessary, until you’ve managed to break her. “Answer me, darling.”

She comes back to her senses when her body shifts more inward to the wood, resting right at the bending point of her hips, listening to the zip from your pants. The most evil thing she’s done all day: a sly smile breaking across her face, watching you tease the head of your cock along her wet lips. This will be a problem, but a welcome one. You’re hoping that you’ve done your part to the best of your ability.

“Yes sir,” she answers, shimmying her hips to tease. “I’ll be really good for you. I promise.”

“I hope so.” you retort, “I can be very convincing.”

A slip inside, a slow push. It’s electric. Further. Deeper. Filling her cunt up, her walls leisurely stretch around you. The heat alone is euphoric, coming to you in a fast rush. You hold yourself in for as long as possible, but it’s futile; she may have a few screws loose in the head, but you’re not far off the mark as well.

“God,” she mumurus again, and you drag yourself out slightly. Back in nicely, smoothly into that heat, until Dahyun nods her head in approval. She gasps again when you move past the previous spot your cock was inside her, nearly to the base.

“Oh, my fucking-”

A shared gluttal moan parts from your chest and hers, eyes fixated on the sight of your slicked up cock carefully impaling Dahyun, the friction becoming more and more addicting. The muscles in her back start to freeze up along with her clenched hands, fighting against the leather around them. You make it easier for her case, lifting her chest up at the breast, leaning down to seize her lips on yours, holding her steady, cock carving up her walls with every building thrust.

Nose against her cheek, “This cunt,” you utter, pushing yourself deep as this girl is faltering moans with every hit your hips make with her sore, red ass, “I can’t believe how tight this grips me, god- fucking, no wonder he wanted to keep seeing you in the first place,” and you lean down the line of her back, letting her pussy clench around your cock, feeling the clutch of her walls, all wet and aching for more.

The thrusting starts to pick up, unrestrained and unrelenting now. You’re not even sure what to do with your hands, alternating between holding at the endpoint of her waist where her hips meet or press her unbelievable thighs together, to make the press around your cock that much better. A premature call to make, in comparison to the other’s that have preceded Dahyun: her pussy takes it in so well, you could bury yourself inside her for what feels like forever.

“Sir,” she groans out, the sentence being cut off with another slap to her ass, following up with the crash of your hips into hers, holding on to her binded wrists. “Please, please, please-”

“Please what, hmm?” You can’t really conjure up the proper thoughts to put in conversation, heaving out scattered spells of air with every stroke into her. “You’ve gotta help me out here.”

“Need more.” It’s a request for sure, and not a vague one. “Please keep fucking me.”

You do give her more, and nothing less. With every passing second you dive deep into her cunt, the beating in your heart accelerates just that teeny bit faster. The thoughts are out the window at this point, the only thing keeping you from figuratively passing out is the sopping wetness of her cunt every time you pull out and drive back in. The pace gets a bit faster, then you dial it back, watch as her upper body convulses across the desk, mouth hung open for all the moans to be let out, getting louder, more higher, and needier.

She gasps when you hold yourself inside, thrown off guard with the firm hit you give her, a moment to catch her breath. “Wait, no, fuck, why did you-”

Dahyun had managed to do something to you that the others couldn’t in this short span of time: break you. Even after all this time, it’s really interesting how the very person you’ve been wanting to see out for an instance like this is the one that’s managed to make you go all out into setting them right. She’s spearheading this thing, and not you. When it should be the other way around.

A fistful of her hair is grabbed, and her body is raised up, hips flush with hers. “If I hear another question leave your sultry lips, I’ll tape it up so that nobody can hear you screaming down the hallways.”

She bites her wobbling bottom lip, assuring you that’s exactly what she wants to happen, and it will. Her half-open eyes sees your head go sideways, planting a kiss down her neck, inching your cock deeper into her cunt past the hilt and her body shudders at it.

“Want me to fuck some sense into you now? Properly? Fuck this pretty little pussy that it’ll make you think right?”

She nods desperately, “Yes sir. Please.”

You bend her over across the desk again, hand still tangled into her hair with the other resting at her hips. The pace deliberate at first, savoring the sensation of how her body takes you, parting her folds with every inch of your shaft. She shivers when you tease her still, not going all the way, but making her earn it.

Now wasn’t the time for easygoing now, the sight of her backside is an eighth wonder of the world to admire, sliding out and dragging your cock back into her, gradually increasing as the additional slaps to her ass again, fucking her deep. You eventually decided that she’s served her punishment long enough, untying the belt at her hands and discarding it somewhere in the office, putting her hands up to the other end of the desk for her to hold on as you mercilessly bury your cock into her.

“Sir, I can’t keep- fuck!” she cries out, the litany of lovely whines and sounds the more you fill her up. She also takes the liberty of letting you take a breather, moving her hips back, bouncing her ass with you just standing there, watching as her perfect ass does this little ripple effect on the skin, jiggling with an endless movement.

It was getting all too much, and Dahyun herself was enjoying it as well, smiling with every groan that rips from your throat, hand floating over her hips, piercing your cock roughly back into her again and again, unwilling to yield the remaining bits of pleasure before either you or her reach that point-

“I’m gonna fucking- god, sir, keep going, so close-” she strains, gripping your wrists and tight enough for her to rip them off.

“Don’t fight me,” you spit, voice leaning towards something primal, “Cum all over this cock.” And she does.

Your muscles should be spent at this rate, but they hold out long enough as your ears are picking up the endless babbles and whimpers, mixed in with the sloppy strokes of your hips hitting hers. The mind is overloaded with so much, but your hands find rest at her ass again, burying yourself deep. And then it hits you in a flash.

One firm hit sheathing your cock into her cunt, and you pull out, cumming all over the fine plane of her ass. You’ll need to take a mental image to save for eternity - the way you’re painting in these lovely slashes with your release, all over her ass, her back - because you learn that she looks amazingly good like that. A fine figure, waiting to be defiled and tarnished, and it happens.

“God, would you look at-” you’re also left in disbelief, the grip around your cock loosening, eyes on leaking pussy lips, she’s hung down, face off to the side, eyes closed, steadily breathing. The words coming out of her mouth are inconceivable, but she’s thankful, praising you, giving thanks. Judging from how content she looks, proves that your hard work is done.

“S-sir,” she tries to say, still left speechless.

A kiss to the temple of her head, and a ruffle with your hand sliding down to her back. “So, are we satisfied with your conversation?”

Dahyun takes a minute or two, maybe more, to process everything that’s happened just now. She’s still on your desk, and you’re getting right back to it, slipping on your slacks, picking up the tossed belt that you used as a makeshift rope. Your ears pick up on the heavy breathing from her as she slowly gets up, hands giving her support on the desk, dazed and astounded once things start returning back to normal.

You fix up the rolled up sleeves of your shirt; Dahyun blankly stares out in space, fixing up her dress and placing some of the various items hit in the crossfire back in their right spot, off the floor and somewhere where you’ll fix soon.

“Dahyun?” you ask again, watching as she starts to make her way out the door. “Overseer.”

She turns at the title, realizing she left behind a vital piece to her appearance, dipping her head down in embarrassment, but you can already see the blush breaking through her cheeks. Her breathing is also irregular, but it’s a lot calmer than before.

“Sorry,” she says, squaring her shoulders, a hand taking the heels in yours. “Thank you, for- uhm, the persuasion.”

An inquisitive look is what you give her. Meeting your gaze, you notice a few stray strands out of place in her hair, take it upon yourself to use the tip of your pinky to move it away from her forehead. Not much is left said between the two of you, probably just small talk or the comfort of silence finally setting in like before. You can’t really seem to get over the wistful constellations behind the lenses in her eyes - and it’s something that you want to study more about.

“Right,” you tell her, patting her shoulder before guiding her to the doorway, fingers fast to the touchpad and the quick clicks of the deadbolt finally opens it. “I’m happy enough to see you again, without the intent of correcting your little issue.”

Dahyun nods in agreement, pulling both of her lips inward to force back the smile, but you see right through her. She begins to make her way out, bare feet on the floor, heels in her hand - a solid lasting impression after today.

“Before I forget Dahyun,” you’re calling out again, and she twists her head around to meet your eyes, “Let’s speak again sometime soon okay? My door will be open for you if needed.”

She squints, smiling a bit to where you see the bottom bits of her teeth. You give her a nod to emphasize your point. “Count on it sir. I guess I’ll be coming around more often, then.”

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