#is also a song tailored for the two of them ;) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cloudyluun · 2 months ago

Text

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings:

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

2K notes · View notes

isuckatwritingsobenice · 1 year ago

Text

Infernal Shadows

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, mentions of blood, voodoo?, Angel Dust being a horn-bag, Reader is referred too as Madame to the public. Vox and Alastor feud because I live for it.

Song for this chapter: The world we knew by Frank Sinatra.

A/N: I wanna make this a three part short story, so if anyone is interested in being tagged in the second part just let me know!! I hope you enjoy!!

Word count: 2655

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!! // Serendipity Writes (event) // Part two

Getting an invite to the annual crimson ball, hosted by yours truly, was nothing but an honor. Every overlord and every sinner in the pride ring waited anxiously for a letter. A black card with white letter in a cursive font stating ‘You have been personally invited by Hells biggest designer. The list of the gala was simple. The usual overlords, Zestial, Carmilla Carmine and her daughters, Zeezie, Rosie, Fredrick Von Eldritch and Bethesda von Eldritch. Alastor who had came back after seven years of hiding god knows where, and by special request, the three vee’s who had never attended the gala before. Then it becomes a bit more political.

Next on the list was the Goetia family, inviting the recently divorced prince with his daughter. Inviting Lucifer and Lilith, though they only ever came when everyone was gone. Then was their daughter Charlotte, who got a plus one as a special perk of being the princess of hell. Husk because he had been an old friend of yours before his status of Overlord was taken from him by none other than Alastor. He was also given a plus one, though he usually never brought anyone extra. Sir Pentious was a candidate, but ultimately scrapped from your list of invites as you felt he was too childish.

The gala was tonight and everything was going smoothly. Preparations were almost done, the foyer was spotless just the way you liked it, and everything seemed to be falling into place. You stared at yourself in the mirror. You had spent months designing your perfect dress for tonight. Everyone attending the gala knew there was only ever one color off limits, because you always wore it best. The color black always suited you perfectly. No one could wear it better than you.

Back at the hotel, Charlie felt guilty for using her authority as princess to have people help her get ready for this gala. Based on what Alastor had told her, there would be a lot of political powers and fellow overlords there. She wanted to look her best if she was going to pitch the hotel to them. She needed more people on board with the project, maybe someone who didn’t think it was complete and utterly ridiculous joke like Alastor did.

“How do I look?” Charlie asked as the makeup and hair artists stepped away from her. Charlie stepped out, allowing Vaggie to get a better look at her in a tailored charcoal gray suit, a departure from her usual vibrant red attire. The jacket, adorned with subtle pinstripes, accentuated her frame, while the crisp, white silk shirt underneath added a touch of formality. Completing the ensemble, she wore a black tie with a discreet pattern that hinted at both elegance and authority. The ensemble was a strategic choice, projecting confidence and a readiness to engage with the political powers present at the gala for the sake of her hotel. Vaggie smiled and hugged Charlie deeply, their embrace making Charlie feel a little less nervous about the whole ordeal.

“Charlie you look amazing. What happened to the red?” Vaggie asked, before Charlie just chuckled.

“Well, I wanted a change for tonight. I’m always in red, and I feel like they’ll take me more serious if I’m not walking in there with my usual attire. Besides, you read the invitation, ‘formal attire, look your best’.” Charlie said. Vaggie nodded, and Charlie pulled back from the hug to admire Vaggie in her dress. She was wearing a sleek and modern grey dress that gracefully embraced the formal occasion. The dress, with its tailored fit and subtle shimmer, exuded class. The knee-length hemline added a contemporary touch, and Vaggie had decided to pair it with black heels to complete the ensemble. The choice of grey complemented Charlie’s charcoal gray suit, creating a coordinated yet distinct look that would surely make an impression at the gala. Charlie felt her cheeks heat up taking in her appearance, her long hair gently pinned back, the loose pieces of hair framing her face.

“Aww, Vaggie you look so pretty!!” Charlie said excitedly. Vaggie just smiled, ignoring the way her cheeks heated up at Charlies compliment.

“I agree, you look good vagina.” Angel said mockingly, causing Vaggie to glare at him. Charlie just gushed.

“Angel be nice. This is really important for the hotel.” Charlie explained. He just nodded, tilting his head back and downing a bottle of liquor. The staff however was interrupted by Angel making a purring sound at Husk, who was dressed in a nice white suave dinner jacket, with perfect cutouts for his wings, along with some sleek black trousers and some black dress shoes. The match, he had a black silk lapel.

“I can think of another place that suit would look.” Angel said, leaning onto Husk. He rolls his eyes, bottle in hand.

“Do I even wanna know?” He asks, and Angel just grins.

“On my bedroom floo-“ Angel doesn’t get to finish, being shrugged off by Husk who just walks away with a shake of his head.

“Oh my gosh! Husk you look amazing!” Charlie squealed in delight. Husk just smiled softly before setting his drink on the bar counter.

“It appears everyone is ready.” Alastor said, the focus of the room shifting to him. Niffty was at his side studying his outfit from head to toe.

Alastor emerged in an ensemble that deviated from his usual eccentricity, opting for a more formal yet captivating look. A deep red velvet tailcoat adorned his frame, its luxurious texture catching the light. Dark-red lapels, meticulously piped with gold, added a touch of opulence. Underneath, he wore a perfectly tailored crimson dress shirt, the power emitting off of him. Suddenly, the room grew just a tad bit darker, the shadows of the room stretching just a bit. Complementing the ensemble, he chose a pair of well-fitted black dress pants, allowing the bold red hue to take center stage on his appearance. His choice of footwear shifted to polished black oxford shoes, a departure from his usual pointed-toe boots. The finishing touches of the outfit included a matching red silk bowtie, neatly knotted at his throat, and black leather gloves that added a refined edge. Alastor’s presence was commanding, radiating an air of formality while retaining the distinctive charm that defined him. The room was captivated by the Radio Demon’s unexpected transformation into a vision of refined class and style.

“You took forever for that?” Niffty said, before Angel Dust tossed a pillow at her.

“Shut it you. We, we are keeping,” Angel said, hands waving around Alastor, “to whatever this is.”

“Style.” Alastor said confidently. Vaggie just face palmed while Charlie clapped her hands together excitedly.

“Okay, I think everyone’s ready. Should we head out?” Charlie asked. Vaggie nodded, before Alastor dug the invitation out of his coat pocket. Standing near a wall, he traced the symbol on the back of the card on the wall. “Uh, Al? What are you doing?” Charlie asked. He grinned, putting his hand flat on the wall. The symbol began to glow green, before it opened a portal. On the other side, was a large house. The grand Victorian mansion stood as a testament to opulence, its imposing facade adorned with intricate wrought-iron black railings and embellished balconies with hints of chains. Tall, arched windows with stained glass panels framed the exterior, allowing glimpses of the soft glow emanating from within. The entrance, marked by a sweeping staircase, welcomed guests with ornate, carved intricate detailed doors. Charlie, Vaggie and Husk followed Alastor through the portal, Charlie waving goodbye to Niffty, and Angel. Sir Pentious was most likely hiding out in a room somewhere with his egg boys.

As guests approached, they marveled at the meticulous details of the architecture – elaborate moldings, corbels, and friezes adorned every corner. Ivy-clad walls added a touch of nature’s grace, intertwining with wrought-iron lampposts that cast a warm ambiance over the meticulously landscaped gardens.Inside, the grand foyer unfolded, revealing a sweeping staircase adorned with a rich, mahogany handrail. Crystal chandeliers hung from soaring ceilings, their light refracted by ornate mirrors that lined the walls. Plush Victorian-era furnishings, upholstered in rich fabrics, adorned the parlor rooms, creating intimate spaces for guests to gather and converse.Every room whispered of a bygone era – intricately patterned wallpaper, gilded frames displaying classical art, and the faint fragrance of aged wood and lavender.

The air was infused with a sense of refinement, transporting guests to a time when elegance reigned supreme. The Victorian mansion, a splendid backdrop for the gala, promised an evening steeped in grandeur and charm. In the middle of the exterior grounds, a grand fountain of blood took center stage. Its sculpted marble figures spouted blood into the air, catching the moonlight in a dance of liquid elegance. The fountain, surrounded by manicured gardens and flowering shrubs, became a focal point for guests as they strolled through the outdoor spaces, the gentle sound of cascading blood adding a serene touch to the gala’s errie atmosphere.

The overlords arrival made the event much more real. Alastor hums to himself as he walks around the outside grounds. There are servants of all kinds walking around with glasses of champagne. Rosie is sitting on a bench, plucking thorns off a rose. Alastor smiles to himself, happy to see a familiar face he know he can confide in.

“Rosie dear! So nice to see you.” Alastor said with a smile. She smiles at him, teeth razor sharp.

“Do you think you’ll be getting a seat tonight?” She asks, snapping the rose off its stem and tossing it to the side.

“Well of course I will. It’d be a mistake if I wasn’t.” Alastor said with a smile, crossing his legs as he sat down next to her. Sinners from all over the pride ring were socializing outside of the large mansion. He knew you were inside finalizing preparations and possibly screaming your head off. Overall, the air was chilled with a comfortable atmosphere. Well, it had been comfortable, until a loud noisy vehicle stopped at the front gates. Everyone’s heads were turning, Rosie and Alastor looking at each other with strained smiles. Stepping out of the large limousine were the three vee’s, vulgar music blaring from the vehicles speakers as the three made their way through the now open gates. Reporters lined the edges of the gates, trying desperately to see the overlords inside and to try and sneak into the gala, which was starting soon.

“Mr.Vox! Mr.Vox!” News reporters shouted. Velvet was busy taking selfies of her and her outfit, her assistant following close behind her. Valentino was busy looking down at everyone, smoking his usual, while taking his long strides next to Vox, who was in the middle of the three.

On Vox’s right was Valentino, who donned a captivating look for the gala. His tailored white suit boasted a jacket that reached just above the knee, a subtle departure from his usual floor-length coat. The crimson silk lining peeked through, adding a luxurious touch to the outfit. The coat, reminiscent of his extravagant style, also had a vivid-red hue with his signature white fur trim at the wrists. The black and white striped fur trim along the center-front added a distinctive flair. A gold chain and love-heart-shaped broach fastenings adorned the coat, creating an opulent yet alluring look. Finally, he wore polished black heeled boots, maintaining the sleek and captivating allure that defined Valentino’s presence. The familiar color scheme remained intact, blending sophistication with a hint of provocative charm for the grand gala.

On Vox’s left was Velvet, who had spent months perfecting her outfit for the gala, in hopes she’d be invited of course. She had begged the boys to keep a good public appearance, in hopes they’d be recognized and invited to the crimson gala. Velvette, deciding to ditch her usual style, embraced a lavish and over-the-top look that represented her brand. Dressed in a knee-length dress, the garment had a striking blend of black and red hues. The dress, fitted at the waist, flowed into a voluminous skirt, creating a sense of extravagance. The bodice of the dress featured intricate lace detailing. A white collar adorned with a velvet bow added a playful yet mature flair. The sleeves, a fusion of burgundy and white patterns, contributed to the overall lavish aesthetic she had been going for. Her accessories took on a more refined form. Velvet gloves, adorned with delicate lace, graced her hands, and a pearl necklace adorned her neck, adding a classic touch, completed with maroon heels, each step resonating with a sense of grandeur. Velvet’s transformation into this upscale attire reflected her desire to make a statement at the Crimson Gala.

In the middle, and the brains of the three vee’s, was none other than the head of Vox Tech, Vox himself. He wore a sleek and modern dark blue tuxedo, tailored with precision. Of course he could only have the best. The suit featured subtle futuristic patterns that enhanced his ‘perfect’ sense of style. To complement his high-tech vibe, Vox wore a light blue undershirt with an upside-down broadcast symbol. Vox's gala attire seamlessly blended power and control with his technological edge, creating a memorable look in shades of dark blue, which in his opinion, was the best color.

Upon seeing Alastor, Vox’s eye twitched noticeably. The gates shut behind the three vee’s, closing off the gala to the public. The overlords begin to get closer together unknowingly, Zestial finding a comfortable corner to watch things play out. Carmilla and Zeezie stand close together, whispering to one another as both Rosie and Alastor stand from the bench. Vox, Valentino and Velvet make their way to the Radio Demon and his colleagues.

“I see the grandpa’s were invited.” Velvet says with a scoff, scrolling through her phone.

“So disrespectful.” Carmilla says under her breath, looking away from the three vee’s.

“Hm, interesting, and I was beginning to think the only interesting thing tonight would be the dinner.” Bethesda said, her brother nodding.

“Well, it seems the children brought their play date to the public then.” Zeezie says. The other overlords laugh and Valentino sneers at her.

“Well an idiota like you would think so. Then again, don’t you all do the same with your diapers?” He asked, puffing the smoke into her face. She growls at him, fists clenching at her side, but Carmilla stops her.

“Didn’t they say this was an adult only gala?” Carmilla asked, Rosie chuckling at her words.

“Oh can it grandma.” Velvete said. But Vox remained silent, having his own personal staring match with Alastor, whose smile was stretched ear to ear, teeth on full display.

“I thought this gala was meant for real talent?” Vox asked, stepping closer to Alastor.

“Well it was until you showed up.” Alastor said with a smile. “There’s no originality in copying someone else.” He tuts. Vox narrows his eyes, face twisting with anger as he steps closer to Alastor again.

“You wanna tell me something, you old piece of-“ Vox is stopped, the lights to the exterior of the mansion dimming. The lights behind the large front doors opening slowly. Two tall black shadowy figures stepped from the door, smoke at their feet.

“Thank you all for your attendance. As we know, the annual Crimson Gala is held every year, and this year is no different. With the new extermination date, important decisions must be made. Tonight, ten individuals will be selected to sit at Madame’s table where she will discuss private plans on how to move forward.” The two said in unison. Everyone fell silent as more shadows appeared, each one sitting on the sides of the steps. Lights around the staircases began to light up, and people began making their way up the stairs.

“Well~ this should be fun.”

4K notes · View notes

zaczenemiji · 1 year ago

Note

Hi there! It's me...again. Hope your doing okay.

I was thinking about a new request about Kenji Sato x Fem! Reader based on the song "Please, Please, Please" from Sabrina Carpenter. Reader is a singer just like her so and has a relationship with Ken but she thinks that some things aren't doing good, but she also has him wrapped around her finger. Like the part with "I beg you, don't embarrass me, mother******". It can be angst but also fluffy and spice (Only if you want to but no smut) It can end in a happy ending.

The rest is up to you because I know you'll do a great job. No need to rush so take your time.

Don’t Prove ‘Em Right

Kenji Sato x Singer!Reader

Word Count: 1,358

Genre/Warnings: Angst (light), Character Development, Drama, Emotional, Redemption

Author’s Note: I went with a bit of angst 🤧

MASTERLIST

“You could do better.”

This was one thing you’ve always heard since you started dating men as a singer. Throughout your career, you were either cheated on, abandoned, or used in a way that they just rode your fame.

Other times, fans would ship you with another singer or celebrity or whoever famous and you’d give it a try for them but the ending is the always same: you two were just pretending for public entertainment and there was never love at all.

Your perception of love blurred the longer you got in the singing industry. You sang about it, wrote songs about it, but you’ve never really experienced it for a significant amount of time or for a significant depth.

That was until you met Kenji.

Despite his fame, he seemed down-to-earth and genuinely interested in getting to know you. He took you to his baseball games and introduced you to his teammates. In return, you invited him to your recording sessions.

Kenji was always supportive, and always encouraging. He seemed genuinely proud of your achievements and was always there for you. Despite his busy schedule, he shows up at your gigs and concerts and cheers you on from the front row.

He had a way of making you feel special like you were the most important person in his world. It was easy to overlook the occasional outbursts, the moments of impulsiveness that seemed to come with his fiery temperament.

You told yourself that everyone had flaws, and Kenji's good qualities far outweighed his bad ones.

You believed in him and in the future you could build together. Despite the red lights and the stop signs, you held on to the belief that this time, this love was right.

But as time went on, the cracks in Kenji's facade began to show. His temper flared more frequently, and his impulsive decisions started to take a toll on your relationship.

You made excuses for him and justified his actions to your friends and family. You told them he’s different.

But they told you that with the way he’s behaving, you’ll just end up in the dumps again—that he’s going to cheat on you, hurt you, leave you, and the ending will be the same…

“You could do better.”

Heartbreak is one thing, but your ego is another. You couldn’t afford your name dominating the headlines again. And for what reason? Another breakup.

You loved him deeply, but the constant cycle of highs and lows was exhausting. You wanted to believe that he could change, that he could be the man you fell in love with.

But the more you tried to fix things, the more you realized that some things were beyond your control.

You sat in front of your vanity doing your makeup nicely. You glanced at the clock. Kenji would be here any minute to pick you up now. Tonight is your big night. It’s an afterparty to celebrate the release of your new single.

Your boyfriend had a reputation for causing a scene. It wasn't entirely his fault—he was passionate but it sometimes translated into impulsiveness. Tonight, of all nights, you needed him to be on his best behavior.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Kenji stood there, looking dashing in a tailored suit, a grin spreading across his face as he saw you.

"Wow, you look stunning," he said, pulling you in for a quick kiss.

"Thanks," you replied, forcing a smile. "You sure you wanna come?"

"Of course," he replied with a confidence that both reassured and worried you. “I’m always here for you.”

You arrived at the venue in no time. Celebrities, reporters, and fans filled the room, all eager to celebrate your success. You and Kenji mingled with the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and accepting congratulations.

But as the night went on, Kenji's behavior started to shift. The drinks were flowing, and while you had stuck to soda water, Kenji had not.

You watched with growing anxiety as he laughed a little too loudly, and gestured a little too wildly. The conversations around you started to feel like a backdrop to a ticking time bomb.

You pulled him aside. "Kenji, please," you whispered urgently. "Just... take it easy, okay?"

He frowned, a mix of confusion and irritation crossing his features. "What? I'm just having a good time."

"I know," you said, forcing another smile. “Just... for me, okay?"

He sighed but nodded and for a while, it seemed like he was keeping his promise. He stuck by your side, an arm around your waist, engaging in polite conversation with your friends and family.

However, you left him one moment and then the next, he was talking to one of the reporters. The latter walked away, a smirk on his face. Kenji turned to you, his face flushed with anger.

"Can you believe that guy?" he spat. "He had the nerve to ask about the last game. Said I sucked."

"Kenji," you said softly, trying to calm him down. You placed your hand on his chest. "It's not worth it."

"But—"

"Please, Kenji. Just... let it go."

He looked at you, the anger in his eyes slowly fading. He took a deep breath and nodded. "For you," he said quietly.

But the reprieve was short-lived. You caught sight of him at the bar, raising his voice at someone who had apparently made a snide comment.

The situation escalated quickly, and before you knew it, Kenji had thrown a punch, causing a commotion that drew everyone's attention.

Your heart sank as security rushed in to break up the fight. You could feel all eyes on you, whispers spreading through the crowd.

You felt a sense of dejà vu as this wasn't the first time Kenji let his emotions get the best of him, and you were able to hold it together as you’ve always done, but then you heard the one thing you hated.

“She could’ve done better.”

Without a word, you grabbed your things and stormed out of the venue, the tears you had been holding back finally spilling over.

Not long after, Kenji arrived at your house, disheveled and remorseful. "(Y/n), I'm so sorry," he began, reaching out to you. "I didn't mean to ruin everything."

You stepped back, keeping a distance between you. "Kenji, this can't keep happening. You promised me you would behave tonight!” You said in between sobs. “This was supposed to be my night, and you turned it into a disaster.”

You sat on your couch, your legs feeling too tired to keep you up. "I can't keep making excuses for you,” you continued. “I can't keep sacrificing my career for your mistakes."

Kenji fell silent, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He’s scared. He knew what those words meant. At that moment, he felt like the sky was crashing on him.

"I don't want to lose you, (y/n)," he said quietly, tears falling down. "I love you, and I know I've been screwing up. But I'm willing to do everything to make things right. Therapy, anger management, whatever it takes."

You stared at him, your heart aching with a mix of love and doubt. "Kenji, this isn't just about tonight,” you said. “This has been happening for a while now.“

“Please, (y/n),” he begged, his voice trembling as he knelt in front of you, embracing your legs as he rested his head on your lap. “I want to be the man you deserve. Please, give me one more chance."

Over the next few weeks, Kenji followed through on his promise. He made genuine efforts to address his issues.

He went out of his way to apologize to your friends and family for his behavior at the party, taking full responsibility for his actions.

Slowly but surely, he’s coming back to being the man you fell in love with. He made sure you wouldn’t be the one doing better because he was becoming better himself.

One afternoon, you had lunch with your friends. They asked about how things are now going between you and Kenji. You gave them a smile, a genuine one since after the party.

“He became better.”

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@flowerloves @eternallyvenus @puppyminnnie @wattpadsuckssohard @sakura-onesan @reggies-eyeliner @buggs-1 @miffysoo @spencerrxids @stupidbutsmart @marimargirlies @mixvchelle

#kenji sato x reader #kenji sato #ken sato x reader #ken sato #ultraman #ultraman: rising #fanfiction #oneshot #light angst

1K notes · View notes

twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 year ago

Text

DEAR SPRING, STAY FOREVER ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO, SHOKO IEIRI

synopsis; just another mellow breakfast shared between you and your lovers, in the wake of a new spring.

word count; 3.8k

contents; sashisu/reader (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, all of u are whipped, lots of petnames, literally just breakfast fluff, it ended up kinda sugucentric on accident (not my fault btw he just really loves making breakfast for u that’s on him), also ended up kinda sappy at the end (that’s on me), implied no curses au, they’re in their twenties but it isn’t specified, everyone is eepy and in love <33

a/n; a little breakfast fic bc i love mornings and i love them :33 (tagging my beloved sashisu soldiers @catchuuu @staryukis i am making breakfast for both of u btw ☕️🥞) pls listen to spring thief by yorushika it’s the most sashisu song ever

as always, suguru is the first of you to make it into the kitchen.

he’s humming. it’s soft, a low lull of his voice, like the call of a siren. sleeves rolled up and exposing his forearms, deft fingers fiddling with a pan, sizzling and simmering with the scent of pancakes; it pairs well with the espresso steam from the coffee pot to his right, the vase of hydrangeas blooming by the windowsill. you breathe it in, with one big gulp.

it’s a sunny morning. the perfect setting for the start of your day, an atmosphere you can savour, like the gradual sipping of your soon-to-be morning cup of coffee. somewhere outside your vision comes a morning symphony, chirps and songs by cicadas and robins. splotches of sunlight splatter against the windows, the kitchen table, the floorboards — illuminating the man in front of the stove.

something in your chest constricts, when you look at him. a tenderness uprooted, a fondness watered and trimmed, a hungry plant only satiated at the sight of this; the back of his head, raven locks cascading down his broad shoulders in obsidian waves, hair put up into a lazy half-down bun. a little messy, a little too breathtaking for words. wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his waist just right.

you should be used to it, by now. suguru has always been an early bird, always the first to rouse from his slumber, only ever contended by shoko and her occasional bouts of sleep-deprivation. he’s always waiting for the three of you, just like this — in front of a sizzling pan, adjusting his glasses by the kitchen table, cooking or reading or simply reminiscing. content to stir in the peace and quiet of the morning hours, before the world wakes up.

and he’s always taken to preparing breakfast for the four of you, always ready to greet you with a smile and a cup of freshly made cappuccino. he enjoys taking care of you, all three of you. always has.

(it wasn’t any different back when you were kids. suguru was always the first one in the dormitory’s kitchen, messing with the rusty french press or making a grossly bitter smoothie for himself. he was snarkier, more roundabout — but no less thoughtful. grumpy little shoko would always get the last bitter pumps of espresso, and sleepy little satoru would get a french toast if he asked nicely enough. and you?

you got to see them, be with them. that alone would’ve been enough. the steaming cup of cappuccino left on the kitchen counter — a little too tailored to your taste to be a mere coincidence — was always nothing more than an added bonus.)

the soft humming falters, for no more than a beat or two. suguru shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and suddenly you can’t resist the temptation.

with clumsy steps, heavy feet weighed down by a sleepy sense of numbness, you stumble towards your target. it’s a familiar waltz, five steps to reach him, a warmth that spreads throughout your body in tandem with the curl of your arms around his waist. slumped against him, cheek squished against his upper back, you hold your breath.

silently, you wait. one, two, until you hear the familiar roll of his breath; a delighted little sigh that slips from his parted lips.

when suguru cranes his head to get a glimpse of you, his amber eyes are leaking adoration. a sense of liveliness, a joyous spark — like a firefly, the flicker of a rusty lighter. he looks well-rested, dark circles long faded, only the dimmest remnant of them still visible beneath his eyes.

he holds your gaze, steady and kind, and then he’s leaning forward; eager to press his lips against your waiting forehead. glasses slipping ever so slightly down the bridge of his nose. the kiss is chaste, familiar. warm, warm, a faint heat that simmers in your chest, a tiny firework of a feeling. even the metal of his piercing feels warm on your skin.

you melt into his spine, fingers searching for a pair of hands that find yours first — his thumb rubbing tender circles over your forearm. practiced, memorized, that familiar waltz of motions. he lingers against your skin, breathing in satoru’s favorite strawberry shampoo. you’ve been stealing it for weeks now.

suguru’s lips curl up into something amused, still not quite willing to part from you.

but then he does. turning towards the stove, reaching for the coffee pot with one hand, the other securing your own and lacing your fingers together. he gives them an affectionate squeeze, still resting on his lower stomach. a silent greeting that he always ends up voicing anyway.

”g’morning, love,” he croons, a little raspy, but sweet and nice. honeyed and deep, sending pleasant shivers down your spine. you hear him pour something into a cup. ”how did you sleep?”

all you can give him is a tired grunt, stretching your limbs out, blinking sluggishly to shoo away the drowsiness. suguru knows what to expect; he simply smiles, endeared, pouring steamed milk into your favorite cup. with a clink of his spoon against the ceramic, he adds the foam, stirring it carefully.

then he’s shifting his weight, angling his face towards yours, and pressing the rim of the cup against your lips — not before blowing on it gently. he watches as your eyelids flutter, waiting for the hum of contentment he’ll hear once you have your first sip. and he gets it. the rich aroma stirs you into a more awakened state, and a single taste of the creamy foam has you standing up a little straighter, humming in sleepy delight. suguru smiles, crow’s feet hidden behind his glasses.

you accept the cup with a grateful squeeze of his palm, and he makes sure it’s steady in your hold before he faces forward again. another sip, and your throat feels a little less dry, your mind a lot less sluggish. so you answer his previous question.

”… slept well,” another tiny sip. it’s hot, warming you up from the inside. ”i would’ve preferred waking up to you, though...”

a low chuckle bubbles up in your boyfriend’s throat. it makes you want to pout, but you smile instead. traitorous lips.

he’s looking at you again, unable to help himself, reaching over to brush some loose strands of hair away from your face. ”aw, ’m sorry,” he coos, teasingly, sickeningly sweet. ”but then you wouldn’t have woken up to a fresh cup of coffee, hm?”

now you really are pouting. he shifts, until you're standing chest to chest, and kisses it away. twice, for good measure. he must be in a good mood.

he usually is, at this time of year. when the air starts smelling of honeydew and snowdrops, and he’s awoken by barking dogs, luscious sunbeams splattered on soft bedsheets, the pitter patter of sudden spring rain. when the apricot trees outside your apartment complex begin to bloom; a flurry of sickly-white kisses pressed against your windows, sticking to the locks of your hair. it gives him an excuse to run his fingers through it. even when shoko whines for him to cut it out, and satoru purposefully shakes the branches to make the tiny white petals even harder to find. he must like having his hair ruffled like a misbehaving dog.

they make suguru sigh and sigh, exasperated, but there’s always a smile waiting somewhere out of view. he’s not very good at hiding it.

(he likes the apricot trees. likes watching them change shape, colour, likes waiting for them to wither and blossom and turn into fruit.

once they’re ripe enough to pick, i’ll make marmalade for us.)

the morning waltz continues. while suguru continues to flip his pancakes, you sleepily decide to set the table. fondness erupts behind his eyelids at the gesture, small as it is. you stand on your tiptoes to reach the highest shelf, just to grab satoru’s favorite mug; one you all got him for his 19th birthday, a heartfelt message of world’s okayest boyfriend etched into the front. it was meant to make him pout and whine, but you’ve never seen him drink out of anything else at home.

you place the cup on the table with a soft thunk, along with plates and cutlery. suguru has already brought down a cup for shoko, seated on the kitchen counter next to him, soon to be filled with the same rich espresso he always drinks. he’s waiting until she joins you both, so it doesn’t end up going lukewarm. there’s nothing shoko hates more. you can practically hear that grumpy scoff, see her cute little frown.

your sleep schedules differ from day to day. suguru is always up early, satoru always sleeps in. shoko fluctuates between the two. you usually end up rousing from your slumber whenever the bed starts feeling a little too empty — a fact you doubt they’ll ever quit teasing you about.

that differs from day to day, too. sometimes you sleep with suguru, sometimes the other two, sometimes all three. you have your separate rooms, but always end up with your limbs intertwined one way or another; even if one of you comes home late or falls asleep on the couch watching tv. satoru can’t sleep without hugging someone, and suguru can’t fall asleep unless he knows you’re all sleeping well. shoko isn’t picky, but you know she feels safest when she’s linking elbows with you, or touching pinkies with suguru, or snoozing on top of satoru’s chest like a weighted blanket. as for you…

you’ve gotten way too used to their touch to ever go without it. last night, you ended up in suguru’s room, tucked underneath his chin, while satoru snuck into shoko’s bed to convince her not to pull another all-nighter. you’re assuming it worked.

”mm, smells good. you makin’ pancakes?”

a bubbly, groggy voice spills into the air, just as a light breeze flits in through the window. soothing, refreshing. you turn your gaze towards its source.

and there they are. sleepy satoru, and grumpy shoko, the former clinging to the latter like an overgrown koala. satoru seems to be in high spirits, calling out to you with a smile, blue eyes glimmering like a sunny sky; but you can tell he’s tired by the way he’s stretching out his limbs, only wearing a pair of pyjama pants. and shoko is silent, blinking drowsily, twitching when his loud voice buzzes in her ear. she makes no move to push him away.

suguru gazes at them with a smile, in tandem with you, nothing but fond. loving, in the way the amber of his eyes gleams and swirls with promises of something everlasting. he’s a little intense, honestly. but you wouldn’t have him any other way.

and, admittedly, your sleepy little partners are a sight for sore eyes.

shoko meets your gaze, and finally decides to shake off the man with an arm over her shoulder. said man huffs, but makes no move to follow her when she stumbles into your arms.

her limbs find their way around your midriff, her chin to the curve of your shoulder. her hair is loose, almost as long as suguru’s, messy and brushing against your cheek. your hand goes to smooth down her back, the fabric of her oversized shirt, soft and laced with the scent of laundry detergent. she yawns, right by your ear, lips jutted out into a small pout, and something in your chest returns. a hungry plant, drinking up her raspy voice, the glimpse you get of that mole beneath her eye. her stretch marks, when she pulls away and her shirt rides up enough to expose her thighs. little lightning bolts.

”morning,” you chirp. she presses a tiny kiss against your cheek, dangerously close to your lips; sometimes you think she does it just to tease you.

”hey, how come i didn’t get a morning kiss?”

shoko turns her head, finding satoru’s accusing stare. he’s pouting, tilting his head, already making his way over to suguru. but she only rolls her eyes.

”you’re such a baby.”

”you know you love me!”

suguru stifles a puff of laughter, leaning back against the kitchen counter, elbows resting on the marble. watching his partners with barely contained delight. satoru notices, grinning softly, throwing his arms around his boyfriend’s neck.

satoru’s kisses are always sloppy. you hear that drawn out mwah! even without looking at the pair, even without seeing his lips against suguru’s jaw. a phantom warmth sprouts on your skin.

”good morning, handsome,” he purrs, low and rumbling through his chest, pressed flush against suguru’s — their heartbeats mingling together. soft skin against smooth fabric. there’s mischief in those aquamarine eyes, something teasing, and it makes suguru want to return the favour.

”good morning, baby,” he presses his lips against satoru’s cheek. voice muffled against his soft skin, silky and deep. ”you kinda smell.”

a moment passes. the calm before the storm.

satoru blinks, barely registering shoko’s dry chuckle from behind him — and then furrows his eyebrows together like an irritated cat. a scandalized noise builds up at the base of his throat, and he glares at the man in front of him, frustration only growing when he notices that suguru isn’t returning the favour. his gaze is still fond, like an artist admiring a marble statue, drinking in his pouty boyfriend’s fluffy hair and droopy eyes and rosy lips. flattering, but the damage has been done.

”oh, i see how it is,” he withdraws his arms and takes a step back, crossing them with a hmph. ”bullying your sweet boyfriend first thing in the morning, huh? have you no shame?”

”sorry. you just look really bulliable today.”

another offended little noise. he turns on his heel, messy strands of hair swaying with the movement, glaring at shoko instead. ”unbelievable. i feel neglected in this household.”

you huff out a breathy laugh, taking a seat by the kitchen table while your lovers bicker. sipping from your cappuccino in silence, soaking up the mellow morning mood. until you feel satoru staring at you; eyes like marbles, big and bright, rich with mirth. his pout fades away, and he closes in on you with a smile. troubles forgotten.

before you can greet him, he’s leaning down to leave a fat kiss on your forehead — messy, uncoordinated, but loving. a coo on the tip of his tongue. when he’s this close you can see his dimples, those tiny freckles that only come out in the light of the sun.

you feel him smile against your skin, pulling back to speak. parting his pretty, glossy lips. ”and good morning to you, my dearest.”

he’s silly.

your lips bloom into a sweet grin, honeyed nectar on your teeth. he’s illuminated by the light streaming in through the window, a little disheveled, with his cute bedhead and bare chest exposed. a giggle slips from your lips, and your voice carries a melodic lilt, coming out as a soft croon. ”good morning, sunshine.”

satoru blinks. just once, before the telltale signs of his excitement start to show; his face brightening, breaking out into a cheshire grin, something sweet in the way his eyes crinkle. like folded origami, like messily cut fruit. citrusy and smooth.

before you can protest, those strong arms are reaching around your waist — hoisting you up into his arms with a coo of c’mere. he spins you around, just once or twice, and chuckles at the way you let out a sleepy yelp. even after stilling, he doesn’t put you down, only guiding your legs to wrap around his middle; his naked chest and muscles pressed flush against you. he’s warm, one large palm on your back and the other on your thigh. he touches you like it’s muscle memory, every ridge and dip, every part of you he’s already long mapped out. honestly, you don’t understand how he can get so excited this early in the morning.

but who are you to complain, when it means getting smothered like this?

”oh, and i smell great, by the way,” he suddenly huffs, directed at the partners behind him. he’s quick to smile down at you, tilting his head and searching for approval. ”don’t i, baby?”

for a second, you’re tempted to join in on the teasing. some part of you wants to. unfortunately, it loses against the parts of you still mesmerized by the splotches of white inside his pretty eyes, those cute little freckles. so you nod.

”yeah,” you breathe. inhaling, taking him in, sunlight and strawberries and laundry detergent. ”you smell like spring.”

his smile continues to blossom, turning sweeter by the minute. brighter than the sun. he throws a victorious glance behind him, delighting in the simultaneous roll of their eyes — before finally putting you back down. he wastes no time in plopping down on the seat to your right, dragging your chair closer to his, until they’re pressed against each other. curling a leg around yours. so clingy in the morning.

suguru and shoko are quick to join you. they blink slowly, sipping on their cups of espresso, a rich aroma spreading throughout the kitchen. it blends well with the plates of pancakes suguru scoots towards you, drizzled with the syrup satoru likes. he’s attentive, making sure you’re all comfortable, rising to his feet when shoko asks for a single cube of sugar. she’s started to mellow out a bit, no longer as grumpy, soothed by the bitter taste on her tongue. and satoru keeps your leg locked in place beneath the table.

it’s hard not to feel nostalgic, like this. when spring is blooming just outside your window, when all three of them are just the same as you remember. some things have changed, sure, but they’re still so unapologetically them. loud voices, rude eye-rolls, teasing comments and all.

they munch on their pancakes, sip on their coffee, and you chat about what to do when you all get home. what movie to watch, what food to order, what food to make because suguru doesn’t think you’ve been eating enough homemade meals lately. bickering and bantering. smiling.

(it feels like high school every day.)

shoko is the first to leave. she glances at the clock on the wall and stutters out a string of curse words, a mutter about being late. suguru plays dumb when she accuses him of not reminding her on purpose. she kisses you again, right under your jaw, and lets her clingy boyfriends give her one kiss each on the lips — despite her protests that they’ll mess up her lipstick. then she’s heading out.

”goodbye, doctor!” satoru calls, cheery even as your girlfriend rolls her pretty eyes.

”don’t call me that yet,” she snorts, adjusting her scarf. ”there’s still a good chance i’ll drop out. or cheat my way to a doctorate.”

so she says, but you all know her. you catch that glimmer of amusement in her eyes, something smug in the way she straightens her back. a little embarrassed, maybe. but the faith you have in her makes her glow.

then it’s satoru’s turn. he’s whinier, about it, ignoring the alarms on his phone on purpose. suguru has to bribe him, promising him kikufuku and take-out and an extra tight hug when he gets home. only then does he get up from his seat, untangling his leg with yours.

”do i have to?”

”yes, you do,” suguru tuts. ”the kids have an exam today. be responsible.”

another pout. but he listens, slipping on his sunglasses, putting on a coat and stealing a sip of your coffee that only makes him grimace. he has you both kiss the taste away, and you indulge him, because he’s silly and stupid and yours.

and then it’s just you and suguru. he has a day off, and you don’t have to leave until later. the kitchen falls silent, back to a mellow morning rhythm, that quiet waltz of motions and sunshine. suguru pours you more coffee, gazing at you from across the table, and you thank him with a smile. he adjusts his glasses and flips through the morning newspaper; absently, you wonder if shoko and satoru would’ve teased him for it.

what the four of you have is an odd arrangement. but that’s what all of you are, anyway; a little odd.

and as you sit there, serenaded by cicadas and morning birds, senses caressed by cappuccino foam and apricot blossoms and a hand holding yours over the table… you think to yourself that even if everything shattered around you — if the earth stopped spinning or the stars crashed through the roof of your apartment — you’d probably still keep on living. you’d do it, if only to continue chewing on these memories, these mornings, like savouring the faded flavour of an old piece of gum. over and over again, until you can’t tell where your teeth end and where the gum begins, so that you’ll always be able to taste it on your tongue. for the rest of your life.

it’s melodramatic, yes, but they are too. you’re sure suguru is pondering a sentiment even more dramatic, right now, even heavier with devotion. something so sappy you’d have to hide your face in your hands and beg him to stop talking.

and, lo and behold, he suddenly speaks up.

“are you happy?”

the question breaks you out of your silent stupor. you look up from your plate, his amber eyes already taking you in, drowning you in fondness. he’s smiling, and he’s looking at you like you’re spring personified. the silver of his lip piercing catches the light of the sun. a couple apricot petals are stuck in his hair, woven between his raven locks.

you blink. inside your chest, something unfurls, twists and turns, grows and withers all at once. a whole garden of love, just for them.

you lean forward, elbows on the table, and brush through his bangs. petal caught between your fingertips. when you lean back, you’re smiling.

“yeah,” you answer, truthfully. inhaling the scent of spring. “i’m always happy when i’m with you.”

a breeze caresses your cheek, your hands, and the whole apartment smells of apricots. suguru seems pleased, returning to his cup of lukewarm coffee, a little clink of ceramic against porcelain that strikes you as distinctly heavenly.

soon, you’ll have to leave. you’ll have to manage without their jokes and banter and touches, without them, for a grueling number of hours, one tortuous lecture after another. but they’ll be waiting once you get back — and tomorrow, you’ll have breakfast again, just like this. forever and ever. you never want the coffee to run out, never want the apricot trees to wither. you want to stay greedy for a long time to come.

and you’re sure they feel the same.

the sun lets her golden hair flow throughout the city, melting rivers and warming benches. she falls across shoko’s lecture hall, sneaks into satoru’s classroom, kisses her way up suguru’s neck. you let a sigh slip past your lips, and the sun breathes it in again — a vein of joy awoken, slumbering inside your veins.

and you smile.

(it’s springtime, now. a little warmer.

here’s to another year together.)

#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #geto x you #geto x y/n #shoko ieiri x reader #shoko ieiri x y/n #shoko ieiri x you #gojo fluff #geto fluff #satosugu x reader #sashisu x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader

1K notes · View notes

spidermiguell · 2 months ago

Text

Tainted red — Finnick Odair (18+)

—fem!reader x finnick odair (wc; 6k!)

—synopsis: In the heart of the Capitol, a junior stylist stumbles into the hidden world of Victor prostitution—and finds Finnick Odair waiting in the Red Room. What begins as an accident turns into something deeper as vulnerability, trust, and unexpected intimacy spark between two people trying to remember what real touch feels like.

—warnings: angst, sexual content, non-consensual implications (not between main characters), trauma responses, prostitution and commodification of victors, emotional vulnerability, mild language, references to past abuse and coercion

— song recs while reading: not a lot, just forever — adrianne lenker + bulletproof…I wish i was — radiohead

— (definitely one of the sadder fics i’ve written, so please proceed with caution. Not proof read!)

You arrived in the Capitol only four days ago, green as the silk swatches in your portfolio. A new stylist, barely old enough to have graduated from the Academy, assigned to your first real client—a young tribute from District Eight. It was meant to be simple. Temporary. Just help dress them, keep them alive long enough to impress a few sponsors. Your mentors told you not to get attached.

They also told you not to explore the tower alone.

But you’d gotten turned around—twice. The elevators were glitching again, and the signage on the twelfth floor had been removed for "aesthetic renovations." You were supposed to meet your tribute in the fitting suite, but somehow ended up wandering down a corridor lined with velvet wallpaper and ornate sconces, flickering low and red.

The air was too warm. The walls too quiet. Still, you walked.

Eventually, you came to a door. Gold-handled, unlabeled, slightly ajar. You hesitated—just a breath—but curiosity won out. You pushed it open, just an inch, just to peek—

And stepped into a dream.

No. Not a dream. A fantasy painted in lust and silence and blood-colored light.

You froze just inside the threshold. The room was drenched in red—curtains spilling like wine, cushions that looked like they'd been bruised by too many bodies, walls painted in the deepest shade of sin.

Perfume hung in the air like smoke, clinging to your throat. And in the center of it all, he sat.

Finnick Odair.

He lounged on a velvet chaise, one leg propped, an elbow draped lazily over the backrest. Shirtless, glistening faintly like he’d just stepped out of a bath. His sea-glass eyes lifted, and for a moment, they didn’t seem to register your face—only your presence.

He smiled. Practiced. Beautiful. Empty.

"Are you early," he said, voice dipped in honey, "or just curious?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Because now you understood where you were. This wasn't a lounge. It wasn’t even a dressing suite. This was one of those rooms…the whispered-about ones. The Capitol’s Red Rooms. The ones they never taught you about in stylist school.

The ones where victors came to serve again.

And you weren’t supposed to be here.

You shook your head, the motion slow, instinctive. “I—I’m sorry. I was looking for the tailoring suite. I didn’t mean to—” Your voice trailed off, swallowed by the velvet hush of the room.

Finnick didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched you with that unreadable stillness—like a predator unsure if its prey was worth chasing. Then, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth appeared. Not quite a smirk. Not quite real.

“They never label the doors,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Keeps things… discreet.”

His gaze dropped, flicked briefly across your clothes. Your Capitol-issued badge still hung around your neck on a silver chain, flashing your name and title: Junior Stylist. District 8. Temporary Placement. When his eyes returned to yours, something in them had shifted—just slightly. The performance cracked.

“You’re new,” he said. Not a question. An observation. A confirmation.

You nodded.

He sighed, leaning back into the chaise like gravity had grown heavier on his shoulders. “Of course you are.”

You should have left. Apologized, turned, shut the door behind you and buried this memory somewhere deep. But you didn’t. You stayed. Rooted in place by something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—like you weren’t Capitol. Like he was trying to decide if you were safe. Or dangerous.

“What is this place?” you asked quietly.

His eyes flicked up. Amused. Tired. “It’s whatever they want it to be.”

“It’s not really a room,” Finnick continued, his voice quiet but steady as he realised you still hadn’t got it. “It’s a performance space. A fantasy. A punishment of some sort.”

“They rotate the colors depending on what they want us to be,” he continued.

“Red means passion. Or violence. Or love, if they’re feeling generous. Sometimes it’s white—when they want purity. Or black, when they want to pretend we’re in control.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s never really about us. Just what we represent.”

You didn’t know whether or not you should attempt to say something, or continue listening…yet you knew deep down, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

“They call it hosting,” he said getting up, pacing slowly, like the weight of the room was dragging at his limbs. “Or entertaining. Or fulfilling Capitol tradition. Anything really.”

You stayed still. You didn’t breathe too loudly. You just let him talk.

“This is where they bring the ones who pay the most,” he continued. “Old money. New money. Sponsors. Politicians. People who want more than just to watch us die. People who want to own us, even just for a night.”

He turned to look at you. Not accusingly. Just… tired.

“They dress us up like gifts. Perfume our wrists, oil our skin, teach us how to say the right things, touch the right way. Sometimes we’re given as prizes. Sometimes as bribes. We never know what name will be on the card until the door opens.”

His voice dropped lower. There was a rawness to it now, like something he hadn’t meant to share was slipping out anyway.

“It started when I was fourteen,” he said. “First Victory Tour. President Snow told me I was too pretty to waste. Told me I’d be doing my country a service. Told me if I didn’t smile through it, everyone I loved would pay for it.”

A silence followed. It rang in your ears.

“I did what he asked,” he said, jaw tight. “And I’ve been doing it ever since.”

He looked around at the room—at the satin sheets, the soft red lighting, the carefully curated illusion of desire.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he added, voice hollow. “They name us victors, then sell us like things. Like bodies they can press their names into and forget.”

“I didn’t know,” you said softly. Your voice felt small in the vast, red silence. “I didn’t know it was like this.”

Finnick let out a low chuckle, leaning one shoulder against the chair he was once propped on like he was posing for a portrait.

“You’re not supposed to. That’s the trick. They keep the lights low, dress us in silk, feed the Capitol lies about love and lust and loyalty. Makes it easier to sell.”

He smiled—too wide. Too rehearsed. “You’re late to the party, sweetheart. Everyone else already knows how the game works. Some even ask for me by name.”

The way he said it was too smooth. Too detached. He said it like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter. But his eyes didn’t match the smirk. There was something hollow behind them.

A practiced vacancy.

You took a breath. Watched him. Really watched him.

He moved like he’d done this a thousand times. Like his body was no longer his own, just something he offered up because it was easier than fighting.

“Does it ever stop?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

Finnick’s smile twitched. “Why would it?” He pushed off the chaise and walked past you, slow and casual, like a cat too tired to pounce.

“As long as I’m still pretty, still useful, they’ll keep parading me around. Red room, gold room, doesn’t matter. I know the lines. I know how to make them feel like I want it.”

He turned to face you again, his back now to the door. “That’s what they like best, you know. The pretending. Makes them feel special.”

You didn’t speak.

“What? You thought victors got mansions and parties and a lifetime of peace?” He gestured around the room. “Surprise. This is the prize.”

But his voice faltered at the end. Just barely. A fracture in the performance.

“You’re good at acting,” you muttered in a hushed tone. “The others in the Capitol would definitely think you enjoy whatever…this—is…but anyone who’s even slightly informed when it comes to emotion, would see what you actually thought, or felt.”

Finnick blinked. Just once.

“I think you do care,” you continued. “You’ve just had to pretend for so long, you don’t know how to stop.”

For a second—just one—something shifted in his expression. The smile dropped. His mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something real.

Then it was gone.

He looked away, walking back to the chaise.

“Well,” he said, voice cooler now, “pretending pays better.”

You watched him sink onto the velvet seat once again, limbs folding with the ease of routine. A body trained to be beautiful. A man performing for ghosts.

And still—there was something beneath it all. A flicker of the real him, like a candle behind thick glass.

Your eyes drifted to the door.

If he was waiting for someone previously—if someone paid for this—then they wouldn’t be far. You could already feel the Capitol’s eyes on your back, even if they weren’t there yet. They never liked to be kept waiting.

Quietly, you reached up and pulled a pin from your hair. One of the sleek Capitol ones—long, sharp, decorative, designed more for show than function. It caught the light as you stepped to the door.

Finnick looked up. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pushed the pin into the antique lock, twisting gently until you heard a soft, satisfying click.

The door was locked.

A pause stretched between you.

Finnick stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or warn you. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“They’ll be here soon,” you said. “I could feel it.”

He studied you. “And?”

You shrugged, feigning calm you didn’t entirely feel. “And I didn’t want anyone else coming in.”

Something unreadable passed across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something gentler, far more dangerous—hope, cracking through the armor before he could patch it back up.

“You think you’re protecting me?” he asked, voice dry.

“No,” you replied. “I think I’m giving you five minutes. Without them. Without pretending.”

Finnick leaned back again, folding his hands behind his head, eyes never leaving you.

The performance was still there—but thinner now, as if he was waiting to see what you'd do next before deciding how much of himself he could afford to show.

Five minutes. Just enough time to become something the Capitol didn’t own.

Finnick was quiet for a moment, just watching you. Then, slowly, that smirk curled back onto his lips—the one that looked good in Capitol ads and sponsor reels. The one that meant trouble.

“You know,” he said, voice smooth again, “when they do get the door open—and they will, eventually—they’re going to see a junior stylist and a shirtless victor alone in the Red Room.”

You didn’t move.

“They’ll think you couldn’t afford me,” he continued, tilting his head, “so you slept with me for free.”

Your stomach tightened, but you didn’t let it show. You met his gaze, steady and calm.

He laughed softly. “Capitol scandal. What a way to start your career.”

“You think that’s what I want from you?” you asked, careful not to sound offended—just tired of the performance.

Finnick shrugged, resting an arm along the back of the chaise. “Doesn’t matter what you want. Only matters what they think.”

A beat passed. You stepped closer.

“And what do you think?”

His smile faltered. Just slightly. Not enough that anyone else might notice. But you were watching for it now.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long moment, as if calculating what he could risk giving you. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping low.

“I think you should’ve walked away when you had the chance.”

“But I didn’t,” you said.

“No,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”

Finnick didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you—eyes low-lidded, unreadable, like he was trying to place you in a room that had never held anyone real before.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

He tilted his head. “You going to tell me why you’re still standing there? Door’s locked. Room’s red. You sure you’re not here for something else?”

That smirk again—lazy, tired, too practiced to mean nothing. But you caught the flicker behind it. The part of him that wanted to believe you might say something different.

You shook your head, mouth dry. “you literally saw me come in here confused when I realised it wasn’t a tailoring suite. I never had any intention of—“ you slowed down.

He raised a brow, unconvinced but silent.

“When I saw you… I just—” Your throat tightened. “It wasn’t what I expected. But I wasn’t going to leave you here. Not like that.”

His expression had faltered, chest rising slow under the soft red lights. “What did you think would happen? You’d play savior? Crack the door and set the broken thing free?”

“No,” you said, almost whispering. “I just didn’t want to be another person who looked at you and saw a price tag.”

Something in his face twitched—almost a flinch.

You took a slow step forward. “Yes, I think you’re—God, of course I think you’re hot. Anyone with eyes would. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever try to… buy you. Or make you do something you didn’t want to. That’s not why I stayed.”

His eyes were on you now—fully. No smirk. No line. Just watching. Breathing.

“I stayed because you looked like you needed someone to see you. And not the Capitol’s version of you. Just you.”

Silence pressed between you again, warmer this time. Closer.

Finnick looked down for a second, as if something in your words had knocked the air out of him. When he spoke, his voice was softer.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I almost believed you.”

You stepped a little closer. “Then maybe try believing me.”

He looked up at you—this time not as a performer, not as a body, not as a prize. Just a boy caught in something too deep. And for once, he didn’t run behind the smile.

He just sat there, breathing in the stillness you gave him.

He sat still for a long moment, fingers laced loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the wall across from him like he couldn’t bear to meet yours again.

Then, finally, his voice came—barely more than a breath.

“Sit with me?”

Not flirtatious. Not commanding. Just… a request. Soft. Human.

You moved without speaking, the silk of your outfit whispering as you crossed the room and lowered yourself onto the chaise beside him. Not too close. Just near enough that if he leaned, he might feel your shoulder there.

The two of you sat in silence.

The red lights glowed warm around you, the kind of warmth that didn’t comfort—it pressed.

You didn’t look at him at first. You gave him that much. The space to pretend he was still alone, if that’s what he needed.

But after a moment, you caught the shift.

His shoulders, once so loose and lazy, had begun to tighten—just slightly. Like a rope pulled taut beneath the skin. His breathing changed too, slower, more deliberate.

And when you finally looked over at him, you saw it.

His eyes were wet.

He was staring ahead, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to blink. Not to let it spill over. But you could see it—the shine along his lower lashes, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t touch him.

Just stayed there. Still. Present.

He blinked once. And that was all it took.

One tear slipped free, trailing down his cheek like it had nowhere else to go.

Still, he didn’t look at you. Still, he tried to play it off like it hadn’t happened.

But you saw him.

And this time, he didn’t stop you from seeing.

The room was thick with unspoken words. The silence between you and Finnick felt fragile, like if you spoke too loudly, it might shatter.

His breath came in uneven patterns, and his gaze was downcast, avoiding yours. His shoulders trembled slightly, though he kept his back straight, trying so hard to hold it together. But the more you watched him, the more you saw the cracks.

And then, when his breath hitched again and another tear slipped from his eye, you couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

You reached out tentatively, placing a hand on his arm—just enough to offer comfort, to let him know you weren’t leaving, even if he didn’t want to speak.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “You don’t have to hide.”

At your touch, Finnick flinched—like he wasn’t used to that kind of contact. But then, he let out a ragged sigh, shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. He wasn’t holding back anymore, and for the first time, he didn’t seem to care who saw the truth.

But the moment of vulnerability was fleeting, because Finnick’s body seemed to stiffen, then shift. His gaze lifted toward you, but it wasn’t the same look from before—the teasing, the smirking, the sharp edge that always kept people at a distance.

This time, there was something raw in his eyes, a hunger. Not for attention. Not for power. But for something else. Something more human.

Without warning, his hand moved toward you, his fingers brushing against your waist.

His touch was almost desperate, the movement too quick, too automatic. It was like the only way he knew how to cope with feeling this exposed was to turn it into something else—to take control in the way he’d been taught to, through touch, through doing.

Your heart raced as you felt his fingers tighten around the fabric of your shirt. His chest was so close to yours now, his breath hot against your neck.

You could feel the tension in him, the need to escape whatever this was, whatever was breaking inside of him. It was clear in the way his body moved—like he was trying to fix something, to fill the empty space with something that wasn’t just silence.

“Finnick,” you said, your voice steady but firm. “No.”

He froze at the word, eyes flickering with surprise, then confusion.

You moved further back on the sofa, creating a little distance between you, but your voice didn’t waver. “I’m not here for that. You don’t have to… do anything.”

His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you as if trying to understand. Trying to figure out what you meant.

As if he was used to this moment turning into something physical—something that would make the tension go away. Something that would make him feel like he wasn’t broken.

“I’m not asking for anything,” you said, your voice softer now, but still clear. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

His hand slowly dropped from your waist, his eyes dropping to the floor, shame flickering across his face. He didn’t know how to process your rejection—he wasn’t used to it.

You gently placed your hand on his arm again, this time with more certainty. “I’m not here to use you, Finnick. I just want you to be here—to let yourself breathe.”

He looked up at you then, really looked at you for the first time in a while, and for a second, you saw the vulnerability, the fear of being too much, of breaking in front of someone.

And you realized—maybe for the first time—that this was how he coped. This was how he survived the chaos of the Capitol, the image they’d built around him. By turning everything into something physical, something he could control.

“I don’t need you to fix anything,” you whispered. “Just… be real with me. That’s enough.”

He let out a shaky breath, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. He wasn’t smiling, not yet—but he wasn’t retreating, either. And that was something.

Finnick’s hand was still resting near yours, his fingers trembling slightly as his gaze fixed on the floor. He was quiet for a long moment, as if the weight of his own words was a bit too much to bear.

“I’ve never known what it feels like,” he started, his voice low, “to be with someone and not feel... trapped. Not feel like I’m being used or bought or made to perform.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated with himself.

“I’ve spent so long pretending that it doesn’t matter. That it’s just another thing I have to do. But deep down, I know it’s not the same anymore. I can’t keep doing this if it’s just that.”

He shifted uncomfortably, looking at you as if expecting you to judge him, but you didn’t. You stayed quiet, letting him talk, giving him the space to say what he needed to.

“I’m not asking for a relationship,” he continued, his words slow but deliberate. “I’m not asking for anything more than... just to feel something real, you know? To touch someone without it being part of the game, part of the contract. I don’t even remember what it’s like anymore. To be wanted for me. Not for what I can do, not for the way I look, but just because... well, just because I’m me.”

His voice broke slightly, but only for a second. He steadied himself, leaning back a little and rubbing his hand against his neck. His eyes flickered to yours then, searching, almost vulnerable.

“I want to feel that. To not have to force myself to be someone I’m not. To not have someone take something from me that I’m not giving willingly. I don’t know if that makes sense. I don’t want to perform. I want to experience it like it’s mine for once.”

He swallowed, the tension in his shoulders still present but softened by the honesty in his words. “But I don’t even know how to do that anymore. I’ve been so caught up in giving people what they want, what they expect, that I don’t even know what real intimacy is anymore. It’s like my body’s been used to give everything to everyone, and I never really got to... choose. You know?”

You didn’t speak immediately, but his words sank in, and your heart clenched with understanding.

Finnick wasn’t just asking for a moment of physical closeness. He was asking for the space to experience something that wasn’t tied to the Capitol or forced on him by others. He was asking for the freedom to want something on his own terms.

“I’m not saying I need you to fix me,” he added, his voice almost rough now, as though admitting this was its own kind of release.

“But I think you’re the only person I’ve ever been around who—I don’t know. It feels different with you. I think I could finally experience something again. Something that doesn’t come with strings. No contracts. No expectations.

“Just...” He faltered, but his gaze locked onto yours, hopeful, even in its uncertainty. “Just being with someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m being trapped. No pressure. No demands. Just... us.”

You couldn’t help but feel a wave of empathy crash over you. He was finally saying it aloud: his longing for intimacy that wasn’t controlled or forced, something where he could give and take freely without worrying about losing control or being manipulated.

“I’m not going to pressure you to do anything,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your hand again.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I want to be here for you—just for you. If that means letting you figure out what real intimacy feels like, without the baggage, then I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” you responded almost immediately.

Finnick’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his expression softened, a subtle relief crossing his features. His shoulders relaxed a little, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it was still a bit strained.

“You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispered, almost to himself. “To feel like... I’m not just another thing to be used. You’re the first person who’s made me feel like I could do this... on my terms. And that’s more than I’ve ever had.”

There was a quiet moment, and though the words were simple, the weight of what they meant hung in the air. Neither of you needed to say much more.

There was an understanding that settled between you—unspoken, but clear. You weren’t offering him a solution or asking for more than he could give.

You were simply giving him the space to experience intimacy without pressure, without fear, and without the weight of expectations.

For Finnick, that was enough.

The air between you seemed to thicken, and the weight of everything he’d said settled over you. It was fragile, this moment.

Delicate.

Finnick had opened up to you in a way that he never had before, revealing the vulnerability he had buried deep inside for so long. You could see it in his eyes, the quiet trust he was offering, and for the first time, you realized just how deeply he was longing for connection without the pressure of expectations.

You reached out slowly, your hand hovering near his cheek, then gently cupping his face. The touch was soft, almost hesitant, but steady. You could feel his breath hitch slightly at the contact, his eyes flickering between your face and your hand, unsure but wanting, waiting for what would come next.

You didn’t rush it. You let the silence hang between you, thick with unspoken things, things that didn’t need to be said. You had come here, to this moment, not to force anything on him, but to give him something real, something he could hold onto without fear. His gaze softened, and for a moment, it seemed like the rest of the world had faded away.

There was just the two of you, and the connection that had slowly built over the last few moments.

Slowly, you leaned in, moving closer, your breath mingling with his. His lips parted slightly as if he was holding his breath, unsure but trusting you to lead. And that was all you needed to know—he felt safe.

You closed the space between you, your lips brushing his in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle, unhurried, as though both of you were still testing the waters, still unsure but wanting to feel what it might be like to kiss without the weight of performance or expectation.

The kiss deepened slowly, a quiet exploration of the connection that had been building between you both—soft and searching.

Finnick’s hand moved, a hesitant gesture at first, but as you kissed him, he let his fingers brush against the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, as if he wanted to feel the warmth of your touch against his skin. His body responded, but it wasn’t with the urgency you might have expected. It was slow, tender, a careful unraveling of years of being forced into something that didn’t feel real.

He didn’t feel trapped anymore. Not by you.

The kiss lingered, soft and languid, and when you pulled back slightly, his eyes opened slowly, meeting yours with something like wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

He looked at you with something more than just physical attraction—something deeper, something raw.

You smiled softly, your thumb gently brushing over his cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. But I want you to know that you don’t have to fake it with me. Not now. Not ever.”

Finnick let out a soft breath, his body relaxing, but there was still a certain tension in his shoulders, as if he was still processing everything that had just shifted between you. But this time, it wasn’t fear—it was anticipation. The kind of anticipation you feel when you finally realize that what you’re experiencing is real, and that it’s okay to want it.

He leaned in again, his hand resting gently at your waist as he kissed you, this time with a little more confidence, a little more desire. It was different now—there were no more walls between you. No more expectations. Just the two of you, connecting in a way that felt right, that felt real.

And for Finnick, that was the first time in a long while that he felt like he wasn’t just a body. He was a person. A person with desires, with emotions, with the right to feel safe and wanted.

His hand slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, sending a shiver of warmth across your skin. The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was unmistakably filled with a yearning, a desperate need to feel something real, something that wasn’t forced or performed.

You responded to him, not just with your lips but with your body, leaning into him, letting him feel your warmth and the pulse of your own.

His hand moved from your back to your side, his touch firm but careful, like he was afraid to break the delicate tension that had built up. You could feel him pause, hesitating for a moment as if unsure whether to go further, waiting for you to give the signal, the reassurance that this wasn’t just another transaction.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand drift to his chest, your fingers grazing his bare collarbones and shoulders, ones covered in scars and pain from his past. He inhaled sharply at the contact, his muscles tensing under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. He let you lead, the trust between you palpable.

“Are you sure?” Finnick whispered, his lips brushing against your neck as he leaned in closer. His voice was a low murmur, filled with uncertainty but laced with the same yearning that had been in his eyes all along.

“I don’t want you to think you owe me anything.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him, your thumb caressing the side of his jaw, your eyes locking with his in a quiet but assured gaze. “I don’t owe you anything, Finnick. But I want this. I want you. Not because I have to, but because I’m choosing to.”

That seemed to be the moment he let go of the last of his hesitation. His lips found yours again, firmer this time, more urgent. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as though he couldn’t get enough of the warmth of your body pressed against his.

The kiss was filled with an intensity that spoke of years of pent-up longing, of moments he had spent longing for something real.

Slowly, one hand slid under your silk dress, his fingers grazing your skin, sending a ripple of heat through your body. His touch wasn’t demanding; it was searching, like he was learning the feel of your body, discovering what it was like to touch someone and not feel like they were just using him.

You felt the heat of his touch, his fingertips tracing over your ribs, his chest pressing closer to yours as the kiss deepened again. His breathing grew more shallow, his hand moving down your back, pulling you into him, as though he wanted to feel all of you.

There was no rush, no frantic energy—just the slow, steady rhythm of two people connecting in the only way they knew how.

His lips moved down your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and you let your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him back up to meet your lips again. The kiss wasn’t just about the physical touch. It was an unspoken promise, a way for both of you to feel something real for the first time in a long while.

He moved his hand to the hem of your dress, hesitating for a moment before lifting it gently. You could feel his eyes on you, asking permission, giving you the space to say no if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you let your own hands slide up and unbuckle his pants, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips.

When your garments were off, his gaze lingered on you for a moment, not with the usual hunger you might have expected, but with awe, with reverence.

He ran his fingers lightly over your shoulder, brushing against the curve of your collarbone, as though memorizing the feel of you, the feel of someone who wasn’t going to demand anything from him, someone who wasn’t going to take.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as his hands remained at your sides, not pushing but holding you gently, almost as though he was afraid you might disappear.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you said softly, your breath hitching slightly as his lips pressed to your neck. “But you’re not alone, Finnick. You’re not trapped here. You’re with me. And you don’t have to perform anymore.”

He paused for a moment, letting your words sink in, then kissed you again, as if giving in to what you both needed. His hands moved to your back, fingers splaying over your skin as he pulled your legs apart ever so gently, his body flush against yours.

The kiss grew more heated, more urgent, but still controlled, still cautious—two people learning what it felt like to let go without fear. His touch was softer than you expected, his hands gentle but insistent as they explored the contours of your body.

You responded in kind, your hands slipping under his boxers, your fingers tracing over his ever growing bulge, still making sure to not cross any boundaries.

For Finnick, this was more than just physical pleasure. It was about being wanted in a way that didn’t make him feel unsafe, bare, abused.

It was about feeling like he was allowed to be, not just to give. And with every touch, every kiss, every quiet sigh shared between you, he was beginning to believe that he could, at long last, feel something real—something that wasn’t dictated by the Capitol or by expectations.

And for you, it was about showing him that he didn’t have to do anything forced.

You wanted him—as he was. And nothing more.

The connection between you deepened, and you both slowly began to move, to feel, to explore without fear or hesitation. It wasn’t rushed or uncomfortable. It was about letting the moment unfold naturally—two people seeking something real, something free from the weight of the world.

The room was quiet except for the sound of soft breathing, the only light now the dim glow of the lamp casting long shadows across the floor. It felt like time had slowed down, as if the world outside no longer existed. There was just the two of you, connected in a way that felt completely free from the rest of the world—the Capitol, the expectations, the past.

In this moment, there was no performing. No pretending. Just the rawness of Finnick finally feeling content and happy with who he was with, not just a toy used for desire.

For the first time in a long time, Finnick didn’t feel trapped. He didn’t feel like a commodity. He just felt... human. And for you, that was the most intimate thing you could give him: the space to just be himself.

You smiled softly, threading your fingers through his, your touch as gentle as the night had been. “You are real, Finnick. And you deserve to feel this. Without anything else attached.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the world left outside that locked door, you knew that the Capitol would continue to use and abuse this man unless you did something for him, and you no longer cared about the career you once were so passionate about, you only had one goal.

save. him.

please remember, requests are always open, and please feel free to reblog as they are greately appreciated ! <3

#finnick odair x y/n #finnick x y/n #finnick imagine #hunger games fanfiction #finnick odair hunger games #finnick odair fanfic #finnick x you #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair #finnick odair angst #finnick odair angst fanfic #finnick odair x you #hunger games fanfic #hunger games finnick #hunger games #finnick odair fanction

175 notes · View notes

agreeewrites · 4 months ago

Text

what is it like being married to Rabastan Lestrange? 💭

cw: MDNI 18+, mentions of trauma, wizarding war, death eaters | masterlist

you were the first thing Rabastan ever cared about more than his family

as soon as he laid eyes on you in the Hogwarts corridors, he knew that you were the love of his life, his soulmate, his wife

and thankfully, he's so charming, so infuriatingly handsome, that he had no trouble winning your affection

though, he makes a point to keep that flame burning every single day

Rabastan is unwavering in his loyalty, entirely devoted to you and his duty as your husband. he may wear the dark mark on his skin, but your name is etched onto his heart.

his entire life was spent on his brother Rodolpus’ shadow. he was second at everything, no matter how hard he worked, how ambitious he was, Rodolpus had done everything first.

but you…you were just his. Not his brother's, not his father's, his. you are his greatest accomplishment.

he's deeply romantic with you, candlelit dinners, bubble baths, chocolate and flowers when you're feeling down (mind you, they're gourmet chocolates and fifty long-stem red roses. only the best for his darling.)

you don't care about his money, and you tell him so constantly. but that doesn't stop the lavish gifts and luxury dates, custom made jewelery and designer clothing.

once on a trip to Paris, a piece of art at a the Louvre made you well up, and when you returned home the following week, it was hanging in the library by your favorite chair.

but he also brings you smaller trinkets and treats, a stone he found on a walk of the grounds that reminded him of your eyes, a peeling, sun-bleached book he saw in a thrift store by your favorite author, the cherries out of his old-fashioned, his coat off his back

he loves to play the piano for you, a secret passion of his, and you'll stretch out across the top of the instrument in the study, watching those dexterous fingers fly across the keys, playing whatever your favorite song of that week was, or the song you danced to at your wedding that he composed himself.

he tried to teach you once, his hands resting gently over yours, but you were too distracted by his heat at your back and the architecture of his forearms to learn a damn thing.

which was his preferred outcome anyways. he never gets tired of seeing you moon over him the way he does for you.

he also loves to cook for you despite the army of servants. he’ll give them all the night off, pay them extra to ensure they don't disturb you, and whip up your favorite meal. you always sit on the counter by him, a glass of the vintage wine he'd selected for them cellar in hand, watching him putter around in his pressed button down and tailored slacks, an apron around his waist and a towel thrown of his broad shoulder

he feeds you bits of cheese and crust of bread dipped in imported olive oil, stealing lush, wine-stained kisses between stirring pots and chopping vegetables

kissing Rab is like sinking into the fine leather seat of a luxury sports car. plush and decadent presses, indulgent to an almost excess, but when he hits the gas, it's exhilarating, heart-pounding, wildly fun. (more on that later)

hes a busy man, always in meetings with his family while running your household with an iron fist.

Rab will accept nothing less than perfection in nearly all things…except you (bc you're always perfect to him)

you can be as wild and carefree as you like, run around the gardens barefoot, finger paint a mural in the library, write your name over every piece of priceless art, and he'd only kiss the top of your head and praise you for your creativity.

but on the odd occasion he does get upset with you (usually because you put yourself in some kind of danger), he goes radio silent. avoiding you for two, three, maybe five days until he feels calm enough to talk to you without raising his voice.

he would cut out his tongue before speaking to you unkindly

he's a passionate man and feels things very deeply despite his calm, collected demeanor

and the thought of losing you…it shakes him to his core.

after an incident with a rogue death eater, Rab didn't leave your side for a week. he barely slept, barely blinked, until he killed the fucker himself…twice.

your husband was protective, possessive, his initials RL hanging on a solid gold chain around your throat.

everyone in London knew who you belonged to, and what the consequences were for coming at you sideways.

he wasn't jealous, per se. he knows he's usually the most attractive and powerful man in any room, and he knows how much you love him.

but when some fucking bastard has the audacity to speak to his wife out of turn, it's a a crime he simply cannot abide.

Rabastan is a strong man, built tall and broad like his older brother and father, and was unmatched with a wand, but he preferred a subtler approach. ie dismantling their self-esteem one bladed insult as a time.

you'd lost count of how many grown men he'd made cry and roll over like whelped dogs.

and it never failed to shock you when he'd verbally rip someone to shreds, then place the most tender kiss to your temple, murmuring his affection in your ear until you smiled and kissed the sin from that wicked mouth.

like his father, he can be cruel, callous, cold. you've seen on more than one occasion just how vicious he can be when provoked, but he's always always soft for you.

with you, he sheds his armor like a coat. loving to lay his head on your chest to feel the steady drum of your heart, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers combing through his dark hair.

he has a lot of trauma from his upbringing (thought he'd never admit it). and nightmares and flashbacks are a regular occurrence. in those moments, you are the only thing that can soothe him, bring him back to himself and not the monster they made him.

he loves it when you hum for him, sing or read aloud. anything that fills the quiet with you, your presence. surrounded by you. drowning in you. mind, body, and soul.

he revels in your softness, your kind heart, and it soothes something sharp in his chest, rounding the edges of him until he feels more human than weapon.

ok…now the good stuff 🌶️

when you first met Rab, you assumed he'd be super dominant in bed, rough and claiming, but the reality is a bit different

the first time, he coaxed the orgasm out of you like the sun coaxes a flower to bloom, gentle, deliberate, and with absolute certainty.

he’s dominant, one hundred thousand percent, but it's a quiet kind of dominance. sweetened with praise and hazy affection, murmuring sweet nothings while he ravaged your body.

thats my girl, just like that.

I know you can take it, you're doing so well.

just a bit further, pet.

there you go, baby.

he could play your body like an instrument, knowing you almost better than you knew yourself, pulling orgasms from your wrecked body with relentless precision, using his cum and thick fingers to keep you slick and pliant for round after round

you can give me one more, I know you can. don't deny me what's mine.

he loved to mark you, leaving indented crescent moons across your tits and thighs

for all his pretention and neatness, he loved making a mess of you. spitting on your tongue and drooling pussy, seeing your slick coat him to the wrist, shining the leather of his Rolex watch. smearing his spend across your puffy lips and angelic face

so fucking pretty like this, baby. only I get to see you like this, yeah? my innocent lamb to ruin?

Rab's a giant munch, sloppy while he devoured your pussy, nuzzling your clit with his nose while he tongue fucked you, using his big hands to spread you open, nursing your clit with hard, rhythmic pulls until you were screaming and thrashing beneath him, soaking that gorgeous face with your honey

you loved to ride him, having all those rippling muscles and thick cock to play with, to use however you like. he'd run his hands over your body, lazy and languid, while you rode him with abandon, perfectly content to savor the sight of your eager, pleasure-drunk face, your perfect tits bouncing on his face while your greedy pussy sucked him deeper.

doing so well, love. you feel me all the way up there? don't worry, darling, you can have it all.

he also absolutely loves reminding you that you're his wife, that you're his, especially when your choking on his cock, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes

show me what a good wife you are. so eager to please, aren't you? that's it, baby. open that little throat for me.

his other fav positions are doggy and up against the wall, anything that has you at his mercy, where he can fuck you steady and deep, pushing you to your limits by the sheer intensity of pleasure, the unrelenting glide of his girthy cock in your tight, drooling hole, gripping his length with every withdrawal. like you wanted him to stay buried in your gooey heat forever

and there was nowhere that was off limits, a lesson your house staff and his brother learned the hard way on more than one occasion.

he particularly loved fucking you in his office and the dining room, using your body as his own personal stress-relief, or spread out like his favorite meal.

fucking your throat under his desk after a tough meeting, or licking whipped cream off your tits for dessert, before bending you over the wood, legs spread, pussy dripping.

Rab would always clean you up with his tongue, soothing your raw and ravaged cunt with tender, lush licks and open-mouthed kisses. so sinfully self-indulgent it made you melt every time.

he's the king of aftercare. lavender-scented bubble baths, peppermint tea for your abused throat, a warm compress for your aching pussy.

he'd perch on the edge of the tub, tending to your bedraggled hair with the utmost care and precision, cooing and fussing until you were sound asleep in your shared four poster bed.

Rabastan is a glutton for pleasure, and you are his favorite indulgence.

#headcanon #harry potter headcanon #rabastan lestrange #lestrange family #marauders #the marauders #the marauders era fic #the marauders era #slytherin boys #slytherin headcanons #rabastan lestrange headcanons #death eaters #harry potter fandom #harry potter marauders #hp fandom #hp headcanon #Harry Potter smut

242 notes · View notes

bambikisss · 1 year ago

Text

Freaky : C.San x S.Mingi

💕: Rockstar Guitarist! Mingi x Model Reader x Rockstar drummer! San

📙: You were invited to Milan for fashion week and end up sitting in between two members of the world's biggest rock group ATEEZ, who also seem to have a thing for you: both of them.

⚠: Unprotected sex (keep it wrapped), threesome (mmf), Spit, oral (m + f receiving), dumbification (reader), multiple rounds, all over the hotel room lol, pink haired mingi, cocky san + mingi, mention of trying anal, mentions of voyeurism, smut with a hint of plot in the beginning

Bambi's notes: So, this was a journey to write, so you know that means smut without much plot lol this is for my sangi fans, because who wouldn't want to be sandwiched between San and Mingi?

Song: Freak - a - Leek by Petey Pablo, Slow down by Chase Atlantic

Taglist: @xhexy @mingisprincess @yeosangiess @itsvxlentine @biancaness @sanhwalvr @haebaragisworld @s-h-y-a @imgenieforyou-boy @therealcuppicake @certifiedmoa @scarfac3

@kitty4hwa @conwunder @wisejudgedragonhairdo @frobin4ever

REBLOGS + COMMENTS ARE WELCOMED AND ENCOURAGED

Milan, Italy.

You had been invited to participate in fashion week among the various other stars that attended the event. You were one of the people who reporters and other paparazzi were excited to see. You were one of the world's most popular models, after all: you were on the covers of multiple magazines and were the face of many brands.

So you were used to the flashing lights of the paparazzi and the reporters trying to pull you for an interview. You didn't mind, though, actually enjoying it.

"Y/N! Look over here please!"

You smiled, turning the other way so that the many cameras could capture your back and your face from a new angle. You were dressed to the nines and you were happy that everyone liked your outfit, especially since the designer was a good friend of yours.

You were soon escorted to your seat, having a front-row seat on the bright white runway you had grown used to walking on. You crossed your legs as you looked down at the various freebies the fashion show gave you, looking through the bright blue bag with interest in hopes of making the time flow by faster. You always found that just watching the show wasn't as interesting as walking was.

However, while you were so focused on your bag, you didn't notice the reporters and many paparazzi outside screaming and rushing at a long black limousine. The windows were darkly tinted, not allowing anyone to peek inside at the two stars who arrived. There had been rumors about two surprising stars attending the show tonight, but no one knew who. And now with the door opening, everyone got to get pictures of the stars.

"Mingi, San, can I pull you into an interview?"

San raised an eyebrow at the reporter before tapping Mingi's back, pointing to the interview area before whispering into his ear "Let's just do one interview like HongJoong said to."

Mingi rolled his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, not happy about having to do an interview. Mingi just wanted to hurry up and take pictures then get to his seat; he was all for attention and good press, but the flashing lights tonight were too much.

Mingi and San were part of the world-renowned boy band "ATEEZ," the rock band that took the world by storm almost 3 years ago. Now, they were at the top of their game, but that also meant that they had to attend events like these. Usually, HongJoong, Seonghwa, and Yeosang would go to events like these, but they all were too busy to fly out, so that left Mingi and San to go as the others were also busy.

You had just placed your bag back down underneath your chair filled with goodies when you noticed the men approaching you, their custom-tailored suits giving your mind a perfect image of what could be underneath.

While you were checking them out, San and Mingi were doing the same thing, their eyes shamelessly checking you out as they moved to their seats that were on either side of you. Even though Mingi was wearing shades and you were facing forward, you could feel their eyes on you, undressing you as the last stars took their seats. You wanted to ask them questions, but you didn't know how to take their sudden attraction to you.

"Can you three move closer for a picture?" Your mental turmoil was interrupted by the photographer who looked at you hopefully. You nodded, feeling Mingi's hand slide behind your back as he moved closer to you. You silently gasped as San did the same, both of the men's hands on your bare back, their fingers feeling anywhere they could as they smiled for the picture.

"What's your name?" Mingi was now whispering into your ear as the photographer scurried away, the lights dimming as the show was about to begin. Your first attempt at responding was cut off by your silent gasp as both men's hands slowly moved down your back, their hands now resting dangerously low on your back, a smirk moving onto their lips at the feeling of you subtly arching your back for them.

"Y/N." Your name made San whistle lowly, his voice full of charms as his hand moved up your back, allowing Mingi to touch your lower back while he got to feel your upper back, his hand playing with the clasp on your necklace as he spoke so only you, him, and Mingi could hear. "You're a supermodel, right? I've heard all about you. I think I even own some of your magazines covers. I've always found you so hot, you know."

You felt your body stiffen at his words: He already knew about you? You turned to face San, only for Mingi's hand to grasp your jaw, making you face forward again as he whispered into your ear "You can't be giving San all your attention, Beautiful. You have to share between us, do you think you can handle that?"

When Mingi first asked that question, you were quick to answer yes. You thought you could handle teasing and talking between them both. You had sat around meeting rooms and kept conversations going with multiple people, so what was so hard about keeping conversation with two men?

But, that wasn't what he meant.

"Look up at us, baby girl."

You thought nothing of hanging out with the two rock stars after the fashion show, their lingering touches on your body almost drawing you into them as they walked with you to their limousine with the tinted-out windows. The minute the doors closed, though, their hands returned to your body, not even caring about the driver as they whispered all the things they wanted to do to you, especially together. You spent one part of the car ride on Mingi's lap, meeting his lips in a heated kiss while San bit your neck, leaving marks behind while his hands felt around your body before you switched to his lap, Mingi's lips now busy kissing your open back while San's tongue locked with yours in a heated kiss. They were skilled at riling you up, as if they'd done it before. You wouldn't put it past them, though.

But, now that they had you in their private suite in their hotel on your knees before them on the bed, you felt even more excited. Mingi licked his lips, turning to face San before he nodded his head, moving to get on the bed in front of you. He tilted his head as you turned around to watch San as he sat down in the chair facing the bed, making you feel confused. However, your view of him was pulled away as Mingi made you face him, his thumb moving along your bottom lip as he shook his head. "Don't look at San, babygirl. You have to worry about me first."

You nodded as your lips met Mingi's, the kiss picking up speed as San cursed from his chair, his hand moving to his pants. You couldn't help but kiss Mingi harder at the sound of that plus San unbuckling his pants. Mingi smirked, pulling back as his hands grabbed your wrists, placing your hands onto his own belt as he faced San with a proud smirk. "Seems like our little model likes hearing you, Sannie. I think she's getting excited."

"Oh, I think so Mingi" San rested his head back on the chair with a lazy smile, his hands now palming himself over his boxers as he watched you unbuckle Mingi's pants, your hands tugging away at it. You weren't even listening anymore as you leaned down to kiss and bite on Mingi's thighs as he pushed down his pants, making him hiss before his hand moved into your hair, making you look at him. Mingi didn't say anything, his eyes however showed how he felt though, darkening as he pushed down his boxers to reveal his hard cock. Mingi's hand moved from your hair to your lips, playing around with your lips till he spread them open, spitting into your mouth before humming.

"You're so pretty, babygirl. I can see why you're a model" Your eyes fell to Mingi's lip as he spoke, whimpering softly as he kissed you, both of your tongues meeting as you moaned, making Mingi moan as well. You whined as he pulled back, wanting more of his kisses. Mingi shook his head though, sitting back up as his fist wrapped around his cock, holding it to your lips. You knew what to do, about to dip your head down to taste his hard cock when Mingi's grip on your hair returned, stopping you. Instead, Mingi stood up from the bed, pulling you to the edge before he said "Make sure you get nice and loud for us, baby girl. Show me and San how good you can suck cock, and if you do good, we'll reward you."

You nodded, opening your mouth as Mingi fed his thick cock into your mouth slowly, both of you moaning at the feeling. Mingi felt so heavy, making you feel excited: you were no virgin, but none of the guys you had been with compared to how good Mingi's cock felt, even if it was just in your mouth.

"That's it baby, suck it." Mingi's voice had dropped even deeper, closing his eyes as you moved your tongue around his cock, bobbing your head at the same time, making him moan louder. "You're doing so, so good for me. That's right, take it deeper"

"Look at you, baby" You had been so focused on sucking Mingi and hearing his moans that you had almost forgotten about San, your eyes landing on him as he spoke to you, his cock leaking now as he had stripped himself. You moaned at the sight, the vibrations making Mingi moan loudly before he reached over to smack your ass, cursing that you were doing so fucking good. San chuckled at the sight of you staring up at him while Mingi was now fucking your throat, stretching you out with his cock.

"You must be so good at sucking dick, baby. I mean, you got Mingi short-circuiting and fucking your throat like you're a fleshlight," San laughed, Mingi's cheeks heating up a bit at his friend's teasing, but his pace didn't slow down. Instead, he picked up speed, making you choke. At the sound of you gargling around his cock, both boys moaned before Mingi pulled out to let you catch your breath. However, your break wasn't long before San rolled you over onto your back, straddling your chest as Mingi moved in between your legs.

"Don't look so nervous, baby" San cooed, his hands massaging your breasts as Mingi spread your legs, making you shiver. Suddenly, you closed your eyes and tossed your head back as you felt Mingi's tongue run slowly up your pussy before he moaned around your clit, pulling back to moan "Fuck, San, she's so wet for us. She's so excited."

"You're excited, huh?" San asked, gripping your hair to pull you back up to meet his eyes while Mingi got to work on eating you out, slurping away as his tongue tasted you. You nodded, moaning at Mingi's movements while San cooed again "I bet you are, our little filthy slut. You're a freak, just like us, huh? You acted all innocent when we proposed taking us both like this in the car, but now look at you." San licked his lips as he tightened his grip on your hair, pushing his cock into your mouth as Mingi continued to eat you out, pushing his finger into you.

"Mingi's finger and tongue is going to match the pace you set, baby" San hissed, leaning back with his free hand to place it onto Mingi's shoulder. Mingi looked up from your pussy, his eyes staring into yours as you began to bob your head on San's cock, moaning when his tongue began to match your pace: anytime you sped up, he sped up, and whenever you slowed down, he did the same.

San moaned above you, enjoying the show as he kept a firm grip on your hair and a grip on Mingi's shoulder. "Look at her, Mingi, look at how fucking dirty she is for us. Fuck, I can't wait to fuck that pussy" San had now tossed his head back at this point, knowing that if he watched anymore, he'd cum on the spot. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing his cock down into your throat as deep as he could as you moaned loudly around it, Mingi's tongue mirroring San's cock by shoving his tongue as deep as he could into your pussy. Mingi rolled his eyes back, moaning as your pussy squelched around his tongue, curling his tip to nudge your sweet spot, making your legs shake a bit around him.

San couldn't think about anything else, his hand moving back to grip his pink-haired friend's hair, shoving him deeper into your pussy as you gurgled around his cock, your eyes rolling back as San sped up his pace, watching the drool leak from the side of your lips, now mixing with his cum as he came in your mouth, your legs wrapping around Mingi's head as you came as well.

Mingi cleaned you up happily while San slowly pulled out from your mouth, cooing as you swallowed his cum. Mingi slowly kissed up your body, his hands moving to massage your cheeks as San sat next to you. You felt like you were in a daze, laying your head next to San's knee while Mingi slowly got off the bed. San leaned down to kiss you, praising you for being able to take his cock so well against your lips. You smiled at his praise, moaning his name in the kiss before sitting up.

You sighed as you got off the bed, looking for your clothes while San got off the bed as well. You didn't bother to look at the two men, assuming that they were getting dressed as well. "What do you think you're doing?"

You paused picking up your dress off the ground at Mingi's voice, turning to see him standing by the large windows, his arms behind his back, his cock twitching between his legs as he raised an eyebrow. You bit your lip, noticing how San has returned to his chair, his hand now palming his soft cock. "I thought..."

"You thought wrong, baby." Mingi smirked, tapping the window before he said "I don't know what made you think that, but I still need to cum, especially in that fucking perfect pussy of yours." Mingi walked over to you as he spoke, his hand landing on the small of your back before he pulled you close, his lips pressing against yours as he pulled your clothes from your hand. You were once again at his mercy as he led you to the windows, his hands moving around your curves before he had you face the window. You met his eyes in the reflection, his chest now pressed against your back as his cock moved in between your soft thighs, a proud mumble coming out of his lips as he smacked your ass.

"Don't tease her so much, Mingi. She can barely even stand up" San piped up making Mingi chuckle. He nodded though, pressing a kiss to your cheek before he pushed into your pussy, chuckling when your hands rushed to the window. "There's nothing for you to grab on there, baby" Mingi laughed, his pace speeding up to become one of power as he watched your body jolt forward at every thrust, your sinful moans becoming music to both men's ears.

"Is our baby having trouble thinking and telling us what she wants?" San asked, standing up from his chair to approach where Mingi had you, his hands moving to play with your nipples, tugging on it. He chuckled as you moaned loudly, looking at Mingi as your back arched. "She's so fucked out already, maybe she can't handle more, Mingi"

"No, I can" You protested loudly, Mingi's hand landing a hard spank on your ass while moaning out "Yeah, she can handle more, fuck." You had closed your eyes at this point, your legs almost giving out due to the pleasure.

Mingi chuckled at the sight, pulling out from your pussy as you whined, grabbing your arms to pull you to the coffee table that sat in front of the couch that was in the corner of the suite, pressing your chest down against the cool table as he shoved his cock back into your pussy, both men moaning loudly as your pussy loudly squelched around him. "Your pussy welcomes me back in so loudly, baby. It wants my cock, baby, sucking it in so fucking well."

You nodded, San moving to crouch in front of you, smirking at your already fucked out face.

"I think she needs more, Mingi."

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

"God you're so fucking greedy."

You could no longer tell who was who as you laid against his hard chest, the other one still fucking deep into your pussy. You and the two men had been all around the room, your body and cum on many different surfaces, making you feel bad for whoever had to clean this room when they checked out.

San was laying against the floor, your body on top of his as Mingi fucked you from behind. You bit your lip as Mingi landed another spank on your ass, spreading apart your cheeks so he could go even deeper into you, his rings leaving imprints on you as you moaned loudly. You were out of your mind at this point, San chuckling at the sight before he said "You're so fucked out, you can't even tell who is who, can't you? You don't know whose cock you're backing up against and whose chest you're drooling onto. You just wanna keep coming until you pass out, don't you?"

"She tightened around me when you said that, San" Mingi moaned, your cheeks heating up as San cooed at you, landing his own smack to your ass as he moaned out "She's a freak, just like us. We should keep her on speed dial and fly her out to us whenever we want. We could buy you some pretty lingerie and make you model it for us. We could even invite the rest of our band members to come watch"

Mingi had lost his own mind a while ago, but at San's words, he felt his cock twitch at the idea, leaning forward to bite down on your shoulder, drilling into your pussy as you moaned even louder, San gripping your face to make you look at him while he continued speaking. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? You don't care how wrong this is, don't you, you like this. Maybe I'll even buy you a pretty custom butt plug and send it to you, make you stretch yourself out so that we both can fuck you at the same time."

"I'm gonnna...I" You gasped out, cuming hard around Mingi's cock as he filled you up, both of your releases coating his cock and leaking from your cunt as he kissed your back, rubbing your sides. You were completely spent, landing on San's hard chest as he ran his hands through your hair, cooing at you.

"You did so well, babygirl. Here, I'll clean you up." San waited till Mingi moved off your back before picking you up, carrying you to the bathroom (where they had fucked you an hour before), placing you onto the toilet before turning the shower on. "Go ahead and use the bathroom, then I'll shower with you."

After the shower, San carried you back into the bedroom, placing you down on the bed as Mingi had put down new sheets. As you lay down in the warm sheets, Mingi and San went to clean up themselves, letting you fall asleep in the bed. You only woke up when you felt Mingi hug you from behind, San slipping in front of you to offer you a smile before placing a kiss onto your lips, Mingi waiting till San stopped before moving your head back to kiss him as well.

The next morning when you woke up, you were no longer sandwiched between the two men, but you were alone. You sat up, running your hand through your hair as you tried to figure out if it was a dream or not. You sighed as you fell back against the bed, grabbing your phone to see a text from your manager letting you know that checkout was in two hours and to start getting ready to fly back to the States soon.

You hummed, giving yourself a few minutes before you stood up from the bed, walking over to your suitcase. However, before you could go shower, you heard a knock at the door, followed by room service being wheeled into your room. The table was full of various fruits and breakfast, a beautiful bouquet of flowers in the center. When you picked up the flowers, you noticed a small card, the words on it making you smile.

'See you soon, baby. We'll be waiting for you ;) P.S: Hope your legs don't hurt too badly. M + S'

EXTRA

"Raise your hips, princess. Show me where you want my cock to go" You bit your lip as you raised your hips, your wetness leaking from your pussy, making Mingi moan. He considered himself addicted to your pussy, constantly wanting nothing more than to shove his hard cock into it and just ruin you. Heck, Mingi had even flown you out over the past couple months to whereever they were performing at to just do that as 'the pictures weren't enough for him.' Not that you were complaining.

You cursed softly as Mingi pushed his cock into you, his lips meeting yours as he picked you up to have your sit on his lap as he fucked up into you, his lips locked with yours.

"I knew I'd find her in here with you" San sighed, walking into the room as you turned from Mingi's lips, offering him a smile as Mingi continued to fuck up into you as he groaned out "you're just mad that you didn't get to her first, man. You had some of her on the plane, anyways. This is my first round with her"

San hummed as he kissed you, his hand moving to play with your breasts as you began to ride Mingi's cock, making him moan louder. "I wasn't complaining, just make sure you don't ruin her too much: I wanna take her outside and fuck her in the pool."

San and Mingi had flown you out to the Bahamas for your birthday, renting a private villa so that no one could see nor hear the three of you as you all went about your ''activities" together.

You bit your lip as you placed your hands onto Mingi's chest to ride him better, San's hands moving to grip your hips to help you as you tossed your head back onto his shoulder, kissing below his jaw as Mingi moaned at the sight. "Fuck, you're going to make me cum already. You learned so quickly how to ride my cock, princess."

"Well," San smirked, meeting your lips in a deep kiss, making out with you as your ground your hips down against Mingi's, San pulling back to make you look at Mingi, gripping your face as he said "She had some really good teachers. Isn't that right, Y/N? All you care about is riding our cocks and making us feel good, don't you?"

Mingi moaned loudly as you nodded, San's smirk growing before he whispered into your ear "then go ahead and make Mingi cum, baby. Then, you're going to sit on his face and we're going to teach you how to take care of both of our cocks at the same time. We've got all week, baby to go all around this villa, and we're not stopping."

Bambikisss | 2024

995 notes · View notes

infimace-blog · 1 year ago

Text

Thinking about rap as a technical artform and rap as a cultural artform, with respect to Tumblr's incompetence at dealing with either. Tumblr can just barely grasp the former because, like all forms of Black music, it's been repackaged in various ways that are more palatable to to white audiences. I talked last month about how what Tumblr was calling rap while trying to defend its taste in music is more akin to filk songs, but I should admit, sometimes Tumblr cites people who actually rap. It doesn't fix the problem or absolve them of their bullshit, but it is true.

The failure then becomes an inability to recognize or care about how rap functions culturally.

People on Tumblr will take Dungeon Meshi and intricately pick apart how a single chapter connects back to real-world neurodivergence issues and the cultural differences between the West and the East when it comes to handling them, and then look at any given rap song and assume it's skin-deep. Unless it's Hamilton back in the late 2010s, before we all decided it was cringe, in which case they'll gladly dig into the history of the early USA and, like the play itself, sidestep the racism whenever possible.

Take Weird Al, one of the many names that's been thrown around in Kendrick and Drake's wake. Weird Al is technically a rapper. He has done rap. We cannot ignore that as a factual statement. He's not even that bad as a rapper. But he has no engagement with rap as a cultural object; he engages with the artform as a parodist. "Amish Paradise", probably Weird Al's most popular rap parody, doesn't say anything; it's here to riff on a religious minority. But you dig into it just a little and you can see the kind of complexity that Tumblr usually loves to talk about. The song is, after all, a parody of Coolio's Grammy-winning "Gangster's Paradise", which is literally about being a black man in an environment dominated by organized crime and fearing the constant threat of death in that life, but was also created specifically for the movie Dangerous Minds, a middling white savior movie about Michelle Pfeiffer teaching a bunch of bad stereotypes of what people think inner city non-white students are. A movie that was, in turn, based on a white woman's memoirs about teaching in a bad school near San Francisco. You've got this interplay between a white woman's real-life efforts to teach her black and Latino students (I can't speak to how effective she was, mind you), a fictionalized version of that same woman being shown as the sole guiding light for her underdeveloped gangbanging students - and a white actress's crappy Kipling-ass 5/10 film getting Coolio his Grammy. It was tailor-made to be Coolio's big hit with white audiences, getting the push of Michelle Pfeiffer, having slow and deliberate rapping, and lacking the swearing in most of Coolio's oeuvre (Stevie Wonder mandated no swearing in return for letting Coolio sample his music). And, though I suspect this was unintentional, the song plays into the same narrative that the movie does, how this rapper is doomed to his life because "nobody's there to teach [him]", with dramatic choir and strings underscoring the dire fate that awaits this rapper if some charitable white person doesn't help him - the same dramatic choir and strings that Weird Al uses for comedic effect by comparing it to Amish farmwork.

I put that last paragraph together with two or three hours of Wikipedia, and you can do the same kind of analysis with a lot of hit rap songs (and Genius is right there if you need a helping hand - I wouldn't have understood much of Kendrick's Euphoria without it), and I think this drives a lot of my frustration? Tumblr loves to see something cool and then take a few days to write an in-depth post about how cool it is under the surface. So the lack of this when it comes to rap does show a deep disinterest in thinking about it when it isn't fun. And there's so much cool shit to learn about rap. Did you know that Baby Got Back was inspired by the anti-black fatphobia Sir Mixalot's model girlfriend was dealing with in her industry, and was pushing back against the media's general preference for skinny white women? Did you know that there's a Turkish hip-hop scene specifically in Germany because, as a minority that was brought to the country for cheap labor and then forced to exist as second-class citizens, they ended up relating a lot to the music? Just. Dig a bit. There's so much.

#rap #hip-hop #machine thoughts.txt

617 notes · View notes

dumpywrites · 6 months ago

Text

Nomenclature - Kim Taehyung / V

Prompt: “Tell me your name.” “No.”

Prompt request: HERE

Genre/tags: Fluff, strangers to lovers, simp! Taehyung, christmas cliche, some mentions of Yeontan passing (RIP Yeontan 🪽)

Pairing: Taehyung x she/her reader

Word count: 5.3k

a/n: I was again inspired by their song, winter ahead's music video is just truly beautiful :') Happy holidays everyone!

“Tell me your name.”

“No.”

“But, why???”

You rolled your eyes, simply walked past the guy who had been pestering you for weeks now.

Allegedly, his name was Kim Taehyung. Ever since he moved to the town and bumped into you that one time at an art exhibition, this was all he ever did. You found out he was a sculptor, and that a few of his pieces were in fact shown that time. No one was supposed to know about this information because he was using an alias called “Vante”, but your friend Namjoon who was the art curator was a bit nosey. That was also probably how this Taehyung guy found out about your workplace.

To be quite honest, you didn’t know why someone like him would want to move in a small town. He had looks, money, and supposedly fame too. He looked more like a Los Angeles or Paris kind of person. With those wavy black hair, perfect sculpted by the gods face, you would assume he was a model. But instead here he was, disturbing your cleanup duty.

“Namjoon said that you’re the same age as me.”

“Namjoon needs to shut the fuck up sometimes.”

“Wow, easy.” He chuckled, slumping down on the table. “I never ask him for your name though. I want to achieve it myself!”

You looked around your donut shop and sighed. You still needed to clean the tables and it was already half an hour past closing time.

“I’ll help.” He stood up with a boxy grin, pointing his finger up.

“You can help me by going home.” You rolled your eyes.

“Come on… I have no friends here.” He whined.

“Namjoon is your friend, no?”

“He’s barely in town.”

“I’m sure you can make friends elsewhere.” You said as you wiped the counter.

He hummed, puffing his cheeks. “Why don’t you hire me? I can work part time. I’m mostly free! It seems like a lot of work just by yourself here…”

“It’s only busy on holidays, usually I can manage it very well. And I do have a staff with me, he’s just currently not here since his dad is sick.”

He chewed the inner part of his cheeks, seemingly in thoughts again. He didn’t say anything but you saw him started cleaning the mess from the tables and throwing them to the trash.

“So, how long have you been running this place?”

“It’ll be two full years this December.” You said, your voice slowly going far as you moved to the kitchen.

The man quickly followed you, clearly still wanted the conversation to keep going. You didn’t even bother to tell him away at this point. Maybe the company wasn’t so bad.

“That’s cool.” He nodded, looking around the kitchen. “Have you always loved baking?”

“What is this, an interview?” You glared.

“Maybe?” He giggled.

“As a kid I used to want to study fashion and tailoring, but money was tight and I ended up just going for a normal and boring degree which is, accountancy.”

He voiced an “ah” and nodded. “If you have the chance, would you still do it? Pursuing fashion and all…”

“I don’t know.” You sighed, hands full with the dishes. “The shop needs me. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“She?” He looked at you in amuse.

“Yeah, it’s a she.” You held down a chuckle.

He quietly helped you dry the plates and put them on the rack.

Finally finished with the chores, you turned off the lights and grabbed your jacket. As you moved to the door, the man just followed you around like a puppy.

“See ya, Taehyung.” You waved blankly and turned away, walking to the opposite direction.

“Wait!” He called, making you stop in tracks. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“My home is just a ten minute walk.”

“Then I’ll walk you!” He smiled happily.

“I’m not giving away my address to you.” You folded your arms.

“Uh… text me when you get back home then?”

“I do not have your number.”

“That’s why we need to change that now.”

“It’s fine.” You turned your back again, the disappointed expression in his face went unseen to you. “Thank you for the offer though.”

He sighed with a smile, but waved his goodbyes to you anyway. There was always a next day, he thought.

You didn’t see him again until the next three days. This time he dropped by for a coffee, that you had recently noticed was bought for the sake of buying something, and a chocolate donut along with it. It seemed like this time instead of bugging you, he just sat there, sketching on his small sketch book, looking like he was shooting an advertisement for your cafe.

He never greeted you nor had he said anything to you and he had been sitting there for four hours now. Your staff had offered to talk to him, but it just did not feel right to disturb him while looked so passionate. The shop wasn’t too busy at the moment anyway.

“You sure he’s not a creep?” Jungkook, your staff said to you in a whisper.

“Can’t exactly say he’s not one, but he’s harmless.” You told him.

“He hasn’t touched his coffee.”

“I don’t think he even likes coffee.”

“Then why even order one?! What a weirdo…” Jungkook looked at the guy with side eye.

You heard the entrance door opened and saw a costumer. “Kook, handle the register for me, I’ll talk to the guy.”

Jungkook nodded and you went inside the kitchen. Grabbing an empty cup, you filled it with water before heading to the man sitting prettily at the corner.

Taehyung was quick to put down his pencil and book as soon as he saw you placing down a glass of water. “Oh, hello!” He gave you a warm smile.

“You need to drink something.” You told him, pointing at the water with your eyes.

“Thanks, I already have the coffee though…”

“You haven’t even taken a single sip from it, Taehyung.” You folded your arms, leaning slightly at the table. “Why order one when you don’t like it?”

His eyes beamed. “You noticed???”

“You’ve been here for hours and the cup’s still full.”

“Sorry,” He chuckled and then took a full sip from the glass of water. “I wanted to look cool.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t like coffee either. Not by choice cause I have acid reflux.” You told him.

“We’re bonding already, I see… miss, uh…?” He eyed you.

“Nice try.” You turned, walking away from him. You hoped he didn’t see the corners of your lips curled up ever so slightly.

In the next few days he continued to visit your cafe to seemingly work on his sketch, but he did not get any coffee anymore. Instead, he now ordered some lemon tea alongside the chocolate donut.

Usually, your shop would be closed on Sundays. You needed some time for yourself in order to prioritize your mental and physical health. But with the Christmas and New Year just around the corner, the place had been extra busy so you decided to open half day on Sundays just until the holiday season was over.

That was why Taehyung looked so excited when he walked past the cafe and saw the lights on.

“Welcome to Adore, what— oh.” You dropped your greetings as soon as your eyes met.

“You’re open on Sundays now?”

“Only during the holidays.” You simply said. “What can I get you?”

“Cherry jam filled donut?” He asked, pointing at the glass display.

“Yup. It’s a holiday special.”

“Interesting.” He hummed. “I’ll get one.”

“Alright. Anything else?”

“Nope. Please do print the bill with the cashier name on it this time…”

“You’re never gonna give it up, huh?”

“You’re so dramatic. We’re basically friends at this point, why can’t I have your name?” He chuckled.

You shook your head in disbelief. “If there’s nothing else, that would be two—“

“Boba-eyed boy isn’t here today?” He asked while looking around.

“Jungkook’s shift doesn’t include Sundays.” You sighed. “Can we please proceed? There’s a line behind you.”

“Right, sorry…” He grinned awkwardly and paid the order. He waved you goodbye in a goofy way before exiting through the door.

A lady who was a returning costumer was next in line. She smiled at you and spoke, “I’ve never seen him around before.”

“He just moved here around a month or so.” You told her. “What can I get you today?”

“Oh, the usual would be great, darling.” She smiled and you quickly typed matcha latte into the order. “I’d like the holiday hamper too, they look adorable.”

You immediately went to get the donut set. “I know, right?” You smiled at her.

You quickly typed and tally her order. After she was done with the payment, she spoke up again. “That boy seems nice… and seems into you.” She snickered.

“Please don’t mind him.” You smiled at her and sighed. “He just has a lot of time in his hands.”

“Don’t be so negative, sweetheart. It’s almost Christmas.”

She smiled before waving you goodbye, as you did the same to her.

After the half day, you decided to spend your free time at the mall, window shopping and some actual light shopping too since you were looking for small gifts to give to your friends. On the way home, you were surprised to see Taehyung in front of your shop. He was tiptoeing in cold, hands in his pocket, trying to take a peek inside the closed store.

“You’re here!” He waved cheerfully. “I didn’t know you closed early?”

“I only open until three on Sundays.” You said, feeling a little nervous seeing him outside work. “Did you wait for me…?”

“I want to give you this!” He quickly handed you a piece of paper, what appeared to be a ticket. “There’s a small art pop up at the town park next week. I have some of my works there and I was wondering if you want to come and see them with me?” He looked at you with hopeful eyes.

You looked at the ticket and at him back and forth. A small art exhibition wouldn’t hurt anybody. The lady’s words somehow flashed through your mind. Maybe you needed to loosen it up a bit with the negativity.

“It won’t clash with your work! It’s on Sun—“

“Sure.”

“Aww, man… I was hoping— wait, did you just say yes???” He widened his eyes at you. It was funny how he was already expecting you to reject him.

“I mean, I’ll probably go either way so…” You shrugged. “I’m surprised Namjoon hasn’t told me anything about it.”

“I told him not to.” He smirked.

“Well, that explains it.” You broke into a small smile.

“Wow.” He gasped. “I just made you smile.”

Your expression dropped when you realized. “You’re crazy.”

He giggled, appeared to be very happy with himself. “Wanna take a stroll?”

Both of you ended up sitting down on a random bench across the river. The cold winter air was making you shiver and Taehyung being Taehyung, he quickly removed his coat and draped it across both of you. So now you were sitting shoulder to shoulder, under the moonlight.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, the cherry donut tasted great! You should keep it on the menu.” He showed you his thumbs up.

“Really? I wasn’t so sure with the jam since I made them from scratch…” You thought. “It’s not overly sweet? I was worried the powdered sugar would be too much.”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Why?” He turned to look at you with a mischievous grin. “You don’t trust my opinion?”

“N-No! I’m just making sure…” You looked away.

Never knew looking at him in such close range would be this… nerve wracking. You never noticed his beautiful lashes, nor how unique his eyes were, one eye with monolid and the other had double.

You cleared your throat, backing away slightly. You wondered why it suddenly felt hot even though you were out in the cold winter weather.

“Is there a reason why I can’t know your name?” He suddenly asked.

You looked around, fidgeting the hem of your sweater. “You’re too positive, too eager… It scares me.”

You were smiling, but Taehyung didn’t like the way your expression looked. The smile looked like it was laced with sadness behind it.

“What made you decide to move here?” You asked, changing the topic suddenly.

He looked like he wanted to protest, but chose not to. “I can’t stand the big city. Always thought I was born to live that life, but turns out I hate the crowd.”

“Did you not have your alias before?”

“I used to star in movies.”

“Damn, didn’t know you’re THAT famous.” You pouted your lips, impressed.

“I’m no Ryan Gosling or anything, my thing was only on small movies or series.” He chuckled.

“Wait, so you quit just like that???”

“My company kept pushing me on projects that don’t represent me. I was so fed up of putting on a facade in front of everyone, including behind cameras when meeting people in parties and whatnot…” He sighed. “And with my dog passing away recently, I thought a fresh start might be good for me. Cutting off all the toxic branches, you know?”

“I’m so sorry for your loss…” You couldn’t help but to feel sad hearing his story.

“It’s okay. He’s been sick for so long, so he’s happier now somewhere.” He smiled. “Do you wanna see his pictures?”

You widened your eyes in surprise. “I can?”

“Sure. Just a sec…”

He took out his phone and showed you a few photos from a dedicated album. Your heart melted upon seeing the images of the adorable Pomeranian. There was a few photos showing the dog wearing costumes, some he took with his friends, and even some selfies of him with the late dog.

“His name was Yeontan.” He said, fingers still scrolling through the phone, letting you see more pictures.

“I’m sure he was a good boy…” You gave him a smile.

“The best.” He smiled back, almost teary eyed.

Maybe it was the festivities around you, making your heart softened, but you finally agreed to him walking you back home. It was almost awkward to say goodbye as deep down you wanted to hug him. Not only as a farewell, but you wanted to comfort him after hearing his story. You were fighting with your inner morals and self respect, then ended up with a simple fist bump. To be fair, that was more you coded anyway.

He was very sweet, waiting in front of your house, making sure you entered the door before leaving. You had to shoo him away through the window to make him leave. The sound of his laughter as he waved at you, sounded like a soft Christmas song.

You did not get to see him until the day before the exhibition. You and Jungkook were busy cleaning up the place, and you could hear your staff’s growl when the sound of the door bell could be heard, thinking it was a costumer coming on closing time.

“Oh, it’s the creep.”

“Hello, boba boy.” Taehyung greeted playfully at the guy.

“I do not like this guy.” Jungkook pointed to him and looked at you.

You gave Tae a small smile before patting Jungkook’s shoulder. “I don’t either.” You chuckled.

“Oh, yeah sure!” The younger guy protested, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll be done in ten minutes.” You looked at the guy who was waiting next to the door.

“Take your time.” He smiled at you, but earned another glare from the staff boy.

After you were done and Jungkook went home, subsequent to giving the waiting man a few death stares. You heard Taehyung huffing and puffing, hands inside his pocket, while you were locking your entrance door.

“What do you wanna talk about?” You asked him.

“The exhibition is tomorrow…”

“I know.” You giggled. “And?”

“Hey, I don’t have your phone number to just text this thing, okay?” He said in defense, making you laugh. “I have something to give you though…”

“Oh? You don’t have to!”

You backed away one step from him but that did not stop him from taking out something from his pants pocket. He took out a small maroon colored jewelry box, and your heart was racing out because, to random people this might look like he wanted to propose to you.

He opened the box and showed it to you. A beautiful silver-plated Vivienne Westwood necklace was inside of it, you could notice it right away with the iconic Saturn orb.

“Taehyung, I can’t accept this! I don’t even have anything to give you…”

“I just think it’d look great with formal looks, for the exhibition and all…” He looked away shyly. “Just take it, please.”

Your hands were slightly trembling as you reached out for the box. “Thank you. It’s really beautiful.”

“Uh huh.” He grinned, rocking back and forth playfully. “So uh… can I finally have your phone number? I kinda need to know when to pick you up…” He looked at you with hopeful looks.

“Sure.” You chuckled.

“Yes!” He threw his fist up, before quickly recollecting himself and cleared his throat. “Uh, here…” He handed you his phone.

As you typed your number in, he suddenly stopped you.

“Don’t type your name in!”

You looked at him with crooked head, wondering if he had lost his mind. The fact you were about to do it too.

“Just tell me tomorrow, if you want to.” He grinned.

“Okay…?” You chuckled and handed him back the phone. “What’s this all about?”

“Where’s the fun if I tell you.” You could see his cheeks turning a rosy color despite the low light.

“Suspicious.” You eyed him, couldn’t help a smile. “But I’m intrigued.”

He flashed you his usual boxy grin, hands inside the pocket as he blew a cold smoke. “I’ll take you home?”

You might not realized it, but Taehyung had slowly but surely began to tear down the barrier you built one by one. Whether it was the constant affection, random jokes, or the small details that he would always noticed, whatever it was, his presence made you felt safe.

Came next day, you had texted Taehyung when to pick you up at your home after work. The struggle and anxiety of choosing the right outfit really joined late. The whole day you thought you had figured it out, but when you finished putting it all together, you started overthinking. Does Taehyung like woman in skirts? Does he prefer woman with hair up or down? Would it be too much if you wear a little bit of makeup?

The choices landed on a simple black mini dress with a white shirt under it. It was the most formal-but-not-try-hard-but-also-still-cute kinda outfit you had. Your red plaid patterned pumps matched the whole theme of the Vivienne necklace that was gifted to you days prior.

As you take a look at your reflection in the mirror, your phone rang. Expecting it to be Taehyung, you looked up the caller name revealing your friend Namjoon instead.

“Hello?”

“You’re coming to the exhibition, right?”

“I am. Why?”

“Tae’s picking you up?”

“Yeah, I think he’ll be here in fifteen.”

“I’m assuming things are well between you and him?” There was a hint of sneaky teasing in his tone of voice.

“Didn’t know you were trying to make something happen between us.” You said as you looked at the mirror, applying lipgloss.

“Wasn’t suppose to, I don’t think that was his initial intention either.” The guy chuckled from the other line. “But I don’t know man… I just think it’s good to see you with someone again, no? You’ve been through so much and I think Taehyung is a good person.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, we don’t even know if he’s even thinking that way.”

“Well, I know.” He emphasized. “Dude wouldn’t even make a move without my permission.”

You broke into a smile. “I didn’t know you’re that protective of me.”

“Hey, ever since what happened with that sick bastard, you had been shutting yourself down. You kept yourself busy with work, you don’t even socialize that much anymore…” He sighed. “And I know you are scared. I know you’re afraid of people that show you so much interest so fast, people who are all sunshine and happiness. But don’t you think it’s about time you try to trust again?”

“I don’t know Joon… to be honest with you, I feel safe with him. He seems like he has the purest intention, and even if he doesn’t even think about this romantically, I still want a friend like him. But…” You paused. “That’s why it’s even scarier. He’s broken all the walls I’ve built. If he hurt me, I’ll be back to ground zero again.”

“It’s always worth the risk.” Your friend said sternly, assuring you. “And don’t worry, I’ll personally punch him in his goddamn top five most handsome men face if he ever tries to hurt you.”

You laughed. “Thank you, Joon.”

“Go get dolled up. I want jaws on the floor when you arrive.”

“That’s not gonna happen, but whatever.” You laughed again. “See ya.”

“See you, lover girl.”

You had your fair share of Christmas movies. You were also never much of a romantic person yourself, so the Christmas movies dreamy golden retriever boy coming to sweep you off your feet cliche was never your cup of tea. But never say never, people said.

The sleek back hair, the preppy white button up, the black suit. Who were you kidding, did this person steal his outfit from a movie set or something? You were sure you were getting picked up by a friend, not the prince himself.

“Hi.” He said, a bit breathless.

“Hi there.” You said bashfully. “You look great.”

“Don’t steal my line.” He laughed, pulling his collar slightly. “Oh shit, I forgot.”

“What is it?”

You saw the man quickly ran to his car and picked up something from the back seat.

Lord saves us all. He came back with a bouquet.

“Oh my god.” You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You can’t keep doing this!”

“It’s too much, is it?” He eyed you with a smirk.

“I like them though.” You smiled as he handed you the flowers. “Although I must admit, red rose is a bit overrated.”

“It matches your shoes though.” He pointed out.

“I guess you’re right.” You giggled. “Wait just a sec, I’ll vase them.” You came back a few minutes later after quickly finding a jar for the roses. “Ready?”

“After you.” He playfully said.

You had the opportunity to bond over music taste through the car ride. You shared your playlist and so did he. You tried your best to not sneak in looks but you caught him doing the same thing a few times, in which both of you just laughed it off.

“Wow, she’s finally out and about, folks!” Namjoon greeted you as soon as both of you were in sight.

“I do go out sometimes, you’re exaggerating.” You slapped your friend’s arm jokingly.

“Buying groceries doesn’t count.”

You rolled your eyes. “Let’s just leave this guy.”

Taehyung laughed. “Wasn’t planning on letting him trail us anyway.”

“You guys are disgusting. I am busy too, excuse you.” Namjoon shook his head playfully. “Enjoy the show, don’t forget to see the main piece!” He eyed Taehyung, wiggling his eyebrows.

“We get it. Now shoo.” Taehyung gestured with his hand at the tall guy. Namjoon laughed once again before leaving the two of you. “Shall we?” He asked, gesturing his arm in hopes you would link yours over.

You nodded and happily obliged.

He cleared his throat as both of you start walking. “I’m supposed to be your tour guide and I rehearsed my whole opening speech, but now I’m nervous as hell with you being this close to me.”

Your cheeks flushed and you giggled. “It’s okay, let’s just both be visitors today.”

“Alright…” He breathed out. “You can ask questions if you’d like. Not everything here is mine but I know a thing or two about them too.”

Soon your eyes landed on a grayscale painting with random splashes of shapes decorating it. You let go your hand from his arm, stepping closer to the artwork, admiring it from close range. The amount of small details made up for the lack of vibrant colors, the visible brush strokes and different textures made it look very unreal to you.

“Caught your eye?”

“It must took a lot of time and effort doing all the different textures and details.”

“Yeah, it took me months. Made this while thinking about the last time I fell in love.” He smiled at you.

You were taken aback. Your eyes went down to the small signature done by the man himself. “One would’ve think being in love involves more bright colors…”

“It was more complicated than that.” He stepped closer and stood next to you, eyes on the painting as well. “There was a mix of emotions in there. Happiness, sadness, the in betweens… But all of that memories belong to my past, hence the gray palette.”

You were debating if you should ask more about the said past.

“You could ask, you know. If you’re curious…” He said, as if he could read your mind. “It’s okay, we ended on good terms. She just fell out of love. I guess I just bore her.”

“That’s awful. How could someone find you boring?”

You froze when you realized what you had just said.

The man chuckled as soon as he heard. “Thank you for the compliment.”

You turned away, blushing. “Let’s move on.” You walked ahead.

He followed your pace and walked aside you. “What about you? What’s your past like? If you don’t mind me asking…”

“I don’t really have that much experience.” You said with eyes still roaming the area. “Namjoon didn’t tell you anything?”

“He loves to gossip but he also cares about you very much, so no.”

You smiled and puffed a sigh. “It might not sound like that much of a big deal, but the last person I dated lovebombed me at the lowest point of my life. I was dealing with the loss of my grandma, moving back to this town to continue her bakery, and he came to me just like that only to leave me for another woman like I was nothing.”

“Hey, that is a big deal what are you even talking about.” He stopped and looked at you, seemingly a bit pissed too after hearing your story.

“I try not to let it get to me anymore, I guess.” You pulled the hem of his sleeves, signaling him to continue walking further. “It’s getting better now, thank you.”

“Thank you?” He eyed you.

“Yeah, thank you.” You smiled.

He chose not to question it and just continue the tour with a big grin decorating his face. The two of you continued the tour before Taehyung suddenly stopped you from making a turn to the last room to see.

“Uh, before you go I need to tell you something… I want you to know that this didn’t happen on purpose.” He plastered a nervous smile.

“What are you talking about?”

“The inspiration didn’t quite reach me until the very last few days… I was supposed to sculpt a whole different thing, but I ended up with a bust.”

“Oh? Then I can’t wait to see—“

“Wait,” He grabbed your wrist, stopping you. “I want to let you know that I made this because it’s all that’s been occupying my mind the past few weeks and I don’t mean it in a creepy way… in case you’re offended.” He chuckled nervously again.

“Why would I get offended?” You looked at him suspiciously.

He took a deep breath and breathed out heavily. “Let’s go see it.”

Once you were inside, the first thing that caught your eye was a huge bust sculpture facing back. There was somewhat of a drip effect coming from the neck downwards, huge mess of concrete pooling at the bottom, creating the illusion of an unfinished raw work. From the looks of it, the statue seemed to be of a woman, but you couldn’t judge for sure. As you stepped closer, circling to get a better view, Taehyung quietly followed you from behind.

You began to notice the ear, the side profile and how oddly familiar looking it was. Once you finally see the full front view, it all made sense to you.

The sculpture was in fact made to look like you. It had your eyes, nose, lips, everything. It was you, with your hair up like how you would during work hours.

“T-Tae… is this…”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at you with reddened cheeks. “What do you think?”

You were still in awe, speechless of seeing a literal art piece of yourself, most importantly, presented to the public eye. You weren’t sure if screaming or crying would be the appropriate way to react.

Seeing you stunned silent, Taehyung began to panic a little. “It’s creepy, isn’t it? I’m sorry…”

“No!” You quickly voiced out. “It’s just… I’m just loss of words. I can’t exactly believe what I see.”

“I can’t either.” He said, looking uneasy still. “It just happened out of nowhere. I only realized when I was already halfway done with your nose.”

“I…” You took a good look at the piece again, before continuing. “It’s really beautiful. I wasn’t even sure it’s me until I see the full view.”

“Well, that’s how you look in my eyes.” He giggled.

You blushed. Clearly you didn’t have any comeback ready in you for this.

“If you look closely, this piece doesn’t have a name yet.”

You looked down to see the name plate empty, as told. Then something just connected in your head. This cheeky smart bastard.

“Wanna name it?” He looked at you with a big contagious smile on his lips.

You nodded, mirroring the smile he had on. Instead of immediately saying your name, you stepped closer and hugged him, in which he instantly returned, resting his head on top of yours. In his embrace you looked up and finally told him your name.

The expression he had was mixture of joy and surprise. Both of you bursted into laughter in unison. For a moment, the world seemed to have stopped just for you. You even forgot the existence of other visitors wandering around. It was just you and him.

Taehyung took out something from his side pocket, a black marker, which he wiggled playfully in front of you. He looked left and right, making sure no one would notice, before he quickly wrote something on the golden plate.

“What if someone sees you?!” You whispered.

“Don’t worry, Namjoon already knows.”

He chuckled and took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers together as he led you through the exit. You didn’t get to see exactly what he wrote on the plate, safe to assume it was probably just your name.

Little did you know, Namjoon had reached the room, examining the new named sculpture, with the word “Love” now scribbled on top of its name plate. He couldn’t help but to be happy for his dear friends.

Thank you for reading! 🎨

#bts fanfic #bts fic #bts scenarios #taehyung imagine #taehyung scenarios #kim taehyung #bts v #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #taehyung fluff #bts christmas

247 notes · View notes

angstama · 2 months ago

Text

traitor | l.jn

pairing: lee jeno x f!reader (ft. mark lee)

genre: angst, pure heartache, slight fluff!

synopsis — when jeno asked you to make his bride’s dress, it was more than fabric and lace—it was a reckoning. you never thought you'd be asked to create the wedding dress for the man you once loved, not after everything that had happened between the two of you. five years have passed since jeno walked out of your life, and now, he stands before you again—asking for a favour that stirs old memories and emotions you've tried to bury.

a/n: I AM FINALLY BACK???? suddenly had the urge to finish this story that had been in my drafts for YEARS :")))))))) AND YES THERE WILL BE A PART 2!!! also damn it's been so long so pardon me for the bad english and errors if there are any :")

traitor m.list | traitor's playlist | next chapter (02)

lee jeno was the love of your life. and in some ways, you were sure that lee jeno is still the love of your life many years later despite the betrayal you've felt.

it was only five years after the end of your first love when his very name resurfaced in your world again. to begin with, it wasn't a very common name. you remembered the both of you had once agreed that his name is pretty much unheard of in the entire country so you were sure that it was the same lee jeno who promised you the moon and stars but left.

life after university had been on a high for you, or at least on the professional career aspects, it had soared and you finally made a name for yourself. you've achieved your dreams all by yourself and sometimes you can't help but to wonder if your relationship with jeno had continued, would you have come this far?

being highly sought after as a wedding dress designer, you take your pick of the pack of clients that comes to your little studio in hopes of getting the gown of their dreams tailored by you. your gowns knew no boundaries and that's what got you in the current situation you're in.

"next client is in for their fitting." mark calls for you, peeking his head into your office. you gave him a small nod, fingers needling through the delicate laces sprawled across the wooden tiled floor. "mark you know you can get this right?" you got up from the ground, dusting yourself off before heading for the door. mark knew your designs by heart as if it was his own. he's watched you many nights head deep into designing and sewing, admiring the dedication you have to the little details. he's just as good as a designer in your opinion, but that didn't matter because mark never believes in his own skills.

"I'm not ready, you know that." mark blushes, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment as he held the door open for you, unbeknownst to you who sat in the other room.

the room fell silent. as if you had just walked in on an intimate conversation not meant for the two of you to be heard. sitting on the cream coloured couch was lee jeno and the very girl he once told you not to worry about, arms locked with a certain glow that you can't really comprehend what it was shining from their face.

your eyes finally meet and jeno immediately stood up, his lover too. and as if second nature to you, you allowed your gaze to travel down to the dainty little diamond ring resting on her ring finger. "mr lee and miss song, this is y/n, our master designer." mark professionally introduces them to you, oblivious to the obvious tension in the room.

"y/n! we're such a huge fan of your creation!" she beamed excitedly. you swear any minute now, you could throw up. stomach feeling sick from the overwhelming wave of emotions running through your veins.

what a bitch.

"I-i'm sorry but my uh-" your words fumbled out, " uh my assistant made a mistake. I'm unable to take on any clients now." you bowed, taking a step back to retreat back into your office.

mark gave you a puzzled look, confused at the scene unfolding in front of his him. jeno follows behind you before mark could block his entrance. "y/n please." he hastily reaches out for you. the door shuts behind the two of you and you instantly melt under his warm touch. it was just like how you remembered it.

"no jeno." you pushed him away. "you cannot come in here." you pushed him again, causing him to stumble slightly. pacing back and forth with your arms crossed across your chest, you thought about all the times you wondered what you'd say to him if you saw him again. hurt and agony constantly crushing against your heart, a reminder of the pain that jeno had brought to you five years ago.

five years ago

"results are in!" jeno grabs your shoulder, excitedly shaking you awake from your deep slumber as you let out a soft groan, blinking profusely to adjust your sight at the glowing screen in front of you, eyes scanning through the first three words that comes into sight.

Seoul National University.

"oh my god!' your eyes widened, quickly sitting up and snatching the laptop away from jeno's grip. "it's here!" you read again. "I can't do this." jeno steps away, a pout forming on his lips.

the university acceptance was everything that jeno hoped for. all he needed was a chance at his dream college and everything would go according to plan. you'll both continue your studies in your respective courses, graduate together, marry each other and be rich together.

that was the plan.

you had spent an entire week crafting jeno's personal statement. a testament of your love for all of jeno including his character, successes and future goals. you knew that everyone would be lucky to have a jeno in their lives and so would the university.

so when the words of congratulations appeared on the screen, you couldn't help but to cry in his embrace for you knew he deserved this opportunity. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a student of Seoul National University!" jeno pulled you into a kiss. "you're gonna be a student of Seoul National University!" you cheered.

and god, you wished you could've said that everything went according to plan.

you really wished.

you should've read the signs.

it was the second semester of university year one when jeno brought up a girl named wheein. "so I guess I'm stuck with her for the remaining of the semester for this pair work." jeno shrugs, letting out a frustrated sigh. "maybe you'll find some fun working with her. don't judge before you try?" you hummed a response, gently combing jeno's bangs with your fingers, a simple action that jeno adored about you.

"maybe."

your relationship with jeno was built on mutual trust and respect. you've never questioned jeno's commitment for you knew that jeno would never cheat on you.

as months passed by, jeno had came by the idea of being friends with wheein. he found her funny. or so that's what he'd like to admit to himself because he was certain of his love for you.

and so, jeno held it out for you until he decided one day that he no longer felt the same way as he once did for you. it didn't take much for you to piece two and two together.

"did you fall out of love?" you whispered softly.

jeno lowered his gaze, refusing to look at you for he knew he had just broken your heart. "yes."

you watched the love of your life walked out of your life as he found his. and once again, you're left alone with nothing but a dreamy wedding gown you've designed for your special day hanging at the back of your closet.

words cannot describe the shame that jeno felt with his whole being. he too, spent a majority of his new relationship in the first year wondering what he would've said to you if he met you again.

clearly, life has a way of doing things and jeno never once saw you again in his life up till today. it doesn't mean that he's never kept up with what's going on in your life though.

when wheein told him about the little bridal designer that caught her heart, jeno knew that it was you. how could he not know? he chose the name after all.

"wildflower." jeno mumbled, snuggling comfortably into the crook of your neck while you're busy sketching the next new design for your latest idea. "hm? what did you say?" you asked, focus drawing you in to your sketch as you're determined to get your imagination out onto paper.

"wildflower!" jeno repeats again, this time with a firm gentle voice.

"what about it?" you hummed.

"the name of your bridal store someday." he answers, picking up the pieces of paper that you've discarded across the table in dissatisfaction. your designs were perfect in jeno's eyes, in fact he thinks it's too perfect to be sold for anyone else but yourself.

"why wildflower?" you paused, finally giving jeno the attention he yearned for in the last five minutes. "because that's what your creations remind me of." jeno grins before placing a kiss on your nose.

" y/n, please." jeno tries to grab ahold of your hand again, only for you to flinch from his touch. "i'm sorry." he apologises again. "there's a lot of things i would've done for you jeno, but not this." you shook your head.

it's true. despite the betrayal and hurt that jeno had mercilessly thrown onto you, you would've done anything for him if he asked. "i cannot in good faith design a dress for the love of your life when you are mine. i just can't." you confessed, voice laced with desperation and bitterness in your tongue.

something about seeing your shaky figure stirred mark deeply in an uncomfortable way. mark was never one to overstep boundaries in his line of work but in this moment, mark did the unthinkable. "apologies mr lee, but i think you should leave." he finally stepped in, directing jeno towards the door where outside stood his poor fiancé who witnessed the entire exchange.

guilt engulfed you when you were met with her tearful expression, though you weren't sure why even. she took everything from you. your comfort, your laughter, your happiness, leaving you with nothing but a strong distaste for love. oh how you used to embrace love so much that it became the embodiment of everything you do in this lifetime. when jeno left, the idea of love makes your stomach feel sick that you can't help but to throw up.

"i'm sorry, i really am y/n." jeno whispered softly as he turned to leave, a hand instinctively reaching out towards his fiancé to comfort her.

like as if he hadn't just wrecked your world that you've painstakingly built over again for the last five years.

needless to say, the encounter with jeno left you devastated. you hated how things had ended earlier and you hated the fact that jeno still had the same effect on you even after all these years even more.

mark winced at a your muffled sobs, fists balled in anger and disappointment at himself for not knowing. he hated that he was the reason jeno reappeared in your life again. but how could he have known? you've never talked about jeno to anyone after he packed away seven years of your relationship and left.

so all he can do now was to gently rub your back in hopes to take even just a little pain away from you if you'll even let him.

"can i open my eyes now?" jeno whines endearingly, heart racing in excitement for what's to come in the next few seconds. today's the day you're finally showing jeno your very own wedding dress. one that you've been working on since the day you decided you were gonna marry jeno in this lifetime.

jeno's seen the alterations you've made towards your dress, but this will be the very first time he's seeing it all put together. the very idea of seeing you in your wedding dress was exhilarating and in a lot of ways special for him. he knew that this was your way of expressing your commitment towards your relationship and that honestly made his heart burned even more for you.

"you can open them now." you giggled cheekily.

it was all golden. jeno couldn't believe his eyes, standing right infront of him was the love of his life, his heaven on earth, was donning the most ethereal wedding gown known to mankind (in his own opinion). he swore he could've marry you there and then.

"well?" you quipped, running your hands through the intricate lace patterns wrapping your arms perfectly to soothe your nerves. "you're... so gorgeous..."jeno gulped in disbelief, "i'm the luckiest man on earth."

you pursed your lips at the thought of the once happy memory, staring at the wedding gown hung in front of you. it still looked brand new despite having sat at the back of your closet and left untouched for years with its beauty haunting you with its own presence.

what a pity, for you thought you really could've became jeno's bride.

you don't know what came over you that made you log into instagram and searched for jeno's profile. you scrolled through his feed for the first time in five years, curious to see what he's been up to. and you wished you hadn't been curious when posts with his fiancé flashes across your screen, a painful reminder that jeno's no longer yours.

his smile.

his goddamn smile.

all it took was to see his smile that made you send that text.

come back again this friday noon. don't be late.

to be continued..

95 notes · View notes

iceclew · 1 month ago

Text

BACK TO ART Y'ALL!

(after ....an awful lot of screaming these last days.. ... hey I don't know what is wrong with me, maybe it's the spring vibes finally kicking in or smth..)

Anyway here's the concept art for Hans and Henry - Witcher AU

'Cause I can not enjoy ANY franchise, ANY game, ANY-FUCKING-THING without witcherizing it. For t'is the law here.

Go down to my overly detailed description and non-text versions for AU Hans and AU Henry here. I have my brainworms and i'll spill them out on you, if you don't step aside, so beware.

Also this time I'm not going for a mix, I'm going full Witcher universe here.

Let me tell you there is a LOT of Hansry in the making for canon and Witcher AU right now.. I just need to find a way to finish it, for I am cursed to be stuck at WIPs so far as it seems. BUT I WILL DO MY BEST !!! FOR WE NEED THE HANSRY, DON'T WE?!

YES WE DO!!

So I've read the witcher books, played game 3, and looked up several things on fandom-wikis. If anything's not entirely witcher canon here, my bad. I tried my best ok? Also I took some liberty and smushed timelines and stuff to fit the scene here.

Capon is my fucking dress up doll. I am sorry I could not not. He is so FUCKING Dandelion coded.. PLUS I had so many cool outfit ideas and well...LOOK AT HIM HE JUST EATS, OK? I feel like he could be stuffed in a human-sized sock and still would look great in it... I don't get it either.. the tailors just love him.

have a song recommendation for Hans :3

Hans Capon (House of Leipa) The House of Leipa is a family line of famous military leaders at the nation of Kaedwen. (listen, there is a canon Fort Leida in the witcher universe, how could you blame me for jumping on that?) For generations they reigned over Fort Leipa and the surrounding region in Kaedwen. It was about 19 years ago when the Scoia'tael invaded the fortress and killed almost all members of the major family branch, including Hans' parents. Hans himself survived due to a servant's quick thinking. He was hidden in the servant's quarters in a bedroom's chest. The Scoia'tael focussed on looting the royal belongings. So he was not found until his relatives reconquered the fortress hours later. Hans has no memory of said day since he was still an infant, but suffers from claustrophobia now.

'The Slaughter of Leipa' contributed severly to the following pogrom in Ard Carraigh (Kaedwens capital), causing the deaths of over 400 nonhumans. Hans is not entirely against nonhuman races but has his personal, unprocessed issues with them....

Back in the present (20y/o) his situation is very similar to canon Hans, with Hanush currently being his guardian as long as he's not old enough to reign. He differs a lot from Hanush's imagination of a proper heir of their family tree and arguments are on a daily bases. For political representation Hans gets to travel and stay at the free city of Novigrad for a while. While he loves his home region in Kaedwen, he immediately falls in love with the urban vibes, and modern culture of the city (and of course the freedom of being away from Hanush's monitoring for once). For a few months he's spending a fair amount of coin on every tailor, tavern, brothel and bathhouse in the city.

By now the owners of said etablishements have made appropriate arrangements with every bandit's guilt around, for his regular visits are more profitable to all of them, than robbing him once.

There might have been one or two kidnappings with ransom involved nonetheless, which had Hanush consider hiring a bodyguard for his ward after all...If only just to mend his headache from time to time a bit.

This is were a certain offer from an old friend, plus a witcher's apprentice appears seemingly just at the right time...

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

Henry's design and my idea of his witcher character made me painfully aware of just how similar those two universes actually are. I mean - not necessary a bad thing, but it might take the charm out of it a bit. So I tried to add a little twist to Henry here. Let's see how we're doing.

Have a song recommedation for Henry :3

Henry, child of the fate Henry is born a blacksmith's son and lived a slow life in a small village around Kaedwen's hillside. There would be times he would even go as far as to call it straight out boring, but he's not one to complain about stuff like that.

Since his father Martin taught him from young age, Henry practically grew up with swords, especially the kind made of finest silver ore, used to slay monsters. His father's outstanding works, famous in all the northern nations, attracted many witchers from far and wide. Of course the nearby 'School of the Wolf' at Kaer Morhen was a popular and recurring customer at their forge as well.

All peace and quiet ended the day his village was raided by bandits and his parents were murdered. Henry found himself seeking refuge, first at Kaer Morhen, then at Fort Leipa, with a handful of other citizens. At the witchers fortress he recognized one or two faces from back at the forge, but there was one particularly standing out.

Radzig Kobyla, a reknown witcher in all around the region seemed to have special interest in Henry and even offered some first combat training in sword-fighting. With time Henry finds the truth about is bonds with Radzig...

Before he was born Radzig saved Martin from a mountain troll. Half joking, half serious Martin remembered old witcher's tradition of the Law of Suprise - 'for what you find at home, yet did not expect' and offered it. Radzig actually refused the offer, for he was not necessarily fond of said tradition.

It was only a month later that they found out about the pregnancy... While awaiting a child Martin was devastated about his promise. He was not sure if it was to be fulfilled or not. After Henry was born Radzig still refused to ever take the child, arguing he never agreed to any contract like this. But fate finds his way nonetheless and with Henry basically finding him and being robbed his family, friends and home, Radzig finally gives in and offers to train him to become a witcher.

Of course things are way more complicated by now, since Henry is not suitable for a proper 'Trial of the grasses' anymore. He never gained the full immunity and powers of a proper witcher, but with Kaer Morhen's knowledge, plus consultation of several sorcerer Radzig's find a way for Henry to undergo a lighter and also much slower variation of the original changing procedure.

Although the risk of said changing progress is the same, if not higher. Errors or negative effects can only be seen and be treated much later after they have already settled in. The sorceress Katharina of Ard Carraigh was outraged when she heard about Radzig's little experiment, but offered her help with the effects nonetheless. With her help Henry was able to adapt existing witcher potions to handle his new powers and skills easier, and - much more important - to keep them at bay, when they threaten to take over his sanity.

While trying to tackle his new life and witcher training, Henry is also confronted with his first 'witcher' contract (well whatever Radzig found fitting for a half-baked witcher, without much fighting experience, nor complete control over his powers, that is.) Their host at Fort Leipa seemed to have a promising task as bodyguard at hand, and since Radzig had taken a lot of contracts from the house of Leipa in past times, it would not hurt giving it a try. Henry would only have to take care of the spoiled Leipa's offspring for a while. Nothing too much of a task right? Right.

At least until said offspring runs off and jumps into sheets with an Alp and seems to be in need of a witcher now after all, .....

But that's a story for another time...

---------

*visible exhaustion but I made it*

that's it for now guys.. I ..clearly overdid myself in the description right there, I just know it.

Also - sorry for my spelling , I hate rereading stuff, and tend to miss weird errors...

Hope you liked it, I don't really call myself a good writer, I just want to get out my ideas here. :)

#kcd2 #kingdom come deliverance #witcher AU #hans capon #hans kcd2 #henry of skalitz #henry kcd2 #I ditched pirkstein and skalitz for AU reaasons sorry..#so Henry is left ...just Henry...#hansry #yes I know there is not much hansry just yet but I heavily intent to draw some for this AU next!!!#bear with me pls #i just know i will find a typo in 10 min and hate myself for it #icy's art

87 notes · View notes

redvexillum · 6 months ago

Text

A/N: This is set in my Mandatory Overtime universe. I can't seem to let Sunshine go. Damn, I should've just written a long fic for them. Also PSA, licking doorknobs is not indicative of writing angst. Kit. Stop spreading lies. *glares*

SUMMARY: You and Vox shared a tangled, messy relationship—one where Valentino always seemed to cast his shadow over you both. You understood why he had to be part of the picture, but that didn’t stop you from yearning for the impossible. You wanted Vox to choose you.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, soft!vox, complicated relationship, on/off relationship, p in v

A cacophony of remixed Christmas songs blared through the air, their jarring, cheery beats paired with pulsating red and green lights that sliced through the dimly lit room like daggers. The scent in the air was a cocktail of sweat, alcohol, and cloying perfume—a suffocating reminder of how alive and chaotic Voxtek’s annual Christmas party was. The revelry buzzed around you, loud and relentless, but it only seemed to make your chest feel heavier.

You stood off to the side, nodding absently as your coworker droned on about their long, exhausting day. The stem of your martini glass was cool in your hand, the electric blue cosmopolitan inside trembling slightly as your grip tightened. Your gaze wandered, searching—inevitably landing on him.

Vox.

The man who had the unique talent of being both your salvation and your ruin. He stood out even in this riot of chaos. His sleek, neatly tailored blue suit hugged his frame perfectly, the glow of the lights reflecting off the polished surface of his television-shaped head. His drink—something dark and neat—dangled from his long fingers with effortless grace as he laughed at something Valentino, his ever-present companion, said. The moth demon lounged by his side, all charm and vanity, the two of them shining like kings holding court in the middle of the crowded room.

Your fingers clenched tighter around your glass, and your teeth ground together until your jaw ached. The urge to storm across the room, throw your drink into Vox’s smug face, and watch the ice-cold liquid drip from his perfect suit was almost irresistible. Almost. Instead, you sucked in a sharp breath, downed the rest of your cosmopolitan in one angry gulp, and slammed the glass onto the nearest table with a little too much force.

“Getting another drink,” you muttered, though you knew your words were swallowed by the pulsing bass of the music and the hum of laughter and conversation around you. Nobody even noticed as you slipped away, bitterness bubbling in your chest as the sickeningly upbeat rhythm of “Jingle Bell Rock” mocked you with every cheerful note.

The holiday cheer decorating the room—sparkling tinsel, gaudy presents, mistletoe strung above every doorway—only served to sour your mood further. Each garish ornament seemed to twinkle with laughter at your misery.

Sliding onto a barstool, you slouched forward and gestured for another drink. This stool was going to be your home for the next half hour—just long enough to dull the ache in your chest—before you went back to your real home. Alone.

On Christmas Day.

The bartender slid a fresh drink into your waiting hand. You stared at the swirling liquid, your head buzzing, your heart tight with an ache you refused to name. The burn of alcohol in your throat did nothing to soothe the bitterness gnawing at you.

Your relationship with Vox was... complicated. The truth of it, spoken aloud, sounded sordid and empty: you were sleeping with your boss. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Or maybe less. In Hell, hierarchy was everything, and for Vox, power meant everything. Valentino and Velvette were essential to maintaining his control over his territory. You understood that.

You had to.

But understanding it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Your fingers tightened around the glass as you lifted it, drinking deeply, hoping the alcohol would drown the unwelcome emotions swirling in your chest. Hell wasn’t a place for attachments or exclusivity. No one stayed with just one person for eternity, not here. It was absurd to even think about it.

So why the fuck does it still hurt?

You stared at your reflection in the swirling depths of your drink, the words echoing in your head like a cruel mantra. You weren’t hurt. You weren’t upset. You weren’t angry that, once again, Vox chose to spend his evening with Valentino, his public partner, instead of you.

You weren’t jealous.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you took another drink and tried not to look back at him.

You didn’t love him.

Not even close.

Sure, your boss had everything that turned heads in Hell—power, influence, money, and a talent in bed that left you breathless.

But love?

Nah.

The very thought made you scoff, a bitter laugh bubbling from your throat. What you felt for him was raw, primal, transactional.

Not love.

But the universe, in its perverse humour, seemed to think otherwise. The song shifted, and Mariah Carey’s unmistakable voice belted out the opening to “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” You groaned aloud, the sound swallowed by the party’s din, and chugged your drink in one aggressive gulp. The burn of the alcohol wasn’t nearly enough to drown the ache simmering under your skin. Slamming the empty glass onto the bar, you shot the bartender a glare and jabbed a finger toward the counter.

"Another," you demanded, your voice sharp despite the festive chaos around you.

Thirty more minutes. That was all you’d allow yourself. Thirty minutes to sit here, drink until the edges of your thoughts blurred, and then go home. Maybe you’d pull your vibrator out of the drawer, let it fill the void for a few fleeting moments, and then collapse into bed, pretending none of this mattered. Pretending you weren’t bitter. Pretending you weren’t sad. Pretending you didn’t feel the icy tendrils of loneliness wrap tighter around your heart with every passing minute.

Goddammit.

The alcohol was doing a piss-poor job of cheering you up.

In the corner of the room, Vox’s mechanical systems emitted a faint, insistent beep, an irritating reminder that his internal software was overdue for an upgrade. He sighed softly to himself, adjusting the bow tie of his meticulously tailored suit. That was the cost of his biomechanical form—constant maintenance, relentless upkeep.

Truthfully, he had little interest in the party. He was here for two reasons: to appease Valentino, his ever-demanding lover, and to see you.

His glowing screen flickered faintly as his gaze scanned the crowded room, moving automatically from face to face until it landed on you. There you were, sitting at the bar, hunched slightly over a drink, a faint scowl etched into your features. You looked radiant despite your sour mood. The sequined cocktail dress you wore hugged your figure, catching the flashing lights and making you shimmer like a living star. The plunging V-neckline left little to the imagination, and he felt a familiar heat coil low in his gut.

He smirked to himself. Of course, you’d turn heads tonight.

You always did.

Earlier, he had told you that he needed to entertain Valentino for the evening, brushing it off as a necessary performance. You had smiled—damn that smile—and shrugged, saying you understood. Professionalism. That was the facade the two of you wore in public, acting every bit the obedient employee and the aloof, untouchable boss. But there were moments. Fleeting, stolen moments when your gazes lingered too long, when his hand would brush against yours, when his thoughts strayed to pulling you close and keeping you for himself.

Right now, standing beside Valentino, those same thoughts teased at the edges of his mind. How easy it would be to cross the room, sweep you into his arms, and drag you to the darkest corner of the room where the two of you could forget the rest of the world existed.

“Ugh!” Valentino’s dramatic groan broke through his reverie. The moth demon scowled at his phone, his manicured nails clicking against the screen as he fumed. “I swear, if this whore ignores my call one more time…” His glowing red eyes flashed behind the pink-tinted heart-shaped glasses.

Vox forced out a laugh, though his patience was wearing thin. Between the blaring music, Valentino’s whining, and the incessant beeping in his head, his mood was unravelling quickly. “Val,” he drawled, his voice low and laced with feigned amusement, “try not to do anything rash. It’s Christmas, for Hell’s sake.”

Val blinked once, then twice, before puffing leisurely on his long, ornate pipe. The pink smoke swirled lazily around him, casting his devilish grin in an almost ethereal glow. “Oh, are you due for another upgrade, Voxxy?” he purred, the nickname dripping from his lips like honey. “Maybe I can keep you company while you’re… upgrading.” He leaned closer, his grin widening into something sultry and teasing.

Vox barely resisted the urge to roll his glowing eyes again. The last time Val had “kept him company” during an upgrade, Val had received a call from Angel Dust halfway through and left Vox high and dry—literally. The memory still burned. He had been stuck there, slouched in his office chair, pants down, painfully hard, and utterly alone when you had walked in.

Your startled yelp had been mortifying enough, but the mischievous glint in your eyes and the endless teasing that followed? That was a special kind of Hell. You never knew why he’d been in that state—Vox had made sure of that. You hated Val, after all, and if you’d known it was because Val had ditched him for a call, your teasing would’ve turned into something far worse.

Suppressing the bitter swirl of memory, Vox squared his shoulders, his posture straightening into its usual imposing form. His lips pressed into a tight line before curling into a forced smile. “No, Val,” he said with exaggerated patience, searching for a plausible excuse. “You’d only…” He paused, mind racing. “Delay the upgrade speed. It’s a delicate process.”

He threw in one of his trademark grins for good measure, but Val was already engrossed in his phone, scrolling obsessively and muttering about unanswered messages. Vox let out a quiet sigh, irritation flickering beneath his polished exterior.

Fine. Perfect.

Before vanishing in a crackle of static, Vox allowed himself one lingering glance at you across the room. The sequined dress you wore still glimmered under the party lights, catching his gaze like a magnet. His chest tightened as he etched the image into his memory, unwilling to let it go just yet.

The moment Vox stepped into his office, he let out a long, steadying sigh. This was his sanctuary—a place of order, where chaos bowed to his control. The faint hum of monitors greeted him like an old friend, and he sank into his chair with a rare sense of relief.

His eyes drifted to the tangled wires waiting for him on the desk, and a low chuckle escaped his lips. He couldn’t help but remember the night you’d found him awkwardly tangled in those same wires. One thing had led to another, and—

Focus. Vox shook his head sharply, a faint tinge of warmth creeping up his neck. Now wasn’t the time to get lost in memories of you… and your plump lips... and the way they felt when—

Damn it.

Forcing himself back to the task at hand, he summoned the wires with a flick of his fingers. They slithered through the air like obedient serpents, plugging neatly into the ports at the back of his head. The familiar sensation of connection settled over him, and he exhaled slowly, emptying his mind as the system began its reboot.

Data organized itself in tidy streams, his consciousness dimming as the upgrade process took over. It was a slow, meticulous procedure, one that required hours to complete. As his body relaxed into the chair, Vox allowed himself to drift into a light, dreamless slumber, welcoming the brief reprieve.

But peace never lasted long.

The sharp bang of his office door swinging open jolted him upright, his systems momentarily glitching as his muscles tensed. A flare of annoyance sparked within him, ready to ignite into full-blown fury at whoever had dared interrupt him.

And then he heard your voice.

“Helloooo~” you called, your tone lilting with a drunken, playful edge. A cascade of giggles followed, bubbling up like sweet champagne.

Vox froze, his chest constricting as he tried to decide whether to greet you or remain perfectly still. His gaze flicked to the progress bar on his internal display. 1%. Barely started. Damn it all.

It had been weeks since the two of you had been alone together—weeks of stolen glances and unspoken longing. And now here you were, waltzing into his sanctuary, dishevelled and carefree, breaking every ounce of control, he prided himself on.

Vox’s indecisiveness was his undoing. Before he could resolve whether to stay passive or act, you padded closer, your presence lighting up the sterile office like a bright spark in the dark. The intoxicating scent of you—familiar yet utterly irresistible—hit him first, followed by the mesmerizing sight of you leaning over him. Your cleavage spilled tantalizingly into view, and Vox cursed silently as blood surged southward, betraying his carefully maintained composure.

You looked devastating up close, the faint sheen of alcohol-induced mischief dancing in your eyes.

"Hmm," you hummed, swaying slightly, one hand gripping your heels while the other clutched a half-empty bottle of scotch. Your lips quirked into a dreamy smile as you pinched your own cheek, wincing with a soft ow. "I’m not dreaming, am I?" you mused, your words slurred ever so slightly.

Vox’s grin widened, though his screen remained dark, a carefully maintained façade of his "upgrade mode." To anyone else, he might appear shut down, lifeless, but he was acutely aware of every movement, every word, every shift of your body.

“Aw, man,” you pouted, your lower lip sticking out in a maddeningly cute way, “I was gonna drink in here.” With zero hesitation, you plopped yourself onto his left knee, straddling him with a familiarity that made his circuits hum.

Your closeness was intoxicating, your scent mingling with the faint heat of your skin. Your fingers hovered dangerously close to his lap, grazing the fabric stretched over his now-hardening cock.

“I was feeling a little naughty, you know,” you teased, leaning closer, mischief twinkling in your half-lidded eyes. “Bet you’d be annoyed if I drank in here, huh?”

Vox had to clench every metaphorical muscle to keep from reacting, though his heart—or its closest biomechanical equivalent—thudded against his chest. He bit back the urge to smirk. Oh, Sunshine, I’m going to tease you so much for this tomorrow. He could already picture the flush spreading across your cheeks when he reminded you of tonight’s antics.

You tilted your head, curiosity glinting in your gaze as you squinted at him. Shifting closer, your hips pressed fully against his thigh, sending sparks of heat racing through his body. Vox’s composure wavered as your dress hitched higher, exposing more of your soft, tempting skin.

"Are you sleeping, Vox?" you whispered, your voice a mix of suspicion and amusement as you pressed your forehead against his screen. "Don’tcha usually have that bouncy logo thing going?"

When no response came, your lips curled into a wicked grin. Vox felt a jolt of anticipation as your fingers began to explore the front of his pants. Your touch deliberate as it pressed firmly against his strained member. You burst into laughter, the sound filling the room like music laced with sin. Your hips rocked against him in your mirth, further testing his self-control.

“Oh my God,” you said, your voice dropping low, dripping with mockery and something darker. “Are you having a wet dream, Vox? Imagining your boyfriend fucking you in the ass?" Though there was a playful lilt to your words, the bitter edge didn’t escape him.

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something unspoken. You tilted your head, humming in thought before murmuring, “Should I help you, Vox? Relieve you?”

His restraint was a thin, fragile thread, threatening to snap as you ground against his thigh, soft, breathy moans spilling from your lips.

"It’s not fair," you whispered, your voice quivering with a vulnerability that made his chest ache. “It’s not fair…” Your hips stuttered to a halt, the air thick with the sound of your unsteady breathing. “I… I wanted to spend tonight with you, you know.”

Your words cracked something deep within him. And then, to his horror, he saw it: the shimmering wetness in your eyes, the way you bit your trembling lip, your head bowing as if the weight of the moment had finally crushed you.

Without a second thought, Vox disconnected from the upgrade with a sharp click, the wires snapping free as his hands shot up to grip your waist. He slid you closer, his touch firm but gentle, his screen flickering to life with a soft glow.

“Babydoll,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with concern. His hands steadied you as his heart ached at the sight of your uncharacteristic vulnerability. “What’s wrong?”

His crimson gaze searched yours, desperate to understand the pain he saw there, a pain that cut deeper than he expected, twisting into places he didn’t even realize could hurt.

You jolted when Vox’s hands suddenly grabbed your waist, his fingers strong and grounding. The unexpected movement made your heart leap, and your tear-filled eyes blinked rapidly, scattering the evidence of your vulnerability. Heat rushed to your cheeks, shame and embarrassment burning under your skin.

You forced a bright, shaky smile, trying to mask your emotional turmoil. “What are you talking about?” you teased, voice light, as your arms looped loosely around his neck. You shifted closer, biting your lip at the unmistakable pressure of his hardness pressing against your core. It was a flattering reminder of how much he wanted you, no matter how complicated things had become.

When you stumbled into his office, you hadn’t really planned it. One drink had turned into three—then four—and suddenly, the elevator had become your best friend, carrying you to the one place you thought you could find solace.

You didn’t expect him to be here, though you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped for it. This was Vox, after all. He practically lived in this office. When you saw his familiar silhouette illuminated by the dim, flickering glow of the computer monitors, something in you had ached to be near him, to hold him, to be held in return.

“You looked like you were about to cr—” Vox started, his voice softer than you expected.

A giggle bubbled out of you, too quick, too bright. “Silly, Vox,” you interrupted, the alcohol thrumming through your veins making your skin hum and your mood twist in erratic directions. You pressed closer to him, chest to chest, the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

And he didn’t push you away.

That alone sent a thrilling pulse through your already-buzzed system.

The unspoken agreement between you hung heavy in the air, a deal forged in moments of desperation. Vox had promised to focus on repairing his relationship with Valentino, and you had promised to give him space. You said you’d understand.

But you didn’t agree.

“Where’s Valentino?” you asked, your voice soft as silk, a quiet murmur. Your lips brushed the side of his neck, leaving a featherlight kiss. As you spoke, your fingers moved with practised ease, undoing his bow tie and sliding down to unbutton his crisp shirt.

Vox exhaled sharply, his breath hitching as his hips bucked forward. The friction made you gasp, and he groaned, voice rough and strained. “Oh, fuck, babydoll... we... we can’t do this today.”

His words hit you like a splash of cold water, and your body stiffened. The dark thoughts you’d tried so hard to drown out began to surface, insidious and cruel.If you don’t keep his attention, he’ll forget you. The thought clawed at you. Or worse, he’ll find someone better... someone who’s everything you’re not.

Clenching your teeth, you acted before doubt could take over. With a sharp tug, you ripped open his shirt, sending buttons scattering across the floor with loud, defiant clicks.

Vox leaned back, startled for a moment, before a lopsided grin spread across his face. The glow of the monitor painted his navy skin in a halo of soft light, making him look even more enticing.

“You were saying?” you purred, tilting your head with a shit-eating grin, defiance sparkling in your eyes.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you charged with electric tension. His grin faltered slightly as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You're going to be the death of me, babydoll," he murmured, his voice low and full of something dangerous, something irresistible.

You half-expected him to push you away. He was always unyielding when it came to his rules, particularly those tied to maintaining his power. If he did—if he denied you now—you would go. You wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t linger in a space that no longer welcomed you. You would collect what little dignity remained, return home, and let the ache consume you in solitude.

But a desperate, fragile part of you prayed he wouldn’t.

You hid that vulnerability beneath bold lipstick and a smirk, your armour polished and gleaming. Slowly, you licked your lips, drawing his attention to them. “I wanted more than a Christmas bonus, you know?” Your voice carried the teasing edge of a challenge, masking the tremor in your heart.

Vox exhaled a soft laugh, the sound low and indulgent. His sharp fingers moved with deliberate precision as he undid his pants, the zipper’s metallic rasp cutting through the charged air. When his cock sprang free, hard and heavy, twitching with need, a wave of heat rolled through you. He sighed in relief, his head tilting slightly back as if savouring the release.

“Yeah? What more did you want?” he murmured, his crimson gaze dipping to where his hands gripped the hem of your dress. He pulled it up slowly, relishing every inch of exposed skin, until your g-string came into view. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, dropping his head back for a moment as if to collect himself.

You hadn’t expected the night to spiral into this, but as Vox’s reaction played out before you, satisfaction swelled in your chest. Your choice of underwear was a deep navy-blue g-string, custom-made with the Voxtek logo. Its tiny triangle barely covered anything, the string teasingly cutting between your folds. It wasn’t practical, but the effect it had on Vox?

Priceless.

You leaned closer, voice laced with wicked amusement. “I wanted to fuck the CEO of Voxtek tonight,” you said, your tone dripping with defiance as you began to grind against him. Your slick heat slid over the length of his cock, from the tip to the base, then back again, leaving him shuddering under your touch.

Vox let out a strained groan, his hips jerking instinctively to meet your movements. His cock throbbed, desperate for more. “Ah, fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with lust.

Elation surged through you, sending a thrill down your spine. This wasn’t a dream—you pinched your own cheek just to be sure. Pride and boldness swirled together, lifting his hands and pressing them firmly to your breasts. “What’s wrong?” you taunted, flashing him a wicked grin. “Forgot how to fuck a woman?”

His chuckle was low and dark, sending a ripple of heat through you. Without warning, he scooped you up effortlessly and dropped you onto the console behind you. The buttons clicked and beeped beneath your back, and the wall of monitors surrounding you flickered wildly.

“Aren’t you worried I might press the wrong button?” you teased, your voice a sultry purr as you hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

Vox leaned down, his crimson eyes glowing with hunger. “Oh, doll,” he said, his tone dripping with menace and desire, “you’ve been pressing plenty of my buttons tonight.”

Your heart hammered as his hands slid down to grip your hips, his cock grinding against your clit with delicious friction. Each roll of his hips sent a spark through you, drawing soft moans from your lips.

His pants hit the floor, forgotten, leaving him fully exposed. His cock stood thick and proud, his gaze searing as it roamed over you. Without hesitation, he grasped your dress, his sharp fingers making quick work of freeing your breasts. The cool air brushed against your skin, hardening your nipples, but the fire in his eyes burned hotter than any chill.

The flimsy g-string followed, shredded with a single rough tug. His voice was low, growling as he drank in the sight of you laid bare before him. “Fuck,” he murmured, his hands gliding over your thighs and spreading them wider.

“Is this for me, baby?” Vox growled, his fingers curling around the flimsy, soaked fabric of your ruined underwear. The look in his eyes was ravenous, a predator cornering his prey.

Your lips curled into a coy smile, heart racing as heat surged through your body. “Mhm, maybe?” you teased, voice dripping with playfulness. You bit your bottom lip, feigning innocence as you trailed a finger up his chest. “Are you going to give me an extra Christmas bonus now?”

For a moment, Vox hesitated. His eyes searched your face, flickering with conflict. You recognized the signs—the careful calculation, the tug of his control trying to pull him back. He was teetering between what he wanted and what he thought he should do.

That wouldn’t do.

Your hand wrapped firmly around his cock, stroking him slowly, deliberately. The weight of him in your palm and the way his girth twitched at your touch sent shivers down your spine. You thumbed the slick tip, earning a sharp hiss of pleasure from him.

“I told you that tonight—ah—” His words dissolved into a moan, his head falling back as if surrendering to the inevitable.

In one swift movement, Vox tore your hand away, lined himself up, and thrust into you in a single, deliberate stroke.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your back arching as your body accommodated his fullness. “Oh, fuck,” you moaned, clutching at his shoulders. Your walls clenched involuntarily, a fluttering grip that drew another groan from him. Every nerve in your body felt alive, buzzing, as his cock filled you completely.

“Ah, you feel fucking amazing as always,” Vox muttered, his voice thick with lust and something deeper—something possessive. He pulled back, then slammed his hips forward again, setting a punishing rhythm that left you breathless. “Fuck—I can’t even—” Another deep thrust, the sound of his hips meeting yours echoing in the room. “—stay away from your fucking—” His next thrust was angled just right, drawing a cry from your lips. “—cunt.”

He ground his hips forward, the hard press of his pelvis deliberately rubbing against your clit. You let out a loud, wanton moan, spurring him to continue.

Your mind swirled in a haze of pleasure and determination. You’d wanted to spend Christmas with him, and in Hell, the greedy thrived. If you didn’t seize what you wanted with both hands, someone else would.

“Babydoll,” Vox rasped, his tone softer now, laced with an unspoken tenderness. He bowed low, pressing his lips to yours in a fleeting kiss.

But fleeting wasn’t enough. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you deepened the kiss, pouring your longing and desire into it. His cock throbbed inside you in response, hot and insistent.

When you finally broke away to catch your breath, you gave him a sweet, teasing smile. “It’ll be our dirty little secret, baby,” you purred, squeezing your walls around him for emphasis.

The groan he let out was almost guttural, his hips rolling slowly to drag out your shared pleasure. “Fuck, then,” he murmured, thrusting languidly. “Let’s head up to my place after this.” His voice dipped lower, darker. “After I fill you up here, I’m going to wreck you when we get back to my place.”

The promise in his words sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. His next thrust was sharp, his hips snapping forward with such force that the console buttons beneath you clicked against your back.

“Going to fuck you so hard,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening, “you’ll feel me all day tomorrow.”

His words alone had you teetering on the edge. You clawed at your breasts, kneading them, twisting your nipples, desperate to push yourself over. “Yes, yes, yes,” you cried, your climax building rapidly, ready to crash over you in waves.

But then—you heard it.

The sharp tone of an incoming call.

Your eyes widened in disbelief as you glanced up. The display on Vox’s screen shifted, and the unmistakable face of Valentino appeared.

For a moment, you froze, fury and humiliation warring within you. Him. Of all people.

The phone continued to ring, each chime an affront to your pride. Vox groaned in frustration, his cock still buried deep inside you. He glanced at the ceiling, his jaw clenched.

By the third ring, he gave in. With a resigned sigh, he answered it.

You didn’t bother masking your annoyance. “Are you seriously picking up right now?” you muttered, glaring at him.

He gave you a helpless shrug, his other hand gripping your thigh possessively. “It’s Valentino,” he said, as if that explained anything.

The vein in your temple throbbed.

Of course it is.

“What?” Vox snapped, his voice sharp and taut, like a whip cracking through the tension in the room. His claws gripped your hips with bruising force, pinning you firmly in place. The weight of his cock still nestled inside you was a cruel reminder of how easily the moment could slip away.

“Vox! Are you done with your little upgrade yet?” Valentino’s drunken drawl came through the speaker, his words slurred and punctuated by the thrum of music and high-pitched giggles in the background.

Vox’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “What do you think?” he bit out, his tone laced with venom.

If Valentino noticed, he didn’t care. “Well, if you’re done, come back to the party, Voxxy,” he purred, dragging out the syllables with smug satisfaction. “Let’s have some fun, you and I.”

The words hung in the air like poison, seeping into the cracks of your resolve.

With a long, weary sigh, Vox mumbled, “Fine," before he hung up.

Then, to your horror, he began to pull away, withdrawing from you with a slow, deliberate motion that left you cold and empty. The loss was visceral, cutting deeper than you could have anticipated.

“Vox—”

He faced you, his features hardened with something between regret and resolve. Your dress hung askew on your body, your torn panties discarded on the floor, and your slickness still glistened on his length. You were utterly exposed, physically and emotionally, and yet he looked ready to leave.

“I told you,” he began, his voice strained as he pressed two fingers against the middle of his forehead, “things are…complicated right now.” His gaze met yours, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something raw—pleading—for your understanding.

Under any other circumstances, perhaps you would have lied, plastered on a fake smile, and forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. That was your modus operandi: fake it till you make it. Pretend it doesn’t hurt. Pretend you don’t care.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you couldn’t.

“Choose me, Vox,” you whispered, your voice trembling, cracking under the weight of your vulnerability. Your lips quivered as you forced a shaky smile, even as tears brimmed in your eyes. “Please… just choose me.”

His eyes widened, the weight of your words settling on his shoulders like a heavy burden. “Sunshine, I—”

“Choose me for just this moment,” you interrupted softly, your voice barely more than a plea. You reached out, your trembling fingers curling around his, giving them the gentlest tug. “Choose me,” you repeated, your words quieter, yet no less desperate.

He hesitated, his body tense, his breath shallow. Then, slowly, he took a small, shuffling step closer.

Your chest ached, every beat of your heart thrumming with uncertainty. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You wouldn’t let him see you break. Not completely. “Just for one moment,” you whispered again, the words catching on the lump in your throat. “Choose me.”

And then—he did.

Vox didn’t leave.

His fingers reached for you, tangling in your hair as he tilted your face toward his. “Just one moment, sunshine?” he murmured, his voice wavering between a laugh and a sigh. “You have no idea…” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, soft and hesitant, like a promise he was terrified to make. Electricity surged through you at his touch, lighting every nerve in your body aflame.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve chosen you in my mind,” he admitted, his voice low and raw as he pressed you back against the console.

He shifted his hips, aligning himself with you once more. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed into you, his cock stretching and filling you again. The sensation was overwhelming, his heat, his presence, the way his body seemed to melt into yours.

“I want to choose you,” he murmured, his hips pressing flush against yours. “If I had the power to stand alone, I would choose you every moment, every night, every morning.”

His voice softened, cracking under the weight of his confession. His movements became slow and deliberate, as though savouring every thrust, every gasp and moan you gave him.

And at that moment, it wasn’t about Valentino, or power, or complicated deals.

It was just you and him—two souls caught in the tangled mess of desire, longing, and love.

The movements between you softened, slowed, as if the fire of the moment had dimmed. What lingered was a tender passion—a raw, unspoken connection that burned deeper than heat, deeper than desire. His hips rocked gently, rhythmically, pressing against you in a way that sent a quiet, radiant pleasure unfurling through your body like waves lapping at the shore.

Your mind faltered, caught in the web of his words and actions. The vulnerability in his voice struck a chord you weren’t ready to face. You stifled the sob threatening to break free, burying your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his familiar, sharp scent. “I-it feels g-good, Vox,” you murmured, your voice trembling and barely audible, the tears pooling in your eyes blurring your vision.

Each caress, each roll of his hips was gentle, deliberate, as though he was memorizing every inch of you, committing you to some hidden part of himself. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, spreading outward in waves of ecstasy as you finally reached your peak. It was like being wrapped in a blanket—not just one of comfort, but of love, fleeting and fragile, and all the more precious for it.

The sound of his breath, soft and ragged, mingled with your own as his moans deepened. His climax came quietly, his body shuddering as he spilled into you, warmth pooling and binding you to this moment. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, as if he could stave off the inevitable with the strength of his embrace.

But even this, like all beautiful things, couldn’t last forever.

The shrill sound of Valentino’s call shattered the stillness, cutting through the fragile cocoon you had woven around yourselves. Vox sighed, and for a fleeting, desperate moment, you wished he wouldn’t answer.

But he did.

He always did.

When he hung up, his gaze found yours, and your heart sank. You already knew the truth, saw it in the way his shoulders sagged, the way his lips pressed into a resigned line.

“Vox—”

“I have to,” he said softly, almost apologetically.

You nodded, but your throat burned with unshed words. You understood. You always understood. Valentino was his path to power, to everything he worked for, and you… you were something he couldn’t let himself fully have. Not yet.

Maybe...

Maybe not ever.

You didn’t cry when he carefully withdrew from you, the loss of him leaving you hollow. You didn’t cry as he fixed his clothes, each motion measured and deliberate. You didn’t cry when he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a touch that lingered longer than it should have.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my sunshine,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of regret and affection.

You didn’t cry when the door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the dim light of his office. Even as the sticky remnants of your union slipped down your thighs, even as the alcohol in your veins made the room spin, you didn’t cry.

You couldn’t cry.

Because you knew.

From the moment you fell for Vox, you knew what you were signing up for—how loving him meant weathering the storms of heartbreak, how it meant making room for the shadow of Valentino in the space between you.

He chose you for one moment.

But the thought didn’t bring comfort. If anything, it hollowed you out further, the void he left behind aching with every beat of your heart. You let out a dry, humourless chuckle, the sound brittle and cracked.

Oh.

You weren’t okay with this after all.

Were you?

Please follow #DRP Smutmas 2024 to get all the latest updates of our stories!

Wanna hang out with me? Come talk to me at Voxtek Server!

152 notes · View notes