#leather writing surface

[martinworsterphotography]

Discover the elegance of this Victorian Mahogany Pedestal Desk from 1880. Featuring nine drawers, brass ring handles, and a leather writing surface, it's perfect for any sophisticated office.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅’𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. ❞

KINKTOBER — WEEK ONE: BATH SEX.

⤿ pairings: cregan stark x jace’s sister!reader.

⤿ word count: 4.1K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, bath sex, fingering (fem!rec), biting, multiple positions (cowgirl, from behind), heavy kissing, scratching, sexual ending implied, heavy breeding kink, creampie, mutual orgasm, rough(er) sex, both cregan & reader are horny

⤿ note: first kinktober request under my belt! Loved writing this one and it was a nice return to Cregan (love him with my whole being)

Even a smoldering fire wilted in the midst of the Northern chill, a biting ice that consumed all traces of warmth, swallowing it whole.

Winds from beyond The Wall whistled down from desolate lands, bringing with it its bitterness and sting, seeking to envelop all within it.

Glacial are the wreaths of snow-furled gales that blanket Winterfell in their pale harshness — it even seeps into your bones, bones forged of fire and blood.

It was difficult to take comfort in such foreign surroundings, from the dusting of ice forming on window panes to the bristling chill that rakes across your spine. The North was not Dragonstone — it was not home.

Unconventional was the singular word that plagued your mind when it came to your sudden marriage to Cregan Stark, a union made in a frenzied haste to gain allies in a brewing war.

It was as if you were merely a pawn to be moved across a board by your kin — your Mother, in particular. She was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet you couldn’t help but feel hopelessly abandoned here in the North, under the supposed guise of safety.

Jacaerys had departed shortly after your wedding in the Godswood, bidding his strenuous farewell before leaving you in the company of your stoic husband.

Your brother was not thrilled with the prospect, cautioning against it, but duty demanded it of you, and you dared not defy your mother. Admittedly, it could’ve been worse, this unusual match.

Cregan Stark was not a foul man — he was rough, like the uneven surface of leather or the cracks of a cliffside, a mountain so stalwart that you wondered if he ever smiled. A sliver of you pondered if his dour visage was because of you.

Stoicism seemed interwoven into his demeanor, tempestuous hues glistening with a stern wisdom that stretched far beyond his years. Cregan was only two namedays your senior, yet he behaved as if he were a grizzled veteran.

He did not consummate the night of your wedding, much to your bewilderment. You could only muster up a series of kisses and an untied gown before nervousness tore you asunder, anxiousness gnawing away at your belly.

Cregan did not press you any further, citing that he wished to give you a berth, a space to yourself as you processed your new environment. It was a sentiment that you vastly appreciated, yet you felt so completely alone.

The autumnal canopy of the Wolfswood had become your constant companion in the weeks that had passed since your union to Cregan. At dusk, you would converse with your Northern husband, who’s exterior seemed to melt slightly with each passing day.

Duty did not always permit the two of you to spend time together — oftentimes, it kept you separated, tethered to two differing realities.

After supper, you retired to your marital chambers, prepared to end your evening with a hot bath and a bit of light reading to preoccupy your time. Cregan did not appear, which was commonplace, strategizing alongside his advisors.

Chambermaids prepared your steaming bath, hot enough to singe those without dragon’s blood coursing through their veins. Wisps of heated vapor drifted toward the ceiling of the cozy washroom, a humid warmth permeating stone.

Deliberately, you untied each strand of lace, deftly unraveling yourself from your evening gown. Fingertips graced the thick fur that lined the trim as you draped it over a chair, flicking strands of your hair aside.

Footsteps resonated outside of the mahogany door, their shadow falling across you. You hadn’t expected Cregan to return so soon, prompting you to step into the water before sinking beneath, reclining against one edge.

Gentle sloshing of water caught his attention once he abandoned Ice and his cloak, retracing his steps to the door of the washroom. “My Lady.” He greeted you, lingering just outside in hopes to converse, even if it were fleeting.

A strange lump formed within your throat as you gingerly scrubbed at your arm with floral-laden soap, throat becoming thick. “Ah — my Lord,” You did not sound confident. “I wasn’t expecting your return so swiftly.”

Cregan found it increasingly difficult to act gallant around you, resolve hanging by a thread, honor crumbling away. Instinct and desire festered within his heart, lust where he knew it shouldn’t be — but he was a man who wanted his wife.

If this weren’t so rushed in an attempt to forge allegiances, he would have courted you properly, taken the time to learn your heart before devolving to carnality.

He learned some, but he knew that you were nervous, and he could not blame you for it. Tossed to the wolves, a lone dragon — Cregan did not want to frighten you any further.

“One can only play tactician for so long before it becomes an uphill battle,” Cregan uttered, chestnut brows furrowing together. “Are you well?” He inquired, tone one of a gentler resonance, laced with sympathy.

“Well enough,” Biting at your cheek, you considered your next words carefully, gaze boring a hole through the door. “Did you … Were you wanting to join me?” As much as it turned your stomach with butterflies, you did not want to continue being so shy.

In the sight of the Old Gods, he was your husband — Cregan had treated you with the greatest care and decency, and continuing to hide from him would only worsen things. You knew that it needn’t be so disconcerting.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, a sly heat blooming throughout his chest as he considered your stiff proposal. It sounded uncertain, and he did not dare act on uncertainty alone. Yet, the thought was tantalizing — he thought of you often.

Some part of him felt reduced to a boy, a coil of sudden nerves that he promptly abandoned, steeling himself for you. “I would only join you if you wanted it, my lady. Do not force yourself to be uncomfortable.” He rumbled.

The more you sat, alone in the herb-speckled waters, the more you yearned. There was nothing to fear from Cregan Stark, an honorable man whose patience was as unyielding as the mountains.

To grow was to rid yourself of girlish fright, and you did just that, steadying your erratic breathing as you sat up a little straighter. You reminded yourself that he was your husband, that he would not touch you unless you asked it of him.

“I want you to,” Your saccharine voice fluttered between the iron-etched wood, now a thin degree of separation between yourself and your husband. “Please, come in.”

Silently, Cregan prayed to the Gods to let him behave, to curb his animalistic appetite and to allow himself a gentler touch. Having already shed most of his leathers, he turned to knob, stepping inside to a homely nook of humid air and warmth.

Storm-colored hues fixed themselves to you, demure and sitting so soundly in the bathtub, yet you were the very image of perfection. His hand clenched in a desperate attempt to relieve some of his own tension.

You nearly shrank beneath the penetrating stare of your husband, whose coiled posture reminded you of a wolf preparing to strike. It made your heart hammer beneath your breast, hand gripping the edge of the tub just a little tighter.

His gaze screamed of affection, of desire, of ardor — Cregan was not as intimidating as you thought him to be, visage softening at the sight of you.

Tension clouded the washroom, thick enough to be sundered into two with a broadsword. Cregan wordlessly tugged his rugged tunic aside, exposing a thick wall of corded muscle, an impenetrable force that made your breath hitch.

To you, he seemed sculpted from a cliffside — rustic and hardened, the form of a warrior made, not chiseled, his own incarnation of godlike. Your stare shamelessly traversed the bulky plane of his musculature.

You were quick to glance away when he removed his trousers, causing you to shift beneath the water, skin glistening with a damp sheen. Again, you staved off your nerves as he lowered himself into the bath, taking up plenty of space.

In his solace, he drank you in again as if you were the finest stout, the very essence of beauty. Cregan felt the tension, the way it curled around the both of you, hesitation brewing in place of action.

It was you who shattered the silence, first with a tender smile, second with your words. “I must confess, I am glad that you are here,” A warm stirring began to unfurl across your chest. “I’ve been quite lonely.”

Cregan admonished himself for your feelings in silence, visage etched with a calm empathy. “Forgive me, then,” He murmured. “I did not know that my absence had become so cumbersome. I thought it best to let you adjust — alone.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” You assured, countenance as warm as the first sigh of springtime, melting away at his icy exterior. “You have been so understanding and kind, and I do not know how to thank you for it.”

“I would gladly make time for you, wife,” His utterance of the word wife made you shiver in delight. “I know now that this is something we will brave together, and not apart.” Cregan nodded, hoping that conversation would distract him.

He was unbearably hard, cock throbbing with such an incessant ache that he nearly abandoned the bath altogether. It was then that you reached for his hand, digits tracing along his forearm.

Cregan gripped the tub like a vice with his hand, so tense that his muscle threatened to tear apart. Your embrace was like silk, a shroud that he wished to wrap himself within. His gaze intensified, stuck to you with a fervor.

“I did not invite you inside just to converse,” Your whisper was hoarse, shrewd — you were finding your voice, and Cregan thoroughly enjoyed it. “I wish to try.”

“You cannot try from that distance.” Cregan’s tone was akin to the trembling of thunder from the skies, dripping with a thinly-veiled desire. There was affection present, yet lust seemed to win out as he coaxed you closer.

Once you waded into arm’s reach, your husband brusquely tugged you into his lap, causing you to gasp as he caressed your hip. His kiss was akin to a tide of fire, washing over you with an unyielding burn, heat crawling across your flesh.

You reciprocated without hesitation, palms finding their purchase atop his chest, nails digging into muscle when you felt his cock prod into your stomach. Gods, he was intimidating — you feared your physical state on the morrow.

It was unmistakable, his passion — the desire he’d built for you came crashing down, entangled with your budding desire.

A thick, calloused palm cupped your hip, kneading into the curves there, the other finding the soft flesh of your breast. He gingerly groped your chest, fingers gracing across your nipple, evoking an excitable whine from you.

“Gods, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon,” Cregan’s husked tone was akin to a growl, reverberating against your mouth. “My wife.” He uttered, reveling in your flustered expression.

Lips clamored as if it would be their last dance, and he found himself kissing your jaw, your neck — wherever he could reach. It was a near-frenzy, acted upon with passion and a wolfish appetite, a desire that scorched his bones.

“Cregan,” A labored moan ripped through your throat, crackling with excitement as you tilted your head backward. He thoroughly reveled at the sound of you singing his name, a rumble reverberating throughout his chest. “Please, I need you.”

Slotted firmly within his lap, Cregan let the hand upon your hip drift elsewhere, dipping beneath the water as he sought the heat between your legs. His kisses were relentless, etched against your neck like a hot brand.

He needed you just as terribly, a want so powerful that it nearly obliterated him, scorching his heart with your own desire. His thick digits found your flower, thumb circling the pearl of your cunt.

A sharp gasp escaped you, lips agape as another wine emerged from your mouth. You hadn’t been touched like this before, not from a man so learned as Cregan, who studied your body with his hawkish gaze.

Your hips possessed a mind of their own, desperately chasing after any shred of friction from his hand, nails clamping into his broad shoulders. A soft chuckle shook his body, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.

“Easy, princess,” Cregan murmured, teeth gently scraping over your jugular before he pressed a kiss there. “Do not tire yourself so quickly.” He cautioned, toying with your clit in slow, deliberate motions.

His cock prodded against your cunt, filling you with a sudden wave of anticipation. His stature seemed to confirm what you already knew, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat.

Cregan would never tire of you, and he knew that this would not be enough to satiate his hunger for you, an appetite as ravenous as that of a starving wolf. He wanted to taste you, occupy the space between heart and ribcage, never part from you — duty be damned.

Pressing another string of greedy kisses against the column of your throat, Cregan continued to slowly circle your clit, savoring the twitches and reactions that flickered across your face. You made your pleasure known, vocalizing your delight to the heavens.

Part of you knew what to expect with the act of consummation — pain, and then pleasure, if you were fortunate enough. You trusted Cregan to handle you with care, rocking your hips atop him.

A low grunt elicited from him, one that clearly seemed pent-up. The sensation of your nethers pressing against his length drove him to madness, palm gripping hard at the small of your back. “I fear you may be the death of me.” He growled.

A shudder iced your spine, one tinged with anticipation as you sought his mouth, kissing him in your own flurry of bliss. He enjoyed your initiative, large hand tracing up and down along your back, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his caress.

“I — I want you inside of me,” Stammering over your words, your hands found the nape of his neck, clinging to his damp, chestnut tresses. “Will you be gentle?” You feared being split in half if his pace became hastened.

Cregan grit his teeth together, knowing that taking your maidenhead in such a rough way was not fair to you, nor was it kind. “Of course,” He assured, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you.”

Restraint would likely test his resolve, but Cregan was up for the challenge, hand snaking away from between your thighs. Even within his grasp, you still seemed a touch uneasy, likely due to the bundle of nerves coiled within your stomach.

“On your own time, wife,” Cregan rumbled, content to caress along your supple frame, handling your curves as if you were molded from obsidian. You possessed the strength of a dragon — perhaps you didn’t realize it yet. “I am enjoying myself.”

With a nod, you exhaled, looking to him for instruction as he reached between the both of you, guiding his cock to your entrance. The thick head pressed along your cunt, causing you to shift again.

A kiss made its residence along your jaw. “I have you,” Cregan murmured, letting you sink down onto his length. Your countenance bristled with the sting of agony, and you nearly hurried it along until his hand seized your hip. “Easy.”

Seven Hells, he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that molded you to him. It was discomforting, a pain you seldom experienced, but Cregan was soothing.

It was the sweetest torment for Cregan, cock sluggishly feeding into you, inch by inch, your cunt tight around his length. A sonorous groan bubbled within his throat as he continued to guide you, ensuring that you were not suffering.

“Cregan!” A hiss escaped you, one intermingled with pleasure and pain, brow creased in concentration. It was nearly too much for you, but you persisted, enduring the newfound stretch and foreign sensations.

The tip of his length very nearly kissed your cervix, and that was his sign to cease. He let you sit, labored breathing bearing inklings of ecstasy, lips slack as you began to roll your hips.

He was strong enough to maneuver you along his cock as he saw fit, but he let you gather your bearings, find your own pace. Your soft, sweet lips sought his own, mouths clashing in a spirited kiss, one charged with a growing adoration.

Chest-to-chest, the intimacy grew tenfold, hearts beating in-tandem, making way for the wave of ardor that consumed you both. Water gently sloshed around the both of you, flesh damp, yet you had never been warmer.

Firm, steady hands kept their grasp upon the swell of your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles into your silken flesh. Cregan appraised you with starving eyes, hues as gray as swirling clouds before a winter’s storm.

“Move me,” A wanton sigh floated from your lips, evoking a sense of primal desire that he knew to shackle down. Your husband obliged, setting the pace at a slower speed for your sake. “Gods, just like that.” You huffed.

Cregan fought against baser instincts, against tearing you asunder like that of a snarling beast. He guided you up and down upon his length, mouth seeking the dip between your neck and shoulder.

Teeth found their rooting there, gingerly scraping your flesh as he marked you, eliciting a throaty moan from your mouth. It was a sting that you did not expect to enjoy — but you wanted it again and again.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the washroom with your lewd activities.

He took your maidenhead with such tenderness, never once resorting to a harsher pace unless you were the one to initiate. “You are perfect.” Cregan uttered, letting you rock up and down along his length.

The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh. He gripped you hard enough to leave bruises, peppering kisses against your neck.

Finding your rhythm, it became easier to impale yourself upon him, gasping when his cock sheathed itself deep within you. Your cunt clenched pathetically around him, nails raking crimson trails across his shoulders.

Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, arousal honey-thick between your thighs. The more you succumbed to desire, the more carnal his pace became, losing all inhibitions of restraint.

Soap-laden water steamed around the both of you, sloshing with the movement of two bodies, locked within the throes of passion. A soft cry escaped you as he brought you down again, invigorated by the spirited rolls of your hips.

It only became messier — two souls clawing for affection, for entanglement, for a release. As you grasped his biceps for support, you changed the rhythm, letting yourself drown within desire.

A breathy, snarled curse tore past his mouth, brows furrowing together in concentration as he maneuvered you toward the tub’s thick rim. His chest was hot, slick as he pressed himself to your back.

Smoothing a calloused palm along your thigh, his thrusts became a touch erratic, cock hitting into you like the jab of a spear. “Cregan!” You moaned, savoring the sensation of his mouth against your shoulder, crooked nose ghosting along your throat.

The newfound position was somewhat awkward given his stature, contorted in the smaller space of the tub, but he cared little for it. Passion drove him, the desire to breed, make you round and lovely with his children.

His hands did not leave you, caressing wherever he could, an anchor to keep you safe even in the midst of such crass acts. “Gods help me,” Cregan growled, hot breath fanning across your shoulder. “I need you.” He hissed.

It was unexpected, his confession that rattled you so, sending tremors along your spine. You did not expect him to feel that way for you, yet it only furthered your arousal.

Lewd entanglements of flesh resonated throughout the washroom, accompanied by a myriad of moans and animalistic growls. Cregan became more beast than man when placed under pleasure, not that you minded.

Even if he lacked the stamina to continue, carnality willed him to devour. Your husband kissed you, touched you wherever he could, thick digits snaking between your thighs as he sought the aching pearl of your cunt.

“Do not stop,” A breathy mewl erupted from your throat as you pleaded with Cregan to continue. Once deft digits began to toy with your clit, your knees buckled, hand grasping at his forearm. “Please, please do not stop!”

Between the feverish kisses he placed along the nape of your neck and the hand circling your clit, you felt the ecstasy mounting. The coil within your stomach began to unfurl, visage screwed up in a look of bliss.

Cregan’s grunts sent shivers throughout your body, warming your insides with their fervor. His cock continued to pound in and out at a steady pace, body snug against yours.

He dared not harm you, executing caution even still, indomitable musculature hunched in over you, enveloping you on every front. As his calloused fingers flicked across your pearl, you shuddered, thighs twitching in response.

You experienced a euphoria like never before, the sensation foreign yet overwhelming, setting every fiber of your being ablaze. Water splashed over the rim of the bathtub, falling onto the stone below.

Each snap of his hips sent you reeling, cock filling you to the brim, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. You moaned, nails digging into his arm; Cregan’s pace did not deviate.

Tantalizing fantasies of putting a babe in you drove him mad, his hand drawing away from your cunt as he placed his palm over your stomach. Gods, you could feel everything — it made you buckle, release swift and white-hot.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a choked sob of ecstasy rippling through your chest. Cregan’s name rolled from your tongue like an incantation that you had committed to memory.

It was then that your husband spilled himself inside of you, aided by the wet clenching of your cunt around him. Ropes of hot, virile seed painted your womb, and you felt him press his forehead against the back of your shoulder.

Tangled, labored breaths filled the space between you both, thin as ever. Cregan did not want to stop — the night was agonizingly young, and his cock stirred within you. “Are you well, wife?” He murmured, stroking along your hip.

“I am perfect,” He could taste your smile, a bright and palpable thing. You felt him move away, momentarily sinking back beneath the water. “I — I was not expecting it to feel so pleasurable.”

“There is plenty more beyond that,” Cregan assured, drawing you back into the wide expanse of his lap, cock nestled against the plane of your stomach. He cupped your jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing your cheek. “Do you require rest?”

A coy expression flickered across your countenance as you let your fingertips playfully ghost across the tip of his length. The sudden blaze within Cregan’s storm-cloud hues had made your heart leap into your throat, excitement replacing exhaustion.

A growl stirred within his chest at your wordless insinuation, and he did not seem to waste a moment of time, hooking an arm around your hips. “Clearly not.” He grunted.

“Do you object?” You murmured, dragging one finger over the plane of his visage, so youthful and unblemished, a contrast to his rugged demeanor. Provoking your husband was a bold choice, one that Cregan respected.

“I do not,” Cregan’s tone was little more than a grumbling of thunder, brows furrowing together as he steeled himself for what would become a lengthy evening. He adjusted your position, the head of his cock kissing your entrance once more. “You will wish for rest when we are finished.”

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

List of Random Things For Your Dark Academia Settings | For Writers

The Library 📚

Towering mahogany bookshelves filled with ancient leather-bound tomes

Antique globes and faded maps mounted on the walls

Heavy velvet drapes blocking out the sunlight

Ornate brass reading lamps casting a warm glow

The musty smell of old books permeating the air

The Study 🪶

A large oak desk strewn with papers, quills, and ink bottles

Walls lined with pinned insect specimens and anatomical drawings

An antique typewriter, its keys clacking softly

Stacks of well-worn leather journals and notebooks

A cabinet of curiosities filled with skulls, fossils, and scientific oddities

The Classroom 🎓

Rows of old wooden desks, surfaces scratched with generations of graffiti

A blackboard covered in elaborate chalk diagrams and Latin phrases

Dusty shelves holding jars of formaldehyde-preserved specimens

Antique microscopes and brass telescopes waiting to be used

The tick-tock of a grandfather clock counting down the minutes

The Dormitory 🕯️

A four-poster bed heaped with tattered quilts and faded velvet pillows

Parquet wood floors layered with antique persian rugs

Flickering candles in tarnished silver holders casting dancing shadows

A steamer trunk overflowing with vintage tweeds and wool knits

Tea-stained pages of love letters and poetry scattered on the nightstand

The Secret Society Meeting Room 🗝️

An imposing stone fireplace with Latin phrases carved into the mantel

Worn leather armchairs circled around a low table set with tarnished silver

The air thick with pipe smoke and burning incense

Shelves lined with ancient masks, ceremonial daggers, and dusty alchemical tomes

Shadows dancing on the tapestry-covered walls in the candlelight

[gfguren]

pro hero!bakugou x fem!reader | fluff, suggestive, husband!katsuki, katsuki implied as being taller than reader, implied age (~late 20's, early 30s~), light-hearted bickering, an excuse to write more domestic!kats, 1.8k | cw: cursing, suggestive

-your husband comes home late, soaking wet and a little bit handsy-

Katsuki is late; you hope traffic isn't too bad. Outside your window the sky is overcast, steely shades of grey over a slate canvas. The roads are dyed an inky charcoal, pooling at the surface where rain drip-drip-pours in endless streams.

You've taken up residence in the foyer, between the linen closet at the end of the hall, and the umbrella Katsuki left by the front door this morning. The very same one you reminded him to take with him at breakfast, and twice again before he left in the evening. If you loved him a little bit less, he might listen to you one day.

But you do—love him—right down to his bad habits and stubborn disposition.

So you wait for him the same way you have for years; perched at the breakfast nook in the corner with a warm cup of tea and a paperback that's been gathering dust for half-a-year now at least. The bar table is worn at the edges, legs wobble if you lean too far forward—frankly, you should have gotten rid of it years ago—but it was the first belonging that wasn't yours, or Katsuki's, but ours; a piece you thrifted when you were both still twenty-something and broke.

The years have changed a lot—our table, our bed, our house, our life. Your Katsuki.

—His wife.

The band around your finger is white gold; it clinks when you put the mug to your lips. Honey, ginger. Sweet. Rain hits the window and falls; two trails meet at the middle, and stick to each other like glue. Katsuki would laugh if he found you right now, smiling into your tea like a lovestruck fool.

You let the ceramic rest, turn to page thirty-or-something of a book that you totally-intend-to-finish. An hour passes before you hear the telltale rumble of an engine.

You spot his headlights first, misty pools of sunlight spilling onto the pavement when he pulls into the driveway. It's well past midnight now; Katsuki is a shadow against the porchlight, long strides and a hand over his crown. You have half a mind to bring the umbrella to him, but he's quicker, ascends the four steps to the veranda in two big leaps; you barely register the rustle of keys before he's stepping into the house, pooling rainwater at the welcome mat.

He's soaked at the shoulders, a grumble in his throat when he kneels to unlace his shoes—black leather, designer and sharp, same as the suit jacket around his shoulders. Tailored to fit him just right.

Katsuki's always been handsome, even as a hero in training renting hand-me-down suits from the little mom-and-pop shop down the street. But it really strikes you just how beautiful he is when you look at him now, dressed to the nines. All the years of hard work paying off in more ways than one.

You go a little fuzzy when he lifts his head to catch you staring; red eyes kindling the air and making it hard to breathe. He's the spitting image of a number two hero, just returned from a long night at some fancy-pants gala; sometimes you forget that's exactly what he is. Even more dumbfounded that, somehow, he's yours.

"I know," he grumbles, moving his shoes to the cabinet and meticulously hanging his jacket over the chair to dry. He briefly eyes the umbrella. "I f'rgot, kay?"

So have you, suddenly.

There's a pause and—"I didn't say anything."

He meets you at the table, one hand at the surface and the other at the knot of his tie. "Y've got that look."

You tip you chin to glare at him playfully. "And what 'look' is that, Bakugou Katsuki?"

"Like y'r about t'chew me up." He pulls the fabric strip from around his neck in one fell swoop, pops the first button of his dress shirt with his thumb. Your eyes fall for only a moment—barely a second—but Katsuki grins with the self-awareness of a man who's known you half his life. "Or about t'jump my bones, hah?"

He looks entirely impish in his revelation, ego flaring to rest in his cheeks; you have half a mind to nip at them like candy floss, instead you reach for the cuffs of his button-up, tidy the sleeves one fold over the other until the rainwater and well-kept muscles catch at the seams. You feign a sigh when his stare becomes too insistent to ignore, hand falling to rest at the peaks of his knuckles. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah." A spark of firelight flashes in his eyes, deep carmine and coy; teasing him was so much easier a decade ago. "I'd let'cha."

You roll your eyes. "You're so unsexy, y'know that?"

"Hah," he barks with all the disbelief in the world. "What? Want me t'do that dirty talkin' shit instead? Jump y'r bones right here at the table? D'n think she'll hold up, baby."

He lets a fraction of his weight fall against the corner and the old wood immediately cries out, splintering oak and creaking hinges and the real, immediate threat that the poor thing might actually collapse at your feet.

You spring up defensively. "Katsuki!"

A once neatly-folded towel tumbles from your lap to land at your toes. His gaze falls; grin widens.

"Said y're gonna make me 'deal with it' next time I forgot the stinkin' umbrella, didn't'cha?" His fingers pinch the fat of your cheeks teasingly. "Love me that much, hah?" Your eyes narrow, fingers dive with intent for the space beneath his ribcage. He's quicker, wraps five fingers around your wrist and pulls you in with a hand at the back of your neck. He breathes, warm against the top of your head—"Missed y'tonight."

You hum against his chest, damp fabric sticking to your cheeks, flush and warm with surprise. You can count the number of times he's been this blunt with his affection on one hand; at least twice being in the presence of an empty champagne glass, or five. "Did you drink?" He gruffs at that—the only indication that he heard you at all. "Katsuki?"

"Come with me next time."

You tilt your chin, brow creasing. His head dips at the sight of the first wrinkle, the way it always does when he's trying to change the subject, or sweeten you up, or get his way in any way, really—a habit you must have taught him because you let him get away with it every single time. It's probably why he looks so offended when you pull back suddenly with a click of your tongue.

"That's not an answer."

"Not a drop," he finally says—huffs—with an almost boyish scowl.

You find yourself stifling a laugh, hand over mouth, and he glares, even as you step away to rustle through the linen closet. His eyes are red hot, brow downturned, downright grumpy, only cooling to a simmer when you're toe to toe once more, fresh towel in hand and lightly waving him down to your level. His spine bows, head dips until you're massaging the soft cotton through his hair; you would have had to fight him on this once—years ago—before time weathered his sharp edges, doused the wildfire raging in his heart until he became the man he is now—irritable, arrogant, stubborn, still, but willing—to make amends for who he was before, to extend a hand where he's able, to let you offer him one in return.

"Chose this one on purpose, didn't'cha?" Katsuki's voice is lukewarm, a tepid grumble at the back of his throat, an almost purr when you dip your fingertips against his nape.

"No idea what you're talking about."—but you do. The towel in question, he means, is from the left side of the closet, your side, all soft cotton and fluff; the same ones he refuses to use, for those very same reasons. "Said they 'd'n dry a damn thing' but-" you drape the supposed 'overrated, overpriced pile'a'fluff' around his shoulders to ruffle his bangs, more wily than usual, and barely damp. "Would y'look at that?"

He snorts, hand falling to the small of your back. "Don't get smart."

"Or what?" you keen up at him, at the balls of your feet, tip toes and still barely nose to nose; they bump once on accident, and twice on purpose. "Huh?"

Warm, exasperated breath fans across your cheeks. "Tryna start somethin' t'night, are ya?"

You bat your lashes, head tilting and fingers splaying across the 'v' of his neckline. "Me? Start something?" Your grin betrays your facade. "And what if I am?"

He pulls you in at the waist, holds you steady with one, strong arm, warm lips at your jaw and low, deep voice in your ear. "Better be ready t'finish it, then."

His right hand comes to rest at the back of your thigh, teases the skin right where your skirt ends; gooseflesh blooms all the way up your spine and you shiver. "Who's jumping bones now, huh?" you bark—yap, like a scaredy-pup with it's tail between it's legs—bite lost somewhere between the callouses on Katuski's fingertips and the press of his hips against your own.

You straighten your shoulders to get a good look at the ego washing over his face like miles of trumpet vine. All consuming, a force to be reckoned with. And devastatingly pretty.

"That'd be me, pretty lady," he says, all kinds of smug and annoying.

You hold him with your stare for an entire second—two, just so you can get a real good look at his stupid, handsome face—and then you're pulling him in by the collar, wrinkling the shirt he'll spend too much on dry-cleaning tomorrow. Not that he seems to mind when your tongue meets his, honey mingling with the mint on his breath and making his head swim, all but forgotten when a hand comes to rest at your waist, heated fingertips beneath your sweater, licking softly at your skin.

He walks you back 'til your thighs hit the table—(it rocks, precariously); one of your hands fall against the surface, the other to his heart that thump-thump-jumps when thunder rumbles through the house, and stills. You smile, soft against his lips, thumb tracing the precipice of his collarbone until your fingers can curl around his spine. The next kiss against his mouth is featherlight, barely there; you sigh, contentedly—"I love you."

Katsuki goes a little hazy, eyes the color of early Autumn; the blazing summer sun reduced to a tealight candle, flickering in the palms of your hands. "Yeah," he chokes. And you know just what he means.

You kiss him then, once more, a little more playful this time; mischievous and coy with a cheeky, "—even though you're totally unsexy."

"So help me, y/n, I will howitzer this table."

[thedreamlessnights]

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it. 

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing. 

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long. 

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path. 

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel. 

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face. 

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch. 

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now. 

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

 “Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.” 

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same. 

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel. 

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best. 

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too. 

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees. 

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?” 

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.” 

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud. 

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything. 

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound. 

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood. 

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?” 

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision. 

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind. 

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething. 

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief. 

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps. 

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him. 

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck. 

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it. 

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand. 

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again. 

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot. 

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment. 

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements. 

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble. 

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire. 

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals. 

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

 You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

[thealbatrovss]

waiting // logan howlett x reader

summary: scott and jean get engaged. logan seems happy for them. but old insecurities start bubbling to the surface.

one shot: angstyyyyyy, insecure reader, happy ending of course, not proofread

word count: 1k+

authors note: getting back into writing so here’s a quick one for ya’ll. Enjoy!!!

masterlist

When he made his way towards her, with a big grin on his face, you had to get out of there.

You bumped past friends and colleagues, weaving through the bodies like a hedge maze. The room closed in. Your stomach was raging with alcohol and fire.

It was so childish. Running away from your friend's own engagement party. This night was about them, not you.

But, Logan wouldn't stop talking about how happy he was for them since they made the announcement. You were happy too. Of course you were. They were like family to you. But, was he really content with everything? Sometimes, thoughts that he was settling would cloud your mind.

You’d only been dating for little over a year now, and well, Jean was still Jean. The Jean he loves. Or loved. It was becoming too hard to tell, your head starting spinning.

The night air hit your face. It was cold, too cold to be out at a time like this. But at least there was space. Space to hold yourself on the mansion's steps and think about everything swirling in your mind.

You knew holding her up on this pedestal wasn’t fair to her, to Logan and especially yourself. But sometimes, wounds that were once sealed up and packed away, came around visiting again.

He spent years harboring feelings for her. You just stood there and watched it. Until one day, you were grabbing a late night snack from the kitchen and saw Logan sitting at the table.

And he was no longer sulking. No longer chasing after someone who was always going to pick someone else. He smiled, and told you to sit and have a beer with him.

It wasn’t an odd request. You too were friends after all. But, you ended up spending the entire night talking. You asked him about his past and he was completely honest. He asked you about yours, barely ever looking away from you as you rambled on. Logan had a soft smile on his face the entire time you talked.

The two of you moved closer together as the night progressed into the early morning. By the time students began pouring in for breakfast, your chairs and shoulders were touching. He walked you to your room that day, asked you out to dinner. You had your first date at a bar. Jalapeno poppers and chicken sandwiches. The waiter accidentally spilt his tray of drinks on Logan trying to squeeze through the aisle.

When Logan kissed you for the first time in his car, you could feel the sticky drinks stuck to his leather jacket and skin.

The door creaked open behind you. Footsteps stopped at the steps above. You could smell that familiar wood and cigar smoke. It has stuck to you ever since that night in his car. “Its fucking freezing out here.”

You brushed away a fresh well of tears, hoping they’d dry quickly so he couldn’t tell. “You’re right about that.” You sniffed. But it was your voice that gave it away.

“Whats going on?” He sat down next to you. “Could you look at me?” He moved your hair away from your face, fingers grazing the wet skin. He paused. “Can you please talk to me? Why are you crying?”

You tried brushing his hand away, making yourself smaller against the stone wall. You pushed the side of your face into the rock, like it would magically make you disappear.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know whats going on.”

“I’m just drunk.” You tried to play it off. Not good enough.

Logan shook his head. “No. That's bullshit. You’ve been acting weird all day.”

The air kept getting colder. You started shivering. Logan cursed underneath his breath, taking his jacket off and draped it over your shaking shoulders. The simple gesture made you feel even smaller. “Do you ever wish things could be different?”

Logan looked at you confused. “What kinds of things?”

You sat up, knees facing away from your boyfriend. “The people you let into your life.”

“No.” He answered quickly. “I only let in people who let in me. Like you.” He smiled at the memory of spilt beer and messy kisses in the parking lot. “So no. Why? Do you?”

You huffed. “I find that hard to believe and I hate myself for it.”

Logan sat there bewildered. You’d always been open and honest with him about everything. You even opened up to him about your insecurities surrounding his relationship with Jean the first few months into dating. The realization washed over him as he watched the party goers mingle inside. “You still think I have feelings for Jean.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

The wind picked up, sending its sharp claws against your wet cheeks. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“No. I just don’t understand.” He sighed. “Why would you think that? I’m with you. I wouldn’t be if I didn’t want to be.”

The drinks settling in your stomach did the talking for you. “Well, if she wasn't with him things would be a lot different, wouldn’t they?” Your tone was as cold as the wind. You didn’t mean it to be.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You gripped his jacket tight around you. Holding onto it like you did when you first kissed. “Sometimes, it’s hard to accept your love.”

He didn’t respond, just let you continue. His hand started rubbing circles on your back.

“I feel like I’m taking something that isn’t mine.” Maybe if you were sober you could explain it better, but you carried on. “Or, I’m just holding my breath. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

You’d feel more embarrassed without the alcohol running through your veins. But you sat there as tall as you could. Letting the insecurities bubble out in circles of angry shades of red. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real. It was what you’ve been bottling up for years now. “Waiting for it to go to its true destination.”

Logan looked up at the night sky. The wind ruffled his short hair. He looked so handsome in that all black suit he wore. One that you picked out just for him. He chuckled to himself, his eyes finding yours with a piercing gaze. He faced those words, seeing past the surface.

“I loved Jean once. That's the truth. But I’ve loved people before her. I’ve been alive for a long time.” He moved strains of hair from your face, resting his hand on your cheek. “But here’s another truth. I love you. Can’t you see that? Right here and now?”

You could see the genuine look in his eyes. You could always see it.

“And that’s not something I just give away. It’s also taken from me. You’ve taken it from me. And I’ve never been happier for you to have it, like I have yours.”

You nodded, sniffling. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, pulling you against his chest. “Don’t be. Just maybe next time, talk to me about this instead of holding it all in.”

You buried your head into his chest. Voice muffled against the dark fabric. “Says Mr. Wall builder himself.”

Logan kissed your head, fighting back the wind and a fit of laughter. “You got me there.”

[moonlight-prose]

smoke and ash

a/n: this is based entirely on a post made by the amazing @cavillscurls and i was given permission to write it for her cause the idea actually made my brain go numb. plus just the thought of this man having an oral fixation paired with someone who also has an oral fixation?? beautiful. filthy. spectacular. it's quickly written cause i had the inspo at the time and really didn't want to lose it. so enjoy!

summary: cigar smoke trailed after him with every step, his mouth always desperate for something to wet, something to bite down on. and you with the match between your teeth indulged him every which way.

word count: 1.4k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, oral fixation, spit kink, choking, dry humping, desperate!logan, overstimulation, cigars, they're fucking messy, dirty talk.

A dark stain of saliva coated the base of a match as you sat sprawled on his leather couch. Your teeth dug into it, creating an indent that would last until you decided it was time to strike the phosphorus and let it burn down. Sometimes they snapped. Other times you tossed them in the trash. Tonight you were intent on lighting it up—solely for the cigar currently stuffed in between his own lips.

He sucked at the end thoughtfully most nights. Glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a book he'd read a hundred times over propped in one hand—whiskey in his other. Half of it was already burnt through. Used within the span of a few days before stubbed out and saved.

“Interesting story?”

The soft hum was all he offered, his eyes flicking back and forth between the lines even though he could recite the words from memory. The pages were worn from use, spine cracked every which way, and you often considered buying him a new copy. If just to give the story a chance to breathe in his mind. Sink beneath the depths of memories that still floated along the surface—seeking to ruminate in the cracks of chaos.

“Logan.”

“Bub?”

“What does it taste like?”

At last he looked up, eyebrows lifted and fingers moving to drag the sticky wet cigar out of his mouth. “This?”

You nodded. “Good or bad or…”

“Better than those fuckin’ matches,” he scoffed, pointedly glaring at the splintered wood between your teeth—a nervous habit you had yet to kick. “C’mere and find out.”

Scrambling off the couch a bit too quickly, you found yourself perched in his lap, legs straddling his hips with a smile painted across your lips. He removed the match, flicking it into the discarded ashtray with contempt—happy to have your mouth empty and waiting. Only to place the soaked butt against your tongue, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip at the sight. You always imagined what the flavor resembled. Until it finally dawned on you.

This is how it tasted to kiss him. The bitter tang of the cigar muted by the flavor of the whiskey he drank and the mints he chewed in his spare time. You sucked on the remnants of his saliva, your mind lighting up at the feel of it. Of having something stuck between your lips, a thing you could fixate on.

“Taste’s like me don’t it?”

You nodded, shifting against his body as the first spark of heat began to slowly meld with the rest of your senses.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, the book forgotten to the side in favor of his hand sliding along your throat, thumb catching just beneath your chin. “Suck on it harder yeah? Want it to taste like ya when I smoke it again.”

A whine cracked in the back of your throat, your hips catching on the zipper of his jeans. “What about you?”

The mumbled words caused spit to drool down to your chin, his eyes tracking the slide of it with a heavy gaze. He wanted to lick it up. Swallow down what you offered. But the sight kept him transfixed—your tongue sliding along the end of the cigar as if it were his cock. Soaking it in your taste enough to drive him a bit closer to the edge, his other hand suddenly a harsh grip on your ass.

“I got what I need,” he replied with ease. “Yeah?”

You nodded, catching the glaze of desire in his dilated pupils. He wanted more than an empty mouth. The cigars appeased a side of him no one saw, a man who ached for something to bite down on, someone to taste even in the most mundane of ways. He was your guard dog looking to chew, to gnaw, even if spit flew out of his mouth with a feral edge of desperation. And with a grin, you stuffed three fingers into his mouth right down to the knuckle.

He took them with a moan, tongue laving over the length of them as his hips bucked up into yours. The hot cavern of his mouth and wet slide of his tongue drew out a sound you never knew you could make. A biting grunt that made spit fly everywhere, splattering against his cheek to mix with his own.

Ripping the cigar from your mouth, you hastily licked around his full mouth. “Suck harder for me baby.”

They met the back of his throat, choking him enough to force his head back. His eyes rolled, nostrils flared, and for a moment you felt the power dynamic shift. You were in charge. Telling him what to do to appease the ache of pleasure growing in the pit of your stomach. And it might have lasted. He very well could have given you complete submission if it weren’t for the lack of the cigar in your mouth.

A growl rumbled up from his chest, eyes flashing dark enough to send a thrill down your spine, and before you could fix your mistake he rectified it for you. Three fingers—to match your own—were pushed harshly against your tongue, hooking behind your teeth to drag your face closer to his. You didn’t need to hear him to know what he wanted.

The intent blazed in his hazel eyes well enough: suck.

Through the haze of wanton lust you felt his hand begin to guide your hips along his crotch. The bulge of his cock straining against denim, pushing the metal zipper up for your clit to catch on each time. Clad in his flannel and cotton panties, you found yourself plummeting towards the burning ache that built faster than you could comprehend.

You ripped your hand from his mouth, burying the spit soaked fingers into his hair to grip him close. But it never remained enough. He wanted to delve beneath your skin. Seek the warmth that seeped from your body where his fingers kneaded and pushed to drag you to a fro. His teeth latched onto your shoulder, the sweater pulled to the side while his fingers met the back of your throat, choking you with their size.

A cry slipped past his knuckles as you humped his clothed cock—dragging yourself inch by inch towards the release you could practically taste. It clung to the tip of your tongue—the saccharine flavor intertwined with the tobacco musk of his fingers. You swallowed around them, drool spilling down your throat and pooling at the top of your breasts.

“That’s it,” he gasped, a line of bites trailing right to the juncture of your neck, his spit smeared across your skin. “Gonna cum for me?”

You whined harshly, body going taut as your clit pulsed rapidly with the impending wave of bliss that tugged sharply on your spine. The pain of his teeth puncturing hard enough to draw blood dragged a knife through the thin strand  of resistance. And you came with his name at the back of your throat and white bursting behind tightly shut eyelids.

“Yes. Fuck–” His growl ran down the length of your spine, body trembling in his tight grasp. “That’s my girl.”

Unconsciously your nails punctured the skin at the back of his neck and with a jolt, he groaned long and ragged against your throat. A dark wet patch formed beneath his jeans as you soaked him with a spit filled cry. The pleasure wrung your body dry, pulling the final dregs of your energy straight from the source. Your chest heaved, mouth a gentle suckle at the very base of his fingers, and Logan could feel you begin to collapse forward into his chest.

“You really like when your mouth is filled,” he mused, lips curling into a smile.

Nodding, your voice was a content hum—his fingers dragging at the back of your teeth, tracing their shape. A kiss was pressed to your head, body slumping further into the chair with you atop him.

“Gonna get you some more matches in the mornin’,” he mumbled lazily. “My pretty girl needs a treat for being so good.”

Your heart fluttered, eyes glistening with the devotion you’d never dare to hide. The love that burned with the power of an eternal flame. Settling into his body, you felt his hand drag along the expanse of your thigh. Calming the storm in his mind—a catastrophe you longed to weather with him.

You were the balm to his weathered soul.

A permanent fixation of smoke and ash that surrounded his charred and splintered heart that burned for you.

[harryslittlefreakk]

the one

summary: y/n runs into the last person she ever expected to see in the last place she ever expected to see him, bringing old feelings & hurt to the surface. based on the prompt: childhood friends to lovers

warnings: light angst, made up town, CHEESY writing, smut that’s more making love than fucking

wordcount: 4.7k

a/n: hi guys 💘 long time no see!!! GO EASY on me im rusty!!!

masterlist

The heavy wooden door creaked as it swung shut behind you, sealing out the bitter November wind with a low groan. Inside, the warm glow of amber lights bathed the room, casting long shadows over the oak bar and a few worn leather stools scattered around it. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and a faint hint of wood smoke. A couple of locals sat quietly at a table near the back, their low voices blending with the soft hum of an old jukebox playing a slow, bluesy tune.

“Thank God,” you muttered, the day’s tension melting from your face as the warm air settled around you. You let your head roll back, savoring the first reprieve from the cold. The chill that had reddened your cheeks and numbed your fingers slowly eased, the warmth brushing over your skin.

Winter was settling into Windermere, and you’d never gotten used to it. Your parents found a strange charm in the grey skies and biting winds, bundling up and going about their routines. But for you, it felt suffocating. Each year, November swept in like an unwelcome guest, forcing the town to become even smaller, with people huddled indoors, glancing suspiciously at anyone passing by.

The town seemed cloaked in silence, broken only by the crackle of fires and the crunch of frozen leaves underfoot. It was a season that left no room for secrets, not when every movement was magnified in the stillness. With everyone tucked away, the chances of slipping by unnoticed were slim, forcing your teenage rebellion to thrive in only the rarest pockets of solitude, under the cover of long, dark nights.

“Please, just something hot,” you said, voice weary as you rubbed your hands together, trying to coax warmth back into them.

The bartender eyed you for a moment, one eyebrow raised in amusement as he planted his hands on the bar.

“Didn’t think I���d be seeing you,” he mused, reaching down to grab another glass.

Your head snapped up so quickly that your neck clicked, and you rubbed the sore spot as a frown knit your brow. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. He was older, scruffier, and somehow more devastatingly handsome than the last time you’d seen him. You blinked a few times, half-expecting him to be some kind of apparition conjured by the cold. But he was real. Your Harry was really standing in front of you, in the last place you’d ever thought you’d find him.

“I didn’t- I tried to find you,” you stammered, your voice catching as your gaze drifted over him.

He was taller now, his once-wild curls a little more tamed. Those same green eyes that seemed to cut straight through into your soul. His sweater clung just enough to his arms to hint at the strength beneath, and tattoos traced up both arms in intricate, dark patterns, curling from his wrists to disappear under the fabric, each one telling a story of the years he'd spent without you.

The decade you’d missed was written across him in lines and ink, yet somehow, seeing him now made you feel like that eighteen-year-old again, waiting for her best friend to realize he loved her too.

“If you’d looked hard enough, you would have,” Harry muttered, his eyes trailing over your face, taking in the flush of cold still lingering on your cheeks. Your lips pressed into a tight line as you dropped your gaze to the worn wood of the bar. You couldn’t tell him that you hadn’t found him because you hadn’t wanted to.

He was a reminder of a version of yourself you’d left behind - a girl who thought she had to earn love instead of knowing she deserved it.

He stood there, still holding the empty glass, his gaze traveling over every inch of you he could see. His eyes lingered on your hands for a moment, his expression hardening before he turned away.

Even through his sweater, you could see his back muscles tense, a reminder of just how much had changed. The unmistakable clink of ice hitting glass sent an involuntary chill down your spine, though you blamed it on the cold draft from the door. But deep down, you knew it was Harry’s presence that stirred something old and haunting within you.

He turned back to you after a few minutes, setting a mug of hot cocoa down in front of you. His hand was steady, but there was an unmistakable tension in his shoulders as he slid the glass toward you.

"Exactly how we used to have it. On the house," he said, voice low, eyes flicking briefly to meet yours before returning to a spot just over your shoulder. You hesitated, your fingers wrapping around the glass, the warmth dancing across your skin.

“Christ. Thanks,” you murmured, taking a sip. The burn of whiskey flooded your throat, a welcome contrast to the chill that had settled deep in your bones.

He still didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what you’d been doing all these years. Didn’t ask why you’d come back. There was a time when you were sure he’d have asked, a time when he would have read every expression, every flicker in your eyes as easily as a page in a book. But now, the silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, woven from years of things left unsaid.

"Heard you were getting married,” Harry said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear. The words were hesitant, almost vulnerable, but his eyes had a guarded edge, as if they were holding back an ocean of questions. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, almost as if to steady himself.

“Not anymore,” you told him with a soft shake of your head, your voice barely carrying over the soft hum of the jukebox. You couldn’t help the way your eyes drifted over him, noting the subtle lines at the corners of his eyes, the quiet weight he seemed to carry now, like shadows that hadn’t been there before. He was still Harry - but this version of him was one you didn’t know. Or maybe it was you who didn’t know herself anymore.

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t know you stayed here, Harry.”

It was true. You didn’t know anything about him. You’d never asked your parents, though they would definitely be privy to what was going on in his life. They knew that whatever had or hadn’t happened between the two of you had contributed to the way you left, so they had made no attempt to keep you updated.

“I didn’t. Came back for my grandma’s funeral and the pub was about to be sold to a chain but no one could afford to take it on. So I did,” he shrugged, his eyes dropping to his feet as he spoke.

You sat back a little, memories of afternoons spent at this very pub flooding your mind. Trying to sneak notes out of the tip jar, Harry coercing his grandma to pass you both shots. “She loved it here,” you whispered, a soft smile on your lips as you traced a finger along the bar. “I had no idea she passed Harry. I’m so sorry.”

“Forty years of her life behind this bar,” Harry nodded solemnly, his jaw tense. “I couldn’t let it go.”

There was a glimmer of the Harry you knew when he said that. It was the part of him that first drew you in. He was cheeky, stubborn, but his loyalty to his family was unmatched. Beneath the external rebellion, he was sentimental and kind, the first to fiercely defend any of his loved ones, the last to leave one behind.

You had no idea how you’d ended up so disconnected from him. You’d only spent five minutes in his presence, but it felt like the first five minutes you’d ever spent with him.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The silence was loaded, more meaningful than any small talk you could have tried to fill it with. It felt as though one wrong word would break whatever fragile truce had settled between you.

Finally, Harry sighed, leaning his forearms against the bar, hands fidgeting with a bottle cap, rolling it over and over between his fingers.

“You left,” he said softly, as if the words themselves had been weighing him down. “And I waited, you know? For a while. I thought you’d come back. And then, when you didn’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

There was a long pause, each word sinking heavily in the quiet room, reverberating through you. You felt a pang of guilt - maybe shame - at hearing his side of it laid bare, the rawness in his voice making it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t know how to exist here,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt flimsy, inadequate, but they were all you had. “I needed to figure out how to do it on my own.”

“And did you?” he asked, something sharp and almost accusing in his tone.

You hesitated, because you weren’t sure how to answer that. Had you? The years had passed, but you weren’t sure you’d changed as much as you thought you would. You’d found your independence, learned to stand on your own - but there was still a part of you that had never let him go, that had held onto the version of Harry you’d left behind.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, the words tasting bitter. “I thought being back here would answer that for me.”

You turned away from him, your heart pounding as you glanced around the pub, taking it in. “It’s changed a lot in here,” you mumbled, never feeling less at home than you did in that moment.

“The whole town has changed.” Harry shrugged, his jaw tense as his eyes followed yours.

The atmosphere had shifted when you turned back to face him, an unmistakable tension settling between you. Harry’s gaze was hard, guarded and defensive, like he was bracing himself against something.

“That’s not a good reason to leave.”

“What?”

“That’s not a good reason to leave,” he repeated, arms folding over his chest. “Are you staying?”

“For now.”

“You hurt a lot of people,” he continued, his tone harsh, bitterness dripping from each word.

“I spent my entire teenage years thinking about everyone else. Selfishness isn’t a crime,” you shot back, pushing your empty mug towards him.

“It’s not. But that doesn’t stop it hurting people.”

You narrowed your eyes, leaning your forearms against the bar. “People, or you?”

Harry looked past you at the last patrons filing out, circling around the bar to see them out and lock the door behind them. The silence was thick, stretching through the distance between you.

“People,” he answered finally, those green eyes not quite meeting yours. How had it gotten to a point where you openly lied to each other? A tiny part of you thought that if you ever crossed paths again, you’d fall into your old routine, Harry with the cheeky grin and bad ideas, you with the doe eyes and willingness to follow his every move.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” you mumbled, pushing yourself off the stool.

“No.”

“What?”

“No.” Harry stalked back to the bar, a heavy hand slamming a bottle of whiskey down in front of you. “Have a drink with me, and tell me the truth. You owe me that much.”

You swallowed hard, your body tensing as he sat down next to you. “The truth?”

“Whatever was so bad that you had to leave without even saying goodbye.” His eyes were dark as you looked up at him, his fingers drumming against the bar.

“It’s not even important anymore,” you sighed, feeling the lie settle heavy in your chest. You took a swig of the whiskey, shivering as the heat slipped down your throat, trying to steady yourself. But he was watching you too closely, reading you like an open book. Before you could react, he tugged the bottle from your hands, his chin dropping to his chest.

"Pull the other one," he said, voice low. "Whatever happened kept you away for a decade. Did someone hurt you?"

You almost laughed, bitter and tired. He was looking at you now, his gaze sharp and searching, like he was ready to drag the truth out of you no matter what it cost. But you were lost in your own head, your eyes tracing the tattoos winding down his forearms, lingering on the familiar lines and symbols. He was exactly the man you had always imagined he’d become - steady, solid, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But you had never expected to see it like this, up close, with your own eyes.

You reached for the whiskey, snatching it back from him and knocking it back with a grimace. “It was you, Harry.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and unguarded. “Fuck. I realized I’d put my whole life on hold, waiting for you to notice me.”

He froze, his hand suspended in the air, and for a second, there was no sound but the creak of the barstool as he shifted, the slow tick of the clock on the wall. He scratched his head, his eyes falling shut as your words sank in. You could see him wrestling with it, with everything that had been left unsaid all these years.

“And running away was better than just telling me?” His voice was softer now, hurt creeping into the edges, and it made something twist painfully in your chest.

You shook your head, feeling a thousand things you could never say. “How was I supposed to tell you? Hi, Harry, my good friend, I love you, and I’m about to devote my life to you.”

“Something like that,” he muttered, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair, shoulders slumping as he finally met your eyes. The silence stretched again, thick with years of missed chances and the weight of what could’ve been.

You both sat there, lost in the quiet. It felt fragile, this moment, like the whole world could split open with one wrong word.

“It wasn’t just that,” you muttered, watching your feet swinging under the stool. “I couldn’t exist here anymore. It gets to a point where it’s suffocating.”

“But you really couldn’t just tell me?”

You met his gaze, feeling the warmth rise to your cheeks, your face hot with the blush that spread across your skin. His dark eyes held you, unblinking, and the weight of everything unspoken made your heart pound. He leaned forward, the faintest crease appearing between his brows, as if he was bracing himself for something he’d waited too long to hear. You tried to look away, tried to hide the vulnerability in your expression, but his gaze was unrelenting, drawing the words out of you.

“I don’t wanna talk about it anymore,” you said, voice tight with restraint. You tried to keep your tone casual, but you could feel the way it trembled, betraying you.

“Why?” he asked, leaning closer, his face serious. His jaw clenched, a flicker of frustration in his eyes that he tried to temper. It was like he already knew what you were going to say, yet he needed to hear it from you, needed confirmation for the ache that had been buried under years of silence.

You took a shaky breath, steeling yourself. “It’s embarrassing, H.” Your eyes darted away, unable to face the intensity of his gaze. “I changed my whole life because of a crush. I moved somewhere where no one knew me because I was scared of everyone here knowing me too well. I got engaged to the first man I properly loved, and he still didn’t match up to you.”

Harry’s face softened, but he looked pained, his lips parting as though to speak. The vulnerability in his expression was raw, his shoulders stiffened with all the things he had wanted to say, to ask. But when he reached for you, you placed a hand over his, silencing him for a little while longer.

“I thought about you every day for ten years,” you said, feeling the words tear from your throat, your eyes bright with unspilled tears. “And now we’re just sitting here like strangers. Do you get that?”

He let out a bitter laugh, a rough, quiet sound that cut through the stillness. He leaned forward, elbows braced against the bar as if he needed the support to hold himself together. “Do I get it?” he repeated, his voice low and raw, his brows drawn in with years of buried pain. “I’ve lived the same ten years as you, except I didn’t get the privilege of knowing where the fuck you went or why.”

He looked down at your hand over his, and his fingers slowly closed around yours, his grip warm and strong. He was still, tension held tight in the curve of his shoulders, in the soft way his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, as if afraid the moment might slip away. He shifted closer, the space between you shrinking, and his other hand rose slowly to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin.

“What the hell are you doing?” you whispered, breath catching in your throat. You could feel your pulse quicken, every nerve alight with the nearness of him, with the intensity in his eyes, softening into something tender, something hesitant and aching.

“What I should’ve done years ago,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned in, his eyes searching yours until the last second, like he was giving you a chance to pull away, to stop him. But you didn’t. His lips met yours, hesitant and gentle, as though he were savoring every second, every taste. You could feel him melt into the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The moment you kissed him back, he exhaled against you, letting go of some tightly held breath, and the kiss deepened, grew more urgent. His hands moved down to your waist, strong and steady, pulling you closer against him. You could feel the heat between you, the years of longing pouring into this single kiss.

When he finally pulled away, his breaths came rough and shallow. Without a word, he tugged his sweater over his head, baring his skin, the tattoos winding over his chest and arms like stories you’d never gotten to read. Your fingers traced along them, the tip of your nail gliding over the ink, and you could feel his pulse quicken under your touch.

He smiled faintly, but his expression grew serious again as he leaned down, brushing his lips along the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His arms wrapped around you, his hands sliding down to your hips, lifting you up onto the bar with ease. You gasped softly, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist as he tugged your skirt up, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

In that moment, you were no longer strangers. His face softened, his eyes warm and almost reverent as he looked at you, a quiet promise in his touch that maybe, finally, there was nothing left between you but the truth.

Harry’s mouth found your inner thigh, his teeth clamping down on the sensitive skin. “That’s for leaving me behind,” he murmured, his breath warm against the sting. He moved to the other one, his teeth nipping at you for a second time. “And that’s for making me wait a fucking decade.”

Your breath comes out in shallow moans, your hands planted on his shoulders. That damn butterfly tattoo, the one he’d always told you he would get, almost taking flight as he pants against you, his eyes darkened with lust.

He leaned in closer to your core as you widened your legs, his nose nudging against the wet spot on your panties.

“Ten fucking years,” he repeated, his voice husky. He looked up at you with a plea in his eyes, waiting for you to allow or deny his next move.

“Please,” you whispered, your hips bucking against him as he reached out, pulling your panties aside with a quick hand.

Your gaze landed on the window, the dim lights practically inviting passers-by to peep inside and catch you in the act. But when Harry’s mouth found your slick, you couldn’t bring yourself to care, for the first time in your life - whether you became the town gossip or not.

His movements were rough and unrelenting, his fingers spreading you open as his tongue flicked against your clit, appreciative murmurs vibrating against your skin.

As if he could read your mind, his thumb took over the pressure on your clit, rubbing circles against the nerves as you writhed. His tongue licked at your slick with an intensity you’d never know before, his free hand slipping under your jumper to grip at the curve of your waist. Tingles spread from his touch, the lust taking over your body as pressure built in your core.

Without warning, Harry pulled away, pulling your legs around his waist as he stood up. A needy whine fell from your lips as your high dissipated, the soft skin of his abs rubbing against your entrance.

“You made me wait. You can’t handle it now?” he murmured, his lips warm against your neck, the whiskey still hot on his breath.

He took the stairs two at a time, the ancient wood creaking under his feet. You looked around the apartment as Harry weaved through the dark, brushing against tables and knocking over a stray glass, too focused to care. The room smelled faintly of him - whiskey, smoke, and that earthy, familiar scent you couldn’t place. It was messy, cluttered with books and clothes, but your heart warmed with an odd sense of belonging the moment you crossed the threshold. Your clothes came off at some point during the journey, a trail of knits and underwear reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel’s, but one that would only lead you to the person you were before you knew how it felt to be fucked by Harry Styles.

He stumbled slightly, caught himself, and half-laughed, his hands steady on you as he dropped you onto the bed. You landed with a gentle bounce, your heart racing, heat building in your chest. You needed to pinch yourself in case it was all a sick dream. All those days of stolen glances and lingering touches that meant nothing and everything, all those years wondering where he was and what lucky woman hadn’t run away from him.

For all those years, you’d told yourself he was stuck in your head because of the what ifs. What if you stayed, what if you’d forged a life together, what if you hadn’t acted on hormone-driven impulses.

Harry was intense, magnetic in a way that made it impossible to look away, but the idea of actually being with him had always felt like a distant dream. And yet, there he was, breathing ragged and close, his weight settling beside you, hands resting on either side of your head as he held you in place with a gaze that felt as if it could unravel you.

“You really want this, don’t you?” he asked, voice low and edged with that same maddening confidence that had drawn you to him in the first place. His tone was challenging, almost taunting, but there was something vulnerable lurking in his eyes.

You took a breath, feeling a knot in your chest loosen as you nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Always have.”

His smirk softened for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face, and you could sense the weight of all the things he’d never said hanging thick in the air. He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours, and this time, there was nothing held back - no restraint, no hesitation. Just an undeniable pull between you, finally given permission to break free.

“One condition,” Harry rasped, leaning down to press kisses across your bare chest. “When you leave, you keep in contact this time.”

“I will, Harry. I swear. If I leave,” you grinned up at him, your nails scratching at the base of his head.

A low chuckle escaped his lips as he traced a path down to your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. “If?” he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and disbelief. He pulled back slightly, catching your gaze with a look that was both playful and deadly serious. “I’m not planning on giving you a reason to run.”

You felt the weight of his words, the lost time between you settling heavy in the air. He wasn’t going to make it easy.

“I won’t this time, I promise,” you whispered, fingers tightening around his neck, pulling his lips to yours, praying your kiss would convey how deeply sure you were.

Harry looked at you for a long moment when he pulled away, studying your face as if trying to memorize every detail, as though he wasn’t sure you’d really stay.

His eyes dropped to your tits as he reached down to stroke his cock, pulling his lower lip into his mouth as his thumb grazed over the wet slit.

You pawed at him impatiently, biting back the whimpers that threatened to spill out of you as he lined himself up at your entrance with one last look into your eyes.

You felt your life altering in front of you, your trajectory changing to what it could’ve been a decade before, fate pulling you and Harry back onto the same path, the one your should’ve always been on.

But when he pushed himself into you, that familiar pressure tinged with pain, the feeling of being filled like his cock was the missing fucking piece - your mind was clear. You wrapped yourself around him, your body fighting to be as close to him as possible, your moans syncing to his thrusts.

“Harry,” you whimpered, mouth falling open as his free hand found your clit again, drawing your body back to how close it had been to climax.

“I know, baby girl. I know,” he rasped, his voice strained as he fucked into you, his thumb unrelenting as it worked at your bud, his strong body overpowering yours.

Your hips bucked into him, your legs starting to quiver around his waist as you writhed and jerked, your moans mixing with the deafening slaps of skin-on-skin contact.

“It’s mine, this is mine,” Harry growled, his possession tipping you over the edge. His. That was all you’d ever wanted to be.

Your orgasm came on strong, your body tingling and tensing from your head to your toes, your fingers clamping around his shoulders, your back arched into his chest.

Your walls were fluttering around him, your pussy desperate to milk him for all he had.

His thrusts grew sloppier, his control slipping as he stared down at you, committing the image of your high to memory, the first thing he’d want his mind to see when he woke, the last thing he’d see before sleeping. His hand slipped under you to the curve of your ass, angling your hips to allow him deeper, his cock hitting spaces you didn’t even know you had.

“This is just the warm up,” he grunted, pulling his cock from you at the last minute, his come spilling onto your chest, your lips curling into a smirk.

“I think there’ll be plenty more of that,” you whispered, pulling his lips back onto yours, barely unable to kiss him with the smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

mehhh i don’t know about this one … but ive been itching to post something 👉🏼👈🏼🥹

taglist: : @angeldavis777 @softestqueeen @jerseygirlinca @palmettogal508 @drewsephrry @austiebuttbutt @indigo24hughes @peterparkerbae @im-an-overthinker r @daphnesutton @loveableidioticweirdo @tenaciousperfectionunknown @swag13r @ashleighsss @tswiftsgf @chesthairrry @nikkisimps @hannah9921 @lilfreakjez @prettygurl-2009 @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @indierockgirrl @cicicavill7 @cohnfusedarling @ell0ra-br3kk3r @stylesfever @stylesbrock @harry-nialllover @triski73 @meetmeintheemeraldpool @harryshousewitnessprotection @danaehldy @fairytale07 @storyschanging @wannaliveinparadise @mrs-anna-styles211994 @mema10 @fangirl509east @devilsqueen722 @harrrrystylesslut

[porcelian]

HERO FOR A DAY

PAIRING: jason todd ✗ gn!reader ;

SYNOPSIS: in which you don your vigilante boyfriends helmet ;

WARNINGS: none ;

WORD COUNT: 0.4k ;

NOTES: rushed, i just wanted to post something lol. i only realised that the phone keyboard has different " “ (end quotes)

── .✦ NAVIGATION ; MASTERLIST.

THE GOLDEN HUE OF THE EVENING SUN SPREADS THROUGH THE ROOM. Yours and Jason's shared apartment is bathed in comfortable bliss, the only sound being your quiet humming that fills the tranquil space. The warmth of the day lingers in the air, wrapping itself around you like a soft, cozy blanket.

Usually, you have Jason all to yourself. But today is different. You wander from room to room in a daze, every little thing pulling your thoughts back to him. The memories fill you with giddy anticipation.

The strawberries in the refrigerator remind you of the strawberry pie he made just a few days ago; the small, polka-dot cup he bought for you sits snugly between the other glasses; his red jacket, which you wore on your last date, hangs by the door; and his worn-out hoodie drapes lazily over the chair in the bedroom.

Speaking of the bedroom, Jason's—or rather, the Red Hood's—all-too-recognizable helmet rests temptingly on the dresser. A little too temptingly.

Your hands instinctively reach for the cold, smooth surface of the helmet, the deep red of it almost hypnotizing. Your eyes lock with the helmet’s white, angular lenses, which seem to stare back at you, looking a little too grumpy for your taste.

An idea quickly forms in your mind—a truly devious idea.

You wonder what it would be like to be the notorious Red Hood for a day. Excitement buzzes through your veins at the thought. Your wonderful and oh-so-sweet boyfriend is in for quite the surprise.

*****

Jason walked through the front door, his eyes immediately catching sight of you sprawled across the couch, his Red Hood helmet perched awkwardly on your head. He paused for a moment, arms crossed, an amused smirk spreading across his face.

“You know, I didn’t realize I had competition,” Jason said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Fully aware of how ridiculous you looked, you deepened your voice in the worst impression of him possible. “Fear not, citizens. Red Hood is here to save the day!”

Jason chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and strolling toward you. “Save the day? You can barely hold your head up in that thing.”

You tipped the helmet back just enough to flash him a playful grin. “Hey, I’m doing just fine. Maybe you’re just jealous because I look better in it.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, and in one smooth motion, gently tugged the helmet off your head. “Yeah, well,” he murmured, leaning down, “I like you better without it.”

Before you could respond, he slipped his leather jacket off and draped it over your shoulders, his smirk softening into something more affectionate. You sank into the warmth of it, pulling the jacket closer around you, while Jason dropped onto the couch beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

“Looks like I’m the one saving the day,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

© ROBINSFILM ﹕ I do not give consent for my writing to be posted or used on any other platforms without my permission and proper credit.

[oukabarsburgblr]

come a little closer so you can fuck me better

It was the third quarter of a semester. Where college students crammed their heads in trying to understand 200+ slides of lecture before their test the next morning. Assignments deadlines approaching and quizzes seemed never ending. That was the case for almost all students and one of the courses taking the heavy hitters was engineering.

(m/n) (l/n) had been away from his friends, closer to his groupmates, scrambling to finish their lab reports before the submission link was closed. He unfortunately had to give half-assed replies to most of his associates, especially his two love interests.

They had something, affectionate and it ran deep but the (h/c) never made a choice between the sun and the moon.

He didn't expect any visitors when a knock echoed on his wooden door to his room. (m/n), lax in shorts and a plain t-shirt opened it to find Daisuke smiling at him, a box of food in his hand.

"Figured you haven't had dinner yet." His dimples carved into his cheeks as he smiled, his dark-hued eyes gleaming down at his beloved.

(m/n) smiled at him, bags forming under his own (e/c) eyes as he hugged the ravenette. "Already ate some leftovers but that's nice of you." "Really? Then just keep these in your pantry." He meant the shared pantry of his house, a section of his block on the same floor, which (m/n) did not prefer using since housemates always stole his shit.

"I'll just stuff it in Haru's freezer." "Where is he?" (m/n) invited Daisuke in, the ravenette tugging off his shoes, taking off his leather jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the corner of the shared room.

(m/n) slid back onto the chair, facing his desk as he picked up his tablet pen, continuing to write numbers and equations on the surface of his gadget. "He went home. Said he had a concert to catch." "In exam season?" "Dude's crazy."

Haru was (m/n)'s roommate, a tall quiet blonde who was with the (h/c) way back since preschool. He always disliked (m/n) bringing his so-called lovers into his room, especially Sousuke." A racket from his doorknow followed by annoying and fast knocks on his door.

(m/n) was about to stand once again but Daisuke beat him to it, pulling the door open with a frown on his face.

Sousuke, whose half of his face was covered with a green checkered scarf, glared immediately at the equally annoyed ravenette. A plastic bag bunched up in his clenced fist. "Whatchu' got there?" Hazel eyes perked up at the sight of (m/n) behind Daisuke and he pushed the latter aside to enter the room, throwing his coat on Haru's bed.

"You said your graph papers were out. Passed by and thought I could get some." (m/n) giddily reached out for the plastic bag, pulling out the almost scrunched green checkered papers. "Thanks. Almost went down to buy some."

Sousuke leaned to kiss (m/n)'s hair but was pushed by Daisuke. They both almost wrangled each other in the process but both were slapped by the (h/c) who forced the two to sit on his bed before he could entertain them.

"The submission is in four hours and there's zero progress on the abstract. I'm too busy organizing the others so either you shut up or get out." Immediately, the two sat up straight with their mouths closed. The two was easy for (m/n) to handle. They were almost alike, although the opposites of each other.

The (h/c) continued to grind his work, turning on his laptop. Ears stuffed with earbuds, some tunes blasting in his ear canal, drowning out the rare civil conversation Sousuke and Daisuke were having while relaxing on his single-sized bed.

Every now and then, there would a groan or a curse from the frustrated (h/c) who was suffering at the incompetency of his assigned groupmates. His leg bouncing up and down, his foot hitting the floor as he mashed the keyboards of his laptop, desperate to finish his work.

An hour passed and he stretched his arms, pulling off the charger to his laptop and took it with him as he slumped himself on the bed, his head in Daisuke's lap and his legs draped over Sousuke's torso. The redhead sat up as he pulled the (h/c) closer who slapped his hand away. "I'm not finished. Fucking hell, who passed these assholes?!"

He placed the laptop on his thighs, still typing away as Daisuke ran his fingers through his hair, occasionaly raking out a tangled strand or two. "I'm gonna die with the integrated project." (m/n) groaned, backspacing his teammate's work before proceeding to paraphrasing the previous sentences.

Sousuke and Daisuke continued to talk to one another, (m/n) chirping in while laying in between them, his bottom now in between Sousuke's thighs, he could feel the hardness of the redhead's jeans poking through but a boner isn't going to score his GPA.

"FINALLY!!" He yelled out, submitting his work as he slammed the laptop shut and carefully placing it on the floor. "You done?" Daisuke hummed, pushing back (m/n)'s baby hairs. The (h/c) nodded, his arm over his eyes as he could feel his body finally relaxing, sinking into the plush of his bed.

"I HATE....freeriders." "One's right in front of you." "I am not. I just so happen not liking to lead." In order of (m/n), Daisuke and Sousuke's voice. The two begin to banter once again. Daisuke bringing up his past experience working with Sousuke in a group project.

(m/n) pulled his arm away, staring at the popcorn ceiling of his dorm room, he had only noticed that it was already late. He wasn't even sure when Daisuke had entered his room. That's how much he had been holed up, finishing his homework.

He had been so tense the past few days, tension building up his shoulders, his tired eyes darkening for every missed hour of sleep. (m/n)'s whole body was so tired just from the past week and he could feel something burning up in the bottom of his stomach.

It was a fail attempt at secretly rubbing his ass onto Sousuke's crotch who immediately turned his attention onto the flustered (h/c). His mouth was agape as (m/n) stuttered to reason himself. "What?! Don't act so shocked...I'm just fucking frustrated."

He propped his elbows up, ready to leave before Daisuke pulled him down. "Frustrated? Frustrated what?" "College frustrated. Work frustrated, fuck. My damn pants are frustrated too."

Scarred fingers rubbed into the plush of his exposed thighs, reminding (m/n) that he had only adorned a thin and short outfit. Black eyes staring deeply into his, Daisuke's face was calculating, analysing his expression.

"You're not slick. Tryna' hump on me." Sousuke mumbled, dragging his tongue across (m/n)'s inner thigh earning a squeak. "As if. The both of you kept arguing like children. I might as well suck off a sex toy if that's all you're going to do."

"Sex toy?" Sousuke raised an eyebrow. A smirk on his lips. "Like you'd be satisfied with just that." He grumbled, smacking his thigh, a yelp from the (h/c) who felt something hardened as his head was still in Daisuke's lap.

"Quit it and just get on with it." (m/n) mumbled, turning to the side, his legs kicking at the redhead whose lust grew a thousand times more fervent as he pulled the (h/c)'s waist, ass smacking right on his crotch as he teased (m/n) who smothered his face into Daisuke's thigh.

(m/n) was now on his stomach, refusing to acknowledge Sousuke who was coercing him to continue. It was a rare dynamic. Sousuke would be quiet during their intimate encounters but his mouth becomes oddly chatter-ish around Daisuke who was the opposite.

"Just a little push. You did it five minutes ago, you can do it now." Sousuke was persuading (m/n) to rub himself on the redhead's crotch, his jeans stretching holding his length and (m/n) peeked behind him to see a grinning horny idiot.

"You're a cunt..." He mumbled again before moving. Rubbing his butt covered with shorts on Sousuke's groin, dragging his mound, pushing down on his erection. He could feel the friction on his balls as hos shorts was tugged down lightly just so his tip was peeking from his waistband.

(m/n) looked up to see Daisuke as the culprit, who was still silent, watching him with a blank expression but behind his eyes spoke otherwise. Their lust was burning and so was his.

Sousuke moaned, his hands rubbing up (m/n)'s sides as he pushed up his shirt, fingers travelling and locking onto his nipples, pinching them. The (h/c) mewled, having his chest groped as he desperately humped himself on the redhead's covered cock, slamming short bounces against Sousuke.

"I need it. I need the real thing." He whined desperately, his pitch tuning high as he dipped his head into Daisuke's crotch. His tongue flat against the ravenette's slacks and his teeth barely grazing on the covered hard cock.

(m/n) yelped again when his torso was forcibly turned, his face hot and Sousuke had a perverted grin. "How bad d'you want it?" "Bad. Really f-fucking bad." His words slipped as his hips stuttered.

A hand abruptly gripped his chin as Sousuke forcefully pulled his shirt off of him. Two fingers knocked into his palate as the redhead shoved his hand up (m/n)'s mouth. "You want it? You wanna fuck the two of us? Breed yourself like a horny rabbit?"

The tip of his cock was flicked and (m/n) gagged painfully, but his pleasure spiked and precum drooled onto his own stomach. Daisuke pulled away from (m/n)'s cock as he began to cup the (h/c)'s pecs, his hand squeezing the mound.

(m/n) nodded his head, when Sousuke's fingers began to press deeper in his mouth as he felt the redhead hump his ass. His tongue desperately lapping at the rough digits as he gasped when the redhead pulled his hand away.

"Prep yourself. It's time you get to work." Sousuke grinned.

This wasn't supposed to be their dynamic. (m/n) was used to having the redhead prep him, eat his ass out and fuck him swiftly like the pillow princess that he is. Daisuke was the same too, except more foreplay and less tongue but he had never needed to prepare himself, letting the two work their way into him because it was usually them getting riled up, not the other way around.

But (m/n) was desperate as he shimmied his shorts down, tugging off the bunched clothing from his ankle as he shakily reached down. Sousuke pulled his shoulder to lay him on his side and the (h/c) could see his jeans stretched out holding in his cock that he wanted to stuff himself with so badly.

He wanted to complain that he was dry but Daisuke had pulled his legs up, folded him in half and spat directly on his asshole before letting him fall back onto the bed. (m/n) was shocked and the ravenette was still quiet, urging him to continue.

A finger pushed in past the tight rim of his hole and he whimpered at the dry feeling, carving himself while struggling to hold his leg up but Sousuke had propped it up himself, pushing his hand to cup under his knee, letting him fully exposed to the redhead.

"Mmnn...it kinda hurts- annh mmf nggh anh-" He was corrected by his own body when he accidentally grazed his own prostate. His hole was still dry but the scratchy feeling managed to still bring pleasure to his leaking cock as he put another finger in and began to masturbate in front of the two men.

His hips were moving as he gripped his bedsheets, moaning and mewling. He was taken aback when Sousuke licked a stripe up his crack and balls. The redhead sucked on his base before focusing on his filled and twitching hole.

Daisuke used that moment of shock to pull his hair, forcibly pulling his head up as he shoved his tongue down (m/n)'s throat. The latter gagging at the sudden attack and he sucked on the ravenette's wet muscle.

Sousuke was too busy munching, pushing (m/n)'s finger apart to spread his hole as he stuck his tongue inside. Sucking and spitting at the rim.

-

Ugh i lost the inspo when i fell asleep. Tell me if you want a finished version and ill reblog it to tell u mofos. 🤞🏼 waka-chan out.

@tehyunnie @rainnyydaysworld @webwanderer @a-short-ass-disappointment @chikai-k @mello-life25 @miyuuuki @simpsations @sugar-p0p @kiiyoooo @helloanime @garlicforthewin

[midnightorchids]

Alternative bf Jason Todd headcanons pt. ii! It’s almost October, so it’s only makes sense to post this now, link to pt. i here

Alt!bf Jason... who keeps a metal clad hand on your waist at all times, his cool rings press gently against your clothed skin every so often

Alt!bf Jason... who stays up late reading and writing poetry. he hands you crumpled pieces of paper with messy writing and perfect grammar. he declares his undying love for you in disturbingly beautiful sonnets (cough cannibalism and religion as a metaphor for love cough)

Alt!bf Jason... who walks around the house with large headphones, his loud music bleeds out of the small speakers and his hands drum against the nearest surface

Alt!bf Jason... who takes you on dates to the cemetery, where he sits by his own grave. he reads out loud the verses of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and feeds you a handful of blackberries

Alt!bf Jason... who puts his black leather jacket over your shoulders the minute he feels a brisk breeze in the air. the old fabric feels warm against your skin and you breathe in it’s scent. it smells of heavily of cigarettes and musk, it smells like home

Alt!bf Jason... who hates the thought of being away from you and decides that he needs to get a tattoo in your honour. he gets a small victorian heart on his left shoulder blade to match the vintage, silver locket that he got you for your birthday

Alt!bf Jason... who often styles his long raven locks in a half up half down, showcasing the multiple piercings that decorate his ears

Alt!bf Jason... who reads and watches all of your favourite horror content, especially during Halloween. he sets the mood and holds your hand through all the suspenseful parts

[mononijikayu]

criminal love — nanami kento.

"Look at me, siren." he commands, his tone steady but charged. "I want to see everything." Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, locking onto him with an effort that feels monumental. There’s a glint in his caramel gaze—intense, searching, as if he’s reading more than just the surface of your expression. “Good little siren.” he murmurs, his voice softening but no less dominant. “Don’t run from it. Let me see what it does to you.”

GENRE: alternate universe - detective au;

WARNING/S: afab!, romance, smut, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, nudity, kissing, making out, clit stimulation, rough sex, p to v sex, teasing, orgasm, humor, profanity, pet names (pretty man, siren, etc), characters speaking in sexual innuendo, possessiveness, betrayal, faking death, crying, drama, violence, emotional manipulation, emotional distress, guilt, angst, depression, mention of extortion, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, nanami ooc, detective! nanami kento, criminal! reader;

WORD COUNT: 20k words.

NOTE: this was roughly based on irene adler and sherlock from bbc sherlock. i ended up rewatching clips of them recently and i ended up wanting to write something about this in my own way and so i hope you enjoy it. ill probably be gone for a long while between these weeks as exam season is coming, so whatever i upload would be automated queued up. i hope you enjoy it anyway!!! i love you all!!! <3

masterlist

kayu's playlist - side 2000;

if you want to, tip! <3

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MUCH WAS TO BE DISCERNED, THAT WAS FOR CERTAIN. Nanami Kento was yet unsure what to feel about this case. But he knew that he’d better just keep his opinions to himself. He was a consulting detective, more than he was a spy.

And he was the first of his kind, well — he created the job. But he found that in his own line of work, he made the rules. And he’s not like a rule breaker — not unless he was bored. Which happens all too often nowadays. 

But he made boundaries. And he likes to keep within them. A consulting detective is not meant to be a populist, nor someone who expresses the biases that come with his existence. A consulting detective was a blank canvas, a mask that never tires or tears.

The mind cannot be diluted nor dulled. Not even when it comes to personal intrigue. But as he looked at your personal profile, he couldn’t help but find himself intrigued by you.

He hums, staring at your profile. There wasn’t much to tell in detail. That’s why Yaga came to him in the first place. If they had known more about you, then they would have never come to him. But it was clear to him that you were too beautiful, much like a siren.

But then again, you were a dominatrix. That was how you grabbed your victim’s attention. That’s how you got the prime minister under your thumb and how you blackmailed him. 

Still there was something about your eyes. How they were so full of walls he wanted to pierce. He’d never seen them before. Perhaps that adds to the allure he already has with you.

He was enamoured by them in his own way. Your sharp eyes glaring back at him, full of mystery. Like a puzzle.  And he wanted to solve everything. He wanted to know you, unravel you for his own desires to escape boredom.

Nanami Kento leaned back in his chair, a heavy sigh escaping him as he thumbed through the sparse details of your profile once again. His office was dim, save for the soft golden light spilling from the desk lamp. It cast sharp shadows across his furrowed brow, accentuating the contemplative set of his jaw. The rain outside tapped a steady rhythm against the windowpane, a melody of monotony he had long grown indifferent to.

He tapped a pen absently against the leather-bound notebook on his desk. "A dominatrix, a prolific criminal." he muttered to himself, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Of course. Why else would someone like you have the Prime Minister dancing to your tune?"

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. A lesser man might have judged you outright, but Nanami Kento wasn’t a lesser man. Judgment required bias, and bias was a weakness. Yet even he couldn't deny the intrigue you stirred in him—a siren cloaked in mystery, luring him to uncharted depths.

Picking up your profile again, he scanned the details with a practiced eye. It was deliberately vague. Yaga Masamichi had been careful about that, only providing enough to hook him without tipping the scales. Clever. Kento appreciated cleverness.

“You’re an enigma, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. His gaze lingered on the photograph clipped to the file. Your sharp eyes seemed to pierce through the page, as if daring him to look deeper.

The phone on his desk buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. He reached for it, his tone clipped and professional. "Nanami Kento speaking."

Yaga's gruff voice crackled through the line. "Have you made any progress?"

Kento glanced at the profile again, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Progress? No. But I’m intrigued. That’s more than you can usually say after five minutes of reading these files."

"This isn't a game, Kento. This is a high profile case." Yaga growled. "We need results."

Kento leaned back, the smirk fading into something more inscrutable. "And you’ll have them, eventually. When I get into it.  But you brought me in because I don’t rush. I don’t make mistakes. Trust that I’ll deliver, Yaga. But you knew that already, didn’t you?"

A strained silence followed. Kento snickers silently. Yaga knew that he was right. He’s never failed a case before. He was their only shot at figuring this out.

Driving him away with their pondering would irritate him. So, Yaga knew it best. Yaga grumbled his assent on the other side of the line and then hung up. Kento replaced the receiver with a quiet exhale and turned his attention back to your profile.

"Who are you really?" he mused aloud. The rain continued its persistent tapping, as if echoing the question. He traced a finger along the edge of the photograph, his mind already dissecting the puzzle you presented.

This wasn’t just about solving a case anymore. It was about understanding the layers beneath your sharp eyes and enigmatic smirk. You were a challenge, and Nanami Kento never walked away from a challenge.

“Time to meet the siren.” he murmured, closing the file and grabbing his coat. 

The game had officially begun.

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HE LIKED GETTING THINGS DONE WELL. So, with meticulous precision, Nanami Kento began preparing. His process was almost ritualistic—a series of carefully honed steps that allowed him to immerse himself in the task at hand.

Research, observation, analysis; each was a brushstroke on the canvas of his understanding. He had done this countless times before, dissecting lives and habits like a surgeon with a scalpel. It was a game he played alone, and one he rarely lost.

It didn’t take him long to find you. You weren’t exactly hiding, after all. You were a bold one, he would admit that. Certainly, others would have tried to find a way to hide from him. But you did not. No, you don’t seem to have liked that.

The apartment you lived in was in the heart of the city. Though modest, it had an air of curated simplicity. A facade, he suspected. There could be some other place you found yourself to be at. It’s impossible to have no back up plan. Still, he’d start here. The moment he identified your specific location, he began to watch. 

At first, it was dull. Too dull. Your routines were painfully ordinary: niche little trips to the market, morning coffee on your tiny balcony, polite nods to neighbors as you passed. For all the whispers of scandal surrounding you, you seemed frustratingly… normal.

“Boring.” Nanami muttered under his breath, reclining in his concealed vantage point. He adjusted his tie absentmindedly, a habitual gesture when his patience wore thin. But he wasn’t one to abandon a lead, not even when boredom threatened to set in. Boredom, after all, was often a disguise for something hidden.

And he was right. It didn’t take long before the cracks in the surface began to show.

There were subtle inconsistencies. He picks on them right away, of course. Like the way your routine shifted ever so slightly every few days. The lingering looks you exchanged with strangers on the street, each glance charged with unspoken meaning. 

The phone calls you took late at night, your voice low and hushed as you paced your apartment. Much of those were patterned just as much. Of course, you would try to throw him off the course with your other calls. But he was not falling for it.

You were normal, yes—but only just enough to keep the untrained eye from noticing the undertow beneath.

Kento took note of everything, each detail cataloged with precision in his mind. How you lingered in front of a particular bookstore on days when the street was less crowded.

How your posture straightened imperceptibly when you stepped into the dimly lit café on the corner, like you were stepping into character. How your sharp eyes softened, just briefly, when you gazed out over the city skyline from your balcony at night.

"You’re meticulous, little siren." he murmured, watching from afar as you adjusted the hem of your coat before entering a black sedan one evening. "Calculated. And hiding something."

His instincts, honed by years of studying human behavior, told him you were more than the sum of your parts. You weren’t erratic, nor did you display the cold mechanical precision of a methodical planner. You were something else entirely—a paradox wrapped in elegance, wearing your secrets as effortlessly as a designer gown.

As the days turned into weeks, his understanding of you deepened. He noted how you interacted with others, your charm carefully measured, your words like baited hooks. He saw the way people gravitated to you, unaware of the quiet power you wielded over them. It was mesmerizing to watch, even for someone as detached as Nanami.

But then there were the moments that broke the pattern. The fleeting, unguarded seconds when the mask slipped. It was just for a split second and yet, it was glaringly obvious. when your smile faltered, when your gaze lingered on nothing in particular, as if lost in thought. Those moments fascinated him the most.

"You're not what you seem, aren’t you, siren?" Nanami said one evening, speaking to no one but himself as he jotted down another observation in his notebook. "And that’s what makes you dangerous."

He leaned back, letting the pen rest against his lips as he studied his notes. The bitter rain had begun again, a softly patters against the window. Watching you has become more than an assignment. It was a challenge, one he was determined to unravel.

Whatever secrets you held, he would uncover them. 

Whatever lies you told, he would see through them.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he would finally find something that would make him feel alive again.

Kento approached your residence with the confidence of a seasoned professional, every step measured, every glance purposeful. The modest, meek exterior belied the reputation you had earned—a mind sharper than most, a presence impossible to ignore. Well, not to him.

For all his precision and preparation, Nanami Kento prided himself on being unshakeable.

That illusion shattered the moment he stepped inside.

The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, rich and intoxicating, blending seamlessly with the warm glow of the afternoon sun filtering through gauzy curtains. The room was immaculate, deceptively serene, yet every detail felt deliberate, as though the space itself were watching him. And then there was you.

You stood in the center of the room, utterly bare, holding a steaming cup of tea as though this were the most natural thing in the world. The room itself was dimly lit, the amber glow of a single lamp casting elongated shadows that danced along the walls. The steam from your cup curled upward in lazy tendrils, disappearing into the stillness that seemed to envelop everything around you.

For a moment, Nanami Kento froze where he stood, his usually unshakable composure wavering. He had been meticulous, quiet as a shadow as he made his way into your space, every step calculated. He hadn’t anticipated this—hadn’t prepared for the sight of you standing there, unguarded and unapologetic.

“You’re not easily startled, detective.” you said, your voice smooth and unhurried, like the tea you sipped from the delicate porcelain cup. The corners of your lips curled upward, though the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “But I think I managed to catch you off guard.”

"I... was unaware we had an appointment." he managed, his voice clipped, struggling to keep his gaze fixed on your eyes.

"Unaware? Oh, Detective, you wound me." You stepped forward, the subtle sway of your hips hypnotic, your bare feet making no sound against the polished wood floor. "But I knew you’d come. You’re far too predictable for your own good. Handsome, brilliant, but predictable."

Kento’s brow furrowed imperceptibly. You had noticed him before he had even made himself known, yet here you were, unconcerned and entirely in control. It was a calculated choice, he realized. Everything about you was measured. Everything from your posture, your tone, even your lack of clothing—was deliberate. A statement of power.

He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His gaze remained steady, unflinching, as he addressed you. “You have a peculiar way of entertaining unexpected guests, don’t you?

You chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to ripple through the charged air between you. “And you have a peculiar way of entering someone’s home uninvited. But I suppose we both like to keep things interesting.”

Kento’s caramel eyes flicked briefly to the cup in your hands, the steam still rising. You held it with a casual grace, as though the vulnerability of your current state was irrelevant. He took a measured step closer, his voice as calm and steady as ever. 

“I’m not here to entertain. I’m here for answers.”

“And you think breaking into my home is the best way to get them?” you replied, tilting your head slightly. “Interesting method, detective.”

There was no fear in your voice, no tremor of uncertainty. You don’t seem to cower at the thought that he was in front of you. You were not at the least afraid, flaunting yourself bare as the day you were born right in front of him, no. If anything, you seemed amused, as though this was just another game—one you intended to win. As he usually does.

Kento’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t used to this. Being disarmed, even momentarily. You were unlike anyone he had encountered before, and it both intrigued and irritated him. You drank a handful of your tea, not breaking eye contact with him.

 “You know why I’m here.” he said, his tone firm. “Let’s not waste time pretending otherwise.”

You raised the cup to your lips, taking a slow sip before responding. “Ah, but time is all we have, isn’t it, mister detective? Besides, I’m curious to see how far you’re willing to go for your answers.”

Kento’s gaze remained fixed on you, his mind racing to piece together your intentions. He had come here prepared to confront a manipulator, a blackmailer, someone who thrived on exploiting the weaknesses of others. Instead, he found himself standing before an enigma. You were a person who seemed to thrive in the liminal space between predator and prey.

“You’re not afraid of me.” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost reflective.

You met his gaze, unblinking. “Should I be?”

The silence that followed was thick, charged with an unspoken challenge. Kento felt the weight of it pressing against him, but he refused to yield. He had come here to unravel you, to strip away the layers of mystery and deceit. But in this moment, with the air thick with the scent of tea and tension, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was you who was peeling back his layers instead.

Kento held your gaze, his mind a calculated storm of thoughts. You were testing him, pushing boundaries to see how far he’d go, how much of himself he’d expose in pursuit of whatever he sought from you. It wasn’t fearlessness that radiated from you, no. It was the epitome of control. Complete, unyielding control.

He didn’t like it.

But he couldn’t deny the subtle exhilaration it stirred in him.

“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” he said again, his voice colder this time, a deliberate shift in tone to reassert authority. “And you know I won’t leave without what I need.”

You smirked, lowering your cup and cradling it in both hands. “Oh, I know you won’t leave. Not yet, at least. But I’m not convinced you truly know what it is you’re looking for.”

Kento took another step closer, his hands sliding into the pockets of his coat as he surveyed the room with a careful glance. Minimalist decor. Sparse yet elegant, like an art exhibit curated to hide the truth. Everything was deliberate. Everything was you.

“What I’m looking for,” he said evenly, his gaze snapping back to you. “are answers. About the Prime Minister. About the leverage you hold over him.”

You raised a brow, your smirk deepening into something more indulgent. “Straight to the point. I like that. But tell me, Detective Nanami Kento—what makes you think you can find answers here?”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Because you want me to find them. Aren’t you someone as bored as I am, playing the game?”

That gave you pause, though only for a fraction of a second. It was enough. Nanami Kento caught the brief flicker of surprise in your eyes before you masked it with a soft laugh. He found that your laugh was a beautiful one, had it not been one that was dangerous venom, a double entendre.

“Touché, detective.” you said, setting the cup down on a nearby table with deliberate care. “But even if that were true, you’d still have to earn them.”

“Earn them.” Kento repeated, his tone flat. “Is that your way of trying to bargain?”

You stepped closer now, the soft light catching the sharp angles of your face. Barefoot and unguarded, you moved with the confidence of someone who knew they held the upper hand—or at least wanted him to believe they did.

“Call it whatever you like, detective.” you replied, stopping just a breath away from him. “You came here for the truth, and the truth is rarely free. Especially from someone like me.”

Kento didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. He held his ground, studying you with an intensity that bordered on invasive. “And what do you want in return?”

You smiled, but it wasn’t the warm kind. It was calculated, sharp. It was your favorite weapon of choice. “For now? Just your time. Let me see how you operate, how your mind works when it isn’t trapped behind your rules and decorum. Then, maybe, I’ll decide what else you have to offer.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to manipulate him, to pull him into their web. But you were different. You didn’t rely on desperation or brute force; you wielded intrigue like a scalpel, cutting just deep enough to make him curious.

“You think I’ll play your game, hm?” he said finally, his voice low and edged with warning.

You tilted your head, your eyes gleaming with amusement. “I think you already are.”

The silence that followed was electric, the space between you charged with unspoken tension. For a moment, neither of you moved, two opposing forces locked in an invisible standoff.

Then, with a calculated step back, you broke the spell. “Well, my pretty detective, the night is young. Shall we begin?”

Kento’s gaze followed you as you turned and disappeared further into the apartment, your figure melting into the shadows. His instincts screamed at him to leave, to walk away before he found himself ensnared in something he couldn’t control.

But his curiosity wouldn’t let him.

Adjusting his tie, he followed. The game, it seemed, was just beginning.

"Do you always play fair, mister detective?" you asked, your voice laced with mischief. "Or are you tempted to bend the rules for me?"

"I don’t bend the rules." he said flatly, though the slight crack in his voice betrayed him.

"How dull." you teased, stepping closer. "Then I’ll just have to see how far I can push them before you do."

Kento swallowed hard, forcing himself to break eye contact. He scanned the room, trying to redirect his focus. Every detail he observed seemed to mock him—your careful minimalism, the way the soft lighting accentuated the curves you seemed so effortlessly confident in, and the unshaken calm you radiated.

“Come.” You urged him, walking away, expectant for him to follow you.

Kento followed you into the next room, his steps measured, his senses sharp. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The dimly lit space you led him to was more intimate, yet it carried an undeniable weight of purpose. 

A single table sat in the center, flanked by two chairs. On the table was a deck of cards, pristine and neatly stacked, and a pair of glasses filled with amber liquid.You gestured toward the empty chair across from you, settling into your own with a grace that felt practiced, deliberate. 

“Sit down there, pretty detective.” you said simply, as though commanding a king to take his throne.

He regarded you silently for a moment, weighing the situation, before pulling the chair out and sitting down. His coat shifted slightly as he adjusted, the fabric catching the low light. He didn’t reach for the glass in front of him, nor did he touch the cards.

“Do you always greet your intruders like this?” he asked, his tone dry but probing. “Or am I a special case of favoritism?”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand as you studied him. “You’re not just an intruder, detective. You’re a puzzle. And I do enjoy puzzles.”

Kento’s eyes narrowed. “Flattery won’t distract me.”

You laughed softly, the sound melodic and tinged with mischief. “It’s not flattery if it’s true. But if you insist, let’s get to it, shall we?” Your hand moved to the deck of cards, your fingers deftly shuffling them with an ease that spoke of countless hours of practice. “We’re going to play a game.”

Kento’s brow furrowed slightly, though his expression remained otherwise unreadable. “A game.”

“Yes.” You began dealing the cards, your movements precise. “Call it… a test of wits. Each of us will ask a question. The other must answer truthfully—or pass. But passing comes at a cost.”

“And what cost is that?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

You leaned back, the flicker of a smirk gracing your lips. “If you pass, you lose a piece of yourself in this game. A truth you’ll never get back, if you will. And if I pass, well… you lose time. Precious time that you’ll never recover from.”

He exhaled softly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “Clever. But you don’t strike me as someone who’s interested in losing anything, especially time.”

You tilted your head, your smirk widening. “You’re right. I don’t intend to lose.”

Nanami studied you for a moment, his analytical mind dissecting every word, every movement. This was more than a game to you, no. You liked being an actress. And this was a stage, a performance. A calculated way to see how far you could push him.

“Fine.” he said finally, his voice calm and steady. “I’ll play.”

You nodded, almost as if you had expected nothing less. Picking up your cards, you gestured for him to do the same. “Good. I’ll start.”

Your eyes gleamed as you asked your first question. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Kento didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. He considered the question briefly, then responded with a measured tone. “I once let a guilty man walk free. It wasn’t my case, but I could’ve stopped it. I chose not to.”

You arched a brow, intrigued. “Why?”

He tapped a finger lightly on the edge of the table. “Because letting him walk was the only way to catch someone worse.”

“Interesting, detective.” you mused, drawing a card and placing it down. “Your turn.”

Kento’s eyes bore into yours, sharp and calculating. “What do you really want from the Prime Minister?”

Your smirk didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something else. There was something deeper in the corner of your eyes. “Power. Intrigue. Freedom from boredom. I think you can already tell, don’t you think? You’ve watched me for a while.” you said simply, your voice like silk. “I like my little games, detective. I don’t like boredom.”

Kento’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. You were the same in that regard, he supposed. You smiled at him as you discarded the card. He continued watching as you played another card.

The game continued, each question like a blade, cutting deeper with every exchange. You asked about his weaknesses, his fears. He asked about your plans, your past. Neither of you passed, neither willing to give the other the satisfaction of retreat. The tension between you built with every answer, an unspoken duel fought in shadows and half-truths.

By the time the deck was nearly gone, the air between you was thick with something unspoken. There was a heavy mixture of understanding and challenge, of intrigue and something more dangerous. And slowly, Kento began to feel more intrigue gather like clouds around his head when he looked at you.

You placed the final card down with a quiet laugh. “You’re good at this, detective. Better than most.”

Kento leaned back slightly, his gaze still fixed on you. “And you’re not as untouchable as you think.”

You smiled at that, leaning forward once more. “Perhaps not. But tell me, detective—after all this, do you think you’ve won?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the glass in front of him, finally taking a sip. The burn of the liquid was sharp, grounding. He set the glass back down, meeting your gaze with an intensity that could cut through steel.

“I think the game’s just begun.”

You laughed as you looked at him. “Then you’ll continue to indulge me?”

“I have all the time in the world.”

“Such a reply, detective.” Your lips curled into a sly smile.

“Much more I should be giving to you, siren.”

You laughed back at him. “Tell me, detective. Are you looking for something else, besides my secrets?” you asked, your voice dripping with amusement. You took another step forward, close enough now that he could feel the faint warmth of your presence.

"My resolve." he replied curtly, his gaze darting back to your face.

You laughed again, the sound teasing and far too pleasant. "I wouldn’t bother looking for that. It’s already mine."

Kento’s mouth opened, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but you raised a finger to his lips before he could speak. The gesture was bold, disarming, and far too intimate. His eyes narrows at you, meeting your orbs in an intense match of staring. Tension filled the air. 

“I do not like betraying my rules for fun, siren.”

"Hush." you said softly, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "This is far more entertaining when you let me lead, don’t you think?"

Kento felt his pulse quicken, though he loathed admitting it. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to regroup, but his feet stayed rooted to the floor. You circled him slowly, your movements deliberate and languid, like a predator sizing up its prey.

"You’re tense, aren’t you, detective?" you observed, your voice lilting. "A man like you shouldn’t carry so much weight on his shoulders. Let me help you relax."

"Help." he echoed dryly, trying to inject a sliver of his usual deadpan wit. "Is that what you call this?"

"Call it what you like, pretty man." you replied with a shrug, your bare skin glinting in the warm light. "But let’s not pretend you’re not enjoying it just a little."

Kento clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms in a desperate attempt to ground himself. "You’re stalling again, aren’t you?" he said, his voice low and firm, though he hated how weak the accusation sounded even to his own ears.

"And you’re flustered. I like good, flustered, pretty men, detective." you shot back effortlessly. "But I’ll let you in on a little secret, detective." You leaned in, your breath brushing against his ear. "I don’t have to stall. You’re doing that all on your own."

Kento’s breath hitched. He turned his head slightly to meet your gaze, his brow furrowing as he tried to summon the cold, logical detachment he prided himself on. But your eyes, all bright, teasing, and endlessly confident had drawn him in, scattering his thoughts like leaves in the wind.

"You’re not going to win this little game." he said, though the words felt as much a reassurance to himself as they were a warning to you.

"Win?" You tilted your head, your smile widening. "Oh, darling, I’ve already won. You just haven’t realized it yet."

And there it was—the final, undeniable truth that sank into Nanami Kento like a blade. This wasn’t a confrontation he could reason his way out of. You weren’t just a distraction; you were a storm, unrelenting and impossible to ignore. Still, Kento wasn’t one to give up easily. He squared his shoulders, taking a small step back to create space between you. 

"You can play your games, siren." he said evenly, his resolve hardening. "But I will leave with what I came for."

Your grin turned wicked, your hands resting on your hips as you regarded him with mock pity. "Oh, detective. If you want it that badly, you’re going to have to earn it."

The gauntlet had been thrown, but as Nanami stared into your eyes, he couldn’t help but feel that this was a battle where victory. If such a thing even existed might come at a cost he wasn’t prepared to pay.

Kento’s resolve teetered on the edge of collapse. Your challenge hung in the air between you, daring him to act, to push back. For all his usual composure, the magnetic pull of your presence was undeniable. And you knew it. With deliberate slowness, you closed the distance he had just created. Your hand reached out, brushing against his tie, straightening it with a casual intimacy that made his breath hitch.

"Tell me, pretty man." you said softly, your voice a sultry whisper. "Is it always this hard for you to focus... or is it just me?"

Kento’s jaw tightened, his full luscious lips parting as though to deliver a sharp retort, but the words never came. Instead, his eyes locked onto yours, his usual clarity clouded by a storm of conflicting emotions.

"Careful." he warned, his voice low, though the conviction behind it faltered.

"Careful?" you echoed, your smile widening. "Detective, I don’t think you want to be careful."

The moment hung in a delicate balance, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. And then, with a boldness that took even you by surprise, you leaned in. Your lips met his, soft yet insistent, pulling him into the heat of your daring. For a heartbeat, Kento froze, caught off guard by the sheer audacity of the act. But then something shifted.

His hands moved instinctively, one gripping your wrist, the other curling around your waist as though to steady himself. He kissed you back, tentative at first, as though testing the waters, but quickly matching your fervor.

It was a clash of wills, a battle of control as much as passion. You smiled against his lips, sensing the conflict within him, the way his rational mind warred with his undeniable desire. When you finally pulled away, your faces still mere inches apart, you couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

"So much for not bending the rules, pretty man." you teased, your voice barely more than a breath. “Intrigue won you over.”

Kento’s grip on your wrist tightened slightly, his caramel eyes narrowing. "You think this changes anything?" he said, though his voice was rougher now, edged with something he couldn’t quite suppress.

"Not at all. We’re still playing this game, detective." you replied, your tone light, your smile infuriatingly smug. "But it does make things more interesting, don’t you think?"

His gaze burned into yours, but he didn’t let go. "You’re dangerous, little siren." he muttered, his voice both an accusation and a reluctant admission.

"And you’re intrigued about me, pretty man." you countered, your free hand tracing a light, teasing line down the lapel of his trench coat.

For all his strength, for all his discipline, Kento found himself at a crossroads. He could retreat, rebuild his defenses, and focus on the mission. Or he could lean into the chaos you so effortlessly embodied, knowing full well the risks involved.

For the first time in his career, the brilliant consulting detective wasn’t sure which path he would take. Nanami Kento’s breath hitched as his grip tightened, his movements becoming more deliberate, almost desperate.

“It’s for the game.” he muttered again, his voice low, almost as if trying to convince himself.

But the way your fingers dug into his shoulders, the soft sound that escaped your lips—those weren’t part of the plan. He could feel the way your body yielded to him, how every subtle shift and reaction drew him in further.

His mind wavered, the discipline he prided himself on fraying at the edges. This wasn’t just duty anymore. The mission was the furthest thing from his thoughts as he surrendered to the feeling of your warmth, your trust, and the undeniable connection that bound the two of you.

“Kento, that’s your name isn’t it?” you whispered, your voice trembling yet steady enough to pull him back into the present. 

The way his name sounded on your lips... it unraveled him completely. For a moment, he forgot everything else. He wasn’t sure anymore what this case was even about and what was left to desire—but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when he was enjoying himself too much.

“K-Ken!” The word comes out strangled out of your mouth.

If anything, it was barely a whisper as his relentless rhythm forces your body to react in ways you can’t control. Each deep, forceful thrust hits with perfect precision, and your head spins, eyes crossing from the intensity of it all. He doesn’t care about the soft gasps escaping you or the way your nails dig into his skin; he’s on a mission.

But you’re not the same. The slick warmth building inside of you, the way your body feels stretched and filled by him. It’s all so much more than the physical. He’s not just moving through you. He’s pulling something from deep inside. Every thrust makes your spine arch involuntarily, and your chest heaves as your breath hitches with each stroke.

He’s searching. Not for your pleasure. He likes to think that he’s past that. He knows exactly what you need, but there’s one sound he’s after. That sweet little squeal, the one you only make when he’s pushing you just right, when the world disappears and all that matters is the way he makes you feel. It’s a sound so raw, so fragile, that it breaks his composure every time.

Kento’s grip on you tightens, a firm hand on your hip anchoring you in place as he drives into you with precise force. The pace is relentless, unwavering, and you can feel his determination, his need to hear it again. The pressure building inside you, so close now, your body humming with anticipation, a coil wound impossibly tight.

“Say my name, little siren.” he commands, his voice a low growl, dark with intent.

You can’t. You can barely think, much less speak. But you can’t hold it back. The sound breaks free—a high-pitched squeal that fills the space between you, a fragile, involuntary release that shatters whatever control you had left.

“There it is, little siren.” he murmurs, his voice triumphant, but there’s no slowing now. 

He digs in deeper, faster, with a relentless focus that makes it clear he’s hunting something. He was hunting for something intangible yet vital. That sound, the one he coaxes from you with every calculated movement, seems to fuel him.

It's primal, magnetic, as though the entire universe has narrowed down to this single exchange, to the rhythm of his pursuit and your response.

You’re trapped in the tension, every nerve in your body taut like a wire about to snap. The pleasure is sharp and consuming, pulling you under in waves that crash against the edges of your sanity.

Your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps, each one a fight to steady yourself against the relentless onslaught. But there’s no escape; the sensations are everywhere, an unrelenting tide that drowns out thought and reason.

Your mind is a haze, a tangled mess of fragmented impulses and fleeting clarity. You try to anchor yourself, to regain control, but the overwhelming rush of feeling renders you powerless. Every time you think you’ve caught your breath, he changes his rhythm, his touch, pulling a new sound from your lips, a new surge of heat that floods through you.

It’s maddening, the way he anticipates your every reaction, how he seems to know your body better than you do. The tension builds higher, tighter, like a crescendo that has no end, no resolution, just an endless climb. Your fingers clutch at anything within reach, a desperate attempt to ground yourself. But even that slips away in the face of the intensity.

You can’t think, can’t process. You can only feel. And in this moment, it’s as though feeling is all that matters, all that exists. It’s overwhelming, consuming, leaving no room for anything else. Just the tension, the pleasure, and the sound he’s chasing like it’s the answer to every question he’s ever had.

The next wave of pleasure crashes over you, almost too much to bear, and your body responds in kind. Everything was shaking, trembling, in pleasure because of him. The only thing left to do is submit completely to him. So he can win the game.

And yet, he isn’t finished. Not yet. Because now that he’s found it, he’s going to make you give it to him again.

The tension between you is palpable, every sound, every movement heightened by the closeness. His voice, low and rough, breaks through the haze, cutting through the cacophony of sensations that have overtaken your mind.

"Look at me, siren." he commands, his tone steady but charged. "I want to see everything."

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, locking onto him with an effort that feels monumental. There’s a glint in his caramel gaze—intense, searching, as if he’s reading more than just the surface of your expression.

“Good little siren.” he murmurs, his voice softening but no less dominant. “Don’t run from it. Let me see what it does to you.”

You try to speak, to form words, but they dissolve on your tongue, lost in the whirlwind of sensations. A small, breathless sound escapes instead, and his expression shifts ever so slightly, that satisfaction, mixed with something deeper, more primal.

“That’s it, yes.” he says, almost whispering, as though coaxing a secret from you. “Don’t hold back.”

You manage a broken, defiant whisper in response, your voice trembling but resolute. “You think you’re in control.”

His lips curl into a small, knowing smile. “Oh, I don’t think. I know.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air between you. You grip his arm, nails digging into his skin, as if to remind him that you’re still present, still capable of holding your ground even if it’s slipping beneath you.

“And you?” he pressed, his voice low, intimate. “Do you know what you’re feeling? Or are you too far gone?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t tell if it’s frustration or surrender that flickers in your chest. His words are a mirror, reflecting the battle waging inside you. It felt so good, it swallowed you whole. And you couldn’t even describe it. Everything about the rising pleasure as he thrusted in and out of you was a clash of will and vulnerability, of defiance and need.

You needed more of him.

You needed him deeper.

You needed him closer.

“I—” you start, but the word fractures, lost in another wave of sensation.

He leans closer, his breath ghosting over your skin. “Say it, siren.” he urges, his voice a quiet demand. “Say what you want.”

You hesitate, the words tangled in your throat. And in that hesitation, he holds you captive, his gaze unwavering, waiting for the answer he already knows is there. He bites your shoulder as he thrust hard, earning a loud cry of pleasure from you. He hummed against your flesh, satisfied at the reaction you gave him.

The silence between you hums with tension, the air charged and electric. His eyes remain locked on yours, dark and smoldering, the kind of gaze that seems to peel back every layer, leaving you exposed in a way that feels both terrifying and intoxicating. He doesn’t move, doesn’t touch, but his presence presses against you like a storm just waiting to break.

Your lips part, trembling as you try to form words, but they falter, caught in the haze of his nearness. Tears permeating from your eyes at the pleasure that he makes you feel. He slows his movements, earning a cry from you as he tries to coax those words out of you.

 “I…” you whisper, voice low, breath catching as if the mere act of speaking might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding you together. “I don’t know.”

The admission hangs between you, raw and unfiltered, cutting through the charged atmosphere. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips, but there’s nothing cruel about it. Instead, it feels like a quiet triumph, as if he’s been waiting for this moment, this unraveling of your defenses.

“Good.” he murmurs, his voice like a dark caress, low and intimate. “ At least some honesty suits you.”

A shiver courses through you, his words sinking deeper than you’d like to admit. His head tilts slightly, the faintest motion, but it draws your attention to the curve of his jaw, the way the soft glow of the room highlights his features. 

His breath, warm and steady, ghosts over your skin as he leans closer, the space between you shrinking to something nearly unbearable. Sweat glistens against the two of you, juices of your body echoing from flesh to flesh as he occupied you whole.

“I hate you.” you manage, your voice trembling but defiant, though even as the words leave your lips, they feel hollow. “You’re making me beg.”

His smirk deepens, and he raises a hand, slow and deliberate, brushing the backs of his fingers against your cheek. The touch is featherlight, enough to send a ripple of sensation through you, your breath hitching in response. He presses a kiss against your lips, earning a grunt from you.

“No.” he says softly, his tone velvet-smooth, a promise wrapped in certainty. “You don’t hate me. You hate this.” His fingers trace down, following the curve of your jaw, his touch impossibly gentle yet electric. “What I make you feel.”

Your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, your body betraying you even as your mind screams for control. His touch lingers, deliberate and unhurried, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

You don’t pull away; you can’t. You’re caught, pinned not by force but by something far more potent—his ability to see through you, to unravel you piece by piece.

“I don’t—” you start, but the words crumble as his thumb grazes your lower lip, silencing you effortlessly. The contact sends a jolt straight through you, your lips parting instinctively under his touch.

“Don’t lie, siren. ” he whispers, his voice dipping lower, wrapping around you like silk. “Not to me. Not to yourself.”

The challenge in his tone, in his touch, is impossible to ignore. Your pulse pounds in your ears, heat pooling in places you wish it wouldn’t, your body betraying every last shred of resistance you’re clinging to. His gaze never wavers, molten and heavy, pulling you deeper into the storm of him.

“I hate you.” you whisper again, but this time the words are soft, breathless, a futile attempt to hold on to a crumbling facade.

He leans in closer, his lips just a whisper away from yours, his breath mingling with yours in the charged space between you. “Say it again.” he murmurs, his voice a dangerous, sensual tease. “Convince me.”

Your mind spins, the tension between you unbearable, intoxicating. He waits, unyielding, his proximity burning into you like fire, daring you to say something, anything. But in this moment, words feel impossible, eclipsed by the raw pull of his presence and the electric current thrumming in the space between you.

“I hate you, oh—” you whispered again, before moaning and finding no words left as his fingers thrust against your clit in circular motions. You can feel him grind against you in a slow fashion, matching the echo of his fingers. 

You cry as everything in you starts to surrender before it defies. Your voice faltered just slightly, the vulnerability creeping through your chest, but you held on to it, stubborn in the way that only you could be.

His laugh was soft, almost a whisper itself, the sound vibrating against your skin like a quiet tremor. It was dark, low, and knowing, as though he found your words more amusing than anything else. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, the slight brush of his lips as he spoke, each word carrying a challenge.

“We’ll see about that, siren.” he murmured, his voice rich with intention, sending a shiver down your spine. The promise in his tone was undeniable, and it sank deep inside you, where the pulse of your desire had only been growing stronger.

With slow, deliberate movements, he continued to press forward, his rhythm steady, but unrelenting. His body aligned with yours in a perfect, consuming dance. Every shift, every movement sends waves of sensation crashing over you. 

His pace was measured, as much as there was that playfulness in the way he plays with your clit. But there was a quiet power behind it—an awareness of how easily he could unravel you, how each thrust deepened the tension that coiled between you.

The connection between you was electric, an undeniable force that seemed to press against the very air you breathed. Your mind struggled to keep up, lost in the clash of sensations that flooded every inch of you. Each movement made you dizzy, a mix of pleasure and frustration, but you were unable to pull away, unable to break free from the pull of him.

You tried to hold on, to maintain that stubborn edge, to convince yourself that your resistance could hold. But with every push, every breathless moment that passed, the lines between hatred and desire blurred.

It wasn’t just him moving inside of you—it was the way he knew exactly how to push you, how to pull the tension taut, drawing out something from you that you could barely name.

He shifted slightly, leaning closer, his chest brushing against your back. The sound of his breath, shallow now, mixed with the quickening rhythm of his movements. His hands slid across your skin, every touch searing, every caress a reminder of how deeply entwined you had become in this moment.

You couldn’t focus on the words anymore, couldn’t even remember what you had said. The intensity was too overwhelming, his presence too consuming. All you could do was feel, your body caught in the pull of him, trapped in the ebb and flow of sensation that made everything else disappear.

He whispered again, his lips brushing your ear as he moved, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “I know what you feel. Don’t pretend it’s anything but this.”

His words broke through the haze, pulling you back to reality, but only for a moment. The desire was stronger now, an undeniable current that swept through you, making it impossible to think beyond the next wave, the next surge of pleasure. There was no room for resistance, not anymore.

And in that moment, you were no longer sure if you hated him or needed him.

You just wanted him to make you feel this good.

You wanted him to make you feel whole.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

IN THE MORNING, IT’S NOT WHAT HE EXPECTED. He woke up early, as he usually did, the quiet of the morning wrapping around him like a cocoon. The room was still heavy with the scent of the night, the lingering warmth of your body where you lay sprawled across the sheets, naked and content in sleep.

It was a scene that could’ve been serene, intimate, a moment of peace—but last night shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t part of the plan, and he knew that. Yet, as he sat up, his eyes lingering on the curves of your body beneath the soft, rumpled sheets, he knew that it had.

But there were no regrets. No hesitation. He had a purpose, and he had no choice but to play your game, to dive into the depths of it, as dangerous as it might be. Every move he made had to be calculated, every action precise. If he wanted to win, truly win, he had to risk it all. He had to let himself slip into the very thing that might unravel him, if only to see how far he could go.

Last night was a game, nothing more. But in the dark corners of his mind, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had meant more to you than you let on. He saw it in the way you moved, the way your breath had caught when he’d touched you in the right way, the slight tremor in your fingers when you’d whispered to him. But that wasn’t something he could afford to dwell on—not yet.

He stood, feeling the plush fabric of the night robe you had given him last night slide over his skin. It was a reminder, a lingering token of the intimacy between you two that he had to put aside. He couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Not when the stakes were so high.

His eyes flickered to the space where you slept. For a moment, he almost lingered, but he couldn’t. He knew the risks. He had to move. The urgency gnawed at him as he stepped away from the bed, the silence of the room pressing in on him like a thick fog.

He didn’t need to think twice about where you’d hidden the phone. He already knew. You weren’t subtle, and he was too good at reading people—especially when it came to you. Your body doesn’t lie. Your movements, the way you’d touched that phone last night, the exact spot where you’d set it down without thinking.

All spoke to him in a language he knew better than his own. He made his way to the desk, his fingers brushing over the surface, feeling the faint indentation left by your hand when you’d placed the phone there. He smiled to himself, a brief, knowing smirk, before he slid the drawer open.

There it was.

The phone, sleek and cold, resting where you’d left it. He picked it up with a certain reverence, his fingers brushing the screen, already knowing the passcode, already aware of what lay beneath the surface.

The secrets, the blackmailing material, the coded messages that could bring the world to its knees. He’d seen enough to know just how much power you wielded, how dangerous you could be when it suited you.

But he wasn’t worried. Not yet.

He pressed his fingers to the phone, feeling the slight warmth still radiating from where you had held it last night. The touch was almost intimate in its own way, like the faintest reminder of your presence, but he pushed that aside.

There was no room for sentimentality in this. He had to keep his focus. His eyes scanned the screen as the lock clicked open under his touch, revealing everything you thought you had carefully hidden.

You were easy to read in that regard. Your body, your habits, the way you’d hidden everything. All your secrets were all written in the lines of your movements. You couldn’t help but let slip your patterns, and that, he had learned long ago, was your greatest weakness.

With the phone in his hand, he knew he was one step closer. Just one step. But there were many more ahead, and the game wasn’t over yet. He’d made his move. All he has to do is figure out the password. 

He has a few guesses in mind, if he was being honest.

It’s why he was careful to measure everything about you last night.

Choices were good for a detective playing a game.

But as he was starting to get into his mind, he could hear the thumping. His face darted in annoyance. They’re already here to disturb his case. He moved aside as he heard the footsteps.

Just like that, the special forces stormed in like a thunderclap, their tactical gear and weapons clashing violently with the otherwise serene atmosphere of your home. The once peaceful, intimate space was now flooded with tension, the air thick with danger.

Kento could feel his body tense at the sound of muffled voices, his mind quickly shifting gears. The case was no longer about you, about the stolen moment between the two of you—it was all about the objective now. 

A quiet anger simmered beneath his calm exterior, but he pushed it down. His instincts took over as his analytical mind snapped back into focus. He had to get this right. He had no choice. He had to make this quick.

“Numbers... proportions…” he muttered to himself, his fingers itching for the puzzle’s answer. 

He looked at the phone, his hand moving automatically to input the code. His caramel gold eyes never left the paper as he punched the numbers into the safe’s sleek digital keypad of the phone. He hums to himself, trying to get various options right.

"Bust, waist, hips..." he muttered, piecing it together at last. He had known it all along, hadn't he? Should’ve guessed earlier. But now there was no mistaking it—the passcode was your measurements.

Just as he got to the size of your waist, everything had just clicked. The phone had opened and the screen opened with all the files welcoming him with open arms. He couldn’t help but smirk to himself.

Another case closed, another win for him, he supposed. The special forces were moving in quickly, eagerly. But just as they approached, something shifted in the room. Before anyone could take a step closer, you smiled as you appeared before him.

“Now, you don’t think I wouldn’t have a little fun of my own, don’t you?”

It was as if the world slowed. Your body blurred with speed and precision, a fluid motion that defied logic. One moment, you were on your bed upstairs asleep; the next, special forces agents were incapacitated, writhing in pain, their weapons scattered across the floor. Nanami Kento was too late to stop you. His own body, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events, couldn’t react in time.

And then, as he tried to process what had just happened, your bright clouded eyes locked with his own orbs with a sharp, calculating gaze. Everything about that is filled with something darker. A quiet satisfaction, as though everything had gone exactly as you’d planned.

He stood there, caught in the unexpected chaos, watching you. The mission had shifted once again—now it was about survival, about navigating a trap he hadn’t seen coming. And for once, Nanami Kento soon realized that he wasn’t the one in control.

When Kento came to, the world around him was eerily silent. His head throbbed, the pain searing through his skull like a jagged blade. His hands were bound behind his back, his arms aching as if they’d been in this position for hours. 

His vision was blurry, hazy, and it took a moment for his mind to catch up with his body. The room felt wrong, too still, too quiet, as though the calm before a storm. He could feel everything was so out of place. So deeply disturbed. How could he have let this happen?

The memories hit him swiftly, a flash of what had just transpired. He had your phone, he had opened it, the special forces were here to assist him and had stormed in to do their job and then you, in your smiling nude form, walked over to him. 

He curses under his breath. That knowing smile. You were good. You were too good. The way you had incapacitated everyone so effortlessly. The look in your excited eyes were so determined as they were unreadable. That had unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

Before Nanami Kento could make sense of it all, he found that his vision blurred again, and his body once more succumbed to unconsciousness, drifting away from the present and into the chaos of his mind.

In the dream, the world was different. It wasn’t quite reality, but it felt more vivid, more alive—like a twisted, almost haunting version of it. The colors were sharper, the air heavier, and you were there beside him. 

Your presence was undeniable, a force he couldn’t ignore, and your gaze never left his. You were dressed sharply, every inch of you radiating confidence and poise, an aura of unspoken power that seemed to disarm even the most guarded men.

Your bright eyes glinted with mischief, that familiar spark he’d seen in you when you were toying with him in the real world. There was something dangerously playful in the way you watched him, as if you knew exactly what he was thinking and how to throw him off balance.

“This is why you can’t solve it, detective.” you said, your voice smooth, like honey dripping from the tip of your tongue. 

There was something unsettling in the calmness of your tone, almost too composed, like you were savoring the moment. It was the kind of voice that could lull a man into a false sense of security, a trick, an illusion—just like the puzzle you had expertly crafted around him.

“I thought you were good.” you added, your words almost teasing, laced with an unmistakable challenge, as though you were daring him to catch up.

Nanami Kento’s brow furrowed. It was a rare sight, him visibly unsettled, caught off guard. The detective in him prided himself on his ability to read people, to dissect a situation with precision, but in that moment, he realized how wrong he had been. 

He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected you to be a part of the puzzle. But there you were, standing beside him, offering cryptic insights with a calm that sent a shiver down his spine. You weren’t just playing the game. You were the game. You had manipulated every thread, every clue, just to see how far he would go before he cracked.

“See here.” you said, stepping closer, your presence leaning in like a quiet storm. 

You reached forward, your finger tracing a spot on the board in front of him, the motion effortless, deliberate. Your touch was controlled, tracing the edges of something he had missed entirely. His eyes followed, every movement of yours like a magnet pulling him closer to the realization that his assumptions had been all wrong.

“You focused on the suspects, the alibis, the motives, but you never asked yourself why this wasn’t adding up.” you continued, voice almost a whisper, a dagger slipping between his ribs. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”

Your finger glided over the surface, slowly but with purpose, pointing out a flaw in his reasoning that he hadn’t even thought to consider. A blind spot, now glaringly obvious. He watched as you dissected his work, the very strategy he had relied on crumbling beneath your hands. He could feel the tightness in his chest, a strange sense of unease creeping in.

“You’ve been chasing the wrong lead, Kento.” Your voice was quiet but damning. “This isn’t about them. It was about who was in the front car seat. You knew it couldn’t have been that. You knew that already, didn’t you? You always have.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. The weight of them made his heart skip a beat, and for the first time in this case, his sharp mind had trouble keeping up. That car. Of course, he’d known something was off.

He’d felt it in his gut, the way the pieces didn’t quite fit together. But he had overlooked it. Too focused on the suspects, the alibis, the obvious trails. He had been distracted by the noise.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The pieces finally clicked, and it was all too clear now. Your finger had pointed out a thread he hadn’t seen, the one that connected everything. You weren’t just playing a part in this.

You were the key to the whole puzzle. Your precision, your sharp ability to see things from a different angle, had allowed you to lead him down the path of his own mistakes. His breath caught in his throat as everything aligned. You knew. Even in his dreams, you had always known how to play the game with him.

“That’s why you let this said guilty man walk, didn’t you?” His voice was lower now, a realization dawning on him, both a question and an accusation. “Because you knew the murderer wasn’t him. It was that girl he was protecting. Because you knew she’d give you that hit on the serial killer you were finding, didn’t you?”

You didn’t say anything at first, but your gaze softened, an unreadable look flashing in your eyes. There was something in the way you looked at him, something that didn’t quite match the cold logic of your words.

“You’re catching on, detective.” you said, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “The girl was always the key. The one everyone overlooked. But not you. Not anymore.”

His mind raced, scrambling to catch up with the torrent of information flooding in. You had manipulated him so effortlessly, guided him through a maze of false leads, making him chase shadows when the real answer had been in plain sight the entire time. He had been so sure, so convinced that he had it all figured out. But you had been several steps ahead, as always.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and for the first time in this entire game, he wasn’t sure if he was the one playing or if he had been the one being played. He blinked, his mind racing as he took in everything you were saying. Your deductions were sharp, methodical. 

Together, you moved through the case, your minds combining in a beautiful, almost perfect dance of logic and wit. Every piece seemed to fall into place, the puzzle coming together effortlessly, as if it had been waiting for you to find the answer all along.

His heart raced, but he couldn’t help the sense of awe that filled him. You were good. Too damn good. And he realized, in that moment, that maybe he hadn’t been the one pulling the strings all along. It was you.

You smiled, a knowing, almost secretive smile, as you moved to stand closer to him. The case had been solved, but the triumph felt fleeting, overshadowed by the way your presence seemed to swallow the room, leaving him feeling small, uncertain. He wasn’t sure what to make of it—of you.

As the final pieces clicked into place, you leaned in, stepping close enough for your lips to barely brush his ear. The warmth of your breath sent a shiver down his spine, and his pulse quickened. You were so close now, the space between you almost nonexistent, your presence overwhelming.

“Brainy, that’s what you are, detective. You always have been.” you whispered, your voice low and sultry, just the right amount of tease in it. “Definitely the new sexy.”

Your words reverberated in his mind, burning into his thoughts. You had always known how to push his buttons, how to get under his skin, but in that moment, it was different. There was something dangerous in the way you said it, something that left him feeling both drawn to you and utterly helpless.

He pulled away just slightly, but your gaze followed him, never breaking. The mischievous glint in your eyes remained, and Nanami couldn’t shake the feeling that you were playing a game far beyond him, the one he hadn’t even realized he was a part of.

"Why do you do this?" Kento murmured, unable to hold back the frustration. "You throw me off balance, make everything feel like a damn puzzle."

You shrugged nonchalantly, your expression unreadable, but the smile on your lips never faltered. “Because, detective.” you said, tilting your head slightly, “I like games. And you play with me too well.”

He stared at you, his heart beating a little faster than it should have been. He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or impressed. He lets himself be washed by the sight of you, the siren you were. The siren that’s playing a criminal for fun. He lets his lips echo into a line.

"You always think you’re ahead, don’t you?" you continued, your voice laced with amusement, though there was a challenge in your eyes. "Well, maybe you should start thinking of me as the puzzle, Nanami Kento. Because I’m the one who’s always going to be one step ahead of you."

He couldn’t argue with that. You had always been one step ahead, even when he thought he was in control. But something inside him, some part of him, didn’t want to accept it. He wasn’t going to let you get the better of him forever.

As the dream began to fade, the room around them blurring and distorting, he found himself reaching for you, his hand grasping at the air in an attempt to hold on to the only thing that had ever truly unraveled him. 

But you were gone. You already were. And this round was over. That’s just how it was. As he took a breath, he could feel everything was disappearing into the dream’s chaos, leaving him grasping at nothing but the lingering memory of your voice and the faintest scent of your perfume.

Nanami Kento woke with a start, groaning as the harsh light of reality pierced through his senses. His head was pounding, and the ropes around his wrists dug into his skin. The room was silent, the aftermath of the dream still clinging to him like a fog. The evidence was gone. You were gone.

Except for the lingering hint of your perfume, faint but undeniable.

He cursed under his breath, his jaw tightening in frustration. He had been so close. He had let himself be distracted, fooled by your words, your presence. He couldn’t afford that mistake again.

Next time, he thought, his mind sharpening as he refocused. Next time, you wouldn’t outsmart him.

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HE DIDN’T KNOW WHERE YOU HAD GONE. But he had quite a few guesses, knowing you. But life moved on as it always has. And still continued solving cases left and right, as he always has. In the months that followed, Nanami Kento found himself caught in an unexpected dance with you, one he didn’t know how to step away from.

You had added a phone number on his phone.

Six months after he met you, you messaged him.

And ever since then, you kept texting him. 

Your flirtations, while playful, always left a subtle bite, a lingering edge to them. Your messages were never too forward, never outright invasive, but there was always something that felt like a slow burn. You knew how to pull him in, how to keep him wondering, questioning, and even when he tried to distance himself, the pull of your words, your subtle, calculated charm, kept him coming back for more.

Your Siren:

“Detective, you’ve been quiet lately. Too busy solving everyone else’s problems? Or is it that you can’t stop thinking about me?” 😏

Pretty Man:

“I don’t have time for distractions at this moment.”

Your Siren:

“Hmm, I’m not a distraction. Just a little... temptation. Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Not unless you ask me to.” 😈

Pretty Man:

“I’m not in the habit of asking for things like that.”

Your Siren:

“Oh, but maybe you should be. You might find it interesting... just a thought. How long do you think you can avoid temptation, Kento?”

Pretty Man:

“Too busy to play games.”

Your Siren:

“You sure? Because every time you text me, I can’t help but think you’re already playing. But don’t worry... I won’t push. Yet.” 😏

Pretty Man:

“You always do this. You don’t know when to stop.”

Your Siren:

“You’re right, I don’t. But I can’t help it when someone’s so... irresistible. I’ll let you figure it out. But just so you know, I don’t mind being patient. We both know you’re not as immune as you think.”

Pretty Man:

“You don’t know me as well as you think.”

Your Siren:

“Oh, Kento. I know exactly what you want. And trust me, I know exactly how to give it to you. But only if you’re ready for it.” 😏

Pretty Man:

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

Your Siren:

“Of course, you’re not. But I think you might be interested in me. And I don’t mean the usual way. I’m more than just... a pretty face. You’ll see soon enough.”

Pretty Man:

“As I said, I don’t have time for games at this moment.”

Your Siren:

“The problem with you, Kento, is that you think everything is a game. But maybe... just maybe... the game is already over. You’re already playing, and I’m always one move ahead.”

Pretty Man:

“I’m not falling for this.”

Your Siren:

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just showing you how easily you can fall when you least expect it. You’ll see.” 😈

He’d wake up to your texts, your quiet, seductive words that danced between lighthearted banter and something darker, something dangerous that made his pulse race and his heart beat faster. It was a game, he knew, but it was a game he couldn’t seem to quit. 

Sometimes, he caught himself getting lost in those conversations, allowing his mind to wander to places he knew it shouldn’t. He never let himself acknowledge it fully, but deep down, he recognized that you were getting under his skin. You were more than just a case, more than a temptation. You were becoming a shadow in his life.

As Christmas drew closer, a sense of foreboding settled over him, thickening the air around him. It wasn’t just the weight of the holidays or the cases he hadn’t solved; it was you.

The last few months had made him feel like he was constantly walking a tightrope, one step away from falling off, and every text from you only deepened that sense. He tried to focus on his work, tried to keep his mind clear, but you were always there, lingering like an unanswered question.

Then, one evening, a package arrived. The familiar weight of it told him who it was from before he even opened it. He didn’t need to look at the return address—he already knew. Inside, wrapped in simple brown paper, was a phone. 

A camera phone, scratched and worn, with the screen cracked and a faded sticker on the back. Your phone. The woman whose disappearance had left a hole in his chest, whose death had been the catalyst for so many of his sleepless nights. The case had never sat right with him, and now, months later, this phone was reappearing in his life like some twisted ghost.

His fingers were cold as he held the phone, his breath catching in his throat. The smell of her perfume, faint but still distinct, clung to the device. The note that came with it was simple, almost too simple, but it sent a chill down his spine nonetheless: 

“You wanted answers. I think it’s time you got some.”

The words haunted him. His grip tightened on the phone as his mind began to race. He had tried to bury the case, tried to move on, but now this thing you had sent, this link to the past, dragged him back into the abyss.

The guilt he had buried deep down resurfaced, mixing with a sense of dread. This wasn’t just a message about the woman who was dead—it was a message to him, about him, as if he were being pulled back into the game he’d been trying to escape.

A few days later, the news hit him like a blow to the stomach: a body had been found. The victim was a woman, her body discarded, lifeless and cold. The description matched you—you, his siren.

The one whose death had never been fully explained, never truly understood. His mind raced, every instinct screaming at him that this was connected. It had to be. He should have expected it, but when the truth came crashing down, it was still a blow.

He couldn’t look away from the image of your own body, your face frozen in an expression of pain, the familiar features twisted by the brutal finality of death. The realization was slow to settle in, but it sank like a stone in his chest.

You had orchestrated this. You had sent him the phone. You were always the one pulling the strings. This was more than just a case to you. It was personal. It was a twisted game, and Nanami Kento was just another piece on your board.

Days turned into weeks, and Nanami found himself sinking deeper into a well of depression. The guilt, the despair. He couldn’t escape it. He had failed. Failed to protect you, failed to see the signs, failed to connect the dots in time. 

The person whose life he couldn’t save now haunted him, and the worst part was that it wasn’t just about you anymore. It was about you. You had been playing him all along, and now he was left to clean up the mess, surrounded by the broken pieces of a case that he could never close.

Each night, he would come home, exhausted from the mental and emotional toll, only to stare at the phone you had sent him. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. Something about it kept him tethered to the reality he didn’t want to face. 

It was a constant reminder of his failure—and of you. The scent of your perfume clung to it like a poison. The knowledge that you were still out there, still watching him, was a constant weight pressing on his chest over and over again.

He tried to focus on the case, tried to throw himself into finding answers, but the deeper he dug, the more he realized that this was a trap. It was a trap you had set for him long ago, and he was too far in to find his way out. Every lead he followed seemed to circle back to you. Every piece of evidence pointed back to you.

You were the mastermind, always just out of reach, always one step ahead.

By the time the holidays passed, Nanami Kento had stopped celebrating. There was no joy in the season for him. Only the gnawing emptiness and the crushing weight of his own inadequacies. He knew, deep down, that he would never escape you. You were like a shadow, always following, always watching. Always waiting for the next move.

And as he lay awake at night, the thought that gnawed at him more than any other was this: Next time, would he be able to stop you? Or would he fall for your game again?

But then he received that message. 

He felt his eyes widened at that beep.

Did you miss me, pretty man?

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YOU CAME TO HIS APARTMENT THAT DAY. He couldn’t believe it. His mind was racing, his heart hammering in his chest. You were still alive. After everything, after all the assumptions and deductions, after all the pieces that seemed to fit perfectly in their place, here you were. 

Full in the flesh, standing before him. The winter air was crisp around you, your breath visible in the cold as you stood there in a coat, a scarf wrapped loosely around your neck, looking as composed as ever.

Nanami Kento took a moment to take you in. His caramel eyes lingered, almost as if he couldn’t quite process the sight. You were here. Alive. Breathing. In the flesh. The siren who had been a ghost, a phantom in his case, who had slipped through his fingers. 

The same vicious smile you always wore was still there, tugging at the corners of your lips, as though everything was a game to you. And those eyes—those same cloudy, unreadable eyes. Eyes that seemed to reflect nothing and everything at once.

He felt a pang in his chest, the strange mixture of emotions flooding him all at once. Confusion, anger, horror, surprise. Some of it was easy to name, others not so much. But the most striking of all was the disbelief.

The realization that this was real, that this moment was real. His breath caught as he stared at you, frozen in place for a moment. How did this happen? How did you survive?

"You’re not dead." he finally managed, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. His hands were clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body taut with the need to understand, to make sense of it all. "How?"

You gave him no answer at first, simply letting your gaze hold his, piercing and cold. You were enjoying this, the way he struggled to find the words, the way the detective inside him  faltered. Then, as though sensing his confusion, you spoke, your voice smooth and mocking, a trace of amusement threading through your words. 

"You missed me, didn’t you?"

The question hung in the air like smoke, curling around him, suffocating him in a way that left him almost breathless. He didn’t know how to respond. His mind was still reeling from the shock, his pulse quickening. You were alive, and yet, everything he had come to understand about this case had been a lie. A carefully constructed illusion designed to deceive him.

"Missed you?" His voice was quieter now, laced with a mixture of disbelief and something darker. His eyes narrowed as he finally took a step forward. "You’ve been playing me from the beginning."

You tilted your head, a small, satisfied smile playing on your lips. "Is that what you think?" you asked, your tone almost playful. "Tell me, pretty man, do you feel used? Confused? Or perhaps... a little betrayed?"

His frown deepened as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "All of the above." he muttered, voice low with frustration.

But despite his words, something else flickered beneath the surface. Curiosity, maybe. A strange pull he couldn’t quite ignore.

"You knew this whole time, didn’t you? You knew I’d be after you. You wanted me to come for you."

You didn’t answer at first, letting the silence stretch between you. Then, with a small sigh, you shrugged as if it was nothing. "You’re the one who followed the breadcrumbs. You’re the one who couldn’t resist. You wanted to solve it. It’s just a part of the game."

"Game?" he repeated, the disbelief turning to something sharper, more biting. "You think this is a game? People have died."

Your smile only deepened, colder now, the amusement never leaving your face. "And yet, here you are, still chasing after me. Yearning even, don’t you think? Still trying to make sense of it all."

His hands clenched tighter, anger flaring. “You’ve made a mess of everything. You’re toying with people’s lives like they don’t matter.”

"Toying?" You raised an eyebrow, amused, almost entertained by his indignation. “No. I’m giving them a choice. And you’re the one who chose to follow. After all, detective, you thrive on puzzles, don’t you?”

He took another step toward you, his voice a low, threatening murmur. “You’ve made your game far too dangerous. You’ve hurt people... innocent people.”

“You’re acting like you care.” you replied with a laugh, as if the idea of him being emotionally invested was laughable. “But we both know you don’t. You’re just trying to win. And you will, Kento. Eventually. But not without paying the price. That’s how this works.”

For a moment, the tension between you two was unbearable. He was so close now, the air thick with the weight of his anger, and yet, there was something else beneath it all. He wanted to understand you.

With how you thought, how you operated. But more than that, something in him craved the challenge you presented, even now, even after all the destruction you’d caused.

"You think you’re above it all, don’t you?" he muttered, his tone laced with both frustration and intrigue. "But you’re just as trapped in this as everyone else."

The smile never left your lips, but your eyes shifted, a flicker of something darker flashing beneath the surface. "Maybe." you said softly, the words drawing his focus closer. "But I’m not the one chasing. You are."

Nanami Kento’s frustration was palpable, his brow furrowing as he stared at you, unable to fathom why you were here, standing in front of him, alive. Alive. His thoughts scrambled, questions tumbling over one another in a chaotic mess.

He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t grasp the full extent of the situation. And yet, here you were, standing in the middle of it all, as calm and composed as ever.

“Why are you here?” he demanded, his voice rough with a mix of disbelief and barely contained anger. “You should be—" He stopped himself, the words hanging in the air as he realized how much had gone wrong. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You let his question linger for a moment, your gaze never leaving his as the air between you thickened with unspoken tension. His eyes, sharp and searching, never wavered, as if waiting for some explanation that would make sense of the madness. But all you did was smile. Calm, almost indifferent.

“I needed a place to hide.” you said softly, your voice smooth, almost too casual for someone who had just reappeared from the dead. “And you’ve been looking for me for so long, pretty man. It seemed like the most obvious choice.”

His eyes narrowed, not sure whether to be more furious or more confused by your nonchalant answer. His breath came in quick, uneven bursts, his hands clenched tightly at his sides as if keeping himself from reaching out and shaking some sense into you. 

"Hide? Hide from what? From who? You’ve been playing everyone, manipulating them—manipulating me."

Your gaze flickered with something unreadable, but your lips quivered upwards, amused by his attempt to piece it all together. "You think you understand everything, don't you?" you said, stepping a little closer to him, the space between you closing, your body language daring him to act. "But you're missing the point. You're too caught up in your own game, in your own rules."

His breath hitched as he took a step forward, eyes burning with something darker, something more dangerous than frustration. "Stop playing with me." he warned, his voice low and tense, every word coming out with an edge that made the air feel even heavier. "Tell me what you want, what you're really after."

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you looked up at him, your eyes locking with his, and for a brief moment, the tension between you both was almost suffocating. The air was thick with unspoken words, with desire and anger and something else, something neither of you had been willing to acknowledge until now.

Kento couldn’t help but just stand there, staring at you, the weight of the situation sinking in deeper with every passing second. His mind was clouded, his control slipping just a little more with each heartbeat that seemed to thunder in his chest. And then, before he could stop himself, the last thread of restraint snapped.

Without warning, he moved, closing the distance between you in one swift motion. His hands gripped your shoulders possessively, pulling you into him as his lips crushed against yours. It was a kiss of urgency, of frustration, of desire that had been building since the moment you walked back into his life.

For a moment, you didn’t react. But then, slowly, deliberately, you kissed him back. Your lips parted, and the tension that had been coiling between you two unraveled, replaced by the heat of your kiss. 

The sensation was electric, a dangerous blend of anger and attraction that you both couldn’t seem to escape. His hands slid to the small of your back, pressing you closer, as if trying to imprint the feeling of you into his very being.

You let yourself go, the sharp edges of your emotions dulling under the intensity of the kiss. It was everything he hadn’t expected and yet everything he had craved in this moment. The game, the puzzle, the questions—they all faded into the background as his kiss consumed you.

His heart was pounding in his chest, every nerve alive with the need for more, but he pulled away just enough to look at you, eyes dark and intense. "You’re not getting away this time." he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

You smirked, breathless but unfazed, your fingers lightly tracing his jaw as you met his gaze. "I never planned on running." you replied softly, your voice a whisper of something darker, something more dangerous.

The tension between you was palpable now, the air crackling with a dangerous energy that neither of you could deny. You were playing the game, and so was he—but this time, the rules had shifted. And neither of you knew exactly where it would lead.

As the days wore on, the subtle, electrifying tension between Kento and you only deepened. Your presence in his life was no longer something he could dismiss. Even though he tried to maintain his emotional distance, you had an uncanny ability to break through that wall, piece by piece. 

Every conversation, every look, and every small gesture you made slowly chipped away at his resolve. You were pulling him in with an invisible force, and despite his best efforts to resist, he could feel himself being tugged along, unable to escape the gravitational pull of you.

The house was quieter now, the days blending into nights where neither of you spoke much about the underlying tension. But you didn’t need words to communicate. The silence between you both was a language all its own, an understanding that neither of you could easily put into words. You didn’t need to talk about your past, about the things that had driven you to seek him out again. 

Kento knew that there was a story buried deep inside you, one you were unwilling to share, but it didn’t matter anymore. You had already told him more than enough, through your body language, the quiet moments where your eyes would meet just a little longer than usual. He understood you better than anyone else could, even if he hated it.

One evening, the two of you sat together at the kitchen table, an open bottle of wine between you. It was a routine that had become familiar, a time when the chaos of the outside world could be forgotten, even if just for a moment. 

You had been telling him about a case you were working on, but as you spoke, Kento found himself lost in your presence rather than the details of the case. The way you leaned into the table, the way your fingers brushed the rim of your glass, the way your voice carried effortlessly through the room.

Everything about that, all of it held him captive. You had caged him along with you. It was then, in the stillness between your words, that the question came, hanging in the air like a soft whisper. It always was.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet but laced with something unspoken, something that made the words feel heavier than they should have been.

Kento’s heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, he almost forgot how to breathe. He knew what you were offering wasn’t just a meal. There was something deeper, more intimate in the way you phrased the question. 

It was a silent invitation, one that promised more than just food and conversation. He knew that much. It was obvious. It promised the chance to finally break down the last of the barriers that had kept you both apart. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He pursed his lips.

No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how badly his body and mind screamed at him to give in, he knew he couldn’t let himself fall back into this—this pattern, this trap. He had to maintain control, to keep his distance. 

But even as the words left his lips, as he said, “I can’t” something inside him felt like it was unraveling. The regret and the longing in your eyes, the way your smile faltered just for a moment, told him that you understood exactly what he meant. It hurt, but it was the right thing to do. Or so he told himself.

You didn’t say anything at first. You simply looked at him, the silence stretching between you like an ocean. And then, as if all of your plans had finally come to fruition, you stood up from the table and walked around it, your heels clicking softly on the floor. 

The distance between you both evaporated the moment you moved closer, your presence suddenly all-encompassing. Without a word, you leaned in, your lips barely grazing his ear as your breath sent a shiver down his spine. 

“You don’t have to say it with words, Kento.” you whispered. “I think you already know what I want.”

And in that moment, every single ounce of resistance he had left shattered. It wasn’t that he had stopped caring about the boundaries he had put in place. It wasn’t that he was suddenly willing to throw away everything he had tried to protect. 

It was simply that the pull of you was too strong, too irresistible. The magnetic force between you both was something that no amount of willpower could suppress. He was already too far gone.

Before he could think or process what was happening, your lips were on his, soft and urgent, demanding nothing and everything all at once. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, reached up to pull you closer, to feel the warmth of your body against his. 

The kiss deepened, slow at first but quickly turning desperate, as if both of you had been holding back for too long. The taste of you, the feel of your skin against his, was intoxicating, overwhelming.

It was more than just desire. It was the culmination of everything that had been building up between you both, an undeniable need that neither of you could control.

The night unfolded like a haze of touch, soft whispers, and heated moments that blurred into each other. The world outside ceased to exist as the two of you lost yourselves in each other, in the raw, untamed connection that had always simmered between you. 

Nanami Kento couldn’t remember when things had gone from tentative, unsure steps to something more frantic, more desperate, but he didn’t care. He was past caring. In the quiet aftermath, as you lay beside him, your body pressed against his, Kento’s mind raced. 

He couldn’t pretend that this didn’t change things. It had already changed everything. The walls he had so carefully built had crumbled in a matter of hours, and now he was left standing at the edge, unsure of how to move forward.

As you slept beside him, your head resting on his chest, he realized the truth that he had been trying so hard to deny: You were no longer just a temptation, a passing distraction. You were something else entirely—a force that had entered his life and shaken everything to its core.

And for all his attempts to hold back, to keep his distance, he knew, deep down, that he would never be able to escape you. The lines between right and wrong, between desire and control, had blurred beyond recognition, and now, there was only one thing he knew for certain: he was caught in your web, and there was no going back.

As the quiet settled over the room, Kento couldn’t shake the feeling of your presence beside him. It was as though every inch of him had been pulled toward you, and now that you were so close, the pull had only deepened. 

He wanted to say something, anything, to break the silence, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. The vulnerability of the moment was overwhelming, and he didn’t know how to handle it. You stirred beside him, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his chest. 

There was a quiet contentment in the way you touched him, as if you knew exactly how to make him feel both at ease and disoriented at the same time. Finally, you broke the silence with a soft, teasing whisper, your voice low and laced with something that made his pulse quicken. 

“You know, Kento, I never took you for someone who’d be so... unpredictable.”

Kento turned his head to look at you, your face still partially hidden by the dim light of the room, but he could see the playful glint in your eyes. Despite the heaviness of the situation, despite everything that had just transpired, there was still a challenge in your tone—like you were daring him to acknowledge what had just happened between you.

“I never expected you to be so persistent.” he replied, his voice hushed but tinged with the weight of the words.

You smiled, a faint, knowing smile that seemed to reach the corners of your eyes. “Persistence has its rewards, don’t you think?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his eyes linger on you, taking in the details of your face—how you looked so much like the woman who had always been just out of reach, yet now was lying next to him as though you belonged there.

The closeness was intoxicating, and for a moment, Nanami Kento allowed himself to let go of the inner tension that had been gnawing at him.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.” he muttered, almost to himself. His hand moved to gently push a lock of your hair behind your ear, a movement that seemed strangely intimate. “I’m not... someone you should be relying on for this kind of thing.”

You turned toward him, propping your head up with one hand, the other resting on his chest. Your gaze was steady, unwavering, and you leaned in slightly, as if closing the space between you would help you understand him better.

“You’re wrong.” you said softly, your voice carrying a quiet confidence. “I know exactly who you are, Kento. You’ve been so careful, so stoic, but underneath that... I see you. And I know this isn’t just a passing thing for you. You wouldn’t let it be. Not with me.”

His throat tightened. He wanted to say something in response, something to deny the truth of your words, but for some reason, the honesty in your gaze made him pause. It was almost like you had peeled back a layer of himself that he had buried for so long, and now there was no turning back.

“Do you think you’re the first person to think they can outsmart me?” Nanami asked, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost like he was talking to himself. “You’ve always been good at what you do. Too good.”

“Is that a compliment, or are you just being modest?” you teased, but your voice was softer now, as if the playful note was fading into something more serious.

“It’s the truth.” he said, his voice steady but filled with a new kind of weight. “I can’t pretend that I’m immune to you, that I can just walk away from all this.”

You shifted slightly, your body inching closer to his, as though the tension in the air had become too much for both of you to ignore. Your lips parted, your gaze never leaving his. A glint of something beyond the icy clouds he was enamoured about.

“You don’t have to walk away, Kento.” you whispered, a trace of vulnerability beneath your usual boldness. “But if you’re not willing to stay, then don’t bother pretending. I won’t waste my time.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him, heavier than it had ever been before. Your hand rested against his own, smiling at him so tenderly.

“I’m not pretending.” he finally said, his voice quiet but resolute. “I know what I want. The question is... do you know what you want?”

For a moment, it seemed like the world outside the room had disappeared entirely. You were both in this space, suspended in time, just the two of you, your emotions intertwined in a way neither of you had fully prepared for.

“I know exactly what I want.” you replied softly, your fingers brushing his jawline. “But the real question, Kento, is whether you’re ready to let go of what you’re holding onto. You may be in control... but for how long?”

The challenge in your voice sent a shiver down his spine, and Kento couldn’t help but lean in just a fraction closer, as though the very air between you had become too thick to ignore. The magnetism of the moment was too strong, and even though he knew the risks, knew the consequences, he didn’t pull back.

“I’m not sure if I can let go.” he admitted, his voice low. His caramel eyes searched yours, looking for something—anything—to make sense of the chaos swirling inside him. “But maybe... just maybe... I’m starting to understand why I don’t want to.”

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you closed the small gap between you and kissed him, a soft, slow kiss that held all the promises neither of you dared to speak aloud. It was a kiss that conveyed everything, a silent agreement that neither of you had the strength to pull away from.

And as the night stretched on, the boundaries between right and wrong, between need and guilt, blurred once again. Neither of you said what was truly on your minds, but in that moment, words weren’t necessary. 

The understanding was enough. The desire was enough. And maybe, just maybe, this—this strange, inevitable connection was more than either of you could ever have imagined. Even though he didn’t know how long this was going to last.

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YET HE KNEW THAT YOU WERE COMPETITIVE TOO. You didn’t want to lose the game. It was more than just a challenge to you—it was a test of your control, your power over the situation. You’d played the game so carefully, weaving each step, each move, into a perfect symphony of manipulation. 

But that night, before you disappeared from his apartment, Kento had seen it in your eyes. That brief, fleeting moment where the façade cracked, where the sharp edges of your confidence gave way to something far more vulnerable, something he would never fully understand.

The room was thick with tension, charged with an intensity that neither of you had been able to escape. You were face to face with him now, and the walls of your meticulously crafted world were closing in. The situation had shifted in ways you hadn’t planned for, and every move you had made, every carefully laid out strategy, was beginning to unravel.

You’d been the one pulling the strings, the one who had orchestrated everything with precision. But now, Nanami Kento stood before you, a force that had disrupted the delicate balance you had worked so hard to maintain. 

His sharp mind, his piercing gaze, and his unyielding persistence had become the thorn in your side, one you hadn’t expected. The game was still on, but the stakes were higher than ever. For a moment, you let your mind drift back to the past few days. 

How you’d thought you had him under control, how you’d been so sure of yourself. You had always been in control of the game. Whether it was your charm, your intellect, or the secrets you so expertly guarded, you had always held the upper hand. 

But with Nanami Kento, there was something different. Everything about him was an anomaly.  His presence was like a force of nature, one that couldn’t be ignored, one that made you question everything.

“This is what you’ve been working towards?” Yaga Masamichi's voice was cold, filled with disbelief. 

He had been observing from a distance, waiting for the right moment to intervene, but now it was clear that the game had reached its climax. You stood across from them, eyes sharp, calculating. You could feel Kento’s eyes burning holes into you.

"I’m not interested in your so-called justice, iceman." you spat, turning your focus back to Kento. "You both are just pawns in a much bigger plan. This—" you motioned vaguely around you. "—all of this is a distraction. A test. And you were so easy to manipulate, detective."

Kento stood still, the air thick with resolve. The betrayal in your voice stung, but he wasn’t letting it sway him. “You’re the one who’s been playing a game, siren.” he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "And the one who's been pretending. Pretending like you didn’t have a stake in all this."

You scoffed. "Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need you. I’m using you, just like I’ve used everyone else. You were always just a tool."

But there was something in your eyes, there was a flicker, an imperceptible shift. Something that betrayed your words. Kento, ever observant, didn’t miss it. He took a step forward, his brow furrowed, voice cutting through the air. 

“You’re lying.”

You froze.

His eyes narrowed, taking in the subtle signs you thought you had hidden so well. "Your elevated pulse. You can't fool me. You're interested in me. All this... it’s a game to you, but you’re not fooling anyone.”

You felt a chill run down your spine. How could he have figured it out so easily? You had worked so hard to keep up the façade, to maintain the power, but in that moment, Nanami Kento had seen right through you. He always has, the moment you both met.

“You really thought you had me, didn’t you?” Kento continued, his voice low and steady, almost teasing. “You thought I wouldn’t notice. But I can see right through you. The truth is, you’ve always been a lot more invested than you let on."

“How can you be so confident?”

The room felt smaller, the silence deafening as Nanami Kento moved closer, his expression unreadable. You were beginning to panic inside, but you refused to let it show. Your eyes tensed as he got to you. You watched as he wraps the fingers of his right hand around her left wrist, then leans forward and brings his mouth close to her right ear.

“Because I took your pulse.”

Almost suddenly, you could feel yourself going through your memories. You found yourself at that moment, where you were kneeling in front of him and smiling at him. Your hand on top of him. You hadn’t noticed it then. You were too busy looking at him.

It was then he, keeping eye contact, turning his hand over and resting his fingertips on the underside of your wrist. The beating of your heart echoes against the fabric of his flesh. He pursed his lips in a flat line.

You frowned, betrayal finally evident in your eyes as you gathered yourself to the present once more. You could feel his grip on your wrist tightens. You try to open your mouth but nothing comes out of your lips.

“They’re elevated.” He continues to whisper to you. “Your pupils dilated, just like back then.”

“I imagine people think that love seems like a mystery to me, that it’s of lesser value to my fondness of the game, of logic.Like you want it to be.” He tells you, brushing your hair and tucking it against your ear. “But it’s chemistry,a s simple as breathing. It’s just as destructive, don’t you think?”

Kento turns away and walks a few paces from you. You couldn’t help but try and follow behind him. But you stopped as he turned around and faced you once again. You purse your lips in a flat line. He smiles at you as he takes the phone.

“You know, you tried to convince me that this is all a game, that you were bored and this was you having fun. You played all those games over and over, tempting me and you couldn’t help it could you?”

He starts pressing the buttons on the phone. You could feel the air get punched out of your lungs. You wanted him to stop, but he didn't. He looks up to you, trying to see your panic and tension. 

“You knew I would try and use your body as much as you would use mine. You allowed me to take your measurements, everything. But this phone, everything about this is intimate. This is your heart.”

Without breaking his gaze into your bright emotional eyes, Kento pushes his finger and punches in the first of the five letter code. Then it clicked. You closed your eyes, tears pouring out your eyes. You could feel your heart beating loudly.

“And if you wanted to win the game.” He whispers to you, smiling. “You should never let it rule your head.”

You stared at him, trying to stay calm but the panic is beginning to show behind your eyes, tears pouring down your cheeks. You had lost to him. He smiles at you in a triumph as your breathing becomes heavier.

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for.” he tells you as he stares at the phone. “But after all that time, being obsessed about me. You just couldn’t resist it, couldn’t you?”

“Stop. Please.”

“I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage.” He continues as you try to seize his hand, gazing intensely at him. “Thank you for the final proof.”

He shows Yaga the phone. 

It was his name, K-E-N-T-O.

You felt the tears pour again.

“Everything I said: it’s not real.” You whispered back at him, lying through your teeth. “I was just playing the game.”

“I know.” He whispered to you, his eyes echoing fondness. “And this is just losing it.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t expected him to be able to guess it so quickly, but of course, he was always ahead of the game. He knew what you had been hiding all along. With a sharp click, the phone unlocked. Kento glanced at the screen briefly before turning his gaze back to you.

Your stomach turned. The room seemed to tilt around you. For the first time in your life, you were the one caught in the web. You had underestimated him. The man who had been nothing more than a distraction was now the one holding the key to your entire operation.

Before you could react, Yaga moved swiftly to grab the phone from Kento’s hands, but you were already one step ahead. Your instinct for survival kicked in. You didn’t have time to make sense of it all. You needed to leave. Now.

With a sudden movement, you grabbed your coat, the weight of the situation pressing down on you as you turned to the door. Kento’s gaze followed you, but he didn’t try to stop you. You looked into his eyes. He knew that you wouldn’t last six months. 

“Not so fast.” you heard him say, his tone sharp. “You won’t get away that easily.”

But you were already slipping out of the room, the sound of your heels echoing down the hallway as you fled. Behind you, you could hear Kento and Yaga discussing the aftermath, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

Your plan was unraveling, but you were no longer in the mood to play by their rules. In the blink of an eye, you were gone, disappearing into the shadows of the city, knowing that the game had shifted—and you would need to find a new way to stay in control.

As you hurried through the corridor, your mind raced. The realization that Nanami Kento had figured out your carefully constructed ruse was a blow to your confidence, but you couldn’t afford to dwell on it. You had come too far, planned too meticulously, to let it all collapse now.

Still, the fact that he had guessed the password, his name, cut deep, deeper than you'd expected. You had thought your feelings were buried beneath the cold, calculated façade you’d built, but now, standing on the brink of losing everything, they resurfaced in full force.

Nanami Kento—the man who had been a mere pawn in your plan had somehow become the center of it. His presence, his ability to break through your defenses, it all felt like a betrayal, even though you were the one who had been playing the game. You didn’t have time to question what had gone wrong; you had to act fast.

As you made your way down the stairs, the voices of Yaga and Kento grew fainter, their words drowned out by the pounding of your heart. You knew you had to disappear before they caught up, but something inside you resisted, a strange mix of anger and... longing. You couldn’t let it show, not now, not when everything was slipping through your fingers.

Your fingers gripped the handle of the door to the street, but just as you were about to escape, a voice called out.

“You think you can just run?” Kento’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine. He had followed you.

You whirled around to face him, your eyes narrowing in defiance, your body tense with adrenaline. Kento stood a few feet behind you, the doorframe casting shadows across his features. He looked at you with a mixture of frustration and something else, something more complex than anger, maybe even understanding.

“Do you really think this is the end, Kento?” you sneered, trying to mask the uncertainty building inside. 

You had never shown this side of yourself to him before, this vulnerable, off-balance side that was beginning to crack under the weight of your own feelings. You couldn’t afford to let him see it, though. Not now.

“You always have an answer, don’t you?” he said quietly, his gaze steady as it locked with yours. “Always one step ahead, but this time, I’m the one who figured you out. I know what you're really after.”

You clenched your jaw. You could feel the heat of your emotions bubbling to the surface, but you held them back. “You don’t know anything, Kento.” you said, your voice was hard, but the crack in it betrayed you.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His presence was like an anchor, heavy and undeniable, making it impossible for you to ignore the magnetic pull between you. For a moment, the anger you had been holding onto faded, replaced by something much more dangerous. You could feel it in your chest. A thudding, tight sensation that wasn’t entirely from fear.

“I know you.” Nanami said, his voice low. “I know how you work. How you manipulate, how you play people to get what you want.” He took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. “But I also know something else. I know that you... care.”

You blinked, startled. "You're wrong." you hissed, your heart racing as you tried to shove the feelings back into the recesses of your mind where they had been hiding.

But he wasn’t finished. "No.”he said, his tone firm. "I’m right. You’re not as cold as you think you are. You’ve been hiding behind your plan, using it as a shield, but it’s not fooling me anymore."

You wanted to lash out, to deny it, to prove him wrong. But his words hung in the air, making it harder and harder to push them away. He was right, in a way. You had always told yourself that you were in control, that you could manipulate the situation, use it to your advantage. But now, standing there with him, with the evidence of your vulnerability laid bare, you weren’t so sure.

"Don’t make this harder than it already is." he said, his voice soft but resolute. “You don’t have to keep running, but if you do, you’ll only be fooling yourself.”

You could feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, the truth of them sinking in like a heavy stone. You were out of options. You didn’t have an answer. The truth of it hit you hard, and before you could stop yourself, you were already fleeing. 

Your heart pounding, the camera phone slipping from your hand as you disappeared into the night. You didn’t know if you were running from Nanami Kento or from yourself. But one thing was certain: the game was far from over.

“Run now, siren.” He whispers in your ear. “I’ll let you have the head start.”

He had won this time, and you lost.

You always will, when it comes to him.

You loved him, after all.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

THINGS HAVE GONE AND PASSED AGAIN. The air was heavy with the kind of silence that could only follow about something like this. Yaga Masamichi. sat at his desk, the faint hum of the office lights above the only sound as he held the letter in his hands. Kento can only look at him, trying to keep a poker face.

He had received the news just moments ago. The news that people were expecting. News that even Kento knew would happen. But after you had lost the game, you were more vulnerable than ever before. And there was nothing that was to be done about it. That was just how it was in this world.

You, the enigmatic figure who had stirred the threads of chaos and manipulation in their lives, had been executed by enemy spies. He heard it was at least merciful, one clean cut.  And now he has to tell Nanami Kento. And that would close the case. 

"Yaga, you called me here too early for this.”

“I know, I know. But it has to be said in person.” Yaga said, his voice steady but grim. “It’s about the dominatrix.”

Kento looked at him for a moment.

He sighed as he straightened his position.

“What happened?” Kento’s voice had softened, as if preparing for the inevitable.

“They’ve been executed.” Yaga said, each word feeling like a final nail in the coffin of everything they had all been through with you. “Some of their enemies... They caught them. They’re gone.”

There was another long silence. Nanami Kento didn’t speak immediately. He sighed, and slowly took out a cigarette from his pocket. Soon, he pulls out a lighter. The soft click of a lighter igniting the moment filled the void. 

“Thank you for informing me.” Kento replied, his voice low, emotionless.

“Listen, I just—” Yaga started, sensing the complicated nature of their relationship, but Nanami cut him off.

“I’ll handle it.” he said, his tone final. 

And with that, Nanami Kento stood up.

The smell of nicotine echoed through.

And then, he left as quietly as he entered.

Nanami Kento arrived back at his apartment, the cigarette already gone. He sighed as he sat in the quiet of his apartment, the heavy weight of the news pressing against him. His apartment, usually a place of calm and routine, felt eerily empty now. 

The hum of the outside world fading into a distant, unimportant murmur. He walked to the corner where his violin sat. He had left it a while ago, having been summoned. There was a new piece he had to enjoy. A new refuge from the chaos of his life.

Sitting down, Kento lifted the violin, the bow in his hand as though it were second nature. He placed it against the strings and began to play—a soft, mournful tune that echoed through the empty space of his home.

The melody wasn’t one he had planned to play. It was a reflection of the tumult he felt inside. There was an unspoken grief, a lingering ache that he couldn’t quite place. It was almost as if he were trying to play the sorrow out of his chest, to make sense of the confusion swirling in his mind.

But his mind kept circling back to you. The way you had manipulated him, pulled him into your web, but also the way you had challenged him, pushed him to think in ways he never had before. He couldn't deny the complexity of his feelings for you. The mix of resentment and a strange, reluctant respect for the person you were.

You had been his puzzle, one that never quite made sense, and now, with your loss, that piece of his life was forever unfinished. You were the game that he enjoyed the most, the game that had excited him the most. The game he loved.

As he played, his fingers faltered slightly over the strings, the tension building in his chest as he remembered the last time he had seen you. The way your eyes had locked, full of unspoken words. The way you had almost reached for him, only for everything to crumble apart in the chaos of the mission.

The music began to swell as he poured his emotions into each note, but something else caught his attention. The glint of the camera phone in his breast pocket. The phone that had been the key to everything. 

The phone that he had kept close, far closer than he had ever intended. It wasn’t just a tool, a piece of evidence. It was a reminder of you, a tether that still held him in your orbit, even in your absence.

He paused his playing, reaching up to gently pull the phone from his pocket. His fingers brushed over the smooth surface, feeling the weight of it like a secret too heavy to carry. The camera phone wasn’t just part of the plan you had devised. 

It was a part of you. And in that moment, Nanami realized that he hadn’t just kept it because it was useful; he kept it because it was a connection to something deeper. You were gone, but the phone, the lingering traces of you, remained.

Nanami Kento sighed, placing the phone on the table before him as he continued to play, the melody soft and contemplative now. It was clear that, despite the distance between them, despite all the lies and manipulation, there had been something real there. A part of him, something he couldn’t quite articulate, had been drawn to you.

He didn’t understand it completely, but one thing was undeniable: you had left your mark on him, and in the quiet solitude of his apartment, Nanami Kento allowed himself to admit it. He would keep the camera phone close. Near his heart.

But then he smiles. 

His mind goes to months ago.

The air was thick with the sounds of an angry voice drifting over the low hum of a military vehicle. The camera shakes, blurring the scene in the darkness, until it finally stabilizes, the picture clearing as reality begins to take form.

You’re kneeling on the cold, unforgiving earth, the bright floodlights from the vehicle casting long shadows across your body. Clad in your death robes, you appear almost serene, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding you. 

With one hand, you type slowly and deliberately on your phone, ignoring the shouts, the movement, the urgency of it all. Your fingers glide over the screen, eyes fixed on the message you’ve been preparing for hours.

Goodbye pretty man.

Your heart beats steadily as you press send. It’s the final touch. Your final act. To your right, a man holds a rifle with one hand, his other hand outstretched, demanding your phone. His voice is rough, laced with frustration as he calls for you to hand it over. 

But you don’t flinch. You don’t move. You’re not done. His voice sharpens with each demand, but you remain composed, fingers pressing the keys with a calm that unnerves him. Give me the phone! Now! he roars, but your gaze stays fixed on the screen.

Not yet. Not until you finish.

He steps closer, anger flashing across his face, rifle raised again, his grip tightening. But you don’t look up. You don’t react. You type with precision, your thumb moving over the screen with careful intent, as if time no longer holds any meaning.

The world around you may be closing in, but you’re lost in the finality of your message. 

It feels almost too simple, and yet, it’s everything. 

Then the atmosphere shifts.

A sudden tension cracks through the air, and the voices behind you falter, confusion rippling through the men as a figure steps forward from the shadows. You hear his voice before you see him, calm, unyielding.

“Stand down.”

Nanami Kento.

The man holding the rifle hesitates, looking between you and the newcomer. Kento’s presence is a force. It was silent, authoritative. His voice has the weight of a command, and it leaves no room for argument. The rifle lowers, and the soldier steps back, unwilling to face the quiet fury Kento brings with him.

Kento doesn’t spare a glance at the man. His attention is on you. His steps are measured, purposeful, as he approaches. He kneels beside you, and for a moment, the chaos around you blurs into silence. 

His hand brushes your shoulder gently, a wordless comfort in the midst of everything. He doesn’t ask why you’re here, doesn’t ask why you’ve sent the message. Instead, he simply looks at the phone, glancing down at the words you’ve typed.

“Goodbye pretty man...” he reads softly, his voice a mixture of concern and something else—something unreadable.

You finally glance up at him, your expression a mask of calm, but your eyes flicker with something more. A slight smile, cold but there, pulls at the corners of your lips. You take a moment to breathe, taking in the presence of him.

“I didn’t think I’d make it out this time.”

His gaze softens, just for a second, before he stands, pulling you to your feet effortlessly. His fingers are warm against yours as he closes the phone, taking it from your hand. His grip is firm, sure, as he pulls you into his orbit, away from the danger, away from the violence.

Without a word, Kento turns his back to the men as he walks away. You’re with him now, an unspoken agreement passing between you. His presence is unwavering, the tension around you fading with each step. He leads you through the chaos, his voice cutting through the din with quiet authority, silencing any protest from the soldiers around you.

“You’re coming with me. Now.”

His words are simple, but there’s no room for defiance. You follow, not because you have to, but because for the first time in months, you feel something that’s been missing. An anchor, a safety in his steady presence. You couldn’t help but smile.

You don’t need to say anything more. He’s here. 

You’re not alone anymore.

The game has changed. 

And Nanami Kento is the one who changed it.

“My vixen of a siren, where could you be now?” 

[nereidprinc3ss]

hii i love love how u write spencer omds🥸

uhh i was wondering if you could write sth based off the song “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross? pls dont feel pressured to write this btw😭😭😭 hope ur having a good day lovely💗💗

hello my love i have no self control so this is extremely long and plotty but i love this song and i hope that this is any good at all crying emoji (i'm on a laptop LOL) enjoy!!

warnings/tags: angst/fluff, fem!reader, negative self-talk from reader, mentions of past sexual coercion/feeling used, mentions of past excessive drinking to combat social anxiety, ive been watching a lot of new girl lately and i think it shows, SO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, happy ending

You weren’t expecting to end up on Spencer Reid’s worn-leather couch at two in the morning, clutching a chipped mug of coffee in your hands as you listen to the sounds of the city from the street below. But there you are, sitting with your legs folded under you, in your favorite dress and first date-night makeup (now bleeding and smudged from all the crying.) And realizing that despite considering him one of your closest friends, you haven’t been to his apartment in a long time. There are, of course, good reasons for that—but you try to push those from your mind. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you sigh, staring at your warped reflection in the glassy black surface of your coffee. Spencer is coming out of the small kitchen, now bearing his own cup. 

“Please, stop apologizing.” 

You glance up, tentatively studying him from behind the safety of your mug. While he may not have been asleep when you knocked on his door ten minutes ago, lachrymose and barely verbal, he must have been getting ready for bed. He’s clad in patterned pajama pants, mismatched socks, and an FBI crewneck that is just big enough to reveal the collar of the tee-shirt underneath. He’s already taken out his contacts, and you were startled by the reminder that he also has glasses. 

“So...” he begins, bringing you back to the present moment, “we don't have to talk about anything, if you don’t want to, but...” 

You sigh, watching coffee bubbles swirl like stars in a galaxy. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t really think, I just... ended up here.” 

“Yeah... where did you come from?” he laughs quietly. “Not that I’m complaining. But I recall you not living super close by.” 

“No, no. I was actually on a date. Kind of.” 

“Ah.” There’s a beat of silence, and ostensibly Spencer is waiting for you to say more, but instead you take a sip from your mug. “At two in the morning?” You nod dully, staring at the labyrinthine pattern of the Persian rug.  

“I’m taking it that it wasn’t a very good date...?” 

A whoosh of air escapes from your puffed cheeks. 

“No it was not. Not by the end, anyway. It actually started really well, which made it even more disappointing when he...” you laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Well, when he kicked me out of his car on a street corner because I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

You don’t look to see Spencer’s reaction—only take another long, baleful sip of coffee and ignore the heavy silence.  

“I’m really sorry. You... you deserve so much better than that.” 

An attempt at a jaded scoff from you falls flat. 

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the last three white house interns I’ve gone on dates with. It’s the same thing every time.” 

“Have you considered going on fewer dates with white house interns...?” The nervous humor is a thin veil over genuine critique. You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not just them. Every single guy I’ve liked since I was 15 has been like this. Even my past relationships, I felt like I was almost... tricked into, you know? I mean, these guys, they act all understanding and willing to take it slow or whatever, until you’re in a relationship, and suddenly they’re guilt tripping you so hard and making you feel so obligated to...” you catch yourself just in time, glancing up at Spencer. You’re not sure what to make of his expression. The drawn brow and slightly squinted eyes trained so intently on you could be sympathy, or anger, or pity, or apathy—you look away, not sure you even want to know what he’s thinking. ���Sorry. You don’t need to hear all about that. Basically romance is exhausting and since I’ll clearly be single forever I’m considering running away to join a nunnery.” 

When he doesn’t respond for too long, you look back up quizically. 

“I’m not sure you know what romance actually is,” he says as soon as your gaze meets his, like the eye-contact activated some kind of hair-trigger in his vocal box. 

You blink, lowering the coffee cup to your lap. 

Says Spencer Reid? 

“...sorry?” 

He flushes, stammering to clarify himself. 

“I just meant—I—I know I’m not exactly fighting women off with a stick—” he interrupts himself with a self-conscious (adorable) laugh— “but... but I have been in love, at least once.”  

“Maeve,” you say, gently—trying to shove down bitter guilt as you remember how jealous you’d been when Spencer had first told you about her. “I remember.” 

He swallows and nods. 

“We never even met—we just talked. All the time. I had no idea what she looked like. But it didn’t matter at all. Because I knew her, and I loved her. Maybe things would have gone further if I hadn’t been calling her from public phone booths, but that wasn’t the most important thing to either of us. We were still in love.” You try to shut out the sharp ache in your chest. Being jealous of the way he speaks about a dead woman is so wrong.  

“What I’m trying to say is that romance isn’t solely about sex, or even physical appearance. It sounds to me like you’ve been with a lot of men who don’t understand that. And it would be such a shame for you to write romance off in general before you even get to experience it. You are... an extraordinary woman. You’re funny, and intelligent, and kind, and so capable of being loved. One day, someone is going to see beyond your pulchritude and prove that to you. I hope you let them try.” 

More tears blur the pattern on the rug, pooling in the rims of your eyes before spilling down your cheeks in fast, fat drops. Shakily you set the cup down, resting your elbows on your knees and hiding your face in your hands. You sniff once. Twice. Shake your head quickly, attempting to wipe the tears away without further smearing your makeup everywhere. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, leaning forward but obviously unsure how to comfort you. “Please don’t cry, I wasn’t--I was trying to do the opposite of this.” 

“No, I’m sorry! You didn’t have to—you didn’t—I’m sorry. That was way too nice.” 

But you're not crying because he was nice.  

Someone will love you, but not me. That’s all you can hear. 

His voice is a mere whisper when he next speaks. 

“I meant every word.” 

You take a shuddering breath, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve behind the peaceful black of your eyelids. You can’t be looking at his face when you say what you’re about to say. 

“I had a crush on you for the longest time, you know.” 

Ringing silence. But it doesn’t last as long as you’d imagined. It’s not as world ending. 

“Had?” 

The little smile in his voice is like a fist around your heart. 

“Yeah. You know what changed?” 

“What’s that?” 

Absolutely nothing. 

“Every time I got super drunk and started hitting on you, you’d just drive me home. And I did it a lot. Like, for months. But you were such a gentleman. It drove me fucking crazy. So eventually I figured you just didn’t like me and I gave up.” 

Another stretch of silence. A breeze comes in from the open window, fluttering the curtains and cooling the tears on your face. His response is sad when it finally comes. 

“You thought I didn’t like you because I didn’t try to take advantage of you when you were drunk?” 

“Pretty much.” You smile ruefully, fingertips still pressed over your eyes. “God, listen to me. No wonder I get treated like garbage.” 

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that. Did you hear anything I just said?” 

You sniff, looking to the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It was really sweet.” 

More silence. 

“But you don’t believe it.” 

A bitter laugh poisons the air around you. 

“I don’t know.  I’m kind of tired of waiting for someone to prove it to me. Just for once, I want someone to be interested in me beyond having sex in the back of their fucking... Range Rover, or whatever. Like, maybe all that stuff you said is true, but there’s no evidence to support it, and I know logically you’re probably right but I can’t help wondering if... if I’m the outlier. Maybe there just isn’t someone for me like that. Maybe I’m just gonna be the sex in the back of the Range Rover girl forever.” 

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob forces itself from your throat and you bury your face in your hands again, shaking your head. 

“Wow, I am so sorry,” you say a little too loudly, “I did not mean to be this honest tonight. Did you spike my coffee?” 

“You are not the outlier,” Spencer whispers.  

You sniff, lifting your head haltingly to look at him. 

“What?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he speaks. 

“You said you can’t help wondering if you’re the outlier, and maybe there just isn’t someone for you like that. That’s not true.” 

“Spencer, those are just words. You can’t possibly know that. Statistical probabilities don’t count.” 

“That’s... that’s not how I know.” 

Your heart drops as you study his face.  

No. 

Surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. 

Surely he wouldn’t do this to you after you’ve just told him everything you told him. You have been harboring feelings for him for years. Since you met. He can’t just spring this on you one night because you’re a little bummed out. If he felt the same, you would have found out a long time ago; he had ample opportunity to tell you. There was a period of months where you practically threw yourself all over him at every chance you got, and he did nothing. So this... this is just cruel—something you’ve never known Spencer Reid to be. 

You stand up, trembling slightly with rage and grief and humiliation. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t say things that you don’t mean just to make me feel better.” 

“What are you doing? Don’t--” 

You scoop up your purse, trying to get to the front door as fast as your gelatinous legs will allow. More tears are streaming down your face now and you don’t need him to see what he’s done to you—to see how much you care what he thinks. 

“It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you around—” 

A hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks 

“Stop. Just... please give me a second to talk, okay?” 

With nothing left to give, you turn to him. 

“Don’t be mean, Spencer. Don’t act like you liked me too. That makes me feel... so much worse.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself. Tawny eyes bore into your soul, and you realize that there is so much sheer nervous energy radiating off of him it’s infectious. Your heart begins to pound as he speaks. 

“I’m not doing that. I’m being an idiot, because you just told me that you don’t feel that way about me anymore but... but I do. And I have to tell you now because for six months I tortured myself wondering why you would flirt with me so much when you were hammered and then act like nothing happened the next day. There were so many times I almost told you how I felt but I didn’t and now I am because even if it ruins our friendship you need to know that somebody... that I wanted to be that person for you. I still do.” 

Your heart is like an unmoored zeppelin in your chest, bumping against your esophagus and threatening to either burst or jump out of your mouth. You take your chances, whispering so quietly it’s almost inaudible. 

“You... you like me?” 

“Yes,” Spencer sighs. “I have liked you for a very long time. And I’m sorry—” 

Whatever ridiculous thing he was going to apologize for, you don’t give him the chance. Instead you launch yourself at him, capturing his lips in a kiss that feels so much better than it’d ever been in your fantasies because it’s real. You hear his sharp intake of breath, but it only takes a second for him to respond, cradling your face in his hands like you’re the entire world. For a moment, time bends. Years of longing, of buried dreams crash into the present in a brilliant, dazzling explosion.

And then, as quickly as it started, he pulls away. The absence of his touch is like a vacuum, so much worse now that you know exactly how it feels to have his lips on yours, even if it was only for a few seconds. How the hell did you live like that for so long? How are you supposed to live like that ever again?

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he breathes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he’s barely holding onto his self control. “You just want someone to comfort you, I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state and confided in me which is manufacturing a false sense of attachment—” 

You grab his wrists, which still graze your jaw.

“Spencer, stop intellectualizing for thirty seconds. I promise you I am thinking clearly.” 

“You said you used to like me, past tense—” 

“Yeah, I did. Do you believe every single murderer who says he didn’t do it?” 

“No, but—” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase; a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then what more could you possibly need to be convinced that I really like you? I already kissed you! What is stopping you?” 

Another deep breath is taken by him that seems to suck all the air out of the quiet room. Briefly, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. If you really do like him so much more than he could ever like you.  

Until he looks back down, eyes so golden-brown in the dim light, so kind and full of affectionate concern as he carefully assesses every square centimeter of your face, looking for... well, you’re not exactly sure what. It’s like he’s extracting every thought from your head, turning them over like sun-warmed stones until he finds what he’s looking for. He smooths his hands over your hair, brushing strands away from your teary face. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of holding your breath, he speaks. 

“I just want you to believe what I believe about you. But I don’t want you to have to rely on me or anyone else for your own self-worth.” 

“Well, don’t you think very highly of yourself,” you tease with a sniffle. He laughs—it's quiet, but his smile is so bright without even trying that suddenly you can’t remember why you’ve ever been sad. The small miracle of his laughter makes you feel so light, and you realize it has nothing to do with the way he makes you feel about yourself. It has everything to do with who he is. 

Once the giggles die down, you tentatively mirror his hold on your face. 

“Spencer, I don’t like you because you like me. I’ve liked you for an embarrassingly long time. I liked you enough that I gave myself a severe hangover at least once a week for three months just so I could have an excuse to flirt shamelessly with you.” 

A half-sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he gently swipes under your eyes. 

“You never had to do that. I would have welcomed your sober brazen flirting with open arms.” 

“Well... do you believe me?” you plead. His amber eyes shine. 

“I do.” 

“Will you kiss me?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

You nod, rising on your toes to meet him halfway. 

When your lips meet again, it is sweet, and honest, and slow, and deep. Still, there is no desperation--no race to an imagined finish line, no clash of teeth and pawing hands. It is a kiss for the sake of it—as if it were the greatest intimacy. Not a precursor to sharing a bed, but something bigger than that in and of its own. Something just as worthy and important. For the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand romance. And while you wouldn’t mind if things did escalate, you also know that Spencer knows that’s not what matters right now. Because he actually understands you—he actually cares. He will wait until you understand that you mean so much more than that to him.

To that end, he pulls away, gently supplanting his absence with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It would be polite of me to offer you a ride home, wouldn’t it?” he whispers, like it’s the last thing he wants to do. You bite the inside of your cheek, coming up with reasons not to go. One ridiculous one arises from the depths of your memory that you know he won’t be able to say no to. 

“Or... I could stay here, and we could watch one of those nerdy foreign films you’re always talking about?” 

A slow, perfect, high-watt smile blossoms on his face, and you know you’ve said exactly the right thing. 

“Nerdy? Oh, my darling girl... Soviet-era filmography is far from nerdy. небесная машина will completely defy what you thought you knew about the life of an average Russian villager in the 1950’s.” 

“Oh, good. Because I’ve really been meaning to change the way I think about the average 1950’s Russian villager,” you smile, already closing in to kiss him again. 

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

epilogue

Three hours later, you’re crying because the life of the average Russian villager in the 1950’s was so much worse than you’d previously thought. 

“It was good, right?” Spencer asks as the credits roll over a bleak snowy sepia landscape, leaning back to get a better look at you. You sit up from where you’d been leaning against him, furiously wiping your eyes. 

“It was terrible! Why didn’t you tell me that everyone except the kid dies in the end?!” 

“Because that’s the whole point of the movie!” he laughs, pulling you back into him. “I’m sorry. I probably should have explained how depressing this entire era of film was outside of the US.” 

“And also how long the movies were. I was not prepared for how many five minute long clips of empty fields there were going to be.” 

“You’re right,” he ammends, wrapping his arms around you in a way that gives you butterflies and makes you sleepy at the same time. “Next time we can watch whatever you want to watch.” 

Time passes like that—you in his arms, watching weak light slowly flood the room with half-lidded eyes and listening to the sounds of the city waking up from the street below, underscoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Thoughts float by like leaves on the ever-flowing current of your mind, and you’re happy to let them pass until one in particular catches your attention. 

“Spencer?” 

He hums, like he’d been deep in his own proverbial river of thought. 

“What does pulchritude mean?” 

It takes him a split second to remember the bit of conversation from earlier to which you are referring, but when he does, he chuckles, running his hand over your messy hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

And so you let it float away. 

[bassmars]

submissive! neuvillette x gender neutral reader.

it’s been so long but I am back, I still love neuvillette. Matter in fact I got him a hydro goblet with 35 crit dmg I know I know…. Be jealous.

No proof read sorry if this is all messed up, wrote this pretty late too.. I might start posting more but who should I write about?

—————

Justice served hot

Sub! Neuvillette nsfw.

warnings: semi-public setting, mild exhibitionism, oral sex, penetrative sex (reader can either have a dick or like a strap on I tried)

"Not now, Y/N," Neuvillette murmured, his eyes never leaving the mountain of paperwork that had piled up on his desk. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cluttered room, the only sound being the scratch of his quill against parchment. Y/N, ever the persistent one, leaned against the heavy oak doorframe, arms folded across their chest. Their eyes, filled with a mix of longing and mischief, scanned the room for any signs of weakness.

Neuvillette's desk was a battlefield of legal documents, ink stains spreading like spilled wine across the once pristine surface. The scent of parchment and candle wax filled the air, a stark contrast to the faint hint of incense that usually lingered in the hallways outside. The judge's white hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it in frustration, and the blue underside of his single strand was vivid against his pale skin. His pointed ears twitched slightly as Y/N's footsteps grew closer, the quiet thud of boots on the cold stone floor echoing in the vast chamber.

"Comeee onnnnn," Y/N whined, their voice a sweet symphony of seduction, "You've been buried in this stuff for hours." They stepped closer, the leather of their corset creaking faintly. "We haven't had any...quality time in so long."

Neuvillette sighed, setting down his quill with a delicate clink. He rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand, the blue fabric stretching over his knuckles. "You know how important this is," he said, his voice strained. "The fate of Fontaine is literally in my hands."

Y/N pouted, their eyes scanning the room as they approached the desk. They leaned over, their chest brushing against the papers, and whispered into Neuvillette's ear, "I know, but so is my happiness." Their breath was warm, sending a shiver down the judge's spine.

Neuvillette swiveled his chair to face Y/N, his gaze dropping to their mouth. "And what would make you happy right now?" His voice was low, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

Y/N smirked, their hand sliding down to graze the bulge in Neuvillette's trousers. "Well," they murmured, "since you're already sitting..." They knelt down, pushing aside the chair slightly, and flipped the desk's edge up, giving them the perfect access.

Neuvillette's eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. He looked over his shoulder at the door, then back at Y/N. "Here? Now?" His voice was a mix of surprise and arousal.

Y/N nodded, their grin growing wider. "Why not?" They leaned in, capturing Neuvillette's bottom lip in a teasing nip. "It's not like anyone's going to walk in, right?"

Neuvillette's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, his pointy ears turning a darker shade of red. He glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking sound suddenly very loud in the quiet room. "Almost time for the next session," he murmured, trying to regain his composure.

Y/N's pout grew more pronounced, their eyes shimmering with a hint of desperation. "Are you really going to leave me like this?" They whispered, their hand still playing with the fabric of his trousers.

Neuvillette sighed, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. "I have to, Y/N. You know how much is on the line for these cases." He began to stand up, but Y/N's grip tightened, their eyes pleading.

"C'mon," Y/N whined, their voice a siren's call, "Just a quickie, before you go." They leaned in closer, their breath hot against Neuvillette's neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

The judge's resolve wavered, the temptation of a passionate encounter with Y/N almost too much to resist. But he knew he couldn't. "No," he said firmly, pushing back his chair, "We can't." He gently but insistently removed Y/N's hand from his crotch and stood up, straightening his robes.

Y/N pouted even more, their eyes glinting with a hint of annoyance. "You're no fun," they grumbled, crossing their arms over their chest.

Neuvillette chuckled despite himself, reaching out to stroke their cheek with his gloved hand. "I know," he said, "but duty calls." He turned and made his way to the courtroom, the heavy doors looming before him like a final boss in a video game.

Y/N trailed after him, their steps echoing down the hallway. "Fine," they said with a dramatic sigh, "but I'm coming with you."

Neuvillette rolled his eyes but didn't protest. He knew Y/N well enough to know that once they had their mind set on something, there was no changing it. They arrived at the grand courtroom, the air thick with the anticipation of the looming proceedings. The room was eerily empty, the wooden benches untouched by the usual bustle of plaintiffs and defendants.

"Well, this is odd," Neuvillette murmured, checking his pocket watch. "We're not supposed to start for another half an hour."

Y/N snickered, their mood lightening at the sight of the empty room. "Maybe the universe is giving us a little gift," they said, wagging their eyebrows suggestively.

Neuvillette couldn't help but laugh. "Or maybe it's just another one of your jinxes," he teased, pushing the door open with a squeak.

The judge stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the vast space. The high ceilings, adorned with frescoes of ancient battles and legal triumphs, seemed to watch over them like disapproving parents. Y/N followed, their boots clicking against the marble floor.

"Come on," Y/N whispered, sidling up to Neuvillette, "at least give me a kiss. It's been ages."

Neuvillette's resolve was waning, the heat of their earlier encounter still simmering between them. He leaned down, their lips meeting in a soft, chaste kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through his body. But Y/N wasn't satisfied with just a peck. They grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss that left them both breathless.

Their tongues danced together, a silent conversation filled with longing and desire. Y/N's hands roamed down to Neuvillette's waist, fumbling with the knot of his sash. They pushed him backward, the large judge's chair looming behind him like a throne. With a grunt, Neuvillette gave in, his body weight carrying him backward into the plush velvet embrace of the chair.

Y/N's eyes sparkled with triumph as they sank to their knees in front of the chair.

Neuvillette's cock, now free from its confines, stood proud and demanding. Veins bulged with anticipation, tracing a map of pleasure along its length, and the underside was particularly sensitive to the touch, a fact that Y/N knew all too well.

As Y/N leaned in, Neuvillette's hips jerked involuntarily, his hand shooting up to grab a fistful of their hair. He gripped it tightly, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold back the moan that threatened to escape his lips. The sensation of Y/N's warm breath against his cock was almost too much, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out.

Y/N, ever the eager participant, took the hint and wrapped their lips around the tip, teasing the slit with their tongue. Neuvillette's grip on their hair tightened, his legs spreading wider as he pushed his hips up slightly to meet their mouth. The feeling of their tongue flicking against his most sensitive spot sent a shiver down his spine, making his toes curl in his boots.

Y/N took him in deeper, their cheeks hollowing as they sucked hard. The sound of wetness filled the quiet courtroom, the only other noise the occasional crackle of the candles that lined the walls. They could feel the judge's thighs trembling, his gloved hands clutching their head, guiding them deeper. The taste of his precum was sweet on their tongue, a promise of the release to come.

Neuvillette's breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his composure. He knew that Y/N was a master at this, that they could make him cum in seconds if they wanted to, but he was trying to hold out. The anticipation was part of the thrill, the knowledge that they were about to be caught up in something so deliciously scandalous in the very heart of Fontaine's legal system.

But it was a battle he was quickly losing. The way Y/N's mouth moved, the pressure and rhythm, it was all too much. His hips began to buck, his hand moving to the armrest of the chair to keep from toppling over. He could feel the orgasm building, a storm brewing in his core, threatening to spill over at any moment.

And just as he was about to let go, the doors to the courtroom swung open, the sound echoing through the room like a gavel's final blow.

Y/N and Neuvillette froze, the latter's eyes shooting wide open as a parade of officials and assistants began to file in, their murmurs of greeting and shuffling of papers a stark contrast to the silence that had been moments before. Y/N, ever the quick thinker, ducked under the desk, their heart racing. Neuvillette's cock, still wet from Y/N's eager mouth, twitched in response to the sudden cold air.

The judge took a deep breath, willing his body to behave as he forced himself to sit up straight, the chair creaking ominously beneath him. He smoothed his robes down, trying to look as dignified as possible despite the raging hard-on he was trying to hide. The room grew louder as more people filled in, taking their seats, arranging their notes. Neuvillette could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, a blush that was hopefully just from the exertion and not the embarrassment of being caught.

Y/N, hidden from view, couldn't help but let out a stifled giggle, the sound muffled by the fabric of Neuvillette's robes. The judge shot them a glare, his hand shooting down to grip the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white.

"Thank you all for being here today," Neuvillette began, his voice a little shakier than usual. He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself as he continued, "We have a very important case to discuss." His eyes darted around the room, looking for any signs of suspicion. The attendees nodded and murmured in response, none the wiser to the scandalous scene playing out just out of their line of sight.

Y/N, unable to resist the temptation, leaned back in and took him in their mouth again, their hands moving to stroke the base of his cock. Neuvillette's eyes rolled back in his head, his grip on the desk tightening as he bit down on his knuckle to keep from moaning. The room was a blur, the faces of the officials swimming before his eyes as he tried to focus on the case at hand.

With a Herculean effort, Neuvillette pulled Y/N's head back, their teeth grazing the sensitive skin just before they were fully extracted. "Not now," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice barely above a whisper. Y/N pouted but obeyed— for now, sitting back on their heels and watching him with hungry eyes.

Neuvillette took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to compose himself. He couldn't very well start the session with a raging erection, now could he? He shuffled his papers, hoping that the rustling would cover the sound of his racing heart. The room had filled up, the murmur of conversation growing louder as the minutes ticked by. The tension in the air was palpable, a mix of anticipation for the upcoming case and the unspoken tension between the two lovers.

He took his seat at the bench, adjusting his robes to try and hide his arousal. The first case was brought before him, a dull roar of words that barely registered as he tried to focus. His eyes scanned the pages before him, but the words swam together like ink in water. The pressure of Y/N's mouth was still imprinted on his cock, the ghost of their touch driving him wild. He could feel the wetness of their saliva slowly drying, leaving his skin feeling tight and sensitive.

As the prosecutor began their opening statement, Neuvillette's hand strayed to his mouth, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to keep from groaning. The pressure grew, his cock throbbing with the need for release. He glanced down, trying to be subtle, and found that Y/N's hand had slipped into his lap, their fingers tracing lazy circles around the base of his shaft.

The first time he stuttered, he blamed it on the poor lighting. The second time, he coughed and took a sip of water, his hand shaking slightly as he brought the glass to his lips. The third time, the prosecutor paused, a look of concern flashing across their face. "Your honor, are you feeling quite alright?"

Neuvillette's eyes snapped up, his cheeks burning with a mix of arousal and embarrassment. "I'm fine," he ground out, his voice strained. "Just a... a bit of a cold, I think." He coughed into his fist, hoping it was convincing. The room watched him for a moment before the proceedings continued, the murmur of whispers and shuffling papers resuming.

Y/N took advantage of the distraction, their mouth once again wrapping around Neuvillette's cock. This time, they were more cautious, their movements slow and deliberate. They could feel the judge's thighs tensing, his hips trying to rock up to meet them despite his efforts to remain still. The sound of fabric against skin was almost silent, but to Neuvillette, it was like a symphony in his ears.

He tried to focus on the case, really he did. But every time Y/N hit just the right spot, his eyes would squeeze shut, and a strangled sound would escape his throat. He bit down on his gloved fingers, the leather muffling his moans. The room was so still, so formal, and here he was, on the verge of losing control.

The case droned on, the words a blur as Neuvillette's mind was a whirlwind of pleasure and panic. He could feel the climax building, a crescendo that was all too familiar. Y/N's tongue swirled around the tip of his cock, teasing the slit before plunging back down, taking him in deep.

Neuvillette's body tensed, and he had to bite down on the leather of his gloved hand to keep from crying out. The sudden sharp pain brought him back to reality for a brief moment. He looked up, trying to focus on the defendant standing before him, but all he could see was the swirl of color from the stained glass windows above, casting a kaleidoscope across the room.

"Your honor," the prosecutor's voice cut through the haze, "the defense seems to be... distracted. Is everything alright?" Concerned whispers spread through the courtroom like a ripple in a pond.

Neuvillette coughed, his voice strained. "Just a bit of... allergies, yes. The flowers outside, you know." He cleared his throat and hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt. "Please, continue with your questioning."

The prosecutor looked at him skeptically but carried on. Meanwhile, Y/N had found his sweet spot, licking and sucking with the finesse of a maestro conducting an orchestra. Neuvillette's eyes watered, his hips jerking slightly as he felt the release approaching.

He had to get a grip, literally. He clenched his fists in his robes, the fabric bunching in his grip. "What is your defense?" he managed to ask the defendant, his voice a mix of authority and the beginning of a moan.

The defendant, a burly man with a scruffy beard, looked confused. "I-I was just saying, Your Honor, that I didn't mean to..."

But Neuvillette wasn't listening. Y/N's mouth was like a vise, their tongue a whirlwind of sensation. He could feel the pressure building, the dam about to burst. "I-I need a recess," he blurted out, his voice a strangled whisper.

The room went silent, all eyes on the judge who was clearly not his usual composed self. The prosecutor and defendant exchanged glances, while the bailiff looked like he was about to ask if Neuvillette needed medical attention.

"A... recess?" the prosecutor echoed, looking at the clock. "But we've only just begun."

"Now," Neuvillette snapped, his voice firm despite the tremble in his legs. "This... this case is too important to be rushed." He slammed his gavel down, the sound echoing through the hushed room.

The bailiff stepped forward, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Your Honor, are you feeling... well?"

Neuvillette took a deep breath, willing his body to calm. "I'm fine," he assured, his voice a barely controlled rumble. But Y/N's mouth was like a siren's call, latched onto that spot that made his toes curl and his vision swim. He couldn't ignore the way their tongue danced around the sensitive ridge, the flicks and swirls that sent bolts of pleasure through him.

The prosecutor looked unconvinced, but the defendant's counsel nodded, eager to take advantage of the break. "Very well, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, their voice filled with skepticism. “We'll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

The room buzzed with whispers as everyone began to stand, their movements a symphony of confusion and curiosity. Y/N didn't waste a second, pulling away from Neuvillette's cock with a final, tantalizing kiss that left him gasping for air. They slipped out from under the desk, smoothing their clothes with a smug grin. "Fifteen minutes, perfect," they murmured, giving Neuvillette's leg a final squeeze before sauntering out of the courtroom.

The judge took a moment to compose himself, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He adjusted his robes, trying to hide the evidence of their tryst. The room emptied slowly, the murmurs of the crowd fading into the hallway. He waited until the last set of footsteps had disappeared before standing, his legs wobbly with need. He could feel the stickiness on his cock, a testament to how close he'd come.

"Y/N, office," he called out, his voice still a little hoarse. Y/N's eyes lit up with excitement, their hand already on the doorknob. They stepped aside, allowing Neuvillette to pass, their fingers trailing over his lower back as they did so.

Once in the office, Neuvillette's gaze swept over the chaos. Papers littered the floor, ink pots were overturned, and the smell of spilled wine filled the air. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his body. "This place is a mess," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

Y/N shrugged, a mischievous smile playing on their lips. "It's all part of the ambiance," they said, stepping closer to him. They reached up, untying the knot of his sash with nimble fingers. "Now, where were we?"

Neuvillette's eyes darkened with desire, his hand coming up to cup Y/N's cheek. "We were about to take this somewhere more... private," he murmured, his thumb tracing their jawline. "And then, we're going to make up for lost time."

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound echoing through the cluttered room. Y/N's eyes locked onto his, their hands roaming over his body with a hunger that matched his own. They stepped closer, their bodies pressing together in a delicious dance of heat and want.

"Fuck, you're so hard for me," Y/N growled, their fingers fumbling with the button of his pants. With a swift, brutal motion, they tore open his fly, sending his cock springing free. It jutted out, a testament to his unabated desire, slick with pre-come and begging for release.

Neuvillette's cock sprang free, a testament to his unabated desire. He watched as Y/N took it in their hand, their grip firm and sure. They stroked him slowly, their thumb circling the sensitive tip, sending shivers down his spine.

"Turn over," Y/N ordered, their voice low and commanding.

Neuvillette whimpered at the interruption but reluctantly obeyed, his palms flat on the desk as he bent over, his ass in the air. The cold wood sent a shiver through him, making his skin prickle with anticipation. He was panting and flushed, cock leaking heavily between them as he learned to savor each delicious slide.

Y/N stepped closer, their cock brushing against his thigh. Neuvillette could feel the heat of them, the promise of what was to come. He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for the onslaught.

The first slick press of Y/N's length against his entrance was like a spark igniting a flame. Neuvillette gasped, his eyes squeezing shut as they pushed inside him. The sensation was almost too much, a mix of pain and pleasure that made his knees wobble, the sensation of their bodies reconnecting after so long almost too much to handle.

Their rhythm grew steadier as they lost themselves in the moment, their movements driven by pure instinct. Neuvillettes nails raked down Y/n’s back, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

"Y/n," Neuvillette moaned, his hips rising to meet each thrust. "Harder."

Y/N didn't give him any time to adjust, their hips snapping forward with a force that made the desk shake. Neuvillette let out a strangled cry, his body taking a moment to accommodate the intrusion.

They set a relentless pace, their length sliding in and out of him with a wet, slapping sound that filled the room. The desk creaked and groaned, a testament to their passion.

Neuvillette's nails dug into the wood, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on. He could feel his orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that washed over him with every thrust.

Y/N leaned over him, their breath hot against his neck. "You're so fucking tight," they murmured, their voice strained with lust. "So good, Neuvillette."

Their words were like a spell, casting a net of desire over him. He pushed back, meeting each thrust with a wantonness that surprised even himself. The need to be filled, to be claimed, was overwhelming.

Y/N's hand slammed down onto the desk beside his head, the sound echoing through the room. "Fuck, yes," they grunted, their hips driving into him with an intensity that bordered on violence.

Neuvillette's eyes watered as Y/N hit that spot, that magical spot deep inside that made his toes curl and his body spasm. He bit down on his gloved hand, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to spill from his lips. The fabric muffled the sound, but the pain only added to his pleasure.

Each slap of their hips against his ass was a symphony of sensation, a crescendo that built and built until he thought he couldn't take it anymore. He could feel his orgasm coiling in his belly, tightening like a spring ready to snap.

Y/N's length slammed into Neuvillette with the force of a storm, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent room. The judge's face was a picture of ecstasy and torment, his eyes squeezed shut as he bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. Each thrust was accompanied by a wet smack, the sound bouncing off the walls like a taunt to their secret.

Neuvillette's legs trembled, his toes curling in his boots as he tried to keep his body from betraying him. He knew the Melusines were just outside, their sensitive hearing attuned to every little noise. The thought of them hearing his desperate gasps and the sloppy sounds of their lovemaking sent a thrill of both fear and excitement through him.

He couldn't help the way his body reacted, his muscles clenching around Y/N's length with every thrust. He was so close, so desperately close to losing control. The pressure was building, a coil in his belly that tightened with every movement. The room swam around him, the candlelight playing across his skin like a lover's caress.

He could feel the tension in Y/N's body, the way their muscles tightened and released with each movement. They were both chasing that elusive high, that sweet release that hovered just out of reach. Neuvillette's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more depraved than the last.

His body arched, his back bowing like a bowstring pulled taut before releasing an arrow. His orgasm hit, sending waves of pure ecstasy crashing through his body. He bit down hard on the leather of his glove, muffling the scream that threatened to rip from his chest.

His cock spasmed, shooting ropes of cum across the desk, painting the once pristine surface with a chaotic pattern of white. The smell of sex filled the room, a musky scent that seemed to cling to every inch of them. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise and delight at the display, their own hand moving faster as they watched him come undone.

The hand over his mouth was almost painful now, but Neuvillette didn't care. He bucked and thrashed beneath Y/N, the world outside the office forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the exquisite pleasure that consumed him, leaving him boneless and panting.

Finally, the storm passed, and he collapsed against the desk, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The hand over his mouth slipped away, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes still closed. The silence was deafening, the only sound the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

Neuvillette's eyes snapped open, his heart dropping into his stomach. He looked at the timepiece, the hands pointing to the number fifteen. "No.”

[i-like-writing-stuff]

the other five; part 2 [ five hargreeves x reader ]

okayyyy so it’s not my best work and i hope it is not too rushed or cheesy i have my best and i hope i didn’t crush y’all’s expectations 😭😭 writing this i literally gave no shit on the paradox psychosis, it’s also an AU where they did save the world, and not to mention again that everyone, including reader and five are around 32, basically the same age as the rest of the family

hope y’all still like it tho 🥹🥹🥹

part one

“I can’t believe how bad you suck at Scrabble in every single timeline, my love,” Five laughed, shaking his head in disbelief as you threw a wooden piece at him over the table, offended to say the least;

“I can’t believe what a piece of shit you are in every timeline!”

“Oh, she’s also a sore loser in every timeline!”

As you threw yet another wooden piece at the man before you, you couldn’t help but get infected with his contagious laugh and burst into giggles as well. Five was smiling from ear to ear, as he was heavily laughing, with a hand over his chest, as his other one was resting peacefully on top of yours on the table.

You were sitting on the rug, on each side of the coffee table in your living room. It was a peaceful Thursday night, and you didn’t really have anything planned. You worked all day, so you figured that a glass of wine and some chocolate to snack on while watching a movie would be a decent end of the day, but a couple knocks on your door changed that.

It had been a while since you met Five, a couple of weeks maybe. Nothing short of a miracle helped you save the world for good this time, but that’s a story for another time. Things were actually looking up for you, as the Hargreeves siblings were all safe in one piece, as well as your own parents. Viktor was visiting you in the States a lot more often, Allison, Klaus and Claire resumed their day to day lives, Luther was trying to reabilitate the old mansion for good this time and actually own it, Ben and Jennifer were happily together, as Diego and Lila were doing their best to save their marriage for the sake of their three children.

As for Five, last you heard he was still in the CIA, but that was about it.

The Five from your timeline, that was.

The Five standing in front of you, he was an entirely different story.

After he comforted you the day you and Five broke up, you tried to prioritize your interests and went back to help the family stop the apocalypse. In spite of how much you wanted to just lay in his arms until you went completely numb, you knew that if that’s where you were meant to be, you’d find your way back eventually.

And you did.

“Fuck me, that was draining,” You rubbed your face, falling onto the dusty leather couch with a loud thud, next to Allison.

“You’d think we would get the hang of it by now,” She sarcastically said, letting her head fall on your shoulder.

“If there’s a fifth apocalypse, let’s just let it happen,” Klaus suggested, as some of you couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

“At least this one wasn’t Viktor’s fault,” Luther pointed out, making Viktor waive his arms;

“Excuse me?”

“I’m swear I’m gonna kill myself,” Ben rolled his eyes bored as ever. On the surface, that was.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck?” Lila raised her brows at the man.

“Do it later, we literally just saved your sorry ass,” Five pointed out.

“And to think that after all this shit, on Monday I’m back to delivering packages…” Diego deeply sighed, as you all turned to judge him.

The nine of you were standing in the middle of the old mansion, trying to catch your breath after your hardest efforts yet to save the world. It was a mixture of everyone’s powers, a droplet of a miracle and lots of yelling around, but eventually you did it. You could finally breathe again and not worry that tomorrow may not come.

However, it didn’t mean that you weren’t suffering anymore. You tried your everything to keep your composure around the Five from your timeline and Lila, since apparently even Diego was willing to make amends. He loved his brother and his kids far too much, as well as his wife. He was willing to put it all behind, after all, you were given a second chance and he was not going to waste it.

“Am I going crazy or is that another Five?” Klaus pointed towards the main entrance to the living room, as your Five walked in with a slight smile across his lips and his hands in his pockets;

“I wouldn’t have bet my last two cents that you idiots would have actually managed to save the universe.”

“Asshole,” You giggled, getting up to run instantly into his arms.

Five was taken aback by your sudden excitement for a mere second, as he stumbled a step back, but not wasting another second to wrap his arms around your waist. He walked you back from the diner to the train station that would take you back to Five, and eventually back to your timeline a couple hours ago, but if you were to be honest it felt like forever since the last time you saw him. In spite of being literally yet not really the man who crushed your heart that day, you found such an intense comfort in him, it was stupid.

You were still grieving your old relationship, you were still heartbroken over what had happened. Six years with Five on your side were not that easy to get over, but this one truly helped you feel better. He was so thoughtful, so sweet and kind, yet sarcastic and sassy, he was totally your perfect match, which was insane since you thought that your ex-boyfriend of six years would be your soulmate.

“I hate you,” You declared, crossing your arms over your chest, “You have no business making fun of me- you’re like a hundred years old.”

“Don’t- Don’t go there and make it awkward,” Five instantly said, raising his hands in front of you, “You’re making me feel like a pervert.”

“As you should,” You lightly shrugged your shoulders, watching as he rolled his eyes playfully.

The two of you started spending a considerable amount of time together lately, as he managed to make himself comfortable in your timeline. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so happy, not only because he had lost his own Y/N, but he also hadn’t seen his siblings in such a long time. In his timeline, they didn’t manage to save themselves after Reggie reset the timeline at Hotel Oblivion, so getting his family back in a way was surreal to him as well.

Five felt alive again and it was all because of you.

All because he stumbled upon the love of his life that day in the subway system, the same woman who brought him back to his family. Maybe they weren’t actually the ones from his timeline, but they were his family nonetheless.

“Okay, one more round so I can shut your trash mouth again,” Five declared, straightening his jacket, as he leant over the table to rearrange the board.

“I can think of another way you can shut my trash mouth,” You smirked, leaning forward on the table as well, resting your weight on your elbows.

The two of you took things surprisingly slow. You couldn’t deny the instant connection, after all- you were a couple in every single timeline. But you couldn’t help the need to avoid the rush. Sure, you held hands sometimes and bump your knees under the table, or he would place wild strands of hair behind your ears and you would sometimes fix his tie for him. You also tended to share tight hugs that lasted maybe a second too long, or linger some touched here and there, but you neither of you ever had the courage to bring it up in a discussion.

You had never even kissed.

“My, my, is my little Y/N getting impatient?” Five mimicked your smirk, lightly grabbing your chin between his index and thumb.

One thing you knew for sure was that you didn’t have feelings anymore for your ex-boyfriend. There was no doubt about that. You just didn’t feel it would be wise to jump into another relationship so soon with his doppelgänger, but after these past few weeks you were so done waiting.

If there’s one thing you learned from saving the world one too many times it definitely was that you should not be wasting precious seconds.

“Aren’t you?” You asked, looking into his eyes, trying to figure out where he stood on all this.

“I’d wait for you decades, darling,” Five confessed, running his thumb across your bottom lip in a gentle manner.

He loved the feel of you, every square inch of your body- he couldn’t get enough of it. He would touch anywhere possible, he wanted to pepper kisses along every part of you, but he did mean every word he said. He did want to wait for you for as long as you needed until you were ready to be with him, truly.

“Promise?” You couldn’t help but wonder, as Five let go of your chin to put some fallen strands of hair behind your ears, “Would you actually wait for me?”

“It’s not even up for debate,” He nodded, getting up from the floor, straightening his three piece suit.

He offered you his hands, as he lifted you to your feet as well. You didn’t know exactly if your legs were numb because of how long you’d been sitting crisscrossed on the floor, or simply because the man before you made your knees weak with one smile, but you knew for certain that you never wanted this night to end.

Five cupped your cheeks in his hands, as you naturally rested your hands on his chest. You were so smitten by him, but in all fairness- how could you not be? He was doing everything right, giving you all the love he had and a bit more extra, while still being his true sassy self that you loved so much.

“Kiss me, please,” You whispered, looking into his beautiful eyes, feeling as you were slowly losing yourself into the moment.

Five smiled as he leaned in slowly to give your lips a light peck, as careful and attentive as possible. His long fingers found their way into your hair, as your own arms wrapped around his neck to pull him in closer. He took that as his cue to go in for a more passionate kiss, capturing your lips with his in just a matter of seconds, losing his whole being in that moment to wrap himself around your pinky finger.

Anything you wanted, he would go through the ends of the world to get it for you- and that was an understatement.

[silentium-symphony]

So This is... Lust (Link x Reader) SMUT

(a/n) ya'll, i finally finished it ToT i'm so sorry for the wait, but it's finally here now! i had so much fun writing this!

i took a look at my schedule for next semester and i have *a lot* of free time, so hopefully that'll mean more time to write and, in extension, finally open up my inbox for requests!!! i've never done requests before at least on this account because i was always so busy. i'm not too sure how much time my new research position will take up (i was told it would be time-consuming, but i'm not sure how time-consuming), so i'll keep you guys updated!

as always, i hope you enjoy this ~steamy~ oneshot! and remember: if you are a minor, do not interact.

cw: afab!retainer!reader, reader wears a dress, link masturbating to the thought of you :), mentioned reader masturbation (like one line), cunnilingus, missionary, mentioned doggy, overstimulation, tried to make link a soft dom heheh, swearing, dirty talk, dumbification, fingering

wc: 6.5k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

"(F/N)?" Zelda slinked her back against her chair, sinking into the worn, plush cushion that coddled her stiff vertebrae.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Please prepare the horses... We're going to take a little walk." She pinched the bridge of her scrunched nose. "If I am to look at these documents a moment longer, I believe my head will explode."

"But Your Highness, Link should be coming any minute now. We must discuss the security details for the upcoming ball." Your usually terse expression softened at the royal's groan. "But we can go out afterwards.”

"Yes, you're right... Apologies (F/N), I completely forgot about that meeting. Will anyone else be coming?"

"No, Your Highness. It will just be—“

Knock knock knock!

"Ah! Perfect timing." Zelda tapped a thick, disheveled pile of documents against her desk into a more manageable bundle. "Come in!"

The brass doorknob shifted slightly and clicked open, revealing Hyrule's most renowned knight. A pair of cobalt eyes went from you to the Princess and he bowed wordlessly.

"Link. Thank you for—“

A loud bang, then wood stuttering against stone, quickly followed by the airy splish of dozens of documents fluttering to the ground. You dove across the desk, grasping a few documents you were lucky enough to catch and watched the rest pool by the table’s legs.

"Oh Hylia—!”

"Your Highness! Are you okay?!" Your hand flew to the staggering princess, documents be damned; Link sprung to Zelda’s side and placed a restful hand on her shoulder.

"I-I'm fine, really...” She muttered, rubbing her sore knee. “Goodness, I'm so sorry for the mess. Let me clea—“

"Absolutely not, Your Highness. I’ll take care of it." You cut, already circling the desk and shuffling the disarrayed documents on the floor. Link joined you on his hands and knees, carefully scooping up piles of paper onto the desk and into your arms. A jolt of electricity shot through your heart as you felt worn leather chafe against your skin. You turned away, 'looking' for other scattered documents, and coughed out,

"Thank you Link, but please don't worry. I can take care of this."

A determined look gripped his features as he stared and shook his head. Without uttering another word, Link once again began gathering the parchment. A soft sigh left you, and an even softer smile graced your lips.

"Can you hand me that document, please? I think these go together... Oh, and... these have matching headings, so I'll take that and you can have those..."

Even in her mildly frazzled state, Zelda wasn't blind to the faint red that whispered the surface of your cheeks when Link got a little too close, or the shifty flash of Link's blues whenever your fingers 'accidentally' grazed his. As much as she wanted to jump in and rectify the mess she made, maybe... She should sit this one out. Enjoy the show. Or better yet... Hm... When was the last time you and Link had a day off?

In no time at all, all correspondence was off the floor and either in your arms or on the desk. Your fingers flew this way and that, reorienting texts right side up and shuffling this paper behind that, and this one goes over here, and wait… Shouldn’t these be bundled together?

"Once again, I apologize for the mess I had created. Thank you both for cleaning it up."

"No worries at all, Your Highness." You finally looked up and cast a warm smile at the knight. "Thank you for helping me, Link."

A bashful grin cracked the stoic man's lips and he awkwardly rocked his feet. All that extra motion certainly drew attention away from the fists tightening behind his back. Zelda cleared her throat and eyed some documents pertinent to the upcoming social.

"Right. Now that that's all settled, let's get down to business."

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

"A-Ah... Mmph..."

The knight threw his head back, feeling his temples drum in time with his cock. Sweat dewed his ivory skin and his Adam's apple bobbed a name he dared not utter, lest someone discover the target of his hidden fantasies. A scene from earlier that day has been playing in his head on repeat, fueling the sensual fantasies that has drawn him awake past the midnight hours; his fist thumped faster against his thighs and his back careened toward the ceiling.

You—gorgeous, gorgeous you—bent over a desk grasping desperately for a document fluttering to the ground.

With slight modifications, of course. The hem of your dress pooled about your hips—hips he oh so desperately wished to sink his teeth and fingers in—your hands tied prettily against your lower back as he thrusts into you again and again, his fingers tenderly coaxing your feathery soft hair... But the best part? You looking back at him, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, and his name spilling out of those plump lips he yearned to taste.

He could hardly remember what the Princess had told him. Something about the security details for the upcoming ball, but Hylia only knew if he retained anything past that. All he could think of was you, you, you—the Princess's loyal, respectful, diligent, beautiful retainer. How he craved your presence! If only you knew how much he liked you! Oh, the things he dreamt of doing to you.

"Ngh... (F-F/N)...!"

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

The garbled talk of Hyrule's high society bounced off the castle walls and the guards' helms, which flickered bright flashes of torchlight. A pair of cobalt eyes flitted about every corner of the room, filing away mental notes of the ball's invitees and the stream of people that flowed in and out of the ballroom. Link scooted along the wall—weaving around young, giggly wallflowers and decrepit, lonely barons in search of another wife—always making sure you the Princess stood in his line of sight.

After sending you away to drop off another gift at the crowded gift table, Zelda turned around with the polite smile most nobility had during these sizeable socials. She caught eyes with her loyal guard and slowly made her way over, skillfully avoiding conversation with the withdrawn, mysterious grace of a royal. Eventually, she found herself at the side of one of her most trusted confidantes.

"Link, I believe the next song shall be a waltz. Do you still remember how to dance?"

Link nodded dutifully, sensing an incoming question. Is Her Highness hinting that she wants him to ask her to dance...?

"If so, why not dance with (F/N)?"

Link, who happened to be swallowing his spit as she said that, hacked it all back up and proceeded to draw the most distressing and deprecating attention an introvert could draw to themselves in a single night. He turned to her, lovestruck panic evident in his eyes, and shook his head like a wet, storm-logged puppy.

"Now now, don't be shy! I'm sure she'd be happy to share a dance with you."

"Your Highness! There you are." A bright voice from yonder drew closer to the duo, and Link could feel himself shrinking. "I've been looking all over for you. Why are you all the way over here? Have you grown tired?"

The torpid, repetitive chords that most patrons had droned out this part in the night livened into a steady waltz. Link could feel Zelda's smirk and knowing gaze burn into the side of his head.

"I'm sorry for worrying you, but I assure you I'm fine. I just wanted to have a little chat with Link. But (F/N), you should dance! Enjoy yourself! You've been working far too hard these days."

"Thank you for your concern, but I would feel better if I were attending you."

"(F/N), don't be like that." She squeezed a gentle hand on your shoulder. "I'm saying this more as a friend than your queen. Please go have some fun. Maybe you'll meet your Prince Charming, just as you've always hoped you would.“

"Zel—Princess!" Your heart dropped to your stomach and a pair of hands immediately flew to cage Zelda's arms. "T-That was so long ago—I mean, I was only a little girl and—!"

A genuine, lighthearted laugh alighted your friend and she gazed at you with a sisterly fondness.

"Just teasing. It's always so fun to do so."

"Your Highness..." Your head hung as low as your spirits as you felt Zelda's frame shake from a stifled laughter.

"Your Highness?" All eyes turned to the clear, bold voice a few bodies past you. "Can I have this dance?"

The young suitor flashed a kind, dimpled beam as he held out a gloved hand to Zelda. The royal returned her own practiced, elegant smile and took his hand.

"I would be honored." She turned to you. "My apologies. I'm afraid I must go. But do have fun tonight, okay? You deserve it."

And with a swish of her gown, she was escorted through a parted sea of people to the middle of the dance floor. She locked eyes with you for a second, and cast a knowing tilt towards him.

You two were locked in a domain of stiff silence, both looking helplessly towards your mutual friend who had seemingly forgotten all about you. Link's timbers began shivering like no other as he replayed a thousand ways this night could go.

Freeing himself of his chains of self-doubt, he pushed himself off the wall and slowly made the short way over. Your heart had practically stopped pulsing while Link's was pounding away all breath from his lungs. He felt a sickly pallor drain his cheeks; he silently thanked the gods for the bright lights that filled his cheeks with artificial ruddiness.

"(F/N)...?" You turned, your thundering heart almost drowning out the Hero's squeak. "Can I have this dance?"

Pure, unadulterated sincerity crinkled Link's eyes, which held a certain life-like sheen typically absent for the soldier; for the briefest of moments, you felt that you were allowed a glimpse into his heart. Fighting the urge to scream 'til your lungs gave out was the understatement of the century as you dipped your fingers into his palm.

"I would be honored."

The small, anxious smile widened into one of pure delight as he led you further into the ballroom. He pulled you into the fringes of the waltzing couples and placed a steady palm close to your shoulder blades, inadvertently pressing you closer to him. Clothed fingers weaved through your own and pulled your hand away from your trembling frame. You could only hope he couldn't feel the aggressive thumping in your chest.

"Are you okay?" His voice rumbled in your ear.

"Y-Yes!" You blurted suddenly, your nerves not quite heeding your volume. You were practically melting from the stinging, judgemental stares thrown your way and you swallowed thickly.

"Yes, I'm okay. Thank you for your concern."

"We don't have to do this for very long if you don't want to." He muttered, his hand slipping to your waist as he dipped you. Your delusions led you to believe that his eyes lingered on your neck a moment too long... But surely your eyes were just playing tricks on you.

"It's just... Well, I'm rather nervous, so..."

You slowly turned your gaze upwards, peering through quivering lashes and fully expecting the knight's visage to be contorted in mockery; you were pleasantly surprised that his eyes held nothing but warmth for you.

"I understand." He effortlessly guided your next movements into a spin. "How can I help you feel more at ease?"

"Mm..." You unknowingly gave his shoulder a light squeeze, causing Link's heart to flutter. "Would it be all right if we talked some more?"

"Of course. What would you like to talk about?"

"Well... I've actually always wondered this, but have you always wanted to become a knight?"

"Hm... That's a good question." He chuckled, his hot breath tickling your cheekbones. "I wasn't particularly against it. As you may know, I come from a long line of knights, so it was only expected that I became a knight too."

"How did it feel when you found out you bore the legendary Triorce?"

"... Surreal." He concluded, a glimpse of wistfulness in his eyes. "My life hasn't been the same since."

"Oh... I'm sorry if this brought up difficult memories."

"Not at all!" His tired eyes snapped to life. "Yes, training became much harder after that and the pressures of the throne are very much there… But it wasn't all that bad. After all, I got to meet you—“

At the utterance of the last syllable, Link's face twisted into horror; not even the bright, warm lights could disguise his drained cheeks. You felt your entire face engulf in flames and screamed your heart out smiled shyly.

"That's... really sweet of you, Link. Thank you."

He cleared his throat and desperately wished for a Link-size hole to swallow him up this very second. Every gear in his brain cogged away as he chose his next words carefully.

"You and the Princess seem close."

"Yes..." A bittersweet comfort gripped your heart as deeply cherished memories flashed through your mind. "We were girls together."

"How long have you been her retainer?"

"Since we were very young. Like you, I come from a long line of individuals who serve the royal family and, well... Zel and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember."

"'Zel?'"

"O-Oh!" Panicked side glances jittered here and there; you let out a deep breath, thankful that no one heard your insubordinate casualness. "Please forgive me. That was a nickname I used to call Her Highness."

"No worries. I just... thought it was very cute."

The both of you were completely oblivious to the crimson that coated the other's cheeks—how could you be when your own face ran hotter than the lava at Death Mountain? You were startled out of your mushy haze with a bright, chime-like laugh.

"Her Highness was right. You are fun to tease."

Before you could retort some type of response, the ensemble played its final note. While all the other couples were separating and bowing to their dance partners, Link was quite slow to release you, and you were even slower to leave his arms.

"Thank you for the dance, Link. You are a wonderful dance partner."

"Likewise," he straightened his back, "I hope we can do this again."

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Gods, you wanted to go to bed.

Your nice, warm sheets were all you could think of as you clicked the door to the Princess's bed chambers shut. You threw your arms above your head and groaned out the tension that had carved its way into your joints.

Your feet automatically led you down the long winding corridor, past the soldier's quarters and towards your—

"Mm... F-Fuck..."

Wait a damn minute.

Your feet ceased their dragging as a voice that sounded eerily similar to a certain Hero echoed nearby. You gripped your chest, as if that would quiet the thundering pounding in your ears.

… Silence...

Were you losing your mind?

Chalking whatever... that was to your perverted imagination, you once again began your trek towards—

"Ah...!"

—Link's room wait since when did you start moving in this direction oh gods oh Hylia

"Mmph! Fuck- yes- hah..."

The noises were undoubtedly coming from his room, your ear pressed against the door confirmed that. Your hand flew to your mouth as your knees locked in place, your ears feasting listening to the sinful whimpers and pants of Hyrule's sword and shield. You were thrown into the deep end, drowning in a cacophony of your own thoughts.

What the fuck holy shit what the fuck holy shit what the fu Was he alone? Wait, but the bed squeaked just now, so does that mean he’s with someone? And if so, who? But if he's alone... Who could he be thinking of?

This was wrong. This was so, so wrong of you to be violating his privacy like this. You would be mortified to learn that someone was listening to you pleasuring yourself—everyone's entitled to have these moments to themselves. So why couldn't you just... walk away?

"Mm... Oh, (F/N)..."

... Huh?

“I need you I need you I need you…” He slurred with sloppy breaths. Shame swelled within you as a wet heat pooled between your legs and wickedly delightful thoughts ruminated in your mind. Your chest constricted, sensing the crossroads that would undoubtedly decide your future relations with your long-time crush; you toyed with either option as carefully as your lust-hazed brain would allow. With your heart mere moments away from seizing, you carefully lifted your hand, suddenly aware of every muscle needed to execute the simple motion.

Four docile raps lisped the wood. You froze, the veil of sensuality finally lifted from your senses as the gravity of the situation bucketed you like cold water. Oh gods, what have you done? Your heart raged against your ribcage and beckoned you to flee! Run! There’s still time, go!

A quiet click.

A pair of blown-out pupils amidst a thin strip of blue peered out at you.

“L-… Link?”

“… Yes?”

You listlessly felt yourself move forward; sex-clung darkness draped over your bodies as you pushed yourself through the door, slamming your lips against his in heated desperation. Link returned your fervor with a fluidity that made you wonder if he’s fantasized about this as much as you have. You cocked your heel against the door, shutting out all unwanted light to carry out your feral desires in the dark.

He pressed you against the thin slab of wood, rough hands claiming residence in the plush of your hips while his lips conveyed a primal urge to claim. You didn’t hesitate in welcoming his tongue, feeling the hot muscle drag against your bottom lip and wrapping itself with your own in a sloppy but passionate dance. Thick golden locks tangled your fingers and you pulled him closer, closer, closer until his muscly frame was melded into yours.

He departed from your lips and quickly found refuge in the crook of your neck. His hot breaths dragged across your flushed skin, sending an anticipatory chill down your spine as he speckled your softness with nips and butterfly kisses. Large hands explored what they could, never settling in one place for long while his lips began imprinting deeply-colored marks by the junction of your neck and shoulder. His grabs and kneads were desperate, as if he fully believed that at any moment you would depart from him forever, leaving him with a ghost of what could have been.

Your chest heaved into his. Colors you’ve never seen before danced before your eyelids in a pandemoniac parade while hellish flames seared through your core. Link lapped and kissed and teethed your neck, relishing in the bit-back mewls that occasionally leaked out of you. The moonbeams that had passed through the clouds applauded the red desire he worked into your skin and Link felt a surge of boldness rush through him. After speckling your rising and dipping chest with his spit, he dropped lower and lower.

The cold absence of his hands didn’t go unnoticed by you, and before you could process what was going on, the unfamiliar cold that whipped your exposed legs pinched a yelp out of you. In one smooth motion, the Hero of Hyrule was under your dress and kissing the pillowy softness of your thighs—as he always dreamt of doing—silently worshipping Hylia’s masterpiece.

And oh, how he worshipped you. How each fiery, wet kiss was a prayer of gratitude to the goddess for creating someone like you. How every bite, every mark he left you with was all in the name of you, his true deity, and your moans that served as his gospel. By the end of the night, he was determined to have you chanting his name like some mantra that would bind you two past a one night stand.

Your heart roared in your ears, anticipation for where his lips would fondle next nearly causing the overworked muscle to implode; your legs nearly gave out when you felt his teeth graze the edge of your drenched panties. The lace dragged and coiled into a thin strip as Link buried his face into your sex, relishing the ambrosia he was to partake in. Before that though, his lips traced a languid line to your hips, which was promptly suckled and bitten with the gentleness of a doe. His fingers hooked themselves under your panties and, with painfully slow movements, dragged the nuisance down your hips, your thighs, and finally, the ground. With all obstacles out of the way, Link turned his attention back to your throbbing lips, licking his own with the hunger of a starved animal.

He wasted no time in burrowing himself into you, tonguing and lapping the juices that have dared to slip out and refusing to waste a single drop. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he completely lost himself in you, rubbing tight circles into your clit with his thumb while drinking up whatever you could give him with his mouth. You bunched the noisome fabric about your waist, desperate to sink your fingers into his hair. He chuckled at your slightly buckling knees, and a wonderful idea flashed through his head.

He threw one of your legs atop his shoulder, and his heart nearly gave out from the sheer joy of seeing you spread like this. The new position allowed him deeper access into you, and a lone finger soon replaced his tongue’s sinful ministrations as the latter wrapped and toyed with your puffed-up bud. A full moan lapsed out of you in earnest and you unknowingly tightened around his digit. Link’s cock tented painfully against his pants, but he was set on having you cumming all over his face before he even thought about touching himself.

One of your hands anchored itself in his hair, knotting his disheveled locks into messy bunches that only grew wilder the faster he went. Uneven, haggard breaths and pleas for more echoed off his walls and Link had never been more pleased to carry out a request. His fingers and tongue would take turns wrecking you, never giving your poor clit and drenched entrance a break as he tongue-fucked and fingered you closer and closer to blissful oblivion. Link knew the milky white end was in sight, and he eagerly pressed his tongue flat against your cunt.

“Cum for me… Fuck, give it to me. I need you to cum in my mouth…”

His filthy request buzzed mind-shattering tingles to the deepest parts of your core, finally tipping you over the edge. You fell from a high you’ve never experienced before and your orgasm was borderline violent. A silent scream left your gaped mouth and you collapsed, panting, quivering. Link’s heart and ego swelled at your blissed out face as he leisurely wiped the juices dribbling down his chin. He scooted closer to you and pressed a deep kiss against your lips, leaving traces of you in your mouth. He pulled away with a pop, a smile, and an effortless huff as he carried you to his bed.

You were still fighting to regain some semblance of normal breathing when he set you down on his sheets. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and pulled away, taking a moment to relish in how you looked in your sensual vulnerability. His pulse quickened and his pants tightened further, eager for release, but Link was patient. He waited for your breathing to slow, caressing your cheeks and cooing praises into your ears. His tenderness was enough to almost lull you to sleep.

“(F/N)…” Adoration dripped from his tone. “Can we go further?”

You opened your eyes slightly and practically melted from the gentleness in his voice and the care in his eyes. With a soft, albeit tired smile, you nodded and traced small circles into his cheek. Puppy-like enthusiasm exuded off him and he kissed the tip of your nose, plucking a small giggle out of you.

“Just relax… I’ll take care of you.”

He worked the hem of your dress into a bulky bunch by your hips before throwing the whole thing over your head and gently discarding it on the floor. A soft, wonder-filled smile cracked his lips as he drank in all of you.

“You look beautiful… You are beautiful…” He murmured to the air, voicing his most private thoughts aloud. A slightly pruned finger traced down your sides. A shiver ran through your body and his name whimpered out of your mouth.

“Say it again.” He breathed shakily. “My name. Say it again.”

“Link…” You flushed under his piercing gaze. His expression flickered darkly for just a moment before his eyes crinkled warmly.

“You have the prettiest voice, you know that?” He nuzzled into your neck. “I can listen to you for hours.”

“Link…” You cradled his face in your palms. “You don’t… have to hold back. I’ll let you know if anything hurts.”

His eyes widened before a small chuckle left him.

“We’ll get there eventually, I promise. For now though…” His lips coupled with yours in tender obsession. “I want to make you feel good tonight.”

While his lips reunited with your own, his fingertip traced lazy patterns from your chest, down to your stomach with swirly circles, and finally in between your legs. He moved his hands with battle-hardened precision, skirting around your still-pulsing clit, being extra careful not to overstimulate you yet. The simple trail coaxed the neediest whine out of you and you jutted your hips up and down, side to side. You could feel him smile into the kiss.

“Eager, are we?” He purred, skimming the surface of his lips on your cheek before redirecting his efforts towards your nipples.

"Gods, look at you... You're so beautiful all spread out like this, just for me." His tongue swirled and sucked the perked bud while your other nipple rolled in between his thumb and index. He dragged the tip of his tongue from one nipple to the other, repeating the process again and again until he was satisfied with the glistening rawness. A long moan, honeyed with need and fringed with desire, escaped you as your back arched in toe-curling pleasure.

His fingers hastened their movements, circling the hardened pearl with calloused finger pads and teasing your slit, sometimes dipping the beginnings of a finger past its entrance. But it was never enough. Never, ever enough. Your pleas and cries and begging only sent Link further down this power trip, molding your sex-steeped senses however he wanted until you were a sobbing, hiccuping mess.

“Please Link…” You sputtered in between sobs, the knot in your gut constricting and loosening in sync with his tease. “I need you inside, please, please, please…”

“Shh…” He murmured, silencing your chants with a soft kiss. “Patience.”

“Link, please, I-I can’t—“

“Yes you can. Just a little more… Show me more of those lewd expressions.” A rough pinch on your clit scored a scream out of you and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. “Good girl… So pretty for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Gods, yes! I’m all yours Link, so please—“

Your voice sputtered to a stop, caught in edged ecstasy as the friction you had been craving for for the past Hylia-knows-how-long was suddenly served at blinding speeds.

“This is what you wanted, right?” He cooed, his chill tone contrasting the growing flush in his cheeks. You squirmed and writhed uselessly under him as your mind blanked and reeled from the sudden onslaught of pleasure.

“T-Too fa— Link, you’re—! I’m—!”

You were practically catapulted into your next orgasm, but despite your shaking release, Link never let up—in fact, he picked up his pace until veins marbled the surface of his arms. Another orgasm was ripped out of you, then another, and another, all while Link whispered,

"Oh, sweet girl, I know you can do it. I know you can cum one more time... Just one more, c'mon..."

Nothing else mattered to you at that moment. Nothing in the world could pull you out of the ecstasy Link had so readily given you. The only sensations you were capable of feeling were the coiling and spasming release of your gut as the man before you worked you into a mindless little thing. Link’s heart swelled at the fucked-out, dazed look on your face and he finally released his cock from its clothed prison.

"Do I have permission to fuck you senseless?" He husked into your ear, tending to his weeping cock with the residual slick left on his fingers. You nodded your head vigorously, dumbed down to your most base desires.

He slotted himself in between your legs, rubbing and dipping his tip a little bit past your entrance before his patience snapped in time with his hips. A gaspy whine rasped out of both of you, thickening to sweet, candied moans for more.

You were so tight… So warm... So wet… He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing—a concentrated attempt to not just immediately cum on the spot. Link stretching you out choked a groan out of you and your arms clung tightly about his neck, clawing desperate lines into his back.

"Gods, you feel so good... So tight for me... You're just made for me, aren't you? Made to take my cock..."

His fingers doled soft dips into your hips, coaxing the tight muscles into releasing their tension. All you could do was nod fervently, your voice too hoarse and mind too fogged to formulate any words. Link pervaded every single one of your thoughts, and all you could really muster was a gaze into his darkened blues, glazed over with lust. It took every ounce of mental fortitude to keep Link from pounding you into his bed; he softly kissed away the tears that threatened to spill.

"I'm gonna start moving now... Are you ready?"

A nod; Link positioned himself until your noses were almost touching, braced his hands on either side of your head, and slowly rocked his hips. The simple, fluid motion ellicited a moan out of the man and a whine out of you, electric pleasure shocking you to your core. His watchful gaze gauged your reactions, your comfort always at the forefront of his mind.

He flooded you with kisses and deluged your senses in heartfelt tenderness. Your head rolled into his arm, nuzzling him, and he smiled softly.

"You're so cute... My heart just explodes whenever I see you..."

"Liiink..." You reached up to caress his cheek. He pressed further into your hand before turning his head and kissing your fingers.

"You're perfect. Everything about you is gorgeous." He breathed, his hips slipping into a racy tempo. Your breasts pooled and trembled with each thrust, which didn't go unnoticed by the starved knight. Sounds of wet suckling filled his room, accompanied by your airy mewls and calls for his name.

"Say my name..." He growled into your chest, eyes flitting to look at you through quivering lashes. "Say it again."

"Link..." You squeaked, hiding the lower half of your burning face behind trembling hands.

"Louder." A hand clutched your wrists and dragged them down, fully exposing your slutty expressions to his hawkish eyes.

"Link...!"

"Louder." He scurried to the crook of your neck and bit down. "I want everyone in this castle to know who's fucking you breathless."

"L-Link!"

His pace quickened, the steady rhythm degenerating into wild pistoning. Shaky, uneven breaths stretched into high-pitched whimpers while his hand fondled your abused clit, repeating the circling motion that had you seeing stars several minutes (hours?) ago. His lips traced the shell of your ear, your jaw, down your neck, and finally your lips. Again and again, his mouth met yours in messy passion, each kiss more crazed than the last. He pulled away just enough to see your sloppy expressions, a thin strand of spit connecting your moistened tongues.

"Can you cum for me one more time? Just one more, I promise."

"I can't, I can't—Link, I'll die—“

"No you won't, love." He crooned. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, just in time to see stars exploding into a symphony of colors. "Just one more. I know you can do it."

Your face scrunched in response to the nearing summit, the precipice that you had been thrown over more times than you could count. You could feel your core spasming and knotting and folding in on itself; Link was totally immersed, body and soul, in your essence as he neared his own powerful climax.

"You're all mine." He panted, his hips accentuating each word with increasing ferocity. "Mine, mine, mine."

A tremor unlike anything you've ever felt before rattled your bones. A voice unrecognizable to you called for Link as you released all over his twitching cock and sheets. Your violent clenching rocketed Link to cloud nine, who pulled out just in time to cover you with thick, white ribbons. His warmth splattered onto your thighs, your stomach, your chest—all of which still tingled from his earlier acts.

His quaking frame crumbled, landing squarely on top of you. Your breaths hitched and mixed with each other, and a satiated silence enveloped the room. Once Link had mostly recovered, he heaved himself off of you and draped a lazy arm over your spent form.

"Are you okay?" He rasped, smoothing the sweaty nest that your hair had become. "Let me clean you up."

You tried to lift an arm—a finger even—to assure Link that you were okay but gods if you had to exert any more effort you were certain you would disintegrate. Link swung his legs over the bed, tripped into his boxers, and hobbled over to a pitcher sitting on his desk. The clear sounds of liquid life flowing into a bowl were like music to your ringing, pulsing ears.

In just a few moments he was by your side, bowl, towels, and cups in hand. You tried to sit up, but the bed stuck to your back like a bond that could not be broken. The rough cloth gingerly wiped away Link's earlier messes, and he dipped the other towel in the bowl before patting your face with the same degree of care. The cool water against your flushed skin sent pleasant jolts through your body.

"How are you feeling?" He asked again, pressing his palm into your cheek and pulling you up to drink. "Are you hurt anywhere? Was I too rough?"

You took the most refreshing swig of water in your life, feeling your parched throat soften enough for use.

"I'm okay, Link." You croaked at last. How long had it been since you last spoke coherent sentences? "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Of course." His warm smile alighted butterflies in your stomach; however, his features faltered slightly and his eyes turned downcast. "I, um..."

Quiet hesitance warbled his voice into a gut-wrenching tune; you gently cupped his hands, running your thumbs over each scar as you steadily held his gaze.

"I don't want this to be a one-time thing, I want..." He sucked in a quivering breath. "To be with you."

A kiss, soft and sweet, silenced all the doubt pounding away in his chest. Your lips moved purposefully, taking time to convey all the pent-up feelings that had been swirling inside you for so long. You dangled your arms behind his neck as you pulled away, your eyes fluttering open to meet his blown-out pupils.

"I want to be with you too."

Relief unfurrowed his brows and relaxed his jaw.

"Really...?"

"Yes! Though to be honest, I've always pictured our first few moments together as a couple in a more... innocent setting." You gestured to... everything and Link's belly flexed in laughter.

"So did I. But gods..." His lips ghosted the curve of your shoulder, traveling up your neck, and ending at your ear. "You felt so good, (F/N)..."

"L-Link..." You whimpered, your body lowering back down while your now-lover towered above you. Without warning, an arm snaked under your knees and the other wrapped behind your back. With a yelp, you spilled into his arms and two towels fell into your lap.

"The baths are just around the corner." A soft warmth bloomed on the center of your forehead. "Let's get cleaned up, shall we?"

♤♢ ~ bonus scene ~ ♡♧

"Your Highness, are you sure about—?"

"Yes, yes! I've already got it all figured out. All you have to do is pack your things and go!" Zelda shoved two official-looking documents into your arms and scooted you and Link closer to the door. Your dug heels were no match for the princess's sudden prowess.

And what could those documents possibly be?

Why, records of a cabin rental in Faron Woods, of course!

"B-But what about Link? He's your personal knight, after all."

"I've already arranged security details with one of the squadrons. They will be watching over me until you both get back. In regards to who will be overseeing your duties, I have a few staff members who will help me keep track of everything."

"Your Highness—"

"It's decided!" Zelda exclaimed with more effort, her energy sapped from lugging two unwilling bodies. "You both have been working so hard, so I've been thinking about giving you a weekend off for awhile. Now that you're a couple, this is a perfect chance to have your own little romantic getaway!"

"Wait, Princess Zelda..." Link started slowly, the gears in his head churning away. "It says here there’s only one bed. If you didn't know we were a couple until now... Why did you prepare a cabin with a single bed for the two of us?"

"That...!" Though your back was toward the royal, you could clearly see the 'oh shit' expression on her face. The corner of Link's mouth twitched into an amused smile while your cheeks scarleted.

"Zel, I swear to Hylia, I'm—"

"—gonna have a wonderful time in the woods where you can be as loud as you want. Farewell, and safe travels!"

With one last push, Zelda managed to shove the two of you out of her office before a resounding slam sounded the finality of her decision. But Zelda's closing remarks hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere in blood-chilling realization.

"What's wrong?" Link's sing-song voice mismatched the gravity of of the situation.

"Oh gods... Oh gods oh gods oh gods... How many people do you think heard us last night?"

"Enough for the whole castle to know who fucked you breathless." His face lowered until you were eye-level with his mischievous simper.

"Link!"

"Her Highness was right—you are fun to tease."

"LINK!!!"