#like. its been impossible to get out of bed even though i WANT to get up and draw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xoln04f1xo · 1 day ago

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Fluff

Pairings: OP81 x Reader

WARNINGS: Mental health struggles, depression, anxiety

WC: 3.5k

Divider Credit: @enchanthings-a

You didn’t mean for it to get this bad again.

It wasn’t like there was some grand trigger, a breaking point you could point to and say, “This is when everything fell apart.” It was more like the slow accumulation of dust - too subtle to notice until one day you couldn’t breathe.

Your days blurred. Mornings felt like cliffs, steep and cold and impossible to climb. Food lost its taste. Messages sat unanswered. And every time someone asked “Are you okay?” you smiled a little too quickly and said, “Yeah, just tired.”

But Oscar knew.

He always knew.

He didn’t press. He never did. That was one of the things you loved most about him - he didn’t try to fix you, didn’t come armed with platitudes or solutions. He just stayed.

The first time he noticed the shift, he brought home your favorite snack without comment. The second time, he quietly canceled a dinner you didn’t have the energy for. And the third, he simply pulled you into his arms while you stood in the hallway trying not to cry over absolutely nothing.

Today, though, you hadn’t even gotten out of bed.

You lay cocooned under the duvet, eyes open but distant, watching dust motes float through a beam of morning light. You heard him padding around the flat - muttering something about breakfast and weather apps - but none of it felt real. You felt like you were underwater, watching life happen above the surface.

Then the door creaked open.

“Hey, love,” Oscar said gently, stepping in. His voice was soft, like he was trying not to startle you. “You didn’t get up.”

You wanted to respond. Wanted to say something funny, or at least convincing. But your throat felt like it had been closed off with string, tight and impossible to loosen.

Instead, you blinked once.

Oscar crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I made toast,” he said. “With honey. Thought you might want a little bite.”

You didn’t move.

He didn’t take it personally. He never did.

After a moment, he leaned over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Do you want me to stay here for a bit?”

You nodded - just barely.

That was all he needed.

Oscar slipped under the blanket beside you, kicking off his socks and curling toward your still form like gravity was pulling closer. His body was warm against yours, a stark contrast to the chill under your skin.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no pressure. No questions like "What's wrong?" or "When did it start again?" Just his arm sliding gently across your waist, his forehead resting against your temple, and the occasional light-feather kiss to your hair.

You felt your chest start to ache - not in a painful way at all, but in that fragile, full way that comes with being truly seen.

"I know it's hard," he whispered eventually, his breath tickling your skin. "And I know it probably feels like everything's slipping away again. But i'm here. Even if you don't want to talk. Even if all you want to do is lie here."

You swallowed around the tightness in your throat, finally managing a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Oscar pulled back just enough to look at you, his brow furrowing. "No. No don't be sorry."

Tears welled up before you could stop them, thick and hot and frustrating. "I just... I don't know why it's like this again... I was doing fine... and now i'm not... and i feel so..." You cut yourself off, words crumbling into nothing.

"Hey," he said softly, wiping away the tear from your cheek with his thumb. "Listen to me. You don't have to explain it. Your brain's having a hard time, that's all. It doesn't make you weak, or broken, or any less incredible."

Silence fell again, but it was softer now - less suffocating. You turned slightly, pressing your face into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. It felt safe here, grounded. You didn't have to perform. You didn't have to pretend. You could just be.

Eventually, he ran a hand slowly down your back. “I was thinking… maybe later we could go for a little walk. Just to the park and back. No pressure if you’re not up for it, but the air might feel nice. What do you think?”

You didn’t answer right away, but the idea of leaving your bed didn’t feel as impossible with Oscar beside you. It was like he carried a little bit of light, enough to scatter the darkest corners.

“Maybe,” you whispered.

“That’s all I need,” he said with a smile in his voice. “A maybe is good.”

He stayed there with you until your breathing evened out, until your muscles stopped trembling. His arms didn’t waver. His voice, when he spoke, was a gentle thread anchoring you back to the world.

“I love you,” he whispered eventually. “On your good days, your bad days, and all the blurry ones in between.”

You didn’t say it back right away.

Not because you didn’t feel it - but because the words would’ve made you cry again. Because it was too much, in the best way. Because you were still learning to believe that kind of love could be yours.

But you tightened your fingers around his shirt and held on.

And that, Oscar knew, was enough.

It took a few hours. More than a few, honestly.

Oscar didn’t say anything when you didn’t move after lunch. He just left a glass of water by the nightstand and tiptoed around the flat, cleaning up quietly, like someone keeping the house warm for a friend going through a storm.

You stayed wrapped in the blankets, your limbs heavy, the dull ache of exhaustion pressing down on every bone. But his presence helped. It always did.

Around 4 PM, the light outside turned golden, spilling through the windows like something out of a dream. You watched it for a long time. It made you feel small, and somehow, that was a comfort - like the world was big enough to hold this heaviness, even if you couldn’t.

Eventually, you pulled yourself up to sit, your legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

Oscar peeked into the room the second he heard movement. “Hey, sleepy.”

You gave him a small, tired smile - your first one in days. “I think I’m ready… for the park.”

His expression didn’t change into something too bright or relieved. He just smiled back, like he knew exactly how much strength that simple sentence took.

“Okay. No rush,” he said, and then disappeared for a second to grab your hoodie - the big one with the worn cuffs that smelled faintly like him and comfort. “But let’s bundle you up. It’s kind of chilly out there.”

You took it wordlessly, slipping your arms into it, and let him help pull the zipper halfway up.

“I packed snacks,” he added, like it was some great adventure. “And a flask of hot chocolate. Because I know you secretly like it more than tea.”

You huffed a soft laugh, the first real sound out of you all day. “That’s not a secret.”

“Well, now it’s a confirmed preference. Very official.”

He kissed the top of your head, grabbed a blanket to throw over his arm, and the two of you headed out into the soft hush of late afternoon.

The park wasn’t far - just a ten-minute walk through the quiet back streets near your place. The air was crisp but not biting, the kind of weather that made your cheeks cold but your heart a little warm. Trees rustled softly, birds chirped like they had no idea the world could feel so heavy.

Oscar kept his hand in yours the whole way.

He didn’t try to make conversation. Didn’t force you to talk or explain. Instead, he swung your joined hands gently back and forth like you were kids on a playground. Like joy didn’t have to be big or loud - sometimes, it could be found in the way someone held on.

You found a quiet bench tucked under a tree, not far from a little pond where ducks drifted lazily across the surface. Oscar spread the blanket across the wood before you sat down, always thinking of the little things.

“Sit, sit,” he said, motioning you over. “This bench is now officially a cuddle zone.”

You snorted, more air than sound, but it felt like a laugh, and he lit up at that.

The two of you sat close, your shoulder pressed against his, his arm wrapping around your back like it was made to hold you.

For a while, there was nothing but silence - and for once, it wasn’t heavy. It felt like breathing room.

Oscar poured you a cup of hot chocolate from the flask, careful not to spill any as he handed it over. You took a sip, the warmth curling through your fingers, the sweetness resting on your tongue like a reminder that small comforts still mattered.

“Look,” he murmured, nodding toward the pond.

A little family of ducks - a mum and three ducklings - wobbled across the grass, tripping over each other, fluffy and chaotic.

“They’re so dramatic,” you said softly, watching as one of them nearly face-planted into a clump of wet leaves.

Oscar grinned. “Peak performers. That one’s definitely the Max Verstappen of ducklings. No chill.”

You let out a real laugh this time, surprised at the sound of it. It echoed a little too loud in your chest, like your heart wasn’t used to the rhythm.

Oscar looked down at you, eyes crinkling in that way that always made you feel like maybe everything really was going to be okay.

“You know,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “you don’t have to pretend to be okay around me. Ever. But I love seeing you smile.”

Your throat tightened again, but not with pain this time. With gratitude. With love.

“I’m scared it’s going to get bad again,” you admitted.

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“It might,” he said honestly. “But we’ll get through it. Just like we’re getting through this.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting your body rest against his, letting yourself believe him.

“Even when I’m a mess?” you asked.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Especially then. You're not a burden. You’re my favourite person. Mess and all.”

You sat there until the sun dipped lower in the sky, turning the clouds pink and gold. The ducks wandered off, the wind picked up a little, and the chill started to creep back in. But you stayed warm.

Because Oscar held you like he meant it.

Because his love wasn’t the kind that faded when things got dark.

Because here, in a quiet park with your fingers wrapped around a warm cup and your heart wrapped in his steady hands, you felt - if not okay - then at least safe.

And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.

By the time the two of you got home, dusk had slipped into evening, painting the sky with soft shadows and fading lavender. The air was cooler now, and Oscar tugged you a little closer as you walked, the blanket still draped over one arm, the empty flask tucked into the crook of the other.

You felt… not fixed. Not healed. But lighter. Like you’d exhaled for the first time in weeks.

And all it took was one afternoon. One hoodie. One Oscar.

He kicked the door open with a gentle nudge of his foot, letting you step inside first.

“I vote for pajamas and couch nest,” he declared the moment he locked the door behind you.

You turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Couch nest?”

Oscar grinned like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Blankets. Pillows. Snacks. Possibly a terrible movie. Optional foot massage.”

That pulled another small smile out of you, your cheeks aching from the unfamiliar motion. “You just made that up.”

“I absolutely did not. I take couch nesting very seriously. You’re talking to an expert.”

You laughed softly, and Oscar leaned down to kiss your cheek before heading to the living room, already grabbing cushions off the chairs.

You changed slowly into pyjamas - thick socks, his oversized hoodie again, soft cotton bottoms - and by the time you padded out of the bedroom, the couch had been transformed. Pillows lined every side. Three blankets were layered on top. A string of fairy lights you didn’t even realize he’d put up twinkled gently around the curtain rail.

“You are ridiculous,” you murmured, staring at the cozy chaos.

Oscar popped up from where he was adjusting the last corner of a blanket. “I know,” he said proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

That made something flutter in your chest.

You climbed onto the couch, letting him pull you into the nest like you were precious cargo. His arm found its place around you instantly, and you tucked your head into the crook of his shoulder, your legs draped across his lap. He rubbed soft circles into your calf without even thinking about it.

The movie he put on was some low-stakes animated thing - talking animals, goofy humour, predictable plot. But it didn’t matter. You weren’t really watching it. You were watching him in the glow of the screen, his eyes soft and warm every time he glanced at you, like you were the most important thing in his world.

And maybe you were.

After a while, your eyes started to droop. You blinked slow and heavy, head tipping forward.

Oscar noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing your hair back gently. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just tired. But like… the good kind.”

He smiled, then leaned down to press a long, slow kiss to your forehead. “That’s good.”

You curled closer, burying yourself into his side, fingers toying absently with the hem of his shirt. “I’m scared it won’t last,” you admitted quietly.

He didn’t rush to reassure you. Didn’t drown you in forced optimism. He just squeezed you a little tighter.

“It doesn’t have to last forever,” he said gently. “Just long enough to get to the next good moment. And I’ll be here for all of them. The hard ones, too.”

You nodded, eyes prickling again - not from pain this time, but from something softer. Gratitude. Safety. Love.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a grand speech or a moment from a movie. It was real. Quiet. Steady.

Oscar Piastri didn’t love you in loud declarations or over-the-top gestures.

He loved you in the way he folded your hoodie and left it on your pillow. In the snacks you didn’t ask for but always appeared. In the way he waited for you to come back to yourself, and never once tried to rush the process.

And now, he loved you in silence - his hand rubbing slow circles into your back, his chest rising and falling in time with yours, his body curled around you like a shield against the world.

Your voice was barely more than a whisper when you said it, but it didn’t need to be louder.

“I love you, Oz.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tilted your chin up gently, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand, and kissed you - not deep or passionate, just a soft press of lips that said me too in a thousand quiet ways.

“I love you,” he whispered back. “Always. And I’ve got you. Okay?”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat.

And in the glow of fairy lights and the low hum of cartoon voices, you closed your eyes. Your body relaxed, breath deepening, your chest finally settling into something that felt like peace.

The next day might be hard. The one after that, too.

But for now, wrapped in warmth and his love, with your head on his chest and your heart slowly stitching itself back together - you let go.

Because you were home. And you were safe.

Oscar's POV

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skunkes · 2 months ago

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#talkys #i have my yearly check up soon and honestly i hope my blood tests show that theres something #wrong with me that can be remedied ykwim #like. its been impossible to get out of bed even though i WANT to get up and draw #its been so hard to Focus #im on 2 medications i feel this shouldnt be this way #granted a lot of my issues are from my living space which wont be changing anytime soon. but ykwim #i also cldnt find a psych with more than 2 stars in my network so i cant even explore other #meds or official diagnoses ...begging for it to just be like vitamin d deficiency or some shit idk #its been like 2 months of it consistently now!! im tired!!! i wanna get up!#goodnight!!!

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illyrianbitch · 3 months ago

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Are We Still Friends? — Part Five

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: A chance encounter offers a break from your tangled thoughts about Azriel. Meanwhile, Az reaches a pivotal realization.

Warnings: training, sparring and weapon use, severe overthinking, longing, brief use of recreational drugs (lovely 'mirthroot')

Word Count: 7.1k

Part Four | Series Masterlist | Part Six

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Even in the early hours, the heat was suffocating.

You’d been half-tempted to cancel on Mor, to crawl back under the covers and enjoy the blissful cool of your room. But you knew better. Mor would’ve winnowed straight into your bedroom, dragged you out of bed, and reminded you that you’d made a promise.

So now, here you were, on the training grounds, sweat already collecting at your brow, watching Azriel and Cassian spar on the far side.

Both of the males were dressed in their usual head-to-toe leathers, though Cassian seemed just as bothered by the weather as you. You’d noticed he’d trained shirtless more often lately, something you attributed to the presence of his mate, but today he was fully covered. It probably had something to do with the steady, focused gaze Az held. Something to be cautious of. Wary.

Unlike his brother, Azriel’s expression was detached, as if the sun didn’t touch him at all— like he was completely unbothered by the sweltering heat. His wings shifted slightly against the back of his leathers, but that was the extent of his discomfort, if any.

You’d never visited Illyria in the summer months, never experienced the full brutality of its heat. Perhaps it was there, under that oppressive sun, that Azriel had learned to manage heat in such attire. But, then again, Az was entirely too skilled at masking what he actually felt.

Something about him, now before you, made you want to continue staring—his wings, the way his body moved with the smoothness of a predator, the effortless strength in the curve of his form. Lately, everything about Azriel had been doing that— distracting you. Overwhelming you. Calling to you like a siren song. His voice, his smile, the way he moved.

A laugh from Mor pulled you from your thoughts.

"It’s a shame the healing balm worked so well," Her voice teased from behind you. You turned at the sound, watching as she tossed a sword from one hand to the other with an ease that was almost poetic. "Seeing you turned me into a softie, you know. All those bruises and that pouty face— I had to go easy because I felt bad for you.”

You snorted, catching the blade she tossed your way. "Oh, so that’s the only reason I beat you last week? Because you were going easy on me?"

Her grin widened. “Yeah. But Runa got too many hits on you. You’re rusty. So maybe I’m not doing you any favors by going easy." She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe Cassian’s been going too easy on you, too."

“Or maybe,” you shot back, stepping into the ring, “I was just going easy on a citizen.”

Mor’s laugh was loud and unapologetic as she followed you. "You’re saying that like you didn’t know exactly who she was when you threw the first punch."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you squared up to her. “Okay, can we maybe stop reminiscing over my recent regrettable actions? Please?”

“Never.” She slid into a stance with ease. “But if you beat me, I’ll stop laughing about it for a week.”

“Only a week?”

“That’s all you’ll get, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, lips still curved in a grin. “Fine. Deal.”

And then, without hesitation, Mor lunged. Your blades collided with a sharp ring, the sound vibrating up your arms. You let the adrenaline of the fight pull you out of your thoughts, focusing on the female in front of you.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that before anything else, Morrigan was a warrior. Graceful, clever, and impossibly skilled. The kind of fighter who didn’t rely on brute strength but on speed, precision, and an uncanny ability to read her opponent. Skills she’d learnt to outmaneuver and beat males that may have been twice her size, twice her age. And if you looked hard enough, past her glittering makeup and the plethora of gold jewelry she adorned, you’d notice the scars scattered across her body, small slices from knives and swords that didn’t have enough time to heal during the first war.

Mor didn’t hold back, her strikes coming faster, sharper, until your muscles burned from the effort of keeping up.

From across the ring, Cassian’s booming laugh carried over, followed by what sounded like a gruff remark from Azriel. You glanced over almost instinctively, your eyes following the movement of Az’s shadows. They twisted around him, stretching into the shaded spaces between Cassian’s body and the ground, curling around the general’s feet in an attempt to constrict his movements.

Mor’s grin widened as she caught your sword mid-swing. “You’re distracted,” she said.

You twisted to break free, stubbornly meeting her gaze. “Am not.”

You tried to return to the rhythm of the fight, but Mor was right. You were distracted. Every glance in Azriel’s direction made your heart race, your mind spiral. Even from across the yard, you could feel the heat of his presence. It threw you off balance. And before you knew it, Mor disarmed you, sending you crashing to the ground with a grunt.

“Like I said,” she hummed, smirking as she extended a hand to help you up. “Distracted.”

“Maybe a bit.” You winced, rolling your shoulders as you stood straight. “I have too much on my mind. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mor tilted her head. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, wiping at the sweat on your brow. “That’s the last thing I want to do, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you before she nodded. “Well, we just got some new weapons last week—I’ve been dying to test them out.”

You raised a brow. “What kind of weapons?”

Mor shrugged. “Not sure. Rhys says they’re lighter. I think you’ll like them.” She grabbed your discarded sword, tossing both it and hers onto the rack with ease. “You’re too cautious for a regular sword anyway. You don’t like getting hit.”

“No one likes getting hit.”

“True,” she said, laughing slightly as she bumped your shoulder. “But you’re smart about it. Always letting them exhaust themselves first.”

“Go get them,” you nodded to her. “I want to try them out.”

Mor grinned. “Good. Then I can start kicking your ass with them, too.”

She turned to leave, and you watched her go, ready to grab some water. But then, just as you were about to turn, you felt it—a presence behind you. You knew it in your bones, from the soft breeze you swore his shadows danced in, that it was Azriel. Still, when you turned and saw him standing there, you felt unprepared, like something in your chest tightened, hot and sharp, like heartburn. You shoved it down, burying it deeper, just like you had been doing all week.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re really gonna let her beat you like that?”

You ran a hand over your face, trying to settle your racing pulse. “What can I say, it’s been an off couple of weeks.”

It was hard not to notice how close he stood, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, pushing the air around you in a way that made it harder to breathe.

“Yeah,” Azriel glanced at you, and his expression softened just a fraction. “Are you okay? I mean, now?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just hot. Overwhelmed.”

He studied you, his brow slightly furrowed, but there was something else behind it. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable,” you said, gesturing at his leathers. “Aren’t you boiling alive?”

Azriel tilted his head as if considering your question, then replied evenly, “I’m alright.”

“You’re lying,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “You have to be.”

That earned you a faint smile, a quick twitch of his lips that you might have missed if you weren’t already watching him too closely.

“You’re welcome to try them on,” he said smoothly. “See how they feel.”

You blinked, a small flutter echoing in your chest at the teasing edge in his voice. You frowned and said to him, “I’m wearing the exact same thing as you.”

“Mine are different.” His smile tugged again. “They’re cooling leathers.”

“Really? That's a thing?”

The look he gave you— a mix of amusement and something else— told you everything you needed to know. You scowled at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re messing with me.”

When your eyes met his again, they were practically glowing in amusement. He shrugged, and his shadows seemed to dance with the motion— still clinging close to him, hiding from the sun, but seemingly content despite it. He gave you a quick, warm smile— as if he were afraid for the rest of the public to see.

“I am,” he replied, leaning closer. “My leathers are, sadly, just as basic as yours.”

The sunlight caught in his hair when he stood like this, painting it with faint golden streaks. Along with your growing frustration at the heat, your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight of him. You fanned your face with one hand, trying to ignore the ache building in your chest. You blamed the sun for making it tight.

You suddenly became aware of your presentation—of the disheveled way you must have looked. Your hair had fallen loose during the sparring with Mor, strands clinging to the sweat at your neck, a messy halo around your face. You reached back, gathering it in both hands, attempting to tighten the hold of your hair tie. As you twisted it around, the elastic snapped, the sharp sting of it flicking against your skin.

“Shit.”

A quiet sigh left you as the broken tie dangled uselessly from your fingers. Of course. As if you didn’t already feel like disaster enough. You pushed your hair back again, fingers combing through the tangled strands, debating whether to leave it down or try to secure it with something else.

You realized, quickly, that perhaps this small inconvenience was a blessing in disguise— a reason to walk away from the conversation, to regain control of your scattered thoughts. You opened your mouth to excuse yourself, to say you needed to go put your hair up, but before you could, Azriel spoke.

“Wait.”

You paused, turning back toward him as he reached into one of the hidden pockets of his leathers. When he pulled out a hair tie, your eyebrows shot up.

“What—”

Azriel’s expression was uncharacteristically sheepish as he handed it over. “You always wear the same one. I noticed the band was wearing out. It was only a matter of time before it broke.”

“You… noticed that?”

His shadows shifted around him, curling between you two, and he subtly gestured toward them with his chin. “They did.”

Your fingers closed around the band as you stared at him. “So you’ve been carrying this around just in case?”

He nodded and you blinked at him, unsure if you should laugh or melt into the floor. “That… is very considerate of you.”

Az glanced at you, quiet for a moment, before he replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to snap and pick a fight with someone because you're overstimulated with your hair clinging to your skin. I’m just trying to protect the public.”

You rolled your eyes at that, though the thought of your family endlessly reminding you of your actions over the past few weeks made the corners of your mouth twitch. The infamous calm you’d prided yourself on—gone. You’d be hearing about your fight with a citizen for at least the next century.

“Shut up,” you said, but your heart still stuttered painfully. “But, also, thank you,” you added, focusing on twisting your hair into a knot to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Better?”

Your throat felt tight as you looked up once more, meeting his molten gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “Better.”

Azriel nodded, stepping back to give you space again. But you caught the faint curve of his lips, the small, quiet smile that made your chest ache.

You felt some relief as the wind ruffled your now-updo, but your thoughts circled.

Azriel had proven to be a male of his word. He’d spent the past two weeks showing you, in every way he could, that he was sorry. It wasn’t loud or showy—Azriel never was—but his apology seeped into the small, thoughtful things he did. Helping with reports, lighting your room’s fireplace when it got too cold. Nothing demanding, but everything that proved he was trying.

It almost felt normal again, like you and Azriel had fallen back into your usual rhythm. Your routine.

Almost.

“Good luck,” Azriel said, nodding toward where Mor was returning with the new weapons. He leaned in slowly, his shadows drifting between your shoulders, curling in the pocket of shadow created by your closeness. “And, if you want… we can go flying afterward. To celebrate you beating Mor.”

The idea of being so close to him, of having him hold you to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against yours as he carried you, made your stomach churn, made you feel nauseous. Nervous. But you nodded anyway, smiled like it was just another plan, like old times. It felt tight. Diplomatic.

“Okay,” you managed to say.

Azriel smiled, and you heard Mor’s voice asking what you were conspiratorially talking about. You didn’t answer, didn’t bother to pay attention if Azriel answered, either. The new, sleek steel weapons she’d returned with felt different in your hands. Lighter, faster. Mor had been right—these suited you better. But it didn’t matter. You were too lost in your head, too tangled in your thoughts.

Even if Mor had kept her eyes closed, she still would’ve won the next fight. You weren’t focused enough to stand a chance. There was a brief, confused look in her eyes when she realized how easily she’d taken you down once again. But she didn’t press, not even as you yielded for the day and ran home, slipping into a cool bath with the hope that it would clear your mind of everything that tainted it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You stacked the last of the reports on the living room table, smoothing your palm over the top page before grabbing a scrap of parchment.

Rhys—went through the latest proposals and highlighted the ones most viable. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stuck the note on the pile and stepped back, scanning the work you’d spent the past few weeks compiling.

Rhysand would be by later to go over them with Azriel—discussions about Hewn City’s reformation efforts, the best way to bridge the centuries-old divide between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams. You’d done your best to outline a path forward, to present the grievances of its citizens in a way Rhysand could use to negotiate.

Your fingers drummed idly against the edge of the table before you caught sight of your wrist. The small hair tie sat there, snug against your skin. And although it was nothing, just a simple band, it felt as if it were burning. You weren’t sure why you were still wearing it—why it wasn’t in a pocket or left in your room, ready to be summoned when needed. You ran your fingers over it, jaw clenching as frustration rose in you, sudden and sharp.

At what, exactly? You didn’t know.

You did know, however, that it was likely related to Azriel.

You’d been avoiding him since the other day at training. Since he’d given you the small elastic now circling your wrist.

It wasn’t intentional, not really, but you’d been thinking too much. Feeling too much. Uncomfortable in your own skin, hyperaware of yourself and Azriel in ways that made your stomach twist. Like pressing against a tender bruise.

The anger you’d been holding onto—the indignation that had burned hot and bright in the aftermath of your fight—faded much faster than you’d expected. You still wanted to be angry, to hold onto the grudge that felt like armor, but Azriel made it impossible. His kindness had chafed against you, rubbing away at the edges of your resentment till all that was left was an overly aware sense of him. Of his presence, his care. His devotion to something as simple as your forgiveness.

You’d forgiven him within a week, had taken all of his baked goods with open arms, had expressed appreciation for the times his shadows brought you snacks during your late nights with Rhys and Feyre, going over negotiation plans for the reformation efforts.

But Azriel was being too nice now. Too thoughtful. Too much. And it was starting to wear you down.

You were noticing him in ways that felt deeper, heavier, and far more dangerous. It was overwhelming, this shift in perspective—like seeing him in a new light that illuminated details you’d never thought to look at before. The slope of his shoulders, the way he always seemed to be aware of you, even when he wasn’t looking at you. You felt blinded, too rushed to adjust to this new, backlit version of Azriel.

It stressed you out— made you want to sit down and create a list, sort through the pros and cons like some sort of strategy meeting. Analyze the feelings bubbling in your chest until you could pin them down and find the most equitable, profitable, and logical path forward. The right direction to take.

Realistically, you should wait it out. Let the feelings settle and fade before they could complicate the beautiful, solid friendship you’d built over centuries. You weren’t even sure what you were feeling. You couldn’t risk something so vital over emotions you didn’t fully understand.

The front door clicked open.

You turned at the sound of footsteps, eyes falling on Azriel’s figure as he stepped inside. His hair was a little mussed, dark strands sticking to his forehead like he’d flown through the midday heat. A faint flush tinted his cheeks, and for a moment, you wondered if the sun was still blazing in the midsky—if the warmth on his face was from exertion or simply the sun pressing down on him.

He took two large strides before his hazel eyes landed on you. His expression shifted, then, brightened, as if he hadn’t expected to find you here. The soft tug at the corners of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite, was enough to send your pulse into a sharp, erratic rhythm.

“Hey,” he said, lightly. “You’re home.”

“That I am.” You smiled and met his eyes. “Hi.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped farther into the room, something small and wrapped in plain paper in his hand.

“I’m glad I caught you. I have something for you,” he said, holding it out to you.

You blinked, glancing between him and the package. “What is it?”

“Some tea,” he said, his gaze flickering to yours before darting away. “For sleep.”

“For sleep?” you repeated, taking the package carefully, his shadows greeting you with a gentle circle around your wrists.

Azriel nodded, his hand falling to his side. “I noticed the other day. When you were sparring with Mor. You were leaning more on your left. You do that when you’re tired.”

Your chest tightened, your fingers curling instinctively around the package. “It was that noticeable?”

“Yeah,” he said. “ To me at least. I thought this might help.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, the simple thoughtfulness of it wrapping around you like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You opened the package carefully, revealing a small tin filled with pouches of tea. You swallowed, staring down at the item in your hands.

“Thank you. This is…” You trailed off, your voice failing you. “This is really sweet, Az.”

“Let me know if it helps,” he said, shifting his weight slightly, his wings twitching behind him. “If you like it, I’ll get more.” He gave a small, almost tentative, smile. “Or maybe I’ll try it myself.”

You nodded, clutching the package tighter. “Okay. Yeah. I will.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. You turned, intending to step away, to put some distance between you and the sudden awkwardness settling in your chest. But as you moved past him, Azriel stepped closer, just enough that the space between you disappeared. For a moment, you were not quite touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of night-chilled air and cedar.

And then his hand caught yours. When you glanced back at him, his expression had softened, a sense of concern flickering in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, intimate. Like he was sharing a secret despite you both being the only ones in the room.

Your breath caught. You could see the faint crease in his brow, the way his gaze searched your face like he was trying to find his answer there, in your features. “Yeah,” you said quietly, even though your heart was pounding.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. His thumb brushed over your skin absentmindedly, as it usually did when he soothed you on bad days. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt now, how aware it made you of his touch. “Are we okay?”

You blinked, frowning at his words. “Yeah, of course. Why would you ask that?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I just…I feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied quickly, but the excuse felt hollow even as you said it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, but something in his tone made you think he didn’t believe you. After a moment, he added, “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” you said after a pause, and it was the truth. You weren’t angry at Azriel, not anymore. It had completely faded, morphed into something else entirely.

You felt guilty about how you'd been acting, how you'd resorted to avoiding him in an effort to make yourself feel better. Because, despite you telling him otherwise, you knew Azriel was interpreting your distance as proof that you were still mad.

Azriel nodded, but his expression didn’t quite relax. His hand tightened slightly around yours. “But you’d tell me, right? If something was wrong?”

“Of course.”

His gaze softened further, his eyes almost pleading. “Because I always want to know,” he said quietly. “If something’s wrong. I want to know.”

You couldn’t breathe. His hand was still on yours, his thumb brushing soft, slow circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You were going to vomit. You were going to be sick. You had to leave. You had to get out of here before you did something reckless, before you said something you couldn’t take back.

“I know, Az. But, I should… I need to go,” you said, stepping back and gently pulling your hand from his. “I have a lot of errands to run.”

Azriel blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Oh. Okay.”

You clutched the package tighter to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you backed toward the door. “Thanks again for this. Really.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stopped, nodding instead. “Let me know if it helps.”

You nodded quickly, forcing a tight, polite smile before slipping out of the room.

When you made it upstairs, you grabbed a coat, barely paying attention to which one, and were out of the townhouse before you had the chance to run into Azriel again. You didn’t know where you were going—only that it needed to be away from him.

For a strange, fleeting moment, you found yourself wishing you were angry at him again. Wishing he was being stubborn and unfair instead of sweet and thoughtful. It had been easier then, even when it hurt, because at least you’d known how to deal with it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Velaris buzzed with midday energy, alive with movement and the sounds of life. The streets teemed with couples strolling hand in hand, children darting between legs, their laughter woven into the hum of conversation. You wove through it all in a haze, your mind spinning like a top. For a brief moment, you scowled at the love surrounding you—wondering if it had always been this prevalent, this visible, this... everywhere.

You hadn’t come up with a plan since leaving the townhouse, still unsure of where you were going—or if you even wanted to go anywhere at all. All you knew was that you needed to keep moving. Moving meant you were occupied. And being occupied meant you could at least try to ignore the noise—both the loud thoughts and the feelings twisting inside you. But no matter how fast you walked, how hard you tried to lose yourself in the busy streets, the fluttering in your chest wouldn't let you forget.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant, even as you fought with everything you had to deny it. But maybe... maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe Selene had gotten into your head and now you were overthinking everything—reading too much into Azriel’s kindness, his care. You’d seen it before, convincing yourself of something that wasn’t true, spiraling until you couldn’t trust your own judgment.

You didn’t see the person you bumped into until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking yourself from your thoughts, but when you looked up—

“Oh,” you said, startled. You blinked at the male before you. “Hello.”

The golden light caught his hair—a rich, burnished brown that framed sharp, handsome features. Made them seem almost celestial.

Adrin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, two small dimples forming at his cheeks. “Y/n. Hello.”

“Adrin,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No harm done,” he said easily. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of concern as he studied your face. “Are you…doing all right? I heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. “It's a long story. But everything is okay.”

Adrin tilted his head, and although the smile was still there— that warm welcoming smile— his brows drew together slightly. “You seem…bothered. Long day?”

You huffed a small laugh, rubbing absentmindedly at your chest. “Something like that.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I know the feeling. It’s been one of those days for me, too. I was about to try and make it better—clear my head a little.” He hesitated, then added, “You could join me, if you’d like.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, no, I don’t want to interrupt your plans—”

“You wouldn’t be.” He was quick to shake his head. “Really. I’d like the company.”

You hesitated. Thought through the idea. You liked Adrin. And while you wanted to run—hide away, retreat into the quiet of your own mind—you knew it would only make your thoughts spiral faster. But being around your family, or anyone who might see through you immediately, made you itch with unease.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. The chance to be with someone who wouldn’t pry, someone who seemed genuine in his invitation.

“Sure, yeah. What are you thinking?”

Adrin’s lips twitched into a small grin. “I might have just the thing we both need.”

An hour later, you found yourself at his apartment, stretched out on his balcony overlooking the city. The air was cooler here, quieter, the noise of the streets below softened into a distant hum. The smell of mirthroot curled in the space between you, something so distinctly warm and earthy.

You breathed it in, already feeling lighter, like you were melting into your chair—but in a good way, not like earlier, when the heat had pressed against you relentlessly.

You took a slow pull from the rolled mirthroot stick Adrin had handed you. For the first time that day, your shoulders eased.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

You exhaled slowly, watching the plume of smoke dissipate into the air. A soft laugh escaped you.

“Oh yeah. I kind of forgot how much I like mirthroot. This is dangerous.”

Adrin chuckled, and you glanced over at him, watching as his lips curved into a lopsided smile—only one dimple visible now. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You tilted your head, studying him further. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be into this,” you said, gesturing to the rolled stick in your hand.

His brows furrowed. “Why's that?”

You shrugged, still smiling, your face warm—not from embarrassment, but from the pleasant haze settling over you. “I don’t know. You’re from the Dawn Court. You’re a healer. You just seem disciplined. Like, above this.”

Adrin let out a full, rich laugh, the sound making your grin widen. “Please. Let’s go through that again. I come from Dawn. I’m a male healer. A pacifist, even.”

You paused, letting his words replay in your mind before it finally clicked.

“So it makes total sense,” you said, correcting yourself.

Adrin nodded sagely, and another small round of laughter followed, easy and unhurried. You realized how much you liked that about him. That his presence wasn’t demanding. That he let things be light. Maybe that was why it was always easy to converse with him whenever you’d stopped by Madjas.

You inhaled again, letting yourself sink further into the feeling, into the rare quiet of your thoughts. Even now, though, even floating, something tugged at you. Some part of you that refused to be fully untethered. The rational side of your mind begged for a break from the relentless circling of your thoughts, but you shoved the worst of them away, opting instead to focus on the ones that didn’t hurt.

“Hey,” you said suddenly. “Can I ask you a really weird question?”

“Sure.” Adrin straightened slightly, tossing you a quick glance as he brought his mirthroot to his lips.

You hesitated, but the mirth haze had worked through your nerves, made you bolder, more loose lipped. “Do you have a crush on me?”

He choked on his next inhale, coughing before looking at you, eyes wide. “Sorry?”

“Nevermind. That was weird. Sorry,” you said quickly, looking away, waving it off. “Forget I said anything.”

But he shook his head, smiling faintly as he leaned in slightly. “No, it’s okay. I’ve always appreciated how forward you are. Honest. It’s refreshing.”

You blinked at him. “Really?”

He nodded. Then he paused for a moment, contemplating. “If you’re asking if I find you attractive, the answer is yes. I think you’re beautiful.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, “I wouldn’t say I have a crush on you. That feels… shallow. I don’t know you enough to call it that. It would be liking the idea of you. I don’t like doing that.”

His honesty was just as refreshing as he claimed yours to be. It loosened something in your chest—some small guilt that had settled when Mor first suggested you go out with him. Guilt at the idea that someone you’d grown to enjoy might want something from you that you couldn’t give.

If only everyone was this articulate. If only Az—

You shoved the thought away and exhaled slowly. “That’s… a really nice answer.”

Adrin smiled again, but this time, it was smaller, softer. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head. “It doesn’t.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I have no expectations here. I enjoy the friendship we’ve built—if you’d call it that.”

“Of course I would,” you said softly. A small chuckle escaped your lips as you raised your rolled mirthroot and nodded toward the one between his fingers. “And if I didn’t consider you a friend before, you’re definitely one now.”

Adrin’s laugh rang out, warm and melodic, filling the space between you. It was soothing, like the sound itself carried the calm of his healing touch.

You settled into a comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of conversation lingering between you as you both watched the city below. But then, without warning, your mind wandered once more.

This time, it drifted toward the upcoming event Rhys was hosting—a formal gathering to show appreciation for allies and those who’d supported him. At his own home, too. A gesture of humility. You could already picture the glittering decorations in the River House, the couples dressed to the nines, gliding together in effortless, practiced harmony.

Usually, those scenes didn’t bother you.

You’d never minded attending events alone, enjoying the freedom to slip in and out of conversations as you pleased. But now, the thought of walking into that hall, of watching so many people in love around you… It grated. And you knew exactly why. Azriel’s words, his reasoning for changing while dating Selene—how everyone was falling in love, moving on—echoed in your mind, and you hated how tightly they clung to you.

They’d made you feel like something was wrong with you for not actively seeking out love. For being content with being single. Alone.

You glanced at Adrin.

“Adrin,” you said, clearing your throat. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“There’s an event—Rhysand is hosting. It’s an appreciation for those who help him. I was wondering if you’d want to come with me. Considering everything you’ve done to help Madja… and us.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his expression before he smiled. “Really?”

You nodded, waiting and watching him as he thought through his answer.

“The company of a friend is always nice for events,” he said finally.

Your heart stilled at his use of the word "friend.” It felt reassuring. Safe. A reminder that he truly didn’t hold any expectations, just as he’d said only a few minutes prior.

“Yes,” you replied softly, a small smile curling your lips. “It always is.”

“I’d be honored to go. Thank you for the invite, Y/n. I’ve never been to big events like that.”

You laughed lightly. “If you keep letting me smoke your mirthroot, you can come to every event with me forever.”

He grinned, shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead in an effortlessly charming way. “Is that what I’ve become now? A drug dealer and a friend in one?”

“Yes,” you teased. “A breath of fresh air, really.”

You both fell into another comfortable pause, settling into the easy rhythm of each other’s presence. You wondered what was going on inside Adrin’s mind. His eyes had grown distant, like he was retreating into his thoughts. He had mentioned having a long day too. You hoped he was feeling better now, just as you were, that perhaps your company had offered him what his had offered you—a reprieve.

Adrin reminded you of someone else in your life. Someone with teal eyes and the same easy, friendly humor. You smiled at the fleeting thought that crossed your mind, something quick and bright, like a shooting star.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel’s meeting with Rhysand had taken longer than expected, forcing both males to venture to the Hewn City itself. By the time he returned home, the city of Velaris was already asleep.

Azriel felt conflicted as he passed by your door, his shadows lingering just long enough to confirm that you were safe and asleep in bed. He was relieved, glad that you were finally getting the rest you needed, but a deep, quiet disappointment gnawed at him.

He was planning to catch you one last time today—to talk, even for a moment. To tell you about the meeting with Rhys and how brilliant your plans were, how he was praising them despite you not being there to bask in the compliments. He knew you loved the feedback, knew you loved hearing how your hard work paid off. It always did.

But Azriel knew, even then, the conversation would feel off.

Things had felt off since the night he apologized—and even his shadows had confirmed it wasn’t just in his mind. That he wasn’t simply overthinking.

You’d said you weren’t mad anymore, that you two were okay. But Azriel still felt, still knew, that something was wrong.

Things weren’t normal. They weren’t hostile, and Azriel was beyond thankful for that, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. You seemed to be hesitating around him. It gutted him to think that he had made you wary, made you overthink how you acted around him. He’d stripped himself of his own comfort.

Azriel stepped into his room slowly, feeling the weight of the day begin to catch up with him the moment he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the frame as he let the quiet settle around him.

The familiar emptiness of the room greeted him. His dresser was bare, the surface wiped clean once again. Mor had, strangely excitedly, offered to clear it out for him when she first learned about Selene’s betrayal. Despite the anger simmering inside him, Azriel had made her promise not to take any drastic measures—he didn’t want her to engage with Selene at all. Mor had reluctantly agreed.

Azriel took a few more steps into the room, and with each movement, the exhaustion that had been nagging him all day seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders—his body was sore, his mind buzzing with a thousand half-thoughts.

His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands moving to rub his face, fingers dragging through the mess of his hair.

Azriel hadn’t placed all the items Selene moved, the minimal decorations he owned, back where they belonged yet. But he opened his bedside table and grabbed the one thing he was thinking about—the strange clay creation of him you’d made.

His mind wandered to the night he cleaned your wounds and apologized.

He’d traced the change back to that moment.

Azriel didn’t know why he felt disappointed, why he had expected something different from that interaction. He’d apologized, finally, as he’d intended to—though too late, he told himself, because you’d gotten hurt. But you had accepted it, had looked at him with that same softness he’d come to admire, and accepted it. You’d cracked a joke. You both laughed. It had felt simple again, natural, like Azriel had finally found his way back to himself. But something in him sank when he’d said that one line—when he said he didn’t know why he’d entertained the idea that you’d ever have feelings for him.

He wasn’t sure why, but it tasted so wrong—sour, like something rotten.

He let himself sink further into his thoughts.

Azriel had never seen himself as lovable. At least, not in the way everyone else was.

From the moment he was thrown into that dungeon as a boy, he’d believed he deserved every punishment, every scar, every moment of suffering. The people who should have loved him—the people who were supposed to care—had only taught him he was a burden, something broken and unwanted.

When he left that darkness behind, it followed him, reshaping him into something sharp and unrelenting. A weapon. He became what was needed, what a High Lord required, committing acts that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He wore those deeds like armor, each one another layer of the male he thought he had to be.

Love, he assumed, had to be just as hard. How could it not be? He was unworthy of the softness others found so easily. While Rhysand, Cassian, Amren, and Mor managed to find it, to hold onto it despite their own sins, Azriel had only ever known heartbreak.

So he told himself that love—for him—would never be simple. It would require blood, pain, sacrifice, and suffering. He thought love needed to ache in his chest, leaving him hollow and desperate, clawing for scraps of something he couldn’t quite hold. That it had to be fought for with every ounce of strength he had. And maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

Something had changed, though, regarding how he thought about love.

His fingers brushed the rough edges of the clay figure in his palm. It was uneven and messy, painted in smudges that bled into each other. The proportions were laughably off—the wings crooked, the body too long—but it fit perfectly in his hand nonetheless.

He held it carefully, turning it over as his chest tightened. You’d made this for him, drunk off your ass and laughing with the others, your hands coated in clay. You’d sculpted a miniature version of him without a second thought.

And though it wasn’t a gift, though you hadn’t even mentioned it after that night, Azriel kept it. Kept it somewhere safe, somewhere he could easily grab it and remind himself that if someone as kind as you could love him, care for him the way you did, then he must not be as awful as his mind often tried to convince him he was.

You’d seen the worst of him—all the jagged edges and dark, unspoken parts. He was the softest with you, a side of himself he never showed anyone else, but somehow also the worst. You’d heard the things he’d done, seen him caked in blood that wasn’t his, and still, you had sculpted him. Still, you thought of him when you were having fun.

Azriel had begun to realize that, in reality, love seemed to be… patient. Gentle.

The love his family had found was hard at times, yes, and needed to be fought for, like everything important. But it was kind. Natural.

And so Azriel thought long and hard, the clay figure resting warm in his hand, his shadows curling and twisting softly around him. They whispered your name, over and over, like a quiet, delicate prayer.

And that was when everything clicked into place.

That deep longing he felt to see you, that comfort he found in your presence, the ability to be open, bare, seen, and unafraid—

That feeling was love.

He was in love with you.

And he suddenly couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: hey yall.... how we feeling?????

so like im invested. and also i kinda love Adrin like yesss gimme a stoner healer man who respects a persons boundaries and doesnt crush on the idea of them before knowing them!!!

and yesss for azriel being in love!!! hes gonna be struggling with this new realization, fighting the Voices in the corner of his room and being jealous over things he doesn’t need to be jealous over. mmmmmm delicious

i do believe….there may only be one (1) part left 🫢

as always— thank you for reading 🫶🏻

and don’t forget your daily clicks for palestine !

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cherry-coloureddfunk · 5 months ago

Text

IMAGINE BEING LOVED BY ME, bfd!joel miller

summary, no matter what you'd always end up in the bed of your boyfriend's father

warnings, p in v, cheating (duh not cool but when joel miller tempts u it is!), daddy kink if you squint, a teensy bit of fingering, fat age gap between joel and reader, keeping up with the canon that joel's son is named jack but hes a dick in this sorry, not proof read

wc, 2k

note, joel miller is the type of fine that physically pains me to think about... i was thinking about making this a series because i love these two so much but we'll see :)

Joel Miller hated nights.

He hated how he could never seem to fall asleep no matter how hard he tried. He hated the sliver of moonlight that seeped in through the blinds of his bedroom, almost taunting him with the agonizingly slow routine of the moon when all he wanted was for the sun to make its return. He hated the silence too– though it wasn’t the silence he appreciated during slow mundane mornings; it was the kind that was almost suffocating forcing him to confront every thought he tried burying during the day.

The blur of all the restless nights he’d spent alone bled into one another as he found your warmth replacing the cool, bare sheets of his king.

He was fucked up, and he knew that.

No matter which angle he approached it with, he knew. There wasn't any justification for his actions— not that he ever tried. As someone who gave and gave time after time again you’d think he would be able to cut himself some slack.

Not when it came to the privilege of a pretty thing like you waiting to sneak in between his sheets– with the moon only as witness after his son would fall asleep.

“Missed ya.” Is all he says as he nuzzles his face into the dip of your neck. He breathes every ounce of you in, and when he exhales, you giggle softly at the light air that tickles your skin. His hand that had been resting in between your thighs drifts upward to slip under your shirt. His hands grazed your nipple lightly, and he stifled a groan.

“I have to close the door.” You remind him, though it comes out as a whisper when you feel him start to grope your breasts.

He shakes his head, “Don’t.” He guides your steps until your back hits his bed. His mouth ghosts over your neck, peppering feather-light kisses on your skin.

“Joel, what if he hears?” You whisper so quietly you aren’t even sure you’d said it aloud– but you must’ve since he answers.

“Guess you’ll just hafta be quiet then.” His closed-mouth kisses turn into open-mouthed ones, conscious enough not to leave any visible marks, just saliva in their wake. He places a wet kiss on your Adam's apple, trailing upwards to the underside of your jaw until he gets to your lips. One of his hands moves the hair out of your eyes so you can see him as he places his lips against yours. It’s a silent admission, and he doesn’t have to say anything for you to understand. This is how it’s supposed to be. This. You, here. With me.

His chapped lips rub against your own; a sloppy semblance of a dance. Opening up a bit, you let him slot his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of faint mint toothpaste as he spreads the artificial flavor in your mouth. Your hand twines in his curly hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer to yourself. No matter how close he’d get, it would never be enough. You’d always want more.

He presses himself into you, feeling his hardened length through his boxers. He moves against you slowly, his eyes open, watching every scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow, and the ‘O’ shape you make with your mouth. You moan into him. The friction of his movements against your clit causes you to move your face to the side and voice your pleasure. His hand darts to cover your mouth, not giving up his agonizing ruts against your center.

“Gotta be quiet, babygirl.” He reminds you with a tone that’s in between gentle and stern. You nod, and his hand moves from your mouth, drifting between your bodies. He slips past your panties, using his index finger to drag past your folds and collect your slick. His finger glistens under the moonlight that slips in past the window blinds. He holds it out in front of himself, eyes trained on yours as he brings it to his mouth. He let out a shameless groan against his finger, working his tongue to ensure none had gone to waste, “You have no idea how sweet this pussy is, y’wanna taste, baby?”

You stare at him with big eyes and without a second thought you nodded, unable to speak even if you wanted to. The corners of his mouth tugged into a crooked smile. He brought the finger that had previously been in his mouth to your lips. The pad of his finger traced your bottom lip, feeling the groves that made up the skin there. You opened up a bit, trying your best to capture his finger in your mouth. Your efforts fell short as he dragged his finger to catch the inside of your bottom lip. He was doing this on purpose. You felt incredibly hot– his heavy breathing on your skin seemed to be the only thing to cool you down. Finally, he leaned in, catching his lips with yours once more. He shoved his tongue in slowly, causing you to moan at the taste of yourself in his mouth.

“Perfect.” He pulled away whispering against your lips, like it was a secret just between the two of you, the way you melted in his arms made his head rush, “Every inch.”

You sighed, letting your head rest on his neck as you tried to catch your breath, “M’sorry I didn't come yesterday, he stayed up all night playing with his friends but I swear I thought about you every–”

“Don’t you ever be sorry about somethin’ like that. S’not your fault baby.” He stops you by bringing his large hand up from between your bodies to cup the side of your face, it’s almost comical how it almost covers the entire surface, “Just want some attention, hm? My sweet girl always thinkin’ of me.”

A part of him worried about the nights you never showed up but he would never tell you that. You weren't his and you weren't able to sneak off as much as he wanted you to. The nights you were a no show always left Joel with that nagging voice in the back of his head that probed at him taunting, you didn’t want this anymore. Of course he’d respect your decision if it ever came down to that. He was older than you, lived more than enough of his life, and a wife that up and left as soon as she’d brought their son into this world to show for it.

You made it easy to forget all of that, and if it were up to him you’d both stay in his bed for as long as you’d have him.

His lips brushed the top of your head, “You’re here with me now s’all that matters.”

You lifted your head up to see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he held you tight like this was just some sick dream and he was a perverted old man for lusting over his own son’s girlfriend. But he wasn’t because you were real and you were here and fuck you were perfect.

Joel stood up, his hands finding your ankles and you let out a soft giggle as he pulled you toward him allowing your legs to dangle off the side of his king. He smiled softly standing in between your thighs, allowing his hand to run up and down the inside of them.

“Joel.” You sigh, reaching out for him always hating any purposeful distance between the both of you. You wanted all of him, “Can you kiss me?”

He caves like he always does for you. Bending down one hand on the inside of your thigh as the other travels up to rest his palm against your face as he leans in for another kiss. He kisses with fervor it’s slow as he takes his time with his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth, gently nibbling down on your bottom lip when he pulls away, “Wanna make you cum for me babygirl.”

“Y’gonna let me do that for you?” He asks breathlessly, hand slipping past your pajama shorts and over your panties.

You nod your eyes wide, the contact causing you to buck into his hand.

“Needy little thing… S’what you are huh?” He ran his fingers over your wetness and let out a groan at the feeling of your warmth before pulling his hand back entirely, “Tell me what y’want sweet girl.”

“Want you inside me Joel.” You didn’t care how desperate you sounded. When it came to Joel Miller you had zero shame, “Wanna feel you here.”

His eyes darkened, following the hand that pressed just above your lower stomach. He replaced yours with his own, pressing down gently with a groan. His other hand pulled down your pajama shorts along with your panties down just enough so he could see your core.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, “S’what my sweet girl wants?’

You nodded at his words, eyes focused on his face alone. You hadn’t even registered that he had pulled his boxers down; the hand that had previously been inside of you along with your juices was now around his cock. He lazily stroked it peering down at you with a crooked smile.

“Gonna fuck you baby– Gonna– Fuck– Gonna feel me so deep.” He gripped his length as he rested the tip at your entrance, gently running the tip along your opening, collecting the juices there, “S’that what you need? T’feel daddy deep inside you?”

You nodded.

“Tell me.” His tone took on a desperate one, “Tell me you need it baby.”

“Always need you Daddy– Need it inside me. Wanna feel it deep inside.” You whined at the feeling of him rubbing his tip against your entrance knowing he could easily slip inside if he wanted to.

Joel pushed himself inside, as moans like sighs of relief sounded from both of your chests. He stilled for a moment enjoying how perfect this moment was. Your chest heaving heavily as you peered at him with glazed eyes. Fucking ethereal.

He wanted you to feel it– the feeling of being so full in more ways than one. How perfectly he fits inside you– the shape and every ridge of his cock. You were made for it– made for him.

His hands gripped your thighs lifting them so he’d be able to reach you at a perfect angle and began to pound into you at harsh speed. His thrusts were deep as they shook your pliant body on the bed, yet again another reminder of the differences between your boyfriend and his father. You’d never really felt loved when you’d have sex with Jack– It was more or less an experience for him than you. He just wanted to empty himself inside of you, never really wanting to make sure you enjoyed yourself. After finding yourself in Joel’s bed one rainy evening, it only made sense that his giving nature bled over into the bedroom. By the time the storm cleared, you knew this wouldn’t be a one time occurrence.

“He doesn’t deserve you babygirl.” He groaned against your neck, he’d been so lost in the feeling of you around him he wasn’t able to stop himself from leaving marks on your body. He sucked into your skin, kissing and licking the pain away. The sound of his skin smacking against yours as he fucked into you with such vigor made you disregard it completely, “Want everyone to know you n’this sweet pussy belong to me.”

Everything he did always made your head spin. The combination of the sweet words and his musky scent that was just so inherently Joel made you light headed. Him saying you belong to him was just confirming words you felt linger in the air between you when this whole ordeal started.

“Tell me.” He moaned, trying to delay the steady approach of his orgasm. He didn’t want this to end, “I need it.” He urged you, and you looked down to see him thrusting in and out of you. You moaned at the sight of your hole taking all of him inside of you. Joel caught you by surprise when he leaned down to capture your lips, biting on your bottom lip as he continued to fuck into you with the same harsh pace he’d set previously.

You hadn’t even noticed that you’d begun to cry until his large hand wiped the tears from your eyes. Your cheeks were red and your eyes were glossy. He loved that he was the one making you feel this way– absolutely wrecked.

His hand went to your clit, rubbing it as he fucked into you with fervor, “Tell me you’re mine.”

You were close and he could tell.

“Please” He begged, the desperation in his voice made you clench around him, “Need to hear you say it sweet girl.”

You didn’t know what to do. His hand came to wipe the tears from your eyes, fucking you harder, making sure you felt him and every roll of his hips. Your legs wrapped around him in an effort to get him impossibly closer to you than he was already. This new angle allowed him to get even deeper inside of you. Overwhelmed with pleasure, you looked into his eyes though it had been said many times over before for the first time you said, “I’m yours Joel.”

“And m’yours baby.” He whined into your mouth, “All yours– Fuck– No one elses’ you own me.”

It seemed like your tears came out tenfold at the statement, the overwhelming sense of pleasure– of love and care. His hips started to stutter but he tried to push through, and you let out a strangled cry as the feeling in your stomach intensified at the realization;

You owned Joel Miller.

“I own you.” You repeated back in a whine-confirmation, your voice still unsure if you’d even heard him right.

“M’ all yours sweet girl never been anyone else’s.” Joel responded with a moan. It was foreign to the both of you, a sense of vulnerability you’d experienced with anyone before and it’d obviously been far too long since Joel had let someone in the way he let you.

But he was willing for you.

“Fuck– Im– m’gonna cum Joel.”

Your orgasm wracked through your body before you could get another word out. You cried into his shoulder, nails digging harshly into his back as you garbled unintelligible words.

The look on your face was enough to send him over the edge, giving one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt as he peered down to see where your two bodies met. The only thing he was able to make out was the curly hair at the base of his cock as he emptied himself inside of you with a strangled groan. His eyes quickly found yours to communicate you both already knew;

I know, I felt it too.

After he’d cleaned you up he peppered your face in soft kisses, wrapping his arms around you. He laid there with you, enjoying the feeling of you snuggled warmly against his chest.

You looked at him like you always did. The aquiline shape of his nose and grey whiskers that made up his facial hair.

He was beautiful in a way that felt beyond your grasp, as if the very essence of it existed in a language you’d never learn to speak.

Then he softly looked down at your face that rested on his bare chest, his hand found yours, a quiet plea in his touch.

‘Don’t sleep with him,’ he whispered, his voice steady but filled with something deeper, something unspoken, “Stay– stay with me tonight.”

After a long pause, you simply nodded.

“Okay."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou smut #tlou #tlou fic #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller masterlist #boyfriendsdad!joel

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daylighted · 5 months ago

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dean winchester x angel!reader — innocence is a virtue.

or, how on earth is he supposed to corrupt you? you? or, dean's newest passenger princess is killing him slowly and violently.

cw, fluff but with sexual elements. mostly fluffy though. reckless driving DO NOTTT do this!! professionals only!! dirty minded!dean. honestly just horny!dean really. innuendos galore.

word count : 2.9k

notes, guys can i be so honest i have not even gotten to the seasons where angels come into spn. this is all based on the lil bits n pieces i know of the future stuff ok. ik i'm a fraud but BE GENTLE IF IT'S OOC OR ANYTHING < /3

req. by anon & in honor of kas's dean & angel fics bc i LOVEEE them

★ ˚⋆

dean, honestly, had never met someone quite like you. when he'd told cas in passing that he was about the most naive, innocent thing he'd ever met, all he did was give him one of those looks he reserved only for dean. he thought, then, that it was just because he was being a bit of a shithead, and cas was telling him without telling him so.

very quickly, he found out how wrong he was about both of his assessments.

the day you came down to earth and graced everyone, literally, with your presence, dean was smitten. never before had he met someone so sweet. so honestly pure. until you, he thought that purity was nothing but an ideology based on impossible feats. a pipe dream and a half for the faithful. no, the reality was that he just hadn't met you yet.

sam was pouring himself into research, too focused to realize that dean was all but whittling away in his starvation, so when he offered to go grab some cheap shit from the diner a few minutes from the motel, all he got in response was a mumble of agreement and a wave of his hand from him.

but you, who'd been sitting on the motel bed, stiff as if you had something stuck up your ass holding you in place, turned to him and asked to come with. that struck dean off kilter immediately, because he hadn't been asked for anything in a long ass while. sam just usually assumed he'd be writing shotgun wherever they went. john — no, he'd never ask his son anything, usually buried that sentiment in harsh demands and orders. cas asked him lots of questions, but permission was not often one of them.

and when he looked at you, read over your features and saw the genuineness in your wide, expectant eyes... god, how could he say no?

so you sat there in the passenger seat. dean had to buckle you in with a joke that flew right over your head — another joke you would not get, even though he was fucking killing it with them right now — about not wanting to send you flying if they got into a wreck.

you proceeded to unbuckle and buckle and unbuckle again a few times, seemingly fascinated with the click of the mechanism. dean wanted to be annoyed. genuinely. if sam had started pulling this shit, dean would have pulled over and drove a few feet ahead as a warning to cut it the fuck out.

but with you, it was adorable in its own right. god, it was! somehow it surprised you, every time it clicked, even if you'd already done it eight times. like, how did anyone expect him to get pissy at you when you were doing those sharp, surprised gasps every few seconds? a few more times and he'd be pulling over to give you something to gasp at, he thought idly.

and then winced, scrunching up his face, when he realized how deep in the gutter his head was. no, he wouldn't touch you. wouldn't even try to plant that idea in your pretty little head.

dean didn't want to corrupt you. if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he wanted to keep that pretty little head as clear as his nose was, alright? he wasn't going to be the one to break you into what this world was, its hardships and its cruelties — and its more deviant pleasures.

but fuck, you made it so hard to keep his head straight.

you did this thing, he realized too, on that silent, clicky drive, where you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth when you were in deep thought. thought about what, fuck if he knew, because if you said something to him in the moments that he watched you do it, he'd never know. he was watching your mouth but not to listen.

dean was about to start reprimanding himself in his head, for what must have been the third time already, when you said something, nearly making him slam on the brakes in his surprise.

"how are you doing this?" you asked, as if that wasn't the vaguest question he'd heard in his entire life.

dean blinked a couple of times as he waited for elaboration that never came. he switched hands on the steering wheel, resting his right loosely over the gearstick. "doing..." he trailed off, shaking his head slowly in a gesture to make you keep talking, "what, exactly?"

you did not catch the hint, and he was probably a fool for expecting you to. it took a few more seconds of you staring very intently at his thighs for you to speak up, and by then, he was fucking squirming in his leather seat, trying to not let it get to either of his heads that you were so blatantly staring at his dick.

"this," you answered, twinges of frustration evident in your tone. he couldn't blame you. he was getting frustrated in this car ride, too. "making it move."

christ. he was going to hell. he was going to hell again, this time because of his own drifting thoughts.

"you're gonna have to be a little more clear, dove," he managed through his teeth, voice strained, "'cause i don't think we are on the same train of thought right now."

another blink, and another few seconds pass. your hand shot up in his direction and he flinched, honestly flinched, convinced from the filthy thoughts circling in his head that you were about to grab him by the—

"this," you repeated, and he almost bristled at the attitude, almost told you off about virtues or whatever, when he finally got it. your arm stuck out in gesture to his legs, which pushed the gas pedal and rested against the doorframe, as he drove.

dean closed his eyes briefly, metaphorically swapping his metaphorical wrist for his headspace. he was not, was not, the person that should be introducing you to this world.

dean shifted again, bringing his left leg closer to the leather seat as he readjusted into more of a comfortable position. he hadn't even realized how tense he'd gotten on this short car ride until now. he was as straight backed as you were, and breathing just as slow. "driving?" he asked anyways, like an idiot.

"driving..." you repeated, like the word was as fascinating to you as the process was. "how?"

the diner sign was right there. it was teal and glowed, retro in style, announcing benny's bistro as open.

he drove past it.

dean knew that you did not sign up for a driver's ed course with him with your question, knew even more that he was risking his baby for a pathetic attempt at flirting with someone who did not even know the definition of the word, but to hell with it. you'd asked to come along with him, and therefore placed yourself in his hands for his guidance. the least he could do was make some sort of effort, couldn't he?

"c'mere," he grumbled once he'd pulled baby off into an unassuming back road, parking it dead in the center. you'd need all the open space. he patted his spread thighs a couple of times.

your stupidly pretty pink lips sucked into your stupidly straight teeth. fuck. "why?"

"just—" he cut himself off when he realized he was about to get snippy. you didn't deserve snippy. he was just hungry and horny and you were pretty and he was...

he was pathetic. looking for reasons to get you into his lap. he'd already been to hell, what are they gonna do, drag him back by his ear?

"just do it," dean finished on a sigh, his hand dropping to the front of his leather seat, grabbing the handle and shoving the seat back as far as it could go. there you were, staring at his dick again, making him feel hotter and more bothered.

he felt his heart stop solidly in his chest when you started to climb over the middle console, so oblivious to the faceful of ass he was getting. dean was practically praying to god at that point. he knew he'd been a shit until then, and definitely a sinner by every means, but if he could grant him a little fucking strength—

you plopped your happy little ass right between his muscular, jean-clad thighs. you were warm, was his first thought. he was screwed, was his second.

"what now?" you asked him, that innocent lilt to your voice as you did, and he felt like a dirty little freak for wanting to bend you over the steering wheel moments before ( who was he kidding? for still wanting to bend you over the steering wheel ).

dean took both of your hands and placed them on the steering wheel. once he'd closed your fingers around the wheel, he dropped his hands to your thighs.

"this one," he patted the left one, and nearly went molten behind you, when you lifted that thigh and placed it on his palm. "nuh uh," he tried to lightly correct, "this one you don't use. jus' keep it out of the way." dean's voice was strained in his ears, in his throat.

you slipped your thigh out of his grasp, pressing it up against the inner of his own thigh, your foot tucked around his ankle. you were so trusting and compliant. he was so, so screwed, and so, so awful for thinking about breaking that sweet naivety.

"this one," he said, patting your right thigh, and when you didn't move it this time, he smiled, just a little, to himself. "you use to make it move."

the flush on your cheeks that followed his tease was so damn pretty it took his breath away.

he lifted his leg, not able to reach the pedals with you sat between them and his seat all the way back. he pointed his boot at the left pedal, knowing you were watching each of his movements intently. "that's the stop pedal. push it down to stop." he repeated the process he'd done with your legs, boot pointing at the right pedal as he explained it. "that's the ignition."

pause.

"that's the go," he corrected, sparing you any momentary confusion and any more questions, he hoped. dean could not keep sitting here idle with you between his legs. "makes the car drive. harder you push, faster it goes."

hell, hell, hell. he wasn't going to hell, because he was already in it, strung up and burning.

"i'll handle the gears," he added quickly, when he caught your head turning downward to the shift stick. "don't wanna overwhelm that pretty little head of yours, dove, with too much at once."

dean rested his right hand on the gear stick, his left hand gripping the handle on the driver's door for dear life. he needed the support; you were driving him up a wall with his claws out, and you were about to be driving him. driving his baby. it took a lot of coaxing from sam for dean to let sam behind the wheel. all you did was ask how do you make it move? and he was letting you drive.

you. who did not even know what a car was. who was learning how to drive literally that moment.

god help him. he'd prayed more in this fifteen minute drive than he had in years.

you pressed down on the gas pedal, and the car revved all pretty and loud. dean watched with bated breath as the response to your efforts registered in your head, the way your eyes lit up in that curious glimmer, the fucking teeth biting on your lip.

once you let up, he pushed on the gear stick's release, and tugged it down from park to drive. the car slowly began to move down the dirt path.

you slammed the brakes so hard that his head knocked into the back of your shoulders. "fuck, dove, gentle."

and you were, when you shifted your foot over to the gas pedal again. you pushed it down on it tentatively, the car starting to glide down the dirt road, the sound of pebbles grinding beneath the tires.

"better," he mumbled in your ear, leant forward to keep his eyes on the windshield. it's not that he didn't trust you, he just... yeah, he didn't trust you. "just like that, dove."

the praise, though, goes in one ear and out the other, because the gentle ease of baby's tires along the road is interrupted by you slamming the gas. the tires squeal. clouds of dirt and dust puff out from behind the car as it takes off.

dean's heart went from in his ass to in his throat in a manner of a second. "whoa, whoa, whoa!" he exclaimed, a nervous laughter bubbling out of his throat. "slower, slower, will ya? crashin' in the middle of nowhere is the last—"

you hit the brakes again, still hard but less this time. just enough to send his head knocking into your shoulder again as the car slowed.

slowed, but still headed toward the ditch. "right, see your hands?" he asked, chin nuzzling into the plush spot between your neck and your shoulder so he could see better. "twist 'em. nice n' gentle for me, to your left, yeah, good girl. makes the whole car move, yeah? jus' keep it on the dirt, not off "

you follow his instructions, and dean feels a swell of pride at this. maybe he should have gone into driver's ed or some shit. he was a good ass teacher.

"like this?" you asked, drawing him out of his self glazing. your voice, soft and hesitant, breathless with your excitement, has his chest heaving.

"yeah, dove, jus' like that," he rasped, his left hand moving from the doorframe to rest where your thigh met your hips. the car kept its slow pace down the long dirt road, and for the first time since you'd gotten your hands on the wheel, his heart doesn't feel like it's pounding in his throat. "no, no, don't stop. keep goin', you're doing so good for me."

his phone starts to buzz in his pocket, and like that, his self indulgent driver's ed lesson comes to a screeching halt. "you jus' keep on going like this, alright?" he asked you, patting your hip with his hand before he reluctantly let go.

he definitely answered the phone with more attitude than necessary. couldn't help it. he was having a great time. "what, sam?"

"everything alright?" sam asked, and then dean felt like a prickhead for giving him shit at all. "s'been thirty minutes."

dean sighed, his eyes lifting again to look out the front windshield. a stop sign was quickly approaching, and you didn't even need his guidance for that. you were slowing to a stop all on your own. he was so fucking proud, it was sick. "all good. long line at the burger place."

it was dead empty, four miles back.

"we'll be back in a few, alright? chew on one of your books or somethin' while you wait, make 'em useful."

"dean—"

he hung up before he could hear sam's sighed response.

his hand fell to your waist again, squeezing lightly to stop you from lifting your foot off of the brake just yet. "play time's over. calvary's callin' us back."

dean pushed the gear stick into park again before he moved both of his hands to your hips, helping guide you back into the passenger seat.

he adjusted the seat again, his hands finding their typical place on the wheel. he did a very illegal u-turn at the four-way intersection and headed back down the road that you'd driven him down.

"have fun?" he asked after a beat, eyes flicking over to see you. you looked so pretty in the orange glow of the sunset, your face lit up in deep gold.

you turned to meet his eyes, and he had to look away quickly, the bright glimmer of adrenaline in them knocking all the wind out of him. "yes."

"good." dean meant it. there were so few things he'd risk everything for, but that toothy smile of yours jumped to the top of that list.

"dean?" your voice rung out again, earning him another glance your way in acknowledgement. "what part of the car was in my back the whole time?"

dean faltered, eyes blinking in a bout of surprise and lips parting, searching for a response he did not have. his eyes dropped down to his lap for a second, dread and embarrassment pooling like ice water in his stomach at what he hoped wasn't— yeah. yeah, it was.

"i dunno, dove," he mumbled through his teeth, staring straight ahead, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, doing basically anything to not meet that curious look of yours. especially knowing you'd have your lip in your teeth all over again. "might have t'take it to the shop, while we're in town... get it checked out or somethin'..."

he was so damn screwed.

tags, @figthoughts @jasvtsc @titsout4nicholas @deanswidow @deansbite

#dahlia's ☆ journal #angel!reader #dean winchester x angel!reader #jensen ackles #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester one shot #spn #supernatural #supernatural one shot #spn one shot

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nightingale-prompts · 14 days ago

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Worship Me- DCxDP prompt

Yes, it's slightly horny. Sue me!

Was there anyone in this family that didn't attract crazy? Tim would like to say that it was some more than others but the track record is horrendous for each of them.

Don't ask him how he got here. It was a blur. Mission. Altar. Cursed Mirror.

But all that doesn't matter anymore because currently in what could only be described as an obsidian palace.

The palace floats in the void like a jagged crown. Its structure defies logic—spires twist and spiral in impossible geometries, as though grown rather than built. Every surface is carved from seamless black obsidian that drinks in the light of distant stars, causing the palace to shimmer with eerie inner reflections, like shadows trapped beneath glass.

The entrance is a colossal gate shaped like an open eye, rimmed with glowing runes that pulse with alien intent. Inside, the vast halls echo with silence too deep to be natural. The floors gleam with a mirror-sheen, reflecting not just one's image, but fragments of memories, glimpses of alternate selves, or ghostly figures passing just out of reach.

Chambers are suspended in open vacuum, tethered by bridges of crystalline light or magnetic arcs. Gravity bends strangely; a single step can carry you across entire rooms or into hidden dimensions nested within the architecture.

Tim had memorized every detail of this place in the days since he arrived. Most of the time he was allowed to go about his day staying and learning about this place. He wasn't imprisoned, he had to wait for the portal to open again in a few weeks. But Tim had caught the interest of the ruler of the palace.

Now Tim sat on the edge of the floating bed. It's heaped with a sea of plush pillows in shades of midnight blue, silver, and deep violet, each embroidered with celestial patterns.

How he got to this point—he may have...had a few conversations with who he assumed was the prince. The person who he thought was the king was actually his guardian. Tim just...flirted a little to get a bit of information on this place. Danny—the prince—had been more than receptive.

It might have gone too far but here we are.

Now he was in the bedroom of who he still assumed was the crown prince with said prince currently on his lap with his lips on Tim's neck. Tim is unable to move because he believes that if they get caught Tim might end up beheaded for putting his Richard where it does not belong. Hell, they probably already know with the all-seeing eyes everywhere and the fact that the beings in this dimension phase through walls so using the door was just a polite formality.

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your thoughts." Danny growled nipping at Tim's neck between kisses.

"Then you can te—ll, haa. Fuck! Your hand. Too fast." Tim gasped.

Danny pulled away as he grabbed Tim by the chin and made him look into his eyes. Those hypnotizing green eyes.

"Do you want this?" Danny asked his eyes narrowed.

"...Yes," Tim couldn't lie.

"What do you want?" Danny smiled his sharp elongated incisors showing.

Tim remained silent his hand pressed against the small of the princes back.

"Good, you don't have to say a word. Focus on me. Think of me. Nothing else." His hand wrapped around Tim's throat. "Worship me as your new god."

Prince—king—these words where actually meaningless titles for Danny. He was not these petty and lowly things. He was a god and he craved worship. Even if it came in the form of a single human devoted to him. How incredibly lucky that a suitable human came here. Clockwork says it was best to let the human go back to his dimension and hopefully share his experience so that others will worship Danny. He had no interest in letting his new priest go so easily, not without a parting gift.

"I wonder how it must feel to bed your new master."

#lock me up #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #dp x dc prompt #tim drake #deadtired #brain dead

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woozivrsefactry · 6 months ago

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l.sm — your own sweet sex-god

pairing : bsf!lee seokmin x reader synopsis : you did not expect to witness your otherwise seokmin's heavenly body tonight. you also didn't think you'd end up in his bed. tho, you're not complaining about it. w.c. : 2.1 k tw : oral (m rec), dirty talking, mentions of breakup, mentions of dk's hookup, very explicit description of dk's body (yes its a warning), subby seokmin, cum swallowing

The breakup didn’t hurt as much as it bruised your pride. You’d seen it coming from a mile away; in truth, you'd expected to be the one to call it off. But here you were, newly single, dumped, and, oddly, more aggravated than heartbroken. Frustration simmered under your skin, and in that moment, all you wanted was to vent to Seokmin, your best friend, the one person who could make everything right with his warm smile and endless patience. So, with little thought, you found yourself heading to his place unannounced.

When Seokmin answered the door, though, all thoughts of your ex fell away in a heartbeat.

He was…different. Shirtless, firstly, his bare torso, shining with a thin layer of sweat in the dim light of the hallway, just open and out there for you to gawk at. Your eyes began at his broad shoulders, down his sharp collarbones, lingering over his chocolatey nipples decorating his pecs, the defined lines of his abs -- he'd been really working lately, and it was showing now -- and of his sharp v dissapearing inside the elastic of his loosely hung grey sweat. god, those grey sweats, that as you ogled further, made obvious of the line of his dick (and god, that was BIG), and hence, the obvious lack of his underwear. you stared a second longer before your eyes snapped back up to his eyes.

Seokmin’s eyes widened as he realized who was standing there, and his lips turned up in that familiar, disarming smile. “O-oh, uhm, hey… What brings you here?”

You tried to summon the words you’d rehearsed in your head, but suddenly they felt silly. The whole “I-just-got-dumped-and-I’m-annoyed” speech faded away as you took in the Seokmin in front of you—powerfully attractive, and clearly freshly sexed with how good he smelled right now. The disheveled girl you’d passed in the lobby made sense now, and somehow, that knowledge made you feel…jealous?

It surprised you how badly you wanted to know if she meant something to him.

He seemed oblivious to your racing thoughts and gestured for you to come in. “I’ll get you a drink. Come in, relax.”

Seokmin moved to his bedroom to grab a shirt, -- you'd lie if you said you didn't stare at his beautifully plump ass as he turned his back to you-- leaving you momentarily alone in the living room, your mind still reeling. It wasn’t the time or place to entertain the fantasies that started to swirl in your head—images of those strong hands on you, that laugh as he held you close, your fingers running along his jawline and his against your something else. But it was difficult not to feel the pull of attraction, now almost impossible to ignore.

He returned, looking a little more like the Seokmin you knew, wearing a simple pastel henley shirt. But every time your eyes flicked to his lips or the lingering sight of his toned body, the air between you felt charged with something new.

“Alright,” he said, handing you a warm cup of tea and giving you his full attention. “What happened?”

You tried to recount the breakup, but even to your ears, it sounded flat, a half-hearted retelling of events that didn’t truly matter anymore. Every time you glanced his way, your eyes kept lingering over his features, imagining his hands on your skin. You barely registered the comforting words he offered about how you “deserved so much better” and that your ex was clearly clueless to let you go.

Eventually, you found yourself retreating to the guest room—your room, as Seokmin always called it, since he kept it prepared just for you, cozy and warm. You tried to shake off the vivid daydreams filling your mind as you lied down on the bed, but it was no use. After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, your hands inside your pants, an attempt (and failing) to quell the ache that had only grown stronger with every new thought of Seokmin.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing seemed to ease the tension building inside you, not when every thought was filled with Seokmin’s face, his body, his touch. If only he was touching you with his own fingers.

Frustrated, you found yourself standing, almost as if on autopilot, and made your way to his bedroom. You hesitated for just a moment, but the need inside you pushed you forward. Seokmin glanced at you from his bed and before either of you knew, you were on top of him, your knees trapping his hips on either side, your hands pinning his, your faces close. he didn't stop you. you took that as sign to lean in closer and felt his breath hitch, his heart eating faster, eyes wide as your hair brushed against the side of his face. "y/n..."

“God, Seokmin,” you whispered, "whats wrong with me. why are you making me so damn wet..."

"I-i?" His question was so stupid. Of course him. Of course its him with that fucking sex-god body. His knee raised, thigh proding between your legs, making you whine.

"Yes, you. You are the one whos made me this wet, and now you need to take care of it."

Thats the only words seokmin needed before he flips you over on your back, getting on top of you. "Can I?"

the audacity to even ask that. You didnt bother an answer, just pulled him by the neck, capturing his lips with yours. He moaned in your mouth. you both kissed each other with such passion that made you wonder if Seokmin had thought of kissing you like this before. you two looked less like kissing and more like two snakes trying to bite into each other's mouth. when he pulled away, it was only to breathe, because you both did forget to breathe with how hot that kiss was.

You took that chance to flip him back. you began kissing down his neck, down his shoulders, making him moan and gasp and yelp everytime you bit too hard. you sucked on the would and licked it nastily, marking him yours with how dark the marks were gonna get. you pulled his shirt off and threw it aside, almost with anger, because how dare his shirts hide that god-bod from you for so long. you instantly bit his nipples, making seokmin gasp, fingers tightening in your hair. you licked over his nipple again, relishing in the sweat and metal-y taste.

you continued biting and licking and kissing and marking him, moving lower and lower till you reached the hem of his sweats. you looked up at him with half lidded eyes as you slid your tongue along his hardened length through the fabric of his sweats,watching his head throwing back with a gasp. "God, Seokmin, you're so damn slutty, still not wearing any underwear. You must wanna flaunt this to me, don't you?"

you gave a oen mouthed kiss over his crotch, wetting the fabric and making it even thinner.

"I-i, no, fuck. y/n, ngh, s-slow down." he was beyond forming coherent words as you sucked over his length from over his sweats, the taste of his precum almost immediately hitting your tongue. "Feel so good, aah-"

His words faded into a soft gasp as you pressed your lips over him again, just firm enough to make him shiver, his resolve unraveling with every slow, deliberate touch. Each press of your mouth felt electric, like a spark building between you both, until he was gripping the edge of the bed, breath catching in shallow bursts.

When you finally hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and began to pull them down, his anticipation was palpable. His length was hard and flushed, wet with your spit and his precum that leaked enough to make it look like he already came, and you felt a surge of confidence seeing how much he was affected by you. you took him whole in your mouth, going down on him till you could feel his tip hitting the back of your throat.

He groaned, his hands curling in the sheets, and you could feel every inch of his reaction, his muscles tensing under your touch. With every movement, every teasing glide, he became more and more undone, his breathing shallow and quick. you bobbed your head up and down, the obscene gurgling noise loud as you swallowed around him. He came soon, down your throat without any warning except the exceptionally loud and beautifully broken cry from his mouth. you coughed as you pulled out, grinning mischievously as you opened your mouth and showed him that you drank it all up.

Seokmin’s chest heaved, his eyes barely open as he lay there, still catching his breath. But you weren’t about to let him rest. Without a word, you moved over him, your fingers of one hand grazing his shoulders, holding him down as you settled in his lap, your other hand holding his dick up as you sat on it. His body was still sensitive, and the moment you pressed your hips down, a soft, helpless sound escaped him.

"Sensitive much, Minnie?” you murmured, leaning close, a hint of mischief in your tone. His cheeks flushed, but he couldn’t look away, his hands instinctively coming to your hips as he tried to steady himself, clearly caught off guard by your boldness.

But you weren’t giving him a moment to adjust. As you moved, he let out a moan, his hands gripping your waist a little tighter, unable to keep himself from reacting to every movement. His eyes were hazy, completely overwhelmed, and as you leaned down, your fingers found their way into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you.

“By the way,” you whispered, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Who was the girl in the elevator earlier? A girlfriend? Casual fling? A friend with benefits I don't know about?”

His eyes went wide, and you saw a flicker of nervousness there, breath hitching as he tried to answer. “N-no, it was a tinder match. We just… It was nothing serious, just…you know…” His voice trailed off, his cheeks turning pinker as he tried to find the words. "Some handsy stuff, that's all."

Your smirk grew, and you gave his hair another gentle tug, making him meet your gaze fully. “Nothing serious, huh?” You leaned down, your voice a whisper against his lips. “You're such a slut, baby, getting two girls in your bed in the same night, and still being so needy.”

That comment had him flustered, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red as he stammered out something incoherent, his hips betraying him as they jerked upward instinctively. "Y-you're the one fucking your best friend the first night after your b-breakup!" Seokmin attempted to fight back, but it was still useless, and it made you chuckle cruelly. It was clear he was lost to the moment, every word from you pulling him deeper under your spell, his reactions belying just how much he was enjoying the teasing.

You didn’t let up, watching as he tried to hold back his reactions, utterly captivated by you, his every breath quickening as you took full control of the moment. Each movement, each teasing word left him completely at your mercy, a sight you could get used to.

You leaned back, riding him faster, earning a stuttering long whimper from him. His fingers reached between your legs, touching your clit to bring you as close to orgasm as he was. His other hand slipping upwards, grabbing one of your boobs gently squeezing.

"Y-y/n! Nghh- I am cumming again." Seokmin said, eyes shut of embarrassment, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. You would tease his state more, if not for how close to cumming you were yourself. "I wanna cum with you."

Your hips rolled faster, seokmin's own hips jerking up to meet yours, impatient. With a shared guttereal moan you both came. You collapsed on his chest, your hips still rolling slowly, riding out the waves of pleasure.

You lazily looked up at Seokmin. Red swollen lips, sweaty blushed cheeks and droopy eyes staring back at you. Face fucked. As much as you loved your sweet, innocent-looking best friend Seokmin, you could do get used to this version of him. Maybe have something more with him.

#svt smut #svt #seventeen #svt imagines #svt x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen headcanons #svt headcanons #dk #dk headcanons #dk smut #dk x reader #seokmin smut #seokmin #lee seokmin #seokmin x reader #dokyeom #dokyeom x reader #dokyeom smut

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deadly-diminuendo · 1 month ago

Text

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

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Breathe.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’ party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days.

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you.

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ words you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips breaks apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

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Special Note: This will be a series on AO3 as well, plus all entries will be crossposted here on Tumblr!

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kitten4sannie · 10 months ago

Text

dolce and gabbana

pairing: san x guest! reader (fem)

genre: pure smut with a tiddlywink of plot

summary: san can’t seem to get you off his mind after sitting next to you during the latest D&G showcase, so he has no choice but to get you on his dick instead.

w.c: 3.3k

warnings: some alcohol use, subby until he’s not! san, dommy mommy who folds instantly when san asserts himself! reader, both reader and san mutually go after one another despite knowing one of them is MARRIED (hoes will be hoes what can i say <3), reader’s husband is a dick ofc, misogyny (from said husband), cheating, seduction, exhibitionism, mommy/daddy kink….. (i’m weak okay,,), teasing, mainly!! praise and pet names, one instance of false praise, [ the following happens inside a crowded room of ppl and possiblyy in front of reader’s husband: groping, fingering, kissing, dry humping, one neck bite, san cums untouched, ] ITS BIG BTW AND CURVED……, oral (giving/receiving), squirting, one singular pussy slap, san puts reader into a mating press on her husband’s side of the bed just for funsies, manhandling, size kink, breeding kink, creampies (sannie cums a lotttt)

a/n: as a pudding since day 1 i am in absolute shambles thanks for asking <3 and YES im very aware i posted yesterday but the fic demons cannot be silenced!!! and just fyi i’m sure san was very grateful and absolutely brimming with excitement to be at the show!! the way i wrote him here does not reflect his actual feelings towards anything,, its just a silly fic and i wrote what i wanted lol. also i wish i could tell you how many times “dolce and gabbana that’s on my titties~” played in my head while i typed this out 😭😭 (also i did not proofread this whatsoever so forgive me if there are errors) but anyways, i hope you enjoy :33

song recs: la romana by bad bunny, rover + peaches + nothing on me by kai, planet goddamn by mac miller

San knew eyes would be on him. Why wouldn’t they be? He was dressed to the nines, his hair slicked back to showcase his alluring, feline-like eyes, his sharp, angular features that could give someone a fatal cut if they looked for too long, and most importantly, he was all decked out in a sleek black custom-made top that perfectly adorned his broad shoulders and chest, one that even cinched securely around his impossibly tiny waist. Of course it did. It had been custom fit and made just for his body. Even the tailor had jokingly mentioned that Michelangelo himself must’ve sculpted him to perfection in the heavens before San was born, but San wasn’t laughing. He perfected his body through his own sheer willpower and determination alone, to be the best that he could be for his own self — and if people just so happened to drool over the results of his hard work, then that was simply a perk.

Holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the many camera flashes, he continued to make his way down the walkway, offering many of the starstruck guests a courteous, though charming smile, wondering if their wandering gazes were due to his breathtaking ensemble or what was sitting just below it. The thought tickled him. It continued to amuse him throughout the afternoon, taking picture after picture with eager guests and wealthy tycoons alike, quite pleased with himself when neither man nor woman could seem to control themselves around him, their eyes always drifting downwards to look San up and down like he were next up in an auction, their mouths pressed to their champagne flutes in an effort to quell the thirst they felt, their free hands lingering just a little too long on the small of his back when they bid farewell to him.

San relished the fact that these poor starving individuals could never get a taste of him, no matter how incredibly rich or influential they were. None of them would get a bite of the forbidden fruit without permission from God.

It was then that the show started, various eye-catching models sashaying their way across the aisle to showcase the latest D&G collection, all displaying their own unique set of features and charm. All flawless and angelic in their own right, but they were almost predictable in that way — like mannequins made solely for the rich and beautiful to gawk at. San couldn’t help but look past them, only focusing on the expensive, tailor made clothes that were framing their perfect bodies. And after a while, he almost seemed to grow bored. Of what, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the sheer gaudiness of it all, the lack of self awareness for things that really mattered in the modern world, and the almost nauseating amount of figurative autofellatio the beautiful people around him seemed to be fond of doing. San would’ve pondered it more when somebody near him gently patted his thigh, causing him to look down at the small manicured hand, the diamond ring around your finger glinting in the light like a warning sign.

“Are you bored like I am?” you whispered softly into his ear from beside him, giving him a quaint smile when he turned his head to face you.

San blushed, leaning slightly in your direction. “Am I that obvious?”

“No, don’t worry. None of these drones will be able to notice.” You motioned your head to the crowd around you, their phones in hand, all whispering to each other about how revolutionary the new collection was, despite it looking eerily similar to the fall one from the year before. “You could whip your cock out and no one would bat an eye.”

“Oh?” San studied your flirtatious smile, then looked down just to make sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him. Yep, the ring was still there — and it probably cost more than a year’s worth of rent. Delighted by your forwardness, San took it upon himself to tease you, reaching down to slowly unbutton his slim-fitted pants. “Well, if that’s the case…”

Your cheeks turning bright red, you reached downwards to shield his crotch from view, looking up at him with wide eyes, your faces now impossibly close. “I-i was fucking with you! Don’t actually take out your dick…”

San’s sharpened eyes flitted from your gaze to your cherry red lips, letting go of his zipper to gently take your hand in his, pressing it firmly down onto his thigh. “Yet…?” he challenged huskily, wondering if you were like all the others and would yank your hand back, scoff in disgust, and pretend as if it had never happened. It was then that San felt you squeeze your warm hand into the meat of his thigh, your fingers just barely pressing into the inseam of his pants.

“You can be a good boy and wait till the after party, can’t you?” you asked in a lower, sultrier tone, pressing your lips to his cheek to leave your mark on him, your hand moving further up his thigh, only pulling away when you felt something hard press into your palm. Smiling sweetly, you leaned in again, this time allowing your lips to brush over his. “Good things come to those who wait.”

And just like that, you turned forward to focus on the models all gathering onto the stage at once along with the designers, clapping along with the rest of the crowd when they all took a bow. You blew a kiss to one of the designers who caught it and pretended to put it in his pocket.

Still breathless from your short encounter, San nudged your thigh with his own, biting into his lip and tasting the sweetness of your lipstick. You nudged him back, glancing at him through the corner of yours eyes, licking at your own lips, like a predator would before pouncing on their prey.

San couldn’t believe he had finally met someone like you. There was a serpent in his garden — and he couldn’t wait for it to swallow him up.

The after party was predictable as always — strangers binge drinking and snorting powder off of your previously pristine marble tabletops, others telling embellished stories about their latest trip to their private islands, to various vague acquaintances doing god knows what in your many empty guest rooms. All of that chaos saught to entice you, and you could not, for the life of you, care about what your husband was currently cackling over with his close friends, instead focusing on the crackling wood sitting inside the fireplace you were all huddled near. When you inevitably ran out of champagne, you patted your husband’s leg so that he could remove his arm from your waist.

He looked down at you with indifference. “What is it?”

“I need more champagne, honey. I’m going to get some.”

Your husband’s face scrunched up. “Haven’t you had enough? If you drink any more, you’re going to lose your nice figure.” He looked to his friends for validation who all simply nodded along in agreement.

Your husband’s chauvinistic comments didn’t bother you anymore, just his persistent presence in your life. He was like a mosquito that was always trying to drain you, one that you could never seem to swat away. Well, nothing a little dick couldn’t fix. “That’s funny, because I seem to recall the tailor coming in this morning for an emergency visit to alter a certain suit,” you mentioned, this time pushing your husband’s arm away from you, surveying his now quiet friends with an unbothered look, before wandering off, not registering the insecurity driven ramblings that your husband was sending your way.

Once you made your way into the crowded loft, you searched your surroundings for what you were looking for, humming at the sight of the pretty boy from earlier sitting on the large plush couch in the corner, his cheeks flushed red, haphazardly holding onto a half-empty champagne flute, his attention on one of the models that had walked for your husband’s collection a few hours earlier. He was even more handsome now that you could study his captivating details, your eyes drifting over his bulky frame, from his large arms and shoulders, to his delicate waist, and down to his spread thighs, zeroing in on what was between them, knowing that the beautiful stranger was blessed in more ways than one based off what you had felt earlier.

Without hesitation, you slowly made your way across the room, your stiletto heels digging into the fur carpet below with each concentrated step, licking your red lips when the model placed one of her hands on San’s thighs and squeezed it, his suddenly submissive expression causing more knots to form within your core. You were going to make him yours.

San could barely hear the pretty model’s words over the loud music and the many overlapping voices inside the loft, not knowing what to say when she moved closer to him, clearly going in for the kill. It was then that someone stood over him, their heel nudging into his loafer. He looked up, his once hazy eyes opening wide at the sight of you standing above him with a bottle of champagne in one hand, your other hand already cradling his face. “M-miss…there you are…”

“Here I am,” you purred, running your fingers along his jaw, satisfied with the fact that your lipstick print was still visible on his tan skin.

Just about spilling the rest of his bubbly onto his lap, San gulped, slowly spreading his thighs open wider and patting one of them, giving you a silent invitation to take things further.

Humming, you lowered yourself into his lap, your plush thighs and ass pressing snuggly against his lower half. “Look at you,” you cooed softly into San’s ear, not caring to give the now fuming model any attention, lowering the cold champagne bottle in between your bodies, chuckling at the soft whimper he let out when it pressed into the exposed sections of his skin. “You’re such a good boy, saving a seat for Mommy like this. Aren’t you, baby?”

San’s throat went dry. He must’ve done something truly benevolent in a past life to deserve this. “Y-yes, I am, s-so good for you…”

“Then, be good and open your mouth,” you purred, lifting the almost empty bottle and pouring some into your mouth. San’s jaw slowly dropped, not knowing that he was already beginning to drool. You didn’t mind, clutching the sides of his heated face and pressing your parted lips onto his, transferring the sparkling alcohol to him, but not without running your tongue over his.

San brought his hands up near the sides of your ass, his fingers trembling, not knowing if he was allowed to touch you, whimpering into your mouth when you sucked the alcohol off of his tongue.

“You can touch, baby.” You reached for his wrists and brought his hands underneath the hem of your short dress, gasping when he squeezed the softness of your ass in between his ringed fingers and began to slowly guide your hips, your clothed cunt rubbing back and forth over his stiffening cock. “Mm, someone’s eager, hm? You’re a naughty one, making the main designer’s wife grind on your cock like this in front of everyone.”

“It’s…Mommy’s fault…” San murmured near your ear, rolling his own hips up into yours, making you feel every inch of his trapped throbbing cock each time he ground himself into you, biting into his lip at the sound of your breathless moans, swearing he saw your grimacing husband from over your shoulder.

“My fault, huh? Mommy should make up for it, shouldn’t she?” you sighed back onto his heated skin, pressing kiss after kiss onto his collarbones, dragging your tongue along the constellation of freckles he had on his neck, making him shudder underneath you.

“Uh-huh…” San moaned out, your hand suddenly squeezing into and sliding back and forth over his erection, your thumb repeatedly rubbing over the pronounced tip, knowing he was staining his expensive pants with sticky pre-cum. “F-fuck, I’ll cum if you keep doing that…”

“So sensitive, baby, you’re so cute…but you’re not the only one, you know? Look what you did to Mommy~” You gave his balls a gentle squeeze just to hear him whimper, before letting go, instead reaching for his hand again and leading it between your legs, moving your soaked panties to the side just in time for San to fill you up with two thick fingers.

“You’re so wet…” San groaned, unable to keep himself from adding another digit inside your slick hole, beginning to pump them in and out of you, allowing the both of you to listen to the obscene squelching sounds your cunt made each time he finger-fucked you. Something switched inside of San when you began to whine and whimper, and fuck yourself back on his fingers, your eyebrows screwed upwards, begging him for more with your teary, half-closed eyes. “So fucking wet just for me, huh? Hey, Miss, did you know your husband is standing just across the room? Think he’s hard knowing I just got his pretty little wife wetter than she’s been in her entire life?”

“B-baby, don’t tease me like that,” you whispered, not wanting the control you had over him to slip out of your grasp, grabbing onto his shoulders, accidentally causing pieces of his solid outfit to fall off and land onto the leather couch.

“It’s San, Miss, but you can call me Sannie if you wanna be a good girl for me,” he chuckled, shoving his fingers into you up to the knuckles, rolling your clit around underneath his heavy thumb. “And, I’m not teasing you, my love, he’s really watching us, and he looks like he wants to kill me.”

Just as you looked behind you to catch your husband’s displeased gaze, San began to ram his soaked digits into your spasming cunt, feeling his lips, tongue, and teeth on your neck. “O-oh my god, Sannie, oh, fuckkkk…”

Just as your warm arousal began to pour out onto his fingers and lap, San bit down into the area where your neck and collarbone connected, letting out a few stunted groans, his hips jolting up into yours, coating the insides of his designer pants with white.

“Did you just…?” you began, before San stuffed his fingers into your mouth, growing quiet and sucking your arousal off of them. He pulled them out with a pop, but you didn’t even get the chance to continue your question because you were suddenly being lifted up into the air, strong hands clutching your thighs, your legs hooked around San’s waist.

Your defeated, emasculated husband was just a blur when San carried you through the crowded room and up the stairs, not stopping until he got to the largest room at the end of the expansive hallway.

“Which side does your husband sleep on?” San asked, once he stood at the foot of the kingsized bed.

“On the right. Why do you–O-oh,” you gasped as he quickly laid you out on the right side of the bed and lifted your dress up, forcefully spreading your thighs open so that he could bury his face in your cunt, repeatedly lapping at your slit and clit over your soaked panties until he couldn’t take it, reaching up to tear your panties off with ease. “Sannie, baby boy, what’s gotten into you?”

San looked up at you with dark, dilated eyes, reaching up to his broad body to rip off the rest of his outfit, his solid muscles flexing as he closed his fingers around your waist, yanking you lower so that your cunt was closer to his face, looking like he was about to eat you alive. “Daddy’s hungry,” he simply replied, diving back into your cunt to lick and slurp up your juices, tonguing your hole just to feel you clench around him, his nose nudging your clit as he ate you out like a starved man.

Sooner or later, you began to shudder and pant, tugging at the ends of San’s sweaty hair, your thighs pressing into the sides of his head until he forcefully held them down, quickly moving his head up and down as he dragged his tongue roughly over your throbbing clit, his focused eyes never leaving yours. “S-sannie, I’m really, fuck– I’m gonna cum…!”

“Cum for Daddy,” he demanded gruffly, stuffing three fingers into your cunt and pounding them into your g-spot, lifting your ass up with his other hand so that he could catch the stream of arousal that suddenly squirted out of you, some of it inevitably soaking into the satin sheets below you. San licked your juices from his lips, going down to give your puffy cunt one last lick to savor your taste, before standing up from the bed and unbuckling his pants.

“Y-you….Did you get possessed by a demon?” you asked half-jokingly, unable to keep your thighs from trembling, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist.

His cock now directly near your face, San smiled devilishly down at you, his dimples appearing. He lazily ran a closed hand along his curved, dripping length. “And if I did? You’d still let me fuck you, wouldn’t you? Because Mommy’s a good little slut, huh?”

“What do you think?” you mused, just before running your tongue along the underside of San’s heavy cock up to the salty tip, a pleased chuckle vibrating from your throat.

“Yeah, get it wet for me…” he mumbled absentmindedly, pushing his fingers through your hair to move it out of the way. San pressed his thighs tightly against the side of the bed, thrusting shallowly into your mouth, watching fondly as you sucked and licked the beads of pre-cum that leaked from the slit.

Just when San began getting worked up, you pulled yourself off of him and sat up to rid yourself of your useless, disheveled dress. Hearing a distinct groan of approval, you reached up for the handsome stranger, licking the saltiness from your lips. “Now, you come here and show Mommy just how much Daddy wants her.”

“Yeah? I’ll show you…” San wasted no time climbing back onto the bed and folding you up into a mating press, leaning back to send a few wads of spit onto your cunt, smacking his hand against the wetness for good measure, before he plunged himself deep inside you. “In fact, I’ll make sure you never forget, baby.”

You just about screamed, not ready for San’s unusual size and shape, the curve of his cock rubbing deliciously along your tightening walls each time he pounded himself into you. “S–ann–ie…! It’s so big, fuck– so good!”

“Aww, poor baby’s never had a big cock stretching out her pretty pussy before, huh?” San cooed into your ear, pulling all the way out, just to slam himself back in, hitting your g-spot dead on, making you cry out deliriously. “You’ll never be able to go back to your husband after this. You’re gonna be begging for me to take care of you from now on….” San pressed his lips against yours, sucking on your tongue as you moaned out for him. “Want you to cum for me again, baby…Squirt on my cock, okay?”

“S-Sannie, it’s too much,” you whined out, dragging your nails down his broad back, your toes curling just as San punched your next orgasm out of you when his curved cock once again came in contact with your g-spot.

As you began to cry from the overwhelming pleasure, San licked your tears away, gently pressing his lips into your cheek and jaw, shushing you. “Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’s here for you.” He clutched you close, holding still inside you, as his cock began to twitch. “Here it comes, princess, just for you.” A hot, creamy stream of cum began to shoot out into you, completely drenching your insides with his load.

You could hardly speak at this point in time, solely concentrated on the pleasure that still had a hold on your sore body and the warmth that was filling you up to the brim, suddenly realizing that your husband really wasn’t going to be happy with you. “Y-you shouldn’t have…nnnngh….”

San continued to roll his hips into you, his eyelids fluttering, groans spilling from his throat, your cunt still milking his pulsing cock for all it had, which was a lot, to say the least. Once there was nothing left to give you, San leaned down, pressing one last kiss to your lips, not caring that you had left your lipstick all over him. “Can I ask you something, baby?”

“Y-yes, San?”

San smiled, his glossy brown eyes glistening in the light. “When you have my baby, will you have the heart to tell your poor husband that it’s actually mine?”

Panting heavily and trying to process what the handsome stranger just said, you finally came to the realization that you let someone who didn’t even know your name possibly impregnate you. Well, at least you had something to talk about over breakfast with your husband, rather than hear him go on and on about his latest collection.

“I’m not sure about that one…”

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“Hm?”

“Should I name our baby Dolce or Gabbana?”

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

#cultofdionysusnet #cromernet #ateez #ateez smut #ateez san #choi san #san smut #san x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #kpop smut

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littlelamy · 5 months ago

Note

Rafe taking care of Reader who goes through a depressive episode. She’s feeling like she is a burden and feels like everyone would be happier with her gone. Maybe things are pretty new between them, only gone on a few dates so she obviously (like most) isn’t going to tell him anything and doesn’t think she matters to a guy she has gone on a few dates with anyway, so she just stops responding to his texts

a/n: thank you for requesting!⭐️ i hope i wrote it appropriately to what you requested 🙂💗part 2 is up!

the first time rafe noticed something was off, it was subtle—just a missed text here and there. maybe a delayed reply. nothing unusual at first. he probably told himself you were busy. everyone has those days where life gets hectic.

but when hours stretched into days and your replies went from short to nonexistent, he started to feel that quiet pull of worry.

“hey, you okay?” he texted the day before, after his third unanswered message.

you saw it pop up on your screen. his name glowed against the darkness of your room, and for a moment, your heart ached with the idea of answering. but then the thought crept in.

he’s just being polite.he barely knows you.he’s probably relieved you stopped answering anyway.

so you let the screen go dark.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. it wasn’t like you two were serious. you’d only gone on a handful of dates, and even though every moment with rafe had been sweet and effortless, there was no way someone like him could actually care.

you’d been wrong about people before.

the weight in your chest had only grown heavier over the past few weeks. even getting out of bed felt impossible some days, let alone pretending to be okay for someone like rafe cameron. so, you didn’t bother. you shut your phone off, buried it under a pillow, and let the world fade into static.

the knock at your door startled you.

at first, you thought it might’ve been a neighbor or a delivery driver, someone just passing through. but then it came again, louder this time, more deliberate.

“y/n?”

you froze, your breath catching as his voice carried through the door.

“it’s rafe.”

you stared at the door like it might open on its own. the last thing you wanted was to face him, especially like this. but hearing his voice made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“i, uh…” he hesitated, the sound of him shifting his weight audible through the thin walls. “i just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

you stayed silent, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. but deep down, you knew rafe wasn’t the kind of guy to just walk away.

“you don’t have to let me in,” he added, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “just… let me know you’re alright.”

you clenched your fists, trying to will the lump in your throat away. how were you supposed to explain that you weren’t alright? that you hadn’t been alright in weeks?

the knock came again, gentler this time.

“i’m not leaving until i know you’re okay,” he said firmly, though there was no anger in his voice. only concern.

you sat frozen for what felt like forever, listening to the silence on the other side of the door. maybe he’d given up. maybe he was walking away right now, realizing this wasn’t worth his time.

but then your phone buzzed from where it lay buried under the pillow.

you hesitated before reaching for it, your hands trembling as you unlocked the screen.

rafe <3: hey, i’m outside your place. not trying to bother you, i just wanted to check in. if you need space, i get it. just let me know you’re alright, okay?

your chest ached as you read the words. there was nothing demanding about them, nothing that made you feel guilty or trapped. he wasn’t asking for anything except to know you were safe.

and that made it worse somehow.

because you weren’t.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

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helioooss · 1 month ago

Text

i. when i close my eyes, you replace him

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 5k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: hi, had to separate it into multiple parts. hope u all enjoy this one even though its been awhile. ps. i don’t condone cheating lmaooo + the song below really sets the tone

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

vanilla, maybe a little jasmine.

something expensive, like the kind of perfume you would smell in those fancy department stores where the sales assistants look at you like they know you can’t afford anything.

it lingers in the sheets, in the air, in your skin.

a slow, relentless throb sits at the base of your skull and your mouth is dry. you blink against the dim morning light filtering through your blinds, the remnants of last night still a haze in your mind.

and then it hits you.

your body is bare under the sheets. no clothes. nothing. but someone is warm against you.

long, dark hair sprawls across the pillow next to you, silky strands cascading over an exposed shoulder. her skin is pale, smooth, untouched by the morning light yet glowing like it holds its own. your breath catches. her back is turned to you, slow, steady breaths rising and falling beneath the sheets. peaceful.

completely unaware that your entire world is about to collapse.

your first thought: who the fuck is this?

your second (in denial) thought: why the fuck are you naked?

your brain is too fogged over to piece together what happened, probably mushed from all the alcohol you had last night.

you swallow, slowly — very, very slowly, propping yourself up on one elbow. your hands shake as you pull the blanket up over your chest, as if that’ll somehow make this situation better.

carefully, cautiously, like you’re disarming a bomb, you lean forward to get a look at the stranger’s face.

and then your stomach drops straight to hell.

karina.

karina?!

you don’t even need a second look. you’ve spent enough time at yonsei university hearing about her, seeing her, watching her float through campus like she’s too good for the ground everyone else walks on.

you slam back against the mattress like you’ve been shot.

she’s untouchable. too cool. too pretty. and currently in your bed. naked.

she looks impossibly pretty even in sleep, long lashes resting against her skin, lips slightly parted, collarbones peeking from beneath the covers. your heart lurches into your throat.

what the fuck.

this is it. this is how you die.

your breath is stuck in your throat as you practically fling yourself out of bed, scrambling for any piece of clothing within reach. you don’t even check if they’re yours — you just yank them on, hopping on one foot as you try to shove your legs into something, anything, all while keeping an eye on her sleeping form like she might wake up and smite you on the spot.

somehow, by some miracle, she doesn’t stir.

you do not have time to ask yourself why she is here, nor do you have the time to remember that she has a boyfriend who could break you in half with his bare hands.

all you know is you need to get the fuck out.

without a second glance, you dart out of your room, sprinting down the stairs so fast you nearly trip over yourself.

the first thing you see is giselle standing by the stove, flipping bacon with the ease of someone who’s used to cleaning up after her drunk friends.

the second thing your eyes fall upon are yunjin and ryujin sitting at the table, looking like they’ve personally been dragged through the depths of hell.

“i hate the smell of eggs,” ryujin grumbles, forehead resting on the table. “why couldn’t you make pancakes?”

giselle barely spares her a glance. “because i’m not your mother and you’re lucky i’m even feeding you.”

before ryujin can argue, you come to a screeching halt in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wild, hair a mess, voice a strangled whisper-yell: “chat, what the fuck.”

yunjin peeks up from where her face is buried in her arms, squinting at you like you’ve personally offended her. “what now? turn that volume down, please.”

“i’m fucking whispering, you idiot!” you grumble, staring at her, breathless. then just point — frantic, shaking towards your room upstairs.

giselle pauses mid-bacon flip. “okay, that’s terrifying…i see we’re not using words anymore. what exactly happened?”

“how about i ask the questions: what happened last night?” you demand, voice breaking slightly. “tell me, now.”

ryujin lets out a long, dramatic groan. “can you not? my head is killing me.”

“i’m serious,” you hiss, eyes darting between them. “i don’t remember anything, but i woke up and —” you lower your voice to a whisper. “just fucking tell me.”

“no clue,” ryujin mutters, rubbing her temples. “this is why we don’t let her drink because she fucking tweaks like she’s in philadelphia the morning after.”

“you were drinking,” yunjin says, ignoring the comments from ryujin. “like, a lot. i think you even beat the devil in shots, which is insane because she has a liver made of steel.”

“but —”

giselle suddenly chimes in, flipping a piece of bacon with a little too much force. “oh, wait. i did see you. weirdly enough, you were with karina.”

your blood runs cold.

“what?”

she just shrugs. “yeah, i was talking to minjeong and ningning when you guys walked past us. both of you were drunk as fuck. she said you were gonna show her a guitar collection or something?”

you stare at her, horrified.

“i don’t own a guitar collection,” you whisper. “i can’t even play the guitar!”

“yeah, i know,” giselle raises a brow, arms crossed. “so…?”

yunjin, still groggy, suddenly gasps, eyes going wide as she claps a hand over her mouth. “no fucking way.”

giselle follows her gaze — to your neck.

“oh my god,” she breathes, staring at the faint red marks trailing down your skin.

ryujin tries to stifle her giggle with a cough, failing miserably.

“not funny,” you snap, panic rising in your throat. “jaewook is going to kill me.”

yunjin’s jaw drops open so fast you’re worried it might unhinge like a snake. “is it really karina?” she repeats, eyes wide.

“karina,” you confirm, still whispering like the walls might have ears.

“as in the karina?” giselle asks slowly, voice laced with disbelief. “my friend karina?”

“no, as in some other random karina — yes, the karina. her boyfriend is gonna bury me in that damn field!”

“okay, let’s not be dramatic,” yunjin adds, but there’s clear amusement in her voice.

“not dramatic? not dramatic?” you echo, voice bordering on hysteria. “jennifer, i woke up naked next to karina, who has a psycho boyfriend twice my size, and i don’t even remember how i got there!”

“…well, when you put it like that.”

“oh my god,” you whisper, gripping your head. “i’m actually going to die.”

there’s silence for a hot minute, minds reeling in escape routes, until giselle, ever the problem solver, crosses her arms. “we lie.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“we lie,” she repeats. “when she wakes up, we pretend you were never in that bed. you slept on the couch. she passed out alone. nothing happened.”

you stare at her like she’s just suggested setting yourself on fire. “that’s your plan?”

“do you have a better one?”

you press your lips together as you run your hand over your face.

“exactly,” giselle says in that tone, clapping her hands together. “so, when karina wakes up, she never saw you in that bed. you were never there. simple.”

this is the worst morning of your entire life.

as you throw yourself onto the couch like a corpse with your arms folded over your chest, your angel of a dorm mate pulls a blanket up to your chin.

“see, like clockwork,” giselle adds with a sly smirk.

your mind is a tangled mess of panic, regret, and complete and utter confusion. you close your eyes, willing yourself to relax — to sell this whole i slept on the couch act but your heart is hammering so loudly in your ears that it’s impossible to focus on anything else.

your brain refuses to shut up, a million thoughts crashing into each other at once, all from the absolute catastrophe that was waking up naked next to yonsei university’s golden girl with no recollection of how or why.

you are not the kind of person this happens to. you are top of your law class, notoriously composed, the one who actually plans things, the one who does not let emotions — or tequila —cloud her judgment.

point of the matter is…you don’t do stupid, reckless, irreversible things.

this was supposed to be a quiet weekend.

but no. because yunjin and ryujin can’t go one saturday without throwing a party, and because you are unfortunately their dormmate, you had no choice but to exist in the war zone that was your shared space. you should have locked yourself in your room, noise-canceling headphones on, ignoring the chaos.

but then ryujin had come along with just one tequila shot, which probably turned into just three, which turned into a complete and total blackout.

your eye twitches.

this is her fault.

and now, here you are. pretending to be asleep, willing the universe to undo the last twelve hours.

you almost laugh. not because it’s funny, but because it’s so fucking absurd that you don’t know what else to do.

karina, the karina, the closest thing yonsei university has to a deity. the kind of girl who walked through campus like the world existed for her entertainment, who made everything look effortless, who made people stupid just by looking at them. she was untouchable, unreachable, unattainable. and yet —

somehow…

she had ended up naked in your bed.

you grip the blanket tighter, your stomach churning.

and jaewook.

god, jaewook.

if karina was a deity, jaewook was her devoted disciple. if she so much as sneezed, he would probably donate a lung.

they were that couple, the one that made people gag from how perfect they seemed. and he was loyal. so loyal that it made you sick sometimes, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

what the fuck happened last night?

your brain tries to piece it together, but there’s nothing. no flashes of memory or drunken conversations replaying in your head, not a moment where you could have possibly imagined this happening.

the couch dips suddenly, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

your muscles go rigid.

no. no, no, no —

“dude.”

oh, for fuck’s sake.

“go away, ryujin,” you mutter, eyes still squeezed shut.

“no, no, no,” she whispers, and you don’t even need to look at her to know she has the most punchable grin on her face. “i need you to open your eyes and look at me so i can personally watch your soul leave your body.”

“not happening.”

“you —” she pauses for dramatic effect. “hooked up with karina.”

your jaw clenches. “shut the fuck up.”

“no, because, you hooked up with karina.”

“i swear to god, ryujin —”

“you —”

you slap a hand over her mouth, cutting her off before she can cause any more psychic damage. “if you say it out loud, it becomes real, and i am not ready for that kind of responsibility.”

she peels your hand off, grinning so hard it physically hurts to look at. “i cannot believe this. you, of all people.”

“what the fuck does that mean?”

“it means,” she waves a hand, “you’re, like, the most socially unavailable person i’ve ever met. you voluntarily do your readings before class. you say no to, like, everything. you have a permanent ‘do not disturb’ sign on your face. and yet —”

“stop.”

“— you managed to bag karina.”

you groan, pulling the blanket over your face. “go. away.”

“so, like, was she good?”

“what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

before she can push any further, the sound of soft footsteps echoes from the stairs.

the dorm goes silent.

your heart stops.

you and ryujin lock eyes. hers are wide with excitement. yours are filled with sheer panic.

giselle’s voice comes first, casual, like this is just another normal morning. “morning, hottie.”

then, the one voice you really didn’t want to hear right now — soft, smooth, effortlessly composed. “good morning.”

your pulse nearly explodes out of your chest when you hear giselle moving around the kitchen, probably pouring herself coffee like this isn’t the biggest crisis of your life. “did you sleep okay?”

karina hums. “yeah. i think? i don’t really remember how i got where i was, though.”

your stomach turns.

ryujin is staring at you, holding back a laugh.

giselle, the absolute hero, keeps it cool. “oh, you were super drunk. you passed out on y/n’s bed. that’s why she’s on the couch.”

a pause.

a long one.

you swear you can hear karina thinking. “right,” she finally says, but it’s hesitant. something in her voice tells you she doesn’t completely buy it.

“hey,” she continues. “did minjeong and ningning get home safe?”

“yeah,” yunjin jumps in, voice faltering. “giselle got them an uber last night.”

“oh, good,” she exhales. “thanks for the hospitality. and tell y/n thanks for letting me sleep on her bed. i have to rush out and check on the girls. promise i’ll make it all up to you later on!”

oh, fuck off.

you squeeze your eyes shut harder, willing yourself to look as asleep as humanly possible.

you stop breathing.

she still thinks you’re asleep, still thinks you’re innocent.

you can almost hear giselle smile. “of course. anytime, love. message me when you get home.”

there’s movement, the rustling of fabric, the faint click of a phone being picked up. she is finally leaving.

the front door opens, then clicks shut.

one.

two.

three.

“holy fucking shit!” ryujin yells as slaps your arm so hard you nearly fall off the couch.

“ouch! what the fuck,” you hiss, rubbing your arm as you glare at her.

“you got away with it,” she grins, like she’s proud of you.

“got away with what? i don’t even know what happened!”

yunjin strolls over, sipping a glass of water like this is so entertaining for her. “guys, she knows something is off.”

you groan, shoving your face into the pillow because she definitely did. “do not say that.”

“she totally does,” she insists. “she hesitated. did you hear that? the pause? she knows.”

“she doesn’t know know,” giselle corrects her. “and that’s what matters.”

ryujin flops dramatically onto the floor, still grinning like a maniac. “you. and karina. i’m never getting over this.”

“i don’t even know what ‘this’ is!” you exclaim. “i blacked out.”

yunjin smirks. “so romantic.”

“maybe you guys had, like, a deep emotional connection before passing out,” ryujin says. “soulmates typa shit.”

“oh my god, i will murder all of you.”

“you already tried last night,” giselle says. “you nearly threw up on my shoes.”

you groan, throwing your arm over your face. “this is the worst day of my life.”

“yeah, okay,” ryujin grins. “until karina walks through that door next weekend again.”

you go completely still. oh, fuck. this is far from over.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the rest of the weekend is hell. before this, your life had been simple. structured. predictable.

you were y/n, top of your law class, the human embodiment of do not disturb, an over-caffeinated, emotionally unavailable machine built for academic success.

there was a system in place: study, work, sleep, repeat. everything in its place, nothing left to chance. you weren’t the type to get involved in drama.

and yet here you are.

ryujin, yunjin and giselle have turned your dorm into a psychological battlefield, launching attacks when you least expect it.

a whistle when you pass by. a ‘hmm’ when they look at your neck. giggles when you so much as breathe in their direction.

but the worst part?

the comments.

“y/n, i think you need a turtleneck collection. just a thought.”

“she really got you, huh? didn’t take karina as the possessive type, but here we are.”

“you’re one step away from being branded. guys, should we get her a collar, or?”

“oh, c’mon,” ryujin sighs dramatically, “at least own it. let the world know karina claimed you as hers.”

you nearly threw a shoe at her for that one.

but you don’t give them the satisfaction of reacting. you shut down, as you always do when life throws something stupid at you. you focus on your assignments, make your coffee extra strong and ignore the laughter that follows you through the dorm like an inescapable curse.

so when your phone buzzes on sunday with a text from your “coworker” (he owns the place), taehyung, you see your chance for freedom.

from taehyung:

bro im sick can u cover my shift

sent 1:04 PM

you scoff. sick. right. you saw him last night at the party, downing soju like it was a hydration challenge.

to taehyung

hangover ≠ sick

but sure

anything to get away from this dorm.

sent 1:05 PM

you grab your hoodie, sliding into your shoes as you make a beeline for the door. predictably, ryujin and yunjin notice.

“where are you going?” yunjin asks, sprawled on the couch like a queen surveying her kingdom.

“away from you.”

ryujin snorts. “so dramatic.”

you ignore her, then frown. “where’s giselle?”

“oh,” she grins. “you know, at karina’s dorm like almost always.”

you freeze for half a second. “why?”

“to see minjeong and ningning and karina,” yunjin says, yawning. “those girls never get hangovers after our weekends. it’s unfair.”

you swallow down the inexplicable discomfort that sentence gives you, then mutter, “good for them.”

“did you put your collar on?” ryujin asks, bursting into a fit of laughter with yunjin as they push each other.

“fuck off!” you yell out, slamming the door shut before they can make another claiming joke.

your job at the vintage clothing store is normally a blessing.

it’s tucked away on a quiet street, away from the chaos of campus, filled with racks of old designer pieces, shelves of worn-in leather boots and stacks of vinyl records no one under 30 knows how to use. it smells like aged fabric, dust and the occasional whiff of espresso from the café next door.

most times, you get to be alone with your thoughts.

unfortunately, your thoughts are the last thing you want to be alone with today.

you spend the first half-hour making small talk with taehyung who dragged himself in just to swap shifts with you and give you a mini-handover (he insisted), despite looking like death warmed him.

“so,” he groans, leaning against the counter as you check inventory, “what did i miss last night?”

you barely glance at him. “you were at the party. how would i know?”

“yeah, but i blacked out before midnight. you seem alive, so i’m guessing you didn’t go that hard.”

“you know i don’t go hard at those parties,” you stare at the register, gripping the pen in your hand a little too tightly. “but yeah, sure, something like that.”

“huh,” he yawns, stretching his arms out. “any gossip?”

“no.”

he eyes you. “you’re lying.”

“i’m working.”

“so am i.”

“you’re standing there doing nothing.”

“it called assisting,” he points out, crossing his arms. “i’m technically your boss so you i can just stand here.”

you sigh. “just go home, taehyung.”

he salutes lazily, finally giving up on trying to get information out of you as he dragged himself out of the store, and finally, you’re alone.

but time moves painfully slow when you’re avoiding your own thoughts.

you try to make it pass by putting together outfits, pulling pieces from different racks, layering coats over sweaters, setting aside things you think might sell well. you tell yourself you’re being productive, but the truth is, you’re distracting yourself.

because no matter what you do, she lingers in your mind. bits and pieces of the night are starting to return. flashes of moments, like someone slowly restoring a corrupted file.

karina approaching you in the balcony, taking a shot with you and ryujin, her lips curling around the rim of the glass.

you grip a hanger a little too tightly.

what the fuck were you two even talking about? why did she even approach you?

your stomach twists, but before you can spiral any further — the bell above the door jingles.

you glance up, prepared to do the usual “welcome, let me know if you need anything,” but then, your soul leaves your body.

because walking into the store, looking like they just stepped out of a perfectly curated instagram post, are the last people you want to see.

minjeong. ningning. giselle.

and —

karina.

“oh,” ningning grins, like she already knows she’s about to have the time of her life. “look who it is.”

“y/n!” giselle beams, like she wasn’t just at your dorm this morning, cackling at your misery. “what a coincidence. i thought you had the day off?”

karina just looks at you, eyes sharp with some unreadable emotion and you swear you forget how to breathe. your throat is so dry.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, voice slightly higher than usual because you sure as hell know ryujin and yunjin called her. “i took a shift from taehyung.”

“y/n, we’re shopping,” minjeong says innocently, scanning the store. “this is a store, right?”

you clear your throat. “yeah but —“

“aw,” ningning coos, “is someone grumpy? hungover? woke up on the couch?”

“i’m working,” you say through gritted teeth, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. they definitely know something.

“sure you are,” giselle smirks. “totally wasn’t just staring off into space before we came in.”

you force yourself to inhale. exhale. normal. be normal. but you can feel karina’s gaze burning into you, like she’s waiting for something.

you shift awkwardly. “…do you guys need help finding anything?”

ningning grins. “yeah, actually, i think we need a very high-necked sweater. maybe a scarf. or, ooh, maybe a better concealer.”

“whatever yizhuo, it’s a fucking rash,” you huff out, sit at the front desk, fingers hovering over the laptop keyboard, trying to look as busy as humanly possible.

but it’s impossible to focus when, just a few metres away, they are giggling.

little snickers, hushed whispers, the kind of laughter that’s definitely about you. you don’t even have to look up to know it’s happening. every few minutes, you feel their gazes flicker in your direction, lingering just long enough to make your ears burn.

and it’s killing you.

because you are trying to reply to customer enquiries, you really are. but how is anyone supposed to focus when the four most dangerous people in your life are shopping in your store like they own the place?

the worst part is how casual they’re being.

“does this scream rich housewife or rich housewife going through a scandal?” ningning muses, throwing an expensive-looking fur coat over her shoulders.

“scandal,” minjeong replies without looking up from a rack of leather jackets. “definitely scandal.”

“perfect,” ningning hums. “that’s the goal.”

they giggle. you type absolute nonsense into the enquiry form. you cannot do this. you cannot sit here and pretend that your entire world isn’t crashing down around you.

and so, you endure about ten more minutes before you completely snap.

“giselle,” you hiss, standing up so abruptly that your chair screeches against the floor. “outside, please.”

the pink-haired girl, who had been flicking through a stack of vinyl records, looks up, blinking innocently. “me?”

“yes, you,” you grit out. “now, thank you.”

the other two (god knows where karina is) immediately burst into laughter as she follows you outside, smirking like she just won the lottery.

the cold air is a slap to your overheated face. your skin is burning, your pulse is erratic and you’re so stressed that your left eye is twitching.

“alright,” she begins, crossing her arms, clearly enjoying herself. “to what do i owe the honour?”

you glare at her. “why are you guys even here? you’re such a shit-stirrer, bet this was ryujin and yunjin’s idea.”

she gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “wow. y/n, this is the hottest vintage shop in town! we’re just a bunch of girls supporting a small business. why are you being a hater?”

“aeri,” you shake your head, squeezing the bridge of your nose.

“what?” she says, feigning innocence. “can’t a girl shop without being interrogated by the y/n police?”

“giselle,” you repeat, voice dangerously low. “don’t do this.”

“do what?” she blinks at you, all wide-eyed amusement.

you clench your jaw; knowing all too well that she does things sometimes just to fuck with you. “don’t act like you don’t know exactly why i’m asking.”

“oh, come on,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “is it really that bad? who cares about jaewook? he hasn’t even scored a goal for over a year.”

his name alone makes you shiver. “aeri, he’s a goalkeeper!” you sighed because…she can be unbelievably dense sometimes.

she clicks her tongue, looking at her pink nails. “like i said, don’t care.”

you run a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply as you steal a glance at the other two. “did you tell them?”

“tell who what?”

“giselle.”

“okay, okay,” she grins while shaking her head. she’s enjoying this. “no, i didn’t tell minjeong and ningning anything, never said a word.”

relief immediately floods your chest. “oh, thank god —”

“but they did.”

your stomach drops. “what?”

“what do you mean, what?” giselle tilts her head, smirking. “they live with karina. have been, for years. of course they know. she tells us everything.”

“but —” you blink rapidly, brain completely short-circuiting. “but you said —”

“i said i didn’t tell anyone,” giselle shrugs. “i never said they didn’t know.”

“giselle,” you whisper, gripping her by the shoulders. “do you want me to die? he’s going to kill me.”

“a little,” she admits. “but you’re making it so fun to watch.”

you let go of her like she burned you, staring at her in complete disbelief. “so minjeong and ningning…”

“knew the whole time?” giselle finishes your sentence, nodding. “yep — but relax, they hate jaewook anyways. you have nothing to be worried about!”

your entire life flashes before your eyes. oh god. this is worse than you thought. before you can start digging your own grave right there on the sidewalk, the shop door swings open.

“sorry to interrupt your little lover’s quarrel,” ningning says sweetly, poking her head outside. “but karina needs help with sizing.”

you go completely still. “what? why me?”

“sizing,” ningning repeats, blinking. “you do work here, don’t you?”

giselle claps a hand on your back. “go on, employee of the month.”

you turn back to ningning, feeling your entire body betray you as your face grows hotter. “can’t she get —”

“oh, she specifically asked for you,” ningning confirms, smiling like the devil. “so, you know. chop-chop.”

you are going to pass out.

giselle is practically shaking with laughter when you cast another glance at her and then back at ningning, who just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

your fate is sealed as you drag your feet just outside of the fitting room; heart pounding in your ears.

this is ridiculous — you have defended mock trial cases against the most cutthroat professors in the department. you have stared down intimidating judges with a straight face and delivered speeches in front of an entire lecture hall without breaking a sweat.

and yet —

you cannot bring yourself to knock on a fitting room door. pathetic. then, another memory slams into you, so vivid it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.

karina. in your room. the door clicking shut. “touch me, y/n.”

you barely had a second to process before she was on you, pressing you against the door, lips finding yours with such certainty, like she had been waiting all night.

you remember the warmth of her hands against your skin, the way her perfume; that expensive, sweet scent that still lingers on your sheets and clouding your senses, made your head spin in a way alcohol never could.

you remember your fingers tangling in her hair, her breath against your jaw, the way she —

“y/n?”

you jump, startled.

her voice is soft, muffled through the fitting room door, but hearing your name come out of her mouth — so natural, so casual — sends a violent shudder down your spine.

she just said your name. not some generic ‘hey’ or ‘excuse me’.

you swallow thickly, clenching your fists, forcing yourself to remember that you are at work and that you have a job to do.

before you can respond, the door swings open. and there she is.

karina stands in the small fitting room, looking up at you with mild curiosity, one hand resting on her hip. she’s wearing a white baby tee, cropped just above her waist, too tight for comfort.

you swallow.

the fabric clings to her, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal the sharp lines of her collarbones. her dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that makes her look almost too perfect, like she walked straight out of a glossy magazine and into your workplace.

she tugs at the hem of the shirt, frowning slightly. “do you guys have this in a bigger size? i like it, but i think i look terrible in this one.”

your brain is not functioning. there is a slight ringing in your ears. your vision is blurry. you are physically incapable of forming a coherent thought.

“uh,” you manage to croak out, voice embarrassingly weak. “we…we don’t keep stock in the back. everything we have is already on the floor.”

she sighs, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “that’s too bad, it’s making me look terrible.”

this is your chance. this is the moment where you say let me know if you need anything else and walk away like a normal person.

except…

“you look hot,” you say it before you can stop yourself.

she turns to you, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. “yeah?”

your stomach fucking plummets straight into the ground beneath you.

hot?!

why the fuck did you say that? why would you do that to yourself?

but now she’s looking at you, actually looking, and you can’t back out, can’t take it back, can’t pretend you didn’t just blurt out the world’s most unprofessional sentence.

“yeah,” you say again, somehow making it worse.

her lips curl slightly at the edges, and for a split second, you think she might actually tease you for it, but then her gaze flickers downward.

your blood turns to ice because she’s looking at your neck.

panic slams into you at full force. you knew your cover-up job was bad, but you didn’t think it was that bad.

apparently, you were wrong.

you yank the collar of your sweater up, heart slamming against your ribs. “do you need anything else?”

karina doesn’t answer right away.

instead, she tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to figure something out. her expression is unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes…something sharp, something knowing.

then, finally, she says, “about last night —”

your breath catches. this is it. she’s going to order a hitman so no one else can know your secret. the pounding in your ears is louder than ever; it’s embarrassing.

she is standing in front of you, in that impossibly tight baby tee, looking at you like she’s waiting for something. her lips curl slightly, a ghost of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth.

“thanks for looking after me,” she continues, voice softer than you expect. “and for being so considerate.”

you freeze, completely unprepared for the gratitude. you don’t know what you expected…maybe indifference or some teasing remark, or even just an outright dismissal of what happened last night.

but this? this sincerity? it throws you completely off balance.

“it’s nothing,” you clear your throat, forcing yourself to smile, but it feels unnatural, like your body hasn’t caught up with your brain yet. “i mean, it was…yeah. no worries.”

karina keeps looking at you and the weight of her gaze makes your skin prickle. and now that you’re really seeing her, it’s impossible to ignore just how stupidly pretty she is.

her features are sharp, carved to perfection: high cheekbones, delicate nose, lips that look like they belong in an art gallery. her dark hair falls effortlessly over her shoulders, strands framing her face in a way that seems unintentional but is devastating nonetheless.

but it’s her eyes that undo you.

dark, observant, laced with something that makes you feel completely exposed. like she sees right through you, past the mask of composure you’ve spent years perfecting.

you are so fucked.

“i’m finally glad to meet you, you know,” she adds with a beaming smile, tilting her head slightly.

your brain short-circuits. “what?”

“giselle always says good things about you,” she explains, shrugging. “but you’re always busy. i swear, i thought you were a myth for a while…then i saw you in campus laughing with her a couple of weeks ago.”

your mouth opens, then closes. giselle, the spawn of satan whose mission is to annoy you, has said good things about you? that’s a surprise.

you clear your throat once. “yeah, well…law isn’t exactly a relaxed degree.”

karina’s expression shifts, something like intrigue flickering in her eyes. “is it really that bad?”

you nod. “yeah, final year.”

“makes sense,” she hums.

you frown. “what does that mean?”

“you have that…lawyer energy.”

“lawyer energy?” you repeat, deadpan.

“yeah,” she lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely. “like, you’re very put together. very serious. like you could argue your way out of anything.”

and finally, you smile as you shake your head. “that does not sound like a compliment.”

she grins. “it’s a little impressive. kind of scary, but impressive.”

you don’t know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment, but either way, you’re definitely not equipped to keep having this conversation. your brain is already struggling to process the fact that you’re standing here, talking to karina like it’s normal.

like last night didn’t completely obliterate your moral compass.

and then, just when you think this interaction can’t get any more dangerous —“

“i want to make it up to you,” karina offers. “for looking after me last night.”

your world crumbles. “you don’t have to —”

“let me buy you lunch sometime,” she interrupts, eyes locked onto yours. “between classes.”

this is a horrible idea.

this is the worst idea.

you cannot be seen having lunch with karina, not when — not when she —

“oh,” you stammer, scrambling for an escape route, “i’m actually…only ever free on wednesday nights. but only for a short time, so —“

“perfect,” she cuts in smoothly, clapping her hands together. “dinner on wednesday, after our classes.”

you blink. “i —”

“i’ll pick you up.”

you have been cornered.

karina cheated on jaewook with you and now she wants to take you to dinner? is she even aware of what happened last night? does she care?

your moral compass is begging you to say no. to stop this before it becomes something you can’t walk away from. but she is looking at you like she already knows what your answer is going to be.

and that’s what makes it worse.

“okay,” you hear yourself say, completely betraying every rational part of your brain. “wednesday night.”

she smiles. “good.”

and then, like she hasn’t just set your entire life on fire, she turns back to the mirror, adjusting the hem of her top. “i’ll take this, by the way.”

you bite your lip, still recovering. “the one you said looked terrible on you?”

she meets your gaze in the mirror, lips curving. “well,” she begins, “you said i looked great in it.”

the way your heart stops should be considered a medical emergency but before you can even process that, the rest of the girls are making their way to the register, all far too smug for your liking.

“great,” you tell karina. “i’ll meet you over there.”

ningning hands over a pair of sunglasses, minjeong has a leather jacket draped over her arm, and giselle just watches you, her grin nothing short of pure evil.

“how’s law treating you, y/n?” minjeong asks, casual, too casual as she leans against the counter.

“it’s fine,” you say stiffly, scanning her items, refusing to look up.

“just fine?” ningning teases. “we hear your name all over campus, you know, like how you won us another mock trial against korea university.”

“yeah,” giselle chimes in, “so impressive. such a role model.”

they are all provoking your end and they all know you can’t do anything about it. “lovely, hope i see you all again soon. not.”

minjeong smirks at you before putting the jacket she just paid for on. “trust that you’ll see us at your dorm next weekend.”

karina is the last to pay. she steps forward, handing over her card, and as you process the transaction, you can feel her eyes on you.

watching. waiting.

you don’t look up.

then, as she grabs her bag and heads for the door, she pauses. she turns slightly, glancing over her shoulder, one hand holding the door open.

“i can’t wait for wednesday,” she yells out, and then she’s gone.

the door swings shut behind her, and you just stand there, gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

you are so unbelievably fucked.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

monday morning rolls around and you’re clinging to your law student routine like a life raft in the middle of the ocean. nothing steadies the mind quite like dense constitutional law readings and back-to-back lectures.

the weekend, with all its chaos, is firmly behind you. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but as you stand in the dorm’s small kitchen, flipping an egg with robotic precision, you’re reminded that nothing is ever truly behind you when ryujin and yunjin exist in your life.

“so,” ryujin starts, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “a turtleneck, huh?”

you don’t respond.

“interesting choice,” yunjin adds from the table, her chin propped up on her palm, watching you like a hawk. “didn’t know it was suddenly winter.”

you exhale sharply. “i swear to god —”

“no, no, we’re just admiring the effort,” ryujin interrupts, smirking. “like, it’s a bold move. but hey, i get it,” she gestures vaguely toward your neck. “you’d want to cover all that up before your date tonight.”

the egg you just flipped lands slightly off-center. you slowly turn around to the pink-haired girl already halfway through her breakfast. “giselle.”

yunjin is beaming, practically vibrating with excitement. “apparently, someone asked you out to dinner.”

your so-called friend shrugs from the corner of the kitchen, sipping her coffee, completely unbothered. “what? it was funny.”

“no, it’s not,” you snap, pointing your spatula at her. “none of this is funny.”

but ryujin and yunjin seem to disagree because they’re laughing their asses off, practically doubling over the counter.

“she wants to wine and dine you?” yunjin gasps, wiping a tear from her eye. “this is huge.”

“nah, buddy,” ryujin says between her laughs. “jaewook’s really coming after you now.”

your stomach twists at the reminder.

“exactly,” you mutter, turning back to your eggs, suddenly losing your appetite. “she has a boyfriend. this isn’t funny. it’s…it’s messed up.”

giselle sighs, finally looking a little guilty. “i know, i get it. it’s just…none of us expected this. you didn’t expect this.”

you clench your jaw. “because it shouldn’t have happened.”

silence, except for the sound of eggs frying.

yunjin speaks first. “look, if you don’t wanna go, don’t. no one’s forcing you. but…doesn’t it make you wonder?”

you don’t answer. because it does.

why you? why now? why, after years of only ever exchanging passing glances, did karina suddenly want to know you?

ryujin leans against the counter, watching you carefully. then, with a smirk, she mutters, “maybe she’s realised she likes them a little nerdy, a little feisty.”

you throw a piece of toast at her head.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

by the time your first lecture rolls around, the teasing is still ringing in your ears, but you force yourself to push it aside. you slide into your usual seat in, staring blankly at the lecture slides, trying your best to absorb the information — but your mind keeps drifting.

professor choi is droning on about the evolution of human rights treaties and while normally you would be engaged, today, you’re just grateful to be anywhere but your dorm.

the teasing from your friends were relentless. at least here, surrounded by other law students drowning in coursework, you could pretend none of it ever happened.

beside you, irene adjusts her blaze, a classic, pressed navy number before glancing over to you. “so, how was the party?”

if anyone embodied sophistication, it was her. she was effortlessly composed, always put together and somehow managed to balance a social life while remaining at the top of the class. unlike you.

you exhale, rubbing your temple. “messy.”

she clicks her tongue. “ugh, i knew it. i was going to go, but i’m already behind in this class. stayed in and revised instead.”

you glance at her pristine notebook, filled with neat, elegant handwriting and huff a quiet laugh. “yeah, i can see that.”

she smirks. “so? anything exciting happen?”

your grip tightens around your pen. “define exciting.”

she raises a brow. “anything that would make me regret not going.”

“then, no,” you take a sip of your coffee, staring at the projector screen as if it can shield you from this conversation. “just the usual chaos, but i’m impressed that you skipped a party for this.”

“i’m serious,” she says, sighing dramatically. “choi’s exams are a nightmare. i have to be prepared.”

the lecture goes by in a blur of legal precedents and treaties. when it finally ends, you’re gathering your things when she turns to you. “we have time before the next one. brunch?”

you nod. “sure. same place?”

she smiles, nudging your arm lightly. “obviously.”

it’s routine by now, a well-practiced tradition between the two of you whenever there’s a big gap between your classes. navigating through the crowded hallways of yonsei is always a battle, but today feels especially suffocating. students are rushing between buildings, groups gathered in corners, debating over case studies or gossiping about the latest scandal.

the two of you head out, weaving through the sea of students in the hallway. as you make your way towards the café, some guy, clearly distracted by his phone, nearly collides with irene.

wrong move.

she stops in her tracks, turns sharply and levels him with a look so icy it could freeze hell over.

“watch where you’re fucking going,” she says, voice deceptively calm but laced with authority.

the guy…some poor unsuspecting sophomore, immediately looks like he wants to crawl into a hole. he stammers out an apology, but she has already dismissed him with a flick of her gaze.

you chuckle, shaking your head. “you really have a talent for terrifying men.”

irene flips her hair over her shoulder, completely unbothered. “it’s not my fault most of them are weak-willed.”

thankfully, the café is tucked away in a quieter part of campus, nestled between tall ginkgo trees. it’s the kind of place where professors come to sip espresso and students pretend to study while people-watching.

you order a black coffee — strong, no nonsense. irene gets her usual iced americano, claiming it’s the only thing keeping her sane these days as the two of you find a table under the shade, the bustle of campus life continuing around you.

and the conversation starts off with something far more welcome than whatever the hell your dorm mates have been tormenting you about.

“so,” irene starts, elegantly cutting into her toast. “what’s the plan after graduation? not too long till we’re in the real world now.”

you wrap your hands around your coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into your skin. “probably a master’s. i want to specialise in something. maybe corporate law, maybe international.”

she hums in approval. “solid choices. not as exciting as criminal law, though.”

you snort. “i like my sanity intact, thanks.”

“makes sense. i’m thinking of taking a gap year, then go into firm work, though. i don’t have the patience for more studying.”

you smirk. “shocking, considering you’re basically law royalty.”

“shut up,” she smiles, rolling her eyes. “but seriously, you’d do well in a masters program. you actually like all the heavy theory.”

“so, where’s the next destination?” you lean back against your chair, exhaling and crossing your arms.

“i want to see more of northern europe,” she admits. “my dad wants me at his firm right after but i’d rather start somewhere else, build my own reputation first. i just don’t see myself working at one place for too long, either.”

“smart,” you hum in approval. “nothing worse than people thinking you only got in because of family connections.”

she smirks. “exactly.”

irene’s the kind of person who never stays in one place for too long, always chasing something beyond the next horizon.

while everyone else planned their careers within the safe confines of seoul, she was already looking at the world. she’s always been that way, even in the way she speaks — already one step ahead, like her mind is filled with things you haven’t even thought to consider yet.

and you’ve always admired that about her.

you’re mid-sentence, talking about potential universities for your master’s, when she suddenly interrupts you.

“she’s really pretty, isn’t she?”

you’re confused. “who?”

she subtly gestures with her cup. you follow her gaze and your stomach twists into knots.

of course.

there she is.

walking past with jaewook, his arm draped over hers in that effortless, this-is-mine way. karina’s dressed in a navy blue blazer and jeans, simple yet elegant, her hair cascading in soft waves. even in casual clothes, she looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.

but it’s not just that…it’s the way she moves, so effortlessly confident, so sure of herself.

and then, as if she can feel your stare, she turns her head.

she smiles.

it’s small, subtle — almost unreadable. but it’s there. you don’t smile back.

instead, you look away, taking a sip of your coffee like nothing happened. irene immediately nudges you. “what was that for?”

you snap your gaze away. “what?”

“you just ignored her — she smiled at you.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“yes, you did.”

you groan, rubbing your temple. “can we not do this?”

irene smirks, clearly entertained. “so you have met her; was this at the party?”

you glance back once more, but karina and jaewook are already disappearing into the crowd. your stomach churns.

“i’ll take that as a yes,” she watches you, amused. “you need more friends outside of your dorm mates and me, you know.”

“this is my final year,” you tell her flatly. “i might as well keep the system that way.”

irene hums, taking a slow sip of her drink. “i just hope somebody crashes it.”

you scoff. “not happening.”

sometimes, when irene talks about leaving, about how she doesn’t want to stay in one place forever, you wonder if that’s why she’s never let herself get too close to people.

or maybe that’s just your excuse. because in a way, you and irene are similar.

you don’t let people in, either.

which is why, right now, as she sips her smoothie and casually talks about karina, you feel like the ground beneath you is shifting because irene knows you.

she sees you.

and if she ever realises what’s actually happening — if she ever connects the dots…you don’t know if you would be able to handle her thoughts about it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

part 2 — wearing no disguise, you erase him

#kpop x reader #kpop gg #aespa x reader #aespa imagines #karina #karina imagines #kpop imagines #angst #aespa #heliooosss #karina x reader

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coff33andb00ks · 9 months ago

Note

vivvvv how about…

11 + 24 with lando 😊

"It's impossible to get rid of me."/"Are you awake or asleep?"

driver + number = drabble <3

maddie babe ily

warnings: disgusting perverted amount of fluff

Lando Norris is, in his own words, a little bitch.

Granted, he said those words when he was drunk and a moth flew too close to his face, but you'll never let him forget that he uttered them.

Nor will you let him forget you have video of him screaming in terror and running straight into the glass door of the balcony to get away from the moth.

It's what your friendship is based on: embarrassing moments that the other finds hilarious but no one else would understand. Like the time you spent three minutes telling a store mannequin what you were looking for, or the time Lando locked himself out of his apartment at four in the morning. He has a tendency of doing that, so much so that when it happens he shows up at your place.

Like he is now, in his joggers and slides, without his wallet or phone, smiling sheepishly at you like it isn't three a.m.

"Don't you have other friends," you grumble, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands.

"None that'll answer the door this late," he sighs.

You sigh and step back to let him in, pretending to be unaffected by the scent of him freshly showered. "How'd it happen?"

"Took out the trash and thought I had my key in my pocket." He looks entirely too comfortable in your tiny apartment, shirtless and his hair still damp.

Nodding, you shuffle to your bedroom to collect the spare key to his place. That he'd given to you so casually, like it was a normal thing for him to hand out an extra key, when you knew it wasn't because even Fewtrell didn't have a spare key back when Lando lived in England still.

"C'mon, you know I'll need it. Besides, you're the only one I trust to have it." He dropped the key - attached to a Snoopy keychain that you remember him buying in Vegas - into your purse. "There. Now it's impossible to get rid of me."

As if you'd ever want to.

He follows you into the bedroom and you're painfully aware of your unmade bed and the clothes you'd left on the floor. Which is ridiculous, because it's Lando, he's been in your bedroom before, he's seen your dirty underwear–

Just not at three in the morning...

"Fuck," you mutter, turning your purse upside down to empty it onto the dresser. The essentials of your life spill out, lip gloss and gum and wallet and keys - but not Lando's because that one stays on its Snoopy keychain it's special - and hand sanitizer and notepad and six pens and tissues and the ticket stub from the movie he took you to see two weeks ago and a friendship bracelet and two pads. Everything but his key.

"Don't tell me you've lost it," he says.

You scoff at the idea. You may have lost your mind, your sanity, and sometimes your wallet, but you'd never lose his key. Your sleepy mind scrambles. Two weeks ago you pulled it to give to him and–

"Oh shit it's at my place," he mumbles, clapping a hand over his face.

"Lando!" you groan, sweeping everything back into your purse.

He's sorry, you're annoyed, and after bickering uselessly you tell him to just go to bed, he can get his superintendent to let him in in the morning.

It's not unusual to share a bed with him. Lando's a clingy, touchy feely person, half the time you travel with him he ends up taking you into staying in his room. Ostensibly because he likes to talk but really because he wants to cuddle.

"You awake?" he whispers in the darkness. "Or asleep?"

You don't answer, because you know he's about to say something profoundly sweet or incredibly stupid.

He presses his face into your hair and sighs, much like an exhausted dog finally settling down for a good sleep. "I do it on purpose sometimes," he whispers. "Cuz I sleep better with you than when I'm alone."

As confessions go it's probably your favorite. But you have to pretend you don't hear it. You're smiling though, and you let out a sleepy little hum. And you feel him smile.

#inbox #f1 x reader #f1 #lando norris #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #drabbles

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bitchface24-7 · 3 months ago

Note

Can you do Jayce and Viktor finding out that one of them got reader pregnant (Viktor thinks there’s no way he could got reader pregnant because of sickness) but when the baby is born they look just like Viktor?

OOPS… - JAYVIK X READER

synopsis: y’all fucked up, literally and figuratively. You’re pregnant. You didn’t plan for this, even though you should’ve; y’all fuck like rabbits. But now you’re at the end of your pregnancy, you can’t help but wonder which one of your partners knocked you up.

warnings: pregnancy, mentions of morning sickness, changes in appetite/appearance, weird cravings, giving birth (not detailed), pre-established relationship (YALL ARE MARRIED) Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/m/f

p.s. cute and funny request… may I pray this never finds me. I'd probably only get pregnant for them and they're not real. To any reader who's experienced this and or has kids, you're a trooper and I salute you, cause fuck that!

PART 2

The three of you had an accident you can't help but think as you look at a positive pregnancy test. Most babies are oopsie babies, you comfort yourself.

You never planned for this, this was never in your equation. But you feel a small sense of fondness, its proof of your love; your boys.

You wish somehow this baby was both of theirs. They could have Viktor’s eyes, Jayce's nose, your smile. They'd be perfect. But that's impossible, so only of your lovers knocked you up.

You wonder who did it.

Oh well… now you gotta break the news to them first. Then you can speculate who fertilized one of your eggs.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Essentially ten months pass by in a flash. Your stomach gets bigger and bigger, your back and feet ache, you can’t stop throwing up the first trimester, your cravings are wild and your boys get you whatever you want no matter the time. Even if it’s dead at night.

Everything was normal that day until your water broke. You three rushed to the hospital and got set up in a delivery room. Jayce and Viktor are nervous, pacing, and worriedly looking at you. Giving birth can be incredibly dangerous, and they don’t want to lose you.

They’re by your side the whole time, holding your hand, putting a cold towel on your head, motivating you. They made the process as easy as they could. The three of you even joke around.

“I can’t wait to see which one of you knocked me up.”

Jayce and Viktor choke a bit before laughing, “It could be either of us honestly. We’re kinda like rabbits.”

“Jayce!”

“What?”

“It’s probably Jayce’s. I can’t imagine my illness makes it good for my own fertility.” Viktor adds quietly. His tone low and a bit melancholic. You and Jayce look at him and deny his statement. “You don’t know that! Have you been gotten tested or is it an assumption?”

“Assumption.”

Then you scream, and your boys panic pressing the call button on the side of your bed. Two nurses rush in and ask to check your dilation, you agree.

One nurse checks, then the other nurse. One states you’re fully dilated and the other rushes to call for the doctor.

Now it’s time to deal with one of the most painful moments of your life.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re panting, your entire body hurts, and you think you may have broken Jayce’s hand. It’s all worth it when you hear your baby cry.

“It’s a healthy boy! Congratulations!” A nurse says as she lightly cleans your baby, making sure not to let the fluid from birth stay on his skin for too long; we don’t want him to become hypothermic.

She hands your baby to you and his cries immediately cease. He looks up to you and you gasp lightly. He’s Viktor’s. He’s 100000000% Viktor’s.

They’re identical.

You tear up lightly and sniffle. It’s like looking into a tiny mirror of your partner. Same eyes, even though babies are typically born with blue eyes; your baby has Viktor’s golden eyes. Same eyebrow shape, same nose, same lips. They even share the same beauty mark by their eye.

You laugh a bit and your boys look over to your tiny boy. Jayce’s eyes widen as he chuckles, and pats Viktor on his shoulder. Viktor just stands there speechless.

“I carried you for essentially ten months and you come out looking just like your daddy? You’re perfect!” You coo at your baby, your baby coos back at you and you have to hold back a squeal.

“You can’t have kids, huh?” Jayce jokes and Viktor grumbles. Viktor’s demeanour isn’t very scary due to his beaming smile as he looks down at his baby. Your baby. Jayce’s baby.

“So, what’re we naming him?”

You blank for a second. Shit, you didn’t think of that. Oops.

“I never planned on having kids, so I never planned any names.”

Viktor looks blankly at you, “Me neither.”

The two of you look at Jayce. He shrugs lightly, “I didn’t expect to have kids but I did come up with names when I was younger. I always liked James for a boy, and Rose for a girl.”

“You romantic. Rose, really?”

“At least I thought of names, leave me alone Viktor.”

You giggle at them, “James it is. James Talis. It does sound nice huh?”

Viktor and Jayce stop bickering and look at you with hearts in their eyes. Oh, it’s official. You’re now four.

Welcome to the world, James Talis. You’re already loved more than you could ever imagine.

The only men I’d give birth for. Hope y’all liked this!! Love ya ❤️

#arcane #viktor arcane #jayce talis #arcane imagine #arcane x reader #jayvik x reader #jayce x viktor x reader #fem!reader #banners by cafekitsune

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sleepy-fiction · 3 months ago

Text

Don't Tell Your Boyfriend.

lin lie x f!reader SMUT

syn: After revealing his hero identity to his long time gf, who is also a giant fan of Iron Fist, Lin treats her with reenacting her wettest, wildest, Iron Fist dreams.

tgs: cunnilingus (male + fem recieving), bdsm, powerplay, degrading kink, erotic asphyxiation, minor breeding kink, throat fucking, role-playing in bed, command play, sweet fluff, Iron fist x reader

an: this might be the best thing I've ever written. it definitely is the longest now. ofc i had to sprinkle a lil AuDHD spec on the reader, its a great fic. Barely beta read

4.8K words

You're pulled gruffly into Iron Fist's lap, your hands cupping his face with a fiendish whine. He grinds deep against you, his bulge making sweet music against your crotch, the friction making you whimper.

You were impossibly impossible. Impossibly horny, impossibly hard to figure out, impossibly stubborn, impossibly silly, and impossobly wild. But you continued to be the impossible, as Lin, your Iron Fist, made it possible for you to be yourself with him.

So you showed him all of your weird colors.

Your weirdest, being how sensitive you were to sexual stimulation, despite the years spent together.

You were quivering now, as he tongued you down in his Super suit. An act you begged him to do once you found out your boyfriend of 2 years was the handsome superhero you had a major crush on. It's worse that he chose to tell you in your room, that was adored with figures and merchandise dedicated to him. Even worse, as, they day you met, you were drunkenly being carried from the bar by Lin, babbling on and on about your one-side sexual pursuit of Iron Fist.

A very dedicated, gorey, and lengthy conversation that he remembers in full, as not a single droplet of alcohol was in his system.

Funny, he left his number on a sticky note before leaving, simply saying that you were "too cute." Or now, now that you know that he is the newest Iron Fist, he simply wanted to toy with you. Fuck, even as your boyfriend, he enabled you so damn hard with your obsession, buying you the first Iron Fist Merch as it dropped, sometimes "pulling strings" and getting them early. Watching every Iron Fist movie, comic, and even taking you to "see him" in person on occasion.

Hell that's not even counting the times Iron Fist saved you from mortal danger, flirting with you until you had to bark him off. Despite your attraction to him, you were loved and was loyal to Lin Lie before anyone else. But still Iron Fist wouldn't give up. You were shocked to note, on a star-stricken patrol that you ran into him, that he remembered your name.

Worst of all, you remember for your most recent birthday, Lin bought a cheap Iron Fist costume and wore it. And let's just say one thing led to another. Despite seeing how similar Lin was to Iron Fist, you literally didn't see the connection of him actually being Iron Fist. Afterall, you had been obsessed with Iron Fist for years, it only makes sense for you to fall maddening in love with a guy who looks and sounds just like him.

Lin loved to tease you about it too, he said the same thing!

But fuck.

It finally all clicked together.

Lin Lie, Iron Fist, was toying with you.

You were too humiliated to look at Lin for a week after learning it all.

So when you finally got back to normal, and all the emotions died down, buried sexual desire crawled out the belly of the deep. Sexual desire for Iron Fist. Sexual desire for Lin Lie. Sexual desire that the only two men you've ever loved were the same. Then came your ovulation week, and it was like the flood gates opened up. Literally and figuratively.

You were dripping wet.

There you are, sitting in Lin's lap in your bedroom. He sat in your chair by your desk, a cool breeze flowing in from the window left open by you. The night air was cool and crisp, the crickets singing their night song, as the blurr of warm city lights melted in from it. You'd been wanting to kiss Iron Fist for a while. Though now that you're here, you can feel how achingly different this was over the cheap costume.

Back then you were fucking Lin Lie as Iron Fist.

Now you're fucking The Iron Fist.

But you have to stop and recall how all of this started.

Iron Fist had knocked on your window, just minutes prior to sending your boyfriend off to sleep. So you can imagine the conflicting surprise that bubbled in you. Even worse, Iron Fist didn't acknowledge that he was Lin Lie. Even worser, he played as if they were too different people.

"Hey, doll. You'll let me in, hmm?"

"L-Lin," you stammered, your heart pounding, your eyes unable to believe what was there before you. The Iron Fist was-- Fuck wait no your boyfriend in--?? Iron Fist? Your Lin was dress-- Ah your brain couldn't come to a conclusion, but what you saw was the impossibly impossible Iron Fist, standing on your fire escape, pushing your window open and stepping into your room.

You weren't used to it. You've only seen the real Iron Fist as Lin Lie-- Or Lin Lie as the real Iron Fist(?) Once and it send you catatonic for weeks. Now he's here again, toying with you.

"Lin? That's your boyfriend, huh? Don't worry, he doesn't have to know," Iron Fist grins, those deliciously plump lips of his a sweet pink. You fall back on your bed, paralyzed in aw, sitting on the edge as you watched The Iron Fist parade around your room. He looked at all your figures, your carpet, the merch hanging on your walls.

Your hand trembled over your heart.

This was different than the cheap costume. He had the aura, the capacity. He stood so tall, he walked with zealous fire beneath his feet, his movement precise and serious. It was the suffocatingly strong presence, those ripped muscles out on display, and in that professionally crafted suit that drove you mad. A mask with eyes that moved. His suit wasn't laughable and plastic-y the way Lin's was, it was pressed, it was hand stitched, the patterns on them glew, glew like the bandages restraining those dangerous fits.

"Wow, you are a really big fan. I'm flattered. Thanks for the support," he hushes slyly.

This was something you've never told your boyfriend before (oh but you have, the day you met him), but you liked to imagine Iron Fist could hurt you with those hands. Not that he does, but just knowing that in one small move, he could completely injure you turned you on. Your legs quivered, your brain frying. He hushes, "Does your boyfriend know?"

Now that you know that is Lin, you didn't feel the need to shoo him or protect yourself from his bewitching gaze.

You ask, "K-Know what?" You're slowly coming to, blinking as you finally process his words.

Iron Fist turns to you and grins worse, "That I'm in here."

He steps booming steps toward you, you flinch your eyes closed, your breath hitching. Your eyes take in the sound of his breath, the sound of his chuckles as large hands dust under your chin. As a thumb steals it, and pulls your gaze up. You hesitantly open your eyes, admiring how close he was, admiring his mask, and how real he felt. God, your head was spinning.

"Hehe... Good girl," he whispers.

You reach to grab purchase of his forearm, but he pulls away. You blink in disbelief, your finger tips ghosting over your chin. But all that is brought away from you as you hear Lin Lie smack his thigh.

Your eyes whip to him, his hands patting him, legs spread out in your chair. He had pulled the arm rests up, giving him all the room to spread.

He looked so sexy, you swallowed thickly. You stood, not needing any further information, and sat down in his spread legs, your core directly on him. Iron Fist grunts briefly, his strong hands building up your waist and feeling your hips.

You short circuit again, eyes wide and lips agape, just admiring with your hands stuck to your chest. "You can touch me too, ya'know. Here, come feel me," he speaks. Iron Fist gently grabs your hand, and lays it assertively on the middle of his broad chest. He's warm, you can feel his slow heart beat, as he guides your hand up and down his broad body.

He soon leaves you there, as your other hand joins in replacement. You stroke up his red and yellow dragon logo, his chest is so large, so strong. Your hands continue up to those burly shoulders of his, feeling how hard they were like stones, before dragging your hands up his neck. You muttered, "Lin," a soft smile dusting your face as you gaze up yo stare deep into his eyes.

Iron Fist's face cracks for a moment before throwing on a smile. His hands trail up your back as he hushes, "He won't know. I won't tell him."

You grin, shaking your head in disbelief, hands falling back to his chest. Iron Fist leans up, his hand stealing the back of your head as he pulls you into a kiss. His touch is sturdy, trapping you to his lips, as his tongue inflirates your mouth. You slurp it up, gripping the edges of his uniform. You moan out, "Iron Fist." And his other hand slips from your hips to grip your ass as a reward. You moan into his lips again.

You're sat in your hero's lap, straddling his body and feeling his heat against you. Your core is pressed against his half hard cock, your hands trailing up to cup beneath his ears as he took you through it. He pushed and pulled the kiss, carrying you in it like the tides chasing the shores. Your eyes were shut close, your heart beat paced, your finger tips familiarizing yourself with the pulse from beneath his warm skin.

When you broke away, grunts and pants fell the air, needy and desperate.

"Mmh, (y/n)," Iron Fist hums, still holding your ass cheek in one hand, "say my name again." It's a deathly command, almost sing sung like a deep growl. Your eyes romantically search his, wide and glossy, as a fond smile braced your face.

You spoke, "Iron Fist..."

"Fuck... Yeah, good girl," he whispers.

He steals back your lips more passionately this time, his plump lips soft like heaven, his tongue hot and wet, desperately licking you through like candy. And you slurped him up as he came in. He started to grind against you, your hands gripping him a bit tighter in shock. You gasp absurdly, throwing your head back. You mewled, "Iron Fist," sensitivity crawling up your body.

Iron Fist smirks, "Shhh, can't be too loud. He'll wake." He reaches up, trailing his hands up your stomach and to grope your breasts, adoring how soft they felt beneath his hands. His hand slips under your shirt, feeling up your hot skin, before unclipping your bra and caressing your breast freely. You moan, the slow friction driving you crazy. You grinded down on him,feeling his clothed shaft brush over your clothed hole. You puckered aggressively and swallowed thick.

Iron Fist pinched your nipples beneath his thumb and index, you shiver softly.

You gasp, "Aah... Iron Fist... I'm your biggest faan," your brain clouds over, "my boyfriend gets me all your merchandise... He even gets them- ooh... Mmng, months earlier than their market release..." It's the truth, the truth that Iron Fist didn't know, only Lin Lie.

He cackles, his sharp, pearly teeth twinkling behind his plump, pink lips. They were so perfect. Your fingers crawled up and ran over them gently as he spoke again, "You'll have ta' thank him for me, bunny." He softly bites your fingertips, hearing you cry out in response.

His hands pull your shirt off your body, you easily help him do so, and then your bra is next to fly off. He takes in the sight with a deep sigh, his hands running over your ribcage soothingly. All that fades, as he slaps your ass hard, hard enough for you to yelp.

He commands, "Get down." Those ferocious hands of his slide away, as you quickly stand. You drop down to your knees in front of him, crawling in deep to his spread legs, and running your hands along his inner thigh. You rest your cheek against one of his thighs, staring at him with big eyes as he fishes out his big cock.

It's eight whole inches, thick and stocky, burly but as pink as the tip of his nose. His head is wide, and he's wider towards the middle of his dick than anywhere else. An amazing cock you familiarized yourself with as your boyfriend Lin's. You giggle at it, scooping up the monstrosity with both hands. You gaze up at him teasingly, "Iron Fist-," you can here Lin sigh wistfully at the name, "Are you sure this is okay? What if the media learns about this... It'll be a big scandal," you whimper as you lean in to pepper kisses on his shaft.

He laughs, "Just giving my biggest fan the attention she deserves." His hands scoop up a fist full of your hair. "Now suck it. Show your hero how much I really mean to you," he spits it with degrading venom, making your eyes shut tight.

His grip is so strong, he's got you locked in his powerful hands. Hands he's seen destroy villians with time and time again. He's restricting you, guiding your lips to bump against his tip. You spread your lips obediently, ogling up at the sight of Iron Fist, legs spread, and mouth agape in desire. He fucks your face down on his fat dick, a quarter of his burly dick fits in your mouth before it hits the back of your throat. You moan on it, the vibrations causing him to hiss out.

You wrap a hand around his base and suck, hollowing out your cheeks and protecting him from your front teeth with your lips. You bob and slurp up whatever could fit in your mouth, the rest massaged by both of your hands. Iron Fist groans breathlessly, "so beautiful."

He was entranced by the sweet sight that was you descending on his cock. He watched as one of your hand briefly left him to trail up his turquoise super suit, pressing deep against his abdomen before sliding back down. You never fled his stare for a second, sucking him so geninuely, so innocently.

He'd been wanting to fuck you like this for so long. He didn't know whether to laugh or to cry with how loyal you were to his real self, Lin Lie. Just once, he wanted a sneaky rendezvous, just to play with your mind and really role-play that high. The high of fucking someone's (his) girlfriend as a superhero. Letting loose and doing whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn't that kind of person, but when he saved you that one day, your head resting in his lap, stating up at him with glossy beady eyes. God, the fantasy sprung up too much to control.

He started teasing you not for the fun, but thrill of seeing if you'd ever cave. You didn't so, tonight he had planned to make it all happen.

His legs tense as he moans out, your tongue swirling around him, and you bobbed your head. He wasn't much of a head reciever. He liked the power that came with it, but most of the time, more than half of him was left hanging out. Besides, he couldn't fuck rough the way he loved to while receiving. But you liked to do it, so he let you. He'd be lying to say it wasn't good though.

You always pushed yourself to take in more. "Yeah, that's it," he whispered. He pushed more of himself deeper in your mouth, cooing sweet nothings, and slowly thrusting into you. The sounds you made were delicious, as you gagged and huffed, tears panging your eyes. "Take in all of Iron Fist's cock, slut," he cackles, you wince in delight.

He pushes in further, hearing you gag, and feeling his head slip into the back of your throat. Despite face fucking you, he was cautiously slow. His grip on you had lessened, even shook at some of your gags, as if he were nervous. You would giggle if you could, after all, only your Lin would be so worried.

Your hands had moved off to stroke his clothed, turqoise inner thighs, trying to keep your breathing steady through your nose as he pushed in. He kept going all the way until your lips brushed his abdomen, your chin brushing against his balls. He groaned out, "Ffuck, bunny. 'M all the way in your mouth," a strung of mandarin curses flew out his mouth, the sound of it making you flinch and moan, your legs clenching together.

His eyebrows quirks under the mask, "Oh? Nǐ xǐhuān wǒ zhèyàng shuōhuà ma," he hushes out. You grip his thigh more in despair, grunting out as he guides your face up and down his shaft. "Hmm? Tù tù? Aah... Nǐ kàn qǐlái hěn piàoliang... Tù tù," not understanding any of it all, you recognized "Tù tù" as some sort of nickname by how affectionate his voice seemed to turn.

Oh? You like when I talk this way? Hmm? Bunny? Aah, You're too beautiful, bunny.

You slurp your tongue around him, using your hand to lightly smack his forearm away. Despite feeling like nothing to him, it flies from your hair, and you place both hands on his abdomen. You bob down, gagging but taking his cock down in, before jerking your head back up, his dick was covered in spit and drool, the sight so sinful, he bucks into you. You huff deeply from your nose, but he doesn't stop thrusting forward into you, much quicker than before too.

In fact, his glowing hands grab your head again, pushing you down deep against his cock, you pull at his pants. He growls out, "Nǐ bù zhīdào wǒ zài shuō shénme, nǐ bù zhīdào wǒ néng duì nǐ zuò shénme. Dàn nǐ xǐhuān zhèyàng, nǐ fēicháng xǐhuān tā. Bùshì ma, Tù tù?" His tone is so degrading, so harsh and aggressive, ans under the relentless thrusts into the back of your throat, you cry out helplessly.

You don't know what I'm saying, you don't know what I'll do to you. But that's what you like, you love it. Don't you?

"You love feeling so fucking helpless, huh," he spits out in English, and your hands slips down into your underwear to retaliate. Your fingers press and fidget with your swollen, sticky digit, your other hand keeping purchase on his thigh. "Take this cock, Biǎo zǐ... Your Iron Fist's bitch now," he moans.

bitch/whore

Your fingers frantically fuck into yourself, wrist ans shoulder aching and struggling in the restrictions, but you couldn't care less. Manically, you felt and curved your walls, toes clenching as you ride off this high. You want to mewl and cry out his name so bad, it's pathetic how you still tried, and ruptured in nothing but unrecognizable mumbles. More vibrations to send to his high.

"I'm cumming," he pants, thrusting into you a for the last time before pulling out and shooting loads all over your face. You obediently close your eyes, feeling his hot load dribble down your face. "Shit, bunny," he sighs, watching you sweetly open your eyes. He reaches forward, wiping his cum off with his thumb, his free hand stroking his half soft dick. He sits up right, leaning forward and smearing his cumm off on your tits while you cough.

"Ha-ah... Iron Fist," you try to speak but he cuts you off.

"Go lay down, bunny," he says ever so affectionately. Lin was sneaking out again.

"No, Iron Fist," you whisper.

He asks, "Yeah, bunny?"

"Mmh," you pull your fingers out of you, and hold them up for him to see, "I came," you sighed. Your fingers were prune, dribbling in thick white fluids.

Iron Fist's eyes twitch for a moment, a steady groan smoothing out his lips. He grabs you by the neck, you gasp in surpise, "Stand up," he commands. You meekly stand with him, trying your best not to trip over his feet. He walks you back to the bed and drops you on it, your legs flying up in the calamity.

You mewl, "Ooh!" Your hands rushing to feel your neck as he shreds your clothes off you like butter. He grabs your legs, pushing them up against your chest, and moves you up higher on the bed, crawling in after you.

He hushes, "Does your boyfriend fuck you in this bed," his hand clamps around your neck again, his free hand slipping two fat digits in your body, fucking you with them briskly. You gasp at the question, and choke up even more at the sudden speed. "Huh? Answer, Biǎo zǐ."

bitch/whore

You shake your head, your toes curling up your hands gripped tight around his forearm. You squeak, "Mmyes! H-He does!"

"He spent all that effort and money on you, and look at you now. Drooling on my cock, clenching around my fingers... Buying you my shit to satisfy your hunger for me," he cackles, plunging out and twisting his fingers so his thumb could bump your clit whike he thrusted, "Doesn't even know Im fucking you in his sleep. How unfortunate, haah... Mmh, what a good little fan you are, keeping your hero happy, bunny," he hisses spitefully.

Humiliation makes your face grow hot, but he continues his thrusts just as you open your mouth, "L-Lin? Aah--"

"Iron Fist. Call me it, Tù tù," he groans wistfully, trying his hardest not to smile.

You quickly catch the hint, shutting your eyes and moaning out, "Iron Fist-- Iron Aah." You tighten your grip on his forearm, and following your command, he tightens his grip on your neck. You hiss out, "Fuck me please-suh. Please Iron Fist. F-Fuck mee!"

"Holy shit," he moans, slipping his finger out. It takes two milliseconds before he's onto of you, pulling your butt closer to him, as he uses his free hands to aline up with your sloppy hole. He slips a few times, "Shit-shit," but quickly, he glides right into your sweet walls.

You both moan out in unison. You watch IronFist's head sling back, a mantra of mandarin curses slipping off his tongue. His free hand slips down to join the other around your neck, beginning to thrust rough. Hard smacks echo across the space, forcing you to groan out, nails digging into his bandages' arms. He was so beefy, so large, so in control as he glides almost all the way out and slammed back in. Your walls seem to flutter and purr in delight, the slick sounds coating his bare dick in watery drool.

The addictive feeling of Lin Li-- Iron Fist's dick thrusting in and out was mind-killing. His enlarged, thick dick was stretching out your walls. Each full thrust ringing against your cervix, deep into you to stimulate all of you. Not a part of you wasn't buzzing with his piping hot, hard dick. It pillaged it's way through you, opening you up so hot you could feel him press around in your stomach, your bladder pushed and rubbed against. He was so hard but deliciously soft and squishable, the sharpness foreign and erotic, but the velvety softness was easy on your sensitive walls. You felt so full, so completed despite the slow, aggresive thrusts.

The precision on his thrusts kept him hammering the same spot. The wind up of him slowly pulling out, making your breath hitch delectably right before being rewarded with a stimulating slam. Your mind had shut off by then, your face outfucked, mouth agape half sure there's drool dribbling out the corners of your mouth. Your moans are giggly and amused, his name, "I-Iron-- Fist! Ooh! Aah... Iron-- Fist! Mhm," being the only thing you know to say. You break it up everytime, crying out Iron seconds before he slams in, and crying out Fist as the high pangs your body.

Lin's brain too shut off, almost like a dog or an ape, he's fucking you just to hear your sounds. He loves how you wrap around him, how hot you are, both literally and physically. Off in your own world while he pummels you. Both hands on your neck were just for thrust control, but damn, he liked the subtle rasp it added to your voice. You were so sweet, the way you changed his name, it made his eyes haze over, and his cock to twitch deep inside you. He loved you too much. Way too much.

It was in the middle of your chant that he suddenly began to speed up. His pace ferocious, as he leaned his weight down and dropped his head, fucking you just to get off now. You had your fun, he was getting tired. His head was spinning way too much, his dick screaming to buss a load deep within you. The urge was so overcoming, so primal. It rang throughout him, especially when your cervix sweetly kissed him. He loved the way your lips spread around his dick, how your folds hung around him like a coat. How you were enjoying yourself so much.

God he was obsessed with you.

Your moans spiraled out of control, your hands now gripping his meaty upper arms, your chin caught open and familiarizing itself with his thumbs. You were wild, beautiful.

Shit he was going to cum.

He slammed deep inside you, shooting out his ribbons into your cervix, pushing you down into him just as much as he slammed up, grunting and groaning, his voice breathy and strained. He came for so long, his cum sucked up by your womb, the hot sensation making your eyes curl back. "Ff-uck... Oough, Ff-- Shiiit," he groaned out. And when he shot his last, he ripped out of you.

You were a mumbling mess, teary eyed as you desperately tried to exclaim, "Iron... I-Iron fi..ist... Aah mmfist... My- ah... mmy cliitt," your brain was failing you, your hands smacking his arm. He was built like a stone, so it felt like nothing to him.

"Ah," it clicked, "Sorry, bunny," he laughed. He sunk downwards, half resting against the bed and the floor for a second, before sucking in your (now) engorged muscle. You cried out in overstimulation, gripping maddening chunks of jet black hair. He forced your legs open with his hands, knowing damn well you just wanted him to help you out, give you a few twirls so you could cum too. But that wasn't as fun.

You were really crying by now the sound was so sadistically sweet in this context. Your words were nothing but babbles, sentences starting somehow ans ending up nowhere. The only thing he could make out was begging, you begging so hard as your body raised and arched. You arched off the bed, pretty tits flying up in the air. And with one giant gasp, you groaned deep into the air, the sound long and strained.

He licked you so peacefully slow during your climax, eyes gleaming with affection. And as you fell back against the bed, he stood up, tucking his soft penis back in his pants. He stroked your belly with his hand, his other hand caressing your raised knee. There's this stupidly soft smile on his face, laced with goofy admiration. That was totally your Lin Lie, not that you could really focus anyway, you panted hard, your brain completely shut off.

"Well, bunny... Let's do this again, yeah? I've got lives to save," He leans down, kissing your neck slowly and smooth. He leaves one final kiss on your forehead before diving into your lips, "Mmbye," he sings, have of his words stopped by your lips.

You watch almost helplessly, as Iron Fist escapes out the window he came in from. Throwing you one final look before shutting the window, and disappearing into the night. You sat blankly, blinking in confusion, feeling as cum dribbled out of your pussy uncomfortably and ran down your ass crack.

Did he seriously just--

Within seconds, your door flies open. Lin, hapzardly dressed in a tossed on pj's and disheveled hair, stood panting heavily, a warm wet towel in his hands. "B-Buh... Haa," he panted roughly, "B-Baby your clothes... If you uh-- Were needy you've c-couldve told me I wouldn't have went to bed," he heaves. You can't help but laugh, his sweet black eyes narrowing in on your affectionately, his face flushed with a stupid smile.

He rushes over to you and frantically cleans you up, infected by your giggles.

He squeaks, "W-Whoa, bunn-- Uh!"

You laugh worsens, his eyes bulges out.

"Baby! B-Baby, you really did a uhhh... Ah fuck it. Holy shit, come here," he gives up quickly, sinking into his laughing girl, trapping his hands around your head.

He dribbles kisses all over you.

"Did you like it? Were you okay," he whispers into your skin.

"Mmhm... Iron Fist was great," you sigh.

He pulls you with him futher on the bed, laying you on his chest, you can hear how intense his heartbeat was.

"We gotta do that again soon," he smiles.

"Definitely," you giggle.

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