#no heat allowed in my dark soul | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kithtaehyung · 27 days ago

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minted: three (explicit) | myg

title: minted: part three (m) pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader series: masterlist | one | two rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: at this point, you would do anything to forget. including the unthinkable with a gangster. note: sooo this series basically saved my writing slump haha. i am still having the time of my life and i’m so excited to show y’all more of this minted universe. and to also show you just how spicy things can get❤️‍🔥 note 2: this is ofc a present for hali @sailoryooons that spiraled into a whole universe. still always gonna thank nary @joonary for letting me use the vendor reader idea, as well! also happy birthday to @remmykinsff @awbells @keylime4eva @aaclariww and @noshit-cantfindagoodone!! to everyone else having a bday around this time, this is my gift to you hehehe. warnings: language, drugs, alcohol, slow burn, murder mentions, gang activity, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, chains bc of course :)), world-building, reader is still sassy, yoongi is still infuriating, tension explicit warnings: under the cut! drop date: december 9th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 12.3k 😀👍

explicit warnings: i know it’s a slow burn but there’s definitely smut lol, choking, head/hair tugging, penetration, oral (f rec), backshotssss, marking bye, rough sex, ass play, breast play, his hands are a nice necklace😀, taunting cus reader’s an icon, thighs, breath play, spanking, hand job, protected sex, multiple orgasms, restraints (his hands, robe tie), brat!reader but who is honestly shocked🙂‍↔️, brat tamer!yoongi lmao, yoongi is a menace i’m sorryyyy, but reader is…?????, need them both™, teasing, rawdogging HELLO?? (pls wrap it up fr!), commanding yoongi a ha ha, pain kink, cowgirl🙂‍↕️, this is just the calm before a whole damn storm

—

“But,” you exhale with a shake. “Just for tonight…”

This is it.

The brink of no return.

Your soul dips into the dark.

“Please make me fucking forget.”

Did you go too far?

Is there a limit to his accommodation? Did you actually think this was gonna be easy?

When silence swirls between your robes, you start to second guess your demand.

But Yoongi simply stares before stepping aside, allowing you to enter his room with jellied legs.

This is madness, but you’re gonna go through with it. Whatever the hell this will be. Because you may not know much, but you figure all men sit up the same when sex is on the table.

This man, though...

Quite frankly, you aren’t sure about anything when it comes to him. Unless it’s about him doing something questionable. Then there’s no question about it.

The enigma himself makes no conversation as you step inside, even as your eyes roam around a cleaner, more put-together room than when you left the first time. Did Yoongi clean this much while you made a mess of your dreams?

The only answer you get is a door shutting, followed by a massive presence at your back. Before you can so much as turn around, the first words on your shoulders burn like embers,

“Was he your first.”

Fuck.

This isn’t what you approached him for. He’s supposed to make you forget, not remember. Remember?

You don’t turn around; you don’t respond right away. Instead, you swallow before focusing very hard on the fact that Yoongi sleeps on the bedside nearest the window. At least, judging by the way the covers are flipped. You happen to prefer the side opposite.

The heat from his body proves soft but intense, and you can’t help but close your eyes when you finally answer with a question,

“Do you remember yours?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“No.”

Your vision lowers to the rug lying still under the bed. A splash of light grey amongst a darkened, moonlit sea.

No matter how quick Yoongi answers. No matter how even his tone.

He still remembers it, too.

But this isn’t what you expected when you walked in here. You assumed this man was going to get right to it, save no room for you to second guess yourself. Clearly he gave zero shits about kissing you in that taxi, and he damn near undressed you in the living room.

So what’s the holdup here? Does he want this for real? Or not?

Head at a slight angle, you admit with a hint of finality, “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Mm.” A warm, rough hand subtly tugs at your belt, and prominent knuckles nudge through the smooth material of your robe. “So what are you really here for.”

Your eyes blink thrice.

Yoongi cannot be serious. Does he really not know?

No. He knows. With a shift of your jaw, you realize he’s just fucking with you, purposefully not in the way you want. “You’re being difficult.”

“You woke me up.”

Ah. That’s fair.

“So tell me.”

Well. If you’re gonna have to spell things out for him, he’s gonna be waiting for awhile. Because the more you stand here not doing anything, the harder it is to gather a little thing called courage. Courage to meet the beast in his den, and madness to let him devour you whole. Now you have neither. Neither, neither, neither.

Awkwardness sticks to your throat until it’s jammed, and you can barely mush your lips together to form sounds. The courage you speak of flees before you can wrangle it, and what’s left of your answer tumbles out like boulders, “This is.. I don’t.. I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It’s,” you huff, noting that you don’t like this horrible mix of hesitation and anger, “It’s… I’m—”

Your vision jolts as you feel a quick tug shit you’re spinning fuck your back just hit a wall—

“Of all things today,” Yoongi murmurs with slits for eyes, “This is what gets you to shut up?”

Damn it.

You don’t even have a rebuttal. Because he’s right. Yoongi’s sharp discernment is millimeters from your face and you have no intention to move nor speak. Only quick breaths. Only shaky exhales.

But you do swallow.

Which brings out a sound you will never admit you like: a breathy, condescending laugh, as coarse and as soft as his touch.

“You mean to tell me,” he observes, tilting your chin while his irises blaze dark, “You came all the way in here for nothing?”

“No, I—”

“All that talk, and for what.”

Defend yourself. Say something. Say just one word two words any words—

Did Yoongi just pat your cheek? ..Twice?

Why did you kinda like that—

“Makes no sense,” he ponders aloud, lolling his head and staring down your crumpled lips. “Who even are you..”

Now that's an easy one. You always have the answer to that question.

“No one,” you whisper. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Seems like the people back home aren’t the only ones you’ll let down. If Yoongi keeps that question loaded in the chamber, he’s gonna keep shooting the same target. Over, and over, and over.

But you don’t have to worry. Because he drops it, caging you in with a hand near your stiff, risen shoulder, “So what are you here for.”

This is a mistake. Either Yoongi doesn’t want this, or he’s being frustrating on purpose and your fire is both stoked and quelled. “Now I don’t know for sure.”

“The more you stall the harder it gets,” he goads with a lick of teasing. And for a split, minuscule second, you wonder if that meant more than one thing.

Goddamn, he’s annoying. He’s outright savoring this.

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. You woke him up for god’s sake. If someone did this same thing to you after the day you’ve had, you wouldn’t have even let them in.

Unfortunately for you, Yoongi’s version of dealing with a midnight inconvenience is whittling them down until they leave—

“So you can tell my bellhop off but I get nothing, huh.”

Oh, shit.

You’re so taken aback that you can only ask, “What?”

Mercifully, the dragon gives you air, straightening before leaving your personal space.

Your focus should be on his words. You know this. But he uses this moment to rake his hair, and words are no match for the sleeve cascading down his inked forearm.

Even as his hair flows in waves, you still cling to his tattoos as he looks downward in thought. “You think I wouldn’t check who the fuck was coming up here?”

It takes you a second to process.

But you realize what this means and you fall silent again.

Yoongi saw that? All of that? You acted without much thought, and if he really did see and hear everything that went down, there’s a chance he thinks a lot differently about you now. No wonder he’s so thrown by this switch in behavior.

But on the other hand.. The way he touched you in the living room. Was all that because of what he saw? Is that side of you the one that pulled him close?

You thought his parting would allow you room to breathe. How very wrong you were.

Shoving all contemplation aside, you decide to coat the room with concern, your assertion making a brief comeback, “He said a lot of shit, Yoongi. What was that about?”

He languidly approaches the long table at your side—one you faintly noticed while leaving the room the first time. Unbothered, he slides unhurried fingers over a gun, stopping on the barrel before reaching for something less lethal.

A decanter, it seems. Liquid flows from the container into a smaller glass, and you assume it’s whisky from the deep amber tones and luscious pour.

When you wonder where else Yoongi litters his weapons, he cuts through your surveying,

“You really wanna know?”

Looking up, you nod.

He sets the bottle down with a dull clink. “He took his chances.”

“His.. What?”

Now what the hell could this man mean by that? You were clearly being coaxed into leaving the premises, vaguely feeling like something seemed off. How is he being so dismissive about all this?

Slowly, Yoongi shakes his head, looking out into the night while taking his initial sip. “I don’t come here often. But when I do, I come alone.” Long fingers nestle his cup perfectly as he explains further, “It’s been awhile, so. Had to feel out the staff.”

The staff. Is that why Yoongi held your hand? To weasel someone out? You really thought he meant it when he said he just wanted to…

How naive.

“His plan could’ve been solid.”

“But what?” You ask, newfound frustration clipping your tone.

Yoongi slides you a look over the rim of his glass. “He didn’t know who he’d be dealing with.”

Your eyes roll so far they strain.

But this begs a question. Does he mean dealing with you? Or him? Surely he meant your little show at the elevator but he could very well mean himself.

Facts are facts. Would Yoongi really trade il-don for you? Absolutely not. So you have to assume he’s mostly talking about the latter.

Your scoff is pitched to the side, “Of course. You wouldn’t trade il-don for anything.”

Yoongi pauses, not acknowledging your comment in the slightest as he strolls back your way. “Something I am curious about..” As he leans in, musk and whisky invade both your space and senses. And you hate, hate, hate that you need more of it. “Who was he talking to?”

“Someone he royally pissed off.”

“Mm.”

“You’re not gonna punish him?”

“Me? Nah.” Leaning on the sideboard, he stares out the windows across the room. Your vision follows suit. “Not until I have to.”

If what happened wasn’t enough to warrant a punishment, you’re morbidly curious about what ticks the box. “I figured he’d be dead by now. At least for trespassing.”

Yoongi only shrugs. “Grey zones aren’t just amnesty for the clans. Anything goes here, too, so a ransom attempt isn’t surprising.”

This man really doesn’t stand on black or white. Here you are with eggs for brains discovering you were almost taken instead of saved, and he’s chalking it up to, what, just another Tuesday? Or is it still Monday? You don’t even know anymore.

Your question leaves you a little scuffed. Because you feel exactly like leftover goods. The fruit at the back. “Are you always this heartless?”

“So I’ve been told.”

Great.

So much for being… Safe up… here…

You glance at the touch on your hip, and your eyes traverse up his arm as he toys with your belt again.

Shouldn’t you feel disgusted? Shouldn’t you be walking away? It’s crystal clear how little this man thinks of you, or anyone for that matter. He probably brought you along just to be a shield for his precious il-don. So why can’t you bring yourself to leave?

Your knot starts to loosen.

His voice begins to flow.

“But if you’re gonna go for what’s mine, don’t be an idiot.”

Wait.

No. Nope. Stop thinking about what that could mean. Because if you think too hard, it will only leave you disappointed.

But there’s something you won’t stop doing. And Yoongi knows you won’t. So as he keeps playing at your waist, your words come out in shudders,

“Can’t believe you used me.”

Yoongi hums, and it makes you shiver when his touch leaves you to rest against wood counters. “You’re about to use me, too.”

Fucking hell, he’s right.

“Gotta say I didn’t expect it, but..” Damn him and his head tilts. “I’m impressed.”

You’re too empty-headed that you can’t even process his words as genuine praise. His touches already feel like pops of lights in the night sky.

It’s a given. You aren’t prepared for him in the slightest.

“Come here.”

Lightly pulling your hand, Yoongi brings you to stand in front of him. And from this point of view, you become even more ensnared.

His robe flows down his taut build so beautifully, painting him like dark water over rolling hills. At his peak, the hair you’ve come to miss frames his face like artwork. Mesmerizing. Your downfall.

“You get one more chance. Tell me why I’m awake.”

Your brow lift is only a front. The rest of you is shaking, trembling, howling. “You clearly know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Relentless. Will you shame yourself for wanting to see him use this same strategy on other people? Most likely. But will that stop you from thinking about it anyway? Absolutely, positively not.

But there’s another side of you that’s being comforted. And it’s the side that realizes how much he’s spoken, how much time you’ve spent without needing to watch behind your back.

Yoongi talking this much? It’s making things easier. And it’s strangely making you feel a little better, even if the subject matter isn’t the greatest topic in the universe.

After you steal a glance at the other whisky glass, you look into his eyes. Determined and decisive. Knowing exactly what you want at this very moment, because you just need a little more time.

“Tell me more. About grey zones.”

Something in the air freezes. And Yoongi’s brows crease so comically you almost laugh. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

His nod is slow as he sets down his glass.

And you’re quickly hauled back so fast that you don’t have time to react.

A rush of air. The world topples. Soft sheets.

Dangerously, a thin chain sways above as Yoongi shrouds your body in silk and lingering smoke. A gasp escapes you as he peers into your eyes, and your senses fire as a commanding hand slides up your thigh.

“Final answer?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck you know you want him and you still do but also talking to him isn’t half bad and maybe you’re just tired of being lonely—

Musk. Alcohol. Breathing hard, you take it all in. Slowly nodding because you can’t function otherwise, which makes a dragon flash teeth.

But he obliges without moving a muscle, so you’re left underneath a demon—robe dangerously close to opening and exposing everything once again.

A man of conviction, Yoongi does exactly as you ask. Eyes drooped, he continues his explanations, as if he didn’t just shove you into his enormous bed and tangle you under his legs,

“They started awhile ago, back when all the high-powers got locked in a grudge match. Took half the city with them.”

Immediately, your shoulders start to sink into his tale. “Half is a lot.”

“Everything went to shit,” he agrees. “Not even the Politicol could stop it all.”

“Bullshit.”

His level expression is enough to refute.

Now that’s a shock to learn. For as long as you can remember, the Politicol have always held more power than any force should ever have. If they weren’t able to keep this under control, the high-powers used to be ungodly.

Staring at the slippage on Yoongi’s shoulder, you wonder if those ink lines are to immortalize the ones that came before him. The history he must’ve grown up memorizing.

Still.. Why does he have them all? There’s no way he doesn’t know how disrespectful that is to all three clans.

But then again. He said he didn’t choose them himself. Which leads you nowhere in this unending maze.

Head disheveled; robe coming undone. To outsiders, you’d be at Yoongi’s mercy.

But in reality, you’re laser focused on him and his explanations. Especially when his voice scratches every itch just right. “So…” You watch his gaze slowly slide down your face. “What happened?”

Even now, Yoongi’s hands stay exactly where they are. The only thing that moves is the tinkling swing of his silver above your warming neck. “Deals were made, stripping power from all of them in certain sectors so that none could completely take over.”

“Why only in certain ones?”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Let’s just say the negotiations went how you think they did.”

Your eyes roll yet again. But another question pings into your mind as quick as the first one, knitting your brows. “Wait… Deals with the Politicol? Or each other? No way they would’ve let cowards put them all on a leash.”

At this, something interesting passes over Yoongi’s face.

But it flits away before you can snatch it for further inspection, and the shift of his leg against your thighs resets your brain.

“Any of the clans could’ve monopolized if they had the right resource, but. They weren’t ever gonna let outsiders get a piece. Called a truce and kept their mouths shut.”

Makes sense. You know exactly what resource he’s referring to. “The il-don.”

“That’s part of it.” He shifts again, but this time, your legs have more room to move. “But grey zones have priority infrastructure. The ones that keep the lights on. If you had the money, you had the people. And people are the best resource there is.”

It’s at this moment that a lot of things click into place.

And one of those is figuring out that you may have been a little wrong about the man above you.

Is he heartless? To a high degree. But that comes with being calculating. Patient. Smart. Everything that Yoongi has been this entire time you’ve tagged along.

He’s not keeping the il-don safe because he treasures it. It’s because the money is a tool. A tool to help him get what he wants whenever he needs. And leverage it for value instead of frivolous decisions and material things.

Yoongi must have really, really enjoyed your tangerines.

A stray touch finally makes its way inside your thigh. And you flare between your legs. Shivering. Aching. You’re sparkling inside but won’t allow yourself to fully explode. Not when he’s revealing so much without telling. Not when you’re starting to see things from his angle.

“Keep talking,” you rush out, gripping his robe and squeezing his pelvis.

Though his fingers still light flares on your skin, Yoongi stops in his daring quest, observing your face without judgment.

“I like it,” you shakily admit. Because screw it, since you’ll never see him again. “Learning about all this.”

You sigh at his weight. His beautiful, strangely calming weight. “About you, too.”

Stopping all movements, Yoongi coats your skin with gravel. “What good will knowing all this do.”

He’s got a point. And it hammers home exactly what you were just thinking. “Nothing, maybe,” you answer, squeezing his robe a little longer.

Fuck, you really are this deprived. This lonely. Is bedding a dangerous man—this dangerous man—really better than being alone right now? A mental reset is outstandingly in order throughout the coming abysmal months.

You finish your weak explanation, hoping it’s enough to convince him,

“But it’s helping.”

Yoongi lifts his head to watch your eyes. And you observe how dark his are in return. How cold.

But yet.. Why do you also see…?

With a slight huff, you tack on, “And you aren’t so annoying to talk to right now.”

There it is. That spark you’ve seen before in dusty, tinkering streets. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I might.”

He exhales, shifting himself into a sitting position and facing the door. “The thing about grey zones.. No affiliation, no rules. You can be anyone here.”

When you lift your upper body to sit, you watch his side profile as you repeat, “Anyone?”

Yoongi turns to look at your lips.

You know there’s a question you want to ask. But for some reason, it’s difficult to say.

But eventually, you can’t help it. Because you’re intrigued. You’re haunted. And you really, really need this.

“Then who do you want me to be.”

He lets out a cross between a scoff and a laugh. Looking into your eyes, he asks in disbelief, “You?”

“I’m pretty good at pretending.”

“Sure you are.” He gives you another small grin before resting forearms on his knees. “But you don’t want my answer to that.”

Swallowing is proving too difficult. What the hell does he mean by that? Is it one big bluff or a real opinion? “You’re just being a pussy.”

All you get is the side of his cheek rising high.

Yeah. He’s not gonna tell you a damn thing.

“Forget about me then. Who are you right now?” You wait as his expression falls back to earth. “Agust? Or Yoongi?”

When you end with silence, you’re met with an approaching shadowed visage. And even in this moment, you sense static in the air, both of you poised and locked in a dangerous, thrilling dance.

“You tell me.”

Your breath cuts as he slips a finger inside your robe, and you dare not breathe when he pulls—slow, unhurried, intoxicating.

You’ve never felt quite like this.

Are you supposed to do something, too? Is there something that usually happens here? Your experience isn’t zero but it is clearly leagues below where it should be.

Before you can blink a third time, your garment is ever, ever so slightly off your shoulder.

And you haven’t uttered a damn thing.

So he keeps going, sliding it lower, and lower, until he reveals a part of you that you didn’t mean to reveal so suddenly before.

This time, it’s deliberate. And that makes it terrifying.

This is the point of no return. The slope of your chest barely keeps your robe from dipping any farther. It’s happening, and life between you will never be the same when it’s over.

And yet.

Your nerves speak up at the worst time.

“Get me a drink,” you whisper, “Then maybe I will.”

Yoongi flicks up an eyebrow before obliging, and you silently mourn the loss of his heated touch.

He walks over to pour you something neat, taking his time bringing both glasses to the bed. When you sit up properly, you habitually adjust your robe, scoffing at his hum.

“Thanks,” you whisper, taking the glass and smelling the piercing aroma. “Maybe this is what I needed all along.”

“You ever had sex before?”

The question is so sudden and blunt that you cough up a burning sip. “Ow, fuck..” Wincing, you wipe your mouth before breathing in scratchy inhales. “If you must know, I have.”

“Maybe you are good at pretending then,” Yoongi drawls. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. This situation is new to me.”

His brow raises are definitely talking a lot for him.

“I’ve just never.. I dunno. Never had just one night.” Taking a more cautious sip, you continue. “Much less with someone like you.”

“Like me?”

“With a.. You know.” You fiddle with your glass. “A customer.”

When you hear his reaction, you stare at his raised cheek, stomach fluttering when he sighs downward,

“You can’t just say shit like that.”

“I can say whatever I want,” you counter. “Especially since I…”

You don’t wanna finish that. It helps that Yoongi doesn’t look your way still, taking a sip of his whisky instead. His locks swing forward as he leans, and you almost reach out to feel them. Maybe you’ll get to very soon. When you finally get over this final hurdle of outright shyness.

Why are you so timid right now? Why can’t you just tell him what you very obviously came in here for and get on with it? You’ve been decisive as fuck the rest of today, so what’s got your tongue pressed this time? Is it really your abysmal level of experience?

Or is it because you’re gravitating to more sides of him with each passing second?

“Since you what.”

“Since I don’t like you,” you snip.

Yoongi flashes teeth in amusement. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh, shut up.” You take another drink, feeling the burn down your throat. “I don’t have to if it’s true.”

Both of you keep drinking in silence after that. Which makes things a weird mix of calm and awkward, considering what your original mission was.

Going over the events of today, it’s a wonder why you aren’t crashing into a dreamless sleep. You’ve been up and having the most exhausting day ever, and yet, you can’t imagine shutting your eyes.

Think of something else to talk about. Anything. Any topic you could possibly hold a conversation with Yoongi over.

What did he respond to before? No small talk, since the plantains thing from months ago was a bust. And when you conversed over ramyeon it was more of him angering you on purpose—wait a minute.

There was something you never circled back to.

And as soon as you ask him about it, he appears impressed you remembered,

“Were you bluffing when you said you knew what I was shopping for?”

“No,” he responds immediately. “And I know I’m right.”

“Prove it.”

Mouth curved at an annoying angle, Yoongi shoots you a look before placing his drink down, getting up to walk to a tall armoire.

Your eyes follow his every movement, even the way his ass moves under that damned robe. But soon, your jaw goes slack not because of his assets.

But because the motherfucker was right on the money.

How the… How the fuck did Yoongi know?

In front of your face lies exactly what you were searching for. Sleek. Minimal. Lightweight and visibly balanced. You don’t even want to keep shopping around because this is the only one you want.

How did he know you were shopping for daggers based on one single line of questioning?

“I wasn’t gonna show you until you asked,” he divulges. “Honestly, I was hoping you’d forget. This one was hard as fuck to track down.”

Eyes flicking up to his, you ask in wonder, “Can I…?”

He lifts it slightly, signaling that you can indeed hold it yourself.

And it’s perfect.

“Wow,” you breathe out, feeling along its edges and hilt. It’s all one continuous line, with metal so black and matted that you almost moan. “I don’t have much on me, but.. I’ll give you whatever you want for this.”

“Keep it.”

What?

“It’s yours.”

There’s no way he’s just gonna gift this to you. It’s perfectly crafted in material you can’t even find in Crane. And they have almost every class of ore in existence.

Who even is this man?

“Yoongi, this is…” You shake your head while extending it back. “I can’t just take this.”

“You can.” He fiddles with the bracelet on his wrist. “I did.”

Oh. Charming. The weapon you’re being gifted is stolen goods. “Well, in that case, I really can’t accept it.”

But goddamn, this is more than perfect. You can’t even pluck one finger off the handle. And you can’t change the fact that it was already taken, right? Right?

“At least…” Scowling at your own crumbling morals, you mumble, “Not without good reason.”

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Do I need a reason?”

“No,” you reply. “But I’d like one.”

Yoongi sighs long before moving his fingers. “I lied to you back there in the lobby.” Looking up at a clock instead of you, he works his jaw. “But this time, it really is just that.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

Fuck, the veins in his hands are so prominent when he laces them together. “No. But it’s better than those chopsticks you’re saving in the bathroom.”

Oh. So he saw those, too.

“Thank you,” is what you wave in white. Because that’s exactly how you feel and this one gesture does excuse some of his faults. Maybe. Or your standards have plummeted to the gutters. “I, umm. I usually keep one for self-defence. Just in case.”

Turning it over and back again, you marvel at its light but solid weight. “But I lost mine in the last rough raid before they suddenly stopped.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“K.” Placing it on the closest nightstand, you go back to holding your glass between your hands. “One day I’ll pay you back somehow.”

Yoongi shoots that down on sight. “No need.”

“But I want to.”

He glares before picking up his alcohol. “Anyone that owes me shit gets treated a lot different.” The drink rests in his hand like a liquid gem. “So just accept it as a gift, doll.”

You’d laugh if you knew he was kidding. But you know he’s dead serious, so you only nod.

It’s quiet again as you both retreat into your minds.

Yoongi has the mental fortitude of a fortress it seems. Because he really is set on waiting until you tell him what you woke him up for, and it’s been awhile since this all started.

But being in his presence while the night is quiet is somewhat comforting. You’re finding it easy to think about other things now, especially after he gave you so much to mull over.

Like grey zones and how they came to be. It’s fascinating how you had no clue even though you should. Even though this whole conflict affected half the city.

Wanting to gain more insight, you blurt your curiosity, “How long ago were the grey zones fought over? Before everything was decided?”

“Years. Decades, at this point,” Yoongi answers, his gaze locked as you think about this timeline. “Most people don’t even bother knowing, though.”

“Why? This sounds like a big part of our history.”

“No one cares if a Crane kills a Dragon.” His tone shifts slightly. And you wouldn’t have caught it if not for his subtle sulk. “They only resent the blood they have to wipe from the street.”

Your lids lower all the same. Because that resonates deep within your chest, so much so that you feel your heart bend in its aching. “No one cares about us, either.”

When Yoongi catches your look, you give a sad excuse of a smile. “Being a vendor? Especially where I am? You quickly figure out how little you matter. You as a person, I mean.”

You slide fingers along the tiny rim of your glass, lost in the fibers of his rug more than anything else.

Maybe you’re just a loose fiber in the rug of this city. One that will pretend to run only to be swept back into the folds. “The only things that people remember are what you offer. Anything other than that isn’t worth their time.”

Lifting your chin, you save face. “Can’t say I won’t miss you.” May as well admit it all if you aren’t ever gonna see him again. “You were the only one that ever let me bother them.”

“You never bothered me.”

You look up to see him staring. Lip curled upward, you huff. “With all the looks you gave me? I find that hard to believe.”

Yoongi doesn’t laugh in return. “What would I gain from lying?”

Mm. That’s an interesting question. But the alcohol starts to talk for you as you have the balls to flirt. “People lie to get laid, for one.”

“Mm.” He takes a measured sip of his glass, the last dredges of it swaying at the bottom. “Can’t say I’ve ever needed to.”

“Shocker,” you drawl, sipping to match his pace. And it’s after this drink that you loosely admit, “This is really good, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Lifting the glass to peer inside, you swirl it around before divulging a past you don’t talk about—ever. But what are rules of conversation when you want to stall? “My uncle got me into whisky a long time ago. But fruit stands don’t pay for top shelf alcohol.”

“Where’s he at now?”

“Uhh.” You look away. “Gone.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

He gets up, and you watch in silence as he makes his way to the sideboard. Stuff shifts around before he appears to pour another glass. And he stays there for a bit, black robe blending into all the dark decor.

“Yoongi?”

He turns.

“Can you keep talking?” You keep your drink steady between your robed legs. Buzzed and vulnerable, you offer an explanation, “Turns out there’s a lot I wanna forget right now.”

Like endings. And future endless days without your most frustrating, most dangerous, most favorite customer.

Yoongi pauses before walking back to the bed. When his thighs settle next to yours, he asks without much heart, “What do you wanna know.”

“You.”

His jaw shifts, and you feel a slight tug in your chest.

Was that too forward? Probably. But you’ll take what you can get, like a last meal chosen to hit every one of your desires. “Anything you wanna tell me, of course.”

Yoongi remains quiet. Which isn’t unexpected but still a little letdown.

“Not much to tell.”

Ah. Just more lies then. Maybe you should stick to the original plan. “Nothing at all?”

He looks at you, planting a hand on the bed to lean a little closer. “Nothing you’d wanna hear.”

You shift between his eyes. Wondering if it’s better not knowing or if you really do wanna give in.

Perhaps his eyes will speak for him instead. Glowing dark. Hints of ember and smoke. Years and years squeezed into those irises.

“What if I do,” you quietly question, catching the light on his alcohol-tainted lips.

Reaching out, you boldly place a thumb over one side, slowly brushing off excess liquid and marveling at how soft he is there. Tender, just like his name. “What if I don’t care.”

Yoongi waits for a moment before holding your wrist, the atmosphere trembling and buzzing around your shoulders. Oxygen depletes as he leans in close, his beautiful features almost touching yours.

You feel something locking into place. Something beautiful and terrifying. And it holds you down as you feel his hair, his warmth, his—

A noise blares into the room before you can feel yourself rushing upward, your body reacting on survival instinct alone. Glasses spill onto the rug and you don’t know what’s happening but lack of sleep lack of comfort lack of everything has you ready for—

Time stops.

Sounds muffle.

And your eyes flash wide as you see the tip of your blade pointed straight at Yoongi’s side.

Just as he’s poised with a gun pointed towards the door.

It’s a phone ringing.

A fucking. Telephone.

What have you done?

As Yoongi slowly shifts his gaze to your outstretched hand, you tremble in severe regret. Regret that you pulled this on him with the very weapon he gave you. Regret that he knows all there is to know about how you still feel about him.

But you didn’t mean to… You didn’t even think. And you abhor how you directed your fear at the one person that kept you alive. The one person you fucking saved.

When Yoongi lowers his gun, he doesn’t acknowledge the guilt on your face. But as he walks away to grab his device, his gaze flicks back to you before he answers across the room.

Shit.

You fucked up you fucked up you fucked up.

You weren’t lying when you said you wouldn’t care. You really weren’t. But who knows what Yoongi will think of you after that shock of a face off.

Coming into his room was most definitely a mistake. Now you can’t wrangle your emotions for shit, head pounding with feelings and outcomes and adrenaline to the brim.

Yoongi’s close to the wide bathroom stairs, so you can’t hear what’s being said. He does keep looking at you, though, which keeps your fingers pressed against a hilt.

Are you in danger? Will Yoongi not want anything to do with you anymore? Is it alarming that you can’t decide which one is worse?

The call doesn’t last long.

And as soon as he hangs up, you’re sputtering like a broken fountain, dagger still wielded as he stalks forward—phone clunking to the ground. “Who was that.”

“No one.”

“What’s gonna happen to me.”

“Nothing.”

Fuck. You really did fuck everything up. Your brain is so battered that you’re gonna be skittish and paranoid for a long, long time. “Yoongi, I’m so—I didn’t mean to—It just happened—”

Forget it. It’s over. Your last interaction will haunt you forever and the only way you’ll experience what could’ve happened between you will be in your wildest darkest sweetest illest—

Burns flare at your eyes when Yoongi’s chest meets the quivering tip of your blade.

“Stop,” you wince out, a damning tear pinging to your feet. “Just stop.”

He starts to walk forward, which alarms you enough to step back because what the fuck is he doing! Why can’t your arms move? Why can’t you lower the fucking dagger?

“I can’t,” you croak. “I can’t move.”

You’ve been firing on all fronts the whole day. Even in your dreams, you’re in survival mode. You can’t unlock your arms because they fight for the rest of you. Your legs propel you when the rest of you wants to give up.

But that still doesn’t stop your heart from aching. It burns, it burns, it burns.

When Yoongi grips your wrist, you choke on a sob. When he calls you smart, you squeeze your eyes shut in shame. And when he whispers to drop the fucking blade or he’ll do it for you, you do so after a maddening pause.

It clunks to the ground when a gun does, and you’re suddenly spun until the backs of your knees hit something solid.

Immediately, you’re thrust back onto dark sheets again, tears now rolling into your ears as you instinctively let Yoongi smother you whole.

His hand slides to your inner thigh, and your mind reels when you start feeling a hardness on your stomach. Breath whooshes out of your mouth before you're covered in silk and muscle, and pleasure bursts from where he quickly devours your neck fuck.

Hands are quick to untie your robe as fire stokes your throat.

“I won’t ask again,” he vows with a voice that rumbles. “Tell me what you fuckin’ want.”

“Yoongi—”

“Say it and it’s yours.”

“Make me forget,” you shove through your teeth. “Just make me fucking forget.”

“How.”

Fuck lack of experience. Fuck being shy. You aren’t wasting another damn second and your emotions need all the release they can get. Loose lips, loose tongue, looser inhibitions.

The monster inside of you yanks at its chain, claws and claws at its confines screaming at you to give in. You need this. You want this, especially if Yoongi himself is gonna give it so willingly.

Just say it. Just say it.

“If this really is the last time I’ll see you…”

Yoongi stills as your eyes lock unblinking.

Tell him. Four words.

“Fuck me like it.”

A proverbial chain snaps as Yoongi dives into your neck, ravishing you and sucking hard on your vein. When you yelp, your clenched legs seem to encourage, and he thrusts forward to launch you up the bed with a purpose. With intention.

All to let you know what you just got yourself into.

His fingers light little fires along your skin, burning everything in their paths up your arms, your sides, squeezing into your imperfections and latching down. His lips set your being ablaze as he keeps feasting, causing your breaths to get shorter, and shorter, and shorter.

“So sensitive..”

When you feel the warm swipe of a tongue, your eyes scrunch shut as you shudder. Which makes the whole thing worse for you when Yoongi chuckles dark in return.

“I don’t think you’re ready for this.”

“Shut up,” you huff out, grasping for his robe and raking at his sleeves. “Of course I am—Fuck.”

His thumb rolls across your exposed nipple, pinching it to make you arch right up into his chest. “You sure?”

When the hell did he even open your robe? How did he do that so quick without you knowing?

You bite down on your lip to keep from screaming, nodding in determination while your brows almost kiss.

Watching your expression, Yoongi pinches again, biting his own lip while slowly spreading that shit grin. Your moan comes out more like a muted hum, which seems to displease.

“Uh uh,” he orders. “You’re gonna be loud for me.”

“But what if someone—”

“They won’t.”

He continues in his control, sliding a hand under your thigh to hitch it up before shoving it to the side.

And you know where he’s going. But it still shocks you all the same when his fingers make contact with your slick.

Your very, very wet slick.

Many, many things will haunt you for life. Your experiences. Your choices.

But right now? The only thing that will follow you to your grave is this distinct, biting, staccato batch of laughter. “You shouldn’t’ve ever come in here.”

Breath ragged, you watch as Yoongi concentrates, exploring your cunt with his long digits and hitting every nerve with perfection. When you rub against him, he growls, lifting shiny fingers to insert right into his mouth.

Sucking.

Licking.

And your eyes mirror his at once—as black and pulsing as fallen stars.

He swoops down at the same moment you tug on his clothing, his mouth latching onto the side of your neck he hasn’t ravaged. Impatient, his hand yanks the bottom of your robe to the side, fully exposing your legs and leaking folds while you grapple with your own obstacles.

It’s messy. It’s jilted. It’s exactly what you want.

As soon as you find the slit in his robe, you take a brave leap and reach for his cock, not knowing what you’re gonna find but having a vague idea based on his—

Oh. What.

Fuck, he’s gonna split you in two.

You’ve held one before. You know what they feel like. But this cannot be possible and you’re already mentally preparing yourself for your breaking point.

“You good?”

You snap your head right up, realizing how stunned you must be if he’s asking. “I… You’re fucking huge.”

Yoongi doesn’t react, but that somehow makes it more attractive. Like he knows. And he doesn’t deny a thing. “That a problem?”

“I mean… I think I’ve lived a good enough life.”

To your surprise, the man above breaks completely as you keep blabbering, shoulders shaking alongside those stupid dimples. Those beautiful, elusive dimples. Too bad this is the last time you’ll ever see them. “Did what I wanted.. Not everything, but most of my list.”

Yoongi’s still chuckling. And for a brief moment, you’re brought back to the days he was just a patron. Back to when you would think about him before bed, delighted to see him stop by.

This is him. This is Yoongi with you now.

Where was he this whole time? Was he really waiting until you answered him for real?

You went so far into your head that you missed the change in position. So it makes you jump like hell when you realize where his teal mop of hair resides. “Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing?”

Between your thighs, Yoongi lifts a brow, locking your legs with tough arms before you can even move.

“Yoongi, you don’t have to—oh, fuck!”

The first contact of his tongue on your folds makes your eyes burst, your legs effectively being pinned down in their tensing. Jolts of lust spiral from your core as he licks, sucks, twirls around your clit like it’s second nature, and you feel yourself welcoming his every thrust.

This is happening. This is happening? You’ve never done this before, not that you’ll admit it. Whatever Yoongi’s doing is completely new territory for you and you don’t ever think you’ll leave. Permanent residence. No other land to discover.

Whines echoes throughout the room before you slap a hand over your mouth. Because the whole world will hear his name if you don’t. Especially when he adds fingers and curls them just right what the fuck!

He makes you forget. And forget. And forget. You even forget your own name. Only his. Saying it into your palm over and over and clawing his sheets with the other.

A low growl rumbles between your legs before you hear him purr, “Just like I fucking thought.”

What’d he say? He didn’t say that. You’re hearing things, you’re sure of it. There’s absolutely no way Yoongi’s imagined anything about you, much less what you taste like.

And the words keep coming as he whispers how tight you feel. How hot. How perfect you’re gonna fit him.

While all you can utter in return is gibberish mixed with the syllables of his name.

Pleasure rolls in waves as he learns every inch of your cunt, fingers drenched in your slick and the curves of his cheeks lathered in your scent. When he reaches beneath you to grope your ass, he gives a rough squeeze.

“Move your fucking hand.”

Your eyes fling wide.

“I wanna hear you.”

“No, I’m—there could be people—”

He clambers over you, robe wide open and revealing a body that rips your soul clean out. When he seizes your palm to shove it to the side, another monster starts to wake within your chest.

And this one takes treacherous pleasure in those slitted eyes.

“You’re gonna scream for me.”

“Or else what.”

The dark rumble. The rolling thunder.

Your other monster is starting to match his glint. “You don’t wanna do that with me, doll.”

“Do what?” you ask with flitting eyes.

When all you get is a sharp smirk in return, your stomach flips in desire and excitement. So when he slaps the side of your breast, you hum high with a delighted flinch.

“Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Yes. This is what you came in here for. Your shyness will have to be comfortable with the unknown, but it’s also helping seeing Yoongi much more relaxed.

Like a normal person.

Especially when he leans over to open his bedside drawer, hair swaying as he grabs for what you think are condoms.

Your hunch is right when he rights himself again, teeth nicking a wrapper before tearing it in one sweep. When you start to clench your legs together in response, he shoves them back open with a thigh, robe parting to show exactly what’s going to splice you in half.

You’ll gladly take his amusement at your jaw unhinging. Because what you see is heaven sent.

Yoongi says nothing as he wraps himself fully, and he continues to be silent as you whisper,

“I wanna see you.”

It doesn’t take long for him to understand. As his length presses against your core, he slips off his dark robe, letting it slide down equally dark sheets before pouring onto the floor.

You’re just as quiet as he situates himself above your beating heart. Which is for the best. Your thoughts are better left unsaid.

All you can do is grip his arm, sliding your hand up until you can finally, finally brush his hair with your own fingers. Exhaling when you discover how soft it feels. How comfort can be found in something as trivial as tendrils.

“This is helping, too,” you murmur to his lips, inhaling what you realize is your own scent.

When he cradles your chin, your breath cuts. “Things happen when you say what you want.”

“If only it was always that easy.”

“It is with me.”

Your heart skips twice before tripping on itself, and you instinctively curl your palm against his head. “Everyone around you must be so lucky.”

An eyebrow lifts before he huffs. “Not talking about just anyone, love.”

…Huh?

What does he mean by that because shit you’re getting tugged forward he’s so strong—

“Now, if you’re gonna be difficult,” Yoongi warns. “Let’s give you enough time to reconsider.”

Your thighs widen as he positions himself at your entrance, cockhead rubbing along your folds as you tense.

“Uh uh.” He hums. “This is what you want, yeah?”

“It’s been awhile,” you spat, rolling your eyes when he shoots you a knowing look. “Just… give me a second.”

Obliging, Yoongi starts slow, making your head roll into the pillow as you accommodate his girth. Holy fuck, he’s big. But he’s sliding in easy after his little feast down there, which you piece together as one big prep for the main course.

“Fuck,” he groans, resisting every urge to plow straight into you. At least, from what you can decipher in his pinched features. If this feels amazing for you, you can’t even imagine what he must be feeling now. It only gives you butterflies knowing he’s following through with his word. “So fucking tight.”

“Not my fault you take up… so much space,” you grit through your teeth, neck straining as you blow air to the ceiling.

Fully sheathed, Yoongi rests inside until your muscles relax. And you only peel your eyes open when you start to slip into more pleasure than anything else.

Okay. You can do this. You can fit him surprisingly well—maybe too well—and you’re okay to keep going without restraint.

When you peer down your body, you expect him to look bored or indifferent. Like he’s wasting time dealing with you.

So it makes you shiver when Yoongi looks ready to ruin.

Toned arms flex at his sides, hands keeping your thighs held in their place. When a strand of vibrant hair falls, his chains spark in the moonlight streaming in from the windows. A dragon that waits. And waits.

You’re ready. Your demise will be your reward.

“I’m good,” you assure him. “You can move now—”

A second invisible chain snaps with a clink, and Yoongi launches into a thrust that has you seeing stars. You tumble through the dark as he thrusts again, mouth open with silent yells before you gnaw right into your lip.

“Relax for me,” he commands. “Just like that.”

Your cunt hugs him tight as you bounce even harder, his little grunts of praise making you mewl and whimper in bursts.

Fucking hell, this feels good.

You cannot wait to find out how it’ll feel when you piss him off.

His hands grip your hips, hosting you up onto his thighs as he thrusts hard into your cunt. Your body rocks in an arch, limp and at his mercy—which there is very little of. Enchanted, your lip tightens with the pull of your teeth, eyes squeezing shut as he feels so fucking good and hitting. Just. Right.

It all carries you so far gone that as soon as you feel a rush of air, the sting on your ass makes you react—piercing moan making both of you freeze.

And Yoongi’s eyes deepen a shade as he slowly grins. “There you go.”

“Don’t act like you—fuck!” His second swat has you grunting through your teeth, and his thrust forward at the same time he does it again has you whining. Monosyllabic, his name shoves out of your lungs, with each part more chipped than the next.

“What’s that, love?”

“Yoongi, please—”

“That’s right.” He clutches your sides so damn rough. “Say my fuckin’ name.”

And his pace pitches you into the sun, rocking so hard you won’t be surprised if the bed frame snaps in half. In thirds. In sevenths. Your legs go completely limp as he drives in, filling you and hitting a spot that pierces your eyes with stars and light and lust. Down down down you spiral, up up up you go. It’s only you and him now, with Yoongi plowing into you like his life ends come morning.

There’s nothing in the world that feels like this. Burdened by the dangerous weight of a man—this man—while feeling so light you could float? Absolutely nothing can compare.

Your body finally rests as he stops, but you get no breather as he flips you over with strong arms. Disoriented, you squeak as he tugs you backward, your ass rising in the air as your head is shoved into luxury cotton.

Sweet pain sears your ass again, and you gasp with wide eyes as you feel his cock at your entrance. “What are you—”

“Lift up. Higher.” He slides his dick up your folds. “You’re gonna like this.”

“You don’t speak for me—”

He thrusts into you as soon as you get accustomed to his length and size. And the place his thumb presses makes you scream into your pillow. His pillow. A hotel suite pillow that you’re biting to stay afloat.

How the fuck does that feel so good? How does all of this feel so good? His thumb on your asshole already has you melting, but the smacking of his sack against your clit makes you want to repent.

“So fucking—fuck.”

Drool strings from your mouth as your arms are tugged at the elbows, your whole upper body coming up for air. Precious precious air that’s cut off when Yoongi chokes you from behind.

“Yoo—!”

His strength slams your chest into the headboard, right at the edge of the bed before you feel the force of his palm hit the wall.

“What did I fucking say.”

“A lot.”

“I’m gonna hear you.”

“But—”

He shoves you flush against dark wood, your cheek smushing hard and your lips curling. “Let them hear you, too.”

You keep your moans muted until fingers are shoved down your throat. And you gargle until he yanks them out.

“That’s it. I know you can take it.”

“You’re easier…” Gritting your teeth in a smug grin, you taunt in a bold-faced lie, “Easier to take than I thought.”

His laughter is not lighthearted. “You’re still gonna go there, huh.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you pout, eyes drooping from the euphoric shocks his thrusts provide. Sweat rolls down your arms as you slip on the wall, but it gives your chest a cool surface to rest. “Go where?”

Suddenly, the grinding stops. And your cunt feels abandoned as he pulls out so fast. When you think to spin around, he spanks your ass with a harsh, “Don’t move.”

Do you want to disobey? Yes. But you’re more curious than anything, so do as he says.

And your eyes light up when you realize what he comes back with.

“Now… I could use this,,” he warns, pressing a silky smooth robe tie along your neck. “Since you don’t wanna behave.”

“Do it,” you taunt, wishing like hell that he does. Yes, yes, yes. You’re drunk on lust and volcanic want and you will fight for nothing more. “You won’t.”

Your neck is rocked back before you feel him slap your ass. “Then stay still.”

And you obey as you feel your belt—or his, either one—wrap loosely around your column before it’s tied.

Gently, your chin is turned, and you’re surprised when you’re met with stern eyes. “Can you breathe.”

Blinking, you nod. “Yeah, I can.”

“Two taps if you’re out, understand?”

“Yes.”

A swift pat to your cheek. “What’d I say.”

“Two taps,” you repeat, figuring out fast that you’re liking this development a little too much. “If I’m out.”

Holy fuck the yank you feel is exhilarating, your body bending back as shock overcomes your senses.

Lidded eyes staring down at yours, he vows, “You better make them count or we never do this again.”

“I will, I will,” you rasp out, breath still coming to you fine albeit a little more harshly. “I promise.”

“Good girl.”

Wait, did he say again?

As he slips right back inside, you lose all passing trains of thought. Cunt filled while his fingers clog your mouth makes you traverse to another plane. Every part of you, at his mercy—

Then he yanks you backward and all that mercy burns in the flames of heaven. Flocks to the clouds of hell.

The belt is completely taut as you succumb to his thrusts. Hard. Fast. Rough thrusts make you cry out as he toys with you, gravelly hums tumbling down your back as you arch for him. All the sounds you make echo throughout the room, a symphony of mewls and moans as Yoongi controls your every move.

“Take it.”

“Hmm?”

“You want it,” he repeats. “So take it.”

Oh. Oh, he wants you to—Oh.

You start moving back and forth, doing exactly as he says. Taking what’s yours for the night and shamefully not forever.

But it turns out it’s not enough because he tugs.

“Like you fucking mean it.”

Fuck.

Groaning, you move with more intention, sliding up and down his cock and feeling full every time. It feels good having control, you muse, and imagining him watching your debauchery turns you on that much more.

Your thrusts turn to rough slams, friction running fast while you chase it with all your strength. The groans you hear sound primal, hissed taunts egging you on.

“Guess you can listen after all.”

“Fuck you.”

Another hard yank.

Your laugh only spurns him on.

Slaps to your ass, grabs to your breasts. Yoongi is worshipping every inch of you and you won’t even notice this until nights later when you’re alone. You’ll remember the way he squeezes just right, the way he fits so well, the places he hits with no hesitation nor guesswork. It’s pure experience strangling you with passion and you don’t even know how to embrace it all.

But then you start to feel it. Your breath tapering. It’s getting harder and harder to suck in air and you’re starting to see stars across your eyes.

When you reach an alarming point, you quickly slap his leg twice, oxygen gushing into your lungs right as he lets go.

You almost come on that exhilaration alone. Adrenaline pumps pumps pumps into your veins, eyes blowing black as he spins you around.

Hot, open mouth kisses pepper your burning throat, and you have the nerve to catapult him all the way back onto the bed.

Yoongi lets you top him with a laugh, and you immediately use this opportunity to pin him down with a chokehold. Wanting him to feel the same way you just did. Knowing deep in your soul that he wants it, too.

“Cute.”

“You asshole.”

Holy fuck, you can’t even recognize your own voice. It’s hoarse. It’s rugged.

It’s salacious.

He cocks a brow while peering down his nose. “You done?”

“What?” You blink. Slowly releasing his neck, you admit with a rasp, “No, that’s not what I.. I’m not done with you.”

Yoongi slides into a smirk, and you attempt to scoff with a burning throat.

You wanna tell him how good he is. How stupidly attentive he is. But all you settle for is something neutral. Safe. And maybe a little forward.

“Just felt like calling you that.”

Yoongi’s smile mellows into a line, and if you weren’t in such an evocative position, you would have thought it was genuine contemplation. But he slides hands up your thighs before slapping the side of your ass. “Get on.”

Fuck. You don’t really know how. At least, you don’t know how to do it without showing him you aren’t used to it.

So the confidence will keep getting faked. With a little help of your quick wit and tongue as you grab his length. “Didn’t hear a please.”

Yoongi huffs out amusement. “I don’t say that.”

His tip goes in fine. Fuck. Okay. You can do this you can do this. “Why am I not surprised—!”

He shoves you down as soon as you give him enough leeway, and you groan out as you catch yourself with hands on his chest.

“This is where you’re gonna live,” he says with confidence, laughing in condescension when you scowl. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He can’t say stuff like that.

You ride until you find a rhythm, rolling your body and finding the friction you want. It’s there for the taking. And he’s encouraging you with gravelly words and hums, with hands up your stomach and grasping your chest.

After a single swirl of your hips, he throws his bed back until his neck strains. “Fuck.”

So you take that cue, rotating between rides and swirls. When he tweaks and rolls thumbs around your nipples, you clench hard around him, and he does it until you moan to the ceiling.

A slap to your breast makes you whine, and you keep going before leaning forward, placing hands against his shoulders and bouncing your hips on his cock.

“—a fucking natural,” Yoongi praises, chuckling to himself as he toys with the silk streaming down your neck.

“Maybe I’ve just practiced.”

“Show me more then.”

Quickly, he tugs you down flush against him before grabbing your ass, slamming you down and pistoning up until you scream.

You start biting his shoulder to quell your shouts, which makes him moan loud enough to make you possessive. Wildly possessive. Before long, you feel yourself going limp on him, only for him, solely for his pleasure and yours.

“Just like that. There you go.”

You mewl into his skin as he grabs you, holding you down as he slams into you again and again and again. Drunk with power, you begin to mark his throat, devouring and feasting with reckless abandon.

Growling ragged, Yoongi flips your position and pins you face down, shoving up hard into your cunt before plowing. You fully lean into the yells now, saying his name and inching over the goddamn edge of the bed.

It’s there. Your release. It’s potent and it’s visceral and it’s everything you need need need—

“Yoongi, I’m close—”

He penetrates so far that you can taste him, and you come so harshly that you convulse. Squeezing like hell and quivering in a full body fold.

Holy shit, the screams. Is that you?

The sinister laughs of pride prove you right. “That’s my girl. Fucking scream.”

You can’t stop. All you know is extreme pleasure coursing through your veins, pulsing beautiful colors and making you arch like mad.

But you have more to handle. Yoongi prolongs your euphoria by yanking you back only to sink into you again, hands rubbing both nipples and tongue speaking deadly sins in your ear.

“You aren’t done,” he growls. “Lemme hear you again.”

“I can’t—”

“Liar.”

His name rips from your mouth as you surprise yourself, gushing around his length and squeezing in powerful pulses. Nothing exists. Nothing at all. Everything you know is a feeling, as vibrant and shimmering as the sun above your street back home.

All the heat you’ve ever felt coalesces along your skin, and the words whispered in your ear slide right down with your sweat. You aren’t quite sure what you hear. But judging by your preening, it has to be praise. Dirty, dirty, sinful praise.

When your limp weight is flipped, you allow your legs to be hoisted up with no resistance. Looking upward, you peel open lids to the equivalent of a king. A god. And your outright awe blocks your ears from catching what your dragon swears.

“—perfect,” he grits, inserting himself into your squelching folds. “Again.”

No fucking way you have more left in you. You’re already floating in the ether, buzzing in pleasure and sweat and ecstasy. If you come one more time you’ll be an empty shell.

“Earn it,” you boldly rasp out, grappling a bit of your spirit and reining it back one last time. “Take it, you bi—”

Your heart leaps up your throat as you’re pitched upward, groan serrated and high as you grin in triumph because it feels so fucking rewarding when he gives gives gives.

Letting everything go relaxes your folds, causing Yoongi to rock into you with pride and without resistance. His chain smacks against his pecs at the same pace as your bouncing chest, and you’re more than sure you’re gonna feel bruises on your legs where he sinks his claws.

Skin slapping skin. Mewls and gritted curses. Heady scent covers them all in a thick layer and you feel the light grow closer and closer, stronger this time than all the others before it. Why? Why do you know this one will pitch you over the edge for good?

Both of you may feel the same.

Because Yoongi suddenly shoves himself so far into you and presses his body flush against your shuddering shaking screaming form.

You pulse frantically around him, throat sore and ragged from your final cry as tears stream down your face. It feels so fucking gorgeous that it hurts, and you enter a plane so mystical it’s completely separate from your earthly vessel. The two of you become closer than one, and you feel Yoongi stutter in his groan before yanking out and ripping the condom off.

Hot spurts paint your skin—a sweaty, spent canvas that dips slow with your labored breaths. His own breathing is rough but not exhausted, and you chalk that up to the mountain of stamina and experience he has on you.

It’s done.

Thoroughly spent.

All the pent up emotions dissipate in a slow descent. The chaos of today finally lowers its head, your monsters making their ways back into their cages. Moonlight shines brighter. Fuller.

Illuminating a man in silver as he slowly heads into the bathroom.

Holy fuck. You just slept with a gangster. With a Dragon.

With Yoongi.

There’s no way you can forget this. No way you can see yourself moving past this moment, even years and lifetimes from now. It doesn’t matter if Yoongi never thinks about you again, because something transpired in this room that you’ll keep locked away in your soul forever.

As he brings back a towel to wipe his essence from your skin, you wonder.

Was it all worth it?

Or will this torture you in every dream you’ll ever have?

A palm digs into the mattress before you feel weight and jewelry. The silk around your throat is carefully undone, and lazy, heated lips descend on your neck once more.

Bliss.

Sighing, you utter his name much softer now, telling him please without knowing what for.

“What do you want,” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you admit in a wisp.

Yoongi keeps worshipping your throat, and you mewl when he reaches to rub your breast in a slow squeeze. When you drag your hand down to grip his cock, he tenses with a gritty hum.

“Careful, love,” he rumbles. “There’s a lot more I can do with you.”

“Tell me.” Your breath starts shorting in anticipation. “Tell me everything.”

“Nah.” When he slides forward, the bare tip of him meets your cunt, causing you to flinch with a bitten lip. “You’re just gonna have to wonder. Day, after day, after day.”

Fuck this guy with the spite of a thousand lives. You’re the one holding his cock, so how the fuck is he still being this sure of himself?

“Put it in,” you blurt, earning his gaze of utter confusion.

“What?”

“Just for a second.” You stroke him, feeling slick velvet and wetness coating your fingers. “That’s the last thing I want.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time tonight, he’s the one that looks hesitant. “You sure…?”

“We’ll never do this again,” you whisper. “And I know you want it, too.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment, searching your eyes for any sense of doubt.

When he finds none, Yoongi positions himself at your entrance, and you feel his knuckles brush your folds before he sinks in. Slowly, cautiously, extraordinarily.

And both of you groan so full.

“Fuck,” Yoongi glowers, teeth sharp as he grounds them hard. His arm veins strain, shifting all his ink in pretty ebbs and flows. All his stomach snaps taut, and you can’t look away from his sheer look of concentration and lust. “Fuck.”

“Feels so good,” you gasp, enjoying the way he’s slowly grinding against your walls. All the slick from your releases allows smooth strokes, and you already feel close for yet another time. An unbelievable amount of orgasm in such a short span. You’ll never reach this peak. Not with anyone else. “What the fuck, I’m close again—”

“Shit—”

It happens in a snap. But more of a mellowed, drawn-out river flow than a full waterfall. Your eyes slowly roll before closing, and your chest arches slow as you rock back and forth on his cock. The squeezes are harder. The pulses are fuller. You’re milking him for all he’s worth, like your cunt won’t let go until it’s pumped him dry.

Which makes Yoongi lose his absolute mind, hissing as he pulls out quick before spilling onto you all over again. Again?

Holy fuck, again?

As he groans up above, his eyes are wiped dark completely. Which makes you wonder how you can still see stars embedded inside.

Was it all worth it?

You’ve never been more achingly sure.

It’s a long shot to know if he feels the same. And an even longer one for that to truly be the case.

But it’s okay.

This is the first, the last, the only time you have. And it was more than you could’ve ever asked for.

As he falls into the sheets next to you, both of you exhale harsh, hearts pounding and pounding into the bed and to the ceiling.

You can’t even move. Every single limb is sore from base to tip, and the door looks so, so far away.

When you whisper his name, you get a little acknowledgement at your side. Gathering all the strength you have left, you whisper,

“I know this is when I’d be kicked out, but.. I can’t move.”

The small puff of air you get in return sounds like a yes. But you aren’t sure until Yoongi verbally gives you a real answer,

“S’ok.”

All you can do is hum, noticing with a sharp pang that you feel soft towel wipes before the smooth slide of sheets up your bare skin.

“Just stay on your side.”

Ah.

Well. At least you aren’t alone for a night.

“And you.. Stay on yours,” you murmur, darkness seeping into your peripherals.

“Mm.”

Yoongi can be as cold and heartless and calculating as he wants. But you know he’s more than what he shows.

Because with a second sharp hit to the chest, you also realize the side you’re on is the side he was on before. He’s not gonna make you move just to keep his preference.

Don’t think too much about it. Do not.

“I wish everything was different,” you whisper, drifting into a dreamless sea. “I don’t want to hate you...”

Your forehead is swept by a warm hand. You cannot lift your lids any longer, but your ears still hang onto their efforts.

And the last thing you hear before succumbing to the dark is a lighter flick and a fact. A cold, expected, damning fact.

“You’ll always hate me.”

When you wake, you’re greeted by the same room you fell asleep in.

Sunlight cuts through grey skies to shine every surface, and you breathe in a musky, comforting scent as you stretch your limbs.

Did last night really happen?

The soreness between your bare legs is more than enough to prove so.

Slowly turning, you whisper to Yoongi that you’re ready to go when he is.

Only to find out that you’re talking to no one.

Shit.

Shooting up, you start to panic. Maybe he’s in the living room already? Getting ready to call someone to bring you back home?

Glancing at the nightstand on his side, you don’t spot the dagger he gifted you, brain grappling with what that could possibly mean.

Your ribs crackle when you bite back emotion. It’s all over.

Shifting back to swing your feet onto cold fibers, you pause with swimming eyes.

Because the blade rests ready on your nightstand, propped on a set of plain clothes in the perfect position you would need it to be.

Teeth clenched and eyes burning, you swipe it before rushing out of bed, head pulsing and a dull ache between your legs. “Fuck..”

The shirt and pants you’re given don’t exactly fit, but you’ll take what you can get as you punch limbs through long sleeves and high pants.

Yoongi isn’t here.

You feel it in your whole being, and you have no fucking clue why it hurts.

But if he’s not here…

Who do you start to hear outside the door?

You freeze, lungs expanding as you hold multiple breaths.

It sounds like talking. But also a myriad of sounds?

Heading into the bathroom, you silently glide across the floor before swiping up the chopsticks. Because yes, you’re still gonna save them. For defence. For keepsakes. For a grave reminder.

Tucking them in a pocket, you ready your dagger under your garment, pressing it flat against your skin like you were trained to do.

Slipping out into the hallway, you hear the sounds clearer. Movement. Slides of furniture.

What the hell is going on?

You’re about to retreat back into the room when a man crosses in front of the hall.

And his hair is strikingly…

Orange?

As he catches you in his vision, he stops on a dime, hand outstretched in greeting. “Hello!”

Your step back makes him laugh. But you’re not laughing in the slightest as you question,

“Where’s.. Where’s Agust?”

“Gone.” The smile spreading makes you squint. “Need to see him?”

Your answer is immediate.

“I’d rather die.”

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: alright before i say anything else: use the bathroom after sex, and especially after doing it unprotected!! i normally include it so this is a rare exception. but yes. please use the bathroom after, and practice safe sex always! a/n 2: WHO COULD THAT BE AT THE END THERE... ahahah but seriously, i for one am still swirly eyed just thinking about what's coming for these two.. they have no idea what's in store and i'm itching to get the next part done! a/n 3: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ minted masterlist

#FINALLY FINALLY #5000 words in two days just wanted to say i love y'all #bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #yoongi fic #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #ryenwrites #minted #minted3 #*ryenfictalk #*latest

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dearieshima · 2 months ago

Text

─Thinking about dogboy!choso and his begging problem…

You had been working hard to break your dogboy Choso of his begging habits. When you first took him in, he had been living in dire circumstances where scrounging for scraps was the only way he knew how to survive. That instinct to beg was deeply ingrained.

He followed you everywhere, those big dark eyes gazing at you pleadingly as you got into bed, tilting his head just so and letting out a soft whine when he wanted to join you in bed despite having his own. The whines grew louder as you began to leave for work, his body language begging you to take him along. And when he spooned you from behind, his hard cock pressing insistently against your ass, his eyes shining with pure need, silently pleading for you to take care of him...

You had to resist him, teach him that pleading wouldn’t lead to getting his way.

"Please... please... I need you..." Choso whined, pitifully humping his twitching cock inside of you. His arms grasped your waist, desperate. His heat had arrived. "Please, please, please... I... I've been good... let me... let me breed you..."

God damn it.

"N-No, Cho," you whimpered, even as your body betrayed you, aching for his touch. Normally, he would allow you to straddle him, to ride him until you both found release. But as his heat had grown stronger, his need for you to be in doggy position had become insatiable. In his words, it helped ensure his seed planted deep within you.

Choso's hot breath pants against your neck as he nuzzles into your hair, his fluffy tail wagging eagerly behind him. His large hands gripped your hips possessively, claws lightly pricking your skin as he pounded into you. "Please, please, please... I need to breed you so badly it hurts... I've been so good, I promise... Just let me... let me fill you up with pups..."

"C-Cho, no! Bad boy!"

He cried pitifully, nuzzling into your neck and burying his face in your hair. "But... but I love you... I only want to make you happy... and I know you'll be so happy with my babies inside you..." His hands roamed over your belly possessively.

"Cho- oh!" You cried out as his thick knot pounded your G-spot.

His strong arms held you down as he continued to thrust into you, his voice hoarse from begging. "Please... please say yes... say I can breed you... say you'll be my good little mommy... Please..."

You shook your head, gasping as Choso hit a particularly deep spot inside you.

Choso's whines turned into a pitiful high-pitched keen at your refusal. "Nooooo!"

Tears of desperation prickled his eyes, "Why are you being so mean to me? Pleasee... I thought you loved me, I asked so nicely... So, so, so-ooh! Oh! Oh fuck! Y/NNN!"

He cried after discovering a new angel to deeply thrust inside you, to bury himself to body and soul. His muscular arms kept you in place as his hips snapped forward, driving his thick, throbbing cock deeper into your tight heat, his cockhead kissing your cervix.

"I'll make you say yes..." He growled mindlessly, "I'll fuck you so good, you'll be begging for my knot..."

He rutted into you brutally, fueled by his new promise. His cock pistoned in and out of your slick folds. "Fuck! Fuck! Cho!"

Panting heavily, Choso leaned over you, his hot breath washing over your neck. "Say yes... Say you'll be my mommy... Let me fill you with my seed and breed you... Please... I'm so close... I need to hear you say yes..." His thrusts sped up, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. "Say yes... Please..."

"A-Ah! Y-Yes! Yes! Right there!" You cried, more of a instinct, as in to say, 'yes, give me more!' not 'yes, give me your pups!'

Nevertheless, he took your moan as permission. His hips gripped the sheets below you for leverage as hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you as his knot began to swell, the force of it making your head fall forward on the pillow. "Y-yes...! thank you... thank you..." he babbled, his thrusts becoming short and fast as he chased his release.

With a loud whine, Choso's knot fully expanded, trapping you together. His ears flattened against his head as he thrust deep, burying himself to the hilt inside you. Throwing his head back, he released a guttural moan that seemed to come from the depths of his being.

His heavy balls clenched and spasmed as they began to pump their thick seed into your eager womb. Load after load of hot, potent cum flooded your pussy as he filled you to overflowing. Overcome with the intensity of his release, Choso collapsed against you, his body shaking with the force of his climax. Tears of relief streamed down his face as his knot kept you locked.

"Ah... Ah... fuck...! I'm breeding you... I'm breeding you...!"

The feeling of his knot taking root deep inside you pushed you over the edge. Your own climax crashed over you like a tidal wave, your inner walls clenching and rippling around Choso's throbbing cock. Wave after wave of ecstasy radiated through your body as you came hard on his knot, milking every last drop of his seed. Your hips bucked against his, grinding your clit against his pelvis as you rode out the your orgasm.

He whimpered, his hips giving a few more shallow thrusts as he emptied the last of his load into your spasming pussy. "Yes... yes... take it... take my seed..." His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you close as he rutted into you, prolonging both of yours' pleasure.

"I... I did it... I bred you... You're going to be a mommy now..."

His heats usually took everything out of him and he began to quiet down, his head resting on the headboard as his tongue lolled out, panting, not a single thought in his mind.

You were too, although you did have one thought in your mind. Think God for birth control.

#choso #choso x female reader #choso x reader #choso x you #choso x y/n #jjk choso #choso smut #jjk smut #choso kamo x reader #choso kamo smut #choso kamo #jjk choso kamo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen choso #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused · 3 months ago

Text

𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝙎𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙉: Virginity Loss w/ Bestfriend!Wanda Maximoff

a/n: okay no but why did i have so much difficulty writing this?? it kind of makes me mad if i think about it. anywho, uh... two girls in love... kind of bimbo!reader but they're both whipped for each other!!

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

“Do you think you could lose your virginity as a girl to another girl?”

You ask randomly one day amongst the mess of textbooks and assortment of highlighters on your bed.

Wanda looks up at you from her own book, a strand of fiery red hair that had slipped out of her ponytail hung in her face. Her face is a mix of bewilderment but also contemplation, like she’s seriously considering what you were saying.

“I mean… I would think so? Virginity is like a social construct, you know?” You nod pursing your lips. “You’re right.” Then, you go back to your work. She blinks, once, twice. “Why do you ask?” She pushes.

“I dunno,” You say with a shrug. “I was just thinking that I would much rather lose my virginity to a girl than a guy. Like… I would have sex with a guy, yeah, but not for the first time.”

“Is there a girl that you were thinking about losing your virginity to?” She can’t deny the uncomfortable twist that arises in her gut at the thought of you with someone else. “No, not really. If anything I’d lose it to you.”

She chokes, “To me?”

“Yeah, I don’t see why not,” You add with a shrug, “I trust you, and I like you.” You say it like it’s the most simplest thing on this planet. “You like me?” She asks incredulously, her veins pulsating with anticipation. Hope.

“How could you not know?” It’s your turn to be incredulous. “I’m like… the most transparent person on this planet. I always go out of my way to do shit with you, and sometimes you make me so flustered that I don’t really know what to do with myself. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“I… I like you too.”

“Really?” The smile you give her is blinding. “Really.” You lean forward over the mass of school supplies to kiss her, a band balanced on the bed next to her criss-crossed knee, the other cradling her cheek.

She flushes as your lips touch and both of her delicate fingers also cradle your face, anchoring you to her.

It’s nothing but closed mouth kisses, but she starts to feel like she’s burning under her clothes, and so her tongue swipes at your bottom lip asking for entrance, and you enthusiastically give in to her, your tongues wrestling for a moment before you allow her inevitable dominance.

Both of your lungs are burning, but no one seems to want to let go, and you unconsciously start to push her back, swiping at things that are in your way so you can settle yourself over her.

You only separate when you begin to feel light-headed.

Your chests are heaving, and you squeeze your eyes shut, because your pussy is positively throbbing.

“If I told you I wanted to lose my virginity to you right now, would you take it?” You ask breathlessly. Her gaze is dark, boring into yours as if she’s staring into your soul. “Are you sure?”

“Please.” It’s a mix between a whine and a whimper.

She pushes at your chest, coaxing you off her and onto your back, and you go willingly, staring up at her through wide, excitable eyes. Something inside Wanda softens, and she tugs at the hem of your camisole, and you readily take it off.

She gulps.

Oh.

You aren’t wearing a bra.

She can’t help but cradle your breasts, massaging them and running her thumbs over the hardened nubs of your nipples. You inhale a shaky breath, a shiver shooting up your spine.

“Can I take your pants off?” She asks, lips swollen. “Yeah.”

Wanda rids you of your shorts and underwear all in one go, and you’re laid bare beneath her. Heat crawls up the back of your neck and you sheepishly tug at the bottom of her night shirt, “You too.” You mumble.

She laughs gently, but nonetheless indulges in your request, throwing her plain white shirt to the side and quickly unhooking her bra. You can’t help but stare at her flushed torso, even more so when her breasts are exposed to your hungry gaze.

“Shorts too?” You ask shyly. She rids herself of the offending item quickly, leaving both of you nude.

“Wow…” You can’t help but murmur as you take her in. You drink her in like a woman parched, like you can’t believe you’re finally able to have her like this — and honestly? You still kind of can’t.

She giggles. “What do you wanna do?” You just shrug. “I dunno… I – I’ve never done this before.” She hums in acknowledgement.

Wanda crawls over your bare body, knees positioned on either side of your full hips, her pussy so close to yours that you can feel the heat of her, and you tremble a little. Your hands settle on her waist.

“How about I eat you out. Finger you a little and see where we go from there?” Your head swims at her crude words but you nod regardless. “Yes… yes, please.” Your words teeter off on a whine and she leans down to place one last bruising kiss to your lips before trailing them down your neck.

They travel over the skin there, her body moving down, down, down, as she goes. Every wet kiss lights your body ablaze, and your legs fall open easily when she coaxes them to a bend, pushing them as wide as they could.

She stares at your wet pussy, taking you in before settling on her stomach, pushing a few strands of stray red hair behind her ear. She looks up at you one more time before licking a stripe from your hole to your clit.

You jolt, a surprised gasp slipping through your lips. One of your fingers settle in your mouth and you suckle on it, the other burying themselves in her locks.

She takes this as an initiative to keep going, drawing your clit into her mouth fully so that you can feel the pressure of her suction. Your lower-half jumps but she just pushes you down, restraining you to the bed.

“Mmf – Wanda…” You breathe around your digit, and she hums. The vibrations of her voice send you skyrocketing, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Wanda suckles for a moment before a delicate finger prods at your entrance gently before slipping in. Your walls clamp around her, but you force yourself to relax. She gives you a moment to adjust, dragging it out in a lazy rhythm until you settle.

She crooks it, dragging it over your g-spot easily, and a loud, embarrassing moan slips past your lips. “More,” You beg, “More please.”

She easily concedes, a second finger joining the first. She’s going faster now that she knows you’re susceptible to her touches. Her veins are alight with nerves, and her wrist aches, but she won’t stop until she drags you over the edge.

She detaches herself from your cunt to say, “You taste so good, sweetheart.” You whimper, cupping the back of her head to guide her back to you. She chuckles, but obliges, muttering, “Needy thing.”

You’ll be embarrassed about that later.

You feel a coil in your gut, the base of your spine burning, the need of release clouding all the rational parts of your brain.

“‘M close, Wanda.” You cry out, your eyes screwing shut.

She goes impossibly harder, and when a third finger joins the mess, you see white, riding her face with abandon. She lets you, licking alongside her digits that are doused in your arousal, her nose knocking into your sensitive nub with every flick.

She draws away when you whimper, resettling over you to get a good look at your face.

“Honey, you okay?” She asks softly, leaning down to kiss you despite her cheeks and chin being soaked. You taste yourself on her tongue, but you don’t hate it. “Very.” You say with a dopey smile, and she giggles.

“Again?” You murmur cheekily.

Wanda laughs loudly, a smile on her face so big that exposes her glorious, white teeth.

“Give me a minute, then yes, we can go again.”

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @khxna @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus

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mayasikeu · 4 months ago

Note

Can write something about Spiderman Jungwon pls

The night air was frigid as you walked through the dark alleyway. The breeze carrying the faintest scent of rain. But it wasn’t the weather that sent chills down your spine, it was the eerie presence you could feel behind you.

There he was, Spiderman, or as everyone else knew him, Jungwon. His eyes pierced through your soul like a jagged knife as he watched you walk by.

The flickering street lights casted a dim yellow glow over his sculpted physique, every muscle being visible beneath the skin tight suit that he had on. His lips curled into a playful smirk under his mask.

“You shouldn’t be here, Y/n” Jungwon murmured.

“Oh my god. You scared me” you said, bringing your hand up to your chest.

“My bad, that wasn’t my intention” Jungwon laughed.

The rain began to pour down faster, cool droplets coating your skin, but all you could feel was the heat from Jungwon’s body as he hung upside down in front of you.

You took a step closer, “Are you stalking me or something?”

“Just doing my job”

“You’re amazing” you said sarcastically.

“Some people don’t think so but it’s nice to have a fan.” he teased.

“Do I get to say thank you this time?”

“For what?” Jungwon asked.

“You’ve saved my life so many times.”

“You do have a knack for getting in trouble.” he joked playfully.

“Or maybe you’re just in love with me” you whispered.

You partially pulled his mask up, revealing his lips that were slightly parted as he breathed heavily.

You reached out, your fingers trembling from the cold as they brushed against his sharp jawline. He didn’t bother to utter a word or try to stop you, daring you to make the first move.

The sensation of kissing him upside down was exhilarating. His lips were soft yet firm, moving against yours with a passionate rhythm. You could taste the cold rain in the kiss, the water running down your face.

Your hands slid up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing softly against his cheeks. He responded immediately, his tongue darting out to tease the entrance of your mouth. You part your lips slowly, allowing him in fully.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard.

He licked his lips, tasting the remnants of your kiss that still lingered, your hands were still cradling his face, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“You should go home now, it’s getting late” he murmured before jumping down and standing back up on his two feet

A few moments of silence went by and the anticipation became more unbearable as your body ached for his touch.

Suddenly, the rain had stopped and his lips crashed onto yours yet again, all the leftover tension released into that one kiss. His hands gripped onto your hips and slid up your back.

You broke the kiss while panting heavily, your lips tingling. He looked down at you with sultry eyes, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Before you could say another word, he lifted you up, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pinned you against the brick wall. Your fingers dug into his muscular shoulders as he grinded against you. “I need you,” Jungwon growled, “Right now.”

His lips left yours for a moment, trailing sloppy open mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth slightly grazing your skin, making you whimper at the feeling.

His hands found their way under your shirt, the feeling of his rough palms on your bare skin made you tremble.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered

“Yes”

note: ive been taking so long on the requests bc ive had zero motivation so this isn’t that good im really sorry

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lexsssu · 1 year ago

Text

Odd (Hiroki Dan)

TAGS: Dan/F!reader, yandere, possessiveness, obsession, breeding, impregnation, smut, oneshot Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

Dan was always…odd.

Even when you were both still young preteens fumbling their way through puberty and middle school, there was always something about him that stood out from the rest of the student body.

Sure, he was smart, handsome, and came from a good family especially with his father being the current superintendent general at the police force. He had all the qualities that ensured his constant popularity, but despite how amicable he was towards your peers he always retreated back into himself.

At least, that was when it came to everyone else that is.

Because the biggest oddity you could find in him is his blatant need to ALWAYS be around you.

Whether he was merely within your immediate vicinity or engaging with you in some way, the dark-haired male was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. The eyes are the windows to the soul and for someone like him who was a master at molding his expressions in whatever face he needed at the moment, his eyes clearly revealed how genuine he was towards you.

Perhaps you should be scared, especially when his expressive eyes widen and dilate whenever your eyes meet with him for even a second. How it seems as if he’d been staring at you for long periods of time without you even noticing how heated his gaze was, but…

Was it bad that you found his attention…endearing?

Flattering even that such an eligible man such as him only had you in his eyes?

Dan never did anything that made you feel uncomfortable, but rather knowing that you had his eternal attention almost felt like a safety blanket was wrapped around you and that there was never really anything for you to fear. He is a gentleman first and foremost, but the longing within his eyes are unmistakable and the genuine smiles he bestows upon you wear down the walls you’ve placed around your heart little by little.

That is why is there really any surprise that you’re wedded beneath the sakura blossoms as soon as you’ve both graduated highschool?

To most people, marrying so early seemed like such an archaic practice or that you were both throwing your lives away so early.

Such a thought never passed through your mind however and much less your husband for that matter. If anything, both his family and yours were very supportive of your decision as they had all been witness to the love you both shared for one another through all these years. Plus, it also helps that his family was well-off enough and Dan himself driven enough that your father had no qualms handing you over to his new son-in-law because he knew that you’d certainly be taken care of and cherished.

However, as much as you were grateful to the family and friends that celebrated your union, nothing could still overcome the happiness that overflowed from your heart as you met this man at the altar and exchanged vows and a kiss to seal your everlasting love to one another.

Dan was certainly odd…but you loved him all the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The doctor said that this is the best position to allow my seed to reach your womb and we’d be remiss if we didn’t follow her instructions. Besides, Masahiro deserves a new sibling, don’t you think so? I long to see you again growing ripe with my child…your breasts filling up with such fine drink that I’m already salivating just thinking about it…”

You don’t know what happened during work to set him off like this, but you weren’t complaining as Dan did his utmost best to practically rearrange your guts with how hard he was bearing down on you. The pillow he’d slipped beneath your hips just moments ago certainly helped as skin smacked against skin and bodily fluids dripped and stained the once pristine bedsheets.

The handsome investigator’s usually combed dark hair was in disarray as strands clung to his sweat-stained face, his movements & expression reeking of desperation and overflowing affection as he sought to get his cock as deep into you as he could. With luscious thighs wrapped around his narrow waist, hands raking against his strong back leaving faint red lines, and your lips kissed and bitten until it shone a bright reddish color, Hiroki knew that this might as well have been heaven.

For it is everything he wanted and dreamed of.

A precious young son sleeping in his own room, and the love of his life: his sweet little wife who still cared for him in spite of his need to ‘commit good deeds.’

And now that the newest member of your family was actively being made, Hiroki would make sure to continue his mission to cleanse the world of the filth that dared taint its goodness.

“ Leave it to me, darling. I’ll rack up enough ‘good deeds’ for you and all our future children so that you may all live without fears or worries… ”

With your face buried in the crook of his neck as you slept on top of him, his cock still stuffed inside your sopping cunt in order to prevent any of his seed from slipping out, the man smiled and closed his eyes and followed you into the land of dreams.

#lexsssu writes #Brutal Satsujin Keisatsukan no Kokuhaku #hiroki dan #hiroki dan x reader #hiroki dan x you #hiroki dan x y/n #yandere x reader #crossposted on ao3

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frenchkisstheabyss · 8 months ago

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♰ ᗪEᔕTᖇOY ᗰE ♰

♰ Pairing: dom!energy vampire!yunho x sub!chubby!fem!human!reader

♰ Genre: smut/angst/vampire au/horror

♰ Summary: Life as a human pet to your vampire master means that feeding time is always a special occasion but you've been acting particularly bratty lately so your owner decides to make tonight's dinner one you won't soon forget.

♰ Word Count: 1.5k-ish

♰ Warnings: Yunho's your master so you call him that, he's also feral for you, pet names (my pet, princess, good girl, little human, etc), not so pet names (you get called a fuck toy and a whore. fun times), a sprinkle of degradation if you squint, he's literally draining you of your life force, bondage, strong language, dirty talk, body suspension, unprotected sex, creampie, a lil cum play, blink & you miss it breeding kink, reader's ultra wet, sub space, nipple play, tit sucking, edging, fingering, vaginal penetration w/ vibrator, major Yunie hand kink, rough/deep sex, he also kinda overdoes it on the feeding and thinks he killed you but girl you're fine.

♰ A/N: I'm a horror whore so honestly this is roughly 1.5k worth of vampire smut that exists for the sole reason that I wanna bang vampires and apparently I wanna bang Yunho too. Someone confiscate my laptop ASAP so I can stop being so unhinged. Thanks xoxo ♡

Your master’s favorite room in this sprawling gothic manor you’ve come to call home will always and forever be the dining room...

A dining room that only qualifies as one by way of being a place in which he consumes his food. Between these four walls, upholstered in dark scarlet velvet, you’ll find no table and chair set. No wholesome family photos adorning the walls. No plates or forks or spoons.

Though there may be the occasional knife depending on what your master’s in the mood for. But tonight it isn’t about the blood—something he draws from you on only the rarest of occasions. Tonight it’s about feasting on your energy, devouring the very essence of your soul, and the room is brimming with it.

Ornate light fixtures in each corner illuminate the darkness in an erotic red that seems to pulse around the center of the room where you dangle 4ft from the ground, suspended only by the intricately knotted rope your master’s decorated your naked body in. At your feet a tall figure looms, his presence dominant and imposing. He watches you intently, admiring the meal laid out before him.

You’ve pinned your hair up for him, making it perfect for tugging should you require any disciplinary measures. Your makeup is simple yet alluring, highlighting your features without overpowering them. The rope fashioned around your chest is a corset of sorts that binds your arms behind you, curving back around your breasts to lay them bare for him to see.

Your plush thighs are spread giving him a direct view of the vibrator humming away in your dripping core. The room is silent besides this and, of course, your mindless whimpering. You aren’t allowed to speak, you know better than to disobey this rule, but you can make all the noise you want as long as you control your volume. But that’s so hard isn’t it? When your master’s been edging you for this long—much longer than your ruined little brain can remember—it’s easy to lose control.

“My pet isn’t forgetting her manners, is she?” Yunho asks, stepping between your legs. Hands gloved in black leather stroke the ropes extending from your ankles up to the ceiling, the vibration of your trembling body quaking through his own. You can see him better now, your handsomely dressed master feasting upon you with those shimmering sapphire pools he calls eyes. All you want in this realm is to be good for him. To be rewarded with his love, his praise, and his touch.

Reaching between your thighs, Yunho spreads the petal soft folds of your pussy, sliding the hood of your clit back to expose the sensitive bundle of nerves. He brushes it with his thumb and your body rushes with a heat that radiates onto him like the rays of the sun.

“Mmm, you feed your master so well” he hums, licking his lips, salivating, “Such a sensitive little cunt.”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you choke your moans down deep in your throat, your stomach tightening at the stimulation. You raise your hips, desperate to truly feel his touch but the gloves won’t let you. That is the mortal torture of this night.

All week you’ve been acting like a brat, disobeying his orders and throwing tantrums to get his attention. You understand how powerful Yunho is, how important his duties to the vampire council are, but he’s been far busier than usual lately and all those long nights home alone became unbearable.

Yunho can tell how much you’ve missed him by how tightly your pussy clings around the vibrator. “Look at her, so greedy. I really have neglected her. Forgive me, little one” he coos, pushing it into you until your eyes are watering and your head’s thrown back in ecstasy.

Yunho slips the vibrator out at an agonizingly slow pace, stopping at the tip. He groans in delight at the unique taste of the energy you give off as he rotates it in small circles.

“You love when your master punishes you, hmm? Like having this gorgeous pussy tortured until you can’t take it?” he grins, stretching you wide to watch your juices drip to the floor. “That is why you’ve been acting up, isn’t it?”

You respond with broken, honeyed moans and drawn out breaths. Yunho’s draining you, your essence flowing from you like a fountain that feels deceivingly good as it leaves your body. Yunho’s eyes travel up your figure, stopping every now and again to lust after the tender flesh peaking through the ropes. His gaze settles where your breasts bounce against your chest, the rope pushing them up in such a way that your stiffened nipples are begging for his attention.

Yunho leans in, applying delicate kitten licks to your nipple, and hears how frantically your heart beats in your chest. “No coming yet, little one” he hums, taking more of your pillowy breast into his mouth. The bud hardens more against the texture of his tongue and Yunho takes it between his teeth, pinching it just to watch you squirm.

He shoves the vibrator back into you, angling it against your sweet spot, “That’s it, mmph, shit, keep feeding me. Give it all to me.”

The room begins to darken, the minimal lighting doing nothing to keep you from drifting into the shadows. Your bindings seem to fall away and with it the limits of your mortal form. You’re left floating in a space too euphoric for words, completely at Yunho’s mercy.

Yunho raises his head, your spit drenched nipple suctioned between his lips, and finds himself spellbound by your beauty. You are a work of art unable to be replicated by any other woman, human or otherwise, and you’re his. Forever his. Just knowing his claim to you is eternal makes his hunger for you reach ravenous heights and he’s baring his fangs, tearing his gloves off to feel your bare body in his palms.

Tossing the vibrator aside, he frees his cock from the dress pants it was nearly tearing through to get to you. With one thrust he’s buried within your walls, rolling his hips to feel the delicious ridges of your pussy around him. Your body tenses, unintentionally causing you to pull away, but he won’t let you get away that easily.

“You know the rules, pet. No running” he growls, grabbing your hips and slamming you back down onto him, “You’ll be a good little human whore and, ah, take my cock like the fuck toy that you are.” Keeping one hand at your waist, his other hand ventures around you activating every pleasure point.

Your body reacts with maddening excitement to the worship being poured into you by those large, marvelously veined hands. They're like magic, tiny sparks of electricity dancing along your skin at every brush of his fingers. Lacing his long fingers around the back of your neck, he licks the delectable tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Say my name" he whispers, fangs skimming your jawline, "And maybe I'll take mercy on you."

The next moan that escapes you is more fractured than the others as your orgasm tears you to pieces. You repeat his name over and over, “Yunho. Yunho. Yun…”

“No, no, that won't do. Louder. Scream it" he commands and you obey, screaming your throat raw with his name all over your tongue.

Yunho stills his movements, groaning as you ride him in midair, his cock glistening in your slick. You’re coming for what feels like an eternity when your lower belly swells full with his seed, warm and satisfying. When Yunho pulls back it’s overflowing, trickling from your core and down your immaculate ass. He takes two fingers, gathering his come and feeding it back into you, “You did well, my pet. I’m so proud of you.“

Gradually you come back from that otherworldly place, your awareness of your body returning little by little. Opening your eyes you realize that you aren’t strung up in the dining room anymore. Instead you’re submerged in water of some sort, a floral scent filling your nostrils. You wiggle your toes and they swish around in the water, bubbles dancing on the tips of them. Your vision balances out and you let out a sigh of relief at the familiar sight of your bathroom.

“Thank hell you’re up” Yunho cheers from behind you in the tub, wrapping you in the tightest hug. “I must’ve fed too much. I’m so sorry, princess. I could’ve killed you. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

“Master, I’m fine, really.” you swear, lighting up at the sloppy kisses he plants on your cheek. “I may not be like you but I’m still strong.”

Yunho rests a hand on your chest, his fingers making figure eights on your collarbone. “That you are. My strong, beautiful little human. I’m so sorry I neglected you,” he apologizes, hoping with all his heart that you believe him. “Your master loves you, you trust that don't you?”

You nod, smiling back at him, feeling safe and cared for in his embrace. “And my master is loved.”

#ateez x you #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez au #yunho smut #yunho x you #yunho x reader #yunho angst #ateez angst #ateez x female reader #ateez x chubby reader #chubby reader #plus size reader

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7brownsuga7 · 8 months ago

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The God who answers after dark ☆ The intro:

Summary: You used to pray to the Gods after dark before you went to sleep, always thinking that you were praying to the good kind. The kind that showed mercy. However you were mistaken, as time passes and you grew older and wiser it will be revealed that your prayers were answered, but not by the Gods you thought you knew, but the dark kind. The kind that your grandmother used to warn you about. Ones you hear in stories. The kind that you should fear, but how can you when it's all you know. How can you when he was the only one who answered?

Tags&warnings: Jungkookxfemreader, mostly fluff I guess, a bit of smut if you would call it that?!?? age gap I guess?!!? Jungkook is obsessed with reader, a bit delusional. Slight manipulation???! MDNI!!!

Word count: 3k+

Note: making this into a series🫶🏽 this is just a little something that I wrote when I was bored. Be prepared for more obsessive and possessive Jungkook!

Was inspired by the book invisible life of Addie-Larue

The God who answers after dark ☆ series master list: Here ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

It was dark.

The night creating shadows in the corner of your room, allowing your imagination to run wild, creating things scary to imagine.

You wasn’t scared though, because you knew it was your imagination. And because you’ve experienced something way darker. You invited him into your home with a simple whisper, let him talk to you throughout the many dark nights, telling him your dreams and wishes of a better life where you are happy and loved.

You was always an imaginative child. While you watched others make friends, you created your own, that grew along with you. Who only came out at night.

You first called upon him when you were only seven. Mindlessly talking to the open air. You had wanted a friend. A friend you could talk to, play with, share secrets with. So you stared off into the dark and talked about nothing and everything. However, when you saw the shadows in the corner of your room move, and sit before you did you realise that you summoned something else. Not a friend, not an imaginary one, something much darker. Still you spoke to it, and it spoke to you like rough winds in the cool night. It comforted you like a cool breeze in a summers heat.

You found comfort in him. You would mindlessly tell him your dreams. He would make empty promises of giving you that dream felt life. Empty, because they came with a price that you were not willing to pay for. Still he would sit beside you and listen to your stories and dreams.

You had asked him what his dreams were and he had told you that he was the son of a God - he had none, but he could grant them within due time. When he himself became a God. So he settled with telling you stories about Gods and wars. Desperate souls and deals. The kind his father spoke to him about, the kind he experienced himself.

Then, he was an angel, the son of a God he refused to speak of. Now, he is a God himself, the God of Darkness. Like the type you’d find deep in a forest, hidden behind the shadows of the trees, infused within the night that covers the sky like a blanket. Comforting to some, suffocating for others.

You was a child who had a lot to wish for and no control of your imagination back then. His company grew on you so much that he was like an accessory to your room. Like a cushion that decorated your bed, a small plant that had a home on your desk, a stack of books that rested in a pile on your bedside table. He felt like home.

The man that would sit before you, appearance created from your imagination - answered you everytime you called on him. He was always there with you. When you looked out of your window at night, when you wrote in your diary about the stories he’d tell you. In your dreams. He was always there.

It was dark.

So you did what you’ve always done when the lights went out, and people lay deep asleep. The night silent and still.

You called for him.

“Yes my love?” He appeared from the dark corner of your room. Once a shadow, now a man that sat before you on your bed. The only bit of light was the shine from the moon and the small warm lamp next to your bed.

You always expect the bed to shift as he sits down, but his weight is like a feather held in one’s palm. Light and weightless. Proof that the form you see before you is none other than what he has stolen from your imagination. His true form something like a stream in the night. Dark and shallow.

His lean body presented in a white button up shirt and black slacks. Very simple, but styled so well. He was always so well presented, dressed so elegantly. You knew that that wasn’t your imagination that created the fine attire, it was simply him, the Darkness who was a charmer, who had lived many years before you. Of course he’d picked up some style on the way.

“I want to be loved” you spoke out, tone delicate like a whisper, too embarrassed, too afraid.

“Y/n my dear, you are loved by many. Your mother adores you, friends cherish you, need I say more?” His eyes match his soul, dark and intense, yet they still seem to be so warm, inviting. It’s either that or his voice that draws you in. So soothing yet so deep. Like a calm ocean that holds many depth below.

“Not that kind of love. I want to be loved by a man. I want to feel that type of love I read in books and see in movies. The type of love my grandparents have. The type of love that won’t make me feel so alone anymore”

He chuckles a beautiful melody.

You always surprised him. The things you’d speak and dream of so bizarre yet so intriguing. Out of all the souls who begged for his help and all the humans he’s encountered, you’re the one that amused him most. A girl who asked and wished for so much, yet all she needed to do was look in the mirror and realise her worth, her power.

But he of all people knew that wishes were easy to slip from one’s lips. Words slide out of people’s mouths just as easy as a balloons string slips out of a child’s hand, so effortlessly. People are so careless when it comes to words. If only they knew the power it holds.

Wishes, prayers. They were all the same to him. It didn’t matter because they both had the same outcome, the same deal, the same promise, the same fate and the same desperation. The person was always begging and pleading in the end, too desperate to have their prayers answered to form a logical sentence, and to understand a twisted deal.

“You are not alone my love. I am here, I’ve always been here. I am the breeze that embraces you in the night, the darkness that lulls you to sleep. I am here. And you are loved.”

“You are not a man, even if you choose to be in this moment.” Your words are harsh, yes, but that’s what he loved about you. You were honest with him, you weren’t afraid.

“I can be the darkness of the night, a friend when you need company, I can be a man…”

When you make no move to respond to him, he rolls his eyes and sighs. “But before all of that I am a God. A God that answers wishes, say the words and I’ll give it to you, for a price”

This isn’t the first time he’s said this, and this isn’t the first time you’ve asked for something. But it always ends up with the same outcome, an offer of a sacrifice that you refuse. And then the whole interaction is swept away in the night, forgotten.

“Im not sacrificing my soul to you”

“My dear, you’ve called upon me countless of times, I’ve stayed by your side for years, you must know by now that you’re mine. I may not have your soul entirely, but yours is bound with mine, through shared memories and dreams, nights and years.”

“Don’t you get tired of chasing something that doesn’t belong to you? That will never be yours?”

“I have patience” is the only thing he says before he changes the subject back to your previous wish.

“I’d love to help you. You know I always do. But you should know by now that I can’t just give you that. I can’t just muster up a man for you that will make love to you. You want me to grant your wish of being loved by a man, that I can’t do, but like I said, I can be a lot of things.”

His hand reaches out to touch your jaw, thumb caressing it. His touch light, smooth. And despite everything, you wish he would touch you more, so you lean into his touch.

“I can be a God, an Angel, a Devil, a Human. Whatever you’d like me to be, as long as I am yours and you are mine”

“That’s not the type of love I’m talking about” your voice is shaky, unsure of what you want. What you need.

“Oh isn’t it? All those nights you would touch yourself to images of me… where you would talk to yourself about wanting to be touched. Those days where you would listen to all your friends stories about being with another, being touched by another. You envy them. You want to be loved in a way that has your skin littered with goosebumps, chills running down your spine” his fingers brush along your collarbone and you feel a shiver come across your body.

You think back to the nights where you would dream of his fingers against your skin. Light, cool and delicate.

“You must know by now that your body is mine. Your mind, your heart, your soul. Stop wasting your time being stubborn and let me give you what you want. The love you hope for, a world where you’re happy, things go your way. I can give you all of that if you would just be mine”

You hate the fact that he’s partially right. You have dreamt about him and thought of many nights where he would lay you in bed and take you as his. It was one of your dark fantasies that you never spoke of, you couldn’t , not to him.

Just as much as you were, he was stubborn. And as a God that always gets his way, he hates being told no.

“I see you’re making it a habit of calling me yours. You may be a God, but I don’t belong to you. I won’t”

“Within due time”

You don’t say anything else, instead you focus on the stillness of the room. The way his presence is so strong, the way you feel relaxed around him.

“You want me to grant your wish of being loved by a man? I can’t give that to you if you don’t sacrifice, but I can show you how to be loved, y/n. I can show you what it feels like to be touched” his hand brushes the side of your face. His eyes pouring into yours, if you didn’t know his games you would almost fall for his tricks. Almost.

“Is this how you get people to give you their souls? Is this one of your twisted games? I give you my body and you take my soul as a keepsake.” Your breath is shaky as his touch takes over your body, so intense, so wrong but so right.

“I don’t just want your soul y/n. I want your heart, I want your touch, I want your love and your word that you will be mine.”

“You aren’t capable of feeling those things. you’re n-“

“Not human, I know. You’ve told me many times” his fingers brush along your thigh. “But when you have lived amongst humans and dealt with them for as long as I have, you begin to understand real emotions. I’m more human than you’ll ever know ”

His lips brush along your earlobe. “Let me show you”

He lays you down on the bed, hovering over you.

“No man on earth can give you what I can give you. I’ll take their souls if they tried. I can give you the world, the luxury of never having to worry about anything. A life of happiness, a life of freedom. If only you would let me have you”

He spoke so much about making things happen. He could make things happen with the click of his finger. And you wondered if he ever manipulated you in anyway. And why he hasn’t so far. If he really wanted you like he said he does, then why doesn’t he use his power to get you?

He spoke so softly in your ear, his voice like a blanket of silk. You don’t realise that you have yet again leaned in to him. Drawn in by his words, the way he spoke them so effortlessly and so passionately.

“You have me, I’m here right now” you give up your fight and give in to what your body craves.

Your eyes flutter close as you let yourself escape in everything that is him.

Just like when you were a child, you use your imagination to create your own little world. Just you and him for the moment.

You’re lost in his earthy scent. The night sky drawn around you like a blanket, protecting you. A sense of freedom as you seep into the darkness of the night that is him. But when you open your eyes you see more than just the darkness. You see the stars in the night. His eyes mimicking the galaxy as he watches you with so much want.

There in that moment is when you realised how powerful he was. How powerful his words were, his presence was. And his touch…

His touch that had your body reacting in ways you never knew it could.

His touch light, like a cool embrace of the wind.

Except your skin is like the sun, setting your skin on fire as his hands caress your body. You hate that your body reacts so easily to his touch. But over anything else, you hate how he knows your body when you don’t even know it yourself.

He knows just where to touch you, just where you crave another’s touch.

Just where to touch to have the hairs on your body stand up. Eager for more.

His face is in the crook of your neck lightly running his lips along the service, just before he litters small pecks to it. He smells you, breathes you in, humming in the process.

“I’m so full of everything I can have in life, and yet I still crave you”

You shiver when he pauses just by your earlobe.

“What are you doing to me my love?”

You both lock eyes for a second, the world stopping in the moment that is just yours. You don’t answer him. He seems elated with just watching you anyways.

“You’ll let me have you?”

You hold your breath, unsure of what to say. Yes because you want him to take you here right now, but you know how sneaky he can be, you’re afraid that your words would be used against you.

When you make no move to speak, he smirks against your skin and whispers, “Smart girl, I’ve taught you well.”

He takes no time in playing with the lace of your panties. You feel wetness stick to the fabric, something that started once he laid his fingers on you.

He’s always been good with his fingers. One night he played you a song on your guitar, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. In this very moment you feel like an instrument. The way his fingers work on you, you creating sounds so melodic you don’t even recognise yourself. The way he holds you so gently as one would with their instrument. You’re not afraid when you’re with him. There’s no need to be when he holds and touches you so gently.

His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks to you. His fingers working inside of you making your back arch and toes curl. Your fingers grab your sheet, mind going crazy because you know you shouldn’t be doing this. This is crazy and it’s not like you at all. And with him?

“You’re so stubborn. Why won’t you be mine? Look how your body is reacting to me. The moment I made myself present, your breathing changed rhythm and heart increased pace. You don’t think I know how you feel?”

You release a pathetic moan. A desperate one that has you cringing with embarrassment because of how needy you sound.

He leans in towards the crook of your neck with a low, “hmm?”

You look away. Too embarrassed and too in awe at the way he’s making you feel - making you act.

“Look at me”.

You find the courage to look at him. His fingers that work inside of you have your pussy creating sounds you never knew it could. You take deep breaths, slight frown on your face as your body’s taken over by the pleasure.

“You’re so wet for me. So needy.”

He continues to watch you with half-lidded eyes. Taking in the moment. Taking in everything that is you.

As the night progresses, you find yourself sinking deeper and deeper into it.

You’ve given yourself to him in this moment - not entirely as he had hoped, but having his way with you in this point in time is more than enough.

He takes you there on your bed. The same place you would speak to him every night, dream of him every occasion.

He’s gentle, careful. His motions precise, enough to have your breath stuck in your throat.

Your mind has been lost in the darkness that is him. You don’t even want to find it.

He’s hovered over you, your legs wrapped around him. Kisses given with each thrust.

He speaks beautiful words to you, hand caressing your face every now and then.

And in this moment you’re sure you’re making love. Even though you know it can’t be because you both know nothing of the sort, but this is exactly how it feels like.

You reach a hand out to him, brushing back his dark stringy locks that fall in front of his face.

He kisses you with so much passion, speaks to you with words that has your heart aching for more.

In this moment you almost give him your word. Your life, your soul. Your head clouded by this intense emotion, a feeling that you can’t grasp. He’s taken you to a whole different universe, mind lost in everything that is him.

You almost give him your word, almost.

And when he brings you to your climax you sink deeper into him, into his embarace. Letting your body infuse with his.

You both lay there in silence for a while until he voices, “Even if you deny it. I’ve given you my word that I’ll stick by your side. There’s no getting rid of me”

You don’t need to ask him about what he means.

You know.

His fingers caress your skin as you close your eyes, letting his words fill the air.

“A soul as beautiful and pure as yours is a soul to wait a lifetime for. And I’ve got a lot of time”

And when you open your eyes, you’re met with nothing but the darkness of your room.

The God who answers after dark ☆

- mimi ☆

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kaznejis · 8 months ago

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Your opal eyes are all I wish to see- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader

Professor Erik Lehnsherr was an enigma, it was undeniable to anyone who crossed his path. He emanated a magnificent presence; intelligence, authority, power. But, he was also kind, when he wanted to be. Reverent smiles when a student offered an insightful point during one of his seminars, a chuckle when a hint of true personality slipped out during their answer, a smirk when the debate prose grew heated. A true beacon of trust, solemn kindness to all of his students; but, sometimes, in the darkest depths of the night, tucked safely into the comforts of your duvet- you felt that part of him reserved an extra sense of kindness for you.

A/N: Hi! Thanks for reading, I (hopefully) intend to make this into a series of stand-alone but affiliated oneshots. This one can act as a form of 'introduction' to this series.

*NOTE* You ARE 18+ in this, just some innocentish, legal teacher x student happenings. If my renowned university allows it, then I guess Xavier's school would too.

Read it on AO3! / Word Count: 4.6k / Series masterlist

A true beacon of trust, solemn kindness to all of his students; but, sometimes, in the darkest depths of the night, tucked safely into the comforts of your duvet- you felt that part of him reserved an extra sense of kindness for you.

It was small at first, minor episodic moments that could have been passed off as nothing. A nod of gratitude at a correct answer, a click of thumbs when something you noted reminded him of a point, a smile as you approached him with a question after class. He had been your saving grace in the bleak sadness of those first days at the school- initially you had viewed the ‘Gifted School’ as your punishment, punishment for the twisting of cells within your body and soul; for the inherent iniquitous poison that resided upon the tips of your fingers and the tears that dripped from your eyes. At the flicker of a breath you could force a being across the bridge between living and death; make the decision for them, shove their teetering body upon the ledge their soul balanced upon. It had been too much, too much power. You had been too much of a burden to your family back home, what’s to say you weren’t one here?

Despite those dark, dragging days; months followed your enrolment upon the school and gradually, you grew comfortable and found home in the place you had once seen as a finale to any semblance of normal life, an eternal imprisonment. So, as you came to see the school as home; you grew comfortable with the teacher that graced the presence of your studies three days per week: Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

His methods of teaching were interesting- he tended to treat his students more as ‘friends’; seeing as though he opted to teach the older students over the sniffling children of the school, he saw no means for punishment or lecturing- instead opting to have what he liked to call an ‘academic discussion’. His classroom was an open, equal playing field for all- a chance to truly be understood by an, arguably, more unorthodox mutant; as compared to Professor Xavier or McCoy. Most days he would grace the classroom’s presence donning his selected dark turtle neck of the day, similarly dark chinos and his trusted, sharp lace-up loafers.

You spent many-a-day looking forward to his sharp, attractive outfit of the day.

On the days where you didn’t have a class with him, you prayed, hoped, begged that you would pass him at some point in the day; book yourself at least a fleeting smile into his obviously busy schedule. Some days he would provide you with just that, a genuine smile and a passing question on how you were finding his assigned reading; sometimes you would even be able to develop that into a conversation. Some days, you would be unlucky; your paths simply unfated to align on that specific day. But, some days, you do pass him; your heart picking up speed as you near him in the hallway- on those days, in those unlucky moments, he would simply pass right by you; not even sparing you a fleeting second. Leaving a grating emptiness within your stomach. It was safe to say, those successful meetings had become everything. Your own driving force to make yourself presentable on the days where you weren’t guaranteed to see him, an excuse to leave your room on the days where nightmares blurred the edges of your vision and infected the depths of your twisted soul.

It was a Friday when it truly started, transcended past your lone imagination and your regretful dreams, past the moans and pants of Erik into the depths of your pillow beneath the blanket of night, your own hand sneaking between your thighs. It had been the average Friday at first- breakfast with Jean, mutant politics with Professor Xavier at 9, and then at 10:30: mutant history with Professor Lehnsherr.

It had been warm- a soothing, blurring comfort laying upon the grounds of the school; there was a bonfire planned for that night, a signal to the beginning of Summer, the break from classes that would be due to come. You had practically bounced into Erik’s classroom; excitement blurring any sense of formality as you failed to wipe the grin from your face- he turned to you as you entered, pausing his conversation with a student already mobile at their desk; a confused smile instantly graced his features, his eyebrow raising in amusement.

“Morning Y/N.” Professor Lehnsherr, unlike his counterparts, only used first names with his students- even playing field, and all.

“Morning Professor Lehnsherr.”

To that he instantly chastised you, “How many times have I told this class that you can just call me Erik? I beg Y/N, what do you have against my god given name?”

You shrugged, grinning earnestly as you rifled through your backpack, today was one of the good days, “Nothing, nothing at all Prof- Erik.” He chuckled at your correction, hands on his hips as he turned fully towards you now- dismissing the student he had been talking to entirely, but presumably unintentionally.

“Well, what’s gotten you so chipper today, Y/N?”

“Oh!” You grinned wholeheartedly towards him, practically purring at the attention he was granting you, “It’s the summer bonfire tonight, of course.”

“The night where Y/N gets absolutely wasted with no remorse, she means.” Jean tittered beside you, winking at you as your face instantly bloomed with heat. You couldn’t even be angry at her in that moment, because the laugh that bloomed from Erik’s chest made your own embarrassment all worth it.

“Well sounds like you all have a good night ahead of you.” He was leaned against his desk now, boundless legs crossed at the knee and hair falling upon his forehead as he grinned to himself.

“Will you be there, Erik?” You questioned tentatively, breaking the urge to suck your lip between your teeth; a desperate attempt to silence the leaking of your own secrets in his mere presence.

Raising his eyes to you, Erik seemed to watch you for a moment; his eyes unreadable and face expressionless as he lounged there, every length of his stature going still. Biting your tongue, you could barely breathe; silently lavishing in his gaze as your heartbeat thundered in your ears- your surrounding classmates, Jean- all succumbing to a blur as you watched each other; two beasts stricken in the wild, the string connecting your mind to his pulled taut; similar in more ways you could ever know. After what felt like forever, eternity, mere seconds- he rose, smoothed a hand over his slicked-back hair and straightened his posture, “We’ll see.”

And at that, the moment ended, he turned away entirely- scratching his worn-down chalk against the blackboard as he began his lesson; the only part of him available to you was the harsh lines of his back as you regained your ability to breath, digging crescent moons into the skin of your thigh as the surrounding classroom came back to you in waves. Scrambling to open your book and prepare your quill- you used the familiar ministrations as a chance to even your breaths, preparing for the inevitable event of him turning back towards the classroom, turning back towards you.

As you, finally, began to catch up with his words and write your notes- Jean’s chair scratched against the floor beside you as she leant towards you, her voice that followed was lower than a whisper, intentionally audible only to you, “What the hell was that?”

She had noticed it too. Gulping, you shook your head, barely raising your eyes from the book before you, “I have no idea.”

The remainder of his lesson passed in a blur, the ache between your legs and the confusion filling your chest all too noticeable as you failed to truly focus on the lesson before you. Your lack of focus meant you had specifically been unable to understand the essay prompt Erik had presented to the class- your sudden silence was almost deafening, the other students very obviously used to you picking up the slack in discussion as you would usually grasp the opportunity of any attention Erik would spare you.

You made the rash decision to approach Erik at the end of class, your own strive for academic success stubbornly drowning your own nerves towards him. As the other students filtered from the classroom, you diverged from Jean with a promise to see her at the party later; to which she could only reply with a pointed grimace towards Erik. Erik, who had promptly lowered himself to the seat at his desk, his gaze laser-focused upon a stack of papers before him; his gaze did not rise as you approached.

Clearing your throat, you teetered awkwardly beside him, your fingers a constant twitch at your sides, “Erik, I was wondering-”

“Sorry Y/N, I can’t help you today- I have an obligation immediately after this.” Oh.

You blustered for a moment, your nerves and twirling fingers reaching a screeching halt as he effectively cut you off. Oh. The twining line that you believed existed between the two of you instantly snapped, the wretched, torn fibres hanging limply at his rejection. Blinking, you could only stare as he resolutely refused to look at you; his fingers lay upon his lips, his index finger rubbing against the chapped, pink skin.

He seemed almost bored by your presence.

At that thought, you made your exit, and did it hastily. Without even sparing him another word, you backed out of the classroom; your heart stuttering and knees quivering- the walk to your room was agonising, the eyes of students and teachers alike followed your harried figure; confusion and empathy following your form as you will yourself to just make it to your room, just make it to the safety of a closed door.

As the door slammed behind you, you could only breath; confusion and hurt swirling within the dregs of your stomach as you heaved brokenly. Erik had never dismissed you like that; had never talked to you like that. What had you done to deserve that? Had your question of whether he would be attending the bonfire offended him? The mere thought of associating himself with a gaggle of students; immature, unaware, uninteresting students. You realised, that was all you were to him. As he had been your saving grace, the aid that motivated you to climb from your bed in the mornings; you had been nothing but apart of his job, a hindrance to his time as you only extended the time he had to endure your presence- all in your plight to force yourself upon him. Horror replaced the confusion then- the realisation that you had been nothing but an embarrassment to yourself in his presence- his esteemed, intelligent presence.

You vowed, there and then, that you would leave him alone- contribute nothing more than what was necessary, ignore him in the hallways, direct any questions you had to your other professors. It was for his benefit more than anything, you wanted to garner nothing but a positive impression upon him.

The remainder of daylight saw you sulking beneath your duvet; scribbles adorning your diary as you lamented your feelings for Erik, chastised your own stupidity; the happiness that had graced your presence that morning didn’t allow even the slightest linger. As evening dawned and as the dining hour passed; your door suddenly flung open, Jean at its helm; a plate of tray of food in her hand and a displeased impression upon her face.

“Y/N! You’re going to miss dinner.” She allowed herself entrance to the room, placing the tray upon your bedside and throwing the covers from your sulking form, “You know you can’t drink on an empty stomach, eat.”

Admittedly, the smell of the delicious meal effectively coaxed you from your dwelling; instantly, to Jean’s chagrin, you began to eat with the manners of a starving wolf, your body becoming accustomed to the feeling of hunger that had been turning your stomach for hours, “Thanks, Jean.” Stopping your tirade, you allowed her a smile; to which she instantly raised an eyebrow at how pathetic it was.

“Hey,” Frowning, she joined you upon the mattress, a hand moving to lay against your back, “What’s got you so down?”

Placing your fork down, you huffed; a heavy exhale falling from your nostrils as you stared resolutely down at your plate, “I’m such an idiot.”

“What? Why-”

“Professor Lehnsherr; I tried to approach him after class today and he dismissed me completely… Oh Jean I’m such an idiot-”

“Y/N, you’re not an idiot- why would he do that? He’s always up to have a chat after class with anyone, but especially you.”

You paused, lowering your face into your hands; the comfort of Jean’s hand rubbing circles upon your back, coaxing your feelings forward, “I think I’ve made him uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?”

Nodding, you turned to her then, a frown marring your features as you held back your own tears, “You know, my crush on him- I think I’ve gone too far, he feels that he can’t even speak to me anymore.”

You could only watch in shock as Jean laughed at that, a grin lining her features as she raised an eyebrow incredulously, “Y/N, he’s a grown man and a teacher! If he was uncomfortable I’m sure he would do more than just ignore you.” Jean shrugged, a lopsided smile upon her face, “Maybe he was just having an off day- remember how weird he was at the start of today’s class?”

You nodded, a true smile finally adorning your features, “Maybe,” You sniffled, “Well- this just provides all the more excuse to get drunk tonight.”

“And, all the more excuse to put a pretty dress on to take your mind off of Professor Lehnsherr.” She practically sang his name, giggling as you rolled your eyes before rising, offering you her hands and dragging you towards the hellscape that was your wardrobe.

The ceremonious activities began with a bang that night, literally- Professor McCoy having added too much gasoline to the bonfire’s mass, causing the first lick of fire to essentially skyrocket upwards; causing screams of genuine terror to erupt. Howling with laughter, you and Jean had stumbled towards the drinks table- each pouring yourself a cup of punch before discreetly adding vodka, from Jean’s own trusty flask, into each of your cups.

“To getting over crushes,” Jean grinned, though you didn’t miss the way her gaze drifted towards Scott, “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” You crashed your cup against hers, giggling obnoxiously as some spilled from hers- only to gag upon your first sip of the apparent poison within your cup, “Jean! How much did you put in here?”

She shrugged, a cheeky grin painting her features as she sashayed her hips to the music that had began, all the while moving backwards towards the bonfire and the crowd beginning to form. Shaking your head, you followed her; greeting your friends and fellow students as you entered the crowd- pushing forward before finding the perfect spot directly in front of the fire. You had the perfect view of the opposite side; it seems that the school’s faculty had formed their own group towards the edge of the student-crowd, mingling and laughing over bottles of beer respectively. You didn’t pay much mind towards others in the crowd as you danced and drank and laughed with Jean. That was until, a commotion erupted from the professor’s crowd as a figure joined them.

To your shock, it was Erik. Erik, dressed in an unbuttoned plaid shirt and black jeans to match the undershirt hugging his chest; his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. The usual pomade that held his hair in place had been forgone in favour of his natural waves; a lone strand of longer hair protruding upon his forehead as he accepted a drink from Professor Xavier, a genuine grin directed towards his friend. You could do nothing but stare, frozen in place as your cup hung limply in your palm. He turned then, his gaze scanning past the campfire, towards the crowd you stood at the forefront of; his search allowed you the split-second of grace to look away, turning hastily towards Jean as you grabbed her hands. “We should refill our drinks.” Jean agreed readily, pulling you out of the crowd, away from Erik’s waiting gaze.

At the mere reminder of Erik, his existence- the way he had dismissed you that morning; the drinks began to flow freely. Cup after cup was downed as you lost any care for the way others were seeing you- finally, truly, you were letting go, foregoing the emotional baggage that lay upon your shoulders just for one night.

It was well past midnight as you wandered away from the bonfire, bored of watching Jean make out with Scott, “Congratulations.” You grumbled to yourself as you shoved your way through the overgrowth, the trees casting foreboding shadows upon your vision as you trampled over stray branches. After a minute of walking, you stumbled upon an old shed; the building’s wretched curves and rotting wood illuminated beneath the moon as you stood before it. Just as you were about to turn, return to the safety of the campfire; a rustling sounded on the other side of the building. Curiosity peaked your mind as you peered round the rise, only for shock to bridle them simultaneously as your gaze fell upon Erik, sat upon the steps in front of the building, an unlit cigarette poised between his fingers. He looked up instantly upon the sound of your unconcealable gasp.

“Oh-” You breathed, shocked at the sight of him, “I’m sorry, I’ll just-”

“You’ve caught me,” He huffed, holding his hands up- a willing criminal succumbing to their crime, his cigarette still hung limp between his fingers, “I’ve been caught.”

Your drunken conscience only allowed for a broken giggle to form from your mouth, for your knees to tremble and your feet to stumble in his direction. He raised an eyebrow at you, mirth painting his smirk as he looked you up and down unashamedly. You could only watch as he fumbled around in his jean pocket for a moment before retrieving a lighter; turning it in his hand- once, twice; before placing the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. The blunt, ember end of the cigarette illuminated his face in the darkness; the bustle of the bonfire long behind you in the shadows of the building he sat beside- he took a prolonged drag of the cigarette then, the smoke clouding your nostrils as he exhaled.

Chuckling, he turned towards you, the cigarette balanced upon his lips and reducing his voice to a blabbering murmur, “Don’t smoke, Y/N, nasty habit to get rid of.” You could only nod; mystified by the drink and the smoke and the heed of his gaze, his heavy eyelids and messy hair, his presence rendering you silent, mute as you could only stare right back at him.

Your heartbeat only skyrocketed as he patted the step beside him, beckoning you over with a tilt of his head; a puff of smoke abrogating from his mouth as he did so. You complied, discreetly wiping the sweat from your hands upon your knees as you lowered yourself beside him, allowing him a polite smile as you curled your arms around the bare skin of your shins. You were dangerously close, the harsh scent of cigarette smoke and cologne lost to the administrations of the day, invading your senses- you could only breathe it in, breathe in the moment, the proximity of his form. You didn’t know what to say, what to do- you only knew the Erik that wore restricting turtle necks and had perfectly slicked back hair; not plaid shirts and battered nikes’. It seemed that he was too aware of this, opting to smoke his cigarette silently beside you, allowing you your own time to process this interaction.

Finally, you found your voice; the sound of it a mere croak at first as you turned towards him, your knee knocking against his abrasively, clumsily. God, you were so drunk, “Could I- could I have a try?”

His gaze bled into yours before it dropped to the cigarette between his fingers, he gestured to it at first; to which you nodded in confirmation. His features morphed into one of amusement, impressed as he handed it towards you; tutting all the while, “Naughty.”

You laughed, head hanging back loosely as the alcohol broke the filter that had at first clouded your, already dulled, senses, “I just want to try new things, Professor.” To which you then attempted to take a drag of the cigarette, though you failed entirely, breaking into a fit of coughs as the smoke preemptively wafted into your open mouth.

Erik grinned, shaking his head as he plucked the cigarette from your fingers, “See, like this.” You watched as he puckered his lips around the bud, inhaling, demonstrating before exhaling smoke directly into your face. If you had moved forward only a few inches, your mouths could have met in a kiss, your mind spoke insidiously. Once he handed the cigarette back to you, you followed his administration; though you were still unable to stop the hacking coughs from rising within your lungs, practically throwing the cigarette back at him as you spluttered into your elbow.

“How do you even get used to that?”

He shrugged, returning to his own routine of inhaling and exhaling, “Like I said, nasty habit.”

Exhaling quietly, you allowed silence to settle over the two of you; an embalming sense of bliss filling your senses- the sounds of the bonfire had long since calmed now, the party having wound down for the night as people presumably either left for their rooms or huddled in groups around the fire. The blurred edges of inebriation left only a residual floating sense now; your heartbeat having calmed, simply basking in the proximity of Erik’s presence, closer than ever before; closer than the dreams that awoke you at night, that plagued every day and every interaction with the man beside you.

His own resolute silence dawned upon you then; shit, maybe he wanted to be alone? You instantly began to rise to your feet, “I’m sorry, Erik, I-” Before you could continue, a hand curled around your wrist; dexterous fingers caressing the skin there as he stared up at you; his gaze open, unabashed. However, the moment ended as soon as it started, he seemed to catch himself; his gaze darkening as he snatched his hand away- almost as if he had made contact with boiling hot coals, not the cool skin of your wrist. You stood there for a moment, shoulders taut and shock unbridled as you stared at the spot where his caress had just laid.

Abruptly, he stood; a hand carding through his hair as he disposed of the cigarette- the bud smoking upon the ground as he began to pace; shaking his head all the while, “I’m sorry Y/N, Oh, I’m so sorry-”

“Professor, what-”

“Please,” He begged brokenly, his voice broken as he pleaded with you, stopping his pacing a mere step before you, “Please, don’t call me that.”

His words were strict, final. You could only nod, regret and embarrassment fizzing within your throat as you garbled out an apology, “I’m sorry, Erik, I-”

“God,” He sighed, his eyes practically rolling back as he stood before you, his hands clenched at his sides; as if he were holding himself back, “I wish you didn’t call me that either.”

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t-”

Erik turned, pacing back towards the step before lowering himself upon it, his head instantly falling to his hands as the tips of his fingers entangled into his hair; his whole demeanour clenched in distress. You sincerely did not understand what was happening. When he spoke next, his voice was low, but grating with emotion. Emotion that resided deep within his bowels, within the very vessels of his soul as he raised his head towards you, “I’m a terrible teacher.”

The confusion ebbed and flowed through your bloodstream now, practically a part of you as you could only gape at him, “What? No-”

“No, Y/N.” He spoke, silencing you, “I am awful, horrible. I have thoughts that no teacher, no man should have.”

Swallowing nervously, you advanced towards him; coaxing yourself forward as if approaching a stalking predator; his gaping mouth practically waiting to engulf you, feast upon your blood and bones and soul. “Erik, I don’t understand-”

“Y/N.” He rose, instantly crowding towards you, his hands moving to caress your shoulders and arms and waist; engulfing the feeling of your skin like a man hungry past the bounds of starvation. You could only stand there, panting. “Day and night, awake and asleep; I think of you. You reside in the light of every dream and the deep darkness of every nightmare; you are always there.” It was his turn to pant now, your hot breaths mingling upon the cold air as you willed, begged yourself not to give in, not to look down at his lips. Before you could reply, he shook his head, tears swimming in his eyes, “You don’t have to say anything, please, never feel pressured to say anything back; to return my horrible, wretched thoughts. I’ll leave, I’ll leave the school, I’ll leave you alone-”

You swallowed the sound of his words with your own lips, a hmm the only sound that remained of his rant as you moved to clutch his cheeks, his jaw, the ends of his hair. The two of you stumbled backwards as you gasped into his mouth, your lips moving with intense fervour as he manoeuvred you backwards- encasing your neck with his arms as he propped you against a nearby tree- the bristles and branches scratching against your form allowed no solace as your lips engulfed Erik’s, your soul ricocheting against his as you moved in perfect tandem. Tongues and bodies intertwined as you gasped and moaned and panted against his mouth; your leg hitching around his waist as he dragged a hand downwards before trailing a finger across the skin of your kneecap- he was everywhere, the feeling of him electrifying as he moved down; his tongue forming shapes upon your throat as his breath burned hot against the sensitive skin there.

Just as his hand began to move south, just as his fingers intertwined with the edges of your skirt- a twig snapped in the nearby wood. Instantly the moment died, Erik disconnected himself from you entirely; his shirt half hanging from his frame and hair a mess as he panted at you, eyes wide; form trembling. You could only stare back, chest heaving and back firm against the base of the tree, your leg still hanging limp in the air as the contact point had since retreated.

Gulping, you patted at the hair on top of your head, wiped at the moist upon your lips, “Erik-”

He didn’t spare you the grace of another word as he retreated, moving backwards; his stricken gaze never leaving yours as he retreated into the dark of the trees, back to the bustling of the party. Once his figure disappeared, you could only collapse against the tree entirely; tears pouring from your eyes and glistening upon your cheeks as you sobbed, your whole body feeling nothing but anguish.

TBC

#erik lehnsherr x you #erik lehnsherr x y/n #erik lehnsherr x reader #magneto x reader #magneto #x men #marvel mcu #marvel #michael fassbender #x men first class #erik lehnsherr

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housetargaryenloyalist · 5 months ago

Text

Summer loving

Pairing: Benjicot Blackwood x Tully!reader

Synopsis: It seems that the boy you knew ten summers ago has turned into a man

Wordcount: 2.9k

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, pure fluff.

Author's note: A little Benji fic sparked by the summer heat. Little disclaimer that this is my first time writing for Benjicot so he will not be perfect, I tried my best and I hope you can sense that. If you have any remarks, don't hesitatie to share them, but please remember to be kind. I'm a sensitive little soul ❤️

English is not my first language, apologies for any mistakes.

Happy reading <3

‎⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ♡Masterlist♡ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

*:･ﾟ✧Let me know what you think✧*:･ﾟ

The summer of your ten and eight nameday was a sweltering one, sun beaming relentlessly in the sky, nary a cloud in sight allowing the sun to have free reign. It was simply torturous.

Your dress spun of summer wool clung to your skin, your body covered in a thin layer of glossy sweat, making you seem aglow. No matter how many times you fanned yourself with your makeshift fan of paper it had no lasting effect, for as soon as you stopped to regain strength, the heat came back with vengeance.

This summer the Gods were surely intent on killing you muttered as you sat in your family’s carriage, windows open yet they offered little reprieve.

Unlike the Targaryens who were blessed with the dragon bonds, and the ability to traverse through the air, you were earthbound to a hobbling, suffocating carriage.

Landscapes passed you by in a soft blur, the colour green dominating your vision. Your brothers sat in front of you in the vehicle, their tunic partly undone.and although they were better in the heat than you were, they were not invincible.

Their cheeks had turned rosy from heat and their curls were dark and stuck to their forehead. They were most excited for this journey, as it was a visit to Raventree Hall, ancestral home of their close friend Benjicot Blackwood.

You, on the other hand, did not share in their excitement, for you there would not be a merry reunion of old friendship. You were sent there with the sole purpose of securing a marriage alliance.

For as a Tully, it was your duty to marry well and it was equally your duty to strengthen your family’s ties. Your father and grandsire desired you to wed the young Blackwood heir to ensure you would do both. In their eyes there was much to be gained from such an alliance, for one the Blackwoods possessed a large army, with many skilled warriors. Additionally, they ruled over extensive domains with fertile ground.

If all went well, the Blackwoods would be tied to the Tully’s for a few generations and peace would prevail in the Riverlands. It was heavy burden to bare, yet you bore it well. The only upside was that you had known the Blackwood boy in your youth and he had not seemed too terrible of a husband then. You could only pray he had grown up just as well as people rumoured.

Ten summers ago you had been here once before, a young girl unburdened by duty, you remember playing in the mud with the boys. You remember climbing trees and ripping your dress, much to the anger and frustration of your mother.

It had been a summer spent watching your brothers try to beat their new friend in combat and failing miserably.

They had gotten close quite a few times, yet Benjicot Blackwood remained superior, however at age eight the clanging of swords had frightened you. No matter how often you heard it. The sharp sound hurting your still young ears. During one particular duel between your other brother, Oscar and Benjicot, you had even cried.

Hot, heavy tears of fear and anxiety had rolled down your cheeks and into your sleeves as you tried to keep them abay. The pair had quickly stopped their little match, and Oscar rushed to comfort you, turning from knight into dutiful older brother.

The Blackwood heir had looked perplexed at the scene, not expecting your brother to forfeit by prioritising you. In that moment he had seemed odd to you, even mean, for how he stood there. Not even the slightest inquiry into your wellbeing, but he was soon forgotten as Oscar guided you to a small flower patch.

His young hands were rough from sword fighting, calluses forming where there used to be soft baby skin, despite the hardness, he still managed to pluck the flowers and weave them gently into a flower crown. He told you a story of valiant knights as he did so, distracting you from tears.

At dinner later that evening you had worn the crown proudly, a bright grin on your face as you were seated. Your mother was partly frustrated by the lack of decorum but could not resist the loveliness, you were only young for so long she had whispered to your lord father.

Your father had less of a stringent nature to him, had a temper like that of a river, a true Tully. He was in possession of a calm disposition yet had a force within him that could destroy much. Your brothers were much like him you observed, same Tully hair, same Tully manners.

You, on the other hand, were much more like your mother. An uncanny resemblance your Septa had once said, yet she had also remarked you to be much wilder than her, “a rumbustious little girl,” she often called you.

Seated in a chair too tall for your feet to reach the ground, you were shocked when the young Blackwood boy entered the great hall with his hair a mess and a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.

Some flowers had lost the majority of their petals, others had been bent and lost their uprightness, others were simply wilted yet you remembered it as the most beautiful bouquet you had ever seen. He had walked towards you, the flower arrangement held tightly in his young hands.

Once he reached where you were seated he held out the bouquet and practically shoved them into your face. “For you my lady,” he said, smiling a proud smile and you noticed he was missing one of front teeth.

You were admittedly a bit stupefied to receive such a gift so suddenly but accepted it with glee, you had always had a particular fondness for flowers. You laid the flowers in front of you and reached for your flower crown.

Gently you placed it on the black curls of Benjicot Blackwood, whose smile widened at your action, “thank you,” you said and brought the flowers back into your lap.

That night was the first night rumours of an engagement swept through the Riverlands.

Now you were here once again, sitting in that very same Great Hall, once again waiting for dinner. This time, however, you had no flower crown perched upon your head.

The Tully travelling party had arrived later in the day than expected, leaving little time for you all to wander around the castle before you were rushed into your seats.

“A guest must never go without food,” your interim host, Alysanne Blackwood had declared. Your brothers had been slightly disappointed not to be received by their childhood compatriot, yet their disappointment was soon subdued when they learned he had simply gone out to hunt. Alysanne assured them that he would be there to greet them at the welcoming feast.

It was not long after that Benjicot Blackwood made his entrance. You remembered him as a shy boy, with a gap in his front teeth from where a baby tooth had fallen out, and soft black curls.

Even though he was good with a sword, he had never been good with words.

In the short weeks you had spent at Raventree Hall, he rarely spoke directly to you and those rare times he did, he found it hard to look you in the eyes.

Now, at age twenty, it seemed his boyish shyness had gone and in its place stood a strong, confident man, lord of Raventree Hall. Your breathing increased as you continued to observe him, he had grown large, perhaps larger than Kermit, which you knew would irk him greatly considering he was older than the young Blackwood lord.

Benjicot Blackwood was surely to draw the attention of many ladies high- and lowborn, the notion of which sparked a small bout of jealousy to cross over your mind. The seeds of jealousy could not blossom however for as he entered further into the Great Hall you noticed what he held in his hands.

A bouquet of wildflowers.

You bit your lip to try in vain to stop a smile from spreading. Perhaps it was a tad conceited to imagine that bouquet to be meant for you, there had been nary any contact between the two of you.

Your respective duties busying you and decorum frowned on correspondence between a man and woman who shared neither blood or marital bond. You knew that your brothers had exchanged ravens with him throughout the years, yet knew not much of what they contained.

You assumed that it contained mention of new fighting techniques they learned, and perhaps complaints of their lessons from the Maester.

Whatever the contents might have been, you weren’t too sure if you wanted to know. You stopped your musing as you watched Benjicot walk towards you, getting closer and closer.

Before long you had hurried out from your chair, in order to curtsy before him as propriety demanded. Your Speta would have been proud, and your mother even proude,r.

Benjicot laughed as he saw you, “There is no need for such a thing amongst old friends my lady,” came his warm voice, you nodded and smiled as you met his gaze. “How good it is to see you Lady Tully,” he extended the bouquet towards you, much gentler than when he did it at age ten, “a small gift to welcome you to Raventree Hall.”

You smiled even brighter as you took the flowers into your hands, bringing them close to your face and inhaling the flowers' sweet scent. The bouquet was large, yet had seemed quite small in his hands, now that it was in your possession it could not fit in one hand alone.

You looked back up, feeling the heat of a blush creep up your cheeks. “Thank you my lord,” you said in a tone so soft, you heard your brothers giggle behind you.

He looked slightly abashed as he took in your adult form, gone were the scraped up knees and torn up dresses, your hair so messy it took your maids a great deal of effort to detangle it.

Now before him, however, stood a woman grown. A woman with a soft smile, perfectly done up hair and who was wearing a dress that perfectly complimented her eyes.

He could feel his heartbeat speed up as he committed her to his memory, she would not leave his mind any day soon, perhaps not ever.

He cleared his throat, “ I recalled that you had a fondness for flowers when you were younger,” he scratched the back of his head, causing his hair to tangle even more, “I’m pleased to see that you are still as fond.” You smiled at him, noticing a blush much like yours dusting his cheeks, “Indeed I am my lord."

A week passed by swiftly, the bouquet Benjicot had given you had been placed into a beautiful pot on your nightstand, they were there when you closed your eyes and when you opened them. You cared not that they had begun to wilt, you could not bear to part from them.

They were a daily reminder of Benji, as he so sheepishly asked you to call him that night of the feast. He had started to consume your every waking moment, and even in sleep he managed to haunt you.

During the day he would accompany you on walks through Raventree Hall and its surrounding terrain, he would sit next to you at dinner, converse with you through bites of lamb and sips of wine.

Your brothers had complained nearly the whole week of how often Benjicot’s attention had been on you, and how they have seemingly been abandoned by their old friend. You paid them no heed, content to spend every moment of your time with the raven haired boy.

It was a cooler summer day when you once again ventured into the gardens accompanied by Benji, his hands softly grazing against yours with every step you took. It took a great deal of strength for you not to grasp his hand and intertwine it with yours, to end this torture.

Yet it was not you who took the first step, his hand tentatively reached over to yours and held it in a weak grasp. You looked at him with wide eyes, and you were met with a bashful smile, “I hope this is alright,” he said as he tightened his grasp, “your hand seemed lonely.”

At that you giggled, for it had to be one of the silliest things you had ever heard, “it is quite alright Benji,” you looked to the side as you continued, “my hand was indeed feeling lonely.”

Now it was his turn to let out a soft laugh. The two of you ventured deeper, down a soft brown gravel path, surrounded by colourful flowers of various heights. It was like walking through an oasis of colours, a vision only the best painters could bring to life.

“Do you like them?” the man next to you asked, and you cocked your head in slight confusion, “the flowers, I mean. Do you like them?” You looked at him and nodded, “I like them a great deal.” An immense smile covered his face, he looked radiant like this. “I am glad, I had them planted for you.”

At that you stopped, your face the very definition of shocked. “You did what?” you asked, thinking him ridiculous for saying that. His unoccupied hand, went to scratch the back of his head, something you had noticed him doing often whenever he felt nervous or shy.

“Are you serious Benji?” You stepped closer to him, as you whispered, not wishing to draw attention from the others. He smiled at you in a way that would be the death of you, “Yes I am, I asked the gardeners to plant them after you were here ten summers ago”

You took a deep breath and looked around at the sea of colour. All this wonder and beauty for you? You could have never imagined, not even in your boldest of dreams.

“Are you not happy?” He asked, a slight furrow forming in his eyebrows, worry clouding in his eyes and his smile disappearing. “No, no,” you shook your head, “I'm incredibly happy”

You looked to him with a fond smile as an idea sprung forward in your mind. You brought his hand intertwined with yours close to you and gave the back of his a soft kiss. An action that would be considered incredibly forward, the very definition of improper, yet you pressed all those thoughts away to the back of your mind.

“Thank you Benji,” you let his hand fall back to the space between you, “I love them.” His eyes were wide, pupils blown and eyebrows raised, even his mouth stood open slightly, shock evident to all who would behold him.

You thanked The Seven that it seemed that only you were able to do so. Soon however, the shock faded, a mischievous smile crossing his face instead. He released your hand, which made you furrow your brows, yet your brows did not remain that way for long.

Large hands encircled your waist, and with one strong tug you were chest to chest with him.He looked at you, foreheads almost touching, smiling the softest smile you had ever seen.

You could see the freckles dusting his skin, and you could even press your lips into his. Your chests rose and fell in tandem, the purest sense of tranquillity falling over you.

He looked into your eyes with unbridled affection, it almost overwhelmed you too much to continue looking into them.

“Will you marry me?” he whispered, the words floating between you both. You knew, you knew before he even asked.

“Yes,” you whispered back, not hesitating for a moment. He smiled, and let his forehead touch against yours, eyes closed and posture at east. The scent of wildflowers filled your nose as he did.

That night, for the second time, rumours of an engagement swept through the Riverlands.

#house of the dragon #benjicot x reader #benjicot blackwood #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood fanfic #benji x reader #benji blackwood #benji blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood x you #benji x you #benjicot x you #benji blackwood x you #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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forteafy · 1 year ago

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You Think, You Know | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Some bridges are due to burn, whilst others are destined to mend. Charles wants to lead you into a traditional happily-ever-after, whilst Carlos is still adamant that he can always treat you better. Part 3 of ‘A House, A Home.’

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: angst, shouting, a lot of swearing, mentions of cheating and divorce. SMUT. Non-protected sex, oral (M&F receiving,) squirting, degradation, aftercare always.

Note: Thank you all so, SO much for being so patient with me. I really wanted this to be something special and I hope you all enjoy it. Please don't get mad at me because this one is emotional. A massive thank you to my biggest cheerleaders, @oconso, @formulaforza, @a-distantdreamer & @silverstonesainz - I love you all so much.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

You loved your sleep.

There was never too much that could wake you from your slumber. Currently, with the combined sensations of crisp sheets tucked across your frame, soft sunlight drawing through the transparent curtains of the bedroom and snug, strapping arms encircling your waist, it would have to be some form of miracle to awaken you.

The form of this came in the body pressed tightly into your back; smoothly, a pair of lips are drawn to your cheekbone, satin kisses being dropped against your skin. Was it possible to awaken to such a soothing interaction? Your face is drawn to the feeling, turning in his interlocked arms, the side of your face nuzzling into the cushion as your eyes meet the deep, dark pools of his.

“Good morning.” Carlos whispers, joyful at your rise from shuteye. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there himself, simply basking in the pleasure of holding the girl of his dreams against his firm body. The man was constantly on a lifeline; each time you interacted with him, he’s certain it would be his last, that one day, you’ll be violently ripped from his arms and his heart.

Suspended in thought, the Spainard is drawn back to reality with the glowing touch of your palm on his skin. Immediately, one of his arms draws away from your waist, resting his own larger hand atop of yours. You look alluring like this; sleep still decorates your eyes, hair tangled from the deep sleep, yet perfect in every sense of the word.

“Morning.” You respond, allowing yourself to set your gaze upon his face for a little longer. It’s a sin, settling in your stomach at how that same face had lifted from between your leg’s mere hours ago, the remanence of your arousal ever-present atop his stubble. You were certain he had a mouth crafted by the angels, the way his lips had toyed with your most sensitive parts and the way they currently pulled into an enticing smile in the present.

Two bodies, two souls were entwined in that bed; you weren’t too sure how long you lay there alongside him, reveling in one another’s morning appearances. All you know in that moment is Carlos is overtaking your mind, sprinting through every vein in your body. Every unanswered question from the previous night rendered numb as the man leant forward in your touch, his lips gaining space on your own.

There’s a sudden, sharp buzz from the other room, causing you both to retract from one another, bodies deep in the king-size mattress. A chuckle leaves his own mouth, running a heavy hand across his face, heart still pounding from the sudden jump of sound in the silent apartment. Something in your heart told you that buzz was for you. Whining from the sudden loss of warmth, you remove yourself from the bundle of blankets and body heat, bare feet padding into his living room, aware of your mobile phone, resting atop of the counter.

The device gave a heavy buzz once more before you had the realization to pick it up, the battery barely there. You absent-mindedly call out to the man in the bedroom, asking if he had a phone charger you could borrow for a little while. There's clutter from the other room, clearly trying to find a space for your own phone. Whilst that incurred, your eyes flickered across the darkening screen, skin turning cold upon reading the text notifications.

02:51: Charles Leclerc

I’m in love with you.

02:53: Charles Leclerc

I’m so sorry she was there – I had no idea. She’s gone now, can I come and collect you? Where are you?

03:25: Charles Leclerc

Please let me know you’re safe as soon as you can. Can I come and see you in the morning, please?

08:47: Charles Leclerc

Good morning, my love. How are you feeling today?

Guilt washed through your stomach, not for the interaction you had shared with Carlos; Charles had done substantially worse to you for the past twelve months. No, you knew what it felt like to have no response from somebody you cared for, terrified for their well-being. Even when Charles hadn’t cared for you, you had still nursed him, waiting up for his return in the early hours of the morning.

With the remainder of your phone battery, fingers fly over the keyboard. Did you want your husband to come and collect you, specifically from his teammates home? He was aware of your building friendship with the Spainard, even if it wasn’t entirely platonic. There wasn’t a huge choice; you especially didn’t want to demand or pry a lift off Carlos, especially after he had come to collect you so late the previous night.

08:58: You

Good morning, I’m at Carlos’ place. I’d really appreciate a lift back to the house, if that’s okay.

The message barely had time to send before it’s marked as ‘read’. Immediately, the blue speech bubble pops to the lower corner of your phone, signaling a response was being formed.

09:00: Charles Leclerc

You don’t need to even ask. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes was not enough time to conceal everything which had happened in the previous hours. Feet now cold, legs now littered in goosebumps, you’d scrambled back into his bedroom, the man now on his own feet, those damn gray jogging bottoms hanging on his hips, a visible outline ever-present. It took your entire soul to remain strong, knowing how tempting this man could become in a matter of moments.

“Charles is on the way.” You state, suspecting that it would cease all his movements, and allow yourself to get ready for your husband’s arrival. Instead, he’d stepped closer to your frame, leaning his toned torso towards you, locking you in his muscled arms, hiding his face in the skin he’d licked and bitten across the previous night. His mumbles are incoherent, littering across your neck in broken Spanish. He’s saying something. Something you can’t understand but is undeniably a plea for you to stay in his arms.

Carlos stays pretty much attached to you the entire time you’re preparing for your departure; his body is pressed against yours, littering kisses to the crown of your head whilst you brush your teeth. His scent is so dominating on the hoodie he insists you borrow, slipping that atop of your frame whilst pulling on the bottoms you had wiggled out of the previous evening. The man’s heart explodes upon seeing you bundled into his clothing, a possessive streak striking through his body and soul.

When your bag is packed, face washed and phone charging, now on the counter of his kitchen, you spend the last few minutes waiting for your husband’s adamant arrival by bundling into Carlos’ side on his plush sofa. It feels entirely natural by this point; his arms encircle your waist, letting you lie against his sternum, soothing yourself to his naturally steady heartbeat. A snippet of your heart desires to take this sole moment and capture it for a lifetime. Safe. Warm. Happy.

The moment is wafted away from you both with the sudden rapping of knuckles on the front door. Whining, your eyes trail on the Spaniard, focused as he presses a final, fleeting kiss to your temple, pulls himself up from the couch and paces towards the hallway. Your own ears strain to hear the latch lift of the front door, Charles praises for looking after you the previous evening falling over his lips, two pairs of footsteps drawing into the front room.

Your husband, despite his usual god-like appearance, looked terrible. His hair pushed to the front, clearly in need of a wash and brush. His skin was rubbed raw, face bloodshot; clearly, he hadn’t got a single moment of sleep the previous night, still dressed in the clothes he’d traveled home in the previous night. Despite the heavy lids of his eyes, they still light up when falling onto you.

“Good morning.” He gives you a smile, only you. You can feel Carlos’ disappointment, even if you can’t see his eyesight at that moment. A pocket-sized smile from your own lips is offered in return, pulling yourself up in that moment, reaching for your bag which remained on the floor, slipping into your soft sneakers.

“Are you ready?” You’d asked softly. Charles’ mouth opened, hesitating before he spoke. He was thinking clearly.

“I just need to speak to Carlos quickly. Something…private.” He tries to explain his standings, tries to make you feel less awkward as he reaches for the car keys resting in his hoodie pocket. “Are you okay to wait in the car?” He asks softly. He feels in no power to demand your movements, yet he requires one private word with his teammate.

Your eyes don’t bother to meet Charles, instead immediately flying to meet the dark ones of your unofficial lover. What on god’s earth was your husband about to ask, and why did he want to do it out of your earshot? The look that you give the man says a thousand words, asking if he needs you to stay, hold your ground against Charles. The warm eyes of him give everything you need, silently promising he could handle this man. An entire conversation through looks alone, a skill the two of you had developed so naturally.

Silently, you take the keys from Charles’ outstretched hand, skin flinching when being pressed against the cool metal. You don’t so much as glance in his direction when you’re walking to the counter, picking up your phone and stuffing it into the pouch of your borrowed hoodie. When turning on your heel, you pace back to Carlos, pressing a surprising kiss to his right cheek, murmuring a ‘Thank You,’ just for his hospitality, of course. You had done all the thanking for the number of orgasms you were granted the previous night.

The walk towards your husband’s car, the SUV rather than his identifiable Pista, your mind clouded, clotted with an array of questions. Why did Charles need to speak to Carlos alone? Was he aware of the relationship the two had been sharing for an undefinable amount of time? Who on earth was the blonde woman giving you a death stare as she walked up the pathway to the complex, red lips practically hissing at your appearance, storming past you within half a second?

When you turn back to take in her appearance from behind, a sense of sickness settles into your stomach. You’d seen the back of that blonde head before; not in person, but rather on a phone screen. Your phone screen, held between white knuckles as you’d watched the man you had begun to fall for wrap his arms around another woman's lips meshed in a private nightclub, unaware of the multiple cameras capturing their searing moment.

That was the same woman, identical in her mannerisms. You felt your tummy curdle into pain, into your vague realization that the only reason Carlos had offered you a place in his home, and subsequently his bed that evening, was because he was trying to fill a void until she returned to the scene. Your stomach wanted nothing more than to empty its remaining content in sheer shock. Instead, you breathe deeply, unlocking the door to the car, climbing into the passenger seat and closing your eyes, relaxing into the plush leather of the upholstery.

You’re not sure how long your husband takes, eyes growing heavy as you await his return. It’s only realized when the driver’s door clicks open, rolling in your seat to watch as Charles climbs into his own, a frown resting at the bottom of his face. However, it’s immediately vanquished when his eyes latch onto your own, grinning at your presence, so close to him. A warm hand reaches out, brushing over the back of your head, sheerly enjoying the comfort you radiated. He'd been lost without you for the past twelve hours.

Your eyes begin to feel heavy again, though you’re determined to get through the car ride alert, even if the soft scent of his cologne and the gentle lulling tunes from the morning radio are drawing you back to your previous state. Instead, you think of that woman. No, not the mistress you had grown numb to; the blonde woman, the one pressed against Carlos’ chest and lips mere hours after you had been. The glint in your husband’s eye is telling as you go through your endless thoughts, he knows something.

“The blonde lady going into Carlos’ apartment.” Your voice is completely out of pocket, echoing through the front of the SUV. “Who was she?” There’s no beating around with the question you had asked; there’s no trying to sugar coat what you needed to know. Charles knows it, too. He knows he can’t hide the truth from you, you’re too smart for lies and manipulation, a year married with a mistress had taught him that.

Instead, he emits a deep sigh from his lips, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as he focuses on the road. “Natasha.” The name falls from his lips, he can’t meet your gaze, not when speaking about another woman to his wife. “She used to work for Ferrari’s PR but left just under a year ago. Carlos and her used to-“

“Date?” You’d cut him off without realizing, eyes widening when he’d shaken his head.

“No, not date.” He responds. “They just had…a thing. Something.” He finished his train of thought, still not mentally ready to turn to you. In a comforting way, you were glad he hadn’t; Charles was unable to see the tears pooling at your lower lash line, the desire to rip off the hoodie now suffocating your body. You learnt in your heart that moment, you were apparently nothing special to Carlos. No, he had a thing. Something, with any woman who passed his way was as a wandering fancy.

The tears decorating your eyes and desire to relax into the leather seat eventually overpowers your emotionally drained body, pulling you back into a slumber.

You loved the sound of music.

A faint tune, one you were certain you’d never heard before lured through your ears, drawing you back to consciousness. You couldn’t remember getting home, let alone getting out of the car and tucking yourself into the comfort of your own bed. Groaning, you’d sat yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and stretching the twinge in your back simultaneously.

The music wasn’t coming from your room; the sound was beautiful, you just needed to locate its source. Your feet twinge when they touch the floor, cool floorboards easing the temperature of your socks. Opening the ajar door to your bedroom, the music grows louder, sound clearly emitting from downstairs, your feet carry you to the staircase with no hesitation. However, when reaching the top of the staircase, eyebrows crease together in confusion, taking in your once-ragged appearance in the crystal mirror.

Your hair had been braided, albeit not elegantly, but at least out of your face, something you did almost religiously before sleeping. Your attire had changed, too, once you were dressed in Carlos’ sage hoodie. Now, your body was engulfed by Charles’ charcoal jumper, sleeves too long but an entire comfort for your drained mind. Is this what it felt like, to be nurtured and cared for by your husband? The pit of your stomach felt airy; this had been everything you desired for so long. And yet, now you had experienced somebody else, despite the heartbreak, your mind was utterly torn.

Music grows louder, your mind is suddenly focused back on its original target. With no hesitation now, you began to walk down the flight of stairs, noting your bag and phone resting by the front door. Even with as many notifications as you’d missed in your time asleep, priorities overtook, making your way towards the lounge, eyes transfixed on the figure by the French windows.

Charles Leclerc sat, comfortably and quietly, gentle fingers dancing over the keys of his piano. The soft lights of the room illuminated the figure, a tune you had never heard was fluttering around the open space.

Of course, you had heard him play the instrument multiple times; during his time spent at the house rather than on the track, he remained transfixed, creating new songs, finding some way to pour every emotion into some kind of melody. You’d lost track of the times you’d come downstairs to get a drink, put the washing into the machine and had instead pushed your body into the doorframe, eyes fixed upon your husband as he created the most beautiful sounds.

The last time you’d done that, his mistress had been present, leaving over the piano as Charles played her an elegant tune. When she had gone to lean over him, her own fingers wanting to press down against the keys, he’d rested a firm hand on her arm, insisting that she sit on the sofa and listen, instead. The sweet moments of silently viewing your husband had turned sour; you’d silently vowed that day you would never enter the room when he was playing again.

You’d broken that promise mere seconds ago, eyes transfixed upon your husband. You can feel the tension beneath his fingers, as if he’s trying to take the sheer thoughts of everything that had been embedded into his mind in the past twenty-four hours and mesh them into some kind of audible release. Underneath the layers of music, your footsteps can’t be heard as you hesitantly walk towards the end of the living space. His tune reaches a climax, but before the piano can take any more notes, you cough lightly, Charles’ hands ceasing in mid-air. Arching his body weight, he sees your frame standing next to his piano, eyes still sleepy from awakening mere moments ago. The breath catches in the back of his throat; did you always look so perfect in his soft jumpers?

“I’m sorry.” He eventually offers, taking in your sweet, soft appearance. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no.” The reply tumbles from your lips before you even realize. “It was…beautiful, actually. Is it a new piece?” You ask, entranced by the music which had been flowing freely.

“I’m not sure yet.” He can’t help but smile at the end of his sentence. “I just sort of started playing and this is what came of it.” The explanation is valid; like many creatives, sometimes a free flow form was the simplest way to go. His next movement is almost a shock to your system. “Why don’t you come and help me?” The offer is completed when he shuffles up on the piano stool, patting on hand on the available gap. There’s hesitation in your movement, before his hand trails upwards, leaning to clasp one of your own, guiding you towards the stool.

There’s an overpowering smell of his cologne, a scent you were slowly drawing yourself towards. The body heat from his frame radiates into your own. Shyly, you reach out, pressing down on one of the piano keys, a tone spouting from the instrument. Charles can’t help but smile upon your interaction, eyes questioning as you analyze the instrument.

“Do you know how to play?” He asks gingerly, watching as you shake your head in response. His actions exchange, resting one of his warm palms over your own. The next moments are filled with your husband guiding your hands over the piano, teaching you the tune to old nursery rhymes. When you reach the end of the piece, he cheers in delight at the achievement.

“Play me something now.” You ask carefully, head becoming heavy, heavy enough to rest on your husband’s shoulder. When you feel his body tense, you immediately sit back up, convinced you’ve overstepped a line. That thought is soon relinquished when Charles’ hand flies out, wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you back down to his shoulder, your breath hot on his neck, it’s enough for him, hesitant to overstep the boundaries you were adamant upon currently.

His fingers move back, continuing the song he had been conducting earlier. The piece had started out slowly, almost sad-like, before building, building towards a romantic counterpart. In his mind, it was the perfect song to punctuate the relationship he maintained with his wife. They both sat there, barely any moment as the music was the only sound present in their house.

When the song finishes, neither of you move, relishing in the soft touch you’re both sharing. Charles’ own head falls atop of your own, letting his cheek rest against your hair. There’s no form of time between you both, simply enjoying being alive, alive with one another. It’s interrupted when you feel Charles’ take an exaggerated breath, removing his keys from the piano. One of his hands rests upon his side, the other slides between the minute gap between you both, wrapping a toned arm around your waist. The movement causes you to lift yourself from his firm shoulder, catching those beautiful eyes from your glance.

“I’m traveling to Monaco tomorrow.” He says it so casually, as if it’s as normal as entering or leaving the building. You can feel his heart race in anticipation of what he was due to say, his body temperature raising dramatically, radiating through his hoodie. You offer him a warming smile. You really didn’t want him to leave, not when you were growing so unnaturally fond of his presence.

“Oh really, what for?” Is the eventual reply. In this moment, you simply can’t hold his eye contact, he’s staring into your soul, it’s as if he can sense every thought which is currently trekking through your mind; does he know how much of a hold he has on you, even if your marriage was entirely staged, at least in his eyes.

“I’m off to see my mother” He clarifies. “It’s been a while and I just want to check in.” It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his body language changes; his hands are suddenly clenching tighter, his grip on your waist firm as if he’s terrified, you’ll run away. He can’t admit it, he’s not strong enough. If you step away, he will fall back to the way he was the previous night; eyes bloodshot, unable to sleep unless he knows you’re safe.

“Give her my best.” The response is blunt, short. You’re on entirely different wavelengths, different planets. He never told you of his reasoning for things; a golden rule you had learnt at the beginning of this era. Just…you’d never question him; you would simply co-exist. What he says next makes your blood run cold.

“Why don’t you come with me? I’d really appreciate it.” Why on earth would your estranged husband want you to come on his travels, presumably when the entire point was to spend the entirety of it wrapped in the arms of another woman. Yet, a feeling in your stomach settled. Did you actually want to spend hours in this empty house alone? Now that Carlos was no longer a welcome distraction, anything would be better than wallowing in your silence.

“I will.” You eventually respond. “On one condition.”

“Anything.” His eyes are wide, so willing. He’d scooted tighter towards you, as if he could hold together this entire conversation, stopping the whole world from crumbling around you. You must be the one to take a deep breath this time. You had to remain firm with your choices, with what you needed to know.

“What was in the white envelope that your mistress gave you yesterday?”

You loved the glow of candlelight.

Having never entered Charles’ study, his fingers interlocked with your own as he guided you through the heavy door, you didn’t realize how many candles he had resting around his office. They laid upon his windowsill, on his desk, he even had a mulberry-scented candle resting next to his racing simulator.

There was only one candle which was lit, he had obviously forgotten to extinguish it whilst you were deep in your slumber. Despite the fact you hadn’t ever been given access to this room, you’d have to make a mental note in order to check for any fire hazards the next time you were in the building alone.

The envelope resting upon the desk stuck out like a sore thumb; his computer, stationary, it was all a cool gray tone whereas the envelope stuck out in a bright white glow.

“I need you to know before you look at this, it’s a lot worse than it comes across.” Even in the candlelight, his face had turned pale, barely able to keep his fear from dancing across his emotions. You need to remain strong. You need to see what was left in the envelope.

Staying firm, your grasp reaches out towards the desk, taking the card into your own hands. “I want to see it.” You clarified, letting your finger trace under the flap of the envelope.

You don’t let your husband’s words overpower you, distract you in any way. Instead, your hand reaches into the envelope and grasps around a stack of…something. It feels like multiple pieces of paper pressed together, though one side remains glossy, as if printed onto a special sheet. Hesitantly, your hand pulls from the envelope, eyes immediately widening upon seeing the content in question.

It's photographs. Multiple photographs of Charles and his mistress. Some of them are casual, taken from her phone, smiling selfies and dinner dates. Others are…compromising, verging on pornographic. You can feel the lump in your throat tightening, tears are forming on your lower lash line, but you must keep strong. You cannot show any weakness when you ask to see this.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Your voice betrays you, weakening as your words continue. “Your…girlfriend.” You don’t want to use the other word; it’s clear from these photographs it was more than sex, it was more than just an escapade.

“She’s- she’s not anymore.” Charles pauses, his eyes don’t focus on the photographs, only on you. His wife, who he has hurt so badly and now must see the pain littered across her face. “She hasn’t been since your mother passed away.”

Your heart stops at the mention of your mother, a sharp spike of longing for the woman suddenly danced through your chest. Then, you were angry. How dare he pity you, you didn’t want it, not from him. But…you still wanted him. He’d clouded your emotions, nothing was black-and-white with your husband, just a cacophony of colors.

“That was your reason for dumping her. Sympathy?” You don’t care how harsh your voice comes across, instead just aggravated you were growing to care about his reasoning. Life had been simpler weeks ago, when you simply stayed at home, minding your own business whilst he got on with his. By the look on Charles’ face, he wasn’t expecting the hostility, either.

“No! I dumped her because it was wrong, because I have a loving wife who I would give anything for.” The room goes silent, giving you time to process the words that had come from his lips. You had been so certain for so long that he didn’t care about you; that everything he did was for his own gain and pleasure. Yet…he had given up his mistress for you. He’d given up something that made him happy because you were not.

Stressing, you run a hand through your hair, placing the photographs back into the envelope, speaking to your husband as you place the card back onto his desk. You feel sick. These photographs exist and it was a perfect way to destroy the two of you, it was perfect ammunition to a metaphorical pistol. “So, what does she want you to do with these photographs?”

“Nothing.” Charles leans over your own body, reaching for a second stack of papers resting upon the desk, one you had considered would simply be notes from Scuderia Ferrari. Warm seeps through your body at his close contact, one hand almost trailing against your back as he grasps to the stack of crisp sheets, barely touched. “She’s threatened to publish them if I don’t sign…this.”

You took the stack of ivory papers into your palms. It was sprawled with a size twelve font, you were uncertain of where to begin until two words in bold took your attention, printed formally across the top of the page.

“Divorce Papers.” Your voice is barely a whisper, heart dropping to your stomach.

“That’s the other reason I’m going to Monaco.” He’s explaining his own status now, eyes glassy with the fear of you walking straight out of the office. He wouldn’t blame you, of course. He couldn’t blame you for anything anymore. Charles reaches out to your grasp, wiggling the paper from your fingers and placing them back against the desk. “I’m filing for a lawsuit against her, a restraining order for manipulation and stalking.”

A scoff falls from your lips; the mere contrast of the events from a few weeks ago compared to now. He truly intended to file a lawsuit against a woman who he’d happily let warm his bed whilst you went to bed each night with nothing but regret and bloodshot eyes. “Do you…do you want a divorce?” You can feel your voice cracking. “I mean, if she’s sent you these, you must have mentioned wanting one-”

“I did.” Charles doesn’t miss a beat. “I mentioned how I didn’t want a divorce because despite everything…I do care for you.” The room goes silent, not even the flickering of the candle or the soft wind from the French windows can pierce the tone of the room.

A huff escapes your lips, arms resting by your side as you formulate a response; “You had a really weird way of showing it.” Your response is blunt, it clearly warrants the sad look on your husband’s face.

“I know. That’s why I’m going to make it right. Please come to Monaco with me. She won’t be there; you don’t have to come to the lawyer with me. But…I need to be able to come back to my wife.” His hand reaches out, cradling your own in this moment. Gently, he lifts your palm to his cheek, resting it upon his stubble and letting his lips trace a kiss across the soft skin.

He truly does know how to make your heart flutter, despite everything.

“Okay.” You eventually respond, focused on his gaze when his eyes turn wide in anticipation.

“Yeah?” His heart is picking up in happiness, reaching to hold you in his own grasp, but instead falling short when you raise a finger, ceasing his movements towards your body.

“But…you need to give me tonight, alone. To process that.” Gently, you take a step forward, leaning gently towards him. You can’t leave him, not before you gently press a kiss to his cheek, turning on your heel, your figure illuminated in the corridor by the soft candlelight. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

You loved the feeling of warm water.

There is only a slender picking of moments in your life where you have felt truly relaxed; sitting by the lake in the rolling fields your family had owned for generations, lounging in the bed of the Madrid-Based apartment your friends had hired for a holiday in the early spring morning.

You had never thought one of those relaxing moments would be as your mother-in-law massaged her hands through your locks, lathering an expensive shampoo into the roots of your hair. She was gentle; no tangles fell through her fingers as her rhythm stayed perfectly relaxing, hitting all the spots which would send a flood of relief through your scalp.

You’d arrived in Monaco early that morning, immediately being transported to the luxurious hotel your husband had booked you into. Most of the trips he’d book you wouldn’t attend, and when you did would be ignored by him altogether. This time, he’d remained present, willing. Your hands had entwined the moment you had left the privacy of the jet, nestling into the back of the car, eyes heavy from the early rise.

Not much is remembered after you’d arrived outside the opulent building; bags were removed and transported to your room by the bellhop, both you and your husband were given hotel cards, an older lady at the desk explaining the functions dotted around the high-end establishment. All you could remember was the door to the room opening, your tired body making a beeline towards the emperor bed, nuzzling into the soft furnishings with sleep overtaking you in a matter of moments.

Charles hadn’t been able to help the tug on his heartstrings as he’d seen you tumble into the mattress. You’d been so thoughtful; dropping everything back at your house and accompanying him to Monaco, promising to be there for him as he promised to fix the wounds from his previous mistakes. He’d give anything to crawl into the bed alongside you, wrap his frame around your own and fall back into his own slumber, one he had despised the night before simply because he wasn’t able to hold you in his arms. He was learning to respect your wishes; after all, he had a lot of repairing to do-so. Even after recent conversations with his Ferrari counterpart, he could never bring himself to hate you.

His phone buzzes from his back pocket and upon inspection he sees the reminder, he’s due with his lawyer in less than forty-five minutes, but he doesn’t want to leave you, not alone. A thought sparks into his head, fingers flying through his contacts and dropping a message to one, asking if they could take you over to his mother’s salon later in the afternoon. By the time he’s returned from changing in the en-suite and brushing a comb through his hair, the responses from both Joris and his mother had lit up his screen, confirming his plans for later in the afternoon.

Your husband had allowed himself one more look at you, so peaceful wrapped up in the comfort of the bed. Silently, he leans over your frame, running a gentle hand across the back of your head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring his sweet words to your sleeping form.

When you’d awoken, there was a message clarifying that Joris would be taking you to his mother’s salon a little later and he would come to collect you once he was finished with his lawyer. That’s how you had ended up walking into her salon earlier that afternoon, her delighted smile present after seeing her daughter-in-law.

Pascale wasn’t stupid, that much was clear. She was aware of the strain in her middle son’s marriage, just not to the extent that he had been toying with a mistress for the better part of a year. However, she had grown to adore you; your mannerisms, laughter and the fact that you clearly held a candle for Charles, despite the dwindling flame of the marriage. If she had a daughter, she’d want her to be just like you.

“Are you and Charles up to anything this evening?” Her voice is gentle, motioning for you to stand up from the basin chair and walk towards the mirrors, resting yourself in one of the seats. Your reflection bores back into you, focused as Pascale adjusts your head slightly, brushing the tendrils of hair through her comb.

“I’m not sure.” You respond. “I know he has some business this morning.” It’s an understatement. When Joris had collected you from the hotel, he’d tried to give you what information he could – Charles had arrived at his Lawyer’s office, ready to file the case against his mistress. He wasn’t too sure how long it was going to take, though he had told Joris to be on hand for anything you needed when he couldn’t.

“You make him happy; you know?” Pascale mentions, tilting your head to angle your hair correctly. “I know he hasn’t always been…the greatest.” You’re not sure if she’s aware of everything, but her tone seems to stand where you need it to do so, “but you make…such an impact in his life.”

Not much else is said whilst the woman continues to trim your hair, adjusting your face as she does so. It was nice, not to be cooped up into a hotel room for the entirety of the day, nor to be sitting in Charles’ driver room whilst he walked around, finger entwined with his mistress. You’re so engrossed in Pascale drying your hair, setting the locks into soft rollers that you don’t realize when the door chimes open, another figure entering the quiet salon. The woman’s eyes brighten, and you hear her cooing before your own face turns, taking in the figure of your husband in the doorway.

Charles looks breath-taking. He’d clearly showered and changed since you had last seen him bundled in his travel gear that morning. Your deduction would be correct; the man had hastily returned to the hotel to jump into the shower, changing into a power blue shirt and white trousers. His hair, free of styling products curled in an unruly way, one that made his whole face structure elevate.

In his hands, he held both a soft white dress over his arm, one you had packed in your case fleetingly the evening before; it had been steamed and washed, the fabric clear and petticoats of the skirt floating gently. In his other hand, a vibrant bouquet of roses. His smile never faded, walking over to his mother and pressing a kiss to each of his mother’s cheeks. Once his attention turns towards you, his eyes only brighten.

“Hello, beautiful.” You can’t tell whether he’s playing up the affection in front of his mother, or whether it’s genuine. However, when one hand comes to rest on your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’s being respectful; making sure not to cross a boundary.

“Hello, handsome.” The response falls from your lips without realizing, the grin on your husband's face only rising. Fuck. Did you mean to say that? Regardless, you had done, and by the look on his face he not only didn’t expect it but had instantly grown to love it. Charles had completely forgone the flowers in his grasp, only remembering them after your eyes had darted down towards his palms.

“Oh-“ His mind finally catches up with the present situation, raising his hand to present you with the flowers. They’re colors are soft, delicate, as if etched by crayon. You can’t help but smile at the gesture, even if it was entirely a false pretense in front of his mother. You can’t see her face, but you know she’s smiling, seeing her son present to his wife in such a sweet manner. Now, your gaze isn’t fixed against the flowers in your grasp, but the dress from your suitcase.

“Something tells me that won’t fit you, Charles.” You tease the garment laying over his forearm, only to cause a smile to appear on his lips again.

“I want to take you out for the afternoon. If that’s okay with you.” His voice is low now, hoping to avoid any prying of the conversation from his mother, though her attention was now turned to locating the hair dryer, still needing to complete your own treatment. “Would that be…okay?” He’s nervous. Fearful that after everything, you could now reject him and feel no remorse.

You’re not a cruel person, it has never been in your nature. Instead, you match his own smile, nodding as you take the garment from his grasp, Charles’ eyes widening in confirmation.

“Trust you to pick out my favorite dress, too.” You mumbled.

You loved the sound of the ocean.

You loved everything about the sea, truly. The reflections from the moonlight caused shards to reflect over Charles’ boat; the new yacht had barely had time to stretch the waters, though it seemed to float as if it had been nurtured its entire existence.

The afternoon of a late lunch had expanded into expensive, late-night wine on the boat as your husband had guided you into deeper waters. He knew what he was doing, after all; the waters of Monaco were a comfort to him, a lifetime had stretched out from jumping into the ocean as a child to yacht parties during the Grand Prix.

You’d seemed entirely at home, and it made his heart warm. Charles wasn’t a stupid man; he saw how you kept yourself small, your setup at the house barely spanning over two rooms. He’d wanted nothing more than to break the walls you had put up for oh-so-long and entwine your lives together.

Then he would reprimand himself, remind himself he was the sole reason those walls existed.

Conversation had spanned naturally into the events of the day; you thanked him for thinking of you, he’d responded with a mention of you deserving that form of treatment every single day. Your mind can’t take the anticipation; when your lips lift from the glass of wine, you can’t help but ask what his lawyer had recommended about his mistress. Your husband’s grin had fallen a little, running a hand through his dark curls.

“It’s a difficult one.” He explains. “There’s enough there for a case, considering we haven’t had contact in a while. But…” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence; you do for him.

“The photographs are counted as evidence.” You finish, and he can only nod. He’s created such a mess, something he could never forgive himself for doing so. A web of lies and mistreatment surrounded you both; he so wanted to break each thread and simply cradle you, be in a bubble for the rest of eternity.

He’s expecting you to stay silent, then. Maybe that’s where the evening should have ended, with silence upon the realization that this case will not be easily solved. Instead, you place the glass of wine down on the ledge of the stairs, easing his own glass from his grasp. Charles is confused, even more so when you walk back towards him, wrapping your arms to close around his neck.

“What are you doing?” He whispers. His hands raise hesitantly, as if touching you would break you into a million pieces. His grasp only falls to your waist when you press closer towards the man, resting your gaze on his own eyes. He’s hurt you, broken you to such an extent, and yet you can’t help but draw closer to his touch, to his eyes.

“Being your wife.” You respond, before pressing your lips to his own. This is the first time, the first time in so long that you had been the one to initiate a kiss. Naturally, Charles’ hands wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you into his chest, deepening your touch, your kiss. This. This is the moment he wishes to bottle forever, to live in the comfort of his wife’s touch, no outside means, no other commitments being hung over his head.

You’re not sure how long you both stand there, wrapped in one another, hands fleeting over each other, desperate to find some touch, some form of skin. It isn’t until your fingers reach to unbutton the top of his powder-blue shirt, that his own come to rest atop of yours. He knows he’s made a mistake when he sees the look you shoot him, immediately assuming the worst.

“No, no.” He promises, both hands flying from where they had grasped yours, cradling each side of your face. It feels…warm. It feels so similar to the way Carlos had cradled your head once, when you were both on a boat, much like this. You think of those dark eyes, the whispers drawn into your ear as he had sharply thrusted into you that evening. Then, you think of the blonde appearing outside his apartment mere hours after you had been tangled in his arms.

“I want to.” Charles’ words draw you from your endless train of thoughts. “Sweetheart, I want to more than anything, but I need you to know how much it means-“

You don’t let him finish; instead, you press your mouths back together, forcefully. There are whispers from your own lips, pleading that he take you, that you want nothing more than to feel your bodies atop of one another.

And who is he to deny his wife?

You’re not sure when he scoops you up into his arms, guides you inside of the boat and to the soft bed that had been freshly made mere hours ago, but he never lets your lips leave one another for less than a moment.

He’s everywhere; he’s pressing into you in the most delicious way, he’s drawing your body of the most intense sounds, and then you’re coming, harder than you ever thought was possible, it hits you in the most delicious way.

Your fingernails pressed crescents into his skin as he continued to push into you with that perfect rhythm. Feeling your hot breath dance against the shell of his neck, the sweet whimpers of your overstimulated orgasm falling from your lips. Charles feels you clench around him, dragging you into him deeper, and it's all over.

His head immediately falls into the joint of your neck and shoulder, his pants getting heavier, thrusts rougher as he chases his own release. Teeth escape from his lips, biting down atop of the red marks he'd left earlier in a passion; the gasp you let-out, the roll of your hips against his own pushes him over the edge, a moan falling out from his own lips, hands flying to grip at your forearms pinned above him. You can feel every inch of him buried inside of you, warmth spilling into you.

Heavy hips press into yours, your thighs still pressed around his waist when he lifts his head from the warmth of your skin, pressing one final deep kiss to your lips, a profanity of words escaping from his mouth.

He kisses you again. And again. He keeps doing it whilst slowly rocking his hips, still jittering from his own orgasm. Senses come through, those eyes you had been entranced in so many times fixing to your own, drinking you in, looking so beautiful underneath his own frame.

"You still want somebody else?" The teasing is natural, almost, inflicting you to roll your eyes and playfully push his arm. God, your laugh is the most adoring sound in the world to him, it had been so long since he'd heard it, even then, it had never been due to his own actions until recently. The adorned look in his eye is soon replace with confusion when he feels you wiggle underneath him, soft blankets rubbing against your back.

"Are you going somewhere?" He questions, one hand coming up to trace against your jawline. You want to lean into his touch, it's something you'd been attracted to recently, though the mess between your legs and sweat trailing down your skin seemed to tell you something different.

"I need to clean up." You whine, pressing your body into the plush mattress. "I'm all gooey, Charles."

"I've got it." He murmurs, pressing one soft kiss to your cheek, another to your neck. You expect the weight from above to release you, but the warmth radiating from his body remains. You feel lips trace against your chest, his untamed curls tickle your stomach as he traces down a direct line.

"What are you doi-" You never get to finish you question, the fourth word cut off with a soft gasp, those lips which had pressed to yours, now pressing down against your clit, a soft praise towards your body whilst his tongue traced around the sensitive bud, drawing a slice through your wet lips, pressing deeper and deeper into your entrance.

The room is illuminated with your whines, hips bucking against his stubble as he fulfills his promise of cleaning you up.

You loved the feeling of being held.

You’d been unfathomably happy to walk into the paddock that evening, fingers interlaced with Charles’ as he guided the two of you through the fans and photographers alike, buzzing to be starting on Pole Position when his wife would be watching in awe of his achievement.

You hadn’t been there on qualifying day; you were still trying to keep your distance where you could, to prove to your husband he couldn’t instantly win you back overnight. It had only been when he’d come into the en-suite of your room the evening before, hands wrapped around your waist as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, pleading you came to watch him race the following night.

“I’ll win.” He promises, voice quiet as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll win it for you.”

His sweet words had not only lured you to the race track the following day but had also drawn you to sleep in his bed that evening, curled up into his toned chest as he murmured words of appreciation in French; only a few you were able to pick up and understand the meaning of as you drifted into a comfortable sleep, arms cradling your body underneath the bed sheets.

There was a collective, loving aura that evening when the two of you had stepped into his garage, the team in awe of seeing that their Prince of Monaco and his beloved Princess had been reunited, here to support one another. However, one figure remained quiet, eyes transfixed on your every movement. He felt his knuckles turn white when Charles had changed into his race suit, placing his cap atop of your own head and had lovingly pressed two kisses to either of your cheeks.

Carlos Sainz was a jealous man; he’d been infuriated when his blonde fling had appeared on his doorstep, instantly realizing the kind of man he must have been made out to be when you’d seen her appear on your departure. He’d hoped and prayed you hadn’t seen her, but from the radio silence he received over messages and calls, to the way you had purposely avoided speaking to him when arriving in the paddock, he could tell you were not that naive.

Emotions had played a heavy part on both of the Ferrari Pilots during the start of the race. One, determined to keep his promise and win whilst his wife was present. The other was so clouded with sadness and rage that all he wanted to do was push his counterpart off the track. The lights snapped off, 20 engines revving in unison as the cars blitzed down the first straight.

It doesn’t take long for emotion to overcome; Charles’ P6 soon creeps towards a P3, whilst Carlos begins to drop. A violent turn into Oscar Piastri not only takes the young rookie out of the race, but the Ferrari driver, too. Nobody misses the swears as he switches the engine off, nor the scowl on his face as he removes the steering wheel, ready to be escorted back to the garage.

When the blur of red comes through the paddock, you can’t help but feel guilty, telling yourself that if you had spoken to him, he would have been able to keep a cool head. Silently, you slip the headphones from your temple, murmuring about going to the bathroom before taking a direct beeline towards Carlos’ room, catching the door just before it’s due to slam closed.

He was seething. Pure rage flicked across his eyes; the warm smile reserved for you replaced with a harsh scowl. This may have been a mistake.

“What do you want?” His words are venom, spit towards you. He cannot stand to see you right now.

“I just-“You pause, clearing your throat. “I wanted to check if you were okay.” It’s a pathetic answer, really. One that didn’t sit right in your mouth, even after you had spoken.

“I’m alright?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You ignore my calls, go away and fuck that pathetic man and then come back to me?” He’s pissed, undoubtedly so. “You whore. I understand it all now.” He shakes his head, missing the fire which had begun to burn in your own stomach.

“You have no right!” You’d shrieked so loudly you’d startled yourself; one finger was still pointed into his infuriated face, your finger mere millimeters from the bridge of his nose. Hot air engulfed both of your bodies, the only sound present was the deep and heavy breathing flaring from your nostrils.

Without a thought, Carlos had slapped your finger away from his face, lunging forward dramatically to seize your face into his rough palms. His lips are on yours, roughly seeking the wet trace of your tongue. You can’t fight him; not when his lips feel so flawless against your own. A rough palm encases the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist as he holds your frame tighter against his own.

Your breath barely had a moment to catch when he forcefully pulled his lips from you, emitting a white from your breath. That innocent sound is soon replaced by a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening against your scalp, pulling on your locks.

“Don’t fucking whine.” He spits, ghosting his lips over your own, never letting them touch yours. Warm breath tickles the shell of your ear when his grip pulls tighter onto your hair, tiling your ear to meet his mouth. “I’m sick of your whining, about your horrible excuse for a husband. I will treat you how you should be treated.”

There’s no time to react as his pink tongue pokes from his lips, a stripe tracing from the corner of your ear, across the sweetest spot of your neck. You’re reveling in the wetness, the sinful way his words litter through the air before teeth sink into your skin. He doesn’t bother to cover your mouth, mute the sweet sounds falling from your lips. There’s no decency anymore, Carlos doesn’t care who sees the marks he engraves into your skin. The ring on your left hand means nothing more than a reminder that he could be better.

“Carlos-“ You struggle to connect the two syllables together, hands gripping through his hair, pulling at the brown locks in your fingers. “Fuck-“

“What did I just say?” He grunts from the valley of your neck, one hand sliding from your waist and flying out, smacking on your clothed butt. The shock simply causes you to gasp out loud, pushing your own throbbing crotch into his hard one. A smirk forms against your neck, clear as day when the man pulls himself from your neck. His lips are wet, saliva from his own mouth tracing around your lips.

One hand finds your face again, grasping at your chin tilting your head backwards to hover below his own. A single finger taps at your lips, signaling for you to open wide for him. He’s sinful as he lets his spit fall across your lips, eyebrows raised as he wraps a hand around your throat, clearly overpowering your stance in this moment.

“Swallow.” He commands, hand resting on your cheek firmly. The tone of his voice sends a shock of energy down your chest and between your legs, cunt throbbing at his words. Of course, you comply, swallowing the remanence he had given you. “Good girl.”

The sweet nicknames in this moment have evaporated; Carlos is nothing short of animalistic, his presence all too understanding as one hand takes its place around your neck, the other grabbing firmly onto your wrist as he guides you backwards, softly falling onto the sofa of his driver’s room. The pitying looks the man gives you sends a thousand messages through your brain.

“No, no. Dirty little girls don’t get to sit on my sofa.” He teases, both hands clasping your waist, sliding you off the plush furnishings and resting on the cold floor, kneeling for the Spaniard. “You need to be on your knees, you need to be taught how to behave.”

Eyes widen as his tanned fingers pull at the knotted arms of the fireproofs resting on his waist. Even through his underclothes, the shape of his hard length is clearly visible, even more so as he removes his underlayers and briefs, letting himself spring freely, one hand rubbing his shaft a few times, the other knotting in the back of your hair.

He loves this; cock in his hand as he taps the tip against each of your cheeks, trailing himself against the parting of your lips, having to hide the shiver from his own body when the wetness of your mouth. His eyes are sparkling when he uses his firm cock to press through your mouth, relishing in the warmth of your lips wrapping around his length.

“That’s it, be a good girl. Take it.” He coos as you struggle to take more of his length, attempting to give small, tentative licks to his cock whilst he slides between your lips. It sends him feral, wild. He thinks of nothing else as both hands grip tightly in your hair, shoving your face into his crotch, your gags music to his ears as he continues to take control of the situation.

When your eyes adjust, look up from his groin, he almost feels sorry for you. They’re wide, glassy, snuffles falling from your lips as he continues his forceful attack. One hand slowly removes itself from the strain on your locks, tracing over your cheek, thumb rubbing underneath your eye, removing the salty tears as your breath remains heavy through your nose.

“Oh, poor baby.” He teases, pace never relenting. “This is what you need, someone to put you in your place, remind you what you deserve for teasing me, making me jealous.” He can’t help but chuckle at the pathetic sound coming from your lips. He can feel his stomach tightening, the warmth drawing an imminent release from his cock. This isn’t how he wants to finish, he can’t yet.

Your mouth feels empty when he pulls out, giving you no warning, the gasps falling from your lips at the sudden gain of air. He doesn’t give you time to respond, a heavy hand pushing your front to the floor, lifting your hips, ass straight back in the air. No warning, the skirt of your dress is lifted, the wetness of your cunt seeping through your panties. The anticipation kills you, until a warm finger slides into your folds with no warning. Your body can’t help but react, clenching around the warmness without even realizing. You also don’t realize the sounds you’re making, until the finger removes itself, a palm harshly smacking on your behind.

“What did I say about noises?” He grunts, leaning around to push the wet finger into your own mouth. “Do you like it? Taste what I do to you?” Hurriedly, he presses his finger in and out of your lips a few times before returning it to your wet hole, wiggling in the air. This time there’s two; stretching you out, your palms trying to find anything to grip, to hold on to as he carelessly thrusted, tickling a sweet, sweet spot deep in your stomach.

“I- Carlos I can’t-“ You whine through raspy breaths. He can feel you clenching, swelling around his fingers, and is rewarded when he hastily pulls them out of you, a long moan and a squirt of arousal pushing from your cunt. A sheer shock of arousal floods between his own legs, rubbing his fingers against your wet folds, letting your wetness trail onto the tips of his hand.

“Oh, your husband can’t make you do that, can he?” He’s proud; proud he’s able to draw such a reaction from your body. “Come on, baby, up we get.” His arms are suddenly firm, present around your waist as he pulls you to stand on two shaky legs, still reveling in the feeling he had granted you moments ago.

Hands retract from your waist and come to hold your face, pressing kisses to your scarlet lips as he guides you from a standing position towards his couch, finally allowing himself to sink into the cushions. You want nothing more than to join him, feel his warmth and aura around your own body, but by the finger he’s raised as he situates himself into the sofa, you can tell you’ll have to wait.

The moment he sits down, a tanned hand comes to his crotch to rub his length a few times, your eyes widening as you plead for it; mind clouded by lust, all you want is for something warm to fill you up, make you feel as good as he had done so many times before. Carlos’ finger beckons for you to join him, and you know what he’s insinuating.

Your movements are commanded by the Spaniard; immediately, there are two firm hands on your body, pulling you into his touch and sinking you down onto his cock. You don’t miss the way his lips quirk into a grin, oh-so-happy to see your reaction to the pleasure he had granted you. It’s no match for when he starts moving, bouncing you up and down on his lap, fallen gasps from your lips as your faces draw closer and closer.

You were sinking into one another’s skin; he wanted nothing more than to entwine your bodies for eternity. One hand was firm around your waist, guiding your movement with the strength only he could. The other guided a gentle trace across your face, pulling you closer, closer to his own face as his thrusts got faster, erratic.

“You’re mine.” He grunts, never once breaking eye contact as his hips grew tighter, his cock making your cunt squeeze in a way you didn’t know was physically possible. “You’ve always been mine, tell me you’re mine.”

His eyes go soft, thrusts pausing for a second as he notes the tears pooling in your eyes from the sheer euphoria running through your body. A whine falls from your lips as you feel his strong hand tug at your neck, pressing your foreheads towards one another, hips slowing for just a moment, letting your breath catch up to your aching body.

“I’m yours.” You’d whisper, mind clouded. You were his. There could be a thousand cars, an ocean or a wedding band between the two of you and you would still always find your way back to Carlos. Whatever that relationship would form, you would always be a part of him.

The murmured confirmation was enough to send a shot of energy through his spine, his thrusting becoming deeper, passionate. It barely takes five thrusts before he’s groaning, throwing his head back and letting out a low moan as he spills himself into you. The warmth is enough to send your cunt into flutters, clenching so tightly as your body falls into his chest, whining as you feel a gush of wetness drip onto his crotch.

Undoubtedly, Carlos Sainz is now a part of you. Time seems to flicker between seconds and minutes, at some point you’ve shifted your weight, turning around to fix your eyes onto the television screen of his room, eyes wide as you watch your husband continue to battle out on the track. It felt almost sinful; watching Charles battle for his podium whilst his teammate stayed buried inside of you.

His touch goes soft; one hand remains tight around your waist, though your back is warmed by the way you’re pulled back into his skin. Feather-Light kisses dance across your shoulder, he’s never been this soft, cradling you as if the world would be held together by your content. If the universe was to implode, he would be happy with the fact you were pressed into him in that very moment.

The laps of the race begin to dwindle; a promising second-place is looking pretty much secured for Charles. You’re certain that your silver trophy will be sitting proudly in the hotel room later that evening, until Max Verstappen suddenly begins to slow down, commentators beginning to roar as an unexpected engine issue splutters into the RB19.

“Holy shit.” Carlos murmurs, sitting up from his relaxed position, both arms now tightly around your waist as he shifts the balance of your bodies. “What happened to Max?” His voice becomes a murmur, your attention drifts, focused on the cars beginning to pick up their speed against the current world champion.

Goosebumps litter your skin, you immediately pull away from the warmth of Carlos, eyes wide as you see the scarlet red car glide into view. He’s going to overtake Max. Not only that, but your husband is about to win the entire race.

An audible groan comes from both of you when you slip yourself off his length, searching around for the panties which had been discarded oh-so-long ago; the man rests a hand on your shoulder, one hand tracing across your jawline as the other reaches down, gently smoothing the skirt of your long dress.

“We’ll find them later. We need to go and congratulate your husband, after all.” You can’t miss the cockiness in his voice, still content with the fact his cum is buried deep inside your pussy, panties are left in his driver’s room as a sheer prize for being able to make you feel euphoric. A tinted blush decorates your cheeks as he slips into his old jeans and a Ferrari polo shirt, one hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you out of his driver’s room, never once bothering to fix his hair when you had been the one to grab onto it so tightly.

People wouldn’t think that of him, after all.

You love to be loved.

Your eyes are brimming with tears as you reach Parc Fermé, Carlos finally catching up with you, standing right behind you at the barrier, eyes transfixed onto his teammate, standing atop of his livery, cheering towards the endless roars of the crowd, passing a congratulatory message towards his fellow drivers, Lewis patting his back, Lando cheering on his behalf.

He’s already removed his helmet when he sprints towards his team; the losses don’t matter, not when he can celebrate the win he had been craving for so, so long. There are praises passed, pats on the back as he works his way down the winding line of his team, red in their clothes and their cheeks, it means the world to everybody.

And then, Charles is facing you, his wife. He’s so transfixed upon your gaze, the sheer elation you have for his victory that he doesn’t stop to think when he takes two of his hands on either side of your face, cradling your cheeks as he presses his lips to yours, grinning into such a sweet kiss that you can’t help but kiss him back.

“I told you.” He whispers when he pulls away from you, resting a gentle hand on your cheek for just a moment. His eyes finally turned to where his teammate was standing. Both of them have to forge a smile as they reach out to clasp hands, a firm grip in celebration of scoring points for their team.

You don’t see him again, not until he’s left the cool-down room and is bounding towards the podium. Carlos, having not been called to his post-race interview yet, still stood behind you, though one hand had snaked its way around your waist, as if it had to be there. Nobody notices, of course. The team is too focused upon their driver lifting his golden trophy, in awe of the achievement they had built for seemingly the entire season.

Charles doesn’t miss it, of course. Maybe that’s why his gaze is so fixed on you when he releases a splash of champagne, purposely aiming his bottle towards the man behind you, his heart only crushing further when he sees the Spaniard pull your frame behind his own in protection.

And then, it’s all over. Both Carlos and Charles are rushed away to complete their post-race interviews. You’re left alone, simply taking a slow walk towards the Ferrari Hospitality. Even as you pace through the crowds, you can’t help but feel…sick. Dizzy. Out-of-body.

You cared for your husband greatly, and somewhere during it all, you believed his apology was genuine, that he truly wanted to fix the previous mistakes of the year. But how long would his tether last until his mistress came trailing back, regardless of a court ruling?

And Carlos. The sweet man who had proved to you time and time again, you were worth more than a simple name on a piece of paper. He’d been your soul, you truly were set to drop an entire marriage to live in his arms until his blonde counterpart came along, a knife to the chest after one of the most intimate nights you could fathom.

Your breathing gets faster, the world begins to turn on an axis. From somewhere, you hear a voice asking if you’re okay, if you need help getting back to the hospitality. And then, the world goes black, your body slumps to the floor of the paddock, with only one sentence drifting through your unconscious mind.

Who do you love?

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover @barnestatic @omgsuperstarg @chimchimjiminie16 @caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog @junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt @crowdthena @screemqueen @lewislvr @styles-sunflower @itspaddockprincess @adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins @formulanando @lorarri @christianpulisic10 @gaypoetsblog @thisbitxhs-blog @goldsainz @ru-kru @magical-spit @hrlzy @nooshytushie @gaslysainz @marvel-at-stucky @sugarvibez @adeptustemptations @roseseraj @leclercdream @pjofics @hecatesfavoritechild @poseforme @thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19 @heavenlyiecreature @pink-teddy-bear @nooshytushie @strawberries-and-racing @milasexutoire @ohthemisssery @florkt @obsessedwiththeideaofyou @ru-kru @myhomeworksnotdone @ineedafictionalman @bregarc @allywthsr @summerslike11 @wildcupcake @willowpains @marlenamallowan @leclercloml @katzenwahnsinn @be-your-coffee-pot

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inkykeiji · 1 year ago

Text

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side.

Yet.

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you.

“Touya.”

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons.

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on.

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you.

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame.

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer.

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips.

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!”

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!”

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.”

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling.

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…”

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!”

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull.

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors.

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him.

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye.

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.”

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!”

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.”

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech.

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute.

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten.

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process?

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya?

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him.

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly.

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times.

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man.

So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw.

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.”

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder.

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?”

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once.

“I was overheating, and he…”

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours.

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice.

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.”

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat.

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?”

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face.

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?”

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.”

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin.

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.”

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever.

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you.

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it.

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much.

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine.

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.”

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face.

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh.

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up.

Sicko.

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams.

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.”

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth.

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin.

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt.

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction.

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?”

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?”

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think?

“You know.”

He does, of course he does.

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.”

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny.

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring.

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.”

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?”

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action.

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full.

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?”

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.”

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?”

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips.

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?”

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him?

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!”

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not.

“Please, please—”

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar.

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips.

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything.

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs.

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.”

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him.

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul.

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable.

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.”

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues.

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.”

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!”

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock.

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.”

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

“C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!”

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.”

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue.

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!”

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls.

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?”

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues.

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.”

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly!

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat.

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?”

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue.

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples.

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction.

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you.

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!”

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords.

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?”

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.”

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact.

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails.

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit.

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling.

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively.

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?”

“I always do, don’t I?”

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone.

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking.

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips.

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.”

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin.

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt.

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more.

So cute.

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips.

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole.

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal.

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis.

“Fuck, f-fuck—”

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch.

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever.

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name.

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm.

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum.

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!”

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!”

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix.

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs.

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one.

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs.

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now?

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin.

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.”

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob.

“The dream, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.”

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude.

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter.

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him.

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #todoroki touya smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x you #dabi angst #bnha smut #bnha x reader #happy belated birthdaaaay dabi i love you so much #eeeeee feel free to let me know what u think!!! i hope u enjoy it!!!

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celesterayel · 1 year ago

Text

midnight secrets | luke castellan

pairing : luke castellan x nyx!reader

request: can you write about luke and a daughter of nyx? <33

IN WHICH — he knows only one true thing: you put all the stars to shame.

"now I just wanna stay here and fall into midnight. Want nobody else now, only you, feel right" - a.

w.c. 1.9k

warning(s) : soft ゜✭・.

✩ ‧₊˚ author's note can you tell when I was younger I had fallen in love with the night and the idea of it? cuz I did. very much so, I'd say. also water, always loved the concept of it--the fragility and softness of it, like a balm against my skin.

long, long ago you learned of the sea of stars and their stories, from which rose their beginning and end. the stars were beings of heat and fire; they were beautifully mortal and alive.

they danced upon the domain of zeus; showering the sky with lights when night fell and befitting the world with their glow.

but as the sands of time bade the next and the corners of the sky dulled, the toll of living and breathing became too much. and so in the vast space of nothingness among the empty silence, the stars took on the duty of protecting a human and god: following where they might go, to every lifetime and universe as if they could erase the tragedy of the divine that swam through their blood.

and when each stars’ child died and their soul followed its ache to finally rest, the star would fall out of the sky in a blazing trail of destruction and divinity to taste freedom one last time and meet them in the next life.

there had been something raw and gruesomely alive about the stars when you learned of the story and so everyday, you’d trapeze the mortal line between night and sleep to watch them in absolution. you yearned to find an answer as to why? why would such immortal and imposing celestial beings like the stars willingly ruin themselves for us humans, for us beings that hungered for war and found pain like a symphony?

you learned your answer when you met luke castellan, your own tragic star who would follow you when the blood of the gods stopped flowing through your veins and your existence came to its calamitous end.

you had spent most of your life curiously confused as if there was something missing that made you feel broken; a piece of the puzzle that made drizzles seem like hurricanes and everything seem like an unsolvable mystery, constantly itching at your skin as if you just needed to pull back the layers and scratch.

and then, one day it stopped.

the buzzling in your head faded and you seem to finally just be.

luke castellan was the rain before the storm, the pain before the raw scream; every fatal, holy thing that meant absolution and destruction in the same manner. a price you were willing to pay if it meant loving him.

and you did–love him that is. every part of you ached with love for your golden boy who had weathered storms like they were his prison and had wanted like it was a fatal wound that might never heal.

you first met the golden castellan boy nearly a year after coming to camp where you were claimed to be a child of the night and stars, the goddess nyx; an absolution of divinity that you would be every dark, enchanting thing he would know. you were the only thing that would allow the hurt in him to finally cease its dance and just allow him to simply be.

while the blood of the gods flowed through your veins, the peace only night could bring was your cover. it was every paceless sleep spent at the docks praying to your mother for one more star to keep its dance, it was heaven and heartbreak in the same measure.

when both man and monster fell to slumber, it was the knowing that eventually everyone would cease their dance sooner or later.

people would watch you like you were a painting come to life as the moon basked you in waves of starlight and the forest came to life in your presence. when the night grew tired of its waiting and the stars lost their way, it was you coaxing them back to life to the restlessness all beings underwent.

you were a creature of presence and peaceful destruction, misfortune and desire–every loud, unsaintly thing the brown-eyed, dimpled boy had thought.

and he was your exact opposite: bold, bright and charming like the sun. it was as if hermes had threaded gold through his veins and ichor had poured forth to create whatever celestial thing luke was. a type of burn only the sun could bring when you went off to your death.

the night had settled upon the camp long ago and so nothing but the loudness of silence and pensive dreams continued its echo. except for the child of the night and her sun who seem to find balance between the bumbling and the glow of the soft moon.

luke grabbed your hand and threaded his fingers, clutching you tightly as if you’d disappear with the breeze and never return.

he guided you to the docks where the river reflected back the divinity of the night sky and lapped gentle waves against the shore. you sat side by side, silently basking in the quiet.

breaking the silence, he asked, “what’s wrong?”

what was wrong? you didn’t quiet know. there was just a sort of cloak of discomfort that had settled over you that you couldn’t seem to shake off.

“do you ever wonder what’ll happen next?”

you settled his hand in your lap and grabbed it like it was a lifeline, tethering your aching body back to the living when all you wanted was to fade. he only rubbed the back of your knuckle, soothing the skin and the bone-deep itch all at once.

you turn to gaze at him, and suddenly you were jealous of the moon and how it shined so beautifully on him like it was made for him to bask under.

he turns to look at you, “before no. now…every moment, i begin to think what makes us so different from humans that we suffer tragedy while they can live how they please and without the cruelty of the gods. I think about what will happen when i finally pass on from this life to wherever my soul may go.”

you don’t think you could handle leaving this world after him. it was a type of pain that would kill you inside out, you decided. you knew it.

there is vulnerability in him that speaks out, “and then i dream that none of that matters because someday you and i make it out of here. out of this place and away from gods and monsters.”

you only grab his other hand and the one you currently have trapped and place a kiss upon each of the palms, embedding all the affection you have for him in that moment. it is something so humanely lived that the world stops moving and the gods see a love for the ages.

he plucks you up from his side and merely places you in his lap, wrapping you tightly in arms like there is no war spreading and reaching it’s claws from the horizon toward the two of you.

you simply close your eyes, soaking in the boy who's holding you like you are a divine being.

“open your eyes and show me the stars, pretty girl.”

all he can think is the moon and stars, which you've fallen in love with so many times has nothing against you. and suddenly your staring the biggest star in the face, wondering if in another life you were the moon and he was the sun king.

but when he kisses you, you realize no. he is simply the star that will follow you when your bodies turn to ash, being picked up by the breeze. and there is only the secret that luke castellan would allow himself a thousand years of destruction if it meant following you where ever you go.

you two are simply a star and his love.

#luke castellan #some poetic shit here #im doing mind games with yall #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo fandom #pjo series #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson show #annabeth chase #luke x reader #luke pjo #pjo x reader #pjo tv show #percy jackson x reader #percabeth #sun and moon myth #greek mythology #percy jackson series

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hazelfoureyes · 3 months ago

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Coven: @fraugwinska @minkdelovely @sugoi-writes @macabr3-barbi3 @synamartia (banners by Syn!)

Masterlist for Kinktober (Thank you Syn!)

Kinktober 2024 - Day 19 - Cuckolding

Alastor fucks Lucifer’s wife and Lucifer isn’t as mad as he thought he’d be about that.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷

「warnings/promises: Alastor x AFAB!Reader, breathplay, breeding kink if you truly look in your heart, cuckolding the king of hell is a bold strategy cotton let’s see if it pays off for him, creampie, cock too big but Alastor is ambitious and indifferent」

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷

MDNI 🦌 🚗

Alastor was already rubbing his cock length between your wet folds when Lucifer walked in the room. The king stopped, in obvious shock, to see his daughter’s hotelier fucking his wife. Well, about to fuck his wife.

He opened his mouth to speak but his attempt to say your name was drowned out by you moaning Alastor.

Alastor looked up, locking eyes with his sovereign as the shorter man seemed torn between coming in and retreating. The sound of your voice was candied; sweet and crisp. For some odd reason, he felt like he was intruding on your pleasure. Not that you could see your husband, the door was to the right and behind the large four post bed and taken out of your view entirely by a small enclave.

He’d expected his majesty to show up, but more towards the end. What was the point of fucking his wife if he didn’t get to feel Lucifer’s rage and humiliation over it?

A wicked grin spread on the radio demon’s face, one hidden from you as your eyes were clenched. He wasn’t terrible at improv, he could give it a whirl for the early audience. Your senses focused on the feeling of his heated member, cockhead catching on your clitoral hood as he ran it up and down slowly. It had all happened so fast that you didn’t stop to consider what you were doing.

Everyone was drinking and dancing and partying, then Alastor was beside you. There was no sudden shift to blame. He took you for a spin around the room, and he said some funny things about the hotel, some sly things about upgrading wives, and then… a dark chuckle, warm breath on your neck, a proposal and now you were on your back in your marital bed.

Lucifer had always allowed you freedom to be with who you wanted, no restrictions to your pleasure nor to his. But, everyone knew how poorly he got on with Alastor. The image of his face screwed up and a fake smile twitching, sputtering out nervous noises of confusion floated to the surface of your mind.

“Is this why I was summoned here tonight, my queen? To service you?” Alastor’s voice was low, but not quiet. It dispelled your husband's visage and roused you to open your eyes. Your response was a whimper, his own reply was a distant and nearly cruel laugh echoing off the walls.

You wouldn’t lie—- he’d caught your eye some time ago. Who didn’t like the hard to get? Though this had proven much easier than you’d anticipated.

Lucifer took a step forward into the room, a glare that threatened Alastor’s very soul made the sinner shiver. Alastor understood quite well he was most likely going to die a second, more permanent death. Why not put on a show as he went out?

You gasped, hands gripping into the bedding, as Alastor began to press into you. He’d been teasing you for just a few minutes.

Lucifer froze.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, and you nodded. You were wet and your pussy was willing, but his cock head was thick. The end was blunt, forcing your entrance to bend and stretch. “If only I had more time to prepare you… you’ll have to invite me again to the palace.” His hips moved and you gritted your teeth. “I promise it’ll be worth the pain, sweetheart.”

He hadn’t asked you if you needed him to stop, but you nodded again in understanding. The thin skin beneath your hole felt sure to tear as he demanded a wider entrance, but the ache for him deep in your cunt was overpowering the instinct to pull from the pain. So far.

Lucifer felt himself lean back before he thought to do it, shoulder slightly knocking into the door and startling him. He could see Alastor’s cock suddenly lose length as his head popped in. The hate in his heart was being suffocated by the spark just south of his belt. Every ounce of outrage outweighed by the heavy sounds of your excited breathing. You whimpered, legs clamoring up and a foot coming to press into Alastor’s lower stomach.

“None of that, dear.” His large hand wrapped around your ankle and lifted your leg up, resting it on his shoulder. The tension of your muscles made it hard to pull it back to yourself, causing you to be spread even wider for him.

Regardless of how slick his head was, slit leaking excitedly into you already, he still grated against your insides. Precum meant nothing when his flesh was pushing up and out so harshly against your own walls. Until your body accommodated his girth, the experience felt closer to your first time than a quickie with the famed demon.

Lucifer saw the moment Alastor’s head and glands bullied past your g-spot, your thighs and stomach visibly tensing. The feeling of him pressing in and then releasing your inner spot was one that made your body feel weak from the core out.

Your breath hitched, “Ah- Alastor. Slower.” Your hands stretched to touch his knees and grip, but he just hummed, disembodied radio studio audience cooing at your pathetic request. He did not slow down. The advancing length continued to push you apart.

Upsettingly, Lucifer found your noises stirring his own arousal noises more and more. Alastor’s attention flitted back to Lucifer, eyes meeting his before drifting down to the prominent bulge forming as his cock tried to straighten itself upright inside the confines of his tight, ridiculous circus master pants. He offered a smile to his king before snapping his hips forward. His balls pressed into the soft round flesh of your ass as he dug himself as deeply as he could reach.

When you let out a small yelp and tried to scurry up the bed, Lucifer’s hand came to adjust his erection in his pants. Lingering, his fingers traced the outline of his manhood as he listened to your whine melt into a soft moan. Your vocal responses to sex always spurred him into a frenzy, though usually he was the one making you whimper. His cock didn’t know that though, it just knew you were feeling good. Very good, by the sounds of it.

You held your breath as he pulled out halfway and slowly returned to your heat. He was churning up your insides, trying to elicit more of your own fluids to lubricate him. Alastor could feel he was snug in you, your walls writhing around him as you twitched at the intrusion.

A few more testing thrusts before Alastor pulled out to the very tip and began to fuck you proper. Your hole didn’t appreciate the repeated burn of his glands popping out and pushing back in, but knowing he was fucking you wider around him just made you fall deeper into the blind fog of lust. Lucifer was always so gentle, even when he was rough. But somehow Alastor’s most tender touches were still harsh.

You were entirely unaware of your husband some meters behind you, palm rubbing his cock through his pants to the pace of Alastor’s thrusts.

“How are you feeling?” He leaned up and over, body bending unnaturally as his spine curved. Your mouth hung open, body slack with occasional jolts of pleasure. It wasn’t right, he needed you seizing and tense, “Tell me what you need.” If he couldn’t make you a shuddering mess begging for him then he was really just wasting his time. He wanted the king of hell to feel inferior. This happened to be one of the best ways to manage that.

Lucifer knew what you needed, because he often found himself helping you along with firm hands.

You were too scared to ask, instead putting a hand on your throat and gently squeezing.

“Ooh, look at you! Who knew the queen of hell enjoyed breathplay? I am happy to oblige you.” A hand several times larger than your husband’s rested on your throat, long fingers curling as he tightened in slow increment. You moaned when the pressure was perfect, and he stopped the increasing vice.

Your hips lifted slightly, chasing the feeling of his pelvis hitting against your clit.

His body covered yours entirely, your own bent in half as he used your legs for both support and grip. Lucifer’s hand scraped against his belt as he shoved it into his pants to get contact with his now pulsing member. Your eyes were watering, mouth open and pleasured noises spilling from you with every move of your illicit lover’s body. The roll of his hips coaxed more and more of your fluids to leak and gather on his cock.

“Look how wet you are, does the king not take care of you? My my, even the bedding is soaked.” He said it to you, but his eyes were peering through his sweat-dampened hair to Lucifer, now fully resting against the door as he stroked himself under his clothes.

Finally properly covered in your arousal, Alastor was gliding through you. Every time his head hit your cervix and bottomed out, a small jolt of pain shot up your womb and stomach. He couldn’t fit himself entirely in without making your cervix bow against him. However he still did, shoving the rest of himself in randomly to get fully sheathed in your pussy every few times he fucked into you.

There was some form of disinterest in your discomfort that made the situation even more arousing. Alastor only cared for your pleasure, he didn’t seem bothered at all with how much your body struggled to accommodate him while receiving that pleasure.

Neither did you, though.

“Harder.” You choked out. Lucifer had to bite his bottom lip and still his hand to keep from moaning wantonly and breaking the illusion of privacy you and Alastor were in.

Alastor chuckled again, the laugh trailing off high and wicked with a flourish of stations flipping through static. He leaned back, taking both legs by the knees and hooking them at the junction of his arms to pull you into his lap every time he thrusted forward. Effortlessly he jerked your body to meet his demanding pace.

“How is that, my queen?” Panted through groans, Alastor finding it hard to keep composure when you were so shockingly needy. He could nearly forget Lucifer was against the far wall, fucking into his own fist. But not quite. “You’re so tight, I’m sure our majesty will feel my absence the next time he fucks you.” He said it purely for your husband’s displeasure.

The tension was ratcheting, the quick pace and occasional knock against your womb pulled long cries from you that stole your senses and any concerns about embarrassment. He was deeper in you than felt right, and you wanted him to fuck you until you were changed to fit him perfectly.

You flinched, Alastor’s hand coming to stroke the black swirl of lines vaguely forming a heart (or was that an apple?) above your womb. “Is this the famed marking?” Tears streamed down from your eyes and tickled your ears. “The gift of fertility from your betrothed?” A silent scream pulled your body taut, orgasm so close you were scared to breathe and lose it. “I know it’s made just for him, but don’t blame me for trying.”

Releasing your legs, he pinned you under the full weight of his body. His elbows rested just above and to the sides of your head as his long thrusts now became short and deep. No longer was he teasing your body with part of his length but now burying it into you. Alastor was chasing his own release, sensitive and weeping slit of his cock smashing into the obstinate entrance of your womb.

You came with a broken scream, cervix lowering to receive the seed of your lover regardless of vows as your walls worked in tandem to coax his cock to breed you.

Lucifer could relax and let himself cum to the sounds of Alastor’s pistoning member without fear, his mark only allowing you to truly receive his seed. He shuddered, body falling forward as he let his mind focus on the sounds of the room. Tight balls smacking into you and popping as they stuck to the thick slick coating your inner thighs and dripping down your cheeks. Your screams broke and devolved into wails and pleading, wordless begging for something– more, less, slower, deeper, it was unclear but you didn’t protest when Alastor quickened.

He leaned his head back in time to watch Alastor’s hips press once, then twice and drive your body into the mattress. He could see the back of Alastor’s thighs twitching and tensing as his cock was surely pulsing shots of his hot semen into your hungry womb. The smallest flicker of worry about the failsafes of his magical mark appeared as he saw Alastor give your cunt another deep push before quickly pulling out with an audible pop of your body separating from his.

You flinched again at the sudden loss, feeling something warm and thick threatening to leak out from your stretched and sore entrance.

“Quite the hostess, I have to say.” His finger pushed his cum back in. His other hand slipped up and over the marking with a ghost of reverence at the power therein before his presence entirely left the bed. “Lovely party, dear! Do invite me over again soon.” With a snap his pants were back on and shirt neatly buttoned.

As he approached Lucifer, still recovering in the shadows of the room’s entrance, he couldn’t contain his grin. Lucifer didn’t miss the way the sinner’s eyes shot to his hand and disheveled pants before returning to his flushed face.

Alastor’s own, still wet with the mix of you and him, came to touch and then swipe across the king’s chest as he slipped through the still open door, “Absolutely lovely.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @fizzled-phoenix , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

#And then Luci ate out reader #the end #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel smut #kinktober 2024 #coven kinktober

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