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7brownsuga7 · 6 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 · 6 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 · 3 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

Text

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 · 10 months 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 · 10 months ago

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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 · 22 days 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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mommyownsmee · 9 months ago

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I want to be all over you. I want you to be pinned between me and the mattress, like a flower pressed in a book. And I want you to say my name, over and over, like it's the only word written on the pages. I want to touch every single part of your body, slowly, slowly, and all at once. I want my every word to be your name and I want to speak love to the crevices and mountains of your body and whisper secrets in your ear. I want to be the moon, watching you sleep, the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders like onto the rise and fall of the tide of the ocean. I want to stare into your eyes until I see infinity, and myself, and cling to you like a sinner to grace. I want your hands to discover me in detail and your mouth to find the exact spot that stops my breath. I will find my place, between your shoulder and your neck, and inhale you every time we meet. I want to trace that art with my tongue, really slowly, but then taking a bite. I want your eyes searching for me, full of want, full of need, knowing we are destiny. We connect in a way that I cannot fully explain to other people. It's written in the flames, the way our skin heats up with each touch. I see it in the stars as they line together when our fingertips graze. It's unusual, the way the sound of the Earth reminds me of your heartbeat. We fall into each other, as normal as getting ready in the morning. I can't begin to explain it, I can only feel it in my bones. Our hearts have deep conversations, in silence. I always crave you in the dark. My hands get this urgency to trace over the spots you touched last. A tap on my shoulder, a gentle graze against my back or the simple hug you embrace me with. I can feel you around me even when you are nowhere near. Your scent has settled perfectly into my senses. So I cannot help but close my eyes and allow you to lead me. Tell me, where do you want me to touch? Should I let my hands crawl down my hips? How do I reach my thighs? Do you want to taste the moisture that sleeps over my lips? My fingers want to play with the images you have planted into my thoughts. So when the night sky is covered in black, my vision sees only you. I am yours, with every inch of flesh and bone in my body, and every ounce of love instilled in me, I belong to you. With every subtle thought that slips my mind and every void space in my empty soul, I belong to you. I fell for your thoughts, the way that you said my name, how you make me speechless. I ache to be inside your mind, hear the whisper of every thought, get lost in your deepest desires. I want you lying down next to me, caressing the soft curves of my face, running your fingers down my back. I fell for you and I ache for you, I want you. I want to rest, safe, between the bones of your shoulders and sleep inside your heart.

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runariya · 1 month ago

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The Auction (JJK) • Chapter 4

pairing: wolf hybrid!Jungkook x cat hybrid!female reader genre: mafia!AU, hybrid!AU, dystopian!AU, S2L, dark romance, slow burn, angst rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: angst, being held hostage, obsession and possessiveness, OC gets hurt, a little bit of fluff, nakedness, mentions of wound and blood, JK is kinda mental but we know that already, OC goes into heat, scenting, explicit content, smut, brief f.masturbation, protected seggs, OC rides JK, licking , lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 2.2K

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

a/n 2: not edited, sry!

1 • 2 • 3 • masterlist • 5

Protesting against Jungkook in every way possible seems to be your new hobby. There are times when you give him the silent treatment, and there are also times where you so boldly follow him wherever he goes, only to repeat the same sentence: “I want to go home,” to which he replies, bored and not the slightest bit bothered, “You are home.”

It’s truly impressive how resilient his patience is with you, and you reckon that Jimin was honest all along, because the slightest inconvenience or annoyance caused by anyone other than you means pain or even death for that person. But not for you.

There’s a strange way you’re slowly starting to enjoy this special treatment, a strange way this power, even if it’s granted and not truly yours, makes being forced to live with Jungkook so much more fun than it should be.

What’s rather sobering is that one day, as you stray through his penthouse, snacking on some catnip cookies Jungkook specifically arranged for you, you pass his study with the door slightly open. Curious, as your cat genes always are, you can’t help but listen in on his low voice. He’s obviously on the phone, and your chewing slows to a stop.

“What do you mean they don’t care?”

Jungkook sounds definitely angry, with that same dangerous lull in his tone that you know not to mess with.

“Sold her off,” you reckon he’s repeating what the other person on the phone just said, because the way your fur stands on end and the way Jungkook’s anger radiates through the whole penthouse is impossible to miss. The scent alerting everyone present is just too hard to ignore.

“Fucking bastards. And what was their daughter worth to them?”

Silence. Then a not-so-amused chuckle.

“Of course.”

You lean closer, too curious to know what Jungkook’s on about—if there’s another soul like yours needing ‘saving.’ But a breeze slams the door shut, and you, not cautious enough, have the tip of your tail jammed in the door. The pain is so utterly terrible, you let your cookies fall to the ground and scream while clutching it desperately.

Jungkook is at the door in an instant, tearing it open. There’s no anger anymore in his scent—no, it’s full of worry as he immediately cradles you and tries to soothe you. Silent sobs and tears escape your trembling frame, and you regret being so careless.

“Oh, my little kitten, does it hurt much?”

But you just push him away, forcefully stopping yourself from showing the pain any longer as you respond, “I’m fine.”

You leave Jungkook and the cookies on the floor as you retreat to the bedroom. Flopping down on the bed, you inspect the injury. It’s not severe, but the crushing is noticeable enough, the tip slightly swollen and very much painful.

Not wanting to leave the room to get an ice pack, you head to the bathroom to let some cool water run over it, scolding yourself to be more careful and especially not as noisy in the future.

You shouldn’t show too much emotion around Jungkook, knowing that any sign of vulnerability only triggers his instinct to protect you, which in turn fuels his obsessive nature. You’re still not sure what he sees in you, what makes him feel such intense emotions towards you. You’re just a cat hybrid, a regular person with a nine-to-five job–which you’ve probably lost by now.

You’ve never lived a life like his, never had the power he holds, and never even wanted it. You’d never admit it, but Jungkook is attractive, though only when you ignore all the red flags he comes with. And he has plenty. He’s got no shortage of admirers, women more like him, even if it’s just in their confidence.

Sighing, you can’t look away from your reflection, knowing that even though you want to go home, you can’t seem to find a way out. You’re not brave enough to trust anyone but Jimin and Jungkook, both determined to keep you here, insisting it’s for your own safety.

Allying with his other friends would be a death sentence, or worse, so your only hope is to somehow convince Jungkook to let you go home. Even if it takes years, so be it–because deep down, you know it’s not that bad living here.

Glancing down at your tail, still dripping water onto the tiled floor, you notice crumbs from the cookies tangled in your fur. Knowing how much you’d hate for them to turn mushy and get knotted in your fur, you decide to take a quick shower–despite never having done so while Jungkook’s home. You figure he’s too busy to notice.

Navigating the enormous, fancy shower has become routine by now, especially with the luxury shower gels Jungkook’s provided. There’s one in particular that smells like your old cheap favourite, but you can tell it’s high-end. And the texture? The way your skin and fur feel and smell afterward is unreal.

It doesn’t take long to finish, or so you thought, because as you step out–not bothering to wrap a towel around yourself–you’re startled to find Jungkook standing there, naked. You didn’t mean to scream or hiss so loudly, or to lash out with your claws, but instinct took over, just as it does with him.

The silence that follows only makes you more anxious as you back away. Jungkook just watches the five bleeding scratches across his chest, the blood slowly welling up and trickling down his toned abdomen.

“Huh,” he breathes, as if he’s as surprised as you are, his lack of anger only making your anxiety worse.

“I… I… I’m sorry,” you stammer, blindly grabbing for a towel to cover your dripping, naked body.

“Don’t be, kitten.” Jungkook smiles at you, his eyes sparkling and his tail wagging like you’ve just given him the most precious gift in the world.

“Huh?”

“It’s the first mark you’ve left on me. I’ll treasure it forever.”

You’re speechless, your mouth falling open as you stare at him, wondering if his madness has reached new heights.

“You’re crazy,” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them, because honestly, Jungkook must’ve been dropped on his head as a pup one too many times–there’s no other explanation.

Jungkook says nothing, just keeps smiling that dumb smile of his like he’s not the most dangerous mafia boss around. He steps forward, kisses your temple, and just before the shower door closes behind him, you hear him call out, “Hope your tail’s okay. If not, let Jimin know, and he’ll get a doc.”

The blurred outline of Jungkook’s body moving behind the fogged-up glass is almost… pornographic. Still, your brain manages to form some coherent words. “I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

It’s a first, thanking Jungkook, but it feels like the least you can do after scratching him. Not wanting to fall further into his trap, but still trying to keep a bit of distance and dignity, you quickly leave the bathroom to get dressed and forget what just happened.

You’re the dumbest woman alive. Literally. There’s no way you can be this stupid, but somehow, you forgot your heat’s not just approaching, it’s sprinting full throttle now that Jungkook removed the implant.

It’s not that you’re desperate… well, maybe you are, because you’re not only restless, you’ve been marking Jungkook’s pillow since the moment your eyes opened. He’s been gone for hours, it seems, but his dominant scent lingers and it’s not helping. Your body temperature is skyrocketing, and you’re flipping between rubbing and punching his pillow. You know you’re doomed. Sooner or later, you’ll be too far gone.

Your whines are muffled by the pillow, and you can’t hold back any longer. Clothes feel too tight, too itchy, so you strip them off, not wasting time as you lay down, pressing the pillow to your face and inhaling deeply. The first rush of heat hits you as your fingers glide between your legs, trying for some kind of release that you know won’t be enough.

“Fucking hell.”

You didn’t hear Jungkook come in. How could you, when your purring and moaning drown everything else out? But god, you’re thankful he’s here. Tossing the pillow aside, you zero in on him—tall, muscular, dressed in his usual white dress shirt and vest, buttons straining over his chest.

“I need you,” you pant, sweat rolling down your face as your hair sticks to your skin.

You watch him gulp, see him adjust his trousers, where his semi is already more than noticeable, but he doesn’t move.

“Please, I fucking need you.”

Still, he doesn’t budge, and you can’t stand it anymore. You practically leap off the bed, rushing at him, tugging at his clothes.

“No.”

“Please, Kook, please. I’ll do anything. Please, fuck me like all the others. Please.” You claw at his shirt, but he holds you at arm’s length.

“I won’t touch you.”

You can’t believe it. If he doesn’t help, you’re going to die—or at least it feels that way.

“Why?” You almost sob, though anger bubbles dangerously beneath the surface. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? Now you’ve got me, so take me. Come on.”

“I won’t use you.”

“You’re not. Come on, Kook.”

“You’ll regret it.”

You pause. Maybe he’s right? You can’t tell, not with your mind clouded by him and only him.

“I won’t,” you breathe, but the sad look in his eyes shows doubt you hadn’t noticed in your own voice. “What should I do, Kook?”

You’re hyperventilating now, pacing, naked, desperate for some kind of contact, for anything to calm the overwhelming urge coursing through you.

“Hey, it’s okay, kitten.”

Your ears twitch at the soft understanding in his voice, glassy eyes locking onto his.

“Please help me, Kook, I need you. Only you,” you beg again, seconds from breaking down.

“I won’t touch you.” With that, he unbuttons his vest and shirt, tossing them aside. The sight of his naked torso and tattoos is hypnotic, and another wave of arousal drips from you, shamelessly coating your thighs.

Jungkook just watches, taking in how you rub your legs together, how soft whimpers and purrs escape you. He sits on the sofa in the corner after kicking off his trousers and boxers, his cock standing fully erect with a condom already on. When he put it on, you have no idea—the haze is too thick to notice details at this point.

“Use me. I won’t touch you,” he states again, and that’s all it takes for you to throw yourself at him. In seconds, you’re straddling his lap as he leans back, watching with lazy eyes, his arms resting on the armrests.

His body is warm, but nothing compared to the searing heat radiating from yours as you let your hands roam over his muscles. His scent hits you full force, the faint tinge of sweat and aftershave intoxicating. You can’t stop yourself from scenting him, licking his chest and neck, inhaling like he’s the air you breathe.

When Jungkook lets out a slow moan, you’re done. Grabbing his cock, you give him a few pumps before lining him up and lowering yourself down, letting him stretch you with a sweet, burning fullness.

The relief is instant, the burn of his thick cock splitting you open almost too much, but just right. You don’t waste a second, riding him hard, chasing your release as his silent gaze drinks in your bouncing tits, your sweaty face, and the way your cunt weeps around him.

“Jungkook,” you chant, his name the only thing in your mind. The twisted safety he provides, his crazed devotion, and his perfect body. You notice his fingers twitch, and you’re desperate for him to touch you. “Please touch me.”

“No.” His voice is strained, but still, his fingers twitch.

You grip his hair, pulling his head up as you keep bouncing, your lips dangerously close to his. You can’t stop, can’t think, can’t focus on anything but him. Still, you hesitate—kissing him would push you over the edge though.

Sensing your struggle, Jungkook leans back and meets your eyes. “What do you need?”

“You.”

“You’ve got me, kitten.”

That’s all it takes. You come, your release crashing over you as Jungkook whines, his cock twitching inside you as he follows suit, finally thrusting up into you.

It’s freeing, finally thinking clearly, even if it won’t last long.

“Thank you,” you mumble, resting your head on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your sensitive ear.

“Anytime.” Jungkook kisses the crown of your head, like he always does, but this time it feels different.

“You were wrong.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t regret it.”

Jungkook says nothing, is still not touching you, but you don’t mind. For now, you bask in his warmth, his scent, and the glow of your shared release.

1 • 2 • 3 • masterlist • 5

a/n 3: hope you enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 4: taglist is sadly closed

Check out my other work here!

taglist: @jksusawife, @kookiewithluv, @justjkkkkk, @staytinyville, @jaiuneamesolitaiire , @ericawantstoescape , @mjuser, @sp1derk0ok , @fluttershyvanilla, @lachimolalajeon , @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @llallaaa , @m00njinnie , @passionandsuga , @scuzmunkie , @lerasi , @11thenightwemet11 , @bts-ruu , @metalheadfangirl2001 , @unadulteratedwitcher , @qmsvpx, @minghaosimp, @kittycatkrissa, @weareatthebadlands, @fluttershy-vanilla, @bangtannie7

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