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dakusan · 1 month ago

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N O S A I N T I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | He tattoos like an artist and eats like a god. You're ruined. Congratulations.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #han jisung #한지성 #han x reader #han jisung smut #filthy friday

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sunderwight · 4 months ago

Text

Demon Saint Shen Yuan.

Luo Binghe had never been relieved to see his shizun suddenly arrive into a situation, but there was a first time for anything. And a bloodthirsty demon invasion was the kind of situation where anyone would want to have an immortal master turn up, even one as intimidating and unfriendly as Shen Qingqiu.

The demons had arrived some hours ago. Luo Binghe himself had only become aware of the situation recently, as panic spread and he and Ning-shijie were caught up in the chaos. He hadn't even been sure that it was a demon invasion, or what that might entail, until he found himself running for his life from a group of horrifying inhuman figures in mismatched armor, wielding fearsome weapons and clashing with the senior Qiong Ding disciples.

Ning-shijie had pulled him to the main pavilion, but that ended up being the central point of the troubles. A nymph-like demoness, who didn't look as though she could be much older than they themselves were, imperiously ordered the other demon warriors to claim Qiong Ding's sign and to beat up any cultivators they came across. She was dressed more scandalously than Luo Binghe had seen anyone dress before in his life. Not even the ladies who stood outside the Warm Red Pavilion had worn so little, her figure barely obscured by scraps of crimson silk and bits of silver jewellery.

To the right of her, there stood a boy who seemed even younger. He was dressed in red as well, but his clothes at least did more to cover him, particularly the large and hooded cloak he wore. The two demons looked very similar, surely close relatives, but where the demoness kept calling out orders and making a display of being in charge, the demon boy was quiet. His pale gaze cut through the crowd and then seemed to land on Luo Binghe. There was such intensity to it, it was almost as if he had been looking for him.

A chill went down Luo Binghe's spine. He wondered if that demon boy would attack him. Why else would a demon be looking for someone like him, except as easy pickings?

Before he could find out, however, Shen Qingqiu descended into the chaos like a gift from the heavens.

Luo Binghe wasn't alone in his relief. Even though his shizun looked deathly pale and murderously enraged, almost everyone seemed to be in a mood to praise his arrival with thanks and cheers. Finally, a peak lord had come! Even the demons had to sit up and take notice of that.

The young demoness came forwards, an assessing glint in her eyes as she looked Shen Qingqiu up and down. The other demons fell into step behind her. Well, sort of? Looking at the motley collection of warriors, Luo Binghe didn't really think they were capable of the sort of orderly formations that human soldiers used. There didn't seem to be any two of them the same size or shape, there was of course no uniform, and there was an atmosphere which implied that even though the little demoness was in charge of them, this was a situation that could change at any given moment.

Despite his fear, Luo Binghe was somewhat curious about the demons. He had heard a lot about such beings, but even at his age he knew that reputation and rumor were not always to be trusted. The demon race was a mystery to him. So these were the people that the righteous world deemed beyond redemption?

As the demoness put forward a challenge to Shen Qingqiu, Luo Binghe's gaze drifted towards the boy with her.

He couldn't help it. For some reason, that demon boy had not stopped staring at him even once! He had only just glanced at Shen Qingqiu, and then gone right back to looking at Luo Binghe! When Luo Binghe met his gaze, he finally did look away, but again only for a moment. Then it was back to staring, then looking away again, and then staring again. What could possibly be so interesting about Luo Binghe, out of all the people around?

The pattern only ended when Shen Qingqiu moved forward, and Binghe was jolted from his concerns by the realization that his shizun was going to fight.

Despite his master's harsh way with him, he was excited. He had never yet seen his shizun fight, and only knew his prowess by implication and reputation. A one-armed demon came forward to be his challenger. Shen Qingqiu did not wait to even exchange the usual courtesies, instead he moved at once, drawing forth Xiu Ya and sending his sword glint to carve through the air. When the one-armed demon dodged, Shen Qingqiu called up a cloud of dust and hit him directly in the face with it.

Luo Binghe blinked in surprise.

These kinds of tactics... weren't they a little... underhanded? Who was the demon and who was the righteous cultivator?

He probably should not judge. He knew that conventional wisdom held that demons were not truly 'people', and a demonic beast should be promptly dispatched. But the demons here spoke, and looked mostly human, and this match had been agreed to, even if under heavy duress. In a way it wasn't unlike a duel between cultivators. So why was his shizun fighting so dirty?

Regard for his master slipped further. Luo Binghe had been attempting to hold onto it, but he was increasingly convinced that it wasn't worth the effort. Even fighting an opponent who had only one arm, Shen Qingqiu was pressing every advantage he had and then some.

The outcome was lackluster and predictable, though the demoness still looked very displeased as her subordinate was killed. Demons probably weren't as concerned about dirty tactics as righteous cultivators, though, so she only announced that the next match would be against her.

Shen Qingqiu called for volunteers. The demon boy glanced at his senior, then looked out towards the group. His gaze lingered on the Xian Shu peak disciples just a few seconds before Liu Mingyan came forward to answer Shen Qingqiu's call.

Luo Binghe frowned.

Was it a coincidence, or did this demon boy have some kind of clairvoyance?

If so, what did all of his staring at Luo Binghe imply...?

But, no, it couldn't mean anything. Luo Binghe was nothing and nobody, after all. He didn't even have a spiritual weapon, and hadn't received any martial training yet. At this rate he would be lucky if he wasn't kicked off of the peak, and he knew it just as well as everyone else did. Liu Mingyan was just a bit older than him, but the differences between their abilities were like night and day. Luo Binghe was so behind that he could scarcely even comprehend her fight with the demoness. It didn't even seem like they were fighting to him, not really, but Ming Fan seemed to understand it and enthused about it to everyone nearby, and Shen Qingqiu only watched with narrow eyes until finally, it seemed, the disciple from Xian Shu lost.

Luo Binghe tried not to wince. That meant they were one to one, and there were no other peak lords or head disciples present to fight the next match. He glanced around, wondering which of the senior disciples might do. There were a few from Qiong Ding, and some elders from Zui Xian...

The feeling of eyes on him drew his attention back across the pavilion.

That demon boy was staring at him again. Even more unexpectedly, so was his shizun. He felt all the hairs go up on the back of his neck as Shen Qingqiu called out:

"Luo Binghe. Come forward."

His feet rooted him to the spot in genuine shock. That couldn't mean what he thought it did, could it? Why was his shizun calling for him? By name, no less? He couldn't mean for Luo Binghe to fight, could he? He'd lose his match and end up as a meal for demons! He didn’t even have a sword!

Shen Qingqiu stared at him, fierce and more terrifying than any of the demons so far, and before he could consider running away, self-preservation instincts compelled Luo Binghe to go over and bow in acknowledgement.

"Shizun," he said, trying not to shake.

Shen Qingqiu sneered at him.

"Since certain parties have insisted that you have some talent, let's put it to the test. My personal disciple shall go and handle the next match."

Oh.

So.

Shen Qingqiu wanted him dead, then?

At once, Ning-shijie raised her voice in protest. But she petered out as Shen Qingqiu shot her the kind of cutting, quelling look he almost never used on her. Even Ming Fan and some of the other Qing Jing disciples shifted uncomfortably. But to intervene, they'd have to volunteer in Luo Binghe's stead, and none of them would do that. He hadn't managed to endear himself to any of them, so of course they wouldn't stick their necks out for his sake.

"Shizun..." he tried, falteringly. He would die, but also, the sect would lose face. Shen Qingqiu couldn't really mean for that, could he? Maybe he expected Luo Binghe to run away, to leave and rid him of an incompetent student for good, but how could Luo Binghe do such a thing? He had nowhere else to go.

Shen Qingqiu glared impatiently at him.

"Is this the next champion?" the demoness asked, and laughed. "I'd feel too bad siccing one of our elders on the little creature. Hey, Didi! You fight him!"

The demon boy next to her shot her a startled look. It made him seem surprisingly human, even though the slight parting of his lips revealed a sharp set of cute little fangs.

"Me?" he asked, incredulous.

The demoness smirked.

"You don't want to? What, are you afraid of that shrimpy thing? How embarrassing! Our Sha family will never recover from the disgrace!"

The boy looked like he wanted to throttle his older sister for a moment. But instead of backing down, he glanced off to the side. There was nothing there, yet he stared intently at empty space for several seconds. Then his shoulders slumped, just a bit, and he strode forwards.

Standing across from one another in the middle of the impromptu fighting ring, Luo Binghe got a better look at the mysterious demon. Either he was small for his age, or he was in fact even younger than Luo Binghe had initially guessed. He felt almost sympathetic, because the boy was a full head shorter than him and pretty scrawny. Some of the other demons around had arms and legs bigger than him. His long hair was straight and loose but for a single ornament, which was only revealed when he swept the hood of his cloak down. He was dressed in crimson from head to toe, with silver embellishments that matched his pale eyes. Long black nails sprouted from his fingertips, nearly as dark and shiny as his boots. With one hand he motioned and called to his grasp a wicked-looking spear, adorned with red tassels. At his belt were a pair of folded fans. The metal kind used as weapons, rather than the frail type which Shen Qingqiu used to hide his sneers.

After a moment, the younger boy straightened across from Luo Binghe and then, to his surprise, offered him a polite bow of acknowledgement.

"Let's get this over with," he murmured.

Luo Binghe wondered if he would have to face him bare-handed, but someone whistled from off to one side.

Liu Mingyan, to his surprise, tossed him a spare sword from somewhere. It was no spiritual weapon, but it was definitely better than nothing.

He nodded in thanks, then turned back and awkwardly returned the bow to his opponent.

The demon boy let him, and did not charge first. He twirled his spear and circled around, as if assessing Luo Binghe's threat level. I have none, Luo Binghe thought to himself, half-hysterical, but at this point he realized that every second of delay was another second he could still live. He eyed the fans cautiously, knowing just enough to know that he would have no recourse at all over ranged attacks. But the demon did not reach for them.

In the end, it was Binghe's own sense of tension that got the better of him. Just as the demon side were beginning to jeer, he settled the sword as best as he could in his hands and lunged forward.

The demon boy parried him easily. Reflexively, he'd even say. The parry left him staggering and wide open, but instead of pressing the advantage, his opponent backed off.

"Come on," he thought he heard a soft voice murmur. "Get into a proper stance. You've seen them before, you know what it looks like."

Luo Binghe blinked and hesitated, confused.

"Didi, just beat him into the ground already!" the demoness jeered.

The younger boy didn't take his eyes off of Luo Binghe, however.

"If you want me to fight, you have to put up with how I do it," he called back.

His older sister visibly sulked. Even without directly looking at her, the body language was easy to read.

"So boring," she sighed.

They were toying with him. That was it, right? He was being mocked.

Luo Binghe couldn't even blame them, not really. He didn't know what he was doing in this fight either. But he wasn't entirely without some pride. The shame of his own ineptitude made him feel hot and shaky. Swallowing, he took the mockery as advice anyway and focused on himself. He did know, at least in theory, what the Qing Jing sword stance looked like. He'd even tried copying it on his own several times. Without a word he settled his posture into his best approximation of it.

Across from him, his opponent's lips twitched upwards in a baffling hint of a smile.

Luo Binghe decided to try defensiveness again, and settled in to watch and wait.

This time, he was rewarded with an attack. The demon boy circled once more before finally lunging with his spear. The move seemed obvious, almost too slow, but still Luo Binghe struggled to counter it. The edge of the spear slashed across his arm.

The demon boy winced the same time that he did.

There was a slight delay, then another attack.

It was obvious who the better fighter was. Luo Binghe couldn't think of any reason outside of mockery for the fight to draw on, for why he wasn't just being gutted like a fish, but after a few more lunges and awkward attempts at blocking had sent rivulets of blood down his sleeves, he wasn't sure if he was grateful for it or not. His heart picked up, and he decided that his only chance was probably to try and catch his opponent off-guard.

So he switched and went on the offensive again, charging with the sword and trying everything he could think of to just land a hit.

The demon boy evaded him like it was nothing at all, but he also seemed to approve of this approach more than the other.

"That's it," his soft voice said. "If you don't know enough of swordsmanship, you'll just have to use force. You have a lot of talent. It's a shame no one's taught you properly how to use it. But the energy's there, right? Come at me again, come on, there! Like that! You're strong. You are stronger than me. You're taller as well, use it to your advantage..."

Luo Binghe swung with all his might, but at the last moment he realized the blow might actually hit, and in a flurry of panic it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't sure he wanted it to.

He pulled back, tripped, and stumbled into the dirt. The demon boy aborted a wide swing of his own, and somehow ended with the edge of his spear just a hair's breadth from Luo Binghe's throat.

The boy's eyes widened. He paled, as if something about this horrified him.

Luo Binghe closed his own eyes and dropped his sword.

"I yield," he said. Just as Liu Mingyan had done.

"Worthless! Fight until you have won, or don't call yourself my disciple any longer!" Shen Qingqiu snapped at him.

The spear swiftly withdrew. Luo Binghe hung his head. The silence that descended was filled with strange tension. He wasn't even certain he could name everything behind it, or if he even wanted to try. There was a ringing of panic in his ears, but the chief feeling in him was resignation. He couldn't win. He'd lost his place, this home he'd tried to find in the wake of his mother's death. His chance to become a cultivator.

But there was nothing for it. At least this way, he might still walk away with his life.

"No," the demon boy said. "Keep going. You can definitely win."

Luo Binghe blinked at him, bewildered.

Somehow the gaze that met his was earnest. There really did not seem to be a trace of mockery in it, in fact. The demon boy settled the butt of his spear against the floor of the pavilion.

"Didi, what the fuck are you doing?" the demoness called. "You won, just come back over here and we'll claim our spoils!"

"Don't interfere, this matter is between us two men," the little boy called back. Then he extended an arm. A red silk ribbon fluttered out from his sleeve and kicked Luo Binghe's discarded sword into the air, caught the handle, and gently tossed it back towards him.

Luo Binghe just barely caught it.

"What are you playing at?" he asked.

The boy smiled.

"No game," he said. "I just think you can beat me. Don't you want to see if you can? You haven't even really tried."

"But I don't know how to fight..." Luo Binghe protested, unable to keep the helpless despair from his voice.

The boy shook his head.

"Of course you do. Every living thing knows how to fight when it needs to. You need to defeat me, don't you? Your life depends on it. So fight me like it does!"

The spear jerked forwards, a quick flash of gleaming, deadly metal that carved a path across Luo Binghe's cheek. The pain was almost refreshing, somehow. Like a splash of cold, clean water to the face.

Fight like his life depended on it?

But it didn't. Not really. It was clear to him that this boy, strange though he was, demon though he was, harbored no killing intent towards him. Even the demoness hadn’t killed her opponent. Only Shen Qingqiu had done so.

And yet, he wasn't wrong, was he? If Luo Binghe lost this fight, Shen Qingqiu would finally have the excuse to be rid of him. His master must have long regretted choosing him in the first place, though Luo Binghe had no idea why he had done so, or why he had so bitterly despised his every effort afterwards. Regardless, without Qing Jing Peak, what was left for Luo Binghe? He'd be back on the streets, with little hope of making any kind of future for himself. He had lived that life just long enough to know the sorts of things that happened to people like him, and to know he wanted nothing to do with it.

He had loved his mother, but he did not want to live and die the way that she had.

The spear came at him again, and this time Luo Binghe let instincts take over and dodged out of the way.

He really was fighting for his life, wasn't he?

The demon boy pressed him, and his heart beat faster. He found himself answering the moves with less thought, less concern for form or structure. Soon he was smashing his sword against the spear with sheer brute force, animal intensity. He bared his teeth, widened his stance, and listened to the little voice in the back of his head that always wanted to roar.

Though he didn't actually roar. He didn't have the breath for it. His opponent finally wasn't giving him room to hesitate, and oddly enough it seemed to be granting Luo Binghe a strange sort of advantage. The spear had reach, but it was less dangerous when Luo Binghe got in closer. Though getting struck with the shaft was still painful. Red ribbons filled his vision as the demon boy left cuts and bruises in his wake, his clothing seeming to do almost as much fighting as he himself did, and yet Luo Binghe began landing meaningful hits as well. It was like fighting a bird, he thought. A bird and a hurricane. The boy's bones seemed light enough to break, and somehow after several intense minutes of skirmishing, something did break.

His opponent let out a hiss as the blow landed heavily against his arm, and the snap sound was loud in both of their ears. The spear dropped to the ground with a clatter.

Impossibly, Luo Binghe found himself leveling the blade of his sword at the demon boy's throat. Silvery eyes looked up at him, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say that the emotion in them was relief. But that made no sense. Didn't he want to win?

Did he... not approve of this invasion, or something along those lines...?

"I yield," the boy said.

There was the barest flash of visible fear, at last. Wariness. A moment where he seemed unsure if Luo Binghe would let him. It seemed so strange, considering how honorably he'd conducted himself, but then again... why would he expect Luo Binghe to be the same? He'd just seen his master, the lauded Xiu Ya sword, fight like a depraved bandit. According to humans, the demon race were creatures without integrity. Maybe demons told the same sorts of stories about cultivators, though. Brutal creatures with no pity, no mercy, who hunted down even children like animals and spared no courtesy unless threatened into it.

Hastily, Luo Binghe lowered his sword.

He looked back towards his master, and he felt a moment of irrational hope. He had won. He had won! There was no reason for it, and yet he had!

But Shen Qingqiu didn't even look back at him. The man was already moving stiffly away, as if he couldn't even be bothered to ensure the invaders kept their word. With his back turned, any number of demons could have rushed forward to avenge their comrade's loss. Luo Binghe was aware of being both abandoned and surrounded.

When he looked back at his opponent, however, the boy only nodded and then returned to his sister. He retrieved his spear with his off hand, and was careful with the arm that had broken.

As soon as he drew close to Sha Hualing, however, she smacked him sharply across the face. Then she reached to his hair and pulled out a silver ornament, a pretty thing shaped like the demonic huadian on both of their foreheads. Tossing it down, she stomped on it with her bare foot. Even with only the soles of her small feet, the impact was strong enough to break it.

"Useless!" she hissed. "What the fuck was that?"

"It was your stupid idea anyway, I told you I didn’t want to fight," the boy muttered back.

It earned him a hiss, and another smack.

Luo Binghe didn't even realize he'd raised a hand, as if to intervene, until Sha Hualing turned her sharp gaze towards him. He hastily withdrew, unwilling to get into another fight, even if he sympathized with his enemy's treatment. It seemed neither of them would get much in the way of congratulations from their superiors.

Sha Hualing’s expression was assessing, however. As if she too had seen something in him, though Luo Binghe couldn't imagine what.

He didn't have much time to bother trying anyway. His shijie started pulling at him then, visibly anxious. They were still surrounded and outnumbered, and now they were without even the presence of a peak lord to shield them.

Luo Binghe let himself be pulled away, and was moving through the throng of remaining disciples by the time the dishonorable demon hordes finally kept their word, and left.

#long post #svsss #scum villain #scum villain's self saving system #bingqiu #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #demon saint shen yuan #fanfic #wip

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paarksunghoon · 9 months ago

Note

Okay okay hear me out cuz I haven't stopped thinking about this. Sitting on boyfriend heeseung's lap and playing with his neck chain, giggling to yourself, telling him that you really like when he wears it. When he asks why, you shyly tell him that you imagine it dangling on your face while he's on top of you. And he loses his goddamn mind. ARGH

It’s kinda my dream for this to happen to me. bye

***

Neither you nor Heeseung are paying attention to the shitty movie playing on Netflix. You’re too preoccupied with chasing his lips and he’s too busy squeezing your hips to care that the film is halfway over.

It’s been like this for the past few minutes or so with your boyfriend, who you had been crushing on since the beginning of the year and him just a few months shy of that. It’s new, maybe only a week or so into this new relationship, but the newfound romance sparks curiosity within you.

His silver necklace has a small pendant in the middle and the chain against his skin makes him look like walking sex. Heeseung is far more experienced than you are, having gone through a phase in college where all he wanted to do was get his dick wet and make as many girls cum on his mouth, fingers, and cock before finally realizing all he wanted to do was settle down with one person.

His kisses are always so deliberate and calculated like he’s trying to prove something to you. His hands don’t wander for the fear of making you uncomfortable because he knows you aren’t as forward with your romantic past. Sex positivity and all of that; neither of you really care about how many or how little people you’ve collectively hooked up with because none of that matters when you have each other.

Still, thinking about how you paint yourself as some kind of saint makes Heeseung want to test your limits and it makes his dick jump every time he thinks about it.

The farthest you’ve gone was dry humping in his dorm room when his roommate was gone for the weekend. Again, this whole relationship is new and neither of you care to rush yourselves into it because you were friends before you became a couple. But even so, he has needs and so do you. It’s just a matter of pursuing sex when it feels right.

Heeseung feels your fingertips playing with the chain against the back of his neck. He smiles into the kiss and soothes your skin with his thumb, pulling back only slightly until his lips rest against yours.

“You like my necklace, baby?” he asks in a soft whisper, enjoying your plump lips against his. A giggle bubbles out of you and you can’t stop it. The sound reverberates against his mouth and Heeseung smiles wider, pushing his lips against yours. “What’s so funny?”

You shake your head and peck him once. “Nothing. You look pretty with it on.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Your fingers caress the metal and his skin at the same time. “I really like it when you wear it.”

“Why’s that, baby?”

“I dunno.” You lean back and look at him, shrugging your shoulders like you want to say something more but don’t. “I just do.”

“C’mon. There must be a reason.” Heeseung squeezes your hips and smiles at you lazily. He watches you bite your lip and avert his eyes. So fucking cute.

“I’m too shy to say it.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Heeseung promises, leaning forward to kiss your cheek tenderly. He waits for you to look at him and encourages you to talk to him by nodding. That heat creeps up your neck.

“I-I imagine it dangling over me sometimes.”

Heeseung’s hands freeze and grip your hips. “What do you mean?” You look behind him before he beckons you to look at him again.

“I…think about you on top of me with your necklace in my face.”

He gulps. “What are we doing?”

“Having sex.”

You say it so quietly. It’s barely a whisper but the way you say it makes you sound like being fucked is something you think about often. The gears in his head turn and he’s thinking about all of the mental images he’s conjured up in his head when he touches himself to avoid putting you on the spot whenever he gets horny.

But now it’s as if the gates are open. His mind is flooded with different scenarios but he can’t stop picturing what you’d look like underneath him, specifically with his necklace dangling over your tits as he pushes his cock into you for the first time.

“Heeseung?” you ask tentatively, afraid that you might’ve taken things too far.

Your boyfriend catches you by surprise. He bucks his already semi-hard dick up into your clothed lap and a groan emits from the back of his throat.

“Fuck.”

He scoops you up in his arms and ignores your yelp in favor of carrying you to the bedroom with your legs wrapped securely around him. Neither of you care that the TV is still on. Heeseung can only think about what you’d look like with his pendant right next to your mouth.

“I need to fuck you right now,” Heeseung moans when he places you onto the mattress and pushes his clothed dick against your core. “Need to see that right now.”

You don’t complain.

***

comments and reblogs are appreciated! x

#enhypen smut #enha smut #heeseung smut #lee heeseung smut #enhypen x reader #enha hard thoughts #enhypen hard thoughts #enha hard hours #enhypen hard hours #enha x reader #heeseung x reader #my writing*#hard thought*#heeseung

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valentine-cafe · 4 months ago

Note

May I have a tiramisu please?

Bottom male reader perhaps meeting Alessio at a club or party and being smitten with him and decides to have a one night stand with him

Also is it ok if I am 🖍️anon? (Pronounced like craynon)

˖⁺. “ pretty party boy ! ” :

﹙ top punkgoth mercenary x bttm male reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . verse 781 alessio x male reader !! 🍒 : ﹙ punkgoth ˖ mercenary ˖ immortal inhuman ﹚

you found the flirtatious hunk at the club rather cute - and it seems like the both of you can't keep your hands off of each other. might as well head over and get into his pants, right?

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ one night stand ˖ penetrative sex ˖ fingering ˖ size difference ˖ degradation ˖ rough sex ˖ spit ˖ creampie ˖ alcohol consumption ˖ club scenes | wc : 1.6k

﹙ receipts ﹚: oh I had wayyy too much fun with this and yes ! welcome 🖍️<3

꒰ other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore ꒱

Parties seemed to be his scene. Even moreso when he's got a pretty lil' thing like you grinding up on him on the dance floor. He barely knew your name but he sure as hell knew the taste of your lips. Fuck. You were fun to kiss.

He found that out especially so when you stumbled with him through the hazes of booze and bright lights. His hands were all over you from the crowd to the bar. He bought you a drink, then two. Let you pipe on about how you're so happy you can unwind after exam week. He finds out you're a student at his uni. Well ain't that convenient?

"Mechanical huh?"

"Yup! First year."

"Well if you need a tutor," his lips smile into the rim of his glass. Glossy emerald eyes flicker over in time for you giggle. Your hand shoves at his arm. Electric. Your touch, your eyes. Everything about you.

So eager too. You just slipped off of his lap after another steamy makeout. Did you even remember his name? "You offerrin' me something, 'essio?" Seems you do. He quite likes it on your tongue.

His hand falls back to your thigh, just as greedy. A calloused thumb strokes along the fabric of your pants. If he could he'd dig in here and now. You'd love the feel of his silver rings clamped round your thighs as he split your pretty little hole open. "Maybe I am. It working?"

What a charmer. His words couple with a grin and a wink. Dangerous. That's the only way to describe. But like most forbidden things, the man donned in silver and black drips with allure.

You are no saint. Indulge, why don't you?

What else were you to do? Pass up on a guy who's so evidently packing something in his ripped black jeans? No way in hell. You snatched him up the second you could. A second make-out, then a third. All the way back to your apartment.

The door shut and the next second he shows you his strength. Wraps large hands round your thighs and hoists you up. Shoves you back into the wall just as his tongue does your mouth. Chills wash over you as a silver piercing graces your pink muscle so graciously. How friendly.

Alessio's far from a patient man. He'll tongue kiss you breathless all while stripping haphazardly at your clothes. Chuckle when you whine and buck at the hand that had just been pre-occupying itself with your pleasure. Another cute thing — your dick in his palm. Especially how it squirts and twitches all over.

"Pobrecito," his tongue clicks beside your ear. His hand returns to your hard cock and squeezes at the head once - twice - as he drops you down into your sheets. Handling you and your furniture as if he owned the damn place. "Too greedy for a man you just met? Or are ya just that pent up?"

The jerky motion of his palm is cruel. You hiccup and he makes sure to kiss on your adam's apple while you grind into the calloused feel. "Please," you quiver. "Please - please please."

Warmth withdraws, you nearly whine and reach for his hair to cling. "Oh baby I haven't even stretched you out yet." Spit streaks your hole, he's got good aim. You can't really appreciate it as his words run rampant through your mind.

Stretch you out? "I can take it - jus' need some lube. I'm not a virgin." So proudly you say it and yet - the shadow of emerald peering down at you renders you nearly timid. He chuckles, deep and dark as his thumb flicks across your tip.

"Aww that's cute."

His free hand circles fingers at your rim. The centre of his brows crease and knit upwards as he croons while you throb around his slowly inching fingers. "That so? Please." Another snicker. Cocky bastard. But maybe he's right, with the way two fingers stuff you up you're suddenly reconsidering what he might be hiding down there.

He'll stretch you out on his fingers more than once. It's slow for the first round. You wonder if that's what he prefers — but the second has you jerking, crying as he fucks his fingers in till the knuckle. So effortless too. Like he's done this multiple times before.

Seems like it. The way he croons and cooes at you tells you he's said these words before. The way he so expertly know where to curl his criminally long and thick fingers only motivates the fact. He'd get you off twice like that. Lean down and kiss your sticky tip so messily before he finally backs off.

What the fuck. Oh that's more than you could have ever imagined. His fat cockhead slaps back into him. Tall and proud with throbs at his tip to match. And that vein that pulses on the underside? You lick your lips to restrain the urge to swoop down and suckle on it. Not that he'd give you a chance with the snatch to your thighs that yanks you to the end of the bed, his cock rests atop your thigh. Fuck — it's heavy too.

He asks if you're ready. What a gentleman. As if he wasn't making you cream on his fingers just a second ago. Caresses your sides and positions. He even made sure to jerk you off a bit while he pushed in. Maybe he's addicted to your pleasure.

Pop! The tip alone has you straining. You squeeze out lube he drizzled all over combined with his saliva. What's Alessio doing? Grinning. As he splits you open on his cock and grips your waist when you try to squirm. Yanks you back down on his dick so that your ass is spread wide as he jams between your legs.

"This the same cock you said you could take hermoso?"

Skin slaps wet and rapid. Plap plap plap! His balls smack against your ass. Strong hands yank you down on every plough of his cock. You're drooling. Loopy. Head limped into the sheets and hands barely gripping anymore.

A mess of your cum stains your thighs and splatters your tummy. Runs down your poor abused ass to mix with Alessio's seed. He's pumped you full who-knows how many times.

And he's still going.

Your dick squirts more when he grabs it with his free hand that's not got your thigh hunched over his muscled shoulder in a tight slot. "Answer me pretty boy." Even his hiss drips with sex appeal.

You try to nod. Try to speak. How can you when he starts bullying a gummy spot so deep inside. Knocking so roughly. Sloshing up your heat with sprays of more cum. How isn't he stopping?

"C-Can - can take it - can take - hngh - 'e-essiiioooooo I can't takkeee iiitttt."

With a shaky hand you pathetically clamp on his bicep. You want him close. And he's so gracious for a man you just met. He drops his weight and squishes you in half. Pours kisses down your neck as he slams all the way. Throbs a few times. Then shallowly fucks you through another orgasm.

You search for his lips. Messy. Just like the kiss he wretches your jaw into. Oh how he suffocates you. How he pumps you full and has your smaller body creaming all over him.

"Tha's what I thought. Yeah. Fucking whore thought he could take me first try huh?" He keeps a grip tight around your jaw when he parts from your lips. Saliva is the only connecting. Strings of slick just like down below where your tight ass spurts messes of cum again and again.

"Right baby? You can take it. Not a virgin after all - fuckk - so take it!"

Another slam. Your body jerks on the bed. You tear nails down his back and sniffle out a sob as you spray his toned abdomen again. The knot in your tummy is tight. Legs tremble on his shoulders. "Please - pleasepleasee-ease-easseeee"

How pathetic. All Alessio can do is chuckle along the crook of your neck as he paints hickies in return of your cum that decorates him.

He thought you were cute at the party alone. But you're fucking adorable when you struggle to take his cock.

Despite the roughness he'll pepper soft kisses all over your face once it's over. Hoist you up into his big arms and carry you to the bathroom. How the hell isn't he spent? You can barely see straight!

You'd be in and out of consciousness but he'll make sure to clean you up. Get you nice and comfortable in your bed before slotting in beside you.

You're surprised to see he's still there in the morning. In your kitchen - making you food? "An apology for wrecking your ass." He jokes. You could get used to this. . . but it's just a one night stand, right? You're reminded of that once he's out the door.

Well. Until later that night when your phone pings. When did you give him your number??

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heavenbarnes · 1 year ago

Note

simon's fave past time is seeing you ride his abs and thighs ITS CANON

you can expand on it if you want

the concept of riding abs has me going fucking nutty, THANKS VERY MUCH 🫶🏼

when it comes to pleasure, to older bf!simon, it’s entirely about you. he lives to serve in every sense of the word.

serve his country, serve his task force- serve you.

to him, his very existence is an answer to you.

the question being, ‘what do you need?’

that is to say that there isn’t a part of him that we wouldn’t willingly give up to you, all you had to do was ask- really, you didn’t even have to say a word.

he was already offering himself up on a silver fucking platter.

so, for simon, there’s no place he’d rather be than under you. for him to lay back, look up at you and see you eclipsing his sun.

he likes the way the bedroom light illuminates behind you like a saint, staring down at him like he’s your worshipper (he is).

it’d been lazy, half pressed to his chest as your legs tangled with his- making out in your bed like you were back in school.

simon’s perfect day.

you’d felt it digging into your stomach, he’d been hard from the moment you’d touched lips. as was his standard, there wasn’t a lot you could do that wouldn’t get him rock solid.

tongue in his mouth, spit on your chin, your hand had been sandwiched between the two of you as you stroked it through his shorts.

maybe it was because he was about to blow a load in his undies.

maybe it was because he could feel you rutting into his thigh.

whatever it was, it had him dragging you up his body and situating you on his abs. pulling his hoodie out of the way, you could feel the firm lines of his stomach beneath you.

“g’head, use me sweet’art”

so that’s what you did.

bottoms discarded, shirt hiked up so simon could have one hand play with your chest while the other held your waist. hips desperately rolling against his abs.

every time he tensed them, stomach going rigid so you could rub yourself against him- your eyes rolled back in your head.

“look s’pretty up there, made f’me”

something about the way he felt under you, maybe even the way he was gazing up at you like you were made of stars. it had your mouth running off without your brain.

just straight from the heart.

“yours, si- all yours”

you felt his grip on you tighten, pulling you down harder onto him- practically dragging you against him to draw more of those heady moans out of you.

this was where he was meant to be.

under you, serving you, offering up every inch of himself to you. ask him? he was the happiest man alive.

didn’t matter that he’d already cum in his shorts.

didn’t matter that he was already chubbing right back up.

didn’t matter that he could go crazy feeling you rutting against his skin.

as long as you looked this happy? sounded this sweet? felt this fucking good?

“take whatever y’need”

#i blacked out and this happened #older bf!simon #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley blurb #simon ghost riley blurb #simon riley drabble #simon ghost riley drabble

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yuujispunches · 1 month ago

Text

Ink and permanence ~ C.K.

Pairing: tattoo artist! Choso Kamo x Reader

Summary: when you went to get your first tattooo you didn’t expect that the ink on your arm wouldn’t be the only permanent thing you would leave the studio with.

CW (content warning): modern! AU (no curses), tattoo artist!Choso, mentions of needles (tattoos), mentions of loss and tooth rotting fluff.

AN: English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this from my phone so I’m sorry if there’re any typos/mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

The soft chime of the studio doorbell almost made you turn around.

Your hand froze on the handle, breath hitching as the cool air from inside brushed against your cheeks. You were really doing this. After months of scrolling through references, bookmarking ideas, saving up every tip and leftover paycheck, you were about to get your first tattoo.

You stepped in cautiously, eyes sweeping the space like it might bite.

It didn’t.

Instead, you were met with warm lighting, mellow alt-rock humming from overhead speakers, and the rich, distinct scent of ink, disinfectant, and something faintly floral, maybe incense. The walls were covered in art: some traditional, some neo-Japanese, some experimental chaos that somehow worked. The floors were polished concrete, and plants hung lazily from the ceiling in mismatched pots. A huge, oil-rubbed copper sign near the back read KAMO INK in bold strokes.

“Hey there.” A blonde woman at the front desk greeted, popping up from behind a sleek monitor. “You’ve got that look. First timer?”

Your eyes widened, caught like a deer in headlights. “Is it that obvious?”

She grinned, pushing a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. “You’re holding your phone like a rosary and your design like it’s a secret love letter. I’m Yuki. You here for Choso?”

You nodded and quietly offered the folded sketch you had guarded all morning.

Kana took it gently, glancing it over. “Jasmine vine?”

“My mom’s favorite.” You said softly. “I drew it a few months ago. Kind of… memorial, I guess.”

She smiled with a softness that reached her eyes. “Beautiful. He’s almost ready. Want some water while you wait?”

You nodded again, retreating to a black leather couch with a water bottle and your nerves bundled under your hoodie. The studio buzzed quietly with the familiar hum of tattoo machines like bees in the walls. A sound both terrifying and hypnotic.

Just as you’d calmed your racing heart to a dull gallop, a voice broke through.

“You’re my jasmine girl?”

You looked up and froze.

Standing a few feet away, framed by the hallway’s soft light like some kind of ink-stained saint, was a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long, dark hair pulled into two buns that oddly worked on him, a few strands falling around his face that was adorned with a thick black line across the bridge of his nose. He wore a black sleeveless shirt that clung in just the right places and showcased arms carved with layer upon layer of tattoos, some sharp and geometric, others painterly and soft. His nose was pierced, a dark hoop in his septum. His lip as well. Even his ears bore delicate silver chains.

His eyes were what undid you. Deep, charcoal brown, and… still. Intense, but not threatening. Like he saw everything and reacted to nothing.

“Uh… yeah. That’s me.” You stood awkwardly, clutching your sketch like a talisman.

He stepped forward and took the page, scanning it with slow reverence.

“You drew this?”

You nodded, heat rushing to your ears.

“It’s really elegant.” He murmured. “Delicate, but confident line work. You ever tattoo?”

You blinked. “Me? Oh- no. God, no.”

He smiled, not big, but real. “Shame. You’ve got a good hand.”

You were too stunned to reply, so you followed silently as he gestured toward a backroom station. The walk felt longer than it was. You kept your eyes on the back of his neck, where a string of sakura petals trailed down the column of his spine, vanishing into his shirt.

“This okay?” He asked, pulling a curtain closed behind you.

You nodded, stepping into the small but organized space. Sterile tools neatly arranged. Warm lamp lighting. Another plant, this one hanging beside his seat.

“Go ahead and roll up your sleeve.” He said, already printing the stencil from a nearby tablet. “You wanted this on your forearm?”

“Yeah.” You said. “So I can see it.”

“Good spot.” He murmured. “Visible. Personal. And it’ll heal easy.”

You sat down and laid your arm on the padded rest, trying not to flinch as he cleaned the skin with practiced hands.

“You okay?”

You nodded, eyes locked on the floor. “Just nervous.”

He glanced up, and his voice softened. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did. Slowly.

“You’re allowed to be nervous.” He said gently. “First tattoos are a big deal. But I’ll take care of you, alright?”

Something in you uncoiled. Maybe it was the steadiness in his voice. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were already safe.

“Okay.” You whispered.

He worked efficiently. The stencil felt cold against your skin, but his hands were warm, firm. He angled the mirror for you once he pressed it on.

“What do you think?”

You stared. The jasmine curved gracefully from your wrist to the bend of your elbow, just like you’d envisioned.

“It’s… perfect.” You murmured. “Better than perfect.”

He gave a small nod. “Give it a minute to set. Then we’ll start.”

You watched as he moved through his setup. Gloves, inks, needles, barriers. Everything methodical. Ritualistic. It was clear he cared. Not just about the art, but the process.

The buzzing started. Your heart jumped.

Choso looked up, eyes meeting yours again. “You ready?”

You took a breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

He started at your wrist, wiping the skin one last time before the needle met flesh.

The sting was sharp. Immediate. But bearable. Like a thousand tiny paper cuts overlapping, but rhythmic.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively curled your fingers. His hand was there, grounding.

“You’re doing great.” He reassured. “Just breathe.”

You nodded, trying to focus on the hum of the machine and not the fire beneath your skin.

“Tell me about her.” He said.

Your eyes fluttered open. “Who?”

“Your mom.” He said. “Only if you want to of course.” His voice and eyes were so soft as he observed you that you found yourself nodding slowly.

You swallowed. “She… loved gardening. Jasmine especially. Said the smell reminded her of summers in Kyoto.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Kyoto?”

“Her family was from there.” You explained. “She used to tell me stories about temple gardens and rivers that sang.”

“That’s beautiful.”

You looked away, blinking. “I used to think tattoos were scary. Like… you had to be tough. But now I think it’s the soft things that deserve permanence the most.”

Choso paused. Not in the tattoo, his hand stayed steady, but in his breath.

“That… ”He said after a moment, almost still breathless “might be the best thing I’ve ever heard in this chair.”

You smiled. Just a little. But it stayed.

The hours passed in a blur of ink, warmth, and quiet conversations.

He told you about growing up with a dozen siblings, about painting graffiti before he found tattooing, about how he brewed his own herbal teas because the store-bought stuff tasted like sadness.

In turn, you told him about your art, your cat, the way you always started books and never finished them. He teased you gently for that, but his voice never lost its softness.

“Still with me?” He asked as he reached the final leaves.

“Mhm” you hummed in response, watching the curve of his wrist.

He finished with delicate shading, wiping the area gently.

“That’s it.” He said after a few more minutes. “You made it.”

You looked down, breath catching. It was stunning.

The jasmine vine looked alive, flowing, whispering, held in soft greys and gentle lines. A small detail he’d added: one lone flower near your wrist, full bloom.

“For her.” He said, tapping it gently. “That one’s the heart of the vine.”

You blinked, suddenly overwhelmed.

“Choso…” you whispered.

He looked up, and something tender flickered in his eyes as he smiles at you.

He cleaned and wrapped the area, talking you through aftercare like a practiced lullaby. You tried to focus, but your chest was tight in a way that wasn’t nerves anymore.

He handed you his card before you left. Not just the studio one but his.

“For touch-ups. Or if you wanna talk through another piece. Or, you know… coffee.”

You looked up. “Coffee?”

He shrugged. “Or tea. Or books you won’t finish. Or anything.”

You stared at the name on the card, fingers brushing the edge.

“You ask all your clients out?”

He smirked, just barely. “Only the ones who stare at me like I’m about to eat their soul and still call my work perfect.”

You laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days.

“Well…” You said, tucking the card in your sleeve. “I guess I’ll owe you coffee then.”

His smile was slow, but bright. “I’ll hold you to it.”

You walked out of the studio with a bandaged arm, a swelling heart, and something lighter in your chest than you’d felt in months.

Ink beneath your skin. His number in your hand.

Maybe softness wasn’t meant to be hidden. Maybe it was meant to be permanent.

——————————————————————————

The card sat on your nightstand for three days before you texted him.

Not because you didn’t want to. You did, so much it made your chest ache. But every time you picked up your phone, your fingers hovered over the screen like you needed permission. You kept wondering if the warmth he gave you was real, or just another fleeting moment you'd rewrite into something bigger.

Eventually, the ache to see him again outweighed the fear.

Hi. This is your jasmine girl. Still owe you coffee. :)

His reply came faster than you expected.

I was starting to think you ghosted me. You free Friday? There’s a place I like. Quiet. Good tea.

You stared at the screen, heart thumping loud in your ears.

Friday sounds perfect.

——————————————————————————

The café was tucked between a dusty old bookstore and a florist that smelled like lilies and clove.

Warm wood and brick lined the inside walls. The music was soft, barely there, an acoustic cover of a song you couldn’t place. Someone was knitting in the corner. The barista had silver ink up their neck. It was a space made for softness and staying.

Choso was already there.

He stood when he saw you, rising from a window seat with a half-finished mug in his hand. He wore a loose charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed past his elbows, revealing the inked patterns running down his arms fluid, bold, meticulous. His hair was down today, draped over his shoulders, framing his face in a way that made your breath stick for a second.

“You came.” He said, his voice quieter than you remembered. Almost cautious.

You smiled as you slid into the seat across from him. “I said I owed you coffee.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile bigger but wasn’t sure if he should.

“You still do.” He said, and gestured toward the counter. “Go ahead, I’ll keep the seat warm.”

You returned a few minutes later with a lavender chai, extra honey, and tucked yourself into the opposite cushion. He watched you for a beat.

“What?” You asked, already blushing.

“You suit this place.” He said.

You blinked. “How?”

He shrugged. “Gentle. But you notice everything.”

The heat in your cheeks didn’t fade. It bloomed.

Conversation flowed more easily than you expected. He asked about your job, your art, your favorite time of day. You told him you liked the hour just before dusk, when everything was soft and fading but not quite gone.

He told you his was just before dawn.

“I like the quiet.” He said. “The way the light crawls back in slow. Like the world’s deciding if it wants to wake up.”

You sipped your drink. “You’re more poetic than I expected.”

He gave you a look. “What did you expect?”

You grinned. “More brooding. Less… tea metaphors.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You think I’m brooding?”

You tilted your head. “You have a ring in your lip and an entire graveyard tattooed on your forearm.”

“It’s a tribute to my brother.” He said quietly.

Immediately, your smile dropped. “Shit- I didn’t mean- ”

Choso raised a hand gently. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

You hesitated. “What happened?”

His eyes drifted to the window for a moment. “Car crash. Few years ago.”

You waited.

“He was loud. Way louder than me. Used to rap into his cereal spoon and try to convince me to join his imaginary band.”

A small laugh escaped you. “What was the band called?”

“Concrete Lotus.” Choso deadpanned.

You laughed. “That’s… actually not terrible.”

He cracked a faint smile. “He’d be thrilled to hear that.”

You held his gaze for a long moment. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thanks for asking.”

——————————————————————————

When the sky outside had darkened into navy and the lights in the café had grown dimmer, you lingered at the door with him.

“So…” You said.

“So…” He echoed, stepping closer.

You looked up at him, unsure if the pounding in your chest was nerves or the weight of wanting something.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked.

Your breath caught and stayed frozen for a moment. You nodded, too stunned and nervous to trust your voice now.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t tentative. His lips met yours like he’d been waiting, not just today, but longer. Like something inside him had been reaching out for someone else’s softness and found it.

Your hand curled into the front of his sweater without thinking. His fingers brushed your jaw, then the side of your neck, and for a second, the world stilled.

He pulled back slowly, forehead resting against yours.

“You taste like honey.” He murmured.

“You taste like trouble.” You whispered back.

His laugh rumbled in his chest. “Maybe. But the good kind.”

——————————————————————————

Things unfolded slowly after that.

You started texting every day. Then voice notes. Then late-night calls when neither of you could sleep. He sent you photos of work in progress, close-ups of inked skin and faded sketches and you sent him your latest pencil drawings and in-progress watercolors.

By the second week, you knew the names of all seven of his plants and most of his siblings. By the third, he knew the name of the perfume you wore and which tea you liked best depending on the weather.

He took you to ramen spots, bookstores, record shops. You took him to quiet parks, art galleries, street fairs. He never rushed you. Never crossed a line. But his touch always lingered, fingertips against your wrist, palm on the small of your back, a kiss pressed to your temple when he dropped you off.

And when you finally visited his apartment?

It surprised you.

Minimalist. Neat. Lots of art. A couch you could melt into. A cat named Peaches who didn’t like anyone but instantly curled into your lap. You stayed on that couch for hours. Talking, sketching, legs tangled together like it had always been that way.

——————————————————————————

“I want another tattoo.” You said one evening, curled under one of his throw blankets, your head on his shoulder.

Choso turned slightly. “Already?”

You looked up at him. “Too soon?”

“No.” He said. “Just… didn’t expect it.”

You reached into your bag and pulled out a small folded sketch. It was more abstract this time, your own design. Delicate curves, this time it was a shark, interwoven with stars and linework shaped like heartbeat waves.

He stared at it in silence.

“This one’s about healing.” You said quietly. “For what comes after.”

Choso’s hand brushed your thigh. “You want me to do it?”

You nodded.

He looked at you for a long moment. “I’d be honored.”

——————————————————————————

The second session was different.

You weren’t nervous. No hoodie wrapped around your body like armor. Just a simple cotton shirt, your hair pulled back, and a small smile on your face as you walked into the same studio room where you first met.

Choso prepped like always. Gloves, sterilization, careful precision. But now his touches lingered. His fingers brushed your shoulder before he applied the stencil, and when he asked if you were ready, he leaned down and kissed your temple first.

The tattoo was quiet. Not in sound, but in feeling.

You sat with your eyes closed as he worked, and for a long stretch, neither of you spoke. Just the hum of the machine and the warmth of his presence.

When he finished, he wrapped your arm, then bent to press a kiss to your bandage.

“What’s this one mean?” He asked.

You met his eyes.

“That I’m not afraid anymore.”

His hands settled on your waist, his lips on your jaw.

He held you for a long time that night.

——————————————————————————

Months passed.

You watched spring bloom, then shift into the wet heat of early summer. You fell asleep in his bed, woke up to his raspy voice saying your name like it was a prayer. You met his friends. Loud, chaotic, messy, beautiful people who all hugged like they hadn’t seen you in years.

You introduced him to your sketchbook. Let him see pages no one else had seen. Designs unfinished. Feelings unfiltered. He looked at them like they were a gallery.

He asked you one night, while you were sketching on his couch. “Ever thought about apprenticing?”

You looked up. “What?”

“With me.” He said. “Tattooing.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

You shook your head, heart fluttering. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

He didn’t push. Just smiled. “When you are, I’ll teach you.”

——————————————————————————

That summer, he gave you your third tattoo.

A tiny one. Hidden behind your ear. A single heart, no bigger than a grain of rice.

“Protection.” He said, pressing his lips there afterward. “For all the parts of you you’re still finding.”

You kissed him slow that night, hands in his hair, your fingers tracing the tattoos on his back like Braille. Like stories.

——————————————————————————You knew something was different when Choso cleaned his apartment three times in one morning.

It started with him vacuuming the entire place twice while you sipped your tea from his kitchen counter, watching the usually-unbothered tattoo artist mutter about “streaks on the glass” and “cat hair in the couch seams.” Peaches watched him with disdain from her perch by the window, tail twitching like even she thought he was being dramatic.

“Everything okay?” You asked finally, when he scrubbed the coffee table for the third time.

Choso didn’t look at you at first. Just wiped harder.

“Choso.”

He exhaled through his nose and straightened up, cloth in hand. “Yuji’s coming over.”

You blinked. “Yuji?”

“My little brother.”

Your heart skipped. “You never said I’d be meeting him today.”

“I didn’t know until last night.” He admitted. “He’s usually busy with school. And sports. And saving stray dogs. He’s basically a golden retriever in human form.”

You smiled. “Sounds adorable.”

“He is. He’s also…” Choso hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the cloth. “Important to me.”

You softened. “I know.”

“I just don’t- ” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not easy bringing people into that part of my life.”

You crossed the room, wrapped your arms around his waist, and leaned into his chest.

“I’m honored.” You said into the cotton of his T-shirt. “And nervous. But mostly honored.” That earned you a soft chuckle from your boyfriend.

His arms came around you slowly, like he needed to be sure this was real. “You don’t have to say anything special. Just be yourself.”

You tilted your head. “What if myself is awkward and says something like ‘sports are neat’?”

Choso smiled against your hair. “Then Yuji will probably ask you to come to his next game.”

You pulled back, searching his face. “Are you sure you want me to meet him?”

He nodded. And in that simple movement, you felt something deeper, something heavier, settle between you. He wasn’t just introducing you to his brother.

He was letting you into the last piece of his heart.

——————————————————————————

Yuji arrived an hour later, knocking twice before opening the door with a grin that could’ve powered a small city.

“Yo!” He called, stepping inside in a hoodie three sizes too big and a skateboard tucked under one arm. His hair was bubblegum pink today, wild and soft, and his sneakers squeaked against the floor as he kicked them off.

Then he saw you and his grin widened.

“Hi!” He greeted enthusiastically, walking straight over and offering a hand. “You must be the jasmine girl!”

Your eyes widened. “You know about that?”

“Choso didn’t shut up about you for two weeks.” Yuji said cheerfully. “It was kind of adorable.”

You glanced at Choso, who was now silently contemplating his life choices by the kitchen counter.

“I’m Yuji.” He said. “Obviously. And you are way cuter than the doodles Choso keeps in his sketchbook.”

“Yuji.” Choso growled.

You blushed. “He has doodles of me?”

Yuji looked proud. “Like, a hundred.”

You turned to Choso, who looked like he was about to evaporate.

“They’re just... studies.” he mumbled avoiding your gaze as a rosy dust started to form under the ink on his face.

You stepped closer, rising on your toes to kiss his cheek. “I want to see them later.”

Yuji let out a victorious whoop.

“Damn!” He said, flopping onto the couch. “No wonder he’s been in a good mood lately.”

——————————————————————————

The afternoon passed in laughter.

Yuji was everything Choso had said and more. Bright, open-hearted, funny without trying. He talked about his classes, his friends, his terrible cooking attempts. You found yourself easing into the conversation faster than you expected.

At one point, you and Yuji were talking about your favorite animated movies when you felt Choso’s arm slide around your waist, his fingers slipping into the space between your ribs and hip like they belonged there.

You glanced at him. He didn’t say anything, just watched you and Yuji with a look so soft, so full of quiet awe, that your heart twisted.

Later, while Yuji played with Peaches on the rug, you found yourself alone with Choso in the kitchen.

He was stirring a pot of soup, something simple and warm but his eyes kept drifting to the living room.

“You okay?” You asked, leaning beside him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You look like you’re thinking.”

He was quiet for a long beat. “I never thought I’d have this.”

You turned toward him. “Have what?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. “Something stable. Safe. Family that doesn’t feel… broken.”

Your heart clenched. You reached for his hand, fingers threading through his.

“You do.” You whispered. “You have it now.”

He looked down at your joined hands. “I know.”

Then he lifted them, kissed the back of your knuckles, and held them against his cheek.

“I’m glad it’s you.” He said. “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to bring home.”

——————————————————————————

Yuji left just after sunset, giving you a long hug and promising to send you the “worst memes in existence” as a thank-you for being cool.

“Take care of him.” He said quietly, when Choso stepped away to grab his jacket.

You blinked. “I’m trying.”

Yuji smiled, softer this time. “He doesn’t let people in easy. But he’s all heart. All the way down.”

You nodded. “I know.” And you did.

——————————————————————————

That night, after the dishes were done and the city lights flickered outside the windows, you curled into Choso’s lap on the couch. You were quiet for a long time, your head against his shoulder, your fingers tracing the tattoos on his arm without really thinking.

“Thank you.” He said.

You looked up. “For what?”

“For not running.” He said simply.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I know.” He kissed the top of your head. “Still. Thank you.”

You shifted slightly, enough to look up into his eyes. They were dark, soft, unguarded.

“I love you.” You whispered.

It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t a dramatic build-up. It just… came. Quiet and real, like everything between you always had.

Choso didn’t answer right away. Instead, he touched your face, his thumb brushing your cheek like it was the most important moment of his life.

“I love you too.” He said finally. “I think I’ve known since I saw the jasmine sketch.” You leaned into his palm. His voice was hoarse. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel that again.”

You kissed him like a promise. Like home.

You spent that night tangled together under the blankets, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, his breath warm against your forehead. Outside, the city moved, the wind whispered, the stars blinked quietly behind clouds.

But inside, everything was still. Safe.

Yours.

——————————————————————————

Weeks later, you were curled on the tattoo studio couch during Choso’s break, sketching flowers in a new notebook.

He looked up from the front desk and smiled. “What are you working on?”

“Designs.” You said, showing him the pages. “For practice.”

He crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed your forehead. “You’re going to be brilliant.” He said.

You smiled. “Only because I have the best teacher.”

He traced a jasmine bloom on your sketchpad. “And I have the best muse.”

Tags: @hawkwithsocks @noooo-onee @pickledsoda @suna-yoshihara

Taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

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aeristudios · 2 months ago

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see you, space cowboy (epilogue)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It's been almost a year since everything has happened, and you're ready to come home—to the man who never stopped waiting. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bounty hunter!Wonwoo x bounty hunter!reader, brief mentions of other members (Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Mingyu and Seungcheol) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, sc-fi, smut, fluff, lovers to enemies to ???, cowboy bebop elements, space au, established relationship, neo-noir, dystopian-ish if you squint .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: PLEASE READ ALL THE WARNINGS! heavy angst, very strong language, mentions of murder/attempted murder, gun violence, morally grey characters, grief, guilt/self blame, kissing, very messy oral (f. receiving), nipple play, fingering, nail digging, unprotected sex, missionary, creampie, and still lots and lots of yearning .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.2K .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐀𝐍: Reader's nickname is Silver and the reason for the nickname is explained in the main story attached to this: See You, Space Cowboy. I highly encourage you to read that story first because this epilogue will make more sense. I wasn't planning on writing another part to this, but you guys really loved the story and wanted to know what was going to happen to them after this. Tbh, so did I. I loved writing these two and I shed a lot of tears writing their story. Ugh I hope this love finds me one day lol. Thank you to @lovetaroandtaemin & @wooahaeproductions for looking at this with me and thank you again @hobeemin for the banner 🖤

main story visual concept #1 visual concept #2 playlist

The sand here is warmer than you remember.

It almost feels like silk, running your fingers over the tiny grains that sparkle like gold in the sunlight. The forever tropical breeze sways your hair off your shoulders, your silver hair shining like a beacon in the sun. The waters crash against the rocks, revealing the hidden coral, and you stand there in awe.

The Sanctuary— your safe place, your peace.

It’s been almost a year since you took out Aeron and showed the galaxy what a murderer he was, clearing your name with all the evidence you gathered with the help of Selene. There was no trial; his death was written up as self-defense, and no one was going to question more than they needed to. Wonwoo was placed as the interim head of The Organization and had to learn quickly how to take over the ropes and be the Boss. You stayed at a hideaway spot on a neighboring planet, with nothing but oceans for miles and a small island with a house and everything you needed. Jeonghan and Sohee visited often and kept you company, while Mingyu and Soonyoung came to drop off supplies at Wonwoo's request, keeping you alive during your self-isolation.

The thing is, you could have come back as soon as your name was cleared, resumed your bounty hunter status, and gone back to the life you had before. Wonwoo begged for you to come back, to be with him, and as much as your heart yearned and your body ached for him, you weren’t ready. You were a debilitating mess, and you needed to heal, and bless Wonwoo for wanting to see you through that, but you needed to be alone. You needed to properly mourn and grieve.

God, Wonwoo is a saint. You’ve put him through so much, and you’re still the sun that rises for him. He sent you updates without you asking, and sometimes you replied, sometimes you were so deep in your pain that you would shut off your phone for days and pretend nothing existed. You’re a shitty fiance; you know that, and you firmly believe that he deserves better than what you have been giving him.

So why are you here?

Simply put, you miss him.

Your time apart from him has been agonizing, eating you alive every day. You needed time to heal, but you are ready to come back into the fold. To come back home, which has always been with him. You’ve thought about it a lot; all you could dream about was him. The time you shared your first kiss, when he told you he loved you for the first time, when he asked you to marry him, etc. Your thoughts were loud even when it was quiet, and you knew it was time to quit wallowing in your self-pity and to be the partner Wonwoo deserved.

You sent him the message yesterday. Just two words.

“Tomorrow. Sanctuary.”

He didn’t respond, but you know that he’ll come. Wonwoo has never let you down; you’re the fuck up in this relationship, after all.

So here you are, standing on this beach with the sand between your feet, your stomach in knots as you wait with bated breath to see your beautiful man. You close your eyes, letting the wind grace your cheeks as you try to drown out the voices of doubt in your head, and just for a moment, just breathe.

But then you hear the sound of boots crushing the sand, and your heart starts to pound in your chest, threatening to break free. You slowly turn and look at him, the wind picking up as you are finally face to face with the love of your life. His hair is a little longer now, barely touching the back of his neck, and he almost seems taller? Maybe you’ve been apart too long, and it’s fucking with your psyche. You don’t know.

But one thing remains the same: his eyes. They are deep and soft when he looks at you. You still see home, your saving grace.

“Hey there, space cowboy.”

Wonwoo chuckles at his nickname, raking his fingers through his hair. The sun shines on him in the right way, and there isn’t a lens in the world that could do him justice.

“Hey, my pretty girl,” he says, pulling you closer to him. You breathe in his familiar cologne, trying to keep the tears behind your eyes at bay, but you’re struggling. You love him so much; he is your lifeline. You hope that you will always find each other in the next life.

“I’m surprised you came.” You say, your voice is trembling. “I thought you’d be sick of my shit by now.”

“There you go, still not trusting me,” he tsks.

“Oh, stop, you know it’s not that—”

“No, it’s literally that,” Wonwoo interrupts. “How many times do I have to tell you—or better yet, show you—that I’m not going anywhere? I would do anything for you, baby. You ask me to leap, and I will. You ask me to shoot, and I’ll pull the trigger, no questions asked. I love you. “

His eyes peer into yours, penetrating your soul and leaving you vulnerable. There’s always been talk about how you're the sun that rises and sets for Wonwoo… but he is your twin moons, his soft light guiding you through your darkness. He’s your anchor, your rock, your peace. You were made for each other, and it’s never been clearer.

“I left you,” you say tearfully. “You needed me, too, and I stayed gone. It’s okay to be mad at me. Scream at me! Do something!”

“Silver,” the sound of your name makes your heart flutter. “You were never really gone.”

He points at your engagement ring, sparkling in all of its glory. You knew he always looked out for you, even when you couldn’t do it yourself.

“God, you are such a romantic,” you scoff, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Only for you, baby..”

You shake your head, looking across the horizon as the sun begins to set, the sun turning into a stunning display of red and orange hues. You think about everything that has happened to get you where you are now, and even though your name is clear, how can you return to the way things were?

“So, what’s going to happen when we go back?” You decide to rip off the band-aid.

Wonwoo kicks the sand around, and you see he is choosing his words before responding.

“I stepped down.”

You look at him, your mouth open in shock as disbelief runs through you. “Y-you stepped down? Is it because of me?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think,” he says, gauging your expression. “I don’t want to be the head of The Organization. That’s what Aeron wanted, that’s what he trained me for. I love the missions and all that, but being the head meant longer hours, less missions, and not being home with you. I would hate that, and I already fucking resent it.”

You study him, unsure about how you feel about this. “Are you sure? Don’t feel like you need to baby me, Wonwoo. I can take care of myself.”

“Silver, stop.” His voice is firm but gentle, keeping you in check. “I know you are capable of handling things on your own. But my point is that we would not have the life we have always discussed if I took over. I’m still on the board and made sure you are on it too. So we still get a say in major decisions. “

“Okay,” you think it over. “So, who is taking over?”

“I nominated Choi Seungcheol to take over. He’s capable and has the mindset to lead.” Wonwoo pauses, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I just want my job and you. Everything will be fine.”

You know of Seungcheol, and though you weren’t friends, you have to admit he is a good bounty hunter. He’s number three behind you and Wonwoo, and the few times you had to do jobs with him, you knew he had your back. Maybe the future isn’t so bleak after all.

“So what I am hearing is, you still want to marry me?” You tease him.

Wonwoo’s expression softens as he pulls you closer, your lips barely brushing against his.

“Of course. I’m going to love you for the rest of my life and the next one after.”

“Wonwoo, just kiss me already.”

His lips crash against yours, his arms wrapped around your waist as your legs buckle at his embrace. His lips taste familiar, like the peace of home you have been missing for almost a year. You are done with the self-deprivation— you want him. Need him. And judging by the way he grabs your ass, he feels the same way.

“I need you,” you whisper against his lips.

“I know, baby, “ he says in between kisses. “I booked our favorite room on the way here.”

Biting your lip, you let him lead you across the beach towards one of the many rooms in the Sanctuary, taking out the key card and tapping it on the reader. He opens the door to a spacious room with a soft king-size bed, expansive windows, and an open sliding door, inviting the ocean air in. You barely enter before your lips find his again, tearing off his shirt and throwing it across the room. You feel him smirk against your lips, unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down your legs. Your desire for him is carnal, haunting even, and you need him inside of you now.

“Fuck me, please,” you beg, undoing his belt. “It’s been so long.”

“Aren’t we needy today?” he teases you.

“I’m needy all the time.”

“Touche.”

He takes off his pants, revealing his stiff cock, and it makes you salivate. In your time apart, you’ve touched yourself to that night in the shower over and over, reminiscing the time he tasted and fucked you like it was the last time you would have that again. Now, you will have many more to come.

You let him slowly take off your panties, spreading your legs wide as he looks at the sweet nectar between your legs. He licks his lips, grabbing you by your hips and pulling you closer to his face. He takes one long lick in between your folds, his tongue playfully brushing against your clit.

“Please,” you breathe. “Wonwoo, please.”

He obliges, eating you like a man with a purpose, to satisfy you. He nips at your thighs just the way you like it, spitting on your clit and sucking you all the same. He is dirty, filthy, sliding his fingers inside you and out of you, and tasting each time. Your eyelids are heavy, and you are on a high, watching Wonwoo get pussy drunk off you, and it’s taking everything in you to not cum in his mouth.

“You feel so good,” you cry out. “I missed you.”

He hums in agreement, the vibrations from his mouth sending jolts throughout your legs. You take off your shirt, your fingers brushing against your nipples, pinching your hardening mounds. With one last lick, Wonwoo stands up, his face wet with your arousal dripping off his chin as he hovers over you. You lift up to meet his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue and understanding his addiction. Your legs wrap around him as he enters you with one smooth, slow thrust.

“Fuck,” you cry out, feeling relief and instant gratification.

“I know, baby, I know.”

He moves slowly at first, deep and intentional, like every motion is an act of forgiveness. Your fingers are in his hair. You look into his eyes and nod, giving him the okay to take you however he wants.

He does that. His pace starts to build, rocking the bed against the wall as he fucks you harder, spilling your name from his pretty mouth. Your nails dig into his back, begging for more as the sound of slapping skin and moans fills up the room, not caring who hears you outside. You’ve never felt more alive, watching his cock slide in and out of you with such earnest, begging for your sugarness to cover him once again.

“Wonwoo, I—”

“Go ahead. Give it to me.”

Your back arches as you see those familiar white stars, sending you over the edge as your release feels like a resurrection. Your legs shake; you're breathless, sweaty and fucked out. He follows shortly after, spilling inside of you, his body trembling against yours.

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. You stay wrapped around him, basking in the heat, sweat, and salt of everything you thought you’d lost. Your heart beats against his, a kindred soul in all this, confirming that you have your person and will never let him go.

“I love you, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He lifts up slowly, smiling softly as he kisses you sweetly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I love you more, Silver. I always have, and I always will.”

You smile softly, returning his affection as you continue to make up for lost time, taking advantage of your new lease on your lives. At the end of the day, it will always be you and him.

The Sanctuary, that is you and him—still standing.

And outside, the sea keeps living.

Just like you.

thank you for reading!! I can't believe we are done...

or are we? if you are interested in any spinoffs from some of the other characters in the story, comment, reblog or send an ask <3

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months ago

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The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 2: To Judge The Living And The Dead]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

Here is the story of Saint Agatha of Sicily.

Born in the time of the Roman Empire, when Christians were still being burned alive and fed to lions in the Colosseum, Agatha rejected the suitors she attracted as a beautiful daughter of a wealthy family. Instead, she pledged herself to Christ: a life of simplicity and service, a vow of chastity. No man could sway Agatha from her chosen path, not even the Roman governor Quintianus, who aspired to take the fifteen-year-old maiden as his wife. So Quintianus endeavored to change her mind.

First, Quintianus threatened Agatha with torture and death. When that proved ineffective, he had her put to work in a brothel. Yet after a full month of violations, Agatha was no closer to surrendering; on the contrary, her faith only seemed to grow stronger. She prayed to the Lord for courage; she proclaimed that to be His servant was the greatest possible freedom.

Quintianus was running out of ideas. He imprisoned Agatha and ordered his torturers to devise new and terrifying forms of punishment. Bloody and mutilated, Agatha was thrown back into her cell without food or medical attention, but the Lord did not abandon her: Saint Peter, Christ’s apostle and the first pope of the Church, appeared to comfort Agatha and miraculously healed her wounds.

Four days later when the torture resumed, Agatha knew that her short time on earth was ending. She prayed aloud: Lord, my Creator, you have always protected me from the cradle. You have taken me from the love of the world and given me patience to suffer. Now receive my soul. She died in prison in the year 251.

Long venerated as a martyr and a saint in her native Sicily, Agatha was officially canonized by Pope Gregory I in the 590s. Her feast day is celebrated on February 5th. She is invoked against a myriad of horrors; among them are volcanic eruptions.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But you don’t really believe that, do you?” he says on the beach at dusk. Your parents keep telling you it’s time to go back to the hotel, and you ask for five more minutes which turn into ten which turn into twenty. You are showing Aemond your rosary, red glass beads, a sterling silver chain; he is sitting behind you, his arms reaching around so he can study the artefact with his own fingertips, his chin resting on your shoulder. When the wind blows, his blonde hair tickles your cheek and your throat; when you shiver because the sun is vanishing, he pulls you in closer. “That there was some magical guy who could heal people and walk on water and then came back from the dead? I mean, Mother’s a Catholic, and she’s always trying to get us to ride the ferry over to Rhodes for Sunday Mass. But even when I go, I can’t take it seriously.”

“I guess I don’t care if it’s true,” you decide. “I just like how it makes me feel. I like being protected, I like how simple everything is. Be kind, be humble, help others, that’s it. And I think all the different saints are neat. There’s always someone to pray to, no matter what problem I have.”

Aemond snorts. “They only added them to get the pagans to convert.”

“What are pagans?”

“People who worshipped trees and rocks and stuff. Like the Vikings.”

He thinks I’m stupid, you think, and you’re already sensitive about this; Aemond is older, taller, more clever, more sophisticated, more strong. You don’t want him to think you’re some naïve kid who does whatever your parents tell you to. You really don’t; they find your conviction just as baffling, far beyond their middle-class, tangentially-Catholic expectations: a weekly appearance at Mass with a frilly dress and tidy hair, Mum having a yarn with the neighborhood wives afterwards, sometimes Sunday roast, back to real life by bedtime.

“But, you know, maybe you’re onto something,” Aemond says, backtracking. “If it makes you happy, that’s what matters. Maybe I’ll give it another shot. Next time Mother drags me to Rhodes I’ll try to listen a little bit instead of reading a Stephen King novel the whole time.”

“Do you think I’m a drongo?” you ask timidly.

He laughs. “A what?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, I don’t,” Aemond promises. “I think you care about something. And that takes courage.”

He’s still inspecting your rosary, running the smooth red beads through his fingers. “Do you want it? I’m getting a new one for Christmas. I already found it in my parents’ closet.”

“Sure,” he says, perhaps just to be polite. But when he takes the rosary in his own hands, he’s smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We should have a pond like this at home,” Rhaena says as she helps you cast palmfuls of pellets that smell like the ocean—fish and brine shrimp and spirulina—into clear rippling water. Because the temperature is around 12 degrees Celsius, the koi are only somewhat active, skimming around the algae-covered stones at the bottom and nibbling halfheartedly at the food pellets.

Home. Here is what she means: a convent on the quiet northside of Sydney, Mass each morning, prayers before bed each night, sprawling fruit and vegetable gardens, a colony of stray cats you’ve adopted, offices where you take prayer requests and calls from desperate people in need of help, a shelter the sisters operate for survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking, cooking meals together, singing songs, lighting candles, playing games, watching rugby and cricket on a massive tube tv from the 90s, book clubs, knitting circles, hosting visitors from other convents, always decorating for the next holiday. This is why you became a nun. As a child, you were never as close with your sisters as you wanted to be—your interests were too divergent, your temperaments mismatched—and then as they dissolved away into their boyfriends and their unis, you felt like the house was suddenly so empty. But to be a nun is to have a perpetual sisterhood, and they love the Faith as much as you do.

You tell Rhaena: “Let’s talk to Mother Maureen about a koi pond. Maybe we can get funds and pay our guests in the shelter to help us build it.”

“Just like we did with the gardens.”

“Righto.”

“I’m kind of obsessed with these habits, too,” Rhaena says, spinning around in her loose white wool. The Sisters of Charity of Australia have been wearing modest yet casual clothes since the 1980s. You each have a white habit or two stowed away for formal occasions...but here in the Vatican, expectations are very traditional.

You chuckle and shake your head. “Yeah nah, I’m not helping you with that. I miss my Levi’s.” You point at the koi pond. “Check the corners, make sure I haven’t killed another one.”

Rhaena darts around the perimeter, peeking through bushes of red chrysanthemums. “I’ve been praying all morning. I’m so worried about Sister Augustina.”

“Why? She’s the person who needs your prayers the least. She’s with our Lord and Savior. She is at peace, she is home.”

Rhaena looks at you grimly. “Is she?”

You burst out laughing. “It takes more than getting a bit aggro to be damned to Hell.” You don’t believe Hell exists at all, but you keep this to yourself. Rhaena is rather dogmatic. Nonetheless she smiles to herself, reassured.

You glance around the Vatican Gardens, knowing exactly who you’re looking for; but you don’t see Aemond. There are other cardinals walking the tuff pebble pathways, red planets revolving around the ancient gravity of this place—first Neolithic settlements ten thousand years ago, then kings and a republic and back to kings again, and finally the Church rose up from the ashes of the empire to grow like dauntless ivy into the hearts of over one billion souls—some contemplative and alone, others entangled in weighty discussions. Cardinal Seaborn is rushing around frenetically, his scarlet cassock blowing in the wind. Cardinal Bogdi Marcu, he of the prehistoric age himself, is clinging to Sister Nuru’s arm as she patiently accompanies him through the gardens.

You spot Lucky talking to Cardinal Gideon Saati of South Sudan, a large but soft-spoken man who is ideologically moderate and therefore a possible consensus candidate if neither the conservatives or liberals can win the vote; and this makes him dangerous to Aemond. Cardinal Saati is nodding and dabbing at his eyes with a white handkerchief, Lucky has a hand resting gently on his shoulder. They are rarities here, and they understand each other. They both know the pain of having a homeland that is no longer a country: no functioning government, no reliable infrastructure, inescapable violence, war zones where faith feels so powerless.

Rhaena says: “Do you think we’ll be back home by Christmas?”

“Oh, sure thing. No conclave in the past two hundred years has taken more than a few days.”

“Beautiful. We can’t miss the singing and presents. I know how much you love Christmas music.”

“One conclave in the 1830s took a month and a half.”

“Nah, yeah?!”

“Deadset, mate.”

“Wow.” Rhaena blinks. “I wouldn’t trust this lot to not resort to bloodshed by then.”

Now you see them strolling towards the koi pond, disrupting sand-colored tuff pebbles with each step: Aemond, Lando, and Kazi, who is puffing on a square-shaped vape, white and red, the colors of the Polish flag. You realize that you’re smiling as Aemond approaches, then force yourself not to. You’re supposed to be somber; you’re supposed to be sad. Still, you cannot look away from him. You gaze at the destruction on the left half of his face—ropes of scar tissue, the frayed ruins of his eyelids stitched together to close the emptied socket—and you wonder what that must have been like, waking up in his hospital bed half-blind and with clamoring journalists filling up the lobby downstairs, bouquets of flowers arriving from Alpha TV, Mega Channel, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, CNN, BBC, Deutsche Welle.

“Dead nun, dead pope.” Kazi sucks on his vape bleakly. “Inauspicious.”

Lando is pained and crosses himself. “Kazi, please.” Then he turns to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, I am so very sorry for your loss. Sister Augustina is with God now, let that serve as some consolation. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

You bow your head. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“We didn’t really know her that well,” Rhaena says.

“Will they have a funeral here?” Aemond asks you, like he’s trying to find an excuse to make conversation. Rhaena is gawking at him, wonderstruck; Aemond gives her a polite smile.

You answer: “No, Sister Penny told us she’s being sent back to Germany. I guess there’s a cemetery near her hometown she wished to be buried in. A plot beside a child’s.”

Lando and Kazi nod and murmur sympathetically, an acknowledgement of the life Sister Augustina had before she took her vows, forever shrouded in mystery, only shadows glimpsed through the veil; Aemond peers into the koi pond, his expression distant and troubled.

Lucky arrives, trudging across the volcanic pebbles that clatter under his red leather shoes. “Saati says he doesn’t want it.”

Kazi rolls his eyes. “Every cardinal says they don’t want it. And yet when the time comes, he’s out on that balcony waving to the crowds.”

“I think he’s sincere,” Lucky says, lighting a cigar and drawing in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s telling his supporters to look elsewhere.”

“To Aemo?” Kazi asks hopefully.

Lucky hesitates. “Saati is impressed that Jake lost four fingers in the service of our Lord.”

Kazi waves at Aemond. “He lost an eye!”

Lucky chuckles in a deep, gruff rumble. “Becoming pope is not a contest of misfortune, my friend. Otherwise more of them would be Haitians.”

Cam comes jogging over; being in his mid-forties, his knees are still good. He announces excitedly: “We have Micallef and Barraza!” Here’s who he means: Cardinal Xandru Micallef of Malta and Cardinal Juan Barraza of El Salvador, both pilfered from the dwindling pool of moderates.

Lucky exhales smoke. “I thought we already had Barraza. He’s on the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development with me and Aemo.”

“He told me he was considering Saati.”

“Saati doesn’t want it.”

Cam is confused. “Doesn’t everyone say that?”

“Okay, so who’s going to talk to Jake and figure out if he’s willing to steer his votes our way?” Kazi says between vape hits, and then, when Lucky raises his eyebrows at him: “It can’t be me. He hates me.”

The others groan. “What did you do?” Aemond asks, grinning.

Kazi is reluctant to share. “It was nothing.” He vapes as the others stare at him, waiting. “I asked if he was going to get a robot hand like Darth Vader.”

“Jake is very committed to his mission in Iran,” Lando muses softly. “I have a hard time believing he’d want to leave it.”

“Yeah, he does a lot of orphanage stuff, right?” Kazi says. “Lando, you should talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” Lando agrees, then looks to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, once again, I am so sorry for your loss and I will be praying for you and Sister Augustina.” He starts down the pathway and soon vanishes behind a row of tall laurel hedges.

Now Cam is relaying gossip he’s heard about the conservative faction: cardinals shifting from do Carmo to Jahoda, anxiety surrounding Aemond’s growing support. Your gaze catches on Aemond again, and you can’t look away. He keeps stealing glimpses of you too. Surely he could have had a plastic surgeon do a scar revision to make it less noticeable, and open the wound so he could insert a prosthetic eye; but of course Aemond would not want that. No one can see him without remembering what he did on Nea Kameni. He wears the proof of his miracle on his face.

You notice that Lucky is watching you as he smokes his cigar, his dark eyes kind yet intrigued, and then they rove to Aemond. You avert your attention elsewhere. On one of the narrow paved roads that wind through Vatican City, you see a white Fiat Panda zoom by on the other side of the foliage, employees running some errand.

“If I have a heart attack or choke on a fish bone or something, wait for the ambulance, don’t put me in one of those,” Kazi says. “They’re fire traps.”

“We’ll just throw you down the nearest manhole,” Cam assures him.

“Cardinal Targaryen!” a voice booms—ostensibly friendly, undeniably threatening—and it is Cardinal Jahoda, passing by with his ever-present companions Cardinal Auclair and Cardinal Ferrari. Across the gardens, red-swathed men stand up straighter and observe intently. “You enjoy the company of women so much, perhaps you have chosen the wrong vocation.”

Aemond smirks tauntingly. “Well, the celibacy requirement might soon be done away with, as you know. One of so few ways in which Cardinal Auclair has proven himself a progressive.”

Auclair scoffs. “Are there even any Catholics in Greece?”

“There are more than there were three years ago.”

“Cardinal Nowak,” Jahoda says to Kazi. “You are a Slav. Poland still lives under the gloom of Russia’s shadow. It disappoints me more than I could ever express, seeing you standing here with men who wish to usher in disorder, degeneracy, alliances with despots.”

Kazi sighs. “Brothers, not everything is communism.”

“Ah, you are too young. You do not remember what it was like.”

Auclair’s cold blue eyes skate over Cam and Lucky. “Mongolia. Haiti. Who would wish to follow the examples of your countries?”

Lucky explodes: “Why don’t you atone for what France did to my people?!”

“The prime minister acknowledged that the independence debt was an injustice—”

“And where is the apology? Where are the reparations?!”

“Still begging for money two hundred years later,” Auclair sneers. “Still sniffing for scraps like dogs. Perhaps it is time to look inwards and interrogate your own behavior. It is not a shortage of funds that ails Haiti, but a deficit of morals.”

Lucky drops his cigar and lunges for Auclair, but his friends stop him: Kazi and Cam fill the space between them, Aemond throws an arm across Lucky’s shoulders and whispers something to him as Cardinal Jahoda and his companions continue on through the gardens. Auclair looks back once and gives you a critical, probing glare. Kazi trots after Cardinal Ferrari making race car noises: vroom vroom vroom.

Cam mutters as he cleans his eyeglasses: “Mongolia is on the rise. It’s a capitalist democracy.”

“They’re not white, so it doesn’t count,” Lucky says, collecting himself. Then he checks his watch, a small face with a simple leather band. “The next general congregation is beginning soon.” He starts to leave with Kazi and Cam in tow, but not Aemond. Lucky turns around. “Aemo?”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Aemond replies. Lucky nods; but now when he looks at you, his interest has turned to trepidation.

Aemond shouldn’t be talking to me, you think, you know. But perhaps he is willing to risk it. Perhaps he believes he is invincible.

Now the two of you are alone except for Rhaena, who is gaping at Aemond as if still trying to convince herself he’s real and not a celebrity entrapped in a photograph, a screen, a myth.

“You must be very busy with your responsibilities here, Sister Rhaena,” Aemond says.

“Oh yeah, it’s hard yakka.” Then she realizes he’s waiting for her to leave. “Have a good one!” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries away, doubtlessly in great anticipation of all the stories you’ll tell her later. But you won’t share everything.

“Should we walk?” Aemond asks, his hands behind his back, his large gold cross gleaming on its chain, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Of course you should; you follow him, the tuff pebbles crunching under your shoes. And when he speaks to you now, he is not stony like he is sometimes around the other cardinals, or barbed or coiled or sharp. He is that boy from the beach again. He listens, he cares. “Are you really alright?”

“Yeah. I only knew Sister Augustina for a week. It was a shock to find her like that, and now Sister Penny is under the pump trying to take over for her, but we’ll manage.”

Aemond is studying the marble statues you pass as you wander together: Saint Rita, the patron saint of impossible causes and suffering women, Saint Catherine who freed herself from the breaking wheel, Saint Lawrence who was roasted alive. Fountains trickle and evergreen shrubs rock in the brisk December breeze: boxwood, rosemary, myrtle, oleander, holly with vivid blood drops of berries. Aemond stops when he finds a statue of Saint Agatha and gestures to a nearby stone bench. Once you sit down, he joins you.

“It’s your saint,” Aemond says. He reaches into one of the pockets of his cassock and produces a lighter and a pack of Karelia cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No wukkas. Half the nuns in my convent smoke.”

Aemond smiles to himself as he lights his cigarette. “No wukkas,” he echoes, amused.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“What led you to the Church?” you say. “Now that all the memories are coming back, I recall you being...skeptical.” That’s a gentle word for it. You imagine him: a boy, sullen and convinced he is too smart for religion, dragged to the cathedral by his Mother, flipping through a copy of Cujo or The Shining or Pet Sematary.

“Once I opened my mind to Catholicism, I found it sort of inspiring. The Church sponsored Michelangelo and da Vinci, founded the first universities in Europe, shaped the political landscape of the world. And for people without other routes to safety and status, it provided that. I never really felt seen by my parents. The Church gave me a new family.”

He didn’t say he loves the Faith. Saint Agatha gazes impassively down at you, her arms crossed protectively over her own chest, so young, so vulnerable. “Do you ever regret becoming a priest?”

Aemond shrugs, like he’s wrestled with the question so many times it no longer interests him. “The more conversations you have, the more confessions you hear...the more you realize that everyone regrets things. Mothers regret their children. Childless women regret adoptions and abortions. Married people regret the cage that vows begin to feel like after the novelty has worn off, single people regret their loneliness, the poor regret not selling their souls and the rich regret not defying greed to become artists or musicians or actors. There is no escape from regret. You must learn to feel at home in whatever cage you’ve built around yourself.”

You smooth the white wool of your habit so you have something to preoccupy your hands with. “I wasn’t entirely truthful about my reasons for being here.”

Aemond furrows his brow. “You’re assisting with the conclave.”

“Yes and no.”

He takes a drag and tilts his head to the side as he waits for you to continue. He does this a lot when you’re alone with him, always curious, always silently working things out, and you are struck by an abrupt and violent attachment to him—every gesture, every word, the blue of his eye, a lungful of smoke—and you think nonsensically: What if we had never left that beach?

You admit: “I’ve been having doubts.”

“About the Church?”

“About being a nun.”

Aemond is watching you, an intense sort of focus, like the Second Coming and the resurrection of the dead are over and you’re the last two people on earth. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

“I’ve heard this is the hardest time,” you say, smiling a little ruefully. “When you’re young like Rhaena, everything is new and exciting, and you’re so relieved to have all the answers to life’s questions that you don’t really feel the opportunity costs. And then when you’re in your fifties or sixties, you’re settled down and complacent, and you’re not interested in abandoning your work and the friendships you’ve made. But I’m thirty-eight...and that’s kind of my last chance to start over, isn’t it? At least when it comes to...certain things.”

Aemond is trying to understand, but he seems bewildered, maybe even alarmed. His cigarette has burned down to ashes, but he hasn’t noticed yet; when it singes his fingers, he flicks the end of it away. “Do you feel called to be a mother?”

“Not exactly, I just...I feel...” You pause to decide how to explain it. “I have this sense that there is something else out there for me. Someone else, I guess. And it wasn’t like this for a lot of years. I thought I was at peace with never being married. I used to see couples or families walking around and not feel anything but joy for them. But now there’s...there’s yearning, I think.” Then you chuckle nervously. “And I don’t just mean the physical aspect. That’s part of it, of course. But what I’m really missing is the...the emotional closeness, the bond that’s shared between romantic partners. All the sudden there’s an absence I wasn’t aware of before. And the only time I’ve ever experienced a pull like this was when I knew I wanted to be a nun, so I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Now Aemond’s hands are knitted together, tense and rigid, as if he is trying to resist wringing them. There is pink in his cheeks, a faint gory bloom, a rare disclosure of his mortality. He’s made of blood, not stone, not light, not predestination. “I suppose there is always some...temptation in the unknown.”

“Oh no, I’m not...” Again, you laugh. “I didn’t take my vows until my twenties. I had jobs, I took classes at the TAFE, I’ve dated, I’ve been to clubs, I’ve downed more pornstar martinis than I could possibly count. I’m not innocent.”

He seems relieved and relaxes a bit. “Then we had a similar path.”

“Because I wanted to...you know...I wanted to be sure I was alright with giving up that part of my life. I liked those blokes, and we had fun together, but I never felt it was something I couldn’t live without.” You stop for a moment; your next sentence comes out in a rush. “And then I had a bad experience with a boyfriend, and after that I was positive I could give it up, so.”

“A bad experience?” Aemond waits for you to elaborate. You don’t. His eye flicks from your face to your medallion, to the nearby statue of Saint Agatha, back to your face. He isn’t just searching. There’s a low, arcane wrath like chambers of magma scorching beneath the earth.

“Anyway, back in Sydney I confided in Mother Maureen about how I was feeling, and when the Holy Father passed she suggested I come to the Vatican. She said that if being here at the heart of the Church during such a joyous time—seeing the rituals, meeting the cardinals, witnessing the inauguration of the next pope—didn’t renew my commitment to my vows, then I would know it was the right decision to leave.”

Aemond is still distracted. “And has God spoken to you?”

“Oh, He’s saying something. But I’m not sure what yet.”

There is the sound of harried footsteps on the pebbles, and Sister Penny sprints into view. Strands of frizzy red hair have escaped from her veil; her pale freckled face is flushed. “Sister!” she cries, gasping for air. You leap up off the bench and rush to her.

“Sister Penny?”

“Where on earth did Sister Augustina keep the laundry detergent? I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it, and I have a million other things to do, and I’m going absolutely mad—”

“I know where it is,” you say. “It’s in one of the cabinets in the kitchenette. I know, it’s odd, I’m not sure why she put it there. Here, I’ll help you.”

“And Cardinal Kelly lost his room key, so I gave him my copy but he forgot to return it and I don’t know where the spares are—”

“Shh. She’ll be right, mate.” You’re rubbing her shoulder. Sister Penny is in her fifties, very kind, very sensitive, not a particularly gifted administrator. But she has the most seniority after Sister Augustina, and so she has inherited her responsibilities whether she likes it or not.

You return with Sister Penny to the Domus Sanctae Marthae, but first you peer back at Aemond and give him a wave, subtle enough that Sister Penny will not notice. You aren’t supposed to be friends with a cardinal; that’s like a mouse befriending a lion. Aemond, now standing, waves back. But on his scarred face is something you rarely see from him, a doubt that is bone-deep and powerless.

Soon you’re sweeping through the cardinals’ rooms with Rhaena, tidying things up, making beds, wiping down bathrooms, beard hairs clogging the sinks and stray piss drops on the floor. But Aemond’s room is immaculate. You send Rhaena into the bathroom to see if he needs more shampoo or conditioner or toothpaste, and in the few seconds she’s gone you lean down over Aemond’s bed and breathe him in: smoke and cologne, vanilla and amber and cinnamon, and salt too, like something made him sweat through his clothes.

The stomach is an elastic organ—the more you eat, the more it wants—and lust is the same way, so you try not to feed it. On the rare occasions you find yourself too...distracted, that is easily remedied: a detachable showerhead, a hand slipped under the elastic waistband of your pajama pants. But now it all comes pouring back in, fifteen chaste years’ worth of longing, perhaps a lifetime’s worth, and you try not to imagine his hands covering you: a white veil gliding over your hair, sand on wet skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night, and you are in Saint Peter’s Basilica, closed to the public until the conclave has concluded. You are here because the acoustics are good: you can hear the crowds out in the square singing The First Noel as they hold their candles and their handmade signs—God bless the Holy Father, Miracles are real, Pro-life and proud, Cardinal Targaryen for Pope—and you close your eyes as you listen. You love Christmas music, and without phones or radios, this is the only way you can get it.

The vaulted stucco ceiling is plated with gold. The floor is made of white marble and sand-colored travertine and crimson porphyry, red like lust or wrath or pride. Here is a fountain held up by cherubs, there is a basin taken from Emperor Hadrian’s tomb, there is monument to Pope Alexander VII adorned with the personified virtues of Truth and Love. And everywhere are depictions of keys; Saint Peter is the keeper of the keys of heaven, given to him by Christ. The leadership of the Church changes hands again and again, but the mission lives on, eternal, divine, pure despite the complexities and failures of mankind.

Occasionally, you hear the shuffling footsteps of cardinals as they pace the echoing corridors seeking God’s guidance. Cardinal Marcu, stooped and shaky, stopped to have a yarn with you perhaps half an hour ago; he seemed to be under the impression that Barack Obama is still the president of the United States. You are grateful that cardinals aged eighty and older are not permitted to vote in the conclave.

Your eyes are still closed when someone brushes up against you, a hand grazing across your hip, too light a touch to be intentional. You instinctively gasp and flinch away.

Aemond steps back, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says uncertainly.

You laugh when you see it’s him, pressing a palm to your pounding heart. “No, I’m sorry, I just startle really easily.”

He’s still bewildered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I thought I barely—”

“No, really, it’s alright. I just...when people touch me and I can’t see it coming, it just freaks me out. But I’m fine now.”

His eye travels down to your medallion—Saint Agatha carved into plain, unprecious iron—and then he turns fierce. He moves towards you, drops his voice, demands as he stands so close his smoke and cologne seeps into your lungs: “Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter, Aemond.”

“It does. What was his name?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

“So you can have him murdered?” you mock, and Aemond sighs and rubs his scarred forehead. “You aren’t asking for honorable reasons.”

He shakes his head and stares at the wall, centuries-old marble and gold, hot blood in his face, rage pulsing in his carotids and his jugulars.

Your voice is calm, because this is a truth you’ve lived with for fifteen years; it’s a part of your mental scenery, something you know happened but not something you feel anymore, aside from primeval muscle memories that never seem to die. “It wasn’t something I could have proved in court. He said if I told anyone, he would kill me. And then he got pulled over for drunk driving, and when they searched the car they found unregistered guns, and while he was in jail I packed my things and moved down to Sydney and showed up on the doorstep of the convent. And everything was okay after that.”

“He should have suffered,” Aemond seethes.

“I moved on. I had to. And that saved me, having a life that was mine. That I chose, that I had always wanted. The Lord tells us: Refrain from anger, abandon wrath. Do not be provoked, it brings only harm. And that’s true.”

“But what if you didn’t join the Church for the right reasons? What if it was just an escape for you, or some sort of trauma response—?”

“Why did you join the Church, Aemond?” you say. “So a billion people would love you?” He turns away, exasperated, but he doesn’t object. “You don’t get to question my motivations. Not when I have felt called to the Faith since I was a child.”

He breathes deeply, touches his palm to the gold cross that hangs from his neck, and looks at you again. “If I was the pope, I would help people. Lucky knows that. They all know that.”

“But that’s not why you want it.”

Several long hushed moments slip by like sand through your fingers. From outside, you can hear the crowds are now singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Aemond says softly: “I shouldn’t have left you.”

He can’t mean that. It’s preposterous. “What, when you were twelve?”

He doesn’t respond.

Now your words are gentle. “I’m alright, Aemond. Really. You just caught me by surprise, I’m fine now. I’m not afraid of you or anything. Here, look.”

You reach out and take his hand, and instantly you know it was a mistake. There is a blazing light that fills your skull, a burning martyr, a revelation: you can feel him pulling you in and the heat of his face beneath your fingerprints, soft lips, rough scar, his palms circling your waist, your white veil falling away as he pulls the pins from your hair, the thirty-three buttons of his cassock unfastened and then—

But before any of this can happen, you jolt away from each other, Aemond clasping his hands behind his back and you clinging to your iron medallion. On it are engraved Saint Agatha’s words to God: I am your sheep, make me worthy to overcome the devil. And from across the space between you, a few footsteps that might as well be twenty-nine years, you and Aemond gaze at each other with terror, with wonder.

You don’t feel too old to start over.

You feel like your life is just beginning.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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lis-likes-fics · 5 months ago

Text

Just a Drink

Pairing(s): Tommy Shelby x bartendere!Reader Word Count: 2.5k words Prompt: Semi-Public/Public Sex Warnings: NSFW, smut, swearing, alcohol use, smoking, semi-public/public sex, caught, brief fingering, creampie... A/N: This made giggle and hot at the same time, lol. Enjoy and happy reading!

“Are we celebrating, drowning sorrows, or just drinking tonight, Tommy?”

You set the bottle on the counter, leaning against the bar as you await Tommy's answer. He sits at a stool, a cigarette between his lips and his eyes generally uninterested as he stares off.

The bar is mostly empty. Harry has already gone home for the night—you man the bar so often that the patrons know you and know not to give you any trouble. If anyone comes in looking for trouble, you send them on their way with a gun as a warning. If you ever need to pull the trigger, you've got the Peaky Blinders to clean up the mess for you.

There are two other men sitting around, holding their glasses in their palms and looking about ready to throw in the towel. Neither of you pay them any attention. They don't matter.

“Just drinking,” he sighs.

You hum, grabbing a glass and pouring his fill. “Thought so.” You pass it over, crossing your arms over the bar as you lean in. “You don't look sullen enough for drowning, and your brothers would be here if you were celebrating.”

He hums, taking a sip from his cup. “Aye,” he flicks the ashes from his cigarette. “Sounds about right…”

You smile, pouring your own glass. “Then you won't mind if I have a drink of my own.” You've already taken a sip before he can answer.

“Not at all,” he murmurs. He finally looks up at you with more thought than he had before. Tommy Shelby's always got a million things on his mind. If you take a few moments to come to the front of it, you will gladly wait your turn. He's saved your arse enough to earn the time.

You wait a moment before speaking, gaging the look in his eyes with another hum. “You've been busy,” you say. “This is the first sit-down you've had with me in…a few days?”

“Aye,” he says again. He brings his cup to his lips, his brows drawn like he's still thinking about things. “Have you missed me, luv?”

You shrug a shoulder. “Believe it or not, you're good company, Mr. Shelby.” You trace the rim of your glass with your lip, looking at him over the top before sipping once more.

A tiny smirk graces his lips as he takes in the look on your face. “Not just company, I assume…” He takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing it out as the smoke billows around his head. “Have I been that busy?”

You shrug again, looking back down at your glass to trace the top again, this time with the tip of your finger. “You know no one else treats me quite as right as you.”

You don't pay any mind to the scoot of a chair from somewhere in the pub. One of the two customers still left behind stands to take his leave, shrugging on his coat and letting his cap follow as he leaves a coin behind. The last man decides to follow suit, leaving you and Tommy alone.

“S’that so?” You pluck his cigarette from between his fingers as he speaks. “Must be a fuckin’ saint.”

Smoke puffs out of your mouth with your snicker, and you shake your head as your smirk curls around the silver air. “You are no saint, Tommy Shelby.”

He nods, accepting that with his own silent chuckle. “At least nothing’s changed then.”

You lean over the counter, swaying your hips lightly. The cigarette ghosts over your bottom lip as you bat your lashes at him. “So are you going to keep me waiting, or shall I drop my knickers now?”

You blow smoke from your lips and watch it curl around his face. He doesn't even flinch, staring back at you with eyes steadily filling with a veil of lust. They glance down at your cleavage, so expertly placed for his sneaking eyes.

He lingers for a moment, another hum slipping through as he grabs his glass again. “I'm going to finish this…” he takes another small sip, plucking his cigarette back from your fingers, “and then I'm going to fuck you.”

It's a fair deal. You nod, grabbing a rag to start wiping down the bar, retrieving the coins left behind on the unoccupied tables to place in your apron.

By the time you're finished, Tommy's finishing off his last sip and standing from his stool. You wander back behind the bar, grabbing both your glasses to clean them out. You don't look at him as he follows after you, lighting a new cigarette as he goes.

His hand settles on your waist, and you smile as you continue wiping down the bar. He catches you by surprise, pressing his palm to your back and pushing you down against the counter top. You grunt, clutching the rag in your hand as he lifts your skirts all the way up and over the curve of your hips.

Tommy shoves your undergarments down as he gropes one of your cheeks in his palm. He hums appreciatively, taking no time in teasing you. He just shoves two thick fingers between your folds, which are becoming wetter and wetter by the second.

You bite your lip to stifle the moan stuck in your throat. He works them into you, curling his fingers so much that your knees buckle under the pleasure. The hand on your waist lifts up just to slap down harshly against your warm skin. You nearly cry out at the sudden movement as you feel the sharp sting spreading over the expanse of your tingling flesh.

His fingers pull out of you, slipping forward to cup your cunt and wet his hand. They brush against your clit, and your hips nearly jerk backwards against him. “Has it been that long, luv?” he hums.

“It's your own fault, though I'm sure you're quite proud of it,” you huff, your eyes closed as your body keens against his touch, worse when he circles your clit in quick but light movements that would never allow an actual orgasm. Your voice shakes. “You ruined me, Tommy. Can't get this from anyone else.”

He smirks, though you can only hear it with the way he's got you bent over. He pulls his hands from you, and you yelp when he smacks your pussy, clenching around air and wishing it was him.

“I'm terribly sorry,” he lies, and you hear the dizzying sound of his belt clinking.

“You're not.”

Tommy chuckles airily. “I'm not.” He frees his cock with a stroking hand, and you try not to grind back against him in such a needy way as you anticipate the coming of his desire.

He fills you a moment later, thrusting his cock inside of you with a deep grunt as he bottoms out. You let out a heavy sigh, stifling the moan at the tip of your tongue as he presses against the deepest part of you.

Tommy holds his cigarette between his lips as he brings one strong hand to your hip and the other to wrap around your throat. You hum, letting him pull your head back as he begins to thrust into you with rough, quick snaps of his hips. Once he finds a steady pace, he lets go of your throat in favor of pinching his smoke between his fingers.

“You feel better now that your cunt’s nice and full, darling?” he taunts, pulling smoke into his lungs in a deep breath. It billows from his nose as he huffs on a harsh thrust.

You struggle to contain your moans, stuck on the pleasure wrapping around your throat and filling your body until your legs are weak. “Yeah,” you gasp, holding onto the edge of the counter for support. “Don’t stop, Tommy.”

“Now why would I go and do that, eh?” he hums, smacking your arse again before pressing down on the small of your back. Your body buzzes with pleasure, and you can feel it nipping at your heels and at your fingertips. Your breaths and the sound of his hips smacking into you fill the air, occasionally accompanied by a stray moan or grunt.

Your head turns when you hear the sound of the pub doors opening, a dramatic motion that could only come from one breed of man—a Shelby.

Arthur walks in with a strut that you find relatively unnecessary, worse when his eyes land on the two of you and a sly grin spreads over his lips. “I see you’re a bit too busy to pour me a drink, luv,” he quips, his cigarette dangling between his lips as he speaks.

Tommy’s movements don’t stop—it’s not like this is the first time one of his brothers have walked in on the both of you. You were once tending to him beneath his desk, and he didn’t even care to pretend to shield you from his brother’s gaze, encouraging you to keep going as he talked about business or something of the sort. You don’t remember much, you were a bit preoccupied with the way he tasted on your tongue to listen in.

Tommy thrusts harder into you, your moans catching in your throat with a shudder that sounds as though you might cry. “Aye,” he huffs. “What is it you want, Arthur?” His hair is falling over his forehead. He doesn’t even look at his brother as his eyes stay trained on you and the way his cock keeps disappearing into your tight cunt.

“Just a drink, as I said,” he shrugs, strutting forward and stepping behind the pub. You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over the counter and burying your head as you focus on the overwhelming pleasure.

“You can h-have whatever you bloody want, Arthur,” you huff, a few whimpers slipping into your words as you speak.

He laughs, that deep, wheezing sound that means he’s enjoying himself as he looks around the shelves for his choice of liquor. He grabs a bottle of whiskey, clutching it in his hands before doing a little spin in search of something. “Where the bloody hell are the glasses?”

“You don’t n-need a fucking glass,” you gasp. A small cry takes you by surprise when Tommy brings you back hard on his cock in time with a rough thrust.

“Course, I do,” he says, entirely unfazed as he looks down at you. You turn your head in your arms to see him, a glare in your eyes only partially tinted with amusement at his antics. Arthur smacks his chest, puffing it out to look big as he watches you. “What do you think I am? A fuckin’ animal?” Tommy rolls his eyes. “No, a fuckin’ gentleman is what I am, and a fuckin’ gentleman don’t drink straight from the bottle. Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

You reach beneath the counter, clumsily grabbing a glass and shoving it out toward him. Tommy motions to it with his cigarette. “There you are, Arthur. Now take your glass there and go fuck off. As you can see, we’re both a bit busy right now.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and lets the smoke surround his head as he turns back to you. “Would you hold this for me, darling?”

He hands you his smoke, and you take it and set it between your lips gratefully. A moan catches in your throat when he free hands wraps around your waist, just to press a callused finger against your needy clit. Smoke puffs quickly from your mouth in a flurry.

You’d almost forgotten Arthur was there until the sound of the bar door slamming back down catches your attention. “Alright, alright,” he smiles, glass and bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Apparently,” a moan cuts you off, “not well enough.” He lets out another thundering laugh as he walks away, leaving the two of you be. Just in time too, because you feel like you will fall apart any minute now. “Tom, I’m so close.”

“I know, luv,” he grunts. “Just have another smoke, eh?”

You do as you’re told, bringing it to your lips and letting it feed into your system as you become looser and looser. Your head swarms with all the pleasure around you, and you’re finding it harder and harder to hold it together.

“That’s it,” he coos, his thrusts becoming more and more sloppy and erratic as he nears his own release. His grip on your hip tightens, his circling finger on your clit intends to drive you mad.

Your thighs begin to twitch, the shocks of a coming release shooting off in your veins. It's only when his thrusts become short and deep and rough, that you're sent over the edge with a cry that you struggle to muffle behind pursed lips. You drop your head into your arms, pressing your mouth against your forearm in an effort to conceal an unconcealable sound.

Waves of pleasure crash down on you, dizzying you, filling you until you feel like you can no longer stand. Tommy's hand on your waist is the only thing keeping you up.

As your cunt flutters and clenches around him, his name crying into your arm, he feels his fuse running out. With a few final, untempered thrusts, he spills inside of you with a quiet gasp, his grunt rough in his throat. “Fuck, that's it,” he huffs, still shoving his cock inside of you to finish off the last of his release. “Take it all, darling. There you are.”

Your legs quiver beneath you, weak under the warmth spreading through you and the last sensations of your orgasm seeping into the fabric of your bones and your veins until you're nothing but a distant buzz.

You curse under your breath when your brain settles, and you feel like you can think straight again. Tommy pulls out of you, tucking himself back into his pants with a hum. “How are you now, luv?”

You nod, catching your breath as you stand up straight. You take a long breath of smoke into your lungs, stretching your arms over your head and sighing it all out as you feel the relief of the popping in your back.

Smoke curls around Tommy's face, and he doesn't even flinch. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in and taking his cigarette back. He kisses you, long and possessive but satisfied with the release of the tension in his body.

“Really fuckin’ good,” you breathe once he pulls away.

He nods. “Good.” He kisses you again, watching you bend down to pull your undergarments back up your thighs and smooth out your dress.

“Don't make me wait so long next time,” you smirk, pulling him in by his tie. Your noses brush, teasing one another before finally giving in to a third kiss. You try not to get carried away. You still have to properly close the pub before you end up in Tommy Shelby's bed once more.

“My apologies.”

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