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yameoto · 4 months ago

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SUPERNOVA CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

kpop idol caitlyn X her insatiably horny junior

"Noona is so cool!" You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. "Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Her talents are seriously wasted. Wah, her visuals are really otherworldly. Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants—" Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look, at that last one. “It doesn't say that.” You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

tw; dom/sub!caitlyn, brat!reader, idolverse, girlcock, semi-public sex, sex in dance practice rooms, mirror sex, handjobs, handjobs during vlives, voyeurism, mild age-gap, age hierarchy dynamics, use of korean honorifics. idol!caitlyn x idol!reader wc; 5.1k. ao3

notes: set in modern day runeterra. ionia encompasses the entire region of asia in league which i personally find stupid but i dont make the rules. fluff/smut/humour. derivative of korean culture (kpop idol au) + pokes a lil fun at stan culture. no prior kpop knowledge is needed (though it would likely help) the sex is filthy regardless. wrote this after finding caitlyn is only a 1/4 white like hallelujah jesus

CAITLYN looks stupidly good. Like stupid, stupidly good. Her grey sweatpants are slung low on her hips, waistband of her briefs peeking out. Sweat-slickened abs glare back at you, from the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The outline of her bulge is visible. These are all observations that you latch into like an IV-drip hooked-up to your wrist, in order to stay alive—lest you die from the fatigue. And boredom.

“Please,” You grumble, head slumped on your knee as your arm drops to the floor, phone abandoned Candy Crush side, up. “Please, please, please, can we go home?”

“No,” Caitlyn huffs, hands on her hips, looking entirely too good as she takes a momentary (and you mean, momentary) break to swig a sip of water, before she hurls herself right back into it, sweaty and stunning.

The two of you have been trapped in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. Or, more accurately, Caitlyn has trapped you in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. You would rather be snuggled up and content in the comfort of your dorms; rather than slogging away in the basement, like you’re still trainees clawing your way up the company ladder inch by inch—rather than the four-time daesang winners, face of Ionia’s girl-groups’, and other innumerable accolades under your belts that seemingly mean nothing to your fearless group leader. At least, at the moment.

You’ve long slunk to the floor, sleepy eyes tracing the way sweat rolls down Caitlyn’s nape as she re-runs the movements for about the zillionth time. Her shoulder-blades flex through the thin fabric of her shirt, sweat dampening into a darkened pool in a way that should be gross, but on her, it just looks sexy. The ache in your muscles has simmered to a low burn, by now. Jeez, your eyelids are slipping. Thank God you have your sweet leader to ogle. The sight of Caitlyn’s bulge peeking through those sweatpants is practically your sole motivator in keeping your eyes open.

“You know,” After what feels like a decade, you pipe up again, because time has begun to melds together. “You’ve got it. Seriously.” The swig of water that sluices down your throat is lukewarm and unsatisfactory. Fuck, you’re thirsty. “The stage is a week away. You’ll be fine.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow at you through the mirror, incredulous.

“When in the world has fine ever been good enough?”

Okay, sure. Caitlyn’s right. But she’s more than fine. Almost-perfect, actually—and come seven days—her dance moves will indubitably be heaven-sent and her ending fairy will probably trend #1 on three different social media platforms, and you will most definitely tug her ear endlessly about it, like the benevolent, supportive junior you are.

Seven days prior, however—and all you are is tired, grouchy, and maybe just a little bit horny.

“I crave the sanctity of my blankets.” You lament, hand falling over your forehead as you languish on the floor, because the sun has probably set by now and you are seriously contemplating the possibility of dying of old age in this godforsaken practice room. (Not that that would be so bad, if Caitlyn were with you).

“You can go home, you know,” Caitlyn sighs, twisting around to face you, sneakers squeaking on the glossy wooden floors.

“How am I supposed to sleep without my favourite member as a bolster?” You pout, snatching on the chance to act a brat, immediately. Caitlyn just rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch upwards, so negligible that if you weren't so tuned in to all-things-Caitlyn, you might’ve missed it.

“Clingy.” She mutters, like she doesn't love it. Loves being your favourite. Not that it matters, because the glimmer of hope that flickers in your chest when Caitlyn crouches down in the direction of her bag—is immediately quashed when she only taps her screen, and the speaker rewinds all the way to the start.

You’re really starting to hate this song.

“Are you serious? That’s not enough to rouse your cold, dead, heart?” You whine, because usually Caitlyn would've caved to your grabby-hands and doe-eyes by now (especially with the way you look; lips parted and shining with spit, water trickling down your chin down the column of your throat, from the leftover rivulets of your water-bottle.) Not that Caitlyn doesn't notice. She’s just really, really determined to get this right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“You work yourself too hard.”

You stretch to a stand, elongated and cat-like before you slink over and sling yourself dramatically along Caitlyn’s back. Her expression contorts into exasperation. She attempts to turn her head, to face you—to no avail. Not when you’re pushing her up against the mirror and the pinning her down against glass with the power of aggressive spooning on your side. Her hand shoots out to brace against the mirror, as your fingers hook the hem of her sweats, and Caitlyn stiffens under your thumb, lips falling open against her will.

“Darling,” She inhales, in that addictive, throaty accent of hers. Caitlyn sounds almost pained, as she catches your wrists—though she neither takes them in or wrests them away. The both of you have full view of the rising tent in her groin.

“What?” You smirk, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, like the sneaky little bastard you are. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to practice with a boner, unnie. That must hurt.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitches, and her knees almost buckle, if it weren’t for the way your arms tighten around your waist and squeeze the growing problem at her crotch. Your fingers twine with the string of her trackpants, loosening them under slim, deft fingers.

“Honorifics? Really?” Her voice is tight. She’s screwed. You only ever whip those out when you want something, seeing as how you've been speaking informally to your technical senior since your very first meeting, in trainee days, (an accident she so loves to recount on variety shows. “It’s not my fault you just looked so young and pretty, unnie.” You’d fumble in defense, eyes wide and doling out the extra sparkle for the cameras as they zoomed-in on your frantic apologies, laugh track sure to be edited in. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You’re lucky I was too kind to scold you,” Caitlyn sighs, and—in a dramatic show of theatricality—flips the inky-blue curtains of her hair behind her shoulder, much to the hosts delight. “I can be really mean, baby.”

That had been a hit. Probably because of the way her drawl had lilted playfully and she’d cupped your jaw in the most egregious display of fan service you’d ever seen. Caitlyn’s always known how to wrap the media around her pretty fingers; and your stammer and ensuing blush had mercilessly crowded your feed for at least two weeks, afterwards.)

That’s in public, though. In private?

Caitlyn is a puddle to the graze of your fingers along her hipbone, and the glide of your breath up her neck. Dark eyes meet hers, hooded and intent, reflected in the pane of metal in front of you. It’s certainly a sight to behold. The two of you are both dripping in sweat, Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, bare-faced and glowing—hair tangled up in that loose ponytail that you've always found so much hotter on her, than any amount of hours in the styling chair could ever produce.

“I really need to..” Caitlyn’s protests sound weak even to her own ears. Especially when heat pools in hot, throbbing waves that rush straight to her dick, and she's cut off by her own gasp when you nuzzle in the nook between her shoulder-blades and your hands—beautiful, cunning hands—ghost over her crotch and squeeze. Her entire world lurches into a haze, body spasming upwards.

“Unnie,” You breathe, sweet and soft, like the devil in her ear, “please fuck me.”

Just like that, Caitlyn can’t take it any longer. A low, strangled noise rips from her throat, eyes fogging over and black eclipsing blue. Lithe hands coil around your wrists, and flips your positions entirely—thrusting you right up against the glass.

Her muscles are throbbing, hours of dance practice flaming up her bones; but she pins you down with the strength of a woman possessed, all the same. As far as Caitlyn’s concerned, she’s like a sleeper agent to your bedroom voice, and the fact could never shine with more clarity, than now (other than the time you’d done a Lola Shark impression in an interview and she’d gotten, to her horror, embarrassingly hard underneath the blanket thrown over her lap. She’d had to call in a bathroom break, to take care of it—much to your smug, haunting amusement).

In the mirror, you watch as Caitlyn’s breathing shallows into pants, tongue licking hot up the stretch of your neck to under your jaw. Neither of you miss the brief, smugly satisfied spark to your eyes and glowing hot between your thighs, even as both squeeze shut when you arch up against Caitlyn’s bulge. She grinds down against your ass, and you moan, so brazen she almost can’t believe it.

“Shit. You're so shameless,” Caitlyn mutters, breaths rushing harsh against your shoulder as she fumbles with the knot at your sweats, rutting hopelessly into the coil of your figure. The moment thread slips free, pants pooling to your ankles as you bend over, head thrown back—Caitlyn’s brand-name briefs soak with a splurge of pre so intense she almost thinks she’s come early.

“You want my fingers?” Caitlyn asks, just to be a bitch. Your eyes squint open to glare at her through blurry vision and through an even blurrier visage.

“Don’t joke,” You spit, voice hoarse with want. It's meant to sound demanding, but all it comes out is whiney, and Caitlyn’s laugh sends shivers down your nape.

There’s a millisecond in which your mind empties completely, and it's almost cruel how you can only see the reflection of Caitlyn’s cock curving upwards from her underwear rather than the real deal.

Caitlyn’s grasp is like steel around your neck. She thrusts you forwards, your flushed cheeks smushing against the cool surface of the mirror as your stuttered breaths puff in grey clouds of condensation. A groan wrangles itself out of your throat from being manhandled like that, knees wobbling the moment you feel something hot, thick and so, so wet press insistently against the backs of your thighs. Arousal has already begun to drip down your legs, running down in rivulets and moistening the floor under your feet. Yours or Caitlyn’s—you don’t have the eyes to know.

“Unnie,” You breathe, shakily, voice raw. Your fingers are slippery against glass, and you whimper when the familiar stretch of two fingers sinks into your cunt. You slide open, just like that, and Caitlyn temporarily wrenches you back so that you can see your fogged-up reflection in all its full, filthy glory.

“S’not enough,” You pant, back arching and ramming urgently against her digits she’s spreading you wide, with—so eye-wateringly slow. Maybe it’s the fact that you've been working yourself up, blatantly eyeing her down, for hours since your head checked out of training and your brain devolved into its most primitive urges in coping with your mind-numbing boredom.

“Not enough?” She grins, sharp-toothed and devastating, adoring the upper-hand. “What? You need a third finger, baby?” The noise that tears out of you is almost like a wounded animal, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so overcome with need and prolonging this teasing sounds like torture.

So, you answer with the obvious, “Your cock.” You hiss through gritted teeth, because Caitlyn loves it when you beg for her dick and you’re too hare-brained and empty to do anything more than push back, impossibly deeper into her fingers. They sink to her knuckles of entirely your own volition, without her having to do so much as twitch.

Caitlyn’s laugh is practically a goad in itself. The lush curtain of her lashes are lowered, irises swallowed up by the deep dilation of her pupils. Still, though, she takes her time in playing with you, just a little longer. Revels in the way you thrash around her fingers, fucking yourself back, desperate.

Herself is one thing. Her dick can only take so much, however. The ache becomes too much, too soon, and the second she runs her glossy head against the drenched, hot pulse of your hole—she can’t not shudder, knot in her throat, before her fingers slip out of your pussy and your consequent whimper is interrupted by the plunge of her cock.

“Hah, baby..” Caitlyn whimpers, eyes fluttering back as she fucks you against the mirror, nails dragging up your hips and digging into supple flesh. Never has Caitlyn felt so at home, submerged in the deep, velvet ocean of your cunt.

“Unnie—” You gasp. It’s the one word, echoing over and over, like an all-consuming siren song throughout your head—with each gasp that comes with every thrust of Caitlyn’s hips, motions growing sloppier as the exhaustion of hours of tireless exertion catches up to the both of you. She nips at your ear, then down the curve of your nape, to the unblemished skin of your upper back. Teeth grazing, pads of her fingers leaving scorching trails as she gropes up your body—your mind a jumbled, fuzzy mess. Her cock plunges in and out, still guided, though she never slips out more than mid-way; bodies sticking together like gum. Like she can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment—even if it is to pummel your cunt until you can hardly take it anymore.

It’s only when the pumps and rolls begin to slow into simple, gentle rocks, to absolutely nothing but a twitch—that your mind clumsily clasps onto a semblance of clarity, hasty and brief, like you know it’ll slip away and out of reach, soon. “Wha..?” You rasp, half-slurred, even if what you really want to whinge is; What’s goin’ on? Why’d you stop? And, please, please, please. Don’t stop. Keep goin’. Fill me up. Please, don’t ever stop— and other half-baked nonsense that you’ll be glad your tongue was too thick and heavy in your mouth to spill.

“I can’t mark you,” Caitlyn grunts, and your eyes sharpen, just a little. Her tongue peeks out from her lips as her expression looks disproportionately distraught, like it’ll be the end of the world if she doesn’t stake some sort of physical claim on you, eyes darting downwards to your unblemished shoulders with a low growl of frustration.

Distantly, that part of you is still clinging onto reality, knows she’s right. That your comeback is in a week’s time and risking a hickey or a bite-mark or worse (because Caitlyn is stronger and sharper and rougher than her delicate figure should ever have been allowed to be), is a bad, bad idea.

But the larger part of you—the part of you that is currently being railed by her unnie’s cock and trying desperately not to squirt cum all over the practice room mirror—rasps out a reckless, ragged, “Who cares?”, and that’s all the permission Caitlyn needs.

Caitlyn pulls out, and slams herself in again, grip on your waist, bruising. Your hands go sliding, uselessly against the steamy surface of the mirror, long fogged-up under the slick tangle of your bodies. She’s mouthing slurred nonsense into your ear, the music speaker knocked over by one of your ankles and emitting distant sounds from where it's rolled, to the other side of the room. Neither of you could give a single fuck.

Not the least, when Caitlyn’s hand is sliding up your throat and thumbing over your gaping lips. It feels as if a pink-hued fuzziness has descended the room and become a thick veil over everything, and when her fingers slip into the hot, wet gasp of your mouth—it's only right for you to take the digits in your tongue and suck.

“Ahnngh—Cait—”

“When did I say you could speak informally to me?” Caitlyn husks, fingers pressing deeper into the roof of your mouth. In your reflection, you can see the razor angle of Caitlyn’s jaw as she nuzzles into your ear. The obscene glisten of your spit, coating her fingers and coasting down your chin as her digits languish between your parted lips. You look every bit like her precious fuckdoll, right now.

“Unnie—”

“Ah-ah.”

“Sunbae.”

“Mm. That’s better.”

Her free hand skims up your shirt, slipping up the taut lines of your body and flicking idly at one nipple. You whine, garbled around the gag of her hand, and Caitlyn lets out a moan of content when your pussy tightens around her shaft.

“Fuck,” She pants, teeth sinking down into your shoulder and you buck, even though the pain barely registers with how Caitlyn barrels her cock in you, deeper, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your thighs are shaking. “M’gonna—hfgh—”

Her hips draw upwards, and Caitlyn cums like a faucet. All of it, inside you. Outside of you. Dripping from your still-leaking cunt and droplets getting fucked out with each, desperate thrust as she moans, guttural. “Take it—fuck—” Caitlyn groans, harsh and insistent as she pounds, your pussy squelching—so wonderfully wet—as your fingers scramble against the glass, her fingers cramming deep inside your mouth.

“Ah-ah—fuck!”

The two of you go crashing down, sliding down against the mirror and onto the floor with a twinning, indecipherable slew of obscenities, a boneless, panting heap, still moving in tandem.

You both slump, slippery and sticky. The song on the speakers re-starts, yet again, from the other side of the room, though it's the first time it's even pierced your ears in the past forty minutes. Caitlyn groans, pushing her nose into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around your waist. The mirror is splattered in both your cum.

“We’re gonna have to clean this up, aren’t we?”

“..Probably.” You sigh, still leaking around her cock as you angle your head, the two of you slotting together like missing puzzle pieces.

Twenty-four hours and countless Kleenex wipes later (and really, cleaning your own cum from floor-to-ceiling mirrors—with two half-guilty reflections staring right back at you—is an uniquely humbling experience); it was totally worth it to see Caitlyn appropriately red, after the crash of post-nut clarity.

It’s your one, blissfully empty day before comeback promotions launch you all into full-throttle. You intend to enjoy it while it lasts.

“Your latest Lotte CF went viral,” You pop behind her, totally innocously if weren’t for that familiar, impish glint in your eyes. Caitlyn sighs, not even glancing up from the stove, completely nonplussed. Probably because Caitlyn could record herself taking a piss and it would chart #1 on Melon.

“The seonjiguk is simmering.” She ignores you. You ignore her right back.

“Look at those dimples,” You beam like a little shit as you wave the video in her face. “Maybe you should go into acting. The GP would go crazy.”

“No thanks,” Caitlyn snorts, hand lifting upwards to stifle a brief yawn, sleeves coming up all the way to her knuckles. “been there, done that.”

“Oh, right. All your Piltovian film connections.” You hum, idly tracing the underneath of Caitlyn’s elbow as you lean over her shoulder to watch her cook. She’s markably improved from her humble beginnings of blackened, bubbling slag (what was once instant Buldak), or the scotchmarks that still hail the kitchen tiles, to this day.

“Mhm. I was almost poached. My mother wanted me to—what was that? Follow in her footsteps.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you didn't,” You hum, into her shoulder. You poke her side, grinning. “Then you wouldn't have met me, and wouldn't that be tragic?”

Caitlyn scoffs, but you feel her sink a little deeper into your embrace, eyes flitting to settle onto the top of your head, as you nudge into her. You both, really are grateful.

You’re pretty sure Ionia is grateful, too.

Whatever the day, it always feels like Caitlyn’s name has taken up a permanent residence in the nation’s newsites. ICE PRINCESS. AI VISUALS. ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Her quarter Piltovian and subsequent accent injects an ‘attractive exoticism’ (or whatever management had stapled to your files, at the dawn of debut), that had made Caitlyn internationally explosive, too.

The Kiramman surname certainly helped. Caitlyn’s debut was like, the biggest plot-twist in nepotism, ever. It was like if Nicole Kidman’s kid suddenly became Hatsune Miku. Not to mention the fact the Kirammans are the largest benefactor of Hextech, whose global rollout of leading-edge tech has gone unmatched. Of all careers for the Kiramman’s mysterious, devastatingly attractive daughter to take—this is the one that took the entire globe off-guard. Including the great and glamorous, Cassandra Kiramman.

Of course, the initial shock long lapsed underwater, with the constant roil of the media waves. Caitlyn’s fame, however, has not.

“Noona is so cool!” You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. “Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Ah, her talents are seriously wasted. Is she an angel? Her visuals are really otherworldly—”

“Get that away from me.” Caitlyn swats your phone away with a scowl, pretty pink flush glowing on her features.

“Don’t act all coy,” You prod her so-highly-lauded cheekbones as Caitlyn huffs in annoyance, though begrudgingly leans against the touch anyways. You squish. “We all know you’re preening inside.”

“I am not!”

“Ooh, sexy. I love it when your accent comes out like that.”

Caitlyn groans, because you’re impossible, and just twists so that she’s facing you, back against the kitchen counter. You reach behind her to switch off the stove.

She hooks her fingers into the hem of your pyjama shorts, thumbing over familiar cotton. She sighs outwardly, propping her head up on your shoulder and slumping forwards to rest the cold press of her nose into the crook of your shoulder. Her fingers skim up your shirt, absently rubbing circles into the plane of your stomach.

“You know I hate it when you read those.”

“About how you look like an eepy bunny when you’re sleepy? Or that you have moles in the shape of a giraffe on your nape.” You arch a brow, looking past her as you flick through the blurs of text in various degrees of capitalisation, on your phone. A subtle smirk lifts your lips. “Hey. Is that true? Let me check.”

She scowls, and then almost looks offended that you don’t know that already (You do. Caitlyn also has a darkened, heart-shaped birthmark indented in the crook of her inner thigh—but that’s just for you to know, thank you very much).

Your voice raises a pitch. “Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants!”

Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look. “It doesn't say that.”

You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

Oh, now Caitlyn’s cheeks go red. You push valiantly past the triumphant flutter in your heart, in favour of continuing your teasing. Hey—there’s no schedule today, the dorms are all to yourselves—and you’re on a roll.

“Look. They wanna steal your eyes and put them in a boba drink.”

Thoroughly fed-up with your antics, Caitlyn snatches the phone out of your hand, and you immediately squirm, to lunging for it. Caitlyn’s ridiculous height advantage has the one-up on you, though, and you puff out an aggrieved yelp of protest when she dangles it above your head, like a dickhead.

“Hey, what the fuck?” You complain, like your comeuppance wasn't exactly what you were hoping for. Except you were more aiming for a pin-you-against-the-fridge, fuck-the-insides-out-of-you type of comeuppance. Not a sordid reminder that you need a stool to reach the top of Caitlyn’s head. “Don’t lord your freakish Frankenstein genetics over me!”

Caitlyn laughs, eyes flickering down. “Are you on your tip-toes right now?”

Your eyes narrow, because you do not appreciate having the tables turned on you. Your hand shoots up to cup her jaw, tilting it upwards. Caitlyn softens, putty in your hands, adorable furrow in her brow melting away along with her pride as she sinks into your palm with a soft sigh, arm falling to her side.

There we go.

“It’s not my fault you avoid socials like the plague. I’m just doing my duty to take care of my leader’s PR. Your fans are starving.”

Caitlyn grumbles, “Well, let them starve.” though it comes out pinched between smushed lips, cheeks squishing like a dumpling. So heartless, like she’s not the industry’s princess and probably makes up a total of 50% of the company’s annual income. You know exactly why, as you cradle her face in her palms and watch as she leans upwards because no matter how disgruntled Caitlyn acts, or how shockingly humble she is under that front of aloof, arrogance–she definitely preens under attention.

Just. Only yours.

“Hey, you know what? We should go live right now.”

“What—?” Caitlyn stammers, flabbergasted by the sudden change in direction, “Don’t—“

Too late. Within seconds, you’ve swiped your phone back from her limp hands and flipped the vlive on. Recording. Like, now. Damn, you're speedy.

“Ah..” Caitlyn’s expression smooths over to that charming, impeccably gorgeous grin of hers that shows off the sharp curves of her cheekbones and has won her the hearts of a nation.

You pull her to the couch, and under the scrutiny of the camera—Caitlyn acquises with little more than a subtle elbow to your ribs, when the both of you go thudding into the cushions with a low oomph.

Then, you flop against her chest, and the stream of hearts that ensue are absolutely incredible, comments rolling in faster than you can read them. There’s a reason why the two of you are the most popular pairing in the group.

“Hm. Is it on?” You muse, faux confusion tugging on your pretty features. Knitted brows and a plush little pout always do the job, especially when you add a sneak of tongue. No doubt to be screenshotted and re-uploaded countless times, within the next hour. “Hello? Can you guys hear us?”

Which is, you know, the perfect time to grab Caitlyn’s dick through her pants.

A choked noise resounds beside you, and you don’t glance over, for you’re too busy fiddling with the phone and the settings and all other kinds of bullshit that is really just an excuse for you to focus your attention on snaking a hand down Caitlyn’s waistband, just out of view of the camera. “Oh! It’s working. Did you miss us?” You beam, as Caitlyn struggles not to either sock you in the stomach or throw her head back and moan.

If anybody notices Caitlyn’s pupils are suspiciously blown, it doesn’t come up. What does come up, is her ever traitorous cock that lilts immediately into your touch. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

“Aw, little Caity’s missed me, too,” You croon, as your sneaky fucking fingers stroke idly along her girth, underneath the veil of her sweatpants and just over the thin fabric of her underwear. Caitlyn visibly bristles, because, 1. You’re jacking her off. 2. She hates that your coo instigates a flood of love-bombing so intense, that the hearts on the screen almost completely obscure the both of you. 3, and the most important one; you just gave her dick a nickname!

“Cait.” You tease out, eyes glittering, not even bothering to conceal your amusement as Caitlyn’s hips buck upwards, her fingers pinching against your sides, lips completely shut mum, for fear she’ll let slip a moan on camera. “C’mon. Say something. You missed them too, right?”

Gods. Caitlyn hates you. She really, really hates you. Just—not enough to not shove your hand away when it starts to peel away the waistband of her underwear. If only because the feeling of precum soaking its seat, sticking to her skin, and not because she’s itching for the sweet relief of your hand around her cock.

“..Hi,” Caitlyn forces her winning, boxy grin, and the years of practice make it an admirably unstrained effort. Maybe she really should go into acting. “Mm. Long time no see, hm?”

“Unnie’s being awkward, today.” You snark, all sly, and Caitlyn shoots you a glare. She’s rewarded by the sudden, fervent warmth of your hand wrapping around her dick, and then the harsh tug of your fist that has her knees jerking upwards and her dastard slit spurting out a shiny, hot glob of precum. She swallows back a low, strangled whine, like a dry pill. Oh, Gods. She’s supposed to say something.

“Ah, just..—we’ve—ah—”

In a rare show of mercy (because apparently, you’re not out to throw both your careers to the dogs), you swipe the phone back with the most cherubic, triumphant grin to adorn your face, literally ever. Catilyn lets slip a barely-audible hiss as your fingers coil, just a little tighter, stroking up and down—thumb running back over the swollen, gloatingly shiny cockhead.

“We just had a long time in the practice rooms for our comeback, yeah? So we’re pretty tired. Right, unnie?”

Oh, you're really pushing it, now.

“Mm. We’ve been—working. Really hard.” She has to lean out of the screen to release a silent, desperate gasp, nails digging into the back of the couch as she tries to rut up into your hand in a way that doesn't obviously send the sofa, trembling. You idly thumb over her slit, smearing the thick, embarrassingly copious amounts of pre down her length. It twitches in your palm, as you ramble on about schedules and the comeback and spoilers and other things that have long become white noise in Caitlyn’s ears. Her hips chase your touch, brazenly, now. She barely even realises when you’re calling it quits; early, too. Because obviously, this was all just to fuck with her.

“Caitlyn,” You sing-song—smirking (supremely unsubtly), at the camera. “Say bye-bye.”

She only just registers the comment. Barely. “Bye.” Caitlyn’s voice is a low croak, hips arching upwards off the couch just as you end the live. Just in time, too, because—

“Oh, fuck.” Caitlyn releases the longest moan of her life, cum spilling over your fist, and she collapses back into the couch. Your phone falls from your hand, and you’re practically shaking with laughter.

(“Little Caitey,” Caitlyn grumbles, after the fact, with your head nestled between her thighs in apology, “That’s preposterous. What’s so little about her?” Nothing. But there’s no fun in that, is there? At the slow, sly smile spreading on your face, Caitlyn groans. “What?”

“You referred to her in third-person.”

“..Please just suck me off already.”)

#(っ ‘o’)ﾉ⌒💥my works !#arcane #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn kiramman fanfiction #caitlyn kiramman smut #caitlyn kiramman x you #trans!caitlyn #arcane x reader #arcane smut #written solely for me but if u enjoyed it. i adore you #surprisingly not the most self-indulgent thing i’ve penned but close #kpop!caitlyn

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pathologicalreid · 5 months ago

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losing you | s.r.

in which you being in danger in the field elicits a response from Spencer that you're not used to - anger

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: general cm violence, jareau!reader, fear of abandonment, fighting word count: 1.67k a/n: i really didn't like this one at first but turns out now i really enjoy it lol. it's hard for me to dislike anything jareau!reader. anyways, setting this up to post while i chemically straighten my hair, i hope you enjoy!

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and casually leaning against the doorframe. A bored expression planted on his face as he watched you dump your dirty laundry out of your go-bag and begin to shove clean clothes inside.

You huffed, slamming a dresser drawer shut as you shoved socks into your otherwise empty duffle, “I’m going to stay with JJ tonight.” Avoiding his gaze, you proceeded to pack away your underwear—four pairs for an overnight trip.

Slowly, he meandered over to the bed, sitting on the ledge and watching you, “I think we should talk about this.” He told you, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“I agree,” you responded, checking your toiletry kit to ensure you had everything you needed to get through the next twenty-four hours—or more if the team got called off on a new case while you were with your sister.

Spencer frowned at your response, “You agree, but you’re still packing to leave.” He turned his head to follow you as you floated around the room, tossing miscellaneous clothes in your bag.

Nodding, you zipped your go-bag shut, buttoning an additional closure before turning back to face Spencer. “You’re angry with me, and I think we could have a more productive conversation with each other tomorrow after you sleep on it.”

“And I think we need to get our thoughts out now before it turns into a bigger issue. Internalizing emotions like you’re suggesting isn’t healthy,” Spencer challenged, following you as you walked to the front door, setting your bag on the console before searching around for the right pair of shoes. “And now you’re just walking out,” he griped, gesturing over to the shoe rack.

Your head snapped up at that remark, “Hey, I am not just ‘walking out.’” Your gaze narrowed at him as you nearly stumbled over your own feet.

The knot between his brows loosened at your expression, and for a moment, you weren’t in the midst of a disagreement. For a moment, the two of you were two kids who had been walked out on. “No,” Spencer said, his voice softer than it had just been, “You’re right. That was a poor choice of words and I’m sorry.”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you paused your efforts to leave the apartment and took a deep breath. “I made a split-second decision, and it ended up saving a little girl’s life. I don’t regret it, but I do regret the way it scared you.”

Spencer kept a firm distance from you, even if you reached out an arm, you wouldn’t be able to touch him. “You should have listened to Hotch; there’s no reason that you should’ve done… that.”

“You weren’t there, Spencer! If you had seen the way he was holding that gun to her temple… if you had heard the way she was crying out for her mom, then maybe you’d understand why I took her place,” you told him, shifting uncomfortably on your feet.

Spencer groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, “There had to have been another option, Y/N.”

Maybe there was, but part of your FBI training had been on making snap decisions, and this was just another example. “So, you think I should’ve let him keep that gun to the little girl’s head?”

“No,” Spencer answered, dragging out his vowel. “I just would have rather not seen a gun to my girlfriend’s head instead.”

You halted, eyes widening in alarm as you shifted to a newfound frustration, “Right,” you sniped, “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His eyes flashed with recognition, and you knew that he was well aware of what you were referring to. Last month when he had his face off with Cat Adams, leading to her pointing a gun at his head while he proceeded to egg her on. You’d given him a mouthful the next day, and you weren’t afraid to do it again, “That was a completely different set of circumstances.”

Cocking your head to the side, your nostrils flared, “Was it?” You ask sardonically, “A serial killer pointing a loaded gun to your head sounds pretty fucking similar to me!”

“At least I stayed to talk to you about it instead of running away,” he snapped, both of you escalating in the ways you knew how. You raised your voice while he resorted to the cutting edge in his voice.

You held your hands out to your sides helplessly, “Do I need to put in for a transfer or something? Is this that big of an issue to you?” You could barely stomach the idea of leaving the BAU, but at this point, losing Spencer would be worse than joining a new department.

“No,” he answered instantly, “The problem here is that you don’t think before you act.”

You held up your hand, “I think before everything I do, and I’m sorry that my synapses don’t fire a million times a minute, and I can’t calculate the probability of every outcome beforehand, but I did the best I fucking could with the time I was given.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows curiously, “The best you could? A Glock to your temple was the best you could do?”

“Fuck you! Why don’t you have any trust in my abilities in the field? Why do you all of a sudden do you think I can’t do my job?” You demanded, chest rising and falling with anger as you glared across the room at him.

Spencer flinched at the accusation, the idea that he was just as bad as all of the people who assumed you only got your job because of your sister—the kind of people Spencer used to defend you from. “I didn’t… you’re perfectly capable—”

“But not good enough for the BAU? Not good enough to be a profiler, surely,” You interrupted him. “You know what I think, Spencer? I think you’re scared. I think seeing a gun to my head frightened you, and you’re taking it out on me because I’m the only vessel that you can snipe at and know they won’t leave you entirely.”

His posture changed then, leaning against the back of the couch as he absorbed your words, “You’re an incredible profiler, honey. The team is lucky to have you, you know that.”

Your shoulders slumped forward in response, “Then why the hostility? Why did you snap at me in front of everyone as soon as you found out the gun wasn’t loaded?” You took your bottom lip between your teeth as you studied his facial expressions for an answer. When you offered to take the little girl’s place, you were under the impression that the gun was loaded, and when the rest of the team caught up with you, they were under the same guise.

It wasn’t revealed that the chamber was empty until JJ made the shot that took out the UnSub, and Spencer had been all over you with worry one moment and wanted nothing to do with you the next.

“Did you feel like your worry wasn’t warranted?” You asked when he remained silent, “Like it was a waste of emotion when I wasn’t in any real danger?”

Spencer shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest self-consciously as you forced him to look at his behavior objectively, “You were always in danger, Y/N. The way he was watching you, the grip that he had on you…”

The UnSub gripped your hip so fiercely that he had almost taken you down with him when he was shot, and you wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises marring your skin when you changed out of your work clothes. “I saved that little girl, Spence. That’s the deal, right? ‘I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.’” You quoted your oath to him, the same one he had taken, “At that moment, it was my duty to save that little girl. She went home to her parents today because of me.”

“You’re right,” he said, any evidence of malice washed from his tone. “You were incredible. You were fearless, and it scared the shit out of me,” he told you. “I—” he faltered, “I’m sorry,” he said, approaching you the way you would a wounded animal.

You shook your head when he held out his hands for you, leaving your arms stiffly at your sides and shaking your head, “No, Spence.”

Despite your protests, he pulled you into an embrace anyway; your body was resistant to him, the way his warm arms wrapped around you and pulled you flush against his body. “Please don’t go,” he whispered. “Be mad at me, make me sleep on the couch, but please don’t leave,” he murmured.

Your cheek was pressed against his chest, the wool lapel of his suit jacket scratching against your skin as tears flooded your field of vision. As much as you wanted to resist, this was Spencer. Instinctively, you nuzzled your face into his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist and taking a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to lose you,” he told you.

Fear of loss. Spencer had been terrified to see a gun to your head, but the thought of having to watch you leave the apartment you shared in order to get away from him was petrifying. “I have to call my sister,” you told him, your voice muffled by his jacket.

One hand was on your waist, the other on the back of your head, fingers threaded into your hair, “Why?”

“To let her know I’m not coming,” you muttered. “She’ll worry, and it seems I’ve caused enough of that today,” you told him, appreciating the heat that emanated from Spencer as he looped his arms around you, holding you tightly as if that’s all he’d ever needed.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #written by margot #jareau!reader

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girlkisserjeanie · 29 days ago

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being on the phone with your masc/stud/butch partner and your ears suddenly pick up on the swish of something moving repeatedly against a bedsheet, huffing breaths, and stifled, choked back groans on the other end of the line... it makes you pause your rant about that one annoying coworker who always seems to be the topic of your on-call catchups with them these days.

you ask "hey, are you alright baby?" only to hear a beat of silence before they groan out "yesjustpleasekeeptalkingfuck-" and then its clear; poor thing got so worked up hearing the sleepy lilt of your voice they just couldn't help but get themself off to you over the phone as they listened to you yap on about your day.

and you think to yourself 'why let them have all the fun?' before immediately picking up the phone (that was sat locked on the pillow next to your head intended to stay like that all night while you slept on the phone together, mind you) and pressing the button to facetime.

what greets you when they accept the facetime request is definitely a sight for sore eyes:

they're naked. at least from the chest up which is as far as you can see from the angle they've got the phone held at, camera slightly shaking from the efforts of their other arm which is clearly hard at work if the rapid shifting of their right shoulder is any indication. what's going on below their waist isn't shown, but it doesn't take a genius to figure it out and you're already getting wet at the thought of it.

their bottom lip (which looks like it's been bitten near raw from their attempts to hold back their moans this whole time) is clamped behind their top row of teeth and their eyes are hazy, shifting rapidly across the screen of their phone as they drink in the sight of you all cozy in your blankets and hair bed-ruffled.

their chest heaves as another choked back groan attempts to punch its way out of their throat -- a raw, primal reaction to the mere sight of you. you weren't even trying to appear sexy (or sound sexy on the call prior to, for that matter)! apparently just your presence alone was enough to get them humping their hand, hips bucking beyond their control as they chased their release.

"holy shit you look so fucking hot baby" they mutter, eyes rolling slightly back into their skull as their shoulder shifts even faster and their movements become more rapid and desperate. "that pretty face is gonna make me cum."

and as much as you'd like to drag this out, make them wait as you slipped your own hand into your panties so you could cum together, it's obvious that they'd been at it for a while.. it turned you on even more to know that while you were innocent and ignorant, chatting on about the happenings of your day, their hand was shoved into their underwear as they got themself off to the sound your voice.

"yeah? you tease, and it's almost mockingly said. "is my baby going to cum just from the sight of me? i haven't even done anything!" you can admit there's an intentional tone to your words; you're egging them on, knowing the slight hints of degradation is what they want when they're feeling particularly needy like this, even if they're too proud to admit it.

it sparks a sharp blossom of shame that they can practically feel in their chest, their cheeks burning as they nod frantically. "fuck yes... yeah.. hah-" they're panting now, "yeah i'msoclosebabyplease-" their words begin to slur together as they hurdle closer to the edge

"mmmmfff-" you can't help but let out a moan in response to that, your own thighs pressing together for some sort of relief. they really must've worked themselves up if they're begging like that and it turns you on. "that's it, love. cum for me" you soothe.

they seem to momentarily forget themselves, letting out an uncharacteristically high-pitched whimper that thins out into silence for one.....two.....three beats as they dangle on the edge,

and then their orgasm slams into them like a freight train.

a gritted and groaned out "fuuuuuuuck" is heard and their eyes go unfocused, mouth hanging open as they work themselves through it, that ever-shifting right shoulder finally going still while their hips take over, grinding hard into their own palm.

you wait patiently, watching the camera tilt and shake during the come-down process, your hand skimming over your chest and trailing past your tummy to reach and push your panties down and off.

and you're delighted to see that lazy, post-orgasmic grin slide clean off their face only to be replaced with a heated, lustful gaze when you angle your phone right in front of your pussy, delicately spreading yourself open with the fingers of your other hand.

"it's my turn now, baby."

reblogs always appreciated 18+ wlw only! men and minors dni. you will be blocked.

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taradactyls · 17 days ago

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It's thinking about Darcy desperately yearning running into Elizabeth at Pemberley hours.

Like, you fell in love with this woman, but rationally (pridefully) you though it wasn't something you should pursue. But you can't forget her, and then she's at Rosings... and the more you see her - with her wit, her eyes, the liveliness of her mind - the more she undoes every expectation of who you should marry that you'd ever had. You prolong your trip to see more of her, you start imagining what it will be like married to her and unwisely after only seeing her again for a week begin asking how she'd feel living far away from Longbourn, and even hint things like she'd be staying at Rosings next time she visits Kent.

It's too much. You're feeling too much.

She's due to visit for tea the night before you take leave, and an evening gives far more opportunity for privacy and conversation than sitting in Mrs Collins' drawing room for half an hour the next day.

But she doesn't come, she's feeling ill, and you won't see her. If you don't make an effort, you might never see her again. It's not like Bingley will be going back to Netherfield anytime soon, after all.

You bail on the evening and go check if she's ok.

It's late, but you have to see her.

She's not super friendly when answering your questions about whether she's feeling better, yet that's to be expected when someone has a headache. But she's there, sitting with you quietly, and then you're so agitated that you begin pacing.

It's inescapable. You love her too much.

You'll marry her, and deal with all the impropriety of her family's connections and behaviour. She's worth it.

Because of course she'll say yes. You've been so open that she must be expecting your addresses. It doesn't occur to you that you're wrong to assume she's wishing for it.

Then she rejects you.

And she doesn't only reject you: she shatters your entire perception of self. Not immediately - oh, she creates a large crack, but it takes some time for you to do justice to her words. But they linger, inescapably.

"Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."

You're bitter, and angry, and hurt, and offended, and the sense of doubt isn't going away. But there is one thing you can do, that you have to do.

You write her a letter to explain yourself against the accusations she levied your way - some unjust, but others will eventually gnaw at you until you're forced to face them and stare directly at all the faults you didn't know you had.

You know it won't make her accept you.

The turn of her countenance you'll never forget, as she said that you could not have addressed her in any possible way that would induce her to accept you.

But you need to write the letter: to explain, to warn, and maybe - just maybe - make her think a little better of you.

If she even gives credit to anything you say.

She thinks so little of you she might dismiss your arguments and only hate you more for what you said of her family.

God, you basically insulted her family again in the letter. With an apology, yes, and as an explanation, but you knew at the time that those comments and what you divulged of Wickham would give her pain. But it's necessary. You still believe that, even as time goes on and you begin to wonder if all it achieved was making her hate you more.

The last time you saw her was as you handed her that letter.

She hadn't spoken.

You weren't yet master of your emotions enough to see her and be friendly, the best you could do was try be composed.

If only you'd been truly as calm and composed as you thought you were when you wrote that letter. You can see now that you wrote in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. There were some expressions you used, the opening of it, which alone would be enough to justify her hate. Though, despite your emotions, you never doubted for a moment in her goodness - never doubted that she won't spread around what you divulged of your sister.

She hates you, but all the reasons you love her are still there.

That's something that doesn't change as you slowly unravel the flaws her reproofs revealed to you and you try to become the person you always thought you were. So many behaviours, and the emotions that governed them, were not what they ought to be. Your principles were always good but you followed them in pride and conceit.

You were blind until she cut you to the quick. Opened your eyes to yourself and taught you such a hard lesson - but it was for the best. She properly humbled you and taught you how insufficient all your pretensions were to please a woman worthy of being pleased. Even if you never see her again you will be worthy of the title gentleman.

You will work to become the person you want to be.

Her rejection doesn't hurt so much as the knowledge that she was right and you failed yourself and so many others. Any anger or blame you felt for her words when refusing your hand are long since passed. If she had been able to overlook those flaws she wouldn't have been the woman you love.

The more you reflect and seek to rectify your behaviour the clearer it all becomes. In trying to understand yourself you realise that so many of these flaws have existed almost your whole life. And yet, despite how obvious it now seems, you had no idea.

Though your parents were good themselves they spoilt you - first as an only child, then as an only son - and you grew selfish and overbearing, caring only for your small family circle. Thinking meanly of the rest of the world, wanting to think meanly of their sense and worth compared to your own.

You owe the world so much better.

Your position, far from giving you leave to treat others as inconsequential, means you have a duty to think of others and ensure they are not wronged. Yes, you've done that broadly - especially on your estate, and always with servants and the poor - but what of in smaller ways, to those closer to your own rank? Have you directly treated them with civility and respect?

You know the answer now, but you're doing your best to fix it.

For almost four months, you ruminate on her words and turn yourself into a gentleman you can respect. Someone worthy of the respect you've so rarely had to actually earn. Someone who might've been worthy of her respect from the beginning.

You've never stopped loving her.

Almost four months, and you're not sure if you'll ever see her again.

You certainly weren't expecting to leave the stables after arriving at Pemberley and find her standing in front of your house.

Your eyes meet.

You freeze in place.

Four months of distance and then twenty yards away from each other.

She's blushing (so are you).

Your brain is too surprised to work.

She's here.

She's here and you're just standing there.

You have to go to her. Even if you didn't still love her, it's the polite and friendly thing to. (But you do still love her, and so her presence is a physical weight in your chest that you could scarce resist).

She had turned away briefly, but turns back when you approach.

You hardly know what you say, she hardly raises her eyes to meet yours, but you hear her voice, and she doesn't sound annoyed when she answers that her family is well.

Honestly, despite how discomposed you are by seeing her without time to prepare, your instinct is to stay by her. Even if it means speaking like a fool. You're pretty sure you ask her when she started travelling and how long she's been in Derbyshire at least thrice. But you start to recollect yourself, breathing a little more evenly, and run out of things to say. Remembering that she's here with friends and you've just come from the road, you take your leave.

Your thoughts stay with her though.

She was still just as lovely as ever. More civil to you than you have any claim to.

Your housekeeper says a gentleman and two ladies were taking a tour of the house, and have now gone with the gardener to see the accustomed part of the park. You know the place.

As your valet helps you change your thoughts solidify: you can meet them, and, through every civility in your power, show her that you aren't resentful of the past.

She's so close, and you can't lose this chance to perhaps obtain her forgiveness, lessen her ill opinion, by showing that her reproofs have been attended to.

And, maybe, you're just desperate for any excuse to see her.

By now, you've been in love with her for more than eight months, despite trying, really trying, to forget her both when you left Hertfordshire and Kent. It's pointless, either you'll recover in time or you'll spend the rest of your life in love with her. At this point you don't even want to fight it. Despite the pain of her not feeling the same way, she did you the greatest good anyone could, by showing you who you really were. You improved yourself because you should, without any expectation of seeing her again, but one thing that you can't alter about yourself is your love for her.

Right now, what matters is being near her and showing her you can be a real gentleman.

So, you follow her and her companions to the stream.

She speaks first this time. Putting herself forward to be friendly and polite. Proof, surely, that she doesn't hate you so much anymore? She's almost her usual smiling self, though she goes red and silent while admiring Pemberley's beauty.

You can understand why - you had determined to not ask whether she liked your home in case it sounded like you were wondering whether she regretted rejecting you and thus Pemberley. You know she didn't mean anything by her praise (and she'd known you were rich when she turned you down) but you understand her sudden embarrassment.

Although... when did she start caring that you might misunderstand her and think badly of her? She didn't care the last time you met.

But that's not important now. It's for you to ease the conversation and prove yourself. So you change the subject, and ask her to do the honour of introducing you to her friends.

Her surprise is obvious, and fair. Seeking the acquaintance of strangers, even respectable-looking ones, just wasn't something you used to do regardless of what the well-bred and civil action was.

And what does it say about you - with all your newfound respect and civility - that you're still surprised when the fashionable couple she's with turn out to be the very aunt and uncle you'd previously declared would be a disgraceful connection. You recognised you were wrong to be so dismissive, so rude, but the core assumption that the tradesman brother of Mrs Bennet and his wife must be noticeably vulgar had clearly remained. Yet here they were, everything elegant and well-bred.

How right Elizabeth had been about you.

But now you can show her that was the past, and your manners are improved and prejudices lessened.

You walk back with them, talking to the uncle, who has intelligence, taste, and sense. You like him a surprising amount. He points out trout in the water, and you're glad to invite him to fish here while they stay in the area. You have all the supplies he might need, and know the best spots. As you speak with him your attention is only half distracted by who walks behind you at a short distance.

Hopefully her uncle's happiness makes her happy also.

You have the chance to see, when the walking arrangements change and then she's the one walking beside you.

Honestly, you're not immediately sure what to say, but again, she speaks first.

Yes, she almost certainly doesn't hate you anymore.

Her explanation that she'd been assured of your absence before visiting sounds more like she doesn't want you to think her rude, than expressing disappointment that you are here.

Yes, whatever her past insults, she definitely cares that you don't think badly of her...

As though you ever could.

In mentioning why you returned a day early you mention who you're with, and too late saying Bingley's name reminds you that the last time you two spoke of him was when she (rightfully) blamed you for separating Bingley and her sister.

That silences you for a moment - but she doesn't respond with anger.

Composing yourself, you ask if your sister might be introduced to her. You've spoken of Elizabeth so highly to Georgiana, and so often, that your sister would love to meet her. You don't need to ask - your sister is the social superior, her wishing for the acquaintance is strictly enough for the introduction to be made - but you want to. You mean it, when you ask Elizabeth whether you're asking too much by facilitating the introduction. You want her to have the chance to say no.

But she says yes.

(Even sounding pleased about it, though surprised.)

Which is also a yes to seeing you again during her stay at Lambton. Renewing your acquaintance, despite everything.

The happiness, however irrational, this creates cannot be quelled.

You love her too dearly to not appreciate every fragile overture and sign that she must no longer think you so bad. The letter - your own improved civility - one or both has done away with her dislike.

Replaced it with... well, anything other than dislike is a place to begin.

This time the silence stretches as you walk; she, perhaps, just as lost in thought as yourself.

You could get used to walking around Pemberley with her.

A dangerous thought.

You scarce know what to say as you wait by the carriage for her aunt and uncle to catch up, after she declared herself not tired when you asked if she wanted to come into the house. But, again, she makes the effort to talk to you. You've never spoken of Matlock or Dovedale so persistently, but you want to keep talking to her - hearing her voice - receiving her smiles - for every moment that you can steal.

Four months apart and then the first day seeing her again your heart loves her more than ever before.

And she no longer hates you.

You would have them all come inside, take refreshment, stay, please stay a little longer, but they felt it was time to return to the inn. They're leaving, but you've already organised to bring your sister to see her the day after tomorrow, so it's only a short parting.

Not another four months.

You hand her aunt up into the carriage - and then Elizabeth.

Who is dearest and loveliest to you still, though you might never be able to say those words to her.

You're so aware of feeling her hand in yours, though gloved; the weight and warmth of it. The brief tightening of her fingers on yours as she takes the step up, leaving you bereft when she lets go.

You don't watch them drive away, though you feel her absence palpably as you slowly walk back to the house.

But it's only two days - two days before you'll see her again.

And they're staying for a little while.

All of it is more chances to show her the person you are now. Both the good qualities you never properly revealed before, and the newer ones deliberately acquired to remedy the errors she revealed. Show her you're a man she might admire.

Perhaps a man she might one day be able to love.

It's almost embarrassing, to admit how quickly that wish introduced itself after seeing Elizabeth again.

It probably took under half an hour after you saw her again.

#you ever get consumed with the *yearning* and just need to ramble about it? Because I do.#exploring yearning is a passion of mine as anyone who's read my fanfic will know lol #and ah I've done it again I've written a lot when I wanted to write something brief #my curse #it's the amount of pining from the unrequited love we can read into Darcy's pov that's to blame #p.s. So many of Darcy's lines of his self reflections (we get so little!) live rent free in my head can you tell #(also remembered after posting this that he didn't plan with Liz to bring Georgiana in two days she assumed with Mrs Gardiner whoops)#pride and prejudice #jane austen #elizabeth bennet #fitzwilliam darcy #mr darcy #elizabeth x darcy #darcy x elizabeth #fanfiction #austen opinions #mine

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athousandbyeol · 4 months ago

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never7enough · 1 year ago

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„Wissen Sie was das aller Schlimmste ist?“

„Nicht zu wissen, wo man in dieser Welt hingehört. Nicht zu wissen, warum man hier ist. Das ist ein furchtbares Gefühl.“

Unbreakable

#depri #depressiv #ich hasse alles an mir #ich hasse mein leben #ich will nur noch weinen #ich will aufgeben #ich will das alles nicht mehr #self-written

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strangersteddierthings · 2 months ago

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Jealousy Looks Different On You

Title wonderfully suggested by @shoujo-wizard! Thanks so much because I was struggling to title this.

[Part One] ✨ [Part Two] ✨ [You Are Here] ✨ [Final Part]

It is not often in Eddie's life that he's left without words. So rare it is that Eddie can remember them all and tally them on one hand.

The first was when his mom died. He was so at a loss for words that he didn't speak for over a month, too lost in grief. And looking back on it older and wiser, a little bit was him knowing that it wouldn't have mattered if he'd spoke, his dad wasn't around to answer.

The second was when Wayne got The Call from his dad, when Wayne had to tell Eddie that he was going to be moving in with him permanently. That his dad wasn't coming back 'round for a long time.

The third was the first time a guy kissed him. Eddie was eighteen and had just learned he wasn't going to graduate the first time. He'd gone to Indy, ending up in gay bar that clocked his fake ID and wouldn't sell him alcohol but did let him in so he could be surrounded by other queers for the first time in his life. Eddie'd ended up in conversation with a guy old enough to drink and when he'd kissed Eddie there were no words, just a surprised gasp and then more kissing.

The fourth time (and this one is arguable due to him being in shock) was when Steve, Dustin, Robin, and Max had found him in the boathouse. It had taken him a while to find his voice before he could answer Dustin and learn that monsters are real.

So, Eddie is not left speechless often. Eddie's usual response is to get defensive, loud, or angry. Sometimes (most times) all three. He'd been rapidly approaching loud and angry until Steve shut him up with a quick list of how exactly Eddie fucked up.

Fucked up before he'd even had a real chance.

God damn him and his stupid fucking mouth! If he could go back and slap 21-year-old him in the back of the head, he would. He'd smack him good and then grab his shoulders and shaking him while screaming for him to shut up shut up shut up you are ruining your chances with Steve, and you don't even know it!

He can't go back, though. He can't unsay and unsay and unsay all the stupid, useless bullshit he's spewed over the years trying to throw Steve off course. Because that's what he was doing. Time and time again, finding guys who looked nothing like Steve to get his rocks off with, waxing lyrical about the ideal partner for him being as far from Steve as possible.

Eddie knows that's what he was doing because he stopped talking about it all so much when Steve, quiet and hesitant and shy for the first time ever since Eddie's known him, had come out to him. He wouldn't make eye contact, instead telling the wall behind Eddie 'I, uh, I've been learning new things every day, living here with you and Robin, and I. I, uh, I've learned new things about myself, too. Things that I think were... were always there but I was scared to look at for too long. But, um, because of you and Robin, I don't think I'm scared anymore,' and then Steve looked him right in the eye and said, 'I'm queer, too. I like girls, still, but also guys.'

God. Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck, that should have given it away! That Steve, nervous and fucking shy had made eye contact with him to come out. Like it was important that Eddie hear it and know it. And Eddie...

Jesus fuck, all his stupid, idiot, dumb-as-fuck past self had done was nod and say 'cool' before promptly changing the subject. At the time, Eddie had written off the look on Steve's face as Eddie bombing the Supportive Friend Response but now he sees it clearly for what it was.

Is.

Eddie breaking Steve's heart for the first time. Instead of giving any indication of liking Steve, Eddie'd all but solidified to him how disinterested Steve already thought Eddie was. Steve had said 'I like girls, still, but also guys' and only now can Eddie see that Steve meant 'I like girls, still, but also you.'

Eddie can see it all with this new knowledge adding perspective. Eddie had dug his own grave trying to hide how in love with Steve he was that he dug too far. So far that it worked. Why would Steve bother to tell Eddie he loved him when all Eddie had done was tattoo a clear and plain 'You aren't what I want and never will be' right across Steve's heart.

And now...

Now Eddie's sitting on a couch that used to be theirs. Could still be theirs if Eddie wasn't such a fucking coward all those years ago.

Instead, what is really happening is he's sitting on Steve's couch, crying silently, as he mourns what they could have been, should have been. And Steve's still standing before him, looking all the more uncertain and worried the longer Eddie's silent.

It takes all of Eddie's willpower to open his mouth and force out words. "I'm so fucking sorry, Steve. I-I'm so sorry."

Steve's brows scrunch, the space between them furrowing, and Eddie is struck with the same desire he always has when Steve's face does that. He wants to reach out and sooth it with his thumb, kiss it away.

"I should have- should've been more honest," Eddie says and his words feel as hollow as the tone of his voice. "You're right. I should have said something. Shit, I've basically spent our entire friendship sprouting lies so you wouldn't see the truth and it's fucked it all up."

Steve frowns at him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides but he doesn't speak. In fact, he hasn't said much at all. His one rant was short but succinct and even though Eddie wants to hear his voice, wants Steve to sooth his guilt by accepting Eddie's apology, he knows it's too soon.

How can he possibly expect Steve to tell him he's forgiven when he's been unintentionally hurting him for at least five years?

Eddie looks down to his shoes and finally finds the strength to lift his hands, to wipe away the tears that streak down his cheeks. He shoves the heel of his palms into his eyes, taking a deep breath in and letting his hands drop as he breaths out. Once he feels a bit more put together, he looks back up at Steve, who is still standing awkwardly in his own living room, looking unsure.

"Have I been... hurting you this whole time?" Eddie asks, even though he's sure of the answer and hates himself for it.

"Yes," Steve says slowly, "and no. It's not that simple. I knew I wasn't what you wanted, it's not like you... strung me along or promised me anything. I hurt myself wanting you, but I couldn't stop."

Eddie lets out a whimpering sound. "No! Don't you get it? That's not- Steve, you are the one I wanted, want, more than anything else."

Steve's face twists again, angry and hurt.

Eddie rushes to continue. "I know it doesn't seem like it. I know. Because I hid it, Steve. I hid it so well that you believed the lies. That you believe what I wanted was everything you," Eddie's throat fills thick and it's hard to speak but he has to say the words, even though he hates the thought; hates that Steve thought it, "was everything you weren't and that's a lie."

Steve scoffs, a quiet and angry thing. "I don't know if you remember but we lived in this apartment together for eight years. Eight years of having to hear just how much you wanted whatever the guy of the week was giving you. These walls are thin."

Eddie does remember. Of course he does. The glares Robin would shoot him for disrupting her sleep and how Steve would rib him about having a fun night. He also remembers the change that came once Steve had come out to them. How Robin's glares turned from annoyance to actual anger. How Steve stopped teasing him and never met his eye the mornings after.

"I do enjoy kink," Eddie clarifies, because it's true, "particularly BDSM. But Steve, please, you have to believe me. I'd give it all up if it meant having you."

Steve sighs, like Eddie's said the exact thing he thought he would and wishes he hadn't. "I believe that you believe that."

God, Eddie's really, really, fucked this up. "I do believe that! What is all of, of that," he waves his hand in the air, a need to move something but unable to stand from the couch that could have still been theirs, "compared to you? The person I trust more than anyone else in the world? The person I'll never have to hide the occasional nightmare from because you already understand? Who knows all there is to know about me and still-" he skips over his words here, fearful that the truth might have changed between the bar and here, "-still loves me anyway?"

He watches Steve' Adams apple bob as he swallows before speaking. "I'll always love you, Eddie. That will never be the issue. It's just... what if love's not enough?"

And now, Eddie pleads, "but what if it is?"

For the timeline here, since I know have decided on one is this: Season 4 happened but Eddie lived and was cleared of charges but still had to get outta Hawkins ASAP. Steve, Robin, and Eddie shared an apartment in Chicago while Robin when to college. Robin lived with them for the 4 years she was in college and then an additional two until she got a serious girlfriend and they moved in together. Steve and Eddie, now 26 and 27, continued to live together until Eddie and his new band finally got their break when Eddie was 29. Eddie moved to LA then at the request of the label and Steve's stayed in that original Chicago apartment since. Steve is currently 31 and Eddie is 32.

@xxbottlecapx @im-sam-fucking-winchester @novacorpsrecruit @thewickedkat @dreamy-jeans137 @everywherenothere @hangingupinthehallway @estrellami-1 @queenie-ofthe-void @dreamsteddie @acowardinmordor @steviesummer @kinryuuki @genderless-spoon @paperbackribs @steddiecameraroll @yesdangerpls @jackiethevampireslayer @skitchskatchbat @sani-86

#steddie #my fic #jealousy looks different on you #each part is getting longer and longer....#just like when i wrote Bad News First Eddie #anywhoooo this'll probably only have another part or two #also there isnt enough guilt and self-hatred here as i was planning because eddie just possessed me and suddenly i'd written 1500 words #but im not mad about it

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soggy-fishsticks · 4 months ago

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i can't imagine how everyone must feel after hearing them say "uhhh.... it's from our hometown!!!" as an excuse for something for the millionth time LMAO 💀💀

#also in case it's not written well: lqg is saying “what is that?” lol #liu qingge #shang qinghua #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #cumplane #mxtx svsss #svsss fanart #svsss #mxtx #scum villian self saving system #animation #liushen

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harmonysanreads · 4 months ago

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I KNOW WE HAVEN’T KNOWN ANYTHING ABOUT PHAINON YET (except for that cute face and yummy booba) AND I ALREADY HAVE SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT HIM.

Okay okay imagine Yandere! Phainon who loves you and cherishes your existence too much to the brink of obsession (can you blame him?). Him, being a perfect man himself still thinks that he lacks something, and that something is your devotion, your unyielding love because he deserves it, right? He deserves to have your attention and your affection after everything he has done for you.

Oh no, dear Phainon is definitely not a selfish man, he just needs your love to complete himself, to have someone that he could return to after a hard day.

That’s why I think this man will definitely love bombing you. Gifts, kisses, cuddles? Everything you want, everything you ask for. And even if you don’t even need it, he still offers it to you like the desperate puppy he is. He will spoil you rotten, and I mean it in the most respectful way. He found your smallest quirks adorable even if it’s not that special in your eyes. He reminds you to stay dehydrated and go to sleep early, he even tells you to eat healthy. That’s why after knowing him, you have never skipped another meal. And he will definitely coo softly to you whenever you feel insecure about yourself. That’s why you need him, that’s why you should rely on him. And the only thing Phainon ask for as a payback is your love, love him like the way he does to you. Please please because you’re his pretty girl and he loves you too much to even think that this is not a mutual feeling.

Can you really say no to him? To that adorable face and those sparkling blue eyes that seem to go lovesick everytime they catch a glimpse of you?

It was the fifth time this month, or was it the sixth? You couldn't be bothered to keep count anymore, the absurdity of the situation pushing you closer to questioning reality.

“You do know that it's illegal to break into a person's house?” you manage to croak out, senses strained by sickness.

“Break into your house?” he pulls out a chair to sit, the bowl of whatever he'd brought with him finding its place on the table beside your bed.

The near-dumbfounded edge to his question makes you deadpan, “You're so humorous, even when you're sick. How is it trespassing when we're in love with each other?”

You feel your fingers clutching onto your bedsheets, did he even hear you? Can he hear himself? To that, your conscience answers with a firm no. He'll only acknowledge what will suit his fancy, anything else is but you being in a ‘phase of denial’.

“I am not in love with you, how many times do I need to reiterate?” you stress, watching the twirl of the spoon as he stirs the contents in the bowl.

“Hush, I know you're just moody I didn't arrive sooner. I read it on that book you had on you on last Saturday. This is the part where I'm supposed to apologize and hold my ears, right—”

You release a heavy sigh.

You could not decide what begged the most concern : the fact that he doesn't see the problem in his behavior or how accustomed to it that you're getting.

A warm touch on your forehead startles you, another firmer grip on your arm stops you from moving away, “How are you still so energetic with this high a fever?” the candle atop the table flickers, a frown blemishes his face.

He leans in, you respond by increasing the distance. “I took medicine earlier.” you mutter, suddenly feeling like a guilty child.

“Did you? Good girl.” you don't need to look at him to picture the shine clinging at the corners of his lips. You shouldn't look at him for it'll reveal the barely held back cringe spreading across your face.

You're about to protest but a wave of dizziness halts you. Phainon notices the change, you find yourself wishing he wasn't so observant.

“But you haven't eaten, have you?” his hands act too familiar, too comfortable in touching you. You're forced to inhale as he cups your face in inspection, pretending it's for work — but you know, his greed extends too far for it to be anything but an excuse.

“I did eat.” you try to assert, he remains unconvinced.

“Are you still mad at me? If so, say it, I can apologize however you'd prefer. But please don't lie to me about matters that concern your health.” a squeeze to your cheeks, shadows fall on him.

You almost want to laugh at the worry in his eyes, at the way he behaves so much like a perfect lover. If you hadn't known better, the haze clouding your sense would've made you believe him, buy that he's being sincere.

Unfortunately for him and fortunately for you, you're just a bit more distrustful than others, just a bit more cautious than he's giving you credit for — a bit too lucid to have faith in his ‘love’ narrative.

You purse your lips, you are mad at him ; just not in the way he's deluding himself to be. As you contemplate whether to snap at him or not, he releases his grip on you in favor of scooping a spoon of the contents in the bowl, ending his path before your lips.

You turn you head away, a clear rejection. You expect him to probe again but his sigh catches you off-guard.

His finger wraps around a lock of your hair, yearning stains his eyes. “This would've never happened if you just accepted to be mine.”

You soak in his words for a second. Your left eye twitches as you realize, he completely ignored every previous piece of dialogue for his agenda.

“In your dreams.” petulance coats the statement.

To your horror, Phainon easily brings the lock of your hair to his lips, his smile widening as if he's got you exactly where he desires.

“How did you know? I do dream of you, everyday.” sparkles float around the air of his face.

You find yourself grasping at straws, how does one wake up a man who pretends to sleep? A voice in your head interjects, perhaps it is for the best you cease these attempts altogether?

“Now, won't you continue to be a sweet girl and eat up?” his words are honey, his smile is blinding and oh so dreadfully, there is adoration in his face, in his every step.

It has alarm bells ringing in your head, because it doesn't make sense.

“No.” you sharply deny, pushing the spoon away again.

“Why not?” you notice just at the nick of time, there is an edge to his voice this time. A crack forming in that perfect face.

“Because I don't trust you. What if you mixed something weird in it?” that is an understatement, your distrust for the man stretches further than the food he offers.

The elders always say, if something is too good to be true, it is too good to be true. ‘Love’ is not reason enough for you to believe Phainon's apparent devotion, his benevolence. No man would squander his time and resources only to back it up with such an easy reasoning — at least, not a man like him. Even if he says it till your ears bleed — you will not believe him.

The Chrysos Heir's hum interrupts the silence, “Then, if I do this...”

Your quizzical gaze falls on him, he holds your stare and you feel a kick at your ribcage. Struggling is useless, but you try anyway ; if just to be petty, if just to drive your point across, if just to survive. He squashes your attempt with an insultingly easy grip, showing you exactly how futile it is.

His thumb parts your lips with an insistent press, joining his pointer finger in holding your mouth open next. Your nails scratch at his glove in a pitiful attempt at getting him away, his free hand holds them both captive.

His parted lips shrinking the distance is the last thing you see, before you close your eyes shut. You would breathe if your lungs hadn't given up, the increase of strength in Phainon's grip seizes you with fear, makes it feel as though your blood froze with dread. Your instincts stop kicking, accepting its place in the serpent's jaw.

You feel a sharp kick of spice on your tongue, washing through your parched throat. A force has you closing your mouth, holding it in place until the content has been swallowed.

You heave as if you reached the surface from an arduous dive at last, mind working overtime, trying to process what just took place.

A clink of the spoon as it's placed on the bowl startles you, Phainon closes his eyes, a smile nearly splits his face in two.

“That's more like it. See, it was delicious and perfectly free of questionable substances, no?”

Phainon's smile breaks into a chuckle at the astonished look on your face, you feel a twist somewhere inside at the way derision drips from its tune. But before you can observe further, you feel a swipe of his finger on your lower lip. You make the mistake of glancing at him and he utilizes your mishap to make a show of licking the residue from your lips clean.

If you were skeptical about it before, you are certain now — this man will be your doom.

SIKE.

#keep talking anon you're cooking 🔥#i.. may have lost my self-control with this one LOL #phainon #yandere phainon #yandere phainon x reader #phainon x reader #phainon x female reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere imagines #anon writing #written before 3.0

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