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recareels · 7 months ago

Text

compulsive consumption

character: sunday warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, messy sleepy sex, dubcon at the start (somnophilia), extremely codependent relationship, a hint of a daddy kink, size kink/size difference, a lil bit of blood, overstimulation, creampie words: 2.3k

notes: maisie said exhausted almost asleep sex with sunday and somehow, this is what transpired

It’s become a ritual at this point; something special, something sacred, a ceremony you ardently anticipate each and every night, a sumptuous way to conclude the day and enter into sleep.

Because Sunday’s work day is long, tiring and tedious, and too often are there instances where you don’t see him at all—not a flash of silver-blue hair, nor a glimpse of ivory feathers—during your waking hours.

But he always comes back to you in the deep of night, after the moon as passed its highest point in the sky, after you’ve slipped into a fitful dreamland, incomplete without its master.

This you can be sure of. This you can expect eternally, always.

He’s dead on his feet by the time he returns to the sanctuary of your shared bed, linen steeped in your scent, engulfing him in a sweet embrace the moment he burrows between the sheets.

But it’ll never compare to the real thing.

Large hands snake through the fabric, navigating it expertly, as they’ve done every single night before, as they’ll do every single night after.

You’re wearing one of those lace-trimmed silk babydolls that he loves so much, shimmery material pooling around his wrists in bunched waves as eager palms slip beneath the garment. Lithe fingers curl around your hips, nails nipping the skin in a way that’s almost tender, embedding themselves in your flesh as Sunday anchors a good grasp.

No panties—good girl.

Then he’s tugging you toward him, your limp body obeying easily, a soft noise vibrating deep in your throat. Little hands grope instinctually at the air, clawing at nothing in search for him, before you roll toward his heat, a moth to a flame, a bee to honey, an addict to their fix.

Instinctual, automatic, right.

“Sunny?”

“I’m here, darling,” he nuzzles into your cheek, ribcage expanding against your torso as he inhales, deep and hungry. A slow exhale follows, as if he’s savouring the scent, intertwined with a soft hum. “I’m here.”

No other words are spoken as he shoves at his waistband, freeing his incessantly aching cock, one palm splayed on the mattress by your shoulder, keeping him precariously hovering above you, the other curling around the base of his cock, squeezing twice.

He’s been thinking about this. He’s always thinking about this.

It’s an insatiable craving that inevitably (and predictably) begins to flare up a few hours before it’s time for him to retire; an unbearable itch birthed behind his sternum, clawing at his heart, growing, spreading, infecting each limb and organ as time ticks by so that it has enveloped his entire form in torrid yearning for you the moment he’s off the clock.

The blood in his veins prickles, surges with each step that carries him closer to his lover, almost as if it’s attempting to escape, becoming fervent at the thought of being close to you.

The only reprieve to be found is when he sinks into your sweet cunt—ill-prepared, Sunday’s desperation casting a dense haze of lust over his brain; a sick pressure pressing against the walls of his skull, rendering logic incoherent and unnecessary, reducing him to something primal and salivating.

Delicate skin stretches, strains, splits as your body opens itself up for his cock, a soft hiss inhaled through the gaps of your teeth, jaw clenching with the action.

“I know, I know, I’m almost in,” he soothes, voice already gone hoarse from the way your body swallows him down, cunt gorging itself on his cock, cute little hole fluttering around his shaft as he bottoms out, almost as if it’s striving to suck him in further, draw him in deeper.

Greedy little thing.

He always allows himself a moment to bask in the feeling—to bask in the warmth of your body wrapped around his in the most intimate, complete sense: cockhead pressed snuggly to your cervix, your thighs embracing either side of his hips, your ankles instinctually linking behind his back in a possessive grip, heels digging into the dimples cushioning the base of his spine as they try to push him in more.

A sigh decompresses his chest, his body draping itself over yours as all of the trials and tribulations of the day seep from his pores, your cunt an automatic remedy, an instant rhapsody.

You’re drooling all over him, he can feel it—eager slick that pools around the base of his cock and streams down to puddle in the folds of his balls. It’s awe-inspiring, the way your body immediately reacts to his own—you’ve already soaked him, neatly trimmed silver curls dewy and glistening as they sop up your slick, and he’s done nothing more than fill you up with his flesh.

A moan pries its way past his lips, an involuntary reaction, his hips grinding down into you, smearing your arousal across his skin in a thick glaze. It’s slippery, his pelvis gliding against your body with fluid ease, pubic bone rolling over your swollen clit in slow, hard motions.

You’re murmuring something, pleads wadded up between your molars, gurgling on the back of your tongue as you burrow your face into his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, sweet girl,” he’s pacifying, the mattress dipping as his knees dig into it, bare palms running along your thighs in a smooth, tender caress.

Nimble fingers hook behind your knees, gently unlatching your legs from around his waist and pushing them up, up, up, until your thighs are on either side of your torso and your heels are resting on his shoulders.

And then, he begins.

There’s no gradual build up, no anticipation or teasing—neither of you have the patience or restraint for that; not tonight, not ever—and his pace is ruthless right from the start, his thrusts kept quick and deep as his hips piston into you.

The harmony of wet, sticky slaps fills the room, intertwined with your little whines and his husky growls as his balls, thoroughly drenched in your essence, smack against your ass, a sordid metronome.

Sugar-stained breath wafts across your face in dense pants as his body shrouds yours again, crushing your thighs between heaving chests, the tops of your toes curling around the nape of his neck. The mattress dents further beneath his knees, strong muscles flexing as his rutting accelerates, the head of his cock grinding against your g-spot in harsh, shallow jabs.

His name oozes from your lips, thick and lazy and swathed in spit, bastardized by his motions into a single syllable, your tongue never quite able to get the word out. It sounds like you’re drowning in it, almost, a precious garble of Sun-Su-Da-ay collecting at the back of your throat, sliced to pieces by pleasure.

Lashes fluttering against drowsiness, your head raises off the pillow, yearning to string a smattering of sloppy kisses along his jawline. Sunday hums, head quirking to the side and presenting to you his stretched neck, a silent request for more.

And you obey, like the perfect little angel you are, tongue following the curve of his neck in one smooth, flat, fluid brush—from the hinge of his jaw to the protruding knob of his collarbone. It gleams in the dim light and you sigh a little, proud of your work. He looks so pretty painted in strokes of you.

Soft lips follow the path of saliva back up his throat, sealing yourself into his skin and giggling sleepily at the quivery little whine your motions evoke, Sunday nestling clumsily into your kiss.

Silver-blue tufts cling to his temples and his forehead, plastered with sweat into defined points, his sunset eyes gone dark and glimmering, framed by heavy lids drooping beneath the combined weight of exhaustion and ecstasy.

Despite the fatigue of the day, of his duties and obligations, he’s still absolutely ethereal, glowing in the radiance of your combined love, reinvigorated bit by bit with every sound he manages to tug from your throat—precious little moans and broken little gasps that he breathes in, gulps down, devours in time with the pumping of his hips.

They’re traded in exchange for sounds of his own, quiet whimpers and soft grunts exhaled onto your waiting, wanting tongue with every plunge of his cock. The appendage curls, hugging the sounds, melting them in the heat of your mouth and steeping your tastebuds with him before it darts back out again, tip lapping ravenously at his parted lips—tracing along his cupid’s bow, licking at the edges of his teeth, teasingly brushing the point of his own tongue, enticing it to come out and play.

That earns you a chuckle, something wispy and warm spilling down your throat, genuine amusement molding his mouth into an open grin.

He gives you what you want, tongue lolling out from between spit-slicked lips—an offering to you, and one you take gladly, greedily, suckling it into your scorching mouth to wreathe your own tongue around it in a slippery embrace.

A shudder ripples through his flesh, muscles seizing, and he whines low and needy in his throat, the only warning you get before he’s surging forward, front teeth clacking against your own, pinched lips splitting between sharp enamel.

Copper floods his mouth, tangy and pungent, but it does not deter him, his own tongue charging at yours with such force you nearly choke on it. You swear he’s attempting to lick down your throat, tongue jammed at the back of your mouth and sweeping across it, as if it’s desperate to venture deeper.

His breath his hot against your face, ragged pants exhaled through his nostrils beading on your cheeks and upper lip. The snapping of his hips has turned vicious, voracious, fucking into you in time with his tongue, stuffing you full from both ends.

It’s a divine sensation, being so filled up with Sunday—whole, right, one, like you were incomplete before this moment, and will be incomplete after he’s gone, something vital missing—and you keep trying to siphon him in further, throat constricting as it swallows around the tip of his tongue.

He wants to give you more, front lips mashed between sharp incisors as his mouth shoves forward, another spritz of blood—yours, his, doesn’t matter—smearing across chins, sticky and watered down with saliva, a pale pink glaze.

But his lungs are burning, huffs of breath tangling together within your conjoined mouths and scarfing down each other’s air, coughing around your lover’s exhales while oxygen slowly but steadily dissipates.

He breaks apart with a discontented whine of his own, clammy forehead resting against yours as you each gulp down air, stuttered and wheezing. Wrecked, raw little noises spill into the space between your lips, continuously shattering your attempted inhales, fucked from your chests with the wild bucking of his hips.

Rapture has been building within the both of you, brought closer and closer by each drive of his cock, each drag over that swollen spot deep within you, each teasing drift of your clit over his skin, his thrusts turned jerky and desperate as he chases that bliss, as he endeavours to deliver it to you.

“Please,” you’re begging for it, the one thing only he can give you, a single piece of heaven, of him, carved from his soul and gifted to you every night. “Please, Daddy, please, please—”

He’s nodding against you in short, swift motions, forehead grinding into your own, his tongue laving messily at your lips, as if attempting to sop up the remnants of your moans.

“I love you,” he manages to gasp out, rhythm never faltering, each ram into you harder and faster than the last. “I love you, I love you, I—a-ah—”

Hot cream fills your cunt suddenly, his cock throbbing almost viciously as it spurts endless loads of cum into you—so much, too much; your little womb can’t nearly take it all, stuffed and bulging before finally overflowing with his seed, thickly dribbling past the tight seal of his cock to gather in the ridges of the sheets, little rivers of silky white slowly seeping into crisp linen.

He always cums quick during these nightly rituals; you both do, too eager to have one another—a piece of one another—buried within you, or sheathing hard flesh and soaking into it, saturating it with your essence.

But it doesn’t stop there, because you can’t, because it is not and never will be quite enough to satisfy the ravenous craving you each harbour for one another. His hips don’t still, won’t still, not even after he’s emptied his balls into you and milked himself dry, jolting in erratic, juddering motions.

Your own pelvis rolls up in lazy ruts and sloppy circles, half-baked sounds of pleasure drivelling from the corner of your mouth with sleepy spit. Sunday has since collapsed on top of you, his weight pleasant and grounding, his breath a humid constant against your sticky skin. His palms outline the contours of your body as his hips rock, fingers sinking into plush flesh to knead and grope in appreciation. Delicate vessels snap beneath his grip, tissues flooded with navy and violet, leaving a smattering of fingerprints seared into your flesh.

You fuck until you’re both layered in sweat and slick, bodies gliding together effortlessly in smooth, wet movements, skin shimmering with one another beneath beams of silver. You fuck until your cunt is raw and puffy, chafed from the ceaseless rubbing, until you’re both sucking in hisses and jittering out strained whines from the shocks of overstimulation, routinely coursing through your frames in thick electric waves.

You fuck until you’re both too exhausted to continue, pathetic humping slowing to something tender and sporadic before it finally halts completely, Sunday still buried to the hilt, and you fall asleep stained with each other—you in his sweat and his breath and his fractured, hummed out moans; him in your cunt with evidence of your conjoined arousal glazing his pelvis and his thighs and his balls, sticky sweet like syrup.

It is the most blissful heaven either of you could ever dream of, nothing more pure than the ecstasy of entering sweet dreams submerged in one another, saturated with one another, bodies stitched together into a singular, perfect entity, breathing and being as one.

#sunday smut #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday x y/n #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #hsr sunday #inky.sunday

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romerona · 25 days ago

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The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max.

You had long understood that the world bowed before beauty, that men and women alike were drawn to it as moths to a flame. The great halls of court had taught you this lesson well—whispered it into your ear before you were old enough to truly grasp its weight.

You had seen it in your sister, in the way lords and ladies alike marvelled at her Valyrian splendour, at the silver of her hair and the striking violet of her eyes. They spoke of Rhaenyra in hushed, adoring tones, weaving tales of how she would one day sit upon the throne, not merely as a ruler but as a queen of legend, a vision of Old Valyria made flesh.

And you had seen it in yourself.

At first, there had been nothing of note, nothing remarkable. You had been but a child, young and unformed, another girl in the shadow of a much-adored princess. But as the years passed and maidenhood crept upon you, your reflection began to… shift. The glances that once passed over you without care began to linger.

You had blossomed into something resplendent, something the court could no longer dismiss with fleeting glances and half-hearted courtesies. The whispers that once surrounded Rhaenyra now turned to you, their tones shifting from admiration to reverence, to awe.

They called you lovely, the fairest flower in the gardens of Westeros, the jewel of the realm. The most beautiful maiden the Seven Kingdoms had seen in an age.

Some likened you to your mother—a woman you hardly remember, yet whose beauty had been spoken of as though it were myth, a thing of legend. Others, in hushed reverence, murmured of Queen Alysanne, your grandmother, claiming you bore her grace, her quiet warmth, the effortless charm that had once soothed even the most unruly of lords and bent the hearts of the realm to her will.

The nobles adored you, vying for your favor as though your mere glance could bestow fortune. The smallfolk, too, had not been untouched by your radiance; they sang of you in the streets, wove your name into songs, whispered prayers for just a glimpse of you.

Wherever you walked, eyes followed. Some were filled with admiration, others with longing. They laid their devotion before you like an offering at a sacred altar—on silver platters and bent knees, eager, breathless, desperate to bask in your favour.

And you… well, you embraced it, even if you didn't ask for it because why wouldn’t you?

It was nice to be admired, to be adored and It was a power in its own right. Not in the brute force of a warrior, nor the sharp cunning of a schemer. No, yours was a power far more delicate, It required no steel, no whispered plots in darkened corridors. It was effortless. Natural. Expected.

And in a place like Westeros, where power was everything, you had come to understand, even at a young age, that even this—even beauty, even admiration, even the weight of lingering gazes—was a power worth holding. A power necessary to survive if it was ever to come to it.

So you gave them what they wished to see.

A princess draped in the finest silks, the blush of soft colours kissing the fabric, golden embroidery catching in the light like spun sunlight. Your silver hair fell in perfect waves, untouched by the wind, each curl arranged just so. You spoke with a voice as sweet as honeyed wine, each word measured, each tone effortless. You let your dragon blood come out just at the right moment. You laughed in melodies, a sound as light as birdsong, and you smiled—a smile that held no sharp edges, no shadows, no sorrow.

Lovely.

Good.

Perfect.

You were the ideal princess. The dream. The fantasy. A creature of spun gold and sunshine, a vision too beautiful to be touched, too radiant to be real and they loved you for it.

Well—most of them.

Queen Alicent’s gaze was always careful, always measured. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes, and her words were always polished to civility but never warmth. She did not say she disliked you—no, she was far too shrewd for such carelessness—but you knew. You could feel it in the way she watched you, in the way her hands curled just slightly too tight around the arms of her chair when your father doted on you without doing anyhting but exist.

And then there was him.

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Ever the quiet spectre at her side, ever the patient strategist. He regarded you not with admiration nor disdain, but calculation, as though you were a chess piece yet to be moved, a weapon yet to be wielded. You could almost see the gears turning behind his gaze, the careful consideration of what you were—what you could be.

But the rest of the court? They worshipped the very ground you walked upon, their devotion woven into every glance, every whispered word, every offering of favour.

And why shouldn’t they?

You were beautiful. You were charming. You were everything they wanted you to be.

No one truly knew you, of course. No one tried to, no one except your sister, Rhaenyra.

With her, the mask slipped—you let yourself breathe. With her, you were not the realm’s jewel, not the golden girl the court placed upon a pedestal. You were just a girl. Just her sister.

In the quiet of her chambers, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the court, you could shed the weight of their expectations. You could lean into her warmth, rest your head against her shoulder, and let the exhaustion settle into your bones without fear of judgment or the need to meet expectations.

Rhaenyra’s chambers were warm, the heavy scent of lavender oil and burning candle wax thick in the air. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering bands of gold and amber across the stone walls. Shadows swayed with each movement of the flame, stretching and shrinking like silent spectres.

Seated before the mirror, you slowly ran a silver comb through your hair, the polished metal catching the firelight, glinting as it passed through each curl. The rhythmic strokes were soothing, an idle task as your thoughts drifted.

"The lists have been finalized," you mused, your eyes flicking to the reflection of your sister as she poured herself a goblet of deep red wine. "I heard Lord Tyrell’s oldest son is to ride this time. Apparently, he fancies himself a true knight."

Rhaenyra snorted, lounging carelessly on the chaise, one arm draped over its cushioned edge, her every movement one of effortless confidence.

"He fancies himself much," she drawled, taking a slow sip of wine before tilting her head in amusement. "But Leanor says he rides like a green boy fresh to the lists—clumsy, over-eager, more bluster than skill."

You giggled, setting down your comb, twisting to face her properly. "Poor boy. The Reach lords are always so desperate to prove themselves at court. What do you think Father will say if Ser Harwin competes?"

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra’s lips, the kind that spoke of secrets unshared.

"He won't say anything because Ser Harwin is the strongest knight in the realm," She leaned back with a sigh, swirling the wine in her goblet, watching the liquid catch the light. "Besides, he has no reason to forbid it. He is my sworn shield."

Her words were casual, but the glint in her eyes was anything but.

You rolled your eyes, amusement dancing behind them, but before you could reply, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.

"Enter," Rhaenyra called, already setting her goblet aside, her posture shifting ever so slightly—relaxed yet expectant, as though she already knew who had come to seek her.

The door creaked open, candlelight spilling onto the figures standing beyond it. Two maids stepped in, their hands cradling the most precious of burdens.

"Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, my princess," one of them announced, her voice gentle, reverent.

Your heart soared.

Jace, a chubby little thing, toddled inside with an eager grin, his dark curls bouncing as he rushed toward his mother, his small boots tapping hurriedly against the stone floor. Behind him, one of the maids cradled Luke, still but a babe, his plump cheeks kissed with warmth, his tiny features relaxed in that drowsy way of infants just waking. His dark lashes fluttered as he squirmed in the nursemaid’s arms, little fingers flexing, reaching for something unseen.

You did not hesitate.

With a delighted gasp, you all but flew from your seat, reaching Jace before he could reach Rhaenyra, sweeping him up into your embrace. He squealed in laughter, arms wrapping around your neck as you spun him ever so slightly, the movement drawing another burst of giggles from his tiny frame.

"Oh, my sweet prince!" you cooed, pressing a flurry of kisses against his rosy cheeks. "You are growing so big, aren’t you?"

"‘M big!" Jace declared proudly, puffing his chest out as he beamed at you.

"Oh, you are," you agreed solemnly, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you gave him another affectionate squeeze before setting him gently back on his feet.

Then, without pause, your gaze shifted, softening as you turned toward the maid who held Luke.

"Come here, my darling boy," you murmured, your hands already reaching, waiting.

The nursemaid, knowing well this was a ritual repeated many times over, carefully placed the babe into your arms. The moment his small form settled against you, warmth bloomed in your chest, a fierce, unspoken devotion unfurling in your ribcage.

Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his little hand curling instinctively into the fabric of your gown, his fingers gripping tight even in his half-waking state. His tiny head lolled against you, his warmth soaking into your skin.

“Oh, sweet darlings,” you cooed, rocking him gently. “My perfect little dragons.”

Rhaenyra watched you with fond amusement, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act as though they are your own.”

"They are mine," you said without hesitation, your voice as certain as the rising of the sun. You continued to run a soothing hand over Lucerys’s tiny back, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against you. "At least half mine. My sweet nephews, the only men in this kingdom worth my love."

Jace wiggled happily in your grasp, seemingly pleased with your declaration, his little chest puffing out as if he understood the weight of your words. Against your heart, Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of your gown.

Rhaenyra shook her head, though her smile did not fade. "One day, you will have babes of your own, and then we shall see how much you dote on them."

You scoffed lightly, shifting Jace in your hold with practised ease so that you had one boy in each arm, their warmth pressing into you like a shield against the chill of the stone chamber.

"Perhaps," you allowed, though your tone was airy, unconvinced. "But for now, these two will suffice."

Rhaenyra only hummed, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something knowing. But she said nothing more, merely watching as you held her sons as if they were your own.

Jace wriggled in your arms as you settled onto a cushioned seat, his small hands reaching curiously for the delicate braids woven into your silver hair. He toyed with them absentmindedly, tiny fingers tugging at the strands as if they were ribbons to unravel, but you barely noticed. Your attention remained on Luke, rocking him gently as he nestled further into your embrace, his warm little body moulding against you, utterly at peace.

"You know," you murmured, absently smoothing a hand over Jace’s unruly curls, "I loathe that we must attend this wretched tournament."

Rhaenyra snorted, lifting her goblet to her lips, her expression one of lazy amusement. "It is for our father’s name day. You should at least pretend to enjoy it."

"I enjoy the feast," you corrected, pressing a light kiss to Luke’s downy curls. "The food, the music, the dancing—those are far more tolerable than watching grown men knock each other senseless for the sake of posturing."

Rhaenyra hummed knowingly, swirling the deep red wine in her goblet. "And yet, half the men in the realm will be there, hoping to impress you."

You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion in an exaggerated display of suffering. "Gods spare me."

Rhaenyra only laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief over the rim of her cup. "You say that," she teased, "but I know you will preen under all the attention."

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart in mock offense, eyes widening as if she had struck you. "You wound me, sister. Am I so vain?"

Rhaenyra said nothing. She merely looked at you, one brow arched, the corners of her lips twitching as though she were barely restraining another laugh.

You huffed, shifting Luke slightly in your arms, adjusting the soft blanket draped over him.

"I simply think," you continued airily, "that if I must be subjected to endless praise, I might as well enjoy it."

"And enjoy it you shall," Rhaenyra mused, her voice laced with amusement. "Almost the entire realm will be in attendance. The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Velaryons, the Hightowers, the Martells, the Arryns... the Starks—"

At that, you let out an exaggerated gagging noise, rolling your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "No. You jest."

"I do not," Rhaenyra said, her smirk widening in clear delight at your suffering. "Lord Rickon has sent word—he and his son are to attend."

You groaned again, this time with true despair, letting your head fall back against the cushions as though the weight of such a revelation had physically weakened you. "Must I suffer him again? Have I not endured enough in this life?"

Rhaenyra laughed outright at that, the rich sound filling the chamber as she stood, moving to take Jace from your arms. "Come now, sister. It has been some time since you last saw him."

"And that has been my greatest blessing," you muttered, shifting Luke carefully in your arms before placing him in his cradle. You took a moment to tuck the soft blanket around him, ensuring he was snug and warm before straightening with a huff.

"Oh, do not be so dramatic."

You turned to Rhaenyra, utterly aghast. "Dramatic? Dramatic? Rhaenyra, do you not remember what he did to me?"

She smirked, the expression infuriatingly amused. "Do you mean when you got lost in the woods after he left you there?"

Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "You know, most sisters would take my side."

"I am merely pointing it out," she said airily, adjusting Jace on her hip, "After all, you did set his hair aflame and burned his eyebrow off."

You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I did not do it—Drakaryon did. But nonetheless, he deserved it." Your voice grew hot with indignation. "Leaving a princess alone in the Wolfswood—he’s lucky Drakaryon didn’t burn more than just his eyebrow."

Rhaenyra chuckled, utterly unbothered. "I suppose you could have called him back before the poor boy lost half his face."

"A mercy he had a face left at all," you muttered darkly, tilting your chin up. "And yet, I am the one forced to endure his presence again. It is an injustice."

"Truly, sister," Rhaenyra teased, her smirk deepening, "your suffering knows no bounds."

You huffed dramatically, flopping into the nearest chair with all the grace of a fallen maiden in some tragic tale.“I care not for Lord Cregan Stark, nor his miserable presence. I shall simply focus on the feast.”

“Ah, yes,” Rhaenyra mused, leaning back into her chaise. “And your new gown?”

That brightened your mood considerably. “Oh! You must see it, Rhaenyra,” you gushed, your distaste for the tournament momentarily forgotten. “It is to be the softest red, with golden embroidery, delicate like the petals of a summer rose.”

Rhaenyra smirked, swirling the last remnants of wine in her goblet. "You shall outshine the Queen herself."

You grinned, tilting your chin with an air of playful vanity. "That would not be difficult."

Rhaenyra shot you a pointed look, one that might have been a scolding if not for the unmistakable glint of amusement in her violet gaze.

Days later, you found yourself—albeit reluctantly—surrounded by lords and ladies, exchanging pleasantries, smiling sweetly, and accepting compliments as though it were your very purpose in life.

And Harrenhal had never felt quite so alive.

The great fortress, with its looming, blackened towers and sprawling grounds, had become a city unto itself, thrumming with the restless energy of nobles gathered from every corner of Westeros. The tournament had drawn them all—lords and ladies, knights and squires, banners billowing in the crisp autumn air, their house colours bold against the dull grey of the ancient stones.

Tents stretched across the fields like a sea of silk, each vying for attention, for prominence. Servants bustled about, tending to their lords' demands, polishing armour, securing horses, and whispering the latest courtly gossip. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and fresh bread, mingling with the sharp tang of steel and the ever-present smoke curling from the distant kitchens.

They had come, of course, to honour your father, to swear their fealty, to witness the grand spectacle of knights clashing in his name.

And yet, for as much as they had come for glory, for sport, for politics—there was another reason they had come, one unspoken but well-understood.

They have come for you too.

As the second, almost of age, unwed daughter of the King, you were a prize yet unclaimed, a jewel unspoken for. The lords of Westeros—young and old, bold and timid, gallant and grasping—had gathered not just for sport, not merely for glory, but for you.

And they were eager to impress, to court favour, to steal a glance, a word, a moment in your presence.

The courtyard was alive with the hum of noble voices, the lilt of music weaving through the air, and laughter bubbling like the fountains that dotted the castle grounds. Beyond the merriment, the distant clang of steel rang out as knights prepared for the coming tourney, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves echoing from the lists.

"Princess, you must tell me who crafted your gown," Lady Floris Baratheon gushed, her brown eyes wide with admiration as she took in every detail, from the fine embroidery to the glistening pearls that crowned your head. "I have never seen anything so perfectly suited to a lady."

You smiled warmly, tilting your head just so, allowing the sunlight to catch upon the subtle shimmer of your lilac eyes.

"It is the work of the seamstresses in the Red Keep," you said graciously, "though I am certain they would craft something just as lovely for you, my Lady."

The young Baratheon flushed at your words, her pleasure evident, as though you had placed a crown upon her own head. "You are too kind, Princess."

"Kind and wise beyond measure," Lord Owen Fossoway added from your other side, his green-and-red doublet bright beneath the midday sun. "A Princess of grace, beauty, and wit—gods help the poor man who dares to seek your favour, for he shall find himself utterly undone."

"Oh, nonsense, Lord Fossoway," you said, your voice smooth as honey, warm and effortlessly graceful. With a delicate wave of your hand, you dismissed the flattery with modest ease, though the glint in your eyes betrayed your amusement. "I only hope my presence brings some small joy to such a grand occasion."

While some were more subtle, lingering at the edges of your sight, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to catch your eye, others came with bold declarations—sons of great houses bowing low before you, offering pretty words rehearsed in their fathers’ halls. Even older gentlemen, seasoned lords with silvering hair and knowing smiles, felt compelled to voice their admiration as if their years granted them wisdom or rather an audacity to appreciate beauty more than the young.

"Princess," Lord Lannister purred, stepping forward with effortless confidence, his golden curls gleaming under the afternoon sun. He bowed deeply before you, his crimson-and-gold doublet tailored to perfection, a lion in both bearing and name. "Your beauty shines brighter than the tourney itself."

You smiled sweetly, tilting your chin just so, letting the sunlight dance across your features as if you had been sculpted for admiration. "How kind, my lord."

Beside him, his younger brother, not to be outdone, stepped forward with eagerness, his voice laced with the ambition of youth. ""You need not win a tournament favour—every knight here would gladly fall upon his sword for you, as I would too, Your Highness.

You regarded him with gentle amusement, your expression as measured as it was warm yet inside you were rolling your eyes. “Then let us pray none are so foolish. The tourney would be quite dull if they all perished on my account.”

Laughter rippled around the noble folks around you, the lords and ladies utterly enchanted.

You did enjoy being admired.

You enjoyed the way courtiers flocked to you, their words dipped in honey, their eyes lingering upon you as though you hung the stars. You delighted in the way men stumbled over their words in their attempts to impress you, their practised lines unravelling beneath the weight of your gaze. You had long learned that a well-placed smile, a fleeting touch upon the arm, or a slight tilt of the chin could make even the most stubborn of lords melt like wax before a flame.

And yet—Gods, was it exhausting.

"Princess, your beauty outshines even the sun today," one of the young lords cooed, standing just a little too close for your liking.

You maintained your composure, offering him a smile as practised as it was charming, tilting your head ever so slightly. "How kind of you to say, my lord."

"Tell me, shall I ride in your honour, my princess?" another asked, his grin broad, his chest puffed in obvious arrogance, as though the mere suggestion of it was a gift beyond measure.

You had half a mind to tell him that if he were truly worthy of such an honour, he would not need to ask, but instead, you merely inclined your head with effortless grace.

"I would be honoured," you said sweetly, though in truth, you could not even recall his name.

As time flew by and more lords came and went, each eager to impress, their words blurring into the same predictable flattery, your thoughts began to wander.

Perhaps—just perhaps—you ought to grant your favour to one of them.

Not for love, nor duty, nor any deeper reason. Simply for the fun of it.

Let them fight over you—not for marriage, nor power, nor grand alliances, but for the mere pleasure of calling themselves your champion. Let them brandish their swords and crash upon the lists with reckless abandon, desperate for the honour of a token tied to their lance, for the whisper of your name upon the lips of the court.

The thought amused you greatly.

You had no real enjoyment for tourneys—the dust, the sweat, the men posturing like peacocks in steel—but this? This was entertainment.

To watch them scramble, to see them puff their chests and vie for your fleeting favour, all while knowing it meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.

The great hall of Harrenhal was alive with merriment, the air thick with laughter and music, the scent of roasted meats and Dornish wine curling through the space like a warm embrace. The flickering glow of torchlight caught on the polished silver goblets and golden embroidery, illuminating the lords and ladies who had gathered for the feast.

You had been seated for only a few moments, indulging in light conversation with your sulking younger brother, Aegon. He lounged beside you, slouched in his chair, silver hair tousled in careless waves, his lips twisted in that familiar pout, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, petulant.

"You’ve barely spoken to me all evening," he muttered. "Off flitting about with your admirers, leaving your poor brother to rot in solitude."

You arched a brow, amused but unimpressed. "Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Aegon."

"Dramatic?" he scoffed, placing a hand over his chest as though you had mortally wounded him. "I am your dearest brother, your favourite brother, and yet you abandon me to suffer alone in this dreadful tourney—"

"I spent the whole of yesterday with you."

"Yes," he muttered, eyes flicking to his untouched goblet, "and now it is today."

There was something else beneath his words, something thick and bitter, but you did not care to decipher it. You had long learned that Aegon’s moods were unpredictable, shifting as the wind did. And, you thought with mild exasperation, if he had something to say, he should say it.

Instead, you sighed, turning to him with a look of tired affection. "Go play with Helaena."

"Helaena is weird-- just as the words left his lips, the first lord approached. Aegon exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. "And so it begins."

"Princess," Lord Merryweather greeted smoothly, dipping into a low bow, his beard streaked with silver, his fine velvets hinting at wealth and experience. "Might I have the honour of a dance?"

You smiled, tilting your head in polite consideration before placing your hand in his. "It would be my pleasure, my lord."

The dance was light, effortless, and filled with easy conversation as he guided you across the floor, his steps practised, his hold gentle but assured. Around you, the great hall bustled with movement—the soft strains of the musicians, the rustle of silk skirts, the occasional murmur of courtiers watching from the edges of the dance floor, waiting for their turn to claim you.

"You must know," Lord Merryweather mused with a knowing smile, "many a man here wishes to claim your favour."

You laughed softly, allowing your lashes to flutter just enough, a practised movement that sent many lords into a flustered mess. "Then I hope they have good fortune in the lists, my lord. I would not wish to grant it to a man bested in the first tilt."

The old lord chuckled, evidently pleased with your answer, but as the song came to a close, another was already waiting to take his place.

Lord Tyrell stepped forward next, then Lord Frey, followed swiftly by Lord Bracken—one after another, young and old alike, each eager for a sliver of your attention, each with a well-practiced compliment upon his lips, wrapped in the polished charm of courtly men who had spent their lives perfecting the art of flattery.

"I daresay His Grace must be beset by betrothal offers, Princess," Lord Bracken remarked as he led you through a smooth turn, his grip firm yet respectful. "A beauty such as yours should not go unwed for long."

You met his gaze with a smile, your voice light, effortless. "It is not my father who drowns, my lord, but I. The offers come as swiftly as the tide, yet still, I stand before you—unclaimed."

His laughter was deep, knowing, the kind of sound that suggested he saw himself above the rest. "A grievous injustice, indeed. Perhaps I shall be the next to put quill to parchment and entreat His Grace for your hand."

Before you could grant him a reply, the song came to an end, sparing you the trouble. With practised grace, you curtsied, allowing him to lead you back toward your table, where the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats.

You had just reached for your goblet, eager for a moment’s reprieve, when another voice cut through the din of the hall.

"You have tired the poor girl, Lord Bracken," Lord Tully jested from his seat nearby, his round face flushed with wine, his voice rich with mirth. "One might think you seek to keep her for yourself."

Lord Bracken chuckled, shaking his head with feigned regret. "Ah, if only I were a younger man."

"Younger or not," Lord Wylde added with a knowing smirk, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, "I imagine His Grace will not be so quick to part with her. A rare jewel indeed."

"Quite rare," Lord Tully agreed, his eyes twinkling with desire as he glanced in your direction. "And a jewel should be placed in the hands of one who knows its worth."

The implication was clear and yet, you merely smiled, lifting your goblet gracefully to your lips, sipping your wine as if you had not heard them at all.

Thankfully, before another lord asks for a dance, your father’s voice rang through the hall, calling your name. You schooled your features into a look of effortless grace, excusing yourself with a polite smile before making your way toward him.

And you knew.

You knew exactly who would be standing at his side before you even laid eyes upon them.

The Starks.

Lord Rickon, solemn as ever, his presence a quiet force despite the grandeur of the occasion. And beside him—your greatest annoyance, your oldest grievance, your most persistent thorn—Cregan Stark.

Your pace did not falter, nor did your expression shift as you approached, though deep within, your irritation simmered.

As you came to a stop beside your father, he turned to you with a warm smile, his hand resting gently on your back. "Look who just arrived, my sweetling."

Lord Rickon, ever the picture of Northern honour, dipped his head in a respectful bow before speaking, his voice deep and steady. "Princess, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been some years, and I dare say time has only graced you with more beauty and charm."

It was a compliment, but one wrapped in the blunt honesty of a Northern lord. Unlike the courtiers who lavished you with flowery words, Lord Rickon spoke with simple reverence, neither seeking favor nor flattery—only truth as he saw it.

You smiled at him graciously, dipping your head in return. "You honour me with your words, my lord. The North is fortunate to have such a steadfast Warden."

Lord Rickon let out a quiet hum, something of approval, but before you could say more, another deep timbre of a familiar Northern accent reached your ears.

"Princess."

Cregan Stark bowed, and as he did, you could feel the weight of his gaze. You schooled your expression into something practiced, something sweet, but your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a petulant child.

When he straightened, when your lilac eyes locked onto the sharp, storm-grey of his—your stomach twisted.

Cregan Stark had grown.

The boy you had last seen, scowling and covered in soot, was gone.

In his place stood a man.

Taller, broader, his frame lean with the strength of a swordsman, his dark hair longer than you remembered, tied back in a simple leather thong. There was no trace of the sullen youth who had once left you in the Wolfswood, no awkwardness of a boy still finding his place in the world. No—this was a Lord who stood before you now, clad in black and grey, with the dire wolf of House Stark emblazoned upon his chest.

And yet, his eyes—those damnable, piercing Stark eyes—still held that same unwavering intensity, as though he could see straight through you, as though the years had done nothing to soften the way he looked at you.

You hated that he looked good.

You hated how the courtyard was lively, filled with the hum of noble chatter and the laughter of ladies, but none of it seemed to reach him.

Cregan Stark stood before you, rigid and composed, the very image of Northern stoicism. His grey eyes—sharp as steel, cold as winter—were unreadable as they met yours, though you could see the faintest flicker of something beneath them. Something restrained.

You hated that he was so unshakable. You lifted your chin, refusing to yield even an inch.

"Lord Stark," you returned sweetly, your voice smooth as silk, your expression the perfect mask of courtly grace—despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin.

And then you saw it.

The subtle way Lord Rickon nudged his son, a barely perceptible motion, yet it spoke volumes. Even the mighty Cregan Stark was not beyond his father’s quiet commands.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly before he stepped forward.

"May I have the honour of a dance, Your Highness," he asked, voice steady, measured, yet laced with something tight beneath the surface.

You glanced down at the hand he held out between you, large and calloused from years of sword work, and for a moment, the very idea of placing your own within it seemed unthinkable.

But then you smiled.

Not a soft smile, nor a warm one, but something playful, something teasing, something pointed.

"Why, Lord Stark," you murmured, placing your hand in his with deliberate slowness, "I thought you Northerners did not care for such frivolities."

His fingers closed around yours—warm, firm, unyielding.

"We do not," he said simply.

He led you onto the floor, the swell of music rising around you, the murmurs of the court fading into the background. Cregan’s grip was firm as he placed his hands on you, his posture stiff, too rigid—too uncomfortable.

It was amusing.

For all his confidence, all his unshakable Stark stoicism, the art of courtly dance was clearly not within his realm of expertise.

You could have teased him for it.

You should have.

But for once, you took pity, deciding instead to let the matter rest. Still, you could not resist tilting your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes as you let your amusement surface elsewhere.

"I must say, my lord," you mused, your voice as smooth as silk, "I am glad to see your hair has grown back. I was so very worried."

For the first time since he arrived, something flickered across his sharp features—just for a fraction of a second, just the barest hint of annoyance.

His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers flexing just a little where they held you. "I had nearly forgotten about that."

"Oh, had you?" you feigned innocence, fluttering your lashes just so, your smile deceptively sweet. "Strange, considering how livid you were when it happened. The smell of burnt hair is rather unforgettable, wouldn’t you agree?"

Cregan exhaled sharply through his nose, a poor attempt at masking his irritation as he spun you across the floor, his grip a touch tighter now.

"A bold jest, Princess," he finally said, his tone measured, controlled. But you caught it—the way his fingers flexed slightly against yours, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, as though he was calculating something.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "I see you are just the same childish princess—"

You nearly stumbled at the sheer audacity.

"How dare you? I am not childish!" you shot back, indignation flaring hot in your chest.

Cregan hummed, his smirk deepening just enough to be infuriating. "

That's right, forgive me, I forgot you are the jewel of the realm," he mused, voice laced with something unreadable. "Tales of your beauty even reach the North, you know."

He looked down at you then, those grey eyes sharp, assessing, amused in a way that made your blood simmer.

"If only they knew," he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips, "there's nothing much to you other than beauty."

The words struck like a blade, hidden beneath the guise of idle conversation, wrapped in the veneer of civility yet carrying the same weight as any insult flung in an open field of battle.

Your breath caught—just for a moment, just long enough for irritation to twist into something dangerous but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to you.

So instead, with all the grace of a perfect courtly lady, you smiled—sweetly, delicately—and in a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for a mere misstep, you stepped on his foot.

Firmly.

Cregan’s grip on you tightened, just briefly, as a sharp inhale passed through his nose, his jaw clenching in pain. When his storm-grey gaze flicked down at you, dark and dangerous, it sent something sharp curling in your belly.

"Careful, my lord," you murmured, your voice silken, teasing. "It would be quite tragic if the North’s greatest warrior were felled in the middle of a dance."

"Tragic, indeed," he bit out, though his voice had lost that obnoxious edge of amusement. It was lower now, rougher—strained in a way that sent a thrill up your spine. "But I expected no less from you."

"Why, Lord Stark," you mused, tilting your head just enough to let your breath ghost against the space between you, "it almost sounds as if you missed me."

His glare deepened, but you felt it—the way his fingers flexed against you, the way his breath hitched so subtly that only someone watching for it would have noticed.

"Do not flatter yourself," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "I only miss things worth missing."

"Then it is fortunate," you murmured, allowing your lips to curve into something knowing, something dangerous, "that I am not so easily forgotten."

"You test your limits, Princess," Cregan murmured, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for you.

"And you test your patience, my lord," you countered, a slow, deliberate smile curving your lips as you let the words settle between you like an unsheathed blade.

Just before the song reached its final note, before you could step away and claim victory in whatever battle you and Cregan had been waging, someone came to stand beside you—someone who made you forget all about Cregan Stark.

Prince Qyle Martell.

The golden-skinned Dornish prince had a grin in his eyes before it ever reached his lips, a kind of easy arrogance that was almost charming. You had met him once before, in passing, and you remembered his words as much as the way he had looked at you, like a man appraising something rare, something tempting.

"Princess," he greeted, his voice smooth as fine Dornish wine, dipping into a bow that was just a touch more theatrical than necessary. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I have suffered long enough watching you dance with such stiff company."

Your lips twitched, amused.

Cregan, however, stilled.

It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed slightly on your waist, the way his hold on you lingered before he very deliberately released you, stepping back. His expression was unreadable, his storm-grey eyes carefully blank, but you had spent years picking him apart, years unravelling the smallest cracks in his composure.

You knew the Prince being there bothered him.

"Prince Qyle," you greeted smoothly, offering him your hand. "A pleasure, as always."

"The pleasure is mine, sweet princess," Qyle purred, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, letting his gaze linger on yours, dark and unreadable. "Had I known you would be so generous with your time this evening, I would have claimed my dance much, much sooner."

Cregan scoffed softly, a barely-there sound, but you caught it and apparently so did Prince Qyle.

He turned to Cregan then, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, an arrogant grin curling at his lips. Despite being a head shorter than the Northern lord, he did not seem the least bit intimidated.

"Lord… Stark, is it?" There was something deliberate in the way he said it—drawn out as if he were tasting the name on his tongue and finding it unimpressive.

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a shift in the air, subtle, dangerous. "It is,"

"Ah, of course," Qyle hummed, giving a slow, exaggerated nod. "The Warden of the North in waiting, the Great Wolf of Winterfell. Forgive me, my lord, it is so rare that wolves crawl from their dens— I sometimes forget you exist at all."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and amusement at the sheer boldness of it.

Cregan, to his credit, did not react—not outwardly. But you saw it. The way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides before curling into a loose fist.

"And yet, here I am," he said, voice smooth as untouched ice. "Standing before you, plain as day. Strange, isn’t it, how even those you forget still seem to overshadow you?"

Qyle’s smirk sharpened. "Overshadow? My dear Stark, the sun casts no shadows in Dorne. Only heat." He leaned in just slightly, like a snake coiling before a strike. "Something, I imagine, you Northerners would not know even if it burned you alive."

You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing, the tension between them so thick it was nearly intoxicating.

Cregan's expression was carved from ice, his broad shoulders squared, his hands flexing at his sides as though he were resisting the urge to grip the hilt of a blade that was not there.

You had seen him angry before, felt the weight of his temper simmering beneath his quiet exterior, but this was something else.

And yet, before he could respond—before he could so much as breathe—Qyle squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him as though he had already dismissed Cregan entirely.

"Well then, my princess," Qyle purred, his voice warm, teasing, triumphant. "Shall we leave the Lord of Snow and Shadows to glower in peace?"

You allowed yourself the smallest, most delicate smirk, and let Qyle lead you away, though not before casting a final glance over your shoulder.

Cregan had not moved.

But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting storm-grey eyes—were locked onto you, burning with something neither of you dared to name.

A/N:

Helloooo ya'll I'm sorry it's been a while. I have just been busy, and I still am but I couldn't get this idea off my mind...

I just saw Wicked and loved it so if you see a resemblance between you and Glinda, no you didn't. Also, I can't for the life of me ever get any timeline right, and the timeline of HOD confuses me. So, if you are confused about where this fic aligns with the show, just know I'm just as confused as you but it's obviously before ep 6 obvs, please be patient with me.

Anywyasssssss I hope you enjoyed this one chapter. It is a part I because I just can't leave it like that and FYI I'm researching the shit out of tourneys because I have no clue of how they work in HOD universe and I refuse to read the book for my own well-being, like don't get me wrong I'm 100% sure GMM is an absolute machine of an author (obvs otherwise he wouldn't have TV show after TV show based on his books) but just most of the themes in his books are... not something I would willingly like to read. I'm rambling out of my ass, sorry.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

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shiorihyugawrites · 8 days ago

Text

Velvet Heat (No Regrets!Levi x Reader Oneshot)

Before Levi Ackerman ever wore a uniform, he was the Underground’s most dangerous man—untouchable, cold, and utterly lethal. But one night at a lounge, a bold little dancer climbs into his lap with a smirk that dares him to lose control. And Levi? He takes the challenge personally.

He doesn’t go easy. And you don’t want him to.

18 + Only | Minors Do Not Interact

The air in the lounge was thick with smoke, sweat, perfume, and whispered sins.

A low hum of conversation murmured beneath the seductive melody of piano and strings, the notes floating like silk through the haze. Candlelight flickered along polished brass railings and red velvet drapes, casting golden shadows across the faces of criminals, smugglers, and nobility who liked to pretend they weren’t slumming in the filth of the underground. But even here—in a city without sunlight—there were stars.

One star, in particular.

Levi Ackerman leaned back in the worn leather booth in the farthest corner, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but those who knew him understood the truth: he was always ready to kill.

The infamous Levi. The underground's deadliest blade.

People whispered his name with fear, respect, and jealousy. A man who slit throats like it was second nature. A ghost with knives for hands and no soul to speak of. And tonight, he was here for one reason:

To see you.

“Oi, is this really worth the trip?” he muttered to Furlan without turning his head. “She better not be just another girl in fishnets pretending to be a dancer.”

Furlan chuckled softly. “She’s not just a girl. She’s a fucking legend down here.”

“Tch.” Levi’s sharp grey eyes flicked to the stage as the house lights dimmed. “We'll see about that.”

And then… She stepped out.

You.

Wrapped in crimson sheer silk that shimmered with every sway of your hips. The lingerie dress clung to your curves like it had been painted on, exposing your legs, waist, and just enough cleavage to tempt death itself. Thin straps slid off your shoulders like you didn’t care who watched.

The entire room silenced.

Your hair spilled down your back, and your face—gods, your face—looked like it had been sculpted by an artist with a love for sin. Lips painted scarlet. Eyes laced with mischief. A smile with dimples so deep it made hardened criminals shift in their seats.

But Levi didn’t shift. He stared. Unblinking.

The music started—slow, sensual. You danced, your body twirling through the stage like a blade of light. Effortless. High. Ethereal.

Levi’s jaw clenched.

You didn’t look at him right away.

You twirled. Danced. Let your body become the music. Graceful, fluid, seductive. Like a fairy dipped in wine and wicked thoughts. Every man in the room leaned forward like moths drawn to flame.

Then your eyes locked with his.

You didn’t smile.

You smirked.

And Levi, that deadly bastard, raised a brow. Just one. Like a challenge.

You accepted.

Your bare feet padded silently across the stage and down the short set of velvet-covered stairs. Each sway of your hips more deliberate now. Every movement calculated. A predator in sheer red lace. You crossed the room slowly, a siren weaving her spell.

Levi didn’t look away.

He never did.

When you reached his table, you climbed onto it—graceful as a cat—and straddled his lap with your thighs spread wide over his, ignoring the stunned gasps and growls of envy from the crowd.

Furlan nearly dropped his drink.

Levi didn’t move.

You leaned in close, your voice a soft, wicked purr near his ear.

“You look bored.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re bold.”

“And you’re beautiful,” you whispered, dragging a fingertip down the bridge of his nose. “I don’t usually do this. But I think I’ll make an exception.”

You kissed his cheek slowly, deliberately, your red lips smearing against the sharp angle of his face.

A perfect lipstick mark.

He caught your wrist just as you started to pull away. His grip was strong—but not cruel.

“I don’t like games,” he said flatly.

You smirked, twisting your wrist free with a dancer’s finesse. “Then follow me. Let me show you how I play.”

You gently grabbed his hand and lead him towards the back on the lounge. The private room was lit only by a chandelier of dying candles. Crimson velvet lined the walls and chaise lounge. A soft fur rug lay beneath your feet. You locked the door with a click.

Levi stood just inside, silent.

You didn’t speak.

You just danced.

Slow. Sinful. Seduction distilled. Your hips rolled, your bare feet gliding over the rug. The sheer silk flowed around you like mist. Your hands slid over your own curves, drawing his attention to your waist, your thighs, your breasts—everything men dreamed about and never touched.

He watched. Breathing steady. Face unreadable.

But you saw it in his eyes. Hunger.

You turned your back to him, letting the red silk slip down your arms. You looked over your shoulder, lips parted, breath shallow.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

He was on you in an instant.

Levi’s mouth crushed yours, his kiss rough and greedy. You answered with a moan, throwing your arms around his neck. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into flesh. You kissed him deeper—tongue, teeth, passion. You sucked on his bottom lip, then licked the corner of his mouth just to tease him.

He growled.

You laughed breathlessly and pushed him toward the chaise. He let you.

You climbed into his lap again, kissing down his throat, nibbling just beneath his jaw. His pulse jumped under your tongue.

“You gonna kill me?” you teased, voice soft as silk.

“Not tonight,” he muttered, dragging his lips along your collarbone. “Not unless you ask real nice.”

You rolled your hips over his, slow and deliberate. You felt him—hard beneath you, the tension in his muscles coiled tight.

“I’m sure you’ve killed for less,” you whispered.

He gripped your ass with both hands, pulling you tighter against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But you did.

Every sway. Every sigh. Every flicker of your eyes as you stripped for him, peeling away the last sheer layer of your lingerie, baring your flawless skin beneath flickering candlelight.

You were a goddess made flesh.

And he worshipped you in silence—with his hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours like he was starved.

You kissed again—slow this time. Tender. Deep.

You guided him down onto the chaise, your body hovering over his. Hair cascading around your face, your dimples deepening as you smiled down at him with a sultry glint in your eye.

You had him.

Levi’s cold, calculating gaze never left yours, even as you straddled him like you owned him��like you’d always meant to. His body was deceptively still beneath yours, but you could feel the tension in him. Like a beast barely leashed. Like something wild that hadn’t decided yet if it wanted to devour you or let you keep teasing.

He stared you down, a predator in human form.

And you… you stared right back.

Your smirk was slow, sultry, teasing.

Daring.

Your hands moved with purpose, curling around the delicate straps of your sheer red lingerie and sliding them off your shoulders, letting the fabric drift down, inch by inch. His gaze didn’t waver—yet. He was trying to prove something. Maybe to you. Maybe to himself.

But then—

The silk slipped low enough to reveal your breasts, and that was when he broke.

His eyes flickered downward.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just long enough for you to feel the victory pulse like electricity through your veins.

You didn’t say a word. You reached for his hands, rough and calloused from years of violence, and guided them to your chest. You pressed them to your bare skin, slowly… deliberately.

He didn’t resist.

Didn’t even blink.

His fingers curled, squeezing your breasts with slow, deliberate pressure, thumbs brushing over your nipples like he was testing the texture. His jaw tensed, nostrils flared. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

But his hands stayed.

You began to move again—hips rolling, body winding. A private dance made just for him. You moved with purpose, grinding slowly, sensually, until you could feel it—him. The hard, growing bulge beneath you.

You felt him twitch through his pants, and your hips rocked harder, more confidently, feeding the heat between you. The air was thick with your breath, the scent of candle wax, and the sharp buzz of Levi’s restraint fraying at the edges.

Then, without warning, you leaned forward and kissed him.

He didn’t pull away.

His lips were dry but warm. Soft but firm. You moaned against him, deepening the kiss. His hand slid from your breast to your lower back, gripping you tighter, anchoring you against him as he kissed you back—slow, hungry, like he had been holding back for too long.

And then, in a blink—he moved.

His grip on your waist tightened, and before you could react, he shifted his weight and flipped you beneath him in one smooth motion. You let out a small gasp as your back hit the velvet chaise, his body now hovering above yours, knees planted on either side of your hips.

His hands pinned your wrists above your head, his body pressed flush to yours, hard and unrelenting.

He was fast.

Strong.

Dangerous.

And yet… he wasn’t hurting you.

His face hovered inches from yours, eyes dark and stormy, studying you like you were something fragile—something rare.

“You think you’re in control?” His voice was low, rasping, a growl dragged over gravel.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look away.

Instead, you tilted your head, smirking again, breath hot against his lips. “Aren’t I?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Lust. Annoyance. Admiration.

“You’re bold,” he muttered, voice thick. “Too bold.”

“And you’re hard,” you whispered, shifting your hips beneath him just enough to remind him exactly where your body met his.

His jaw clenched again. His hands slid down from your wrists, dragging slowly over your arms, until they settled at your sides. His fingertips dug into your hips like he was trying to decide if he wanted to leave bruises.

He leaned closer. His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You shivered, heart racing.

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” you whispered.

He exhaled slowly, his breath hot on your neck, and you felt the smallest shudder run through him.

“I don’t go easy.”

“I don’t want easy.”

Levi pulled back just enough to look at you again. His hair hung slightly in his face, the dim candlelight catching on the sharp angles of his jaw. His eyes were dangerous—full of promises you weren’t sure you were ready for, but completely unwilling to turn down.

One hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just under your bottom lip.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he said quietly.

You nipped at his thumb with your teeth and grinned.

“Then make it worth it.”

His mouth was on yours before the last word left your lips—devouring, dominating, taking. You moaned into the kiss, your hands fisting in the back of his shirt as your legs wrapped around his waist.

He pressed his hips into yours, grinding slowly, deliberately, making you feel every inch of his arousal through the thin fabric between you. You gasped, arching into him, your fingers clawing at his back.

He broke the kiss with a low curse, staring down at you again like he was about to commit a crime.

And in that moment, you were more than willing to be his next sin..

You were flushed, lips parted, body trembling beneath his weight. You couldn’t move, not with the way he pinned you down with nothing but his presence, his hands, his voice.

And then—

He moved lower.

His hand slipped between your thighs.

You gasped, hips twitching, but Levi didn’t let up. He used two fingers to push aside your lingerie underwear—slowly, carefully, like he was unwrapping a gift. His touch was rough, calloused, but his movements were maddeningly gentle, teasing your folds with deliberate strokes.

“Shit…” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re soaking through already.”

You whimpered. “Levi—”

He slipped one finger between your slick folds and dragged it through your heat, smearing it across your clit with a slow, lazy circle. You bucked beneath him, but he pressed his forearm against your hips, holding you still.

“You wanted this, remember?” he said, tone dark and smooth. “Climbed into my lap like a little slut... dressed like that... teasing me in front of a whole damn room.”

You gasped at the vulgarity of it—but gods, you liked it. Too much.

“I bet you thought I’d be rough right away. Thought I’d rip your panties off and fuck you into the chaise.” His voice dropped lower, lips brushing your ear. “But that’s not how this works.”

And then he slid one finger inside you.

Your back arched as the sensation bloomed white-hot. He watched you, expression unreadable except for the way his eyes darkened, flicking down to watch your body take him in.

“You’re tight,” he growled, slipping in another finger beside the first. “Hot. Fuck.”

He curled them inside you, rubbing against the spot that made your thighs tremble. Your legs tried to close, but he shoved them open with his knee, never once looking away.

“Keep ‘em open,” he ordered, voice like gravel and smoke. “Don’t make me tie you down.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, and his smirk grew wicked.

“Yeah, I felt that.”

He started moving his fingers—slow at first, then faster, deeper. You cried out, breath catching, body bucking under the force of each thrust. He added pressure with his thumb against your clit, circling it in time with his pumping fingers.

You were unraveling.

Your hand flew to the cushion behind you, the other gripping his shoulder as you moaned his name, loud and broken. He leaned down, lips brushing your neck, whispering filth in your ear.

“You love this, don’t you? Me inside you like this... fingers deep, pussy gripping me like it’s desperate.” He chuckled darkly. “You’re gonna cum already? That easy?”

You were so close. So fucking close.

And then—

He stopped.

You let out a broken cry, hips chasing his fingers. “No—! Why did you stop—?”

“Because I can.” His tone was low and cruel, but his eyes sparkled with lust. “I told you—I don’t go easy.”

Before you could protest, he moved down between your thighs, dragging your underwear fully off with his teeth. He tossed it somewhere behind him and stared at your dripping core like it was the most decadent thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he muttered. “Look at this—fuck.”

His breath ghosted over your heat, and then—his tongue was on you. Lapping. Sucking. Devouring. You cried out, thighs trying to close around his head, but his hands held you wide open as he feasted on you like he was starving.

You were shaking. Writhing.

His mouth was relentless. Every flick of his tongue pushed you higher. His teeth grazed your clit just enough to make your vision blur. Then, without warning, he slid his fingers back inside, curling them with precision while his tongue circled your clit.

You screamed.

“That’s it,” he murmured into you. “Make those pretty sounds. Let the whole fucking Lounge know who’s got you like this.”

You were right at the edge. Your walls clenched, legs trembling. The orgasm crept up your spine, white-hot, merciless.

But just as you were about to fall—

He stopped. Again.

“No—Levi! Please!”

He sat up slowly, licking your arousal off his fingers with maddening calm. “Goddamn, you taste good.”

You were panting, tears stinging your eyes from the sheer denial.

“You’re cruel,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” He leaned over you, dragging the head of his cock along your folds through his pants, just enough pressure to make you shudder.

“Then beg for it.”

You blinked up at him, breath hitching.

“Beg for what?”

“Everything,” he growled, gripping your jaw with one hand. “Beg me to ruin you.”

Your body was shaking. Slick with sweat and arousal, skin flushed, lips swollen from his kisses and your own bitten-back screams. The chaise lounge beneath you was damp with your arousal—your thighs soaked, your core pulsing and aching from the relentless teasing.

Levi leaned over you again, his voice low and cruel in your ear.

“Dripping all over the fucking chaise,” he muttered, running his fingers along the mess you were leaving. “You’re gonna clean that, brat?”

You whimpered, nearly sobbing. “Please—please, Levi, I can’t—”

“You can.” He grabbed your chin and tilted your face up to meet his. “You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

He pulled back and stood for a moment. You thought—hoped—he might finally give you what you needed.

Instead, he chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “You're so desperate. That little act back on the floor—straddling me like a bitch in heat—this is what you wanted, right?”

You were too dazed to answer, but your body betrayed you, arching and trembling in need. That smirk on his lips deepened as he ran a hand down your spine.

“Get on your knees,” he ordered.

You obeyed—barely—your legs wobbling as you turned and braced yourself on all fours atop the chaise. He spread your knees wider with a rough hand, his other gripping your hip like a vice.

He gave you no warning. No softness.

Just a rough, deep thrust that stole the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck!” you gasped, crying out as he filled you all at once.

“Quiet,” he growled, leaning over your back, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You don’t get to scream unless I say you can.”

He pulled back and slammed into you again—harder. Your eyes rolled back.

“I should’ve fucked you on that stage in front of everyone,” he hissed, pistoning his hips. “Let them all see what kind of filthy little thing you are.”

You were crying, moaning, unable to stop the way your hips rocked back to meet his every thrust.

But when you squirmed too much, trying to wriggle out of the overwhelming pressure and pleasure, he snarled.

“Can’t even stay still.”

In one brutal motion, he yanked his belt from his pants and grabbed your wrists. Before you could process it, he’d looped the leather around them and tied you up—wrists bound behind your back like a plaything.

“Nowhere to run now, yeah?” he breathed against your ear.

He gripped the end of the belt for leverage—and used it.

He fucked you.

Hard. Unrelenting. Brutal.

The slapping sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the room, mingling with your choked sobs of pleasure and his ragged breathing.

Your body rocked forward with every thrust, your tits bouncing, your knees struggling to hold you up. Your cheek pressed against the velvet cushion, lips open in a silent scream as he pounded into you from behind.

“You feel that?” Levi groaned, snapping his hips forward. “This is what happens when you act like a fucking tease.”

You could barely speak—barely think—but you nodded, whimpering, “Yes—yes, Levi, please—don’t stop—”

He tugged the belt tighter, slamming into you harder, deeper, like he wanted to mold your insides to the shape of his cock.

“Fucking dripping,” he grunted. “I can feel you squeezing me. So fuckin’ tight.”

You were gone. Slurred moans fell from your lips, tears slipping down your face as your body shook violently.

“You like being used like this, huh?” he sneered. “Tied up. Fucked dumb. Just a needy little hole for me to ruin.”

You nodded furiously, mouth open, drooling onto the cushion. “Yes, Levi—please, I need it—I need you—”

He bent over your back, still thrusting, now grinding deeper. “You’re gonna cum on my cock, aren’t you? Just from getting fucked like this?”

You clenched around him, crying out, the pressure in your belly snapping like a rubber band stretched too tight.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—violent, overwhelming, shaking. Your vision whited out as your whole body spasmed beneath him, held together only by the grip of the belt and Levi’s hands on your hips.

“Fucking hell—” Levi groaned, voice cracked and low, “—that’s it, cum for me—fuck—”

He didn’t stop.

He kept going—faster, rougher, chasing his own release as your body twitched and convulsed from the overstimulation.

The only thing you could do was moan brokenly as he used you, mouth wide open and drooling, eyes glassy.

Then you felt him—his hips jerking, the rhythm breaking—and with a harsh groan in your ear, Levi slammed into you one final time and spilled deep inside you.

His grip stayed locked tight, fingers bruising your hips as he rode out his high, chest heaving against your back.

For a long moment, the only sound was your combined breath and the occasional, accidental twitch of your trembling legs.

Finally, he leaned over and kissed your shoulder. The belt slipped loose from your wrists, and his hand found your cheek, thumb wiping your tears.

“Did I break you?” he murmured, voice rough, but… gentle.

You let out a hoarse, satisfied sigh.

“I hope so.”

He chuckled low, biting softly at your shoulder. “Good.”

Your body felt like jelly. Used, full, and entirely boneless—folded into the chaise like you’d melted there.

The room was silent now. The glow of the candles had dimmed, flickering low, their golden light casting soft shadows over Levi’s face. His eyes weren’t sharp anymore. They were softer now. Still intense, but unreadable in a different way—like he was searching for something on your face that he wasn’t brave enough to ask for aloud.

You blinked at him, tears dried on your cheeks, lips swollen, pulse still fluttering in your wrists.

He finally moved.

Without a word, Levi pulled out of you carefully, steady hands on your hips to guide you down. You whimpered at the sensitivity, but he hushed you instantly with a thumb brushing along your thigh.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

He untied the belt from around your wrists, letting it fall to the floor. Your arms ached with relief, and before you could slump forward, he caught you—pulling you gently into his lap.

You were a mess—legs trembling, body soaked with sweat, smeared lipstick, and still full of him. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t push you away.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around your back and pulled a throw blanket from the chaise, draping it over your shoulders. Then he held you—silent, solid, grounding.

You pressed your forehead to his chest, dazed and buzzing.

“I-I can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled, half-laughing, half-crying.

“Tch.” His voice was gruff, but his hand rubbed your back in soothing circles. “I told you I don’t go easy.”

You giggled weakly, nuzzling closer. “You’re a menace…”

Levi tilted your chin up, thumb brushing your cheek. “You good?”

His voice was quieter now. Rough, yes—but laced with something gentle. Something careful.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah. Just… floating.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then he shifted, slipping a hand between your thighs and gently brushing over your core.

You flinched.

“I know,” he murmured. “Too much. Sorry.”

He wiped you with the edge of the blanket—slow and gentle, surprisingly so. You watched him in a daze, heart swelling at the contrast. The same hands that had just wrecked you now handled you like you were porcelain.

Once he was satisfied, he pulled your legs across his lap and reclined back against the chaise, cradling you to his chest. One hand stroked your back, the other ran through your hair—slow, grounding motions.

“You didn’t have to be so gentle,” you whispered.

“You didn’t have to look at me like that,” he replied, voice low.

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like I’m worth a damn.”

The silence that followed was thick—but not uncomfortable.

You nestled closer, resting your cheek against his collarbone.

“You are,” you whispered. “Even if you don’t think so.”

Levi didn’t answer. But his arms tightened around you just a little.

And that was enough.

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klttn · 10 months ago

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Hi!! I love your writing a lot, especially how you write Vox <3 Can you write something where the reader works for Val and is about to have her first time with Vox, but she's scared about stealing him from Val :(

⁺˳✧༚ ˚ 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 ｡⋆୨୧˚

— 𝜗𝜚 vox x val x f!reader

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 summary : val shares his little bunny with vox for the first time but she’s scared it might make them jealous. nsfw. sensitive reader. daddy kink. sir kink. soft dom!vox / hard dom!val. slapping. slight dumbification. bunny!reader. val is kind of a cuck.

“daddy, i’m scared,” your voice timid as you and val approached the gargantuan doors to vox’s penthouse, “what if he doesn’t like me?”

you’d met the man so many times, loved him even, so much time spent with him just by being valentino’s little girl. he’d always watch movies with you n look after you when valentino couldn’t.

but today was different, you didn’t think val would agree to sharing you with vox, he saw how you looked at him, yearned for him. so when val told you vox wanted that to, even for a night, it made you ecstatic. it’s just what if he doesn’t like me?

valentino purred, “look at you cosita, such a pretty thing, what’s not to love?” you blushed at his statement, twirling your hair a little and letting his long tongue lick a stripe up your neck. “mis dos amores, you will love eachother.” he slapped your ass, “even more than i know you already do.”

with confidence, valentino pulled away from his licking endeavours and pushed open the doors in front of you. your eyes widened in awe, the room revealing a sight so alluring, you were trying not to drool.

vox was man spread, softly trailing his own hand up his thigh, drawing all the attention to the slacks outlining his perfect bulge, hard and wanting. you didn’t miss the way it twitched when you both strolled through the door. tucked into those, was a button up shirt, barely there, exposing his collarbones, all the way down to his chest, slightly transparent from a thin layer of sweat, his forearms, veiny and fully exposed with the sleeves rolled up.

“voxxy, look who i brought for you!” val sang, your eyes still fixated on the man in front of you, glued to his groin. “am i the best boyfriend or what, mi vida?” in a way that question could be aimed at both of you.

vox let out a little chuckle, “and that’s why they pay you the big bucks, isn’t that right?” he was stroking vals ego like he was made to, smug smirk forming across the moth man’s face. vox’s gaze shifted, “and what do we have here?” his voice broke your gaze on his thighs. “the needy little bunny, i can’t wait to get my hands on you,” he sighed, “i can’t lie, pretty girl, ive wanted this for so long.” you felt the drag of his eyes on you, searching every inch of your body before you could even show him.

“don’t make him wait any longer, little bunny,” valentino’s hand pushed against your back inching you closer to vox. “show him why you’re my prized possession.”

you took a big gulp before seductively strutting over to the tv headed man, swaying your hips just so, only pausing when you found yourself stood inbetween vox’s thighs.

you tried to be as confident as valentino liked you to be with others but you found yourself shrinking under vox’s gaze, just like you did when val looked at you the very same way.

you turned to glance at val, he could tell how nervous you were by your trembling lips. “it’s okay, conejita,” his voice smooth as silk as he stalked over to you, standing behind you, vox intently watching everything. “he likes you just like i do,” val was now flush against your back, his hands finding their way to your tits, stroking them and freeing them for the other man to see. vox growled. “dumb, ditzy and obedient.”

vals hands were still stroking your body, lifting up the small amount of clothing you had on, flashing more of your soft skin, eliciting soft whimpers from you and horny groans from vox. “val, come on, fuck, i need her.” he reached forward, placing his whiskey on the coffee table and moving his hands to your thighs, caressing and wanting, you could feel the desperation in his touch.

“you gonna be a good little girl for him, cosita?” a pleasing whine left your lips as you nodded your head. “words.” vals grip on your tits harshened causing you to yelp.

“yes, daddy,” you felt vox stiffen, “gonna be so good for him, i promise.” you caught a glimpse of his cock twitch at that, which only went straight to your pussy. he must like that.

you felt the hands on your thighs wrap to your ass, playing with the flesh there, toying and teasing. “come here, little girl,” it was said as a command but vox did all the work, pulling you in by your ass, forcing you to straddle his lap. “good girl.”

a thought plagued you for a moment and vox caught on before you could hide it, his eyes narrowing, he always did know if anything was ever wrong with you. “you don’t have to do this, baby, you know that right?”

“i know it’s just-“ you huffed, struggling to find the words.

“just what pretty girl? tell me.” pause. “tell us.”

“don’t want daddy to think i’m trying to take him from you or- or that you’re trying to take me from him,” weak voice shaking as you spoke, turning to val. “cause i love you n i will always want you n i promise but i just i want this too, n i feel bad cause i want you n i want vox n i just- i want so much but i just don’t wanna make you jealous or mad at me” the men already taking action to comfort you, speaking a million words to eachother through their eyes as you spoke. “please don’t be mad at me.”

valentino laughed. “oh baby, of course not, if i was mad at you or didn’t want this do you really think i’d be this hard,” a subtle thrust gave you the answer. no. “such a sensitive thing.” he found this so cutely amusing, loving how pathetic you were right now. “and maybe, conejita, if that’s how you feel, you can be our little bunny, not just mine, we could share you, love you, cherish you just like i already do.”

your nose twitched cutely, a soft coo from vox going unnoticed. “be together? all of us? you n vox, me n vox, you n me?” your silly head was getting overwhelmed.

“that’s right baby,” val praised. “if he’d like that,” he added, “would you like that conejita?” your eyes went doe like with hope, idea immediately flooding you with excitement, “yeah?” you nodded slowly, looking back to vox expectantly, “we could both own your pretty little body as much as we own eachothers, do you like the sound of that baby?”

“please!” you begged, “vox please,” your begging making vox’s heart pound. both of the men’s hands rubbing soothing circles on you.

“you wanna be our little bunny? yeah, baby?” vox mused, clearly loving the thought of you being his.

“mhm,” you needed them both so close, forcing them to press into you more, your strength pathetic compared to theirs but them allowing the subtle pull non the less. “i wanna be yours, please.”

“i’ll tell you a little secret, bunny,” vox begun, nuzzling himself into your neck, taking in your scent like never before, “that’s partly why you’re here today. when daddy told me you wanted, this,” he gestured to himself, “we both knew us dating wouldn’t be far behind, we planned for this baby.”

“really?”

“really.” vox squeezed where his hands rested, pausing before adding on, “that means you’re mine now too.” you smiled and nodded giddily.

valentino could tell the moment had eased, letting out a chuckle that broke your soft moment with vox, “if she misbehaves, just scare her a little, her pussy will be dripping and she’ll be back to being this pathetic in no time.” valentino winked, his grip loosened as he slipped away, feeling a kiss on one of your lop ears before his touch was gone completely, instigating the sex you knew was gonna happen. but you were too focused on the doting man in front of you to care.

vox pulled his head back, attention now fully onto you, he lifted a hand under your chin, index finger and claw pulling your face closer to his. lips parted and soft, eyes pretty and excited. truly noticing just how beautiful you were up close. it was as if valentino’s absence caused something to shift in vox, dominant nature coming more to the forefront than it already was, “i don’t think you’re capable of being anything but pliant, are you bunny?” vox mused, using his thumb to rub over your bottom lip. “daddy thinks you might misbehave but i think i’ll have you too dumb to even think about doing such a thing.”

vox’s touch was nothing like vals. his was rough and demanding, a constant reminder of power and abuse, control over everything you did. it was poisonous and addicting. but this, this was anything but. his words like honey, so sweet. his touch so soft and intoxicating, it had you drunk on all the ways he could take care of you. the force so gentle you found yourself doing everything he wanted just to see what other compelling words would slip from his mouth and touch from his actions. they were two sides of a coin and you wanted, no, needed it all.

you were pulled from your thoughts as vox’s hand tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “i’m gonna take care of you, little one,” he whispered, deep and guttural, his hips softly grinding into you, “all you need to do is look cute and let me.” his hands now on your hips, guiding you to grind in rhythm with him. “no need for any thoughts in that pretty head of yours, just whimpers and letting me mold your body how i please.” a soft hold on your throat now had you looking at him with glazed eyes, “do you think you can do that, yeah baby?”

“yes, sir,” it was soft in the way that you said it, barely audible but crystal clear to vox, your cheeks were tinting pink and cunt becoming messier the more he spoke.

“sir?” he asked, “god, are you trying to kill me?” you bit your lip, hips still bucking with vox’s, pushing yourself into vox’s touch on your neck. “so adorable,” he started, “barely even put my hands on you and you’re already messy and pliable in my lap,” he cooed, “you’re just begging me to take care of you at this point,” you nodded gingerly, “need a little break from doing all the work with daddy, sweetie, is that it? need sir to get you cock drunk and helpless in his touch, yeah?”

vox words had you hanging off them and you couldn’t get enough of it, his grip moved to your hair, stroking the soft locks and playing with the fluffy ears nestled within it. “please,” your voice was hollow and desperate, your ears were so sensitive and his voice had you feeling dizzy. you felt like you could cry with the softness of his actions, it was everything you didn’t know you were missing with val.

“awh you’re so pretty when you beg, baby, cute little voice so soft i can barely hear you,” he preened, “don’t worry little girl, i’ll look after you.” his hands skated their way to your thighs to stand you back up, much to your dismay. he did it with ease, your face now eye level with him eventhough he was still seated. “but first, i need to get a good look at my new little bunny.”

you did a little spin between his thighs, your hair and floppy ears twirling, tits bouncing cutely as you did so earning a little chuckle from vox. “so, cute,” he muttered. his hands made their way over your body, wordlessly letting them drag over every inch of you, bit by bit sending shivers through you. his touch so alluring it had you melting in its wake, it was like nothing you’d ever felt before. he’d go extra slow over the peaks of your nipples, swirling his fingers and rubbing his thumbs over the buds just to hear you mewl for him. right now, you were just as much a drug to him as he was to you.

his hands finally stilled at the hem of your waistband, his head leaning forward to kiss the soft skin before it, “can i see the pretty pussy that’s hiding from me under these?” you nodded. he was asking? for some reason that made your heart flutter.

his hands slid the fabric down your thighs allowing you to step out of them at the end, now left in a little strappy top with your tits spilling out and frilly socks donning your feet, the same colour of your bunny ears. in some way the slight bit of clothing only made the situation hotter.

“just look at you,” it was as if he was talking to himself now, standing up to truly take you in. his touch never left as he admired you, leaving a kiss on your twitching nose as spun you. your thighs now plush against where he himself had been sat, knees touching closed and and arms flailing either side of you. his warmth and smell invading your senses, you could only think of him.

vox’s hands made their way to your knees, rubbing gently, easing your nerves and placing kisses their, “can you spread these for me bun? let me see you?” you looked away in shyness as you parted your legs, slight pressure of vox’s hands forcing them open too, so eager for you. “fuck me,” vox droned out.

“am i pretty enough for you, sir?” you whispered, not daring to make eye contact. beginning to try and close your thighs before vox’s hands could stop you.

“baby, baby, baby, you are the most beautiful thing i’ve ever set my eyes on, don’t you dare go covering up from me, this sight is the only thing i wanna see for the rest of my life.”

your head snapped to look at him, blush creeping up your neck, submitting and letting your legs fall back open

vox was eager, kneeling inbetween your thighs and loitering kisses all along them, eyes never straying from your pussy. “such a cute cunt,” he groaned, reiterating his words with his kisses, “matches those soft tits of yours.” you whined loudly, his words affecting you to the point of desperation.

“keep whining, bunny, it’s not gonna make me go any faster, all it does it’s gets my dick harder.” the way vox said it had you pulling your knees up and spreading further for him, showing him how bad you needed him. “how cute! spreading for me even more, what a good girl, already learning that’s how you should be for me.”

his head inched closer n closer to your cunt, watching the way you’d hump into him, so hopeful for his tongue.

“voxxyyy, are you gonna fuck our little bunny with your tongue or not, even im being teased here, mi vida.” vals voice made you both turn, your gaze now locking onto the man. he was in the corner, in nothing, his wings down, legs spread, hand stroking his cock, precum covering its tip, other hands groping himself, from his balls to his chest. “daddy needs to see their little girl in ruins.”

vox shot a wink to valentino and thrust his tongue inside of you, thumb immediately coming to glide over your clit at the same pace. the action elicited such a pretty high pitched whimper to spill from your lips. the sudden intrusion causing your head to lol back, eyes now glazed with bliss. it was heaven in hell. the long appendage, messy and stretching your tight cunt in a way you’d never experienced, had you fucking yourself back into it, moaning and writhing.

“good giiiirl.”

valentino was about to get the show of a lifetime from his lovers and you were gonna be the main star.

A/N : i love this concept way way way too much hehe <3

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impale-me-radio-daddy · 8 months ago

Text

Hell 2 Pay

℣ Pairing: Vox X angelic!reader

℣ Summary: A naïve angel descends to Hell looking for Vagina. Finds Vox instead.

℣ Content notes: Voyeurism, first time for everything, explicit sexual content,use of a vibrator, guided masturbation, loss of virginity, creampie, Vox being Vox, pet names: mostly sweetheart, babydoll and baby, reader is a girl, reader has a pussy, reader has a name and it's a fucking stupid one.

A sequel to Heaven Spent

Taglist

@it-gal888 @jurijyuu @bishiglomper @brunette-bet @bapple117

@diffidentphantom @leonotlara @redvexillum @nyx-umbrakinesis

“You sure it’s okay for me to come to this with you?” you asked, quietly, as you walked out to the limo, holding Vox’s arm.

“Baby, everyone who is anyone is going to this party.” Vox gestured wide with his talons, an arc of electricity between his fingers. “I hear even Lucifer himself is on the guest list. If this friend of yours is still down here, and she’s as powerful as you say she is, she’ll be there.”

In the days since you’d met Vox, you’d come no closer to finding Vagina, though not through lack of trying. You’d searched every database Vox had access to for her name, scoured security feeds and drone footage from across the city looking for a glimpse of her aquiline nose. You’d searched until your eyes watered, until Vox came round to your console each evening and told you it was time to stop for the night. To sleep.

Half the time you found yourself passing out against him in the elevator on the way to the penthouse, waking up in his arms as he carried you to bed. It was embarrassing to admit how much you liked the sensation- the fact that he lifted you almost effortlessly, strong arms cradling you against his chest. A kiss goodnight was as much as you managed to give him, though he didn’t press for more, his tired voice a gentle rasp against your ear as he told you to rest up for the cameras the next day.

In exchange, you’d taken the job as spokesperson for Angelic Security, and spent your days in fitting rooms and in front of cameras, chirping out your lines with as much enthusiasm as you could muster.

You thought you’d hit a dead end, until Vox had arrived on set one afternoon with a change of costume for you; an off-the shoulder floor length pleated gown with an empire waist, and a hair ornament that made your breath catch when you looked at it, beads of glossy pink glass, shaped like pomegranate seeds, spilled in a cluster and connected by fine gold thread. The extravagance of it had made you nervous, but when Vox showed you your reflection in the mirror, you’d had to cover your mouth to stop yourself squealing with delight. You looked important and refined. Like a princess. And the look Vox gave you told you he thought so too.

You bit your lip. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“And why would I be embarrassed to have a beautiful girl like you on my arm, huh?” Vox’s talons squeezed gently around your shoulder, and you felt heat rise to your cheeks.

Vox’s business partner and roommate Valentino got into the limousine first, stooping to get into the spacious cabin inside, followed by his date, a pale pink spider demon who was only a little shorter than he was. Both of them were dressed for the event; Valentino with a silk top-hat in the place of his usual hat, and the spider demon in a tailored satin-lined jacket that hung open at the chest, no shirt or waistcoat underneath.

“This party better have an open bar, that’s all I’m saying-” the spider demon paused to look up as you climbed into the limo after him. “Who’s the skirt?”

“Angel Dust, this is Angelic Security’s newest spokesperson and my date, Ari. Ari, this is Angel Dust, Val’s-” Vox squinted, a glance at the big moth. “-most valued employee.”

“Oh.” Your grip on Vox’s arm tightened as you stared at Angel Dust. His soft pink fur didn’t make him look demonic, certainly. “Are you really an angel?”

“That depends who ya ask, toots.” Angel winked lasciviously.

“A lot of people have seen his pearly gates, that’s for sure.” Valentino wrapped a possessive arm around Angel, his long fingers sinking into the chest fluff that peeked from Angel’s half-open jacket. “But rest assured my cariño here is just as soaked in sin as the rest of us. Other things, too.” Valentino grinned, flashing a gold tooth, and you watched as Angel’s smile dropped fractionally.

“Alright, alright, save it for the afterparty, jeez.” Vox waved the air in front of him, opening a chilled compartment in the table between the four of you and pulling out a tray of drinks in a puff of condensation.

“Oh, thank fuck. My thirty four inch hero.” Angel reached out with two of his arms, took a glass in each, and dumped them unceremoniously into his open mouth. Vox and Valentino exchanged a look.

“I’d better not have to send anyone to scrape him off the floor this time,” groused Vox, his mouth sliding to the bottom corner of his screen as he watched Angel down another drink.

Valentino laughed. “He’ll be good tonight. Won’t you, cariño?” Valentino’s fingers slid up Angel’s neck, tilting his head to force eye contact.

Angel rolled his eyes. “Yes, daddy.”

Vox held open the door of the limo to let his other business partner, Velvette, in as she arrived. “No plus one tonight?”

“I’m meeting someone there.” Velvette ducked under Vox’s arm and climbed into her seat, phone in the palm of one hand as she grabbed a flute of champagne from the tray and took a sip, making a face. “One of my all-time least favourite people just died.”

“Ohh?” Valentino looked at her over the rims of his heart-shaped glasses. “That fashion editor bitch you hate?”

“That’s the one.” Velvette grinned at him. “I said I’d give her a job if she let me piss in her mouth.”

Vox snorted, pulling the door shut. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course I’m fucking kidding,” Velvette’s gaze went back to her phone. “I’m not giving her a job.”

You snuggled up to Vox’s side as the limo wound its way through Pentagram’s streets. Little by little, you were starting to suspect that Vox’s associates were not nice people.

You were afraid that the five of you would be overdressed until you actually arrived at the party, helped out of the limousine by stately-looking demons, and ascended the steps to the venue. Everyone there looked majestic, in white tie or glittering gowns, tall bird-headed demons mingling with a practical menagerie of others. You found yourself clinging tight to Vox’s arm, and were gratified to feel him shift his grip, his claws sliding down your back to your hip, pulling you against him. The quiet thrum of his body was a comfort, and you grounded yourself with it.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, his voice a murmur in your ear as the attendants at the door checked his invite and waved the two of you through, Valentino and Angel behind you.

You nodded, though in truth you were still a little intimidated. A bird-headed demon thrumming with power floated past you, accompanied by a pair of hellhounds. “It’s just… sparkly, that’s all.”

“Me and Val are gonna mingle, so take your time looking around. I’ll be right here if you need me. And-” Vox sighed, straightening the lapel of his jacket, the pocket square he wore deep pink to match your hair ornament. “-this should go without saying, but you’re here on my invite, so I’m responsible for your actions. Try not to get yourself in trouble, okay?”

“I won’t.” You looked down, your face hot, your fingers squeezing Vox’s upper arm. “I-” you swallowed, gathering your courage, before raising your head, and planting a single kiss on the edge of his screen. “Thank you, Vox. For everything.”

Vox gave you a look that was meant to be suave. “Anytime, babydoll.”

“So, uh, what are you looking for, exactly?” Angel swayed after you with a backwards glance at Valentino and Vox, and you stopped to let him catch up. “Seems like you’re pretty bent outta shape about it.”

“Vagina,” you answered, your voice soft as you scanned the room from your vantage by the canapé table, dazzled by the reflected light of diamonds and rubies round the throats of the female attendees as you looked for her face. The grey skin, like yours, the aquiline nose, the short white hair. You looked and saw nothing, an ache in your heart.

Angel grinned crookedly. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help ya much there. Any particular type of vagina or are you not picky? Cuz I do know some people.”

“No.” You shook your head, frustrated. “Vagina is my friend.”

“If you say so.” Angel sighed, grabbing a drink from a passing attendant. “I’m more of a penis man myself, but if I meet any vaginas I’ll send em your way. Later, toots.”

And just like that, you were alone in the crowd, still looking for Vagina's familiar face.

You saw her, across the room, a glimpse through the crowd that had you moving closer to check that you weren’t hallucinating. Her hair was longer than you remembered, a large red satin bow at the back, and she was missing an eye, but you would know that face anywhere. Hope crested in your chest. She was here. She was alive. You could go back. You could take her hand and go back to Heaven and things would go back just the way they were.

“Vagina!” Unable to wait a second longer, you rushed towards her, calling her name, dodging a waiter and a stuffy-looking pair of owl demons.

“Hey!” A hand on your shoulder stopped you in your tracks and you looked up to see a tall blonde girl in a ruby-colored tuxedo, frowning as she looked down at you. “Excuse me! That’s my girlfriend you’re talking to there, you can’t just-”

“Charlie.” Vagina joined you, a soft touch on the tall girl’s arm. “It’s okay. I know her. Can you give us a minute?”

“Oh.” Charlie gave a small smile, looking between you and Vagina. “You know her. Of course you know her! Okay. I’ll just… give you guys some space.”

“Vagina!” Your mouth felt dry, tears beading in the corners of your eyes as Vagina steered you behind a pillar in an unpopulated corner of the ballroom. “Oh thank goodness. You’re safe! Your eye-” you reached out. What had happened to her?

“Stop calling me that.” Vagina pushed your hand away with a scowl. “It’s Vaggie now.”

“Sorry.” You drew away, your back against the pillar. “But it’s okay! I’m here now!”

“Look.” Vagina, or rather Vaggie, sighed, her one remaining eye closing. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you should go. It’s dangerous here.”

What? The world seemed to stop around you as you stared at her. Of course- she didn’t want to put you in danger. You straightened your back, pulling yourself to your full height, feet a little wobbly in the high-heeled shoes Vox had given you. “I’m an exorcist, just like you.”

“Areola…” Vaggie scrunched her nose. “You’re a janitor. You clean the showers. The only weapon you know is mop.”

You persevered, an ache in the back of your throat. “I came to save you.” That had to count for something, didn’t it? You had come all the way down from Heaven, malformed wings or no, you had risked your life, your immortal soul against the forces of Hell, for Vaggie. She had to be able to see that.

Your statement seemed to have the opposite effect to what you intended, Vaggie’s expression darkening. “Why? I never asked for your help. And I know for sure Lute didn’t send you.”

“Because you’re my best friend.” My only friend, you thought, your bottom lip quivering. “That… that counts for something, right?”

“Oh, for crying out-” Vaggie buried her face in one hand, giving a deep sigh before she looked up at you again. “Let’s set the record straight here. We weren’t friends. We were coworkers.”

You stared, unable to speak, every word out of Vaggie’s mouth like a knife to your chest. All the times you had brought out iced drinks to her when she’d been training, all those times she’d listened to you talk about your day. That had been friendship, hadn’t it? Real friendship? Your hands shook. “But-” you managed to squeak out, feeling like you were falling, as if the floor of the ballroom was dropping deep beneath you.

Vaggie’s gaze went past you, to the milling crowd of dancers, and the tall girl in red. “I don’t need to be saved,” she said. “Go home, Areola.”

It was all you could do not to burst into tears as you watched Vaggie's retreating back, a lump in your throat as she walked away from you, red ribbon bright in her white hair.

“Everything okay?” Vox seemed to sense something was up when you rejoined him, pulling you close, his voice low.

Silently, you shook your head, tears hot and painful in the corners of your eyes. You knew that if you said too much you’d be bawling right in the middle of the dance floor. “Take me home?”

Vox paused a second, watching you, then nodded, slowly. “Car’s on the way. I’ll give the others a call on the way back.”

In the privacy of the limo, you buried your face against Vox's chest, gratitude welling in you as your throat tightened. “I’m sorry, I… I know you had things you wanted to do tonight, I don’t want to be a burden.” You rambled, swallowing a sob.

“Val and Velv will do just fine pissing on people without me,” said Vox, his tone wry.

“Are you my friend, Vox?” you hiccuped, leaning into his chest. “Do you even like me?”

“What kinda dumbass question is that?” Vox’s arm tightened around you. “Someone said I wasn’t your friend?”

“N-no. I just-” your bottom lip trembled. “I found her.” You felt your voice crack. “She said- she said she wasn’t my friend. She said she’d never-” a small sob escaped your lips, and you felt like you were falling again.

“Hey, babydoll.” Vox’s talons caught the underside of your jaw, tilting your head up to face him, until you were staring into his red eyes, the view made blurry by the tears in yours. “Hey,” he repeated, his voice dropping a half octave, and he kissed you, softly, lips brushing yours, fingertips up over your jaw, over your cheek. “You’re my girl. You’re mine. No-one in this city gets to make you doubt that, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured as you found yourself on top of him, your body clinging to his as if he were the only solid thing in the world.

“I know something that will definitely make you feel better.” Vox reached into a compartment under one of the seats and pulled out a small object; a tapered, bulbous cylinder in VoxTek silver, cyan light shining from its contours.

“What is that?”

“Personal massager. Top of the range. Fully submersible, adjustable frequency and torque. Self-warming, body-grade silicone sheathe.”

You glanced up at Vox’s face. This was more than empty commercial copy, a flash of pride in his eyes. “You… helped design it, didn’t you?”

Vox quirked an eyebrow. “If I say yes, will you let me use it on you?”

You felt your face heat. “W-when you say personal massager…”

“I figure a few good orgasms are just what you need right now,” said Vox, eyes half-lidded, grin toothy.

“A few!?” You felt the pulse at the apex of your legs as you remembered what just one had felt like, Vox’s leg between your thighs.

“Lay back, baby,” Vox practically purred. “Let me take care of you.”

You hesitated, a little. Letting this happen to you was clearly not a thing that a good and chaste angel should do.

But what had being a good girl ever got you? You had been good, every day of your life; you had worked hard, and abstained, and been modest and never complained. You’d put yourself in danger, for someone you had assumed was your friend. And what had you gained? Aside from Vaggie’s disdain, the Lieutenant’s disdain, the disdain of every angel who saw your malformed wings and assumed you had done something to deserve it? Maybe this was a part of the grand plan the higher angels were always talking about, paid for in full with your deformity.

Who would even be waiting for you, if you went back to Heaven? Maybe you were meant to fall from grace, here, in Hell, in the arms of the one person who seemed to actually like you.

You placed your hand over Vox’s, fingertips over his blue talons. “I’ve never…” you said.

“I know that, baby.” Vox’s other hand was at the hem of your gown, pulling it up over your calves, over your knees, the fabric a silky whisper against your skin. “All you have to do is lay there and hold your legs open nice and wide for me, let me take care of the rest. Trust me.”

“O-okay.” You closed your eyes, feeling Vox push your skirt up over your thighs, your back flush with his chest as he pulled you into the position he wanted.

“Knees apart, sweetheart,” Vox murmured into your ear, his voice sending a shiver through your core.

You choked back a sob as you parted your thighs for him; one leg slung over his thigh, the other half-bent on the leather seat under you.

“Don’t cry, pretty girl,” Vox rasped, talons tracing thin lines over your knee, your quad, your inner thigh. He trailed the vibrator along the same path, its surface warm as skin as it shivered against your flesh. “I’m gonna make you feel so good you forget everything else that happened tonight.”

You turned your head, pressing the side of your face against Vox’s shoulder, and squeezed your eyes closed as you felt his hands ascend to the apex of your thighs, fingertips teasing at the lacy edge of your panties.

“Hey now, don’t be shy. I can feel how wet you are for me already,” said Vox, his fingers continuing to move. As if to demonstrate his point, he pressed two fingertips to the gusset of your panties, pressing your sex through the fabric in a languid up-down motion, then lifted them to your mouth, brushing the wetness that had seeped through your panties onto your bottom lip.

You opened your mouth, letting Vox slip his fingers inside, and were rewarded with a low groan from Vox as he smeared your tongue with the taste of your own arousal, musky and slick. “My good girl,” he growled, his other hand pushing your panties to the side. “So fucking obedient.”

He teased the vibrator against your outer lips, its setting still a low shiver as he moved it, smearing the arousal that leaked from you up towards your mons and then back down again, his fingers in your mouth echoing the slow, deliberate action. You shifted, and Vox parted your sex with his fingers, the vibrator against your inner lips, then up over the hood of your clitoris. It felt good, better than something this sinful had any right to feel, and you moaned around Vox’s fingers.

“See, baby? Didn’t I tell you I would make it better?” Vox exuded smugness as he kept the vibrator moving, and even if he hadn’t had his fingers in your mouth you weren’t sure you could have formed a coherent response.

Tears slid hot down your cheeks, your mascara running as Vox slid the vibrator over your sex, the shiver it had started with becoming a low thrum as he increased the power. He murmured sweet nothings as he slid it over your inner lips, the barest touch on your clitoris like a beam of heavenly light that had you forgetting that you were in the back of a limo with your sex spread open on a man’s hand.

“Tell me you want it inside,” said Vox, voice low as he pulled his fingers from your mouth, his other hand guiding the vibrator down a little, the thrum of sensation round your entrance, teasing at untouched flesh.

“Vox,” you gasped, as each tilt of his hand brought an answering shiver from your body.

“I wanna hear it, babydoll,” coaxed Vox, his second hand on your inner thigh now, spreading you further apart. “Tell me to fuck you with the toy.”

You swallowed, the concentric circles he was drawing around your entrance at war with the mortification you felt at using such crude language. “P-penetrate me-” you managed, to a soft chuckle from Vox.

“You’re just about the cutest girl I’ve ever fucked, you know that sweetheart?” he said, as he dipped the narrower end of the vibrator into you, just the tip. The sensation made you catch your breath, the thrum of it fluttering against your nerves. “Here you are, wide open for me, my toy in your sweet little pussy-” as if to demonstrate the point, Vox pushed the vibrator in another half inch, then out again, drawing a lewd little whimper from your lips. “-and you can’t even say the word fuck.”

“S-sorry,” you stammered, screwing your eyes shut.

“Don’t be sorry, Ari.” Vox’s lips were in your hair, kissing the beads from your hair ornament aside as he rocked the vibrator in and out of you, his other hand at your sex now, index and ring finger either side of your clit. “You’re my sweet baby girl. All for me, aren’t you?”

“Vox,” you whined, tears threatening to form in your eyes again. “I’m yours.”

“All mine?”

“Y-yes,” you squeaked

“Tell me again. I take good care of my things, babydoll.”

“I’m yours,” you repeated for him. Yours, yours, all yours. And each time your reward was that soft affection, that sound of approval, Vox’s thumb stroking the sensitive nub of your clit, making you squeak, and cry out, all the while the vibrator penetrating you in a shallow rhythm, slipping easily in and out of the slickness of your core. It wasn’t as if anyone else wanted you anyway.

“You’re close,” Vox purred against your ear, and you could feel that he was right; the sensation of his thumb on your clit the most vivid thing in your mind, along with the thrum of the toy against your inner walls. It felt like you were floating, pleasure your only compass, as Vox’s touch urged you to your destination. “Gonna cum with my toy inside, aren’t you?”

You whimpered an affirmative as you crested the wave, your core pulsing, twitching around the intrusion of the toy as Vox’s thumb stilled on your clit, pressing down but not moving.

Vox slipped a finger inside you with a groan, the width of the digit along with the toy bringing with it another round of little quakes. “Cumming hard for me babydoll?”

You gave a mortified little whimper, and Vox’s thumb pressed hard on your clit again, the sensation bringing more aftershocks as you found yourself fluttering round the toy and Vox’s finger.

“Holy shit, you’re still going,” Vox muttered, something like excitement creeping into his voice. “Hope you’re planning on cumming on my dick that hard.”

“I’m not planning!” you protested, to Vox’s indulgent grin.

“Course you’re not, sweetheart.” Vox’s voice was low as he dragged the tip of the vibrator from your still-twitching hole and up over your clit, its setting the gentle shiver that it had started on.

It was both too much and not enough, a flame on nerves already afire, oversensitive and quivering. “Vox!” you cried, hand going to his wrist, and he lifted the toy from your flesh, leaving you aching with its absence.

“Too much?” he asked, a prideful edge to his voice.

“Y-yes,” you admitted, breath coming in fast little pants through your lips.

“You wanna try using it yourself?” Vox pressed the toy into the palm of your hand. “I can talk you through it.”

You nodded, hesitant, and Vox took your hand in his, guiding the toy in your hand back to your slick and quivering sex. “Don’t worry about the settings. I can control those for you. Just press the tip here.”

The toy quivered in your hand as you pressed its bulbous end against your engorged clitoris. A stroke had your eyes fluttering closed, breath catching in your throat as you felt sheer, unmitigated pleasure. You drew back, swallowing saliva before you ventured another touch, a whimper on your lips.

Vox pushed two fingers into you, not the teasing in-out he had done with the toy, but in deep and curling, pressing something sweet at the apex. You drew the toy against your clitoris again, more steadily this time, feeling your body pull taut, a soft, birdlike noise in your throat as Vox’s fingers bullied the tender spot inside you.

“You need a little more power, babydoll?” Vox asked, and you only had to nod for the vibration to intensify, each moment threatening at too much before you drew your hand back, gasping as his fingers squelched in and out of you. “You should hold it there, hold it down, so you can cum round my fingers. Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you agreed, voice small, bracing yourself for the sensation as you pressed the toy once more against sensitive flesh. The quiver of the toy built into a tremble, the bliss of its touch into something almost painful, and you found yourself biting your lip to not cry out. You couldn’t keep going; it was too much, too much-

“Keep going,” Vox murmured, a light pressure on the back of your hand. You nodded, keeping the quivering toy held against the most sensitive part of you, an insensate noise on your lips as every muscle in your body seemed to shake, your legs drawn wide as they would go, riding bliss upon bliss upon bliss.

“Attagirl,” growled Vox, plunging his fingers in deep, and you were hit by a climax you hadn’t known to expect, a noise from you that was neither dignified nor sexy as your body spasmed, curling in, your thighs closing round Vox’s hands. “Attagirl,” he repeated, as your walls fluttered round his fingers, the vibrator still purring against your overstimulated clit. “Be a good girl and cum again for me now.”

“T-too much,” you whimpered, the rumble of the toy against your nerves threatening to blot out all other sensation, all thought, all language. “Vox, I can’t-”

“You can,” he encouraged, his hand guiding yours, keeping your hand in place, keeping the vibrator in place as you whined and bucked your hips. “See, I’m a very good judge of character, and I wouldn’t give you anything you couldn’t handle. I think you’re a good girl, and you’re gonna cum round my fingers when I ask you.”

“Vox!” your voice was starting to feel hoarse from the moaning, and the curl of Vox’s fingers inside you made you scream. You were still twitching from the previous orgasm as Vox pulled you inexorably to the next one.

“Tell me I’m right. Tell me you’re my good girl,” Vox pushed.

“I’m-” you started but were unable to finish as you crested the wave, pleasure flooding you, leaving you twitching senselessly round Vox’s fingers again, your back arching, thighs squeezing, head back. Vox stole the rest of your words with a kiss, his strange lips against yours as he cupped your chin with a hand coated with your arousal.

Warmth welled in your chest as the kiss deepened, Vox’s tongue twining with yours, the toy stilling as it powered down in your hand. Vox drew his fingers from you, wiping the slick on your bare thigh.

“Doing better now?” Vox asked as you broke the kiss, the limo slowing as it pulled up to the Vee tower.

“Yes,” you admitted, looking down at your rumpled dress, the heeled sandals still on your feet, anywhere but Vox’s smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, babydoll,” said Vox, smug as you’d ever seen him. “Let’s say you and I continue this in my room, huh?”

Your legs felt like jelly, but it still surprised you when rather than help you up, Vox simply scooped you up in his arms and carried you to the private elevator that went straight to the penthouse suite, taking the time it took for the elevator to ascend to unlace and remove your shoes, along with Vox’s jacket and tie.

You stroked the sides of Vox’s wide screen as you kissed him, and he carried you unerringly up the small flight of stairs that led to the mezzanine of his living space and through his bedroom door. He spilled you forward, onto the bed, and you sat back, your hands behind you, looking up at him.

Vox was looking at you with unashamed, undisguised desire, two lines of red from the corner of his mouth as he crawled onto the bed after you, pulling your knees apart to kneel between them, your dress once more riding up over your thighs.

“Do you want me?” you asked, quietly, part of you afraid of the answer. “You’re not… you’re not just doing this to make me feel better, right?”

Vox caught your hand by the wrist and pulled it to the fly of his tuxedo pants. Your eyes widened at what you felt there; his erection, hot and stiff and straining at the fabric. “What do you think, babydoll?” He pulled your hand more firmly against his hard-on, rutting against your palm with a movement of his hips, another line of red from his mouth as he did so. “Because I think you should take that pretty dress off for me and let me fuck you into the pillows til you scream.”

“Y-yes, of course.” Gratitude flooded you, your hands going to the clasps of your dress. You found yourself fumbling with it, your fingers shaking as Vox watched.

You failed to undo the same clasp on your side three times before Vox intervened, leaning into your personal space, a gentle hand on yours. “Lemme get that for you, sweetheart,” he said, voice soft enough to set you blushing as he undid the clasp with ease, his fingers finding the zip and easing it slowly down your side.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your cheeks hot, then, because it felt right, “I love you.”

Vox paused, his fingers under the shoulder of your dress, and you felt doubt rise to the surface again.

You looked at him, biting your lip. “I’m sorry, was that too soon? Am I not meant to say that?”

Vox lowered his face to your shoulderblade as he pulled off the shoulder of the dress, screen against skin, kissing his way down your back. “You are three orgasms too far in to be worrying about shit like that,” he said, in a tone that reminded you exactly what each of those had felt like. “You can say whatever you like to me, babydoll.”

“And you won’t leave?”

You felt Vox chuckle, a soft exhalation of breath against your back as he shimmied your dress down over your hips, hooking his fingers through the sides of your panties and pulling them down with it. “Does this look like leaving to you?” he asked, and you gulped, feeling exposed as you were naked under him, a prickling over your skin that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Tell me you love me again. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I love you,” you said, your eyes fluttering closed as Vox maneuvered you onto your hands and knees, lifting your hips a little until the bulge of his erection pressed your ass. “I’m yours.”

“Holy fuck, you’re beautiful, Ari,” Vox’s voice was thick with arousal as one finger stroked your exposed labia, still dripping slick from your adventures in the limo. “You’re gonna let me fuck that beautiful little white feathered pussy of yours, aren’t you?”

“Mm.” You nodded, nose to the sheets.

“Say it for me, babydoll,” said Vox, voice low, his clothed erection still pressing against you.

“I’m gonna let you…” you paused, breathless, searching for a way to paraphrase Vox’s words. “…take me,” you finished lamely. It was ludicrous, really; what you were about to do was something much worse than swearing, and plenty of angels swore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to.

“Still not gonna swear, huh?” Vox’s hands were gentle over your hips, his voice more amused than annoyed.

Silently, you shook your head.

“That’s okay.” Vox gave your ass a reassuring squeeze. “Still gonna fuck you, though.”

You waited, your face pressed to the soft sheets, your sex presented to Vox, as he unzipped himself and lined himself up. The tip of his cock was warm, running hot like the rest of his body, unfamiliar but not unpleasant as he slid it between your outer lips, gathering slick. You whined as he stroked it against your clit, still oversensitive, and found yourself clutching the sheets between your fingers, your body tensing.

“Ari.” Vox curled himself over you, a kiss between your shoulderblades. “Relax for me, yeah?”

“S-sorry.” You squeezed your eyes shut again, and felt his hand cover yours.

“Don’t be sorry. Just trust me.” Vox’s glans slid over your clit again, back and forth, and you moaned into the sheets at the sensation. “You’re gonna feel so good on my cock, I promise.”

“I trust you,” you whimpered, and Vox lined himself up with your entrance again, the head of his cock teasing it just as the toy had. “That… that feels nice, Vox.”

“Good girl.” Vox pushed himself a little further into you. His cock was wider than the toy or his fingers had been, bringing with it a stretch that had you panting open mouthed into his bedsheets. Another inch and he was pressing the sweetness inside you that his fingers had found, drawing another whimper from you.

“Can you feel me?” he coaxed, pushing further in. “Can you feel me inside?”

His cock inside you was an ache that stirred your guts and left your eyelids fluttering closed, his big hands clasped over yours. I love you, I love you, I love you, lay heavy and sticky as treacle on your tongue as your face pressed into the high-threadcount cotton of his pillows. “It's big,” you murmured. You buried your face deeper in the pillows. “I’m yours.”

“All mine, babygirl,” Vox answered, pushing himself into you a little further, moving one hand onto your hip as leverage. “Fuck, you're doing so good. Taking me so well.”

His knees between your shins, your face to the sheets, you found yourself helpless to do anything but accept him in, soft chirps of pleasure escaping your lips as he stretched your insides to his form.

“Shit, you are incredible. Made for me.” Vox pulled out a little and thrust back in with a snap of his hips, his balls rocking against your clit as he bottomed out again. “You’re gonna look so pretty once you’re all fucked out and filled with my cum.”

You called his name as he pumped his cock into you, one hand reaching round to stroke at your engorged clit, each snap of his hips an obscene squelch, slick dripping down your trembling thighs, his cock both hitting divinity and burning with its stretch, the apex of each thrust leaving you deliciously, sinfully full.

“Be a good girl and cum for me now,” Vox ground out, fingers sliding a cruel back-and-forth across your oversensitive clit, the intensity of the sensation almost painful, making tears bead in your eyes. “Cum on my cock, babydoll, milk me dry.”

You didn’t have words anymore, only sensation as Vox worked you, his voice gentle and coaxing as his hips set a pace that had you crying out into the pillows, fingers on your clitoris first slick pressure and then light as he brought sparking blue energy to his fingertips, moving over your skin and alighting on nerves. You were giving soft cries into the bedding, your throat hoarse as Vox hit sweetness upon sweetness, your body aching with the intensity of it, a string pulled tight, tight, tight.

“You’re close,” Vox told you, words penetrating your brain somehow, his screen pressing close and static-y as his hips and hand kept the rhythm. “Gonna cum with you, okay?”

You nodded, no words, only a string pulled tight, tight, tight as you felt him swell inside you somehow, and a flash of hot, white bliss hit you, your body clenching around him as he pulsed inside you. He was filling you with his seed, a pulse of warmth inside you, and then another, and then another as your walls twitched tight around him.

“Fuck. Ari. So fucking good.” A groan escaped Vox that sounded not unlike a modem noise, his chest against your back, and the lights flickered off, plunging the both of you into darkness.

“Vox?” you asked, in a small, hoarse voice, the only light in the room the dim blue of his screen, his arms wrapping around your chest. His cock, mortifyingly, still inside you. You touched his arm, the back of his hand. “Vox?”

Vox gave an affirmative grunt. “Gimme a minute, sweetheart. Just took out the power in the block- shit.”

You swallowed, a vague feeling of guilt welling in your stomach. “Was it my fault?”

“It happens sometimes, babydoll. Don’t worry about it.” Vox pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Emergency power kicks in in another thirty seconds.”

“So you don’t need to go?”

“No, I don’t need to go.” Vox breathed out, a shuddering exhalation. “Baby, you made me cum so hard I caused a power cut. That means; a) I am not going anywhere in a hurry, so right now I can give you the care and adoration you deserve, and b) you can stop being so damn insecure about it. You got that?”

“I think so.” You found yourself smiling, almost despite yourself, as Vox pulled out of you, his seed dribbling out over your thighs, and rolled you over to face him, your face against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head, the beads in your hair ornament clacking as his lips nudged them. You were dirty now. Ruined. Willingly full of a demon’s seed. Heaven would never take someone like you back.

But Vox’s arms were around you in the low light as the emergency power came on, his screen casting strange shadows across the sheets. And he made you feel warm and happy and safe, in a way no-one in Heaven ever had. You were his. He took good care of his things. In his bed, basking in the afterglow of the orgasm you had shared, was the happiest you had ever been.

#vox smut #vox x reader smut #vox x reader #vox x you smut #vox x you #vox x oc

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