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liveyun · 19 days ago

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no escape | k.th

title. no escape

pairing. kim taehyung x fem reader/oc

genre. squid game au, thriller, pwp, smut

warnings. 😵‍💫. guard!taehyung, player!oc, consensual sexual acts in forms of power play, bandage, orgasm denial, face fucking, spanking, taehyung is. . . arrogant and cocky (pun intended) , his hands, taeconda wbk lmao, edging, finger sucking, some softness

wc. ~3k

a/n : i haven’t watched the drama yet, so please forgive me if there are any factual mistakes (shouldn’t be lol, there’s barely any plot) and this is my second time writing smut/first time writing fellatio so please let it slide if it sounds bad because i was way too impatient to wait and the rumors and or the theories (unlikely) of him appearing in the third season are making me delusional fr 😈

The corridor is suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint whir of crusty old machinery.

Dim overhead lights flicker intermittently, casting dark shadows that stretch and contract like phantom limbs.

You shouldn’t be here. The thought screams louder with every step you take, but it’s drowned out by the pounding of your heart. A part of you relishes because of your rebellion; full of zeal, while the other part is shrinking with fear. Yet, you don’t know which one is responsible for your heart to go hayware.

Either way, you keep on walking.

You grip the edge of the wall tighter, your fingertips brushing against the cold metal, as if the steel could tether you to sanity.

The restricted zone feels different — emptier, darker. As if even the quiet of this lobby is asking you, no, demanding you to leave — but rebellion is so sweet to taste, that perhaps even death cannot make you step back. The air smells off, tinged with the faint metallic tang of something you don’t want to name. The kind of place where secrets go to die.

You force your breath to slow, ears straining for any sign of movement, any hint that someone else might be lurking. But there’s nothing. Just the silence pressing in on you from all sides.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You flinch.

The voice is low. Dulcet — so smooth it feels like liquid heat is being poured into your ears. You’ve never heard this voice before, and yet it crashes into you with the force of a thunderclap. That calm, quiet power, threaded with something dangerous, coils down your spine and settles deep in your stomach.

The serenity of the voice scares you.

Your entire body goes rigid, blood freezing. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn your head. He’s standing at the other end of the corridor, blocking the entrance, and perhaps, the only escape.

Red jumpsuit, square mask. The highest rank among the guards. The ones who don’t ask questions.

For a moment, neither of you move. The fluorescent light above him buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over his figure. The mask stares back at you, empty and unyielding, a void you can’t read.

But you feel his eyes. You feel them trailing over you, assessing, dissecting, pinning you where you stand. You feel naked under his gaze despite being fully dressed, and you feel an odd feeling in your insides..

“Lost?” he asks, and the way his voice dips at the end makes your breath hitch. Fuck, oh god.

It’s not just the sound of it—it’s the way it slides under your skin, makes your insides tingle. And he knows. This bastard knows. You can’t see his face, but the slight tilt of his head, the way he lingers just long enough to watch your reaction—it’s deliberate, calculated.

You swallow hard, but your throat feels like sandpaper. “I… I—”

He takes a step forward. You take one back. The air shifts, heavier now, charged with something you can’t quite name.

Your pulse races, each beat like a drum in your ears.

You don’t know if you’re exicted or scared.

“You know what happens to rule breakers, don’t you?” His gloved hand flexes at his side, the movement deliberate, almost lazy. A predator sizing up its prey.

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Save it.” Another step, and he’s close enough for you to catch the faintest trace of his cologne beneath the sterile scent of the suit. It’s woodsy, faintly spiced, and it lingers in the back of your throat like a memory you didn’t know you had. “You don’t belong here. And yet…” He tilts his head slightly, the square on his mask glinting in the dim light.

“Here you are.”

You hate the way your knees threaten to buckle, the way your breathing hitches despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You feel absolutely mortified to feel heat pooling in your lower abdomen like slow fire. There’s no telling what he’ll do. Report you? Drag you back? Or worse — handle the punishment himself.

And God help you, but a part of you is equally as thrilled as terrified to find out.

He’s close now — so close that the full, metallic scent of the corridor is drowned out by something else entirely. Something warm, woodsy, and faintly spiced, like cedarwood and smoke. It lingers in the air between you, curling around your senses, filling your brain up with fog.

The mask tilts, as though he’s watching you with a predator’s curiosity, drinking in every nervous shift of your weight, every shallow breath. You feel overwhelmed and squirmish, hyper aware of him observing your each move.

“What’s the matter?” he murmurs, voice low and unhurried. “Cat got your tongue?”

Your throat feels dry, words caught somewhere between your lungs and lips. You shift back, but the wall at your spine reminds you there’s nowhere left to go.

It’s just you and him.

He leans in just enough to make the hairs on your neck rise, his gloved hand brushing the wall beside your head — close, too close. It’s then you notice his hands: large, impossibly large, even beneath the thin sheen of the gloves. His fingers are long and deft, curling lazily into a fist before releasing, a movement so absentminded it shouldn’t make your stomach flip.

Shouldn’t fill your head with images which practically threatens to take away the little sanity left in you.

“You’re scared,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “But not of what you should be.”

His head tilts again, the mask’s material catching the overhead light. Slowly, his hand rises, not toward you—but toward his own face. His gloved hand rises to the edge of his mask, fingers brushing the seam. He hooks a single finger beneath the edge of his mask.

You barely notice that you’ve stopped breathing.

“You want to see who’s really watching you?”

You can’t stop your eyes from widening. “You want to see who you’re really dealing with?” The words are laced with danger, meant to come about as a taunt. But they dont, they instead spread a fire inside you, like how the veins of a leaf spreads across its surface area.

Slowly, almost languidly, he pulls the mask away, revealing the face beneath.

Oh.

Dark, sweat-dampened hair clings to his temples, framing a face that seems carved from shadow and starlight. His eyes are sharp, but, but they hold a soft glimmer — hooded, which gleam with cruel amusement framed underneath thick, strong brows. His lips are slightly parted, as if he knows you’re looking and wants you to keep doing just that.

He is breathtaking. He is gorgeous. And he knows that.

It’s the small things that undo you. The faint sheen of sweat along his sharp jawline. The curve of his smirk, too soft to be mocking but too dangerous to be kind. And that scent —closer now, filling your lungs and making you lightheaded.

“Well?” he asks, voice silkier than before. “Do I live up to the mystery?”

Your mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Your gaze drops despite yourself—past his throat, past the open collar of his jumpsuit, to the slender column of his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

Fuck this man.

But it’s his hands that do you in. Bare now, he tugs the gloves free, one finger at a time. His skin is warm-toned, his fingers long and lean, the kind of hands that could either cradle or crush without hesitation. He flexes them casually, like he knows you’re watching.

They are clean. Beautiful. Neatly manicured. . .

“Lost for words?” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are sharp, drinking in every flush of heat that creeps up your neck.

You can’t look at him, but you can’t look away, either.

An image flashes up in your mind. His fingers, the same fingers, rubbing your clit with smooth, slow circles as his other hand restricts the airflow from your throat.

Oh fuck.

You grit your teeth, not trusting yourself enough to conceal any noises that may spill out. However, you fail to supress yourself from squirming, your thighs rubbing themselves together unconsciously as the erotic image flares up your brain.

And he notices that too.

His eyes narrow, and a dry laugh escapes his lips — something similar to a mock, but closer to amusement. You feel your throat dry on the realisation as you try looking away, but the next thing you feel are his hands on your chin.

“You dirty little thing,” his hands are warm — but the tips of his digits cold as they squeeze your cheeks, puckering your lips out, his face inching closer till you can see your own reflection in his pupils.

You feel like closing your eyes, but you can’t.

His breath is warm. Minty. Sweet on your cheeks as he draws each word out like rich honey. “You could be killed here for breaking the rules, but you are thinking of something else. Isn’t that right, doll?”

You feel your clit throb at the nickname.

You shake your head, or atleast you try to. Could there be anything more humiliating than fantasizing about someone as him? Probably. But right now, you feel like not giving him the satisfaction of submission.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, the plush muscle coating his lips in a sheen layer of saliva.

He shakes his head, and a dry, unamused laugh leaves his throat.

“Filthy little liar,” he coaxes. “Do you know what do liars deserve?”

Your eyes widen, but somehow you feel that it’s not going to be the end of you.

Your eyes burn with tears.

And so do your wrists — they are tied behind you with a rag, and your knees actually feel like they’ve been scraped. But oh, sweet heavens, you feel like you could die after this. His cock rams into your mouth — not even half-way through, and hits the back of your throat. Your instincts have your throat constricting, eyes watering, and body squirming.

It’s nearly been 20 minutes, or so you think, since you’ve been kneeling down, getting fucked in your mouth by none other than the arrogant, handsome guard whose cock is so impossibly thick, you feel your jaws hurt. Suit hunched down to thick thighs and cock fished out of black boxers, you feel like this man actually is going to be the death of you.

Your pussy convulses, gushing out another stream of viscous fluid as his hips snap towards your face once more. He moans, a sweet, honeyed sound which makes your insides churn, a smooth beat which has your ego inflating. Your arms feel numb and your wrists hurt at the loss of circulation, but you remember how cruelly he’d tied your arms after your own fingers had reached down to releive the ache of your weeping pussy after the first thrusts of his cock into the wet cavern of your mouth.

He sneers, and grabs your hair — but his touch is surprisingly gentle, unlike his thrusts. Twists your hair into a makeshift ponytail, and forces your head on his length.

“Your mouth feels so good, ahh~”

He likes edging himself — or you. He’s been impossibly close thrice, throbbing and pulsing in your mouth, hissing at your tongue licking a particular angry vein on his cock, but he pulled away each time with a harsh grunt.

His eyes are sharp — glimmering under the dull lights of the lobby. He holds the back of my head and pushes himself down your throat, and you feel yourself gag, your mouth dripping with drool, his cock impossibly closer to your throat, still not down the base. “Y-yeah, you dirty liar, choke.”

It wasn’t definitely your first time with a man — but this man? You had no words. You felt your cheeks warm up, your cunt clench and gush out. You moan, the sound muffled by his cock, and looked up into his dark eyes, wordlessly begging for more. . .

What had gotten into you?

Your senses were overwhelmed ; the taste of his cock, its hardness prying your throat open, the smell of his sweat, the glimpses of his golden skin under his suit and impossibly silky hair sticking to his forehead — and each thrust sending you to a gateway of primal lust.

His hands leave your hair.

And what he does catches you off guard. You were busy eyeing his form, and he takes the advantage of that. His hips buck back to your mouth, freely thrusting as if you were a toy — nudging your throat open as he moaned in victory, his hands on his hips, teeth tugging his lower lips as he presses his cock closer.

“Look at you,” he lets out a small laugh. “Such a good girl. Taking cock so well.”

Your insides feel mushy with the praise. He fucks you through as you willed your throat to relax, knowing that each spasm tightened your throat around his cock, turned him on even more — you could already feel his cock throb back again.

He grits his teeth, and then your mouth is empty.

He’s pulled back — his wrapping around his length, and good heavens, even his enormous hands dont make up to the size of his cock as he lazily strokes his shaft. Red, so red it’s nearly a shade of purple — enlarged and throbbing. Your tongue flicks out as you whine at the loss of cock and he smirks ; as his thumb swipes the pearling pre come over his sapping tip, twisting his strokes as they get frantic, rushed, and more desparate.

“So eager for cum, are you?”

He tries sounding tough, but his voice wavers, ending off in an airy note. Fuck, he is close. His lips part and his head is tossed back as he fucks his fist, jerking off you resist the urge to squirm. The sight is so unbelievably hot — the arrogant guard is about to come.

He looks down at you as the first rope of his seed hits your agape mouth.

Warm, salty, and slightly bitter.

He fills up most of your mouth with his come as he keeps on jerking, and you must say that his aim is pretty accurate. Although some of it dribbles to your cheeks and chin as he groans, a sound so primal you feel your cunt clench and throb, knowing that you made him come so hard that you can see his eyes rolled to the back of his head as the last splurt of come hits your tongue.

You eagerly gulp down his release, surprised at how pleasant he tastes, and how easily you agreed to shallow down.

He, however, doesnt stop.

He leans down to you, close, impossibly close till you can feel the warmth of his face radiating to you. His hand cradles your face as one of his fingers swipe at the come on your cheeks and brings it to your lips.

“You don’t wanna waste it, do you?”

You happily oblige.

But you don’t stop either — you swirl your tongue around the digit, long and slender, similiar to how you’d done to his cock. You see his nostrils flare, and another arrogant smirk tugging up his lips as he narrows his eyes at you, pulling his finger away with a pop.

His hands reaches down to straighten up your shoulders — as your tits perk up, still clothed, but the outline of your pebbled nipples are prominent.

Your cheeks burn at the intensity of his gaze on your chest.

He squats down to your height — and before you realise, your arms are bound free. They feel numb and cold, and you flex them around a bit as blood rushes back to your wrists. You feel slightly awkward and blue balled, still feeling your wetness cling to your folds and your abdomen swirl with heat, but —

His arms slide underneath your thighs as he throws you over his shoulders.

“Wha. . . !! ” your throat feels sore, but you hope he gets the surprise you feel being over his shoulders, limbs held down by him, ass in the air and arms holding onto their dear life on his suit as he carries you both forward. Anyone could see you like this — your bare cunt and ass on display, but you don’t think it bothers him.

Or you. If anything, you feel your heart pick its rate at the idea of being caught.

One of his hands lands a slap on your cheeks and your body jolts forward as you yelp, feeling the sting on the muscle as his huge arm caresses the area, your body carried away by him with long, huge and hurried strides. To somewhere you possibly don’t know. . . .

But you aren’t scared, as ironic as that sounds.

“Did you think we were done already, doll?”

a/n : how did we like it? 😈 your feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading 💜

#taehyung smut #bts smut #taehyung angst #bts angst #bts fics #taehyung fanfiction #squid game au #bts x reader #bts x you #taehyung x reader #taehyung x female reader #taehyung x you #bts imagines #squid game #bts fanfic #btswritersclub

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esote-rika · 19 days ago

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derision as prelude to desire | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader

Category: smut 18+ MDNI, fluff if you squint

Summary: Spencer Reid’s new coworker is mean but one night doing overtime together leads to the two of them bonding.

Content: glasses!Spencer, workplace rivals if you squint, Spencer Reid vs technology, reader is kind of mean and based on Blair Waldorf (in background, looks, and personality), Spencer is petty, his mind is in the GUTTER, use of eye drops, making out, sub!Spencer, fingering, oral (male receiving), whining and begging glasses!Spencer. Let’s pretend the BAU doesn’t have any CCTV cameras for this one m’kay thanks

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: This is an ITCH in my brain, like I’ve been thinking about a Spencer Reid x Blair Waldorf crackship since August last year it’s actually concerning. One of my favorite ship dynamics is loser boy x popular girl, so it makes sense. Still in second person to make it immersive. This isn’t a crossover, so there will be no spoilers for Gossip Girl. The reader's personality, looks and background are just based on Blair. Let me know if you want to read more of this dynamic because I have so many ideas for it oh my god. I hope you enjoy it!

Spencer Reid often muses on the series of events that had brought you from the streets of the Upper East Side to work in Quantico, Virginia. It would be easy to ask, of course, or even have Penelope do a quick background check on you, but he’s made a game of it instead, piecing together what he knows of your history, filling in the blanks of what would have gone wrong, what decisions you would have taken, in order to leave the privileged life you led and enter public service.

As far as he had been concerned, you don’t belong anywhere near the FBI, let alone the BAU. Spoiled, rich, with a mean streak he is all too familiar with from his time in school.

He had been so sure you wouldn’t fit in when you first joined the team. You had been, and continue to be, perfectly made, every single hair shiny and curled just so, heels always so shiny and matching whatever designer bag you have slung over your shoulder. Everything about you screams high maintenance, and his profiler instincts point to several things: uncooperative, wants everything handed to you, ditzy.

But then you had shown your cards, had proved his assessment so wrong and he could never forgive you for the sting of that defeat.

It doesn’t help that you seem to enjoy riling him up as well. Every case is an opportunity to one up him, an attempt to claim his spot and it’s unfair. You already have everything, yet you still refuse to yield the title of team genius to him, the one thing he can cling to, the thing he knows is his.

He is still glowering today, four months into your employment, passive aggressively hitting the keys on his keyboard. He’s a slow typist, and he’d agreed to write Morgan’s reports for him this week, a favor between friends he’s now beginning to regret. You are the only one keeping him company. The rest of the team has already left hours ago, but you’re typing away at your desk, fingers flying through the keyboard without even a glance. His own skills seem laughable in comparison, going at the keys one by one, with the speed of an old grandparent squinting over a typewriter instead of a man in his twenties.

“Take a picture, Reid, it’ll last longer.”

He blinks, forcing his eyes back to the monitor. “You’re so original.” he mutters, pushing his glasses up to nestle on top of his head. He rubs his eyes, already despising the glare of the screen.

“Aw, what, the genius can’t handle a little blue light?”

He doesn’t bother with a response, blinking at the screen instead. The sooner he can get this done, the sooner he can leave. Sounds of tapping keys fill the air again, but he stops after a few moments again, rubbing at his eyes. He hears a sigh, and then your voice again, haughty but somehow concerned.

“You’re not supposed to rub your eyes, it makes it worse.”

“I know,” he grumbles, “I don’t need you lecturing me about the importance of eye health.”

“It seems like you do, since you’re still doing it.” you reply derisively. He’d be rolling his eyes if he isn’t too busy rubbing them.

“Here,” you say, “Catch.”

Confused, he lifts his head, only to flinch as something hurls right at him. “What-” it hits his desk, then bounces off.

“Oh, look what you’ve done, genius.”

“You threw it at me.” his lips are pulled into a tight line of disapproval, “A head’s up would have been nice.”

“I did, genius, I said catch. You just have the reflexes of an eighty year old.” your voice is tinged with annoyance.

To his surprise, you’re up and walking to his desk, heels echoing in the empty bullpen. He watches as you gingerly kneel on the ground, bending down, and his eyes grow wide. The image of you bent down like this is surprisingly enticing, your skirt straining against the soft curve of your hips, hair falling down your shoulders like a curtain of the night sky. You’ve gotten close enough that he can smell your perfume, something citrusy and clean, and he subconsciously leans closer.

Mouth dry, he manages to croak out, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find the damn eye drops.” you snap, an arm extending towards him and for a moment he holds his breath, waiting for contact. Instead, you grab something from the ground, “There it is.”

He watches as you straighten, lifting your torso upright, but still kneeling in front of him. An image flashes through his mind, your face between his thighs, those large eyes staring up at him, but he banishes it quickly lest his thoughts begin to stir his body.

“Here, these should help.” You say, finally standing back up and placing the tiny bottle on his desk. A filthy part of him wishes you’d get back on your knees. He catches the tilt of your head, the confusion in your eyes, “Reid. Are you still with me? Has your brain finally short circuited from all those statistics?”

Oh his brain is short circuiting, all right, just from a different cause.

“I’m - yeah.” he replies, and then he rattles off the first thought his frazzled mind could come up with, “Did you know some people have used eye drops as a method for murder? Not these ones, but there are specific brands that contain—”

“Tetrahydrozoline,” you finish for him, “Yeah, I know.”

He blinks. There you go again, proving your intellect, your value, somehow matching his even though he’s pretty sure you are no genius, not in the same way he is. Still, perhaps it’s the late night, or your offer of relief, but the sting of being bested doesn’t resonate tonight. A softer feeling unfurls in his chest, something warm and addictive, something like understanding. He smiles, “That’s right.”

You nod, curls spilling over your shoulders again, “Mhm. Well… These are for your eyes, I’m not trying to poison you.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

A scoff, “Please, I’m not dumb enough to attempt murder in the office.”

His brows lift and he finds himself grinning, “So you’ve thought about it?”

“I will neither deny nor confirm.” you’re smiling now too, and he lets his eyes roam over the pretty lines of your face, memorizing how lovely you look in this moment, guards lowered and smiling at him with ease. He thinks he sees something flash in those pretty eyes of yours but he’s not sure. Reading people has never been his strong suit, regardless of his profession.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” you gesture at his glasses, and he immediately obeys, pushing it back up to nestle on his hair. He holds his breath as you come closer, bites his lips when your hand comes to his chin. It’s soft, unbelievably gentle, and you tilt his head back. From this angle, he can see the way your lashes curl, the soft hint of shimmer swept across your lids. Eyeshadow, he remembers from what Penelope and JJ have told him, and it highlights the shape of your eyes, making them appear brighter.

He blinks as coolness hits his eye, and then you’re tilting his head to the other side, and he’s trying not to panic, trying not to be a creep, but in reality, he hasn’t been this close, this intimate to a woman in so long that it’s messing up his ability to inhale, to think, to function. Your hair flutters gently around his face, and the scent of citrus is stronger now, heady, and he feels so light headed he’s afraid he’ll faint.

The same coolness hits the other eye, and before you can pull away, before he can think it through, he’s curling his own hand over your wrist. He lifts it up, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm, admonishing any thoughts of germs and bacteria, and instead relishing at the tender flesh beneath his lips. He kisses your palm again, lips gently tracing the lines, before moving down to the inside of your wrist, before pausing.

He dares to peer up, waiting for a reprimand, a cutting sentence that would have him lashing back at you, but there’s none. There it is again, the flicker in your eyes, and now he finally knows the word to attach to it: desire.

He kisses the inside of your wrist again, and feels you pulse fluttering beneath his lips. Fast, to his surprise, almost matching the quick succession of thudding in his chest.

“Reid,” you whisper, and he waits again, allows you time to pull away. You don’t, but he’s apprehensive now, afraid he’s crossed a boundary. He definitely has, but he would do it again if you express the desire to do so, to tumble into whatever this is with him. He just needs confirmation, one verbal acknowledgement that you want this too, because he doesn’t trust his ability to read you yet, not when he’s spent so much time despising you.

But you’re just looking at him, and the embarrassment is almost painful. His cheeks heat up, and he drops your hand.

“I’m sorry.” he murmurs, sinking back on his seat. He’s about to turn to his monitor, intent to forget about this, forget everything even though his memory would make that impossible, but he finds his face being tilted up again, cradled between impossibly soft hands, and then there’s lips against his own, your lips, oh god you are kissing him.

He wraps his arms around your waist, following the movement of your mouth to the best of his limited ability. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip and he lets out an involuntary whimper, his body jerking at the sting. He feels you smiling against his mouth, cocky even in the midst of a kiss, in the midst of the most heated kiss he’s had since - since - he can’t even remember her, the brief dalliance he had with an actress once upon a time, because all he can think of is your mouth, and your hands, nails scratching at his scalp, and every single thought is expelled from his mind when you climb on his lap.

“God,” he moans in between kisses, his breaths ragged, but he would gladly drown in you before stopping.

“Not god,” you correct him and nip at his lower lip with more force this time.

“Mhm.” he whines, and kisses you again, shifting so you’re more comfortable on his lap. He wonders if the chair is creaking from your combined weight, but then you’re grinding directly on his cock and he’s lost in a haze of white hot pleasure.

Apparently, Spencer Reid cannot multitask, because his lips fall slack as you grind against his hardening cock. Your laughter tinkles in his ear, before your mouth latches on his jaw, down his neck, open and wet and sticky. He knows you said you aren’t god, and he’s never been religious, but he swears this must be heaven. Fitting too, in the same way he’s never thought he’d reach some place he doesn’t even believe in, he’s also never thought he would have you—beautiful, infuriating, untouchable you—grinding on his lap with a desperation that borders frenzy.

Recognizing that your need burns you just as his is making him reckless, he manages to whisper, “Tell me— tell me what to do. How do I make you feel good?”

You giggle, taking one of his hands away from your waist and leading it under your skirt. The fabric has bunched up over your thighs, and he grips the smooth flesh greedily. But you have other ideas, and he’s eager to learn, so he lets you move his hand higher, until the tips of his fingers brush against moist fabric.

His mouth goes dry. You’ve soaked through your panties.

“Like this?” he dips his fingers past the lace, his mouth falling open at the slick that’s gathered at your core. You have your face buried at his neck, lips and tongue still assaulting the tender skin there, but he feels you nod, feels the shudder that runs through you, and he takes those as a good sign. His touch is exploratory, gentle, fueled by an intoxication over the fact that you’re here and you’re enjoying it, you’re making those sounds for him.

He’s awestruck rather than cocky, and when he slides his fingers into your pussy, he’s immediately trying to figure out a rhythm that would draw out those pretty noises from your lips. When he finds it, he sticks to it, greedily drinking in your moans, no matter how muffled they are against his neck.

There’s a sense of degeneracy to this whole thing. Fingering his coworker in the office, right there on his desk, he could get fired should this get out, they both could. Still, he’s never truly had anyone want him so unabashedly and he simply cannot stop. You had been the one to kiss him, after all, the lines in the sand had been completely trampled by the time you had climbed on his lap.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, and he feels you move, riding his hand shamelessly, and he has to bite your shoulder to keep himself from whining again. The sight alone nearly undoes him, and you’ve barely done anything. He’s been actively providing you with stimulation this whole time, fucking you with his fingers relentlessly, and somehow, he wouldn’t change a single thing.

“Yeah?” he asks, pupils blown wide, wanting, needing the assurance that he’s doing good, he’s making you feel good.

“Yes, oh fuck, yes!” your voice grows sharper as he curls his fingers with every thrust. After a few moments of fumbling with your panties, his thumb presses against your clit and he’s rewarded by another groan from you.

He draws figure eights against your slick core, finding a rhythm that has you tugging at his hair wildly, and he’s whispering into your ear, pleading, “That’s it, please come for me, please, let me see how good you feel, please, please—”

“Spencer!” you groan, and then you’re shuddering in his lap, and his fingers down to his knuckles are wet with your slick.

He grins, helping you through your orgasm, pressing kisses to your hair, the FBI issued office chair creaking so much he’s afraid the two of you would break it if you don’t stop. The image is hilarious in its absurdity, making his grin widen, and you must have taken it for arrogance because he feels a slight smack on his shoulder.

“Don’t get cocky.” you mutter.

He takes you in, the flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, mascara now smudged along your lash lines, and he’s reverential instead of arrogant, grateful that he has brought someone so stunning and capable to the throes of pleasure, has taken you apart so much you’ve ruined your normally perfect facade.

“You’re beautiful.” he tells you, his own eyes glistening with an unfocused daze. You roll your eyes and shake your head, and he’s seized with a desire to keep you hear and bury his fingers inside you over and over again until you believe him.

“Your turn.” You chuckle, hands unwinding from his neck and travelling down the length of his abdomen, coming to the buckle on his belt.

“Wait, I—uh,” he turns beet red once again, clearing his throat, “Are you on the pill? I don’t have—”

You tilt your head, as if the idea of a man walking around without a condom is foreign. Perhaps it is, but Spencer simply never assumed he would have any use for it. He turns away, teeth worrying his lower lip, but you pull his face to you again.

“I have hands.” you say as you resume undoing his pants. You shift, then slink away from him, and he whines at the loss of your warmth, but he sees you on your knees once again, and this time it’s not just his brain making up lewd, inappropriate thoughts, “And a mouth.”

“Y-you really don’t have to.”

“I know,” you grin, pretty as the devil and twice as tempting, and as your hands wrap around his engorged length, thumb circling at the tip, “But how can I not, when you’re this pretty?”

He blacks out, he swears he does, there’s no way this isn’t a perverted dream, no way that you’re actually stroking up and down his throbbing cock. Somehow he comes to, only to feel a warmth, a wetness, enveloping the swollen tip, and his hips buck up instinctively. He whines when your hands push at his thighs, holding him in place.

“Please,” he gasps, babbles, really, “Please, oh god, that feels so good.”

You take him further down and he throws his head back so violently the glasses slip past his ears and clatter onto the floor. He feels your laughter vibrating against his cock and it almost has him keening. He whines, wriggles against your hold with no real desire to break free. He finds that likes the force of your hands on him, nails leaving harsh indents on his flesh as he struggles. The pain is delicious, heightening his already frazzled senses.

You bob your head up and down, your hair swaying gently, and he manages to will his hands to move, gathering the soft tresses in his hand so they won’t impede your movement. Your eyes flicker up, meet his own, and he swears there’s a thank you in the glint of them. He cannot do anything else.

Slack jawed, he watches you hollow your cheeks, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth as you give him the best head he’s ever experienced. Never mind that it’s his first one, and that he doesn’t have a point of comparison. He’s convinced this is the best, you are the best, and he’s never been more thankful for his eidetic memory until this night, knowing that he cannot, will never, ever forget the way you look as you knelt down and sucked his cock like you were being paid to do it.

“God, you’re so pretty, oh my god, yes, just like that, please, please, yes.” he’s aware that he’s whining, and there’s an amused twinkle in your eye that tells him he would never hear the end of this after.

He knows you well enough to know that you would dangle this over his head any chance you get, that you aren’t above playing dirty. Instead of dread, it makes his stomach roil with another gush of desire, and he knows that that is even more concerning than whatever you were going to do.

(It never occurs to him to do the same, that he could tease you back and point out that he has had you on your knees and sucking on his cock like you were made for it simply because his brain cannot fathom ever associating the sight of you kneeling before him as something to be ashamed of.)

He’s drawn from his thoughts as he feels your hands cupping his balls, stimulating an entirely new area that has him thrusting up. He feels his cock brush against the back of your throat, and he pulls back immediately, eyes wide with worry as you gag around his length.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby you can stop if—”

But you do it again, soldiering past your gag reflex and taking him all the way, and he can hear someone saying oh fuck oh fuck I’m cumming agh, please, I’m cumming, and he thinks its his own voice but he’s unsure. His eyes are squeezed shut, colors exploding behind his lids as he feels your tongue swirling over and over his sensitive cock, before the cool air surrounds it, telling him you’ve stopped completely.

When he opens his eyes, you have your head on his thigh, cheek pressed against the fabric, a lazy smile on your ruined lips.

“God,” he whispers, reaching for you, wanting you close, “That was—wow, you—come here, please.”

He watches as a flicker of surprise flits over your face, before you mask it with a giggle, “Good?” you murmur, tucking his soft cock into his pants before climbing on his lap again.

“Incredible.” He holds you tight, your slick only half dry on his fingers, the taste of him still on your tongue, “You’re incredible.”

You’re quiet, contemplative, and he presses a kiss to your neck, wanting to bring you out of whatever funk you’ve gone into, “Hey, what is it?” He’s almost terrified of the answer, worried you would pull away and leave him cold.

“I just didn’t think you’d be a cuddler.” you reply, eventually sinking into his arms. Your voice is soft when you say, “Most men aren’t.”

The thought of her having experiences doesn’t bother him; it’s the fact that they callously left her after that makes him tighten his hold on her. “I’m sorry.”

“For the entirety of shitty men? You’d need more apologies than that,” you chuckle, fingers absently curling into his hair, “But thank you. This is— this is nice.”

“It is,” Spencer nods, leaning into your touch, eyes shut.

“You lost your glasses.”

“I did.”

Your laughter fills the air, “Hey, are you sleepy? You still have Morgan’s reports to finish.”

His eyes flutter open, a sheepish smile on his lips, “Why’d you have to remind me?”

“Because the sooner you finish it, the sooner we can do this again.”

Spencer laughs, kissing your shoulder as he relents, “All right, all right.” That’s more than enough incentive to brave staring at the monitor again.

#spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x oc #dr spencer reid fan fic #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #matthew gray gubler smut #mgg #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #Waldorf!Reader

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affableramen · 3 months ago

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who proposes first? according to this request. established relationship, fluffy fluff

Wriothesley: you should propose. This man is kinda shy when it comes to making something known and official between you two, and ultimately he is also the one worrying you may not love him as much he does you. He needs directness. When you propose him, he will become as red as a tomato, but without thinking twice he agrees, you even spot a few tears in his eyes!

Tartaglia: you propose to each other at the same day because you’re two mentally connected idiots in love. First you give it a good giggle knowing that only you two would have an awkward situation like this, and Tartaglia’s sense of humour spreads even to the marriage theme. It will be both romantic and laughable but you’ll remember this iconic moment for the rest of your lives.

Neuvillette: definitely proposes first. He is a very family-oriented man, and he believes making you his wife officially will bring you two to another level of intimacy. And he just adores sharing domestic life with you.

Pantalone: forgive me, but he is dumb at this point. Maybe that’s because he’s old he doesn't care about family much, but he will simply not propose first. He needs motivation to propose, like seeing someone trying to steal you off from him, or someone proposing to you instead. He needs to be jealous in order to come to the decision of marrying you.

Capitano: proposes first but he is slow with it. He will watch you for a long time, making it 200% sure that you truly do love him. Because for him, letting you into his domestic life and literally share home with him, would mean that you have to bear seeing his scarred face every day, and he fears that a lot. His proposal is very romantic and almost brings you to tears as the man kneeling with completely flat expression asks you the question you have been waiting for a long while.

Dottore: nah you propose first. He is very focused on his job. Science, science, science every day he has literally no time to think about marriages and such. But if you finally gather your confidence and do propose him dammit, Dottore will melt and be an embarrassed, shaking mess for a few moments because he did not expect you to really love him to this point. He might isolate himself in the bathroom or any other closed room to figure his emotions because he has never felt more blessed.

Alhaitham: he is the first to propose. It might take some time, but finally a moment comes when he collects his thoughts and goes on his knee to pull a wedding ring for you. He will be completely smitten and embarrassed at first, his voice will be shaking. But he is definitely a type to eventually get married to his s/o, since he was raised by his grandmother and grown into the man who knows big deal about traditions.

Dainsleif: you propose first, but he stops you and says that he is supposed to be the one doing that. He scolds himself for not thinking in advance. He recreates the scene, and this time he is the one proposing. When Dainsleif proposes, he has a completely serious, but at the same time soft expression on his face. Looking at him as he kneels, you realise that he is the man that will satisfy all your needs.

Baizhu: he 1000% proposes first. Trust me, Baizhu is a very responsible man and he approaches a long lasting relationship with huge responsibility too. It has been a while for him considering to propose you, but something was always holding him back. Before proposing, be will ask you once again if you truly do love him, if you are ready to bear this feable pharmacist who chose the life of suffering in order to heal people. Once you confirm that again, he will kiss you so deeply and present you the wedding ring.

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maximoffwitch · 1 month ago

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She’s the Best Remedy

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

warnings: slight mention of canon typical violence

summary: when you don’t answer your phone, emily thinks the unsub’s gotten to you. little does she know the only unsub that’s gotten you is the flu.

word count: 2.4k

a/n: so excited to be writing again! and for my fav fbi agent nonetheless :) and btw this is not rly proofread at all so pls forgive any mistakes !

request: not sure which character to choose for this prompt so feel free to choose whoever - it’s nearly winter where i am so it’s flu season and everybody’s got a cold and sniffling. so maybe r catches a horrible cold and is unresponsive to texts and calls because congestion, tiredness, all the symptoms we love so much so character comes to check on them and help them get what they need

As the morning light shone through the curtains, you let out a low groan.

Usually, you weren’t one to object to a slow weekend morning—a relaxing, warm shower and a nice steaming cup of coffee before heading off to do some errands. Mornings with your girlfriend were especially your favorite, when you could just cuddle into her side, basking in her warmth. However, unfortunately for you, neither of those were options today. Emily had been working non-stop this past week on a local case, and on top of that, your body felt like it had just gotten hit by a truck and then run over.

Pulling the covers over your head, you blocked out the light, trying to soothe the pounding in your head. You knew it was flu season, and as a pre-school teacher, you were bound to catch the sickness at some point. You just wish it wasn’t so bad. The occasional sniffles and cough you could handle, but this felt like death was on your doorstep.

You could barely breath out of your nose and your throat was dry as sandpaper. Another groan escaped your mouth, as the ringing of your phone echoed throughout the room. You had no energy to move, let alone talk to anybody, and you needed the ringing to stop, your headache only getting worse as the sound continued. Grabbing your phone, you blindly shut it off before throwing it across the room. Before you could hear it start to ring again, your body gave way and you fell back into a deep slumber.

— — —

On the other side of town, Emily was desperately trying to get a hold of you. Local cases always made her nervous, even more so when she started dating you. Knowing you could be put in danger, both because there was an unsub on the streets of Virginia and because you were connected to her, made her guts twist. However, this case particularly hit home, as the unsub seemed to be targeting women your age who worked with kids–pediatricians, nannies, teachers.

Emily needed to know you were safe; she needed you with her. After asking Hotch if she could bring you in, she stepped away to call you, only to be met by your voicemail. Any other time, Emily would’ve laughed, as she always did, at the ridiculous message you left on your answering machine, but now, she needed to hear your actual voice. Calling again, she was met with the same response. Emily tried one more time, biting her lip when you didn’t pick up, again. Typing out a few texts, she slipped her phone back into her pocket before rejoining the team.

“What’s wrong?” JJ asked, immediately noticing the worry knitted in her friend’s brows.

“(Y/N)’s not answering her phone,” Emily replied as pulled out her phone again to check for any message from you. “And she hasn’t replied to any of my texts.”

JJ frowned, knowing how that was unlike you. You would always respond to calls or texts, especially your girlfriend’s. Sensing Emily’s concern, JJ stood up and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sure she’s fine. She probably just forgot her phone when she went to the store or something,” JJ said with an assuring smile. “Come on, let’s have Garica track it.”

Emily nodded, liking that idea. The two women made their way through the bullpen and into Penelope’s bunker.

“What can I do for you two lovely ladies?” Penelope chirped, not bothering to look away from the screen, her fingers still flying across the keyboard.

“Pen, I need you to track (Y/N)’s phone,” Emily said. At the mention of your name, Penelope immediately stopped typing and snapped her head around.

“What happened? Is she alright?” The technical analyst’s eyes were wide. From the moment Emily introduced you to the team, Penelope adored you, your bubbly personalities meshing quite well.

“She’s not answering Em’s calls or texts,” JJ explained calmly, ever the level head.

“On it.” Penelope swiveled back around. Emily rang your number again, so the blonde could trace your phone.

As the dot flashed on the map, Emily leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in on the location.

“She’s at home,” Penelope said lamely.

“Her phone is,” Emily corrected, her thoughts already starting to spiral. What if the unsub had kidnapped you? What if he’d hurt you? Or worse…

— — —

Back at your apartment, you had barely moved an inch. It was now nearly noon, and you knew you had to get up at some point, if not only to get some water. Mustering up all of your will and energy, you slipped out of bed and dragged your feet down the hall, steadying yourself against the walls.

After gulping down some water, you leaned against the counter, hanging your head in your hands. You could barely even think about anything other than your bed, the feverous state fogging your mind. As a wave of chills wracked your body, you knew you had to get in the shower and regulate your body temperature. Besides, your hoodie was starting to cling to the thin layer of sweat that coated your body.

Peeling off your clothes and throwing them haphazardly on the floor, you made your way towards the bathroom and into the shower. Somehow, you managed to take a shower–if you could call standing under lukewarm water, your head resting against the cool tile, for fifteen minutes a shower–without falling asleep. With a one track mind, you changed into another pair sweatpants and one of Emily’s old Yale t-shirts, and climbed back into bed, completely ignoring the flashing missed notifications on your phone.

— — —

“Hotch, I need to go over there,” Emily argued as she paced in the roundtable room, where the team was working through existing evidence. “She is not answering any of my calls or texts, and she fits the victimology. I was going to have her come in to keep her safe, but now the bastard may already have her.”

Hotch remained silent, his eyes narrow and stern, as he weighed his options and observed the woman before him. He knew Emily was too emotional to be anywhere near your apartment, especially if it was in fact a crime scene, but he also knew that she was too stubborn to stay away.

“Fine,” he relented, his voice calm and quiet as usual. He turned his stare towards Derek. “Morgan, go with her. And vest up. If the unsub is or was there, I want this done by the book.”

Derek pushed himself out of his chair and quickly followed Emily, who was already out the room and halfway down the stairs.

“Prentiss, wait up,” he called after her as he narrowly slipped through the elevator doors. Seeing the ground level button was already lit up, Derek turned his attention to his partner. “She’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Emily snapped, still staring ahead.

Derek remained silent, knowing she was right. He knew better than to make false promises, but it hurt him to think of something happening to you.

The two agents made their way over to your apartment, turning on the lights and sirens as they weaved through traffic. Not wanting to make a scene and disturb the rest of the residents, Emily and Derek calmly but quickly made their way into the lobby of your apartment building and rode up to the eighth floor, not drawing their guns until they reached your door.

Emily knocked loudly first. “(Y/N)! It’s me!” She was met with silence. Leaning in closer to the door, she heard no motion whatsoever, causing her insides to twist. “(Y/N)?” Emily tried knocking again. Still no response.

Derek started to back up, getting ready to kick down the door. But before he could even lift his leg, Emily swatted his shoulder.

“Don’t even think about it,” she scolded him, knowing how pissed you’d be if he broke your door. “I have a key, dumbass.”

Derek furrowed his brows as an offended look appeared on his face. “Okay, ouch,” he mumbled, but nonetheless straightened and redrew his gun.

As Emily unlocked the door and entered your apartment, Derek close behind her as he cleared the first room, the silence enveloped her body. It was too quiet; something was off. While Derek was clearing the kitchen, Emily observed your apartment—clothes strewn on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter, your unfolded blanket tossed over the side of the couch. The mess was so unlike your usual tidy apartment, and it made Emily even more on edge.

“Prentiss,” Derek called, catching her attention as he motioned towards the hallway. “Bedroom?”

Emily nodded and followed him down the hall. When the reached the cracked door to your bedroom, she moved to enter, but Derek stopped her. “Let me.”

Emily gulped, knowing her partner was looking out for her. If something had happened to you behind that door, she shouldn’t have to be the first one to see it.

Derek slowly pushed the bedroom door open, immediately checking the closet for any sign of you or the unsub. When he turned towards the bed, he noticed somebody was in it, buried under the covers. Cautiously, Derek pulled the blankets back, his gun still pointed at the figure.

You immediately noticed the lack of warmth and the sudden brightness. Groggily, you opened your eyes, ignoring how heavy your eyelids were. You saw a face standing above you, one you recognized.

“Derek?” You croaked, your brain still catching up with what was happening. When you saw his gun pointed at you, you woke up, your eyes widening. “What the hell?”

Hearing your voice, Emily rushed into the room, pushing Derek aside, who immediately lowered his gun, turning on the safety. “(Y/N),” she sighed in relief as she kneeled at the side of your bed, carefully caressing your face. “Are you alright?”

“Besides being bedridden by a nasty flu and waking up to a gun in my face?” You tiredly let your head drop to the pillow, leaning into Emily’s cool touch against your skin. “Just peachy.”

“You’re sick?” Emily asked, another wave of worry washing over her.

“Mhm.”

“Oh, thank god.” She sat up and pressed a long kiss to your forehead, which had cooled since this morning but was still quite warm.

“Relieved I’m sick?” You quipped, though you lacked your usual sass and playful smirk, too drained for a real conversation.

“Relieved you’re not dead,” Emily deadpanned, causing you to open your eyes and frown.

“Dead?” You frowned, clearly confused.

“Yeah, sweet cheeks,” Derek piped up from behind your girlfriend, where he stood holding your phone. “You weren’t answering your phone, and we thought the unsub took you.”

He tossed the device over to you, narrowly missing your face. As you turned it on, you winced at the brightness, but then your lips parted when you saw the amount of missed calls and texts from Emily, and even a couple from JJ.

“Sorry, Em,” you said sheepishly, offering her a small smile, hoping she wasn’t mad at you for wasting her and her team’s time.

“Don’t apologize, honey,” Emily soothed as she brushed your hair from your face. “I’m just glad you’re here for me to take care of.”

You hummed contently at the thought but then weakly protested when you remembered why she was there in the first place. “Don’t need to stay. Have work and chasin’ bad guys.”

Derek snorted amusedly. “Eloquent,” he teased, earning a glare from Emily.

Turning back to you, she smiled softly. “You’re sick, (Y/N). Of course I’m gonna stay and take care of you.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you felt your body warm—this time not because of your fever.

“Sure?”

“I’m sure,” Emily chuckled as she gave your forehead another kiss. “Let me just wrap some things up with Derek.”

You nodded, closing your eyes blissfully. You could hear the two agents murmuring about something–probably Emily leaving work in the middle of a case–but you could barely make it out, as you drifted back asleep, feeling a lot better now that your girlfriend was here.

— — —

The next time you woke up, your head felt a lot lighter and you could tell your body had returned to a normal temperature. As you opened your eyes and saw the sun had long set, you felt a presence weighing down the other side of your bed. Rolling over, you were met with a sight you’d never tire of.

Emily had changed out of her button down shirt and dress pants, settling for some yoga pants she’d probably left here and an old crewneck of yours. She’d pulled her hair back into a loose messy bun and wiped off the light makeup she’d been wearing earlier. You swore she had never looked prettier.

“You stayed,” you whispered as you nudged her hip with your head, causing her to look away from the files she was reading and down at you.

“Hi, my love.” Emily ran her hand through your hair, scratching your scalp. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here.” You moved so you could rest your head in her lap, her warmth comforting you. “‘M sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t worry,” she cooed. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Well, tell Hotch I’m sorry.”

Emily couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her. She knew you felt bad about the whole misunderstanding and were probably embarrassed. She’d tell you later that the team was just as worried about you and just as relieved when it was only the flu. “Okay, I will, honey,” she agreed.

You stayed quiet for a moment, doing your best to breathe through your lingering congestion. Despite the horrible day you’d had and the ache that persisted throughout your body, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be than here with Emily.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you mumbled as you traced patters on her thigh.

“Of course I did,” she said, tossing her files onto the side table. “You needed me, so I stayed. Where else would I be?”

You turned your head so you could look up at her, meeting her gaze. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Emily affectionately poked your nose, causing you to scrunch it. “Do you want anything to eat? I made your favorite.”

“Not yet,” you replied as you closed your eyes, the feeling of Emily’s fingers combing through your hair soothing you. “Can we just stay here together for a little?”

“Of course, darling,” she agreed, content to just cuddle with you. “As long as you want.”

Feeling loved and cared for, the illness starting to slowly leave your body, you knew that Emily Prentiss was absolutely the best remedy. Thankfully, she was yours to keep.

#my writing #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine

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capslocked · 1 year ago

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 5

[prompt: face sitting]

male reader x ahn yujin

3.5k words

Yujin is giving you shit when it happens.

It’s been a little over an hour since she turned to you, bored and pouty about it, and asked if you wanted to fuck again.

She gives you shit in the way only the prettiest girls can get away with. Perfect smile, like she's innocent. And all low and breathy in her throat. Hitched around the vowels of your name. Threatening enough that you thought about just immediately capitulating. It was tempting.

"Or you could stay on the floor like a lame loser bummin’ around in your pajamas." She leans up on the arm of the sofa. "Either way."

Yujin stretches and her sweater is huge. One of those cozy campus crewnecks that everybody seems to have, oversized and inviting and right. Her shorts are ridiculously small, just enough of her stomach peeking out over her waistband for you to want to feel it, touch it, have the pleasure of sinking your tongue into the shallow groove.

She's teasing you because she never quite knows what to do with her energy. Lacks an outlet big enough, really, but is also selfishly delighted in getting any response at all, no matter how halfhearted it might be. You stare at her. You watch and don't speak when she runs her fingers up her stomach to pull her sweater up with it. You groan. She grins. She is pretty, her lips full and eyes soft. The laugh that follows her is because it's always obvious when she's won and you wish your body wasn't so prone to giving away your weaknesses.

"Hey." She blinks slowly, lifting one leg up. Her bare foot, warm, toes flexed, against your thigh, nudges against you once, and again.

"How many orgasms until I feel a little more forgiving towards my good friend who, I know, is super super sorry that he can't afford the pizza money because he chose to use his own allowance to do something as silly as pay rent, I wonder?"

"I paid half last time."

"Doesn't make sense because you ate it all.

"You said you weren't hungry." You start to object because you do have an objection. A list, actually, prepared, of instances you think you're owed. But Yujin arches, and when a separate but related complaint rises swiftly to the foreground, your throat goes dry -

"Orgasm tax."

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asks, and you’re struggling to answer truthfully, honestly.

She rolls over, lets you see everything she has, the tiniest shorts in the world tugged even higher, the generous curve of her ass and thighs in silhouette. You didn't ask for this but you weren’t about to die without it, you think, looking up from the floor and staring, wetting your lips, absolutely sure. She does it all on her own and it takes an absurd amount of effort to peel your hands off the ground.

"Stay where you are," she snaps, seeing it too - and in a second of deliberate slowness, hooks two fingers into her shorts, tugging them aside before looming over you. "Or you're not fucking me today. At all."

You let your head thud down against the rug beneath you. "That's not fair."

"You've gotta come up with something better than that. You could suck up, beg, maybe I'd forgive you if you just told me how much better I was than the cash I could use on literally whatever."

Your eyes cut down.

Part of you wonders if you've always been such an easy mark - whether being here has changed you, if all these months of dangling carrots in front of you are paying off or if you're just a willing accomplice to your own exploitation.

Part of you isn't stupid. Yujin's taken an almost disturbing amount of pleasure in flaunting herself since the first night you drank too much, said too much, resisted too little - you can tell the way it starts, a smile toying in the corner of her mouth, before she taps the band of her bra, waits to hear you swallow - to hear how hot you get - before she casually asks what it would take, "to convince you", to change the conversation from whether she wants something from the vending machine, or she just forgot it was laundry day, or where the hell that note from Wonyoung had gone, to what she'd like the answer to be. What would you let her do if it got you another chance to get under her shirt, see her all bared, eyes dark and hair like a veil across her collarbones, pretty nipples and swells of her breasts pushed up, until you put your mouth on her.

Yujin tilts her hips so it's easier for you to follow, her hand snaking beneath her body as she speaks. A gentle grunt gets muffled in her sweater, her toes curling into the space between your knees and it hurts, stings a little, the desire you're holding back, and then it goes right through you like fire, sharp.

(Part of you is incredibly stupid - but you think the truth is it doesn't matter.)

Yujin's kneeling over your chest, and her bottom lip, plump and lush, catches between her teeth. "Can you think of anyway to be useful?"

"A lot," you choke. It's true.

Yujin makes a noise. "Proof. Evidence. Put up."

The movement she makes - twisting of legs and stomach flexing and the fabric of her shorts down off her ankles - is one single, fluid motion and for a second you're distracted by how quickly she's gotten you there. Thighs resting over your shoulders, the only thing your lungs seem to remember how to do is want.

"Come on." She bounces her knees a bit. "Dick or mouth, get going."

You should really say something smart, show her how clever and charming you can be, how you've actually got a lot to show the hottest girl in the world - and sometimes Yujin giggles like she's shocked about it all herself, but right now her eyebrows are raising, expectant and challenging and it makes it difficult to think when there's an open invitation inches away for you to bury yourself in. Your lips feel like sandpaper when you kiss the inside of her thigh. Her hips stutter and drop an inch as your tongue works its way out, thick and obscene and it shouldn't be so thrilling to hear her so low, so urgent when you have no say, really, in how this is going to go -

"Take care of me, yeah?" she practically whispers the words - all while your fingertips drag along her outer thighs until her spine straightens, gets her shoulders pushed back, her breathing louder, somehow, as if you couldn't feel her need without knowing already exactly what you can do for her.

And the most honest thing you could say in the moment, because Yujin has her panties stretched to the side, revealing the inviting creases where her long legs meet her hips - for god’s sake, her pussy is right fucking there, inches in front of you; glistening slightly in her own slick and looking so, so pretty - the words get kissed right into the curve of her thigh: "It's not fair."

The look she gives you makes it worth it. "Excuse me?"

"You asked, didn't you. It's not fair that your pussy's so good that I can't think about anything else."

She huffs, her thighs shaking just a little with the effort of staying put. "So, what," and your mouth closes in, kiss deep, your nose pressed in right at the peak of her folds, her entrance, and you try not to drool as you inhale and drag the flat of your tongue in, hard, where she's desperate for you, "you think this should all go in reverse or something, like I should worship your dick until you stop being a useless perv - "

But the insult dies in her throat. A moan comes out instead, harsh, deep, loud and enough that Yujin slaps her palm over her own mouth before throwing an impatient scowl down at you.

Here's what you'd tell her, if you weren't busy licking circles into the ache leaking from her core, eating her cunt like a starving man, if you had the audacity. Yujin can't control herself. Doesn't help that she's sloppy. When her orgasm hits she will get louder and she doesn't even like the things that come out. That's the thing about Yujin, really. She says all this shit, and really, in the end, she wants a good fuck so bad she can't keep her mouth shut, but the noises she makes are exactly the same as the sounds that you choke on -

Because as pretty and easy and fun to kiss as she can be, the absolute best thing about your relationship is that the more orgasms she gets the less she can breathe, much less control what the fuck she's saying to you. It's cute and hilarious and beautiful, when she forgets, when she gives everything up because in the end it's never any competition, the way she fucks, is so desperate. Her hips work themselves into your grip, over and over and over again, like they are meant for this.

For getting off on your mouth alone.

All you know right now is that with the way you have your hands on her - one still holding her panties open and the other squeezed tight around the muscle of her outer thigh - it's like her clit's directly in line with the back of your throat. If you press your lips around her pussy and hold them firm, just like the way her knees are starting to tighten around your face, she's going to come. It will hurt her and it will leave her completely boneless, and you've fucked this much to the point where you have learned, well, she can never complain.

Not that she would. The slick dripping down your cheeks and throat and down to the front of your shirt - it's fucking everywhere - makes it obvious: any ability to talk is replaced with her just grinding her pussy against you, bucking and shouting, riding and writhing until you decide her pretty little pink slit can have another taste.

Her only other option, really, is clenching and throbbing and cumming as hard as she can all over your waiting tongue.

"Hey. Get your fucking mouth back down," she breathes, taking her fingers out of her cunt and then promptly pushing your head back in, "and - uhnn, I - yeah, exactly. Mmmnghh - "

You smile, muffled and hot against the fabric of her thighs, her fingers twisting in the hair behind your ears and tugging firmly. "Oh."

"What did you want again?" she asks - except her body tells a different story, all flushed and keening and, fuck, absolutely soaked from your touch - she rocks against the base of your chin, slumping and dropping down and letting gravity do its work. You work your tongue over her throbbing clit, again, again, and Yujin moans loudly. So pleased.

Just this mess she's made of you. The smell that coats your nose, and chin, the way it feels when she ruts her whole body against the place where she's worked the hardest. Her breath stalls where you start to breathe in, and looking up at the cinched look in her face you press further.

It’s every little circle lick and lave and gentle nudge of the tip of your nose, where the feeling makes her cry out, where the sensation, overstimulated, is close to that perfect balance between too much and not quite enough, all while working your fingers into the swell of her ass, and finally her hips make small, greedy, selfish thrusts into your mouth.

She sobs for you. You sigh, contented, because you don't even need to ask.

"You're so fucking good," she murmurs, heel of her palm pushed into her eyes like she's struggling with a headache. "God, fuck, do that again."

It's so wet on your chin already, but you do it again, just for the way she bucks into it.

You give her the closest thing you have, your thumb riding the rim of her ass, tongue rubbing, stroking her pussy faster. Yujin's teeth work against the insides of her mouth as her hips shift forward, and she is clenching and begging for the cock you know would make her scream if you just stood her on her hands and fucked her from behind - it's such a cruel way of making her work to feel so fucking amazing - but you're here to indulge, and really, when she shivers and pleads the exact way she does, your mouth still full, how are you supposed to do anything besides fucking obey.

Yujin reaches up to grab onto the edge of the couch, anything to brace herself as her cunt sloppily gets wetter. The thickest part of your tongue is good enough for this. Everything about her clit is just this dull, swollen throb. Begging to be worked over the way you're licking at the entrance to her pussy, inside and all, kissing, sucking, kneading, pulling, - fucking her just right - until she starts fucking cursing up a storm.

"Oh god, god, oh fuck fuck, fuck," her hips shift until she's the only one riding, the only one fucking. Until you just get to lay there with your lips slack, drooling open, hands a frame for her entire body while she works your face, and nothing could be better - "yeah, oh, fuck, fuck yes - yeah - fuck, hahhh. You're going to make me fucking cum-"

And you almost say it: that's your line - it's not enough, you'll never have enough of her cunt - her clit or the slit, where she leaks, thick and sticky. Her slick tastes heavy on your tongue, and you can't swallow fast enough. Your fingers are so deep into the pliable skin of her ass - digging and needy and reaching for where she's tightest. Her hands pull sharply at your hair. You feel her, tightening her ass around your finger, cumming wet across your cheekbones and -

It goes on, her body pressing into you, until with a sudden snap of a cry, she cums.

“God, fuck-”

If Yujin doesn't have to see the look on your face after getting her off this hard, it's only because the pressure in her body has her knees across your eyes forced shut. A spasm clenches, almost rhythmic, through her thighs, and god, Yujin just cums her brains out. It's pretty hot. You make it count: pushing your fingers just as deep into her pussy, working, exploring - right as her whole body is tensing and coming apart and your other hand circles, two fingers, dipping down and through the cleft of her ass and into her tightest, hottest hole -

You know better than to rub at her entrance once the ripples and waves start - instead, it's more pressure.

Pushing up as deep as you can and your lips mouthing at her folds while her hips squirm for something harder, something stronger and with intent - like, maybe, if she thinks she is trying to push away, she will start to believe that the mess running from her hole isn't hers. It's yours. All that liquid heat pooling below her and what could ever make sense other than she needs more? She needs the way she trembles and shakes, the way her pussy weeps as you wring it for the pleasure that's well on its way -

You always feel like an idiot after, stupid with how much you enjoy this, what she gives you, but how could it be anything but fantastic, your vision dizzying when it swims from lightheadedness and the lack of oxygen to your brain. Yujin's holding you right where she needs, right between her thighs and next to perfection, just tight enough for you to groan, to make a low whine build in the back of your throat and that gets her, too.

There is the rush and a wave, the heat, of something that crests and breaks in her that has to match the absolute loss of control she seems to have all along - the only part you feel you are sure about is that Yujin always rides her cunt - all dripping lips and aching holes, swollen and flaring and practically begging to be fucked harder and more thoroughly - into every orgasm she's taken from you, until there's no where to run.

Even through your nose, and you're suffocating, her legs trembling with the rush of it all. You're gasping and shaking but she's shaking apart and you need that: to feel her melt from where her body collapses all its weight onto you and the way the aftershocks have to make it seem, at least for a moment, that she’ll never, ever recover.

"Fuck," Yujin sighs, "I fucking hate you."

(Translation: she can't fucking live without you.)

"Any time," you murmur and her entire body falls into you, straddled across your chest and slumped there, sweaty and spent. Your heart beats the moment, trying to remember when it was you could stop feeling this way about your roommate.

A part of you believes that, once upon a time, before all of this started, that your desire, your lust was rooted in seeing a friend who was beyond hot and simply unavailable.

A bigger part of you knows that asking for clarity isn't the point - because maybe, right now, in the way your hand has started massaging the soft skin under the curve of her spine, you should realize you can't live with it never happening again.

"What's my balance," you ask, rubbing your thumb into the crook behind her knee.

"Mm?"

You exhale.

"Two. I think you're good for two."

You laugh. "For real?"

She stretches.

"Or I suppose we can go for four or five, but that means you're paying for dinner, too." Yujin does this thing with her hair when she's excited. Swings it back, smiling wide.

Which is fair, you think, given the pulse between your legs throbbing and twitching as you picture it: the curve of Yujin's waist and the drop of her lower back, her bare ass. Her soaked little slit that can't help but beg to fucked and fucked and fucked, until she's trembling and quivering and leaking-

"Then I'm gonna eat," you promise her, "every last inch. Going to taste you and swallow."

Yujin shifts, sitting astride you.

You hum. "Still interested."

She simply kisses you - breathes you in - tasting herself on your lips and tongue, before leaning back with her palms flat against your chest and taking it slow as she starts to ease you into the kind of sex that doesn't leave either one of you with a throat quite so raw and dry.

So it's quiet in your apartment, just for a little while, when the afternoon starts to settle in and she rolls back onto her heels, not able to support the rest of her. You fuck her deep and it's amazing how quickly you both fall into rhythm. Yujin's clutching hard on either side of your hips. Folding herself back. Trying, by the end, to bury you where her fingers have been.

By the time she gets herself up on the couch, belly flat against the cushions and her hips arched back as she fucks herself with the length of your dick, you're just desperate. Aching in a way you know will happen any moment and even so, you can't even bring yourself to consider stopping because this is perfect - it's everything, really. To push her down, hold her still, and fuck her so thoroughly that she cries and shudders as you spill into her.

To have her.

Yujin holds a part of yourself so tender, something you have kept close for far too long, and watching her with her arm reached behind herself, clutching blindly with her fingers, as her moans go quiet with just these whimpery, little things, a thought occurs to you, of exactly how dangerous your roommate is -

Because with you fucking into her like this, this is more than sex ought to be. More than it’s ever been.

(More dangerous yet is thinking: maybe - perhaps - it is exactly what Yujin wanted, from the start.)

#yujin smut #ive yujin smut #ive smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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astraystayyh · 1 year ago

Text

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33.

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear.

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory.

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse.

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance.

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you.

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you.

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago.

Day 17.

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade.

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores.

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes.

He knows you better than you know yourself.

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands.

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from.

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you.

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.”

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head.

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again.

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you.

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you.

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19.

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement.

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.”

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask.

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently.

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?”

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.”

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment.

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé.

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out.

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms.

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope.

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto.

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating.

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in.

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back.

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night.

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you.

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?”

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure.

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles.

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door.

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place.

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up?

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you.

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-”

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.”

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you.

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach.

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls.

Day 22.

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart.

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.”

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.”

“I can try.”

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles.

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him.

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle.

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago.

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?”

“Of course. I promise you.”

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear.

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers.

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm.

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road.

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart.

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light.

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify.

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.”

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words.

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face.

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression.

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running.

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again.

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content.

“You did.”

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands.

“Of course.”

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to.

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.”

Day 26.

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads.

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more.

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin.

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest.

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought.

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.”

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within.

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals.

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door.

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for.

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you.

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.”

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more?

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were.

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks.

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart.

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words.

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle.

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words.

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side.

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder.

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second.

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing.

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips.

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly.

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends.

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?”

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.”

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out.

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along.

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle.

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs.

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks.

“N-nothing,” you stammer.

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you.

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you?

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out.

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.

And he loves you.

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for?

How many more days do you have to love him back?

Day 30.

Minho is sick.

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face.

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind.

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented.

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow.

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on.

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers.

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering.

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you.

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?”

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet.

“Anything.”

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly.

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to.

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm.

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you.

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows.

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted.

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds.

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days.

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again.

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean?

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep.

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name.

He prayed you’d call his too soon.

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean?

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips.

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of.

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways.

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh.

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!”

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?”

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him.

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh.

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card.

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify.

“Hey, yn!”

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them.

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run.

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey.

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat.

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by?

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be.

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both.

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all.

Day 33.

“Did I keep you waiting?”

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?”

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him.

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table.

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here.

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines.

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger.

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.”

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you.

“But how does that make you feel?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.”

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.”

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?”

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.”

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yn, he brought you back to life.”

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?”

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core.

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table.

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder.

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around.

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it.

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart.

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room.

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind.

“Minho?”

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to.

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again.

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho.

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one.

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?”

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.”

823 notes · View notes

azrielsdove · 1 year ago

Text

Til Death Do Us Part: Rhysand x Reader

Warnings: Longgg, angst, smut, 18+

***

The glittering lights above shown like stars down onto you. You spun in a slow circle, taking in the dangerously beautiful ballroom. This was the first time you were allowed to attend one of the High Lords parties. You had always longed to come, but your highly old fashioned father did not think it appropriate for you to attend. You were not sure what changed his mind this time, but you certainly weren’t going to argue with him.

You smoothed your hands over the blue velvet of your dress, admiring the way it looked under the lights. For the first time you felt beautiful, ethereal, desirable. You had heard about the deadly handsome High Lord, fingers tingling with excitement at finally getting to see him. Not that you expected him to pay any attention to you.

Yet there was no harm in daydreams.

The large doors to the room burst open, commanding attention. You turned to see everyone drop to a bow, dutifully bending to your knee as well. You kept your head politely pointed at the ground, listening as the High Lord and his closest warriors crossed the great room. You waited patiently until you heard; “Rise.” The cold, indifferent voice sent a shiver through you as you stood. You looked up to the dias where the High Lord sat, lightning shooting through your spine when your eyes connected with his.

You froze in shock, unable to tear your gaze from his. The cruel violet eyes bore into your own, a mixture of fear and excitement running through you. The High Lord was looking at you.

He finally moved his gaze away, beckoning Keir up to his throne. You lowered your head and walked to the edges of the room, grabbing a delicate glass of wine on your way. You stood near the wall, observing the others dance and drink around you. You were so engrossed in your watching that you didn’t notice the large shape press in next to you.

“Hello there.”

You whipped around so quickly you nearly spilled your wine, rendered speechless by the male standing next to you. He was gorgeous. You regained enough sense to politely bow your head, a soft murmur of “My Lord,” falling from your lips.

“How beautiful that sounds coming from your mouth.” He mused, enjoying the way a blush spread through your cheeks. What is happening? you thought to yourself, unsure of how to continue. The High Lord gave a dark chuckle, continuing; “Oh, darling. What is happening, you ask?” Your eyes shot up at him in surprise. He could read your mind? He laughed again. “Loveliest thing, what all have they kept from you? Hiding you away all these years?” His words were dripping in honey, deadly sweet.

You regained some composure, taking a small sip of your wine. “Forgive me, My Lord. I am not so used to the customs of Court.” You spoke politely, hoping you would say the right thing. His eyes twinkled at your response, a smirk on his face.

“Then I shall teach you.” He said, holding his arm out for you to take. You bowed your head to him again, setting your glass on a nearby table before sliding your hand into the crook of his elbow. It was dangerous to play this game with the High Lord, especially when someone knew as little as you.

He lead you to the center of the ballroom, ensuring all eyes would be on the pair of you. His hand came to circle your waist, the other sliding into yours. You placed your remaining hand on his shoulder, heart racing. You knew how to dance, having been primed to be a perfect, delicate high fae wife. That was not what made you nervous. What made you nervous was the look on your High Lords face as he gazed down at you.

He looked like he wanted to devour you.

The music began, a dark, sensual tune. The High Lord led you around the floor in an elegant dance, body pressed tight to yours. “Why have you never attended before?” He asked, cocking his head slightly. You gave a demure smile, playing the role you were trained to.

“My father did not think it appropriate for a female to attend such an event.” You answered, voice light.

The High Lord looked at you curiously. “Plenty of females come, it’s a prime event to find the best male to be married off to. I am simply surprised your father would not want such a delicious thing as you to find an advantageous match.”

Your cheeks colored again under his words, not used to hearing such things. “I am sure he knew what was best for me.” You replied softly, allowing the High Lord to twirl you out and back.

“Mmm.” He mused, looking down at you. “Perhaps so.”

The music ended with a sharp note, the High Lord keeping a tight hold on you. He took a step back, offering you his hand. You took it with a respectful nod of your head, following him as he led you up to his throne. He sat, motioning for you to place yourself on his lap.

You let out a politely embarrassed laugh, telling him; “My Lord, I do not think it would be appropriate.”

There was a brightness to his eyes, something that was peaking out from the cold exterior he presented. “Nonsense. I am the High Lord, no one would dare say something. If you are worried that you may not seem like a well-bred match anymore, do not. I can personally match you to anyone of your choosing.” He spoke, gesturing to the room full of fae. “Now sit.”

Heat rose in you at his tone, placing yourself delicately on his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist, hand settling on your hip. His other hand came up to slip just an inch under your dress, tracing the high strap of your heel on your ankle. You took a calming breath, not wanting him to see how his touch affected you.

“What is your name?” He asked, smiling when you spoke it. “Beautiful.” He murmured, leaning closer to trace his nose against your neck. Fire flared through your body, your hand gripping onto his shirt. You knew that you should not be acting like this, that you should have politely declined the High Lords offer to sit up here.

His teeth grazed your neck, all thoughts vanishing from your mind.

You felt the hand on your ankle move up ever so slightly, a smile against the skin of your neck. “My Lord,” you breathed out, trying to regain some sense of self. “This is highly inappropriate.”

He answered by biting down where your shoulder and neck met, eliciting a loud gasp from you. Your mind went blank, the only thought in there was of him doing that again, again. “Do you think I care?” He drawled out, sinking another bite into your skin. The hand on your leg moved steadily up, passing over your knee. You were going to burst into flame.

“ENOUGH!” A voice bellowed through the room, ripping you out of the haze of lust the High Lord had created. You turned to see your father striding up the steps to the throne, anger visible on every inch of his body. You moved to jump away from the High Lord, mortified. His grip tightened on your waist, keeping you there.

“Why do you think it’s acceptable to barge up here and raise your voice at your High Lord?” His voice was cold, flat. He was annoyed with your father. You felt a shiver of fear run through you at what he would do, at what they both may do.

Your father scoffed. “When he is defiling my daughter in front of any match she may make. Who do you think will take her now, after watching her whore herself out for you?” He spat his words, fists clenched tight.

“Hmm.” The High Lord mused, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “She didn’t seem to have any argument.”

“She wasn’t raised to argue, she was raised to wed an acceptable match! If you have no intention of being her betrothed, High Lord, then you can get your hands off her!” You wanted to shrink at your fathers words, embarrassment coursing through you.

“And who’s to say I don’t plan to wed her?” The High Lord spoke, voice commanding the attention of everyone in the room. You stiffened on his lap, digesting the words he just said.

“What are you saying?” Your father demanded, his voice inquisitive.

The High Lords hand gripped onto your thigh under your skirts, pressing kisses to your neck. “Who’s to say I don’t plan to wed your daughter? You say you want an acceptable match, am I not acceptable?” The words were cocky, teasing. He knew your father would not deny an offer like this. To marry his only daughter off to the most powerful High Lord of all time? It did not matter that everyone knew he was a cruel man, your father didn’t care about you. He cared about what it would bring to the family, what a match like this could do for him.

“Very well then, High Lord. If you are serious about wedding my daughter, let’s plan a wedding. Soon. Very soon.” Your father said, wanting to ensure a marriage before the High Lord could lose interest in you.

“Yes,” he said, waving your father off. “Now leave us, so I can celebrate this news with my bride-to-be.”

***

The wedding was set for three days time. You couldn’t deny that you scared, terrified even. Yes, the High Lord was a beautifully handsome man. You could certainly do worse in that regard. But he was cruel. Now that you were due to marry, your mother set to teaching you all there was to know about him. A large part of which included dreadful tales of the horrific acts he has done.

Your father had promised you to this?

You shouldn’t be so surprised. You knew he would marry you off to the first respectable male to look your way. You supposed any of the other males of the Hewn City wouldn’t be much better, and certainly wouldn’t come with the prestige of being the High Lords wife. You hoped that secretly he was kind, that maybe he would be a good husband.

You sighed, gazing at yourself in the mirror as the seamstresses worked around you. They were pinning delicate white fabric over your body, creating a dress that your mother decided was good enough for the High Lord. The dress was very modest, long sleeves and a high neckline. You weren’t sure this is what he would have picked, but you were not going to get into it with your mother.

A knock on the doorframe diverted your attention from the reflection in the mirror, turning to see violet eyes looking back at you. “Hello, Darling.” He drawled, stepping into the room. Your mother tittered, upset that he was seeing your dress before the wedding. The High Lord walked a slow circle around you, observing the fabric thrown over your body. “No.” He finally said, looking to your mother. “This won’t do.” She looked taken aback that he would even have an opinion, but nodded politely.

“Of course, My Lord. What would you prefer her to wear?” She asked, failing to hide her displeasure in the situation.

“Let me show you.” The High Lord replied, a teasing smile on his face. You watched as your mothers face paled at the image he broadcasted into her mind. You had learned of his Daemati powers in the onslaught of information your mother threw at you, understanding now how he was able to be inside your mind. You tried to clear your mind of the fears you were having at the thought, hoping he wouldn’t notice them.

Your mother nodded, saying; “Whatever you wish, High Lord.” She gestured for him to show the seamstresses, so they could work on the new design. In the next second the fabric was off of you, replaced with a shimmering silver. The seamstresses started pinning the dress together, turning you into an object of desire. You stared at your reflection in shock, fingers trailing over the thigh-high slits and deep v the High Lord had decided on. Your eyes shot up to find his in the mirror, the violet bright.

“Now that is what I expect the bride of the Night Court in.” His tone was teasing, the almost permanent smirk back on his face. You couldn’t tell if the shiver that ran through you was from dread or lust. Is this what your future was going to be?

***

The wedding day came much too quickly. There was a flurry of activity around you, everyone moving in a blur. You sat at the vanity, countless fae making you over. Your hair was done up, sensual makeup covered your face, and delicate silver jewelry decorated your skin. You looked in the mirror, almost not recognizing the stunning high fae looking back. This was who you should be now. Perfectly made up, as the High Lord says.

Was one evening of dark seduction worth the rest of your life?

After the deal had been made, your father had left the two of you. The High Lord had not made any further moves on you, instead whispering sweet nothings into your ears, plying you with more wine. You had felt thrilled that night, running on the feelings he was giving you and the wine you had drunk. Sober, and away from him, you were aware that you could be heading into a terrible and dangerous future.

A knock on the door tore you from your thoughts, standing as your mother entered the room. Her gaze rolled over you, taking in the delicately sexy gown on your body, the way you had been remade into a deadly beautiful queen. A perfect match for the Lord of Night. “It is time.” She finally said, lips pressed tight together. “Let us go.”

You trailed after your mother, no love shared between the two of you. To her you had fulfilled your purpose, marrying very well for the family. She did not care how deadly the High Lord was, she did not care about the horrible things he had done. He was the High Lord, and her daughter was marrying him. She had succeeded. There was no further time to be wasted on training you.

She paused before the great iron doors, turning to look you over. “If he prefers his wife to look like a whore, you’ve certainly succeeded.” She sneered, eyes judging. “Do not mess this up for us.” She looked you over one last time, scoffing at your appearance. Then she was gone.

You were alone.

Standing before the doors, about to walk through and pledge yourself to the High Lord of the Night Court for eternity. You half thought about turning and running, but where would you go? He would undoubtedly find you anywhere you went, and what would he do to you then? You felt suddenly sick, willing the thoughts away. You could do this. You held on to the little bit of hope that a kinder male lay underneath, and the doors opened before you.

You walked to the elegant march, taking in the massive crowd in front of you. All of the Hewn City was here, at least. You kept your head up, finding the High Lord at the end of the aisle. Your heart sped up at the sight of him. Damn it all, no matter what he had done he was beautiful. The most striking male you had ever seen. Your eyes moved to the side, taking in his large warriors. The General, and the Shadowsinger. They were just as dangerous as the High Lord himself.

It wasn’t like the Hewn City wasn’t full of its own dangers, however. You knew this place was a pit of Hell to others, a place where evil thrives. Perhaps a life with the High Lord would not be any worse than a life with any other male. You had been prepared for this, made to be a dutiful wife. You lifted your head higher, a demure smile appearing across your face. The right amount of excitement for a lady to show on her wedding day.

You reached the bottom of the steps, leading up to your High Lord. The General was waiting, an arm extended to assist you up. You gave him a grateful smile, noticing a secret light in his eyes. You held tight to his arm, hoping you could ground yourself before you stood in front of your soon-to-be husband. All too soon you reached the top of the stairs, the General depositing you in front of the High Lord.

“Hello, Darling.” He spoke, hand reaching out for yours. You smiled politely at him, placing your hand in his. “You look exquisite.” His eyes were smiling, different than the cunning one on his face. He held you in front of him, turning to the High Priestess next to him.

“Let us begin.”

At his command the Priestess launched into the marriage ceremony, countless prayers and vows repeated. The High Lord wrapped his fingers around yours, eyes locking to you. “I vow to be yours, and only yours, from now until forever. I vow to give you the best life, a life you have dreamed of. I vow to love you until the end of eternity, as long as the stars shine in the sky you will be mine.” You were shocked by the sincerity in his voice, the hope in his eyes.

You took a breath, beginning your end of the ceremony. “I vow to to love and serve you-“ the High Lord cut you off.

“Not the ones you were groomed to say. Speak from the heart, my darling.” His voice was soft, only able to be heard by you. You swallowed thickly, beginning again.

“I vow to do what I can to keep you happy, to keep you loved. I vow to care for you until the end of the universe, until you and I are little more than dust in the wind. I vow to be dutifully yours, for now and for always.” You were surprised by the truth behind the words, the way you felt you could do those things. The High Lord may be a male you hardly knew, but something inside was telling you it would all be okay. Call it naivety, it was all you had.

You felt a slight burn on your arm, looking down in time to see black swirls swim up to your elbow. You watched as the same swirls went up the High Lords connecting arm, bonding the two of you together. It was done. There was no going back now.

The High Priestess led a final prayer, completing the union. “High Lord, you may take your bride.”

Your cheeks colored at the wording, realizing what was in store for you. The High Lord seemed to notice the panic in your eyes, squeezing your hands reassuringly as he leaned close. “Nothing you don’t want.”, he whispered into your ear, “May I kiss you?” You nodded, one of his hands coming up to cup your face while the other settled on your waist. His lips pressed gently to yours, lightning flowing through your body. He was delicious. He was everything.

All too quickly he pulled away, turning you to face the court. “You shall kneel,” he commanded, a mischievous look on his face. He looked at you one last time, smiling as big as can be.

“Kneel, in front of your High Lady.”

***

High Lady. High Lady. High Lady. The title circled around your mind again and again, the stunned silence of the Court after he announced it deafening. Yet they had kneeled, all of them. They had bowed down to you.

You sipped your wine, wanting this celebration to be over. You did not know where you would go after this, but you were tired of the looks being shot your way. Judgement, anger, shock, fear. The High Lord had declared you as his equal, as deadly and dangerous as he. You turned to him, your husband, beginning; “My Lord-“ He stopped you.

“Rhysand, darling. Please.” He said, his hand laying gently over yours. You nodded, still not sure how to approach him.

“Rhysand,” you tested the name on your tongue, “how much longer must we stay?” You hoped the question didn’t come off as rude, you were just exhausted from the day.

He laughed.

“We can leave whenever you would like. Just say the word.” He squeezed your hand. You weren’t used to choice being given to you.

“May we leave now?” You bit your lip, awaiting his answer.

“As you wish.” He whispered, before dark wind enveloped the two of you.

You stumbled at the landing, looking around. Your eyes shot to Rhsyands, confusion visible in every inch of your face. He smiled, leading you to the balcony overlooking the glittering city below.

“Welcome to Velaris.”

***

He gave you your own room, leaving you alone that night. There was too much new information to decipher. Velaris. Rhysand. He wasn’t the cruel, dark thing that prowled the Hewn City. He had his real court up here, this magical place. You felt betrayed, you felt embarrassed, and you were in awe. Your mind and your heart were arguing, caught in a war between sense and emotion. How could he have such a perfect existence up here, leaving you to suffer in the Hewn City? You knew a wide majority of the citizens down there were cunning and evil, sure to destroy this place. But not all. You had met a few friends down there, a few kind souls. Not everyone who was raised in that Hell was a part of it.

You sat in front of the vanity, burying your face in your hands. Rhysand had done everything to protect the citizens of Velaris, while at the same time cursing those in the Hewn City. You knew if you had grown up here, this whole marriage would have never been. No parent in Velaris would force their child into an eternal union, certainly not one with a male all believed was evil and cruel.

You pulled your face out of your hands, looking at your reflection. You looked identical to the way you had before the ceremony, and like you had lived a thousand lives since. You sighed, beginning to remove the countless pins in your hair.

What had you done?

***

Rhysand sent for you bright and early the next day. If you were being honest, you had no interest in seeing him. Unfortunately, the obedient part of you made you go. You rose, dressing in the silky pants and top he has set out for you. Was he to dress you for all eternity?

You rubbed sleep from your eyes as you headed into the dining room, thankful to see it was just him. He gave you a cautious smile, reading your emotions all too well. “Hungry?” he asked, patting the seat next to him. You said nothing, but sat as he wished. He started piling food on your plate, decedent breads and fruits. You were the furthest thing from hungry, but in the nature of submission you began to bite at a strawberry.

Rhysand sighed from next to you, sorrow filling his face. “You do not understand the choices I have to make.” He said, his voice tired. You hummed in agreement, not yet willing to speak to him. He allowed the silence to grow, waiting for you to break it.

After a bit of terribly awkward breakfast, you stood from the table. “I am done. Thank you.”, you finally said, turning to walk from the room.

“Wait!” He called out, grabbing your wrist. “Please let me explain.” His voice was a whisper, a plea.

As hurt as you were, the soft part of your heart won. “Fine. Explain.” You said, trying to ignore the way your skin felt on fire under his touch.

“Come.” He said, pulling you behind him. He took you back to the balcony you had arrived on last night, standing proud over its city.

You wanted to cry at how peaceful it was.

Rhysand saw this, his grip on your wrist loosening. “I understand why you may be upset with me,” he began, your eyes snapping to his. “The Hewn City is a dark place. It is a place no good heart should ever be. When I saw you at the ball, I knew you didn’t belong there. I felt-“ he stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind. I know not all of the Hewn City is evil, though it is not easy to find those truly good in there. My cousin, Mor, you know she came from there.” You nodded, knowing well of The Morrigan. You were not yet born when she left the city, but the tales of what happened to her were used to scare young ladies into submission.

“I wish you had never suffered down there. I wish I had found you sooner.” His hand rose as of to cup your face, dropping to his side as he thought better of it. He looked at you expectantly, pleading for you to speak.

“I was not raised to care for what is fair or not,” you started, turning to look back over Velaris. “I was raised to behave, to respect everyone around me. I gave up on hoping for a better life many years ago, understanding this was the way fate had meant it.” Your hands gripped on to the balcony in front of you.

“And yet, I stand here now and overlook this paradise of yours.” You spat out, decades of anger rising. “This home you have had this whole time, knowing what it is like down there.” You turned to look at him, shame visible on his face. “What kind of a High Lord are you, then? Are you the kind and gracious one the people of Velaris believe you to be, or are you the cruel one the people of the Hewn City know you to be?” You watched your words stab into him, his eyes flaring with anger at them.

“You have no idea what I have done to keep them safe.” Rhysand said, his voice deadly.

You scoffed. “And what have you done to keep the innocents of the Hewn City safe?”

“I have rescued you! You could thank me, you should thank me!” He roared, looking like he wished to take the words back immediately.

You stood in front of him, cold and strong. “You may have taken me from there now,” you said, voice calm. “But you did not save me. I needed to be saved fifty years ago, Rhysand. Do you not see how they have broken me? How they have primed me into their perfect little servant? I was raised to be a dutiful wife. If that is what you want, I can fulfill you. Do not ask any more of me than that, for I fear I will only disappoint.” The emotion began to choke you, coming out of nowhere.

You didn’t know who you were. You had nothing, the only thing you knew was to be an obedient slave, catering to the will of everyone else.

You turned and ran, leaving your husband standing on the balcony.

***

You were embarrassed by your outburst. It has gone against everything you were taught, a lady should never argue with her husband. You couldn’t explain where the confidence to speak to him like that came from, the anger that shook your body. You stayed in your room the rest of the day, hiding away until it was late at night.

You crept out of your room once you were sure everyone was asleep, heading to your best guess of where the kitchen may be. You stilled as you hear voices the further you got down the hall, Rhysands and an unknown female. You knew it was wrong to spy on him, that he could easily catch you.

That didn’t stop you from sneaking closer to the room you heard the voices coming from.

“You know it is a dark place, Rhys. I do not understand why you are so shocked.” The female said, annoyance lacing her tone. You reached the room they were in, peering through the crack in the door. Your breath caught as you realized it was his cousin, The Morrigan. The one from all those stories. She stood strong, beautiful blonde hair cascading down her back. A power radiated from her, a sign of what she had overcome. You tore you gaze from her to observe your husband. He looked tired, a sense of sadness coming from him.

“I didn’t expect her to be so angry here. I saw her there, that night, and it clicked. I didn’t think that I wasn’t saving her,” he scoffed at his own words, “but condemning her to a life knowing she hadn’t needed to suffer. That I allowed her to suffer down there. Who else have I forsaken?” His hand rubbed over his eyes, exhausting evident.

His cousin walked closer to him, setting a hand on his arm. “It is a big adjustment,” she spoke softly, “coming from there to here. The realization that evil isn’t all the world has to offer you. She will come around. Your heart may be foolish, but not without a good cause.” She gave a soft laugh, turning to the door. You jumped, knocking into the wall. They both turned to look, not that you saw. You were already running the rest of the way to the kitchen, hoping you could whip up something quick enough they wouldn’t suspect you.

You were watching the pot boil when a sound came from being you. You whipped around, holding the ladle like a weapon in front of you.

Rhysand laughed.

You turned back to the stove, not wanting to get into it with him. You stiffened when you felt his presence at your back, his breath fanning over your neck. You were beginning to despise the way your body reacted to him.

“What are you making?” He asked, looking over your shoulder.

“Soup.” You answered, not wanting to open the way for more conversation. You felt the way he shrunk against your back, his typically cocky attitude gone. You sighed, speaking without turning to him. “Would you like some?”

You didn’t miss the way he tensed against you, a hand coming to rest lightly on your waist. “Oh, no. No, you should eat up. I know you haven’t had food since breakfast.”

You hated the way you wanted to sink into his touch. You nodded, resuming your stirring. A soft silence settled between the two of you, not quite uncomfortable. You turned the stove off, reaching up to grab a bowl. Your shirt rose with you, exposing the skin Rhysands hand laid on. You pushed the feeling rising in you down, refusing to submit to its greedy need.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered suddenly, lips brushing your shoulder as he spoke. “I saw you that night, and any rational thought left me. When your father approached to yell about marriage, I latched onto it. I never took your feelings into account. I never thought how hard this may be for you. I will never force you to stay here, please know.” His grip tightened on your waist, like his body didn’t agree with his words.

“I’m sorry too.” You said after a few moments, breathing unsteady at his proximity. “I do not understand why you made the choice to keep these courts separate, yet. I am sure I will as time goes on. I would like to help get the others out, the good ones. If you would allow me.” You were about to turn to take your bowl to the table when his lips connected to the bare skin at the bottom of your neck. He was gentle in his kisses, each one placed almost lovingly.

“You are the High Lady. What you say goes.” He whispered against your skin, the hand on your waist sliding to your stomach, pressing you close to him. You gave a breathy sigh as he lightly sucked a sensitive spot on your neck, your body hot. “I can’t control myself around you.” His words were heated, the hand on your stomach drifting to play with your waistband. His other hand came up to to cup your face, turning your head towards his. “Say something.” He whispered, desperation in his tone.

You sucked in a deep breath, mind clouded with desire. “Kiss me.” you breathed out, wanting the taste of him. He wasted no time in pressing his lips to yours, starting out slow. Your bowl of soup was left on the stove, forgotten as his mouth attacked yours. His tongue slid between your lips, the sensation sending fire through you. You had never been kissed, never been touched, aside from some lonely nights alone. His hand slid under your waistband, tracing the lace detailing on your underwear. You groaned, leaning into him. “Please don’t stop.” You gasped out, shocking yourself.

He smiled against your lips, his fingers sliding the fabric to the side to swipe through your wetness. “Darling girl, all for me?” Rhysand teased, a finger coming to deftly swirl your clit. You moaned loudly, the feeling so much better than anything you’ve ever done. He sucked in a sharp breath at the noise, quickening his movements ever so slightly. “I need to hear that again.” He said, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. He slid his finger down, dipping it inside of you. You arched against him, another moan falling from your lips. Rhysand pulled away from you, watching the way your eyes were fluttered closed in desire. “That’s it,” he urged, pressing kisses to your jaw. “Moan for me.” His words were unraveling you just as quick as his fingers, pushing two deep inside you. He moved his hand so his thumb could come up and swirl around your clit, orgasm building inside you. He bit down on your neck as he thrusted his fingers hard, reaching exactly where you needed him. You cried out, hand gripping onto his arm. You forgot where you were, your name, everything expect for him.

“Rhysand, please,” You moaned, him smiling against your neck as he sped up his movements. You were seconds away from finishing, moan after moan falling from your lips. With one final bite to your neck and a particularly harsh swipe across your clit, you came with a scream. His fingers rode you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a shaking mess in his arms. He held you as you cooled down, sliding his hand out of your pants.

“Are you okay, my darling?” He asked softly, turning you to face him. You nodded, mind still hazy. He pressed soft kisses to your cheeks, leading you over to sit at the table. He brought you your slightly cooled down soup, feeding you the first bite himself. “You need to eat.” He commanded, handing you the spoon. You ate as he said, body doing whatever he wanted. Rhysand watched as you ate the whole bowl, smiling with satisfaction when you were done. “Good girl.” He cooed, his words reigniting the heat in your stomach. He helped you up, leading you to your room. He tucked you into bed, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Rest, my love. We have much to discuss tomorrow.”

***

You dreamed of him that night. Of his kisses, his touches. You dreamed of what else that mouth could do, of what it would feel like to fully have him. You woke up hot and aroused, bones aching with need. Embarrassment rushed over you, how had he undone you so completely with just one night?

You dressed quickly, rushing out of your room before you lost your nerve. You went down to the dining room, knowing it was likely the others would be there. You couldn’t hide from them forever, you had decided. You had to make the most of the situation you found yourself in.

You entered the dining room, conversation halting at the sight of you. Five pairs of eyes looked back at you, the attention making you want to turn and run. Instead you held your head high, sitting down next to Rhysand. You cocked your head at him as you took in his amused smile, self consciously touching your face. Howling laughter broke the silence, your head whipping to see the General. “Rhys! You dirty dog!” he laughed, slamming his fist onto the table. You looked back to Rhysand, eyes questioning him.

His fingers came up to your neck, tracing the bite marks he had left last night. Oh. You had completely forgotten about them as your face flushed, tears threatening to spill with your embarrassment. Rhysand tucked his hand under your chin, pulling you to look at him. “Do not shy away, darling. Cassian here has shown up to breakfast far worse than this.” He shot a warning glance to the general, telling him to back off. You were still new to this kind of world.

Cassians laughter drifted off, turning to tease the Shadowsinger about something that had happened in training that morning. Rhysand brought his head close to yours, pressing a light kiss to your lips. “Ignore him. He’s just a great big brute.” You let out a small giggle at his words, not used to anyone speaking so freely. You turned to the food in front of you, gathering what you thought may taste good. You were ravenous, the soup from last night hardly lasting.

As breakfast began to wind to a close, Rhysand turned to you. “These are my friends,” he began, gesturing to the table. “Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and Mor.” He nodded to each as he said their name, your eyes stopping on The Morrigan. She took in your wide eyed gaze, a soft sigh falling from her lips.

“They still tell you what happened to me? Try to scare you from standing up to them?” She rolled her eyes. “Pointless, if you ask me. As you can clearly see, i’m doing better than ever.” She sent you a wicked smile, a promise of what life can be like outside the Hewn City.

With breakfast finished, the others departed to their daily tasks. Rhysand stayed with you, taking in the light color on your cheeks. “Sleep well?” he teased, a hand coming to rest on your thigh. You cleared your throat, jumping a little at the contact.

“Slept great.” You said, standing abruptly from the table. His eyes followed you, full of amusement.

“It is okay to feel desire.” He said, voice quiet. You felt like you would be eternally embarrassed here. You nodded, moving to leave the room. He caught you, turning you to him.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, hand holding the side of your face. “Do not be embarrassed. We won’t speak of it anymore if you wish.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, your body ready to melt into his touch. “Come,” he said, pulling you to the balcony. “I’m going to show you Velaris.”

***

You failed to hide your shock when your husband produced great big wings from his back. He smiled at your face, watching as you stuck out a hand to touch them. Your fingers brushed against the soft leather, a groan escaping Rhysand. He gently grabbed your hand, pulling it away from his wing before picking you up in his strong arms. “Later.” He promised, shooting off into the sky.

You prepared for the fear to rush over you, but awe took instead. You threw your head back, relishing in the feeling of the wind in your hair. You laughed, Rhysands hold tightening against you. He smiled at your joy, pleased at seeing you happy. The flight took a little longer than normal, not that you knew that. He was enjoying your happiness too much, not wanting it to end quite yet.

When you touched down in Velaris, you were stunned into silence. The city was even more beautiful down here. “Rhysand,” you spoke, “it’s beautiful.” He smiled down at you, placing your arm in his elbow.

“Yes, you are.” He said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “You can call me Rhys, you know. Thats what I go by to those closest to me.” You gave him a matching smile, squeezing his arm.

“Okay, Rhys. Where to?”

***

You spent the day walking through Velaris, Rhys showing you his favorite spots. You stopped for lunch at a divine little café, a moan escaping you when you bit into the chocolate croissant. The food here was all so delicious.

After a long day of walking around, Rhys flew you back up the house on the mountain. He showed you around there too, ending the tour in his study. He watched as you made yourself comfortable on his sofa, contentment on your face.

“Are you happy here?” He asked, pulling you from the sleep that was threatening to overtake you. You sat up, turning to him.

“I can see myself being happy here, yes. I think I am happy now.” You mused, reflecting over the day you had.

His next question was softer. “Can you be happy with me?” There was a vulnerability in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen before.

You stood, walking over to him and sitting on his lap. “Yes, Rhys. I can be very happy with you.” You kissed him, a hand coming to rest on his neck. His arms circled your waist, holding you tight. You felt this insatiable pull to be with him, to be around him. You felt like you were almost a part of him.

You stayed like that for a while longer, kissing and talking. You stayed with him until you laid your head on his chest, sleep finally taking over. You felt safe, cared for, and protected. You felt like you belonged.

***

You were a little dismayed when you opened your eyes, finding yourself back in your bed. Alone. You pushed off the feeling, certain Rhys didn’t want to assume. You jumped out of bed, excitement taking over. You had planned to do something special for the High Lord today, as a thank you for the day he gave you yesterday. You pulled on a dress, rushing from your room.

You headed to the kitchen, hoping the house had the ingredients you needed. You were pleased when you opened the cupboard to just what you were looking for, pausing for a second to remember the magic coursing through the building. You baked all morning, perfecting the chocolate croissant from yesterday. This was what you had been raised for, to cook and please your husband. Maybe not everything you were taught was useless.

***

You bagged up the finished croissants just like they did at the café, hurrying off to find Rhys. You found him in his study, just like yesterday. “I have something for you.” You said, trying not to let the excitement spill out. He looked up, greeting you with a smile.

“And what is that?” He asked, eyes bright. You pulled the little parcel out from behind your back, setting them down in front of him. He looked at you curiously, opening the bag and inhaling the rich chocolate scent.

“The croissants we had yesterday.” You explained, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. He probably had had those a million times, a typical snack to the High Lord. His smile grew as he pulled one out, taking a bite.

“These are my favorite in Velaris.” He said, taking another bite. “Who flew you down there to get them?” He asked, distracted by the dessert in his hands.

You smiled broadly, thrilled that you pulled it off so well. You watched as he finished the first one, reaching for the second. “No one,” you said teasingly, “I made them.”

Rhysands hand stopped, croissant halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?” He asked, voice deadly serious. You were confused at his reaction, not expecting him to be so upset.

“I made them? Is that okay, I-“ You stopped as stood up abruptly, his hands digging into the desk in front of him.

“Darling,” he said, voice shaking, “have you noticed anything between us?” You looked at him in confusion, not sure what he was talking about.

“What do you mean?” You asked, crossing your arms in front of you.

“I mean, have you felt any sort of pull towards me. One that feels like an outside force is tying you to me, making you need me.” His voice was restrained, his pupils blown wide. You couldn’t help the heat rising in you at his look.

“Oh, well, yea. I thought it was just how you felt with your husband, a constant tug from my heart to yours. It began at our wedding.” Your cheeks heated under his gaze.

“Darling,” he spoke slowly, “That’s the mating bond.”

Your mind was blank.

“That’s why I was drawn to you that night at the ball. It snapped for me the second I saw your face. I took your fathers demand of marriage easily, knowing you were the one made for me. I had only known you an hour, and was already willing to do anything to be with you.” The passion in his voice had your thighs clenching together, lust beginning to overtake your body.

“I wasn’t sure if you had felt it too, waiting until you did. Then, you show up here, feeding me a dessert you made.” He gave a dark chuckle. “Do you realize what you have done?”

You stared at him in shock, understanding written on your face. You had accepted the mating bond, the bond you hadn’t even realized. Rhys walked around his desk, turning you to lean against it. “You need to tell me to stop now if you don’t want this.” He whispered against your lips, hands gripping your hips.

Your breathing was fast, but your mind had finally cleared. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His lips crashed against yours, setting a bruising pace. He picked you up, sitting you on the desk as he stepped between your legs. He groaned into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair. “Fuck, darling,” he growled against you, kissing down your neck. “I need to taste you.”

Rhys dropped to his knees in front of you, lifting the skirts of your dress. He reached up, ripping the underwear in half as he pulled it off you. You gave a cry of protest, a cry that quickly changed to pleasure as he licked up you. “I’ll buy you new ones.” he growled against you, tongue circling your clit. He raised your legs to rest on his shoulders, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. You moaned as his tongue explored you, grabbing onto his hair as he worked you. “You’re delicious.” He spoke against you, tongue thrusting in and out. You moaned his name in response, begging for more. One hand came to slide his fingers into you, his lips attaching to your clit. He sucked harshly, his fingers curling inside of you. You threw your head back in a silent scream, already on the brink of release. “My perfect girl.” Rhys murmured against you, the words tipping you over. You came with a scream, thighs tightening around his head. He licked you through it, your body beginning to shake with overstimulation before he pulled away.

You grabbed his face, pulling it up to you so you could kiss him. You tasted yourself on his lips, moaning into his mouth. “I need you, Rhys.” you gasped out, hand trailing to undo his pants. His head fell to your shoulder, a groan coming from him as you slid him out. You traced your hand up and down him, amazed at his size.

“No teasing, darling. Not tonight.” He growled, biting your shoulder. He brought his face up to yours, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk. “Ready?” He asked, lining himself up with you. You nodded, hand on his shoulder to brace yourself. He started pushing in, inch by brutal inch. You bit your lip, adjusting to his size.

“Rhys,” you moaned as he bottomed out, letting you adjust around him. “I need you to move.” He didn’t give a second to think, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back into you. Hard. You cried out, kissing him again. “Fuck, my love.” you said, arching into him as he hit that perfect spot inside you. He brought a hand down to circle your clit again, heightening your pleasure. You knew you wouldn’t last long, not with the feel of him inside of you. Your second orgasm was approaching far too quickly, crying out as the pleasure overtook your body.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Rhys murmured, kissing you to silence the cries falling from your lips. You were shaking from the two back to back orgasms, certain you were going to rip into two. Rhys didn’t stop his fingers, bringing your pleasure up again. “I know you can take one more, darling. I want you to finish with me.” You whined against him, body exhausted. His thrusts were still hitting you deliciously, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. “So close, my darling. So close.” Rhys breathed against you, his thrusts becoming messy. His fingers worked you hard as he came, spilling deep inside you. You followed him, screaming his name as you clamped down upon him. He brought you back up to kiss him, working the two of you through your orgasms.

After what felt like an endless wave of pleasure, Rhys slowly stilled his movements. You were breathing hard against him, the room spinning around you. He slowly pulled out, resting his forehead against yours. He scooped your tired body into his arms, carrying you across the hall to his room. You were tucked into the bed, Rhys sidled up next to you. You fell asleep against his chest, feeling whole for the first time in your life.

***

You were awoken by a loud banging at the door early the next morning, rubbing sleep from your eyes. Rhys groaned from next to you, grumbling as he slid out of bed and pulled his pants on. He opened the door to reveal Cassian, a smirk on his face. “As happy as I am for the two of you, am I subjected to listening to you fuck for the next week?” He asked, eyes roving over your body. Rhys took note of his gaze, grabbing onto the neck of his friend.

“Look at her like that again, and you have to listen to me fuck her for the next year.” He growled, shoving his friend out of the room. You heard Cassians laughter as he walked down the hallway, Rhys coming back to you. He crawled on top of you, kissing you slowly.

“Shall we give him a show?”

***

Thank you for your patience on this!!!! It diverted from a true “forced marriage” trope, so I will probably use that again for a different character. I really like how this one turned out though!!

As always, please give me all your feedback. I appreciate you all SOOO MUCH <3

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhysand #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhysand smut #til death do us part

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