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winxanity-ii · 1 month ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 14 Chapter 14 | silent strain⌟

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The days that followed were restless, though you tried to hide it beneath the mask of routine.

Each moment you could spare, your eyes trailed toward Andreia and Prince Telemachus. Whether it was during dinners where the royal families mingled or as you passed by the courtyards in your duties, you found yourself drawn to their interactions.

Andreia's demeanor toward Telemachus was as obvious as sunlight. She was coy, her voice lilting with playful notes as she leaned toward him just enough to invade his space without overstepping.

She'd twirl a strand of her auburn hair around her fingers, her head tilting at the slightest inclination of his voice, as though every word he spoke was a revelation.

Her laughter was sweet, too sweet—a bubbly, ringing sound that set your teeth on edge, especially when compared to the cold detachment she'd shown you that day in the sheepfold.

It was jarring, to see her so kind and open with him, far removed from the icy, calculating figure you had encountered. She radiated warmth, her emerald eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence that you couldn't unsee now that you knew better.

She was a different person entirely—charming, demure, and confident in a way that left little doubt of her intentions. Her fingers would linger on Telemachus' arm just a moment too long, her smile a fraction too wide.

It was as if she were weaving a net around him, one thread at a time.

Telemachus, for his part, seemed polite and cordial, though there were moments when his boyish charm peeked through.

At dinner, he'd lean in closer when she spoke, his face attentive, his easy smile encouraging her to continue.

You couldn't help but notice how his eyes occasionally flickered to her face, perhaps taking in the faint blush that colored her cheeks. But then, there were times he seemed to grow restless, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as if he were only half listening.

It stung, though you tried not to let it show, especially during those evenings when you'd catch snippets of their laughter echoing through the halls. Your hands would tighten on the linen you were folding, or your steps would quicken as you passed by the feasting hall.

Still, you reminded yourself that this was his role—a prince courting a princess, ensuring alliances. Yet, even with that reminder, Callias' words lingered in your mind, a whisper of reassurance battling against the tightening in your chest.

The days grew shorter as autumn began to edge into winter, the chill creeping into the mornings and biting at your skin despite the midday sun. The air carried a sharper edge, and the light waned faster, casting the palace in long shadows that came too early in the day.

It was on one such brisk afternoon that you found yourself leaving the seamstress' quarters, a small scroll in hand detailing the queen's updated winter measurements. The cold nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you moved through the quieter corridors of the palace.

You were on your way to the queen's chambers for lunch, the scroll meant to be presented alongside her midday tea. The thought of her warm smile and the calm wisdom she carried in even the simplest exchanges brought a small measure of comfort as your steps echoed softly against the stone floors.

"____!" The sound of your name, called with warmth and familiarity, startled you, and your heart leapt in your chest.

You turned sharply, your fingers tightening around the scroll as your eyes landed on Telemachus. He was walking briskly toward you, his steps purposeful yet light, and you couldn't help but notice how his smile grew wider as he caught your gaze.

His eyes brightened, the fatigue that had seemed to cling to him in recent days momentarily lifting, and there was a slight spring in his step, as though seeing you had filled him with a sudden energy.

"____," he called again, his voice carrying easily over the quiet. "I was hoping to run into you."

"Telemachus," you breathed under your breath, his name slipping from your lips without thought as he approached, stopping in your tracks.

Your heart beat faster than you wanted to admit, your heart fluttering in your chest, each beat heavy and echoing in your ears. You tightened your grip on the scroll in your hands, suddenly hyperaware of how cold your fingers felt against the smooth parchment.

As he stopped before you, his smile softened, and his gaze swept over you with quiet intensity. His eyes lingered briefly, studying you as though searching for something. "How are you?" he asked, his voice low and warm, a thread of concern woven through his tone. "Are you feeling well?"

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe, caught off guard by the way he looked at you—his brows slightly furrowed, his head tilted just enough to show genuine interest.

The wind teased at the loose strands of his hair, and the soft sunlight caught in his eyes, making the warm brown hue seem almost golden.

"I-I'm fine," you managed to say, though your voice sounded too light, too forced, even to your own ears. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other before offering a small bow of respect, glancing down briefly before meeting his gaze again. "Thank you for asking, my prince."

His lips twitched, as though suppressing a deeper smile, and he gave a slight shake of his head, waving a hand dismissively at the formality. "There's no need for that," he said, his tone light.

The words seemed to relax the air between you, and his shoulders loosened as he studied you again. This time, his gaze held no urgency, only a quiet satisfaction as he took in the healthy flush of your cheeks, the steadiness of your stance. "Good." The tension around his eyes eased as his smile softened further.

"You look much better," he murmured, almost to himself, before clearing his throat. "I mean, not that you looked unwell before, but... you know." He trailed off, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You felt a warmth rise to your own cheeks, and you nodded quickly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you for asking, my prince."

He studied you for a moment longer, as though committing the sight of you to memory, before his expression shifted slightly. The softness in his gaze gave way to a more thoughtful look, and he hesitated before speaking again. He shifted his stance, his hands brushing lightly against his tunic as though gathering his thoughts.

"Uhh, I noticed," he began, his voice slower now, deliberate, "at the feast the other night, and... well, even before that." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched for the right words. "You haven't been playing your lyre. You usually don't go a night without it."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, freezing you in place. Your breath caught sharply, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed. The scroll in your hands felt suddenly heavy, your fingers trembling as your grip tightened.

"I mean," he continued, seemingly unaware of your sudden tension, "you still play beautifully—every instrument you touch, really—but I couldn't help but notice. Your lyre... it always seemed to be your favorite. And now..." He trailed off, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "I just wondered if everything was alright."

You forced yourself to swallow, trying to steady the rising panic clawing at your chest as your mind scrambled for a response.

No one else had noticed—not the queen, not the other servants, not even the musicians you occasionally played with.

You had thought your quiet substitution of instruments had gone unnoticed, a small, insignificant change in the grand scheme of things.

But Telemachus had noticed.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, and it only made the lump in your throat grow heavier. How could you explain it? How could you tell him about Andreia, about what had happened?

Only Callias and Andreia herself knew the truth, and you had worked so hard to keep it that way.

The thought of revealing it to him—to anyone—made your stomach twist with unease.

"I..." You hesitated, your voice faltering as you tried to steady your breathing. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and shook your head lightly. "I've been trying something new," you blurted out, the words rushed and awkward. "Different instruments, I mean. I thought it might be... refreshing." You forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

For a moment, Telemachus said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. You braced yourself, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. But then, to your immense relief, he nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"That makes sense," he said finally, though his voice carried a note of skepticism. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before his lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. "You've always been talented. Whatever you play, I'm sure it's worth hearing."

His words sent a strange mix of relief and guilt washing over you, the warmth of his praise clashing with the unease that still churned in your chest.

You nodded, managing a quiet, "Thank you," though the words felt hollow in your throat.

"And, ____, if there's ever anything you need... anything at all—you know you can come to me. Right?"

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, and you nodded quickly, your throat tight with emotion. "Of course, my prince. Thank you."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken, before his smile returned, softer now. "Good," he said simply, his tone warm. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Telemachus' smile lingered, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt lighter, warmer, as though the weight of the conversation had been lifted. But deep down, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the truth was closer to surfacing than you were ready for.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the quiet corridor, the world around you fading into the background.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely breaking the quiet between you. Telemachus' head tilted, his brow lifting slightly as his attention sharpened. For a heartbeat, you hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, before the words tumbled out.

"Have you, um—" You faltered, your voice catching for just a moment. "Have you seen any new constellations recently? Or... perhaps something interesting in the stars lately? You know, with the season changing."

Telemachus blinked in surprise at first before his expression shifted immediately, his eyes lighting up with a boyish excitement that made your chest tighten. "Oh, yes," he said quickly, the words spilling out like he'd been waiting for an excuse to talk about it. His smile grew, softer but no less genuine, as his fingers brushed absently over the hem of his tunic.

"The skies have been stunning this autumn," he began, his tone growing warm with excitement. "Just a few nights ago, I was out watching the heavens, and I caught sight of Lyra—the Harp—hanging low near the horizon. It's faint this time of year, but clear if you know where to look." He paused, his lips curving into a thoughtful smile. "It... made me think of you."

Your breath hitched, and his cheeks flushed, the faint pink spreading across his nose as he seemed to realize what he'd said. "I—I mean," he stammered, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground before flicking back to yours, "it's just—you play the lyre so beautifully, and, well, Lyra always reminds me of music and..." He trailed off, his voice softening, his gaze dropping for a moment as though he needed a second to steady himself.

He cleared his throat, his hands now clasping in front of him, and when he looked back up at you, there was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. "Since my father returned, he's been teaching me tricks about the stars—navigating by them, learning their patterns—things he picked up on his travels." A faint, bashful smile tugged at his lips. "He says I've got a good eye for it."

You couldn't help but smile, the image of Telemachus and Odysseus stargazing together filling your mind. "That sounds wonderful,"

Telemachus' gaze flickered away again, the faint blush deepening on his cheeks as he nodded. "It is. It's... peaceful, being out there under the open sky. Sometimes, it feels like you can hear the stories the stars are trying to tell."

He hesitated, his weight shifting slightly, his hands brushing against his sides as though searching for something to do.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, softer, almost unsure. "So, uh, tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," he said, his eyes glancing up at you briefly before darting away again. "It's—it's something to see, really. It lights up the sky like a beacon."

He cleared his throat again, his fingers now fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "I... was thinking—" He stopped, biting his lip as his gaze darted back to you. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and he stuttered slightly as he continued, "If—if you'd like, you could... join me? To see it, I mean. It's, uh, better with someone else. I think you'd... enjoy it."

Your heart leapt, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The way he looked at you—shy, hopeful, as though his entire world hinged on your answer—made it impossible to refuse.

Your lips parted, the word "I—" barely forming before a voice interrupted the moment.

"Telemachus~" the voice cooed, smooth, and saccharine, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your breath hitched, the faint warmth that had begun to bloom between you and the prince cooling instantly. Both of you turned toward the source of the interruption, and there she was—Andreia.

Her auburn hair gleamed like polished copper, catching the soft light spilling through the corridor windows, and her practiced smile curved effortlessly across her lips.

She strode toward the two of you with an ease that bordered on regal, her eyes flashing briefly over you before locking onto Telemachus.

"Here you are," she said, her tone light and lilting, as though she'd spent hours searching for him. The way her words flowed, so casual yet so perfectly placed, made your stomach churn.

Andreia's hand brushed lightly against Telemachus' arm, her touch lingering just enough to feel possessive. Her fingers rested there, delicate yet firm, like she had every right to stake her claim. "I was wondering where you'd gone," she added with a soft laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

Telemachus stiffened at first, his shoulders squaring in surprise, the flush still on his cheeks as his gaze darted between you and Andreia. "Oh, uh... Lady Andreia," he greeted, his tone polite but lacking the warmth he'd just shown you.

His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying his awkwardness as his eyes flitted back toward you, only to snap back to Andreia under the weight of her commanding presence.

Andreia's smile widened, a flash of teeth, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about our lunch plans," she teased, her tone playful but carrying an undercurrent of reprimand. "You promised to show me the olive grove today."

The words hung in the air, heavy despite her light delivery. Your grip on the edge of your shawl tightened, your knuckles brushing against the scroll you still held.

Telemachus shifted his weight, his unease evident in the way his eyes flitted briefly to yours before snapping back to Andreia. "Right," he said slowly, his voice faltering as though caught off guard. "The olive grove."

Andreia's hand slid down from his arm but stayed close, her posture angled toward him with practiced grace. "Shall we go?" she asked, her emerald eyes locked on his face, her expression one of expectation.

Your chest tightened at the sight, and for a fleeting moment, you thought Telemachus might turn back to you. His lips parted slightly, his gaze turning to linger on you just long enough for something to flicker in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an apology he couldn't voice.

Andreia's attention, however, was unrelenting. Her smile faltered for the briefest moment as she followed his gaze, her expression cooling when her eyes landed on you. "Oh..." she drawled, her head tilting slightly, the tone of her voice dripping with feigned surprise. "You're ____, yes?"

You straightened instinctively, willing your voice to remain steady. "Y-Yes, Lady An—"

Andreia didn't let you finish. She turned back to Telemachus, her gaze softening as though you weren't even there. "Oh," she said lightly, her voice airy, "am I interrupting something, Telemachus?" The question was directed at Telemachus, her tone sweet but pointed, her wide eyes locked on his face.

Telemachus' face remained carefully neutral, his features set in a mask of calm that he had learned to wear during courtly interactions. But beneath the surface, his mind churned.

He was acutely aware of how close Andreia stood now, the scent of her floral perfume faint but distinct in the chill air. The warmth he had felt only moments ago, while speaking with you, had all but drained away.

His eyes darted toward you again, lingering for a fraction longer than was prudent. You stood stiffly, the scroll in your hands held tightly against your chest, your gaze lowered.

There was something almost imperceptible in your posture—disappointment, perhaps? Hurt? The thought made his stomach twist, though he quickly shoved it aside.

He couldn't afford to focus on that, not now.

"No—no, you're not interrupting," he stammered, his tone caught between reassurance and discomfort. He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and gestured vaguely toward you. "We were just finishing up."

Andreia's smile returned, brighter than ever, the edges curling with satisfaction as though she had won a quiet battle. She stepped closer to Telemachus; her fingers grazed the edge of his tunic, an almost imperceptible gesture that felt calculated, meant to be seen but subtle enough to be dismissed as casual. "Good," she said with a soft laugh, her emerald eyes glinting as they met his. "I wouldn't want to pull you away from anything... important." Her words hung in the air, carrying a subtle challenge that wasn't lost to you.

Telemachus swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly as he resisted the urge to glance at you again.

He knew how this moment looked, how it felt, and it gnawed at the edges of his resolve. But he also knew his duty, the expectations that came with his station.

Andreia wasn't just a princess—she was a potential alliance, a symbol of unity between Ithaca and her own kingdom. To dismiss her or show favoritism toward someone else, no matter how innocent the context, would be unwise.

"Of course not," he replied, his tone even, though his chest felt heavy. He offered a small, polite nod, one that he hoped would convey the right amount of respect and deference. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her smile softening as though his words had pleased her. She reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair back from her face, the motion deliberate yet graceful. "You're always so considerate, Machus," she said, her voice light and teasing; her gaze flickered briefly to you again, as though gauging your reaction, before returning to him.

Telemachus felt his pulse quicken, his discomfort growing. He hated how easily Andreia commanded the conversation, how her presence seemed to overshadow everything else in the moment.

But he hated more that he couldn't bring himself to break away, to say what he truly wanted. His role as prince demanded restraint, diplomacy, and sacrifice.

And so, he buried the flicker of guilt that had sparked when he'd seen the look in your eyes.

You shuffled your feet, the use of the nickname "Machus" feeling like an invisible weight pressing against your chest, the easy familiarity of it jarring in its intimacy.

How comfortable she was using it—and worse, how Telemachus neither stopped her nor corrected her—made the moment heavier, more painful than you cared to admit.

You knew better than to take it personally; you knew the realities of his station and the delicate politics at play, but that knowledge didn't dull the ache.

Your throat tightened, and you softly cleared it, drawing their attention briefly. You dipped into a polite curtsy, your voice steady though quieter than usual. "If you'll excuse me, my prince, my lady," you said, keeping your gaze lowered as you took a step back. "I'll...I'll take my leave now."

Telemachus' eyes flicked toward you, his lips parting as if he might say something, but the words never came.

Andreia giggled softly, leaning closer to him as though you had already gone, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "Oh, Machus," she said, blinking up at him with a coy smile. "I almost forgot—one of Bronte's navigators mentioned that Venus will be at her brightest tomorrow. Isn't that perfect? We should watch it together."

Her tone was light and airy, but there was an undercurrent of possession in her words that wasn't lost on you as you turned to leave. The sound of her laughter, soft and musical, lingered behind you as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You didn't glance back, though your heart clenched at the thought of what you might see if you did.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor, your steps deliberate yet distant, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind you broke the rhythm of your retreat. Before you could react, a warm hand wrapped gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your escape.

"Wait," Telemachus' voice came, low but rushed, tinged with urgency. You turned halfway, your heart skipping at the sight of him. His face was flushed, his breath slightly uneven as though he'd chased after you without thinking.

"What are you—?" you began, but he shook his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Please," he said, his tone softer now, imploring. His gaze darted briefly over his shoulder, and you caught sight of Andreia still standing in the corridor.

She was a distance away, her posture poised, though her expression was unreadable. She waited, her presence a looming reminder that you didn't belong in the same orbit as her.

Telemachus turned back to you, his brow furrowed, his words coming in a rush as if trying to explain something too complex for the time he had. "I know how this must look—how she must seem—but you have to understand, this isn't—I-I didn't mean for you to think... I just—" He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated with himself as he glanced back toward Andreia again, and he looked back at you. "This isn't what it looks like."

Your chest tightened, and you pulled your wrist gently out of his grasp, stepping back to create some distance. "You don't have to explain anything," you said softly, your voice measured, though you felt anything but calm. "I understand."

His eyes flickered, confusion flashing across his face. "You... do?" he asked, his tone unsure, as though he didn't believe you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if afraid Andreia would hear. "I just mean... Andreia is a princess and she's here because... because of alliances. It's all political, so I have to entertain her. I—" He stumbled over his words, his frustration evident. "It doesn't mean anything."

The words were like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling through your mind in ways you couldn't fully grasp. It doesn't mean anything. Then why did it feel like it meant everything?

You tilted your head, searching his face for clarity, but all you saw was a young man caught between two worlds—one of duty and one of desire. His expression softened as his eyes met yours again, his voice gentler now. "I just... I want you to understand, that this isn't real," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have to do this—for Ithaca, for my father. For everyone. But it's temporary." His explanation was clumsy, the words jumbled as though he didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I just... I didn't want you to think that this, that she..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, desperate for some sign that you believed him. "You see that... don't you?"

You wanted to, desperately. But the words felt hollow, his explanation thin. Temporary or not, Andreia was a princess, and you were... you. Someone who could be excused without a second thought, whose place in this palace was dictated by servitude, not status.

Besides, part of you couldn't ignore the lingering ache in your chest. His words didn't erase the sight of Andreia's easy closeness or the way he hadn't corrected her use of the nickname.

You forced yourself to nod, the movement stiff and mechanical. "I see," you murmured, though your heart felt like it was splintering with each syllable.

Relief washed over his features, his grip on your wrist finally loosening. "Good," he said, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted. "I just didn't want you to think—" He stopped himself, shaking his head again, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. "I didn't want to lose your trust."

You nodded again, a small, tight smile finding its way to your lips. "Of course, my prince," you said, the formality slipping out before you could stop it. "I understand."

The formality of your words made him flinch slightly, but before he could say anything else, you curtsied quickly and turned to leave.

This time, he didn't stop you.

As you walked away, your heart felt heavier than before, each step echoing in the quiet corridor. You couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just crossed some invisible line, that something between you had shifted in a way that couldn't be undone.

Meanwhile, Telemachus remained where you'd left him, a heavy sigh escaping him, watching your retreating figure with a conflicted expression. He rubbed a hand over his face, his thoughts spinning in disarray.

He'd thought you understood—hadn't you just said so? He didn't know why the moment still felt so unfinished, why his chest felt tight with an unease he couldn't shake.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he glanced back toward Andreia, who was waiting for him with a curious tilt of her head.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to push it aside.

You understood, he told himself. You knew his actions were only temporary, a necessary pretense, and that was enough.

Or so he thought.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You barely made it a few steps down the corridor before the tears began to blur your vision. They welled up hot and fast, threatening to spill over no matter how tightly you bit your lip to keep the sobs at bay.

You kept your head down, focusing on the stone floor beneath your feet as you tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat refused to ease. Each step felt heavier than the last, and no matter how much you told yourself to stay calm, the pressure inside you grew with every passing second.

By the time you rounded the corner, the tears had started to fall, hot and unbidden, streaking down your cheeks. You swiped at them angrily, as though erasing them would somehow make the ache in your chest go away.

Another sob tried to claw its way out, but you bit it back harder, a metallic taste filling your mouth as you forced yourself to stay quiet.

You're so foolish, you thought bitterly, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. You don't have any claim over him. He's a prince, and you're... Your chest heaved as you drew in a shaky breath, your steps faltering as the realization settled deeper into your mind. You're a servant. You have no right to feel this way.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn't ignore the way your heart clung to the moments you shared with him—the stolen smiles, the quiet conversations, the way his eyes seemed to soften whenever they met yours.

Were they just illusions? Things you'd foolishly read too much into?

Just as you turned another corner, lost in your thoughts, you collided with something—or someone. The force knocked the breath out of you, and you stumbled back slightly, the scroll slipping from your hands as you let out a startled gasp.

"I'm sorry!" you blurted out, your voice trembling as you hastily bent to retrieve the scroll. Your fingers fumbled clumsily as you wiped at your face, trying to hide the tears that still streaked your cheeks. "I-I wasn't looking where I was going, I—"

A low, warm chuckle cut through your hurried apology, freezing you in place. The sound was rich and teasing, carrying a lilt of amusement that made your heart skip a beat.

"Why," the voice drawled, smooth and playful, "do I always seem to catch you at the worst moments?"

Your breath caught, and you slowly looked up, blinking away the last of your tears. The figure before you came into focus, and your eyes widened in recognition.

Hermes stood before you, his divine presence striking against the mundane backdrop of the palace corridor.

His tousled curls caught the dim light, the faint shimmer of his form almost too vibrant for the simple stone walls surrounding him. His scarlet cloak draped effortlessly over one shoulder, and the faint flutter of the wings on his sandals sent a soft breeze brushing against your skin.

He looked every bit the god he was, radiant and untouchable, yet somehow entirely at ease.

You stared, momentarily frozen by the contrast of his divine radiance in this otherwise quiet corner of Ithaca's halls. His head tilted slightly, a grin tugging at his lips as he observed your stunned silence.

Then, raising a hand, he lightly tapped a finger against your forehead, the motion playful yet deliberate. "Anyone home?" he asked, the amusement in his voice pulling you out of your daze.

You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you realized you'd been gaping. "H-Hermes, I—I'm sorry," you stammered, taking a step back, gripping the scroll tightly against your chest. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, clearly not," he said with a grin, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. "Though I must admit, bumping into you is quickly becoming my favorite pastime."

You frowned slightly, glancing down at the floor. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't paying attention."

Hermes tilted his head, studying you with a look that was equal parts curious and amused. "Apologies, apologies," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You mortals are always so quick to blame yourselves. Tell me, little musician, what's got you so distracted this time? Or should I guess?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren't sure what to say—how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside you without sounding utterly ridiculous.

A part of you wanted to open up, to let him know everything, but another part held you back, unsure of how much a god could—or would—understand.

Hermes, however, seemed content to wait, his gaze steady, his golden eyes filled with a quiet patience that felt strangely comforting. Still, you couldn't help but wonder what had brought him down to Ithaca this time, and why, of all places, he'd found you here in such a state.

"I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. Your grip on the scroll tightened, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice barely steady. Clearing your throat, you glanced at Hermes, forcing a small, uncertain smile. "What brings you down here? Are you here to deliver another message?" you asked, your voice wavering between curiosity and hesitation.

Hermes waved a dismissive hand, his expression light and amused. "Nah, no messages this time," he said, leaning casually against the wall. "I was bored. Thought I'd drop in on my grandson-in-law, Laertes. You know, see how the old man's doing. Deliever a message for my granddaughter Anticleia and all that."

For a moment, your mind froze, his words not fully registering. "Your... grandson?" you repeated, blinking up at him in confusion.

Hermes chuckled, bending slightly to meet your gaze, his head tilting in mock curiosity. "What's the matter? Didn't you know Odysseus is a descendant of mine?" His teasing tone and the glint in his golden eyes sent a ripple of warmth to your cheeks.

The faintest memory stirred in the back of your mind—Penelope mentioning the royal lineage, the gods woven into their family tree—but you hadn't thought much of it at the time. The knowledge had slipped away, buried beneath the weight of your daily tasks.

"I... think I heard that before," you admitted softly, your brow furrowing as you tried to recall the details. "But I guess I didn't really connect the dots."

"Figures," Hermes said with a laugh, straightening up and gesturing grandly to himself. "It's why Odysseus is so clever, you know. Gets it from me. Same with Telemachus, to some degree—though he's still figuring it out." He shot you a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're lucky, by the way. Not everyone gets such a close-up view of divine legacy in action."

Your mind finally caught up, a single word from earlier sticking out in your thoughts. "Anticleia," you murmured, hesitant yet certain. "Isn't she...?" You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

Hermes raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. "Dead? In the Underworld?" he finished for you, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Good ear, little musician." He tapped the side of his head playfully. "I do sometimes stop by to deliver messages for her. She's one of my favorites, you know. Sweet woman. Always appreciated my visits." A fond smile softened his face for a moment before he glanced back at you.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you interested in going?"

The question caught you off guard, and your breath hitched. "G-Go to the Underworld?" you stammered, blinking at him in confusion. The idea sounded absurd—terrifying, even.

Hermes let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing lightly through the corridor. "Not permanently, little one. I meant for a visit! Think of it as a 'bring a mortal to work' day." He winked, the boyish charm in his expression making the suggestion sound almost enticing. "I'm due to deliver a message to Anticleia from Laertes anyway. You could come along—get a glimpse of something most mortals only dream about."

You hesitated, the weight of the offer settling over you. The thought of traveling to the Underworld was daunting, to say the least, but a part of you was intrigued.

If you declined, you'd only be left alone with your swirling thoughts of Telemachus and Andreia, so perhaps this unexpected detour was just the distraction you needed.

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded slowly. "Alright," you said, your voice soft but resolute. "I'll go."

Hermes' grin widened, his excitement almost contagious. "That's the spirit! Stick with me, little musician, and you'll have quite the story to tell." He extended his hand toward you, his long fingers steady and inviting.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at his hand. It was unlike yours—smooth, unblemished, and seemingly untouched by the trials of the mortal world.

When your hand finally met his, you were struck by the warmth of his palm and the lightness of his touch. His fingers closed gently around yours, cradling your calloused hand with an unexpected tenderness, as though you were something fragile.

The contrast was stark, your roughened skin a reminder of the countless hours spent working and playing music, his touch soft and divine.

"There we go," Hermes said, his tone playful yet reassuring. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall." His golden eyes twinkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath them—a quiet promise of safety. Then, without warning, he pulled you closer, his warmth enveloping you as he bent his head down, his breath brushing against your ear. The soft rush of air sent a shiver cascading down your spine, your skin prickling in response.

"The shadows conceal the threshold, a gateway unseen to mortal eyes," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying an intimate thrill that made your heart race. His breath was warm, each word laced with an excitement you couldn't quite place.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling ever so slightly in his grasp.

Just as you thought you might ask a question, he pulled back slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. "You're going to love this," he said with a happy chuckle, his tone shifting to one of boyish enthusiasm.

Before you could respond, Hermes stepped backward, tugging you with him. The shadows seemed to ripple and twist as he moved, pulling you effortlessly into their depths.

And then, you were gone.

A/N: ahhh love a good miscommunication 😩 as promised heres the promised chappie ❤️ next update features more hermes, stay tuned (p.s am i forgiven??? 🥹)

Tag List: @uniquetravelerone

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tears0fsatan · 9 months ago

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☆ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒

✦ ⊹ ˚˖ warnings... gn!reader, slightly suggestive? kisses and making out??? not that nsfw but u can be the judge of that

:¨·.·¨ ♥︎ a.n... been plagued with thoughts of making out premaritally that im having dreams about it so i thought i'd share the delusion with the dateables <3 might make a brothers version if i feel like it ૮ ˊ͈ . ˋ͈ ა posting this little drabble while i work on things ^_^

DIAVOLO !

the first kiss with him is surprisingly soft and tentative, a large contrast to the lord's usual loud and unabashed demeanour. its nothing more than a peck to test the waters, one to see if the two of you are comfortable.

its not long after that that diavolo takes the reigns, his arm curls around your neck and rests his hand on the back of your head to pull you impossibly closer. the kiss morphs from something sweet and demure to one thats hurried and pervasive.

he naturally takes the lead, mouth slotting against yours like they were moulded to be together while his tongue danced with your own, like a dog eager to show its master its affection.

BARBATOS !

the first kiss with the royal butler is one thats calm and collected, like theres no amount of doubt in his movements. theres an air of certainty almost as though he knows this is what the both of you have been waiting for.

barbatos lets you take a breath and uses that to coil his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. his eyes take in the sight of your tightly shut eyes and the faint blush that dusts your cheeks with satisfaction, a hidden greed and desire for more creeping up from the bottom of his spine and spreads throughout his entire body.

he craves more, more, and more, until you have nothing left to give.

SOLOMON !

the first kiss with the sorcerer is playful and chaste, he pulls his head back ever so slightly so you chase after his lips. a low whine sounds from the back of your throat and solomon lets out a chuckle but doesn't relent, firm in his stance.

you huff, and for a moment, you think about pulling away entirely, but the temptation of his lips overruns that thought and you give in to his teasing. like himself, his kiss is pervasive, determined to unravel you with the kiss and uncover your every secret.

SIMEON !

the first kiss with the archangel is pure and fleeting; a soft peck that was so light you would've mistaken it for a dream if it weren't for the feeling of his breath ghosting over your lips. a shared look between the two of you show that this was something that was long overdue, feelings that were bursting at the seams finally rising up to the surface in a wordless confession.

an airy chuckle escapes the both of you, the uncertainty of unreciprocated feelings now disappaiting into the air, fluttering away as though there was never any need for the anxiety or the wavering doubt in the first place.

a quiet, barely audible, "may i kiss you once more?" uttered so softly you wondered if the wind was the one playing tricks on you escapes into the evening sky. you give a shaky nod before the feeling of his warm hand gently hold your face, the feeling akin to the way the morning sun would graze your face as you awoke. its a tender touch and yet, it has you melting in his clasp.

#៹ ࣪˖. 🎧 light mode﹒☆#obey me #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me solomon #obey me simeon #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me x gn reader

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badwritinghabit · 5 months ago

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Hello and Goodbye (part 2) | Chef Luca x fem!Reader

Previous Chapter

Warnings: Explicit smut (mdni!). Specifically oral (reader receiving) and vaginal sex, along with some minor pinning down/controlling vibes but still very sweet with lots of checking in.

Word Count: 2,835

Summary: You and Luca go on a date and reflect on the past. Then you take him home with you.

Author's Note: I was torn in a few different directions so I just wrote what felt right-- some fluffy nonsense and then smut. I am tempted to go back and write a one or two chapter prequel with some cheesy romance between younger Luca and reader from what I hinted at in the start of this chapter. Let me know if you'd be interested! Probably wouldn't be smut, just a fluff/idiots in love type story.

Months. Luca was going to stay in Chicago for months. The words hadn’t left your head since Luca had said them. You’d left the party with him, feeling floaty and light. The street lights, the far off sound of music pouring through an open window, Luca’s fingers threaded through yours. Chicago didn’t usually feel romantic. It felt like work and school and trudging through the snow on January mornings. But that night, Chicago felt like the warm and fuzzy moment in a romantic comedy. When the main characters had reached the end of the story and had fallen in love, for real this time. And the feeling followed you home as Luca walked you to your apartment. When you unlocked the front door, he stopped you with a gentle tug on your wrist. You’d wanted to invite him up but he had leaned forward, pressed a kiss to your lips, and said he wanted to take you on a date.

He was being sweet.

Now you’re sitting in a bar. It is next to the apartment you lived in years ago, when you and Luca had worked together. The bar had changed ownership at least once but Luca had insisted that you go check it out, for old times sake.

Luca reaches a hand over the table and grabs yours. He trails his thumb lightly across your palm, again and again. Calming and sweet. He doesn’t even seem to be thinking about it particularly, his other hand setting his pint glass down on the table after taking a drink.

“I don’t know if I like it as much anymore,” you say, as you look around the bar again, voice quiet so as to not be heard by any of the bartenders.

Luca smiles and raises his eyebrows questioningly. “It’s cleaner.”

You laugh. “It is cleaner. But it doesn’t feel the same anymore. I don’t think they’d let us stay until 3 am playing cards like the old days.”

“Probably not,” he agrees, his thumb still tracing your hand. “I was surprised they let us do that in the first place. I think they only let us because of you.”

“Me?”

“You underestimate yourself. You had everyone wrapped around your finger back then,” he says. His tone is light but your heart speeds up at his heated eye contact.

“I think you might be misremembering things,” you demur, flipping your hands on the table so that yours is on top and curling your fingers into his so that you are holding hands.

He hums and shakes his head. “Remember when you stopped us from betting money on cards? You had us flicking each other’s foreheads when we lost.” He was smirking.

“Everyone loved that! It was fun. And we weren’t wasting money,” you defend yourself, face heating as he chuckles at your insistence.

“Part of the fun is wasting money, love.”

You feel your chest tighten at his use of love. “I was just being the responsible one. Someone needed to be!”

He laughs again and squeezes your hand. “I liked it.”

You squint at him suspiciously and he just chuckles.

“I did. Everyone did. You had us all charmed. I’m just saying, you could have convinced us lads to do anything.”

You roll your eyes, unsure how to respond. It was a good group, you’d connected quickly and had spent an awful lot of time together outside of work. You had been too focused on him back then to really pay attention to how the other’s treated you. You don’t dwell on it, instead you brush your thumb against Luca’s and challenge him to a thumb war. He grins and immediately accepts. Unfortunately, his hand is much larger and you are quickly overpowered.

“You cheated,” you grumble.

“How did I cheat?”

“Your hands are too big. You have a longer thumb-span.” He laughs at that and goes back to tracing his thumb over the soft skin on your palm. “And you said I had you charmed. You didn’t even let me win.”

He leans forward over the small table and your eyes briefly dip down as his elbow comes to rest on the table. The dark button up shirt he is wearing looks smooth in the dimmed light of the bar. His sleeves are rolled up from earlier in the evening and your eyes are drawn to his arms. His movement causes the warm, slightly woody smell of his cologne to wash over you. You meet his eyes again and he’s smirking at you, as if he could read your mind.

“Did you want me to let you win?” his voice is low and you glance at his lips before you can stop yourself.

“No,” you blurt quickly. “I take thumb wars seriously.”

“I admire your competitive spirit.”

You blink at him as he grips your hand again, preparing for another thumb war. His eyes are still locked on yours. You couldn’t help but think he had become too good at flirting since you’d last seen him.

The bartender brings you another drink, and before long you realize it has gotten later than you realized. Luca walks you home, giving you his jacket when he catches you shivering after a gust of wind.

You hesitate at the door. You stick your keys in the lock, faltering slightly but opening it. “Are you going to come up this time?” you ask, shifting nervously as you stand on your doorstep and turn to look at him.

“I’d like to. If you’ll have me.”

You smile and grab his wrist to pull him in after you. You unlock the door to your apartment and swing it open, sliding off your shoes as you walk in. You take off the coat he gave you and put it on the hook near your door. Luca follows, looking around your apartment after setting his shoes next to your own.

“I like the painting,” he starts, “where did you–”. Before he can finish, you’re leaning up and pressing your lips against his.

When he hesitates, you pull back. “Sorry, I thought–”

And then he is cutting you off, hands on your cheeks as he pulls your mouth back to his. He’s soft and so painfully sweet, your heart skips a beat. His hand slides down, fingers warm against the back of your neck as his thumb presses against your chin.

You reach up and pull lightly on his collar, urging him closer to you, inviting him to kiss you harder. You open your mouth and his tongue meets yours. Still soft and sweet. After a breath you nip gently at his lower lip and he groans, making you smile.

One of his hands drops and finds your hip, pulling you closer and then sliding up, playing with the hem of your sweater. You undo the top button of his shirt and then the second. You pull back for a breath and his hands are careful, as they slide under your shirt. His eyes never stray from yours, making sure you are okay with him taking the next step.

“Let’s go to my room,” you breathe. And he follows you down the hall. You pull your sweater off over your head. Before you can unzip your skirt he stops you.

“Let me take my time,” he says, voice low in your ear. He’s standing behind you. You feel small under him as his hands slide from your hips, upward. You arch back the slightest bit, pressing your ass against him. You hear him exhale harshly and his hand cups your breasts over your bra. He slowly unzips your skirt with his other hand and you stop yourself from whining as you want him to go faster. He seems to notice your impatience.

“I’ve thought about all of the things I would do if I got another chance with you.” He pinches your nipple between his fingers and you arch again. He keeps talking, his voice and the exquisitely dirty things he says, making you more and more needy. He groans your name.

“Luca. I need-” you say, somewhere between a gasp and a whine.

“I know.” His voice is low, almost a growl. Him taking control is making your knees quiver. His hand trails down from your chest to your panties, middle finger sliding gently over your center. He presses just the tiniest bit, a teasing pressure against your clit making you grip his wrist.

“Is this okay?” he asks, staying his hand but not moving away.

You nod quickly and then say aloud, “yes”.

“Let me know if you want me to stop, yeah?”

“I won’t want to stop,” you say immediately. He grins and you feel it as he presses his lips to the column of your throat and nips gently at the sensitive skin. His hand slips inside your underwear, running his finger through your folds. You jolt a little at the sensation and he pulls away gently, pausing to slide your underwear down your legs.

“You’re still dressed,” you say, suddenly self conscious. He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and your eyes drop and trace the smooth, chiseled lines of his chest. Your eyes trail along his tattoos and you reach out to the touch one on his shoulder.

He presses you forward and you lay back onto your bed. He unbuckles his belt and slides his pants to the floor. He is left in his underwear as he leans over you. He presses his lips to your neck and then chest, mouth going lower and lower.

He kisses the curve of your stomach, pressing his lips gently across your hip. He bites the soft skin at the point your thigh meets your hip and your leg flexes involuntarily.

He’s teasing you. Your breath exhales in a whine as he moves across to your other hip, not paying any attention where you need him most.

“Luca,” you say as his teeth gently mark your skin. You twitch, moving your hips closer to his face.

“What is it?” he asks, still not giving you what you want.

“Please,” you gasp. And then his fingers are spreading your folds and his tongue is gentle against your clit. You nearly sob, a choked breath exhaling at the relief. He slides a finger inside, and adds another, you breathe in, not even realizing how empty you felt until he was there. His tongue keeps a steady pressure with his soft licks as he starts pumping his fingers in and out.

You’re trying not to buck too hard into his mouth. He presses an arm against your thigh to keep you open for him and something about his casual control makes your heart pound harder.

He doesn’t stop the perfect drag of his tongue on your clit, even as you plummet over the edge, gasping his name. His fingers glide against your sensitive walls until you buck away, overstimulated from his ministrations.

He slides his fingers from inside of you and crawls up to lay beside you. You blink up into his eyes, catching your breath as you watch him. His hand is gently stroking up and down your side, as if helping calm your body after your orgasm. You lean forward and pull his face to yours, kissing him hard.

“I have condoms,” you say as you pull back to catch your breath. He sits up and grabs his own from a wallet beside his bed.

You watch as he slides his boxers over his hips and he catches your eyes, grinning at you teasingly for having caught you checking him out. He’s already slid the condom on and before he can say something to tease you, you climb into his lap. His eyes widen in surprise but he grips your hips and helps you stabilize yourself on top of him.

You kiss him as your hand slides down his chest, fingers trailing across the firm heat of his chest, downwards. You feel him twitch in your hand as you grasp his cock and press yourself down onto him, slowly. You groan at the feel of him, leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his.

The feeling of him inside you is divine– hot and hard and the perfect stretch. You breathe shallowly as you lower yourself fully onto him.

He gives you a moment, not moving as he feels you squeeze around him torturously. He presses kisses to your neck, soft and sweet. After a few breaths, he reaches up and runs his hand through your hair before gently grabbing it at the base of your neck in his fist and tugging lightly. Your thighs clench reflexively and you meet his eyes.

“Are you still feeling good, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Sorry, just adjusting.”

“No apologizing,” he admonishes gently, cupping your cheek. “You feel so good,” he says, “better than I remembered.” He says your name in a sigh as you clench around him, his other hand gripping your hip a little more tightly. “I’ve thought about you a lot,” he continues, voice low. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

You press your lips to his for a quick kiss then move your hips up. The feeling of him moving inside of you forces you to take a breath and you pull back, mouth open.

“So pretty,” he says, watching you arch on top of him, his hand moving from your hips to your ass, squeezing before pulling you to him a little as he lifts his hips under you. You gasp as he presses even deeper inside you. You speed up your movement on top of him as he starts to meet your hips.

He feels your legs shake after he thrusts again and he wraps an arm around your waist and rolls you over, his other arm propping himself up over you. He thrusts slowly at first but increases the pace until you are gripping his shoulders, legs locked around him, heels pressed into the heated skin of his lower back.

You reach a hand up to hold onto his wrist resting near your head. He immediately grips your hand, entwining your fingers with his and pressing your hand to the bed. You arch up and he shifts and grabs your other hand as well, pushing it up by the other and pinning both to the bed. He meets your eyes to make sure you’re okay and you immediately nod, gasping out his name and pressing your hips up to meet his again.

You exhale as he presses his hips all the way against yours in one smooth motion. Then he is pounding into you, little exhaled sighs leave your lips with each thrust. You’re stretched full and the force has you just on the edge of pain. Every stroke your clit rubs against his pelvis and you feel yourself get close again.

He’s coaxing you to another orgasm, his thrusts hard and deep and hitting all of the right places.

You only catch a few of the things he says to you as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge--

“Fuck, can you hear how wet you are?”

“So good for me.”

“I want you to let go. Come on, pretty girl.”

“Luca,” you say his name, eyes locked on his for a second before they slam shut as you tumble over the edge of your second orgasm. You arch up, twisting lightly in his hold and he continues to press into you, holding your wrists down as he fucks you through the waves of pleasure. After a few more thrusts his hips stutter and he presses inside of you and groans as he reaches his own peak.

You’re breathing heavily as he slides out of you. He disposes of the condom and lays next to you again. You’re still breathing heavily and he is holding you, warm and stable next to you.

You know you need to get up and clean yourself off. Instead, you reach up and pull his hair, now slightly damp with sweat, bringing him in for another soft kiss.

“Have you really been thinking of me all of this time?” you ask, breathless as you pull away.

“Every day,” he confesses readily, pressing another kiss to your lips.

Your heart races at his admission. His easy affection.

“I’ve thought about you a lot too.” You meet his eyes and see only the softest adoration so you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed when you say it. Or when you lean into him again, hugging him tightly to you. He hugs you tighter and you giggle as he nuzzles his nose into your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck.

“Let’s take a shower, yeah?”

You agree and stand up, stretching your arms over your head. You catch him looking at your chest and he grins at you, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “Round two in the shower?”

You laugh, cheeks warming.

“We have to make up for lost time, love.”

#chef luca x reader #the bear fanfic #the bear smut #smut

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middlingmay · 1 month ago

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So I rewatched Elvis and have we done canon-ish era music star Gale yet?

Gale has terrible stage fright, but music was an escape for him growing up. The ethereal beauty in the voices of Billie Holiday and Eartha Kitt. The sweet crooning of the Ink Spots and Ella Fitzgerald (ol' blue eyes Frankie Sinatra could only dream), the visceral, soulful sounds of B. B. King that reached into a fella and just yanked at that something under the naval and made him have to move with it...

Mother told him he had a good voice all his life. But the idea of getting on a stage terrified him, that he thought it was never going to happen. Until it did.

He vomited before hand an alarming number of times. But as soon as the lights went down and the band started up Gale floated away, and King Cleven took his place.

Gale could never nearly remember any of it afterwards, no matter how often he went up there. Something just came over him whenever he got on stage.

So maybe he goes overseas to entertain the troops. He knows they prefer the female acts - the singers, dancers, comediennes and the like - but his songs had made it on the radio and everyone was having a good time. Some of the fellas had demanded that he teach them how to dance like that and all he can say is,

"Hell. I don't even know how I dance like that. How the hell am I supposed to teach you?"

He feels eyes on him. When he's on stage one of the men in particular watches him. Not his performance. Not his wild, uncouth dancing. Him.

After, when most of the fellas have crowded closer to the stage, that same fella joins him at the bar. Wide shoulders. Curly hair. Thin moustache. Thick neck to match his waist.

A Major, his uniform betrays him.

He looks at Gale. In a way he'll never become accustomed to getting looked at. It always makes him uncomfortable and defensive and peevish.

But for once, he wants to look back, at this man who slowly grins and spreads his legs cocky like when he takes the stool next to Gale.

Or! Maybe it's post-war and John is feeling listless after the army. He seeks out every good time he can possibly find and none of it does anything to quieten his head, help him sleep, calm his heart, or fill the rotting, crumbling core of him.

He hears of a show for this new up and comer making all kinds of waves, good and bad. Dancing in ways that offends folks but singing like he has both heaven and hell in him. John can't resist seeing it for himself. Music is his biggest joy and is the one thing the war didn't take from him.

A friend points the fella out when they're buying drinks. John watches him smile at the people vying for his attention and can see the sharpness. He tosses a frankly terrible wink that people seem to love, but John can read the darkness swirl behind his eyes - that of a cornered man. He looks calm and suave and composed, but John can see the tremor in his leg and the nervous twitch of his hand.

What a strange mix of contradictions is Gale "King" Cleven.

On stage, he transforms into something else entirely. He's all soft melody and belting vocals, rasping and crooning in turn. He's wild hip swings and loose hands and feet that can't stop moving.

He's hypnotic. Erotic. And every person man or woman at that show wants at least some small piece of him after watching him perform.

But it's John he sends that shitty wink to every time he catches him looking.

John has to go for a smoke afterwards. He feels like he's just experienced something transformative. Like there was John before this and John after this.

Except, fuck him and his life, because Gale Cleven pours himself out into the alley after him, shaking and laughing lowly to himself, until he catches sight of John and freezes.

John winks at him this time. And Christ Almighty a man who has spent most of his night feeding the fantasies of the masses with his gyrating, blushes. Cute as a button. Demures, even. And John is in a whole hell of a lot of trouble.

#what do you think about singer gale?#i fear this may take on a life of it's own...#clegan #buck x bucky #mota au #Singer!Gale

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agustdiv1ne · 2 years ago

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hi I had a request - hard hours hyunjin with corruption kink? thanks!

i've been waiting for this one turn it up ‼️

cheeks burning hot when he sits you in his lap, squirming whenever he trails kisses down your neck, diverting his attention if a stray finger trails up your thigh...hyunjin knows that you're inexperienced, you don't even have to tell him. you'll make out with him, sure, straddling his lap and sharing sweet kisses while his hands wrap around your waist. yet, as soon as things grow heated, your hips beginning to rut against his, you'll pull away and leave him high and dry, a shy little apology on your lips before you stand on shaky legs and grab a ice cold glass of water from the kitchen.

he can't fault you for it — he knows you're nervous about, well, pretty much everything that is sexual in nature. however, if hyunjin is anything, he is patient. he'll take up your pace, let you control what happens and when. he'll let you have this semblance of authority if it means he can eventually ruin you for everyone else, make you only think of him and the dirty little things he can do to you.

and so when you finally let things go past sweet kisses and innocent hand placements, hyunjin feels his cock harden to no end.

it's one of those nights where you find yourself on top of him, hands gripping his shoulders as his plush lips meld against your own, his teeth capturing your bottom lips and pulling. you squeak, a streak of pleasure twisting in your stomach and you pull away, but this time you don't get up. no, this time, you remain on his lap, grinding slightly into his bulge as you bite your lip.

"'m ready," you mumble, staring at a spot on his shoulder, all demure and bashful and he's absolutely basking in it.

"ready for what, sweetheart?" he asks, unable to help himself from teasing you a little. he takes in your slow, hard blink, the way you take a deep breath to calm your nerves. you try to bury yourself into his neck, but a firm hand under your chin renders you unable to hide.

"for you to make me feel good," you finally say, still not meeting his expectant gaze, and his lips split into a grin, something sly and wolfish. his hands slowly move to your waist to the swell of your ass, rolling your hips harder into his. he's asking if you're sure all the while, and you're nodding, leaning into him and whining so prettily into his ear, getting lost in the pleasure he's giving you.

but fuck, he wants to make you feel even better, to have you fall apart above him and teach you how good you can feel, how good only he can make you feel.

"baby," he whispers, warm breath fanning over your neck. "i want you to take your panties off for me, okay?"

"o-okay," you stutter back, rolling over and slipping your sleep shorts and panties down your soft, unmarked thighs. he wants to be between them, licking and sucking and feeling your fingers curl into his hair, tugging as you cry out for him-

he's knocked from those thoughts when you straddle his lap again, now bare from the waist down. you're looking at him all doe eyed, waiting for him to make a move, and so he does. a hand comes up to cup your pussy in a bold display of dominance.

you gasp. "jinnie-"

"shh, baby. you wanna feel good, right?" he coos, a condescending pout on his lips as his fingertips begin to rub little circles against your clit. your hips subconsciously move against his fingers, movements growing more desperate by the second. he's watching your face for your reaction as he dips those fingers down to your entrance. and god, what he finds there.

"you're soaked, baby. fuck," he exhales. "you want my fingers?"

you nod rapidly, and he tuts. "use your words."

"please."

one finger slips in and you're reeling, clinging onto him. and he may act self-assured, but inside he's just as bad as you, finally being able to feel your warm, tight walls envelop his long finger is a dream come true. you squeal when he finds your spot, and so he begins to abuse it. sweet little moans are muffled into the cotton of his t-shirt and he loves it — he's fucking obsessed with it. trying to get you close, his thumb moves to swipe your clit until you're clawing at him.

"jinnie, it feels, feels weird, a-ah."

"just let go for me, baby," he commands, voice strained. "c'mon, i promise it'll feel so good. cum on my finger, you can do it."

his gentle goading sends you over the edge, a desperate sound torn from your throat, thighs quaking and he nearly cums in his own pants when he catches sight of your hazy expression and drool-slicked lips. he helps you calm down with whispers of "you did so well for me" and "good girl" and hugs you close to him, stroking your hair. you mumble his name, shifting on his lap until you're staring at him nervously.

"can i, um," you pause, collecting your thoughts.

"can you teach me how to make you feel good, too?"

#stray kids smut #skz smut #hyunjin smut #skz drabbles #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #hyunjin x reader #skz imagines #stray kids drabbles #skz hard thoughts #skz hard hours #hyunjin hard thoughts #agust.nsfw #💌 — hyunjinnie

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musubi-sama · 9 months ago

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Game of Chicken

Satoru invited you to a club to see his favorite band play. But you have a boyfriend, so surely you can win this game of chicken?

CW: afab!reader x gojo satoru, modern au no curses, outdoor sex, piv, cunnilingus, DP if you squint.

AN: Shoutout to @/bunny584 and @/pseudowho for helping with two key elements! You two are amazing and I look up to you! And guess the name of the song and band I used.

WC: 5.1k | Link to AO3 if you prefer

~~~

Trying to quell the shivers of excitement and nerves, you focus on the road ahead of you. Glancing momentarily at the digital nav on your console, you change lanes in preparation to take the next exit. As you exit the freeway, you see another message arrive from Satoru.

>> Text me when you’ve parked and I’ll come down

You hadn’t planned on going out tonight, especially not planning to drive into the city and meet up with a new friend to go see a band at a local club. But when he sent you a text in the afternoon gauging your plans and interest, you all too eagerly responded yes.

Before you left for the evening, you sent off a message to your boyfriend:

<< going to Murasaki tonight, don’t wait up <3

An otherwise unremarkable drive, you spent the 30-minute trip with your music uncharacteristically low and your hands uncharacteristically fidgety on your steering wheel.

You’re just going to see a band with a friend. A friend, that you told your ridiculously tall, tanned, and handsome boyfriend about. A friend, whom your boyfriend assured you he is not worried about - you or him.

But each flick of the passing streetlights dances over your ticking hands gliding over the steering wheel. Light catches on the demure set of silver-shining rings your boyfriend bought you recently. They match a pair he wears on his right hand, while yours are thinner and more feminine for your left hand. The hands you hold when you’re sitting at home or walking around town.

Reaching Satoru’s building, you slip into the open visitor parking spot in the underground lot. Hopping out of your car, taking a deep breath to attempt to quell your nerves and quiet your hands, you send off a quick message:

<< hheree!

Damn your shaky hands! Again, sending off messages too quickly before you think.

A moment later after arriving in the cavernous, brutalist lobby, a shock of white hair attached to a tall, lanky body pops out of the elevator. Satoru is sporting a black and pink color block shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, distressed designer denim sitting perfectly on his hips and a sleek leather belt.

“Hey. Hi. C’mon up. How was the drive?” he says as you approach the elevator.

“The directions on the app sent me half-way around the city just to avoid the local roads,” you respond exasperated as you step into the elevator. The button for floor 41 is illuminated.

Satoru stands directly across from you and in a moment, you get a whiff of his sweet scent of vanilla and cherry. You’re fidgeting with the hem of your shirt and the lengths of necklace decorating your plunging neckline as you ride up the quiet elevator. It’s not like you’ve never spent time in a penthouse, in fact your boyfriend lives in one not too fa-.

Your thoughts are cut off as the elevator dings and opens up to a sprawling, blue and silver post-modern penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. Satoru’s hand is resting in the space of your lower back, heat radiating into you but not quite making contact.

“Do you want a drink? We don’t need to leave just yet,” Satoru slips past you to the well-appointed bar area of his sprawling kitchen. A chill is left in the space where his hand sat, and it slides up your spine.

“Dirty martini, gin, if you have it would be lovely,” you take a seat at the oversized kitchen island seating. A drink will calm your nerves.

You’ve known Satoru for about a month, having met while in line for the deli counter during lunch. You both ordered sandwiches, then walked over to the drink cooler and tried to reach for the same can of seltzer, and somehow ended up next to each other at the register. After deciding to grab a seat and eat together, you exchange contact information and meet up for lunch weekly.

Knowing exactly what he was doing, Satoru carefully followed you around the deli creating “accidental” run-ins with you just so that he could sit down with you over lunch. A known playboy in the city, he was thinking only with his dick and with a goal in mind when he ran into you. And if tonight went well, you would be another notch in his bed post. And, if he played his cards right, a recurring one.

Satoru spent his entire life being gifted with everything. He owned the building you were standing in; his entire life was crafted for him specifically. Satoru only chose two things - his best friends and his sexual partners.

Satoru flashes a quick raised eyebrow at the request but quickly moves to grab the ingredients and set to mixing, “How many olives?”

“Hmm, four, please!”

You take in the view of the city from your perch. Even though it’s dark outside, you can still get a decent view as the lights are dimmed in the rest of the suite.

“Your drink,” Satoru slides the chilled and dangerously filled martini glass sitting atop a coaster across the shiny marble countertop towards you, not spilling a drop. He sits an old fashioned with four Luxardo cherries on a cocktail skewer in front of himself.

Satoru lifts his glass to yours, “kanpai!” as you gently bump your glasses together, still not spilling a drop. You take a quick sip and hum in satisfaction as the savory bite coats your tongue. You take a second, much larger sip before setting down your glass and picking up the skewer of olives.

“So,” you bite one olive off the stick, “who are we going to see tonight?”

The game of chicken has officially begun. You lay your first trap, shiny and red lips sliding around the piked olives.

“My best friend is the bassist in Jujutsu Kaisen and they’re playing a secret show tonight downtown.” Satoru follows your tease with a nip of the cherry from his own glass.

“Is this how you impress all your girls? With secret shows of mega stars?” another olive bitten.

“It’s not always girls,” he gives you a wink as he leans over the island, resting his head on his arm propped up by his elbow. The last two olives slip off the skewer because you need something to do with your agape mouth.

Winner of the game: whoever breaks second. You were going to win. You had to. You have a boyfriend, but you sure planned to enjoy the harmless chase. If you can chill out enough to enjoy it. The gin is really helping, though.

Stepping out of the building, Satoru leads you over to a luxury black car waiting for you and a driver holding the door open.

“This is too much, I thought you said we were just going to a bar to see a band?” you said incredulously, looking back at Satoru.

“We are. Ichiji is my personal valet. After you,” he waves you into the car and you slide in across the supple leather seats.

Satoru doesn’t think twice about how this looks. To him, this is standard operating procedure. He’d never considered any other way to get around the city. And of course, he asked Ichiji to use the sportier model today.

You take in the sights of the city as you take the quick 10-minute trip across downtown into the industrial district. Ichiji pulls up to a brightly lit club with a few throngs of people milling about.

Satoru leads you to the door, flashes something on his phone to the bouncer, and you’re both waved in. Sliding across the room to a pair of seats on the side of the club and a great view of the stage. Satoru slips away to grab you both drinks from the bar, returning after a few moments.

“My favorite shot to start the night, Red Headed Sluts,” he passes the shooter to you and you both take it in a single swallow. A small dribble leaks from the corner of your mouth. Satoru reaches over to wipe it off with his thumb, proceeding to lick it off while maintaining eye contact. You blush and immediately turn your head, trying not to look at Satoru after that.

Damn, lost that round. Focus, dammit.

Satoru slipped away again to return the shot glasses to the bar and get more drinks; this time a beer for you.

Checking the time, it’s almost time for the band to go on. The crowd has quickly started to fill in and you are developing a nice buzz, your head starting to feel a bit cloudy and suggestible.

The band comes out to roars from the crowd and you join in. Satoru stands behind you, one hand again hovering at your lower back. As they start their set, you get caught up in the music and fail to notice your date disappearing occasionally to keep your drink filled.

Each time he returns, his arms slowly reach up your body to rest on your shoulders. You’re in control, put your hands on his to make sure they don’t drift any further.

Then they encircle your shoulders, and you’re standing. Swaying your hips with the beat, lipstick marks on your glass appear with increasing regularity as you try to distract yourself. You’re playing against a master.

And slowly, Satoru’s arms reach down across your chest. By some definitions you have lost. But by the imaginary rules in your head, you move the goalposts. All is not lost. Other than your brain, in the moment. The band starts up a ballad, powerful chords racing through your veins, melodic lyrics and a stunning harmony between the lead singer and the bassist.

Satoru’s best friend, Suguru Geto, bassist of the band. His thick black hair, half pulled up into a bun, stretching down to his mid back, and bangs framing his face. Tall, broad and you can see the edges of tattoos extending across the edges of his shoulders into his bare chest. He has thick eyeliner, dark eyes, and a pair of sharkbites and large plug ear piercings to decorate his fierce face.

You’re going to lose the battle if you aren’t careful. Satoru, well-practiced in this game of cat and mouse knows that you are a timid mouse he needs to delicately trap if he wants to win.

An hour into the set, you are feeling incredibly buzzed, teetering on drunk. As the last song before the break starts, Satoru is now in front of you, standing between your legs and his arms are on your hips. His piercing blue eyes gazing down at you. There’s a slight smirk in his mouth as he slowly leans down. One hand traced its way up your side to pinch your chin and guide your lips to his.

Just before your mouths connect, you open your mouth to protest this moment. You have a boyfriend, what are you doing? This isn’t right, you’re already breaking so many rules. You need to stop, put distance between the two of you and keep it platonic.

But the song ends, music stops, the lights come up, and the band walks off stage for a short break. The crowds shift and move toward the bar, the door, and the bathrooms. You stand up abruptly, chest heaving, and excuse yourself to the bathroom. Some water on your face and a refresh of your makeup should help you calm down and fix this.

Standing at the sink, you take in yourself. You can do this, you can win.

Satoru grabs your drink to take a sip and finish it off. His pocket buzzing, he sees a text message from Suguru.

>> If you don’t fuck her tonight, I swear to god

Satoru chuckles and tips the beer bottle towards the now empty stage. The intended goal tonight was to do as much, at this point he just needed to convince you that you wanted this as much as he does.

You return after a long wait for the bathroom and with another drink. You’ve managed to calm yourself and you sit back down next to Satoru.

“Feeling better?” Satoru asks you as he places a hand leaning on your shoulder, just close enough to not touch your earlobe.

You shiver, unable to look him in the eye for more than a millisecond. “Y-yeah. I should probably drink some water,” you trail off. Satoru, already planning for that request, hands you a cup of water from the counter next to you. You take a long sip and the cold drink switches your nerves for cold shivers.

The lights flicker, indicating that the band is about to return to the stage. You join the crowd in cheering, focusing on the band and not the building desire burning between your legs. You’re here to see a band, and you have a boyfriend, one who satisfies you in ways you’d never even dreamed of. But there was something so enticing about what was standing right here, arms resting across your shoulders.

Hands drifting down from around your décolletage to brush the glittering peak of your breasts.

You arch your back slightly at the sensation, breath heavy with lust. Looking up and trying to focus on the concert, the bassist is singing into the mic, but his eyes are trained on you. Surely, he’s just scanning the crowd or looking for his friend, right?

But I'm only dancing / She turns me on But don't get me wrong / I'm only dancing

Your heart skips another beat, and you blush, tilting your head back and finishing off the drink.

Accepting that you’ve lost, you swallow your nerves and lean into the touch Satoru is giving you. Tilting your head back, you reach up to meet Satoru’s waiting lips. You take control and push your tongue into his mouth, taking your pleasure from him. Letting the alcohol suppress your inhibitions as you place your hands on Satoru’s while they continue to squeeze and massage your tits.

You pull away from the kiss. High from the adrenaline after jumping off the cliff.

“I need to tell you…” you trail off.

Satoru slides around to return between your seated legs.

“I don’t care, just don’t tell me about him.” Throbbing between your legs now taking over for all rational thought.

Satoru immediately leans down to leave a trail of increasingly stronger kisses along your neck. You stretch to give him better access. Your hands slip around the back of his head, scratching and pulling the nape of his neck and along his undercut. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you moan into his ear and bite down on his earlobe as you pull back.

“Let’s-let’s get going, back to my place,” Satoru doesn’t wait for a response as he grabs your hand and pulls you off the barstool and head out the door. As you leave, you noticed the bassist still has his eyes trained on you.

You stand outside while Satoru gives Ijichi a call to come around with the car, only waiting a few minutes. Those minutes are filled with very handsy kissing until you hear a cough, signaling Ijichi’s arrival and gesture to get into the car.

Satoru slides in the car first and pulls you onto his lap straddling him. You look back towards the driver’s seat but before you can protest, you’re cut off.

“You didn’t have a problem when we were back there in the club. You even seemed to want to be seen by Suguru,” he taunts and gives your ass a hard slap.

Even in the darkness of the car, with the passing streetlights, he could see your blush.

“C’mon baby, let’s just have fun, okay? Don’t think too hard about it. Besides, it was hot seeing you show off for Sugu back there,” Satoru grinds up into you and you can feel his erection straining against his jeans.

Satoru is enjoying the chase tonight. Trying out new tricks, using old ones that have gathered dust. You’re fun to chase. Are you as much fun to capture?

You spend the rest of the, mercifully short, ride back to his penthouse slowly winding your hips across his crotch, hands resting on his chest as you tease and show off your form. Finding little relief on your own tortured arousal.

Once you arrive at Satoru’s building, the two of you stumble out of the car and into the elevator. Before the doors close, Satoru pushes you up against the back wall and slots his muscular thigh between your legs. You can’t help yourself but grind on his leg as his hands pull down the front of your shirt and exposing your lacy bra. He reaches in and pinches your nipples; you keen at the touch, sucking in a sharp inhale of air.

“Are you even going to make it to my floor?” he teases you, pushing his leg harder against your throbbing, clothed cunt.

All you can do in response is moan obscenely. At this point every drop of inhibition is gone and you push back on his chest causing him to step back from you. You use this moment to drop to your knees and begin to unhook his belt.

“No,” you exhale as you begin to palm his straining erection almost painfully pressing against the seams of his pants. You unbutton his pants as he starts to run his hands through your hair, but the elevator arrives at his floor, and you hear a soft ‘ding’ when the doors open.

Disappointed, you stand up quickly and shuffle into Satoru’s suite, adjusting yourself back into your shirt, kicking your shoes off at the door and dropping your purse. You check your phone and see a message from your boyfriend:

>>> have fun ;)

You immediately stuff the phone in your dropped purse in a panic. But as soon as you bend down, you feel a pair of hands around your ass and a clothed erection pressed up against you.

“You’re making it too easy, baby,” Satoru croons into your ear and you roll yourself up to standing holding contact.

“Are you complaining?” your pussy pulses as he continues to grab your ass with one hand and snakes the other around your abdomen and pulls you in tighter. Satoru leans in to take a nip at your neck before releasing you and walking over to the door for the veranda.

You follow in his wake, eager to see the view of the city from here. The chill of the midsummer night washes over you, but just as quickly, Satoru approaches you at the railing and engulfs your body with his.

He doesn’t waste any time sliding his hands up your shirt, unclasping your bra, and removing both in one fell swoop. Satoru drops your items on the edge of the balcony before spinning you around and kneeling before you to remove your shorts.

Oh, he looks stunning from this angle. Subservient but dominating in power. Another trick he hasn’t played in a while.

You rest the back of your forearms against the balcony, spreading your legs slightly once your shorts are off. Head buried in the ozone of lust and anticipation.

You slip one leg over Satoru’s shoulder as he leans up to whisper a touch of his nose to your clothed cunt as he inhales your sweet scent of arousal.

He palms his restrained cock as his free hand rubs over your needy bud, eliciting a whiny moan from you. Seeing how soaked your little, useless, thong is, he hooks his finger onto the scrap of fabric and pulls it aside.

You use your heel to push Satoru closer to you and he eagerly obliges. Placing his hands on each thigh, he spreads your legs more to gain easier access to your dripping pussy.

Satoru licks a long stripe up your cunt, gathering your copious arousal on his tongue. Coming back again, he takes his middle finger and teases your hole eagerly clenching around nothing. Focusing his tongue on your aching nib, he adds a second finger and you let out another strained whine. He slowly slides his fingers in and out, twisting his hand and curling the tips to drag against that spongy spot deep inside you. You buck at the pace of his ministrations, moans getting louder with each thrust.

The pressure is building in your core, your heel is digging in even more to Satoru’s back. He moans into you, the vibrations traveling up your spine through the ends of your hair.

“C’mon baby, give it to me,” Satoru moans into you. His fingers speeding up, one arm reaching around your waist, tongue pushing directly and lips sucking on your pulsing clit.

The sensations reach a fever pitch, and you scream out as your orgasm takes you. Your hips jut wildly, your hands grip the railing of the veranda, and you throw your head back as the electric shock runs through your body.

Once you have regained some semblance of control over your body again, you slide your leg off Satoru’s shoulder. Satoru pulls his fingers out and sits back on his heels once your leg releases him. Licking his fingers clean with a moan, savoring your taste.

Satoru stands up and cages you in against the railing, urgently crashing his lips on yours, sharing your taste covering his tongue, lips, and chin. You eagerly accept, moaning into him as you lightly bite his invading tongue.

“How about we move this somewhere more comfortable?” Satoru grabs your hand and leads you back inside.

He brings you down the hall to his bedroom, dim lighting accentuating his aethereal features. You fall back into the plush bedding while the bed dips with a shirtless Satoru sitting behind you, legs on either side of your body.

Rolling over and sitting on your knees, you gently push Satoru’s chest allowing him to fall backwards. Nimble hands slide their way back down his abdomen, following the dips and peaks. What luck of the genetic lottery did he win to have such divine musculature.

You quickly finish the job you started in the elevator and remove his pants. Running your hand over his twitching erection restrained by his tight black boxer briefs, you give a few squeezes before you quickly rid him of the final layer.

All ten inches of his veiny cock spring free and slap against his abdomen. Your nerves suddenly come crashing back. But this time, it’s over how you’ll be able to take all of Satoru in you. You look up and see a shit eating grin on Satoru, arms resting behind his head.

You’re not the first person to gawk over his size. Aside from the obvious prizes for winning this game, the stunned moments his dates share compete for this reward.

You grasp the base of his cock and start to slowly stroke up to the tip, gathering his leaking precum as you slide your hand back down. After several strokes, you slide your hips over his and line up your wet cunt with his angry red tip.

Satoru places his hands on your hips to guide you as you slowly sink down. All the teasing, the anticipation, the yearning has built to this moment.

“There you go, doll. Take it easy,” he chuckles as you gasp. Feeling full and it’s only barely halfway in, you let out a shakey moan. Bottoming out, you hold still for a moment before slowly rocking your hips back and forth. Savoring the fullness and depth he’s reached inside of you.

Locking eyes, you throw your head back, hair flying back in a splash as you pick up speed, taking control of your pleasure. You’ll deal with the consequences in the morning, the fun of chasing and capturing this apex specimen has you enthralled.

Sliding your hands up your body, giving in to the rhythm, you pinch your nipples and let your full tits fall and shake.

In an instant, a blink, and your world flips around and suddenly your chest is in the plush bed, a hand under your abdomen hiking you up. Pace never faltering, Satoru’s heavy balls now slapping against your ass as you’re pulled up onto your hands and knees.

“I loved the view, but something tells me you like this better,” he pulls back and finds that one angle that gets that scream from you.

You reach up to the headboard for leverage as you push back against Satoru. You can feel the coil winding again, deep in your stomach. A hand finds its way to your peaked nipples and with one, two, three pinches your orgasm washes over you again. You lose your grip on the headboard, crashing into the pillows while Satoru slows to feel your warm gummy walls pulse around him.

Not wanting to spill just yet, he waits until you’ve regained some control before reaching his thumb towards your little unused hole.

You feel a sudden wetness drip onto your ass as Satoru’s thumb presses the spit into you. Gasping at the intrusion, you just moan “more, please, god.”

With a smirk, Satoru slowly slides his thumb in and out, half speed to his hips. Using his other hand, he grips your plump ass and then pulls back for a loud slap. Not impressed with the sound of the first, he reels back for a second. This time, leaving a lovely red mark. Secretly hoping it is still visible when you go home in the morning to whomever is waiting for you.

“Baby, can I give you a mess?” Satoru asks, not a drop of fatigue in his voice, only lust.

Your mouth answers, again, before you can even think of a response, “please.”

Satoru pulls his thumb and cock out of you, precum and your slick leaving a sticky trail connecting the two of you as you roll over to your back.

Satoru is kneeling as if to propose and offering you pearls instead across your pussy.

As he finishes, you reach down to spread the sticky mess on your sensitive and hairline trigger clit. Utterly debauched, you cum with a yelp and arch your back at your own touch.

Satoru collapses on the bed next to you, taking your wet hand into his. You moan and clench your thighs as he cleans off your hands, taking each finger in turn, slowly rolling the digit around in his mouth and across his tongue.

“I should wash up,” you croak out, trying to avoid eye contact while your one-night stand seemingly fucks you again with his ocean blue eyes.

Satoru gives your fingers one final lick and slides out of bed. He disappears into the bathroom, and you hear the shower turn on. After a minute, he pops out of the door “shower’s this way, doll.”

Somehow you manage to wash up, in spite of an extra pair of hands and a sneaky pair of lips following after every clean patch of skin.

Falling asleep is easy, the warm afterglow of a couple orgasms and a spicy shower let you both drift off into the morning.

Rolling over, you’re awakened by vibrations coming from the headboard. You reach up and find Satoru’s phone ringing.

“Hey, fix it,” you grumble as you push the phone into Satoru’s chest. He removes his arm from under your head as he blinks several times attempting to read the caller ID.

“Yo,” his voice gravelly and clipped. “Mhmm, yeah sure no problem.” He hangs up and puts the phone back on the shelf.

Satoru reaches his arm across you and pulls you into the crook of his neck, kissing the top of your head.

“Hi,” you mumble as you stretch your leg across his.

“Breakfast? I’m in the mood for pancakes,” a rogue hand makes its way down your back onto the swell of your ass.

“And some ibuprofen?” your free hand finds its way through his abs. You can’t believe how someone who just woke up doesn’t have morning breath nor the musty musk of a just-awoken body.

“How about a hair of the dog that bit you?” he winks as he gets out of bed and puts on a pair of lounge pants, letting them hang low.

You walk around the corner, hearing an unexpected voice coming from the kitchen. Clad in nothing but a button-down shirt you pulled from Satoru’s closet, you decide to make the best of it and ignore any shame for being the one-night stand the morning after.

“Hey handsome, pancakes smell good,“ you stop short as you round the corner and see who Satoru is talking to.

“Hey baby, sounds like you had a good night,” Suguru turns away from Satoru to face you as you approach the kitchen. He gives you a slow elevator stare. “Looks it, too.”

“I-I did. And you sounded amazing last night, I loved the new song,” you excitedly bounce over to Suguru a kiss on the cheek and join him at the kitchen island.

“Hey Satoru, you should be more careful where you put your guests’ clothes. These-“ Suguru places a shirt and bra on the table, “were laying on the sidewalk this morning. And considering I bought them for my girlfriend, I know they came from your veranda.”

Satoru’s jaw hits the floor as he attempts to work out what is unfolding in front of him. Suguru never mentioned he had a girlfriend, and you didn’t mention a boyfriend. Wait, then why did he send that text message last night?

“I’m sorry but what is happening?” Satoru points his spatula at you, catching you in the middle of a messy kiss with Suguru.

“When I found out my lovely girlfriend ran into you, we decided to see how long it would take before you tried to get into her pants,” you’re pulled closer to Suguru.

“It was my idea, once Sugu filled me in on your sordid history.”

Satoru rolls his eyes at the implications.

“Yeah. Now, I tipped the deck in my favor by setting up the private show last night. I knew you couldn’t resist the tempatation.”

“What am I, some common manwhore?” Satoru cries as he puts a hand on his hip and returns to the griddle.

“Yes” both you and Suguru respond in unison.

“But a manwhore with a really nice ass,” you add.

Satoru just sighs and serves up three plates.

#jen の stories #jjk smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #satoru smut #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #jjk au #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu geto #jujutsu kaisen smut

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luveline · 2 years ago

Note

omg if u ever get the chance would you write a follow up for the eddie and shy!reader where they confess? 🥺🩵

first part (u don't have to read if u don't want to) fem!shy!reader and best friend eddie confess, 1.6k

You flick a piece of popcorn off of your knee and smack Eddie square in the cheek. His neck snaps to the side to stare at you, tongue in his cheek in indignation.

"That how it is?" he asks.

You smile mock-demurely. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

It's too close to flirting to deny at this point, but Eddie doesn't ever seem to notice. You've been friends for so long that this slow decline into playfulness feels normal.

Eddie digs for the rogue piece of popcorn on the couch cushion behind his shoulders and prepares to flick it back. You cover your face.

"Hey! Cheating, put your hands down."

"No, you'll flick popcorn at me."

The popcorn hits you in the hand. You drop your hands, but quickly retreat into yourself on the bean bag in apprehension as he approaches, a devilish smile playing on his pretty mouth. "Eddie, please don't–" You groan as he drops his weight on top of you, kneeing the back of your thigh hard. "You fucking–"

"Remember when we first met? You never would've cussed at me," he interrupts, boldly putting his hands on you, one at your neck and the other against your cheek.

You wiggle under him. "Get off."

He takes a handful of popcorn from the bucket by your side. It smells sweet like taffy, and a kernel falls from his palm onto your shirt as he eats it. You flick it at him.

"You're aggressively aggressive," he says through chews.

"You're heavier than you look."

"When we first met," he says, poking your cheek with his pinky, you assume so as not to get popcorn crumbs on you, "you could barely look me in the eye."

"That's just 'cos you're scruffy."

"Funny."

Eddie wipes his hand in his shirt and grabs your face again. You go still at his touch, trying to maintain a facade of calm you don't feel.

"This is nicer. I love when you get all shy," —his voice softens slowly, like a meandering river calmed— "your smile… you smile when you're nervous, you know that?"

You tamp your expression into neutrality. "Do not."

"But it's nicer now that you're not nervous all the time. You're not telling me things, but I can handle it."

"I tell you things," you mumble.

Eddie locks eyes with you. He rubs your jaw with his knuckles teasingly, before climbing off of you with an apologetic pat to your knee. His positioning had been less than comfortable. You sit up with a sigh, leg and chest aching.

"You tell me some things," he says.

"I tell you pretty much everything."

"Liar." He crosses his legs, sitting applesauce by the mantle. Sunlight coming in from the kitchen behind him has his hair like silver at the edges where it falls around his face, his arms tense where he holds his own elbows.

"I'm not lying, you know anything worth knowing about me."

It's hard to make out, but you can tell you've upset him. You aren't sure how, but he goes rigid, looking away from you and toward the TV. His side profile knocks the breath out of you, lashes long where they kiss the skin beneath his brows, his nose a strong line you'd like to reach out and trace.

"Eddie–"

"It's alright, I didn't mean anything by it."

The bean bag groans as you kneel on the rug by Eddie's legs. You look around helplessly for aid, and when none comes you drag the popcorn toward you, eating a mouthful morosely.

"I'm sorry for being weird, I just…" Eddie leans back on one arm and whines. "I think I'm getting my meriod."

"That's not funny."

He puts a hand on his stomach. "Do I look bloated to you?"

"I don't know where to start with that one."

Eddie falls onto his back. His act doesn't last very long, and after a few moments he's frowning at the TV again. You look down into the popcorn kernels, white and yellow and brown and fragrant when you give the tub a little shake. You push it away.

"Don't be sad, Eds. If there's something you want me to tell you, I'll tell you."

You're aflame as you say it, because why the fuck would you say that? There's no way he'll want to know what you're afraid to tell him, he'll never ask, but still. It's like offering to jump into turbulent waters.

"I just don't want you holding onto stuff, that's all. Kinda breaks my heart thinking you're a bag of secrets."

"What if it's stuff you don't wanna hear?" you ask with a dry mouth.

"I always wanna hear it if it's coming from you. Can't promise I'll like it, but what, you think I'm gonna care?"

"It's hard to say."

He gestures for you to lay down with him.

You set your shoulder by his and lay down cautiously. Your thigh bumps into his. A line of rings catches the light where his hand covers his ribs.

"I don't want to tell you something about me and have you see me differently," you say slowly, each word strung to the other clumsily as you piece your sentence together. "I like how you treat me now."

"What if I swear things won't change?"

"I don't…" He sounds like he knows you like him. Impossible to describe, only that you know the truth, so he must know the truth too. "You can't, really. Promise me that."

He turns his head to yours, his hair dragging gentle across your shoulder as he moves. You feel his gaze like a flame on your cheek.

"I swear," he murmurs. "Nothing will change. Nothing you don't want to change."

You turn toward him, heart in your mouth, meeting his baby brown eyes head on. You shift your head against the floor to take the weight of it off of your ear, your chin lifting subtly.

This is going to rip your chest open. "I think I'm," —Eddie leans forward, he closes the gap, "in love–"

You can't finish your sentence. Like a magnetic pull, Eddie fits his lips against the seam of your own and you close it, alarmed, not sure how to respond. He cuts your face softly and pushes up, encouraging you to kiss back.

"Wait," you say, eyes painfully open.

Eddie immediately moves away from you. "Sorry," he says, his eyes just as open, twice as wide, "was I not supposed– you're not talking about me?"

"I'm in love with you," you say.

"Yeah, I guessed?"

"I don't know why you're being cranky with me, we both know I won't be able to say it again."

Your throat totally closes as he rubs your cheek, like there's dirt under his thumb. "I've been thinking about kissing you for months, sweetheart," he says. He looks like he might say more, but he leans in again.

You sigh at his touching, his gentle kiss. He smiles into you, sitting up to kiss down with slightly more force. Eddie takes the lead, cradling your face in hands you've never felt so adoringly tender before. His hair starts to tip onto your cheek like strands of silk.

"I think you'll be okay," he says, breaking the kiss to pant in breath. He rubs the tip of his nose into yours.

"There's popcorn in my teeth, please don't kiss me again," you say quietly.

"I love you. I don't care if we swap kernels for the next hour."

"Hour?" you ask, though you're thrumming with a strange anticipation. The reality hasn't dropped, but it's falling fast.

"I've been waiting months," he reminds you, lips at your cheek as he needles his arms under your shoulders. He hugs you. "Aw, sweetheart. I've been seeing you try to tell me now for months, the whole time thinking I couldn't get any more obsessed with you."

"You're obsessed with me? You knew?" you ask.

"Don't freak out."

"I'm gonna."

"Okay, fine, freak out."

You hug him, burying your nose in his hair. He's soft, and warm, and he's heavy where he leans on your chest, but it's perfect. You wonder if this is the precipice of forever now, if you get to have him in your arms like this all the time. You freak out.

"You're in love with me?" you ask.

"Sickeningly."

"I think my face is on fire."

Eddie peels back to look you over. "You're melting," he says agreeably. "But lucky you, your best friend gives the coolest kisses ever."

"You're gonna make it worse."

"Can I?" he asks.

"I have popcorn in my teeth," you whine again.

Eddie knows you better than anyone in the whole wide world. He demands you open your mouth for kernel extraction and you burst into squeamish giggles, squirming out from his arms and whacking your head on the seat of the couch. Eddie chases after you to start a wrestling match you can't win. He doesn't break his promise —the things you don't want to change stay the same. And the things you do want to change? They're perfect, even if it all tastes overwhelmingly of butter and toffee.

i hope you enjoyed reading!!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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devilanon · 2 years ago

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hello!! i’d like to ask for your thoughts on simon with a partner who has an oral fixation? sorry for bad english, it’s not my 1st language ❤️

Your english is perfect dear! Very good ask thank you : D [nsfw below]

He honestly finds it a bit distracting at first, and not in a good way. He gives you a sideways glance when he catches you chewing gum during a debriefing, playing with it, rolling it into a ball against the roof of your mouth. His gaze could wither flowers with how potently annoyed he looked. "Fuckin' spit it out, corporal." You look a little bit like a kicked puppy, then. "...Yes, Lieutenant."

He comes to realize it's not just you being distracted, or uninterested in what's going on around you. It's a compulsion, almost. A self-soothing method. You do it near constantly. You suck and gnaw on the straws to your drinks long after they've been drained, suckle on the sleeves or collars of your shirts. You'll even chew at your own lip in the absence of anything else. After he notices it, he can't help but watch your lips and jaw working, the tease of your pink, wet tongue darting out every so often to wet your lips or swipe against whatever it was you had in your mouth at the time.

God help him when summer comes around and you start keeping frozen popsicles on base as a snack. He's staring, transfixed by how perfectly content you look with something cold and wet and sweet in your hot mouth, sucking absent-mindedly, like you couldn't care less about the sticky sugary juice staining your lips and trailing down your chin. You beam up at him, popping your treat wetly out of your mouth. "Blue raspberry. I have some more in the freezer." His eyes don't leave your lips, plump and swollen from the cold dessert. His voice is a bit of a strained rasp. "No thanks."

And when he finally gets to take advantage of it, the sheer enthusiasm with which you suck on his fingers makes the blood rush to his cock. Your tongue is swirling around his thumb, licking against the pad of it, sucking it further in like you're desperate for something to occupy your mouth. "Freud would have a fuckin' field day with you," he breathes, shivering when you moan around the intrusion.

Keeps you on his cock constantly. Whenever he can get away with it. He has your mouth around him even when he's flaccid, just finishing paperwork or watching a program on the television. Of course, he eventually gets hard under your attention, but the way you lay at his feet, suckling on his soft cock, looking demure and docile... it does something to him. He'll let you cockwarm him under his desk, slowly fucking into your mouth, letting you set the pace. It goes on for hours, sometimes, when you need it to, when you need that heavy weight in your mouth to keep you calm and steady. He grinds his hips, feeling the slow drag of his cock against your rough tongue; you suckle on his tip after he comes, cleaning up your mess, and the sight of your lips making a pretty little ring around his head makes him swear and groan.

#also dont worry im getting to the rest of the requests ehehe i just want them to be actual drabbles #mine #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader

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rosemaryblossomworld · 1 year ago

Text

The Second Queen (ch.1)

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

Summary: 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙳𝚊e𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

Warning:: 𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚜𝚝, 𝚁𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚗𝚢𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛(?)

A/n: English is not my first language, there may be grammar problems, so...read at your own risk.

Chapter 2

GIFs

Everyone knows that Daemon Targaryen is crazy about his niece! Everyone can see that!

But is he looking at her right now? Noooo, he's looking at another flower that just appeared within the walls of this castle. Young Y/n Hightower walked around the courtyard and didn't know where to put herself. Alicent was standing next to the king, and the girl was not well acquainted with Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra had changed a lot, and she didn't want to get in her face.

Daemon watched the girl's tossing carefully, he wasn't listening to what his brother was telling him. He wanted to laugh heartily, watching the sweet and funny Y/n. She had always been like that. He remembered that. She hid behind her older sister, acting quiet and demure. But it seemed to Daemon that there was more to it than that. The girl was clearly hiding something inside herself.

"The weather is wonderful today," Daemon decided to walk over and speak to Y/n.

"Oh my prince!" she perked up "You're right, it is very warm today and I'm glad of it."

"Do you like warm weather?" The man walked past her, sitting down at the table and taking a goblet of wine in his hands.

"I love it! When the cold weather comes, I feel like I'm withering like flowers in a royal garden. I get so sad." the girl said and took the goblet of wine as well.

Daemon liked the way she spoke. Easy and casual. No playfulness, no fear, no vulgarity. Calm, outgoing, smiling. Daemon wondered how Otto could have such a beautiful daughter. The man wondered, if they married and had a daughter, was she just like her mum, or just like her dad?

Daemon grinned to himself again. He thinks like a fourteen-year-old boy who has fallen in love with the first girl .

The lords who saw the young Lady Hightower and Prince Daemon chatting involuntarily cast a glance at Princess Rhaenyra, who sat off to the side, bored. She occasionally cast her glance at her uncle, but her face expressed nothing.

"Look Daemon, it's the irises, they're so amazing," the girl ran around the garden dragging the prince behind her.

Daemon only smiled and followed the little lady.

"Does my lady like flowers? Which ones do you like best?" asked Daemon squatting down next to the girl.

"I like n/f," replied Y/n simply and quickly.

They moved over to a tree and sat under its crowns. Y/n told the prince about her day, occasionally distracted by the maids passing by. Damon only smiled.

"kepus!" came a voice from somewhere in the distance.

Princess Rhaenyra was approaching the pair. With a slightly annoyed mood. She hadn't reacted to her uncle's attitude towards the younger Lady Hightower, because she knew he would soon get bored of her. But it had been a week now, and her uncle had not visited her once.

"Princess," the Lady immediately stood up and bowed her head.

"Lady Hightower, shouldn't you be with the queen and serving her?" Rhaenyra immediately decided to point out the girl's place, for her place was next to traitors and liars.

Lady Y/n was dumbfounded at such a harsh behaviour of the princess, but what the girl definitely did not like was people who stick their noses where they are not asked. Clenching her fists, Y/n grinned:

"Princess, I'm not a servant. My sister has enough of them. My job is to enjoy my life and look for a potential suitor," the lady replied.

Rhaenyra blushed, coughed and looked at her uncle. There's that dreamy look again, but he's not looking at her, he's looking at the girl who first bared her teeth.

"Ao didn't visit nyke, uncle. Gōntan mirros massigon? ao promised nyke iā kipagon va se zaldrīzoti!" Rhaenyra pouted, feigning innocence (You didn't visit me uncle. Has something happened? You promised me a ride on the dragons!)

"Iksan mirrī busy bisa week. Ivestragī's gaomagon ziry another jēda, Rhaenyra," the man replied (I'm a bit busy this week. Let's do it another time Rhaenyra).

Rhaenyra was a little taken aback. She was about to hit the young Lady Hightower with her shoulder, but surprisingly the girl managed to dodge, causing Rhaenyra to trip over the hem of her dress. She didn't fall, but her ears lit up even more with shame.

"My lady, would you care to dine with me?" asked Daemon.

"My pleasure!" pronounced Y/n.

They began to walk slowly towards the castle, they were in no hurry, they had all the time in the world.

"You know Daemon, I dream of riding a dragon with you too," the girl said quietly, she turned to the measuring man and smiled at him, walking forwards.

Damon smiled even wider.

Y/n didn't realise how she'd ended up in that position.

She and Daemon had just decided to read a book about the Ancient Kings.

It all started when Daemon decided to play a prank and as soon as the book started to get interesting he just slammed it shut and lifted it up, and of course Y/n tried to get it. She jumped up so hard and pushed off Daemon's arm that he didn't keep his balance and fell off the chair. And Lady found herself in his lap.

"Gotcha!" exclaimed the girl joyfully, and made herself comfortable on his lap. "You've thrown me off my reading, now I won't be able to find the moment!" whimpered Y/n and turned away from Daemon, showing her back.

"Please forgive me, but you were so sweet, lady, I just couldn't help myself," Daemon frivolously hugged the girl from behind and rested his forehead on her shoulder.

"I wonder if there's ever been one king who loved his wife so much that he was willing to die for her? Reading all these stories, no one narrates the relationship of the royal consorts. And if they do, it's cheating, strife and jealousy. It's not even pleasant to read," the girl turned the page.

"I wish I could use my brother as an example, but..." Daemon rested his chin on the lady's shoulder.

"Yes.... if you were king, who would you want to choose as your wife?" the girl asked.

"What is it, little flower? You want to be my wife," smirked the man.

"Maybe. But then I'd want to be the only woman in your life. And if I found out you kept going to Silk Street...but I'd treat you to manhood and turn the brothel into a bloodbath," the girl smiled and turned to the surprised man.

All Daemon could do was close and open his mouth.

"Oh, what am I...so what's up with Aegon the Conqueror?" the girl changed the subject and sat down on the soft sofa next to the man.

And so for a month Prince Daemon and Lady Y/n danced between each other. It was already clear to the whole council and the king that the prince was very warm to the girl. So rumours of the wedding had already spread far beyond the Royal Lands.

Y/n walked around in high spirits as everything she had planned began to come true.

"Sister!" came Alicent's voice from the empty corridor.

"My queen," the lady bowed respectfully, preparing to listen to a lecture from her older sister.

"The rumours are growing. You must not see Prince Daemon. Father is furious, I'm amazed that he's holding back from screaming at you," The queen equalled her sister and they walked further down the corridor.

"He yells all the time, I'm getting tired of listening to him. And what if it's Daemon, he's a prince!" the girl resented.

"But his reputation," fretted Alicent.

"I don't care. I hear King Viserys is getting worse. Who knows what might happen," Lady Y/n sniggered and walked on.

"What?" The queen stopped.

"Viserys has not yet appointed Rhaenyra as his successor. Father is doing a good job, if this continues, Daemon will be king as a sibling. The council may be outraged, but he will have a short conversation with them," Y/n continued to explain.

"You...want to be queen?... "Alicent looked at her sister with fear.

"Why not? I'll just combine my desire to be queen and my desire to have the right man by my side. It's not all about you being on top of things," Y/n continued walking, ignoring her sister.

Alicent now understood why her father didn't scold his youngest daughter, she was so much like him. Cunning and secretive. Alicent became even more worried, she no longer knew the girl who was walking down the corridor. It wasn't her sister.

"What do you mean?" turned sharply to her faithful maid Y/n.

"They were seen in the brothel. Rumours have already spread through the castle and the prince has been dragged before the king, my lady" Tala looked worriedly at her mistress, so gentle yet strong.

"Sir Conyn is finding out the circumstances?" asked the lady turning away from the girl.

"Yes, he went there as soon as we heard. They were in the brothel, but it's not known if they were asleep or not," Tala continued her explanation.

"He can't, can he? I'm...boring him so much..." Y/n settled into a chair next to the fireplace.

"My lady...rumours of his love for the princess have been floating around the castle for a long time. It was said that he was obsessed with blood purity and that he wanted to have a 'pure' child," Tala said.

Lady Hightower sat holding back tears, then stood up.

"I'll go and hear what's going on over there," Tala didn't follow her Mistress, only bowed her head.

Her heart pounded frantically, the closer she got to the throne room, the more clearly the voices of the enraged king and prince could be heard. There were no guards and the door was slightly ajar, you could see the king pinning the prince to the ground and shouting some questions.

"Wed her to me?" came Daemon's voice.

"Who?" gasped Viserys, hoping his brother would say the name of the younger Lady Hightower.

"Rhaenyra...Wed her to me," Daemon said.

Y/n stepped away from the door. Breathing hard, her heart began to pound even harder.

"I thought so," came the princess's voice from the shadows, and then she stepped into the light.

"How long have you been standing here?" Lady Hightower didn't dare look into the princess's eyes; she didn't want to see arrogance and self-righteousness.

"Since the beginning. Just as I thought, my uncle doesn't care about you ladies, he will choose me. As the heiress to the throne, as the one that will give him children of pure blood," her voice was quiet but cutting at the deep wounds of her heart.

"Princess...You cried out about never marrying and that you didn't want to bear a child because otherwise you would be treated like an animal. What has changed?" Y/n shifted her tearful eyes to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra was once again taken aback. She had said those words at every corner, that she didn't want to be a 'laying hen', she wanted freedom. She looked into Lady Y/n's cold eyes and realised that she had changed herself for the sake of defeating her 'rival'.

The doors of the throne room opened. Guards dragged Daemon out. The man glanced at the two girls and his gaze darted to Y/n, but she paid no attention to him. She turned and walked further down the corridor.

"Y/n!" shouted Daemon, but the girl didn't turn around. He shouted once more, but was faced with silence and emptiness.

Daemon felt like he had crossed the line. Crossed it in everything. He looked at his niece, who was looking at him hopefully, but he only grinned and let himself be led away by the guards.

When he left King's Landing, Rhaenyra saw him off from afar. But he did not see the queen of his dreams.

And two moons later, the young Y/n Hightower left King's Landing, returning to Old Town.

#house of the dragon #hotd #daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x you #daemon x reader #x reader

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depravitycentral · 2 years ago

Text

Yandere! Feitan Portor General Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, murder, mentions of torture, mentions of Feitan carving his initial into you, mentions of masturbation, stalking, jealousy, threats, Feitan tortures a man in front of you, I stand by the (semi) soft creepy yandere Feitan agenda and I will not be swayed otherwise, this got super long I'm so sorry, I'm also delirious as I'm writing it so hopefully it makes coherent sense/is consistent, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE:

Empathetic

In general, Feitan finds his attention drawn by a darling who is almost the complete opposite of himself.

He wants someone sweet and caring, all soft and squishy and warm. He’s never found this particularly attractive before meeting his darling, but there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re always trying to help those around them, fruitlessly asking them to vent about their feelings, to use them as a supportive shoulder.

It makes him scoff, rolling his eyes and wondering at how impossibly naive his darling can be, but even he can’t deny how nice it is to have someone by his side, a human presence that’s steady and calm and understanding. It makes him feel good, a warm sensation bottling up in his chest and threatening to explode out, and although he’ll never really come clean with how he feels for you (at least, he never will verbally), a darling who can kind of read his rather emotionless face would be a very, very big attraction for him.

He just wants a darling who can understand him, even if his rational brain loathes the idea. An empathetic darling is sure to draw his attention, if only because he’ll be mildly revolted and intrigued by how they can be so selfless and so foolish.

Submissive

Feitan doesn’t want a feisty darling.

He doesn’t enjoy having to tame his lovers, and although he’s never really had a lover, he gravitates towards someone who is more naturally submissive and willing to follow direction.

He already feels powerless enough in the situation, frustrated that he doesn’t really have any say in how he feels. It scares him, quite honestly, if only because he doesn’t like how easily and quickly he’s jumping to conclusions where his darling is concerned, more than willing to jump through any hoop necessary in order to get what he wants, in order to make sure his darling is safe and isolated from every other man on Earth.

He likes knowing that his darling will do what he tells them to; it builds a layer of trust that makes Feitan go feral, and for every ounce of trust his darling gives him, he’ll try to return it as full heartedly as he can. He likes that he’s fully in control of his darling, and particularly if they were to be submissive in more… intimate aspects of the relationship, he’d be absolutely smitten.

He just wants his darling to revere him and believe his word as the word of God, and the moment that happens?

He’s only falling deeper into obsession, his desperation for them growing with every beat of his heart, getting harder and harder to swallow until he gives up, jumping head first into every swirling, dark, lecherous desire he harbors.

Soft

Of course, Feitan’s darling doesn’t have to have a softer body, but he can’t deny that there’s something enticing about a darling who is physically quite soft. Whether that’s rounder features, a plumper figure, or even a soft, demure voice, it all entrances Feitan.

His darling is something of a dream to him, because he’s never really believed that someone that stereotypically weak could ever really survive in this world. He likes how his darling feels, the touches he sneaks late at night when they’re sleeping sending sparks up his spine and serving as fuel for when he’s unbearably horny, his hand around his cock not nearly enough.

He’s prone to fantasizing about his darling, slipping into daydreams of his they’d feel in his lap, how they’d look with their ass up and face pressed into the mattress, how they’d feel so good wrapped around him. He just thinks it’s oddly endearing, and a darling who fits these characteristics would help initially draw his eye - he just thinks they’re pretty, a polar opposite to him, even going so far as to playing into some of his more protective traits.

Of course, he’d rather die than admit any of it, but he’s interally a bit soft for his darling - they’re just alluring in an almost primal way he can’t describe, but he can’t fight it. He can’t fight anything when it comes to his darling, as it turns out, and soon Feitan will decide that he doesn’t care.

After all, once his darling steps into his life and stays there, nothing at all matters - how can it, when he’s decided that they’re his, his woman to keep and admire and touch and fuck?

(It will take him a very, very long time to get comfortable with either of the last two options, but the desire and sentiment is still there, if the frequent raging erections he gets as a result of his darling is any indicator.)

Talkative

This trait is one of the things Feitan loves and hates most about his darling.

He enjoys listening to them talk; he himself isn’t particularly fond of conversation, nor is he particularly talkative towards his darling in general. And so, a partner who is capable of filling the silence between them sometimes is something that makes Feitan grateful, if only because hearing the sound of their voice makes his breath hitch.

And when they talk to him, all their attention aimed solely at him?

Well, how can Feitan not be flattered, not feel a bit prideful that they’re spending their time directing all their focus and thoughts around whatever small question he prompted them with? He just likes listening to his darling go on and on, even if the topic doesn’t interest him much. However, the downside of this trait is that it creates a rather ugly combination with his tendency to grow jealous.

If his darling is talkative with everyone, it’s sure to extend towards the men they meet, who just stare at them like they’re a slab of meat waiting to be devoured, all of them eager to get their hands on them and destroy what Feitan has claimed as his own. It’s infuriating, if only because it means that they’re interacting with others, putting themselves into a position where they could develop feelings for another man or be put into harm’s way or overhead something they shouldn’t have or any number of things.

It becomes a massive liability, and one that Feitan is so, so very aware of. It irritates him, and as much as he loves when his darling is chatting with him, he’s not so approving when they're with others.

And so, it’s really in his darling’s best interest to reign in the conversations with anyone else - unless they want to see their blood splattered all over the walls, hear their cries, feel Feitan’s red soaked fingers grasp onto their arms and force them to see the results of their chattiness. It’s in their best interest, and they’ll learn that soon enough. Hopefully.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Distant

There’s a part of Feitan that genuinely hates you for making him feel the way he does. The constant pounding of his heart when you’re merely mentioned, the throb in his chest when he’s gone too long without seeing you, the nervous twitch of his fingers when he thinks about what you’re doing, what other man you’re thinking about…

He hates how paranoid you’ve made him, how so much of his time and energy goes into you. It’s your fault that he’s always distracted, that he’s not able to fully focus on his work anymore because he’s only able to think of you you you. It’s frustrating, and honestly it initially wards Feitan off from getting any closer to you - he doesn’t like the way he feels around you (that’s not true, but he needs it to be), so he’ll stay away and ignore you. Maybe that’ll get you to stop smiling at him so kindly, to quit asking him how his day was, to stop looking so pretty while you hum and make yourself dinner.

As time passes, slowly this hatred diminishes (or at least dulls), instead replaced with a desperate, pathetic need to be around you; he just can’t keep himself away from you, no matter how hard he tries. It’s demoralizing, embarrassing beyond belief that someone like you could get his emotions so twisted, but it’s reality.

He tries to fight it at first, believing himself to be above such stupid human emotion – he doesn’t need you, he’s a criminal and has never needed love or anything of the sort. And yet, each and every time he tells himself to not trail behind you as you walk to the grocery store, his resolve holds out for roughly five minutes. By then, there’s unwelcome thoughts drifting through his mind about what you’re doing, whether you’re talking to anyone, if you’ve managed to trip like you always do and scrape your knee.

(There’s even a small, very small part of him that wonders whether you’re buying foods that are nutritious for you, or whether you’re doing your usual junk food spree. A thought pops up in the back of his head: him beside you in the store, scoffing as you place chips into the cart. He’d replace them with fruit, mumbling something about you being so stupid, only to see you smile at him and thank him, telling him how grateful you are to have him watching over you. His cheeks feel hot at that, and he buries his face deeper into his jacket, grumbling under his breath.)

He’ll try to stop himself from circling back to you, but each and every time he finds some excuse of why he should be watching you, of how you aren’t really capable of taking care of yourself without his watchful gaze. It’s patronizing, more than anything, but eventually he’ll stop trying to fight it, submitting entirely and allowing himself the concealed pleasure of watching your horribly mundane life.

He’ll need to be around you, constantly, but he’s still not willing to let his emotional guard down. No, you’ve done enough damage just simply existing - you absolutely cannot know how deeply he feels for you, how wrapped around your pinky finger you have him. Not only would it eliminate any semblance of leverage he holds against you (in order to stay above you, that is), it also showcases just how far the extent of his feelings for you run.

And frankly, the thought terrifies Feitan – he’s never felt so strongly for anyone before, not even in the context of hatred or pleasure at their suffering. He’s in over his head, wading through waters he's always scoffed at and dismissed, and suddenly he’s finding himself nearly drowning, head always buried just under the surface.

So he steels himself, grabbing onto any shred of control and power he can against you – he grabs on and clutches on, strong fingers frantically staying attached so that he doesn’t get blown away and truly drown. And even in the beginning of your captivity, Feitan won’t change the way he’s so detached. He’s purposefully putting distance between the two of you so that he can remain in control of the situation, in control of you, and – most importantly, and most concerningly – in control of himself.

Because frankly, Feitan doesn’t trust himself around you. He doesn’t trust the way his body just does things, how any rational thought leaves his brain the moment your eyes meet, how fingers are already lifting up a bit to reach out touch you, to brush away stray pieces of your hair when you’re within a few feet of him.

The biggest way he maintains this control is by not giving you a whole lot of attention, aside from one stark, grave exception: his dark eyes are constantly watching you. He’s always just sort of staring, his expression blank as he observes you, motionless and still. It’s unnerving, terrifying you initially and only slightly calming down as time passes, but Feitan doesn’t care much.

He doesn’t necessarily want to interact with you, but just watching you allows him to be in your space, to be beside you, to smell you and listen to your breathing. You’re kept in one large room most of the time, and he’ll often sit in the chair in the corner and just stare. He’s not talking much, not trying to touch you or hurt you, but you almost wish he would sometimes.

He just doesn’t understand what about you it is that attracts him so deeply, that’s morphed him into this lovesick fool, and while he initially tries to understand, eventually Feitan gives up, because does it really matter?

Does it really matter how he became obsessed with you when you’re locked up in his spare bedroom, duct tape covering your mouth and an expressionless, frozen Feitan watching you with his heart practically bursting out of his chest? Does it really matter if he pinpoints exactly when he developed his love for you when you’re looking at him with those pretty tears in your eyes, whispering out a thanks as he sets the tray of food down in front of you?

It really doesn’t, now that his feelings for you are formed and solidified, now that they can’t be changed or reversed. So while he’ll never be the most accessible and sympathetic to your feelings, rest assured that Feitan really does love you in some fucked up way - he’s just unorthodox, incapable of properly expressing himself to you.

But actions speak louder than words, right? He’s always thought so.

Obsessive

Because Feitan is relatively quiet and secretive when it comes to his feelings towards you, it’s difficult for you to really pick up on this aspect of him. You’re unlikely to ever truly understand just how much he feels for you, the sheer depth of emotions you cause him.

He won’t ever tell you what’s going on behind that expressionless facade of his. He doesn’t tell you how oddly adorable you are when you’re sleeping in the early mornings, curled up in the corner of your room with your eyes shut and lips slightly parted, looking so soft and sweet and weak.

He’ll never make you aware of how his breath hitches ever so slightly when you make eye contact with him, even if it’s shaky and you look away too quickly, his spine tingling because fuck, your attention feels good.

You’ll never know why his foot is tapping lightly when you’re eating in front of him, the way those annoying nerves eat away at his stomach while he subconsciously wonders if you think he looks attractive today. (He’d trimmed his hair a bit, feeling it was too long and interfering with his work - do you like it? Did you notice? He’d hesitated a bit with the scissors earlier, brows slightly furrowing, dark eyes glancing at your sleeping form.)

He’s very cryptic, and this tendency to keep you out of the loop of his personal thoughts and feelings can cast a shadow on his more obsessive tendencies. That is, before he’s stolen you away from the world, Feitan did an extensive amount of research into you. He does nothing on a whim - he’s a calculating man, and once he’d finally come to terms with the fact that his feelings for you weren’t going to disappear, he was scouring every resource possible to garner your information.

He’s got access to all kinds of personal knowledge about you - your search history, for example. It’s a bit unexpected, if Feitan’s being honest - you’re much darker than he’d expected, the things you read about making him quirk a brow, his interest in you only deepening because hmm, seems the little sheep may be a bit of a wolf inside.

He’s getting Shalnark to hack into the camera of your phone and computer, the stream of footage easy to access as he cleans his tools, blood washing away as you smile and laugh at some comedy you’re watching.

It’s stupid and at first he pretends to find your laugh annoying. But then he sees the way your cheeks get all full and round as you smile, your eyes crinkling up, even the way you wheeze slightly when it’s really funny.

(Briefly, he wonders whether you’d find his dry sense of humor entertaining.)

He’s got photographs of you from his time spent trailing you, and though they’re a bit blurry and not as focused as he’d like, they’re still something nice to pin to his wall, keeping his favorites beside his bed. He’s never had trouble sleeping, but something about looking at you as he drifts into slumber makes him rest more soundly, wake up more refreshed.

Once you’ve been trapped with him for long enough, however, Feitan’s front of careful indifference to you will slowly begin cracking. You’ll never see fully through him, but you’ll catch the way the corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly when you snuggle into the blanket he gives you one day, noticing how you’ve been shivering incessantly at night.

(He won’t tell you the blanket was freshly stolen, that he’d made sure to take one with the softest, thickest material he could find, and even in your favorite color. It’s just a coincidence, so don’t read into it.)

You’ll realize he’s slowly inched closer to you the longer you watch the television program Feitan turned on earlier, your spot on the couch feeling smaller and smaller as Feitan’s hip eventually brushes yours, neither of you acknowledging what’s happening.

(You’ll never know how badly he wants to reach out and touch you, to freely run his hand up and down your thigh, so trace your collarbones, to feel just how soft your body is.)

It all makes him feel weak, pathetic, disgusting, but Feitan can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about you, and he can’t pull himself away. His pride won’t allow him to fully succumb to the thoughts and desires about you that are constantly swirling through his mind, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, that they aren’t bothering him constantly. He’s secretive, and maybe it’s for the best that you don’t know how many nights he’s spent with his fingers wrapped around his cock, his pale cheeks rosy as he imagines the way you’d like tied up with hickeys he made spanning the insides of your thighs.

Perhaps it’s best that you don’t know how often he’s (begrudgingly) held the extra pillow on his bed close to his chest, dark eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tightens his arms around it.

(No, he wasn’t imagining it was you – he’s a touch starved man, and everyone has urges, right? It’s just coincidence that the pillow casing is one he stole from you, that he never washes it because it smells like you, that he nearly loses his mind when he almost gets a drop of blood from a victim on it.)

It makes it much easier to scare you into what he wants when you don’t know - you’re much more complainant this way, malleable, willing, and Feitan likes it that way. Sure, having you fall in love would be ideal, getting your obedience through a genuine desire to please him, but at least this way he can keep a piece of his pride intact.

This way, you’ll never realize the power you have over him - how he’d be willing to wipe out entire towns for you if you so much as mention it. You’ll never understand just how he needs to have you - to have you for what, you don’t know, but you can sense the odd sort of desperation coming off of him.

You can feel it in the way his fingers grip you just a bit too tight, the way his eyes linger on you just a tad too long, the way the smallest, most embarrassing little whimper falls from his lips when your hand touches his.

He’s good at hiding it, but everyone makes mistakes - just don’t pry too hard, because Feitan still needs to be the one in control, and you’ll quickly find yourself learning much, much more about the short man than you’ve ever wanted to know. Namely, that the only thing worse than him staring at you is him ignoring you.

Protective

Although, it will take you a very long time to see this side of him. Initially, Feitan’s feelings towards you are that of mild interest, mild disgust, and mild indifference.

Mild interest because he had, of course, noticed that you were pretty, what with your soft lips and doe eyes, your figure and the lilt of your voice. Indifference, because Fietan was sure there were a thousand other people just like you on Earth. And disgust, because you were so visibly weak and unable to fend for yourself, like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

And yet, the more time he spends around you (maybe a long job has him centered in the same city for a few weeks, and you work at the little store he gets his meals from, or some other service job that brings you in contact regularly), the more complex these feelings become. His interest becomes peaked because you’re not just pretty, but also entertaining to talk to, handling his dry jabs well and even daring to throw back some jokes of your own. (He never laughed, of course, but a wry smile sat underneath his jacket.)

He’s still a bit indifferent, but not when you’re helping other customers or smiling down at your phone. (Were you texting someone? Your fingers were moving, implying typing – what were they saying that was making you giggle like that? What could he say that would make you giggle? Why does he care?)

But the starkest, quickest change of heart that Fietan experiences in how he feels about your strength and abilities. Of course, you are weak. Even if you can use nen, even if you know the basics of self defense – Feitan is sure that he could kill you in the blink of an eye, cleanly, easily. (He’s sure because he’s thought of doing it before – never seriously, just a fleeting thought, something that only briefly passed through his mind when he was still resistant to his attraction towards you – it was promptly expelled after that familiar sinking, uncomfortable feeling started up in his gut, but still.)

You’re embarrassingly weak, really, and as much as he tries to make himself ignore it or to simply stop caring about it, he can’t get it out of his head. He can’t seem to stop imagining you getting hurt, doing something stupid or careless and tarnishing that pretty skin of yours.

He can’t seem to stop imagining the way you’d take a corner too fast and slip on your own feet, tumbling to the ground and ending up with a sprained ankle or a scrape across your knee.

He’ll be sharpening a blade, blood stains caked onto the metal, and suddenly a flash of what your blood would look like staining the material makes him freeze for a moment, black eyes just a tad bit wider, the muscles in his arms and legs taut because there’s something sickening about the thought, something malicious and just carnally wrong.

He can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against someone like his coworkers, whose strength is difficult to handle even for an experienced nen user. How would someone like you fare against someone like Uvogin? Someone like Shizuku? Hell, even someone like Kortopi?

(Upon first meeting Hisoka, a very sudden and very intrusive image of the clown slicing a card clean through your throat flashed through his mind, and he’d nearly reached forward and ripped out the taller man’s heart at the thought, a purely instinctual response that left him more shell-shocked than he’d care to admit.)

He knows you wouldn’t stand a chance, and while he doesn’t want it to bother him, it does. It does, as much as he tries to forget the mental images or assure himself that you deserve getting injured for being so weak and helpless. But he can’t just sit still and let it pass by, if it were to ever happen - and so, Feitan’s protective tendencies begin manifesting.

They’re small, for the most part; making sure to keep his torture tools as far away from you as possible, just so that there’s no chance of you accidentally tripping or running into one or being stupid and getting any ideas.

He’s making sure that you’re under his watch as often as possible, becoming your second shadow and stalking you every free moment he can spare, just in case someone unsavory crosses your path.

He’s making sure that all your locks are working every night, compulsively checking them even though he knows they’re still good.

He keeps his protective tendencies under wraps, making sure that they’re subtle and just ambiguous enough that you won’t pick up on his intentions. Because while there’s something appealing about you knowing that he wants you to be safe, he would rather you not find out just how extensively he watches you, just how much he cares about your wellbeing, deciding that it’s yet another potential opportunity for you to manipulate him.

And of course, he’s embarrassed - he briefly considers requesting help watching you from a Troupe member or two, only for when he’s aware for long periods of times on individual jobs, but eventually he chickens out, too scared to have to explain why he wants Pakunoda to keep an eye on you.

He’s not embarrassed of you, per se, but rather the extent to which you affect him. And even once he’s stolen you away (an action which has roots in his paranoia for your safety), those protective tendencies are still firmly in place. He’s not a good cook, but he still tries to provide you with somewhat healthy foods, even if they’re undercooked and limp, bland and just overall unappealing.

He’s by no means an interior designer, but he’s getting you a somewhat soft, thick blanket, making sure the one pillow you have isn’t covered in stains or lumpy. It’s all subtle, nearly unnoticeable things that you’d have to be very perceptive to catch onto - but to Feitan it’s all important, because while he may still resent you for turning him into a lovesick fool, he’ll be damned if he lets you starve or be uncomfortable.

It’s stupid and he knows it, grumbling to himself the entire time he’s doing something to prevent hurting you, but it’ll always get done - and if you were to ever notice it, to thank him? Feitan would deny your allegations, telling you to shut up and eat your food, all the while the tips of his ears turn pink and his heart flutters because you noticed.

You noticed the way he takes extra precautions for you, the way he thinks of you and your wellbeing, even having the gall to thank him for it…

Don’t bring it up again or he’ll grow angry, but the pride sitting in his chest at your words is enough for him. It’s enough for him to know you see him, that you’re paying attention to him, that you appreciate all he does for you - it’s enough for now, at least.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Feitan is, unfortunately, a bit prone to jealousy – as someone who is aware that he isn’t the best option out there for you, the acknowledgement that there is a multitude of other men that deserve you more and could likely land you never fails to get past him.

He’s so, so aware of the fact that you likely don’t like him, that stalking you and planning to kidnap you likely doesn’t earn him any favors. He knows he’s fairly quiet, and while it’s mostly a fear of mildly embarrassing himself that bars him from actually interacting with you, it only pushes Feitan to worry that you only see him as a strange, unfamiliar man.

It’s likely that you think of him as nothing more than an acquaintance, a man who doesn’t seem to want anything to do with you. And so, the minute that another person tries to flirt with you, to look at you and think of you and speak with you, the insecurities over how you perceive him are blooming in his chest, growing and blossoming into full blown panic, because what if you fall for another man?

Of course, Feitan has absolutely no problem eliminating the threat, even enjoying taking the life of such a worthless man, but he can’t help the way fear grips his heart, cold and stabbing and brutal, because while he may be icy and difficult to approach, a stone face that leaves little emotion o be seen, Feitan wants you so fucking badly, to the point that it genuinely hurts.

And while he isn’t all that soft towards the beginning of his obsession (and really, even once you’ve been ‘living’ with him for a while as well), he does honestly want for you to return the feelings, to love him and care for him, to want to be with him and enjoy your new life by his side. Ideally, he wants you to fall for him, to see him and smile, to have your soft skin pressed against his rougher, more callused skin, your hands cupped in a firm embrace, a soft hug, a kiss against the lips and short, whispered words of trust and acceptance.

Of course, it’s makes him feel so damn pathetic each time he gets caught in a daydream where you’re smiling and laughing with him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and telling him he’s handsome, but try as he may, he just can’t allow another man to steal the opportunity to make you theirs.

He wants to be the only one in your life, the only man you see and think of and talk to, and quite honestly Feitan will succeed – his profession is death after all, and he’s a master at stalking his prey, locating their weaknesses, seamlessly killing and annihilating his target before they even have a chance to fight back.

And so, once his jealousy is triggered, the poor man’s fate has already been decided. Feitan’s never been particularly merciful, and where you’re concerned, this trait only grows - it feels good to kill whoever dared to speak with you, like some sort of cathartic release of all the emotions he’s been bottling up, all the anger and desperation and self-loathing and yearning trapped in his chest.

It feels good, euphoric in a way he can’t describe, and so he’s quick to jump on any man posing a potential threat to your status as single and ripe for Feitan to claim. He’s a trained killer, after all, and who is he to waste away a perfectly good target?

When the man in the black dress shirt approaches you in the grocery store, Feitan’s eyes narrow. The shorter man had been trailing you all day, watching you go about your weekly errands, and the tri-annual trip to the grocery store had been your last stop. You’d managed to evade any male attention today, a fact that had Feitan simultaneously sighing in relief and growling in anger.

And yet, here you are, dressed in a rather provocative set of leggings that have Feitan’s eyes absolutely glued to your supple ass, matched with a slouchy, oversized sweatshirt. You’re cute, he begrudgingly admits, and it seems the stranger agrees.

Feitan’s standing in the next aisle over, staring through the holes in the shelving to see the way you tap your chin and scan the aisles of bread, searching for the perfect loaf. You don’t seem to have noticed the man slowly walking up to you, his eyes visibly scanning up and down your body. Feitan scowls, black brows drawing tightly together as he debates what to do.

On the one hand, there’s not much he can do - you’re in a public grocery store, and he doesn’t particularly want you to notice his presence. And yet, he can’t just let this man approach you, speak to you, look at you, now can he? He grits his teeth, steeling himself to just watch for now, and jump in if the time is right, if he feels the man goes too far. The man clears his throat, making you jump and look over at him, the suave smile he sends you making your own smile falter a bit.

Which bread’s best? He’s asking you, and you answer quickly, naming your favorite brand and which style you like best - Feitan’s scowl only deepens when he realizes you’re telling him the truth.

The man nods along, before his smirk turns smarmy, one eyebrow cocked up as he asks which rolls are best then? I’m thinking they’re yours.

You blanch at that, disgust written across your face as you awkwardly laugh and inch away, but Feitan sees none of that - how can he, when he’s already moving, already grabbing the man by the neck and sprinting down the aisle and around the corner, all too fast for you to see with the naked eye?

You’re confused, unsure of how the man just suddenly disappeared, but his comment left you shellshocked and lost at what to do, so you quickly grab a random loaf and anxiously push your cart away, trying to put distance between you and wherever the man had ended up.

Meanwhile, Feitan’s got the man held against the back wall of the grocery store, fingers wrapped around his neck and a cold, menacing look in his eye.

Bastard, he grits out, tightening his grip and feeling the way the man panics and scratches at his fingers, trying to rip them away.

Disgusting, she is mine, didn’t your mother teach don’t touch what’s not yours? Feitan’s shocked he hasn’t just slaughtered the man yet, but there’s something in his heart telling him to prolong this out, to let the man suffer, to make this as slow and torturous as possible. He wants the man to bleed, to scream and sob and beg for his mercy, for being stupid enough to even try to seduce you.

Feitan’s angry enough that his breathing is uneven, his muscles occasionally flexing without his permission, the rage simmering in his veins nearly potent. He can’t stop replaying the sight of your disgusted and uncomfortable look, the fact that this scum caused you to feel such an emotion making his skin feel hot, his fingers eager to steal the man’s life.

He smiles as the man wheezes, the lack of oxygen making his face slowly take on a purple hue. What’s wrong? Can’t breath?

He squeezes once, harshly, roughly, and the man splutters, spit dribbling down his chin and getting onto Feitan’s wrist. He scoffs. Filthy, disgusting. Die.

And then the man is being stabbed with his sword, not once, not twice, but again and again and again, until holes and wounds decorate the planes of his chest, blood flowing down in rivers onto the dirty concrete floor.

The man is dead within a matter of seconds, but it’s not enough for Feitan. He’s quick to throw the body to the ground, kicking and stomping and mutilating the body until its unrecognizable. He’s still breathing hard, his fingers shaking, and he finishes it off with a spit at what was once the man’s face, a scowl thrown his way.

Pathetic, he says, dark eyes closing for a few moments as he looks to sense your familiar presence, already on your walk back towards your apartment. Feitan gives one last, firm kick, before taking off, the urge to have his eyes on you once more making him rush even quicker than normal. He’ll spend the rest of the evening watching you, like always, but this time he’ll pay more attention to your face.

You’ve never looked at him the way you looked at that man, all scared and revolted.

You’ve never tried to get away from Feitan, never ran or panicked or anything of the sort. Pride swells in his chest at the knowledge that you like the dark haired man more than that mangled corpse; you’d choose Fietan over him, he’s sure.

And as you slip under your covers, a soft look on your face as you drift to sleep, Feitan can’t help but slide open the window, slipping into the bedroom and coming up to stand beside your unconscious form.

Would you choose him over other men?

If given the choice, would you want him?

He’d always choose you, his heart always coming back to you no matter what he does or how he hates it - and one day, he’s hopeful you’ll feel the same. One day, you’ll be just as stupidly, pathetically, frantically in love as he is.

He sighs, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Someday, you’ll be all his.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It takes Feitan a long time to resort to kidnapping you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but rather that it’s never been a priority for him. He’s reclusive, and because it takes him so long to sort out his feelings for you, stealing you away was certainly not at the forefront of his mind.

It takes him so long to even admit to himself that he cares for you, and that process alone takes anywhere from a month to three months, and only then does the stalking begin. Only then is he allowing the feelings for really grow, to fester and brew in his chest until he’s insatiable, desperate to see you and be in your presence. It takes him so long to warm up to you that he just simply doesn’t have the time or forethought to consider taking you for himself - that is, until his protective tendencies begin coming into play. Once he starts actively caring about your safety and wellbeing, little thoughts begin springing up in the back of his mind. He’s chastising you mentally for staying up late, the hands on the clock moving past hours he’s comfortable with.

He doesn’t like when you lay in your bed scrolling through that damn phone of yours, the bright light bad for your eyes and making you delay sleeping for as long as possible. It makes him angry (if not hypocritical, seeing as he himself only gets roughly four hours of sleep per night), and before he can even stop himself he’s thinking of how he’d make you fall asleep if he was with you, prying that phone out of your hands and telling you to sleep now.

He doesn’t like when you walk home alone at night, as if you’re practically asking to be mugged or assaulted or killed, which is why he has to follow you, begrudgingly hiding in the shadows and trailing you as you meander back to your apartment.

You’re stupid, is what you are, and as time passes, Feitan becomes more and more shocked at how lightly you take your own life - how can one single person be so careless? How can you be willing to eat food so close to the expiration date, or look both ways at the sidewalk just once? You’re helpless, truly, and it pisses Feitan off.

It makes him mad, if only because he’s trying so much harder than you are to keep you safe, and isn’t it unfair to him? Isn’t it awfully inconsiderate of you to make him spend so much time looking after you, doing everything for you because you’re so damn incapable? It’s a negative view and Feitan doesn’t really blame you, only convincing himself he does in order to make him feel better. It’s an excuse to help him feel like he isn’t as attached as he really is, a way to help alleviate some of the embarrassment he has regarding his feelings for you.

It’s pathetic, he thinks, but then something happens - something bad, something Fietan had hoped never would. Somehow, an enemy of the Troupe had discovered you. Maybe he was too preoccupied by keeping his eyes on you that he missed the stranger’s presence, unknowingly leading them directly to you.

Sweet, weak, defenseless you.

Time is frozen for Feitan as he returns from Troupe work, slinking to your apartment and letting himself in the front door, knowing that although it’s horribly late, you’re surely freshly asleep - except, the door is already ajar, and Feitan feels his blood run cold. There’s someone here. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend or enemy to you - why the fuck is there another person in your home at such an ungodly hour?

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and for a moment Feitan feels pure, absolute panic - you’re incapable of warding someone off, especially if you’re asleep, and although he feel sense your presence, there’s a distinct aura coming from your bedroom that isn’t yours. He’s quick to rush in, dark eyes narrowing when he sees the figure over your bed, a man hunched over and about to touch you -

His sword is slicing through the man’s neck before he can even blink, head dropping to the ground with a dull thud and blood pooling where it lands. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, brows pinched together and his grip on the sword hilt tight.

His gaze flicks to where you’re still sleeping peacefully, utterly unaware of the man standing beside your bed and the lifeless corpse bleeding out onto your floor. He’s got no choice, really - there’s something ugly stirring in his chest, something big and bad and painful, and he’s reaching out and scooping you into his arms all too quickly.

The man surely was after Feitan - he’d looked at him with recognition, and Feitan can only swallow and tighten his grip on you ever so tightly, hopping out your window and taking off into the night, the makeshift home he’d been residing in lately eventually coming upon the horizon.

The whole event spurs Feitan to believe that relocation is really the best option - his enemies are aware of you now, and who’s to say more won’t come knocking? How does he know you won’t be targeted again, those with vendettas against the Troupe knowing that someone weak and such an Achilles Heel like you would be the perfect revenge?

He doesn’t, and so although he’s grimacing and slightly worried to have you under the same roof, he sets you down on the hard mattress, giving you a few glances before closing the door, sighing to himself and hoping you wake up soon.

Feitan, once you’ve been stolen away, is mostly just an enigma to you.

He’s so painfully unexpressive, so difficult to interact with that you’ll be left to wonder just why he stole you away, why he even bothered to take you when he seems so utterly disinterested in you. He doesn’t talk to you - outside of a few clipped, short commands, he’ll hardly ever let you hear his voice.

Particularly in the beginning of your captivity, he would listen to your crying and begging to be released silently, his eyes slightly narrowed before a small, curt stop filled the room.

He’s never given you any sort of an explanation for why you woke up in his home one day, even when you ask him over and over again. He’ll only look at you, dark eyes fixed on your face, before telling you to go to sleep, you need sleep and promptly shutting and locking the bedroom door. He’s entirely unwilling to really interact with you in any meaningful way - except, it’s not because he hates you, or because he’s simply biding his time to kill you.

You may think that, fear swimming through your veins every time you see him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth - he’s not interacting with you much because there’s a part of Feitan that’s honestly afraid to. It makes him feel stupid and pitiful, but every time he tries to ask you a question or tell you something, the words just sort of die in his throat, his tongue frozen in his mouth even as he tries to move, tries to interact and get you to just look at him, dammit.

Honestly, he’s embarrassed to speak to you - he’s been watching you for so long, acting as your shadow and seeing you so natural and perfect and raw, and he’s grown used to having a front row seat without having to do anything. He’s not used to you being able to see him or hear him or even know he’s there at all. It’s scary to have you be aware of him, placing him in an uncomfortable position where he can no longer simply watch you or long for you from afar - no, now, as much as he hates to admit it, he cares about your opinion.

He cares about how you view him, how you perceive him, what you think about him. He wants you to think he’s funny when he tells cutting jokes, and generous when he gives you bowls of semi-cold soup. He wants you to find him attractive, catching your eyes settling on his body or your fingers running through his ebony locks.

He wants your opinion to be favorable, but despite how strong this desire is, the fear that you’ll find him weird outweighs it. He knows it’s stupid, but he’s terrified that you’ll think he’s strange, a freak, some sort of monster if he talks with you. He’s scared he’ll say something wrong, something to scare you or offend you, and while he may be a mass murderer and an atrocious man, there’s something about the way your eyes would get all glassy and teary, face contorting into disgust as you physically recoil from him that makes his gut wrench, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s too awkward and nervous to speak with you - and so, he resorts instead to the staring, to the watching, to the observing. It’s what he knows best, after all, considering that was how most of his time was spent before kidnapping you. This is better; he has control in this situation, and he won’t accidentally slip and say something that bears too much truth, that lets you in on too much of what’s going on in his head.

There’s less room for error if he relegates himself to minimal verbal and physical interaction, and while he aches to reach out and touch you, to feel the softness of your cheeks or the texture of your hair, he’s restraining himself. Just the mere thought of your skin against his gets him shivering, but it’s quite easy to overwhelm him; he’s not used to being the recipient of your attention, and while it feels good to have you looking at him and attempting to start conversations, it can get to be too much for him very quickly.

It’s easy enough to answer trivial questions; things like what the food is that he placed in front of you (doesn’t matter, it’s good is all he’ll answer with) or inquiries into why he wears that same massive coat all the time (warm and my favorite color).

Those are easy enough, not breaching too close to anything personal or anything that you could use against him. But the more complex questions, or - once the Stockholm Syndrome eventually kicks in and you’re so lonely you’ll happily converse with your kidnapper - compliments?

As soon as the words slip from your lips, a simple your eyes are pretty or a I hope you sleep well makes him stiffen up a bit, lips parting ever so slightly under that cowl of his, before he’s quickly darting out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He has to take a few moments to collect himself, his ears and cheeks feeling hot because god, you were looking right at him, and you’d even said his name.

(He spends the rest of the night in the basement, compulsively cleaning and recleaning his torture tools over and over, trying to distract himself from replaying your compliments over and over in his head, ingraining the sound of your voice and the tingling warmth he felt into his brain. Everything is sparkling clean by the time he’s done, a few hours having passed, and yet he’s spent the whole time thinking of you, letting you plague his thoughts like you always do.)

He just can’t handle having all of your attention on him like that, and although he gets better at it and more used to it as time goes on, he’ll still be very skittish. He’s like a feral cat; he’ll stalk and watch, staring at you with beady eyes from the corner of the room while you try and act natural, only to scamper away when you try to reach out and pet.

You’ll be starved for human contact as his captee, but aside from the lack of any sort of touch, you’ll find that being stuck with him is actually not too bad - he feeds you a decent diet, and lets you live in the spare bedroom of his home. He’d even cleaned everything up before you arrived, a preemptive measure he underwent one night when he couldn’t sleep, both his dreams and thoughts revolving around you.

(There’s still bits of dust and a spider or two in the corner of the ceiling, but everything smells not terribly musty, and you don’t notice any mysterious stains on the sheets, so it could be worse, right?)

He leaves you to your own devices more often than not, just on the condition that he can be present, whether you’re reading a book or sleeping or doodling with some art supplies he stole for you a while back. He’s not too demanding, but eventually the Stockholm Syndrome will get to you - you will eventually start wishing he’d do more than just look, even when he comes home with blood speckling his jacket.

You’ll grow to wish he would sit just a bit closer to you, so that you could feel his body warmth or a brush of his skin against your own. You’ll hate yourself for endearing your captor, but you don’t have much of a choice - Feitan, while terrifying and absolutely capable of killing you in more ways than you can count, is strangely sweet in his own way, even if it takes you a while to notice it.

He’s not buying you flowers or declaring his undying love to you, but he is leaving small, insignificant gifts on your nightstand, maybe a small pastry that you love, or even a small, pretty little jewel he managed to snatch away from the goods Chrollo said were communal among the Troupe from the latest heist. He won’t ever say anything about them, and if you bring it up to him he’ll either ignore you or deny their existence, but he likes leaving them there as a token, as some way of quelling the intense desire to please you that wells in his chest.

It’s the only route he can allow himself to take, because that way he doesn’t have to confront you, only looking at your sleeping face. You always look so peaceful and pretty this way, all the lines of stress and worry smoothing away - you look how you used to, before he stole you away, back when his infatuation first started.

And as he gently, carefully, hesitantly sits down beside your sleeping form on the mattress, he can’t help but gulp harshly and slowly, ever so slowly, reach out and rest his palm on your leg, the sheets separating your skin. He’ll keep his hand there for a while, dark eyes appraising your form under the covers, before exhaling shakily and standing back up, making sure the jade he’d brought back for you was securely on the bedside table, right in your view when you wake up. He’s not a bad captor by any means; he just has trouble expressing himself, walls built up too highly and too thickly to ever really knock them down.

And you’ll get close - as close as you can, at least, as time passes. Feitan will eventually warm up to you, but he’ll never be particularly loving, particularly obvious with his feelings for you - he’ll always be a lovesick fool, but he’ll be damned if he lets another soul know that.

PUNISHMENTS:

As a general rule, Feitan doesn’t particularly like hurting you. Of course, his career rides on his ability to harm, torture, mutilate and extract information out of even the worst criminals and agents, and for the most part he enjoys it.

There’s something about the way he can elicit screams and tears out of others that gets him giddy, the smile stretching across the part of his face covered by his jacket as wide as can be. And yet, for all the enjoyment he derives out of hurting others, seeing you harmed, bruised, crying and begging isn’t nearly as fun as Feitan had expected.

He’s not really sure why, but for some reason seeing you looking at him with so much fear dancing in your pretty eyes makes his gut wrench, an uncomfortable feeling sitting at the base of his throat while he mutters something demanding you to stop looking at him like that. It makes him feel weak, frankly, that you have this effect on him, but he can’t help it – early on into your captivity with him, he tried to settle your disobedience by physically harming you, but he got as far as leaving a rather large carved ‘F’ right over your heart before your crying got to him.

He couldn’t lift his hand as you sobbed below him that day, your wrists bound by leather cording stained with his previous victims’ blood. Your eyes were puffy and glassy, snot dripping from your nose and pathetic little cries and begs for him to stop tumbling past your quivering lips.

Frankly, Feitan was embarrassed for you. But more than anything, he was pissed – his hands were trembling, the switch knife grasped between his fingers frozen, his dark eyes wide as they stared down at you, guilt flashing through them the longer you sniffled and shook, the sight of you in pain with your pretty red blood dribbling down your collarbone simply too much.

That day, he cleaned your wound, packed up his torture gear and locked you into your designated bedroom, all without a single word, mostly because his tongue didn’t seem to be working. But the shaky gasps stumbling from his lips as he stared at his own two hands later that night were enough to make him realize he hates to see you in pain, particularly when he’s the cause.

It’s confusing, irritating, scary, even, that you have this effect on him, but try as he might, any thought of physically harming you from that point on makes his stomach twist, bile rising up his throat and nausea hitting him square in the chest.

But trouble, of course, arises; he refuses to physically harm you in most cases, but he still will only tolerate absolute obedience from you. You can’t simply walk all over him, he won’t let you – you need to listen to his instructions, follow his rules, eat the food he gives you, smile at him all pretty and warm, and let him sneak into your room and hold you when you’re fast asleep in the middle of the night, just as he starts craving.

Feitan needs you to be obedient and submissive to him, and so how can he mold you into the perfect, obedient partner without laying harm to you?

The solution, as it turns out, lies in making you absolutely believe that he will hurt you, despite it not being true.

You don’t need to know that the thought of making you wince or scrunch up your face in pain makes him physically hurl; no, you’re much better off thinking that he’s simply playing nice, waiting for the right moment to strike and leave you broken and bleeding. He’ll allow you to believe that he’s constantly ready to punish you, because then you’ll have some incentive to follow his words and rules, and to do what he believes you should do.

And why wouldn’t you believe it?

You know what Feitan does – he makes no effort to hide the torture tools scattered across his basement, and while you’ve only been down there once (the initial carving of the F), your imagination can conjure up plenty of scenarios of what goes on in that damp, dark basement.

The fact that he has hurt you leads to you staying mostly in line – you’re more than aware of what he’s capable of, and although it slightly pains Feitan that you think of him as a monster, it’s for the best. It’s better for everyone when you’re well behaved – when you simply follow his orders and do what he wants you to, no matter how strange it makes you feel.

You probably aren’t particularly fond of eating in front of him, but he’ll be sitting at the other end of the table as you carefully, hesitantly, twist the strands of pasta around your fork, your gaze flickering from the slightly undercooked noodles to your captor and back again.

You probably don’t really like sleeping while he sits in the corner of the room, that stupid jacket pulled up over his mouth, making the only part of him visible to your drowsy self those damn eyes – and his hands, of course, with just the slightest touch of dried blood under his nails. You’re probably not particularly a fan of any aspect of being his captive – and Feitan carefully controls this.

However, on the off chance that you do act up, that liquid courage flows through your veins and you cross him, you’ll quickly grow to regret it. Feitan still won’t hurt you – not physically, at least.

But others?

Well, it’s not hard to get Chrollo to give him someone who needs to give up some information, to set up the basement and make sure you get a front row seat as he makes the knots tight around the man’s wrist. It hurts him, really, to see the way your face contorts into horror as you watch him break bone after bone in the man’s body, but Feitan can’t stop looking at you. He needs you to be watching – you have to see what he’s capable of, even if he doesn’t really want you to know.

You have to know that he’s serious when he tells you that you can’t leave, that there’s nowhere in the world you can run to where he won’t find you. He rips the man’s nails off, a finger at a time, just to make sure you understand that his touch can hurt – but maybe, some part of him hopes, you’ll realize that when he touches you, his touch is only ever gentle. Or at least as gentle as he can be.

It’s all to make sure you understand that he’s utterly, absolutely in charge – his word is law, and while he craves for you to love him, he’s willing to compromise with just your respect and undivided attention.

It’s not ideal, but as he watches the way tears stream down your cheeks and your body heaves and shudders with your sobs, he can’t help but slice the knife into the man’s thigh deeper, send the punch to his jaw harder.

He has to keep you in line – this complicated, doomed relationship he’s forced you into is the only thing that makes him feel that strange, fluttering feeling in his chest, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go. He’ll be damned if he lets you go – even if you think of him as a monstrous, sadistic freak.

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t; it doesn’t matter, because you’re never getting away.

OVERALL DANGER:

8/10

The danger that lies with being Feitan’s darling is much more mental than physical. By all means, he’s not the ideal captor – he’s a criminal and mass murderer, torturing people for a living and liking it. And yet, there’s something about you that tones down the more deranged, violent aspects of his personality - he’s by no means soft, but he’s rounder at the edges, less rough and bitter and cold.

He hates himself for falling in love with you, for having allowed you to worm your way into his heart and settle there, plaguing his every thought and dream with your face, your voice and laugh and smile and god, your body -

He blames you, initially, but as time goes on and his feelings only grow stronger, harder to suppress, he finds that it doesn’t matter. You’ve already staked your claim on his heart, and there’s simply nothing he can do to stop what’s inevitable.

Kidnapping is imminent with him, but it really does take him a long while to actually go through with it; you’ll have a long period of freedom from his clutches where you’re living your own life, with him only controlling it from the shadows rather than blatantly, like when he’s stolen you away. He’s not particularly needy, only demanding that you stay in his line of sight, but there’s something more terrifying about the way he’s always watching you like a hawk watches its prey than simple touching would be.

You’re thankful he hasn’t forced himself on you or even forced any kind of affection, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that you miss human touch, that you almost wish he would reach out and hold your hand, press a kiss to your lips, slip the ratty old t-shirt he’d given you over your chest.

You’ll find yourself growing stir crazy under Feitan’s rule, growing desperate but still too scared to confront him, because his intentions with you will remain ambiguous at best - he hasn’t killed you yet, so you must be important to him somehow. You’re not sure, but the longer you spend with him, the less you’ll care until eventually you’re actively dreaming of the day when he finally, finally touches you with those cold fingers and lets you out of that bedroom you’re locked up in.

Feitan loves you, in his own sick, twisted way, and the sooner you realize that the better - maybe you never will, but Feitan will always, always be there waiting, his gaze never faltering once from your figure.

You’re just too mesmerizing, after all - and Feitan’s never been particularly good at denying himself what’s his.

#yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere feitan #yandere feitan portor #hxh x reader #_hxh #_lee's profiles #_feitan portor

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